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THE 


MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


BT 


GEOEGE    ELIOT. 


'  In  their  death  they  were  not  divided." 


NEW  EDITION^OOMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUJm 


CHICAGO : 
0.  A.  MAXWELL  &  CO, 


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Of  3^1 


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•     CONTENTS. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


BOT  AND  GIRL. 
CBAFTEB.  PAGB. 

I.  Outside  Dorlcote  MiU 6 

II.  Mr.  Tullivef,  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  Declares  his  Resolution 

about  Tom      ---,.-  -7 

ni.  Mr.  Riley  gives  his  Advice  Concerning  a  School  for  Tom       13 

IV.  Tom  is  Expected 25 

V.  Tom  Comes  Home  80 

VI.  The  Aunts  and  Uncles  are  Coming 40 

VII.  Enter  the  Aunts  and  Uncles  -  •       -       -       51 

Vni.  Mr.  Tulliver  shows  his  Weaker  Side    -  ...    73 

IX.  ToGanimFirs 82 

X.  Maggie  Behaves  Worse  than  she  Expected         •       -       -    95 
XI.  Maggie  Tries  to  Run  Away  from  her  Shadow         -       -     101 

Xn.  Mr.  andMrs.  GleggatHome 112 

XTTT.  Mr.  Tulliver  Further  Entangles  the  Skein  of  Life         •     124 


BOOK  SECOND. 

SCHOOIrTIME. 

I.  Tom's  "Fu«t  Half" 128 

n.  The  Christmas  Holidays 147 

m.  The  New  Schoolfellow 154 

IV.  "TheYoungildea" 160 

V.  Maggie's  Second  Visit  ....  170 

VI.  A  Love  Scene        ---....  175 

VII.  The  Golden  Gates  are  Passed 179 


BOOK  THIRD. 

THE  DOWNFALL. 

L  What  Happened  at  Home 186 

n.  Mrs.  Tulhver's  Teraphim,  or  Household  Gods     •       •  192 

in.  The  Family  Council 197 

rV.  A  Vanishing  Gleam 211 

V.  Tom  Applies  his  Knife  to  the  Oyster        ...       -  215 
VI.  Tending  to  refute  the  Popular  Prejudice  Against  the 

Present  of  a  Pocket-knife 226 

Vn.  How  a  Hen  Takes  to  Stratagem 288 

Vin.  Daylight  on  the  Wreck 244 

UL  An  Item  Added  to  the  Family  Register   •       •       •       •  909 

8 


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4  OONTBKTS. 

BOOK  FOURTH. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILL/^TIOH. 
CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  A  Variation  of  Protestantism  Unknown  to  Bossuet         -    258 

II.  The  Torn  Nest  is  Pierced  by  the  Thorns      -       -        -       263 

UI.  A  Voice  from  the  Past       ...       -       -  -    2«8 

BOOK  FIFTH. 

WHEAT  AND  TARES. 

I.  In  the  Red  Deeps      -  282 

II.  Aunt  Glegg  Learns  the  Breadth  of  Bob's  Thumb-       -  293 

III.  The  Wavenng  Balance 310 

IV.  Another  Love  Scene 316 

V.  The  Cloven  Tree -  322 

VI.  The  Hard-won  Triumph 333 

VII.  A  day  of  Reckoning -    837 

BOOK  SIXTH. 

THE  GKEAT  TEMPTATION. 

I.  A  Duet  in  Paradise 344 

II.  First  Impressions 852 

III.  Confidential  Moments 365 

IV.  Brother  and  Sister 369 

V.  Showing  that  Tom  had  Opened  the  Oyster      -       -       -  376 

VI.  lUustranng  the  Laws  of  Attraction       -       -       -       -  380 

VII.  Philip  Re-enters 890 

VIII.  Wakem  in  a  New  Light         .-----  403 

IX.  Charity  in  Full  Dress 409 

X.  The  Spell  Seems  Broken 419 

XL  In  the  Lane 425 

XII.  A  Family  Party •       -  431 

XIII.  Borne  Along  by  the  Tide 437 

XIV.  Waking 450 

BOOK  SEVENTH. 

THE  FINAL  RESCUE. 

L  The  Return  to  the  Mill 460 

n.  St.  Ogg's  Passes  Judgment 467 

in.  Showing  that  Old  Acquamtances  are  Capable  of  Surpris- 
ing us      -       *  4q? 

rV.  Maggie  and  Lucy                   481 

V.  The  Last  Conflict 487 

CosolT»ioii      -.♦•••••-<«r7 


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THE  BILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 


BOOK  I. 
BOY  AND   GIRL. 


CHAPTER  L 

OUTSIDE  DORLCOTE  KILL. 

A  WIDE  plain,  where  the  broadening  Floss  hurries  on 
between  its  green  banks  to  the  sea,,  and  the  loving  tide, 
rushing  to  meet  it,  checks  its  passage  with  an  impetuous 
embrace.  On  this  mighty  tide  the  black  ships — ^laden  with 
the  fresh-scented  fir-plauKS,  with  roundied  sacks  of  oil-bear- 
ing seed,  or  with  the  dark  glitter  of  coal — ^are  borne  alonff 
to  the  town  of  St.  Ogg's,  which  shows  its  aged,  fluted  red 
roofs  and  the  broad  gables  of  its  wharves  between  the  low 
wooded  hill  and  the  river-brink,  tinging  the  water  with  a 
soft  purple  hue  under  the  transient  glance  of  this  February 
sun.  Far  away  on  each  hand  stretch  the  rich  pastures, 
and  the  patches  of  dark  earth,  made  ready  for  the  seed  of 
broad- leaved  green  crops,  or  touched  already  with  the  tint 
of  the  tender-bladed  autumn-sown  com.  There  is  a  rem- 
nant still  of  the  last  yearns  golden  clusters  of  bee-hive  ricks 
rising  at  intervals  beyond  the  hedgerows;  and  everywhere 
the  hedgerows  are  studded  with  trees:  the  distant  ships 
seem  to  be  lifting  their  masts  and  stretching  their  red- 
brown  sails  close  among  the  branches  of  the  sj)reading  asli. 
Just  by  the  red-roofed  town  the  tributary  Ripple  flows 
with  a  lively  current  into  the  Floss.  How  lovely  the  little 
river  is,  with  its  dark  changing  wavelets!  It  seems  to  me 
like  a  living  companion  while  I  wander  along  the  bank  and 
listen  to  its  low,  placid  voice,  as  to  the  voice  of  one  who  is 
deaf  and  loving.  I  remember  those  large  dipping  willows. 
I  itemember  the  stone  bridge. 


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6  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

And  this  is  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  must  stand  a  minute  or 
two  here  on  the  bridge  and  look  at  it,  though  the  clouds 
are  threatening,  and  it  is  far  on  in  the  afternoon.  Even 
in  this  leafless  time  of  departing  February  it  is  pleasant  to 
look  at — perhaps  the  chill  damp  season  adds  a  charm  to 
the  trimly-kept,  comfortable  dwelling-house,  as  old  as  the 
elms  and  chestnuts  that  shelter  it  from  the  northern  blast. 
The  stream  is  brimful  now,  and  lies  high  in  this  little 
withy  plantation,  and  half  drowns  the  grassy  fringe  of  the 
croft  in  front  of  the  house.  As  I  look  at  the  full  stream, 
the  vivid  grass,  the  delicate  bright-green  powder  softening 
the  outline  of  the  great  trunks  and  branches  that  gleam 
from  under  the  bare  purple  boughs,  I  am  in  love  with 
moistness,  and  envy  the  white  ducks  that  are  dipping  their 
.  heads  far  into  the  water  here  among  the  withes,  unmind- 
ful of  the  awkward  appearance  they  make  in  the  drier 
world  above. 

The  rush  of  the  water  and  the  booming  of  the  mill  bring 
a  dreamy  deafness,  which  seems  to  hei^ten  the  peaceful- 
ness  of  the  scene.  They  are  like  a  great  curtain  of  sound, 
shutting  one  out  from  the  world  beyond.  And  now  there  is 
the  thunder  of  the  huge  covered  wagon  coming  home  with 
sacks  of  grain.  That  honest  wagoner  is  thinking  of  hip 
dinner,  getting  sadlj  dry  in  the  oven  at  this  late  hour;  but 
he  will  not  touch  it  till  he  has  fed  his  horses — the  strong, 
submissive,  meek-eyed  beasts,  who,  I  fancy,  are  looking 
mild  reproach  at  him  from  between  their  blinkers,  that  he 
should  crack  his  whip  at  them  in  that  awful  manner,  as 
if  they  needed  that  hint!  See  how  they  stretch  their 
shoulders  up  the  slope  toward  the  bridge,  with  all  the 
more  energy  because  they  are  so  near  home.  Look  at  their 
grand  shaggy  feet,  that  seem  to  grasp  the  firm  earth,  at 
the  patient  strength  of  their  necks,  bowed  under  the  heavy 
collar,  at  the  mighty  muscles  of  their  struggling  haunches! 
I  should  like  well  to  hear  them  nei^h  over  their  hardly- 
earned  feed  of  corn,  and  see  them,  with  their  moist  necks 
freed  from  the  harness,  dipping  their  eager  nostrils  into  the 
muddy  pond.  Now  they  are  on  the  bridge,  and  down  they 
go  again  at  a  swifter  pace,  and  the  arch  of  the  covered 
wagon  disappears  at  the  turning  behind  the  trees. 

Now  I  can  turn  my  eyes  toward  the  mill  again,  and 
watch  the  unresting  wheel  sending  out  its  diamond  jets 
of  water.  That  little  girl  is  watching  it  too:  she  has  been 
standing  on  just  the  same  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  water 
ever  since  I  paused  on  the  bridge.     And  that  queer  white 

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BOY  AND  OIBL.  7 

cur  with  the  brown  ear  seems  to  be  leaping  and  barking  in 
ineffectual  remonstrance  with  the  wheel;  perhaps  he  is 
Jealous,  because  his  playfellow  in  the  beaver  bonnet  is  so 
rapt  in  its  movement.  It  is  time  the  \ittle  playfellow  went 
in,  I  think;  and  there  is  a  very  bright  fire  to  tempt  her: 
the  red  light  shines  out  under  the  deepening  gray  of  the 
sky.     It  is  time,  too,  for  me  to  leave  off  resting  my  arms 

on  the  cold  stone  of  this  bridge 

Ah,  my  arms  are  really  benumbed.  I  have  been  press- 
ing my  elbows  on  the  arms  of  my  chair,  and  dreaming 
that  I  was  standing  on  the  bridge  in  front  of  Dorlcote 
Mill,  as  it  looked  one  February  afternoon  many  years  ago. 
Before  I  dozed  off  I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  TuUiver  were  talking  about,  as  they  sat  by  the  bright 
fire  in  the  left-hand  parlor,  on  that  very  afternoon  I  have 
been  dreaming  of. 


CHAPTER  XL 


MR.  TULLIVER,  OF   DORLCOTE  MILL,  DECLARES  HIS 
RESOLUTION^  ABOUT  TOM. 

'^What  I  want,  you  know," said  Mr.  Tulliver — "what 
I  want  is  to  give  Tom  a  good  eddication;  an  eddication 
as^ll  be  a  bread  to  him.  That  was  what  I  was  thinking 
of  when  I  gave  notice  for  him  to  leave  the  academy  at 
Ladyday.  I  mean  to  put  him  to  a  downright  good  school 
at  Midsummer.  The  two  years  at  th^  academy  ^ud  ha' 
done  well  enough,  if  I'd  meant  to  make  a  miller  and 
farmer  of  him,  for  he's  had  a  fine  sight  more  schoolin' 
nor  /  ever  got:  all  the  learnin'  my  father  ever  paid  for 
was  a  bit  o' birch  at  one  end  and  the  alphabet  at  th'  other. 
But  I  should  like  Tom  to  be  a  bit  of  a  scholard,  so  as 
he  might  be  up  to  the  tricks  o'  these  fellows  as  talk  fine 
and  write  with  a  flourish.  It  'ud  be  a  help  to  me  wi' 
these  lawsuits,  and  arbitrations,  and  things.  I  wouldn't 
make  a  downright  lawyer  o'  the  lad  —  I  should  be  sorry 
for  him  to  be  a  raskill  —  but  a  sort  o'  engineer,  or  a  sur- 
veyor, or  an  auctioneer  and  vallyer,  like  Riley,  or  one  of 
them  smartish  businesses  as  are  all  profits  and  no  outlay, 
onlv  for  a  big  watch-chain  and  a  high  stool.  Tliey're 
pretty  nigh  alfone,  and  they're  not  far  off  being  even  wi' 

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8  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

the  law,  /  believe;  for  Riley  looks  Lawyer  Wakem  i'  the 
face  as  hard  as  one  cat  looks  another.  He^s  none  fright- 
ened at  hira.^* 

Mr.  Tnlliver  was  speaking  to  his  wife,  a  blonde  comely 
woman  in  a  fan-shaped  cap  (I  am  afraid  to  think  how  long 
it  is  since  fan-shaped  caps  were  worn  —  they  must  be  so 
near  coming  in  again.  At  that  time,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver 
was  nearly  forty,  they  were  new  at  St.  Ogg^s,  and  considered 
sweet  things). 

*^  Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  know  best:  Fve  no  objections. 
But  hadn't  I  better  kill  a  couple  o'  fowl  and  have  th^ 
aunts  and  uncles  to  dinner  next  week,  so  as  you  may  hear 
what  sister  Glegg  and  sister  Pullet  have  got  to  say  about 
it?    There's  a  couple  o'  fowl  loants  killing! " 

^*You  may  kill  every  ^f owl  i^  the  yard,  if  you  like, 
Bessy;  but  I  shall  ask  neither  aunt  nor  uncle  what  I'm  to 
do  wi'  my  own  lad,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  defiantly. 

"Dear  heart! '^  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  shocked  at  this 
sanguinary  rhetoric,  *'  how  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver? 
But  it's  your  way  to  speak  disrespectful  o'  my  family;  and 
sister  Glegg  throws  all  the  blame  upo'  me,  though  I'm 
sure  I'  m  as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn.  For  nobody's 
ever  heard  me  say  as  it  wasn't  lucky  for  my  children  to 
have  aunts  and  uncles  as  can  live  independent.  Howiver, 
if  Tom's  to  go  to  a  new  school,  I  should  like  him  to  go 
where  I  can  wash  him  and  mend  him;  else  he  might  as 
well  have  calico  as  linen,  for  they'd  be  one  as  y allow 
as  th'  other  before  they'd  been  washed  half  a  dozen  times. 
And  then  when  the  box  is  goin'  backward  and  forrard,  I 
could  send  the  lad  a  cake,  or  a  pork  pie,  or  an  apple;  for 
he  can  do  with  an  extra  bit,  bless  him,  whether  they  stint 
him  at  the  meals  or  no.  My  children  can  eat  as  much 
victuals  as  most,  thank  God." 

**  Well,  well,  we  won't  send  him  out  o'  reach  o'  the  car- 
rier's cart,  if  other  things  fit  in,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  But 
you  mustn't  put  a  spoke  i'  the  wheel  about  the  washin',  if 
we  can't  get  a  school  near  enough.  That's  the  fault  I 
have  to  find  wi'  you,  Bessy;  if  you  see  a  stick  i'  the  road, 
jou're  allays  thinkin'  you  can't  step  over  it.  You'd  want  me 
not  to  hire  a  good  wagoner,  'cause  he'd  got  a  mole  on  his 
face." 

*^Dear  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  mild  surprise, 
"when  did  I  iver  make  objections  to  a  man  because  he'd 
got  a  mole  on  his  face?  I'm  sure  I'm  rether  fond  o'  moles; 
for  my  brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  mole  on  his 


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BOY   AND   GIRL.  9 

brow.  But  I  can't  remember  your  if  er  offering  to  hire  a 
wagoner  with  a  mole,  Mr.  Tulliver.  There  was  John 
Gibbs  hadn't  a  mole  on  his  face  no  more  nor  you  have,  an' 
I  was  all  for  having  you  hire  him;  an'  so  you  did  hire  him, 
an'  if  he  hadn't  died  o'  the  inflammation,  as  we  paid  Dr. 
TurnbuU  for  attending  him,  he'd  very  like  ha'  been  driv- 
ing the  wagon  now.  He  might  have  a  mole  somewhere 
out  o'  sight,  but  how  was  I  to  know  that,  Mr.  Tulliver?" 

'^No,  no,  Bessy;  I  didn't  mean  ;ju8tly  the  mole;  I  meant 
it  to  stand  for  summat  else;  but  niver  mind — it's  puzzling 
work,  talking  is.  What  I'm  thinking  on,  is  how  to  find 
the  right  sort  o'  school  to  send  Tom  to,  for  I  might  be 
ta'en  m  again,  as  I've  been  wi'  th'  academy.  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  wi'  a  'cademy  again:  whativer  school  I  send 
Tom  to,  it  shan't  be  a 'cademy;  it  shall  be  a  place  where 
the  lads  spend  their  time  i'  summat  else  besides  blacking 
the  family's  shoes,  and  getting  up  the  potatoes.  It's  an 
uncommon  puzzling  thing  to  Know  what  school  to  pick." 

Mr.  Tulliver  paused  a  minute  or  two,  and  dived  with  both 
hands  into  his  breeches  pockets  as  if  he  hoped  to  find 
some  suggestion  there.  Apparently  he  was  not  disap- 
pointed, for  he  presently  said,  **  I  know  what  I'll  do — I'll 
talk  it  over  wi'  Kiley:  he's  coming  to-morrow,  t'  arbitrate 
about  the  dam." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  I've  put  the  sheets  out  for  the  best 
bed,  and  Kezia's  got  'em  hanging  at  the  fire.  They  aren't 
the  best  sheets,  but  they're  good  enough  for  anybody  to 
sleep  in,  be  he  who  he  will;  for  as  for  them  best  Holland 
sheets,  I  should  repent  buying  'em,  only  they'll  do  to  lay 
us  out  in.  An'  if  you  was  to  die  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tulliver, 
they're  mangled  beautiful,  an'  all  ready  an'  smell  o'  laven- 
der as  it  'ud  be  a  pleasure  to  lay  'em  out;  an'  they  lie  at 
the  left-hand  corner  o'  the  big  oak  linen  chest  at  the  back: 
not  as  I  should  trust  anybody  to  look  'em  out  but  myself." 

As  Mrs.  Tulliver  uttered  the  last  sentence,  she  drew  a 
bright  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and  singled  out 
one,  rubbing  her  thumb  and  finger  up  and  down  it  with  a 
placid  smile  while  she  looked  at  the  clear  fire.  If 
Mr.  Tulliver  had  been  a  susceptible  man  in  his  conjugal 
relation,  he  might  have  supposed  that  she  drew  out  the 
key  to  aid  her  imagination  in  anticipating  the  moment 
when  he  would  be  in  a  state  to  justify  the  production  of 
the  best  Holland  sheets.  Happily  he  was  not  so;  he  was 
only  susceptible  in  respect  of  his  right  to  water-power; 
moreover,  he  had  the  marital  habit  of  not  listening  very 


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10  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

closely,  and  since  liis  mention  of  Mr.  Riley,  had  been 
apparently  occupied  in  a  tactile  examination  of  his  woolen 
stockings. 

"I  think  Tve  hit  it,  Bessy,"  was  his  first  remark  after  a 
short  silence.  "  Riley's  as  likely  a  man  as  any  to  know  o' 
some  school;  he's  had  schooling  himself,  an^  goes  about  to 
all  sorts  o^  places — arbitratin'  and  vallyin'  and  that.  And 
we  shall  have  time  to  talk  it  over  to-morrow  night  when  the 
business  is  done.  I  want  Tom  to  be  a  sort  o'  man  as  Rilev, 
you  know — ^as  can  talk  pretty  nigh  as  well  as  if  it  was  all 
wrote  out  for  him,  and  knows  a  good  lot  o'  words  as  don't 
mean  much,  so  as  you  can't  lay  hold  of  'em  i'  law;  and  a 
good  solid  knowledge  o'  business  too.'' 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  so  far  as  talking  proper,  and 
knowing  everything,  and  walking  with  a  bend  in  his  back, 
and  setting  his  hair  up,  I  shouldn't  mind  the  lad  being 
brought  up  to  that.  But  them  fine-talking  men  from  the- 
big  towns  mostly  wear  the  false-shirt  fronts;  they  wear  a 
frill  till  it's  all  a  mess,  and  then  hide  it  with  a  bifi;  I  know 
Riley  does.  And  then,  if  Tom's  to  go  and  live  at  Mud- 
port,  like  Riley,  he'll  have  a  house  with  a  kitchen  hardly 
big  enough  to  turn  in,  an'  niver  get  a  fresh  egg  for  his 
breakfast,  an'  sleep  up  three  pair  o'  stairs — or  four,  for 
what  I  know — and  be  burned  to  death  before  he  can  get 
down." 

**No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  ^^Pve  no  thoughts  of  his 
going  to  Mudport:  I  mean  him  to  set  up  his  office  at  St. 
Ogg's,  close  by  us,  an'  live  at  home.  But,"  continued  Mr. 
Tulliver  after  a  pause,  *'  what  I'm  a  bit  afraid  on  is,  as  Tom 
hasn't  got  the  right  sort  o'  brains  for  a  smart  fellow.  I 
doubt  he's  a  bit  slowish.  He  takes  after  your  family, 
Bessy." 

"Yes,  that  he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  accepting  the 
last  proposition  entirely  on  its  own  merits;  "  he's  wonder- 
ful for  liking  a  deal  o'  salt  in  his  broth.  That  was  my 
brother's  way,  and  my  father's  before  him." 

"It  seems  a  bit  of  a  pity,  though,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
"  as  the  lad  should  take  after  the  mother's  side  istead  o' 
the  little  wench.  That's  the  worst  on't  wi'  the  crossing  o' 
breeds:  you  can  never  justly  calkilate  what'U  come  on't. 
The  little  un  takes  after  my  side,  now:  she's  twice  as  'cute 
as  Tom.  Too  'cute  for  a  woman,  I'm  afraid,"  continued 
Mr.  Tulliver,  turning  his  head  dubiously  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other,  "It's  no  mischief  much  while 
she's  a  little  un,  but  an  over-'cute  woman's  no  better  nor 


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BOY  AKD  GIBL.  11 

a  long-tailed  sheep — she'll  fetch  none  the  bigger  price  for 
that/' 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  mischief  while  she's  a  little  un,  Mr.  Talli- 
ver,  for  it  all  runs  to  naughtiness.  How  to  keep  her  in  a 
clean  pinafore  two  hours  together  passes  my  cunning. 
An'  now  you  put  me  i'  mind,"  continued  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
rising  and  going  to  the  window,  **I  don't  know  where  she 
is  now,  an'  its  pretty  nirfi  tea  time.  Ah,  I  thought  so— 
wanderin'  an'  down  by  the  water,  like  a  wild  thing:  she'll 
tumble  in  some  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  rapped  the  window  sharply,  beckoned,  and 
shook  her  head,  —  a  process  which  she  repeated  more  than 
once  before  she  returned  to  her  chair. 

''You  talk  o'  'cuteness,  Mr.  Tulliver,"  she  observed  as 
she  sat  down,  *'but  I'm  sure  the  child's  half  an  idiot  i* 
some  things;  for  if  I  send  her  up-stairs  to  fetch  anything, 
she  forgets  what,  she's  gone  for,  an'  perhaps  'ull  sit  down 
on  the  floor  i'  the  sunshine  an'  plait  her  hair  an'  sing  to 
herself  like  a  Bedlam  creatur',  all  the  while  I'm  waiting 
for  her  down-stairs.  That  niver  run  i'  my  family,  thank 
God,  no  more  nor  a  brown  skin  as  makes  her  look  like  a 
mulatter.  I  don't  like  to  fly  i'  the  face  o'  Providence,  but 
it  seems  hard  as  I  should  have  but  one  gell,  an'  her  so 
comical." 

"  Pooh,  nonsense! "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  ''she's  a  straight 
black-eyed  wench  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see.  I  don't 
know  i'  what  she's  behind  other  folks's  children;  and  she 
can  read  almost  as  well  as  the  parson." 

"  But  her  hair  won't  curl  all  I  can  do  with  it,  and  she's 
so  franzy  about  having  it  put  i'  paper,  and  I've  such  work 
as  never  was  to  make  Tier  stand  and  have  it  pinched  with 
th'  irons." 

"  Cut  it  off — cut  it  off  short,"  said  the  father,  rashly. 

"How  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver?  She's  too  big  a 
gell,  gone  nine,  and  tall  of  her  age,  to  have  her  hair  cut 
short;  an'  there's  her  cousin  Lucy's  got  a  row  o'  curls  round 
her  head,  an'  not  a  hair  out  o'  place.  It  seems  hard  as  my 
sister  Deane  should  have  that  pretty  child;  I'm  sure  Lucy 
takes  more  after  me  nor  my  own  child  does.  Maggie, 
Maggie,"  continued  the  mother,  in  a  tone  of  half -coaxing 
fretfulness,  as  this  small  mistake  of  nature  entered  the 
room,  "  Where's  the  use  o'  my  telling  you  to  keep  away  from 
the  water?  You'll  tumble  in  and  be  drownea  some  day, 
an'' then  you'll  be  sorry  you  didn't  do  as  mother  told  you." 

Maggie'fe  hair,  as  she  threw  off  her  bonnet,  painfully 

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12  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

confirmed  her  mother's  accusation:  Mrs.  Tulliver,  desiring 
her  daughter  to  have  a  curled  crop,  ^*  like  other  folks's  chiP 
dren/^had  had  it  cut  too  short  in  front  to  be  pushed  behind 
the  ears;  and  as  it  was  usually  straight  an  hour  after  it  had 
been  taken  out  of  paper,  Maggie  was  incessantly  tossing 
her  head  to  keep  the  dark  heavy  locks  out  of  her  ffleaming 
black  eyes — an  action  which  gave  her  very  much  the  air  of 
a  small  Shetland  pony. 

*^  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  Maggie,  what  are  you  thinkin'  of,  to 
throw  your  bonnet  down  there?  Take  it  up-stairs,  there's 
a  good  gell,  an'  let  your  hair  be  brushed,  an*  put  your 
other  pinafore  on,  an'  change  your  shoes  —  do,  for  shame; 
an'  come  an'  go  on  with  your  patchwork,  like  a  little  lady." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  vehemently  cross  tone, 
^*  I  don't  want  to  do  my  patchwork." 

^^  What!  not  your  pretty  patchwork,  to  make  a  counter- 
pane for  your  aunt  Grlegg?'^ 

**It's  foolish  work,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  toss  of  her 
mane — "tearing  things  to  pieces  to  sew  'em  together 
again.  And  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  for  my  aunt 
Glegg — I  don't  like  her." 

Exit  Maggie,  dragging  her  bonnet  by  the  string,  while 
.  Mr.  Tulliver  laughs  audibly. 

"I  wonder  at  you,  as  you'll  laugh  at  her,  Mr.  Tulliver," 
said  the  mother,  with  feeble  fretfuiuess  in  her  tone. 
"You  encourage  her  i'  naughtiness.  An'  her  aunts  will 
have  it  as  it's  me  spoils  her." 

Mrs. Tulliver  was  what  is  called  a  good-tempered  person — 
never  cried,  when  she  was  a  baby,  on  any  slighter  ground 
than  hunger  and  pins;  and  from  the  cradle  upward  had 
been  healthy,  fair,  plump,  and  d.ill-witted;  in  short,  the 
flower  of  her  family  for  beauty  and  amiability.  But  milk 
and  mildness  are  not  the  best  things  for  keeping,  and 
when  they  turn  only  a  little  sour,  they  may  disagree  with 
young  stomachs  seriously.  I  have  often  wondered  whether 
those  early  Madonnas  of  Raphael,  with  the  blonde  facef 
and  somewhat  stupid  expression,  kept  their  placidit*; 
undisturbed  when  their  strong-limbed,  strong-willed  boys 
got  a  little  too  old  to  do  without  clothing.  I  think  they 
must  have  been  given  to  feeble  remonstrance,  getting  n,ore 
and  more  peevish  as  it  became  more  and  more  ineffecCual. 


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BOT   AKD   GIBL.  13 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.    RILEY  GIVES  HIS  ADVICE  CONCERNING  A 
SCHOOL   FOR  TOM. 

The  gentleman  in  the  ample  white  cravat  and  shirt-frill, 
taking  his  brandy-and-water  so  pleasantly  with  his  good 
friend  Tulliver,  is  Mr.  Riley,  a  gentleman  with  a  waxen 
complexion  and  fat  hands,  rather  highly  educated  for  an 
auctioneer  and  appraiser,  but  large-hearted  enough  to  show 
a  great  deal  of  honhommie  toward  siniple  country  acquaint- 
ances of  hospitable  habits.  Mr.  Riley  spoke  of  such 
acquaintances  kindly  as  ^'people  of  the  old  school.^* 

The  conversation  had  come  to  a  pause.  Mr.  Tulliver, 
not  without  a  particular  reason,  had  abstained  from  a 
seventh  recital  of  the  cool  retort  by  which  Riley  had 
shown  himself  too  many  for  Dix,  and  how  Wakem  had 
had  bis  comb  cut  for  oftce  in  his  life,  now  the  business  of 
the  dam  had  been  settled  by  arbitration,  and  how  there 
never  would  have  been  any  dispute  at  all  about  the  height  of 
water  if  everybody  was  what  they  should  be,  and  Old  Harry 
hadn^t  made  the  lawyers.  Mr.  Tulliver  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  man  of  safe  traditional  opinions;  but  on  one  or  two 
points  he  had  trusted  to  his  unassisted  intellect,  and  had 
arrived  at  several  questionable  conclusions;  among  the 
rest,  that  rats,  weevils,  and  lawyers  were  created  by  Old 
Harry.  Unhappily  he  had  no  one  to  tell  him  that  this  was 
rampant  Manichaeism,  else  he  might  have  seen  his  error. 
But  to-day  it  was  clear  that  the  good  principle  was  trium- 
phant: this  affair  of  the  water-power  had  been  a  tangled 
business  somehow,  for  all  it  seemed — look  at  it  one  way — 
as  plain  as  water's  water;  but,  big  a  puzzle  as  it  was,  it 
hadn't  got  the  better  of  Riley.  Mr.  Tulliver  took  his 
brandy-and-water  a  little  stronger  than  usual,  and,  for  a 
man  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  a  few  hundreds  lying 
idle  at  his  banker's,  was  rather  incautiouslv  open  in 
expressing  his  high  estimate  of  his  f riend  s  business 
talents. 

But  the  dam  was  a  subject  of  conversation  that  would 
keep;  it  could  always  be  taken  up  again  at  the  same  point, 
and  exactly  in  the  same  condition;  and  there  was  another 
subject,  as  you  know,  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  pressing 
want  of  Mr.  Riley's  advice.  This  was  his  particular  reason 
for  remaining  silent  for  a  short  space  after  his  last  draught. 


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14  THE  MILL  OK  THE   FLOSS. 

and  rubbing  his  knees  in  a  meditative  manner.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  make  an  abrupt  transition.  This  was  a  puz- 
zling world,  as  he  often  said,  and  if  you  drive  your  wagon 
in  a  hurry,  you  may  light  on  an  awkward  conier.  Mr. 
Eiley,  meanwhile,  was  not  impatient.  Why  should  he  be? 
Even  Hotspur,  one  would  think,  must  have  been  patient 
in  his  slippers  on  a  warm  hearth,  taking  copious  snuff,  and 
sipping  gratuitous  brandy-and-water. 

"There^s  a  thing  I've  got  i'  my  head,^'said  Mr.  Tulliver 
at  last,  in  ratlier  a  lower  tone  than  usual,  as  he  turned  his 
head  and  looked  steadfastly  at  his  companion. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Kiley,  m  a  tone  of  mild  interest.  He 
was  a  man  with  heavy  waxen  eyelids  and  high-arched  eye- 
brows, looking  exactly  the  same  under  all  circumstances. 
This  immovability  of  face,  and  the  habit  of  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff  before  he  gave  an  answer,  made  him  trebly  oracu- 
lar to  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"It's  a  very  particular  thing,"  he  went  on;  "it's  about 
my  boy  Tom." 

At  the  sound  of  this  name,  Maggie,  who  was  seated  on 
a  low  stool  close  by  the  fire,  with  a  large  book  open  on  her 
lap,  shook  her  heavy  hair  back  and  looked  up  eagerly. 
There  were  few  sounds  that  roused  Maggie  when  she  was 
dreaming  over  her  book,  but  Tom's  name  served  as  well  as 
the  shriflest  whistle:  in  an  instant  she  was  on  the  watch, 
with  gleaming  eyes,  like  a  Skye  terrier  suspecting  mischief, 
or  at  all  events  determined  to  fly  at  any  one  who  threatened 
it  toward  Tom. 

"You  see,  I  want  to  put  him  to  a  new  school  at  Mid- 
summer," said  Mr.  Tulliver;  "  he's  comin' away  from  the 
'cademy  at  Ladyday,  an'  I  shall  let  him  run  loose  for  a 
quarter;  but  after  that  I  want  to  send  him  to  a  downright 
good  school,  where  they'll  make  a  scholard  of  him." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "there's  no  greater  advantage 
you  can  give  him  than  a  good  education.  Not,"  he  added, 
with  polite  significance — "  not  that  a  man  can't  be  an  excel- 
lent miller  and  farmer,  and  a  shrewd  sensible  fellow  into 
the  bargain,  without  much  help  from  the  schoolmaster." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  winking,  and  turn- 
ing his  head  on  one  side,  "but  that's  where  it  is.  I  don't 
mean  Tom  to  be  a  miller  and  farmer.  I  see  no  fun  i'  that: 
why,  if  I  made  him  a  miller  an'  farmer,  he'd  be  expectin' 
to  take  to  the  mill  an'  the  land,  an'  a-hinting  at  me  as  it 
was  time  for  me  to  lay  by  an'  think  o'  my  latter  end. 
Nay,  nay,  I've  seen  enough  o'  that  wi'  sons,     I'll  never 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  16 

pull  m^  coat  off  before  I  go  to  bed.  I  shall  give  Tom  an 
eddication  an^  put  him  to  a  business^  as  he  may  make  a 
nest  for  himseli,  an^  not  want  to  push  me  out  o'  mine. 
Pretty  well  if  he  gets  it  when  I^m  dead  an*  gone.  I  shan't 
be  put  off  wi*  spoon-meat  afore  I've  lost  my  teeth." 

This  was  evidently  a  point  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  felt 
strongly,  and  the  impetus  which  had  given  unusual  rapid- 
ity and  emphasis  to  his  speech,  showed  itself  still  unex- 
hausted for  some  minutes  afterward,  in  a  defiant  motion 
of  the  head  from  side  to  side,  and  an  occasional  "Nay, 
nay,''  like  a  subsiding  growl. 

These  angry  symptoms  were  keenly  observed  by  Maggie, 
and  cut  her  to  the  quick.  Tom,  it  appeared,  was  supposed 
capable  of  turning  his  father  out  of  doors,  and  of  making 
the  future  in  some  way  tragic  by  his  wi«;kedne88.  This 
was  not  to  be  borne;  and  Maggie  jumped  up  from  her 
stool,  forgetting  all  about  her  heavy  book,  which  fell  with 
a  bang  within  the  fender;  and  going  up  between  her 
father's  knees,  said,  in  a  half -crying,  half-indignant  voice — 

"Father,  Tom  wouldn't  be  naughty  to  you  ever;  I 
know  he  wouldn't." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  out  of  the  room  superintending  a 
choice  supper-dish,  and  Mr.  TuUiver's  heart  was  touched; 
so  Maggie  was  not  scolded  about  the  book.  Mr.  Eiley 
quietly  picked  it  up  and  looked  at  it,  while  the  father 
laughed  with  a  certain  tenderness  in  his  hard-lined  face, 
and  patted  his  little  girl  on  the  back,  and  then  held  her 
hands  and  kept  her  between  his  knees. 

"What!  they  mustn't  say  any  harm  o'  Tom,  eh?"  said 
Mr.  Tulliver,  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  twinklinff  eye. 
Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  turning  to  Mr.  Riley,  as  though 
Maggie  couldn't  hear,  "  She  understands  what  one's  talk- 
ing about  so  as  never  was.  And  you  should  hear  her  read 
— ^straight  off,  as  if  she  knowed  it  beforehand.  And  allays 
at  her  book!  But  it's  bad — it's  bad,"  Mr.  Tulliver  added, 
sadly,  checking  this  blamable  exultation;  "a  woman's  no 
business  wi'  bemg  so  clever;  it'll  turn  to  trouble,  I  doubt. 
But,  bless  you !" — ^here  the  exultation  was  clearly  recover- 
ing the  mastery — "shell  read  the  books  and  understand 
*em  better  nor  half  the  folks  as  are  growed  up." 

Maggie's  cheeks  began  to  flush  with  triumphant  excite- 
ment: she  thought  Mr.  Riley  would  have  a  respect  for  her 
now;  it  had  been  evident  that  he  thought  nothing  of  her 
before. 

Mr.  Riley  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  and 

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16  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

she  could  make  nothing  of  his  face,  with  its  hi^h-arched 
eyebrows;  but  he  presently  looked  at  her  and  said — 

**Come,  come  and  tell  me  something  about  this  book; 
here  are  some  pictures — I  want  to  know  what  they  mean." 

Maggie  with  deepening  color  went  without  hesitation  to 
Mr.  Eiley's  elbow  and  looked  over  the  book,  eagerly  seizing- 
one  corner,  and  tossing  back  her  mane,  while  she  said — 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  what  that  means.  It's  a  dreadful  pict- 
ure, isn't  it?  But  I  can't  help  looking  at  it.  That  old 
woman  in  the  water's  a  witch — they've  put  her  in  to  find 
out  whether  she's  a  witch  or  no,  and  if  she  swims  she's  a 
witch,  and  if  she's  drowned — and  killed,  you  know — she's 
innocent,  and  not  a  witch,  but  only  a  poor  silly  old  woman. 
But  what  good  would  it  do  her  then,  you  know,  when  she 
was  drowned?  Only,  I  suppose,  she'd  go  to  heaven,  Jind 
God  would  make  it  up  to  her.  And  this  dreadful  black- 
smith with  his  arms  akimbo,  laughing — oh,  isn't  he  ugly? — 
1 11  tell  you  what  he  is.  He's  the  devil  really''  (here  Mag- 
gie's voice  became  louder  and  more  emphatic),  **and  not  a 
right  blacksmith;  for  the  devil  takes  the  shape  of  wicked 
men,  and  walks  about  and  sets  people  doing  wicked  things, 
and  he's  oftener  in  the  shape  of  a  bad  man  than  any  other, 
because,  you  know,  if  people  saw  he  was  the  devil,  and  he 
roared  at  'em,  they'd  run  away,  and  he  couldn't  make  'em 
do  what  he  pleased." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  listened  to  this  exposition  of  Maggie's 
with  petrifying  wonder. 

**  Why,  what  book  is  it  the  wench  has  got  hold  on?"  he 
burst  out  at  last. 

^'  *  The  History  of  the  Devil,'  by  Daniel  Defoe;  not  quite 
the  right  book  for  a  little  girl,"  said  Mr.  Riley.  "How 
came  it  among  your  books,  Tulliver?" 

Maggie  looked  hurt  and  discouraged,  while  her  father 
said — 

"  Why,  it's  one  o'the  books  I  bought  at  Partridge's  sale. 
They  was  all  bound  alike — it's  a  good  binding,  you  see — and 
I  thought  they'd  be  all  good  books.  There's  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor's *Holy  Living  and  Dying' among  'em;  I  read  in  it 
often  of  a  Sunday"  (Mr.  Tulliver  felt  somehow  a  famil- 
iarity with  that  great  writer  because  his  name  was  Jeremy) 
**and  there's  a  lot  more  of  'em,  sermons  mostly,  I  think; 
but  they've  all  got  the  same  covers,  and  I  thought  they 
were  all  o'one  sample,  as  you  may  say.  But  it  seems  one 
mustn't  judge  by  th'  outside.     This  is  a  puzzlin'  world." 

^^Well,*'  said  Mr.  Eiley,  in  an  admonitory,  patronizing 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  17 

tone,  as  he  patted  Maggie  on  the  head,  **  I  advise  yoa  to 
put  by  the  *  History  of  the  Devil/  and  read  some  prettier 
book.     Have  you  no  prettier  books  ?^^ 

"  Oh,  yes,^^  said  Maggie,  reviving  a  little  in  the  desire  to 
vindicate  the  variety  of  her  reading,  ^'  I  know  the  residing 
in  this  book  isn^t  pretty — but  I  like  the  pictures,  and  I  make 
stories  to  the  pictures  out  of  my  own  head,  you  know.  But 
I've  got  *^sop^s  Fables,'  and  a  book  about  Kangaroos  and 
things,  and  the  *  Pilgrim's  Progress. ' '' 

^'Ah,  a  beautiful  book/'  said  Mr.  Riley;  ''you  can't  read 
a  better." 

'*  Well,  but  there's  a  great  deal  about  the  devil  in  that/' 
said  Maggie  triumphantly,  "and  I'll  show  you  the  picture 
of  him  in  his  true  shape,  as  he  fought  with  Christian." 

Maggie  ran  in  an  instant  to  the  corner  of  the  room, 
jumped  on  a  chair,  and  reached  down  from  the  small  book- 
case a  shabby  old  copy  of  Bunyan,  which  opened  at  once, 
without  the"  least  trouble  of  search,  at  the  picture  she 
wanted. 

"  Here  he  is,"  she  said,  running  back  to  Mr.  Riley,  ''and 
Tom  colored  him  for  me  with  his  paints  when  he  was  at 
home  last  holidays — the  body  all  black,  you  know,  and  the 
eyes  red,  like  fire,  because  he's  all  fire  inside,  and  it  shines 
out  at  his  eyes." 

"Go,  go!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  peremptorily,  beginning 
to.  feel  rather  uncomfortable  at  these  free  remarks  on  the 
personal  appearance  of  a  being  powerful  enough  to  create 
lawyers;  "  shut  up  the  book,  and  let's  hear  no  more  o'  such 
talk.  It  is  as  I  thought — the  child  'uU  learn  more  mis- 
chief nor  good  wi'  the  books.  Go,  go  and  see  after  your 
mother." 

Maggie  shut  up  the  book  at  once,  with  a  sense  of  dis- 
grace, but  not  being  inclined  to  see  after  her  mother,  she 
compromised  the  matter  by  going  into  a  dark  corner 
behind  her  father's  chair,  and  nursing  her  doll,  toward 
which  she  had  an  occasional  fit  of  fondness  in  Tom's 
absence,  neglecting  its  toilet,  but  lavishing  so  manv  warm 
kisses  on  it  that  the  waxen  cheeks  had  a  wasted  unhealthy 
appearance. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  on't?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
as  Maggie  retired.  "It's  a  pity  but  what  she'd  ha'  been 
the  lad — she'd  ha'  been  a  match  for  the  lawyers,  she  would. 
It's  the  wonderful'st  thing" — here  he  lowered  his  voice — 
"  as  I  picked  the  mother  because  she  wasn't  o'er  'cute— 
bein'  a  good-looking  woman  too,  an'  come  of  a  rare  family 

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18  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

for  managing;  but  I  picked  her  from  her  sisters  o*  purpose, 
'cause  she  was  a  bit  weak,  like;  for  I  wasn't  agoin'  to  be 
told  the  rights  o'  things  by  my  own  fireside.  But  you  set? 
when  a  man's  got  brains  himself,  there's  no  knowing  what 
they'll  run  to;  an'  a  pleasant  sort  o'  soft  woman  may  go  on 
breeding  you  stupid  lads  and  'cute  wenches,  till  it's  like  as 
if  the  world  was  turned  topsy-turvy.  It's  an  uncommon 
puzzlin'  thing." 

Mr.  Eiley's  gravity  gave  way,  and  he  shook  a  little  under 
the  application  of  his  pinch  of  snulf,  before  he  said  — 

*^l5ut  your  lad's  not  stupid,  is  he?  I  saw  him,  when  I 
was  here  last,  busy  making  fishing-tackle;  he  seemed  quite 
up  to  it." 

'*  Well,  he  isn't  not  to  say  stupid — he's  got  a  notion  o' 
things  out  o'  door,  an'  a  sort  o'  common-sense,  as  he'd  lay 
hold  o'  things  by  the  right  handle.  But  he's  slow  with  his 
tongue,  you  see,  and  he  reads  but  poorly,  and  can't  abide 
the  books,  and  spells  all  wrong,  they  tell  me,  an'  as  shy  as 
can  be  wi'  strangers,  an'  you  never  hear  him  say  'cute 
things  like  the  little  wench.  Now  what  I  want  is  to  send 
him  to  a  school  where  they'll  make  him  a  bit  nimble  with  his 
tongue  and  his  pen,  and  make^  a  smart  chap  of  him.  I  want 
my  son  to  be  even  wi'  these  fellows  as  have  got  the  start  o' 
me  with  having  better  schoolinff.  Not  but  what,  if  the 
world  had  been  left  as  God  made  it,  I  could  ha'  seen  my 
way  and  held  my  own  wi'  the  best  of  'em;  but  things  have 
got  so  twisted  round  and  wrapped  up  i'  unreasonable  words 
as  aren't  a  bit  like  'em,  as  I'm  clean  at  fault,  often  an' 
often.  Everything  winds  about  so — the  more  straightfor- 
rard  you  are  the  more  you're  puzzled." 

Mr.  Tulliver  took  a  draught,  swallowed  it  slowly,-  and 
shook  his  head  in  a  melancholy  manner,  conscious  of 
exemplifying  the  truth  that  a  perfectly  sane  intellect  is 
hardly  at  home  in  this  insane  world. 

**  X  ou're  quite  in  the  right  of  it,  Tulliver,"  observed  Mr. 
Eiley.  "Better  spend  an  extra  hundred  or  two  on  your 
son's  education  than  leave  it  him  in  your  will.  I  know 
I  should  have  tried  to  do  so  by  a  son  of  mine,  if  I'd  had 
one,  though,  God  knows,  I  haven't  your  ready-money  to 
play  with,  Tulliver;  and  I  have  a  houseful  of  daughters 
into  the  bargain." 

"  I  dare  say,  now,  you  know  of  a  school  as  'ud  be  just  the 
thing  for  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  diverted  from  his 
purpose  by  any  sympathy  with  Mr.  Eiley's  deficiency  of 
ready  cash. 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  19 

Mr.  Eiley  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  kept  Mr.  Tulliver 
in  suspense  by  a  silence  that  seemed  deliberative  before  he 
said — 

'^  I  know  of  a  very  fine  chance  for  any  one  that's  got  the 
necessary  money,  and  that's  what  you  have,  Tulliver.  The 
fact  is,  1  wouldn't  recommend  any  friend  of  mine  to  send 
a  boy  to  a  regular  school,  if  he  could  afford  to  do  better. 
But  if  9.ny  one  wanted  his  boy  to  get  superior  instruction 
and  training,  where  he  would  be  the  companion  of  his 
master,  and  that  master  a  first-rate  fellow — I  know  his 
man.  I  wouldn't  mention  the  chance  to  everybody, 
because  I  don't  think  everybody  would  succeed  in  getting 
it,  if  he  were  to  try;  but  1  mention  it  to  you,  Tulliver — 
between  ourselves." 

^  The  fixed  inquiring  glance  with  which  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  been  watching  his  friend's  oracular  face  became  quite 
eager. 

"  Ay,  now,  let's  hear,"  he  said,  adjusting  himself  in  his 
chair  with  the  complacency  of  a  person  who  is  thought 
worthy  of  important  communications. 

''  He's  an  Oxford  man,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  sententiously, 
shutting  his  mouth  close,  and  looking  at  Mr.  Tulliver  to 
observe  the  effect  of  this  stimulating  information. 

"  What!  a  parson?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  doubtfully. 

'*  Yes,  and  an  M.A.  The  bishop,  I  understand,  thinks 
very  highly  of  him:  why,  it  was  tne  bishop  who  got  him 
his  present  curacy." 

''Ah?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  to  whom  one  thing  was  as 
wonderful  as  another  concerning  these  unfamiliar  phenom- 
ena.*   ''But  what  can  he  want  wi'  Tom,  then?" 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  he's  fond  of  teaching,  and  wishes 
to  Ifeep  up  his  studies,  and  a  clergyman  has  but  little 
opportunity  for  that  in  his  parochial  duties.  He's  willing 
to  take  one  or  two  boys  as  pupils  to  fill  up  his  time 
profitably.  The  boys  would  be  quite  of  the  family — the 
finest  thing  in  the  world  for  them;  under  Stelling's  eye 
continually." 

"  But  do  you  think  they'd  give  the  poor  lad  twice  o' 
pudding?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  now  in  her  place 
again.  "  He's  such  a  boy  for  pudding  as  never  was;  an'  a 
growing  boy  lik5  that — it's  dreadful  to  think  o'  their 
etintin'  him." 

*'And  what  money  'ud  he  want?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
whose  instinct  told  him  that  the  services  of  this  admirable 
M.A.  would  bear  a  high  price. 


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20  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

**  Why,  I  know  of  a  clergyman  who  asks  a  hundred  and 
fifty  witn  his  youngest  pupils,  and  he's  not  to  be  men- 
tioned with  Stelling,*the  man  I  speak  of.  I  know,  on  good 
authority,  that  one  of  the  chiei  people  at  Oxford  said, 
*  Stelling  might  get  the  highest  honors  if  he  chose.'  But 
he  didn't  care  about  university  honors.  He's  a  quiet  i  .an — 
not  noisy.*' 

"Ah,  a  deal  better — a  deal  better,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver; 
*^but  a  hundred  and  fifty's  an  uncommon  price.  I  neyer 
thought  o'  payin'  so  much  as  that." 

"A  good  education,  let  me  tell  you,  Tulliver — a  good 
education  is  cheap  at  the  money.  But  Stelling  is  mod- 
erate in  his  terms — he's  not  a  grasping  man.  I've  no 
doubt  he'd  take  your  boy  at  a  hundred,  and  that's  what 
vou  wouldn't  get  many  other  clergymen  to  do.  I'll  write 
to  him  about  it  if  you  like." 

Mr.  Tulliver  rubbed  his  knees,  and  looked  at  the  carpet 
in  a  meditative  manner. 

"  But  belike  he's  a  bachelor,"  observed  Mrs.  Tulliver  in 
the  interval,  '*  an'  I've  no  opinion  o'  housekeepers.  There 
was  my  brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  nousekeeper 
once,  an'  she  took  half  the  feathers  out  o'  the  best  bed,  an' 

[)acked  'em  up  an'  sent  'em  away.  An'  it's  unknown  the 
inen  she  made  away  with — Stott  her  name  was.  It  'ud 
break  my  heart  to  send  Tom  where  there's  a  housekeeper, 
in'  I  hope  you  won't  think  of  it,  Mr.  Tulliver." 

"  You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  score,  Mrs. 
Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Eiley,  "  for  Stelling  is  married  to  as 
nice  a  little  woman  as  any  man  need  wish  for  a  wife. 
There  isn't  a  kinder  little  soul  in  the  world;  I  know  her 
family  well.  She  is  very  much  your  complexion — flight 
curly  hair.  She  comes  of  a  good  Mudport  family,  an*  it's 
Qot  every  offer  that  would  have  been  acceptable  in  that 
quarter.  But  Stelling's  not  an  pveryday  man.  Eather  a 
particular  fellow  as  to  the  people  lie  chooses  to  be  con- 
nected with.  But  I  think  he  would  have  no  objection  to 
take  your  son — I  think  he  would  not,  on  my  represen- 
tation." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  could  have  against  the  lad," 
mA  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  slight  touch  of  motherly  indig- 
nation; "a  nice  fresh-skinned  lad  as  rftiybody  need  wish 
to  see." 

**But  there's  one  thing  I'm  thinking  on,"  said  Mr 
Tulliver,  taming  his  head  on  one  side  and  looking  at  Mr. 
Riley,  after  a  long  perusal  of  the  carpet.     *' Wouldn't  a 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  81 

parson  be  almost  too  high-learned  to  bring  up  a  lad  to  be  a 
man  o^  business?  My  notion  o'  the  parsons  was  as  they'd 
got  a  sort  o*  learning  as  lay  mostly  out  o'  sight.  And  that 
isn't  what  I  want  for  Tom.  I  want  him  to  know  figures, 
and  write  like  print,  and  see  into  things  quick,  and  Icnow 
what  folks  mean,  and  how  to  wrap  thmgs  up  in  words  as 
aren't  actionable.  It's  an  uncommon  fine  thing,  that  is,'' 
concluded  Mr.  TuUiver,  shaking  his  head,  '"when  you 
can  let  a  man  know  what  you  think  of  him  without  paying 
for  it." 

*'Oh,  my  dear  TuUiver,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  '*  vou're  quite 
under  a  mistake  about  the  clergy;  all  the  best  school- 
masters are  of  the  clergy.  The  schoolmasters  who  are  not 
clergymen  are  a  very  low  set  of  men  generally " 

*^Ay,  that  Jacobs  is,  at  the  'cademy,"  interposed  Mr. 
Tulliver. 

*'  To  be  sure — men  who  have  failed  in  other  trades,  most 
likely.  Now  a  clergyman  is  a  gentleman  bv  profession  and 
education;  and  besides  that,  he  has  the  knowledge  that 
will  ground  a  boy,  and  prepare  him  for  entering  on  any 
career  with  credit.  There  may  be  some  clergymen  who 
are  mere  book-men;  but  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Stelling 
is  not  one  of  them — a  man  that's  wide  awake,  let  me  tell 
you.  Drop  him  a  hint,  and  that's  enough.  You  talk  of 
figures,  now;  yon  have  only  to  say  to  Stelling,  *  I  want  my 
son  to  be  a  thorough  arithmetician,'  and  you  may  leave 
the  rest  to  him." 

Mr.  Riley  paused  a  moment,  while  Mr.  Tulliver,  some- 
what reassured  as  to  clerical  tutorship,  was  inwardly 
rehearsing  to  an  imaginary  Mr.  Stelling  the  statement,  "I 
want  my  son  to  know  'rethmetic." 

"You  see,  my  dear  Tulliver,"  Mr.  Riley  continued, 
'^  when  you  get  a  thoroughly  educated  man,  like  Stelling, 
he's  at  no  loss  to  take  up  any  branch  of  instruction.  When 
a  workman  knows  the  use  of  his  tools,  he  can  make  a  door 
as  well  as  a  window." 

'^Ay,  that's  true,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  almost  convinced 
now  that  the  clergy  must  be  the  best  of  schoolmasters. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Riley, 
"  and  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  everybody.  I'll  see  Stelling^s 
father-in-law,  or  drop  him  a  line  when  I  get  back  to 
Mudport,  to  say  that  you  wish  to  place  your  boy  with  his 
son-in-law,  and  I  dare  say  Stelling  will  write  to  you  and 
send  you  his  terms." 

"But  there's  no  hurry,  is  there?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver; 

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22  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  for  I  hope,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  won^t  let  Tom  begin  at  his 
new  school  before  Midsummer.  He  began  at  the  ^cademy 
at  the  Ladyday  quarter,  and  you  see  what  good's  come  of 
if 

^^Ay,  ay,  Bessy,  never  brew  wi'  bad  malt  upo'  Michael- 
mas-day, else  you'll  have  a  poor  taj),''  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
winking  and  smiling  at  Mr.  Riley  with  the  natural  pride 
of  a  man  who  has  a  Duxom  wife  conspicuously  his  inferior 
in  intellect.  *^  But  it's  true  there's  no  hurry — ^you've  hit 
it  there,  Bessy." 

'^  It  might  be  as  well  not  to  defer  the  arrangement  too 
long,"  said  Mr.  Kiley,  quietly,  "for  Stelling  may  have 
propositions  from  other  parties,  and  I  know  he  would  not 
take  more  than  two  or  three  boarders,  if  so  many.  If  I 
were  you,  I  think  I  would  enter  on  the  subject  with  Stelling 
at  once:  there's  no  necessity  for  sending  the  boy  before 
Midsummer,  but  I  would  be  on  the  safe  side,  and  make 
sure  that  nobody  forestalls  you." 

"Ay,  there's  summat  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"  lather,"  broke  in  Maggie,  who  had  stolen  unperceived 
to  her  father's  elbow  again,  listening  with  parted  lips, 
while  she  held  her  doll  topsj-turvy,  and  crushed  its  nose 
against  the  wood  of  the  chair — "  Father,  is  it  a  long  way 
off  where  Tom  is  to  go?  shan't  we  ever  go  to  see  him?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  wench,"  said  the  father,  tenderly. 
'^Ask  Mr.  Riley;  he  knows." 

Maggie  came  round  promptly  in  front  of  Mr.  Riley,  and 
said,  "How  far  is  it,  please,  sir?" 

"Oh,  a  long,  long  way  off,"  that  gentleman  answered, 
being  of  opinion  that  children,  when  they  are  not  naughty, 
should  always  be  spoken  to  jocosely.  ""You  must  borrow 
the  seven-leagued  boots  to  get  to  him." 

"That's  nonsense!"  said  Maggie,  tossing  her  head 
haughtily,  and  turning  away,  witn  the  tears  springing  in 
her  eyes.  She  began  to  dislike  Mr.  Riley:  it  was  evident 
he  thought  her  silly,  and  of  no  consequence. 

"Hush,  Maggie!  for  shame  of  you,  asking  questions 
and  chattering,  said  her  mother.  "Come  and  sit  down 
on  your  little  stool  and  hold  your  tongue,  do.  But," 
added  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  had  her  own  alarm  awakened, 
"is  it  so  far  off  as  I  couldn't  wash  him  and  mend  him?" 

"About  fifteen  miles,  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Riley.  "You 
can  drive  there  and  back  in  a  day  quite  comfortafily.  Or — 
Stelling  is  a  hospitable,  pleasant  man — he'd  be  glad  to 
have  you  stay." 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  23 

*^Biit  it^s  too  far  off  for  the  linen,  I  doubt/'  said  Mrs. 
Tulli\er,  sadly. 

The  entrance  of  supper  opportunely  adjourned  this  dif- 
ficulty, and  relieved  Mr.  Rilejr  from  the  labor  of  suggest* 
ing  some  solution  or  compromise — ^a  labor  which  he  would 
otherwise  doubtless  have  undertaken;  for,  as  you  perceive, 
he  was  a  man  of  very  obliging  manners.  And  he  had 
really  given  himself  the  trouble  of  recommending  Mr. 
Stelling  to  his  friend  Tulliver  without  any  positiye  expec- 
tation of  a  solid,  definite  advantage  resulting  to  himself, 
notwithstanding  the  subtle  indications  to  the  contrary 
which  might  have  misled  a  too  sagacious  observer.  For 
there  is  nothing  more  widely  misleading  than  sagacity  if  it 
happens  to  get  on  a  wrong  scent;  and  sagacity,  persuaded 
that  men  usually  act  and  speak  from  distinct  motives,  with 
a  consciousljr  proposed  end  in  view,  is  certain  to  waste  its 
energies  on  imagmary  game.  Plotting  covetousness,  and 
deliberate  contrivance,  m  order  to  compass  a  selfish  end, 
are  nowhere  abundant  but  in  the  world  of  the  dramatist: 
they  demand  too  intense  a  mental  action  for  many  of  our 
fellow-parishioners  to  be  guiltv  of  them.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  spoil  the  lives  of  our  neighljors  without  taking  so  much 
trouble:  we  can  do  it  by  lazv  acquiescence  and  lazy  omis- 
sion, by  trivial  falsities  for  which  we  hardly  know  a  reason, 
by  small  frauds  neutralized  by  small  extravagancies,  by 
mal-adroit  flatteries,  and  clumsily  improvised  insinuations. 
We  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  most  of  us,  with  a  small 
family  of  immediate  desires — we  do  little  else  than  snatch 
a  morsel  to  satisfy  the  hungry  brood,  rarely  thinking  of 
seed-corn  or  the  next  year's  crop. 

Mr.  Riley  was  a  man  of  business,  and  not  cold  toward 
his  own  interest,  yet  even  he  was  more  under  the  influence 
of  small  promptings  than  of  far-sighted  designs.  He  had 
no  private  understanding  with  tlie  Rev.  Walter  Stelling; 
on  the  contrary,  he  knew  very  little  of  that  M.A.  and  his 
acquirements — not  quite  enough  perhaps  to  warrant  so 
strong  a  recommendation  of  him  as  he  had  given  to  his 
friend  Tulliver.  But  he  believed  Mr.  Stelling  to  be  an 
excellent  classic,  for  Gadsby  had  said  so,  and  Gadsby's 
first  cousin  was  an  Oxford  tutor;  which  was  better 
ground  for  the  belief  even  than  his  own  immediate  obser- 
vation would  have  been,  for  though  Mr.  Riley  had  received 
a  tincture  of  the  classics  at  tne  great  Mudport  Free 
School,  and  had  a  sense  of  understanding  Latin  generally, 
his  comprehension  of  any  particular  Latm  was  not  ready. 

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24  THE  MILL  t)K  THE  FLOSS. 

Doubtless  there  remained  a  subtle  aroma  from  his  juvenile 
contact  with  the  "  De  Senectute  "  and  the  Fourth  Book  of 
the  *^^neid,"  but  it  had  ceased  to  be  distinctly  recogniza- 
ble as  classical,  and  was  only  perceived  in  the  higher  finish 
and  force  of  his  auctioneering  style.  Then,  Stelling  was 
an  Oxford  man,  and  the  Oxford  men  were  always — ^no,  no, 
it  was  the  Cambridge  men  who  were  always  good  mathema- 
ticians. But  a  man  who  had  had  a  university  education 
could  teach  anything  he  liked;  especially  a  man  like  S tel- 
ling who  had  made  a  speech  at  a  Mudport  dinner  on  a 
political  occasion,  and  had  acquitted  himself  so  well  that  it 
was  generally  remarked,  this  son-in-law  of  Timpson^s  was 
a  sharp  fellow.  It  was  to  be  expected  of  a  Mudport  man, 
from  the  parish  of  St.  Ursula,  that  he  would  not  omit  to 
do  a  good  turn  to  a  son-in-law  of  Timpson's,  for  Timpson 
was  one  of  the  most  useful  and  influential  men  in  the  par- 
ish, and  had  a  good  deal  of  business,  which  he  knew  how 
to  put  into  the  right  hands.  Mr.  Eiley  liked  such  men, 
quite  apart  from  any  money  which  might  be  diverted, 
tnrough  their  good  judgment,  from  less  worthy  pockets 
into  his  own;  and  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  say  to 
Timpson  on  his  return  home,  "  IVe  secured  a  good  pupil 
for  your  son-in-law.''  Timpson  had  a  large  familj  of 
daughters;  Mr.  Riley  felt  for  him;  besides,  Louisa  Timp- 
son's  face,  with  its  light  curls,  had  been  a  familiar  object 
to  him  over  the  pew  wainscot  on  a  Sunday  for  nearly  fif- 
teen years:  it  was  natural  her  husband  should  be  a  com- 
mendable tutor.  Moreover,  Mr.  Riley  knew  of  no  othej 
schoolmaster  whom  he  had  any  ground  for  recommending 
in  preference:  why  then  should  he  not  recommend  Stel- 
ling?  His  friend  Tulliver  had  asked  him  for  an  opinion: 
it  is  always  chilling  in  friendly  intercourse,  to  say  you 
have  no  opinion  to  give.  And  if  you  deliver  an  opinion 
at  all,  it  is  mere  stupidity  not  to  do  it  with  an  air  of  con- 
viction and  well-founded  knowledge.  You  make  it  your 
own  in  uttering  it,  and  naturally  get  fond  of  it.  Thus 
Mr.  Riley,  knowing  no  harm  of  Stelling  to  begin  with,  and 
wishing  him  well,  so  far  as  he  had  any  wishes  at  all  con- 
cerning him,  had  no  sooner  recommended  him  than  he 
began  to  think  with  admiration  of  a  man  recommended  on 
such  high  authority,  and  would  soon  have  gathered  so 
warm  an  interest  on  the  subject,  that  if  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
in  the  end  declined  to  send  Tom  to  Stelling,  Mr.  Riley 
would  have  thought  his  ^* friend  of  the  old  school"  a 
thoroughly  pig-headed  fellow. 


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BOY  AKD  GIRL.  26 

H  you  blame  Mr.  Riley  very  severely  for  giving  a 
recommendation  on  such  slight  grounds,  I  must  say  you 
are  rather  hard  upon  him.  Why  should  an  auctioneer 
and  appraiser  thirty  years  ago,  wno  had  as  good  as  for- 
gotten his  free-school  Latin,  be  expected  to  manifest  a 
delicate  scrupulosity  which  is  not  always  exhibited  by 
gentlemen  of  the  learned  professions,  even  in  our  present 
advanced  stage  of  morality? 

Besides,  a  man  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in 
him  can  scarcely  abstain  from  doing  a  good-natured 
action,  and  one  cannot  be  good-natured  all  round.  Nature 
herself  occasionally  quarters  an  inconvenient  parasite  on 
an  animal  toward  wtiom  she  has  otherwise  no  ill-will. 
What  then?  We  admire  her  care  for  the  parasite.  If 
Mr.  Riley  had  shrunk  from  giving  a  recommendation  that 
was  not  based  on  valid  evidence,  he  would  not  have  helped 
Mr.  Stelling  to  a  paying  pupil,  and  that  would  not  have 
been  so  well  for  tbe  reverend  gentleman.  Consider,  too, 
that  all  the  pleasant  little  dim  ideas  and  complacencies  — 
of  standing  well  with  Timpson,  of  dispensing  advice  when 
he  was  asked  for  it,  of  impressing  his  friend  Tulliver  with 
additional  respect,  of  saying  something,  and  saying  it 
emphatically,  with  other  inappreciably  minute  ingredients 
that  went  along  with  the  warm  hearth  and  the  brandy- 
and-water  to  make  up  Mr.  Riley^s  consciousness  on  this 
occasion — would  have  been  a  mere  blank. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TOM   IS   EXPECTED. 


It  was  a  heavy  disappointment  to  Maggie  that  she  was 
not  allowed  to  go  with  her  father  in  the  gig  when  he  went 
to  fetch  Tom  home  from  the  academy;  but  the  morning 
was  too  wet,  Mrs.  Tulliver  said,  for  a  little  girl  to  go  out 
in  her  best  bonnet.  Maggie  took  the  opposite  view  very 
strongly,  and  it  was  a  direct  consequence  of  this  difference 
of  opinion  that  when  her  mother  was  in  the  act  of  brush- 
ing out  the  reluctant  black  crop,  Maggie  suddenly  rushed 
from  under  her  hands  and  dipped  her  head  in  a  basin  of 
water  standing  near —  in  the  vindictive  determination  that 
there  should  be  no  more  chance  of  curls  that  day. 


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26  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

*'Magffie,  Maggie!^'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tulliver,  sitting 
stout  and  helpless  with  the  brushes  on  her  lap,  ^'  what  is 
to  become  of  you  if  you^re  so  naughty?  Til  tell  your 
aunt  Glegg  and  your  aunt  Pullet  when  they  come  next 
week,  and. they'll  never  love  you  any  more.  Oh,  dear,  oh, 
dear!  look  at  your  clean  pinafore,  wet  from  top  to  bottom. 
Folks  'ull  think  it's  a  judgment  on  me  as  I've  got  such  a 
child — they'll  think  Fve  done  summat  wicked.'' 

Before  this  remonstrance  was  finished,  Maggie  was 
already  out  of  hearing,  making  her  way  toward  the  great 
attic  that  ran  under  the  old  high-pitched  roof,  shaking  the 
water  from  her  black  locks  as  she  ran,  like  a  Skye  terrier 
escaped  from  his  bath.  This  attic  was  Maggie's  iavorite 
retreat  on  a  wet  day,  when  the  weather  was  not  too  cold ; 
here  she  fretted  out  all  her  ill-humors,  and  talked  aloud  to 
the  worm-eaten  floors  and  the  worm-eaten  shelves,  and 
the  dark  rafters  festooned  with  cobwebs;  and  here  she  kept 
a  Fetish  which  she  punished  for  all  her  mjsfortunes.  This 
was  the  trunk  of  a  large  wooden  doll,  which  once  stared 
with  the  roundest  of  eyes  above  the  reddest  of  cheeks;  but 
was  now  entirely  defaced  by  a  long  career  of  vicarious  suf- 
fering. Three  nails  driven  into  the  head  commemorated 
as  many  crises  in  Maggie's  nine  years  of  earthly  struggle; 
that  luxury  of  vengeance  having  been  suggested  to  her  by 
the  picture  of  Jael  destroying  Sisera  in  the  old  Bible. 
The  last  nail  had  been  driven  in  with  a  fiercer  stroke  than 
usual,  for  the  Fetish  on  that  occasion  represented  aunt 
Glegg.  But  immediately  afterward  Maggie  had  reflected 
that  if  she  drove  many  nails  in,  she  would  not  \^  so  well 
able*  to  fancy  that  the  head  was  hurt  when  she  knocked  it 
against  the  wall,  nor  to  comfort  it,  and  make  believe  to 
poultice  it,  when  her  fury  was  abated;  for  even  aunt  Glegg 
would  be  pitiable  when  she  had  been  hurt  very  much,  and. 
thoroughly  humiliated,  so  as  to  beg  her  niece's  pardon. 
Since  then  she  had  driven  no  more  nails  in,  but  had 
soothed  herself  by  alternately  grinding  and  beating  the 
wooden  head  against  the  rough  brick  of  the  great  chimneys 
that  made  two  square  pillars  supporting  the  roof.  That 
was  what  she  did  this  morning  on  reaching  the  attic,  sob- 
bing all  the  while  with  a  passion  that  expelled  every  other 
form  of  consciousness — even  the  memory  of  the  grievance 
that  had  caused  it.  As  at  last  the  sobs  were  getting  quieter, 
and  the  grinding  less  fierce,  a  sudden  beam  of  sunshine, 
falling  through  the  wire  lattice  across  the  worm-eaten 
shelves,  made  her  throw  away  the  Fetish  and  run  to  the 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  27 

window.  The  sun  was  really  breaking  out;  the  sound  of 
the  mill  seemed  cheerful  again;  the  granary  doors  were 
open;  and  there  was  Yap,  the  queer  white-and-brown 
terrier,  with  one  ear  turned  back,  trotting  about  and  sniff- 
ing vaguely,  as  if  he  were  in  search  of  a  companion.  It 
was  irresistible.  Maggie  tossed  her  hair  back  and  ran 
down  stairs,  seized  her  bonnet  without  putting  it  on, 
])eeped,  and  then  dashed  along  the  passage  lest  she  should 
encounter  her  mother,  and  was  quickly  out  in  the  yard, 
whirling  round  like  a  Pythoness,  and  singing  as  she  whirled, 
'^  Yap,  lap,  Tom^s  coming  home!^'  while  Yap  danced  and 
barked  round  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  if  there  was  any 
noise  wanted  he  was  the  dog  for  it. 

*^Hegh,  he^h,  Missl  vou^ll  make  yourself  giddy,  an* 
tumble  down  i'  the  dirt, '  said  Luke,  the  head  miller,  a 
tall  broad-shouldered  man  of  forty,  black-eyed  and  black- 
haired,  subdued  by  a  general  mealiness,  like  an  auricula. 

Maggie  paused  in  her  whirling  and  said,  staggering  a 
little,  ^'  Oh,  no,  it  doesn^t  make  me  giddy,  Luke;  may  1  go 
into  the  mill  with  you?'' 

Maggie  loved  to  linger  in  the  great  spaces  of  the  mill, 
and  often  came  out  with  her  black  hair  powdered  to  a  soft 
whiteness  that  made  her  dark  eyes  flash  out  with  new  fire. 
The  resolute  din,  the  unresting  motion  of  the  great  stones, 
giving  her  a  dim  delicious  awe  as  at  the  presence  of  an 
uncontrollable  force — the  meal  forever  pourmg,  pouring — 
the  fine  white  powder  softening  all  surfaces,  and  making 
the  very  spider-nets  look  like  a  fairy  lace  work  —  the  sweet 
pure  scent  of  the  meal  —  all  helped  to  make  Maggie  feel 
that  the  mill  was  a  little  world  apart  from  her  outside 
everyday  life.  The  spiders  were  especially  a  subjact  of 
speculation  with  her.  She  wondered  if  they  had  any  rel- 
atives outside  the  mill,  for  in  that  case  there  must  be  a 
painful  difficulty  in  their  family  intercourse — a  fat  and 
floury  spider,  accustomed  to  take  his  fly  well  dusted  with 
meal,  must  suffer  a  little  at  a  cousin's  table  where  the  fly 
was  au  naturel,  and  the  lady-spiders  must  be  mutually 
shocked  at  each  other's  appearance.  But  the  part  of  the 
mill  she  liked  best  was  the  topmost  story — the  corn-hutch, 
where  there  were  the  great  heaps  of  gram,  which  she  could 
sit  on  and  slide  down  continually.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  this  recreation  as  she  conversed  with  Luke,  to 
whom  she  was  very  communicative,  wishing  him  to  think 
well  of  her  understanding,  as  her  fatlier  did. 

Perhaps  she  felt  it  necessary  to  recover  her  position  with 

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28  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL0S3. 

him  on  the  present  occasion,  for,  as  she  sat  sliding  on  the 
heap  of  grain  near  which  he  was  busying  himself,  she  said, 
at  that  shrill  pitch  which  was  requisite  in  mill  society — 

"I  think  you  never  read  any  book  but  the  Bible  —  did 
you,  Luke?*' 

^^N'ay,  Miss — an'  not  much  o' that,'' said  Luke,  with 
great  frankness.     ^^  I'm  no  reader,  I  aren't." 

"  But  if  I  lent  you  one  of  my  books,  Luke?  I'tc  not 
got  any  very  pretty  books  that  would  be  easy  for  you  to 
read;  out  there's  ^ Pug's  Tour  of  Europe  —  'that  would 
tell  you  all  about  the  different  sorts  of  people  in  the  world, 
.  and  if  you  didn't  understand  the  reading,  the  pictures 
would  help  you — ^they  show  the  looks  and  ways  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  what  they  do.  There  are  the  Dutchmen,  very  fat, 
and  smoking,  you  know— and  one  sitting  on  a  barrel." 

^^  N'ay,  Miss,  I'n  no  opinion  o'  Dutchmen.  There  ben't 
much  good  i'  knowin'  about  them,^' 

'^  But  they're  our  fellow-creatures,  Luke  —  we  ought  to 
know  about  our  fellow-creatures." 

^^Not  much  o'  fellow-creatures,  I  think.  Miss;  all  I 
know — my  old  master,  as  war  a  knowin'  man,  used  to  say, 
says  he,  *If  e'er  I  sow  my  wheat  wi'out  brinin',  I'm  a 
Dutchman,'  says  he;  an'  that  war  as  much  as  to  say  as  a 
Dutchman  war  a  fool,  or  next  door.  Nay,  nay,  I  aren't 
goin'  to  bother  mysen  about  Dutchmen.  There's  fools 
enoo — an'  rogues  enoo — wi'out  lookin'  i'  books  for  'em." 

^'  Oh,  well,"  said  Maggie,  rather  foiled  by  Luke's  unex- 
pectedly decided  views  about  Dutchmen,  ^'perhaps  you 
would  like  *  Animated  N'ature'  better — that's  not  Dutch- 
men, you  know,  but  elephants  and  kangaroos,  and  the 
civet-cat,  and  sun-fish,  and  a  bird  sitting  on  its  tail — I  for- 
got its  name.  There  are  countries  full  of  those  creatures, 
instead  of  horses  and  cows,  you  know.  Shouldn't  you  like 
to  know  about  them,  Luke?" 

^^  Nay,  Miss,  I'n  got  to  keep  count  o'  the  flour  an'  corn — 
I  can't  do  wi'  knowin'  so  many  things  besides  my  work. 
That's  what  brings  folks  to  the  gallows — knowin'  everything 
but  what  they'n  got  to  get  their  bread  by.  An'  they're 
mostly  lies,  I  think,  what's  printed  i'  the  books:  them 
printed  sheets  are,  anyhow,  as  the  men  cry  i'  the  streets." 

^^  Why,  you're  like  my  brother  Tom,  Luke,"  said  Mag- 
gie, wishing  to  turn  the  conversation  agreeably;  **  Tom's 
not  fond  of  reading.  I  love  Tom  so  dearly,  Luke — better 
than  anybody  else  in  the  world.  When  he  grows  up,  I 
shall  keep  his  house,  ahd  we  shall  always  live  together.     I 


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BOY   AND  GIRL.  29 

can  tell  him  everything  he  doesn't  know.  But  I  think 
Tom's  clever,  for  all  he  doesn't  like  books:  he  makes  b^a- 
tiful  whipcord  and  rabbit-pens." 

**  Ah/' said  Luke,  "but  he'll  be  fine  an' vexed,  as  the 
rabbits  are  all  dead." 

"  Dead! "  screamed  Maggie,  jumping  up  from  her  sliding 
seat  on  the  corn.  "  Oh,  dear,  Luke!  Wnat!  the  lop-eared 
one,  arid  the  spotted  doe  that  Tom  spent  all  his  money 
to  buy?" 

"As  dead  as  moles,"  said  Luke,  fetching  his  comparison 
from  the  unmistakable  corpses  nailed  to  the  stable-wall. 

"  Oh,  dear,  Luke,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  piteous  tone,  while 
the  big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek;  "Tom  told  me  to  take 
care  of  'em,  and  1  forgot.     What  shall  I  do?  " 

"  Well,  you  see.  Miss,  they  were  in  that  far  tool-house,  an' 
it  was  nobody's  business  to  see  to  'em.  I  reckon  Master 
Tom  told  Harry  to  feed  'em,  but  there's  no  countin'  on 
Harry — hes  an  offal  creatur  as  iver  come  about  the  prim* 
ises,  he  is.  He  remembers  nothing  but  his  own  inside — an' 
I  wish  it  'ud  gripe  him." 

"  Oh,  Luke,  Tom  told  me  to  be  sure  and  remember  the 
rabbits  every  day;  but  how  could  I;  when  they  didn't  come 
into  my  head,  you  know?  Oh,  he  will  be  so  angry  with  me, 
I  know  he  will,  and  so  sorry  about  his  rabbits — and  so  am  I 
sorry.     Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"Don't  you  fret,  Miss,"  said  Luke,  soothinglv,  "they're 
nash  things,  them  lop-eared  rabbits  —  they'd  happen  ha' 
died,  if  they'd  been  fed.  Things  out  o'  natur  niver  thrive* 
God  A'mighty  doesn't  like  'em.  He  made  the  rabbits'  ear?^ 
to  lie  back,  an'  its  nothin'  but  contrairiness  co  make  'en 
hing  down  like  a  mastiff  dog's.  Master  Tom  'uU  kno\* 
better  nor  buy  such  things  another  time.  Don't  you  fret, 
Miss.  Will  you  come  along  home  wi'  me,  and  see  my  wife? 
I'm  a-goiri'  this  minute." 

The  invitation  offered  an  agreeable  distraction  to  Mag- 
gie's grief,  and  her  tears  gradually  subsided  as  she  trotted 
along  by  Luke's  side  to  his  pleasant  cottage,  which 
stood  with  its  apple  and  pear  trees,  and  with  the  added 
dignity  of  a  lean-to  pig-sty,  at  the  other  end  of  the  Mill 
fields.  Mrs.  Moggs,  Luke's  wife,  was  a  decidedly  agree- 
able acquaintance.  She  exhibited  her  hosnitality  in 
bread  and .  treacle,  and  possessed  various  worKs  of  art. 
Maggie  actually  forgot  that  she  had  any  s;pecial  cause  of 
sadness  this  morning,  as  she  stood  on  a  chair  to  look  at  a 
remarkable  series  of  pictures  representing  the  Prodigal 

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30  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Son  in  the  costume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  except  that, 
as  might  have  been  expected  from  his  defective  moral 
character,  he  had  not,  like  that  accomplished  hero,  the 
taste  and  strength  of  mind  to  dispense  with  a  wig.  But 
the  indefinable  weight  the  dead  rabbits  had  left  on  her 
mind  caused  her  to  feel  more  than  usual  pity  for  the 
career  of  this  weak  youiig  man,  particularly  when  she 
looked  at  the  picture  where  he  leaned  against  a  tree  with 
a  flaccid  appearance,  hie  knee-breeches  unbuttoned,  and 
his  wig  awry,  while  the  swine,  apparently  of  some  foreign 
breed,  seemed  to  insult  him  by  their  good  spirits  over 
their  feast  of  husks. 

"l^m  very  glad  his  father  took  him  back  again — aren't 
you,  Luke?'^  she  said.  ^^For  he  was  very  sorry,  you 
know,  and  wouldn't  do  wrong  again." 

"Eh,  Miss,''  said  Luke,  "he'd  be  no  great  shakes,  I 
doubt,  let's  feyther  do  what  he  would  for  him." 

That  was  a  painful  thought  to  Maggie,  and  she  wished 
much  that  the  subsequent  history  of  the  young  man  had 
not  been  left  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOM  COMES  HOME. 


Tom  was  to  arrive  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was 
another  fluttering  heart  besides  Maggie's  when  it  was  late 
enough  for  the  sound  of  the  gig-wheels  to  be  expected; 
for  if  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  a  strong  feeling,  it  was  fondness 
for  her  boy.  At  last  the  sound  came — that  ^uick  light 
bowling  of  the  gig-wheels — and  in  spite  of  the  wind, 
which  was  blowing  the  clouds  about,  and  was  not  likely  to 
respect  Mrs.  Tulliver's  curls  and  cap-strings,  she  came 
outside  the  door,  and  even  held  her  hand  on  Maggie's 
offending  head,  forgetting  all  the  griefs  of  the  morning. 

"There  he  is,  my  sweet  lad!  Sut,  Lord  ha'  mercy! 
he's  got  never  a  collar  on;. it's  been  lost  on  the  road,  1 11 
be  bound,  and  spoiled  the  set." 

Mrs.  Talliver  stood  with  her  arms  open;  Maggie  jumped 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other;  while  Tom  de- 
sctnded  from  the  gig,  and  said,  with  masculine  reticenqe 


BOY   AKD  GIRL.  31 

as  to  the  tender  emotions,  *' Hallo!  Yap — what!  are  you 
there?^^ 

Nevertheless  he  submitted  to  be  kissed  willingly  enough, 
though  Maggie  hung  on  his  neck  in  rather  a  strangbng 
fashion,  while  his  blue-gray  eyes  wandered  toward  the 
croft  and  the  lambs  and  the  river,  where  he  promised  him- 
self he  would  begin  to  fish  the  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning.  He  was  one  of  those  lads  that  grow  everywhere 
in  England,  and  at  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  look  as 
much  alike  as  goslings: — a  lad  with  light-brown  hair, 
cheeks  of  cream  and  roses,  full  lips,  indeterminate  nose 
and  eyebrows — a  physiognomy  in  which  it  seems  impossible 
to  discern  anything  but  the  generic  character  of  boyhood; 
as  different  as*  possible  from  poor  Maggie's  phiz,  which 
Nature  seemed  to  have  moulded  and  colored  with  the  most 
decided  intention.  But  that  same  Nature  has  the  deep 
cunning  which  hides  itself  under  the  appearance  of  open- 
ness, so  that  simple  people  think  they  can  see  through  her 
quite  well,  and  all  the  while  she  is  secretly  preparing  a 
refutation  of  their  confident  prophecies.  Under  these 
average  boyish  physiognomies  that  she  seems  to  turn  off 
by  the  gross,  she  conceals  some  of  her  most  rigid,  inflexi- 
ble purposes,  some  of  her  most  unmodifiable  characters; 
and  the  dark-eyed,  demonstrative,  rebellious  girl  may  after 
all  turn  out  to  be  a  passive  being  compared  with  this 
pink-and-white  bit  of  masculinity  with  the  indeterminate 
features. 

*^  Maggie,^'  said  Tom,  confidentially,  taking  her  into  a 
corner,  as  soon  as  his  mother  was  gone  out  to  examine  his 
box,  and  the  warm  parlor  had  taken  off  the  chill  he  had 
felt  from  the  long  drive,  *^ypu  don^t  know  what  IVe  got 
in  my  pockets, ^^  nodding  his  head  up  and  down  as  a  means 
of  rousing  her  sense  of  mystery. 

^*No,^'  said  Maggie.  *^How  stodgy  they  look,  Tom! 
Is  it  marls  (marbles)  or  cobnuts?"  Maggie's  heart  sank  a 
little,  because  Tom  always  said  it  was  **  no  good'^  playing 
with  her  at  those  games — she  played  so  badly. 

*^  Marls!  no;  Fve  swopped  all  my  marls  with  the  little 
fellows,  and  cobnuts  are  no  fun,  you  silly,  only  when  the 
nuts  are  green.  But  see  here!"  He  drew  something  half 
out  of  his  right-hand  pocket. 

^*  What  is  it?"  said  Maggie,  in  a  whisper.  "I  can  see 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  yellow." 

''Why,  it's a new guess,  Maggie!" 

^'  Oh,  I  can't  guess,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently. 


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62  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"Don't  be  a  spitfire,  else  I  won't  tell  you,"  said  Tom, 
thrusting  his  hana  back  into  his  pocket,  and  looking  deter- 
mined. 

**No,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  imploringly,  laying  hold  of 
the  arm  that  was  held  stiffly  in  the  pocket.  "Tm  not 
cross,  Tom;  it  was  only  because  I  can't  bear  guessing. 
Please  be  good  to  me." 

Tom's  arm  slowly  relaxed,  and  he  said,  *^  Well,  then,  it's 
a  new  fish-line — two  new  uns — one  for  you,  Maggie,  all  to 
yourself.  I  wouldn't  go  halves  in  the  toffee  and  ginger- 
bread on  purpose  to  save  the  money;  and  Gibson  and 
Spouncer  fought  with  me  because  I  wouldn't.     And  here's 

hooks;  see  here! 1  say,  won't  we  go  and  fish  to-morrow 

down  by  the  Round  Pool?  And  you  shall xjatch  your  own 
fish,  Maggie,  and  put  the  worms  on,  and  everything — 
won't  it  be  fun?" 

Maggie's  answer  was  to  throw  her  arms  around  Tom's 
neck  and  hug  him,  and  hold  her  cheek  against  his  without 
speaking,  while  he  slowly  unwound  some  of  the  line, 
saying,  after  a  pause — 

*'  Wasn't  I  a  good  brother,  now,  to  buy  you  a  line  all  to 
yourself?  You  know,  I  needn't  have  bought  it,  if  I  hadn't 
liked." 

'*  Yes,  very,  very  good 1  do  love  you,  Tom." 

Tom  had  put  the  line  back  in  his  pocket,  and  was 
looking  at  the  hooks  one  by  one,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  And  the  fellows  fought  me,  because  I  wouldn't  give  in 
about  the  toffee." 

"  Oh,  dear!  I  wish  they  wouldn't  fight  at  your  school, 
Tom.     Didn't  it  hurt  you  ?  " 

*'  Hurt  me?  no,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  the  hooks  again, 
taking  out  a  large  pocket-knife,  and  slowly  opening  tlie 
largest  blade,  which  he  looked  at  meditatively  as  he  rubbed 
his  finger  along  it.     Then  he  added — 

"I  gave  Spouncer  a  black  eye,  1  know — that's  what  he 
got  by  wanting  to  leather  me.  I  wasn't  going  to  go  halves 
Because  anybody  leathered  me." 

"Oh,  how  brave  you  are,  Tom!  I  think  you're  like 
Sampson.  If  there  came  a  lion  roaring  at  me,  I  think 
you'd  fight  him  —  wouldn't  you,  Tom?" 

"How  can  a  lion  come  roaring  at  you,  you  silly  thing? 
There's  no  lions,  only  in  the  shows." 

"No;  but  if  we  were  in  the  lion  countries — I  mean  in 
Africa,  where  it's  very  hot — the  lions  eat  people  there.  I 
can  show  it  you  in  the  book  where  I  read  it." 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  33 

'^  Well,  I  should  get  a  gun  and  shoot  him/' 

'^But  if  you  hadn't  got  a  gun — we  might  have  gone 
out,  you  know,  not  thinking — just  as  we  go  fishing;  and 
then  a  great  lion  might  run  toward  us  roaring,  and  we 
oouldn't  get  away  from  him.    What  should  you  do,  Tom?'' 

Tom  paused,  and  at  last  turned  away  contemptuously, 
saying,  ^^But  the  lion  isnH  coming.  What's  the  use  of 
talking?" 

*'But  I  like  to  fancy  how  it  would  be,"  said  Maggie, 
following  him.    "Just  think  what  you  would  do,  Tom." 

"Oh,  don't  bother,  Maggie!  you're  such  a  silly — I  shall 
^^o  and  see  my  rabbits." 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  flutter  with  fear.  She  dared 
not  tell  the  sad  truth  at  once,  but  she  walked  after  Tom 
in  trembling  silence  as  he  went  out,  thinking  how  she 
could  tell  him  the  news  so  as  to  soften  at  once  nid  sorrow 
and  his  anger;  for  Maggie  dreaded  Tom's  anger  of  all 
chings — it  was  quite  a  different  anger  from  her  own. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  timidly,  when  they  were  out  of  doors, 
^^how  much  money  did  you  give  for  your  rabbits?" 

"  Two  half-crowns  ana  a  sixpence,'  said  Tom,  promptly. 

"I  think  I've  got  a  great  deal  more  than  that  in  my 
steel  purse  up-stairs.     I'll  ask  mother  to  give  it  you." 

"What  for ?^'  said  Tom.  "I  don't  want  your  money, 
you  silly  thing.  I've  got  a  great  deal  more  money  than 
you,  because  I'm  a  boy.  I  always  have  half-sovereigns  and 
sovereigns  for  my  Christmas  boxes,  because  I  shall  be  a 
man,  and  you  only  have  five-shilling  pieces,  because  you're 
only  a  girl." 

"Well,  but,  Tom — if  mother  would  let  me  give  you 
two  half-crowns  and  a  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  to  put 
into  your  pocket  and  spend,  you  know;  and  buy  some  more 
rabbits  with  it?" 

"  More  rabbits?    I  don't  want  any  more." 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,  they're  all  dead." 

Tom  stopped  immediately  in  his  walk  and  turned  round 
toward  Maggie.  "  You  forgot  to  feed  'em,  then,  and  Harry 
forgot?"  he  said,  his  color  heightening  for  a  moment,  but 
•  soon  subsiding.  "I'll  pitch  into  Harry — I'll  have  him 
turned  away.  And  I  don't  love  you,  Maggie.  You  shan't 
go  fishing  with  me  to-morrow.  I  told  you  to  go  and  see 
the  rabbits  every  day."    He  walked  on  again. 

"Yes,  but  I  forgot — and  I  couldn't  hel^)  it,  indeed, 
Tom.     I'm  so  very  sorry,"  said  Maggie,  while  the  tears 
rushed  fast. 
a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


34  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"You're  a  naughty  girl/^  said  Tom,  severely,  "and  I'm 
sorry  I  bought  you  the  fish-line.     I  don't  love  you." 

"Oh,  Tom,  it's  very  cruel,"  sobbed  Maggie.  "I'd  for- 
give you,  if  you  forgot  anything — I  wouldn't  mind  what 
you  did — I'd  forgive  you  and  love  you." 

"  Yes,  you're  a  silly — but  I  never  do  forget  things — / 
don't." 

"Oh,  please  forgive  me,  Tom;  my  heart  will  break," 
said  Maggie,  shaking  with  sobs,  clinging  to  Tom's  arm, 
and  laying  her  wet  cheek  on  his  shoulder. 

Tom  shook  her  off,  and  stopped  again,  saying  in  a  per- 
emptory tone,  "Now,  Maggie,  you  just  listen.  Aren't  I 
a  good  brother  to  you?" 

"  Ye-ye-es,"  sobbed  Maggie,  her  chin  rising  and  falling 
convulsedly. 

^*  Didn't  I  think  about  your  fish-line  all  this  quarter,  and 
mean  to  buy  it,  and  saved  my  money  o'  purpose,  and 
wouldn't  go  halves  in  the  toffee,  and  Spouncer  fought  me 
because  I  wouldn't?" 

"Ye-ye-es and  I lo-lo-love  you  so,  Tom." 

"But  you're  a  naughty  girl.  Last  holidays  you  licked 
the  paint  off  my  lozen'ge-box,  and  the  holidays  before  that 
you  let  the  boat  drag  my  fish-line  down  when  I'd  set  you 
to  watch  it,  and  you  pushed  your  head  through  my  kite, 
all  for  nothing." 

"But  I  didn't  mean,"  said  Maggie;  "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Yes,  you  could,"  said  Tom,  "if  you'd  minded  what 
you  were  doing.  And  you're  a  naughty  girl,  and  you 
shan't  go  fishing  with  me  to-morrow." 

With  this  terrible  conclusion,  Tom  ran  away  from  Mag- 
gie toward  the  mill,  meaning  to  greet  Luke  there,  and 
complain  to  him  of  Harry. 

Maggie  stood  motionless,  except  for  her  sobs,  for  a 
minute  or  two:  then  she  turned  round  and  ran  into  the 
house,  and  up  to  her  attic,  where  she  sat  on  the  floor,  and 
laid  her  head  against  the  worm-eaten  shelf,  with  a  crush- 
ing sense  of  misery.  Tom  was  come  home,  and  she  had 
thought  how  happy  she  should  be — and  now  he  was  cruel 
to  her.  What  use  was  aiwthing,  if  Tom  didn't  love  her? 
Oh,  he  was  very  cruel!  Hadn't  she  wanted  to  give  him 
the  money,  and  said  how  very  sorry  she  was?  She  knew 
she  was  naughty  to  her  mother,  but  she  had^  never  been 
naughty  to  Tom— had  never  meant  to  be  naughty  to  him. 

"Oh,  he  is  cruel!"  Maggie  sobbed  aloud,  finding  a 
wretched    pleasure  in   the  hollow  resonance  that  came 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


BOY   AND  GIRL.  35 

through  the  long  empty  space  of  the  attic.  She  never 
thought  of  beating  or  grinding  her  Fetish;  she  was  too 
miserable  to  be  angry. 

These  bitter  sorrows  of  childhood!  when  sorrow  is  all 
new  and  strange,  when  hope  has  not  yet  got  wings  to  fly 
beyond  the  days  and  weeks,  and  the  space  from  summer 
to  summer  seems  measureless. 

Maggie  soon  thought  she  had  been  hours  in  the  attic, 
and  it  must  be  tea-time,  and  they  were  all  having  their 
tea,  and  not  thinking  of  her.  Well,  then,  ghe  would  stay 
up  there  and  starve  herself — hide  herself  behind  the  tub, 
and  stay  there  all  night;  and  then  they  would  all  be 
frightened,  and  Tom  would  be  sorry.  Thus  Maggie 
thought  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  as  she  crept  behind 
the  tub;  but  presently  she  began  to  cry  again  at  the  idea 
that  they  didn^t  mind  her  being  there.  If  she  went  down 
again  to  Tom  now — would  he  forgive  her? — perhaps  her 
father  would  be  there,  and  he  would  take  her  part.  But 
then  she  wanted  Tom  to  forgive  her  because  he  loved  her, 
not- because  his  father  told  him.  No,  she  would  never  go 
down  if  Tom  didn't  come  to  fetch  her.  This  resolution 
lasted  in  great  intensity  for  five  dark  minutes  behind  the 
tub;  but  then  the  need  of  being  loved,  the  strongest  need 
in  poor  Maggie's  nature,  began  to  wrestle  with  her  pride, 
and  soon  threw  it.  She  crept  from  behind  her  tub  into 
the  twilight  of  the  long  attic,  but  just  then  she  heard  a 
quick  footstep  on  the  stairs. 

Tom  had  been  too  much  interested  in  his  talk  with 
Luke,,  in  going  the  round  of  the  premises,  walking  in  and 
out  where  he  pleased,  and  whittling  sticks  without  any 
particular  reason,  except  that  he  didn't  whittle  sticks  at 
school,  to  think  of  Maggie  and  the  effect  his  anger  had 
produced  on  her.  He  meant  to  punish  her,  and  that 
business  having  been  performed,  he  occupied  himself  with 
other  matters,  like  a  practical  person.  But  when  he  had 
been  called  in  to  tea,  his  father  said,  ^^Why,  where's  the 
little  wench?"  and  Mrs.  TuUiver,  almost  at  the  same 
moment,  said,  "Where's  your  little  sister?" — both  of 
them  having  supposed  that  Maggie  and  Tom  had  been 
together  all  the  afternoon. 

''1  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  He  didn't  want  to  "tell" 
of  Maggie,  though  he  was  angry  with  her;  for  Tom 
Tulliver  was  a  lad  of  honor. 

^*Wliat!    hasn't  she  been  playing  with    you  all   this 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


36  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

while?"  said  the  father.     **  She^d  been  thinking  o'  nothing 
but  your  coming  home." 

**I  haven^t  seen  her  this  two  hours/'  says  Tom,  com- 
mencing on  the  plumcake. 

"Goodness  heart!  shc^s  got  drownded!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  rising  from  her  seat  and  running  to  the  window. 
"How  could  you  let  her  do  so?"  she  added,  as  became  a 
fearful  woman,  accusing  she  didn't  know  whom  of  she 
didn't  know  what. 

"Nay,  najs  she's  none  drownded,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"You've  been  naughty  to  her,  I  doubt,  Tom?" 

"I'm  sure  I  haven't,  father,"  said  Tom,  indignantly. 
"  I  think  she's  in  the  house." 

"Perhaps  up  in  that  attic,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "a-sing- 
ing  and  talking  to  herself,  and  forgetting  all  about  meal- 
.  times." 

"You  go  and  fetch  her  down,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
rather  sharply,  his  perspicacity  or  his  fatherly  fondness  for 
Maggie  malting  him  suspect  that  the  lad  had  been  hard 
upon  "the  little  un,"  else  she  would  never  have  left  his. 
side.  "And  be  good  to  her,  do  you  hear?  Else  I'll  let 
you  know  better." 

Tom  never  disobeyed  his  father,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  was  a 
peremptory  man,  and,  as  he  said,  would  never  let  anybody 
get  hold  of  his  whip-hand;  but  he  went  out  rather  sul- 
lenly, carrying  his  piece  of  plumcake,  and  not  intending 
to  reprieve  Maggie's  punishment,  which  was  no  more  than 
she  deserved.  Tom  was  only  thirteen,  and  had  no  de- 
cided views  in  grammar  and  arithmetic,  regarding  them 
for  the  most  part  as  open  questions,  but  he  was  particularly 
clear  and  positive  on  one  point — namely,  that  he  would 
punish  everybody  who  deserved  it:  why,  he  wouldn't  have 
minded  being  punished  himself,  if  he  deserved  it;  but, 
then,  he  never  did  deserve  it. 

It  was  Tom's  step,  then,  that  Maggie  heard  on  the  stairs, 
when  her  need  of  love  had  triumphed  over  her  pride,  and  she 
was  going  down  with  her  swollen  eyes  and  dishevelled  hair 
to  beg  for  pity.  At  least  her  father  would  stroke  her  head 
and  say,  "Never  mind,  my  wench."  It  is  a  wonderful 
subduer,  this  need  of  love — this  hunger  of  the  heart — as 
peremptory  as  that  other  hunger  by  which  Nature  forces 
us  to  submit  to  the  yoke,  and  change  the  face  of  the 
world. 

But  she  knew  Tom's  step,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat 
violently  with  the  sudden  shock  of  hope.     He  only  stood 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  37 

still  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said,  "Maggie,  you're  to 
come  down.'^  But  she  rushed  to  him  and  clung  round  his 
neck,  sobbing,  *'0  Tom,  please  forgive  me  —  I  can't  bear 
it  —  I  will  always  be  good — always  remember  things  —  do 
love  mc — please,  dear  Tom!'* 

We  learn  to  restrain  ourselves  as  we  get  older.  We  keep 
apart  when  we  have  quarreled,  express  ourselves  in  well- 
bred  phrases,  and  in  this  way  preserve  a  dignified  aliena- 
tion, showing  much  firmness  on  one  side,  and  swallowing 
much  grief  on  the  other.  We  no  longer  approximate  in 
our  behavior  to  the  mere  impulsiveness  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals, but  conduct  ourselves  in  every  respect  like  members 
of  a  highly  civilized  society.  Maggie  and  Tom  were  still 
very  much  like  young  animals,  and  so  she  could  rub  her 
cheek  against  his,  and  kiss  his  ear  in  a  random,  sobbing 
way;  and  there  were  tender  fibres  in  the  lad  that  had  been 
used  to  answer  to  Maggie's  fondling;  so  that  he  behaved 
with  a  weakness  quite  inconsistent  with  his  resolution  te 
punish  her  as  much  as  she  deserved:  he  actually  began  t(* 
kiss  her  in  return,  and  say  — 

'^  Don't  cry,  then,  Magsic  —  here,  eat  a  bit  o'  cake." 

Maggie's  sobs  began  to  subside,%and  she  put  out  hei 
mouth  for  the  cake  and  bit  a  piece;  and  then  Tom  bit  a 
piece,  just  for  company,  and  they  ate  together  and  rubbed 
each  other's  cheeks  and  brows  and  noses  together,  while 
they  ate,  with  a  humiliating  resemblance^  to  two  friendly 
ponies. 

^'^Come  along,  Magsie,  and  have  tea,"  said  Tom  at  last, 
when  tliere  was  no  more  cake  except  what  was  down-stairs. 

So  ended  the  sorrows  of  this  day,  and  the  next  morning 
Maggie  was  trotting  4vith  her  own  fishing-rod  in  one  hand 
and  a  handle  of  the  basket  in  the  other,  stepping  always, 
by  a  peculiar  gift,  in  the  muddiest  places,  and  looking 
darkly  radiant  from  under  lier  beaver-bonnet  because  Tom 
was  good  to  her.  She  had  told  Tom,  however,  that  she 
should  like  him  to  put  the  worms  on  the  hook  for  her, 
although  she  accepted  his  word  when  he  assured  her  that 
worms  couldn't^  feel  (it  was  Tom's  private  opinion  that  it 
didn't  much  matter  if  they  did).  He  knew  all  about 
worms,  and  fish,  and  those  things;  and  what  birds  were 
mischievous,  and  how  padlocks  opened,  and  which  way  the 
handles  of  the  gates  were  to  be  lifted.  Maggie  thought 
this  sort  of  knowledge  was  very  wonderful — much  more 
difficult  than  remembering  what  was  in  the  books;  and  she 
was  rather  in  awe  of  Tom's  superiority,  for  ho  was  tb- 


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38  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

only  person  who  called  her  knowledge  "stufip/^  and  did 
not  feel  surprised  at  her  cleverness.  Tom,  indeed,  was  of 
opinion  that  Maggie  was  a  silly  little  thing;  all  girls  wore 
silly  —  they  couldn't  throw  a  stone  so  as  to  hit  anything, 
couldn't  do  anything  with  a  pocket-knife,  and  were 
frightened  at  frogs.  Still  he  was  very  fond  of  his  sister, 
and  meant  always  to  take  care  of  her,  make  her  his  house- 
keeper, and  punish  her  when  she  did  wrong. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  Round  Pool — that 
wonderful  pool,  which  the  floods  had  made  a  long  whik* 
ago:  no  oae  knew  how  deep  it  was;  and  it  was  mysterious, 
too,  that  it  should  be  almost  a  perfect  round,  framed  in 
with  willows  and  tall  reeds,  so  that  the  water  was  only  to 
be  seen  when  you  got  close  to  the  brink.  The  sight  of 
the  old  favorite  spot  always  heightened  Tom's  good-humor, 
and  he  spoke  to  Maggie  in  the  most  amicable  whispers, 
as  he  opened  the  precious  basket,  and  prepared  their 
tackle.  He  threw  her  line  for  her,  and  put  the  rod  into 
her  hand.  Maggie  thought  it  probable  that  the  small  fisli 
would  come  to  her  hook,  and  the  large  ones  to  Tom's. 
But  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the  fish,  and  was  looking 
dreamily  at  the  glassy^ water,  when  Tom  said,  in  a  loud 
whisper,  ^^Look,  look,  Maggie!"  and  came  running  to 
prevent  her  from  snatching  her  line  away. 

Maggie  was  frightened  lest  she  had  been  doing  some- 
thing wrong,  as  usual,  but  presently  Tom  drew  out  her 
line  and  brought  a  large  tench  bouncing  on  the  grass. 

Tom  was  excited. 

'^  0,  Magsie,  you  little  duck!  Empty  the  basket." 

Maggie  was  not  conscious  of  unusual  merit,  but  it  was 
enough  that  Tom  called  her  Magsie,  ajid  was  pleased  with 
her.  There  was  nothing  to  mar  her  delight  in  the  whispers 
and  the  dreamy  silences,  when  she  listened  to  the  light  dip- 
ping sounds  of  the  rising  fish,  and  the  gentle  rustling,  as  if 
the  willows  and  the  reeds  and  the  water  had  their  happy 
whisperings  also.  Maggie  thought  it  would  make  a  very 
nice  heaven  to  sit  by  the  pool  in  that  way,  and  never  be 
scolded.  She  never  knew  she  had  a  bite  till  Tom  told  her; 
but  she  liked  fishing  very  much.  ° 

It  was  one  of  their  happy  mornings.  They  trotted  along 
and  sat  down  together,  with  no  thought  that  life  would  ever 
change  much  for  them:  they  would  only  get  bigger  and  not 
go  to  school,  and  it  would  always  be  like  the  holidays;  they 
would  always  live  together  and  be  fond  of  each  other.  And 
the  mill  with  its  booming — the  great  chestnut-tree  under 

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BOY  AKD  GIBL.  30 

which  they  played  at  houses — their  own  little  river,  the 
Ripple,  where  the  banks  seemed  like  home,  and  Tom  was 
always  seeing  the  water-rats*  while  Maggie  gathered  the 
purple  plumy  tops  of  the  reeds,  which  she  forgot  and  dropped 
afterward  —  above  all,  the  great  Floss,  along  which  they 
wandered  with  a  sense  of  travel,  to  see  the  rushing  spring- 
tide, the  awful  Eagre,  come  up  like  a  hungry  monster,  or 
to  see  the  Great  Ash  which  had  once  wailed  and  groaned 
like  a  man — these  things  would  always  be  just  the  same  tc 
them.  Tom  thought  people  were  at  a  disadvantage  whv 
lived  on  any  other  spot  of  the  globe;  and  Maggie,  when  sht 
read  about  Christiana  passing  ^Hhe  river  over  which  there 
is  no  bridge,^'  always  saw  the  Floss  between  the  green  past- 
ures by  the  Great  Ash. 

Life  did  change  for  Tom  and  Maggie;  and  yet  thev  were 
not  wrong  in  believing  that  the  thoughts  and  loves  of  these 
first  years  would  always  make  part  of  their  lives.  We  could 
never  have  loved  the  earth  so  well  if  we  had  had  no  clii  Id- 
hood  in  it, — if  it  wore  not  the  earth  where  the  same  flowers 
come  up  again  every  spring  that  we  used  to  gather  with  our 
tiny  fingers  as  we  sat  lisping  to  ourselves  on  the  grass — th^^ 
same  hips  and  haws  on  the  autumn  hedgerows — the  sam 
redbreasts  that  we  used  to  call  "God's  birds,'' because  the. 
did  no  harm  to  the  precious  crops.  What  novelty  is  worth 
that  sweet  monotony  where  everything  is  known,  and  loved 
because  it  is  known? 

The  wood  I  walk  in  on  this  mild  May  day,  with  the 
young  yellow-brown  foliage  of  the  oaks  between  me  and  the 
blue  sky,  the  white  star-flowers  and  the  blue-eyed  speed- 
well and  the  ground  ivy  at  my  feet — what  grove  of  tropic 
palms,  what  strange  ferns  or  splendid  broad-petalled  blos- 
soms, could  ever  thrill  such  deep  and  delicate  fibres  within 
me  as  this  home  scene?  These  familiar  flowers,  these  well- 
remembered  bird-notes,  this  sky,  with  its  fitful  brightness, 
these  furrowed  and  grassy  fields,  each  with  a  sort  of  person- 
ality given  to  it  by  the  capricious  hedgerows — such  things 
as  these  are  the  mother  tongue  of  our  imagination,  the 
language  that  is  laden  with  all  the  subtle  inextricable  asso- 
ciations the  fleeting  hours  of  our  childhood  left  behind 
them.  Our  delight  in  the  sunshine  on  the  deep-bladed 
grass  to-day,  might  be  no  more  than  the  faint  perception  of 
wearied  souls,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sunshine  and  the  grass 
in  the  far-off  years  which  still  live  in  us,  and  transform  our 
perception  into  love. 


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40  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  AUKTS  AND  UNCLES  ARE  COMING. 

It  was  Easter  week,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver^s  cheesecakes 
were  more  exquisitely  light  than  usual:  *'a  puff  o^  wind 
'ud  make  'em  blow  about  like  feathers,"  Kezia,  the  house- 
maid, said, — feeling  proud  to  live  under  a  mistress  who 
could  make  such  pastry;  so  that  uo  season  or  circumstances 
could  have  been  more  propitious  for  a  family  party,  even 
if  it  had  not  been  advisable  to  consult  sister  Glegg  and 
sister  Pullet  about  Tom's  going  to  school. 

*^I'd  as  lief  not  invite  sister  Deane  this  time,''  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "  for  she's  as  jealous  and  having'  as  can  be,  and  's 
allays  trying  to  make  the  worst  o'  my  poor  children  to 
their  aunts  and  uncles." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "ask  her  to  come.  I 
never  hardly  get  a  bit  o'  talk  with  Deane  now:  we  haven't 
had  him  this  six  months.  What's  it  matter  what  she 
says? — my  children  need  be  beholding  to  nobody." 

"That's  what  you  allays  say,  Mr.  Tulliver;  but  I'm 
sure  there's  nobody  o'  your  side,  neither  aunt  nor 
uncle,  to  leave  'em  so  much  as  a  five-pound  note  for  a  leg- 
acy. And  there's  sister  Glegg,  and  sister  Pullet  too,  sav- 
ing money  unknown  —  for  they  put  by  all  their  own 
interest  and  butter-money  too;  their  husbands  buy  'em 
everything."  Mj;^.  Tulliver  was  a  mild  woman,  but  even 
a  sheep  will  face  about  a  little  when  she  has  lambs. 

"  Tchuh!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  It  takes  a  big  loaf  when 
there's  many  to  breakfast.  What  signifies  your  sisters'  bits 
o'  money  when  they've  got  half  a  dozen  nevvies  and  nieces 
to  divide  it  among?  And  your  sister  Deane  won't  get  'em 
to  leave  all  to  one,  I  reckon,  and  make  the  country  cry 
shame  on  'em  when  they  are  dead?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  won't  get  'em  to  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "for  my  children  are  so  awk'ard  wi'  their  aunts 
and  uncles.  Maggie's  ten  times  naughtier  when  they  come 
than  she  is  other  days,  and  Tom  doesn't  like  'em,  bless 
him — ^though  it's  more  nat'ral  in  a  boy  than  a  gell.  And 
there's  Lucy  Deane's  such  a  good  child — ^you  may  set  her 
on  a  stool,  and  there  she'll  sit  for  an  hour  together,  and 
never  offer  to  get  off.  I  can't  help  loving  the  child  as  if 
she  WAS  my  own;  and  I'm  sure  she's  more  like  my  child 

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BOY  AND  GIBL.  41 

than  sister  Deane's,  for  she'd  allays  a  very  poor  color  for 
one  of  our  family,  sister  Deane  had." 

"Well,  well,  if  you're  fond  o'  the  child,  ask  her  father 
and  mother  to  bring  her  with  'em.  And  won't  you  ask 
their  aunt  and  uncle  Moss  too?  and  some  o'  their  children?" 

'^  Oh,  dear,  Mr.  Tulliver,  why,  there'd  be  eight  people 
besides  the  children,  and  I  must  put  two  more  leaves  i' 
the  table,  besides  reaching  down  more  o'  the  dinner-serv- 
ice; and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  as  my  sisters  and  your 
«ister  don't  suit  well  together." 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  like,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
taking  up  his  hat  and  walking  out  to  the  mill.  Few  wives 
were  more  submissive  than  Mrs.  Tulliver  on  all  points 
unconnected  with  her  family  relations;  but  she  had  Deen  a 
Miss  Dodson,  and  the  Dodsons  were  a  very  respectable 
family  indeed — as  much  looked  up  to  as  any  in  their  own 
parish,  or  the  next  to  it.  The  Miss  Dodsons  had  always 
been  thought  to  hold  up  their  heads  very  high,  and  no  one 
was  surprised  the  two  eldest  had  married  so  well — not  at 
an  early  age,  for  that  was  not  the  practice  of  the  Dodson 
family.  There  were  particular  ways  of  doing  everything 
in  that  family:  particular  ways  of  bleaching  the  linen,  of 
making  the  cowslip  wine,  curing  the  hams,  and  keeping 
the  bottled  gooseberrfes;  so  that  no  daughter  of  that  house 
could  be  indifferent  to  the  privilege  of  having  been  born  a 
Dodson,  rather  than  a  Gibson  or  a  Watson.  Funerals 
were  always  conducted  with  a  peculiar  propriety  in  the 
Dodson  family:  the  hat-bands  were  never  of  a  blue  shade, 
the  gloves  never  split  at  the  thumb,  everybody  was  a 
mourner  who  ought  to  be,  and  there  were  always  scarfs  for 
the  bearers.  When  one  of  the  family  was  in  trouble  or 
sickness,  all  the  rest  went  to  visit  the  unfortunate  mem- 
ber, usually  at  the  same  time,  and  did  not  shrink  from 
uttering  the  most  disagreeable  truths  that  correct  family 
feeling  dictated :  if  the  illness  or  trouble  was  the  sufferer's 
own  fault,  it  was  not  in  the  practice  of  the  Dodson  family 
to  shrink  from  saying  so.  In  short,  there  was  in  this 
family  a  peculiar  tradition  as  to  what  was  the  right  thing 
in  household  management  and  social  demeanor,  and  the 
only  bitter  circumstance  attending  this  superiority  was  a 
painful  inability  to  approve  the  condiments  or  the  conduct 
of  families  ungoverned  by  the  Dodson  tradition.  A  female 
Dodson,  when  in  "strange  houses,"  always  ate  dry  bread 
with  her  tea,  and  declined  any  sort  of  preserves,  having 
no  confidence  in  the  butter,  and  thinking  that  the  pre- 

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42  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

serves  had  probably  begun  to  ferment  from  want  of  due 
sugar  and  boiling.  There  were  some  Dodsons  less  like 
the  family  than  others  —  that  was  admitted;  but  in  so  far 
as  they  were  "kin/'  they  were  of  necessity  better  than 
those  who  were  "no  kin/^  And  it  is  remarkable  that 
while  no  individual  Dodson  was  satisfied  witli  any  other 
individual  Dodson,  each  was  satisfied,  not  only  with  him 
or  her  self,  but  with  the  Dodsons  collectively.  The 
feeblest  member  of  a  family  —  the  one  who  has  the  least 
character  —  is  often  the  merest  epitome  of  the  family 
habits  and  traditions;  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  a  thorough 
Dodson,  though  a  mild  one,  as  small-beer,  so  long  as  it  is 
anything,  is  only  describable  as  very  weak  ale:  and  though 
she  had  groaned  a  little  in  her  youth  under  the  yoke  of 
her  elder  sisters,  and  still  shed  occasional  tears  at  their 
sisterly  reproaches,  it  was  not  in  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  be  an 
innovater  on  the  family  ideas.  She  was  thankful  to  have 
been  a  Dodson,  and  to  have  one  child  who  took  after  her 
own  family,  at  least  in  his  features  and  complexion,  in  lik- 
ing salt  and  in  eating  beans,  which  a  Tulliver  never  did. 

In  other  respects  the  true  Dodson  was  partly  latent  iu 
Tom,  and  he  was  as  far  from  appreciating  his  "kin"  on 
the  mother's  side  as  Maggie  herself;  generally  absconding 
for  the  day  with  a  large  supply  of  the  most  portable  food, 
when  he  received  timely  warning  that  his  aunts  and  uncles 
were  coming;  a  moral  symptom  from  which  his  aunt 
Glegg  deduced  the  gloomiest  views  of  his  future..  It  was 
rather. hard  on  Maggie  that  Tom  always  absconded  without 
letting  her  into  the  secret,  but  the  weaker  sex  are  acknowl- 
edged to  be  serious  impedimenta  in  casQS  of  flight. 

On  Wednesday,  the  day  before  the  aunts  and  uncles 
were  coming,  there  were  such  various  and  suggestive 
scents,  as  of  plumcakes  in  the  oven  and  jellies  in  the  hot 
state,  mingled  with  the  aroma  of  gravy,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  feel  altogether  gloomy:  there  was  hope  in  the  air. 
Tom  and  Maggie  made  several  inroads  into  the  kitchen, 
and,  like  other  marauders,  were  induced  to  keep  aloof  for 
a  time  only  by  being  allowed  to  carry  away  a  sufficient  load 
of  booty. 

'*Tom,"  said  Maggiie,  as  they  sat  on  the  boughs  of  the 
elder-tree,  eating  their  jam-puffs,  "shall  you  run  away 
to-morrow?'^  ' 

"No,"  said  Tom,  slowly,  when  he  had  finished  his  puff, 
and  was  eyeing  the  third,  which  was  to  be  divided  between 
them  —  "  no,  I  shan't. " 


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!boy  and  gi«l.  43 

''Why,  Tom?    Because  Lucy's  coming?** 

''  No/'  said  Tom,  opening  bis  pocket-knife  and  holding 
it  over  the  puff,  with  his  head  on  one  side  in  a  dubitativu 
manner.  (It  was  a  difficult  problem  to  divide  that  very 
irregular  polygon  into  two  equal  parts.)  "  What  do  /  care 
about  Lucy?    She's  only  a  girl — she  can't  play  at  band  v." 

"Is  it  the  tipsy-cake,  then?"  said  Maggie,  exerting  her 
hypothetic  powers,  while  she  leaned  forward  toward  Tom 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the* hovering  knife. 

"  No,  you  silly,  that'll  be  good  the  day  after.  It's  the 
pudden.  I  know  what  the  pudden's  to  be — apricot  roll- 
up — 0  my  buttons!" 

With  this  interjection,  the  knife  descended  on  the  puff 
and  it  was  in  two,  but  the  result  was  not  satisfactory  (o 
Tom,  for  he  still  eyed  the  halves  doubtfully.  At  last  he 
said — 

'^  Shut  your  eyes,  Maggie." 

'^  What  for?  "^ 

''You  never  mind  what  for.  Shut  'em  when  I  tell 
you." 

Maggie  ob'eyed. 

'^Now,  which'll  you  have,  Maggie — right  hand  or  left?" 

"  I'll  have  that  with  the  jam  run  out,"  said  Maggie, 
keeping  her  eyes  shut  to  please  Tom. 

'*  Why,  you  don't  like  that,  you  silly.  You  may  have  it 
if  it  comes  to  you  fair,  but  I  shan't  give  it  you  without. 
Right  or  left — ^you  choose,  now.  Ila-a-a!"  said  Tom,  in  a 
tone  of  exasperation,  as  Maggie  peeped.  "  You  keep  your 
eyes  shut,  now,  else  you  shan't  have  any." 

Maggie's  power  of  sacrifice  did  not  extend  so  far;  indeed, 
I  fear  she  cared  less  that  Tom  should  enjoy  the  utmost 
possible  amount  of  puff,  than  that  he  should  be  pleased 
with  her  for  giving  him  the  best  bit.  So  she  shut  her  eyes 
quite  close,  till  Tom  told  her  to  "say  which,"  and  then 
Muld,  "Left  hand." 

"  You've  got  it,"  said  Tom,  in  rather  a  bitter  tone. 

"What!  tne'bit  with  the  jam  run  out?" 

'^  No;  here,  take  it,"  said  Tom,  firmly,  handing  decid- 
edly the  best  piece  to  Maggie. 

"Oh,  please,  Tom,  have  it:  I  don't  mind — I  like  the 
•ither:  please  take  this." 

"  No,  I  shan't,^'  said  Tom,  almost  crossly,  beginning  on 
\  is  own  inferior  piece. 

'Maggie,  thinking  it  was  no  use  to  contend  further,  begbn^ 
^*  »,  and  ate  up  her  half  puff  with  considerable  relish  as 


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44  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

well  as  rapidity.  But  Tom  had  finished  first,  and  had  to 
look  on  while  Maggie  ate  her  last  morsel  or  two,  feeling  in 
himself  a  capacity  for  more.  Maggie  didn't  know  lorn 
was  looking  at  her;  she  was  seesawing  on  the  elder-bough, 
lost  to  almost  everything  but  a  vague  sense  of  jam  and 
idleness. 

"  Oh,  you  greedy  thing!''  said  Tom,  when  she  had  swal- 
lowed the  last  morsel.  lie  was  conscious  of  having  acted 
v.ery  fairly,  and  thought  she  ought  to  have  considered  this, 
and  made  up  to  him  for  it.  lie  would  have  refused  a  hi  t 
of  hers  beforehand,  but  one  is  naturally  at  a  different  point 
of  view  before  and  after  one's  own  share  of  puff  is  swal- 
lowed. 

Maggie  turned  quite  pale.  "  0  Tom,  why  didn't  you 
ask  me?" 

'^I  wasn't  going  to  ask  you  for  a  bit,  you  greed.  You 
might  have  thought  of  it  without,  when  you  knew  I  gave 
you  the  best  bit." 

"  But  I  wanted  you  to  have  it — ^you  know  I  did,"  said 
Maggie,  in  an  injured  tone. 

*'  Yes,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  do  what  wasn't  fair,  like 
Spouncer.  He  always  takes  the  best  bit,  if  you  don't 
punch  him  for  it;  and  if  you  choose  the  best  with  your 
eyes  shut,  he  changes  his  hands.  But  if  I  go  halves,  I'll 
go  'em  fair — only  I  wouldn't  be  a  greedy." 

With  this  cutting  innuendo,  Tom  jumped  down  from 
his  bough,  and  threw  a  stone  with  a  ^^hoigh!"  as  a  friendly 
attention  to  Yap,  who  had  also  been  looking  on  while  the 
eatables  vanished,  with  an  agitation  of  his  ears  and  feelings 
which  could  hardly  have  been  without  bitterness.  Yet 
the  excellent  dog  accepted  Tom's  attention  with  as  much 
alacrity  as  if  he  had  been  treated  quite  generously. 

But  Maggie  gifted  with  that  superior  power  of  misery 
which  distinguishes  the  human  being,  and  places  him  at  a 
proud  distance  from  the  most  melancholy  cnimpanzee,  sat 
still  on  her  bough,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  keen  sense 
of  unmerited  reproach.  She  would  have  given  the  world 
not  to  have  eaten  all  her  puff,  and  to  have  saved  some  of 
it  for  Tom.  Not  but  that  the  puff  was  very  nice,  for 
Maggie's  palate  was  not  at  all  obtuse,  but  she  would  have 
gone  without  it  many  times  over,  sooner  than  Tom  should 
call  her  greedy  and  be  cross  with  her.  And  he  had  said 
he  wouldn't  have  it — and  she  ate  it  without  thinking — ^. 
how  could  she  help  it?  The  tears  flowed  so  plentifully 
that  Maggie  saw  nothing  around  her  for  the  next  teu 

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BOY  AND  GIBL.  46 

minutes;  but  by  that  time  her  resentment  began  to  give 
way  to  the  desire  of  reconciliation,  and  she  jumped  from 
her  bough  to  look  for  Tom.  He  was  no  longer  in  the  pad- 
dock behind  the  rick-yard — where  was  he  likely  to  be 
gone,  and  Yap  with  him?  Maggie  ran  to  the  high  bank 
against  the  great  hoUv-tree,  where  she  could  see  far  away 
toward  the^  Floss.  There  was  Tom;  but  her  heart  sank 
again  as  she  saw  how  far  off  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
great  river,  and  that  he  had  another  companion  besides 
Yap— naughty  Bob  Jakin,  whose  official,  if  not  natural 
function,  of  frightening  the  birds,  was  just  now  at  a 
standstill.  Maggie  felt  sure  that  Bob  was  wicked,  without 
very  distinctly  knowing  why;  unless  it  was  because  Bob's 
mother  was  a  dreadfully  large  fat  woman,  who  lived  at  a 
queer  round  house  down  the  river;  and  once,  when  Maggie 
and  Tom  had  wandered  thither,  there  rushed  out  a  brin- 
dled dog  that  wouldn't  stop  barking;  and  when  Bob's 
mother  came  out  after  it  ana  screamed  above  the  barking 
to  tell  them  not  to  be  frightened,  Maggie  thought  she  was 
scolding  them  fiercely,  and  her  heart  beat  with  terror. 
Maggie  thought  it  very  likely  that  the  round  house  had 
snakes  On  the  floor,  and  bats  in  the  bed-room;  for  she  had 
seen  Bob  take  off  his  cap  to  show  Tom  a  litf.le  snake  that 
was  inside  of  it,  and  another  time  he  had  a  handful  of 
young  bats:  altogether,  he  was  an  irregular  character, 
perhaps  even  slightly  diabolical,  judging  from  his  intimacy 
with  snakes  and  bats;  and  to  crown  all,  when  Tom  had 
Bob  for  a  companion,  he  didn't  mind  about  Maggie,  and 
would  never  let  her  go  with  him. 

It  must  be  owned  that  Tom  was  fond  of  Bob's  company. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Bob  knew,  directly  he  saw  a 
bird's  egg,  whether  it  was  a  swallow's,  or  a  tomtit's,  or  a  yel- 
low-hammer's; he  found  out  all  the  wasps'  nests,  and  could 
set  all  sorts  of  traps;  he  could  climb  the  trees  like  a  squir- 
rel, and  had  quite  a  magical  power  of  detecting  hedgehogs 
and  stoats;  and  he  had  courage  to  do  things  that  were 
rather  naughty,  such  as  making  gaps  in  the  hedgerows, 
throwing  stones  after  the  sheep,  and  killing  a  cat  that  was 
wandering  incognito.  Such  qualities  in  an  inferior,  who 
could  always  be  treated  with  authority  in  spite  of  his  supe- 
rior knowingness,  had  necessarily  a  fatal  fascination  for 
Tom;  and  every  holiday-time  Maggie  was  sure  to  have  days 
of  grief  because  he  had  gone  off  with  Bob. 

Well!  there  was  no  hope  for  it:  he  was  gone  now,  and 
Maggie  could  think  of  no  comfort  but  to  sit  down  by  the 

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46  THE  MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

hollow,  or  wander  by  the  hedgerow,  and  fancy  it  was  all 
different,  refashioning  her  little  \vorld  into  just  what  she 
should  like  it  to  be. 

Maggie's  was  a  troublous  life,  and  this  was  the  form  in 
which  she  took  her  opium. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  forgetting  all  about  Maggie  and  the 
sting  of  reproach  wliich  he  had  left  in  her  heai-t,  was  hur- 
rying along  with  Bob,  whom  he  had  met  accidentally,  to 
the  scene  of  a  great  rat-catching  in  a  neighboring  barn. 
Bob  knew  all  about  this  particular  affair,  and  spoke  of  the 
sport  with  an  enthusiasm  which  no  one  who  is  not  either 
divested  of  all  manly  feeling,  or  pitiably  ignorant  of  rat- 
catching,  can  fail  to  imagine.  For  a  person  suspected  of 
Ereternatural  wickedness.  Bob  was  really  not  so  very  vil- 
linous-looking;  there  was  even  something  agreeable  in 
liis  snub-nosed  face,  with  its  close-curled  border  of  red 
hair.  But  then  his  trousers  were  always  rolled  up  at  the 
knee,  for  the  convenience  of  wading  on  the  slightest 
notice;  and  his  virtue,  supposing  it  to  exist,  was  undeni- 
ably '^  virtue  in  rags,''  which,  on  the  authority  even  of  bil- 
ious philosophers,  who  think  all  well-dressed  merit  over- 
paid, is  notoriously  likely  to  remain  unrecognized  (perhaps 
because  it  is  seen  so  seldom).  ' 

^*  I  know  the  chap  as  owns  the  ferrets,"  said  Bob,  in  a 
hoarse  treble  voice,  as  he  shuffled  along,  keeping  his  blue 
eyes  fixed  on  the  river,  like  an  amphibious  animal  who 
foresaw  occasion  for  darting  in.  '^  He  lives  up  the  Kennel 
Yard  at  Sut  Ogg's — he  does.  He's  the  biggest  rot-catcher 
II  ny where — he  is.  I'd  sooner  be  a  rot-catcher  nor  any- 
thing— I  would.  The  moles  is  nothing  to  the  rots.  But 
Lorsl  you  mun  ha'  ferrets.  Dogs  is  no  good.  Why,  there's 
that  dog,  now!"  Bob  continued,  pointing  with  an  air  of 
disgust  toward  Yap,  ''  He's  no  more  good  wi'  a  rot  nor 
nothin'.  I  see  it  myself — I  did — at  the  rot-catchin'  i'  your 
feyther's  barn." 

Yap,  feeling  the  withering  influence  of  this  scorn » 
tucked  his  tail  in  and  shrank  close  to  Tom's  leg,  who  felt 
a  little  hurt  for  him,  but  had  not  the  superhuman  courage 
to  seem  behindhand  with  Bob  in  contempt  for  a  dog  who 
made  so  poor  a  figure. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  *' Yap's  no  good  at  sport.  I'll  havo 
regular  good  dogs  for  rats  and  everything,  when  I've  done 
school." 

^^  Hev  ferrets,  Measter  Tom,"  said  Bob,  eagerly, — "them 
white  ferrets  wi'  pink  eyes;  Lors,  you  might  catch  your 


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BOY  AND  GIRL,  47 

own  rots,  an'  you  might  put  a  rot  in  a  cage  wi'  a  ferret, 
an'  see  'em  fight — ^you  might.  That's  what  I'd  do,  I  know, 
an'  it  'ud  be  better  fun  a'most  nor  seein'  two  chaps  figlit — 
if  it  wasn't  them  chaps  as  sold  cakes  an'  oranges  at  the 
Pair,  as  the  things  flew  out  o'  tlieir  baskets,  an*  some  o' 
the  cakes  was  badly  smashed.  But  they  all  tasted  just  as 
good,"  added  Bob,  by  way  of  note  or  "addendum,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

^*  But,  I  say.  Bob,"  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of  deliberation, 
^'ferrets  are  nasty,  biting  things — they'll  bite  a  fellow 
without  being  set  on." 

"Lors!  why,  that's  the  beauty  on  'em.  If  a  chap  lays 
hold  o'  your  ferret,  Jie  won't  be  long  before  he  hollows  out 
a  good  un — he  won't." 

At  this  moment  a  striking  incident  made  the  boys  pause 
suddenly  in  their  walk.  It  was  the  plunging  of  some 
small  body  in  the  water  from  among  the  neighboring  bul- 
rushes: if  it  was  not  a  water-rat,  Bob  intimated  that  he 
was  ready  to  undergo  the  most  unpleasant  consequences. 

"Hoigh!  Yap — hoigh!  there  ne  is,"  said  Tom,  clap- 
ping his  hands,  as  the  Tittle  black  snout  made  its  arrowy 
course  to  the  opposite  bank.  ^'  Seize  him,  lad  !  seize 
him!" 

Yap  agitated  his  ears  and  wrinkled  his  brows,  but 
declined  to  plunge,  trying  whether  barking  would  not 
answer  the  purpose  Just  as  well. 

*'Ugh!  you  coward!"  said  Tom,  and  kicked  him  over, 
feeling  humiliated  as  a  sportsman  to  possess  so  poor- 
spirited  an  animal.  Bob  abstained  from  remark  and  passed 
on,  choosing,  however,  to  walk  in  the  shallow  edge  of  the 
overflowing  river  by  way  of  change. 

^'He's  none  so  full  now,  the  Floss  isn't,"  said  Bob,  as 
he  kicked  the  water  up  before  him,  with  an  agreeable 
sense  of  being  insolent  to  it.  "  Why,  last  'ear  the  meadows 
was  all  one  sheet  o'  water,  they  was." 

"Ay,  but,"  said  Tom,  whose  mind  was  prone  to  see  an 
opposition  between  statements  that  were  really  quite 
accordant — "but  there  was  a  big  flood  once,  when  the 
Round  Pool  was  made.  /  know  there  was,  'cause  father 
says  so.  And  the  sheep  and  cows  were  all  drowned,  and 
the  boats  went  all  over  the  fields  ever  such  a  way." 
-  ^'I  don't  care  about  a  flood  comin',"  said  Bob;  "  I  don't 
mind  the  water,  no  more  nor  the  land.  I'd  swim — 1 
would." 

*'Ah,  but  if  you  got  nothing  to  eat  for  ever  so  long?" 


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48  THE  MILL  OK  THE   FLOSS. 

said  Tom,  his  imagination  becoming  quite  active  under  the 
stimulus  of  that  dread.  "  When  I'm  a  man,  I  shall  make 
a  boat  with  a  wooden  house  on  the  top  of  it,  like  Noah's 
ark,  and  keep  plenty  to  eat  in  it — rabbits  and  things — all 
ready.  And  then  if  the  flood  came,  you  know.  Sob,  I 
shouldn^t  mind  very  much.  And  I'd  take  you  in,  if  I  saw 
you  swimming,"  he  added,  in  the  tone  of  a  benevolent 
patron. 

"I  aren't  frighted,"  said  Bob,  to  whom  hunger  did  not 
appear  so  appalling.  **  But  I'd  get  in  an'  knock  the  ra'b- 
bits  on  th'  head  when  you  wanted  to  eat  'em." 

"  Ah,  and  I  should  have  half -pence,  and  we'd  play  at 
heads-and-tails,"  said  Tom,  not  contemplating  the  possi- 
bility that  this  recreation  might  have  fewer  charms  for  his 
mature  age.  ^^  I'd  divide  fair  to  begin  with,  and  then  we'd 
see  who'd  win.'' 

**I've  got  a  halfpenny  o'  my  own,"  said  Bob,  proudly, 
coming  out  of  the  water  and  tossing  his  halfpenny  in  the 
air.     *  *  Yeads  or  tails  ?  " 

"Tails,"  said  Tom,  instantly  fired  with  the  desire  to 
win. 

**It'8  yeads,"  said  Bob,  hastily,  snatching  up  the  half- 
penny as  it  fell. 

"  It  wasn't,"  said  Tom,  loudly  and  peremptorily.  "You 
give  me  the  halfpenny — I've  won  it  fair." 

*^I  shan't,"  said  Bob,  holding  it  tight  in  his  pocket 

"  Then  I'll  make  you — see  if  I  don't,"  said  Tom. 

**  You  can't  make  me  do  nothing,  you  can't,"  said  Bob. 

"  Yes,  I  can." 

"No,  you  can't." 

"I'm  master." 

"I  don't  care  for  you." 

"  But  I'll  make  you  care,  you  cheat,"  said  Tom,  collar- 
ing Bob  and  shaking  him. 

"You  get  out  wi'  you,"  said  Bob,  giving  Tom  a  kick. 

Tom's  blood  was  thoroughly  up:  he  went  at  Bob  with  a 
lunge  and  threw  him  down,  but  Bob  seized  hold  and  kej^t 
it  like  a  cat,  and  pulled  Tom  down  after  him.  They 
struggled  fiercely  on  the  ground  for  a  moment  or  two,  till 
Tom,  pinning  Bob  down  by  the  shoulders,  thought  he  had 
the  mastery. 

"  Yoti  say  you'll  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,"  ho  said,, 
with  difficulty,  while  he  exerted  himself  to  keep  the  com- 
mand of  Bob's  arms. 

But  at  this  moment,  Yap,  who  bad  been  running  on 


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BOY  AND  GIRL,  49 

before,  returned  barking  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  saw  a 
fiivora-ble  opportunity  for  biting  Bob's  bare  leg  not  only 
with  impunity  but  with  honor.  The  pain  from  Yap^ 
teeth,  instead  of  sui-prising  Bob  into  a  relaxation  of  his 
hold,  gave  it  a  fiercer  tenacity,  and  with  a  new  exertion  of 
his  force,  he  pushed  Tom  backward  and  got  uppermost. 
But  now  Yap,  who  could  get  no  sufficient  purchase  before, 
set  his  teeth  in  a  new  place,  so  that  Bob,  narassed  in  this 
way,  let  go  his  hold  of  Tom,  and,  almost  throttling  Yap, 
flung  him  into  the  river.  By  this  time  Tom  was  up  again, 
and  before  Bob  had  quite  recovered  his  balance  after  the 
act  of  swinging  Yap,  Tom  fell  upon  him,  threw  him  down, 
and  got  his  knees  firmly  on  Bob  s  chest. 

"You  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,'^  said  Tom. 

"Take  it,''  said  Bob,  sulkily. 

"No,  I  shan't  take  it;    you  give  it  me."- 

Bob  took  the  halfpenny  out  of  his  pocket,  and  threw  it 
away  from  him  on  the  ground. 

Tom  loosed  his  hold,  and  left  Bob  to  rise. 

"There  the  halfpenny  lies,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want 
your  halfpenny;  I  wouldn't  have  kept  it.  But  you  wanted 
to  cheat;  I  hate  a  cheat.  I  shan't  go  along  with  you  any 
more,"  he  added,  turning  round  homeward,  not  without 
casting  afregret  toward  the  rat-catching  and  other  pleasures 
which  he  must  relinquish  along  with  Bob's  society. 

"You  may  let  it  alone,  then,"  Bob  called  out  after  him. 
"I  shall  cheat  if  I  like;  there's  no  fun  i'  playing  else; 
and  I  know  where  there's  a  goldfinch's  nest,  but  I'll  take 

care  you  don't. An'  you're  a  nasty  figlitin'  turkey-cock, 

you  are " 

Tom  walked  on  without  looking  round,  and  Yap  fol- 
lowed his  example,  the  cold  bath  having  moderated  his 
passions.  ^ 

"Go  along  wi'  you,  then,  wi'  your  drowned  dog;  I 
wouldn't  own  such  a  dog — /  wouldn't,"  said  Bob,  getting 
louder,  in  a  last  effort,  to  sustain  his  defiance.  But  Tom 
was  not  to  be  provoked  into  turning  round,  and  Bob's  voice 
began  to  falter  a  little  as  he  said — 

"An'I'ngi'en  you  everything,  an'  showed  you  every- 
thing, an'  niver  wanted  nothin'  from  you.— ^^-An'  there's 

your  horn-handed  knife,  then,  as  you  gi'en  me." Here 

Bob  flung  the  knife  as  far  as  he  could  after  Tom's  retreat- 
ing footsteps.     But  it  produced  no  effect,  except  the  sense 
in  Bob's  mind  that  there  was  a  terrible  void  in  his  lot^  ftpw 
that  knife  was  gone, 
4 


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60  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

He  stood  still  till  Tom  had  passed  through  the  gate  and 
disappeared  behind  the  hedge.  The  knife  would  do  no 
good  on  the  ground  there — it  wouldn^t  vex  Tom,  and  pride 
or  i-esentment  was  a  feeble  passion  in  Bob's  mind  compared 
with  the  love  of  a  pocket-knife.  His  very  fingers  sent 
entreating  thrills  that  he  would  go  and  clutch  that  familiar 
rough  buck's-horn  handle,  which  ihey  had  so  often  grasped 
for  mere  affection,  as  it  lay  idle  in  his  pocket.  And  there 
wore  two  blades,  and  they  had  just  been  sharpened! 
What  is  life  without  a  pocket-knife  to  him  who  has  once 
tasted  a  higher  existence?  No:  to  throw  the  handle  after 
the  hatchet  is  a  comprehensible  act  of  desperation,  but  to 
throw  one's  pocket-knife  after  an  implacable  friend  ig 
clearly  in  every  sense  a  hyperbole,  or  throwing  beyond  the 
mark.  So  Bob  shuffled  back  to  the  spot  where  the  beloved 
knife  lay  in  the  dirt,  and  felt  quite  a  new  pleasure  in 
clutching  it  again  aftef  the  temporary  separation,  in  open- 
ing one  blade  after  the  other,  and  feeling  their  edge  with 
his  well-hardened  thumb.  Poor  Bob!  he  was  not  sensitive 
on  the  point  of  honor — not  a  chivalrous  character.  That 
fine  moral  aroma  would  not  have  been  thought  much  of 
by  the  public  opinion  of  Kennel  Yard,  which  was  the  very 
focus  or  heart  of  Bob's  world,  even  if  it  could  have  made 
itself  perceptible  there;  yet,  for  all  that,  he  was  n(ft  utterly 
a  sneak  and  a  thief  as  our  friend  Tom  had  hastily  decided. 

But  Tom,  you  perceive,  was  rather  a  Rhadamanthine 
personage,  having  more  than  the  usual  share  of  boy's 
justice  in  him — the  justice  that  desires  to  hurt  culprits  as 
much  as  they  deserve  to  be  hurt,  and  is  troubled  with  no 
doubts  concerning  the  exact  amount  of  their  deserts. 
Maggie  saw  a  cloud  on  his  brow  when  he  came  home, 
which  checked  her  joy  at  his  coming  so  much  sooner  than 
she  had  expected,  and  she  dared  hardly  speak  to  him  as  he 
stood  silently  throwing  the  small  gravel -stones  into  the  mill- 
dam.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  give  up  a  rat-catching  when 
you  have  set  your  mind  on  it.  But  if  Tom  had  told  his 
strongest  feeling  at  that  moment,  he  would  have  said,  ^*  I'd 
do  just  the  same  again."  That  was  his  usual  mode  of 
viewing  his  past  actions;  whereas  Maggie  was  always  wish- 
ing she  had  done  something  different. 


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» Jl 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  51 

« 

CHAPTER  VII. 

ENTER  THE  AUNTS  AND   UNCLES. 

The  Dodsons  were  certainly  a  handsome  family,  and 
Mrs.  Grlegg  was  not  the  least  handsome  of  the  sisters.  As 
she  sat  in  Mrs.  TuUiver^s  arm-chair,  no  impartial  observer 
could  have  denied  that  for  a  woman  of  fifty  she  had  a  very 
comely  face  and  figure,  though  Tom  and  Maggie  con- 
sidered their  Aunt  Glegg  as  the  type  of  ugliness.  It  is 
true  she  despised  the  advantages  of  costume,  for  though,  as 
she  often  observed,  no  woman  had  better  clothes,  it  was  not 
her  way  to  wear  her  new  things  out  before  her  old  ones. 
Other  women,  if  they  liked,  might  have  their  best  thread- 
lace  in  every  wash;  but  when  Mrs.  Glegg  died,  it  would  be 
found  that  she  had  better  lace  laid  by  in  the  right-hand 
drawer  of  her  wardrobe,  in  the  Spotted  Chamber,  than  ever 
Mrs.  Wooll  of  St.  Ogg^s  had  bought  in  her  life,  although 
Mrs.  Wooll  wore  her  lace  before  it  was  paid  for.  So  of  her 
curled  fronts;  Mrs.  Glegg  had  doubtless  the  glossiest  and 
crispest  brown  curls  in  her  drawers,  as  well  as  curls  in 
various  degrees  of  fuzzy  laxness;  but  to  look  out  on  the  week- 
day world  from  under  a  crisp  and  glossy  front,  would  be  to 
introduce  a  most  dreamlike  and  unpleasant  confusion 
between  the  sacred  and  the  secular.  Occasionally,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Glegg  wore  one  of  her  third-best  fronts  on  a  week-day 
visit,  but  not  at  a  sister's  house;  especially  not  at  Mrs. 
TuUiver^s,  who,  since  her  marriage,  had  hurt  her  sisters' 
feeling^greatly  by  wearing  her  own  hair,  though,  as  Mrs. 
Glegg  observed  to  Mrs.  Deane,  a  mother  of  a  family,  like 
Bessy,  with  a  husband  always  going  to  law,  might  have 
been  expected  to  know  better.    But  Bessy  was  always  weak! 

So  if  Mrs.  Glegg's  front  to-day  was  more  fuzzy  and  lax 
than  usual,  she  had  a  design  under  it:  she  intended  the 
most  pointed  and  cutting  allusion  to  Mrs.  TuUiver's 
bunches  of  blonde  curls,  separated  from  each  other  by  a  due 
wave  of  smoothness  on  each  side  of  the  parting.  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  shed  tears  several  times  at  sister  Glegg's 
unkindness  on  the  subject  of  these  unmatronly  curls,  but 
the  consciousness  of  looking  the  handsomer  for  them,  nat- 
urally administered  support.  Mrs.  Glegg  chose  to  wear  her 
bonnet  in  the  house  to-day — untied  and  tilted  slightly,  of 
gpurse — ^a  frecjuent  practice  of   JiQr§  when  she  was  on  s^ 


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52  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

visit,  and  happened  to  be  in  a  severe  humor:  she  didn^t 
know  what  draughts  there  might  be  in  strange  houses.  For 
the  saxne  reason  she  wore  a  small  sjible  tippet,  which  reached 
just  to  her  shoulders,  and  was  very  far  from  meeting  across 
ner  well-formed  chest,  while  her  long  lieck  was  protected 
by  a  chzjzuX'de-frise  of  miscellaneous  frilling.  One  would 
need  to  be  learned  in  the  fashion  of  those  times  to  know 
how  far  in  the  rear  of  them  Mrs.  Glegg^s  slate-colored  silk- 
gown  must  have  been;  but  from  certain  constellations  of 
small  yellow  spots  upon  it,  and  a  mouldy  odor  about  it 
suggestive  of  a  damp  clothes-chest,  it  was  probable  that  it 
belonged  to  a  stratum  of  garments  just  old  enough  to 
have  come  recently  into  wear. 

Mrs.  Glegg  held  her  large  gold  watch  in  her  hand,  with 
the  many-doubled  chain  round  her  fingers,  and  observed 
to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the 
kitchen,  that  whatever  it  niight  be  by  other  people's  clocks 
and  watches,  it  was  ffone  half -past  twelve  by  hers. 

"I  don't  know  what  ails  sister  Pullet,''  she  continued. 
**It  used  to  be  the  way  in  our  family  for  one  to  be  as  early 
as  another, — I'm  sure  it  was  so  in  my  poor  father's  time  — 
and  not  for  one  sister  to  sit  half  an  hour  before  the  others 
came.  But  if  the  ways  o'  the  family  are  altered,  it  shan't 
be  my  fault — Fll  never  be  the  one  to  come  into  a  house 
when  all  the  rest  are  going  away.  I  wonder  at  sister 
Deane — she  used  to  be  more  like  me.  But  if  you  will  take 
my  advice,  Bessy,  you'll  put  the  dinner  forrard  a  bit, 
sooner  than  put  it  back,  because  folks  are  late  as  ought  to 
ha'  known  better." 

**  Oh  dear,  there's  no  fear  but  what  they'll  be  all  here  in 
time,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  her  mild-peevish  tone. 
**The  dinner  won't  be  ready  till  half -past  one.  But  if 
it's  long  for  you  to  wait,  let  me  fetch  you  a  cheesecake 
and  a  glass  o' Vine." 

*^  Well,  Bessy! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  bitter  smile,  and 
a  scarcely  perceptible  toss  of  ner  head,  **I  should  ha' 
thought  you'd  known  your  own  sister  better.  I  never  did 
Bat  between  meals,  and  I'm  not  going  to  begin.  Not  but 
what  I  hate  that  nonsense  of  having  your  dinner  at  half- 
past  one,  when  you  might  have  it  at  one.  You  was  never 
brought  up  in  that  way,  Bessy." 

*'Why,  Jane,  what  can  I  do!  Mr.  Tulliver  doesn't  like 
his  dinner  before  two  o'clock,  but  I  put  it  half  an  hour 
earlier  because  o'  you." 

^^  Yes,  yes^  I  know  bow  it  is  with  busbauds — they're  for 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOY  AKD  GIRL.  53 

putting  everything  off — they'll  put  the  dinner  off  till  aftei 
tea,  if  they've  got  wives  as  are  weak  enough  to  give  in  to 
such  work;  but  it's  a  i)ity  for  you,  Bessy,  as  you  haven't 
got  more  strength  o'  mind.  It'll  be  well  if  your  children 
don't  suffer  for  it.  And  I  hope  you've  not  gona  and  got  a 
great  dinner  for  us  —  going  to  expense  for  your  sisters,  as 
'ud  sooner  eat  a  crust  o'  dry  bread  nor  help  to  ruin  you  with 
extravagance.  I  wonder  you  don't  take  pattern  by  your 
sister  Deane  —  she's  far  more  sensible.  And  here  you've 
got  two  children  to  provide  for,  and  your  husband's  spent 
your  fortin  i'  going  to  law,  and's  likely  to  spend  his  own 
too.  A  boiled  joint,  as  you  could  make  broth  of  for  the 
kitchen,"  Mrs.  Ulegg  added,  in  a  tone  of  emphatic  protest, 
'^and  a  plain  pudding,  with  a  spoonful'  o'  sugar,  and  no 
spice,  'ud  be  far  more  becoming." 

With  sister  Glegg  in  this  humor,  there  was  a  cheerful 
prospect  for  the  day.  Mrs.  TuUiver  never  went  the  length 
of  quarreling  with  her,  any  more  than  a  water-fowl  that 
puts  out  its  leg  in  a  deprecating  manner  can  be  said  to 
quarrel  with  a  boy  who  throws  stones.  But  this  point  ol 
the  dinner  was  a  tender  one,  and  not  ut  all  new,  so  that 
Mrs.  TuUiver  could  make  the  same  answer  she  had  often 
made  before. 

**  Mr.  TuUiver  says  he  always  ^oill  have  a  good  dinner  for 
his  friends  while  he  can  pa^  for  it,"  she  said;  "and  he's  a 
right  to  do  as  he  likes  in  his  own  house,  sister." 

"  Well,  Bessy,  /  can't  leave  your  children  enough  out  o' 
my  savings,  to  keep  'em  from  ruin.  And  you  mustn't  look 
to  having  any  o'  Mr.  Glegg's  money,  for  it's  well  if  I  don't 
go  first — he  comes  of  a  long-lived  family;  and -if  he  was  to 
die  and  leave  me  well  for  my  life,  he'd  tie  all  the  money  up 
to  go  back  to  his  own  kin." 

The  sound  of  wheels  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  speaking  was 
an  interruption  highly  welcome  to  Mrs.  TuUiver,  who  has- 
tened out  to  receive  sister  Pullet — it  must  be  sister  Pullet, 
because  the  sound  was  that  of  a  four-wheel. 

Mrs.  Glegg  tossed  her  head  and  looked  rather  sour  about 
the  mouth  at  the  thought  of  the  "  four-wheel."  She  had 
a  strong  opinion  on  that  subject. 

Sister  Pullet  was  in  tears  when  the  one-horse  chaise 
stopped  before  Mrs.  TuUiver's  door,  and  it  was  apparently 
requisite  that  she  should  shed  a  few  more  before  getting 
out,  for  though  her  husband  and  Mrs.  TuUiver  stood  ready 
to  support  her,  she  sat  still  and  shook  her  head  sadly,  as 
she  looked  through  her  tears  at  the  vague  distance. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


54  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

"Why,  whativor  is  the  matter,  sister?"  said  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver.  She  was  not  an  imaj^inative  woman,  but  it  occurred 
to  her  that  the  large  toilet-glass  in  sister  Pullet's  best 
bedroom  was  possibly  broken  for  the  second  time. 

There  was  no  reply  but  a  further  shake  of  the  head,  as 
Mrs.  Pullet  slowly  rose  and  got  down  from  the  chaise,  not 
without  casting  a  glance  at  Mr.  Pullet  to  see  that  he  wjis 
guarding  her  handsome  silk  dress  from  injury.  Mr.  Pullot 
was  a  small  man  with  a  high  nose,  small  twinkling  eycp, 
and  thin  lips,  in  a  fresh -looking  suit  of  black  and  a  while 
cravat,  that  seemed  to  have  been  tied  very  tight  on  sonic 
higher  principle  than  that  of  mere  personal  ease.  He 
bore  about  the  same  relation  to  his  tall,  good-looking  wife, 
with  her  balloon  sleeves,  abundant  mantle,  and  large  be- 
feathered  and  be-ribboned  bonnet,  as  a  small  fishing-smack 
bears  to  a  brig  with  all  its  sails  spread. 

It  is  a  pathetic  sight  and  a  striking  example  of  the 
complexity  introduced  into  the  emotions  by  a  high  state 
of  civilization — the  sight  of  a  fashionably  dressed  female 
in  grief.  From  the  sorrow  of  a  Hottentot  to  that  of  a 
woman  in  large  buckram  sleeves,  with  several  bracelets  on 
each  nrm,  an  architectural  bonnet,  and  delicate  ribbon- 
strings — ^what  a  long  series  of  gradations!  In  the  enlight- 
ened child  of  civilization  the  abandonment  characteristic 
of  grief  is  checked  and  varied  in  the  subtlest  manner,  so 
as  to  present  an  interesting  problem  to  the  analytical  mind. 
If,  with  a  crushed  heart  and  eyes  half  blinded  by  the  mist 
of  tears,  she  were  to  walk  with  a  too  devious  step  through 
a  door-place,  she  might  crush  her  buckram  sleeves  too,  an<  iL 
the  deep  consciousness  of  this  possibility  produces  a  com- 
position of  forces  by  which  she  takes  a  line  that  just  clears 
the  doorpost.  Perceiving  that  the  tears  are  hurrying,  fast, 
she  unpins  her  strings  and  throws  them  languidly  back- 
ward— a  touching  gesture,  indicative,  even  in  the  deepest 
gloom,  of  the  hope  in  future  dry  moments  when  cap- 
strings  will  once  more  have  a  charm.  As  the  tears  subside 
a  little,  and  with  her  head  leaning  backward  at  the  angle 
that  will  not  injure  her  bonnet,  she  endures  that  terrible 
moment  when  grief,  which  has  made  all  things  else  a 
weariness,  has  itself  become  weary;  she  looks  down  pen- 
sively at  her  bracelets,  and  adjusts  their  clasps  with  that 
pretty  studied  fortuity  which  would  be  gratifying  to  heT 
mind  if  it  were  once  more  in  a  calm  and  healthy  state. 

Mrs.  Pullet  brushed  each  doorpost  with  great  nicety, 
about  the  latitude  of  her  shoulders  (at  thac  period  a  woman 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  65 

was  truly  ridiculous  to  an  instructed  eye  if  she  did  not 
measure  a  yard  and  a  half  across  tlie  shoulders),  and  hav- 
ing done  that,  sent  the  muscles  of  her  face  in  quest  of 
fresh  tears  as  she  advanced  into  the  parlor  where  Mrs. 
G] egg  was  seated. 

"  Well,  sister,  you^re  late;  what's  the  matter?"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  rather  sharply,  as  they  shook  hands. 

Mrs.  Pullet  sat  down— lifting  up  her  mantle  carefully 
behind,  before  she  answered — 

"She's  gone,"  unconsciously  using  an  impressive  figure 
of  rhetoric. 

^*  It  isn't  the  glass  this  time,  then,"  thought  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver. 

"Died  the  day  before  yesterday,"  continued  Mrs.  Pullet; 
"an'  her  legs  was  as  thick  as  my  body,"  she  added,  with 
deep  sadness,  after  a  pause.  "They'd  tapped  her  no  end 
o'  times,  and  the  water — they  say  you  might  ha'  swum  in 
it,  if  you'd  liked." 

"Well,  Sophy,  it's  a  mercy  she's  gone,  then,  whoever 
she  may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  the  promptitude  and 
emphasis  of  a  mind  naturally  clear  and  decided;  "but  I 
can't  think  who  you're  talking  of,  for  my  part." 

"But  /  know,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  sighing  and  shaking 
her  head;  "and  there  isn't  another  such  a  dropsy  in  the 
parish.  /  know  as  it's  old  Mrs.  Sutton  o'  the  Twenty- 
lands." 

"  Well,  she's  no  kin  o'  yours,  nor  much  acquaintance  as 
I've  ever  beared  of,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who  always  cried 
just  as  much  as  was  proper  when  anything  happened  to  her 
own  "kin,"  but 'not  on  other  occasions. 

"  She's  so  much  acquaintance  as  I've  seen  her  legs  when 

they  was  like  bladders and  an  old  lady  as  had  doubled 

her  money  over  and  over  again,  and  kept  it  all  in  her  own 
management  to  the  last,  and  had  her  pocket  with  her  keys 
in  under  her  pillow  constant.  There  isn't  many  old 
jPrtrish'ners  like  her,  I  doubt." 

"And  they  say  she'd  took  as  much  physic  as  'ud  fill  a 
wagon,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet. 

"Ah!"  sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  "she'd  another  complaint 
ever  so  many  years  before  she  had  the  dropsy,  and  the 
doctors  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was.  And  she  said  to 
me,  when  I  went  to  see  her  last  Christmas,  she  said,  ^  Mrs. 
Pullet,  if  ever  you  have  the  dropsy,  you'll  think  o'  me.' 
She  did  say  so,"  added   Mrs.   Pullet,  beginning  to  cry 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


56  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

bitterly  again;  *Hhose  were  her  very  words.  And  she's  to 
be  buried  o^  Saturday,  and  Pullet's  bid  to  the  funeral.'^ 

"  Sophy/'  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  unable  any  longer  to  contain 
her  spirit  of  rational  remonstrance  —  *^  Sophy,  I  wonder  cU 
you,  fretting  and  injuring  your  health  about  people  as 
don't  belong  to  you.  Your  poor  father  never. did  so,  nor 
your  aunt  Frances  neither,  nor  any  o'  the  family  as  I  ever 
beared  of.  You  couldn't  fret  no  more  than  this,  if  we'd 
beared  as  our  cousin  Abbott  had  died  sudden  without 
making  his  will." 

Mrs.  Pullet  was  silent,  having  to  finish  her  crying,  and 
rather  flattered  than  indignant  at  being  •  upbraided  for 
crying  too  much.  It  was  not  everybody  who  could  afford 
to  cry  so  much  about  their  neighbors  who  had  left  them 
nothing;  but  Mrs.  Pullet  had  married  a  gentleman  farmer, 
and  had  leisure  and  money  to  carry  her  crying  and  every- 
thing else  to  the  highest  pitch  of  respectability, 

"Mrs.  Sutton  didn't  die  without  making  ber  will, 
though,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  confused  sense  that  he 
was  saying  something  to  sanction  his  wife'^s  tears;  "  ours  is 
a  rich  parish,  but  they  say  there's  nobody  else  to  leal^e  as 
many  thousands  behind  'em  as  Mrs.  Sutton.  And  she's 
left  no  legacies,  to  speak  on — :left  it  all  in  a  lump  to  her 
husband's  nevvy." 

"There  wasn't  much  good  i'  being  so  rich,  then,"  said 
Mrs.  Glegg,  "if  she'd  got  none  but  husband's  kin  to 
leave  it  to.  It's  poor  work  when  that's  all  you've  got  to 
pinch  yourself  for; — not  as  I'm  one  o'  those  as  'ud  like 
to  die  without  leaving  more  money  out  at  interest  than 
other  folks  had  reckoned.  But  it's  a  poor  tale  when  it 
must  go  out  o'  your  own  family." 

"I'm  sure,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  who  had  recovered 
sufficiently  to  take  off  her  veil  and  fold  it  carefully,  "  it's 
a  nice  sort  o'  man  as  Mrs.  Sutton  has  left  her  money  to, 
for  he's  troubled  with  the  asthmy,  and  goes  to  bed  every 
night  at  eight  o'clock.  He  told  me  about  it  himself — as 
free  as  could  be — one  Sunday  when  he  came  to  our  church. 
He  wears  a  hare-skin  on  his  chest,  and  has  a  trembling  in 
his  talk — quite  a  gentleman  sort  o'  man.  I  told  him  there 
wasn't  many  months  in  the  year  as  I  wasn't  under  the 
doctor's  hands.  And  he  said,  ^  Mrs.  Pullet,  I  can  feel  for 
you.'  That  was  what  he  said — the  very  words.  Ah!" 
sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  shaking  her  head  at  the  idea  that 
there  were  but  few  who  could  enter  fully  into  her  experi- 
ences in  pink  mixture  and  white  mixture,  strong  stuff  ia 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  67 

small  bottles,  and  weak  stuff  in  large  bottles,  damp  boluses 
at  a  shilling,  and  draughts  at  eigh teen-pence.  "Sister, 
I  may  as  well  go  and  take  my  bonnet  off  now.  Did  you 
see  as  the  cap-box  was  put  out?^'  she  added,  turning  to 
her  husband. 

Mr.  Pullet,  by  an  unaccountable  lapse  of  memory,  hatl 
forgotten  it,  and  hastened  out,  with  a  stricken  conscience, 
to  remedy  the  omission. 

"Theyll  bring  it  up-stairs,  sister,'^  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
wishing  to  go  at  once,  lest  Mrs.  Glegg  should  begin  to 
explain  her  feelings  about  Sophy's  being  the  first  Dodson 
who  ever  ruined  her  constitution  with  doctor's  stuff. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  fond  of  going  up-stairs  with  her 
sister  Pullet,  and  looking  thoroughly  at  her  cap  before  she 
put  it  on  her  head,  and  discussing  millinery  in  general. 
This  was  part  of  Bessy's  weakness,  that  stirred  Mrs. 
Crlegg's  sisterly  compassion:  Bessy  went  far  too  well 
dressed,  considering;  and  she  was  too  proud  to  dress  her 
child  in  the  good  clothing  her  sister  Glegg  gave  her  from 
the  primeval  strata  of  her  wardrobe;  it  was  a  sin  and  a 
shame  to  buy  anything  to  dress  that  child,  if  it  wasn't  a 
pair  of  shoes.  In  this  particular,  however,  Mrs.  Glegg 
did  her  sister  Bessy  some  injustice,  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  had 
really  made  great  efforts  to  induce  M»ggie  to  wear  a  leg- 
horn bonnet  and  a  dyed  silk  frock  made  out  of  her  aunt 
Glegg's,  but  the  results  had  been  such  that  Mrs.  Tulliver 
was  obliged  to  bury  them  in  her  maternal  bosom;  for 
Maggie,  declaring  that  the  frock  smelled  of  nasty  dye,  had 
taken  an  opportunity  of  basting  it  together  with  the  roast- 
beef  the  first  Sunday  she  wore  it,  and,  finding  this  scheme 
answer,  she  had  subsequently  pumped  on  the  bonnet  with 
its  green  ribbons,  so  as  to  give  it  a  general  resemblance 
to  a  sage  cheese  garnished  with  withered  lettuces.  I  must 
-irge  in  excuse  for  Maggie,  that  Tom  had  laughed  at  her 
n  the  bonnet,  and  said  she  looked  like  an  old  Judy.  Aunt 
Pullet,  too,  made  presents  of  clothes,  but  these  were  always 
)retty  enough  to  please  Maggie  as  well  as  her  mother.  Of 
ill  her  sisters,  Mrs.  Tulliver  certainly  preferred  her  sister 
^ullet,  not  without  a  return  of  preference;  but  Mrs.  Pullet 
vas  sorry  Bessy  had  those  naughty  awkward  children;  she 
vould  do  the  best  she  could  by  them,  but  it  was  a  pity 
•hey  weren't  as  good  and  as  pretty  as  sister  Deane's  child. 
Maggie  and  Tom,  on  their  part,  thought  their  aunt  Pullet 
olerable,  chiefly  because  she  was  not  their  aunt  Glegg. 
Tom  always  declined  to  go  more  than  once,  during  nis 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


68  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

holidays,  to  see  either  of  them:  both  his  uncles  tipped  him 
that  once,  of  course;  but  at  his  aunt  PuUet^s  there  were  a 
great  many  toads  to  pelt  in  the  cellar-area,  so  that  he  pre- 
ferred the  visit  to  her.  Maggie  shuddered  at  the  toads, 
and  dreamed  of  them  horribly,  but  she  liked  her  uncle 
Pullet^s  musical  snuff-box.  Still,  it  was  agreed  by  the 
sisters,  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  absence,  that  the  Tulliver  blood 
did  not  mix  well  with  the  Dodson  blood;  that,  in  fact, 
poor  Bessy^s  children  were  Tullivers,  and  that  Tom,  not- 
withstanding he  had  the  Dodson  complexion,  was  iikely  to 
be  as  "  contrairy  ^'  as  his  father.  As  for  Maggie,  she  was 
the  picture  of  her  aunt  Moss,  Mr.  Tulliver^s  sister, — a 
large-boned  woman,  who  had  married  as  poorly  as  could 
be;  had  no  china,  and  had  a  husband  who  had  much  ado 
to  pay  his  rent.  But  when  Mrs.  Pullet  was  alone  with  Mis. 
Tulliver  up-stairs,  the  remarks  were  naturally  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  Mrs.  Glegg,  and  they  agreed,  in  confidence, 
that  there  was  no  knowmg  what  sort  of  fright  sister  Jauo 
would  come  out  next.  But  their  Ute-a-Ute  was  curtailed 
by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Deane  with  little  Lucy;  and 
Mrs.  Tulliver  had  to  look  on  with  a  silent  pang  while 
Lucy^s  blonde  curls  were  adiusted.  It  was  quite  unac- 
countable that  Mrs.  Deane,  the  thinnest  and  sallowest  o\ 
all  the  Miss  Dodspns,  should  have  had  this  child,  whc 
might  have  been  taken  for  Mrs.  Tulliver's  any  day.  Anc 
Maggie  always  looked  twice  as  dark  as  usual  when  she  wai 
by  the  side  of  Lucy. 

She  did  to-day,  when  she  and  Tom  came  in  from  th« 
garden  with  their  father  and  their  uncle  Glegg.     Maggi 
had  thrown  her  bonnet  off  very  carelessly,  and,  coming  ii 
with  her  hair  rough  as  well  as  out  of  curl,  rushed  at  one 
to  Lucy,  who  was  standing  by  her  mother^s  knee.     Cer 
tainly  the  contrast  between  the  cousins  was  conspicuoiu 
and,  to  superficial  eyes,  was  very  much  to  the  disadvantag 
of  Maggie,  though  a  connoisseur  might  have  seen  "points 
in  her  which  had  a  higher  promise  for  maturity  tha 
Lucy's    natty  completeness.      It  was  like   the    contra, 
between  a  rough,  dark,  overgrown  puppy  and  a  whi* 
!:itten.     Lucy  put  up  the  neatest  little  rosebud  mouth  s 
be  kissed :  everything  about  her  was  neat — her  little  rou< 
neck,  with  the  row  of  coral  beads;  her  little  straight  noa 
not  at  all  snubby;  her  little  clear  eyebrows,  rather  dark- 
than  her  curls,  to  match  her  hazel  eyes,  which  looked  t 
with  shy  pleasure  at  Maggie,  taller  by  the  head,  thouj. 
scarcely  a  year  older.     Maggie  always  looked  at  Lucy  yf% 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  59 

delight.  She  was  fond  of  fancying  a  world  where  the 
people  never  got  any  larger  than  children  of  their  own 
age,  and  she  made  the  queen  of  it  just  like  Lucy,  with  a 
little  crown  on  her  head,   and  a  little  sceptre  in  her 

hand only  the  queen  was  Maggie  herself  in  Lucy's 

form. 

**0  Lucy,^'  she  hurst  out,  after  kissing  her,  "youHlstay 
with  Tom  and  me,  won't  you?    Oh,  kiss  her,  Tom.*' 

Tom,  too,  had  come  up  to  Lucy,  but  he  was  not  going  to 
kiss  her — no;  he  came  up  to  her  with  Maggie,  because  it 
seemed  easier,  on  the  whole  than  saying,  **  How  do  you  do?" 
to  all  those  aunts  and  uncles:  he  stood  looking  at  nothing 
in  particular,  with  the  blushing,  awkward  air  and  semi- 
sraile  which  are  common  to  shy  boys  when  in  company — 
vary  much  as  if  they  had  come  intp  the  world  by  mistake, 
and  found  it  in  a  degree  of  undress  that  was  quite  embar- 
rassing. 

"  Heyday! '' said  aunt  Glegg,  with  loud  emphasis.  "  Do 
little  boys  and  gells  come  into  a  room  without  taking  notice 
o'  their  uncles  and  aunts?  That  wasn't  the  way  when  1 
was  a  little  gell." 

*^Go  and  speak  to  your  aunts  and  uncles,  my  dears,'* 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  looking  anxious  and  melancholy.  She 
wanted  to  whisper  to  Maggie  a  command  to  go  and  have 
her  hair  brushed. 

"  Well,  and  how  do  you  do?  And  I  hope  you're  good 
children,  are  you?"  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  the  same  loud  em- 
phatic way,  as  she  took  their  hands,  hurting  them  with  her 
large  rin^s,  and  kissing  their  cheeks  much  against  their 
desire.  "  Look  up,  Tom,  look  up.  Boys  as  go  to  board- 
ing-schools should  liold  their  heads  up.  Look  at  me  now." 
Tom  declined  that  pleasure  apparently,  for  he  tried  to  draw 
his  hand  away.  '^  Put  your  hair  behind  your  ears,  Maggie, 
and  keep  your  frock  on  your  shoulder." 

Aunt  Glegg  always  spoke  to  them  in  this  loud  emphatic 
way,  as  if  she  considered  them  deaf,  or  perhaps  rather 
idiotic:  it  was  a  means,  she  thought,  of  making  them  feel 
that  they  were  accountable  creatures,  and  might  be  a  salu- 
tary check  on  naughty  tendenoies.  Bessy's  children  were 
so  spoiled — they'd  need  have  somebody  to  make  them  feel 
their  duty. 

"Well,  my  dears,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  in  a  compassionate 
voice,  '*  you  grow  wonderful  fast.  I  doubt  they'll  outgrow 
their  strength,"  she  added.j?  looking  over  their  heads  with  a 
melancholy  expression,  at  th^  mother.     "  I  think  thegell 


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60  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

has  too  much  hair.  I^d  have  it  thinned  and  cut  shorter, 
sister,  if  I  was  you:  it  isn^t  good  for  her  health.  It's  that 
as  makes  her  skin  so  brown,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Don't 
you  think  so,  sister  Deane?" 

"  I  can't  say,  I'm  sure,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  shutting 
her  lips  close  again,  and  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  critical 
eye. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  "the  child's  healthy 
enough — there's  nothing  ails  her  There's  red  wheat  as 
well  as  white,  for  that  matter,  and  some  like  the  dark  grain 
best.  But  it  'ud  be  as  well  if  Bessy  'ud  have  tlie  child's 
hair  cut,  so  as  it  'ud  lie  smooth." 

A  dreadful  resolve  was  gathering  in  Maggie's  breast,  but 
it  was  arrested  by  the  desire  to  know  from  her  aunt  Deane 
whether  she  would  leave  Lucy  behind :  aunt  Deane  would 
hardly  ever  let  Lucy  come  to  see  them.  After  various 
reasons  for  refusal,  Mrs.  Deane  appealed  to  Lucy  herself. 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  stay  behind  without  mother, 
should  you,  Lucy?" 

"Yes,  please,  mother^"  said  Lucy,  timidly,  blushing 
very  pink  all  over  her  little  neck. 

"Well  done,  Lucy!  Let  her  stay,  Mrs.  Deane,  let  her 
stay,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  a  large  but  alert-looking  man,  with 
a  type  of  physique  to  be  seen  in  all  ranks  of  English 
society — bald  crown,  red  whiskers,  full  forehead,  and  gen- 
eral solidity  without  heaviness.  You  may  see  noblemen 
like  Mr.  Deane,  and  you  may  see  grocers  or  day-laborers 
like  him;  but  the  keenness  of  his  brown  eyes  was  less  com- 
mon than  his  contour.  He  held  a  silver  snuff-box  very 
tightly  in  his  hand,  and  now  and  then  exchanged  a  pinch 
with  Mr.  TuUiver,  whose  box  was  only  silver-mounted,  so 
that  it  was  naturally  a  joke  between  them  that  Mr.  TuUi- 
ver wanted  to  exchange  snnff-boxes  also.  Mr.  Deane's  box 
had  been  given  him  by  the  superior  partners  in  the  firm  to 
which  he  belonged,  at  the  same  time  that  they  gave  him  a 
share  in  the  business,  in  acknowledgment  of  his  valuable 
services  as  manager.  No  man  was  thought  more  highly  of 
in  St.  egg's  than  Mr.  Deane,  and  some  persons  were  even 
of  opinion  that  Miss  Susan  Dodson,  who  was  once  held  to 
have  made  the  worst  match  of  all  the  Dodson  sisters,  might 
one  day  ride  in  a  better  carriage,  and  live  in  a  better  house, 
even  than  her  sister  Pullet.  There  was  no  knowing  where 
a  man  would  stop,  who  had  got  his  foot  into  a  great  mill- 
owning,  ship-owning  business  like  that  of  Guest  &  Co., 
with  a  banking  concern  attached.     And  Mrs.  Deane,  as. 

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BOY  AND  GIBL,  61 

her  intimate  female  friends  observed,  was  proud  and 
**  having ^^  enough:  she  wouhln't  let  her  husband  stand 
still  in  the  world  for  want  of  spurring, 

*^  Maggie/^  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  beckoning  Maggie  to  her, 
and  whispering  in  her  ear,  as  soon  as  this  point  of  Lucy's 
staying  was  settled,  "go  and  get  your  hair  brushed  — 
do,  for  shame.  I  told  you  not  to  come  in  without  going  to 
Martha  first;  you  know  I  did.'' 

"Tom,  come  out  with  me,''  whispered  Maggie,  pulling 
his  sleeve  as  she  passed  him;  and  Tom  followed  willingly 
enough. 

"  Come  up-stairs  with  me,  Tom,"  she  whispered,  when 
they  were  outside  the  door.  **  There's  something  I  want 
to  do  before  dinner," 

"  There's  no  time  to  play  at  anything  before  dinner," 
said  Tom,  whose  imagination  was  impatient  of  any  inter- 
mediate prospect. 

*^0h,  yes,  there  is  time  for  this — do  come,  Tom." 

Tom  followed  Maggie  up-stairs  into  her  mother's  room, 
and  saw  her  go  at  once  to  a  drawer,  from  which  she  took 
out  a  large  pair  of  scissors. 

"What  are  they  for,  Maggie?"  said  Tom,  feeling  his 
curiosity  awakened. 

Maggie  answered  by  seizing  her  front  locks  and  cutting 
them  straight  across  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 

"Oh,  my  buttons,  Maggie,  you'll  catch  it!"  exclaimed 
Tom;  "you'd  better  not  cut  any  more  oif." 

Snip!  went  the  great  scissors  again  while  Tom  was  speak- 
ing; and  he  couldn't  help  feeling  it  was  rather  good  fun: 
Maggie  would  look  so  cjueer. 

"Here,  Tom,  cut  it  behind  for  me,"  said  Maggie, 
excited  by  her  own  daring,  and  anxious  to  finish  the  deed. 

"You'll  catch  it,  you  know,"  said  Tom  nodding  his 
bead  in  an  admonitory  manner,  and  hesitating  a  little  as 
he  took  the  scissors. 

"Never  mind — make  haste!"  said  Maggie,  giving  a 
little  stamp  with  her  foot.    Her  cheeks  were  quite  flushed. 

The  black  locks  were  so  thick — ^nothing  could  be  more 
tempting  to  a  lad  who  had  already  tasted  the  forbidden 
pleasure  of  cutting  the  pony's  mane.  I  speak  to  those  who 
know  the  satisfaction  of  making  a  pair  of  shears  meet 
through  a  duly  resisting  mass  of  hair.  One  delicious 
griftding  snip,  and  then  another  and  another  and  the 
hinder  locks  fell  heavily  on  the  floor,  and  Maggie  stood 
cropped  in  a  jagged,  uneven  manuer,  but  with  ^  seup^ 

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62  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

of  clearness  and  freedom,  as  if  she  had  emerged  from  a 
wood  into  tlie  open  plain, 

**  0  Maggie/'  said  Tom,  jumping  round  her,  and  skp- 
ping  his  knees  as  he  hiughed,  **  Oh,  my  buttons,  what  a 
queer  thing  yon  look!  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass — ^you 
look  like  the  idiot  we  throw  out  nut  shells  to  at  school. 

Maggie  felt  an  unexpected  pang.  She  had  thought 
beforehand  chiefly  of  her  own  deliverance  from  her  teas- 
ing hair  and  teasing  remarks  about  it,  and  something  also 
of  the  triumph  she  should  have  over  her  mother  and  her 
aunts  by  this  very  decided  course  of  action:  she  didn't  want 
her  hair  to  look  pretty — that  was  out  of  the  question — she 
only  wanted  people  to  think  her  a  clever  little  girl,  and 
not  to  find  fault  with  her.  But  now,  when  Tom  began  to 
laugh  at  her,  and  say  she  was  like  the  idiot,  the  affair  had 
quite  a  new  aspect.  She  looked  in  the  glass,  and  still  Tom 
laughed  and  clapped  his  hands,  and  Maggie's  flushed  cheeks 
began  to  pale,  and  her  lips  to  tremble  a  little. 

*'0  Maggie,  you'll  have  to  go  down  to  dinner  directly," 
said  Tom.     *'Ohmy!" 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  passionate 
tone,  with  an  outburst  of  angry  tears,  stamping,  and 
giving  him  a  push. 

"  Now,  then,  spitfire!"  said  Tom.  "  What  did  you  cut 
it  off  for,  then?  I  shall  go  down:  I  can  smell  the  dinner 
going  in." 

He  hurried  down  stairs  and  left  poor  Maggie  to  that 
bitter  sense  of  the  irrevocable  which  was  almost  an  every- 
day experience  of  her  small  soul.  She  could  see  clearly 
enough,  now  the  thing  was  done,  that  it  was  very  foolish, 
and  that  she  should  have  to  hear  and  think  more  about 
her  hair*  than  ever;  for  Maggie  rushed  to  her  deeds  with 
passionate  impulse,  and  then  saw  not  only  their  conse- 
quences, but  what  would  have  happened  if  they  had  not 
been  done,  with  all  the  detail  and  exaggerated  circumstance 
of  an  active  imagination.  Tom  never  did  the  same  sort  of 
foolish  things  as  Maggie,  having  a  wonderful  instinctive 
discernment  of  what  would  turn  to  his  advantage  or  disad- 
vantage; and  so  it  happened,  that  though  he  was  much 
more  willful  and  inflexible  than  Maggie,  his  mother  hardly 
ever  called  him  naughty.  But  if  Tom  did  make  a  mistake 
of  that  sort,  he  espoused  it,  and  stood  by  it:  he  "didn't 
mind."  If  he  broke  the  lash  of  his  father's  gig- 
whip  by  lashing  the  gate,  he  couldn't  help  it — the 
"Vhip  shouldn't  have  got  caught  in  the  hinge.     If  Tom 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  63 

Tulliver  whipped  a  gate,  he  was  convinced,  not  that  the 
whipping  of  gates  by  all  boys  was  a  justifiable  act,  but 
that  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  was  justifiable  in  whipping  tliat 
particular  gate,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  be  sorry.  But 
Maggie,  as  she  stood  crying  before  the  gloss,  felt  it  impos- 
sible that  she  should  go  down  to  dinner  and  endure  the 
severe  eyes  and  severe  words  of  her  aunts,  while  Tom,  and 
Lucy,  and  Martha,  who  waited  at  table,  and  perhaps  her 
father  and  her  uncles,  would  laugh  at  her — for  if  Tom 
had  laughed  at  her,  of  course  every  one  else  would;  and  if 
she  had  only  let  her  hair  alone,  she  could  have  sat  with 
Tom  and  Lucy,  and  had  the  apricot-pudding  and  the 
custard!  What  could  she  do  but  sob?  She  sat  as  helpless 
and  despairing  among  her  black  locks  as  Ajax  among  the 
slaughtered  sheep,  very  trivial,  perhaps,  this  anguish 
seems  to  weather-worn  mortals  who  have  to  think  of 
Christmas  bills,  dead  loves,  and  broken  friendships;  but  it 
was  not  less  bitter  to  Maggie — perhaps  it  was  even  more 
bitter — than  what  we  are  fond  of  calling  antithetically  the 
real  troubles  of  mature  life.  "Ah,  my  child,  you  will 
have  real  troubles  to  fret  about  by-and-by,"  is  the  consola- 
tion we  have  almost  all  of  us  had  administered  to  us  in  our 
childhood,  and  have  repeated  to  other  children  since  we 
have  been  grown  up.  We  have  all  of  us  sobbed  so  piteously, 
standing  with  tiny  bare  legs  above  our  little  socks,  when 
we  lost  sight  of  our  mother  or  nurse  in  some  strange  place; 
but  we  can  no  longer  recall  the  poignancy  of  that  moment 
and  weep  over  it,  as  we  do  over  the  remembered  sufferings 
of  five  or  ten  years  ago.  Every  one  of  those  keen  moments 
has  left  its  trace,  and  lives  in  us  still,  but  such  traces  have 
blent  themselves  irrecoverably  with  the  firmer  texture  of 
our  youth  and  manhood;  and  so  it  comes  that  we  can  look 
on  at  the  troubles  of  our  children  with  a  smiling  disbelief  . 
in  the  reality  of  their  pain.  Is  there  any  one  who  can 
recover  the  experience  of  his  childhood,  not  merely  with  a 
memory  of  what  he  did  and  what  happened  to  him,  of 
what  he  liked  and  disliked  when  he  was  in  frock  and 
trousers,  but  with  an  intimate  penetration,  a  revived  con- 
sciousness of  what  he  felt  then — when  it  was  so  long  from 
one  Midsummer  to  another? — what  he  felt  when  his  school- 
fellows shut  him  out  of  their  game  because  he  would  pitch 
the  ball  wrong  out  of  mere  willfulness;  or  on  a  rainy  day 
in  the  holidays,  when  he  didn't  know  how  to  amuse  him- 
self, and  fell  from  idleness  into  mischief,  from  mischief 
iftto  (Jefiance,  and  from  defiance  into  sulkiness;  or  whe» 

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64  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

his  mother  absolutely  refused  to  let  him  have  a  tailed  coat 
that  **  half,"  although  every  other  boy  of  his  age  had  goue 
into  tails  already?  Surely  if  we  could  recall  that  ejirly 
bitterness,  and  the  dim  guesses,  the  strangely  perspective- 
less  conception  of  life  that  gave  the  bitterness  its  intensity, 
we  should  not  pooh-pooh  the  griefs  of  our  children. 

