Chapter XIII
Borne Along by the Tide
In less than a week Maggie was at St. Ogg's again,--outwardly in muchthe same position as when her visit there had just begun. It was easyfor her to fill her mornings apart from Lucy without any obviouseffort; for she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, andit was natural that she should give her mother more than usual of hercompanionship in these last weeks, especially as there werepreparations to be thought of for Tom's housekeeping. But Lucy wouldhear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings; she mustalways come from aunt Glegg's before dinner,--”else what shall I haveof you?” said Lucy, with a tearful pout that could not be resisted.
And Mr. Stephen Guest had unaccountably taken to dining at Mr. Deane'sas often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. Atfirst he began his mornings with a resolution that he would not dinethere, not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had evendevised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable Juneweather; the headaches which he had constantly been alleging as aground for stupidity and silence were a sufficient ostensible motive.But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth morning no distinctresolution was formed about the evenings; they were only foreseen astimes when Maggie would still be present for a little while,--when onemore touch, one more glance, might be snatched. For why not? There wasnothing to conceal between them; they knew, they had confessed theirlove, and they had renounced each other; they were going to part.Honor and conscience were going to divide them; Maggie, with thatappeal from her inmost soul, had decided it; but surely they mightcast a lingering look at each other across the gulf, before theyturned away never to look again till that strange light had foreverfaded out of their eyes.
Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and even torporof manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardor,that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a change,if she had not been convinced that the position in which Maggie stoodbetween Philip and her brother, and the prospect of her self-imposedwearisome banishment, were quite enough to account for a large amountof depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce battle ofemotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never knownor foreboded; it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her hadlain in ambush till now, and had suddenly started up full-armed, withhideous, overpowering strength! There were moments in which a cruelselfishness seemed to be getting possession of her; why should notLucy, why should not Philip, suffer? _She_ had had to suffer throughmany years of her life; and who had renounced anything for her? Andwhen something like that fulness of existence--love, wealth, ease,refinement, all that her nature craved--was brought within her reach,why was she to forego it, that another might have it,--another, whoperhaps needed it less? But amidst all this new passionate tumultthere were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power,till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. _Was_ thatexistence which tempted her the full existence she dreamed? Where,then, would be all the memories of early striving; all the deep pityfor another's pain, which had been nurtured in her through years ofaffection and hardship; all the divine presentiment of somethinghigher than mere personal enjoyment, which had made the sacredness oflife? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, ashope to enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming the faithand sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And then, if painwere so hard to _her_, what was it to others? ”Ah, God! preserve mefrom inflicting--give me strength to bear it.” How had she sunk intothis struggle with a temptation that she would once have thoughtherself as secure from as from deliberate crime? When was that firsthateful moment in which she had been conscious of a feeling thatclashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had not shakenit from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? And yet,since this strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, should not,conquer her,--since it was to remain simply her own suffering,--hermind was meeting Stephen's in that thought of his, that they mightstill snatch moments of mute confession before the parting came. Forwas not he suffering too? She saw it daily--saw it in the sickenedlook of fatigue with which, as soon as he was not compelled to exerthimself, he relapsed into indifference toward everything but thepossibility of watching her. Could she refuse sometimes to answer thatbeseeching look which she felt to be following her like a low murmurof love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last theevening for them both was sometimes made of a moment's mutual gaze;they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they thought ofnothing else.
One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that wasto sing; it was a way of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was notdistinctly conscious that he was impelled to it by a secretlonging--running counter to all his self-confessed resolves--to deepenthe hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it isguided by your less conscious purposes, and you will understand thatcontradiction in Stephen.
Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally inthe evening, and it happened that he was there when Lucy said, as theysat out on the lawn, near sunset,--
”Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I mean thatwe shall go out boating every day until she goes. She has not had halfenough boating because of these tiresome visits, and she likes itbetter than anything. Don't you, Maggie?”
”Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean,” said Philip,smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden-chair;”else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who hauntsthe Floss, only for the sake of being drifted in a boat forever.”
”Should you like to be her boatman?” said Lucy. ”Because, if youwould, you can come with us and take an oar. If the Floss were but aquiet lake instead of a river, we should be independent of anygentleman, for Maggie can row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced toask services of knights and squires, who do not seem to offer themwith great alacrity.”
She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up anddown, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto,--
”The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine.”
He took no notice, but still kept aloof; he had done so frequentlyduring Philip's recent visits.
”You don't seem inclined for boating,” said Lucy, when he came to sitdown by her on the bench. ”Doesn't rowing suit you now?”
”Oh, I hate a large party in a boat,” he said, almost irritably. ”I'llcome when you have no one else.”
Lucy colored, fearing that Philip would be hurt; it was quite a newthing for Stephen to speak in that way; but he had certainly not beenwell of late. Philip colored too, but less from a feeling of personaloffence than from a vague suspicion that Stephen's moodiness had somerelation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke, andhad walked toward the hedge of laurels to look at the descendingsunlight on the river.
”As Miss Deane didn't know she was excluding others by inviting me,”said Philip, ”I am bound to resign.”
”No, indeed, you shall not,” said Lucy, much vexed. ”I particularlywish for your company to-morrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten;it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckrethand walk back, before the sun gets too hot. And how can you object tofour people in a boat?” she added, looking at Stephen.
”I don't object to the people, but the number,” said Stephen, who hadrecovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. ”If I votedfor a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we won'tdivide the pleasure of escorting the ladies; we'll take italternately. I'll go the next day.”
This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention withfreshened solicitude toward Stephen and Maggie; but when theyre-entered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs. Tulliver and Mr.Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart near the tablewhere the books and work were placed, doing nothing, however, butlistening abstractedly to the music. Stephen presently turned to aduet which he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing; he had oftendone the same thing before; but this evening Philip thought he divinedsome double intention in every word and look of Stephen's, and watchedhim keenly, angry with himself all the while for this clingingsuspicion. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for hisdoubts on her side? And she was truth itself; it was impossible not tobelieve her word and glance when they had last spoken together in thegarden. Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was morenatural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on whatmust be his friend's painful secret. Still he watched. Stephen, movingaway from the piano, sauntered slowly toward the table near whichMaggie sat, and turned over the newspapers, apparently in mereidleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the piano, dragginga newspaper under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his hair,as if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in the ”LacehamCourier.” He was in reality looking at Maggie who had not taken theslightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strengthof resistance when Philip was present, just as we can restrain ourspeech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last sheheard the word ”dearest” uttered in the softest tone of painedentreaty, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought tohave been given without asking. She had never heard that word sincethe moments in the lane at Basset, when it had come from Stephen againand again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulatecry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite sideof the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes aninstant toward Stephen's face, but immediately look apprehensivelytoward himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observedher; but a pang of shame, under the sense of this concealment, madeher move from her chair and walk to her mother's side to watch thegame at cribbage.
Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled withwretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist theconviction that there was some mutual consciousness between Stephenand Maggie; and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerveswere pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact; he couldattempt no explanation that would reconcile it with her words andactions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to itshabitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth,--shewas struggling, she was banishing herself; this was the clue to all hehad seen since his return. But athwart that belief there came otherpossibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imaginationwrought out the whole story; Stephen was madly in love with her; hemust have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away.But would he give her up, knowing--Philip felt the fact withheart-crushing despair--that she was made half helpless by her feelingtoward him?
When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping hisengagement to go in the boat. In his present agitation he could decideon nothing; he could only alternate between contradictory intentions.First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie, and entreather to confide in him; then, again, he distrusted his owninterference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along?She had uttered words long ago in her young ignorance; it was enoughto make her hate him that these should be continually present with heras a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation offeelings which she had evidently intended to withhold from him? Hewould not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself thathe could act from pure anxiety for her, and not from egoisticirritation. He wrote a brief note to Stephen, and sent it early by theservant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his engagementto Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?
Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite contentwith Stephen's refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that herfather was to drive to Lindum this morning at ten; Lindum was the veryplace she wanted to go to, to make purchases,--important purchases,which must by no means be put off to another opportunity; and auntTulliver must go too, because she was concerned in some of thepurchases.
”You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know,” she saidto Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairstogether; ”Philip will be here it half-past ten, and it is a deliciousmorning. Now don't say a word against it, you dear dolorous thing.What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your faceagainst all the wonders I work for you? Don't think of awful cousinTom; you may disobey him a little.”
Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad of the plan,for perhaps it would bring her some strength and calmness to be alonewith Philip again; it was like revisiting the scene of a quieter life,in which the very struggles were repose, compared with the dailytumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat and athalf-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.
The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was thinking withhalf-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have infinding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished afirm, rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip's; thedoor opened, and Stephen Guest entered.
In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; forStephen had learned from the servant that the others were gone out.Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beatingviolently; and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and satby her in silence. She thought Philip would be coming soon and withgreat effort--for she trembled visibly--she rose to go to a distantchair.
”He is not coming,” said Stephen, in a low tone. ”I am going in theboat.”
”Oh, we can't go,” said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. ”Lucydid not expect--she would be hurt. Why is not Philip come?”
