prompt:
Chapter: In the Lane

Maggie had been four days at her aunt Moss's giving the early June
sunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed eyes of that
affectionate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great and
small, who were learning her words and actions by heart, as if she had
been a transient avatar of perfect wisdom and beauty.

She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousins
feeding the chickens, at that quiet moment in the life of the
farmyards before the afternoon milking-time. The great buildings round
the hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over the
old garden-wall the straggling rose-bushes were beginning to toss
their summer weight, and the gray wood and old bricks of the house, on
its higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad afternoon
sunlight, that suited the quiescent time. Maggie, with her bonnet over
her arm, was smiling down at the hatch of small fluffy chickens, when
her aunt exclaimed,--

"Goodness me! who is that gentleman coming in at the gate?"

It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of the
horse were streaked black with fast riding. Maggie felt a beating at
head and heart, horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savage
enemy who had feigned death.

"Who is it, my dear?" said Mrs. Moss, seeing in Maggie's face the
evidence that she knew.

"It is Mr. Stephen Guest," said Maggie, rather faintly. "My cousin
Lucy's--a gentleman who is very intimate at my cousin's."

Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and now
raised his hat as he advanced.

"Hold the horse, Willy," said Mrs. Moss to the twelve-year-old boy.

"No, thank you," said Stephen, pulling at the horse's impatiently
tossing head. "I must be going again immediately. I have a message to
deliver to you, Miss Tulliver, on private business. May I take the
liberty of asking you to walk a few yards with me?"

He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a man gets when he
has been dogged by some care or annoyance that makes his bed and his
dinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if his
errand were too pressing for him to trouble himself about what would
be thought by Mrs. Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs. Moss,
rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman,
was inwardly wondering whether she would be doing right or wrong to
invite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when Maggie, feeling
all the embarrassment of the situation, and unable to say anything,
put on her bonnet, and turned to walk toward the gate.

Stephen turned too, and walked by her side, leading his horse.

Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane, and had walked
four or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight before
her all the while, turned again to walk back, saying, with haughty
resentment,--

"There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know whether you
consider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to place me in a position
that forced me to come out with you, or whether you wished to insult
me still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way."

"Of course you are angry with me for coming," said Stephen, bitterly.
"Of course it is of no consequence what a man has to suffer; it is
only your woman's dignity that you care about."

Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from the slightest
possible electric shock.

"As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way; that I'm mad
with love for you; that I resist the strongest passion a man can feel,
because I try to be true to other claims; but you must treat me as if
I were a coarse brute, who would willingly offend you. And when, if I
had my own choice, I should ask you to take my hand and my fortune and
my whole life, and do what you liked with them! I know I forgot
myself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I hate myself for having done
it. But I repented immediately; I've been repenting ever since. You
ought not to think it unpardonable; a man who loves with his whole
soul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for a
moment; but you know--you must believe--that the worst pain I could
have is to have pained you; that I would give the world to recall the
error."

Maggie dared not speak, dared not turn her head. The strength that had
come from resentment was all gone, and her lips were quivering
visibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full forgiveness
that rose in answer to that confession.

They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she paused,
trembling.

"You must not say these things; I must not hear them," she said,
looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front of her, to prevent
her from going farther toward the gate. "I'm very sorry for any pain
you have to go through; but it is of no use to speak."

"Yes, it _is_ of use," said Stephen, impetuously. "It would be of use
if you would treat me with some sort of pity and consideration,
instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. I could bear
everything more quietly if I knew you didn't hate me for an insolent
coxcomb. Look at me; see what a hunted devil I am; I've been riding
thirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you."

Maggie did not--dared not--look. She had already seen the harassed
face. But she said gently,--

"I don't think any evil of you."

"Then, dearest, look at me," said Stephen, in deepest, tenderest tones
of entreaty. "Don't go away from me yet. Give me a moment's happiness;
make me feel you've forgiven me."

"Yes, I do forgive you," said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and all
the more frightened at herself. "But pray let me go in again. Pray go
away."

A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids.

"I can't go away from you; I can't leave you," said Stephen, with
still more passionate pleading. "I shall come back again if you send
me away with this coldness; I can't answer for myself. But if you will
go with me only a little way I can live on that. You see plainly
enough that your anger has only made me ten times more unreasonable."

Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to make such spirited
remonstrances against this frequent change of direction, that Stephen,
catching sight of Willy Moss peeping through the gate, called out,
"Here! just come and hold my horse for five minutes."

"Oh, no," said Maggie, hurriedly, "my aunt will think it so strange."

"Never mind," Stephen answered impatiently; "they don't know the
people at St. Ogg's. Lead him up and down just here for five minutes,"
he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and then he turned to
Maggie's side, and they walked on. It was clear that she _must_ go on
now.

"Take my arm," said Stephen, entreatingly; and she took it, feeling
all the while as if she were sliding downward in a nightmare.

"There is no end to this misery," she began, struggling to repel the
influence by speech. "It is wicked--base--ever allowing a word or look
that Lucy--that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy."

"I do think of her--bless her. If I didn't----" Stephen had laid his
hand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and they both felt it
difficult to speak.

"And I have other ties," Maggie went on, at last, with a desperate
effort, "even if Lucy did not exist."

"You are engaged to Philip Wakem?" said Stephen, hastily. "Is it so?"

"I consider myself engaged to him; I don't mean to marry any one
else."

Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the sun into a
side lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he burst out impetuously,--

"It is unnatural, it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I love
you, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake of
belonging to each other. We should break all these mistaken ties that
were made in blindness, and determine to marry each other."

"I would rather die than fall into that temptation," said Maggie, with
deep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spiritual force of painful
years coming to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from his
as she spoke.

"Tell me, then, that you don't care for me," he said, almost
violently. "Tell me that you love some one else better."

It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of releasing
herself from outward struggle,--to tell Stephen that her whole heart
was Philip's. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.

"If you do love me, dearest," said Stephen, gently, taking her hand
again and laying it within his arm, "it is better--it is right that we
should marry each other. We can't help the pain it will give. It is
come upon us without our seeking; it is natural; it has taken hold of
me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I've
been trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I've only made
things worse; I'd better have given way at first."

Maggie was silent. If it were _not_ wrong--if she were once convinced
of that, and need no longer beat and struggle against this current,
soft and yet strong as the summer stream!

"Say 'yes,' dearest," said Stephen, leaning to look entreatingly in
her face. "What could we care about in the whole world beside, if we
belonged to each other?"

Her breath was on his face, his lips were very near hers, but there
was a great dread dwelling in his love for her.

Her lips and eyelids quivered; she opened her eyes full on his for an
instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling under
caresses, and then turned sharp round toward home again.

"And after all," he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to defeat
his own scruples as well as hers, "I am breaking no positive
engagement; if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn from me and given
to some one else, I should have felt no right to assert a claim on
her. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are neither of us
bound."

"You don't believe that; it is not your real feeling," said Maggie,
earnestly. "You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in the feelings
and expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges might
be broken, when there was no outward penalty. There would be no such
thing as faithfulness."

Stephen was silent; he could not pursue that argument; the opposite
conviction had wrought in him too strongly through his previous time
of struggle. But it soon presented itself in a new form.

