Chapter III
Confidential Moments
When Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it appeared that shewas not at all inclined to undress. She set down her candle on thefirst table that presented itself, and began to walk up and down herroom, which was a large one, with a firm, regular, and rather rapidstep, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent ofstrong excitement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverishbrilliancy; her head was thrown backward, and her hands were claspedwith the palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is aptto accompany mental absorption.
Had anything remarkable happened?
Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest degreeunimportant. She had been hearing some fine music sung by a fine bassvoice,--but then it was sung in a provincial, amateur fashion, such aswould have left a critical ear much to desire. And she was consciousof having been looked at a great deal, in rather a furtive manner,from beneath a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glancethat seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of thevoice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect on athoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly balanced mind,who had had all the advantages of fortune, training, and refinedsociety. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probablyhave known nothing about her: her life would have had so fewvicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiestwomen, like the happiest nations, have no history.
In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature,--just come away from athird-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds and petty round oftasks,--these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing andexalting her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. Itwas not that she thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt onthe indications that he looked at her with admiration it was ratherthat she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love and beautyand delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry andromance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries.Her mind glanced back once or twice to the time when she had courtedprivation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience wassubdued; but that condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and sherecoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, wouldbring back that negative peace; the battle of her life, it seemed, wasnot to be decided in that short and easy way,--by perfect renunciationat the very threshold of her youth.
The music was vibrating in her still,--Purcell's music, with its wildpassion and fancy,--and she could not stay in the recollection of thatbare, lonely past. She was in her brighter aerial world again, when alittle tap came at the door; of course it was her cousin, who enteredin ample white dressing-gown.
”Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to undress?” saidLucy, in astonishment. ”I promised not to come and talk to you,because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as ifyou were ready to dress for a ball. Come, come, get on yourdressing-gown and unplait your hair.”
”Well, _you_ are not very forward,” retorted Maggie, hastily reachingher own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucy's light-brown hairbrushed back in curly disorder.
”Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you till Isee you are really on the way to bed.”
While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pinkdrapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watching her withaffectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. Ifit appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led onto talk confidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you toremember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases.
”You really _have_ enjoyed the music to-night, haven't you Maggie?”
”Oh yes, that is what prevented me from feeling sleepy. I think Ishould have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty ofmusic. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into mybrain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled withmusic. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight.”
”And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he?”
”Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that,” said Maggie,laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. ”Youare not impartial, and _I_ think any barrel-organ splendid.”
”But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly; good and badtoo.”
”Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not beso much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought to tremble more.”
”Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me! You think he isconceited, I see that. But you don't dislike him, do you?”
”Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people,that I should be very difficult to please? Besides, how could Idislike any one that promised to make you happy, my dear thing!”Maggie pinched Lucy's dimpled chin.
”We shall have more music to-morrow evening,” said Lucy, looking happyalready, ”for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him.”
”Oh, Lucy, I can't see him,” said Maggie, turning pale. ”At least, Icould not see him without Tom's leave.”
”Is Tom such a tyrant as that?” said Lucy, surprised. ”I'll take theresponsibility, then,--tell him it was my fault.”
”But, dear,” said Maggie, falteringly, ”I promised Tom very solemnly,before my father's death,--I promised him I would not speak to Philipwithout his knowledge and consent. And I have a great dread of openingthe subject with Tom,--of getting into a quarrel with him again.”
”But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What harmcan poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?”
”Oh no, pray don't, dear,” said Maggie. ”I'll go to him myselfto-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I've thoughtbefore of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not hadthe courage to determine on it.”
They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,--
”Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you.”
Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to her andsaid, ”I _should_ like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you mustnot betray that you know it to any one--least of all to Philiphimself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest.”
The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known therelief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy anythingof her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her withsympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers, encouragedher to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did notbetray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom's greatoffence,--the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as theremembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one elseshould know it at all, both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she couldnot bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and Wakem,though it was this scene which she had ever since felt to be a newbarrier between herself and Philip. She merely said, she saw now thatTom was, on the whole, right in regarding any prospect of love andmarriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by therelation of the two families. Of course Philip's father would neverconsent.
”There, Lucy, you have had my story,” said Maggie, smiling, with thetears in her eyes. ”You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. _I_ wasadored once.”
”Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and havelearned so much since you left school; which always seemed to mewitchcraft before,--part of your general uncanniness,” said Lucy.
She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, looking atMaggie, ”It is very beautiful that you should love Philip; I neverthought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, youought not to give him up. There are obstacles now; but they may bedone away with in time.”
Maggie shook her head.
”Yes, yes,” persisted Lucy; ”I can't help being hopeful about it.There is something romantic in it,--out of the common way,--just whateverything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore youlike a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain tocontrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, sothat you may marry Philip when I marry--somebody else. Wouldn't thatbe a pretty ending to all my poor, poor Maggie's troubles?”
Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill.
”Ah, dear, you are cold,” said Lucy. ”You must go to bed; and so mustI. I dare not think what time it is.”
They kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed of a confidencewhich had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggiehad been thoroughly sincere; her nature had never found it easy to beotherwise. But confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they aresincere.