Chapter: Maggie and Lucy


By the end of the week Dr. Kenn had made up his mind that there was
only one way in which he could secure to Maggie a suitable living at
St. Ogg's. Even with his twenty years' experience as a parish priest,
he was aghast at the obstinate continuance of imputations against her
in the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored and
appealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting to
open the ears of women to reason, and their consciences to justice, on
behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as powerless as
he was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influence the
shape of bonnets. Dr. Kenn could not be contradicted; he was listened
to in silence; but when he left the room, a comparison of opinions
among his hearers yielded much the same result as before. Miss
Tulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable manner, even Dr. Kenn did
not deny that; how, then, could he think so lightly of her as to put
that favorable interpretation on everything she had done? Even on the
supposition that required the utmost stretch of belief,--namely, that
none of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true,--still, since
they _had_ been said about her, they had cast an odor round her which
must cause her to be shrunk from by every woman who had to take care
of her own reputation--and of Society. To have taken Maggie by the
hand and said, "I will not believe unproved evil of you; my lips shall
not utter it; my ears shall be closed against it; I, too, am an erring
mortal, liable to stumble, apt to come short of my most earnest
efforts; your lot has been harder than mine, your temptation greater;
let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling,"--to
have done this would have demanded courage, deep pity, self-knowledge,
generous trust; would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquancy in
evil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in condemning, that
cheated itself with no large words into the belief that life can have
any moral end, any high religion, which excludes the striving after
perfect truth, justice, and love toward the individual men and women
who come across our own path. The ladies of St. Ogg's were not
beguiled by any wide speculative conceptions; but they had their
favorite abstraction, called Society, which served to make their
consciences perfectly easy in doing what satisfied their own
egoism,--thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver, and
turning their backs upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr.
Kenn, after two years of superfluous incense from his feminine
parishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views in
opposition to his; but then they maintained them in opposition to a
higher Authority, which they had venerated longer. That Authority had
furnished a very explicit answer to persons who might inquire where
their social duties began, and might be inclined to take wide views as
to the starting-point. The answer had not turned on the ultimate good
of Society, but on "a certain man" who was found in trouble by the
wayside.

Not that St. Ogg's was empty of women with some tenderness of heart
and conscience; probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodness
in it as any other small trading town of that day. But until every
good man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid,--too
timid even to believe in the correctness of their own best promptings,
when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St. Ogg's
were not all brave, by any means; some of them were even fond of
scandal, and to an extent that might have given their conversation an
effeminate character, if it had not been distinguished by masculine
jokes, and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutual
hatred of women. It was the general feeling of the masculine mind at
St. Ogg's that women were not to be interfered with in their treatment
of each other.

And thus every direction in which Dr. Kenn had turned, in the hope of
procuring some kind recognition and some employment for Maggie, proved
a disappointment to him. Mrs. James Torry could not think of taking
Maggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily,--a young woman about
whom "such things had been said," and about whom "gentlemen joked";
and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, and wanted a reader and
companion, felt quite sure that Maggie's mind must be of a quality
with which she, for her part, could not risk _any_ contact. Why did
not Miss Tulliver accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg? It
did not become a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she not
go out of the neighborhood, and get a situation where she was not
known? (It was not, apparently, of so much importance that she should
carry her dangerous tendencies into strange families unknown at St.
Ogg's.) She must be very bold and hardened to wish to stay in a parish
where she was so much stared at and whispered about.

Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence of
this opposition, as every firm man would have done, to contract a
certain strength of determination over and above what would have been
called forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily governess
for his younger children; and though he had hesitated in the first
instance to offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protest
with the utmost force of his personal and priestly character against
her being crushed and driven away by slander, was now decisive. Maggie
gratefully accepted an employment that gave her duties as well as a
support; her days would be filled now, and solitary evenings would be
a welcome rest. She no longer needed the sacrifice her mother made in
staying with her, and Mrs. Tulliver was persuaded to go back to the
Mill.

But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exemplary as he had
hitherto appeared, had his crotchets, possibly his weaknesses. The
masculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled pleasantly, and did not wonder that
Kenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he was inclined
to take so lenient a view of the past; the feminine mind, regarded at
that period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case.
If Dr. Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver! It
was not safe to be too confident, even about the best of men; an
apostle had fallen, and wept bitterly afterwards; and though Peter's
denial was not a close precedent, his repentance was likely to be.

Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for many weeks,
before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other becoming the
Rector's wife had been talked of so often in confidence, that ladies
were beginning to discuss how they should behave to her in that
position. For Dr. Kenn, it had been understood, had sat in the
schoolroom half an hour one morning, when Miss Tulliver was giving her
lessons,--nay, he had sat there every morning; he had once walked home
with her,--he almost _always_ walked home with her,--and if not, he
went to see her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! What
a _mother_ for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs. Kenn
turn in her grave, that they should be put under the care of this girl
only a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to propriety as
to marry her before the year was out? The masculine mind was
sarcastic, and thought _not_.