"The pledge _can't_ be fulfilled," he said, with impetuous insistence.
"It is unnatural; we can only pretend to give ourselves to any one
else. There is wrong in that too; there may be misery in it for _them_
as well as for us. Maggie, you must see that; you do see that."

He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of compliance;
his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for a
few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deep
breath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness,--

"Oh, it is difficult,--life is very difficult! It seems right to me
sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; but then, such
feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has
made for us,--the ties that have made others dependent on us,--and
would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it might
have been in Paradise, and we could always see that one being first
toward whom--I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love
comes, love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to each
other. But I see--I feel it is not so now; there are things we must
renounce in life; some of us must resign love. Many things are
difficult and dark to me; but I see one thing quite clearly,--that I
must not, cannot, seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love is
natural; but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too.
And they would live in me still, and punish me if I did not obey them.
I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be
poisoned. Don't urge me; help me,--help me, _because_ I love you."

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; her face had
become flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of appealing love.
Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal;
but in the same moment--how could it be otherwise?--that pleading
beauty gained new power over him.

"Dearest," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his arm
stole round her, "I'll do, I'll bear anything you wish. But--one
kiss--one--the last--before we part."

One kiss, and then a long look, until Maggie said tremulously, "Let me
go,--let me make haste back."

She hurried along, and not another word was spoken. Stephen stood
still and beckoned when they came within sight of Willy and the horse,
and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs. Moss was standing alone at
the door of the old porch; she had sent all the cousins in, with kind
thoughtfulness. It might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich and
handsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming in
again; and it might _not_ be joyful. In either case Mrs. Moss waited
anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The speaking face told plainly
enough that, if there was joy, it was of a very agitating, dubious
sort.

"Sit down here a bit, my dear." She drew Maggie into the porch, and
sat down on the bench by her; there was no privacy in the house.

"Oh, aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched! I wish I could have died when I
was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then; it is so hard
now."

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell into
long, deep sobs.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maggie has been at her Aunt Moss's house for a few days. Suddenly, Stephen shows up unexpectedly. Maggie and Stephen go for a walk together. Stephen finally blurts out that he's in love with Maggie and can't fight this feeling anymore. Maggie is upset and tells Stephen to be quiet. Stephen begs Maggie to stay with him and admit that she loves him too. Maggie is conflicted. She is worried about Lucy and Philip. Stephen insists that their love triumphs over all and that they're being dishonest to Lucy and Philip by hiding how they feel about each other. Maggie is swayed by Stephen, but still has doubts Maggie insists that they are each bound to another person and really shouldn't be together. Stephen reiterates his belief that love conquers all. Maggie gives a climactic speech: she tells Stephen that love isn't the only thing that matters and that people have duties to their pasts, their families, previous promises and obligations, their selves. She says that she can't sacrifice the happiness of others for her own and begs Stephen to leave her alone. Stephen is so moved by this noble speech that he kisses her. Maggie runs back to the house and cries. Mrs. Moss tries to comfort her.


prompt:
Chapter: A Family Party

Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and went to
Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet according to agreement. In
the mean time very unexpected things had happened, and there was to be
a family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a change in the
fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away the
shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause
their hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded
splendor. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come into
office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high
appreciation and full-blown eulogy; in many respectable families
throughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable meet with a
similar cordiality of recognition, which in its fine freedom from the
coercion of any antecedents, suggests the hopeful possibility that we
may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium,
with cockatrices who have ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer
show their teeth with any but the blandest intentions.

Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for she
longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderful
news. It seemed, did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of
wisdom, as if everything, even other people's misfortunes (poor
creatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and
cousin Tom, and naughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent
on the contrary, as happy as they deserved to be after all their
troubles. To think that the very day--the _very day_--after Tom had
come back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr.
Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in a
drunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dangerous state, so that
Wakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on
the premises at once!

It was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as if
the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other time, in
order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his
exemplary conduct,--papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver
must certainly go to the Mill now, and keep house for Tom; that was
rather a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort; but then, to
think of poor aunty being in her old place again, and gradually
getting comforts about her there!

On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she and
Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into the
handsome parlor, where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner than
elsewhere, she directed her manoeuvres, as any other great tactician
would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy.

"Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly
adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, "I want you to make up your
mind what linen and things you will give Tom toward housekeeping;
because you are always so generous,--you give such nice things, you
know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow."

"That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with unusual vigor,
"for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' mine, I can tell you.
She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big checks and
live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is,--not a spot
nor a diamond among 'em. But it's poor work dividing one's linen
before one dies,--I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy," Mrs.
Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver,
"when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'd
spun, and the Lord knows where yours is gone."

"I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, accustomed
to consider herself in the light of an accused person. "I'm sure it
was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o' nights thinking o'
my best bleached linen all over the country."

"Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle Pullet, feeling that he
was offering a cheap and wholesome form of comfort, which he was
recommending by example.

"Oh, but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, "you've so much beautiful linen.
And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it when
they were married."

"Well, I don't say as I won't do it," said Mrs. Pullet, "for now Tom's
so lucky, it's nothing but right his friends should look on him and
help him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale, Bessy; it was
nothing but good natur' o' me to buy 'em, for they've been lying in
the chest ever since. But I'm not going to give Maggie any more o' my
Indy muslin and things, if she's to go into service again, when she
might stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if she wasn't
wanted at her brother's."

"Going into service" was the expression by which the Dodson mind
represented to itself the position of teacher or governess; and
Maggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offered
her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all
her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hair
down her back, and altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a
most undesirable niece; but now she was capable of being at once
ornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle
Glegg's presence, over the tea and muffins.

"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on the
back, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us hear of you taking a place
again, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up half-a-dozen sweethearts at
the bazaar; isn't there one of 'em the right sort of article? Come,
now?"

"Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in
her severity which she always put on with her crisper fronts, "you'll
excuse me, but you're far too light for a man of your years. It's
respect and duty to her aunts, and the rest of her kin as are so good
to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away again
without consulting us; not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word,
though it was never heared in _my_ family."

"Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh,
neighbor Pullet? They thought us sweet enough then," said Mr. Glegg,
winking pleasantly; while Mr. Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness,
took a little more sugar.

"Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if you're going to be undelicate, let me
know."

"La, Jane, your husband's only joking," said Mrs. Pullet; "let him
joke while he's got health and strength. There's poor Mr. Tilt got his
mouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was to try."

"I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G.,
"if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it's other
people must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her mother's
eldest sister, as is the head o' the family; and only coming in and
out on short visits, all the time she's been in the town, and then
settling to go away without my knowledge,--as I'd laid caps out on
purpose for her to make 'em up for me,--and me as have divided my
money so equal----"

"Sister," Mrs. Tulliver broke in anxiously, "I'm sure Maggie never
thought o' going away without staying at your house as well as the
others. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all, but quite
contrairy. I'm sure I'm innocent. I've said over and over again, 'My
dear, you've no call to go away.' But there's ten days or a fortnight
Maggie'll have before she's fixed to go; she can stay at your house
just as well, and I'll step in when I can, and so will Lucy."

"Bessy," said Mrs. Glegg, "if you'd exercise a little more thought,
you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin a
bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the time, when
our house isn't above a quarter of an hour's walk from Mr. Deane's.
She can come the first thing in the morning, and go back the last at
night, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so close to her to come
and sit with. I know _I_ should, when I was her age."

