The Mill on the Floss
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
young woman began to speak to the old one in a language which 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 said,—
“I’m come from home because I’m unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I’ll
live with you if you like, and I can teach you 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 determined 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 favour 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 something about Geography
too,—that’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 cheeks to flush,—she was
really beginning to instruct the gypsies, and gaining great influence
over them. The gypsies themselves 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 badly, you know; it’s in my Catechism of Geography,
but perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea—_I want my tea
so_.”
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’ve 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 constantly staring at Maggie and
grinning. Her 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 eat 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 Maggie’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. Meanwhile
the tall girl gave a shrill cry, and presently came running up the boy
whom Maggie had passed as he was sleeping,—a rough urchin about the age
of Tom. He stared at Maggie, and there ensued much incomprehensible
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 tone, 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 amusing 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,
coaxing tone,—
“This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”
“Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking 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 observation, 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 thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble
by and by. She would willingly 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.”
“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o’ this,” said the younger
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, though
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 half-pennies, would
happen to pass that way! But Maggie thought with a sinking heart that
these heroes were never seen in the neighbourhood of St Ogg’s; nothing
very wonderful ever came there.
Maggie Tulliver, you perceive, was by no means that well trained,
well-informed young person that a small female of eight or nine
necessarily is in 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 travelling 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 “polysyllable,” she had deduced the conclusion that
“poly” mean “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 modification 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 transparent 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 unfavourable 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 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’ll
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 home.
“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