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FLORENCE-AND 
 IRVIN-SHUPP-JR 
 
MILL 
 FLOSS BY GEORGI 
 ELIOT 
 
 YORK AND BOSTON 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL AND 
 COMPANY * j* & & jfi 
 
THE 
 
 MILL ON THE FLOSS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 IX THEIR DEATH THET WERK NOT DIVIDED 
 
 NEW YORK: 46 EAST UTH STREET 
 
 THOMAS Y. CKOWELL & CO. 
 
 BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 HBoofe I. 
 
 BOY AND GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. OUTSIDE DORLCOTE MILL 1 
 
 II. MR. TULLIVER, OF DORLCOTE MILL, DECLARES HIS 
 
 RESOLUTION ABOUT TOM 8 
 
 III. MR. RlLEY GIVES HIS ADVICE CONCERNING A SCHOOL 
 
 FOR TOM 8 
 
 IV. TOM IS EXPECTED 21 
 
 V. TOM COMES HOME 26 
 
 VI. THE AUNTS AND UNCLES ARE COMING 35 
 
 VII. ENTER THE AUNTS AND UNCLES 46 
 
 VIII. MR. TULLIVER SHOWS HIS WEAKER SIDE .... 67 
 
 IX. To GARUM FIRS 76 
 
 X. MAGGIE BEHAVES WORSE THAN SHE EXPECTED . . 89 
 
 XI. MAGGIE TRIES TO RUN AWAY FROM HER SHADOW . 95 
 
 XII. MR. AND MRS. GLEGG AT HOME 106 
 
 XIII. MR. TULLIVER FURTHER ENTANGLES THE SKEIN OF 
 
 LIFE 117 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 IBoofc II. 
 
 SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. TOM'S " FIRST HALF " ........... 121 
 
 II. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS ......... 140 
 
 III. THE NEW SCHOOLFELLOW .......... 147 
 
 IV. "THE YOUN IDEA" ........... 152 
 
 V. MAGGIE'S SECOND VISIT .......... 162 
 
 VI. A LOVE-SCENE .............. 167 
 
 VII. THE GOLDEN GATES ARE PASSED ....... 171 
 
 III. 
 THE DOWNFALL. 
 
 I. WHAT HAD HAPPENED AT HOME ....... 178 
 
 II. MRS. TULLIVER'S TERAPHIM, OR HOUSEHOLD GODS . 184 
 
 III. THE FAMILY COUNCIL ........... 188 
 
 IV. A VANISHING GLEAM ........... 203 
 
 V. TOM APPLIES HIS KNIFE TO THE OYSTER .... 206 
 
 VI. TENDING TO REFUTE THE POPULAR PREJUDICE 
 
 AGAINST THE PRESENT OF A POCKET-KNIFE . . . 217 
 
 VII. How A HEN TAKES TO STRATAGEM ...... 224 
 
 VIII. DAYLIGHT ON THE WRECK ......... 235 
 
 IX. AN ITEM ADDED TO THE FAMILY REGISTER . . . 242 
 
 IBoofe IV. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 
 
 I. A VARIATION OF PROTESTANTISM UNKNOWN TO 
 
 BOSSUET ............... 248 
 
 II. THE TORN NEST is PIERCED BY THE THORNS . . 252 
 
 III. A VOICE FROM THE PAST .......... 257 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 HBoofc V. 
 
 WHEAT AND TARES. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN THE RED DEEPS 272 
 
 II. AUNT GLEGG LEARNS THE BREADTH OF BOB'S THUMB 283 
 
 III. THE WAVERING BALANCE 299 
 
 IV. ANOTHER LOVE-SCENE 305 
 
 V. THE CLOVEN TREE 311 
 
 VI. THE HARD-WON TRIUMPH 322 
 
 VII. A DAY OF RECKONING . . . 826 
 
 Boofe VI 
 
 THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 
 
 I. A DUET IN PARADISE 333 
 
 II. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 341 
 
 III. CONFIDENTIAL MOMENTS 853 
 
 IV. BROTHER AND SISTER 357 
 
 V. SHOWING THAT TOM HAD OPENED THE OYSTER . . 364 
 
 VI. ILLUSTRATING THE LAWS OF ATTRACTION .... 368 
 
 VII. PHILIP RE-ENTERS 378 
 
 VIII. WAKEM IN A NEW LIGHT 390 
 
 IX. CHARITY IN FULL-DRESS 397 
 
 X. THE SPELL SEEMS BROKEN 406 
 
 XI. IN THE LANE 412 
 
 XII. A FAMILY PARTY 418 
 
 XIII. BORNE ALONG BY THE TIDE 424 
 
 XIV. WAKING 437 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 HBoofe VII 
 
 THE FINAL RESCUE. 
 
 CHAPTER PAOK 
 
 i. THE RETURN TO THE MILL 447 
 
 II. ST. OGG'S PASSES JUDGMENT 454 
 
 III. SHOWING THAT OLD ACQUAINTANCES ARE CAPABLE 
 
 OF SURPRISING US 462 
 
 IV. MAGGIE AND LUCY 468 
 
 V. THE LAST CONFLICT 474 
 
 CONCLUSION , 485 
 
BOOK I. 
 
 BOY AND GIRL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OUTSIDE DOBLCOTE MILL. 
 
 A WIDE plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on be- 
 tween its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing 
 to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. 
 On this mighty tide the black ships laden with the fresh- 
 scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or 
 with the dark glitter of coal are borne along to the town of 
 St. Ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad 
 gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the 
 river-brink, tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under the 
 transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand 
 stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth made 
 ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched 
 already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. 
 There is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of 
 bee-hive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows ; and 
 everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees ; the distant 
 ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red- 
 brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. 
 Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a 
 lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, 
 with its dark changing wavelets ! It seems to me like a living 
 companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its 
 low, placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. 
 I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone 
 bridge. 
 
 And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two 
 here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threat- 
 ening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless 
 time of departing February it is t>leasant to look at, perhaps 
 
2 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept, com- 
 fortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that 
 shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, 
 and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns 
 the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look 
 at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green 
 powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches 
 that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love 
 with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping 
 their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmind- 
 ful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world 
 above. 
 
 The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a 
 dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten' the peacefulness of 
 the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting 
 one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder 
 of the huge covered waggon coming home with sacks of grain. 
 That honest waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly 
 dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it 
 till he has fed his horses, the strong, submissive, meek-eyed 
 beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from 
 between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them 
 in that awful manner as if they needed that hint ! See how 
 they stretch their shoulders up the slope towards the bridge, 
 with all the more energy because they are so near home. Look 
 at their grand shaggy feet that seem to grasp the firm earth, 
 at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy 
 collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches ! I 
 should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly earned 
 feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from 
 the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. 
 Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a 
 swifter pace, and the arch of the covered waggon disappears 
 at the turning behind the trees. 
 
 Now I can turn my eyes towards the mill again, and watch 
 the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. 
 That little girl is watching it too; she has been standing on 
 just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused 
 on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear 
 seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance 
 with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow 
 in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the 
 little playfellow went in, I think ; and there is a very bright 
 fixe to tempt her : the red light shines out under the deepening 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 3 
 
 grey of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my 
 arms on the cold stone of this bridge. . . . 
 
 Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing 
 my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was 
 standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked 
 one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, 
 I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talk- 
 ing about, as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour, 
 on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MB. TULLIVER, OF DORLCOTE MILL, DECLARES HIS RESOLUTION 
 ABOUT TOM. 
 
 " WHAT I want, you know," said Mr. Tulliver, " what I 
 want is to give Tom a good eddication ; an eddication as '11 be 
 a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I 
 gave notice for him to leave the academy at Ladyday. I mean 
 to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The 
 two years at th' academy 'ud ha' done well enough, if I 'd 
 meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he 's had a fine 
 sight more schoolin' nor / ever got. All the learnin' my father 
 ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at 
 th' other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so 
 as he might be up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and 
 write with a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, 
 and arbitrations, and things. I would n't make a downright law- 
 yer o' the lad, I should be sorry for him to be a raskill, but 
 a sort o' engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, 
 like Riley, or one o' them smartish businesses as are all profits 
 and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. 
 They 're pretty nigh all one, and they 're not far off being even 
 wi' the law, / believe ; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i' the 
 face as hard as one cat looks another. He 's none frightened 
 at him." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely 
 woman in a fan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it 
 is since fan-shaped caps were worn, they must be so near 
 coining in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was 
 
4 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 nearly forty, they were new at St. egg's, and considered sweet 
 things). 
 
 " Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best : I 've no objections. 
 But had n't I better kill a couple o' fowl, and have th' aunts 
 and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sister 
 Glegg and sister Pullet have got to say about it ? There 's 
 a couple o' fowl wants killing ! " 
 
 " You may kill every fowl i' the yard if you like, Bessy ; 
 but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I 'm to do wi' my 
 own lad," said Mr. Tulliver, defiantly. 
 
 " Dear heart ! " said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at this sangui- 
 nary rhetoric, " how can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver ? But it 's 
 your way to speak disrespectful o' my family ; and sister Glegg 
 throws all the blame upo' me, though I 'm sure I 'm as innocent 
 as the babe unborn. For nobody 's ever heard me say as it 
 was n't lucky for my children to have aunts and uncles as can 
 live independent. Howiver, if Tom 's to go to a new school, 
 I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him ; 
 else he might as well have calico as linen, for they 'd be one 
 as yallow as th' other before they 'd been washed half-a-dozen 
 times. And then, when the box is goin' backards and forrards, 
 I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple ; for he 
 can do with an extry bit, bless him ! whether they stint him at 
 the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as most, 
 thank God ! " 
 
 " Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's 
 cart, it other things fit in," said Mr. Tulliver. " But you 
 must n't put a spoke i' the wheel about the washin', if we can't 
 get a school near enough. That 's the fault I have to find wi' 
 you, Bessy ; if you see a stick i' the road, you 're allays thinkin' 
 you can't step over it. You 'd want me not to hire a good 
 waggoner, 'cause he 'd got a mole on his face." 
 
 "Dear heart!" said Mrs. Tulliver, in mild surprise, "when 
 did I iver make objections to a man because he 'd got a mole 
 on his face ? I 'm sure I 'm rether fond o' the moles ; for my 
 brother, as is dead an' gone, had a mole on his brow. But 1 
 can't remember your iver offering to hire a waggoner with ;: 
 mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs had n't a mole on 
 his face no more nor you have, an' I was all for having you 
 hire him ; an' so you did hire him, an' if he had n't died o' th' 
 inflammation, as we paid Dr. Turubull for attending him, he 'd 
 very like ha' been drivin' the waggon now. He might have a 
 mole somewhere out o' sight, but how was I to know that, Mr. 
 Tulliver ? " 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 5 
 
 "No, no, Bessy; I didn't mean justly the mole; I meant it 
 to stand for sumniat else ; but niver mind it 's puzzling work, 
 talking is. What I 'm thinking on, is how to find the right 
 sort o' school to send Tom to, for I might be ta'en in again, as 
 I've been wi' th' academy. I'll have nothing to do wi' a 
 'cademy again : whativer school I send Tom to, it sha'n't be a 
 'cademy ; it shall be a place where the lads spend their time 
 i' summat else besides blacking the family's shoes, and getting 
 up the potatoes. It 's an uncommon puzzling thing to know 
 what school to pick." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both 
 hands into his breeches-pockets as if he hoped to find some 
 suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he 
 presently said, "I know what I'll do: I'll talk it over wi' 
 Kiley ; he 's coming to-morrow, t' arbitrate about the dam." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Tulliver, I've put the sheets out for the best 
 bed, and Kezia 's got 'em hanging at the fire. They are n't the 
 best sheets, but they 're good enough for anybody to sleep in, 
 be he who he will; for as for them best Holland sheets, I 
 should repent buying 'em, only they '11 do to lay us out in. 
 An' if you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver, they 're mangled 
 beautiful, an' all ready, an' smell o' lavender as it 'ud be a 
 pleasure to lay 'em out ; an' they lie at the left-hand corner o' 
 the big oak linen-chest at the back: not as I should trust 
 anybody to look 'em out but myself." 
 
 As Mrs. Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright 
 bunch of keys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing 
 her thumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile while 
 she looked at the clear fire. If Mr. Tulliver had been a sus- 
 ceptible man in his conjugal relation, he might have supposed 
 that she drew out the key to aid her imagination in anticipating 
 the moment when he would be in a state to justify the produc- 
 tion of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not so ; he 
 was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power ; 
 moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, 
 and since his mention of Mr. Riley, had been apparently 
 occupied in a tactile examination of his woollen stockings. 
 
 " I think I 've hit it, Bessy," was his first remark after a 
 short silence. " Riley 's as likely a man as any to know o' 
 some school ; he 's had schooling himself, an' goes about to all 
 sorts o' places, arbitratin' and vallyin' and that. And we 
 shall have time to talk it over to-morrow night when the busi- 
 ness is done. I want Tom to be such a sort o' man as Riley, 
 you know, as can talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all 
 
6 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 wrote out for him, and knows a good lot o' words as don't 
 mean much, so as you can't lay hold of 'em i' law ; and a good 
 solid knowledge o' business too." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Tulliver, "so far as talking proper, and 
 knowing everything, and walking with a bend in his back, and 
 setting his hair up, I should n't mind the lad being brought up 
 to that. But them Hue-talking men from the big towns mostly 
 wear the false shirt-fronts ; they wear a frill till it 's all a mess, 
 and then hide it with a bib ; I know Riley does. And then, if 
 Tom 's to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, he '11 have a house 
 with a kitchen hardly big enough to turn in, an' niver get a 
 fresh egg for his breakfast, an' sleep up three pair o' stairs, 
 or four, for what I know, and be burnt to death before he 
 can get down." 
 
 " No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, " I 've no thoughts of his going 
 to Mudport : I mean him to set up his office at St. Ogg's, close 
 by us, an' live at home. But," continued Mr. Tulliver, after a 
 pause, " what I 'm a bit afraid on is, as Tom has n't got the 
 right sort o' brains for a smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit 
 slowish. He takes after your family, Bessy." 
 
 "Yes, that he does," said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the last 
 proposition entirely on its own merits; "he's wonderful for 
 liking a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, 
 and my father's before him." 
 
 " It seems a bit of a pity, though," said Mr. Tulliver, " as 
 the lad should take after the mother's side istead o' the little 
 wench. That 's the worst on 't wi' the crossing o' breeds : you 
 can never justly calkilate what '11 come on't. The little un 
 takes after my side, now : she 's twice as 'cute as Tom. Too 
 'cute for a woman, I 'm afraid," continued Mr. Tulliver, turning 
 his head dubiously first on one side and then on the other. 
 " It 's no mischief much while she 's a little un ; but an over^ 
 'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep, she'll fetch 
 none the bigger price for that." 
 
 " Yes, it is a mischief while she 's a little un, Mr. Tulliver, 
 for it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clea.n 
 pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. An' now you 
 put me i' mind," continued Mrs. Tulliver, rising and going to 
 the window, " I don't know where she is now, an' it 's pretty 
 nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought so, wanderin' up an' down by 
 the water, like a wild thing ; she '11 tumble in some day." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and 
 shook her head, a process which she repeated more than 
 once before she returned to her chair. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 7 
 
 "You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr. Tulliver," she observed as she 
 sat down, "but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some 
 things ; for if I send her up-stairs to fetch anything, she for- 
 gets what she 's gone for, an' perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor 
 i' the sunshine an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bed- 
 lam creatur', all the while I'm waiting for her down-stairs. 
 That niver run i' my family, thank God ! no more nor a brown 
 skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't like to fly i' 
 the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but 
 one gell, an' her so comical." 
 
 "Pooh, nonsense!" said Mr. Tulliver; "she's a straight, 
 black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I don't know 
 i' what she 's behind other f olks's children ; and she can read 
 almost as well as the parson." 
 
 "But her hair won't curl all I can do with it, and she's 
 so franzy about having it put i' paper, and I 've such work 
 as never was to make her stand and have it pinched with 
 th' irons." 
 
 "Cut it off cut it off short," said the father, rashly. 
 
 " How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver ? She 's too big a gell 
 gone nine, and tall of her age to have her hair cut short ; an' 
 there 's her cousin Lucy 's got a row o' curls round her head, 
 an' not a hair out o' place. It seems hard as my sister Deane 
 should have that pretty child ; I 'm sure Lucy takes more after 
 me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie," continued the 
 mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small 
 mistake of nature entered the room, " where 's the use o' my 
 telling you to keep away from the water ? You '11 tumble in 
 and be drownded some day, an' then you '11 be sorry you did n't 
 do as mother told you." 
 
 Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully con- 
 firmed her mother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her 
 daughter to have a curled crop, "like other folks's children," 
 had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears ; 
 and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken 
 out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep 
 the dark, heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes, an 
 action which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland 
 pony. 
 
 "Oh, dear, oh, dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to 
 throw your bonnet down there ? Take it up-stairs, there 's a 
 good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pin- 
 afore on, an' change your shoes, do, for shame ; an' come an' 
 go on with your patchwork, like a little lady." 
 
8 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh, mother," said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, " I 
 don't want to do my patchwork." 
 
 " What ! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane 
 for your aunt Glegg ? " 
 
 " It 's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, 
 " tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I 
 don't want to do anything for my aunt Glegg. I don't like 
 her." 
 
 Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr. 
 Tulliver laughs audibly. 
 
 " I wonder at you, as you '11 laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver," said 
 the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. "You en- 
 courage her i' naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as it 's 
 me spoils her." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered person, 
 never cried, when she was a baby, on any slighter ground than 
 hunger and pins ; and from the cradle upwards had been 
 healthy, fair, plump, and dull-witted; in short, the flower of 
 her family for beauty and amiability. But milk and mildness 
 are not the best things for keeping, and when they turn only a 
 little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. 
 I have often wondered whether those early Madonnas of 
 Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression, 
 kept their placidity undisturbed when their strong-limbed, 
 strong-willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. 
 I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, 
 getting more and more peevish as it became more and more 
 ineffectual. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MB. RILEY GIVES HIS ADVICE CONCERNING A SCHOOL 
 FOR TOM. 
 
 THE gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill, tak- 
 ing his brandy-and-water so pleasantly with his good friend 
 Tulliver, is Mr. Riley, a gentleman with a waxen complexion 
 and fat hands, rather highly educated for an auctioneer and 
 appraiser, but large-hearted enough to show a great deal of bon- 
 hommie towards simple country acquaintances of hospitable 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 9 
 
 habits. Mr. Riley spoke of such, acquaintances kindly as 
 "people of the old school." 
 
 The conversation had come to a pause. Mr. Tulliver, not 
 without a particular reason, had abstained from a seventh re- 
 cital of the cool retort by which Riley had shown himself too 
 many for Dix, and how Wakem had had his comb cut for once 
 in his life, now the business of the dam had been settled by 
 arbitration, and how there never would have been any dispute 
 at all about the height of water if everybody was what they 
 should be, and Old Harry had n't made the lawyers. Mr. Tul- 
 liver was, on the whole, a man of safe traditional opinions ; 
 but on one or two points he had trusted to his unassisted in- 
 tellect, and had arrived at several questionable conclusions ; 
 among the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by 
 Old Harry. Unhappily he had no one to tell him that this 
 was rampant Manichseism, else he might have seen his error. 
 But to-day it was clear that the good principle was triumphant : 
 this affair of the water-power had been a tangled business 
 somehow, for all it seemed look at it one way as plain as 
 water 's water ; but, big a puzzle as it was, it had n't got the 
 better of Eiley. Mr. Tulliver took his brandy-and-water a 
 little stronger than usual, and, for a man who might be sup- 
 posed to have a few hundreds lying idle at his banker's, was 
 rather incautiously open in expressing his high estimate of his 
 friend's business talents. 
 
 But the dam was a subject of conversation that would keep ; 
 it could always be taken up again at the same point, and ex- 
 actly in the same condition ; and there was another subject, as 
 you know, on which Mr. Tulliver was in pressing want of Mr. 
 Riley's advice. This was his particular reason for remaining 
 silent for a short space after his last draught, and rubbing his 
 knees in a meditative manner. He was not a man to make an 
 abrupt transition. This was a puzzling world, as he often said, 
 and if you drive your waggon in a hurry, you may light on an 
 awkward corner. Mr. Riley, meanwhile, was not impatient. 
 Why should he be ? Even Hotspur, one would think, must 
 have been patient in his slippers on a warm hearth, taking 
 copious snuff, and sipping gratuitous brandy-and-water. 
 
 " There 's a thing I 've got i' my head," said Mr. Tulliver at 
 last, in rather a lower tone than usual, as he turned his head 
 and looked steadfastly at his companion. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Riley, in a tone of mild interest. He was 
 a man with heavy waxen eyelids and high arched eyebrows, 
 looking exactly the same under all circumstances. This im- 
 
10 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 movability of face, and the habit of taking a pinch of snuff 
 before he gave an answer, made him trebly oracular to Mr. 
 Tulliver. 
 
 " It 's a very particular thing," he went on ; " it 's about my 
 boy Tom." 
 
 At the sound of this name, Maggie, who was seated on a low 
 stool close by the fire, with a large book open on her lap, shook 
 her heavy hair back and looked up eagerly. There were few 
 sounds that roused Maggie when she was dreaming over her 
 book, but Tom's name served as well as the shrillest whistle ; 
 in an instant she was on the watch, with gleaming eyes, like a 
 Skye terrier suspecting mischief, or at all events determined 
 to fly at any one who threatened it towards Tom. 
 
 " You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsummer," 
 said Mr. Tulliver; "he's comin' away from the 'cademy at 
 Ladyday, an' I shall let him run loose for a quarter ; but after 
 that I want to send him to a downright good school, where 
 they '11 make a scholard of him." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Riley, " there 's no greater advantage you 
 can give him than a good education. Not," he added, with 
 polite significance, " not that a man can't be an excellent 
 miller and farmer, and a shrewd, sensible fellow into the bar- 
 gain, without much help from the schoolmaster." 
 
 " I believe you," said Mr. Tulliver, winking, and turning his 
 head on one side ; " but that 's where it is. I don't mean Tom 
 to be a miller and farmer. I see no fun i' that. Why, if I 
 made him a miller an' farmer, he 'd be expectin' to take to the 
 mill an' the land, an' a-hinting at me as it was time for me to 
 lay by an' think o' my latter end. Nay, nay, I 've seen enough 
 o' that wi' sons. I '11 never pull my coat off before I go to bed. 
 I shall give Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he 
 may make a nest for himself, an' not want to push me out o' 
 mine. Pretty well if he gets it when I 'in dead an' gone. I 
 sha'n't be put off wi' spoon-meat afore I 've lost my teeth." 
 
 This was evidently a point on which Mr. Tulliver felt 
 strongly ; and the impetus which had given unusual rapidity 
 arid emphasis to his speech showed itself still unexhausted for 
 some minutes afterwards in a defiant motion of the head from 
 side to side, and an occasional "Nay, nay," like a subsiding 
 growl. 
 
 These angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, 
 and cut her to the quick. Tom, it appeared, was supposed 
 capable of turning his father out of doors, and of making the 
 future in some way tragic by his wickedness. This was not 
 
BOY AXJ) GIRL. 11 
 
 to be borne ; and Maggie jumped up from her stool, forgetting 
 all about her heavy book, wind) fell with a bang within the 
 fender, and going up between her father's knees, said, in a 
 half-crying, half-indignant voice, 
 
 " Father, Tom would n't be naughty to you ever ; I know he 
 would n't." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was out of the room, superintending a choice 
 supper-dish, and Mr. Tulliver' s heart was touched ; so Maggie 
 was not scolded about the book. Mr. Kiley quietly picked it 
 up and looked at it, while the father laughed, with a certain 
 tenderness in his hard-lined face, and patted his little givl on 
 the back, and then held her hands and kept her between his 
 knees. 
 
 " AVhat ! they must n't say any harm o' Tom, eh ? " said Mr. 
 Tulliver, looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye. Then, in a 
 lower voice, turning to Mr. Riley, as though Maggie could n't 
 hear, " Sha understands what one 's talking about so as never 
 was. And you should hear her read, straight off, as if she 
 knowed it all beforehand. And allays at her book ! But it 's 
 bad it 's bad," Mr. Tulliver added sadly, checking this blam- 
 able exultation. " A woman 's no business wi' being so clever ; 
 it '11 turn to trouble, I doubt. But bless you ! " here the 
 exultation was clearly recovering the mastery, " she '11 read 
 the books and understand 'em better nor half the folks as are 
 growed up." 
 
 Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement. 
 She thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her now ; it 
 had been evident that he thought nothing of her before. 
 
 Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she 
 could make nothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows ; 
 but he presently looked at her, and said, 
 
 " Come, come and tell me something about this book ; here 
 are some pictures, I want to know what they mean." 
 
 Maggie, with deepening colour, went without hesitation to 
 Mr. Riley's elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing 
 one corner, and tossing back her mane, while she said, 
 
 " Oh, I '11 tell you what that means. It 's a dreadful picture, 
 ib n't it ? But I can't help looking at it. That old woman in 
 the water 's a witch, they 've put her in to find out whether 
 she 's a witch or no ; and if she swims she 's a witch, and if 
 she 's drowned and killed, you know she 's innocent, and 
 not a witch, but only a poor silly old woman. But what good 
 would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned ? 
 Only, I suppose, she 'd go to heaven, and God would make it 
 
12 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with hib arms akimbo, 
 laughing, oh, is n't he ugly ? I '11 tell you what he is. He 's 
 the Devil really" (here Maggie's voice became louder and more 
 emphatic), " and not a right blacksmith ; for the Devil takes 
 che shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets people 
 doing wicked things, and he 's oftener in the shape of a bad 
 man than any other, because, you know, if people saw he was 
 the Devil, and he roared at 'em, they'd run away, and he 
 couldn't make 'em do what he pleased." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver had listened to this exposition of Maggie's with 
 petrifying wonder. 
 
 " Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on ? " he 
 burst out at last. 
 
 "The 'History of the Devil,' by Daniel Defoe, not quite 
 the right book for a little girl," said Mr. Kiley. " How came 
 it among your books, Tulliver ? " 
 
 Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said, 
 
 "Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. 
 They was all bound alike, it's a good binding, you see, and 
 I thought they 'd be all good books. There 's Jeremy Taylor's 
 ' Holy Living and Dying ' among 'em. I read in it often of a 
 Sunday " (Mr. Tulliver felt somehow a familiarity with that 
 great writer, because his name was Jeremy) ; " and there 's a 
 lot more of 'em, sermons mostly, I think, but they 've all 
 got the same covers, and I thought they were all o' one sample, 
 as you may say. But it seems one must n't judge by th' out- 
 side. This is a puzzlin' world." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Kiley, in an admonitory, patronising tone 
 as he patted Maggie on the head, " I advise you to put by the 
 'History of the Devil,' and read some prettier book. Have 
 you no prettier books ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to 
 vindicate the variety of her reading. " I know the reading in 
 this book isn't pretty; but I like the pictures, and I make 
 .,tories to the pictures out of my own head, you know. But 
 I've got '^Eso])'s Fables,' and a book about Kangaroos and 
 things, and the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' " 
 
 " Ah, a beautiful book," said Mr. Kiley ; " you can't read a 
 better." 
 
 "Well, but there's a great deal about the Devil in that," 
 said Maggie, triumphantly, " and I '11 show you the picture of 
 him in his true shape, as he fought with Christian." 
 
 Maggie ran in an instant to the corner of the room, jumped 
 on a chair, and reached down from the small bookcase a shabby 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 13 
 
 old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least 
 trouble of search, at the picture she wanted. 
 
 " Here he is," she said, running back to Mr. Biley, " and 
 Tom coloured him for me with his paints when he was at 
 home last holidays, the body all black, you know, and the 
 eyes red, like fire, because he's all fire inside, and it shines 
 out at his eyes." 
 
 "Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to 
 feel rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the per- 
 sonal appearance of a being powerful enough to create law- 
 yers ; " shut up the book, and let 's hear no more o' such talk. 
 It is as I thought the child 'ull learn more mischief nor good 
 wi' the books. Go, go and see after your mother." 
 
 Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, 
 but not being inclined to see after her mother, she compro- 
 mised the matter by going into a dark corner behind her father's 
 chair, and nursing her doll, towards which she had an occa- 
 sional fit of fondness in Tom's absence, neglecting its toilet, 
 but lavishing so many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks 
 had a wasted, unhealthy appearance. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the like on 't ? " said Mr. Tulliver, as 
 Maggie retired. " It 's a pity but what she 'd been the lad, 
 she 'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would. It 's the 
 wonderful'st thing " here he lowered his voice "as I 
 picked the mother because she was n't o'er 'cute bein' a 
 good-looking woman too, an' come of a rare family for manag- 
 ing ; but I picked her from her sisters o' purpose, 'cause she 
 was a bit weak like ; for I was n't agoin' to be told the rights 
 o' things by my own fireside. But you see when a man 's got 
 brains himself, there 's no knowing where they '11 run to ; an' 
 a pleasant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid 
 lads and 'cute wenches, till it 's like as if the world was turned 
 topsy-turvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing." 
 
 Mr. Riley's gravity gave way, and he shook a little under 
 the application of his pinch of snuff before he said, 
 
 " But your lad 's not stupid, is he ? I saw him, when I wa - 
 here last, busy making fishing-tackle ; he seemed quite up to 
 it." 
 
 " Well, he is n't not to say stupid, he 's got a notion 
 o' things out o' door, an' a sort o' common-sense, as he 'd lay 
 hold o' things by the right handle. But he 's slow with his 
 tongue, you see, and he reads but poorly, and can't abide the 
 books, and spells all wrong, they tell me, an' as shy as can be 
 wi' strangers, an' you never hear him say 'cute things like the 
 
14 THE MILL UN THE 7-Y.O.S.S. 
 
 little wench. Now, what I want is to send him to a school 
 where they '11 make him a bit nimble with his tongue and his 
 pen, and make a smart chap of him. 1 want my son to be 
 even wi' these fellows as have got the start o' me with having 
 better schooling. Not but what, if the world had been left as 
 God made it, 1 could ha' seen my way, and held my own wi' 
 the best of 'em ; but things have got so twisted round and 
 wrapped up i' unreasonable words, as are n't a bit like 'em, 
 as I 'm clean at fault, often an' often. Everything winds 
 about so the more straightforrard you are, the more you 're 
 puzzled." 
 
 JVir. Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook 
 Ms head in a melancholy manner, conscious of exemplif}'ing 
 the truth that a perfectly sane intellect is hardly at home in 
 this insane world. 
 
 "You're quite in the right of it, Tulliver," observed Mr. 
 Riley. " Better spend an extra hundred or two on your son's 
 education, than leave it him in your will. I know I should 
 have tried to do so by a son of mine, if I'd had one, though, 
 God knows, I have n't your ready money to play with, Tulliver ; 
 and I have a houseful of daughters into the bargain." 
 
 " I daresay, now, you know of a school as 'ud be just the 
 thing for Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, not diverted from his pur- 
 pose by any sympathy with Mr. Riley 's deficiency of ready 
 cash. 
 
 Mr. Riley took a pinch of snuff, and kept Mr. Tulliver in 
 suspense by a silence that seemed deliberative, before he 
 said, 
 
 " I know of a very fine chance for any one that 's got the 
 necessary money, and that 's what you have, Tulliver. The 
 fact is, I would n't recommend any friend of mine to send a 
 boy to a regular school, if he could afford to do better. But 
 if any one wanted his boy to get superior instruction and 
 training, where he would be the companion of his master, and 
 that master a first-rate fellow, I know his man. I would n't 
 mention the chance to everybody, because I don't think every- 
 body would succeed in getting it, if he were to try; but I 
 mention it to you, Tulliver, between ourselves." 
 
 The fixed inquiring glance with which Mr. Tulliver had 
 been watching his friend's oracular face became quite eager. 
 
 " Ay, now, let 's hear," he said, adjusting himself in his 
 chair with the complacency of a person who is thought worthy 
 of Important communications. 
 
 " He 's an Oxford man," said Mr. Riley, sententiously, shut- 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 15 
 
 ting his mouth close, and looking at Mr. Tulliver to observe 
 the effect of this stimulating information. 
 
 " What ! a parson ? " said Mr. Tulliver, rather doubtfully. 
 
 " Yes, and an M. A. The bishop, I understand, thinks very 
 highly of him : why, it was the bishop who got him his pres- 
 ent curacy." 
 
 " Ah ? " said Mr. Tulliver, to whom one thing was as wonder- 
 ful as another concerning these unfamiliar phenomena. " But 
 what can he want wi' Tom, then ? " 
 
 "Why, the fact is, he's fond of teaching, and wishes to 
 keep up his studies, and a clergyman has but little opportunity 
 for that in his parochial duties. He 's willing to take one or 
 two boys as pupils to fill up his time profitably. The boys 
 would be quite of the family, the finest thing in the world 
 for them ; under Stelling's eye continually." 
 
 " But do you think they 'd give the poor lad twice o' pud- 
 ding ? " said Mrs. Tulliver, who was now in her place again. 
 " He 's such a boy for pudding as never was ; an' a growing 
 boy like that, it 's dreadful to think o' their stintin' him." 
 
 " And what money 'ud he want ? " said Mr. Tulliver, whose 
 instinct told him that the services of this admirable M.A. 
 would bear a high price. 
 
 " Why, I know of a clergyman who asks a hundred and fifty 
 with his youngest pupils, and he 's not to be mentioned with 
 Stelling, the man I speak of. I know, on good authority, that 
 one of the chief people at Oxford said, " Stelling might get 
 the highest honoitrs if he chose. But he did n't care about 
 university honours ; he 's a quiet man not noisy." 
 
 " Ah, a deal better a deal better," said Mr. Tulliver ; 
 "but a hundred and fifty 's an uncommon price. I never 
 thought o' paying so much as that." 
 
 " A good education, let rne tell you, Tulliver, a good edu- 
 cation is cheap at the money. But Stelling is moderate in his 
 terms ; he 's not a grasping man. I 've no doubt he 'd take 
 your boy at a hundred, and that 's what you would n't get 
 many other clergymen to do. I '11 write to him about it, it 
 you like." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver rubbed his knees, and looked at the carpet in 
 a meditative manner. 
 
 " But belike he 's a bachelor," observed Mrs. Tulliver, in the 
 interval ; " an' I 've no opinion o' housekeepers. There was 
 my brother, as is dead an' gone, had a housekeeper once, an' 
 she took half the feathers out o' the best bed, an' packed 'em 
 up an' sent 'em away. An' it 's unknown the linen she made 
 
16 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 away with Stott her name was. It 'ud break my heart to 
 send Tom where there 's a housekeeper, an' I hope you won't 
 think of it, Mr. Tulliver." 
 
 "You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver," said Mr. Riley, " for Stelling is married to as nice a little 
 woman as any man need wish for a wife. There is n't a kinder 
 little soul in the world ; I know her family well. She has 
 very much your complexion, light curly hair. She comes of 
 a good Mudport family, and it 's not every offer that would 
 have been acceptable in that quarter. But Stelling 's not an 
 every-day man ; rather a particular fellow as to the people he 
 chooses to be connected with. But I think he would have no 
 objection to take your son; I think he would not, on my 
 representation." 
 
 " I don't know what he could have against the lad," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver, with a slight touch of motherly indignation; "a 
 nice fresh-skinned lad as anybody need wish to see." 
 
 " But there 's one thing I 'in thinking on," said Mr. Tulliver, 
 turning his head on one side and looking at Mr. Riley, after a 
 long perusal of the carpet. " Would n't a parson be almost too 
 high-learnt to bring up a lad to be a man o' business ? My 
 notion o' the parsons was as they 'd got a sort o' learning as 
 lay mostly out o' sight. And that is n't what I want for Tom. 
 I want him to know figures, and write like print, and see into 
 things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to wrap 
 things up in words as are n't actionable. It 's an uncommon 
 fine thing, that is," concluded Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head, 
 "when you can let a man know what you think of him without 
 paying for it." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Tulliver," said Mr. Riley, "you 're quite under 
 a mistake about the clergy ; all the best schoolmasters are of 
 the clergy. The schoolmasters who are not clergymen are a 
 very low set of men generally." 
 
 " Ay, that Jacobs is, at the 'cademy," interposed Mr. Tulliver. 
 
 " To be sure, men who have failed in other trades, most 
 likely. Now, a clergyman is a gentleman by profession and 
 education ; and besides that, he has the knowledge that will 
 ground a boy, and prepare him for entering on any career with 
 credit. There may be some clergymen wno are mere book- 
 men ; but you may depend upon it, Stelling is not one of them, 
 a man that 's wide awake, let me tell you. Drop him a 
 hint, and that 's enough. You talk of figures, now ; you have 
 only to say to Stelling, ' I want my son to be a thorough arith- 
 metician,' and you may leave the rest to him." 
 
'BOY AND GIRL. 17 
 
 Mr. Riley paused a moment, while Mr. Tulliver, somewhat 
 reassured as to clerical tutorship, was inwardly rehearsing to an 
 imaginary Mr. Stelling the statement, " I want my son to know 
 'rethmetic." 
 
 "You see, my dear Tulliver," Mr. Riley continued, "when 
 you get a thoroughly educated man, like Stelling, he 's at no 
 loss to take up any branch of instruction. When a workman 
 knows the use of his tools, he can make a door as well as a 
 window." 
 
 " Ay, that 's true," said Mr. Tulliver, almost convinced now 
 that the clergy must be the best of schoolmasters. 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you what I '11 do for you," said Mr. Riley, 
 " and I would n't do it for everybody. I '11 see Stelling's father- 
 in-law, or drop him a line when I get back to Mudport, to say 
 that you wish to place your boy with his son-in-law, and I 
 daresay Stelling will write to you, and send you his terms." 
 
 " But there 's no hurry, is there ? " said Mrs. Tulliver ; " for 
 I hope, Mr. Tulliver, you won't let Tom begin at his new school 
 before Midsummer. He began at the 'cadeiuy at the Ladyday 
 quarter, and you see what good 's come of it." 
 
 "Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi' bad malt upo' Michaelmas- 
 day, else you '11 have a poor tap," said Mr. Tulliver, winking 
 and smiling at Mr. Riley, with the natural pride of a man who 
 has a buxom wife conspicuously his inferior in intellect. " But 
 it 's true there 's no hurry ; you 've hit it there, Bessy." 
 
 " It might be as well not to defer the arrangement too long," 
 said Mr. Riley, quietly, " for Stelling may have propositions 
 from other parties, and I know he would not take more than 
 two or three boarders, if so many. If I were you, I think I 
 would enter on the subject with Stelling at once: there 's no 
 necessity for sending the boy before Midsummer, but I would 
 be on the safe side, and make sure that nobody forestalls you." 
 
 " Ay, there 's summat in that," said Mr. Tulliver. 
 
 " Father," broke in Maggie, who had stolen unperceived to 
 her father's elbow again, listening with parted lips, while she 
 held her doll topsy-turvy, and crushed its nose against the 
 wood of the chair, " father, is it a long way off where Tom 
 is to go ? Sha'n't we ever go to see him ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my wench," said the father, tenderly. " Ask 
 Mr. Riley; he knows." 
 
 Maggie came round promptly in front of Mr. Riley, and said, 
 " How far is it, please, sir ? " 
 
 " Oh, a long, long way off," that gentleman answered, being 
 of opinion that children, when they are not naughty, should 
 
 2 
 
18 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 always be spoken to jocosely. " You must borrow the seven- 
 leagued boots to get to him." 
 
 " That 's nonsense ! " said Maggie, tossing her head haughtily, 
 and turning away, with the tears springing in her eyes. She 
 began to dislike Mr. Riley ; it was evident he thought her silly 
 and of no consequence. 
 
 " Hush, Maggie ! for shame of you, asking questions and 
 chattering," said her mother. "Come and sit down on your 
 little stool, and hold your tongue, do. But," added Mrs. Tul- 
 liver, who had her own alarm awakened, " is it so far off as I 
 could n't wash him and mend him ? " 
 
 " About fifteen miles ; that 's all," said Mr. Riley. " You can 
 drive there and back in a day quite comfortably. Or Stel- 
 ling is a hospitable, pleasant man he 'd be glad to have you 
 stay." 
 
 " But it 's too far off for the linen, I doubt," said Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver, sadly. 
 
 The entrance of supper opportunely adjourned this difficulty, 
 and relieved Mr. Riley from the labour of sn^vsting some solu- 
 tion or compromise, a labour which he would otherwise doubt- 
 less have undertaken ; for, as you perceive, he was a man of 
 very obliging manners. And he had really given himself the 
 trouble of recommending Mr. Stelling to his friend Tulliver 
 without any positive expectation of a solid, definite advantage 
 resulting to himself, notwithstanding the subtle indications to 
 the contrary which might have misled a too sagacious observer. 
 For there is nothing more widely misleading than sagacity if it 
 happens to get on a wrong scent ; and sagacity, persuaded that 
 men usually act and speak from distinct motives, with a con- 
 sciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies 
 on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness and deliberate con- 
 trivance, in order to compass a selfish end. are nowhere abun- 
 dant but in the world of the dramatist: they demand too 
 intense a mental action for many of our fellow-parishioners to 
 be guilty of them. It is easy enough to spoil the lives of our 
 neighbours without taking so much trouble; we can do it l>y 
 lazy acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial falsities for 
 which we hardly know a reason, by small frauds neutralised 
 by small extravagances, by maladroit flatteries, and clumsily 
 improvised insinuations. We live from hand to mouth, most 
 of us, with a small family of immediate desires ; we do little 
 else than snatch a morsel to satisfy the hungry brood, rarely 
 thinking of seed-corn or the next year's crop. 
 
 Mr. Riley was a man of business, and not cold towards his 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 19 
 
 own interest, yet even he was more under the influence of 
 small promptings than of far-sighted designs. He had no 
 private understanding with the Rev. Walter Stelling ; on the 
 contrary, he knew very little of that M.A. and his acquire- 
 ments, not quite enough, perhaps, to warrant so strong a 
 recommendation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. 
 But he believed Mr. Stelling to be an excellent classic, for 
 Gadsby had said so, and Gadsby's first cousin was an Oxford 
 tutor ; which was better ground for the belief even than his 
 own immediate observation would have been, for though Mr. 
 Riley had received a tincture of the classics at the great Mud- 
 port Free School, and had a sense of understanding Latin gen- 
 erally, his comprehension of any particular Latin Avas not ready. 
 Doubtless there remained a subtle aroma from his juvenile con- 
 tact with the " De Senectute " and the fourth book of the 
 " ^Eneid," but it had ceased to be distinctly recognisable as 
 classical, and was only perceived in the higher finish and force 
 of his auctioneering style. Then, Stelling was an Oxford man, 
 and the Oxford men were always no, no, it was the Cambridge 
 men who were always good mathematicians. But a man who 
 had had a university education could teach anything he liked ; 
 especially a man like Stelling, who had made a speech at a 
 Mudport dinner on a political occasion, and had acquitted him- 
 self so well that it was generally remarked, this son-in-law of 
 Timpson's was a sharp fellow. It was to be expected of a 
 Mudport man, from the parish of St. Ursula, that he would 
 not omit to do a good turn to a son-in-law of Timpson's, for 
 Timpson was one of the most useful and influential men in the 
 parish, and had a good deal of business, which he knew how 
 to put into the right hands. Mr. Riley liked such men, quite 
 apart from any money which might be diverted, through their 
 good judgment, from less worthy pockets into his own ; and it 
 would be a satisfaction to him to say to Timpson on his re- 
 turn home, " I Ve secured a good pupil for your son-in-law." 
 Timpson had a large family of daughters ; Mr. Riley felt for 
 him ; besides, Louisa Timpson's face, with its light curls, had 
 been a familiar object to him over the pew wainscot on a Sunday 
 for nearly fifteen years ; it was natural her husband should be 
 a commendable tutor. Moreover, Mr. Riley knew of no other 
 schoolmaster whom he had any ground for recommending in 
 preference ; why, then, should he not recommend Stelling ? 
 His friend Tulliver had asked him for an opinion ; it is always 
 chilling, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to 
 give. And if you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity 
 
20 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 not to do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowl- 
 ". You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get 
 : mil of it. Thus Mr. Kiley, knowing no harm of Stelling to 
 in with, and wishing him well, so far as he had any wishes 
 at all concerning him, had no sooner recommended him thac 
 he began to think with admiration of a man recommended OD 
 such high authority, and would soon have gathered so warm 
 ;ui interest on the subject, that if Mr. Tulliver had in the 
 end declined to send Tom to Stelling, Mr. Eiley would havr 
 thought his " friend of the old school " a thoroughly pig-head* 
 fellow. 
 
 If you blame Mr. Eiley very severely for giving a recom 
 inendation on such slight grounds, I must say you are rather 
 hard upon him. Why should an auctioneer and appraiser 
 thirty years ago, who had as good as forgotten his free-school 
 Latin, be expected to manifest a delicate scrupulosity which is 
 not always exhibited by gentlemen of the learned professions, 
 even in our present advanced stage of morality ? 
 
 Besides, a man with the milk of human kindness in him 
 can scarcely abstain from doing a good-natured action, and one 
 cannot be good-natured all round. Nature herself occasion- 
 ally quarters an inconvenient parasite on an animal towards 
 whom she has otherwise no ill-will. What then ? We admire 
 her care for the parasite. If Mr. Eiley had shrunk from 
 giving a recommendation that was not based on valid evidence, 
 he would not have helped Mr. Stelling to a paying pupil, and 
 that would not have been so well for the reverend gentleman. 
 Consider, too, that all the pleasant little dim ideas and com- 
 placencies of standing well with Timpson, of dispensing 
 advice when he was asked for it, of impressing Ins friend Tul- 
 liver with additional respect, of saying something, and saying 
 it emphatically, with other inappreciably minute ingredients 
 that went along with the warm hearth and the brandy-and- 
 water to make up Mr. Riley's consciousness on this occasion 
 would have been a mere blank. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TOM IS EXPECTED. 
 
 IT was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not 
 allowed to go with her father in the gig when he went to fetch 
 Tom home from the academy ; but the morning was too wet, 
 Mrs. Tulliver said, for a little girl to go out in her best bonnet. 
 Maggie took the opposite view very strongly, and it was a 
 direct consequence of this difference of opinion that when her 
 mother was in the act of brushing out the reluctant black 
 crop, Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and 
 dipped her head in a basin of water standing near, in the 
 vindictive determination that there should be no more chance 
 of curls that day. 
 
 " Maggie, Maggie ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, sitting stout 
 and helpless with the brushes on her lap, " what is to become 
 of you if you 're so naughty ? I '11 tell your aunt Glegg and 
 your aunt Pullet when they come next week, and they '11 never 
 love you any more. Oh dear, oh dear ! look at your clean 
 pinafore, wet from top to bottom. Folks 'till think it's a 
 judgment on me as I've got such a child, they'll think I've 
 done summat wicked." 
 
 Before this remonstrance was finished, Maggie was already 
 out of hearing, making her way towards the great attic that 
 ran under the old high-pitched roof, shaking the water from 
 her black locks as she ran, like a Skye terrier escaped from 
 his bath. This attic was Maggie's favourite retreat on a wet 
 day, when the weather was not too cold j here she fretted out 
 all her ill-humours, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten floors 
 imd the worm-eaten shelves, and the dark rafters festooned 
 with cobwebs ; and here she kept a Fetish which she punished 
 for all her misfortunes. This was the trunk of a large wooden 
 doll, which once stared with the roundest of eyes above the 
 reddest of cheeks; but was now entirely defaced by a long 
 career of vicarious suffering. Three nails driven into the 
 head commemorated as many crises in Maggie's nine years of 
 earthly struggle ; that luxury of vengeance having been sug- 
 gested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the 
 old Bible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer 
 
-- THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 stroke than usual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented 
 aunt Glegg. But immediately afterwards Maggie had reflected 
 that if she drove many nails in, she would not be so well able 
 to fancy that the head was hurt when she knocked it against 
 the wall, nor to comfort it, and make believe to poultice it, 
 when her fury was abated; for even aunt Glegg would be 
 pitiable when she had been hurt very much, and thoroughly 
 humiliated, so as to beg her niece's pardon. Since then she 
 had driven no more nails in, but had soothed herself by alter- 
 nately grinding and beating the wooden head against the rough 
 brick of the great chimneys that made two square pillars sup- 
 porting the roof. That was what she did this morning on 
 reaching the attic, sobbing all the while with a passion that 
 expelled every other form of consciousness, even the memory 
 of the grievance that had caused it. As at last the sobs \ve re-- 
 getting quieter, and the grinding less fierce, a sudden beam of 
 sunshine, falling through the wire lattice across the worm-eaten 
 shelves, made her throw away the Fetish and run to the win- 
 dow. The sun was really breaking out; the sound of the mill 
 seemed cheerful again ; the granary doors were open ; and 
 there was Yap, the queer white-and-brown terrier, with one 
 ear turned back, trotting about and sniffing vaguely, as if he 
 were in search of a companion. It was irresistible. Maggie 
 tossed her hair back and ran down-stairs, seized her bonnet 
 without putting it on, peeped, and then dashed along the pas- 
 sage lest she shoiild encounter her mother, and was quickly 
 out in the yard, whirling round like a Pythoness, and singing 
 as she whirled, " Yap, Yap, Tom's coming home!" while Yap 
 danced and barked round her, as much as to say, if there was 
 any noise wanted he was the dog for it. 
 
