Chapter II
St. Ogg's Passes Judgment
It was soon known throughout St. Ogg's that Miss Tulliver was comeback; she had not, then, eloped in order to be married to Mr. StephenGuest,--at all events, Mr. Stephen Guest had not married her; whichcame to the same thing, so far as her culpability was concerned. Wejudge others according to results; how else?--not knowing the processby which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few monthsof well-chosen travel, had returned as Mrs. Stephen Guest, with apost-marital _trousseau_, and all the advantages possessed even by themost unwelcome wife of an only son, public opinion, which at St.Ogg's, as else where, always knew what to think, would have judged instrict consistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases,is always of the feminine gender,--not the world, but the world'swife; and she would have seen that two handsome young people--thegentleman of quite the first family in St. Ogg's--having foundthemselves in a false position, had been led into a course which, tosay the least of it, was highly injudicious, and productive of sadpain and disappointment, especially to that sweet young thing, MissDeane. Mr. Stephen Guest had certainly not behaved well; but then,young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attachments; and badas it might seem in Mrs. Stephen Guest to admit the faintest advancesfrom her cousin's lover (indeed it _had_ been said that she wasactually engaged to young Wakem,--old Wakem himself had mentioned it),still, she was very young,--”and a deformed young man, you know!--andyoung Guest so very fascinating; and, they say, he positively worshipsher (to be sure, that can't last!), and he ran away with her in theboat quite against her will, and what could she do? She couldn't comeback then; no one would have spoken to her; and how very well thatmaize-colored satinette becomes her complexion! It seems as if thefolds in front were quite come in; several of her dresses are madeso,--they say he thinks nothing too handsome to buy for her. Poor MissDeane! She is very pitiable; but then there was no positiveengagement; and the air at the coast will do her good. After all, ifyoung Guest felt no more for her than _that_ it was better for her notto marry him. What a wonderful marriage for a girl like MissTulliver,--quite romantic? Why, young Guest will put up for theborough at the next election. Nothing like commerce nowadays! Thatyoung Wakem nearly went out of his mind; he always _was_ rather queer;but he's gone abroad again to be out of the way,--quite the best thingfor a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares she will never visit Mr.and Mrs. Stephen Guest,--such nonsense! pretending to be better thanother people. Society couldn't be carried on if we inquired intoprivate conduct in that way,--and Christianity tells us to think noevil,--and my belief is, that Miss Unit had no cards sent her.”
But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant thisextenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without a _trousseau_,without a husband,--in that degraded and outcast condition to whicherror is well known to lead; and the world's wife, with that fineinstinct which is given her for the preservation of Society, saw atonce that Miss Tulliver's conduct had been of the most aggravatedkind. Could anything be more detestable? A girl so much indebted toher friends--whose mother as well as herself had received so muchkindness from the Deanes--to lay the design of winning a young man'saffections away from her own cousin, who had behaved like a sister toher! Winning his affections? That was not the phrase for such a girlas Miss Tulliver; it would have been more correct to say that she hadbeen actuated by mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. Therewas always something questionable about her. That connection withyoung Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on for years, lookedvery ill,--disgusting, in fact! But with a girl of that disposition!To the world's wife there had always been something in Miss Tulliver'svery _physique_ that a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm.As for poor Mr. Stephen Guest, he was rather pitiable than otherwise;a young man of five-and-twenty is not to be too severely judged inthese cases,--he is really very much at the mercy of a designing, boldgirl. And it was clear that he had given way in spite of himself: hehad shaken her off as soon as he could; indeed, their having parted sosoon looked very black indeed--_for her_. To be sure, he had written aletter, laying all the blame on himself, and telling the story in aromantic fashion so as to try and make her appear quite innocent; ofcourse he would do that! But the refined instinct of the world's wifewas not to be deceived; providentially!--else what would become ofSociety? Why, her own brother had turned her from his door; he hadseen enough, you might be sure, before he would do that. A trulyrespectable young man, Mr. Tom Tulliver; quite likely to rise in theworld! His sister's disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It wasto be hoped that she would go out of the neighborhood,--to America, oranywhere,--so as to purify the air of St. Ogg's from the stain of herpresence, extremely dangerous to daughters there! No good could happento her; it was only to be hoped she would repent, and that God wouldhave mercy on her: He had not the care of society on His hands, as theworld's wife had.
It required nearly a fortnight for fine instinct to assure itself ofthese inspirations; indeed, it was a whole week before Stephen'sletter came, telling his father the facts, and adding that he was goneacross to Holland,--had drawn upon the agent at Mudport formoney,--was incapable of any resolution at present.
Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a more agonizinganxiety to spend any thought on the view that was being taken of herconduct by the world of St. Ogg's; anxiety about Stephen, Lucy,Philip, beat on her poor heart in a hard, driving, ceaseless storm ofmingled love, remorse, and pity. If she had thought of rejection andinjustice at all, it would have seemed to her that they had done theirworst; that she could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerablesince the words she had heard from her brother's lips. Across all heranxiety for the loved and the injured, those words shot again andagain, like a horrible pang that would have brought misery and dreadeven into a heaven of delights. The idea of ever recovering happinessnever glimmered in her mind for a moment; it seemed as if everysensitive fibre in her were too entirely preoccupied by pain ever tovibrate again to another influence. Life stretched before her as oneact of penitence; and all she craved, as she dwelt on her future lot,was something to guarantee her from more falling; her own weaknesshaunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities, that made no peaceconceivable except such as lay in the sense of a sure refuge.
