CHAPTER 7
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Philip Re-EntersTHE m was very wet - the sort of m on which male neighbours who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to bee so heavy and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, that nothing but an open quarrel abbreviate the visit: lateation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what be so delightful - in England - as a rainy m? English sunshine is dubious: bos are never quite secure; and if you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a matosh and presently find yourself in the seat you like best - a little ab<q></q>ove or a little below the one on which yoddess sits - (it is the same thing to the metaphysid, and that is the reason why wome once worshipped and looked down upon) - with a satisfactory fidehat there will be no lady-callers. `Stephen will e earlier this m, I know, said Lucy. `He always does when its rainy.
Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to think she should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she would have goo her aunt Gleggs this m, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with her mother.
But Stephen did not e earlier, and there was another visitor - a nearer neighbour - who preceded him. When Philip ehe room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advaowards him and put out her hand, he guessed at ohat Lucy had been taken into her fide was a moment of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like all persons who have passed through life with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his self-trol, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in rather a higher key, that ters would seem expressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its fieress. But Maggie who had little more power of cealing the impressions made upohan if she had been structed of musical strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took each others hands in silehey were not painful tears: they had rather something of the same in as the tears women and children shed when they have found some prote to g to, and look ba the threatened danger. For Philip who a little while ago was associated tinually in Maggies mind with the sehat Tom might reproach her with some justice, had now, in this short space, bee a sort of outward sce to her, that she might fly to rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender affe for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and its memories of long quiet talk firming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive bias - the fact that in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotedhan to her vanity or oistic excitability of her nature - seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best part of herself must resist, which must bring horrible tumult within, wretess without. This new sense of her relation to Philip multiplied the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt lest she should overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would san, and she put out her hand to him ahe tears in her eyes without any sciousness of an inward check. The se was just what Lucy expected, and her ki delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again; though even with all<q></q> her regard for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical ingruity betweewo - a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didnt like poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set them at ease.
`This was very good and virtuous of you, she said, in her pretty treble, like the low versational notes of little birds, `to e so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends no notice. e and sit down here, she went on, plag the chair that would suit him best, `and you shall find yourself treated mercifully.
`You will never govern well, Miss Deane, said Philip, as he seated himself, `because no one will ever believe in your severity. People will always ence themselves in misdemeanours by the certainty that you will be indulgent.
Lucy gave some playful tradi, but Philip did not hear what it was, for he had naturally turowards Maggie, and she was looking at him with that open, affeate scrutiny which we give to a friend from whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting had been!And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He felt this so keenly - with sutense, detailed remembrance - with such passionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their last versation - that with that jealousy and distrust whi diffident natures is almost iably linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggies gland mahe evidence of a ge. The very fact that he feared and half expected it, would be sure to make this thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the trary.
`I am having a great holiday, am I not? said Maggie. `Lucy is like a fairy godmother: she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want before I know it myself.
`Im sure she is the happier for having you, then, said Philip. `You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you look well - you are being by the ge.
Artificial versation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determio put ao it, exclaimed with a good imitation of annoyahat she had fotten something, and was quickly out of the room.
In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad te like that of friends who meet in the memory of ret sorrow.
`I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip - I asked him to release me from my promise, and he sented.
Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at ohe position they must hold towards each other - but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like an injury towards Philip even to mention her brother - her brother who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment.
`Then we at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hihat now?
`Will not your father object? said Maggie, withdrawing her hand.
`I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie, said Philip, c. `There are points on which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. That is one.
`Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip - seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here - I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon - to a new situation.
`Is that iable, Maggie?
`Yes: I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I must begin again at last. I t live in dependence - I t live with my brother - though he is very good to me. He would like to provide for me - but that would be intolerable to me.
Philip was silent a few moments, and then said in that high, feeble voice which with him indicated the resolute suppression of emotion:--
`Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life away from those who love you, the only one you will allow yourself to look forward to?
`Yes, Philip, she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if she eed him to believe that she was pelled to this course. `At least, as things are. I dont know what may be in years to e. But I begin to think there ever uch happio me from loving: I have always had so much pain mingled with it. I wish I could make myself a world outside it, as men do.