"La, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, "it 'ud do your beds good to have
somebody to sleep in 'em. There's that striped room smells dreadful
mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything. I'm sure I thought I
should be struck with death when you took me in."

"Oh, there is Tom!" exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. "He's come on
Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his
promise."

Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at
this first meeting since the prospect of returning to the Mill had
been opened to him; and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by
her side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a
perpetual yearning in her, that had its root deeper than all change.
He smiled at her very kindly this evening, and said, "Well, Magsie,
how's aunt Moss?"

"Come, come, sir," said Mr. Glegg putting out his hand. "Why, you're
such a big man, you carry all before you, it, seems. You're come into
your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did; but I wish you
joy, I wish you joy. You'll get the Mill all for your own again some
day, I'll be bound. You won't stop half-way up the hill."

"But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's family as he owes
it to," said Mrs. Glegg. "If he hadn't had them to take after, he'd
ha' been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor
wastefulness in our family, nor dying without wills----"

"No, nor sudden deaths," said aunt Pullet; "allays the doctor called
in. But Tom had the Dodson skin; I said that from the first. And I
don't know what _you_ mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him
a tablecloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I
don't say what more I shall do; but _that_ I shall do, and if I should
die to-morrow, Mr. Pullet, you'll bear it in mind,--though you'll be
blundering with the keys, and never remember as that on the third
shelf o' the left-hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broad
ties,--not the narrow-frilled uns,--is the key of the drawer in the
Blue Room, where the key o' the Blue Closet is. You'll make a mistake,
and I shall niver be worthy to know it. You've a memory for my pills
and draughts, wonderful,--I'll allays say that of you,--but you're
lost among the keys." This gloomy prospect of the confusion that would
ensue on her decease was very affecting to Mrs. Pullet.

"You carry it too far, Sophy,--that locking in and out," said Mrs.
Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. "You go beyond your
own family. There's nobody can say I don't lock up; but I do what's
reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what's
serviceable, to make a present of to my nephey; I've got cloth as has
never been whitened, better worth having than other people's fine
holland; and I hope he'll lie down in it and think of his aunt."

Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on
her virtues; and Mrs. Glegg effected a diversion for him by asking
about Mr. Deane's intentions concerning steam.

Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to come on Sindbad.
It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the man-servant was to
ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy.
"You must sit by yourself, aunty," said that contriving young lady,
"because I must sit by Tom; I've a great deal to say to him."

In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, Lucy could
not persuade herself to defer a conversation about her with Tom, who,
she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid
fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must become pliant and
flexible. Her nature supplied her with no key to Tom's; and she was
puzzled as well as pained to notice the unpleasant change on his
countenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philip
had used his influence with his father. She had counted on this
revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's heart
toward Philip at once, and, besides that, prove that the elder Wakem
was ready to receive Maggie with all the honors of a daughter-in-law.
Nothing was wanted, then, but for dear Tom, who always had that
pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn completely
round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare
that he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievances
should be healed, and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitable
despatch; in cousin Lucy's opinion nothing could be easier.

But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualities
that create severity,--strength of will, conscious rectitude of
purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of
self-control, and a disposition to exert control over others,--prejudices
come as the natural food of tendencies which can get no sustenance
out of that complex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge which
we call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air,
adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye,--however it may come,
these minds will give it a habitation; it is something to assert
strongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous
ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of conscious
right; it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will
answer these purposes is self-evident. Our good, upright Tom Tulliver's
mind was of this class; his inward criticism of his father's faults
did not prevent him from adopting his father's prejudice; it was a
prejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a
meeting-point for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal
pride. Other feelings added their force to produce Tom's bitter
repugnance to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him; and
notwithstanding Lucy's power over her strong-willed cousin, she got
nothing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage; "but of
course Maggie could do as she liked,--she had declared her
determination to be independent. For Tom's part, he held himself bound
by his duty to his father's memory, and by every manly feeling, never
to consent to any relation with the Wakems."

Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill
Tom's mind with the expectation that Maggie's perverse resolve to go
into a situation again would presently metamorphose itself, as her
resolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely
different,--a marriage with Philip Wakem.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maggie and Lucy are paying a visit to the Pullets and some other family members are coming over as well. The manager that Mr. Wakem had for the mill has had an accident and may die. He was drunk at the time too. Wakem is ready to sell the mill and it looks like Tom will be able to get it back now after all. The group start discussing Tom being able to move back to the old house and the mill. They then turn on Maggie and tell her to not go off to work as a governess again since there really isn't a need to do so. Mrs. Glegg tells Maggie she can come live with her if she wants. The aunts and uncles discuss what Maggie ought to do some more. Tom then shows up. Things are still strained between him and Maggie. The aunts and uncles discuss how well Tom turned out and how he really is more of a Dodson than a Tulliver, thankfully. Lucy wants to try to convince Tom to be nicer to Maggie and to accept her and Philip but she doesn't know where to start. Tom is a mystery to her. The narrator discusses how Tom is a very unimaginative and prejudiced individual. Lucy doesn't succeed in swaying Tom's opinion.


prompt:
Chapter: Borne Along by the Tide

In less than a week Maggie was at St. Ogg's again,--outwardly in much
the same position as when her visit there had just begun. It was easy
for her to fill her mornings apart from Lucy without any obvious
effort; for she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and
it was natural that she should give her mother more than usual of her
companionship in these last weeks, especially as there were
preparations to be thought of for Tom's housekeeping. But Lucy would
hear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings; she must
always come from aunt Glegg's before dinner,--"else what shall I have
of you?" said Lucy, with a tearful pout that could not be resisted.

And Mr. Stephen Guest had unaccountably taken to dining at Mr. Deane's
as often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At
first he began his mornings with a resolution that he would not dine
there, not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had even
devised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable June
weather; the headaches which he had constantly been alleging as a
ground for stupidity and silence were a sufficient ostensible motive.
But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth morning no distinct
resolution was formed about the evenings; they were only foreseen as
times when Maggie would still be present for a little while,--when one
more touch, one more glance, might be snatched. For why not? There was
nothing to conceal between them; they knew, they had confessed their
love, and they had renounced each other; they were going to part.
Honor and conscience were going to divide them; Maggie, with that
appeal from her inmost soul, had decided it; but surely they might
cast a lingering look at each other across the gulf, before they
turned away never to look again till that strange light had forever
faded out of their eyes.

Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and even torpor
of manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardor,
that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a change,
if she had not been convinced that the position in which Maggie stood
between Philip and her brother, and the prospect of her self-imposed
wearisome banishment, were quite enough to account for a large amount
of depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce battle of
emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never known
or foreboded; it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her had
lain in ambush till now, and had suddenly started up full-armed, with
hideous, overpowering strength! There were moments in which a cruel
selfishness seemed to be getting possession of her; why should not
Lucy, why should not Philip, suffer? _She_ had had to suffer through
many years of her life; and who had renounced anything for her? And
when something like that fulness of existence--love, wealth, ease,
refinement, all that her nature craved--was brought within her reach,
why was she to forego it, that another might have it,--another, who
perhaps needed it less? But amidst all this new passionate tumult
there were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power,
till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. _Was_ that
existence which tempted her the full existence she dreamed? Where,
then, would be all the memories of early striving; all the deep pity
for another's pain, which had been nurtured in her through years of
affection and hardship; all the divine presentiment of something
higher than mere personal enjoyment, which had made the sacredness of
life? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as
hope to enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming the faith
and sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And then, if pain
were so hard to _her_, what was it to others? "Ah, God! preserve me
from inflicting--give me strength to bear it." How had she sunk into
this struggle with a temptation that she would once have thought
herself as secure from as from deliberate crime? When was that first
hateful moment in which she had been conscious of a feeling that
clashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had not shaken
it from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? And yet,
since this strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, should not,
conquer her,--since it was to remain simply her own suffering,--her
mind was meeting Stephen's in that thought of his, that they might
still snatch moments of mute confession before the parting came. For
was not he suffering too? She saw it daily--saw it in the sickened
look of fatigue with which, as soon as he was not compelled to exert
himself, he relapsed into indifference toward everything but the
possibility of watching her. Could she refuse sometimes to answer that
beseeching look which she felt to be following her like a low murmur
of love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last the
evening for them both was sometimes made of a moment's mutual gaze;
they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they thought of
nothing else.

One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was
to sing; it was a way of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was not
distinctly conscious that he was impelled to it by a secret
longing--running counter to all his self-confessed resolves--to deepen
the hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it is
guided by your less conscious purposes, and you will understand that
contradiction in Stephen.

Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally in
the evening, and it happened that he was there when Lucy said, as they
sat out on the lawn, near sunset,--

"Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I mean that
we shall go out boating every day until she goes. She has not had half
enough boating because of these tiresome visits, and she likes it
better than anything. Don't you, Maggie?"

"Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean," said Philip,
smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden-chair;
"else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who haunts
the Floss, only for the sake of being drifted in a boat forever."

"Should you like to be her boatman?" said Lucy. "Because, if you
would, you can come with us and take an oar. If the Floss were but a
quiet lake instead of a river, we should be independent of any
gentleman, for Maggie can row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to
ask services of knights and squires, who do not seem to offer them
with great alacrity."

She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up and
down, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto,--

  "The thirst that from the soul doth rise
  Doth ask a drink divine."

He took no notice, but still kept aloof; he had done so frequently
during Philip's recent visits.

"You don't seem inclined for boating," said Lucy, when he came to sit
down by her on the bench. "Doesn't rowing suit you now?"

"Oh, I hate a large party in a boat," he said, almost irritably. "I'll
come when you have no one else."

Lucy colored, fearing that Philip would be hurt; it was quite a new
thing for Stephen to speak in that way; but he had certainly not been
well of late. Philip colored too, but less from a feeling of personal
offence than from a vague suspicion that Stephen's moodiness had some
relation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke, and
had walked toward the hedge of laurels to look at the descending
sunlight on the river.

"As Miss Deane didn't know she was excluding others by inviting me,"
said Philip, "I am bound to resign."

"No, indeed, you shall not," said Lucy, much vexed. "I particularly
wish for your company to-morrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten;
it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckreth
and walk back, before the sun gets too hot. And how can you object to
four people in a boat?" she added, looking at Stephen.

"I don't object to the people, but the number," said Stephen, who had
recovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. "If I voted
for a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we won't
divide the pleasure of escorting the ladies; we'll take it
alternately. I'll go the next day."

This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention with
freshened solicitude toward Stephen and Maggie; but when they
re-entered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs. Tulliver and Mr.
Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart near the table
where the books and work were placed, doing nothing, however, but
listening abstractedly to the music. Stephen presently turned to a
duet which he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing; he had often
done the same thing before; but this evening Philip thought he divined
some double intention in every word and look of Stephen's, and watched
him keenly, angry with himself all the while for this clinging
suspicion. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for his
doubts on her side? And she was truth itself; it was impossible not to
believe her word and glance when they had last spoken together in the
garden. Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was more
natural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on what
must be his friend's painful secret. Still he watched. Stephen, moving
away from the piano, sauntered slowly toward the table near which
Maggie sat, and turned over the newspapers, apparently in mere
idleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the piano, dragging
a newspaper under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his hair,
as if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in the "Laceham
Courier." He was in reality looking at Maggie who had not taken the
slightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strength
of resistance when Philip was present, just as we can restrain our
speech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she
heard the word "dearest" uttered in the softest tone of pained
entreaty, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought to
have been given without asking. She had never heard that word since
the moments in the lane at Basset, when it had come from Stephen again
and again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulate
cry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite side
of the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an
instant toward Stephen's face, but immediately look apprehensively
toward himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed
her; but a pang of shame, under the sense of this concealment, made
her move from her chair and walk to her mother's side to watch the
game at cribbage.

Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled with
wretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist the
conviction that there was some mutual consciousness between Stephen
and Maggie; and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerves
were pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact; he could
attempt no explanation that would reconcile it with her words and
actions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to its
habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth,--she
was struggling, she was banishing herself; this was the clue to all he
had seen since his return. But athwart that belief there came other
possibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imagination
wrought out the whole story; Stephen was madly in love with her; he
must have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away.
But would he give her up, knowing--Philip felt the fact with
heart-crushing despair--that she was made half helpless by her feeling
toward him?

When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping his
engagement to go in the boat. In his present agitation he could decide
on nothing; he could only alternate between contradictory intentions.
First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie, and entreat
her to confide in him; then, again, he distrusted his own
interference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along?
She had uttered words long ago in her young ignorance; it was enough
to make her hate him that these should be continually present with her
as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation of
feelings which she had evidently intended to withhold from him? He
would not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself that
he could act from pure anxiety for her, and not from egoistic
irritation. He wrote a brief note to Stephen, and sent it early by the
servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his engagement
to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?

Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite content
with Stephen's refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that her
father was to drive to Lindum this morning at ten; Lindum was the very
place she wanted to go to, to make purchases,--important purchases,
which must by no means be put off to another opportunity; and aunt
Tulliver must go too, because she was concerned in some of the
purchases.

"You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know," she said
to Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairs
together; "Philip will be here it half-past ten, and it is a delicious
morning. Now don't say a word against it, you dear dolorous thing.
What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your face
against all the wonders I work for you? Don't think of awful cousin
Tom; you may disobey him a little."

Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad of the plan,
for perhaps it would bring her some strength and calmness to be alone
with Philip again; it was like revisiting the scene of a quieter life,
in which the very struggles were repose, compared with the daily
tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat and at
half-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.

The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was thinking with
half-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have in
finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished a
firm, rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip's; the
door opened, and Stephen Guest entered.

In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; for
Stephen had learned from the servant that the others were gone out.
Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating
violently; and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat
by her in silence. She thought Philip would be coming soon; and with
great effort--for she trembled visibly--she rose to go to a distant
chair.

"He is not coming," said Stephen, in a low tone. "I am going in the
boat."

"Oh, we can't go," said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. "Lucy
did not expect--she would be hurt. Why is not Philip come?"

"He is not well; he asked me to come instead."

"Lucy is gone to Lindum," said Maggie, taking off her bonnet with
hurried, trembling fingers. "We must not go."

"Very well," said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his
arm on the back of his chair. "Then we'll stay here."

