Chapter IV
Another Love-Scene
Early in the following April, nearly a year after that dubious partingyou have just witnessed, you may, if you like, again see Maggieentering the Red Deeps through the group of Scotch firs. But it isearly afternoon and not evening, and the edge of sharpness in thespring air makes her draw her large shawl close about her and tripalong rather quickly; though she looks round, as usual, that she maytake in the sight of her beloved trees. There is a more eager,inquiring look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile ishovering about her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting theright hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing.
”Take back your _Corinne_,” said Maggie, drawing a book from under hershawl. ”You were right in telling me she would do me no good; but youwere wrong in thinking I should wish to be like her.”
”Wouldn't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Maggie?” saidPhilip looking up in her face as we look at a first parting in theclouds that promises us a bright heaven once more.
”Not at all,” said Maggie, laughing. ”The Muses were uncomfortablegoddesses, I think,--obliged always to carry rolls and musicalinstruments about with them. If I carried a harp in this climate, youknow, I must have a green baize cover for it; and I should be sure toleave it behind me by mistake.”
”You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then?”
”I didn't finish the book,” said Maggie. ”As soon as I came to theblond-haired young lady reading in the park, I shut it up, anddetermined to read no further. I foresaw that that light-complexionedgirl would win away all the love from Corinne and make her miserable.I'm determined to read no more books where the blond-haired womencarry away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudiceagainst them. If you could give me some story, now, where the darkwoman triumphs, it would restore the balance. I want to avenge Rebeccaand Flora MacIvor and Minna, and all the rest of the dark unhappyones. Since you are my tutor, you ought to preserve my mind fromprejudices; you are always arguing against prejudices.”
”Well, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your own person, andcarry away all the love from your cousin Lucy. She is sure to havesome handsome young man of St. Ogg's at her feet now; and you haveonly to shine upon him--your fair little cousin will be quite quenchedin your beams.”
”Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to anythingreal,” said Maggie, looking hurt. ”As if I, with my old gowns and wantof all accomplishments, could be a rival of dear little Lucy,--whoknows and does all sorts of charming things, and is ten times prettierthan I am,--even if I were odious and base enough to wish to be herrival. Besides, I never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there; itis only because dear Lucy is good, and loves me, that she comes to seeme, and will have me go to see her sometimes.”
”Maggie,” said Philip, with surprise, ”it is not like you to takeplayfulness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg's this morning,and brought away a slight infection of dulness.”
”Well,” said Maggie, smiling, ”if you meant that for a joke, it was apoor one; but I thought it was a very good reproof. I thought youwanted to remind me that I am vain, and wish every one to admire memost. But it isn't for that that I'm jealous for the dark women,--notbecause I'm dark myself; it's because I always care the most about theunhappy people. If the blond girl were forsaken, I should like _her_best. I always take the side of the rejected lover in the stories.”
”Then you would never have the heart to reject one yourself, shouldyou, Maggie?” said Philip, flushing a little.
”I don't know,” said Maggie, hesitatingly. Then with a bright smile,”I think perhaps I could if he were very conceited; and yet, if he gotextremely humiliated afterward, I should relent.”
”I've often wondered, Maggie,” Philip said, with some effort, ”whetheryou wouldn't really be more likely to love a man that other women werenot likely to love.”
”That would depend on what they didn't like him for,” said Maggie,laughing. ”He might be very disagreeable. He might look at me throughan eye-glass stuck in his eye, making a hideous face, as young Torrydoes. I should think other women are not fond of that; but I neverfelt any pity for young Torry. I've never any pity for conceitedpeople, because I think they carry their comfort about with them.”
”But suppose, Maggie,--suppose it was a man who was not conceited, whofelt he had nothing to be conceited about; who had been marked fromchildhood for a peculiar kind of suffering, and to whom you were theday-star of his life; who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely thathe felt it happiness enough for him if you would let him see you atrare moments----”
Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession should cutshort this very happiness,--a pang of the same dread that had kept hislove mute through long months. A rush of self-consciousness told himthat he was besotted to have said all this. Maggie's manner thismorning had been as unconstrained and indifferent as ever.
But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the unusualemotion in Philip's tone, she had turned quickly to look at him; andas he went on speaking, a great change came over her face,--a flushand slight spasm of the features, such as we see in people who hearsome news that will require them to readjust their conceptions of thepast. She was quite silent, and walking on toward the trunk of afallen tree, she sat down, as if she had no strength to spare for hermuscles. She was trembling.
”Maggie,” said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in every freshmoment of silence, ”I was a fool to say it; forget that I've said it.I shall be contented if things can be as they were.”
The distress with which he spoke urged Maggie to say something. ”I amso surprised, Philip; I had not thought of it.” And the effort to saythis brought the tears down too.
”Has it made you hate me, Maggie?” said Philip, impetuously. ”Do youthink I'm a presumptuous fool?”
