CHAPTER 5
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The Cloven TreeSECRETS are rarely betrayed or discovered acc to any programme our fear has sketched out. Fear is almost always haunted by terrible dramatic ses, which recur in spite of the best argued probabilities against them; and during a year that Maggie had had the burthen of cealment on her mind, the possibility of discovery had tinually preseself uhe form of a suddeing with her father or Tom when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was aware that this was not one of the most likely events; but it was the se that most pletely symbolised her inward dread. Those slight i suggestions which are depe on apparently trivial ces and incalculable states of mind are the favourite maery of Fact, but are not the stuff in which imagination is apt to work. Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggies fears were farthest from troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, on whom, seeing that she did not live in St Oggs, and was her sharp-eyed nor sharp-tempered, it would surely have been quite whimsical of them to fix rather than on aunt Glegg. Ahe el of fatality - the pathway of the lightning - was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live at St Oggs, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red Deeps at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered.
The day after Maggies last meeting with Philip, being a Sunday on which Mr Pullet was bound to appear in funereal hat-band and scarf at St Oggs church, Mrs Pullet made this the occasion of dining with sister Glegg, and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was the one day in the week on whi was at home iernoon; and today the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in unusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invitation, `e, Magsie, you e too! wherolled out with his mother in the garden to see the advang cherry blossoms. He had beeer pleased with Maggie since she had been less odd and ascetic; he was eveing rather proud of her: several persons had remarked in his hearing that his sister was a very fine girl. Today there eculiar brightness in her face, due iy to an under-current of excitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but it might pass for a sign of happiness.
`You look very well, my dear, said aunt Pullet, shaking her head, sadly, as they sat round the tea-table. `I hought yirl ud be so good-looking Bessy. But you must ink, my dear: that blue thing as your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crow-flower. Jane never was tasty. Why dont you wear that gown o mine?
`Its so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think its too showy for me - at least for my other clothes, that I must wear with it.
`To be sure it ud be unbeing if it wasnt well-known youve got them belonging to you, as afford to give you such things, when theyve doh em themselves. It stands to reason I must give my own niece clothes now and then - such things as I buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, theres no giving to her, for shes got everything o the choicest: sister Deane may well hold her head up, though she looks dreadful yallow, poor thing - I doubt this liver-plaint ull carry her off. Thats what this new Vicar, this Dr Kenn, said in the funeral sermon today.
`Ah, hes a wonderful preacher, by all at - isnt he, Sophy? said Mrs Tulliver.
`Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day, tinued Mrs Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, `as I dont say I havent got as good, but I must look out my best to match it.
`Miss Lucys called the bell o St Oggs, they say - thats a curous word, observed Mr Pullet, on whom the mysteries of etymology sometimes fell with an oppressive weight.
`Pooh! said Mr Tulliver, jealous fgie, `Shes a small thing, not much of a figure. But fihers make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so mu those diminitive women: they look silly by the side o the men - out oproportion. When I y wife, I chose her the right size - her too little nor too big.
The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled platly.
`But the me all big, said uncle Pullet, not without some self-reference. `A young fellow may be good-looking a not be a six-foot, like Mr Tom here.
`Ah, its poor talking about littleness and bigness, - anybody may think its a mercy theyre straight, said aunt Pullet. `Theres that mis-made son o Lawyer Wakems - I saw him at church today. Dear, dear! to think o the property hes like to have. And they say hes very queer and unked - doesnt like mupany. I shouldnt wonder if he goes out of his mind, for we never e along the road but hes a-scrambling out o the trees and brambles at the Red Deeps.
This wide statement, by which Mrs Pullet represehe fact that she had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, produced an effeaggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate opposite her, and she was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At Philips name she had blushed, and the blush deepened every instant from sciousness, until the mention of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the whole secret were betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoo she should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands clasped uhe table, not daring to look round. Happily, her father was seated on the same side with herself beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without stooping forward. Her mothers voice brought the first relief, turning the versation - for Mrs Tulliver was always alarmed when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husbands presence. Gradually Maggie recovered posure enough to look up: her eyes met Toms, but he turned away his head immediately, and she went to bed that night w if he had gathered any suspi from her fusion. Perhaps not - perhaps he would think it was only her alarm at her aunts mention of Wakem before her father: that was the interpretation her mother had put on it. To her father, Wakem was like a disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to ehe sciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence reised by others; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about her father could be surprising, Maggie thought.