*^Miss  Maggie,  you're  to  come  down  this  minute, ''  said 
Kezia,  entering  the  room  hurriedly.  **  Lawks!  what  have 
you  been  a-doing?    I  niver  see  sucn  a  fright !'' 

"l)on%  Kezia,''  said  Maggie,  angrily.     *^ Go  away!" 

"  But  I  tell  you,  you're  to  come  down.  Miss,  this  minute: 
your  mother  says  so,"  said  Kezia,  going  up  to  Maggie  and 
taking  her  by  the  hand  to  raise  her  from  the  floor. 

**Get  away,  Kezia;  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  said 
Maggie,  resisting  Kezia's  arm.     "  I  shan't  come." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can't  stay.  I've  got  to  wait  at  dinner," 
said  Kezia,  going  out  again. 

**  Maggie,  you  little  silly,"  said  Tom,  peeping  into  the 
room  ten  minutes  after, ^^  why  don't  you  come  and  have 
your  dinner?  There's  lots  o'  goodies,  and  mother  says 
you're  to  come.  What  are  you  crying  for,  you  little 
spooney?" 

Oh,  it  was  dreadful!  Tom  was  so  hard  and  unconcerned; 
if  he  had  been  crying  on  the  floor,  Maggie  would  have 
cried  too.  And  there  was  the  dinner,  so  nice;  and  she  was 
so  hungry.     It  was  very  bitter. 

But  Tom  was  not  altogether  hard.  He  was  not  inclined 
to  cry,  and  did  not  feel  that  Maggie's  grief  spoiled  his 

Erospect  of  the  sweets;  but  he  went  and  put  his  head  near 
er,  and  said  in  a  lower,  comforting  tone  — 

*^  Won't  you  come,  then,  Magsie?    Shall  I  bring  you  a 

bit  o' pudding,  when  I've  had  mine? and  a  custard 

and  things?" 

*^  Ye-e-es,"  said  Maggie,  beginning  to  feel  life  a  little 
more  tolerable. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  going  away.  But  he  turned 
again  at  the  door  and  said,  **  But  you'd  better  come,  you 
know.  There's  the  dessert— nuts,  you  know— -and  cow» 
slip  wine." 

Maggie's  tears  had  ceased,  and  she  Jooked  reflective  ^ 
Tom  left  her.  His  good  nature  had  taken  off  the  keenest 
edge  of  her  suffering,  and  nuts  with  cowslip  wine  began  to 
assert  their  legitimate  influence. 

Slowly  she  rose  from  amongst  her  scattered  locks,  aud 
glowly  she  made  her  way  down  stairs.    Tbe^  §bo  stoo4 

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BOY  AND   GIEL.  66 

leaning  with  one  shoulder  jigainst  tie  frame  of  the  dining- 
purlor  door,  peeping  in  when  it  was  ajar.  She  saw  Tom 
and  Lucy  with  an  empty  chair  between  them,  and  there 
were  the  custards  on  a  side-table  —  it  was  too  much.  She 
slipped  in  and  went  toward  the  empty  chair.  But  she  had 
no  sooner  sat  down  than  she  repented,  and  wished  herself 
back  again. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  saw  her,  and 
felt  such  a  "turn^^  that  she  dropped  the  large  gravy- 
spoon  into  the  dish  with  the  most  serious  results  to  the 
table-cloth.  For  Kezia  had  not  betrayed  the  reason  of 
Maggie's  refusal  to  come  down,  not  liking  to  give  her 
mistress  a  shock  in  the  moment  of  carving,  and  Mrs.  Tul' 
liver  thought  there  was  nothing  worse  in  question  than  a 
tit  of  perverseness,  which  was  inflicting  its  own  punishment 
by  depriving  Maggie  of  half  her  dinner. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  scream  made  all  eyes  turn  toward  the 
same  point  as  her  own,  and  Maggie's  cheeks  and  ears  began 
to  burn,  while  uncle  Glegg,  a  kind-looking,  white-haired 
old  gentleman,  said — 

"Heyday!  what  little  gelFs  this  —  why,  I  don't  know 
her.  Is  it  some  little  gell  you've  picked  up  in  the  road, 
Kezia?" 

**  Why,  she's  gone  and  cut  her  hair  herself,"  said  Mr. 
Tulliver  in  an  undertone  to  Mr.  Deane,  laughing  with 
much  enjoyment.  "  Did  you  ever  know  such  a  little 
hussy  as  it  is?"  ^ 

**Why,  little  miss,  you've  made  yourself  look  very 
funny,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  and  perhaps  he  never  in  his 
life  made  an  observation  which  was  felt  to  be  so  lacerating. 

"Fie,  for  shame!"  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  her  loudest, 
severest  tone  of  reproof.  "Little  gelTs  as  cut  their  own 
hair  should  be  whipped  and  fed  on  bread  and  water — ^not 
come  and  sit  down  with  their  aunts  and  uncles." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  meaning  to  give  a  playful 
turn  to  this  denunciation,  "she  must  be  sent  to  jail,  I 
think,  and  they'll  cut  the  rest  of  her  hair  off  there,  and 
make  it  all  even." 

"  She's  more  like  a  gypsy  nor  ever,"  said  aunt  Pullet, 
in  a  pitying  tone;  "  it's  very  bad  luck,  sister,  as  the  gell 
should  be  so  brown — the  boy's  fair  enough.  I  doubt  it'll 
stand  in  her  way  i'  life  to  be  so  brown." 

"  She's  a  naughty  child,  as'll  break  her  mother's  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  tlie  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Maggie  seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  chorus  of  reproach 
5 

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66  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

and  derision.  Her  first  finsa  came  from  anger,  which 
gave  her  u  transient  power  of  defiance,  and  Tom  thought 
she  was  braving  it  out,  supported  by  the  recent  appear- 
ance of  the  pudding  and  custard.  Under  this  imj)ression, 
he  whispered,  **0h,  my!  Maggie,  I  told  you  you^d  catch 
it.^^  He  meant  to  be  friendly,  but  Maggie  felt  convmced 
that  Tom  was  rejoicing  in  her  ignominy.  Her  feeble 
power  of  defiance  left  her  in  an  instant,  her  heart  swelled, 
and,  getting  up  from  her  chair,  she  ran  to  her  father, 
hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  burst  out  into  loud 
sobbing. 

"Come,  come,  my  wench,"  said  her  father,  soothingly, 
putting  his  arm  round  her,  "never  mind;  you  was  i'  the 
right  to  cut  it  off  if  it  plagued  you;  give  over  crying: 
fatherll  take  your  part." 

Delicious  words  of  tenderness!  Maggie  never  forgot  any 
of  these  moments  when  her  father  "took  her  part";  she 
kept  them  in  her  heart,  and  thought  of  them  long  years 
after,  when  every  one  else  said  that  her  father  had  done 
very  ill  by  his  children. 

"How  your  husband  does  spoil  that  child,  Bessy!"  said 
Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  loud  "aside,"  to  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "It^ll 
be  the  ruin  of  her  if  you  don't  take  care.  My  father 
never. brought  his  children  up  so,  else  we  should  lia'  been 
a  different  sort  o'  family  to  what  we  are." 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  domestic  sorrows  seemed  at  this  moment 
to  have  reached  the  point  at  which  insensibility  begins. 
She  took  no  notice  of  her  sister's  remark,  but  threw  back 
her  cap-strings  and  dispensed  the  pudding,  in  mute  resig- 
nation. 

With  the  dessert  there  came  entire  deliverance  for 
Maggie,  for  the  children  were  told  they  might  have  their 
nuts  and  wine  in  the  summer-house,  since  the  day  was  so 
mild,  and  they  scampered  out  among  the  budding  bushes 
of  the  garden  )vith  the  alacrity  of  small  animals  getting 
from  under  a  burning-glass. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  her  special  reason  for  this  permis- 
sion: now  the  dinner  was  dispatched,  and  every  one's 
mind  disengaged,  it  was  the  right  moment  to  communi- 
cate Mr.  Tuiliver's  intention  concerning  Tom,  and  it  would 
be  as  well  for  Tom  himself  to  be  absent.  The  children 
were  used  to  hear  themselves  talked  of  as  freely  as  if  they 
were  birds,  and  could  understand  nothing,  however  they 
might  stretch  their  necks  and  listen;  but  on  this  occasion 
Mrs.  Tulliver  manifested  an  unusual  discretion,  because 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  67 

she  had  recently  had  evidence  that  the  going  to  school  to  a 
clergyman  was  a  sore  point  with  Tom,  who  looked  at  it  as 
very  much  on  a  par  with  going  to  school  to  a  constable. 
Mrs.  Tulliver  had  a  sighing  sense  that  her  husband  would 
do  as  he  liked,  whatever  sister  Glegg  said,  or  sister  Pullet 
cither,  but  at  least  they  would  not  be  able  to  say,  if  the 
thing  turned  out  ill,  that  Bessy  had  fallen  in  urith  her 
husband^s  folly  without  letting  her  own  friends  know  a 
word  about  it. 

"  Mr.  Tulliver,'^  she  said,  interrupting  her  husband  in 
his  talk  with  Mr.  Deane,  "  it's  time  to  tell  the  children's 
Hunts  and  uncles  what  you're  thinking  of  doing  with  Tom, 
isn't  it?" 

**  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  sharply,  "  I've 
^0  objections  to  tell  anybody  what  I  mean  to  do  with  him. 
I've  settled,"  he  added,  looking  toward  Mr.  Glegg  and 
■M^r.  Deane — "  I've  settled  to  send  him  to  a  Mr.  Stelling,  a 
parson,  down  at  King's  Lorton,  there — an  uncommon 
clever  fellow,  I  understand  —  ae'U  put  him  up  to  most 

Co      ^^®  was  a  rustling  demonstration  of  surprise  in  the 
coj^^^^y^  such  as  you  may  have  observed  in  a  country 
ci^^^i'egation,  when  they  hear  an  allusion  to  their  week- 
//^    affairs  from  the  pulpit.     It  was  equally  astonishing  to 
1  ^^^  Slf^rx\.%  and  uncles  to  find  a  parson  introduced  into  Mr. 

f/fl-^  I  i//jli^^^^^^  family  arrangements.  As  for  uncle  Pullet, 
t/^^'  /  I  ^4=^^^^^^  hardly  have  been  more  thoroughly  obfuscated  if 
\^- 1  j»^^  T'vLlliver  had  said  he  was  going  to  send  Tom  to  the 
\jjcp^^  Ohancellor:  for  uncle  Pullet  belonged  to  that  extinct 
^-gvss  c>l  British  yeomen  who,  dressed  in  good  broadcloth, 
^'aid^  Ixigh  rates  and  taxes,  went  to  church,  and  ate  a 
parfcxc3\:>^larly  good  dinner  on  Sunday,  without  dreaming 
that  "fclii^^  British  constitution  in  Church  and  State  had  a 
^r3(y^a>:>ie  origin  any  more  than  the  solar  system  and  the 
fi.i:eca  s-fcars.  It  is  melancholy,  but  true,  that  Mr.  Pullet  had 
^V  ^^^^^st  confused  idea  of  a  bishop  as  a  sort  of  a  baronet, 
^f  K  -^^^^^g^^  ^r  might  not  be  a  clergyman;  and  as  the  rector 
\\  '^  ^^^  parish  was  a  man  of  high  family  and  fortune, 
t  e  i<x^a  that  a  clergyman  could  be  a  schoolmaster  was  too 
^iT^^^  from  Mr.  Pullet's  experience  to  be  readily  conceiv- 
*'  '^^  I  know  it  is  difficult  for  people  in  these  instructed 


\^\J^ 


im^s    -|^Q  believe  in  uncle  Pullet's  ignorance;  but  let  them 
^^     favoring  circumstanoea.     And  uncle  Pullet  had  a 


uvA^^    0^  *h®  remarkable  results  of  a  great  natural  faculty 
unites-     *„ — : : . A^^  ^^^1q  p^jllgt  YiixA  . 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


1 


08  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

great  natural  faculty  for  ignorance.     He  was  the  first  to 
give  utterance  to  his  astonishment. 

"Why,  what  can  you  be  going  to  send  him  to  a  parson 
for?''  he  said,  with  an  amused  twinkling  in  his  eyes,  look- 
ing at  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  to  see  whether  they 
showed  any  signs  of  comprehension. 

"  Why,  because  the  parsons  are  the  best  schoolmasters, 
by  what  I  can  make  out,''  said  poor  Mr.  Tulliver,  who, 
in  the  maze  of  this  puzzling  'world,  laid  hold  of  any 
clue  with  great  readiness  and  tenacity.  "Jacob's  at 
th'  academy^s  no  parson,  and  he's  done  very  bad  by  the 
boy;  and  I  made  up  my  mind,  if  I  sent  him  to  school 
again,  it  should  be  to  somebody  different  to  Jacobs.  And 
this  Mr.  Stelling,  by  what  I  can  make  out,  is  the  sort  o' 
man  I  want.  And  I  mean  my  boy  to  go  to  him  at  Mid- 
summer," he  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  decision,  tapping  his 
snuff-box  and  taking  a  pinch. 

"  You'll  have  to  pay  a  swinging  half-yearly  bill,  then, 
eh,  Tulliver?  The  clergymen  nave  highish  notions,  in 
general,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  taking  snuff  vigorously,  as  he 
always  did  when  wishing  to  maintain  a  neutral  position. 

"  What!  do  you  think  the  parson'll  teach  him  to  know 
a  good  sample  o'  wheat  when  he  sees  it,  neighbor  Tul- 
liver?" said  Mr.  Glegg,  who  was  fond  of  his  jest;  and, 
having  retired  from  business,  felt  that  it  was  not  only 
allowable  but  becoming  in  him  to  take  a  playful  view  of 
things. 

"  Why,  you  see,  I've  got  a  plan  i'  my  head  about  Tom," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  pausing  after  that  statement  and  lifting 
up  his  glass. 

"  Well,  if  I  ay  be  allowed  to  speak,  and  it's  seldom  as 
I  am,"  said  Jiii  .  Glegg,  with  a  tone  of  bitter  meaning, 
"  I  should  like  to  know  what  good  is  to  come  to  the  boy, 
by  bringin'  him  up  above  his  fortin." 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  looking  at  Mrs.  Glegg, 
but  at  the  male  part  of  his  audience,  "  you  see,  I've  made 
up  my  mind  not  to  bring  Tom  up  to  my  own  business. 
I've  had  my  thoughts  about  it  all  along,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  by  what  1  saw  with  Garnett  and  his  son.  I  mean 
to  put  him  to  some  business,  as  he  can  go  into  without 
capital,  and  I  want  to  give  him  an  eddication  as  he'll  ho 
even  wi'  the  lawyers  and  folks,  and  put  me  up  to  a  notion 
now  an'  then." 

Mrs.  Glegg  emitted  a  lon^  sort  of  guttural  sound  ^\>3a. 
closed  lips,  that  smiled  in  mingled  pity  and  scorn. 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  69 

^^  It  'lid  be  a  fine  deal  better  for  some  people/'  she  said, 
alter  that  introductory  note,  "if  they'd  let  the  lawyers 
alone/' 

"Is  he  at  the  head  of  a  dammar  school,  then,  this 
clergyman  —  such  as  that  at  Market  Bewley?"  said  Mr. 
I^eane 

"  No — nothing  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver.  "  Ue  won't 
take  more  than  two  or  three  pu2)ils  —  and  so  he'll  have  the 
more  time  to  attend  to  'em,  you  know." 

"Ah,  and  get  his  eddication  done  the  sooner:  they  can't 
learn  much  at  a  time  when  there's  so  many  of  'em,"  said 
uncle  Pullet,  feeling  that  he  was  getting  quite  an  insight 
into  this  difficult  matter. 

"But  he'll  want  the  more  pay,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg. 

"Ay,  ay,  a  cool  hundred  a  year — that's  all,"  said  Mr. 
Tulliver,  with  some  pride  at  his  own  spirited  course. 
^'But  then,  you  know,  it's  an  investment;  Tom's  eddi- 
catiou  'ull  be  so  much  capital  to  him." 
^^  "Ay,  there's  something  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
*'Well,  well,  neighbor  Tulliver,  you  may  be  right,  you 
^^y  be  right: 

*  When  land  is  grone  and  money's  spent, 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent.* 

/  7*e^ember  seeing  those  two  lines  wrote  on  a  window  at 
Kf^X^on.     But  us  that  have  got  no  learning  had  better  keep 
'^tf    iTioney^  eh,  neighbor  Pullet?"    Mr.  Glegg  rubbed  his 
^^^oa  and  looked  very  pleasant. 

^^  Atr.   Glegg,  I  wonder  at  you,"  said  his  wife.     "It's 
r^^y  i:inbecoming  in  a  man  o'  your  age  and  belongings." 

"VVhat's  unbecoming,  Mrs.  G.  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  wink- 
ii'^S  T^l  easantly  at  the  company.  "  My  new  blue  coat  as  I've 
g<yt>    o>^p>^ 

^  I    pity  your  weakness,  Mr.  Glegg.     I  say  it's  unbecom- 
1^^^^^^  be  making  a  joke  when  you  see  your  own  kin  going 

?'^^\*-^ngs  to  ruin." 
1^-.       ~t^  you  mean  me  by  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  consider- 
^^^    >^ettled,  "you  needn't  trouble  jrourself  to  fret  about 
f^2^  I  can  manage  my  own  affairs  without  troubling  other 

i^Q,^^^  ^^^lessme!"  said  Mr.  Deane,  Judiciously  introducing  a 

JV"^^~I^  i  ^ea,  "  why,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  somebody  said 

cl^^^^^  ^^m  was  going  to  send  Ids  son — the  deformed  lad — to  a 

'^'!^man,-Hiidn't  they,  Susan?"  (appealing  to  his  wile). 


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70  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

'*  I  can  give  no  account  of  it,  I'm  sure/*  said  Mrs,  Deane^ 
closing  her  lips  vdrj'  tightly  again,  Mrs.  Deane  was  not  a 
woman  to  take  part  m  a  scene  where  missiles  were  flying. 

**  Well/'  said  Mr.  O^iUiver,  speaking  all  the  more  cheer- 
fully, that  Mrs.  Glegg  might  see  he  didn't  mind  her,  **  if 
Waicem  thinks  o'  sencMng  his  son  to  a  clergyman,  depend 
on  it  I.  shall  make  no  mistake  i'  sending  Tom  to  one. 
Wakem's  as  big  a  sco^icdrel  as  Old  Harry  ever  made,  but 
he  knows  the  length  of  every  man's  foot  he's  got  to  deal 
with.  Ay,  ay,  tell  me  who's  Wakem's  butcher,  and  I'll  tell 
you  where  to  buyyour  mpat." 

"But  lawyer  Wakem's  son's  got  a  hump-back,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  who  felt  as  if  the  whole  business  had  a  funereal 
aspect;  "it's  more  nat'ral  to  send  him  to  a  clergyman." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  interpreting  Mrs.  Pullet's  obser- 
vations with  erroneous  plmipibility,  "you  must  consider 
that,  neighbor  Tulliver;  Wakem's  son  isn't  likely  to  follow 
any  business.  Wakem  'uU  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  poor 
fellow." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that 
her  indignation  would  fizz  and  ooze  a  little,  though  she  was 
determined  to  keep  it  corked  up,  "you'd  far  better  hold 
your  tongue.  Mr.  Tulliver  doesn't  want  to  know  your 
opinion  nor  mine  neither.  There's  folks  in  the  world  as 
know  better  than  everybody  else." 

*^  Why,  I  should  think  that's  you,  if  we're  to  trust  your 
own  tale,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  boil  up  again. 

"  Oh,  I  say  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  sarcastically. 
"  My  advice  has  never  been  asked,  and  I  don't  give  it." 

"  It'll  be  the  first  time,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  It's 
the  only  thing  you're  over-ready  at  giving." 

"  I've  been  over-ready  at  lending,  then,  if  I  haven't  been 
over-ready  at  giving,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "There's  folks 
I've  lent  money  to,  as  perhaps  I  shall  repent  o'  lending 
money  to  kin." 

"Come,  come,  come," said  Mr.  Glerg,  soothingly.  But 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  not  to  be  hindered  of  his  retort. 

"You've  got  a  bond  for  it,  I  reckon," he  saidj  "and 
you've  had  your  five  per  cent,  kin  or  no  kin." 

"Sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  pleadingly,  "drink  your 
wine,  and  let  me  give  you  some  almonds  and  raisins." 

"  Bessy,  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  very  much 
with  the  feeling  of  a  cur  that  siezes  iho  opportunity  of 
diverting  his  back  toward  the  man  who  carries  no  stick, 
"It's  poor  work  talking  o'  almonds  and  raisins," 

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BOY  AKD  GIRL.  71 

**  Lors,  sister  Glegg,  don^t  be  so  quarrelsome/^  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  beginning  to  cry  a  little.  ^'You  mey  be  struck 
with  a  nt,  getting  so  red  in  the  face  after  dinner,  and  we 
are  but  just  out  o'  mourning,  all  of  us — and  nil  wi'  j^owns 
craped  alike  and  just  put  by — it^s  very  bad  amcng  sisters. *' 

^^I  should  think  it  is  bad,'^  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  '*  Things 
are  come  to  a  fine  pass  when  one  sister  invites  the  other  to 
her  house  o^  purpose  to  quarrel  with  her  and  abuse  her.'* 

^^  Softly,  softly,  Jane — be  reasonable — be  reasonable,*' 
said  Mr.  Glegg. 

But  while  he  was  speaking,  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  by 
no  means  said  enough  to  satisfy  his  anger,  burst  out  again. 

^^Who  wants  to  quarrel  with  you?'*  he  said.  "It's  you 
as  can't  let  people  alone,  but  must  be  gnawing  at  'em  for- 
ever. /  should  never  want  to  quarrel  with  any  woman  if 
she  kept  her  place." 

"My  place,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  getting  rather 
more  shrill.  "There's  your  betters,  Mr.  Tulliver,  as  are 
dead  and  in  their  grave,  treated  me  with  a  different  sort 
o'  respect  to  what  you  do — though  I've  got  a  husband  as'll 
sit  by  and  see  me  abused  by  them  as  'ud  never  ha'  had  the 
chance  if  there  hadn't  been  them  in  our  family  as  married 
worse  than  thev  might  ha'  done." 

"  If  you  talk  o'  tliat,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "my  family's 
as  good  as  yours — and  better,  for  it  hasn't  got  a  damned 
ill-tempered  woman  in  it." 

'^  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  rising  from  her  chair,  '^I 
don't  know  whether  you  think  it's  a  fine  thing  to  sit  by 
and  hear  me  swore  at,  Mr.  Glegg;  but  I'm  not  goin^  to 
stay  a  minute  longer  in  this  house.  You  can  stay  behind, 
and  come  home  in  the  gig — and  I'll  walk  home." 

"Dear  heart,  dear  heart!"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  melan- 
choly tone,  as  he  followed  his  wif-e  out  of  the  room. 

"Mr.  Tulliver,  how  could  you  talk  so?"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver, with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  too  hot  to  be  damped 
by  any  amount  of  tears.  "  Let  her  go,  and  the  sooner 
the  better:  she  won't  be  trying  to  domineer  over  me  again 
in  a  hurry." 

"  Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  helplessly,  "do  you 
think  it  'ud  be  any  use  for  you  to  go  out  after  Iier  and  try 
to  pacify  her?" 

'•Better  not,  better  not,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "You'll 
make  it  up  another  day." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


72  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

''Then,  sisters,  shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  children?'^ 
said  Mrs.  TuUiver,  drying  her  eyes. 

No  proposition  could  have  been  more  seasonable.  Mr. 
Tulliver  felt  very  much  as  if  the  air  had  been  cleared  of 
obstructive  flies  now  the  women  were  out  of  the  room. 
There  were  few  things  he  liked  better  than  a  chat  with 
Mr.  Deane,  whose  close  application  to  business  allowed  the 
pleasure  very  rarely.  Mr.  Deane,  he  considered,  was  the 
''knowingest "  man  of  his  acquaintance,  and  he  had  besides 
a  ready  causticity  of  tongue  that  made  an  agreeable  sup- 

Element  to  Mr.  TuUiver's  own  tendency  that  way,  which 
ad  remained  in  rather  an  inarticulate  condition.  And 
now  the  women  were  gone,  they  could  carry  on  their  serious 
talk  without  frivolous  interruption.  They  could  exchange 
their  views  concerning  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  whose 
conduct  in  the  Catholic  Question  had  thrown  such  an 
entirely  new  light  on  his  character;  and  speak  slightingly 
of  his  conduct  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  which  he  would 
never  have  won  if  there  hadn^t  been  a  great  many  English- 
men at  his  back,  not  to  speak  of  Blucher  and  the  Prus- 
sians, who,  as  Mr.  Tulliver  had  heard  from  a  person  of 
particular  knowledge  in  that  matter,  had  come  up  in  the 
very  nick  of  time;  though  here  there  was  a  slight  dissi- 
dence,  Mr.  Deane  remarking  that  he  was  not  disposed  to 
give  much  credit  to  the  Prussians, — the  build  of  their 
vessels,  together  with  the  unsatisfactory  character  of  trans- 
actions in  Dentzic  beer,  inclining  him  to  form  rather  a 
low  view  of  Prussian  pluck  generally.  Rather  beaten  on 
this  ground,  Mr.  Tulliver  proceeded  to  express  his  fears 
that  the  country  would  never  again  be  what  it  used  to  be; 
but  Mr.  Deane,  attached  to  a  firm  of  which  the  returns 
were  on  the  increase,  naturally  took  a  more  lively  view  of 
the  present;  and  had  some  details  to  give  concerning  the 
state  of  the  imports,  especially  in  hides  and  spelter,  which 
soothed  Mr.  Tulliver^s  imagination  by  throwing  into  more 
distant  perspective  the  period  when  the  country  would 
become  utterly  the  prey  of  Papists  and  Radicals,  and  there 
would  be  no  more  chance  for  honest  men. 

Uncle  Pullet  sat  by  and  listened  with  twinkling  eyes  to 
these  high  matters.  He  didn^t  understand  politics  him- 
self— thought  they  were  a  natural  gift — but  by  what  he 
could  make  out,  this  Duke  of  Wellington  was  no  better 
than  he  should  be. 


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BOT   AND  GIRL.  '^8 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.   TULLIVER  SHOWS  HIS  WEAKER  SIDE. 

,  ^^  Stjppose  sister  Glegg  should  call  her  money  in — it  'nd 
^^  Very  awkward  for  you  to  have  to  raise  five  hundred 
pounds  now/^  said  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  her  husband  that  even- 
^"ff:»    «.s  she  took  a  plaintive  review  of  the  day. 

■|^rs.  Tulliver  had  lived  thirteen  years  with  her  husband, 
jet  slxe  retained  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  early  married 
"^^  ^.  facility  of  sayiiig  things  which  drove  him  in  the 
^PF>osite  direction  to  the  one  she  desired.  Some  minds  are 
^^^^^rful  for  keeping  their  bloom  in  this  wajr,  as  a  patri- 
arehip,!  gold-fish  apparently  retains  to  the  last  its  youthful 
^^?ion  that  it  can  swim  in  a  straight  line  beyond  the 
^l^^\J"^ing  glass.  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  an  amiable  fish  of  this 
.  ^^  »  and,  after  running  her  head  against  the  same  resist- 
^^.^..^^^niedium  for  thirteen  years,  would  go  at  it  again  to-day 
^^^*^    yindulled  alacrity! 

rp  "^^?^is  observation  of  hers  tended  directly  to  convince  Mr. 

?Hiver  that  it  would  not  be  at  all  awkward  for  him  to 

^^^^   live  hundred  pounds;  and  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  became 

'atiti^Y  pressing  to  know  how  he  would  raise  it  witliout 

^^^"t^aging  the  mill  and  the  house,  which  he  had  said  he 

^^Ver  would  mortgage,  since  nowadays  people  were  none 

5?  I'oady  to  lend  money  without  security,  Mr.  Tulliver,  get- 

"^^  "Warm,  declared  that  Mrs.  Glegg  might  do  as  she  liked 

^^^li  calling  in  her  money — he  should  pay  it  in,  whether 

X  ^'^^t.     He  was  not  going  to  be  beholden  to  his  wife's  sis- 

®-       When  a  man  had  married  into  a  family  where  there 

nn^  ^-  ^^^^1®  litter  of  women,  he  mij^ht  have  plenty  to  put 

'-jy^ith  if  he  chose.     But  Mr.  Tulliver  did  wo^  choose. 

gl^^^S-  Tulliver  cried  a  little,  in  a  trickling,  quiet  way,  as 

forf  "'v^^  ^^  ^^^  nightcap;  but  presently  sank  into  a  com- 

^y    ^t>le  sleep,  lulled  by  the  thought  that  she  would  talk 

^j^**^Hing  over  with  her  sister  Pullet  to-morrow,  when  she 

gjj^  j'^  take  the  children  to  Garum  Firs  to  tea.     Not  that 

\^y^^    .^olced  forward  to  any  distinct  issue  from  that  talk; 

obg*.-^^    seemed  impossible  that  past  events  should  be  so 

pl^l^^^te  as  to  remain  unmodified  when  they  were  com- 

;^^^d  against. 
tlxij^v.^    husband  lay  awake  rather  longer,  for  he  too  was 
^^Jig  of  a  visit  he  would  pay  on  the  morrow;  and  his 


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74  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS, 

ideas  on  the  subject  were  not  of  so  vague  pnd  soothing  a 
kind  as  those  of  his  amiable  partner. 

Mr.  TrDiver,  when  under  the  influence  of  r  strong  feel- 
ing, had  r>  promptitude  in  action  that  may  ceem  incon- 
sistent with  that  painful  sense  of  the  complicated, 
puzzling  nature  of  human  affairs  under  which  his  more 
dispassionate  deliberations  were  conducted;  but  it  is  really 
not  improbable  that  there  was  a  direct  relation  between 
these  apparently  contradictory  phenomena,  since  I  have 
observed  that  for  getting  a  strong  impression  that  a 
skein  is  tangled,  there  is  nothing  like  snatching  hastily 
at  a  single  thread.  It  was  owing  to  this  promj^titude 
that  Mr.  TuUiver  was  on  horseback  soon  after  dinner 
the  next  day  (he  was  not  dyspeptic)  on  his  way  to  Basset 
to  see  his  sister  Moss  and  her  husband.  For  having  made 
up  his  mind  irrevocably  that  he  would  pay  Mrs.  Glegg  her 
loan  of  five  hundred  pounds,  it  naturally  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  a  promissory-note  for  tliree  hundred  pounds 
lent  to  his  brother-in-law  Moss,  and  if  the  said  brother-in- 
law  could  manage  to  pay  in  the  money  within  a  given  time, 
it  would  go  far  to  lessen  the  fallacious  air  of  inconvenience 
which  Mr.  Tulliver's  spirited  step  might  have  worn  in  the 
eves  of  weak  peoi)le  wiio  require  to  know  precisely  how  a 
thing  is  to  be  done  before  they  are  strongly  confident  that 
it  will  be  easy. 

For  Mr.  Tullivcr  was  in  a  position  neither  new  nor 
striking,  but,  like  other  everyday  things,  sure  to  have  a 
cumulative  effect  that  will  be  felt  in  the  long-run:  he  was 
held  to  be  a  much  more  substantial  num  than  he  really 
was.  And  as  we  are  all  apt  to  believe  what  the  world 
believes  about  us,  it  was  his  habit  to  think  of  failure  and 
ruin  with  the  same  sort  of  remote  pity  with  which  a  spare 
long-necked  man  hears  that  his  plethoric  short-necked 
neighbor  is  stricken  with  apoplexy.  He  had  been  always 
used  to  hear  pleasant  jokes  about  his  advantages  as  a  man 
who  worked  his  own  mill,  and  owned  a  pretty  bit  of 
land;  and  these  jokes  naturally  kept  up  his  sense  that  he 
was  a  man  of  considerable  substance.  They  gave  a  pleas- 
ant flavor  to  his  glass  on  a  market-day,  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  recurrence  of  half-yearly  pa3ments,  Mr.  Tul- 
liver  would  really  have  forgotten  that  there  was  a  mort- 
gage of  two  thousand  pounds  on  his  very  desirable  freehold. 
That  was  not  altogether  his  own  fault,  since  one  of  the 
thousand  pounds  was  his  sister^s  fortuns,  which  he  had  to 
pay  on  her  marriage;  and  a  man  who  has  neighbors  that 


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f. 


BOT  AND  GIRL.  76 

Wo  go  to  law  with  him,  is  not  likely  to  pay  off  his  mort- 
gages, especially  if  he  enjoys  the  good  opinion  of  acquaint- 
ances  who  want  to  borrow  a  hundred  pounds  on  security 
^0  lofty  to  be  represented  by  parchment.     Our  friend  Mr. 
-^ulliver  had  a  good-natured  fibre  in  him,  and  did  not  like 
tog-ive  harsh  refusals  even  to  a  sister,  who  had  not  only 
^?^?  into  the  world  in  that  superfluous  way  characteristic 
^^  sisteTs,  creating  a  necessity  for  mortgages,  but  had  quite 
t/irowxx  herself  away  in  marriage,  and  had  crowned  her  mis- 
talces  b  J  having  an  eighth  baby.     On  this  point  Mr.  Tullivcr 
J«^as  ooxiscious  of  being  a  little  weak;  but  he  apologized  to 
^inisoU  by  saying  poor  Gritty  had  been  a  good-looking 
?f®.^^li   before  she  married  Moss — he  would  sometimes  say 
013  o^vren  with  a  slight  tremulousness  in  his  voice.     But 
tins     rx>orning  he  was  in  a  moo  I  more  becoming  a  man  of 
usiix^^gg^  and  in  the  course  of  his  ride  along  the  Basset 
anos^      with   their  deep  ruts — lying  so  far  away  from  a 
niarlc^-|-tt)wn  that  the  labor  of  drawing  produce  and  manure 
^^\^^^O.ough  to  take  away  the  best  part  of  tlie  profits  on 
snctx  3^oor  land  as  fhat  parish  was  made  of — he  got  uj)  a  due 
^^^^^'^^t  of  irritation  against  Moss  as  a  man  without  capital, 
r.  ^»     ii  murrain  and  blight  were  abroad,  was  sure  to  have 
•  i  ^t^s.re  of  them,  and  who,  the  more  you  tried  to  help  him 
??     c>:f  the  mud,  would  sink  the. further  in.     It  would  do 
j^      ^ood  rather  than  harm,  now,  if  he  were  obliged  to 
1     ^      'this  thme  hundred  pounds:  it  would  make  him  look 
.1  •  ^-*^"t   him  better,  and  not  act  so  foolishly  about  his  wool 
i  ^   y^ar  as  he  did  the  last:  in  fact,  Mr.  Tulliver  had  been 
.^        ^^sy  with  his  brother-in-law,  and  because  he  had  let 
i     ,  ^"titerest  run  on  for  two  years.  Moss  was  likely  enough 
^•^^ink  that  he  should  never  be  troubled  about  the  prin- 
snc^V^'      But  Mr.  Tulliver  was  determined  not  to  encourage 
g     ^     shuffling  people  any  longer;   and  a  ride  along  the 
Ss^f  lar^eg  was  not  likely  to  enervate  a  man^s  resolution 
^^^^^^tening  his  temper.  •  The  deep-trodden  hoof-marks, 
^o^^   in  the  muddiest  days  of  winter,  gave  him  a  shake 
sna  *i  ^"^^  then  which  suggested  a  rash  but  stimulating 
}jjQ  "v;*  at  the  father  of  lawyers,  who,  whether  by  means  of 
tiii       ^of  or  otherwise,  had  doubtless  something  to  do  with 
neo-i  ^^^"te  of  the  roads;  and  the  abundance  of  foul  land  and 
P^?fc  ^^^ed  fences  that  met  his  eye,  though  they  made  no 
hjQ      .J^-^  ^^is  brother  Moss's  farm,  strongly  contributed  to 
tlii^    dissatisfaction  with  that  unlucky  agriculturist.     If 
w^^      ^^s,sn't   Mosses  faUow,  it  might  have  been:    Basset 
^ll  alike;   it  was  a  beggarly  parish  in  Mr.  Tulliver^s 

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76  THE  MIIiL  ON  TfiE  FLOSS. 

opinion,  and  his  opinion  was  certainly  not  groundless. 
Basset  had  a  poor  soil,  poor  roads,  a  poor  non-resident 
landlord,  a  poor  non-resident  vicar,  and  rather  less  than 
half  a  curate,  also  poor.     If  any  one  strongly  impressed 
with  the  power  of  the  human  mind  to  triumph  over 
circumstances,  will  contend  that  the  parishioners  of  Basset 
might  nevertheless  have  been  a  very  superior  -class  of 
people,  I  have  nothing  to  urge  against  that  abstract  prop- 
osition; I  only  know  that,  in  point  of  fact,  the  Basset 
mind  was  in  strict  keeping  with  its  circumstances.     The 
muddy  lanes,  green  or  clayey,  that  seemed  to  the  unaccus- 
tomed eye  to  lead  nowhere  but  into  each  other,  did  really 
lead,  with  patience,  to  a  distant  highroad;  but  there  were 
many  feet  in  Basset  which  they  led  more  freauently  to  a 
center  of  dissipation,  spoken  of  formerly  as  tne  ^^  Markis 
o'  Granby,"  but  among  intimates  as  *'Dickison's.'^  A  large 
low  room  with  a  sanded  floor,  a  cold  scent  of  tobacco, 
modified  by  undetected  beer-dregs,  Mr.  Dickison  leaning 
against  the  doorpost  with  a  melancholy  pimpled  face,  look- 
ing as  irrelevant  to  the  daylight  as  a  last  night^s  guttered 
candle — all  this  may  not  seem  a  very  seductive  form  of 
temptation;  but  the  majority  of  men  in  Basset  found  it 
fatally  alluring  when  encountered  on  their  road  toward 
four  o'clock  on  a  wintry  afternoon;   and  if  any  wife  in 
Basset  wished  to  indicate  that  her  husband  was  not  a  pleas- 
ure-seeking man,  she  could  hardly  do  it  more  emphatically 
than  by  saying  that  he  didn't  spend  a  shilling  at  Dickison's 
from  one  W  hitsuntide  to  another.   Mrs.  Moss  had  said  so  of 
her  husband  more  than  once,  when  her  brother  was  in  a  mood 
to  find  fault  with  him,  as  he  certainly  was  to-day.  And  noth- 
ing could  be  less  pacifying  to  Mr.  Tulliver  than  the  behavior 
of  the  farmyard  gate,  which  he  no  sooner  attempted  to  push 
open  with  his  riding-stick  than  it  acted  as  gates  without  the 
upper  hinge  are  known  to  do,  to   the  peril  of  shins, 
whether  equine  or  human.     He  was  about  to  get  down 
and  lead  his  horse  through  the  damp  dirt  of  the  hollow 
farmyard,  shadowed  drearily  by  the  large  half-timbered 
buildings,  up  to  the  long  line  of  tumble-down  dwelling- 
houses  standing  on  a  raised  causeway;  but  the  timely  ap- 
pearance of  a  cowboy  saved  him  that  frustration  of  a  plan 
he  had  determined  on — namely,  not  to  get  down  from  his 
horse  during  this  visit.     If  a  man  means  to  be  hard,  let 
him  keep  in  his  saddle  and  speak  from  that  height,  above 
the  level  of  pleading  eyes,  and  with  the  command  of  a 
distant  horizon.    Mrs.  Moss  heard  the  sound  of  the  horse^a 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  77 

feet,  and,  when  her  brother  rode  up,  was  alreivdy  outside 
the  kitchen  door,  with  a  half  weair  smile  on  her  face,  and 
a  black-eyed  baby  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Moss's  face  bore  a 
faded  resemblance  to  her  brother's;  baby's  little  fat  hand, 
pressed  against  her  cheek,  seemed  to  show  more  strikingly 
that  the  cheek  was  faded. 

"  Brother,  Tm  glad  to  see  yj3u,''she  said,  in  an  affection- 
ate tone.  *^  I  didn't  look  for  you  to-day.  How  do  you  do?  " 
*^0h, pretty  well,  Mrs.  Moss pretty  well,"  an- 
swered the  brother,  with  cool  deliberation,  as  if  it  were 
rather  too  forward  of  her  to  ask  that  question.  She  knew 
at  once  that  her  brother  was  not  in  a  good  humor:  he  never 
called  her  Mrs.  Moss  except  when  he  was  angry,  and  when 
they  were  in  company.  But  she  thought  it  was  in  the 
order  of  nature  that  people  who  were  poorly  off  should 
be  snubbed.  Mrs.  Moss  did  not  take  her  stand  on  the 
equality  of  the  human  race:  she  was  a  patient,  prolific, 
loving-hearted  woman. 

"Your  husband  isn't  in  the  house,  I  suppose?"  added 
Mr.  Tulliver,  after  a  grave  pause,  during  which  four  chil- 
dren had  run  out,  like  chickens  whose  mother  has  been 
suddenly  in  eclipse  behind  the  hencoop. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  '^  but  he's  only  in  the  potato-field 
yonders.  Georgy,  run  to  the  Far  Close  in  a  minute,  and 
*6ll  father  your  uncle's  come.  You'll  get  down,  brother, 
won't  you,  and  take  something?" 

'^No,  no;  I  can't  get  down.     I  must  be  ffoing  home 
^g^jn  directly,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  looking  at  the  distance. 
^  ^^And  how's  Mrs.  Tulliver  and  the  children?"  said  Mrs. 
,f^'  humbly,  not  daring  to  press  her  invitation. 

j^. ,  Oh, ^pretty  well.     Tom's  going  to  a  new  school  at 

^  ^^^upimer — a  deal  of  expense  to  me.     It's  bad  work  for 

^^  iyiiig  out  o'  my  money." 
see  fK  ^^^^  you'd  be  so  good  as  let  the  children  come  and 
oou  -  ^^r  cousins  some  day.  My  little  uns  want  to  see  their 
a^^®^^  Maggie,  so  as  never  was.  And  me  her  god-mother, 
^ith^?  fond  of  her — ^there's  nobody 'ud  make  a  bigger  fuss 
jijjj^  -Her,  according  to  what  they've  got.  And  I  know  she 
clev^  "to  come,  for  she's  a  loving  child,  and  how  quick  and 

j«^^  she  is,  to  be  sure!" 
in  .  ,^^Nlrs.  Moss  had  been  one  of  the  most  astute  women 
CQj^j^^  world,  instead  of  being  one  of  the  simplest,  she 
pitifti  ^^^^  thought  of  nothing  more  likely  to  pro- 
^1^  ^  her  brother  than  this  praise  of  Maggie.  He 
^^^^  found  any  one  volunteering  praise  of  '*the  little 


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78  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

wencV*:  it  was  usually  left  entirely  to  himself  to  insist  on 
her  merits.  But  Ma^ie  always  appeared  iu  tl»e  most  amiar 
ble  light  at  her  aunt  Moss's:  it  was  her  Alsatia,  where  she 
was  out  of  the  reach  of  hiw — if  she  upset  anything,  dirtied 
her  slioes,  or  tore  her  frock,  these  things  were  matters  of 
course  at  her  aunt  Moss's.  In  spite  of  himself,  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's  eyes  got  milder,  and  ho  did  not  look  away  from  his 
sister,  as  he  said — 

*^  Ay :  she's  fonder  o'  you  than  o^  the  other  aunts,  I  think. 
She  takes  after  our  family:  not  a  bit  of  her  mother's  in 
her.'' 

*^  Moss  says  she's  just  like  what  I  used  to  be,''  said  Mrs. 
Moss,  **  though  I  was  never  so- quick  and  fond  o'the  books. 
But  I  think  my  Lizzy's  like  her — she's  sharp.  Come  here, 
Lizzy,  my  dear,  and  let  your  uncle  see  you:  he  hardly 
knows  you;  your  grow  so  fast." 

Lizzy,  a  black-eyed  child  of  seven,  looked  very  shy  when 
her  mother  drew  her  forward,  for  the  small  Mosses  were 
much  in  awe  of  their  uncle  from  Dorlcote  Mill.  She  was 
inferior  enough  to  Maggie  in  fire  and  strength  of  expres- 
sion, to  make  the  resemblance  between  the  two  entirely 
flattering  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  fatherly  love. 

^^  Ay,  they're  a  bit  alike,"  he  said,  looking  kindly  at  the 
little  figure  in  the  soiled  pinafore.  **  They  both  take  after 
our  mother.  You've  got  enough  o'  gells.  Gritty,"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  half  compassionate,  half  reproachful. 

^*Four  of  'em,  bless  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  a  sigh, 
stroking  Lizzy's  hair  on  each  side  of  her  forehead;  **as 
many  as  there's  boys.     They've  got  a  brother  apiece." 

^*  Ah,  but  they  must  turn  out  and  fend  for  themselves^" 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  feeling  that  his  severity  was  relaxing, 
and  trying  to  brace  it  by  throwing  out  a  wholesome  hint. 
"  They  mustn't  look  to  hanging  on  their  brothers." 

*'  No:  but  I  hope  their  brothers  'ull  love  the  poor  things, 
and  remember  they  came  o'  one  father  and  mother:  the 
lads  'ull  never  be  the  poorer  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Moss, 
flashing  out  with  hurried  timidity,  like  a  halfrsmothered 
fire. 

Mr.  Tulliver  gave  his  horse  a  little  stroke  on  the  flank, 
then  checked  it,  and  said,  angrily,  "Stand  still  with  you! " 
much  to  the  astonishment  of  that  innocent  animal. 

"And  the  more  there  is  of  'em,  the  more  they  must 
love  one  another,"  Mrs.  Moss  went  on,  looking  at  her  chil- 
dren with  a  didactic  purpose.  But  she  turned  toward  her 
brother  again  to  say,  "  Not  but  what  I  hope  your  boy  'uU 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  79 

allajs  be  good  to  his  sister,  though  there's  but  two  of  'em 
like  you  and  me,  brother." 

That  arrow  went  straight  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  heart.  Ho 
had  Hot  a  rapid  imagination,  but  the  tliought  of  Maggie 
was  yerj  near  to  him,  and  he  was  not  long  in  seeing  his 

M-^^^^  to  his  own  sister  side  by  side  with  Tom's  relation 
to  Mlag-gie.  Would  the  little  wench  ever  be  poorly  off,  and 
Toni  rather  hard  flpon  her? 

.  ":^y,  ay.  Gritty,"  said  the  miller,  with  a  new  softness 
in  his  tone;  *^but  Tve  allays  done  what  I  could  for  you," 

a  T^^^'  as  if  vindicating  himself  from  a  ro])roach. 
I'm  not  denying  that,  brother,  and  I'm  noways 
i^wgi*ateful,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Moss,  too  fagged  by  toil 
iind  ^clixldren  to  have  strength  left  for  any  pride.  '*But 
'^^[ps  the  father.  What  a  while  you've  been,  Moss!" 
,  While,  do  you  call  it?"  said  Mr.  Moss,  feeling  out  of 
Dreatlx  and  injured.  ^^I've  been  running  all  the  way. 
^K^  you  'light,  Mr.  Tulliver?" 

.  .  ,^Well,  I'll  just  get  down  and  have  a  bit  o'  talk  with  you 
l^^the  garden,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  thinking  that  he  should 
^nciore  likely  to  show  a  due  spirit  of  resolve  if  his  sister 
^^^^  xiot  present. 

tie  got  down,  and  passed  with  Mr.  Moss  into  the  garden, 

^ar^  an  old  yew-tree  arbor,  while  his  sister  stood  tapping 
^L^^by  on  the  back,  and  looking  wistfully  after  them. 
fo\^1  entrance  into  the  yew-tree  arbor  surprised  several 

j  I  -^^    that  were  recreating  themselves  by  scratching  deep 


*  ^^    in  the  dusty  ground,  and  at  once  took  flight  with 

r     ^*^  pother  and  cackling.     Mr.  Tulliver  sat  down  on  the 

•.^^li,  and  tapping  the  ground  curiously  here  and  there 

XI     -^  His  stick,  as  if  he  suspected  some  hollowness,  opened 


•    -1  9^^versation  by  observing,  with  something  like  a  snarl 

T        ^^hy,  you've  got  wheat  again  in  that  Corner  Close, 
^^>    and  never  a  bit  o*  dressing  on  it.     You'll  do  no 
S^^  With  it  this  year." 

^o.^.  Moss,  who,  when  he  married  Miss  Tulliver,  had 

\^^ti  regarded  as  the  buck  of  Basset,  now  wore  a  beard 

^^rly  a  week  old,  and  had  the  depressed,  unexpectant  air 

It  a  machine-horse.     He  answered  in  a  patient  grumbling 

tone,  ''Why,  poor  farmers  like  me  must  do  as  they  can: 

tbey  must  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  money  to  play  with, 

to  put  half  as  much  into  the  ground  as  they  mean  to  get 

out  of  it/' 

"I  don't  know  who  should  have  money  to  play  with. 

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80  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

if  it  i^n^t  them  as  can  borrow  money  without  paying 
interest/^  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  wished  to  get  into  a 
slight  quarrel;  it  was  the  most  naturdl  and  easy  intro- 
luction  to  calling  in  money. 

"  I  know  I^m  behind  with  the  interest,^^  said  Mr.  Moss, 
'  but  I  was  so  unlucky  wi^  the  wool  last  year;  and  what  with 
tlie  Missis  being  laid  up  so,  things  have  gone  awk^arder 
nor  usual.  ^'  • 

**Ay/'  snarled  Mr.  TuUiver,  "there's  folks  as  things 
^ull  allays  go  awk'ard  with:  empty  sacks  ^ull  never  stand 
upright.'' 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  fault  you've  got  to  find  wi' 
me,  Mr.  TuUiver,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  deprecatingly;  "  I  know 
there  isn't  a  day-laborer  works  harder." 

"  What's  the  use  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  sharply, 
"  when  a  man  marries,  and's  got  no  capital  to  work  his  farm 
but  his  wife's  bit  o'  fortin?  I  was  against  it  from  the  first; 
but  you'd  neither  of  you  listen  to  me.  And  I  can't  lie  out 
o'  my  money  any  longer,  for  I've  got  to  pay  five  hundred 
o'  Mrs.  Glegg's,  and  there'll  be  Tom  an  expense  to  me  — 
I  should  find  myself  short,  even  saying  I'd  got  back  all  as 
is  my  own.  You  must  look  about  and  see  how  you  can 
pay  me  the  three  hundred  pound." 

"  Well,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  look- 
ing blankly  before  him,  we'd  better  be  sold  up,  and  ha' 
done  with  it;  I  must  part  wi'  every  head  o'  stocK  I've  got, 
to  pay  you  and  the  landlord  too." 

Poor  relations  are  undeniably  irritating — their  existence 
is  so  entirely  uncalled  for  on  our  part,  and  they  are  almost 
always  very  faulty  people.  Mr.  TuUiver  had  succeeded  in 
getting  quite  as  much  irritated  with  Mr.  Moss  as  he  had 
desired,  and  he  was  able  to  say  angrily,  rising  from  his 
seat — 

"  Well,  you  must  do  as  you  can.  /  can't  find  money  for 
everybody  else  as  well  as  myself.  I  must  look  to  my  own 
business  and  my  own  family.  I  can't  lie  out  o'  my  money 
Hny  longer.     You  must  raise  it  as  quick  as  you  can." 

Mr.  TuUiver  walked  abruptly  out  of  the  arbor  as  he 
uttered  the  last  sentence,  and,  without  looking  round  at 
Mr.  Moss,  went  on  to  the  kitchen  door,  where  the  eldest 
boy  was  holding  his  horse,  and  his  sister  was  waiting  in  a 
state  of  wondering  alarm,  which  was  not  without  its  allevi- 
ations, for  baby  was  making  pleasant  gurgling  sounds,  and 
performing  a  great  deal  of  finger  practice  on  the  faded  face. 
Mrs.  Moss  had  eight  children,  but  could  never  overconie 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  81 

the  re^j^Te*^^  that  the  twins  had  not  lived.     Mr.  Moss  thought 

tbeir    rcj^oval  v/as  not  without  its  consolations.     "  Won't 

^^"  Gotjio  in,  brother?"  she  said,  looking  anxiously  at  her 

iiusbiiixd,  who  was  walking  slowly  up;  while  Mr.  TuUiver 

nad   his  foot  already  in  the  stirrup. 

'^  ^o,  no;  good-bye/'  said  he,  turning  his  horse's  head, 
^^ilj-  ^'^^J^g  away. 

^^   man  could  feel  more  resolute  till  he  got  outside  the 

yarcl-^.jj.g^  and  a  little  way  along  the  deep-rutted  lane;  but 

beioi-e   he  reached  the  next  turning,  which  would  take  him 

f^K^^  sight  of  the  dilapidated  farra-buildinffs,  he  appeared 

to  bo    smitten  by  some  sudden  thought.     Ue  checked  his 

fl?^^^*    and  made  it  stand  still  in  the  same  spot  for  two  or 

three  minutes,  during  which  he  turned  his  head  from  side 

w)  si<i^  in  a  melancholy  way,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  some 

paitxf  vtl  object  on  more  sides  than  one.     Evidently,  after 

^s  fit  of  promptitude,  Mr.  TuUiver  was  relapsing  into  the 

an^^  that  this  is  a  nuzzling  world.     He  turned  his  horse, 

/4   ^ode  slowly  back,  giving  vent  to  the  climax  of  feeling 

L    ^^^  had  determined  tliis  movement  by  saying  aloud,  as 

jj  .^^J^xack  his  horse,  '*  Poor  little  wench!  she'll  have  nobody 

jw^Tom,  belike,  when  I'm  gone."  • 

gj^j  ^^  TuUiver's  return  into  the  yard  was  descried  by  sev- 
jj  young  Mosses,  who  immediately  ran  in  with  the  excit- 
thft  ^^  ^^ws  to  their  mother,  so  that  Mrs.  Moss  was  again  on 
^j^.  -  ^oor-step  when  her  brother  rode  up.  She  had  been 
j^^\"^^,but  was  rocking  baby  to  sleep  in  her  arms  now,  and 
.^^  j"^^    110  ostentatious  show  of  sorrow  as  her  brother  looked 

c  ^^^j  but  merely  said — 
bro^Y^^^^  father's  gone  to  the  field  again,  if  you  want  him, 

«j^  -'^ro,  Gritty,  no,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  in  a  gentle  tone. 
i,j(^,_^^>'t  you  fret — that's  all — I'U  make  a  shift  :vithout  the 
VQi^^^^^  a  bit — only  you  must  be  as  clever  and  contriving  as 

jyj-^^n." 
ne^^^^'  Moss's  tears  came  again  at  this  unexpected  kind- 

<■  «r  "J.    and  she  could  say  nothing, 
yox:,^    ^-^ome,  come! — the  little   wench   shall  come  and  see 
sct^  "         I'll  bring  her  and  Tom  some  day  before  he  goes  to 
to  -* J^^^l*     You  mustn't  fret I'll  allays  be  a  good  brother 

dr^^  -X?hank  you  for  that  word,  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Moss, 

na-^p^^^g  her  tears;  thon  turning  to  Lizzy,  she  said,  "Run 

ra^x   "^    ^^^  fetch  the  colored  egg  for  cousin  Maggie."   Lizzy 

x»,  .„d  quickl,  ».ppe.r.d  with  .  s„«U  p.p..  p»c,. 

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82  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

*'It's  boiled  hard,  brother,  and  colored  with  thrums — 
very  pretty:  it  was  done  o*  purpose  for  Maggie.  Will  you 
please  to  carry  it  in  your  pocket  ?^^ 

'*  Ay,  ay,'^  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  putting  it  carefully  in  his 
side-pocket     **  Good-bye.^* 

And  so  the  respectable  miller  returned  along  the  Basset 
lanes  rather  more  puzzled  than  before  as  to  ways  and 
in  cans,  but  still  with  the  sense  of  a  danger  escaped.  It 
hail  come  across  his  mind  that  if  he  were  hard  upon  his 
sister,  it  might  somehow  tend  to  make  Tom  hard  upon 
^laggie  at  some  distant  day,  when  her  father  was  no  longer 
there  to  take  her  part;  for  simple  peoi:)le,  like  our  friend 
Mr.  Tulliver,  are  apt  to  clothe  unimpeachable  feelings  in 
erroneous  ideas,  and  this  was  his  confused  way  of  explain- 
ing to  himself  that  his  love  and  anxiety  for  "the  little 
wench*^  had  given  him  a  new  sensibility  towsli'd  his  sister. 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

TO   GARUM   FIRS. 


While  the  possible  troubles  of  Maggie^s  futnre  were 
occupying  her  father^s  mind,  she  herself  was  tasting  only 
the  bitterness  of  the  present.  Childhood  has  no  forebod- 
ings; but  then,  it  is  •oothed  by  no  memories  of  outlived 
sorrow. 

The  fact  was,  the  day  had  begun  ill  with  Maggie.  The 
pleasure  of  having  Lucy  to  look  at,  and  the  prospect  of 
the  afternoon  visit  to  Garum  Firs,  where  she  would 
liear  uncle  Pullet^s  musical  box,  had  been  marred  as 
early  as  eleven  o'clock  by  the  advent  of  the  hair-dresser 
from  St.  Ogg's,  who  had  spoken  in  the  severest  terms  of 
the  condition  in  which  he  had  found  her  hair,  holding  up 
one  jagged  lock  after  another  and  saying,  "See  here!  tut 
— tut — tut! ''  in  a  tone  of  mingled  disgust  and  pity,  which 
to  Maggie's  imagination  was  equivalent  to  the  strongest 
expression  of  public  opinion.  Mr.  Eappit,  the  hair-dresser, 
with  his  well-anointed  coronal  locks  tending  wavily 
upward,  like  the  simulated  pyramid  of  flame  on  a  monu- 
mental urn,  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  the  most 
formidable  of  her  contemporaries,  into  whose  street  at 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  83 

^}*  ^^^^    she    would    carefully    refrain    from  entering 
through  the  rest  of  her  life. 

Moreover,  the  preparation  for  a  visit  being  always  a 
serious  affair  in  the  Dodson  family,  Martha  was  enjomed 
to  have  Mrs.  Tulliver's  room  ready  a  i  hour  earlier  than 
^siial,  that  the  laying  out  of  the  best  clothes  might  not  be 
deferred  till  the  last  moment,  as  was  sometimes  the  case 
111  families  of  lax  views,  where  the  ribbon-strings  were 
iiever  rolled  up,  where  there  was  little  or  no  wrapping  in 
silver  paper,  and  where  the  sense  that  the  Sunday  clothes 
could  be  got  at  quite  easily  produced  no  shock  to  the  mind. 
A-lready,  at  twelve  o'clock,  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  on  her  visit- 
iiig  costume,  with  a  protective  apparatus  of  brown  holland, 
^  if  she  had  been  a  piece  of  satin  furniture  in  danger  of 
^leg;  Maggie  was  frowning  and  twisting  her  shoulders, 
^hat  she  might  if  possible  shrink  away  from  the  prickliest 
91  tuckers,  while  her  mother  was  remonstrating,  *'  Don't, 
^^^gie,  my  dear  —  don't  make  yourself  so  ugly!"  and 
^om's  cheeks  were  looking  particularly  brilliant  as  a  relief 
^  ^is  best  blue  suit,  which  he  wore  with  becoming  calm- 


iess;  having,  after  a  little  wrangling,  effected  what  was 

jj  ^^ajs  ^jjQ  Qj^Q  point  of  interest  to  him  in  his  toilet — he 

fk      ^^^nsferred  all  the  contents  of  his  everyday  pockets  to 

'^^e  actually  in  wear. 

be^^  ^^^  Lucy,  she  was  just  as  pretty  and  neat  as  she  had 

Hjxfi'^  yesterday:  no  accidents  ever  happened  to  her  clothes, 

looU:  ^^^  ^^^  never  uncomfortable  in  them,  so  that  she 

in^  ^^  vith  wondering  pity  at  Maggie  pouting  and  writh- 

h^^^^^^rt^G  exasperating  tucker.    Maggie  would  certainly 

bra.11       ^^^  ^^  ^^f  ^^  s^e  ^^^  ^^^  heen  checked  by  the  remem- 

sh^  c^^   ^^  1^®^  recent  humiliation  about  her  hair:  as  it  was, 

p^^^.^^ fined  herself  to  fretting  and  twisting,  and  behaving 

to  Toi^^J^^y  about  the  card-houses  which  they  were  allowed 

gii-j^fl^  till  dinner,  as  a  suitable  amusement  for  boys  and 

rai^j^  "^^  their  best  clothes.     Tom  could  build  perfect  pyra- 

on     o-p^"^  houses;  but  Maggie's  would  never  bear  the  laying 

Ara,».     .   ^he'  roof: — it  was  always  so  with  the  things  that 

no  S^^^  made;  and  Tom  had  deduced  the  conclusion  that 

Li>^^^l8  could  ever  make  anything.     But  it  happened  that 

th.^  ^  t>roved  wonderfully  clever  at  building:  she  handled 

de^^  ^>^ds  so  lightly,  and  moved  so  gently,  that  Tom  con- 


mof^^^ed  to  admire  her  houses  as  well  as  his  own,  the 

At^^     ^I'eadily  because  she  had  asked  him  to  teach  her. 

^^vf?^^'  too,  would  have  admired  Lucy's  houses,  and  would 

given  up  her  own  unsuccessful  building  to  contem- 

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84  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

plate  them,  without  ill-temper,  if  her  tucker  had  not  made 
her  peevish,  and  if  Tom  had  not  inconsiderately  laughed 
w'lien  her  liouses  fell,  and  told  her  she  was  ^^a  stupid." 

•'Don't  hmgh  atrae,  Tom!^^  she  burst  out  angrily;  ^Tm 
:_  t  stupid.     I  know  a  great  many  tilings  you  donH.'^ 

'*  Oil,  I  dare  say.  Miss  Spitfire!  Td  never  be  such  a  cross 
thing  as  you — making  faces  like  that.  Lucy  doesn't  do 
so.  1  like  Lucy  better  than  you:  /  wish  Lucy  was  7ui/ 
sister.^* 

**  Then  it's  very  wicked  and  cruel  of  vou  to  wiah  so," 
said  Maggie,  starting  up  hurriedly  from  her  place  on  the 
floor,  and  upsetting  Tom's  wonderful  pagoda.  She  really 
did  not  mean  it,  but^the  circumstantial  evidence  was 
against  her,  and  Tom  turned  white  with  anger,  but  said 
nothing:  he  would  have  struck  her,  only  he  knew  it  was 
cowardly  to  strike  a  girl,  and  Tom  TuUiver  was  quite 
determined  he  would  never  do  anything  cowardly. 

Maggie  stood  in  dismay  and  terror,  while  Tom  got  up 
from  the  floor  and  walked  away,  pale,  from  the  scattered 
ruins  of  his  pagoda,  and  Lucy  looked  en  mutely,  like  a 
kitten  pausing  from  its  lapping. 

**  0,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  going  half-way  toward 
him,  *^  I  didn't  mean  to  knock  it  down — indeed,  indeed,  I 
didn't." 

Tom  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  took,  instead,  two  or. 
three  hard  peas  out  of  his  pocket,  and  shot  them  with  his 
thumb-nail  against  the  window  —  vaguely  at  first,  but 
presently  with  the  distinct  aim  of  hitting  a  superannuated 
blue-bottle  which  was  exposing  its  imbecility  in  the  sjiring 
sunshine,  clearly  against  the  views  of  Nature,  who  had 
provided  Tom  and  the  peas  for  the  speedy  destruction  of 
this  weak  individual. 

Thus  the  morning  had  been  made  heavy  to  Maggie,  and 
Tom's  persistent  coldness  to  her  all  through  their  walk 
spoiled  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine  for  her.  lie  called  Lucy 
to  look  at- the  half-built  bird's  nest  without  caring  to  show 
it  to  Maggie,  and  peeled  a  willow  switch  for  Lucy  and 
himself,  without  offering  one  to  Maggie.  Lucy  had  said, 
** Maggie,  shouldn't  you  like  one?"  but  Tom  was  deaf. 

Still,  the  sight  of  the  peacock  opportunely  spreading 
his  tail  on  the  stackyard  wall,  just  as  they  reached  Garum 
Firs,  was  enough  to  divert  the  mind  temporarily  from 
personal  grievances.  And  this  was  only  the  beginning  of 
)etuitiful  siglits  at  Garum  Firs.  All  the  farmyard  life  was 
wonderful    there  —  ban ttims^   speckled  and    top-knotted] 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


b( 


BOY  AKD  GIRL.  85 

Priesland  hens,  with  their  feathers  all  turned  the  wrong 
way;  Guinea-fowls  that  flew  and  screamed  and  droi)j>ed 
their  pretty-spotted  feathers;  pouter-pit^eons  and  a  lame 
magpie;  nay,  a  goat,  and  a  wonder '^ul  brindled  dog,  lialf 
mastiff  half  bull-do.^,  as  large  as  a  lion. .  Then  there  woro 
white  railings  and  white  gates  all  about,  and  glittering 
weathercocks  of  various  design,  and  garden-walks  paved 
with  pebbles  in  beautiful  patterns — nothing  was  quite 
common  ^t  Garum  Firs:  and  Tom  tliought  thrf  tlie  un- 
usual size  of  the  toads  there  was  simply  due  to  the  genoi-al 
unwsualness  which  characterized  uncle  Pullet's  possessions 
as  a  gentleman  farmer.  Toads  who  paid  rent  were 
naturally  leaner.  As  for  the  house,  it  was  not  less  remark- 
able: it  had  a  receding  centre,  and  two  wings  with  battle- 
mented  turrets,  and  was  covered  with  glittering  white 
stucco. 

Uncle  Pullet  had  seen  the  expected  party  approaching 
from  the  window,  and  made  haste  to  unbar  and  unchain 
the  front  door,  kept  always  in  this  fortified  condition  from 
fear  of  tramps,  who  might  be  supposed  to  know  of  the 
glass  case  of  stuffed  birds  in  the  hall,  and  to  contemplate 
rushing  in  and  carrying  it  away  on  their  heads.  Aunt 
Pullet,  too,  appeared  at  the  doorway,  and  as  soon  as  her 
sister  was  within  hearing,  said,  ^^  Stop  the  cliildren,  for 
God's  sake,  Bessy — don't  let  'em  come  up  the  door-ste])s: 
Sally's  bringing  the  old  mat  and  the  duster,  to  rub  their 
shoes/' 

Mrs.  Pullet^s  front-door  mats  were  by  no  means  intended 
to  wipe  shoes  on:  the  very  scraper  had  a  deputy  to  do  its 
dirty  work.  Tom  rebelled  particularly  against  this  shoe- 
wiping,  which  he  always  considered  m  the  light  of  an 
indignity  to  his  sex.  He  felt  it  as  the  beginning  of  the 
disagreeables  incident  to  a  visit  at  aunt  Pallet's,  where  he 
had  once  been  compelled  to  sit  with  towels  wrapped  round 
his  boots;  a  fact  which  may  serve  to  correct  the  too  hasty 
conclusion  that  a  visit  to  Garum  Firs  must  have  been  a 
great  treat  to  a  young  gentleman  fond  of  animals — fond, 
that  is,  of  throwing  stones  at  them. 

The  next  disagreeable  was  confined  to  his  feminine  com- 
panions: it  was  the  mounting  of  the  polished  oak  stairs, 
which  had  very  handsome  carpets  rolled  up  and  laid  by  in 
a  spare  bedroom,  so  that  the  ascent  of  those  glossy  steps 
might  have  served,  in  barbarous  times,  as  a  trial  by  ordeal 
from  which  none  but  the  most  spotless  virtue  could  have 
come  off  with  unbroken  limbs.     Sophy's  weakness  about 


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% 

86  tHE  MtLt  OiT  THE  FLO^d. 

these  polished  stairs  was  always  a  subject  of  bitter  remoii- 
stranee  on  Mrs.  Glegg's  part;  but  Mrs.  Tulliver  ventured 
on  no  comment,  only  thinking  to  herself  it  was  a  mercy 
when  she  and  the  children  were  safe  on  the  landing. 

"Mrs.  Gray  has  sent  home  my  new  bonnet,  Bessy/' 
said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  pathetic  tone,  as  Mrs.  Tulliver 
adjusted  her  cap. 

"lias  she,  sister?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  an  air  of 
much^iifterest.     "And  how  do  you  like  it?'^ 

"It^s  apt  to  make  a  mess  with  clothes,  taking  'em  out 
and  putting  ^em  in  again,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  drawiag  a 
bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket  and  looking  at  them 
earnestly,  "but  it  'ud  be  a  pity  for  you  to  go  away  without 
seeing  it.     There's  no  knowing  what  may  happen." 

Mrs.  Pullet  shook  her  head  slowly  at  this  last  serious 
consideration,  which  determined  her  to  seek  out  a  partic- 
ular key. 

"  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  troublesome  to  you  getting  it  out, 
sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "but  I  should  like  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  crown  she's  made  you." 

Mrs.  Pullet  rose  with  a  melancholy  air  and  unlocked  one 
wing  of  a  very  bright  wardrobe,  where  you  may  have  has- 
tily supposed  she  would  find  the  new  bonnet.  Not  at  all. 
Such  a  supposition  could  only  have  arisen  from  a  too 
superficial  acquaintance  with  the  habits  of  the  Dodson 
f  imily.  In  this  wardrobe  Mrs.  Pullet  was  seeking  some- 
thing small  enough  to  be  hidden  among  layers  of  linen — 
it  was  a  door-key. 

"You  must  come  with  me  into  the  best  room,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet. 

"May  the  children  come  too,  sister?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  saw  that  Maggie  and  Lucy  were  looking 
rather  eager. 

"Well,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  reflectively,  "it'll  perhaps  be 
safer  for  'em  to  come — they'll  be  touching  something  if  we 
leave  ^em  behind." 

So  they  went  in  procession  along  the  bright  and  slippery 
corridor,  dimly  lighted  by  the  semi-lunar  top  of  the  win- 
dow which  rose  above  the  closed  shutter:  it  was  really 
quite  solemn.  Aunt  Pullet  paused  and  unlocked  a  door 
which  opened  on  something  still  more  solemn  than  the 
passage:  a  darkened  room,  in  which  the  outer  light,  enter- 
ing feebly,  showed  what  looked  like  the  corpses  of  furni- 
ture in  wnite  shrouds.     Everything  that  was  not  shrouded 


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T -•    ■•■*<- 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  87 

stood  with  its  legs  upward.  Lucy  laid  hold  of  Maggie'ii 
frock,  and  Maggie's  heart  beat  rapidly. 

Aunt  Pullet  half  opened  the  shutter  and  then  unlocked 
the  wardrobe,  with  a  melancholy  deliberateness  which  wjis 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  funereal  solemnity  of  the  scene. 
The  delicious  scent  of  rose-leaves  that  issued  from  tlie 
wardrobe,  made  the  process  of  taking  out  sheet  after  sheet 
of  silver  paper  quite  pleasant  to  assist  at,  though  the 
sight  of  the  bonnet  at  last  was  an  anticlimax  to  Maggie, 
who  would  have  preferred  something  more  strikingly 
preternatural.  But  few  things  could  have  been  more 
impressive  to  Mrs.  Tulliver.  She  looked  all  round  it  in 
silence  for  some  moments,  and  then  said  emphatically, 
'^Well,  sister,  I'll  never  speak  against  the  full  crowns 
again!'' 

It  was  a  great  concession,  and  Mrs.  Pullet  felt  it:  she 
felt  something  was  due  to  it. 

^' You'd  like  to  see  it  on,  sister?"  she  said,  sadly.  "FU 
open  the  shutter  a  bit  further." 

'^  Well,  if  you  don't  mind  taking  off  your  cap,  sister," 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

Mrs.  Pullet  took  off  her  cap,  displaying  the  brown  silk 
scalp  with  a  jutting  promontory  of  curls  which  was  com- 
mon to  the  more  mature  and  judicious  women  of  those 
times,  and,  placing  the  bonnet  on  her  head,  turned  slowly 
rouncl,  like  a  draper's  lay-figure,  that  Mrs*  Tulliver  might 
miss  no  point  of  view. 

"  I've  sometimes  thought  there's  a  loop  too  much  o' 
ribbon  on  this  left  side,  sister;  what  do  you  think?"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  looked  earnestly  at  the  point  indicated, 
and  turned  her  head  on  one  side.  "Well,  I  think  it's 
best  as  it  is;  if  you  meddle  with  it,  sister,  you  might 
repent." 

"  That's  true,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  taking  off  the  bonnet 
and  looking  at  it  contemplatively. 

*'  How  much  might  she  charge  you  for  that  bonnet, 
sister?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  whose  mind  was  actively 
engaged  on  the  possibility  of  getting  a  humble  imitation 
of  this  clief'd^muvre  made  from  a  piece  of  silk  she  had  at 
home. 

Mrg.  Pullet  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  shook  her  head, 
and  then  whispered,  ^'Pullet  pays  for  it;  he  said  J  was  to 
have  the  best  bonnet  at  Garunji  Church,  let  the  next  best 
be  whose  it  would." 


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88  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS* 

She  began  slowly  to  adjust  the  trimmings,  In  preparation 
for  returning  it  to  its  i)laee  in  the  wardrobe,  and  her 
thoughts  seemed  to  have  taken  a  melancholy  turn,  for  she 
shook  lier  head. 

"Ah,^'  she  said  at  last,  *^I  may  never  wear  it  twice, 
sister;  who  knows?" 

"Don't  talk  o*  that,  sister,'*  answered  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
'*  I  hope  you'll  have  your  health  this  summer." 

"Ah!  but  there  may  come  a  death  in  the  family,  as 
there  did  soon  after  I  had  my  green  satin  bonnet.  Cousin 
Abbott  may  go,  and  we  can't  think  o'  wearing  crape  less 
nor  half  a  year  for  him." 

"  That  would  be  unlucky,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  entering 
thoroughly  into  the  possibility  of  an  inopportune  decease. 
"  There's  never  so  much  pleasure  i'  wearing  a  bonnet  the 
second  year,  especially  when  the  crowns  are  so  chancy — 
never  two  summers  alike." 

"Ah,  it's  the  way  i'  this  world,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  return- 
ing the  bonnet  to  the  wardrobe,  and  locking  it  up.  She 
maintained  a  silence  characterized  by  head-shaking,  until 
they  had  all  issued  from  the  solemn  chamber  and  were  in 
her  own  room  again.  Then,  beginning  to  cry,  she  said,  "  Sis- 
ter, if  you  should  never  see  that  bonnet  again  till  I'm  dead 
and  gone,  vou'll  remember  I  showed  it  you  this  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  affected,  but  slie 
was  a  woman  of  sparse  tears,  stout  and  healthy — she 
couldn't  cry  so  much  as  her  sister  Pullet  did,  and  had  often 
felt  her  deficiency  at  funerals.  Her  effort  to  bring  tears 
into  her  eyes  issued  in  an  odd  contraction  of  her  face. 
Magffie,  looking  on  attentively,  felt  that  there  was  some 
painful  mystery  about  her  aunt's  bonnet  which  she  was 
considered  too  young  to  understand;  indignantly  conscious, 
all  the  while,  that  she  could  understand  that,  as  well  as 
evenrthing  else,  if  she  had  been  taken  into  confidence. 

When  they  went  down,  uncle  Pullet  observed  with  some 
acumen,  that  he  reckoned  the  missis  had  been  showing  her 
bonnet— that  was  what  had  made  them  so  long  up-stairs. 
With  Tom  the  interval  had  seemed  still  longer,  for  he  had 
been  seated  in  irksome  constraint  on  the  edge  of  a  rjofa 
directly  opposite  his  uncle  Pullet,  who  regarded  him  with 
twinkling  gray  eyes,  and  occasionally  addressed  him  as 
"  Younff  sir." 

"Weil,  young  sir,  what  do  you  learn  at  school?"  wa§  a 
standing  question  with  uncle  Pullet;  whereupon  Tom 
always  looked  sheepish,  rubbed  his  hands  across  his  face 


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Google 


BOY  AKD  GIRL.  89 

find  answe_od,  "  1  don't  know.^'  Tt  was  altogether  so  embar- 
rassing to  be  seated  tete-a-tete  with  uncle  Pullet,  that  Tom 
could   npt  even  look  at  the  prints  on  the  walls;  or  the  fly- 
cages,  or  the  wonderful  flower-pots;  he  saw  nothing  but  his 
iincle's  gaiters.     Not  that  Tom  was  in  awe  of  his  uncle's 
^^*V^al  superiority;  indeed,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
^^  didn't   want  to  be  a  gentleman  farmer,  because   lie 
Shouldn't  like  to  be  such  a  thin-legged  silly  fellow  as  his 
iinole   PuUet-^a  molly-coddle,  in  fact.     A  boy's  sheepish- 
^T^  ^s  by  no  means  a  sign  of  overmastering  reverence;  and 
Willie  you  are  making  encouraging  advances  to  him  under 
%  ^dea  that  he  is  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  your  age 
^^^    wisdom,  ten  to  one  he  is  thinking   you  extremely 
tl^^^r^      The  only  consolation  I  can  suggest  to  you  is,  that 
It^*      ^^^^^  ^oys  probably  thought  the  same  of  Aristotle. 
xv^^^nly  when   you  have  mastered  a  restive  horse,  or 
th  ?^^^  9-  drayman,  or  have  got  a  gun  in   your  hand, 
and    ^^^^®^  ^V  juniors  feel  you  to  be  a  truly  admirable 
rp^  ,,®^viable  character.     At  least,  I  am  quite  sure  of  Tom 
year  ^^"""^^  sentiments  on  these  points.      In  very  tender 
can  \  ^^l^en  he  still  wore  a  lace  border  under  his  outdoor 
ffate  ^^®  often  observed  peeping  through  the  bars  of  a 

fin?e  ^^^  making  minatory  gestures  with  his  ismall  fore- 
jj^A  ^ J^v^liile  he  scolded  the  sheep  with  an  inarticulate  burr, 
indie  i^^  to  strike  terror  into  their  astonished  minds, 
infer?^  ^^^  thus  early  that  desire  for  mastery  over  the 
neiffhK/*^  animals,  wild  and  domestic,  including  cockchafers, 
been.  ^^^*  dogs,  and  small  sisters,  which  in  all  ages  has 
our  r  ^^*^  attribute  of  so  much  promise  for  the  fortunes  of 
a  i(j^^^^.  Now  Mr.  Pullet  never  rode  anything  taller  than 
sideri  P^^y>  ^^^  ^^^  *^®  1®^^^  predatory  of  men,  con- 
l)j  j^  ^^  firearms  dangerous,  as  apt  to  go  off  by  themselves 
^j^/j^^-^^ody's  particular  desire.  So  that  Tom  was  not 
cburv^^^  strong  reasons  when,  in  confidential  talk  with  a 
takC^*  he  had  described  uncle  Pullet  as  a  nincompoop, 
«<n-^^  care  at  the  same  time  to  observe  that  he  was  a  very 

'5;^>-   fellow." 
^^^^^  only  alleviating  circumstance  in  a  tete-a-tete  with 
pew^     Pullet  was  that  he  kept  a  variety  of  lozenges  and 
co^^^i*mint-drop3  about  his  person,  and  when  at  a  loss  for 
a^A  ^^x^sation,  he  filled  up  the  void  by  proposing  a  mutual 
^^^^^  of  this  kind. 
^       1^0  you  like  peppermints,  young  sir?''  required  only  a 
^?^^  answer  when  it  was  accompanied  by  a  pre^ntation 
^^  trie  article  in  question. 

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90  THE  MILL  OK  THB  FLOSS. 

The  appearance  of  the  little  girls  suggested  to  tincle 
Pullet  thQ  further  solace  of  small  sweet-cakes,  of  which  he 
also  kept  a  stock  under  lock  and  key  for  his  own  private 
eating  on  wet  days;  *but  the  three  children  had  no  sooner 

fot  tlie  tempting  delicacy  between  their  fingers,  than  aunt 
•ullet  desired  them  to  abstain  from  eating  it  till  the  tray 
and  the  plates  came,  since  with  those  crisp  cakes  they 
would  make  the  floor  ^*  all  over  ^^  crumbs.  Lucy  didn't 
mind  that  much,  for  the  cake  was  so  pretty  she  thought  it 
was  rather  a  pity  to  eat  it;  but  Tom,  watching  his  oj)por- 
tunity  while  the  elders  were  talking,  hastily  stowed  it  in 
his  mouth  at  two  bites,  and  chewed  it  furtively.  As  for 
Maggie,  becoming  fascinated,  as  usuaf,  by  a  print  of  Ulys- 
ses and  Nausicaa,  which  uncle  Pullet  had  bought  as  a 
**  pretty  Scripture  thing, ^^  she  presently  let  fall  her  cuke, 
and  in  an  unlucky  movement  crushed  it  beneath  her  foot, 
a  source  of  so  much  agitation  to  aunt  Pullet  and  conscious 
disgrace  to  Maggie,  that  she  began  to  despair  of  hearing 
the  musical  snuff-box  to-day,  till,  after  some  reflection,  it 
occurred  to  her  that  Lucy  was  in  high  favor  enough  lo 
venture  on  asking  for  a  tune.  So  she  whispered  to  Lucy, 
and  Lucy,  who  always  did  what  she  was  desired  to  do, 
went  up  quietly  to  her  uncle's  knee, and,  blushingall  over 
her  neck  while  she  fingered  her  necklace,  said,  **  Will  you 
please  play  us  a  tune,  uncle?  '* 

Lucy  thought  it  was  by  reason  of  some  exceptional 
talent  in  uncle  Pullet  that  the  snuff-box  played  such 
beautiful  tunes,  and  indeed  the  thing  was  viewed  in  thai 
light  by  the  majority  of  his  neighbors  in  Garum.  Mr, 
Pullet  had  hought  the  box,  to  begin  with,  and  he  under- 
stood winding  it  up,  and  knew  which  tune  it  was  going 
to  play  beforehand;  altogether  the  possession  of  this 
unique  'Apiece  of  music"  was  a  proof  that  Mr.  Pullet's 
character  was  not  of  that  entire  nullity  which  might  other- 
wise have  been  attributed  to  it.  But  uncle  Pullet,  when 
entreated  to  exhibit  his  accomplishment,  never  depreciated 
it  by  a  too  ready  consent.  "We'll  see  about  it,"  was  the 
answer  he  always  gave,  carefully  abstaining  from  any  sign 
of  compliance  till  a  suitable  number  of  minutes  had 
passed.  Uncle  Pullet  had  a  programme  for  all  great 
social  occasions,  and  in  this  way  fenced  himself  in  from 
much  painful  confusion  and  perplexing  freedom  of  will. 

Perhaps  the  suspense  did  heighten  Maggie's  enjoyment, 
when  the  fairy  tune  began ;  for  the  first  time  she  quite  for- 
got that  she  had  a  load  on  her  mind — that  Tom  was  angry 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  91 

with  her;  and  by  the  time  ''Hush,  ye  pretty  warbling 
choir/^  had  been  played^  her  face  wore  that  bright  look  of 
happiness,  while  she  sat  immovable  with  her  hands  clasped, 
which  sometimes  comforted  her  mother  with  the  sense  that 
Maggie  could  look  pretty  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her 
brown  skin.  But  when  the  magic  music  ceased,  she  jumped 
up,  and,  running  toward  T,^om,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck 
and  said,  ''  Oh,  Tom,  isn't  it  pretty?'' 

Lest  you  should  think  it  showed  a  revolting  insensibility 
in  Tom  that  he  felt  any  new  anger  toward  ^laggio  for  this 
uncalled-for,  and,  to  him,  inexplicable  caress,  I  must  tell  you 
that  he  had  his  glass  of  cowslip  wine  in  his  hand,  and  that 
she  jerked  him  so  as  to  make  him  spill  half  of  it.  I£e 
must  have  been  an  extreme  milksop  not  to  say  angrily, 
"Look  there  now!"  especially  when  his  resentment  was 
sanctioned,  as  it  was,  by  general  disapprobation  of  Mag- 
gie's behavior. 

"Why  don't  you  sit  still,  Maggie?"  her  mother  said 
peevishly. 

"  Little  gells  mustn't  come  to  see  me  if  they  behave  in 
that  way,"  said  aunt  Pullet.    ' 

"  Why,  you're  too  rough,  little  miss,"  said  uncle  Pullet. 

Poor  Maggie  sat  Sown  again,  with  the  music  all  chased 
out  of  her  soul,  and  the  seven  small  demons  all  in  again, 

Mrs.  TuUiver,  foreseeing  nothing  but  misbehavior  while 
the  children  remained  indoors,  took  an  early  opportunity 
of  suggesting  that,  now  they  were  rested  after  their  walk, 
they  might  go  and  play  out  of  doors;  and  aunt  Pullet  gave 
permission,  only  enjoining  them  not  to  go  off  the  paved 
walks  in  the  garden,  and  if  they  wanted  to  see  the  poultry 
fed,  to  view  them  from  a  distance  on  the  horse-block;  a 
restriclion  which  had  been  imposed  ever  since  Tom  had 
been  found  guilty  of  running  after  the  peacock,  with  an 
illusory  idea  that  fright  would  make  one  of  its  feathers 
drop  off. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  thoughts  had  been  temporarily  diverted 
from  the  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Glegg  by  millinery  and  mater- 
nal cares,  but  now  the  great  theme  of  the  bonnet  was 
thrown  into  perspective,  and  the  children  were  out  of  the 
way,  yesterday's  anxieties  recurred. 

"  It  weighs  on  my  mind  so  as  never  was,"  she  said,  by 
way  of  opening  the  subject,  "sister  Glegg's  leaving  the 
house  in  that  way.    I'm  sure  I'd  no  wish  t'  offend  a  sister." 

"Ah,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  "there's  no  accounting  for 
what  Jane  'uU  do.     I  wouldn't  speak  of  it  out  o'  the 


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92  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

family — if  it  wasn't  to  Dr.  Turnbull;  but  it's  my  belief 
Jane  lives  too  low.  ■  I've  said  so  to  Pullet  often  and  often, 
and  he  knows  it.'' 

*^Why,  you  said  so  last  Monday  was  a  week,  when  we 
came  away  from  drinking  tea  with  "em,"  said  Mr.  Pullet, 
beginning  to  nurse  his  ku^e  and  shelter  it  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  as  was  his  way  when  the  conversation  took 
an  interesting  turn. 

"Very  like  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "for  you  remember 
when  I  said  things,  better  than  I  can  remember  myself. 
He's  got  a  wonderful  memory.  Pullet  has,"  she  continued, 
looking  pathetically  at  her  sister.  "  I  should  be  poorly 
off  if  he  was  to  have  a  stroke,  for  he  always  remembers 
when  Fve  got  to  take  my  doctor's  stuff — and  I'm  taking 
three  sorts  now." 

"  There's  the  '  pills  as  before '  every  other  night,  and  the 
new  drbps  at  eleven  and  four,  and  the  'fervescing  mixture 
'when  agreeable,' "  rehearsed  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  punctuation 
determined  by  a  lozenge  on  his  tongue. 

"  Ah,  perhaps  it  'ud  be  better  for  sister  Gl egg  if  she'd 
go  to  the  doctor  sometimes,*instead  o'  chewing  Turkey  rhu- 
barb whenever  there's  anything  the  flatter  with  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  naturally  saw  the  wide  subject  of  med- 
icine chiefly  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"It's  dreadful  to  think  on,"  said  aunt  Pallet,  raising 
her  hands  and  letting  them  fall  again,  "people  playing 
with  their  own  insides  in  that  way!  And  it's  flying  i'  the 
face  o'  Providence;  for  what  are  the  doctors  for,  if  we 
aren't  to  call  'em  in?  And  when  folks  have  got  the  money 
to  pay  for  a  doctor,  it  isn't  respectable,  as  I've  told  Jane 
many  a  time.     I'm  ashamed  of  acquaintance  knowing  it." 

"Well,  weWe  no  call  to  be  ashamed,"  said  Mr.  Pullet, 
"for  Doctor  Turnbull  hasn't  got  such  another  patient  a^ 
you  i'  this  parish,  now  old  Mrs.  Sutton's  gone." 

"Pullet  keeps  all  my  physic-bottles  —  did  you  know, 
Bessy?"  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "He  won't  have  one  sold.  He 
says  it's  nothing  but  right  folks  should  see  'em  when  I'm 
gone.  They  fill  two  o'  the  long  store-room  shelves  a'ready — 
but,"  she  added,  beginning  to  cry  a  little,  "it's  well  if 
they  ever  fill  three.  I  may  go  before  I've  made  up  the 
dozen  o'  these  last  sizes.  The  pill-boxes  are  in  the  closet 
in  my  room — you^ll  remember  that,  sister  —  but  there's 
nothing  to  show  for  the  boluses,  if  it  isn't  the  bills." 

"Don't  talk  o'  your  going,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver; 
"  I  should  have  nobody  to  stand  between  me  and  sister 


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BOY   AND   GIRL.  93 

Glegg  if  you  was  gone.  And  there's  nobody  bat  you  can 
get  her  to  make  it  up  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  for  sister  Doane's 
iievsr  o'  my  side,  and  if  she  was,  it^s  not  to  be  looked  for 
as  she  can  speak  like  them  as  have  got  an  independent 
fortin.^' 

**Well,  your  husband  is  awk'ard,  you  know,  Bessy," 
said  Mrs.  Pullet,  good-naturedly  ready  to  use  her  deep 
depression  on  her  sister^s  account  as  well  au  her  own. 
**He's  never  behaved  quite  so  pretty  to  our  family  as 
he  should  do,  and  the  children  take  after  him  — tlie  boy's 
very  mischievous,  and  runs  away  from  his  aunts  and 
uncles,  and  the  gelFs  rude  and  brown.  ^  It's  your  bad-luck, 
and  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Bessy;  for  you  was  allays  my  favor- 
ite sister,  and  we  allays  liked  the  same  patterns.'^ 

*'I  know  Tulliver's  hasty,  and  says  odd  things,'^  ^aid 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  wiping  away  one  small  tear  from  the  corner 
of  her  eye,  "but  Fm  sure  he's  never  been  the  m^n,  since 
he  married  me,  to  object  to  my  making  the  friends  o'  my 
side  o'  the  family  welcome  to  the  house." 

*'/  don't  want  to  make  the  worst  of  you,  Bessy,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  compassionately,  "for  I  doubt  you'll  have 
trouble  enough  without  that;  and  your  husband's  got  that 
poor  sister  and  her  children  hanging  on  him, — and  so  given 
to  lawing,  they  say.  I  doubt  he'll  leave  you  poorly  oil 
when  he  dies.     Not  as  I'd  have  it  said  out  o'  the  family." 

This  view  of  her  position  was  naturally  far  from  cheering 
to  Mrs.  Tulliver.  Her  imagination  was  not  easily  acted 
on,  but  she  could  not  help  thinking  that  her  case  was  a 
hard  one,  since  it  appeared  that  other  people  thought  it 
hard. 

^'I'm  sure,  sister,  I  can't  help  myself,"  she  said,  urged 
by  the  fear  lest  her  anticipated  misfortunes  might  be  held 
retributive,  to  take  a  comprehensive  review  of  her  past 
conduct.  "  There's  no  woman  strives  more  for  her  chil- 
dren; and  I'm  sure,  at  scouring-time  this  Ladyday  as  I've 
had  all  the  bed-hangings  taken  down,  I  did  as  much  as  the 
two  gells  put  together;  and  there's  this  last  elder-flower 
wine  I've  made — beautiful!  I  allays  offer  it  along  with  Hie 
sherry,  though  sister  Glegg  will  have  it  I'm  so  extravagant; 
and  as  for  liking  to  have  my  clothes  tidy,  and  not  go  a 
fright  about  the  house,  there's  nobody  in  the  parish  can 
say  anything  against  me  in  respect  o'  backbiting  and 
making  miscliief,  for  I  don't  wish  anybody  any  harm;  and 
nobody  loses  by  sending  me  a  pork-pie,  for  my  pies  are  lit 
to  show. with  Ae  best  o'  my  neighbors';  and  the  linen's  so 

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94  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

in  order,  as  if  I  was  to  die  to-raorrow  I  shouldn't  be 
ashamed.     A  woman  can  do  no  more  nor  she  can.'* 

**But  it's  all  o'  no  use,  you  know,  Bessy,''  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  holding  her  head  on  one  side  and  fixing  her  eyes 
pathetically  on  her  sister,  "if  your  husband  makes  away 
with  his  money.  Not  but  what  if  you  was  sold  up,  and 
other  folks  bought  your  furniture,  it's  a  comfort  to  think 
as  you've  kept  it  well  rubbed.  And  there's  the  linen,  with 
your  maiden  mark  on,  might  go  all  over  the  country.  It 
^ud  be  a  sad  pity  for  our  family."  Mrs.  Pullet  shook  her 
head  slowly. 

**But  what  can  I  do,  sister?"  said  Mrs.  TuUiver.  "Mr. 
Tulliver's  not  a  man  to  be  dictated  to — not  if  I  was  to  go 
to  the  parson,  and  get  by  heart  what  I  should  tell  my  hus- 
band for  the  best.  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
anything  about  putting  out  money  and  all  that.  I  could 
never  see.  into  men's  business  as  sister  Glegg  does." 

"Well,  you're  like  me  in  that,  Bessy," said  Mrs.  Pullet; 
"and  I  think  it  'ud  be  a  deal  more  becoming  o'  Jane  if 
she'd  have  that  pier-glass  rubbed  oftener — ^there  was  ever 
so  many  spots  on  it  last  week — instead  o'  dictating  to  folks 
as  have  more  comings  in  than  she  ever  had,  and  telling 
'em  what  they've  to  do  with  their  money.  But  Jane  and 
me  were  always  contrairy:  she  would  have  striped  things, 
and  I  like  spots.  You  like  a  spot,  too,  Bessy:  we  allays 
hung  together  i'  that." 

"Yes,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  TuUiver,  "I  remember  our 
having  a  blue  ground  with  a  white  spot,  both  alike — I've 
got  a  bit  in  a  bed-quilt  now;  and  if  you  would  but  go  and 
see  sister  Glegg,  and  persuade  her  to  make  it  up  with  Tul- 
liver,  I  should  take  it  very  kind  of  you.  You  was  allays  a 
good  sister  to  me." 

"But  the  right  thing  'ud  be  for  TuUiver  to  go  and  make 
it  up  with  her  himself,  and  say  he  was  sorry  for  speaking 
so  rash.  If  he's  borrowed  money  of  her,  he  shouldn't  be 
above  that,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  whose  partiality  did  not 
blind  her  to  principles:  she  did  not  forget  what  wa^  due  to 
people  of  independent  fortune. 

"It's  no  use  talking  o'  that,"  said  poor  Mrs.  TuUiver, 
almost  peevishly.  "  If  I  was  to  go  down  on  my  bare  knees 
on  the  gravel  to  TuUiver,  he'd  never  humble  himself." 

'^  Well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  persuade  Jane  to  beg 
pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "  Her  temper's  beyond  every- 
thing; it's  well  if  it  doesn't  carry  her  off  her  mind,  though 
^b^re  never  was  any  of  our  family  went  to  a  jn^bou^^/' 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  95 

"Tm  not  thinking  of  her  begging  pardon/^  said  Mrs. 
Tuliiver.  "But  if  she^d  just  take  no  notice,  and  not  call 
her  money  in;  as  it's  not  so  much  for  one  sister  to  ask  of 
another;  time  'ud  mend  things,  and  Tuliiver  *ud  forget  all 
about  it,  and  they'd  be  friends  again/' 

Mrs.  Tuliiver,  you  perceive,  was  not  aware  of  her  hus- 
band's irrevocable  determination  to  pay  in  the  five  hundred 
pounds,  at  least  such  a  determination  exceedeQ  her  pow- 
ers of  belief. 

"Well,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  mournfully,  "/don't 
wan't  to  help  you  on  to  ruin.  I  won't  be  behindhand  i' 
doing  you  a  good  turn,  if  it  is  to  be  done.  And  I  don't 
like  it  said  among  acquaintance  as  we've  got  quarrels  in  the 
family.  I  shall  tell  Jane  that;  and  I  don't  mind  driving 
to  Jane's  to-morrow,  if  Pullet  doesn't  mind.  What  do  you 
say,  Mr.  Pullet?" 

'4've  no  objections,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  who  was  perfectly 
contented  with  any  course  the  quarrel  might  take,  so  that 
Mr.  Tuliiver  did  not  apply  to  him  for  money.  Mr.  Pullet 
was  nervous  about  his  investments,  and  did  not  see  how  a 
man  could  have  any  security  for  his  money  unless  he  turned 
it  into  land. 

After  a  little  further  discussion  as  to  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  for  Mrs.  Tuliiver  to  accompany  them  on  a 
vi^it  to  sister  Glegg,  Mrs.  Pullet,  observing  that  it  was 
tea-time,  turned  to  reach  from  a  drawer  a  delicate  damask 
napkin,  which  she  pinned  before  her  in  the  fashion  of  an 
apron.  The  door  did,  in  fact,  soon  open,  but  instead  of 
the  tea-tray,  Sally  introduced  an  object  so  startling  that 
both  Mrs.  Pullet  and  Mrs.  Tuliiver  gave  a  scream,  causing 
uncle  Pullet  to  swallow  liis  lozenge  —  for  the  fifth  time  in 
his  life,  as  he  afterward  noted. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HAGGIE  BEHAVES  WORSE  THAN  SHE  EXPECTED. 

The  startling  object  which  thus  made  an  epoch  for  uncle 
Pullet  was  no  other  than  little  Lucy,  with  one  side  of  her 
person,  from  her  small  foot  to  her  bonnet-crown,  wet  and 
discolored  with  mud,  holding  out  two  tiny  blackened 
h^nds,  and  making  a  very  piteous  face.     To  account  for 


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96    .  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

this  unprecedented  apparition  in  aunt  Pullet's  parlor,  we 
must  return  to  the  moment  when  the  three  children  went 
to  play  out  of  doors,  and  the  small  demons  who  had  taken 
nostjcssion  of  Maggie's  soul  at  an  early  period  of  the  day 
had  returned  in  all  the  greater  force  after  a  temporary 
ahsence.  All  the  disagreeable  recollections  of  the  morning 
were  thick  upon  lier,  when  Tom,  whose  displeasure  toward 
her  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  her  foolish  trick  of 
causing  him  to  upset  his  cowslip  wine,  said,  *'Here,  Lucy, 
you  come  along  with  me,'*  and  walked  off  to  the  area 
where  the  toads  were,  as  if  there  were  no  Maggie  in  exist- 
ence. Seeing  this,  Maggie  lingered  at  a  distance,  looking 
like  a  small  Medusa  with  her  snakes  cropped.  Lucy  was 
naturally  pleased  that  cousin  Tom  was  so  good  to  her,  and 
it  was  very  amusijig-to  see  him  tickling  a  fat  toad  with  a 
piece  of  string  when  the  toad  was  safe  down  the  area,  with 
an  iron  grating  over  him.  '  Still  Lucy  wished  Maggie  to 
enjoy  the  spectacle  also,  especially  as  she  would  doubtless 
find  a  name  for  the  toad,  and  say  what  had  been  his  past 
history;  for  Lucy  had  a  delighted  semi-belief  in  Maggie's 
stories  about  the  live  things  tney  came  upon  by  accident — 
how  Mrs.  Earwig  had  a  wash  at  home,  and  one  of  her 
children  had  fallen  into  the  hot  copper,  for  which  reason 
she  was  running  so  fast  to  fetch  the  doctor.  Tom  had  a 
profound  contempt  for  this  nonsense  of  Maggie's,,  smashing 
t-he  earwig  at  once  as  a  superfluous  yet  easy  means  of  prov- 
ing the  entire  unreality  of  such  a  story;  but  Lucy,  for  the 
life  of  hor,  could  not  help  fancying  there  was  something  in 
it,  and  at  all  events  thought  it  was  very  pretty  make-believe. 
So  now  the  desire  to  know  the  history  of  a  very  portly  toad, 
added  to  her  habitual  affectionateness,  made  her  run  back 
to  Maggie  and  say,  *^0h,  there  is  such  a  big,  funny  toad, 
Maggie!     Do  come  and  see." 

Maggie  said  nothing,  but  turned  away  from  her  with  a 
deeper  frown.  As  long  as  Tom  seemed  to  prefer  Lucy  to 
her,  Lucy  made  part  of  his  unkindness.  Maggie  would 
have  thought  a  little  while  ago  that  she  could  never  be 
cross  with  pretty  little  Lucy,  any  more  than  she  could  be 
cruel  to  a  little  white  mouse;  but  then,  Tom  bad  always 
been  quite  indifferent  to  Lucy  before,  and  it  h.id  been  left 
to  Maggie  to  pet  and  make  much  of  her.  As  it  was,  she 
was  actually  beginning  to  think  that  she  should  like  to 
make  Lucy  cry,  by  slapping  or  pinching  her,  especially  ag 
it  might  vex  Tom,  whom  it  was' of  no  use  to  slap,  even  if 
ebe  dared^  because  b^  didn't  mind  it.    And  if  Lncy  hadn't 

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BOY   AND  GIRL.  97 

been  there,  Maggie  was  sure  he  would  have  got  friends  with 
her  sooner. 

Tickling  a  fat  toad  who  is  not  highly  sensitive,  is  an 
amusement  that  it  is  possible  to  exhaust,  and  Tom  by-and- 
bj  began  to  look  round  for  some  other  mode  of  passing  the 
time.  But  in  so  prim  a  garden,  where  they  were  not  to  go 
off  the  paved  walks,  there  was  not  a  great  choice  of  si?ort. 
Tlie  only  great  pleasure  such  a  restriction  suggested  was 
the  pleasure  of  breaking  it,  and  Tom  began  to  meditate  an 
insurrectionary  visit  to  the  pond,  about  a  field's  length 
beyond  the  garden.  -^ 

^*I  say,  Lucy,'Mie  began,  nodding  his  head  up  anS'down 
with 'great  significance,  as  he  coiled  up  his  string  again, 
**  what  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do?  " 

"What,  Tom?''  said  Lucy,  with  curiosity. 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  the  pond,  and  look  at  the  pike.  You 
may  go  with  me  if  you  like,"  said  the  young  sultan. 

"Oh,  Tom,  dare  you?"  said  Lucy.  "Aunt  said  we 
mustn't  go  out  of  the  garden." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  out  at  the  other  end  of  the  ga:5en,"  said 
Tom.  "Nobody  'ull  see  us.  Besides,  I  don't  care  if  they 
do— I'll  run  off  home." 

"  But  /  couldn't  run,"  said  Lucy,  who  had  never  before 
been  exposed  to  such  severe  temptation. 

"  Oh,  never  mind — they  won  t  be  cross  with  you/'  said 
Tom.     "  You  say  I  took  you." 

Tom  walked  along,  and  Lucy  trotted  by  his  side,  timidly 
enjoying  the  rare  treat  of  doing  something  naughty  — 
excited  also  by  the  mention  of  that  celebrity,  the  pike, 
about  which  she  was  quite  uncertain  whether  it  was  a  fish 
or  a  fowl.  Maffgie  saw  them  leaving  the  garden,  and 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  follow.  Anger  and  jealousy 
can  no  more  bear  to  lose  sight  of  their  objects  than  love, 
and  that  Tom  and  Lucy  should  do  or  see  anything  of 
which  she  was  ignorant  would  have  been  an  intolerable 
idea  to  Maggie.  So  she  kept  a  few  yards  behind  them, 
unobserved  by  Tom,  who  was  presently  absorbed  in  watch- 
ing for  the  pike  —  a  highly  interesting  monster;  he  was 
said  to  be  so  very  old,  so  very  large,  and  to  have  such  a 
remarkable  appetite.  The  pike,  like  other  celebrities,  did 
not  show  when  he  was  watched  for,  but  Tom  caught  sight 
of  something  in  rapid  movement  in  the  water,  which 
attracted  him  to  another  spot  on  the  brink  of  the  pond. 

"  Here,  Lucy! "  he  said,  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  come  here! 
take  care!  keep  on  the  grass  —  don't  step  where  the 
7 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


98  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

COWS  have  been! "  ho  added,  pointing  to  a  peninsula  of  dry 
grass,  with  trodden  mud  on  each  side  of  it;  for  Tom's  con- 
temptuous conception  of  a  girl  included  the  attribute  of 
being  unfit  to  walk  in  dirty  places. 

Lucy  came  carefully  as  she  was  bidden,  and  bent  down 
to  look  at  what  seemed  a  golden  arrow-head  darting 
through  the  water.  It  was  a  water-snake,  Tom  told  her, 
and  Lucy  at  last  could  see  the  serpentine  wave  of  its  body, 
very  much  wondering  that  a  snake  could  swim.  Maggie 
had  drawn  nearer  and  nearer — she  rmist  see  it,  too,  though 
it  wa^^ter  to  her  like  evervthing  else,  since  Tom  did  not 
care  J^t  her  seeing  it.  At  last,  she  was  close  by  Lucy, 
and  Tom,  who  had  been  aware  of  her  approach,  but  -vfould 
not  notice  it  till  he  was  obliged,  turned  round  and  said  — 

"Now,  get  away,  Maggie;  there's  no  room  for  you  on 
the  grass  here.     Nobody  asked  yoti  to  come." 

There  were  passions  at  war  in  Maggie  at  that  moment 
to  have  made  a  tragedy,  if  tragedies  were  made  by  passion 
only;  but  the  essential  ^i  megethos  which  was  present  in  the 
passion  was  wanting  to  the  action:  the  utmost  Maggie 
could  do,  with  a  fierce  thrust  of  her  small  brown  arm,  was 
to  push  poor  little  pink-and-white  ^Lucy  into  the  cow- 
trodden  mud. 

Then  Tom  could  not  restrain  himself,  and  gave  Maggie 
two  smart  slaps  on  the  arm  as  he  ran  to  pick  up  Lucy,  who 
lay  crying  helplessly.  Maggie  retreated  to  the  roots  of  a 
tree  a  few  yards  off,  and  looked  on  impenitently.  Usually 
her  repentance  came  quickly  after  one  rash  deed,  but  now 
Tom  and  Lucy  had  made  her  so  miserable,  she  was  glad  to 
spoil  their  happiness — glad  to  make  everybody  uncom- 
fortable. Why  should  she  be  sorry?  Tom  was  very  slow 
to  forgive  her,  however  sorry  she  might  have  been. 

"I  shall  tell  mother,  you  know.  Miss  Mag,"  said  Tom, 
loudly  and  emphatically,  as  soon  as  Lucy  was  up  and 
ready  to  walk  away.  It  was  not  Tom's  practice  to 
"  tell,"  but  here  justice  clearly  demanded  that  Maggie 
should  be  visited  with  the  utmost  punishment:  not  that 
Tom  had  learned  to  put  his  views  in  that  abstract 
form;  he  never  mentioned  "justice,"  and  had  no  idea  that 
his  desire  to  punish  might  be  called  by  that  fine  name. 
Lucy  was  too  entirely  absorbed  by  the  evil  that  had 
befallen  her  —  the  spoiling  of  lier  pretty  best  clothes, 
and  the  discomfort  of  being  wet  and  dirty — to  think 
much  of  the  cause,  which  was  entirely  mysterious  to  her. 
Bhe  could  never  have  guessed  what  she  had  done  to  make 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIBL.  99 

Maggie  angry  with  her;  but  she  felt  that  Maggie  was 
very  unkind  and  disagreeable,  and  made  no  magnanimous 
en  treaties  to  Tom  that  he  would  not  "  tell/'  only  running 
along  by  his  side  and  crying  piteously,  while  Maggie  sat 
on  the  roots  of  the  tree  and  looked  after  them  with  her 
small  Medusa  face. 

"Sally/'  said  Tom,  \vhen  they  reached  the  kitchen 
door,  and  Sally  looked  at  them  in  speechless  amaze,  with 
a  piece  of  bread-and-butter  in  her  mouth  and  a  toasting- 
fork  in  her  hand  —  "Sally,  tell  mother  it  was  Maggie 
pushed  Lucy  into  the  mud/' 

"But  Lors  ha'  massy,  how  did  you  get  near  such  mud 
as  that?"  said  Sally,  making  a  wry  face,  as  she  stooped 
down  and  examined  the  corpus  delicti, 

Tom's  imagination  had  not  been  rapid  and  capacious 
enough  to  include  this  question  among  the  foreseen  conse- 
quences, but  it  was  no  sooner  put  than  he  foresaw  whither 
it  tended,  and  that  Maggie  would  not  be  considered  the 
only  culprit  in  the  case.  He  walked  quietly  away  from 
the  kitchen  door,  leaving  Sally  to  that  pleasure  of  guess- 
ing which  active  minds  notoriously  prefer  to  ready-made 
knowledge. 

Sally,  as  you  are  aware,  lost  no  time  in  presenting  Lucy 
at  the  parlor  door,  for  to  have  so  dirty  an  object  intro- 
duced mto  .the  house  at  Garum  Firs  was  too  great  a 
weight  to  be  sustained  by  a  single  mind. 

"Goodness  gracious!",  aunt  rullet  exclaimed,  after 
preluding  by  an  inarticulate  scream;  "keep  her  at  the 
door,  Sally!  Don't  bring  her  off  the  oil-cloth,  whatever 
you  do/' 

"  Why,  she's  tumbled  into  some  nasty  mud,"  said  Mrs. 
Talliver,  going  up  to  Lucy  to  examine  into  the  amount  of 
damage  to  clothes  for  which  she  felt  herself  responsible  to 
her  sister  Deane. 

"  If  you  please,  'um,  it  was  Miss  Maggie  as  pushed  her 
in,"  said  Sally;  "  Master  Tom's  been  and  said  so,  and  they 
must  ha'  been  to  the  pond,  for  it's  only  there  they  could 
ha'  got  into  such  dirt." 

"There  it  is,  Bessy;  it's  what  I've  been  telling  you/' 
said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  tone  of  prophetic  sadness:  "it's 
your  children  —  there's  no  knowing  what  they'll  come  to." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  mute,  feeling  herself  a  truly  wretched 
mother.  As  usual,  the  thought  pressed  upon  her  that 
])eople  would  think  she  had  done  something  wicked  to 
deserve  her  maternal  troubles,  while  Mrs.  Pullet  began  to 


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100  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.  » 

give  elaborate  directions  to  Sally  how  to  guard  the  premises 
from  serious  injury  in  the  course  of  removing  the  dirt. 
Meantime  tea  was  to  be  brought  in  by  the  cook,  and 
the  two  naughty  children  were  to  have  theirs  in  an  igno- 
minious manner  in  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  TuUiver  went  out 
to  speak  to  these  naughtj  children,  supposing  them  to 
be  close  at  hand;  but  it  was  not  until  after  some  search 
that  she  found  Tom  leaning  with  rather  a  hardened  care- 
less air  against  the  white  paling  of  the  poultry-yard,  and 
lowering  his  piece  c  f  string  on  the  other  side  as  a  means 
of  exasperating  the  turkey-cock. 

"  Tom,  you  naughty  boy,  whereas  your  sister?  ^'  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

**  I  don't  know,*'  said  Tom;  his  eagerness  for  justice  ou 
Maggie  had  diminished  since  he  had  seen  clearly  that  it 
could  hardly  bo  brought  about  without  the  injustice  of 
some  blame  on  his  own  conduct. 

**Why,  where  did  you  leave  her?"  said  his  mother, 
looking  round. 

'*  Sitting  under  the  tree,  against  the  pond,"  said  Tom, 
apparently  indifferent  to  everything  but  the  string  and  the 
turkey-cock, 

**  Then  go  and  fetch  her  in  this  minute,  you  naughty 
boy.  And  how  could  you  think  o'  going  to  the  pond,  and 
taking  your  sister  where  there  was  dirt?  You  know  shell 
do  mischief,  if  there's  mischief  to  be  done." 

It  was  Mrs.  Tnlliver's  way,  if  she  blamed  Tom,  to  refer 
his  misdemeanor,  somehow  or  other,  to  Maggie. 

The  idea  of  Maggie  sitting  alone  by  the  pond,  roused  an 
habitual  fear  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind,  and  she  mounted 
the  horse-block  to  satisfy  herself  by  a  sight  of  that  fatal 
child,  while  Tom  walked  —  not  very  quickly — on  his  way 
toward  her. 

*^  They're  such  children  for  the  water,  mine  are,"  she 
said  aloud,  without  reflecting  that  there  was  no  one  to 
hear  her;  "they'll  be  brought  in  dead  and  drownded  some 
day.     I  wish  that  river  was  far  enough." 

but  when  she  not  only  failed  to  discern  Maggie,  but 
presently  saw  Tom  returning  from  the  pool  alone,  this 
hovering  fear  entered  and  took  complete  possession  of  her, 
and  she  hurried  to  meet  him. 

"  Maggie's  nowhere  about  the  pond,  mother,"  said  Tom; 
"  she's  gone  away." 

You  may  conceive  the  terrified  search  fof  Maggie,  and 
tlie  difficulty  of  convincing  her  mother  that  she  was  not 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  101 

in  the  pond.  Mrs.  Pullet  observed  that  the  child  might 
come  to  a  worse  end  if  she  lived -^  there  was  no  knowing; 
and  Mr.  Pullet,  confused  and  overwhelmed  by  this  revo- 
lutionary aspect  of  things  —  the  tea  deferred  and  the 
poultry  alarmed  by  the  unusual  running  to  and  fro  — 
took  up  his  spud  as  an  instrument  of  search,  and  reached 
down  a  key  to  unlock  the  goose-pen,  as  a  likely  place  for 
Maggie  to  lie  concealed  in. 

Tom,  after  a  while,  started  the  idea  that  Maggie  was 
gone  home  (without  thinking  it  necessary  to  state  that  it 
was  what  he  should  have  done  himself  under  the  circum- 
stances), and  the  suggestion  was  seized  as  a  comfort  by  his 
mother. 

"  Sister,  for  goodness^  sake  let  ^em  put  the  horse  in  the 
carriage  and  take  me  home — we  shall  perhaps  find  her  on 
the  road.  Lucy  can't  walk  in  her  dirty  clothes,"  she  said, 
looking  at  that  innocent  victim,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  a 
shawl,  and  sitting  with  naked  feet  on  the  sofa. 

Aunt  Pullet  was  quite  willing  to  take  the  shortest  means 
of  restoring  her  premises  to  order  and  quiet,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  Mrs.  Tnlliver  was  in  the  chaise  looking 
anxiously  at  the  most  distant  point  before  her.  What  the 
father  would  say  if  Maggie  was  lost?  was  a  question  thai 
^predominated  over  every  other. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MAGGIE  TRIES  TO   RUN  AWAY  FROM   HER  SHADOW. 

Maggie's  intentions,  as  usual,  were  on  a  larger  seal 
than  Tom  had  imagined.  The  resolution  .that  gathered  iu 
her  mind,  after  Tom  and  Lucy  had  walked  away,  was  not 
so  simple  as  that  of  going  home.  No!  she  would  run  away 
and  go  to  the  gypsies,  and  Tom  should  never  see  her  any 
more.  That  was  by  no  means  a  new  idea  to  Maggie;  she 
had  been  so  often  told  she  was  like  a  gypsy,  and  "  half 
wild,''  that  when  she  was  miserable  it  seemed  to  her  the 
only  way  of  escaping  opprobrium,  and  being  entirely  in 
harmony  with  circumstances  would  be  to  live  in  a  little 
brown  tent  on  the  commons:  the  gypsies,  she  considered, 
would  gladly  receive  her,  and  pay  her  much  respect  on 
account   of    her    superior    knowledge.      She    had    once 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


102  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

mentioned  her  views  on  this  point  to  Tom,  and  sug- 
gested that  he  should  stain  his  face  brown,  and  the^ 
should  rnn  away  together ;  but  Tom  rejected  the  scheme 
with  contempt,  observing  that  gypsies  were  thieves,  and 
hardly  got  anything  to  eat,  and  had  nothing  to  drive 
but  a  donkey.  To-day,  however,  Maggie  thought  her 
misery  had  reached  a  pitch  at  which  gypsydom  was  her 
only  refuge,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  roots  of  the 
tree  with  the  sense  that  this  was  a  great  crisis  in  her  life; 
she  would  run  straight  away  till  she  came  to  Dunlow  Com- 
mon, where  there  would  certainly  be  gypsies;  and  cruel 
Tom,  and  the  rest  of  her  relations  who  found  fault  with 
her,  should  never  see  her  any  more.  She  thought  of  her 
father  as  she  ran  along,  but  she  reconciled  herself  to  the 
idea  of  parting  with  him,  by  determining  that  she  would 
secretly  send  him  a  letter  by  a  small  gypsy,  who  would  run 
away  without  telling  where  she  was,  and  just  let  him  know 
that  she  was  well  and  happy,  and  always  loved  him  very 
much. 

Maggie  soon  got  out  of  breath  with  running,  but  by  the 
time  Tom  got  to  the  pond  again,  she  was  at  the  distance 
of  three  long  fields,  and  was  on  the  edge  of  the  lane  lead- 
ing to  the  highroad.  She  stopped  to  pant  a  little,  reflect- 
ing that  running  away  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  until  one 
had  got  quite  to  the  common  where  the  gypsies  were,  but 
her  resolution  had  not  abated:  she  presently  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  lane,  not  knowing  where  it 
would  lead  her,  for  it  was  not  this  way  that  they  came 
from  Dorlcote  Mill  to  Garum  Firs,  and  she  felt  all  the 
safer  for  that,  because  there  was  no  chance  of  her  being 
overtaken.  But  she  was  soon  aware,  not  without  trem- 
bling, that  there  were  two  men  coming  along  the  lane  in 
front  of  her:  she  had  not  thought  of  meeting  strangers — 
she  had  been  too  much  occupied  with  the  idea  of  her 
friends  coming  after  her.  The  formidable  strangers  were 
two  shabby-looking  men  with  flushed  faces,  one  of  them 
carrying  a  bundle  on  a  stick  over  his  shoulder:  but  to  her 
surprise,  while  she  was  dreading  their  disapprobation  as  a 
runaway,  the  man  with  the  bundle  stopped,  and  in  a  half- 
whining  half-coaxing  tone  asked  her  if  she  had  a  copper 
to  give  a  poor  man.  Maggie  had  a  sixpence  in  her 
pocket — her  uncle  Glegg's  present — which  she  immediately 
drew  out  and  gave  this  poor  man  with  a  polite  smile, 
hoping  he  would  feel  very  kindly  toward  her  as  a  generous 
person.     "That's  the  only  money  I've  got,^'  she  said^ 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


feOY   AND   GIRL.  1C3 

apologetically.  '^Tliank  you,  little  miss/'  said  the  man 
in  a  less  respectful  and  grateful  tone  than  Maggie  antici- 
pated, and  she  even  observed  that  he  smiled  and  winked 
at  his  companion.  She  walked  on  hurriedly,  but  was 
aware  that  the  two  men  were  standing  still,  probably  to 
look  after  her,  and  she  presently  heard  them  laughing 
loudly.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  they  might 
think  she  was  an  idiot:  Tom  had  said  that-  her  cropped 
luiir  made  her  look  like  an  idiot,  and  it  was  too  painful  an 
idea  to  be  readily  forgotten.  Besides,  she  had  no  sleeves 
on — only  a  cape  and  a  bonnet.  It  was  clear  that  she  was 
not  likely  to  make  a  favorable  impression  on  passengers, 
and  she  thought  she  would  turn  into  the  fields  again;  but 
not  on  the  same  side  of  the  lane  as  before,  lest  they  should 
still  be  uncle  Pullet's  fields.  She  turned  through  the  first 
gate  that  was  not  locked,  and  felt  a  delightful  sense  of 
privacy  in  creeping  along  by  the  hedgerows,  after  her  recent 
humiliating  adventure.  She  was  used  to  wandering 
about  the  fields  by  herself,  and  was  less  timid  there  than 
on  the  highroad.  Sometimes  she  had  to  climb  over  high 
gates,  but  that  was  a  small  evilj  she  was  getting  out  of 
reach  very  fast,  and  she  should  probably  soon  come  within 
sight  of  Dunlow  Common,  or  at  least  of  some  other  com- 
mon, for  she  had  heard  her  father  say  that  you  couldn't 
go  very  far  without  coming  to  a  common.  She  hoped  so, 
for  she  was  getting  rather  tired  and  hungry,  and  until  she 
reached  the  gypsies  there  was  no  definite  prospect  of 
bread-and-butter.  It  was  still  broad  daylight,  for  aunt 
Pullet,  retaining  the  early  habits  of  the  Dodson  family, 
took  tea  at  half-past  four  by  the  sun,  and  at  five  by  the 
kitchen  clock;  so,  though  it  was  nearly  an  hour  since 
Maggie  started,  there  was  no  gathering  gloom  on  the  fields 
to  remind  her  that  the  night  would  come.  Still,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  been  walking  a  very  great  distance 
indeed,  and  it  wjis  really  surprisiifg  that  the  common  did 
not  come  within  sight.  Hitherto  she  had  been  in  the  rich 
parish  of  Garum,  where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  pasture- 
land,  and  she  had  only  seen  one  laborer  at  a  distance. 
That  was  fortunate  in  some  respects,  as  laborers  might  be 
too  ignorant  to  understand  the  propriety  of  her  wanting 
to  go  to  Dunlow  Common;'  yet  it  would  have  been  better 
if  she  could  have  met  some  one  who  would  tell  her  the 
way  without  wanting  to  know  anything  about  her  private 
business.  At  last,  however,  the  green  fields  came  to  an 
end,  and  Maggie  found  herself  looking  through  the  bars 

Digitized  by  VuOOQIC  . 


104  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

of  a  gate  into  a  lane  with  a  wide  margin  of  grass  on  each 
side  of  it.  She  liad  never  seen  such  a  wide  lane  before, 
and,  without  her  knowing  why,  it  gave  her  the  impression 
that  the  common  could  not  be  very  far  off,  perhaps  it  was 
because  she  saw  a  donkey  with  a  log  to  his  foot  feeding  on 
the  grassy  margin,  for  she  had  seen  a  donkev  with  that 
pitiable  incumbrance  on  Dunlow  Common  when  she  had 
been  across  it  in  her  father's  gig.  She  crept  through  the 
bars  of  the  gate  and  walke*d  on  with  new  spirit,  though  not 
without  haunting  images  of  Apollyon,  and  a  highwayman 
with  a  pistol,  and  a  blinking  dwarf  in  yellow,  with  a 
mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  and  other  miscellaneous  dangers. 
For  poor  little  Maggie  had  at  once  the  timidity  of  an 
active  imagination  and  the  daring  th^t  comes  from  over- 
mastering impulse.  She  had  rushed  into  the  adventure  of 
seeking  her  unknown  kindred,  the  gypsies;  and  now  she 
was  in  this  strange  lane,  she  hardly  dared  look  on  one  side 
of  her,  lest  she  should  see  the  diabolical  blacksmith  in  his 
leathern  apron  grinning  at  her  with  arms  akimbo.  It  was 
not  without  a  leaping  of  the  heart  that  she  caught  sight 
of  a  small  pair  of  bare  legs  sticking  up,  feet  uppermost, 
by  the  side  of  a  hillock;  they  seemed  something  hideously 
preternatural — a  diiabolical  kind  of  fungus;  for  she  was 
too  much  agitated  at  the  first  glance  to  see  the  ragged 
clothes  and  the  dark  shaggy  head  attached  to  them.  It 
was  a  boy  asleep,  and  Maggie  trotted  along  faster  and  more 
lightly,  lest  she  should  wake  him:  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  he  was  one  of  her  friends  the  gypsies,  who  in  all  prob- 
ability would  have  very  genial  manners.  But  the  fact  was 
so,  for  at  the  next  bend  in  the  lane,  Maggie  actuallv  saw  the 
little  semicircular  black  tent  with  the  blue  smote  rising 
before  it,  which  was  to  be  her  refuge  from  all  the  blighting 
obloquy  that  had  pursued  her  in  civilized  life.  She  even 
saw  a  tall  female  figure  by  the  column  of  smoke — doubt- 
less the  gypsy-mother,  who  provided  the  tea  and  other 
groceries;  it  was  astonishing  to  herself  that  she  did  not 
feel  more  delighted.  But  it  was  startling  to  find  the 
gypsies  in  a  lane,  after  all,  and  not  on  a  commt)n;  indeed, 
it  was  rather  disappointing;  for  a  mysterious  illimitable 
common,  where  there  were  sand-pits  to  hide  in,  and  one 
was  out  of  everybody's  reach,  had  always  made  part  of 
Maggie's  picture  of  gypsy  life.  She  went  on,  however,  and 
thought  with  some  comfort  that  gypsies  most  likely  knew 
nothing  about  idiots,  so  there  was  no  danger  of  their  fall- 
ing into  the  mistake  of  setting  her  down  at  the  first  glance 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOY   AKD    GIRL.  105 

as  an  idiot.  It  was  plain  she  had  attracted  attention;  for 
the  tall  figure,  who  proved  to  be  a  young  woman  witli  a 
baby  on  her  arm,  walked  slowly  to  meet  her.  Maggie 
looked  up  in  the  new  face  rather  tremblingly  as  it  ap- 
proached, and  was  reassured  by  the  thought  that  her  a:int 
Pullet  and  the  rest  were  right  when  fliey  called  her  a 
gypsy,  for  this  face,  with  the  bright  dark  eyes  and  the 
long  hair,  was  really  something  like  what  she  used  to  see 
in  the  glass  before  she  cut  her  hair  off. 

*^My  little  lady,  where  are  you  going  to? '^  the  gypsy 
said,  in  a  tone  of  coaxing  deference. 

It  was  delightful,  and  just  what  Maggie  expected:  the 
gypsies  saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  little  imj,  and  were  pre- 
pared to  treat  her  accordingly. 

"Not  any  farther,*'  said  Maggie,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
saying  what  she  had  rehearsed  in  a  dream.  "  Tm  come  to 
stay  with  you,  please.*' 

"  That's  pretty,  come  then.  Why,  what  a  nice  little  Imly 
you  are,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  gypsy,  taking  ]  -r  by  the 
hand.  Maggie  thought  her  very  agreeable,  but  \.»ifihed  she 
had  not  been  so  dirty. 

There  was  quite  a  group  round  the  fire  when  they 
reached  it.  An  old  gypsy  woman  was  seated  on  the  ground 
nursing  her  knees,  and  occasionally  poking  a  skewer  into 
the  round  kettle  that  sent  forth  an  odorous  steam:  two 
small  shock-headed  children  were  lying  prone  and  resting 
on  their  elbows  something  like  small  sphinxes;  and  a  placid 
donkey  was  bending  his  head  over  a  tall  girl,  who,  lying 
on  her  back,  was  scratching  his  nose  and  indulging  him 
with  a  bite  of  excellent  stolen  hay.  The  slanting  sunlight 
fell  kindly  upon  them,  and  the  scene  was  really  very  pretty 
and  comfortable,  Maggie  thought,  only  she  hoped  they 
would  soon  set  out  the  tea-cups.  Everything  would  be 
quite  charming  when  she  had  taught  the  gypsies  to  use  a 
washing-basin,  and  to  feel  an  interest  in  books.  It  was 
a  little  confusing,  though,  that  the  youn^  woman  began  to 
speak  to  the  old  one  in  a  language  whicn  Maggie  did  not 
understand,  while  the  tall  girl,  who  was  feeding  the 
donkey,  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  without  offering  any 
salutation.     At  last  the  old  woman  said — 

*' What!  my  pretty  lady,  are  you  come  to  stay  with  us? 
Sit  ye  down  and  tell  us  where  you  come  from." 

It  was  just  like  a  story:  Maggie  liked  to  be  called  pretty 
lady  and  treated  in  this  way.     She  sat  down  and  sttid — 
•  "I'm  come  from  home  because  I'm  unhappy,  and  I  mean 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


106  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

to  be  a  gypsy.  I'll  live  with  yon,  if  you  like,  and  I  can 
teach  yon  a  great  many  things/' 

"Such  a  clever  little  lady,"  said  the  woman  with  the 
baby,  sitting  down  by  Maggie,  and  allowing  baby  to  crawl; 
*^and  such  a  pretty  bonnet  and  frock,"  she  added,  taking 
off  Maggie's  bonnet  and  looking  at  it  while  she  made  an 
observation  to  the  old  woman,  in  the  unknown  language. 
The  tall  girl  snatched  the  bonnet  and  put  it  on  her  own 
head  hind-foremost  with  a  grin;  but  Maggie  was  deter- 
mined not  to  show  any  weakness  on  this  subject,  as  if  she 
were  susceptible  about  her  bonnet. 

"I  don't  want  to  wear  a  bonnet,"  she  said,  "I'd  rather 
wear  a  red  handkerchief,  like  yours"  (looking  at  her  friend 
by  her  side);  "my  hair  was  quite  long  till  yesterday,  when 
I  cut  it  off:  but  I  dare  say  it  will  grow  again  very  soon," 
she  added,  apologetically,  thinking  it  probable  the  gypsies 
had  a  strong  prejudice  in  favor  of  long  hair.  And  Maggie 
had  forgotten  even  her  hunger  at  that  moment  in  the 
desire  to  conciliate  gypsy  opinion. 

"  Oh,  what  a  nice  little  lady! — and  rich,  I'm  sure,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "Didn't  you  live  in  a  beautiful  house  at 
home?" 

"Yes,  my  home  is  pretty,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  the 
river,  where  we  go  fishing — but  I'm  often  very  unhappy. 
I  should  have  liked  to  bring  my  books  with  me,  but  I  came 
away  in  a  hurry,  you  know.  But  I  can  tell  you  almost 
everything  there  is  in  my  books,  I've  read  them  so  many 
times — and  that  will  amuse  you.  And  I  can  tell  you  some- 
thing about  Geography,  too — rthat's  about  the  world  we 
live  in — very  useful  and  interesting.  Did  you  ever  hear 
about  Columbus?" 

Maggie's  eyes  had  begun  to  sparkle  and  her  checks  to 
flush — she  was  really  beginning  to  instruct  the  gypsies, 
and  gaining  great  influence  over  them.  The  gypsies  tnem- 
selves  were  not  without  amazement  at  this  talk,  though 
their  attention  was  divided  by  the  contents  of  Maggie's 
pocket,  which  the  friend  at  her  right  hand  had  by  this 
time  emptied  without  attracting  her  notice. 

"Is  that  where  you  live,  my  little  lady?"  said  the  old 
woman,  at  the  mention  of  Columbus. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Maggie,  with  some  pity;  "Columbus 
was  a  very  wonderful  man,  who  found  out  half  the  world, 
and  they  put  chains  on  him  and  treated  him  very  baclly, 
you  know — it's  in  my  Catechism  of  Geography — ^Dut  per- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


'    BOY   AND  GIBL,  107 

naps  Ws  rather  too  long  to  tell  before  tea /  wa7it  my 

tea  so  J' 

The  last  words  burst  from  Maggie,  in  spite  of  herself, 
with  a  sudden  drop  from  patronizing  instruction  to  simple 
peevishness. 

^^  Why,  she's  hungry,  poor  little  lady,''  said  the  younger 
woman.  "Give  her  some  o'  the  cold  victual.  You\e 
been  walking  a  good  way,  I'll  be  bound,  my  dear.  Where's 
your  home?" 

"  It's  Dorlcote  Mill,  a  good  way  off,"  said  Maggie.  "  My 
father  is  Mr.  Tulliver,  but  we  mustn't  let  him  know  where 
I  am,  else  he'll  fetch  me  home  again.  Where  does  the 
queen  of  the  gypsies  live?" 

"What!  do  you  want  to  go  to  her,  my  little  lady?  "  said 
the  younger  woman.  The  tall  girl  meanwhile  was  con- 
stantly staring  at  Maggie  and  grinning.  Iler  manners 
were  certainly  not  agreeable. 

^^No,"  said  Maggie,  "I'm  only  thinking  that  if  she 
isn't  a  very  good  queen  you  might  be  glad  when  she  died, 
and  you  could  choose  another.  If  I  was  a  queen  I'd  be  a 
very  good^queen,  and  kind  to  everybody." 

^'  Here's  a  bit  o'  nice  victual,  then,"  said  the  old  woman, 
handing  to  Maggie  a  lump  of  dry  bread,  which  she  had 
taken  from  a  bag  of  scraps,  and  a  piece  of  cold  bacon. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  the  food  without 
taking  it;  "but  will  you  give  me  some  bread-and-butter 
and  tea  instead?    I  don't  like  bacon." 

"  We've  got  no  tea  nor  butter,"  said  the  old  woman  with 
something  like  a  scowl,  as  if  she  were  getting  tired  of 
coaxing. 

"  Oh,  a  little  bread  and  treacle  would  do,"  said  Maggie. 

^^  We  han't  got  no  treacle,"  said  the  old  woman  crossly, 
whereupon  there  followed  a  sharp  dialogue  between  the 
two  women  in  their  unknown  tongue,  and  one  of  the  small 
sphinxes  snatched  at  the  bread-and-bacon  and  began  to  cat 
it.  At  this  moment  the  tall  girl,  who  had  gone  a  few 
yards  off,  came  back,  and  said  something  which  produced 
a  strong  effect.  The  old  woman,  seeming  to  forget  Mag- 
gie's hunger,  poked  the  skewer  into  the  pot  with  new 
vigor,  and  the  younger  crept  under  the  tent,  and  reached 
out  some  platters  and  spoons.  Maggie  trembled  a  little, 
and  was  afraid  the  tears  would  come  into  her  eyes.  Mean- 
while the  tall  girl  gave  a  shrill  crv,  and  presently  came 
running  up  the  boy  whom  Maggie  had  ])assod  as  he  was 
sleeping — a  rough  urchin  about  the  age  of  Tom.     H<? 

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108  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

stared  at  Maggie,  and  there  ensued  much  incomprehensi- 
ble chattering.  She  felt  very  lonely  and  was  quite  sure 
she  should  begin  to  cry  before  long:  the  gypsies  didn't 
seem  to  mind  her  at  all,  and  she  felt  quite  weak  among 
them.  But  the  springing  tears  were  checked  by  new  terror, 
when  two  men  came  up,  whose  approach  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  sudden  excitement.  The  elder  of  the  two 
carried  a  bag,  which  he  flung  down,  addressing  the  women 
in  a  loud  and  scolding  tono,  which  they  answered  by  a 
shower  of  treble  sauciness;  while  a  black  cur  ran  barking 
up  to  Maggie,  and  threw  her  into  a  tremor  that  only  found 
a  new  cause  in  the  curses  with  which  the  younger  man 
called  the  dog  off,  and  gave  him  a  rap  with  a  great  stick 
he  held  in  his  hand. 

Maggie  felt  that  it  was  impossible  she  should  ever  be 
queen  of  these  people,  or  ever  communicate  to  them  amus- 
ing and  useful  knowledge. 

Both  the  men  now  seemed  to  be  inquiring  about  Maggie, 
for  they  looked  at  her,  and  the  tone  of  the  conversation 
became  of  that  pacific  kind  which  implies  curiosity  on  one 
side  and  the  power  of  satisfying  it  on  the  other.  At  last 
the  younger  woman  said  in  her  previous^ deferential  coax- 
ing tone — 

"  This  little  lady^s  come  to  live  with  us:  ain^t  you  glad?'' 

"  Ay,  very  glad,"  said  the  younger  man,  who  was  look- 
ing at  Maggie's  silver  thimble  and  other  small  matters  that 
had  been  taken  from  her  pocket.  He  returned  them  all 
except  the  thimble  to  the  younger  woman,  with  some  obser- 
vation, and  she  immediately  restored  them  to  Maggie's 
pocket,  while  the  men  seated  themselves,  and  began  to 
attack  the  contents  of  the  kettle — a  stew  of  meat  and 
potatoes — which  had  been  taken  off  the  fire  and  turned  out 
into  a  yellow  platter. 

Maggie  began  to  think  that  Tom  must  be  right  about 
the  gypsies — they  must  certainly  be  thiev6s,  unless  the  man 
meant  to  return  her  thimble  by-and-by.  She  would  will- 
ingly have  given  it  to  him,  for  she  was  not  at  all  attached 
to  her  thimble;  but  the  idea  that  she  was  among  thieves 
prevented  her  from  feeling  any  comfort  in  the  revival  of 
deference  and  attention  toward  her — all  thieves,  except 
Robin  Hood,  were  wicked  people.  The  women  saw  she 
was  frightened. 

"  We've  got  nothing  nice  for  a  lady  to  eat,"  said  the  old 
woman,  in  her  coaxing  tone.  "And  she's  so  hungry, 
sweet  little  lady." 

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BOY  AKD   GIBL.  109 

'^  Here,  my  dear,  try  if  you  can  eat  a  bit  o'  this/'  said 
the  yoanger  woman,  handing  some  of  the  stew  on  a  brown 
dish"  with  an  iron  spoon  to  Maggie,  who,  remembering  that 
the  old  woman  had  seemed  angry  with  her  for  not  liking 
the  bread-and-bacon,  dared  not  refuse  the  stew,  thougli  fear 
had  chased  away  her  appetite.  If  her  father  would  but 
come  by  in  the  gig  and  take  her  up!  Or  even  if  Jack 
the  Giantkiller,  or  Mr.  Greatheart,  or  St.  George  who  slew 
the  dragon  on  the  halfpennies,  would  happen  to  pass  that 
way!  But  Maggie  thought  with  a  sinking  heart  that  these 
heroes  were  never  seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Ogg^s — 
nothing  very  wonderful  ever  came  there. 

Maggie  TuUiver,  you  perceive,  was  by  no  means  that 
well-trained,  well-iiiformed  youn^  person  that  a  small 
female  of  eight  or  nine  necessarily  is  m  these  days:  she  had 
only  been  to  school  a  year  at  St.  Ogg^s,  and  had  so  few 
books  that  she  sometimes  read  the  dictionary;  so  that  in 
traveling  over  her  small  mind  you  would  have  found  the 
most  unexpected  ignorance  as  well  as  unexpected  knowledge. 
She  could  have  informed  you  that  there  was  such  a  word  as 
*^  polygamy,'^  and  being  also  acquainted  with  ^^polysyl- 
lable, ^'  she  had  deduced  the  conclusion  that  "poly  ^  meant 
*^many'';  but  she  had  had  no  idea  that  gypsies  were  not 
well  supplied  with  groceries,  and  her  thoughts  generally 
were  the  oddest  mixture  of  clear-eyed  acumen  and  blind 
dreams. 

Her  ideas  about  the  gypsies  had  undergone  a  rapid  modi- 
fication in  the  last  five  minutes.  From  having  considered 
them  very  respectful  companions,  amenable  to  instruction, 
she  had  begun  to  think  that  they  meant  perhaps  to  kill 
her  as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  and  cut  up  her  body  for  gradual 
cooking:  the  suspicion* crossed  her  that  the  fierce-eyed  old 
man  was  in  fact  the  devil,  who  might  drop  that  trans- 
parent disguise  at  any  moment,  and  turn  either  into  the 
grinning  blacksmith  or  else  a  fiery-eyed  monster  with 
dragon's  wings.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  eat  the  stew, 
and  yet  the  thing  she  most  dreaded  was  to  offend  the 
gypsies,  by  betraying  her  extremely  unfavorable  opinion 
of  them,  and  she  wondered,  with  a  keenness  of  interest 
that  no  theologian  could  have  exceeded,  whether,  if  the 
devil  were  really  present,  he  would  know  her  thoughts. 

"  What !  you  don^t  like  the  smell  of  it,  my  dear,''  said 
the  young  woman,  observing  that  Maggie  did  not  even  take 
a  spoonful  of  the  stew.     "Try  a  bit  —  come." 

"  No,  thank  you/'  said  Maggie,  summoning  all  her  force 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


110  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

for  a  desperate  effort,  and  trying  to  smile  in  a  friendly  way, 
"  I  haven't  time,  I  think  —  it  seems  getting  darker.  I  think 
I  must  go  home  now,  and  come  again  another  day,  and 
then  I  can  bring  you  a  basket  with  some  jam-tarts  and 
things.^' 

Maggie  rose  from  her  seat  as  she  threw  out  this  illusory 
prospect,  devoutly  hoping  that  Apollyon  was  gullible;  but 
her  hope  sank  when  the  old  gypsy-woman  said,  *^Stop  a 
bit,  stop  a  bit,  little  lady — we'll  take  you  home,  all  safe, 
when  we've  done  supper:  you  shall  ride  home,  like  a  lady.*' 

Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  little  faith  in  this  promise, 
though  she  presently  saw  the  tall  girl  putting  a  bridle  on 
the  donkey,  and  throwing  a  couple  of  bags  on  his  back. 

"Now  then,  little  missis,"  said  the  younger  man,  rising, 
and  leading  the  donkey  forward,  "  tell  us  where  you  live — 
what's  the  name  o'the  place?" 

"Dorlcote  Mill  is  my  home,"  said  Maggie,  eagerly. 
"  My  father  is  Mr.  Tulliver — he  lives  there." 

"  What!  a  big  mill  a  little  way  this  side  o'  St.  Ogg's?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Is  it  far  off?  I  think  I  should 
like  to  walk  there,  if  you  please." 

*^No,  no,  it'll  be  getting  dark;  we  must  make  haste. 
And  the  donkey'U  carry  you  as  nice  as  can  be — ^you'll  see." 

He  lifted  Maggie  as  he  spoke,  and  set  her  on  the  donkey. 
She  felt  relieved  that  it  was  not  the  old  man  who  seemed 
to  be  going  with  her,  but  she  had  only  a  trembling  hope 
that  she  was  really  going  homiD. 

"  Here's  your  pretty  bonnet,"  said  the  younger  woman, 
putting  that  recently-despised  but  now  welcome  article  of 
costume  on  Maggie's  head;  "  and  you'll  say  we've  been  very 
good  to  you,  won't  you?  and  what  a  nice  little  lady  we  said 
you  was.  ^ 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  "I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  But  I  wish  you'd  go  with  me,  too." 
She  thought  anything  was  better  than  going  with  one  of 
the  dreadful  men  alone:  it  would  be  more  cheerful  to  be 
murdered  by  a  larger  party. 

"  Ah,  you're  fondest  o'  me,  aren't  you?  "  said  the  woman. 
"  But  I  can't  go — you'll  go  too  fast  for  me." 

It  now  appeared  that  the  man  also  was  to  be  seated  on 
the  donkey,  holding  Maggie  before  him,  and  she  was  as 
incapable  of  remonstrating  against  this  arrangement  as 
the  donkey  himself,  though  no  nightmare  had  ever  seemed 
to  her  more  horrible.  When  the  woman  had  patted  her  on 
the  back,  and  said  "Good-bye,"  the  donkey,  at  a  strong 

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BOY   AND  GIRL.  Ill 

hint  from  the  mau^s  stick,  set  off  at  a  rapid  walk  along  the 
lane  toward  the  point  Maggie  had  come  from  an  hour  ago, 
while  the  tall  girl  and  the  rough  urchin,  also  furuislied 
with  sticks,  obligingly  escorted  them  for  the  first  hundred 
yards,  with  much  screaming  and  thwacking. 

Not  Leonore,  in  that  preternatural  midnight  excursion 
with  her  phantom  lover,  was  more  terrified  than  poor  Mag- 
gie in  this  entirely  natural  ride  on  a  short-paced  donkey, 
with  a  gypsy  behind  her,  who  considered  that  he  was  earn- 
ing half-a-crown.  The  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  seemed 
to  haye  a  portentous  meaning,  with  which  the  alarming 
bray  of  the  second  donkey  with  the  log  on  its  foot  must 
surely  have  some  connection.  Two  low  thatched  cottages — 
the  only  houses  they  passed  in  this  lane — seemed  to  add  to 
its  dreariness:  they  had  no  windows  to  speak  of,  and  tho 
doors  were  closed:  it  was  probable  that  they  were  inhabited 
by  witches,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  find  that  the  donkey  did 
not  stop  there. 

At  last — oh,  sight  of  joy! — this  lane,  the  longest  in  the 
world,  was  coming  to  an  end,  was  opening  on  a  broad 
highroad,  where  there  was  actually  a  coach  passing!  And 
there  was  a  finger-post  at  the  corner:  she  had  suiely  seen 
that  finger-post  before— ''To  St.  Ogg's,  2  miles."  The 
gypsy  really  meant  to  take  her  hom^,  then:  he  was  prob- 
ably a  good  man,  after  all,  and  might  have  been  rather 
hurt  at  the  thought  that  she  didn't  like  coming  with  him 
alon6.  This  idea  became  stronger  as  she  felt  more  and 
more  certain  that  she  knew  the  road  quite  well,  and  she  was 
considering  how  she  might  open  a  conversation  with  the 
injured  gypsy,  and  not  only  gratify  his  feelings  but  efface 
the  impression  of  her  cowardice,  when,  as  they  reached  a 
cross-road,  Maggie  caught  sight  of  some  one  coming  on  a 
white-faced  horse. 

"Oh,  stop,  stop!"  she  cried  out.  "There's  my  father! 
Oh,  father,  father!" 

The  sudden  joy  was  almost  painful,  and  before  her 
father  reached  her,  she  was  sobbing.  Great  was  Mr.  Tul- 
liver's  wonder,  for  he  had  made  a  round  from  Basset,  and 
had  not  yet  been  home. 

"Why,  what's  the  meaning  o'  this?"  he  said,  checking 
his  horse,  while  Maggie  slipped  from  the  donkey  and  ran 
to  her  father's  stirrup. 

"  The  little  miss  lost  herself,  I  reckon,"  said  the  gypsy. 
*^  She'd  come  to  our  tent  at  the  far  end  o'  Dunlow  Lane, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


112  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

and  1  was  bringing  her  where  she  said  her  home  was.  It's 
a  good  way  to  come  arter  being  on  the  tramp  all  day.*^ 

**  Oh,  yes,  father,  he's  been  very  good  to  bring  me  home,'^ 
feaid  Maggie.     **  A  very  kind,  good  man!" 

"Here,  then,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  out 
five  shillings.  "  It's  the  best  day's  work  vou  ever  did.  I 
couldn't  afford  to  lose  the  little  wench;  here,  lift  her  up 
before  me." 

"  Why,  Maggie,  how's  this,  how's  this?"  he  said,  as  they 
rode  along,  while  she  laid  her  head  against  her  father,  and 
sobbed.  **  How  came  you  to  be  rambling  about  and  lose 
yourself?" 

"  Oh,  father,"  sobbed  Maggie,  '*  I  ran  away  because  I 
was  so  unhappy — Tom  was  so  angry  with  me.  I  couldn't 
bear  it." 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  soothingly,  "you 
mustn't  think  o'  running  away  from  father.  What  'ud 
father  do  without  his  little  wench?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  never  will  again,  father — never." 

Mr.  Tulliver  spoke  his  mind  very  strongly  when  he 
reached  home  that  evening,  and  the  effect  was  seen  in  the 
remarkable  fact,  that  Maggie  never  heard  one  reproach 
from  her  mother,  or  one  taunt  from  Tom,  about  this  fool- 
ish business  of  her  running  away  to  the  gypsies.  Maggie 
was  rather  awe-stricken  by  this  unusual  treatment,  and 
sometimes  thought  that  her  conduct  had  been  too  wicked 
to  be  alluded  to. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MR.    AND  MRS.    GLEGG  AT  HOME. 

In  order  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  at  home,  we  must 
enter  the  town  of  St.  Ogg's — that  venerable  town  with  the 
red-fluted  roofs  and  the  broad  warehouse  gables,  where  the 
black  ships  unlade  themselves  of  their  burdens  from  the 
far  north,  and  carry  away,  in  exchange,  the  precious  inland 
products,  the  well-crushed  cheese  and  the  soft  fleeces,  which 
my  refined  readers  have  doubtless  become  acquainted  with 
through  the  medium  of  the  best  classic  pastorals. 

It  is  one  of  those  old,  old  towns  which  impress  one  as  a 
continuation  and  outgrowth  of  nature,  as  much  as  the 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  113 

iiosts  of  the  bower-birds  or  the  winding  galleries  of  the 
white  ants:  a  town  which  carries  the  traces  of  its  long 
growth  and  history  like  a  millennial  tree,  and  has  sprung 
up  and  developed  in  the  same  spot  between  the  river  and 
the  low  hill  from  the  time  when  the  Roman  legions  turned 
their  backs  on  it  from  the  camp  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
long-haired  sea-kings  came  up  the  river  and  looked  with 
fierce  and  eager  eyes  at  the  fatness  of  the  land.  It  is  a 
town  •**  familiar  with  forgotten  years."  The  shadow  of 
the  Saxon  hero-king  still  walks  there  fitfully,  reviewing 
the  scenes  of  his  youth  and  lovetime,  and  is  met  by  the 
gloomier  shadow  of  the  dreadful  heathen  Dane,  who  was 
stabbed  in  the  midst  of  his  warriors  by  the  sword  of  an 
invisible  avenger,  and  who  rises  on  autumn  evenings  like 
a  white  mist  from  his  tumulus  on  the  hill,  and  hovers  in 
the  court  of  the  old  hall  by  the  river  side — the  spot  where 
he  Avas  thus  miraculously  slain  in  the  days  before  the  old 
hall  was  built.  It  was  the  Normans  who  began  to  build 
that  fine  old  hall,  which  is,  like  the  town,  telling  of  the 
thoughts  and  hands  of  widely-sundered  generations;  but 
it  is  all  so  old  that  we  look  with  loving  pardon  at  its  incon- 
sistencies, and  are  well  content  that  they  who  built  the 
stone  oriel,  and  they  who  built  the  Gothic  fagade  and 
towers  of  finest  small  brick- work  with  the  trefoil  orna- 
ment, and  the  windows  and  battlements  defined  with  stone, 
did  not  sacrilegiously  pull  doAvn  the  ancient,  half-timbered 
body  with  its  oak-roofed  banqueting-hall. 

But  older  even  than  this  old  hall  is,  perhaps,  the  bit  of 
wall  now  built  into  the  belfry  of  the  parish  church,  and 
said  to  be  a  remnant  of  the  original  chapel  dedicated  to 
St.  Ogg,  the  patron  saint  of  this  ancient  town,  of  whose 
history  I  possess  several  manuscript  versions.  I  incline  to 
the  briefest,  since,  if  it  should  not  be  wholly  true,  it  is  at 
least  likely  to  contain  the  least  falsehood.  *^Ogg,  the  sou 
of  Beorl/'^  says  my  private  hagiographor,  ^*  was  a  boatman 
who  gained  a  scanty  living  by  ferrying  passengers  across 
the  river  Floss,  xind  it  came  to  pass,  one  evening  when 
the  winds  were  high,  that  there  sat  moaning  by  the  brink 
of  the  river  \  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms;  and  she 
was  clad  in  rags,  and  had  a  worn  and  withered  look,  and 
she  craved  to  be  rowed  across  the  river.  And  the  men 
thereabout  questioned  her,  and  said,  '  Wherefore  dost  thou* 
desire  to  cross  the  river?  Tarry  till  morning,  and  take 
shelter  here  for  the  n'ght:  so  shalt  thou  be  wise  and  not 
loolish.'  Still  she  went  o^i  to  mour;i  and  prave.  But  O^g, 
8 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


114  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

the  8011  of  Beorl,  came  up  and  said,  *  I  will  ferry  thee 
across:  it  is  enough  that  thy  heart  needs  it/  And  he 
ferried  her  across.  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  she  stepped 
ashore  that  her  rags  were  turned  into  robes  of  flowing 
white,  and  her  face  became  bright  with  exceeding  beauty, 
and  there  was  a  glory  around  it,  so  that  she  shed  a  light 
on  the  water  like  the  moon  in  its  brightness.  And  she 
said — ^  Ogg,  the  son  of  Beorl,  thou  art  blessed  in  that  thou 
didst  not  question  and  wrangle  with  the  hearths  need,  but 
wjist  smitten  with  pity,  and  didst  straightway  relieve  the 
same.  And  from  henceforth  whoso  steps  into  thy  boat 
shall  be  in  no  peril  from  the  storm;  and  whenever  it  puts 
forth  to  the  rescue,  it  shall  save  the  lives  both  of  men  and 
beasts.^  And  when  the  floods  came,  many  were  saved  by 
reason  of  that  blessing  on  the  boat.  But  when  Ogg,  the 
son  of  Beorl  died,  behold,  in  the  parting  of  his  soul,  the 
boat  loosed  itself  from  its  moorings,  and  was  floated  with 
the  ebbing  tide  in  great  swiftness  to  the  ocean,  and  was 
seen  no  more.  Yet  it  was  witnessed  in  the  floods  of  after- 
time,  that  at  the  coming  on  of  eventide,  Ogg  the  son  of 
Beorl  was  always  seen  with  his  boat  upon  the  wide-spread- 
ing waters,  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  sat  in  the  prow, 
shedding  a  light  around  as  of  the  moon  in  its  bright- 
ness, so  that  the  rowers  in  the  gathering  darkness  took 
heart  and  pulled  anew.^' 

This  legend,  one  sees,  reflects  from  a  far-off  time  the 
visitation  of  the  floods,  which,  even  when  they  left  human 
life  untouched,  were  widely  fatal  to  the  helpless  cattle, 
and  swept  as  sudden  death  over  all  smaller  living  things. 
But  the  town  knew  worse  troubles  even  than  the  floods  — 
troubles  of  the  civil  wars,  ^hen  it  was  a  continued  fighting- 
place,  where  first  Puritans  thanked  God  for  the  blood  of 
the  Loyalists,  and  then  Loyalists  thanked  God  for  the 
blood  of  the  Puritans.  Many  honest  citizens  lost  all  their 
possessions  for  conscience^  sake  in  those  times,  and  went 
forth  beggared  from  their  native  town.  Doubtless  there 
are  many  houses  standing  now  on  which  those  honest 
citizens  turned  their  backs  in  sorrow:  quaint-gabled  houses 
looking  on  the  river.  Jammed  between  newer  warehouses, 
and  penetrated  by  surprising  passages,  wh'ich  turn  and 
turn  at  sharp  angles  till  they  lead  you  out  on  a  muddy 
strand  overflowed  continually  by  the  rushing  tide.  Every- 
where the  brick  houses  have  a  mellow  look,  and  in  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day  there  was  no  incongruous  new-fashioned 
smartness,    no    plate-glass   in    shop-windows,    no   fre^b 


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BOY  AND   GIEL.  115 

stucco-facing  or  other  fallacious  attempt  to  make  fine 
old  red  St.  Ogg's  wear  the  air  of  a  town  that  sprang 
up  yesterday.  The  shop-windows  weae  small  and  unpre- 
tending; for  the  farmers'  wives  and  daughters  who  ctnne 
to  do  their  shopping  on  market-days  were  not  to  be  with- 
drawn from  their  regular  well-known  shops;  and  the 
tradesmen  had  no  wares  intended  for  customers  who  would 
go  on  their  way  and  be  seen  no  more.  Ah!  even  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day  seems  far  back  in  the  past  now,  separated 
from  us  by  changes  that  widen  the  years.  War  and  the 
rumor  of  war  had  then  died  out  from  the  minds  of  men, 
and  if  they  were  ever  thought  of  by  the  farmers  in  drab 
greatcoats,  who  shook  the  ffrain  out  of  their  sample-bags 
and  buzzed  over  it  in  the  full  market-place,  it  was  as  a 
state  of  things  that  belonged  to  a  past  golden  age,  when 
prices  were  high.  Surely  the  time  was  gone  forever  when 
the  broad  river  could  bring  up  un welcome  ships:  Russia 
was  only  the  place  where  the  linseed  came  from — the  more 
the  better — making  grist  for  the  great  vertical  millstones 
with  their  scythe-like  arms,  roaring  and  grinding  and  care- 
fully sweeping  as  if  an  informing  soul  were  in  them.  The 
Catholics,  bad  harvests,  and  the  mysterious  fluctuations  of 
trade,  were  the  three  evils  mankind  had  to  fear:  even  the 
floods  had  not  been  great  of  late  years.  The  mind  of  St. 
Ogg^s  did  not  look  extensively  before  or  after.  It  inherited 
a  long  past  without  thinking  of  it,  and  had  no  eyes  for  the 
spirits  that  walk  the  streets.  Since  the  centuries  when  St. 
Ogg  with  his  boat  and  the  Virgin  Mother  at  the  prow  had 
been  seen  on  the  wide  water,  so  many  memories  nad  been 
left  behind,  and  had  graduallj  vanished  like  the  receding 
hill-tops!  And  the  present  time  was  like  the  level  plain 
where  men  lose  their  belief  in  volcanoes  and  earthquakes, 
thinking  to-morrow  will  be  as  yesterday,  and  the  giant 
forces  that  used  to  shake  the  earth  are  forever  laid  to 
sleep.  The  days  were  gone  when  people  could  be  greatly 
wrought  upon  by  their  faith,  still  less  change  it:  the 
Catholics  were  formidable  because  they  could  lay  hold  of 
government  and  property,  and  burn  men  alive;  not  because 
any  sane  and  honest  parishioner  of  St.  Ogg's  could  be 
brought  to  believe  in  the  Pope.  One  aged  person  remem- 
bered how  a  rude  multitude  had  been  swayed  when  John 
Wesley  preached  in  the  cattle-market;  but  for  a  long  while 
it  had  not  been  expected  of  preachers  that  they  should 
shake  the  souls  of  men.  An  occasional  burst  of  fervor,  in 
Pissenting  pulpits,  on  the  subject  of  infant  baptism,  was 

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116  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

the  only  symptom  of  a  zeal  unsuited  to  sober  times  when 
men  had  dune  with  change.  Protestantism  sat  at  ease, 
unmindful  of  schisms,  careless  of  proselytism:  Dissent 
was  an  inheritance  along  with  a  superior  pew  and  a  business 
connection;  and  Churchmanship  only  wondered  contempt- 
uously at  Dissent  as  a  foolish  habit  that  clung  greatly  to 
families  in  the  grocery  and  chandlering  lines,  though  not 
incompatible  with  prosperous  wholesale  dealing.  But 
with  the  Catholic  Question  had  come  a  slight  wind  of  con- 
troversy to  break  the  calm:  the  elderly  rector  had  become 
occasionally  historical  and  argumentative,  and  Mr.  Spray, 
the  Independent  minister,  had  begun  to  preach  political 
sermons,  in  which  he  distinguished  with  much  subtlety 
between  his  fervent  belief  in  the  right  of  the  Catholics  to 
the  franchise  and  his  fervent  belief  in  their  eternal  per- 
dition. Most  of  Mr.  Spray^s  hearers,  however,  were  incap- 
able of  following  his  subtleties,  and  many  old-fashioned 
Dissenters  were  much  pained  by  his  ^^  siding  with  the 
Catholics"  ;  while  others  thought  ne  had  better  let  politics 
alone.  Public  spirit  was  not  held  in  high  esteem  at  St. 
Ogg's,  and  men  who  busied  themselves  with  political 
questions  were  regarded  with  some  suspicion,  as  danger- 
ous characters:  they  were  usually  persons  who  had  little  or 
no  business  of  their  own  to  manage,  or,  if  they  had,  were 
likely  enough  to  become  insolvent. 

This  was  the  general  aspect  of  things  at  St  Ogg^s  in 
Mrs.  Glegg^s  day,  and  at  that  particular  period  in  her 
family  history  when  she  had  had  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver.  It  was  a  time  when  ignorance  was  much  more  com- 
fortable than  at  present,  and  was  received  with  all  the 
honors  in  very  good  society,  without  being  obliged  to  dress 
itself  in  an  elaborate  costume  of  knowledge;  a  time  when 
cheap  periodicals  were  not,  and  when  country  surgeons 
never  thought  of  asking  their  female  patients  if  they  were 
fond  of  reading,  but  simply  took  it  for  granted  that  they 
preferred  gossip;  a  time  when  ladies  in  rich  silk  gowns 
wore  large  pockets,  in  which  they  carried  a  mutton-bone  to 
secure  them  against  cramp.  Mrs.  Glegg  carried  such  a 
bone,  which  she  had  inherited  from  her  grandmother  with 
a  brocaded  gown  that  would  stand  up  empty,  like  a  suit  of 
armor,  and  a  silver-headed  walking-stick;  for  the  Dodson 
family  had  been  respectable  for  many  generations. 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  both  a  front  and  a  back  parlor  in  her 
excellent  house  at  St.  Ogg^e,  so  that  she  had  two  points  of 
yhw  f  iQiii  which  elie  could  observe  the  weakness  of  her  fuj- 

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BOY  AND  GIRL.  117 

e^e^  ^?^gs,  and  reinforce  her  thankfulness  for  her  own 
sjj^  Ptional  strength  of  mind.      From  her  front  windows 
Og^?^tild  look  down  the  Tofton  Eoad,  leading  out  of  St. 
in  ?^>  and  note  the  growing  tendency  to  "gadding  about '' 
Mtj.^^  wives  of  men  not  retired  from  business,  together 
%^  ^  practice  of  wearing  woven  cotton  stockings,  which 
^0^^^  a  dreary  prospect  for  the  coming  generation;  and 
^a^J^  her  back  windows  she  could  look  down  the  pleasant 
r%^^^  and  orchard  which   stretched  to  the  river,  and 
^^  ^J^  ^^e  the  folly  of  Mr.  Glegg  in  spending  his  time  among 
)^^^i:^^^^  flowers  and  vegetables.^'    For  Mr.  Glegg,  having 
V^^^iK  ^^  from  active  business  as  a  wool-stapler,  for  the  pur- 
^r.  ^  ^f  enjoying  himself  through  the  rest  of  his  life,  had 
^^\ll\d  this  last  occupation  so  much  more  severe  than  his 
\>usiness,  that  he  had  been  driven  into  amateur  hard  labor 
as  a  dissipation,  and  habitually  relaxed  by  doing  the  work 
of  two  ordinary  gardeners.      The  economizing  of  a  gar- 
dener's wages  might  perhaps  have  induced  Mrs.  Glegg  to 
wink  at  this  folly,  if  it  were  possible  for  a  healthy  female 
mind  even  to  simulate  respect  for  a  husband's  hobby.     But 
it  is  well  known  that  this  conjugal  complacency  belongs 
only  to  the  weaker  portion  of  the  sex,  who  are  scarcelv 
alive  to  the  responsibilities  of  a  wife  as  a  constituted  check 
on  her  husband's  pleasures,  which  are  hardly  ever  of  a 
rational  or  commendable  kind. 

Mr.  Glegg  on  his  side,  too,  had  a  double  source  of  mental 
occupation,  which  gave  every  promise  of  being  inexhausti- 
ble. On  the  one  hand,  he  surprised  himself  by  his  dis- 
coveries in  natural  history,  finding  that  his  piece  of  gar- 
den-ground contained  wonderful  caterpillars,  slugs,  and 
insects,  which,  so  far  as  he  had  heard,  had  never  before 
attracted  human  observation;  and  he  noticed  remarkable 
coincidences  between  these  zoological  phenomena  and  the 
great  events  of  that  time — as,  for  example,  that  before  the 
burning  of  York  Minster  there  had  been  mysterious  ser- 
pentine marks  on  the  leaves  of  the  rose-trees,  together  with 
an  unusual  prevalence  of  slugs,  which  he  had  been  puzzled 
to  know  the  meaning  of,  until  it  flashed  upon  him  with 
this  melancholy  conflagration.  (Mr.  Glegg  had  an  unusual 
amount  of  mental  activity,  which,  when  disengaged  from 
the  wool  business,  naturally  made  itself  a  pathway  in  other 
directions^  And  his  second  subject  of  meditation  was 
the  "  contrairiness "  of  the  female  mind,  as  typically 
•exhibited  in  Mrs.  Glegg.  That  a  creature  made — in  a 
;genealogical  sense  —  out  of  a  man's  rib,  and  in  this  partic- 

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118  THE  MILL  OK  THB  FLOSS. 

ular  case  maintained  in  the  highest  respcctibility  without 
any  trouble  of  her  own,  should  be  normally  in  a  state  of 
contradiction  to  the  blandest  propositions  and  even  to  the 
most  accommodating  concessions,  was  a  mystery  in  the 
scheme  of  things  to  which  he  had  often  in  vain  sought  a 
clue  in  the  early  chapters  of  Genesis.  Mr.  Glegg  had 
chosen  the  eldest  Miss  Dodson  as  a  handsome  embodiment 
o^  female  prudence  and  thrift,  and  being  himself  of  a 
money-getting,  money-keeping  turn,  had  calculated  on 
much  conjugal  harmony.  But  in  that  curious  coin- 
ponnd,  the  feminine  character,  it  may  easily  happen 
that  the  flavor  is  unpleasant  in  spite  of  excellent  ingre- 
dients; and  a  fine  systematic  stinginess  may  be  accom- 
panied with  a  seasoning  that  quite  spoils  its  relish.  Now, 
good  Mr.  Glegg  himself  was  stingy,  in  the  most  amiable 
manner:  his  neighbors  called  him  '^  near,^^  which  always 
means  that  the  person  in  question  is  a  lovable  skinflint.  If 
you  expressed  a  preference  for  cheese-parings,  Mr.  Olegg 
would  remember  to  save  them  for  you,  with  a  good-natured 
delight  in  gratifying  your  palate,  and  he  was  given  to  pet 
all  animals  which  required  no  appreciable  keep.  There 
was  no  humbug  or  hypocrisy  about  Mr.  Glegg:  his  eyes 
would  have  watered  with  true  feeling  over  the  sale  of  a 
widow's  furniture,  which  a  five-pound  note  from  his  side- 
pocket  would  have  prevented ;  but  a  donation  of  five 
pounds  to  a  person  in  a  small  ^^way  of  life''  would  have 
seemed  to  him  a  mad  kind  of  lavishness  rather  than  '^  char- 
ity," which  had  always  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  contri- 
bution of  small  aids,  not  a  neutralizing  of  misfortune. 
And  Mr.  Glegg  was  just  as  fond  of  saving  other  people's 
money  as  his  own:  he  would  have  ridden  as  far  round  to 
avoid  a  turn-pike  when  his  expenses  were  to  be  paid  for 
him,  as  when  they  were  to  come  out  of  his  own  pocket^ 
and  was  quite  zealous  in  trying  to  induce  indifferent  ac- 
quaintances to  adopt  a  cheap  substitute  for  blacking.  This 
inalienable  habit  of  saving,  as  an  end  in  itself,  belonged  to 
the  industrious  men  of  business  of  a  former  generation, 
who  made  their  fortunes  slowly,  almost  as  the  tracking  of 
the  fox  belongs  to  the  harrier — it  constituted  them  a  ^'race," 
which  is  nearly  lost  in  these  days  of  rapid  money-getting, 
when  lavishness  comes  close  on  the  back  of  want.  In  old- 
fashioned  times,  an  *^  independence"  was  hardlj  ever  made 
without  a  little  miserliness  as  a  condition,  and  you  would 
have  found  that  quality  in  every  provincial  district,  com- 
bined with  characters  as  various  as  the  fruits  from  which 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  119 

we  can  extract  acid.     The  true  Hafpagons  were  always 
marked  and  exceptional  charficters:  not  so  the  worthy  tax- 
payers, who,   having  once  pinched  from   real   necessity, 
retained  even  in  the  midst  of  their  comfortable  retirement, 
yith  ^  "their  wall-frnit  and  wine-bins,  the  habit  of  regard- 
ing life  as  an  ingenious  process  of  nibbling  out  one's  live- 
lihoocl  without  leaving  any  perceptible  deficit,  and  who 
>^oulcl  have  been  as  immediately  prompted  to  give  up  a 
newly  «taxed  luxury  when  they  had  their  clear  five  hundred 
?  y^^^'X-,  as  when  they  had  only  five  hunSred  pounds  of  cap- 
ital,        ^j.^  Glegg  was  one  of  these  men,  found  so  imprac- 
ticablc  by  chancellors  of  the  exchequer;  and  knowing  this, 
you   A»^s?^iII  be  the  better  able  to  understand  why  he  had  not 
swer^^^^  from  the  conviction  that  he  had  made  an  eligible 
mari-iage,  in  spite  of  the  too  pungent  seasoning  that  nature 
-^ad    ^iven  to  the  eldest  Miss  Dodson's  virtues.  A  man  with 
^n  ^xflectionate  disposition,  who  finds  a  wife  to  concur  with 
,^^  ^xndamental  idea  of  life,  easily  comes  to  persuade  him- 
selx   t  liat  no  other  woman  would  have  suited  him  so  well,  and 
o^s  a  little  daily  snapping  and  quarreling  without  any  sense 
,     ^^l^ienation.    Mr.  Gllegg,  being  of  a  reflective  turn,  and  no 
^^^C!r  occupied  with  wool,  had  much  wondering  meditation 
J^  ^\^G  peculiar  constitution  of  the  female  mind  as  unfolded 
/L     *^iin  in  his  domestic  life;  and  yet  he  thought  Mrs.  Glegg's 
p^^?seh old  ways  a  model  for  her  sex:  it  struck  him  as  a 
'    th     -^^^^  irregularity  in  other  women  if  they  did  not  roll  up 
as  ^ityr  ^3,ble-napkins  with  the  same  tightness  and  emphasis 
8l    r^i's.  Glegg  did,  if  their  pastry  had  a  less  leathery  con- 
th        "^^6,  and  their  damsen  cheese  a  less  venerable  hardness 
aj^^^  hers:  nay,  even  the  peculiar  combination  of  grocery 
ijj^^     <lrug-like  odors  in   Mrs.    Glegg^s  private  cupboard 
8  j^^^^ssed  him  as  the  only  right  thing  in  the  way  of  cupboard 
t}^^^^^.     I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  have  longed  for 
art^  ^>^iarreling  again,  if  it  had  ceased  for  an  entire  week; 
lef^  \^  ti  is  certain  that  an  acquiescent  mild  wife  would  have 
rtix^    ^^is  meditations  comparatively  jejune  and  barren  of 

in  ^-/^*  Glegg's  unmistakable  kind-heartedness  was  shown 
Vj^^-j,.  *>  5s,  that  it  pained  him  more  or  less  to  see  his  wife  at 
to  -I'^^^ice  with  others — even  with  Dolly,  the  servant — than 
b^-j,  ^^  in  a  state  of  cavil  with  her  himself;  and  the  quarrel 
cji^i  j^^^C}en  her  and  Mr.  Ti\lliver  vexed  him  so  much  that  it 
tl>|^^^  nullified  the  pleasure  he  would  otherwise  have  had  in 
Vk^-p  ^tate  of  his  early  cabbages,  as  he  walked  in  his  garden 
^^^e  breakfast  the  next  morning.     Still  he  went  into 

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120  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

breakfast  with  some  slight  hope  that,  now  Mrs.  Glegg  had 
*^  slept  upon  it/'  her  anger'  mi^t  be  subdued  enough  to 
give  way  to  her  usually  strong  sense  of  family  decorum. 
She  had  been  used  to  boast  th^  there  had  never  been  any 
of  those  deadly  quarrels  among  the  Dodsons  which  had 
disgraced  other  families;  that  no  Dodson  had  ever  been 
"  cut  off  with  a  shilling/'  and  no  cousin  of  the  Dodsons 
disowned;  as,  indeed,  why  should  they  be?  for  they  had  no 
cousins  who  had  not  money  out  at  use,  or  some  houses  of 
their  own,  at  the  vfery  least. 

There  was  one  evening-cloud  which  had  always  disap- 
peared from  Mrs.  Glegg's  brow  when  she  sat  at  the  break- 
fast-table: it  was  her  fuzzy  front  of  curls;  for  as  she 
occupied  herself  in  household  matters  in  the  morning,  it 
would  have  been  a  mere  extravagance  to  put  on  anything 
so  superfluous  to  the  making  of  leathery  pastry  as  a  fuzzy 
curled  front.  By  half-past  ten  decorum  demanded  the 
front:  until  then  Mrs.  Glegg  could  economize  it,  and 
society  would  never  be  any  the  wiser.  But  the  absence  of 
that  cloud  only  left  it  more  apparent  that  the  cloud  of 
severity  remained;  and  Mr.  Glegg,  perceiving  this,  as  he 
sat  down  to  his  milk-porridge,  which  it  was  his  old  frugal 
habit  to  stem  his  morning  hunger  with,  prudently  resolved 
to  leave  the  first  remark  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  lest,  to  so  delicate 
an  article  as  a  lady's  temper,  the  slightest  touch  should  dor 
mischief.  People  who  seem  to  enjoy  their  ill-temper  have 
a  way  of  keeping  it  in  fine  condition  by  inflicting  privations 
on  themselves.  That  was  Mrs.  Glegg's  way:  she  made  her 
tea  weaker  than  usual  this  morning,  and  declined  butter. 
It  was  a  hard  case  that  a  vigorous  mood  for  quarreling,  so 
highly  capable  of  using  any  opportunity,  should  not  meet 
with  a  single  remark  from  Mr.  Glegg  on  which  to  exer- 
cise itself.  But  by-and-by  it  appeared  that  his  silence 
would  answer  the  purpose,  for  he  heard  himself  apostro- 
phised at  last  in  that  tone  peculiar  to  the  wife  of  one's 
bosom. 

"Well,  Mr.  Glegg!  it's  a  poor  return  I  get  for  making 
you  the  wife  Fve  made  you  all  these  years.  If  this  is  the 
way  I'm  to  be  treated,  I'd  better  ha'  known  it  before  my 
poor  father  died,  and  then,  when  I'd  wanted  a  home,  I 
should  ha'  gone  elsewhere — as  the  choice  was  offered  me." 

Mr.  Glegg  paused  from  his  porridge  and  looked  up — not 
with  any  new  amazement,  but  simply  with  that  quiet, 
habitual  wonder  with  which  we  regard  constant  mysteries. 

''Why,  Mrs.  G.,  what  have  I  done  now?" 


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BOY  AND   GinL.  121 

"Done  now,  Mr.  Glegg?  done  now? Vm  sorry  for 

you/' 

Not  seeing  his  way  to  any  pertinent  answer,  Mr.  Glegg 
reverted  to  his  porridge. 

"There's  husbands  in  the  world,'' continued  Mrs.  Glegg, 
after  a  pause,  "as  'ud  have  known  how  to  do  something 
different  to  siding  with  everybody  else  against  their  own 
wives.  Perhaps  I'm  wrong,  and  you  can  teach  me  bettor. 
But  I've  allays  heard  as  it's  the  husband's  place  to  stand 
by  the  wife,  instead  o'  rejoicing  and  triumphing  when 
folks  insult  her." 

"Now,  what  call  have  you  to  say  that?"  said  Mr.  Glegg,. 
rather  warmly,  for  though  a  kind  man,  he  was  not  as  meek 
as  Moses.     "  When  did  I  rejoice  or  triumph  over  you?" 

"There's  ways  o'  doing  things  worse  than  speaking  out 
plain,  M|r.  Glegg.  I'd  sooner  you'd  tell  me  to  my  face  as. 
you  make  light  of  me,  than  try  to  make  out  as  everybody's 
in  the  right  but  me,  and  come  to  your  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  as  I've  hardly  slept  an  hour  this  night,  and  sulk 
at  me  as  if  I  was  the  dirt  under  your  feet." 

"Sulk  at  you?"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  angry 
facetiousness.  "You're  like  a  tipsy  man  as  thinks  every- 
body's had  too  much  but  himself." 

"Don't  lower  yourself  with  using  coarse  language  to  me, 
Mr.  Glegg!  It  makes  you  look  very  small,  though  you 
can't  see  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  energetic 
compassion.  "A  man  in  your  place  should  set  an  exam- 
ple, and  talk  more  sensible." 

"Yes;  but  will  you  listen  to  sense?  "retorted  Mr.  Glegg, 
sharply.  '^  The  best  sense  I  can  talk  to  you  is  what  I  said 
last  night — as  you're  i'  the  wrong  to  think  o'  calling  in 
your  money,  when  it's  safe  enough  if  you'd  let  it  alone, 
all  because  of  a  bit  of  a  tiff,  and  I  was  in  hopes  you'd  ha' 
altered  your  mind  this  morning.  But  if  you'd  like  to  call 
it  in,  don't  do  it  in  a  hurry  now,  and  breed  more  enmity 
in  the  family  —  but  wait  till  there's  a  pretty  mortgage  to 
be  had  without  any  trouble.  You'd  have  to  set  the  lawyer 
to  work  now  to  find  an  investment,  and  make  no  end  o' 
expense." 

Mrs.  Glegg  felt  there  was  really  something  in  this,  but 
she  tossed  her  head  and  emitted  a  guttural  interjection  to 
indicate  that  her  silence  was  only  an  armistice,  not  a 
peace.     And,  in  fact,  hostilities  soon  broke  out  again. 

"I'll  thank  you  for  my  cup  o'  tea,  now,  Mrs.  G.,"  said 
Mr.  Glegg,  seeing  that  she  did  not  proceed  to  give  it  him 

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122  THE  MILL  ON  IBB  FLOSS. 

as  usual,  when  lie  had  finished  his  porridge.  She  lifted 
the  teapot  with  a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  and  said  — 

"Fm  glad  to  hear  you'll  thank  me,  Mr.  Glegg.  It's 
little  thanks  /get  for  what  I  do  for  folks  i'  this  world. 
Though  there^s  never  a  woman  o*  yoiir  side  o^  the  family, 
Mr.  Glegg,  as  is  fit  to  stand  up  with  me,  and  Fd  say  it  if 
I  was  on  my  dying  bed.  Not  but  what  I've  allays  con- 
ducted myself  civil  to  your  kin,  and  there  isn't  one  of  'em 
can  say  the  contrary,  though  my  equils  they  aren't,  and 
nobody  shall  make  me  say  it.^' 

"  You'd  better  leave  finding  fault  wi'  my  kin  till  youVe 
left  off  quarreling  with  your  own,  Mrs.  G.,^'  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  with  angry  sarcasm.  "I'll  trouble  you  for  the 
milK-jug.*' 

"  That's  as  false  a  word  as  ever  you  spoke,  Mr.  Glegg," 
.said  the  lady,  pouring  out  the  milk  with  unusual  profusc- 
ness,  as  much  as  to  say,  if  he  wanted  milk  he  should  have 
it  with  a  vengeance.  "And  you  know  it^s  false.  I'm  not 
the  woman  to  quarrel  with  my  own  kin:  you  may,  for  I've 
known  you  do  it.^' 

"  Why,  what  did  you  call  it  yesterday,  then,  leaving  your 
sister's  house  in  a  tantrum?" 

"  I'd  no  Quarrel  wi'  my  sister,  Mr.  Glegg,  and  it's  false 
to  say  it.  Mr.  Tulliver's  none  o'  my  blood,  and  it  was  him 
quarreled  with  me,  and  drove  me  out  o'  the  house.  But 
perhaps  you'd  have  had  me  stay  and  be  swore  at,  Mr. 
Glegg;  perhaps  you  was"  vexed  not  to  hear  more  abuse  and 
foul  language  poured  out  upo'  your  own  wife.  But*,  let  me 
tell  you,  it's  your  disgrace." 

"Did  ever  anybody  hear  the  like  i'  this  parish?"  said 
Mr.  Glegff,  getting  hot.  "A  woman,  witn  everything 
provided  for  her,  and  allowed  to  keep  her  own  money  the 
same  as  if  it  was  settled  on  her,  and  with  a  gig  new  stuffed 
and  lined  at  no  end  o'  expense,  and  provided  for  when  I 

die  beyond  anything  she  could  expect to  go  on  i'  this 

way,  biting  and  snapping  like  a  mad  dog!  It's  beyond 
everything,  as  God  A'mighty  should  ha'  made  women  so.^' 
(These  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  sorrowful 
agitation.  Mr.  Glegg  pushed  his  tea  from  him,  and  tapped 
the  table  with  both  his  hands.) 

"Well,  Mr.  Glegg,  if  those  are  your  feelings,  it's  best 
they  should  be  known,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  taking  off  her 
napkin,  and  folding  it  in  an  excited  manner.  "  But  if 
you  talk  about  my  being  provided  for  beyond  what  I  could 
expect,  I  beg  leave  to  tell  you  as  I'd  a  right  to  expect  a 


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BOY  AND  GIRL.  123 

many  things  as  I  don't  find.  And  as  to  my  being  like  a 
mad  dog,  it's  well  if  you're  not  cried  shame  on  by  the 
county  for  your  treatment  of  me,  for  it's  what  I  can't  bear, 

and  I  won't  bear " 

Hero  Mrs.  Glegg's  voice  intimated  that  she  was  going  to 
cry,  and,  breaking  off  from  speech,  she  rang  the  bell 
violently.  1         >  6 

.  *'Sally^'^  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair,  and  speaking 
m  rather  a  choked  voice,  ^'  light  a  fire  up-stairs,  and  put 
*"^,^liuds  down.  Mr.  Glegg,  you'll  please  to  order  wnat 
^^M    ^^^^  ^^^  dinner.     I  shall  have  gruel." 

J*irs.  Glegg  walked  across  the  room  to  the  small  book- 
^^^?'  and  took  down  Baxter's  "  Saints'  Everlasting  Rest," 
which  si^e  carried  with  her  up-stairs.  It  was  the  book 
sue  Was  accustomed  to  lay  open  before  her  on  special 
occasions :  on  wet  Sunday  mornings,  or  when  she  neard 
^  ^  death  in  the  family,  or  when,  as  in  this  case, 
^u  ^^a^rel  with  Mr,  Glegg  had  been  set  an  octave  higher 
tnan  usual. 

