Chapter I
In the Red Deeps
The family sitting-room was a long room with a window at each end; onelooking toward the croft and along the Ripple to the banks of theFloss, the other into the mill-yard. Maggie was sitting with her workagainst the latter window when she saw Mr. Wakem entering the yard, asusual, on his fine black horse; but not alone, as usual. Some one waswith him,--a figure in a cloak, on a handsome pony. Maggie had hardlytime to feel that it was Philip come back, before they were in frontof the window, and he was raising his hat to her; while his father,catching the movement by a side-glance, looked sharply round at themboth.
Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her work upstairs; forMr. Wakem sometimes came in and inspected the books, and Maggie feltthat the meeting with Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in thepresence of the two fathers. Some day, perhaps, she could see him whenthey could just shake hands, and she could tell him that sheremembered his goodness to Tom, and the things he had said to her inthe old days, though they could never be friends any more. It was notat all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again; she retained herchildish gratitude and pity toward him, and remembered his cleverness;and in the early weeks of her loneliness she had continually recalledthe image of him among the people who had been kind to her in life,often wishing she had him for a brother and a teacher, as they hadfancied it might have been, in their talk together. But that sort ofwishing had been banished along with other dreams that savored ofseeking her own will; and she thought, besides, that Philip might bealtered by his life abroad,--he might have become worldly, and reallynot care about her saying anything to him now. And yet his face waswonderfully little altered,--it was only a larger, more manly copy ofthe pale, small-featured boy's face, with the gray eyes, and theboyish waving brown hair; there was the old deformity to awaken theold pity; and after all her meditations, Maggie felt that she really_should_ like to say a few words to him. He might still be melancholy,as he always used to be, and like her to look at him kindly. Shewondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes; with thatthought Maggie glanced toward the square looking-glass which wascondemned to hang with its face toward the wall, and she half startedfrom her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and snatchedup her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by forcing her memoryto recall snatches of hymns, until she saw Philip and his fatherreturning along the road, and she could go down again.
It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to lengthen thedaily walk which was her one indulgence; but this day and thefollowing she was so busy with work which must be finished that shenever went beyond the gate, and satisfied her need of the open air bysitting out of doors. One of her frequent walks, when she was notobliged to go to St. Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what wascalled the ”Hill,”--an insignificant rise of ground crowned by trees,lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of DorlcoteMill. Insignificant I call it, because in height it was hardly morethan a bank; but there may come moments when Nature makes a mere banka means toward a fateful result; and that is why I ask you to imaginethis high bank crowned with trees, making an uneven wall for somequarter of a mile along the left side of Dorlcote Mill and thepleasant fields behind it, bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just wherethis line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road turned offand led to the other side of the rise, where it was broken into verycapricious hollows and mounds by the working of an exhaustedstone-quarry, so long exhausted that both mounds and hollows were nowclothed with brambles and trees, and here and there by a stretch ofgrass which a few sheep kept close-nibbled. In her childish daysMaggie held this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, andneeded all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her to anexcursion thither,--visions of robbers and fierce animals hauntingevery hollow. But now it had the charm for her which any brokenground, any mimic rock and ravine, have for the eyes that resthabitually on the level; especially in summer, when she could sit on agrassy hollow under the shadow of a branching ash, stooping aslantfrom the steep above her, and listen to the hum of insects, liketiniest bells on the garment of Silence, or see the sunlight piercingthe distant boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenlyblue of the wild hyacinths. In this June time, too, the dog-roses werein their glory, and that was an additional reason why Maggie shoulddirect her walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, onthe first day she was free to wander at her will,--a pleasure sheloved so well, that sometimes, in her ardors of renunciation, shethought she ought to deny herself the frequent indulgence in it.