But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with su interpretation: he had seen clearly enough that there was something distinct from ay about her father in Maggies excessive fusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give shape to his suspis, he remembered only lately hearing his mother saggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged with red soil: - still Tom, retaining all his old repulsion for Philips deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister the probability of feeling more than a friendly i in su unfortunate exception to the on run of men. Toms was a nature which had a sort of superstitio everything exceptional. A love for a deformed man would be odious in any woman - in a sister intolerable. But if she had been carrying on any kind of intercourse whatever with Philip, a stop must be put to it at once; she was disobeying her fathers stro feelings and her brothers express ands, besides promising herself by secret meetings. He left home the m in that watchful state of mind which turns the most ordinary course of things intnant ces.
That afternoon, about half past three o clock, Tom was standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the probability of the good ship Adelaide ing in in a day or two with results highly important to both of them.
`Eh, said Bob, pareically, as he looked over the fields oher side of the river, `there goes that crooked young Wakem - I know him or his shadder as far off as I see em. Im allays lighting on him o that side the river.
A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Toms mind. `I must go, Bob, he said, `Ive something to attend to, hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for some oo take his place - he was called away home on peremptory business.
The swiftest pad the shortest road took him to the gate, and he ausing to pen it deliberately that he might walk into the house with an appearance of perfeposure, when Maggie came out at the front door in bo and shawl. His jecture was fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him.
`Tom, how is it you are e home? Is there anything the matter? Maggie spoke in a low tremulous voice.
`Im e to walk with you to the Red Deeps a Philip Wakem, said Tom, the tral fold in his brow which had bee habitual with him, <big>藏书网</big>deepening as he spoke.
Maggie stood helpless - pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom knew everything. At last, she said, `Im not going, and turned round.
`Yes, you are; but I want to speak to you first. Where is my father?
`Out on horseback.
`And my mother?
`In the yard, I think, with the poultry.
`I go in, then, without her seeing me?
They walked in together, and Tom entering the parlour, said to Maggie, `e in here.
She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her.
`Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed between you and Philip Wakem.
`Does my father know anything? said Maggie, still trembling.
`No, said Tom, indignantly. `But he shall know, if you attempt to use deceit towards me any further.
`I dont wish to use deceit, said Maggie, flushing into rese at hearing this word applied to her duct.
`Tell me the whole truth then.
`Perhaps you know it.
`Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what has happened, or my father shall know everything.
`I tell it for my fathers sake, then.
`Yes, it bees you to profess affe for your father, when you have despised his stro feelings.
`You never d, Tom, said Maggie, tauntingly.
`Not if I know it, answered Tom, with proud siy. `But I have nothing to say to you, beyound this: tell me what has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the Red Deeps?
`A year ago, said Maggie, quietly. Toms severity gave her a certain fund of defiance, a her sense of error in abeyance. `You need ask me no more questions. We have been friends a year. We have met and walked together often. He has lent me books.
`Is that all? said Tom, looking straight at her with his frown.
Maggie paused a moment: theermio make an end of Tht to accuse her of deceit, she said, haughtily,
`No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me - I didnt think of it before then - I had only thought of him as an old friend.
`And you enced him? said Tom, with an expression of disgust.
`I told him that I loved him too.
Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last, he looked up, and said, coldly,
`Now then Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take: either you vow solemnly to me with your hand on my fathers Bible, that you will never hold another meeting or speak another word in private with Philip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything, and this month, when by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you will cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own respectability by destiings with the son of a man that has helped to ruin her father. Choose! Tom ended with cold decision, going up to the large Bible, drawing it forward and opening it at the fly-leaf, where the writing was.
It was a crushing alternative to Maggie.
