Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, `Now, let us go.'

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering in anticipation of what Philip was about to suffer, and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she felt it was in vain to attempt anything but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her conscience and her deepest dread: she writhed under the demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, and yet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from its incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignation diverted towards Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was concerned in the bitter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of a son and a brother: Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own motives, any more than into other matters of an intangible kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as actions were good, else he would have had nothing to do with them.

Maggie's only hope was that something might for the first time have prevented Philip from coming. Then there would be delay - then she might get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with double violence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, she thought, Philip always met her soon after she got beyond them. But they passed across the more open green space and entered the narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turning, and they came so close upon him, that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a moment's silence in which Philip darted a look of inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Her imagination always rushing extravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw her tall strong brother grasping the feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.

`Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, sir?' Tom said in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's eyes were turned on him again.

`What do you mean?' answered Philip, haughtily.

`Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and I'll tell you what I mean. I mean - taking advantage of a young girl's foolishness and ignorance to get her to have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that has a good and honest name to support.'

`I deny that!' interrupted Philip, impetuously. `I could never trifle with anything that affected your sister's happiness. She is dearer to me than she is to you - I honour her more than you can ever honour her - I would give up my life to her.'

`Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean to pretend that you didn't know it would be injurious to her to meet you here week after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professions of love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for, when neither her father nor your father would ever consent to a marriage between you? And you - you to try and worm yourself into the affections of a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has been shut out from the world by her father's misfortunes! That's your crooked notion of honour, is it? I call it base treachery - I call it taking advantage of circumstances to win what's too good for you - what you'd never get by fair means.'

`It is manly of you to talk in this way to me,' said Philip bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions. `Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You are incapable even of understanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friendship with you.'

`I should be very sorry to understand your feelings,' said Tom, with scorching contempt. `What I wish is that you should understand me - that I shall take care of my sister, and that if you dare to make the least attempt to come near her, or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, that ought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. I'll thrash you - I'll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn't laugh at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl?'