”He is not well; he asked me to come instead.”
”Lucy is gone to Lindum,” said Maggie, taking off her bonnet withhurried, trembling fingers. ”We must not go.”
”Very well,” said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested hisarm on the back of his chair. ”Then we'll stay here.”
He was looking into her deep, deep eyes, far off and mysterious at thestarlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly loving. Maggie satperfectly still--perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes--until thehelpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her check.
”The man is waiting; he has taken the cushions,” she said. ”Will yougo and tell him?”
”What shall I tell him?” said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He waslooking at the lips now.
Maggie made no answer.
”Let us go,” Stephen murmured entreatingly, rising, and taking herhand to raise her too. ”We shall not be long together.”
And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the gardenamong the roses, being helped with firm, tender care into the boat,having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasolopened for her (which she had forgotten), all by this strongerpresence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her ownwill, like the added self which comes with the sudden exaltinginfluence of a strong tonic, and she felt nothing else. Memory wasexcluded.
They glided rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by thebackward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses; on betweenthe silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed filled with anatural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young,unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentarysong of a passing bird heard now and then, as if it were only theoverflowing of brimful gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofoldconsciousness that was mingled into one by that grave, untiring gazewhich need not be averted,--what else could there be in their mindsfor the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of lovecame from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, halfautomatically; otherwise they spoke no word; for what could words havebeen but an inlet to thought? and thought did not belong to thatenchanted haze in which they were enveloped,--it belonged to the pastand the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimlyconscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with norecognition on the villages; she knew there were several to be passedbefore they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped and left theboat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absence, that she waslikely enough to let her waymarks pass unnoticed.
But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased torow, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down on the wateras if watching the pace at which the boat glided without his help.This sudden change roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretchingfields, at the banks close by, and felt that they were entirelystrange to her. A terrible alarm took possession of her.
”Oh, have we passed Luckreth, where we were to stop?” she exclaimed,looking back to see if the place were out of sight. No village was tobe seen. She turned around again, with a look of distressedquestioning at Stephen.
He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, absenttone, ”Yes, a long way.”
”Oh, what shall I do?” cried Maggie, in an agony. ”We shall not gethome for hours, and Lucy? O God, help me!”
She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child;she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look ofpained surprise and doubt, perhaps of just upbraiding.
Stephen moved and sat near her, and gently drew down the claspedhands.
”Maggie,” he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, ”let us never gohome again, till no one can part us,--till we are married.”
The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's sob, and shesat quite still, wondering; as if Stephen might have seen somepossibilities that would alter everything, and annul the wretchedfacts.
”See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking,--in spiteof all our efforts. We never thought of being alone together again; ithas all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out, awayfrom all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make fasterround us, and trying in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we canland there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York and then toScotland,--and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other,so that only death can part us. It is the only right thing, dearest;it is the only way of escaping from this wretched entanglement.Everything has concurred to point it out to us. We have contrivednothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves.”
Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened, passingfrom her startled wonderment to the yearning after that belief thatthe tide was doing it all, that she might glide along with the swift,silent stream, and not struggle any more. But across that stealinginfluence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the suddenhorror lest now, at last, the moment of fatal intoxication was closeupon her, called up feelings of angry resistance toward Stephen.
”Let me go!” she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant lookat him, and trying to get her hands free. ”You have wanted to depriveme of any choice. You knew we were come too far; you have dared totake advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me intosuch a position.”
Stung by this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to hisformer place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at thedifficulty Maggie's words had made present to him. If she would notconsent to go on, he must curse himself for the embarrassment he hadled her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing; the onething worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he hadacted unworthily toward her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressedrage,--
”I didn't notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had got to thenext village; and then it came into my mind that we would go on. Ican't justify it; I ought to have told you. It is enough to make youhate me, since you don't love me well enough to make everything elseindifferent to you, as I do you. Shall I stop the boat and try to getyou out here? I'll tell Lucy that I was mad, and that you hate me; andyou shall be clear of me forever. No one can blame you, because I havebehaved unpardonably to you.”
Maggie was paralyzed; it was easier to resist Stephen's pleading thanthis picture he had called up of himself suffering while she wasvindicated; easier even to turn away from his look of tenderness thanfrom this look of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfishisolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which thereasons which had acted on her conscience seemed to be transmittedinto mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched,and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had reproachedhim for being hurried into irrevocable trespass,--she, who had been soweak herself.