 " Hegh, hegh, Miss ! you '11 make yourself giddy, an' tumble 
 down i' the dirt," said Luke, the head miller, a tall, broad- 
 shouldered man of forty, black-eyed and black-haired, subdued 
 by a general mealiness, like an auricula. 
 
 Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, 
 " Oh no, it does n't make me giddy, Luke ; may I go into the 
 mill with you?" 
 
 Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and 
 often came out with her black hair powdered to a soft white- 
 ness that made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The 
 resolute din, the unresting motion of the great stones, giving 
 her a dim, delicious awe as at the presence of an uncontrollable 
 force ; the meal for ever pouring, pouring ; the fine white 
 powder softening all surfaces, and making the very spider-nets 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 23 
 
 look like a faery lace-work ; the sweet, pure scent of the 
 meal, all helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a 
 little world apart from her outside every-day life. The spiders 
 were especially a subject of speculation with her. She won- 
 dered if they had any relatives outside the mill, for in that 
 case there must be a painful difficulty in their family inter- 
 course, a fat and floury spider, accustomed to take his fly 
 well dusted with meal, must suffer a little at a cousin's table 
 where the fly was au naturel, and the lady-spiders must be 
 mutually shocked at each other's appearance. But the part of 
 the mill she liked best was the topmost story, the corn-hutch, 
 where there were the great heaps of grain, which she could sit 
 on and slide down continually. She was in the habit of taking 
 this recreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom she was 
 very communicative, wishing him to think well of her under- 
 standing, as her father did. 
 
 Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with 
 him on the present occasion, for, as she sat sliding on the 
 heap of grain near which he was busying himself, she said, at 
 that shrill pitch which was requisite in mill-society, 
 
 " I think you never read any book but the Bible, did you, 
 Luke ? " 
 
 "Is ay, Miss, an' not much o' that/' said Luke, with great 
 frankness. " I 'in no reader, I are n't." 
 
 " But if I lent you one of my books, Luke ? I 've not got 
 any very pretty books that would be easy for you to read ; but 
 there's 'Pug's Tour of Europe,' that would tell you all 
 about the different sorts of people in the world, and if you 
 did n't understand the reading, the pictures would help you ; 
 they show the looks and ways of the people, and what they do. 
 There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know, 
 and one sitting on a barrel." 
 
 " Nay, Miss, I 'n no opinion o' Dutchmen. There be n't 
 much good i' knowin' about them." 
 
 " But they 're our fellow-creatures, Luke ; we ought to 
 know about our fellow-creatures." 
 
 " Not much o' f ellow-creaturs, I think, Miss ; all I know 
 my old master, as war a knowin' man, used to say, says he, 
 ' If e'er I sow my wheat wi'out brinin', I 'm a Dutchman,' says 
 he ; an' that war as much as to say as a Dutchman war a fool, 
 or next door. Nay, nay, I are n't goin' to bother mysen about 
 Dutchmen. There 's fools enoo, an' rogues enoo, wi'out lookin' 
 i' books for 'em." 
 
 " Oh, well/' said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpect- 
 
24 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 edly decided views about Dutchmen, " perhaps you would like 
 'Animated Nature' better; that's not Dutchmen, you know, 
 but elephants and kangaroos, and the civet-cat, and the sun- 
 fish, and a bird sitting on its tail, I forget its name. There 
 are countries full of those creatures, instead of horses and 
 cows, you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, 
 Luke ? " 
 
 " Nay, Miss, I 'n got to keep count o' the flour an' corn ; I 
 can't do wi' knowin' so many things besides my work. That 's 
 what brings folks to the gallows, knowin' everything but what 
 they 'n got to get their bread by. An' they 're mostly lies, I 
 think, what 's printed i' the books : them printed sheets are, 
 anyhow, as the men cry i' the streets." 
 
 " Why, you 're like my brother Tom, Luke," said Maggie, 
 wishing to turn the conversation agreeably ; " Tom 's not fond 
 of reading. I love Tom so dearly, Luke, better than anybody 
 else in the world. When he grows up I shall keep his house, 
 and we shall always live together. I can tell him everything 
 he does n't know. But I think Tom 's clever, for all he does n't 
 like books ; he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit-pens." 
 
 " Ah," said Luke, " but he '11 be fine an' vexed, as the rabbits 
 are all dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding 
 seat on the corn. " Oh dear, Luke ! What ! the lop-eared one, 
 and the spotted doe that Tom spent all his money to buy ? " 
 
 "As dead as moles," said Luke, fetching his comparison 
 from the unmistakeable corpses nailed to the stable-wall. 
 
 " Oh dear, Luke," said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the 
 big tears rolled down her cheek ; " Tom told me to take care 
 of 'em, and I forgot. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Well, you see, Miss, they were in that far tool-house, an' it 
 was nobody's business to see to 'em. I reckon Master Tom 
 told Harry to feed 'em, but there 's no countin' on Harry ; he 's 
 an offal creatur as iver come about the primises, he is. He 
 remembers nothing but his own inside an' I wish it 'ud gripe 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the 
 rabbits every day ; but how could I, when they did n't come 
 into my head, you know? Oh, he will be so angry with me, 
 I know he will, and so sorry about his rabbits, and so am 1 
 sorry. Oh, what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Don't you fret, Miss," said Luke, soothingly ; " they 're 
 nash things, them lop-eared rabbits ; they 'd happen ha' died, 
 if they 'd been fed. Things out o' natur niver thrive : God 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 26 
 
 A'inighty does n't like 'em. He made the rabbits' ears to lie 
 back, an' it 's notliin' but contrairiness to make 'em hing down 
 like a mastiff dog's. Master Tom 'ull know better nor buy 
 such things another time. Don't you fret, Miss. Will you 
 come along home wi' me, and see my wife ? I 'in a-goin' this 
 minute." 
 
 The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Maggie's 
 grief, and her tears gradually subsided as she trotted along by 
 Luke's side to his pleasant cottage, which stood with its apple 
 and pear trees, and with the added dignity of a lean-to pig-sty, 
 at the other end of the Mill fields. Mrs. Moggs, Luke's wife, 
 was a decidedly agreeable acquaintance. She exhibited her 
 hospitality in bread and treacle, and possessed various works 
 of art. Maggie actually forgot that she had any special cause 
 of sadness this morning, as she stood on a chair to look at a 
 remarkable series of pictures representing the Prodigal Son in 
 the costume of Sir Charles Grandison, except that, as might 
 have been expected from his defective moral character, he had 
 not, like that accomplished hero, the taste and strength of 
 mind to dispense with a wig. But the indefinable weight the 
 dead rabbits had left on her mind caused her to feel more than 
 usual pity for the career of this weak young man, particularly 
 when she looked at the picture where he leaned against a tree 
 with a flaccid appearance, his knee-breeches unbuttoned and 
 his wig awry, while the swine, apparently of some foreign 
 breed, seemed to insult him by their good spirits over their 
 feast of husks. 
 
 " I 'm very glad his father took him back again, are n't you, 
 Luke ? " she said. " For he was very sorry, you know, and 
 would n't do wrong again." 
 
 " Eh, Miss," said Luke, " he 'd be no great shakes, I doubt, 
 let 's feyther do what he would for him." 
 
 That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished much 
 that the subsequent history of the young man had not been 
 left a blank. 
 
26 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TOM COMES HOME. 
 
 TOM was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was 
 another fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late 
 enough for the sound of the gig-wheels to be expected ; for 
 if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her 
 boy. At last the sound came, that quick light bowling of 
 the gig-wheels, and in spite of the wind, which was blowing 
 the clouds about, and was not likely to respect Mrs. Tulliver 's 
 curls and cap-strings, she came outside the door, and even 
 held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting all the 
 griefs of the morning. 
 
 " There he is, my sweet lad ! But, Lord ha' mercy ! he 's 
 got never a collar on ; it 's been lost on the road, I '11 be bound, 
 and spoilt the set." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped 
 first on one leg and then on the other ; while Tom descended 
 from the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the 
 tender emotions, " Hallo ! Yap what ! are you there ? " 
 
 Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, 
 though Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, 
 while his blue-grey eyes wandered towards the croft and the 
 lambs and the river, where he promised himself that he would 
 begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was one 
 of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and at twelve 
 or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings, a 
 lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, 
 indeterminate nose and eyebrows, a physiognomy in which 
 it seems impossible to discern anything but the generic char- 
 acter of boyhood ; as different as possible from poor Maggie's 
 phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and coloured wit !i 
 the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the 
 deep cunning which hides itself under the appearance of open- 
 ness, so that simple people think they can see through her 
 quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a refuta- 
 tion of their confident prophecies. Under these average boy- 
 ish physiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross, she 
 conceals some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of 
 her most unmodifiable character;; ; and the dark-eyed, demon- 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 27 
 
 strative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a passive 
 being compared with this pink-and-white bit of masculinity 
 with the indeterminate features. 
 
 " Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, 
 as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and 
 the warm parlour had taken off the chill he had felt from the 
 long drive, " you don't know what 1 've got in my pockets," 
 nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her 
 sense of mystery. 
 
 " Xo," said Maggie. " How stodgy they look, Tom ! Is it 
 marls (marbles) or cobnuts ? " Maggie's heart sank a little, 
 because Tom always said it was " no good " playing with her 
 at those games, she played so badly. 
 
 " Marls ! no ; I 've swopped all my marls with the little fel- 
 lows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are 
 green. But see here ! " He drew something half out of his 
 right-hand pocket. 
 
 " What is it ? " said Maggie, in a whisper. " I can see 
 nothing but a bit of yellow." 
 
 " Why, it 's a new guess, Maggie ! " 
 
 " Oh, I can't guesri, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently. 
 
 " Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, 
 thrusting his hand back into his pocket and looking deter- 
 mined. 
 
 " No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the 
 arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. " I 'm not cross, Tom ; 
 it was only because I can't bear guessing. Please be good 
 to me." 
 
 Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it 's a new 
 fish-line two new uns, one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. 
 I would n't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose 
 to save the money ; and Gibson and Spouncer fought with me 
 because I would n't. And here's hooks ; see here I say, 
 iron't we go and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool ? 
 And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms 
 on, and everything ; won't it be fun ? " 
 
 Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's neck 
 and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, 
 while he slowly unwound some of the line, saying, after a 
 pause, 
 
 " Was n't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to 
 yourself ? You know, I need n't have bought it, if I had n't 
 liked." 
 
 "Yes, very, very good I do love you, Tom." 
 
28 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at 
 the hooks one by one, before he spoke again. 
 
 " And the fellows fought me, because I would n't give in 
 about the toffee." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! I wish they would n't fight at your school, Tom. 
 Did n't it hurt you ? " 
 
 "Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, 
 t:iking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest 
 blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger 
 along it. Then he added, 
 
 " I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know ; that 's what lie got 
 by wanting to leather me; I was n't going to go halves because 
 anybody leathered me." 
 
 " Oh, how brave you are, Tom ! I think you 're like Sam- 
 son. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you 'd fight 
 him, wouldn't you, Tom ? " 
 
 "How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? 
 There 's no lions, only in the shows." 
 
 "No; but if we were in the lion countries I mean in 
 Africa, where it 's very hot ; the lions eat people there. I 
 can show it you in the book where I read it." 
 
 " Well, I should get a gun and shoot him." 
 
 " But if you had n't got a gun, we might have gone out, 
 you know, not thinking, just as we go fishing ; and then a 
 great lion might run towards us roaring, and we could n't get 
 away from him. What should you do, Tom ? " 
 
 Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, 
 saying, "But the lion isn't coming. What's the use of 
 talking ? " 
 
 " But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, follow- 
 ing him. "Just think what you would do, Tom." 
 
 " Oh, don't bother, Maggie ! you 're such a silly. I shall go 
 and see my rabbits." 
 
 Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell 
 the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling 
 silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the 
 news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his anger; for 
 M i'-, r gie dreaded Tom's anger of all things; it was quite a 
 different anger from her own. 
 
 "Tom," she said timidly, when they were out of doors, 
 " how much money did you give for your rabbits ? " 
 
 " Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly. 
 
 " 1 think I 've got a great deal more than that in my steel 
 purse up-stairs. I '11 ask mother to give it you." 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 29 
 
 " What for ? " said Tom. " I don't want your money, you 
 silly thing. 1 've got a great deal more money than you, be- 
 cause I 'in a boy. I always have half-sovereigns and sovereigns 
 for my Christmas boxes because I shall be a man, and you only 
 have five-shilling pieces, because you 're only a girl." 
 
 "Well, but, Tom if mother would let me give you two 
 half-crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your 
 pocket and spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits 
 with it?" 
 
 " More rabbits ? I don't want any more." 
 
 " Oh, but, Tom, they 're all dead." 
 
 Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round 
 towards Maggie. " You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry 
 forgot ? " he said, his colour heightening for a moment, but 
 soon subsiding. " I '11 pitch into Harry. I '11 have him turned 
 away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n't go fishing 
 with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits every 
 day." He walked on again. 
 
 "Yes, but I forgot and I couldn't help it, indeed, 
 Tom. I'm so very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears 
 rushed fast. 
 
 " You 're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely, " and I 'm 
 sorry I bought you the fish-line. I don't love you." 
 
 " Oh, Tom, it 's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. " I 'd forgive 
 you, if you forgot anything I would n't mind what you did 
 I 'd forgive you and love you." 
 
 "Yes, you're a silly ; but I never do forget things, 1 
 don't." 
 
 " Oh, please forgive me, Tom ; my heart will break," said 
 Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying 
 her wet cheek on his shoulder. 
 
 Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a per- 
 emptory tone, " Now, Maggie, you just listen. Are n't I a 
 good brother to you?" 
 
 " Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling 
 convulsedly. 
 
 " Did n't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and 
 mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and would n't 
 go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I 
 wouldn't?" 
 
 " Ye-ye-es and I lo-lo-love you so, Tom." 
 
 "But you 're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked 
 the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that 
 you let the boat drag my fish-line down when I 'd set you to 
 
30 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for 
 nothing." 
 
 " But I did n't mean," said Maggie ; " I could n't help it." 
 
 " Yes, you could," said Tom, " if you 'd minded what you 
 were doing. And you 're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go 
 fishing with me to-morrow." 
 
 With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie 
 towards the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain 
 to him of Harry. 
 
 Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute 
 or two ; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up 
 to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her head 
 against the worm-eaten 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 any- 
 thing, if Tom did n'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 
 S'-cnis 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 
 Turn 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 did n'*t mind her being there- 
 It' she went down again to Torn 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 did n't come to fetch her. This resolu- 
 tion 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 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 31 
 
 soon threw it. She crept from behind her tub into the twi- 
 light of the long attic, but just then she heard a quick footstep 
 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 did n't want to " tell " of 
 Maggie, though he was angry with her ; for Tom Tulliver was 
 a lad of honour. 
 
 " What ! has n't she been playing with you all this while ? " 
 said the father. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your 
 coming home." 
 
 " I have n'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 did n't know whom of she did n'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 have n'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 per- 
 emptory 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 
 
32 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom was 
 only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and arith- 
 metic, 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 
 would n'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 dignitied alienation, show- 
 ing 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 reso- 
 lution 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 humilia- 
 ting 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. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 33 
 
 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 diffi- 
 cult 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, could n'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 Bound Pool, that wonder- 
 ful 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 
 
34 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 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 dipping sounds of the 
 rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows and the 
 reeds and the water had their happy whisperings also. _M:ig- 
 gie 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 
 ;ind 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 afterwards ; 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 
 ;'iid haws on the autumn 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 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 35 
 
 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 
 capricious hedgerows, such things as these are the mother 
 tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all 
 the subtle, inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our 
 childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on 
 the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint 
 perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and 
 the grass in the far-off years which still live in us, and trans- 
 form our perception into love. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE AUNTS AND UNCLES ARE COMING. 
 
 IT was Easter week, and Mrs. Tulliver's cheesecakes were 
 more exquisitely light than usual. " A puff o' wind 'ud make 
 'em blow about like feathers," Kezia the housemaid said, 
 feeling proud to live under a mistress who could make such 
 pastry ; so that no season or circumstances could have been 
 more propitious for a family party, even if it had not been ad- 
 visable to consult sister Glegg and sister Pullet about Tom's 
 going to school. 
 
 " I 'd as lief not invite sister Deane this time," said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, "for she's as jealous and having as can be, and's 
 allays trying to make the worst o' my poor children to their 
 aunts and uncles." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mr. Tulliver, " ask her to come. I never 
 hardly get a bit o' talk with Deane now ; we have n't had hiii 
 this six months. What 's it matter what she says ? My chil- 
 dren need be beholding to nobody." 
 
 " That 's what you allays say, Mr. Tulliver ; but I 'm sure 
 there 's nobody o' your side, neither aunt nor uncle, to leave 
 'em so much as a five-pound note for a leggicy. And there 's 
 sister Glegg, and sister Pullet too, saving money unknown, 
 for they put by all their own interest and butter-money too ; 
 their husbands buy 'em everything." Mrs. Tulliver was a 
 
36 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a little when 
 she has lambs. 
 
 "Tchuh!" said Mr. Tnlliver. "It takes a big loaf when 
 there's many to breakfast. What signifies your sisters' bits 
 o' money when they've got hali'-a-do/.en nevvies and nieces to 
 divide it among ? And your sister Deane won't get 'em to 
 leave all to one, I reckon, and make the country cry shame 
 on 'em when they are dead ? " 
 
 "I don't know what she won't get 'em to do," said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, " for my children are so awk'ard wi' their aunts and 
 uncles. 'Maggie's ten times naughtier when they come than 
 she is other days, and Tom doesn't like 'em, bless him! 
 though it 's more nat'ral in a boy than a gell. And there 's Lucy 
 Deane 's such a good child, you may set her on a stool, and 
 there she'll sit for an hour together, and never offer to get oil. 
 I can't help loving the child as if she was my own ; and I 'm sure 
 she 's more like my child than sister Deane's, for she 'd allays a 
 very poor colour for one of our family, sister Deane had." 
 
 " Well, well, if you 're fond o' the child, ask her father and 
 mother to bring her with 'em. And won't you ask their aunt 
 and uncle Moss too, and some o' their children ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, Mr. Tulliver, why, there 'd be eight people besides 
 the children, and I must put two more leaves i' the table, 
 besides reaching down more o' the dinner-service ; and you 
 know as well as I do, as my sisters and your sister don't suit 
 well together." 
 
 " Well, well, do as you like, Bessy," said Mr. Tulliver, tak- 
 ing up his hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were 
 more submissive than Mrs. Tulliver on all points unconnected 
 with her family relations ; but she had been a Miss Dodson, 
 and the Dodsons were a very respectable family indeed, as 
 much looked up to as any in their own parish, or the next to 
 it. The Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold up 
 their heads very high, and no one was surprised the two eldest 
 h:id married so well, not at an early age, for that was not the 
 practice of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of 
 doing everything in that family: particular ways of bleaching 
 the linen, of making the cowslip wine, curing the hams, and 
 keeping the bottled gooseberries ; so that no daughter of that 
 house could be indifferent to the privilege of having been born 
 a Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a Watson. Funerals were al- 
 ways conducted with peculiar propriety in the Dodson family : 
 the hat-bands were never of a blue shade, the gloves never 
 split at the thumb, everybody was a mourner who ought to be, 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 37 
 
 and there were always scarfs for the bearers. When one of 
 the family was in trouble or sickness, all the rest went to visit 
 the unfortunate member, usually at the same time, and did not 
 shrink from uttering the most disagreeable truths that correct 
 family feeling dictated; if the illness or trouble was the 
 sufferer's own fault, it was not in the practice of the Dodson 
 family to shrink from saying so. In short, there was in this 
 family a peculiar tradition as to what was the right thing in 
 household management and social demeanour, and the only 
 bitter circumstance attending this superiority was a painful 
 inability to approve the condiments or the conduct of families 
 ungoverned by the Dodson tradition. A female Dodson, when 
 in "strange houses," always ate dry bread with her tea, and 
 declined any sort of preserves, having no confidence in the 
 butter, and thinking that the preserves had probably begun 
 to ferment from want of due sugar and boiling. There were 
 some Dodsons less like the family than others, that was 
 admitted; but in so far as they were "kin," they were of 
 necessity better than those who were " no kin." And it is 
 remarkable that while no individual Dodson was satisfied with 
 any other individual Dodson, each was satisfied, not only with 
 him or her self, but with the Dodsons collectively. The fee- 
 blest member of a family the one who has the least character 
 is often the merest epitome of the family habits and tradi- 
 tions ; and Mrs. Tulliver was a thorough Dodson, though a 
 mild one, as small-beer, so long as it is anything, is only de- 
 scribable as very weak ale : and though she had groaned 
 a little in her youth under the yoke of her elder sisters, and 
 still shed occasional tears at their sisterly reproaches, it was 
 not in Mrs. Tulliver to be an innovator on the family ideas. 
 She was thankful to have been a Dodson, and to have one 
 child who took after her own family, at least in his features 
 and complexion, in liking salt and in eating beans, which a 
 Tulliver never did. 
 
 In other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, 
 and he was as far from appreciating his "kin" on the mother's 
 side as Maggie herself, generally absconding for the day with 
 a large supply of the most portable food, when he received 
 timely warning that his aunts and uncles were coming, a 
 moral symptom from which his aunt Glegg deduced the gloom- 
 iest views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie that 
 Tom always absconded without letting her into the secret, 
 but the weaker sex are acknowledged to be serious impedi- 
 menta in cases of night. 
 
38 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were 
 coming, there were such various and suggestive scents, as of 
 plumcakes in the oven and jellies in the hot state, mingled 
 with tin' aroma of gravy, that it was impossible to feel alto- 
 gether gloomy : there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie 
 made several inroads into the kitchen, and, like other marau- 
 ders, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being 
 allowed to carry away a sufficient load of booty. 
 
 "Tom," said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder- 
 tree, eating their jam-puffs, "shall you run away to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No," said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and 
 was eyeing the third, which was to be divided between them, 
 " no, I sha'n't." 
 
 " Why, Tom ? Because Lucy 's coming ? " 
 
 " Xo," said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it 
 over the puff, with his head on one side in a dubitative man- 
 ner. (It was a difficult problem to divide that very irregular 
 polygon into two equal parts.) " What do / care about Lucy ? 
 She 's only a girl, she can't play at bandy." 
 
 " Is it the tipsy-cake, then ? " said Maggie, exerting her 
 hypothetic powers, while she leaned forward towards Tom 
 with her eyes fixed on the hovering knife. 
 
 " No, you silly, that '11 be good the day after. It 's the pud- 
 den. I know what the pudden 's to be, apricot roll-up O 
 my buttons ! " 
 
 With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff, and 
 it was in two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for 
 he still eyed the halves doubtfully. At last he said, 
 
 ' Shut your eyes, Maggie." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " You never mind what for. Shut 'em when I tell you." 
 
 Maggie obeyed. 
 
 " Now, which '11 you have, Maggie, right hand or left ? " 
 
 " I '11 have that with the jam run out," said Maggie, keep- 
 ing her eyes shut to please Tom. 
 
 "Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if 
 it conies to you fair, but I sha'n't give it you without. Right 
 or left, you choose, now. Ha-a-a!" said Tom, in a tone of 
 exasperation, as Maggie peeped. " You keep your eyes shut, 
 now, else you sha'n't have any." 
 
 Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far ; indeed, 
 I fear she cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost pos- 
 sible amount of puff, than that he should be pleased with her 
 for giving him the best bit. So she shut her eyes quite close, 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 89 
 
 till Tom told her to " say which," and then she said, " Left 
 hand." 
 
 " You 've got it," said Torn, in rather a bitter tone. 
 
 " What ! the bit with the jam run out ? " 
 
 " oSTo ; here, take it," said Tom, firmly, handing decidedly 
 the best piece to Maggie. 
 
 " Oh, please, Tom, have it ; I don't mind I like the other ; 
 please take this." 
 
 " Xo, I sha'n't," said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his 
 own inferior piece. 
 
 Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began 
 too, and ate up her half puff with considerable relish as well as 
 rapidity. But Tom had finished first, and had to look on while 
 Maggie ate her last morsel or two, feeling in himself a capacity 
 for more. Maggie did n't know Tom was looking at her ; she 
 was seesawing on tne elder-bough, lost to almost everything 
 but a vague sense of jam and idleness. 
 
