“I know; I see all that you mean,” he said, in a voice that had become feebler from discouragement; “I know what there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is not right, Maggie,—don’t you be angry with me, I am so used to call you Maggie in my thoughts,—it is not right to sacrifice everything to other people’s unreasonable feelings. I would give up a great deal for my father; but I would not give up a friendship or—or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to any wish of his that I didn’t recognise as right.”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie, musingly. “Often, when I have been angry and discontented, it has seemed to me that I was not bound to give up anything; and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that I could think away all my duty. But no good has ever come of that; it was an evil state of mind. I’m quite sure that whatever I might do, I should wish in the end that I had gone without anything for myself, rather than have made my father’s life harder to him.”
“But would it make his life harder if we were to see each other sometimes?” said Philip. He was going to say something else, but checked himself.
“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t like it. Don’t ask me why, or anything about it,” said Maggie, in a distressed tone. “My father feels so strongly about some things. He is not at all happy.”
“No more am I,” said Philip, impetuously; “I am not happy.”
“Why?” said Maggie, gently. “At least—I ought not to ask—but I’m very, very sorry.”
Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand still any longer, and they went out of the hollow, winding amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last word of Philip’s, Maggie could not bear to insist immediately on their parting.
“I’ve been a great deal happier,” she said at last, timidly, “since I have given up thinking about what is easy and pleasant, and being discontented because I couldn’t have my own will. Our life is determined for us; and it makes the mind very free when we give up wishing, and only think of bearing what is laid upon us, and doing what is given us to do.”
“But I can’t give up wishing,” said Philip, impatiently. “It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings are deadened? I delight in fine pictures; I long to be able to paint such. I strive and strive, and can’t produce what I want. That is pain to me, and always will be pain, until my faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there are many other things I long for,”—here Philip hesitated a little, and then said,—“things that other men have, and that will always be denied me. My life will have nothing great or beautiful in it; I would rather not have lived.”
“Oh, Philip,” said Maggie, “I wish you didn’t feel so.” But her heart began to beat with something of Philip’s discontent.