”As if I shouldn't feel what happened to you--just the same,” shesaid, with reproach of another kind,--the reproach of love, asking formore trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen's suffering was morefatal than the other yielding, because it was less distinguishablefrom that sense of others' claims which was the moral basis of herresistance.
He felt all the relenting in her look and tone; it was heaven openingagain. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow onthe back of the boat, and saying nothing. He dreaded to utter anotherword, he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke anotherreproach or denial from her. Life hung on her consent; everything elsewas hopeless, confused, sickening misery. They glided along in thisway, both resting in that silence as in a haven, both dreading lesttheir feelings should be divided again,--till they became aware thatthe clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible fresheningof the breeze was growing and growing, so that the whole character ofthe day was altered.
”You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloakover your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest.”
Maggie obeyed; there was an unspeakable charm in being told what todo, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again coveredwith the cloak, and Stephen took to his oars again, making haste; forthey must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardlyconscious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding isattended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance; it is thepartial sleep of thought; it is the submergence of our own personalityby another. Every influence tended to lull her into acquiescence. Thatdreamy gliding in the boat which had lasted for four hours, and hadbrought some weariness and exhaustion the recoil of her fatiguedsensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of theboat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for longmiles,--all helped to bring her into more complete subjection to thatstrong, mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephen seemthe death of all joy, and made the thought of wounding him like thefirst touch of the torturing iron before which resolution shrank. Andthen there was the present happiness of being with him, which wasenough to absorb all her languid energy.
Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming after them. Severalvessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with theearly tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked moreand more eagerly at this vessel, as if a new thought had come into hismind along with it, and then he looked at Maggie hesitatingly.
”Maggie, dearest,” he said at last, ”if this vessel should be going toMudport, or to any convenient place on the coast northward, it wouldbe our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued,and it may soon rain; it may be a wretched business, getting to Torbyin this boat. It's only a trading vessel, but I dare say you can bemade tolerably comfortable. We'll take the cushions out of the boat.It is really our best plan. They'll be glad enough to take us. I'vegot plenty of money about me. I can pay them well.”
Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this newproposition but she was silent,--one course seemed as difficult asanother.
Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to Mudport, theEnglish mate informed him, and, if this wind held, would be there inless than two days.
”We had got out too far with our boat,” said Stephen. ”I was trying tomake for Torby. But I'm afraid of the weather; and this lady--mywife--will be exhausted with fatigue and hunger. Take us onboard--will you?--and haul up the boat. I'll pay you well.”
Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken on board,making an interesting object of contemplation to admiring Dutchmen.The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, forthey had no accommodation for such entirely unlooked-forpassengers,--no private cabin larger than an old-fashioned church-pew.But at least they had Dutch cleanliness, which makes all otherinconveniences tolerable; and the boat cushions were spread into acouch for Maggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up anddown the deck leaning on Stephen--being upheld by his strength--wasthe first change that she needed; then came food, and then quietreclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new resolution_could_ be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow.Stephen sat beside her with her hand in his; they could only speak toeach other in low tones; only look at each other now and then, for itwould take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men onboard, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that minor degreeof interest which belongs, in a sailor's regard, to all objects nearerthan the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly happy. Every otherthought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certaintythat Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now; he had beentortured by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmasteringinclination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. Hemurmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness, his adoration,his tenderness, his belief that their life together must be heaven,that her presence with him would give rapture to every common day;that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all otherbliss; that everything was easy for her sake, except to part with her;and now they never _would_ part; he would belong to her forever, andall that was his was hers,--had no value for him except as it washers. Such things, uttered in low, broken tones by the one voice thathas first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feebleeffect--on experienced minds at a distance from them. To poor Maggiethey were very near; they were like nectar held close to thirsty lips;there was, there _must_ be, then, a life for mortals here below whichwas not hard and chill,--in which affection would no longer beself-sacrifice. Stephen's passionate words made the vision of such alife more fully present to her than it had ever been before; and thevision for the time excluded all realities,--all except the returningsun-gleams which broke out on the waters as the evening approached,and mingled with the visionary sunlight of promised happiness; allexcept the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her,and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love.
There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to thehorizon again, making the great purple rampart and long purple islesof that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goesdown,--the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was tosleep all night on the poop; it was better than going below; and shewas covered with the warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It wasstill early, when the fatigues of the day brought on a drowsy longingfor perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint,dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was gettingbrighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was stillseated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against thevessel's side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours,which had flowed over her like a soft stream, and made her entirelypassive, there was the dim consciousness that the condition was atransient one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life ofstruggle; that there were thoughts which would presently avengethemselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her; shewas being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing overher, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the wondrousaerial land of the west.