“Maggie,” he said, in a tone of remonstrance, “don’t persist in this wilful, senseless privation. It makes me wretched to see you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way. You were so full of life when you were a child; I thought you would be a brilliant woman,—all wit and bright imagination. And it flashes out in your face still, until you draw that veil of dull quiescence over it.”
“Why do you speak so bitterly to me, Philip?” said Maggie.
“Because I foresee it will not end well; you can never carry on this self-torture.”
“I shall have strength given me,” said Maggie, tremulously.
“No, you will not, Maggie; no one has strength given to do what is unnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek safety in negations. No character becomes strong in that way. You will be thrown into the world some day, and then every rational satisfaction of your nature that you deny now will assault you like a savage appetite.”
Maggie started and paused, looking at Philip with alarm in her face.
“Philip, how dare you shake me in this way? You are a tempter.”
“No, I am not; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight often gives foreboding. Listen to me,—let me supply you with books; do let me see you sometimes,—be your brother and teacher, as you said at Lorton. It is less wrong that you should see me than that you should be committing this long suicide.”
Maggie felt unable to speak. She shook her head and walked on in silence, till they came to the end of the Scotch firs, and she put out her hand in sign of parting.
“Do you banish me from this place forever, then, Maggie? Surely I may come and walk in it sometimes? If I meet you by chance, there is no concealment in that?”