You may see her now, as she walks down the favorite turning and entersthe Deeps by a narrow path through a group of Scotch firs, her tallfigure and old lavender gown visible through an hereditary black silkshawl of some wide-meshed net-like material; and now she is sure ofbeing unseen she takes off her bonnet and ties it over her arm. Onewould certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than herseventeenth year--perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of theglance from which all search and unrest seem to have departed; perhapsbecause her broad-chested figure has the mould of early womanhood.Youth and health have withstood well the involuntary and voluntaryhardships of her lot, and the nights in which she has lain on the hardfloor for a penance have left no obvious trace; the eyes are liquid,the brown cheek is firm and round, the full lips are red. With herdark coloring and jet crown surmounting her tall figure, she seems tohave a sort of kinship with the grand Scotch firs, at which she islooking up as if she loved them well. Yet one has a sense ofuneasiness in looking at her,--a sense of opposing elements, of whicha fierce collision is imminent; surely there is a hushed expression,such as one often sees in older faces under borderless caps, out ofkeeping with the resistant youth, which one expects to flash out in asudden, passionate glance, that will dissipate all the quietude, likea damp fire leaping out again when all seemed safe.
But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She was calmlyenjoying the free air, while she looked up at the old fir-trees, andthought that those broken ends of branches were the records of paststorms, which had only made the red stems soar higher. But while hereyes were still turned upward, she became conscious of a moving shadowcast by the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked downwith a startled gesture to see Philip Wakem, who first raised his hat,and then, blushing deeply, came forward to her and put out his hand.Maggie, too, colored with surprise, which soon gave way to pleasure.She put out her hand and looked down at the deformed figure before herwith frank eyes, filled for the moment with nothing but the memory ofher child's feelings,--a memory that was always strong in her. She wasthe first to speak.
”You startled me,” she said, smiling faintly; ”I never meet any onehere. How came you to be walking here? Did you come to meet _me?_”
It was impossible not to perceive that Maggie felt herself a childagain.
”Yes, I did,” said Philip, still embarrassed; ”I wished to see youvery much. I watched a long while yesterday on the bank near yourhouse to see if you would come out, but you never came. Then I watchedagain to-day, and when I saw the way you took, I kept you in sight andcame down the bank, behind there. I hope you will not be displeasedwith me.”
”No,” said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on as if she meantPhilip to accompany her, ”I'm very glad you came, for I wished verymuch to have an opportunity of speaking to you. I've never forgottenhow good you were long ago to Tom, and me too; but I was not sure thatyou would remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great deal oftrouble since then, and I think _that_ makes one think more of whathappened before the trouble came.”
”I can't believe that you have thought of me so much as I have thoughtof you,” said Philip, timidly. ”Do you know, when I was away, I made apicture of you as you looked that morning in the study when you saidyou would not forget me.”
Philip drew a large miniature-case from his pocket, and opened it.Maggie saw her old self leaning on a table, with her black lockshanging down behind her ears, looking into space, with strange, dreamyeyes. It was a water-color sketch, of real merit as a portrait.
”Oh dear,” said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure, ”what aqueer little girl I was! I remember myself with my hair in that way,in that pink frock. I really _was_ like a gypsy. I dare say I am now,”she added, after a little pause; ”am I like what you expected me tobe?”
The words might have been those of a coquette, but the full, brightglance Maggie turned on Philip was not that of a coquette. She reallydid hope he liked her face as it was now, but it was simply the risingagain of her innate delight in admiration and love. Philip met hereyes and looked at her in silence for a long moment, before he saidquietly, ”No, Maggie.”
The light died out a little from Maggie's face, and there was a slighttrembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, but she did not turnaway her head, and Philip continued to look at her. Then he saidslowly:
”You are very much more beautiful than I thought you would be.”
”Am I?” said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper flush. Sheturned her face away from him and took some steps, looking straightbefore her in silence, as if she were adjusting her consciousness tothis new idea. Girls are so accustomed to think of dress as the mainground of vanity, that, in abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggiehad thought more of abandoning all care for adornment than ofrenouncing the contemplation of her face. Comparing herself withelegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that shecould produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed to like thesilence well. He walked by her side, watching her face, as if thatsight left no room for any other wish. They had passed from among thefir-trees, and had now come to a green hollow almost surrounded by anamphitheatre of the pale pink dog-roses. But as the light about themhad brightened, Maggie's face had lost its glow.
