The Mill on the Floss
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 up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry and
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,—Purcell’s 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, you naughty child, haven’t you begun to undress?” said
Lucy, in astonishment. “I 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 pink 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 at 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 _have_ enjoyed the music to-night, haven’t you Maggie?”
“Oh yes, that is what prevented 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 without 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,” said Maggie,
laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. “You are
not impartial, and _I_ think any barrel-organ splendid.”
“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 tremble more.”
“Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me! You think he is
conceited, I 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, my dear thing!” Maggie pinched
Lucy’s dimpled chin.
“We shall have more music to-morrow evening,” said Lucy, looking happy
already, “for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him.”
“Oh, 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 promised him I would not speak to Philip
without his knowledge 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 unreasonable. 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 you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must
not betray that you know it to any one—least of all to Philip himself,
or to Mr Stephen Guest.”
The narrative 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 offence,—the insults he
had heaped on Philip. Angry as the remembrance still made her, she
could not bear that any one else should know it at 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 Philip as put out of
the question by the relation of the two families. Of course Philip’s
father would 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. _I_ was
adored once.”
“Ah, now I 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 little 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,—just what
everything that happens 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
contrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, so
that you may marry Philip when I marry—somebody 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.
“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 subsequent impressions. Maggie
had been thoroughly 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 lodgings in the middle of the day,
when he would be coming in 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 parlour 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 side 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 small parlour,
which was now all that poor Tom had to call by the name of “home,”—that
name which had once, so many years ago, meant for both of them the same
sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was not strange to her 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 that garment and holding it to her face with an air of
embarrassment, as she looked wonderingly at Maggie.
“Bob is at home, then?” said Maggie, recovering herself, and smiling at
the bashful Dutch doll.
“Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself; I’ll
go and see,” said Mrs Jakin, disappearing.
But 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 in before long, Miss. He’s doin’ finely, Mr Tom is; he’ll be
one o’ the first men hereabouts,—you’ll see that.”
“Well, Bob, I’m sure he’ll be indebted to you, whatever 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 ar’n’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 curtsey, and say, “I’d looked forrard like aenything to seein’ you,
Miss, for my husband’s tongue’s been runnin’ on you, like as if he was
light-headed, iver since first he come a-courtin’ on me.”
“Well, well,” said Bob, looking rather silly. “Go an’ see after the
taters, else Mr Tom ’ull 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, “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’t 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