Chapter VI
Illustrating the Laws of Attraction
It is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at a moment in herlife which must be considered by all prudent persons as a greatopportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St.Ogg's, with a striking person, which had the advantage of being quiteunfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderateassistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxiouscolloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a newstarting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torryfatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that ”thedark-eyed girl there in the corner” might see him in all theadditional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladieswent home intending to have short sleeves with black lace, and toplait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head,--”Thatcousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well.” In fact, poor Maggie,with all her inward consciousness of a painful past and herpresentiment of a troublous future, was on the way to become an objectof some envy,--a topic of discussion in the newly establishedbilliard-room, and between fair friends who had no secrets from eachother on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associatedchiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, andwere the glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggie'smanners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observationscurrent in good society, and of saying that she didn't know whetherthose observations were true or not, which gave her an air of_gaucherie_, and impeded the even flow of conversation but it is afact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not theworst disposed toward a new acquaintance of their own sex because shehas points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without thosepretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation ofdriving gentlemen to despair that she won some feminine pity for beingso ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not had manyadvantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was nopretension about her; her abruptness and unevenness of manner wereplainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It wasonly a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her,considering what the rest of poor Lucy's relations were--an allusionwhich always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was notagreeable to think of any connection by marriage with such people asthe Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to contradict Stephenwhen once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was nopossible objection to Lucy in herself,--no one could help liking her.She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindlyto this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a greatfuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances theinvitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, also, MissDeane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St.Ogg's for any attention toward her to be neglected.
Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young lady'slife, and knew what it was to get up in the morning without anyimperative reason for doing one thing more than another. This newsense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment amidst the soft-breathingairs and garden-scents of advancing spring--amidst the new abundanceof music, and lingering strolls in the sunshine, and the deliciousdreaminess of gliding on the river--could hardly be without someintoxicating effect on her, after her years of privation and even inthe first week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories andanticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now; it wasbecoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to feel that shewas one of the beautiful things of this spring-time. And there wereadmiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheededperson, liable to be chid, from whom attention was continuallyclaimed, and on whom no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant,too, when Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at thepiano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers and thekeys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kinship not to be wornout by separation to get the tunes she had heard the evening before,and repeat them again and again until she had found out a way ofproducing them so as to make them a more pregnant, passionate languageto her. The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and shewould often take up a book of studies rather than any melody, that shemight taste more keenly by abstraction the more primitive sensation ofintervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind thatindicates a great specific talent; it was rather that her sensibilityto the supreme excitement of music was only one form of thatpassionate sensibility which belonged to her whole nature, and madeher faults and virtues all merge in each other; made her affectionssometimes an impatient demand, but also prevented her vanity fromtaking the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it thepoetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long while, and needto be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is a thinghardly to be predicted even from the completest knowledge ofcharacteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirelyfrom within. ”Character,” says Novalis, in one of his questionableaphorisms,--”character is destiny.” But not the whole of our destiny.Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we havea great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had lived to a goodold age, and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceiveHamlet's having married Ophelia, and got through life with areputation of sanity, notwithstanding many soliloquies, and some moodysarcasms toward the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of thefrankest incivility to his father-in-law.
Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for itto reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river; we only knowthat the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is thesame final home. Under the charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herselfwas ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring imagination, of herfuture lot; and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip waslosing its predominance; perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she wasnot sorry that the interview had been deferred.
For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and Mr. StephenGuest brought word that he was gone to the coast,--probably, hethought, on a sketching expedition but it was not certain when hewould return. It was just like Philip, to go off in that way withouttelling any one. It was not until the twelfth day that he returned, tofind both Lucy's notes awaiting him; he had left before he knew ofMaggie's arrival.
Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite convinced of thefeelings that were crowded for Maggie into those twelve days; of thelength to which they were stretched for her by the novelty of herexperience in them, and the varying attitudes of her mind. The earlydays of an acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, andfill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent periods,which have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. Therewere not many hours in those ten days in which Mr. Stephen Guest wasnot seated by Lucy's side, or standing near her at the piano, oraccompanying her on some outdoor excursion his attentions wereclearly becoming more assiduous, and that was what every one hadexpected. Lucy was very happy, all the happier because Stephen'ssociety seemed to have become much more interesting and amusing sinceMaggie had been there. Playful discussions--sometimes seriousones--were going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealedthemselves, to the admiration of the gentle, unobtrusive Lucy; and itmore than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet they shouldhave through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicablething that a girl should enjoy her lover's society the more for thepresence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm ofjealousy that the third person had the conversation habituallydirected to her? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy,thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of hercompanions' affections, and not prone to the feelings which shake sucha belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, itwas Lucy by whom Stephen sat, to whom he gave his arm, to whom heappealed as the person sure to agree with him; and every day there wasthe same tender politeness toward her, the same consciousness of herwants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? It seemed toLucy that there was more; and it was no wonder that the realsignificance of the change escaped her. It was a subtle act ofconscience in Stephen that even he himself was not aware of. Hispersonal attentions to Maggie were comparatively slight, and there hadeven sprung up an apparent distance between them, that prevented therenewal of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he hadfallen the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was outof the room, if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to eachother; Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books or music, andMaggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each was oppressivelyconscious of the other's presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet eachlooked and longed for the same thing to happen the next day. Neitherof them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, ”Towhat does all this tend?” Maggie only felt that life was revealingsomething quite new to her; and she was absorbed in the direct,immediate experience, without any energy left for taking account of itand reasoning about it. Stephen wilfully abstained fromself-questioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt aninfluence which was to have any determining effect on his conduct. Andwhen Lucy came into the room again, they were once more unconstrained;Maggie could contradict Stephen, and laugh at him, and he couldrecommend to her consideration the example of that most charmingheroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great ”respect for theunderstandings of men.” Maggie could look at Stephen, which, for somereason or other she always avoided when they were alone; and he couldeven ask her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's fingerswere so busy with that bazaar-work, and lecture her on hurrying thetempo, which was certainly Maggie's weak point.
One day--it was the day of Philip's return--Lucy had formed a suddenengagement to spend the evening with Mrs. Kenn, whose delicate stateof health, threatening to become confirmed illness through an attackof bronchitis, obliged her to resign her functions at the comingbazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to beone. The engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he hadheard Lucy promise to dine early and call at six o'clock for MissTorry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request.
”Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar,” Stephenburst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room,--”taking youngladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into scenes ofdissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered reticules! I should like toknow what is the proper function of women, if it is not to makereasons for husbands to stay at home, and still stronger reasons forbachelors to go out. If this goes on much longer, the bonds of societywill be dissolved.”
”Well, it will not go on much longer,” said Lucy, laughing, ”for thebazaar is to take place on Monday week.”
”Thank Heaven!” said Stephen. ”Kenn himself said the other day that hedidn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity; butjust as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear directtaxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build andendow schools without calling in the force of folly.”
”Did he say so?” said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide withanxiety. ”I never heard him say anything of that kind; I thought heapproved of what we were doing.”
”I'm sure he approves _you_,” said Stephen, smiling at heraffectionately; ”your conduct in going out to-night looks vicious, Iown, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom of it.”
”Oh, you think too well of me,” said Lucy, shaking her head, with apretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was tacitlyunderstood that Stephen would not come in the evening; and on thestrength of that tacit understanding he made his morning visit thelonger, not saying good-bye until after four.
Maggie was seated in the drawing-room, alone, shortly after dinner,with Minny on her lap, having left her uncle to his wine and his nap,and her mother to the compromise between knitting and nodding, which,when there was no company, she always carried on in the dining-roomtill tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, andcomforting him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of afootstep on the gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephen Guestwalking up the garden, as if he had come straight from the river. Itwas very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often complainedthat their dinner-hour was late at Park House. Nevertheless, there hewas, in his black dress; he had evidently been home, and must havecome again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heartbeating; it was natural she should be nervous, for she was notaccustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up throughthe open window, and raised his hat as he walked toward it, to enterthat way instead of by the door. He blushed too, and certainly lookedas foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession can beexpected to look, as he walked in with a roll of music in his hand,and said, with an air of hesitating improvisation,--
”You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver; I ought toapologize for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to come intothe town, and I got our man to row me; so I thought I would bringthese things from the 'Maid of Artois' for your cousin; I forgot themthis morning. Will you give them to her?”
”Yes,” said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms,and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat down again.
Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor,and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before,and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely newposition.
”Well, you pampered minion!” said Stephen, leaning to pull the longcurly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a suggestiveremark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by furtherdevelopment, it naturally left the conversation at a standstill. Itseemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was obliged todo, and wonder at himself all the while,--to go on stroking Minny'shead. Yet it was very pleasant; he only wished he dared look atMaggie, and that she would look at him,--let him have one long lookinto those deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he would be satisfiedand quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a sort ofmonomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie; and he wasracking his invention continually to find out some means by which hecould have it without its appearing singular and entailing subsequentembarrassment. As for Maggie, she had no distinct thought, only thesense of a presence like that of a closely hovering broad-winged birdin the darkness, for she was unable to look up, and saw nothing butMinny's black wavy coat.
But this must end some time, perhaps it ended very soon, and only_seemed_ long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at last sat uprightsideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back andlooking at Maggie. What should he say?
”We shall have a splendid sunset, I think; sha'n't you go out and seeit?”
”I don't know,” said Maggie. Then courageously raising her eyes andlooking out of the window, ”if I'm not playing cribbage with myuncle.”
A pause; during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficientinsight not to be grateful for it, to growl rather.
”Do you like sitting alone?”
A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just glancing atStephen, she said, ”Would it be quite civil to say 'yes'?”
”It _was_ rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask,” saidStephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stayfor another. ”But you will have more than half an hour to yourselfafter I am gone,” he added, taking out his watch. ”I know Mr. Deanenever comes in till half-past seven.”
Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window,till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny's backagain, and said,--
”I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music.”
”We shall have a new voice to-morrow night,” said Stephen. ”Will youtell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw himas I went home.”
Maggie gave a little start,--it seemed hardly more than a vibrationthat passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new imagessummoned by Philip's name dispersed half the oppressive spell she hadbeen under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, andlaying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy's large work-basketfrom its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thoughtperhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her inthat abrupt way, for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of thefamily quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie wasseating herself at the table with her work, and looking chill andproud; and he--he looked like a simpleton for having come. Agratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make aman disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie'sthinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake ofsetting off again and finding her alone.
A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman offive-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference tohistory, perhaps, may make it not incredible.
At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground,and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and picking up theball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that gave his eyes quitea new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presentedthe ball to her.
”Good-bye,” said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseechingdiscontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust bothhands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she hadperhaps been rude.
”Won't you stay?” she said timidly, not looking away, for that wouldhave seemed rude again.
”No, thank you,” said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling,half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks toward the track of thedistant brook. ”The boat is waiting for me. You'll tell your cousin?”
”Yes.”
”That I brought the music, I mean?”
”Yes.”
”And that Philip is come back?”
”Yes.” (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time.)
”Won't you come out a little way into the garden?” said Stephen, in astill gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she did notsay ”No,” for she moved away now toward the open window, and he wasobliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought ofsomething to make him amends.
”Do take my arm,” he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret.
There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer ofthe firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, butthe sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them andyet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on thatground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked togetherround the grassplot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, inthe same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hourbefore; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yetperceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, andMaggie had darting thoughts across the dimness,--how came he to bethere? Why had she come out? Not a word was spoken. If it had been,each would have been less intensely conscious of the other.
”Take care of this step,” said Stephen at last.
”Oh, I will go in now,” said Maggie, feeling that the step had comelike a rescue. ”Good-evening.”
In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to thehouse. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only add tothe embarrassing recollections of the last half-hour. She had nothought left for that. She only threw herself into the low arm-chair,and burst into tears.
”Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again--so quietly--in theRed Deeps.”
Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and wassoon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room,smoking one cigar after another, and losing ”lives” at pool. But hewould not leave off. He was determined not to think,--not to admit anymore distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetualpresence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his arm.
But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight,and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterlydetermining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again.It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, andengaged,--engaged as strongly as an honorable man need be. He wishedhe had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever byher in this way; she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome,adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never have chosen herhimself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did--not. He ought notto have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himselfdisagreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Wasit possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes,--defying anddeprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching,--full of delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by lovefor one would be a lot worth having--to another man.
There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, asStephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his handsinto his pockets, stalked along at a quieter pace through theshrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind.