by George Eliot
Chapter XIV
Waking
When Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with hisunaccustomed amount of rowing, and with the intense inward life of thelast twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged aboutthe deck with his cigar far on into midnight, not seeing the darkwater, hardly conscious there were stars, living only in the near anddistant future. At last fatigue conquered restlessness, and he rolledhimself 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 hoursbefore the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak was discernible. Sheawoke from that vivid dreaming which makes the margin of our deeperrest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and in thegathering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grewtill they saw it was the Virgin seated in St. Ogg's boat, and it camenearer and nearer, till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the boatmanwas Philip,--no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past withoutlooking 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 tosink, till with one spasm of dread she seemed to awake, and find shewas a child again in the parlor at evening twilight, and Tom was notreally angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passedto the real waking,--to the plash of water against the vessel, and thesound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There wasa moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangledfrom the confused web of dreams; but soon the whole terrible truthurged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now; she was alone withher own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blother life had been committed; she had brought sorrow into the lives ofothers,--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 hernature had most recoiled from,--breach of faith and cruel selfishness;she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had madeherself an outlawed soul, with no guide but the wayward choice of herown 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. Shefelt it now,--now that the consequences of such a fall had come beforethe outward act was completed. There was at least this fruit from allher years of striving after the highest and best,--that her soulthough betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately consentto a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God! not a choice ofjoy, but of conscious cruelty and hardness; for could she ever ceaseto see before her Lucy and Philip, with their murdered trust andhopes? Her life with Stephen could have no sacredness; she mustforever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uncertain impulse; for shehad let go the clue of life,--that clue which once in the far-offyears her young need had clutched so strongly. She had renounced alldelights then, before she knew them, before they had come within herreach. Philip had been right when he told her that she knew nothing ofrenunciation she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face toface now,--that sad, patient, loving strength which holds the clue oflife,--and saw that the thorns were forever pressing on its brow. Theyesterday, which could never be revoked,--if she could have changed itnow for any length of inward silent endurance, she would have bowedbeneath that cross with a sense of rest.
Day break came and the reddening eastern light, while her past lifewas grasping her in this way, with that tightening clutch which comesin the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen nowlying on the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him therecame a wave of anguish that found its way in a long-suppressed sob.The worst bitterness of parting--the thought that urged the sharpestinward cry for help--was the pain it must give to _him_. Butsurmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, thedread lest her conscience should be benumbed again, and not rise toenergy till it was too late. Too late! it was too late already not tohave caused misery; too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush awayfrom the last act of baseness,--the tasting of joys that were wrungfrom crushed hearts.
The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sense that aday of resistance was beginning for her. Her eyelashes were still wetwith tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at theslowly rounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and getting up fromhis hard bed, he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxiouslove saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He hada hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature that he wouldbe unable to overcome. He had the uneasy consciousness that he hadrobbed her of perfect freedom yesterday; there was too much nativehonor in him, for him not to feel that, if her will should recoil, hisconduct would have been odious, and she would have a right to reproachhim.
But Maggie did not feel that right; she was too conscious of fatalweakness in herself, too full of the tenderness that comes with theforeseen need for inflicting a wound. She let him take her hand whenhe came to sit down beside her, and smiled at him, only with rather asad glance; she could say nothing to pain him till the moment ofpossible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffeetogether, and walked about the deck, and heard the captain's assurancethat they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with an inwardburthen; but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to thecoming hours to dissipate; in her it was a definite resolve on whichshe was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was continually,through the morning, expressing his anxiety at the fatigue anddiscomfort she was suffering, and alluded to landing and to the changeof motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assurehimself more completely by presupposing that everything would be as hehad arranged it. For a long while Maggie contented herself withassuring him that she had had a good night's rest, and that she didn'tmind about being on the vessel,--it was not like being on the opensea, it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on theFloss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, andStephen became more and more uneasy as the day advanced, under thesense that Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, butdid not dare, to speak of their marriage, of where they would go afterit, and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest, ofwhat had happened. He longed to assure himself of a tacit assent fromher. But each time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread ofthe new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes. And they were moreand more silent.
"Here we are in sight of Mudport," he said at last. "Now, dearest," headded, turning toward her with a look that was half beseeching, "theworst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we can commandswiftness. In another hour and a half we shall be in a chaisetogether, and that will seem rest to you after this."
