Part 46 (1/2)

”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 ma.n.u.script and repeated the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, ”Now let us go.”

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering in antic.i.p.ation of what Philip was about to suffer, and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she felt it was in vain to attempt anything but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her conscience and her deepest dread; she writhed under the demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, and yet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from its incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignation diverted toward Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was concerned in the bitter 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 actions were good, else he would have had nothing to do with them.

Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first time, have prevented Philip from coming. Then there would be delay,--then she might get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with double violence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, she thought; Philip always met her soon after she got beyond them. But they pa.s.sed across the more open green s.p.a.ce, and entered the narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turning, and they came so close upon him that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a moment's silence, in which Philip darted a look of inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the pale, parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Her imagination, always rus.h.i.+ng extravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw her tall, strong brother grasping the feeble Philip bodily, crus.h.i.+ng him and trampling on him.

”Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, sir?” Tom said, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's 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 I'll tell you what I mean. I mean, taking advantage of a young girl's foolishness and ignorance to get her to have secret meetings with you.

I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that has a good and honest name to support.”

”I deny that,” interrupted Philip, impetuously. ”I could never trifle with anything that affected your sister's happiness. She is dearer to me than she is to you; I honor her more than you can ever honor her; I would give up my life to her.”

”Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean to pretend that you didn't 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 her, when neither her father nor your father would ever consent to a marriage between you? And _you_,--_you_ to try and worm yourself into the affections of a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has been shut out from the world by her father's misfortunes! That's your crooked notion of honor, is it? I call it base treachery; I call it taking advantage of circ.u.mstances to win what's too good for you,--what you'd 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 violent emotions. ”Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You are incapable even of understanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friends.h.i.+p with _you_.”

”I should be very sorry to understand your feelings,” said Tom, with scorching contempt. ”What I wish is that you should understand _me_,--that I shall take care of _my_ sister, and that if you dare to make the least attempt to come 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.

I'll thrash you; I'll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn't laugh at the idea of _your_ turning lover to a fine girl?”

Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He burst out, in a convulsed 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 mistaken.

Let 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 father's sake, Philip,” said Maggie, imploringly. ”Tom threatens to tell my father, and he couldn't bear it; I have promised, I have vowed solemnly, that we will not have any intercourse without my brother's knowledge.”

”It is enough, Maggie. _I_ shall not change; but I wish you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me; remember that I can never seek for anything but good to what belongs to you.”

”Yes,” said Tom, exasperated by this att.i.tude of Philip's, ”you can 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 coa.r.s.e and narrow-minded brother, that she has always lavished her affections on.”

”Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours; and I'll tell you what is my way. I'll save her from disobeying and disgracing her father; I'll save her from throwing herself away on you,--from making herself a laughing-stock,--from being flouted by a man like _your_ father, because she's not good enough for his son. You know well enough what sort of justice and cheris.h.i.+ng you were preparing for her.

I'm not to be imposed upon by fine words; I can see what actions mean.

Come away, Maggie.”

He seized Maggie's 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 compelling a culprit from the scene of action. At last Maggie, with a violent s.n.a.t.c.h, drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long-gathered irritation burst into utterance.