/>ut   J^i-g^  Glegg   carried  something  else  up-stairs  with 

^^'^  ^hich,  together  with  the  -^  Saints'  Re^t "  and  the  gruel, 

fe^r     ^^^®  ^^^  some  influence  in  gradually  calming  her 

on  f  1^^^^  ^^^  making  it  possible  for  her  to  endure  existence 

n         ground   floor  shortly  before  tea-time.     This  was, 

]g/^y>  Mr.  Glegg's  suggestion,  that  she  would  do  well  to 

tiir  ^^®   hundred  lie   still  until  a  good   investment 

g^^^^    up;  and,  further,  his  parenthetic  hint  at  his  hand- 

like^    provision  for  her  in  case  of  his  death.    Mr.  Glegg, 

^Ijl  ^^ll  men  of  his  stamp,  was  extremely  reticent  about  his 

bod ''    ^^^  ■^^^*  ^^®S?  ^^  ^^^  gloomier  moments,  had  f ore- 

jig  l^Ss  that,  like  other  husbands  of  whom  she  had  heard, 

^i-jQ^^^ght  cherish  the  mean  project  of  heightening  her 

gfjg        ^t  his  death  by  leaving  Tier  poorly  off,  m  which  case 

'•^ee>^^^  firmly  resolved  that  she  would  have  scarcely  any 

ha^-P^^i*  on  her  bonnet,  and  would  cry  no  more  than  if  he 

sho^  t>een  her  second  husband.     But  if   he   had  really 

ino>    .  ^  her  any  testamentary  tenderness,  it  would  be  affect- 


eva-|V^^  think  of  him,  poor  man,  when  he  was  gone;  and 
aug^^tis  foolish  fuss  about  the  flowers  and  garden-stuff, 
\xx^    *^is  insistence  on  the  subject  of  snails,  would  be  touch 


iug    x»^ 

(j)^  ^^lien  it  was  once  fairly  at  an  end.  To  survive  Mr. 
^^a^^^^Sa  and  talk  eulogistically  of  him  as  a  man  who  might 
\ie-i^^  his  weaknesses,  but  who  had  done  the  right  thing  by 
l^j^^  Notwithstanding  his  numerous  poor  relations — to 
^     sums  of  interest  coming  in  more  frequently,  and 


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124  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

secrete  it  in  various  corners,  baflBing  to  the  most  ingenious 
of  thieves  (for,  to  Mrs.  Glegg's  mind,  banks  and  strong 
boxes  would  have  nullified  the  pleasure  of  property — she 
miffht  as  well  have  taken  her  food  in  capsules) — ^finally,  to 
be  looked  up  to  by  her  own  family  and  the  neighborhood, 
so  as  no  woman  can  ever  hope  to  be  who  has  not  the 
praeterite  and  present  dignity  comprised  in  being  a  '^  widow 
well  left," — all  this  made  a  flattering  and  conciliatory 
view  of  the  future.  So  that  when  good  Mr.  Glegg,  restored 
to  good  humor  by  much  hoeing,  and  moved  by  the  sight 
of  his  wife's  empty  chair,  with  her  knitting  rolled  up  in  the 
comer,  went  up-stairs  to  her,  and  observed  that  the  bell 
had  been  tolling  for  poor  Mr.  Morton,  Mrs.  Glegg  an- 
swered magnanimously,  quite  as  if  she  had  been  an  unin-^ 
jured  woman,  "Ah!  then,  therell  be  a  good  business  for 
somebody  to  take  to." 

Baxter  had  been  opened  at  least  eight  hours  by  this 
time,  for  it  was  nearly  five  o'clock;  ana  if  people  are  to 
quarrel  often,  it  follows  as  a  corollary  that  their  quarrels 
cannot  be  protracted  beyond  certain  limits. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  talked  quite  amicably  about  the 
Tullivers  that  evening.  Mr.  Glegg  went  the  length  of 
admitting  that  Tulliver  was  a  sad  man  for  getting  into 
hot  water,  and  was  like  enough  to  run  through  his 
roperty;  and  Mrs.  Glegg,  meeting  this  acknowledgment 
all-way,  declared  that  it  was  beneath  her  to  take  notice 
of  such  a  man's  conduct,  and  that,  for  her  sister's  sake, 
she  would  let  him  keep  the  five  hundred  a  while  longer, 
for  when  she  put  it  out  on  a  mortgage  she  should  only  get 
four  per  cent. 


I 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.  TTTLLIVER  FURTHER  ENTANGLES  THE  SKEIN  OF  LIFE. 

Owing  to  this  new  adjustment  of  Mrs.  Glegg's  thoughts, 
Mrs.  Pullet  found  her  task  of  mediation  the  next  day  sur- 
prisingly easy.  Mrs.  Glegg,  indeed,  checked  her  rather 
sharply  for  thinking  it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  her  elder 
sister  what  was  the  right  mode  of  behavior  in  family  mat- 
ters. Mrs.  Pullet's  argument,  that  it  would  look  ill  in  the 
neighborhood  if  people  should  have  it  in  their  power  to 


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BOY  AND   GIBL.  125 

Qj^  ^^^t  there  was  a  quarrel  in  the  family,  was  particularly 
jj^^ive.  If  the  family  name  never  suffered  except  through 
1*0  5  ^legg,  Mrs.  Pullet  might  lay  her  head  on  her  pillow 

q^ect  confidence. 

x^V  '^  not  to  be  expected,  I  suppose,'*  observed  Mrs. 

sh  4^'  ^^  ^^^  ^^  winding  up  the  subject,  '^as  I  shall  go 

^^h  ®  mill  again  before  Bessy  comes  to  see  me,  or  as  I 

^jg    §0  and  fall  down  o*  my  knees  to  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  ask 

Pardon  for  showing  him  favors;  but  I  shall  bear  no 

nialice,  and  when  Mr.  Tulliver  speaks  civil  to  me,  I'll 

speak  civil  to  him.     Nobody  has  any  call  to  tell  me  what's 

becoming." 

Finding  it  unnecessary  to  plead  for  the  Tullivers,  it  was 
natural  that  aunt  Pullet  should  relax  a  little  in  her  anxiety 
for  them,  and  recur  to  the  annoyance  she  had  suffered  yes- 
terday from  the  offspring  of    that  apparently   ill-fated 
house.     Mrs.  Glegg  heard  a  circumstantial  narrative,  to 
'^hich  Mr,   Pullet's   remarkable  memory  furnished  some 
items;  and  while  aunt  Pullet  pitied  poor  Bessy's  bad  luck 
"With  her  children,  and  expressed  a  half-formed  project  of 
paying  for  Maggie's  being  sent  to  a  distant  boarding- 
school,  which  would  not  prevent  her  being  so  brown,  but 
^^ght  tend  to  subdue  some  other  vices  in  ner,  aunt  Glegg 
blamed  Bessy  for  her  weakness,  and  appealed  to  all  wit- 
nesses who  should  be  living  when  the  Tulliver  children 
flad  turned  out  ill,  that  she,  Mrs.  Glegg,  had  always  said 
^ow  it  H^ould  be  from  the  very  first,  observing  that  it  was 
^f ^®rful  to  herself  hpw  all  her  words  came  true. 
3   ,  "hen  I  may  call  and  tell  Bessy  you'll  bear  no  malice, 
bet  ^^^^ythii^g  1>®  ^s  it  was  before?"  Mrs.  Pullet  said,  just 

<?^  parting, 
/igjj  Tvr^^»you  may,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg;    "you  may 
ill  b  Tulliver,  and  Bessy  too,  as  I'm  not  going  to  behave 

the  ^P^^se  folks  behave  ill  to  me:  I  know  it's  my  place,  as 
NoK^  ^^®^>  to  set  an  example  in  every  respect,  and  I  do  it. 
trti^^^y  can  say  different  of  me,  if   they'll  keep  to  the 

lot tv*^*  Glegg  being  in  this  state  of  satisfaction  in  her  own 

P^^ort  Magnanimity,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  effect  was. 

^j^^^Oed  on  her  by  the  reception  of  a  short  letter  from 

1  *     I'ulliver,   that    very    evening,   after    Mrs.    Pullet's 

^^^Vture,  informing  her  that  she  needn't  trouble    her 

Jvvyi  about  her  five  hundred  pounds,  for  it  should  be 

^  v^  .^)  back  to  her  in  the  course  of  the  next  month  at  far- 

f&i  togetbw  with  tU^  ipt^rest  due  thereon  until  th§ 

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126  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

time,  of  payment.  And  furthermore,  that  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  no  wish  to  behave  uncivilly  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  and  she 
was  welcome  to  his  house  whenever  she  liked  to  come,  but 
he  desired  no  favors  from  her,  either  for  himself  or  his 
children. 

It  was  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  who  had  hastened  this 
catastrophe,  entirely  through  that  irrepressible  hopeful- 
ness of  hers,  which  led  her  to  expect  that  similar  causes 
may  at  any  time  produce  different  results.  It  had  very 
often  occurred  in  her  experience  that  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
done  something  because  otner  people  had  said  he  was  not 
able  to  do  it,  or  had  pitied  him  for  his  supposed  inability, 
or  in  any  other  way  piqued  his  pride ;  still,  she  thought 
to-day,  if  she  told  him  when  he  came  in  to  tea  that  sister 
Pullet  was  gone  to  try  and  make  everything  up  with  sister 
Glegg,  so  that  he  needn^t  think  about  paying  in  the  iqoney, 
it  would  give  a  cheerful  effect  to  the  meal.  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  never  slackened  in  his  resolve  to  raise  the  money,  but 
now  he  at  once  determined  to  write  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Glegg, 
which  should  cut  off  all  possibility  of  mistake.  Mrs.  Pullet 
gone  to  beg  and  pray  for  him  indeed!  Mr.  Tulliver  did 
not  willing^  write  a  letter,  and  found  the  relation  between 
spoken  and  written  language,  briefly  known  as  spelling, 
one  of  the  most  puzzling  things  in  this  puzzling  world. 
Nevertheless,  like  all  fervid  writing,  the  task  was  done  in 
less  time  than  usual,  and  if  the  spelling  diffei-ed  from 
Mrs.  Glegg^s — why,  she  belonged,  like  himself,  to  a  gen- 
eration with  whom  spelling  was  a  matter  of  private  judg- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Glegg  did  not  alter  her  will  in  consequence  of  this 
letter,  and  cut  off  the  Tulliver  children  from  their  sixth 
and  seventh  share  in  her  thousand  pounds;  for  she  had  her 
principles.  No  one  must  be  able  to  say  of  her  when  she 
was  dead  that  she  had  not  divided  her  money  with  perfect 
fairness  among  her  own  kin:  in  the  matter  of  wills,  per- 
sonal qualities  were  subordinate  to  the  great  fundamental 
fact  of  blood;  and  to  be  determined  in  the  distribution  of 
your  property  by  caprice,  and  not  make  your  legacies  bear 
a  direct  ratio  to  degrees  of  kinship,  was  a  prospective  dis- 
grace that  would  have  embittered  her  life.  This  had 
always  been  a  principle  in  the  Dodson  family;  it  was  one 
form  of  that  sense  of  honor  and  rectitude  which  was  2k 
proud  tradition  in  such  families — a  tradition  which  has . 
been  the  salt  of  our  provincial  society. 

But  though  the  letter  could  not  shake  Mrs.  Glegg's  prin-* 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


BOY  AKD  OIBL.  127 

ciples,  it  made  the  family  breach  much  more  difficult  to 
mend;  and  as  to  the  effect  it  produced  on  Mrs.  Glegg's 
opinion  of  Mr.  Tulliver — she  begged  to  be  understood  from 
that  time  forth  that  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  about 
him:  his  state  of  mind,  apparently,  was  too  corrupt  for 
her  to  contemplate  it  for  a  moment.  It  was  not  until  the 
evening  before  Tom  went  to  school,  at  the  beginning  of 
August,  that  Mrs.  Glegg  paid  a  visit  to  her  sister  Tulliver, 
sitting  in  her  gig  all  the  while,  and  showing  her  displeasure 
by  markedly  abstaining  from  all  advice  and  criticism,  for, 
as  she  observed  to  her  sister  Deane,  ^*  Bessy  must  bear  the 
consequence  o^  having  such  a  husband,  though  I'm  sorry 
for  her/'  and  Mrs.  Deane  agreed  that  Bessy  was  pitiable. 

That  evening  Tom  observed  to  Maggie,  '*  Oh,  my!  Mag- 
gie, aunt  Glegg^s  beginning  to  come  again;  I'm  glad  I'm 
going  to  school.     You'll  catch  it  all  now! " 

Maggie  was  already  so  full  of  sorrpw  at  the  thought  of 
Tom's  going  away  from  her,  that  this  playful  exultation  of 
his  seemed  very  unkind,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep  that 
night. 

Mr.  TuUiver's  prompt  procedure  entailed  on  him  further 
promptitude  in  finding  the  convenient  person  who  was 
desirous  of  lending  five  hundred  pounds  on  bond.  *'It 
must  be  no  client  of  Wakem's,"  he  said  to  himself;  and 
yet  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  it  turned  out  to  the  contrary; 
not  because  Mr.  TuUiver's  will  was  feeble,  but  because 
external  fact  was  stronger.  Wakem's  client  was  the  only 
convenient  person  to  be  found.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  a  des- 
tiny as  well  as  (Edipus,  and  in  this  case  he  might  pleud, 
like  (Edipus,.  that  his  deed  was  inflicted  on  him  rather  than 
committed  by  him. 


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BOOK    II. 
SCHOOL-TIME. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TOM'S   ''FIRST   half/' 

Tom  Tulliver's  sufferings  during  the  first  quarter  he 
was  at  King^s  Lorton,  under  the  distinguished  care  of  the 
llev.  Walter  Stelling,  were  rather  severe.  At  Mr.  Jacobs's 
academy,  life  had  not  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  difficult 
problem:  there  were  plenty  of  fellows  to  play  with,  and 
Tom  being  good  at  all  active  games — fighting  especially — 
had  that  precedence  among  them  which  appeared  to  him 
inseparable  from  the  personality  of  Tom  Tulliver.  Mr. 
Jacobs  himself,  familiarly  known  as  Old  Goggles,  from  his 
habit  of  wearing  spectacles,  imposed  nO  paii3ul  awe;  and 
if  it  was  the  property  of  snuffy  old  hypocrites  like  him  to 
write  like  copperplate  and  surround  their  signatures  with 
arabesques,  to  spell  without  forethought,  and  to  spout  ''my 
name  is  NorvaP'  without  bungling,  Tom,  for  his  part,  was 
rather  glad  he  was  not  in  danger  of  those  mean  accomplish- 
ments. He  was  not  going  to  be  a  snuffy  schoolmaster^ — he; 
but  a  substantial  man,  like  his  father,  who  used  to  go 
hunting  when  he  was  younger,  and  rode  a  capital  black 
mare — as  pretty  a  bit  of  horse-flesh  as  ever  you  saw:  Tom 
had  heard  what  her  points  were  a  hundred  times.  Ho 
meant  to  go  hunting  too,  and  to  be  generally  respected. 
When  people  were  grown  up,  he  considered,  nobody 
inquired  about  their  writing  and  spelling:  when  he  was  a 
man,  he  should  be  master  of  everything,  and  do  just  as  he 
liked.  It  had  been  very  difficult  for  him  to  reconcile  him- 
self to  the  idea  that  his  school-time  was  to  be  prolonged, 
and  that  he  was  not  to  be  brought  up  to  his  father's  busi- 
ness, which  he  had  always  thought  extremely  pleasant^  for 
it  was  nothing  but  riding  about,  giving  orders,  and  going 
to  market;  and  he  thought  that  a  clergyman  would  give 
him  a  great  many  Scripture  lessons,  and  probably  make  him 
\^^v^  the  Gospel  and  Epistle  on  a  Sunday  as  well  as  tb§ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  129 

Collect.  But  in  the  absence  of  specific  information,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  imagjine  that  school  and  a  school- 
master would  be  something  entirely  different  from  the 
academy  of  Mr.  Jacobs.  So,  not  to  be  at  a  deficiency,  in 
case  of  his  finding  genial  companions,  he  had  taken  care  to 
carry  with  him  a  small  box  of  percussion  caps;  not  that 
there  was  anything  particular  to  be  done  with  them,  but 
they  would  serve  to  impress  strange  boys  with  a  sense  of  his 
familiarity  with  guns.  Thus  poor  Tom,-  though  he  saw 
very  clearly  through  Maggie's  fllusions,  was  not  without 
illusions  of  his  own,  which  were  to  be  cruelly  dissipated  by 
his  enlarged  experience  at  King's  Lorton. 

He  had  not  been  there  a  fortnight  before  it  was  evident 
that  life,  complicated  not  only  with  the  Latin  grammar 
but  with  a  new  standard  of  English  pronunciation,  was  a 
very  difficult  business,  made  all  the  more  obscure  by  a 
thick  mist  of  bashfulness.  Tom,  as  you  have  observed, 
was  never  an  exception  among  boys  for  ease  of  address; 
but  the. difficulty  of  enunciating  a  monosyllable  in  reply  to 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling  was  so  great,  that  he  even  dreaded  to 
be  asked  at  the  table  whether  he  would  have  more  pud- 
ding. As  to  the  percussion-caps,  he  had  almost  resolved, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  that  he  would  throw  them 
into  a  neighboring  pond;  for  not  only  was  he  the  solitary 
pupil,  but  he  began  even  to  have  a  certain  skepticism  about 
guns,  and  a  general  sense  that  his  theory  of  life  was  under- 
mined. For  Mr.  Stelling  thought  nothing  of  guns,  or 
horses  either,  apparently;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  for 
Tom  to  desfise  Mr.  Stelling  as  he  had  despised  Old  Gog- 
gles. If  there  was  anythmg  that  was  not  thoroughly 
genuine  about  Mr.  Stelling,  it  lay  quite  beyond  Tom's 
power  to  detect  it:  it  is  only  by  a  wide  comparison  of  facts 
that  the  wisest  full-grown  man  can  distinguish  well-rolled 
barrels  from  more  supernal  thunder. 

Mr.  Stelling  was  a  well-sized,  broad-chested  man,  not 
yet  thirty,  with  flaxen  hair  standing  erect,  and  large  light* 
ish-gray  eyes,  which  were  always  very  wide  open;  he  had  a 
sonorous  bass  voice,  and  an  air  of  defiant  self-confidence 
inclining  to  brazenness.  He  had  entered  on  his  career  with 
great  vigor,  and  intended  to  make  a  considerable  impres- 
sion on  his  fellow-men.  The  Rev.  Walter  Stelling  was  not 
a  man  who  would  remain  among  the  "  inferior  clergy  "  all 
his  life.  He  had  a  true  British  determination  to  push  his 
way  in  the  world.  As  a  schoolmaster,  in  the  first  place; 
for  there  were  capital  masterships  of  grammar-schools  to 

9 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


130  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

be  had,  and  Mr.  Stelling  meant  to  have  one  of  them.  But 
as  a  preacher  also,  for  he  meant  always  to  preach  in  a 
striking  maoner,  so  as  to  have  his  congregation  swelled  by 
admirers  from  neighboring  parishes,  and  to  produce  a  great 
sensation  whenever  he  toot  occasional  duty  for  a  brother 
clergyman  of  minor  gifts.  The  style  of  preaching  he  had 
chosen  was  the  extemporaneous,  which  was  held  little  short 
of  the  miraculous  in  rural  parishes  like  King^s  Lorton. 
Some  passages  -of  Massillon  and  Bourdaloue,  which  he 
knew  DV  heart,  were  really  very  effective  when  rolled 
out  in  Mr,  Stelling^s  deepest  tones;  but  as  comparatively 
feeble  appeals  of  his  own  were  delivered  in  the  same  loud 
and  impressive  manner,  they  were  often  thought  quite 
as  strikmg  by  his  hearers.  Mr.  Stelliiig's  doctrine  was 
of  no  particular  school;  if  anything,  it  had  a  tinge  of  evan- 
gelicalism, for  that  was  "the  telling  thing ^^  just  then  in  the 
diocese  to  which  King's  Lorton  belonged.  In  short,  Mr. 
Stelling  was  a  man  who  meant  to  rise  in  his  profession,  and 
to  rise  by  merit,  clearly,  since  he  had  no  interest  beyond 
what  might  be  promised  by  a  problematic  relationship  to  a 
great  lawyer  who  had  not  yet  become  Lord  Chancellor.  A 
clergyman  who  has  such  vigorous  intentions  naturally  gets  a 
little  into  debt  at  starting;  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  he 
will  live  in  the  meagre  style  of  a  man  who  means  to  be  a  poor 
curate  all  his  life,  and  -if  the  few  hundreds  Mr.  Timpson 
advanced  toward  his  daughter's  fortune  did  not  suffice  for  the 
purchase  of  handsome  furniture,  together  with  a  stock  of 
wine,  a  grand  piano,  and  the  laying  out  of  a  superior  flower- 
garden,  it  followed  in  the  most  rigorous  manner,  either 
that  these  things  must  be  procured  by  some  other  means, 
or  else  that  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Stelling  must  go  without 
them — which  last  alternative  would  be  an  absurd  procrasti- 
nation of  the  fruits  of  success,  where  success  was  certain, 
Mr.  Stelling  was  so  broad-chested  and  resolute  that  he  felt 
equal  to  anything ;  he  would  become  celebrated  by  shaking 
the  consciences  of  his  hearers,  and  he  would  by-and-by  edit 
a  Greek  play,  and  invent  several  new  readings.  He  had  not 
yet  selected  the  play,  for  having  been  married  little  more 
than  two  years,  his  leisure  time  had  been  much  occupied 
with  attentions  to  Mrs.  Stelling;  but  he  Jiad  told  that  fine 
woman  what  he  meant  to  do  some  day,  and  she  felt  great 
confidence  in  her  husband,  as  a  man  who  understood  every- 
thing of  that  sort. 

But  the  immediate  step  to  future  success  was  to  bring 
on  Tom  Tullivw:  during  this  first  half-year ;  for,  by  a  sin- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  131 

gular  coincidence,  there  had  been  some  negotiation  con- 
cerning another  pupil  from  the  same  neighborhood,  and  it 
might  further  a  decision  in  Mr.  Stelling^s  favor,  if  it  were 
understood  that  young  Tulliver,  who,  Mr.  Stelling  observed 
in  conjugal  privacy,  was  rather  a  rough  cub,  had  made  pro- 
digious progress  in  a  short  time.  It  was  on  this  ground 
that  he  was  severe  with  Tom  about  his  lessons:  he  was 
clearly  a  boy  whose  powers  would  never  be  developed 
through  the  medium  of  the  Latin  grammar,  without  the 
application  of  some  sternness.  Not  that  Mr.  Stelling  was 
a  harsh-tempered  or  unkind  man — quite  the  contrary:  he 
was  jocose  with  Tom  at  table,  knd  corrected  his  provincial- 
isms and  his  deportment  in  the  most  playful  manner;  but 
poor  Tom  was  only  the  more  cowed  and  confused  by  this 
double  novelty,  for  he  had  never  been  used  to  jokes  at  all 
like  Mr.  Stelling's  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 
a  painful  sense  that  he  was  all  wrong  somehow.  When  Mr. 
Stelling  said,  as  the  roast-beef  was  being  uncovered,  ^^  Now, 
Tulliver!  which  would  you  rather  declme  roast-beef  or  the 
Latin  for  it?'^ — Tom,  to  whom  in  his  coolest  moment  a 
pun  would  have  been  a  hard  nut,  was  thrown  into  a  state 
of  embarrassed  alarm  that  made  everything  dim  to  him 
except  the  feeling  that  he  would  rather  not  have  anything 
to  do  with  Latin;  of  course  he  answered,  "Roast-beef," 
whereupon  there  followed  much  laughter  and  som«  practi- 
cal joking  with  the  plates,  from  which  Tom  gathered  that 
he  had  in  some  mysterious  way  refused  beef,  and,  in  fact, 
made  himself  appear  "a silly."  If  he  could  have  seen  a 
fellow-pupil  undergo  these  painful  operations  and  survive 
them  in  good  spirits,  he  might  sooner  have  taken  them  as  a 
matter  of  course.  But  there  are  two  expensive  forms  of 
education,  either  of  which  a  parent  may  procure  for  his  son 
by  sending  him  as  solitary  pupil  to  a  clergyman  :  one  is, 
the  enjoyment  of  the  reverend  gentleman's  undivided  neg- 
lect; the  other  is,  the  endurance  of  the  reverend  genlte- 
man's  undivided  attention.  It  was  the  latter  privilege  for 
which  Mr,  Tulliver  paid  a  high  price  in  Tom's  initiatory 
months  at  King's  Lorton. 

That  respectable  miller  and  malster  had  left  Tom  behind, 
and  driven  homeward  in  a  state  of  great  mental  satisfaction. 
He  considered  that  it  was  a  happy  moment  for  him  when 
he  had  thought  of  asking  Riley's  advice  about  a  tutor  for 
Tom.  Mr.  Stelling's  eyes  were  so  wide  open,  and  he 
talked  in  such  an  off-hand,  matter-of-fact  w&j — answering 
e^ery  difficult  slow  remark  of  Mr.  Tulliver's  with,  "I  see, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


132  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

my  good  sir,  I  see^';  "To  be  sure,  to  be  sure'^;  "You 
want  your  son  to  be  a  man  who  will  make  his  way  in  the 
world," — that  Mr.  Tulliver  was  delighted  to  find  m  him  a 
clergyman  whose  knowledge  was  so  applicable  to  the  every- 
day affairs  of  this  life.  Except  Counsellor  Wylde,  whom 
he  had  heard  at  the  last  sessions,  Mr.  Tulliver  thought  the 
Eev.  Mr.  Stelling  was  the  shrewdest  fellow  he  had  ever  met 
with — not  unlike  Wylde,  in  fact:  he  had  the  same  way  of 
sticking  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  Mr. 
Tulliver  was  not  by  any  means  an  exception  in  mistaking 
brazenness  for  shrewdness:  most  laymen  thought  Stelling 
shrewd,  and  a  man  of  remarkable  powers  generally:  it  was 
chiefly  by  his  clerical  brethren  that  he  was  considered 
rather  a  dull  fellow.  But  he  told  Mr.  Tulliver  several 
stories  about  "Swing"  and  incendiarism,  and  asked  his 
advice  about  feeding  pigs  in  so  thoroughly  secular  and 
judicious  a  manner,  with  so  much  polishied  glibness  of 
tongue,  that  the  miller  thought,  here  was  the  very  thing 
he  wanted  for  Tom.  He  had  no  doubt  this  first-rate  man 
was  acquainted  with  every  branch  of  information,  and 
knew  exactly  what  Tom  must  learn  in  order  to  become  a 
match  for  the  lawyers — which  poor  Mr.  Tulliver  himself  did 
not  know,  and  so  was  necessarily  thrown  for  self-direction 
on  this  wide  kind  of  inference.  It  is  hardly  fair  to  laugh 
at  him,  for  I  have  known  much  more  highly  instructed  per- 
sons than  he  make  inferences  quite  as  wide,  and  not  at  all 
wiser. 

As  for  Mrs.  Tulliver — finding  that  Mrs.  Stelling^s  views 
as  to  the  airing  of  linen  and  the  fre(][uent  recurrence  of 
hunger  in  a  growing  boy,  entirely  coincided  with  her  own; 
moreover,  that  Mrs.  Stelling,  though  so  young  a  woman, 
and  only  anticipating  her  second  confinement,  had  gone 
through  very  nearly  the  same  experience  as  herself  with 
regard  to  the  behavior  and  fundamental  character  of  the 
monthly  nurse — she  expressed  great  contentment  to  her 
husband,  when  they  drove  away,  at  leaving  Tom  with  a 
woman  who,  in  spite  of  her  youth,  seemed  quite  sensible 
and  motherly,  and  asked  advice  as  prettily  as  could  be. 

"  They  must  be  very  well  off,  though,"  said  Mrs.  TuUi-  , 
ver,  "for  everything's  as  nice  as  can  be  all  over  the  house, 
and  that  watered  silk  she  had  on  cost  a  pretty  penny. 
Sister  Pullet  has  got  one  like  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  he's  got  some  income  besides 
the  curacy,  I  reckon.  Perhaps  her  father  allows  'em  some- 
thing.   There's  Tom  'nil  be  another  hundred  to  him,  and 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  133 

not  much  trouble  either,  by  his  own  account:  he  says  teach- 
ing comes  natural  to  him.  That^s  wonderful,  now,**  added 
Mr.  Tullivor,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and  giving  his 
horse  a  meditative  tickling  on  the  flank. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  teaching  came  naturally  to  Mr. 
Stelling,  that  he  set  about  it  with  that  uniformity  of 
method  and  independence  of  circumstances,  which  distin- 

-  guish  the  actions  of  animals  understood  to  be  under  the 
immediate  teaching  of  nature.  Mr.  Broderip's  amiable 
beaver,  as  that  charming  naturalist  tells  us,  busied  himself 
as  earnestly  in  constructing  a  dam,  in  a  room  up  three  pair 
of  stairs  in  London,  as  if  he  had  been  laying  his  founda- 
tion in  a  stream  or  lake  in  Upper  Canada.  It  was  **  Bin- 
ny's  "  function  to  build:  the  absence  of  water  or  of  possible 
]>rogeny  was  an  accident  for  which  he  was  not  accountable. 
With  the  same  unerring  instinct  Mr.  Stelling  set  to  work 
at  his  natural  method  of  instilling  the  Eton  Grammar  and 
Euclid  iuto  the  mind  of  Tom  Tulliver.  This,  he  consid- 
ered, was  the  only  basis  of  solid  instruction:  all  other 
means  of  education  were  mere  charlatanism,  and  could 
produce  nothing  better  than  sraatterers.  Fixed  on  this  firm 
basis,  a  man  might  observe  the  display  of  various  or  special 
knowledge  made  by  irregularly  educated  people,  with  a 
pitying  smile:  all  that  sort  of  thing  was  very  well,  but  it 
was  impossible  these  people  could  form  sound  opinions.  In 
holding  this  conviction  ♦  Mr.  Stelling  was  not  biased,  as 
some  tutors  have  been,  by  the  excessive  accuracy  or  extent 
of  his  own  scholarship:  and  as  to  his  views  about  Euclid, 
no  opinion  could  have  been  freer  from  personal  partiality. 
Mr.  Stelling  was  very  far  from  being  led  astray  by  enthu- 
siasm, either  religious  or  intellectual;  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  no  secret  belief  that  everything  was  humbug.  He 
thought  religion  was  a  very  excellent  thing,  and  Aristotle 
a  great  authority,  and  deaneries  and  prebends  useful  insti- 
tutions, and  Great  Britain  the  providential  bulwark  of 
Protestantism,  and  faith  in  the  unseen  a  great  support  to 
afflicted  minds:  he  believed  in  all  these  things  as  the  Swiss 
hotel-keeper  believes  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  around 
him,  and  in  the  pleasure  it  gives  to  artistic  visitors.  And 
in  the  same  way  Mr.  Stelling  believed  in  his  method  of 
education:  he  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  doing  the  very 

.  best  thing  for  Mr.  Tulliver's  boy.  Of  course,  when  the  miller 
talked  oi  "mapping'^  and  " summing ^^  in  a  vague  and 
diffident  manner,  Mr.  Stelling  had  set  his  mind  at  rest  by 
an  assurance  that  he  understood  what  was  wanted;  for  how 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


134  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

was  it  possible  the  good  mau  could  form  any  reasonable 
judgment  about  the  matter?  Mr.  Stelling's  dutyjwrasto 
teach  the  lad  in  the  only  right  way — indeed,  he  knew  no 
other:  he  had  not  wasted  his  time  in  the  acquirement  of 
anything  abnormal. 

He  very  soon  set  down  poor  Tom  as  a  thoroughly  stupid 
lad;  for  though  by  hard  labor  he  could  get  particular 
declensions  into  his  brain,  anything  so  abstract  as  the 
relation  between  cases  and  terminations  could  by  no  means 
get  such  a  lodgment  there  as  to  enable  him  to  recognize  a 
chance  genitive  or  dative.  This  struck  Mr.  Stelling  as 
something  more  than  natural  stupidity;  he  suspected  ob- 
stinacy, or  at  any  rate,  indifference,  and  lectured  Tom 
severely  on  his  want  of  thorough  application.  '*  You  feel  no 
interest  in  what  youVe  doing,  sir,"  Mr.  Stelling  would  say, 
and  the  reproach  was  painfully  true.  Tom  had  never 
found  any  difficulty  in  discerning  a  pointer  from  a  setter, 
when  once  he  had  been  told  the  distinction,  and  his  per- 
ceptive powers  were  not  at  all  deficient.  I  fancy  they 
were  quite  as  strong  as  those  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stelling;  for 
Tom  could  predict  with  accuracy  what  number  of  horses 
were  cantering  behind  him,  he  could  throw  a  stone  right 
into  the  centre  of  a  ffiven  ripple,  he  could  guess  to  a  frac- 
tion how  many  lengths  of  his  stick  it  would  take  to  reach 
across  the  playground,  and  could  draw  almost  perfect 
squares  on  his  slate  without  any  measurement.  But  Mr. 
Stelling  took  no  note  of  these  things:  he  only  observed 
that  Tom's  faculties  failed  him  before  the  abstractions 
hideously  symbolized  to  him  in  the  pages  of  the  Eton 
Grammar,  and  that  he  was  in  a  state  boi^ering  on  idiocy 
with  regard  to  the  demonstration  that  two  given  triangles 
must  be  equal  —  though  he  could  discern  with  great 
promptitude  and  certainty  the  fact  that  they  tuere  equal. 
Whence  Mr.  Stelling  concluded  that  Tom's  brain  being 
peculiarly  impervious  to  etymology  and  demonstrations, 
was  peculiarly  in  need  of  being  plowed  and  harrowed  by 
these  patent  implements:  it  was  his  favorite  metaphor, 
that  the  classics  and  geometry  constituted  that  culture 
of  the  mind  which  prepared  it  for  the  reception  of  any 
subsequent  crop.  I  say  nothing  against  Mr.  Stelling's 
theory:  if  we  are  to  have  one  regimen  for  all  minds,  his 
seems  to  me  as  good  as  any  other.  I  only  know  it  turned 
out  as  uncomfortably  for  Tom  Tulliver  as  if  he  had  been 
plied  with  cheese  in  order  to  remedy  a  gastric  weakness 
which  prevented  him  from  digesting  it.     It  is  astonishing 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  135 

what  a  different  result  one  gets  by  changing  the  metaphor! 
Once  call  the  brain  an  intellectual  stomach,  and  one's 
ingenious  conception  of  the  classics  and  geometry  as 
plows  and  harrows  seem  to  settle  nothing.  But  then  it 
is  open  to  some  one  else  to  follow  great  authorities,  and 
call  the  mind  a  sheet  of  white  paper  or  a  mirror,  in  which 
case  one's  knowledge  of  the  digestive  process  becomes  quite 
irrelevant.  It  was  doubtless-  an  ingenious  idea  to  call  the 
camel  the  ship  of  the  desert,  but  it  would  hardly  lead  one 
far  in  training  that  useful  beast.  0  Aristotle!  if  you  had 
had  the  advantage  of  being  **the  freshest  modem"  instead 
of  the  gi'eatest  ancient,  would  you  not  have  mingled  your 
praise  of  metaphorical  speech,  as  a  sign  of  hi^  intelli- 
gence, with  a  lamentation  that  intelligence  so  rarely  shows 
itself  in  speech  without  metaphor, — that  we  can  so  seldom 
declare  what  a  thing  is,  except  by  saying  it  is  something 
else? 

Tom  Tulliver,  being  abundant  in  no  form  of  speech, 
did  not  use  any  metaphor  to  declare  his  views  as  to  the 
nature  of  Latin:  he  never  called  it  an  instrument  of  tort- 
ure; and  it  was  not  until  he  had  got  on  some  way  in  the 
next  half-year,  and  in  the  Delectus,  that  he  was  advanced 
enough  to  call  it  a  "  bore ''  and  "  beastly  stuff.''  At  present, 
in  relation  to  this  demand  that  he  should  learn  Latin  declen- 
sions and  conjugations,  Tom  was  in  a  state  of  as  blank 
un imaginativeness  concerning  the  cause  and  tendency  of 
his  sufferings,  as  if  he  had  been  an  innocent  shrewmouso 
imprisoned  in  the  split  trunk  of  an  ash  tree  in  order  to 
cure  lameness  in  cattle.  It  is  doubtless  almost  incredible 
to  instructed  minds  of  the  present  day  that  a  boy  of 
twelve,  not  belonging  strictly  to  "the  masses,"  who  are 
now  understood  to  have  the  monopoly  of  mental  darkness, 
should  have  had  no  distinct  idea  how  there  came  to  be 
such  a  thing  as  Latin  on  this  earth:  yet  so  it  was  with 
Tom.  It  would  have  taken  a  long  while  to  make  conceiv- 
able to  him  that  there  ever  existed  a  people  who  bought 
sind  sold  sheep  and  oxen,  and  transacted  the  everyday 
affairs  of  life,  through  the  medium  of  this  language,  and 
still  longer  to  make  him  understand  why  he  should  be 
called  upon  to  learn  it,  when  its  connection  with  those 
affairs  had  become  entirely  latent.  So  far  f.s  Tom  had 
gained  any  acquaintance  with  the  Romans  at  Mr.  Jacobs's 
academy,  his  knowledge  was  strictly  correct,  but  it  went 
no  farther  than  the  fact  that  they  were  "  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament ";  and  Mr.  Stelling  was  not  the  man  to  enfeeble 


Digitized  by 


Googk 


)36  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

and  emasculate  his  pupil's  mind  by  simplifying  and 
explaining,  or  to  reduce  the  tonic  effect  of  etymology  by 
mixing  it  with  smattering,  extraneous  information,  such 
«,s  is  given  to  girls. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  under  this  vigorous  treatment  Tom 
became  more  like  a  girl  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life 
before.  He  had  a  large  share  of  pride,  which  had  hitherto 
found  itself  very  comfortable  in  the  world,  despising  Old 
(xoggles,  and  reposing  in  the  sense  of  unquestioned  rights; 
but  now  this  same  pride  met  with  nothing  but  bruises  and 
crushings.  Tom  was  too  clear-sighted  not  to  be  aware 
that  Mr.  Stelling's  standard  of  things  was  quite  different, 
was  certainly  something  higher  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
than  that  of  the  people  he  had  been  living  amongst,  and 
that,  brought  in  contact  with  it,  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  ap- 
peared uncouth  and  stupid:  he  was  by  no  means  indiffer- 
ent to  this,  and  his  pridep  got  into  an  uneasy  condition 
which  quite  nullified  his  boyish  self-satisfaction,  and  gave 
him  something  of  the  girl's  susceptibility.  He  was  of  a 
very  firm,  not  to  say  obstinate  disposition,  but  there  was 
no  brute-like  rebellion  and  recklessness  in  his  nature:  the 
human  sensibilities  predominated,  and  if  it  had  occurred 
to  him  that  he  could  enable  himself  to  show  some  quick- 
ness at  his  lessons,  and  so  acquire  Mr.  Stelling's  approba- 
tion, by  standing  on  one  leg  for  an  inconvenient  length  of 
time,  or  rapping  his  head  moderately  against  the  wall, 
or  any  voluntary  action  of  that  sort,  he  would  certainly 
have  tried  it.  feut  no — Tom  had  never  heard  that  these 
measures  would  brighten  the  understanding,  or  strengthen 
the  verbal  memory;  and  he  was  not  given  to  hypothesis  and 
experiment.  It  did  occur  to  him  that  he  could  perhaps  get 
some  help  by  praying  for  it;  but  as  the  prayers  he  said  ever}'^ 
evening  were  forms  learned  by  heart,  he  rather  shrank  from 
the  novelty  and  irregularity  of  introducing  an  extempore 
passage  on  a  topic  of  petition  for  which  he  was  not  aware  of 
any  precedent.  But  one  day,  when  he  had  broken  down,  for 
the  fifth  time,  in  the  supines  of  the  third  conjugation,  and 
Mr.  Stelling,  convinced  that  this  must  be  carelessness, 
since  it  transcended  the  bounds  of  possible  stupidity,  had 
lectured  him  very  seriously,  pointing  out  that  if  he  failed 
to  seize  the  present  golden  opportunity  of  learning  supines, 
he  would  have  to  regret  it  when  he  became  a  man  —  Torii, 
more  miserable  than  usual,  determined  to  try  his  sole 
resource;  and  that  evening,  after  his  usual  form  of  prayer 
for  his  parents  and  "  little  sister  "  (he  had  begun  to  pray 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  137 

for  Maggie  when  she  was  a  baby),  and  that  he  might  be 
able  always  to  keep  God's  commandments,  he  added,  in 
the  same  low  whisper,  *^and  please  to  make  me  always 
remember  my  Latin/'  He  paused  a  little  to  consider  how 
he  should  pray  about  Euclid  —  whether  he  should  ask  to 
see  what  it  meant,  or  whether  there  was  any  other  mental 
state  which  would  be  more  applicable  to  the  case.  But  at 
last  he  added  —  *^  And  make  Mr.  Stelling  say  I  shan't  do 
Euclid  any  more.     Amen.*' 

The  fact  that  he  got  through  his  supines  without'mistake 
the  next  day  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in  this  appendix 
to  his  prayers,  and  neutralized  any  skepticism  that  might 
have  arisen  from  Mr.  Stelling's  continued  demand  for 
Euclid.  But  his  faith  broke  down  under  the  apparent 
absence  of  all  help  when  he  got  into  the  irregular  verbs. 
It  seemed  clear  that  Toni's  despair  under  the  caprices  of 
the  present  tense  did  not  constitute  a  nodus  worthy  of 
interference,  and  since  this  was  the  climax  of  his  difficul- 
ties, where  was  the  use  of  praying  for  help  any  longer? 
He  made  uj)  his  mind  to  this  conc\jision  in  one  of  his  dull, 
lonely  evenings,  which  he  spent  m  the  study,  preparing 
his  lessons  for  the  morrow.  His  eyes  were  apt  to  get  dim 
over  thepage  —  though  he  hated  cr^/^ing,  and  was  ashamed 
of  it.  He  couldn't  help  thinking  with  some  affection  even 
of  Spouncer,  whom  he  used  to  fight  and  quarrel  with;  he 
would  have  felt  at  home  with  Spouncer,  and  in  a  condition 
of  superiority.  And  then  the  mill,  and  the  river,  and 
Yap  pricking  up  his  ears,  ready  to  obey  the  least  sign 
when  Tom  said,  "Hoigh!"  would  all  conic  before  him  in 
a  sort  of  calenture,  when  his  fingers  played  absently  in  his 
pocket  with  his  great  knife  and  his  coil  of  whipcord,  and 
other  relics  of  the  past.  Tom,  as  I  said,  had  never  been 
so  much  like  a  girl  in  his  life  before,  and  at  that  epoch  of 
irregular  verbs  his  spirit  was  further  depressed  by  a  new 
.  means  of  mental  development  which  had  been  thought  of 
for  him  out  of  school  hours.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  lately 
had  her  second  baby,  and  as  nothing  could  be  more 
salutary  for  a  boy  than  to  feel  himself  useful,  Mrs. 
Stelling  considered  she  was  doing  Tom  a  service  by 
setting  him  to  watch  the  little  cherub  Laura  while  the 
nurse  was  occupied  with  the  sickly  baby.  It  was  quite 
a  pretty  employment  for  Tom  to  take  little  Laura  out 
in  the  sunniest  hour  of  the  autumn  day — it  would  help  to 
make  him  feel  that  Lorton  Parsonage  was  a  home  for  him, 
and  that  he  was  one  of  the  family.    The  little  cherub  Laura, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


138  THE  MITiL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

not  being  an  accomplished  walker  at  present,  had  a  ribbon 
fastened  round  her  waist,  hj  which  Tom  held  her  as  if  she 
had  been  a  little  dog  during  the  minutes  in  which  she 
chose  to  walk;  but  as  these  were  rare,  he  was  for  the  most 
part  carrying  this  fine  child  round  and  round  the  garden, 
within  sight  of  Mrs.  Stelling^s  window  —  according  to 
orders.  If  any  one  considers  this  unfair  and  even  oppress- 
ive toward  Tom,  I  beg  him  to  consider  that  there  are 
feminine  virtues  which  are  with' difficulty  combined,  even 
if  they  are  not  incompatible.  When  the  wife  of  a  poor 
curate  contrives,  under  all  her  disadvantages,  to  dress 
extremely  well,  and  to  have  a  style  of  coiffure  which 
requires  that  her  nurse  shall  occasionally  officiate  as  lady^s- 
maid, — when,  moreover,  her  dinner-parties  and  her  draw- 
ing-room show  that  effort  at  elegance  and  completeness  of 
appointment  to  which  ordinary  women  might  imagine  a 
large  income  necessary,  it  would*be  unreasonable  to  expect 
of  her  that  she  should  employ  a  second  nurse,  or  even  act 
as  a  nurse  herself .  Mr.  Stelling  knew  better:  he  saw  that 
his  wife  did  wonders  already,  and  was  proud  of  her:  it  was 
certainly  not  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  young  Tulli- 
ver^s  gait  to  carry  a  heavy  child,  but  he  had  plenty  of 
exercise  in  long  walks  with  himself,  and  next  half-year 
Mr.  Stelling  would  see  about  having  a  drilling-master. 
Among  the  many  means  whereby  Mr.  Stelling  intended  to 
be  more  fortunate  than  the  bulk  of  his  fellow-men,  he  had 
entirely  given  up  that  of  having  his  own  way  in  his  own 
house.  What  tnen?  he  had  married  '^as  kind  a  little  soul 
as  ever  breathed,^^  according  to  Mr.  Eiley,  who  had  been 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Stelling^s  blonde  ringlets  and  smiling 
demeanor  throughout  her  maiden  life,  and  on  the  strength 
of  that  knowledge  would  have  been  ready  anjr  day  to  pro- 
nounce that  whatever  domestic  differences  might  arise  in 
her  marriod  life  must  be  entirely  Mr.  Stelling^s  fault. 

If  Tom  had  had  a  worse  disposition,  he  would  certainly 
have  hated  the  little  cherub,  Laura;  but  he  was  too  kind- 
hearted  a  lad  for  that — ^there  was  too  much  in  him  of  the 
fibre  that  turns  to  true  manliness,  and  to  protecting  pity 
for  the  weak.  I  am  afraid  he  hated  Mrs.  Stelling,  and 
contracted  a  lasting  dislike  to  pale  blonde  ringlets  arid 
broad  plaits,  as  directly  associated  with  haughtiness  of 
manner,  and  a  frequent  reference  to  other  people's  "duty/* 
But  he  couldn't  help  playing  with  little  Laura,  and  liking 
to  amuse  her:  he  even  sacrificed  his  percussion  caps  for  her 
sake,  in  despair  of  their  ever  serving  a  greater  purpose — 


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SCHOOL-TIMB.  139 

thinking  the  small  flash  and  bang  would  delight  her,  and 
thereby  drawing  down  on  himself  a  rebuke  from  Mrs. 
Stelling  for  teaching  her  child  to  play  with  fire.  Laura 
was  a  sort  of  playfellow — and  oh,  how  Tom  longed  for 
playfellows!  In  his  secret  heart  he  yearned  to  have  Maggie 
with  him,  and  was  almost  ready  to  dote  on  her  exasperating 
acts  of  forgetfulness;  though,  when  he  was  at  boipe,  he 
always  represented  it  as  a  great  favor  on  his  part  to  let 
Maggie  trot  by  his  side  on  his  pleasure  excursions. 

And  before  this  dreary  half-year  was  ended,  Maggie 
actually  came.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  given  a  general  invita- 
tion for  the  little  girl  to  come  and  stay  with  her  brotber: 
so  when  Mr.  TuUiver  drove  over  to  King's  Lorton  late  in 
October,  Maggie  came  too,  with  the  sense  that  she  was 
taking  a  great  journey,  and  beginning  to  see  the  world. 
It  was  Mr.  Tulliver^s  first  visit  to  see  Tom,  for  the  lad 
must  learn  not  to  think  too  much  about  home. 

"Well,  my  lad,*'  he  said  to  Tom,  when  Mr.  Stelling  had 
left  the  room  to  announce  the  arrival  to  his  wife,  and 
Maggie  had  begun  to  kiss  Tom  freely,  ''you  look  rarely! 
School  agrees  with  you." 

Tom  wished  he  had  looked  rather  ill. 

''  I  don 't  think  I  am  well,  father, '*  said  Tom;  "  I  wish 
you'd  ask  Mr.  Stelling  not  to  let  me  do  Euclid — it  brings 
on  the  toothache,  I  think." 

(The  toothache  was  the  only  malady  to  which  Tom  had 
ever  been  subject.) 

"  Euclid,  my  lad— why,  what's  that?  "  said  Mr.  TuUiver. 

''Oh,  I  don't  know:  it's  definitions,  and  axioms,  and 
triangles,  and  things.  It's  a  book  I've  got  to  learn  in  — 
there's  no  sense  in  it." 

"Go,  go!"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  reprovingly,  "you  mustn't 
say  so.  "You  must  learn  what  your  master  tells  you.  He 
knows  what  it's  right  for  you  to  learn." 

"  ril  help  you  now,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  little  air 
of  patronizing  consolation.  "I'm  come  to  stay  ever  so 
long,  if  Mrs.  Stelling  asks  me.  I've  brought  my  box  and 
my  pinafores,  haven't  I,  father?" 

"  You  help  me,  you  silly  little  thing!"  said  Tom,  in 
such  high  spirits  at  this  announcement  that  he  quite 
enjoyed  the  idea  of  confounding  Maggie  by  showing  her  a 
page  of  Euclid.  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  doing  one  of 
my  lessons!  Why,  I  learn  Latin  too!  Girls  never  learn 
such  things.     They're  too  silly." 

"  I  know  what  Latin  is  very  well,"  said  Maggie,  confi- 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


140  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

dontly.  "  Latin's  a  language.  There  are  Latin  words  in 
the  Dictionary.     There's  bonus,  a  gift.'' 

"Now,  you're  just  wrong  there.  Miss  Maggie!"  said 
Tom,  secretly  astonished.  "  You  think  you're  very  wise! 
But  ^ bonus'  means  ^ good, 'as  it  happens  —  bonus,  bona 
bonum." 

"Well,  that's  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  mean  ^gift,"' 
said  Maggie  stoutly.  "  It  may  mean  several  things — almost 
every  word  does.  There's  *lawn,' — it  means  the  grass- 
plot,  as  well  as  the  stuff  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  made 
of." 

"Well  done,  little  'un,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  laughing, 
while  Tom  felt  rather  disgusted  with  Maggie's  knowing- 
ness,  though  beyond  measure  cheerful  at  the  thought  that 
she  was  going  to  stay  with  him.  Her  conceit  would  soon 
be  overawed  by  the  actual  inspection  of  his  books. 

Mrs.  Stelling,  in  her  pressing  invitation,  did  not  men- 
tion a  longer  time  than  a  week  for  Maggie's  stay;  but  Mr. 
Stelling,  who  took  her  between  his  knees,  and  asked  her 
where  she  stole  her  dark  eyes  from,  insisted  that  she  must 
stay  a  fortnight.  JVfaggie  thought  Mr.  Stelling  was  a 
charming  man,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  was  quite  proud  to  leave 
his  little  wench  where  she  would  have  an  opportunity  of 
showing  her  cleverness  to  appreciating  strangers.  So  it 
was  agreed  that  she  should  not  be  fetched  home  till  the 
end  of  the  fortnight. 

"  Now,  then,  come  with  me  into  the  study,  Maggie,"  said 
Tom,  as  their  father  drove  awtiy.  "What  do  you  shake 
and  toss  vour  head  now  for,  you  silly?  "  he  continued;  for 
though  her  hair  was  now  under  a  new  dispensation, 
and  was  brushed  smoothly  behind  her  ears,  she  seemed  still 
in  imagination  to  be  tossing  it  out  of  her  eyes.  "It  makes 
you  look  as  if  you  were  crazy." 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  that,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently. 
"Don't  tease  me,  Tom.  Oh,  what  books!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  saw  the  bookcases  in  the  study.  "  How  I  should 
like  to  have  as  many  books  as  that!" 

"Why,  you  couldn't  read  one  of 'em,"  said  Tom,  tri- 
umphantly.    "They're  all  Latin." 

"No,  they  aren't,"  said  Maggie.     " I  can  read  the  back 

of  this *  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Koman 

Empire.' " 

"Well,  what  does  that  mean?  You  don't  know,"  said 
Tom,  wagging  his  head. 

"  But  I  could  soon  find  out,"  said  Maggie,  scornfully. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


•  SCHOOL-TIME.  141 

"Why,  how?'* 

"I  should  look  inside,  and  see  what  it  was  about.*' 

"  YouM  better  not,  Miss  Maggie, '^  said  Tom,  seeing  her 
hand  on  the  volume.  ^*  Mr.  Stelling  lets  nobody  touch  his 
books  without  leave,  and  /  shall  catch  it,  if  you  take  it 
out.'' 

*^0h,  very  well!  Let  me  see  all  your  books,  then,"  said 
Maggie,  turning  to  throw  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck,  and 
rub  his  cheek  with  her  small  round  nose. 

Tom,  in  the  gladness  of  his  heart  at  having  dear  old 
Maggie  to  dispute  with  and  crow  over  again,  seized  her 
roun^  the  waist,  and  began  to  jump  with  her  round  the 
large  library  table.  Away  they  jumped  with  more  and 
more  vigor,  till  Maggie's  nair  new  from  behind  her  ears, 
and  twirled  about  like  an  animated  mop.  But  the  revolu- 
tions round  the  table  became  more  ana  more  irregular  in 
their  sweep,  till  at  last  reaching  Mr.  Stelling's  reading- 
stand,  they  sent  it  thundering  dbwn  with  its  heavy  lexi- 
cons to  the  floor.  Happily  it  was  the  ground-floor,  and 
Jhe  study  was  a  one-storied  wing  to  the  house,  so  that  the 
downfall  made  no  alarming  resonance,  though  Tom  stood 
dizzy  and  aghast  for  a  few  minutes,  dreading  the  appearance 
of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Maggie,*' said  Tom  at  last,  lifting  up  the 
stand,  "  we  must  keep  quiet  here,  you  know.  If  we  break 
anything,  Mrs.  Stellingll  make  us  cry  peccavi." 

"  What's  that?  "  said  Maggie. 

"Oh,  it's  the  Latin  for  a  good  scolding,"  said  Tom,  not 
without  some  pride  in  his  knowledge. 

"Is  she  a  cross  woman?"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  believe  you! "  said  Tom,  with  an  emphatic  nod. 

"I  think  all  women  are  crosser  than  men,"  said  Maggie, 
^'Aunt  Glegg's  a  great  deal  crosser  than  Uncle  Glegg,  and 
mother  scolds  me  more  than  father  does." 

"Well,  you'll  be  a  woman  some  day,"  said  Tom,  "so 
you  needna  talk." 

"But  I  shall  be  a  clever  woman,"  said  Maggie,  with 
a  toss. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,  and  a  nasty  conceited  thing.  Every- 
body'll  hate  you." 

'*But  you  oughtn't  to  hate  me,  Tom:  itll  be  very 
wicked  of  you,  for  I  shall  be  your  sister." 

"Yes,  but  if  you're  a  nasty  disagreeable  thing,  I  shall 
hate  you." 

'^  Oh,  but,  Tom,  you  won't!  I  shan't  be  disagreeable.    I 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


1^  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS,  * 

shall  be  very  good  to  you — and  I  shall  be  good  to  every- 
body.    You  won't  hate  me  really,  will  you,  Tom?'* 

**  Oh,  bother!  never  mind!  Come,  it's  time  for  me  to 
learn  my  lessons.  See  here!  what  Tve  got  to  do,''  said 
Tom,  drawing  Maggie  toward  him  and  showing  her  his 
theorem,  while  she  pushed  her  hair  behind  her  ears,  and 
prepared  herself  to  prove  her  capability  of  helping  him  in 
Euclid.  She  began  to  read  with  full  confidence  in  her  own 
}>ower8,  but  presently,  becoming  quite  bewildered,  her  face 
flushed  with  irritation.  It  was  unavoidable — she  must  con- 
fess her  incompetency,  and  she  was  not  fond  of  humiliation. 

'*  It's  nonsense! "  she  said,  "  and  very  ugly  stuff — nobody 
need  want  to  make  it  out." 

"Ah,  there  now,  Miss  Maggie!"  said  Tom,  drawing  the 
book  away,  and  wagging  his  head  at  her,  "you  see  you're 
not  so  clever  as  you  thought  you  were." 

"  Oh,"  said  Maggie,  pouting,  "  I  dare  say  I  could  make 
it  out,  if  I'd  learned  what  goes  before,  as  you  have." 

"But  that's  what  you  iust  couldn't.  Miss  Wisdom," said 
Tom.  "  For  it's  all  the  narder  when  you  know  what  goe3 
before:  for  then  you've  got  to  say  what  definition  3.  is,  and 
what  axiom  V.  is.  But  get  along  with  you  now:  I  must 
go  on  with  this.  Here's  the  Latin  Grammar.  See  what 
you  can  make  of  that." 

Maggie  found  the  Latin  Grammar  quite  soothing  after 
her  mathematical  mortification;  for  she  delighted  m  new 
words,  and  quickly  found  that  there  was  an  English  Key  at 
the  end,  which  would  make  her  very  wise  about  Latin,  at 
slight  expense.  She  presently  made  up  her  mind  to  skip 
the  rules  in  the  Syntax — the  examples  became  so  absorb- 
ing. These  mysterious  sentences,  snatched  from  an  un- 
known context, — like  strange  horns  of  beasts,  and  leaves  of 
unknown  plants,  brought  from  some  far-off  region, — ^gave 
boundless  scope  to  her  imagination,  and  were  all  the  more 
fascinating  because  they  were  in  a  peculiar  tongue  of  their 
own,  which  she  could  learn  to  interpret.  It  was  really 
very  interesting — the  Latin  Grammar  that  Tom  had  said 
no  girls  could  learn:  and  she  was  proud  because  she  found 
it  interesting.  The  most  fragmentary  examples  were  her 
favorites.  Mors  omnibus  est  communis  would  have  been 
jejune,  only  she  liked  to  know  the  Latin;  but  the  fortunate 
gentleman  whom  every  one  congratulated  because  he  had 
a  son  "endowed  with  such  a  disposition"  afforded  her  a 
s:reat  deal  of  pleasant  conjecture,  and  she  was  quite  lost  in 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  143 

the  "thick  grove  penetrable  by  no  star/^  when  Tom  called 
out — 

"Now,  then,  Magsie,  give  us  the  Grammar!^' 

"Oh,  Tom,  it's  such  a  pretty  book!''  she  said,  as  she 
jumped  out  of  the  large  arm-chair  to  give  it  him;  "it's 
much  prettier  than  the  Dictionary.  I  could  learn  Latin 
very  soon.     I  don't  think  it's  at  all  hard." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you've  been  doing,"  said  Tom, 
"you've  been  reading  the  English  at  the  end.  Any 
donkey  can  do  that." 

Tom  seized  the  book  and  opened  it  with  a  determined 
and  business-like  air,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  a 
lesson  to  learn  which  no  donkeys  would  find  themselves 
equal  to.  Maggie,  rather  piqued,  turned  to  the  bookcases 
to  amuse  herself  With  puzzling  out  the  titles. 

Presently  Tom  called  to  her:  "Here,  Magsie,  come  and 
hear  if  I  can  say  this.  Stand  at  that  end  of  the  table^ 
where  Mr.  Stelling  sits  when  he  hears  me." 

Maggie  obeyed,  and  took  the  open  book. 

"Where  do  you  begin,  Tom?" 

"  Ob,  I  begin  at  'Appellativa  arhorum*  because  I  say 
all  over  again  what  I've  been  learning  this  week." 

Tom  sailed  along  pretty  well  for  three  lines;  and  Maggie 
was  beginning  to  forget  her  office  of  prompter  in  speculat- 
ing as  to  what  mas  could  mean,  which  came  twice  over, 
when  he  stuck  fast  at  Sunt  etiam  velucrum, 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Maggie;  Sunt  etiam  volucrum Su7it 

etiam  volncrum, ut  ostrea,  cetus " 

,"No,"  said  Maggie,  opening  her  mouth  and  shaking 
her  head. 

^^Sunt  etiam  volucrum,'^  said  Tom,  very  slowly,  as  if  the 
next  words  might  be  expected  to  come  sooner  when  he  gave 
them  this  strong  hint  that  they  were  waited  for. 

"C,  e,  u,"  said  Maggie,  getting  impatient. 

"Oh,  I  know  —  hold-^our  tongue,"  said  Tom.     Ceu 

passer,  hirundo;   Ferarum -ferarum "    Tom  took 

his  pencil  and  made  several  hard  dots  with  it  on  his  book- 
cover \' ferarum " 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  what  a  time 
you  are!     Ut " 

"  Ut,  osirea- 


"No,  no,"  said  Maggie,  "w^,  tigris- 


^Oh,  yes,  now  I  can  do,"  said  Tom;  "it  was  tigrts, 
wipes,  I'd  forgotten:  ut  tigris,  vulpes;  et  Fiscium/^ 


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144  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

With  some  further  stammering  and  repetition,  Tom  got 
through  the  next  few  lines. 

"  Now,  then/'  he  said,  *^  the  next  is  what  Fve  just  learned 
for  to-morrow.     Give  me  hold  of  the  book  a  minute. '* 

After  some  whispered  gabbling,  assisted  by  the  beating 
of  his  fist  on  the  table,  Tom  returned  the  book. 

^'Mascula  nomina  in  a"  he  began. 

^*No,  Tom,'*  said  Maggie,  'Hhat  doesn't  come  next. 
It's  Nomen  non  creshens  genittivo " 

^^Creshens  genittivo!''  exclaimed  Tom,  with  a  derisive 
laugh,  for  Tom  had  learned  this  omitted  passage  for  his 
yesterday's  lesson,  and  a  young  gentleman  does  not  require 
an  intimate  or  extensive  acquaintance  with  Latin  before 
he  can  feel  the  pitiable  absurdity  of  a  false  quantity. 
*^ Creshens  genittivo!  What  a  little  silly  you  are,  Maggie!'' 

*^  Well,  you  needn't  laugh,  Tom,  for  you  didn't  remem- 
ber it  at  all.    I'm  sure  it's  spelled  so;  how  was  I  to  know?" 

*^Phee-e-e-h!  I  told  you  girls  couldn't  learn  Latin. 
Its  Nomen  non  crescens  genitivo," 

*^  Very  well,  then,"  said  Maggie,  pouting.  '^  I  can  say 
that  as  well  as  you  can.  And  you  don't  mind  your  stops. 
For  you  ought  to  stop  twice  as  long  at  a  semicolon  as  you 
do  at  a  comma,  and  you  make  the  longest  stops  where 
there  ought  to  be  no  stop  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  don't  chatter.     Let  me  go  on." 

They  were  presently  fetched  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
evening  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Maggie  became  so  ani- 
mated with  Mr.  Stelling,  who,  she  felt  sure,  admired  her 
cleverness,  that  Tom  was  rather  amazed  and  alarmed  at 
her.  audacity.  But  she  was  suddenly  subdued  by  Mr. 
Stelling's  alluding  to  a  little  girl  of  whom  he  had  heard 
that  she  once  ran  away  to  the  gyjpsies. 

*^  What  a  very  odd  little  girl  that  must  be!"  said  Mrs. 
Stelling,  meaning  to  be  playful  —  but  a  playfulness  that 
turned  on  her  supposed  oddity  was  not  at  all  to  Maggie's 
taste.  She  feared  that  Mr.  Stelling,  after  all,  did  not 
think  much  of  her,  and  went  to  bed*  in  rather  low  spirits. 
Mrs.  Stelling,  she  felt,  looked  at  her  as  if  she  thought 
her  hair  was  very  ugly  because  it  hung  down  straight 
behind. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  very  happy  fortnight  to  Maggie 
this  visit  to  Tom.  She  was  allowed  to  be  in  the  study 
while  he  had  his  lessons,  and  in  her  various  readings  got 
very  deep  into  the  examples  in  the  Latin  Grammar.  The 
astronomer  who  hated  women  generally,  caused  her  so 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  146 

much  puzzling  speculation  that  she  one  day  asked  Mr. 
Stelliug  if  all  astronomers  hated  women,  or  whether  it  was 
only  this  particular  astronomer.  But  forestalling  his 
answer,  she  said  — 

*'I  suppose  it's  all  astronomers:  because,  you  know, 
they  live  up  in  high  towers,  and  if  the  women  came  there, 
they  might  talk  and  hinder  them  from  looking  at  the 
stars/' 

Mr.  Stelling  liked  her  prattle  immensely,  and  they  were 
on  the  best  terms.  She  told  Tom  she  should  like  to  go  to 
school  to  Mr.  Stelling,  as  he  did,  and  learn  just  the  same 
things.  She  knew  she  could  do  Euclid,  for  she  had  looked 
into  it  again,  and  she  saw  what  ABC  meant:  they  were 
the  names  of  the  lines. 

"Im  sure  you  couldn^t  do  it,  now,''  said  Tom;  **and 
I'll  just  ask  Mr.  Stelling  if  you  could." 

^^ I  don't  mind,"  said  the  little  conceited  minx,  "I'll 
ask  him  myself." 

"Mr.  Stelling,"  she  said,  that  same  evening  when  thev 
were  in  the  drawing-room,  "  couldn't  I  do  Euclid,  and  all 
Tom's  lessons,  if  you  were  to  teach  me  instead  of  him?" 
,  "No;  you  couldn't,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.     "Girls 
can't  do  lEuclid:  can  they,  sir?" 

"  They  can  pick  up  a  little  of  everything,  I  dare  say," 
said  Mr.  Stelling.  "  They've  a  great  deal  of  superficial 
cleverness;  but  they  couldn't  go  far  into  anything.  They're 
quick  and  shallow." 

Tom,  delighted  with  this  verdict,  telegraphed  his 
triumph  by  wagging  his  head  at  Maggie,  benind  Mr. 
Stelling's  chair.  As  for  Maggie,  she  had  hardly  ever 
been  so  mortified.  She  had  been  so  proud  to  be  "called 
*^  quick"  all  her  little  life,  and  now  it  appeared  that  this 
quickness  was  the  brand  of  inferiority.  It  would  have 
been  better  to  be  slow,  like  Tom. 

"Ha,  ha!  Miss  Maggie!"  said  Tom,  when  they  were 
alone;  "you  see  it's  not  such  a  fine  thing  to  be  quick. 
You'll  never  go  far  into  anything,  you  know." 

And  Maggie  was  so  oppressed  by  this  dreadful  destiny 
that  she  had  no  spirit  for  a  retort. 

But  when  this  small  apparatus  of  shallow  quickness  was 
fetched  away  in  the  gig  by  Luke,  and  the  study  was  once 
more  quite  lonely  for  Tom,  he  missed  her  grievously.  He 
had  really  been  brighter,  and  had  got  through  his  lessons 
better,  since  she  had  been  there;  and  she  had  asked  Mr. 
Stelling  so  many  (juestigus  about  the  Koman  Empire,  and 
iO 

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146  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

whether  there  really  ever  was  a  man  who  said,  m  Latin, 
•*  I  would  not  buy  it  for  a  farthing  or  a  rotten  nut/'  oi 
whether  that  had  only  been  turned  into  Latin,  that  Tom 
had  actually  come  to  a  dim  understanding  of  the  fact  that 
tlicre  had  once  been  people  upon  the  earth  who  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  know  Latin  without  learning  it  through 
the  medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar.  This  luminous  idea 
was  a  great  addition  to  his  historical  acquirements  during 
this  half-year,  which  were  otherwise  confined  to  an  epito- 
mised history  of  the  Jews. 

But  the  areary  half-year  did  come  to  an  end.  How 
glad  Tom  was  to  see  the  last  yellow  leaves  flutteringbef  ore 
the  cold  wind!  The  dark  afternoons,  and  the  first  Decem- 
ber snow,  seemed  to  him  far  livelier  than  the  August 
sunshine;  and  that  he  might  make  himself  the  surer 
about  the  flight  of  the  days  that  were  carrying  him  home- 
wyrd,  he  stuck  Iwenty-one  sticks  deep  in  a  corner  of  the 
garden,  when  he  was  three  weeks  from  the  holidays,  and 
l)ulled  one  up  every  day  with  a  great  wrench,  throwing  it 
to  a  distance  with  a  vigor  of  will  which  would  have  carried 
it  to  limbo,  if  it  had  been  in  the  nature  of  sticks  to  travel 
so  far. 

But  it  \^as  worth  purchasing,  even  at  the  heavy  price  of 
the  Latin  grammar  —  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  bright 
light  in  the  parlor  at  home,  as  the  gig  passed  noiselessly 
over  the  snow-covered  bridge:  the  happiness  of 'passing 
from  the  cold  air  to  the  warmth  and  the  kisses  and  the  smiles 
of  that  familiar  hearth,  where  the  pattern  of  the  rug  und 
the  grate  and  the  fire-irons  were  ^*  first  ideas '*  that  it  was 
no  more  possible  to  criticise  than  the  solidity  and  extension 
of  matter.  There  is  no  sense  of  fease  like  the  ease  we  felt 
in  those  scenes  where  we  were  born,  where  objects  became 
dear  to  us  before  we  had  known  the  labor  of  choice,  and 
where  the  outer  world  seemed  only  an  extension  of  our  own 
personality:  we  accepted  and  loved  it  as  we  accepted  our 
own  sense  of  existence  and  our  own  limbs.  Very  common- 
[)lace,  even  ugly,  that  furniture  of  our  early  home  might  look 
if  it  were  put  up  to  auction;  an  improved' taste  in  upholstery 
scorns  it;  and  is  not  the  striving  after  something  better 
and  better  in  our  surroundings,  the  grand  characteristic 
that  distinguishes  man  from  the  brute — or,  to  satisfy 
a  scrupulous  accuracy  of  definition,  that  distinguishes 
the  British  man  from  the  foreign  brute?  But  heaven 
knows  where  that  striving  might  lead  us,  if  our  affections 
had  not  a  trigk  of  twining  round  those  old  inferior  things- 
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SCfiOOL-TIMB.  147 

if  the  loves  and  sanctities  of  our  life  had  no  deep  immova- 
ble roots  in  memory.  One^s  delight  in  an  elderberry  budh 
overhanging  the  confused  leafuffc  of  a  hedgerow  bank,  as 
a  more  gladdening  sight  than  the  finest  cistus  or  fuchsia 
spreading  itself  on  the  softest  undulating  turf,  is  an 
entirely  unjustifiable  preference  to  a  nursery-gardener,  or 
to  any  of  those  severely  regulated  minds  who  are  free  from 
the  weakness  of  any  attacliment  that  does  not  rest  on  a 
demonstrable  superiority  of  qualities.  And  there  is  no 
better  reason  for  preferring  this  elderberry  bush  than  that 
it  stirs  an  .early  memory — that  it  is  no  novelty  in  m^r  life, 
speaking  to  me  mrely  through  my  present  sensibilities  to 
form  and  color,  but  the  long  companion  of  my  existence, 
that  wove  itself  into  my  joys  when  joys  were  vivid* 


CHAPTER  11. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 

Fine  old  Christmas,  with  the  snowy  hair  and  ruddy 
face,  had  done  his  duty  that  year  in  the  noblest  fashion, 
and  had  set  off  his  rich  gifts  of  warmth  and  color  with  all 
the  heightening  contrast  of  frost  and  snow. 

Snow  lay  on  the  croft  and  river-bank  in  undulations 
softer  than  the  limbs  of  infancy;  it  lay  with  the  neatliest 
finished  border  on  every  sloping  roof,  making  the  dark-red 
gables  stand  out  with  a  new  depth  of  color;  it  weighed 
heavily  on  the  laurels  and  fir-trees,  till  it  fell  from  them 
with  a  shuddering  sound;  it  clothed  the  rough  turnip-field 
with  whiteness,  and  made  the  sheep  look  like  dark  blotches; 
the  gates  were  all  blocked  up  with  the  sloping  drifts,  and 
here  and  there  a  disregarded  four-footed  beast  stood  as  if 
petrified  ^^  in  unrecumbent  sadness '';  there  was  no  gleam,  no 
shadow,  for  the  heavens,  too,  were  one  still,  pale  cloud — no 
sound  or  motion  in  anything  but  the  dark  river  that  flowed 
and  moaned  like  an  unresting  sorrow.  But  old  Christmas 
smiled  as  he  laid  this  cruel-seeming  spell  on  the  outdoor 
world,  for  he  meant  to  light  up  home  with  new  brightness, 
to  deepen  all  the  richness  of  indoor  color,  and  give  a  keener 
odge  of  delight  to  the  warm  fragrance  of  food:  he  meant 
to  prepare  a  sweet  imprisonment  that  would  strengthen 
the  primitive  fellowship  of  kindred;  and  make  the  son^ 

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148  THE  MILL  ON  THfi  FLOSS. 

shine  of  familiar  hi.man  faces  as  .welcome  as  the  hidden 
day-star.  His  kindness  fell  but  hardly  on  the  homeless  — 
fell  but  hardly  on  the  homes  where  the  hearth  was  not 
"very  warm,  ana  where  the  food  had  little  fragrance;  where 
the  human  faces  had  no  sunshine  in  them,  but  rather  the 
leaden,  blank-eyed  gaze  of  unexpectant  want.  But  the 
fine  old  season  meant  well;  and  if  he  has  not  learned  the 
secret  how  to  bless  men  impartially,  it  is  because  his  father 
Time,  with  ever-unrelenting  purpose,  still  hides  that  secret 
in  his  own  mighty,  slow-beatmg  heart. 

And  yet  this  Christmas  day,  in  spite  of  Tom's  fresh 
delight  in  home,  was  not,  he  thought,  somehow  or  other, 
quite  so  happy  as  it  had  always  been  before.  The  red 
berries  were  just  as  abundant  on  the  holly,  and  he  and 
Maggie  had  dressed  all  the  windows  and  mantelpieces 
and  picture-frames  on  Christmas  eve  with  as  much 
taste  as  ever,  wedding  the  thick-set  scarlet  clusters 
with  branches  of  the  black-berried  ivy.  There  had  been 
singing  under  the  windows  after  midnight  —  supernatural 
singing,  Maggie  always  felt,  in  spite  of  Tom's  contemptu- 
ous insistence  that  the  singers  were  old  Patch,  the  parish 
clerk,  and  the  rest  of  the  church  choir:  she  trembled  with 
awe  when  their  carolling  broke  in  upon  her  dreams,  and 
the  image  of  men  in  fustian  clothes  was  always  thrust 
away  by  the  vision  of  angels  resting  on  the  parted  cloud. 
Tho  midnight  chant  had  helped  as  usual  to  lift  the  morn- 
ing above  the  level  of  common  days;  and  then  there  was 
the  smell  of  hot  toast  and  ale  from  the  kitchen,  at  the 
breakfast-hour;  the  favorite  anthem,  the  green  boughs, 
and  the  short  sermon,  gave  the  appropriate  festal  character 
to  the  church-going;  and  aunt  and  uncle  Moss,  with  all 
their  seven  children,  were  looking  like  so  many  reflectors 
of  the  bright  parlor-fire,  when  the  church-goers  came 
back,  stamping  the  snow  from  their  feet.  The  plum- 
pudding  was  of  the  same  handsome  roundness  as  ever, 
and  came  in  with  the  symbolic  blue  flames  around  it,  as  if 
it  had  been  heroically  snatched  from  the  nether  fires  into 
which  it  had  been  thrown  by  dyspeptic  Puritans;  the 
dessert  was  as  splendid  as  ever,  with  its  golden  oranges, 
brown  nuts,  and  the  crystalline  light  and  dark  of  apple- 
jelly  and  damson  cheese:  in  all  these  things  Christmas 
was  as  it  had  always  been  since  Tom  could  remember; 
it  was  only  distinguished,  if  by  anything,  by  superior 
sliding  and  snowballs. 

Chfistm?is  was  cheery,  but  jiot  so  Mr»  Tulliver.     Ho 

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SCHOOL-TIME.  149 

was  irate  and  dofiant,  and  Tom,  though  he  espoused  hia 
father's  quarrels  and  shared  his  father's  sense  of  injury, 
was  not  without  some  of  the  feeling  that  oppressed  Maggie 
when  Mr.  Tulliver  got  louder  and  more  angry  in  narra- 
tion and  assertion  with  the  increased  leisure  of  dessert. 
The  attention  that  Tom  might  have  concentrated  on  his 
nuts  and  wine  was  distracted  by  a  sense  that  there  were 
rascally  enemies  in  the  world,  and  that  the  business  of 
grown-up  life  could  hardly  be  conducted  without  a  good 
deal  of  quarreling.  Now  Tom  was  not  fond  of  quarreling, 
unless  it  could  soon  be  put  an  end  to  by  a  fair  stand-up 
ifight  with  an  adversary  whom  he  had  every  chance  of 
thrashing,  and  his  father's  irritable  talk  made  him  uncom- 
fortable, though  he  never  accounted  to  himself  for  the 
feeling,  or  conceived  the  notion  that  his  father  was  faulty 
in  this  respect. 

The  particular  embodiment  of  the  evil  principle  now 
exciting  Mr.  TuUiver's  determined  resistance  was  Mr. 
Pivart,  who,  having  lands  higher  up  the  Ripple,  was  taking 
measures  for  their  irrigation,  which  either  were,  or  would 
be,  or  were  bound  to  be  (on  the  principle  that  water  was 
water),  an  infringement  on  Mr.  Tulliver's  legitimate  share 
of  water-power.  Dix,  who  had  a  mill  on  the  stream,  was  a 
feeble  auxiliary  of  Old  Harry  compared  with  Pivart.  Dix 
had  been  brought  to  his  senses  by  arbitration,  and  Wakem's 
advice  had  not  carried  him  far,  no:  Dix,  Mr.  Tulliver  con- 
sidered, had  been  as  good  as  nowhere  in  point  of  law;  and  • 
in  the  intensity  of  his  indignation  against  Pivart,  his  con- 
tempt for  a  baffled  advertary  like  Dix  began  to  wear  the 
air  of  a  friendly  attachment.  He  had  no  male  audience 
to-day  except  Mr.  Moss,  who  knew  nothing,  as  he  said,  of 
the  "  natur'  o^  mills,"  and  could  only  assent  to  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's  arguments  on  the  a  priori  ground  of  family  relation- 
ship and  monetary  obligation;  but  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not 
talk  with  the  futile  intention  of  convincing  his  audience — 
he  talked  to  relieve  himself;  while  good  Mr.  Moss  made 
strong  efforts  to  keep  his  eyes  wide  open,  in  spite  of  the 
sleepiness  which  an  unusually  good  dinner  produced  in  his 
hard-worked  frame.  Mrs.  Moss,  more  alive  to  the  subject, 
and  interested  in  everything  that  affected  her  brother, 
listened  and  put  in  a  word  as  often  as  maternal  preoccupa- 
tions allowed. 

"Why,  Pivart's  a  new  name  hereabout,  brother,  isn't 
it?"  she  said:  "he  didn't  own  the  land  in  father's  time, 
nor  yours  either,  before  I  was  married." 


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150  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

''New  name?  Yes — I  should  think  it  is  a  new  name/* 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  with  angry  emphasis.  ''Dorlcote  Mill's 
been  in  our  family  a  hundred  year  and  better,  and  nobody 
ever  heard  of  a  rivart  meddling  with  the  river,  till  this 
fellow  came  and  bought  Bincome's  farm  out  of  hand, 
before  anybody  else  could  so  much  as  say  'snap.'  But  I'll 
Pivart  him!''  added  Mr.  Tulliver,  lifting  his  glass  with  a 
sense  that  he  had  defined  his  resolution  in  an  unmistak- 
able manner. 

"You  won't  be  forced  to  go  to  law  with  him,  I  hope, 
brother?"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  some  anxiety. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  be  forced  to;  but  I  know 
what  I  shall  force  Mm  to,  with  his  dykes  and  erigations, 
if  there's  any  law  to  be  brought  to  bear  o'  the  right  side. 
I  know  well  enough  who's  at  the  bottom  of  it;  he's  got 
Wakem  to  back  him  and  egg  him  on.  I  know  Wakem 
tells  him  how  the  law  can't  touch  him  for  it,  but  there's 
folks  can  handle  the  law  besides  Wakem.  It  takes  a  big 
raskil  to  beat  him;  but  there's  bigger  to  be  found,  as  know 
more  o'  th'  ins  and  outs  o'  the  law,  else  how  came  Wakem 
to  lose  Brumley's  suit  for  him?" 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  a  strictly  honest  man,  and  proud  of 
being  honest,  but  he  considered  that  in  law  the  ends  of 
justice  could  only  be  achieved  by  employing  a  stronger 
knave  to  frustrate  a  weaker.  Law  was  a  sort  of  cock- 
fight, in  which  it  was  the  business  of  injured  honesty  to 
get  a  game  bird  with  the  best  pluck  and  the  strongest 
spurs. 

"  Gore's  no  fool — ^you  needn't*tell  me  that,"  he  observed 
presently,  in  a  pugnacious  tone,  as  if  poor  Gritty  had  been 
urging  that  lawyer's  capabilities;  '*but,  you  see,  he  isn't 
up  to  the  law  as  Wakem  is.  And  water's  a  very  particular 
thing — you  can't  pick  it  up  with  a  pitchfork.  That's  why 
it's  been  nuts  to  Old  Harry  and  the  lawyers.  It's  plain 
enough  what's  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  water,  if  you  look 
at  it  straightforrard;  for  a  river's  a  river,  and  if  you've 
got  a  mill,  you  must  have  water  to  turn  it;  and  it's  no  use 
telling  me,  Pivart's  erigation  and  nonsense  won't  stop  my 
wheel:  I  know  what  belongs  to  water  better  than  that. 
Talk  to  me  o'  what  th'  engineers  say!  I  say  it's  common- 
sense,  as  Pivart's  dykes  must  do  me  an  injury.  But  if  that's 
their  engineering,  I'll  put  Tom  to  it  by-and  by,  and  he  shall 
see  if  he  can't  find  a  bit  more  sense  in  th'  engineering  busi- 
ness than  what  that  comes  to." 

Tom,  looking  round  with  some  anxiety  at  this  announce^ 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  151 

ment  of  his  prospects,  untLinkingly  withdrew  a  small  raitle 
he  was  amusing  Baby  Moss  with,  whereupon  she,  being  a 
baby  that  knew  her  own  mind  with  remarkable  clearness, 
instantaneously  expressed  her  sentiments  in  a  piercing  yell, 
and  was  not  to  be  appeased  even  by  the  restoration  of  the 
rattle,  feeling  apparently  that  the  original  wrong  of  hav- 
ing it  taken  from  her  remained  in  all  its  force.  Mrs.  Moss 
hurried  away  with  her  into  another  room,  and  expressed 
to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  accompanied  her,  the  conviction  that 
the  dear  child  had  good  reasons  for  crying;  implying  that 
if  it  was  supposed  to  be  the  rattle  that  baoy  clamored  for, 
she  was  a  misunderstood  baby.  The  thoroughly  justifiable 
yell  being  quieted,  Mrs.  Moss  looked  at  her  sister-in-law  and 
said — 

"  I'm  sorry  to  see  brother  so  put  out  about  this  waiter 
work." 

"It's  your  brother's  way,  Mrs.  Moss;  I'd  never  anything 
o'  that  sort  before  I  was  married,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with 
a  half -implied  reproach.  She  always  spoke  of  her  husband 
as  "your  brother"  to  Mrs.  Moss  in  any  case  when  his  lino 
of  conduct  was  not  matter  of  pure  admiration.  Amiable 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  never  angry  in  her  life,  had  yet  her 
mild  share  of  that  spirit  without  which  she  could  hardly 
have  been  at  once  a  Dodson  and  a  woman.  Being  always 
on  the  defensive  toward  her  own  sisters,  it  was  natural  that 
she  should  be  keenly  conscious  of  her  superiority,  even  as 
the  weakest  Dodson,  over  a  husband's  sister,  who,  besides 
being  poorly  off,  and  inclined  to  "hang  on"  her  brother, 
had  the  good-natured  submissiveness  of  a  large,  easy-tem- 
pered, untidy,  prolific  woman,  with  affection  enough  in 
her  not  only  for  her  own  husband  and  abundant  children, 
but  for  any  number  of  collateral  relations. 

"  I  hope  and  pray  he  won't  go  to  law,"  said  Mrs.  Moss, 
"  for  there's  never  any  knowing  where  that'll  end.  And 
the  right  doesn't  always  win.  This  Mr.  Pivart's  a  rich  man, 
by  what  1  can  make  out,  and  the  rich  mostly  get  things 
their  own  way." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  stroking  her  dress 
down,  "I've  seen  what  riches  are  in  my  own  family;  for 
my  sisters  have  got  husbands  as  can  afford  to  do  pretty  much 
what  they  like.  But  I  think  sometimes  I  shall  be  drove 
off  my  head  with  the  talk  about  this  law  and  erigation; 
and  my  sisters  lay  all  the  fault  to  me,  for  they  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  marry  a  man  like  your  brother — how  should 


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152  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

they?  Sister  Pullet  has  her  own  way  from  morning  till 
night/' 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  " I  don't  think  I  should  like 
my  husband  if  he  hadn't  got  any  wits  of  his  own,  and  I 
had  to  find  head-piece  for  him.  It's  a  deal  easier  to  do 
what  pleases  one's  nusband,  than  to  be  puzzling  what  else 
one  should  do." 

"If  people  come  to  talk  'o  doing  what  pleases  their  hus- 
bands," said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  faint  imitation  of  her 
sister  Glegg,  '^  I'm  sure  your  brother  might  have  waited  a 
long  while  before  he'd  have  found  a  wife  that  'ud  have  let 
him  have  his  say  in  everything  as  I  do.  It's  nothing  but 
law  and  erigation  now,  from  when  we  first  get  up  in  the 
morning  till  we  go  to  bed  at  night;  and  I  never  contradict 
him;  I  only  say — ^Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  do  as  you  like;  but 
whativer  you  do,  don't  go  to  law.' " 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  without  influevice 
over  her  husband.  No  woman  is;  she  can  always  incline 
him  to  do  either  what  she  wishes  or  the  reverse;  ano  on 
the  composite  impulses  that  were  threatening  to  hurry  Mr. 
Tulliver  into  "law,"  Mrs.  Tulliver 's  monotonous  pleac-ing 
had  doubtless  its  share  of  force;  it  might  even  be  compar- 
able to  that  proverbial  feather  which  has  the  credi ;  or 
discredit  of  breaking  the  camel's  back;  though,  oa  a 
strictly  impartial  view,  the  blame  ought  rather  to  lie  v  ilh 
the  previous  weight  of  feathers  which  had  already  placed 
the  back  in  such  imminent  peril,  that  an  otherwise  inno- 
cent feather  could  not  settle  on  it  without  mischu^f. 
Not  that  Mrs.  Tulliver's  feeble  beseeching  could  have  had 
this  feather's  weight  in  virtue  of  her  single  personaMy; 
but  whenever  she  departed  from  entire  assent  to  her  hus- 
band, he  saw  in  her  the  representative  of  the  Dodson 
family;  and  it  was  a  guiding  principle  with  Mr.  Tulliver, 
to  let  the  Dodsons  know  that  they  were  not  to  domineer 
over  Mrriy  or — more  specifically — that  a  male  Tulliver  w  as 
far  more  than  equal  to  four  female  Dodsons,  even  though 
one  of  them  was  Mrs.  Glegg. 

But  not  even  a  direct  argument  from  that  typical  Dod- 
son  female  herself  against  his  going  to  law,  could  have 
heightened  his  disposition  toward  it  so  much  as  the  mere 
thought  of  Wakem,  continually  freshened  by  the  sight  of 
the  too  able  attorney  on  market-days.  Wakem,  to  his 
certain  knowledge,  was  (metaphorically  speaking)  at  the 
bottom  of  Pivart's  irrigation:  Wakem  had  tried  to  make 
Dix  stand  out,  and  go  to  law  about  the  dam :  it  was  unqiies- 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  153 

tionably  Wakera  who  had  caused  Mr.  Tulliver  to  lose  the 
suit  about  the  right  of  road  and  the  bridge  that  made  a 
thoroughfare  of  his  land  for  every  vagabond  who  preferred 
an  opportunity  of  damaging  private  property  to  walking 
like  an  honest  man  along  the  highroad:  all  lawyers  were 
more  or  less  rascals,  but  Wakem's  rascality  was  of  that 
peculiarly  aggravated  kind  which  placed  itself  in  opposi- 
tion to  that  form  of  right  embodied  in  Mr.  Tulliver's  inter- 
ests and  opinions.  And  as  an  extra  touch  of  bitterness, 
the  injured  miller  had  recently,  in  borrowing  the  five 
hundred  pounds,  been  obliged  to  carry  a  little  business  to 
Wakem's  office  on  his  own  account.  A  hook-nosed  glib 
fellow!  As  cool  as  a  cucumber — always  looking  so  sure  of 
his  game!  And  it  was  vexatious  that  Lawyer  Gore  was 
not  more  like  him,  but  was  a  bald,  round-feature i  man, 
with  bland  manners  and  fat  hands;  a  game-cock  that  you 
would  be  rash  to  bet  upon  against  Wakem.  Gore  was  a 
sly  fellow;  his  weakness  did  not  lie  on  the  side  of  scrupu- 
losity: but  the  largest  amount  of  winking,  however  signifi- 
cant, is  not  equivalent  to  seeing  through  a  stone  wall;  and 
confident  as  Mr.  Tulliver  was  m  his  principle  that  water 
was  water,  and  in  the  direct  inference  that  Pivart  had  not 
a  leg  to  stand  on  in  this  affair  of  irrigation,  he  had  an 
uncomfortable  suspicion  that  Wakem  had  more  law  to 
show  against  this  (rationally)  irrefragable  inference,  than 
Gore  could  show  for  it.  But  then,  if  they  went  to  law, 
there  was  a  chance  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to  emplojr  Counselor 
Wylde  on  his  side,  instead  of  having  that  admirable  bully 
against  him;  and  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  witness  of 
Wakem's  made  to  perspire  and  become  confounded,  as  Mr. 
Tulliver's  witness  nad  once  been,  was  alluring  to  the  love 
of  retributive  justice. 

Much  rumination  had  Mr.  Tulliver  on  these  puzzling 
subjects  during  his  rides  on  the  gray  horse — much  turning 
of  the  head  from  side  to  side,  as  the  scales  dipped  alter- 
nately; but  the  probable  result  was  still  out  of  sight,  only 
to  be  reached  through  much  hot  argument  and  iteration 
in  domestic  and  social  life.  That  initial  stage  of  the 
dispute  which  consisted  in  the  narration  of  the  case  and 
the  enforcement  of  Mr.  Tulliver^s  views  concerning  it 
throughout  the  entire  circle  of  his  connections  would 
necessarily  take  time,  and  at  the  beginning  of  February, 
when  Tom  was  going  to  school  again,  there  were  scarcely 
any  new  items  to  be  detected  in  his  fa  therms  statement  of 
the  case  against  Pivart,  or  any  more  specific  indication  of 


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154  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

the  measures  he  was  bent  on  taking  against  that  rash  con^ 
travener  of  the  principle  that  water  was  water.  Iteration, 
like  friction,  is  likely  to  generate  heat  instead  of  progress, 
and  Mr.  Tulliver^s  heat  was  certainly  more  and  more  pal- 
pable. If  there  had  been  no  new  evidence  on  any  other 
point,  there  had  been  new  evidence  that  Pivart  was  as 
"thick  as  mud '*  with  Wakem. 

"  Father,  ^^  said  Tom,  one  evening  near  the  end  of  the 
holidays,  "  uncle  Glegg  says  Lawyer  Wakem  is  going  to 
send  his  son  to  Mr.  Stelling.  It  isn't  true — ^what  they  said 
about  his  going  to  be  sent  to  France.  You  won't  like  me 
to  go  to  school  with  Wakem's  son,  shall  you?'* 

"  It's  no  matter  for  that,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver; 
*Mon't  you  learn  anything  bad  of  him,  that's  all.  The 
lad's  a  poor,  deformed  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  mother 
in  the  face :  I  think  there  isn't  much  of  his  father  in  him. 
It's  a  sign  Wakem  thinks  high  o'  Mr.  Stelling,  as  he  sends 
his  son  to  him,  and  Wakem  knows  meal  from  bran." 

Mr.  Tulliver  in  his  heart  was  rather  proud  of  the  fact 
that  his  son  was  to  have  the  same  advantages  as  Wakem's: 
but  Tom  was  not  at  all  easy  on  that  point;  it  would  have 
been  much  clearer  if  the  lawyer's  son  had  not  been  de- 
formed, for  then  Tom  would  have  had  the  prospect  of 
pitcliing  into  him  with  all  that  freedom  which  is  derived 
from  a  high  moral  sanction. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    NEW   SCHOOLFELLOW. 


It  was  a  cold,  wet  January  day  on  which  Tom  went  back 
to  school;  a  day  quite  in  keeping  with  this  severe  phase  of 
his  destiny.  If  he  had  not  carried  in  his  pocket  a  parcel  of 
sugar-candy  and  a  small  Dutch  doll  for  little  Laura,  there 
would  have  been  no  ray  of  expected  pleasure  to  enliven  the 
general  gloom.  But  he  liked  to  think  how  Laura  would 
put  out  her  lips  and  her  tiny  hands  for  the  bits  of  sugar- 
candy;  and,  to  give  the  greater  keenness  to  these  pleasures 
of  imagination,  he  took  out  the  parcel,  made  a  small  hole 
in  the  paper,  and  bit  off  a  crystal  or  two,  which  had  go 
solacing  an  effect  under  the  confined  prospect  and  damp 
odors  of  the  gig-umbrella,  that  he  repeated  the  process 
more  than  once  on  his  way. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  155 

'*  Well,  TuUiver,  we're  glad  to  see  you  again/'  said  Mr. 
Stelling,  heartily.  ^*  Take  off  your  wrappings  and  come  into 
the  study  till  dinner.  You'll  find  a  bright  fire  there,  and 
a  new  companion." 

Tom  felt  in  an  uncomfortable  flutter  as  he  took  oflf  his 
woolen  comforter  and  other  wrappings.  He  had  seen 
Philip  Wakem  at  St.  Ogg's,  but  had  always  turned  his  eyes 
away  from  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  would  have 
disliked  having  a  deiormed  boy  for  his  companion,  even  if 
Philip  had  not  been  the  son  of  a  bad  man.  And  Tom 
did  not  see  how  a  bad  man's  son  could  be  very  good.  His 
own  father  was  a  good  man,  and  he  would  readily  have 
fought  any  one  who  said  the  contrary.  He  was  in  a  state 
of  mingled  embarrassment  and  defiance  as  he  followed  Mr. 
Stelling  to  the  study. 

^'Here  is  a  new  companion  for  you  to  shake  hands  with, 
Tulliver,"  said  that  gentleman  on  entering  the  study — 
*' Master  Philip  Wakem.  I  shall  leave  you  to  make  ac- 
quaintance by  yourselves.  You  already  know  something 
of  each  other,  I  imagine,  for  you  are  neighbors  at  home." 

Tom  looked  confused  and  awkward,  while  Philip  rose 
and  glanced  at  him  timidly.  Tom  did  not  like  to  go  up 
and  put  out  his  hand,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to  say, 
*'How  do  you  do?"  on  so  short  a  notice. 

Mr.  Stelling  wisely  turned  away,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him:  boys'  shyness  only  wears  oflE  in  the  absence  of 
their  elders. 

Philip  was  at  once  too  proud  and  too  timid  to  walk 
toward  Tom.  He  thought,  or  rather  felt,  that  Tom  had 
an  aversion  to  looking  at  him:  every  one,  almost,  disliked 
looking  at  him;  and  his  deformity  was  more  conspicuous 
when  he  walked.  So  they  remained  without" shaking  hands 
or  even  speaking,  while  Tom  went  to  the  fire  and  warmed 
himself,  every  now  and  then  casting  furtive  glances  at 
Philip,  who  seemed  to  be  drawing  absently  first  one  object 
and  then  another  on  a  piece  of  paper  he  had  before  him. 
He  had  seated  himself  again,  and  as  he  drew,  was  think- 
ing what  he  could  say  to  Tom,  and  trying  to  overcome  his 
own  repugnance  to  making  the  first  advances. 

Tom  began  to  look  oftener  and  longer  at  Philip's  face, 
for  he  could  see  it  withouj;  noticing  the  hump,  and  it  was 
really  not  a  disagreeable  face  —  very  old-looking,  Tom 
thought.  He  wondered  how  much  older  Philip  was  than 
himself.  An  anatomist  —  even  a  mere  physiognomist  — 
would  have  seen  that  the  deformity  of  Philip's  spine  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


15({  THB  MILL  OK  THE  PLOSfl* 

not  a  congenital  hunr.p,  but  the  result  of  afi  accident  in 
infancy;  but  you  do  not  expect  from  Tom  any  acquaintance 
with  such  distinctions:  to  him,  Philip  was  simply  a  hump- 
back. He  had  a  vague  notion  that  the  deformity  of 
Wakem's  son  had  some  relation  to  the  lawyer's  rascality,  of 
which  he  had  so  often  heard  his  father  talk  with  hot  empha- 
sis; and  he  felt,  too,  a  half-admitted  fear  of  him  as  probably 
a  spiteful  fellow,  who,  not  being  able  to  fight  you,  had  cun- 
ning ways  of  doing  you  a  mischief  by  the  sly.  There  was 
a  humpbacked  tailor  in  the  neighborliood  of  Mr.  Jacobs's 
academy  who  was  considered  a  very  unamiable  character, 
and  who  was  much  hooted  after  by  public-spirited  boys 
solely  on  the  ground  of  his  unsatisfactory  moral  qualities; 
so  that  Tom  was  not  without  a  basis  of  fact  to  go  upon. 
Still,  no  face  could  be  more  unlike  that  ugly  tailor's  than  this 
melancholy  boy's  face;  the  brown  hair  round  it  waved  and 
curled  at  the  ends  like  a  girl's:  Tom  thought  that  truly 
pitiable.  This  Wakem  was  a  pale,  puny  fellow,  and  it  was 
quite  clear  that  he  would  not  be  aole  to  play  at  anything 
worth  speaking  of:  but  he  handled  his  pencil  in  an  envi- 
able manner,  and  was  apparently  making  one  thing  after 
another  without  any  trouble.  What  was  he  drawing?  Tom 
was  quite  warm  now,  and  wanted  something  new  to  be 
going  forward.  It  was  certainly  more  agreeable  to  have 
an  ill-natured  humpback  as  a  companion  than  to  stand 
looking  out  of  the  study  window  at  the  rain,  and  kicking 
his  foot  against  the  washboard  in  solitude;  something 
would  happen  every  day — ^*a  quarrel  or  something";  and 
Tom  thought  he  should  rather  like  to  show  Philip  that  he 
had  better  not  try  his  spiteful  tricks  on  him.  He  suddenly 
walked  across  the  hearth,  and  looked  over  Philip's  paper. 

**  Why,  that's  a  donkey  with  panniers — and  a  spaniel, 
and  partridges  in  the  corn ! "  he  exclaimed,  his  tongue  being 
completely  loosed  by  surprise  and  admiration.  "0  my 
buttons!  r  wish  I  could  draw  like  that.  I'm  to  learn 
drawing  this  half — I  wonder  if  I  shall  learn  to  make  dogs 
and  donkeys?" 

"  Oh,  you  can  do  them  without  learning,"  said  Philip; 
''I  never  learned  drawing!" 

**  Never  learned?"  said  Tom  in  amazement.  "Why, 
when  I  make  dogs  and  horses,  and  those  things,  the  heaSs 
and  the  legs  won't  come  right;  though  I  can  see  how  they 
ought  to  be  very  well.  I  can  make  houses  and  all  sorts  of 
chimneys — chimneys  going  all  down  the  wall,  and  windows 
in  the  roof,  and  all  that.     But  I  dare  say  I  could  do  dogs 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  157 

and  horses  if  I  was  to  try  more/'  he  added^  reflecting  that 
Philip  might  falsely  suppose  that  he  was  going  to  **  knock 
unde^/^if  he  were  too  frank  about  the  imperfection  of  his 
accomplishments. 

**  Oh,  yes/' said  Philip,  ^'  it's  very  easy.  You've  only  to 
look  well  at  things,  and  draw  them  over  and  over  again. 
What  you  do  wrong  once,  you  can  alter  the  next  time." 

**But  haven't  you  been  taught  a;jything?"  said  Tom, 
beginning  to  have  a  puzzled  suspicion  that  Philip's 
crooked  back  might  be  the  source  of  remarkable  faculties. 
"I  thought  you'd  been  to  school  a  long  while." 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  smiling,  **  I've  been  taught  Latin, 
and  Greek,  and  mathematics, —  and  writing,  and  such 
things." 

**  Oh,  but  I  say,  you  don't  like  Latin,  though,  do  you?" 
said  Tom,  lowering  his  voice  confidentially. 

**  Pretty  well;  I  don't  care  much  about  it,"  said  Philip. 

*^  Ah,  out  perhaps  you  haven't  ffot  into  the  Propria 
qum  maribus,  said  Tom  nodding  his  head  sideways,  as 
much  as  to  say,  ''  that  was  the  test:  it  was  easy  talking  till 
you  came  to  that,'' 

Philip  felt  some  bitter  complacency  in  the  promising 
stupidity  of  this  well-made  active-looking  boy;  but  made 

Solite  by  his  own  extreme  sensitiveness,  as  well  as  by  his 
esire  to  conciliate,  he  checked  his  inclination  to  laugh, 
and  said,  quietly — 

"I've  done  with  the  grammar;  I  don't  learn  that  any 
more." 

"  Then  you  won't  have  the  same  lessons  as  I  shall?"  said 
Tom,  with  a  sense  of  disappointment. 

/*  No;  but  I  dare  say  I  can  help  you.  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  help  you  if  I  can." 

Tom  did  not  say  "Thank  you,"  for  he  was  quite 
absorbed  in  the  thought  that  Wakcm's  son  did  not  seem 
so  spiteful  a  fellow  as  might  have  been  expected. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  presently,  "  do  you  love  your  father?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  coloring  deeply;  "  don't  you  love 
yours?" 

"  Oh,  yes 1  only  wanted  to  know,"  said  Tom,  rather 

ashamed  of  himself,  now  he  saw  Philip  coloring  and  look- 
ing uncomfortable.  He  found  much  difficulty  in  adjusting 
his  attitude  of  mind  toward  the  son  of  Lawyer  Wakem, 
and  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  if  Philip  disliked  his 
father,  that  fact  might  go  some  way  toward  clearing  up  hiq 
perplexity. 

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158  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

** Shall  you  learn  drawing  now?*'  he  said,  by  way  of 
ijhanging  the  subject. 

"No,"  said  Philip.  **My  father  wishes  me  to  give  all 
my  time  to  other  thmgs  now.*' 

"What!  Latin,  and  Euclid,  and  those  thijigs?''  said 
Tom. 

"  Yes/'  said  Philip,  who  had  left  off  using  his  pencil, 
and  was  resting  his  head  on  one  hand,  while  Tom  was 
leaning  forward  on  both  elbows,  and  looking  with  increas- 
ing admiration  at  the  dog  and  the  donkey. 

'*And  you  don't  mind  that?"  said  Tom,  with  strong 
curiosity. 

"  No;  I  like  to  know  what  everybody  else  knows.  I  can 
stAdy  what  I  like  by-and-by." 

**  1  can't  think  why  anybody  should  learn  Latin,"  said 
Tom.     *at's  no  good." 

"  It's  part  of  the  education  of  a  gentleman,"  said  Philip. 
"All  gentlemen  learn  the  same  things." 

"What!  do  you  think  Sir  John  Crake,  the  master  of 
the  harriers,  knows  Latin?"  said  Tom,  who  had  ofien 
thought  he  should  like  to  resemble  Sir  John  Crake. 

"He  learned  it  when  he  was  a  boy,  of  course,"  said 
Philip.     "  But  I  dare  say  he's  forgotten  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can  do  that,  then,"  said  Tom,  not  with  any 
epigrammatic  intention,  but  with  serious  satisfaction  at 
the  idea  that,  as  far  as  Latin  was  ooncemed,  there  was  no 
hindrance  to  his  resembling  Sir  John  Crake.  "Only 
you're  obliged  to  remember  it  while  you're  at  school,  else 
you've  got  to  learn  ever  so  many  lines  of  ^  Speaker.'  Mr. 
Stellin^s  very  particular  —  did  you  know?    He'll  have 

you  up  ten  times  if  you  say  *nam'  for  ^  jam ' he  won't 

let  you  go  a  letter  wrong,  1  can  tell  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Philip,  unable  to  choke  a 
laugh;  "I  can  remember  things  easily.     And  there  a'e 
some  lessons  I'm  very  fond  of.     I'm  very  fond  of  Gree  k 
history,  and  everything  about  the  Greeks.    I  should  like  1( 
have  been  a  GreeK  and  fought  the  Persians,  and  then  hai  \ 
come  home  and  have  written  tragedies,  or  else  have  bee  t 
listened  to  by  everybody  for  my  wisdom,  like  Socrates,  an  ( 
have  died  a  grand  death."     (Philip,  you  perceive,  was  n(i\i 
without  a  wish  to  impress  the  well-made  barbarian  with  a 
sense  of  his  mental  superiority.) 

"  Why,  were  the  Greeks  great  fighters?"  said  Tom,  wl/o 
eaw  A  vista  in  this  diroction.     "Is  there  anything  Ifk^ 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


'    SCHOOL-TIME.  169 

D*rid,  and  Goliath,  and  Samson,  in  the  Greek  history? 
TL  >se  are  the  only  bits  I  like  in  the  history  of  the  Jews." 

'  '  Oh,  there  are  very  fine  stories  of  that  sort  about  the 
Gr«  eks — about  the  heroes  of  early  times  who  killed  the 
wil  I  beasts,  as  Samson  did.  And  m  the  *  Odyssey ' — that's 
a  I  aautiful  poem — ^there's  a  more  wonderful  giant  than 
Go)*ath — Polypheme,  who  had  only  one  eye  in  the  middle 
of  1  is  forehead;  and  Ulysses,  a  little  fellow,  but  very  wise 
and  cunning,  got  a  red-hot  pine-tree  and  stuck  it  into  this 
one  eye,  and  made  him  roar  like  a  thousand  bulls.'' 

"Oh,  what  fun!"  said  Tom,  jumping  away  from  the 
table,  and  stamping  first  with  one  leg  and  then  the  other. 
*^I  say,  can  you  tell  me  all  about  those  stories?    Because  I 

shap/t  learn  Greek,  }rou  know. Shall  I?"  he  added, 

pausing  in  his  stamping  with  a  sudden  alarm,  lest  the 
con.;rary  might  be  possible.     "  Does  every  gentleman  learn 

Gre  ^k? ^Will  Mr.  Stellin  make  me  beging  with  it,  do  you 

^.hijk?" 

^  No,  I  should  think  not — very  likely  not,"  said  Philip. 
"^  B  it  you  majr  read  those  stories  without  knowing  Greet. 
TV  got  them  in  English." 

'  Oh,  but  I  don't  like  reading;  I'd  sooner  have  you  tell 
the  a  me.  But  only  the  fighting  ones,  you  know.  My 
sistjr  Maggie  is  always  wanting  to  tell  me  stories — but 
the  /'re  stupid  things.  Girls'  stories  always  are.  Can  you 
teli  a  good  manjr  fighting  stories?" 

'  Oh,  yes,"  said  Philip;  '*  lots  of  them,  besides  the  Greek 
sto  ies.  I  can  tell  you  about  Eichard  Coeur-de-Lion  and 
SaUdin,  and  about  William  Wallace,  iand  Kobert  Bruce, 
and  James  Douglas — I  know  no  end." 

"  You're  older  than  I  am,  aren't  you?"  said  Tom. 

'*  Why,  how  old  are  you  9    I'm  fifteen." 

"I'm  only  going  in  fourteen,"  said  Tom.  "But  I 
thrashed  all  the  fellows  at  Jaeobs's — that's  where  I  was 
before  I  came  here.  And  I  beat  'em  all  at  bandy  and  climb- 
ing. And  I  wish  Mr.  Stelling  would  let  us  go  fishing.  1 
could  show  you  how  to  fish.  You  could  fish,  couldn't  you? 
tt's  only  standing,  and  sitting  still,  you  know." 

Tom,  in  his  turn,  wished  to  make  the  balance  dip  in  his 
favor.  This  hunchback  must  not  suppose  that  his  acquaint- 
ance with  fighting  stories  put  him  on  a  par  with  an  actual 
fighting  hero,  like  Tom  Tulliver.  Philip  winced  under 
this  allusion  to  his  unfitness  for  active  sports,  and  he 
answered  almost  peevishly — 

^I  caii't  bear  fishing.     I  think  people  look  like  fools 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


*^1 


160  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FJ.088. 

sitting  watching  a  line  hour  after  hour— or  else  throwing 
and  throwing,  and  catching  nothing." 

"Ah,  but  you  wouldn't  say  they  looked  like  fools  when 
they  landed  a  big  pike,  I  can  tell  you,^'  said  Tom,  who 
had  never  caught  anything  that  was  *^big"  in  his  life, 
but  whose  imagination  was  on  the  stretch  with  indignant 
zeal  for  the  honor  of  sport.  Wakem's  son,  it  was  plain, 
had  his  disagreeable  points,  and  must  be  kept  in  due 
check.  Happily  for  the  harmony  of  this  first  interview, 
they  were  now  called  to  dinner,  and  Philip  was  not  allowed 
to  develop  farther  his  unsound  views  on  the*  subject  of 
fishJng.  But  Tom  said  to  himself,  that  was  just  what  he 
should  have  expected  from  a  hunchback. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

"THE  YOUNG  IDEA/* 


The  alternations  of  feeling  in  that  first  dialogue  between 
Tom  and  Philip  continued  to  mark  their  intercourse  even 
after  many  weeks  of  schoolboy  intimacy.  Tom  never  quite 
lost  the  feeling  that  Philip,  being  the  son  of  a  '^  rascal, '' 
was  his  natural  enemy,  never  thoroughly  overcame  his 
repulsion  to  Philip's  deformity:  he  was  a  boy  who 
adhered  tenaciously  to  impressions  once  received:  as  with 
all  minds  in  which  mere  perception  predominates  over 
thought  and  emotion,  the  external  remained  to  him  rigidly 
what  it  was  in  the  first  instance.  But  then,  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  like  Philip's  company  when  he  was  in  a  good 
humor;  he  could  help  one  so  well  in  one's  Latin  exer- 
cises, which  Tom  regarded  as  a  kind  of  puzzle  that  could 
only  be  found  out  by  a  lucky  chance;  and  he  could  tell 
such  wonderful  fighting  stories  about  Hal  of  the  AVynd, 
for  example,  and  other  heroes  who  were  especiar  favor- 
ites with  Tom,  because  they  laid  nbout  them  with  such 
heavy  strokes.  He  had  a  very  small  opinion  of  Saladin 
whose  scimiter  could  cut  a  cushion  in  two  in  an  instant: 
who  wanted  to  cut  cushions?  That  was  a  stupid  story, 
and  he  didn't  care  to  hear  it  again.  But  when  Eobert 
Bruce,  on  the  black  pony,  rose  in  his  stirrups,  and,  lifting 
his  good  battle-axe,  cracked  at  once  the  helmet  and  the 
gkull  of  tjie  too  hasty  knight  at  Bannockburii;,  then  Ton; 

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SCHOOL-TIME.  161 

fell  all  the  exaltation  of  sympathy,  and  if  he  had  had  a 
cocoanut  at  hand,  he  would  have  cracked  it  at  once  with 
the  poker.  Philip  in  his  happier  moods  indulged  Tom  to 
the  top  of  his  bent,  heightening  the  crash  and  bang  and 
fury  of  every  fight  with  all  the  artillery  of  epithets  and 
similes  at  his  command.  But  he  was  not  always  in  a  good 
humor  or  happy  mood.  The  slight  spurt  of  peevish  sus- 
ceptibility which  had  escaped  him  in  their  first  interview, 
was  a  symptom  of  a  perpetually  recurring  mental  ailment — 
half  of  it  nervous  irritability,  half  of  it  the  heart-bitter- 
ness produced  by  the  sense  of  his  deformity.  In  these  fits 
of  susceptibility  every  glance  seemed  to  him  to  be  charged 
eitlier  with  offensive  pity  or  with  ill-repressed  disgust — at 
the  very  least  it  was  an  indifferent  glance,  and  Philip  felt 
indifference  as  a  child  of  the  south  feels  the  chill  air  of  a 
northern  spring.  Poor  Tjom^s  blundering  patronage  when 
they  were  out  of  doors  together  would  sometimes  make 
hiiyi  turn  upon  the  well-meaning  lad  quite  savagely;  and 
his  eyes,  usually  sad  and  quiet,  would  flash  with  anything 
but  playful  lightning.  No  wonder  Tom  retained  his 
suspicions  of  the  humpback. 

I?ut  Philip^s  self-taught  skill  in  drawing  was  another 
link  between  them;  for  Tom  found,  to  his  disgust,  that 
his  new  drawing-master  gave  him  no  dogs  and  donkeys  to 
draw,  but  brooks  and  rustic  bridges  and  ruins — ^all  with  a 
geaeral  softness  of  black-lead  surface,  indicating  that 
nature,  if  anything,  was  rather  satiny;  and  as  Tom's  feel- 
ing for  the  picturesque  in  landscape  was  at  present  quite 
latent,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Mr.  Goodrich  s  productions 
seemed  to  him  an  uninteresting  form  of  art.  Mr.  Tulli- 
v<5r,  having  a  vague  intention  that  Tom  should  be  put  to 
seme  business  which  included  the  drawing  out  of  plans 
and  maps,  had  complained  to  Mr.  Eiley,  when  he  saw  him 
at  Mudport,  that  Tom  seemed  to  be  learning  nothing  of 
that  sort;  whereupon  that  obliging  adviser  had  suggested 
that  Tom  should  have  drawing-lessons.  Mr.  TuUiver 
must  not  mind  paying  extra  for  drawing:  let  Tom  be  made 
a  good  draughtsman,  and  he  would  be  able  to  turn  his 
pencil  to  any  purpose.  So  it  was  ordered  that  Tom  should 
nave  drawing-lessons;  and  whom  should  Mr.  Stelling  have 
selected  as  a  master  if  not  Mr.  Goodrich,  who  was  con- 
sidered quite  at  the  head  of  his  profession  within  a  circuit 
of  twelve  miles  round  King's  Lorton?  By  which  means 
Tom  learned  to  make  an  extremely  fine  point  to  his  pencil, 
and.  to  represent  landscape  with   a  "broad  generality,'' 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


162  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

which,  doubtless,  from  a  narrow  tendency  in  his  mind  to 
details,  he  thought  extremely  dull. 

All  this,  you  remember,  happened  in  those  dark  ages 
when  there  were  no  schools  of  design — before  school- 
masters were  invariably  men  of  scrupulous  integrity,  and 
before  the  clergy  were  all  men  of  enlarged  minds  and 
varied  culture.  In  those  less  favored  days,  it  is  no  fable 
that  there  were  other  clergymen  besides  Mr.  Stelling  who 
had  narrow  intellects  and  large  wants,  and  whose  income, 
by  a  logical  confusion  to  which  Fortune,  being  a  female  as 
well  as  blindfold,  is  peculiarly  liable,  was  proportioned  not 
to  their  wants  but  to  their  intellect — with  which  income 
has  clearly  no  inherent  relation.  The  problem  these 
gentlemen  had  to  solve  was  to  readjust  the  proportion 
between  their  wants  and  their  income;  and  smce  wants 
are  not  easily  starved  to  death,  the  simpler  met]iod 
appeared  to  be — to  raise  their  income.  There  was  but 
one  way  of  doing  this;  any  of  those  low  callings  in  which 
men  are  obliged  to  do  good  work  at  a  low  price  were 
forbidden  to  clergymen:  was  it  their  fault  if  their  only 
resource  was  to  turn  out  very  poor  work  at  a  high  price? 
Besides,  how  should  Mr.  Stelling  be  expected  to  know 
that  education  was  a  delicate  and  diflBcult  business?  any 
more  than  an  animal  endowed  with  a  power  of  boring  a 
hole  through  a  rock  should  be  expected  to  have  wide 
views  of  excavation.  Mr.  Stelling^s  faculties  had  been 
early  trained  to  boring  in  a  straight  line,  and  he  had  no 
faculty  to  spare.  But  among  Tom's  contemporaries, 
whose  fathers  cast  their  sons  on  clerical  instruction  to 
find  them  ignorant  after  many  days,  there  were  many  far 
less  lucky  than  Tom  Tulliver.  Education  was  almost 
entirely  a  matter  of  luck — usually  of  ill  luck — in  those 
distant  days.  The  state  of  mind  in  which  you  take  a 
billiard-cue  or  a  dice-box  in  your  hand  is  one  of  sober 
certainty  compared  with  that  of  old-fashioned  fathers, 
like  Mr.  Tulliver,  when  they  selected  a  school  or  a  tutor 
foi  their  sons.  Excellent  men,  who  had  been  forced  all 
their  lives  to  spell  on  an  impromptu-phonetic  system,  and 
having  carried  on  a  successful  business  in  spite  of  this 
disadvantage,  had  acquired  money  enough  to  give  their 
sons  a  better  start  in  life  than  they  had  had  themselves, 
must  necessarily  take  their  chance  as  to  the  conscience 
and  the  competence  of  the  schoolmaster  whose  circular 
fell  in  their  way,  and  appeared  to  promise  so  much  more 
than    they    would    ever    have    thought    of    asking   for. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  •  163 

including  the  return  of  linen,  fork,  and  spoon.  It  was 
happy  for  them  if  some  ambitious  draper  of  their 
acquaintance  had  not  brought  up  his  son  to  the  Church, 
and  if  that  young  gentleman,  at  the  age  of  four-and- 
twenty,  had  not  closed  his  college  dissipations  by  an 
imprudent  marriage:  otherwise,  these  innocent  fathers, 
desirous  of  doing  the  best  for  their  offspring,  could  only 
escape  the  draper's  son  by  happening  to  be  on  the 
foundation  of  a  grammar-school  as  yet  unvisited  by 
commissioners,  where  two  or  three  boys  could  have,  all 
to  themselves,  the  advantages  of  a  large  and  lofty  build- 
ing, together  with  a  head-master,  toothless,  dim-eyed,  and 
deaf,  whose  erudite  indistinctness  and  inattention  were 
engrossed  by  them  at  the  rate  of  three  hundred  pounds 
ahead — a  ripe  scholar,  doubtless,  when  first  appointed; 
but  all  ripeness  beneath  the  sun  has  a  further  stage  less 
esteemed  in  the  market. 

Tom  Tnlliver,  then,  compared  with  many  other  British 
youths  of  his  time  who  have  since  had  to  scramble  through 
life  with  some  fragments  of  more  or  less  relevant  knowl- 
edge, and  a  great  deal  of  strictly  relevant  ignorance,  was 
not  so  very  unlucky.  Mr.  Stelhng  was  a  broad-chested 
healthy  man,  with  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  a  convic- 
tion that  a  growing  boy  required  a  sufficiency  of  beef,  and 
a  certain  hearty  kindness  in  him  that  made  him  like  to  see 
Tom  looking  well  and  enioying  his  dinner;  not  a  man  of 
refined  conscience,  or  with  any  deep  sense  of  the  infinite 
issues  belonging  to  everyday  duties;  not  quite  competent 
to  his  high  offices;  but  mcompetent  gentlemen  must  live, 
and  without  private  fortune  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  they 
could  all  live  genteelly  if  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  edu- 
cation or  government.  Besides,  it  was  the  fault  of  Tom's 
mental  constitution  that  his  faculties  could  not  be  nour- 
ished on  the  sort  of  knowledge  Mr.  Stelling  had  to  com- 
municate. A  boy  born  with  a  deficient  power  of  appre- 
hending signs  and  abstractions  must  suffer  the  penalty  of 
his  congenital  deficiency,  just  as  if  he  had  been  Dorn  with 
one  leg  shorter  than  the  other.  A  method  of  education 
sanctioned  by  the  long  practice  of  our  venerable  ancestors 
was  not  to  give  way  before  the  exceptional  dullness  of  a 
boy  who  was  merely  living  at  the  time  then  present.  And 
Mr.  Stelling  was  convinced  that  a  boy  so  stupid  at  signs 
and  abstractions  must  be  stupid  at  everything  else,  even  if 
that  reverend  gentleman  could  have  taught  him  everything 
else.     It  was  the  practice  of  our  venerable  ancestors  to 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


164  .    THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

apply  that  ingenious  instrument  the  thumb-screw,  and  to 
tighten  and  tighten  it  in  order  to  elicit  non-existent  facts, 
'they  had  a  fixed  opinion  to  begin  with,  that  the  facts  were 
existent,  and  what  had  they  to  do  but  to  tighten  the 
thumb-screw?  In  like  manner,  Mr.  Stelling  had  a  fixed 
opinion  that  all  boys  with  any  capacity  could  learn  what  it 
was  the  only  regular  thing  to  teach:  if  they  were  slow,  the 
thumb-screw  must  be  tightened — the  exercises  must  be 
insisted  on  with  increased  severity,  and  a  page  of  Virgil 
be  awarded  as  a  penalty,  to  encourage  and  stimulate  a  too 
languid  inclination  to  Latin  verse. 

The  thumb-screw  was  a  little  relaxed,  however,  during 
this  second  half-year.  Philip  was  so  advanced  in  his  studios, 
and  so  apt,  that  Mr.  Stelling  could  obtain  credit  by  his 
facility,  which  required  little  help,  much  more  easily  than 
by  the  troublesome  process  of  overcoming  Tom^s  dullness. 
Gentlemen  with  broad  chests  and  ambitious  intentions  do 
sometimes  disappoint  their  friends  by  failing  to  carry 
the  world  before  them.  Perhaps  it  is,  that  high  achieve- 
ments demand  some  other  unusual  qualification  besides  an 
unusual  desire  for  high  prizes;  perhaps  it  is  that  these 
stalwart  gentlemen  are  rather  indolent,  their  divmcB  par- 
ticulum  aurcB  being  obstructed  from  soaring  by  a  too  hearty 
appetite.  Some  reason  or  other  there  was  why  Mr.  Stel- 
ling deferred  the  execution  of  many  spirited  projects — 
why  he  did  not  begin  the  editing,  of  his  Greek  play, 
or  any  other  work  of  scholarship,  in  his  leisure  hours, 
but,  after  turning  the  key  of  nis  private  study  with 
much  resolution,  sat  down  to  one  of  Theodore  Hookas 
novels.  Tom  was  gradually  allowed  to  shuffle  through 
his  lessons  with  less  rigor,  and  having  Philip  to  help 
him,  he  was  able  to  make  some  show  of  having  jipplied  his 
mind  in  a  confused  and  blundering  way,  without  being 
cross-examined  into  a  betrayal  that  his  mind  had  been 
entirely  neutral  in  the  matter.  He  thought  school  much 
more  bearable  under  this  modification  of  circumstiances; 
and  he  went  on  contentedly  enough,  picking  up  a  promis- 
cuous education  chiefly  from  things  that  were  not  intendeil 
as  education  at  all.  What  was  understood  to  be  his  educa- 
tion was  simply  the  practice  of  reading,  writing,  and  spell- 
ing, carried  on  by  an  elaborate  appliance  of  unintelligible 
ideas,  and  by  much  failure  in  the  effort  to  learn  by  rote. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  visible  improvement  in  Tom 
under  this  training;  perhaps  because  he  was  not  a  boy  in 
the  abstract,  existing  solely  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  a  mis- 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCHOOL-TIME.  1G5 

taken  education,  but  a  boy  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  with 
dispositions  not  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  circumstances. 

There  was  a  great  improvement  in  his  bearing,  for 
example,  and  some  credit  on  this  score  was  due  to  Mr. 
Poulter,  the  village  sctfool master,  who,  being  an  old  Pen- 
insular soldier,  was  employed  to  drill  Tom — a  source  of 
high  mutual  pleasure.  Mr.  Poulter,  who  was  understood 
by  the  company  at  the  Black  Swan  to  have  once  struck 
terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  French,  was  no  longer  person- 
ally formidable.  He  had  rather  a  shrunken  appearance, 
and  was  tremulous  in  the  mornings,  not  from  age,  but 
from  the  extreme  perversity  of  the  King's  Lorton  boys, 
which  nothing  but  gin  could  enable  him  to  sustain  with  any 
firmness.  Still,  he  carried  himself  with  martial  erectness, 
had  his  clothes  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  trousers  tightly 
strapped  ;  and  on  the  Wednesday  and  Saturday  aftermoons, 
when  he  came  to  Tom,  he  was  always  inspired  with  gin 
and  old  memories,  which  gave  him  an  exceptionally  spirited 
air,  as.  of  a  superannuated  charger  who  nears  the  drum. 
The  drilling-lessons  were  always  protracted  by  episodes  of 
warlike  narrative,  much  more  interresting  to  Tom  than 
Philip's  stories  out  of  the  ^^Illiad,"  for  there  were  no 
cannon  in  the  '^  Illiad,''  and  besides,  Tom  had  felt  some 
disgust  on  learning  that  Hector  and  Achilles  might  pos- 
sibly never  have  existed.  But  the  Duke  of  AVellington 
was  really  alive,  and  Bony  had  not  been  long  dead,  there- 
fore Mr.  Poulter's  reminiscences  of  the  Peninsular  War  were 
removed  from  all  suspicion  of  being  mythical.  Mr.  Poul- 
ter, it  appeared  had  been  a  conspicuous  figure  at  Talavera, 
and  had  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  peculiar  terror  with 
which  his  regiment  of  infantry  was  regarded  by  the  enemy. 
On  afternoons,  when  his  mAnory  was  more  stimulated 
than  usual,  he  remembered  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
had  (in  strict  privac}^  lest  jealousies  should  be  awakened)^ 
expressed  his  esteem  for  that  fine  fellow,  Poulter.  The 
very  surgeon  who  attended  him  in  the  hospital,  after  he 
had  received  his  gunshot  wound,  had  been  profoundly 
impressed  with  the  superiority  of  Mr.  Poulter's  flesh:  no 
other  flesh  would  have  healed  in  anything  like  the  same 
time.  On  less  personal  matters  connected  with  the  im- 
portant warfare  in  which  he  had  been  engaged,  Mr.  Poulter 
was  more  reticent,  only  taking  care  not  to  give  the  weight 
of  his  authority  to  any  loose  notions  concerning  military 
history.  Any  one  who  pretended  to  a  knowledge  of  what 
occurred  at  the  siege  of  Badajos,  was  especially  an  object 

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166  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

of  silent  pity  to  Mr.  Poulter;  he  wished  that  prating  per 
son  bad  been  run  down,  and  had  the  breath  trampled  out 
of  him  at  the  first  go-off,  as  he  himself  had — ^he  might  talk 
about  the  siege  of  Sadajos  then!  Tom  did  not  escape  irri- 
tating his  drilling-master  oceasionaUy,  by  his  curiosity  con- 
cerning other  military  matters  than  Mr.  Poulter's  personal 
experience. 

"  And  General  Wolfe,  Mr.  Poulter?  wasn^t  he  a  wonder- 
ful fighter?"  said  Tom,  who  held  the  notion  that  all  the 
martial  heroes  commemorated  on  Jhe  public-house  signs 
were  engaged  in  the  war  with  Bony. 

"  Not  at  all ! "  said  Mr.  Poulter,  contemptuously.  "  Noth- 
ing o'  the  sort! Heads  up,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 

stern  command,  which  delighted  Tor     and  made  him  feel 
as  if  he  were  a  regiment  in  his  own  person. 

^^No,  no!"  Mr.  Poulter  would  continue,  on  coming  to  a 
pause  in  his  discipline.  *^  They'd  better  not  talk  to  me 
about  General  Wolfe.  He  did  nothing  but  die  of  his  wound: 
that's  a  poor  haction,  I  consider.    Any  other  man  'ud  have 

died  o'  the  wounds  I've  had One  of  my  sword-cuts  'ud 

ha'  killed  a  fellow  like  General  Wolfe." 

^*  Mr.  Poulter,"  Tom  would  say,  at  any  allusion  to  the 
sword,  **  I  wish  you'd  bring  your  sword  and  do  the  sword- 
exercise!" 

For  a  long  while  Mr.  Poulter  only  shook  his  head  in  a 
significant  manner  at  this  request,  and  smiled  patroniz- 
ingly, as  Jupiter  may  have  done  when  Semele  urged  her 
too  ambitious  request.  But  one  afternoon,  when  a  sudden 
shower  of  heavy  rain  had  detained  Mr.  Poulter  twenty 
minutes  longer  than  usual  at  the  Black  Swan,  the  sword 
was  brought — just  for  Tom  to  look  at. 

"And  this  is  the  real  sword  you  fought  with  in  all  the 
battles,  Mr.  Poulter?  "  said  Tom,  handling  the  hilt.  "  Has 
it  ever  cut  a  Frenchman's  head  off?" 

"Head  off?    Ah!  and  would,  if  he'd  had  three  heads." 

"  But  you  had  a  gun  and  bayonet  besides?"  said  Tom. 
"  /  should  like  the  gun  and  bayonet  best,  because  you 
could  shoot  'em  first  and  spear  'em  after.  Bang!  Ps-s-s-s! " 
Tom  gave  the  requisite  pantomime  to  indicate  the  double 
enjoyment  of  pulling  the  trigger  and  thrusting  the  spear. 

"  Ah,  but  the  sword's  the  thing  when  you  come  to  close 
fighting,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  involuntarily  falling  in  with 
Tom's  enthusiasm,  and  drawing  the  sword  so  suddenly 
that  Tom  leaped  back  with  much  agility. 

"  Oh,  but,  Mr.  Poulter,  if  you're  going]  to  do  the  ezer« 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  167 

cise/'  said  Tom,  a  little  conscious  that  he  had  not  stood 
his  ground  as  became  an  Englishman,  "let  me  go  and  call 
Philip.     He^ll  like  to  see  you,  you  know/^ 

**'WhatI  the  humpbacked  lad?'^  said  Mr.  Poulter,  con- 
temptuously.    "  What^s  the  use  of  Ms  looking  on?  " 

**  Oh,  but  he  knows  a  p:reat  deal  about  fighting/'  said 
Tom,  "and  how  they  used  to  fight  with  bows  and  arrows, 
and  battle-axes. '^ 

"Let  him  come  then.  Fll  show  him  something  differ- 
ent from  his  bows  and  arrows, '^  said  Mr.  Poulter,  coughing, 
and  drawing  himself  up,  while  he  gave  a  little  preliminary 
play  to  his  wrist. 

Tom  ran  in  to  Philip,  who  was  enjoying  his  afternoon's 
holiday  at  the  piano,  m  the  drawing-room,  picking  out 
tunes  for  himself  and  singing  them.  He  was  supremely 
happy,  perched  like  an  amorphous  bundle  on  the  high 
stool,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
opposite  cornice,  and  his  lips  wide  open,  sending  forth, 
with  all  his  might,  impromptu  syllables  to  a  tune  of  Arne's, 
which  had  hit  his  fancy. 

"Come,  Philip,''  said  Tom,  bursting  in;  "don't  stay 
roaring  "^la,  la' there — come  and  see  old  Poulter  do  his 
sword-exercise  in  the  carriage-house!" 
•  The  jar  of  this  interruption — ^the  discord  of  Tom's  tones 
coming  across  the  notes  to  which  Philip  was  vibrating  in 
soul  and  body,  would  have  been  enough  to  unhinge  his 
temper,  even  if  there  had  been  no  question  of  Poulter  the 
drilling-master;  and  Tom,  in  the  hurry  of  seizing  some- 
thing to  sav  to  prevent  Mr.  Poulter  from  thinking  he  was 
afraid  of  the  sword  when  he  sprang  away  from  it,  had 
alighted  on  this  proposition  to  fetch  Philip — ^though  he 
knew  well  enough  that  Philip  hated  to  hear  him  mention 
his  drilling-lessons.  Tom  would  never  have  done  so 
inconsiderate  a  thing  except  under  the  severe  stress  of  his 
personal  pride. 

Philip  'shuddered  visibly  as  he  paused  from  his  music. 
Then  turning  red,  he  said,  with  violent  passion — 

"Get  away,  you  lumbering  idiot!  Don't  come  bellowing 
at  me — you're  not  fit  to  speak  to  anything  but  a  cart- 
horse!" 

,  It  was  not  the  first  time  Philip  had  been  made  angry  by 
him,  but  Tom  had  never  before  been  assailed  with  verbal 
missiles  that  he  understood  so  well. 

"I'm  fit  to  speak  to  something  better  than  you — ^you 
poor-spirited  imp!"  said  Tom,  lighting  up  immediately  at 

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1C8  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

Philip's  fire.  "You  know  I  won't  hit  you,  because  you're 
no  better  than  a  girl.  But  I'm  an  honest  man's  son,  and 
your  father's  a  rogue — everybody  suys  so!" 

Tom  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  slammed  the  door  after 
n  m,  made  strangely  heedless  by  his  anger;  for  lo  slam 
d  jors  within  the  Bearing  of  Mrs.  Stelling,  who  was  proba- 
\  ly  not  far  off,  was  an  offense  only  to  be  wiped  out  by 
i  ^enty  lines  of  Virgil.  In  fact,  that  lady  did  presently 
'lescend  from  her  room,  in  double  wonder  at  the  noise  and 
.he  subsequent  cessation  of  Philip's  music.  She  found 
aim  sitting  in  a  heap  on  the  hassock,  and  crying  bitterly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Wakem?  What  was  that  noise 
about?    Who  slammed  the  door?" 

Philip  looked  up,  and  hastily  dried  his  eyes.  "It  was 
Tulliver  who  came  in ^to  ask  me  to  go  out  with  him." 

"And  what  are  you  in  trouble  about?  "  said  Mrs.  Stelling. 

Philip  was  not  her  favorite  of  the  two  pupils;  he  was 
less  obliging  than  Tom,  who  was  made  useful  in  many 
ways.  Still  his  father  paid  more  than  Mr.  Tulliver  did, 
and  she  meant  him  to  feel  that  she  behaved  exceedingly 
well  to  him.*  Philip,  however,  met  her  advances  toward 
a  good  understanding  very  much  as  a  caressed  mollusk 
meets  an  invitation  to  show  himself  out  of  his  shell.  Mrs. 
Stelling  was  not  a  loving,  tender-hearted  woman*  she  was 
a  woman  whose  skirt  sat  well,  who  adjusted  her  waist  and 
patted  her  curls  with  a  preoccupied  air  when  she  inquired 
olinr  your  welfare.  These  things,  doubtless,  represent  a 
groat  social  power,  but  it  is  not  the  power  of  love — and  no 
other  power  could  win  Philip  from  his  personal  regerve. 

He  said,  in  answer  to  her  question,  "My  toothache  came 
on,  and  made  me  hysterical  again." 

This  had  been  the  fact  once,  and  Philip  was  glad  of  the 
recollection — ^it  was  like  an  inspiration  to  enable  him  to 
excuse  his  crying.  He  had  to  accept  eau-de-Cologne,  and 
to  refuse  creosote  in  consequence;  but  that  was  easy. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  who  had  for  the  first  time  sent  a 
poisoned  arrow  into  Philip's  heart,  had  returned  to  the 
carriage-house,  where  he  found  Mr.  Poulter,  with  a  fixed 
and  earnest  eye,  wasting  the  perfections  of  his  sword  exer- 
cise on  probably  observant  but  inappreciative  rats.  But 
Mr.  Poulter  was  a  host  in  himself;  that  is  to  say,  he 
admired  himself  more  than  a  whole  army  of  spectators 
could  have  admired  him.  He  took  no  notice  of  Tom's 
return,  being  too  entirely  absorbed  in  the  cut  and  thrust — 
the  solemn  one,  two,  three,  four;  and  Tom,  not  without  a 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  160 

slight  feeling  of  alarm  at  Mr.  Poulter's  fixed  eye  and 
hungry-looking  sword,  which  seemed  impatient  for  some- 
thing else  to  cut  besides  the  air,  admired  the  performance 
from  as  great  a  distance  as  possible.  It  was  not  until  Mr. 
Poulter  paused  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head, that  Tom  felt  the  full  charm  of  the  sword  exercise, 
and  wished  it  to  be  repeated. 

*'Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  when  the  sword  was  being 
finally  sheathed,  *'I  wish  youM  lend  me  your  sword  a  little 
while  to  keep." 

**  No,  no,  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  shaking 
his  head  decidedly,  ^^you  might  do  yourself  some  mischief 
with  it." 

"  No,  Pm  sure  I  wouldn^t — Pm  sure  I'i  take  care  and 
not  hurt  myself.  I  shouldn't  take  it  out  of  the  sheath 
much,  but  I  could  ground  arms  with  it,  and  all  that." 

"  No,  no,  it  won't  do,  I  tell  you  ;  it  won't  do,"  said  Mr. 
Poulter,  preparing  to  depart.  '^  What  'ud  Mr.  Stelling  say 
tome?" 

"  Oh,  I  say  do,  Mr.  Poulter !  I'd  give  you  my  five  shil- 
ling piece  if  you'd  let  me  keep  the  sword  a  week.  Look 
here  ! "  said  Tom,  reaching  out  the  attractively  large  round 
of  silver.  The  young  dog  calculated  the  effect  as  well  as 
if  he  had  been  a  philosopher. 

^^Well,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  with  still  deeper  gravity, 
''you  must  keep  it  out  of  sight,  you  know." 

"  Oh  yes,  I'll  keep  it  under  the  bed,"  said  Tom,  eagerly, 
'*  or  else  at  the  bottom  of  my  large  box." 

''And  let  me  see,  now,  whether  you  can  draw  it  out  of 
the  sheath  without  hurting  yourself." 

That  process  having  been  gone  through  more  than  once, 
Mr.  Poulter  felt  that  he  had  acted  with  scrupulous  consci- 
entiousness, and  said,  '^  Well,  now.  Master  Tulliver,  if  I 
take  the  crown-piece  it  is  to  make  sure  as  you'll  do  no 
mischief  with  the  sword." 

*'0h,  no,  indeed,  Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  delightedly, 
handing  him  the  crown-piece,  and  grasping  the  sword, 
which,  he  thought,  might  have  been  lighter  with  advantage. 

''But,  if  Mr.  Stelling  catches  you  carrying  it  in  ?"  said 
Mr.  Poulter,  pocketing  the  crown-piece  provisionally  while 
he  raised  this  new  doubt. 

"  Oh,  he  always  keeps  in  his  up-stairs  study  on  Saturday 
afternoons,"  said  Tom,  who  disliked  anything  sneaking, 
but  was  not  disinclined  to  a  little  strategem  in  a  worthy 


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170  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

cause.  So  he  carried  off  the  sword  in  triumph,  niixed  with 
dread— dread  that  he  might  encounter  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling 
— to  his  bedroom,  where,  after  some  consideration,  he  hid 
it  in  the  closet  behind  some  hanging  clothes.  That  night 
he  fell  asleep  in  the  thought  that  he  would  astonish 
Maggie  with  it  when  she  came — tie  it  around  his  waist 
with  his  red  comforter,  and  make  her  believe  that  the 
sword  was  his  own,  and  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  soldier. . 
There  was  nobody  but  Maggie  who  would  be  silly  enough 
to  believe  him,  or  whom  he  dared  allow  to  know  that  he 
had  a  sword;  and  Maggie  was  really  coming  next  week  to 
see  Tom,  before  she  went  to  a  boarding-school  with  Lucy. 
If  you  think  a  lad  of  thirteen  would  not  have  been  so 
childish,  you  must  be  an  exceptionally  wise  man,  who, 
although  you  are  devoted  to  a  civil  calling,  requiring  you 
to  look  bland  rather  than  formidable,  yet  never,  since  you 
had  a  beard,  threw  yourself  into  a  martial  attitude  and 
frowned  before  the  looking-glass.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
our  soldiers  would  be  maintained  if  there  were  not  pacific 
people  at  home  who  liked  to  fancy  themselves  soldiers. 
War,  like  other  dramatic  spectacles,  might  possibly  cease 
for  want  of  a  "  public. '^ 


CHAPTER  V. 

MAGGIE'S  SECOND  VISIT. 


This  last  breach  between  the  two  lads  was  not  readilj 
mended,  and  for  some  time  they  spoke  to  each  other  no 
more  than  was  necessary.  Their  natural  antipathy  of 
temperament  made  resentment  an  easy  passage  to  hatred, 
and  in  Philip  the  transition  seemed  to  have  begun:  there 
was  no  malignity  in  his  disposition,  but  there  was  a  sus- 
ceptibility that  made  him  peculiarly  liable  to  a  strong 
sense  of  repulsion.  The  ox — we  may  venture  to  assert  it 
on  the  authority  of  a  great  classic— is  not  given  to  use 
his  teeth  as  an  instrument  of  attack;  and  Tom  was  an 
excellent  bovine  lad,  who  ran  at  questionable  objects  in  a 
truly  ingenious  bovine  manner;  but  he  had  blundered  on 
Philip's  tenderest  point,  and  had  caused  him  as  much  acute 
pain  as  if  he  had  studied  the  means  with  the  nicest  pre- 
cision and  the  most  envenomed  spite.     Tom  saw  no  reason 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  171 

why  they  should  not  make  up  this  quarrel  as  they  had 
done  many  others,  by  behaving  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 

Eened;  for  though  he  had  never  before  said  to  Philip  that 
is  father  was  a  rogue,  this  idea  had  so  habitually  made 
Eart  of  his  feeling  as  to  the  relation  between  himself  and 
is  dubious  schoolfellow,  whom  he  could  neither  like  nor 
dislike,  that  the  mere  utterance  did  not  make  such  an 
epoch  to  him  as  it  did  to  Philip.  And  he  had  a  right  to 
say  so  when  Philip  hectored  over  hirriy  and  called  him 
names.  But  perceiving  that  his  first  advances  toward 
amity  were  not  met,  he  relapsed  into  his  least  favorable 
disposition  toward  Philip,  and  resolved  never  to  appeal  to 
him  either  about  drawing  or  exercises  again.  Tliey  were 
only  so  far  civil  to  each  other  as  was  necessary  to  prevent 
their  state  of  feud  from  being  observed  by  Mr.  Stelling, 
who  would  have  "put  down?  such  nonsense  with  great 
vigor. 

When  Maggie  came,  however,  she  could  not  help  looking 
with  growing  interest  at  the  new  schoolfellow,  although 
he  was  the  son  of  that  wicked  Lawyer  Wakem,  who  made 
her  father  so  angry.  She  had  arrived  in  the  middle  of 
school-hours,  and  had  sat  by  while  Philip  went  througli 
his  lessons  with  Mr.  Stelling.  Tom,  some  weeks  ago,  had 
sent  her  word  that  Philip  knew  no  end  of  stories — not 
stupid  stories  like  hers;  and  she  was  convinced  now  from 
her  own  observation  that  he  must  be  very  clever:  she  hoped 
he  would  think  her  rather  clever  too,  when  she  came  to 
talk  to  him.  Maggie,  moreover,  had  rather  ft  tenderness 
for  deformed  things;  she  preferred  the  wry-necked  lambs, 
because  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  lambs  wliich  were  quite 
strong  and  well  made  wouldn^t  mind  so  much  about  being 
petted;  and  she  was  especially  fond  of  petting  objects  that 
would  think  it  very  delightful  to  be  petted  by  her.  She 
loved  Tom  very  dearly,  but  she  often  wished  i\it.\,  he  cared 
more  about  her  loviiig  him. 

"  I  think  Philip  Wakem  seems  a  nice  boy,  Tom,'*  she 
said,  when  they  went  out  of  the  study  together  into  the 
garden,  to  pass  the  interval  before  dinner.  "  He  couldn't 
choose  his  father,  you  know;  and  I've  read  of  very  bad  men 
who  had  good  sons,  as  well  as  good  parents  who  had  bad 
children.  And  if  Philip  is  good,  I  think  we  ought  to  be 
the  more  sorry  for  him  because  his  father  is  not  a  good  man. 
You  like  him,  don't  you?" 

^^Oh,  he's  a  queer*^ fellow,"  said  Tom,  curtly,  "and  he'p 
AS  sulky  as  can  be  with  me,  because  I  told  him  his  father 


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172  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

was  a  rogue.  And  I*d  a  right  to  tell  him  so,  for  it  was 
true — and  he  began  it  with  calling  me  names.  But  you 
stop  here  by  yourself  a  bit,  Maffsie,  will  you  ?  IVe  got 
something  I  want  to  do  up-stairs. 

"  Can't  I  go  too  ?  '*  said  Maggie,  who  in  this  first  day  of 
meeting  again,  loved  Tom's  shadow. 

"No,  it's  something  I'll  tell  you  about  by-and-by,  not 
yet,"  said  Tom,  skipping  away. 

In  the  afternoon  the  boys  were  at  their  books  in  the 
study,  preparing  the  morrow's  lessons,  that  they  might 
have  a  holiday  in  the  evening  in  honor  of  Maggie's  arrival. 
Tom  was  hanging  over  his  Latin  grammar,  moving  his  lips 
inaudibly  like  a  strict  but  impatient  Catholic  repeating  his 
task  of  paternosters ;  and  Philip,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  was  busy  with  two  volumes,  with  a  look  of  contented 
diligence  that  excited  Maggie's  curiosity ;  he  did  not  look 
at  all  as  if  he  were  learning  a  lesson.  She  sat  on  a  low 
stool  at  nearly  a  right  angle  with  the  two  boys,  watching 
first  one  and  then  the  other;  and  Philip,  looking  off  his 
book  once  toward  the  fireplace,  caught  the  pair  of  question- 
ing dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  He  thought  this  sister  of 
TuUiver's  seemed  a  nice  little  thing,  quite  unlike  her 
brother ;  he  wished  he  had  a  little  sister.  What  was  it,  he 
wondered,  that  made  Maggie's  dark  eyes  remind  him  of  the 

stories  about  princesses  being  turned  into  animals? 

I  think  it  was  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  unsatisfied  intelli- 
gence, and  unsatisfied,  beseeching  affection. 

"I  say,  Magsie,"  said  Tom  at  last,  shutting  his  books 
and  putting  them  away  with  the  energy  and  decision  of  a 
perfect  master  in  the  art  of  leaving  off,  "I've  done  my 
lessons  now.     Come  up-fetairs  with  me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Maggie,  when  they  were  outside  the 
door,  a  slight  suspicion  crossing  her  mind  as  she  remem- 
bered Tom's  preliminary  visit  up-stairs.  "It  isn't  a  trick 
you're  going  to  play  me  now  ?  " 

"No,  no,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  in  his  most  coaxing  tone; 
"it's  something  you'll  like  ever  so.'' 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  neck,  and  she  put  hers  round  his 
waist,  and,  twined  together  in  this  way,  they  went  up  ctairs. 

"I  say,  Magsie,  you  must  not  tell  anybody,  you  know," 
raid  Tom,  "else  I  shall  get  fifty  lines." 

"Is  it  alive?"  said  Maggie,  whose  imagination  had 
settled  for  the  moment  on  the  idea  that  Tom  kept  a  ferret , 
clandestinely. 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  173 

*'  Oh,  I  shan^t  tell  you/'  said  ho.  "  Now  you  go  into 
that  corner  and  hide  your  face,  while  I  reach  it  out,''  he 
abided,  as  he  locked  the  bedroom  door  behind  them.  **  Til 
t'jll  you  when  to  turn  round.  You  mustn't  squeal  out,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  but  if  YOU  frighten  me,  I  shall,"  said  Maggie, 
beginning  to  look  rather  serious. 

*^  You  won't  be  frightened,  you  silly. thing,"  said  Tom. 
' ''  Go  and  hide  your  face,  and  mind  you  don't  peep." 

"Of  course  I  shan't  peep,"  said  Maggie,  disdainfully; 
a  ad  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  like  a  person  of  strict 
honor. 

But  Tom  looked  round  warily  as  he  walked  to  the  closet; 
then  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  space,  and  almost  closed 
the  door.  Maggie  kept  her  face  buried  without  the  aid  of 
principle,  for  m  that  dream-suggestive  attitude  she  had 
soon  forgotten  where  she  was,  and  her  thoughts  were  busy 
with  the  poor  deformed  boy,  who  was  so  clever,  when  Tom 
called  out,  "Now  then,  Magsie!" 

Nothing  but  long  meditation  and  preconcerted  arrange- 
ment of  effects  could  have  enabled  Tom  to  present  so 
striking  a  figure  as  he  did  to  Maggie  when  she  looked  up. 
Dissatisfied  with  the  pacific  aspect  of  a  face  which  had  no 
more  than  the  faintest  hint  of  flaxen  eyebrow,  together  with 
a  pair  of  amiable  blue-gray  eyes  and  round  pink  cheeks  that 
refused  to  look  formidable,  let  him  frown  as  he  would 
before  the  looking-glass — (Philip  had  once  told  him  of  a 
man  who  had  a  horse-shoe  frown,  and  Tom  had  tried  with 
all  his  frowning-might  tq  make  a  horse-shoe  on  his  fore- 
head)— ^he  had  had  recourse  to  that  unfailing  source  of  the 
terrible,  burnt  cork,  and  had  made  himself  a  pair  of  black 
eyebrows  that  met  in  a  satisfactory  manner  over  his  nose, 
and  were  matched  by  a  less  carefully  adjusted  blackness 
,  about  the  chin.  He  had  wound  a  red  handkerchief  round 
his  cloth  cap  to  give  it  the  air  of  a  turban,  and  his  red  com- 
forter across  his  breast  as  a  scarf — an  amount  of  red  which, 
with  the  tremendous  frown  on  his  brow,  and  the  decision 
witli  which  he  grasped  the  sword,  as  he  held  it  with  its 
point  resting  on  the  ground,  would  suffice  to  convey  an 
approximative  idea  oi  his  fierce  and  bloodthirsty  dispo- 
sition. 

Maggie  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  Tom 
enjoyed  that  moment  keenly;  but  in  the  next  she  laughed, 
clapped  her  hands  together,  and  said,  "Oh,  Tom,  you've 
made  yourself  like  Bluebeard  at  the  show." 

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174  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

It  was  clear  she  had  not  been  struck  with  the  presence 
of  the  sword — it  was  not  unsheathed.  Her  frivolous  mind 
required  a  more  direct  appeal  to  its  sense  of  the  terrible, 
and  Tom  prepared  for  his  master-stroke.  Frowning  with 
a  double  amount  of  intention,  if  not  of  corrugation,  he 
(carefully)  drew  the  sword  from  its  sheath,  and  pointed  it 
at  Maggie. 

^^  On,  Tom,  please  don%'^  exclaimed  Maggie,  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  dread,  shrinking  away  from  him  into  the  oppo- 
site corner.  '^  I  shall  scream — Vm  sure  I  shall!  Oh,  don^! 
I  wish  rd  never  come  up-stairsl^^ 

The  corners  of  Tom's  mouth  showed  an  inclination  to  a 
smile  of  complacency  that  was  immediately  checked  as 
inconsistent  with  the  severity  of  a  great  warrior.  Slowly  he 
let  down  the  scabbard  on  the  floor,  lest  it  should  make  too 
much  noise,  and  then  said,  sternly  — 

"Fm  the  Duke  of  Wellington!  March !^^  stamping  for- 
ward with  the  right  leg  a  little  bent,  and  the  sword  still 
))ointing  toward  Maggie,  who,  trembling,  and  with  tear- 
filled  eyes,  got  upon  the  bed,  as  the  only  means  of  widening 
the  space  between  them. 

Tom,  happy  in  this  spectator  of  his  military  perform- 
ances, even  though  the  spectator  was  only  Maggie,  proceeded 
with  the  utmost  exertion  of  his  force  to  such  an  exhibition 
of  the  cut  and  thrust  as  would  necessarily  be  expected  of 
the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

*•  Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it — I  will  scream,^'  said  Maggie, 
at  the  first  movement  of  the  sword.  "  You^U  hurt  your- 
self; you'll  cut  your  head  off!" 

'^One — two,'*  said  Tom,  resolutely,  though  at  "two^* 
his  wrist  trembled  a  little.  "  Three  "  came  more  slowly, 
and  with  it  the  sword  swung  downward,  and  Maggie  gave 
a  loud  shriek.  The  sword  had  fallen,  with  its  edge  ou 
Tom's  foot,  and  in  a  moment  after  he  had  fallen,  too. 
Maggie  leaped  from  the  bed,  still  shrieking,  and  imme- 
diately there  was  a  rush  of  footsteps  toward  the  room.  Mr. 
Stelling,  from  his  up-stairs  study,  was  the  fii'st  to  enter. 
He  found  both  the  children  on  the  floor.  Tom  had  fainted, 
and  Maggie  was  shaking  him  by  the  collar  of  his  jacket, 
screaming,  with  wild  eyes.  She  thought  he  was  dead,  poor 
child!  and  yet  she  shook  him,  as  if  that  would  bring  him 
back  to  life.  In  another  minute  she  was  sobbing  with  joy 
because  Tom  had  opened  his  eyes:  slie  couldn't  sorrow  yet 
that  he  had  hurt  his  foot — it  seemed  iis  if  all  happiness 
lay  in  his  being  alive. 


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13CH00L-TIME.  175 

CHAPTER  VL 

A  LOVE  SCENE. 

Poor  Tom  bore  his  severe  pain  heroically,  and  was 
resolute  in  not  *^  telling^'  of  Mr.  Poulter  more  than  was 
unavoidable:  the  five-shilling  piece  remained  a  secret  even 
to  Maggie.  But  there  was  a  terrible  dread  weighing  on 
his  mind — so  terrible  that  he  dared  not  even  ask  the 
question  which  might  bring  the  fatal  **ye8'' — he  dared 
not  ask  the  surgeon  or  Mr.  Stelling,  ^*  Shall  I  be  lame, 
sir?'^  He  mastered  himself  so  as  not  to  cry  out  at  the 
pain,  but  when  his  foot  had  been  dressed,  and  he  was  left 
alone  with  Maggie  seated  by  his  bedside,  the  children 
sobbed  together  with  their  heads  laid  on  the  same  pillow. 
Tom  was  thinking  of  himself  walking  about  on  crutches, 
like  the  wheelwright^s  son;  and  Maggie,  who  did  not 
guess  what  was  in  his  mind,  sobbed  for  company.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  the  surgeon  or  to  Mr.  Stelling  to  anticipate 
this  dread  in  Tom^s  mind,  and  to  reassure  him  by  hopeful 
words.  But  Philip  watched  the  surgeon  out  of  the  house, 
and  waylaid  Mr.  Stelling  to  ask  the  very  question  that  Tom 
had  not  dared  to  ask  for  himself. 

^^I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, — but  does  Mr.  Askem  say 
TuUiverwill  be  lame?'' 

*^  Oh,  no,  oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Stelling,  *^not  permanently, 
only  for  a  little  while.'' 

**  Did  he  tell  TuUiver  so,  sir,  do  you  think?" 

^^No:  nothing  was  said  to  him  on  the  subject.'^ 

^^Then  may  I  go' and  tell  him,  sir?" 

*^  Yes,  to  be  sure:  now  you  mention  it,  I  dare  say  he  may 
be  troubling  about  that.  Go  to  his  bedroom,  but  be  very 
quiet  at  present." 

It  had  been  Philip's  first  thought  when  he  heard  of  the 
accident — *^  Will  Tulliver  be  lame?  It  will  be  very  hard 
for  him  if  he  is  " — and  Tom's  hitherto  unf orgiyen  offenses 
were  washed  out  by  that  pity,  thilip  felt  that  they  were 
no  longer  in  a  state  of  repulsion,  but  were  being  drawn 
into  a  common  current  of  suffering  and  sad  privation. 
His  imagination  did  not  dwell  on  the  outward  calamity 
and  its  future  effect  on  Tom's  life,  but  it  made  vividly 
present  to  him  the  probable  state  of  Tom's  feeling.  Philip 
had  only  lived  fourteen  years,  but  those  years  had,  most 

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176  THE  MILL  ON  THETLOSS. 

of  them,  been  steeped  in  the  sense  of  a  lot  irremediably 
hard. 

**  Mr.  Askern  says  you ^11  soon  be  all  right  again,  Tulliver, 
did  you  know?"  he  said,  rather  timidly,  as  he  stepped 
gently  up  to  Tom^s  bed.  **rve  just  been  to  ask  Mr.  Stel- 
ling,  and  he  says  you^U  walk  as  well  as  ever  again  by, 
iind-by.^' 

Tom  looked  up  with  that  momentary  stopping  of  thg 
breath  which  comes  with  a  sudden  joy;  then  he  gave  a 
long  sigh,  and  turned  his  blue-gray  eyes  straight  on 
Philip's  face,  as  he  had  not  done  for  a  fortnight  or  more, 
As  for  Maggie,  this  intimation  of  a  possibility  she  had  not 
thought  of  before,  affected  her  as  a  new  trouble;  the  baio 
idea  of  Tom's  being  always  lame  overpowered  the  assur- 
ance that  such  a  misfortune  was  not  likely  to  befall  him, 
and  she  clung  to  him  and  cried  afresh. 

''Don't  be  a  little  silly,  Magsie,"  said  Tom,  tenderly^ 
feeling  very  brave  now.     "  I  shall  soon  get  well." 

"Good-bye,  Tulliver,"  said  Philip,  putting  out  his 
small,  delicate  hand,  which  Tom  clasped  immediately  with 
his  more  substantial  fingers. 

*'I  say,"  said  Tom,  *'ask  Mr.  Stelling  to  let  you  come 
and  sit  with  me  sometimes,  till  I  got  up  again,  Wakem — 
and  tell  me  about  Eobert  Bruce,  you  know." 

After  that,  Philip  spent  all  his  time  out  of  school-honis 
with  Tom  and  Maggie.  Tom  liked  to  hear  fighting  stories 
as  much  as  ever,  but  he  insisted  strongly  on  the  fact  that 
those  great  fighters,  who  did  so  many  wonderful  things 
and  came  off  unhurt,  wore  excellent  armor  from  head  to 
foot,  which  made  fighting  easy  work,  he  considered.  He 
should  not  have  hurt  his  foot  if  he  had  had  an  iron  shoo 
on.  He  listened  with  great  interest  to  a  new  story  of 
Pliilip's  about  a  man  who  had  a  very  bad  wound  in  bi.> 
foot,  and  cried  out  so  dreadfully  with  the  pain  that  h\^ 
friends  could  bear  with  him  no  longer,  but  put  him  ashore 
on  a  desert  island,  with  nothing  but  some  wonderii:! 
poisoned  arrows  to  kill  animals  with  for  food. 

"  I  didn't  roar  out  a  bit,  you  know,"  Tom  said,  "  and  I 
dare  say  my  foot  was  as  baft  as  his.   It's  cowardly  to  roar." 

But  Maggie  would  have  it  that  when  anything  hurt  you 
very  much,  it  was  quite  permissible  to  cry  out,  and  it  was 
crufel  of  people  not  to  bear  it.  She  wanted  to  know  if  Phil- 
octetes  had  a  sister,  and  why  she  didn't  go  with  him  on 
the  desert  island  and  take  care  of  him. 

One  day,  soon  after  Philip  had  told  this  story,  he  and 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


SCnOOL-TIMB.  177 

Maggie  were  in  the  study  alone  together  while  Tom's  foot 
was  being  dressed.  Philip  was  at  his  books,  and  Maggie, 
after  sauntering  idly  round  the  room,  not  caring  to  do 
anything  in  particular,  because  she  would  soon  go  to  Tom 
again,  went  and  leaned  on  the  table  near  Philip  to  see 
what  he  was  doing,  for  they  were  quite  old  friends  now, 
and  perfectly  at  home  with  each  other. 

"  What  are  you  reading  about  in  Greek?  "  she  said.  ^*  It's 
poetry — I  can  see  that,  because  the  lines  are  so  short." 

^^It's  about  Philoctetes — the  lame  man  I  was  telling  you 
of  yesterday,''  he  answered,  resting  his  head  on  his  h.-md, 
and  looking  at  her,  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  sorry  to  be 
interrupted.  Maggie,  in  her  absent  way,  continued  to 
lean  forward,  resting  on  her  arms  and  moving  her  feet 
about,  while  her  dark  eyes  got  more  and  more  fixed  jind 
vacant,  as  if  she  had  quite  forgotten  Philip  and  his  book. 

"Maggie,"  said  Philip,  after  a  minute  or  two,  still 
leaning  on  his  elbow  and  looking  at  her,  "  if  you  had  had 
a  brother  like  me,  do  you  think  you  should  have  loved  him 
as  well  as  Tom?" 

Maggie  started  a  little  on  being  roused  from  her  reverie, 
and  said,  "What?"    Philip  repeated  his  question. 

"Oh,  yes,  better,"  she  answered,  immediately.  "No, 
not  better;  because  I  don't  think  I  could  love  you  better 
than  Tom.     But  I  should  be  so  sorry— £0  sorry  for  you." 

Philip  colored:  he  had  meant  to  imply,  would  she  love 
him  as  well  in  spite  of  his  deformity,  and  yet  when  she 
alluded  to  it  so  plainly',  he  winced  under  her  pity.  Mag- 
gie, young  as  she  was,  felt  her  mistake.  Hitherto  she  had 
instinctively  behaved  as  if  she  were  quite  unconscious  of 
Philip's  deformitv:  her  own  keen  sensitiveness  and  experi- 
ence under  family  criticism  sufficed  to  teach  her  this  as 
well  as  if  she  had  been  directed  by  the  most  finished 
breeding. 

"But  you  are  so  very  clever,  Philip,  and  you  oan  play 
and  sing,"  she  added,  quickly.  "I  wish  you  were  my 
brother.  I'm  very  fond  of  you.  And  you  would  stay  at 
l^ome  with  me  when  Tom  went  out,  and  you  would  teach 
me  everything — wouldn't  you?    Greek  and  everything?" 

"But  you'll  go  away  soon,  and  go  to  school,  Maggie," 
said  Philip,  "and  then  you'll  forget  all  about  me,  and  not 
care  for  me  any  more.  And  then  I  shall  see  you  when 
you're  grown  up,  and  you'll  hardly  take  any  notice  of  me." 

"Oh,  ho,  I  shan't  forget  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Maggie, 
fhaking  her  he^d  very  seriously,  ^'l  i^ever  forget  any- 
Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


178  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

thing,  and  I  think  about  everybody  when  I*m  away  from 
them.  I  think  about  poor  Yap — he^s  got  a  lump  in  his 
throat,  and  Luke  says  he'll  die.  Only  don't  telL  Tom, 
because  it  will  vex  him  so.  You  never  saw  Yap:  he's  a 
queer  little  dog — nobody  cares  about  him  but  Tom  and 
me." 

^'Do  you  care  as  much  about  me  as  you  do  about  Yap, 
Maggie?"  said  Philip,  smiling  rather  sadly. 
,     "  Oh,  yes,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Maggie,  laughing. 

*' I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Maggie;  I  shall  never  forget 
yow,"  said  rhilip,  **and  when  I'm  very  unhappy,  I  shall 
always  think  of  you,  and  wi§h  I  had  a  sister  with  dark 
eyes,  just  like  yours." 

**  Why  do  you  like  my  eyes?"  said  Maggie,  well*  pleased. 
Slic  had  never  heard  any  one  but  her  father  speak  of  her 
eyes  as  if  they  had  merit. 

**I  don't  know,"  said  Philip.  *' They're  not  like  any 
other  eyes.  They  seem  trying  to  speak — trying  to  speak 
kindly.  I  don't  like  other  people  to  look  at  me  much,  but 
I  like  you  to  look  at  me,  Maggie." 

'^  Why,  I  think  you're  fonder  of  me  than  Tom  is,"  said 
Maggie,  rather  sorrowfully.  Then,  wondering  how  she 
could  convince  Philip  that  she  could  like  him  just  as  well, 
although  he  was  crooked,  she  said — 

*^ Should  you  like  me  to  kiss  you,  as  I  do  Tom?  I  will, 
if  you  like." 

"Yes,  very  much:  nobody  kisses  me." 

Maggie  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed,  him  quite 
earnestly. 

** There  now,"  she  said,  "I  shall  always  remember  you, 
jmd  kiss  you  when  I  see  you  again,  if  it's  ever  so  long. 
15 lit  I'll  go  now,  because  I  think  Mr.  Askern^s  done  with 
Tom's  foot." 

When  their  father  came  the  second  time,  Maggie  said  to 
him,  "  0  father,  Philip  Wakem  is  so  very  good  to  Tom — 
he  is  such  a  clever  boy,  and  I  do  love  him.  And  you  love 
him  too,  Tom,  don't  you?  Say  you  love  him,"  she  added, 
entreatingly. 

Tom  colored  a  little  as  he  looked  at  his  father,  and  said, 
**  I  shan't  be  friends  with  him  when  I  leave  school,  father; 
but  we've  made  it  up  now,  since  my  foot  has  been  bad,  and 
he's  taught  me  to  play  at  draughts,  and  I  can  beat  him.'* 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  "if  he's  good  to  you, 
try  and  make  him  amends,  and  be  good  to  Mm.  He's  a 
poor  crooked  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  dead  mptjix^r^ 

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SCHOOL-TIME.  179 

Bat  don^t  you  be  getting  too  thick  with  him — he's  got  his 
father's  blood  in  him,  too.  Aye,  aye,  the  gray  colt  may 
chance  to  kick' like  his  black  sire/' 

The  jarring  natures  of  the  two  boys  effected  what  Mr. 
TuUiver's  admonition  alone  might  have  failed  to  effect:  in 
spite  of  Philip's  new  kindness,  and  Tom's  answering  regard 
in  this  time  of  his  trouble,  they  never  became  close  friends. 
When  Maggie  was  gone,  and  when  Tom  by-and-by  began 
to  walk  about  as  usual,  the  friendly  warmth  that  had  been 
kindled  by  pity  and  gratitude  died  out  by  decrees,  an4  left 
them  in  their  old  relation  to  each  other.  Philip  was  often 
peevish  and  contemptuous;  and  Tom's  more  specific  and 
kindly  impressions  gradually  melted  into  the  old  back- 
ground of  suspicion  and  dislike  toward  him  as  a  queer 
fellow,  a  humpback,  and  the  son  of  a  rogue.  If  boys  and 
men  are  to  be  welded  together  in  the  glow  of  transient 
feeling,  they  must  be  made  of  metal  that  will  mix,  else 
they  inevitably  fall  asunder  when  the  heat  dies  out. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE  GOLDEN  GATES  ARE  PASSED. 

So  Tom  trent  on  even  to  the  fifth  half-year — till  he  was 
turned  sixteen  —  at  King^s  Lorton,  while  Maggie  was 
growing  with  a  rapidity  which  her  aunts  considered  highly 
reprehensible,  at  Miss  Firniss's  boarding-school  in  the 
ancient  town  of  Laceham  on  the  Floss,  with  cousin  Lucy 
for  her  companion.  In  her  early  letters  to  Tom  she  had 
always  sent  her  love  to  Philip,  and  asked  many  questions 
about  him,  which  were  answered  by  brief  sentences  about 
Tom's  toothache,  and  a  turf-house  which  he  was  helping 
to  build  in  the  garden,  with  other  items  of  that  kind.  She 
was  pained  to  hear  Tom.  say  in  the  holidays  that  Philip 
was  as  queer  as  ever  again,  and  often  cross:  they  were  no 
longer  very  good  friends,  she  perceived;  and  when  she 
reminded  Tom  that  he  ought  always  to  love  Philip  for 
being  so  good  to  him  when  nis  foot  was  bad,  he  answered, 
^'Well,  it  isn't  my  fault:  /  don't  do  anything  to  him." 
She  hardly  ever  saw  Philip  during  the  remainder  of  their 
school-life;  in  the  Midsunjmer  nolidays  he  was  always 
»way  at  the  seaside,  and  at  Christmas  she  could  only  me^t 

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180  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

him  at  long  intervals  in  the  streets  of  St.  Ogg^s.  When 
they  did  meet,  she  remembered  her  promise  to  kiss  him, 
but,  as  a  young  lady  who  had  been  at  a  bbarding-school, 
she  knew  now  that  such  a  greeting  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  Philip  would  not  expect  it.  The  promise  was  void, 
like  so  many  other  sweet,  illusory  promises  of  our  child- 
hood; void  as  promises  made  in  Eden  before  the  seasons 
were  divided,  and  when  the  starry  blossoms  grew  side  by 
side  with  the  ripening  peach  —  impossible  to  be  fulfilled 
when  the  golden  gates  had  been  passed. 

But  when  their  father  was  actually  engaged  in  the  long- 
threatened  lawsuit,  and  Wakem,  as  the  agent  at  once  of. 
Pivart  and  Old  Harry,  was  acting  against  him,  even  Maggie 
felt,  with  some  sadness,  that  they  were  not  likely  ever  to 
have  any  intimacy  with  Philip  again:  the  very  name  of 
Wakem  made  her  father  angry,  and  she  had  once  heard 
him  say,  that  if  that  crook-backed  son  lived  to  inherit  his 
father's  ill-gotten  gains,  there  would  be  a  curse  upon  him. 
**  Have  as  little  to  do  with  him  at  school  as  you  can,  my 
lad,''  he  said  to  Tom;  and  the  command  was  obeyed  the 
more  easily  because  Mr.  Stelling  by  this  time  had  two  addi- 
tional pupils;  for  though  this  gentleman's  rise  in  the  world 
was  not  of  that  meteor-like  rapidity  which  the  admirers  of 
his  extemporaneous  eloquence  had  expected  for  a  preacher 
whose  voice  demanded  so  wide  a  sphere,  he  had  yet  enough 
of  growing  prosperity  to  enable  him  to  increase  his  expend- 
iture in  continued  disproportion  to  his  income? 

As  for  Tom's  school  course,  it  went  on  with  mill-like 
monotony,  his  mind  continuing  to  move  with  a  slow,  half- 
stifled  pulse  in  a  medium  of  uninteresting  or  unintelligible 
ideas.  But  each  vacation  he  brought  home  larger  and 
larger  drawings  with  the  satiny  rendering  of  landscape, 
and  water-colors  in  vivid  greens,  together  with  manuscript 
books  full  of  exercises  and  problems,'  in  which  the  hand- 
writing was  all  the  finer  because  he  gave  his  whole  mind 
to  it.  Each  vacation  he  brought  home  a  new  book  or  two, 
indicating  his  progress  through  different  stages  of  history. 
Christian  doctrine,  and  Latin  literature;  and  that  passage 
was  not  entirely  without  result,  besides  the  possession  of 
the  books.  Tom's  ear  and  tongue  had  become  accustomed 
to  a  great  many  words  and  phrases  which  are  understood 
lo  be  signs  of  an  educated  condition;  and  though  he  had 
never  really  applied  his  mind  to  any  one  of  his  lessons,  the 
lossons  had  left  a  deposit  of  yague,  fragmentary,  ineffect- 
Hal  notions,    Mr.  TuUiyer,  seeing  signs  o|  aqquirement 

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SCHOOL-TIME.  181 

beyond  the  reach  of  his  own  criticism,  thought  it  was 
probably  all  right  with  Tom^s  education:  he  observed, 
indeed,  that  there  were  no  maps,  and  not  enough  '*  sum- 
ming '^;  but  he  made  no  formal  complaint  to  Mr.  Stelling. 
It  was  a  puzzling  business,  this  schooling;  and  if  he  took 
Tom  away,  where  could  he  send  him  with  better  effect? 

By  the  time  Tom  had  reached  his  last  quarter  at  King's 
Lorton,  the  years  had  made  striking  changes  in  him  since 
the  day  we  saw  him  returning  from  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy. 
He  was  a  tall  youth  now,  carrying  himself  without  the 
least  awkwardness,  and  speaking  without  more  shyness 
than  was  a  becoming  symptom  of  blended  diffidence  and 
pride:  he  wore  his  tail-coat  and  his  stand-up  collars,  and 
watched  the  down  on  his  lip  with  eager  impatience,  look- 
ing every  day  at  his  virgin  razor,  with  whicn  he  had  pro- 
vided himself  in  the  last  holidays.  Philip  had  already 
left — at  the  autumn  quarter — that  he  might  go  to  the 
south  for  the  winter,  for  the  sake  of  his  health;  and  this 
change  helped  to  give  Tom  the  unsettled,  exultant  feeling 
that  usually  belongs  to  the  last  months  before  leaving 
school.  This  quarter,  too,  there  was  some  hope  of  his 
father's  lawsuit  being  decided:  that  made  the  prospect  of 
home  pore  entirely  pleasurable.  For  Tom,  who  had 
gathered  his  view  of  the  case  from  his  father's  conversa- 
tion, had  no  doubt  that  Pivart  would  be  beaten. 

Tom  had  not  heard  anything  from  home  for  some 
weeks — a  fact  which  did  not  surprise  him,  for  his  father 
and  mother  were  not  apt  to  manifest  their  affection  in 
unnecessary  letters — when,  to  his  great  surprise,  on  the 
morning  oi  a  dark  cold  day  near  the  end  of  November,  he 
was  told,  soon  after  entering  the  study  at  nine  o'clock, 
that  his  sister  was  in  the  drawing-room.  It  was  Mrs. 
Stelling  who  had  come  into  the  study  to  tell  him,  and  she 
left  him  to  enter  the  drawing-room  alone. 

Maggie,  too,  was  tall  now,  with  braided  and  coiled  hair: 
she  was  almost  as  tall  as  Tom,  though  she  was  only  thir- 
teen; and  she  really  looked  older  than  he  did  at  that 
moment.  She  had  thrown  off  her  bonnet,  her  heavy  braids 
were  pushed  back  from  her  forehead,  as  if  it  would  not 
bear  that  extra  load,  and  her  young  face  had  a  strangely 
worn  look,  as  her  eyes  turned  anxiously  toward  the  door. 
When  Tom  entered  she  did  not  spe^ik,  but  only  went  up 
to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him 
earnestly.  He  was  used  to  various  moods  of  hers,  and 
ielt  no  alarm  at  the  unusual  seriousness  of  her  greeting. 

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182  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

''Why,  how  is  it  youVe  come  so  early  this  cold  morning, 
Maggie r  Did  you  come  in  the  gig?  said  Tom,  as  she 
backed  toward  the  sofa,  and  drew  liim  to  her  side. 

*'No,  I  came  by  the  coach.  Fve  walked  from  the 
turnpike.'' 

*^  But  how  is  it  you're  not  at  school  ?  The  holidays  have 
not  begun  yet?" 

"  Father  wanted  me  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  slight 
trembling  of  the  lip.  "  I  came  home  three  or  four  days 
ago." 

"  Isn't  my  father  well?  "  said  Tom,  rather  anxiously. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Maggie.  "  He's  very  unhappy,  Tom. 
The  lawsuit  is  ended,  and  I  came  to  tell  you  because  I 
thought  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  know  it  before  you 
came  home,  and  I  didn't  like  only  to  send  you  a  letter." 

"My  father  hasn't  lost?"  said  Tom,  hastily,  springing 
from  the  sofa,  and  standing  before  Maggie  with  his  hands 
suddenly  thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"Yes,  dear  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him  with 
trembling. 

Tom  was  silent  a  minute  or  two,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor.     Then  he  said — 

"My  father  will  have  to  pay  a  good  deal  of  money, 
then?^' 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  rather  faintly. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Tom,  bravely,  not  trans- 
lating the  loss  of  a  large  sum  of  money  into  any  tangible 
results.  "But  my  father  is  very  much  vexed,  I  dare  say?" 
he  added,  looking  at  Maggie,  and  thinking  that  her  agi- 
tated face  was  only  part  of  her  girlish  way  of  taking  things. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  again  faintly.  Then  urged  to 
fuller  speech,  by  Tom's  freedom  from  apprehension,  she 
said  loudly  and  rapidly,  as  if  the  words  would  burst  from 
her,  "0  Tom,  he  will  lose  the  mill  and  the  land,  and 
everything;  he  will  have  nothing  left." 

Tom's  eyes  flashed  out  one  look  of  surprise  at  her, 
before  he  turned  pale  and  trembled  visibly.  He  said 
nothing,  but  sat  down  on  the  sofa  again,  looking  vaguely 
out  of  the  opposite  window. 

Anxiety  about  the  future  had  never  entered  Tom's  mind. 
His  father  had  always  ridden  a  good  horse,  kept  a  good 
house,  and  had  the  cheerful,  confident  air  of  a  man  who 
has  plenty  of  property  to  fall  back  upon.  Tom  had  never 
dreamed  that  his  father  would  "fail";  that  was  a  form  of 
misfortune  which  he  had  always  heard  spoken  of  as  a  deep 


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,  SCHOOL-TIME.  183 

disgrace,  and  disgrace  was  an  idea  that  he  could  not  asso- 
ciate with  any  of  his  relations,  least  of  all  with  his  fathe". 
A  proud  sense  of  family  respectability  was  part  of  the 
very  air  Tom  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in.  He  knew 
there  were  people  in  St.  Ogg's  who  made  a  show  without 
money  to  support  it,  and  ne  had  always  heard  such 
people  spoken  of  by  his  own  friends  with  contempt  and 
reprobation.  He  had  a  strong  belief,  which  was  a  life-long 
habit,  and  required  no  definite  evidence  to  rest  on,  that  his 
father  could  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  if  he  chose;  and 
since  his  education  at  Mr.  Stelling's  had  given  him  a  more 
expensive  view  of  life,  he  had  often  thought  when  he  got 
older  he  would  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  with  his  horse 
and  dogs  and  saddle,  and  other  accoutrements  of  a  fine 
young  man,  and  show  himself  equal  to  any  of  his  contem- 
poraries at  St.  Ogg^s,  who  might  consider  themselves  a 
grade  above  him  in  society,  because  their  fathers  were  pro- 
fessional men,  or  had  large  oil-mills.  As  to  the  prognostics 
and  headshaking  of  his  aunts  and  uncles,  they  had  never 
produced  the  least  eifect  on  him,  except  to  make  him  think 
that  aunts  and  uncles  were  disagreeable  societv:  he  had 
heard  them  find  fault  in  much  the  same  way  as  long  as  he 
could  remember.    His  father  knew  better  than  they  did. 

The  down  had  come  on  Tom's  lip,  yet  his  thoughts  and 
expectations  had  been  hitherto  only  the  reproduction,  in 
changed  forms,  of  the  boyish  dreams  in  which  he  had  lived 
three  years  ago.  He  was  awakened  now  with  a  violent 
shock. 

Maggie  was  frightened  at  Tom^s  pale,  trembling  silence. 
There  was  something  else  to  tell  him — something  worse. 
She  threw  her  arms  round  him  at  last,  and  said,  with  a 
half  sob  — 

^*  Oh,  Tom — dear,  dear  Tom,  don't  fret  too  much — try 
and  bear  it  well.'' 

Tom  turned  his  cheek  passively  to  meet  her  entreating 
kisses,  and  there  gathered  a  moisture  in  his  eyes,  which  he 
just  rubbed  away  with  his  hand.  The  action  seemed  to 
rouse  him,  for  he  shook  himself  and  said,  "I  shall  go 
home  with  you,  Maggie.  Didn't  my  father  say  I  was 
to  go?" 

^^No,  Tom,  father  didn't  wish  it,"  said  Maggie,  her 
anxiety  about  his  feeling  helping  her  to  master  her  agita- 
tation.  What  would  he  do  when  she  told  him  all?  ^'But 
mother  wants  you  to  come — poor  mother! — she  cries  so. 
Oh,  Tom,  it's  very  dreadful  at  home." 

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184  THE  MILL  OX  TUE   FLOSS.         , 

Maggie's  lips  grew  whiter,  and  she  began  to  tremble 
almost  as  Tom  had  done.  The  two  poor  things  clung 
closer  to  each  other — both  trembling — the  one  at  an 
nnshapen  fear,  the  other  at  the  image  of  a  terrible  cer- 
tainty. When  Maggie  spoke,  it  was  hardly  above  a 
whisper. 

<<  And and poor  father ^' 

Maggie  could  not  utter  it.  But  the  suspense  was 
intolerable  to  Tom.  A  vague  idea  of  going  to  prison  as 
a  consequence  of  debt,  was  the  shape  his  fears  had  begun 
to  take. 

*^  Where's  my  father?''  he  said,  impatiently.  *'  Tell  me, 
Maggie." 

'^He's  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  finding  it  easier  to  reply 
to  that  question.     **  But,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "not 

himself he  fell  off  his  horse he  has  known  nobody 

but  me  ever  since he  seems  to  have  lost  his  senses ^ 

oh,  father,  father " 

With  these  last  words,  Maggie's  sobs  burst  forth  with 
the  more  violence  for  the  previous  struggle  against  them. 
Tom  felt  that  pressure  oi  the  heart  which  forbids  tears: 
he  had  no  distinct  vision  of  their  troubles  as  Maggie  had, 
who  had  been  at  home;  he  only  felt  the  crushing  weight  of 
what  seemed  unmitigated  misfortune.  He  tightened  his 
arm  almost  convulsively  round  Maggie  as  she  sobbed,  but 
his  face  looked  rigid  and  tearless — his  eyes  blank — as  if  a 
black  curtain  of  cloud  had  suddenly  fallen  on  his  path. 

