The Essential Works of George Eliot. George Eliot

alarmed when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband’s presence. Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look up; her eyes met Tom’s, but he turned away his head immediately; and she went to bed that night wondering if he had gathered any suspicion from her confusion. Perhaps not; perhaps he would think it was only her alarm at her aunt’s 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 endure the consciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence recognized 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 such an interpretation; he had seen clearly enough that there was something distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie’s excessive confusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately hearing his mother scold Maggie 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 Philip’s deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister the probability of feeling more than a friendly interest in such an unfortunate exception to the common run of men. Tom’s was a nature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to 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 father’s strongest feelings and her brother’s express commands, besides compromising herself by secret meetings. He left home the next morning in that watchful state of mind which turns the most ordinary course of things into pregnant coincidences.

      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 coming in, in a day or two, with results highly important to both of them.

      “Eh,” said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on the other side of the river, “there goes that crooked young Wakem. I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see ’em; I’m allays lighting on him o’ that side the river.”

      A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom’s mind. “I must go, Bob,” he said; “I’ve something to attend to,” hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his place; he was called away home on peremptory business.

      The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate, and he was pausing to open it deliberately, that he might walk into the house with an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came out at the front door in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him.

      “Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the matter?” Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice.

      “I’m come to walk with you to the Red Deeps, and meet Philip Wakem,” said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which had become habitual with him, deepening as he spoke.

      Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom knew everything. At last she said, “I’m 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 can go in, then, without her seeing me?”

      They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlor, said to Maggie, “Come 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 toward me any further.”

      “I don’t wish to use deceit,” said Maggie, flushing into resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct.

      “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 father’s sake, then.”

      “Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, when you have despised his strongest feelings.”

      “You never do wrong, Tom,” said Maggie, tauntingly.

      “Not if I know it,” answered Tom, with proud sincerity.

      “But I have nothing to say to you beyond 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. Tom’s severity gave her a certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in abeyance. “You need ask me no more questions. We have been friendly 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; then, determined to make an end of Tom’s right to accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily:

      “No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me. I didn’t think of it before then; I had only thought of him as an old friend.”

      “And you encouraged 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 father’s Bible, that you will never have 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 clandestine meetings 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, “don’t ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if you will let me see him once, or even only write to him and explain everything,—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 don’t wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactly what I mean. Choose, and quickly, lest my mother should come in.”

      “If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me as if I laid my hand on the Bible. I don’t require that to bind me.”

      “Do what I require,” said Tom. “I can’t trust you, Maggie. There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, ‘I renounce all private speech and 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 father’s debts, if you are to bring madness and vexation on him, just when he might be easy and hold up his head once more?”

      “Oh, Tom, will the debts be paid soon?” said Maggie, clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretchedness.

      “If things turn out as I expect,” said Tom. “But,” he added, his voice trembling with indignation,