CHAPTER 3
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fidential MomentsWHEN Maggie went up to her bedroom that night it appeared that she was not all ined to undress. She set down her dle on the first table that preseself, and began to walk up and down her r<a></a>oom, which was a large one, with a firm, regular and rather rapid step, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent of stroement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish brilliancy; her head was thrown backward and her hands were clasped with the palms outward and with that tension of the arms which is apt to apaal absorption. Had anything remarkable happened?
Nothing that you are not likely to sider in the highest degree unimportant. She had been hearing some fine musig by a fine bass voice - but then it was sung in a provincial amateur fashion, such as would have left your critical ear much to desire. And she was scious of having been looked at a great deal in rather a furtive m<samp></samp>anner from beh a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glahat seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of the voice. Such things could have had no perceptible effe a thhly well-educated young lady with a perfectly balanced mind, who had had all the advantages of forturaining and refined society. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probably have known nothing about her; her life would have had so few vicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history.
In pgies highly strung, hungry nature - just e away from a third rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds ay round of tasks - these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing aing her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. It was not that she thought distinctly of Mr Stephe or dwelt on the indications that he looked at her with admiration; it was rather that she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love ay and delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry and romance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries. Her mind glanced bace or twice to the time when she had courted privation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience was subdued, but that dition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she recoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now would bring back that ive peace: the battle of her life, it seemed, was not to be decided in that short and easy way - by perfect renunciation at the very threshold of her youth. The music was vibrating iill - Purce<var>九九藏书</var>lls music with its wild passion and fancy - and she could not stay in the recolle of that bare lonely past. She was in her brighter a?rial world again when a little tap came at the door: of course it was her cousin, who entered in ample white dressing-gown.
`Why, Maggie, you naughty child, havent you begun to undress? said Lucy, in astonishment. `I promised not to e and talk to you, because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as if you were ready to dress for a ball. e, e, get on your dressing-gown and unplait your hair.
`Well, you are not very forward, retorted Maggie, hastily reag her own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucys light brown hair brushed ba curly disorder.
`O I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you, till I see you are really on the way to bed.
While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pink drapery, Lucy sat dowhe toilette table, watg her with affeate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. If it appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led on to talk fidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you to remember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases.
`You really have ehe musiight, havent you, Maggie?
`O yes, that is revents me from feeling sleepy. I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to irength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music. At other times one is scious of carrying a weight.
`And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasnt he?
`Well, perhaps we are her of us judges of that, said Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. `You are not impartial, and I think any barrel an splendid.
`But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly - good and bad too.
`O I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not be so much at ease and so self-fident. He ought to tremble more.
`Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me!You think he is ceited - I see that. But you dont dislike him, do you?
`Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people, that I should be very difficult to please? Besides how could I dislike any ohat promised to make you happy, you dear thing! Maggie pinched Lucys dimpled .
`We shall have more musiorrow evening, said Lucy, looking ha<strike>.99lib.</strike>ppy already, `for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him.
`O Lucy, I t see him, said Maggie, turning pale. `At least, I could not see him without Toms leave.
`Is Tom such a tyrant as that? said Lucy, surprised. `Ill take the responsibility then - tell him it was my fault.
`But, dear, said Maggie, faltering, `I promised Tom very solemnly - before my fathers death - I promised him I would not speak to Philip without his knowledge and sent. And I have a great dread of opening the subject with Tom - of getting into a quarrel with him again.
`But I never heard of anything se and unreasonable. What harm poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?
`O no, pray dont, dear, said Maggie. `Ill go to him myself tomorrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to e. Ive thought before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but Ive not had the ce to determine on it.
They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,
`Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you.
Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Theuro her and said, `I should like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one - least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr Stephe.
The narrative lasted long, fgie had never before known the relief of su outp: she had<dfn></dfn> never before told Luything of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent towards her with sympathetiterest, and the little hand pressing hers, enced her to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did not betray fully what still rankled in her mind as Toms great offehe insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the remembraill made her, she could not bear that any one else should know it all - both for Toms sake and Philips. And she could not bear to tell Lucy of the last se between her father and Wakem - though it was this se which she had ever since felt to be a new barrier between herself and Philip. She only told Lucy that she saw now, Tom was on the whht in regarding any prospect of love and marriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the relation of the two families. Of course Philips father would never sent.
`There, Lucy, you have had my story, said Maggie, smiling with the tears in her eyes. `You see I am like Sir Andrew Ague-cheek - I was adored once.
`Ah, now I see how it is you knoeare and everything, and have learned so much since you felt school - which always seemed to me witchcraft before - part of yeneral uniness, said Lucy.
She mused a little with her eyes downward and then added, looking at Maggie, `It is very beautiful that you should love Philip: I hought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are obstacles now, but they may be done away with in time.
Maggie shook her head.
`Yes, yes, persisted Lucy. `I t help being hopeful about it. There is something romanti it - out of the on way - just what everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you like a husband in a fairy tale. O I shall puzzle my small brain to trive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind - so that you may marry Philip, when I marry - somebody else. Wouldnt that be a pretty ending to all my poor, pgies troubles?
Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill.
`Ah, dear, you are cold, said Lucy. `You must go to bed; and so must I. I dare not think what time it is.
They kissed each other and Lucy went away - possessed of a fidence which had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggie had been thhly sincere: her nature had never found it easy to be otherwise. But fidences are sometimes blinding evehey are sincere.
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