The Mill on the Floss
shelf, with a crushing 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 anything 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 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, she 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 foot-step 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 Tulliver, 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.
“I 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 honour.
“What! hasn’t she been playing with you all this while?” said the
father. “She’d been thinking o’ nothing but your coming home.”
“I haven’t seen her this two hours,” says Tom, commencing on the
plumcake.
“Goodness heart; she’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, nay, 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-singing 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 making 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 sullenly, 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 decided 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 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, “Oh, Tom, please forgive me—I can’t bear it—I
will always be good—always remember things—do love me—please, dear
Tom!”
We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when we
have quarrelled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases, and in this
way preserve a dignified alienation, showing much firmness on one side,
and swallowing much grief on the other. We no longer approximate in our
behaviour to the mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but conduct
ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilised 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 to punish her as much as she deserved.
He actually began to kiss her in return, and say,—
“Don’t cry, then, Magsie; here, eat a bit o’ cake.”
Maggie’s sobs began to subside, and she put out her 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 there was no
more cake except what was down-stairs.
So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie was
trotting with 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 her
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 he was the only
person who called her knowledge “stuff,” and did not feel surprised at
her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly
little thing; all girls were 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 housekeeper, 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 while ago. No one 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 favourite
spot always heightened Tom’s good humour, 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 fish 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 something wrong, as
usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench
bouncing on the grass.
Tom was excited.
“O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket.”
Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom
called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar
her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened
to the light dripping 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
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 to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who
lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read about
Christiana passing “the river over which there is no bridge,” always
saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash.
Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they 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 childhood in it,—if it were 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; the same hips
and haws on the autumn’s hedgerows; the same redbreasts that we used to
call “God’s birds,” because they 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 speedwell and the ground ivy at my feet, what grove
of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled
blossoms, 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 personality given to it by the