He was looking into her deep, deep eyes, far off and mysterious at the
starlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly loving. Maggie sat
perfectly still--perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes--until the
helpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her check.

"The man is waiting; he has taken the cushions," she said. "Will you
go and tell him?"

"What shall I tell him?" said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was
looking at the lips now.

Maggie made no answer.

"Let us go," Stephen murmured entreatingly, rising, and taking her
hand to raise her too. "We shall not be long together."

And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden
among the roses, being helped with firm, tender care into the boat,
having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol
opened for her (which she had forgotten), all by this stronger
presence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her own
will, like the added self which comes with the sudden exalting
influence of a strong tonic, and she felt nothing else. Memory was
excluded.

They glided rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by the
backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses; on between
the silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed filled with a
natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young,
unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentary
song of a passing bird heard now and then, as if it were only the
overflowing of brimful gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold
consciousness that was mingled into one by that grave, untiring gaze
which need not be averted,--what else could there be in their minds
for the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of love
came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half
automatically; otherwise they spoke no word; for what could words have
been but an inlet to thought? and thought did not belong to that
enchanted haze in which they were enveloped,--it belonged to the past
and the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly
conscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with no
recognition on the villages; she knew there were several to be passed
before they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped and left the
boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absence, that she was
likely enough to let her waymarks pass unnoticed.

But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased to
row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down on the water
as if watching the pace at which the boat glided without his help.
This sudden change roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretching
fields, at the banks close by, and felt that they were entirely
strange to her. A terrible alarm took possession of her.

"Oh, have we passed Luckreth, where we were to stop?" she exclaimed,
looking back to see if the place were out of sight. No village was to
be seen. She turned around again, with a look of distressed
questioning at Stephen.

He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, absent
tone, "Yes, a long way."

"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Maggie, in an agony. "We shall not get
home for hours, and Lucy? O God, help me!"

She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child;
she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look of
pained surprise and doubt, perhaps of just upbraiding.

Stephen moved and sat near her, and gently drew down the clasped
hands.

"Maggie," he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, "let us never go
home again, till no one can part us,--till we are married."

The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's sob, and she
sat quite still, wondering; as if Stephen might have seen some
possibilities that would alter everything, and annul the wretched
facts.

"See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking,--in spite
of all our efforts. We never thought of being alone together again; it
has all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out, away
from all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make faster
round us, and trying in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we can
land there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York and then to
Scotland,--and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other,
so that only death can part us. It is the only right thing, dearest;
it is the only way of escaping from this wretched entanglement.
Everything has concurred to point it out to us. We have contrived
nothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves."

Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened, passing
from her startled wonderment to the yearning after that belief that
the tide was doing it all, that she might glide along with the swift,
silent stream, and not struggle any more. But across that stealing
influence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the sudden
horror lest now, at last, the moment of fatal intoxication was close
upon her, called up feelings of angry resistance toward Stephen.

"Let me go!" she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant look
at him, and trying to get her hands free. "You have wanted to deprive
me of any choice. You knew we were come too far; you have dared to
take advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me into
such a position."

Stung by this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to his
former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at the
difficulty Maggie's words had made present to him. If she would not
consent to go on, he must curse himself for the embarrassment he had
led her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing; the one
thing worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he had
acted unworthily toward her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressed
rage,--

"I didn't notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had got to the
next village; and then it came into my mind that we would go on. I
can't justify it; I ought to have told you. It is enough to make you
hate me, since you don't love me well enough to make everything else
indifferent to you, as I do you. Shall I stop the boat and try to get
you out here? I'll tell Lucy that I was mad, and that you hate me; and
you shall be clear of me forever. No one can blame you, because I have
behaved unpardonably to you."

Maggie was paralyzed; it was easier to resist Stephen's pleading than
this picture he had called up of himself suffering while she was
vindicated; easier even to turn away from his look of tenderness than
from this look of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfish
isolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which the
reasons which had acted on her conscience seemed to be transmitted
into mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched,
and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had reproached
him for being hurried into irrevocable trespass,--she, who had been so
weak herself.

"As if I shouldn't feel what happened to you--just the same," she
said, with reproach of another kind,--the reproach of love, asking for
more trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen's suffering was more
fatal than the other yielding, because it was less distinguishable
from that sense of others' claims which was the moral basis of her
resistance.

He felt all the relenting in her look and tone; it was heaven opening
again. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow on
the back of the boat, and saying nothing. He dreaded to utter another
word, he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke another
reproach or denial from her. Life hung on her consent; everything else
was hopeless, confused, sickening misery. They glided along in this
way, both resting in that silence as in a haven, both dreading lest
their feelings should be divided again,--till they became aware that
the clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible freshening
of the breeze was growing and growing, so that the whole character of
the day was altered.

"You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloak
over your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest."

Maggie obeyed; there was an unspeakable charm in being told what to
do, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again covered
with the cloak, and Stephen took to his oars again, making haste; for
they must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly
conscious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding is
attended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance; it is the
partial sleep of thought; it is the submergence of our own personality
by another. Every influence tended to lull her into acquiescence. That
dreamy gliding in the boat which had lasted for four hours, and had
brought some weariness and exhaustion; the recoil of her fatigued
sensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of the
boat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long
miles,--all helped to bring her into more complete subjection to that
strong, mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephen seem
the death of all joy, and made the thought of wounding him like the
first touch of the torturing iron before which resolution shrank. And
then there was the present happiness of being with him, which was
enough to absorb all her languid energy.

Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming after them. Several
vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with the
early tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked more
and more eagerly at this vessel, as if a new thought had come into his
mind along with it, and then he looked at Maggie hesitatingly.

"Maggie, dearest," he said at last, "if this vessel should be going to
Mudport, or to any convenient place on the coast northward, it would
be our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued,
and it may soon rain; it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby
in this boat. It's only a trading vessel, but I dare say you can be
made tolerably comfortable. We'll take the cushions out of the boat.
It is really our best plan. They'll be glad enough to take us. I've
got plenty of money about me. I can pay them well."

Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this new
proposition; but she was silent,--one course seemed as difficult as
another.

Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to Mudport, the
English mate informed him, and, if this wind held, would be there in
less than two days.

"We had got out too far with our boat," said Stephen. "I was trying to
make for Torby. But I'm afraid of the weather; and this lady--my
wife--will be exhausted with fatigue and hunger. Take us on
board--will you?--and haul up the boat. I'll pay you well."

Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken on board,
making an interesting object of contemplation to admiring Dutchmen.
The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, for
they had no accommodation for such entirely unlooked-for
passengers,--no private cabin larger than an old-fashioned church-pew.
But at least they had Dutch cleanliness, which makes all other
inconveniences tolerable; and the boat cushions were spread into a
couch for Maggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and
down the deck leaning on Stephen--being upheld by his strength--was
the first change that she needed; then came food, and then quiet
reclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new resolution
_could_ be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow.
Stephen sat beside her with her hand in his; they could only speak to
each other in low tones; only look at each other now and then, for it
would take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on
board, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that minor degree
of interest which belongs, in a sailor's regard, to all objects nearer
than the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly happy. Every other
thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certainty
that Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now; he had been
tortured by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmastering
inclination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. He
murmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness, his adoration,
his tenderness, his belief that their life together must be heaven,
that her presence with him would give rapture to every common day;
that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all other
bliss; that everything was easy for her sake, except to part with her;
and now they never _would_ part; he would belong to her forever, and
all that was his was hers,--had no value for him except as it was
hers. Such things, uttered in low, broken tones by the one voice that
has first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feeble
effect--on experienced minds at a distance from them. To poor Maggie
they were very near; they were like nectar held close to thirsty lips;
there was, there _must_ be, then, a life for mortals here below which
was not hard and chill,--in which affection would no longer be
self-sacrifice. Stephen's passionate words made the vision of such a
life more fully present to her than it had ever been before; and the
vision for the time excluded all realities,--all except the returning
sun-gleams which broke out on the waters as the evening approached,
and mingled with the visionary sunlight of promised happiness; all
except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her,
and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love.

There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to the
horizon again, making the great purple rampart and long purple isles
of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goes
down,--the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was to
sleep all night on the poop; it was better than going below; and she
was covered with the warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It was
still early, when the fatigues of the day brought on a drowsy longing
for perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint,
dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was getting
brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was still
seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against the
vessel's side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours,
which had flowed over her like a soft stream, and made her entirely
passive, there was the dim consciousness that the condition was a
transient one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life of
struggle; that there were thoughts which would presently avenge
themselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her; she
was being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over
her, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the wondrous
aerial land of the west.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Maggie is spending most of her time with her mother and visiting the Gleggs. But Lucy still insists she come to see her daily. Stephen and Maggie have a silent understanding between them and are waiting for Maggie to leave soon for her new governess job. Maggie is still struggling internally with her decision to leave again and to put the whole Stephen thing behind her. Part of Maggie wants to tell everyone to shove it and run off with Stephen. Stephen has taken a page of Philip's Quasi-Stalker Manual and is now expressing his feelings to Maggie through song. The kids decide to row up the river sometime soon. Stephen gives some lame excuse for not going though, since Maggie will be there. Philip also tries to get out of going and it's all very awkward. Philip is once again suspicious of Stephen and Maggie. He watches them interact for an evening and goes home depressed. He thinks that Stephen obviously loves Maggie and is pressuring her. Maggie is clearly confused. But now Philip starts to feel bad for imposing himself on Maggie and wonders if she would rather be with Stephen. Lucy arranges to go out the next day so that Philip and Maggie can have some alone time in the rowboat. But Stephen shows up at the house instead. Turns out Philip isn't coming over. He's sick, apparently. Stephen and Maggie make googly-eyes at each other for a bit and then debate whether or not they should go out on the river. The decide to go and have another romantic moment on the river. Maggie finally notices that they have drifted a really long way from home and it will take hours to get back now. Stephen doesn't seem to care. In fact, he insists that this is some sort of divine sign and that he and Maggie should elope together and get married. Maggie insists that Stephen pull the boat over and let her out. Stephen defends himself against Maggie's insinuation that he was aware of how far they had gone all along. He agrees to let her out and says he will take the blame. But Maggie is swayed by Stephen once again and stays in the boat. Maggie feels like she's in a dream. Finally they see a bigger boat, a Dutch trading ship, and they get the crew to let them come aboard. Stephen lies and says that he and his "wife" were headed up the river and got delayed. They ask for a lift to the nearest port. The crew says OK and Maggie and Stephen spend the night camped out on the deck of the ship together. Maggie lets herself enjoy the moment and being with Stephen.


prompt:
Chapter: Waking

When Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with his
unaccustomed amount of rowing, and with the intense inward life of the
last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged about
the deck with his cigar far on into midnight, not seeing the dark
water, hardly conscious there were stars, living only in the near and
distant future. At last fatigue conquered restlessness, and he rolled
himself up in a piece of tarpaulin on the deck near Maggie's feet.

She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for six hours
before the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak was discernible. She
awoke from that vivid dreaming which makes the margin of our deeper
rest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and in the
gathering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grew
till they saw it was the Virgin seated in St. Ogg's boat, and it came
nearer and nearer, till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the boatman
was Philip,--no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past without
looking at her; and she rose to stretch out her arms and call to him,
and their own boat turned over with the movement, and they began to
sink, till with one spasm of dread she seemed to awake, and find she
was a child again in the parlor at evening twilight, and Tom was not
really angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passed
to the real waking,--to the plash of water against the vessel, and the
sound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There was
a moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangled
from the confused web of dreams; but soon the whole terrible truth
urged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now; she was alone with
her own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blot
her life had been committed; she had brought sorrow into the lives of
others,--into the lives that were knit up with hers by trust and love.
The feeling of a few short weeks had hurried her into the sins her
nature had most recoiled from,--breach of faith and cruel selfishness;
she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had made
herself an outlawed soul, with no guide but the wayward choice of her
own passion. And where would that lead her? Where had it led her now?
She had said she would rather die than fall into that temptation. She
felt it now,--now that the consequences of such a fall had come before
the outward act was completed. There was at least this fruit from all
her years of striving after the highest and best,--that her soul
though betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately consent
to a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God! not a choice of
joy, but of conscious cruelty and hardness; for could she ever cease
to see before her Lucy and Philip, with their murdered trust and
hopes? Her life with Stephen could have no sacredness; she must
forever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uncertain impulse; for she
had let go the clue of life,--that clue which once in the far-off
years her young need had clutched so strongly. She had renounced all
delights then, before she knew them, before they had come within her
reach. Philip had been right when he told her that she knew nothing of
renunciation; she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face to
face now,--that sad, patient, loving strength which holds the clue of
life,--and saw that the thorns were forever pressing on its brow. The
yesterday, which could never be revoked,--if she could have changed it
now for any length of inward silent endurance, she would have bowed
beneath that cross with a sense of rest.

Day break came and the reddening eastern light, while her past life
was grasping her in this way, with that tightening clutch which comes
in the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen now
lying on the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him there
came a wave of anguish that found its way in a long-suppressed sob.
The worst bitterness of parting--the thought that urged the sharpest
inward cry for help--was the pain it must give to _him_. But
surmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, the
dread lest her conscience should be benumbed again, and not rise to
energy till it was too late. Too late! it was too late already not to
have caused misery; too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush away
from the last act of baseness,--the tasting of joys that were wrung
from crushed hearts.

The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sense that a
day of resistance was beginning for her. Her eyelashes were still wet
with tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at the
slowly rounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and getting up from
his hard bed, he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxious
love saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He had
a hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature that he would
be unable to overcome. He had the uneasy consciousness that he had
robbed her of perfect freedom yesterday; there was too much native
honor in him, for him not to feel that, if her will should recoil, his
conduct would have been odious, and she would have a right to reproach
him.

