Maggie’s Second Visit
This last breach between the two lads was not readily
mended, and for some time they spoke to each other
no more than was necessary. Their natural antipathy
of temperament made resentment an easy passage to
hatred, and in Philip the transition seemed to have
begun; there was no malignity in his disposition,
but there was a susceptibility that made him peculiarly
liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox—we
may venture to assert it on the authority of a great
classic—is not given to use his teeth as
an instrument of attack, and Tom was an excellent
bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in a truly
ingenious bovine manner; but he had blundered on Philip’s
tenderest point, and had caused him as much acute
pain as if he had studied the means with the nicest
precision and the most envenomed spite. Tom saw
no reason why they should not make up this quarrel
as they had done many others, by behaving as if nothing
had happened; for though he had never before said
to Philip that his father was a rogue, this idea had
so habitually made part of his feeling as to the relation
between himself and his dubious schoolfellow, who
he could neither like nor dislike, that the mere utterance
did not make such an epoch to him as it did to Philip.
And he had a right to say so when Philip hectored
over him, and called him names. But perceiving
that his first advances toward amity were not met,
he relapsed into his least favorable disposition toward
Philip, and resolved never to appeal to him either
about drawing or exercise again. They were only
so far civil to each other as was necessary to prevent
their state of feud from being observed by Mr. Stelling,
who would have “put down” such nonsense
with great vigor.
When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking
with growing interest at the new schoolfellow, although
he was the son of that wicked Lawyer Wakem, who made
her father so angry. She had arrived in the middle
of school-hours, and had sat by while Philip went through
his lessons with Mr. Stelling. Tom, some weeks
ago, had sent her word that Philip knew no end of
stories,—not stupid stories like hers; and
she was convinced now from her own observation that
he must be very clever; she hoped he would think her
rather clever too, when she came to talk to him.
Maggie, moreover, had rather a tenderness for deformed
things; she preferred the wry-necked lambs, because
it seemed to her that the lambs which were quite strong
and well made wouldn’t mind so much about being
petted; and she was especially fond of petting objects
that would think it very delightful to be petted by
her. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often
wished that he cared more about her loving
him.
“I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom,”
she said, when they went out of the study together
into the garden, to pass the interval before dinner.
“He couldn’t choose his father, you know;
and I’ve read of very bad men who had good sons,
as well as good parents who had bad children.
And if Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more
sorry for him because his father is not a good man.
You like him, don’t you?”