Maggie felt it was time to speak; it would only be unkind now toassent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he had done, butwith 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 ofthem dared to say another word till the boat was let down, and theywere taken to the landing-place. Here there was a cluster of gazersand passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St. Ogg's.Maggie had a dim sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurryingher along on his arm, that some one had advanced toward her from thatcluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But she was hurriedalong, and was indifferent to everything but the coming trial.
A porter guided them to the nearest inn and posting-house, and Stephengave the order for the chaise as they passed through the yard. Maggietook no notice of this, and only said, "Ask them to show us into aroom where we can sit down."
When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose facehad a desperate determination in it, was about to ring the bell, whenshe said, in a firm voice,--
"I'm not going; we must part here."
"Maggie," he said, turning round toward her, and speaking in the tonesof a m
an who feels a process of torture beginning, "do you mean tokill 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 wecan ever remove the trace of. But I will go no farther. Don't try toprevail 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 maddeningperplexity.
"Maggie," he said at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a toneof imploring wretchedness, "have some pity--hear me--forgive me forwhat I did yesterday. I will obey you now; I will do nothing withoutyour full consent. But don't blight our lives forever by a rashperversity that can answer no good purpose to any one, that can onlycreate new evils. Sit down, dearest; wait--think what you are going todo. Don't treat me as if you couldn't trust me."
He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggie's will was fixedunswervingly 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 mustpart at once."
"We _can't_ part, Maggie," said Stephen, more impetuously. "I can'tbear it. What is the use of inflicting that misery on me? Theblow--whatever it may have been--has been struck now. Will it help anyone 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 toldyou at Basset I feel now; I would rather have died than fall into thistemptation. 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 hisback against the door, forgetting everything he had said a few momentsbefore; "I will not endure it. You'll make me desperate; I sha'n'tknow what I do."
Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effectedsuddenly. 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 whileresolution was fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watching her with thatlook of desperation which had come over him like a lurid light,approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her, andgrasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a frightened bird;but this direct opposition helped her. She felt her determinationgrowing stronger.
"Remember what you felt weeks ago," she began, with beseechingearnestness; "remember what we both felt,--that we owed ourselves toothers, and must conquer every inclination which could make us falseto that debt. We have failed to keep our resolutions; but the wrongremains the same."
"No, it does _not_ remain the same," said Stephen. "We have provedthat it was impossible to keep our resolutions. We have proved thatthe feeling which draws us toward each other is too strong to beovercome. That natural law surmounts every other; we can't help whatit clashes with."
"It is not so, Stephen; I'm quite sure that is wrong. I have tried tothink it again and again; but I see, if we judged in that way, therewould be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty; we should justifybreaking the most sacred ties that can ever be formed on earth. If thepast is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law butthe inclination of the moment."
"But there are ties that can't be kept by mere resolution," saidStephen, starting up and walking about again. "What is outwardfaithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow asconstancy without love?"
Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward aswell as an outward contest. At last she said, with a passionateassertion 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 besidesdoing what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They meanrenouncing whatever is opposed to the reliance others have inus,--whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our liveshas made dependent on us. If we--if I had been better, nobler, thoseclaims would have been so strongly present with me,--I should havefelt them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now inthe moments when my conscience is awake,--that the opposite feelingwould never have grown in me, as it has done; it would have beenquenched at once, I should have prayed for help so earnestly, I shouldhave rushed away as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse formyself, none. I should never have failed toward Lucy and Philip as Ihave done, if I had not been weak, selfish, and hard,--able to thinkof their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed alltemptation. Oh, what is Lucy feeling now? She believed in me--sheloved 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. "Ican think of nothing but you, Maggie. You demand of a man what isimpossible. I felt that once; but I can't go back to it now. And whereis the use of _your_ thinking of it, except to torture me? You can'tsave them from pain now; you can only tear yourself from me, and makemy life worthless to me. And even if we could go back, and both fulfilour engagements,--if that were possible now,--it would be hateful,horrible, to think of your ever being Philip's wife,--of your everbeing the wife of a man you didn't love. We have both been rescuedfrom a mistake."
A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't speak. Stephensaw this. He sat down again, taking her hand in his, and looking ather with passionate entreaty.
"Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who can have so greata claim on you as I have? My life is bound up in your love. There isnothing in the past that can annul our right to each other; it is thefirst time we have either of us loved with our whole heart and soul."
Maggie was still silent for a little while, looking down. Stephen wasin a flutter of new hope; he was going to triumph. But she raised hereyes and met his with a glance that was filled with the anguish ofregret, not with yielding.
"No, not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen," she said with timidresolution. "I have never consented to it with my whole mind. Thereare 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 inpeace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. Ihave caused sorrow already--I know--I feel it; but I have neverdeliberately 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 youwere 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 thetime before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmeraffections, and live without the joy of love."
