The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before
known the relief of such an outpouring; she had never
before told Lucy anything of her inmost life; and
the sweet face bent toward her with sympathetic interest,
and the little hand pressing hers, encouraged her
to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive.
She did not betray fully what still rankled in her
mind as Tom’s great offence,—the
insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the
remembrance still made her, she could not bear that
any one else should know it at all, both for Tom’s
sake and Philip’s. And she could not bear
to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and
Wakem, though it was this scene which she had ever
since felt to be a new barrier between herself and
Philip. She merely said, she saw now that Tom
was, no the whole, right in regarding any prospect
of love and marriage between her and Philip as put
out of the question by the relation of the two families.
Of course Philip’s father would never consent.
“There, Lucy, you have had my story,”
said Maggie, smiling, with the tears in her eyes.
“You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I
was adored once.”
“Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare
and everything, and have learned so much since you
left school; which always seemed to me witchcraft
before,—part of your general uncanniness,”
said Lucy.
She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then
added, looking at Maggie, “It is very beautiful
that you should love Philip; I never thought such
a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion,
you ought not to give him up. There are obstacles
now; but they may be done away with in time.”
Maggie shook her head.
“Yes, yes,” persisted Lucy; “I can’t
help being hopeful about it. There is something
romantic in it,—out of the common way,—just
what everything that happens to you ought to be.
And Philip will adore you like a husband in a fairy
tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain to contrive
some plot that will bring everybody into the right
mind, so that you may marry Philip when I marry—somebody
else. Wouldn’t that be a pretty ending
to all my poor, poor Maggie’s troubles?”
Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt
a sudden chill.
“Ah, dear, you are cold,” said Lucy.
“You must go to bed; and so must I. I dare not
think what time it is.”
They kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed
of a confidence which had a strong influence over
her subsequent impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly
sincere; her nature had never found it easy to be
otherwise. But confidences are sometimes blinding,
even when they are sincere.
