Book 5 - Chapter 1

In the Red Deeps

The family sitting-room was a long room with a window at each end; one
looking toward the croft and along the Ripple to the banks of the
Floss, the other into the mill-yard. Maggie was sitting with her work
against the latter window when she saw Mr. Wakem entering the yard, as
usual, on his fine black horse; but not alone, as usual. Some one was
with him,--a figure in a cloak, on a handsome pony. Maggie had hardly
time to feel that it was Philip come back, before they were in front
of the window, and he was raising his hat to her; while his father,
catching the movement by a side-glance, looked sharply round at them
both.

Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her work upstairs; for
Mr. Wakem sometimes came in and inspected the books, and Maggie felt
that the meeting with Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in the
presence of the two fathers. Some day, perhaps, she could see him when
they could just shake hands, and she could tell him that she
remembered his goodness to Tom, and the things he had said to her in
the old days, though they could never be friends any more. It was not
at all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again; she retained her
childish gratitude and pity toward him, and remembered his cleverness;
and in the early weeks of her loneliness she had continually recalled
the image of him among the people who had been kind to her in life,
often wishing she had him for a brother and a teacher, as they had
fancied it might have been, in their talk together. But that sort of
wishing had been banished along with other dreams that savored of
seeking her own will; and she thought, besides, that Philip might be
altered by his life abroad,--he might have become worldly, and really
not care about her saying anything to him now. And yet his face was
wonderfully little altered,--it was only a larger, more manly copy of
the pale, small-featured boy's face, with the gray eyes, and the
boyish waving brown hair; there was the old deformity to awaken the
old pity; and after all her meditations, Maggie felt that she really
_should_ like to say a few words to him. He might still be melancholy,
as he always used to be, and like her to look at him kindly. She
wondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes; with that
thought Maggie glanced toward the square looking-glass which was
condemned to hang with its face toward the wall, and she half started
from her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and snatched
up her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by forcing her memory
to recall snatches of hymns, until she saw Philip and his father
returning along the road, and she could go down again.

It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to