Stephen loosed her hand, and rising impatiently, walked up and downthe room in suppressed rage.
"Good God!" he burst out at last, "what a miserable thing a woman'slove is to a man's! I could commit crimes for you,--and you canbalance and choose in that way. But you _don't_ love me; if you had atithe of the feeling for me that I have for you, it would beimpossible to you to think for a moment of sacrificing me. But itweighs nothing with you that you are robbing me of _my_ life'shappiness."
Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as she heldthem clasped on her lap. A great terror was upon her, as if she wereever 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, assoon 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'tchoose happiness either for ourselves or for another; we can't tellwhere that will lie. We can only choose whether we will indulgeourselves in the present moment, or whether we will renounce that, forthe sake of obeying the divine voice within us,--for the sake of beingtrue to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know this belief ishard; it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have feltthat if I let it go
forever, I should have no light through thedarkness of this life."
"But, Maggie," said Stephen, seating himself by her again, "is itpossible you don't see that what happened yesterday has altered thewhole position of things? What infatuation is it, what obstinateprepossession, that blinds you to that? It is too late to say what wemight have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting the veryworst view of what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now; ourposition is altered; the right course is no longer what it was before.We must accept our own actions and start afresh from them. Suppose wehad been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effect onothers would not have been different. It would only have made thisdifference to ourselves," Stephen added bitterly, "that you might haveacknowledged 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 neveryet believed that he should _not_ prevail; there are possibilitieswhich our minds shrink from too completely for us to fear them.
"Dearest," he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning towardher, and putting his arm round her, "you _are_ mine now,--the worldbelieves it; duty must spring out of that now.
"In a few hours you will be legally mine, and those who had claims onus will submit,--they will see that there was a force which declaredagainst their claims."
Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face that wasclose 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 knowwhat is wise; but my heart will not let me do it. I see,--I feel theirtrouble now; it is as if it were branded on my mind. _I_ havesuffered, and had no one to pity me; and now I have made otherssuffer. 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 toeach other; I know how he thought of me as the one promise of hislife. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard; and Ihave forsaken him. And Lucy--she has been deceived; she who trusted memore than any one. I cannot marry you; I cannot take a good for myselfthat has been wrung out of their misery. It is not the force thatought to rule us,--this that we feel for each other; it would rend meaway from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I can'tset out on a fresh life, and forget that; I must go back to it, andcling to it, else I shall feel as if there were nothing firm beneathmy 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 knowwhat will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is."
"Yes, I do. But they will believe me. I will confess everything. Lucywill believe me--she will forgive you, and--and--oh, _some_ good willcome by clinging to the right. Dear, dear Stephen, let me go!--don'tdrag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never consented; itdoes not consent now."
Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half-stunned bydespairing rage. He was silent a few moments, not looking at her;while her eyes were turned toward him yearningly, in alarm at thissudden 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 saidagain,--
"Leave me."
Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away from thatgloomy averted face, and walked out of the room; it was like anautomatic action that fulfils a forgotten intention. What came after?A sense of stairs descended as if in a dream, of flagstones, of achaise and horses standing, then a street, and a turning into anotherstreet where a stage-coach was standing, taking in passengers, and thedarting thought that that coach would take her away, perhaps towardhome. But she could ask nothing yet; she only got into the coach.
Home--where her mother and brother were, Philip, Lucy, the scene ofher very cares and trials--was the haven toward which her mind tended;the sanctuary where sacred relics lay, where she would be rescued frommore falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbingpain, which yet, as such pains do, seemed to urge all other thoughtsinto activity. But among her thoughts, what others would say and thinkof her conduct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorsefulanguish left no room for that.
The coach was taking her to York, farther away from home; but she didnot learn that until she was set down in the old city at midnight. Itwas no matter; she could sleep there, and start home the next day. Shehad her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it,--a bank-noteand 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 withher will bent unwaveringly on the path of penitent sacrifice? Thegreat struggles of life are not so easy as that; the great problems oflife are not so clear. In the darkness of that night she saw Stephen'sface turned toward her in passionate, reproachful misery; she livedthrough again all the tremulous delights of his presence with her thatmade existence an easy floating in a stream of joy, instead of a quietresolved endurance and effort. The love she had renounced came backupon her with a cruel charm; she felt herself opening her arms toreceive it once more; and then it seemed to slip away and fade andvanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice thatsaid, "Gone, forever gone."
Book VII
_The Final Rescue_