But  Maggie  soon  checked  herself  abruptly:  a  single 
thought  had  acted  on  her  like  a  startling  sound. 

"  We  must  set  out,  Tom — we  must  not  stay — father  will 
miss  me — we  must  be  at  the  turnpike  at  ten  to  meet  the 
coach."  She  said  this  with  hasty  decision,  rubbing  her 
eyes,  and  rising  to  seize  her  bonnet. 

Tom  at  once  felt  the  same  impulse,  and  rose  too.  "  Wait 
a  minute,  Maggie,"  he  said.  "I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Stel- 
ling,  and  then  we'll  go." 

He  thought  he  must  go  to  the  study  where  the  pupils 
were,  but  on  his  way  he  met  Mr.  Stelling,  who  had  heard 
from  his  wife  that  Maggie  appeared  to  be  in  trouble  when 
she  asked  for  her  brother;  and,  now  that  he  thought  the 
brother  and  sister  had  been  alone  long  enough,  was  com- 
ing to  inquire  and  offer  his  sympathy. 

'*  Please,  sir,  I  must  go  home,"  Tom  said,  abruptly,  as 
he  met  Mr.  Stelling  in  the  passage.     "  I  must  go  back  with 


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SCHOOL-TIME.  185 

my  sister  directly.  My  father's  lost  his  lawsuit — he's  lost 
all  his  property — and  he's  very  ill/' 

Mr.  Stelling  felt  like  a  kind-hearted  man;  he  foresaw  a 
probable  money  loss  for  himself,  but  this  had  no  appre- 
ciable share  in  his  feeling,  while  he  looked  with  grave  pity 
at  the  brother  and  sister  for  whom  youth  and  sorrow  had 
begun  together.  When  he  knew  how  Maggie  had  come, 
and  how  eager  she  was  to  get  home  again,  he  hurried  their 
departure,  only  whispering  something  to  Mrs.  Stelling^ 
who  had  followed  him,  and  who  immediately  left  the  roonu 

Tom  and  Maggie  were  standing  on  the  door-step,  ready 
to  set  out,  when  Mrs.  Stelling  came  with  a  little  basket, 
which  she  hung  on  Maggie's  arm,  saying,  *^  Do  remember 
to  eat  something  on  the  way,  dear."  Maggie's  heart  went 
out  toward  this  woman  whom  she  had  never  liked,  and 
she  kissed  her  silently.  It  was  the  first  sign  withiii  the 
poor  child  of  that  new  sense  which  is  the  gift  of  sorrow — 
that  susceptibility  to  the  bare  offices  of  humanity  which 
raises  them  into  a  bond  of  loving  fellowship,  as  to  naggard 
men  among  the  icebergs  the  mere  presence  of  an  ordinary 
comrade  stirs  the  deep  fountains  of  affection. 

Mr.  Stelling  put  his  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder  and  said, 
"God  bless  you,  my  boy:  let  me  know  how  you  get  on.*' 
Then  he  pressed  Maggie's  hand;  but  there  were  no  audible 
good-byes.  Tom  had  so  often  thought  how  joyful  he 
should  be  the  day  he  left  school  "for  good!"  And  now 
his  school  years  seemed  like  a  holiday  that  had  come  to 
an  end. 

The  two  slight  youthful  figures  soon  grew  indistinct  on 
the  distant  road — ^were  soon  lost  behind  the  projecting 
hedgerow. 

They  had  gone  forth  together  into  their  new  life  of  sor- 
row, and  they  would  never  more  see  the  sunshine  un- 
dimmed  by  remembered  cares.  They  had  entered  the 
thorny  wilderness,  and  the  golden  gates  of  their  childhood 
had  forever  closed  behind  them. 


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BOOK    III. 
THE    DOWNFALL. 


CHAPTER  L 

WHAT  HAD  HAPPENED  AT  HOME. 

When  Mr.  Tulliver  first  knew  the  fact  that  the  lawsuit 
was  decided  against  him,  and  that  Pivart  and  Wakem 
were  triumphant,  every  one  who  happened  to  observe  him 
at  the  time  thought  that,  for  so  confident  and  hot-tempered 
a  man,  he  bore  the  blow  remarkably  well.  He  thought  so 
himself:  he  thought  he  was  going  to  show  that  if  Wakem 
or  anybody  else  considered  him  crushed,  they  would  find 
themselves  mistaken.  He  could  not  refuse  to  see  that  tlie 
costs  of  this  protracted  suit  would  take  more  than*  he 
possessed  to  pay  them;  but  he  appeared  to  himself  to  be  full 
of  expedients  by  which  he  could  ward  off  any  results  but 
such  as  were  tolerable,  and  could  avoid  the  appearance  of 
breaking  down  in  the  world.  All  the  obstinacy  and  defi- 
ance of  his  nature,  driven  out  of  their  old  channel,  found 
a  vent  for  themselves  in  the  immediate  formation  of  plans 
bv  which  he  would  meet  his  difficulties,  and  remain  Mr. 
Tulliver  of  Dorlcote  Mill  in  spite  of  them.  There  was 
such  a  rush  of  projects  in  his  brain,  that  it  was  no  wonder 
his  face  was  flushed  when  he  came  away  from  his  talk 
with  his  attorney,  Mr.  Gore,  and  mounted  his  horse  to  ride 
home  from  Lindum.  There  was  Furley,  who  held  the 
mortgage  on  the  land — a  reasonable  fellow,  who  would  see 
his  own  interest,  Mr.  Tulliver  was  convinced,  and  who 
would  be  glad  not  only  to  purchase  the  whole  estate,  In- 
cluding the  mill  and  homestead,  but  would  accept  Mr. 
Tulliver  as  tenant,  and  be  willing  to  advance  money  to  be 
repaid  with  high  interest  out  of  the  profits  of  the  business, 
which  would  be  made  over  to  him,  Mr.  Tulliver  only 
taking  enough  barely  to  maintain  himself  and  his  family. 
Who  would  neglect  such  a  profitable  investment?  Cer- 
tainly not  Furley,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  had  determined  that 
Furley  should  meet  his  plans  with  the  utmost  alacrity; 

186 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  187 

siikd  there  are  men  whose  brains  have  not  yet  been  danger- 
ously heated  by  the  loss  of  a  lawsuit,  who  are  apt  to  see  in 
their  own  interest  or  desires  a  motive  for  other  men's 
Actions.  There  was  no  doubt  (in  the  miller's  mind)  that 
Furley  would  do  just  what  was  desirable;  and  if  he  did — 
<vrhy,  things  would  not  be  so  very  much  worse.  Mr.  Tul- 
liver  and  his  family  must  live  more  meagrely  and  humbly, 
but  it  would  only  be  till  the  profits  of  the  business  had  paid 
off  Furley's  advances,  and  that  might  be  while  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  still  a  good  many  years  of  life  before  him.  It  was 
jlear  that  the  costs  of  the  suit  could  be  paid  without  his 
being^bliged  to  turn  out  of  his  old  place,  and  look  like  a 
mined  man.  It  was  certainly  an  awkward  moment  in 
his  affairs.  There  was  that  suretyship  for  poor  Riley, 
who  had  died  suddenly  last  April,  and  left  his  friend  sad- 
dled with  a  debt  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds — a  fact 
which  had  helped  to  make  Mr,.  Tulliver's  banking  book  less 
pleasant  reading  than  a  man  might  desire  toward  Christ- 
mas. Well!  he  had  never  been  one  of  those  poor-spirited 
sneaks  who  would  refuse  to  give  a  helping  hand  to  a  fellow- 
traveler  hi  this  puzzling  world.  The  really  vexatious  busi- 
ness was  the  fact  that  some  months  ago  the  creditor  who 
had  lent  him  the  five  hundred  pounds  to  repay  Mrs.  Glegg, 
had  become  uneasy  about  his  money  (set  on  by  Wakem,  of 
course),  and  Mr.  Tulliver,  still  confident  that  he  should 
gain  his  suit,  and  finding  it  eminently  inconvenient  to  raise 
the  said  sum  until  that  desirable  issue  had  taken  place,  had 
rashly  acceded  to  the  demand  that  he  should  give  a  bill  of 
sale  on  his  household  furniture,  and  some  other  effects,  as 
security  in  lieu  of  the  bond.  It  was  all  one,  he  had  said 
to  himself:  he  should  soon  pay  off  the  money,  and  there 
was  no  harm  in  giving  that  security  any  more  than  another. 
But  now  the  consequences  of  this  bill  of  sale  occurred  to 
him  in  a  new  light,  and  he  remembered  that  the  time  was 
close  at  hand,  when  it  would  be  enforced  unless  the  money 
were  repaid.  Two  months  ago  he  would  have  declared 
stoutly  that  he  would  never  be  beholden  to  his  wife's 
friends;  but  now  he  told  himself  as  stoutly  that  it  was 
nothing  but  right  and  natural  that  Bessy  should  go  to  the 
Pullets  and  explain  the  thing  to  them:  tbey  would  hardly 
let  Bessy's  furniture  be  sold,  and  it  might  be  security  to 
Pullet  if  he  advanced  the  money  —  there  would,  after  all, 
be  no  gift  or  favor  in  the  matter.  Mr.  Tulliver  would 
never  have  asked  for  anything  from  so  poor-spirited  a  fel- 
low for  himself,  but  Bessy  might  do  so  if  she  liked. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


188  tHE  MILL  OK  'X'HE  FLOSS- 

It  is  precisely  the  proudest  and  most  obstinate  men  who 
are  the  most  liable  to  shift  their  position  and  contradict 
themselves  in  this  sudden  manner:  everything  is  easier  to 
them  than  tc  face  the  simple  fact  that  they  have  been  thor- 
oughly defeated,  and  must  begin  life  anew.  And  Mr.  Tul- 
liver,  you  perceive,  though  nothing  more  than  a  superior 
miller  and  malster,  was  as  proud  and  obstinate  as  if  he 
had  been  a  very  lofty  personage,  in  whom  such  dispositions 
might  be  a  source  of  that  conspicuous,  far-echoing  tragedy, 
which  sweeps  the  stage  in  regal  robes,  and  makes  the  dull- 
est chronicler  sublime.  The  pride  and  obstinacy  of  millers, 
and  other  insignificant  people,  whom  you  pass  unnoticingly 
on  the  road  every  day,  nave  their  tragedy  too;  but  it  is  of 
that  unwept,  hidden  sort,  that  goes  on  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  leaves  no  record  —  such  tragedy,  perhaps, 
as  'lies  in  the  conflicts  of  young  souls,  hungry  for  joy, 
under  a  lot  made  suddenly  nard  to  them,  under  the  drear- 
iness of  a  home  where  the  morning  brings  no  promise  with 
it,  and  where  the  unexpectant  discontent  of  worn  and  disap- 
pointed parents  weighs  on  the  children  like  a  damp,  thick 
air,  in  which  all  the  functions  of  life  are  depressed;  or 
such  tragedy  as  lies  in  the  slow  or  sudden  death  that  fol- 
lows on  a  bruised  passion,  though  it  may  be  a  death  that 
finds  only  a  parish  funeral.  There  are  certain  animals  to 
which  tenacity  of  position  is  a  law  of  life — ^they  can  never 
flourish  again,  after  a  single  wrench:  and  there  are  certain 
human  beings  to  whom  predominance  is  a  law  of  life — 
they  can  only  sustain  humiliation  so  long  as  they  can  refuse 
to  believe  in  it,  and,  ill  their  own  conception,  predominate 
still. 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  still  predominating  in  his  own  imagi- 
nation as  he  approached  St.  Ogg^s,  through  which  he  had 
to  pass  on  his  way  homeward.  But  what  was  it  that  sug- 
gested to  him,  as  he  saw  the  Laceham  coach  entering  the 
town,  to  follow  it  to  the  coach-office,  and  get  the  clerk  there 
to  write  a  letter,  requiring  Maggie  to  come  home  the  very 
next  day?  Mr.  Tulliver^s  own  hand  shook  too  much  under 
his  excitement  fqr  him  to  wi'ite  himself,  and  he  wanted 
the  letter  to  be  given  to  the  coachman  to  deliver  at  Miss 
Firniss's  school  in  the  morning.  There  was  a  craving 
which  he  would  not  account  for  to  himself,  to  have  Maggie 
near  him — without  delay — she  must  come  back  by  the 
coach  to-morrow. 

To  Mrs.  Tulliver,  when  he  got  home,  he  would  admit 
no  difficulties,  and  scolded  down  her  burst  of  grief  oa 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  189 

hearing  that  the  lawsuit  was  lost,  by  angry  assertions  that 
there  was  nothing  to  ffrieve  about.  lie  said  nothing  to 
her  that  night  about  the  bill  of  sale,  and  the  application 
to  Mrs.  Pullet,  for  he  had  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  the 
nature  of  that  transaction,  and  had  explained  tlie  necessity 
for  taking  an  inventoiy  of  the  goods  as  a  matter  con- 
nected with  his  will.  Tlie  possession  of  a  wife  conspicu- 
ously one^s  inferior  in  intellect,  is,  like  other  nigh 
privileges,  attended  with  a  few  inconveniences,  and, 
among  the  rest,  with  the  occasional  necessity  for  using 
a  little  deception. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Tulliver  was  again  on  horseback  in 
the  afternoon  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Gore's  office  at  St.  Ogg's. 
Gore  was  to  have  seen  Furley  in  the  morning,  and  to  have 
sounded  him  in  relation  to  Mr.  TuUiver^s  affairs.  But  he 
had  not  gone  half-way  when  he  met  a  clerk  from  Mr. 
Gore's  office,  who  was  bringing  a  letter  to  Mr.  Tulliver. 
Mr.  Gore  had  been  prevented  by  a  sudden  call  of  business 
from  waiting  at  his  office  to  see  Mr.  Tulliver,  according  to 
appointment,  but  would  be  at  his  office  at  eleven  to-morrow 
morning,  and  meanwhile  had  sent  some  important  infor- 
mation by  letter. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver^  taking  the  letter,  but  not 
opening  it.  "  Then  tell  Gore  I'll  see  him  to-morrow  at 
eleven,''  and  he  turned  his  horse. 

The  clerk,  struck  with  Mr.  Tulliver's  glistening  excited 
glance,  looked  after  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  rode 
away.  The  reading  of  a  letter  was  not  the  affair  of  an 
instant  to  Mr.  Tulliver;  he  took  in  the  sense  of  a  state- 
ment very  slowly  through  the  medium  of  written  or  even 
printed  characters;  so  he  had  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket, 
thinking  he  would  open  it  in  his  arm-chair  at  home.  But 
by-and-by  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  the  letter  Mrs.  Tulliver  must  not  know  about, 
and  if  so,  it  would  be  better  to  keep  it  out  of  her  sight 
altogether.  He  stopped  his  horse,  took  out  the  letter,  and 
read  it.  It  was  only  a  short  letter;  the  substance  was,  that 
Mr.  Gore  had  ascertained,  on  secret  but*  sure  authority, 
that  Furley  had  been  lately  much  straitened  for  money, 
^nd  had  parted  with  his  securities  —  among  the  rest,  the 
mortgage  on  Mr.  Tulliver's  property,  which  he  had  trans- 
ferred to — Wakem. 

In  half  an  hour  after  this,  Mr.  Tulliver's  own  wagoner 
found  bim  lying  by  tU^  roadside  inseusible;^  with  an  ope^^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


190  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

letter  near  him,  and  his  gray  horse  snuflSng  uneasily  about 
him. 

When  Maggie  reached  home  that  evening,  in  obedience 
to  her  father's  call,  he  was  no  longer  insensible.  About 
an  hour  before,  he  had  become  conscious,  and  after 
vague,  vacant  looks  around  him,  had  muttered  something 
about  **a  letter, '^  which  he  presently  repeated  impatiently. 
At  the  instance  of  Mr.  Turnbull,  the  medical  man.  Gore's 
letter  was  brought  and  laid  on  the  bed,  and  the  previous 
impatience  seemed  to  be  allayed.  The  stricken  man  lay 
for  some  time  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  letter,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  knit  up  his  thoughts  by  its  help.  But 
presently  a  new  wave  of  memory  seemed  to  have  come 
and  swept  the  other  away;  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the 
letter  to  the  door,  and  after  looking  uneasily,  as  if  striving 
to  see  something  his  eyes  were  too  dim  for,  he  said,  *^The 
little  wench.'' 

Ho  repeated  the  words  impatiently  from  time  to  time, 
appearing  entirely  unconscious  of  everything  except  this 
one  importunate  want,  and  giving  no  sign  of  knowing  his 
wife  or  any  one  else;  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  her  feeble 
faculties  almost  paralyzed  by  this  sudden  accumulation  of 
troubles,  went  backward  ana  forward  to  the  gate  to  see  if 
the  Laceham  coach  were  coming,  though  it  was-  not  yet 
time. 

But  it  came  at  last,  and  set  down  the  poor  anxious  girl, 
no  longer  the  'kittle  wench,"  except  to  her  father's  fond 
memory. 

"0  mother,  what  is  the  matter?"  Maggie  said,  with 
pale  lips,  as  her  mother  came  toward  her  crying.  She 
didn't  think  her  father  was  ill,  because  the  letter  had 
come  at  his  dictation  from  the  office  at  St.  egg's. 

But  Mr.  Turnbull  came  now  to  meet  her:  a  medical 
man  is  the  good  angel  of  the  troubled  house,  and  Maggie 
ran  toward  the  kind  old  friend,  whom  she  remembered  as 
long  as  she  could  remember  anything,  with  a  trembling, 
questioning  look. 

"Don't  alarm  yourself  too  much,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
taking  her  hand.  ''Your  father  has  had  a  sudden  attack, 
and  has  not  quite  recovered  his  memory.  But  he  has 
been  asking  for  you,  and  it  will  do  him  good  to  see  you. 
Keep  as  quiet  as  you  can;  take  off  your  filings,  and  come 
up-stairs  with  me." 

Maggie  obeyed,  with  that  terrible  beating  of  the  heart 
which  makes  existence  seem  simply  a  painful  pulsation. 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  191 

The  very  quietness  with  which  Mr.  Tumbull  spoke  had 
frightened  Tier  susceptible  imagination.  Her  father's  eyes 
were  still  turned  uneasily  toward  the  door  when  she 
entered  and  met  the  strange,  yearning,  helpless  look  that 
had  been  seeking  her  in  vain.  With  a  sudden  flash  and 
movement,  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed -^  she  rushed 
toward  him,  and  clasped  him  with  agonized  kisses. 

Poor  child!  it  was  very  early  for  her  to  know  one  of 
those  supreme  moments  in  life  when  all  we  have  hoped  or 
delighted  in,  all  we  can  dread  or  endure,  falls  away  from 
our  regard  as  insignificant — is  lost,  like  a  trivial  memory, 
in  that  simple,  primitive  love  which  knits  us  to  the 
beings  who  have  been  nearest  to  us,  in  their  times  of  help- 
lessness or  of  anguish. 

But  that  flash  of  recognition  had  been  too  great  a  strain 
on  the  father's  bruised,  enfeebled  powers.  He  sank  back 
again  in  renewed  insensibility  and  rigidity,  which  lasted 
for  many  hours,  and  was  only  broken  by  a  flickering  return 
of  consciousness,  in  which  he  took  passively  everything 
that  was  given  toTiim,  and  seemed  to  nave  a  sort  of  infan- 
tine satisfaction  in  Maggie's  near  presence — such  satisfac- 
tion as  a  baby  has  when  it  is  returned  to  the  nurse's  lap. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  sent  for  her  sisters,  and  there  was  much 
wailing  and  lifting  up  of  hands  below  stairs:  both  uncles 
and  aunts  saw  that  tne  ruin  of  Bessy  and  her  family  was 
as  complete  as  they  had  ever  foreboded  it,  and  there  was  a 
general  family  sense  that  a  judgment  had  fallen  on  Mr. 
Tulliver,  which  it  would  be  an  impiety  to  counteract  by 
too  much  kindness.  But  Maggie  heard  little  of  this, 
scarcely  ever  leaving  her  father's  bedside,  where  she  sat 
opposite  him  with  her  hand  on  his,  Mrs.  Tulliver  wanted 
to  have  Tom  fetched  home,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking 
more  of  her  boy  even  than  of  her  husband;  but  the  aunts 
and  uncles  opposed  this.  Tom  was  better  at  school,  since 
Mr.  Turnbull  said  there  was  no  immediate  danger,  he 
believed.  But  at  the  end  of  the  second  day,  when  Maggie 
had  become  more  accustomed  to  her  father's  fits  of  insen- 
sibility, and  to  the  expectation  that  he  would  revive  from 
them,  the  thought  of  Tom  had  become  urgent  with  her 
too;  and  when  her  mother  sat  crying  at  night  and  saying, 

"My  poor  lad it's  nothing  but  right  he  should  come 

home,''  Maggie  said,  '*  Let  me  go  for  him,  and  tell  him, 
mother:  I'll  go  to-morrow  morning  if  father  doesn't  know 
me  and  want  me.  It  would  be  so  bard  for  Tom  to  come 
home  and  not  know  anything  about  it  beforehand.'*' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


192  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

And  the  next  morning  Maggie  went,  as  we  have  seen. 
Sitting  on  the  coach  on  their  way  home,  the  brother  and 
sister  talked  to  each  other  in  sad,  interrupted  whispers. 

**They  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  got  a  mortgage  or  something 
on  the  land,  Tom,"  said  Maggie.  *'It  was  the  letter  \vith 
that  news  in  it  that  made  father  ill,  they  think." 

*'I  believe  that  scoundreFs  been  planning  all  along  to 
ruin  my  father,"  said  Tom,  leaping  from  the  vaguest 
impressions  to  a  definite  conclusion.  "Fll  make  him  fed 
for  it  when  Tm  a  man.  Mind  you  never  speak  to  Philip 
again." 

*^  Oh,  Tom! "  said  Maggie,  in  a  tone  of  sad  remonsti ance; 
but  she  had  no  spirit  to  dispute  anything  then,  still  less  to 
vex  Tom  by  opposing  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MRS.  TULLIVER^S  TERAPHIM,  OR  HOUSEHOLD  GODS. 

When  the  coach  set  down  Tom  and  Maggie,  it  was  five 
hours  since  she  had  started  from  home,  and  she  was  think- 
ing with  some  trembling  that  her  father  had  perhaps  missed 
her,  and  asked  for  *'  the  little  wench  "  in  vain.  She  thought 
of  no  other  change  that  might  have  happened. 

She  hurried  along  the  gravel-walk  and  entered  the  house 
before  Tom;  but  in  the  entrance  she  was  startled  by  a 
strong  smell  of  tobacco.  The  parlor  door  was  ajar — that 
was  where  the  smell  came  from.  It  was  very  strange: 
could  any  visitor  be  smoking  at  a  time  like  this?  Was 
her  mother  there?  If  so,  she  must  be  told  that  Tom  was 
come.  Maggie,  after  this  pause  of  surprise,  was  only  in 
the  act  of  opening  the  door  when  Tom  came  up,  and  they 
both  looked  into  the  parlor  together.  There  was  u  coarse, 
dingy  man,  of  whose  face  Tom  had  some  vague  recol- 
lection, sitting  in  his  father^s  chair,  smoking,  with  a  jug 
and  glass  beside  him. 

The  truth  flashed  on  Tom^s  mind  in  an  instant.  To 
''have  the  bailiff  in  the  house,"  and  "to  be  sold  up," 
were  phrases  which  he  had  been  used  to,  even  as  a  little 
boy:  they  were  part  of  the  disgrace  and  misery  of  ''fail- 
ing," of  losing  all  one^s  money,  and  being  ruined — sinking 
ifito  tbe  condition  of  poor  working  |)eor)le.    }t  seeme^ 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  193 

only  natural  this  should  happen,  since  his  father  had  lost 
all  his  property,  and  he  thought  of  no  more  special  cause 
for  this  particular  form  of  misfortune  than  the  loss  of  the 
lawsuit.  But  the  immediate  presence  of  this  disgrace  was 
so  much  keener  an  experience  to  Tom  than  the  worst  form 
of  apprehension,  that  he  felt  at  this  moment  as  if  his  real 
trouble  had  only  just  begun:  it  was  a  touch  on  the  irritated 
nerve  compared  with  its  spontaneous  dull  aching. 

*^How  do  you  do,  sir?'^  said  the  man,  taking  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  with  rough,  embarrassed  civility.  The 
two  young  startled  faces  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable. 

But  Tom  turned  away  hastily  without  speaking:  the 
sight  was  too  hateful.  Maggie  had  not  understood  the 
appearance  of  this  stranger,  as  Tom  had.  She  followed 
him,  whispering,  *^Who  can  it  be,  Tom? — ^what  is  the 
matter?**  Then,  with  a  sudden  undefined  dread  lest  this 
stranger  might  have  something  to  do  with  a.  change  in  her 
father,  she  rushed  up-stairs,  checking  herself  at  the  bed- 
room door  to  throw  off  her  bonnet,  and  enter  on  tiptoe. 
All  was  silent  there:  her  father  was  lying,  heedless  of 
everjrthing  around  him,  with  his  eyes  closed  as  when  she 
had  left  him.     A  servant  was  there,  but  not  her  mother. 

'^  Whereas  my  mother?"  she  whispered.  The  servant 
did  not  know. 

Maggie  hastened  out,  and  said  to  Tom,  "Father  is  lying 
quiet:  let  us  go  and  look  for  my  mother.  I  wonder  where 
sne  is.*' 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  not  down-stairs — not  in  anj  of  the 
bedrooms.  There  was  but  one  room  below  the  attic  which 
Maggie  had  left  unsearched:  it  was  the  store-room,  where 
her  mother  kept  all  her  linen  and  all  the  precious  **  best 
things  *'  that  were  only  unwrapped  and  brought  on  out  spe- 
cial occasions.  Tom,  preceding  Maggie  as  they  returned 
along  the  passage,  opened  the  door  of  this  lOom,  and  imme- 
diately said,  "Mother:** 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  seated  there  with  all  her  laid-up  treas- 
ures. One  of  the  linen  chests  was  open:  the  silver  teapot 
was  unwrapped  from  its  many  folds  of  paper,  and  the  best 
china  was  laid  out  on  the  top  of  the  closed  linen-chest; 
spoons  and  skewers  and  ladles  were  spread  in  rows  on  the 
shelves;  and  the  poor  woman  was  shaking  her  head  and 
weeping,  with  a  bitter  tension  of  the  mouth,  over  the 
mark,  "Elizabeth  Dodson,**  on  the  corner  of  some  table- 
cloths she  held  in  her  lap. 

She  dropped  them  and  started  up  as  Tom  spoke. 
18 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


194  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"0  my  boy,  my  boy!"  she  said,  clasping  him  round  the 
neck.     **  To  think  as  I  should  live  to  see  this  day!    We're 

ruined everything's  going  to  be  sold  up ^to  think  as 

your  father  should  ha'  married  me  to  bring  me  to  this! 

We've  got  nothing we  shall  be  beggars — —we  must  go 

to  the  workhouse " 

She  kissed  him,  then  seated  herself  again,  and  took 
another  table-cloth  on  her  lap,  unfolding  it  a  little  way  to 
look  at  the  pattern,  while  the  children  stood  by  in  mute 
wretchedness — their  minds  quite  filled  for  the  moment 
with  the  words  "beggars"  and  *'  workhouse." 

"  To  think  o^  these  cloths  as  I  spun  myself,"  she  went 
on,  lifting  things  out  and  turning  them  over  with  an 
excitement  all  the  more  strange  and  piteous  because  the 
stout  blonde  woman  was  usually  so  passive:  if  she  had  been 
ruffled  before,  it  was  at  the  surface  merely:  "and  Job 
Haxey  wove  'em,  and  brought  the  piece  home  on  his  back, 
as  I  remember  standing  at  the  door  and  seeing  him  come, 
before  I  ever  thought  o'  marryine  your  father!    And  the 

1)attern  as  I  chose  myself — and  bleached  so  beautiful,  and 
[  marked  'em  as  nobody  ever  saw  such'  marking — they 
must  cut  the  cloth  to  get  it  out,  for  it's  a  particular  stitcli. 
And  they're  all  to  be  sold — ^and  go  into  strange  people's 
houses,  and  perhaps  be  cut  with  the  knives,  and  wore  out 
before  I'm  dead.  Youll* never  have  one  of  'em,  my  boy," 
she  said,  looking  up  at  Tom  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears, 
"and  I  meant  'em  for  you.  I  wanted  you  to  have  all  o' 
this  pattern.  Maggie  could  have  had  tlie  large  check — it 
never  shows  so  well  when  the  dishes  are  on  it.'' 

Tom  was  touched  to  the  quick,  but  there  was  an  angry 
reaction  immediately.     His  face  flushed  as  he  said — 

"But  will  my  aunts  let  them  be  sold,  mother?  Do  they 
know  about  it?  They'll  never  let  your  linen  go,  will  they? 
Haven't  you  sent  to  them?" 

"Yes,  I  sent  Luke  directly  they'd  put  the  bailies  in, 
and  your  aunt  Pullet's  been — ^and,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  she 
cries  so,  and  says  your  father's  disgraced  my  family  and 
made  it  the  talk  o'  the  country;  and  she'll  buy  the  spotted 
cloths  for  herself,  because  she's  never  had  so  many  as  she 
wanted  o'  that  pattern,  and  they  shan't  go  to  strangers, 
but  she's  got  more  checks  a'ready  nor  she  can  do  with." 
(Here  Mrs.  Tulliver  began  to  lay  back  the  table-cloths  in 
the  chest,  folding  and  stroking  them  iautomatically.) 
"And  your  uncle  Glegg's  been  too,  and  he  says  things 
must  be  bought  in  for  us  to  lie  down  on,  but  he  must  taUc 


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THE  DOWNFALL,  195 

to  your  aunt;  and  they're  all  coming  to  consult But  I 

know  they'll  none  of  'em  take  my  chany,"  she  added,  turn- 
ing toward  the  cups  and  saucers — "for  they  all  found 
fault  with  'em  when  I  bought  'em,  'cause  o'  the  small  gold 
sprig  all  over  'em,  between  the  flowers.  But  there's  none 
of  em  got  better  chany,  not  even  your  aunt  Pullet  her- 
self,— and  I  bought  it  wi'  my  own  money  as  I'd  saved  ever 
since  I  was  turned  fifteen;  and  the  silver  teapot,  too — rour 
father  never  paid  for  'em.  And  to  think  as  ne  should  ha' 
married  me,  and  brought  me  to  this." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  burst  out  crying  afresh,  and  she  sobbed 
with  her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes  a  few  moments,  but  then 
removing  it,  she  said  in  a  deprecating  way,  still  half 
sobbing,  as  if  she  were  called  upon  to  speafc  before  she 
could  command  her  voice — 

"And  I  did  say  to  him  times  and  times,  '  Whati ver  vou 
do,  don't  go  to  law' — and  what  more  could  I  do?  I've  had 
to  sit  by  while  my  own  fortin's  been  spent,  and  what 
should  ha'  been  my  children's,  too.  You'll  have  niver  a 
penny,  boy but  it  isn't  your  poor  mother's  fault." 

She  put  out  one  arm  towara  Tom,  looking  up  at  him 
piteously  with  her  helpless,  childish  blue  eyes.  The  poor 
lad  went  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  she  clung  to  him.  For 
the  first  time  Tom  thought  of  his  father  with  some 
reproach.  His  natural  inclination  to  blame,  hitherto  kept 
entirely  in  abeyance  toward  his  father  by  the  predisposi- 
tion to  think  him  always  right,  simply  on  the  ground  that 
he  was  Tom  Tulliver's  father — was  turned  into  this  new 
channel  by  his  mother's  plaints,  and  with  his  indignation 
jigainst  Wakem  there  began  to  mingle  some  indignation  of 
another  sort.  Perhaps  his  father  might  have  helped  bring- 
jng  them  all  down  in  the  world,  and  making  people  talk 
of  them  with  contempt.  The  natural  strength  and  firm- 
ness of  his  nature  was  beginning  to  assert  itself,  urged  by 
the  double  stimulus  of  resentment  against  his  aunts,  and 
the  sense  that  he  must  behave  like  a  man  and  take  care  of 
his  mother. 

** Don't  fret,  mother,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "I  shall  soon 
be  able  to  get  money:  I'll  get  a  situation  of  some  sort." 

**  Bless  you,  my  boy! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  a  little  soothed. 
Then,  looking  round  sadly,  "  But  I  shouldn't  ha'  minded 
so  much  if  we  could  ha'  kept  the  things  wi'  my  name  on 
'cm." 

Maggie  had  witnessed  this  scene  with  gathering  anger. 
The  implied  reproaches  against  her  father — her  father,  who 


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06  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Was  lying  there  in  a  sort  of  living  death — ^neutralized  all  her 
pity  for  ffriefs  about  table-cloths  and  china;  and  her  anger 
\)n  her  &ther^s  account  was  heightened  by  some  egoistic 
resentment  at  Tom's  silent  concurrence  with  her  mother  in 
shutting  her  out  from  the  common  calamity.  She  had 
become  almost  indifferent  to  her  mother's  habitual  depreci- 
ition  of  her,  but  she  was  keenly  alive  to  any  sanction  of  it, 
however  passive,  that  she  might  suspect  m  Tom.  Poor 
Maggie  was  bv  no  means  made  up  of  unalloyed  devotedness, 
but  put  forth  large  claims  for  herself  where  she  loved 
Btrongly.  She  burst  out  at  last  in  an  agitated,  almost 
violent  tone,  "Mother,  how  can  you  talk  so?  as  if  you 
cared  only  for  things  mth  your  name  on,  and  not  for  what 
has  mv  father's  name  too — and  to  care  about  anything  but 
dear  father  himself! — when  he's  lying  there,  and  may  nevtr 
speak  to  us  again.  Tom,  you  ought  to  say  so  too — .you 
ought  not  to  let  any  one  find  fault  with  my  father." 

Maggie,  almost  choked  with  mingled  grief  and  anger,  left 
the  room,  and  took  her  old  place  on  her  father's  bed.  Her 
heart  went  out  to  him  with  a  stronger  movement  than 
jver,  at  the  thought  that  people  would  blame  him.  Maggie 
hated  blame:  she  had  been  blamed  all  her  life,  and  nothing 
!iad  come  of  it  but  evil  tempers.  Her  father  had  alwa^-s 
lef  ended  and  excused  her,  and  her  loving  remembrance  of 
his  tenderness  was  a  force  within  her  that  would  enable  her 
to  do  or  bear  anything  for  his  sake. 

Tom  was  a  little  shocked  at  Maggie^s  outburst — telling 
Mm  as  well  as  his  mother  what  it  was  right  to  do!  She 
ought  to  have  learned  better  than  have  those  hectoring, 
assuming  manners,  by  this  time.  But  he  presently  went 
into  his  father's  room,  and  the  sight  there  touched  him  in 
a  way  that  effaced  the  slighter  impressions  of  the  previous 
hour.  When  Maggie  saw  how  he  was  moved,  she  went  to 
him  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  as  he  sat  by  the  bed, 
and  the  two  children  forgot  everything  else  in  the  sense 
that  they  had  one  father  and  one  sorrow. 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  19? 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  FAMILY  COUNCIL. 

It  was  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  that  the 
aunts  and  uncles  came  to  hold  their  consultation.  The 
fire  was  lighted  in  the  large  parlor,  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
with  a  confused  impression  that  it  was  a  great  occasion, 
like  a  funeral,  unbagged  the  bell-rope  tassels,  and  unpinned 
the  curtains,  adjustmg  them  in  proper  folds  —  looking 
round  and  shaking  her  head  sadly  at  the  polished  tops 
and  legs  of  the  tables,  which  sister  Pullet  nerself  could 
not  accuse  of  insufficient  brightness. 

Mr.  Deane  was  not  coming  —  he  was  away  on  business; 
but  Mrs.  Deane  appeared  punctually  in  that  handsome 
new  gig  with  the  head  to  it,  and  the  livery-servant  driv- 
ing it,  which  had  thrown  so  clear  a  light  on  several  traits 
in  her  character  to  some  of  her  female  friends  in  St.  Ogg's. 
Mr.  Deane  had  been  advancing  in  the  world  as  rapidly 
as  Mr.  Tulliver  had  been  going  down  in  it;  and  in  Mrs. 
Deane's  house  the  Dodson  linen  and  plate  were  beginning 
to  hold  quite  a  subordinate  position,  as  a  mere  supplement 
to  the  handsomer  articles  of  the  same  kind,  purchased  in 
recent  years:  a  change  which  had  caused  an  occasional 
coolness  in  the  sisterly  intercourse  between  her  and  Mrs. 
Glegg,  who  felt  that  Susan  was  getting  "like  the  rest,'' 
and  there  would  soon  be  little  of  the  true  Dodson  spirit 
surviving  except  in  herself,  and,  it  might  be  hoped,  in 
those  nephews  who  supported  the  Dodson  name  on  the 
family  land,  far  away  in  the  Wolds.  People  who  live  at  a 
distance  are  naturally  less  faulty  than  those  immediately 
under  our  own  eyes;  and  it  seems  superfluous,  when  we 
consider  the  remote  geographical  position  of  the  Ethi- 
opians, and  how  very  little  the  Greeks  had  to  do  with 
them,  to  inquire  further  why  Homer  calls  them  "  blame- 


Mrs.  Deane  was  the  first  to  arrive;  and  when  she  had 
taken  her  seat  in  the  large  parlor,  Mrs.  Tulliver  came 
down  to  her  with  her  comely  face  a  little  distorted,  nearly 
as  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  been  crying:  she  was  not 
a  woman  who  could  shed  abundant  tears,  except  in 
moments  when  the  prospect  of  losing  her  furniture 
became  unusually  vivid,  but  she  felt  how  unfitting  it 
was  to  be  quite  calm  under  present  circumstances. 


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198  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"0  sister,  what  a  world  this  is!^'  she  exclaimed  as  she 
entered;  '*what  trouble,  oh,  dear!" 

Mrs.  Deane  was  a  thin-lipped  woman,  who  made  smaii 
well-considered  speeches  on  peculiar  occasions,  repeating 
them  afterward  to  her  husband,  and  asking  him  if  she 
had  not  spoken  very  properly. 

**Yes,  sister,"  she  said,  deliberately,  "this  is  a  chang- 
ing world,  and  we  don't  know  to-day  what  may  happen 
to-morrow.  But  it's  right  to  be  prepared  for  all  things, 
and  if  trouble's  sent,  to  remember  as  it  isn't  sent  without 
a  cause.  I'm  very  sorry  for  you  as  a  sister,  and  if  the 
doctor  orders  jelly  for  Mr.  TuUiver,  I  hope  you'll  let  me 
know:  I'll  send  it  willingly.  For  it  is  but  right  he  should 
have  proper  attendance  wnile  he's  ill." 

"Thank  you,  Susan,"  said  Mra.  Tulliver,  rather  faintly, 
withdrawing  her  fat  hand  from  her  sister's  thin  one. 
"But  there's  been  no  talk  o'  jelly  yet."  Then  after  a 
moment's  pause  she  added,  "There's  a  dozen  o'  cut  jelly- 
glasses  up-stairs 1  shall  never  put  jelly  into 'em  no 

more." 

Her  voice  was  rather  agitated  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words,  but  the  sound  of  wheels  diverted  her  thoughts. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  were  come,  and  were  almost  immedi- 
ately followed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pullet. 

Mrs.  Pullet  entered  crying,  as  a  compendious  mode,  at 
all  times,  of  expressing  what  were  her  views  of  life  in 
general,  and  what,  in  brief,  were  the  opinions  she  held 
concerning  the  particular  case  before  her. 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  on  her  fuzziest  front,  and  garments 
which  appeared  to  have  had  a  recent  resurrection  from 
rather  a  creasy  form  of  burial;  a  costume  selected  with 
the  high  moral  purpose  of  instilling  perfect  humility  into 
Bessy  and  her  children. 

"Mrs.  G.,  won't  you  come  nearer  the  fire?"  said  her 
husband,  unwilling  to  take  the  more  comfortable  seat 
without  offering  it  to  her. 

"  You  see  I've  seated  myself  here,  Mr.  Glegg,"  returned 
this  superior  woman:  ^^ you  can  roast  yourself,  if  you 
like." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  seating  himself  good-humoredly, 
"and  how's  the  poor  man  up-stairs?" 

"  Dr.  Tumbull  thought  him  a  deal  better  this  morning,'* 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver;  "he  took  more  notice,  and  spoke  to 
me;  but  he's  never  known  Tom  yet — looks  at  the  poor  lad 
as  if  he  was  a  stranger,  though  he  said  something  once 

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THE  DOWNFALL.  199 

about  Tom  and  the  pony.  The  doctor  says  his  memory's 
gone  a  long  way  back,  and  he  doesn't  know  Tom  because 
he's  thinking  of  him  when  he  was  little.  Eh  dear,  eh 
dear! '' 

'*I  doubt  it's  the  water  got  on  his  brain/' said  aunt 
Pullet,  turning  round  from  adjusting  her  cap  in  a  melan- 
choly way  at  the  pier-glass.  "It's  much  if  ne  ever  gets 
up  a^ain;  and  if  he  does,  he'll  most  like  be  childish,  as 
Mr.  Oarr  was,  poor  man!  They  fed  him  with  a  spoon  as 
if  he'd  been  a  baby  for  three  year.  He'd  quite  lost  the  use 
of  his  limbs;  but  then  he'd  got  a  Bath  chair,  and  somebody 
to  draw  him;  and  that's  what  you  won't  have,  I  doubt. 


'^Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  '^if  I  under- 
stand right,  we've  come  together  this  morning  to  advise 
and  consult  about  what's  to  be  done  in  this  disgrace  as  has 
fallen  upon  the  family,  and  not  to  talk  o'  people  as  don't 
belong  to  us.  Mr.  Carr  was  none  of  our  blood,  nor  no  ways 
connected  with  us,  as  I've  ever  beared." 

*'  Sister  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  pleading  tone, 
drawing  on  her  gloves  again,  and  stroking  the  fingers  in  an 
agitated  manner,  '^if  you've  got  anything  disrespectful  to 
stiv  o'  Mr.  Carr,  I  do  beg  of  you  as  you  won't  say  it  to  me. 
/  know  what  he  was,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh;  "  his  breath 
was  short  to  that  degree  as  you  could  hear  him  two  rooms 
off." 

"Sophy!"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  indignant  disgust, 
'^you  do  talk  o' people's  complaints  till  it's  quite  undecent. 
But  I  say  again,  as  I  said  before,  I  didn't  come  away  from 
home  to^talk  about  acquaintance,  whether  they'd  short 
breath  or  long.  If  we  aren't  come  together  for  one  to 
hear  what  the  other  'ull  do  to  save  a  sister  and  her  children 
from  the  parish,  /  shall  ^o  back.  One  can't  act  without 
the  other,  I  suppose;  it  isn't  to  be  expected  as  I  should 
do  everything." 

"Weil,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "I  don't  see  as  you've 
been  so  very  forrard  at  doing.  So  far  as  I  know,  this  is 
the  first  time  as  here  you've  been,  since  it's  been  known  as 
the  bailiff's  in  the  house;  and  I  was  here  yesterday,  and 
looked  at  all  Bessy's  linen  and  things,  and  I  told  her  I'd 
buy  in  the  spotted  table-cloths.  I  couldn't  speak  fairer; 
for  as  for  the  teapot  as  she  doesn't  want  to  go  out  o'  the 
family,  it  stands  to  sense  I  can't  do  with  two  silver  teapots, 
not  if  it  liadnH  a  straight  spout — but  the  spotted  damask 
I  was  allays  fond  on." 


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200  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL088. 

"  I  wish  it  could  be  managed  so  as  m v  teapot  and  chany 
and  the  best  castors  needn't  be  put  up  for  sale/'  said  poor 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  beseechingly,  "and  the  sugar-tongs,  the 
first  things  ever  I  bought/' 

"  But  that  can't  be  helped,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  If  one  o'  the  family  chooses  to  buy  'em  in,  they  can,  but 
one  thing  must,  be  bid  for  as  we'll  as  another. " 

"  And  it  isn't  to  be  looked  for,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  with 
unwonted  independence  of  idea,  *^as  your  own  family 
should  pay  more  for  things  nor  they'll  fetch.  They  may 
go  for  an  old  song  by  auction." 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  to  think  o'  my 
chany  being  sold  i'  that  way — and  I  bought  it  when  I  was 
married,  just  as  you  did  yours,  Jane  and  Sophy:  and  I 
know  you  didn't  like  mine,  because  o'  the  sprig,  but  I  was 
fond  of  it;  and  there's  never  been  a  bit  broke,  for  I've 
washed  it  myself  —  and  there's  the  tulips  on  the  cups,  and 
the  roses,  as  anybody  might  go  and  look  at  'em  for  pleasure. 
You  wouldn't  like  your  chany  to  go  for  an  old  song  and  be 
broke  to  pieces,  though  yours  has  got  no  color  in  it,  Jane 
— it's  all  white  and  fluted,  and  didn't  cost  so  much  as 
mine.  And  there's  the  castors — sister  Deane,  I  can't 
think  but  you'd  like  to  have  th6  castors,  for  I've  heard 
you  say  they're  pretty." 

"Well,  I've  no  objection  to  buy  some  of  the  best 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  rather  loftily;  "we  can  do  with 
extra  things  in  our  house." 

"Best  things!"  exclaimed  Mrs  Glegg,  with  severity, 
which  had  gathered  intensity  from  her  long  isilence.  "It 
drives  me  past  patience  to  hear  you  all  talking  o'  best 
things,  and  buying  in  this,  that,  and  the  others  such  as 
silver  and  chany.  You  must  bring  your  mind  to  your  cir- 
cumstances, Bessy,  and  not  be  thinking  o'  silver  and  chany; 
but  whether  you  shall  get  so  much  as  a  flock-bed  to  lie  on, 
and  a  blanket  to  cover  you,  and  a  stool  to  sit  on.  You 
must  remember,  if  you  get  'em,  it'll  be  because  your  friends 
have  bought  'em  for  you,  for  you're  dependent  upon  them  for 
everything;  for  your  husband  lies  there  helpless,  and 
hasn't  got  a  penny  i'  the  world  to  call  his  own.  And  it's 
for  your  own  good  I  say  this,  for  it's  right  you  should  feel 
what  your  state  is,  and  what  disgrace  your  husband's 
brought  on  your  own  family,  as  you've  got  to  look  to  for 
ever^hing — and  be  humble  in  your  mind." 

M!rs.  Glegg  paused,  for  speaking  with  much  energy  for 
the  good  of  others  is  naturally  exhausting.     Mrs.  Tulliver, 


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/ 


THE  DOWNFALL.  201 

always  borne  down  by  the  family  predominance  of  sister 
Jane,  who  had  made  her  wear  the  voke  of  a  younger  sister 
in  very  tender  years,  said  pleadingly — 

'*  I'm  sure,  sister,  IVe  never  asked  anybody  to  do  any- 
thing, only  buy  things  as  it  'ud  be  a  pleasure  to  'em  to 
have,  so  as  they  mightn't  go  and  be  spoiled  i'  strange 
houses.  I  never  asked  anybody  to  buy  the  things  in  for 
me  and  my  children;  though  there's  the  linen  I  spun,  and  I 
thought  when  Tom  was  born — I  thought  one  o'  the  first 
things  when  he  was  lying  i'the  cradle,  as  all  the  things  I'd 
bought  wi'  my  own  money,  and  been  so  careful  of,  'ud  go 
to  him.  But  I've  said  nothing  as  I  wanted  mv  sisters 
to  pay  their  money  for  me.  What  my  husband  has  done 
for  his  sister's  unknown,  and  we  should  ha'  been  better  off 
this  day  if  it  hadn't  been  as  he's  lent  money  and  never 
asked  for  it  again." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  kindly,  "don't  let  na 
make  things  too  dark.  What's  done  can't  be  undone.  We 
shall  make  a  shift  among  us  to  buy  what's  sufficient  foi 
you;  though,  as  Mrs.  6.  says,  they  must  be  useful,  plain 
things.  We  mustn't  be  thinking  o'  what's  unnecessary.  A 
table,  and  a  chair  or  two,  and  kitchen  things,  and  a  good 
bed,  and  suchlike.  Why,  Fve  seen  the  day  when  I 
shouldn't  ha'  known  myself  if  I'd  lain  on  sacking  i'stead 
o'  the  floor.  We  get  a  deal  o'  useless  things  about  us,  only 
because  we've  got  the  money  to  spend." 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "if  you'll  be  kind  enough 
to  let  me  speak,  i'stead  o'  taking  the  words  out  o'  my 
mouth — I  was  going  to  say,  Bessy,  as  it's  fine  talking  for 
you  to  say  as  you've  never  asked  us  to  buy  anything  'for 
you;  let  me  tell  you,  you  ought  to  have  asked  us.  ?ray, 
how  are  you  to  be  provided  for,  if  your  own  family  don't 
help  you?  You  must  go  to  the  parish,  if  they  didn't. 
And  you  ought  to  know  that,  and  keep  it  in  mind,  and  ask 
us  humble  to  do  what  we  can  for  you,  i'stead  o'  saying,  and 
making  a  boast,  as  you've  never  asked  us  for  anything." 

"  You  talked  o'  the  Mosses,  and  what  Mr.  Tulliver's 
done  for  'em,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  became  unusually 
suggestive  where  advances  of  money  were  concerned. 
"  Haven't  they  been  anear  you?  They  ought  to  do  some- 
thing, as  well  as  other  folks;  and  if  he's  lent  'em  money, 
they  ought  to  be  made  to  pay  it  back." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Deane;  "I've  been  think- 
ing so.  How  is  it  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moss  aren't  here  to  meet 
UB?    It  is  but  right  they  should  do  their  share." 


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aOS  THB  HILL  OH  THB  FLOSS. 

*'  Oh,  dear!  *'  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  '*  I  never  sent  *em  word 
about  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  they  live  so  backward  among  the 
lanes  at  Basset,  they  niver  near  anything  only  when  Mr. 
Moss  comes  to  market.  But  I  niver  gave  'em  a  thought. 
I  wonder  Maggie  didn%  though,  for  she  was  allays  so  fond 
of  her  aunt  Moss.'^ 

'*Why  don't  your  children  come  in,  Bessy?''  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  at  the  mention  of  Maggie.  "They  should  hear 
what  their  aunts  and  uncles  have  got  to  say:  and  Maggie — 
when  it's  me  as  have  paid  for  half  her  schooling,  she  ought 
to  think  more  of  her  aunt  Pullet  than  of  aunt  Mosses.  I 
may  go  off  sudden  when  I  get  home  to-day — there's  no 
telling." 

"If  I'd  had  my  way,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "the  children 
'ud  ha'  been  in  the  room  from  the  first.  It's  time  they 
knew  who  they've  to  look  to,  and  it's  right  as  somebody 
should  talk  to  'em,  and  let  'em  know  their  condition  i'  life, 
and  what  they're  come  down  to,  and  make  'em  feel  as 
they've  got  to  "suffer  for  their  father's  faults." 

"  Well,  I'll  ffo  and  fetch  'em,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
resignedly.  She  was  quite  crushed  now,  and  thought  of 
the  treasures  in  the  store-room  with  no  other  feeling  than 
blank  despair. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  fetch  Tom  and  Maggie,  who  were 
both  in  their  father's  room,  and  was  on  her  way  down 
again,  when  the  sight  of  the  store-room  door  suggested  a 
new  thought  to  her.  She  went  toward  it,  and  left  the 
children  to  go  down  by  themselves. 

The  aunts  and  uncles  appeared  to  have  been  in  warni 
discussion  when  the  brother  and  sister  entered — both  with 
shrinking  reluctance;  for  though  Tom,  with  a  practical 
sagacity  which  had  been  roused  into  activity  by  the  strong 
stimulus  of  the  new  emotions  he  had  undergone  since  yes- 
terday, had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  a  plan  which  he 
meant  to  propose  to  one  of  his  aunts  or  uncles,  he  felt  by 
no  means  amicably  toward  them,  and  dreaded  meeting 
them  all  at  once  as  he  would  have  dreaded  a  large  dose  of 
concentrated  physic,  which  was  but  just  endurable  in  small 
draughts.  As  for  Maggie,  she  was  peculiarly  depressed 
this  morning:  she  had  been  called  up,  after  a  brief  rest,  at 
three  o'clock,  and  had  that  strange  dreamy  weariness  which 
comes  from  watching  in  a  sick-room  through  the  chill 
hours  of  early  twilight  and  breaking  day — in  which  the 
outside  daylight  life  seems  to  have  no  importance,  and  to 
be  a  m«jre  margin  to  the  hours  in  the  darkened  chamber. 


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THE  DOWNFAi^  203 

Their  entrance  interrupted  the  cx»nversation.  The  shaking 
of  hands  was  a  melancholy  and  silent  ceremony,  till  uncle 
Pullet  observed,  as  Tom  approached  him — 

"  Well,  young  sir,  we've  been  talking  as  wo  should  want 
your  pen  and  ink;  you  can  write  rarely  now,  after  all  your 
schooling,  I  should  think/' 

^^Ay,  ay,''  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  admonition  which  he 
meant  to  be  kind,  **we  must  look  to  see  the  good  of  all 
this  schooling,  as  your  father's  sunk  so  much  money  in, 
now  — 

*  When  land  is  gone  and  money^s  spent. 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent.* 

Now's  the  time,  Tom,  to  let  us  see  the  good  o'  your  learn- 
ing. Let  us  see  whether  you  can  do  better  than  I  can, 
as  have  made  my  fortin  without  it.  But  I  began  wi' 
doing  with  little,  you  see:  I  could  live  on  a  basin  o'  i)or- 
ridge  and  £u  crust  o' bread-and-cheese.  But  I  doubt  liigh 
living  and  high  learning  'uU  make  it  harder  for  you,  young 
man,  nor  it  was  for  me." 

'*  But  he  must  do  it,"  interposed  aunt  Glegg,  energet- 
ically, "  whether  it's  hard  or  no.  He  hasn't  got  to  consider 
what's  hard;  he  must  consider  as  he  isn't  to  trusten  to  his 
friends  to  keep  him  in  idleness  and  luxury:  he's  got  to 
b^ar  the  fruits  of  his  father's  misconduct,  and  bring  his 
mind  to  fare  hard  and  to  work  hard.  And  he  must  be 
humble  and  grateful  to  his  aunts  and  uncles  for  what 
they're  doing  for  his  mother  and  father,  as  must  be  turned 
out  into  the  streets  and  go  to  the  workhouse  if  they  didn't 
help  'em.  And  his  sister,  too,"  continued  Mrs.  Glegg, 
looking  severely  at  Maggie,  who  had  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
by  her  aunt  Deane,  drawn  to  her  by  the  sense  that  she  was 
Lucy's  mother,  "she  must  make  up  her  mind  to  be  humble 
and  work;  for  there'll  be  no  servants  to  wait  on  her  any 
more — she  must  remember  that.  She  must  do  the  work  o' 
the  house,  and  she  must  respect  and  love  her  aunts  as  liave 
done  so  much  for  her,  and  saved  their  money  to  leave  to 
their  nepheys  and  nieces." 

Tom  was  still  standing  before  the  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  group.  There  was  a  heightened  color  in  his  face,  and 
he  was  very  far  from  looking  humbled,  but  he  was  prepar- 
ing to  say,  in  a  respectful  tone,  something  he  liad  previ- 
ously meditated,  when  the  door  opened  and  his  mother 
re-entered. 

Poor  Mrs,  TuUiver  had  in  her  hands  a  small  tray,  on 


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204  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

which  she  had  placed  her  silver  teapot,  a  specimen  teacnp 
and  saucer^  the  castors,  and  sugar-tongs. 

"See  here,  sister,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mrs.  Deane,  as 
she  set  the  tray  on  the  table,  "  I  thought,  perhaps,  if  you 
looked  at  the  teapot  again — it's  a  good  while  since  you  saw 
it — ^you  might  lite  the  pattern  better:  it  makes  beautiful 
tea,  and  there's  a  stand  and  everything:  you  might  use  it 
for  every-day,  or  else  lay  it  by  for  Lucy  when  she  goes  to 
house-keeping.  I  should  be  so  loath  for  'em  to  buy  it  at 
the  Golden  Lion,''  said  the  poor  woman,  her  heart  swelling, 
and  the  tears  coming,  "  my  teapot  as  T  bought  when  I  was 
married,  and  to  think  ©f  its  being  scratched,  and  set  before 
the  travelers  and  folks,  and  my  letters  on  it — see  here,  E. 
D. — and  everybody  to  see  'em." 

"Ah,  dear,  dear! "said  aunt  Pullet,  shaking  her  head 
with  deep  sadness,  "  it's  very  bad — ^to  think  o'  the  family 
initials  going  about  everywhere — it  niver  was  so  before: 
you're  a  very  unlucky  sister,  Bessy.  But  what's  the  use  o' 
buying  the  teapot,  when  there's  the  linen  and  spoons  and 
everyfhing  to  go,  and  some  of  'em  with  your  full  name — 
and  when  it's  got  that  straight  spout,  too." 

"As  to  disgrace  o'  the  family,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "tl^t 
can't  be  helped  wi'  buying  teapots.  The  disgrace  is,  for 
one  o'  the  family  to  ha'  married  a  man  as  has  brought,  her 
to  begg:ary.  The  disgrace  is,  as  they're  to  be  sold  up.  We 
can't  hinder  the  country  from  knowing  that." 

Maggie  had  started  up  from  the  sofa  at  the  allusion  to 
her  father,  but  Tom  saw  her  action  and  flushed  face  in 
time  to  prevent  her  from  speaking.  "  Be  auiet,  Maggie," 
he  said  authoritatively,  pushing  her  asiae^  ,  It  was  a 
remarkable  manifestation  of  self-command  and  practical 
judgment  in  a  lad  of  fifteen,  that  when  his  aunt  Glegg 
ceased,  he  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  and  respectful  man- 
ner, though  with  a  good  deal  of  trembling  m  his  voice; 
for  his  mother's  words  had  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"Then,  aunt,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  Mrs.  Glegg, 
"if  you  think  it's  a  disgrace  to  tlie  family  that  we  should 
be  sold  up,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  prevent  it  altogether? 
And  if  you  and  my  aunt  Pullet,"  he  continued,  looking  at 
the  latter,  "think  of  leaving  any  money  to  me  and  Maggie, 
wouldn't  it  be  better  to  give  it  now,  and  pay  the  debt 
we're  going  to  be  sold  up  for,  and  save  my  mother  from 
parting  with  her  furniture?" 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  for  every  one. 


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THE   DOWNFALL.  206 

including  Maggie,  was  astonished  at  Tom's  sadden  manli- 
ness of  tone.     Uncle  Glegg  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Aj,  ay,  young  man — come  now!  You  show  some 
notion  o'  things.  But  there's  the  interest,  you  must 
remember;  your  aunts  get  five  per  cent  on  their  money, 
and  they'd  lost  that  if  they  advanced  it — ^you  haven't 
thought  o'  that." 

^^1  could  work  and  pay  that  every  year,"  said  Tom, 
promptly.  "I'd  do  anything  to  save  my  mother  from 
parting  with  her  things." 

"Well  done!"  said  uncle  Glegg,  admiringly.     He  had 
been  drawing  Tom  out,  rather  than  reflecting  on  the  practi- 
cability of  his  proposal,     but  he  had  produced  the  unfortu-^ 
nate  result  of  irritating  his  wife. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Glegg!"  said  that  lady,  with  angry  sarcasm. 
'*  It's  pleasant  work  for  you  to  be  giving  my  money  away, 
as  youVe  pretended  to  leave  at  my  own  disposal.  And  my 
money,  as  was  my  own  father's  gift,  and  not  yours,  Mr. 
Glegg;  and  I've  saved  it,  and  added  to  it  myself,  and  had 
more  to  put  out  alftiost  every  year,  and  it's  to  go  and  be 
sunk  in  other  folks'  furniture,  and  encourage 'em  in  luxury 
and  extravagance  as  they've  no  means  of  supporting:  and 
I'm  to  alter  my  will,  or  have  a  codicil  made,  and  leave  two 
or  three  hundred  less  behind  me  when  I  die — me  as  have 
allays  done  right  and  been  careful,  and  the  eldest  o'  the 
family;  and  my  money's  to  go  and  be  squandered  on  them 
as  have  had  the  same  chance  as  me,  only  they've  been 
wicked  and  wasteful.  Sister  Pullet,  you  may  do  as  you 
like,  and  you  may  let  your  husband  rob  you  back  again  o' 
the  money  he's  given  you,  but  that  isn't  my  sperrit." 

"La,  Jane,  how  fiery  you  are!"  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  '^I'm 
sure  you'll  have  the  blood  in  your  head,  and  have  to  be 
cupped.  I'm  sorry  for  Bessy  and  her  children — I'm  sure 
I  think  of  'em  o'  nights  dreadful,  for  I  sleep  very  bad  wi' 
this  new  medicine:  but  it's  no  use  for  me  to  think  o'  doing 
anything,  if  you  won't  meet  me  half-way." 

"  Why,  there's  this  to  be  considered,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  It's  no  use  to  pay  off  this  debt  and  save  the  furniture, 
when  there's  all  the  law  debts  behind,  as  'ud  take  every 
shilling,  and  more  than  could  be  made  out  o'  land 
and  stock,  for  I've  made  that  out  from  Lawyer  Gore. 
We'd  need  save  our  money  to  keep  the  poor  man  with, 
instead  o'  spending  it  on  furniture  as  he  can  neither  eat 
nor  drink.  You  will  be  so  hasty,  Jane,  as  if  I  didn't 
know  what  was  reasonable." 


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206  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

"Then  speak  accordingly,  Mr.  Glegg!"  said  his  wife, 
with  slow,  loud  emphasis,  bending  her  head  toward  him 
significantly. 

Tom's  countenance  had  fallen  during  this  conversation, 
and  his  lip  quivered;  but  he  was  determined  not  to  give 
way.  He  would  behave  like  a  man.  Maggie,  on  the  con- 
trary, after  her  momentary  delight  in  Tom's  speech,  had 
relapsed  into  her  state  of  trembling  indignation.  Her 
mother  had  been  standing  close  by  Tom's  side,  and  had  been 
clinging  to  his  arm  ever  since  he  had  last  spoken;  Maggie 
suddenh'  started  up  and  stood  in  front  of  them,  her  eyes 
flashing  like  the  eyes  of  a  young  lioness. 

**  Why  do  you  come,  then,"  sne  burst  out,  **^talking  and 
interfering  with  us  and  scolding  us,  if  you  don't  mean  to 
do  anything  to  help  my  poor  mother— your  own  sister — if 
you've  no  feeling  for  her  when  she's  in  trouble,  and  won't 
part  with  anything,  though  you  would  never  miss  it>  to 
save  her  from  pain?  Keep  away  from  us  then,  and  don't 
come  to  find  fault  with  my  father — he  was  better  than  any 
of  you — he  was  kind — he  would  have  helped  you,  if  you 
had  been  in  trouble.  Tom  and  I  don't  ever  want  to  have 
any  of  your  money,  if  you  won't  help  my  mother.  We'd 
rather  not  have  it!    We'll  do  without  you." 

Maggie,  having  hurled  her  defiance  at  aunts  and  uncles 
in  this  way,  stood  still,  with  her  large  dark  eyes  glaring  at 
them,  as  if  she  were  ready  to  await  all  consequences. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  frightened;  there  was  something 
poi-tentous  in  this  mad  outbreak;  she  did  not  see  how 
life  could  go  on  after  it.  Tom  was  vexed;  it  was  no  use  to 
talk  so.  The  aunts  were  silent  with  surprise  for  some 
moments.  At  length,  in  a  case  of  aberration  such  as  this, 
comment  presented  itself  as  more  expedient  than  any 
answer. 

"You  haven't  seen  the  end  o'  your  trouble  wi'  that 
child,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet;  "  she's  beyond  everything 
for  boldness  and  unthankfulness.  It's  dreadful.  I  might 
ha'  let  alone  paying  for  her  schooling,  for  she's  worse  nor 
ever." 

"It's  no  more  than  what  I've  allays  said,"  followed  Mrs. 
Glegg.  "  Other  folks  may  be  surprised,  but  I'm  not.  I've 
said  over  and  over  again — ^years  ago  I've  said — ^  Mark  my 
words;  that  child  'ull  come  to  no  good:  there  isn't  a  bit  of 
our  family  in  her.'  And  as  for  her  having  so  much  school- 
ing, I  never  thought  well  o'  that.  I'd  my  reasons  when  I 
said  I  wouldn't  pay  anything  toward  it.' 

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THEf  DOWNFALL.  207 

^^Oome,  come/^  said  Mr.  Glegg,  "let^s  waste  no  more 
time  in  talking — ^let's  go  to  business.  Tom  now,  get  th^ 
pen  and  ink " 

While  Mr.  Glegg  was  speaking,  a  tall  dark  figure  was 
seen  hurrying  past  the  window. 

"Why,  there's  Mrs.  Moss,''  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "The 
bad  news  must  ha'  reached  her,  theu,"  and  she  went  out 
to  open  the  door,  Maggie  eagerly  following  lier. 

"  That's  fortunate,  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  She  can  agree 
to  the  .list  o' things  to  be  bought  in.  It's  but  right  she 
should  do  her  share  when  it's  her  own  brother." 

Mrs.  Moss  was  in  too  much  agitation  to  resist  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver's  movement,  as  she  drew  her  into  the  parlor,  auto- 
matically, without  reflecting  that  it  was  hardly  kind  to 
take  her  among  so  many  persons  in  the  first  painful 
moment  of  arrival.  The  tall,  worn,  dark-haired  woman 
was  a  strong  contrast  to  the  Dodson  sisters  as  she  entered 
in  her  shabby  dress,  with  her  shawl  and  bonnet  looking  as 
if  they  had  been  hastily  huddled  on,  and  with  that  entire 
absence  of  self -consciousness  which  belongs  to  keenly-felt 
trouble.  Maggie  was  clinging  to  her  arm;  and  .Mrs.  Moss 
seemed  to  notice  no  one  else  except  Tom,  whom  she  went 
straight  up  to  and  took  by  the  hand. 

"Oh,  my  dear  children,"  sTie  burst  out,  "you've  no  call 
to  think  well  o'  me;  I'm  a  poor  aunt  to  you,  for  I'm  one 
o'  them  as  take  all  and  give  nothing.  How's  my  poor 
brother?" 

"Mr.  Turnbull  thinks  he'll  get  better,"  said  Maggie* 
'^'  Sit  down,  aunt  Gritty.     Don't  fret." 

"  Oh,  my  sweet  child,  I  feel  torn  i'  two,"  said  Mrs.  Moss., 
allowing  Maggie  to  lead  her  to  the  sofa,  but  still  not  seem- 
ing to  notice  the  presence  of  the  rest*  "We've  three 
hundred  pounds  o'  my  brother's  money,  and  ixow  he  wants 
it,  and  you  all  want  it,  poor  things! — and  yet  we  must  be 
sold  up  to  pay  it,  and  there's  my  poor  children — eight  of 
'em,  and  the  little  un  of  all  can't  speak  plain.  And  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  a  robber.  But  I'm  sure  I'd  no  thought  as  my 
brother " 

The  poor  woman  was  interrupted  by  a  rising  sob. 

"  Three  hundred  pounds!  oh,  dear,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver, who,  when  she  had  said  that  her  husband  had  done 
"unknown"  things  for  his  sister,  had  not  had  any  par- 
ticular sum  in  her  mind,  and  felt  a  wife's  irritation  at  hav- 
ing been  kept  in  the  dark. 

"What  madness,  to  be  sure!"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.     "A 


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208  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

man  with  a  family!  He'd  no  right  to  lend  his  money  i' 
that  way;  and  without  security,  I'll  be  bound,  if  the  truth 
was  known." 

Mrs.  Glegg^s  voice  had  arrested  Mrs.  Moss's  attention, 
and,  looking  up,  she  said — 

**  Yes,  there  was  security:  my  husband  gave  a  note  for 
it.  We're  not  that  sort  o^  people,  neither  of  us,  as  'ud 
rob  my  brother's  children;  and  we  looked  to  paying  back 
the  money,  when  the  times  got  a  bit  better." 

"Well,  but  now,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  gently,  "hasn't 
your  husband  no  way  o'  raising  this  money?  Because  it 
^ud  be  a  little  fortin,  like,  for  these  folks,  if  we  can  do 
without  Tulliver's  being  made  a  bankrupt.  Your  hus- 
band's got  stock:  it  is  but  right  he  should  raise  the  money, 
as  it  seems  to  me — ^not  but  what  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Mrs. 
Moss." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  don't  know  what  bad  luck  my  husband's 
had  with  his  stock.  The  farm's  suffering  so  as  never  was 
for  want  o'  stock;  and  we've  sold  all  the  wheat,  and  we're 

beliind  with  our  rent not  but  what  we'd  like  to  do 

what's  right,  and  I'd  sit  up  and  work  half  the  night,  if  it 

'ud  be  any  good but  there's  them  poor  children 

four  of  'om  such  little  uns " 

"Don't  cry  so,  aunt — don't  fret,"  whispered  Maggie, 
who  had  kept  hold  of  Mrs.  Moss's  hand. 

"  Did  Mr.  Tulliver  let  you  have  the  money  all  at  once?  " 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  still  lost  in  the  conception  of  things 
which  had  been  "going  on"  without  her  knowledge. 

"No;  at  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  rubbing  her  eyes  and 
making  an  effort  to  restrain  her  tears.  The  last  was  alter 
jny  bad  illness,  four  years  ago,  as  everything  went  wrong, 
and  there  was  a  new  note  made  then.  What  with  illness 
and  bad  luck,  I've  been  nothing  but  cumber  all  my  life.'* 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  decision. 
"Yours  is  a  very  unlucky  family;  the  more's  the  pity  for 
my  sister." 

"I  set  off  in  the  cart  as  soon  as  ever  I  heard  o'  what 
had  happened,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  looking  at  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
"I  should  never  ha'  stayed  away  all  this  while,  if  you'd 
thought  well  to  let  me  know.  And  it  isn't  as  I'm  thinking 
all  about  ourselves,  and  nothing  about  my  brother — only 
the  money  was  so  on  my  mind,  I  couldn't  help  speaking 
about  it.  And  my  husband  and  me  desire  to  do  the  right 
thing,  sir,"  she  added,  looking  at  Mr.  Glegg,  "  and  we'll 
make  shift  and  pay  the  money,  come  what  will,  if  that's 


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THE   DOWKFALL.  209 

all  that  my  brothei'^s  got  to  trust  to.  We\e  been  used 
to  trouble,  and  don't  look  for  much  else.  It's  only  the 
thought  o'  niy  poor  children  pulls  me  i'  two." 

*'  Why,  there's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said 
Mr.  Glegg,  ''and  it's  riffht  to  warn  you; — if  Tulliver^s 
made  a  bankrupt,  and  he's  got  a  note-of-hand  of  your 
husband's  for  three  hundred  pounds,  you'll  be  obliged  to 
pay  it:  th'  assignees  'ull  come  on  you  for  it." 

'•Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  thinking  of 
•  the  bankruptcy,  and  not  of  Mrs.  Moss's  concern  in  it. 
Poor  Mrs.  Moss  herself  listened  in  trembling  submission, 
while  Maggie  looked  with  bewildered  distress  at  Tom  to 
see  if  he  showed  any  signs  of  understanding  this  trouble, 
and  caring  about  poor  aunt  Moss.  Tom  was  only  looking 
thoughtful,  with  his  eyes  on  the  table-cloth. 

•'And  if  he  isn't  made  bankrupt,"  continued  Mr.  Glegg, 
"as  1  said  before,  three  hundred  pounds  'ud  be  a  little 
fortin  for  him,  poor  man.  We  don't  know  but  what  he 
may  be  partly  helpless,  if  he  ever  gets  up  again.  I'm  very 
sorry  if  it  goes  hard  with  you,  Mrs.  Moss— but  my  opinion 
is,  looking  at  it  one  way,  it'll  be  right  for  you  to  raise  the 
money;  and  looking  at  it  the  other  way,  you'll  be  obliged 
to  pay  it.  You  won't  think  ill  o'  me  for  speaking  the 
truth." 

"Uncle,"  said  Tom,  looking  up  suddenly  from  his 
meditative  view  of  the  table-cloth,  "I  don't  think  it  would 
be  right  for  ray  aunt  Moss  to  pay  the  money,  if  it  would 
be  against  my  father's  will  for  her  to  pay  it;  would  it?" 

Mr.  Glegg  looked  surprised  for  a  moment  or  two  before 
he  said,  '*  Why,  no,  perhaps  not,  Tom;  but  then  he'd  ha' 
destroyed  the  note,  you  know.  We  must  look  for  the  note. 
What  makes  you  think  it  'ud  be  against  his  will?" 

"  Why,"  said  Tom,  coloring,  but  trying  to  speak  firmly, 
in  spite  of  a  boyish  tremor,  "  I  remember  quite  weil, 
before  I  went  to  school  to  Mr.  Stelling,  my  fatner  said  to 
me  one  night,  when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire  together, 
and  no  one  else  was  in  the  room " 

Tom  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  went  on. 

"  He  said  something  to  me  about  Maggie,  and  then  he 
said,  'I've  always  been  good  to  my  sister,  though  she 
married  against  my  will  —  and  I've  lent  Moss  money;  but 
I  shall  never  think  of  distressing  him  to  pay  it:  I'd  rather 
lose  it.  My  children  must  not  mind  being  the  poorer  for 
^hat.'    And  now  my  father's  ill,  and  not  able  to  speak  for 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


210  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

himself,  I  shouldn't  like  anything  to  be  done  contrary  to 
what  he  said  to  me." 

**  Well,  but  then,  my  boy,'*  said  uncle  Glegg,  whose  good 
feeling  led  him  to  enter  into  Tom^s  wish,  but  who  could 
not  at  once  shake  off  his  habitual  abhorrence  of  such  reck- 
lessness as  destroying  securities,  or  alienating  anything 
important  enough"  to  make  an  appreciable  difference  in  a 
man's  property,  "we  should  have  to  make  away  wi'  the 
note,  you  know,  if  we're  to  guard  against  what  may 
happen,  supposing  your  father's  made  bankrupt '' 

**Mr.  Glegg/'  interrupted  his  wife,  severely,  *^mind 
what  you're  saying.  You're  putting,  yourself  very  forrard 
in  other  folks's  business.  If  you  speak  rash,  don't  say  it 
was  mv  fault." 

**  That's  such  a  thing  as  I  never  beared  of  before,"  said 
uncle  Pullet,  who  had  been  making  haste  with  his  lozenge 
in  order  to  express  his  amazement;  "  making  away  with  a 
note!  I  should  think  anybody  could  set  the  constable  on 
you  for  it." 

'*  Well,  but,"  said  Mrs.  TuUiver,  "  if  the  note's  worth 
all  that  money,  why  can't  we  pay  it  away,  and  save  my 
things  from  going  away?  We've  no  call  to  meddle  with 
your  uncle  and  aunt  Moss,  Tom,  if  you  think  your  father 
'ud  be  angry  when  he  gets  well." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  not  studied  the  question  of  exchange, 
and  was  straining  her  mind  after  original  ideas  on  tfte 
subject. 


destroying  i 

*'  Then  I  hope  you'll  help  me  to  do  it,  uncle,"  said  Tom, 
earnestly.  "  If  my  father  shouldn't  get  well,  I  should  be 
very  unhappy  to  tHink  anything  had  been  done  against  his 
will,  that  I  could  hinder.  And  I'm  sure  he  meant  me  to 
remember  what  he  said  that  evening.  I  ought  to  obey  my 
father's  wish  about  his  property." 

Even  Mrs.  Glegg  could  not  withhold  her  approval  from 
Tom's  words:  she  felt  that  the  Dodson  blood  was  certainly 
speaking  in  him,  though,  if  his  father  had  been  a  Dodson, 
there  would  never  have  been  this  wicked  alienation  of 
money.  Maggie  would  hardly  have  restrained  herself 
from  leaping  on  Tom's  neck,  if  her  aunt  Moss  had  not 
prevented  her  by  herself  rising  and  taking  Tom's  hand, . 
while  she  said,  with  rather  a  choked  voice  — 

"  you'll  never  be  the  poorer  for  this^  my  dear  boy,  if 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE    DOWNFALL.  211 

there^s  a  God  aboro;  and  if  the  monejr^s  wanted  for  your 
father.  Moss  and  ine  ^ull  pay  it,  the  same  as  if  there  was 
ever  such  security.  We'll  do  as  we'd  be  done  by;  for  if 
my  children  have  got  no  other  luck,  they've  got  an  honest 
father  and  mother." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Gless,  who  had  been  meditating  after 
Tom's  words,  "  we  shouldn't  be  doing  any  wrong  by  the 
creditors,  supposing  your  father  was  bankrupt.  I've  been 
thinking  o'  that,  for  I've  been  a  creditor  myself,  and  seen 
no  end  o'  cheating.  If  he  meant  to  give  your  aunt  the 
money  before  ever  he  got  into  this  sad  work  o'  lawing,  it's 
the  same  as  if  he'd  made  away  with  the  note  himself;  for 
he'd  made  up  his  mind  to  be  that  much  poorer.  But 
there's  a  deal  o'  things  to  be  considered,  young  man,"  Mr. 
Glegg  added,  looking  admonishingly  at  Tom,  "  when  you 
come  to  money  business,  and  you  may  be  taking  one  man's 
dinner  away  to  make  another  man's  breakfast.  You  don't 
understand  that,  I  doubt?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Tom,  decidedly.  "I  know  if  I  owe 
money  to  one  man,  I've  no  right  to  give  it  to  another. 
But  if  my  father  had  made  up  his  mind  to  give  my  aunt 
the  money  before  he  was  in  debt,  he  had  a  right  to  do  it." 

**  Well  done,  young  man!  I  didn't  think  you'd  been  so 
sharp,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  much  candor.  "  But  per- 
haps your  father  did  make  away  with  the  note.  Let  us  go 
and  see  if  we  can  find  it  in  the  chest." 

'^  It's  in  my  father's  room.  Let  us  go  too,  aunt  Gritty," 
whispered  Maggie. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  VANISHING   GLBiM. 


Me.  Tulliver,  even  between  the  fits  of  spasmodic 
rigidity  which  had  recurred  at  intervals  ever  since  he  had 
been  found  fallen  from  his  horse,  was  usually  in  so  apathetic 
a  condition  that  the  exits  and  entrances  into  his  room  were 
not  felt  to  be  of  great  importance.  He  had  lain  so  still, 
with  his  eyes  closed,  all  this  morning,  that  Maggie  told 
her  aunt  Moss  she  must  not  expect  her  father  to  take  any 
notice  of  them. 

They  entered  very  quietly,  and  Mrs.  Moss  took  her  seat 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


212  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

near  the  head  of  the  bed,  while  Maggie  sat  in  her  old 
place  on  the  bed,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  father's  without 
causing  any  change  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Glegg  and  Tom  had  also  entered,  treading  softly, 
and  were  busy  selecting  the  key  of  the  old  oak  chest  from 
the  bunch  which  Tom  had  brought  from  his  father's 
bureau.  They  succeeded  in  opening  the  chest — which 
stood  opposite  the  foot  of  Mr.  Tulliver's  bed — and  prop- 
ping the  lid  with  the  iron  holder,  without  much  noise. 

"  Tliere's  a  tin  box,^'  whispered  Mr.  Glegg;  "  he'd  most 
like  put  a  small  thing  like  a  note  in  there.  Lift  it  out, 
Tom;  but  I'll  just  lift  up  these  deeds  —  they^re  the  deeds 
o'  the  house  and  mill,  I  suppose —  and  see  what  there  is 
under  'em." 

Mr.  Glegg  had  lifted  out  the  parchments,  and  had 
fortunately  drawn  back  a  little  when  the  iron  holder  gave 
way,  and  the  heavy  lid  fell  with  a  loud  bang  that  resounded 
over  the  house. 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  that  sound  more  than 
the  mere  fact  of  the  strong  vibration  that  produced  the 
instantaneous  effect  on  the  frame  of  the  prostrate  man, 
and  for  the  time  completely  shook  off  the  obstruction  of 
paralysis.  The  chest  nad  belonged  to  his  father  and  his 
lather's  father,  and  it  had  always  been  rather  a  solemn 
business  to  visit  it.  All  long-known  objects,  even  a  mere 
window  fastening  or  a  particular  door-latch,  have  sounds 
which  are  a  sort  of  recognized  voice  to  us — a  voice  that 
will  thrill  and  awaken,  when  it  has  been  used  to  touch 
deep-lying  fibres.  In  the  same  moment  when  all  the  eyes 
in  the  room  were  turned  upon  him,  he  started  up  and 
looked  at  the  -chest,  the  parchments  in  Mr.  Glegg's  nand, 
and  Tom  holding  the  tin  box,  with  a  glance  of  perfect 
consciousness  and  recognition. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  those  deeds?"  he  said, 
in  his  ordinary  tone  of  sharp  questioning  whenever  he  was 
irritated.  "  Come  here,  Tom.  What  do  you  do,  going  to 
my  chest?" 

Tom  obeyed,  with  some  trembling:  it  was  the  first  time 
his  father  had  recognized  him.  But  instead  of  saying 
anything  more  to  him,  his  father  continued  to  look  with 
}•■  growing  distinctness  of  suspicion  at  Mr.  Glegg  and  the 
deeds. 

'*  What's   been   happening,   then?"  he  said,   sharply. 

*  What  arc  you  meddling  with  my  deeds,  for?    Is  Wakem 

!^iiying  hol(J  pf   everything?— r—Whjr  do^'t  j^ou  tell  m© 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  213 

what  youVe  been  a  doing?'*  he  added,  impatiently,  as  Mr. 
Glegg  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  before  speaking. 

*'  ^o,  no,  friend  TuUiver/'  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  soothing 
tone.  ^*  JSTobody's  getting  hold  of  anything,  as  yet.  We 
only  came  to  look  and  see  what  was  in  the  chest.  You've 
been  ill,  you  know,  and  we've  had  to  look  after  things  a 
bit.  But  let's  hope  vou^l  soon  be  well  enough  to  attend 
to  everything  yourseli/* 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  round  him  meditatively  —  at  Tom, 
at  Mr.  Glegg,  and  at  Maggie;  then  suddenly  appearing 
aware  that  some  one  was  seated  by  his  side  at  the  head  of 
the  bed,  he  turned  sharply  round  and  saw  his  sister. 

*^Eh,  Gritty!''  he  said,  in  the  half -sad,  affectionate 
tone  in  which  he  had  been  wont  to  speak  to  her.  ^^  What! 
you^re  there,  &re  you?  How  could  you  manage  to  leave 
the  children?" 

*'0h,  brother!  *'  said  good  Mrs.  Moss,  too  impulsive 
to  be  prudent,  "  I'm  thankful  I'm  come  now  to  see  you 
yourself  again  —  I  thought  you'd  never  know  us  any 
more." 

"What!  have  I  had  a  stroke?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  anx- 
iously looking  at  Mr.  Glegg. 

"A  fall  from  your  horse — shook  you  a  bit — ^that's  all,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  But  you'll  soon  get  over  it,  let's 
hope." 

Mr.  Tulliver  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  bed-clothes,  and  re- 
mained silent  for  two  or  three  minutes.  A  new  shadow 
came  over  his  face.  He  looked  up  at  Maggie  first,  and  said 
in  a  lower  tone,  "You  got  the  letter,  then,  my  wench?" 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said,  kissing  him  with  a  full  heart. 
She  felt  as  if  her  father  were  come  back  to  her  from  the 
dead,  and  her  yearning  to  show  him  how  she  had  always 
loved  him  could  be  fulfilled. 

"Where's  your  mother?"  he  said,  so  preoccupied  that 
he  received  the  kiss  as  passively  as  some  quiet  animal  might 
have  received  it. 

"She's  down-stairs  with  my  aunts,  father:  shall  I  fetch 
her?" 

"Ay,  ay:  poor  Bessy! "  and  his  eyes  turned  toward  Tom 
as  Maggie  left  the  room. 

"You'll  have  to  take  care  of  'em  both  if  I  die,  you 
know,  Tom.  You'll  be  badly  off,  I  doubt.  But  you  must 
Bee  and  pay  everybody.  And  mind — there's  fifty  pound  o' 
Luke's  as  I  put  into  the  business — he  gave  it  me  a  bit  at  a 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


214  THE  MILL  OK  THK  t'LOSS. 

time,  and  he^s  got  nothing  to  shoir  for  it.    You  must  pay 
him  first  thing/^ 

Uncle  Glegg  involuntarily  shook  his  head,  and  looked 
more  concerned  than  ever,  but  Tom  said  firmly — 

**  Yes,  father.  And  haven't  you  a  note  from  my  uncle 
Moss  for  three  hund  red  pounds  ?  We  came  to  look  for  that. 
What  do  you  wish  to  be  done  about  it,  father?*' 

"  Ah!  I'm  glad  you  thought  o'  that,  my  lad,*'  said  Mr. 
Tulliver.  "  I  allays  meant  to  be  easy  about  that  money, 
because  o'  your  aunt.  You  mustn't  mind  losing  the  money, 
if  they  can't  pav  it — and  it's  like  enough  they  can't.  Tlie 
note's  in  that  box,  mind!  I  allays  meant  to  be  good  to 
you.  Gritty,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  turning  to  his  sister;  "but 
you  know,  you  aggravated  me  when  you  would  have  Moss." 

At  this  moment  Maggie  re-entered  witR  her  mother, 
who  came  in  much  agitated  by  the  news  that  her  husband 
was  quite  himself  a^am. 

"  Well,  Bessy,"  he  said  as  she  kissed  him,  "  you  must 
forgive  me  if  you're  worse  off  than  you  ever  expected  to  be. 
But  it's  the  fault  o'  the  law — it's  none  of  mine,"  he  added, 
angrily.  "  It's  the  fault  o'  the  raskills!  Tom — ^you  mind 
this:  if  ever  you've  got  the  chance,  you  make  Wakem  smart. 
If  you  don't,  you're  a  good-for-nothing  son.  You  might 
horse-whip  him — but  he'd  set  the  law  on  you — ^the  law's 
made  to  take  care  o'  raskills." 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  getting  excited,  and  an  alarming  flush 
was  on  his  face.  Mr.  Glegg  wanted  to  say  something 
soothing,  but  he  was  prevented  by  Mr.  TuUiver's  speaking 
again  to  his  wife.  "They'll  make  a  shift  to  pay  every- 
thing, Bessy/'  he  said,  "  and  yet  leave  you  your  furniture; 

and  your  sisters'U  do  something  for  you and  Tom'll 

grow  up though  what  he's  to  be  I  don't  know I've 

done  wnat  I  could I've  given  him  a  eddication and 

there's  the  little  wench,  she'll  get  married but  it's  a  poor 

tale '' 

The  sanative  effect  of  the  strong  vibration  was  exhausted, 
and  with  the  last  words  the  poor  man  fell  again,  rigid  and 
insensible.  Though  this  was  only  a  recurrence  of  what 
had  happened  before,  it  struck  all  present  as  if  it  had 
been  death,  not  only  from  its  contrast  with  the  complete- 
ness of  the  revival,  but  because  his  words  had  all  had 
reference  to  the  possibility  that  his  death  was  near.  But 
with  poor  Tulliver  death  was  not  to  be  a  leap:  it  was  to  be 
a  long  descent  under  thickening  shadows. 

Mr.  TurnbuU  was  sent  for;  but  when  he  heard  what 

,  Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  215 

had  passed,  he  said  this  complete  restoration,  though  only 
temporary,  was  a  hopeful  sign,  proving  that  there  was  no 
permanent  lesion  to  prevent  ultimate  recovery. 

Among  the  threads  of  the  past  which  the  stricken  man 
had  gathered  up,  he  had  omitted  the  bill  of  sale;  the 
flash  of  memory  had  only  lit  up  prominent  ideas,  and  he 
sank  into  forgetfulness  again  with  half  his  humiliation 
unlearned. 

But  Tom  was  clear  upon  two  points — that  his  uncle 
Moss's  note  must  be  destroyed,  and  that  Luke's  money 
must  be  paid,  if  in  no  other  way,  out  of  his  own  and 
Maggie's  money  now  in  the  savings  bank.  There  were  sub- 
jects, you  perceive,  on  which  Tom  was  much  quicker  than 
on  the  niceties  of  classical  construction,  or  the  relations  of 
a  mathematical  demonstration. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOM  APPLIES  HIS  KNIFE  TO  THE  OYSTER. 

The  next  day,  at  ten  o'clock,  Tom  was  on  his  way  to 
Si.  Ogg's,  to  see  his  uncle  Deane,  who  was  to  come  home 
la&t  night,  his  aunt  had  said;  and  Tom  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  his  uncle  Deane  was  the  right  person  to  ask  for 
advice  about  getting  some  employment.  He  was  in  a 
great  way  of  business;  he  had  not  the  narrow  notions  of 
uncle  Glegg;  and  he  had  risen  in  the  world  on  £u  scale  of 
advancement  which  accorded  with  Tom's  ambition. 

It  was  a  dark,  chill,  misty  morning,  like  to  end  in  rain — 
one  of  those  mornings  when  even  happy  people  take  refuge 
in  their  hopes.  And  Tom  was  ver^  unhappy:  he  felt  the 
humiliation  as  well  as  the  prospective  hardships  of  his  lot 
with  all  the  keenness  of  a  proud  nature;  and  with  all  his 
resolute  dutifulness  toward  his  father  there  mingled 
an  irrepressible  indignation  against  him  which  gave  mis- 
fortune the  less  endurable  aspect  of  a  wrong.  Since 
these  Were  the  consequences  of  going  to  law,  his  father 
was  really  blamable,  as-  his  aunts  and  uncles  had  always 
said  he  was;  and  it  was  a  significant  indication  of  Tom's 
charfictcr,  that  though  he  thought  his  aunts  ought  to  do 
•something  more  for  his  mother,  he  felt  nothing  like 
Maggie-'s  violent  resentment  against  them  for  showing  no 


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216  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ea^r  tenderness  and  generosity.  There  were  no  impulses 
in  Tom  that  led  him  to  expect  what  did  not  present  itself 
to  him  as  a  right  to  be  demanded.  Why  should  people 
give  away  their  money  plentifully  to  those  who  had  not 
taken  care  of  their  own  money?  Tom  saw  some  justice  in 
severity;  and  all  the  more,  because  he  had  confidence 
in  himself  that  he  should  never  deserve  that  just  severity. 
It  was  very  hard  upon  him  that  he  should  be  put  at  this 
disadvantage  in  life  by  his  father^s  want  of  prudence;  but 
he  was  not  going  to  complain  and  to  find  fault  with  people 
because  they  did  not  make  everything  easy  for  him.  He 
would  ask  no  one  to  help  him,  more  than  to  give  him  work 
and  pay  him  for  it.  Poor  Tom  was  not  without  his  hopes 
to  take  refuge  in  under  the  chill,  damp  imprisonment  of  a 
December  fog  which  seemed  only  like  a  part  of  his  home 
troubles.  At  sixteen,  the  mind  that  has  the  strongest 
aflfinity  for  fact  cannot  escape  illusion  and  self -flattery; 
and  Tom,  in  sketching  his  future,  had  no  other  guide  in 
arranging'his  facts  than  the  suggestions  of  his  own  brave 
self-reliance.  Both  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  he  knew, 
had  been  very  poor  once:  he  did  not  want  to  save  money 
slowly  and  retire  on  a  moderate  fortune  like  his  uncle 
Crlegg,  but  he  would  be  like  his  uncle  Deane — ^get  a  situa- 
tion m  some  great  house  of  business  and  rise  fast.  He  had 
scarcely  seen  anything  of  his  uncle  Deane  for  the  last 
three  years — the  two  families  had  been  getting  wider 
apart;  but  for  this  very  reason  Tom  was  the  more  hopeful 
about  applying  to  him.  His  uncle  Glegg,  he  felt  sure, 
would  never  encourage  any  spirited  project,  but  he  had  a 
vague,  imposing  idea  of  the  resources  at  his  uncle  Deane's 
command.  He  had  heard  his  father  say,  long  ago,  how 
Deane  had  made  himself  so  valuable  to  Guest  &  Co.  that 
they  were  fflad  enough  to  offer  him  a  share  in  the  business: 
that  was  wnat  Tom  resolved  he  would  do. ,  It  was  intoler- 
able to  think  of  being  poor  and  looked  down  upon  all  one^s 
life.  He  would  provide  for  his  mother  and  sister,  and 
make  every  one  say  that  he  was  a  man  of  high  character. 
He  leaped  over  the  years  in  this  way,  and  in  the  haste  of 
strong  purpose  and  strong  desire,  did  not  see  how  they 
would  be  made  up  of  slow  days,  hours,  and  minutes. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  stone  bridge  over  the 
Floss  and  was  entering  St.  Ogg%  he  was  thinking  that  he 
would  buy  his  father's  mill  and  land  again  when  he  was 
rich  enough,  and  improve  the  house  and  Jive  there:  h^ 


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THE   DOWNFALL.  217 

should  prefer  it  to  any  smarter,  newer  place,  and  he  could 
keep  as  many  horses  and  dogs  as  he  liked. 

Walking  along  the  street  with  a  firm,  rapid  step,  at  this 
point  in  his  reverie  he  was  startled  b^  some  one  who  had 
crossed  without  his  notice,  and  who  said  to  him  in  a  rougli, 
familiar  voice — 

"Why,  Master  Tom,  how^s  your  father  this  morning?'' 
It  was  a  publican  of  St.  Ogg^s — one  of  his  father's  cus- 
tomers. 

Tom  disliked  being  spoken  to  just  then;  but  he  said 
civilly,  "He's  still  very  ill,  thank  you." 

"Ay,  it's  been  a  sore  chance  for  you,  young  man,  hasn't 
it? — this  lawsuit  turning  out  against  him,"  said  the 
publican,  with  a  confused  beery  idea  of  being  good- 
natured. 

Tom  reddened  and  passed  on:  he  would  have  felt  it  like 
the  handling  of  a  bruise,  even  if  there  had  been  the  most 
polite  and  delicate  reference  to  his  position. 

"That's  Tulliver's  son,"  said  the  publican  to  a  grocer 
standing  on  the  adjacent  door-step. 

"Ah!"  said  the  grocer,  "I  thought  I  knew  his  features. 
He  takes  after  his  mother's  family:  she  was  a  Dodson. 
He's  a  fine,  straight  youth:  what's  he  been  brought  up  to?" 

"  Oh!  to  turn  up  his  nose  at  his  father's  customers,  and 
be  a  fine  gentleman — not  much  else,  I  think." 

Tom,  roused  from  his  dream  of  the  future  to  a  thorough 
consciousness  of  the  present,  made  all  the  greater  haste  to 
reach  the  warehouse  offices  of  Guest  &  Co.,  where  he 
expected  to  find  his  uncle  Deane.  But  this  was  Mr. 
Deane's  morning  at  the  bank,  a  clerk  told  him,  with  some 
contempt  at  his  ignorance:  Mr.  Deane  was  not  to  be  found 
in  River  Street  on  a  Thursday  morning. 

At  the  bank  Tom  was  admitted  into  the  private  room 
where  his  uncle  was,  immediately  after  sending  in  his 
name.  Mr.  Deane  was  auditing  accounts;  but  he  looked 
up  as  Tom  entered,  and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "  Well, 
Tom,  nothing  fresh  the  matter  at  home,  I  hope?  How's 
your  father?" 

"  Much  the  same,  thank  you,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  feeling 
nervous.  "But  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  please,  when 
you're  at  liberty." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  relapsing  into 
his  accounts,  in  which  he  and  the  manadng-clerk  remained 
so  absorbed  for  the  next  half-hour  that  Tom  began  to 
wonder  whether  he  should  have  to  sit  in  this  way  till  the 


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218  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

bank  closed — there  seemed  so  little  tendency  toward  a  con- 
clusion in  the  quiet  monotonous  procedure  of  these  sleek, 
prosperous  men  of  business.  Would  his  uncle  give  him  a 
place  in  the  bank?  it  would  be  very  dull,  prosy  work,  he 
thought,  writing  there  forever  to  the  loud  ticking  of  a 
time-piece.  He  preferred  some  other  way  of  setting  rich. 
But  at  last  there  was  a  change:  his  uncle  took  a  pen  and 
wrote  something  with  a  flourish  at  the  end. 

"  Ypu^U  just  step  up  to  Terry's  now,  Mr.  Spence,  will 

f^ou?'*  said  Mr.  Deane,  and  the  clock  suddenly  became  less 
oud  and  deliberate  in  Tom's  ears. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  were  alone, 
turning  his  substantial  person  a  little  in  his  chair,  and 
taking  out  his  snuff-box,  "  what's  the  business,  my  boy — 
what's  the  business?"  Mr.  Deane,  wHo  had  heard  from  his 
wife  what  had  passed  the  day  before,  thought  Tom  was  como 
to  appeal  to  him  for  some  means  of  averting  the  sale. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  troubling  you,  uncle," 
said  Tom,  coloring,  but  speaking  in  a  tone  which,  though 
tremulous,  had  a  certain  proud  independence  in  it;  "but 
I  thought  you  were  were  the  best  person  to  advise  me  what 
to  do.'^ 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Deane,  reserving  his  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  looking  at  Tom  with  new  attention,  "let  us  hear." 

"  I  want  to  get  a  situation,  uncle,  so  that  I  may  earn 
some  money,"  said  Tom,  who  never  fell  into  circumlo- 
cution. 

"A  situation?"  said  Mr.  Deane,  and  then  took  his 
pinch  of  snuff  with  elaborate  justice  to  each  nostril.  Tom 
thouffht  snuff-taking  a  most  provoking  habit. 

"Why,  let  me  see,  how  old  are  you?"  said  Mr.  Deane, 
as  he  threw  himself  backward  again. 

"Sixteen — I  mean,  I  am  going  in  seventeen,"  said  Tom, 
hoping  his  uncle  noticed  how  much  beard  he  had. 

"  Let  me  see — your  father  had  some  notion  of  making 
you  an  engineer,  I  think?" 

"  But  I  don't  think  I  could  get  any  money  at  that  for  a 
long  while,  could  I?" 

"That's  true;  but  people  don't  get  much  money  at 
anything,  my  boy,  when  they're  only  sixteen.  You've 
had  a  good  deal  of  schooling,  however:  I  suppose  you're 
pretty  well  up  in  accounts,  eh?  You  understand  book- 
keeping?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  rather  falteringly.  "I  was  in  Prac- 
tice.    But  Mr.  Stelling  says  I  write  a  good  hand,  uncle. 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  219 

That*8  my  writing/^  added  Tom,  laying  on  the  table  a 
copy  of  the  list  he  had  made  yesterday. 

^^Ah!  that's  good,  that's  good.  But,  you  see,  the  best 
hand  in  the  world'll  not  get  you  a  better  place  than  a 
copying-clerk's,  if  you  know  nothing  of  book-keeping — 
nothing  of  accounts.  And  a  copjdng-clerk's  a  cheap 
article.    But  what  have  you  been  learning  at  school,  then ? '' 

Mr.  Deane  had  not  occupied  himseli  with  methods  of 
education,  and  had  no  precise  conception  of  what  went 
forward  in  expensive  schools. 

^^  We  learned  Latin,"  said  Tom,  pausing  a  little  between 
each  item,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  the  books  in  his 
school-desk  to  assist  his  memory — ^*a  good  deal  of  Latin; 
and  the  last  year  I  did  Themes,  one  week  in  Latin  and  one 
in  English;  and  Greek  and  Koman  History;  and  Euclid; 
and  I  began  Algebra,  but  I  left  it  off  again;  and  we  had 
one  day  every  week  for  Arithmetic.  Then  I  used  to  have 
drawing-lessons;  and  there  were  several  other  books  we 
either  read  or  learned  out  of,  English  Poetry,  and  HoraD 
Paul inae,  and  Blair's  Khetoric,  the  last  half." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  snuff-box  again,  and  screwed  up 
his  mouth;  he  felt  in  the  position  of  many  estimable  per- 
sons when  they  had  read  the  New  Tariff,  and  found  how 
many  commodities  were  imported  of  which  they  knew 
nothing:  like  a  cautious  man  of  business,  he  was  not  going 
to  speak  rashly  of  a  raw  material  in  which  he  had  had  no 
experience.  But  the  presumption  was,  that  if  it  had  been 
good  for  anything,  so  successful  a  man  as  himself  would 
hardly  have  been  ignorant  of  it.  About  Latin  he  had  an 
opinion,  and  thought  that  in  case  of  another  war,  since 
people  would  no  longer  wear  hair-powder,  it  would  be  well 
to  put  a  tax  upon  Latin,  as  a  luxury  much  run  upon  by 
the  higher  classes,  and  not  telling  at  all  upon  the  ship- 
owning  department.  But,  for  what  he  knew,  the  Horae 
PaulinaB  might  be  something  less  neutral.  On  the  whole, 
this  list  of  acquirements  gave  him  a  sort  of  repulsion 
toward  poor  Tom. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  rather  a  cold,  sardonic  tone, 
'* you've  had  three  years  at  these  things — you  must  be 
pretty  strong  in  'em.  Hadn't  you  better  take  up  some 
line  where  they'll  come  in  hand}??" 

Tom  colored,  and  burst  out,  with  new  energy — 

"I'd  rather  not  have  any  employment  of  that  sort, 
uncle.  I  don't  like  Latin  and  those  things.  I  don't 
know  what  I  could  do  with  them  unless  I  went  as  usher  in 


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220  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

a  school;  and  I  don't  know  them  well  enongh  for  that: 
besides,  I  would  as  soon  carry  a  pair  of  panniers.  I  don't 
want  to  be  that  sort  of  person.  I  should  like  to  enter 
into  some  business  where  1  can  get  on — a  manly  business, 
where  I  should  have  to  look  alter  things,  and  get  credit 
for  what  I  did.  And  I  shall  want  to  keep  my  mother  and 
sister." 

**Ah,  young  gentleman,^'  said  Mr.  Deane,  with  that 
tendency  to  repress  youthful  hopes  which  stout  and 
successful  men  of  fifty  find  one  of  their  easiest  duties, 
'* that's  sooner  said  than  done — sooner  said  than  done." 

*'But  didn^t  you  get  on  in  that  way,  uncle?"  said  Tom, 
a  little  irritated  that  Mr.  Deane  did  not  enter  more  rapidly 
into  his  views.  "I  mean,  didn't  you  rise  from  one  place 
to  another  through  your  abilities  and  good  conduct?" 

'^Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  spreading  himself  in  his 
chair  a  little,  and  entering  with  great  readiness  into  a 
retrospect  of  his  own  career.  ^^But  I'll  tell  you  how  I 
got  on.  It  wasn't  by  getting  astride  a  stick,  and  thinking 
it  would  turn  into  a  horse  if  I  sat  on  it  long  enough.  I 
kept  my  eyes  and  ears  open,  sir,  and  I  wasn't  too  fond  of 
my  own  back,  and  I  made  my  master's  interest  my  own. 
Why,  with  only  looking  into  what  went  on  in  the. mill,  I 
found  out  how  there  was  a  waste  of  five  hundred  a  year 
that  might  be  hindered.  Why,  sir,  I  hadn't  more  school- 
ing to  begin  with  than  a  charitv  boy;  but  I  saw  pretty 
soon  that  I  couldn't  get  on  far  without  mastering  accounts, 
and  I  learned  'em  between  working  hours,  after  I'd  l\een 
unlading.  Look  here."  Mr.  Deane  opened  a  book,  and 
pointed  to  the  page.  ^^I  write  a  good  hand  enough,  and 
I'll  match  anybody  at  all  sorts  of  reckoning  by  the  head, 
and  I  got  it  all  by  hard  work,  and  paid  for  it  out  of  my 
own  earnings — often  out  of  my  own  dinner  and  supper. 
And  I  looked  into  the  nature  of  all  the  things  we  had  to 
do  with  in  the  business,  and  picked  up  knowledge  as 
I  went  about  my  work,  and  turned  it  over  in  my  head. 
Why,  I'm  no  mechanic — I  never  pretended  to  be — but 
I've  thought  of  a  thing  or  two  that  the  mechanics  never 
thought  of,  and  it's  m^e  a  fine  difference  in  6ur  returns. 
And  there  isn't  an  article  shipped  or  unshipped  at  our 
wharf  but  I  know  the  quality  of  it.  If  I  got  places,  sir, 
it  was  because  I  made  myself  fit  for  'em.  If  you  want  to 
slip  into  a  round  hole,  you  must  make  a  ball  of  yourself — 
that's  where  it  is." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  box  again.     He  had  been  led  on. 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  221 

by  pure  enthusiasm  in  his  subject,  and  had  really  for- 
gotten what  bearing  this  retrospective  survey  had  on  his 
listener.  He  had  found  occasion  for  saying  the  same 
thing  more  than  once  before,  and  was  not  distmctly  aware 
that  he  had  not  his  port-wine  before  him. 

'*  Well,  uncle, '^  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  complaint  in 
his  tone,  ^^  that's  what  I  should  like  to  do.  Can't  /  get  on 
in  the  same  way?'' 

^*In  the  same  way?"  said  Mr.  Deane,  eyeing  Tom  with 
quiet  deliberation.  "  There  go  two  or  three  questions  to 
that.  Master  Tom.  That  depends  on  what  sort  of  material 
you  are,  to  begin  with,  and  whether  yoji've  been  put  into 
the  right  mill.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  Your  poor 
father  went  the  wrong  way  in  giving  you  an  education. 
It  wasn't  my  business,  and  I  didn't  interfere:  but  it  is  us 
I  thought  it  would  be.  You've  had  a  sort  of  learning  that's 
all  very  well  for  a  young  fellow  like  our  Mr.  Stephen  Guest, 
who'll  have  nothing  to  do  but  sign  checks  all  his  life,  and 
may  as  well  have  Latin  inside  his  head  as  any  other  sort  of 
stuffing." 

^'But,  uncle,"  said  Tom  earnestly,  ^'I  don't  see  why  the 
Latin  need  hinder  me  from  getting  on  in  business.  I  shall 
soon  forget  it  all:  it  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  had  to 
do  my  lessons  at  school;  but  I  always  thought  they'd  never 
be  of  any  use  to  me  afterward — I  didn't  care  about  them." 

*^Ay,  ay,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Deane;  but  it 
doesn't  alter  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Your  Latin  and 
rigmarole  may  soon  dry  off  you,  but  you'll  be  but  a  bare 
stick  after  that.  Besides,  it's  whitened  your  hands  and 
taken  the  rough  work  out^^f  you.  And  what  do  you 
know?  Why,  you  know  noffliing  about  book-keeping,  to 
begin  with,  and  not  so  much  of  reckoning  as  a  common 
shopman.  You'll  have  to  begin  at  a  low  round  of  the 
ladder,  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  mean  to  get  on  in  life.  It's 
no  use  forgetting  the  education  your  father's  been  paying 
for,  if  you  don't  give  yourself  a  new  un." 

Tom  bit  his  lips  hard;  he  felt  as  if  the  tears  were  rising, 
and  he  would  rather  die  than  let  them. 

"  You  want  me  to  help  you  to  a  situation,"  Mr.  Deane 
went  on;  ^^well,  I've  no  fault  to  find  with  that.  I'm 
willing  to  do  sometliing  for  you.  But  you  youngsters 
nowadays  think  you're  to  begin  with  living  well  and  work- 
ing easy:  you've  no  notion  of  runnirig  afoot  before  you  get 
on  horseback.  Now,  you  must  remember  what  you  are — 
you're  ^  1^  Qt  sixtQen,  trained  to  nothing  particular, 

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222  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

There's  heaps  of  your  sort,  like  so  muny  pebbles,  made  to 
fit  in  nowhere.  Well,  you  might  be  apprenticed  to  some 
business — a  cliemist's  and  druggist's  perhaps:  your  Latin 
might  come  in  a  bit  there *' 

Tom  was  going  to  speak,  but  Mr.  Deane  put  up  his  hand 
and  said — 

"Stop!  hear  what  Vyq  got  to  say.  You  don't  want  to 
be  a  'prentice — I  know,  I  know — you  want  to  make  more 
haste — and  you  don't  want  to  stand  behind  a  counter.  But 
if  you're  a  copying-clerk,  you'll  have  to  stand  behind  a 
desk,  and  stare  at  your  ink  and  paper  all  day:  there  isn't 
much  outlook  there,  and  you  won't  be  much  wiser  at  the 
end  of  the  year  than  at  the  beginning.  The  world  isn't 
made  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  if  you're  to  get  on  in  the 
world,  young  man,  you  must  know  what  the  world's  made 
of.  Now  the  best  chance  for  you  'ud  be  to  have  a  place 
on  a  wharf,  or  in  a  warehouse,  where  you'd  learn  the  smell 
of  things — but  you  wouldn't  like  that,  I'll  be  bound;  you'd 
have  to  stand  cold  and  wet,  and  be  shouldered  about  by 
rough  fellows.     You're  too  fine  a  gentleman  for  that." 

Mr.  Deane  paused  and  looked  hard  at  Tom,  who  cer- 
tainly felt  some  inward  struggle  before  he  could  reply. 

"  I  would  rather  do  what  will  be  best  for  me  in  the  end, 
sir.     I  would  put  up  with  what  was  disagreeable." 

*'  That's  well,  if  you  carry  it  out.  But  you  must  semem- 
ber  it  isn't  only  laying  hold  of  a  rope  —  you  must  go  on 
pulling.  It's  the  mistake  you  lads  make  that  have  got 
nothing  either  in  your  brains  or  your  pocket,  to  think 
you've  got  a  better  start  in  the  world  if  you  stick  yourselves 
m  a  place  where  you  can  keep  your  coats  clean,  and  have 
the  shop-wenches  take  you*  for  fine  gentlemen.  That 
wasn't  tne  way  /  started,  young  man,  when  I  was  sixteen, 
my  jacket  smelled  of  tar,  and  1  wasn't  afraid  of  handling 
cheeses.  That's  the  reason  I  can  wear  good  broadcloth 
now,  and  have  my  legs  under  the  same  table  with  the 
heads  of  the  best  firms  in  St.  Ogg's."  . 

Uncle  Deane  tapped  his  box,  and  seemed  to  expand  a 
little  under  his  waistcoat  and  gold  chain,  as  he  squared  his 
shoulders  in  the  chair. 

**  Is  there  any  place  at  liberty  that  yon  know  of  now, 
nncle,  that  I  should  do  for?  I  should  like  to  set  to  work 
at  once,"  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit;  we  mustn't  be  in  too  great  a 
hurry.  You  must  bear  in  mind,  if  I  put  you  in  a  place 
you're  a  bit  young  for,  beqauso  you  nappen  to  be  my 

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THE  DOWNFALL.  223 

nephew,  I  shall  be  responsible  for  you.  And  there's  no 
better  reason,  you  know,  than  your  being  my  nephew; 
because  it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  you're  good  for  any- 
thing/' 

"I  hope  I  should  never  do  you  any  discredit,  uncle," 
said  Tom,  hurt,  as  all  boys  are  at  the  statement  of  the 
unpleasant  truth  that  people  feel  no  ground  for  trusting 
them.     "  I  care  about  my  own  credit  too  much  for  that." 

"Well  done,  Tom,  well  done!  That's  the  right  spirit, 
and  I  never  refuse  to  help  anybody  if  they've  a  mind  to  do 
themselves  justice.  There's  a  younff  man  of  two-and- 
twenty  I've  got  my  eye  on  now.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for 
that  young  man  —  he's  got  some  pith  in  him.  But  then, 
you  see,  he's  made  good  use  of  his  time  —  a  flrst-rate  cal- 
culator— can  tell  you  the  cubic  contents  of  anything  in  no 
time,  and  put  me  up  the  other  day  to  a  new  market  for 
Swedish  bark;  he's  uncommonly  knowing  in  manufactures, 
that  young  fellow." 

"  I'd  better  set  about  learning  book-keeping,  hadn't  I, 
uncle?"  said  Tom,  anxious  to  prove  his  readiness  to  exert 
himself. 

"Yes,   yes,  you  can't   do    amiss  there.     But ah, 

Spence,  you're  back  again.  Well,  Tom,  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said  just  now,  I  think,  and  I  must  go  to  busi- 
ness again.     Good-bye.     Remember  me  to  your  mother." 

Mr.  Deane  put  out  his  hand,  with  an  air  of  friendly  dis- 
missal, and  Tom  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  another  ques- 
tion, especially  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Spence.  So  he  went 
out  again  into  the  cold  damp  air.  He  had  to  call  at  his 
uncle  Glegg's  about  the  money  in  the  Savings  Bank,  and 
by  the  time  he  set  out  again,  the  mist  had  thickened,  and 
he  could  not  see  very  far  before  him;  but  going  along 
Eiver  street  again,  he  was  startled,  when  he  was  within 
two  yards  of  the  projecting  side  of  a  shop-window,  by  the 
words  "Dorlcote  Mill"  in  large  letters  on  a  hand-bill, 
placed  as  if  on  purpose  to  stare  at  him.  It  was  the  cata- 
logue of  the  sale  to  take  place  the  next  week — it  was  a 
reason  for  hurrying  faster  out  of  the  town. 

Poor  Tom  formed  no  visions  of  the  distant  future  as  he 
made  his  way  homeward;  he  only  felt  that  the  present  was 
very  hard.  It  seemed  a  wrong  toward  him  that  his  uncle 
Deane  had  no  confidence  in  him — did  not  see  at  once  that 
he  should  acquit  himself  well,  which  Tom  himself  was  as 
certain  of  as  of  the  daylight.  Apparently  he,  Tom  Tulli- 
y^r,  was  likely  to  be  helcj  gf  §mf*!l  ^ccoimt  jq  the  world, 

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224  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

and  for  the  first  time  he  felt  a  sinking  of  heart  under  the 
sense  that  he  really  was  very  ignorant,  and  could  do  very 
little.  Who  was  that  enviable  young  man,  that  could  tell 
the  cubic  contents  of  things  in  no  time,  and  make  sugges- 
tions about  Swedish  bark?  Swedish  bark!  Tom  had 
been  used  to  be  so  entirely  satisfied  with  himself  in  spite 
of  his  breaking  down  in  a  demonstration,  and  construing 
nunc  illas  promite  vires,  as  "now  promise  those  men"; 
but  now  he  suddenly  felt  at  a  disadvantage,  because  he 
knew  less  than  some  one  else  knew.  There  must  be  a 
world  of  things  connected  with  that  Swedish  bark,  which, 
if  he  only  knew  them,  might  have  helped  him  to  get  on. 
It  would  have  been  much  easier  to  make  a  figure  with  a 
spirited  horse  and  a  new  saddle. 

Two  hours  ago,  as  Tom  was  walking  to  St.  Ogg's,  he  saw 
the  distant  future  before  him,  as  he  might  have  seen  a 
tempting  stretch  of  smooth,  sandy  beach  beyond  a  belt 
of  flinty  shingles;  he  was  on  the  grassy  bank  then,  and 
thought  the  shingles  would  soon  be  passed.  But  now  his 
feet  were  on  the  sharp  stones:  the  belt  of  shingles  had 
widened,  and  the  stretch  of  sand  had  dwindled  into  nar- 
rowness. 

*'AVhat  did  my  uncle  Deane  say,  Tom  ?^' said  Maggie, 
putting  her  arm  through  Tom's  as  he  was  warming  himself 
rather  drearily  by  the  kitchen  fire.  "Did  he  say  he  would 
give  you  a  situation?" 

"No,  he  didn't  say  that.  He  didn't  quite  promise  me 
anything;  he  seemed  to  think  I  couldn't  have  a  very  good 
situation.     I'm  too  young.'' 

"But  didn't  he  speak  kindly,  Tom?" 

"  Kindly?  Pooh!  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  that? 
1  wouldn't  care  about  his  speaking  kindly,  if  I  could  get  a 
situation.  But  it's  such  a  nuisance  and  bother — I've  been 
at  school  all  this  while  learning  Latin  and  things — not  a 
bit  of  good  to  me — and  now  my  uncle  says  I  must  set  about 
learning  book-keeping  and  calculation,  and  those  things. 
He  seems  to  make  out  I'm  good  for  nothing." 

Tom's  mouth  twitched  with  a  bitter  expression  as  he 
looked  at  the  fire. 

"Oh,  what  a  pity  we  hayen't  got  Dominie  Sampson!" 
said  Maggie,  who  couldn't  help  mixing  some  gayety  with 
their  sadness.  "If  he  had  taught  me  book-Keeping  by 
double  entry  and  after  the  Italian  method,  as  he  did  Lucy 
Bertram^  I  could  teach  you,  Tomt" 


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THE   DOWNFALL.  5J25 

*^  Yoti  teach!  Yes,  I  dare  say.  That^s  always  the  tone 
you  take/'  said  Tom. 

"  Dear  Tom,  I  w^  only  joking,'*  said  Maggie,  putting 
her  cheek  against  his  coat-sleeve. 

"But  it's  always  the  same,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  with  the 
httle  frown  he  put  on  when  he  was  about  to  be  justifiably 
severe.  "  You  re  always  setting  yourself  up  above  me 
aud  every  one  else,  and  I'v^  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it 
several  times.  You  ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  yoii  did 
to  my  uncles  and  aunts — ^you  should  leave  it  to  me  to  take 
care  of  my  mother  and  you,  and  not  put  yourself  forward. 
You  think  you  know  better  than  any  one,  but  you're 
almost  always  wrong.  I  can  judge  much  better  than  you 
can." 

Poor  Tom!  he  had  just  come  from  being  lectured  and 
made  to  feel  his  inferiority:  the  reaction  of  his  strong, 
self-asserting  nature  must  take  place  somehow;  and  here 
was  a  case  in  which  he  could  justly  show  himself  domi- 
nant. Maggie's  cheek  flushed  and  her  lip  quivered  with 
conflicting  resentment  and  affection,  and  a  certain  awe  as 
well  as  admiration  of  Tom's  firmer  and  more  effective 
character.  She  did  not  answer  immediately;  very  angry 
words  rose  to  her  lips,  but  they  were  driven  back  again, 
and  she  said  at. last:  — 

**  You  often  think  I'm  conceited,  Tom,  when  I  don't 
mean  what  I  say  at  all  in  that  way.  I  don't  mean  to  put 
myself  above  you — I  know  you  behaved  better  than  I  did 
yesterday.     But  you  are  always  so  harsh  to  me,  Tom." 

With  the  last  words  the  resentment  was  rising  again. 

"  No,  I'm  not  harsh,"  said  Tom,  with  severe  decision. 
"Fm  always  kind  to  you;  and  so  I  shall  be:  I  shall  always 
take  care  of  you.     But  you  must  mind  what  I  say." 

Their  mother  came  in  now,  and  Maggie  rushed  away, 
that  her  burst  of  tears,  which  she  felt  must  come,  mignt 
not  happen  till  she  was  safe  up-stairs.  They  were  very 
bitter  tears:  everybody  in  the  world  seemed  so  hard  and 
unkind  to  Maggie:  there  was  no  indulgence,  no  fondness, 
such  as  she  imagined  when  she  fashioned  the  world  afresh 
in  her  own  thoughts.  In  books  there  were  people  who 
were  always  agreeable  or  tender,  and  delighted  to  do  things 
that  made  one  happy,  and  who  did  not  show  their  kind- 
ness by  finding  fault.  The  world  outside  the  books  was 
not  a  happy  one,  Maggie  felt:  it  seemed  to  be  a  world 
where  people  behaved  the  best  to  those  they  did  not  pre- 
tend to  love,  and  that  did  not  belong  to  them.  And  if 
15 

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226  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

life  had  no  love  in  it,  what  else  was  there  for  Maggie? 
Nothinff  but  poverty  and  the  companionship  of  her 
mothers  narrow  griefs — perhaps  of  her  father^s  heart- 
cutting  childish  dependence.  There  is  no  hopelessness  so 
sad  as  that  of  early  youth,  when  the  soul  is  made  up  of 
wants,  and  has  no  long  memories,  no  superadded  life  in 
the  life  of  others;' though  we  who  look  on  think  lightly  of 
such  premature  despair,  as  if  our  vision  of  the  future 
lightened  the  blind  sufferer's  present. 

Maggie  in  her  brown  frock,  with  her  eyes  reddened  and 
her  heavy  hair  pushed  back,  looking  from  the  bed  where 
her  father  lay,  to  the  dull  walls  of  this  sad  chamber  which 
was  the  centre  of  her  world,  was  a  creature  full  of  eager, 
passionate  longings  for  all  that  is.  beautiful  and  glad; 
thirsty  for  all  knowledge;  with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy 
music  that  died  away  and  would  not  come  near  to  her;  with 
a  blind,  unconscious  yearning  for  something  that  would 
link  together  the  wonderful  impressions  of  this  mysterious 
life,  and  give  her  soul  a  sense  of  home  in  it. 

No  wonder,  when  there  is  this  contrast  between  the  out- 
ward and  the  inward,  that  painful  collisions  come  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VL 

TENDING  TO  REFUTE  THE   POPULAR    PREJUDICE   AGAINST 
THE   PRESENT  OF  A   POCKET-KNIFE. 

In  that  dark  time  of  December,  the  sale  of  the  house- 
hold furniture  lasted  beyond  the  middle  of  the  second 
day.  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  begun,  in  his  intervals  of 
consciousness,  to  manifest  an  irritability  which  often 
appeared  to  have  as  a  direct  effect  the  recurrence  of  spas- 
modic rigidity  and  insensibility,  had  lain  in  his  living 
death  throughout  the  critical  hours  when  the  noise  of  the 
sale  came  nearest  to  his  chamber.  Mr.  Turnbull  had 
decided  that  it  would  be  a  less  risk  to  let  him  remain 
where  he  was,  than  to  move  him  to  Luke's  cottage — a  plan 
which  the  good  Luke  had  proposed  to  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
thinking  it  would  be  very  bad  if  the  master  were  *'to 
waken  up''  at  the  noise  of  the  sale;  and  the  wife  and 
children  had  sat  imprisoned  in  the  silent  chamber  watch- 
ing the  large ^  prostrate  figure  on  the  bed,  and  trembling 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  227 

lest  the  blank  face  should  suddenly  show  some  response  to 
the  sounds  wliich  fell  on  their  own  ears  with  such  obstinate, 
painful  repetition. 

But  it  was  over  at  last — that  time  of  importunate  cer- 
tainty and  eye-straining  suspense.*  The  sharp  sound  of  a 
voice,  almost  as  metalhc  as  the  rap  that  followed  it,  had 
ceased;  the  tramping  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel  had  died 
out.  Mrs.  Tulliver^s  blonde  face  seemed  aged  ten  years  by 
the  last  thirty  hours:  the  poor  woman's  mind  had  been  busy 
divining  when  her  favorite  things  were  being  knocked 
down  by  the  terrible  hammer;  her  heart  had  been  flutter- 
ing at  the  thought  that  first  one  thing  and  then  another 
had  gone  to  be  identified  as  hers  in  the  hateful  publicity  of 
the  Golden  Lion;  and  all  the  while  she  had  to  sit  and  make 
no  sign  of  this  inward  agitation.  Such  things  bring  lines 
in  well-rounded  faces,  and  broaden  the  streaks  of  white 
among  the  hairs  that  once  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
dipped  in  pure  sunshine.  Alreadv,  at  three  o'clock,  Kezia, 
the  good-hearted,  bad-tempered  housemaid,  who  regarded 
all  people  that  came  to  the  sale  as  her  personal  enemies, 
the  dirt  on  wRose  feet  was  of  a  peculiarly  vile  quality,  had 
begun  to  scrub  and  swill  with  an  energy  much  assisted  by  a 
continual  low  muttering  against  '*  folks  as  came  to  buy  up 
other  folks's  things,"  and  made  light  of  "'' scrazing '' the 
tops  of  mahogany  tables  over  which  better  folks  than 
themselves  had  had  to — suffer  a  waste  of  tissue  through 
evaporation.  She  was  not  scrubbing  indiscriminately,  for 
there  would  be  further  dirt  of  the  same  atrocious  kind 
made  by  people  who  had  still  to  fetch  away  their  purchases: 
but  she  was  bent  on  bringing  the  parlor,  where  that  '^  pipe- 
smoking  pig ''  the  bailiff  had  sat,  to  such  an  appearance  of 
scant  comfort  as  could  be  given  to  it  by  cleanliness,  and 
the  few  articles  of  furniture  bought  in  for  the  family.  Her 
mistress  and  the  young  folks  should  have  their  tea  in  it 
that  night,  Kezia  was  determined. 

It  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock,  near  the  usual  tea- 
time,  when  she  came  up-stairs  and  said  that  Master  Tom 
was  wanted.  The  person  who  wanted  him  was  in  the 
kitchen,  and  in  the  first  moments,  by*  the  imperfect  fire 
and  candle  light,  Tom  had  not  even  an  indefinite  sense  of 
any  acquaintance  with  the  rathe-r  broad-set  but  active 
figure,  perhaps  two  years  older  than  himself,  that  looked  at 
him  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  set  in  a  disc  of  freckles,  and 
pulled  some  curly  red  locks  with  a  strong  intention  of 
respect.     A  low-crowned  oilskin-covered  hat,  and  a  certain 


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228  THE  HILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

shiny  deposit  of  dirt  on  tha  rest  of  the  costume,  as  of  tab- 
lets prepared  for  writing  upon,  suggested  a  calling  that  had 
to  do  with  boats;  but  this  did  not  help  Tom*s  memory. 

"  Sarvant,  Mister  Tom,'^  said  he  of  the  red  locks,  with  a 
smile  which  seemed  to  break  through  a  self-imposed  air  of 
melancholy.  ^'  You  don^t  know  me  again,  I  doubt,'^  he 
went  on,  as  Tom  continued  to  look  at  him  inquiringly; 
^^  but  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  by  yourself  a  bit,  please." 

"There's  a  fire  i' the  parlor.  Master  Tom,'  said  Kezia, 
who  objected  to  leaving  the  kitchen  in  the  crisis  of  toasting. 

"Come  this  way,  then,"  said  Tom,  wondering  if  this 
young  fellow  belonged  to  Guest  &  Co.'s  Wharf,  for  his 
imagination  ran  continually  toward  that  particular  spot, 
and  uncle  Deane  might  any  time  be  sending  for  him  to  say 
that  there  was  a  situation  at  liberty. 

The  bright  fire  in  the  parlor  was  the  only  light  that 
showed  the  few  chairs,  the  bureau,  the  carpetless  floor,  and 
the  one  table  —  no,  not  the  one  table:  there  was  a  second 
table,  in  a  corner,  with  a  large  Bible  and  a  few  other  books 
upon  it.  It  was  this  new,  strange  bareness  that  Tom  felt 
first,  before  he  thought  of  looking  a^ain  at  tTie  face  which 
was  also  lit  up  by  the  fire,  and  which  stole  a  half -shy, 
questioning  glance  at  him  as  the  entirely  strange  voice  said — 

"Why!  you  don't  remember  Bob,  then,  as  you  gen  the 
pocket-knife  to,  Mr.  Tom?" 

The  rough-handled  pocket-knife  was  taken  out  in  the 
same  moment,  and  the  largest  blade  opened  by  way  of 
irresistible  demonstration. 

"  What!  Bob  Jakin?"  said  Tom — not  with  any  cordial 
delight,  for  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  that  early  intimacy 
symbolized  by  the  pocket-knife,  and  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  Bob's  motives  for  recalling  it  were  entirely  admirable. 

"Ay,  ay>  Bob  Jakin  —  if  Jakin  it  must  be,  'cause  there's 
so  many  Bobs  as  you  went  arter  the  squerrils  with,  that 
day  as  1  plumped  right  down  from  the  bough,  and  bruised 
my  shins  a  good  un  —  but  I  got  the  squerril  tight  for  all 
that,  an'  a  scratter  it  was.  An'  this  littlish  blade's  broke, 
you  see,  but  I  wouldn't  hev  a  new  un  put  in,  'cause  they 
might  be  cheatin'  me  an'  givin'  me  another  knife  istid,  for 
there  isn't  such  a  blade  i'  the  country — it's  got  used  to  my 
hand,  like.  An'  there  was  niver  nobody  else  gen  me 
nothin'  but  what  I  got  by  my  own  sharpness,  only  you, 
Mr.  Tom;  if  it  wasn't  Bill  Fawks  as  gen  me  the  terrier 
pup  istid  o'  drowndin'  it,  an'  I  had  to  jaw  him  a  good  un 
ufore  he'd  give  it  me." 


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THE   DOWNFALL.  229 

Bob  spoke  with  a  sharp  and  rather  treble  volubility,  and 
got  through  his  long  speech  with  surprising  dispatch, 
giving  the  blade  of  his  knife  an  affectionate  rub  on  his 
sleeve  when  he  had  finished. 

^^  Well,  Bob,^'  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  air  of  patronage, 
the  foregoing  reminiscences  having  disposed  him  to  be  as 
friendly  as  was  becoming,  though  there  was  no  part  of  his 
acquaintance  with  Bob  that  he  remembered  better  than  the 
cause  of  their  parting  quarrel;  "  is  there  anything  1  can  do 
for  you?" 

^^  Why,  no,  Mr.  Tom,^*  answered  Bob,  shutting  up  his 
knife  with  a  click  and  retttrnin^  it  to  his  pocket,  where  he 
seemed  to  be  feeling  for  something  else.  *^  I  shouldn't  ha' 
come  back  upon  you  now  ye're  i'  trouble,  an'  folks  say  as 
the  master,  as  I  used  to  frighten  the  birds  for,  an'  he 
flogged  me  a  bit  for  fun  when  he  catched  me  eatin'  the 
turnip,  as  they  say  he'll  niver  lift  up  his  yead  no  more  —  I 
shouldn't  ha'  come  now  to  ax  you  to  gi'  me  another  knife, 
'cause  you  gen  me  one  afore.  If  a  cliap  gives  me  one 
black  eye,  that's  enough  for  me:  I  shan't  ax  him  for 
another  afore  I  sarve  him  out;  and  a  good  turn's  worth  as 
much  as  a  bad  un,  anyhow.  I  shall  niver  grow  down'ards 
again,  Mr.  Tom,  an'  you  war  the  little  chap  as  I  liked  the 
best  when  I  war  a  little  chap,  for  all  you  leathered  me,  »^;n' 
wouldn't  look  at  me  again.  There's  Dick  Brumby,  there, 
I  could  leather  him  as  much  as  I'd  a  mind;  but  lors!  you 
get  tired  o'  leathering  a  chap  when  you  can  niver  make 
him  see  what  you  want  him  to  shy  at.  I'n  seen  chaps  as 
'ud  stand  starin'  at  a  bough  till  their  eyes  shot  out,  afore 
they'd  see  as  a  bird's  tail  warn't  a  leaf.  It's  poor  work 
goin'  wi'  such  raff  —  but  you  war  allays  a  rare  un  at  shy- 
mg,  Mr.  Tom,  an'  I  could  trusten  to  you  for  droppin' 
down  wi'  your  stick  in  the  nick  o'  time  at  a  running  rat, 
or  a  stoat,  or  that,  when  I  war  a-beatin'  the  bushes." 

Bob  had  drawn  out  a  dirty  canvas  bag,  and  would  per- 
haps not  have  paused  just  then  if  Maggie  had  not  entered 
the  room  and  darted  a  look  of  surprise  and  curiosity  at 
him,  whereupon  he  pulled  his  red  locks  again  with  due 
respect.  But  the  next  moment  the  sense  of  the  altered 
room  came  upon  Maggie  with  a  force  that  overpowered  the 
thought  of  Bob's  presence.  Her  eyes  had  immediately 
glanced  from  him  to  the  place  where  the  bookcase  had 
hung;  there  was  nothing  now  but  the  oblong  unfaded 
space  on  the  wall,  and  below  it  the  small  table  with  the 
Bible  and  the  few  other  books. 

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230  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

**0  Tom/'  she  burst  out,  clasping  her  hands,  ''where 
are  the  books?  I  tliought  my  uncle  Glegg  said  he  would 
*^uy  them  —  didn't  he? — are  those  all  theyVe  left  us?'' 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
indifference.  "  Why  should  they  buy  many  books  when 
they  bouffht  so  little  furniture?" 

**  Oh,  but,  Tom/'  said  Maggie,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears,  as  she  rushed  up  to  the  table  to  see  what  books  had 
been  rescued.  "  Our  dear  old  Pilgrim's  Progress  that  you 
colored  with  your  little  paints;  and  that  picture  of  Pilgrim 
with  a  mantle  on,  looking  just  like  a  turtle  —  oh,  dear  I" 
Maggie  went  on,  half  sobbing  al^  she  turned  over  the  few 
books.  "  I  thought  we  should  never  part  with  that  while 
we  lived  —  everything  is  going  away  from  us  —  the  end  of 
our  lives  will  have  nothing  in  it  like  the  beginning!" 

Maggie  turned  away  from  the  table  and  threw  herself 
into  a  chair,  with  the  big  tears  ready  to  roll  down  her 
cheeks  —  quite  blinded  to  the  presence  of  Bob,  who  was 
looking  at  her  with  the  pursuant  gaze  of  an  intelligent 
dumb  animal,  with  perceptions  more  perfect  than  his 
comprehension. 

"Well,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  feeling  that  the  subject  of  the 
books  was  unseasonable,  "  I  suppose  you  just  came  to  see 
me  because  we're  in  trouble?  That  was  very  good-natured 
of  you." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  it  is.  Master  Tom,"  said  Bob, 
beginninff  to  untwist  his  canvas  bag.  "You,  see,  I'n 
been  with  a  barge  this  two  'ear  —  that's  how  I'n  been 
gettin'  my  livin'  —  if  it  wasn't  when  I  was  tentin'  the 
furnace,  between  whiles,  at  Torry's  mill.  But  a  forni't  ago 
I'd  a  rare  bit  o'  luck — I  allays  thought  I  was  a  lucky  chap, 
for  I  niver  set  a  trap,  but  what  I  catched  something; 
but  this  wasn't  a  trap,  it  was  a  fire  i'  Torry's  mill,  an'  I 
doused  it,  else  it  'ud  ha'  set  th'  oil  alight,  an'  the  genelman 
gen  me  ten  suvreigns  —  he  gen  me  'em  himself  last  week. 
An'  he  said  first,  I  was  a  sperrited  chap — but  I  knowed  that 
afore — but  then  he  outs  wi'  the  ten  suvreigns,  an'  that  war 
summat  new.  Here  they  are  —  all  but  one!"  Here  Bob 
emptied  the  canvas  bag  on  the  table.  "An  when  I'  got  'em, 
my  head  was  all  of  a  boil  like  a  kettle  o'  broth,  think  in' 
what  sort  o'  life  I  should  take  to  —  for  there  war  a  many 
trades  I'd  thought  on;  for  as  for  the  barge,  I'm  clean  tired 
out  wi't,  for  it  pulls  the  days  out  till  they're  as  long  as 
pigs'  chitterlings.  An'  I  thought  first  I'd  ha'  ferrets  an' 
dogs,  an'  be  a  rat-catcher;  and  then  I  thought  as  I  should 


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THE  DOWNFALL.  231 

like  a  bigger  way  o*  life,  as  I  lidn't  know  so  well;  for  I'n 
seen  to  the  bottom  o'  rat-catching:  an'  I  thought,  an' 
thought,  till  at  last  I  settled  I^d  be  a  packman,  for  theyVe 
knovvin'  fellers,  the  packmen  are  —  an'  Fd  carry  the  light- 
est things  I  could  i'  ray  pack  —  an^  thereM  be  a  use  for  a 
feller's  tongue,  as  is  no  use  neither  wi'  rats  nor  barges.  An' 
1  should  go  about  the  country  far  an*  wide,  an*  come  round 
the  women  wi*  my  tongue,  an*  get  my  dinner  hot  at  the 
public — lors!  it  *ud  be  a  lovely  life!** 

Bob  paused,  and  then  said,  with  defiant  decision,  as  if 
resolutely  turning'his  back  on  that  paradisaic  picture  — 

"But  I  don*t  mind  about  it  —  not  a  chip!  An*  I'n 
changed  one  o^  the  suvreigns  to  buy  my  mother  a  goose 
for  dinner,  an*  I'n  bought  a  blue  plush  wescoat,  an'  a  seal- 
skin cap  ^  for  if  I  meant  to  be  a  packman,  I'd  do  it 
respectable.  But  I  don*t  mind  about  it  —  not  a  chip!  My 
yead  isn*t  a  turnip,  an  I  shall  p'r*aps  have  a  chance  o' 
dousing  another  fire  afore  long.  I'm  a  lucky  chap.  So  I'll 
thank  you  to  take  the  nine  suvreigns,  Mr.  Tom,  an*  set 
yoursen  up  with  *em  somehow — -if  it*s  true  as  the  master's 
broke.     They  mayn't  go  fur  enough — but  they'll  help.** 

Tom  was  touched  keenly  enough  to  forget  his  pride  and 
suspicion. 

'*You*re  a  very  kind  fellow,  Bob,'*  he  said,  coloring 
with  that  little  diffident  tremor  in  his  voice,  which  gave  a 
certain  charm  even  to  Tom's  pride  and  severity,  *^and  I 
shan*t  forget  you  again,  though  I  didn*t  know  you  this 
evening.  But  I  can't  take  the  nine  sovereigns:  I  should 
be  taking  your  little  fortune  from  you,  and  they  wouldn*t 
do  me  much  good  either.** 

"Wouldn*t  they,  Mr.  Tom?**  said  Bob,  regretfully, 
*'Now  don't  say  so  *cause  you  think  I  want  *em.  I  aren*t 
a  poor  chap.  My  mother  gets  a  good  penn*orth  wi*  pick- 
ing feathers  an'  things;  an'  if  she  eats  nothin*  but  bread- 
an'- water,  it  runs  to  fat.  An*  I*m  such  a  lucky  chap:  an* 
I  doubt  you  aren*t  quite  so  lucky,  Mr.  Tom — th*  old  mas- 
ter isn*t,  anyhow — an*  so  you  might  take  a  slice  o*  my  luck, 
an'  no  harm  done.  Lors!  I  found  a  leg  o'  pork  i*  the  river 
one  day:  it  had  tumbled  oui:  o*  one  o'  them  round-sterned 
Dutchmen,  I'll  be  bound.  Come,  think  better  on  it,  Mr. 
Tom,  for  old  'quinetance*  sake — else  I  shall  think  you  bear 
me  a  grudge." 

Bob  pushed  the  sovereigns  forward,  but  before  Tom 
could  speak,  Maggie,  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  pen- 
itently at  Bob,  said  — 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


232  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"Oh,  Tm  80  sorry,  Bob — I  never  thought  you  were  so 
good.  Why,  I  think  you're  the  kindest  person  in  the 
world!" 

Bob  had  not  been  aware  of  the  injurious  opinion  for 
which  Maggie  was  performing  an  inward  act  of  penitence, 
but  he  smiled  Avith  pleasure  at  this  handsome  eulogy  — 
especially  from  a  young  lass  who,  as  he .  informed  his 
mother  that  evening,  had  *^such  uncommon  eyes,  they 
looked  somehow  as  they  made  him  feel  nohow.'' 

"No,  indeed.  Bob,  1  can't  take  them,"  said  Tom;  "but 
don't  think  I  feel  your  kindness  less  because  I  say  no.  I 
don't  want  to  take  anything  from  anybody,  but  to  work 
my  own  way.  And  those  sovereigns  wouldn't  help  me 
much — they  wouldn't,  really — if  I  were*  to  take  them. 
Let  me  shake  hands  with  you  instead." 

Tom  put  out  his  pink  palm,  and  Bob  was  not  slow  to 
place  his  hard,  grimy  hand  within  it. 

"Let  me  put  the  sovereigns  in  the  bag  again,"  said 
Maggie;  "and  you'll  come  back  and  see  us  when  you've 
bou^t  your  pacK,  Bob." 

*^  It's  like  as  if  I'd  come  out  o'  make-believe,  o'  purpose 
to  show  'em  you,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of  discontent,  as 
Maggie  gave  him  the  bag  again,  "a-taking  'em  back  i'  this 
way.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  Do,  you  know;  but  it  isn't  that  sort 
o'  Do:  it's  on'y  when  a  feller's  a  big  rogue,  or  a  big  flat,  I 
like  to  let  him" in  a  bit,  that's  all." 

"Now,  don't  you  be  up  to  any  tricks,  Bob,"  said  Tom, 
"else  youll  get  transported  some  day." 

"No,  no,  not  me,  Mr.  Tom,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of 
cheerful  confidence.  **  There's  no  law  again' flee-bites.  If 
I  wasn't  to  take  a  fool  in  now  and  then,  he'd  niver  get  any 
wiser.  But,  lors!  hev  a  suvreign  to  buy  you  and  Miss 
summat,  on'y  for  a  token — ^iust  to  match  my  pocket- 
knife." 

While  Bob  was  speaking  he  laid  down  the  sovereign, 
a^d  resolutely  twisted  up  his  bag  again.  Tom  pushed 
back  the  gold,  and  said,  "No,  indeed.  Bob;  thank  you 
heartily;  but  I  can't  take  it."  And  Maggie,  taking  it 
between  her  fingers,  held  it  up  to  Bob,  and  said,  more 
persuasively — 

"  Not  now — but  perhaps  another  time.  If  ever  Tom  or 
my  father  wants  help  that  you  can  give,  we'll  let  you 
know — won't  we,  Tom?  That's  what  you  would  like — to 
have  us  always  depend  on  you  as  a  friend  that  we  can  go 
to— isn't  it,  Bob?'* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC*  ..        j 


THE  DOWNFALL.  233 

^'Yes,  Miss,  thank  you,"  said  Bob,  reluctantly  taking 
the  money;  **  that's  what  Td  like — anything  as  you  like. 
An*  I  wish  you  good-bye,  Miss,  and  good-luck,  Mr.  Tom, 
and  thank  you  for  shaking  hands  wi'  me,  though  you 
wouldn't  take  the  monev/^ 

Kezia's  entrance,  with  very  black  looks,  to  inquire  if 
she  shouldn't  bring  in  the  tea  now,  or  whether  the  toast 
was  to  get  hardened  to  a  brick,  was  a  seasonable  check  on 
Bob's  flux  of  words,  and  hastened  his  parting  bow. 


CHAPTEKrVIL 

HOW  A  HEN  TAKES  TO   STRiJAGEM. 

The  days  passed,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  showed,  at  least  to 
the  eyes  of  the  medical  man,  stronger  and  stronger  symp- 
toms of  a  gradual  return  to  his  normal  condition:  the 
paralytic  obstruction  was,  little  by  little,  losing  its  tenacity, 
and  the  mind  was  rising  from  under  it  with  fitful  struggles, 
like  a  living  creature  making  its  way  from  under  a  great 
snowdrift,  that  slides  and  slides  again,  and  shuts  up  the 
newly-made  opening. 

Time  would  have  seemed  to  creep  to  the  watchers  by  the 
bed,  if  it  had  only  been  measured  by  the  doubtful,  distant 
hope  which  kept  count  of  the  moments  within  the  cham- 
ber: but  it  was  measured  for  them  by  a  fast-approaching 
dread  which  made  the  nights  come  too  quickly.  While 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  slowly  becoming  himself  again,  his  lot 
was  hastening  toward  its  moment  of  most  palpable  change. 
The  taxing-masters  had  done  their  work  like  any  respect- 
able gunsmith  conscientiously  preparing  the  musket,  that, 
duly  pointed  by  a  brave  arm,  will  spoil  a  life  or  two.  Allo- 
caturs,  filing  of  bills  in  Chancery,  decrees  of  sale,  are  legal 
chain-shot  or  bomb-shells  that  can  never  hit  a  solitary 
mark,  but  must  fall  with  wide-spread  shattering.  So 
deeply  inherent  is  it  in  this  life  of  ours  that  men  have  to 
suffer  for  each  other's  sins,  so  inevitably  diffusive  is  human 
suffering,  that  even  justice  makes  its  victims,  and  we  can 
conceive  no  retribution  that  does  not  spread  beyond  its 
mark  in  pulsations  of  unmerited  pain. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  in  January  the  bills 
were  out  advertising  the  sale,  under  a  decree  of  Chancery, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


234  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

of  Mr.  TuUivei'^s  farming  and  other  stock,  to  be  followed 
by  a  sale  of  the  mill  and  land,  held  in  the  proper  after- 
dinner  hour  at  the  Golden  Lion.  The  miller  himself, 
unaware  of  the  lapse  of  time,  fancied  himself  still  in  that 
first  stage  of  his  misfortunes  when  expedients  might  be 
thought  of;  and  often  in  his  conscious  hours  talked  in  a 
feeble,  disjointed- manner,  of  plans  he  would  carry  out 
when  he  "got  well.''  The  wife  and  children  were  not 
without  hope  of  an  issue  that  would  at  least  save  Mr.  Tul- 
liver  from  leaving  the  old  spot,  and  seeking  an  entirely 
strange  life.  For  uncle  Deane  had  been  induced  to 
interest  himself  in  this  stage  of  the  business.  It  would 
not,  he  acknowledged,  be  a  bad  speculation  for  Guest 
&  Co.  to  buy  Dorlcote*  Mill,  and  carry  on  the  busi- 
ness, which  was  a  good  one,  and  might  be  increased 
by  the  addition  of  steam  power ;  in  which  case 
Tulliver  miffht  oe  retained  as  manager.  Still,  Mr. 
Deane  would  say  nothing  decided  about  the  matter : 
the  fact  that  Wakem  held  the  mortgage  on  the  land 
might  put  it  into  his  head  to  bid  for  the  whole  estate,  and 
further,  to  outbid  the  cautious  firm  of  Guest  &  Co.,  who 
did  not  carry  on  business  on  sentimental  grounds.  Mr. 
Deane  was  obliged  to  tell  Mrs.  Tulliver  something  to  that 
effect,  when  he  rode  over  to  the  mill  to  inspect  the  books 
in  company  with  Mrs.  Glegg:  for  she  had  observed  that 
"if  Guest  &  Co.  would  only  think  about  it,  Mr.  TuUiver's 
father  and  grandfather  had  been  carrying  on  Dorlcote  Mill 
long  before  the  oil-mill  of  that  firm  had  been  so  much  as 
thought  of."  Mr.  Deane,  in  reply,  doubted  whether  that 
was  precisely  the  relation  between  the  two  mills  which 
woula  determine  their  value  as  investments.  As  for  uncle 
^legg>  the  thing  lay  quite  beyond  his  imagination;  the 
good-natured  man  felt  sincere  pity  for  the  Tulliver  family, 
but  his  money  was  all  locked  up  in  excellent  mortgages, 
and  he  could  run  no  risk;  that  would  be  unfair  to  his  own 
relatives;  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Tulliver 
should  have  some  new  flannel  waistcoats  which  he  had 
himself  renounced  in  favor  of  a  more  elastic  commodity, 
and  that  he  would  buy  Mrs.  Tulliver  a  pound  of  tea  now 
and  then;  it  ^vould  be  a  journey  which  his  benevolence 
delighted  in  beforehand,  to  carry  the  tea,  and  see  her 
pleasure  on  being  assured  it  was  the  best  black. 

Still,  it  was  clear  that  Mr.  Deane  was  kindly  disposed 
toward  the  Tullivers.  One  day  he  had  brought  Lucy,  who 
was  come  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  the  little 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  235 

"blonde  angel-head  had  pressed  itself  against  Magffie's 
darker  cheek  with  many  kisses  and  some  tears.  These 
fair  slim  daughters  keep  up  a  tender  spot  in  the  heart  of 
many  a  respectable  partner  in  a  respectable  firm,  and  per- 
haps Lucy^s  anxioifs  pitying  questions  about  her  poor 
cousins  helped  to  make  uncle  Deane  more  prompt  in  find- 
ing Tom  a  temporary  place  in  the  warehouse,  and  in  put- 
ting him  in  the  way  oi  getting  evening  lessons  in  book- 
keeping and  calculation. 

That  might  have  cheered  the  lad  and  fed  his  hopes  a 
little,  if  there  had  not  come  at  the  same  time  the  much- 
dreaded  blow  of  finding  that  his  father  must  be  a  bankrupt, 
after  all;  at  least,  the  creditors  must  be  asked  to  take  less 
than  their  due,  which  to  Tom^s  untechnical  mind  was  the 
same  thing  as  bankruptcy.  His  father  must  not  only  be 
said  to  have  *'lost  his  property, ^^  but  to  have  *^ failed^* — 
the  word  that  carried  the  worst  obloquy  to  Tom's  mind. 
For  when  the  defendant's  claim  for  costs  Tiad  been  satis- 
fied, there  would  remain  the  friendly  bill  of  Mr.  Gore, 
and  the  deficiency  at  the  bank,  as  well  as  the  other  debts, 
which  would  make  the  assets  shrink  into  unequivocal  dis- 
proportion: "not  more  than  ten  or  twelve  shillings  in  the 
pound,"  predicted  Mr.  Deane,  in  a  decided  tone,  tighten- 
ing his  lips;  and  the  words  fell  on  Tom  like  a  scalding 
liquid,  leaving  a  continual  smart. 

He  was  sadly  in  want  of  something  to  keep  up  his 
spirits  a  little  in  the  unpleasant  newness  of  his  position — 
suddenly  transported  from  the  easy  carpeted  ennui  of 
study-hours  at  Mr.  Stelling's,  and  the  busy  idleness  of 
castle-building  in  a  "last-half  at  school,  to  the  compan- 
ionship of  sacks  and  hides,  and  bawling  men  thundering 
down  heavy  weights  at  his  elbow.  The  first  step  toward 
getting  on  in  the  world  was  a  chill,  dusty,  noisy  affair, 
and  implied  going  without  one's  tea  in  order  to  stay  in  St. 
Ogg's  and  have  an  evening  lesson  from  a  one-armed  elderly 
clerk,  in  a  room  smelling  strongly  of  bad  tobacco.  Tom's 
young  pink-and-white  face  had  its  colors  very  much  dead- 
ened by  the  time  he  took  off  his  hat  at  home,  and  sat  down 
with  keen  hunger  to  his  supper.  No  wonder  he  was  a 
little  cross  if  his  mother  or  Maggie  spoke  to  him. 

But  all  this  while  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  brooding  over  a 
scheme  by  which  she,  and  no  one  else,  would  avert  the 
result  most  to  be  dreaded,  and  prevent  Wakem  from  enter- 
taining the  purpose  of  bidding  for  the  mill.  Imagine  a 
truly  respectable  and  amiable  hen,  by  some  portentious 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


236  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

anomaly,  taking  to  reflection  and  inventing  combinations 
by  which  she  might  prevail  on  Hodge  not  to  wring  her 
neck,  or  send  her  and  her  chicks  to  market:  the  result 
could  hardly  be  other  tlian  much  cackling  and  fluttering. 
Mrs.  Tnlliver,  seeing  that  everything  had  gone  wrong, 
had  begun  to  think  tnat  she  had  been  too  passive  in  life; 
and  that,  if  she  had  applied  her  mind  to  business,  and 
taken  a  strong  resolution  now  and  then,  it  would  have  been 
all  the  better  for  her  and  her  family.     Nobody,  it  ap- 

E eared,  had  thought  of  going  to  speak  to  Wakem  on  this 
usiness  of  the  mill;  and  yet,  Mrs.  Tulliver  reflected,  it 
would  have  been  quite  the  sJjortcst  method  of  securing  the 
right  end.  It  would  have  been  of  no  use,  to  be  sure,  for 
Mr.  Tulliver  to  go — even  if  he  had  been  able  and  willing— 
for  he  had  been  ^' going  to  law  against  Wakem  ^'  and  abus- 
ing him  for  the  last  ten  years;  Wakem  was  always  likely 
to  have  a  spite  against  him.  And  now  that  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  come  to  tlie  conclusion  that  her  husband  was  very 
much  in  the  wrong  to  bring  her  into  this  trouble,  she  was 
inclined  to  think  that  his  opinion  of  Wakem  was  wrong 
too.  To  be  sure,  Wakem  nad  ^^put  the  bailies  in  the 
house,  and  sold  them  up^';  but  she  supposed  he  did  that 
to  please  the  man  that  lent  Mr.  Tulliver  the  money,  for  a 
lawyer  had  more  folks  to  please  than  one,  and  he  wasn^t 
likely  to  put  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  gone  to  law  with  him, 
above  everybody  else  in  the  world.  The  attorney  might 
be  a  very  reasonable  man — why  not?  He  had  married  a 
Miss  Clint,  and  at  the  time  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  heard  of 
that  marriage,  the  summer  when  she  wore  her  blue  satin 
spencer,  ana  had  not  yet  any  thoughts  of  Mr.  Tulliver, 
she  knew  no  harm  of  Wakem.  And  certainly  toward  her- 
self— whom  he  knew  to  have  been  a  Miss  Dodson — it  was 
out  of  all  possibility  that  he  could  entertain  anything  but 
goodwill,  when  it  was  once  brought  home  to  his  observa- 
tion that  she,  for  her  part,  had  never  wanted  to  go  to  law, 
and  indeed  was  at  present  disposed  to  take  Mr.  Wakem^si 
view  of  all  subjects  rather  than  her  husband^s.  In  fact,  if 
that  attorney  saw  a  respectable  matron  like  herself  dis- 
posed ^^to  give  him  good  words, '^  why  shouldn^t  he  listen 
to  her  representations?  For  she  would  put  the  matter 
clearly  before  him,  which  had  never  been  done  yet.  And 
he  would  never  go  and  bid  for  the  mill  on  purpose  to  spite 
her,  an  innocent  woman,  who  thought  it  likely  enough 
that  she  had  danced  with  him  in  their  youth  at  ^Squire 
Darleigh%  for  at  those  big  dances  she  had  often  and  often 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  237 

danced  with  young  men  whose  names  she  had  forffptten. 
Mrs.  Tulliver  hid  these  reasonings  in  her  own  bosom; 
for  when  she  had  thrown  out  a  hint  to  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr. 
Glegg,  that  she  wouldn't  mind  going  to  speak  to  Wakem 
herself,  they  had  said,  ^'No,  no,  no,^^  and  ^*Pooh,  pooh,^' 
and  ^^Let  Wakem  alone,''  in  the  tone  of  men  who  were 
not  likely  to  give  a  candid  attention  to  a  more  definite 
exposition  of  her  project;  still  less  ddred  she  mention  the 
plan  to  Tom  and  Maggie,  for  "the  children  were  always 
so  against  everything  tneir  mother  said";  and  Tom,  she 
observed,  was  almost  as  much  set  against  Wakem  as  his 
father  was.  But  this  unusual  concentration  of  thought 
naturally  gave  Mrs.  Tulliver  an  unusual  power  of  device 
and  determination;  and  a  day  or  two  before  the  sale,  to 
be  held  at  the  Golden  Lion,  wnen  there  was  no  longer  any 
time  to  be  lost,  she  carried  out  her  plan  by  a  stratagem. 
There  were  pickles  in  question — a  large  stock  of  pickles 
and  ketchup  which  Mrs.  Tulliver  possessed,  and  which 
Mr.  H3mdmar8h  the  grocer  would  certainly  purchase  if 
she  could  transact  the  business  in  a  personal  interview,  so 
she  Avould  walk  with  Tom  to  St.  Ogg^s  that  morning:  and 
when  Tom  urged  that  she  might  let  the  pickles  be,  at 
present  —  he  didn't  like  her  to  go  about  just  yet — she 
appeared  so  hurt  at  this  conduct  in  her  son,  contradicting 
her  about  pickles  which  she  had  made  after  the  family 
receipts  inherited  from  his  own  grandmother,  who  had 
died  when  his  mother  was  a  little  girl,  that  he  gave  way, 
and  they  walked  together  until  she  turned  toward  Danish 
Street,  where  Mr.  Hyndmarsh  retailed  his  grocery,  not  far 
from  the  offices  of  Mr.  Wakem. 

That  gentleman  was  not  yet  come  to  his  office :  would 
Mrs.  Tulliver  sit  down  by  the  fire  in  his  private  room  and 
wait  for  him?  She  had  not  long  to  wait  before  the  punc- 
tual attorney  entered,  knitting  his  brow  with  an  examining 
glance  at  the  stout  blonde  woman  who  rose,  curtsying 
deferentially: — a  tallish  man,  with  an  aquiline  nose  and 
abundant  iron -gray  hair.  You  have  never  seen  Mr. 
Wakem  before,  and  are  possibly  wonderinff  whether  he 
was  really  as  eminent  a  rascal,  and  as  crafty,  bitter  an 
enemy  of  honest  humanity  in  general,  and  of  Mr.  Tulliver 
in  particular,  as  he  is  represented  to  be  in  that  eidolon  or 
portrait  of  him  which  we  have  seen  to  exist  in  the  miller's 
mind. 

It  is  clear  that  the  irascible  miller  was  a  man  to  interpret 
any  chanoe-shot  that  grazed  him  as  an  attempt  on  his  own 

.     Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


238  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

life,  and  was  liable  to  entanglements  in  this  puzzling 
world,  which,  due  consideration  had  to  his  own  infalli- 
bility, required  the  hypothesis  of  a  very  active  diabolical 
agency  to  explain  them.  It  is  still  possible  to  believe  that 
the  attorney  was  not  more  guilty  toward  him,  than  an 
ingenious  machine,  which  performs  its  work  with  much 
regftlarity,  is  guilty  toward  the  rash  man  who,  venturing 
too  near  it,  is  caught  up  by  some  fly-wheel  or  other,  and 
suddenly  converted  into  unexpected  mince-meat. 

But  it  is  really  impossible  to  decide  this  question  by  u 
glance  at  his  person:  the  lines  and  lights  of  the  human 
countenance  are  like  other  symbols — not  always  easy  to 
read  without  a  key.  On  an  a  priori  view  of  Wakem^s 
aquiline  nose,  which  offended  Mr.  Tulliver,  there  was  not 
more  rascality  than  in  the  shape  of  his  stiff  shirt-collar, 
though  this  too,  along  with  his  nose,  might  have  become 
fraught  with  damnatory  meaning  when  once  the  rascality 
was  ascertained. 

^^Mrs.  Tulliver,  I  think?''  said  Mr.  Wakem. 
"Yes,  sir.     Miss  Elizabeth  Dodson  as  was.'' 
*'Pray  be  seated.     You  have  some  business  with  me?" 
"  Well,  sir,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  feel 
alarmed  at  her  own  courage,  now  she  was  really  in  the 

Eresence  of  the  formidable  man,  and  reflecting  that  she 
ad  not  settled  with  herself  how  she  should  begin.  Mr. 
Wakem  felt  in  his  waistcoat-pockets,  and  looked  at  her  in 
silence. 

"I  hope,  sir,"  she  began  at  last — "I  hope,  sir,  you're 
not  a-thmking  as  I  bear  you  any  ill-will  because  o'  my 
husband's  losing  his  lawsuit,  and  the  bailies  being  put  in, 
and  the  linen  being  sold — oh  dear! — for  I  wasn^'t  brought 
up  in  that  way.  I'm  sure  you  remember  my  father,  sir, 
for  he  was  close  friends  with  Squire  Darleigh,  and  we 
allays  went  to  the  dances  there — the  Miss  Dodsons — nobody 
could  be  more  looked  on — and  justly,  for  there  was  four 
of  us,  and  you're  quite  aware  as  Mrs.  Glegg  and  Mrs. 
Deane  are  my  sisters.  And  as  for  going  to  law  and  losing 
money,  and  having  sales  before  you're  dead,  I  never  saw 
anything  o'  that  before  I  was  married,  nor  for  a  long  while 
after.  And  I'm  not  to  be  answerable  for  my  bad  luck  i' 
marrying  out  o'  my  own  family  into  one  where  the  goings- 
on  was  different.  And  as  for  being  drawn  in  t'  abuse  you 
as  other  folks  abuse  you,  sir,  thcU  1  niver  was,  and  nobody- 
can  say  it  of  ma" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  2'39 

Mrs.  Tulliver  shook  her  head  a  little,  and  looked  at  the 
hem  of  her  pocket-handkerchief. 

^Tve  no  doubt  of  what  you  say,  Mrs.  Tulliver/'  said 
Mr.  Wakem,  with  cold  politeness.  **But  you  have  some 
question  to  ask  me?'' 

^'  Well,  sir,  yes.  But  that's  what  I've  said  to  myself — I've 
said  you'd  had  some  nat'ral  feeling;  and  as  for  my  hus- 
band, as  hasn't  been  himself  for  this  two  months,  I'm  not 
a-def ending  him,  in  no  way,  for  being  so  hot  about  th' 
erigation — not  but  what  there's  worse  men,  for  he  never 
wronged  nobody  of  a  shilling  nor  a  penny,  not  willingly — 
and  as  for  his  fieriness  and  lawing,  what  could  I  do? 
And  him  struck  as  if  it  was  with  death  when  he  got  the 
letter  as  said  you'd  the  hold  upo'  the  land.  But  I  can't 
believe  but  what  you'll  behave  as  a^  gentleman." 

"What  does  all  this  mean,  Mrs.  Tulliver?"  said  Mr. 
Wakem,  rather  sharply.    "  What  do  you  want  to  ask  me?" 

*^Why,  sir,,  if  you'll  be  so  good,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
starting  a  little,  and  speaking  more  hurriedly,  "if  you'll 
be  so  good  not  to  buy  the  mill  an'  the  land — the  land 
wouldn't  so  much  matter,  only  my  husband  'uU  be  like 
mad  at  your  having  it." 

Something  like  a  new  thought  flashed  across  Mr. 
Wakem's  face  as  he  said,  "  Who  told  you  I  meant  to  buy 
it?" 

^^  Why,  "Bir,  it's  none  o*  my  inventing,  and  I  should  never 
ha'  thought  of  it;  for  my  husband,  as  ought  to  know  about 
the  law,  he  allays  used  to  say  as  lawyers  had  never  no  call 
to  buy  anything — either  lands  or  houses — for  they  allays  got 
'em  into  their  hands  other  ways.  An'  I  should  think  that 
'ud  be  the  way  with  you,  sir;  and  I  niver  said  as  you'd  be 
the  man  to  do  contrairy  to  that." 

"Ah,  well,  who  was  it  that  did  bslj  so?"  said  Wakem, 
opening  his  desk,  and  moving  things  about,  with  the 
accompaniment  of  an  almost  inaudible  whistle. 

"  Why,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  as  have  all 
the  management:  and  Mr.  Deane  thinks  as  Guest  &  Co. 
'ud  buy  the  mill  and  let  Mr.  Tulliver  work  it  for  'em,  if 
you  didn't  bid  for  it  and  raise  the  price.  And  it  'ud  be 
such  a  thing  for  my  husband  to  stay  where  he  is,  if  he 
could  get  hi«  living:  for  it  was  his  father's  before  him,  the 
mill  was,  and  his  grandfather  built  it,  though  I  wasn't 
fond  o'  the  noise  of  it,  when  first  I  was  married,  for  there 
was  no  mills  in  our  family — not  the  Dodsons' — and  if  I'd 
known  as  the  mills  had  so  much  to  do  with  the  law,  it 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


240  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

wouldn't  have  been  me  as  'ud  have  been  the  first  Dodson 
to  marry  one;  but  I  went  into  it  blindfold,  that  I  did, 
erigation  and  everything/' 

'*  What!  Guest  &  Co.  would  keep  the  mill  in  their  own 
hands,  I  suppose,  and  pay  your  husoand  wages?'' 

"Oh,  dear,  sir,  it's  hard  to  think  of,"  said  poor  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  a  little  tear  making  its  way,  *^as  my  husband 
should  take  wage.  But  it  'ud  look  more  like  what  used  to 
be,  to  stay  at  the  mill  than  to  go  anvwhere  else:  and  if 
you'll  only  think  —  if  you  was  to  bid  for  the  mill  and  buy 
it,  my  husband  might  be  struck  worse  than  he  was  before, 
and  niver  set  better  again  as  he's  getting  now." 

"Well,  but  if  I  bought  the  mill,  and  allowed  your  hus- 
band to  act  as  my  manager  in  the  same  way,  how  then?'' 
said  Mr.  Wakem. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  doubt  he  could  niver  be  got  to  do  it,  not  if 
the  very  mill  stood  still  to  beg  and  pray  of  him.  For  your 
name's  like  poison  to  him,  it's  so  as  never  was;  and  he 
looks  upon  it  as  you've  been  the  ruin  of  him  all  along, 
ever  since  you  set  the  law  on  him  about  the  road  through 
the  meadow — that's  eight  year  ago,  and  he's  been  going  on 
ever  since — as  I've  allays  told  him  he  was  wrong "" 

"  He's  a  pig-headed,  foul-mouthed  fool! "  burst  out  Mr. 
Wakem,  forgetting  himself. 

"Oh,  dear,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  frightened  at  a 
result  so  different  from  the  one  she  had  fixed  tier  "mind  on; 
"I  wouldn't  wish  to  contradict  you,  but  it's  like  enough 
he's  changed  his  mind  with  this  illness — he's  forgot  a  many 
things  he  used  to  talk  about.  And  you  wouldn't  like  to 
have  a  corpse  on  your  mind,  if  he  was  to  die;  and  they  do 
say  as  it's  allays  unlucky  when  Dorlcote  Mill  changes 

hands,  and  the  water  might  all  run  away,  and  then 

not  as  I'm  wishing  you  any  ill-luck,  sir,  for  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  as  I  remember  your  wedding  as  if  it  was  yesterday — 
Mrs.  Wakem  was  a  Miss  Clint,  I  know  that — and  my  boy, 
as  there  isn't  a  nicer,  handsomer,  straighter  boy  nowhere, 
went  to  school  with  your  son " 

Mr.  Wakem  rose,  opened  the  door,  and  called  to  one  of 
his  clerks. 

"You  must  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver; I  have  business  that  must  be  attended  to;  and  I  think 
there  is  nothing  more  necessary  to  be  said." 

*'But  if  you  would  bear  it  in  mind,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver rising,  "and  not  run  against  me  and  my  children; 
and  I'm  not  denying  Mr.  TuUiver's  been  in  the  wrong,  but 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  241 

he's  been  .punished  enough,  and  there's  worse  men,  for  it's 
been  giving  to  other  folks  has  been  his  fault.  He's  done 
jiobody  any  harm  but  himself  and  his  family — the  more's 
the  pity — and  I  go  and  look  at  the  bare  shelves  every  day, 
and  think  where  all  my  things  used  to  stand." 

'*Ycs,  yes,  I'll  bear  it  in  mind/'  said  Mr.  Wakem, 
hastily,  looking  toward  the  open  door. 

*^  And  if  you'd  please  not  to  say  as  I've  been  to  speak  to 
you,  for  my  son  'ud  be  very  angry  with  me  for  demeaning 
myself,  I  know  he  would,  and  rve  trouble  enough  without 
being  scolded  by  my  children." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  she 
could  make  no  answer  to  the  attorney's  '^good  morning," 
but  curtsied  and  walked  out  in  silence. 

^' Which  day  is  it  thatDorlcote  Mill  is  to  be  sold? 
Where's  the  bill?"  said  Mr.  Wakem  to  his  clerk  when  they 
were  alone. 

**Next  Friday  is  the  day:  Friday  at  six  o'clock." 

^'Oh,  just  run  to  Winship's,  the  auctioneer,  and  see 
if  he's  at  home.  I  have  some  business  for  him:  ask  him  to 
come  up." 

Although,  when  Mr.  Wakem  entered  his  office  that 
morning,  he  had  had  no  intention  of  purchasing  Dorlcote 
Mill,  his  mind  was  already  made  up;  Mrs.  Tulliver  had 
suggested  to  him  several  determining  motives,  and  his 
mental  glance  was  very  rapid:  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  can  be  prompt  without  being  rash,  because  their 
motives  run  in  fixed  tracks,  and  they  have  no  need  to 
reconcile  conflicting  aims. 

To  suppose  that  Wakem  had  the  same  sort  of  invet- 
erate hatred  toward  Tulliver,  that  Tulliver  had  toward 
him,  would  be  like  supposing  that  a  pike  and  a  roach 
can  look  at  each  other  from  a  similar  point  of  view.  The 
roach  necessarily  abhors  the  mode  in  which  the  pike  gets 
his  living,  and  the  pike  is  likely  to  think  nothing  further 
even  of  the  most  indignant  roach  than  that  he  is  excellent 
ood  eating;  it  cotild  only  be  when  the  roach  choked 
lim  that  the  pike  could  entertain  a  strong  personal  ani- 
mosity. If  Mr.  Tulliver  had  ever  seriously  injured  or 
thwarted  the  attorney,  Wakem  would  not  have  refused 
him  the  distinction  of  being  a  special  object  of  his  vindic- 
tiveness.  But  when  Mr.  Tulliver  called  Wakem  a  rascal 
at  the  market  dinner-table,  the  attorney's  clients  were  not 
a  whit  inclined  to  withdraw  their  business  from  him;  and 
if,  when  Wakem  himself  happened  to  be  present^  some 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


242  THF.  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

jocose  cattle-feeder,  stimulated  by  opportunity  and  brandy, 
made  a  thrust  at  him  by  alluding  to  old  ladies'  wills, 
he  maintained  perfect  sangfroid,  and  knew  quite  well  that . 
the  majority  of  substantial  men  then  present  were  per- 
fectly contentijd  with  the  fact  that  ^*  Wakem  was  Wakem;'^ 
that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  always  knew  the  stepping-stones 
that  would  carry  him  through  very  muddy  bits  of  practice. 
A  man  who  had  made  a  large  fortune,  had  a  handsome 
house  among  the  trees  at  Tofton,  and  decidedly  the  finest 
stock  of  port  wine  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Ogg^s,  was 
likely  to  leel  himself  on  a  level  with  public  opinion.  And 
I  am  not  sure  that  even  honest  Mr.  Tulliver  nimself,  with 
his  general  view  of  law  as  a  cockpit,  might  not,  under 
opposite  circumstances,  have  seen  a  fine  appropriateness  in 
tJic  truth  that  "  Wakem  was  Wakem'';  since  I  have  under- 
stood from  persons* versed  in  history,  that  mankind  is  not 
disposed  to  look  narrowly  into  the  conduct  of  great  victors 
when  their  victory  is  on  the  right  side.  Tulliver,  then, 
could  be  no  obstruction  to  Wakem;  on  the  contrary,  he 
was  a  poor  devil  whom  the  lawyer  had  defeated  several 
times — a  hot  temj)ered  fellow,  who  would  always  give  you 
a  handle  against  him.  Wakem's  conscience  wasnot  uneasy 
because  he  had  used  a  few  tricks  against  the  miller:  why 
should  he  hate  that  unsuccessful  plaintiff — ^that  pitiable, 
furious  bull,  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  a  net? 

Still,  among  the  various  excesses *to  which  human  nature 
is  subject,  moralists  have  never  numbered  that  of  being 
too  fond  of  the  people  who  openly  revile  us.  The  success- 
ful Yellow  candidate  for  the  borough  of  Old  Topjjing, 
perhaps,  feels  no  pursuant  meditative  hatred  toward  the 
Blue  editor  who  consoles  his  subscribers  with  vituperative 
rhetoric  against  Yellow  men  who  sell  their  country,  and 
lire  the  demons  of  private  life;  but  he  might  not  be  sorry, 
if  law  and  opportunity  favored,  to  kick  that  Blue  editor 
to  a  deeper  shade  of  his  favorite  color.  Prosperous  men 
take  a  little  vengeance  now  and  then,  as  they  take  a  diver- 
sion, vhen  it  comes  easily  in  their  way,  and  is  no  hindrance 
to  business;  and  such  small  unimpassioned  revenges  have 
an  enormous  effect  in  life,  running  through  all  degrees  of 
pleasant  infliction,  blocking  the  fit  men  out  of  places;  and 
olackening  characters  in  unpremeditated  talk.  Still  more, 
to  see  people  who  have  been  only  insignificantly  offensive 
to  us,  reduced  in  life  and  humiliated  without  any  special 
effort  of  ours,  is  apt  to  have  a  soothing,  flattering  influ- 
ence; Providence,  or  some  other  prince  of  this  world,  it 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC  M 


THE  DOWNFALL.  243 

appears,  has  undertaken  the  task  of  retribution  for  us;  and 
really,  by  an  agreeable  constitution  of  things,  our  enemies 
somehow  don't  prosper. 

Wakem  was  not  without  this  parenthetic  vindictive- 
ness  toward  the  uncomplimentary  miller;  and  now  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  put  the  notion  into  his  head,  it  presented 
itself  to  him  as  a  pleasure  to  do  the  very  thing  that  would 
cause  Mr.  Tulliver  the  most  deadly  mortification, — and  a 
pleasure  of  a  complex  kind,  not  made  up  of  crude  malice, 
but  mingling  with  it  the  relish  of  self -approbation.  To  see 
an  enemy  humiliated  gives  a  certain  contentment,  but  this 
is  jejune  compared  with  the  highly  blent  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing him  humiliated  by  your  benevolent  action  or  concession 
on  his  behalf.  That  is  a  sort  of  revenge  which  falls  into  the 
scale  of  virtue,  and  Wakem  was  not  with(5ut  an  intention 
of  keeping  that  scale  respectably  filled.  He  had  once  had 
the  pleasure  of  putting  an  old  enemy  of  his  into  one  of  the 
St.  Ogg's  alms-houses,  to  the  rebuilding  of  which  he  had 
given  a  large  subscription;  and  here  was  an  opportunity  of 
providing  for  another  by  making  him  his  own  servant. 
Such  things  give  a  completeness  to  prosperity,  and  con- 
tribute elements  of  agreeable  consciousness  that  are  not 
dreamed  of  by  that  short-sighted,  over-heated  vindictive- 
ness,  which  goes  out  of  its  way  to  wreak  itself  in  direct 
injury.  And  Tulliver,  with  his  rough  tongue  filled  by  a 
sense  of  obligation,  would  make  a  better  servant  than  any 
chance-fellow  who  was  cap-in-hand  for  a  situation.  Tulliver 
was  known  to  be  a  man  of  proud  honesty,  and  Wakem  was 
too  acute  not  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  honesty.  He 
was  given  to  observing  individuals,  not  to  judging  of  them 
according  to  maxims,  and  no  one  knew  better  than  he  that 
all  men  were  not  like  himself.  Besides,  he  intended  to 
overlook  the  whole  business  of  land  and  mill  pretty  closely: 
he  was  fond  of  these  practical  rural  matters.  But  there 
were  good  reasons  for  purchasing  Dorlcote  Mill,  quite  apart 
from  any  benevolent  vengeance  on  the  miller.  It  was 
really  a  capital  investment;  besides.  Guest  &  Co.  were 
going  to  bid  for  it.  Mr.  Guest  and  Mr.  Wakem  were  on 
friendly  dining  terms,  and  the  attorney  liked  to  predomi- 
nate over  a  ship-owner  and  mill-owner  who  was  a  little  too 
loud  in  the  town  affairs  as  well  as  in  his  table-talk.  For 
Wakem  was  not  a  mere  man  of  business:  he  was  considered 
a  pleasant  fellow  in  the  upper  circles  of  St.  Ogg^s— chatted 
amusingly  over  his  port-wine,  did  a  little  amateur  farming, 
im<i  hftd  certainly  beeu  an  ^xcell^nt  husband  and  father: 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


244  THE  MILL  OK  TH£  FLOSS. 

at  church,  when  he  went  there,  he  sat  under  the  handsom- 
est of  mural  monuments  erected  to  the  memory  of  his  wife. 
Most  men  would  have  married  again  under  his  circum- 
stances, but  he  was  said  to  be  more  tender  to  his  deformed 
son  than  most  men  were  to  their  best-shaped  offspring. 
INot  that  Mr.  Wakem  had  not  other  sons  besides  Philip;  but 
toward  them  he  held  only  a  chiaroscuro  parentage,  and 

frovided  for  them  in  a  grade  of  life  duly  beneath  his  own. 
n  this  fact,  indeed,  there  lay  the  clenching  motive  to  the 
purchase  of  Dorlcote  Mill.  While  Mrs.  TuUiver  was  talk- 
ing, it  had  occurred  to  the  rapid-minded  lawyer,  among  all 
the  other  circumstances  of  the  case,  that  this  purchase 
would,  in  a  few  years  to  come,  furnish  a  highly  suitable 
position  for  a  certain  favorite  lad  whom  he  meant  to  bring 
on  in  the  world. 

These  were  the  mental  conditions  on  which  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  undertaken  to  act  persuasively,  and  had  failed:  a  fact 
which  may  receive  some  illustration  from  the  remark  of  a 
great  philosopher,  that  fly-fishers  fail  in  preparing  their  bait 
so  as  to  make  it  alluring  in  the  right  quarter,  for  want  of 
a  due  acquaintance  with  the  subjectivity  of  fishes. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

DAYLIGHT  ON  THE  WRECK. 


It  was  a  clear  frosty  January  day  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver 
first  came  down-stairs:  the  bright  sun  on  the  chestnut 
boughs  and  the  roofs  opposite  his  window  had  made  him 
impatiently  declare  that  he  would  be  caged  up  no  longer: 
he  thought  everywhere  would  be  more  cheery  under  this 
sunshine  than  his  bedroom;  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
bareness  below,  which  made  the  flood  of  sunshine  importu- 
nate, as  if  it  had  an  unfeeling  pleasure  in  showing  the 
empty  places,  and  the  marks  where  well-known  objects 
once  had  been.  The  impression  on  his  mind  that  it  was 
but  yesterday  when  he  received  the  letter  from  Mr.  Gore 
was  so  continually  implied  in  his  talk,  and  the  attempts  to 
convey  to  him  the  idea  that  many  weeks  had  passed  and 
much  had  happened  since  then,  had  been  so  soon  swept 
away  by  recurrent  forgetfulness,  that  even  Mr.  Turnbull 
had  begun  to  despair  of  preparing  him  Iq  mcQt  the  f^g.o 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE   DOWNFALL.  245 

by  previous  knowledge.  The  full  sense  of  the  present  could 
only  be  imparted  gradually  by  new  experience  —  not  by 
mere  words,  which  must  remain  weaker  than  the  impres- 
sions left  by  the  old  experience.  This  resolution  to  come 
down-stairs  was  heard  with  trembling  by  the  wife  and 
children.  Mrs.  Tulliver  said  Tom  must  not  go  to  St. 
Ogg^s  at  the  usual  hour  —  he  must  wait  and  see  his  father 
down-stairs:  and  Tom  complied,  though  with  an  intense 
inward  shrinking  from  the  painful  scene.  The  hearts  of 
all  three  had  been  more  deeply  dejected  than  ever  during 
the  last  few  days.  For  Guest  &  Co.  had  not  bought  the^ 
mill:  both  mill  and  land  had  been  knocked  down  to* 
Wakem,  who  had  been  over  the  premises,  and  had  laidl 
before  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr.  Glegg,  in  Mrs.  Tulliver'sj 
presence,  his  willingness  to  employ  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  case 
of  his  recovery,  as  a  manager  of  the  business.  This  propo- 
sition had  occasioned  mucli  family  debating.  Uncles  and 
aunts  were  almost  unanimously  of  opinion  that  such  an 
offer  ought  not  to  be  rejected  when  there  was  nothing  in 
the  way  but  a  feeling  m  Mr.  Tulliver's  mind,  which,  as 
neither  aunts  nor  uncles  shared  it,  was  regarded  as  entirely 
unreasonable  and  childish — indeed,  as  a  transferringtoward 
Wakem  of  that  indignation  and  hatred  which  Mr.  Tulliver 
ought  properly  to  have  directed  against  himself  for  his 
general  quarrelsomeness,  and  his  special  exhibition  of  it  in 
going  to  law.  Here  was  an  opportunity  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to 
provide  for  his  wife  and  daughter  without  any  assistance 
from  his  wife^s  relations,  and  without  that  too  evident 
descent  into  pauperism  which  makes  it  annoving  to  respect- 
able people  to  meet  the  degraded  member  of  the  family  by  the 
wayside.  Mr.  Tulliver,  Mrs.  Glegg  considered,  must  be 
made  to  feel,  when  he  came  to  his  right  mind,  that  he 
could  never  humble  himself  enough;  for  that  had  come 
which  she  had  always  foreseen  would  come  of  his  insolence 
in  time  past  ^^  to  them  as  were  the  best  friends  he'd  got  to 
look  to.^^  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane  were  less  stern  in 
their  views,  but  they  both  of  them  thought  Tulliver  had 
done  enough  harm  by  his  hot-tempered  crotchets,  and 
ought  to  put  them  out  of  the  question  when  a  livelihood 
was  offered  him:  Wakem  showed  a  right  feeling  about  the 
matter — he  had  no  grudge  against  Tulliver.  Tom  had 
protested  against  entertaining  the  proposition:  he  shouldn't, 
like  his  father  to  be  under  Wakem:  he  thought  it  would 
look  mean-spirited;  but  his  mother's  main  distress  was  the 
utter  impossibility  of  ever  ^^  turning  Mr.  Tulliver  round 


Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


246  TH*:  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

about  Wakem,"  or  getting  him  to  hear  reason — no,  they 
would  all  have  to  go  and  live  in  a  pigstv  on  purpose  to  spite 
Wakem,  who  spoke  *'  so  as  nobody  coula  be  fairer/'  Indeed, 
Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind  was  reduced  to  such  confusion  by 
living  in  this  strange  medium  of  unaccountable  sorrow, 
against  which  she  continually  appealed  by  asking,  ^*01i, 
<lear,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  worse  than  other  women  ?  " 
that  Maggie  began  to  suspect  her  poor  mother's  wits  were 
quite  going. 

"Tom,  she  said,  when  they  were  out  of  their  father's 
room  together,  "we  mtist  try  to  make  father  understand 
a  little  of  what  has  happened  before  he  goes  down-stairs. 
But  we  must  get  my  mother  away.  She  will  say  some- 
thing that  will  do  harm.  Ask  Kezia  to  fetch  her  down, 
and  keep  her  engaged  with  something  in  the  kitchen.'' 

