Chapter VI
A Love-Scene
Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute in not”telling” of Mr. Poulter more than was unavoidable; the five-shillingpiece remained a secret even to Maggie. But there was a terrible dreadweighing on his mind, so terrible that he dared not even ask thequestion which might bring the fatal ”yes”; he dared not ask thesurgeon or Mr. Stelling, ”Shall I be lame, Sir?” He mastered himselfso as not to cry out at the pain; but when his foot had been dressed,and he was left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside, the childrensobbed together, with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom wasthinking of himself walking about on crutches, like the wheelwright'sson and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed forcompany. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr. Stelling toanticipate this dread in Tom's mind, and to reassure him by hopefulwords. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaidMr. Stelling to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to askfor himself.
”I beg your pardon, sir,--but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver will belame?”
”Oh, no; oh, no,” said Mr. Stelling, ”not permanently; only for alittle while.”
”Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?”
”No; nothing was said to him on the subject.”
”Then may I go and tell him, sir?”
”Yes, to be sure; now you mention it, I dare say he may be troublingabout that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet at present.”
It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of theaccident,--”Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard for him if heis”; and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offences were washed out by thatpity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a state of repulsion,but were being drawn into a common current of suffering and sadprivation. His imagination did not dwell on the outward calamity andits future effect on Tom's life, but it made vividly present to himthe probable state of Tom's feeling. Philip had only lived fourteenyears, but those years had, most of them, been steeped in the sense ofa lot irremediably hard.
”Mr. Askern says you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did youknow?” he said rather timidly, as he stepped gently up to Tom's bed.”I've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he says you'll walk as wellas ever again by-and-day.”
Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath which comeswith a sudden joy; then he gave a long sigh, and turned his blue-grayeyes straight on Philip's face, as he had not done for a fortnight ormore. As for Maggie, this intimation of a possibility she had notthought of before affected her as a new trouble; the bare idea ofTom's being always lame overpowered the assurance that such amisfortune was not likely to befall him, and she clung to him andcried afresh.
”Don't be a little silly, Magsie,” said Tom, tenderly, feeling verybrave now. ”I shall soon get well.”
”Good-by, Tulliver,” said Philip, putting out his small, delicatehand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more substantial fingers.
”I say,” said Tom, ”ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and sit with mesometimes, till I get up again, Wakem; and tell me about Robert Bruce,you know.”
After that, Philip spent all his time out of school-hours with Tom andMaggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much as ever, but heinsisted strongly on the fact that those great fighters who did somany wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armor fromhead to foot, which made fighting easy work, he considered. He shouldnot have hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened withgreat interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a verybad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadfully with the pain thathis friends could bear with him no longer, but put him ashore on adesert island, with nothing but some wonderful poisoned arrows to killanimals with for food.
”I didn't roar out a bit, you know,” Tom said, ”and I dare say my footwas as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar.”
But Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you very much, it wasquite permissible to cry out, and it was cruel of people not to bearit. She wanted to know if Philoctetes had a sister, and why _she_didn't go with him on the desert island and take care of him.
One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Maggie were inthe study alone together while Tom's foot was being dressed. Philipwas at his books, and Maggie, after sauntering idly round the room,not caring to do anything in particular, because she would soon go toTom again, went and leaned on the table near Philip to see what he wasdoing, for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly at home witheach other.
”What are you reading about in Greek?” she said. ”It's poetry, I cansee that, because the lines are so short.”
”It's about Philoctetes, the lame man I was telling you of yesterday,”he answered, resting his head on his hand, and looking at her as if hewere not at all sorry to be interrupted. Maggie, in her absent way,continued to lean forward, resting on her arms and moving her feetabout, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed and vacant, as ifshe had quite forgotten Philip and his book.
”Maggie,” said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on hiselbow and looking at her, ”if you had had a brother like me, do youthink you should have loved him as well as Tom?”
Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, and said,”What?” Philip repeated his question.
”Oh, yes, better,” she answered immediately. ”No, not better; becauseI don't think I _could_ love you better than Tom. But I should be sosorry,--_so sorry_ for you.”
Philip colored; he had meant to imply, would she love him as well inspite of his deformity, and yet when she alluded to it so plainly, hewinced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake.Hitherto she had instinctively behaved as if she were quiteunconscious of Philip's deformity; her own keen sensitiveness andexperience under family criticism sufficed to teach her this as wellas if she had been directed by the most finished breeding.
”But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing,” sheadded quickly. ”I wish you _were_ my brother. I'm very fond of you.And you would stay at home with me when Tom went out, and you wouldteach me everything; wouldn't you,--Greek and everything?”
”But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie,” said Philip, ”andthen you'll forget all about me, and not care for me any more. Andthen I shall see you when you're grown up, and you'll hardly take anynotice of me.”
”Oh, no, I sha'n't forget you, I'm sure,” said Maggie, shaking herhead very seriously. ”I never forget anything, and I think abouteverybody when I'm away from them. I think about poor Yap; he's got alump in his throat, and Luke says he'll die. Only don't you tell Tom.because it will vex him so. You never saw Yap; he's a queer littledog,--nobody cares about him but Tom and me.”
”Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?” saidPhilip, smiling rather sadly.
”Oh, yes, I should think so,” said Maggie, laughing.
”I'm very fond of _you_, Maggie; I shall never forget _you_,” saidPhilip, ”and when I'm very unhappy, I shall always think of you, andwish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours.”
”Why do you like my eyes?” said Maggie, well pleased. She had neverheard any one but her father speak of her eyes as if they had merit.
”I don't know,” said Philip. ”They're not like any other eyes. Theyseem trying to speak,--trying to speak kindly. I don't like otherpeople to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, Maggie.”
”Why, I think you're fonder of me than Tom is,” said Maggie, rathersorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could convince Philip that shecould like him just as well, although he was crooked, she said:
”Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom? I will, if you like.”
”Yes, very much; nobody kisses me.”
Maggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite earnestly.
”There now,” she said, ”I shall always remember you, and kiss you whenI see you again, if it's ever so long. But I'll go now, because Ithink Mr. Askern's done with Tom's foot.”
When their father came the second time, Maggie said to him, ”Oh,father, Philip Wakem is so very good to Tom; he is such a clever boy,and I _do_ love him. And you love him too, Tom, don't you? _Say_ youlove him,” she added entreatingly.
Tom colored a little as he looked at his father, and said: ”I sha'n'tbe friends with him when I leave school, father; but we've made it upnow, since my foot has been bad, and he's taught me to play atdraughts, and I can beat him.”
”Well, well,” said Mr. Tulliver, ”if he's good to you, try and makehim amends, and be good to _him_. He's a poor crooked creature, andtakes after his dead mother. But don't you be getting too thick withhim; he's got his father's blood in him too. Ay, ay, the gray colt maychance to kick like his black sire.”
The jarring natures of the two boys effected what Mr. Tulliver'sadmonition alone might have failed to effect; in spite of Philip's newkindness, and Tom's answering regard in this time of his trouble, theynever became close friends. When Maggie was gone, and when Tomby-and-by began to walk about as usual, the friendly warmth that hadbeen kindled by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left themin their old relation to each other. Philip was often peevish andcontemptuous; and Tom's more specific and kindly impressions graduallymelted into the old background of suspicion and dislike toward him asa queer fellow, a humpback, and the son of a rogue. If boys and menare to be welded together in the glow of transient feeling, they mustbe made of metal that will mix, else they inevitably fall asunder whenthe heat dies out.