“I do think of her—bless her. If I didn’t——” Stephen had laid his hand on Maggie’s that rested on his arm, and they both felt it difficult to speak.
“And I have other ties,” Maggie went on, at last, with a desperate effort, “even if Lucy did not exist.”
“You are engaged to Philip Wakem?” said Stephen, hastily. “Is it so?”
“I consider myself engaged to him; I don’t mean to marry any one else.”
Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the sun into a side lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he burst out impetuously,—
“It is unnatural, it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I love you, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake of belonging to each other. We should break all these mistaken ties that were made in blindness, and determine to marry each other.”
“I would rather die than fall into that temptation,” said Maggie, with deep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spiritual force of painful years coming to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from his as she spoke.
“Tell me, then, that you don’t care for me,” he said, almost violently. “Tell me that you love some one else better.”
It darted through Maggie’s mind that here was a mode of releasing herself from outward struggle,—to tell Stephen that her whole heart was Philip’s. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.
“If you do love me, dearest,” said Stephen, gently, taking her hand again and laying it within his arm, “it is better—it is right that we should marry each other. We can’t help the pain it will give. It is come upon us without our seeking; it is natural; it has taken hold of me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I’ve been trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I’ve only made things worse; I’d better have given way at first.”