`Now, you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie - the thought I used to bat, said Philip, with a slight tinge of bitterness. `You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating ones nature. What would bee of me, if I tried to escape from pain? S and icism would be my only opium - unless I could fall into some kind of ceited madness, and fancy myself a favourite of Heaven, because I am not a favourite with men.
The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went on speaking: the words were evidently an outlet for some immediate feeling of his own, as well as an ao Maggie. There ain pressing on him at that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from the fai allusion to the words of love - of plighted love that had passed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggie of a promise; it would have had for him something of the baseness of pulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had not ged; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His love fgie was stamped, even more than the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sehat he was an exception - that she, that every one, saw him in the light of an exception.
But Maggie was sce-stri.
`Yes, Philip, she said with her childish trition when he used to chide her, `You are right, I know. I do always think too muy own feelings, and not enough of others - not enough of yours. I had need have you always to find fault with me and teach me - so many things have e true that you used to tell me.
Maggie was resting her elbow oable, leaning her head on her hand and looking at Philip with half-pe depe affe, as she said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expression that, to her sciousness, gradually became less vague - became charged with a specific recolle. Had his mind flown baething that she now remembered? - something about a lover of Lucys? It was a thought that made her shudder: it gave new definiteo her present position, and to the tendency of what had happehe evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urged to ge her position by that positive physical oppression at the heart that sometimes apanies a suddeal pang.
`What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened? Philip said, in inexpressible ay - his imagination being only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them both.
`No - nothing, said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind: she would banish it from her own. `Nothing, she repeated, `except in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the effey starved life, as you called it, and I do. I am too eager in my enjoyment of musid all luxuries, now they are e to me.
She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggies character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violent well-kn at the door-bell resounding through the house.
`O what a startling annou! said Maggie, quite mistress of herself, though not without some inward flutter. `I wonder where Lucy is.
Lucy had not beeo the signal, and after an interval long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herself ushered Stephen in.
`Well, old fellow, he said, going straight up to Philip and shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, `its glorious to have you back again - only I wish youd duct yourself a little less like a sparrow with a residen the house-top and not go in and out stantly without letting the servants know. This is about the tweime Ive had to scamper up those tless stairs to that painting room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought you were at home. Suts embitter friendship.
`Ive so few visitors - it seems hardly worth while to leave notiy exits arances, said Philip, feeling rather oppressed just then by Stephens bright strong presend strong voice.
`Are you quite well this m, Miss Tulliver? said Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness and putting out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty.
Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, `Quite well, thank you, in a tone of proud indifference. Philips eyes were watg them keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their mao each other, and only thought with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every now and then surmouheir mutual good-will. `Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated by something in him which she interprets as ceit, was the silent observation that ated for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner pleted this studied greeting than each felt hurt by the others ess. And Stephen, while rattling on iions to Philip about his ret sketg expedition, was thinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the versation, as he invariably done before. `Maggie and Philip are not looking happy, thought Lucy. `Perhaps this first interview has been saddening to them.
`I think we people who have not been galloping. she said to Stephen, `are all a little damped by the rai us have some music. We ought to take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duet in "Masaniello:" Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suit her.
`e, then, said Stephen, going towards the piano, and giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep `brum-brum, very pleasant to hear.
`You, please, Philip - you play the apa, said Lucy, `and then I go on with my work. You will like to play, shant you? she added, with a pretty inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not pleasant to another, but with yearnings towards her unfinished embroidery.
Philip had brighte the proposition, for there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music - that does not make a man sing or play the better; and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, as plex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love and jealousy and resignation and fierce suspi all at the same time.
`O yes, he said, seating himself at the piano, `it is a way of eking out ones imperfect life <a>.99lib.</a>and being three people at oo sing and make the piano sing, ahem both all the while - or else to sing and paint.
`Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I do nothing with my hands, said Stephen. `That has generally been observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe. A tendency to predominance of the reflective powers in me! - havent you observed that, Miss Tulliver?
Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering flash and epigram.
`I have observed a tendency to predominance, she said, smiling, and Philip at that momely hoped that she found the tendency disagreeable.