`Tom, she said, urged out of pride into pleading, `dont ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if you will let me see him once - or even write to him and explaihing - to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain to my father... I feel something for Philip too. He is not happy.
`I dont wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactly what I mean. Choose - and quickly, lest my mother should e in.
`If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me, as if I had laid my hand on the Bible. I dont require that to bind me.
`Do what I require, said Tom. `I t trust you, Maggie. There is no sisten you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, "I renounce all private speed intercourse with Philip Wakem from this time forth." Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on my father; and what is the use of my exerting myself and giving up everything else for the sake of paying my fathers debts - if you are to<mark>９9ｌiｂ?</mark> bring madness aion on him just when he might be easy and hold up his head once more?
`O Tom - will the debts be paid soon? said Maggie, clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretess.
`If things turn out as I expect, said Tom. `But, he added, his voice trembling with indignation, `while I have been triving and w that my father may have some peaind before he dies - w for the respectability of our family - you have done all you to destroy both.
Maggie felt a deep movement of pun: for the moment, her mind ceased to tend against what she felt to be cruel and unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified her brother.
`Tom, she said, in a low voice, `It was wrong of me - but I was so lonely - and I was sorry for Philip. And I thiy and hatred are wicked.
`Nonsense! said Tom. `Your duty was clear enough. Say no more - but promise, in the words I told you.
`I must speak to Philip once more.
`You will go with me now and speak to him.
`I give you my word not to meet him or write to him again without your knowledge. That is the only thing I will say. I will put my hand on the Bible if you like.
`Say it then.
Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript aed the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, `Now, let us go.
Not a word oken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering in anticipation of hilip was about to suffer, and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from Toms lips; but she felt it was in vain to attempt a<details></details>nything but submission. Tom had his terrible clut her sd her deepest dread: she writhed uhe demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her duct, a her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from its inpleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignation diverted towards Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was ed iter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of a son and a brother: Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own motives, any more than into other matters of an intangible kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as as were good, else he would have had nothing to do with them.
Maggies only hope was that something might for the first time have prevented Philip from ing. Then there would be delay - then she might get Toms permission to write to him. Her heart beat with double violence when they got uhe Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, she thought, Philip always met her soon after she got beyond them. But they passed across the more open green spad ehe narrow bushy path by the mound. Aurning, and they came so close upon him, that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a moments silen which Philip darted a look of inquiry at Maggies face. He saw an ahere, in the pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Her imagination always rushiravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw her tall strong brrasping the feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.
`Do you call this ag the part of a man and a gentleman, sir? Tom said in a voice of harsh s, as soon as Philips eyes were turned on him again.
`What do you mean? answered Philip, haughtily.
`Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and Ill tell you what I mean. I mean - taking advantage of a young girls foolishness and ignorao get her to have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that has a good and ho o support.
`I deny that! interrupted Philip, impetuously. `I could rifle with anything that affected your sisters happiness. She is dearer to me than she is to you - I honour her more than you ever honour her - I would give up my life to her.
`Dont talk high-flown nonseo me, sir! Do you mean to pretend that you didnt know it would be injurious to her to meet you here week after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professions of love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for, wheher her father nor your father would ever sent to a marriage between you? And you - you to try and worm yourself into the affes of a handsome girl who is een, and has been shut out from the world by her fathers misfortuhats your crooked notion of honour, is it? I call it base treachery - I <q></q>call it taking advantage of circumstao win whats too good for you - what youd never get by fair means.
`It is manly of you to talk in this way to me, said Philip bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violeions. `Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and i abuse. You are incapable even of uanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friendship with you.
`I should be very sorry to uand your feelings, said Tom, with scorg pt. `What I wish is that you should uahat I shall take care of my sister, and that if you dare to make the least attempt to e near her, or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, that ought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. Ill thrash you - Ill hold you up to public s. Who wouldnt laugh at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl?
`Tom, I will not bear it - I will listen no longer, Maggie burst out in a vulsed voice.
`Stay, Maggie! said Philip, making a strong effort to speak. Then, looking at Tom, `You have dragged your sister here, I suppose, that she may stand by while you threaten and insult me. These naturally seemed to you the right means to influence me. But you are mistake your sister speak. If she says she is bound to give me up, I shall abide by her wishes to the slightest word.