Kezia  was  equal  to  the  task.  Having  declared  her  inten- 
tion of  staying  till  the  master  could  get  about  again, 
"  wage  or  no  wage,"  she  had  found  a  certain  recompense 
in  keeping  a  strong  hand  over  her  mistress,  scolding  her  for. 
"moithermg"  herself,  and  going  about  all  day  without 
changing  her  cap,  and  looking  as  if  she  was  ^* mushed." 
Altogether,  this  time  of  trouble  was  rather  a  Saturnalian 
time  to  Kezia:  she  could  scold  her  betters  with  unreproved 
freedom.  On  this  particular  occasion  there  were  drying 
clothes  to  be  fetched  in:  she  wished  to  know  if  one  pair  of 
hands  could  do  everything  indoors  and  out,  and  observed 
that  she  should  have  thought  it  would  be  good  for  Mrs. 
Tulliver  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  by  doing  that  needful  piece  of  work.  Poor  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver went  submissively  down-stairs;  to  be  ordered  about  by 
a  servant  was  the  last  remnant  of  her  household  digni- 
ties— she  would  soon  have  no  servant  to  scold  her.  Mr. 
Tulliver  was  resting  in  his  chair  a  little  after  the  fatigue 
of  dressing,  and  Maggie  and  Tom  were  seated  near  him, 
when  Luke  entered  to  ask  if  he  should  help  master  down- 
stairs. 

"Ay,  ay,  Luke,  stop  a  bit,  sit  down," said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
pointing  his  stick  toward  a  chair,  and  looking  at  him  with 
that  pursuant  gaze  which  convalescent  persons  often  have 
for  those  who  have  tended  them,  reminding  one  of  an 
infant  gazing  about  after  its  nurse.  For  Luke  had  been  a 
constant  night-watcher  by  his  master's  bed. 

"How's  the  water  now,  eh,  Luke?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
**'Dix  hasn't  been  choking  you  up  again,  eh?" 

"No,  sir,  it's  all  right." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  247 

^'Ay,  I  thought  not:  he  won't  be  in  a  hurry  at  that 
again,  now  Riley's  been  to  settle  him.  That  was  what  I 
said  to  Riley  yesterday 1  said '' 

Mr.  Tulliver  leaned  forward,  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
arm-chair,  and  looking  on  the  around  as  if  in  search  of 
something — striving  after  vanishing  images  like  a  man 
struggling  against  a  doze.  Maggie  looked  at  Tom  in  muto 
distress — their  father's  mind  was  so  far  off  the  present, 
which  would  by-and-by  thrust  itself  on  his  wandering  con- 
sciousness! Tom  was  almost  ready  to  rush  away,  with 
that  impatience  of  painful  emotion  which  make  one  of  the 
differences  between  youth  and  maiden,  man  and  woman. 

"Father,"  said  Maggie,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  *^ don't 
you  remember  that  Mr.  Riley  is  dead?" 

"Dead?"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  sharply,  looking  in  her 
face  with  a  strange,  examining  glance. 

"Yes,  he  died  of  apoplexy  nearly  a  year  ago;  I  remem- 
ber hearing  you  say  you  had  to  pay  money  for  him;  and 
he  left  his  aaughters  badly  off — one  of  them  is  under- 
teacHer  at  Miss  Pirniss's,  where  I've  been  to  school,  you 
know " 

"Ah?"  said  her  father,  doubtfully,  still  looking  in  her 
face.  But  as  soon  as  Tom  began  to  speak  he  turned  to 
look  at  Mm  with  the  same  inquiring  glances,  as  if  he  were 
rather  surprised  at  the  presence  of  these  two  young  people. 
Whenever  his  mind  was  wandering  in  the  far  past,  he  fell 
into  this  oblivion  of  their  actual  faces:  they  were  not  those 
of  the  lad  and  the  little  wench  who  belonged  to  that  past. 

"  It's  a  long  while  since  you  had  the  dispute  with  Dix, 
father,"  said  Tom.  "  I  remember  your  talking  about  it 
three  years  ago,  before  I  went  to  school  at  Mr.  Stelling's. 
I've  been  at  school  there  three  years;  don't  you  remember?  " 

Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  backward  again,  losing  the 
childlike  outward  glance  under  a  rush  of  new  ideas,  which 
diverted  him  from  external  impressions. 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  after  a  minute  or  two,  "I've  paid  a 

deal  o'  money 1  was  determined  my  son  should  have  a 

good  eddication:  I'd  none  myself,  and  I've  felt  the  miss  of 

it.     And  he'll  want  no  other  fortin:  that's  what  I  say 

if  Wakem  was  to  get  the  better  of  me  again— — " 

The  thought  of  Wakem  roused  new  vibrations,  and  after 
a  moment's  pause  he  began  to  look  at  the  coat  he  had  on, 
and  to  feel  in  his  side-pocket.  Then  he  turned  to  Tom, 
and  said,  in  his  old  sharp  way,  "Where  have  they  put 
Gore's  letter?" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


248  THE  MILL  OS  THE:  FLOSS. 

It  was  close  at  hand  in  a  drawer,  for  he  had  often  asked 
for  it  before. 

**  You  know  what  there  is  in  the  letter,  father? "  said 
Tom,  as  he  gave  it  to  him.   . 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,*'  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  angrily. 
'*  What  o'  that?  If  Furley  cant  take  to  the  property, 
somebody  else  can:  there's  plenty  o'  people  in  the  world 
besides  Furley.  But  it's  hindering — my  not  being  well — 
go  and  tell  'em  to  get  the  horse  in  the  gig,  Luke:  I  can  get 
down  to  St.  Ogg's  well  enough — Gore's  expecting  me." 

**No,  dear  father!"  Maggie  burst  out  entreatingly,  *Mt's 
a  very  long  while  since  all  that:  you've  been  ill  a  great 
many  weeks  —  more  than    two    months  —  everything  is   . 
changed." 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  at  them  all  three  alternately  with  a 
startled  gaze:  the  idea  that  much  had  happened  of  which 
he  knew  nothing  had  often  transiently  arrested  him  before, 
but  it  came  upon  him  now  with  entire  novelty. 

"Yes,  father,"  said  Tom,  in  answer  to  the  gaze.  "You 
needn't  trouble  your  mind  about  business  until  you  are 
quite  well:  everything  is  settled  about  that  for  the  pres- 
ent— ^about  the  mill  and  the  land  and  the  debts." 

"What's  settled,  then?"  said  his  father,  angrily. 

"  Don't  you  take  on  too  much  about  it,  sir,"  said  Luke. 
"You'd  ha'  paid  iverybody  if  you  could — that's  what  I 
said  to  Master  Tom — I  said  you'd  paid  iverybody  if  you 
could." 

Good  Luke  felt,  after  the  manner  of  contented  hard- 
working men  whose  lives  have  been  spent  in  servitude 
that  sense  of  natural  fitness  in  rank  which  made  his  mas- 
ter's downfall  a  tragedv  to  him.  He  was  urged,  in  his 
slow  way,  to  say  something  that  would  express  his  share 
in  the  family  sorrow,  and  these  words,  which  he  had  used 
over  and  over  again  to  Tom  when  he  wanted  to  decline 
the  full  payment  of  his  fifty  pounds  out  of  the  children's 
money,  were  the  most  ready  to  his  tongue.  They  were 
iust  the  words  to  lay  the  most  painful  hold  on  his  master's  ^ 
bewildered  mind. 

"Paid  everybody?"  he  said,  with  vehement  agitation, 

his  face  flushing,  and  his  eye  lighting  up.      "Why 

what have  they  made  me  a  bankrupt  ?  " 

"  0  father,  dear  father!"  said  Maggie,  who  thought  that 
terrible  word  really  represented  the  fact;  "bear  it  well — 
because  we  love  you — your  children  will  always  love  you. 
Tom  will  pay  them  all;  he  says  he  will,  when  he's  a  man." 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  249 

She  felt  her  father  beginning  to  tremble — his  voice  trem- 
bled too',  as  he  said,  after  a  few  moments — 

"Ay,  my  little  wench,  but  I  shall  never  live  twice  o'er/' 

'^  But  perhaps  you  will  live  to  see  me  pay  everybody, 
father,'^  said  Tom,  speaking  with  a  great  effort. 

"Ah,  my  lad,''  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  shaking  his  head 
slowly,  "but  what's  broke  can  never  be  whole  again:  it  'uu 
be  your  doing,  not  mine."  Then  looking  up  at  liim, 
^*  You're  only  sixteen — it's  an  up-hill  fight  for  you — but 
you  mustn't  throw  it  at  your  father;  the  raskills  have  been 
too  many  for  him.  I've  given  you  a  good  eddication — that'll 
start  you." 

Something  in  his  throat  half  choked  the  last  words;  the 
flush  which  had  alarmed  his  children  because  it  had  so 
often  preceded  a  recurrence  of  paralysis,  had  subsided,  and 
his  face  looked  pale  and  tremulous.  Tom  said  nothing: 
he  was  still  struggling  against  his  inclination  to  rush  away. 
His  father  remained  quiet  a  minute  or  two,  but  his  mind 
did  not  seem  to  be  wandering  again. 

"Have  they  sold  me  up,  then?"  he  said,  more  calmly, 
as  if  he  were  possessed  simply  by  the  desire  to  know  what 
had  happened. 

"  Everything  is  sold,  father;  but  we  don't  know  all 
about  the  mijl  and  the  land  yet,"  said  Tom,  anxious  to 
ward  off  any  question  leading  to  the  fact  that  Wakem  was 
the  purchaser. 

"You  must  not  be  surprised  to  see  the  room  look  very 
bare  down  stairs,  father,"  said  Maggie,  "  but  there's  your 
chair  and  the  bureau — they're  not  gone." 

"Let  us  go — help  me  down,  Luke — I'll  go  and  see  every- 
thing," said  Mr.  Tulliver,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  other  hand  toward  Luke. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  his  master, 
'^  you'll  make  up  your  mind  to't  a  bit  better  when  you've 
seen  iverything:  you'll  get  used  to't.  That's  what  my 
mother  says  about  her  shortness  o'  breath— she  says  she'? 
made  friends  wi't  now,  though  she  fought  again'  it  sore 
when  it  fust  come  on." 

Maggie  ran  on  before  to  see  that  all  was  right  in  the 
dreary  parlor,  where  the  fire,  dulled  by  the  frosty  sunshine, 
seemed  part  of  the  general  shabbiness.  She  turned  her 
father's  chair,  and  pushed  aside  the  table  to  make  an  easy 
way  for  him,  and  then  stood  with  a  beating  heart  to  see 
him  enter,  and  look  round  for  the  first  time.  Tom 
advanced  before  him,  carrying  the  leg-rest,  and  stood  beside 

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250  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  on  the  hearth.  Of  those  two  young  hearts,  Tom's 
suffered  the  most  unmixed  pain,  for  Maggie,  with  all  her 
keen  susceptibility,  yet  felt  as  if  the  sorrow  made  larger 
room  for  her  love  to  flow  in,  and  gave  breathinff-space  to 
her  passionate  nature.  No  true  boy  feels  that:  he  would 
rather  go  and  slay  the  Nemean  lion,  or  perform  any  round 
of  heroic  labors,  than  endure  perpetual  appeals  to  his  pity, 
for  evils  over  which  he  can  make  no  conquest. 

Mr.  TuUiver  paused  just  inside  the  door,  resting  on 
Luke,  and  looking  round  him  at  all  the  bare  places,  which 
for  him  were  filled  with  the  shadows  of  departed  objects — 
the  daily  companions  of  his  life.  His  faculties  seemed 
to  be  renewing  their  strength  from  getting  a  footing  on 
this  demonstration  of  the  senses. 

*'  Ah !  ^'  he  said,  slowly,  moving  toward  his  chair,  '^they've 
sold  me  up— — ^theyVe  sold  me  up." 

Then  seating  himself,  and  laying  down  his  stick,  while 
Luke  left  the  room,  he  looked  round  again. 

"They've  left  the  big  Bible,''  he  said.  "It's  got  every- 
thing in — when  I  was  born  and  married — bring  it  me, 
Tom." 

The  quarto  Bible  was  laid  open  before  him  at  the  fly- 
leaf and  while  he  was  reading  with  slowly  traveling  eyes, 
Mrs.  TuUiver  entered  the  room,  but  stood  in  mute  surprise 
to  find  her  husband  down  already,  and  with  the  great 
Bible  before  him. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  looking  at  a  spot  where  his  finger  rested, 
"my  mother  was  Margaret  Beaton — she  died  when  she 
was  forty-seven:  hers  wasn't  a  long-lived  family — we're 
our  mother's  children — Gritty  and  me  are — ^we  shall  go  to 
our  last  bed  before  long." 

He  seemed  to  be  pausing  over  the  record  of  his  sister's 
birth  and  marriage,  as  if  it  were  suggesting  new  thoughts 
to  him:  then  he  suddenly  looked  up  at  Tom,  and  said,  in 
a  sharp  tone  of  alarm — 

"They  haven't  come  upo'  Moss  for  the  money  as  I  lent 
him,  have  they?" 

" No,  father,"  said  Tom;  "the  note  was  burned." 

Mr.  TuUiver  turned  his  eyes  on  the  page  again,  and 
presently  said  — 

"  Ah Elizabeth  Dodson it's  eighteen  years  since 

I  married  her " 

"  Come  next  Ladyday,"  said  Mrs.  TuUiver,  going  up  to 
his  side  and  looking  at  the  page. 

Her  husband  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  her  face. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  DOWNFALL.  S6l 

''Poor  Bessy/^  he  said,  ''you  was  a  pretty  lass  then  — 
everybody  said  so  —  and  I  used  to  think  you  kept  your 

good  looks  rarely.     But  you're  sorely  aged don't  you 

bear  me  ill-will 1  meant  to  do  well  by  you we 

promised  one  another  for  better  or  for  worse *^ 

"But  I  never  thought  it  'ud  be  so  for  worse  as  this/' 
said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  the  strange  scared  look  tha 
had  come  over  her  of  late;  "  and  my  poor  father  gave  me 
away and  to  come  on  so  all  at  once " 

"  0  mother,"  said  Maggie,  "don't  talk  in  that  way." 

"  No,  I  know  you  won't  let  your  poor  mother  speaK 

that's  been  the  way  all   my  life your  father  never 

minded  what  I  said it  'ud  have  been  o'  no  use  for  me 

to  beg  and  pray and  it  'ud  be  no  use  now,  not  if  I 

was  to  go  down  o'  my  hands  and  knees " 

"  Don't  say  so,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose  pride, 
in  these  first  moments  of  humiliation,  was  in  abeyance  to 
the  sense  of  some  justice  in  his  wife's  reproach.  "If 
there's  anything  left  as  I  could  do  to  make  you  amends, 
I  wouldn't  say  you  nay/' 

'"  Then  we  might  stay  here  and  get  a  living,  and  I  might 

keep  among  my  own  sisters and  me  been  such  a  good 

wife  to  you,  and  never  crossed  you  from  week's  end  to 

week's  end and  they  all  say  so they  say  it  'ud  be 

nothing    but    right only  you're    so    turned   against 

Wakem." 

"Mother,"  said  Tom,  severely,  'Hhis  is  not  the  time  to 
talk  about  that." 

"  Let  her  be,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.    "  Say  what  you  mean. 


J\\y,  now  the  mill  and  the  land's  all  Wakem's,  and 
he's  got  everything  in  his  hands,  what's  the  use  o'  setting 
your  face  against  him?  —  when  he  says  you  may  stay  here, 
and  speaks  as  fair  as  can  be,  and  says  you  may  manage  the 
business,  and  have  thirty  shilling  a-week,  and  a  horse  to 
ride  about  to  market?  And  where  have  we  got  to  put 
our  heads?    We  must  go  into  one  o'  the  cottages  in  the 

village and  me  and  my  children  brought  down  to 

that and  all  because  you  must  set  your  mind  against 

folks  till  there's  no  turning  you." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  trembling. 

'*  You  may  do  as  you  like  wi'  me,  Bessy,"  he  said,  in  a 

low  voice;  "  I've  been  the  bringing  of  you  to  poverty 

this  world's  too  many  for  me I'm  nought  but  a  bank- 
rupt—  it's  no  use  standing  up  for  anything  now." 

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252  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

''Father/^  said  Tom,  "I  don't  agree  with  my  mother  or 
my  uncles,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  submit  to  b6 
under  Wakera.  I  get  a  ponna  a  week  now,  and  you  can 
find  something  else  to  do  when  you  get  well." 

'^Say  no  more,  Tom,  say  no  more:  I've  had  enough  for 
this  day.     Give  me  a  kiss,  Bessy,  and  let  us  bear  ou® 

anotlier  no  ill-will:   we  shall  never  be  ycung  again 

this  world's  been  too  many  for  me." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


AN  ITEM  ADDED  TO  THE  FAMILY  REGISTEB. 

That  first  moment  of  renunciation  and  submission  .^^ 
followed  by  days  of  violent  struggle  in  the  miller's  ^^/^  jl 
as  the  gradual  access  of  bodily  strength  brought  ^^v?^^ 
increasing  ability  to  embrace  in  on«  view  all  the  confli^*'^  ^^ 
conditions  under  which  he  found  himself.     Feeble  ^'^^.^ 
easily  resign  themselves  to  be  tethered,  and  when  ^^^^p 
subdued  by  sickness  it  seems  possible  to  us  to  fulfill  pl^^j.(j 
which  the  old  vigor  comes  back  and  breaks.     There  ^^ jg 
times  when  poor  TuUiver  thought  the  fulfillment  of 
promise  to  Bessy  was  something  quite  too  hard  for  bti^j^^ 
nature:  he  had  promised  her  without  knowing  wh^^    ^ 
was  going  to  say — she  mi^ht  as  well  have  asked  bi'^^g 
carry  a  ton  weight  on  his  back.     But  again,  there  ^i^^^ 
many  feelings  arguing  on  her  side,  besides  the  sense  ^f\^ 
life  had  been  made  hard  to  her  by  having  married  ^l^^x 
He  saw  a  possibility,  by  much  pinching,  of  saving  ^   q^- 
out  of  his  salary  toward  paying  a  second  dividend  to  his  ^T-^xi 
itors,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  elsewhere  to  get  a  sitti^^^^^^ 
such  as  he  could  fill.   He  had  led  an  easy  life,  ordering  ^l^isi" 
and  working  little,  and  had  no  aptitude  for  any  neYT  ^^ife 
ness.     He  must  perhaps  take  to  day-labor,  and  hi^  -tte^ 
must  have  help  from  her  sisters — a  prospect  doubly  t>^    \ye 
to  him,  now  they  had  let  all  Bessy's  precious  thit^^- 
sold,  probably  because  they  liked  to  set  her  against  hiX&^  ff/ 
making  her  feel  that  he  had  brought  her  to  that  pass,    fr 
listened  to  their  admonitory  talk,  when  they  came  to    v^ 
on  him  what  he  was  bound  to  do  for  poor  Bessy's  g\^ 
with  averted  eyes,  that  every  now  and  then  flashed  on  t|.^^, 
furtively  when  their  backs  were  turned.     Nothing  but  tl^  ' 

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TJIB  DOWNFALL.  253 

dread  of  needing  their  help  could  have  made  it  an  easier 
alternative  to  take  their  advice. 

But  the  strongest  influence  of  all  was  the  love  of  the  old 
premises  where  he  had  run  about  when  he  was  a  boy,  just 
as  Tom  had  done  after  him.  The  Tullivers  had  lived  on 
this  spot  for  generations,  and  he  had  sat  listening  on  alow 
stool  on  winter  evenings  while  his  father  talked  of  the  old 
half-timbered  mill  that  had  been  there  before  the  last  great 
floods,  which  damaged  it  so  that  his  grandfather  pulled  it 
down  and  built  the  new  one.  It  was  when  he  got  able  to 
walk  ^bout  and  look  at  all  the  old  objects,  that  he  felt  the 
strain  of  this  clinging  affection  for  the  old  homo  as  part 
of  his  life,  part  of  himself.  He  couldn't  bear  to  think  of 
himself  living  on  any  other  spot  than  this,  where  he  knew 
the  sound  of  every  gate  and  door,  and  felt  that  the  shape 
and  color  of  every  roof  and  weather-stain  and  broken 
hillock  was  good,  because  his  growing  senses  had  been  fed 
•n  them.  Our  instructed  vagrancy,  which  has  hardly 
time  to  linger  by  the  hedgerows,  but  runs  away  early  to 
the  tropics,  and  is  at  home  with  palms  and  banvans, — 
which  18  nourished  on  books  of  travel,  and  stretches  the 
theatre  of  its  imagination  to  the  Zambesi, — can  hardly  get 
a  dim  notion  of  what  an  old-fashioned  man  like  Tulliver 
felt  for  this  spot,  where  all  his  memories  centred,  and 
where  life  seemed  like  a  familiar  smooth-handled  tool  that 
the  fingers  clutch  with  loving  ease.  And  just  now  he  was 
living  m  that  freshened  memory  of  the  far-off  time  which 
comes  to  us  in  the  passive  hours  of  recoverv  from  sickness. 

"  Aye,  Luke,''  he  said,  one  afternoon,  as  he  stood  looking 
over  the  orchard  gate,  "I  remember  the  day  they  planted 
t&ose  apple-trees.  My  father  was  a  huge  man  for  plant- 
ing— it  was  like  a  merry-making  to  him  to  get  a  cart  full 
o'  young  trees — ^and  I  used  to  stand  i'  the  cold  with  him, 
and  follow  him  about  like  a  dog." 

Then  he  turned  round,  and,  leaning  against  the  gate- 
post, looked  at  the  opposite  buildings. 

''  The  old  mill  'ud  miss  me,  I  think,  Luke.  There's  a 
story  as  when  the  mill  changes  hands,  the  river's  angry — 
I've  heard  my  father  say  it  many  a  time.  There's  no 
telling  whether  there  mayn't  be  summat  in  the  story,  for 
this  is  a  puzzling  world,  and  Old  Harry's  got  a  finger  in 
it — it's  been  too  many  for  me,  I  know." 

"  Aye,  sir,"  said  Luke,  with  soothing  sympathy,  *'  what 
wi'  the  rust  on  the  wheat,  an'  the  firm'  o'  the  ricks  an' 
'hat,  as  I've  seen  i'  my  time — things  often  looks  Qomip^l" 

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254  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

there's  the  bacon  fat  wi'  our  last  pig  runs  away  like  butter — 
it  leaves  nought  but  ascratcbin'." 

*^  It's  just  as  if  it  wasyesterduv,  now/'  Mr.  Tulliver  went 
on,  *^  when  my  father  began  the  malting.  I  remember, 
the  day  they  finished  the  malt-house,  I  thought  summat 
great  was  to  come  of  it;  for  we'd  a  plum-puddmg  that  day 
and  a  bit  of  a  feast,  and  I  said  to  my  mother — she  was  a 
fine  dttrk-eyed  woman,  my  mother  was — the  little  wench 
'ull  be  as  like  her  as  two  peas." — Here  Mr.  Tulliver  put 
his  stick  between  his  legs,  and  took  out  his  snuff-box,  for 
the  greater  enjoyment  of  this  anecdote,  which  dr^^pped 
from  him  in  fragments,  as  if  he  every  other  moment  lost 
narration  in  vision.  "  I  was  a  little  chap  no  higher  much 
than  my  mother's  knee — she  was  sore  fond  of  us  children. 
Gritty  and  me — and  so  I  said  to  her  *  Mother,'!  said,  'shall 
we  have  plum-pudding  every  day  because  o'  the  malt- 
house?'  She  used  to  tell  me  o' that  till  her  dying  day. 
She  was  but  a  young  woman  when  she  died,  my  mother 
was.  But  it's  forty  good  years  since  they  finished  the  malt- 
house,  and  it  isn't  many  days  out  of  'em  all,  as  I  haven't 
looked  out  into  the  yard  there,  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing— all  weathers,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  I  should 
go  off  my  head  in  a  new  place.  •  I  should  be  like  as  if  I'd 
lost  my  way.  It's  all  hard,  whichever  way  I  look  at  it — 
the  harness  'ull  gall  me — but  it  'ud  be  summat  to  draw 
along  the  old  road,  instead  of  a  new  un."  ' 

**  Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "you'd  be  a  deal  better  here  nor 
in  some  new  place.  I  can't  abide  new  places  mysen:  things 
is  allays  awk'ard — narrow- wheeled  waggins,  belike,  and  the 
stiles  all  another  sort,  an'  oat-cake  i'  some  places,  tow'rt  th' 
head  o'  the  Floss,  there.  It's  poor  work,  changing  your 
country-side." 

**  But  I  doubt,  Luke,  they'll  be  for  getting  rid  o'  Ben, 
and  making  you  do  with  a  lad — and  I  must  help  a  bit  wi' 
the  mill.    You'll  have  a  worse  place." 

"Ne'er mind,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "I  shan't  plague  mysen. 
I'n  been  wi'  you  twenty  year,  an'  you  can't  get  twenty  year 
wi'  whistlin'  for  'em,  no  more  nor  you  can  make  the  trees 
grow:  you  mun  wait  till  God  A'mighty  sends  'em.  I  can't 
abide  new  victual  nor  new  faces,  /  can't — ^you  niver  know 
but  what  they'll  gripe  you." 

The  walk  was  finished  in  silence  after  this,  for  Luke  had 
disburdened  himself  of  thoughts  to  an  extent  that  left  his 
conversational  resources  quite  barren,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
relapsed  from  his  recollections  into  a  painful  meditation 

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THE  DOWNFALL.  255 

on  the  choice  of  hardships  before  bim.  Maggie  noticed 
that  he  was  unusually  absent  that  evening  at  tea;  and 
afterward  he  sat  leaning  forward  in  his  cbair,  looking  at 
the  ground,  moving  his  lips,  and  shaking  his  head  from 
time  to  time.  Then  he  looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
who  was  knitting  opposite  him,  then  at  Maggie,  who,  as 
she  bent  over  her  sewing,  was  intensely  conscious  of  some 
drama  going  forward  in  her  father^s  mind.  Suddenly  he 
took  up  the  poker  and  broke  the  large  coal  fiercely. 

^*  Dear  heart,  Mr.  Tulliver,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of  ?" 
said  his  wife,  looking  up  in  alarm:  "it's  very  wasteful, 
breaking  the  coal,  and  we've  got  hardly  any  large  coal  left, 
and  I  don't  know  where  the  rest  is  to  come  from." 

'^  I  don't  think  you're  quite  so  well  to-night  are  you, 
father?"  said  Mag^e;  "you  seem  uneasy." 

*^Why,  how  is  it  that  Tom  doesn't  come?"  said  Mr. 
Tulliver,  impatiently. 

"  Dear  heart!  is  it  time?  I  must  go  and  get  his  supper," 
said  Mrs;  Tulliver,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and  leaving 
the  room. 

**It's  nigh  upon  half -past  eight,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"He'll  be  here  soon.  Go,  go  and  get  the  big  Bible,  and 
open  it  at  the  beginning,  where  everything^  set  down. 
And  get  the  pen  and  ink." 

Maggie  obeyed,  wondering:  but  her  father  gave  no 
further  orders,  and  only  sat  listening  for  Tom's  footfall  on 
the  gravel,  apparently  irritated  by  the  wind,  which  luid 
risen,  and  was  roaring  so  as  to  drown  all  other  sounds. 
There  was  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes  that  rather  fright- 
ened Maggie:  she  began  to  wish  that  Tom  would  come,  too. 

"  There  he  is,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  an  excited 
way,  when  the  knock  came  at  last.  Maggie  went  to  open 
the  door,  but  her  mother  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  hur- 
riedly, saying,  "Stop  a  bit,  Maggie;  111  open  it." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  begun  to  be  a  little  frightened  at  her 
boy,  but  she  was  jealous  of  every  office  others  did  for  him. 

"Your  supper's  ready  by  the  kitchen-fire,  my  boy,"  she 
said,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  coat.  "  You  shall  have 
it  by  yourself,  just  as  you  like,  and  I  won't  speak  to  you." 

"  I  think  my  father  wants  Tom,  mother,"  said  Maggie; 
**he  must  come  into  the  parlor  first." 

Tom  entered  with  his  usual  saddened  evening  face,  dux 
his  eyes  fell  immediately  on  the  open  Bible  and  the  ink- 
stand, and  he  glanced  with  a  Jopk  of  anxious  surprise  at 
his  father,  who  was  saying-*- 

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256  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

• 

**  Come,  come,  you're  late — I  want  you/' 

*'Is  there  anything  the  matter,  father?''  said  Tom. 
.  **  You  sit  down — all  of  you,"  said  Mr.  TuUiver,  perempt- 
orily.    "And,  Tom,  sit  down  here;  Fve  got  something  for 
you  to  write  i'  the  Bible." 

They  all  three  sat  down,  looking  at  him.  He  began  to 
speak,  slowly,  looking  first  at  his  wife. 

*'I've  made  up  my  mind,  Bessy,  and  I'll  be  as  good  as 
my  word  to  you.  There'll  be  the  same  grave  made  for  us 
to  lie  down  in,  and  we  mustn't  be  bearing  one  another  ill- 
will.  I'll  stop  in  the  old  place,  and  I'll  serve  under 
Wakem — and  I'll  serve  him  like  an  honest  man:  there's  no 
Tulliver  but  what's  honest,  mind  that,  Tom" — here  his 
voice  rose:  *^  they'll  have  it  to  throw  up  against  me  as  I 
paid  a  dividend — but  it  wasn't  my  fault — it  was  because 
there's  raskills  in  the  world.  They've  been  too  many  for 
me,  and  I  must  give  in.  I'll  put  my  neck  in  harness — for 
you've  a  right  to  say  as  I've  brought  you  into  trouble, 
Bessy — and  I'll  serve  him  as  honest  as  if  he  was  njo  raskill: 
I'm  an  honest  man,  though  I  shall  never  hold  my  head  up 
no  more — I'm  a  tree  as  is  broke— ^-a  tree  as  is  broke." 

He  paused,  and  looked  on  the  ground.  Then  suddenly 
raising  his  head,  he  said,  in  a  louder  yet  deeper  tone — 

"But  I  won't  forgive  him!  I  know  what  they  say — he 
never  meant  me  any  harm  —  that's  the  way  Old  Harry 
props  up  the  raskills — he's  been  at  the  bottom  of  every- 
thing—  but  he's  a  fine  gentleman — I  know,  I  know.  I 
shouldn't  ha'  gone  to  law,  they  say.  But  who  made  it  so 
as  there  was  no  arbitratin',  and  no  justice  to  be  got?  It 
signifies  nothing  to  him — I  know  that;  he's  one  o'  them 
fine  gentlemen  as  get  money  by  doing  business  for  poorer 
folks,  and  when  he's  made  beggars  o'  them  he'll  give  'em 
charity.  I  won't  forgive  him!  I  wish  he  might  be 
punished  with  shame  till  his  own  son  'ud  like  to  forgot 
him.  I  wish  he  may  do  summat  as  they'd  make  him  work 
at  the  treadmill!  But  he  won't — he's  too  big  a  raskill  to 
let  the  law  lay  hold  on  him.  And  you  mind  this,  Tom  — 
you  never  forgive  him  neither,  if  you  mean  to  be  my  son. 
There'll  maybe  come  a  time  when  you  may  make  him 
feel  —  it'll  never  come  to  me — I'm  got  my  head  under  the 
yoke.     Now  write — write  it  i'  the  Bible." 

"0  father,  what?"  said  Maggie,*  sinking  down  by  his 
knee,  pale  and  trembling.  "It's  wicked  to  curse  and 
bear  malice." 

^*It  isn't  wicked,  I  tell  you/'  said  h^r  father^  fiercely. 


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THE   DOWNFALL.  257 

''It's  wicked   as  the  raskills  should    prosper — it's  the 
devirs  doing.     Do  as  I  tell  you,  Tom.     Write.'* 

"What  am  I  to  write?"  said  Tom,  with  gloomy  sub- 
mission. 

"Write  asyour  father,  Edward  TuUiver,  took  service 
under  John  Wakem,  the  man  as  had  helped  to  ruin  him, 
because  I'd  promised  my  wife  to  make  her  what  amends  I 
could  for  her  trouble,  and  because  I  wanted  to  die  in 
th'  old  place  where  I  was  born  and  my  father  was  born. 
Put  that  i'  the  right  words — you  know  how — and  then 
write,  as  I  don't  forgive  Wakem  for  all  that;  and  for  all 
I'll  serve  him  honest,  I  wish  evil  may  befall  him.  Write 
that." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  as  Tom's  pen  moved  along  the 
paper:  Mrs.  TuUiver  looked  scared,  and  Maggie  trembled 
like  a  leaf. 

"Now  let  me  hear  what  you've  wrote,"  said  Mr.  TuUi- 
ver.    Tom  read  aloud,  slowly. 

"Now  write — write  as  you'll  remember  what  Wakem's 
done  to  your  father,  and  you'll  make  him  and  his  feel  it, 
if  ever  the  day  comes.  And  sign  your  name,  Thomas 
TuUiver." 

"Oh,  no,  father,  dear  father!"  said  Maggie,  almost 
choked  with  fear.  "You  shouldn't  make  Tom  write 
that." 

"Be  quiet,  Maggiel"  said  Tom.     "I  shall  write  it." 
17 


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BOOK  IV. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 


CHAPTER  L 

A  VARIATION  OF  PROTESTANTISM   UNKNOWN  TO  BOSSUET, 

JouRNHTiNG  down  the  Rhone  on  a  summers  day,  you 
have  perhaps  felt  the  sunshine  made  dreary  by  those  ruined 
villages  which  stud  the  banks  in  certain  parts  of  its  course, 
telling  how  the  swift  river  once  rose,  like  an  angry,  destroy- 
ing god,  sweeping  down  the  feeble  generations  whose  breath 
is  m  their  nostrils,  and  making  their  dwellings  a  desolation. 
Strange  contrast,  you  may  have  thought,  between  the  effect 
produced  on  us  by  these  dismal  remnants  of  commonplace 
houses,  which,  in  their  best  days,  were  but  the  sign  of  a 
sordid  life,  belonging  in  all  its  details  to  our  own  vulgar 
era;  and  the  effect  produced  by  those  ruins  on  the  castled 
Rhine,  which  have  crumbled  and  mellowed  into  such  har- 
mony with  the  greSn  and  rocky  steeps,  that  they  seem  to 
have  a  natural  fitness,  like  the  mountain-pine:  nay,  even 
in  the  day  when  they  were  built  they  must  have  had  this 
fitness,  as  if  they  had  been  raised  by  an  eaiih-born  race, 
who  had  inherited  from  their  mighty  parent  a  sublime 
instinct  of  form.  And  that  was  a  day  of  romance!  li 
those  robber-barons  were  somewhat  grim  and  drunken 
ogres,  they  had  a  certain  grandeur  of  the  wild  beast  in 
them — they  were  forest  boars  with  tusks,  tearing  and  rend- 
ing, not  the  ordinary  domestic  grunter;  they  represented 
the  demon  forces  forever  in  collision  with  beauty,  virtue, 
and  the  gentle  uses  of  life;  they  made  a  fine  contrast  in 
the  picture  with  the  wandering  minstrel,  the  soft-lipped 
princess,  the  pious  recluse,  and  the  timid  Israelite.  That 
was  a  time  of  color,  when  the  sunlight  fell  on  glancing 
steel  and  floating  banners;  a  time  of  adventure  and  fierce 
struggle — nay,  of  living,  religious  art  and  religious  enthu- 
siasm; for  were  not  cathedrals  built  in  those  days,  and  did 
not  great  emperors  leave  their  Western  palaces  to  die  before 
the  infidel  strong  holds  in  the  sacred  East?    Therefore  it 

258 


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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILLA.TION.  259 

is  that  these  Rhine  castles  thrill  me  with  a  sense  of 
poetry:  they  belong  to  the  grand  historic  life  of  humanity, 
and  raise  up  for  me  the  vision  of  an  epoch.  Bi\t  these 
dead-tinted,  hollow-eyed,  angular  skeletons  of  villages  on 
the  Rhone  oppress  me  with  the  feeling  that  human  life  — 
very  much  of  it — is  a  narrow,  ugly  groveling  existence, 
which^even  calamity  does  not  elevate,  but  rather  tends  to 
exhibit  in  all  its  bare  vulgarity  of  conception;  and  I  have 
a  cruel  conviction  that  the  lives  these  ruins  are  the  traces 
of,  were  part  of  a  gross  sum  of  obscure  vitality,  that  will 
be  swept  into  the  same  oblivion  with  the  generations  of 
ants  and  beavers. 

Perhaps  something  akin  to  this  oppressive  feeling  may 
have  weighed  upon  you  in  watching  this  old-fashioned 
family  life  on  the  banks  of  the  Floss,  which  even  sorrow 
hardly  suffices  to  lift  above  the  level  of  the  tragi-comic. 
It  is  a  sordid  life,  you  say,  this  of  the  Tullivers  and  Dod- 
sons  —  irradiated  by  no  sublime  principles,  no  romantic 
visions,  no  active,  self -renouncing  faith  —  moved  by  none 
of  those  wild,  uncontrollable  passions  which  create  the 
dark  shadows  of  misery  and  crime  —  without  that  primi- 
tive rough  simplicity  of  wants,  that  hard  submissive 
ill-paid  toil,  that  childlike  spelling-out  of  what  nature  has 
written,  which  gives  its  poetry  to  peasant  life.  Here, 
one  has  conventional  worldly  notions  and  habits  without 
instruction  and  without  polish  —  surely  the  most  prosaic 
form  of  human  life :  proud  respectability  in  a  gig  of 
unfashionable  build :  worldliness  without  side  -  dishes. 
Observing  these  people  narrowly,  even  when  the  iron 
licind  of  misfortune  has  shaken  tnem  from  their  unques- 
tioning hold  on  the  world,  one  sees  little  trace  of  religion, 
still  less  of  a  distinctively  Christian  creed.  Their  belief 
in  the  Unseen,  so  far  as  it  manifests  itself  at  all,  seems  to 
be  rather  of  a  pagan  kind;  their  moral  notions,  though 
held  with  strong  tenacity,  seem  to  have  no  standard  beyond 
hereditary  custom.  You  could  not  live  among  such  people; 
you  are  stifled  for  want  of  an  outlet  toward  something 
beautiful,  great,  or  noble;  you  are  irritated  with  these  dull 
nion  and  women,  as  a  kind  of  population  out  of  keeping 
with  the  earth  on  which  they  live  —  with  this  rich  plaiu 
wliere  the  great  river  flows  forever  onward,  and  links  the 
small  pulse  of  the  old  English  town  with  the  beatings  of 
the  world's  mighty  heart.  A  vigorous  superstition,  that 
lashes  its  gods  or  lashes  its  own  back,  seems  to  be  more 
congruous  with  the  mystery  of  the  human  lot,  than  the 

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260  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

mental  condition  of  these  emmet-like  Dodsons  and  Tol- 
livers. 

I  share  with  you  this  sense  of  oppressive  narrowness; 
but  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  feel  it,  if  we  care  to 
understand  how  it  acted  on  the  lives  of  Tom  and  Maggie — 
how  it  has  acted  on  young  natures  in  many  generations, 
that  in  the  onward  tendency  of  human  things  have  risen 
above  the  mental  level  of  the  generation  before  them,  to 
which  they  have  been  nevertheless  tied  by  the  strongest 
fibres  of  their  hearts.  The  suffering,  whether  of  martyr 
or  victim,  which  belongs  to  every  historical  advance  of 
mankind,  is  represented  in  this  way  in  every  town,  and 
by  hundreds  of  obscure  hearths;  and  we  need  not  shrink 
from  this  comparison  of  small  things  with  great;  for  does 
not  science  tell  us  that  its  highest  striving  is  after  the 
ascertainment  of  a  unity  which  shall  bind  the  smallest 
things  with  the  greatest?  In  natural  science,  I  have 
understood,  there  is  nothing  petty  to  the  mind  that  has  a 
large  vision  of  relations,  and  to  which  every  single  object 
suggests  a  vast  sum  of  conditions.  It  is  surely  the  same 
with  the  observation  of  human  life. 

Certainly  the  religious  and  moral  ideas  of  the  Dodsons 
and  Tullivers  were  of  too  specific  a  kind  to  be  arrived  at 
deductively,  from  the  statement  that  they  were  part  of  the 
Protestant  population  of  Great  Britain.  Their  theory  of 
life  had  its  core  of  soundness,  as  all  theories  must  have  on 
which  decent  and  prosperous  families  have  been  reared 
and  have  flourished;  but  it  had  the  very  slightest  tincture 
of  theology.  If,  in  the  maiden  days  of  the  Dodson  sisters, 
their  Bibles  opened  more  easily  at  some  parts  than  others, 
it  was  because  of  dried  tulip-petals,  which  had  been  dis- 
tributed quite  impartially,  without  reference  for  the  hisr 
torical,  devotional,  or  doctrinal.  Their  religion  was  of  a 
simple,  semi-pagan  kind,  but  there  was  no  heresy  in  it — 
if  heresy  properly  means  choice  —  for  they  didn^t  know 
there  was  any  other  religion,  except  that  of  chapel-goers, 
which  appeared  to  run  in  families,  like  asthma.  How 
should  they  know?  The  vicar  of  their  pleasant  rural  parish 
was  not  a  controversialist,  but  a  good  hand  at  whist,  and  one 
who  had  a  joke  always  ready  for  a  blooming  female  par- 
ishioner. The  religion  of  the  Dodsons  consisted  in  rever- 
ing whatever  was  customary  and  respectable:  it  was 
necessary  to  be  baptized,  else  one  could  not  be  buried  in 
the  churchyard,  and  to  take  the  sacrament  before  death  as 
a  security  against  more  dimly  understood  perils;  but  it  was 

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THE  VALLEY   OF  HUMILIATIOK.  261 

of  equal  necessity  to  have  the  proper  pall-bearers  and  well- 
cured  hams  at  one's  funeral,  and  to  leave  an  unimpeacha- 
ble will.  A  Dodson  would  not  be  taxed  with  the  omission 
of  anything  that  was  becoming,  or  that  belonged  to  that 
eternal  fitness  of  things  which  was  plainly  indicated  in  the 
practice  of  the  most  substantial  parishioners,  and  in  the 
family  traditions — such  as,  obedience  to  parents,  faithful- 
ness to  kindred,  industry,  rigid  honesty,  thrift,  the  thor- 
ough scouring  of  wooden  and  copper  utensils,  the  hoarding 
of  coins  likely  to  disappear  from  the  currency,  the  produc- 
tion of  first-rate  commodities  for  the  market,  and  the  gen- 
eral preference  for  whatever  was  home-made.  The  Dod- 
sons  were  a  very  proud  race,  and  their  pride  lay  in  the 
utter  frustration  of  all  desire  to  tax  them  with  a  breach  of 
traditional  dutjr  or  propriety.  A  wholesome  pride  in  many 
respects,  since  it  identified  honor  with  perfect  integrity, 
thoroughness  of  work,  and  faithfulness  to  admitted  rules: 
and  society  owes  some  worthy  qualities  in  many  of  her 
members  to  mothers  of  the  Dodson  class,  who  made  their 
butter  and  their  fromenty  well,  and  would  have  felt  dis- 
graced to  make  it  otherwise.  To  be  honest  and  poor  was 
never  a  Dodson  motto,  still  less  to  seem  rich  though  being 
poor;  rather,  tlie  family  badge  was  to  be  honest  and  rich; 
and  not  only  rich,  but  richer  than  was  supposed.  To  live 
respected,  and  have  the  proper  bearers  at  your  funeral, 
was  an  achievement  of  the  ends  of  existence  that  would  be 
entirely  nullified  if,  on  the  reading  of  your  will,  you  sank 
in  the  opinion  of  your  fellow-men,  either  by  turning  out 
to  be  poorer  than  they  expected,  or  by  leaving  your  money 
in  a  capricious  manner,  without  strict  regard  to  degrees  of 
kin.  The  right  thing  must  always  be  done  toward  kin- 
dred. The  right  thing  was  to  correct  them  severely,  if  they 
were  other  than  a  credit  to  the  family,  but  still  not  to 
alienate  from  them  the  smallest  rightful  share  in  the 
family  shoe-buckles  and  other  property.  A  conspicuous 
quality  in  the  Dodson  character  was  its  genuineness:  its 
vices  and  virtues  alike  were  phases  of  a  proud,  honest 
egoism,  which  had  a  hearty  dislike  to  whatever  made 
against  its  own  credit  and  interest,  and  would  be  frankly 
hard  of  speech  to  inconvenient  "  kin,''  but  would  never 
forsake  or  ignore  them — would  not  let  them  want  bread, 
but  only  require  them  to  eat  it  with  bitter  herbs. 

The  same  sort  of  traditional  belief  ran  in  the  Tulliver 
veins,  but  it  was  carried  in  richer  blood,  having  elements 
of  generous  imprudence,  warm  affection,  and  hot-tempered 

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203  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

rashness.  Mr.  Tulliver's  grandfather  had  been  heard  to 
say  that  he  was  descended  from  one  Ralph  TuUiver,  a 
wonderfully  clever  fellow,  who  had  ruined  himself.  It  is 
likely  enough  that  the  clever  Ralph  was  a  high  liver,  rode 
spirited  horses,  and  was  very  decidedly  of  his  own  opinioi 
On  the  other  hand,  nobody  had  evfer  heard  of  a  Dodso 
who  had  ruined  himself :  it  was  not  the  way  of  that  family. 
If  such  were  the  views  of  life  on  which  the  Dodsons  aiul 
Tullivers  had  been  reared  in  the  praiseworthv  past  of  Pitt 
and  high  prices,  you  will  infer  from  what  vou  already  know 
concerning  the  state  of  society  in  St.  Ogg^^  that  there  had 
been  no  highly  modifying  influence  to  act  on  them  in  their 
maturer  life.  It  was  still  possible,  even  in  that  later  time 
of  anti-Catholic  preaching,  for  people  to  hold  many  pagan 
ideas,  and  believe  themselves  good  church-people  notwitli- 
standing;  so  we  need  hardly  feel  Any  surprise  at  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Tulliver,  though  a  regular  church-goer,  recorded 
his  vindictiveness  on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  Bible.  It  was  not 
that  any  harm  could  be  said  concerning  the  vicar  of  that 
charming  rural  parish  to  which  Dorlcote  Mill  belonged:  he 
was  a  man  of  excellent  family,  an  irreproacha])le  bachelor, 
of  elegant  pursuits, — had  taken  honors,  and  held  a  fellow- 
ship. Mr.  Tulliver  regarded  him  with  dutiful  respect, 
as  he  did  everything  else  belonging  to  the  church-service; 
but  he  considered  tnat  church  was  one  thing  and  common- 
sense  another,  and  wanted  nobody  to  tell  him  what  com- 
mon-sense was.  Certain  seeds  which  are  required  to  find  a 
nidus  for  themselves  under  unfavorable  circumstances,  have 
been  supplied  by  nature  with  an  apparatus  of  hooks,  so 
that  they  will  get  a  hold  on  very  unreoeptive  surfaces.  The 
spiritual  seed  which  had  been  scattered  over  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  apparently  been  destitute  of  any  corresponding  pro- 
vision, and  had  slipped  off  to  the  winds  again,  from  a  total 
absence  of  hooks. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  TORN  NEST  IS   PIERCED   BY  THE  THORNS. 

There  is  something  sustaining  in  the  very  agitation  that 
accompanies  the  first  shocks  of  trouble,  just  as  an  acute 
pain  is  often  a  stimulus,  and  produces  an  excitement  which 
IS  transient  strength.     It  is  in  the  slow,  changed  life  that 


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THE  VALLEY   OF  HUMILIATION.  261 

follows — in  the  time  when  sorrow  has  become  stale,  and 
has  no  longer  an  emotive  intensity  that  counteracts  its 
pain  —  in  the  time  when  day  folloVs  day  in  dull  unex- 
pectiint  sameness,  and  trial  is  a  dreary  routine; — ^it  is  then 
that  despair  threatens;  it  i^  then  that  the  peremptory 
hunger  of  the  soul  is  felt,  and  eye  and  ear  are  strained 
after  some  unlearned  secret  of  our  existence,  which  shall 
give  to  endurance  the  nature  of  satisfaction. 

This  time  of  utmost  need  was  come  to  Maggie,  with  her 
.short  span  of  thirteen  years.  To  the  usual  precocity  of 
the  girl,  she  added  that  early  experience  of  struggle,  of 
conflict  between  the  inward  impulse  and  outward  fact, 
•  which  is  the  lot  of  every  imaginative  and  passionate  nature; 
and  the  years  since  she  hammered  the  nails  into  her 
wooden  Fetish  among  the  worm-eaten  shelves  of  the  attic, 
had  been  filled  with  so  eager  a  life  in  the  triple  world  of 
Reality,  Books,  and  Waking  Dreams,  that  Maggie  was 
strangely  old  for  her  years  in  everything  except  in  her 
entire  want  of  that  prudence  and  self-command  which 
were  the  qualities  that  made  Tom  manly  in  the  midst  of 
his  intellectual  boyishness.  And  now  her  lot  was  begin- 
ning to  have  a  stiU,  sad  monotony,  which  threw  her  more 
than  ever  on  her  inward  self.  Her  father  was  able  to 
attend  to  business  again,  his  -affairs  were  settled,  and  he 
was  acting  as  Wakem's  manager  on  the  old  spot.  Tom 
went  to  and  fro  every  morning  and  evening,  and  became 
more  and  more  silent  in  the  short  intervals  at  home:  what 
\^s  there  to  say?  One  day  was  like  another,  and  Tom's 
interest  in  life,  driven  back  and  crushed  on  every  otlier 
side,  was  concentrating  itself  into  the  one  channel  of 
ambitious  resistance  to  misfortune.  The  peculiarities  of 
his  fatlier  and  mother  were  very  irksome  to  him,  now  they 
were  laid  bare  of  all  the  softening  accompaniments  of  an 
easy,  prosperous  home;  for  Tom  had  very  clear,  prosaic 
eyes,  not  apt  to  be  dimmed  by  mists  of  feeling  or  imagina- 
tion. Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  it  seemed,  would  never  recover 
her  old  self — her  placid  household  activity;  how  could 
she?  The  objects  among  which  her  mind  had  moved 
complacently  were  all  gone  —  all  the  little  hopes,  and 
schemes,  and  speculations,  all  the  pleasant  little  cares  about 
her  treasures  which  had  made  the  world  quite  comprehen- 
aible  to  her  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  since  she  had  made 
her  first  purchase  of  the  sugar-tongs,  had  been  suddenly 
snatched  away  from  her,  and  she  remained  bewildered  in 
Ibis  empty  life.     Why  that  should  have  happened  to  her 

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264  THB  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

which  had  not  happened  to  other  women,  remaiTied  an 
insoluble  question  by  which  she  expressed  her  perpetual 
ruminating  comparison  of  the  past  with  the  present.  It 
was  piteous  to  see  the  comely  woman  getting  thinner  and 
more  worn  under  a  bodily  as  well  as  mental  restlessness, 
which  made  her  often  wander  about  the  empty  house  after 
her  work  was  done,  until  Maggie,  becoming  alarmed  about 
her,  would  seek  her,  and  brmg  her  down  by  telling  h^^ 
how  it  vexed  Tom  that  she  was  injuring  her  hea.lth  by 
never  sitting  down  and  resting  herself.  Yet  amidst  this 
helpless  imbecility  there  was  a  toucliing  trait  of  liumble 
self-devoting  maternity,  which  made  Maggie  feel  tenderly 
toward  her  poor  mother  amidst  all  the  little  wearing  griefs. 
caused  by  her  mental  feebleness.  She  would  let  Maggie 
do  none  of  the  work  that  was  heaviest  and  most  soiling  to 
the  hands,  and  was  quite  peevish  when  Maggie  attempted 
to  relieve  her  from  her  grate-brushing  and  scouring*:  "I^^J 
it  alone,  my  dear;  your  hands  'ull  get  as  hard  as  hard, 
she  would  say:  "it's  your  mother's  place  to  do  tlat.  I 
can't  do  the  sewing — my  eyes  fail  me."  And  she  would 
still  brush  and  carefully  tend  Maggie's  hair,  which  she  had 
become  reconciled  to,  m  spite  of  its  refusal  to  curl,  now  it 
was  so  long  and  massy.  Maggie  was  not  her  pet  child, 
and,  in  general,  would  have  been  much  better  if  sle  had 
been  quite  different;  yet  the  womanly  heart,  so  braised  m 
its  small  personal  desires,  found  a  future  to  rest  on  in  the 
life  of  this  young  thing,  and  the  mother  pleased  herself 
with  wearing  out  her  own  hands  to  save  tne  hands  that 
had  so  much  more  life  in  them. 

But  the  constant  presence  of  her  mother's  regretful 
bewilderment  was  less  painful  to  Maggie  than  that  of  her 
father's  sullen  incommunicative  depression.  As  long  as 
the  paralysis  was  upon  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  might 
always  be  in  a  childlike  condition  of  dependence — ^as  long 
as  he  was  still  only  half  awakened  to  his  trouble,  Maggie 
had  felt  the  strong  tide  of  pitying  love  almost  as  an  inspi- 
ration, a  new  power,  that  would  make  the  most  difficult 
life  easy  for  his  sake;  but  now,  instead  of  childlike  depend- 
ence there  had  come  a  taciturn  hard  concentration  of 
purpose,  in  strange  contrast  with  his  old  communicative- 
ness and  high  spirit;  and  this  lasted  from  day  to  day,  and 
from  week  to  week,  the  dull  eye  never  brightening  with 
any  eagerness  or  any  joy.  It  is  something  cruelly  incom- 
prehensible to  youthful  natures,  this  sombre  sameness  in 
middle-aged  and  elderly  people,  whose  life  has  resulted  iB 

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THE  VALLEY  OF   HUMILIATION.  265 

disappointment  and  discontent,  to  whose  faces  a  smile 
becomes  so  strange  that  the  sad  lines  all  about  the  lips  and 
brow  seem  to  take  no  notice  of  it,  and  it  hurries  away  again 
for  want  of  a  welcome.  *'Wliy  will  they  not  kindle  up 
and  be  glad  sometimes?"  thinks  young  elasticity.  **It 
would  be  so  easy  if  they  only  liked  to  do  it."  And  these 
leaden  clouds  that  never  part  are  apt  to  create  impatience 
even  in  the  filial  affection  that  streams  forth  in  nothing 
but  tenderness  and  pity  in  the  time  of  more  obvious 
affliction. 

Mr.  Tulliver  lingered  nowhere  away  from  home:  he 
hurried  away  from  market,  he  refused  all  invitations  to 
stay  and  chat,  as  in  old  times,  in  the  houses  where  he 
called  on  business.  He  could  not  be  reconciled  with  his 
lot:  there  was  no  attitude  in  which  his  pride  did  not  feel 
its  bruises;  and  in  all  behavior  toward  him,  whether 
kind  or  cold,  he  detected  an  allusion  to  the  change 
in  his  circumstances.  Even  the  days  on  which  Wakem 
came  to*  ride  round  the  land  and  inquire  into  the  busi- 
ness, were  not  so  black  to  him  as  those  market-days 
on  which  he  had  met  several  creditors  who  had  accepted 
a  composition  from  him.  To  save  something  toward 
the  repayment  of  those  creditors,  was  the  object  toward 
which  he  was  now  bending  all  his  thoughts  and  efforts; 
and  under  the  influence  of  this  all-compelling  demand  of 
his  nature,  the  somewhat  profuse  man,  who  hated  to  be 
stinted  or  to  stint  any  one  else  in  his  own  house,  was  grad- 
ually metamorj)hosed  into  the  keen-eyed  grudger  of  mor- 
sels. Mrs.  Tulliver  could  not  economize  enough  to  satisfy 
him,  in  their  food  and  firing;  and  he  would  eat  nothing 
himself  but  what  was  of  the  coarsest  quality.  Tom,  though 
depressed  and  strongly  repelled  by  his  father's  sullenness, 
and  the  dreariness  of  home,  entered  thoroughly  into  his 
father's  feelings  about  paying  the  creditors;  and  the  poor 
lad  brought  his  first  quarter's  money,  with  a  delicious 
sense  of  achievement,  and  gave  it  to  his  father  to  put  into 
the  tin  box  which  held  the  savings.  The  little  store  of 
sovereigns  in  the  tin  box  seemed  to  be  the  only  sight  that 
brought  a  faint  beam  of  pleasure  into  the  miller's  eyes — 
faint  and  transient^  for  it  was  soon  dispelled  by  the 
thought  that  the  time  would  be  long — perhaps  longer  than 
his  life — before  the  narrow  savings  could  remove  the  hate- 
ful incubus  of  debt.  A  deficit  of  more  than  five  hundred 
pounds,  with  the  accumulating  interest,  seemed  a  deep  pit 
to  fill  with  the  savings  from  thirty  shillings  a  week,  even 


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266  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FL06&. 

when  Tom's  probable  savings  were  to  be  added.  On  this 
one  point  there  was  entire  community  of  feeling  in  the 
four  widely  differing  beings  who  sat  round  the  dying  fire 
of  sticks,  wliioh  made  a  cheap  warmth  for  the.n  on  the 
verge  of  bed-time.  Mrs.  Tulliver  carried  the  proud  integ- 
rity of  the  Dodsons  in  her  blood,  and  had  been  brought  up 
to  think  that  to  wrong  people  of  their  money,  which  was 
another  phrase  for  debt,  was  a  sort  of  moral  pillory:  it 
would  have  been  wickedness,  to  her  mind,  to  have  run 
counter  to  her  husband's  desire  to  "do  the  right  thing,'' 
and  retrieve  his  name.  She  had  a  confused,  dreamy 
notion  that,  if  the  creditors  were  all  paid,  her  plate  and 
linen  ought  to  come  back  to  her;  but  she  had  an  inbred 
perception  that  while  people  owed  money  they  were  unable 
to  pay,  they  couldn't  rightly  call  anything  their  own.  She 
murmured  a  little  that  Mr.  Tulliver  so  peremptorily 
refused  to  receive  anything  in  repayment  from  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moss;  but  to  all  his  requirements  of  household  econ- 
omy she  was  submissive  to  the  point  of  denying  herself  the 
cheapest  indulgences  of  mere  flavor:  her  only  rebellion  was 
to  smuggle  into  the  kitchen  something  that  would  make 
rather  a  better  supper  than  usual  for  Tom. 

These  narrow  notions  about  debt,  held  by  the  old- 
fashioned  Tullivers,  may  perhaps  excite  a  smile  on  the 
fa^es  of  many  readers  in  these  days  of  wide  commercial 
views  and  wide  philosophy,  accordmg  to  which  everything 
rights  itself  without  any  trouble  of  ours:  the  fact  that  mv 
tradesman  is  out  of  pocket  by  me  is  to  be  looked  at  through 
the  serene  certainty  that  somebody  else's  tradesman  is  in 
pocket  by  somebody  else;  and  since  there  must  be  bad 
debts  in  the  world,  why,  it  is  mere  egoism  not  to  like  that 
we  in  particular  should  make  them  instead  of  our  fellow- 
citizens.  I  am  telling  the  history  of  very  simple  people, 
who  had  never  had  any  illuminating  doubts  as  to  personal 
integrity  and  honor. 

Under  all  this  ffrim  melancholy  and  narrowing  concen- 
tration of  desire,  Mr.  Tulliver  retained  the  feeling  toward 
his  "  little  wench  "  which  made  her  presence  a  need  to  him, 
though  it  would  not  suflSce  to  cheer  him.  She  was  still 
the  desire  of  his  eyes;  but  the  sweet  spring  of  fatherly 
"iove  was  now  mingled  with  bitterness,  like  everything  else. 
When  Maggie  laid  down  her  work  at  night,  it  was  her 
habit  to  get  a  low  stool  and  sit  by  her  father's  knee,  lean- 
ing her  cheek  against  it.  How  she  wished  he  would  stroke 
her  head,  or  give  some  sign  that  he  was  soothed  by  the 


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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATIOK.  267 

sense  that  he  had  a  daughter  who  loved  him!  But  now 
she  got  no  answer  to  her  little  caresses,  either  from  her 
father  or  from  Tom — the  two  idols  of  her  life.  Tom  was 
weary  and  abstracted  in  the  short  intervals  when  he 
was  at  home,  and  her  father  was  bitjcvly  preoccupied 
with  the  thought  that  the  girl  was  grov/ing  up — was 
shooting  up  into  a  woman;  and  how  was  she  to  do  well  in 
life?  She  had  a  poor  chance  for  marrying,  down  in  the 
world  asihey  were.  And  he  hated  the  thought  of  her 
marrying  poorly,  as  her  Aunt  Gritty  had  done:  that  would 
be  a  thmg  to  make  him  turn  in  his  grave — the  little 
wench  so  pulled  down  by  children  and  toil,  as  her  Aunt 
Moss  was.  When  uncultured  minds,  confined  to  a  narrow 
range  of  personal  experience,  are  under  the  pressure  of 
continued  misfortune,  their  inward  life  is  apt  to  become  a 
perpetually  repeated  round  of  sad  and  bitter  thoughts: 
the  same  words,  the  same  scenes  are  revolved  over  and 
over  again,  the  same  mood  accompanies  them — the  end 
of  the  year  finds  them  as  much  what  they  were  at  the 
beginning  as  if  they  were  machines  set  to  a  recurrent 
series  of  movements. 

The  sameness  of  the  days  was  broken  by  few  visitors. 
Uncles  and  aunts  paid  only  short  visits  now:  of  course, 
they  could  not  stay  to  meals,  and  tlie  constraint  caused  by 
Mr.  Tulliver^s  savage  silence,  which  seemed  to  add  to  the 
hollow  resonance  of  the  bare  uncarpeted  room  when  the 
aunts  were  talking,  heightened  the  unpleasantness  of  these 
family  visits  on  all  sides,  and  tended  to  make  them  rare. 
As  for  other  acquaintances — there  is  a  chill  air  surround- 
ing those  who  are  down  in  the  world,  and  peo^ile  are  glad 
to  get  away  from  them,  as  from  a  cold  room:  human 
beinffs,  mere  men  and  women,  without  furniture,  without 
anything  to  offer  you,  who  have  ceased  to  count  as  anybody, 
present  an  embarrassing  negation  of  reasons  for  wishing  to 
see  them,  or  of  subjects  on  which  to  converse  with  them. 
At  that  distant  day,  there  was  a  dreary  isolation  in  the 
civilized  Christian  society  of  these  realms  for  families  tliat 
had  dropped  below  their  original  level,  unless  they  belonged 
to  a  sectarian  church,  which  gets  some  warmth  of  brother- 
hood by  walling  in  the  sacred  fire. 


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268  THE  HILL  ON  THB  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  m. 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  chestnuts  were  coming  into 
flower,  Maggie  had  brought  her  chair  outside  the  front 
door,  and  was  seated  there  with  a  book  on  her  knees. 
Her  dark  eyes  had  wandered  from  the  book,  but  they  did 
not  seem  to  be  enjoying  the  sunshine  which  pierced  the 
screen  of  jasmine  on  the  projecting  porch  at  her  right, 
and  threw  leafy  shadows  on  her  pale  round  cheek;  they 
seemed  rather  to  be  searching  for  something  that  was 
not  disclosed  by  the  sunshine.  It  had  been  a  more 
miserable  day  than  usual:  her  father,  after  a  visit  of 
Wakem's,  had  had  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  in  which  for 
some  trifling  fault  he  had  beaten  the  boy  who  served 
in  the  mill.  Once  before,  since  his  illness,,  he  had  had 
a  similar  paroxysm,  in  which  he  had  beaten  his  horse, 
and  the  scene  had  left  a  lasting  terror  in  Maggie's  mind. 
The  thought  had  risen,  that  some  time  or  other  he  might 
beat  her  mother  if  she  happened  to  speak  in  her  feeble  way 
at  the  wrong  moment.  The  keenest  of  all  dread  with  her 
was,  lest  her  father  should  add  to  his  present  misfortune 
the  wretchedness  of  doing  something  irretrievably  disgrace- 
ful. The  battered  school-book  of  Tom's  which  she  h^ld 
on  her  knees  could  give  her  no  fortitude  under  the  pres- 
sure of  that  dread,  and  again  and  again  her  eyes  had  filled 
with  tears,  as  they  wandered  vaguely,  seeing  neither  the 
chestnut  trees,  nor  the  distant  horizon,  but  only  future 
scenes  of  home-sorrow. 

Suddenly  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  opening 
gate  and  ot  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  It  was  not  Tom  who 
was  entering,  but  a  man  in  a  seal-skin  cap  and  a  blue  plush 
waistcoat,  carrying  a  pack  on  his  back,  and  followed  closely 
by  a  bull-terrier  oi  brindled  coat  and  defiant  aspect. 

"Oh,  Bob,  it's  you!"  said  Maggie,  starting  up  with  a 
smile  of  pleased  recognition,  for  there  had  been  no  abun- 
dance of  kind  acts  to  efface  the  recollection  of  Bob's  gener- 
osity; ''I'm  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  lifting  his  cap  and  show- 
ing a  delighted  face,  but  immediately  relieving  himself  of 
some  accompanying  embarrassment  by  looking  down  at  his 
dog,  and  saying  in  a  tone  of  disgust,  "  Get  out  wi'  you, 
you  thunderin'  sawney!" 

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THB  VALLFY  OF  HUMILIATION.  269 

^'My  brother  is  not  at  home  yet,  Bob/'  said  Maggie; 
^^  he  is  always  at  St.  Ogg^s  in, the  daytime/* 

'^  Well,  Miss, *\ said  Bob,  "I  should  be  glad  to  see  Mr. 
Tom — but  that  isn't  just  what  I'm  come  for — look  here!" 

Bob  was  in  the  act  of  depositing  his  pack  on  the  door- 
step, and  with  it  a  row  of  small  books  fastened  together 
with  strinff.  Apparently,  however,  they  were  not  the 
object  to  wnich  he  wished  to  call  Maggie's  attention,  but 
rather  something  which  he  had  carried  under  his  arm, 
wrapped  in  a  red  handkerchief. 

'*  See  here!'*  he  said  again,  laying  the  red  parcel  on  the 
others  and  unfolding  it;  "you  won't  think  I'm  a-makin' 
too  free.  Miss,  I  hope,  but  flighted  on  these  books,  and  I 
thought  they  might  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as 
you've  lost;  for  I  beared  you  speak  o'  picturs — and  as  for 
picturs,  look  here!" 

The  opening  of  the  red  handkerchief  had  disclosed  a 
superannuated  "  Keepsake  "  and  six  or  seven  numbers  of  a 
*' Portrait  Gallery,"  in  royal  octavo;  and  the  emphatic 
request  to  look  referred  to  a  portrait  of  George  the  i  ourth 
in  all  the  majesty  of  his  depressed  cranium  and  voluminous 
neckcloth. 

*^  There's  all  sorts  o'  gentlemen  here,"  Bob  went  on, 
turning  over  the  leaves  with  some  excitement,  "wi'  all 
sorts  o'  noses — an'  some  bald  an'  some  wi'  wigs — Parlament 
gentlemen,  I  reckon.  An'  here,"  he  added,  opening  the 
•"Keepsake,"  ^^ Kerens  ladies  for  you,  som^wi' curly  hair 
and  some  wi'  smooth,  and  some  a-smiling  wi'  their  heads 
o'  one  gide,  an'  some  as  if  they  was  goin'  to  cry — look 
here — a-sittin'  on  the  ground  out  o'  door,  dressed  like  the 
ladies  I'nf'seen  get  out  o'  the  carriages  at  the  balls  in  th' 
Old  Hall  there.  My  eyes,  I  wonder  what  the  chaps  wear 
as  go  a'courtin'  'em.  I  sot  up  till  the  clock  was  gone  twelve 
last  night  a-lookin'  at  'em — I  did — till  they  stared  at  me 
out  o'  the  picturs  as  if  they'd  know  when  I  spoke  to  'em. 
But,  lors!  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  say  to  'em.  They'll 
be  more  fit  tin'  company  for  you.  Miss;  and  the  man  at  the 
bookstall,  he  said  they  banged  iverything  for  picturs — he 
said  they  was  a  fust-rate  article.'' 

"And  you've  bought  them  for  me.  Bob?"  said  Maggie, 
deeply  touched  by  this  simple  kindness.  "  How  very,  very 
good  of  you!  But  I'm  afraid  you  gave  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  them." 

"Not  me!"  said  Bob.  "I'd  ha'  gev  three  times  the 
money  if  they'll  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as  was  sold 

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270  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

away  from  you,  Miss.  For  I'n  niver  for^t  how  you 
looked  when  you  fretted  about  the  books  bein'  gone — it's 
stuck  by  me  as  if  it  was  a  pictur  hingin'  before  me.  An' 
when  I  see'd  the  book  open  upo'  the  stall,  wi'  the  lady 
lookin'  out  of  it  wi'  eyes  a  bit  like  your'n  when  you  was 
frettin'  —  you'll  excuse  my  takin'  the  liberty.  Miss — I 
thought  Fd  make  free  to  buy  it  for  you,  an'  then  I  bought 
the  books  full  o'  genelmen  to  match — an'  then" — ^here 
Bob  took  up  the  small  stringed  packet  of  books — **I 
thought  you  might  like  a  bit  more  print  as  well  as  the  pic- 
turs,  an  I  got  these  for  a  say-so  —  they're  cram-full  o' 
print,  an'  I  tliought  they'd  do  no  harm  comin'  along  wi' 
these  bettermost  books.  An'  I  hope  vou  won't  say  me  nay, 
an'  tell  me  as  you  won't  have  'em,  like  Mr.  Tom  did  wi' 
the  suvreigns." 

''No,  indeed,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  ''I'm  very  thankful 
to  you  for  thinking  of  me,  and  being  so  good  to  me  and 
Tom.  I  don't  think  any  one  ever  did  such  a  kind  thing 
for  me  before.     I  haven't  many  friends  who  care  for  me." 

*'Hev  a  dog,  Miss! — they're  better  friends  nor  any 
Christian,"  said  Bob,  laying  down  his  pack  again,  which 
he  hud  taken  up  with  the  intention  of  hurrying  away;  for 
he  felt  considerable  shyness  in  talking  to  a  young  lass  like 
Maggie,  though,  as  he  usually  said  of  himself,  ''his  tongue 
overrun  him"  when  he  began  to  speak.  **I  can^t  give 
you  Mumps,  'cause  he'd  break  his  heart  to  go  away  from 
me  —  eh,  MuBftps,  what  do  you  say,  you  riff-raff?"  — 
(Mumps  declined  to  express  himself  more  diffusely  than 
by  a  single  affirmative  movement  of  his  tail.)  "  But  I'd 
get  you  a  pup,  Miss,  an'  welcome." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Bob.  We  have  a  yard  dog,  and  I 
mayn't  keep  a  dog  of  my  own." 

'*Eh,  that's  a  pity:  else  there's  a  pup— if  you  didn't 
mind  about  it's  not  being  thorough-bred:  its  mother  acts 
in  the  Punch  show — an  uncommon  sensible  bitch — she 
means  more  sense  wi'  her  bark  nor  half  the  chaps  can  put 
into  their  talk  from  breakfast  to  sundown.  There's  one 
nhap  carries  pots, — a  poor  low  trade  as  any  on  the  road, — 
he  says,  'Why,  Toby's  nought  but  a  mougrel — there's 
nought  to  look  at  in  her.'  But  I  says  to  him,  *  Why,  what 
are  you  yoursen  but  a  mongrel?  There  wasn't  much 
pickin'  o'  your  feyther  an'  mother,  to  look  at  you.'  Not 
but  what  I  lik^  a  bit  o'  breed  myself,  but  I  can't  abide  to 
see  one  cur  grinnin'  at  another.  I  wisb  you  good-evenin', 
Miss,"  added  Bob,  abruptly  taking  up  his  pack  again. 

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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATIOK.  271 

under  the  consciousness  that  his  tongue  was  acting  in  an 
undisciplined  manner. 

"  Won^t  you  come  in  the  evening  sometime,  and  see  my 
brother,  Bbb?*^  said  Maggie. 

'*  Yes,  Miss,  thank  you — another  time.  You'll  give  my 
duty  to  him,  if  you  please.  Eh,  he^s  a  fine,  grand  chap 
Mr.  Tom  is;  he  took  to  growin^  i^  the  legs,  an  I  didn't. ' 

The  pack  was  down  again,  now  —  the  hook  of  the  stick 
having  somehow  gone  wrong. 

*^  You  don't  call  Mumps  a  cur,  I  suppose?''  said  Maggie, 
divining  that  any  interest  she  showed  in  Mumps  woula  be 
gratifying  to  his  master. 

"  No,  Miss,  a  fine  way  off  that,"  said  Bob,  with  a  pity- 
ing smile;  **  Mumps  is  as  fine  a  cross  as  you'll  see  any- 
where along  the  Floss,  an'  Fn  been  up  it  wi'  the  barge 
times  enow.  Why,  the  gentry  stops  to  look  at  him;  but 
you  won't  catch  Mumps  a-looking  at  the  gentry  much  — 
he  minds  his  own  business,  he  does." 

The  expression  of  Mumps's  face,  which  seemed  to  be 
tolerating  the  superfluous  existence  of  objects  in  general, 
was  strongly  confirmatory  of  this  high  praise. 

*'He  looks  dreadfully  surly,"  said  Maggie.  "Would 
he  let  me  pat  him?" 

"Ay,  that  would  he,  and  thank  you.  He  knows  his 
company.  Mumps  does.  He  isn't  a  dog  as  'uU  be  caught 
wi'  gingerbread:  he'd  smell  a  thief  a  good  deal  stronger 
,nor  the  gingerbread  —  he  would.  Lors,  I  talk  to  him  by 
th'  hour  together,  when  I'm  walking  i'  lone  places,  and  if 
I'n  done  a  bit  o'  mischief,  I  allays  tell  him.  I'n  got  no 
secrets  but  what  Mumps  knows  'em.  He  knows  about  my 
big  thumb,  he  does." 

"Your  big  thumb  —  what's  that.  Bob?"  said  Maggie. 

"  Tliat's  what  it  is,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  quickly,  exhibiting 
a  singularly  broad  specimen  of  that  difference  between  the 
man  the  monkey.  "  It  tells  i'  measuring  out  the  flannel, 
you  see.  I  carry  flannel,  'cause  it's  light  for  my  pack,  an' 
it's  dear  stuff,  you  see,  so  a  big  thumb  tells.  I  clap  my 
thumb  at  the  end  o'  the  yard  and  cut  o'  the  hither  side 
of  it,  and  the  old  women  aren't  up  to't." 

"But,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  looking  serious,  "that's 
cheating-   I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Don't  you.  Miss?"  said  Bob,  regretfully.  "Then 
I'm  sorry  I  said  it.  But  I'm  so  used  to  talking  to  Mumps, 
an'  he  doesn't  mind  a  bit  o'  cheating,  when  it's  them  skin- 
flint women,  as  haggle  an'  haggle,  an'  'ud  like  to  get  their 

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272  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

flannel  fur  nothing,  an'  'ud  niver  ask  theirselves  how  I  got 
uiy  dinner  out  on't.  I  niver  cheat  anybody  as  doesn't 
want  to  cheat  me.  Miss  —  lors,  I'm  a  honest  chap,  I  am; 
only  I  must  hev  a  bit  o'  sport,  an'  now -I  don't  *go  wi'  th' 
ferrets,  I'u  got  no  varmint  to  come  over  but  them  haggling 
women.     I  wish  vou  good-evening.  Miss." 

"  Good-bye,  Bob.  Thank  you  very  much  for  bringing 
me  the  books.     And  come  again  to  see  Tom." 

**  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  moving  on  a  few  steps;  then 
turning  half  round  he  said,  **I'll  leave  off  that  trick  wi' 
my  big  thumb,  if  you  don't  think  well  on  me  for  it,  Miss — 
but  it  'ud  be  a  pity,  it  would.  I  couldn't  find  another 
trick  so  good  —  an'  what  'ud  be  the  use  o'  havin'  a  big 
thumb?  It  might  as  well  ha'  been  narrow." 

Maggie,  thus  exalted  into  Bob's  directing  Madonna, 
laughed  in  spite  of  herself;  at  which  her  worshiper's 
blue  eyes  twinkled  too,  and  under  these  favoring  auspices 
he  touched  his  cap  and  walked  away. 

The  days  of  chivalry  are  not  gone,  notwithstanding 
Burke's  grand  dirge  over  them:  they  live  still  in  that  far- 
off  worship  paid  by  many  a  youth  and  man  to  the  woman 
of  whom  he  never  dreams  that  he  shall  touch  so  much  as 
her  little  finger  or  the  hem  of  her  robe.  Bob,  with  tlie 
pack  on  his  back,  had  as  respectful  an  adoration  for  tljis 
dark-eyed  maiden  as  if  he  had  been  a  knight  in  armor  call- 
ing aloud  on  her  name  as  he  pricked  on  to  the  fight. 

That  gleam  of  merriment  soon  died  away  from  Maggie's 
face,  and  perhaps  only  made  the  returning  gloom  deeper 
by  contrast.  She  was  too  dispirited  even  to  like  answering 
questions  about  Bob's  present  of  books,  and  she  carried 
them  away  to  her  bed -room,  laying  them  down  there  and 
seating  herself  on  her  one  stool,  without  caring  to  look  at 
them  just  yet.  She  leaned  her  cheek  against  tne  window- 
frame,  and  thought  that  the  light-hearted  Bob  had  a  lot 
much  happier  than  hers. 

Maggie's  sense  of  loneliness,  and  utter  privation  of  joy, 
had  deepened  with  the  brightness  of  advancing  spring.  All 
the  favorite  outdoor  nooks  about  home,  which  seemed  to 
have  done  their  part  with  her  parents  in  nurturing  and 
cherishing  her,  were  now  mixed  up  with  the  home-sadness, 
and  gathered  no  smile  from  the  sunshine.  Every  affection, 
every  delight  the  poor  child  had  had,  was  like  an  aching 
nerve  to  her.  There  was  no  music  for  her  any  more — no 
piano,  no  harmonised  voices,  no  delicious  stringed  instru- 
ments, with  their  passionate  cries  of  imprisoned  spirit* 


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THE  VALLEY   OF   HUMILIATION.  273 

sending  a  strange  vibration  through  her  frame.  And  of  all 
her  school-life  there  was  nothing  left  her  now  but  her  little 
collection  of  school-books,  which  she  turned  over  with  a 
sickening  sense  that  she  knew  them  all,  and  they  were  all 
barren  of  comfort.  Even  at  school  she  had  often  wished 
for  books  wjth  more  in  them:  everything  she  learned  there 
seemed  like  the  ends  of  long  threads  that  snapped  immedi- 
ately. And  now — without  the  indirect  charm  of  school- 
emulation — Telemaque  was  mere  bran;  so  were  the  hard 
dry  questions  on  Christian  Doctrine:  there  was  no  flavor  in 
them — no  strength.  Sometimes  Maggie  thought  she  could 
have  been  contented  with  absorbing  fancies;  if  she  could 
have  had  all  Scott^s  "novels  and  all  Byron^s  poems! — then, 
perhaps,  she  might  have  found  happiness  enough  to  dull 

ner  sensibility  to  her  actual  daily  life.     And  yet they 

were  hardly  what  she  wanted.  She  could  make  dream- 
worlds of  her  own — but  no  dream-world  would  satisfy  her 
now.  She  wanted  some  explanation  of  this  hard,  real  life: 
the  unhappy-looking  father,  seated  at  the  dull  breakfast- 
table;  the  childish,  bewildered  mother;  the  little  sordid 
tasks  that  filled  the  hours,  or  the  more  oppressive  empti- 
ness of  weary,  joyless  leisure;'  the  need  oi  some  tender, 
demonstrative  love;  the  cruel  sense  that  Tom  didn't  mind 
what  she  thought  or  felt,  and  that  they  were  no  longer 
playfellows  together;  the  privation  of  all  pleasant  things 
that  had  come  to  her  more  than  to  others:  she  wanted  some 
key  that  would  enable  her  to  understand,  and,  in  under- 
standing, endure,  the  heavy  weight  that  had  fallen  on  her 
young  heai-t.  If  she  had  been  taught  **  real  learning 
and  wisdom,  such  as  great  men  knew,''  she  thought  she 
should  have  held  the  secrets  of  life;  if  she  had  only  books, 
that  she  might  learn  for  herself  what  wise  men  knew! 
Saints  and  martyrs  had  never  interested  Maggie  so  much 
as  sages  and  poets.  She  knew  little  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
and  had  gathered  as  a  general  result  of  her  teaching,  that 
they  were  a  temporary  provision  against  the  spread  of 
Catholicism,  and  had  all  died  at  Smithfield. 

In  one  of-  these  meditations  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  forgotten  Tom's  school-books,  which  had  been  sent 
home  in  his  trunk.  But  she  found  the  stock  unaccount- 
ably shrunk  down  to  the  few  old  ones  which  had  been  well 
thumbed — the  Latin  Dictionary  and  Grammar,  a  Delectus, 
a  torn  Eutropius,  the  well-worn  Virgil,  Aldrich's  Logic, 
and  the  exasperating  Euclid.  Still,  Latin,  Euclid,  and 
Jjogic  would  be  a  considerably  step  in  masculine  wisdpm-^ 
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274  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

in  that  knowledge  which  made  men  contented,  a»x3^^  ^^^ 
glad  to  live.  Not  that  the  yearning  for  effectual  "*^^tl?^ 
was  quite  unmixed:  a  certain  mirage  would  now  a^xxo^  ^tien 

rise  on  the  desert  of  the  future,  in  which  she  se^^"^^^^  ^o 
see  herself  honored  for  her  surprising  attainment^*       :■»*  ^^ 
so  the  poor  child,  with  her  soul  s  hunger  and  her  il^^^^  .^^^s 
of  self -flattery,  began  to  nibble  at  this  thick-rino^^      \^-^^* 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  filling  her  vacant  houi-^>^^j^  Y^^h 
Latin,  geometry,  and  the  forms  of  the  syllogism,  ^^^^      y^  ?^^' 
ing  a  gleam  of  triumph  now  and  then  that  her*     ^^i/;-    " 
standii^g  was  quite  equal  to  these  peculiarly  m^^       ^^j^^ 
studies.     For  a  week  or  two  she  went  on  resolutely  ^^    if~f 
though  with  an  occasipnal  sinking  of  heart,  as  if  ^    f  •/* 
set  out  toward  the  Promised  Land  alone,  and  f^^^^-*^ -tv  of 
thirsty,  trackless,  uncertain  journey.     In  the  sev"<^^  J  ^^^ 
her    early  resolution,   she  would  take  Aldrich  o""-^*  ^^ 
the  fields,  and  then  look  off  her  book  towards  t^^lL^    slies 
wiiere  the  lark  was  twinkling,  or  to  the  reeds  and         iVi  on 
by  the  river,  from  which  the  water-fowl  rustled  fo^.    ^-^q 
its  anxious,  awkward  flight — with  a  startled  sense  tl^^      ^x. 
relation  between  Aldrich  and  this  living  world  ^^^^^jxed 
treraely  remote  for  her.     The  discouragement   de^P  ^-^^ 
as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  eager  heart  gained  fasti^^  ^    ^^ 
faster  on  the  patient  mind.     Somehow,  when  she     ^^  jves 
the  window  with  her  book,  her  eyes  would  fix  therti^^  j^th 
blankly  on  the  outdoor  sunshine;  then  they  would  fill     ^^tn, 
tears,  and  sometimes,  if  her  mother  was  not  in  the  "^'^jrist 
the  studies  would  all  end  in  sobbing.     She  rebelled  ^^^^  of 
her  lot,  she  fainted  under  its  loneliness,  and  fits  ^^%^rore 
anger  and  hatred  toward  her  father  and  mother,  whi^^^^xti, 
so  unlike  what  she  would  have  them  to  be — toward    -p^^tys 
who  checked  her,  and  met  her  thought  or  feeling   ^^^     |Ver 
by  some  thwarting  difference — would  flow  out  ov"^^-|^i>en 
affections  and  conscience  like  a  lava  stream,  and  ff^^^^yj^B  a 
her  with  a  sense  that  it  was  not  difficult  for  her  to  b^<^^-,3^oes 
demon.     Thenher  brain  would  be  busy  with  wild  ror'^^  ^xid 
of  a  flight  from  home  in  search  of  something  less  sorJ-^     -pex- 
dreary:  she  would  go  to  some  great  man — Walter  Sco  t>'*'^  .^^03, 
haps — and  tell  him  how  wretched  and  how  clever  st:^^^    -fclio 
and  he  would  surely  do  something  for  her.     But,     ^  ^     -t^® 
middle  of  her  vision,  her  father  would  perhaps  ent>^^     0t^^" 
room  for  the  evening,  and,  surprised  that  she  8^^5<^j3C^^> 
without  noticing  him,  would  say  complainingl^,  "    ^^^v^ 
am  I  to  fetch  my  slippers  myself?''    The  voice  E^^^J^Jp-'' 
through  Maggie  like  a  sword;  there  was  another  ^^^ 

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THE  VALLEY   OF  HUMILIATION.  275 

beside.3  her  own,  and  she  had  been  thinking  of  turning  her 
back  on  it  and  forsaking  it. 

This  afternoon,  the  sight  of  Bob's  cheerful  freckled  face 
hud  given  her  discontent  a  new  direction.  She  thought  it 
was  part  of  the  hardship  of  her  life  that  there  was  laid 
upon  her  the  burden  of  larger  wants  than  others  seemed 
to  feel — that  she  had  to  endure  this  wide  hopeless  yearning 
for  that  something,  whatever  it  was,  that  was  greatest  and 
best  on  this  earth.  She  wished  she  could  have  been  like 
Bob,  with  his  easily  satisfied  ignorance,  or  like  Tom,  who 
had  something  to  do  on  which  he  could  fix  his  mind  with 
a  steady  purpose,  and  disregard  everything  else.  Poor 
child!  as  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  window-frame, 
with  her  hands  clasped  tighter  and  tighter,  and  her  foot 
beating  the  ground,  she  was  as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if 
she  had  been  the  only  girl  in  the  civilized  world  of  that 
day  who  had  come  out  of  her  school-life  with  a  soul  un- 
trained for  inevitable  struggles — with  no  other  part  of  her 
inherited  share  in  the  hard-won  treasures  of  thought,  which 
generations  of  painful  toil  have  laid  up  for  the  race  of  men, 
than  shreds  and  patches  of  feeble  literature  and  false 
history — ^with  much  futile  information  about  Saxon  and 
other  kings  of  doubtful  example — but  unhappily  quite 
without  that  knowledge  of  the  irreversible  laws  within  and 
without  her,  which,  governing  the  habits,  becomes  moral- 
ity, and,  developing  the  feelings  of  submission  and  de- 
pendence, becomes  religion : — as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if 
every  other  girl  besides  herself  had  been  cherished  and 
watched  over  by  elder  minds,  not  forgetful  of  their  own 
early  time,  when  need  was  keen  and  impulse  strong. 

At  last  Maggie's  eyes  glanced  down  on  the  books  that  lay 
on  the  window-shelf,  and  she  half  forsook  her  reverie  to 
turn  over  listlessly  the  leaves  of  the  *'  Portrait  Gallery,"  but 
she  soon  pushed  this  aside  to  examine  the  little  row  of  books 
tied  together  with  string.  "  Beauties  of  the  Spectator,'' 
'^Rasselas,"  "Economy  of  Human  Life,"  "Gregory's 
Letters" — she  knew  the  sort  of  matter  that  was  inside  all 
these:  the  "  Christian  Year'' — that  seemed  to  be  a  hymn- 
book,  and  she  laid  it  down  again;  but  Thomas  &  Kempis? 
— the  name  had  come  across  her  in  her  reading,  and  she 
felt  the  satisfaction,  which  every  one  knows,  of  getting 
some  ideas  to  attach  to  a  name  that  strays  solitary  in  the 
memory.  She  took  up  the  little,  old,  clumsy  book  with 
some  curiosity:  it  had  the  corners  turned  down  in  many 
places,  md  som^  band^  now  forever  quiet,  haci  made  at 

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276  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

certain   passages  strong  pen-and-ink  marks^   long"    -i^^^t^i. 
browned  ny  time.  Maggie  turned  from  leaf  to  leaf,  ai3^*^  ^^. 
where  the  quiet  hand  pointed  **  Know  that  the  love  <>^      \i 
self  doth  hurt  thee  more  than  anything  in  the  worl^' ^^^e 
thou  feekest  this  or  that,  and  wouldst  be  here  o:*^       jbe 
to  enjoy  thy  own  will  and  pleasure,  thou  shaltn^^^^jW 
quiet  nor  free  from  care:  for  in  everything  somewh^*'^  ^\\\ 
be  wanting,  and  *n  every  place  there  will  be  some  thi^^^  ^^q^ 
cross  thee.     Both  above  and  below,  which  way  soev^^^^     j^nd 
dost  turn  thee,  everywhere  thou  shalt  find  the  Cro^^  '  ^]^ou 
everywhere  of  necessity  thou  must  have  patience,  i  ^     c^^n. 
wilt  have  inward  peace,  and  enjoy  an  everlasting  ^^'^^  set 
If  thou  desire  to  mount  unto  this  height,  thou  m%^  ^loa 
out  courageously,  and  lay  the  axe  to  the  root,  tha^     -  x3cli' 
may  est  pluck  up  and  destroy  that  hidden  inordinate    ^oo^' 
nation  to  thyself,  and  unto  all  private  and  earthly      ^v^o^^ 
On  tliis  sin,  that  a  man  inordinately  loveth  himself,  ^'^     ^vil 
all  dependeth,  whatsoever  is  to  be  overcome,  whi(?l^    x^t^l 
being  once  overcome  and  subdued,  there  will  pr^^^j^ou 
ensue  great  peace  and  tranquillity.     It  is  but  little      ^     ^o 
sufferest  in   comparison  of  them  that  have  suffeJ^^:^      B^ 
much,  were  so  strongly  tempted,  so  grievously  afflict^^^J^^X'Q 
many  ways  tried  and  exercised.     Thou  oughtest  theJ^^rVj^t 
to  call  to  mind  the  more  heavy  suiferings  of  otherS;^      ^  J/ 
thou  mayest  the  easier  bear  thy  little  adversities.     ^^  nC^ 
they  seem  not  little  unto  thee,  beware  lest  thy  impai^i^^^ 
be  the  cause  thereof.     Blessed  are  those  ears  that  re<?^^ 
the  whispers  of  the  divine  voice,  and  listen  not  to    Pj 
wliisperings  of  the  world.     Blessed  are  those  ears  vrbi^j^ 
hearken  not  unto  the  voice  which  soundeth  outwardly,  b^^ 
unto  the  Truth,  which  teacheth  inwardly.** 

A  strange  thrill  of  awe  passed  through  Maggie  while  she 
read,  as  if  she  had  been  awakened  in  the  night  by  a  strain 
of  solemn  music,  telling  of  beings  whose  souls  had  been 
astir  while  hers  was  in  a  stupor.  She  went  on  from  ov^ 
brown  mark  to  another,  where  the  quiet  hand  seemed  to 
point,  hardly  conscious  that  she  was  reading — seeming 
rather  to  listen  while  a  low  voice  said — 

"  Why  dost  thou  here  gaze  about,  since  this  is  not  the 
place  of  thy  rest?  In  heaven  ought  to  be  thy  only  dwell- 
ing, and  all  earthly  things  are  to  be  looked  on  as  they  for- 
ward thy  journey  thither.  All  things  pass  away,  and  thou 
together  with  them.  Beware  thou  cleave  not  unto  them, 
lest  thou  be  entangled  and  perish.  If  a  man  should  give 
all  his  substance,  yet  it  is  ^s  nothing.     And  if  Ji^  sbouj^ 

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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATIOlC.  277 

do  great  penances,  yet  they  are  but  little.  And  if  he 
should  attain  to  all  knowledge,  he  is  yet  far  off.  And  if 
he  should  be  of  great  virtue,  and  very  fervent  devotion,  yet 
is  there  much  wanting;  to-wit,  one  thing,  which  is  most 
necessary  for  him.  What  is  that?  That  having  left  all, 
he  leave  himself,  and  go  wholly  out  of  himself,  and  retain 
nothing  of  self-love.  I  have  often  said  unto  thee,  and  now 
again  I  say  the  same.  Forsake  thyself,  resign  thyself,  and 
thou  shalt  enjoy  much  inward  peace.  Then  shall  all  vain 
imaginations,  evil  perturbations,  and  superfluous  cares  fl^ 
away;  then  shall  immoderate  fear  leave  thee,  and  inordi- 
nate love  shall  die." 

Maggie  drew  a  long  breath  and  pushed  her-heavy  hair 
back,  as  if  to  see  a  sudden  vision  more  clearly.  Here,  then, 
was  a  secret  of  life  that  would  enable  her  to  renounce  all 
other  secrets — here  was  a  sublime  height  to  be  reached 
without  the  help  of  outward  things — here  was  insight,  and 
strength,  and  conquest,  to  be  won  by  means  entirely  within 
her  own  soul,  where  a  supreme  Teacher  was  waiting  to  be 
heard.  It  flashed  through  her  like  the  suddenly  appre- 
hended solution  of  a  problem,  that  all  the  miseries  of  her 
young  life  had  come  from  fixing  her  heart  on  her  own 
pleasure,  as  if  that  were  the  central  necessity  of  the  uni- 
verse; and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  the  possibility  of 
shifting  the  position  from  which  she  looked  at  the  gratifi- 
cation of  her  own  desires — of  taking  her  stand  out  of 
herself,  and  looking  at  her  own  life  as  an  insignificant  part 
of  a  divinely-guided  whole.  She  read  on  and  on  in  the 
old  book,  devouring  eagerly  the  dialogues  with  the  invisible 
Teacher,  the  pattern  of  sorrow,  the  source  of  all  strength; 
returning  .to  it  after  she  had  been  called  away,  and  reading 
till  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  willows.  With  all  the 
hurry  of  an  imagination  that  could  never  rest  in  the 
present,  she  sat  in  the  deepening  twilight  forming  plans  of 
self-humiliation  and  entire  devotedness;  and,  in  the  ardor 
of  first  discovery,  renunciation  seemed  to  her  the  entrance 
into  that  satisfaction  which  she  had  so  long  been  craving 
in  vain.  She  had  not  perceived — how  could  she  until  she 
had  lived  longer? — the  inmost  truth  of  the  old  monk's 
outpourings,  that  renunciation  remains  sorrow,  though  a 
sorrow  borne  willingly.  Maggie  was  still  panting  for  nap- 
piness,  and  was  in  ecstacy  because  she  had  found  the  key  to 
it.  She  knew  nothing  of  doctrines  and  systems — of  mysti- 
cism or  quietism;  but  this  voice  out  of  the  far-off  middle 
ages  was  the  direct  communication  of  a  human  souFs  belief 

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278  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

and  experience^  and  came  to  Maggie  as  an  unquestioned 
message. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  the  small  old-fashioned 
book,  for  which  you  need  only  pay  sixpence  at  a  book-stall, 
works  miracles  to  this  day,  turning  bitter  waters  in(o 
sweetness:  while  expensive  sermons  and  treatises,  newly 
issued,  leave  all  things  as  they  were  before.  It  was  written 
down  by  a  hand  that  waited  for  the  heart's  prompting;  it 
is  the  chronicle  of  a  solitary,  hidden  anguish,  struggle, 
trust  and  triumph — ^not  written  on  velvet  cushions  to  tea(  li 
endurance  to  those  who  are  treading  with  bleeding  feet  on 
the  stones.  And  so  it  remains  to  all  time  a  lasting  record 
of  human  needs  and  human  consolations:  the  voice  of  a 
brother  who,  ages  ago,  felt  and  suifered  and  renounced — 
in  the  cloister,  perhaps,  with  serge  gown  and  tonsured 
head,  with  much  chanting  and  long  fasts,  and  with  a  fashion 
of  speech  diiferent  from  ours — but  under  the  same  silent 
far-off  heavens,  and  with  the  same  passionate  desires,  the 
same  strivings,  the  same  failures,  the  same  weariness. 

In  writing  the  history  of  unfashionable  families,  one  is 
apt  to  fall  into  a  tone  of  emphasis  which  is  very  far  from 
being  the  tone  of  good  society,  where  principles  and 
beliefs  are  not  only  of  an  extremely  moderate  kind,  but 
are  always  presupposed,  no  subjects  being  eligible  but 
such  as  can  be  touched  with  a  light  and  graceful  irony. 
But  then,  good  society  has  its  claret  and  its  velvet  carpets, 
its  dinner-engagements  six  weeks  deep,  its  opera  and 
its  fairy  ball-rooms;  rides  off  its  ennui  on  thorough-bred 
horses,  lounges  at  the  club,  has  to  keep  clear  of  crino- 
line vortices,  gets  its  science  done  by  Faraday,  and  its 
religion  by  the  superior  clergy  who  are  to  be.  met  in  the 
best  houses:  how  should  it  have  time  or  need  for  belief 
and  emphasis.^  But  good  society,  floated  on  gossamer 
wings  of  light  irony,  is  of  very  expensive  production;, 
requiring  nothing  less  than  a  wide  and  arduous  national 
life  condensed  in  unf  ragrant  deafening  factories,  cramping 
itself  in  mines,  sweating  at  furnaces,  grinding,  hammer- 
ing, weaving  under  more  or  less  oppression  of  carbonic 
acid — or  else,  spread  over  sheepwalks,  and  scattered  in 
lonely  houses  and  huts  on  the  clayey  or  chalky  corn-lands, 
where  the  rainy  days  look  dreary.  This  wide  national  life 
is  based  entirely  on  emphasis — the  emphasis  of  want — 
which  urges  it  into  all  the  activities  necessary  for  the 
maintenance  of  good  society  and  light  irony:  it  spends 
its  heavy   years   often    in   a   chill,   uncarpeted   fashion 

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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  279 

amidst  family  discord  unsoftened  by  long  corridors. 
Under  such  circumstances,  there  are  many  among  its 
myriads  of  souls  who  have  absolutely  needed  an  emphatic 
belief:  life  in  this  unpleasurable  shape  demanding  some 
solution  even  to  unspeculative  minds;  just  as  you  inquire 
into  the  stuffing  of  your  couch  when  iinything  galls  you 
there,  whereas  eider-down  and  perfect  French  springs 
excite  no  question.  Some  have  an  emphatic  belief  in 
alcohol,  and  seek  their  ekstasis  or  outside  standing-ground 
in  gin;  but  the  rest  require  something  that  good  society 
calls  "  enthusiasm,"  something  that  will  present  motives 
in  an  entire  absence  of  high  prizes,  something  that  will 
give  patience  and  feed  human  love  when  the  limbs  ache 
with  weariness,  and  human  looks  are  hard  upon  us — some- 
thing, clearly,  that  lies  outside  personal  desires,  that 
includes  resignation  for  ourselves  and  active  love  for  what 
is  riot  ourselves.  Now  and  then  that  sort  of  enthusiasm 
finds  a  far-echoing  voice  that  comes  from  an  experience 
springing  out  of  the  deepest  need.  And  it  was  by  being 
brought  within  the  long  lingering  vibrations  of  such  a 
voice  that  Maggie,  with  her  girl's  face  and  unnoted  sor- 
rows, found  an  effort  and  a  hope  that  helped  her  through 
years  of  loneliness,  making  out  a  faith  for  herself  without 
the  aid  of  established  authorities  and  appointed  guides — 
for  they  were  not  at  hand,  and  her  need  was  pressing. 
Prom  what  you  know  of  her,  you  will  not  be  surprised 
that  she  threw  some  exaggeration  and  willfulness,  some 
pride  and  impetuosity,  even  into  her  self-renunciation: 
her  own  life  was  still  a  drama  for  her,  in  which  she 
demanded  of  herself  that  her  part  should  be  played  with 
intensity.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  she  often  lost  the 
apirit  of  humility  by  being  excessive  in  the  outward  act; 
she'  often  strove  after  too  high  a  flight,  and  came  down 
with  her  poor  little  half-fledged  wings  dabbled  in  the  mud. 
For  example,  she  not  only  determined  to  work  at  plain 
sewing,  that  she  might  contribute  something  toward  the 
fund  in  the  tin  box,  but  she  went,  in  the  first  instance,  in 
her  zeal  of  self-mortification,  to  ask  for  it  at  a  linen-shop 
in  St.  Ogg's,  instead  of  getting  it  in  a  more  quiet  and 
indirect  way;  and  could  see  nothing  but  what  was  entirely 
wrong  and  unkind,  nay,  persecuting,  in  Tom's  reproof 
of  her  for  this  unnecessary  act.  "  1  don't  like  my  sister 
to  do  such  things,"  said  Tom;  Fll  take  care  that 
the  debts  are  paid,  without  your  lowering  yourself  in  that 
way."     Surely  there   was  some  tenderness  and  bravery 

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280  '  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

mingled  with  the  worldliness  and  self-assertion  of  that 
little  speech;  but  Maggie  held  it  as  dross,  overlooking  the 
grains  of  gold,  and  took  Tom's  rebuke  as  one  of  her  out- 
ward crosses.  Tom  was  very  hard  to  her,  she  used  to 
think,  in  her.  long  night-watchings  —  to  her  who  had 
always  loved  him  so;  and  then  she  strove  to  be  contented 
with  that  hardness,  and  to  require  nothing.  That  is  the 
path  we  all  like  when  we  set  out  on  our  abandonment  of 
egoism — the  path  of  martyrdom  and  endurance,  where 
the  palm-branches  grow,  rather  than  the  steep  higliway  of 
tolerance,  just  allowance,  and  self-blame,  where  there  are 
no  leafy  honors  to  be  gathered  and  worn. 

The  old  books,  Virgil,  Euclid,  and  Aldrich  —  that 
wrinkled  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  —  had  been  all 
laid  by;  for  Maggie  had  turned  her  back  on  the  vain 
ambition  to  share  the  thoughts  of  the  wise.  In  her  first 
ardor  she  flung  away  the  books  with  a  sort  of  triumph  that 
she  had  risen  above  the  need  of  them;  and  if  they  had  been 
her  own,  she  would  have  burned  them,  believing  that  she 
would  never  repent.  She  read  so  eagerly  and  constantly  in 
her  three  books,  the  Bible,  Thomas  d-Kempis,  and  the 
'^Christian  Year,"  (no  longer  rejected  as  a  ** hymn-book ''), 
that  they  filled  her  mind  with  a  continual  stream  of 
rhythmic  memories;  and  she  was  too  ardently  learning  to 
see  all  nature  and  life  in  the  light  of  lier  new  faith,  to  need 
any  other  material  for  her  mind  to  work  on,  as  she  sat 
with  her  well-plied  needlej  making  shirts  and  other  com- 
plicated stitchings,  falseljr  called  **  plain" — by  no  means 
plain  to  Maggie,  since  wristband  and  sleeve  and  the  like 
had  a  capability  of  being  sewed  in  wrong  side  outward  in 
moments  of  mental  wandering. 

Hanging  diligently  over  'her  sewing,  Maggie  was  a  sight 
any  one  might  have  been  pleased  to  look  at.  That  new 
inward  life  of  hers,  notwithstanding  some  volcanic  up- 
heaving of  imprisoned  passions,  yet  shone  out  in  her  face 
with  a  tender  soft  light  that  mingled  itself  as  added  loveli- 
ness with  the  gradually  enriched  color  and  outline  of  her 
blossoming  youth.  Her  mother  felt  the  change  in  her  with 
a  sort  of  puzzled  wonder  that  Maggie  should  be  *^  growing 
up  so  good";  it  was  amazing  that  this  once  ^^contrairy" 
child  was  become  so  submissive,  so  backward  to  assert  her 
own  will.  Maggie  used  to  look  up  from  her  work  and  find 
her  mother's  eyes  fixed  upon  her:  they  were  watching  and 
waiting  for  the  large  young  glance,  as  if  her  elder  frame 
got  some  needful  warmth  from  it.    The  mother  was  getting 

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THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  281 

fond  of  her  tall,  brown  girl,  the  only  bit  of  furniture  now 
on  which  she  could  bestow  her  anxiety  and  pride;  and 
Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  own  ascetic  wish  to  have  no  pe4*sona! 
adornment,  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  her  mother  about 
her  hair,  and  submit  to  have  the  abundant  black  locks 
plaited  into  a  coronet  on  the  summit  of  her  head,  after  the 
pitiable  fashion  of  those  antiquated  times. 

"  Let  your  mother  have  that  bit  o*  pleasure,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  TuUiver.  "  I^d  trouble  enough  with  your  hair 
once/* 

So  Maggie,  glad  of  anythijig  that  would  soothe  her 
mother,  and  cheer  their  long  day  together,  consented  to 
the  vain  decoration,  and  showed  a  queenly  head  above  her 
old  frocks — steadily  refusing,  however,  to  look  at  herself 
in  the  glass.  Mrs.  Tulli/er  like(f  to  call  the  father's  atten- 
tion to  Maggie's  hair  and  other  unexpected  virtues,  but  he 
had  a  brusque  reply  to  give. 

"I  knew  well  enough  what  she'd  be,  before  now — it's 
nothing  new  to  me.  But  it's  a  pity  she  isn't  made  o'  com- 
moner stuff — she'll  be  thrown  away,  I  doubt:  there'll  be 
nobody  to  marry  her  as  is  fit  for  her." 

And  Maggie's  graces  of  mind  and  body  fed  his  gloom. 
He  sat  patiently  enough  while  she  read  him  a  chapter,  or 
said  something  timidly  when  they  were  alone  together 
about  trouble  being  turned  into  a  blessing.  He  took  it  all 
as  part  of  his  daughter's  goodness,  which  made  his  mis- 
fortunes the  sadder  to  him  because  they  damaged  her 
chance  in  life.  In  a  mind  charged  with  an  eager  purpose 
and  an  unsatisfied  vindictiveness,  there  is  no  room  for  new 
feelings:  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not  want  spiritual  consolation — 
he  wanted  to  shake  off  the  degradation  of  debt,  and  to 
have  his  revenge. 


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BOOK    V. 
WHEAT  AND  TARES. 


CHAPTER  L 

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  ttie  Floss,  the  other  into  the  mill- 
yard.  Maggie  was  sitting  with  her  work  against  the  latter 
window  when  she  saw  Mr.  Wakem  entering  the  3'^ard,  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  ponj.  Maegie  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  eould 
never  be  friends  any  more.  It  was  not  at  all  agitating  to 
Maggie  to  see  Philip  again*:  she  retained  her  childish  grati- 
tude 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 


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WHEAT  AKD   TARES.  283 

him  now.  And  yet,  his  face  was  wonderfully  little  altered — 
it  was  only  a  larger,  more  manly  copy  of  the  pale  small-feat- 
ured boy^s  face,  with  the  gray  eyes,  and  the  boyish  waring 
brown  hair:  there  was  the  old  deformity  to  awaken  the  old 
pity;  and  after  all  her  meditations,  Maff^ie  felt  that  she 
really  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  nim.  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  con- 
demned 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  roadj  and  she  could  go  down  again. 

It  was  far  on  in  June  now,  and  Maggie  was  inclined  to 
lengthen  the  daily  walk  whici  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  "HilP'  —  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  toward  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  Kipple.  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 


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284  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

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  Dells  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  dog-roses  were  in  their  glory,  and  that  was  an 
additional  reason  why  Maggie  should  direct  her  wallc  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  ardors  of  renuncia- 
tion, she  thought  she  ought  to  deny  herself  the  frequent 
indulgence  in  it. 

You  may  see  her  now,  as  she  walks  down  the  favorite 
turning,  and  enters  the  Deeps  by  a  narrow  path  through 
a  group  of  Scotch  firs — Ber  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  with- 
stood 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;  the  eyes  are  liquid, 
the  brown  cheek  is  firm  and  rounded,  the  full  lips  are  red. 
With  her  dark  coloring  and  jet  crown  surmounting  her 
tall  figure,  she  seems  to  have  a  sort  of  kinship  with  the 
grand  Scotch  firs,  at  which  slio  is  looking  up  as  if  she  loved 
them  well.  Yet  one  has  a  sense  of  uneasiness  in  looking 
at  her — a  sense  of  opposing  elements,  of  which  a  fierce 
collision  is  imminent:  surely  there  is  a  hushed  expression, 
such  as  one  often  sees  in  older  faces  under  borderless  caps, 
out  of  keeping  with  the  resistant  youth,  which  one  expects 
to  flash  out  in  a  sudden,  passionate  glance,  that  will  dissi- 
pate all  the  quietude,  like  a  damp  fire  leaping  out  again 
when  all  seemed  safe. 

But  Maggie  herself  was  not  uneasy  at  this  moment.  She 
was  calmly  enjoying  the  free  air,  while  she  looked  up  at 
the  old  fir-trees,  and  thought  that  those  broken  ends  of 

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WHEAT   AND   TAKES.  285 

branches  were  the  records  of  past  storms,  which  had  only 
made  the  red  stems  soar  higher.  But  while  her  eyes  were 
still  turned  upward,  she  became  conscious  of  a  moving 
shadow  cast  by  the  evening  sun  on  the  grassy  path  before 
her,  and  looked  down  with  a  stariled  gesture  to  see  Philip 
Wakem,  who  first  raised  his  hat,  and  then,  blushing  deeply, 
came  forward  to  her  and  put  out  his  hand.  Maggie,  too, 
colored  with  surprise,  which  soon  gave  way  to  pleasure. 
She  put  out  her  hand  and  looked  down  at  the  deformed 
figure  before  her  with  frank  eyes,  filled  for  the  moment 
with  nothing  but  the  memory  of  her  child*s  feelings — a 
memory  that  was  always  strong  in  her.  She  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  You  startled  me,^'  she  said,  smiling  faintly;  '*  I  never 
meet  any  one  here.  How  came  you  to  be  walking  here? 
Did  you  come  to  meet  mef" 

It  was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  Maggie  felt  herself 
a  child  again. 

"Yes,  I  did,^'  said  Philip,  still  embarrassed:  "I  wished 
to  see  you  very  much.  I  watched  a  long  while  yesterday 
on  the  bank  near  your  house  to  see  if  you  would  come  out, 
but  you  never  came.  Then  I  watched  again  to-day,  and 
when  I  saw  the  way  you  took,  I  kept  you  in  sight  and  came 
down  the  bank  behind  there.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  dis- 
pleased with  me.^' 

"No,*' said  Maggie,  with  simple  seriousness,  walking  on 
as  if  she  meant  Philip  to  accompany  her,  "  Vm  very  glad 
you  came,  for  I  wished  very  much  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  you.  I\e  never  forgotten  how  good  you 
were  long  ago  to  Tom,  and  me  too;  but  I  was  not  sure  that 
you  would  remember  us  so  well.  Tom  and  I  have  had  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  since  then,  and  I  think  that  makes 
one  think  more  of  what  happened  before  the  trouble 
came.'* 

"  I  can't  believe  that  you  have  thought  of  me  so  much 
as  I  have  thought  of  you,"  said  Philip,  timidly.  "  Do  you 
know,  when  I  was  away,  I  made  a  picture  oi  you  as  you 
looked  that  morning  in  the  study  when  you  said  you  would 
not  forget  me." 

Philip  drew  a  large  miniature  case  from  his  pocket  a?ia 
opened  it.  Maggie  saw  her  old  self  leaning  on  a  taoic, 
with  her  black  locks  hanging  down  behind  her  ears,  look- 
ing into  space  with  strange,  dreamy  eyes.  It  was  a  water- 
color  sketch,  of  real  merit  as  a  portrait. 

"0^  dear/'  said  Maggie,  smiling,  and  flu8he4  wit^ 


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1 


286  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

pleasure,  "what  a  queer  little  girl  I  wjis!  •  I  remembei 
myself  with  my  hair  in  that  way,  in  that  pink  frock.  I 
really  was  like  a  gypsy.  I  dare  say  I  am  now,"  she  added, 
after  a  little  pause;  **am  I  like  what  you  expected  me 
tobe?^' 

The  words  might  have  been  those  of  a  coquette,  but  the 
full  bright  glance  Maggie  turned  on  Philip  was  not  that 
of  a  coquette.  She  really  did  hope  he  liked  her  face  as  it 
was  now,  but  it  was  simply  the  rising  again  of  her  innate 
delight  in  admiration  and  love.  Philip  met  her  eves  and 
looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  long  moment,  before  ne  said, 
quietly,  "No,  Maggie.'* 

The  light  died  out  a  little  from  Maggie's  face,  and  there 
was  a  slight  trembling  of  the  lip.  Her  eyelids  fell  lower, 
but  she  did  not  turn  away  her  head,  and  Philip  continued 
to  look  at  her.     Then  he  said,  slowly — 

"  You  are  very  much  more  beautiful  than  I  thought  yon 
would  be.'* 

"Am  I?''  said  Maggie,  the  pleasure  returning  in  a 
deeper  flush.  She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  and 
tooK  some  steps,  looking  straight  before  her  in  silence,  as 
if  she  were  adjusting  her  consciousness  to  this  new  idea. 
Girls  are  so  accustomed  to  think  of  dress  as  the  main 
ground  of  vanity,  that,  in  abstaining  from  the  looking- 
glass,  Maggie  had  thought  more  of  aband"oning  all  care  for 
iidornment  than  of  renouncing  the  contemplation  of  her 
face.  Comparing  herself  with  elegant,  wealthy  young 
ladies,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  could  produce 
any  eifoct  with  her  person.  Philip  seemed  to  like  tlie 
silence  well.  He  walked  by  her  side,  watching  her  face, 
as  if  that  sight  left  no  room  for  any  other  wish.    They  had 

Eassed  from  among  the  fir-trees,  and  had  come  to  a  green 
ollow  almost  surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of  the  pale 
pink  dog-roses.  But  as  the  light  about  them  had  bright- 
ened, Maggie's  face  had  lost  its  glow.  She  stood  still  wlien 
they  were  in  the  hollows,  and,  looking  at  Philip  again,  she 
said,  in  a  serious,  sad  voice — 

"I  wish  we  could  have  been  friends  —  I  mean,  if  i** 
would  have  been  good  and  riffht  for  us.  But  that  is  the 
trial  I  have  to  bear  in  everything;  I  may  not  keep  any- 
thing I  used  to  love  when  I  was  little.  The  old  books 
went;  and  Tom  is  different — and  my  father.  It  is  H^^ 
death.  I  must  part  with  everything  I  cared  for  when  I 
was  a  child.  And  I  must  part  with  you :  we  must  never 
t^ke  any  notice  pf  ^acb  other  again.     That  was  what  * 

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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  287 

Wcinted  to  speak  to  you  for.  I  wanted  to  let  you  know 
that  Tom  and  I  can't  do  as  we  like  about  such  things,  and 
that  if  I  behave  as  if  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you,  it  is  not 
out  of  envy  or  pride — or — or  any  bad  feeling/' 

Maggie  spoke  with  more  and  more  sorrowful  gentleness 
as  she  went  on,  and  her  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears.  The 
deepening  expression  of  pain  on  Philip's  face  gave  him  a 
stronger  resemblance  to  his  boyish  self,  and  made  the 
deformity  appeal  more  strongly  to  her  pity. 

'^I  know — I  see  all  that  you  mean, '^  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  had  become  feebler  from  discouragement:  "I  know 
what  there  is  to  keep  us  apart  on  both  sides.  But  it  is  not 
right,  Magffie — don  t  you  be  angry  with  me,  I  am  so  used 
to  call  you  Maggie  in  my  thoughts — it  is  not  right  to  sacri- 
fice everything  to  other  people's  unreasonable  feelings.  I 
would  give  up  a  great  deal  for  my  father;  but  I  would  not 
give  up  a  friendship  or — or  an  attachment  of  any  sort, 
m  obedience  to  any  wish  of  his  that  I  didn't  recognize  as 
right." 

'^  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  musingly.  *'  Often,  when 
I  have  been  angry  and  discontented,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  not  bound  to  give  up  anything;  and  I  have  gone 
on  thinking  till  it  has  seemed  to  me  tliat  I  could  think 
away  all  my  duty.  But  no  good  has  ever  come  of  that — it 
was  an  evil  state  of  mind.  I'm  quite  sure  that  whatever  I 
might  do,  I  should  wish  in  the  end  that  I  had  gone  with- 
out anything  for  myself,  rather  than  have  made  my  father's 
life  harder  to  him." 

*^Biit  would  it  mate  his  life  harder  if  we  were  to  see 
each  other  sometimes?"  said  Philip.  He  was  going  to  say 
something  else,  but  checked  himself. 

**0h,  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  like  it.  Don't  ask  me  why, 
or  anything  about  it,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  tone. 
"My  father  feels  so  strongly  about  some  things.  He  is 
not  at  all  happy." 

**No  more  am  I,"  said  Philip,  impetuously:  "/am  not 
happy." 

"Why?"  said  Maggie,  gently.  "At  least — I  ought  not 
to  ask — but  I'm  very,  very  sorry." 

Philip  turned  to  walk  on,  as  if  he  had  not  patience  to 
stand  still  any  longer,  and  they  went  out  of  the  hollow, 
winding  amongst  the  trees  and  bushes  in  silence.  After 
that  last  word  of  Philip's,  Maggie  could  not  bear  to  insist 
immediately  on  their  parting. 

"  I've  been  a  great  deal  happier,"  she  said  at  last^  tiuydlyi 

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288  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

**  since  I  have  given  up  thinking  about  what  is  easy  and 
pleasant,  and  being  discontented  because  I  couldn't  have 
my  own  will.  Our  life  is  determined  for  us — and  it  makes 
the  mind  very  free  when  we  give  up  wishing,  and  only 
think  of  bearing  what  is  laid  upon  us,  and  doing  what  is 
given  us  to  do," 

**But  I  can^t  give  up  wishing,^'  said  Philip,  impatiently. 
**It  seems  to  me  we  can  never  give  up  longing  and  wishing 
while  we  are  thoroughly  alive.  There  are  cei-tain  things 
we  feel  to  be  beautiful  and  good,  and  we  7nust  hunger  after 
them.  How  can  we  ever  be  satisfied  without  them  until 
our  feelings  are  deadened?  I  delight  in  fine  pictures — I 
long  to  be  able  to  paint  such.  I  strive  and  strive,  and 
can  t  produce  what  I  want.  That  is  pain  to  me,  and 
always  will  be  pain,  until  my  faculties  lose  their  keenness, 
like  aged  eyes.  Then  there  are  many  other  things  I  long 
for^^ — here  Philip  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  said  — 
**  things  that  other  men  have,  and  that  will  always  be 
denied  me.  My  life  will  have  nothing  great  or  beautiful 
in  it;  I  would  rather  not  have  lived." 

*^0h,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  "I  wish  you  didn't  feel 
so."  But  her  heart  began  to  beat  with  something  of 
Philip's  discontent. 

**  Well,  then,"  said  he,  turning  quickly  round  and  fixing 
his  gray  eyes  entreatingly  on  her  face,  "  I  should  be  con- 
tented to  live,  if  you  would  let  me  see  you  sometimes.'' 
Then,  checked  by  a  fear  which  her  face  suggested,  he 
looked  away  again,  and  said,  more  calmly,  *'  I  have  no 
friend  to  wnom  I  can  tell  everythiilg  —  no  one  who  cares 
enough  about  me;  and  if  I  could  only  see  you  now  juid 
then,  and  you  would  let  me  talk  to  you  a  little,  and  show 
me  that  you  cared  for  me  —  and  that  we  may  always  be 
friends  in  heart,  and  help  each  other  —  then  I  might  come 
to  be  glad  of  life." 

**  But  how  can  I  see  you,  Philip?"  said  Maggie,  falteringly. 
(Could  she  really  do  him  good?  It  would  be  very  hard  to 
say  '* good-bye"  this  day,  and  not  speak  to  hini  again. 
Here  was  a  new  interest  to  vary  the  dap  —  it  was  so  much 
easier  to  renounce  th©  interest  before  it  came.) 

^*If  you  would,  let  me  see  you  here  sometimes  —  walk 
with  you  here  —  I  would  be  contented  if  it  were  only  once 
or  twice  in  a  month.  That  could  injure  no  one's  happi- 
ness, and  it  would  sweeten  my  life.  Besides,"  Philip  went 
on,  with  all  the  inventive  astuteness  of  love  at  one-and- 
twenty,  **if  there  is  any  enmity  between  thos^  who  belong 


WHEAT   AND   TARES.  289 

to  as,  we  ought  all  the  more  to  try  and  quench  it  by  our 
friendship  —  I  mean,  that  by  our  influence  on  both  sides 
we  might  brin^  about  a  healing  of  the  wounds  that  have 
been  made  in  the  past,  if  I  could  know  everything  about 
them.  And  I  don^t  believe  there  is  anv  enmity  in  my  own 
father^s  mind:  I  think  he  has  proved  the  contrary/' 

Maggie  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent,  under 
conflicting  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  her  inclination,  that 
to  see  Philip  now  and  then,  and  keep  up  the  bond  of 
friendship  with  him,  was  something  not  only  innocent, 
but  good :  perhaps  she  might  really  help  him  to  find 
contentment  as  she  had  found  it.  The  voice  that  said 
this  made  sweet  music  to  Maggie;  but  athwart  it  there 
came  an  urgent  monotonous  warning' from  another  voice 
which  she  had  been  learning  to  obey:  the  warning  that 
such  interviews  implied  secrecy  —  implied  doin^  something 
she  would  dread  to  be  discovered  in  —  something  that,  if 
discovered,  must  cause  anger  and  pain  ;  and  that  the 
admission  of  Bnything  so  near  doubleness  would  act  as  a 
spiritual  blight.  Yet  the  music  would  swell  out  again, 
like  chimes  borae  onward  by  a  recurrent  breeze,  persuading 
her  that  the  wrong  lay  all  in  the  faults  and  weaknesses  of 
others,  and  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  futile  sacrifice 
for  one  to  the  injury  of  another.  It  was  very  cruel  for 
Philip  that  he  should  be  shrunk  from  because  of  an  unjus- 
tifiable vindictiveness  toward  his  father  —  poor  Philip, 
whom  some  people  would  shrink  from  only  because  he  was 
deformed.  The  idea  that  he  might  become  her  lover,  or 
that  her  meeting  him  could  cause  disapproval  in  that 
light,  had  not  occurred  to  her;  and  Philip  saw  the  absence 
of  this  idea  clearly  enough  —  saw  it  with  a  certain  pang, 
although  it  made  her  consent  to  his  request  the  less 
unlikely.  There  was  bitterness  to  him  in  tne  perception 
that  Maggie  was  almost  as  frank  and  unconstrained  toward 
him  as  when  she  was  a  child. 

'^  I  can't  say  either  yes  or  no,"  she  said  at  last,  turning 
round  and  walking  toward  the  way  she  had  come:  *'I 
must  wait,  lest  I  should  decide  wrongly.  I  must  seek  for 
guidance.'' 

*^May  I  come  again,  then — ^to-morrow — or  the  next 
day — or  next  week?" 

**I  think  I  h)ad  better  write,"  said  Maggie,  faltering 
again.  ^*  I  have  to  go  to  St.  Ogg's  sometimes,  and  I  oan 
put  the  letter  in  the  post." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Philip,  eagerly;  "that  would  not  be  so 
19 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


290  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

well.  My  father  might  see  the  letter — and — he  has  not 
any  enmitjr,  I  believe,  but  he  views  things  differently  from 
me:  he  thinks  a  great  deal  about  wealth  and  position. 
Pray  let  me  come  here  once  more.  Tell  me  when  it  shall 
be;  or  if  you  can't  tell  me,  I  will  come  as  often  as  I  can 
till  I  do  see  you.'' 

"  I  think  it  must  be  so,  then,"  said  Maggie,  "  for  I  can't 
be  Quite  certain  of  coming  here  any  particular  evening." 

Maggie  felt  a  great  relief  in  adjourning  the  decision. 

.  She  was  free  now  to  enjoy  the  minutes  of  companionship; 

she  almost  thought  she  might  linger  a  little;  the  next  time 

they  met  she  should  have  to  pain  Philip  by  telling  him  her 

determination. 

**I  can't  help  thinking,"  she  said,' looking  smilingly  at 
him,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence,  **how  strange  it  is 
that  we  should  have  met  and  talked  to  each  other,  just  as 
if  it  had  been  only  yesterday  when  we  parted  at  Lorton. 
And  yet  we  must  both  be  very  much  altered  in  those  five 
years — I  think  it  is  five  years.  How  was  it  you  seemed  to 
Lave  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I  was  the  same  Maggie? — I  was 
not  quite  so  sure  that  you  would  be  the  same:  I  know  you 
are  so  clever,  and  you  must  have  seen  and  learned  so  much 
to  fill  your  mind:  I  was  not  quite  sure  you  would  care 
about  me  now." 

'*I  have  never  had  any  doubt  that  you  would  be  the 
same,  whenever  I  might  see  you,"  said  Philip.  **  I  mean,  the 
same  in  everything  that  made  me  like  you  better  than  any 
one  else.  I  aon't  want  to  explain  that:  I  don't  think  any  of 
the  strongest  effects  our  natures  are  susceptible  of  can  ever 
be  explained.  We  can  neither  detect  the  process  by  which 
they  are  arrived  at,  nor  the  mode  in  which  they  act  on  us. 
The  greatest  of  painters  only  once  painted  a  mysteriously 
divine  child;  he  couldn't  have  told  how  he  did  it,  and  we 
can't  tell  why  we  feel  it  to  be  divine.  I  think  there  are 
stores  laid  up  in  our  human  nature  that  our  understand- 
ings can  make  no  complete  inventory  of.  Certain  strains 
of  music  affect  me  so  strangely — I  can  never  hear  them 
without  their  changing  my  whole  attitude  of  mind  for  a 
time,  and  if  the  effect  would  last,  I  might  be  capable  of 
heroisms." 

*^Ah!  I  know  what  you  mean  about  music — /feel  so," 
said  Maggie,  clasping  her  hands  with  her  old  impetuosity. 
"At  least,"  she  added,  in  a  saddened  tone,  "I  used  to  feel 
so  when  I  had  any  music:  I  never  have  any  now  except  the 
organ  at  church." 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


WHEAT  AND  TABES.  291 

''And  you  long  for  it,  Maggie?"  said  Philip,  looking  at 
her  with  affectionate  pity.  *' Ah,  you  can  have  very  little 
that  is  beautiful  in  your  life.  Have  you  many  books? 
You  were  so  fond  of  them  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

They  were  come  back  to  the  hollow,  round  which  the 
dog-roses  grew,  and  they  both  paused  under  the  charm 
of  the  fairy  evening  light,  reflected  from  the  pale  pink 
clusters. 

"No,  I  have  given  up  books, ^'  said  Maggie,  quietly, 
"except  a  very,  very  few.^' 

Philip  had  already  taken  from  his  pocket  a  small  volume, 
and  was  looking  at  the  back  as  he  said  — 

"Ah,  this  is  the  second  volume,  I  see,  else  you  might 
have  liked  to  take  it  home  with  you.  I  put  it  in  my 
pocket  because  I  am  studying  a  scene  for  a  picture." 

Maggie  had  looked  at  the  back  too,  and  saw  the  title:  it 
revived  an  old  impression  with  overmastering  force. 

"  *  The  Pirate,' "  she  said,  taking  the  book  from  Philip's 
hands.  "  Oh,  I  began  that  once;  I  read  to  where  Minna 
is  walking  with  Cleveland,  and  I  could  never  get  to  road 
the  re^t.  I  went  on  with  it  in  my  own  head,  and  I  made 
several  endings;  but  they  were  all  unhappy.  I  could 
never  make  a  nappy  ending  out  of  that  beginning.  Poor 
Minna!  I  wonder  what  is  the  real  end.  For  a  long  while 
I  couldn't  get  my  mind  away  from  the  Shetland  Isles  — 
I  used  to  feel  the  wind  blowing  on  me  from  the  rough 
sea/' 

Maggie  spoke  rapidly,  with  glistening  eyes. 

"Take  that  volume  home  with  you,  Maggie,"  said 
Philip,  watching  her  |i^ith  delight.  "I  don't  want  it 
now.  I  shall  make  a  picture  of  you  instead — you,  among 
the  Scotch  firs  and  the  slanting  shadows." 

Maggie  had  not  heard  a  word  he  had  said:  she  was 
absorbed  in  a  page  at  which  she  had  opened.  But 
suddenly  she  closed  the  book,  and  gave  it  back  to  Philip, 
shaking  her  head  with  a  backward  movement,  as  if  to  say, 
"  avaunt "  to  floating  visions. 

"Do  kfeep  it,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  entreatingly;  "it 
will  give  you  pleasure." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  putting  it  aside  with 
lier  hand  and  walkings  on.  "It  would  make  me  in  love 
with  this  world  again,  as  I  used  to  be  —  it  would  make  me 
long  to  see  and  know  many  things  —  it  would  make  me 
long  for  a  full  life." 

"  But  you  will  not  always  be  shut  up  in  your  present 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


292  THE  HILL  ON  THE  FL088. 

lot:  why  should  you  starve  your  mind  in  that  way?  It  is 
narrow  asceticism — I  don't  like  to  see  you  persisting  in  it, 
Maggie.  Poetry  and  art  and  knowledge  are  sacr^  and 
pure/' 

"But  not  for  me  —  not  for  me/'  said  Maggie,  walking 
more  hurriedly.  "Because  I  should  want  too  much. 
I  must  wait  —  this  life  will  not  last  long.'' 

"Don't  hurr^  away  from  me  without  saying  'good-bye,' 
Maggie,"  said  thilip,  as  thoy  reached  the  group  of  Scotch 
firs,  and  she  continued  still  to  walk  along  without  speak- 
ing.    "  I  must  not  go  any  farther,  I  think,  must  I?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  forgot;  good-bye,"  said  Maggie,  pausing,  and 
putting  out  her  hand  to  him.  The  action  Drought  her  feel- 
ing back  in  a  strong  current  to  Philip;  and  after  they  had 
stood  looking  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
with  their  hands  clasped,  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand — 

"  I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  thinking  of  me  all  those 
years.  It  is  very  sweet  to  have  people  love  us.  What  a 
wonderful,  beautiful  thing  it  seems  that  God  should  have 
made  your  heart  so  that  you  could  care  about  a  queer  little 
girl  wnom  you  only  knew  for  a  few  weeks!  I  remember 
saying  to  you,  that  I  thought  you  cared  for  me  more  than 
Tom  did." 

"Ah,  Maggie," said  Philip,  almost  fretfully,  "you would 
never  love  me  so  well  as  you  love  your  brother." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Maggie,  simply;  "but  then,  you 
know,  the  first  thing  I  ever  remember  in  my  life  is  stand- 
ing with  Tom  by  the  side  of  the  Floss,  while  he  held  my 
hand:  everything  before  that  is  dark  to  me.  But  I  shall 
never  forget  you — though  we  mu&t.keep  apart." 

"Don't  say  so,  Maggie,'^  said  Riilip.  "If  I  kept  that 
little  girl  in  my  mind  for  five  years,  didn't  I  earn  some 
part  in  her?  She  ought  not  to  take  herself  quite  away 
from  me." 

"Not  if  I  were  free,"  said  Maggie;  '*but  I  am  not — I 
must  submit."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added, 
"  And  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  that  you  had  better  not  take 
more  notice  of  my  brother  than  just  bowing  to  him.  He 
once  told  me  not  to  speak  to  you  again,  and  he  doesn^t 

change  his  mind Oh  dear,  the  sun  is  set.    I  am  too  long 

away.     Good-bye."    She  gave  him  iter  hand  once  more. 

'*I  shall  come  here  as  often  as  I  can,  till  I  see  you  again, 
Maggie.     Have  some  feeling  for  me  as  well  as  for  others." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Maggie,  hurrying  away,  and 
quickly   aisappearing   behind    the    last    fir-tree;  though 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  293 

Philip^s  gaze  after  her  remained  immovable  for  minutes  as 
if  he  saw  her  still. 

Maggie  went  home,  with  an  inward  conflict  already 
begun;  Philip  went  home  to  do  nothing  but  remember  and 
hope.  You  can  hardly  help  blaming  him  severely.  He 
was  four  or  five  years  older  than  Maggie,  and  had  a  full 
consciousness  of  his  feeling  toward  her  to  aid  him  in  fore- 
seeing the  character  liis  contemplated  interviews  with  her 
would  bear  in  the  opinion  of  a  third  person.  But  you 
must  not  suppose  that  he  was  capable  of  a  gross  selfishness, 
or  that  he  could  have  been  satisfied  without  persuading 
himself  that  he  was  seeking  to  infuse  some  happiness  into 
Maggie^s  life — seeking  this  even  more  than  any  direct  ends 
for  himself.  He  could  give  her  sympathy — he  could  give 
her  help.  There  was  not  the  slightest  promise  of  love 
toward  him  in  her  manner;  it  was  nothing  more  than  the 
sweet  girlish  tenderness  she  had  shown  him  when  she  was 
twelve:  perhaps  she  would  never  love  him — ^perhaps  no 
woman  ev^r  could  love  him:  well,  then,  he  would  endure 
that;  he  should  at  least  have  the  happiness  of  seeing 
her — of  feeling  some  nearness  to  her.  And  he  clutched 
passionately  the  possibility  that  she  might  love  him: 
perhaps  the  feeling  would  grow,  if  she  could  come  to 
associate  him  with  that  watchful  tenderness  which  her 
nature  would  be  so  keenly  alive  to.  If  any  woman  could 
love  him,  surely  Maggie  was  that  woman:  there  was  such 
wealth  of  love  m  her,  and  there  was  no  one  to  claim  it  all. 
Then — the  pity  of  it,  that  a  mind  like  hers  should  be  with- 
ering in  its  very  youth,  like  a  young  forest-tree,  for  the 
want  of  the  light  and  space  it  was  formed  to  flourish  in! 
Could  he  not  hinder  that,  by  persuading  her  out  of  her 
system  of  privation?  He  would  be  her  guardian  angel;  he 
would  do  anything,  bear  anything,  for  her  sake — except 
not  seeing  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AUKT  GLEGG  LEARNS  THE  BREADTH  OF  BOB'S  THUMB. 

While  Maggie^s  life-struggles  had  lain  almost  entirely 
within  her  own  soul,  one  shadowy  army  fighting  another, 
and  the  slain  shadows  forever  rising  again,  Tom  was 
engaged   in   a   dustier,    noisier  warfare,   grappling   with 


Digitized  by  ^OOQ IC 


294  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

more  sabstantial  obstacles^  and  gaining  more  definite  con- 
quests. So  it  has  been  since  the  days  of  Hecuba,  and  of 
Hector,  Tamer  of  horses:  inside  the  gates,  the  women  with 
streaming  hair  and  uplifted  hands  offering  prayers,  watch- 
ing the  world^s  combat  from  afar,  filling  their  long,  empty 
days  with  memories  and  fears:  outside,  the  men,  in  fierce 
struggle  with  things  divine  and  human,  quenching  mem- 
ory m  the  stronger  light  of  purpose,  losing  the  sense  of 
dread  and  even  of  wounds  in  the  hurrying  ardor  of  action. 
From  what  you  have  seen  of  Tom,  I  think  he  is  not  a 
youth  of  whom  you  would  prophesy  failure  in  anything 
he  had  thoroughly  wished:  the  wagers  are  likely  to  be  on 
his  side,  notwithstanding  his  smdl  success  in  the  clas- 
sics. For  Tom  had  never  desired  success  in  this  field  of 
enterprise;  and  for  getting  a  fine  flourishing  growth  of 
stupidity  there  is  nothing  Tike  pouring  out  on  a  mind  a 
good  amount  of  subjects  in  which  it  feels  no  interest..  But 
now  Tom's  strong  will  bound  together  his  integrity,  his 
pride,  his  family  regrets,  and  his  personal  ambition,  and 
made  them  one  force,  concentrating  his  efforts  and  sur- 
mounting discouragements.  His  uncle  Deane,  who  watched 
him  closely,  soon  began  to  conceive  hopes  of  him,  and  to 
be  rather  proud  that  he  had  brought  into  the  employment 
of  the  firm  a  nephew  who  appeared  to  be  made  of  such 
good  commercial  stuff.  The  real  kindness  of  j)lacing  him 
in  the  warehouse  first  was  soon  evident  to  Tom,  in  the  hints 
his  uncle  began  to  throw  out,  that  after  a  time  he  might 
perhaps  be  trusted  to  travel  at  certain  seasons,  and  buy  in 
for  the  firm  various  vulgar  commodities  with  which  I  need 
not  shock  refined  ears  in  this  place;  and  it  was  doubtless 
with  a  view  to  this  result  that  Mr.  Deane,  when  he  expected 
to  take  his  wine  alone,  would  tell  Tom  to  step  in  and  sit 
with  him  an  hour,  and  would  pass  that  hour  in  much  lect- 
uring and  catechising  concerning  articles  of  export  and 
import,  with  an  occasional  excursus  of  more  indirect  util- 
ity on  the  relative  advantages  to  the  merchants  of  St.  Ogg^s 
of  having  goods  brought  m  their  own  and  in  foreign  bot- 
toms— a  subject  on  which  Mr.  Deane,  as  a  shipowner,  nat- 
urally threw  off  a  few  sparks  when  he  got  warmed  with 
talk  and  wine.  Already,  in  the  second  year,  Tom's  salary 
was  raised;  but  all,  except  the  price  of  his  dinner  and 
clothes,  went  home  into  the  tin  box;  and  he  shunned  com- 
radeship, lest  it  should  lead  him  into  expenses  in  spite  of 
himself.  Not  that  Tom  was  moulded  on  the  spooney  type 
of  the  Industrious  Apprentice;  he  had  a  very  strong'appe- 

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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  295 

tite  for  pleasure — would  have  liked  to  be  a  Tamer  of  horses 
and  to  make  a  distinguished  figure  in  all  neighboring  eyes, 
dispensing  treats  and  benefits  to  others  with  well-judged 
liberality,  and  being  pronounced  one  of  the  finest  young 
fellows  of  those  parts;  nay,  he  determined  to  achieve  these 
things  sooner  or  later;  but  his  practical  shrewdness  told 
him  that  the  means  to  such  acquirements  could  only  lie  for 
him  in  present  abstinence  and  self-denial:  there  were 
certain  milestones  to  be  passed,  and  one  of  the  first  was 
the  payment  of  his  father^s  debts.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  on  that  point,  he  strode  along  without  swerving,  con- 
tracting some  rather  saturnine  sternness,  as  a  young  man  is 
likely  to  do  who  has  a  premature  call  upon  him  tor  self- 
reliance.  Tom  felt  intensely  that  common  cause  with  his 
father  which  springs  from  family  pride,  and  was  bent  on 
being  irreproachable  as  a  son;  but  his  growing  experience 
caused  him  to  pass  much  silent  criticism  on  the  rashness 
and  imprudence  of  his  father's  past  conduct:  their  dispo 
sitions  were  not  in  sympathy,  and  Tom's  face  showed  little 
radiance  during  his  few  home  hours.  Maggie  had  an  awe  of 
him,  against  which  she  struggled  as  something  unfair  to 
her  consciousness  of  wider  thoughts  and  deeper  motives; 
but  it  was  of  no  use  to  struggle.  A  character  at  unity  with 
•  itself — that  performs  what  it  intends,  subdues  every  coun- 
teracting impulse,  and  has  no  visions  beyond  the  distinctly 
possible — is  strou]^  by  its  very  negations. 

You  may  imagine  that  Tom's  more  and  more  obvious 
unlikeness  to  his  father  was  well  fitted  to  conciliate  the 
maternal  aunts  and  uncles;  and  Mr.  Deane's  favorable 
reports  and  predictions  to  Mr.  Glegg  concerning  Tom's 
qualifications  for  business,  began  to  be  discussed  amongst 
them  with  various  ticceptance.  He  was  likely,  it  appeared, 
to  do  the  family  credit,  without  causing  it  any  expense 
and  trouble.  Mrs.  Pullet  had  always  thought  it  strange  if 
Tom's  excellent  complexion,  so  entirely  that  of  the  Dod- 
sons,  did  not  argue  a  certainty  that  he  would  turn  out 
well,  his  juvenile  errors  of  running  down  the  peacock,  and 
general  disrespect  to  his  aunts,  only  indicating  a  tinge  of 
TiiUiver  blood  which  he  had  doubtless  outgrown.  Mr. 
Glegg,  who  had  contracted  a  cautious  liking  for  Tom  ever 
since  his  spirited  and  sensible  behavior  when  the  execution 
was  in  the  house,  was  now  warming  into  a  resolution  to 
further  his  prospects  actively — some  time,  when  an  oppor- 
tunity offered  of  doing  so  in  a  prudent  manner,  without 
ultimate  loss;  but  Mrs.  Glegg  observed  that  she  was  not 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


296  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

given  to  speak  without  book,  as  some  people  were;  that 
those  who  said  least  were  most  likely  to  find  their  words 
made  good;  and  that  wlicn  the  right  moment  came,  it 
would  be  seen  who  could  do  something  better  than  talk. 
Uncle  Pullet,  after  silent  meditation  for  a  period  of  several 
lozenges,  came  distinctly  to  the  conclusion  that  when  a 
young  man  was  likely  to  do  well  it  was  better  not  to  meddle 
with  him. 

Tom,  meanwhile,  had  shown  no  disposition  to  rely  on 
any  one  but  himself,  though,  with  a  natural  sensitiveness 
toward  all  indications  of  favorable  opinion,  he  was  glad  to 
see  his  uncle  Glegg  look  in  on  him  sometimes  in  a  friendly 
way  during  business  hours,  and  glad  to  be  invited  to  dine 
at  his  house,  though  he  usually  preferred  declining  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  not  sure  of  being  punctual.  But  about 
a  year  ago,  something  had  occurred  which  induced  Tom 
to  test  his  uncle  Glegg's  friendly  disposition. 

Bob  Jakin,  who  rarely  returned  from  one  of  his  rounds 
without  seeing  Tom  and  Maggie,  awaited  him  on  the 
bridge  as  he  was  coming  home  from  St.  Ogg^s  one  evening 
that  they  might  have  a  little  private  talk.  He  took  the 
liberty  of  asking  if  Mr.  Tom  had  ever  thought  of  making 
money  by  trading  a  bit  on  his  own  account.  Trading, 
how?  Tom  wished  to  know.  Why,  by  sending  out  a  bit  of 
a  cargo  to  foreign  ports;  because  6ob  had  a  particular 
friend  who  had  offered  to  do  a  little  business  for  him  in 
that  way  in  Laceham  goods,  and  would  be  glad  to  serve 
Mr.  Tom  on  the  same  footing.  Tom  was  interested  at 
once,  and  begged  for  full  explanation;  wondering  he  had 
not  thought  of  this  plan  before.  He  Wiis  so  well  pleased 
with  the  prospect  of-  a  speculation  that  might  change  the 
slow  process  of  addition  into  multiplication,  that  he  at 
once  determined  to  mention  the  matter  to  his  father,  and 
get  his  consent  to  appropriate  some  of  the  savings  in  the 
tin  box  to  the  purchase  of  a  small  cargo.  He  would  rather 
not  have  consulted  his  father,  but  he  bad  just  paid  his  last 
quarter's  money  into  the  tin  box,  and  there  was  no  other 
resource.  All  the  savings  were  there,  for  Mr.  Tulliver 
would  not  consent  to  nut  the  money  out  at  interest  lest  he 
should  lose  it.  Since  ne  had  speculated  in  the  purchase  of 
some  corn,  and  had  lost  by  it,  he  could  not  be  easy  without 
keeping  the  money  under  his  eye. 

Tom  approached  the  subject  carefully,  as  he  was  seated 
on  the  hearth  with  his  father  that  evening,  and  Mr.  Tul- 
liver listened,  leaning  forward  in  his  arm-chair  and  looking 


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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  29? 

up  in  Tom's  face  with  a  skeptical  glance.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  give  a  positive  refusal,  but  he  was  in  some  awe  of 
Tom^s  wishes,  and  since  he  had  had  the  sense  of  being  an 
^'unlucky  ^^  father,  he  had  lost  some  of  his  old  peremptori- 
ness  and  determination  to  be  master.  He  took  the  key  of 
the  bureau  from  his  jjocket,  got  out  the  key  of  the  large 
chest,  and  fetched  down  the  tin  box  —  slowly,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  defer  the  moment  of  a  painful  parting.  Then  he 
seated  himself  against  the  table,  and  opened  the  box  with 
that  little  padlock-key  which  he  fingered  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  in  all  vacant  moments.  There  they  were,  the  dingy 
bank-notes  and  the  bright  sovereigns,  and  he  counted  them 
out  on  the  table — only  a  hundred  and  sixteen  pounds  in 
two  years,  after  all  the  pinching. 

"How  much  do  you  want,  then?^'  he  said,  speaking  as 
if  the  words  burned  his  lips. 

*'  Suppose  I  begin  with  the  thirty-six  pounds,  father  ?*' 
said  Tom. 

Mr.  Tulliver  separated  this  sum  from  the  rest,  and, 
keeping  his  hand  over  it,  said  — 

"  It's  as  much  as  I  can  save  out  o'  my  pay  in  a  year.^' 

'*  Yes,  father:  it  is  such  slow  work — saving  out  of  the 
little  money  we  get.  And  in  this  way  we  might  double  our 
savings." 

"  Ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  father,  keeping  his  hand  on  the 
money,  "  but  you  might  lose  it — you  might  lose  a  year  o' 
my  life — and  I  haven't  got  many." 

Tom  was  silent. 

"And  you  know  I  wouldn't  pay  a  dividend  with  the 
first  hundred,  because  I  wanted  to  see  it  all  in  a  lump — and 
when  I  see  it,  I'm  sure  on't.  If  you  trust  to  luck,  it's  sure 
to  be  against  me.  It's  Old  Harry's  got  the  luck  in  his 
hands;  and  if  I  lose  one  year,  I  shall  never  pick  '4,  up  again; 
death  'ull  o'ertake  me." 

Mr.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled,  and  Tom  was  silent  for  a 
few  minutes  before  he  said  — 

"  I'll  ffive  it  up,  father,  since  you  object  to  it  so 
strongly. ' 

But,  unwilling  to  abandon  the  scheme  altogether,  he 
determined  to  ask  his  uncle  Olegg  to  venture  twenty 
pounds,  on  condition  of  receiving  five  per  cent  of  the 
profits.  That  was  really  a  very  small  thing  to  ask.  So 
when  Bob  called  the  next  day  at  the  wharf  to  know  the 
decision,  Tom  proposed  that  they. should  go  together  to 
his  uncle  Glegg's  to  open  the  business;  for  his  diffident 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


298  THE  MILL  Oir  THE  FLOSS. 

pride  clung  to  him,  and  made  him  feel  that  BoVs  tongue 
would  relieve  him  from  some  embarrassment. 

Mr.  Gleffg,  at  the  pleasant  hour  of  four  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  hot  August  day,  was  naturally  eounting^  his  wall- 
fruit  to  assure  himself  that  the  sum  total  had  not  varied 
since  yesterday.  To  him  entered  Tom,  in  what  ap- 
peared to  Mr.  Glegg  very  questionable  companionship: 
that  of  a  man  with  a  pack  on  his  back  —  for  Bob  was 
equipped  for  a  new  journey — and  of  a  huge  brindled 
bull-terrier,  who  walked  with  a  slow  swaying  movement 
from  side  to  side,  and  glanced  from  under  his  eyelids  with 
a  surly  indifference  which  might  after  all  be  a  cover  to 
the  most  offensive  designs.  Mr.  Glegg's  spectacles,  which 
had  been  assisting  him  in  counting  the  fruit,  made  these 
suspicious  details  alarmingly  evident  to  him. 

"Heigh!  heigh!  keep  that  dog  back,  will  you?"  he 
shouted,  snatching  up  a  stake  and  holding  it  before  him 
as  a  shield  when  the  visitors  were  within  three  yards  of 
him. 

"Get  out  wi'  you.  Mumps,"  said  Bob,  with  a  kick. 
"He^s  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  sir," — an  observation  which 
Mumps  corroborated  by  a  low  growl  as  he  retreated 
behind  his  master's  legs. 

"Why,  whatever  does  this  mean,  Tom?"  said  Mr. 
Glegg.  "  Have  you  brought  information  about  the 
scoundrels  as  cut  my  trees?"  If  Bob  came  in  the  char- 
acter of  "information,"  Mr.  Glegg  saw  reasoiis  for  toler- 
ating some  irregularity. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Tom;  "1  came  to  speak  to  you  about  a 
little  matter  of  business  of  my  own.^' 

"Ay — well;  but  what  has  this  dog  got  to  do  with  it?" 
said  the  old  gentleman,  getting  mild  again. 

"IVs  my  dog,  sir,"  said  the  ready  Bob.  "An'  it^s  me 
as  put  Mr.  Tom  up  to  the  bit  o'  business;  for  Mr.  Tom's 
been  a  friend  o*  mine  iver  since  I  was  a  little  chap:  fust 
thing  iver  I  did  was  frightenin'  the  birds  for  th'  old 
master.  An'  if  a  bit  o'  luck  turns  up,  I'm  allays  thinkin' 
if  I  can  let  Mr.  Tom  have  a  pull  at  it.  An'  it's  a  down- 
right roarin'  shame,  as  when  he's  got  the  chance  o'  making 
a  bit  o'  money  Avi'  sending  goods  out — ten  or  twelve  per 
zent  clear,  when  freight  an'  commission's  paid — as  he 
shouldn't  lay  hold  o'  the  chance  for  want  o'  money.  An' 
when  there's  the  Laceham  goods — lors!  they're  made  o' 
purpose  for  folks  as  want  to  send  out  a  little  carguy;  light, 
an'  take  up  no  room — you  may  pack  twenty  pound  so  as 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  299 

yon  can't  see  the  passill:  an^he/re  manafactnrs  as  please 
fools,  so  I  reckon  they  aren't  like  to  want  a  market..  An' 
I'd  go  to  Laceham  an'  buy  in  the  goods  for  Mr.  Tom 
along  wi'  my  own.  An'  there's  the  shupercargo  o'  the  bit 
of  a  vessel  as  is  goin'  to  take  'em  out.  I  know  him  par- 
tic'lar;  he's  a  solid  man,  an'  got  a  family  i'  the  town  here. 
Salt,  his  name  is — an'  a  briny  chap  he  is  too  —  an'  if  you 
don't  believe  me,  I  can  take  you  to  him." 

Uncle  Glegg  stood  open-mouthed  with  astonishment  at 
this  unembarrassed  loquacity,  with  which  his  under- 
standing could  hardly  keep  pace.  He  looked  at  Bob,  first 
over  his  spectacles,  then  through  them,  then  over  them 
again;  while  Tom,  doubtful  of  his  uncle's  impression, 
began  to  wish  he  had  not  brought  this  singular  Aaron  or 
mouthpiece:  Bob's  talk  appeared  less  seemly,  now  some 
one  besides  himself  was  listening  to  it. 

"You  seem  to  be  a  knowing  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  at 
last. 

"Ay,  sir,  you  say  true,"  returned  Bob,  nodding  his 
head  aside;  "I  think  my  head's  all  alive  inside  like  an 
old  cheese,  for  I'm  so  full  o'  plans,  one  knocks  another 
over.  If  I  hadn't  Mumps  to  talk  to,  I  should  get  top- 
heavy  an'  tumble  in  a  fit.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  niver 
went  to  school  much.  That's  what  I  jaw  my  old  mother 
for.  I  says,  *  You  should  ha'  sent  me  to  school  a  bit  more,' 
I  says — 'an'  then  I  could  ha'  read  i'  the  books  like  fun,  an' 
kep  my  head  cool  an'  empty.'  Lors,  she's  fine  an'  comfor'ble 
now,  my  old  mother  is:  she  ates  her  baked  meat  an'  taters 
as  often  as  she  likes.  For  I'm  getting  so  full  o'  money,  I 
must  hev  a  wife  to  spend  it  for  me  .  But  it's  botherin ',  a 
wife  is — and  Mumps  mightn't  like  her." 

Uncle  Glegff,  who  regarded  himself  as  a  jocose  man  since 
hq  had  retired  from  business,  was  beginning  to  find  Bob 
amusing,  but  he  had  still  a  disapproving  observation  to 
make,  which  kept  his  face  serious. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  I  should  think  you're  at  a  loss  for  ways 
o'  spending  your  money,  else  vou  wouldn't  keep  that  big 
dog,  to  eat  as  much  as  two  Christians.  It's  shameful  — 
shameful!"  But  he  spoke  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
and  quickly  added — 

"But,  come  now,  let's  hear  more  about  this  business, 
Tom.  I  suppose  you  want  a  little  sum  to  make  a  venture 
with.  But  wnere's  all  your  own  money?  You  don't  spend 
it  all— eh? 

"No,   sir,"  said    Tom,   coloring;  "but  my  father  is 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


N 
300  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

unwilling  to  risk  it,  and  I  don^t  like  to  press  him.  If  I 
could  get  twenty  or  thirty  pounds  to  begin  with,  I  could 
pay  five  per  cent,  for  it,  and  then  I  could  gradually  make 
a  little  capital  of  my  own,  and  do  without  a  loan/' 

'*Ay ay,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  an  approving  tone; 

*nhat*s  not  a  bad  notion,  and  I  won't  say  as  1  wouldn't  be 
your  man.    But  it  'nil  be  as  well  for  me  to  see  this  Salt,  as 

you  talk  on.     And  then here's  this  friend  o'  yours 

offers  to  buy  the  goods  for  you.  Perhaps  you've  got  some- 
body to  stand  surety  for  you  if  the  money's  put  into  your 
hands?"  added  the  cautious  old  gentleman,  looking  over 
his  spectacles  at  Bob. 

"  I  don't  think  that's  necessary,  uncle,"  said  Tom.  **  At 
least,  I  mean  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  me,  because  I 
know  Bob  well;  but  perhaps  it  would  be  right  for  you  to 
have  some  security." 

*' You  get  your  percentage  out  o'  the  purchase,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  Mr.  Giegg,  looking  at  Bob. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Bob,  rather  indignantly;  "  I  didn't  offer 
to  get  a  appel  for  Mr.  Tom,  o'  purpose  to  hev  a  bite  out  of 
it  myself.  When  I  play  folks  tricks  there'll  be  more  fun 
in  'em  nor  that." 

"Well,  but  it's  nothing  but  right  you  should  have  a 
small  percentage,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  I've  no  opinion  o' 
transactions  where  folks  do  things  for  nothing.  It  allays 
looks  bad." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Bob,  whose  keenness  saw  at  once 
what  was  implied,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  get  bv't,  an'  it's 
money  in  my  pocket  in  the  end: — I  make  myself  look  big, 
wi'  makin'  a  Digger  purchase.  That's  what  I'm  thinking 
on.     Lors!  I'm  a  'cute  chap — I  am." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  a  severe  voice  from  the 
open  parlor  window,  "  pray  are  you  coming  in  to  tea? —  or 
are  you  going  to  stand  talking  with  packmen  till  you  get 
murdered  in  the  open  daylight?" 

"Murdered?"  said  Mr.  Glegg;  "what's  the  woman 
talking  of  ?  Here's  your  nephey  Tom  come  about  a  bit  o' 
business." 

"Murdered — ^yes — it  isn't  many  'sizes  ago  since  a  pack- 
man murdered  a  young  woman  in  a  lone  place,  and  stole 
her  thimble,  and  threw  her  body  into  a  ditch." 

"Nay,  pay," said  Mr.  Glegg,  soothingly,  "you're  think- 
ing o'  tlie  man  wi'  no  legs,  as  drove  a  dog-cart." 

"  Well,  it's  the  same  thing,  Mr.  Glegg — only  you're  fond 
o'  contradicting  what  I  say;  and  if  my  nephey's  come  about 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  301 

business^  it  'ud  be  more  fitting  if  you'd  bring  him  into  the 
house  and  let  his  aunt  know  about  it,  instead  o'  whispering 
in  corners,  in  that  plotting,  undermining  way." 

*'  Well,  well,''  said  Mr.  Glegg,  *' we'll  come  in  now.'' 

^*  You  needn't  stay  here,"  said  the  lady  to  Bob,  in  a  loud 
Yoice,  adapted  to  the  moral  not  the  physical  distance  be- 
tween them.  "We  don't  want  anything.  I  don't  deal 
wi'  packmen.     Mind  you  shut  the  gate  after  you." 

'*  Stop  a  bit;  not  so  fast,"  said  Mr.  Glegg:  "I  haven't 
done  with  this  young  man  yet.  Come  in,  Tom;  come  in," 
he  added,  stepping  in  at  the  French  window. 

''Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  6.,  in  a  fatal  tone,  "if  you're 
going  to  let  that  man  and  his  dog  in  on  my  carpet,  before 
my  very  face,  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know.  A  wife's  got 
a  right  to  ask  that,  1  hope." 

"  Don't  you  be  uneasy,  mum,"  said  Bob,  touching  his 
cap.  He  saw  at  once  that  Mrs.  Glegg  was  a  bit  of  game 
worth  running  down,  and  longed  to  be  at  the  sport;  "we'll 
stay  out  upo'  the  gravel  here — Mumps  and  me  will. 
Mumps  knows  his  company — he  does.  I  might  hish  at 
him  by  th'  hour  together,  before  he'd  fly  at  a  real  gentle- 
woman like  you.  It's  wonderful  how  he  knows  which  is 
the  good-looking  ladies — and's  partic'lar  fond  of  'em 
when  they've  good  shapes.  Lors!"  added  Bob,  laying 
down  his  pack  on  the  gravel,  "it's  a  thousand  pities  such  a 
lady  as  you  shouldn't  deal  with  a  packman,  i'stead  o'  goin' 
into  these  newfangled  shops,  where  there's  half-a-dozen 
fine  gents  wi'  their  chins  propped  up  wi'  a  stiff  stock, 
a-looking  like  bottles  wi'  ornamental  stoppers,  an'  all  got 
to  get  their  dinner  out  of  a  bit  o'  calico:  it  stan's  to  reason 
you  must  pay  three  times  the  price  you  pay  a  packman,  as 
18  the  nat'ral  way  o'  ffettin'  goods — ^an'  pays  no  rent,  an' 
isn't  forced  to  throttle  himself  till  the  lies  are  squeezed 
out  on  him,  whether  he  will  or  no.  But  lors!  mum,  you 
know  what  it  is  better  nor  I  do — you  can  see  through  them 
shopmen.  111  be  bound." 

"Yes,  I.  reckon  I  can,  and  through  the  packmen  too," 
observed  Mrs.  Glegg,  intending  to  imply  that  Bob's  flat- 
tery had  produced  no  effect  on  her;  while  her  husband, 
standing  behind  her  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
legs  apart,  winked  and  smiled  with  conjugal  delight  at 
the  probability  of  his  wife's  being  circumvented. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "  Why,  you  must 
ha'  deaJt  wi'  no  end  o'  packmen  when  you  war"  a  young 
lass — before  the  master  nere  had  the  luck  to  set  eyes  on 


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THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

you.  I  know  where  you  lived,  I  do — seen  th*  house  many 
a  time — close  upon  Squire  Darleigh's — a  stone  house  wi* 
steps '' 

**  Ah,  that  it  had,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  pouring  out  the  tea. 

"  You  know  something  o'  my  family,  then ^are  you 

akin  to  that  packman  with  a  squint  in  his  eye,  as  used  to 
bring  the  Irish  linen?" 

*^  Look  you  there  now!"  said  Bob,  evasively.  ^'Didn't 
I  know  as  you'd  remember  the  best  bargains  you>e  made  in 
your  life  was  made  with  packmen?  Why,  you  see,  even  a 
squintin'  packman's  better  nor  a  shopman  as  can  see 
straight.  Lors!  if  I'd  had  the  luck  to  call  at  the  stone 
house  wi'  my  pack,  as  lies  here," — stooping  and  thumping 
the  bundle  emphatically  with  his  fist, — '^  an'  th'  handsome 
young  lasses  all  stannin'  out  on  the  stone  steps,  it  'ud  ha' 
been  summat  like  openin'  a  pack — ^that  would.  It's  on'y 
the  poor  houses  now  as  a  packman  calls  on,  if  it  isn't  for 
the  sake  o'  the  sarvant  maids.  They're  paltry  times — these 
are.  Why,  mum,  look  at  the  printed  cottons  now,  an' 
what  they  was  when  you  wore  'em — why,  you  wouldn't  put 
such  a  thing  on  now,  I  can  see.  It  must  be  first-rate 
quality — the  manifactur  as  you'd  buy — summat  as  'ud  wear 
as  well  as  your  own  faitures." 

"Yes,  better  quality  nor  any  you're  like  to  carry:  you've 

fot  nothing  first-rate  but  brazenness,  I'll  be  bound,"  said 
Irs.  Glegg,  with  a  triumphant  sense  of  her  insurmountable 
sagacity.  "  Mr.  Glegg,  are  you  going  ever  to  sit  down  to 
your  tea?    Tom,  there's  a  cup  for  you." 

"You  speak  true  there,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "My  pack 
isn't  for  ladies  like  you.  The  time's  gone  by  for  that. 
Bargains  picked  up  dirt  cheap!  A  bit  o  damage  here  an* 
there,  as  can  be  cut  out,  or  else  niver  seen  i'  the  wearin'; 
but  not  fit  to  offer  rich  folks  as  can  pay  for  the  look  o' 
things  as  nobody  sees.  I'm  not  the  man  as  'ud  offer  t' 
open  my  pack  to  yoUy  mum:  no,  no;  I'm  a  imperent  chap, 
as  you  say — these  times  makes  folks  imperent — but  I'm 
not  up  to  mark  o'  that." 

"Why,  what  goods  do  you  carry  in  your  pack?"  said 
Mrs.  Glegg.  "  Fine-colored  things,  I  suppose — shawls  an' 
that?" 

"  All  sorts,  mum,  all  sorts,"  said  Bob,  thumping  his 
bundle;  "but  let  us  say  no  more  about  that,  if  you  please. 
I'm  here  upo'  Mr.  Tom's  business,  an'  I'm  not  the  man  to 
take  up  the  time  wi'  my  own." 

"And  pray,  what  is  this  business  as  is  to  be  kept  from 


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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  303 

me? ''said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who,  solicited  by  a  double  curiosity, 
was  obliged  to  let  the  one  half  wait. 

**A  little  plan  o'  nephcy  Tom's  here,"  said  good-natured 
Mr.  Glcgg;  ''and  not  altogether  a  bad  un,  I  think.  A 
little  plan  for  making  money:  that's  the  right  sort  o'  plan 
for  young  folks  as  nave  got  their  fortin  to  make,  eh, 
Jane?" 

'*  But  I  hope  it  isn't  a  plan  where  he  expects  ivery- 
thing  to  be  done  for  him  by  his  friends:  that's  what  the 
young  folks  think  of  mostly  nowadays.  And  pray, 
what  has  this  packman  got  do  wi'  what  goes  on  in  our 
family?  Can't  you  speak  for  yourself.  Tom,  and  let  your 
aunt  know  things,  as  a  nephey  should?" 

''  This  is  Bob  Jakin,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  bridling  the  irri- 
tation tbat  aunt  Glegg's  voice  always  produced.  ''I've 
known  him  ever  since  we  were  little  boys.  He's  a  very 
good  fellow,  and  always  ready  to  do  me  a  kindness.  And 
he  has  had  some  experience  in  sending  goods  out — a  small 
part  of  a  cargo  as  a  private  speculation;  and  he  thinks 
that  if  I  could  begin  to  do  a  little  in  the  same  way,  I  might 
make  some  money.     A  large  interest  is  got  in  that  way." 

"Large  int'rest!"  said  aunt  Glegg,  with  eagerness; 
^'and  what  do  you  call  large  int'rest?" 

"  Ten  or  twelve  per  cent.  Bob  says,  after  expenses  are 
paid." 

"  Then  why  wasn't  I  let  to  know  o'  such  things  before, 
Mr.  Glegg?"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  turning  to  her  husband, 
with  a  deep  grating  tone  of  reproach.  "Haven't  you 
allays  told  me  as  there  was  no  getting  more  nor  five  per 
cent?" 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  nonsense,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg.  "  xou  couldn't  go  into  trade,  could  you?  You 
can't  get  more  than  five  per  cent  with  security." 

"But  I  can  turn  a  bit  o'  money  for  you,  an'  welcome, 
mum,"  said  Bob,  "if  you'd  like  to  risk  it — not  as  there's 
any  risk  to  speak  on.  But  if  you'd  a  mind  to  lend  a  bit  o' 
money  to  Mr.  Tom,  he'd  pay  you  six  or  seven  per  zent,  an'^ 
get  a  trifle  for  himself  as  well;  an'  a  good  natur'd  lady  like 
you  'ud  like  to  feel  o'  the  money  better  if  your  nephey 
took  part  on  it." 

"What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  G.?'*  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "I've 
a  notion,  when  I've  made  a  bit  more  inquiry,  as  I  shall 
perhaps  start  Tom  here  with  a  bit  of  a  nest-egg — hell  pay 
me  int'rest  jou  know — an'  if  you've  got  some  little  sums 
lyin'  idle  tAvisted  up  in  a  stockin'  toe,  or  that — — " 


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304  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"Mr.  Glegg,  it's  beyond  iverythiing!  You'll  go  and  "give 
information  to  the  tramps  next,  as  they  may  come  and 
rob  me," 

"  Well,  well,  as  I  was  savin',  if  you  like  to  join  me  wi' 
twenty  pounds,  you  can — I'll  make  it  fifty.  That'll  be  a 
pretty  good  nest-egg — eh,  Tom?" 

"  You're  not  counting  on  me,  Mr.  Glegg,  I  hope,"  said 
his  wife.  "You  could  do  fine  things  wi'  my  money,  I 
don't  doubt." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  rather  snappishlv,  "  then 
we'll  do  without  you.  I  shall  go  with  you  to  see  this  Salt," 
he  added,  turning  to  Bob. 

"  And  now,  I  suppose  you'll  go  all  the  other  way,  Mr. 
Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "and  want  to  shut  me  out  o'  my 
own  nephey's  business.  I  never  said  I  wouldn't  put  my 
money  mto  it — I  don't  say  as  it  shall  be  twenty  pounds, 
though  you're  so  ready  to  say  it  for  me — but  he'll  see  some 
day  a3  his  aunt's  in  the  right  not  to  risk  the  money  she's 
saved  for  him  till  it's  proved  as  it  won't  be  lost." 

"Ay,  that's  a  pleasant  sort  o'  risk,  that  is,"  said  ^Mr. 
Glegg,  indiscreetly  winking  at  Tom,  who  couldn't  avoid 
smiling.     But  Bob  stemmed  the  injured  lady's  outburst. 

"Ay,  mum,"  he  said,  admiringly,  "you  know  what's 
what— you  do.  An'  it's  nothing  but  fair.  You  see 
how  the  first  bit  of  a  job  answers,  an' then  you'll  come 
down  handsome.  Lors,  it's  a  fine  thing  to  hev  good  kin! 
I  got  my  bit  of  a  nest-egg,  as  the  master  calls  it,  all  by  my 
own  sharpness — ^ten  suvreigns  it  was — wi'  dousing  the  fire 
at  Terry's  mill,  an'  it's  growed  an'  growed  by  a  bit  an'  a 
bit,  till  I'n  got  a  matter  o'  thirty  pound  to  lay  out,  besides 
makin'  my  mother  comfor'ble.  I  should  get  more,  on'y 
I'm  such  a  soft  wi'  the  women — I  can't  help  lettin'  'em 
hev  such  good  bargains.  Therms  this  bundle,  now" 
(thumping  it  lustily),  "any  other  chap  'ud  make  a  pretty 

penny  out  on  it.     But  me! lors,  I  shall  sell  'em  for 

pretty  near  what  I  paid  for  'em." 

•  "  Have  you  got  a  bit  of  good  net,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
in  a  patronizing  tone,  moving  from  the  tea-table,  and  fold- 
ing her  napkin. 

"  Eh,  mum,  not  what  you'd  think  it  worth  your  while 
to  look  at.  I'd  scorn  to  show  it  you.  It  'ud  be  an  insult 
to  you." 

*'But  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  still  patronizing. 
"  If  they're  damaged  goods,  they're  like  enougn  to  be  a  bit 
the  better  quality." 


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WHEAT  AND   TARES.  305 

*^  No,  mum.  I  know  my  place,"  said  Bob,  lifting  up 
his  pack  and  shouldering  it.  **  Vm  not  going  t'  expose  the 
lowness  o'  my  trade  to  a  kidy  like  you.  Packs  is  come 
down  i^  the  world :  it  *ud  cut  you  to  the  heart  to  sec  the 
difference.  I'm  at  your  sarvice,  sir,  when  youVe  a  mind  to 
go  and  see  Salt." 

**A11  in  good  time,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  really  unwilling 
to  cut  short  the  dialogue.  '*  Are  you  wanted  at  the  wharf, 
Tom?" 

'^No,  sir;  I  left  Stowe  in  mv  place." 

'^  Come,  put  down  your  pact,  and  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  seating  herself 
with  much  dignity. 

"  Don't  you  ask  it,  mum,"  said  Bob,  entreatingly. 

*'Make  no  more  words,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  *'but 
do  as  I  tell  you." 

*^Eh,  mum,  I'm  loth — that  I  am,"  said  Bob,  slowly 
depositing  his  pack  on  the  step,  and  beginning  to  untie  it 
with  unwilling  fingers.  ''But  what  you  order  shall  be 
done"  (much  fumbling  in  pauses  between  the  sentences). 

''It's  not. as  you'll  buy  a  single  thing  on  me I'd  be 

sorry  for  you  to  do  it for  think  o  them  poor  women 

up  i'  the  villages  there,  as  niver  stir  a  hundred  yards  from 

home it  'ud  be  a  pity  for  anybody  to  buy  up  their 

bargains.  Lors,  it's  as  good  as  a  junketing  to  ^em  to  sec 
me  wi'  my  pack an'  I  shall  niver  pick  up  such  bar- 
gains for  ^em  again.  Leastways,  I've  no  time  now,  for  I'm 
off  to  Laceham.  See  here,  now,"  Bob  went  on,  becoming 
rapid  again,  and  holding  up  a  scarlet  woolen  kerchief  with 
an  embroidered  wreath  in  the  corner;  "here's  a  thing  to 
make  a  lass's  mouth  water,  an'  on'y  two  shillin' — an^  why? 
Why,  'cause  there's  a  bit  of  a  moth-hole  i'  this  plain  end. 
Lors,  I  think  the  moths  an'  the  mildew  was  sent  by  Provi- 
dence o^  purpose  to  cheapen  the  goods  a  bit  for  the  good- 
lookin'  women  as  han't  got  much  money.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  moths,  now,  every  hankicher  on  'em  'ud  ha' 
gone  to  the  rich,  handsome  ladies,  like  you,  mum,  at 
five  shillin'  apiece — not  a  farthin'  less;  but  what  does 
the  moth  do?  Why,  it  nibbles  off  three  shillin'  o'  the 
price  i'  no  time,  an'  then  a  packman  like  me  can  carry  't 
to  the  poor  lasses  as  live  under  the  dark  thack,  to  make  a 
bit  of  a  blaze  for  'em.  Lors,  it's  as  good  as  a  fire  to  look 
at  such  a  hankicher." 

Bob  held  it  at  a  distance  for  admiration,  but  Mrs.  Gle^^ 
said  sharply — : 
80 

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306  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

"Yes,  but  nobody  wants  a  fire  this  time  o'  year.  Put 
these  colored  things  by — ^let  me  look  at  your  nets,  if  youVe 
got  'em." 

**  Eh,  mum,  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be,''  said  Bob,  fling- 
ing aside  the  colored  things  with  an  air  of  desperation. 
**  I  knowed  it  'ud  turn  again'  you  to  look  at  such  paltry 
articles  as  I  carry.  Here's  a  piece  o'  figured  muslin  now — 
what's  the  use  o'  you  lookin'  at  it?  You  might  as  well 
look  at  poor  folks's  victual,  mum — it  'ud  on'y  take  away 
your  appetite.  There's  a  yard  i'  the  middle  on't  as  the 
pattern's  all  missed — ^lors,  why  it's  a  muslin  as  the  Princess 
Victoree  might  ha'  wore — but,"  added  Bob,  flinging  it 
behind  him  on  to  the  turf,  as  if  to  save  Mrs.  Glegg's  eyes, 
**  it'll  be  bought  up  by  the  huckster's  wife-at  Fibb's  End — 
tliat's  where  it'll  go — ^ten  shillin'  for  the  whole  lot — ten 
yards,  countin'  the  damaged  un— five-'an-twenty  shillin' 
ud  ha'  been  the  price — not  a  penny  less.  But  I'll  say  no 
more,  mum;  it's  nothing  to  you — a  piece  o'  muslin  like  that; 
you  can  afford  to  pay  three  times  tne  money  for  a  thing  as 
isn't  half  so  good.  It's  nets  you  talked  on;  well,  I've  got 
a  piece  as  'ull  serve  you  to  make  fun  on " 

**  Bring  me  that  muElin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg:  "it's  a  buff — 
I'm  partial  to  buff." 

"  Eh,  but  a  damaged  thing,"  said  Bob,  in  a  tone  of 
deprecating  disgust.  "  You'd  do  nothing  with  it,  mum — 
you'd  give  it  to  the  cook,  I  know  you  would — an'  it  'ud  be 
a  pity — she'd  look  too  much  like  a  lady  in  it — it's  unbe- 
coming for  servants." 

"Fetch  it,  and  let  me  see  you  measure  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  authoritatively. 

Bob  obeyed  with  ostentatious  reluctance. 

"  See  what  there  is  over  measure! "  he  said,  holding  forth 
the  extra  half-yard,  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  busy  examining 
t  he  damaged  yard,  and  throwing  her  head  bacK  to  see  how 
far  the  fault  would  be  lost  on  a  distant  view. 

"I'll  give  you  six  shilling  for  it,"  she  said,  throwing 
it  down  with  the  air  of  a  person  who  mentions  an  ulti- 
matum. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  now,  mum,  as  it  'ud  hurt  your  feel- 
ings to  look  at  my  pack?  That  damaged  bit's  turned  your 
stomach  now — I  see  it  has,"  said  Bob,  wrapping  the  mus- 
lin up  with  the  utmost  quickness,  and  apparently  about  to 
fasten  up  his  pack.  "  You're  used  to  seein'  a  different 
sort  o'  article  carried  by  packmen,  when  you  lived  at  the 
gtone  bouse.     Packs  is  com^  dpwn  i'  the  world;  I  told  you 

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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  307 


that:  my  goods  are  for  common  folks.  Mrs.  Pepper'll  give 
me  ten  shiUin'  for  that  muslin,  an'  be  sorry  as  1  didn't  ask 
her  more.  Snch  articles  answer  i'  the  wearin' — ^they  keep 
their  color  till  the  threads  melt  away  i'  the  wash-tub,  an' 
that  won't  be  while  jPm  a  young  un.'^ 

'^  Well,  seven  shillings,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

'*  Put  it  out  o'  your  mind,  mum,  now  do,"  said  Bob. 
^^  Here's  a  bit  o'  net,  then,  for  you  to  look  at  before  I  tie 
up  my  pack:  just  for  you  to  see  what  my  trade's  come  to: 
spotted  and  sprigged,  you  see,  beautiful,  but  yallow — 's 
been  lyin'  by  an' got  the  wrong  color,  I  could  niver  lia 
bought  such  net,  if  it  hadn't  been  yallow.  Lors,  it's  took 
me  a  deal  o'  study  to  know  the  valley  o'  such  articles;  when 
I  begun  to  carry  a  pack,  I  was  as  ignirant  as  a  pig — net  or 
calico  was  all  the  same  to  me.  I  thought  them  things  the 
most  vally  as  was  the  thickest.  I  was  took  in  dreadful — 
for  I'm  a  straightforrard  chap — up  to  no  tricks,  mum.  I 
can  on'y  say  my  nose  is  my  own,  i(ft  if  I  went  beyond,  I 
should  lose  myself  pretty  quick.     An'  I  gev  five-an'-eight- 

rmce  for  that  piece  o'  net — if  I  was  to  tell  y'  anything  else 
should^e  tellin'  you  fibs:  an'  five-an'-eightpence  I  shall 
ask  for  it — ^not  a  penny  more — for  it's  a  woman's  article, 
an'  I  like  to  'commodate  the  women.  Five-an'-eightpence 
for  six  yards — as  cheap  as  if  it  was  only  the  dirt  on  it  as 
was  paid  for." 

"  1  don't  mind  having  three  yards  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"Why,  there's  but  six  altogether,"  said  Bob.  **No, 
mum,  it  isn't  worth  your  while;  you  can'  go  to  the  shop 
to-morrow  an'  get  the  same  pattern  ready  whitened.  It's 
on'y  three  times  the  money — what's  that  to  a  lady  like 
you?"    He  gave  an  emphatic  tie  to  his  bundle. 

**Oome,  lay  me  out  that  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 
'*  Here's  eight  shilling  for  it." 

"You  will  be  jokin',  mum,"  said  Bob,  looking  up  with 
a  laughing  face;  "I  see'd  you  was  a  pleasant  lady  when  I 
fust  come  to  the  winder." 

"Well,  put  it  me  out,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  peremptorily. 

"But  if  I  let  you  have  it  for  ten  shillin',  mum,  you'll  be 
so  good  as  not  tell  nobody.  I  should  be  a  laiighin'-stock — 
the  trade  'ud  hoot  me,  if  they  knowed  it.  I'm  obliged  to 
make  believe  as  I  ask  more  nor  I  do  for  my  goods,  else 
they'd  find  out  I  wos  a  flat.  I'm  glad  you  don't  insist  upo' 
buyin'  the  net,  for  then  I  should  ha'  lost  my  two  best  bar- 
gains for  Mrs.  Pepper  o'  Fibb's  End — an'  she's  a  rare 
customer/' 

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SOS  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  net  again/^  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  yearn- 
ing after  the  cheap  spots  and  sprigs,  now  they  were  van- 
ishing. 

"Well,  I  can't  deny  you,  mum,"  said  Bob,  handing  it 
out.  "  Eh !  see  what  a  pattern  now !  Real  Laceham  goods. 
Now,  this  is  the  sort  o'  article  I'm  recommendin'  Mr.  Tom 
to  send  out.  Lors,  it's  a  fine  thing  for  anybody  as  has  got 
a  bit  o'  money — these  Laceham  goods  'ud  make  it  breed 
like  maggits.  If  I  was  a  lady  wi'  a  bit  o'  money! — why,  I 
know  one  as  put  thirty  pound  into  tliem  goods — a  lady  wi' 
a  cork  log;  but  as  sliarp— you  wouldn't  catch  her  runnin' 
her  head  into  a  sack:  she'd  see  her  way  clear  out  o'  any- 
thing afore  she'd  be  in  a  hurry  to  start.  Well,  she  let  out 
thirty  pound  to  a  young  man  m  the  drapering  line,  and  he 
laid  it  out  i'  Laceham  goods,  an'  a  shupercargo  o'  my 
acquinetance  (not  Salt)  took  'em  out,  an'  she  got  her  eight 
per  zent  fust  go  off — ^an'  now  you  can't  hold  ner  but  she 
must  be  sondm'  out  carguies  wi'  every  ship,  till  she's 
gettin'  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  Bucks  her  name  is — she  doesn't 
live  i'  this  town.  Now  then,  mum,  if  youll  please  to  give 
me  the  net "  #  * 

"  Here's  fifteen  shilling,  then,  for  the  two,"  said  Mrs. 
Crle^.     "But  it's  a  shameful  price." 

"Nay,  mum,  you'll  niver  say  that  when  you're  upo'  your 
knees  i  church  i'  five  years'  time.  I'm  niakin'  you  a  pres- 
ent o'  th'  articles — I  am,  indeed.  That  eightpence  shaves 
off  ray  profit  as  clean  as  a  razor.  Now  then,  sir,"  contin- 
ued Bob,  shouldering  his  pack^  "if  you  please,  I'll  be  glad 
to  go  and  see  about  makin'  Mr.  Tom's  fortin.  Eh,  I  wish 
I'd  got  another  twenty  pound  to  lay  out  for  mj/sen:  I 
shouldn't  stay  to  say  my  Catechism  aiore  I  knowed  what 
to  do  wi't." 

"Stop  a  bit,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  the  lady,  as  her  husband 
took  his  hat,  ^*'you  never  toill  give  me  the  chance  o'  speak- 
ing. You'll  go  away  now,  and  finish  everything  about 
this  business,  and  come  back  and  tell  me  it's  too  late  for 
me  to  speak.  As  if  I  wasn't  my  nephey's  own  aunt,  and  th' 
head  o  the  family  on  his  mother's  side!  and  laid  by 
guineas,  all  full  weight,  for  him — as  he'll  know  who  to 
respect  when  J'm  laid  in  my  coffin." 

"Well,  Mrs.  G.,  say  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  G., 
hastily. 

"Well,  then,  I  desire  as  nothing  may  be  done  without 
my  knowing.  I  don't  say  as  I  shan't  venture  twenty 
pounds^  if  you  mak^  out  as  everything's  right  ^ud  safe. 

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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  309 

And  if  I  do,  Tom,"  concluded  Mrs.  Glegg  turning  impress 
sively  to  her  nephew,  **  I  hope  you'll  allays  bear  it  in  mind 
and  be  grateful  for  such  an  aunt.  I  mean  you  to  pay  me 
interest,  you  know — I  don't  approve  o'  giving;  we  niver 
looked  for  that  in  my  family." 

"  Thank  you,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  rather  proudly.  "  I 
prefer  having  the  money  only  lent  to  me." 