`e, e, said Lucy, `music, music! We will discuss each others qualities aime.
Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began. She tried harder thaoday, for the thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his singing, was ohat no longer roused a merely playful resistance, and she koo that it was his habit always to stand so that he could look at her. But it was<code>.99lib.</code> of no use: she soon threw her work down, and all her iions were lost in the vague state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet - emotion that seemed to make her at orong and weak, strong for all enjoyment, weak for all resistance. Wherain passed into the minor she half started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that ge. Pgie!She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on in this way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen the slightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame, as she leaned a little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself, while her eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, childish expression of w delight which always came ba her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano when Maggie was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her and kiss her. Philip too caught a glimpse of her now and then round the open book on the desk, ahat he had never before seen her under s an influence.
`More, more! said Lucy, when the duet had been encored - `Something spirited again: Maggie always says she likes a great rush of sound.
`It must be "Let us take the road," then, said Stephen - `so suitable for a wet m. But are you prepared to abandon the most sacred duties of life, then, and e and sing with us?
`O yes, said Lucy, laughing. `If you will look out the "Beggars Opera" from the large terbury. It has a dingy cover.
`That is a great clue, sidering there are about a score covers here of rival dinginess, said Stephen, drawing out the terbury.
`O, play something the while, Philip, said Luotig that his fingers were wandering over the keys. `What is that youre falling into? - something delicious that I dont know.
`Dont you know that? said Philip, bringing out the tune more definitely. `Its from the Sonnambula - "Ah! peron posso odiarti." I dont know the opera but it appears the tenor is telling the heroihat he shall always love her though she may forsake him. Youve heard me sing it to the English words, "I love thee still."
It was not quite uionally that Philip had wandered into this song which might be an i expression to Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had beeo what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she uood the plaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very fine qualities as a voice, but it was not quite o her: it had sung to her by snatches in a subdued way among the grassy walks and hollows and uhe leaning ash-tree in the Red Deeps. There seemed to be some reproa the words - did Philip mean that? She wished she had assured him more distinctly in their versation that she desired not to rehe hope of love between them, only because it clashed with her iable circumstances. She was touched not thrilled by the song: it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and brought quiet regret in the place of excitement.
`Thats the way with you tenors, said Stephen, aiting with musi his hand while Philip fihe song. `You demoralise the fair sex by warbling your seal love and stander all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served up in a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent you from expressing your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote - while Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins.
Stephen rolled out, with sauergy--
`Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a womans fair?
and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new influence. Lucy, alroud of what Stephen did, went towards the piano with laughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of her resistao the spirit of the song and to the singer, was taken hold of and shaken by the invisible influence - was borne along by a wave to for her.
But angrily resolved not to betray herself she seized her work, a on making false stitches and prig her fingers with much perseveranot looking up or taking notice of what was going forward, until all the three voices united i us take the road.
I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification in her mind if she had known how ehis saucy, defiant Stephen was occupied with her, how he assing rapidly from a determination to treat her with ostentatious indiffereo an irritating desire for some sign of ination from her, some interge of subdued work or look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when they had passed to the music of `The Tempest. Maggie, feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then and was scious of all her movements, guessed her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with areating look at her, which made it impossible not to return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed carefully by a too self-fident personage - not any self-fident personage, but one in particular who suddenly looks humble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is not some draught in that positioween the window and the fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the worktable for her - these things will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tenderness into a womans eyes, pelled as she is in her girlish time to learn her life-lessons irivial language. And to Maggie these things had not been everyday is, but were a new element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent towards her and to say, `No, thank you - and once looking nothing could prevent that mutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the evening before.
It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely noticed it. But to Philips mind, filled already with a vague ahat was likely to find a definite ground for itself in any trivial i, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the ge in Maggies face, which lainly refleg a beam from his, seemed s a trast with the previous overwrought signs of indifference as to be charged with painful meaning. Stephens voice, p in again, jarred upon his nervous susceptibility as if it had been the g of sheet iron, and he felt ined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. He had really seen no unicable ground for suspeg any unusual feeliween Stephen and Maggie - his own reason told him so, and he wao go home at ohat he might reflect coolly on these false images till he had vinced himself of their nullity. But then again, he wao stay as long as Stephen stayed - always to be present when Stephen resent with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural - nay, iable that any man who was near Maggie should fall in love with her! And there was no promise of happiness for her if she were beguiled into loving Stephe: the thought emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal . He was beginning to play very falsely uhis deafening inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs Tullivers entrao summoo lunch, came as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music.
