The Mill on the Floss
“It is the boat!” cried Maggie. “Bob, come down to get the boats!”
And without a moment’s shudder of fear, she plunged through the water,
which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of the
candle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the window-sill,
and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging and
protruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying
without shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand.
“Why, they’re both here,—both the boats,” said Bob, as he got into the
one where Maggie was. “It’s wonderful this fastening isn’t broke too,
as well as the mooring.”
In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it, and
mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred.
We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in
their danger, and Bob’s mind was absorbed in possible expedients for
the safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that Maggie had been up,
had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague
impression of her as one who would help to protect, not need to be
protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off, so
as to release the boat from the overhanging window-frame.
“The water’s rising so fast,” said Bob, “I doubt it’ll be in at the
chambers before long,—th’ house is so low. I’ve more mind to get Prissy
and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could, and trusten to
the water,—for th’ old house is none so safe. And if I let go the
boat—but _you_,” he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of his
lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand
and her black hair streaming.
Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along the
line of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to the wide water,
with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of the
river.
In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but that
she had suddenly passed away from that life which she had been
dreading; it was the transition of death, without its agony,—and she
was alone in the darkness with God.
The whole thing had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that the threads of
ordinary association were broken; she sank down on the seat clutching
the oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conception
of her position. The first thing that waked her to fuller consciousness
was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that the darkness was
divided by the faintest light, which parted the overhanging gloom from
the immeasurable watery level below. She was driven out upon the
flood,—that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk of;
which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And with that
thought there rushed in the vision of the old home, and Tom, and her
mother,—they had all listened together.
“O God, where am I? Which is the way home?” she cried out, in the dim
loneliness.
What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearly
destroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress,—her mother and her
brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was strained
now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces looking for help
into the darkness, and finding none.
She was floating in smooth water now,—perhaps far on the overflooded
fields. There was no sense of present danger to check the outgoing of
her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the curtain
of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her whereabout,—that
she might catch some faint suggestion of the spot toward which all her
anxieties tended.
Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level, the gradual
uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defining blackness of
objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must be out on the fields;
those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie?
Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black trees; looking before
her, there were none; then the river lay before her. She seized an oar
and began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope;
the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and
she could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound
where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in
the growing twilight; her wet clothes clung round her, and her
streaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly
conscious of any bodily sensations,—except a sensation of strength,
inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and possible
rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an
undefined sense of reconcilement with her brother; what quarrel, what
harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a
great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone,
and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs? Vaguely
Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love toward her brother that
swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offence and
misunderstanding, and left only the deep, underlying, unshakable
memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to her
Maggie could discern the current of the river. The dark mass must
be—yes, it was—St Ogg’s. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the
first glimpse of the well-known trees—the gray willows, the now
yellowing chestnuts—and above them the old roof! But there was no
colour, no shape yet; all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the
energies seemed to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were a
stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any
future.
She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she would
never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house; this was the
thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more
vividness the state of things round the old home. But then she might be
carried very far down, and be unable to guide her boat out of the
current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to
press upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for
hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now
without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distance and the
growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew must be
the well-known trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing,
muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash against
her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What were
those masses?
For the first time Maggie’s heart began to beat in an agony of dread.
She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being floated along,
more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was
transient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St Ogg’s.
She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; _now_, she must use all
her skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible out of
the current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; she
could see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field.
But no boats were to be seen moving on the river,—such as had been laid
hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to
paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river,
and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts from
the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were calling
to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Tofton that she
could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one yearning look
toward her uncle Deane’s house that lay farther down the river, she
took to both her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery
fields, back toward the Mill. Colour was beginning to awake now, and as
she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints of the
trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and the home
chestnuts,—oh, how deep they lay in the water,—deeper than the trees on
this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill—where was it? Those heavy
fragments hurrying down the Ripple,—what had they meant? But it was not
the house,—the house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but
still firm,—or was it broken in at the end toward the Mill?
With panting joy that she was there at last,—joy that overcame all
distress,—Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she heard no
sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the
upstairs window. She called out in a loud, piercing voice,—
“Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is Maggie!”
Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she heard
Tom’s voice,—
“Who is it? Have you brought a boat?”
“It is I, Tom,—Maggie. Where is mother?”
“She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yesterday. I’ll come
down to the lower window.”
“Alone, Maggie?” said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as he
opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.
“Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get in
quickly. Is there no one else?”
“No,” said Tom, stepping into the boat; “I fear the man is drowned; he
was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the Mill fell with
the crash of trees and stones against it; I’ve shouted again and again,
and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie.”
It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water,—he
face to face with Maggie,—that the full meaning of what had happened
rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering a force,—it was such
a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in life that had lain
beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen and clear,—that he was
unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other,—Maggie
with eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face; Tom
pale, with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy though the
lips were silent; and though he could ask no question, he guessed a
story of almost miraculous, divinely protected effort. But at last a
mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and the lips found a word they
could utter,—the old childish “Magsie!”
Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that mysterious,
wondrous happiness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said, “We will go to Lucy, Tom; we’ll
go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the rest.”
Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from poor
Maggie’s. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and soon
they would be at Tofton.
“Park House stands high up out of the flood,” said Maggie. “Perhaps
they have got Lucy there.”
Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward them by
the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way on one of the
wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was
rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out in
dreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness floated onward
the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that was
working its way along under the Tofton houses observed their danger,
and shouted, “Get out of the current!”
But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before him, saw
death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in fatal
fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.
“It is coming, Maggie!” Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice, loosing the
oars, and clasping her.
The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and the