"Very  well:  that's  the  Dodson  sperrit,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  rising  to  get  her  knitting  with  the  sense  that  any 
further  remark  after  this  would  be  bathos. 

Salt — that  eminently  "  briny  chap" —  having  been  dis- 
covered in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  at  the  Anchor  Tavern, 
Mr.  Glegg  commenced  inquiries  which  turned  out  satis- 
factorily enough  to  warrant  the  advance  of  the  '^nest- 
egg,"  to  which  aunt  Glegg  contributed  twenty  pounds; 
and  in  this  modest  beginning  jou  see  the  ground  of  a  fact 
which  might  otherwise  surprise  you — namely,  Tom's  accu- 
mulation of  a  fund,  unknown  to  his  father,  that  promised 
in  no  very  long  time  to  meet  the  more  tardy  process  of 
saving,  and  quite  cover  the  deficit.  When  once  his  atten- 
tion had  been  called  to  this  source  of  gain,  Tom  determined 
to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  obtain- 
ing information  and  extending  his  small  enterprises.  In 
not  telling  his  father,  he  was  influenced  by  that  strange 
mixture  of  opposite  feelings  which  often  gives  equal  truth 
to  those  who  blame  an  action  and  those  who  admire  it: 
partly,  it  was  that  disinclination  to  confidence  which  is 
seen  between  near  kindred — that  family  repulsion  which 
spoils  the  most  sacred  relations  of  our  lives;  partly,  it  was 
the  desire  to  surprise  his  father  with  a  great  joy.  He  did 
not  see  that  it  would  have  been  better  to  soothe  the  inter- 
val with  a  new  hope,  and  prevent  the  delirium  of  a  too 
sudden  elation. 

At  the  time  of  Maggie's  first  meeting  with  Philip,  Tom 
had  already  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  his  own  capital; 
and  while  they  were  walking  by  the  evening  li^ht  in  the 
Eed  Deeps,  he  by  the  same  evening  light,  was  riding  into 
Laceham,  proud  of  being  on  his  first  journey  on  behalf  of 
Guest  &  Co.,  and  -.'evolving  in  his  mind  all  the  chances 
that  by  the  end  of  another  year  he  should  have  doubled 
his  gains,  lifted  off  the  obloquy  of  debt  from  his  father's 
name,  and  perhaps — for  he  should  be  twenty-one — have 
got  a  new  start  for  himself  on  a  higher  platform  of  em- 
ployment. Did  he  not  deserve  it?  He  was  quite  sure 
that  he  did. 


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310  THB  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTEB  III. 

THE  WAVERING  BALAKOB. 

I  SAID  that  Maggie  went  home  that  evening  from  the 
Red  Deeps  with  a  mental  conflict  already  begun.  You 
have  seen  clearly  enough,  in  her  interview  with  Philij), 
what  that  conflict  was.  Here  suddenly  was  an  opening  in 
the  rockv  wall  which  shut  in  the  narrow  valley  of, humili- 
ation, where  all  her  prospect  was  the  remote,  unfathomed 
sky;  and  some  of  the  memory-haunting  earthly  delights 
were  no  longer  out  of  her  reach.  She  might  have  books, 
converse,  affection — she  might  hear  tidings  of  the  world 
from  which  her  mind  had  not  yet  lost  its  sense  of  exile; 
and  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  Philip,  too,  who  was  pitiable — 
clearly  not  happy;  and  perhaps  here  was  an  opportunity 
indicated  for  making  her  mind  more  worthy  of  its  highest 
service — ^perhaps  the  noblest,  completest  devoutness  could 
hardly  exist  without  some  width  of  knowledge:  must  she 
always  live  in  this  resigned  imprisonment?  It  was  so 
blameless,  so  good  a  thing  that  there  should  be  friend- 
ship between  her  and  Philip;  the  motives  that  forbade 
it  were  so  unreasonable  —  so  unchristian!  But  the  severe 
monotonous  warning  came  again  and  again  —  that  she  was 
losing  the  simplicity  and  clearness  of  her  life  by  admitting 
a  ground  of  concealment,  and  that,  by  forsaking  the  simple 
rule  of  renunciation,  she  was  throwing  herself  under  the 
seductive  guidance  of  illimitable  wants.  She  thought  she 
had  won  strength  to  obey  the  warning  before  she  allowed 
herself  the  next  week  to  turn  her  steps  in  the  evening  to 
the  Bed  Deeps.  But  while  she  was  resolved  to  say  an 
affectionate  farewell  to  Philip,  how  she  looked  forward  to 
that  evening  walk  in  the  still,  fleckered  shade  of  the 
hollows,  away  from  all  that  was  harsh  and  unlovely:  to 
the  affectionate  admiring  looks  that  would  meet  her; 
to  the  sense  of  comradeship  that  childish  memories  would 
give  to  wiser,  older  talk;  to  the  certainty  that  Philip 
would  care  to  hear  everything  she  said,  which  no  one  else 
cared  for!  It  was  a  half -hour  that  it  would  be  very  hard 
to  turn  her  back  upon,  with  the  sense  that  there  would  be 
no  other  like  it.  Yet  she  said  what  she  meant  to  say;  she 
looked  firm  as  well  as  sad. 

"  Philip,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  —  it  is  right  that  we 
«U/>uld  give  each  other  up,  in  everything  but  memory. 


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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  311 

I  could  not  pee  you  without  concealment  —  stay,  I  know 
what  you  are  goin^  to  say  —  it  is  other  people's  wrong  feel- 
ings that  make  concealment  necessary;  but  concealment  is 
bad,  however  it  may  be  caused.  I  feel  that  it  would  be 
bad  for  me,  for  us  both.  And  then,  if  our  secret  were 
discovered,  there  would  be  nothing  but  misery  —  dreadful 
anger;  and  then  we  must  part  after  all,  and  it  would  be 
harder,  when  we  were  used  to  seeing  each  other." 

Philip's  face  had  flushed,  and  there  was  a  momentary 
eagerness  of  expression,  as  if  he  had  been  about  to  resist 
this  decision  with  all  his  might.  But  he  controlled  him- 
self, and  said,  with  assumed  calmness,  *'  Well, .  Maggie, 
if  we  must  part,  let  us  try  and  forget  it  for  one  half-hour: 
let  us  talk  together  a  little  while  —  for  the  last  time.*' 

He  took  her  hand^  and  Maggie  felt  no  reason  to  with- 
draw it:  his  quietness  made  her  all  the  more  sure  she  had 
given  him  great  pain,  and  she  wanted  to  show  him  how 
unwillingly  she  had  given  it.  They  walked  together  hand 
in  hand  m  silence. 

^^Let  us  sit  down  in  the  hollow,''  said  Philip,  "where 
we  stood  the  last  time.  See  how  the  dog-roses  have 
strewed  the  ground,  and  spread  their  opal  petals  over  it!*' 

They  sat  down  at  the  roots  of  the  slanting  ash. 

"Tve  begun  my  picture  of  you  among  the  Scotch  firs, 
Maggie,''  said  Philip,  '^so  you  must  let  me  study  your 
face  a  little,  while  you  stay  —  since  I  am  not  to  see  it 
again.     Please  turn  your  head  this  way." 

This  was  said  in  an  entreating  voice,  and  it  would  have 
been  very  hard  of  Maggie  to  refuse.  The  full  lustrous 
face,  with  the  bright  black  coronet,  looked  down  like  that 
of  a  divinity  well  pleased  to  be  worshiped,  on  the  pale- 
hued,  small-ieatured  face  that  was  turned  up  to  it. 

'^I  shall  be  sitting  for  my  second  portrait  then,"  she 
said,  smiling.     "  Will  it  be  larger  than  the  other?" 

"Oh,  yes,  much  larger.  It  is  an  oil  painting.  You 
will  look  like  a  tall  Hamadryad,  dark  and  strong  and  noble, 
just  issued  from  one  of  the  fir-trees,  when  the  stems  are 
casting  their  afternoon  shadows  on  the  grass." 

"  You  seem  to  think  more  of  painting  than  of  anything 
now,  Philip?" 

*^  Perhaps  I  do."  said  Philip,  rather  sadly;  "but  I  think 
of  too  many  things — sow  all  sorts  of  seeds,  and  get  no  great 
harvest  from  any  one  of  them.  I'm  cursed  with  suscepti- 
bility in  every  direction,  and  effective  faculty  in  none.  I 
care  for  painting  and  music;  I  care  for  classic  literature. 


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813  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

and  mediaeval  literature,  and  modern  literature:  I  fluttet 
all  ways,  and  fly  in  none." 

^'  But  surely  that  is  a  happiness  to  have  so  many  tastes — 
to  enjoy  so  many  beautiful  things — when  they  are  within 
your  reach,"  said  Maggie  musingly.  ^'  It  always  seemed 
to*  me  a  sort  of  clever  stupidity  only  to  have  one  sort  of 
talent — almost  like  a  carrier-pigeon." 

*^It  might  be  a  happiness  to  have  many  tastes  if  I  were 
like  other  men,"  said  rhilip,  bitterly.     "I  might  get  some 

t)ower  and  distinction  by  mere  mediocrity,  as  they  do;  at 
east  I  should  get  those  middling  satisfactions  which  make 
men  contented  to  do  without  great  ones.  I  might  think 
society  at  St.  Ogg^s  agreeable  then.  But  nothing  could 
make  life  worth  tlie  purchnse-money  of  pain  to  me,  but 
some  faculty  that  would  lift  me  above  the  dead  level  of 
provincial  existence.  Yes — there  is  one  thing:  a  passion 
answers  as  well  as  a  faculty." 

Maggie  did  not  hear  the  last  words:  she  was  struggling 
against  the  consciousness  that  Philip^s  words  had  set  her 
own  discontent  vibrating  again  as  it  used  to  do. 

"I  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  ^^ though  I 
know  so  much  less  than  you  do.  I  used  to  think  I  could 
never  bear  a  life  if  it  kept  on  being  the  same  every  day, 
and  I  must  always  be  doing  things  of  no  consequence,  and 
never  know  anything  greater.  But,  dear  Philip,  I  think 
we  are  only  like  children,  that  some  one  who  is  wiser  is 
taking  care  of.  Is  it  not  right  to  resign  ourselves  entirely, 
whatever  may  be  denied  us?  I  have  Found  great  peace  in 
that  for  the  last  two  years — even  joy  in  subduing  my  own 
will." 

'^  Yes,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  vehemently;  *^and  you  are 
shutting  yourself  up  in  a  narrow  self-delusive  fanaticism, 
which  is  only  a  way  of  escaping  pain  by  starving  into  dull- 
ness all  the  highest  powers  of  your  nature.  Joy  and 
peace  are  not  resignation:  resignation  is  the  willing  endur- 
ance of  a  pain  that  is  not  allayed — that  you  don't  expect 
to  be  allayed.  Stupefaction  is  not  resignation :  and  it  is  a 
stupefaction  to  remain  in  ignorance — to  shut  up  all  the 
avenues  by  which  the  life  of  your  fellow-men  might  become 
known  to  you.  I  am  not  resigned:  I  am  not  sure  that  life 
is  long  enough  to  learn  that  lesson.  You  are  not  resigned: 
you  are  only  trjing  to  stupefy  yourself." 

Maggie's  lips  trembled;  she  felt  there  was  some  truth 
in  what  Philip  said,  and  yet  there  was  a  deeper  conscious- 
ness that,  for  any  immediate  application  it  had  to  her 


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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  313 

conduct,  it  was  no  better  than  falsity.  Her  double 
impression  corresponded  to  the  double  impulse  of  the 
speaker.  Philip  seriously  believed  what  he  said,  but  he 
said  it  with  vehemence  because  it  made  an  argument 
against  the  resolution  that  opposed  his  wishes.  But  Mag- 
gie^s  face,  made  more  childlike  by  the  gathering  tears, 
touched  him  with  a  tenderer,  less  egoistic  feeling.  He 
took  her  hand  and  said  gently  — 

^'  Don't  let  us  think  of  such  things  in  this  short 
half -hour,  Maggie.  Let  "us  only  care  about  being 
together. We  shall  be  friends  in  spite  of  separa- 
tion.  We  shall  always  think  of  each  other.     I  shall 

be  glad  to  live  as  long  as  you  are  alive,  because  I  shall 
think  there  may  always  come  a  time  when  I  can  —  when 
you  will  let  me  help  you  in  some  way.^' 

*^What  a  dear,  good  brother  you  would  have  been, 
Philip, '^  said  Maggie,  smiling  through  the  haze  of  tears. 
^^  I  think  you  would  have  made  as  much  fuss  about  me, 
and  been  as  pleased  for  me  to  love  yoif  as  would  have  sat- 
isfied even  me.  You  would  have  loved  me  well  enough  to 
bear  with  me  and  forgive  me  everything.  That  was  what 
I  always  longed  that  Tom  should  do.  I  was  never  satisfied 
with  a  little  of  anything.     That  is  why  it  is  better  for  me 

to  do  without  earthly  hlappiness  altogether. 1  never 

felt  that  Thad  enough  music — I  wanted  more  instruments 
playing  together — I  wanted  voices  to  be  fuller  and  <  .eeper. 
Do  you  ever  sing  now,  Philip?'*  she  added  abruptly,  as  if 
she  had  forgotten  what  went  before. 

^^  Yes,''  he  said,  ^^  every  day,  almost.  But  my  voice  is 
only  middling — like  everything  else  in  me." 

^*  Oh,  sing  me  something  —  just  one  song.  I  way  listen 
to  that  before  I  go — something  you  used  to  sing  at  Lorton 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when  we  had  the  drawing-room 
all  to  ourselves,  and  I  put  my  apron  over  my  head  to 
listen." 

^*  /  know,"  said  Philip,  and  Maggie  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  while  he  sang  sotto  voce,  '^  Love  in  her  eyes  sits 
playing";  and  then  said,  ^^ That's  it,  isn't  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't  stay,"  said  Maggie,  starting  up.     "  It 
will  only  haunt  me.     Let  us  walk,  Philip.     I  must  go 
home." 
►      She  irioved  away,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  rise  and 
follow  her. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  don't 
persist  in  this  willful,  senseless  privation.     It  makes  me 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


314  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

wretched  to  see  you  benumbinff  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 
Magde. 

"  Because  I  foresee  it  will  not  end  well:  you  can  never 
carry  on  this  self-torture.'* 

"1  shall  have  strength  gi^en  me,"  said  Maggie,  tremu- 
lously. 

"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  sfrong  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  sup- 
ply 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  for  ever,  then,  Mag- 
gie? Surely  I  may  come  and  walk  in  it  sometimes?  If  I 
meet  you  by  chance,  there  is  no  concealment  in  that?" 

It  IS  the  moment  when  our  resolution  seems  about  to 
become  irrevocable — when  the  fatal  iron  gates  are  about  to 
close  upon  us — that  tests  our  strength.  Then,  after  hours 
of  clear  reasoning  and  firm  conviction,  we  snatch  at  any 
sophistry  that  will  nullify  our  long  struggles,  and  bring  us 
the  defeat  that  we  love  better  than  victory. 

Maggie  felt  her  heart  leap  at  this  subterfuge  of  Philip's, 
and  there  passed  over  her  face  that  almost  imperceptible 
shock  which  accompanies  any  relief.  He  saw  it,  and  they 
parted  in  silence. 

Philip's  sense  of  the  situation  was  too  complete  for 
him  not  to  be  visited  with  glancing  fears  lest  he  had  been 


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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  316 

intervening  too  presumptuously  in  the  action  of  Maggie's 
conscience — perhaps  for  a  selfish  end.  But  no! — ^he  per- 
suaded himself  his  end  was  not  selfish.  He  had  little  hope 
that  Maggie  would  oyer  return  the  strong  feeling  he  had 
for  her;  and  it  must  be  better  for  Maggie's  future  life, 
when  these  petty  family  obstacles  to  her  freedom  had  dis- 
appeared, that  the  present  should  not  be  entirely  sacrificed, 
and  that  she  should  have  some  opportunity  of  culture — 
some  interchange  with  a  mind  above  the  vulgar  level 
of  those  she  was  now  condemned  to  live  with.  If  we 
only  look  far  enough  off  for  the  consequence  of  our 
actions,  we  can  always  find  some  point  in  the  combination 
of  results  by  which  those  actions  can  be  justified:  by  adopt- 
ing the  point  of  view  of  a  Providence  who  arranges  results, 
or  of  a  philosopher  who  traces  them,  we  shall  find  it  pos- 
sible to  obtain  perfect  complacency  in  choosing  to  do  what 
is  i?iost  agreeable  to  us  in  the  present  moment.  And  it  was 
m  this  way  that  Philip  justified  his  subtle  efforts  to  over- 
come Maggie's  true  prompting  against  a  concealment  that 
would  introduce  doubleness  into  her  own  mind,  and  might 
cause  new  misery  to  those  who  had  the  primary  natural 
claim  on  her.  fiut  there  was  a  surplus  oi  passion  in  him 
that  made  him  half  independent  of  justifying  motives. 
His  longing  to  see  Maggie,  and  make  an  element  in  her 
life,  had  in  it  some  of  that  savage  impulse  tg  snatch  an 
offered  joy,  which  springs  from  a  life  in  which  the  mental 
and  bodily  constitution  have  made  pain  predominate. 
He  had  not  his  full  share  in  the  common  good  of  men:  he 
could  not  even  pass  muster  with  the  insignificant,  but 
must  be  singled  out  for  pity,  and  excepted  from  what  was 
a  matter  of  course  with  others.  Even  to  Maggie  he  was 
an  exception:  it  was  clear  that  the  thought  of  his  being 
her  lover  had  never  entered  her  mind. 

Do  not  think  too  hardly  of  Philip.  Ugly  and  deformed 
people  have  great  need  of  unusual  virtues,  because  they 
are  likely  to  be  extremely  uncomfortable  without  them: 
but  the  theory  that  unusual  virtues  spring  by  a  direct  conse- 
quence out  of  personal  disadvantages,  as  animals  get  thicker 
wool  in  severe  climates,  is  perhaps  a  little  overstrained. 
The  temptations  of  beauty  are  much  dwelt  upon,  but  I 
fancy  they  only  bear  the  same  relation  to  those  of  ugliness, 
AS  tlie  temptation  to  excess  at  a  feast,  where  the  delights 
are  varied  for  eye  and  ear  as  well  as  palate,  bears  to  the 
temptations  that  assail  the  desperation  of  hunger.     Does 


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816  THE  HILL  OK  THE  ^LOSd. 

not  the  Hunger  Tower  stand  as  the  type  of  the  utmost 
trial  to  what  is  human  in  us? 

Philip  had  never  been  soothed  by  that  mother's  love 
which  flows  out  to  us  in  the  greater  abundance  because  our 
need  is  greater,  which  clings  to  us  the  moie  tenderly 
because  we  are  the  less  likely  to  be  winners  in  the  game  of 
life;  and  the  sense  of  his  father's  affection  and  indulgence 
toward  him  was  marred  by  the  keener  perception  of  his 
father's  faults.  Kept  alooi  from  all  practical  life  as  Philip 
had  been,  and  by  nature  half  feminine  in  sensitiveness, 
he  had  some  of  the  woman's  intolerant  repulsion  toward 
worldliness  and  the  deliberate  pursuit  of  sensual  enjoy- 
ment; and  this  one  strong  natural  tie  in  his  life — his 
relation  as  a  son — was  like  an  aching  limb  to  him.  Per- 
haps there  is  inevitably  something  morbid  in  a  human 
being  who  is  in  any  way  unfavorably  excepted  from  ordi- 
nary conditions,  until  the  good  force  has  had  time  to 
triumph;  and  it  has  rarely  had  time  for  that  at  two-and- 
twenty.  That  force  was  present  in  Philip  in  much  stren^h, 
but  the  sun  himself  looks  feeble  through  the  morning  mists. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ANOTHER  LOVE-SCENB. 


Early  in  the  following  April,  nearly  a  year  after  that 
dubious  parting  you  have  just  witnessed,  you  may,  if  you 
like,  again  see  Maggie  entering  the  Red  Deeps  through  the 
group  of  Scotch  firs.  But  it  is  early  afternoon  and  not 
evenmg,  and  the  edge  of  the  sharpness  in  the  spring  air 
makes  her  draw  her  large  shawl  close  about  her  and  trip 
along  rather  quickly;  though  she  looks  round,  as  usual^ 
that  she  may  take  in  the  simt  of  her  beloved  trees.  There 
is  a  more  eager,  inquiring  Took  in  her  eyes  than  there  was 
last  June,  and  a  smile  is  hovering  about  her  lips,  as  if 
some  playful  speech  were  awaiting  the  right  hearer.  The 
hearer  was  not  long  in  appearing. 

"Take  back  your  Corinne,^  said  Maggie,  drawing  a 
book  from  under  her  shawl.  "  You  were  right  in  telling 
me  she  would  do  me  no  good;  but  you  were  wrong  in 
thinking  I  should  wish  to  be  like  her." 

"  Wouldn't  you  really  like  to  be  a  tenth  Muse,  then. 


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Googk 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  317 

Maggie?^'  said  Philip,  looking  up  in  hfer  face  as  we  look 
at  a  tirst  parting  in  the  clouds  that  promises  us  a  bright 
heaven  once  more. 

"Not  at  all/^  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "The  Muses 
were  uncomfortable  goddesses,  I  think — obliged  always  to 
carry  rolls  and  musical  instruments  about  with  them.  If 
I  carried  a  harp  in  this  climate,  you  know,  I  must  liave  a 
green  baize  cover  for  it — ^and  I  should  be  sure  to  leave  it 
behind  me  by  mistake.^' 

"You  agree  with  me  in  not  liking  Coriime,  then?" 

"I  didn't  finish  the  book,"  said  Maggie.  */A«  soon  as 
I  came  to  the  blonde-haired  young  lady  reading  in  the 
park,  I  shut  it  up,  and  determined  to  read  no  further.  I 
foresaw  that  that  light-complexioned  girl  would  win  away 
all  the  love  from  Corinne  and  make  her  miserable.  I'm 
determined  to  read  no  more  books  where  the  blonde-haired 
women  carry  away  all  the  happiness.  I  should  begin  to 
have  a  prejudice  against  them.  If  you  could  give  me  some 
story,  now,  where  the  dark  woman  triumphs,  it  would 
restore  the  balance.  I  want  to  avenge  Rebecca  and  Flora 
Maclvor,  and  Minna  and  all  the  rest  of  the  dark  unhappy 
ones.  Since  you  are  my  tutor,  you  ought  to  preserve  my 
mind  from  prejudices— you  are  always  argumg  against 
prejudices." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  will  avenge  the  dark  women  in  your 
own  person,  and  carry  away  all  the  love  from  your  cousin 
Lucy.  She  is  sure  to  have  some  handsome  young  man  of 
St.  Ogg's  at  her  feet  now:  and  you  have  only  to  shine  upon 
him — ^your  fair  little  cousin  will  be  quite  quenched  in  your 
beams." 

"  Philip,  that  is  not  pretty  of  you,  to  apply  my  nonsense 
to  anything  real,"  said  Maggie,  looking  hurt.  "As  if  I, 
with  my  old  gowns  and  want  of  all  accomplishments, 
could  be  a  rival  of  dear  little  Lucy,  who  knows  and  does 
all  sorts  of  charming  things,  and  is  ten  times  prettier 
than  I  am — even  if  I  were  odious  and  base  enough  to 
wish  to  be  her  rival.  Besides,  I  never  go  to  aunt  Deane's 
when  any  one  is  there:  it  is  only  because  dear  Lucy  is 
good,  and  loves  me,  that  she  comes  to  see  me,  and  will 
have  me  go  to  see  her  sometimes." 

"Maggie,"  said  Philip,  with  surprise,  "it  is  not  like 
you  to  take  playfulness  literally.  You  must  have  been  in 
Bt.  Ogg^s  this  morning,  and  brought  away  a  slight 
infection  of  dullness." 

^'WeH/'  said  Maggie^  smiling,  "if  you  me^ut  that  fgr 

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318  THE   MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

a  joke,  it  was  a  poor  one;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  very  good 
reproof.  I  thought  you  wanted  to  remind  me  that  I  am 
vam,  and  wish  every  one  to  admire  me  most.  But  it  isn't 
for  that,  that  I'm  jealous  for  the  dark  women — not 
because  Fm  dark  myself.  It's  because  I  always  care  the 
most  about  the  unhappy  people:  if  the  blonde  girl  were 
forsaken,  I  should  like  her  best.  I  always  take  the  side  of 
the  rejected  lover  in  the  stories." 

"Then  you  would  never  have  the  heart  to  reject  one 

{^ourself — should  you,  Maggie?^'  said  Philip,  flushing  a 
ittle.    • 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  hesitatingly.  Then  with 
a  bright  smile  —  '^I  think  perhaps  I  could  if  he  were  very 
conceited;  and  yet,  if  he  got  extremely  humiliated  after* 
ward,  I  should  relent." 

**rve  often  wondered,  Mag^e,"  Philip  said,  with  some 
effort,  "whether  you  wouldn't  be  more  likely  to  love  a 
man  that  other  women  were  not  likely  to  love. 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  they  didn't  like  him  for," 
said  Maggie,  laughing.  "He  might  be  very  disagreeable. 
He  might  look  at  me  through  an  eye-glass  stuck  in  his 
eve,  making  a  hideous  face,  as  young  Torry  does.  I 
should  think  other  women  are  not  fond  of  that;  but 
I  never  felt  any  pity  for  young  Torry.  I've  never  any 
pity  for  conceited  people,  because  I  think  they  carry  their 
comfort  about  with  them." 

"But  suppose,  Maggie — suppose  it  was  a  man  who  was 
not  conceited — who  felt  he  had  nothing  to  be  conceited 
about — who  had    been   marked    from  childhood    for  a 

Seculiar  kind  of  suffering — and  to  whom  }rou  were  the 
ay-star  of   his  life — who  loved  you,  worshiped  you,  so 
entirely  that  he  felt  it  happiness  enough  for  him  if  yoa 

would  let  him  see  you  at  rare  moments " 

Philip  paused  with  a  pang  of  dread  lest  his  confession 
should  cut  short  this  very  happiness — a  pang  of  the  same 
dread  that  had  kept  his  love  mute  through  long  months. 
A  rush  of  self-consciousness  told  him  that  he  was  besotted 
to  have  said  all  this.  Maggie's  manner  this  morning  had 
been  as  unconstrained  and  indifferent  as  ever. 

But  she  was  not  looking  indifferent  now.  Struck  with 
the  unusual  emotion  in  Philip's  tone,  she  had  turned 
quickly  to  look  at  him,  and  as  he  went  on  speaking,  a 
great  change  came  over  her  face — a  flush  and  slight  spasm 
of  the  features  such  as  we  see  in  people  who  hear  some 
uews  that  will  require  them  to  readjust  their  conceptions 

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WHEAT  AND  TARBS.  3\9 

of  the  past.  She  was  quite  silent,  and,  walking  on  toward 
the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  she  sat  down,*  as  if  she  had  no 
strength  to  spare  for  her  muscles.     She  was  trembling. 

*^  Maggie,^  said  Philip,  getting  more  and  more  alarmed 
in  every  fresh  moment  of  silence,  "  I  was  a  fool  to  say 
it — ^forget  that  I've  said  it.  I  shall  be  contented  if  things 
can  be  as  they  were.^^ 

The  distress  with  which  he  spoke  urged  Maggie  to  say 
something.  ^^I  am  so  surprised,  Philip  —  1  had  not 
thought  of  it.^'  And  the  effort  to  say  this  brought  the 
tears  down  too. 

"Has  it  made  you  hate  me,  Maggie?**  said  Philip, 
impetuously.     "Do  you  think  Pm  a  presumptuous  fool?** 

"  Oh,  Philip!**  said  Maggie,  "how  can  you  think  I  have 
such  feelings? — as  if   I  were  not  grateful  for  any  love. 

But but  I  had  never  thought  of  your  being  my  lover. 

It  seemed  so  far  off — like  a  dream — only  like  one  of  the 
stories  one  imagines — ^that  I  should  ever  have  a  lover.** 

"  Then  can  you  bear  to  think  of  me  as  a  lover,  Maggie?  ** 
said  Philip,  seating  himself  by  her,  and  taking  her  hand, 
in  the  elation  of  a  sudden  hope.     "i>o  you  love  me.** 

Maggie  turned  rather  pale:  this  direct  question  seemed 
not  easy  to  answer.  But  her  eyes  met  Philip's,  which 
were  in  this  moment  liquid  and  beautiful  with  beseeching 
love.  She  spoke  with  hesitation,  yet  with  sweet,  simple, 
girlish  tenderness. 

"I  think  I  could  hardly  love  any  one  better:  there  is 
nothing  bi^t  what  I  love  you  for.*'  She  paused  a  little 
while,  and  then  added,  "But  it  will  be  better  for  us  not  to 
say  any  more  about  it — won*t  it,  dear  Philip?  You  know 
we  couldn*t  even  be  friends,  if  our  friendship  were  discov- 
ered. I  have  never  felt  that  I  was  right  m  giving  way 
about  seeing  you — though  it  has  been  so  precious  to  me  in 
some  ways;  and  now  the  fear  comes  upon  me  strongly 
again,  that  it  will  lead  to  evil." 

"But  no  evil  has  come,  Maggie;  and  if  you  had  been 
guided  by  that  fear  before,  you  would  only  have  lived 
through  another  dreary  benumbing  year,  instead  of  reviv- 
ing into  your  real  self.** 

Maggie  shook  her  head.  "It  has  been  very  sweet,  I 
know — all  the  talking  together,  and  the  books,  and  the 
feeling  that  I  had  the  walk  to  look  forward  to,  when  I 
could  tell  you  the  thoughts  that  had  come  into  my  head 
while  I  was  away  from  you.  But  it  has  made  me  restless: 
it  has  mad^  me  think  a  great  deal  about  the  world;  and  I 

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320  THE    MILL  ON   THE   FLOSS. 

have  impatient  thoughts  again — I  get  weary  of  my  home-^ 
and  then  it  cuts  4ue  to  the  heart  afterward,  that  I  should 
ever  have  felt  weary  of  my  father  and  mother.  I  think 
what  you  call  beins:  benumbed  was  better — better  for  me — 
for  then  my  selfish  desires  were  benumbed/' 

Philip  had  risen  again,  and  was  walking  backward  and 
forward  impatiently. 

^^No,  Maggie,  you  have  wrong  ideas  of  self-conquest,  ai 
Fve  often  told  you.  What  you  call  self-conquest — blind- 
ing and  deafening  yourself  to  all  but  one  train  of  impres- 
sions— is  only  monomania  in  a  nature  like  yours.  ^' 

He  had  spoken  with  some  irritation,  but  now  he  sat  down 


by  her  again,  and  took  her  hand. 
"Don't  th 


think  of  the  past  now,  Maggie;  think  only  of 
our  h>ve.  If  you  can  really  cling  to  me  with  all  your  heart, 
every  obstacle  will  be  overcome  in  time:  we  need  only  wtiit. 
I  can  live  on  hope.  Look  at  me,  Maggie;  tell  me  again  it 
is  possible  for  you  to  love  me.  Don't  look  away  from  me 
to  that  cloven  tree;  it  is  a  bad  omen.'' 

She  turned  her  large,  dark  glance  upon  him  with  a  sad 
smile. 

"  Come,  Maggie,  say  one  kind  word,  or  else  you  were 
better  to  me  at  Lorton.  You  asked  me  if  I  should  like 
you  to  kiss  me — don't  you  remember? — and  you  promised 
to  kiss  me  when  you  met  me  again.  You  never  kept  the 
promise." 

The  recollection  of  that  childish  time  came  as  a  sweet 
relief  to  Maggie.  It  made  the  present  momimt  less  strange 
to  her.  She  kissed  him  almost  as  simply  an'd  quietly  as 
she  had  done  when  she  was  twelve  years  old.  Philip's 
eyes  flashed  with  delight,  but  his  next  words  were  words 
of  discontent. 

"You  don't  seem  happy  enough,  Maggie:  you  are  forc- 
ing yourself  to  say  you  love  me,  out  of  pity." 

"  No,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head,  in  her 
old,  childish  way;  "I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  It  is  all 
new  and  strange  to  me;  but  I  don't  think  I  could  love 
any  one  better  than  I  love  you.  I  should  like  always  to 
live  ^ith  you — to  make  you  happy.  I  have  always  been 
happy  when  I  have  been  with  you.  There  is  only  one 
think  I  will  not  do  for  your  sake:  I  will  never  do  anything 
to  wound  my  father.     You  mu5t  never  ask  that  from  me." 

"No,  Maggie;  t  \^ill  ask  nothing — I  will  bear  everv- 
thing — I'll  Wait  another  year  only  for  a  kiss^  if  you  will 
only  give  m§  thp  first  place  in  your  heart," 

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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  321 

'^ No/*  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "I  won^t  make  you  wait 
so  long  as  that/*  But  then,  looking  serious  again,  she 
added,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat — 

^'  But  what  would  your  own  father  say,  Philip?  Oh,  it 
is  quite  impossible  we  can  ever  be  more  than  friends — 
brother  and  sister  in  secret,  as  we  have  been.  Let  us  give 
lip  thinking  of  everything  else/*  * 

^^No,  Maggie,  I  can*t  give  you  up — unless  you  are 
deceiving  me — unless  you  really  only  care  for  me  as  if  I 
were  your  brother.     Tell  me  the  truth/* 

*^  Indeed  I  do,  Philip.  What  happiness  have  I  ever  had 
80  great  as  being  with  you? — since  Iwas  a  little  girl — the 
days  Tom  was  good  to  me.  And  your  ihind  is  a  sort  of 
world  to  me:  you  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know.  I  think 
I  should  never  be  tired  of  being  with  you.** 

They  wore  walking  hand  in  hand,  looking  at  each  other; 
Maggie,  indeed,  was  hurrying  along,  for  she  felt  it  time  to 
bo  gone.  But  the  sense  that  their  parting  was  near  made 
her  more  anxious  lest  she  should  have  unintentionally  left 
some  painful  impression  on  Philip*s  mind.  It  was  one  of 
those  dangerous  moments  when  speech  is  at  once  sincere 
and  deceptive  —  when  feeling,  rising  high  above  its  aver- 
age depth,  leaves  flood-marks  which  are  never  reached 
again. 

They  stopped  to  part  among  the  Scotch  firs. 

'^  Then  my  life  will  be  filled  with  hope,  Maggie — ^and  I 
shall  be  happier  than  other  men,  in  spite  of  ail?  We  do 
belong  to  eacn  other — ^f or  always — whether  we  are  apart  or 
together?** 

'^  Yes,  Philip:  I  should  like  never  to  part:  I  should  like 
to  make  your  life  very  happy.** 

^'  I  am  waiting  for  something  else — I  wonder  whether  it 
will  come.** 

Maggie  smiled  with  glistening  tears,  and  then  stooped 
her  tall  head  to  kiss  the  pale  face  that  was  full  of  pleading, 
timid  love-^like  a  woman*s. 

She  had  a  moment  of  real  happiness  then — a  moment  of 
belief  that,  if  there  were  sacrifice  in  this  love,  it  was  all 
the  richer  and  more  satisfying. 

She  turned  away  and  hurried  home,  feeling  that  in  the 
hour  since  she  had  trodden  this  road  before,  a  new  era  had 
begun  for  her.  The  tissue  of  vague  dreams  must  now  g^t 
narrower  and  narrower,  and  all  the  threads  of  thought  and 
emotion  be  gradually  absorbed  in  the  woof  of  her  actual 
daily  life. 

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322  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL0S8* 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  CLOVEN  TREE. 

Secrets  are  rarely  betrayed  or  discovered  according  to 
any  pro^mme  our.  fear  has  sketched  out.  Fear  is  almost 
always  haunted  by  terrible  dramatic  scenes,  which  recur 
in  spite  of  the  best-argued  probabilities  against  them;  and 
during  a  year  that  Maggie  had  had  the  burden  of  con- 
cealment on  her  mind,  the  possibility  of  discovery  had 
continually  presented  itself  under  the  form  of  a  sudden 
meeting  witn  her  father  or  Tom  when  she  was  walking 
with  Philip  in  the  Red  Deeps.  She  was  aware  that  this  was 
not  one  of  the  most  likely  events;  but  it  was  the  scene  that 
most  completely  symbolized  her  inward  dread.  Those 
slight  indirect  suggestions  which  are  dependent  on  appar- 
ently trivial  coincidences  and  incalculable  states  of  ramd, 
are  the  favorite  machinery  of  Fact,  but  are  not  the  stuff 
in  which  imagination  is  apt  to  work. 

Certainly  one  of  the  persons  about  whom  Maggie's  fears 
were  furthest  from  troubling  themselves  was  her  aunt 
Pullet,  on  whom,  seeing  that  she  did  not  live  in  St. 
Ogg's,  and  was  neither  sharp-eyed  nor  sharp-temjiered,  it 
would  surely  have  been  quite  whimsical  of  them  to  fix 
rather  than  on  aunt  Glegff.  And  yet  the  channel  of 
fatality  —  the  pathway  of  tne  lightning  —  was  no  other 
than  aunt  Pullet.  She  did  not  live  at  St.  Ogg^s,  but  the 
road  from  Garum  Firs  lay  by  the  Red  Deeps,  at  the  end 
opposite  that  by  which  Maggie  entered. 

The  day  after  Maggie's  last  meeting  with  Philip,  being 
a  Sunday  on  which  Mr.  Pullet  was  bound  to  appear  in 
funeral  hat-band  and  scarf  at  St.  Ogg^'s  church,  Mrs. 
Pullet  made  this  the  occasion  of  dining  with  sister  Glegg, 
and  taking  tea  with  poor  sister  TuUiver.  Sunday  was  the 
one  day  in  the  week  on  which  Tom  was  at  home  in  the 
afternoon;  and  to-day  the  brighter  spirits  he  had  been  in 
of  late  had  flowed  over  in  unusually  cheerful  open  chat 
with  his  father,  and  in  the  invitation,  "  Come,  Magsie, 
you  come  too!''  when  he  strolled  out  with  his  mother  in 
the  garden  to  see  the  advancing  cherry-blossoms.  He  had 
been  better  pleased  with  Maggie  since  she  had  been  less 
odd  and  ascetic;  he  was  even  getting  rather  proud  of  her: 
several  persons  had  remarked  m  his  hearing  that  his  sister 
was  a  very  fine  girl.  To-day  there  was  a  peculiar  bright- 
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1 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  323 

ness  in  her  face,  due  in  reality  to  an  under-current  of 
excitement,  which  had  as  much  doubt  and  pain  as  pleasure 
in  it;  but  it  might  pass  for  a  sign  of  happiness. 

^^You  look  very  well,  my  dear/'  said  aunt  Pullet, 
shaking  her  head  sadly,  as  they  sat  around  the  tea-table. 
*^  I  niver  thought  your  girl  ^id  be  so  good-looking,  Bessy. 
But  you  must  wear  pink,  my  dear:  that  blue  thing  as  your 
aunt  Glegg  gave  you  turns  you  into  a  crowflower.  Jane 
never  was  tasty.    Why  don't  you  wear  that  gown  o'  mine? '* 

^^  It  is  so  pretty  and  so  smart,  aunt.  I  think  it's  too 
showy  for  me  —  at  least  for  my  other  clothes,  that  I  must 
wear  with  it." 

''To  be  sure,  it  'ud  be  unbecoming  if  it  wasn't  well 
known  you've  got  them  belonging  to  you  as  can  afford  to 
give  you  such  things  when  they've  done  with  'em  them- 
selves. It  stands  to  reason  I  must  give  my  own  niece 
clothes  now  and  then — such  things  as  /  buy  every  year, 
and  never  wear  anything  out.  And  as  for  Lucy,  there's  no 
giving  to  her,  for  she's  got  everything  o'  the  choicest: 
sister  Deane  may  well  hold  her  head  up,  though  she  looks 
dreadful  yallow,  poor  thing — I  doubt  this  liver  complaint 
'uU  carry  her  off.  That's  what  this  new  vicar,  this  Dr. 
Kenn,  said  in  the  funeral  sermon  to-day." 

''Ah,  he's  a  wonderful  preacher,  by  all  accounts — isn't 
he,  Sophy?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

"Wny,  Lucy  had  got  a  collar  on  this  blessed  day," 
continued  Mrs.  Pullet,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  ruminating 
manner,  "  as  I  don't  say  I  haven't  got  as  good,  but  I  must 
look  out  my  best  to  match  it." 

"Miss  Lucy's  called  the  bell  o'  St.  Ogg's,  they  say: 
that's  a  cur'ous  word,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet,  on  whom  the 
mysteries  of  etymology  sometimes  fell  with  an  oppressive 
weight. 

"Pooh!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  jealous  for  Maggie;  "she's 
a  small  thing,  not  much  of  a  figure.  But  fine  feathers  • 
make  fine  birds.  I  see  nothing  to  admire  so  much  in 
those  diminutive  women;  they  look  silly  by  the  side  o'  the 
men — out  o'  proportion.  When  I  chose  my  wife,  I  chose 
her  the  right  size — neither  too  little  nor  too  big." 

The  poor  wife,  with  her  withered  beauty,  smiled  com- 
placently. 

"But' the  men  aren't  all  big,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  not 
without  some  self -reference;  "a  young  fellow  may  be 
good-looking  and  yet  not  be  a  six-foot,  like  Master  Tom 
here." 

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324  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL0B8. 

"Ah,  it's  poor  talking  about  littleness  and  hignosB,--' 
anybody  may  think  it's  a  mercy  they^re  straight,  ^^  said 
aunt  Pullet.  "There's  that  mismade  son  of  Lawyer 
Wakem's — I  saw  him  at  church  to-day.  Dear,  dear!  to 
think  o'  the  property  he's  likely  to  have;  and  they  say  be  s 
xery  queer  and  lonely — doesn't  like  much  compaxij.  A 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  goes  out  of  his  mind;  for  \%^e  never 
come  along  the  road  but  he's  a-scrambling  out  o'  tb.^  ^^^^ 
and  brambles  at  the  Eed  Deeps.'' 

This  wide  statement,  by  which  Mrs.  Pullet  represented 
the  fact  that  she  had  twice  seen  Philip  at  the  spot>  ^^^' 
cated,  produced  an  effect  on  Maggie  which  was  ^^^  ^"® 
stronger  because  Tom  sat  opposite  her,  and  sb^  ^^ 
intensely  anxious  to  look  indifferent.  At  Philip's  '^^^^ 
she  had  blushed,  and  the  blush  deepened  every  ii^^^^^ 
from  consciousness,  until  the  mention  of  the  Ked  -*^^^P^ 
made  her  feel  as  if  the  whole  secret  were  betrayed,  ^1"^^  sue 
dared  not  even  hold  her  tea-spoon  lest  she  should  snow 
how  she  trembled.  She  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  *^^?^^ 
the  table,  not  daring  to  look  round.  Happily,  her  f  ^^'^^^ 
was  seated  on  the  same  side  with  herself,  beyond  hex*  "W^^*® 
Pullet,  and  could  not  see  her  face  without  stoopir^^  ^^^' 

ward.     Her  mother's  voice  brought  the  first  relief -'t^^'^- 

ing  the  conversation;  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  always  al^*-''"^?, 
when  the  name  of  Wakem  was  mentioned  in  her  hu^^^^^ 
presence.     Gradually  Maggie  recovered  composure  ^^^^^i-g 
to  look  up;  her  eyes  met  Tom's,  but  he  turned  slw^^^^^^^ 
head  immediately;  and  she  went  to  bed  that  night  yr^^^. 
ing  if  he  had  gathered  any  suspicion  from  her  conf '^^^^^^ 
Perhaps  not:  perhaps  he  would  think  it  was  only  her*        ?u«4- 
at  her  aunt's  mention  of  Wakem  before  her  fathei*  '    \ 
was  the  interpretation  her  mother  had  put  on  it.     'I-'^  vq 
father,  Wakem  was  like  a  disfiguring  disease,  of  whi^^ 
was  obliged  to  endure  the  consciousness,  but  was  o^^^^^ 
ated  to  have  the  existence  recognized  by  others;  su^*^  ,  i^^ 
amount  of  sensitiveness  in  her  about  her  father  coc*^  -*- 
surprising,  Maggie  thought.  -.^ 

But  Tom  was  too  keen-sighted  to  rest  satisfied  xi^g^ 
such  an  interpretation:  he  had  seen  clearly  enough^  i  ^^ 
there  was  something  distinct  from  anxiety  abon^^  ^^ 
father  in  Maggie's  excessive  confusion.  In  tryij"^-^  g 
recall  all  the  details  that  could  give  shape  to  his  suspi^^^^  ^^^ 
he  remembered  only  lately  hearing  his  mother  ^und 
Maggie  for  walking  in  the  Red  Deeps  when  the  g*^  jgd 
was   wet,   and   bringing  home   shoes   clogged   witl^ 

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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  325 

.  soil:  still  Tom,  retaining  all  his  old  repulsion  for 
Philip's  deformity,  shrunk  from  attributing  to  his  sister 
the  probability  of  feeling  more  than  a  friendly  interest 
in  such  an  unfortunate  exception  to  the  common  run  of 
men.  Tom's  was  a  nature  which  had  a  sort  of  supersti- 
tious repugnance  to  everything  exceptional.  A  love  for  a 
deformed  man  would  be  odious  in  any  woman — in  a 
sister  intolerable.  But  if  she  had  been  carrying  on  any 
kind  of  intercourse  whatever  with  Philip,  a  stop  must  be 
put  to  it  at  once:  she  was  disobeying  her  father's  strongest 
feelings  and  her  brother's  express  commands,  besides  com- 
promising herself  by  secret  meetings.  He  left  home  the 
next  morning  in  that  watchful  state  of  mind  which  turns 
the  most  ordinary  course  of  things  into  pregnant  coinci- 
dences. 

That  afternoon,  about  half  past  three  o'clock,  Tom  was 
standing  on  the  wharf,  talking  with  Bob  Jakin  about  the 
probability  of  the  good  ship  Adelaide  coming  in,  in  a  day 
or  two,  with  results  highly  important  to  both  of  them. 

^^  Eh,"  said  Bob,  parenthetically,  as  he  looked  over  the 
fields  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  "  there  goes  that 
crooked  young  Wakem.  I  know  him  or  his  shadder  as  far 
off  as  I  can  see  'em;  I'm  allays  lighting  on  him  o'  that 
side  of  the  river." 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  have  darted  through  Tom's 
mind.  "I  must  go.  Bob,"  he  said,  '^Pve  something  to 
attend  to,"  hurrying  off  to  the  warehouse,  where  he  left 
notice  for  some  one  to  take  his  place — he  was  called  away 
home  on  peremptory  business. 

The  swiftest  pace  and  the  shortest  road  took  him  to  the 
gate,  and  he  was  pausing  to  open  it  deliberately,  that  he 
might  walk  into  the  house  with  an  appearance  of  perfect 
composure,  when  Maggie  came  out  at  the  front  door  in 
bonnet  and  shawl.  His  conjecture  was  fulfilled,  and  he 
w^aited  for  her  at  the  gate.  She  started  violently  when  she 
saw  him. 

^^Tom,  how  is  it  you  are  come  home?  Is  there  any- 
thing the  matter?  "    Maggie  spoke  in  a  low  tremulous  voice. 

^*  I'm  come  to  walk  with  you  to  the  Red  Deeps  and  meet 
Philip  Wakem,"  said  Tom,  the  central  fold  in  his  brow, 
which  had  become  habitual  with  him,  deepening  as  he 
spoke. 

Maggie  stood  helpless — pale  and  cold.  By  some  means, 
then,  Tom  knew  everything.  At  last  she  said,  ''I'm  not 
going,"  and  turned  round. 

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326  -THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

**  Yes,  you  are;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  first.  Where 
is  my  father?^' 

"  Out  on  horseback/' 

**  And  my  mother?" 

*'In  the  yard,  I  think,  with  the  poultry/' 

^*  I  can  so  in,  then,  without  her  seeing  me?  " 

They  walked  in  together,  and  Tom,  entering  the  parlor, 
said  to  Maggie,  "  Come  in  here/' 

She  obey^,  and  he  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  Now,  Maggie,  tell  me  this  instant  everything  that  has 
passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem/' 

^'Does  my  father  know  anything?'' said  Maggie,  still 
trembling. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  indigjnantly.  "But  he  shall  know, 
if  you  attempt  to  use  deceit  toward  me  any  further." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  use  deceit,"  said  Maggie,  flushing  with 
resentment  at  hearing  this  word  applied  to  her  conduct. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  then." 

*^  Perhaps  you  know  it." 

"Never  mind  whether  I  know  it  or  not.  Tell  me 
exactly  what  has  happened,  or  my  father  shall  know  every- 
thing." 

"I  tell  it  for  my  father's  sake,  then." 

"  Yes,  it  becomes  you  to  profess  affection  for  your  father, 
when  you  have  despised  his  strongest  feelings.^' 

"  You  never  do  wrong,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  tauntingly. 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  answered  Tom,  with  proud  sincer- 
ity. "But  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  beyond  this:  tell 
me  what  has  passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem. 
When  did  you  first  meet  him  in  the  Eed  Deeps?" 

"A  year  ago,"  said  Maggie,  quietly.  Tom's  severity  gave 
her  a  certain  fund  of  defiance,  and  kept  her  sense  of  error 
in  abevance.  "  You  need  ask  me  no  more  questions.  We 
have  been  friendlv  a  year.  We  have  met  and  walked 
together  often.     He  has  lent  me  books." 

"  Is  that  all,"  said  Tom,  looking  straight  at  her  with  his 
frown. 

Maggie  paused  a  moment;  then,  determined  to  make  an 
end  of  Tom's  right  to  accuse  her  of  deceit,  she  said, 
haughtily  — 

"No,  not  quite  all.  On  Saturday  he  told  me  that  he 
loved  me.  I  didn't  think  of  it  before  then  —  I  had  only 
thought  of  him  as  an  old  friend." 

"And  you  encouraged  him?"  said  Tom,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  disgust. 

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WHEAT  AKD  TARBd.  ^21 

"I  told  him  that  I  loved  him  too/^ 

Tom  was  silent  a  few  moments,  looking  on  the  ffround 
and  frowning,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At  last  he 
looked  up  and  said,  coldly  — 

''  Now,  then,  Maggie,  there  are  but  two  courses  for  you 
to  take;  either  you  vow  solemnly  to  me,  with  your  hand 
on  niy  father^s  Bible,  that  you  will  never  have  another 
meeting  or  speak  another  word  in  private  with  Philip 
Wakem,  or  you  refuse,  and  I  tell  my  father  everything; 
and  this  month,  when  by  my  exertions  he  might  be  made 
happy  once  more,  you  will  cause  him  the  blow  of  knowing 
that  you  are  a  disobedient,  deceitful  daughter,  who  throws 
away  her  own  respectability  by  clandestine  meetings  with 
the  son  of  a  man  that  has  helped  to  ruin  her  father. 
Choose  !^^  Tom  ended  with  cold  decision,  going  up  to  the 
large  Bible,  A^wing  it  forward,  and  opening  it  at  the  fly- 
leaf, where  the  writmg  was. 

It  was  a  crushing  alternative  to  Maggie. 

"  Tom,^^  she  said,  urged  out  of  pride  into  pleading, 
*'  don't  ask  me  that.  I  will  promise  you  to  give  up  all 
intercourse  with  Philip,  if  you  will  let  me  see  him  once,  or 
even  only  write  to  him  and  explain  everything — to  give  it 

up  as  long  as  it  would  ever  cause  any  pain  to  my  father 

I  feel  something  for  Philip  too.     He  is  not  happy.'' 

**  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  of  your  feelings;  I  have 
said  exactly  what  I  moan:  choose  —  and  quickly,  lest  my 
mother  should  come  in." 

^^  If  I  give  you  my  word,  that  will  be  as  strong  a  bond  to 
me  as  if  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  Bible.  I  don't  require  that 
to  bind  me." 

"  Do  what  /  require,"  said  Tom.  "I  can't  trust  you, 
Maggie.  There  is  no  consistency  in  you.  Put  your  hand 
on  thif  Bible,  and  say,  'I  renounce  all  private  speech  and 
intercourse  with  Philip  Wakem  from  this  time  forth.' 
Else  you  will  bring  shame  on  us  all,  and  grief  on  my 
father;  and  what  is  the  use  of  my  exerting  myself  and 
giving  up  everything  else  for  the  sake  of  paying  my 
father's  debts,  if  you  are  to  bring  madness  and  vexation  on 
him,  just  when  he  might  be  easy  and  hold  up  his  head 
once  more?" 

*'  Oh,  Tom — tvill  the  debts  be  paid  soon?"  said  Maggie, 
clasping  her  hands,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  joy  across  her 
wretchedness. 

"  If  things  turn  out  as  I  expect,''  saM  Tom.  ^*  But," 
he  added,  his  voice  trembling  with  indignation,  *^  while  I 

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328  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

have  been  contriving  and  working  that  my  lather  may 
have  some  peace  of  mind  before  he  dies — working  for  the 
respectability  of  our  family — you  have  done  all  you  can  to 
destroy  both." 

Maggie  felt  a  deep  movement  of  compunction:  for  the 
moment^  her  mind  ceased  to  contend  against  what  slje  felt 
to  be  cruel  and  unreasonable,  and  in  her  self-blame  she 
justified  her  brother. 

"Tom/'  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  was  wrong  of  me — 
but  I  was  so  lonely — and  I  was  sorry  for  Philip.  And  I 
think  enmity  and  hatred  are  wicked." 

^*  Nonsense ! "  said  Tom.  *^  Your  duty  was  clear  enough. 
Say  no  more;  but  promise,  in  the  words  I  told  you." 

"I  must  speak  to  Philip  once  more." 

"  You  will  go  with  me  now  and  speak  to  him." 

^*  I  give  you  my  word  not  to  meet  him  or  write  to  him 
a^in  without  your  knowledge.  That  is  the  only  thing  I 
will  say.     I  will  put  my  hand  on  the  Bible  if  you  like." 

"Say  it,  then.^' 

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  tne  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  sole  rebelled  against  it  as 
unfair  from  its  incompleteness.  He,  meanwhile,  felt  the 
impetus  of  his  indignation  diverted  toward  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  nope. 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 . 


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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  329 

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  heyond  an  immediate  impres- 
sion, saw*  her  tall  strong  brother  grasping  the  feeble  Philip 
bodily,  crushing  him  and  trampling  on  him. 

'^l5o  you  call  this  acting  the  part  of  a  man  and  a  gen- 
tleman, 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 
honor  her  more  than  you  can  ever  honor  her;  I  would  give 
up  my  life  to  her." 

"  Don't  talk  high-flown  nonsense  to  me,  sirl  Do  you 
mean  to  pretend  that  you  didn't  know  it  would  be  inju- 
nous  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  her,  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  honor, 
is  it?  I  call  it  base  treachery  —  I  call  it  taking  advantage 
of  circumstances  to  win  what's  too  good  for  vou — what 
you'd  njever  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  inso- 
lent abuse.      You  are  incapable  even  of  understanding 


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330  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

what  I  feel  for  your  sister.  I  feel  so  much  for  her  thatl 
could  even  desire  to  be  at  friendship  with  you,^' 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  understand  your  feelings," 
said  Tom,  with  scorching  contempt.  '*  What  1  wish  is  that 
you  should  understand  ine — 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  pro- 
tect you.  Ill  thrash  you — FU  hold  you  up  to  pubhc  scorn. 
Who  wouldn't  laugh  at  the  idea  of  your  turning  iover  to  a 
fine  girl?" 

"Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it  —  I  will  listen  no  longer,*' 
Maggie  burst  out,  in  a  convulsed  voice. 

**  Stay,  Maggie!''  said  Philip,  making  a  strong  effort  to 
speak.  Then,  looking  at  Tom,  "You  nave  dragged  your 
sister  here,  I  suppose,  that  she  may  stand  by  while  you 
threaten  and  insult  me.  These  naturally  seemed  to  you 
the  right  means  to  influence  me.  But  you  are  mistaken. 
Let  your  sister  speak.  If  she  says  she  is  bound  to  give  me 
up,  1  shall  abide  by  her  wishes  to  the  slightest  word." 

"It  was  for  my  father's  sake,  Philip,"  said  Maggie, 
imploringly.  "Tom  threatens  to  tell  my  father — and  he 
couldn't  bear  it:  I  have  promised,  I  have  vowed  solemnly, 
that  we  will  not  have  any  intercourse  without  my  brother's 
knowledge." 

"  It  is  enough,  Maggie.  /  shall  not  change;  but  I  wish 
you  to  hold  yourself  entirely  free.  But  trust  me  —  remem- 
oer  that  I  can  never  seek  for  anything  but  good  to  what 
belongs  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  exasperated  by  this  attitude  of  Philip's, 
"you  can  talk  of  seeking  good  for  her  and  what  belongs  to 
her  now:  did  you  seek  her  good  before?" 

"I  did — at  some  risk,  perhaps.  But  I  wished  her  to 
have  a  friend  for  life — who  would  cherish  her,  who  would 
do  her  more  justice  than  a  coarse  and  narrow-minded 
brother,  that  sue  has  always  lavished  her  affections  on." 

"Yes,  my  way  of  befriending  her  is  different  from 
yours;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  is  my  way.  I'll  save  her  from 
disobeying  and  disgracing  her  father:  I'll  save  her  from 
throwing  herself  away  on  you  —  from  making  herself  a 
laughing-stock  —  from  being  flouted  by  a  man  like  your 
father,  because  she's  not  good  enough  for  his  son.  lou 
know  well  enough  what  sort  of  justice  and  cherishing  }0U 
were  preparing  for  her.     I'm  not  to  be  imposed  up^'  by 

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WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  331 

fine  words:   I  can  see  what  actions  mean.     Gome  away, 
Maggie/^ 

He  seized  Maggie^s  riffht  wrist  as  he  spoke,  and  she  put 
out  her  left  hand.  Philii)  clasped  it  an  instant,  with  one 
eager  look,  and  then  hurried  away. 

Tom  and  Maggie  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  yards.. 
He  was  still  holding  her  wrist  tightly,  as  if  he  were  com- 
pelling a  culprit  from  the  scene  of  action.  At  last  Maggie, 
with  a  violent  snatch,  drew  h6r  hand  away,  and  her  pent- 
up,  long-gathered  irritation  burst  into  utterance. 

"  Don't  suppose  that  I  think  you  are  right,  Tom,  or  that 
I  bow  to  your  will.  I  despise  the  feelings  you  have  shown 
in  speaking  to  Philip:  I  detest  your  insulting,  unmanly 
allusions  to  his  deformity.  You  have  been  reproaching 
other  people  all  your  life — you  have  been  always  sure  you 
yourself  are  right :  it  is  because  v(^  have  not  a  mind  large 
enough  to  see  that  there  is  anything  better  than  your  own 
conduct  and  your  own  petty  aims.'' 

"Certainly,"  said  Tom,  coolly.  "I  don't  see  that  your 
conduct  is  better,  or  your  aims  either.  If  your  conduct, 
and  Philip  Wakem's  conduct,  has  been  right,  why  are 
you  ashamed  of  its  being  known?  Answer  me  that.  I 
know  what  I  have  aimed  at  in  my  conduct,  and  I've  suc- 
ceeded: pray,  what  good  has  your  conduct  brought  to  you 
or  any  one  else?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  defend  myself,"  said  Maggie,  still  with 
vehemence:  *'I  know  I've  been  wrong — often,  continually. 
But  yet,  sometimes  when  I  have  done  wrong,  it  has  been 
because  I  have  feelings  that  you  would  be  the  better  for,  if 
you  had  them.  If  you  were  in  fault  ever — if  you  had  done 
anything  very  wrong,  I  should  be  sorry  for  the  pain  it 
brought  you;  I  should  not  want  punishment  to  be  neaped 
on  you.  But  you  have  always  enjoyed  punishing  me — you 
have  always  been  hard  and  cruel  to  me:  even  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,  and  always  loved  you  better  than  any  one  else  in 
the  world,  you  would  let  me  go  crying  to  bed  without  for- 
giving me.  You  have  no  pity:  you  have  no  sense  of  your 
own  imperfection  and  your  own  sins.  It  is  a  sin  to  be  hard; 
it  is  not  fitting  for  a  mortal — for  a  Christian.  You  are 
nothing  but  a  Pharisee.  You  thank  God  for  nothing  but 
your  own  virtues — ^you  think  they  are  great  enough  to  win 
you  everything  else.  You  have  not  even  a  vision  of  feel- 
ings by  the  side  of  which  your  shining  virtues  are  mere 
darkness!" 

^Well,"  said  Tom,  with  cold  scorn,  "if  your  feelings 

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332  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

are  so  much  better  than  mine,  let  me  see  vou  show  them  in 
some  other  way  than  by  conduct  that's  lilcely  to  disgrace  us 
all — ^than  by  ridiculous  flights  first  into  one  extreme  and 
then  into  another.  Pray,  how  have  you  shown  your  love, 
that  you  talk  of,  either  to  me  Or  my  father?  By  disobeying 
and  deceiving  us.  I  have  a  different  way  of  showing  my 
affection.^* 

"  Because  you  are  a  man,  Tom,  and  have  power,  and 
can  do  something  in  the  world." 

^*  Then,  if  you  can  do  nothing,  submit  to  those  that  can.'' 

"  So  I  will  submit  to  what  I  acknowledge  and  feel  to  be 
right.  I  will  submit  even  to  what  is  unreasonable  from 
my  father,  but  I  will  not  submit  to  it  from  you.  You 
boast  of  your  virtues  as  if  they  purchased  you  a  right  to  be 
cruel  and  unmanly  as  ]^'ve  been  to-day.  Don't  suppose 
I  would  give  up  Philip  \Vakem  in  obedience  to  you.  The 
deformity  you  insult  would  make  me  cling  to  him  and  care 
for  him  the  more." 

**Very  well — that  is  your  view  of  things,"  said  Tom, 
more  coldly  than  ever;  "  you  need  say  no  more  to  show  me 
what  a  wide  distance  there  is  between  us.  Let  us  remem- 
ber that  in  future,  and  be  silent." 

Tom  went  back  to  St.  egg's,  to  fulfill  an  appointment 
with  his  uncle  Deane,  and  receive  directions  about  a 
journey  on  which  he  was  to  set  out  the  next  morning. 

Maggie  went  up  to  her  own  room  to  pour  out  all  that 
indignant  remonstrance,  against  which  Tom's  mind  was 
close  barred,  in  bitter  tears.  Then,  when  the  first  burst 
of  unsatisfied  anger  was  gone  by,  came  the  recollection 
of  that  quiet  time  before  the  pleasure  which  had  ended 
in  to-day's  misery  had  perturbed  the  clearness  and  sim- 
plicity of  her  life.  She  used  to  think  in  that  time  that 
she  had  made  great  conquests,  and  won  a  lasting  stand  on 
serene  heights  above  worldly  temptations  ana  conflict. 
And  here  she  was  down  again  in  the  thick  of  a  hot  strife 
with  her  own  and  others'  passions.  Life  was  not  so  short, 
then,  and  perfect  rest  was  not  so  near  as  she  had  dreamed 
when  she  was  two  years  younger.  There  was  more  strug- 
gle for  her — perhaps  more  falling.  If  she  had  felt  that 
she  was  entirely  wrong,  and  that  Tom  had  been  entirely 
right,  she  could  sooner  have  recovered  more  inward  har- 
mony; but  now  her  penitence  and  submission  were  con- 
stantly obstructed  by  resentment  that  would  present  itself 
to  her  no  otherwise  than  as  a  just  indignation.  Her  heart 
bled  for  Philip:  she  went  on  recalling  the  insults  that  had 


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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  333 

been  flung  at  him  with  so  vivid  a  conception  of  what  he 
had  felt  under  them,  that  it  was  almost  like  a  sharp  bodily 
pain  to  her,  making  her  beat  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and 
tighten  her  fingers  on  her  palm. 

And  yet,  how  was  it  that  she  was  now  and  then  con- 
scious of  a  certain  dim  background  of  relief  in  the  forced 
separation  from  Philip?  Surely  it  was  only  because  the 
sense  of  a  deliverance  from  concealment  was  welcome  at 
any  cost. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  HARD-WON  TRIUKPH. 


Three  weeks  later,  when  Dorlcote  Mill  was  at  its  pret- 
tiest moment  in  all  the  year — the  great  chestnuts  in 
blossom,  and  the  grass  all  deep  and  daisied — Tom  Tulliver 
came  home  to  it  earlier  than  usual  in  the  evening,  and  as 
he  passed  over  the  bridge,  he  looked  with  the  old  deep- 
rooted  affection  at  the  respectable  red  brick  house,  which 
always  seemed  cheerful  and  inviting  outside,  let  the  rooms 
be  as  bare  and  the  hearts  as  sad  as  they  might,  inside. 
There  is  a  very  pleasant  light  in  Tom^s  blue-gray  eyes  as 
he  glances  at  the  house-windows:  that  fold  in  his  brow 
never  disappears,  but  it  is  not  unbecoming;  it  seems  to 
imply  a  strength  of  will  that  may  possibly  be  without 
harshness,  when  the  eyes  and  mouth  have  their  gentlest 
expression.  His  firm  step  becomes  quicker,  and  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  reb'el  against  the  compression  which  is  meant 
to  forbid  a  smile. 

The  eyes  in  the  parlor  were  not  turned  toward  the 
bridge  just  then,  and  the  group  there  was  sitting  in  unex- 
pectant  silence — Mr.  Tulliver  m  his  arm-chair,  tired  with 
a  long  ride,  and  ruminating  with  a  worn  look,  fixed  chiefly 
on  Maggie,  who  was  bending  over  her  sewing  while  her 
mother  was  making  the  tea. 

They  all  looked  up  with  surprise  when  they  heard  the 
well-known  foot. 

'*  Why,  what^s  up  now,  Tom?  *'  said  his  father.  "  You're 
a  bit  earlier  than  usual.'' 

"  Oh,  there  was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,  so  I  came 
away.    Well,  mother ! " 

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334  THE  MILL  OlSf  THE  FLOSS. 

Tom  went  up  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her,  a  sign  of 
unusual  good-humor  with  him.  Hardly  a  word  or  look  had 

gassed  between  him  and  Maggie  in  all  the  three  weeks;  but 
is  usual  incommunicativeness  at  home  prevented  this  from 
being  noticeable  to  their  parents. 

**  Father,"  said  Tom,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  '^^o 
ou  know  exactly  how  much  money  there  is  in  the  tin 
>ox?" 

"Only  a  hundred  and  ninety-three  pound/*  said  Mr. 
Tulliver.  "  You've  brought  less  o'  late — but  young  fellows 
like  to  have  their  own  way  with  their  money.  Though  I 
didn't  do  as  I  liked  before  /  was  of  age.''  He  spoke  with 
rather  timid  discontent. 

'*  Are  you  quite  sure  that's  the  sum,  father?"  said  Tom: 
"I  wish  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  fetch  the  tin  box 
down.     I  think  vou  have  perhaps  made  a  mistake." 

**  How  should  1  make  a  mistake?  "  said  his  father,  sharply. 
"  Fve  counted  it  often  enough;  but  I  can  fetch  it,  if  1^^ 
won't  believe  me." 

It  was  always  an  incident  Mr.  Tulliver  liked,  in  his 
gloomy  life,  to  fetch  the  tin  box  and  count  the  money. 

**  Don't  go  out  of  the  room,  mother,"  said  Tom,  as  he 
saw  her  moving  when  his  father  was  gone  up-stairs. 

*'  And  isn't  Maggie  to  go?"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver;  ''  because 
somebody  must  take  away  the  things." 

''Just  as  she  likes,"  said  Tom,  indifferently. 

That  was  a  cutting  word  to  Maggie.  Her  heart  had 
leaped  with  a  sudden  conviction  that  Tom  was  going  to  tell 
their  father  the  debts  could  be  paid — and  Tom  would  have 
let  her  be  absent  when  the  news  was  told!  But  she  carried 
away  the  tray,  and  came  back  immediately.  The  feeling  oi 
injury  on  her  own  behalf  could  not  predominate  at  that 
moment. 

Tom  drew  the  corner  of  the  table  near  his  father  when 
the  tin  box  was  set  down  and  opened,  and  the  r§d  evening 
light  falling  on  them  made  conspicuous  the  worn,  sour 
gloom  of  the  dark-eyed  father  and  the  suppressed  joy  ^^ 
the  face  of  the  fair-complexioned  son.  The  mother  and 
Maggie  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  the  one  in  blank 
patience,  the  other  in  palpitating  expectation. 

Mr.  Tulliver  counted  out  the  money,  setting  it  in  order 
on  the  table,  and  then  said  glancing  sharply  at  Tom— 

"  There  now!  you  see  I  was  right  enough." 

He  paused,  looking  at  the  money  with  bitter  despond- 
ency. 

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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  335 

'^  There's  more  nor  three  hundred  wanting — it'll  be  a 
fine  while  before  /  can  save  that.  Losing  that  forty-two 
pound  wi*  the  corn  was  a  sore  job.  This  world's  been  too 
many  for  me.     It's  took  four  year  to  lay  this  by — it's  much 

if  I'm  above  ground  for  another  four  year 1  must 

trusten  to  you  to  pay  'em,"  he  went  on,  with  a  trembling 
voice,  "  if  you  keep  i'  the  same  mind  now  you're  coming 
o'  age But  you're  like  enough  to  bury  me  first." 

He  looked  up  in  Tom's  face  with  a  querulous  desire  for 
some  assurance. 

"  No,  father,"  said  Tom,  speaking  with  energetic  decision, 
though  there  was  tremor  discernible  in  his  voice  too,  "  you 
will  live  to  see  the  debts  all  paid.  You  shall  pay  them 
with  your  own  hand." 

His  tone  implied  something  more  than  mere  hopeful- 
ness or  resolution.  A  slight  electric  shock  seemed  to  pass 
through  Mr.  TuUiver,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Tom 
with  a  look  of  eager  inquiry,  while  Maggie,  unable  to 
restrain  herself,  rushed  to  her  father's  side  and  knelt  down 
by  him.     Tom  was  silent  a  little  while  before  he  went  on. 

'^A  good  while  ago,  my  uncle  Glegg  lent  me  a  little 
money  to  trade  with,  and  that  has  answered.  I  have  three 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  in  the  bank." 

His  mother's  arms  were  round  his  neck  as  soon  as  the 
last  words  were  uttered,  and  she  said,  half  crying — 

^'  Oh,  my  boy,  I  knew  you'd  make  ivery thing  right  again, 
when  you  got  a  man." 

But  his  father  was  silent:  the  flood  of  emotion  hemmed 
in  all  power  of  speech.  Both  Tom  and  Maggie  were 
struck  with  fear  lest  the  shock  of  joy  might  even  be  fatal. 
But  the  blessed  relief  of  tears  came.  The  broad  chest 
heaved,  the  muscles  of  the  face  gave  way,  and  the  gray- 
haired  man  burst  into  loud  sobs.  The  fit  of  weeping 
ffradually  subsided,  and  he  sat  quiet,  recovering  the  regu- 
larity of  his  breathing.  At  last  he  looked  up  at  his  wife 
and  said,  in  a  gentle  tone — 

"  Bessy,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me  now — the  lad  has 
made  you  amends.  You'll  see  a  bit  o'  comfort  again, 
belike." 

When  she  had  kissed  him,  and  he  had  held  her  hand  a 
minute,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  money. 

^'I  wish  you'd  brought  me  the  money  to  look  at,  Tom," 
he  said,  fingering  the  sovereigns  on  the  table;  '^  I  should 
ha'  felt  surer." 

"You  shall  see  it  to-morrow,  father,"  said  Tom.     " My 

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336  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

uncle  Dcane  has  appointed  the  creditors  to  meet  to-morrow 
at  the  Golden  Lion,  and  he  has  ordered  a  dinner  for  them 
at  two  o'clock.  My  uncle  Glegg  and  he  will  both  be  there. 
It  was  advertised  in  the  ' Messenger'  on  Saturday.'' 

*'Then  Wakem  knows  on't!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  his  eye 
kindling  with  triumphant  fire.  *' Ah!"  he  went  on,  with 
a  long-drawn  guttural  enunciation,  taking  out  his  snuff- 
box, the  only  luxury  he  had  left  himself,  and  tapping  it 
with  something  of  his  old  air  of  defiance — "I'll  get  from 
under  his  thumb  now — though  1  must  leave  the  old  mill. 

I  thought  I  could  ha'  held  out  to  die  here — ^but  I  can't. 

We've  got  a  glass  </  nothing  in  the  house,  have  we,  Bessy?" 

*'Ye8,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  drawing  out  her  much- 
reduced  bunch  of  keys,  "there's  some  brandy  sister  Deane 
brought  me  when  I.  was  ill." 

"  Get  it  me,  then,  get  it  me.     I  feel  a  bit  weak," 

"  Tom,  my  lad,"  he  said  in  a  stronger  voice,  when  he 
had  taken  some  brandy-and-water,  "you  shall  make  a 
speech  to  'em.  I'll  tell  'em  it's  you  as  got  the  best  part  o' 
the  money.  Thev'll  see  I'm  honest  at  last,  and  ha'  got  an 
honest  son.  Ah!  Wakem  'ud  be  fine  and  glad  to  have  a 
son  like  mine — a  fine  straight  fellow — i'stead  o'  that  poor 
crooked  creatur!  You'll  prosper  i'  the  world,  mv  lad; 
you'll  maybe  see  the  day  when  Wakem  and  his  son  ^lU  be 
a  round  or  two  below  you.  You'll  like  enough  be  ta'en 
into  partnership,  as  your  uncle  Deane  was  before  you — 
you're  in  the  right  way  for't;  and  then  there's  nothing  to 

hinder  your  getting  rich. And   if   ever   you're'  rich 

enough — mind  this — try  and  ffet  th'  old  mill  again." 

Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair:  his  mind, 
which  had  so  long  been  the  home  of  nothing  but  bitter 
discontent  and  foreboding,  suddenly  filled,  by  the  magic 
of  joy,  with  visions  of  good  fortune.  But  some  subtle 
influence  prevented  him  from  foreseeing  the  good  fortune 
as  happening  to  himself. 

"  shake  hands  wi'  me,  my  lad,"  he  said,  suddenly  put- 
ting out  his  hand.  "It's  a  great  thing  when  a  man  can 
be  proud  as  he's  got  a  good  son.     I've  had  that  luck." 

Tom  never  lived  to  taste  another  moment  so  delicious  as 
that;  and  Maggie  couldn't  help  forgetting  her  own  griev- 
ances. Tom  was  good;  and  m  the  sweet  humility  that 
springs  in  us  all  in  moments  of  true  admiration  and  grati- 
tude, she  felt  that  the  faults  he  had  to  pardon  in  her  had 
nevei   been  redeemed,  9^  bis  faults  were.     She  felt  no 


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WHEAT  AND  TARES.  337 

jealousy  this  evening  that,  for  the  first  time,  she  seemed  to 
be  thrown  into  the  background  in  her  father's  mind. 

There  was  much  more  talk  before  bed-time.  Mr.  Tulli- 
\er  naturally  wanted  to  hear  all  the  particulars  of  Tom's 
trading  adventures,  and  he  listened  with  growing  excite- 
ment and  delight.  He  was  curious  to  know  what  had  beett 
said  on  every  occasion — if  possible,  what  had  been  thought; 
and  Bob  Jakin's  part  in  the  business  thr^w  him  mto 
peculiar  outbursts  of  sympathy  with  the  triumphant  know- 
ingness  of  that  remarkable  packman.  Bob's  juvenile 
history,  so  far  as  it  had  come  under  Mr.  Tulliver's  knowl- 
edge, was  recalled  with  that  sense  of  astonishing  promise 
it  displayed,  which  is  observable  in  all  reminiscences  of  the 
childhood  of  great  men. 

It  was  well  that  there  was  this  interest  of  narrative  to 
keep  under  the  vague  but  fierce  sense  of  triumph  over 
Wakem,  which  would  otherwise  have  been  the  channel  his 
joy  would  have  rushed  into  with  dangerous  force.  Even 
as  it  was,  that  feeling  from  time  to  time  gave  threats  of 
its  ultimate  mastery,  in  sudden  bursts  of  irrelevant  excla- 
mation. 

It  was  long  before  Mr.  TuUiver  got  to  slqep  that  night, 
and  the  sleep,  when  it  came,  was  filled  with  vivid  dreams. 
At  half-past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  Mrs. 
Tulliver  was  already  rising,  he  alarmed  her  by  starting  up 
with  a  sort  of  smothered  shout,  and  looking  round  in  a 
bewildered  way  at  the  walls  of  the  bedroom. 

*^  What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Tulliver?"  said  his  wife.  He 
looked  at  her,  still  with  a  puzzled  expression,  and  said  at 
last — 

^'Ah!  —  I  was  dreaming did  I  make  a  noise 1 

thought  I'd  got  hold  of  him." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   DAY   OF   RECKONING. 


Mr.  Tulliver  was  an  essentially  sober  man — able  to 
take  his  glass  and  not  averse  to  it,  but  n^ver  exceeding  the 
bounds  of  moderation.  He  had  naturally  an  active  Hot- 
spur temperament,  which  did  not  crave  liquid  fire  to  set  it 
a-glow;  his  ilnpetuosity  was  usually  equal  to  an  exciting 

■   Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


338  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

occaBion  without  any  such  reinforcements;  and  his  desire 
for  the  brandv-and- water  implied  that  the  too  sudden  joy 
had  fallen  witn  a  dangerous  snock  on  a  frame  depressed  by 
four  years  of  gloom  and  unaccustomed  hard  fare.  But 
that  first  doubtful  tottering  moment  passed,  he  seemed  to 
gather  strength  with  his  gathering  excitement;  and  the 
next  day,  when  he  was  seated  at  table  with  his  creditors,  his 
eye  kindling  and  his  cheek  flushed  with  the  consciousuess 
that  he  was  about  to  make  an  honorable  figure  once  more, 
he  looked  more  like  the  proud,  confident,  warm-hearted  and 
warm-tempered  Tulliver  of  old  times,  than  might  have 
seemed  possible  to  any  one  who  had  met  him  a  week  before, 
riding  along  as  had  been  his  wont  for  the  last  four  years 
since  the  sense  of  failure  and  debt  had  been  upon  him— with 
his  head  hanging  down,  casting  brief,  unwilling  looks  on 
those  who  forced  themselves  on  his  notice.  He  made  his 
speech,  asserting  his  honest  principles  with  his  old  confident 
eagerness,  alluding  to  the  rascals  and  the  luck  that  had 
been  against  him,  but  that  he  had  triumphed  over,  to  some 
extent,  by  hard  efforts  and  the  aid  of  a  good  -son;  and 
winding  up  with  the  story  of  how  Tom  had  got  the  best 
part  of  the  needful  money.  But  the  streak  of  irritation 
and  hostile  triumph  seemed  to  melt  for  a  little  while  into 

Eurer  fatherly  pride  and  pleasure,  when,  Tom^s  health 
aving  been  proposed,  and  uncle  Deane  having  taken 
occasion  to  say  a  few  words  of  eulogy  on  his  general  char- 
acter and  conduct,  Tom  himself  got  up  and  made  the 
single  speech  of  his  life.  It  could  hardly  Have  been  briefer: 
he  thanked  the  gentlemen  for  the  honor  they  had  done 
him.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  been  able  to  help  his  father 
in  proving  his  integrity  and  regaining  his  honest  name; 
and,  for  his  own  part,  he  hoped  he  should  never  undo  that 
work  and  disgrace  that  name.  But  the  applause  that 
followed  was  so  great,  and  Tom  looked  so  gentlemanly  as 
well  as  tall  and  straight,  that  Mr.  Tulliver  remarked  in  an 
explanatory  manner,  to  his  friends  on  his  right  and  left, 
that  he  had  spent  a  deal  of  money  on  his  son's  education. 
The  party  broke  up  in  very  sober  fashion  at  five  6'clock. 
Tom  remained  in  St.  Ogg's  to  attend  to  some  .business,  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  mounted  his  horse  to  go  home,  and  describe 
the  memorable  things  that  had  been  said  and  done,  to 
"poor  Bessy  and  the  little  wench.''  The  air  of  excitement 
that  hung  about  him  was  but  faintly  due  to  good  cheer  or 
any  stimulus  but  the  potent  wine  of  triumphant  joy.  He 
did  npt  choose  any  back  street  to-daj^,  but  rode  slowlj^,  witi 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


\ 


WHEAT  AND  TARES,  339 

uplifted  head  and  free  glances,  along  the  principal  street 
all  the  way  to  the  bridge.  Why  did  he  not  happen  to  meet 
Wakem?  The  want  of  that  coincidence  vexed  him,  and 
set  his  mind  at  work  in  an  irritating  way.  Perhaps 
Wakem  was  jone  out  of  town  to-day  on  purpose  to  avoid 
seeing  or  hearing  anything  of  an  honorable  action,  which 
might  well  cause  him  some  unpleasant  twinges.  If  Wakem 
were  to  meet  him  then,  Mr.  Tulliver  would  look  straight 
at  him,  and  the  rascal  would  perhaps  be  forsaken  a  little 
by  his  cool  domineering  impudence.  He  would  know 
by-and-by  that  an  honest  man  was  not  going  to  serve  Mm 
any  longer,  and  lend  his  honesty  to  fill  a  pocket  already 
over-full  of  dishonest  gains.  Perhaps  the  luck  was  begin- 
ning to  turn;  perhaps  the  devil  didn^t  always  hold  the 
best  cards  in  this  world. 

Simmering  in  this  way,  Mr.  Tulliver  approached  the 
yard-gates  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  near  enough  to  see  a  well- 
known  figure  coming  out  of  them  on  a  fine  black  horse. 
They  m«t  about  fifty  yards  from  the  gates,  between  the 
great  chestnuts  and  elms  and  the  high  bank. 

'^  Tulliver,^  said  Wakem,  abruptly,  in  a  haughtier  tone 
than  usual,  "what  a  fooFs  trick  you  did — spreading  those 
hard  lumps  on  that  Far  Close!  I  told  you  how  it  would  be; 
but  you  men  never  learn  to  farm  with  any  method." 

^'Oh!"  said  Tulliver,  suddenly  boiling  up;  *^get  some- 
body else  to  farm  for  you,  then,  as'U  ask  you  to  teach 
him.'' 

*^You  have  been  drinking,  I  suppose,''  said  Wakem, 
really  believing  that  this  was  the  meaning  of  TuUiver's 
flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes. 

'^ No,  I've  not  been  drinking,"  said  Tulliver;  '*I  want 
no  drinking  to  help  me  make  up  my  mind  as  I'll  serve  no 
longer  under  a  scoundrel." 

**Very  well!  ^ou  may  leave  my  premises  to-morrow, 
then:  hold  your  insolent  tongue  and  let  me  pass."  (Tul- 
liver was  backing  his  horse  across  the  road  to  hem  Wakem 
in.) 

^^No,  I  shanH  let  you  pass,"  said  Tulliver,  getting 
fiercer.  "I  shall  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  first. 
You're  too  big  a  raskill  to  get  hanged — ^you're " 

'^  Let  me  pass,  you  ignorant  brute,  or  I'll  ride  over  you." 

Mr.  Tulliver,  spurring  his  horse  and  raising  his  whip, 
made  a  rush  forward,  and  Wakem's  horse,  rearing  and 
staggering  backward,  threw  his  rider  from  the  saddle  aiu 
sent  him  sideways  on  the  ground.    W^kem  b^d  h»d  tl^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


340  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

Eresence  of  mind  to  loose  the  bridle  at  once,  and  ^»8  the 
orse  only  .staggered  a  few  paces  and  then  stood  st^U,  he 
might  have  risen  and  remounted  without  more  :■-  ncon- 
venience  than  a  bruise  and  a  shake.  But  before  he  could 
rise,  Tulliver  was  off  his  horse  too.  The  sight  (^rf  the 
long-hated  predominant  man  down  and  in  his  p^ower, 
threw  him  into  a  frenzy  of  triumphant  vengeance,  ^^vhich 
seemed  to  give  him  preternatural  agility  and  strength. 
He  rushed  on  Wakem,  who  was  in  the  act  of  try£  "ng  to 
recover  his  feet,  grasped  him  by  the  left  arm  so  as  to  ^ 
press  Wakem's  whole  weight  on  the  right  arm,  ^^.vhich 
rested  on  the  ground,  and  flogged  him  fiercely  across  the 
back  with  his  riding- whip.  Wakem  shouted  for  hel]^,  hut 
no  help  came,  until  a  woman's  scream  was  heard,  aim.<i  the 
cry  of  **  Father,  father !*' 

Suddenly,  Wakem  felt  something  had  arrestee^  Mr. 
Tulliver's  arm;  for  the  flogging  ceased,  and  the  grei^sp  on 
his  own  arm  was  relaxed. 

**  Get  away  with  you — go!'*  said  Tulliver,  angrily.  But 
it  was  not  to  Wakem  that  he  spoke.  Slowly  thel^-wyer 
rose,  and,  as  he  turned  his  head,  saw  that  Tulliver'^  arms 
were  being  held  by  a  girl — rather  by  fear  of  hurtir^g  ^"® 
girl  that  clung  to  him  with  all  her  young  might.   .  „ 

"0   Luke — mother — come  and   help  Mr.   Wal^^^^- 
Maggie  cried,  as  she  heard  the  longed-for  footsteps. 

**  Help  me  on  to  that  low  horse,^  said  Wakem  to  rifc^ke, 
*Uhenl  shall  perhaps  manage:  though — confound  :it— 1 
think  this  arm  is  sprained.''  .     , 

With  some  difficulty,  Wakem  was  heaved  on  to  Tul  X^^^T? 
horse.     Then  he  turned  toward  the  miller  and  saidj^  ^^. 
white  rage,  "  You'll  suffer  for  this,  sir.     Your  daugt^*-^^  ^^ 
a  witness  that  you've  assaulted  me." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  a  thick,  fierce  ^^oi<5®> 
*'go  and  show  your  back,  and  tell  'em  I  thrasheA-  y,^^* 
Tell  'em  I've  made  things  a  bit  more  even  i'  the  wor|^^* , 

*'  Ride  my  horse  home  with  me,"  said  Wakem  to  ^^f^^^^' 
*'  By  the  Tofton  Ferry — not  through  the  town."      ^^nu 

"Father,  come  in!"  said  Maggie,  imploringly,  '^-^[^w 
seeing  that  Wakem  had  ridden  off,  and  that  no  f^^-£^% 
violence  was  possible,  she  slackened  her  hold  and  ^^  \rt 
into  hysteric  sobs,  while  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  ^J 
silence,  quivering  with  fear.  But  Maggie  became  con^^*^? 
that  as  she  was  slackening  her  hold,  her  father  was  ^^&^^j^\.^ 
to  grasp  h^r  and  lean  on  her,  The  surprise  cheoke^^  ^^ 
sobs, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC               — -^ 
^ 


WHEAT  AND  TARES.  341 

'*  I  feel  ill — faintish/^  he  said.  "  Help  me  in,  Bessy — 
Fm  giddy — Tve  a  pain  i'  the  head/^ 

He  walked  in  slowly,  propped  by  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and  tottered  into  his  arm-chair.  The  almost  purple  flush 
had  given  way  to  paleness,  and  his  hand  was  cold. 

^^Hadn^t  we  better  send  for  the  doctor?"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver. 

He  seemed  to  be  too  faint  and  suffering  to  hear  her;  but 
presently,  when  she  said  to  Maggie,  **  Go  and  see  for 
somebody  to  fetch  the  doctor,"  he  looked  up  at  her  with 
full  comprehension,  and  said,  *' Doctor?  no  —  no  doctor. 
It's  my  head — that^s  all.     Help  me  to  bed." 

Sad  ending  to  the  day  that  had  risen  on  them  all  like  a 
beginning  of  better  times!  But  mingled  seed  must  bear  a 
mingled  crop. 

In  half  an  hour  after  his  father  had  lain  down  Tom 
came  home.  Bob  Jakin  was  with  him  —  come  to  congratu- 
late ^'  the  old  master,"  not  without  some  excusable  pride, 
that  he  had  had  his  share  in  bringing  about  Mr.  Tom's 
good  luck;  and  Tom  had  thought  his  father  would  like 
nothing  better,  as  a  finish  to  the  day,  than  a  talk  with  Bob. 
But  now  Tom  could  only  spend  the  evening  in  gloomy 
expectation-  of  the  unpleasant  consequences  that  must 
follow  on  this  mad  outbreak  of  his  father's  long-smothered 
hate.  After  the  painful  news  had  been  told,  he  sat  in 
silence:  he  had  not  spirit  or  inclination  to  tell  his  mother 
and  sister  anything  about  the  dinner — they  hardly  cared 
to  ask  it.  Apparently  the  mingled  thread  in  the  web  of 
their  life  was  so  curiously  twisted  together  that  there  could 
be  no  joy  without  a  sorrow  coming  close  upon  it.  Tom  was 
dejected  by  the  thought  that  his  exemplary  effort  must 
always  be  baffled  by  the  wrong-doin^  of  others:  Maggie 
was  living  through,  over  and  over  agam,  the  agony  of  the 
moment  in  which  she  had  rushed  to  throw  herself  on  her 
father's  arm — with  a  vague,  shuddering  foreboding  of 
wretched  scenes  to  come.  Not  one  of  the  three  felt  any 
particular  alarm  about  Mr.  TuUiver's  health:  the  symp- 
toms did  not  recall  his  former  dangerous  attack,  and  it 
seemed  only  a  necessary  consequence  that  his  violent 
passion  and  effort  of  strength,  after  many  hours  of  unusual 
excitement,  should  have  made  him  feel  ill.  Best  would 
probably  cure  himt 

Tom,  tired  out  by  his  active  day,  fell  asleep  soon,  and 
slept  soundly.     It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  only  just 


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342  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

come  to  bed,  when  he  waked  to  see  his  mother  standing  by 
him  in  the  gray  light  of  early  morning. 

**  My  boy,  you  must  get  up  this  minute:  I've  sent  for 
the  doctor,  and  your  father  wants  you  and  Maggie  to  come 
to  him.'' 

"Is  he  worse,  mother?'' 

"  He's  been  very  ill  all  night  with  his  head,  but  he 
doesn't  say  it's  worse — he  only  said  sudden,  *  Bessy,  fetch 
the  boy  and  girl.     Tell  ^em  to"  make  ha^e.' " 

Maggie  and  Tom  threw  on  their  clothes  hastily  in  the 
chill  gray  light,  and  reached  their  father's  room  almost  at 
the  same  moment.  He  was  watching  for  them  with  an 
expression  of  pain  on  his  brow,  but  with  sharpened  anx- 
ious consciousness  in  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  frightened  and  trembling,  looking  worn 
and  aged  from  disturbed  rest.  Maggie  was  at  the  bedside 
first,  but  her  father's  glance  was  toward  Tom,  who  came 
and  stood  next  to  her. 

"  Tom,  my  lad,  it's  come  upon  me  as  I  shan't  get  up 

again This  world's  been  too  many  for  me,  my  fed, 

but  you've  done  what  you  could  to  make  things  a  bit  even. 
Shake  hands  wi'  me  again,  my  lad,  before  I  go  away  from 
you." 

The  father  and  son  clasped  hands  and  looked  at  each 
other  an  instant.   Then  Tom  said,  tnring  to  speak  firmly — 

"  Have  you  any  wish,  father — that  I  can  fulfill,  when " 

"Av,  my  lad ^you'll  try  and  get  the  old  mill  back." 

"Yes,  father." 

"And  there's  your  mother — you'lt  try  and  make  her 

amends,  all  you  can,  for  my  bad  luck and  there's  the 

little  wench " 

The  father  turned  his  eyes  on  Maggie  with  a  still  more ' 
eager  look,  while  she,  with  a  bursting  heart,  sank  on  her 
knees,  to  be  closer  to  the  dear,  time-worn  face  which  had 
been  present  with  her  through  long  years,  as  the  sign  of 
her  deepest  love  and  hardest  trial. 

"You  must  take  care  of  her,  Tom don't  you  fret, 

my  wench there'll  come  somebody  as'U  love  you  and 

take  your  part and  you  must  be  good  to  her,  my  lad.    I 

was  good  to  my  sister.     Kiss  me,   Maggie Come, 

Bessy— —  You'll  manage  to  pay  for  a  brick  grave,  Tom, 
so  as  your  mother  and  me  can  lie  together." 

He  looked  away  from  them  all  when  he  had  said  this, 
and  lay  silent  for  some  minutes,  while  they  stood  watching 
him,  not  daring  to  move.   The  morning  light  was  growing 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


WHEAT  AKD  TARES.  343 

clearer  for  them,  and  they  could  see  the  heaviness  gather- 
ing in  his  face,  and  the  dullness  in  his  eyes.  But  at  last 
he  looked  toward  Tom  and  said — 

"I  had  my  turn — I  beat  him.  That  was  nothing  but 
fair.     I  never  wanted  anything  but  what  was  fair.*' 

*^  But,  father,  dear  father,'"  said  Maggie,  an  unspeak- 
able anxiety  predominating  over  her  grief,  "you  forgive 
him — ^you  forgive  every  one  now?" 

He  did  not  move  his  eyes  to  look  at  her,  but  he  said — 

"No,   my  wench.     I  don't  forgive    him What's 

forgiving  to  do?    I  can't  love  a  raskill ^" 

His  voice  had  become  thicker;  but  he  wanted  to  say 
more,  and  moved  his  lips  again  and  again,  struggling  in 
vain  to  speak.     At  length  the  y^ords  forced  their  way. 

'^  Does  God  forgive  raskills? but  if  He  does.  He  won't 

be  hard  wi'  me." 

His  hands  moved  uneasily,  as  if  he  wanted  them  to 
remove  some  obstruction  that  weighed  upon  him.  Two 
or  three  times  there  fell  from  him  some  broken  words — 

^'This  world's too  many honest  men puz- 
zling  " 

Soon  they  merged  into  mere  mutterings;  the  eyes  had 
ceased  to  discern;  and  then  came  the  final  silence. 

But  not  of  death.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  chest  heaved, 
the  loud  hard  breathing  continued,  getting  gradually 
slower,  as  the  cold  dews  gathered  on  the  brow. 

At  last  there  was  total  stillness,  and  poor  Tulliver's 
dimly-lighted  soul  had  forever  ceased  to  be  vexed  with 
the  painful  riddle  of  this  world. 

Help  was  come  now* Luke  and  his  wife  were  there,  and 
Mr.  Turnbull  had  arrived,  too  late  for  everything  but  to 
say,  "This  is  death." 

Tom  and  Maggie  went  down-stairs  together  into  the 
room  where  their  father's  place  was  empty.  Their  eyes 
turned  to  the  same  spot,  and  Maggie  spoke — 

"Tom,  forgive  me — let  us  always  love  each  other,"  and 
the^r  clung  and  wept  together. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOOK   VL 
THE  GEEAT  TEMPTATION. 


CHAPTER  L 

A  DUET  IK  PARADISE. 

The  well-furnished  drawing-room,  with  the  open  grand 
piano,  and  the  pleasant  outlook  down  a  sloping  garden  to  a 
boat-house  by  the  side  of* the  Floss,  is  Mr.  Deane^s.  The 
neat  little  lady  in  mourning,  whose  light-brown  ringlets 
are  falling  over  the  colored  embroidery  with  which  her 
fingers  are  busy,  is  of  course  Lucy  Deane;  and  the  fine 
young  man  who  is  leaning  down  from  his  chair  to  snap  the 
scissors  in  the  extremely  abbreviated  face  of  the  ''King 
Charles*^  lyinff  on  the  voung  lady's  feet,  is  no  other  than 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  whose  diamond  ring,  attar  of  roses, 
and  air  of  nonchalant  leisure,  at  twelve  o  clock  in  the  day, 
are  the  graceful  and  odoriferous  result  of  the  hirgest  oil- 
mill  and  the  most  extensive  wharf  in  St.  Ogg^s.  There  is 
an  apparent  triviality  in  the  action  with  the  scissors,  but 
your  oiscernment  perceives  at  once  that  there  is  a  design  in 
it  which  makes  it  eminently  worthy  of  a  large-headed, 
long-limbed  young  man;  for  you  see  that  Lucy  wants  the 
scissors,  and  is  compelled,  reluctant  as  she  maybe,  to  shake 
her  ringlets  back,  raise  her  soft  hazel  eyes,  smile  playfully 
down  on  the  face  that  is  so  very  nearly  on  a  level  with  her 
knee,  and,  holding  out  her  little  shell-pink  palm,  to  say — 

"My  scissors,  please,  if  you  can  renounce  the  great 
pleasure  of  persecuting  my  poor  Minny.'* 

The  foolish  scissors  have  slipped  too  far  over  the 
knuckles,  it  seems,  and  Hercules  nolds  out  his  entrapped 
fingers  hopelessly. 

"Confound  the  scissors!  The  oval  lies  the  wrong  way. 
Please,  draw  them  off  for  me.'' 

"  Draw  them  off  with  your  other  hand,"  says  Miss  Lucy, 
roguishly. 

"Oh,  but  that's  my  left  hand:  I'm  not  left-handed.'* 
Lucy  laughs,  and  the  scissors  are  drawn  off  with  gentle 

344 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  345 

touches  from  tiny  tips,  which  naturally  dispose  Mr. 
Stephen  for  a  repetition  da  capo.  Accordingly,  he  watclies 
for  the  release  of  the  scissors,  that  he  may  get  them  into 
his  possession  again. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lucy,  sticking  them  in  her  band,  **you 
shall  not  have  my  scissors  again — you  have  strained  them 
already.  Now  don't  set  Minny  growling  again.  Sit  up 
and  behave  properly,  and  then  1  will  tell  you  some  news. 

*'What  is  that?"  said  Stephen,  throwing  himself  back 
and  hanging  his  right  arm  over  the  corner  of  his  chair. 
He  might  have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait,  which  would 
have  represented  a  rather  striking  young  man  of  five-and- 
twenty,  with  a  square  forehead,  short  dark-brown  hair 
standing  erect,  with  a  slight  wave  at  the  end,. like  a  thick 
crop  of  corn,  and  a  half -ardent,  half-sarcastic  glance  from 
under  his  well-marked  horizontal  eyebrows.  '*  Is  it  very 
important  news?" 

^ *  Yes — very.     Guess. " 

^'  You  are  going  to  change  Minny^s  diet,  and  give  him 
three  ratafias  soaked  in  a  dessert-spoonful  of  cream  daily  ?^' 

''Quite  wrong." 

''Well,  then.  Dr.  Kenn  has  been  preaching  against 
buckram,  and  you  ladies  have  all  been  sending  him  a 
round-robin,  saying — '  This  is  a  hard  doctrine;  who  can 
bear  it?'" 

"For  shame!"  said  Lucy,  adjusting  her  little  mouth 
gravely.  "It  is  rather  dull  of  you  not  to  guess  my  news, 
because  it  is  about  something  I  mentioned  to  you  not  very 
long  ago."  ^ 

"  But  you  have  mentioned  many  things  to  me  not  long 
ago.  Does  your  feminine  tyranny  require  that  when  you 
say  the  thing  you  mean  is  one  of  several  things,  I  should 
know  it  immediately  by  that  mark?" 

"Yes,  I  know  you  think  I  am  silly." 

"I  think  you  are  perfectly  charming." 

"  And  my  silliness  is  part  of  my  charm?" 

"  I  didn't  say  ^Aa^." 

"  But  I  know  you  like  women  to  be  rather  insipid. 
Philip  Wakem  betrayed  you:  he  said  so  one  day  when  you 
were  not  here." 

"  Oh,  I  know  Phil  is  fierce  on  that  point;  he  makes  it 
quite  a  personal  matter.  I  think  he  must  be  love-sick  for 
some  unknown  lady — some  exalted  Beatrice  whom  he  met 
abroad." 

"By  the  by,"  said  Lucy,  pausing  in  her  work,  "it  has 

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346  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

just  occurred  to  me  that  I  have  never  found  out  whether 
my  cousin  Maggie  will  object  to  see  Philip,  as  her  brother 
does.  Tom  will  not  enter  a  room  where  Philip  is,  if  he 
knows  it:  perhaps  Maggie  may  be  the  same,  and  then  we 
shan^t  be  able  to  sing  our  glees — shall  we?  " 

**  What!  is  your  cousin  coming  to  stay  with  you?^^  said 
Stephen,  with  a  look  of  slight  annoyance. 

"  Yes;  that  was  my  news,  which  you  have  forgotten. 
She^s  going  to  leave  her  situation,  where  she  has  been 
nearly  two  years,  poor  thing — ever  since  her  father's  death; 
and  she  will  stay  with  me  a  month  or  two — many  months, 
I  hope." 

"  And  am  I  bound  to  be  pleased  at  that  news?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,''  said  Lupy,  with  a  little  air  of  pique. 
*'  /  am  pleased,  but  that,  of  course,  is  no  reason  why  yow 
should  be  pleased.  There  is  no  girl  in  the  world  I  love  so 
well  as  my  cousin  Maggie." 

'*  And  you  will  be  inseparable,  I  suppose,  when  she 
comes.  There  will  be  no  possibility  of  a  tete-a-tete  vfii\^ 
you  any  more,  unless  you  can  ^nd  an  admirer  for  her,  who 
will  pair  off  with  her  occasionally.  What  is  the  ground  of 
dislike  to  Philip?    He  might  have  been  a  resource." 

*'It  is  a  family  quarrel  with  Philip's  father.  There 
were  very  painful  circumstances,  I  believe.  I  never  quite 
understood  them,  or  knew  them  all.  My  uncle  Tulliver 
was  unfortunate  and  lost  all  his  property,  and  I  think  he 
considered  Mr.  Wakem  was  somehow  the  cause  of  it.  Mr. 
Wakem  bought  Dorlcote  Mill,  my  uncle's  old  place,  where 
he  p.lways  lived.  You  must  remember  my  uncle  Tulliver, 
don't  you?" 

**  No,"  said  Stepheh,  with  rather  supercilious  indifference. 
'*  I've  always  known  the  name,  and  I  dare  say  J  knew  the 
man  by  sight,  apart  from  his  name.  I  know  half  the 
names  and  faces  in  the  neighborhood  in  that  detached, 
disjointed  way." 

*'  He  was  a  very  hot-tempered  man.  I  remember,  when 
I  was  a  little  girl,  and  used  to  go  to  see  my  cousins,  he 
often  frightened  me  by  talking  as  if  he  were  angiy.  Papa 
told  me  there  was  a  dreadful  quarrel,  the  very  day  before 
my  uncle's  death,  between  him  and  Mr.  Wakem,  but  it 
was  hushed  up.  That  was  when  you  were  in  London. 
Papa  says  my  uncle  was  quite  mistaken  in  many  ways:  his 
mind  had  become  embittered.  But  Tom  and  Maggie  must 
naturally  feel  it  very  painful  to  be  reminded  of  these 
things.     They  have  haa  so  much — so  very  much  trojable. 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  347 

Maggie  was  at  school  with  me  six  years  ago,  when  she  was 
fefcchod  away  because  of  her  father's  misfortunes,  and  she 
has  hardly  had  any  pleasure  since,  I  think.  She  has  been 
in  a  dreary  situation  m  a  school  since  uncle's  death,  because 
she  is  determined  to  be  independent,  and  not  live  with 
aunt  Pullet;  and  I  could  hardly  wish  her  to  come  to  me 
then,  because  dear  mamma  was  ill,  and  everything  was  so 
sad.  That  is  why  I  want  her  to  come  to  me  now,  and 
have  a  long,  long  holiday." 

"  Very  sweet  and  angelic  of  you,"  said  Stephen,  looking 
at  her  with  an  admiring  smile;  "and  all  the  more  so  if 
she  has  the  conversational  qualities  of  her  mother." 

''Poor  aunty!  You  are  cruel  to  ridicule  her.  She  is 
very  valuable  to  me,  I  know.  She  manages  the  house 
beautifully — much  better  than  any  stranger  would — and 
she  was  a  great  comfort  to  me  in  mamma's  illness." 

''Yes,  but  in  point  of  companionship,  one  would  prefer 
that  she  should  be  represented  by  her  brandy-cherries  and 
cream  cakes.  I  thinlc  with  a  shudder  that  her-  daughter 
will  always  be  present  in  person,  and  have  no  agreeable 
proxies  of  that  kind —  a  fat,  blonde  girl,  with  round  blue 
eyes,  who  will  stare  at  us  silently." 

'*  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Lucy,  laughing  wickedly  and 
clapping  her  hands,  "that  is  just  my  cousin  Maggie.  You 
must  have  seen  her!" 

"No,  indeed:  I'm  only  guessing  what  Mrs.  Tulliver's 
daughter  must  be;  and  then  if  she  is  to  banish  Philip, 
our  only  apology  for  a  tenor,  that  will  be  an  additional 
bore." 

"  But  I  hope  that  may  not  be.  I  think  I  will  ask  you 
to  call  on  Philip  and  tell  him  Maggie  is  coming  to-mor- 
row. He  is  quite  aware  of  Tom's  feeling,  and  always 
keeps  out  of  his  way;  so  he  will  understand,  if  you  tell 
him,  that  I  asked  you  to  warn  him  not  to  come  until  I 
write  to  ask  him." 

"I  think  you  had  better  write  a  pretty  note  for  me  to 
take:  Phil  is  so  sensitive,  you  know,  the  least  thing  might 
frighten  him  off  coming  at  all,  and  we  had  hard  work  to 
get  him.  I  can  never  induce  him  to  come  to  the  park:  he 
doesn't  like  my  sistei*s,  I  think.  It  is  only  your  fairy  touch 
that  can  lay  his  ruffled  feathers." 

Stephen  mastered  the  little  hand  that  was  straying  toward 

the  table,  and  touched   it  lightly  with  his  lips.     Little 

Lucy  felt  very  proud  and  happy.       She  and    Stephen 

.  were  in  that  stage  of  courtship  which  makes  the  most 

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848  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL08S. 

exquisite  moment  of  youth,  the  freshest  blossom-time  of 
passion  —  when  each  is  sure  of  the  other's  love,  but  no 
formal  declaration  has  been  made,  and  all  is  mutual  divina- 
tion, exalting  the  most  trivial  word,  the  lightest  gesture, 
into  thrills  delicate  and  delicious  as  wafted  jasmine  scent. 
The  explicitness  of  an  engagement  wears  off  this  finest 
edge  of  susceptibility:  it  is  jasmine  gathered  and  pre- 
sented in  a  large  bouquet. 

*"  But  it  is  really  odd  that  you  should  have  hit  so  exactly 
on  Maggie's  appearance  and  mannei*s,^^'said  the  cunning: 
Lucy,  moving  to  reach  her  desk,  "because  she  might  have 
been  like  her  brother,  you  know;  and  Tom  has  not  round 
eyes;  and  he  is  as  far  as  possible  from  staring  at  people.'* 

''Oh,  I  suppose  he  is  like  the  father:   he  seems  to  be  as 

Froud  as  Lucifer.  Not  a  brilliant  companion,  though, 
should  think.'' 

"  I  like  Tom.  He  gave  me  my  Minny  when  I  lost  Lolo; 
and  papa  is  very  fond  of  him :  he  says  Tom  has  excellent 
principleff.  It  was  through  him  that  his  father  was  able 
to  pay  all  his  debts  before  he  died." 

"Uh,  ah;  I've  heard  about  that.  I  heard  your  father 
and  mine  talking  about  it  a  little  while  ago,  after  dinner, 
in  one  of  their  interminable  discussions  about  business. 
They  think  of  doing  something  for  young  TulUver:  he 
saved  them  from  a  considerable  loss  by  riding  home  in 
some  marvelous  way,  like  Turpin,  to  bring  them  news 
about  the  stoppage  of  a  bank,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
But  I  was  rather  drowsy  at  the  time." 

Stephen  rose  from  his  seat,  and  sauntered  to  the  piano, 
humming  in  falsetto,  "  Graceful  Consort,"  as  he  turned 
over  the  volume  of  ''The  Creation,"  which  stood  open  on 
the  desk. 

"Come  and  sing  this,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  Lucy 
risiuff. 

"What!  'Graceful  Consort?'  I  don't  think  it  suits 
your  voice." 

"Never  mind;  it  exactly  suits  my  feeling,  which  Philip 
will  have  it,  is  the  grand  element  of  good  singing.  1 
notice  men  with  indifferent  voices  are  usually  of  that 
opinion." 

"Philip  burst  into  one  of  his  invectives  against  'The 
Creation  the  other  day,"  gaid  Lucy,  seating  herself  at  the 
piano.  "He  says  it  has  a  sort  of  sugarea  complacency 
and  flattering  make-believe  in  it,  as  if  it  were  written  for 
the  birthday /e^^  of  a  German  Grand-Duke." 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  349 

"Oh,  pooh!    He  is  the  fallen  Adam   with  a  soured 
temper.     We  are  Adam  and  Eve  unfallen,  in  Paradise. 
Now,  then  —  the  recitative,  for  the  sake  of  the  moral. 
You  will  sing  the  whole  duty. of   woman  —  'And  from, 
obedience  grows  my  pride  and  happiness/" 

^'Oh,  no,  X  shall  not  respect  an  Adam  who  drags  the 
tempo y  as  you  will,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  play  the  duet. 

Surely  the  only  courtship  unshaken  by  douots  and  fears, 
must  be  that  in  which  the  lovers  can  sing  together.  The 
sense  of  mutual  fitness  that  springs  from  the  two  deep  notes 
fulfilling  expectation  just  at  the  right  moment  between 
the  notes  of  the  silvery  sopr^,no,  from  the  perfect  accord  of 
descending  thirds  and  fiftns,  from  the  preconcerted  loving 
chase  of  a  fugue,  is  likely  enough  to  supersede  any  immedi- 
ate demand  for  less  impassioned  forms  of  agreement.  The 
contralto  will  not  care  to  catechise  the  bass;  the  tenor  will 
foresee  no  embarrassing  dearth  of  remark  in  evenings  spent 
with  the  lovely  soprano.  In  the  provinces,  too,  where 
music  was  so  scarce  in  that  remote  time,  how  could  the 
musical  people  avoid  falling  in  love  with  each  other?  Even 
political  principle  must  have  been  in  danger  of  relaxation 
under  sucn  circumstances;  and  the  violin,  faithful  to  rotten 
boroughs,  must  have  been  tempted  to  fraternize  in  a  demor- 
alizing way  with  a  reforming  violoncello.  In  this  case, 
the  linnet-throated  soprano,  and  the  full-toned  bass,  sing- 
ing, 

**  With  thee  deliorht  is  ever  new, 
With  thee  is  life  incessant  bliss,*' 

believed  what  they  sang  all  the  more  because  they  sang  it. 

"Now  for  Raphaers great  song,"  said  Lucy,  when  thej 
had  finished  the  duet.  "You  do  the  *  heavy  beasts  ^  to 
perfection.^' 

"  That  sounds  complimentary,'^  said  Stephen,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "By  Jove,  it's  nearly  half -past  one!  Well,  I 
can  just  sing  this." 

Stephen  delivered  with  admirable  ease  the  deep  notes 
representing  the  tread  of  the  heavy  beasts:  but  when  a 
singer  has  an  audience  of  two,  there  is  room  for  divided 
sentiments.  Minny's  mistress  was  charmed;  but  Minny, 
who  had  entrenched  himself,  trembling,  in  his  basket  as 
soon  as  the  music  began,  found  this  thunder  so  little  to  his 
taste  ^at  he  leaped  out  and  scampered  under  the  remotest 
chiffonnier,  as  the  most  eligible  place  in  which  a  small  dog 
could  await  the  crack  of  doom. 

"Adieu/ ^rac^ful  consort,' "  said  Stephen,  buttoning  his 

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350  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

% 

coat  across  when  he  had  done  singing,  and  smiling  down 
from  his  tall  height,  with  the  aii  ol  rather  a  patronizing 
lover,  at  the  little  lady  on  the  music-stool.  **  My  bliss  is 
not  incessant,  for  I  must  gallop  home.  1  promised  to  be 
there  at  lunch." 

'*  You  will  not  be  able  to  call  on  Philip,  then?  It  is  of 
no  consequence:  I  have  said  everything  in  my  note." 

''You  will  bo  engaged  with  you  cousin  to-morrow,  I 
suppose:" 

*' Yes,  we  are  going  to  have  a  little  family-party.  My 
cousin  Tom  will  dine  with  us;  and  poor  aunty  will  have 
her  two  children  together  fo;*  the  first  time.  It  will  be 
very  pretty;  I  think  a  great  deal  about  it." 

"  But  I  may  come  the  next  day?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  Come  and  be  introduced  to  my  cousin 
Maggie — though  you  can  hardly  he  said  not  to  have  seen 
her,  you  have  described  her  so  well." 

'*  Good-bye,  then."  And  there  was  that  slight  pressure 
of  the  hands,  and  momentary  meeting  of  the  eyes,  which 
will  often  leave  a  little  lady  with  a  slight  flush  and  smile 
on  her  face  that  do  not  subside  immediately  when  the  door 
is  closed,  and  with  an  inclination  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room  rather  than  to  seat  herself  quietly  at  her  embroi- 
dery, or  other  rational  and  improving  occupation.  At 
least  this  was  the  effect  on  Lucy;  and  you  will  not,  I 
hope,  consider  it  an  indication  of  vanity  predominating 
over  more  tender  impulses,  that  she  just  glanced  in  the 
chimney-glass  as  her  walk  brought  her  near  it.  The 
desire  to  know  that  one  has  not  looked  an  absolute  fright 
during  a  few  hours  of  conversation  may  be  construed  as 
lying  within  the  bounds  of  a  laudable  benevolent  consid- 
eration for  others.  And  Lucy  had  so  much  of  this  benev- 
olence in  her  nature  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  her  small 
egoisms  were  impregnated  with  it,  just  as  there  are  people 
not  altogether  unknown  to  you,  whose  small  benevolences 
have  a  predominant  and  somewhat  rank  odor  of  egoism. 
Even  now,  that  she  is  walking  up  and  down  with  a  little 
triumphant  flutter  of  her  girlish  heart  at  the  sense  that 
she  is  loved  by  the  person  of  chief  consequence  in  her 
small  world,  you  may  see  in  her  hazel  eyes  an  ever-present 
sunny  benignity,  in  which  the  momentary  harmless  flashes 
of  personal  vanity  are  quite  lost;  and  if  she  is  happy  in 
thinking  of  her  lover,  it  is  because  the  thought  of  him 
mingles  readily  with  all  the  gentle  affections  and  good- 
natured  offices  with  which  sne  fills  her  pea<jeful  days, 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  351 

Even  now  her  mind,  with  that  instantaneous  alternation 
which  makes  two  currents  of  feeling  or  imagination  seem 
simultaneous,  is  dancing  continually  from  Stephen  to  the 
preparations  s^e  has  only  half  finished  in  Maggie's  room. 
Cousin  Maggi^  should  be  treated  as  well  as  the  grandest 
lady  visitor — nay,  better,  for  she  should  have  Lucy's  best 
prints  and  drawings  in  her  bedroom,  and  the  very  finest 
bouc^uet  of  spring  flowers  on  her  table.  Maggie  would 
enjoy  all  that — she  was  so  fond  of  pretty  thmgs!  And 
there  was  poor  aunt  TuUiver,  that  no  one  made  any  account 
of — she  was  lo  be  lurprised  with  the  present  of  a  cap  of 
superlative  quality,  and  to  have  her  health  drunk  in  a 
gratifying  manner,  for  which  Lucy  was  going  to  lay  a  plot 
with  nor  father  this  evening.  Clearly,  she  had  not  time 
to  indulge  in  long  reveries  about  her  own  happy  love- 
affairs.  With  this  thought  she  walked  toward  the  door, 
but  paused  there. 

**  What's  the  matter,  then,  Minny?"  she  said,  stooping 
in  answer  to  some  whimpering  of  that  small  quadruped, 
and  lifting  his  glossy  head  against  her  pink  cheek.  *^Did 
you  think  I  was  going  without  you?  Come,  then,  let  us 
go  and  see  Sinbad.^^ 

Sinbad  was  Lucy's  chestnut  horse,  that  she  always  fed 
with  her  own  hand  when  he  was  turned  out  in  the  paddock. 
She  was  fond  of  feeding  dependent  creatures,  and  knew 
the  private  tastes  of  all  the  animals  about  the  house, 
delighting  in  the  little  rippling  sounds  of  her  canaries 
when  their  beaks  were  busy  with  fresh  seed,  and  in  the 
small  nibbling  pleasures  of  certain  animals,  which,  lest  she 
should  appear  too  trivial,  I  will  here  call  "the  more 
familiar  rodents." 

Was  not  Stephen  Guest  right  in  his  decided  opinion  that 
this  slim  maiden  of  eighteen  was  quite  the  sort  of  wife  a 
man  would  not  be  likely  to  repent  of  marrying? — ^a  woman 
who  was  loving  and  thoughtful  for  otner  women,  not 
giving  them  Judas-kisses  with  eyes  askance  on  their 
welcome  defects,  but  with  real  care  and  vision  for  their 
half-hidden  pains  and  mortifications,  with  long  ruminating 
enjoyment  of  little  pleasures  prepared  for  them?  Perhaps 
the  emphasis  of  his  admiration  did  not  fall  precisely  on  this 
rarest  quality  in  her — perhaps  he  approved  his  own  choice 
of  her  chiefly  because  she  did  not  strike  him  as  a  remarka- 
ble rarity.  "A  man  likes  his  wife  to  be  pretty:  well,  Lucy 
was  pretty,  bu^  not  to  a  maddening  extent.  A  man  likes 
his  wife  to  be  aocomplished,  gentle^  affectionate^  and  npt 

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352  THE   MILL  ON  TU£  FLOSS. 

stupid;  and  Lucy  had  all  these  qualifications.  Stephen 
was  not  surprised  to  find  himself  in  love  with  her,  and 
was  conscious  of  excellent  judgment  in  preferring  her  to 
Miss  Leyburn,  the  daughter  of  the  county  member, 
although  Lucy  was  only  the  daughter  of  his  father's 
subordinate  partner;  besides,  he  had  had  to  defy  and 
overcome  a  slight  unwillingness  and  disappointment  in 
his  father  and  sisters — a  circumstance  which  gives  a 
young  man  an  agreeable  consciousness  of  his  own  dignity. 
Stephen  was  aware  that  he  had  sense^and  independence 
enough  to  choose  the  wife  who  was  Ifkely  to  make  hi  in 
happy,  unbiased  by  any  indirect  considerations,  lie 
meant  to  choose  Lucy:  she  was  a  littlcdarling,  ^d  exactly 
the  sort  of  woman  he  had  always  most  admired. 


CHAPTER   IL 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 


"He  is  very  clever,  Maggie,"  said  Lucy.  She  was 
kneeling  on  a  footstool  at  Maggie's  feet,  after  placing  that 
dark  lady  in  the  large  crimson-velvet  chair.  "I  feel  sure 
you  will  like  him.     I  hope  you  will." 

"I  shall  be  very  difficult  to  please,"  said  Maggie,  smil- 
ing, and  holding  up  one  of  Lucy^s  long  curls,  that  the 
sunlight  might  shine  through  it.  '*A  gentleman  who 
thinks  he  is  good  enough  for  Lucy  must  expect  to  be 
sharply  criticised." 

"Indeed,  he^s  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me.  And 
sometimes,  when  he  is  away,  I  almost  think  it  can't  really 
be  that  he  loves  me.  But  I  can  never  doubt  it  when  he 
is  with  me  —  though  I  couldn't  bear  any  one  but  you  to 
know  that  I  feel  in  that  way,  Maggie." 

"  Oh,  then,  if  I  disapprove  of  him  you  can  give  him  up, 
since  you  are  not  engaged,"  said  Maggie,  with  playful 
gravity. 

"1  would  rather  not  be  engaged.  When  people  are 
engaged,  they  begin  to  think  of  being  married  soon," 
jsaid  Lucy,  too  thoroughly  preoccupied  to  notice  Maggie's 
joke;  "and  I  should  Tike  everything  to  go  on  for  a^long 
while  just  as  it  is.  Sometimes  I  am  quite  frightened  lest 
Stephen  ahpuld  say  thj^t  he  Uus  spoken  to  papaj  and  fronft 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  353 

something  that  fell  from  papa  the  other  day,  I  feel  sure  he 
and  Mr.  Guest  are  expecting  that.  And  Stephen's  sisters 
are  vary  civil  to  me  now.  At  first,  I  think  they  didn't  like 
his  paying  me  attention;  and  that  was  natural.  It  does 
seem  out  of  keeping  that  I  should  ever  live  in  a  great  place 
like  the  Park  House — such  a  little  insignificant  thing  as  I 
am.^^ 

*^  But  people  are  not  expected  to  be  large  in  proportion 
to  the  houses  they  live  in,  like  snails,''  saia  Maggie,  laugh- 
ing.    ^^  Pray,  are  Mr.  Guest's  sisters  giantesses?/' 

*'0h,  no;  and  not  handsome  —  that  is,  not  very,"  said 
Lucy,  half-penitent  at  this  uncharitable  remark.  **  But  Ae 
is — ^at  least  ne  is  generally  considered  very  handsome." 

*'  Though  you  are  unable  to  share  that  opinion?" 

"Oh,  f  don't  know,"  said  Lucy,  blushing  pink  over 
brow  and  neck.  "It  is  a  bad  plan  to  raise  expectation; 
you  will  perhaps  be  disappointed.  But  I  have  prepared  a 
charming  surprise  for  him;  I  shall  have  a  glorious  laugh 
against  him.     I  shall  not  tell  you  what  it  is,  though." 

Lucy  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  to  a  little  distance, 
holding  her  pretty  head  on  one  side,  as  if  she  had  been 
arranging  Maggie  for  a  portrait,  and  wished  to  judge  of  the 
general  effect. 

"  Stand  up  a  moment,  Maggie." 

"  What  is  your  pleasure  now  ?  "  said  Maggie,  smiling  lan- 
guidly as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  looKed  down  on  her 
slight,  aerial  cousin,  whose  figure  was  quite  subordinate  to 
her  faultless  drapery  of  silk  and  crape. 

Lucy  kept  her  contemplative  attitude  a  moment  or  two 
in  silence,  and  then  said — 

"I  can't  think  what  witchery  it  is  in  you,  Maggie,  that 
makes  you  look  best  in  shabby  clothes;  though  you  really 
must  have  a  new  dress  now.  "But  do  you  know,  last  night 
I  was  trying  to  fancy  you  in  a  handsome  fashionable  dress, 
and  do  what  I  would,  that  old  limp  merino  would  come 
back  as  the  only  right  thing  for  you.  I  wonder  if  Marie 
Antoinette  looked  all  the  granaer  when  her  gown  was 
darned  at  the  elbows.  Now,  if  /  were  to  put  anything 
shabby  on,  I  should  be  quite  unnoticeable  —  I  should  be  a 
mere  rag." 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  Maggie,  with  mock  gravity.     ^^You 
would  be  liable  to  be  swept  out  of  the  room  with  the  cob- 
webs and  carpet-dust,  and  to  find  yourself  under  the  grate, 
like  Cinderella.     Mayn't  I  sit  down  now?" 
"Yes,  now  you  may,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.    Then,  with 
23 

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354  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

an  air  of  -serious  reflection,  unfastening  her  large  jet 
brooch,  **But  you  must  change  brooches,  Maggie;  that 
little  butterfly  looks  silly  on  you?" 

*^But  won^t  that  mar  the  charming  effect  of  my  consist- 
ent shabbinessP^said  Maggie,  seating  herself  submissively, 
while  Lucy  knelt  again  and  unfastened  the  contemptible 
butterfly.  ^*  I  wish  my  mother  were  of  your  opinion,  for 
she  was  fretting  last  night  because  this  is  my  best  frock. 
IVe  been  saving  my  money  to  pay  for  some  lessons:  I  shall 
never  get  a  better  situation  without  more  accomplishments." 

Maggie  gave  a  little  sigh. 

^^  Now,  don't  put  on  that  sad  look  a^ain,"  said  Lucy, 
pinning  the  large  brooch  below  Maggie's  fine  throat. 
**  You're  forgetting  that  you've  left  that  dreary  school- 
room behind  you,  and  have  no  little  girls'  clothes  to 
mend." 

^*  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  It  is  with  me  as  I  used  to  think 
it  would  be  with  the  poor  uneasy  white  bear  I  saw  at  the 
show.  I  thought  he  must  have  got  so  stupid  with  the 
habit  of  turning  backward  and  forward  in  that  narrow 
space,  that  he  would  keep  doing  it  if  they  set  him  free. 
One  gets  a  bad  habit  of  being  unhappy." 

"But  I  shall  put  you  under  a  discipline  of  pleasure  that 
will  make  you  lose  that  bad  habit,"  said  Lucy,  sticking  the 
black  butterfly  absently  in  her  own  collar,  w4iile  her  eyes 
met  Maggie's  affectionately. 

"You  dear,  tiny  thing,"  said  Maggie,  in  one  of  her 
bursts  of  loving  admiration,  "you  enjoy  other  people's 
happiness  so  much,  I  believe  you  would  do  without  any  of 
your  own.     I  wish  I  were  like  you." 

"I've  never  been  tried  in  that  way,"  said  Lucy.  "I've 
alwavs  been  so  happy.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  bear 
much  trouble;  I  never  had  any  but  poor  mamma's  death. 
You  have  been  tried,  Maggie;  and  I'm  sure  you  feel  for 
other  people  quite  as  much  as  I  do." 

"No,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head  slowly,  "I 
don't  enjoy  their  happiness  as  you  do — else  I  should  be 
more  contented.  I  do  feel  for  them  when  they  are  in  trouble; 
I  don't  think  I  could  ever  bear  to  make  any  one  «*whappy; 
and  yet  I  often  hate  myself,  because  I  get  angry  sometimes 
at  the  sight  of  happy  ;^ople.  I  think  I  get  worse  as  I  get 
older — more  selfish.     That  seems  very  dreadful." 

"Now,  Maggie!"  said  Lucy,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance, 
"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  that.  It  is  all  a  gloomy  fancy- 
just  because  you  are  depressed  by  a  dull,  wearisome  life." 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  356 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is/*  said  Maggie,  resolutely  clearing 
away  the  clouds  from  her  face  with  a  bright  smile,  and 
throwing  herself  backward  in  her  chair.  *^  Perhaps  it 
comes  from  the  school  diet — watery  rice-pudding  spiced 
with  Pinnock.  Let  us  hope  it  will  give  way  before  my 
mother^s  custards  and  this  charming  Geoffrey  Crayon/* 

Maggie  took  up  the  sketch-book  which  lay  by  her  on  the 
table. 

"Do  I  look  fit  to  be  seen  with  this  little  brooch?**  said 
Lucy,  going  to  survey  the  effect  in  the  chimney-glass. 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Guest  will  be  obliged  to  go  out  of  the 
room  again  if  he  sees  you  in  it.  Pray  make  haste  and  put 
another  on.'* 

Lucy  hurried  out  of  the  room,  but  Maggie  did  not  take 
the  opportunity  of  opening  her  book:  she  let  it  fall  on  her 
knees,  while  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  window,  where  she 
could  see  the  sunshine  falling  on  the  rich  clumps  of  spring 
flowers  and  on  the  long  hedge  of  laurels — and  beyond,  the 
silvery  breadth  of  the  dear  old  Floss,  that  at  this  distance 
seemed  to  be  sleeping  in  a  morning  holiday.  The  sweet 
fresh  garden-scent  came  through  the  open  window,  and 
the  birds  were  busy  flitting  and  flighting,  gurgling  and 
singing.  Yet  Maggie*8  eyes  began  to  fill  with  tears.  The 
sight  of  the  old  scenes  had  made  the  rush  of  memories  sa 
painful,  that  even  yesterday  she  had  only  been  able  to 
rejoice  in  her  mother's  restored  comfort  and  Tom*s  broth- 
erly friendliness  as  we  rejoice  in  good  news  of  friends  at  a 
distance,  rather  than  in  the  presence  of  a  happiness  which 
we  share.  Memory  and  imagination  urged  upon  her  a  sense 
of  privation  too  keen  to  let  her  taste  what  was  offered  in 
the  transient  present:  her  future,  she  thought,  was  likely 
to  be  worse  than  her  past,  for  after  her  years  of  contented 
renunciation,  she  had  slipped  back  into  desire  and  long- 
ing: she  found  joyless  days  of  distasteful  occupation  harder 
and  harder — she  found  the  image  of  the  intense  and  varied 
life  she  yearned  for,  and  despaired  of,  becoming  more  and 
more  importnna.te.  The  sound  of  the  opening  door  roused 
her,  and,  hastily  wiping  away  her  tears,  she  began  to  turn 
over  the  leaves  of  her  book. 

'*  There  is  one  pleasure,  I  know,  Maggie,  that  your  deep- 
est flismalness  will  never  resist,**  said  Lucy,  beginning  to 
speak  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room.  "'  That  is  music, 
and  I  mean  you  to  have  quite  a  riotous  feast  of  it.  I  mean 
you  to  get  up  your  playing  again,  which  used  to  be  so  much 
better  than  mine,  when  we  were  at  Laceham/* 

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356  THE  MILL  OX  THE  FLOSS. 

*'  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  me  playing  the  little 
girls'  tunes  over  and  over  to  them,  when  I  took  them  to 
practice/^  said  Maggie,  "  just  for  the  sake  of  fingering  the 
dear  keys  again.  But  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  play 
anything  more  diflScult  now  than  ^  Begone,  dull  care! '  '* 

"  I  know  what  a  wild  state  of  joy  you  used  to  be  in  when 
the  glee-men  came  round,"  said  Lucv,  taking  up  her 
embroidery,  "  and  we  might  have  all  those  old  glees  that 
you  used  to  love  so,  if  I  were  certain  that  you  don't  feel 
exactly  as  Tom  does  about  some  things/' 

*^  I  should  have  thought  there  was  nothing  you  might  be 
more  certain  of,"  said  Maggie,  smiling. 

*  ^  I  ought  rather  to  have  said,  one  particular  thing.  Because 
if  you  feel  just  as  he  does  about  that,  we  shall  want  our 
third  voice.  St.  Ogg's  is  so  miserably  provided  with  musi- 
cal gentlemen.  There  are  really  only  Stephen  and  Philip 
Wakem  who  have  any  knowledge  of  music,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  sing  a  part." 

Lucy  had  looked  up  from  her  work  as  she  uttered  the 
last  sentence,  and  saw  that  there  was  a  change  in  Maggie's 
face. 

''Does  it  hurt  you  to  hear  the  name  mentioned,  Mag- 

fie?  If  it  does,  I  will  not  speak  of  him  again.  I  know 
.  'om  will  not  see  him  if  he  can  avoid  it." 

''I  don't  feel  at  all  as  Tom  does  on  that  subject,"  said 
Maggie,  rising  and  going  to  the  window  as  if  she  wanted  to 
see  more  of  the  landscape.  '*  I've  always  liked  Philip 
Wakem  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  saw  him  at  Lor- 
ton.     He  was  so  good  when  Tom  hurt  his  foot." 

''  Oh,  I'm  so  gladl  ^^  said  Lucy.  "  Then  you  won't  mind 
his  coming  sometimes,  and  we  can  have  much  more  music 
than  we  could  without  him.  I'm  very  fond  of  poor  Philip, 
only  I  wish  he  were  not  so  morbid  about  his  deformity.  I 
suppose  it  is  his  deformity  that  makes  him  so  sad — and 
sometimes  bitter.  It  is  certainly  very  piteous  to  see  his 
poor  little  crooked  body  and  pale  face  among  great  strong 
people." 

"  But,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to  arrest  the  prattling 
stream 

''Ah,  there  is  the  door-bell.  That  must  be  Stephen," 
Lucy  went  on,  not  noticing  Maggie's  faint  effort  to  speak. 
**  One  of  the  things  I  most  adoiire  in  Stephen  is,  that  he 
makes  a  greater  friend  of  Philip  than  any  one." 

It  was  too  late  for  Maggie  to  speak  now:  the  drawing- 
room  door  was  opening,  and  Minny  was  already  growling 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  357 

in  a  small  way  at  the  entrance  of  a  tall  gentleman,  who 
went  up  to  Lucy  and  took  her  hand  with  a  half-polite, 
half-tender  glance  and  tone  of  inquiry,  which  seemed  to 
indicate  that  he  was  unconscious  of  any  other  presence. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousm.  Miss  TuUiver,*' 
said  Lucy,  turning  with  wicked  enjoyment  toward  Maggie, 
who  now  approached  from  the  farther  window.  "This  is 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest.'' 

For  one  instant  Stephen  could  not  conceal  his  astonish- 
ment at  the  sight  of  this  tall  dark-eyed  nymph  with  her 
jet-black  coronet  of  hair;  the  next,  Maggie  felt  herself, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  receiving  the  tribute  of  a  very 
deep  Jblush  and  a  very  deep  bow  from  a  person  toward 
whom  she  harself  was  conscious  of  timidity.  This  new 
experience  was  very  agreeable  to  her — so  agreeable,  that  it 
almost  effaced  her  previous  emotion  about  Philip.  There 
was  a  new  brightness  in  her  eyes,  and  a  very  becoming 
flush  on  her  cheek,  as  she  seated  herself. 

"  I  hope  you  perceive  what  a  striking  likeness  you  drew 
the  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  pretty  lauffh 
of  triumph.  She  enjoyed  her  lover's  confusion  —  the 
advantage  was  usually  on  his  side. 

"This  designing  cousin  of  yours  c^nite  deceived  me, 
Miss  Tulliver,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  Lucy,  and 
stooping  to  play  with  Minny— only  looking  at  Maggie 
furtively.     "  She  said  you  had  light  hair  and  blue  eyes.'' 

"Nay,  it  was  you  who  said  so,"  remonstrated  Lucy. 
"  I  only  refrained  from  destroying  your  confidence  in  your 
own  second-sight." 

"I  wish  I  could  always  err  in  the  same  way,"  said 
Stephen,  "and  find  reality  so  much  more  beautiful  than 
my  preconceptions." 

"  Now  you  have  proved  yourself  equal  to  the  occasion," 
said  Maggie,  "and  said  what  it  was  incumbent  on  you  to 
say  under  the  circumstances." 

She  flashed  a  slightly  defiant  look  at  him:  it  was  clear 
to  her  that  he  had  been  drawing  a  satirical  portrait  of  her 
beforehand.  Lucy  had  said  he  was  inclined  to  be  satirical, 
and  Maggie  had  mentally  supplied  the  addition — "and 
rather  conceited." 

"An  alarming  amount  of  devil  there,"  was  Stephen's 
firet  thought.  The  second,  when  she  had  bent  over  her 
work,  was,  "I  wish  she  would  look  at  me  again."  The 
next  was  to  answer — 

'^I  suppose  all  phrases  of  mere  compliment  have  their 

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358  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

turn  to  be  trne.  A  man  is  occasionally  grateful  when  be 
says  *  thank  you/  It^s  rather  hard  upon  him  that  he  must 
use  the  same  words  with  which  all  the  world  declines  a  dis- 
agreeable invitation — don't  ^rou  think  so.  Miss  Tulliver?" 

*^No,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  with  her  direct 
glance;  **if  we  use  common  words  on  a  great  occasion, 
they  are  the  more  striking,  because  they  are  felt  at  once  to 
have  a  particular  meaning,  like  old  banners,  or  everyday 
clothes,  nung  up  in  a  sacred  place/^ 

**Then  my  compliment  ought  to  be  eloquent,^'  said 
Stephen,  really  not  quite  knowing  what  he  said  while 
Maggie  looked  at  him,  ^^  seeing  that  the  words  were  so  far 
beneath  the  occasion/* 

*^No  compliment  can  be  eloquent,  except  as  an  expres- 
sion of  indifference,**  said  Maggie,  flushing  a  little. 

Lucy  was  rather  alarmed:  she  thought  Stephen  and 
Maggie  were  not  going  to  like  each  other.  She  had  always 
feared  lest  Maggie  sliould  appear  too  odd  and  clever  to 
please  that  critical  gentleman.  "Why,  dear  Maggie,** she 
interposed,  **you  have  always  pretended  that  you  are  too 
fond  of  being"^  admired;  and  now,  I  think,  you  are  angry 
because  some  one  ventures  to  admire  you.** 

"Not  at  all,**  said  Maggie;  "I  like  too  well  to  feel  that 
I  am  admired,  but  compliments  never  make  me  feel  that.  '* 

"I  will  never  pay  you  a  compliment  again.  Miss  TuUi- 
ver,'*  said  Stephen. 

"  Thank  you;  that  will  be  a  proof  of  respect.** 

Poor  Maggie!  She  was  so  unused  to  society  that  she 
could  take  nothing  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  "had  never 
in  her  life  spoken  from  the  lips  merely,  so  that  she  must 
necessariljr  appear  absurd  to  more  experienced  ladies,  from 
the  excessive  feeling  she  was  apt  to  throw  into  very  trivial 
incidents.  But  she  was  even  conscious  herself  of  a  little 
absurdity  in  this  instance.  It  was  true  she  had  a  theoretic 
objection  to  compliments,  and  had  once  said  impatiently 
to  Philip,  that  she  didn*t  see  why  women  were  to  be  told 
with  a  simper  that  thev  were  beautiful,  any  more  than  old 
men  were  to  be  told  that  they  were  venerable:  still,  to  be 
so  irritated  by  a  common  practice  in  the  case  of  a  stranger 
like  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  and  to  care  about  his  having  spoken 
slightingly  of  her  before  he  had  seen  her,  was  certainly 
unreasonable,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  silent  she  began  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  her  irri- 
tation was  due  to  the  pleasanter  emotion  which  preceded 
it,  just  as  when  we  are  satisfied  with  a  sense  of  glowing 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  35S 

warmth,  an  innocent  drop  of  cold  water  may  fall  npon  us 
as  a  sudden  smart. 

Stop] ion  was  too  well-bred  not  to  seem  unaware  that  the 
previous  conversation  could  have  been  felt  embarrassing, 
and  lit  once  began  to  talk  of  impersonal  matters,  asking 
Lucy  if  she  knew  when  the  bazaar  was  at  length  to  take 
place,  so  that  there  might  be  some  hope  of  seeing  her  rain 
the  influence  of  her  eyes  on  objects  more  grateful  than 
those  worsted  flowers  that  were  growing  under  her  fingers. 

*^  Some  day  next  month,  I  believe,^'  said  Lucv.  *'  But 
your  sisters  are  doing  more  for  it  than  I  am:  they  are  to 
have  the  largest  stall. 

''  Ah,  yes;  but  they  carry  on  their  manufactures  in  their 
own  sitting-room,  where  I  don't  intrude  on  them.  I  see 
you  are  not  addicted  to  the  fashionable  vice  of  fancy-work. 
Miss  TuUiver,*'  said  Stephen,  looking  at  Maggie  s  plain 
hemming. 

**  No,''  said  Maggie,  ^^  I  can  do  nothing  more  difficult 
or  more  elegant  than  shirt-making." 

**  And  your  plain  sewing  is  so  beautiful,  Maggie,"  said 
Lucy,  ^'  that  I  think  I  shall  beg  a  few  specimens  of  you  to 
show  as  fancy-work.  Your  exquisite  sewing  is  quite  a 
mystery  to  me — you  used  to  dislike  that  sort  of  work  so 
much  in  old  days." 

^^  It  is  a  mystery  easily  explained,  dear,"  said  Maggie, 
looking  up  quietly.  ^*  Plain  sewing  was  the  only  thing  I 
could  get  money  by;  so  I  was  obliged  to  try  and  do  it  well." 

Lucy,  good  and  simple  as  she  was,  coula  not  help  blush- 
ing a  little;  she  did  not  quite  like  that  Stephen  should 
know  that — Maggie  need  not  have  mentioned  it.  Perhaps 
there  was  some  pride  in  the  confession;  the  pride  of  pov- 
erty that  will  not  be  ashamed  of  itself.  But  if  Maggie 
had  been  the  queen  of  coquettes  she  could  hardly  have 
invented  a  means  of  giving  greater  piquancy  to  her  beauty 
in  Stephen's  eyes:  T  am  not  sure  that  the  quiet  admission 
of  plain  sewing  and  poverty  would  have  done  alone,  but 
assisted  by  the  beauty,  they  made  Maggie -more  unlike 
other  women  even  than  she  had  seemed  at  first. 

"  But  I  can  knit,  Lucy,"  Maggie  went  on,  ^*  if  that  will 
be  of  any  use  for  your  bazaar." 

'^  Oh,  yes,  of  infinite  use.  I  shall  set  you  to  work  with 
scarlet  wool  to-morrow.  But  your  sister  is  the  most  en- 
viable person,"  continued  Lucy,  turning  to  Stephen,  *Ho 
have  the  talent  of  modeling.  She  is  doing  a  wonderful 
bust  of  Dr.  Kenn  entirely  from  memory." 

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360  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

.  "Why,  if  she  can  remember  to  put  the  eyes  very  near 
together,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  very  far  apart,  the 
likeness  can  hardly  fail  to  be  striking  in  St.  Ogg's/' 

"Now  that  is  verv  wicked  of  you,"  said  Lucy,  looking 
rather  hurt.  "  I  didn't  think  you  would  speak  aisrespect- 
fully  of  Dr.  Kenn/' 

"I  say  anything  disrespectful  of  Dr.  Kenn?  Heaven 
forbid!  But  I  am  not  bound  to  respect  a  libelous  bust  of 
him.  I  think  Kenn  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world. 
I  don't  care  much  about  the  tall  candlesticks  he  has  put 
on  the  communion-table,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  spoil  my 
temper  by  getting  up  to  early  prayers  every  morning.  But 
he's  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  personally  who  seems  to  nae 
to  have  anything  of  the  real  apostle  in  him— a  man  who 
has  eight  hundred  a  year  and  is  contented  with  deal  furni- 
ture and  boiled  beei  because  he  gives  away  two  thirds  of 
his  income.  That  was  a  very  fine  thing  of  him — taking 
into  his  house  that  poor  lad  Grattan  who  shot  his  mother 
by  accident.  He  sacrifices  more  time  than  a  less  busy 
man  could  spare,  to  save  the  poor  fellow  from  getting  into 
a  morbid  state  of  mind  about  it.  He  takes  the  lad  out 
with  him  constantly,  I  see." 

"  That  is  beautiful,"  said  Maggie,  who  had  let  her  work 
fall,  and  was  listening  with  keen  interest.  **  I  never  knew 
any  one  who  did  such  things." 

"  And  one  admires  that  sort  of  action  in  Kenn  all  the 
more,"  said  Stephen,  "because  his  manners,  in  general, 
are  rather  cold  and  severe.  There's  nothing  sugary  and 
maudlin  about  him." 

"  Oh,  I  think  he's  a  perfect  character! "  said  Lucy,  with 
pretty  enthusiasm. 

"No;  there  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  Stephen, 
shaking  his  head  with  sarcastic  gravity. 

"  Now,  what  fault  can  you  pomt  out  in  him?  " 

"He's an  Anglican." 

^Well,  those  are  the  right  views,  I  think,"  said  Lucy, 


"That  settles  the  question  in  the  abstract,"  said 
Stephen,  "  but  not  from  a  parliamentary  point  of  view. 
He  has  set  the  Dissenters  and  the  Church  people  by  the 
ears:  and  a  rising  senator  like  myself,  of  whose  services 
the  country  is  very  much  in  need,  will  find  it  inconvenient 
when  he  puts  up  for  the  honor  of  representing  St.  Ogg^s 
in  Parliament." 

"Do  you  really  think  of  that?"  said   Lucy,  her  eyes 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  361 

brightening  with  a  proud  pleasure  that  made  her  neglect 
the  argumentative  interests  of  Anglicanism. 

"  Decidedly — when  old  Mr.  Leyburn's  public  spirit  and 
gout  induce  him  to  give  way.  My  father's  heart  is  set  on 
it;  and  gifts  like  mine,  jom  know^' — here  Stephen  drev 
himself  up,  and  rubbed  his  large  white  hands  over  his  hair 
with  playful  self -admiration — ^^  gifts  like  mine  involve 
great  responsibilities.   Don't  you  think  so.  Miss  Tulliver?  " 

"Yes/'  said  Maggie,  smiling,  but  not  looking  up;  *'so 
much  fluency  and  self-possession  should  not  be  wasted 
entirely  on  private  occasions.'' 

*^Ah,  •!  see  how  much  penetration  you  have,"  said 
Stephen.  "  You  have  discovered  already  that  I  am  talka- 
tive and  impudent.  Now  superficial  people  never  discern 
that — owing  to  my  manner,  I  suppose." 

*'  She  doesn't  look  at  me  when  I  talk  of  myself,"  he 
thought,  while  his  listeners  were  laughing.  "I  must  try 
other  subjects." 

Did  Lucy  intend  to  be  present  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Book  Club  next  week?  was  the  next  question.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  recommendation  to  choose  Southey's  **  Life  of 
Cowper,"  unless  she  were  inclined  to  be  philosophical,  and 
startle  the  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's  by  voting  for  one  of  the 
Bridgewater  Treatises.  Of  course  Lucy  wished  to  know 
what  these  alarmingly  learned  books  were;  and  as  it  is 
always  pleasant  to  improve  the  minds  of  ladies  by  talking 
to  them  at  ease  on  subjects  of  which  th^y  know  nothing, 
Stephen  became  quite  brilliant  in  an  account  of  Buckland's 
Treatise,  which  he  had  just  been  reading.  He  was  rewarded 
by  seeing  Maggie  let  her  work  fall,  and  gradually  get  so 
absorbed  in  his  wonderful  geological  story  that  she  sat 
looking  at  him,  leaning  forward  with  crossed  arms,  and 
with  an  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness,  as  if  he  had 
been  the  snuffiest  of  old  professors,  and  she  a  downy-lipped 
alumnus.  He  was  so  fascinated  by  this  clear,  large  gaze, 
that  at  last  he  forgot  to  look  away  from  it  occasionally 
toward  Lucy;  but  she,  sweet  child,  was  only  rejoicing  that 
Stephen  was  proving  to  Maggie  how  clever  he  was,  and  that 
they  would  certainly  be  good  friends  after  all. 

"  I  will  bring  you  the  book,  shall  I,  Miss  Tulliver?  "  said 
Stephen,  when  he  found  the  stream  of  his  recollections 
running  rather  shallow.  '^  There  are  many  illustrations  in 
it  that  you  will  like  to  see." 

''^  Oh,  thank  you,"  i.i'A  Llaggie,  blushing  with  returning 


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362  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

self -consciousness  at  this  direct  address^  and  taking  up  her 
work  again. 

"No,  no,"  Lucy  interposed.  '^I  must  forbid  your 
plunging  Maggie  in  books.  I  shall  never  get  her  away 
irom  them;  and  I  want  her  to  have  delicious  do-nothing 
days,  filled  with  boating, '  and  chatting,  and  riding  and 
driving:  that  is  the  holiday  she  needs/^ 

"Apropos!'*  said  Stephen,  looking  at  bis  watch.  "Shall 
we  go  out  for  a  row  on  the  river  now?  The  tide  will  suit 
for  us  to  go  the  Tofton  way,  and  we  can  walk  back.^* 

That  was  a  delightful  proposition  to  Maggie,  for  it  was 
years  since  she  had  been  on  the  river.  When  she. was  gone 
to  put  on  her  bonnet,  Lucy  lingered  to  give  an  order  to 
the  servant,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  telling  Stephen 
that  Maggie  had  no  objection  to  seeing  Philip,  so  that  it 
was  a  pity  she  had  sent  that  note  the  day  before  yesterday. 
But  she  would  write  another  to-morrow  and  invite  him. 

"Fll  call  and  beat  him  up  to-morrow,*'  said  Stephen, 
"and  bring  him  with  me  in  the  evening,  shall  I?  My 
sisters  will  want  to  call  on  you  when  I  tell  them  your  cousin 
is  with  you.  I  must  leave  the  field  claar  for  them  in  the 
morning.** 

"  Oh,  yes,  pray  bring  him,**  said  Lucy.  "  And  you  will 
like  Maggie,  8han*t  yon  ?  **  she  added,  in  a  beseeching  tone. 
"Isn*t  she  a  dear,  noble-looking  creature?** 

"  Too  tall,**  said  Stephen,  smiling  down  upon  her,  "  and 
a  little  too  fiery.  ^She  is  not  my  type  of  woman,  you  know.  ** 

Gentlemen,  you  are  aware,  are  apt  to  impart  these  im- 
prudent confidences  to  ladies  concerning  their  unfavorable 
opinion  of  sister  fair  ones.  That  is  why  so  many  women 
have  the  advantage  of  knowing  that  they  are  secretly  re- 
pulsive to  men  who  have  self-denyingly  made  ardent  love 
to  them.  And  hardly  anything  could  be  more  distinct- 
ively characteristic  oi  Lucy,  than  that  she  both  implicitly 
believed  what  Stephen  said,  and  was  determine^that  Maggie 
should  not  know  it.  But  you,  who  have  a  higher  logic  than 
the  verbal  to  guide  you,  have  already  foreseen,  as  the  direct 
sequence  to  that  unfavorable  opinion  of  Stephen*s,  that  ho 
walked  down  to  the  boat-house  calculating,  by  the  aid  of  a 
vivid  imagination,  tliat  Maggie  must  give  him  her  hand  at 
least  twice  in  consequence  of  this  pleasant  boating  plan, 
and  that  a  gentleman  who  wishes  ladies  to  look  at  him  is 
advantageously  situated  when  he  is  rowing  them  in  a 
boat.  What  then?  Had  he  fallen  in  love  with  iliia 
surprising  daiisrhtor  of  Mrs.  Tvilli^er  at  first  sight?     Cer- 

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#.  THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  353 

tainly^not.  Such  passions  are  never  heard  of  in  real 
life.  Besides  he  was  in  love  already,  and  half-engaged 
to  the  dearest  little  creature  in  the  "world;  and  he  was 
not  a  man  to  make  a  fool  of  liimself  in  any  way.  But 
when  one  is  five-and-twenty,  one  has  not  chalk-stones  at 
one's  finger-ends  that  the  touch  of  a  handsome  girl  should 
be  entirely  indifferent.  It  was  perfectly  natural  and  safe 
to  admire  beauty  and  enjoy  looking  at  it — at  least  under 
such  circumstances  as  the  present.  And  there  was  really 
something  very  interesting  about  this  girl,  with  her  poverty 
and  troubles:  it  was  gratifying  to  see  the  friendship  between 
the  two  cousins.  Generally,  Stephen  admitted,  he  was 
not  fond  of  women  who  had  any  peculiarity  of  character — 
but  here  the  peculiarity  seemed  really  of  a  superior  kind; 
and  provided  one  is  not  obliged  to  marry  such  women,  why, 
they  certainly  make  a  variety  in  social  intercourse. 

Maggie  did  not  fulfill  Stephen's  hope  by  looking  at  him 
during  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour:  her  eyes  were  too  full 
of  the  old  banks  that  she  knew  so  well.  She  felt  lonely, 
cut  off  from  Philip — the  only  person  who  had  ever  seemed 
to  love  her  devotedly,  as  she  had  always  longed  to  be  loved. 
But  presently  the  rhythmic  movement  of  the  oars  attracted 
her,  and  she  thought  she  should  like  to  learn  how  to  row. 
This  roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  asked  if  she 
might  take  an  oar.  It  appeared  that  she  required  much 
teaching,  and  she  became  ambitious.  The  exercise  brought 
the  warm  blood  into  her  cheeks,  and  made  her  inclined  to 
take  her  lesson  merrily. 

"I  shall  not  be  satisfied  until  I  can  manage  both  oars, 
and  row  you  and  Lucy,"  she  said,  looking  very  bright  as 
she  stepped  out  of  the  boat.  Maggie,  we  know,  was  apt  to 
forget  the  thing  she  was  doing,  and  she  had  chosen  an 
inopportune  moment  for  her  remark:  her  foot  slipped,  but 
happily  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  held  her  hand  and  kept  her 
up  with  a  firm  grasp. 

"You  have  not  hurt  yourself  at  all,  I  hope?''  he  said, 
bending  to  look  in  her  face  with  anxiety.  It  was  very 
charming  to  be  taken  care  of  in  that  kind  graceful  manner 
by  some  one  taller  and  stronger  than  one  s  self.  Maggie 
had  never  felt  just  in  the  same  way  before. 

When  they  reached  home  again,  they  found  uncle  and 
aunt  Pullet  seated  with  Mrs.  Tulliver  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  Stephen  hurried  away,  asking  leave  to  come  again  in 
the  evening. 

'^Aud  pray  bring  with  you  the  volume  of  Purcell  that 

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364  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

you  took  away,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  want  Maggie  to  hear  your 
best  songs." 

Aunt  rullet,  under  the  certainty  that  Maggie  would  be 
invited  to  ffo  out  with  Lucy,  probably  to  Park  House,  was 
much  shocked  at  the  shabbiness  of  her  clothes,  which, 
when  witnessed  by  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg's,  would 
be  a  discredit  to  the  family,  that  demanded  a  strong  and 
prompt  remedy;  and  the  consultation  as  to  what  would  be 
most  suitable  to  this  end  from  among  the  superfluities  of 
Mrs.  PuUet^s  wardrobe,  was  one  that  Lucy  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Tulliver  entered  into  with  some  zeal.  Mage:ie  must  really 
have  an  evening  dress  as  soon  as  possible,  and  she  was  about 
the  same  height  as  aunt  Pullet. 

"  But  she's  so  much  broader  across  the  shoulders  than  I 
am — it^s  very  ill-convenient,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  **else  she 
might  wear  that  beautiful  black  brocade  o'  mine  without 
any  alteration;  and  her  arms  are  beyond  everything,"  added 
Mrs.  Pullet,  sorrowfully,  as  she  lifted  Maggie^s  large,  round 
arm.     "  She'd  never  get  my  sleeves  on." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,  aunt.  Pray  send  us  the  dress," 
said  Lucy.  **I  don't  mean  Maggie  to  have  long  sleeves, 
and  I  have  abundance  of  black  lace  for  trimming.  Her 
arms  will  look  beautiful." 

"  Maggie's  arms  are  a  pretty  shape,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
"They're  like  mine  used  to  be — only  mine  was  never 
brown.     I  wish  she'd  had  owr  family  skin." 

"Nonsense,  aunty!"  said  Lucy,  patting  her  aunt  TuUi- 
ver's  shoulder,  "you  don't  understand  those  things.  A 
painter  would  think  Maggie's  complexion  beautiful." 

"May  be,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  submissively. 
"You  know  better  than  I  do.  Only  when  I  was  young  a 
brown  skin  wasn't  thought  well  on  among  respectable 
folks." 

"  No,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  took  intense  interest  in 
the  ladies'  conversation  as  he  sucked  his  lozenges;  "  though 
there  was  a  song  about  the  *  Nut-brown  Maid,'  top;  I 
think  she  was  crazy  —  crazy  Kate — but  I  can't  justly 
remember." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear! "  said  Maggie,  laughing,  but  impatient; 
"I  think  that  will  be  the  end  of  my  brown  skin,  if  it  is 
always  to  be  talked  about  so  much." 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  365 

CHAPTER  III. 

CONFIDENTIAL  MOMENTS. 

When  Maggie  went  up  to  her  bedroom  that  night,  it 
appeared  that  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  undress.  She 
set  down  her  candle  on  the  first  table  that  presented  itself, 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  her  room,  which  was  a 
large  one,  with  a  firm,  regular,  and  rather  rapid  step,  which 
showed  that  the  exercise  was  the  instinctive  vent  of  strong 
excitement.  Her  eyes  and  cheeks  had  an  almost  feverish 
brilliancy;  her  head  was  thrown  backward,  and  her  hands 
were  clasped  with  the  palms  outward,  and  with  that 
tension  oi  the  arms  which  is  apt  to  accompany  mental 
absorption. 

Had  anything  remarkable  happened? 

Nothing  that  jrou  are  not  likely  to  consider  in  the 
highest  degree  unimportant.  She  had  been  hearing  some 
fine  music  sung  by  a  fine  bass  voice  —  but  then  it  was  sung 
in  a  provincial,  amateur  fashion,  such  as  would  have  left 
a  critical  ear  much  to  desire.  And  she  was  conscious  of 
having  been  looked  at  a  great  deal,  in  rather  a  furtive 
manner,  from  beneath  a  pair  of  well-marked  horizontal 
eyebrows,  with  a  glance  that  seemed  somehow  to  have 
caiiffht  the  vibratory  influence  of  her  voice.  Such  things 
could  have  had  no  perceptible  effect  on  a  thoroughly  well- 
educated  young  lady,  with  a  perfectly  balanced  mind,  who 
had  had  all  the  advantages  of  fortune,  training,  and 
refined  society.  But  if  Maggie  had  been  that  young  lady, 
you  would  probably  have  known  nothing  about  her:  her 
life  would  have  had  so  few  vicissitudes  that  it  could  hardly 
have  been  written;  for  the  happiest  women,  like  the  hap- 
piest nations,  have  no  history. 

In  poor  Maggie's  highly-strung,  hungry  nature — ^just 
come  away  from  a  third-rate  schoolroom,  with  all  its  jar- 
ring sounds  and  petty  round  of  tasks — ^these  apparently 
trivial  causes  had  the  effect  of  rousing  and  exalting  her 
imagination  in  a  way  that  was  mysterious  to  herself.  It 
was  not  that  she  thought  distinctly  of  Mr.  Stephen  Guest, 
or  dwelt  on  the  indications  that  he  looked  at  her  with 
admiration;  it  was  rather  that  she  felt  the  half -remote 
presence  of  a  world  of  love  and  beauty  and  delight,  made 


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366  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

up  of  vague,  mingled  images  from  all  the  poetry  aud 
romance  she  had  ever  read,  or  had  ever  woven  in  her 
dreamy  reveries.  Her  mind  glanced  back  once  or  twice  to 
the  time  when  she  had  courted  privation,  when  she  had 
thought  all  longing,  all  impatience  was  subdued;  but  that 
condition  seemed  irrecoverably  gone,  and  she  recoiled 
from  the  remembrance  of  it.  No  prayer;  no  striving  now , 
would  bring  back  that  negative  peace:  the  battle  of  her 
life,  it  seemed,  was  not  to  be  decided  in  that  short  and 
easy  way — by  perfect  renunciation  at  the  very  threshold  of 
her  youth.  The  music  was  vibrating  in  her  still — PurcelFs 
music,  with  its  wild  passion  and  fancy — and  she  could  not 
stay  in  the  recollection  of  that  bare,  lonely  past.  She  was 
in  her  brighter  aerial  world  again,  when  a  little  tap  came 
at  the  door:  of  course  it  was  her  cousin,  who  entered  in 
ample  white  dressing-gown. 

**Why,  Maggie,  vou  naughty  child,  haver/t  you  begun 
to  undress?'*  said  Lucy,  in  astonishment.  "1  promised 
not  to  come  and  talk  to  you  because  I  thought  you  must 
be  tired.  But  here  you  are,  looking  as  if  you  were  ready 
to  dress  for  a  ball.  Come,  come,  get  on  your  dressing- 
gown  and  unplait  your  hair.*' 

**Well,  you  are  not  very  forward, *'  retorted  Maggie, 
hastily  reaching  her  own  pmk  cotton  gown,  and  looking 
at  Lucy's  light-brown  hair  brushed  back  in  curly  disorder. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  much  to  do.  I  shall  sit  down  and  talk 
to  you  till  I  see  you  are  really  on  the  way  to  bed." 

While  Maggie  stood  and  unplaited  her  long  black  hair 
over  her  pink  drapery,  Lucy  sat  down  near  the  toilette- 
table,  watching  her  with  affectionate  eyes,  and  head  a 
little  aside,  like  a  pretty  spaniel.  If  it  appears  to  you  rft 
all  incredible  that  young  ladies  should  be  led  on  to  talk 
confidentially  in  a  situation  of  this  kind,  I  will  beg  you 
to  remember  that  human  life  furnishes  many  exceptional 
cases. 

**You  really  Aare  enjoyed  the  music  to-night,  haven't 
you,  Maggie?" 

^*  Oh  yes,  that  is  what  prevents  me  from  feeling  sleepy. 
I  think  I  should  have  no  other  mortal  wants,  if  I  could 
always  have  plenty  of  music.  It  seems  to  infuse  strength 
into  my  limbs,  and  ideas  into  my  brain.  Life  seems  to  go 
on  withojLit  effort,  when  I  am  filled  with  music.  At  other 
times  one  is  conscious  of  carrying  a  weight." 

"And  Stephen  has  a  splendid  voice,  hasn't  he?" 

'*Well,  perhaps  we  are  neither  of  us  judges  of  that,*' 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  367 

said  Maggie,  laughing,  as  she  seated  herself  and  tossed  her 
long  hair  back.  **  You  are  not  impartial,  and  /  think  any 
barrel-organ  splendid/*  m 

*'But  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him,  now.  Tell  me 
exactly  —  good  and  bad  too." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  should  humiliate  him  a  little.  A  lover 
should  not  be  so  much  at  ease,  and  so  self-confident.  He 
ought  to  tjemble  more." 

*' Nonsense,  Maggie!  As  if  any  one  could  tremble  at 
me!  You  think  he  is  conceited  —  1  see  that.  But  you 
don't  dislike  him,  do  you?" 

*' Dislike  him!  No.  Am  I  in  the  habit  of  seeing  such 
charming  people,  that  I  should  be  very  difficult  to  please? 
Besides,  how  could  I  dislike  any  one  that  promised  to  make 
you  happy,  you  dear  thing!"  Maggie  pinched  Lucy's 
dimpled  chin. 

^^We  shiill  have  more  music  to-morrow  evening,"  said 
Lucy,  looking  happy  already,  **for  Stephen  wiu  bring 
Philip  Wakem  with  him." 

*'0  Lucy,  I  can't  see  him,"  said  Maggie,  turning  pale. 
**  At  least,  I  could  not  see  him  without  Tom's  leave." 

**Is  Tom  such  a  tyrant  as  that?"  said  Lucy,  surprised. 
"I'll  take  the  responsibility,  then  —  tell  him  it  was  my 
fault." 

*'But,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  falteringly,  "I  promised 
Tom  very  solemnly  —  before  my  father's  death  —  I  prom- 
ised him  I  would  not  speak  to  Philip  without  his  knowl- 
edge and  consent.  And  I  have  a  great  dread  of  opening 
the  subject  with  Tom  —  of  getting  into  a  quarrel  with  him 
again." 

'*But  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  strange  and  unrea- 
sonable. What  harm  can  poor  Philip  have  done?  May  I 
speak  to  Tom  about  it?" 

"  Oh,  no,  pray  don't,  dear,"  said  Maggie.  "  I'll  go  to 
him  myself  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  that  you  wish  Philip 
to  come.  I've  thought  before  of  asking  him  to  absolve  me 
from  my  promise,  but  I've  not  had  the  courage  to  determine 
on  it." 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  moments,  and  then  Lucy 
said  — 

"  Maggie,  you  have  secrets  from  me,  and  I  have  none 
from  you." 

Maggie  looked  meditatively  away  from  Lucy.  Then 
she  turned  to  her  and  said,  "  I  should  like  to  tell  about 
Philip.     But,  Lucy,  you  must  not  betray  that  you  know 


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3G8  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

it  to  any  one — least  of  all  to  Philip  himself,  or  to  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest/' 

^J  he  narriitive  lasted  long,  for  Maggie  had  never  before 
known  the  relief  of  such  an  outpouring:  she  had  never 
before  told  Lucy  anything  of  her  inmost  life;  and  the 
sweet  face  bent  toward  her  with  sympathetic  interest, 
and  the  little  hand  pressing  hers,  encouraged  her  to  speak 
on.  On  two  points  only  she  was  not  expansive.  She 
did  not  betray  fully  what  still  rankled  in  her  mind  as 
Tom's  great  offense — the  insults  he  had  heaped  on  Philip. 
Angry  as  the  remembrance  still  made  her,  she  could  not 
bear  that  anjr  one  else  should  know  it  all — both  for  Tom's 
sake  and  Philip's.  And  she  could  not  bear  to  tell  Lucy  of 
the  last  scene  between  her  father  and  Wakem,  though  it 
was  this  scene  which  she  had  ever  since  felt  to  be  a  new 
barrier  between  herself  and  Philip.  She  merely  said,  she 
saw  now  that  Tom  was,  on  the  whole,  right  in  regarding 
any  prospect  of  love  and  marriage  between  her  and  Phih'p 
as  put  out  of  the  question  by  the  relation  of  the  two  fami- 
lies.    Of  course,  Philip's  father  w^ould  never  consent. 

*'  There,  Lucy,  you  have  had  my  story,"  said  Maggie, 
smiling,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  *' You  see  I  am  like 
Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek — 7  was  adored  once." 

*^Ah,  now  1  see  how  it  is  you  know  Shakespeare  and 
everything,  and  have  learned  so  much  since  you  left  school, 
which  always  seemed  to  me  witchcraft  before — part  of  your 
general  uncanniness,"  said  Lucy. 

She  mused  a  littlo  with  her  eyes  downward,  and  then 
added,  looking  at  Maggie,  ^^It  is  very  beautiful  that  you 
should  love  Philip:  I  never  thought  such  a  happiness 
would  befall  him.  And,  in  my  opinion,  you  ought  not  to 
give  him  up.  There  are  obstacles  now,  but  they  may  be 
done  away  with  in  time." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

'^  Yes,  yes,"  persisted  Lucy;  **I  can't  help  being  hopeful 
about  it.  There  is  something  romantic  in  it — out  of  the 
common  way — iust  what  everything  that  hapi)ens  to  you 
ought  to  be.  And  Philip  will  adore  you  like  a  husband 
in  a  fairy  tale.  Oh,  I  shall  puzzle  my  small  brain  to  con- 
trive some  plot  that  will  bring  everybody  into  the  right 
mind,  so  thatyou  may  marry  Philip  when  I  marry — some- 
body else.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  pretty  ending  to  all  my 
poor,  poor  Maggie's  troubles?" 

Maggie  tried  to  smile,  but  shivered,  as  if  she  felt  a 
sudden  chill. 


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THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  369 

•*  Ah,  dear,  you  are  cold,"  said  Lucy.  **  You  must  go  to 
bed;  and  so  must  I.     I  dare  not  think  what  time  it  is/' 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Lucy  went  away — possessed 
of  a  confidence  which  had  a  strong  influence  over  her  sub- 
sequent impressions.  Maggie  had  been  tlioroughl^  sincere; 
her  nature  had  never  found  it  easy  to  be  otherwise.  But 
confidences  are  sometimes  blinding,  even  when  they  are 
sincere. 


CHAPTER  IV, 

BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


Maggie  was  obliged  to  go  to  Tom's  lod^ngs  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  when  he  would  be  coming  m  to  dinner, 
else  she  would'not  have  found  him  at  home.  He  was  not 
lodging  with  entire  strangers.  Our  friend  Bob  Jakin  had, 
with  Mumps's  tacit  consent,  taken  not  only  a  wife  about 
eight  months  ago,  but  also  one  of  those  queer  old  houses, 
pierced  with  surprising  passages",  by  the  water-side,  where, 
as  he  observed,  his  wife  and  mother  could  keep  themselves 
out  of  mischief  by  letting  out  two  ^'  pleasure  boats/'  in 
which  he  had  invested  some  of  his  savings,  and  by  taking 
in  a  lodger  for  the  parlor  and  spare  bedroom.  Under  these 
circumstances,  what  could  be  better  for  the  interests  of  all 
parties,  sanitary  considerations  apart,  than  that  the  lodger 
should  be  Mr.  Tom? 

It  was  Bob's  wife  who  opened  the  door  to  Maggie.  She 
was  a  tiny  woman,  with  the  general  physiognomy  of  a 
Dutch  doll,  looking  in  comparison  with  Bob's  mother,  who 
filled  up  the  passage  in  the  rear,  very  much  like  one  of 
those  human  figures  which  the  artist  finds  conveniently 
standing  near  a  colossal  statue,  to  show  the  proportions. 
The  tiny  woman  curtsied  and  looked  up  at  Maggie  with 
some  awe  as  soon  as  she  had  opened  the  door;  but  the  words, 
**  Is  my  brother  at  home?"  which  Maggie  uttered  smilingly, 
made  her  turn  round  with  sudden  excitement,  and  say — 

^^Eh,  mother,  mother — tell  Bob! — it's  Miss  Maggie! 
Come  in.  Miss,  for  goodness  do,"  she  went  on,  opening  a 
?ide  door,  and  endeavoring  to  flatten  her  person  against 
the  wall  to  make  the  utmost  space  for  the  visitor. 

Sad  recollections  crowded  on  Maggie  as  she  entered  the 
Bmall  parlor,  which  was  now  all  that  poor  Tom  had  to  call 
by  the  name  of  *'hQme"— t'^a-t  mtno  AybicU  bp-d  orige^  so 
34 

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370  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

many  years  ago^  meaut  for  both  of  them  the  same  sum  of 
dear  familiar  objects.  But  everything  was  not  strange  to 
lier  in  this  new  room:  the  first  thing  her  eyes  dwelt  on  was 
the  large  old  Bible,  and  the  sight  was  not  likely  to  disperse 
the  old  memories.     She  stood  without  speaking. 

**If  you  please  to  take  the  privilege  o'  sitting  down, 
Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Jakin,  rubbing  her  apron  over  a  perfectly 
clean  chair,  and  then  lifting  up  the  corner  of  tnat  gar- 
ment and  holding  it  to  her  face  with  an  air -of  embarrass- 
ment, as  she  looked  wonderingly  at  Maggie. 

**  Bob  is  at  home,  theft?"  saia  Maggie,  recovering  her- 
self, and  smiling  at  the  bashful  Dutch  doll. 

**  Yes,  Miss,  but  I  think  he  must  be  washing  and  dressing 
himself — FU  go  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Jakin,  disappearing. 

lint  she  presently  came  back  walking  with  new  courage 
a  little  way  behind  her  husband,  who  showed  the  brilliancy 
of  his  blue  eyes  and  regular  white  teeth  in  the  doorway, 
bowing  respectfully. 

**How  do  you  do.  Bob.'*"  said  Maggie,  coming  forward 
and  putting  out  her  hand  to  him;  *^I  always  meant  to 
pay  your  wife  a  visit,  and  I  shall  come  another  day  on 
purpose  for  that,  if  she  will  let  me.  But  I  was  obliged 
to  come  to-day  to  speak  to  my  brother." 

**  He'll  be  m  before  long.  Miss.  He's  doin'  finely,  Mr. 
Tom  is:  hell  be  one  o'  the  first  men  hereabouts — you'll 
see  that." 

**Well,  Bob,  Fm  sure  he'll  be  indebted  to  you,  what- 
ever he  becomes:  he  said  so  himself  only  the  other  night, 
when  he  was  talking  of  you."  ^ 

"Eh,  Miss,  that's  his  way  o'*takin'  it.  But  I  think  the 
more  on't  when  he  says  a  thing,  because  his  tongue  doesn't 
overshoot  him  as  mine  does.  Lors!  I'm  no  better  nor  a 
tilted  bottle,  I  aren't  —  I  can't  stop  mysen  when  once  I 
begin.  But  you  look  rarely.  Miss — it  does  me  good  to 
see  you.  What  do  you  say  now.  Prissy?" — here  Bob 
turned  to  his  wife.  "Isn't  it  all  come  true  as  I  said? 
Though  there  isn't  many  sorts  o'  goods  as  I  can't  over- 
praise when  I  set  my  tongue  to't." 

Mrs.  Bob's  small  nose  seemed  to  be  following  the 
example  of  her  eyes  in  turning  up  reverentially  toward 
Maggie,  but  she  was  able  now  to  smile  and  curtsy,  and 
say,  "I'd  looked  forrard  like  aeny thing  to  seein'  you. 
Miss,  for  my  husband's  tongue's  been  runnin'  on  you,  like 
as  if  he  was  light-headed,  iver  since  first  b^  cpm^  a-courtiu' 
on  me/' 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  371 

*'Well,  well/'  said  Bob,  looking  rather  silly.  "Go  an' 
see  after  the  taters,  else  Mr.  Tom  'uU  have  to  wait  for 
'em.*' 

"I  hope  Mumps  is  friendly  with  Mrs.  Jakin,  Bob/'  said 
Maggie,  smiling.  "I  remember  you  used  to  say,  he 
wouldn't  like  your  marrying." 

**Eh,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grinning,  "he  made  up  his 
mind  to't  when  he  see'd  what  a  little  un  she  was.  He 
pretends  not  to  see  her  mostly,  or  else  to  think  as  she  isn'i 
full-growed.  But  about  Mr.  Tom,  Miss,"  said  Bob, 
speaking  lower  and  looking  serious,  "he's  as  close  as  a 
iron  biler,  he  is;  but  Pm  a  'cutish  chap,  an'  when  I've 
left  off  carrying  my  pack,  an'  am  at  a  loose  end,  I've  got 
more  brains  nor  I  know  what  to  do  wi',  an'  I'm  forced  to 
busy  myself  with  other  folks's  insides.  An'  it  worrets  me 
as  Mr.  Tom  '11  sit  by  himself  so  glumpish,  a-knittin'  his 
brow,  an'  a-lookin'  at  the  fire  of  a  night.  He  should  be  a 
bit  livelier  now — a  fine  young  fellow  like  him.  My  wife 
says,  when  she  goes  in  sometimes,  an'  he  takes  no  notice 
of  her,  he  sits  lookin'  into  the  fire,  and  frownin'  as  if  he 
was  watchin'  folks  Jit  work  in  it." 

"He  thinks  so  much  about  business,"  said  Maggie. 

"Ay/'  said  Bob,  speaking  lower;  "but  do  you  think 
it's  nothin'  else.  Miss?  He's  close,  Mr.  Tom  is;  but  I'm 
a  'cute  chap,  I  am,  an'  I  thought  tow'rt  last  Christmas  as 
I'd  found  out  a  soft  place  in  him.  It  was  about  a  little 
black  spaniel — a  rare  bit  o'  breed — as  he  made  a  fuss 
to  get.  But  since  then  summat's  come  over  him,  as  he's 
set  his  teeth  again  things  more  nor  iver,  for  all  he's  had 
such  good  luck.  An'  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Miss,  'cause  I 
thought  you  might  work  it  out  of  him  a  bit,  now  you're 
come.  He's  a  deal  too  lonely,  and  doesn't  go  into  com- 
pany enough." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  very  little  power  over  him.  Bob," 
said  Maggie,  a  good  deal  moved  by  Bob's  suggestion.  It 
was  a  totally  new  idea  to  her  mind^  that  Tom  could  have 
his  love  troubles.  Poor  fellow!  —  and  in  love  with  Lucy 
too!  But  it  was  perhaps  a  mere  fancy  of  Bob's  too  offi- 
cious brain.  The  present  of  the  dog  meant  nothing  more 
than  cousinship  and  gratitude.  But  Bob  had  already  said, 
"Here's  Mr.  Tom,"  and  the  outer  door  was  opening. 

"There's  no  time  to  spare,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  as  soon 
as  Bob  had  left  the  room.  "  I  must  tell  you  at  once  what 
I  came  about,  else  I  shall  be  hindering  you  from  taking 
your  dinner/' 

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372  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

Tom  stood  with  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  and 
Maggie  was  seated  opposite  the  light.  He  noticed  that  she 
was  tremulous,  and  he  had  a  presentiment  of  the  subject 
she  was  going  to  speak  about.  The  presentiment  made 
his  voice  colder  and  harder  as  he  said,  "  What  is  it?^' 

This  tone  roused  a  spirit  of  resistance  in  Maggie,  and 
she  put  her  request  in  quite  a  different  form  from  the  one 
she  had  predetermined  on.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  and, 
looking  straight  at  Tom,  said — 

**  I  want  you  to  absolve  me  from  my  promise  about  Philip 
Wakem.  Or  rather,  I  promised  you  not  to  see  him  with- 
out telling  you.  I  am  come  to  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  see 
him/^ 

"Very  well/^  said  Tom,  still  more  coldly. 

But  Maggie  had  hardly  finished  speaking  in  that  chill, 
defiant  manner,  before  she  repented,  and  felt  the  dread  of 
alienation  from  her  brother. 

**Not  for  myself,  dear  Tom.  Don't  be  angry.  I 
shouldn't  have  asked  it,  only  that  Philip,  you  know,  is  a 
friend  of  Lucy's,  and  she  wishes^iim  to  come — has  invited 
him  to  come  this  evening;  and  I  told  her  I  couldn't  see 
him  without  telling  you.  I  shall  only  see  him  in  the 'pres- 
ence of  other  people.  There  will  never  be  anything  secret 
between  us  again." 

Tom  looked  away  from  Maggie,  knitting  his  brow  more 
strongly  for  a  little  while.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and 
said,  slowly  and  emphatically — 

*' You  know  what  is  my  feeling  on  that  subject,  Maggie. 
There  is  no  need  for  my  repeating  anything  I  said  a  year 
ago.  While  my  father  was  living,  I  felt  bound  to  use  the 
utmost  power  over  you,  to  prevent  you  from  disgracing 
him  as  well  as  yourself,  and  all  of  us.  But  now  1  must 
leave  you  to  your  own  choice.  You  wish  to  be  independ- 
ent— ^you  told  me  so  after  my  father's  death.  My  opinion 
is  not  changed.  If  you  think  of  Philip  Wakem  as  a  lover 
again,  you  must  give  up  me." 

"I  don't  wish  it,  dear  Tom  —  at  least  as  things  are:  I 
see  that  it  would  lead  to  misery.  But  I  shall  soon  go  away 
to  another  situation,  and  I  should  like  to  be  friends  with 
him  again  while  I  am  here.     Lucy  wishes  it." 

The  severity  of  Tom's  face  relaxed  a  little. 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  your  seeing  him  occasionally  at  my 
uncle's — I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  fuss  on  the  subject. 
But  I  have  no  confidence  in  you,  Maggie.  You  would  b^ 
led  away  to  do  anything."  * 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  373 

That  was  a  cruel  word.     Maggie^s  lip  began  to  tremble. 

**  Why  will  you  say  that,  Tom?  It  is  very  hard  of  you. 
Have  I  not  done  and  borne  everything  as  well  as  I  could? 

And  I  have  kept  mv  word  to  you  —  when  —  when My 

life  has  not  been  a  nappy  one,  any  more  than  yours." 

She  was  obliged  to  be  childish — the  tears  would  come. 
When  Maggie  was  not  angry,  she  was  as  dependent  on  kind 
or  cold  words  as  a  daisy  on  the  sunshine  or  the  cloud:  the 
need  of  being  loved  would  always  subdue  her,  as,  in  old 
days,  it  subdued  her  in  the  worm-eaten  attic.  The  brother's 
goodness  came  uppermost  at  this  appeal,  but  it  could  only 
show  itself  in  Tom's  fashion.  He  put  his  hand  gently  on 
her  arm,  and  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  Kind  pedagogue — 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Maggie.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean. 
You^re  always  in  extremes — ^you  have  no  judgment  and 
self-command;  and  yet  you  think  you  know  best,  and  will 
not  submit  to  be  guided.  You  know  I  did  not  wish  you 
to  take  a  situation.  My  aunt  Pullet  was  willing  to  give 
you  a  good  home,  and  you  might  have  lived  respectably 
amongst  your  relations,  until  I  could  have  provided  a 
home  for  you  with  my  mother.  And  that  is  what  I  should 
like  to  do.  I  wished  my  sister  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  would 
always  have  taken  care  of  you,  aa  my  father  desired,  until 
you  were  well  married.  But  your  idejis  and  mine  never 
accord,  and  you  will  not  give  way.  Yet  you  might  have 
sense  enough  to  see  that  a  brother,  who  goes  out  into  the 
world  and  mixes  with  men,  necessarily  knows  better  what 
is  right  and  respectable  for  his  sister  than  she  can  know 
herself.  You  think  I  am  not  kind;  but  my  kindness  can 
only  be  directed  by  what  I  believe  to  be  good  for  you.^' 

*^Yes  —  I  know  —  dear  Tom,",  said  Maggie,  still  half- 
sobbing,  but  trying  to  control  her  tears.  "  I  know  you 
would  do  a  great  deal  for  me:  I  know  how  you  work,  and 
don't  spare  yourself.  I  am  grateful  to  you.  But,  indeed, 
you  can't  quite  judge  for  me — our  natures  are  very  differ- 
ent. You  don't  know  how  differently  things  affect  me 
from  what  they  do  you." 

"Yes,  I  do  know:  I  know  it  too  well.  J  know  how 
differently  you  must  feel  above  all  that  affects  our  family, 
and  your  own  dignity  as  a  young  woman,  before  you  could 
think  of  receiving  secret  addresses  fr§m  Philip  Wakem. 
If  it  was  not  disgusting  to  me  in  every  other  way,  I 
should  object  to  my  sister's  name  being  associated  for  a 
moment  with  that  of  a  young  man  whose  father  must  hate 
the  very  thought  of  us  all,  and  would  spurn  you.     With 

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374  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

any  one  but  you,  I  should  think  it  quite  certain  that 
what  you.  witnessed  just  before  my  father^s  death  would 
secure  you  from  ever  thinking  again  of  Philip  Wakem  as 
your  lover.  But  I  don't  feel  certain  of  it  with  you-— I 
never  feel  certain  about  anything  with  you.  At  one  time 
you  take  pleasure  in  a  sort  of  perverse  self-denial,  and  at 
another  you  have  not  resolution  to  resist  a  thing  that  >fOu 
know  to  DC  wrong." 