`Ah, Mr Philip, said Mr Deane, when they ehe dining-room, `Ive not seen you for a long while. Your fathers not at home, I think, is he? I went after him to the office, the other day, and they said he was out of town.
`Hes been to Mudport on business for several days, said Philip, `but hes e baow.
`As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?
`I believe so, said Philip, rather w at this sudden i in his fathers pursuits.
`Ah! said Mr Deane, `hes got some land in his own hands on this side the river as well as the other, I think?
`Yes, he has.
`Ah! tinued Mr Deane, as he dispehe pigeon pie, `he must find farming a heavy item - an expensive hobby. I never had a hobby myself - never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies are those that people think they get mo. They shoot their money down like out of a sack then.
Lucy felt a little nervous under her fathers apparently gratuitous criticism of Mr Wakems expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr Deane became unusually silent aative during his lun. Lucy, aced to watch all indications in her father, and having reasons, which had retly bee strong, for ara i in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had prompted her fathers questions. His subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind.
With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when she wao tell or ask her father anything particular: she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the dining-room after dinner, aed herself on a small stool at her fathers knee. Mr Deane, uhose circumstances, sidered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions.
`You dont want to go to sleep yet, papa, do you? she said, as she brought up her stool and opehe large fihat clutched the snuff-box.
`Not yet, said Mr Deane, glang at the reward of merit in the deter. `But what do you want? he added, ping the dimpled fondly. `To coax some more sns out of my pocket for your bazaar? Eh?
`No, I have no base motives at all today. I only want to talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his fathers farming today, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him about his father - and why should you care about Mr Wakems losing money by his hobby?
`Something to do with business, said Mr Deane, waving his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery.
`But, papa, you always say Mr Wakem has brought Philip up like a girl - how came you to think you should get any business knowledge out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer.
`Nonsense, child! said Mr Deane, willing to justify his social demeanour, with which he had taken some pains in his uprogress. `Theres a report that Wakems mill and farm oher side of the river - Dorlill, your uullivers, you know - isnt answering so well as it did. I wao see if your friend Philip would let anything out about his fathers being tired of farming.
`Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it? said Lucy, eagerly. `O, tell me everything - here, you shall have your snuff-box if youll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Toms getting back the mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said to Tom - that he must get back the Mill.
`Hush, you little puss, said Mr Deane, availing himself of the restored snuff-box. `You must not say a word about this thing - do you hear? Theres very little ce of their getting the mill - or of anybodys getting it out of Wakems hands. And if he khat we wa with a view to the Tullivers getting it again, hed be the less likely to part with it. Its natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horse-whipping isnt likely to be paid for with sugar-plums.
`Noa, said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, `will you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what Im going to say - but I have very strong reasons. And Im very cautious - I am, indeed.
`Well, let us hear.
`Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our fidence - let me tell him all about your wish to buy and what its for - that my cousins wish to have it and why they wish to have it - I believe Philip would help t it about. I know he would desire to do it.
`I dont see how that be, child, said Mr Deane, looking puzzled. `Why should he care? - then, with a sudderating looking at his daughter, `You dont think the poor la<code></code>ds fond of you - and so you make him do what you like? (Mr Dea quite safe about his daughters affes.)
`No, papa; he cares very little about me - not so much as I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say. Dont you ask me. And if you ever guess, dont tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think fit about it.
Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her fathers knee, and kissed him with that last request.
`Are you sure you wont do mischief, now? he said, looking at her with delight.
`Yes, papa, quite sure. Im very wise - Ive got all your busialents. Didnt you admire my apt-book, now, when I showed it you?
`Well, well, if this youngster will keep his sel, there wont be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think theres not much ce for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep.
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