But she was not without practical intentions; the love of independencewas too strong an inheritance and a habit for her not to remember thatshe must get her bread; and when other projects looked vague, she fellback on that of returning to her plain sewing, and so getting enoughto pay for her lodging at Bob's. She meant to persuade her mother toreturn to the Mill by and by, and live with Tom again; and somehow orother she would maintain herself at St. Ogg's. Dr. Kenn would perhapshelp her and advise her. She remembered his parting words at thebazaar. She remembered the momentary feeling of reliance that hadsprung in her when he was talking with her, and she waited withyearning expectation for the opportunity of confiding everything tohim. Her mother called every day at Mr. Deane's to learn how Lucy was;the report was always sad,--nothing had yet roused her from the feeblepassivity which had come on with the first shock. But of Philip, Mrs.Tulliver had learned nothing; naturally, no one whom she met wouldspeak to her about what related to her daughter. But at last shesummoned courage to go and see sister Glegg, who of course would knoweverything, and had been even to see Tom at the Mill in Mrs.Tulliver's absence, though he had said nothing of what had passed onthe occasion.
As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bonnet. She hadresolved on walking to the Rectory and asking to see Dr. Kenn; he wasin deep grief, but the grief of another does not jar upon us in suchcircumstances. It was the first time she had been beyond the doorsince her return; nevertheless her mind was so bent on the purpose ofher walk, that the unpleasantness of meeting people on the way, andbeing stared at, did not occur to her. But she had no sooner passedbeyond the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bob'sdwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; andthis consciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid to look toright or left. Presently, however, she came full on Mrs. and MissTurnbull, old acquaintances of her family; they both looked at herstrangely, and turned a little aside without speaking. All hard lookswere pain to Maggie, but her self-reproach was too strong forresentment. No wonder they will not speak to me, she thought; they arevery fond of Lucy. But now she knew that she was about to pass a groupof gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiard-rooms, andshe could not help seeing young Torry step out a little with his glassat his eye, and bow to her with that air of _nonchalance_ which hemight have bestowed on a friendly barmaid.
Maggie's pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting, even inthe midst of her sorrow; and for the first time the thought tookstrong hold of her that she would have other obloquy cast on herbesides that which was felt to be due to her breach of faith towardLucy. But she was at the Rectory now; there, perhaps, she would findsomething else than retribution. Retribution may come from any voice;the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted urchin at the street-corner caninflict it; surely help and pity are rarer things, more needful forthe righteous to bestow.
She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr. Kenn'sstudy, where he sat amongst piled-up books, for which he had littleappetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his youngest child, agirl of three. The child was sent away with the servant, and when thedoor was closed, Dr. Kenn said, placing a chair for Maggie,--
”I was coming to see you, Miss Tulliver; you have anticipated me; I amglad you did.”
Maggie looked at him with her childlike directness as she had done atthe bazaar, and said, ”I want to tell you everything.” But her eyesfilled fast with tears as she said it, and all the pent-up excitementof her humiliating walk would have its vent before she could say more.
”Do tell me everything,” Dr. Kenn said, with quiet kindness in hisgrave, firm voice. ”Think of me as one to whom a long experience hasbeen granted, which may enable him to help you.”
In rather broken sentences, and with some effort at first, but soonwith the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in theconfidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that must be thebeginning of a long sorrow. Only the day before, Dr. Kenn had beenmade acquainted with the contents of Stephen's letter, and he hadbelieved them at once, without the confirmation of Maggie's statement.That involuntary plaint of hers, ”_Oh, I must go_,” had remained withhim as the sign that she was undergoing some inward conflict.
Maggie dwelt the longest on the feeling which had made her come backto her mother and brother, which made her cling to all the memories ofthe past. When she had ended, Dr. Kenn was silent for some minutes;there was a difficulty on his mind. He rose, and walked up and downthe hearth with his hands behind him. At last he seated himself again,and said, looking at Maggie,--
”Your prompting to go to your nearest friends,--to remain where allthe ties of your life have been formed,--is a true prompting, to whichthe Church in its original constitution and discipline responds,opening its arms to the penitent, watching over its children to thelast; never abandoning them until they are hopelessly reprobate. Andthe Church ought to represent the feeling of the community, so thatevery parish should be a family knit together by Christian brotherhoodunder a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and Christianfraternity are entirely relaxed,--they can hardly be said to exist inthe public mind; they hardly survive except in the partial,contradictory form they have taken in the narrow communities ofschismatics; and if I were not supported by the firm faith that theChurch must ultimately recover the full force of that constitutionwhich is alone fitted to human needs, I should often lose heart atobserving the want of fellowship and sense of mutual responsibilityamong my own flock. At present everything seems tending toward therelaxation of ties,--toward the substitution of wayward choice for theadherence to obligation, which has its roots in the past. Yourconscience and your heart have given you true light on this point,Miss Tulliver; and I have said all this that you may know what my wishabout you--what my advice to you--would be, if they sprang from my ownfeeling and opinion unmodified by counteracting circumstances.”