`It was for my fathers sake, Philip, said Maggie, implly. `Tom threatens to tell my father - and he couldnt bear it - I have promised, I have vowed solemnly that we will not have any intercourse without my brothers knowledge.
`It is enough, Maggie. I shall not ge; but I wish you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me - remember that I ever seek for anything but good to what belongs to you.
`Yes, said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philips, `you talk of seeking good for her and what belongs to her now: did you seek her good before?
`I did - at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have a friend for life - who would cherish her, who would do her more justice than a coarse and narrow-minded brother, that she has always lavished her affes on.
`Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours - and Ill tell you what is my way. Ill save her from disobeying and disgrag her father - Ill save her from throwing herself away on you - from making herself a laughing-stock - from being flouted by a man like your father, because shes not good enough for his son. You know well enough what sort of justid cherishing you were preparing for her. Im not to be imposed upon by fine words - I see what aean. e away, Maggie.
He seized Maggies right wrist as he spoke, and she put out her left hand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one eager look and then hurried away.
Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He was still holding her wrist tightly as if he were pelling a culprit form the se of a. At last Maggie, with a violent snatch drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long-gathered irritation burst into utterance.
`Dont suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow to your will. I despise the feelings you have shown in speaking to Philip - I detest your insulting unmanly allusions to his deformity. You have been reproag other people all your life - you have been always sure you yourself are right: it is because you have not a mind large enough to see that there is anythier than your own dud your owy aims.
`Certainly, said Tom, coolly. `I dohat your duct is better, or your aims either. If your duct, and Philip Wakems duct, has been right, why are you ashamed of its being known? Answer me that. I know what I have aimed at in my dud Ive succeeded: pray, what good has your duct brought to you or any one else?
`I dont want to defend myself-- said Maggie, still with vehemence: `I know Ive been wrong - often,<kbd>９9lib?</kbd> tinually. But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would be the better for if you had them. If you were in fault ever - if you had done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain it brought you - I should not unishment to be heaped on you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me - you have always been hard and cruel to me - even when I was a little girl, and always loved you better than any one else in the world, you would let me g to bed without fiving me. You have no pity - you have no sense of your own imperfe and you own sins. It is a sin to be hard - it is not fitting for a mortal - for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but your own virtues - you think they are great enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision of feelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!
`Well, said Tom, with cold s, `if your feelings are so much better than mine, let me see you show them in some other way than by duct thats likely to disgrace us all - than by ridiculous flights first into oreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shown your love that you talk of either to me or my father? By disobeying and deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affe.
`Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and do something in the world.
`Then, if you do nothing, submit to those that .
`So I will submit to what I aowledge ao be right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from my father, but I will not submit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchased you a right to be cruel and unmanly as youve been today. Dont suppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedieo you. The deformity you insult would make me g to him and care for him the more.
`Very well - that is your view of things, said Tom, more coldly than ever. `You need say no more to show me what a wide distahere is between us. Let us remember that in future and be silent.
Tom went back to St Oggs, to fulfil an appoi with his uncle Deane, and receive dires about a journey on which he was to set out the m.
Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignant remonstrance, against whiind was close barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by, came the recolle of that quiet time before the pleasure which had ended in todays misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity of her life. She used to think in that time that she had made great quests, and won a lasting stand on seres above worldly temptations and flict. And here she was down again ihick of a hot strife with her own and others passions. Life was not so short, then, and perfect rest was not so near, as she had dreamed when she was two years youhere was more struggle for her - perhaps more falling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong and that Tom had beeirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inward harmony, but now her penitend submission were stantly obstructed by resehat would present itself to her no otherwise than as just. Her heart bled for Philip - she went on recalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid a ception of what he had felt uhem, that it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot, and tighten her fingers on her palm.
A - how was it that she was now and then scious of a certain dim background of relief in the forced separation from Philip? Surely it was only because the sense of a deliverance from cealment was wele at any cost?
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