But Maggie did not feel that right; she was too conscious of fatal
weakness in herself, too full of the tenderness that comes with the
foreseen need for inflicting a wound. She let him take her hand when
he came to sit down beside her, and smiled at him, only with rather a
sad glance; she could say nothing to pain him till the moment of
possible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee
together, and walked about the deck, and heard the captain's assurance
that they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with an inward
burthen; but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to the
coming hours to dissipate; in her it was a definite resolve on which
she was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was continually,
through the morning, expressing his anxiety at the fatigue and
discomfort she was suffering, and alluded to landing and to the change
of motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure
himself more completely by presupposing that everything would be as he
had arranged it. For a long while Maggie contented herself with
assuring him that she had had a good night's rest, and that she didn't
mind about being on the vessel,--it was not like being on the open
sea, it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on the
Floss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, and
Stephen became more and more uneasy as the day advanced, under the
sense that Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but
did not dare, to speak of their marriage, of where they would go after
it, and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest, of
what had happened. He longed to assure himself of a tacit assent from
her. But each time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread of
the new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes. And they were more
and more silent.

"Here we are in sight of Mudport," he said at last. "Now, dearest," he
added, turning toward her with a look that was half beseeching, "the
worst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we can command
swiftness. In another hour and a half we shall be in a chaise
together, and that will seem rest to you after this."

Maggie felt it was time to speak; it would only be unkind now to
assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he had done, but
with distinct decision.

"We shall not be together; we shall have parted."

The blood rushed to Stephen's face.

"We shall not," he said. "I'll die first."

It was as he had dreaded--there was a struggle coming. But neither of
them dared to say another word till the boat was let down, and they
were taken to the landing-place. Here there was a cluster of gazers
and passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St. Ogg's.
Maggie had a dim sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurrying
her along on his arm, that some one had advanced toward her from that
cluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But she was hurried
along, and was indifferent to everything but the coming trial.

A porter guided them to the nearest inn and posting-house, and Stephen
gave the order for the chaise as they passed through the yard. Maggie
took no notice of this, and only said, "Ask them to show us into a
room where we can sit down."

When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose face
had a desperate determination in it, was about to ring the bell, when
she said, in a firm voice,--

"I'm not going; we must part here."

"Maggie," he said, turning round toward her, and speaking in the tones
of a man who feels a process of torture beginning, "do you mean to
kill me? What is the use of it now? The whole thing is done."

"No, it is not done," said Maggie. "Too much is done,--more than we
can ever remove the trace of. But I will go no farther. Don't try to
prevail with me again. I couldn't choose yesterday."

What was he to do? He dared not go near her; her anger might leap out,
and make a new barrier. He walked backward and forward in maddening
perplexity.

"Maggie," he said at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a tone
of imploring wretchedness, "have some pity--hear me--forgive me for
what I did yesterday. I will obey you now; I will do nothing without
your full consent. But don't blight our lives forever by a rash
perversity that can answer no good purpose to any one, that can only
create new evils. Sit down, dearest; wait--think what you are going to
do. Don't treat me as if you couldn't trust me."

He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggie's will was fixed
unswervingly on the coming wrench. She had made up her mind to suffer.

"We must not wait," she said, in a low but distinct voice; "we must
part at once."

"We _can't_ part, Maggie," said Stephen, more impetuously. "I can't
bear it. What is the use of inflicting that misery on me? The
blow--whatever it may have been--has been struck now. Will it help any
one else that you should drive me mad?"

"I will not begin any future, even for you," said Maggie, tremulously,
"with a deliberate consent to what ought not to have been. What I told
you at Basset I feel now; I would rather have died than fall into this
temptation. It would have been better if we had parted forever then.
But we must part now."

"We will _not_ part," Stephen burst out, instinctively placing his
back against the door, forgetting everything he had said a few moments
before; "I will not endure it. You'll make me desperate; I sha'n't
know what I do."

Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effected
suddenly. She must rely on a slower appeal to Stephen's better self;
she must be prepared for a harder task than that of rushing away while
resolution was fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watching her with that
look of desperation which had come over him like a lurid light,
approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her, and
grasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a frightened bird;
but this direct opposition helped her. She felt her determination
growing stronger.

"Remember what you felt weeks ago," she began, with beseeching
earnestness; "remember what we both felt,--that we owed ourselves to
others, and must conquer every inclination which could make us false
to that debt. We have failed to keep our resolutions; but the wrong
remains the same."

"No, it does _not_ remain the same," said Stephen. "We have proved
that it was impossible to keep our resolutions. We have proved that
the feeling which draws us toward each other is too strong to be
overcome. That natural law surmounts every other; we can't help what
it clashes with."

"It is not so, Stephen; I'm quite sure that is wrong. I have tried to
think it again and again; but I see, if we judged in that way, there
would be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty; we should justify
breaking the most sacred ties that can ever be formed on earth. If the
past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but
the inclination of the moment."

"But there are ties that can't be kept by mere resolution," said
Stephen, starting up and walking about again. "What is outward
faithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow as
constancy without love?"

Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward as
well as an outward contest. At last she said, with a passionate
assertion of her conviction, as much against herself as against him,--

"That seems right--at first; but when I look further, I'm sure it is
_not_ right. Faithfulness and constancy mean something else besides
doing what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They mean
renouncing whatever is opposed to the reliance others have in
us,--whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our lives
has made dependent on us. If we--if I had been better, nobler, those
claims would have been so strongly present with me,--I should have
felt them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now in
the moments when my conscience is awake,--that the opposite feeling
would never have grown in me, as it has done; it would have been
quenched at once, I should have prayed for help so earnestly, I should
have rushed away as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for
myself, none. I should never have failed toward Lucy and Philip as I
have done, if I had not been weak, selfish, and hard,--able to think
of their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all
temptation. Oh, what is Lucy feeling now? She believed in me--she
loved me--she was so good to me. Think of her----"

Maggie's voice was getting choked as she uttered these last words.

"I _can't_ think of her," said Stephen, stamping as if with pain. "I
can think of nothing but you, Maggie. You demand of a man what is
impossible. I felt that once; but I can't go back to it now. And where
is the use of _your_ thinking of it, except to torture me? You can't
save them from pain now; you can only tear yourself from me, and make
my life worthless to me. And even if we could go back, and both fulfil
our engagements,--if that were possible now,--it would be hateful,
horrible, to think of your ever being Philip's wife,--of your ever
being the wife of a man you didn't love. We have both been rescued
from a mistake."

A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't speak. Stephen
saw this. He sat down again, taking her hand in his, and looking at
her with passionate entreaty.

"Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who can have so great
a claim on you as I have? My life is bound up in your love. There is
nothing in the past that can annul our right to each other; it is the
first time we have either of us loved with our whole heart and soul."

Maggie was still silent for a little while, looking down. Stephen was
in a flutter of new hope; he was going to triumph. But she raised her
eyes and met his with a glance that was filled with the anguish of
regret, not with yielding.

"No, not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen," she said with timid
resolution. "I have never consented to it with my whole mind. There
are memories, and affections, and longings after perfect goodness,
that have such a strong hold on me; they would never quit me for long;
they would come back and be pain to me--repentance. I couldn't live in
peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. I
have caused sorrow already--I know--I feel it; but I have never
deliberately consented to it; I have never said, 'They shall suffer,
that I may have joy.' It has never been my will to marry you; if you
were to win consent from the momentary triumph of my feeling for you,
you would not have my whole soul. If I could wake back again into the
time before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmer
affections, and live without the joy of love."

Stephen loosed her hand, and rising impatiently, walked up and down
the room in suppressed rage.