Dr. Kenn paused a little while. There was an entire absence ofeffusive benevolence in his manner; there was something almost cold inthe gravity of his look and voice. If Maggie had not known that hisbenevolence was persevering in proportion to its reserve, she mighthave been chilled and frightened. As it was, she listened expectantly,quite sure that there would be some effective help in his words. Hewent on.
”Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you fromanticipating fully the very unjust conceptions that will probably beformed concerning your conduct,--conceptions which will have a banefuleffect, even in spite of known evidence to disprove them.”
”Oh, I do,--I begin to see,” said Maggie, unable to repress thisutterance of her recent pain. ”I know I shall be insulted. I shall bethought worse than I am.”
”You perhaps do not yet know,” said Dr. Kenn, with a touch of morepersonal pity, ”that a letter is come which ought to satisfy every onewho has known anything of you, that you chose the steep and difficultpath of a return to the right, at the moment when that return was mostof all difficult.”
”Oh, where is he?” said poor Maggie, with a flush and tremor that nopresence could have hindered.
”He is gone abroad; he has written of all that passed to his father.He has vindicated you to the utmost; and I hope the communication ofthat letter to your cousin will have a beneficial effect on her.”
Dr. Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he went on.
”That letter, as I said, ought to suffice to prevent false impressionsconcerning you. But I am bound to tell you, Miss Tulliver, that notonly the experience of my whole life, but my observation within thelast three days, makes me fear that there is hardly any evidence whichwill save you from the painful effect of false imputations. Thepersons who are the most incapable of a conscientious struggle such asyours are precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you,because they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life herewill be attended not only with much pain, but with many obstructions.For this reason--and for this only--I ask you to consider whether itwill not perhaps be better for you to take a situation at a distance,according to your former intention. I will exert myself at once toobtain one for you.”
”Oh, if I could but stop here!” said Maggie. ”I have no heart to begina strange life again. I should have no stay. I should feel like alonely wanderer, cut off from the past. I have written to the lady whooffered me a situation to excuse myself. If I remained here, I couldperhaps atone in some way to Lucy--to others; I could convince themthat I'm sorry. And,” she added, with some of the old proud fireflashing out, ”I will not go away because people say false things ofme. They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at last,because--because others wish it, I will not go now.”
”Well,” said Dr. Kenn, after some consideration, ”if you determine onthat, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the influence my positiongives me. I am bound to aid and countenance you by the very duties ofmy office as a parish priest. I will add, that personally I have adeep interest in your peace of mind and welfare.”
”The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable me to getmy bread and be independent,” said Maggie. ”I shall not want much. Ican go on lodging where I am.”
”I must think over the subject maturely,” said Dr. Kenn, ”and in a fewdays I shall be better able to ascertain the general feeling. I shallcome to see you; I shall bear you constantly in mind.”
When Maggie had left him, Dr. Kenn stood ruminating with his handsbehind him, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, under a painful sense ofdoubt and difficulty. The tone of Stephen's letter, which he had read,and the actual relations of all the persons concerned, forced upon himpowerfully the idea of an ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggieas the least evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St.Ogg's on any other supposition, until after years of separation, threwan insurmountable prospective difficulty over Maggie's stay there. Onthe other hand, he entered with all the comprehension of a man who hadknown spiritual conflict, and lived through years of devoted serviceto his fellow-men, into that state of Maggie's heart and consciencewhich made the consent to the marriage a desecration to her; herconscience must not be tampered with; the principle on which she hadacted was a safer guide than any balancing of consequences. Hisexperience told him that intervention was too dubious a responsibilityto be lightly incurred; the possible issue either of an endeavor torestore the former relations with Lucy and Philip, or of counsellingsubmission to this irruption of a new feeling, was hidden in adarkness all the more impenetrable because each immediate step wasclogged with evil.
The great problem of the shifting relation between passion and duty isclear to no man who is capable of apprehending it; the questionwhether the moment has come in which a man has fallen below thepossibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and mustaccept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as atrespass, is one for which we have no master-key that will fit allcases. The casuists have become a byword of reproach; but theirperverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth towhich eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed,--the truth, thatmoral judgments must remain false and hollow, unless they are checkedand enlightened by a perpetual reference to the special circumstancesthat mark the individual lot.
All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance tothe men of maxims; because such people early discern that themysterious complexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, andthat to lace ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress allthe divine promptings and inspirations that spring from growinginsight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popularrepresentative of the minds that are guided in their moral judgmentsolely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justiceby a ready-made patent method, without the trouble of exertingpatience, discrimination, impartiality,--without any care to assurethemselves whether they have the insight that comes from a hardlyearned estimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enoughto have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human.