In the Red Deeps THE family sittingroom was long room with a window at each end - one looking towards 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 clock, 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 up-stairs; 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 should 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 towards 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 savoured 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 grey 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 towards the square looking-glass which was condemned to hang with its face towards 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 lengthen the daily walk which was her one indulgence; but this day and the following she was so busy with work which must be finished, that she never went beyond the gate, and satisfied her need of the open air by sitting out of doors.One of her frequent walks, when she was not obliged to go to St Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what was called the `hill' - an insignificant rise of ground crowned by trees, lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of Dorlcote Mill.Insignificant, I call it, because in height it was hardly more than a bank; - but there may come moments when Nature makes a mere bank a means towards a fateful result, and that is why I ask you to imagine this high bank crowned with trees, making an uneven wall for some quarter of a mile along the left side of Dorlcote Mill and the pleasant fields behind it bounded by the murmuring Ripple.Just where this line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road turned off and led to the other side of the rise, where it was broken into very capricious hollows and mounds by the working of an exhausted stone-quarry - so long exhausted that both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles and trees, and here and there by a stretch of grass which a few sheep kept close-nibbled.In her childish days Maggie held this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, and needed all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her to an excursion thither, visions of robbers and fierce animals haunting every hollow.But now it had the charm for her which any broken ground, any mimic rock and ravine have for the eyes that rest habitually on the level, especially in summer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow of a branching ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her, and listen to the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the garment of Silence, or see the sunlight piercing the distant boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenly blue of the wild hyacinths.In this June time too, the dogroses were in their glory, and that was an additional reason why Maggie should direct her walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, on the first day she was free to wander at her will - a pleasure she loved so well that sometimes, in her ardours of renunciation, she thought she ought to deny herself the frequent indulgence in it.
You may see her now, as she walks down the favourite turning and enters the Deeps by a narrow path through a group of Scotch firs - her tall figure and old lavender gown visible through an hereditary black silk shawl of some wide-meshed net-like material; and now she is sure of being unseen, she takes off her bonnet and ties it over her arm.One would certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seventeenth year - perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of the glance, from which all search and unrest seem to have departed, perhaps because her broad-chested figure has the mould of early womanhood.Youth and health have withstood well the involuntary and voluntary hardships of her lot, and the nights in which she has lain on the hard floor for a penance have left no obvious trace:
