The Mill on the Floss
“Oh, but, aunt Pullet,” said Lucy, “you’ve so much beautiful linen. And
suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it when they
were married.”
“Well, I don’t say as I won’t do it,” said Mrs Pullet, “for now Tom’s
so lucky, it’s nothing but right his friends should look on him and
help him. There’s the tablecloths 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’ my 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 Glegg’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 half-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 in
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 heared in _my_ family.”
“Why, what did they call us, when we went to see ’em, then, eh,
neighbour 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 undelicate, let me
know.”
“La, Jane, your husband’s only joking,” said Mrs Pullet; “let him joke
while he’s got health and strength. There’s poor Mr Tilt got his mouth
drawn all o’ one side, and couldn’t laugh if he was to try.”
“I’ll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr Glegg,” said Mrs G., “if
I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it’s other people
must see the joke in a niece’s putting a slight on her mother’s eldest
sister, as is the head o’ the family; 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 me 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 was 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 _I_ should, when I was her age.”
“La, Jane,” said Mrs Pullet, “it ’ud do your beds good to have somebody
to sleep in ’em. There’s that striped room smells dreadful mouldy, and
the glass mildewed 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
Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his
promise.”
Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he 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
yearning 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 hand. “Why, you’re
such a big man, you carry all before you, it, seems. You’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 he’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 poorly 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 tablecloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides 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,—though you’ll be
blundering with the keys, and never remember as 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 of the drawer in the Blue
Room, where the key o’ the Blue 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 that of you,—but you’re lost among
the keys.” This gloomy prospect of the confusion that would ensue on
her decease was very affecting to Mrs Pullet.
“You carry it too far, Sophy,—that locking in and out,” said Mrs Glegg,
in a tone of some disgust at this folly. “You go beyond your own
family. There’s nobody can say I don’t lock up; but I do what’s
reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what’s
serviceable, to make a present of to my nephey; I’ve got cloth as has
never been whitened, 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 Sindbad.
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 yourself, aunty,” said that contriving young lady,
“because I must sit by Tom; I’ve a great deal to say to him.”
In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, 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 fulfilment 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 honours 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 Maggie should
have Philip with all suitable despatch; in cousin Lucy’s opinion
nothing could be easier.
But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualities
that create severity,—strength of will, conscious rectitude of purpose,
narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of self-control,
and a disposition to exert control over others,—prejudices come as the
natural food of tendencies 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 in through the eye,—however 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 a 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
added their force to produce Tom’s bitter repugnance to Philip, and to
Maggie’s union with him; and notwithstanding Lucy’s power over her
strong-willed cousin, she got nothing but a cold refusal ever to
sanction such a marriage; “but of course Maggie could do as she
liked,—she had 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 mediation 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 Philip Wakem.
Chapter XIII.
Borne Along by the Tide
In less than a week Maggie was at St Ogg’s again,—outwardly 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 sufficient 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