She stood still when they were in the hollows, and looking at Philipagain, she said in a serious, sad voice:
”I wish we could have been friends,--I mean, if it would have beengood and right for us. But that is the trial I have to bear ineverything; I may not keep anything I used to love when I was little.The old books went; and Tom is different, and my father. It is likedeath. I must part with everything I cared for when I was a child. AndI must part with you; we must never take any notice of each otheragain. That was what I wanted to speak to you for. I wanted to let youknow that Tom and I can't do as we like about such things, and that ifI behave as if I had forgotten all about you, it is not out of envy orpride--or--or any bad feeling.”
Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as she went on,and her eyes began to fill with tears. The deepening expression ofpain on Philip's face gave him a stronger resemblance to his boyishself, and made the deformity appeal more strongly to her pity.
”I know; I see all that you mean,” he said, in a voice that had becomefeebler from discouragement; ”I know what there is to keep us apart onboth sides. But it is not right, Maggie,--don't you be angry with me,I am so used to call you Maggie in my thoughts,--it is not right tosacrifice everything to other people's unreasonable feelings. I wouldgive up a great deal for _my_ father; but I would not give up afriendship or--or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to any wishof his that I didn't recognize as right.”
”I don't know,” said Maggie, musingly. ”Often, when I have been angryand discontented, it has seemed to me that I was not bound to give upanything; and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that Icould think away all my duty. But no good has ever come of that; itwas an evil state of mind. I'm quite sure that whatever I might do, Ishould wish in the end that I had gone without anything for myself,rather than have made my father's life harder to him.”
”But would it make his life harder if we were to see each othersometimes?” said Philip. He was going to say something else, butchecked himself.
”Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't like it. Don't ask me why, or anything aboutit,” said Maggie, in a distressed tone. ”My father feels so stronglyabout some things. He is not at all happy.”
”No more am I,” said Philip, impetuously; ”I am not happy.”
”Why?” said Maggie, gently. ”At least--I ought not to ask--but I'mvery, very sorry.”
Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand still anylonger, and they went out of the hollow, winding amongst the trees andbushes in silence. After that last word of Philip's, Maggie could notbear to insist immediately on their parting.
”I've been a great deal happier,” she said at last, timidly, ”since Ihave given up thinking about what is easy and pleasant, and beingdiscontented because I couldn't have my own will. Our life isdetermined for us; and it makes the mind very free when we give upwishing, and only think of bearing what is laid upon us, and doingwhat is given us to do.”
”But I can't give up wishing,” said Philip, impatiently. ”It seems tome we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughlyalive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, andwe _must_ hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without themuntil our feelings are deadened? I delight in fine pictures; I long tobe able to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what Iwant. That is pain to me, and always _will_ be pain, until myfaculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there are manyother things I long for,”--here Philip hesitated a little, and thensaid,--”things that other men have, and that will always be denied me.My life will have nothing great or beautiful in it; I would rather nothave lived.”
”Oh, Philip,” said Maggie, ”I wish you didn't feel so.” But her heartbegan to beat with something of Philip's discontent.
”Well, then,” said he, turning quickly round and fixing his gray eyesentreatingly on her face, ”I should be contented to live, if you wouldlet me see you sometimes.” Then, checked by a fear which her facesuggested, he looked away again and said more calmly, ”I have nofriend to whom I can tell everything, no one who cares enough aboutme; and if I could only see you now and then, and you would let metalk to you a little, and show me that you cared for me, and that wemay always be friends in heart, and help each other, then I might cometo be glad of life.”
”But how can I see you, Philip?” said Maggie, falteringly. (Could shereally do him good? It would be very hard to say ”good-by” this day,and not speak to him again. Here was a new interest to vary the days;it was so much easier to renounce the interest before it came.)
”If you would let me see you here sometimes,--walk with you here,--Iwould be contented if it were only once or twice in a month. _That_could injure no one's happiness, and it would sweeten my life.Besides,” Philip went on, with all the inventive astuteness of love atone-and-twenty, ”if there is any enmity between those who belong tous, we ought all the more to try and quench it by our friendship; Imean, that by our influence on both sides we might bring about ahealing of the wounds that have been made in the past, if I could knoweverything about them. And I don't believe there is any enmity in myown father's mind; I think he has proved the contrary.”
Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under conflictingthoughts. It seemed to her inclination, that to see Philip now andthen, and keep up the bond of friendship with him, was something notonly innocent, but good; perhaps she might really help him to findcontentment as she had found it. The voice that said this made sweetmusic to Maggie; but athwart it there came an urgent, monotonouswarning from another voice which she had been learning to obey,--thewarning that such interviews implied secrecy; implied doing somethingshe would dread to be discovered in, something that, if discovered,must cause anger and pain; and that the admission of anything so neardoubleness would act as a spiritual blight. Yet the music would swellout again, like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, persuadingher that the wrong lay all in the faults and weaknesses of others, andthat there was such a thing as futile sacrifice for one to the injuryof another. It was very cruel for Philip that he should be shrunkfrom, because of an unjustifiable vindictiveness toward hisfather,--poor Philip, whom some people would shrink from only becausehe was deformed. The idea that he might become her lover or that hermeeting him could cause disapproval in that light, had not occurred toher; and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough, saw itwith a certain pang, although it made her consent to his request theless unlikely. There was bitterness to him in the perception thatMaggie was almost as frank and unconstrained toward him as when shewas a child.
”I can't say either yes or no,” she said at last, turning round andwalking toward the way she come; ”I must wait, lest I should decidewrongly. I must seek for guidance.”
”May I come again, then, to-morrow, or the next day, or next week?”
”I think I had better write,” said Maggie, faltering again. ”I have togo to St. Ogg's sometimes, and I can put the letter in the post.”
”Oh no,” said Philip eagerly; ”that would not be so well. My fathermight see the letter--and--he has not any enmity, I believe, but heviews things differently from me; he thinks a great deal about wealthand position. Pray let me come here once more. _Tell_ me when it shallbe; or if you can't tell me, I will come as often as I can till I dosee you.”
”I think it must be so, then,” said Maggie, ”for I can't be quitecertain of coming here any particular evening.”
Maggie felt a great relief in adjourning the decision. She was freenow to enjoy the minutes of companionship; she almost thought shemight linger a little; the next time they met she should have to painPhilip by telling him her determination.
”I can't help thinking,” she said, looking smilingly at him, after afew moments of silence, ”how strange it is that we should have met andtalked to each other, just as if it had been only yesterday when weparted at Lorton. And yet we must both be very much altered in thosefive years,--I think it is five years. How was it you seemed to have asort of feeling that I was the same Maggie? I was not quite so surethat you would be the same; I know you are so clever, and you musthave seen and learnt so much to fill your mind; I was not quite sureyou would care about me now.”
”I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, whenever Imight see you,” said Philip,--”I mean, the same in everything that mademe like you better than any one else. I don't want to explain that; Idon't think any of the strongest effects our natures are susceptibleof can ever be explained. We can neither detect the process by whichthey are arrived at, nor the mode in which they act on us. Thegreatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child; hecouldn't have told how he did it, and we can't tell why we feel it tobe divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature thatour understandings can make no complete inventory of. Certain strainsof music affect me so strangely; I can never hear them without theirchanging my whole attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect wouldlast, I might be capable of heroisms.”
”Ah! I know what you mean about music; _I_ feel so,” said Maggie,clasping her hands with her old impetuosity. ”At least,” she added, ina saddened tone, ”I used to feel so when I had any music; I never haveany now except the organ at church.”
”And you long for it, Maggie?” said Philip, looking at her withaffectionate pity. ”Ah, you can have very little that is beautiful inyour life. Have you many books? You were so fond of them when you werea little girl.”
They were come back to the hollow, round which the dog-roses grew, andthey both paused under the charm of the faery evening light, reflectedfrom the pale pink clusters.
”No, I have given up books,” said Maggie, quietly, ”except a very,very few.”
Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, and waslooking at the back as he said:
”Ah, this is the second volume, I see, else you might have liked totake it home with you. I put it in my pocket because I am studying ascene for a picture.”
Maggie had looked at the back too, and saw the title; it revived anold impression with overmastering force.
”'The Pirate,'” she said, taking the book from Philip's hands. ”Oh, Ibegan that once; I read to where Minna is walking with Cleveland, andI could never get to read the rest. I went on with it in my own head,and I made several endings; but they were all unhappy. I could nevermake a happy ending out of that beginning. Poor Minna! I wonder whatis the real end. For a long while I couldn't get my mind away from theShetland Isles,--I used to feel the wind blowing on me from the roughsea.”