There  was  a  terrible  cutting  truth  in  Tom's  wordfi— tliat 
hard  rind  of  truth  which  is  discerned  by  unimaginative, 
unsympathetic  minds.  Maggie  always  writhed  unc3er  this 
judgment  of  Tom's:  she  rebelled  and  was  humiliateci  in  the 
same  moment:  it  seemed  as  if  he  held  a  glass  before  her  to 
show  her  her  own  folly  and  weakness — as  if  he  were?  a  pro- 
phetic voice  predicting  her  future  fallings — andyet^  all  the 
while,  she  judged  him  in  return:  she  said  inwardly  ihat  he 
was  narrow  and  unjust,  that  he  was  below  feeling  those 
mental  needs  which  were  often  the  source  of  the  wrong- 
doing or  absurdity  that  made  her  life  a  planless  riddle  to 
him. 

She  did  not  answer  directly:  her  heart  was  too  fiall,  and 
she  sat  down,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  table.  It  was  no  use 
trying  to  make  Tom  feel  that  she  was  near  to  him.  He 
always  repelled  her.  Her  feeling  under  his  words  w^is  com- 
plicated by  the  allusion  to  the  last  scene  between  her  father 
and  Wakem;  and  at  length  that  painful,  solemn  inemory 
surmounted  the  immediate  grievance.  No!  She  did  not 
think  of  such  things  with  frivolous  indifference,  and  Tom 
must  not  accuse  her  of  that.  She  looked  up  at  him.  witn  a 
grave,  earnest  gaze,  and  said — 

^*I  can^t  make  you  think  better  of  me,  Tom,  bj  ^^T 
thing  I  can  say.  feut  I  am  not  so  shut  out  from  all  your 
feelings  as  you  believe  me  to  be.  1  see  as  well  as  you  do, 
that  from  our  position  with  regard  to  Philip's  fathe:**--^^^ 
on  other  grounds — it  would  be  unreasonable — it  wo^^^^  "^ 
wrong  for  us  to  entertain  the  idea  of  marriage;  and   3  ^^^T^ 

given  up  thinking  of  him  as  a  lover 1  am  telling  y^^^^^, 

truth,  and  yo.u  have  no  right  to  disbelieve  me:  I  hav^  kj3pt 
my  word  to  you,  and  you  have  never  detected  me  in  e^  *^^^' 
hood.  I  should  not  only  not  encourage,  I  should  ca!^^'^^*^? 
avoid,  any  intercoufse  with  Philip  on  any  other  footiixg  ^"^,^ 
that  of  quiet  friendship.  You  may  think  that  I  am  ^^^^  i 
to  keep  my  resolutions;  but  at  least  you  ought  not  ^^/^^^ 
me  with  hard  contempt  on  the  ground  of  faults  that  1  *^*^ 
not  committed  yet.'' 

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THE  QBEAT  TEMPTATIOK.  376 

''Well,  Maggie/^  said  Tom,  softening  under  this  appeal, 
''  I  don't  want  to  overstrain  matters.  I  think,  all  tilings 
considered,  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  see  Philip  Wakem,  if 
Lucy  wishes  him  to  come  to  the  house.  I  believe  what  you 
say — at  least  you  believe  it  yourself,  I  know:  I  can  only 
warn  you.  I  wish  to  be  as  good  a  brother  to  you  as  you  will 
let  me.''  ^  ^ 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Tom's  voice  as  he  uttered 
the  last  words,  and  Maggie's  ready  affection  came  back  with 
as  sudden  a  glow  as  when  they  were  children,  and  bit  their 
cake  together  as  a  sacrament  of  conciliation.  She  rose  and 
laid  her  hand  on  Tom'iT  shoulder. 

^*  Dear  Tom,  I  know  you  mean  to  be  good.  I  know  you 
have  had  a  great  deal  to  bear,  and  have  done  a  great  deal. 
I  should  like  to  be  a  comfort  to  you — not  to  vex  you.  You 
don't  think  I'm  altogether  naughty,  now,  do  you?" 

Tom  smiled  at  the  eager  face:  his  smiles  were  very 
pleasant  to  see  when  they  did  come,  for  the  gray  eyes  could 
be  tender  underneath  the  frown. 

''No,  Maggie." 

"I  may  turn  out  better  than  you  expect." 

"  I  hope  you  will." 

"  And  may  I  come  some  day  and  make  tea  for  you,  and 
see  this  extremely  small  wife  of  Bob's  again?" 

"  Yes;  but  trot  away  now,  for  I've  no  more  time  to  spare," 
said  Tom,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"Not  to  give  me  a  kiss?" 

Tom  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek,  and  then  said — 

"There!  Be  a  §ood  girl.  I've  got  a  great  deal  to  think 
of  to-day.  I'm  going  to  have  a  long  consultation  with  my 
uncle  Deane  this  afternoon." 

"You'll  come  to  aunt  Glegg's  to-morrow?  We're  going 
all  to  dine  early,  that  we  may  go  there  to  tea.  You  must 
come:  Lucy  told  me  to  say  so." 

'*  Oh,  pooh!  I've  plenty  else  to  do,"  said  Tom,  pulling 
his  bell  violently,  and  bringing  down  the  small  bell-rope. 

"I'm  frightened  —  I  shall  run  away,"  said  Maggie, 
making  a  laughing  retreat;  while  Tom,  with  masculine 
philosophy,  flung  the  bell-rope  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
room — not  very  far  either:  a  touch  of  human  experience 
which  I  flatter  myself  will  come  home  to  the  bosoms  of 
not  a  few  substantial  or  distinguished  men  who  were  once 
at  an  early  stage  of  their  rise  in  the  world,  and  were  cher- 
ishing very  large  hopes  in  very  small  lodgings. 


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876  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  V, 

SHOWING  THAT  TOM   HAD  OPENED  THE  OYSTEE. 

"  And  now  we^ve  settled  this  Newcastle  business,  Tom/' 
said  Mr.  Deane,  that  same  afternoon,  as  they  were  seated 
in  the  private  room  at  the  Bank  together,  "there's  another 
matter  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  Since  you're  likely 
to  have  rather  a  smoky,  unpleasant  time  of  it  at  Newcastle 
for  the  next  few  weeks,  youhl  want^a  good  prospect  of  some 
sort  to  keep  up  your  spirits." 

Tom  waited  less  nervously  than  he  had  done  on  a  former 
occasion  in  this  apartment,  while  his  uncle  took  out  his 
snuff-box  and  gratified  each  nostril  with  deliberate  impar- 
tialitv.  .  ,  . 

'^  You  see,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  :l5eane,  at  last,  throwing  him- 
self backward,  "  the  world  goes  on  at  a  smarter  pace  npw 
than  it  did  when  I  was  a  younff  fellow.     Why,  sir,  forty 
years  ago,  when  I  was  much  such  a  strapping  youngster  as 
you,  a  man  expected  to  pull  between  the  shafts  the  best 
part  of  his  life,  Dcfore  ho  got  the  whip  in  his  hand.     The 
looms   went   slowish,  and   fashions   didn't  alter  quite  so 
fast:  I'd  a  best  suit  that  lasted  me  six   years.     Every- 
thing was  on  a  lower  scale,  sir — in^jjoint  of  expenditure,  I 
mean.     It's  this  steam,  you  see,  thai  has  made  the  difier- 
ence:  it  drives  on  every  wheel  double  pace,  and  the  wheel 
of  fortune  along  with  'em,  as  our  M^,  Stephen  Guest  said 
at  the  anniversary  dinj)|er  (he  hits  ili,ese  things  off  wonder- 
fully, considering  hie's  seen  nothing  of  business.)     I  don't 
find  fault  with  the  change,  as  some  people  do.    Trade,  sir, 
opens  a  man's  eyes;  and  if  the  population  is  to  get  thicker 
upon  the  ground,  as  it's  doing,  the  world  must  use  its  wits 
.at  inventions  of  one  sort  or  other.     I  know  I've  done  my 
share  hs  an  ordinary  man  of  business.     Somebody  has  said 
.,it'^  ar  fine  thing  to  make  two  ears  of  corn  grow  wheri  only 
,,9p.e.grew  before;  but,  sir,  it's  a  fine  thing,  too,  to  further 
.j|^'(^, exchange  of  commodities,  and  bring  the  trains  of  corn 
,t9,iih,9  mouths  that  are  hungry.     And  that  s  our  line  of 
.  t^^jp^ss;  and  I  consider  it  as  honorable  a  position  as  a  man 
pan  jjiold,  to  be  connected  with  it." 

ToniL  knew  that  the  affair  his  uncle  had  to  speak  of  was 
not  urgent.  Mr.  Deane  was  too  shrewd  and  practical  a 
man  to  allow  either  bis  reminiscences  or  hisspuflto  impede 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  377 

the  progress  of  trade.  Indeed,  for  the  last  mouth  or  two, 
there  had  been  hints  thrown  out  to  Tom  which  enabled 
him  to  guess  that  he  was  going  to  hear  some  proposition 
for  his  own  benefit.  With  the  beginning  of  the  last  speech 
he  had  stretched  out  his  legs,  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  prepared  himself  for  some  introductory  diffuse- 
ness,  tending  to  sliow  that  Mr.  Deane  had  succeeded  by  his 
own  merit,  and  that  what  he  had  to  say  to  young  men  in 
general  was,  that  if  they  didn't  succeed,  too,  it  was  because 
of  their  own  demerit.  He  was  rather  surprised,  then,  when 
his  uncle  put  a  direct  question  to  him. 

''Let  me  see — it's  going  on  for  seven  years  now  since 
you  applied  to  me  for  a  situation — eh,  Tom?" 

'*  Yes,  sir;  I'm  three-and- twenty  now,"  said  Tom. 

"Ah;  it's  as  well  not  to  say  that,  though:  for  you'd  pass 
for  a  good  deal  older,  and  age  tells  well  in  business.  I 
remember  your  coming  very  well:  I  remember  I  saw  there 
was  some  pluck  in  yx>u,  and  that  was  what  made  me  give 
you  encouragement.  And,  I'm  happy  to  say,  I  was  right; 
I'm  not  often  deceived.  I  was  naturally  a  little  shy  at 
pushing  my  nephew,  but  I'm  happy  to  say  you've  done  me 
credit,  sir;  and  if  I'd  had  a  son  o'  my  own,  I  shouldn't 
have  been  sorry  to  see  him  like  you." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  box  and  opened  it  again,  repeating 
in  a  tone  of  some  feeling — ''No,  I  shouldn't  have  been 
sorry  to  see  him  like  you." 

"I'm  very  glad  I've  given  you  satisfaction,  sir;  I've 
done  my  best,"  said  Tom,  in  his  proud,  independent  way. 

"  Yes,  Tom,  you've  given  me  satisfaction.  I  don't  speak 
of  your  conduct  as  a  son;  though  that  weighs  with  me  in 
my  opinion  of  you.  But  what  I  have  to  do  with,  as  a 
partner  in  our  firm,  is  the  qualities  you've  shown  as  a  man 
o'  business.  Ours  is  a  fine  business — a  splendid  concern^ 
sir — and  there's  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  go  on  growing: 
there's  a  growing  capital,  and  growing  outlets  for  it; 
but  there's  another  thing  that's  wanted  for  the  pros- 
perity of  every  concern,  large  or  small,  and  that's  men  to 
conduct  it — men  of  the  right  habits;  none  o'  your  flashy 
fellows,  but  such  as  are  to  be  depended  on.  Now  tliis  is 
what  Mr.  Guest  and  I  see  clear  enough.  Three  years  ago, 
we  took  Gell  into  the  concern:  we  gave  him  a  share  in  the 
oil-mill.  And  why?  Why,  because  Gell  was  a  fellow  whose 
services  were  worth  a  premium.  So  it  will  always  be,  sir. 
So  it  was  with  me.  And  though  Gell  is  pretty  near  ton 
years  older  than  you.  there  are  other  points  in  your  favor." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


378  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FL0S8. 

Tom  was  getting  a  little  nervous  as  Mr.  Deane  went  on 
speaking:  he  was  conscious  of  something  he  had  in  his 
mind  to  say,  which  might  not  be  agreeable  to  his  uncle, 
simply  because  it  was  a  new  suggestion  rather  than  an 
acceptance  of  the  proposition  he  foresaw. 

"It  stands  to  reason,"  Mr.  Deane  went  on,  when  lie 
had  finished  his  new  pinch,  *^  that  your  being  my  nephew 
weighs  i*  yourfavoi^  but  I  don't  deny  that  if  you'd  been 
no  relation  of  mine  at  all,  your  conduct  in  that  affair  of 
Pelley's  bank  would  have  led  Mr.  Guest  and  myself  to 
make  some  acknowledgment  of  the  service  you've  been  to 
us:  and,  backed  by  your  general  conduct  and  business 
ability,  it  has  made  us  determine  on  giving  you  a  share  in 
the  business — a  share,  which  we  shall  be  glad  to  increaso 
as  the  years  go  on.  We  think  that'll  be  better,  on  all 
grounds,  than  raising  your  salary.  It'll  give  you  more 
importance,  and  prepare  you  better  for  taking  some  of  the 
anxiety  off  my  shoulders  by-and-by.  I'm  equal  to  a  good 
deal  o'  work  at  present,  thank  God;  but  I'm  getting 
older — there's  no  denying  that.  I  told  Mr.  Guest  I  would 
open  the  subject  to  you;  and  when  you  come  back  from 
this  northern  business,  we  can  go  into  particulars.  This 
is  a  ffreat  stride  for  a  young  fellow  of  three-and-twenty, 
but  I  m  bound  to  say  you've  deserved  it." 

"I'm  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Guest  and  you,  sir;  of  course 
I  feel  the  mo«?t  indebted  to  you,  who  first  took  me  into  the 
business,  and  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  pains  with  me 
since." 

Tom  spoke  with  a  slight  tremor,  and  paused  after  he 
had  said  this. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "I  don't  spare  pains 
when  I  see  they'll  be  of  any  use.  I  gave  myself  some 
trouble  with  Gell — else  he  wouldn't  have  been  what  he  is." 

"  But  there's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  mention  to  you, 
uncle.  I've  never  spoken  to  you  of  it  before.  If  you 
remember,  at  the  time  my  father's  property  was  sold,  there 
was  some  thought  of  your  firm  buying  the  Mill:  I  know 
you  thought  it  would  be  a  very  good  investment,  especially 
if  steam  were  applied." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  But  Wakem  outbid  us — he'd 
made  up  his  mind  to  that.  He's  rather  fond  of  carrying 
everythmg  over  other  people's  heads." 

"Perhaps  it's  of  no  use  my  mentioning  it  at  present," 
Tom  went  on,  "but  I  wish  you  to  know  what  I  have  in 
my  mind  about  the  Mill.     I've  a  strong  feeling  about  it. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE  GREiT  TEMPTATIOIT;  379 

It  was  mj  father's  dying  wish  that  I  should  try  and  get  it 
back  again  whenever  I  could :  it  was  in  his  family  for  five 
generations.  I  promised  my  father;  and  besides  that,  I'm 
attached  to  the  place.  I  shall  never  like  any  other  so  well. 
And  if  it  should  ever  suit  your  views  to  buy  it  for  the  firm, 
I  should  have  a  better  chance  of  fulfilling  my  father's 
wish.  I  shouldn't  have  liked  to  mention  the  thine  to 
you,  only  you've  been  kind  enough  to  say  my  services  have 
been  of  some  value.  And  I'd  give  up  a  much  greater 
chance  in  life  for  the  sake  of  having  the  Mill  again — I 
mean,  having  it  in  my  own  hands,  and  gradually  working 
ofE  the  price."' 

Mr.  Deane  had  listened  attentively,  and  now  looked 
thoughtful. 

^'f  see,  I  see,'^  he  said,  after  a  while;  ''the  thing  would 
be  possible,  if  there  were  any  chance  of  Wakem's  parting 
with  the  property.  But  that  I  don't  see.  He^s  put  that 
young  Jetso-ne  in  the  place;  and  he  had  his  reasons  when 
he  bought  it,  I'll  be  bound. ^' 

"He's  a  loose  fish,  that  young  Jetsome,"  said  Tom. 
''  He^s  taking  to  drinking,  and  they  say  he's  letting  the 
business  go  down.  Luke  told  me  about  it — our  old  miller. 
He  says,  he  shan't  stay  unless  there's  an  alteration.  I  was 
thinking,  if  things  went  on  in  that  way,  Wakem  might  be 
more  willing  to  part  with  the  Mill.  Luke  says  he's  getting 
very  sour  about  the  way  things  are  going  on." 

*'  Well,  I'll  turn  it  over,  Tom.  I  must  inquire  into  the 
matter,  and  go  into  it  with  Mr.  Guest.  But,  you  see,  it's 
rather  striking  out  a  new  branch,  and  putting  you  to  that, 
instead  of  keeping  you  where  you  are,  which  was  what 
we'd  wanted." 

**  I  should  be  able  to  manage  more  than  the  Mill  when 
things  were  once  set  properly  going,  sir.  I  want  to  have 
plenty  of  work.    There's  nothing  else  I  care  about  much." 

There  was  something  rather  sad  in  that  speech  from  a 
young  man  of  three-and-twenty,  even  in  uncle  Deane's 
business-loving  ears. 

''Pooh,  pooh!  you'll  be  having  a  wife  to  care  about  one 
of  these  days,  if  you  get  on  at  this  pace  in  the  world.  But 
as  to  this  Mill,  we  mustn't  reckon  on  our  chickens  too 
early.  However,  I  promise  you  to  bear  it  in  mind,  and 
when  you  come  back  we'll  talk  of  it  again.  I  am  going  to 
dinner  now.  Come  and  breakfast  with  us  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  say  good-bye  to  your  mother  and  sister  before  you 
start/' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


380  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  VI,      . 

ILLUSTBATING  THE   LAWS  OF  ATTBACTIOIT. 

It  is  evident  to  you  now,  that  Maggie  had  arrived  at  a 
moment  in  her  life  which  must  be  considered  by  all  pru- 
dent persons  as  a  great  opportunity  for  a  young  woman. 
Launched  into  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg^s,  with  a 
striking  person,  which  had  the  advantage  of  being  quite 
unfamiliar  to  the  majority  of  beholders,  and  with  such 
moderate  assistance  of  costume  as  you  have  seen  fore- 
shadowed in  Lucy's  anxious  colloquy  with  aunt  Pullet, 
Maggie  was  certainly  at  a  new  starting-point  in  life.  At 
Lucy's  first  evening-party,  young  Torry  fatigued  his  facial 
muscles  more  than  usual  in  order  that  ''  the  dark-eyed 
girl  there,  in  the  comer,''  might  see  him  in  ill  the  addi- 
tional style  conferred  by  his  eye-glass;  and  several  young 
ladies  went  home  intending  to  nave  short  sleeves  with 
black  lace,  and  to  plait  their  hair  in  a  broad  coronet  at 
the  back  of  their  head  —  **That  cousin  of  Miss  Deane's 
looked  so  very  well."  In  fact,  poor  Maggie,  with  all  her 
inward  consciousness  of  a  painful  past  and  her  presenti- 
ment of  a  troublous  future,  was  on  the  way  to  become  an 
object  of  some  envy  —  a  topic  of  discussion  in  the  newly- 
established  billiard-room,  and  between  fair  friends  who 
had  no  secrets  from  each  other  on  the  subject  of  trim- 
mings. The  Miss  Guests,  who  associated  chiefly  on  terms 
of  condescension  with  the  families  of  St.  egg's,  and  were 
the  glass  of  fashion  there,  took  some  exception  to  Maggie's 
manners.  She  had  a  way  of  not  assenting  at  once  to  the 
observations  current  in  good  society,  and  of  saying  that 
she  didn't  know  whether  those  observations  were  true  or 
not,  which  gave  her  an  air  of  gaucherie,  and  impeded  the 
even  flow  of  conversation;  but  it  is  a  fact  capm^le  of  an 
amiable  interpretation,  that  ladies  are  not  the  worst  dis- 
posed toward  a  new  acquaintance  of  their  own  sex  because 
she  has  points  of  inferiority.  And  Maggie  was  so  entirely 
without  those  pretty  airs  of  coquetry  which  have  the  tra- 
ditional reputation  of  driving  gentlemen  to  despair,  that 
she  won  some  feminine  pity  for  being  so  ineffective  in 
spite  of  her  beauty.  She  had  not  had  many  advantages, 
poor  thing!  and  it  must  be  admitted  there  was  no  preten- 
sion about  her:  her  abruptness  and  unevenness  of  manner 


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THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  381 

were  plainly  the  result  of  her  secluded  and  lowly  circum- 
stances. It  was  only  a  wonder  that  there  was  no  tinge  of 
vulgarity  about  her,  considering  what  tlie  rest  of  poor  Lucy's 
relations  were:  an  allusion  which  always  made  the  Miss 
Guests  shudder  a  little.  It  was  not  agreeable  to  think  of 
any  connection  by  marriage  with  such  people  as  the  Gleggs 
and  the  Pullets;  but  it  was  of  no  use  to  contradict  Stephen, 
when  once  he  had  set  his  mind  on  anything,  and  certainly 
there  was  no  possible  objection  to  Lucy  in  herself — no  one 
could  help  liking  lier.  She  would  naturally  desire  that  the 
Miss  Guests  should  behave  kindly  to  this  cousin  of  whom 
she  was  so  fond,  and  Stephen  would  make  a  great  fuss  if  they 
were  deficient  in  civility.  Under  these  circumstances  the 
invitations  to  Park  House  were  not  wanting;  and  else- 
where, also,  Miss  Deane  was  too  popular  and  too  dis- 
tinguished a  member  of  society  m  St.  Ogg^s  for  any 
attention  toward  her  to  be  neglected. 

Thus  Maggie  was  introduced  for  the  first  time  to  the 
young  lady^s  life,  and  knew  what  it  was  to  get  up  in  the 
morning  without  any  imperative  reason  for  doing  one 
thing  more  than  another.  This  new  sense  of  leisure  and 
unchecked  enjoyment  amidst  the  soft-breathing  airs  and 
garden-scents  of  advancing  spring — amidst  the  new  abun- 
dance of  music,  and  lingering  strolls  in  the  sunshine,  and 
the  delicious  dreaminess  of  gliding  on  the  rivers-could 
hardly  be  without  some  intoxicating  effect  on  her,  after 
her  years  of  privation;  and  even  in  the  first  week  Maggie 
began  to  be  less  haunted  by  her  sad  memories  and  antici- 
pations. Life  was  certainly  very  pleasant  just  now:  it 
was  becoming  very  pleasant  to  dress  in  the  evening,  and  to 
feel  that  she  was  one  of  the  beautiful  things  of  this 
spring-time.  And  there  were  admiring  eyes  always  await- 
ing her  now;  she  was  no  longer  an  unheeded  person,  liable 
to  be  chid,  from  whom  attention  was  continually  claimed, 
and  on  whom  no  one  felt  bound  to  confer  any.  It  was 
pleasant,  too,  when  Stephen  and  Lucy  were  gone  out 
riding,  to  sit  down  at  the  piano  alone,  and  find  that  the 
•old  fitness  between  her  fingers  and  the  keys  remained,  and 
revived,  like  a  sympathetic  kinship  not  to  be  worn  out  by 
separation — to  get  the  tunes  she  had  heard  the  eveninff 
before  and  repeat  them  again  and  again  until  she  had 
found  out  a  way  of  producing  them  so  as  to  make  them  a 
more  pregnant,  passionate  language  to  her.  The  mere 
concord  of  octaves  was  a  delight  to  Maggie,  and  she  would 
g|t§a  take  up  a  book  of  studies  ratjier  than  any  melody. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


382  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

that  she  might  taste  more  keenly  by  abstraction  the  more 
primitive  sensation  of  intervals.  Not  that  her  enjoyment 
of  music  was  of  the  kind  that  indicates  a  great  specific 
talent;  it  was  rather  that  her  sensibility  to  the  supreme 
excitement  of  music  was  only  one  form  of  that  passionate 
sensibility  which  belonged  to  her  whole  nature,  and  made 
her  faults  and  virtues  all  merge  in  each  other — made  her 
affections  sometimes  an  impatient  demand,  but  feminine 
vented  her  vanity  from  taking  the  form  of  mere  also  pre- 
coquetry  and  device,  and  gave  it  the  poetry  of  ambition. 
But  you  have  known  Maggie  a  long  while,  and  need  to  be 
told,  not  her  characteristics,  but  her  history,  which  is  a 
thing  hardly  to  be  predicted  even  from  the  completest 
knowledge  of  characteristics.  For  the  tragedy  of  our 
lives  is  not  created  entirely  from  within.  *' Character," 
says  Novalis,  in  one  of  his  questionable  aphorisms — *' char- 
acter is  destiny."  But  not  the  whole  of  our  destiny. 
Hamlet,  Prince'  of  Denmark,  was  speculative  and  irreso- 
lute, and  we  have  a  great  tragedy  in  consequence.  But  if 
his  father  had  lived  to  a  good  old  a^e,  and  his  uncle  had 
died  an  early  death,  we  can  conceive  Hamlet^s  having 
married  Ophelia,  and  got  through  life  with  a  reputation  of 
sanity,  notwithstanding  many  soliloquies,  and  some  moody 
sarcasms  toward  the  fair  daughter  of  Polonius,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  frankest  incivility  to  his  father-in-law. 

Maggie's  destiny,  then,  is  at  present  hidden,  and  we 
must  wait  for  it  to  reveal  itself  like  the  course  of  an 
unmapped  river:  we  only  know  that  the  river  is  full  and 
rapid,  and  that  for  all  rivers  there  is  the  same  final  home. 
Under  the  charm  of  her  new  pleasures,  Maggie  herself  was 
ceasing  to  think,  with  her  eager  prefiguring  imagination, 
of  her  future  lot;  and  her  anxiety  about  her  first  interview 
with  Philip  was  losing  its  predominance:  perhaps,  uncon- 
sciously to  herself,  she  was  not  sorry  that  the  interview  had 
been  deferred. 

For  Philip  had  not  come  the  evening  he  was  expected, 
and  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  brought  word  that  he  was  gone  to 
the  coast — ^probably,  he  thought,  on  a  sketching  expedition f 
but  it  was  not  certain  when  he  would  return.  It  was  just 
like  Philip — to  go  off  in  that  way  without  telling  any  one. 
It  was  not  until  the  twelfth  day  that  he  returned,  to  find 
both  Lucy's  notes  awaiting  him :  he  had  left  before  he  knew^ 
of  Maggie's  arrival. 

Perhaps  one  had  need  be  nineteen  again  to  be  quite  con- 
vinced of  the  feelings  that  were  crowded  for  Maggie  into 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GBEAT  TEMPTATION.  383 

those  twelve  days— of  the  length  to  which  they  were 
stretched  for  her  by  the  novelty  of  her  experience  in  them, 
and  the  varying  attitudes  of  her  mind.  The  early  days  of 
an  acquaintance  almost  always  have  this  importance  for 
us,  and  fill  up  a  larger  space  in  our  memory  than  longer 
subsequent  periods,  which  have  been  less  filled  with  dis- 
covery and  new  impressions.  There  were  not  many  hours 
m  those  ten  days  in  which  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  was  not 
seated  by  Lucy's  side,  dr  standing  near  her  at  the  piano, 
or  accompanying  her  on  some  out-door  excursion:  his 
attentions  were  clearly  becoming  more  assiduous;  and  that 
was  what  every  one  had  expected.  Lucy  was  very  happy: 
all  the  happier  because  Stephen's  society  seemed  to  have 
become  much  more  interesting  and  amusing  since  Maggie 
had  been  there.  Playful  discussions — sometimes  serious 
ones — were  going  forward,  in  which  both  Stephen  and 
Maggie  revealed  themselves,  to  the  admiration  of  the 
gentle,  unobtrusive  Lucy;  and  it  more  than  once  crossed 
her  mind  what  a  charming  quartet  they  should  have 
through  life  when  Maggie  married  Philip.  Is  it  an  inex- 
plicable thing  that  a  girl  should  enioy  her  lover's  'society 
the  more  for  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  and  be  with- 
out the  slightest  spasm  of  jealousy  that  the  third  person 
had  the  conversation  habitually  directed  to  her.?  Not  when 
that  girl  is  as  tranquil-hearted  as  Lucy,  thoroughly  pos- 
sessed with  a  belief  that  she  knows  the  state  of  her  com- 
panions' affections,  and  not  prone  to  the  feelings  which 
shake  such  a  belief  in  the  absence  of  positive  evidence 
against  it.  Besides,  it  was  Lucy  by  whom  Stephen  sat,  to 
whom  he  gave  his  arm,  to  whom  he  appealed  as  the  person 
sure  to  agree  with  him;  and*  every  day*  there  was  the 
same  tender  politeness  toward  her,  the  same  conscious- 
ness of  her  wants  and  care  to  supply  them.  Was  there 
really  the  same? — it  seemed  to  Lucy  that  there  was  more; 
and  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  real  significance  of  the 
change  escaped  her.  It  was  a  subtle  act  of  conscience  in 
Stephen  that  even  he  himself  was  not  aware  of.  His 
personal  attentions  to  Maggie  were  comparatively  slight, 
and  there  had  even  sprung  up  an  apparent  distance 
between  them,  that  prevented  the  renewal  of  that  faint 
resemblance  to  gallantry  into  which  he  had  fallen  the  first 
day  in  the  boat.  If  Stephen  came  in  when  Lucy  was  out 
of  the  room — if  Lucy  left  them  ^together,  they  never 
spoke  to  each  other:  Stephen,  perhaps,  seemed  to  be  exam- 
ining books  on  music,  and  Maggie  bent  her  head  assidu- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


384  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

ously  over  her  work.  Each  was  oppressively  lonscious  of 
the  other^s  presence,  even  to  the  finger-ends.  Yet  each 
looked  and  longed  for  the  same  thing  to  happen  the  next 
day.  Neitlier  of  them  had  begun  to  reflect  on  the  matter, 
or  silently  to  ask,  "To  what  does  all  this  tend?^'  Maggie 
only  felt  that  life  was  revealing  something  quite  new  to 
her;  and  she  was  absorbed  in  the  direct,  immediate  expe- 
rience, without  any  energy  left  for  taking  account  of  it  and 
reasoning  about  it.  Stephen  willfully  abstained  from 
self -questioning,  and  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  he 
felt  an  influence  which  was  to  have  any  determining  clTcct 
on  his  conduct.  And  when  Lucy  came  into  the  room' 
again,  they  were  once  more  unconstrained:  Maggie  could 
contradict  Stephen,  and  laugh  at  him,  and  he  could 
recommend  to  her  consideration  the  example  of  that  most 
charming  heroine,  Miss  Sophia  Western,  who  had  a  great 
"respect  for  the  understandings  of  men.^^  Maggie  could 
look  at  Stephen — which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  she 
always  avoided  when  they  were  alone;  and  he  could  even 
ask  her  to  play  his  accompaniment  for  him,  since  Lucy's 
fingers  were  so  busy  with  that  bazaar- work;  and  lecture  her 
on  hurrying  the  tempo ,  which  was  certainly  Maggie's  weak 
point. 

One  day — it  was  the  day  of  Philip's  return  —  Lucy  had 
formed  a  sudden  engagement  to  spend  the  evening  with 
Mrs.  Kenn,  whose  delicate  state  of  health,  threatening  to 
become  confirmed  illness  through  an  attack  of  bronchitis, 
obliged  her  to  resign  her  functions  at  the  coming  bazaar 
into  the  hands  of  other  ladies,  of  whom  she  wished  Lucy 
to  be  one  The  engagement  had  been  formed  in  Stephen's 
presence,  and  he  had  heard  Lucy  promise  to  dine  early 
and  call  at  six  o'clock  for  Miss  Torry,  who  brought  Mr^. 
Kenn's  request. 

"Here  is  another  of  the  moral  results  of  this  idiotic 
bazaar,"  Stephen  burst  forth,  as  soon  as  Miss  Torry  had 
left  the  room  —  "taking  young  ladies  from  the  duties  of 
the  domestic  hearth  into  scenes  of  dissipation  among  urn- 
rugs  and  embroidered  reticules!  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is  the  proper  function  of  women,  if  it  is  not  to 
make  reasons  for  husbands  to  stay  at  home,  and  still 
stronger  reasons  for  bachelors  to  go  out.  If  this  goes  on 
much  longer,  the  bonds  of  society  will  be  dissolved." 

"Well,  it  will  not  go  on  much  longer,"  said  Lucy, 
laughing,  "for  the  bazaar  is  to  take  place  ou  Monday 


Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  385 

'*  Thank  heaven !"  said  Stephen.  **Kenn  himself  said 
the  other  day  that  he  didn't  like  this  plan  of  making 
vanity  do  the  work  of  charity;  but  just  as  the  British 
public  is  not  reasonable  enough  t»  bear  direct  taxation,  so 
St.  Ogg's  has  not  got  force  oi  motive  enough  to  build  and 
endow  schools  without  calling  in  the  force  of  folly." 

'*Did  he  say  so?''  said  little  Lucy,  her  hazel  eyes 
opening  wide  with  anxiety.  *'  I  never  heard  him  say  any- 
thing of  that  kind:  I  thought  he  approved  of  what  we 
wera  doing." 

*^  I'm  sure  he  approves  yo?^,"  said  Stephen,  smiling  at 
her  affectionately;  **your  conduct  in  going  out  to-night 
looks  vicious,  I  own,  but  I  know  there  is  benevolence  at 
the  bottom  of  it."- 

"  Oh,  you  think  too  well  of  me,"  said  Lucy,  shaking  her 
head,  with  a  pretty  blush,  and  there  the  subject  ended. 
But  it  was.tacitly  understood  that  Stephen  would  not  come 
in  the  evening,  and  on  the  strength  of  that  tacit  under- 
standing he  made  his  morning  visit  the  longer,  not  saying 
good-bye  until  after  four. 

Maggie  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room  alone,  shortly 
after  dinner,  with  Minny  on  her  lap,  having  left  her  uncle 
to  his  wine  and  his  nap,  and  her  mother  to  the  compro- 
mise between  knitting  and  nodding,  which  when  there  was 
no  company,  she  always  carried  on  in  the  dining-room  till 
tea-time.  Maggie  was  stooping  to  caress  the  tiny  silken 
pet,  and  comforting  him  for  his  mistress's  absence,  when 
the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  gravel  made  her  look  up,  and 
she  saw  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  walking  up  the  garden,  as  if  he 
had  come  straight  from  the  river.  It  was  very  unusual  to 
see  him  so  soon  after  dinner!  He  often  complained  that 
their  dinner-hour  was  late  at  Park  House.  ^Nevertheless, 
there  he  was,  in  his  black  dress;  he  had  evidently  been 
home,  and  must  have  come  again  by  the  river.  Maggie 
felt  her  cheeks  glowing  and  her  heart  beating;  it  was  natu- 
ral she  should  be  nervous,  for  she  was  not  accustomed  to 
receive  visitors  alone.  He  had  seen  her  look  up  through 
the  open  window,  and  raised  his  hat  as  he  walked  toward 
it,  to  enter  that  way  instead  of  by  the  door.  He  blushed 
too,  and  certainly  looked  as  foolish  as  a  young  man  of  some 
wit  and  self-possession  could  be  expected  to  look,  as  he 
walked  in  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand,  and  said  with 
an  air  of  hesitating  improvisation — 

*^  You  are  surprised  to  see  me  again.  Miss  Tulliver — I 
ought  to  apologize  for  coming  upon  you  by  surprise,  but  1 
25 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


386  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

wanted  to  come  into  the  town,  and  I  got  onr  man  to  row 
me;  so  I  thought  I  would  bring  these  things  from  the 
*Maid  oi  Artois'for  your  cousin:  I  forgot  them  this 
morning.     Will  you  give J;hem  to  her?'* 

**Ye8/'  said  Maggie,  who  had  risen  confusedly  with 
Minny  in  her  arms,  and  now  not  quite  knowing  what  else 
to  do,  sat  down  again. 

Stephen  laid  down  his  hat,  with  the  music,  which  rolled 
on  the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  close  by  her.  He 
had  never  done  so  before,  and  both  he  and  Maggie  were 
quite  aware  that  it  was  an  entirely  new  position. 

''Well,  you  pampered  minion! '*  said  Stephen,  leaning 
to  pull  the  long  curly  ears  that  drooped  over  Maggie^s 
arm.  It  was  not  a  suggestive  remark,  and  as  the  speaker 
did  not  follow  it  up  by  further  development,  it  naturally 
left  the  conversation  at  a  stand-still.  It  seemed  to  Stephen 
like  some  action  in  a  dream,  that  he  was  obliged  to  do, 
and  wonder  at  himself  all  the  while — ^to  go  on  stroking 
Minny's  head.  Yet  it  was  very  pleasant:  he  only  wished 
he  dared  look  at  Maggie,  and  that  she  would  look  at 
him — let  him  have  one  long  look  into  those  deep  strange 
eyes  of  hers,  and  then  he  would  be  satisfied,  and  quite 
reasonable  after  that.  He  thought  it  was  becoming  p^  sort 
of  monomania  with  him,  to  want  that  long  look  from 
Maggie;  and  he  was  nicking  his  invention  continually  to 
find  out  some  means  by  which  he  could  have  it  without  its 
appearing  singular  and  entailing  subsequent  embarrass- 
ment. As  for  Maggie,  she  had  no  distinct  thought — only 
the  sense  of  a  presence  like  that  of  a  closely-hovering 
broad-winged  bird  in  the  darkness,  for  she  was  unable  to 
look  up,  and  saw  nothing  but  Minny's  black  wavy  coat. 

But  this  must  end  some  time — perhaps  it  ended  very 
soon,  and  only  seemed  long,  a^  a  minute's  dream  does. 
Stephen  at  last  sat  upright  sideways  in  his  chair,  leaning 
one  hand  and  arm  over  the  back  and  looking  at  Maggie. 
What  should  he  say? 

*' We  shall  have  a  splendid  sunset,  I  think;  shan't  you 
go  out  and  see  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  Then,  courageously 
raising  her  eyes  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  ''If  I'm 
not  playing  cribbage  with  my  uncle." 

A  pause:  during  which  Minny  is  stroked  again,  but  has 
sufficient  insight  not  to  be  grateful  for  it — to  growl  rather. 

*'Do  you  like  sitting  alone?" 

A  rather  arch  look  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and,  just 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  387 

glancing  at  Stephen,  she  said,  '*  Would  it  be  quite  civil  to 
say  'yes'?" 

"It  was  rather  a  dangerous  question  for  an  intruder  to 
ask,''  said    Stephen,   delighted    with    that    glance,  and 

getting  determined  to  stay  for  another.  ''But  you  will 
ave  more  than  half  an. hour  to  yourself  after  I  am  gone," 
he  added,  taking  out  his  watch.  "I  know  Mr.  Deane 
never  comes  in  till  half-past  seven." 

Another  pause,  during  which  Maggie  looked  steadily 
out  of  the  window,  till  by  a  great  effort  she  moved  her 
head  to  look  down  at  Minny's  back  again,  and  said — 

"I  wish  Lucy  had  not  been  obliged  to  go  out.  We  lose 
our  music." 

"We  shall  have  a  new  voice  to-morrow  night,"  said 
Stephen.  "Will  you  tell  your  cousin  that  our  friend 
Philip  Wakem  is  come  back?    I  saw  him  as  I  went  home." 

Maggie  gave  a  little  start — itseemed  hardly  more  than 
a  vibration  that  passed  from  head  to  foot  in  an  instant. 
But  the  new  images  summoned  by  Philip's  name  dis- 
persed half  the  oppressive  spell  she  had  been  under. 
She  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  sudden  resolution, 
and,  laying  Minny  on  his  cushion,  went  to  reach 
Lucy's  large  work-basket  from  its  corner.  Stephen  was 
vexed  and  disappointed:  he  thought,  perhaps  Maggie 
didn't  like  the  name  of  Wakem  to  be  mentioned  to 
her  in  that  abrupt  way — for  he  now  recalled  what  Lucy 
had  told  him  of  the  family  quarKel,  It  w^^  of  no 
use  to  stay  any  longer.  Maggie  was  seating  herself  at  the 
table  with  her  work,  and  looking  chill  and  proud:  and 
he  —  he  looked  like  a  simpleton  for  having  come.  A 
gratuitous,  entirely  superfluous  visit  of  that  sort  was  sure 
to  make  a  man  disagreeable  and  ridiculous.  Of  course 
it  was  palpable  to  Maggie's  thinking,  that  he  had  dined 
hastily  m  nis  own  room  for  the  sake  of  setting  off  again 
and  finding  her  alone. 

A  boyisn  state  of  mind  for  an  accomplished  young 
gentleman  of  five-and-twenty,  not  without  legal  knowl- 
edge! But  a  reference  to  history,  perhaps,  may  make  it 
not  incredible. 

At  this  moment  Maggie's  ball  of  knitting-wool  rolled 
along  the  ground,  and  she  started  up  to  reach  it.  Stephen 
rose  too,  and,  picking  up  the  ball,  met  her  with  a  vexed 
complaining  look  that  gave  his  eyes  quite  a  new  expression 
to  Maggie,  whose  own  eyes  met  them  as  he  presented  the 
ball  to  her. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


388  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

*'  Good-bye/*  said  Stephen,  in  a  tone  that  had  the  same 
beseeching  discontent  as  his  eyes.  He  dared  not  put  out 
his  hand  —  he  thrust  both  hands  into  his  tail-pocket  as  he 
spoke.     Maggie  thought  she  had  perhaps  been  rude. 

**  Won't  you  stay?  she  said  timidly,  not  looking  away, 
for  that  would  have  seemed  rude  again. 

"  No,  thank  you,''  said  Stephen,  looking  still  into  the 
half-unwilling,  half-fascinated  eyes,  as  a  thirsty  man  looks 
toward  the  track  of  the  distant  brook.  **  The  boat  is  wait- 
ing for  me. You'll  tell  your  cousin?" 

-Yes." 

"That  I  brought  the  music,  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  Philip  is  come  back?" 

"Yes."  (Maggie  did  not  notice  Philip's  name  this 
time^ 

"Won't  you  come  out  a  little  way  into  the  garden?" 
said  Stephen,  in  a  still  gentler  tone;  but  the  next  moment 
he  was  vexed  that  she  did  uot  say  "  No,"  for  she  moved 
away  now  toward  the  open  window,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
take  his  hat  and  walk  by  her  side.  But  he  thought  of 
something  to  make  him  amends. 

*'  Do  take  my  arm,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  it  were 
a  secret. 

There  is  something  strangely  winning  to  most  women  in 
that  offer  of  the  firm  arm:  the  help  is  not  wanted  phys- 
ically at  "^Iiat  moment,  but  the  sense  of  help  —  the  presence 
of  strength  that  is  outside  them  and  yet  theirs — meets  a 
continual  want  of  the  imagination.  Either  on  that  ground 
or  some  other,  Maggie  took  the  arm.  And  they  walked 
together  round  the  ^ass-plot  and  under  the  drooping  green 
of  the  laburnums,  m  the  same  dim  dreamy  state  as  they 
had  been  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before;  only  that  Stephen 
had  had  the  look  he  longed  for,  without  yet  perceiving  in 
himself  the  symptoms  of  returning  reasonableness,  and 
Maggie  had  dartmg  thoughts  across  the  dimness:  —  how 
came  she  to  be  there? — why  had  she  come  out?  Not  a 
word  was  spoken.  If  it  had.  been,  each  would  have  been 
less  intensely  conscious  of  the  other. 

"  Take  care  of  this  step,"  said  Stephen,  at  last. 
^Oh,  I  will  go  in  now,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  that  the 
step  had  come  like  a  rescue.     "  Good  evening." 

in  an  instant  she  had  withdrawn  her  arm,  and  was 
running  back  to  the  house.  She  did  not  reflect  that  this 
sudden  action  would  only  add  to  the  embarrassing  recollec- 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  389 

tions  of  the  last  half-hour.  She  had  no  thought  left  for 
that.  She  only  threw  herself  into  the  low  arm-chair,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

*'0,  Philip,  Philip,  I  wish  we  were  together  again — so 
quietly — in  the  Red  Deeps.**  - 

Stephen  looked  after  her  a  moment,  then  went  on  to  the 
boat,  and  was  soon  landed  at  the  wharf.  He  spent  the 
evening  in  the  billiard-room,  smoking  one  cigar  after 
another,  and  losing  '^ives**  at  pool.  But  he  would  not 
leave  off.  He  was  determined  not  to  think — not  to  admit 
any  more  distinct  remefhbrance  than  was  urged  upon  him 
by  the  perpetual  presence  of  Maggie.  He  was  looking  at 
her,  and  she  was  on  his  arm. 

But  there  came  the  necessity  of  walking  home  in  the 
cool  starlight,  and  with  it  the  necessity  of  cursing  his  own 
folly,  and  bitterly  determining  that  he  would  never  trust 
himself  alone  with  Maggie  again.  It  was  all  madness:  he 
was  in  love,  thoroughly  attached  to  Lucy,  and  engaged — 
engaged  as  strongly  as  an  honorable  man  need  be.  He 
wished  he  had  never  seen  this  Maggie  TuUiver,  to  be  thrown 
into  a  fever  by  her  in  this  way:  she  would  make  a  sweet, 
strange,  troublesome,  adorable  wife  to  some  man  or  other, 
but  he  would  never  have  chosen  her  himself.  Did  she  feel 
as  he  did?  He  hoped  she  did — not.  He  ought  not  to 
have  gone.  He  would  master  himself  in  future.  He 
would  make  himself  disagreeable  to  her — quarrel  with  her 
perhaps?  Quarrel  with  her?  Was  it  possible  to  quarrel 
with  a  creature  who  had  such  eyes — defying  and  deprecat- 
ing, contradicting  and  clinging,  imperious  and  beseech- 
ing— full  of  delicious  opposites.  To  see  such  a  creature 
subdued  by  love  for  one  would  be  a  lot  worth  having — ^to 
another  man. 

There  was  a  muttered  exclamation  which  ended  this 
inward  soliloquy,  as  Stephen  threw  away  the  end  of  his 
last  cigar,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  stalked 
along  at  a  quieter  pace  through  the  shrubbery.  It  was  not 
of  a  benedictory  kmd. 


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390  TUE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  VIL 

PHILIP  RE-ENTERS.       , 

The  next  morning  was  very  wet:  the  sort  of  morning 
on  which  male  neighbors  who  have  no  imperative  occupa- 
tion at  home  are  likely  to  pay  their  fair  friends  an  illimit- 
able visit.  The  rain,  which  has  been  endurable  enough 
for  the  walk  or  ride  one  way,  is  stire  to  become  so  heavy, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  certain  to  clear  up  by-and-by, 
that  nothing  but  an  open  quarrel  can  abbreviate  the  visit: 
latent  detestation  will  not  do  at  all.  And  if  people  hap- 
pen to  be  lovers,  what  can  be  so  delightful,  in  England, 
as  a  rainy  morning?  English  sunshine  is  dubious;  bonnets 
are  never  quite  secure;  and  if  you  sit  down  on  the  grass, 
it  may  lead  to  catarrhs.  But  the  rain  is  to  be  depended 
on.  You  gallop  through  it  in  a  mackintosh,  and  presently 
find  yourself  in  the  seat  you  like  best — a  little  above  or 
below  the  one  oft  which  your  goddess  sits  (it  is  the  same 
thing  to  the  metaphysical  mind,*and  that  is  tne  reason  why 
women  are  at  once  worshiped  and  looked  down  upon), 
with  a  satisfactory  confidence  that  there  will  be  no  lady- 
callers. 

^'  Stephen  will  come  earlier  this  morning,  I  know,"  said 
Lucy;  "he  always  does  when  it*s  rainy.*' 

Maggie  made  no  answer.  She  was  an^y  with  Stephen: 
she  began  to  think  she  should  dislike  him;  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  rain,  she  would  have  gone  to  her  aunt 
Glegg^s  this  morning,  and  so  have  avoided  him  altogether. 
As  it  was,  she  must  find  some  reason  for  remaining  out  of 
the  room  with  her  mother. 

But  Stephien  did  not  come  earlier,  and  there  was  another 
visitor — a  nearer  neighbor — who  preceded  him.  When 
Philip  entered  the  room,  he  w^as  going  merely  to  bow  to 
Maggie,  feeling  that  their  acquaintance  was  a  secret  which 
he  was  bound  not  to  betray;  but  when  she  advanced  toward 
him  and  put  out  her  hand,  he  guessed  at  once  that  Lucy 
had  been  taken  into  her  confidence.  It  was  a  moment  of 
some  agitation  to  both,  though  Philip  had  spent  many 
hours  in  preparing  for  it;  but  like  all  persons  who  have 
passed  through  life  with  little  expectation  of  sympathy, 
he  seldom  lost  his  self-control,  and  shrank  with  the  most 
sensitive  pride  from  any  noticeable  betrayal  of  emotion. 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPT ATIOK.  391 

A  little  extra  paleness,  a  little  tension  of  the  nostril  when 
he  s|)oke,  arid  the  voice  pitched  in  rather  a  higher  key, 
tliat  to  strangers  would  seem  expressive  of  cold  indiffer- 
ence, were  all  the  signs  Philip  usually  gave  of  an  inward 
drama  that  was  not  without  its  fierceness.  But  Maggie, 
who  hud  little  more  power  of  concealing  the  impressions 
made  u]>on  her  than  if  she  had  been  constructed  of  musical 
strings,  felt  her  eyes  getting  larger  with  tears  as  they  took 
each  other^s  hands  in  silence.  They  were  not  painful  tears: 
they  had  rather  something  of  the  same  origin  as  the  tears 
women  and  children  shed  when  they  have  found  some  pro- 
tection to  cling  to,  and  look  back  on  the  threatened  danger. 
For  Philip,  who  a  little  while  ago  was  associated  continually 
in  Maggie's  mind  with  the  sense  that  Tom  might  reproach 
her  with  some  justice,  had  now,  in  this  short  space,  become 
a  'sort  of  outward  conscience  to  her,  that  she  might  fly  to 
for  rescue  and  strength.  Her  tranquil,  tender  affection  for 
Philip,  with  its  root  deep  down  in  her  childhood,  and  its 
memories  of  long  quiet  talk  confirming  by  distinct  succes- 
sive imjvessions  the  first  instinctive  bias — the  fact  that  in 
him  the  appeal  was  more  strongly  to  her  pity  and  womanly 
clevotedness  than  to  her  vanity  or  other  egoistic  excita- 
bility of  her  natflre,  seemed  now  to  make  a  sdrt  of  sacred 
place,  a  sanctuary  where  she  could  find  refuge  from  an 
alluring  influence  which  the  best  part  of  herself  must 
resist,  which  must  bring  horrible  tumult  within,  wretched- 
ness without.  This  new  sense  of  her  relation  to  Philip 
nullified  the  anxious  scruples  she  would  otherwise  have 
felt,  lest  she  should  o\?erstep  the  limit  of  intercourse  with 
him  that  Tom  would  sanction;  and  she  put  out  her  hand 
to  him,  and  felt  the  tears  in  her  eyes  without  any  con- 
sciousness of  an  inward  check.  The  scene  was  just  what 
Lucy  expected,  and  her  kind  heart  delighted  in  bringing 
Philip  and  Magffie  together  again;  though,  even  with  all 
her  regard  for  Philip,  slie  could  not  resist  the  impression 
that  her  cousin  Tom  had  some  excuse  for  feeling  shocked 
at  the  physical  incongruity  between  the  two — a  prosaic 
person  like  cousin  Tom,  who  didn't  like  poetry  and  fairy 
tales.  But  she  began  to  speak  as  soon  as  possible,  to  set 
them  at  ease. 

'*  This  was  very  good  and  virtuous  of  you,"  she  said,  in 
her  pretty  treble,  like  the  low  conversational  notes  of  little 
birds,  *'  to  come  so  soon  after  your  arrival.  And  as  it  is, 
I  think  I  will  pardon  you  for  running  away  in  an  inoppor- 
tune manner,  antl  giving  your  friends  no  notice.     Come 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


892  THfi  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

and  sit  down  here/*  she  went  on,  placing  the  chair  that 
would  suit  him  best,  "and  you  shall  find  yourself  treated 
mercifully/' 

**  You  will  never  govern  well.  Miss  Deane,*'  said  Philip, 
as  he'  seated  himself,  "  because  no  one  will  ever  believe  in 
your  severity.  People  will  always  encourage  themselves  in 
misdemeanors  by  the  certainty  that  you  will  be  indulgent/' 

Lucy  gave  some  playful  contradiction,  but  Philip  did 
not  hear  what  it  was,  for  he  had  naturally  turned  toward 
Maggie,  and  she  was  looking  at  him  with  that  open,  affec- 
tionate scrutiny  which  we  give  to  a  friend  from  whom  we 
have  been  long  separated.  What  a  moment  their  parting 
had  been!  And  Philip  felt  as  if  he  were  only  in  the 
morrow  of  it.  He  felt  this  so  keenly — with  such  intense^ 
detailed  remembrance — with  such  passionate  revival  of  all 
that  had  been  said  and  looked  in  their  last  conversation — 
that  with  that  jealousy  and  distrust  which  in  diffident 
natures  is  almost  inevitably  linked  with  a  strong  feeling, 
he  thought  he  read  in  Maggie's  glance  and  manner  the 
evidence  of  a  change.  The  very  fact  that  he  feared  and 
half  expected  it,  would  be  sure  to  make  this  thought  rush 
in,  in  the  absence  of  positive  proof  to  the  contrary. 

"  I  am  having  a  great  holiday,  am  I  not  ?''  said  Maggie. 
'^Lucy  is  like  a  fairy  godmother:  she  has  turned  me  from 
a  drudge  into  a  princess  in  no  time.  I  do  nothing  but 
indulge  myself  all  day  long,  and  she  always  finds  out  what 
I  want  before  I  know  it  myself.'* 

"I  am  sure  she  is  the  happier  for  having  you,  then,** 
said  Philip.  "  You  must  be  better  than  a  whole  menag- 
erie of  pets  to  her.  And  you  look  well— you  are  benefiting 
by  the  change.** 

Artificial  conversation  of  this  kind  went  on  a  little 
while,  till  Lucy,  determined  to  put  an  end  to  it,  ex- 
claimed, with  a  good  imitation  of  annoyance,  that  she  had 
forgotten  somefhing,  and  was  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

In  a  moment  Maggie  and  Philip  leaned  forward,  and 
the  hands  were  clasped  again,  with  a  look  of  sad  content- 
ment like  that  of  friends  who  meet  in  the  memory  oj 
recent  sorrow. 

"I  told  my  brother  I  wished  to  see  you,  Philip — I  asked 
him  to  release  me  from  my  promise,  and  he  consented.** 

Maggie,  in  her  impulsiveness,  wanted  Philip  to  know  a1 
once  the  position  they  must  hold  toward  each  other;  bat 
she  checked  herself.  The  things  that  had  happened  since 
be  had  spoken  of  his  love  for  her  were  so  painful  that  she 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  393 

shrank  from  being  the  first  to  allude  to  them.  It  seemed 
almost  like  an  injury  toward  Philip  even  to  mention  her 
brother — her  brother  who  had  insulted  him.  But  he  was 
thinking  too  entirely  of  her  to  be  sensitive  on  any  other 
point  at  that  moment. 

**Then  we  can  at  least  be  friends,  Maggie?  There  is 
nothing  to  hinder  that  now?^^ 

'*  Will  not  your  father  object?*'  said  Maggie,  withdrawing 
her  hand. 

*^I  should  not  give  you  up  on  any  ground  but  yoiw 
own  wish,  Maggie,''  said  Philip,  coloring.  ^^  There  are 
points  on  which  I  should  always  resist  my  father,  as  I  used 
to  tell  you.     That  is  one.'' 

^^Then  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  our  being  friends, 
Philip — seeing  each  other  and  talking  to  each  other  while 
I  am  here:  I  shall  soon  go  away  again.  I  mean  to  go  very 
soon — ^to  a  new  situation." 

^^Is  that  inevitable,  Maggie?" 

^^  Yes:  I  must  not  stay  here  long.  It  would  unfit  me 
for  the  life  I  must  begin  again  at  last.  I  can't  live  in 
dependence — I  can't  live  with  my  brother,: — though  he  is 
very  good  to  me.  He  would  like  to  provide  for  me;  but 
that  would  be  intolerable  to  me." 

Philip  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  in 
that  high,  feeble  voice  which  with  him  indicated  the  reso- 
lute suppression  of  emotion — 

**Is  there  no  other  alternative,  Maggie?  Is  that  life, 
away  from  those  who  love  you,  the  only  one  you  will  allow 
yourself  to  look  forward  to?" 

"  Yes,  Philip,"  she  said  looking  at  him  pleadingly,  as  if 
she  entreated  him  to  believe  that  she  was  compelled  to 
this  course.  '*At  least,  as  things  are;  I  don't  know 
what  may  be  in  years  to  come.  But  I  begin  to  think 
there  can  never  come  much  happiness  to  me  from  loving: 
I  have  always  had  so  much  pain  mingled  with  it.  I  wish 
I  could  make  myself  a  world  outside  it,  as  men  do." 

"  Now  you  are  returning  to  your  old  thought  in  a  new 
form,  Maggie — the  thought  I  used  to  combat,"  said  Philip, 
with  a  slight  tinge  of  bitterness.  "  You  want  to  find  out 
a  mode  of  renunciation  that  will  be  an  escape  from  pain. 
I  tell  you  again,  there  is  no  such  escapepossible  except  by 
perverting  or  mutilating  one's  nature.  What  would  become 
of  me,  if  I  tried  to  escape  from  pain?  Scorn  and  cynicism 
would  be  my  only  opium;  unless  I  could  fall  into  some 


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394  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

kind  of  conceited  madness,  and  fancy  myself  a  favorite  ol 
Heaven  because  I  am  not  a  favorite  with  men/' 

The  bitterness  had  taken  on  some  impetuosity  as  Philip 
went  on  speaking:  the  words  were  evidently  an  outlet  for 
some  immediate  feeling  of  his  own,  as  well  as  an  answer 
to  Maggie.  There  was  a  pain  pressing  on  him  at  that 
moment.  He  shrank  with  proud  delicacy  from  the  faintest 
allusion  to  the  words  of  love — of  plighted  love  that  had 
passed  between  them.  It  would  have  seemed  to  him  like 
reminding  Maggie  of  a  promise;  it  would  have  had  for  him 
something  of  the  baseness  of  compulsion.  •  He  could  not 
dwell  on  the  fact  that  he  himself  had  not  changed;  for 
that,  too,  would  have  had  the  air  of  an  appeal  His  love 
for  Maggie  was  stamped,  even  more  than  the  rest  of  his 
experience,  with  the  exaggerated  sense  that  he  was  an 
exception — that  she,  that  every  one,  saw  him  in  the  light 
of  an  exception. 

But  Maggie  was  conscionce-stricken. 

"Yes,  JPhilip,*''  she  said,  with  her  childish  contrition 
when  he  used  to  chide  her,  "you  are  right,  I  know.  I  do 
always  think  too  much  of  my  own  feelings,  and  not  enough 
of  others^ — not  enough  of  yours.  I  had  need  have  you 
always  to  find  fault  with  me  and  teach  me:  so  many  things 
have  come  true  that  you  used  to  tell  me.'* 

Maggie  was  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  leaning  her 
head  on  her  hand  and  looking  at  Philip  with  half -penitent, 
dependent  affection,  as  she  said  this;  while  he  was  return- 
ing her  gaze  with  an  expression  that,  to  her  consciousness, 
gradually  became  less  vague — became  charged  with  a 
specific  recollection.  Had  his  mind  flown  back  to  some- 
thing that  she  now  remembered? — something  about  a  lover 
of  Lucy^s.^  It  was  a  thought  that  made  her  shudder:  it 
gave  new  definiteness  to  her  present  position,  and  to  the 
tendency  of  what  had  happened  the  evening  before.  She 
moved  her  arm  from  the  table,  urged  to  change  her  position 
by  that  positive  physical  oppression  at  the  heart  that  some- 
times accompanies  a  sudden  mental  imng. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Maggie?  Has  something  hap- 
pened?" Philip  said,  in  inexpressible  anxiety,  his  imagina- 
tion being  only  too  ready  to  weave  everything  that  was 
fatal  to  them  both. 

"No  —  nothing,"  said  Maggie,- rousing  her  latent  will* 
Philip  must  not  have  that  odious  thought  in  his  mind:  she 
would  banish  it  from  her  own.  "  Nothing,"  she  repeated, 
"  except  in  my  own  mind.     You  used  to  saj  I  should  feel 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  395 

the  effect  of  my  starved  life,  as  you  called  it,  and  I  do.  I 
am  too  eager  in  my  enjoyment  of  music  and  all  luxuries, 
now  they  are  come  to  me." 

She  took  up  her  work  and  occupied  herself  resolutely, 
while  Philip  watched  her,  really  in  doubt  whether  she  had 
anything  more  than  this  general  allusion  in  her  mind.  It 
was  quite  in  Maggie's  character  to  be  agitated  by  vague 
self-reproach.  But  soon  there  came  a  violent  well-known 
ring  at  the  door-bell  resounding  through  the  house. 

^'Oh,  what  a  startling  announcement!^' said  Maggie, 
quite  mistress  of  herself,  though  not  without  some  inward 
nutter.     "I  wonder  where  Lucy  is/' 

Lucy  had  not  been  deaf  to  the  signal,  and  after  an  inter- 
val long  enough  for  a  few  solicitous  but  not  hurried 
inquiries,  she  herself  ushered  Stephen  in. 

'^  Well,  old  fellow,''  he  said,  going  straight  up  to  Philip 
"and  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  bowing  to  Maggie 
in  passing,  *^  it's  glorious  to  have  you  back  again;  only  I 
wisn  you  would  conduct  yourself  a  little  less  like  a  spar- 
row with  a  residence  on  the  house-top,  and  not  go  in  and 
out  constantly  without  letting  the  servants  know.  This 
is  about  the  twentieth  time  I've  had  to  scamper  up  those 
countless  stairs  to  that  painting  room  of  yours,  all  to  no 
purpose,  because  your  people  thought  you  were  at  home, 
ouch  incidents  embitter  friendship." 

^^I've  so  few  visitors — it  seems  hardly  worth  while  to 
leave  notice  of  my  exit  and  entrances,"  said  Philip,  feeling 
rather  oppressed,  just  then,  by  Stephen's  bright,  strong 
presence  and  strong  voice. 

^^Are  you  quite  well  this  morning,  Miss  TuUiver?" 
said  Stephen,  turning  to  Maggie  with  stiff  politeness,  and 
putting  out  his  hand  with  the  air  of  fulfilling  a  social 
duty. 

Maggie  gave  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  said,  "Quite 
well,  thank  you,"  in  a  tone  of  proud  indifference.  Philip's 
eyes  were  watching  them  keenly;  but  Lucy  was  used  to 
seeing  variations  in  their  manner  to  each  other,  and  only 
thought  with  regret  that  there  was  some  natural  antipathy 
which  every  now  and  then  surmounted  their  mutual  good 
will.  *'  Maggie  is  not  the  sort  of  woman  Stephen  admires, 
and  she  is  irritated  by  something  in  him  which  she  inter- 
prets as  conceit,"  was  the  silent  observation  that  accounted 
for  everything  to  guileless  Lucy.  Stephen  and  Maggie 
had  no  sooner  completed  this  studied  greeting  than  each 
felt  hurt   by  the  other's  coldness.     And  Stephen,  while 


Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


396  TH£  HILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

rattling  on  in  questions  to  Philip  about  his  recent  sketch 
ing  expedition,  was  thinking  all  the  more  about  Maggie 
because  he  was  not  drawing  her  into  the  conversation  as 
he  had  invariably  done  before.  '*  Maggie  and  Philip  are 
not  looking  happy/' thought  Lucy:  ^'this  first  interview 
has  been  saddening  to  them." 

*'  I  think  we  people  who  have  not  been  galloping/'  she 
said  to  Stephen,  *^  are  all  a  little  damped  by  the  rain.  Let 
us  have  some  music.  We  ought  to  take  advantage  of 
having  Philip  and  yon  together.  Give  us  the  duet  in 
'Mdsaniello':  Maggie  has  not  heard  that,  and  I  know  it 
will  suit  her.'' 

"Come,  then,"  said  Stephen,  going  toward  the  piano  and 
giving  a  foretaste  of  the  tune  in  his  deep  "  brum-brum," 
very  pleasant  to  hear. 

'*  You,  please,  Philip — you  play  the  accompaniment," 
said  Lucy,  "and  then  I  can  go  on  with  my  work.  You 
will  like  to  play,  shan't  you?"  she  added,  with  a  pretty 
inquiring  look,  anxious,  as  usual,  lest  she  should  have  pro- 
posed what  was  not  pleasant  to  another;  but  with  yearn- 
ings toward  her  unfinished  embroidery. 

Philip  had  brightened  at  the  proposition,  for  there  is  no 
feeling,  perhaps,  except  the  extremes  of  fear  and  grief, 
that  does  not  find  relief  in  music  —  that  does  not  make  a 
man  sing  or  play  the  better;  and  Philip  had  an  abundance 
of  pent-up  feeling  at  this  moment,  as  complex  as  any  trio 
or  quartet  that  was  ever  meant  to  express  love  and  jealousy, 
and  resignation  and  fierce  suspicion,  all  at  the  same  time. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  "  it  is 
a  way  of  eking  out  one's  imperfect  life  and  being  three 
people  at  once — to  sing  and  make  the  piano  sing,  and  hear 
them  both  all  the  while — or  else  to  sing  and  paint." 

"Ah,  there  you  are  an  enviable  fellow.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing with  my  hands,"  said  Stephen.  "That  has  generally 
been  observed  in  men  of  great  administrative  capacity,  I 
believe.  A  tendency  to  predominance  of  the  reflective 
powers  in  me! — haven't  you  observed  that.  Miss  Tulliver?" 

Stephen  had  fallen  by  mistake  into  his  habit  of  playful 
appeal  to  Maggie,  and  she  could  not  repress  the  answering 
flush  and  epigram. 

"  I  have  observed  a  tendency  to  predominance,"  she  said, 
smiling;  and  Philip  at  that  moment  devoutly  hoped  that 
she  found  the  tendency  disagreeable. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Lucy;  "music,  music!  We  will 
discuss  each  other's  qualities  another  time." 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  397 

Maggie  always  tried  in  vain  to  go  on  with  hor  work  when 
music  began.  She  tried  harder  than  ever  to-day;  for  the 
thought  that  Stephen  knew  how  much  she  cared  for  his 
singing  was  one  that  no  longer  roused  a  merely  playful 
resistance;  and  she  knew,  too,  that  it  was  his  habit  always 
to  stand  so  that  he  could  look  at  her.  But  it  was  of  no 
use;  she  soon  threw  her  work  down,  and  all  her  intentions 
were  lost  in  the  vague  state  of  emotion  produced  by  the 
inspiring  duet  —  emotion  that  seemed  to  make  her  at  once 
strong  and  weak:  strong  for  all  enjoyment,  weak  for  all 
resistance.  When  the  strain  passed  into  the  minor,  she 
half  started  from  her  seat  with  the  sudden  thrill  of  that 
change.  Poor  Magde!  She  looked  very  beautiful  when 
her  soul  was  being  played  on  in  this  way  by  the  inexorable 
power  of  sound.  You  might  have  seen  the  slightest  per- 
ceptible quivering  through  her  whole  frame  as  she  leaned 
a  little  forward,  clasping  her  hands  as  if  to  steady  herself; 
while  her  eyes  dilated  and  brightened  into  that  wide-open, 
childish  expression  of  wondering  delight  which  always 
came  back  in  her  happiest  moments.  Lucy,  who  at  other 
times  had  always  been  at  the  piano  wlien  Maggie  was  look- 
ing in  this  way,  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  steal  up  to 
her  and  kiss  her.  Philip,  too,  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
now  and  then  round  the  open  book  on  the  desk,  and  felt 
that  he  had  never  before  seen  her  under  so  strong  an 
influence. 

"More,  more!"  said  Lucy,  when  the  duet -Jiad  been 
encored.  "  Something  spirited  again.  Maggie  always  says 
she  likes  a  great  rush  of  sound." 

"  It  must  be  *  Let  us  take  the  road,*  then,"  said  Stephen — 
"so  suitable  for  a  wet  morning.  But  are  you  prepared  to 
<4bandon  the  most  sacred  duties  of  life,  and  come  and  sing 
with  us?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  If  you  will  look 
out  the  *  JBeggar's  Opera '  from  the  large  canterbury.  It 
has  a  dingy  cover." 

"  That  is  a  great  cluej  considering  there  are  about  a 
score  covers  here  of  rival  dinginess,"  said  Stephen,  drawing 
out  the  canterbury. 

"  Oh,  play  something  the  while,  Philip,"  said  Lucy, 
noticing  that  his  fingers  were  wandering  over  the  keys. 
"What  is  that  you  are  falling  into? — something  delicious 
that  I  don^t  know." 

"Don^t  you  know  that?"  said  Philip,  bringing  out  the 
tune  more  definitely.     "It's  from  the  ^Somnambula' — 

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d08  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

'Ah!  pcrche  non  posse  odiarfci/  I  don't  know  the  opera, 
but  it  appears  the  tenor  is  telling  the  heroine  that  he  shall 
alwiiys  love  her  though  she  may  forsake  him.  You^ve 
heard  me  sing  it  to  the  English  words,  'I  love  thee 
still/'' 

It  was  not  quite  unintentionally  that  Philip  had  wandered 
into  this  song,  which  might  be  an  indirect  expression  to 
Maggie  of  what  he  could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  say  to 
her  directly.  Her  ears  had  been  open  to  what  he  was 
saying,  and  when  he  began  to  sing,  she  understood  the 
plaintive  passion  of  the  music.  That  pleading  tenor  had 
no  very  fine  qualities  as  a  voice,  but  it  was  not  quite  new  to 
her:  it  had  sung  to  her  by  snatches,  in  a  subdued  way, 
among  the  grassy  walks  and  hollows,  and  underneath  the 
leaning  ash-tree  in  the  Red  Deeps.  There  seemed  to  be 
some  reproach  in  the  words — did  Philip  mean  that? 
She  wished  she  had  assured  him  more,  distinctly  in  their 
conversation  that  she  desired  not  to  renew  the  hope  of 
love  between  them,  only  because  it  clashed  with  her  mevi- 
table  circumstances.  She  was  touched,  not  thrilled  by  the 
song:  it  suggested  distinct  memories  and  thoughts,  and 
brought  quiet  regret  in  the  place  of  excitement. 

"  That's  the  way  with  you  tenors,"  said  Stephen,  who 
was  waiting  with  music  in  his  hand  while  Philip  finished 
the  song.  '*  You  demoralize  the  fair  sex  by  warbling  your 
sentimental  love  and  constancy  under  all  sorts  of  vile 
treatment.  Nothing  short  of  having  your  heads  served 
up  in  a  dish  like  that  mediaeval  tenor  or  troubadour,  would 
prevent  you  from  expressing  your  entire  resignation.  I 
must  administer  an  antidote,  while  Miss  Deane  prepares 
to  tear  herself  away  from  her  bobbins." 

Stephen  rolled  out,  with  saucy  energy — 

"Shall  I,  wasting  In  despair. 
Die  because  a  woman 's  fair  ?  " 

and  seemed  to  make  all  the  air  in  the  room  alive  with  a 
new  influence.  Lucy,  always  proud  of  what  Stephen. did, 
went  toward  the  piano  with  laughing,  admiring  looks  at 
him;  and  Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  resistance  to  the  spirit 
of  the  song  and  to  the  singer,  was  taken  hold  of  and 
shaken  by  the  invisible  influence — was  borne  along  by  a 
wave  too  strong  for  her. 

But,  angrily  resolved  not  to  betray  herself,  she  seized 
her  work,  and  went  on  making  false  stitches  and  pricking 
her  fingers  with  much  perseverance,   not  looking  up  or 


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THE   GUKAT  TEMPT ATIOK.  399 

taking  notice  of  what  was  going  forward,  until  all  the  three 
voices  united  in  '*  Let  us  take  the  road." 

I  am  afraid  there  would  liave  been  a  subtle,  stealing 
gratification  in  her  mind  if  she  had  known  how  entirely 
this  saucy,  defiant  Stephen  was  occupied  with  her:  how  ho 
was  passing  rapidly  from  a  determination  to  treat  her  with 
ostentatious  indifference  to  an  irritating  desire  for  some 
sign  of  inclination  from  her — some  interchange  of  subdued 
word  or  look  with  her.  It  was  not  long  before  he  found  an 
opportunity,  when  they  had  passed  to  the  music  of  '*Tho 
Tempest."  Maggie,  feeling  the  need  of  a  footstool,  was 
walking  across  the  room  to  get  one,  when  Stephen,  who 
was  not  singing  just  then,  and  was  conscious  of  all  her 
movements,  guessed  her  want,  and  flew  to  anticipate  her, 
lifting  the  footstool  with  an  entreating  look  at  her,  which 
made  it  impossible  not  to  return  a  glance  of  gratitude. 
And  then,  to  have  the  footstool  placed  carefully  by  a  too 
self-confident  personage — not  a/ii/ self-confident  personage, 
but  one  in  particular,  who  suddenly  looks  humble  and 
anxious,  and  lingers,  bending  still,  to  ask  if  there  is  not 
some  draught  in  that  position  between  the  window  and  the 
fireplace,  and  if  he  may  not  be  allowed  to  move  the  work- 
table  for  her — these  things  will  summon  a  little  of  the  too 
ready,  traitorous  tencLerness  into  a  woman's  eyes,  compelled 
as  she  is  in  her  girlish  time  to  learn  her  life-lessons  in  very 
trivial  language.  And  to  Maggie  such  things  had  not  been 
every-day  incidents,  but  were  a  new  element  in  her  life,  aiid 
found  her  keen  appetite  for  homage  quite  fresh.  Thjt 
tone  of  gentle  solicitude  obliged  her  to  look  at  the  face  that 
was  bent  toward  her,  and  to  say,  "No,  thank  you"; and 
nothing  could  prevent  that  mutual  glance  from  being 
delicious  to  both,  as  it  had  been  the  evening  before. 

It  was  but  an  ordinary  act  of  politeness  in  Stephen;  it 
had  hardly  taken  two  minutes;  and  Lucy,  who  was  sing- 
ing, scarcely  noticed  it.  But  to  Philip's  mind,  filled 
already  with  a  vague  anxiety  that  was  likely  to  find  a  defi- 
nite ground  for  itself  in  any  trivial  incident,  this  sudden 
eagerness  in  Stephen,  and  the  change  in  Maggie's  face, 
which  was  plainly  reflecting  a  beam  from  his,  seemed  so 
strong  a  contrast  with  the  previous  overwrought  signs  of 
indifference,  as  to  be  charged  with  painful  meaning. 
Stephen's  voice,  pouring  in  again,  jarred  upon  his  nervous 
susceptibility  as  if  it  had  been  the  clang  of  sheet-iron,  and 
he  felt  inclined  to  make  the  piano  shriek  in  utter  discord. 
He  had  really  seen  no  communicable  ground  for  suspecting 


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400  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

any  unusual  feeling  between  Stephen  and  Maggie:  his  own 
reiison  told  him  so,  and  he  wanted  to  go  home  at  once  that 
lie  might  reflect  coolly  on  these  false  images,  till  he 
had  convinced  himself  of  their  nullity.  But  then, 
again,  he  wanted  to  stay  as  long  as  Stephen  stayed — 
always  to  be  present  when  Stephen  was  present  with 
Maggie.  It  seemed  to  poor  Fliilip  so  natural,  nay, 
inevitable  that  any  man  who  was  near  Maggie  should  fall 
in  love  with  her!  There  was  no  promise  of  happiness  for 
her  if  she  should  be  beguiled  into  loving  Stephen  Guest; 
and  this  thought  emboldened  Philip  to  view  his  own  love 
for  her  in  the  light  of  a  less  unequal  offering.  He  was 
beginning  to  play  very  falsely  under  this  deafening  inward 
tumult,  and  Lucy  was  looking  at  him  in  astonishment, 
when  Mrs.  TuUiver^s  entrance  to  summon  them  to  lunch 
came  as  an  excuse  for  abruptly  breaking  off  the  music. 

*'Ah,  Mr.  Philip! '*'  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  entered 
the  dining-room,  '^I've  not  seen  you  for  a  long  while. 
Your  father's  not  at  home,  I  think,  is  he?  I  went  after 
him  to  the  office  the  other  day,  and  they  said  he  was  out 
of  town." 

**He's  been  to  Mudport  on  business  for  several  days,^' 
said  Philip;  *'but  he's  back  now.'* 

**  As  fond  of  his  farming  hobby  as  ever,  eh?'' 

"I  believe  so,''  said  Philip,  rather  wondering  at  this 
sudden  interest  in  his  father's  pursuits. 

*^  Ah! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  *'  he's  got  some  huid  in  his  own 
hupds  on  this  side  the  river  as  well  as  the  other,  I  think?" 

"Yes,  he  has." 

**Ah!"  continued  Mr.  Deane,  as  he  dispensed  the 
pigeon-pie,  "he  must  find  farming  a  heavy  item — an 
expensive  hobby.  I  never  had  a  hobby  myself — never 
would  give  in  to  that.  And  the  worst  of  all  hobbies  are 
those  that  people  think  they  can  get  money  at.  They 
shoot  their  money  down  like  corn  out  of  a  sack  then." 

Lucy  felt  a  little  nervous  under  her  father's  apparently 
gratuitous  criticism  of  Mr.  Wakem's  expenditure.  But  it 
ceased  there,  and  Mr.  Deane  became  unusually  silent  and 
meditative  during  his  luncheon.  Lucy,  accustomed  to 
watch  all  indications  in  her  father,  and  having  reasons, 
which  had  recently  become  strong,  for  an  extra  interest  in 
what  referred  to  the  Wakems,  felt  an  unusual  curiosity  to 
know  what  had  prompted  her  father's  questions.  His 
sutseauent  silence  made  her  suspect  there  had  been  some 
special  reason  for  them  in  bis  mind. 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  401 

With  this  idea  in  her  head,  she  resorted  to  her  usual 
phm  when  she  wanted  to  tell  or  ask  her  father  anything 
particular:  she  found  a  reason  for  her  aunt  Tulliver  leav- 
ing tlie  dining-room  after  dinner,  and  seated  herself  on  a 
small  stool  at  her  father's  knee.  Mr.  Deane,  under  those 
circumstances,  considered  that  he  tasted  some  of  the  most 
agreeable  moments  his  merits  had  purchased  him  in  life, 
notwithstanding  that  Lucy,  disliking  to  have  her  hair 
powdered  with  snuff,«usually  began  by  mastering  his  snuff- 
box ori  such  occasions. 

"You  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  yet,  papa,  do  you?'*  she 
said,  as  she  brought  up  her  stool  and  opened  the  large 
fingers  that  clutched  the  snuff-box. 

'^N^ot  yet,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  glancing  at  the  reward  of 
merit  in  the  decanter.  "  But  what  do  you  want?**  he  added, 
pinching  tha  dimpled  chin  fondly.  **To  coax  some  more 
sovereigns  out  of  my  pocket  for  your  bazaar?    Eh?" 

^'  No,  I  have  no  base  motives  at  all  to-day.  I  only  want 
to  talk,  not  to  beg.  I  want  to  know  what  maae  you* 
ask  Philip  Wakem  about  his  father's  farming  to-day,  papa? 
It  seemed  rather  odd,  because  you  never  hardly  say  any- 
thing to  him  about  his  father;  and  why  should  you  care 
about  Mr.  Wakem's  losing  money  by  his  hobby?" 

"Something  to  do  with  business,'*  said  Mr.  Deane, 
waving  his  hands  as  if  to  repel  intrusion  into  that  mystery. 

"  But,  papa,  you  always  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  brought 
Philip  up  like  a  girl:  how  came  you  to  think  you  should 
get  any  business  knowledge  out  of  him?  Those  abrupt 
questions  sounded  rather  oddly.  Philip  thought  them 
queer." 

"Nonsense,  child! "said  Mr.  Deane,  willing  to  justify 
his  social  demeanor,  with  which  he  had  taken  some  pains 
in  his  upward  progress.  "There's  a  report  that  Wakem's 
mill  and  farm  on  the  other  side  of  tlie  river — Dorlcote 
Mill,  your  uncle  Tulliver's,  you  know — isn't  answering  so 
well  as  it  did.  I  wanted  to  see  if  your  friend  Philip  would 
let  anything  out  about  his  father's  being  tired  of  farming." 

"  Why?  Would  you  buy  the  mill,  papa,  if  he  would 
part  with  it?"  said  Lucy,  eagerly.  "Oh!  tell  me  every- 
thing— here,  you  shall  have  your  snuff-box  if  you'll  tell 
me!  Because  Maggie  says  all  their  hearts  are  set  on  Tom's 
getting  back  the  mill  some  time.  It  was  one  of  the  last 
things  her  father  said  to  Tom,  that  he  must  get  back  the 
II)  U." 

'  Hush,  you  little  puss,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  availing  him.- 

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402  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

self  of  the  restored  snuff-box.  "  You  must  not  say  a  "«*^  om 
about  this  thing,  do  you  hear?  There^s  very  little  ch*  ^a»:»^ce 
of  their  getting  the  mill,  or  of  anybody's  getting  it  o^i-^"*^.  |^^ 
Wnkem's  hands.     And  if  he  knew  that  we  wanted  it    ^^p'*^  ^  ^" 


a  view  to  the  TuUivers  getting  it  again,  he'd  be  th^  ^ 
likely  to  part  with  it.  It's  natural,  after  what  happ^^"^^^^* 
He  behaved  well  enough  to  Tulliver  before;  but  a  b-^^^^**^^, 
whipping  is  not  likely  to  be  paid  for  with  8Ugar-plu_  :"^^*^  ^* 

*'  Now,  papa,''  said  Lucy,  with  a  little  air  of  solem  s^^^*^)'* 
•*  will  you  trust  me?  You  must  not  ask  me  a!l  my  re^^^^^^ 
for  what  I'm  going  to  say — but  I  have  very  strong  rear^^^^^"^^* 
And  I'm  very  cautious — I  am,  indeed." 

'•  Well,  let  us  hear." 

"  Why,  I  believe,  if  you  will  let  me  take  Philip  W^^T^^^^ 
into  our  confidence — let  me  tell  him  all  about  your  wi^^^  }^ 
buy  and  what  it's  for — ^that  my  cousins  wish  to  hav"^  -■''' 
and  why  thev  wish  to  have  it — i  believe  Philip  would  l^^-'P 
to  bring  it  about.  I  know  he  would  desire  to  do  it." 
•  **I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,  child,"  said  Mr.  D^^^*^""^®' 
looking  puzzled.  *' Why  should  he  care?" — then,  wi"t>l^  a 
sudden  penetrating  look  at  his  daughter,  ^*You  i3<^7?* 
think  the  poor  lad's  fond  of  you,  and  so  you  can  tx^^^^^ 
him  do  what  you  like?"  (Mr.  Deane  felt  quite  safea^tx^^"*^^ 
his  daughter's  affections. ) 

"  No,  papa;  he  cares  very  little  about  me— not  so  rrx'ti.^^ 
as  I  care  about  him.     But  I  have  a  reason  for  being  q  "^  ^  *^ 
sure  of  what  I  say.     Don't  you  ask  me.     And  if  you    ^^^^ 
guess,  don't  tell  me.     Only  give  me  leave  to  do  as  I  fcl^^i^"^^ 
ht  about  it."  , 

Lucy  rose  from  her  stool  to  seat  herself  on  her  fat'l^^-''  * 
knee,  and  kissed  him  with  that  last  re(][uest.  -  i 

"Are  you  sure  you  won't  do  mischief,  now?"  he    b^^   ' 
looking  at  her  with  delight.  ^1 

"Yes,  papa,  quite  sure.      I'm  very  wise;  I've  S^      .^it- 
your  business  talents.     Didn't  you  admire  my  acoo^*^ 
book,  now,  when  I  showed  it  to  you?"  ^1 

"Well,  well,  if  this  youngster  will  keep  his  c^^^T\>    f 
there  won't  be  much  harm  done.     And  to  tell  the  ^^^ij-^^ 
think  there's  not  much  chance  for  us  any  other  way.       -^        ' 
let  me  go  off  to  sleep." 


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THE  GR£AT  TEMPTATIOIT.  403 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

WAKEM  IK   A   NEW   LIGHT. 

Before  three  days  had  passed  after  the  conversation  yon 
have  just  overheard  between  Luc3r  and  her  father,  she  had 
contrived  to  have  a  private  interview  with  Philip  during  a 
visit  of  Maggie's  to  her  aunt  Glegg.  For  a  day  and  a 
night  Philip  turned  over  in  his  mina  with  restless  agitation 
all  that  Lucy  had  told  him  in  that  interview-,  till  ne  had 
thoroughly  resolved  on  a  course  of  action.  He  thought  he 
saw  before  him  now  a  possibility  of  altering  his  position 
with  respect  to  Maggie,  and  removing  at  least  one  obstacle 
between  them.  He  laid  his  plan  and  calculated  all  his 
moves  with  the  fervid  deliberation  of  a  chess-player  in  the 
days  of  his  first  ardor,  and  was  amazed  himself  at  his  sud- 
den genius  as  a  tactitian.  His  plan  was  as  bold  as  it  was 
thoroughly  calculated.  Having  watched  for  a  moment 
when  his  father  had  nothing  more  urgent  on  his  hands 
than  the  newspaper,  he  went  behind  him,  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  and  said — 

'*  Father,  will  you  come  up  into  my  sanctum,  and  look 
at  my  new  sketches?    I've  arranged  them  now." 

"  I'm  getting  terribly  stiff  in  the  joints,  Phil,  for  climb- 
ing those  stairs  of  yours,"  said  Wakem,  looking  kindly  at 
his  son  as  he  laid  down  his  paper.  "But  come  along, 
then." 

**  This  is  a  nice  place  for  you,  isn't  it,  Phil? — a  capital 
light  that  from  the  roof,  en?"  was,  as  usual,  the  first 
thing  he  said  on  entering  the  painting-room.  He  liked  to 
remind  himself  and  his  son  too  that  his  fatherly  indul- 
gence had  provided*  the  accommodation.  He  had  been  a 
good  father.  Emily  would  have  nothing  to  reproach  him 
with  there,  if  she  came  back  again  from  her  grave. 

**Come,  come,"  he  said,  putting  his  double  eye-glass 
over  his  nose,  and  seating  himself  to  take  a  general  view 
while  he  rested,  "you've  got  a  famous  show  here.  Upon 
my  word,  I  don't  see  that  your  things  aren't  as  good  as 
that  London  artist's — what's  his  name — that  Ley  burn  gave 
so  much  money  for." 

Philip  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  He  had  seated  him- 
self on  his  painting-stool,  and  had  taken  a  lead  pencil  in 
hU  band^  with  which  he  wj^s  making  strong  marks  to 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


404  THE  MILL  OK  THE   FLOSS. 

counteract  the  sense  of  tremnlousness.  He  watched  his 
father  get  up,  and  walk  slowly  round,  good-naturedly 
dwelling  on  the  pictures  much  longer  than  his  amount  of 
genuine  taste  for  landscape  would  have  prompted,  till  he 
stopped  before  a  stand  on  which  two  pictures  were  placed — 
one  much  larger  than  the  other — the  smaller  one  in  a 
leather  case. 

"  Bless  me!  what  have  you  here?**  said  Wakem,  startled 
by  a  sudden  transition  from  landscape  to  portrait.  **  I 
thought  you*d  left  off  figures.     Who  are  these?** 

**  They  are  the  same  person,'*  said  Philip,  with  calm 
promptness,  ^at  different  ages.** 

*^And  what  person?"  said  Wakem,  sharply  fixing  his 
eyes  with  a  growing  look  of  suspicion  on  the  larger 
picture. 

"  Miss  Tulliver,  The  small  one  is  something  like  what 
she  was  when  I  was  at  school  with  her  brother  at  King*3 
Lorton:  the  larger  one  is  not  quite  so  good  a  likeness  of 
what  she  was  when  I  came  from  abroad.* 

Wakem  turned  round  fiercely  with  a  flushed  face,  letting 
his  eye-glass  fall,  and  looking  at  his  son  with  a  savage 
expression  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  ready  to  strike  that 
daring  feebleness  from  the  stool.  But  he  threw  himself 
into  the  arm-chair  again,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
trouser-pockets,  still  looking  angrily  at  his  son,  however. 
Philip  did  not  return  the  look  but  sat  quietly  watching  the 
point  of  his  pencil. 

^' And  do  you  niean  to  say,  then,  that  you  have  had  any 
acquaintance  with  her  since  you  came  from  abroad?**  said 
Wakem,  at  last,  with  that  vain  effort  which  rage  always 
makes  to  throw  as  much  punishment  as  it  desires  to  inflict 
into  words  and  tones,  since  blows  are  forbidden. 

"  Yes:  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her  for  a  whole  year  before 
her  father*s  death.  We  met  often  iii  that  tnicket — the 
Eed  Deeps — near  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  love  her  dearly:  I  shall 
never  love  any  other  woman.  I  have  thought  of  her  ever 
since  she  was  a  little  girl.** 

*^Go  on,  sir!  —  and  you  have  corresponded  with  her  all 
this  while?** 

"  No.  I  never  told  her  I  loved  her  till  just  before  we 
parted,  and  she  promised  her  brother  not  to  see  me  again 
or  to  correspond  with  me.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  loves 
me,  or  would  consent  to  marry  me.  But  if  she  would 
consent — if  she  did  love  me  ww  enough — I  should  marry 
her.** 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPT ATIOK.  405 

"And  this  is  the  return  you  make  me  for  all  the  indul- 
gences Pve  heaped  on  you?*'  said  Wakem,  getting  white, 
and  beginning  to  tremble  under  an  enraged  sense  of 
impotence  before  Philip's  calm  defiance  and  concentration 
of  purpose. 

"No,  father/'  said  Philip,  looking  up  at  him  for  the 
first  time;  "T  don't  regard  it  as  a  return.  You  have  been 
an  indulgent  father  to  me;  but  I  have  always  felt  that  it 
was  because  you  had  an  affectionate  wish  to  give  me  as 
much  happiness  as  my  unfortunate  lot  would  admit  of  — 
not  that  it  was  a  debt  you  expected  me  to  pay  by  sacrificing 
all  my  chances  of  happiness  to  satisfy  feelings  of  yours, 
which  I  can  never  share." 

"  I  think  most  sons  would  share  their  father's  feelings 
in  this  case,"  said  Wakem,  bitterly.  "The  girl's  father 
was  an  ignorant  mad  brute,  who  was  within  an  inch  of 
murdering  me.  The  whole  town  knows  it.  And  the 
brother  is  just  as  insolent,  only  in  a  cooler  way.  He 
forbade  her  seeing  you,  you  say;  he'll  break  every  bone 
in  your  body,  for  your  greater  happiness,  if  you  don't  take 
care.  But  you  seem  to  have  made  up  your  mind:  you 
Lave  counted  the  consequences,  I  suppose.  Of  course  you 
are  independent  of  me:  you  can  marry  this  girl  to-morrow, 
if  you  like:  you  are  a  man  of  five-and-twenty — you  can  go 
your  way,  and  1  can  go  mine.  We  need  have  no  more  to 
do  with  each  other." 

Wakem  rose  and  walked  toward  the  door,  but  something 
held  him  back,  and  instead  of  leaving  the  room,  he  walked 
up  and  dowM  it.  Philip  was  slow  to  reply,  and  when  he 
spoke,  his  tone  had  a  more  incisive  quietness  and  clearness 
than  ever. 

"No:  I  can't  marry  Miss  Tulliver,  even  if  she  would 
have  me  —  if  I  have  only  my  own  resources  to  maintain 
her  ^ith.  I  have  been  brought  up  to  no  profession. 
I  can't  offer  her  poverty  as  well  as  deformity." 

"  Ah,  there  is  a  reason  for  your  clingingj  to  me,  doubt- 
less," said  Wakem,  still  bitterly,  though  Philip's  last  words 
had  given  him  a  pang:  they  had  stirred  a  feeling  which 
had  been  a  habit  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  threw 
himself  into  the  chair  again. 

"I  expected  all  this,"  said  Philip.  "I  know  these 
scenes  are  often  happening  between  father  and  son.  If 
I  were  like  other  men  of  my  age,  I  might  answer  your 
angry  words  by  still  angrier  —  we  might  part  —  I  should 
marry  the  woman  I  love,  and  have  a  chance  of  being  as 

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406  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

happy  as  the  rest.  But  if  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  you 
to  annihilate  the  verv  object  of  everything  youVe  done  for 
me,  you  have  an  advantage  over  most  fathers:  you  can 
completely  deprive  me  of  the  only  thing  that  would  make 
my  life  worth  having.'* 

Philip  paused,  but  his  father  was  silent. 

*' You  Know  best  what  satisfaction  you  would  have, 
beyond  that  of  gratifying  a  ridiculous  rancor  worthy  only 
of  wandering  savages.*' 

^'Eidiculous  rancor!**  Wakem  burst  out.  "What  do 
you  mean?  Damn  it!  is  a  man  to  be  horsewhipped  by  a 
boor  and  love  him  for  it?  Besides,  there's  that  cold,  proud 
devil  of  a  son,  who  said  a  word  to  me  I  shall  not  forget 
when  we  had  the  settling.  He  would  be  as  pleasant  a 
mark  for  a  bullet  as  I  know — if  he  were  worth  the  expense.** 

*'I  don't  mean  your  resentment  toward  them,**  said 
Philip,  who  had  his  reasons  for  some  sympathy  with  this 
view  of  Tom,  ''though  a  feeling  of  revenge  is  not  worth 
much,  that  you  should  care  to  keep  it.  I  mean  your 
extending  the  enmity  to  a  helpless  girl,  who  has  too  much 
sense  and  goodness  to  share  their  narrow  prejudices.  She 
has  never  entered  into  the  family  quarrels.** 

"What  does  that  signify?  We  don*t  ask  what  a  woman 
does — we  ask  whom  she  belongs  to.  It*8  altogether  too 
degrading  a  thing  to  you — to  think  of  marrying  old  TuUi- 
ve?s  daughter.** 

For  the  first  time  in  the  dialogue,  Philip  lost  some  of 
his  self-control,  and  colored  with  anger. 

"Miss  Tulliver,**  he  said,  with  bitter  incisiveness,  "has 
tlie  only  grounds  of  rank  that  anything  but  vulgar  folly 
can  suppose  to  belong  to  the  middle  class:  she  is  thoroughly 
refined,  and  her  friends,  whatever  else  they  may  be,  are 
respected  for  irreproachable  honor  and  integrity.  All  St. 
Ogg's,  I  fancy,  would  pronounce  her  to  be  more  tl;^,an  my 
equal.*' 

Wakem  darted  a  glance  of  fierce  question  at  his  son;  but 
Philip  was  not  looking  at  him,  and  with  a  certain  penitent 
consciousness  went  on,  in  a  few  moments,  as  if  in  amplifi- 
cation of  his  last  words — 

"Find  a  single  person  in  St.  Ogg*s  who  will  not  tell  you 
that  a  beautiful  creature  like  her  would  be  throwing  herself 
away  on  a  pitiable  object  like  me." 

"Not  she!"  said  Wakem,  rising  again,  and  forgetting 
everything  else  in  a  burst  of  resentful  pride,  half  fatherly, 
half  personal.     "It  would  be  a  deuced  fine  match  for  her. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  407 

It's  all  stuff  about  an  accidental  deformity,  when  a  girl's 
really  attaclied  to  a  man.'^ 

'^But  girls  are  not  apt  to  get  attached  under  those  cir- 
cumstances," said  Philip. 

^^Well,  then,"  said  Wakem,  rather  brutally,  trying  to 
recover  his  previous  position,  *^if  she  doesn^t  care  for  you, 
you  might  nave  spared  yourself  the  trouble  of  talking  to 
me  about  her — and  you  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble 
of  refusing  my  consent'  to  what  was  never  likely  to 
happen." 

Wakem  strode  to  the  door,  and,  without  looking  round 
again,  banged  it  after  him, 

Philip  was  not  without  confidence  that  his  father  would 
be  ultimately  wrought  upon  as  he  had  expected,  by  what 
had  passed;  but  the  scene  had  jarred  upon  his  nerves, 
which  were  as  sensitive  as  a  woman's.  He  determined 
not  to  go  down  to  dinner:  he  couldn't  meet  his  father 
again  that  day.  It  was  Wakem's  habit,  when  he  had 
no  company  at  home,  to  go  out  in  the  evening — often 
as  early  as  half -past  seven;  and  as  it  was  far  on  in  the 
afternoon  now,  rhilip  locked  up  his  room  and  went 
out  for  a  long  ramble,  thinking  he  would  not  return 
until  his  father  was  out  of  the  house  again.  He  got  into  a 
boat,  and  went  down  the  river  to  a  favorite  village,  where 
he  dined,  and  lingered  till  it  was  late  enough  for  him  to 
return.  He  had  never  had  any  sort  of  auarrel  with  his 
father  before,  and  had  a  sickening  fear  that  this  contest, 
just  begun,  might  go  on  for  weeks — and  what  might  not 
happen  in  that  time?  He  would  not  allow  himself  to 
define  what  that  involuntary  question  meant.  But  if  he 
could  once  be  in  the  position  of  Maggie's  accepted, 
acknowledged  lover,  there  would  be  less  room  for  vague 
dread.  He  went  up  to  his  painting-room  again,  and  threw 
himself  with  a  sense  of  fatigue  into  the  arm-chair,  looking 
round  absently  at  the  views  of  water  and  rock  that  were 
ranged  around,  till  he  fell  into  a  doze,  in  which  he  fancied 
Maggie  was  slipping  down  a  glistening,  green,  slimy 
channel  of  a  waterfall,  and  he  was  looking  on  helpless,  till 
he  was  awakened  by  what  seemed  a  sudden,  awful  crash. 

It  was  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  he  could  hardly 
have  dozed  more  than  a  few  moments,  for  there  was  no 
perceptible  change  in  the  evening  light.  It  was  his  father 
who  entered;  and  when  Philip  moved  to  vacate  the  chair 
for  him,  he  said — 

''  Sit  still.    I'd  rather  walk  about." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


408  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

He  stalked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice,  and 
then,  standing  op]K>site  Philip  with  his  hands  thrust  in 
his  side  pockets,  he  said,  as  if  continuing  a  conversation 
that  had  not  been  broken  off — 

**  But  this  girl  seenra  to  have  been  fond  of  you,  Phil, 
else  she  wouldn^t  have  met  you  in  that  way/* 

Philip's  heart  was  beating  rapidly,  and  a  transient  flush 
passed  over  his  face  like  a  gleam.  It  was  not  quite  easy  to 
speak  at  once. 

**She  liked  me  at  King^s  Lorton,  when  she  was  a  little 
girl,  because  I  used  to  sit  with  her  brother  a  great  deal 
when  he  had  hurt  his  foot.  She  had  kept  that  in  her 
memory,  and  thought  of  me  as  a  friend  of  a  long  while 
ftgo.     She  didn't  think  of  me  as  a  lover  when  she  met  me." 

"  Well,  but  you  made  love  to  her  at  last.  What  did  she 
say  then?'*  said  Wakem,  walking  about  again. 

**  She  said  she  did  love  me  then.'' 

*' Confound  it,  then,  what  else  do  you  want?  Is  she  a 
jilt?'* 

**  She  was  very  joung  then,"  said  Philip,  hesitatingly. 
*'I'm  afraid  she  hardly  knew  what  she  felt.  I'm  afraid 
our  long  separation,  and  the  idea  that  events  must  always 
divide  us,  may  have  made  a  difference." 

**But  she's  in  the  town.  I've  seen  her  at  church. 
Haven't  you  spoken  to  her  since  you  came  back?" 

*^  Yes,  at  Mr.  Deane's.  But  I  couldn't  renew  my  pro- 
posals to  her  on  several  grounds.  One  obstacle  would  be 
removed  if  you  would  give  your  consent — if  you  would  be 
willing  to  think  of  her  as  a  daughter-in-law." 

Wakem  was  silent  a  little  while,  pausing  before  Maggie's 
picture. 

**  She's  not  the  sort  of  woman  your  mother  was,  though, 
Phil,"  he  said,  at  last.  ^^  I  saw  her  at  church — she's  hand- 
somer than  this — deuced  fine  eyes  and  fine  figure,  I  saw; 
but  rather  dangerous  and  unmanageable,  eh?" 

*' She's  very  tender  and  affectionate;  and  so  simple — 
without  the  airs  and  petty  contrivances  other  women  have." 

**  Ah?  "said  Wakem.  Then  looking  round  at  his  son, 
*^But  your  mother  looked  gentler:  she  had  that  brown 
wavy  hair  and  gray  eyes,  like  yours.  You  can't  remember 
her  very  well.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  I'd  no  likeness  of 
her."   ^  ^ 

**Then  shouldn't  you  be  glad  for  me  to  have  the  same 
sort  of  happiness,  father — to  sweeten  my  life  for  one? 
There  can  never  be  another  tie  so  strong  to  you  as  that 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION^.  409 

which  began  eight-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  you  married 
my  mother,  and  you  have  been  tightening  it  ever  since.'' 

^^  Ah,  Phil — you're  the  only  fellow  that  knows  the  best 
of  me,''  said  Wakem,  giving  his  liand  to  his  son.  **  We 
must  keep  together  if  we  can.  And  now,  what  am  I  to 
do?  You  must  come  down-stairs  and  tell  me.  Am  I  to 
go  and  call  on  this  dark -eyed  damsel?" 

The  barrier  once  thrown  down  in  this  way,  Philip  could 
talk  freely  to  his  father  of  their  entire  relation  with  the 
Tullivers — of  the  desire  to  get  the  mill  and  land  back  into 
the  family — and  of  its  transfer  to  Guest  &  Co.  as  an  inter- 
mediate step.  He  could  venture  now  to  bo  persuasive  and 
urgent,  and  his  father  yielded  with  more  readiness  than  he 
had  calculated  on. 

'*/  don't  care  about  the  mill,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  sort 
of  angry  compliance.  '*  I've  had  an  infernal  deal  of  bother 
lately  about  the  mill.  Let  them  pay  me  for  my  improve- 
ments, that's  all.  But  there's  one  thing  you  needn't  ask 
me.  I  shall  have  no  direct  transactions  with  young  Tulli- 
ver.  If  you  like  to  swallow  him  for  his  sister's  sake,  you 
may;  but  I've  no  sauce  that  will  make  him  go  down." 

I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  agi'eeable  feelings  with  which 
Philip  went  to  Mr.  Deane  the  next  day,  to  say  that  Mr. 
Wakem  was  ready  to  open  the  negotiations,  and  Lucv's 
pretty  triumph  as  she  appealed  to  her  father  whether  slie 
had  not  proved  her  great  business  abilities.  Mr.  Deane 
was  rather  puzzled,  and  suspected  that,  there  had  been 
something  *  Agoing  on"  among  the  young  people  to  which 
he  wanted  a  clue.  But  to  men  of  Mr.  Deane's  stamp, 
what  goes  on  among  the  young  people  is  as  extraneous  to 
the  real  business  of  life  as  what  goes  on  among  the  birds 
and  butterflies — until  it  can  be  shown  to  have  a  malign 
bearing  on  monetary  affairs.  And  in  this  case  the  bearing 
appeared  to  be  entirely  propitious. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHARITY  Iiq-  FULL-DRESS. 


The  culmination  of  Maggie's  career  as  an  admired  mem- 
ber of  society  in  St.  Ogg's  was  certainly  the  day  of  the 
bazaar,  when  her  simple  noble  beauty,  clad  in  a  white  mus- 
lin of  some  soft-floating  kind,  which  I  suspect  must  have 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


410  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

come  from  the  stores  of  aunt  Pullet's  wardrobe,  appeared 
with  marked  distinction  among  the  more  adorned  and 
conventional  women  around  her.  We  perhaps  never  detect 
how  much  of  our  social  demeanor  is  made  up  of  artificial 
airs,  until  we  see  a  person  who  is  at  once  beautiful  and 
simple:  without  the  beauty,  we  are  apt  to  call  simplicity 
awkwardness.  The  Miss  Guests  were  much  too  well-bred  to 
have  any  of  the  grimaces  and  affected  tones  that  belong  to 
pretentious  vulgarity;  but  their  stall  being  next  to  the  one 
where  Maggie  sat,  it  seemed  newly  obvious  to-day  that  Miss 
Guest  held  her  chin  too  high,  and  that  Miss  Laura  spoke 
and  moved  continually  with  a  view  to  effect. 

All  well-dressed  St.  Ogg's  and  its  neighborhood  were 
there;  and  it  would  have  been  worth  while  to  come  even 
from  a  distance,  to  see  the  fine  old  hall,  with  its  open  roof 
and  carved  oaken  rafters,  and  great  oaken  folding-doors, 
and  light  shed  down  from  a  height  on  the  many-colored 
show  beneath:  a  very  quaint  place,  with  broad  faded  stripes 
painted  on  the  walls,  and  here  and  there  a  show  of  heraldic 
animals  of  a  bristly,  long-snouted  character,  the  cherished 
emblems  of  a  noble  family  once  the  seigniors  of  this  now 
civic  hall.  A  grand  arch,  cut  in  the  upper  wall  at  one  end, 
surmounted  an  oaken  orchestra,  with  an  open  room  behind 
it,  where  hothouse  plants  and  stalls  for  refreshments  were 
disposed:  an  agreeable  resort  for  gentlemen,  disposed  to 
loiter,  and  yet  to  exchange  the  occasional  crush  down  below 
for  a  more  commodious  point  of  view.  In  fact,  the  perfect 
fitness  of  this  ancient  building  for  an  admirable  modern 
purpose,  that  made  charity  truly  elegant,  and  led  through 
vanity  up  to  the  supply  of  a  deficit,  was  so  striking  that 
hardly  a  person  entered  the  room  without  exchanging  the 
remark  more  than  once.  Near  the  great  arch  over  the 
orchestra  was  the  stone  oriel  with  painted  glass,  which  was 
one  of  the  venerable  inconsistencies  of  the  old  hall;  and  it 
was  close  by  this  that  Lucy  had  her  stall,  for  the  conven- 
ience of  certain  large  plain  articles  which  she  had  taken 
charge  of  for  Mrs.  Kenn.  Maggie  had  begged  to  sit  at  the 
open  end  of  the  stall,  and  to  have  the  sale  of  these  articles 
rather  than  of  bead  mats  and  other  elaborate  products,  of 
which  she  had  but  a  dim  understanding,  feut  it  soon 
appeared  that  the  gentlemen's  dressing-gowns,  which  were 
among  her  commodities,  were  objects  of  isuch  general  atten- 
tion and  inquiry,  and  excited  so  troublesome  a  curiosity  as 
to  their  lining  and  comimrative  merits,  together  with  a 
determination  to  test  them  by  trying  on,  as  to  make  her 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  411 

post  a  very  conspicuous  one.  The  ladies  who  had  commod- 
ities of  their  own  to  sell,  and  did  not  want  dressing-gowns, 
saw  at  once  the  frivolity  and  bad  taste  of  this  masculine 
preference  for  goods  wliich  any  tailor  could  furnish;  and  it 
is  possible  that  the  emphatic  notice  of  various  kinds  which 
was  drawn  toward  Miss  Tulliver,  on  this  public  occasion, 
threw  a  very  strong,  unmistakable  light  on  her  subsequent 
conduct  in  many  minds  then  present.  Not  that  anger,  on 
account  of  spurned  beauty,  can  dwell  in  the  celestial 
breasts  of  charitable  ladies,  but  rather,  that  the  errors  of 
persons  who  have  once  been  admired  necessarily  take  a 
deeper  tinge  from  the  mere  force  of  contrast;  and  also,  that 
to-day,  Maggie^s  conspicuous  position,  for  the  first  time, 
made  evident  certain  characteristics  which  were  subse- 
quently felt  to  have  an  explanatory  bearing.  There  was 
something  rather  bold  in  Miss  Tulliver's  direct  gaze,  and 
something  undefinably  coarse  in  the  stvle  of  her  beauty, 
which  placed  her,  in  the  opinion  of  all  feminine  judges, 
far  below  her  cousin.  Miss  Deane;  for  the  ladies  of  St.  Ogg^s 
had  now  completely  ceded  to  Lucy  their  hypothetic  claims 
on  the  admiration  of  Mr.  Stephen  Guest. 

As  for  dear  little  Lucy  herself,  her  late  benevolent  tri- 
umph about  the  Mill,  and  all  the  affectionate  projects  she 
was  cherishing  for  Maggie  and  Philip,  helped  to  give  her 
the  highest  spirits  to-day,  and  she  felt  nothing  but  pleasure 
in  the  evidence  of  Maggie's  attractiveness.  It  is  true,  she 
was  looking  very  charming  herself,  and  Stephen  was  pay- 
ing her  the  utmost  attention  on  this  public  occasion;  jeal- 
ously buying  up  the  articles  he  had  seen  under  her  fingers 
in  the  process  of  making,  and  gaily  helping  her  to  cajole 
the  male  customers  into  the  purchase  of  the  most  effem- 
inate futilities.  He  chose  to  lay  aside  his  hat  and  wear  a 
scarlet  fez  of  her  embroidering;  but  by  superficial  observers 
this  was  necessarily  liable  to  be  interpreted  less  as  a  com- 
l)liment  to  Lucy  than  as  a  mark  of  coxcombry.  "Guest  is 
a  great  coxcomb,*'  young  Torry  observed;  "but  then  he  is 
a  privileged  person  in  St.  Ogg's — he  carries  all  before  him: 
if  another  fellow  did  such  tnings,  everybody  would  say  he 
made  a  fool  of  himself.'' 

And  Stephen  purchased  absolutely  nothing  from  Maggie, 
until  Lucy  said,  in  rather  a  vexed  undertone — 

"See,  now;  all  the  things  of  Maggie's  knitting  will  be 
gone,  and  you  will  not  have  bought  one.  There  are  those 
deliciously  soft  warm  things  for  the  wrists — do  buy 
them." 


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412  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

"Oh,  no/*  said  Stephen,  "they  must  be  intended  for 
imaginative  persons,  who  can  chill  themselves  on  this  warm 
dayoy  thinking  of  the  frosty  Caucasus.  Stern  reason  is 
my  forte,  you  know.  You  must  ffet  Philip  to  buy  those. 
By  the  way,  why  doesn^t  he  come?  ' 

"He  never  likes  going  where  there  are  many  people, 
though  I  enjoined  him  to  come.  He  said  he  would  buy 
up  any  of  my  goods  that  the  rest  of  the  world  rejected. 
But  now,  do  go  and  buy  something  of  Maggie.*' 

"No,  no — see — she  has  got  a  customer:  there  is  old 
Wakem  himself  just  coming  up." 

Lucy's  eyes  turned  with  anxious  interest  toward  Maggie, 
to  see  how  she  went  througli  the  first  interview,  since  a 
sadly  memorable  time,  with  a  man  toward  whom  she  must 
have  so  strange  a  mixture  of  feelings;  but  she  was  pleased 
to  notice  that  Wakem  had  tact  enough  to  enter  at  once 
into  talk  about  the  bazaar  wares,  and  appear  interested  in 
purchasing,  smiling  now  and  then  kindly  at  Maggie,  and 
not  calling  on  her  to  speak  much,  as  if  he  observed  that 
she  was  rather  pale  and  tremulous. 

"Why,  Wakem  is  making  himself  particularly  amiable 
to  your  cousin,"  said  Stephen,  in  an  undertone  to  Lucy; 
"  is  it  pure  magnanimity?  you  talked  of  a  family  quarrel." 

"Oh,  that  will  soon  be  quite  healed,  I  hope,"  said  Lucv, 
becoming  a  little  indiscreet  in  her  satisfaction,  and  speak- 
ing with  an  air  of  significance.  But  Stephen  did  not 
appear  to  notice  this,  and  as  some  lady-purchasers  came 
up,  he  lounged  on  toward  Maggie's  end,  handling,  trifles 
and  standing  aloof  until  Wakem,  who  had  taken  out  his 
purse,  had  finished  his  transactions. 

"  My  son  came  with  me,"  he  overheard  Wakem  saying, 
"but  he  has  vanished  into  some  other  part  of  the  build- 
ing, and  has  left  all  these  charitable  gallantries  to  me.  I 
hope  you  will  reproach  him  for  this  shabby  conduct." 

She  returned  nis  smile  and  bow  without  speaking,  and 
he  turned  away,  only  then  observing  Stephen,  and  nodding 
to  him.  Maggie,  conscious  that  Stephen  was  still  there, 
busied  herself  with  counting  money,  and  avoided  lookingup. 
She  had  been  well  pleased  that  he  had  devoted  himself  to 
Lucy  to-day,  and  had  not  come  near  her.  They  had  beffun 
the  morning  with  an  indifferent  salutation,  and  both  had 
rejoiced  in  being  aloof  from  each  other,  like  a  patient  who 
has  actually  done  without  his  opium,  in  spite  of  former 
failures  in  resolution.  And  during  the  last  few  days  they 
had  even  been  making  up  their  minds  to  failures,  looking 


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i 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  413 

to  the  outward  events  that  must  soon  come  to  separate 
them,  as  a  reason  for  dispensing  with  self-conquest  m 
detail. 

Stephen  moved  step  by^tep  as  if  he  were  being  unwill- 
ingly dragged,  until  he  had  got  round  the  open  end  of  the 
stall,  and  was  half  hidden  by  a  screen  of  draperies.  Mag- 
gie went  on  counting  her  money  till  she  suddenly  heard  a 
deep  gentle  voice  saying,  **  Aren't  you  very  tired?  Do  let 
me  bnng  you  sometning — some  fruit  or  jelly — mayn't  I?" 
The  unexpected  tones  shook  her  like  a  sudden  accidental 
vibration  of  a  harp  close  by  her. 

*^0h  no,  thank  you,''  she  said,  faintly,  and  only  look- 
ing up  for  an  instant. 

"  You  look  so  pale,"  Stephen  insisted,  in  a  more  entreat- 
ing tone.  **  Fm  sure  you  re  exhausted.  I  must  disobey 
you,  and  bring  something." 

"No,  indeed,  I  couldn't  take  it.'* 
"  Are  you  angry  with  me?    What  have  I  done?    Do  look 
at  me." 

**  Pray,  go  away,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  helplessly, 
her  eyes  glancing  immediately  from  him  to  the  opposite  cor- 
ner of  the  orchestra,  which  was  half  hidden  by  the  folds  of 
the  old  faded  green  curtain.  Maggie  had  no  sooner  uttered 
this  entreaty  than  she  was  wretched  at  the  admission  it 
implied;  but  Stephen  turned  away  at  once,  and,  following 
her  upward  glance,  he  saw  Philip  Wakem  seated  in  the 
half-hidden  corner,  so  that  he  could  command  little  more 
than  that  angle  of  the  hall  in  which  Maggie  sat.  An 
entirely  new  thought  occurred  to  Stephen,  and,  linking 
itself  with  what  he  had  observed  of  Wakem's  manner,  and 
with  Lucy's  reply  to  his  observation,  it  convinced  him  that 
there  had  been  some  former  relation  between  Philip  and 
Maggie  beyond  that  childish  one  of  which  he  had  heard. 
More  than  one  impulse  made  him  immediately  leave  the 
hall  and  go  up-stairs  to  the  refreshment-room,  where,  walk- 
ing up  to  Philip  he  sat  down  behind  him,  and  put  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Are  you  studying  for  a  portrait,  Phil,"  he  said,  "or 
for  a  sketch  of  that  oriel  window?  By  George,  it  makes  a 
capital  bit  from  this  dark  corner,  with  the  curtain  just 
marking  it  off." 

"  I  have  been  studying  expression,"  said  Philip,  curtly. 
"What!    Miss  Tulliver's?    It's  rather  of  the  savage- 
moody  order  to-day,  I  think — something  of  the  fallen 
princess  serving  behm4  a  counter,    ll^r  gousiu  seat  me  iq 

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414  THE   3IILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

her  with  a  civil  offer  to  get  her  some  refreshment,  but  I 
have  been  snubbed,  as  usual.  There's  a  natural  antipathy 
between  us,  I  suppose:  I  have  seldom  the  honor  to  please 
her/'  • 

What  a  hypocrite  you    are!*'  said  Philip,   flushing* 


angrilv. 


(hat!  because  experience  must  have  told  me  that  Fm 
universally  pleasing?  I  admit  the  law,  but  there's  some 
disturbing  force  here." 

**  I  am  going,''  said  Philip,  rising  abruptly. 

**  So  am  1 — to  ^et  a  breath  of  fresh  air:  this  place  gets 
oppressive.  I  think  1  have  done  suit  and  service  long 
enough." 

The  two  friends  walked  down-stairs  together  without 
speaking.  Philip  turned  through  the  outer  door  into  the 
courtyard,  but  Stephen,  saying,  **0h,  by  the  by,  I  must 
call  in  here,"  went  on  along  the  passage  to  one  of  the 
rooms  at  the  other  end  of  the  building,  which  were  appro- 
priated to  the  town  library.  He  had  the  room  all  to  him- 
self, and  a  man  requires  nothing  less  than  this,  when  he 
wants  to  dash  his  cap  on  the  table,  throw  himself  astride 
a  chair,  and  stare  at  a  high  brick  wall  with  a  frown  which 
would  not  have  been  beneath  the  occasion  if  he  had  been 
slaying  *Hhe  giant  Python."  The  conduct  that  issues 
from  a  moral  conflict  has  often  so  close  a  resemblance  to 
vice,  that  the  distinction  escapes  all  outward  judgments, 
founded  on  a  mere  comparison  of  actions.  It  is  clear  to 
you,  I  hope,  that  Stephen  was  not  a  hypocrite — capable  of 
deliberate  doubleness  for  a  selfish  end;  and  yet  his  fluctua- 
tions between  the  indulgence  of  a  feeling  and  the  systematic 
concealment  of  it,  might  have  made  a  good  case  in  support 
of  Philip's  accusation. 

Meanwhile,  Maggie  sat  at  her  stall,  cold  and  trembling, 
with  that  painful  sensation  in  the  eyes  which  comes  from 
resolutely  repressed  tears.  Was  her  life  to  be  always  like 
this?  —  always  bringing  some  new  source  of  inward  strife? 
She  heard  confusedly  the  busy,  indifferent  voices  around 
her,  and  wished  her  mind  could  flow  into  that  easy,  bab- 
bling current.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  Dr.  Kenn,  who 
had  quite  lately  come  into  the  hall,  and  was  now  walking 
down  the  middle  with  his  hands  behind  him,  taking  a 
general  view,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Maggie  for  the  first  time, 
and  was  struck  with  the  expression  of  pain  on  her  beautiful 
face.  She  was  sitting  quite  still,  for  the  stream  of  cus- 
toHiers  had  lessened  at  this  late  hour  in  the  afternoon;  the 

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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  415 

fontlemen  had  chiefly  chosen  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
[aggie's  stall  was  looking  rather  bare.  This,  with  her 
absent,  pained  expression,  finished  the  contrast  between 
her  and  her  companions,  who  were  all  bright,  eager,  and 
busy.  He  was  strongly  arrested.  Her  face  had  naturally 
drawn  his  attention  as  a  new  and  striking  one  at  church, 
and  he  had  been  introduced  to  her  during  a  short  call  on 
business  at  Mr.  Deane's,  but  he  had  never  spoken  more 
than  three  words  to  her.  He  walked  toward  her  now,  and 
Maggie,  perceiving  some  one  approaching,  roused  herself 
to  look  up  and  be  prepared  to  speak.  She  felt  a  childlike, 
instinctive  relief  from  the  sense  of  uneasiness  in  this  exer- 
tion, when  she  saw  it  was  Dr.  Kenn's  face  that  was  looking 
at  her:  that  plain,  middle-aged  face,  with  a  grave,  pene- 
trating kindness  in  it,  seeming  to  tell  of  a  human  being 
who  had  reached  a  firm,  safe  strand,  but  was  looking  with 
helpful  pity  toward  the  strugglers  still  tossed  by  the  waves, 
had  an  effect  on  Maggie  at  this  moment  which  was  after- 
ward remembered  by  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  promise.  The 
middle-aged,  who  have  lived  through  their  strongest 
emotions,  but  are  yet  in  the  time  when  memory  is  still 
hartf  passionate  and  not  merely  contemplative,  should  surely 
be  a  sort  of  natural  priesthood,  whom  life  has  disciplined 
and  consecrated  to  be  the  refuge  and  rescue  of  early 
stumblers  and  victims  of  self -despair.  Most  of  us,  at  some 
moment  in  our  young  lives,  would  have  welcomed  a  priest 
of  that  natural  order  in  any  sort  of  canonicals,  but  had  to 
scramble  upward  into  all  the  difficulties  of  nineteen  entirely 
without  such  aid,  as  Maggie  did. 

"  You  find  your  office  rather  a  fatiguing  one,  I  fear,  Miss 
Tulliver?''  said  Dr.  Kenn. 

.  **  It  is,  rather, ''  said  Mag^e,  simply,  not  being  accus- 
tomed to  simper  amiable  denials  of  ODvious  facts. 

"  But  I  can  tell  Mrs.  Kenn  that  you  have  disposed  of 
her  goods  very  quickly, ''  he  added;  **she  will  be  very 
much  obliged  to  you.'^ 

**0h,  I  have  done  nothing:  the  gentlemen  came  very 
fast  to  buy  the  dressing-gowns  and  embroidered  waistcoats, 
but  I  think  any  of  the  other  ladies  would  have  sold  more: 
I  didn't  know  what  to  say  about  them.'' 

Dr.  Kenn  smiled.  "  I  hope  I'm  going  to  have  you  as  a 
permanent  parishioner  now.  Miss  Tulliver — am  I?  You 
nave  been  at  a  distance  from  us  hitherto." 

"  I  have  been  a  teacher  in  a  school,  and  I'm  going  into 
mother  situation  of  the  same  kind  very  sooij," 

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416  THE   MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

**Ah?  1  was  hoping  you  would  remain  among  your 
friends,  who  are  all  m  this  neighborhood,  I  believe/* 

"  Oh,  /  must  goy^  said  Maggie,  earnestly,  looking  at  Dr. 
Kenn  with  an  expression  of  reliance,  as  if  she  had  told  him 
her  history  in  those  three  words.  It  was  one  of  those 
moments  of  implicit  revelation  which  will  sometimes  hap- 
pen even  between  people  who  meet  quite  transiently — on  a 
mile's  journey,  perhaps,  or  when  resting  by  the  wayside. 
There  is  always  this  possibility  of  a  word  or  look  from  a 
stranger  to  keep  alive  the  sense  of  human  brotherhood. 

Dr.  Kenn's  ear  and  eye  took  in  all  the  signs  that  this 
brief  confidence  of  Maggie's  was  charged  with  meaning. 

"  I  understand,'*  he  said;  **  you  feel  it  right  to  go.  But 
that  will  not  prevent  our  meeting  again,  I  hope:  it  will  not 
prevent  my  knowing  you  better,  if  I  can  be  of  any  service 
to  you." 

lie  put  out  his  hand  and  pressed  hers  kindly  before  he 
turned  away. 

**She  has  some  trouble  or  other  at  heart,"  he  thought. 
"Poor  child!  she  looks  as  if  she  might  turn  out  to  be 
one  of 

*  The  souls  by  nature  pitched  too  higrh,  / 

By  suffering  plunged  too  low.' 

There's  something  wonderfully  honest  in  those  beautiful 
eyes." 

It  may  be  surprising  that  Maggie,  among  whose  many 
imperfections  an  excessive  delight  in  admiration  and 
acknowledged  supremacy  were  not  absent  now,  any  more 
than  when  she  was  instructing  the  gypsies  with  a  view 
toward  achieving  a  royal  position  among  them,  was  not 
more  elated  on  a  day  when  she  had  had  the  tribute  of  so 
many  looks  and  smiles,  together  with  that  satisfactory  con- 
sciousness which  had  necessarily  come  from  being  taken 
before  Lucy's  cheval-glass,  and  made  to  look  at  the  full 
length  of  her  tall  beauty,  crowned  by  the  night  of  her  massy 
hair.  Maggie  had  smiled  at  herself  then,  and  for  the 
moment  had  forgotten  everything  in  the  sense  of  her  own 
beauty.  If  that  state  of  mind  could  have  lasted,  her  choice 
would  have  been  to  have  Stephen  Guest  at  her  feet,  offering 
her  a  life  filled  with  all  luxuries,  with  daily  incense  of 
adoration  near  and  distant,  and  with  all  possibilities  of 
culture  at  her  command.  But  there  were  things  in  her 
♦stronger  than  vanity  —  passion,  and  affection,  and  long 
deep  memories  of  earlydiscipline  and  effort,  of  early  claims 
on  her  love  ^nd  pity;  and  tlx^  %\x^vm  of  vanity  wa§  sooii 

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_=:^ 


THE  GKEAT  TEMPTATIOK.  417 

swept  alon^  and  mingled  imperceptibly  with  that  wider 
current  which  was  at  its  highest  force  to-day,  under  the 
double  urgency  of  the  events  and  inward  impulses  brought 
by  the  last  week. 

Philip  had  not  spoken  to  her  himself  about  the  removal 
of  obstacles  between  them  on  his  father^s  side — he  shrank 
from  that;  but  he  had  told  everything  to  Lucy,  with 
the  hope  that  Maggie,  being  informed  through  her, 
might  give  him  some  encouraging  sign  that  their  being 
brought  thus  much  neareh  to  each  other  was  a  happiness 
to  her.  The  rush  of  conflicting  feelings  was  too  great  for 
Maggie  to  say  much  when  Lucy,  with  a  face  breathing 
playful  joy,  like  one  of  Correggio^s  cherubs,  poured  forth 
her  triumphant  revelation;  and  Lucy  could  hardly  be  sur- 
prised that  she  could  do  little  moM  than^rjr.with  gladness 
at  the  thought  of  her  father's  wish  being  fulfilled,  and  of 
Tom's  getting  the  mill  again  in  reward  for  all  his  hard  striv- 
ing. The  details  of  preparation  for  the  bazaar  had  then 
come  to  usurp  Lucy's  attention  for  the  next  few  days,  and 
nothing  had  t>een  said  by  the  cousins  on  subjects  that 
were  likely  to  rouse  deeper  feelings.  Philip  had  been  to 
the  hous^  more  than  once,  but  Maggie  had  had  no  private 
convo.  ^--Mion  with  him,  and  thus  she  had  been  left  to  fight 
her  iiv.»ard  battle  ^vithout  interference. 

But  when  the  bazaar  was  fairly  ended,  and  the  cousins 
were  alone  again,  resting  together  at  home,  Lucy  said:  — 

^^  You  must  give  up  going  to  stay  with  your  aunt  Moss 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  Maggie:  write  a  note  to  her,  and 
tell  her  you  have  put  it  off  at  my  request,  and  I'll  send 
the  man'with  it.  She  won't  be  displeased;  you'll  have 
plenty  of  time  to  go  by-and-by;  and  I  don^t  want  you  to 
go  out  of  the  way  just  now." 

"Yes,  indeed  I  must  go,  dear;  I  can^t  put  it  off.  I 
wouldn't  leave  aunt  Gritty  out  for  the  world.  And  I  shall 
have  very  little  time,  for  I'm  going  away  to  a  new  situation 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  June." 

"Maggie!"  said  Lucy,  almost  white  with  astonishment. 

"  I  didn't  telf  you,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  making  a  great 
effort  to  command  herself,  "  because  you've  been  so  busy. 
But  some  time  ago  I  wrote  to  our  old  governess.  Miss 
Firniss,  to  a;sk  her  to  let  me  know  if  she  met  with  any  situ- 
ation that  I  could  fill,  and  the  other  day  I  had  a  letter 
from  her  telling  me  that  I  could  take  three  orphan  pupils 
of  hers  to  the  coast  during  the  holidays,  and  then  make 
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418  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

trial  of  a  sitnation  with  her  as  teacher.  •  I  wrote  yesterday 
to  accept  the  offer.*' 

Lucy  felt  so  hurt  that  for  some  moments  she  was  unable 
to  speak. 

** Maggie/*  she  said  at  last,  "how  could  you  be  so 
unkind  to  me — not  to  tell  me — to  take  such  a  step — and 
now!*'  She  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  added — "And 
Philip?  I  thought  everything  was  going  to  be  so  happy. 
0  Maggie — what  is  the  reason?  Give  it  up;  let  me  write. 
There  is  nothing  now  to  keep  you  and  Philip  apart.** 

"  Yes,**  said  Maggie,  faintlj.  '  "  There  is  Tom*s  feeling. 
He  said  I  must^give  him  up  if  I  married  Philip.  And  I 
know  he  will  not  change — at  least  not  for  a  long  while — 
unless  something  happened  to  soften  him.** 

"  But  I  will  talk  to  him:  he*s  coming  back  this  week. 
And  this  good  news  about  the  mill  will  soften  him.  And 
1*11  talk  to  him  about  Philip.  Tom*s  always  very  compli- 
ant to  me:  I  don*t  think  he's  so  obstinate.'* 

'^But  I  must  go,**  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  voice. 
"  I  must  leave  some  time  to  pass.  Don*t  press  me  to  stay, 
dear  Lucy.** 

Lucy  was  silent  for  two  or  three  minutes,  looking  away 
and  ruminating.  At  length  she  knelt  down  by  her  cousin, 
and,  looking  up  into  her  face  with  anxious  scr'"  usness, 
said — 

"  Maggie,  is  it  that  you  don't  love  Phillip  well  enough 
to  marry  him? — tell  me — trust  me.*' 

Maggie  held  Lucy's  hands  tightly  in  silence  a  little 
while.  Her  own  hands  were  quite  cold.  But  when  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  quite  clear  and  distinct.  • 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  would  choose  to  marry  him.  I  think  it 
would  be  the  best  and  highest  lot  for  me — to  make  his  life 
happy.  He  loved  me  first.  No  one  else  could  be  quite 
what  he  is  to  me.  But  I  can't  divide  myself  from  my 
brother  for  life.  I  must*  go  away  and  wait.  Pray  don't 
speak  to  me  again  about  it.** 

Lucy  obeyed  in  pain  and  wonder.  The  next  word  she 
said  was —  . 

"Well,  dear  Maggie,  at  least  you  will  go  to  the  dance  at 
Park  House  to-morrow,  and  have  some  music  and  bright- 
ness, before  you  go  to  pay  these  dull  dutiful  visitSi  Ah! 
here  come  aunty  and  the  tea.** 


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TH^  GEEAT  TEMPTATIOX,  419 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  SPELL  SEEMS  BROKEN. 

The  suite  of  rooms  opening  into  eacli  other  at  the  Park 
House  looked  duly  brilliant  with  lights  and  flowers  and 
the  personttl  splendors  of  sixteen  couples,  withat  tendant 

I)arents  and  guardians.  The  focus  of  brilliancy  was  the 
ong  drawi«g-room,  where  the  dancing  went  forward, 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  grand  piano;  the  library,  into 
which  it  opened  at  one  end,  had  the  more  sober  illumina* 
tion  of  maturity,  with  caps  and  cards;  and  at  the  other 
end,  the  pretty  sitting-room  with  a  conservatory  attached, 
was  left  as  an  occasional  cool  retreat.  Lucy,  who  had  laid 
aside  her  black  for  the  first  time,  and  had  her  pretty  slim- 
ness  set  off  by  an  abundant  dress  of  white  crape,  was  the 
acknowledged  queen  of  the  occasion;  for  this  was  one  of  the 
Miss  Guests'  thoroughly  condescending  parties,  including 
no  member  of  an^  aristocracy  higher  than  that  of  St. 
Ogg's,  and  stretclimg  to  the  extreme  limits  of  commercial 
and  professional  gentility. 

Maggie  at  first  refused  to  dance,  saying  that  she  had 
forgotten  all  the  figures  —  it  was  so  many  years  since  she 
had  danced  at  school;  and  she  was  glad  to  have  that 
excuse,  for  it  is  ill  dancing  with  a  heavy  heart.  But  at 
length  the  music  wrought  in  her  young  limbs,  and  the 
longing  came;  even  though  it  was  the  horrible  young 
Torry  who  walked  up  a  second  time  to  try  and  persuade 
her.  She  warned  him  that  she  could  not  dance  anything 
but  a  country-dance;  but  he,  of  course,  was  willing  to 
wait  for  that  high  felicity,  meaning  only  to  be  compli- 
mentary when  he  assured  her  at  several  intervals  that  it 
was  a  "great  bore''  that  she  couldn't  waltz  —  he  would 
nave  liked  so  much  to  waltz  with  her.  But  at  last  it  was 
the  turn  of  the  good  old-fashioned  dance  which  has  the 
least  of  vanity  and  the  most  of  merriment  in  it,  and 
Maggie  quite  forgot  her  troublous  life  in  a  childlike  enjoy- 
ment of  that  half-rustic  rhythm  which  seems  to  banish 
pretentious  etiquette.  She  felt  quite  charitably  toward 
young  Torry,  as  his  hand  bore  her  along  and  held  her  up 
in  the  dance;  her  eyes  and  cheeks  had  that  fire  of  young 
joy  in  them  which  will  flame  out  if  it  can  find  the  least 
breath  to  fan  it;  and  her  simple  black  dress,  with  its  bit 
of  black  lace,  seemed  like  the  dim  settii^  of  a  jewel. 


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l; 


420  THE  MILL  ON  THB  FLOSS. 

Stephen  had  not  yet  asked  her  to  dance  —  had  not  yet 
paid  lier  more  than  a  jmssing  civility.  Since  yesterday, 
that  inward  vision  of  her  which  perpetually  made  part  of 
his  consciousness,  had  been  half  screened  by  the  image  of 
Philip  Wakem,  which  came  across  it  like  a  blot:  there  was 
feome  attachment  between  her  and  Philip;  at  least  there 
was  an  attachment  on  his  side,  which  made  her  feel  in 
some  bondage.  Here  then,  Stephen  told  himself,  was 
another  claim  of  honor  which  called  on  him  to  resist  the 
attraction  which  was  continually  threatening  to  overpower 
him.  He  told  himself  so;  and  yet  he  had  once  or  twice 
felt  a  certain  savage  resistance,  and  at  another  moment 
a  shuddering  repugnance,  to  this  intrusion  of  Philip's 
image,  which  almost  made  it  a  new  incitement  to  rnsh 
toward  Maggie  and  claim  her  fpr».«hiH4salf.  Nevertheless 
he  had  done  what  he  meant  to  do  this  evening:  he  had 
kept  aloof  from  her;  he  had  hardly  looked  at  her;  and  he 
had  been  gaily  assiduous  to  Lucy.  But  now  his  eyes  were 
devouring  Maggie:  he  felt  inclined  to  kjck  yoong  Torry 
out  of  the  dance,  and  take  his  place.  Then  he  wanted  the 
dance  to  end  that  he  might  set  rid  of  his  partner.  The 
possibility  that  he  too  should  dance  with  Maggie,  and 
nave  her  hand  in  his  so  long,  was  beginning  to  possess 
him.  like  a  thirst.  But  even  now  their  hands  were  meeting 
in  the  dance  —  were  meeting  still  to  the  very  end  of  it, 
though  they  were  far  off  each  other. 

Stephen  hardly  knew  what  happened,  or  in  what  automatic 
way  he  ^ot  through  the  duties  of  politeness  in  the  inter- 
val, until  he  was  free  and  saw  Maggie  seated  alone  again, 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  He  made  his  way  toward 
her  round  the  couples  that  were  forming  for  the  waltz, 
and  when  Maggie  became  conscious  that  she  was  the 
person  he  sought,  she  felt,  in  spite  of  all  the  thoughts 
that  had  gone  before,  a  glowing  gladness  at  heart.  Her 
eyes  and  cheeks  were  still  bri^tened  with  her  childlike 
enthusiasm  in  the  dance ;  her  whole  frame  was  set  to 
loy  and  tenderness;  even  the  coming  pain  could  not  seem 
bitter — she  was  ready  to  welcome  it  as  a  part  of  life,  for 
life  at  this  moment  seemed  a  keen  vibrating  consciousness 
poised  above  pleasure  or  pain.  This  one,  this  last  night, 
she  might  expand  unrestrainedly  in  the  warmth  of  the 
present,  without  those  chill  eating  thoughts  of  the  past 
and  the  future. 

'*  They're  going  to  waltz  again,"  said  Stephen,  bending 
to  speak  to  heif  with  that  glance  and  tone  of  subdued 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  421 

tenderness  which  young  dreams  create  to  themselves  in 
the  summer  woods  when  low  cooing  voices  fill  the  air. 
Such  glances  and  tones  bring  the  breath  of  poetry  with 
them  into  a  room  that  is  half-stifling  with  glaring  gas  and 
hard  flirtation. 

"They  are  going  to  waltz  again:  it  is  rather  dizzy  work 
to  look  on,  and  the  room  is  very  warm.  Shall  we  walk 
about  a  little?.'^ 

•  He  took  her  hand  and  placed  it  within  his  arm,  and 
they  walked  on  into  the  sitting-room,  where  the  tables 
were  strewn  with  engravings  for  the  accommodation  of 
visitors  who  would  not  want  to  look  at  them.  But  no 
visitors  were  here  at  this  moment.  They  passed  on  into 
the  conservatory. 

"How  strange  and  unreal  the  trees  and  flowers  look 
with  the  fights  among  them!"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice. 
"They  look  as  if  they  belonged  to  an  enchanted  land,  and 
would  never  fade  away:  —  I  could  fancy  they  were  all  made 
of  jewels.^' 

She  was  looking  at  the  tier  of  geraniums  as  she  spoke, 
and  Stephen  made  no  answer:  but  he.  was  looking  at  her — 
and  does  not  a  supreme  poet  blend  light  and  sound  into 
one,  calling  darkness  mute,  and  light  eloquent?  Some- 
.  thing  strangely  powerful  there  was  in  the  light  of  Stephen's 
long  gaze,'  for  it  made  Maggie's  face  turn  toward  it  and 
look  upward  at  it — slowly,  like  a  flower  at  the  ascending 
brightness.  And  they  walked  unsteadily  on,  without 
feeling  that  they  were  walking — without  feeling  anything 
but  that  long  grave  mutual  gaze  which  has  the  solemnity 
belonging  to  all  deep  human  passion.  The  hovering 
thought  that  they  must  and  would  renounce  each  other 
made  this  moment  of  mute  confession  more  intense  in  its 
rapture. 

"  But  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  conservatory,  and 
were  obliged  to  pause  and  turn.  The  change  of  move- 
ment brought  a  new  consciousness  to  Maggie:  she  blushed 
deeply,  turned  away  her  head,  and  drew  her  arm  from 
Stephen's,  going  up  to  some  flowers  to  smell  them. 
Stephen  stood  motionless,  and  still  pale. 

"Oh,  may  I  get  this  rose?"  said  Maggie,  making  a 
great  effort  to  say  something,  and  dissipate  the  burning 
sense  of  irretrievable  confession.  "I  think  I  am  quite 
wicked  with  roses — I  like  to  gather  them  and  smell  them 
till  they  have  no  scent  left." 

Stephen  was  mute:  he  was  incapable  of  putting  a  sen 

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422  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

tence  togetlier,  and  Maggie  bent  her  arm  a  little  up'waTa 
toward  the  hirge  half-opened  rose  that  had  attracted     ^^J' 

Who  has  not  felt  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  arm? 5' 

unspeakable  suggestions  of  tenderness  that  lie  in  the   <ii*^' 
pled  elbow,  and  all  the  varied  gently-lessening  curves,  do^'j^ 
to  the  delicate  wrist,  with  its  tiniest,  almost  impercel>*^i  *^'^ 
nicks  in  the  firm  softness.      A  woman's  arm  tovi  <=5l^  ^*^ 
the  soul  of  a  great  sculptor  two  thousand  yeai^  affo,  so  "fc*^**^, 
he  wrought  an  image  of  it  for  the  Parthenon  which  rrxo^^^ 
us  still  as  it  clasps  lovingly  the  time-worn  marble      ^^^  f 
headless  trunk.     Maggie's  was  such  an  arm  as  that — ^^''^"^  ^ 
had  the  warm  tints  of  life.  , 

A  mad  impulse  seized  on  Stephen;  he  darted  towai*<3.    ^" 
arm,  and  showered  kisses  on  it,  clasping  the  wrist.  ^ 

But  the  next  moment  Maggie  snatched  it  fromjiin^.^   ^'th 
glared  at  him  like  a  wounded  war-goddess,  quivering"    "*^^-^ 
rage  and  humiliation.  i^_ 

**IIow  dare  you?'* — she  spoke  in  a  deeply-shaken     -^^[jit 
smothered  voice.     "  What  right  have  I  given  you  to  ix:»  ^ 
me?''  ^^4tw 

She  darted  from  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  t^J^^^ 
herself  on  the  sofa,  panting  and  trembling.  ^  ^f 

A  horrible  punishment  was  come  upon  her  for  the  ^^^^^y   - 
allowing  a  moment's  happiness  that  was  treacherj  to  ^^^^^^ 
to  Philip — to  her  own  better  soul.     That  momentary^    ^T3. in 
piness  had  been  smitten  with  a  blight — a  leprosy:  Ste^t^ 
thought  more  lightly  of  her  than  he  did  of  Lucy.  ^^i^ 

As  for  Stephen,  he  leaned  back  against  the  frame-  ^^^  ^_ 
of  the  conservatory,  dizzy  with  the  conflict  of  passio^'J      of 
love,  rage,  and  confused  despair:  despair  at  his  wa:C^ 
self-mastery,  and  despair  that  he  had  offended  Maggie --    j-^er 

The  last  feeling  surmounted  every  other:  to  be  b^^  J:3.at 
side  again  and  entreat  forgiveness  was  the  only  thing-  --!?^^n 
had  the  force  of  a  motive  for  him,  and  she  had  not  ^^^^d 
seated  more  than  a  few  minutes  when  he  came  and  ^  "^  ^yi, 
humbly  before  her.     But  Maggie's  bitter  rage  was  uns^^^  j^-tli 

"Leave  me  to  myself,  if  you  please,"  she  said,    '^^^^^ 
impetuous  haughtiness,  **and  for  the  future  avoid  m^^  ^^^d 

Stephen  turned  away,  and  walked  backward  and  ior^^^  ^^s^- 
at  the  other  end  of  tlie  room.  There  was  the  dire  n^  ^e 
sity  of  ^oing  back  into  the  dancing  room  again,  an^^  ^^^ 
was  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  that.  They  had  ^^ -^  Jie 
absent  so  short  a  time,  that  when  he  went  in  again, 
waltz  was  not  ended.  y^U 

Maggie,  too,  was  not  long  before  she  re-entered.  ^^^^ 

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I 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATIOK,  423 

the  pride  of  her  nature  was  stung  into  activity;  the  hateful 
weakness  which  had  dragged  ner  within  reach  of  this 
wound  to  her  self-respect,  had  at  least  wrought  its  own 
cure.  The  thoughts  and  temptations  of  the  last  month 
should  all  be  flung  away  into  an  unvisited  chamber  of 
memory:  there  was  nothing  to  allure  her  now;  duty  would 
be  easy,  and  all  the  old  calm  purposes  would  reign  peace- 
fully once  more.  She  re-enterea  the  drawing-room  still 
with  some  excited  brightness  in  her  face,  but  with  a  sense 
of  proud  self-command  that  defied  anything  to  agitate  her. 
She  refused  to  dance  again,  but  she  talked  quite  readily 
and  calmly  with  every  one  who  addressed  her.  And  when 
they  got  home  that  ni^ht,  she  kissed  Lucy  with  a  free 
heart,  almost  exulting  in  this  scorching  moment,  which 
had  delivered  her  from  the  possibility  of  another  word  or 
look  that  would  have  the  stamp  of  treachery  toward  that 
gentle,  unsuspicious  sister. 

The  next  morning  Maggie  did  not  set  off  to  Basset  quite 
so  soon  as  she  had  expected.  Her  mother  was  to  accom- 
pany her  in  the  carriage,  and  household  business  could  not 
be  dispatched  hastily  by  Mrs.  Tulliver.  So  Maggie,  who 
had  been  in  a  hurry  to  i)repare  hers^f,  had  to  sit  waiting, 
equipped  for  the  drive,  in  the  garden.  Lucy  was  busy  in 
the  house  wrapping  up  some  bazaar  presents  for  the 
younger  ones  at  Basset,  and  when  there  was  a  loud  ring  at 
the  door-bell,  Maggie  felt  some  alarm  lest  Lucy  should 
bring  out  Stephen  to  her:  it  was  sure  to  be  Stephen. 

But  presently  the  visitor  came  out  into  the  garden  alone,, 
and  seated  himself  by  her  on  the  garden-chair.  It  was  not 
Stephen. 

^'  We  can  just  catch  the  tips  of  the  Scotch  firs,  Maggie, 
from  this  seat/^  said  Philip. 

They  had  taken  each  other^s  hands  in  silence,  but  Mag- 
gie had  looked  at  him  with  a  more  complete  revival  of  the 
old  childlike  affectionate  smile  than  he  had  seen  before, 
and  he  felt  encouraged. 

*^Yes,^'  she  said,  ** I  often  look  at  them,  and  wish  I 
could  see  the  low  sunlight  on  the  stems  again.  But  I  have 
never  been  that  way  but  once — ^to  the  church-yard  with 
my  mother." 

*^I  have  been  there — I  go  there— continually,"  said 
Philip.     *^I  have  nothing  but  the  past  to  live  upon."  . 

A  keen  remembrance  and  keen  pity  impelled  Maggie  to 
put  her  hand  in  Philip's.  They  had  so  often  walked  hand 
in  hand! 

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424  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

'*  I  remember  all  the  spots/*  she  said — '^  just  where  yon 
told  me  of  particular  things — beautiful  stories  that  I  had 
never  heard  of  before/' 

**  You  will  go  there  again  soon — won't  you,  Maggie?'' 
said  Philip,  getting  timid.  *'  The  Mill  will  soon  b£  your 
brother's  home  again." 

"Yes;  but  I  shall  not  be  there,"  said  Maggie.  '^ I  shall 
only  hear  of  that  happiness.  I  am  going  away  again — 
Lucy  has  not  told  you,  perhaps  ? " 

"Then  the  future  will  never  join  on  to  the  past  again, 
Maggie?    That  book  is  quite  closed?" 

The  ^y  eyes  that  had  so  often  looked  up  at  her  with 
entreating  worship,  looked  up  at  her  now,  with  a  last 
struggling  ray  of  hope  in  them,  and  Maggie  met  them 
with  her  Targe  sincere  ^ze. 

"  That  book  never  will  be  closed,  Philip,"  she  said,  with 
grave  sadness;  "I  desire  no  future  that  will  break  the  ties 
of  the  past.  But  the  tie  to  my  brother  is  one  of  the 
strongest.  I  can  do  nothing  willingly  that  will  divide  me 
always  from  him." 

"Is  that  the  only  reason  that  would  keep  us  apart  for- 
ever, Maggie?"  said  Philip,  with  a  desperate  determina- 
tion to  have  a  definite*answer. 

"The  only  reason,"  said  Maggie,  with  calm  decision. 
And  she  believed  it.  At  that  moment  she  felt  as  if  the 
enchanted  cup  had  been  dashed  to  the  ground.  The 
reactionary  excitement  that  gave  her  a  proud  self-mastery 
had  not  subsided,  and  she  looked  at  the  luture  with  a  sense 
of  calm  choice. 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  without  looking  at  each  other  or 
speaking  for  a  few  minutes:  in  Maggie's  mind  the  first 
scenes  of  love  and  parting  were  more  present  than  the 
actual  moment,  and  she  was  looking  at  Philip  in  the  Red 
Deeps. 

Pnilip  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  been  thoroughly  happy 
in  that  answer  of  hers:  she  was  as  open  and  transparent 
as  a  rock-pool.  Why  was  he  not  thoroughly  happy?  Jeal- 
ousy is  never  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  an  omnis- 
cience that  would  detect  the  subtlest  fold  of  the  heart. 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  125 

CHAPTER  XL 

IN  THE  LANE, 

Maggie  had  been  four  days  at  her  aunt  Moss's,  giving 
the  early  June  sunshine  quite  a  new  brightness  in. the  care- 
dimmed  eyes  of  that  aifectionate  woman,  and  making  an 
epoch  for  her  cousins  great  and  small,  who  were  learning 
her  words  and  actions  by  heart,  as  if  she  had  bgen  a*tran- 
sient  avatar  of  perfect  wisdom  and  beauty. 

She  was  standing  on  the  causeway  with  her  aunt  and  a 
group  of  cousins  feeding  the  chickens,  at  that  quiet 
moment  in  the  life  of  the  farmyard  before  the  afternoon 
milking-time.  The  great  buildings  round  the  hollow  yard 
were  as  dreary  and  tumble-down  as  ever,  but  over  the  old 
garden-wall  the  strangling  rose-bushes  were  beginning  to 
toss  their  summer  weight,  and  the  gray  wood  and  old  bricks 
of  the  house,  on  its  higher  level,  had  a  look  of  sleepy  age 
in  the  broad  afternoon  sunlight,  that  suited  the  quiescent 
time.  Maggie,  with  her  bonnet  over  her  arm,  was  smUing 
down  at  the  hatch  of  small  flufiEy  chickens,  when  her  aunt 
exclaimed —  % 

"  Goodness  me!  who  is  that  gentleman  coming  in  at  the 
gate?^' 

It  was  a  gentleman  on  a  tall  bay  horse;  and  the  flanks 
and  neck  of  the  horse  were  streaked  black  with  fast  riding. 
Maggie  felt  a  beating  at  head  and  heart — horrible  as  the 
sudden  leaping  to  life  of  a  savage  enemy  who  had  feigned 
death. 

*^Who  is  it,  my  dear?^'  said  Mrs.  Moss,  seeing  in 
Maggie's  face  the  evidence  that  she  knew. 

^^It  is  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,''  said  Maggie,  rather  faintly. 

**  My  cousin  Lucy's a  gentleman  who  is  very  intimate 

at  my  cousin's." 

Stephen  was  already  close  to  them,  had  jumped  off  his. 
horse,  and  now  raised  his  hat  as  he  advanced. 

"  Hold  the  horse,  Willy,"  said  Mrs.  Moss  to  the  twelve- 
year-old  boy. 

*^No,  thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  pulling  at  the  horse's 
impatiently  tossing  head.  '^  I  must  be  going  again  imme- 
diately. I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  you,  Misa^Tul- 
tiver-^n  private  bui^iiness.  May  I  take  the  liberty  of 
asking  you  to  walk  a  few  yards  with  me?" 

Digitized'by^OOQlC 


426  THE  HILL  ON  THE  FL0S8. 

He  had  a  half-jaded^  half-irritated  look^  such  as  a  man 
gets  when  he  has  been  doggM  by  some  care  or  annoyance 
that  makes  his  bed  and  his  dinner  of  little  use  to  him.  He 
spoke  almost  abruptly,  as  if  his  errand  were  too  pressing 
for  him  to  trouble  himself  about  what  would  be  thought 
by  Mrs.  Moss  of  his  visit  and  request.  Good  Mrs.  Moss, 
rather  nervous  in  the  presence  of  this  apparently  haughty 
gentlemim,  was  inwardljr  wondering  whether  she  would  be 
doing  right  or  wrong  to  invite  him  again  to  leave  his  horse 
and  walk  in,  when  Maggie,  feeling  all  the  embarrassment 
of  th^  situation,  and  unable  to  say  anything,  put  on  her 
bonnet,  and  turned  to  walk  toward  the  gate. 

Stephen  turned  too,  and  walked  by  her  side,  leading  his 
horse. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  were  out  in  the  lane, 
and  had  walked  four  or  five  yards,  when  Maggie,  who  had 
been  looking  straight  before  her  all  the  while,  turned  again 
to  walk  back,  saying,  with  haughty  resentment — 

**  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go  any  farther.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  consider  it  gentlemanly  and  delicate 
conduct  to  place  me  in  a  position  that  forced  me  to  come 
out  with  you — or  whether  you  wished  to  insult  me  still 
further  by  thrusting  an  interview  upon  me  in  this  way.'' 

"Of  course  you  are  an^ry  with  me  for  coming,"  said 
Stephen,  bitterly.  "Of  course  it  is  of  no  consequence 
what  a  man  has  to  suffer — it  is  only  your  woman's  dignity 
that  you  care  about.'' 

Maggie  gav.e  a  slight  start,  such  as  might  have  come 
from  the  slightest  possible  electric  shock. 

"As  if  it  were  not  enough  that  I'm  entangled  in  this 
way — that  I'm  mad  with  love  for  you — that  I  resist  the 
strongest  passion  a  man  can  feel,  because  I  try  to  be  true 
to  other  claims — but  you  must  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  coarse 
brute,  who  would  willingly  offend  you.  And  when,  if  I  had 
my  own  choice,  I  should  ask  you  to  take  my  hand,  and  my 
fortune,  and  my  whole  life,  and  do  what  you  liked  with 
them!  I  knowl  forgot  myself.  I  took  an  unwarrantable 
liberty.  I  hate  myself  for  having  done  it.  But  I  repented 
immediately — I've  been  repenting  ever  since.  You  ought 
not  to  think  it  unpardonable:  a  man  who  loves  with  his 
whole  soul,  as  I  do  you,  is  liable  to  be  mastered  by  his 
feelings  for  a  moment;  but  you  know — you  must  believe — 
that  tfe  worst  pain  I  could  have  is  to  have  pained^you;  that 
I  would  give  the  world  to  recall  the  error." 

Maggie  dared  not  speak — dared  not  turn  her  head.    The 

Digitized  by  V^OOQ IC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  42Z 

strength  that  had  come  from  resentment  was  all  gone, 
and  her  lips  were  quivering  visibly.  She  could  not  trust 
herself  to  utter  the  full  forgiveness  that  rote  in  answer  to 
that  confession. 

They  were  come  nearly  in  front  of  the  gate  again,  and 
she  paused,  trembling. 

"You  m^t  not  say  these  things — I  must  not  hear 
them/^  she  said,  looking  down  in  misery,  as  Stephen  came 
in  front  of  her,  to  prevent  her  from  going  farther  toward 
the  gate.  "  Pm  very  sorry  for  any  pain  you  have  to  go 
through;  but  it  is  of  no  use  to  speak.'^' 

"Yes,  it  is  of  use,*^  said  Stephen,  impetuously.  "It 
would  be  of  use  if  you  would  treat  me  with  some  sort  of 
pity  and  consideration,  instead  of  doing  me  vile  injustice 
in  your  mind.  I  could  bear  everything  more  quietly  if  I 
knew  you  didnH  hate  me  for  an  insolent  coxcomb.  Look 
at  me — see  what  a  hunted  devil  I  am.  Fve  been  riding 
thirty  miles  every  day  to  get  away  from  the  thought 
of  you.'^ 

Maggie  did  not — dared  not  look.  She  had  already  seen 
the  harassed  face.     But  she  said,  gently  — 

"I  don't  think  any  evil  of  you. 

"  Then,  dearest,  look  at  nw,"  said  Stephen,  in  deepest, 
tenderest  tones  of  entreaty.  "Don't  go  away  from  me 
yet.  Give  me  a  moment's  happiness  —  make  me  feel 
you've  forgiven  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do  forgive  you,"  said  Maggie,  shaken  by  those 
tones,  and  all  the  more  frightened  at  herself.  "  But  pray 
let  me  go  in  again.     Pray  go  away." 

A  great  tear  fell  from  under  her  lowered  eyelids. 

"I  can't  go  away  from  you  —  I  can't  leave  you,"  said 
Stephen,  with  still  more  passionate  pleading.  "I  shall 
come  back  again  if  you  send  me  away  with  this  coldness  — 
I  can't  answer  for  myself.  But  if  you  will  go  with  me  only 
a  little  way,  I  can  live  on  that.  You  see  plainly  enough 
that  your  anger  has  only  made  me  ten  times  more  unrea- 
sonable." 

Maggie  turned.  But  Tancred,  the  bay  horse,  began  to 
make  such  spirited  remonstrances  against  this  frequent 
change  of  direction,  that  Stephen,  catching  sight  of  Willy 
Moss,  peeping  through  the  gate,  called  out,  "Here!  just 
come  and  hold  my  horse  for  five  minutes." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Maggie,  hurriedly,  "  my  aunt  will  think 
it  so  strange." 

"Never  mind,"  Stephen  answered,  impatiently;  "they 

Digitized  by  V^OOQIC 


428  THE  KILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

dont  know  the  people  at  St.  Og^s.  Lead  him  up  and 
down  just  here,  for  five  minutes/'  he  added  to  Willy,  who 
was  now  close ^  them;  and  then  he  turned  to  Maggie's 
side,  and  they  walked  on.  It  was  clear  that  she  must  go 
on  now. 

*^Take  my  arm,'*  said  Stephen,  entreatingly;  and  she 
took  it,  feeling  all  the  while  as  if  she  were  suding  down- 
ward in  a  nightmare.  * 

*^  There  is  no  end  to  this  misery,"  she  began,  struggling 
to  repel  the  influence  by  speech.  "It  is  wicked — base — 
ever  allowing  a  word  or  look  that  Lucy — ^that  others  might 
not  have  seen.     Think  of  Lucy." 

"  I  do  think  of  her— bless  her.  If  I  didn't "  Stephen 

had  laid  his  hand  on  Maggie's  that  rested  on  hie  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  love  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  vou  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,  tak- 
ing up  her  hand  again  and  laying  it  within  his  arm,  "  it  is 
better — it  is  right  that  we  should  marry  each  other.  Wo 
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 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   GREAT  TEM1»TATI0N.  429 

of  every  effort  I  have  made  to  resist  it.  God  knows,  Fve 
been  trying  to  be  faithful  to  tacit  engagements,  and  IVe 
only  made  things  worse — Vi  better  nave  given  way  at 
first." 

Maggie  was  silent.  If  it  were  not  wrong — if  she  were 
once  convinced  of  that,  and  need  no  longer  beat  and 
struggle  against  this  current,  soft  and  yet  strong  as  the 
summer  stream! 

*^Say  *yes,'  dearest,"  said  Stej^hen,  leaning  to  look  en- 
treatingly  in  her  face.  "  What  could  we  care  about  in  the 
whole  world  beside,  if  we  belonged  to  each  other?" 

Her  breath  was  on  his  face — his  lips  were  very  near  hers 
— but  there  was  a  great  dread  dwelling  in  his  love  for  her. 

Her  lips  and  eyelids  quivered;  she  opened  her  eyes  full 
on  his  for  an  instant,  like  a  lovely  wild  animal  timid  and  ^ . 
struggling  under  catesses,  and  then  turned  sharp  around 
toward  home  again. 

"  And  after  all,"  he  went  on,  in  an  impatient  tone,  trying 
to  defeat  his  own  scruples  as  well  as  hers,  ^*I  am  breaking 
no  positive  engagement:  if  Lucy's  affections  had  been 
withdrawn  from  me  and  given  to  some  one  else,  I  should 
have  felt  no  right  to  assert  a  claim  on  her.  If  you  are  not 
absolutely  pledged  to  Philip,  we  are  neither  of  us  bound." 

^' You  don't  believe  that —  it  is  not  your  real  feeling," 
said  Maggie,  earnestly.  ^' You  feel,  as  I  do,  that  the  real 
tie  lies  in  the  feelings  and  expectations  we  have  raised  in 
other  minds.  Else  all  pledges  might  be  broken,  when 
there  was  no  outward  penalty.  There  would  be  no  such 
thing  as  faithfulness." 

Stephen  was  silent:  he  could  not  pursue  that  argument; 
the  opposite  conviction  had  wrought  in  him  too  strongly 
through  his  previous  time  of  struggle.  But  it  soon  pre- 
sented itself  in  a  new  form. 

"The  pledge  can't  be  fulfilled,"  he  said,  with  impetu- 
ous insistence.  "It  is  unnatural:  we  can  only  pretend  to 
give  ourselves  to  any  one  else.  There  is  wrong  in  that 
too — there  may  be  misery  in  it  for  them  as  well  as  for  us. 
Maggie,  you  must  see  that — ^you  do  see  that." 

He  was  looking  eagerly  at"  he.r  face  for  the  least  sign  of 
compliance;  his  large,  firm,  gentle  grasp  was  on  her  hand. 
She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground;  then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said,  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  solemn  sadness — 

"Oh,  it  is  difficult — life  is  very  difficult!  It  seems 
right  to  me  sometimes  that  we  should  follow  our  strongest 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


430  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

feeling; — ^but  tHen,  such  feelings  continually  come  across 
tlie  ties  that  all  our  former  life  has  mtide  for  us — the  ties 
that  have  made  others  dependent  on  us — and  would  cut 
them  in  two.  If  life  were  quite  easy  and  simple,  as  it 
might  have  been  in  Paradise,  and  we  could  always  see 

that  one  being  first  towards  whom 1   mean,  if  life 

did  not  make  duties  for  us  before  love  comes,  love  would 
be  a  sign  that  two  people  ought  to  belong  to  each  other. 
But  1  see — I  feel  it  is  not  so  now:  there  are  things  we 
must  renounce  in  life;*  some  of  us  must  resign  love. 
Many  things  are  diflScult  and  dark  to  me;  but  f  see  one 
thing  quite  clearly — that  I  must  not,  cannot,  seek  my  own 
happiness  by  sacrificing  others.  Love  is  natural;  but 
surely  pity  and  faithfulness  and  memory  are  natural  too. 
And  they  would  live  in  me  still,  and  punish  me  if  I  did 
not  obey  them.  I  should  be  haunted  by  the  suffering  I 
had  caused.  Our  love  would  be  poisoned.  Don^t  urge 
me;  help  me — help  me,  because  I  love  you.^^ 

Maggie  had  become  more  and  more  earnest  as  she  went 
on;  her  face  had  become  flushed,  and  her  eyes  fuller  and 
fuller  of  appealing  love.  Stephen  had  the  fibre  of  noble- 
ness in  him  that  vibrated  to  ner  appeal:  but  in  the  same 
moment — how  could  it  be  otherwise? — that  pleading 
beauty  gained  new  power  over  him. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  in  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper, 
while  his  arm  stole  round  her,  *^1'11  do,  Fll  bear  anything 
you  wish.  But — one  kiss — one — the  last — before  we 
part.'' 

One  kiss — and  then  a  long  look  —  until  Maggie  said 
tremulously,  *'  Let  me  go — let  us  make  haste  back." 

She  hurried  along,  and  not  another  word  was  spoken. 
Stephen  stood  still  and  beckoned  when  they  came  within 
sight  of  Willy  and  the  horse,  and  Maggie  went  on  through 
the  gate.  Mis.  Moss  was  standing  alone  at  the  door  of  the 
old  porch:  she  had  sent  all  the  cousins  in,  with  kind 
thoughtf ulness.  It  might  be  a  joyful  thing  that  Maggie 
had  a  rich  and  handsome  lover,  but  she  would  naturally  feel 
embarrassed  at  coming  in  again: — and  it  might  7io^  be  joy- 
ful. In  either  case,  Mrs.  Moss  waited  anxiously  to  receive 
Maggie  by  herself.  The  speaking  face  told  plainly  enough 
that,  if  there  was  joy,  it  was  of  a  very  agitating,  dubious 
sort. 

"  Sit  down  here  a  bit,  my  dear."  She  drew  Maggie  into 
the  porch,  and  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  her: — there  was 
no  privacy  in  the  house. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  431 

"  Oh,  aunt  Gritty,  I^m  very  wretched.  I  wish  I  could 
have  died  when  I  was  fifteen.  It  seemed  so  easy  to  give 
things  up  then — it  is  so  hard  now.^^ 

The  poor  child  threw  her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck, 
and  fell  into  long,  deep  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

A  FAMILY   PARTY. 


Maggie  left  her  good  aunt  Gritty  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
and  went  to  Garum  Firs  to  pay  her  visit  to  aunt  Pullet 
according  to  agreement.  In  the  meantime  very  unexpected 
things  had  happened,  and  there  was  to  be  a  family  party  at 
Garum  to  discuss  and  celebrate  a  change  in  the  fortunes  of 
the  Tullivers,  which  was  likely  finally  to  carry  away  the 
shadow  of  their  demerits  like  the  last  limb  of  an  eclipse, 
and  cause  their  hitherto  obscured  virtues  to  shine  forth  in 
full-rounded  splendor.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  anew 
ministry  just  come  into  office  are  not  the  only  fellow-men 
who  enjoy  a  period  of  high  appreciation  and  full-blown 
eulogy:  in  many  respectable  families  throughout  this 
realm,  relatives  oecoming  creditable  meet  with  a  similar 
cordiality  of  recognition,  which,  in  its  fine  freedom  from 
the  coercion  of  any  antecedents,  suggests  the  hopeful  pos- 
sibility that  we  may  some  day  without  any  notice  find  our- 
selves in  full  millennium,  with  cockatrices  who  have 
ceased  to  bite,  and  wolves  that  no  longer  show  their  teeth 
with  any  but  the  blandest  intentions. 

Lucy  came  so  early  as  to  have  the  start  even  of  aunt 
Glegg;  for  she  longed  to  have  some  undisturbed  talk  with 
Maggie  about  the  wonderful  news.  It  seemed — did  it  not? 
said  Lucy,  with  her  prettiest  air  of  wisdom — ^as  if  every- 
thing, even  other  people's  misfortunes  (pdor  creatures!) 
were  conspiring  now  to  make  poor  dear  aunt  Tulliver,  and 
cousin  Tom,  and  naughty  Maggie  too,  if  she  were  not 
obstinately  bent  on  the  contrary,  as  ha]ipy  as  they  deserved 
fo  be  after  all  their  troubles.  To  think  that  the  very 
day — the  very  day — after  Tom  had  come  back  from  New- 
castle, that  unfortunate  young  Jetsome,  whom  Mr.  Wakem 
had  placed  at  the  Mill,  had  been  pitched  off  his  horse  in  a 
druuKen  fit,  and  was  lying  at  St.  Ogg's  in  a  dangerous 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


433  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

state,  so  that  Wakem  had  signified  his  wish  that  the  new 
purchasers  should  enter  on  the  premises  at  once!  It  was 
very  dreadful  for  that  unhappy  young  man,  but  it  did  seem 
as  if  the  misfortune  had  happened  then,  rather  than  at 
any  other  time,  in  order  that  cousin  Tom  might  all  the 
sooner  have  the  fit  reward  of  his  exemplary  conduct — 
papa  thought  so  very  highly  of  him.  Aunt  TuUiver  must 
certainly  go  to  the  Mill  now,  and  keep  house  for  Tom: 
that  was  rather  a  loss  to  Lucy  in  the  matter  of  household 
comfort;  but  then,  to  think  of  poor  aunty  being  in  her  old 
place  again,  and  gradually  getting  comforts  about  her  there! 

On  this  last  point  Lucy  had  her  cunning  projects,  and 
when  she  and  Maggie  had  made  their  dangerous  way  down 
the  bright  stairs  into  the  handsome  parlor,  where  the  very 
sunbeams  seemed  cleaner  than  elsewnere,  she  directed  her 
manoeuvres,  as  any  other  great  tactitian  would  have  done, 
against  the  weaker  side  of  the  enemy* 

*'Aunt  Pullet,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  the  sofa, 
and  caressingly  adjusting  that  lady's  floating  cap-string, 
**I  want  you  to  make  up  your  mind  what  linen  and  things 
you^will  give  Tom  toward  housekeeping;  because  3'ou  are 
always  so  generq^s — ^you  give  such  nice  things,  you  know; 
and  if  you  set  the  example,  aunt  Glegg  will  follow." 

*^That  she  never  can,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  with 
unusual  vigor,  "for  she  hasnH  got  the  linen  to  follow  suit 
wi'  mine,  1  can  tell  you.  SheM  niver  the  taste,  not  if 
she'd  spend  the  money.  Big  checks  and  Jive  things,  like 
stags  and  foxes,  all  her  table  linen  is — not  a  spot  nor  a 
diamont  among  'em.  But  it^s  poor  work,  dividing  one's 
linen  before  one  dies — I  niver  thought  to  ha'  done  that, 
Bessy,"  Mrs.  Pullet  continued,  shaking  her  head  and 
looking  at  her  sister  Tulliver,-  "  when  you  and  me  chose 
the  double  diamont,  the  first  flax  iver  we'd  spun — and  the 
Lord  knows  where  yours  is  gone." 

"I'd  no  choice,  I'm  sure,  sister,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver, accustomed  to  consider  herself  in  the  light  of  an 
accused  person.  "  I'm  sure  it  was  no  fault  o'  tnine,  iver, 
as  I  should  lie  awake  o'  nights  thinking  0^  my  best  bleached 
linen  all  over  the  country." 

"Take  a  peppermint,  Mrs.  Tulliver,"  said  uncle  Pullet, 
feeling  that  he  was  offering  a  cheap  and  wholesome  form 
of  comfort,  which  he  was  recommending  by  example. 

"Oh,  but,  aunt  Pullet,"  said  Lucy,  "you've  so  much 
beautiful  linen.  And  suppose  you  had  had  daughters ! 
Tiien  you  must  have  divided  it  when  they  were  married/' 


9i 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  433 

"  Well,  I  don't  sav  as  I  won't  do  it/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet, 
**  for  now  Tom's  so  lucky,  ifs  nothing  but  right  his  friends 
should  look  on  him  and  help  him.  There's  the  table- 
cloths I  bought  at  your  sale,  Bessy;  it  was  nothing  but 
good-natur'  o  me  to  buy  'em,  for  they've  been  lying  in  the 
chest  ever  since.  But  I'm  not  going  to  give  Maggie  any 
more  o'  iny  Indy  muslin  and  things,  if  she's  to  go  into 
service  again,  when  she  might  stay  and  keep  me  company, 
and  do  my  sewing  for  me,  if  she  wasn't  wanted  at  her 
brother's." 

"Going  into  service,"  was  the  expression  by  which  the 
Dodson  mind  represented  to  itself  the  position  of  teacher 
or  governess,  and  Maggie's  return  to  that  menial  condition, 
now  circumstances  offered  her  more  eligible  prospects,  was 
likely  to  be  a  sore  point  with  all  her  relatives,  besides  Lucy. 
Maggie  in  her  crude  form,  with  her  hair  down  her  back, 
and  altogether  in  a  state  of  dubious  promise,  was  a  most 
undesirable  niece;  but  now  she  was  capable  of  being  at 
once  ornamental  and  useful.  The  subject  was  revived  in 
aunt  and  uncle  Gleg^s  presence,  over  the  tea  and  muffins. 

*^Hegh,  hegh!"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  good-naturedly  patting 
Maggie  on  the  back,  "nonsense,  nonsense!  Don't  let  us 
hear  of  you  taking  a  place  again,  Maggie.  Why,  you 
must  ha'  picked  up  nalf-a-dozen  sweethearts  at  the  bazaar: 
isn't  there  one  of  'em  the  right  sort  of  article?  Come, 
now?" 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  his  wife,  with  that  shade  of  increased 
politeness  ift  her  severity  which  she  always  put  on  with  her 
crisper  fronts,  "you'll  excuse  me,  but  you're  far  too  light 
for  a  man  of  your  years.  It's  respect  and  duty  to  her 
aunts,  and  the  rest  of  her  kin  as  are  so  good  to  her,  should 
have  kept  my  niece  from  fixing  about  going  away  again 
without  consulting  us — not  sweethearts,  if  I'm  to  use  such 
a  word,  though  it  was  never  beared  in  my  family." 

"  Why,  what  did  tljey  call  us,  when  we  went  to  see  'em, 
then,  eh,  neighbor  Pullet?  They  thought  us  sweet  enough 
then,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  winking  pleasantly,  while  Mr. 
Pullet,  at  the  suggestion  of  sweetness,  took  a  little  more 
sugar. 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "if  you're  going  to  be  un- 
delicate,  let  me  know." 

"  La,  Jane,  your  husband's  only  joking,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet;  "let  him  ioke  while  he's  got  health  and  strength. 
There's  poor  Mr.  Tilt  got  his  mouth  drawn  aU  p'  pne  side, 
and  couldn^  laugh  if  b§  w^s  to  try." 

# 

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434  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

"  ni  trouble  you  for  the  muffineer,  then,  Mr.  Glegg,'* 
said  Mrs.  6.,  "if  I  may  be  so  bold  to  interrupt  your 
joking.  Though  it^s  other  people  must  see  the  joke  in  a 
niece^  putting  a  slight  on  ner  mother^s  eldest  sister,  as  is 
the  head  o'  the  famuv;  and  only  coming  in  and  out  on 
short  visits,  all  the  time  she's  been  in  the  town,  and  then 
settling  to  'go  away  without  my  knowledge — as  I'd  laid 
caps  out  on  purpose  for  her  to  make  'em  up  for  me, — and 
mo  as  have  divided  my  money  so  equal " 

'•Sister,"  Mrs.  Tulliver  broke  in,  anxiously,  "I'm  sure 
Maggie  never  thought  o'  going  away  without  staying  at 
your  house  as  well  as  the  others.  Not  as  it's  my  wish  she 
should  go  away  at  all — but  quite  contrairy.  I'm  sure  I'm 
innocent.  I've  said  over  and  over  again,  '  My  dear,  you've 
no  call  to  go  away.'  But  there's  ten  days  or  a  fortnight 
Maggie'll  have  before  she's  fixed  to 'go:  she  can  stay  at 
your  house  just  as  well,  and  I'll  step  in  when  I  can,  and  so 
will  Lucy." 

"Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "if  you'd  exercise  a  little 
more  thought,  you  might  know  I  should  hardly  think  it 
worth  while  to  unpin  a  bed,  and  go  to  all  that  trouble  now, 
just  at  the  end  o'  the  time,  when  our  house  isn't  above  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from  Mr.  Deane's.  She  can 
come  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  go  back  the  last 
at  night,  and  be  thankful  she's  got  a  good  aunt  so  close  to 
her  to  come  and  sit  with.  I  know  /  should,  when  I  was 
her  age." 

"I^,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "it  ^ud  dp  your  beds 
good  to  have  somebody  to  sleep  in  'em.  There's  that 
striped  room  smells  dreadful  mouldy,  and  the  glass  mil- 
dewed like  anything.  I'm  sure  I  thought  I  should  be 
struck  with  death  when  you  took  me  in." 

"Oh,  there  is  Tom!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  clapping  her 
hands.  "He's  come  on  Sinbad,  as  I  told  him.  I  was 
afraid  he  was  not  going  to  keep  his  promise." 

Maggie  jumped  up  to  kiss  Tom  as  be  entered,  with  strong 
feeling,  at  this  first  meeting  since  the  prospect  of  returning 
to  the  Mill  had  been  opened  to  him;  and  she  kept  his 
hand,  leading  him  to  the  chair  by  her  side.  To  have  no 
cloud  between  herself  and  Tom  was  still  a  perpetual  yearn- 
ing in  her,  that  had  its  root  deeper  than  all  change.  He 
smiled  at  her  very  kindly  this  evening,  and  said,  "  Well, 
Magsie,  how's  aunt  Moss?" 

"Come,  come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  putting  out  his 
band.     "Why,  you're  such  a  big  man,  you  carry  all  before 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  435 

s 

you,  it  seems.  Yoii^re  come  into  your  luck  a  good  deal 
earlier  than  us  old  folks  did — but  I  wish  you  joy,  I  wish 
you  joy.  You'll  get  the  Mill  all  for  your  own  again,  some 
day,  I'll  be  bound.    You  won't  stop  half-way  up  the  hill." 

"But  I  hope  lie'll  bear  in  mind  as  it's  his  mother's 
family  as  he  owes  it  to,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  If  he  hadn't 
had  them  to  take  after,  he'd  ha'  been  jmorly  off.  There 
was  never  any  failures,  nor  lawing,  nor  wastefulness  in  our 
family — nor  dying  without  wills " 

^'No,  nor  sudden  deaths,"  said  aunt  Pullet;  "allays  the 
doctor  called  in.  But  Tom  had  the  Dodson  skin.  I  said 
that  from  the  first.  And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to 
do,  sister  Glegg,  but  I  mean  to  give  him  a  table-cloth  of  all 
my  three  biggest  sizes  but  one,  hesides  sheets.  I  don't  say 
what  more  I  shall  do;  but  that  I  shall  do,  and  if  I  should 
die  to-morrow,  Mr.  Pullet,  you'll  bear  it  in  mind — ^thougli 
you'll  be  blundering  with  the  keys,  and  never  remember  at/ 
that  on  the  third  shelf  o'  the  left-hand  wardrobe,  behind 
the  night-caps  with  the  broad  ties — not  the  narrow-frilled 
uns — is  the  Key  c'the  drawer  in  the  Blue  Eoom,  where 
the  key  o'  the  6lue  closet  is.  You'll  make  a  mistake,  and 
I  shall  niver  be  worthy  to  know  it.  You've  a  memory  for 
my  pills  and  draughts,  wonderful  —  I'll  allays  say  tha-t;  of 
you — but  you're  lost  among  the  keys."  This  gloomy  pros- 
pect of  the  confusion  that  would  ensue  on  ner  dec^/ase, 
was  very  uffecting  to  Mrs.  Pullet. 

"  You  carry  it  too  far,  Sophy — that  locking  in  and  (.ut,'^ 
said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  some  disgust  at  this  lolly. 
"  You  go  beyond  your  own  family.  Tnere's  nobody  can 
say  I  don't  lock  up;  but  I  do  what's  reasonable,  anii  no 
more.  And  as  for  the  linen,  I  shall  look  out  what's  serv- 
iceable, to  make  a  present  of  to  my  nephey:  I've  got  cloth 
as  has  never  been  whittened,  better  worth  having  than 
other  people's  fine  holland;  and  I  hope  he'll  lie  down  in  it 
and  think  of  his  aunt." 

Tom  thanked  Mrs.  Glegg,  but  evaded  any  promise  to 
meditate  nightly  on  her  virtues;  and  Mr.  Glegg  effected  a 
diversion  for  him  by  asking  about  Mr.  Deane  s  intentions 
concerning  steam. 

Lucy  had  had  her  far-sighted  views  in  begging  Tom  to 
come  on  Sinbad.  It  appeared,  when  it  was  time  to  go 
home,  that  the  man-servant  was  to  ride  the  horse,  and 
cousin  Tom  was  to  drive  home  his  mother  and  Lucy. 
"  You  must  sit  by  youvself,  aunty,"  said  that  contriving 


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436  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

young  lady,  *' because  I  must  sit  by  Tom;  Fve  a  great 
deal  to  siiy  to  him/' 

In  the  eagerness  of  her  affectionate  anxiety  for  Mag^e, 
Lucy  could  not  persuade  herself  to  defer  a  conversation 
about  her  with  Tom,  who,  she  thought,  with  such  a  cup  of 
joy  before  him  as  this  rapid  fulfillment  of  his  wish  about 
the  Mill,  must  become  pliant  and  flexible.  Her  nature 
supplied  her  with  no  key  to  Tom's:  and  she  was  puzzled  as 
well  as  pained  to  notice  the  unpleasant  change  on  his 
countenance  when  she  gave  him  the  history  of  the  way  in 
which  Philip  had  used  his  influence  with  his  father.  She 
had  counted  on  this  revelation  as  a  great  stroke  of  policy, 
which  was  to  turn  Tom's  heart  toward  Philip  at  once,  and, 
besides  that,  prove  that  the  elder  Wakem  was  ready  to 
receive  Maggie  with  all  the  honors  of  a  daughter-in-law. 
Nothing  was  wanted,  then,  but  for  dear  Tom,  who  always 
had  that  pleasant  smile  when  he  looked  at  cousin  Lucy, 
to  turn  completely  round,  say  the  opposite  of  what  he  had 
always  said  before,  and  declare  that  he,  for  his  part,  was 
delighted  that  all  the  old  grievances  should  be  healed,  and 
that  Magfifie  should  have  Philip  with  all  Suitable  dispatch: 
in  cousin  Xiucy's  opinion  nothing  could  be  easier. 

But  to  minds  strongly  marked  by  the  positive  and  nega- 
tive qualities  that  create  severity — strength  of  will,  con- 
scious rectitude  of  purpose,  narrowness  of  ima^nation  and 
intellect,  great  power  of  self-control,  and  a  disposition  to 
exert  control  over  others — prejudices  come  as  the  natural 
food  of  tendepcies  which  can  get  no  sustenance  out  of  that 
complex,  fragmentary,  doubt-provoking  knowledge  which 
we  call  truth.  Let  a  prejudice  be  bequeathed,  carried  in  the 
air,  adopted  by  hearsay,  caught  m  through  the  eye — how- 
ever it  may  come,  these  minds  will  give  it  a  habitation:  it  is 
something  to  assert  strongly  and  bravely,  something  to  fill  up 
the  void  of  spontaneous  ideas,  something  to  impose  on  others 
with  the  authority  of  conscious  right:  it  is  at  once  a  staff 
and  baton.  Every  prejudice  that  will  answer  these  purposes 
is  self-evident.  Our  good  upright  Tom  Tulliver's  mind 
was  of  this  class:  his  inward  criticism  of  his  father's  faults 
did  not  prevent  him  from  adopting  his  father's  prejudice; 
it  was  a  prejudice  against  a  man  of  lax  principle  and  lax 
life,  and  it  was  a  meeting-point  for  all  the  disappointed 
feelings  of  family  and  personal  pride.  Other  feelings 
jidded  their  force  to  produce  Tom's  bitter  repugnance  to 
Philip,  and  to  Maggie's  union  with  him;  and  notwith- 
standing Lucy's  power  QV^r  her  strong-willed  cougin,  shQ 


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THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  437 

got  nothing  but  a  cold  refusal  ever  to  sanction  such  a  mar- 
riage: **but  of  course  Maggie  could  do  as  she  liked  —  she 
liad  declared  her  determination  to  be  independent.  For 
Tom^s  part,  he  held  himself  bound  by  his  duty  to  his 
father's  memory,  and  by  every  manly  feeling,  never  to 
consent  to  any  relation  with  the  Wakems/^ 

Thus,  all  that  Lucy  had  effected  by  her  zealous  medita- 
tion was  to  fill  Tom's  mind  with  the  expectation  that 
Maggie's  perverse  resolve  to  go  into  a  situation  again  would 
presently  metamorphose  itself,  as  her  resolves  were  apt  to 
do,  into  something  equally  perverse,  but  entirely  different — 
a  marriage  with  rhilip  Wakem. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BORKE  ALONG   BY  THE  TIDE. 