 " Oh, you greedy thing ! " said Tom, when she had swal- 
 lowed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted very 
 fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this, and 
 made up to him for it. He would have refused a bit of hers 
 beforehand, but one is naturally at a different point of view 
 before and after one's own share of puff is swallowed. 
 
 Maggie turned quite pale. " Oh, Tom, why did n't you ask 
 me?" 
 
 " I was n't going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You 
 might have thought of it without, when you knew I gave you 
 the best bit." 
 
 "But I wanted you to have it; you know I did," said 
 Maggie, in an injured tone. 
 
 " Yes, but I was n't going to do what was n't fair, like 
 Spouncer. He always takes the best bit, if you don't punch 
 him for it ; and if you choose the best with your eyes shut, he 
 changes his hands. But if I go halves, I '11 go 'em fair ; only 
 I would n't be a greedy." 
 
 With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his 
 bough, and threw a stone with a " hoigh ! " as a friendly atten- 
 tion to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eatables 
 vanished, with an agitation of his ears and feelings which 
 could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet the excellent 
 dog accepted Tom's attention with as much alacrity as if he 
 had been treated quite generously. 
 
 But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery 
 which distinguishes the human being, and places him at a 
 
40 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 proud distance from the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still 
 on her bough, and gave herself up to the keen sense of un- 
 merited reproach. She would have given the world not to 
 have eaten all her puff, and to have saved some of it for Tom. 
 Not but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie's palate was 
 not at all obtuse, but she would have gone without it many 
 times over, sooner than Tom should call her greedy and be 
 cross with her. And he had said he wouldn't have it, and 
 she ate it without thinking ; how could she help it ? The 
 tears flowed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around 
 her for the next ten minutes ; but by that time resentment 
 began to give way to the desire of reconciliation, and she 
 jumped from her bough to look for Tom. He was no longer 
 in the paddock behind the rickyard ; where was he likely to 
 be gone, and Yap with him ? Maggie ran to the high bank 
 against the great holly-tree, where she could see far away 
 towards the Floss. There was Tom ; but her heart sank 
 again as she saw how far off he was on his way to the great 
 river, and that he had another companion besides Yap, 
 naughty Bob Jakin, whose official, if not natural, function of 
 frightening the birds was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt 
 sure that Bob was wicked, without very distinctly knowing 
 why ; unless it was because Bob's mother was a dreadfully 
 large fat woman, who lived at a queer round house down the 
 river ; and once, when Maggie and Tom had wandered thither, 
 there rushed out a brindled dog that would n't stop barking ; 
 and when Bob's mother came out after it, and screamed above 
 the barking to tell them not to be frightened, Maggie thought 
 she was scolding them fiercely, and her heart beat with terror. 
 Maggie thought it very likely that the round house had snakes 
 on the floor, and bats in the bed-room ; for she had seen Bob 
 take off his cap to show Tom a little snake that was inside it, 
 and another time he had a handful of young bats : altogether, 
 he was an irregular character, perhaps even slightly diabolical, 
 judging from his intimacy with snakes and bats ; and to 
 crown all, when Tom had Bob for a companion, he did n't 
 mi ml about Maggie, and would never let her go with him. 
 
 It must be owned that Tom was fond of Bob's company. 
 How could it be otherwise? Bob knew, directly he saw a 
 bird's egg, whether it was a swallow's, or a tomtit's, or a 
 yellow-hammer's ; he found out all the wasps' nests, and 
 could set all sorts of traps ; he could climb the trees like a 
 squirrel, and had quite a magical power of detecting hedge- 
 hogs and stoats ; and he had courage to do things that were 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 41 
 
 rather naughty, such as making gaps in the hedgerows, throw- 
 ing stones after the sheep, and killing a cat that was wander- 
 ing incognito. Such qualities in an inferior, who could always 
 be treated with authority in spite of his superior knowingness, 
 had necessarily a fatal fascination for Tom ; and every holi- 
 day-time Maggie was sure to have days of grief because he 
 had gone off with Bob. 
 
 Well ! there was no hope for it ; he was gone now, and Mag- 
 gie could think of no comfort but to sit down by the hollow, 
 or wander by the hedgerow, and fancy it was all different, re- 
 fashioning her little world into just what she should like it 
 to be. 
 
 Maggie's was a troublous life, and this was the form in which 
 she took her opium. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom, forgetting all about Maggie and the sting 
 of reproach which he had left in her heart, was hurrying along 
 with Bob, whom he had met accidentally, to the scene of a 
 great rat-catching in a neighbouring barn. Bob knew all about 
 this particular affair, and spoke of the sport with an enthu- 
 siasm which no one who is not either divested of all manly 
 feeling, or pitiably ignorant of rat-catching, can fail to ima- 
 gine. For a person suspected of preternatural wickedness, 
 Bob was really not so very villanous-looking ; there was even 
 something agreeable in his snub-nosed face, with its close- 
 curled border of red hair. But then his trousers were always 
 rolled up at the knee, for the convenience of wading on the 
 slightest notice ; and his virtue, supposing it to exist, was un- 
 deniably "virtue in rags," which, on the authority even of 
 bilious philosophers, who think all well-dressed merit over- 
 paid, is notoriously likely to remain unrecognised (perhaps 
 because it is seen so seldom). 
 
 " I know the chap as owns the ferrets," said Bob, in a hoarse 
 treble voice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue eyes fixed on 
 the river, like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion for 
 darting in. " He lives up the Kennel Yard at Sut Ogg's, he 
 does. He's the biggest rot-catcher anywhere, he is. I'd 
 sooner be a rot-catcher nor anything, I would. The moles 
 is nothing to the rots. But Lors ! you mun ha' ferrets. Dogs 
 is no good. Why, there's that dog, now!" Bob continued, 
 pointing with an air of disgust towards Yap, " he 's no more 
 good wi' a rot nor nothin'. I see it myself, I did, at the 
 rot-catchin' i' your feyther's barn." 
 
 Yap, feeling the withering influence of this scorn, tucked 
 his tail in and shrank close to Tom's leg, who felt a little hurt 
 
42 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 for him, but had not the superhuman courage to seem behind- 
 hand with Bob in contempt for a dog who made so poor a 
 figure. 
 
 " No, no," he said, " Yap 's no good at sport. I '11 have regu- 
 lar good dogs for rats and everything, when I 've done school." 
 
 " Hev ferrets, Measter Tom," said Bob, eagerly, " them 
 white ferrets wi' pink eyes ; Lors, you might catch your own 
 rots, an' you might put a rot in a cage wi' a ferret, an' see 'em 
 light, you might. That's what I'd do, I know, an' it 'ml !" 
 better fun a'most nor seein' two chaps fight, if it was u't 
 them chaps as sold cakes an' oranges at the Fair, as the things 
 flew out o' their baskets, an' some o' the cakes was smashed 
 
 But they tasted just as good," added Bob, by way of note 
 or addendum, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " But, I say, Bob," said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, " fer- 
 rets are nasty biting things, they '11 bite a fellow without 
 being set on." 
 
 " Lors ! why, that 's the beauty on 'em. If a chap lays hold 
 o' your ferret, he won't be long before he hollows out a good 
 un, he won't." 
 
 At this moment a striking incident made the boys pause 
 suddenly in their walk. It was the plunging of some small 
 body in the water from among the neighbouring bulrushes ; if 
 it was not a water-rat, Bob intimated that he was ready to 
 undergo the most unpleasant consequences. 
 
 " Hoigh ! Yap, hoigh ! there he is," said Tom, clapping 
 his hands, as the little black snout made its arrowy course to 
 the opposite bank. " Seize him, lad ! seize him ! " 
 
 Yap agitated his ears and wrinkled his brows, but declined 
 to plunge, trying whether barking would not answer the pur- 
 pose just as well. 
 
 " Ugh ! you coward ! " said Tom, and kicked him over, feel- 
 ing humiliated as a sportsman to possess so poor-spirited an 
 animal. Bob abstained from remark and passed on, choosing, 
 however, to walk in the shallow edge of the overflowing river 
 by way of change. 
 
 " He 's none so full now, the Floss is n't," said Bob, as he 
 kicked the water up before him, with an agreeable sense of 
 being insolent to it. " Why, last 'ear, the meadows was all 
 one sheet o' water, they was." 
 
 "Ay, but," said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an op- 
 position between statements that were really quite accordant, 
 
 " but there was a big flood once, when the Round Pool was 
 made. / know there was, 'cause father says so. And the 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 43 
 
 sheep and cows were all drowned, and the boats went all over 
 the fields ever such a way." 
 
 " J don't care about a flood comin','' said Bob ; " I don't mind 
 the water, no more nor the land. I 'd swim, / would." 
 
 " Ah, but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long ? " said 
 Tom, his imagination becoming quite active under the stimu- 
 lus of that dread. " When I 'm a man, I shall make a boat 
 with a wooden house on the top of it, like Noah's ark, and 
 keep plenty to eat in it, rabbits and things, all ready. 
 And then if the flood came, you know, Bob, I should n't mind. 
 And I 'd take you in, if I saw you swimming," he added, in 
 the tone of a benevolent patron. 
 
 " I are n't frighted," said Bob, to whom hunger did not 
 appear so appalling. " But I 'd get in an' knock the rabbits on 
 th' head when you wanted to eat 'em." 
 
 " Ah, and I should have halfpence, and we 'd play at heads- 
 and-tails," said Tom, not contemplating the possibility that 
 this recreation might have fewer charms for his mature age. 
 " I 'd divide fair to begin with, and then we 'd see who 'd 
 win." 
 
 " I 've got a halfpenny o' my own," said Bob, proudly, com- 
 ing out of the water and tossing his halfpenny in the air. 
 " Yeads or tails ? " 
 
 " Tails," said Tom, instantly fired with the desire to win. 
 
 " It 's yeads," said Bob, hastily, snatching up the halfpenny 
 as it fell. 
 
 "It wasn't," said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. "You 
 give me the halfpenny ; I 've won it fair." 
 
 " I sha'n't," said Bob, holding it tight in his pocket. 
 
 " Then I '11 make you ; see if I don't," said Tom. 
 
 " You can't make me do nothing, you can't," said Bob. 
 
 ' Yes, I can." 
 
 ' No, you can't." 
 
 ' I 'm master." 
 
 ' I don't care for you." 
 
 ' But I '11 make you care, you cheat," said Tom, collaring 
 Bob and shaking him. 
 
 " You get out wi' you," said Bob, giving Tom a kick. 
 
 Tom's blood was thoroughly up: he went at Bob with a 
 lunge and threw him down, but Bob seized hold and kept it 
 like a cat, and pulled Tom down after him. They struggled 
 fiercely on the ground for a moment or two, till Tom, pinning 
 Bob down by the shoulders, thought he had the mastery. 
 
 " You, say you '11 give me the halfpenny now," he said, with 
 
44 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 difficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the command of 
 Bob's arms. 
 
 But at this moment Yap, who had been running on before, 
 returned barking to the scene of action, and saw a favourable 
 opportunity for biting Bob's bare leg not only with impunity 
 but with honour. The pain from Yap's teeth, instead of sur- 
 prising Bob into a relaxation of his hold, gave it a fiercer 
 tenacity, and with a new exertion of his force,, he pushed Tom 
 backward and got uppermost. But now Yap, who could get 
 no sufficient purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so 
 that Bob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom, and, 
 almost throttling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time 
 Tom was up again, and before Bob had quite recovered his 
 balance after the act of swinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, 
 threw him down, and got his knees firmly on Bob's chest. 
 
 " You give me the halfpenny now," said Tom. 
 
 " Take it," said Bob, sulkily. 
 
 " No, I sha'n't take it ; you give it me." 
 
 Bob took the halfpenny out of his pocket, and threw it away 
 from him on the ground. 
 
 Tom loosed his hold, and left Bob to rise. 
 
 " There the halfpenny lies," he said. " I don't want your 
 halfpenny; I wouldn't have kept it. But you waated to 
 cheat; I hate a cheat. I sha'n't go along with you any more," 
 he added, turning round homeward, not without casting a 
 regret towards the rat-catching and other pleasures which he 
 must relinquish along with Bob's society. 
 
 " You may let it alone, then," Bob called out after him. " I 
 shall cheat if I like ; there 's no fun i' playing else ; and I 
 know where there 's a goldfinch's nest, but I '11 take care you 
 don't. An' you 're a nasty fightin' turkey-cook, you are 
 
 Tom walked on without looking round, and Yap followed 
 his example, the cold bath having moderated his passions. 
 
 " Go along wi' you, then, wi' your drowned dog ; I would n't 
 own such a dog / would n't," said Bob, getting louder, in a 
 last effort to sustain his defiance. But Tom was not to be 
 provoked into turning round, and Bob's voice began to falter a 
 little as he said, 
 
 " An' I 'n gi'en you everything, an' showed you everything, 
 an' niver wanted nothin' from you. An' there 's your horn- 
 handed knife, then, as you gi'en me." Here Bob flung the 
 knife as far as he could after Tom's retreating footsteps. But 
 it produced no effect, except the sense in Bob's mind that there 
 was a terrible void in his lot, now that knife was gone. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 45 
 
 He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and dis- 
 appeared behind the hedge. The knife would do no good on 
 the ground there ; it would n't vex Tom ; and pride or resent- 
 ment was a feeble passion in Bob's mind compared with the 
 love of a pocket-knife. His very fingers sent entreating 
 thrills that he would go and clutch that familiar rough buck's- 
 horn handle, which they had so often grasped for mere affec- 
 tion, as it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades, 
 nil they had just been sharpened ! What is life without a 
 pocket-knife to him who has once tasted a higher existence ? 
 Xo ; to throw the handle after the hatchet is a comprehensible 
 act of desperation, but to throw one's pocket-knife after an 
 implacable friend is clearly in every sense a hyperbole, or 
 throwing beyond the mark. So Bob shuffled back to the spot 
 where the beloved knife lay in the dirt, and felt quite a new 
 pleasure in clutching it again after the temporary separation, 
 in opening one blade after the other, and feeling their edge 
 with his well-hardened thumb. Poor Bob ! he was not sensi- 
 tive on the point of honour, not a chivalrous character. 
 That fine moral aroma would not have been thought much of 
 by the public opinion of Kennel Yard, which was the very 
 focus or heart of Bob's world, even if it could have made it- 
 self perceptible there; yet, for all that, he was not utterly 
 a sneak and a thief as our friend Tom had hastily decided. 
 
 But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Ehadamanthine per- 
 sonage, having more than the usual share of boy's justice in 
 him, the justice that desires to hurt culprits as much as 
 they deserve to be hurt, and is troubled with no doubts con- 
 cerning the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a 
 cloud on his brow when he came home, which checked her 
 joy at his coining so much sooner than she had expected, and 
 she dared hardly speak to him as he stood silently throwing 
 the small gravel-stones into the mill-dam. It is not pleasant 
 to give up a rat-catching when you have set your mind on it. 
 But if Tom had told his strongest feeling at that moment, he 
 would have said, " I 'd do just the same again." That was his 
 usual mode of viewing his past actions ; whereas Maggie was 
 always wishing she had done something different. 
 
4t> THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENTEK THE AUNTS AND UNCLES. 
 
 THE Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs. 
 Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters. As she sat 
 in Mrs. Tulliver's arm-chair, no impartial observer could have 
 denied that for a woman of fifty she had a very comely 1'aee 
 and figure, though Tom and Maggie considered their aunt 
 Glegg as the type of ugliness. It is true she despised the 
 advantages of costume, for though, as she often observed, no 
 woman had better clothes, it was not her way to wear her 
 new things out before her old ones. Other women, if they 
 liked, might have their best thread-lace in every wash ; but 
 when Mrs. Glegg died, it would be found that she had better 
 lace laid by in the right-hand drawer of her wardrobe in the 
 Spotted Chamber than ever Mrs. Wooll of St. Ogg's had 
 bought in her life, although Mrs. Wooll wore her lace before 
 it was paid for. So of her curled fronts : Mrs. Glegg had 
 doubtless the glossiest and crispest brown curls in her draw- 
 ers, as well as curls in various degrees of fuzzy laxness ; but 
 to look out on the week-day world from under a crisp and 
 glossy front would be to introduce a most dreamlike and 
 unpleasant confusion between the sacred and the secular. 
 Occasionally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one of her tin rd-l test 
 fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister's house; espe- 
 cially not at Mrs. Tulliver's, who, since her marriage, had 
 hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by wearing her own hair, 
 though, as Mrs. Glegg observed to Mrs. Deane, a mother of 
 a family, like Bessy, with a husband always going to law, 
 might have been expected to know better. But Bessy was 
 always weak! 
 
 So if Mrs. Glegg's front to-day was more fuzzy and lax 
 than usual, she had a design under it : she intended the most 
 pointed and cutting allusion to Mrs. Tulliver's bunches of 
 blond curls, separated from each other by a due wave of 
 smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs. Tulliver had 
 shed tears several times at sister Glegg's unkindness on the 
 subject of these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 47 
 
 looking the handsomer for them naturally administered sup- 
 port. Mrs. Glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the house 
 to-day, untied and tilted slightly, of course, a frequent 
 practice of hers when she was on a visit, and happened to be 
 in a severe humour: she didn't know what draughts there 
 might be in strange houses. For the same reason she wore 
 a small sable tippet, which reached just to her shoulders, and 
 was very far from meeting across her well-formed chest, while 
 her long neck was protected by a chevaux-de-frise of miscellane- 
 ous frilling. One would need to be learned in the fashions of 
 those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs. Glegg's 
 slate-coloured silk gown must have been ; but from certain 
 constellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy 
 odour about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it was prob- 
 able that it belonged to a stratum of garments just old enough 
 to have come recently into wear. 
 
 Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the 
 many-doubled chain round her fingers, and observed to Mrs. 
 Tulliver, who had just returned from a visit to the kitchen, 
 that whatever it might be by other people's clocks and 
 watches, it was gone half-past twelve by hers. 
 
 " I don't know what ails sister Pullet," she continued. " It 
 used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as 
 another, I 'm sure it was so in my poor father's time, and 
 not for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. 
 But if the ways o' the family are altered, it sha'n't be my fault ; 
 I'll never be the one to come into a house when all the 
 rest are going away. I wonder at sister Deane, she used 
 to be more like me. But if you '11 take my advice, Bessy, 
 you '11 put the dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, 
 because folks are late as ought to ha' known better." 
 
 " Oh dear, there 's no fear but what they '11 be all here in 
 time, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, in her mild-peevish tone. 
 " The dinner won't be ready till half-past one. But if it 's 
 long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake and a 
 glass o' wine." 
 
 " Well, Bessy ! " said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter smile and 
 a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, " I should ha ' thought 
 you 'd known your own sister better. I never did eat between 
 meals, and I'm not going to begin. Not but what I hate 
 that nonsense of having your dinner at half-past one, when 
 you might have it at one. You was never brought up in that 
 way, Bessy." 
 
 " Why, Jane, what can I do ? Mr. Tulliver does n't like his 
 
48 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 dinner before two o'clock, but I put it half an hour earlier 
 because o' you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know how it is with husbands, they 're for 
 putting everything off; they'll put the dinner off till after 
 tea, if they 've got wives as are weak enough to give in to 
 such work ; but it 's a pity for you, Bessy, as you have n't 
 got more strength o' mind. It '11 be well if your children 
 don't suffer for it. And I hope you 've not gone and got a 
 great dinner for us, going to expense for your sisters, as 'vui 
 sooner eat a crust o' dry bread nor help to ruin you with 
 extravagance. I wonder you don't take pattern by your 
 sister Deane ; she 's far more sensible. And here you 've 
 got two children to provide for, and your husband 's spent 
 your fortin i' going to law, and 's likely to spend his own too. 
 A boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the kitchen," 
 Mrs. Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic protest, " and a plain 
 pudding, with a spoonful o' sugar, and no spice, 'ud be far 
 more becoming." 
 
 With sister Glegg in this humour, there was a cheerful pros- 
 pect for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of 
 quarrelling with her, any more than a water-fowl that puts 
 out its leg in a deprecating manner can be said to quarrel with 
 a boy who throws stones. But this point of the dinner was 
 a tender one, and not at all new, so that Mrs. Tulliver could 
 make the same answer she had often made before. 
 
 " Mr. Tulliver says he always will have a good dinner for 
 his friends while he can pay for it," she said ; " and he 's 
 a right to do as he likes in his own house, sister." 
 
 " Well, Bessy, I can't leave your children enough out o' my 
 savings to keep 'em from ruin. And you mustn't look to 
 having any o' Mr. Glegg's money, for it 's well if I don't go 
 first, he comes of a long-lived family ; and if he was to die 
 and leave me well for my life, he 'd tie all the money up to go 
 back to his own kin." 
 
 The sound of wheels while Mrs. Glegg was speaking was 
 an interruption highly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, who has- 
 tened out to receive sister Pullet ; it must be sister Pullet, 
 because the sound was that of a four-wheel. 
 
 Mrs. Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the 
 mouth at the thought of the " four-wheel." She had a strong 
 opinion on that subject. 
 
 Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped 
 before Mrs. Tulliver's door, and it was apparently requisite 
 that she should shed a few more before getting out; for 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 49 
 
 though her husband and Mrs. Tulliver stood ready to support 
 her, she sat still and shook her head sadly, as she looked 
 through her tears at the vague distance. 
 
 " Why, whativer is the matter, sister ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. 
 She was not an imaginative woman, but it occurred to her 
 that the large toilet-glass in sister Pullet's best bedroom was 
 possibly broken for the second time. 
 
 There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs. 
 Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without 
 casting a glance at Mr. Pullet to see that he was guarding her 
 handsome silk dress from injury. Mr. Pullet was a small man, 
 with a high nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a 
 fresh-looking suit of black and a white cravat, that seemed to 
 have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that 
 of mere personal ease. He bore about the same relation to 
 his tall, good-looking wife, with her balloon sleeves, abundant 
 mantle, and large be-feathered and be-ribboned bonnet, as a 
 small fishing smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread. 
 
 It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complex- 
 ity introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilisation, 
 the sight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From 
 the sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buck- 
 ram sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an architec- 
 tural bonnet, and delicate ribbon strings, what a long series 
 of gradations ! In the enlightened child of civilisation the 
 abandonment characteristic of grief is checked and varied in 
 the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem 
 to the analytic mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half 
 blinded by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too de- 
 vious step through a door-place, she might crush her buckram 
 sleeves too, and the deep consciousness of this possibility pro- 
 duces a composition of forces by which she takes a line that 
 just clears the doorpost. Perceiving that the tears are hurry- 
 ing fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly 
 backward, a touching gesture, indicative, even in the deepes 
 gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings 
 will once more have a charm. As the tears subside a little, 
 and with her head leaning backward at the angle that will not 
 injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when 
 grief, which has made all things else a weariness, has itself 
 become weary ; she looks down pensively at her bracelets, and 
 adjusts their clasps with that pretty studied fortuity which 
 would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a 
 oalm and healthy state. 
 
50 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Mrs. Pullet brushed each doorpost with great nicety, 
 about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman 
 was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not 
 measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having 
 done that sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh 
 tears as she advanced into the parlour where Mrs. Glegg 
 was seated. 
 
 " Well, sister, you 're late ; what 's the matter ? " said Mrs. 
 Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands. 
 
 Mrs. Pullet sat down, lifting up her mantle carefully be- 
 hind, before she answered, 
 
 " She 's gone," unconsciously using an impressive figure of 
 rhetoric. 
 
 " It is n't the glass this time, then," thought Mrs. Tulliver. 
 
 "Died the day before yesterday," continued Mrs. Pullet; 
 " an' her legs was as thick as my body," she added, with deep 
 sadness, after a pause. " They 'd tapped her no end o' times, 
 and the water thev say you might ha' swum in it, if you 'd 
 liked." 
 
 " Well, Sophy, it 's a mercy she 's gone, then, whoever she 
 may be," said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis 
 of a mind naturally clear and decided ; " but I can't think who 
 you 're talking of, for my part." 
 
 "But /know," said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her 
 head ; il and there is n't another such a dropsy in the parish. 
 / know as it 's old Mrs. Sutton o' the Twentylands." 
 
 " Well, she 's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance as I 've 
 ever heared of," said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as 
 much as was proper when anything happened to her own 
 "kin," but not on other occasions. 
 
 " She 's so much acquaintance as I 've seen her legs when 
 they was like bladders. And an old lady as had doubled 
 her money over and over again, and kept it all in her own 
 management to the last, and had her pocket with her keys in 
 under her pillow constant. There is n't many old j?arish'ners 
 like her, I doubt." 
 
 " And they say she 'd took as much physic as 'ud fill a 
 waggon," observed Mr. Pullet. 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Mrs. Pullet, "she'd another complaint ever 
 so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors 
 could n't make out what it was. And she said to me, when 
 I went to see her last Christmas, she said, 'Mrs. Pullet, if 
 ever you have the dropsy, you '11 think o' me.' She did say 
 so," added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; "those 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 51 
 
 were her very words. And she 's to be buried o' Saturday, and 
 Pullet 's bid to the funeral." 
 
 " Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contain her 
 spirit of rational remonstrance, "Sophy, I wonder at you, 
 fretting and injuring your health about people as don't belong 
 to you. Your poor father never did so, nor your aunt Frances 
 neither, nor any o' the family as I ever heared of. You could n't 
 fret no more than this, if we 'd heared as our cousin Abbott had 
 died sudden without making his will." 
 
 Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather 
 flattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too 
 much. It was not everybody who could afford to cry so much 
 about their neighbours who had left them nothing ; but Mrs. 
 Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure and 
 money to carry her crying and everything else to the highest 
 pitch of respectability. 
 
 " Mrs. Sutton did n't die without making her will, though," 
 said Mr. Pullet, with a confused sense that he was saying 
 something to sanction his wife's tears ; " ours is a rich parish, 
 but they say'there 's nobody else to leave as many thousands 
 behind 'em as Mrs. Sutton. And she's left no leggicies to 
 speak on, left it all in a lump to her husband's newy." 
 
 " There wasn 't much good i' being so rich, then," said Mrs. 
 Glegg, "if she 'd got none but husband's kin to leave it 
 to. It 's poor work when that 's all you 've got to pinch 
 yourself for. Not as I 'm one o' those as 'ud like to die with- 
 out leaving more money out at interest than other folks had 
 reckoned ; but it 's a poor tale when it must go out o' your 
 own family." 
 
 " I 'm sure, sister," said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered suffi- 
 ciently to take off her veil and fold it carefully, " it 's a nice 
 sort o' man as Mrs. Sutton has left her money to, for he 's 
 troubled with the asthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight 
 o'clock. He told me about it himself as free as could be 
 one Sunday when he came to our church. He wears a hare- 
 skin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk, quite a 
 gentleman sort o' man. I told him there was n't many months 
 in the year as I was n't under the doctor's hands. And he 
 said, 'Mrs. Pullet, I can feel for you.' That was what he 
 said, the very words. Ah ! " sighed Mrs. Pullet, shaking 
 her head at the idea that there were but few who could enter 
 fully into her experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, 
 strong stuff in small bottles, and weak stuff in large bottles, 
 damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts at eighteenpence. 
 
52 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Sister, I may as well go and take my bonnet off now. Did 
 you see as the cap-box was put out ? " she added, turning to 
 her husband. 
 
 Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had for- 
 gotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken conscience, to 
 remedy the omission. 
 
 " They '11 bring it up-stairs, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, wish- 
 ing to go at once, lest Mrs. Glegg should begin to explain her 
 feelings about Sophy's being the first Dodson who ever ruined 
 her constitution with doctor's stuff. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was fond of going up-stairs with her sister 
 Pullet, and looking thoroughly at her cap before she put it on 
 her head, and discussing millinery in general. This was part 
 of Bessy's weakness that stirred Mrs. Glegg's sisterly com- 
 passion : Bessy went far too well dressed, considering ; and she 
 was too proud to dress her child in the good clothing her 
 sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata of her ward- 
 robe ; it was a sin and a shame to buy anything to dress that 
 child, if it wasn't a pair of shoes. In this particular, how- 
 ever, Mrs. Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs. 
 Tulliver had really made great efforts to induce Maggie to 
 wear a leghorn bonnet and a dyed silk frock made out of her 
 aunt Glegg's, but the results had been such that Mrs. Tulliver 
 was obliged to bury them in her maternal bosom ; for Maggie, 
 declaring that the frock smelt of nasty dye, had taken an op- 
 portunity of basting it together with the roast beef the first 
 Sunday she wore it, and finding this scheme answer, she had 
 subsequently pumped on the bonnet with its green ribbons, so 
 as to give it a general resemblance to a sage cheese garnished 
 with withered lettuces. I must urge in excuse for Maggie, 
 that Tom had laughed at her in the bonnet, and said she 
 looked like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of 
 clothes, but these were always pretty enough to please Maggie 
 as well as her mother. Of all her sisters, Mrs. Tulliver cer- 
 tainly preferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of pref- 
 erence ; but Mrs. Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty, 
 awkward children ; she would do the best she could by them, 
 but it was a pity they were n't as good and as pretty as sister 
 Deane's child. Maggie and Tom, on their part, thought their 
 aunt Pullet tolerable, chiefly because she was not their aunt 
 Glegg. Tom always declined to go more than once during his 
 holidays to see either of them. Both his uncles tipped him 
 that once, of course ; but at his aunt Pullet's there were a 
 great many toads to pelt in the cellar-area, so that he pre- 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 53 
 
 ferred the visit to her. Maggie shuddered at the toads, and 
 dreamed of them horribly, but she liked her uncle Pullet's 
 musical snuff-box. Still, it was agreed by the sisters, in Mrs. 
 Tulliver's absence, that the Tulliver blood did not mix well 
 with the Dodson blood; that, in fact, poor Bessy's children 
 were Tullivers, and that Tom, notwithstanding he had the 
 Dodson complexion, was likely to be as "contrairy" as his 
 father. As for Maggie, she was the picture of her aunt Moss, 
 Mr. Tulliver's sister, a large-boned woman, who had married 
 as poorly as could be ; had no china, and had a husband who 
 had much ado to pay his rent. But when Mrs. Pullet was 
 alone with Mrs. Tulliver up-stairs, the remarks were naturally 
 to the disadvantage of Mrs. Glegg, and they agreed, in confi- 
 dence, that there was no knowing what sort of fright sister 
 Jane would come out next. But their tete-a-tete was curtailed 
 by the appearance of Mrs. Deane with little Lucy ; and Mrs. 
 Tulliver had to look on with a silent pang while Lucy's blond 
 curls were adjusted. It was quite unaccountable that Mrs. 
 Deane, the thinnest and sallowest of all the Miss Dodsons, 
 should have had this child, who might have been taken for 
 Mrs. Tulliver's any day. And Maggie always looked twice as 
 dark as usual when she was by the side of Lucy. 
 
 She did to-day, when she and Tom came in from the garden 
 with their father and their uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown 
 her bonnet off very carelessly, and coming in with her hair 
 rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy, who was 
 standing by her mother's knee. Certainly the contrast be- 
 tween the cousins was conspicuous, and to superficial eyes 
 was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie, though a con- 
 noisseur might ha.ve seen "points " in her which had a higher 
 promise for maturity than Lucy's natty completeness. It was 
 like the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and 
 a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little rosebud mouth 
 to be kissed ; everything about her was neat, her little round 
 neck, with the row of coral beads ; her little straight nose, not 
 at all snubby ; her little clear eyebrows, rather darker than 
 her curls, to match her hazel eyes, which looked up with shy 
 pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarcely a year 
 older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight. She was 
 fond of fancying a world where the people never got any 
 larger than children of their own age, and she made the 
 queen of it just like Lucy, with a little crown on her head, 
 and a little sceptre in her hand only the queen was Maggie 
 herself in Lucy's form. 
 
54 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Oh, Lucy," she burst out, after kissing her, "you'll stay 
 with Tom and me, won't you ? Oh, kiss her, Tom." 
 
 Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to 
 kiss her no ; he came up to her with Maggie, because it 
 seemed easier, on the whole, than saying, " How do you do ? " 
 to all those aunts and uncles . He stood looking at nothing 
 in particular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile 
 which are common to shy boys when in company, very much 
 as if they had come into the world by mistake, and found it 
 in a degree of undress that was quite embarrassing. 
 
 " Heyday ! " said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. " Do 
 little boys and gells come into a room without taking notice 
 o' their uncles and aunts ? That was n't the way when / was 
 a little gell." 
 
 " Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She wanted 
 to whisper to Maggie a command to go and have her hair 
 brushed. 
 
 " Well, and how do you do ? And I hope you 're good 
 children, are you ? " said aunt Glegg, in the same loud, em- 
 phatic way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her 
 large rings, and kissing their cheeks much against their desire. 
 " Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to boarding-schools 
 should hold their heads up. Look at me now." Tom declined 
 that pleasure apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. 
 " Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock 
 on your shoulder." 
 
 Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic 
 way, as if she considered them deaf, or perhaps rather idiotic ; 
 it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they 
 were accountable creatures, and might be a salutar} r check on 
 naughty tendencies. Bessy's children were so spoiled 
 they'd need have somebody to make them feel their duty. 
 
 "Well, my dears," said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate 
 voice, "you grow wonderful fast. I doubt they'll outgrow 
 their strength," she added, looking over their heads, with a 
 melancholy expression, at their mother. "I think the gell 
 has too much hair. I'd have it thinned and cut shorter, 
 sister, if I was you : it is n't good for her health. It 's that 
 as makes her skin so brown, I should n't wonder. Don't you 
 think so, sister Deane ? " 
 
 " I can't say, I 'm sure, sister," said Mrs. Deane, shutting 
 her lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical 
 eye. 
 
BOY AND GIRL 55 
 
 " No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, " the child 's healthy enough ; 
 there 's nothing ails her. There 's red wheat as well as 
 white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. 
 But it 'ud be as well if Bessy 'ud have the child's hair cut, 
 so as it 'ud lie smooth." 
 
 A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggie's breast, but 
 it was arrested by the desire to know from her aunt Deane 
 whether she would leave Lucy behind. Aunt Deane would 
 hardly ever let Lucy come to see them. After various reasons 
 for refusal, Mrs. Deane appealed to Lucy herself. 
 
 " You would n't like to stay behind without mother, should 
 you, Lucy ? " 
 
 " Yes, please, mother," said Lucy, timidly, blushing very 
 pink all over her little neck. 
 
 " Well done, Lucy ! Let her stay, Mrs. Deane, let her 
 stay," said Mr. Deane, a large but alert-looking man, with a 
 type of physique to be seen in all ranks of English society, 
 bald crown, red whiskers, full forehead, and general solidity 
 without heaviness. You may see noblemen like Mr. Deane, 
 and you may see grocers or day-labourers like him ; but the 
 keenness of his brown eyes was less common than his contour. 
 He held a silver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now 
 and then exchanged a pinch with Mr. Tulliver, whose box was 
 only silver-mounted, so that it was naturally a joke between 
 them that Mr. Tulliver wanted to exchange snuff-boxes also. 
 Mr. Deane's box had been given him by the superior partners 
 in the firm to which he belonged, at the same time that they 
 gave him a share in the business, in acknowledgment of his 
 valuable services as manager. No man was thought more 
 highly of in St. Ogg's than Mr. Deane ; and some persons were 
 even of opinion that Miss Susan Dodson, who was once held 
 to have made the worst match of all the Dodson sisters, might 
 one day ride in a better carriage, and live in a better house, 
 even than her sister Pullet. There was no knowing where a 
 man would stop, who had got his foot into a great mill-owning, 
 ship-owning business like that of Guest & Co., with a bank- 
 ing concern attached. And Mrs. Deane, as her intimate 
 female friends observed, was proud and " having " enough ; 
 she would n't let her husband stand still in the world for want 
 of spurring. 
 
 "Maggie," said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, 
 and whispering in her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy's 
 staying was settled, "go and get your hair brushed, do, for 
 
56 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 shame. I told you not to come in without going to Martha 
 first ; you know I did." 
 
 " Tom, come out with me," whispered Maggie, pulling his 
 sleeve as she passed him; and Tom followed willingly 
 enough. 
 
 " Come up-stairs with me, Tom," she whispered, when they 
 were outside the door. " There 's something I want to do 
 before dinner." 
 
 " There 's no time to play at anything before dinner," said 
 Torn, whose imagination was impatient of any intermediate 
 prospect. 
 
 " Oh yes, there is time for this ; do come, Tom." 
 
 Tom followed Maggie up-stairs into her mother's room, and 
 saw her go at once to a drawer, from which she took out a 
 large pair of scissors. 
 
 " What are they for, Maggie ? " said Tom, feeling his curi- 
 osity awakened. 
 
 Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting 
 them straight across the middle of her forehead. 
 
 " Oh, my buttons ! Maggie, you '11 catch it ! " exclaimed 
 Tom ; " you 'd better not cut any more off." 
 
 Snip ! went the great scissors again while Tom was speak- 
 ing, and he could n't help feeling it was rather good fun ; 
 Maggie would look so queer. 
 
 " Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, excited 
 by her own daring, and anxious to finish the deed. 
 
 " You '11 catch it, you know," said Tom, nodding his head in 
 an admonitory manner, and hesitating a little as he took the 
 scissors. 
 
 " Never mind, make haste ! " said Maggie, giving a little 
 stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed. 
 
 The black locks were so thick, nothing could be more 
 tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleas- 
 ure of cutting the pony's mane. I speak to those who know 
 the satisfaction of making a pair of shears meet through a 
 duly resisting mass of hair. One delicious grinding snip, and 
 then another and another, and the hinder-locks fell heavily on 
 the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, uneven man- 
 ner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had 
 emerged from a wood into the open plain. 
 
 " Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping round her, and slapping 
 his knees as he laughed, " Oh, my buttons ! what a queer thing 
 you look ! Look at yourself in the glass ; you look like the 
 idiot we throw out nut-shells to at school." 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 5T 
 
 Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought before- 
 hand chiefly of" her own deliverance from her teasing hair and 
 teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph 
 she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very 
 decided course of action ; she did n't want her hair to look 
 pretty, that was out of the question, she only wanted peo- 
 ple to think her a clever little girl, and not to find fault 
 with her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, 
 and say she was like the idiot, the affair had quite a new 
 aspect. She looked in the glass, and still Tom laughed and 
 clapped his hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale, 
 and her lips to tremble a little. 
 
 " Oh, Maggie, you '11 have to go down to dinner directly," said 
 Tom. " Oh, my ! " 
 
 "Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, in a passionate 
 tone, with an outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving 
 him a push. 
 
 " Now, then, spitfire ! " said Tom. " What did you cut it off 
 for, then ? I shall go down : I can smell the dinner going in." 
 
 He hurried down-stairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter 
 sense of the irrevocable which was almost an every-day expe- 
 rience of her small soul. She could see clearly enough, now 
 the thing was done, that it was very foolish, and that she 
 should have to hear and think more about her hair than ever ; 
 for Maggie rushed to her deeds with passionate impulse, and 
 then saw not only their consequences, but what would have 
 happened if they had not been done, with all the detail and 
 exaggerated circumstance of an active imagination. Tom 
 never did the same sort of foolish things as Maggie, having 
 a wonderful instinctive discernment of what would turn to his 
 advantage or disadvantage ; and so it happened, that though he 
 was much more wilful and inflexible than Maggie, his mother 
 hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make a mis- 
 take of that sort, he espoused it, and stood by it : he " did n't 
 mind." If he broke the lash of his father's gig-whip by lash- 
 ing the gate, he could n't help it, the whip should n't have 
 got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a gate, he 
 was convinced, not that the whipping of gates by all boys was 
 a justifiable act, but that he, Tom Tulliver, was justifiable in 
 whipping that particular gate, and he was n't going to be 
 sorry. But Maggie, as she stood crying before the glass, felt 
 it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endure 
 the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom 
 and Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her 
 
58 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 father and her uncles, would laugh at her ; for if Tom had 
 laughed at her, of course every one else would; and if she 
 had only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and 
 Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard ! What 
 could she do but sob ? She sat as helpless and despairing 
 among her black locks as Ajax among the slaughtered sheep. 
 Very trivial, perhaps, this anguish seems to weather-worn 
 mortals who have to think of Christmas bills, dead loves, and 
 broken friendships ; but it was not less bitter to Maggie 
 perhaps it was even more bitter than what we are fond of 
 calling antithetically the real troubles of mature life. " Ah, 
 my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by-and-by," 
 is the consolation we have almost all of us had administered 
 to us in our childhood, and have repeated to other children 
 since we have been grown up. We have all of us sobbed so 
 piteously, standing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, 
 when we lost sight of our mother or nurse in some strange 
 place ; but we can no longer recall the poignancy of that 
 moment and weep over it, as we do over the remembered suf- 
 ferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen 
 moments has left its trace, and lives in us still, but such traces 
 have blent themselves irrecoverably with the firmer texture of 
 our youth and manhood ; and so it comes that we can look on 
 at the troubles of our children with a smiling disbelief in the 
 reality of their pain. Is there any one who can recover the 
 experience of his childhood, not merely with a memory of 
 what he did and what happened to him, of what he liked and 
 disliked when he was in frock and trousers, but with an inti- 
 mate penetration, a revived consciousness of what he felt then, 
 when it was so long from one Midsummer to another ; what 
 he felt when his schoolfellows shut him out of their game be- 
 cause he would pitch the ball wrong out of mere wilfulness ; 
 or on a rainy day in the holidays, when he did n't know how 
 to amuse himself, and fell from idleness into mischief, from 
 mischief into defiance, and from defiance into sulkiness; or 
 when his mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed 
 coat that "half," although every other boy of his age had 
 gone into tails already ? Surely if we could recall that early 
 bitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless 
 conception of life that gave the bitterness its intensity, we 
 should not pooh-pooh the griefs of our children. 
 
 " Miss Maggie, you 're to come down this minute," said 
 Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. " Lawks ! what have you 
 been a-doing ? I niver see such a fright ! " 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 59 
 
 " Don't, Kezia, " said Maggie, angrily. " Go away ! " 
 
 "But I tell you you're to come down, Miss, this minute; 
 your mother says so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and 
 taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor. 
 
 " Get away, Kezia ; I don't want any dinner," said Maggie, 
 resisting Kezia's arm. " I sha'ii't come." 
 
 " Oh, well, I can't stay. I 've got to wait at dinner," said 
 Kezia, going out again. 
 
 " Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room 
 ten minutes after, " why don't you come and have your dinner ? 
 There 's lots o' goodies, and mother says you 're to come. What 
 are you crying for, you little spooney ? " 
 
 Oh, it was dreadful ! Tom was so hard and unconcerned ; 
 if he had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried 
 too. And there was the dinner, so nice ; and she was so 
 hungry. It was very bitter. 
 
 But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to 
 cry, and did not feel that Maggie's grief spoiled his prospect 
 of the sweets ; but he went and put his head near her, and 
 said in a lower, comforting tone, 
 
 " Won't you come, then, Magsie ? Shall I bring you a bit 
 o' pudding when I 've had mine, and a custard and things ? " 
 
 " Ye-e-es," said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more 
 tolerable. 
 
 "Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again 
 at the door and said, "But you'd better come, you know. 
 There 's the dessert, nuts, you know, and cowslip wine." 
 
 Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom 
 left her. His good-nature had taken off the keenest edge of 
 her suffering, and nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their 
 legitimate infliience. 
 
 Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered locks, and 
 slowly she made her way down-stairs. Then she stood lean- 
 ing with one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlour 
 door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy 
 with an empty chair between them, and there were the 
 custards on a side-table ; it was too much. She slipped 
 in and went towards the empty chair. But she had no 
 sooner sat down than she repented and wished herself back 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and felt 
 such a "turn" that she dropped the large gravy-spoon into the 
 dish, with the most serious results to the table-cloth. For 
 Kezia had not betrayed the reason of Maggie's refusal to 
 
60 77/7? MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 come down, not liking to give her mistress a shock in the 
 moment of carving, and Mrs. Tulliver thought there was 
 nothing worse in question than a fit of perverseness, which 
 was inflicting its own punishment by depriving Maggie of half 
 her dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same 
 point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, 
 vliile uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, 
 jaid, 
 
 " Heyday ! what little gell 's this ? Why, I don't know her. 
 Is it some little gell you 've picked up in the road, Kezia ? " 
 
 "Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tulli- 
 ver in an undertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoy- 
 ment. Did you ever know such a little hussy as it is ? " 
 
 " Why, little miss, you 've made yourself look very funny," 
 said uncle Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an 
 observation which was felt to be so lacerating. 
 
 " Fie, for shame ! " said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest 
 tone of reproof. " Little gells as cut their own hair should be 
 whipped and fed on bread and water, not come and sit down 
 with their aunts and uncles." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn 
 to this denunciation, "she must be sent to jail, I think, and 
 they '11 cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all 
 even." 
 
 " She 's more like a gypsy nor ever," said aunt Pullet, in a 
 pitying tone ; " it 's very bad luck, sister, as the gell should 
 be so brown ; the boy 's fair enough. I doubt it '11 stand in 
 her way i' life to be so brown." 
 
 " She 's a naughty child, as '11 break her mother's heart," 
 said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes. 
 
 Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and 
 derision. Her first flush came from anger, which gave her a 
 transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was brav- 
 ing it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding 
 and custard. Under this impression, he whispered, " Oh my ! 
 Maggie, I told you you 'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, 
 but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her 
 ignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, 
 her heart swelled, and getting up from her chair, she ran to 
 her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out into 
 loud sobbing. 
 
 " Come, come, my wench," said her father, soothingly, put- 
 ting his arm round her, " never mind ; you was i' the right to 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 61 
 
 cut it off if it plagued you ; give over crying ; father '11 take 
 your part." 
 
 Delicious words ot tenderness ! Maggie never forgot any 
 of these moments when her father " took her part ; " she 
 kept them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, 
 when every one else said that her father had done very ill by 
 his children. 
 
 " How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy ! " said 
 Mrs. Glegg, in a loud " aside," to Mrs. Tulliver. " It '11 be 
 the ruin of her, if you don't take care. My father never 
 brought his children up so, else we should ha' been a different 
 sort o' family to what we are." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver's domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to 
 have reached the point at which insensibility begins. She 
 took no notice of her sister's remark, but threw back her cap- 
 strings and dispensed the pudding, in mute resignation. 
 
 With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, 
 for the children were told they might have their nuts and 
 wine in the summer-house, since the day was so mild ; and 
 they scampered out among the budding bushes of the garden 
 with the alacrity of small animals getting from under a 
 burning-glass. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver had her special reason for this permission : 
 now the dinner was despatched, and every one 's mind disen- 
 gaged, it was the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver's 
 intention concerning Tom, and it would be as well for Tom 
 himself to be absent. The children were used to hear them- 
 selves talked of as freely as if they were birds, and could 
 understand nothing, however they might stretch their necks 
 and listen ; but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver manifested an 
 unusual discretion, because she had recently had evidence that 
 the going to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, 
 who looked at it as very much on a par with going to school 
 to a constable. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her 
 husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or 
 sister Pullet either ; but at least they would not be able to say, 
 if the thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her 
 husband's folly without letting her own friends know a word 
 about it. 
 
 "Mr. Tulliver," she said, interrupting her husband in his 
 talk with Mr. Deane, "it's time now to tell the children's 
 aunts and uncles what you 're thinking of doing with Tom. 
 is n't it ? " 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, " I 've no 
 
62 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 objections to tell anybody what I mean to do with him. I 've 
 settled," he added, looking towards Mr. Glegg and Mr. De;mr, 
 "I 've settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson, down 
 at King's Lorton, there, an uncommon clever fellow, 1 un- 
 derstand, as '11 put him up to most things." 
 
 There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the 
 company, such as you may have observed in a country con- 
 gregation, when they hear an allusion to their week-day affairs 
 1'roin the pulpit. It was equally astonishing to the aunts and 
 uncles to find a parson introduced into Mr. Tulliver's family 
 arrangements. As for uncle Pullet, he could hardly have 
 been more thoroughly obfuscated if Mr. Tullivcr had said that 
 he was going to send Tom to the Lord Chancellor ; for uncle 
 Pullet belonged to that extinct class of British yeomen who, 
 dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to 
 church, and ate a particularly good dinner on Sunday, without 
 dreaming that the British constitution in Church and State 
 had a traceable origin any more than the solar system and the 
 fixed stars. It is melancholy, but true, that Mr. Pullet had 
 the most confused idea of a bishop as a sort of a baronet, who 
 might or might not be a clergyman ; and as the rector of his 
 own parish was a man of high family and fortune, the idea 
 that a clergyman could be a schoolmaster was too remote 
 from Mr. Pullet's experience to be readily conceivable. I 
 know it is difficult for people in these instructed times to 
 believe in uncle Pullet's ignorance ; but let them reflect on 
 the remarkable results of a great natural faculty under favour- 
 ing circumstances. And uncle Pullet had a great natural 
 faculty for ignorance. He was the first to give utterance to 
 his astonishment. 
 
 " Why, what can you be going to send him to a parson for ? " 
 he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes, looking at Mr. 
 Glegg and Mr. Deane, to see if they showed any signs of 
 comprehension. 
 
 " Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters, by 
 what I can make out," said poor Mr. Tulliver, who, in the 
 maze of this puzzling world, laid hold of any clue with great 
 readiness and tenacity. " Jacobs at th' academy 's no parson, 
 and he 's done very bad by the boy ; and I made up my mind, 
 if I sent him to school again, it should be to somebody differ- 
 ent to Jacobs. And this Mr. Stelling, by what I can make 
 out, is the sort o' man I want. And I mean my boy to go to 
 him at Midsummer," he concluded, in a tone of decision, 
 tapping his snuff-box and taking a pinch. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 63 
 
 " You '11 have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill, then, eh, 
 Tulliver ? The clergymen have highish notions, in general," 
 said Mr. Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did 
 when wishing to maintain a neutral position. 
 
 " What ! do you think the parson '11 teach him to know a 
 good sample o' wheat when he sees it, neighbour Tulliver ? " 
 said Mr. Glegg who was fond of his jest, and having retired 
 from business, felt that it was not only allowable but becom- 
 ing in him to take a playful view of things. 
 
 " Why, you see, I 've got a plan i' my head about Tom," 
 said Mr. Tulliver, pausing after that statement and lifting up 
 his glass. 
 
 " Well, if I may be allowed to speak, and it 's seldom as I 
 am," said Mrs. Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, "I 
 should like to know what good is to come to the boy, by 
 bringin' him up above his fortin." 
 
 " Why," said Mr. Tulliver, not looking at Mrs. Glegg, but at 
 the male part of his audience, " you see, I 've made up my 
 mind not to bring Tom up to my own business. I 've had my 
 thoughts about it all along, and I made up my mind by what I 
 saw with Garnett and his son. I mean to put him to some 
 business as he can go into without capital, and I want to give 
 him an eddication as he '11 be even wi' the lawyers and folks, 
 and put me up to a notion now an' then." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg emitted a long sort of guttural sound with closed 
 lips, that smiled in mingled pity and scorn. 
 
 " It 'ud be a fine deal better for some people," she said, 
 after that introductory note, " if they 'd let the lawyers 
 alone." 
 
 " Is he at the head of a grammar school, then, this clergy- 
 man, such as that at Market Bewley ? " said Mr. Deane. 
 
 "No, nothing o' that," said Mr. Tulliver. "He won't 
 take more than two or three pupils, and so he'll have the 
 more time to attend to 'em, you know." 
 
 "Ah, and get his eddication done the sooner; they can't 
 learn much at a time when there 's so many of 'em," said 
 uncle Pullet, feeling that he was getting quite an insight into 
 this difficult matter. 
 
 " But he '11 want the more pay, I doubt," said Mr. Glegg. 
 
 " Ay, ay, a cool hundred a-year, that 's all," said Mr. Tulli- 
 ver, with some pride at his own spirited course. " But then, 
 you know, it 's an investment ; Tom 's eddication 'ull be so much 
 capital to him." 
 
 " Ay, there 's something in that," said Mr. Glegg. " Well, 
 
64 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 well, neighbour Tulliver, you may be right, you may be 
 right : 
 
 ' When land is gone and money 'a spent, 
 Then learning is most excellent.' 
 
 I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at 
 Buxton. But us that have got no learning had better keep 
 our money, eh neighbour Pullet ? " Mr. Glegg rubbed his 
 knees, and looked very pleasant. 
 
 " Mr. Glegg, I wonder at you," said his wife. " It 's very 
 unbecoming in a man o' your age and belongings." 
 
 " What 's unbecoming, Mrs. G. ? " said Mr. Glegg, winking 
 pleasantly at the company. "My new blue coat as I've 
 got on ? " 
 
 " I pity your weakness, Mr. Glegg. I say it 's unbecoming 
 to be making a joke when you see your own kin going head- 
 longs to ruin." 
 
 " If you mean me by that," said Mr. Tulliver, considerably 
 nettled, " you need n't trouble yourself to fret about me. I can 
 manage my own affairs without troubling other folks." 
 
 " Bless me ! " said Mr. Deane, judiciously introducing a new 
 idea, " why, now I come to think of it, somebody said Wakem 
 was going to send his son the deformed lad to a clergy- 
 man, did n't they, Susan ? " (appealing to his wife). 
 
 " I can give no account of it, I 'm sure," said Mrs. Deane, 
 closing her lips very tightly again. Mrs. Deane was not a 
 woman to take part in a scene where missiles were flying. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Tulliver, speaking all the more cheerfully, 
 that Mrs. Glegg might see he did n't mind her, " if Wakem 
 thinks o' sending his son to a clergyman, depend on it I shall 
 make no mistake i' sending Tom to one. Wakem 's as big a 
 scoundrel as Old Harry ever made, but he knows the length 
 of every man's foot he 's got to deal with. Ay, ay, tell me who 's 
 Wakein's butcher, and I '11 tell you where to get your meat." 
 
 " But lawyer Wakem's son 's got a hump-back," said Mrs. 
 Pullet, who felt as if the whole business had a funereal 
 i-t ; "it's more nat'ral to send him to a clergyman." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Glegg, interpreting Mrs. Pullet's observation 
 with erroneous plausibility, "you must consider that, neigh- 
 bour Tulliver ; Wakem's son is n't likely to follow any busi- 
 ness. Wakem 'ull make a gentleman of him, poor fellow." 
 
 " Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., in a tone which implied that her 
 indignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she was deter- 
 mined to keep it corked up, " you 'd far better hold your tongue. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 65 
 
 Mr. Tulliver does n't want to know your opinion nor mine nei- 
 ther. There 's folks in the world as know better than every- 
 body else. " 
 
 " Why, I should think that 's you, if we 're to trust your 
 own tale," said Mr. Tulliver, beginning to boil up again. 
 
 " Oh, / say nothing," said Mrs. Glegg, sarcastically. " My 
 advice has never been asked, and I don't give it." 
 
 " It '11 be the first time, then," said Mr. Tulliver. " It 's the 
 only thing you 're over-ready at giving." 
 
 " I 've been over-ready at lending, then, if I have n't been 
 over-ready at giving," said Mrs. Glegg. " There 's folks I 've 
 lent money to, as perhaps I shall repent o' lending money to 
 kin." 
 
 "Come, come, come," said Mr. Glegg, soothingly. But Mr. 
 Tulliver was not to be hindered of his retort. 
 
 " You 've got a bond for it, I reckon," he said ; " and you 've 
 had your five per cent, kin or no kin." 
 
 " Sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, pleadingly, " drink your wine, 
 and let me give you some almonds and raisins." 
 
 " Bessy, I 'm sorry for you," said Mrs. Glegg, very much 
 with the feeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of divert- 
 ing his bark towards the man who carries no stick. " It 's poor 
 work talking o' almonds and raisins." 
 
 " Lors, sister Glegg, don't be so quarrelsome," said Mrs. 
 Pullet, beginning to cry a little. " You may be struck with a 
 fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are but just 
 out o' mourning, all of us, and all wi' gowns craped alike 
 and just put by ; it 's very bad among sisters." 
 
 "I should think it is bad," said Mrs. Glegg. "Things are 
 come to a fine pass when one sister invites the other to her 
 house o' purpose to quarrel with her and abuse her." 
 
 " Softly, softly, Jane ; be reasonable, be reasonable," said 
 Mr. Glegg. 
 
 But while he was speaking, Mr. Tulliver, who had by no 
 means said enough to satisfy his anger, burst out again. 
 
 " Who wants to quarrel with you ? " he said. " It 's you as 
 can't let people alone, but must be gnawing at 'ern for ever. 
 / should never want to quarrel with any woman if she kept 
 her place." 
 
 " My place, indeed ! " said Mrs. Glegg, getting rather more 
 shrill. " There 's your betters, Mr. Tulliver, as are dead and 
 in their grave, treated me with a different sort o' respect to 
 what you do ; though I 've got a husband as '11 sit by and see 
 me abused by them as 'ud never ha' had the chance if there 
 
 5 
 
66 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 had n't been them in our family as married worse than they 
 might ha' done." 
 
 " If you talk o' that," said Mr. Tulliver, " my family 's as 
 good as yours, and better, for it has n't got a damned ill-tem- 
 pered woman in it ! " 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Glegg, rising from her chair, " I don't 
 know whether you think it's a fine thing to sit by and IK ;u 
 me swore at, Mr. Glegg ; but I 'm not going to stay a minute 
 longer in this house. You can stay behind, and come home 
 with the gig, and I '11 walk home." 
 
 " Dear heart, dear heart ! " said Mr. Glegg in a melancholy 
 tone, as he followed his wife out of the room. 
 
 " Mr. Tulliver, how could you talk so ? " said Mrs. Tulliver, 
 with the tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Let her go," said Mr. Tulliver, too hot to be damped by 
 any amount of tears. " Let her go, and the sooner the better ; 
 she won't be trying to domineer over me again in a hurry." 
 
 " Sister Pullet," said Mrs. Tulliver, helplessly, " do you 
 think it 'ud be any use for you to go after her and try to pac- 
 ify her ? " 
 
 " Better not, better not," said Mr. Deane. " You '11 make it 
 up another day." 
 
 " Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children ? " said 
 Mrs. Tulliver, drying her eyes. 
 
 No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr. Tul- 
 liver felt very much as if the air had been cleared of obtrusive 
 flies now the women were out of the room. There were few 
 things he liked better than a chat with Mr. Deane, whose 
 close application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. 
 Mr. Deane, he considered, was the "knowingest" man of his 
 acquaintance, and he had besides a ready causticity of tongue 
 that made an agreeable supplement to Mr. Tulliver's own ten- 
 dency that way, which had remained in rather an inarticulate 
 condition. And now the women were gone, they could cany 
 on their serious talk without frivolous interruption. They 
 could exchange their views concerning the Duke of Welling- 
 ton, whose conduct in the Catholic Question had thrown such 
 an entirely new light on his character ; and speak slightingly 
 of his conduct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would 
 never have won if there had n't been a great many Englishmen 
 at his back, not to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, 
 as Mr. Tulliver had heard from a person of particular knowl- 
 edge in that matter, had come up in the very nick of time ; 
 though here there was a slight dissidence, Mr. Deane remark- 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 67 
 
 ing that he was not disposed to give much credit to the Prus- 
 sians, the build of their vessels, together with the unsatis- 
 factory character of transactions in Dautzic beer, inclining 
 him to form rather a low view of Prussian pluck generally. 
 Bather beaten on this ground, Mr. Tulliver proceeded to 
 express his fears that the country could never again be what 
 it used to be ; but Mr. Deane, attached to a firm of which the 
 returns were on the increase, naturally took a more lively view 
 jf the present, and had some details to give concerning the 
 ' of the imports, especially in hides and spelter, which 
 soothed Mr. Tulliver's imagination by throwing into more 
 distant perspective the period when the country would become 
 utterly the prey of Papists and Kadicals, and there would be 
 no more chance for honest men. 
 
 Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to 
 these high matters. He did n't understand politics him- 
 self, thought they were a natural gift, but by what he 
 could make out, this Duke of Wellington was no better than 
 he should be. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. TULLIVER SHOWS HIS WEAKER SIDE. 
 
 " SUPPOSE sister Glegg should call her money in ; it 'ud be 
 very awkward for you to have to raise five hundred pounds 
 now," said Mrs. Tulliver to her husband that evening, as she 
 took a plaintive review of the day. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, 
 yet she retained in all the freshness of her early married life 
 a facility of saying things which drove him in the opposite 
 direction to the one she desired. Some minds are wonderful 
 for keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal gold-fish 
 apparently retains to the last its youthfiil illusion that it can 
 swim in a straight line beyond the encircling glass. Mrs. 
 Tulliver was an amiable fish of this kind, and after running 
 her head against the same resisting medium for thirteen years, 
 would go at it again to-day with undulled alacrity. 
 
 This observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr. 
 Tnlliver that it would not be at all awkward for him to raise 
 five hundred pounds ; and when Mrs. Tulliver became rather 
 
68 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 pressing to know how he would raise it without mortgaging 
 the mill and the house which lie hud said he never would 
 mortgage, since nowadays people were none so ready to lend 
 money without security, .Mr. Tulliver, getting warm, declared 
 that Mrs. Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her 
 money, he should pay it in whether or not. lie was not going to 
 be beholden to his wife's sisters. When a man had married 
 into a family where there was a whole litter of women, he 
 might have plenty to put up with if he chose. But Mr. Tulli 
 ver did not choose. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver cried a little in a trickling, quiet way as she 
 put on her nightcap ; but presently sank into a comfortable 
 sleep, lulled by the thought that she would talk everything 
 over with her sister Pullet to-morrow, when she was to take 
 the children to Garum Firs to tea. Not that she looked for- 
 ward to any distinct issue from that talk; but it seemed 
 impossible that past events should be so obstinate as to 
 remain unmodified when they were complained against. 
 
 Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was thinking 
 of a visit he would pay on the morrow ; and his ideas on the 
 subject were not of so vague and soothing a kind as those of 
 his amiable partner. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver, when under the influence of a strong feeling, 
 had a promptitude in action that may seem inconsistent with 
 that painful sense of the complicated, puzzling nature of human 
 affairs under which his more dispassionate deliberations were 
 conducted; but it is really not improbable that there was a 
 direct relation between these apparently contradictory phe- 
 nomena, since I have observed that for getting a strong 
 impression that a skein is tangled, there is nothing like 
 snatching hastily at a single thread. It was owing to this 
 promptitude that Mr. Tulliver was on horseback soon alter 
 dinner the next day (he was not dyspeptic) on his way to 
 Basset to see his sister Moss and her husband. For having 
 made up his mind irrevocably that he would pay Mrs. G 
 her loan of five hundred pounds, it naturally occurred to hin> 
 that he had a promissory note for three hundred pounds lent t' 
 his brother-in-law Moss ; and if the said brother-in-law could 
 manage to pay in the money within a given time, it would go 
 far to lessen the fallacious air of inconvenience which .Mr. 
 Tulliver's spirited step might have worn in the eyes of weak 
 people who require to know precisely how a thing is to be 
 done before they are strongly confident that it will be easy. 
 
 For Mr. Tulliver was in a position neither new nor striking, 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 69 
 
 but, like other every-day things, sure to have a cumulative 
 effect that will be felt in the long-run : he was held to be a 
 much more substantial man than he really was. And as we 
 are all apt to believe what the world believes about us, it 
 was his habit to think of failure and ruin with the same sort 
 of remote pity with which a spare, long-necked man hears 
 that his plethoric short-necked neighbour is striken with apo- 
 plexy. He had been always used to hear pleasant jokes 
 about his advantages as a man who worked his own mill, and 
 owned a pretty bit of land ; and these jokes naturally kept up 
 his sense that he was a man of considerable substance. They 
 gave a pleasant flavour to his glass on a market-day, and if 
 it had not been for the recurrence of half-yearly payments, 
 Mr. Tulliver would really have forgotten that there was a 
 mortgage of two thousand pounds on his very desirable free- 
 hold. That was not altogether his own fault, since one of the 
 thousand pounds was his sister's fortune, which he had to pay 
 on her marriage ; and a man who has neighbours that will go 
 to law with him is not likely to pay off his mortgages, espe- 
 cially if he enjoys the good opinion of acquaintances who 
 want to borrow a hundred pounds on security too lofty to be 
 represented by parchment. Our friend Mr. Tulliver had a 
 good-natured fibre in him, and did not like to give harsh 
 refusals even to a sister, who had not only come into the 
 world in that superfluous way characteristic of sisters, creat- 
 ing a necessity for mortgages, but had quite thrown herself 
 away in marriage, and had crowned her mistakes by having 
 an eighth baby. On this point Mr. Tulliver was conscious 
 of being a little weak ; but he apologised to himself by saying 
 that poor Gritty had been a good-looking wench before she 
 married Moss ; he would sometimes say this even with a 
 slight tremulousness in his voice. But this morning he was 
 in a mood more becoming a man of business, and in the course 
 of his ride along the Basset lanes, with their deep ruts, 
 ying so far away from a market-town that the labour of draw- 
 ing produce and manure was enough to take away the best 
 part of the profits on such poor land as that parish was made 
 of, he got up a due amount of irritation against Moss as a 
 man without capital, who, if murrain and blight were abroad, 
 was sure to have his share of them, and who, the more you 
 tried to help him out of the mud, would sink the further in. 
 It would do him good rather than harm, now, if he were 
 obliged to raise this three hundred pounds; it would make 
 him look about him better, and not act so foolishly about his 
 
70 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 wool this year as he did the last ; in fact, Mr. Tulliver had 
 been too easy with his brother-in-law, and because he had let 
 the interest run on for two years, Moss was likely enough to 
 think that he should never be troubled about the principal. 
 But Mr. Tulliver was determined not to encourage such 
 shuffling people any longer ; and a ride along the Basset lanes 
 was not likely to enervate a man's resolution by softening his 
 temper. The deep-trodden hoof-marks, made in the muddiest 
 days of winter, gave him a shake now and then which sug- 
 gested a rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers, 
 who, whether by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless 
 something to do with this state of the roads ; and the abun- 
 dance of foul land and neglected fences that met his eye, 
 though they made no part of his brother Moss's farm, strongly 
 contributed to his dissatisfaction with that unlucky agri- 
 culturist. If this was n't Moss's fallow, it might have been ; 
 Basset was all alike ; it was a beggarly parish, in Mr. Tulliver's 
 opinion, and his opinion was certainly not groundless. Basset 
 had a poor soil, poor roads, a poor non-resident landlord, a 
 poor non-resident vicar, and rather less than half a curate, 
 also poor. If any one strongly impressed with the power of 
 the human mind to triumph over circumstances will contend 
 that the parishioners of Basset might nevertheless have been 
 a very superior class of people, I have nothing to urge against 
 that abstract proposition ; I only know that, in point of fact, 
 the Basset mind was in strict keeping with its circumstances. 
 The muddy lanes, green or clayey, that seemed to the unac- 
 customed eye to lead nowhere but into each other, did really 
 lead, with patience, to a distant highroad ; but there were 
 many feet in Basset which they led more frequently to a 
 centre of dissipation, spoken of formerly as the " Markis o' 
 Granby," but among intimates as " Dickison's." A large low 
 room with a sanded floor; a cold scent of tobacco, modified by 
 undetected beer-dregs ; Mr. Dickison leaning against the door- 
 post with a melancholy pimpled face, looking as irrelevant to 
 the daylight as a last night's guttered candle, all this may 
 not seem a very seductive form of temptation ; but the 
 majority, of men in Basset found it fatally alluring when 
 encountered on their road towards four o'clock on a wintry 
 afternoon ; and if any wife in Basset wished to indicate that 
 her husband was ;iot a pleasure-seeking man, she could hardly 
 do it more emphatically than by saying that he did n't spend 
 a shilling at Dickison's from one Whitsuntide to another. 
 Mrs. Moss had said so of her husband more than once, when 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 71 
 
 her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, as he ceis 
 tainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacifying to 
 Mr. Tulliver than the behaviour of the farmyard gate, which 
 he no sooner attempted to push open with his riding-stick, 
 than it acted as gates without the upper hinge are known to 
 do, to the peril of shins, whether equine or human. He was 
 about to get down and lead his horse through the damp dirt 
 of the hollow farmyard, shadowed drearily by the large half- 
 timbered buildings, up to the long line of tumble-down dwell- 
 ing-houses standing on a raised causeway; but the timely 
 appearance of a cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan 
 he had determined on, namely, not to get down from his 
 horse during this visit. If a man means to be hard, let him 
 keep in his saddle and speak from that height, above the level 
 of pleading eyes, and with the command of a distant horizon. 
 Mrs. Moss heard the sound of the horse's feet, and, when her 
 brother rode up, was already outside the kitchen door, with 
 a half-weary smile on her face, and a black-eyed baby in her 
 arms. Mrs. Moss's face bore a faded resemblance to her 
 brother's ; baby's little fat hand, pressed against her cheek, 
 seemed to show more strikingly that the cheek was faded. 
 
 " Brother, I 'in glad to see you," she said, in an affectionate 
 tone. " I did n't look for you to-day. How do you do ? " 
 
 "Oh, pretty well, Mrs. Moss, pretty well," answered the 
 brother, with cool deliberation, as if it were rather too forward 
 of her to ask that question. She knew at once that her brother 
 was not in a good humour ; he never called her Mrs. Moss 
 except when he was angry, and when they were in company. 
 But she thought it was in the order of nature that people who 
 were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs. Moss did not take 
 her stand on the equality of the human race; she was a 
 patient, prolific, loving-hearted woman. 
 
 " Your husband is n't in the house, I suppose ? " added Mr. 
 Tulliver after a grave pause, during which four children had 
 run out, like chickens whose mother has been suddenly in 
 eclipse behind the hencoop. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Moss, " but he 's only in the potato-field 
 yonders. Georgy, run to the Far Close in a minute, and tell 
 father your uncle 's come. You '11 get down, brother, won't 
 you, and take something ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I can't get down. I must be going home again 
 directly," said Mr. Tulliver, looking at the distance. 
 
 ' And how 's Mrs. Tulliver and the children ? " said Mrs. 
 Moss, humbly, not daring to press her invitation. 
 
72 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh, pretty well. Tom 's going to a new school at Mid. 
 summer, a deal of expense to me. It 's bad work for me, 
 lying out o' my money." 
 
 " I wish you 'd be so good as let the children come and see 
 their cousins some day. My little uns want to see their 
 cousin Maggie so as never was. And me her god-mother, and 
 so fond of her; there's nobody 'ud make a bigger fuss with 
 her, according to what they've got. And I know she likes to 
 come, for she 's a loving child, and how quick and clever .sin- 
 is, to be sure ! " 
 
 If Mrs. Moss had been one of the most astute women in the 
 world, instead of being one of the simplest, she could have 
 thought of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than 
 this praise of M aggie. He seldom found any one volunteer- 
 ing praise of " the little wench ; " it was usually left entirely 
 to himself to insist on her merits. But Maggie always 
 appeared in the most amiable light at her aunt Moss's ; it 
 was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach of law, if 
 she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these 
 things were matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite of 
 himself, Mr. Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look 
 away from his sister as he said, 
 
 " Ay ; she 's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. 
 She takes after our family : not a bit of her mother's in 
 her." 
 
 " Moss says she 's just like what I used to be," said Mrs. 
 Moss, "though I was never so quick and fond o' the books. 
 But I think my Lizzy 's like her ; she 's sharp. Come here, 
 Lizzy, my dear, and let your uncle see you ; lie hardly knows 
 you, you grow so fast." 
 
 Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when 
 her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses were 
 much in awe of their uncle from Dorlcote Mill. She was infe- 
 rior enough to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to 
 make the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to 
 Mr. Tulliver's fatherly love. 
 
 "Ay, they're a bit alike," he said, looking kindly at the 
 little figure in the soiled pinafore. " They both take after our 
 mother. You 've got enough o' gells, Gritty," he added, in a 
 tone half compassionate, half reproachful. 
 
 " Four of 'em, bless 'em ! " said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, 
 stroking Lizzy 's hair on each side of her forehead ; " as many 
 as there 's boys. They 've got a brother apiece." 
 
 " Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves," said 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 73 
 
 Mr. Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxingj, and try- 
 in- to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. " They 
 mustn't look to hanging on their brothers." 
 
 " No ; but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things, 
 and remember they came o' one father and mother ; the lads 
 'ull never be the poorer for that," said Mrs. Moss, flashing out 
 with hurried timidity, like a half-smothered fire. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then 
 checked it, and said angrily, " Stand still with you ! " much to 
 the astonishment of that innocent animal. 
 
 " And the more there is of 'em, the more they must love one 
 another," Mrs. Moss went on, looking at her children with 
 a didactic purpose. But she turned towards her brother again 
 to say. "Not but what I hope your boy 'ull allays be good to 
 his sister, though there 's but two of 'em, like you and me, 
 brother." 
 
 That arrow went straight to Mr. Tulliver's heart. He had 
 not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very 
 near to him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to 
 his own sister side by side with Tom's relation to Maggie. 
 Would the little wench ever be poorly off, and Tom rather 
 hard upon her ? 
 
 " Ay, ay, Gritty," said the miller, with a new softness in his 
 tone ; " but I 've allays done what I could for you," he added, 
 as if vindicating himself from a reproach. 
 
 " I 'm not denying that, brother, and I 'm noways ungrate- 
 ful," said poor Mrs. Moss, too fagged by toil and children to 
 have strength left for any pride. " But here 's the father. 
 What a while you 've been, Moss ! " 
 
 "While, do you call it?" said Mr. Moss, feeling out of 
 breath and injured. " I 've been running all the way. Won't 
 you 'light, Mr. Tulliver ? " 
 
 ".Well, I'll just get down and have a bit o' talk with you 
 in the garden," said Mr. Tulliver, thinking that he should be 
 more likely to show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were 
 not present. 
 
 He got down, and passed with Mr. Moss into the garden, 
 towards an old yew-tree arbour, while his sister stood tapping 
 her baby on the back and looking wistfully after them. 
 