Maggie spoke rapidly, with glistening eyes.
”Take that volume home with you, Maggie,” said Philip, watching herwith delight. ”I don't want it now. I shall make a picture of youinstead,--you, among the Scotch firs and the slanting shadows.”
Maggie had not heard a word he had said; she was absorbed in a page atwhich she had opened. But suddenly she closed the book, and gave itback to Philip, shaking her head with a backward movement, as if tosay ”avaunt” to floating visions.
”Do keep it, Maggie,” said Philip, entreatingly; ”it will give youpleasure.”
”No, thank you,” said Maggie, putting it aside with her hand andwalking on. ”It would make me in love with this world again, as I usedto be; it would make me long to see and know many things; it wouldmake me long for a full life.”
”But you will not always be shut up in your present lot; why shouldyou starve your mind in that way? It is narrow asceticism; I don'tlike to see you persisting in it, Maggie. Poetry and art and knowledgeare sacred and pure.”
”But not for me, not for me,” said Maggie, walking more hurriedly;”because I should want too much. I must wait; this life will not lastlong.”
”Don't hurry away from me without saying 'good-by,' Maggie,” saidPhilip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, and she continuedstill to walk along without speaking. ”I must not go any farther, Ithink, must I?”
”Oh no, I forgot; good-by,” said Maggie, pausing, and putting out herhand to him. The action brought her feeling back in a strong currentto Philip; and after they had stood looking at each other in silencefor a few moments, with their hands clasped, she said, withdrawing herhand:
”I'm very grateful to you for thinking of me all those years. It isvery sweet to have people love us. What a wonderful, beautiful thingit seems that God should have made your heart so that you could careabout a queer little girl whom you only knew for a few weeks! Iremember saying to you that I thought you cared for me more than Tomdid.”
”Ah, Maggie,” said Philip, almost fretfully, ”you would never love meso well as you love your brother.”
”Perhaps not,” said Maggie, simply; ”but then, you know, the firstthing I ever remember in my life is standing with Tom by the side ofthe Floss, while he held my hand; everything before that is dark tome. But I shall never forget you, though we must keep apart.”
”Don't say so, Maggie,” said Philip. ”If I kept that little girl in mymind for five years, didn't I earn some part in her? She ought not totake herself quite away from me.”
”Not if I were free,” said Maggie; ”but I am not, I must submit.” Shehesitated a moment, and then added, ”And I wanted to say to you, thatyou had better not take more notice of my brother than just bowing tohim. He once told me not to speak to you again, and he doesn't changehis mind--Oh dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good-by.” Shegave him her hand once more.
”I shall come here as often as I can till I see you again, Maggie.Have some feeling for _me_ as well as for others.”
”Yes, yes, I have,” said Maggie, hurrying away, and quicklydisappearing behind the last fir-tree; though Philip's gaze after herremained immovable for minutes as if he saw her still.
Maggie went home, with an inward conflict already begun; Philip wenthome to do nothing but remember and hope. You can hardly help blaminghim severely. He was four or five years older than Maggie, and had afull consciousness of his feeling toward her to aid him in foreseeingthe character his contemplated interviews with her would bear in theopinion of a third person. But you must not suppose that he wascapable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been satisfiedwithout persuading himself that he was seeking to infuse somehappiness into Maggie's life,--seeking this even more than any directends for himself. He could give her sympathy; he could give her help.There was not the slightest promise of love toward him in her manner;it was nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shownhim when she was twelve. Perhaps she would never love him; perhaps nowoman ever _could_ love him. Well, then, he would endure that; heshould at least have the happiness of seeing her, of feeling somenearness to her. And he clutched passionately the possibility that she_might_ love him; perhaps the feeling would grow, if she could come toassociate him with that watchful tenderness which her nature would beso keenly alive to. If any woman could love him, surely Maggie wasthat woman; there was such wealth of love in her, and there was no oneto claim it all. Then, the pity of it, that a mind like hers should bewithering in its very youth, like a young forest-tree, for want of thelight and space it was formed to flourish in! Could he not hinderthat, by persuading her out of her system of privation? He would beher guardian angel; he would do anything, bear anything, for hersake--except not seeing her.