The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a folly
in their Rector; at least their brother would be safe; and their
knowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a constant ground of alarm to
them, lest he should come back and marry Maggie. They were not among
those who disbelieved their brother's letter; but they had no
confidence in Maggie's adherence to her renunciation of him; they
suspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than from the
marriage, and that she lingered in St. Ogg's, relying on his return to
her. They had always thought her disagreeable; they now thought her
artful and proud; having quite as good grounds for that judgment as
you and I probably have for many strong opinions of the same kind.
Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the contemplated match
with Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage between Stephen and
Maggie added its momentum to their genuine pity and indignation on
behalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that he
should return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home, she was
to seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by going to the
coast with the Miss Guests; and it was in their plans that Stephen
should be induced to join them. On the very first hint of gossip
concerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the report was conveyed in Miss
Guest's letter to her brother.

Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg, or Dr.
Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress toward recovery, and her thoughts
tended continually toward her uncle Deane's house; she hungered for an
interview with Lucy, if it were only for five minutes, to utter a word
of penitence, to be assured by Lucy's own eyes and lips that she did
not believe in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved and
trusted. But she knew that even if her uncle's indignation had not
closed his house against her, the agitation of such an interview would
have been forbidden to Lucy. Only to have seen her without speaking
would have been some relief; for Maggie was haunted by a face cruel in
its very gentleness; a face that had been turned on hers with glad,
sweet looks of trust and love from the twilight time of memory;
changed now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke. And as
the days passed on, that pale image became more and more distinct; the
picture grew and grew into more speaking definiteness under the
avenging hand of remorse; the soft hazel eyes, in their look of pain,
were bent forever on Maggie, and pierced her the more because she
could see no anger in them. But Lucy was not yet able to go to church,
or any place where Maggie could see her; and even the hope of that
departed, when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy was
really going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss Guests,
who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meet
them there.

Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is, can know
what Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the evening after
hearing that news from Mrs. Glegg,--only those who have known what it
is to dread their own selfish desires as the watching mother would
dread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain.

She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window wide open
toward the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itself
undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair against
the window, with her arm on the windowsill she was looking blankly at
the flowing river, swift with the backward-rushing tide, struggling to
see still the sweet face in its unreproaching sadness, that seemed now
from moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form that
thrust itself between, and made darkness. Hearing the door open, she
thought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with her supper, as usual; and with
that repugnance to trivial speech which comes with languor and
wretchedness, she shrank from turning round and saying she wanted
nothing; good little Mrs. Jakin would be sure to make some well-meant
remarks. But the next moment, without her having discerned the sound
of a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a
voice close to her saying, "Maggie!"

The face was there,--changed, but all the sweeter; the hazel eyes were
there, with their heart-piercing tenderness.

"Maggie!" the soft voice said. "Lucy!" answered a voice with a sharp
ring of anguish in it; and Lucy threw her arms round Maggie's neck,
and leaned her pale cheek against the burning brow.

"I stole out," said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat down
close to Maggie and held her hand, "when papa and the rest were away.
Alice is come with me. I asked her to help me. But I must only stay a
little while, because it is so late."

It was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They sat
looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end without
more speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there would
be something scorching in the words that would recall the
irretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinct
thought began to be overflowed by a wave of loving penitence, and
words burst forth with a sob.

"God bless you for coming, Lucy."

The sobs came thick on each other after that.

"Maggie, dear, be comforted," said Lucy now, putting her cheek against
Maggie's again. "Don't grieve." And she sat still, hoping to soothe
Maggie with that gentle caress.

"I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy," said Maggie, as soon as she
could speak. "It always made me wretched that I felt what I didn't
like you to know. It was because I thought it would all be conquered,
and you might never see anything to wound you."

"I know, dear," said Lucy. "I know you never meant to make me unhappy.
It is a trouble that has come on us all; you have more to bear than I
have--and you gave him up, when--you did what it must have been very
hard to do."

They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, and
cheeks leaned together.

"Lucy," Maggie began again, "_he_ struggled too. He wanted to be true
to you. He will come back to you. Forgive him--he will be happy
then----"

These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul, with an
effort like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled and
was silent.

A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, who entered
and said,--

"I daren't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They'll find it out, and
there'll be such anger at your coming out so late."

Lucy rose and said, "Very well, Alice,--in a minute."

"I'm to go away on Friday, Maggie," she added, when Alice had closed
the door again. "When I come back, and am strong, they will let me do
as I like. I shall come to you when I please then."

"Lucy," said Maggie, with another great effort, "I pray to God
continually that I may never be the cause of sorrow to you any more."

She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and looked up
into the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never forgot that look.

"Maggie," she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity of
confession in it, "you are better than I am. I can't----"

She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped each other
again in a last embrace.

 Dr. Kenn has been unable to find any position for Maggie, and he finally decides that the only hope is for him to employ her himself. Most of his parishioners are set against her, and the few who are not are too timid to make their views public. Dr. Kenn takes Maggie on as governess to his children. Dr. Kenn, "exemplary as he had hitherto appeared," now appears to have his weaknesses. It begins to be said that he may soon marry Maggie. The Miss Guests, Stephen's sisters, know that Stephen wishes to marry Maggie, and their alarm that Maggie will relent prompts them to plan to take Lucy to the coast to meet Stephen as soon as Lucy can leave home. Lucy does not yet go out, and Maggie has no contact with her, although she hungers to see her. Maggie is sitting alone in her room one evening when Lucy appears. She has stolen out to see Maggie. Maggie tells her that she did not mean to deceive her, and that Stephen struggled too, that he will come back to her. Lucy cannot stay; but she promises to come to Maggie again when she returns from the coast, when she is stronger and can do as she pleases. Her parting words are that Maggie is better than she.