”Oh, Philip!” said Maggie, ”how can you think I have such feelings? Asif I were not grateful for _any_ love. But--but I had never thought ofyour being my lover. It seemed so far off--like a dream--only like oneof the stories one imagines--that I should ever have a lover.”
”Then can you bear to think of me as your lover, Maggie?” said Philip,seating himself by her, and taking her hand, in the elation of asudden hope. ”_Do_ you love me?”
Maggie turned rather pale; this direct question seemed not easy toanswer. But her eyes met Philip's, which were in this moment liquidand beautiful with beseeching love. She spoke with hesitation, yetwith sweet, simple, girlish tenderness.
”I think I could hardly love any one better; there is nothing but whatI love you for.” She paused a little while, and then added: ”But itwill be better for us not to say any more about it, won't it, dearPhilip? You know we couldn't even be friends, if our friendship werediscovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving way aboutseeing you, though it has been so precious to me in some ways; and nowthe fear comes upon me strongly again, that it will lead to evil.”
”But no evil has come, Maggie; and if you had been guided by that fearbefore, you would only have lived through another dreary, benumbingyear, instead of reviving into your real self.”
Maggie shook her head. ”It has been very sweet, I know,--all thetalking together, and the books, and the feeling that I had the walkto look forward to, when I could tell you the thoughts that had comeinto my head while I was away from you. But it has made me restless;it has made me think a great deal about the world; and I haveimpatient thoughts again,--I get weary of my home; and then it cuts meto the heart afterward, that I should ever have felt weary of myfather and mother. I think what you call being benumbed wasbetter--better for me--for then my selfish desires were benumbed.”
Philip had risen again, and was walking backward and forwardimpatiently.
”No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-conquest, as I've often toldyou. What you call self-conquest--binding and deafening yourself toall but one train of impressions--is only the culture of monomania ina nature like yours.”
He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down by her againand took her hand.
”Don't think of the past now, Maggie; think only of our love. If youcan really cling to me with all your heart, every obstacle will beovercome in time; we need only wait. I can live on hope. Look at me,Maggie; tell me again it is possible for you to love me. Don't lookaway from me to that cloven tree; it is a bad omen.”
She turned her large dark glance upon him with a sad smile.
”Come, Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better to me atLorton. You asked me if I should like you to kiss me,--don't youremember?--and you promised to kiss me when you met me again. Younever kept the promise.”
The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet relief toMaggie. It made the present moment less strange to her. She kissed himalmost as simply and quietly as she had done when she was twelve yearsold. Philip's eyes flashed with delight, but his next words were wordsof discontent.
”You don't seem happy enough, Maggie; you are forcing yourself to sayyou love me, out of pity.”
”No, Philip,” said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old childish way;”I'm telling you the truth. It is all new and strange to me; but Idon't think I could love any one better than I love you. I should likealways to live with you--to make you happy. I have always been happywhen I have been with you. There is only one thing I will not do foryour sake; I will never do anything to wound my father. You must neverask that from me.”
”No, Maggie, I will ask nothing; I will bear everything; I'll waitanother year only for a kiss, if you will only give me the first placein your heart.”
”No,” said Maggie, smiling, ”I won't make you wait so long as that.”But then, looking serious again, she added, as she rose from herseat,--
”But what would your own father say, Philip? Oh, it is quiteimpossible we can ever be more than friends,--brother and sister insecret, as we have been. Let us give up thinking of everything else.”
”No, Maggie, I can't give you up,--unless you are deceiving me; unlessyou really only care for me as if I were your brother. Tell me thetruth.”
”Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so great as beingwith you,--since I was a little girl,--the days Tom was good to me?And your mind is a sort of world to me; you can tell me all I want toknow. I think I should never be tired of being with you.”
They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other; Maggie, indeed,was hurrying along, for she felt it time to be gone. But the sensethat their parting was near made her more anxious lest she should haveunintentionally left some painful impression on Philip's mind. It wasone of those dangerous moments when speech is at once sincere anddeceptive; when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leavesfloodmarks which are never reached again.
They stopped to part among the Scotch firs.
”Then my life will be filled with hope, Maggie, and I shall be happierthan other men, in spite of all? We _do_ belong to each other--foralways--whether we are apart or together?”
”Yes, Philip; I should like never to part; I should like to make yourlife very happy.”
”I am waiting for something else. I wonder whether it will come.”
Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stooped her tall headto kiss the pale face that was full of pleading, timid love,--like awoman's.
She had a moment of real happiness then,--a moment of belief that, ifthere were sacrifice in this love, it was all the richer and moresatisfying.
She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour since shehad trodden this road before, a new era had begun for her. The tissueof vague dreams must now get narrower and narrower, and all thethreads of thought and emotion be gradually absorbed in the woof ofher actual daily life.