The Mill on the Floss · OmniClassics

cover The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot “In their death they were not divided.” Contents BOOK FIRST. BOY AND GIRL. Chapter I. Outside Dorlcote Mill Chapter II. Mr Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution about Tom Chapter III. Mr Riley Gives His Advice Concerning a School for Tom Chapter IV. Tom Is Expected Chapter V. Tom Comes Home Chapter VI. The Aunts and Uncles Are Coming Chapter VII. Enter the Aunts and Uncles Chapter VIII. Mr Tulliver Shows His Weaker Side Chapter IX. To Garum Firs Chapter X. Maggie Behaves Worse Than She Expected Chapter XI. Maggie Tries to Run away from Her Shadow Chapter XII. Mr and Mrs Glegg at Home Chapter XIII. Mr Tulliver Further Entangles the Skein of Life BOOK SECOND. SCHOOL-TIME. Chapter I. Tom’s “First Half” Chapter II. The Christmas Holidays Chapter III. The New Schoolfellow Chapter IV. “The Young Idea” Chapter V. Maggie’s Second Visit Chapter VI. A Love-Scene Chapter VII. The Golden Gates Are Passed BOOK THIRD. THE DOWNFALL. Chapter I. What Had Happened at Home Chapter II. Mrs Tulliver’s Teraphim, or Household Gods Chapter III. The Family Council Chapter IV. A Vanishing Gleam Chapter V. Tom Applies His Knife to the Oyster Chapter VI. Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a Pocket-Knife Chapter VII. How a Hen Takes to Stratagem Chapter VIII. Daylight on the Wreck Chapter IX. An Item Added to the Family Register BOOK FOURTH. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. Chapter I. A Variation of Protestantism Unknown to Bossuet Chapter II. The Torn Nest Is Pierced by the Thorns Chapter III. A Voice from the Past BOOK FIFTH. WHEAT AND TARES. Chapter I. In the Red Deeps Chapter II. Aunt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bob’s Thumb Chapter III. The Wavering Balance Chapter IV. Another Love-Scene Chapter V. The Cloven Tree Chapter VI. The Hard-Won Triumph Chapter VII. A Day of Reckoning BOOK SIXTH. THE GREAT TEMPTATION. Chapter I. A Duet in Paradise Chapter II. First Impressions Chapter III. Confidential Moments Chapter IV. Brother and Sister Chapter V. Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster Chapter VI. Illustrating the Laws of Attraction Chapter VII. Philip Re-enters Chapter VIII. Wakem in a New Light Chapter IX. Charity in Full-Dress Chapter X. The Spell Seems Broken Chapter XI. In the Lane Chapter XII. A Family Party Chapter XIII. Borne Along by the Tide Chapter XIV. Waking BOOK SEVENTH. THE FINAL RESCUE. Chapter I. The Return to the Mill Chapter II. St Ogg’s Passes Judgment Chapter III. Showing That Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us Chapter IV. Maggie and Lucy Chapter V. The Last Conflict BOOK FIRST BOY AND GIRL. Chapter I. Outside Dorlcote Mill 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-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal—are borne along 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, tingeing 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 corn. There is a remnant still of last year’s golden clusters of beehive-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 spreading ash. 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 remember the stone bridge. 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, unmindful 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 heighten the peacefulness 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 his dinner, getting sadly 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 neigh 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 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 little 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 pressing 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 Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of. Chapter II. 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 Lady-day. 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 _I_ 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 surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o’ them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. They’re pretty nigh all one, and they’re not far off being even wi’ the law, _I_ believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i’ the face as hard as one cat looks another. _He’s_ none frightened at him.” Mr Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond 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: _I’ve_ 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 _wants_ killing!” “You may kill every fowl 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 yallow as th’ other before they’d been washed half-a-dozen times. And then, when the box is goin’ back’ard and forrard, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry 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 carrier’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, you’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’ the moles; for my brother, as is dead an’ gone, had a mole on his brow. But I can’t remember your iver 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’ th’ inflammation, as we paid Dr Turnbull for attending him, he’d very like ha’ been drivin’ 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 justly the mole; I meant it to stand for summat else; but niver mind—it’s puzzling work, talking is. What I’m