"Good God!" he burst out at last, "what a miserable thing a woman's
love is to a man's! I could commit crimes for you,--and you can
balance and choose in that way. But you _don't_ love me; if you had a
tithe of the feeling for me that I have for you, it would be
impossible to you to think for a moment of sacrificing me. But it
weighs nothing with you that you are robbing me of _my_ life's
happiness."

Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as she held
them clasped on her lap. A great terror was upon her, as if she were
ever and anon seeing where she stood by great flashes of lightning,
and then again stretched forth her hands in the darkness.

"No, I don't sacrifice you--I couldn't sacrifice you," she said, as
soon as she could speak again; "but I can't believe in a good for you,
that I feel, that we both feel, is a wrong toward others. We can't
choose happiness either for ourselves or for another; we can't tell
where that will lie. We can only choose whether we will indulge
ourselves in the present moment, or whether we will renounce that, for
the sake of obeying the divine voice within us,--for the sake of being
true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know this belief is
hard; it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have felt
that if I let it go forever, I should have no light through the
darkness of this life."

"But, Maggie," said Stephen, seating himself by her again, "is it
possible you don't see that what happened yesterday has altered the
whole position of things? What infatuation is it, what obstinate
prepossession, that blinds you to that? It is too late to say what we
might have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting the very
worst view of what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now; our
position is altered; the right course is no longer what it was before.
We must accept our own actions and start afresh from them. Suppose we
had been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effect on
others would not have been different. It would only have made this
difference to ourselves," Stephen added bitterly, "that you might have
acknowledged then that your tie to me was stronger than to others."

Again a deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she was silent.
Stephen thought again that he was beginning to prevail,--he had never
yet believed that he should _not_ prevail; there are possibilities
which our minds shrink from too completely for us to fear them.

"Dearest," he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning toward
her, and putting his arm round her, "you _are_ mine now,--the world
believes it; duty must spring out of that now.

"In a few hours you will be legally mine, and those who had claims on
us will submit,--they will see that there was a force which declared
against their claims."

Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face that was
close to hers, and she started up, pale again.

"Oh, I can't do it," she said, in a voice almost of agony; "Stephen,
don't ask me--don't urge me. I can't argue any longer,--I don't know
what is wise; but my heart will not let me do it. I see,--I feel their
trouble now; it is as if it were branded on my mind. _I_ have
suffered, and had no one to pity me; and now I have made others
suffer. It would never leave me; it would embitter your love to me. I
_do_ care for Philip--in a different way; I remember all we said to
each other; I know how he thought of me as the one promise of his
life. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard; and I
have forsaken him. And Lucy--she has been deceived; she who trusted me
more than any one. I cannot marry you; I cannot take a good for myself
that has been wrung out of their misery. It is not the force that
ought to rule us,--this that we feel for each other; it would rend me
away from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I can't
set out on a fresh life, and forget that; I must go back to it, and
cling to it, else I shall feel as if there were nothing firm beneath
my feet."

"Good God, Maggie!" said Stephen, rising too and grasping her arm,
"you rave. How can you go back without marrying me? You don't know
what will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is."

"Yes, I do. But they will believe me. I will confess everything. Lucy
will believe me--she will forgive you, and--and--oh, _some_ good will
come by clinging to the right. Dear, dear Stephen, let me go!--don't
drag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never consented; it
does not consent now."

Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half-stunned by
despairing rage. He was silent a few moments, not looking at her;
while her eyes were turned toward him yearningly, in alarm at this
sudden change. At last he said, still without looking at her,--

"Go, then,--leave me; don't torture me any longer,--I can't bear it."

Involuntarily she leaned toward him and put out her hand to touch his.
But he shrank from it as if it had been burning iron, and said
again,--

"Leave me."

Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away from that
gloomy averted face, and walked out of the room; it was like an
automatic action that fulfils a forgotten intention. What came after?
A sense of stairs descended as if in a dream, of flagstones, of a
chaise and horses standing, then a street, and a turning into another
street where a stage-coach was standing, taking in passengers, and the
darting thought that that coach would take her away, perhaps toward
home. But she could ask nothing yet; she only got into the coach.

Home--where her mother and brother were, Philip, Lucy, the scene of
her very cares and trials--was the haven toward which her mind tended;
the sanctuary where sacred relics lay, where she would be rescued from
more falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing
pain, which yet, as such pains do, seemed to urge all other thoughts
into activity. But among her thoughts, what others would say and think
of her conduct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorseful
anguish left no room for that.

The coach was taking her to York, farther away from home; but she did
not learn that until she was set down in the old city at midnight. It
was no matter; she could sleep there, and start home the next day. She
had her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it,--a bank-note
and a sovereign; she had kept it in her pocket from forgetfulness,
after going out to make purchases the day before yesterday.

Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that night with
her will bent unwaveringly on the path of penitent sacrifice? The
great struggles of life are not so easy as that; the great problems of
life are not so clear. In the darkness of that night she saw Stephen's
face turned toward her in passionate, reproachful misery; she lived
through again all the tremulous delights of his presence with her that
made existence an easy floating in a stream of joy, instead of a quiet
resolved endurance and effort. The love she had renounced came back
upon her with a cruel charm; she felt herself opening her arms to
receive it once more; and then it seemed to slip away and fade and
vanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice that
said, "Gone, forever gone."

Book VII

_The Final Rescue_

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The two go to sleep but Maggie has disturbing dreams involving Lucy and Philip. When she wakes up she knows that she has to leave Stephen, since eloping with him is wrong. But she is conflicted yet again - is Maggie ever not conflicted? Maggie can't decide what the right thing to do is. She feels that eloping is wrong but she loves Stephen and doesn't want to hurt him. Maggie decides that she's already hurt people close to her but she can avoid hurting them even more if she leaves Stephen now and doesn't go through with marrying him. Stephen wakes up after Maggie and starts to get worried about what she's going to do. The crew drops the couple off at the lovely-sounding town of Mudport. Maggie tells Stephen that she's leaving him. Stephen melodramatically tells her he'd die without her. He drags Maggie off to an inn so they can talk. But as they are walking off she thinks she sees someone she knows. Uh-oh. Maggie and Stephen have it out in the inn. Stephen begs Maggie not to leave him and Maggie explains her reasoning, saying that she can't marry him with the doubts that she has. She refuses to do something that is morally wrong and hurtful in order to gratify her own selfish desires at the expense of other people. Stephen's counter-argument is that the damage has already been done. Lucy and Philip are already hurt and that it would be worse now to deny his and Maggie's love and live a lie. Both make very strong arguments and go round in circles for a long time. The issue is complicated further by the fact that Maggie is reluctant to hurt Stephen and often wavers in her resolve to leave him. Stephen gets increasingly agitated and tells Maggie that she's treating him badly and that he's wiling to sacrifice things for her. Maggie insists that she must listen to her conscience, which is telling her that marrying Stephen would be wrong. Stephen insists that they need to act in the present moment since the past can't be changed. It's impossible to avoid hurting others now. Maggie finally begs Stephen to let her go, saying she can't and won't hurt Lucy and Philip even more and do something that she feels is wrong. Maggie naively hopes that by confessing everything the people close to her will forgive her lapse of judgment. Stephen calls her out on this, saying that this will be huge social scandal and she's foolish to think otherwise. Finally Stephen gives up and tells her to leave. Maggie is totally heartbroken and she makes her way back to St. Ogg's.