In  less  than  a  week  Maggie  was  at  St.  Ogg's  again,-^out- 
wardly  in  much  the  same  position  as  when  her  visit  there 
had  just  begun.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  fill  her  mornings 
apart  from  Lucy  without  any  obvious  effort;  for  she  had 
her  promised  visits  to  pay  to  her  aunt  Glegg,  and  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  give  her  mother  more  than  usual 
of  her  companionship  in  these  last  weeks,  especially  as  there 
were  preparations  to  be  thought  of  for  Tom  s  housekeeping. 
But  Lucy  would  hear  of  no  pretext  for  her  remaining 
away  in  the  eVenings:  she  must  always  come  from  aunt 
Glegg's  before  dinner — *^else  what  shall  I  have  of  you?" 
said  Lucy  with  a  tearful  pout  that  could  not  be  resisted. 
And  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  had  unaccountably  taken  to  dining 
at  Mr.  Deane's  as  often  as  possible,  instead  of  avoiding  that, 
as  he  used  to  do.  At  first  he  began  his  mornings  with  a 
resolution  that  he  would  not  dine  there — not  even  go  in  the 
evening,  till  Maggie  was  away.  He  had  even  devised  a 
plan  of  starting  off  on  a  journey  in  this  agreeable  June 
weather:  the  headaches  which  he  had  constantly  been 
alleging  as  a  ground  for  stupidity  and  silence  were  a  suf- 
ficient ostensible  motive.  But  the  journey  was  not  taken, 
and  by  the  fourth  morning  no  distinct  resolution  was 
formed  about  the  evenings:  they  were  only  foreseen  as 
times  when  Maggie  would  still  be  present  for  a  little 
while — when  one  more  touch,  one  more  glance,  might  be 

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438  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

snatched.  For,  why  not?  There  was  nothing  to  conceal 
between  them:  they  knew — they  had  confessed  their  love, 
and  thev  had  renounced  each  other:  they  were  going  to 
part,  ftonor  and  conscience  were  goin^  to  divide  them : 
\faggie,  with  that  appeal  from  her  inmost  soul,  had 
decided  it;  but  surely  tney  might  cast  a  lingering  look  at 
each  other  across  the  gulf,  before  they  turned  away  nev(  r 
to  look  again  till  that  strange  light  had  forever  faded  out 
of  their  eyes. 

Maggie,  all  .this  time,  moved  about  with  a  quiescence 
and  even  torpor  of  manner,  so  contrasted  with  her  usual 
fitful  brightness  and  ardor,  that  Lucy  would  have  had 
to  seek  some  other  cause  for  such  a  change,  if  she  had  not 
been  convinced  that  the  position  in  which  Maggie  stood 
between  Philip  and  her  brother,  and  the  prospect  of  her 
self-imposed  wearisome  banishment,  were  quite  enough  to 
account  for  a  large  amount  of  depression.  But  under  this 
torpor  there  was  a  fierce  battle  of  emotions,  such  as 
Maggie  in  all  her  life  of  struggle  had  never  known  or 
foreboded:  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  the  worst  evil  in  her 
had  lain  in  ambush  till  now,  and  had  suddenly  started  up 
full-armed,  with  hideous,  overpowering  strength!  There 
were  moments  in  which  a  cruel  selfishness  seemed  to  be 
getting  possession  of  her:  whv  should  not  Lucy — why 
should  not  Philip  suffer?  She  had  had  to  suffer  through 
many  years  of  her  life;  and  who  had  denounced  anything 
for  her?  And  when  something  like  that  fullness  of  exist- 
ence— love,  wealth,  ease,  refinement,  all  that  her  nature 
craved  —  was  brought  within  her  reach,  wjiy  was  she  to 
forego  it,  that  another  might  have  it — another,  who  per- 
haps needed  it  less?  But  amidst  all  this  new  passionate 
tumult  there  were  the  old  voices  making  themselves  heard 
with  rising  power,  till,  from  time  to  time,  the  tumult 
seemed  quelled.  Was  that  existence  which  tempted  her  the 
full  existence  she  dreamed?  Where,  then,  would  be  all  the 
memories  of  early  striving — all  the  deep  pity  for  another's 
pain,  which  had  been  nurtured  in  her  through  years  of 
affection  and  hardship — all  the  divine  presentiment  of 
something  higher  than  mere  personal  enjoyment,  which 
had  made  the  sacredness  of  life?  She  might  as  well  hope 
to  enjoy  walking  by  maiming  her  feet,  as  hope  to  enioy  an 
existence  in  which  she  set  out  by  maiming  the  faitn  and 
sympathy  that  were  the  best  organs  of  her  soul.  And 
then,  if  pain  were  so  liard  to  her,  what  was  it  to  others? — 
**Ah,  God!  preserve  me  from  inflicting — give  me  stre^igth 

Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  439 

to  bear  it/* — How  had  she  sunk  into  this  struggle  with  a 
temptation  that  she  would  once  have  thought  herself  as 
secure  from,  as  from  deliberate  crime?  When  was  that 
first  hateful  moment  in  which  she  had  been  conscious  of 
a  feeling  that  clashed  with  her  truth,  affection,  and  grati- 
tude, and  had  not  shaken  it  from  her  with  horror,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  loathsome  thing? — And  yet,  since  this  strange, 
sweet,  subduing  influence  did  not,  should  not,  conquer 

her — since  it  was  to  remain  simply  her  own  suffering 

her  mind  was  meeting  Stephen's  in  that  thought  of  his, 
that  thev  might  still  snatch  moments  of  mute  confession 
before  tfie  parting  came.  For  was  not  he  suffering  too? 
She  saw  it  daily-^r-saw  it  in  the  sickened  look  of  fati^e 
with  which,  as  soon  as  he  was  not  compelled  to  exert  him- 
self, he  relapsed  into  indifference  toward  everything  but 
the  possibility  of  watching  her.  Could  she  refuse  some- 
times to  answer  that  beseeching  look  which  she  felt  to  be 
following  her  like  a  low  murmur  of  love  and  pain?  She 
refused  it  less  and  less,  till  at  last  the  evening  for  them 
both  was  sometimes  made  of  a  moment's  mutual  gaze:  they 
thought  of  it  till  it  came,  and  when  it  had  come,  they 
thought  of  nothing  else.  One  otKer  thing  Stephen  seemed 
now  and  then  to  care  for,  and  that  was  to  sing:  it  was  a 
way  of  speaking  to  Maggie.  Perhaps  he  was  not  distinctly 
conscious  that  he  was  impelled  to  it  by  a  secret  longing — 
running  counter  to  all  his  self-confessea  resolves — to  deepen 
the  hold  he  had  on  her.  Watch  your  own  speech,  and 
notice  how  it  is  guided  by  your  less  conscious  purposes,  and 
you  will  understand  that  contradiction  in  Stephen. 

Philip  Wakem  was  a  less  frequent  visitor,  but  he  came 
occasionally  in  the  evening,  and  it  happened  that  he  was 
there  when  Lucy  said,  as  they  sat  out  on  the  lawn,  near 
sunset — 

**  Now  Maggie's  tale  of  visits  to  aunt  Glegg  is  completed, 
I  mean  that  we  shall  go  out  boating  every  day  until  she 
goes.  She  has  not  had  half  enough  boating  because  of 
tlicse  tiresome  visits,  and  she  likes  it  better  than  anything. 
Don't  you,  Maggie?" 

*'  Better  than  any  sort  of  locomotion,  I  hope  yoil-  mean,'' 
said  Philip,  smiling  at  Maggie,  who  was  lolling  backward 
in  a  low  garden  chair;  '*  else  she  will  be  selling  her  soul  to 
that  ghostly  boatman  who  haunts  the  Floss— only  for  th6 
sake  of  being  drifted  in  a  boat  forever." 

*^ Should  you  like  to  be  her  boatman?"  said  Lucy. 
"  Because,  if  you  would,  you  can  come  with  us  and  tako 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


440  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

an  oar.  If  the  Floss  were  but  a  qniet  lake  instead  of  a 
riTer,  we  should  be  independent  of  any  gentlemen,  for 
Maggie  can  row  splendidly.  As  it  is,  we  are  reduced  to  ask 
services  of  knights  and  squires,  who  do  not  seem  to  offer 
them  with  great  alacrity. '* 

She  looked  playful  reproach  at  Stephen,  who  was  saun- 
tering up  and  down,  and  was  just  singing  in  pianissimo 
falsetto — 

**  The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine.'* 

He  took  no  notice,  but  still  kept  aloof:  he  had  done  so 
frequently  during  Philip^s  recent  visits. 

"You  aon't  seem  inclined  for  boating,"  said  Lucy,  when 
he  came  to  sit  down  by  her  on  the  bencn.  '^Doesn^t  row- 
ing suit  you  now?" 

"Oh,  I  hate  a  large  party  in  a  boat,"  he  said,  almost 
irritably.     "Fll  come  when  you  have  no  one  else." 

Lucy  colored,  fearing  that  Philip  would  be  hurt:  it  was 
quite  a  new  thing  for  Stephen  to  speak  in  that  way:  but 
he  had  certainly  not  been  well  of  late.  Philip  colored  too, 
but  less  from  a  feeling  of  personal  offense  than  from  a 
vague  suspicion  that  Stephen^s  moodiness  had  some  rela- 
tion to  Maggie,  who  had  started  up  from  her  chair  as  he 
spoke,  and  had  walked  toward  the  hedge  of  laurels  to  look 
at  the  descending  sunlight  on  the  river. 

"As  Miss  Deane  didn't  know  she  was  excluding  others 
by  inviting  me,"  said  Philip,  "I  am  bound  to  resign." 

"  No,  indeed,  you  shall  not,"  said  Lucy,  much  vexed. 
"  I  particularly  wish  for  your  company  to-morrow.  The 
tide  will  suit  at  half-past  ten:  it  will  be  a  delicious  time  for 
a  couple  of  hours  to  row  to  Luckreth  and  walk  back,  before 
the  sun  gets  too  hot.  And  how  can  you  object  to  four 
people  in  a  boat?  "  she  added,  looking  at  Stephen. 

"  I  don*t  object  to  the  people,  but  the  number,"  said 
Stephen,  who  had  recovered  himself,  and  was  rather 
ashamed  of  his  rudeness.  "  If  I  voted  for  a  fourth  at  all, 
of  course  it  would  be  you,  Phil.  But  we  won't  divide  the 
pleasure  of  escorting  the  ladies;  we'll  take  it  alternately. 
Ill  go  the  next  day. 

This  incident  had  the  effect  of  drawing  Philip's  atten- 
tion with  freshened  solicitude  toward  Stephen  and  Mag- 
gie; but  when  they  re-entered  the  house,  music  was  pro- 
posed, and  Mrs.  Tulliver  and  Mr.  Deane  being  occupied 
with  cribbage,  Maggie  sat  apart  near  the  table  where  the 
books  and  work  were  placed— doing  nothing,  however,  but 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GllEAT  TEMPTATIOK.  441 

listening  abstractedly  to  the  music.  Stephen  presently 
turned  to  a  duet  which  he  insisted  that  Lucy  and  Philip 
should  sing:  he  had  often  done  the  same  thing  before;  but 
this  evening  Philip  thought  he  divined  some  double  inten- 
tion in  every  word  and  look  of  Stephen^s,  and  watched  him 
keenly — angry  with  himself  all  the  while  for  this  clinging 
suspicion.  For  had  not  Maggie  virtually  denied  any  ground 
for  his  doubts  on  her  side?  and  she  was  truth  itself:  it  was 
impossible  not  to  believe  her  word  and  glance  when  they 
had  last  spoken  together  in  the  garden.  Stephen  might  be 
strongly  fascinated  by  her,  (what  was  more  natural?)  but 
Philip  felt  himself  rather  base  for  intruding  on  what  must 
be  his  friend^s  painful  secret.  Still  he  watched.  Stephen, 
moving.away  from  the  piano,  sauntered  slowly  toward  the 
table  near  which  Maggie  sat,  and  turned  over  the  news- 
papers, apparently  in  mere  idleness.  Then  he  seated  him- 
self with  his  back  to  the  piano,  dragging  a  newspaper 
under  his  elbow,  and  thrusting  his  hand  through  his  hair, 
as  if  he  had  been  attracted  by  some  bit  of  local  news  in  the 
**  Laceham  Courier.^'  He  was  in  reality  looking  at  Maggie, 
who  had  not  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  his  approach. 
She  had  always  additional  strength  of  resistance  when 
Philip  was  present,  just  as  we  can  restrain  our  speech 
better  in  a  spot  that  we  feel  to  be  hallowed.  But  at 
last  she  heard  the  word  ^^  dearest  '^  uttered  in  the  softest 
tone  of  pained  entreaty,  like  that  of  a  patient  who 
asks  for  something  that  ought  to  have  been  given 
without  asking.  She  had  never  heard  that  word  since 
the  moments  in  the  lane  at  Basset,  when  it  had  come 
from  Stephen  again  and  again,  almost  as  involuntarily  as 
if  it  had  been  an  inarticulate  cry.  Philip  could  hear  no 
word,  but  he  had  moved  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  piano, 
and  could  see  M'^ggie  start  and  blush,  raise  her  eyes  an 
instant  toward  Stephen^s  face,  but  immediately  look  appre- 
hensively toward  himself.  It  was  not  evident  to  her  that 
Philip  had  observed  her;  but  a  pang  of  shame,  under 
the  sense  of  this  concealment,  made  her  move  from  her 
chair  and  walk  to  her  mother's  side  to  watch  the  game  at 
cribbage. 

Philip  went  home  soon  after  in  a  state  of  hideous  doubt 
mingled  with  wretched  certainty.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  now  to  resist  the  conviction  that  there  was  some 
mutual  consciousness  between  Stephen  and  Maggie;  and 
for  half  the  night  his  irritable,  susceptible  nerves  were 
pressed  upon  almost  to  frenzy  by  that  one  wretched  fact: 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


442  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

he  could  attempt  no  explanation  that  would  reconcile  it 
with  her  words  and  actions.  When,  at  last,  the  need  for 
belief  in  Maggie  rose  to  its  habitual  predominance,  he  was 
not  long  in  imagining  the  truth: — she  was  struggling,  she 
was  banishing  herselF—this  was  the  clue  to  all  he  had  seen 
since  his  return.  But  athwart  that  belief  there  came 
other  possibilities  that  would  not  be  driven  out  of  sight. 
His  imagination  wrought  out  the  whole  story:  Stepiien 
was  madly  in  love  with  her;  he  must  have  told  her  so;  she 
had  rejected  him,  and  was  hurrying  away.  But  would  he 
give  her  up,  knowing — Phijip  felt  the  fact  with  heart- 
crushing  despair — that  she  was  made  half  helpless  by  her 
feeling  toward  him? 

When  the  morning  came,  Philip  was  too  ill  to  think  of 
keeping  his  engagement  to  go  in  the  boat.  In  his  present 
agitation  he  could  decide  on  nothing:  he  could  only  alter- 
nate between  contradictory  intentions.  First,  he  thought 
he  must  have  an  interview  with  Maggie,  and  entreat  her 
to  confide  in  him;  then  again,  he  distrusted  his  own  inter- 
ference. Had  he  not  been  thrusting  himself  on  Maggie 
all  along?  She  had  uttered  words  long  ago  in  her  young 
ignorance;  it  was  enough  to  make  her  hate  him  that  these 
should  be  continually  present  with  her  as  a  bond.  And 
had  he  any  right  to  ask  her  for  a  revelation  of  feelings 
which  she  nad  evidently  intended  to  withhold  from  him? 
He  would  not  trust  himself  to  see  her,  till  he  had  assured 
himself  that  he  could  act  from  pure  anxiety  for  her,  and 
not  from  egoistic  irritation.  He  wrote  a  brief  note  to 
Stephen,  and  sent  it  early  by  the  servant,  saying  that  he 
was  not  well  enough  to  fulfill  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Deane.     Would  Stephen  take  his  excuse,  and  fill  his  phice? 

Lucy  had  arranged  a  charming  plan,  which  had  made 
her  quite  content  with  Stephen's  reiusaf  to  go  in  the  boat. 
She  discovered  that  her  father  was  to  drive  to  Lindum  this 
morning  at  ten:  Lindum  was  the  very  place  she  wanted  to 
go  to,  to  make  purchases — important  purchases,  which 
must  by  no  means  be  put  off  to  another  opportunity;  and 
aunt  Tulliver  must  go  too,  because  she  was  concerned  in 
some  of  the  purchases. 

"  You  will  have  your  row  in  the  boat  just  the  same,  you 
know/^  she  said  to  Maggie  when  they  w^nt  out  of  the 
breakfast-room  and  up-stairs  together;  *' Philip  will  be 
here  at  half -past  ten,  and  it  is  a  delicious  morning.  IN^ow 
don^t  say  a  word  against  it,  you  dear  dolorous  thing. 
What  is  the  use  of  my  being  a  fairy  godmother,  if  you  set 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  443 

your  face  against  all  the  wonders  I  work  for  you?    Don^t 
think  of  awful  cousin  Tom:  you  may  disobey  him  a  little.'' 

Magffie  did  not  persist  in  objecting.  She  was  almost 
glad  of  the  plan,  for  perhaps  it  would  brin^  her  some 
strength  and  calmness  to  be  alone  with  Philip  again:  it 
was  like  revisiting  the  scene  of  a  quieter  life,  in  which  the 
very  struggles  were  repose,  compared  with  the  daily  tumult 
of  the  present.  She  prepared  herself  for  the  boat,  and 
at  half-past  ten  sat  waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

The  ring  of  the  door-bell  was  punctual,  and  she  was 
thinking  with  half -sad,  affectionate  pleasure  of  the  sur- 
prise Philip  would  have  in  finding  that  he  was  to  be  with 
her  alone,  when  she  distinguished  a  firm  rapid  step  across 
the  hall,  that  was  certainly  not  Philip^s:  the  door  opened, 
and  Stephen  Guest  entered. 

In  the  first  moment  they  were  both  too  much  agitated 
to  speak;  for  Stephen  haa  learned  from  the  servant  that 
the  others  were  gone  out.  Masrgie  had  started  up  and  sat 
down  again,  with  her  heart  beatmg  violently;  and  Stephen, 
throwing  down  his  cap  and  gloves,  came  and  sat  by  her  in 
silence.  She  thought  Philip  would  be  coming  soon;  and 
with  great  effort  —  for  she  trembled  visibly — she  rose  to 
go  to  a  distant  chair. 

*'He  is  not  coming,'*  said  Stephen,  in  a  low  tone.  ^^  I 
am  going  in  the  boaf 

"  Oh,  we  can't  go,''  said  Maggie,  sinking  into  her  chair 
again.  "  Lucy  did  not  expect — she  would  be  hurt.  Why 
is  not  Philip  come?" 

**  lie  is  not  well;  he  asked  me  to  come  instead." 

^^  Lucy  is  gone  to  Lindum,"  said  Maggie,  taking  off  her 
bonnet,  with  hurried,  trembling  fingers.  "We  must 
not  go." 

"Very  well,"  said  Stephen,  dreamily,  looking  at  her, 
as  he  rested  his  arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "  Then 
well  stay  liere." 

He  was  looking  into  her  deep,  deep  eyes  —  far  off  and 
mysterious  as  the  starlit  blackness,  and  yet  very  near,  and 
timidly  loving.  Maggie  sat  perfectly  still  —  perhaps  for 
moments,  perhaps  for  minutes  —  until  the  helpless  trem- 
bling had  ceased,  and  there  was  a  warm  glow  on  her 
cheek. 

"The  man  is  waiting — he  has  taken  the  cushions,"  she 
said.     "Will  you  go  and  tell  him?" 

"What  shall  I  tell  him?"  said  Stephen,  almost  in  a 
whisper.     He  was  looking  at  the  lips  now. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


444  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  made  no  answer. 

*'  I^t  us  go/*  Stephen  murmured,  entreatingly,  rising, 
and  taking  her  hand  to  raise  her  too.  "  We  shall  not  be 
long  together." 

And  they  went.  Maggie  felt  that  she  was  being  led 
down  the  garden  among  the  roses,  being  helped  with  firm 
tender  care  into  the  boat,  having  the  cushion  and  cloak 
arranged  for  her  feet,  and  her  parasol  opened  for  her 
(which  she  had  forgotten)  —  all  by  this  stronger  presence 
that  seemed  to  bear  her  along  without  any  act  of  her  own 
will,  like  the  added  self  which  comes  with  the  sudden 
exalting  influence  of  a  strong  tonic — and  she  felt  nothing 
else.     Memory  was  excluded. 

They  glided  rapidly  along,  Stephen  rowing,  helped  by 
the  backward-flowing  tide,  past  the  Tofton  trees  and  houses 
— on  between  the  silent  sunny  fields  and  pastures,  which 
seemed  filled  with  a  natural  joy  that  had  no  reproach  for 
theirs.  The  breath  of  the  young,  unwearied  day,  the 
delicious  rhythmic  dip  of  the  oars,  the  fragmentary  song  of 
a  passing  bird  heard  now  and  then,  as  if  it  were  only  the 
overflowing  of  brim-full  gladness,  the  sweet  solitude  of  a 
twofold  consciousness  that  was  mingled  into  one  by  that 
grave  untiring  gaze  which  need  not  be  averted — what  else 
could  there  be  in  their  minds  for  the  first  hour?  Some  low, 
subdued,  languid  exclamation  of  love  came  from  Stephen 
from  time  to  time,  as  he  went  on.  rowing  idly,  half  auto- 
matically: otherwise,  they  spoke  no  word;  for  what  could 
words  have  been  but  an  inlet  to  thought?  and  thought  did 
not  belong  to  that  enchanted  haze  in  which  they  were 
enveloped — it  belonged  to  the  past  and  the  future  that  lay 
outside  the  haze.  Maggie  was  only  dimly  conscious  of  the 
banks,  as  they  passed  them,  and  dwelt  with  no  recognition 
on  the  villages:  she  knew  there  were  several  to  be  passed 
before  they  reached  Luckreth,  where  they  always  stopped 
and  left  the  boat.  At  all  times  she  was  so  liable  to  fits  of 
absence,  that  she  was  likely  enough  to  let  her  way-marks 
pass  unnoticed. 

But  at  last  Stephen,  who  had  been  rowing  more  and 
more  idly,  ceased  to  row,  laid  down  the  oars,  folded  his 
arms,  and  looked  down  on  the  water  as  if  watching  the 
pace  at  which  the  boat  glided  without  his  help.  This 
sudden  change  roused  Maggie.  She  looked  at  the  far- 
stretching  fields — at  the  banks  close  by — and  felt  that  they 
were  entirely  strange  to  her.  A  terrible  alarm  took  posses- 
sion of  her. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TIIE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  445 

^^  Oh,  liHve  we  passed  Luckreth — where  we  were  to  stop?'^ 
she  exclaimed,  looking  back  to  see  if  the  place  were  out  of 
sight.  No  village  was  to  be  seen.  She  turned  round 
again,  with  a  look  of  distressed  questioning  at  Stephen.     - 

He  went  on  watching  the  water,  and  said  in  a  strange, 
dreamy,  absent  tone,  **  Yes, — a  long  way.-^' 

^^  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?''  cried  Maggie,  in  an  agony. 
*^  We  shall  not  get  home  for  hours — and  Lucy — 0  God, 
help  me!'' 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  broke  into  a  sob,  like  a 
frightened  child:  she  thought  of  nothing  but  of  meeting 
Lucy,  and  seeing  her  look  Of  pained  surprise  and  doubt — 
perhaps  of  just  upbraiding. 

Stephen  moved  and  sat  near  her,  and  gently  drew  down 
the  clasped  hands. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  tone  of  slow  decision,  ^*  let 
us  never  go  home  again — till  no  one  can  part  us — ^till  we 
are  married." 

The  unusual  tone,  the  startling  words,  arrested  Maggie's 
sob,  and  she  sat  quite  still — wondering:  as  if  Stephen  might 
have  seen  some  possibilities  that  would  alter  everything, 
and  annul  the  wretched  facts. 

**See,  Maggie,  how  everything  has  come  without  our 
seeking — in  spite  of  all  our  efforts.  We  never  thought  of 
being  alone  together  again:  it  has  all  been  done  by  others. 
See  how  the  tide  is  carrying  us  out — away  from  all  those 
unnatural  bonds  that  we  have  been  trying  to  make  faster 
round  us — and  trying  in  vain.  It  will  carry  us  on  to 
Torby,  and  we  can  land  there,  and  get  some  carriage,  and 
hurry  on  to  York  and  then  to  Scotland — and  never  pause 
a  moment  till  we  are  bound  to  each  other,  so  that  only 
death  can  part  us.  It  is  the  only  right  thing,  dearest:  it 
is  the  only  way  of  escaping  from  this  wretched  entangle- 
ment. Everything  has  concurred  to  point  it  out  to  us. 
We  have  contrived  nothing,  we  have  thought  of  nothing 
ourselves." 

Stephen  spoke  with  deep  earnest  pleading.  Maggie 
listened -^passing  from  her  startled  wonderment  to  the 
yearning  after  that  belief,  that  the  tide  was  doing  it  all— 
that  she  might  glide  along  with  the  swift,  silent  stream, 
and  not  struggle  any  more.  But  across  that  stealing  influ- 
ence came  the  terrible  shadow  of  past  thoughts;  and  the 
sudden  horror  lest  now,  at  last,  the  moment  of  fatal  intox- 
ication was  close  upon  her,  called  up  feelings  of  angry 
reeistauce  toward  Stephen, 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


446  THB  MILL  OK   lUB  FLO£S. 

"  Let  me  go!"  she  said,  iu  an  agitated  tone,  flashing  an 
indignant  look  at  him,  and  trying  to  get  her  hands  free. 
*'  You  have  wanted  to.  deprive  me  of  any  choice.  You 
.knew  we  were  come  too  far — ^you  have  dared  to  take  advan- 
tage of  my  thoughtlessness.  It  is  unmanly  to  bring  me 
into  such  a  position." 

Stung  by  this  reproach,  he  released  her  hands,  moved  back 
to  his  former  place,  and  folded  his  arms,  in  a  sort  of  des- 
peration at  the  difficulty  Maggie^s  words  had  made  present 
to  him.  If  she  would  not  consent  to  go  on,  he  must  curse^ 
himself  for  the  embarrassment  he  had  led  her  into.  But 
the  reproach  was  the  u^nendurable  thing:  the  one  thing 
worse  than  parting  with  her  was,  that  she  should  feel  he 
had  acted  unworthily  toward  her.  At  last  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  suppressed  rage — 

*'  I  didn^t  notice  tliat  we  had  passed  Luckreth  till  we 
had  got  to  the  next  village;  and  then  it  came  into  my  mind 
that  we  would  go  on.  I  can't  justify  it:  I  ought  to  have 
told  you.  It  is  enough  to  make  you  hate  me — since  you 
don^t  love  me  well  enough  to  make  everything  else  indif- 
ferent to  you,  as  I  do  you.  Shall  I  stop  the  boat,  and  try 
to  get  you  out  here?  I'll  tell  Lucy  that  I  was  mad — and 
that  you  hate  me — and  you  shall  be  clear  of  me  forever. 
No  one  can  blame  you,  because  I  have  behaved  unpardon- 
ably  to  you." 

Maggie  was  paralyzed:  it  was  easier  to  resist  Stephen's 
pleading,  than  this  picture  he  had  called  up  of  himself 
suffering  while  she  was  vindicated — easier  even  to  turn 
away  from  his  look  of  tenderness  than  from  this  look  of 
angry  misery,  that  seemed  to  place  her  in  selfish  isolation 
from  him.  He  had  called  up  a  state  of  feeling  in  which 
the  reasons  which  had  acted  on  her  conscience  seemed  to 
be  transmuted  into  mere  self  regard.  The  indignant  fire 
in  her  eyes  was  quenched,  and  she  began  to  look  at  him 
with  timid  distress.  She  had  reproached  him  for  being" 
hurried  into  irrevocable  trespass^she,  who  had  been  so 
weak  herself. 

"  As  if  I  shouldn't  feel  what  happened  to  you— just  the 
same,"  she  said,  with  reproach  of  another  kind — the 
reproach  of  love,  asking  for  more  "trust.  This  yielding 
to  the  idea  of  Stephen's  suffering  was  more  fatal  than  the 
other  yielding,  because  it  was  less  distinguishable  from 
that  sense  of  other's  claims  which  was  the  moral  basis  of 
her  resistance. 

He  felt  all  the  relenting  iu  her  look  and  tone — it  was 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  447 

heaven  opening  again.  He  moved  to  her  side,  and  took 
her  hand,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  back  of  the  boat,  and 
saying  nothing.  He  dreaded  to  utter  another  word,  he 
dreaded  to  make  another  movement,  that  might  provoke 
another  reproach  or  denial  from  her.  Life  hung  on  her 
consent:  everything  else  was  hopeless,  confused,  sickening 
misery.  They  glided  along  in  this  way,  both  resting  in 
that  silence  as  in  a  haven,  both  dreading  lest  their  feehngs 
should  be  divided  again — ^till  they  became  aware  that  the 
clouds  had  gathered,  and  that  the  slightest  perceptible 
freshening  of  the  breeze  was  growing  and  growing,  so  ttat 
the  whole  character  of  the  day  was  altered. 

"You  will  be  chill,  Maggie,  in  this  thin  drees.  Let  me 
raise  the  cloak  over  your  shoulders.  Get  up  an  instant, 
dearest.*' 

Maggie  obeyed:  there  was  an  unspeakable  charm  in 
being  told  what  to  do,  and  having  everything  decided  for 
her.  She  sat  down  again  covered  with  the  cloak,  and 
Stephen  took  to  his  oars  again,  making  haste;  for  they 
must  try  to  get  to  Torby  as  fast  as  they  could.  Maggie 
waa  hardly  conscious  of  having  said  or  done  anything 
decisive.  All  yielding  is  attended  with  a  less  vivid  con- 
sciousness than  rd&istance;  it  is  the  partial  sleep  of  thought; 
it  is  the  submergence  of  our  own  personality  by  another. 
Every  influence  tended  to  lull  her  into  acquiescence:  that 
dreamy  gliding  in  the  boat,  which  had  lasted  for  four 
hours,  and  had  brought  some  weariness  and  exhaustion — 
the  recoil  of  her  fatigued  sensations  from  the  impracticable 
difficulty  of  getting  out  of  the  boat  at  this  unknown  dis- 
tance from  home,  and  walking  for  long  miles — all  helped 
to  bring  her  into  more  complete  subjection  to  that  strong 
mysterious  charm  which  made  a  last  parting  from  Stephen 
seem  the  death  of  all  joy,  and  made  the  thought  of  wound- 
ing him  like  the  first  touch  of  the  torturing  iron  before 
which  resolution  shrank.  And  then  there  was  the  present 
happiness  of  being  with  him,  which  was  enough  to  absorb 
all  her  languid  energy. 

Presently  Stephen  observed  a  vessel  coming  after  them. 
Several  vessels,  among  them  the  steamer  to  Mudport,  had 
passed  them  with  the  early  tide,  but  for  the  last  hour  they 
had  seen  none.  He  looked  more  and  more  eagerly  at  this 
vessel,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  come  into  his  mind  along 
with  it,  and  then  he  looked  at  Maggie  hesitatingly. 

** Maggie,  dearest, *'  he  said,  at  last,  "if  this  vessel 
ghould  oe  going  to  Mudport,  or  to  any  convenient  place 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


448  THE  MILL  ON  THE   FLOSS. 

OH  the  coast  northward,  it  would  be  our  best  plan  to  get 
them  to  take  us  on  board.  You  are  fatigued — and  it  may 
soon  rain — it  may  be  a  wretched  business,  getting  to  Torby 
in  this  boat.  It's  only  a  tradinff-vessel,  but  I. dare  say  you 
can  be  made  tolerably  comfortaole.  We'll  take  the  cush- 
ions out  of  the  boat.  It  is  really  our  best  plan.  They'll 
be  glad  enough  to  take  us:  I've  got  plenty  of  money  about 
me;  I  can  pay  them  well." 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  with  reawakened  alarm  jil 
this  new  proposition;  but  she  was  silent:  one  course  seemed 
as  difficult  as  another. 

Stephen  hailed  the  vessel.  It  was  a  Dutch  vessel  goiug 
to  Mudport,  the  English  mate  informed  him,  and,  if  this 
wind  held,  would  be  there  in  less  than  two  days. 

*'  We  had  got  out  too  far  with  our  boat,"  said  Stephen. 
'*I  was  trying  to  make  for  Torby.  But  I'm  afraid  of  the 
weather;  and  this  lady — my  wife— will  be  exhausted  with 
fatigue  and  hunger.  Take  us  on  board — will  you? — and 
haul  up  the  boat.     I'll  pay  you  well." 

Maggie,  now  really  faint*  and  trembling  with  fear,  was 
taken  on  board,  making  an  interesting  object  of  contem- 
plation to  admiring  Dutchmen.  The  mate  feared  the  lady 
would  have  a  poor  time  of  it  on  board',  for  they  had  no 
jiccommodation  for  such  entirely  unlooked-for  passengers, 
no  private  cabin  larger  than  an  old-fashioned  church-pew. 
But  at  least  they  had  Dutch  cleanliness,  which  makes  all 
other  inconveniences  tolerable;  and  the  boat-cushions  were 
spread  into  a  couch  for  Maggie  on  the  poop  with  all  alacrity. 
But  to  pace  up  and  down  the  deck  leanmg  on  Steplien  — 
being  upheld  by  his  strength — was  the  first  change  that 
she  needed:  then  came  food,  and  then  quiet  reclining  on 
the  cushions,  with  the  sense  that  no  new  resolution  could 
be  taken  that  day.  Everything  must  wait  till  to-moiTow. 
Stephen  sat  beside  her  with  her  hand  in  his;  they  could 
only  speak  to  each  other  in  low  tones;  only  look  at  each 
other  now  and  then,  for  it  would  take  a  long  while  to  dull 
the  curiosity  of  the  five  men  on  board,  and  reduce  these 
handsome  young  strangers  to  that  minor  degree  of  interest 
which  belongs,  in  a  sailor's  regard,  to  all  objects  nearer 
than  the  horizon.  But  Stephen  was  triumphantly  happy. 
Every  other  thought  or  care  was  thrown  into  unmarked 
perspective  by  the  certainty  that  Maggie  must  be  his.  The 
leap  had  been  taken  now:  he  had  been  tortured  by  scru- 

Sles,  he  had  fought  fiercely  with  overmastering  inclination, 
©  h^d  besitatedj  but  repentance  was  impossible^    Sq 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE  GKEAT  TEMPTATIOK.  449 

murmured  forth,  in  fragmentary  sentences,  his  happi- 
ness—  his  adoration  —  his  tenderness  —  his  belief  that 
their  life  together  must  be  heaven  —  that  her  presence 
with  him  would  give  rapture  to  every  common  day-^ 
that  to  satisfy  her  lightest  wish  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
other  bliss — that  everything  was  easy  for  her  sake,  except 
to  part  with  her;  and  now  they  never  would  part;  he 
would  belong  to  her  forever,  and  all  that  was  his  was 
hers  —  had  no  value  for  him  except  as  it  was  hers.  Such 
things,  uttered  in  low,  broken  tones  by  the  one  voice  that 
has  first  stirred  the  fibre  of  young  passion,  have  only  a 
feeble  effect — on  experienced  mmds  at  a  distance  from  them. 
To  poor  Maggie,  they  were  very  near.  They  were  like 
nectar  held  close  to  thirsty  lips:  there  was,  there  must  be, 
then,  a  life  for  mortals  here  below  which  was  not  hard  and 
chill — in  which  affection  would  no  longer  be  self-sacrifice. 
Stephen's  passionate  words  made  the  vision  of  such  a  life 
more  fully  present  to  her  than  it  had  ever  been  before;  and 
the  vision  for  the  time  excluded  all  realities — all  except 
the  returning  sun-gleams  which  broke  out  on  the  waters 
as  the  evening  approached,  and  mingled  with  the  visionary 
sunlight  of  promised  happiness — all  except  the  hand  that 
pressed  hers,  and  the  voice  fhat  spoke  to  her,  and  the  eyes 
that  looked  at  her  with  grave  unspeakable  love. 

There  was  to  be  no  rain,  after  all;  the  clouds  rolled  off 
to  the  horizon  again,  making  the  great  purple  rampart  and 
long  purple  isles  of  that  wondrous  land  which  reveals  itself 
to  us  when  the  sun  goes  down — the  land  that  the  evening 
star  watches  over.  Maggie  was  to  sleep  all  night  on  the 
poop;  it  was  better  than  going  below;  and  she  was  covered 
with  the  warmest  wrappings  the  ship  could  furnish.  It 
was  still  early,  when  the  fatigues  of  the  day  brought  on  a 
drowsy  longing  for  perfect  rest,  and  she  laid  down  her 
head,  looking  at  the  faint  dying  flush  in  the  west,  where 
the  one  golden  lamp  was  getting  brighter  and  brighter. 
Then  she  looked  up  at  Stephen,  who  was  still  seated  by 
her,  hanging  over  her  as  he  leaned  his  arm  against  the 
vessel's  side.  Behind  all  the  delicious  visions  of  these  last 
hours,  which  had  flowed  over  her  like  a  soft  stream,  and 
made  her  entirely  passive,  there  was  the  dim  consciousness 
that  the  condition  was  a  transient  one,  and  that  the  mor- 
row must  bring  back  the  old  life  of  struggle — that  there 
were  thoughts  which  would  presently  avenge  themselves 
for  this  oblivion.  But  now  nothing  was  distinct  to  her: 
29 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


450  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

she  was  being  lulled  to  sleep  with  that  soft  stream  still 
ilowing  over  her,  with  those  delicious  visions  melting  and 
fading  like  the  wondrous  aerial  land  of  the  west. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WAKING. 


When  Maggie  was  gone  to  sleep,  Stephen,  weary  too 
with  his  unaccustomed  amount  of  rowing,  and  with  the 
intense  inward  life  of  the  last  twelve  hours,  but  too  rest- 
less to  sleep,  walked  and  lounged  about  the  deck  with  his 
cigar  far  on  into  midnight,  not  seeing  the  dark  water  — 
hardly  conscious  there  were  stars — living  only  in  the  near 
and  distant  future.  At  last  fatigue  conquered  restlessness, 
and  he  rolled  himself  up  in  a  piece  of  tarpaulin  on  the 
deck  near  Maggie's  feet. 

She  had  fallen  asleep  before  nine,  and  had  been  sleeping 
for  six  hours  before  the  faintest  hint  of  a  midsummer 
daybreak  was  discernible.  She  awoke  from  that  vivid 
dreaming  which  makes  the  margin  of  our  deeper  rest:  she 
was  in  a  boat  on  the  wide  water  with  Stephen,  and  in  the 
gathering  darkness  something  like  a  star  appeared,  that 
grew  and  grew  till  they  saw  it  was  the  Virgin  seated  in  St. 
egg's  boat,  and  it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  saw 
the  Virgin  was  Lucy  and  the  boatman  was  Philip — no,  not 
Philip,  but  her  brother,  who  rowed  past  without  looking 
at  her;  and  she  rose  to  stretch  out  her  arms  and  call  to  him, 
and  their  own  boat  turned  over  with  the  movement,  and 
they  began  to  sink,  tiU  with  one  spasm  of  dread  she  seemed 
to  awake,  and  find  she  was  a  child  again  in  the  parlor  at 
evening  twilight,  and  Tom  was  not  really  angry.  From 
the  soothed  sense  of  that  false  waking  she  passed  to  the 
real  waking — to  the  plash  of  water  against  the  vessel,  and 
the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  deck,  and  the  awful  starlit 
sky.  There  was  a  moment  of  utter  bewilderment  before 
her  mind  could  get  disentangled  from  the  confused  web  of 
dreams;  but  soon  the  whole  terrible  truth  urged  itself  upon 
her.  Stephen  was  not  by  her  now:  she  was  alone  with  her 
own  memory  and  her  own  dread.  The  irrevocable  wrong 
that  must  blot  her  life  had  been  committed:  she  had 
brought  sorrow  into  the  lives  of  others — into  the  lives  that 
were  knit  up  with  hers  by  trust  and  love.     The  feeling  of 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  451 

a  few  short  weeks  had  hurried  her  into  the  sins  her  nature 
had  most  recoiled  from — breach  of  faith  and  cruel  selfish- 
ness; she  had  rent  the  ties  that  had  given  meaning  to  duty, 
and  had  made  herself  an  outlawed  soul,  with  no  guide  but 
the  wayward  choice  of  her  own  passion.  And  where  would 
that  lead  her? — where  had  it  led  her  now?  She  had  said 
she  would  rather  die  than  fall  into  that  temptation.  She 
felt  it  now — now  that  the  consequences  of  such  a  fall  had 
come  before  the  outward  act  was  completed.  There  was 
at  least  this  fruit  from  all  her  years  of  striving  after  the 
highest  and  best — that  her  soul,  though  betrayed,  beguiled, 
ensnared,  could  never  deliberately  consent  to  a  choice  of 
the  lower.  And  a  choice  of  what?  0  God — not  a  choice 
of  joy,  but  of  conscious  crueltv  and  hardness;  for  could 
she  ever  cease  to  see  before  her  Lucy  and  Philip,  with 
their  murdered  trust  and  hopes?  Her  life  with  Stephen 
could  have  no  sacredness:  she  must  forever  sink  and  wan- 
der vaguely,  driven  by  uncertain  impulse;  for  she  had  let 
go  the  clue  of  life — that  clue  which  once  in  the  far  off 
years  her  young  need  had  clutched  so  strongly.  She  had 
renouncea  all  delights  then,  before  she  knew  them,  before 
they  had  come  within  her  reach.  Philip  had  been  right 
when  he  told  her  that  she  knew  nothing  of  renunciation: 
she  had  thought  it  was  quiet  ecstasy;  she  saw  it  face  to 
face  now — that  sad  patient  loving  strength  which  holds 
the  clue  of  life — and  saw  that  the  thorns  were  forever 
pressing  on  its  brow.  The  yesterday,  which  could  never 
be  revoked — if  she  could  have  changed  it  now  for  any 
length  of  inward  silent  endurance,  she  would  have  bowed 
beneath  that  cross  with  a  sense  of  rest. 

Daybreak  came  and  the  reddening  eastern  light,  while 
her  past  life  was  grasping  her  in  this  way,  with  that  tight- 
ening clutch  which  comes  in  the  last  moments  of  possible 
rescue.  She  could  see  Stephen  now  lying  on  the  deck  still 
fast  asleep,  and  with  the  sight  of  him  there  came  a  wave 
of  anguish  that  found  its  way  in  a  long  suppressed  sob. 
The  worst  bitterness  of  parting — the  thought  that  urged 
the  sharpest  inward  cry  for  help,  was  the  pain  it  must 
give  to  Mm,  But  surmounting  everything  was  the  horror 
at  her  own  possible  failure,  the  dread  lest  her  conscience 
should  be  benumbed  again,  and  not  rise  to  energy  till  it 
was  too  late. — Too  late!  it  was  too  late  already  not  to  have 
caused  misery:  too  late  for  everything,  perhaps,  but  to 
rush  away  from  the  last  act  of  baseness — ^the  tasting  of 
joys  that  were  wrung  from  crushed  hearts. 


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452  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

The  sun  was  rising  now,  and  Maggie  started  up  with  the 
sense  that  a  day  of  resistance  was  beginning  for  ner.  Her 
eyelashes  were  still  wet  with  tears,  as,  with  her  shawl  over 
her  head,  she  sat  looking  at  the  slowly  rounding  sun. 
Something  roused  Stephen  too,  and,  getting  up  from  his 
hard  bed,  he  came  to  sit  beside  her.  The  sharp  instinct 
of  anxious  love  saw  something  to  give  him  alarm  in  the 
very  first  glance.  He  had  a  hovering  dread  of  some  resist- 
ance in  Maggie's  nature  that  he  would  be  unable  to  over- 
come. He  had  the  uneasy  consciousness  that  he  had 
robbed  her  of  perfect  freedom  yesterday:  there  was  too 
much  native  honor  in  him,  for  him  not  to  feel  that,  if  her 
will  should  recoil,  his  conduct  would  have  been  odious, 
and  she  would  have  a  right  to  reproach  him. 

But  Maggie  did  not  feel  that  right:  she  was  too  conscious 
of  fatal  weakness  in  herself — too  full  of  the  tenderness  that 
comes  with  the  foreseen  need  for  inflicting  a  wound.  She 
let  him  take  her  hand  when  he  came  to  sit  down  beside  her, 
and  smiled  at  him —  only  with  rather  a  sad  glance;  she 
could  say  nothing  to  pain  him  till  the  moment  of  possible 
parting  was  nearer.  And  so  they  drank  their  cup  of  coflFee 
together,  and  walked  about  the  deck,  and  heard  the  cap- 
tain's assurance  that  they  should  be*  in  at  Mudport  by  five 
o'clock,  each  with  an  inward  burden;  but  in  him  it  was  an 
undefined  fear,  which  he  trusted  to  the  coming  hours  to 
dissipate;  in  her  it  was  a  definite  resolve  on  which  she  was 
trying  silently  to  tighten  her  hold.  Stephen  was  continu- 
ally, through  the  morning,  expressing  his  anxiety  at  the 
fatigue  ana  discomfort  she  was  suffering,  and  alluded  to 
landing  and  to  the  change  of  motion  and  repoae  she  would 
have  in  a  carriage,  wanting  to  assure  himself  more  com- 
pletely by  presupposing  that  everything  would  be  as  he  had 
arranged  it.  For  a  long  while  Maggie  contented  herself 
with  assuring  him  that  she  had  had  a  good  night's  rest, 
and  that  she  didn^t  mind  about  being  on  the  vessel — it  was 
not  like  being  on  the  open  seii — it  was  only  a  little 
less  '  pleasant  than  being  m  a  boat  on  the  Floss.  But  a 
suppressed  resolve  will  betray  itself  in  the  eyes,  and 
Stephen  became  more  and  more  uneasy  as  the  dav  advanced, 
under  the  sense  that  Maggie  had  entirely  lost  her  passive- 
ness.  He  longed,  but  did  not  dare,  to  speak  of  their 
marriage — of  where  they  would  go  after  it,  and  the  steps 
he  would  take  to  inform  his  father,  and  the  rest,  of  what 
had  happened.  He  longed  to  assure  himself  of  a  tacit 
asseut  from  her.     But  each  time  he  looked  at  her,  he 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  453 

gathered  a  stronger  dread  of  the  new,  quiet  sadness  with 
which  she  met  his  eyes.  And  they  were  more  and  more 
silent. 

"  Here  we  are  in  sight  of  Miidport,"  he  said,  at  last. 
*^Now,  dearest,"  he  added,  turning  toward  her  with  a 
look  that  was  half  beseeching,  "the  worst  part  of  your 
fatigue  is  over.  On  the  land  we  can  command  swiftness. 
In  another  hour  and  a  half  we  shall  be  in  a  chaise 
together — and  that  will  seem  rest  to  you  after  this." 

Maggie  felt  it  was  time  to  speak:  it  would  only  be  unkind 
now  to  assent  by  silence.  She  spoke  in  the  lowest  tone,as 
he  had  done,  but  with  distinct  decision. 

*^We  shall  not  be  together — we  shall  have  parted." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Stephen's  face. 

"  We  sliall  not,"  he  said.     ''  V\\  die  first." 

It  was  us  he  had  drc^aded — there  was  a  struggle  coming. 
But  neither  of  them  dared  to  say  another  word,  till  the 
boat  was  let  down,  and  they  were  taken  to  the  landing- 
place.  Here  there  was  a  cluster  of  gazers  and  passengers 
awaiting  the  departure  of  the  steamboat  to  St.  Ogg's. 
Maggie  had  a  dim  sense,  when  she  had  landed,  and  Stephen 
v/as  hurrying  her  along  on  his  arm,  that  some  one  had 
advanced  toward  her  from  that  cluster  as  if  he  were  coming 
to  speak  to  her.  But  she  was  hurried  along,  and  was 
indifferent  to  everything  but  the  coming  trial. 

A  porter  guided  them  to  the  nearest  inn  and  postiug- 
house,  and  Stephen  gave  the  order  for  the  chaise  as  they 
passed  through  the  yard.  Maggie  took  no  notice  of  this, 
and  only  said^  "  Ask  them  to  show  us  into  a  room  where 
we  can  sit  down." 

When  they  entered,  Maggie  did  not  sit  down,  and 
Stephen,  whose  face  had  a  desperate  determination  in  it, 
was  about- to  ring  the  bell,  when  she  said,  in  a  firm  voice — 

'•' Fm  not  going:  we  must  part  here." 

"  Maggie,  he  said,  turning  round  toward  her,  and 
speaking  in  the  tones  of  a  man  who  feels  a  process  of  tort- 
ure beginning,  "Do  you  mean  to  kill  me?  What  is  the 
use  of  it  now?    The  whole  thing  is  done." 

"No,  it  is  not  done,"  said  Maggie.  "Too  much  is 
done — more  than  we  can  ever  remove  the  trace  of.  But  I 
will  go  no  farther.  Don't  try  to  prevail  with  me  again.  I 
couldn't  choose  yesterday." 

What  was  he  to  do?  He  dared  not  go  near  her — her 
anger  might  leap  out,  and  make  a  new  barrier.  He  walked 
backward  and  forward  in  maddening  perplexity. 

Digitized  by  V^OOQIC 


454  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

''Maggie/'  he  said  at  last,  pausing  before  her,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  imploring  wretchedness,  "have  some 
pity — hear  me — forgive  me  for  what  I  did  yesterday.  I 
will  obey  you  now — I  will  do  nothing  without  your  full 
consent.  But  don'fc  blight  our  lives  forever  by  a  rash 
perversity  that  can  answer  no  good  purpose  to  any  one — , 
that  can  only  create  new  evils.  Sit  down,  dearest;  wait — 
think  what  you  are  going  to  do.  Don't  treat  me  as  if  you 
couldn't  trust  me.'* 

He  had  chosen  the  most  effective  appeal;  but  Maggie's 
will  was  fixed  unswervingly  on  the  coming  wrench.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  suffer. 

'*We  must  not  wait,*'  she  said,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
voice;  "we  must  part  at  once.*' 

"We  canH  part,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  more  impet- 
uously. "I  can't  bear  it.  What  is  the  use  of  inflicting 
that  misery  on  me?  The  blow — whatever  it  may  have 
been — has  been  struck  now.  Will  it  help  any  one  else  that 
you  should  drive  me  mad?** 

"I  will  not  begin  anv  future  even  for  you,**  said  Maggie. 
ti:emulously,  "with  a  aeliberate  consent  to  what  ought  not 
to  have  been.  What  I  told  you  at  Basset  I  feel  now:  I 
would  rather  have  died  than  fall  into  this  temptation.  It 
would  have  been  better  if  we  had  parted  forever  then.  But 
we  must  part  now.** 

"We  will  not  part,*'  Stephen  burst  out,   instinctively 

E lacing  his  back  against  the  door — forgetting  everything 
e  had  said  a  few  moments  before;  "I, will  not  endure  it. 
You'll  make  me  desperate — I  shan't  know  what  I  do.*' 

Magffie  trembled.  She  felt  that  the  parting  could  not  be 
effected  suddenly.  She  must  rely  on  a  slower  appeal  to 
Stephen's  better  self — she  must  be  prepared  for  a  harder 
task  than  that  of  rushing  away  while  resolution  was  fresh. 
She  sat  down.  Stephen,  watching  her  with  that  lo<ik  of 
desperation  which  had  come  over  him  like  a  lurid  light, 
approached  slowly  from  the  door,  seated  himself  close 
beside  her,  and  grasped  her  hand.  Her  heart  beat  like 
the  heart  of  a  frightened  bird;  but  this  direct  opposition 
helped  her.  She  felt  her  determination  growing  stronger. 
"Remember  what  you  felt  weeks  ago,**  she  began,  with 
beseeching  earnestness — "remember  what  we  both  felt — 
that  we  owed  ourselves  to  others,  and  must  conquer  every 
inclination  which  could  make  us  false  to  that  debt.  We 
have  failed  to  keep  our  resolutions;  but  the  wrong  remains 
the  same.** 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  455 

^'  No,  it  does  not  remain  the  same,"  said  Stephen.  "  We 
have  proved  that  it  is  impossible  to  keep  our  resolutions. 
We  have  proved  that  the  feeling  which  draws  us  toward 
oftch  other  is  too  strong  to  be  overcome:  that  natural  law 
surmounts  every  other;  we  can't  help  what  it  clashes 
with.'' 

*^It  is  not  sOj  Stephen — Fm  quite  sure  that  is  wrong.  1 
have  tried  to  think  it  agi^in  and  again;  but  I  see,  if  we 
judged  in  that  way,  theie  would  be  a'  warrant  for  all 
treachery  and  cruelty — we  should  justify  breaking  the  most 
sacred  ties  that  can  ever  be  formed  on  earth.  If  the  past 
is  not  to  bind  us,  where  can  duty  lie?  We  should  have  no 
law  but  the  inclination  of  the  moment.'' 

"  But  there  are  ties  that  can't  be  kept  by  mere  resolu- 
tion," said  Stephen,  starting  up  and  walking  about  again. 
''  What  is  outward  faithfulness?  Would  they  nave 
thanked  us  for  anything  so  hollow  as  constancy  without 
love?" 

Maggie  did  not  answer  immediately.  She  was  under- 
going an  inward  as  well  as  an  outward  contest.  At  last 
she  «aid,  with  a  passionate  assertion  of  her  conviction,  as 
much  against  herself  as  against  him — 

"  That  seems  right — at  first;  btit  when  I  look  further, 
I'm  sure  it  is  not  right.  Faithfulness  and  constancy  mean 
something  else  besides  doing  what  is  easiest  and  pleasantest 
to  ourselves.  They  mean  renouncing  whatever  is  opposed 
to  the  reliance  others  have  in  us — whatever  would  cause 
misery  to  those  whom  the  course  of  our  lives  has  made 
dependent  on  us.  If  we — if  I  had  been  better,  nobler,  those 
clj^ims  would  have  been  so  strongly  present  with  me — I 
should  have  felt  them  pressing  on  my  heart  so  continually, 
just  as  they  do  now  in  the  moftients  when  my  conscience  is 
awake — that  the  opposite  feeling  would  never  have  grown 
in  me,  as  it  has  done:  it  would  have  been  quenched  at 
once — I  should  have  prayed  for  help  so  earnestly — I  should 
have  rushed  away  as  we  rush  from  hideous  danger.  I  feel  no 
excuse  for  myself — none.  I  should  never  have  failed  toward 
Lucy  and  Philip  as  I  have  done,  if  I  had  not  been  weak, 
selfish,  and  hard — ^able  to  think  of  their  pain  without  a 
pain  to  myself  that  would  have  destroyed  all  temptation. 
Oh,  what  is  Lucy  feeling  now?  She  believed  in  me — she 
loved  me — she  was  so  good  to  me.     Think  of  her " 

Maggie's  voice  was  getting  choked  as  she  uttered  these 
last  "words. 

^'leanH  think  of  her,"  said  Stephen,  stamping  as  if 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


466  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FIX)S8. 

with  pain.  **  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  you,  Maggie. 
You  demand  of  a  man  what  is  impossible.  I  felt  that  once; 
but  I  can't  go  back  to  it  now.  And  where  is  the  use  of 
your  thinking  of  it,  except  to  torture  me?  You  can't  save 
them  from  i)ain  now;  you  can  only  tear  yourself  from  me, 
and  make  my  life  worthless  to  me.  And  even  if  we  could 
go  back,  and  both  fulfill  our  engagements — if  that  were 
possible  now — it  would  be  hateful — horrible,  to  think  of 
your  ever  being  Philip's  wife — of  your  ever  being  the  wife 
of  a  man  you  didn't  love.  We  have  both  been  rescued 
from  a  mistake." 

A  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie^s  face,  and  she  couldn't 
speak.  Stephen  saw  this.  He  sat  down  again,  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  and  looking  at  her  with  passionate  entreaty. 

"Maggie!  Dearest!  If  you  love  me,  you  are  mine. 
Who  can  have  so  great  a  claim  on  you  as  I  have?  My  life 
is  bound  up  in  your  love.  There  is  nothing  in  the  past 
that  can  annul  our  right  to  each  other:  it  is  the  first  time 
we  have  either  of  us  loved  with  our  whole  heart  and  soul.'' 

Maggie  was  still  silent  for  a  little  while— looking  down. 
Stephen  was  in  a  flutter  of  new  hope:  he  was  going  to 
triumph.  But  she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  with  a 
glance  that  was  filled  with  the  anguish  of  regret  —  not 
with  yielding. 

"No — not  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  Stephen,"  she 
said,  with  timid  resolution.  "I  have  never  consented  to 
it  with  my  whole  mind.  There  are  memories,  and  affec- 
tions, ana  longings  after  perfect  goodness,  that  have  Such 
a  strong  hold  on  me;  they  would  never  quit  me  for  long; 
they  would  come  back  and  be  pain  to  me — repentance.  ♦! 
couldn't  live  in  peace  if  I  put  the  shadow  of  a  willful  sin 
between  myself  and  God.  I  have  caused  sorrow  already — 
I  know — I  feel  it;  but  I  have  never  deliberately  consented 
to  it:  I  have  never  said,  ^They  shall  suffer,  that  I  may 
have  joy.'  It  has  never  been  my  will  to  marrj  you:  if  you 
were  to  win  consent  from  the  momentary  triumph  of  my 
feeling  for  you,  you  would  not  have  my  whole  soul.  If  I 
could  wake  back  again  into  the  time  before  yesterday,  I 
would  choose  to  be  true  to  my  calmer  affections,  and  live 
without  the  joy  of  love." 

Stephen  loosed  her  hand,  and,  rising  impatiently,  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  in  suppressed  rage. 

"Good  God!"  he  burst  out,  at  last,  "what  a  miserable 
thing  a  woman's  love  is  to  a  man's!  I  could  commit  critnes 
for  you — and  you  can  balance  and  choose  in  that  way. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATIOK.  457 

But  you  donH  love  me:  if  you  had  a  tithe  of  the  feeling 
for  me  that  I  have  for  you,  it  would  be  impossible  to  you 
to  think  for  a  moment  of  sacrificing  me.  But  it  weighs 
nothing  with  you  that  you  are  robbing  me  of  my  lifers 
happiness/' 

Maggie  pressed  her  fingers  together  almost  convulsively 
as  she  held  them  clasped  on  her  lap.  A  great  terror  was 
upon  her,  as  if  she  were  ever  and  anon  seeing  where  she 
stood  by  great  flashes  of  lightning,  and  then  again  stretched 
forth  her  hands  in  the  darkness. 

*'No^I  don't  sacrifice  you — I  couldn't  sacrifice  you,'' 
she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  again;  **but  Ican't 
believe  in  a  good  for  you,  that  I  feel — that  we  both  feel  is  a 
wrong  toward  others.  We  can't  choose  happiness  either 
for  ourselves  or  for  another:  we  can't  tell  where  that  will  lie. 
We  can  only  choose  whether  we  will  indulge  ourselves  in 
the  present  moment,  or  whether  we  will  renounce  that, 
for  the  sake  of  obeying  the  divine  voice  within  us — ^for  the 
sake  of  being  true  to  all  the  motives  that  sanctify  our 
lives.  I  know  this  belief  is  hard:  it  has  slipped  away  from 
me  again  and  again;  but  I  have  felt  that  if  I  let  it  go  for- 
ever, I  should  have  no  light  through  the  darkness  of  this 
life." 

^'But,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  her 
again,  "is  it  possible  that  you  don't  see  that  wliat  hap- 
pened yesterday  has  altered  the  whole  position  of  things? 
What  infatuation  is  it  —what  obstinate  prepossession  that 
blinds  you  to  that?  It  is  too  late  to  say  what  we  miglit 
have  done  or  what  we  ought  to  have  done.  Admitting 
the  very  worst  view  of  what  has  been  done,  it  is  a  fact  we 
must  act  on  now;  our  position  i«  altered;  the  right  course 
is  no  longer  what  it  was  before.  We  must  accept  our  own 
actions  and  start  afresh  from  them.  Suppose  we  had  been 
married  yesterday?  It  is  nearly  the  same  thing.  The 
'  effect  on  others  would  not  have  been  different.  It  would 
only  have  made  this  difference  to  ourselves,"  Stephen 
added,  bitterly,  ''that  you  might  have  acknowledged  then 
that  your  tie  to  me  was  stronger  than  to  others." 

Again  a  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and  she  was 
silent.  Stephen  thought  again  that  he  was  beginning  to 
prevail — he  had  never  yet  believed  that  he  should  no! 
prevail:  there  are  possibilities  which  our  minds  shrink 
from  too  completely  for  us  to  fear  them. 

'^Dearest,"  he  sairl,  in  his  deepest,  tenderest  tono, 
leaning   toward   her,   and  putting   his  arm   round    her. 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


458  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

*^you  are  mine  now — the  world  believes  it — duty  must 
spring  out  of  that  now:  in  a  few  hours  you  will  be  legally 
mine,  and  those  who  had  claims  on  us  will  submit  —  they 
will  see  that  there  was  a  force  which  declared  against  their 
claims." 

Maffgie^s  eyes  opened  wide  in  one  terrified  look  at  the 
face  that  was  close  to  hers,  and  she  started  up — pale  again. 

"Oh,  I  can^t  do  it,'*  she  said,  in  a  voice  almost  of 
agony;  "Stephen  —  don't  ask  me — don't  urge  me.  I 
can't  argue  any  longer — I  don't  know  what  is  wise;  but 
my  heart  will  not  let  me  do  it.  I  see — I  feel  their 
trouble  now:  it  is  as  if  it  were  branded  on  my  mind. 
/  have  suffered,  and  had  no  one  to  pity  me;  and  now  I 
have  made  others  suffer.  It  would  never  leave  me;  it 
would  embitter  your  love  to  me.  I  do  care  for  Philip — 
in  a  different  way:  I  remember  all  we  said  to  each  other; 
I  know  how  he  thought  of  me  as  the  one  promise  of  his 
life.  He  was  given  to  me  that  I  might  maxe  his  lot  less 
hard;  and  I  have  forsaken  him.  And  Lucy — she  has 
been  deceived  —  she  who  trusted  me  more  than  anyone. 
I  cannot  marry  you:  I  cannot  take  a  good  for  myself  that 
has  been  wrung  out  of  their  misery.  It  is  not  the  force 
that  ought  to  rule  us — this  that  we  feel  for  each  other; 
it  would  rend  me  away  from  all  that  my  past  life  has  made 
dear  and  holy  to  me.  I  can't  set  out  on  a  fresh  life,  and 
forget  that:  I  must  go  back  to  it,  and  cling  to  it,  else 
I  shall  feel  as  if  there  were  nothing  firm  beneath  my  feet." 

"Good  God,  Maggie!"  said  Stephen,  rising  too  and 
grasping  her  arm,  "you  rave.  How  can  you  go  back 
without  marrying  me?  You  don't  know  what  will  be  said, 
dearest.     You  see  nothing  as  it  really  is." 

"Yes,  I  do.  But  thev  will  believe  me.  I  will  confess 
everything.  Lucy  will  believe  me — she  will  forgive  you, 
and — and — oh,  some  good  will  come  by  clinging  to  the 
right.  Dear,  dear  Stephen,  let  me  go!  —  don't  drag  me 
into  deeper  remors3.  My  whole  soul  has  never  con- 
Eented  —  it  does  not  consent  now." 

Stephen  let  go  her  arm,  and  sank  back  on  the  chair, 
half  stunned  by  despairing  rage.  He  ^as  silent  a  few 
moments,  not  looking  at  her;  while  her  eyes  were  turned 
toward  him  yearningly,  in  alarm  at  this  sudden  change. 
At  last  he  said,  still  without  looking  at  her — 

"  Go,  then — leave  me — don't  torture  me  any  longer — I 
can't  bear  it." 

Involuntarily  she  leaned  toward  him  and  put  out  her 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION.  459 

hand  to  touch  his.     But  he  shrank  frx)m  it  as  if  it  had 
been  burning  iron,  and  said  again— 

"Leave  me!'^ 

Maggie  wias  not  conscious  of  a  decision  as  she  turned 
away  from  that  gloomy  averted  face,  and  walked  out  of 
the  room:  it  was  like  an  automatic  action  that  fulfills  a 
forgotten  intention.  What  came  after?  A  sense  of  stairs 
descended  as  if  in  a  dream — of  flagstones — of  a  chaise 
and  horses  standing — then  a  street,  and  a  turning  into 
another  street  where  a  stage-coach  was  standing,  taking  in 
passengers  —  and  the  darting  thought  that  that  coach 
would  take  her  away,  perhaps  toward  home.  But  she 
could  ask  nothing  yet;  she  only  got  into  the  coach. 

Home — where  her  mother  and  brother  were — Philij) — 
Lucy — the  scene  of  her  very  cares  and  trials — was  the 
haven  toward  which  her  mmd  tended  —  the  sanctuary 
where  sacred  relics  lay — where  she  would  be  rescued  from 
more  falling.  The  thought  of  Stephen  was  like  a  horrible 
throbbing  pain,  which  yet,  as  such  pains  do,  seemed  to 
urge  all  other  thoughts  into  activity.  But  among  her 
thoughts,  what  others  would  say  and  think  of  her  conduct 
was  hardly  present.  Love  and  deep  pity  and  remorseful 
anguish  left  no  room  for  that. 

The  coach  was  taking  her  to  York — farther  away  from 
home;  but  she  did  not  learn  that  until  she  was  set  down 
in  the  old  city  at  midnight.  It  was  no  matter:  she  could 
sleep  there,  and  start  home  the  next  day.  She  had  her 
purse  in  her  pocket,  with  all  her  money  in  it — a  bank-note 
and  a  sovereign:  she  had  kept  it  in  her  pocket  from  for- 
getfulness,  after  going  out  to  make  purchases  the  day 
9  before  yesterday. 

Did  she  lie  down  in  the  gloomy  bedroom  of  the  old  inn 
that  night  with  her  will  bent  unwaveringly  on  the  path  of  . 
penitent  sacrifice?  The  great  struggles  of  life  are  not  so 
easy  as  that;  the  great  problems  of  life  are  not  so  clear. 
In  the  darkness  of  that  night  she  saw  Stephen's  face 
turned  toward  her  in  passionate,  reproachful  misery;  she 
lived  through  again  all  the  tremulous  delights  of  his  pres- 
ence with  her  that  made  existence  an  easy  floating  in  a 
stream  of  joy,  instead  of  a  quiet  resolved  endurance  and 
effort.  Tne  love  she  had  renounced  came  back  upoiT  her 
with  a  cruel  charm,  she  felt  herself  opening  her  arms  to 
receive  it  once  more;  and  then  it  seemed  to  slip  away  and 
fade  and  vanish,  leaving  only  the  dying  sound  of  a  deep 
thrilling  voice  that  said,  "  Gone — forever  gone.'* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


BOOK  VII. 
THE  FINAL  RESCUE. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE   RETURN   TO  THE  MILL. 

Between  four  and  five  o^cIock  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
fifth  day  from  that  on  whidi  Stephen- and  Maggie  had  left 
St.  Ogg^s,  Tom  Tulliver  was  standing  on  the  gravel-walk 
outside  the  old  house  at  Dorlcote  Mill.  He  was  master  there 
now:  he  had  half  fulfilled  his  father's  dying  wish,  and  by 
years  of  steady  self-government  and  energetic  work  he  had 
brought  himself  near  to  the  attainment  of  more  than  the 
old  respectability  which  had  been  the  proud  inheritance  of 
the  Dodsons  and  Tullivers. 

But  Tom's  face,  as  he  stood  in  the  hot  still  sunshine  of 
that  summer  afternoon,  had  no  gladness,  no  triumph  in  it. 
His  mouth  wore  its  bitterest  expression,  his  severe  brow  its 
hardest  and  deepest  fold,  as  he  drew  down  his  hat  farther 
over  his  eyes  to  shelter  them  from  the  sun,  and,  thrusting 
his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  gravel.  No  news  of  his  sister  had  been  neard 
since  Bob  Jakin  had  come  back  in  the  steamer  from  Mud- 
port,  and  put  an  end  to  all  improbable  suppositions  of  an 
accident  on  the  water  by  stating  that  he  had  seen  her  land 
from  a  vessel  with  Mr.  Stephen  Guest.  Would  the  next 
news  be  that  she  was  married — or  what?  Probably  that 
she  was  not  married :  Tom's  mind  was  set  to  the  expecta- 
tion of  the  worst  that  could  happen — not  death,  but  disgrace. 

As  he  was  walking  with  his  back  toward  the  entrance 
gate,  and  his  face  toward  the  rushing  mill-stream,  a  tall 
dark-eyed  figure,  that  we  know  well,  approached  the  gate, 
and  paused  to  look  at  him,  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  Her 
brother  was  the  human  being  of  whom  she  had  been  most 
afraid,  from  her  childhood  upward:  afraid  with  that  fear 
which  springs  in  us  when  we  love  one  who  is  inexorable, 
unbending,  unmodifiable — with  a  mind  that  we  can  never 
mould  ourselves  upon,  and  yet  that  we  cannot  endure  to 

460 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  461 

alienate  from  us.  That  deep-rooted  fear  was  shaking  Mag- 
gie now;  but  her  mind  was  unswervingly  bent  on  return- 
ing to  her  brother,  as  the  natural  refuge  that  had  been 
given  J^er.  In  her  deep  humiliation  under  the  retrospect 
of  her  own  weakness — in  her  anguish  at  the  injury  she  had 
inflicted — she  almost  desired  to  endure  the  severity  of 
Tom^s  reproof,  to  submit  in  patient  silence  to  that  harsh 
disapproving  judgment  against  which  she  had  so  often 
rebelled:  it  seemed  no  more  than  just  to  her  now — who 
was  weaker  than  she  was?  She  craved  that  outward  help 
to  her  better  purpose  which  would  come  from  complete, 
submissive  confession — from  being  in  the  presence  of  those 
whose  looks  and  words  would  be  a  reflection  of  her  own 
conscience. 

Maggie  had  been  kept  on  her  bed  at  York  for  a  day  with 
that  prostrating  headache  which  was  likely  to  follow  on  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  previous  day  and  night.  There  was 
an  expression  of  physical  pain  still  about  her  brow  and 
eyes,  and  her  whole  appearance,  with  her  dress  so  long 
unchanged,  was  worn  and  distressed.  She  lifted  the  latch 
of  the  gate  and  walked  in — slowly.  Tom  did  not  hear  the 
gate;  he  was  just  then  close  upon  the  roaring  dam:  but  he 
presently  turned,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  saw  the  figure 
whose  worn  look  and  loneliness  seemed  to  him  a  confirma- 
tion of  his  worst  conjectures.  He  paused,  trembling  and 
white  with  disgust  and  indignation. 

Maggie  paused,  too — three  yards  before  him.  She  felt 
the  hatred  in  his  face — felt  it  rushing  through  her  fibres; 
but  she  must  speak. 

"  Tom,^'  she  began,  faintly,  '^I  am  come  back  to  you  — 
I  am  come  back  home — for  refuge — to  tell  you  everything." 

**  You  will  find  no  home  with  me,"  he  answered,  with 
tremulous  rage.  ^^  You  have  disgraced  us  all.  You  have 
disgraced  my  father^s  name.  You  have  been  a  curse  to 
your  best  friends.  You  have  been  base  —  deceitful;  no 
motives  are  strong  enough  to  restrain  you.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  you  forever.     You  don^t  belong  to  me." 

Their  mother  had  come  to  the  door  now.  She  stood 
paralyzed  by  the  double  shock  of  seeing  Maggie  and  hearing 
Tom^s  words. 

'*  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  more  courage,  '^I  am  perhaps 
not  so  guilty  as  you  believe  me  to  be.  1  never  meant  to 
give  way  to  my  feelings.  I  struggled  against  them.  I  was 
carried  too  far  in  the  boat  to  come  back  on  Tuesday.  I 
came  back  as  soon  as  I  could." 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


462  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  I  can't  believe  in  you  any  more/'  said  Tom,  gradually 
passing  from  the  tremulous  excitement  of  the  fii-st  moment 
to  cold  inflexibility.  **  You  have  been  carrying  on  a  clan- 
destine relation  with  Stephen  Guest — as  you  did  before 
with  another^  He  went  to  see  you  at  my  aunt  floss's; 
you  walked  alone  with  him  in  the  lanes;  you  must  have 
oehaved  as  no  modest  girl  would  have  done  to  her  cousin's 
lover,  else  that  could  never  have  happened.  The  people  at 
Luckreth  saw  yon  pass — you  passed  all  the  other  places; 
you  knew  what  you  were  doing.  You  have  been  using 
Philip  Wakem  as  a  screen  to  deceive  Lucy — the  kindest 
friend  you  ever  had.  Go  and  see  the  return  you  have  made 
her:  she's  ill  —  unable  to  speak — my  mother  can't  go  near 
her,  lest  she  should  remind  her  of  you." 

Maggie  was  half  stunned  —  too  heavily  pressed  upon  by 
her  anguish  even  to  discern  any  difference  between  her 
actual  guilt  and  her  brother's  accusation,  still  less  to 
vindicate  herself. 

**Tom,"  she  said,  crushing  her  hands  together  under 
her  cloak,  in  the  effort  to  speak  again,  *'  whatever  I  have 
done,  I  repent  it  bitterly.  I  want  to  make  amends.  I 
will  endure  anything.  I  want  to  be  kept  from  doing  wrong 
again." 

**  What  toill  keep  you?"  said  Tom,  with  cruel  bitterness. 
*'Not  religion;  not  your  natural  feeling  of  gratitude  and 
honor.     And  he — he  would  deserve  to  be  shot,  if  it  were 

not But  you   are  ten  times  worse  than  he  is.     I 

loathe  your  character  and  your  conduct.  You  struggled 
with  your  feelings,  you  say  Yes!  /  have  had  fedmgs 
to  struggle  with ;  but  I  conquered  them.  I  have  had  a 
harder  life  than  you  have  had;  but  I  have  found  my  com- 
fort in  doing  my  duty.  But  I  will  sanction  no  such  char- 
acter as  yours :  the  world  shall  know  that  I  feel  the 
difference  between  right  and  wrong.  If  you  are  in  want, 
I  will  provide  for  you  —  let  my  mother  know.  But  you 
shall  not  come  under  my  roof.  It  is  enough  that  I  have 
to  bear  the  thought  of  your  disgrace:  the  sight  of  you  is 
hateful  to  me." 

Slowly  Maggie  was  turning  away  with  despair  in  her 
heart.  But  the  poor  frightened  mother's  love  leaped  out 
now,  stronger  than  all  dread. 

"My  child!   I'll  go  with  ^ou.     You've  got  a  mother." 

Oh,  the  sweet  rest  of  that  embrace  to  the  heart-stricken 
Maggie!  More  helpful  than  all  wisdom  is  one  draught  of 
dimple  human  pity  that  will  not  forsftke  us. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  463 

Tom  turned  and  walked  into  the  house. 

'^  Come  in,  my  child/'  Mrs.  TuUiver  jirhispered.  "He'll 
let  you  stay  and  sleep  in  my  bed.  He  won't  deny  that  if 
I  ask  him." 

"  No,  mQther/'  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  tone,  like  a  moan. 
"  I  will  never  go  in." 

"  Then  wait  for  me  outside.  I'll  get  ready  and  come 
with  you." 

When  his  mother  appeared  with  her  bonnet  on,  Tom 
came  out  to  her  in  the  passage,  and  put  money  into  her 
hands. 

^*My  house  is  yours,  mother,  always,"  he  said.  "You 
will  come  and  let  me  know  everything  you  want — ^you  will 
come  back  to  me." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  took  the  money,  too  frightened  to  say 
anything.  The  only  thing  clear  to  her  was  the  mother's 
instinct,  that  she  would  go  with  her  unhappy  child. 

Maggie  was  waiting  outside  the  gate;  she  took  her 
mother's  hand,  and  they  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"  Mother,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  "  we  will  go  to  Luke's 
cottage.  Luke  will  take  me  in.  He  was  very  good  to  me 
when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"He's  got  no  room  for  us,  my  dear,  now;  his  wife's  got 
so  many  children.  I  don't  know  where  to  go,  if  it  isn't 
to  one  o'  your  aunts;  and  I  hardly  durst,"  said  poor  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  quite  destitute  of  mental  resources  in  this 
extremity, 

Maggie  was  silent  a  little  while,  and  then  said  — 

"Let  us  go  to  Bob  Jakin's,  mother:  his  wife  will  have 
room  for  us  if  they  have  no  other  lodger." 

So  they  went  on  their  way  to  St.  egg's  —  to  the  old 
house  by  the  river-side. 

Bob  himself  was  at  home,  with  a  heaviness  at  heart 
which  resisted  even  the  new  joy  and  pride  of  possessing 
a  two  months'  old  baby,  quite  the  liveliest  of  its  age  that 
had  ever  been  born  to  prince  or  packman.  H#  would 
perhaps  not  so  thoroughly  have  understood  all  the  dubious- 
ness of  Maggie's  appearance  with  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  on  the 
quay  at  Mudport  if  he  had  not  witnessed  the  effect  it  pro- 
duced on  Tom  when  he  went  to  report  it;  and  since  then,  the 
circumstances  which  in  any  case  gave  a  disastrous  charac- 
ter to  her  elopement,  had  passed  beyond  the  more  polite 
circles  of  St.  Ogg's,  and  had  become  matter  of  common 
talk,  accessible  to  the  grooms  and  errand-boys.  So  that 
when  he  opened  the  door  and  saw  Maggie  standing  before 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


464  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FL0S8. 

him  in  her  sorrow  and  weariness,  he  had  no  questions  to 
ask,  except  one  which  he  dared  only  ask  himself,  where  wsls 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest?  Bob,  for  his  part,  hoped  he  might 
he  in  the  warmest  department  of  an  asylum  understood  to 
exist  in  the  other  world  for  gentlemen  who  are  likely  to  be 
in  fallen  circumstances  there. 

Tlie  lodgings  were  vacant,  and  both  Mrs.  Jakin  the 
larger  and  Mrs.  Jakin  the  less  were  commanded  to  make 
all  things  comfortable  for  "  the  old  Missis  and  the  young 
Miss^' — alas  that  she  was  still '^  Miss 'M  The  ingenious 
Bob  was  sorely  perplexed  as  to  how  this  result  could  have 
come  about — how  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  could  have  gone 
away  from  her,  or  could  have  let  her  go  away  from  him, 
when  he  had  the  chance  of  keeping  her  with  him.  But 
he  Wiis  silent,  and  would  not  allow  his  wife  to  ask  him  a 
question;  would  not  present  himself  in  the  room,  lest  it 
sliould  appear  like  intrusion  and  a  desire  to  pry;  having 
the  same  chivalry  toward  dark-eyed  Maggie  as  in  the  days 
when  he  had  bought  her  the  memorable  present  of  books. 

But  after  a  day  or  two  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  gone  to  the 
mill  again  for  a  few  hours  to  see  to  Tom's  household  mat- 
ters. Maggie  had  wished  this:  after  the  first  violent  out- 
burst of  feeling  which  came  as  soon  as  she  had  no  longer 
'any  active  purpose  to  fulfill,  she  was  less  in  need  of  her 
mother's  presence;  she  even  desired  to  be  alone  with  her 
grief.  But  she  had  been  solitary  only  a  little  while  in  the 
old  sitting-room  that  looked  on  the  river,  when  there  came 
a  tap  at  the  door,  and  turning  round  her  sad  face  as  she 
said  *'Come  in,"  she  saw  Bob  enter  with  the  baby  in  his 
arms  and  Mumps  at  his  heels. 

*' We'll  go  back,  if  it  disturbs  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice,  wishing  she  could 
smile. 

Bob,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  came  and  stood  before 
her. 

**  You  see,  we've  got  a  little  un,  Miss,  and  I  wanted  you 
to  look  at  it,  and  take  it  in  your  arms,  if  you'd  be  so  good. 
For  we  made  free  to  name  it  after  you,  and  it  'ud  be  better 
for  your  takin'  a  bit  o'  notice  on  it." 

Maggie  could  not  speak,  but  she  put  out  her  arms  to 
receive  the  tiny  baby,  while  Mumps  snuffed  at  it  anxiously, 
to  ascertain  that  this  transference  was  all  right.  Maggie's 
heart  had  swelled  at  this  action  and  speeoh  of  Bob's:  she 
knew  well  enough  that  it  was  a  way  he  had  chosen  to  show 
his  sympathy  and  respect. 


Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  465 

*'Sit  down.  Bob,"  she  said  presently,  and  he  sat  down 
in  silence,  finding  his  tongue  unmanageable  in  quite  a  new 
fashion,  refusing  to  say  what  he  wanted  it  to  say. 

*^  Bob,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments,  looking  down  at 
the  baby,  and  holding  it  anxiously,  as  if  she  feared  it 
might  slip  from  her  mind  and  her  fingers,  *'I  have  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you." 

"  Don't  you  speak  so.  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grasping  the  skis 
of  Mumps's  neck;  ^'if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
I  should  look  upon  it  as  a  day's  earnings." 

'^  I  want  you  to  go  to  Dr.  Kenn's,  and  ask  to  speak  to 
him,  and  tell  him  that  I  am  here,  and  should  be  very  grate- 
ful if  he  would  come  to  me  while  my  mother  is  away.  She 
will  not  come  back  till  evening." 

^'  Eh,  Miss — I'd  do  it  in  a  minute — it  is  but  a  step;  but 
Dr.  Kenn's  wife  lies  dead — she's  to  be  buried  to-morrow — 
died  the  day  I  come  from  Mudport.  It's  all  the  more  pity 
she  should  ha'  died  ju«t  now,  if  you  want  him.  I  hardly 
like  to  go  a-nigh  him  yet." 

'^  Oh,  no.  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  ''  we  must  let  it  be — till 
after  a  few  days,  perhaps — when  you  hear  that  he  is  going 
about  again.  But  perhaps  he  may  be  going  out  of  town — 
to  a  listance,"  she  added,  with  a  new  sense  of  despondency 
at  this  idea. 

*'  Not  he.  Miss,"  said  Bob.  "  He'll  none  go  away.  He 
isn't  one  o'  them  gentlefolks  as  go  to  cry  at  waterin'- 

S'aces  when  their  wives  die:  he's  got  summat  else  to  do. 
e  looks  fine  an'  sharp  after  the  parish — he  does.  He 
christened  the  little  'un;  an'  he  was  at  me  to  know  what 
I  did  of  a  Sunday,  as  I  didn't  come  to  church.  But  I  told 
him  I  was  upo'  the  travel  three  parts  o'  the  Sundays — an' 
then  I'm  so  used  to  bein'  on  my  legs,  I  can't  sit  so  long  on 
end — '  an'  lors,  sir,'  says  I,  '  a  packman  can  do  wi'  a  small 
'lowance  o'  church:  it  tastes  strong,'  says  I;  'there's  no 
call  to  lay  it  on  thick.'  Eh,  Miss,  how  good  the  lifrtle  un 
is  wi'you!  It's  like  as  if  it  knowed  you:  it  partly  does, 
I'll  be  bound — like  the  birds  know  the  mornin'." 

Bob's  tongue  was  now  evidently  loosed  from  its  unwonted 
bondage,  and  might  even  be  in  danger  of  doing  more 
work  than  was  required  of  it.  But  the  subjects  on  which 
|ie  longed  to  be  informed  wera  so  steep  and  difficult  of 
^.pproach,  that  his  tongue  was  likely  to  run  on  along  ♦^^he 
level  rather  than  to  carry  him  on  that  unbeaten  road.  He 
felt  this,  and  was  sileQt  again  for  a  littje  wbil^^  ruminating 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


466  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

much  on  the  possible  forms  in  which  he  might  put  a  ques- 
tion.    At  hist  he  said,  in  a  more  timid  voice  than  usual — 

"Will  you  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  only  one  thing, 
Miss?" 

Maggie  was  rather  startled,  but  she  answered,  "Yes, 
Bob,  if  it  is  about  myself^not  about  any  one  ehe." 

"Well,  Miss,  it's  this:  Do  you  owe  anybody  a  grudge?*' 

"No,  not  any  one,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him 
inquiringly.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  lors.  Miss,"  said  Bob,  pinching  Mumps's  neck 
harder  than  ever.  "I  wish  you  did — an'  'ud  tell  me  —I'd 
leather  him  till  I  couldn't  see — I  would — ^an'  the  Justice 
miglit  do  what  he  liked  to  me  arter." 

"Oh,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  smiling  faintly,  "you're  a 
very  good  friend  to  me.  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  punish 
any  one,  even  if  they'd  done  me  wrong;  I've  done  wrong 
myself  too  often." 

This  view  of  things  was  puzzling  to  Bob,  and  threw 
more  obscurity  than  ever  over  what  could  possibly  have 
happened  between  Stephen  and  Maggie.  But  further 
questions  would  have  been  too  intrusive,  even  if  he  could 
have  framed  them  suitably,  and  he  was  obliged  to  carry 
baby  away  again  to  an  expectant  mother.  * 

"Happen  you'd  like  Mumps  for  company.  Miss,"  he  said 
when  he  had  taken  the  baby  again.  "  He's  rare  company — 
Mumps  is — he  knows  iverything,  an'  makes  no  bother 
about  it.  If  I  tell  him,  he'll  lie  before  you  an'  watch  you — 
as  still — just  as  he  watches  my  pack.  You'd  better  let  uhe 
leave  him  a  bit;  he'll  get  fond  on  you.  Lors,  it's  a  fine 
thing  to  hev  a  dumb  brute  fond  on  you;  it'll  stick  to  you, 
an'  make  no  jaw." 

"Yes,  do  leave  him,  please,"  said  Maggie.  "I  think  I 
should  like  to  have  Mumps  for  a  friend." 

"Mumps,  lie  down  there,"  said  Bob,  pointing  to  a  place 
in  frrfnt  of  Maggie,  "and  niver  do  you  stir  till  you're 
spoke  to." 

Mumps  lay  down  at  once,  and  made  no  sign  of  restless- 
ness when  hiB  master  left  the  room. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  467 

CHAPTER  II. 

ST.  ogg's  passes  judgment. 

It  was  soon  known  throughout  St.  Ogg's  that  Miss  Tul- 
liver  was  come  back :  she  had  not,  then,  eloped  in  order  to 
be  married  to  Mr.  Stephen  Guest — at  all  events  Mr.  Stephen 
Guest  had'not  married  her — which  came  to  the  same  thing, 
so  far  as  her  culpability  was  concerned.  We  judge  others 
according  to  results;  how  else? — not  knowing  the  process 
by  which  results  ara  arrived  at.  If  Miss  Tulliver,  after  a 
few  months  of  well  chosen  travel,  had  returned  as  Mrs. 
Stephen  Guest — with  a  post-marital  trousseau^  and  all  the 
advantages  possessed  even  by  the  most  unwelcome  wife  of  an 
only  son,  public  opinion,  which  at  St.  Ogg's,  as  elsewhere, 
always  knew  what  to  think,  would  have  judged. in  strict 
consistency  with  those  results.  Public  opinion,  in  these 
cases,  is  always  of  the  feminine  gender — ^not  the  world, 
but  the  world^s  wife:  and  she  would  have  seen,  that  two 
handsome  young  people — the  gentleman  of  quite  the  first 
family  in  St.  Ogg  s — having  found  themselves  in  a  false 
position,  had  been  led  into  a  course  which,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  was  highly  injudicious,  and  productive  of  sad 
pain  and  disappointment,  especially  to  that  sweet  young 
thing.  Miss  Deane.  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  had  certainly  not 
behaved  well;  but  then,  young  men  were  liable  to  those 
sudden  infatuated  attachments;  and  bad  as  it  might  seem 
in  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest  to  admit  the  faintest  advances  from 
her  cousin^s  lover  (indeed,  it  had  been  said  that  she  was 
actually  engaged  to  young  Wakem — old  Wakem  himself 
had  mentioned  it),  still  she  was  very  young — "and  a 
deformed  young  man,  you  know! — and  young  Guest  so 
very  fascinating;  and,  they  say,  he  positively  worships  her 
(to  be  sure,  that  can't  last!)  and  he  ran  away  witn  her 
in  the  boat  quite  against  her  will — and  what  could  she  do? 
She  couldn't  come  back  then:  no  one  would  have  spoken 
to  her;  and  how  very  well  that  maize-colored  satinet te 
becomes  her  complexion!  It  seems  as  if  the  folds  in  front 
were  quite  come  m;  several  of  her  dresses  are  made  so; — 
they  say  he  thinks  nothing  too  handsome  to  buy  for  her. 
Poor  Miss  Deane!  She  is  very  pitiable;  but  then,  there 
was  no  positive  engagement;  and  the  air  at  the  coast  will 
do  her  good,     After  all^  if  young  Guest  felt  no  more  for 

•  Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


468  THE  MILL  OK  THE   FLOSS. 

her  than  that,  it  was  better  for  her  not  to  marry  him. 
What  a  wonderful  marriage  for  a  girl  like  Miss  Tulliver — 
quite  romantic!  Why,  young  Guest  will  put  up  for  the 
borough  at  the  next  election.  Nothing  like  commerce 
nowadays!  That  young  Wakem  nearly  went  out  of  his 
mind — he  always  was  rather  queer;  but  he's  gone  abroad 
again  to  bo  out  of  the  way — quite  the  best  thing  for  a 
deformed  young  man.  Miss  Unit  declares  she  will  never 
visit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest — such  nonsense!  pre- 
tending to  be  better  than  other  people.  Society  couldn't 
be  carried  on  if  we  inquired  into  private  conduct  in  that 
way — and  Christianity  tells  us  to  think  no  evil — and  my 
belief  is,  that  Miss  Unit  had  no  cards  sent  her.^^ 

But  the  results,  we  know,  were  not  of  a  kind  to  warrant 
this  extenuation  of  the  past.  Maggie  had  returned  with- 
out a  trousseau,  without  a  husband — in  that  degraded  and 
outcast  condition  to  which  error  is  well  known  to  lead; 
and  the  world's  wife,  with  that  fine  instinct  which  is  given 
her  for  the  preservation  of  Society,  saw  at  once  that  Miss 
Tulliver's  conduct  had  been  of  the  most  aggravated  kind. 
Could  anything  be  more  detestable?  A  girl  so  much 
indebted  to  her  friends — whose  mother  as  well  as  herself 
had  received  so  much  kindness  from  the  Deanes — to  lay 
the  design  of  winning  a  young  man's  affections  away  from 
her  own  cousin,  who  had  behaved  like  a  sister  to  her! 
AV inning  his  affections?  That  was  not  the  phrase  for  such 
a  girl  as  Miss  Tulliver:  it  would  have  been  more  correct  to 
say  that  she  had  been  actuated  by  mere  unwomanly  bold- 
ness and  unbridled  passion.  There  was  always  something 
questionable  about  her.  That  connection  with  young 
Wukem,  which,  they  said,  had  been  carried  on  for  years, 
looked  very  ill — disgusting,  in  fact!  But  with  a  girl 
of  that  disposition!  To  the  world's  wife  there  had  always 
been  something  in  Miss  Tulliver's  very  physique  that  a 
refined  instinct  felt  to  be  prophetic  of  harm.  As  for  poor 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  he  was  rather  pitiable  than  otherwise: 
a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  is  not  to  be  too  severely 
judged  in  these  cases — he  is  really  very  much  at  the  mercy 
of  a  designing  bold  girl.  And  it  was  clear  that  he  had 
given  way  in  spite  of  himself:  he  had  shaken  her  off  as 
soon  as  he  could;  indeed,  their  having  parted  so  soon 
looked  very  black  indeed— /br  her.  To  be  sure,  he  had 
written  a  letter,  laying  all  the  blame  on  himself,  anu  tell- 
ing the  story  in  a  romantic  fashton  so  as  to  try  and  make 
her  appear  quite  innocent;   of  covirse  he  would  do  th^J 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THR   FINAL   RESCUE.  469 

But  the  refined  instinct  of  the  world's  wife  was  not  to  be 
deceived:  providentially!  —  else  what  would  become  of 
Society?  Why,  her  own  brother  had  turned  her  from  his 
door:  he  had  seen  enough,  you  might  be  sure,  before  he 
would  do  that.  A  truly  respectable  young  man — Mr. 
Tom  Tulliver:  quite  likely  to  rise  in  the  world!  His  sis- 
ter's disgrace  was  naturally  a  heavy  blow  to  him.  It  was 
to  be  hoped  that  she  would  go  out  of  the  neighborhood — to 
America,  or  anywhere — so  as  to  purify  the  air  of  St.  Ogg's 
from  the  taint  of  her  presence,  extremely  dangerous  to 
daughters  there!  No  good  could  happen  to  her:  it  was 
only  to  be  hoped  she  would  repent,  and  that  God  would 
have  mercy  on  her:  He  had  not  the  care  of  Society  on  His 
hands — as  the  world's  wife  had. 

It  required  nearly  a  fortnight  for  -fine  instinct  to  assure 
itself  of  these  inspirations;  indeed,  it  was  a  whole  week 
before  Stephen's  letter  came,  telling  his  father  the  facts, 
and  adding  that  he  was  gone  across  to  Holland  —  had 
drawn  upon  the  a^ent  at  Mudport  for  money — was  incap- 
able of  any  resolution  at  present. 

Maggie,  all  this  while,  was  too  entirely  filled  with  a 
more  agonizing  anxiety  to  spend  any  thought  on  the  view 
that  was  being  taken  of  her  conduct  by  the  world  of  St. 
egg's:  anxiety  about  Stephen  —  Lucy  —  Philip  —  beat  on 
her  poor  heart  in  a  hard,  driving,  ceaseless  storm  of  mingled 
love,  remorse,  and  pity.  If  she  had  thought  of  rejection 
and  injustice  at  all,  it  would  have  seemed  to  her  that  they 
had  done  their  worst  —  that  she  could  hardly  feel  any 
stroke  from  them  intolerable  since  the  words  she  had  heard 
from  her  brother's  lips.  Across  all  her  anxiety  for  the 
loved  and  the  injured,  those  words  shot  again  and  again, 
like  a  horrible  pang  that  would  have  brought  misery  and 
dread  even  into  a  heaven  of .  delights.  The  idea  of  ever 
recovering  happiness  never  glimmered  in  her  mind  for  a 
moment;  it  seemed  as  if  every  sensitive  fibre  in  her  were 
too  entirely  preoccupied  by  pain  ever  to  vibrate  again  to 
another  influence.  Life  stretched  before  her  as  one  act  of 
penitence,  and  all  she  craved,  as  she  dwelt  on  her  future 
lot,  was  something  to  guarantee  her  from  more  falling: 
her  own  weakness  haunted  her  like  a  vision  of  hideous 
possibilities,  that  made  no  peace  conceivable  except  such 
as  lay  in  the  sense  of  a  sure  refuge. 

But  she  was  not  without  practical  intentions:  the  love  of 
independence  was  too  strong  an  inheritance  and  a  habit  for 
her  not  to  remember  that  she  must  get  her  bread;  and 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


470  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

when  other  projects  looked  vague,  she  fell  back  on  that  of 
returning  to  her  i)lain  sewing,  and  so  getting  enough 
to  pay  for  her  lodging  at  Bob  s.  She  meant  to  persuade 
her  mother  to  return  to  the  Mill  by-and-by,  and  live  with 
Tom  again;  and  somehow  or  other  she  would  maintain 
herself  at  St.  Ogg's.  Dr.  Kenn  would  perhaps  help  her 
and  advise  her.  She  remembered  his  parting  words  at 
the  bazaar.  She  remembered  the  momentary  feeling  of 
reliance  that  had  sprung  in  her  when  he  was  talking  with 
her,  and  she  waited  with  yearning  expectation  for  the 
opportunity  of  confiding  everything  to  him.  Her  mother 
called  every  day  at  Mr.  Deane's  to  learn  how  Lucy  was: 
the  report  was  always  sad — nothing  had  yet  roused  hor 
from  the  feeble  passivity  which  had  come  on  with  the  first 
shock.  But  of  rhilip,  Mrs.  TuUiverhad  learned  nothing: 
naturally,  no  one  whom  she  met  would  speak  to  her  about 
what  related  to  her  daughter.  But  at  last  she  summoned 
courage  to  go  and  see  sister  Glegg,  who  of  course  would 
know  everything,  and  had  been  even  to  see  Tom  at  the 
Mill  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  absence,  though  he  had  said  nothing 
of  what  had  passed  on  the  occasion. 

As  soon  as  her  mother  was  gone,  Maggie  put  on  her 
bonnet.  She  had  resolved  on  walking  to  the  rectory  and 
asking  to  see  Dr.  Kenn:  he  was  in  deep  grief — but  the 
grief  of  another  does  not  jar  upon  us  in  such  circum- 
stances. It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  beyond  the 
door  since  her  return;  nevertheless  her  mind  was  so  bent 
on  the  purpose  of  her  walk,  that  the  unpleasantness  of 
meeting  people  on  the  way,  and  being  stared  at,  did  not 
occur  to  ner.  But  she  had  no  sooner  passed  beyond  the 
narrower  streets  which  she  had  to  thread  from  Bob's  dwell- 
ing, than  she  became  aware  of  unusual  glances  cast  at  her; 
and  this  consciousness  made  her  hurry  along  nervously, 
afraid  to  look  to  right  or  left.  Presently,  however,  she 
came  full  on  Mrs.  and  Miss  Turnbull,  old  acquaintances  of 
her  family;  they  both  looked  at  her  strangely,  and  turned  a 
little  aside  without  speaking.  All  hard  looks  were  pain  to 
Maggie,  but  her  seli-reproach  was  too  strong  for  resent- 
ment: no  wonder  they  will  not  speak  to  me,  she  thought — 
they  are  very  fond  of  Lucy.  But  now  she  knew  that  she 
was  about  to  pass  a  group  of  gentlemen,  who  were  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  billiard-rooms,  and  she  could  not 
help  seeing  young  Torry  step  out  a  little  with  his  glass  at 
his  eye,  and  bow  to  her  with  that  air  of  nonchalande  which 
he  might  have  bestowed  on  a  friendly  bar-maid.     Maggie's 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  BESCUB.  '471 

pride  was  toe  intense  for  her  not  to  feel  that  sting,  even 
m  the  midst  of  her  sorrow;  and  for  the  first  time  the 
thought  took  strong  hold  of  her  that  she  would  have 
other  obloquy  cast  on  her  besides  that  which  was  felt  to 
be  due  to  her  breach  of  faith  toward  Lucy.  But  she 
was  at  the  rectory  now;  there,  perhaps,  she  would  find 
something  else  than  retribution.  Retribution  may  come 
from  any  voice:  the  hardest,  crudest,  most  imbruted  urchin 
at  the  street-corner  can  inflict  it:  surely  help  and  pity  are 
rarer  things — more  needful  for  the  righteous  to  bestow. 

She  was  shown  up  at  once,  after  being  announced,  into 
Dr.  Kenn^s  study,  where  he  sat  among  piled-up  books,  for 
which  he  had  little  appetite,  leaning  his  cheek  against  the 
head  of  his  youngest  child,  a  girl  of  three.  The  child 
was  sent  away  with  the  servant,  and  when  the  door  was 
closed.  Dr.  Kenn  said,  placing  at^hair  for  Maggie — 

^'I  was  coming  to  see  you.  Miss  Tulliver;  you  have 
anticipated  me;  I  am  glad  you  did.^' 

Maggie  looked  at  him  with  her  childlike  directness  as 
she  had  done  at  the  bazaar,  and  said,  ^^I  want  to  tell  you 
everything.^'  But  her  eyes  filled  fast  with  tears  as  she 
said  it,  and  all  the  pent-up  excitement  of  her  humiliating 
walk  would  have  its  vent  before  she  could  say  more. 

'^Do  tell  me  everything,"  Dr.  Kenn  said,  with  quiet 
kindness  in  his  grave,  firm  voice.  *' Think  of  me  as  one 
to  whom  a  long  experience  has*  been  granted,  which  may 
enable  him  to  help  you." 

In  rather  broken  sentences,  and  with  some  effort  at  first, 
but  soon  with  the  greater  ease  that  came  from  a  sense  ef 
relief  in  the  confidence,  Maggie  told  the  brief  story  of  a 
struggle  that  must  be  the  beginning  of  a  long- sorrow. 
Only  the  day  before.  Dr.  Kenn  had  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  contents  of  Stephen's  letter,  and  he  had  oelieved 
them  at  once,  without  the  confirmation  of  Maggie's  state- 
ment. That  involuntary  plaint  of  hers,  ^'Oh,  I  must  go" 
had  remained  with  him  as  the  sign  that  she  was  under- 
going some  inward  conflict. 

Maggie  dwelt  the  longest  on  the  feeling  which  had  made 
her  come  back  to  her  mother  and  brother,  which  made  her 
cling  to  all  the  memories  of  the  past.  When  she  had 
ended.  Dr.  Kenn  was  silent  for  some  minutes:  thero  was 
a  difficulty  on  his  mind.  He  rose,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  hearth  with  his  hands  behind  him.  At  last  he 
seated  himself  again,  and  said,  looking  at  Maggie — 

^'Your  prompting  to  go  to  your  nearest  friends — to 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ IC 


472  THE  MILL  ON  THE  1  LO^S. 

remain  where  all  the  ties  of  your  life  have  been  formed — 
is  a  true  prompting,  to  which  the  Church  in  its  original 
constitution  and  discipline  responds — opening  its  arms  to 
the  penitent — watching  over  its  children  to  the  last — 
never  abandoning  them  until  they  are  hopelessly  repro- 
bate. And  the  Church  ought  to  represent  the/ feeling  of 
the  community,  so  that  every  parisn  should  be  a  family 
knit  together  »y  Christian  brotnerhood  under  a  spiritual 
father.  But  the  ideas  of  discipline  and  Christian  fra- 
ternity are  entirely  relaxed — they  can  hardly  be  said  to 
exist  m  the  public  mind:  they  hardly  survive  except  in  the 
partial,  contradictory  form  they  have  taken  in  the  narrow 
communities  of  schismatics;  and  if  I  were  not  supported 
by  the  firm  faith  that  the  Church  must  ultimately  recover 
the  full  force  of  that  constitution  which  is  alone  fitted  to 
human  needs,  I  should  often  lose  heart  at  observing  the 
want  of  fellowship  and  sense  of  mutual  responsibility 
among  my  own  nock.  At  present  everything  seems 
tending  toward  the  relaxation  of  ties — toward  the  sub- 
stitution of  wayward  choice  for  thei adherence  to  obligation, 
which  has  its  roots  in  the  past.  Your  conscience  and 
your  heart  have  given  you  true  light  on  this  point.  Miss 
Tulliver;  and  I  have  said  all  this  that  you  may  know 
what  my  wish  about  you — what  my  advice  to  you  — 
would  be,  if  they  sprang  from  my  own  feeling  and  opinion 
unmodified  by  counteracting  circumstances.^' 

Dr.  Kenn  paused  a  little  while.  There  was  an  entire 
absence  of  effusive  benevolence  in  his  manner;  there  was 
something  almost  cold  in  the  gravity  of  his  look  and  voice. 
If  Maggie  had  not  known  that  his  benevolence  was  perse- 
vering in  proportion  to  its  reserve,  she  might  have  been 
chilled  and  frightened.  As  it  was,  she  listened  expect- 
antly, quite  sure  that  there  would  be  some  effective  help 
in  his  words.     He  went  on. 

*^Your  inexperience  of  the  world.  Miss  Tulliver,  pre- 
vents you  from  anticipating  fully  the  very  unjust  concep- 
tions that  will  probably  be  formed  concerning  your  con- 
duct—  conceptions  which  will  have  a  baneful  effect,  even 
in  spite  of  known  evidence  to  disprove  them.*' 

''Oh,  I  do  —  I  begin  to  see,'' said  Maggie,  unable  to 
repress  this  utterance  of  her  recent  pain.  '*  I  know  I  shall 
be  insulted:  I  shall  be  thought  worse  than  I  am." 

"You  perhaps  do  not  yet  know," said  Dr.  Kenn,  with  a 
touch  of  more  personal  pity,  "that  a  letter  is  come  whicii 
ought  to  satisfy  every  one  who  has  known  anything  of  you^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   FIl^^^AL   RESCUE.  473 

that  you  chose  the  steep  and  difficult  path  of  a  return  to 
the  right,  at  the  moment  when  thai  return  was  most  of  all 
difficult/' 

"  Oh — where  is  he? ''  said  poor  Maggie,  with  a  flush  and 
tremor  that  no  presence  could  have  hindered. 

'^He  is  gone  abroad:  he  has  written  of  all  that  passed 
to  his  father.  He  has  vindicated  you  to  the  utmost;  and 
I  hope  the  communication  of  that  fetter  to  your  cousin  will 
have  a  beneficial  effect  on  her." 

Dr.  Kenn  waited  for  her  to  get  calm  again  before  he 
went  on. 

*^That  letter,  as  I  said,  ought  to  suffice  to  prevent  false 
impressions  concerning  you.  But  I  am  bound  to  tell  you. 
Miss  Tulliver,  that  not  only  the  experience  of  my  whole 
life,  but  my  observation  within  the  last  thr^e  days,  makes 
me  fear  that  there  is  hardly  any  evidence  which  will  save 
you  from  the  painful  effect  of  false  imputations.  The 
persons  who  are  the  most  incapable  of  a  conscientious 
struggle  such  as  yours,  are  precisely  those  who  will  be 
likely  to  shrink  from  you;  because  they  will  not  believe  in 
your  struggle.  I  fear  your  life  here  will  be  attended  not 
only  with  much  pain,  but  with  many  obstructions.  For 
this  reason — and  for  this  only — I  ask  you  to  consider 
whether  it  will  not  perhaps  be  better  for  you  to  take  a  sit- 
uation at  a  distance,  according  to  your  former  intention. 
I  will  exert  myself  at  once  to  obtain  one  for  you.^' 

^' Oh,  if  I  could  but  stop  here!" said  Maggie.  ^*I  have 
no  heart  to  begin  a  strange  life  again.  I  should  have  no 
stay.  I  should  feel  like  a  lonely  wanderer — cut  off  from 
the  past.  I  have  written  to  the  lady  who  offered  me  a  sit- 
uation to  excuse  myself.  If  I  remained  here,  I  could  per- 
haps atone  in  some  way  to  Lucy  —  to  others:  I  could 
convince  them  that  I^m  sorry.  And,"  she  added,  with 
some  of  the  old  proud  fire  flashing  out,  "I  will  not  go 
away  because  people  say  false  things  of  me.  They  shall 
learn  to  retract  them.  If  I  must  go  away  at  last,  because — 
because  others  wish  it,  I  will  not  go  now." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Kenn,  after  some  consideration,  **  if 
you  determine  on  that,  Miss  Tulliver,  you  may  rely  on  all 
the  influence  my  position  gives  me.  I  am  bound  to  aid 
and  countenance  you  by  the  very  duties  of  my  office  as  a 
parish  priest.  I  will  add,  that  personally  I  have  a  deep 
interest  in  your  peace  of  mind  and  welfare." 

"  The  only  thing  I  want  is  some  occupation  that  will 
enable  me  to  get  my  bread  and  b^  independent, **  said 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


474  THE  MILL  OK  THB  FLOSS. 

Maggie.  '^  I  shall  no*;  want  much.  I  can  go  on  lodging 
where  I  am.'' 

"  I  must  think  over  the  subiect  maturely/'  said  Dr. 
Kenn,  *'and  in  a  few  days  I  shaU  be  better  able  to  ascer- 
tain the  general  feeling.  I  shall  come  to  see  you:  I  shall 
bear  you  constantly  in  mind." 

When  Maggie  had  left  him.  Dr.  Kenn  stood  ruminating 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  car- 
pet, under  a  painful  sense  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  The 
tone  of  Stephen's  letter,  which  he  had  read,  and  the  actual 
relation  of  all  persons  concerned,  forced  upon  him  power- 
fully the  idea  of  «n  ultimate  marriage  between  Stephen  and 
Maggie  as  the  least  evil;  and  the  impossibility  of  their 
proximity  in  St.  Og^s  on  any  other  supposition,  until 
after  years  of  separation,  threw  an  insurmountable  pros- 

Eective  difficulty  over  Maggie's  stay  there.  On  the  other 
and,  he  entered  with  afi  the  comprehension  of  a  man 
who  had  known  spiritual  conflict,  and  lived  through  years 
of  devoted  service  to  his  fellow-men,  into  that  state  of 
Maggie's  heart  and  conscience  which  made  the  consent  to 
the  marriage  a  desecration  to  her:  her  conscience  must  not 
be  tamper^  with:  the  principle  on  which  she  had  acted 
was  a  safer  guide  than  any  balancing  of  consequences. 
His  experience  told  him  that  intervention  was  too  dubious 
a  responsibility  to  be  lightly  incurred:  the  possible  issue 
either  of  an  endeavor  to  restore  the  former  relations  with 
Lucy  and  Philip,  or  of  counseling  submission  to  this 
irruption  of  a  new  feeling,  was  hidden  in  a  darkness  all 
the  more  impenetrable  because  each  immediate  step  was 
clogged  with  evil. 

The  great  problem  of  the  shifting  relation  between 
passion  and  duty  is  clear  to  no  man  who  is  capable  of 
apprehending  it:  the  question  whether  the  moment  has 
come  in  which  a  man  has  fallen  below  the  possibility  of  a 
renunciation  that  will  carry  any  efficacy,  and  must  accept 
the  sway  of  a  passion  against  which  he  had  struggled  as  a 
trespass,  is  one  for  which  we  have  no  master-key  that  will 
fit  all  cases.  The  casuists  have  become  a  byword  of 
reproach;  but  their  perverted  spirit  of  ipinute  discrimina- 
tion was  the  shadow  of  a  truth  to  which  eyes  and  hearts 
are  too  often  fatally  sealed — the  truth,  that  moml  judg- 
ments must  remain  false  and  hollow,  unless  they  are 
checked  and  enlightened  by  a  perpetual  reference  to  the 
special  circumstances  that  mark  the  individual  lot. 
All  people  of  J)road^  strong  sense  have  an  instinctive 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FIKAL  RESCUB.  ^15 

repugnance  to  men  of  maxims;  because  such  people  early 
discern  that  the  mysterious  complexity  of  our  life  is  not  to 
be  embraced  by  maxims,  and  that  to  lace  ourselves  up  in 
formulas  of  that  sort  is  to  rej)ress  all  the  divine  prompt- 
ings and  inspirations  that  spring  from  growing  insight  and 
sympathy.  And  the  man  of  maxims  is  the  popular  repre- 
sentative of  minds  that  are  guided  iti  their  moral  Judg- 
ment solely  by  general  rules,  thinking  that  these  will  lead 
them  to  justice  by  a  ready-made  patent  method,  without 
the  trouble  of  exerting  patience,  discrimination,  impar- 
tiality— without  any  care  to  assure  themselves  whether  they 
have  the  insight  that  comes  from  a  hardly  earned  estimate 
of  temptation,  or  from  a  life  vivid  and  intense  enough  to 
have  created  a  wide  fellow-feeling  with  all  that  is  human. 


CHAPTER   III. 


SHOWING  THAT  OLD  ACQUAINTANCES  ABE  CAPABLE 
OF  SURPRISING   US. 

"When  Maggie  was  at  home  again,  her  mother  brought 
her  news  of  an  unexpected  line  of  conduct  in  aunt  Glegg. 
As  long  as  Maggie  had  not  been  heard  of,  Mrs.  Glegg  had 
half  closed  her  shutters  and  drawn  down  her  blinds:  she 
felt  assured  that  Maggie  was  drowned:  that  was  far  more 
probable  than  that  her  niece,  and  legatee  should  have  done 
anything  to  wound  the  family  honor  in  the  tenderest  point. 
When  at  last  she  learned  from  Tom  that  Maggie  had  come 
home,  and  gathered  from  him  what  was  her  explanation  of 
her  absence,  she  burst  forth  in  severe  reproof  of  Tom  for 
admitting  the  worst  of  his  sister  until  he  was  compelled. 
If  you  were  not  to  stand  by  your  "  kin  '^  as  long  as  there 
was  a  shred  of  honor  attribii table  to  them,  pray  what 
were  you  to  stand  by?  Lightly  to  admit  conduct  in  one 
of  your  own  family  that  would  force  you  to  alter  your  will, 
had  never  been  the  way  of  the  Dodsons;  and  though  Mrs. 
Glegg  had  always  augured  ill  of  Maggie^s  future  at  a  time 
when  other  people  were  perhaps  less  clear-sighted,  yet  f air- 
play was  a  jewel,  and  it  was  not  for  her  own  friends  to 
help  to  rob  the  girl  of  her  fair  fame,  and  to  cast  her  out 
from  family  shelter  to  the  scorn  of  the  outer  world,  until 
fihe  had  become  unequivocally  a  family  disgrace.     The  cir 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


476  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

fumstances  were  unprecedented  in  Mrs.  Glegg^s  experi- 
ence— nothing  of  that  kind  had  happened  among  the  Dod- 
sons  before;  but  it  was  a  case  in  which  her  nereditary 
rectitude  and  personal  strength  of  character  found  a  com- 
mon channel  along  with  her  fundamental  ideas  of  clanship, 
as  they  did  in  her  life-long  regard  to  equity  in  money  mat- 
ters. She  quarreled  with  Mr.  Glegg,  whose  kindness, 
flowing  entirely  into  compassion  for  Lucy,  made  him  as 
hard  in  his  judgment  of  Maggie  as  Mr.  Deane  himself  was; 
and,  fuming  against  her  sister  Tulliver  because  she  did 
not  at  once  come  to  her  for  advice  and  help,  shut  herself 
up  in  her  own  room  with  Baxter's  ^'Saints'  Rest*'  from 
morning  till  night,  denying  herself  to  all  visitors,  till  Mr. 
Glegg  brought  from  Mr.  Deane  the  news  of  Stephen's 
letter.  Then  Mrs.  Glegg  felt  that  she  had  adequate  fight- 
iiig-ground — then  she  laid  aside  Baxter,  and  was  ready  to 
meet  all  comers.  While  Mrs.  Pullet  could  do  nothing  but 
shake  her  head  and  cry,  and  wish  that  cousin  Abbott  had 
died,  or  any  number  of  funerals  had  happened  rather  than 
this,  which  had  never  happened  before,  so  that  there  was 
no  knowing  how  to  act,  and  Mrs.  Pullet  could  never  enter 
St.  Ogg's  again,  because  *S*icquaintances"  knew  of  it  all, — 
Mrs.  (jlegg  only  hoped  that  Mrs.  WooU,  or  any  one  else, 
would  come  to  her  with  their  false  tales  about  her  own 
niece,  and  she  would  know  what  to  say  to  that  ill-advised 
person! 

Again  she  had  a  scene  of  remonstrance  with  Tom,  all 
the  more  severe  in  proportion  to  the  greater  strength  of 
her  present  position.  But  Tom,  like  other  immovable 
things,  seemed  only  the  more  rigidly  fixed  under  that 
attempt  to  shake  him.  Poor  Tom!  he  judged  by  what  he 
had  been  able  to  see;  and  the  judgment  was  painful 
enough  to  himself.  He  thought  he  had  the  demonstration 
of  facts  observed  through  years  by  his  own  eyes  which  gave 
no  warning  of  their  imperfection,  that  Maggie's  nature 
was  utterly  untrustworthy,  and  too  strongly  marked  with 
evil  tendencies  to  be  safely  treated  with  leniency:  he  would 
act  on  that  demonstration  at  any  cost;  but  the  thought  of 
it  made  his  days  bitter  to  him.  Tom,  like  every  one  of  us, 
was  imprisoned  within  the  limits  of  his  own  nature,  and 
his  education  had  simply  glided  over  him,  leaving  a  slight 
deposit  of  polish:  if  you  are  inclined  to  be  severe  on  nis 
severity,  remember  that  the  responsibility  of  tolerance 
lies  with  those  who  have  the  wider  vision.  There  had 
arisen  in  Tom  a  repulsion  toward  Maggie  that  derived  its 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  477 

very  intensity  from  their  early  childish  love  in  the  time 
when  they  had  clasped  tiny  fingers  together,  and  their 
later  sense  of  nearness  in  a  common  duty  and  a  common  - 
sorrow:  the  sight  of  her,  as  he  had  told  her,  was  hate- 
ful to  him.  In  this  branch  of  the  Dodson  family  aunt 
Glegg  found  a  stronger  nature  than  her  own — a  nature 
in  which  family  feeling  had  lost  the  character  of  clan- 
ship bv'  taking  on  a  doubly  deep  dye  of  personal  pride. 
Mrs.  Glegg  allowed  that  Maggie  ought  to  be  punished — 
she  was  not  a  woman  to  deny  that — she  knew  what 
conduct  was;  but  punished  in  proportion  to  the  misdeeds 
proved  against  her,  not  to  those  which  were  cast  upon  her 
by  people  outside  her  own  family,  who  might  wish  to  show 
that  their  own  kin  were  better.        ^ 

^^  Your  aunt  Glegg  scolded  me  so  as  niver  was,  my  dear,^* 
said  poor  Mrs.  Tul liver,  when  she  came  back  to  Maggie, 
"  as  1  didn't  go  to  her  befoi^;  she  said  it  wasn't  for  her  to 
come  to  me  first.  But  she  spoke  like  a  sister,  too:  having 
she  always  was,  and  hard  to  please — oh,  dear! — but  she's 
said  the  kindest  word  as  has  ever  been  spoken  by  you  yet, 
my  child.  For  she  says,  for  all  she's  been  so  set  again' 
having  one  extry  in  the  house,  and  making  extry  spoons 
and  things,  and  putting  her  about  in  her  ways,  you  shall 
have  a  shelter  in  her  house,  if  you'll  go  to  her  dutiful,  and 
she'll  uphold  vou  against  folks  as  say  harm  of  you  when 
they've  no  call.  And  I  told  her  I  thought  you  couldn't 
bear  to  see  anybody  but  me,  you  were  so  beat  down  with 
trouble;  but  she  said,  */  won't  throw  ill  woyds  at  her: 
there's  them  out  o'  th'  family  'ull  be  ready  enough  to  do 
that.  But  I'll  give  her  good  advice;  and  she  must  be 
humble.'  It's  wonderful  o'  Jane;  for  I'm  sure  she  ifted  to 
throw  everything  I  did  wrong  at  me — if  it  was  the  raisin- 
wine  as  turned  out  bad,  or  the  pies  too  hot — or  whativer 
it  was." 

*^  Oh,  mother,"  said  poor  Maggie,  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  all  the  contact  her  bruised  mind  would  have  to 
bear,  ^'  tell  her  I'm  very  grateful:  I'll  go  to  see  her  as  soon  as 
I  can;  but  I  can't  see  any  one  just  yet,  except  Dr.  Kenn. 
I've  been  to  him  —  he  will  advise  me,  and  help  me  to  get 
some  occupation.  I  can't  live  with  any  one,  or  be 
dependent  on  them,  tell  aunt  Glegg;  I  must  get  my  own 
bread.  But  did  you  hear  nothing  of  Philip  —  Philip 
Wakem?  Have  you  never  seen  any  one  that  has  men- 
tioned him?" 

''Ko,  my  dear;  but  I've  been  to  Luay's,  and  I  saw  your 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


478  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

undo,  and  he  says  they  got  her  to  listen  to  the  letter,  and 
she  took  notice  o^  Miss  Guest^  and  asked  questions,  and 
the  doctor  thinks  she's  Sn  the  turn  to  be  better.  What  a 
world  this  is — what  trouble,  oh,  dear!  The  law  was  the 
first  beginning,  and  it's  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  all  of  a 
sudden,  just  when  the  luck  seemed  on  the  turn/'  This 
was  the  first  lamentation  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  let  slip  to 
Maggie,  but  old  habit  had  been  revived  by  the  interview 
with  sister  Glegg. 

**  My  poor,  poor  mother! ''  Maggie  burst  out,  cut  to  the 
heart  with  pity  and  compunction,  and  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  mother's  neck;  ^'I  was  always  naughty  and 
troublesome  to  you.  And  now  you  might  have  been  happy 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  nfe." 

"Eh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  leaning  toward  the 
warm  young  cheek;  '^  I  must  put  up  wi'  my  children  —  I 
shall  never  have  no  more;  and  if  thejj  bring  me  bad  luck, 
I  must  be  fond  on  it — there's  nothing  else  much  to  be 
fond  on,  for  my  f urnitur'  went  long  ago.  And  you'd  got  to 
be  very  good  once;  I  can't  think  how  it's  turned  out  the 
wrong  way  so!" 

Still  two  or  three  more  days  passed,  and  Maggie  heard 
nothing  of  Philip;  anxiety  about  him  was  becoming  her 
predominant  trouble,  and  she  summoned  courage  at  last  to 
inquire  about  him  of  Dr.  Kenn,  on  his  next  visit  to  her. 
He  did  not  even  know  if  Philip  was  at  home.  The  elder 
Wakem  was  made  moody  bv  an  accumulation  of  annoyance: 
the  disappointment  in  this  young  Jetsome,  to  whom, 
apparently,  he  was  a  good  deal  attached,  had  been  followed 
close  by  the  catastrophe  to  his  son's  hopes  after  he  had 
done  violence  to  his  own  strong  feeling  by  conceding  to 
them,  and  had  incautiously  mentioned  this  boncession  in 
St.  Ogg's, — and  he  was  almost  fierce  in  his  brusqueness 
when  any  one  asked  him  a  question  about  his  son.  But 
Philip  could  hardly  have  been  ill,  or  it  would  have  been 
known  through  the  calling  in  of  the  medical  man;  it  was 
probable  that  he  had  gone  out  of  the  town  for  a  little  while. 
Maggie  sickened  under  thig  suspense,  and  her  imagination 
began  to  live  more  and  more  persistently  in  what  Philip 
was  enduring.     What  did  he  believe  about  her? 

At  last  Bob  brought  her  a  letter,  without  a  post-mark, 
directed  in  a  hand  which  she  knew  familiarly  in  the  letters 
of  her  own  name— a  hand  in  which  her  name  had  been 
written  long  ago^  in  a  pocket  Shakespeare  which  she  pos- 


DigitizedbyVjOOQlC  ^ 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  479 

sessed.  Her  mother  was  in  the  room,  and  Maggie,  'in 
violent  agitation,  hurried  up-stairs  that  she  might  read  the 
letter  in  solitude.     She  read  it  ^h  a  throbbing  brow. 

Maggie, — I  believe  in  you — I  know  you  never  meant  to  deceive 
me — I  know  you  tried  to  keep  faith  to  me,  and  to  all.  I  believed  this 
before  I  had  any  other  evidence  of  it  than  your  own  nature.  The 
night  after  I  last  parted  from  you  I  suffered  torments.  I  had  seen 
what  convinced  me  that  you  were  not  free,  that  there  was  another 
whose  presence  had  a  power  over  you  which  mine  never  possessed; 
but  through  all  th^suggestions — almost  miu'derous  suggestions — of 
rage  and  jealousy,  my  mmd  made  its  way  to  believe  in  your  truthful- 
ness. I  was  sure  that  you  meant  to  cleave  to  me,  as  you  had  said; 
that  you  had  rejected  him;  that  you  struggled  to  renounce  him,  for 
Lucy's  sake  and  for  mine.  But  1  could  see  no  issue  that  was  not  fatal 
for  you;  and  that  dread  shut  out  the  very  thought  of  resignation.  I 
foresaw  that  he  would  not  relinquish  you,  and  I  believed  then,  as  I 
belie\^  now,  that  the  strong  attraction  which  drew  you  together  pro- 
ceeded only  from  one  side  of  your  characters,  and  belonged  to  that 
partial,  divided  action  of  our  nature  which  makes  half  the  tragedy  of 
the  human  lot.  I  have  felt  the  vibration  of  chords  in  your  nature 
that  I  have  continually  felt  the  want  of  in  his.  But  perhaps  I  am 
wrong;  perhaps  I  feel  about  you  as  the  artist  does  about  the  scene 
over  which  his  soul  has  brooded  with  love:  he  would  tremble  to  see 
it  confided  to  other  hands;  he  would  never  believe  that  it  could  bear 
for  another  all  the  meaning  and  the  beauty  it  bears  for  him. 

I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  see  you  that  morning;  I  was  filled  with 
selfish'passion;  I  was  shattered  by  a  night  of  conscious  delirium.  I  told 
you  long  ago  that  I  had  never  been  resigned  even  to  the  mediocrity  of 
my  powers:  how  could  I  be  resigned  to  the  loss  of  the  one  thing 
which  had  ever  come  to  me  on  earth,  with  the  promise  of  such  deep 
joy  as  wpuld  give  a  new  and  blessed  meaning  to  the  foregoing  pain — 
the  promise  of  another  self  that  would  lift  my  aching  affection  into  the 
-divine  rapture  of  an  ever-springing,  ever  satisfied  want? 

But  the  miseries  of  that  night  had  prepared  me  for  what  came  before 
the  next.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me.  I  was  certain  that  he  had  pre- 
vailed on  you  to  sacrifice  everything  to  him,  and  I  waited  with  equal 
certainty  to  hear  of  your  marriage.  I  measured  your  love  and  his  by 
my  own.  But  I  was  wrong,  Maggie.  There  is  something  stronger  in 
you  than  your  love  for  him. 

I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  went  through  in  that  interval.  But  even 
in  its  utmost  agony — even  in  those  terrible  throes  that  love  must  suffer 
before  it  can  be  disembodied  of  selfish  desire — my  love  for  you  suf- 
ficed to  withhold  me  from  suicide,  without  the  aid  of  any  other 
motive.  In  the  midst  of  my  egoism,  I  yet  could  not  bear  to  come 
like  a  death-shadow  across  the  &,st  of  your  joy.  I  could  not  bear  to 
forsake  the  world  in  which  you  still  lived  and  might  need  me;  it  was 
part  of  the  faith  I  had  vowed  to  you — to  wait  and  endure.  Maggie, 
that  is  a  proof  of  what  I  write  now  to  assure  you  of — that  no  anguish 
I  have  bad  to  bear  on  your  account  has  been  too  heavy  a  price  to  pay 
for  the  new  life  into  which  I  have  entered  in  loving  you.  I  want  you 
to  put  aside  all  grief  because  of  the  grief  you  have  caused  me.  I  was 
nurtured  in  the  sense  of  privation;  I  never  expected  happiness;  and 
ip  knowing  you,  in  loving  you,  I  have  had,  and  still  have,  whatrepoft- 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


480  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ci\es  me  to  life.  You  have  been  to  my  affections  what  light,  what 
color  i'  to  my  eyes — what  music  is  to  the  inward  ear;  you  have  raised 
a  dim  imrest  into  a  vivid  consciousness.  The  new  life  I  have  found 
in  caring  for  your  joy  and  stlrow  more  than  for  what  is  directly  my 
own,  has  transformed  the  spririt  of  rebellious  murmuring  into  that 
willing  endurance  which  is  the  birth  of  strong  sympathy.  I  think 
nothing  but  such  complete  and  intense  love  coula  have  initiated  me 
into  that  enlarged  life  which  grows  and  grows  by  appropriating  the 
life  of  others;  for  before,  I  was  always  dragged  back  from  it  by  evcr- 
l^resent  painful  self-consciousness.  I  even  think  sometimes  that  this 
gift  of  transfeiTed  life  which  has  come  to  me  in  loving  you,  may  be  a 
new  power  to  me. 

Then — dear  one — in  spite  of  all,  you  have  beep  the  blessing  of  my 
life.  Let  no  self-reproach  weigh  on  you  because  of  me.  It  is  I  who 
should  rather  reproach  myself  for  having  lu-ged  my  feehngs  upon 
you,  and  huniea  you  into  words  that  you  have  felt  as  fetters.  You 
meant  to  be  true  to  those  words;  you  Jiave  been  true.  I  can  measure 
your  sacrifice  by  what  I  have  known  in  onljr  one  half -hour  of  your 
presence  with  me,  when  I  dreamed  that  you  might  love  me  best.  i3ut, 
Maggie,  I  have  no  just  claim  on  you  for  more  than  affecnonate 
remembrance. 

For  some  time  I  have  shnmk  from  writing  to  you,  because  I  have 
shrunk  even  from  the  appearance  of  wishing  to  thrust  myself  before 
you,  and  so  repeating  my  original  error.  But  you  will  not  miscon- 
strue me.  I  know  that  we  must  keep  apart  for  a  long  while;  crue\ 
tongues  would  force  us  apart,  if  notliing  else  did.  But  I  shall  not  go 
away.  The  place  where  you  are  is  the  one  where  my  mind  must  live, 
wherever  I  might  travel.  And  remember  that  I  am  unchangeably 
yours:  yours — not  with  selfish  wishes,  but  with  a  devotion  that 
excludes  such  wishes. 

God  comfort  you, — my  loving,  large -souled  Maggie.  If  every- 
one else  has  misconceived  you,  remember  you  have  never  been 
doubted  by  him  whose  heart,  recognized  you  ten  years  ago. 

Do  not  believe  any  one  who  says  I  am  ill,  because  I  am.  not  seen 
out  of  doors.  I  have  only  had  nervous  headaches — no  worse  than  I 
have  sometimes  had  them  before.  But  the  overpowering  heat  inclinei? 
me  to  be  perfectly  quiescent  in  the  daytime.  I  am  strong  enough  to 
obey  any  word  which  shall  tell  me  that  I  can  serve  you  by  word  or 
deed.  Yours  to  the  last, 

Philip  Wakem. 

As  Maggie  knelt  by  the  bed  sobbing,  with  that  letter 
jiressed  under  her,  her  feelings  again  and  again  gathered 
themselves  in  a  whispered  cry,  always  in  the  same  words: 

**0  God,  is  there  any  happiness  in  love  that  could  make 
me  forget  their  pain?'* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


THE   FINAL  KE8CUB.  481 

OHAPTEB  IV. 

MAGGIE  AND  LUCY. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Dr.  Kenn  had  made  up  his  mina 
that  there  was  only  one  way  in  which  he  could  secure  to 
Maggie  a  suitable  living  at  St.  Ogg^s.  Even  with  his 
twenty  years^  experience  as  a  parish  priest,  he  was  aghast 
at  the  obstinate  continuance  of  imputations  against  her  in 
the  face  of  evidence.  Hitherto  he  had  been  rather  more 
adored  and  appealed  to  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  him; 
but  now,  :n  attempting  to  open  the  ears  of  women  to 
reason,  and  their  consciences  to  justice,  on  behalf  of  Maggie 
TuUiver,  he  suddenly  found  himself  as  powerless  as  he  was 
aware  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  attempted  to  influence 
the  shape  of  bonnets.  Dr.  Kenn  could  not  be  contradicted; 
he  was  listened  to  in  silence;  but  when  he  left  the  room,  a 
comparison  of  opinions  among  his  hearers  yielded  much  the 
same  result  as  before.  Miss  Tulliver  had  undeniably  acted 
^in  a  blamable  manner;  even  Dr.  Kenn  did  not  deny  that: 
how,  then,  could  he  think  so  lightly  of  her  as  to  put 
that  favorable  interpretation  upon  everything  she  had 
done?  Even  on  the  supposition  that  required  the  utmost 
stretch  of  belief — namely,  that  none  of  the  things  said 
about  Miss  Tulliver  were  true — still,  since  they  had  been 
said  about  her,  they  had  cast  an  odor  round  her  which 
must  cause  her  to  be  shrunk  from  by  every  woman  who 
had  to  take  care  of  her  own  reputation — and  of  Society. 
To  have  taken  Maggie  by  the  hand  and  said,  ^*  I  will  not 
believe  unproved  evil  of  you:  my  lips  shall  not  utter  it; 
my  ears  shall  be  closed  against  it;  I,  too,  am  an  erring 
mortal,  liable  to  stumble,  apt  to  come  short  of  my  most 
earnest  efforts;  your  lot  has  been  harder  than  mine,  your 
temptation  greater;  let  us  help  each  other  to  stand  and 
walk  without  more  falling  ^^; — to  have  done  this  would 
have  demanded  courage,  deep  pity,  self-knowledge,  gener- 
ous trust — would  have  demanded  a  mind  that  tasted  no 
piquancy  in  evil-speaking,  that  felt  no  self-exaltation  in 
condemning,  that  cheated  itself  with  no  large  words  into 
the  belief  that  life  can  have  any  moral  end,  any  high  relig- 
ion, which  excludes  the  striving  after  perfect  truth, 
justice,  and  love  toward  the  individual  men  and  women 
who  come  across  our  own  path.  The  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's 
81 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


482  THE  HILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

were  not  beguiled  by  any  wide  speculative  conceptions; 
but  they  htS  their  favorite  abstraction,  called  Society, 
which  served  to  make  their  consciences  perfectly  easy  jn 
doing  what  satisfied  their  own  egoism  —  thinking  and 
speaking  the  worst  of  Maggie  Tulliver,  and  turning  their 
backs  upon  her.  It  was  naturally  disappointing  to  Dr. 
Kenn,  after  two  years  of  superfluous  incense  from  his 
feminine  parishioners,  to  find  them  suddenly  maintaining 
their  views  in  opposition  to  his;  but  then,  they  maintained 
them  in  opposition  to  a  Higher  Authority,  which  they  had 
venerated  longer.  That  Authority  had  furnished  a  very 
explicit  answer  to  persons  who  might  inquire  where  their 
social  duties  began,  and  might  be  inclined  to  take  wide 
views  as  to  the  starting-point.  The  answer  had  not  turned 
on  the  ultimate  good  of  Society,  but  on  ^^  a  certain  nian  ^* 
who  was  found  in  trouble  by  the  wayside. 

Not  that  St.  Ogg's  was  empty  of  women  with  som< 
tenderness  of  heart  and  conscience:  probably  it  had  as  fair 
a  proportion  of  human  goodness  in  it  as  any  other  smab 
trading  town  of  that  day.  But  until  .every  good  man  i^ 
brave,  we  must  expect  to  find  many  good  women  timia ; 
too  timid  even  to  believe  in  the  correctness  of  their  owt» 
best  promptings,  when  these  would  place  them  in  :- 
minority.  And  .the  men  of  St.  Ogg^s  were  not  all  bra vh 
by  any  means:  some  of  them  were  even  fond  of  scauda) — 
and  to  an  extent  that  mi^ht  have  given  their  conversation 
an  effeminate  character,  if  it  had  not  been  distinguished 
by  masculine  jokes,  and  by  an  occasional  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  at  the  mutual  hatred  of  women.  It  was  the 
general  feeling  of  the  masculine  mind  at  St.  Ogg^s  that 
women  were  not  to  be  interfered  with  in  their  treatment 
of  each  other. 

And  thus  every  direction  in  which  Dr.  Kenn  had  turned 
in  the  hope  of  procuring  some  kind  recognition  and  some 
employment  for  Maggie,  proved  a  disappointment  to  him. 
Mrs.  James  Torry  could  not  think  of  taking  Maggie  as  a 
nursery  governess,  even  temporarily — ^a  young  womap  about 
whom  ''such  things  had  been  said,'*  and  about  whom 
"gentlemen  joked  ';  and  Miss  Kirke,  who  had  a^ spinal 
complaint,  and  wanted  a  reader  and  companion,  felt  quite 
sure  that  Maggie's  mind  must  be  of  a  quality  with  which 
she,  for  her  part,  could  not  risk  any  contact.  Why  did 
not  Miss  Tulliver  accept  the  shelter  offered  her  by  her 
aunt  Glegg?  —  it  did  not  become  a  girl  like  her  to  refuse 
*c.     Or  else,  why  did  she  not  go  out  of  the  neighborhood. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  BESCUB.  483 

and  get  a  situation  where  she  was  not  known?  (It  was 
not,  apparently,  of  so  much  importance  that  she  should 
carry  her  dangerous  tendencies  into  strange  families 
unknown  at  St.  Ogg^s.)  She  must  be  very  bold  and  har- 
dened to  wish  to  stay  in  a  parish  where  she  was  so  much 
stared  at  and  whispered  about. 

Dr.  Kenn,  having  great  natural  firmness,  began,  in  the 
presence  of  this  opposition,  as  every  firm  man  would  have 
done,  to  contract  a  certain  strength  of  determination  over 
and  above  what  would  have  been  called  forth  by  the  end 
in  view.  He  himself  wanted  a  daily  governess  for  his 
younger  children;  and  though  he  had  hesitated  in  the  first 
instance  to  offer  this  position  to  Maggie,  the  resolution  to 
protest  with  the  utmost  force  of  his  personal  and  priestly 
character  against  her  being  crushed  and  driven  away  by 
slander,  was  now  decisive.  Maggie  gratefully  accepted  an 
employment  that  gave  her  duties  as  well  as  a  support:  her 
days  would  be  filled  now,  and  solitary  evenings  would  be  a 
welcome  rest.  She  no  longer  needed  the  sacrifice  her 
mother  made  in  staying  with  her,  and  Mrs.  TuUiver  was 
persuaded  to  go  back  to  the  Mill. 

But  now  it  began  to  be  discovered  that  Dr.  Kenn, 
exemplary  as  he  had  hitherto  appeared,  had  his  crotch- 
ets—  possibly  his  weaknesses.  The  masculine  mind  of 
St.  Ogg's  smiled  pleasantly,  and  did  not  wonder  that 
Kenn  liked  to  see  a  fine  pair  of  eyes  daily,  or  that  he  was 
inclined  to  take  so  lenient  a  view  of  the  past;  the  feminine 
mind,  regarded  at  that  period  as  less  powerful,  took  a 
more  melancholy  view  of  the  case.  If  Dr.  Kenn  should 
be  beguiled  into  marrying  that  Miss  TuUiver!  It  was  not 
safe  to  be  too  confident,  even  about  the  best  of  men:  an 
apostle  had  fallen,  and  wept  bitterly  afterward;  and  though 
Peter's  denial  was  not  a  close  precedent,  his  repentance 
was  likely  to  be. 

Maggie  had  not  taken  her  daily  walks  to  the  rectory  for 
many  weeks,  before  the  dreadful  possibility  of  her  some 
time  or  other  becoming  the  rector's  wife  had  been  talked 
of  so  often  in  confidence,  that  ladies  were  beginning  to 
discuss  how  they  should  behave  to  her  in  that  position. 
For  Dr.  Kenn,  it  had  been  understood,  had  sat  in  the 
sclioolroom  half  an  hour  one  morning,  when  Miss  TuUiver 
was  giving  her  lessons;  nay,  he  had  sat  there  every  morn- 
ing, he  had  once  walked  home  with  her — he  almost  always 
walked  home  with  her — and  if  not,  he  went  to  see  her  m 
the  evening.     What  an  artful  creature  she  was!    What  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


484  THB  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

mother  toT  those  children!  It  was  enough  to  make  poor 
Mrs.  Kenn  turn  in  her  ^ave,  that  they  should  be  put 
under  the  care  of  this  eirl  only  a  few  weeks  after  her 
death.  Would  he  be  so  Tost  to  propriety  as  to  marry  her 
before  the  year  was  out?  The  masculine  mind  was  sar- 
castic, and  thought  not. 

The  Miss  Guests  saw  an  alleviation  to  the  sorrow  of 
witnessing  a  folly  in  their  rector:  at  least  their  brother 
would  be  safe;  and  their  knowledge  of  Stephen's  tenacity 
was  a  constant  ground  of  alarm  to  them,  lest  he  should 
come  back  and  marry  Maggie.  They  were  not  among  those 
who  disbelieved  their  brother^s  letter;  but  they  had  no 
confidence  in  Maggie's  adherence  to  her  renunciation  of 
him;  they  suspected  that  she  had  shrunk  rather  from  the 
elopement  than  from  the  marriage,  and  that  she  lingered 
at  St  Ogg^s,  relying  on  his  return  to  her.  They  had 
always  thought  her  disagreeable;  they  now  thought  her 
artful  and  proud;  having  quite  as  good  grounds  for  that 
judgment  as  you  and  I  probably  nave  for  many  strong 
opinions  of  th^  same  kind.     Formerly  they  had  not  alto- 

f ether  delighted  in  the  contemj)lated  match  with  Lucy, 
ut  now  their  dread  of  a  marriage  between  Stephen  and 
Maggie  added  its  momentum  to  their  genuine  pity  and 
indignation  on  behalf  of  the  gentle  forsaken  girl,  m  mak- 
ing them  desire  that  he  should  return  to  her.  As  soon  as 
Lucy  was  able  to  leave  home,  she  was  to  seek  relief  from 
the  oppressive  heat  ot  this  August  by  going  to  the  coast 
with  tne  Miss  Guests;  and  it  was  in  their  plans  that 
Stephen  should  be  induced  to  join  them.  On  the  very 
first  hint  of  gossip  concerniuff  Maggie  and  Dr.  Kenn, 
the  report  was  conveyed  in  Miss  Guest's  letter  to  her 
brother. 

Maggie  had  frequent  tidings  through  her  mother,  or 
aunt  Glegg,  or  Dr.  Kenn,  of  Lucy's  gradual  progress  toward 
recovery,  and  her  thoughts  tended  continually  toward  her 
uncle  Deane's  house,  she  hungered  for  an  interview  with . 
Lucj,  if  it  were  only  for  five  minutes — to  utter  a  word  of 
penitence,  to  be  assured  by  Lucy's  own  eyes  and  lips  that 
she  did  not  believe  in  the  willing  treachery  of  those  whom 
she  had  loved  and  trusted.  But  she  knew  that  even  if  her 
uncle's  indignation  had  not  closed  his  house  against  her, 
the  agitation  of  such  an  interview  would  have  been  for- 
bidden to  Lucy.  Only  to  have  seen  her  Anthoiit  speaking, 
would  have  been  some  relief;  for  Maggie  was  haunted  by 
a  face  cruel  in  its  very  gentleness:  a  face  that  had  been 


Digitized  by  LjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  486 

turned  on  hers  with  glad  sweet  looks  of  trust  and  love  from 
the  twilight  time  of  memory;  changed  now  to  a  sad  and 
weary  face  by  a  first  heart-stroke.  And  as  the  days  passed 
on,  that  pale  image  became  more  and  more  distinct;  the 
picture  grew  and  grew  into  more  speaking  definiteness 
under  the  avenging  hand  of  remorse;  the  soft  hazel  eyes, 
in  their  look  of  pain,  were  bent  forever  on  Maggfe,  and 
pierced  her  the  more  because  she  could  see  no  anger  in 
them.  But  Lucy  was  not  yet  able  to  go  to  church,  or  any 
place  where  Maggie  could  see  her;  and  even  the  hope  of 
that  departed,  when  the  news  was  told  her  by  aunt  Giegg, 
that  Lucy  was  really  going  away  in  a  few  days  to  Scarbor- 
ough with  the  Miss  Guests,  who  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
they  expected  their  brother  to  meet  them  there. 

Only  those  who  have  known  what  hardest  inward  conflict 
is,  can  know  what  Maggie  felt  as  she  sat  in  her  loneliness 
the  evening  after  hearmg  that  news  from  Mrs.  Glegg, — 
only  those  who  have  known  what  }t  is  to  dread  their  own 
selfish  desires  as  the  watching  mother  would  dread  the 
•deeping  potion  that  was  to  still  her  own  pain. 

She  sat  without  candle  in  the  twilight,  with  the  window 
wide  open  toward  the  river;  the  sense  of  oppressive  heat 
adding  itself  undistinguishably  to  the  burden  of  her  lot. 
Seated  on  a  chair  against  the  window^  with  her  arm  on  the 
window-sill,  she  was  looking  blankly  at  the  flowing  river, 
swift  with  the  backward  rushing  tide — struggling  to  see 
still  the  sweet  face  in  its  unreproaching  saidness,  that 
seemed  now  from  moment  to  moment  to  sink  away  and  be 
hidden  behind  a  form  that  thrust  itself  between,  and  made 
darkness.  Hearing  the  door  open,  she  thought  Mrs.  Jakin 
was  coming  in  with  her  supper,  as  usual;  and  with  that 
repugnance  to  trivial  speech  which  comes  with  languor  and 
wretchedness,  she  shrank  from  turning  round  and  saying 
she  wanted  nothing:  good  little  Mrs.  Jakin  would  be  sure 
to  make  some  well-meant  remarks.  But  the  next  moment, 
without  her  having  discerned  the  sound  of  a  footstep,  she 
felt  a  light  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  heard  a  voice  close 
to  her  saying,  "Maggie!" 

The  face  was  there — changed,  but  all  the  sweeter:  the 
hazel  eyes  were  there,  with  their  heart-piercing  tenderness. 

"Maggie!"  the  soft  voice  said.  "Lucy!  answered  a 
voice" with  a  sharp  ring  of  anguish  in  it;  and  Lucy  threw 
her  arms  round  Maggie's  neck,  and  leaned  her  pale  cheek 
against  the  burning  bfow.* 

"  I  stole  out,"  said  Lucv.  almost  in  a  whisper,  while  she 

Digitized  byCjOOQlC 


486  THE  MILL  ON  THE  PL088. 

sat  down  rlose  to  Maggie  and  held  her  hand,  *'when  papa 
and  the  rest  were  away.  Alice  is  come  with  me.  I  asked 
her  to  help  me.  But  I  must  only  stay  a  little  while, 
because  it  is  so  late.*' 

It  was  easier  to  say  that  at  first  than  to  say  anything 
else.  They  sat  looking  at  each  other.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
interview  must  end  without  more  speech,  for  speech  was 
very  difficult.  Each  felt  that  there  would  be  something 
scorching  in  the  words  that  woujd  recall  the  irretrievable 
wrong.  But  soon,  as  Maggie  looked,  every  distinct  thought 
began  to  be  overflowed  by  a  wave  of  loving  penitence,  and 
words  burst  forth  with  a  sob. 

**God  bless  you  for  coming,  Lucy.'' 

The  sobs  came  thick  on  each  other  after  that. 

"  Maggie,  dear,  be  comforted,''  said  Lucy  now,  putting 
her  cheek  against  Maggie's  again.  **  Don't  grieve."  And 
she  sat  still,  hoping  to  soothe  Maggie  with  that  gentle 
caress. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  deceive  you,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  as 
soon  as  she  could  speak.     **U  always  made  me  wretched  « 

that  I  felt  what  I  didn't  like  you  to  know. It  was 

because  I  thought  it  would  all  be  conquered,  and  you 
might  never  see  anything  to  wound  vou."    , 

"I  know,  dear,"  said  Lucy.     "I  Know  you  never  «fieant 

to  make  me  unhappy. It  is  a  trouble  that  has  come  on 

us  all: — ^you  have  more  to  bear  than  I  have— and  you  gave 

him  up,  when ^you  did  what  it  must  have  been  very 

hard  to  do." 

Thev  were  silent  a^in  a  little  while,  sitting  with 
clasped  hands,  and  cheeks  leaned  together. 

"  Lucy,"  Maggie  began,  ^*he  struggled  too.  He  wanted 
to  be  true  to  you.  He  will  come  back  to  you.  Forgive 
him — he  will  l>e  happy  then " 

These  words  were  wrung  forth  from  Maggie's  deepest 
soul,  with  an  effort  like  the  convulsed  clutch  of  a 
drowning  man.     Lucy  trembled  and  was  silent. 

A  gentle  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  was  Alice,  the 
maid,  who  entered  and  said — 

"  I  daren't  stay  any  longer.  Miss  Deane.  They'll  find  it 
out,  and  tiiere'll  be  such  anger  at  your  coming  out  so  late." 

Lucy  rose  and  said,  **  Very  well,  Alice — in  a  minute." 

y  I'm  to  go  away  on  Friday,  Maggie,"  she  added,  when 
Alice  had  closed  the  door  again.  *^When  I  come  back, 
and  am  strong,  they  will  let  me  do  as  I  like.  I  shall  come 
to  you  when  I  please  then." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  487 

''Lucy/'  said  Maggie,  with  another  great  effort,  "I 
pray  to  God  continually  that  I  may  never  be  the  cause  of 
sorrow  to  you  any  more/' 

She  pressed  the  little  hand  that  she  held  between  hers, 
and  looked  up  into  the  face  that  was  bent  over  hers. 
Lucy  never  forgot  that  look. 

*'  Maggie,"  she  Bsaid,  in  a  low  voice,  that  had  the 
solemnity  of  confession  in  it,  *^  you  are  better  than  I  am. 
I  can't—''     • 

She  broke  off  there,  and  said  no  more.  But  they 
clasped  each  other  again  in  a  last  embrace.  • 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LAST  CONFLICT. 


Iir  the  second  week  of  September,  Maggie  was  again 
sitting  in  her  lonely  room,  battlmg  with  the  old  shadowy 
enemies  that  were  forever  slain  and  rising  again.  It  was 
past  midnight,  and  the  rain  was  beating  heavily  against 
the  window,  driven  with  fitful  force  by  the  rushing,  loud- 
moaning  wind.  For,  the  day  after  Lucy's  visit,  there  had 
been  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather:  the  heat  and  drouth 
had  given  way  to  cold  variable  winds,  and  heavy  falls  of 
rain  at  intervals;  and  she  had  been  forbidden  to  risk  the 
contemplated  journey  until  the  weather  should  become  more 
settled.  In  the  counties  higher  up  the  Floss,  the  rains  had 
been  continuous,  and  the  completion  of  the  harvest  had  been 
arrested.  And  now,  for  the  last  two  days,  the  rains  on  this 
lower  course  of  the  river  had  been  incessant,  so  that  the  old 
men  had  shaken  their  heads  and  talked  of  sixty  years 
ago,  when  the  same  sort  of  weather,  happening  about  the 
equinox,  brought  on  the  great  floods,  which  swept  the 
bridge  away,  and  reduced  the  town  to  great  misery.  But 
the  younger  generation,  who  had  seen  several  small  floods, 
thought  lightly  of  these  sombre  recollections  and  fore- 
bodings; and  Sob  Jakin,  naturally  prone  to  take  a  hope- 
ful view  of  his  own  hick,  laughed  at  his  mother  when  she 
regretted  their  having  taken  a  house  by  the  river-side; 
olServing  that  but  for  that  they  would  have  had  no  boats, 
which  were  the  most  lucky  of  possessions  in  case  of  a  flood 
that  obliged  them  to  go  to  a  diatunce  for  food. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


488  THE  HILL  OK  THB  FLOSS. 

But  the  careless  and  the  fearful  were  alike  sleeping  in 
their  beds  now.  There  was  hope  that  the  rain  would 
abate  by  the  morrow;  threatcniugs  of  a  worse  kind,  from 
sudden  thaws  after  falls  of  snow,  had  often  passed  off  in 
the  experience  of  the  younger  ones;  and  at  the  very 
worst,  the  banks  would  be  sure  to  break  lower  down  the 
river  when  the  tide  came  in  with  violence,  and  so  the 
waters  would  be  carried  off,  without  causing  more  than 
temporary  inconvenience,  and  losses  that  would  be  felt 
only  by  the  poorisr  sort,  whom  charity  would  relieve. 
,  All  were  ih  their  beds  now,  for  it  was  nast  midnight:  all 
except  some  solitary  watchers  such  as  Maggie.  She  was 
seated  in  her  little  parlor  toward  the  river  with  one 
.candle,  that  left  everything  dim  in  the  room,  except  a 
letter  which  lay  before  her  on  .the  table.  That  letter 
which  had  come  to  her  to-day,  was  one  of  the  causes  that 
had  kept  her  up  far  on  into  the  night — unconscious  how 
the  hours  were  going — careless  of  seeking  rest — with  no 
image  of  rest  coming  across  her  mind,  except  of  that  far, 
far  off  rest,  from  which  there  would  be  no  more  waking 
for  her  into  this  struggling  earthly  life. 

Two  days  before  Maggie  received  that  letter,  she  had 
been  to  tne  rectory  for  the  last  time.  The  heavy  rain 
would  have  prevented  her  from  going  since;  but  there 
was  another  reason.  Dr.  Kenn,  at  first  enlightened  only 
by  a  few  hints  as  to  the  new  turn  which  gossip  and 
slander  had  taken  in  relation  to  Maggie,  had  recently 
been  made  more  fully  aware  of  it  by  an  earnest  remon- 
strance from  one  of  his  male  parishioners  against  the 
indiscretion  of  persisting  in  the  attempt  to  overcome  the 
prevalent  feeling  in  the  parish  \>j  a  course  of  resistance. 
Dr.  Kenn,  having  a  conscience  void  of  offense  in  the 
matter,  was  still  inclined  to  persevere — was  still  averse  to 
giving  way  before  a  public  sentiment  that  was  odious  and 
contemptible;  but  he  was  finally  wrought  upon  by  the 
consideration  of  the  peculiar  responsibility  attached  to  his 
office,  of  avoiding  the  appearance  of  evil — an  "appear- 
ance" that  is  always  dependent  on  the  average  quality  of 
surrounding  minds.  Where  these  minds  are  low  and 
gross,  the  area  of  that  "appearance"  is  proportionately 
widened.  Perhaps  he  was  in  danger  of  acting  from 
obstinacy;  perhaps  it  was  his  duty  to  succumb:  conscien- 
tious people  are  apt  to  see  their  duty  in  that  which  is  the 
most  painful  course;  and  to  recede  was  always  painful  to 
Dr.  Kenn.     He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  advise 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  FINAL  RESCtTE.  *    499 

Maggie  to  go  away  from  St.  Ogg^s  for  a  time;  and  he 
performed  that  difficult  task  with  as  much  delicacy  as  he 
could,  only  stating  in  vague  terms  that  he  found  his 
attempt  to  countenance  her  staj  was  a  source  of  discord 
between  himself  and  his  parishioners  that  was  likely  to 
obstruct  his  usefulness  as  a  clergyman.  He  begged  her  to 
allow  him  to  write  to  a  clerical  friend  of  his,  who  naight 
possibly  take  her  into  his  own  family  as  governess;  and,  if 
not,  would  probably  know  of  some  other  available  position 
for  a  young  woman  in  whose  welfare  Dr.  Kennr  felt  a 
strong  interest. 

Poor  Maggie  listened  with  a  trembling  lip:  she  could 
say  nothing  but  a  faint  "  Thank  you — I  shall  be  grateful ''; 
and  she  walked  back  to  her  lodgings,  through  the  driving 
rain,  with  a  new  sense  of  desolation.  She  must  be  a 
lonely  wanderer;  she  must  go  out  among  fresh  faces,  that 
would  look  at  her  wonderingly,  because  the  days  did  not 
seem  joyful  to  her;  she  must  begin  a  new  life,  in  which 
she  would  have  to  rouse  herself  to  receive  new  impressions — 
and  she  was  so  unspeakably,  si6keningly  weary!  There 
was  no  home,  no  help  for  the  erring:  even  those  who  pitied 
were  constrained  to  hardness.  But  ought  she  to  complain? 
Ought  she  to  shrink  in  this  way  from  the  long  penance  of 
life,  which  was  all  the  possibility  she  had  of  lightening  the 
load  to  some  other  sufferers,  and  so  changing  that  pas- 
sionate error  into  a  new  force  of  unselfish  human  love? 
All  the  next  day  she  sat  in  her  lonely  room,  with  a  window 
darkened  by  the  cloud  and  the  driving  rain,  thinking  of 
that  future,  and  wrestling  for  patience: — ^for  what  repose 
could  poor  Maggie  ever  win  except  by  wrestling? 

And  on  the  third  day^ — this  day  of  which  she  had  just  sat 
out  the  close^ — the  letter  had  come  which  was  lying  on  the 
table  before  her. 

The  letter  was  from  Stephen.  He  was  come  back  from 
Holland:  he  was  at  Mudport  again,  unknown  to  any  of 
his  friends;  and  had  written  to  her  from  that  place, 
enclosing  the  letter  to  a  person  whom  he  trusted  m  St. 
Ogg^s.  From  beginning  to  end  it  was  a  passionate  cry  of  • 
reproach:  an  appeal  against  her  useless  sacrifice  of  him — 
of  herself:  against  that  perverted  notion  of  right  which  led 
her  to  crush  all  liis  hopes,  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  idea,  and 
not  any  substantial  good — his  hopes,  whom  she  loved,  and 
who  loved  her  with  that  single  overpowering  passion,  that 
worship,  which  a  man  iiovor  gives  to  a  woman  more  than 
once  in  his  life. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


490     •  THE  MILL  ON  THE  FL0S8. 

**  They  hsTe  written  to  me  that  you  are  to  marry  Kenn. 
As  if  I  should  believe  that!  Perhaps  they  have  told  you 
some  such  fables  about  me.  Perhaps  they  tell  you  rve 
been  *  traveling/  My  body  has  been  di-agged  about  some- 
where; but  /  have  never  traveled  from  the  hideous  place 
where  you  left  me — where  I  started  up  from  the  stupor  of 
helpless  rage  to  find  you  gone. 

^  Maggie!  whose  pain  can  have  been  Mke  mine?  Whose 
injury  is  like  miner  Who  besides  me  has  met  that  long 
look  of  love  that  has  burned  itself  into  my  soul,  so  that  no 
other  image  can  come  there?  Maggie,  call  me  back  to 
you! — call  me  back  to  life  and  goodness!  I  am  banished 
from  both  now.  I  have  no  motives:  I  am  mdiflferent  to 
everything.  Two  months  have  only  deepened  the  certainty 
that  I  can  never  care  for  life  without  you.  Write  me  one 
word — say  *Come!'  In  two  days  I  should  be  with  you. 
Maggie — have  you  forgotten  what  it  was  to  be  together  ? — 
to  be  within  reach  of  a  look — ^to  be  within  hearing  of  each 
other's  voice?" 

When  Maggie  first  read  this  letter  she  felt  as  if  her  real 
temptation  had  only  just  bcj^n.  At  the  entrance  of  the 
chill  dark  cavern,  we  turn  with  unworn  courage  fropi  the 
warm  light;  but  hoW,  when  we  have  trodden  far  in  the 
damp  darkness,  and  have  begun  to  be  faint  and  weary — 
how,  if  there  is  a  sudden  opening  above  us,  and  we  are 
invited  back  again  to  tlie  life-nourishing  day  ?  The  leap 
of  natural  longing  from  under  the  pressure  of  pain  is  so 
strong  that  all  less  immediate  motives  are  likely  to  be 
forgotten — ^till  the  pain  has  been  escaped  from. 

For  hours  Maggie  felt  as  if  her  struggle  liad  been  in 
vain.  For  hours  every  other  thought  that  she  strove  to 
summon  was  thrust  aside  by  the  image  of  Stephen  M^aiting 
for  the  single  word  that  would  bring  him  to  her.  She  did 
not  read  the  letter:  she  heard  him  uttering  it,  and  the 
voice  shook  her  with  its  old  strange  power.  All  the  duy 
before  she  had  been  filled  with  the  vision  of  a  lonely 
future  through  which  she  must  carry  the  burden  of 
regret,  upheld  only  by  clinging  faith.  And  here — clot>o 
within  her  reach — urging  itself  u})on  her  eveit  as  a 
claim — was  another  future,  in  which  hard  endurance 
and  effort  were  to  be  exchanged  for  easy  delicious  leaning 
on  another's  loving  strength!  And  yet  that  proniife/)f 
joy  in  place  of  sadness  did  not  make  the  dire  force  of  the 
temptation  to  Maggie.  It  was  Stephen's  tone  of  miscrv, 
it  was  the  doubt  in  the  justice  of  her  own  resolve,  that 


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THE  FIKAL  RESCUE.  491 

made  the  balance  tremble,  and  made  her  once  start  from 
her  seat  to  reach  the  pen  and  paper,  and  write  *'  Come ! " 

But  close  upon  that  decisive  act,  her  mind  recoiled  ; 
and  the  sense  of  contradiction  with  her  past  sdf  in  her 
moments  of  strength  and  clearness,  came  upon  her  like  a 
pang  of  conscious  degradation.  No — she  must  wait ;  she 
must  pray;  the  light  that  had  forsaken  her  would  come 
again :  she  should  feel  again  wliat  she  had  felt,  when  she 
had  fled  away,  under  an  inspiration  strong  enough  to 
conquer  agony — ^to  conquer  love:  she  should  feel* again 
what  she  had  felt  when  Lucv  stood  by  her,  when  Philip's 
letter  had  stirred  all  the  fibres  that  bound  her  to  the 
calmer  past. 

She  sat  quite  still,  far  on  into  the  night:  with  no 
impulse  to  change  her  attitude,  without  active  force 
enough  even  for  the  mental  act  of  prayer:  only  waiting 
for  the  light  that  would  surely  come  again.  It  came  witli 
the  memories  that  no  passion  could  long  quench  :  the 
long  past  came*  back  to  her,  and  with  it  the  fountains  of 
self-renouncing  pity  and  affection,  of  faithfulness  and 
resolve.  The  words  that  were  marked  by  the  quiet  hand 
in  the  little  old  book  that  she  had  long  ago  learned  by 
heart,  rushed  even  to  her  lips,  arid  found  a  vent  for 
themselves  in  a  low  murmur  that  was  quite  lost  in  the 
loud  driving  of  the  rain  against  the  window  and  the  loud 
moan  and  roar  of  the  wind :  '^I  have  received  the  Cross, 
I  have  received  it  from  thy  hand ;  I  will  bear  it,  and  bear 
it  till  death,  as  thou  hast  laid  it  upon  me.'' 

But  soon  other  words  rose  that  could  find  no  utterance 
but  in  a  sob.  "Forgive  me,  Stephen!  It  will  pass  away. 
You  will  come  back  to  her." 

She  took  up  the  letter,  held  it  to  the  candle,  and  let  it 
burn  slowly  on  the  hearth.  To-morrow  she  would  write 
to  him  the  last  word  of  parting. 

*'I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it  till  death. But  how  long 

it  will  be  before  death  comes!  I  am  so  young,  so  healthy. 
How  shall  I  have  patience  and  strength?  Am  I  to  strug- 
gle and  fall  and  repent  again? — has  life  other  trials  as  hard 
for  me  still?'' 

With  that  cry  of  self-despaii,  Maggie  fell  on  her  knees 
against  the  table,  and  buried  her  sorrow-stricken  face. 
Her  soul  went  out  to  the  Unseen  Pity  that  would  be  with 
her  to  the  end.  Surely  there  was  something  being  taught 
her  by  this  experience  of  great  need;  and  she  must  be 
learning  a  secret  of  human  tenderness  and  long-sufferinj^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


4d2  tnt  UltL  OK  THB  FLOSS. 

that  the  less  erring  conld  hardly  know?  *'  0  God,  if  my 
life  is  to  be  long,  let  me  live  to  bless  and  comfort " 

At  that  moment  Maggie  felt  a  startling  sensation  of  sud- 
den cold  about  her  knees  and  feet:  it  was  water  flowing 
under  her.  She  started  up:  the  stream  was  flowing  under 
the  door  that  led  into  the  passage.  She  was  not  bewil- 
dered for  an  instant — she  knew  it  was  the  flood! 

The  tumult  of  emotion  she  had  been  enduring  for  the 
last  twelve  hours  seemed  to  have  left  a  great  calm  in  her; 
without  screaming,  she  hurried  with  the  candle  up-stairs 
to  Bob  Jakin's  bedroom.  The  door  was  ajar;  she  went  in 
and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

*^  Bob,  the  flood  is  come!  it  is  in  the  house!  let  us  see  if 
we  can  make  the  boats  safe.'^ 

She  lighted  his  candle,  while  the  poor  wife,  snatching 
up  her  baby,  burst  into  screams;  and  then  she  hurried 
down  again  to  see  if  the  waters  were  rising  fast.  There 
was  a  step  down  into  the  room  at  the  door  leading  from  the 
staircase;  she  saw  that  the  water  was  already  on  a  level 
with  the  step.  While  she  was  looking,  something  came 
with  a  tremendous  crash  against  the  window,  and  sent  the 
leaded  panes  and  the  old  wooden  framework  inwards  in 
shivers — the  water  pouring  in  after  it. 

"It  is  the  boat!  cried  Maggie.  "Bob,  come  down  to 
get  the  boats  !^^ 

And  without  a  moment's  shudder  of  fear,  she  plunged 
through  the  water,  which  was  rising  fast  to  her  knees,  and 
by  the  glimmering  light  of  the  candle  she  had  left  on  the 
stairs,  she  mounted  on  the  window-sill,  and  crept  info  the 
boat,  which  was  left  with  the  prow  lodging  and  protruding 
through  the  window.  Bob  was  not  long  after  her,  hurry- 
ing without  shoes  or  stockings,  but  with  the  lantern  in 
his  hand. 

"Why,  they^re  both  here — ^both  the  boats, ^^6aid  Bob,  as 
he  got  into  the  one  where  Maggie  was.  "  It^s  wonderful 
this  fastening  isn't  broke  too,  as  well  as  the  mooring." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  into  the  other  boat,  unfas- 
tening it,  and  mastering  an  oar.  Bob  was  not  struck  with 
the  danger  Maggie  incurred.  We  are  not  apt  to  fear  for 
the  feaness,  when  we  are  companions  in  their  danger,  and 
Bob's  mind  'was  absorbed  in  possible  expedients  for  the 
safety  of  the  helpless  indoors.  The  fact  that  Maggie  had 
been  up,  had  waked  him,  and  had  taken  the  lead  m  activ- 
ity, gave  Bob  a  vague  impression  of  her  as  one  who  would 
help  to  protect,  not  need  to  be  protected.     She  too  had  got 


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THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  493 

possession  of  an  oar.  and  had  pushed  off,  so  as  to  release 
the  boat  from  the  over-hanging  window-frame. 

'*  The  water's  rising  so  fast/^said  Bob,  ''  I  doubt  it'll  be 
in  at  the  chambers  before  long — th^  house  is  so  low.  I've 
more  mind  to  get  Prissy  and  the  child  and  the  mother  into 
the  boat,  if  I  could,  and  trusten  to  the  water — for  th^  old 

IjLOUse  is  none  so  safe.     And  if  I  let  go  the  boat but 

you/'  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  lifting  the  light  of  hid  lan- 
tern on  Magffie,  as  she  stooa  in  the  rain  with  the  oar  in 
her  hand  ana  her  black  hair  streaming. 

Maggie  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  a  new  tidal  current 
swept  along  the  line  of  the  houses,  and  drove  both  the 
boats  out  on  to  the  wide  water,  with  a  force  that  carried 
them  far  past  the  meeting  current  of  the  river. 

In  the  first  moments  Maffgie  felt  nothing,  thought  of 
nothing,  but  that  she  had  suddenly  passed  away  from  that 
life  which  she  had  been  dreading:  it  was  the  transition  of 
death,  without  its  agony — and  she  was  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness with  God. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  rapid — so  dream-like — that 
the  threads  of  ordinary  association  were  broken:  she  sank 
down  on  the  seat  clutching  the  oar  mechanically,  and  for 
a  long  while  had  no  distinct  conception  of  her  position. 
The  first  thing  that  waked  her  to  fuller  consciousness  was 
the  cessation  of  the  rain,  and  a  perception  that  the  dark- 
ness was  divided  by  the  faintest  light,  which  parted  the 
over-hanging  gloom  from  the  immeasurable  watery  level 
below.  She  was  driven  out  upon  the  flood: — that  awful 
visitation  of  God  which  her  fatner  used  to  talk  of — which 
had  made  the  nightmare  of  her  childish  dreams.  And  with 
that  thought  there  rushed  in  the  vision  of  the  old  home — 
and  Tom — and  her  mother — ^they  had  all  listened  together. 

^^  0  God,  where  am  I?  Which  is  the  way  home?^'  she 
cried  out,  in -the  dim  loneliness. 

What  was  happening  to  them  at  the  Mill?  The  flood 
had  once  nearly  destroyed  it.  They  might  be  in  danger — 
in  distress:  her  mother  and  her  brother,  alone  there, 
beyond  reach  of  help!  Her  whole  soul  was  strained  now 
on  that  thought;  and  she  saw  the  long-loved  faces  looking 
for  help  into  the  darkness,  and  finding  none. 

She  was  floating  in  smooth  water  now — ^perhaps  far  on 
the  over-flooded  fields.  There  was  no  sense  of  present  dan- 
ger to  check  the  outgoing  of  her  mind  to  the  old  home; 
and  she  strained  her  eyes  against  the  curtain  of  gloom  that 
she  might  seize  the  first  sight  of  her  whereabou^that  she 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


494  THE  HILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

mi^ht  catch  some  faint  suggestion  of  the  spot  toward  which 
all  her  anxieties  tended. 

Oh,  how  welcome,  the  widening  of  that  dismal  watery 
level — the  gradual  uplifting  of  the  cloudy  firmament — the 
slowly  defining  blackness  of  objects  above  the  glassy  dark! 
Yes— she  must  be  out  on  the  fields — those  were  the  tops 
of  hedgerow  trees.  Which  way  did  the  river  lie?  Looking 
behind  her,  she  saw  the  lines  of  black  trees:  looking  before 
her,  there  were  none;  then,  the  river  lay  before  her.  She 
seized  an  oar  and  began  to  paddle  the  boat  forward  with 
the  energy  of  wakening  hope:  the  dawning  seemed  to 
advance  more  swiftly,  now  she  was  in  action;  and  she  could 
soon  see  the  poor  dumb  beasts  crowding  piteously  on  a 
mound  where  they  had  taken  refuge.  Onward  she  paddled 
and  rowed  by  turns  in  the  growing  twilight:  her  wet 
clothes  clung  round  her,  and  her  streaming  hair  was 
dashed  about  by  the  wind,  but  she  was  hardly  conscious  of 
any  bodily  sensation,  except  a  sensation  of  strength  inspired 
by  mighty  emotion.     Along  with  the  sense  of  danger  and 

Eossible  rescue  for  those  long^emembered  beings  at  the  old 
ome,  there  was  an  undefined  sense  of  reconcilement  with 
her  brother:  what  quarrel,  what  harshness,  what  unbelief 
in  each  other  can  subsist  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
calamity,  when  all  the  artificial  vesture  of  our  life  is  gone, 
and  we  are  all  one  with  each  other  in  primitive  mortal 
need.r  Vaguely,  Maffgie  felt  this — in  the  strong,  resur- 
gent love  toward  her  brother  that  swept  away  all  the  later 
impressions  of  hard,  cruel  offense  and  misunderstanding, 
and  left  only  the  deep,  underlying,  unshakable  memories 
of  early  union. 

But  now  there  was  a  large  dark  mass  in  the  distance,  and 
near  to  her  Maggie  could  discern  the  current  of  the  river. 
The  dark  maas  must  be — yes,  it  was — St.  Ogg^s.  Ah, 
now  she  knew  which  way  to  look  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  well-known  trees — the  gray  willows,  the  now  yellow- 
ing chestnuts — and  above  them  the  old  roof!  But  there 
was  no  color,  no  shape,  yet:  all  was  laint  and  dim.  More 
and  more  strongly  the  energies  seemed  to  come  and  put 
themselves  forth,  as  if  her  life  were  a  stored-up  force 
that  was  being  spent  in  this  hour,  unneeded  for  anv  future. 

She  must  get  her  boat  into  the  current  of  the  Floss,  else 
she  would  never  be  able  to  pass  the  Ripple  and  approach 
the  house:  this  was  the  thought  that  occurred  to  ner,  as 
she  imagined  with  more  and  more  vividness  the  state  of 
things  round  the  old  home.    But  then  she  might  be  carried 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  495 

very  far  down,  and  be  unable  to  guide  her  boat  out  of  the 
current  again.  For  the  first  time  distinct  ideas  of  danger 
began  to  press  upon  her;  but  there  was  no  choice  of  courses, 
no  room  for  hesitation,  and  she  floated  into  the  currant. 
Swiftly  she  went  now,  without  effort;  more  and  more 
clearly  in  the  lessening  distance  and  the  growing  light  she 
began  to  discern  the  objects  that  she  knew  must  be  the 
well  known  trees  and  roofs;  nay,  she  was  not  far  off  a 
rushing  muddy  current  that  must  be  the  strangely  altered 
Ripple. 

Great  God!  there  were  floating  masses  in  it,  that  might 
dash  against  her  boat  as  she  passed,  and  cause  her  to  perish 
too  soon.     What  were  those  masses? 

For  the  first  time  Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  in  an 
agony  of  dread.  She  sat  helpless — dimly  conscious  that 
sh^  was  being  fioated  along — more  intensely  conscious  of 
the  anticipated  clash.  But  the  horror  was  transient:  it 
passed  away  before  the  oncoming  warehouses  of  St.  Ogg's: 
she  had  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Ripple,  then:  now,  she 
must  use  all  her  skill  and  power  to  manage,  the  boat  and 
get  it  if  possible  out  of  the  current.  She  could  see  now 
that  the  bridge  was  broken  down:  she  could  see  the  masts 
of  a  stranded  vessel  far  out  over  the  watery  field.  But  no 
boats  were  to  be  seen  moving  on  the  river — such  as  had 
been  laid  hands  on  were  employed  in  the  flooded  streets. 

With  new  resolution,  Maggie  seized  her  oar,  and  stood 
up  again  to  paddle;  but  the  now  ebbing  tide  added  to  the 
swiftness  of  the  river,  and  she  was  carried  along  beyond 
the  bridge.  She  could  hear  shouts  from  the  windows  over- 
looking the  river,  as  if  the  people  there  were  calling  to  her. 
It  was  not  till  she  had  passed  on  nearly  to  Tofton  that 
she  could  get  the  boat  clear  of  the  current.  Then  with  one 
yearning 'look  toward  her  uncle  Deane's  house  that*  lay 
farther  down  the  river,  she  took  to  both  her  oars  and  rowed 
with  all  her  might  across  the  watery  fields,  back  toward  the 
Mill.  Color  was  beginning  to  awake  now,  and  as  she 
approached  the  Dorlcote  fields,  she  could  discern  the  tints 
of  the  trees  T-could  see  the  old  Scotch  firs  far  to  the  right, 
and  the  home  chestnuts — oh,  how  deep  they  lay  'n  the 
water!  deeper  than  the  trees  on  this  side  the  hill.  And 
the  roof  of  the  Mill — where  was  it?  Those  heavy  frag- 
ments hurrying  down  the  Ripple — what  had  they  meant? 
But  it  was  not  the  house — the  house  stood  firm:  drowned 
lip  to  the  first  story,  but  still  firm — or  was  it  broken  in  at 
tne  end  toward  the  Mill? 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


496  THE  MILL  OK  THE  FLOSS. 

With  panting  joy  that  she  was  there  at  last — ^joy  that 
overcame  all  distress — Maggie  neared  the  front  of  the 
house.  At  first  she  heard  no  sound:  she  saw  no  object 
moving.  Her  boat  was  on  a  level  with  the  up-staira 
window.     She  called  out  in  a  loud,  piercing  voice — 

**Tom,  where  are  you?  Mother,  wnere  are  you?  Hero 
is  Maggie!'' 

Soon,  from  the  window  of  the  attic  in  the  central  gable, 
she  heard  Tom's  voice — 

**  Who  is  it?    Have  you  brought  a  boat?" 

"  It  is  I,  Tom — Maggie.     Where  is  mother?" 

"She  is  not  here:  she  went  to  Garum,  the  day  befoi*;, 
yesterday.     I'll  come  down  to  the  lower  window." 

** Alone,  Maggie?"  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  of  deep  aston- 
ishment, as  he  opened  the  middle  window  on  a  level  wita 
the  boat. 

**  Yes,  Tom:  God  has  taken  care  of  me,  to  bring  me  to 
you.     Get  in  quickly.     Is  there  no  one  else?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  stepping  into  the  boat,  "I  fear  the 
man  is  drowned :  he  was  carried  down  the  Eipple,  I  think, 
when  part  of  the  Mill  foil  with  the  crash  of  trees  and 
stones  against  it:  I've  shouted  again  and  again,  and  there 
has  been  no  answer.     Give  me  the  oars,  Maggie." 

It  was  not  till  Tom  had  pushed  off  and  they  were  on  the 
wide  water — he  face  to  face  with  Maggie — that  the  full 
meaning  of  what  had  happened  rushed  upon  his  mind. 
It  came  with  so  overpowering  a  force — it  was  such  a 
new  revelation  to  his  spirit,  of  the  depths  in  life,  that  had 
lain  beyond  his  vision  which  he  had  fancied  so  keen  and 
clear — ^that  he  was  unable  to  ask  a  question.  They  sat 
mutely  gazing  at  each  other:  Maggie  with  eyes  of  intense 
life  looking  out  from  a  weary  beaten  face — Tom  pale  with 
a  certain  awe  and  humiliation.  Thought  was  bu%^  though 
the  lips  were  silent:  and  though  he  could  ask  no  question, 
he  guessed  a  story  of  almost  miraculous  divinely-protected 
effort.  But  at  last  a  mist  gathered  over  the  blue-gray 
eyes,  and  the  lips  found  a  word  they  could  utter:  the  ola 
childish — "  Magsie!" 

Maggie  could  make  no  answer  but  a  long  deep  sob  ot 
that  mysterious  wondrous  happiness  that  is  one  with  pain. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  said,  *'We  will  go  to 
Lucy,  Tom:  we'll  go  and  see  if  she  is  safe,  and  then  we 
can  help  the  rest." 

Tom  rowed  with  untired  vigor,  and  with  a  different 
speed  from  poor  Maggie's,      The  boat  was  soon  in  the 

Digitized  by  CjOOQIC 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  497 

current  of  the  river  again,  and  soon  they  would  be  at  Tof- 
toii. 

^'  Park  House  stands  high  up  out  of  the  flood/'  said 
Maggie.     *^  Perhaps  they  have  got  Lucy  there." 

Nothing  else  was  said ;  a  new  danger  was  being  carried 
toward  them  by  the  river.  Some  wooded  machinery  had 
just  given  way  on  one  of  the  wharves,  and  huge  fragments^ 
were  being  floated  along.  The  sun  was  rising  now,  and 
the  wide  area  of  watery  desolation  was  spread  out  in  dread- 
ful clearness  around  them —  in  dreadful  clearness  floated 
onward  the  hurrying,  threatening  masses.  A  large  com- 
pany in  a  boat  that  was  working  its  way  along  under  the 
Tofton  houses,  observed  their  danger  and  shouted,  ''Get 
out  of  the  current ! '' 

But  that  could  not  be  done  at  once,  and  Tom,  looking 
before  him  saw  death  rushing  on  them.  Huge  fragments, 
clinging  together  in  fatal  fellowship,  made  one  wide  mass 
across  the  stream. 

**  It  is  coming,  Maggie  ! "  Tom  said,  in  a  deep  hoarse 
voice,  loosing  the  bars  and  clasping  her. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  was  no  longer  seen  upon  the  ^ 
water — arid  the  huge  mass  was  hurrying  on  in  hjbdeous  tri-  i 
umph. 

But  soon  the  keel  of  the  boat  reappeared,  a  black  speck 
on  the  golden  water. 

The  boat  reappeared  —  but  brother  and  sister  had  gone 
down  in  an  embrace  never  to  be  parted  :  living  through 
again  in  one  supreme  moment  the  days  when  they  had 
clasped  their  little  hands  in  love,  and  roamed  the  daisied 
fields  together. 


CONCLUSION. 


Nature  repairs  her  ravages — repairs  them  with  her  sun- 
shine, and  with  human  labor.  The  desolation  wrought  by 
that  flood,  had  left  little  visible  trace  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  five  years  after.  The  fifth  autumn  was  rich  in 
golden  corn-stacks,  rising  in  thick  clusters  among  the  dis- 
tant hedgerows  :  the  wharves  and  warehouses  on  the  Floss 
were  busy  again,  with  echoes  of  eager  voices,  with  hopeful 
lading  and  unlading. 


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498  TU£  MILL  OK  TUB  FLOSS. 

And  every  man  and  woman  mentioned  in  this  history 
was  still  living — except  those  whose  end  we  know, 

Nature  repairs  her  ravages — but  not  all.  The  uptorn 
trees  are  not  rooted  again :  the  parted  hills  are  left  scarred: 
if  there  is  a  new  growth,  the  trees  are  not  the  same  as  the 
old,  and  the  hills  underneath  their  green  vesture  bear  the 
Iharks  of  the  past  rending.  To  the  eyes  that  have  dwelt 
on  the  past,  tnere  is  no  thorough  repair. 

Dorlcote  mill  was  rebuilt.  And  Dorlcote  churchyard, — 
where  the  brick  grave  that  held  a  father  whom  we  know, 
was  found  with  the  stone  laid  prostrate  upon  it  after  the 
flood, — had  recovered  all  its  grassy  order  and  decent  quiet. 

Near  that  brick  grave  there  was  a  tomb  erected,  very 
soon  after  the  flood,  for  two  bodies  that  were  found  in 
close  embrace ;  and  it  was  visited  at  different  mom'ents  by 
two  men  who  both  felt  that  their  keenest  joy  and  keenest 
sorrow  are  forever  buried. 

One  of  them  visited  the  tomb  again  with  a  sweet  face 
beside  him — but  that  was  years  after. 

The  other  was  always  solitary.  His  great  companion- 
ship was  among  the  trees  of  the  Red  Deeps,  where  the 
buried  joy  seemed  still  to  hover — ^like  a  revisiting  spirit. 

The  tomb  bore  the  names  of  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver, 
and  below  the  names  it  was  written — 

'*  Li  their  death  they  were  not  divldecU'' 
THE  END. 


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