 Their entrance into the yew-tree arbour surprised several 
 fowls that were recreating themselves by scratching deep 
 holes in the dusty ground, and at once took flight with much 
 pother and cackling. Mr. Tulliver sat down on the bench, and 
 tapping the ground curiously here and there with his stick, as 
 
74 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 if he suspected some hollowness, opened the conversation by 
 observing, with something like a snarl in his tone, 
 
 " Why, you 've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see ; 
 and never a bit o' dressing on it. You '11 do no good with it 
 this year." 
 
 Mr. Moss, who, when he married Miss Tulliver, had been 
 regarded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a 
 week old, and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a ma- 
 chine-horse. He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, " Why, 
 poor farmers like me must do as they can ; they must leave it 
 to them as have got money to play with, to put half as much 
 into the ground as they mean to get out of it." 
 
 " I don't know who should have money to play with, if it 
 is n't them as can borrow money without paying interest," 
 said Mr. Tulliver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel ; it 
 was the most natural and easy introduction to calling in 
 money. 
 
 " I know I 'm behind with the interest," said Mr. Moss, 
 " but I was so unlucky wi' the wool last year ; and what with 
 the Missis being laid up so, things have gone awk'arder nor 
 usual." 
 
 " Ay," snarled Mr. Tulliver, " there 's folks as things 'ull 
 allays go awk'ard with; empty sacks 'ull never stand up- 
 right." 
 
 " Well, I don't know what fault you 've got to find wi' me, 
 Mr. Tulliver," said Mr. Moss, deprecatingly ; " I know there 
 is n't a day-labourer works harder." 
 
 " What 's the use o' that," said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, " when 
 a man marries, and 's got no capital to work his farm but his 
 wife's bit o' fortin ? I was against it from the first ; but you'd 
 neither of you listen to me. And I can't lie out o' my money 
 any longer, for I 've got to pay five hundred o' Mrs. Glegg's, 
 and there '11 be Tom an expense to me. I should find myself 
 short, even saying I'd got back all as is my own. You must 
 look about and see how you can pay me the three hundred 
 pound." 
 
 " Well, if that 's what you mean," said Mr. Moss, looking 
 blankly before him, " we 'd better be sold up, and ha' done 
 with it ; I must part wi' every head o' stock I 've got, to pay 
 you and the landlord too." 
 
 Poor relations are undeniably irritating, their existence 
 is so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost 
 always very faulty people. Mr. Tulliver had succeeded in 
 getting quite as much irritated with Mr. Moss as he ka<l 
 
BOY AXD GIRL. 75 
 
 desired, and he was able to say angrily, rising from his 
 seat, 
 
 " Well, you must do as you can. / can't find money for 
 everybody else as well as myself. I must look to my own 
 business and my own family. I can't lie out o' my money 
 any longer. You must raise it as quick as you can." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbour as he 
 uttered the last sentence, and without looking round at Mr. 
 Moss, went on to the kitchen door, where the eldest boy was 
 holding his horse, and his sister was waiting in a state of 
 wondering alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for 
 baby was making pleasant gurgling sounds, and performing 
 a great deal of finger practice on the faded face. Mrs. Moss 
 had eight children, but could never overcome her regret that 
 the twins had not lived. Mr. Moss thought their removal 
 was not without its consolations. " Won't you come in, 
 brother ? " she said, looking anxiously at her husband, who 
 was walking slowly up, while Mr. Tulliver had his foot al- 
 ready in the stirrup. 
 
 " No, no ; good-bye/' said he, turning his horse's head, and 
 riding away. 
 
 No man could feel more resolute till he got outside the 
 yard-gate, and a little way along the deep-rutted lane ; but 
 before he reached the next turning, which would take him 
 out of sight of the dilapidated farm buildings, he appeared 
 to be smitten by some sudden thought. He checked his 
 horse, and made it stand still in the same spot for two or 
 three minutes, during which he turned his head from side to 
 side in a melancholy way, as if he were looking at some pain- 
 ful object on more sides than one. Evidently, after his fit of 
 promptitude, Mr. Tulliver was relapsing into the sense that 
 this is a puzzling world. He turned his horse, and rode 
 slowly back, giving vent to the climax of feeling which had 
 determined this movement by saying aloud, as he struck his 
 horse, " Poor little wench ! she '11 have nobody but Tom, be 
 like, when I'm gone." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver's return into the yard was descried by several 
 young Mosses, who immediately ran in with the exciting news 
 to their mother, so that Mrs. Moss was again on the door-step 
 when her brother rode up. She had been crying, but was rock- 
 ing baby to sleep in her arms now, and made no ostentatious 
 show of sorrow as her brother looked at her, but merely said : 
 
 " The father 's gone to the field again, if you want him, 
 brother." 
 
76 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "!N"o, Gritty, no," said Mr. Tulliver, in a gentle tone. 
 "Don't you fret, that 's all, I '11 make a shift without the 
 money a bit, only you must be as clever and contriving as 
 you can." 
 
 Mrs. Moss's tears came again at this unexpected kindness, 
 and she could say nothing. 
 
 " Come, come ! the little wench shall come and see you. 
 I '11 bring her and Tom some day before he goes to school. You 
 must n't fret. I '11 allays be a good brother to you." 
 
 " Thank you for that word, brother," said Mrs. Moss, drying 
 her tears ; then turning to Lizzy, she said, " Eun now, and . 
 fetch the coloured egg for cousin Maggie." Lizzy ran in, and 
 quickly reappeared with a small paper parcel. 
 
 " It 's boiled hard, brother, and coloured with thrums, very 
 pretty ; it was done o' purpose for Maggie. Will you please 
 to carry it in your pocket ? " 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Mr. Tulliver, putting it carefully in his 
 side-pocket. " Good-bye." 
 
 And so the respectable miller returned along the Basset 
 lanes rather more puzzled than before as to ways and means, 
 but still with the sense of a danger escaped. It had come 
 across his mind that if he were hard upon his sister, it might 
 somehow tend to make Tom hard upon Maggie at some dis- 
 tant day, when her father was no longer there to take her part ; 
 for simple people, like our friend Mr. Tulliver, are apt to 
 clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this 
 was his confused way of explaining to himself that his love 
 and anxiety for "the little wench" had given him a new 
 sensibility towards his sister. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TO GARUM FIRS. 
 
 WHILE the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupy- 
 ing her father's mind, she herself was tasting only the bitter- 
 ness of the present. Childhood has no forebodings ; but then, 
 it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow. 
 
 The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The 
 pleasure of having Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 77 
 
 v 
 
 afternoon visit to Garum Firs, where she would hear uncle 
 Pullet's musical box, had been marred as early as eleven 
 o'clock by the advent of the hairdresser from St. Ogg's, who 
 had spoken in the severest terms of the condition in which 
 he had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock after 
 another and saying, " See here ! tut, tut, tut ! " in a tone of 
 mingled disgust and pity, which to Maggie's imagination was 
 equivalent to the strongest expression of public opinion. Mr. 
 liappit, the hairdresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks 
 tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame 
 on a monumental urn, seemed to her at that moment the most 
 formidable of her contemporaries, into whose street at St. 
 Ogg's she would carefully refrain from entering through the 
 rest of her life. 
 
 Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious 
 affair in the Dodson family, Martha was enjoined to have Mrs. 
 Tulliver's room ready an hour earlier than usual, that the 
 laying out of the best clothes might not be deferred till the 
 last moment, as was sometimes the case in families of lax 
 views, where the ribbon-strings were never rolled up, where 
 there was little or no wrapping in silver paper, and where the 
 sense that the Sunday clothes could be got at quite easily pro- 
 duced no shock to the mind. Already, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. 
 Tulliver had on her visiting costume, with a protective appa- 
 ratus of brown holland, as if she had been a piece of satin 
 furniture in danger of flies ; Maggie was frowning and twist- 
 ing her shoulders, that she might if possible shrink away from 
 the prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was remonstrating, 
 " Don't, Maggie, my dear ; don't make yourself so ugly ! " 
 and Tom's cheeks were looking particularly brilliant as a 
 relief to his best blue suit, which he wore with becoming 
 calmness, having, after a little wrangling, effected what was 
 always the one point of interest to him in his toilet ; he had 
 transferred all the contents of his every-day pockets to those 
 actually in wear. 
 
 As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had 
 been yesterday ; no accidents ever happened to her clothes, 
 and she was never uncomfortable in them, so that she looked 
 with wondering pity at Maggie, pouting and writhing under 
 the exasperating tucker. Maggie would certainly have torn 
 it off, if she had not been checked by the remembrance of her 
 recent humiliation about her hair ; as it was, she confined her- 
 self to fretting and twisting, and behaving peevishly about the 
 card-houses which they were allowed to build till dinner, as a 
 
78 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. 
 Tom could build perfect pyramids of houses; but Ala 
 would never bear the laying on of the roof. It was always 
 so with the things that Maggie made; and Tom had deduced 
 the conclusion that no girls could ever make anything. But it 
 happened that Lucy proved wonderfully clever at building ; 
 she handled the cards so lightly, and moved so gently, that 
 Tom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, 
 the more readily because she had asked him to teach her. 
 Mnggie, too, would have admired Lucy's houses, and would 
 have given up her own unsuccessful building to contemplate 
 them, without ill-temper, if her tucker had not made her 
 peevish, ;md if Tom had not inconsiderately laughed when 
 her houses fell, and told her she was " a stupid." 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Tom ! " she burst out angrily ; " I 'm 
 not a stupid. I know a great many things you don't." 
 
 " Oh, I daresay, Miss Spitfire ! I 'd never be such a cross 
 thing as you, making faces like that. Lucy does n't do so. I 
 like Lucy better than you ; / wish Lucy was my sister." 
 
 " Then it 's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so," said 
 Maggie, starting up hurriedly from her place on the floor, and 
 upsetting Tom's wonderful pagoda. She really did not mean 
 it, but the circumstantial evidence was against her, and Tom 
 turned white with anger, but said nothing ; lie would have 
 struck her, only he knew it was cowardly to strike a girl, and 
 Tom Tulliver was quite determined he would never do any- 
 thing cowardly. 
 
 Maggie stood in dismay and terror, while Tom got up from 
 the floor and walked away, pale, from the scattered ruins oi his 
 pagoda, and Lucy looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing from 
 its lapping. 
 
 " Oh, Tom," said Maggie, at last, going half-way towards him, 
 " I did n't mean to knock it down, indeed, indeed I did n't." 
 
 Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three 
 hard peas out of his pocket, and shot them with his thumb- 
 nail against the window, vaguely at first, but presently with 
 the distinct aim of hitting a superannuated blue-bottle which 
 was exposing its imbecility in the spring sunshine, clearly 
 against the views of Nature, who had provided Tom and the 
 peas for the speedy destruction of this weak individual. 
 
 Thus the morning had been made heavy to Maggie, and 
 Tom's persistent coldness to her all through their walk 
 spoiled the fresh air and sunshine for her. He called Lucy 
 to look at the half-built bird's nest without caring to show it 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 79 
 
 Maggie, and peeled a willow switch for Lucy and himself, 
 without offering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, "Maggie, 
 should n't you like one ? " but Tom was deaf. 
 
 Still, the sight of the peacock opportunely spreading his tail on 
 the stackyard wall, just as they reached Garum Firs, was enough 
 to divert the mind temporarily from personal grievances. And 
 this was only the beginning of beautiful sights at Garum Firs. 
 All the farmyard life was wonderful there, bantams, speckled 
 and top-knotted ; Friesland hens, with their feathers all turned 
 the wrong way ; Guinea-fowls that flew and screamed and 
 dropped their pretty spotted feathers ; pouter-pigeons and a 
 tame magpie ; nay, a goat, and a wonderful brindled dog, half 
 mastiff, half bull-dog, as large as a lion. Then there were 
 white railings and white gates all about, and glittering weath- 
 ercocks of various design, and garden-walks paved with 
 pebbles in beautiful patterns, nothing was quite common at 
 Garum Firs ; and Tom thought that the unusual size of 
 the toads there was simply due to the general unusualness 
 which characterized uucle Pullet's possessions as a gentleman 
 farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally leaner. As for 
 the house, it was not less remarkable; it had a receding 
 centre, and two wings with battlemented turrets, and was 
 covered with glittering white stucco. 
 
 Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching from 
 the window, and made haste to unbar and unchain the front 
 door, kept always in this fortified condition from fear of 
 tramps, who might be supposed to know of the glass-case of 
 stuffed birds in the hall, and to contemplate rushing in and 
 carrying it away on their heads. Aunt Pullet, too, appeared 
 at the doorway, and as soon as her sister was within hearing 
 said, " Stop the children, for God's sake ! Bessy ; don't let 
 'em come up the door-steps ; Sally 's bringing the old mat and 
 the duster, to rub their shoes." 
 
 Mrs. Pullet's front-door mats were by no means intended to 
 wipe shoes on; the very scraper had a deputy to do its dirty 
 work. Tom rebelled particularly against this shoe-wiping, 
 which he always considered in the light of an indignity to 
 his sex. He felt it as the beginning of the disagreeables 
 incident to a visit at aunt Pullet's, where he had once been 
 compelled to sit with towels wrapped round his boots ; a fact 
 which may serve to correct the too hasty conclusion that a 
 visit to Garum Firs must have been a great treat to a young 
 gentleman fond of animals, fond, that is, of throwing stones 
 at them. 
 
80 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine compan- 
 ions ; it was the mounting of the polished oak stairs, which 
 had very handsome carpets rolled up and laid by in a spare 
 bedroom, so that the ascent of these glossy steps might have 
 served, in barbarous times, as a trial by ordeal from which 
 none but the most spotless virtue could have come off with 
 unbroken limbs. Sophy's weakness about these polished 
 stairs was always a subject of bitter remonstrance on Mrs. 
 Glegg's part ; but Mrs. Tulliver ventured on no comment, only 
 thinking to herself it was a mercy when she and the children 
 were safe on the landing. 
 
 " Mrs. Gray has sent home my new bonnet, Bessy," said Mrs. 
 Pullet, in a pathetic tone, as Mrs. Tulliver adjusted her cap. 
 
 " Has she, sister ? " said Mrs. Tulliver, with an air of much 
 interest. " And how do you like it ? " 
 
 " It 's apt to make a mess with clothes, taking 'em out and 
 putting 'em in again," said Mrs. Pullet, drawing a bunch 
 of keys from her pocket and looking at them earnestly, " but 
 it 'ud be a pity for you to go away without seeing it. There 's 
 no knowing what may happen." 
 
 Mrs. Pullet shook her head slowly at this last serious 
 consideration, which determined her to single out a par- 
 ticular key. 
 
 "I'm afraid it'll be troublesome to you getting it out, 
 sister," said Mrs. Tulliver ; " but I should like to see what sort 
 of a crown she 's made you." 
 
 Mrs. Pullet rose with a melancholy air and unlocked one 
 wing of a very bright wardrobe, where you may have hastily 
 supposed she would find the new bonnet. Not at all. Such a 
 supposition could only have arisen from a too superficial 
 acquaintance with the habits of the Dodson family. In 
 this wardrobe Mrs. Pullet was seeking something small 
 enough ' to be hidden among layers of linen, it was a 
 door-key. 
 
 "You must come with me into the best room," said Mrs. 
 Pullet. 
 
 " May the children come too, sister ? " inquired Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver, who saw that Maggie and Lucy were looking rather 
 eager. 
 
 " Well," said aunt Pullet, reflectively, " it '11 perhaps be safer 
 for 'em to come ; they '11 be touching something if we leave 
 'em behind." 
 
 So they went in procession along the bright and slippery 
 corridor, dimly .aghted by the semi-lunar top of the window 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 81 
 
 whir>h rose above the closed shutter ; it was really quite sol- 
 emn. Aunt Pullet paused and unlocked a door which opened 
 on something still more solemn than the passage, a darkened 
 room, in which the outer light, entering feebly, showed what 
 looked like the corpses of furniture in white shrouds. Every- 
 thing that was not shrouded stood with its legs upwards. 
 Lucy laid hold of Maggie's frock, and Maggie's heart beat 
 rapidly. 
 
 Aunt Pullet half-opened the shutter and then unlocked the 
 wardrobe, with a melancholy deliberateness which was quite 
 in keeping with the funereal solemnity of the scene. The 
 delicious scent of rose-leaves that issued from the wardrobe 
 made the process of taking out sheet after sheet of silver 
 paper quite pleasant to assist at, though the sight of the 
 bonnet at last was an anticlimax to Maggie, who would have 
 preferred something more strikingly preternatural. But few 
 things could have been more impressive to Mrs. Tulliver. 
 She looked all round it in silence for some moments, and then 
 said emphatically, " Well, sister, I '11 never speak against the 
 full crowns again ! " 
 
 It was a great concession, and Mrs. Pullet felt it ; she felt 
 something was due to it. 
 
 " You 'd like to see it on, sister ? " she said sadly. " I '11 
 open the shutter a bit further." 
 
 " Well, if you don't mind taking off your cap, sister," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver. 
 
 Mrs. Pullet took off her cap, displaying the brown silk scalp 
 with a jutting promontory of curls which was common to the 
 more mature and judicious women of those times, and placing 
 the bonnet on her head, turned slowly round, like a draper's 
 lay-figure, that Mrs. Tulliver might miss no point of view. 
 
 " I 've sometimes thought there 's a loop too much o' ribbon 
 on this left side, sister ; what do you think ? " said Mrs, 
 Pullet. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver looked earnestly at the point indicated, and 
 turned her head on one side. " Well, I think it 's best as it 
 is ; if you meddled with it, sister, you might repent." 
 
 " That 's true," said aunt Pullet, taking off the bonnet and 
 looking at it contemplatively. 
 
 " How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister ? " 
 said Mrs. Tulliver, whose mind was actively engaged on the 
 possibility of getting a humble imitation of this chef-d'oeuvre 
 made from a piece of silk she had at home. 
 
 Mrs. Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and 
 
82 Till-: MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 then whispered, "Pullet pays for it; he said I was to have 
 the best bonnet at Grarum Church, let the next best be whose 
 it would." 
 
 She began slowly to adjust the trimmings, in preparation 
 for returning it to its place in the wardrobe, and her thoughts 
 seemed to have taken a melancholy turn, for she shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Ah," she said at last, " I may never wear it twice, sister ; 
 who knows ? " 
 
 " Don't talk o' that, sister," answered Mrs. Tulliver. " I 
 hope you'll have your health this summer." 
 
 " Ah ! but there may come a death in the family, as there 
 did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. Cousin Abbott 
 may go, and we can't think o' wearing crape less nor half a 
 year for him." 
 
 "That would be unlucky," said Mrs. Tulliver, entering 
 thoroughly into the possibility of an inopportune decease. 
 " There 's never so much pleasure i' wearing a bonnet the 
 second year, especially when the crowns are so chancy, 
 never two summers alike." 
 
 " Ah, it 's the way i' this world," said Mrs. Pullet, return- 
 ing the bonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She main- 
 tained a silence characterised by head-shaking, until they had 
 all issued from the solemn chamber and were in her own 
 room again. Then, beginning to cry, she said, " Sister, if you 
 should never see that bonnet again till I'm dead and gone, 
 you '11 remember I showed it you this day." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was 
 a woman of sparse tears, stout and healthy ; she could n't 
 cry so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her 
 deficiency at funerals. Her effort to bring tears into her 
 eyes issued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, look- 
 ing on attentively, felt that there was some painful mystery 
 about her aunt's bonnet which she was considered too young 
 to understand; indignantly conscious, all the while, that sli> 
 could have understood that, as well as everything else, if she 
 had been taken into confidence. 
 
 When they went down, uncle Pullet observed with some 
 acumen, that he reckoned the missis had been showing her 
 bonnet, that was what had made them so long up-stairs. 
 With Tom the interval had seemed still longer, for he had 
 been seated in irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly 
 opposite his uncle Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling 
 eyes, and occasionally addressed him as "Young sir." 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 83 
 
 " Well, young sir, what do you learn at school ? " was a 
 standing question with uncle Pullet ; whereupon Tom always 
 looked sheepish, rubbed his hands across his face, and answered, 
 "I don't know." It was altogether so embarrassing to be 
 seated tete-a-tete with uncle Pullet, that Tom could not even 
 look at the prints on the walls, or the fly-cages, or the wonder- 
 ful flower-pots ; he saw nothing but his uncle's gaiters. Not 
 that Tom was in awe of his uncle's mental superiority ; indeed, 
 lie had made up his mind that he did n't want to be a gentle- 
 man farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such a thin- 
 legged, silly fellow as his uncle Pullet, a molly-coddle, in 
 fact. A boy's sheepishness is by no means a sign of over- 
 mastering reverence ; and while you are making encouraging 
 advances to him under the idea that he is overwhelmed by a 
 sense of your age and wisdom, ten to one he is thinking you 
 extremely queer. The only consolation I can suggest to you 
 is, that the Greek boys probably thought the same of Aristotle. 
 It is only when you have mastered a restive horse, or thrashed 
 a drayman, or have got a gun in your hand, that these shy 
 juniors feel you to be a truly admirable and enviable character. 
 At least, I am quite sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on 
 these points. In very tender years, when he still wore a lace 
 border under his outdoor cap, he was often observed peeping 
 through the bars of a gate and making minatory gestures with 
 his small fore-finger while he scolded the sheep with an inar- 
 ticulate burr, intended to strike terror into their astonished 
 minds ; indicating thus early that desire for mastery over the 
 inferior animals, wild and domestic, including cockchafers, 
 neighbours' dogs, and small sisters, which in all ages has been 
 an attribute of so much promise for the fortunes of our race. 
 Now, Mr. Pullet never rode anything taller than a low pony, 
 and was the least predatory of men, considering firearms 
 dangerous, as apt to go off of themselves by nobody's particu- 
 lar desire. So that Tom was not without strong reasons 
 when, in confidential talk with a chum, he had described uncle 
 Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at the same time to 
 observe that he was a very " rich fellow." 
 
 The only alleviating circumstance in a tete-a-tete with uncle 
 Pullet was that he kept a variety of lozenges and peppermint- 
 drops about his person, and when at a loss for conversation, he 
 filled up the void by proposing a mutual solace of this kind. 
 
 " Do you like peppermints, young sir ? " required only a 
 tacit answer when it was accompanied by a presentation of 
 the article in question. 
 
84 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet 
 the further solace of small sweet-cakes, of which he also kept 
 a stock under lock and key for his own private eating on -vet 
 days ; but the three children had no sooner got the tempting 
 delicacy between their fingers, than aunt Pullet desired them 
 to abstain from eating it till the tray and the plates came, since 
 with those crisp cakes they would make the floor "all over'' 
 crumbs. Lucy did n't mind that much, for the cake was so 
 pretty, she thought it was rather a pity to eat it ; but Tom, 
 watching his opportunity while the elders were talking, hastih 
 stowed it in his mouth at two bites, and chewed it furtively. 
 As for Maggie, becoming fascinated, as usual, by a print of 
 Ulysses and Nausicaa, which uncle Pullet had bought as a 
 " pretty Scripture thing," she presently let fall her cake, and 
 in an unlucky movement crushed it beneath her foot, a 
 source of so much agitation to aunt Pullet and conscious dis- 
 grace to Maggie, that she began to despair of hearing the 
 musical snuff-box to-day, till, after some reflection, it occurred 
 to her that Lucy was in high favour enough to venture on 
 asking for a tune. So she whispered to Lucy ; and Lucy, who 
 always did what she was desired to do, went up quietly to her 
 uncle's knee, and blushing all over her neck while she 
 fingered her necklace, said, " Will you please play us a tune, 
 uncle ? " 
 
 Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in 
 uncle Pullet that the snuff-box played such beautiful tunes, 
 and indeed the thing was viewed in that light by the majority 
 of his neighbours in Garum. Mr. Pullet had bought the box, 
 to begin with, and he understood winding it up, and knew 
 which tune it was going to play beforehand ; altogether, the 
 possession of this unique " piece of music " was a proof that 
 Mr. Pullet's character was not of that entire nullity which 
 might otherwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, 
 when entreated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreci- 
 ated it by a too ready consent. " We '11 see about it," was 
 the answer he always gave, carefully abstaining from any 
 sign of compliance till a suitable number of minutes had passed. 
 Uncle Pullet had a programme for all great social occasions, 
 and in this way fenced himself in from much painful confusion 
 and perplexing freedom of will. 
 
 Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie's enjoyment 
 when the fairy tune began ; for the first time she quite forgot 
 that she had a load on her mind, that Tom was angry with 
 her; and by the time "Hush, ye pretty warbling chcir," had 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 85 
 
 been played, her face wore that bright look of happiness, 
 while she sat immovable with her hands clasped, which 
 sometimes comforted her mother with the sense that Maggie 
 could look pretty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. 
 But when the magic music ceased, she jumped up, and 
 running towards Tom, put her arm round his neck and 
 said, " Oh, Tom, is n't it pretty ? " 
 
 Lest you should think it showed a revolting insensibility in 
 Tom that he felt any new anger towards Maggie for this un- 
 called-for, and, to him, inexplicable caress, I must tell you that 
 he had his glass of cowslip wine in his hand, and that she 
 jerked him so as to make him spill half of it. He must have 
 been an extreme milksop not to say angrily, " Look there 
 now ! " especially when his resentment was sanctioned, as 
 it was, by general disapprobation of Maggie's behaviour. 
 
 " Why don't you sit still, Maggie ? " her mother said 
 peevishly. 
 
 " Little gells must n't come to see me if they behave in that 
 way," said aunt Pullet. 
 
 " Why, you 're too rough, little miss," said uncle Pullet. 
 
 Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out 
 of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver, foreseeing nothing but misbehaviour while 
 the children remained indoors, took an early opportunity of 
 suggesting that, now they were rested after their walk, they 
 might go and play out of doors ; and aunt Pullet gave permis- 
 sion, only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the 
 garden, and if they wanted to see the poultry fed, to view 
 them from a distance on the horseblock ; a restriction which 
 had been imposed ever since Tom had been found guilty 
 of running after the peacock, with an illusory idea that fright 
 would make one of its feathers drop off. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver's thoughts had been temporarily diverted from 
 the quarrel with Mrs. Glegg by millinery and maternal cares, 
 but now the great theme of the bonnet was thrown into per- 
 spective, and the children were out of the way, yesterday's 
 anxieties recurred. 
 
 " It weighs on my mind so as never was," she said, by way 
 of opening the subject, " sister Glegg's leaving the house in 
 that way. I 'm sure I 'd no wish t' offend a sister." 
 
 " Ah," said aunt Pullet, " there 's no accounting for what 
 Jane 'ull do. I would n't speak of it out o' the family, if it 
 was n't to Dr. Turnbull ; but it 's my belief Jane lives too low. 
 I 've said so to Pullet often and often, and he knows it." 
 
86 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 11 Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came 
 away from drinking tea with 'era," said Mr. Pullet, beginning 
 to nurse his knee and shelter it with his pocket-handkerchief, 
 as was his way when the conversation took an interesting 
 turn. 
 
 " Very like I did," said Mrs. Pullet, " for you remember 
 when I said things, better than I can remember myself. 
 He's got a wonderful memory, Pullet has," she continued, 
 looking pathetically at her sister. "I should bo poorly off if 
 he was to have a stroke, for he always remembers when I 've 
 got to take my doctor's stuff ; and I 'm taking three sorts 
 now." 
 
 "There's the 'pills as before' every other night, and 
 the new drops at eleven and four, and the 'fervescing mixture 
 ' when agreeable,' " rehearsed Mr. Pullet, with a punctuation 
 determined by a lozenge on his tongue. 
 
 " Ah, perhaps it 'ud be better for sister Glegg if she 'd go to 
 the doctor sometimes, instead o' chewing Turkey rhubarb 
 whenever there's anything the matter with her," said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject of medicine 
 chiefly in relation to Mrs. Glegg. 
 
 " It 's dreadful to think on," said aunt Pullet, raising her 
 hands and letting them fall again, " people playing with their 
 own insides in that way ! And it 's flying i' the face o' Provi- 
 dence ; for what are the doctors for, if we are n't to call 'em 
 in ? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor, 
 it is n't respectable, as I 've told Jane many a time. I 'm 
 ashamed of acquaintance knowing it." 
 
 " Well, we 've no call to be ashamed," said Mr. Pullet, " for 
 Doctor Turnbull has n't got such another patient as you i' this 
 parish, now old Mrs. Button 's gone." 
 
 " Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles, did you know, Bessy ? " 
 said Mrs. Pullet. ' He won't have one sold. He says it 's 
 nothing but right folks should see 'em when I 'm gone. They 
 fill two o' the long store-room shelves a'ready; but," slie 
 added, beginning to cry a little, " it 's well if they ever fill 
 three. I may go before I 've made up the dozen o' these last 
 sizes. The pill-boxes are in the closet in my room, you '11 
 remember that, sister, but there 's nothing to show for the 
 boluses, if it is n't the bills." 
 
 " Don't talk o' your going, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver ; " I 
 should have nobody to stand between me and sister Glegg 
 if you was gone. And there 's nobody but you can get her 
 to make it up with Mr. Tulliver, for sister Deane 's never o* 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 87 
 
 my side, and if she was, it 's not to be looked for as she can 
 speak like them as have got an independent fortin." 
 
 "Well, your husband is awk'ard, you know, Bessy, said 
 Mrs. Pullet, good-naturedly ready to use her deep depression 
 on her sister's account as well as her own. " He 's never be- 
 haved quite so pretty to our family as he should do, and 
 the children take after him, the boy 's very mischievous, 
 and runs away from his aunts and uncles, and the gell 's 
 rude and brown. It 's your bad-luck, and I 'in sorry for 
 you, Bessy ; for you was allays my favourite sister, and 
 we allays liked the same patterns." 
 
 " I know Tulliver 's hasty, and says odd things," said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner of her 
 eye ; " but I 'm sure he 's never been the man, since he mar- 
 ried rne, to object to my making the friends o' my side o' the 
 family welcome to the house." 
 
 " I don't want to make the worst of you, Bessy," said Mrs. 
 Pullet, compassionately, " for I doubt you '11 have trouble 
 enough without that ; and your husband 's got that poor sis- 
 ter and her children hanging on him, and so given to law- 
 ing, they say. I doubt he '11 leave you poorly off when he dies. 
 Not as I 'd have it said out o' the family." 
 
 This view of her position was naturally far from cheering to 
 Mrs. Tulliver. Her imagination was not easily acted on, but 
 she could not help thinking that her case was a hard one, since 
 it appeared that other people thought it hard. 
 
 " I 'm sure, sister, I can't help myself," she said, urged 
 by the fear lest her anticipated misfortunes might be held 
 retributive, to take a comprehensive review of her past con- 
 duct. " There 's no woman strives more for her children ; and 
 I 'm sure, at scouring-time this Ladyday as I 've had all the 
 bed-hangings taken down, I did as much as the two gells put 
 together ; and there 's this last elder-flower wine I 've made 
 beautiful ! I allays offer it along with the sherry, though sister 
 Glegg will have it I 'in so extravagant ; and as for liking to 
 have my clothes tidy, and not go a fright about the house, 
 there 's nobody in the parish can say anything against me in 
 respect o' backbiting and making mischief, for I don't wish 
 anybody any harm ; and nobody Joses by sending me a pork- 
 pie, for my pies are fit to show with the best o ; my neighbours' ; 
 and the linen 's so in order, as if I was to die to-morrow I 
 should n't be ashamed. A woman can do no more nor she 
 can." 
 
 " But it 's all o' no use, you know, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, 
 
88 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 holding her head on one side, and fixing her eyes pathetically 
 on her sister, " if your husband makes away with his money. 
 Not but what if you was sold up, and other folks bought your 
 furniture, it's a comfort to think as you've kept it well rubbed. 
 And there 's the linen, with your maiden mark on, might go all 
 over the country. It 'ud be a sad pity for our family." Mrs. 
 Pullet shook her head slowly. 
 
 " But what can I do, sister ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. "Mr. Tul- 
 liver 's not a man to be dictated to, not if I was to go to the 
 parson and get by heart what I should tell my husband for the 
 best. And I 'm sure I don't pretend to know anything about 
 putting out money and all that. I could never see into men's 
 business as sister Glegg does." 
 
 " Well, you 're like me in that, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet ; 
 "and I think it 'ud be a deal more becoming o' Jane if she 'd 
 have that pier-glass rubbed oftener, there was ever so many 
 spots on it last week, instead o' dictating to folks as have 
 more comings in than she ever had, and telling 'em what 
 they 've to do with their money. But Jane and me were allays 
 contrairy ; she would have striped things, and I like spots. 
 You like a spot too, Bessy ; we allays hung together i' that." 
 
 " Yes, Sophy," said Mrs. Tulliver, " I remember our having 
 a blue ground with a white spot both alike, I 've got a bit in 
 a bed-quilt now ; and if you would but go and see sister Glegg, 
 and persuade her to make it up with Tulliver, I should take it 
 very kind of you. You was allays a good sister to me." 
 
 " But the right thing 'ud be for Tulliver to go and make it 
 up with her himself, and say he was sorry for speaking so 
 rash. If he 's borrowed money of her, he should n't be above 
 that," said Mrs. Pullet, whose partiality did not blind her to 
 principles ; she did not forget what was due to people of inde- 
 pendent fortune. 
 
 " It 's no use talking o' that," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, almost 
 peevishly. " If I was to go down on my bare knees on the 
 gravel to Tulliver, he 'd never humble himself." 
 
 " Well, you can't expect me to persuade Jane to beg pardon,'' 
 said Mrs. Pullet. " Her temper 's beyond everything ; it 's 
 well if it does n't carry her off her mind, though there never 
 was any of our family went to a madhouse." 
 
 " I 'm not thinking of her begging pardon," said Mrs. Tul- 
 liver. " But if she 'd just take no notice, and not call her 
 money in ; as it 's not so much for one sister to ask of another ; 
 time 'ud mend things, and Tulliver 'ud forget all about it, and 
 they 'd be friends again." 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 89 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver, you perceive, was not aware of her husband's 
 irrevocable determination to pay in the five hundred pounds ; 
 at least such a determination exceeded her powers of belief. 
 
 "Well, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, mournfully, "/don't want 
 to help you 011 to ruin. I won't be behindhand i' doing you a 
 good turn, if it is to be done. And I don't like it said among 
 acquaintance as we 've got quarrels in the family. I shall tell 
 Jane that; and I don't mind driving to Jane's to-morrow, if 
 Pullet does n't mind. What do you say, Mr. Pullet ? " 
 
 " I 've no objections," said Mr. Pullet, who was perfectly 
 contented with any course the quarrel might take, so that Mr. 
 Tulliver did not apply to him for money. Mr. Pullet was 
 nervous about his investments, and did not see how a man 
 could have any security for his money unless he turned it into 
 land. 
 
 After a little further discussion as to whether it would not 
 be better for Mrs. Tulliver to accompany them on a visit to 
 sister Glegg, Mrs. Pullet, observing that it was tea-time, 
 turned to reach from a drawer a delicate damask napkin, which 
 she pinned before her in the fashion of an apron. The door 
 did, in fact, soon open, but instead of the tea-tray, Sally intro- 
 duced an object so startling that both Mrs. Pullet and Mrs. 
 Tulliver gave a scream, causing uncle Pullet to swallow his 
 lozenge for the fifth time in his life, as he afterwards noted. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 MAGGIE BEHAVES WORSE THAN SHE EXPECTED. 
 
 THE startling object which thus made an epoch for uncle 
 Pullet was no other than little Lucy, with one side of her 
 person, from her small foot to her bonnet-crown, wet and dis- 
 coloured with mud, holding out two tiny blackened hands, and 
 making a very piteous face. To account for this unprecedented 
 apparition in aunt Pullet's parlour, we must return to the mo- 
 ment when the three children went to play out of doors, and 
 the small demons who had taken possession of Maggie's soul at 
 an early period of the day had returned in all the greater force 
 after a temporary absence. All the disagreeable recollections of 
 the morning were thick upon her, when Tom, whose displeasure 
 
90 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 towards her had been considerably refreshed by her foolish 
 trick of causing him to upset his cowslip wine, said, " Here, 
 Lucy, you come along with me," and walked off to the area 
 where the toads were, as if there were no Maggie in existence. 
 Seeing this, Maggie lingered at a distance, looking like a small 
 Medusa with her snakes cropped. Lucy was naturally pleased 
 that cousin Tom was so good to her, and it was very amusing to 
 see him tickling a fat toad with a piece of string when the toad 
 was safe down the area, with an iron grating over him. Still 
 Lucy wished Maggie to enjoy the spectacle also, especially as 
 she would doubtless tind a name for the toad, and say what had 
 been his past history ; for Lucy hud a delighted semi-belief in 
 Maggie's stories about the live things they came upon by acci- 
 dent, how Mrs. Earwig had a wash at home, and one of her 
 children had fallen into the hot copper, for which reason she 
 was running so fast to fetch the doctor. Tom had a profound 
 contempt for this nonsense of Maggie's, smashing the earwig 
 at once as a superfluous yet easy means of proving the entire 
 unreality of such a story ; but Lucy, for the life of her, could 
 not help fancying there was something in it, and at all events 
 thought it was very pretty make-believe. So now the desire 
 to know the history of a very portly toad, added to her habitual 
 affectionateness, made her run back to Maggie and say, " Oh, 
 there is such a big, funny toad, Maggie ! Do come and see ! " 
 
 Maggie said nothing, but turned away from her with a 
 deeper frown. As long as Tom seemed to prefer Lucy to 
 her, Lucy made part of his unkindness. Maggie would have 
 thought a little while ago that she could never be cross 
 with pretty little Lucy, any more than she could be cruel 
 to a little white mouse ; but then, Tom had always been 
 quite indifferent to Lucy before, and it had been left to 
 Maggie to pet and make much of her. As it was, she was 
 actually beginning to think that she should like to make Lucy 
 cry by slapping or pinching her, especially as it might v. \ 
 Tom, whom it was of no use to slap, even if she dam!, 
 because he didn't mind it. And if Lucy hadn't been tin T 
 Maggie was sure he would have got friends with IK i 
 sooner. 
 
 Tickling a fat toad who is not highly sensitive is an amuse- 
 ment that it is possible to exhaust, and Tom by-and-by began 
 to look round for some other mode of passing the time. But 
 in so prim a garden, where they were not to go off the paved 
 walks, there was not a great choice of sport. The only great 
 pleasure such a restriction suggested was the pleasure of 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 91 
 
 breaking it, and Toin began to meditate an insurrectionary 
 visit to the pond, about a field's length beyond the garden. 
 
 " I say, Lucy," he began, nodding his head up and down 
 with great significance, as he coiled up his string again, 
 " what do you think I mean to do ? " 
 
 " What, Tom ? " said Lucy, with curiosity. 
 
 " I mean to go to the pond and look at the pike. You may 
 go with me if you like," said the young sultan. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, dare you ? " said Lucy. " Aunt said we must n't 
 go out of the garden." 
 
 " Oh, I shall go out at the other end of the garden," said 
 Tom. " Nobody 'nil see us. Besides, I don't care if they do, 
 I '11 run off home." 
 
 " But / could n't run," said Lucy, who had never before been 
 exposed to such severe temptation. 
 
 " Oh, never mind ; they won't be cross with you," said Tom. 
 " You say I took you." 
 
 Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly 
 enjoying the rare treat of doing something naughty, ex- 
 cited also by the mention of that celebrity, the pike, about 
 which she was quite uncertain whether it was a fish or a fowl. 
 Maggie saw them leaving the garden, and could not resist the 
 impulse to follow. Anger and jealousy can no more bear 
 to lose sight of their objects than love, and that Tom and 
 Lucy should do or see anything of which she was ignorant 
 would have been an intolerable idea to Maggie. So she kept 
 a few yards behind them, unobserved by Tom, who was pres- 
 ently absorbed in watching for the pike, a highly interest- 
 ing monster ; he was said to be so very old, so very large, and 
 to have such a remarkable appetite. The pike, like other 
 celebrities, did not show when he was watched for, but Tom 
 caught sight of something in rapid movement in the water, 
 which attracted him to another spot on the brink of the 
 pond. 
 
 " Here, Lucy ! " he said in a loud whisper, " come here ! 
 take care ! keep on the grass ! don't step where the cows 
 have been ! " he added, pointing to a peninsula of dry grass, 
 with trodden mud on each side of it ; for Tom's contemp- 
 tuous conception of a girl included the attribute of being 
 unfit to walk in dirty places. 
 
 Lucy came carefully as she was bidden, and bent down 
 to look at what seemed a golden arrow-head darting through 
 the water. It was a water-snake, Tom told her ; and Lucy at 
 last could see the serpentine wave of its body, very much won- 
 
92 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 dering that a snake could swim. Maggie had drawn nearpi 
 and nearer ; she must see it too, though it was bitter to her, 
 like everything else, since Tom did not care about her seeing 
 it. At last she was close by Lucy ; and Tom, who had been 
 aware of her approach, but would not notice it till he was 
 obliged, turned round and said, 
 
 " Now, get away, Maggie ; there 's no room for you on the 
 grass here. Nobody asked you to come." 
 
 There were passions at war in Maggie at that moment to 
 have made a tragedy, if tragedies were made by passion only ; 
 but the essential //.e'yeflos which was present in the passion 
 was wanting to the action ; the utmost Maggie could do, with 
 a tierce thrust of her small brown arm, was to push poor little 
 pink-and-white Lucy into the cow-trodden mud. 
 
 Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Maggie two 
 smart slaps on the arm as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay 
 crying helplessly. Maggie retreated to the roots of a tree a 
 few yards off, and looked on impenitently. Usually her 
 repentance came quickly after one rash deed, but now Tom 
 and Lucy had made her so miserable, she was glad to spoil 
 their happiness, glad to make everybody uncomfortable. 
 Why should she be sorry ? Tom was very slow to forgive 
 her, however sorry she might have been. 
 
 " I shall tell mother, you know, Miss Mag," said Tom, loudly 
 and emphatically, as soon as Lucy was up and ready to walk 
 away. It was not Tom's practice to "tell," but here justice 
 clearly demanded that Maggie should be visited with the 
 utmost punishment ; not that Tom had learned to put his 
 views in that abstract form; he never mentioned "justice," 
 and had no idea that his desire to punish might be called by 
 that fine name. Lucy was too entirely absorbed by the evil 
 that had befallen her, the spoiling of her pretty best 
 clothes, and the discomfort of being wet and dirty, to 
 think much of the cause, which was entirely mysterious to 
 her. She could never have guessed what she had done 
 to make Maggie angry with her ; but she felt that Maggie was 
 very unkind and disagreeable, and made no magnanimous en- 
 treaties to Tom that he would not " tell," only running along 
 by his side and crying piteously, while Maggie sat on the 
 roots of the tree and looked after them with her small Me- 
 dusa face. 
 
 " Sally," said Tom, when they reached the kitchen door, and 
 Sally looked at them in speechless amaze, with a piece of bread- 
 and-butter in her mouth and a toasting-fork in her hand, 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 93 
 
 " Sally, tell mother it was Maggie pushed Lucy into the 
 mud." 
 
 " But Lors ha' massy, how did you get near such mud as 
 that ? " said Sally, making a wry face, as she stooped down 
 and examined the corpus delicti. 
 
 Tom's imagination had not been rapid and capacious enough 
 to include this question among the foreseen consequences, bxit 
 it was no sooner put than he foresaw whither it tended, and 
 that Maggie would not be considered the only culprit in the 
 case. He walked quietly away from the kitchen door, leaving 
 Sally to that pleasure of guessing which active minds notori- 
 ously prefer to ready-made knowledge. 
 
 Sally, as you are aware, lost no time in presenting Lucy at 
 the parlour door, for to have so dirty an object introduced into 
 the house at Garum Firs was too great a weight to be sus- 
 tained by a single mind. 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! " aunt Pullet exclaimed, after prelud- 
 ing by an inarticulate scream ; " keep her at the door, Sally ! 
 Don't bring her off the oil-cloth, whatever you do." 
 
 " Why, she 's tumbled into some nasty mud," said Mrs. Tul- 
 liver, going up to Lucy to examine into the amount of damage 
 to clothes for which she felt herself responsible to her sister 
 Deane. 
 
 " If you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her in," 
 said Sally ; " Master Tom 's been and said so, and they must 
 ha' been to the pond, for it 's only there they could ha' got 
 into such dirt." 
 
 " There it is, Bessy ; it 's what I 've been telling you," said 
 Mrs. Pullet, in a tone of prophetic sadness ; " it 's your chil- 
 dren, there 's no knowing what they '11 come to." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched 
 mother. As usual, the thought pressed upon her that people 
 would think she had done something wicked to deserve her 
 maternal troubles, while Mrs. Pullet began to give elaborate 
 directions to Sally how to guard the premises from serious 
 injury in the course of removing the dirt. Meantime tea was 
 to be brought in by the cook, and the two naughty children 
 were to have theirs in an ignominious manner in the kitchen. 
 Mrs. Tulliver went out to speak to these naughty children, 
 supposing them to be close at hand ; but it was not until after 
 some search that she found Tom leaning with rather a hard- 
 ened, careless air against the white paling of the poultry-yard, 
 and lowering his piece of string on the other side as a means 
 of exasperating the turkey-cock. 
 
94 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Tom, you naughty boy, where 's your sister ? " said Mrs. 
 Tulliver, in a distressed voice. 
 
 " I don't know," said Tom ; his eagerness for justice on 
 Maggie had diminished since he had seen clearly that it 
 could hardly be brought about without the injustice of some 
 blame on his own conduct. 
 
 " Why. where did you leave her ? " said his mother, looking 
 round. 
 
 " Sitting under the tree, against the pond," said Tom, ap 
 parently indifferent to everything but the string and the- 
 turkey-cock. 
 
 " Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy. 
 And how could you think o' going to the pond, and taking 
 your sister where there was dirt? You know she'll do 
 mischief if there 's mischief to be done." 
 
 It was Mrs. Tulliver's way, if she blamed Tom, to refer his 
 misdemeanour, somehow or other, to Maggie. 
 
 The idea of Maggie sitting alone by the pond roused an 
 habitual fear in Mrs. Tulliver's mind, and she mounted the 
 horseblock to satisfy herself by a sight of that fatal child, 
 while Tom walked not very quickly on his way towards her. 
 
 " They're such children for the water, mine are," she said 
 aloud, without reflecting that there was no one to hear her ; 
 " they '11 be brought in dead and drownded some day. I wish 
 that river was far enough." 
 
 But when she not only failed to discern Maggie, but pres- 
 ently saw Tom returning from the pool alone, this hovering 
 fear entered and took complete possession of her, and she 
 hurried to meet him. 
 
 " Maggie 's nowhere about the pond, mother," said Tom ; 
 "she's gone away." 
 
 You may conceive the terrified search for Maggie, and the 
 difficulty of convincing her molhcr that she was not in the 
 pond. Mrs. Pullet observed that the child might come to 
 a worse end if she lived, there was no knowing ; and Mr. 
 Pullet, confused and overwhelmed by this revolutionary aspect 
 of things, the tea deferred and the poultry alarmed by the 
 unusual running to and fro, took up his spud as an instru- 
 ment of search, and reached down a key to unlock the goose- 
 pen, as a likely place for Maggie to lie concealed in. 
 
 Tom, after a while, started the idea that Maggie was gone 
 home (without thinking it necessary to state that it was what 
 he should have done himself under the circumstances), and 
 the suggestion was seized as a comfort by his mother. 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 95 
 
 " Sister, for goodness' sake let 5 em put the horse in the 
 carriage and take me home; we shall perhaps find her on 
 the road. Lucy can't walk in her dirty clothes," she said, 
 looking at that innocent victim, who was wrapped up in a 
 shawl, and sitting with naked feet on the sofa. 
 
 Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means 
 of restoring her premises to order and quiet, and it was not 
 long before Mrs. Tulliver was in the chaise, looking anxiously 
 at the most distant point before her. What the father would 
 say if Maggie was lost, was a question that predominated 
 over every other. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MAGGIE TRIES TO RUN AWAY FROM HER SHADOW. 
 
 MAGGIE'S intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than 
 Tom had imagined. The resolution that gathered in her 
 mind, after Tom and Lucy had walked away, was not so 
 simple as that of going home. No ! she would run away and 
 go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. 
 That was by no means a new idea to Maggie ; she had been 
 so often told she was like a gypsy, and " half wild," that when 
 she was miserable it seemed to her the only way of escaping 
 opprobrium, and being entirely in harmony with circum- 
 stances, would be to live in a little brown tent on the com- 
 mons ; the gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, 
 and pay her much respect on account of her superior knowl- 
 edge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to 
 Tom, and suggested that he should stain his face brown, and 
 they should run away together ; but Tom rejected the scheme 
 with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves, and 
 hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a 
 donkey. To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had 
 reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her only refuge, and 
 she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense 
 that this was a great crisis in her life ; she would run straight 
 away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would 
 certainly be gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her 
 relations who found fault with her, should never see her any 
 more. She thought of her father as she ran along, but she 
 
96 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 reconciled herself to the idea of parting with him, by deter- 
 mining that she would secretly send him a letter by a small 
 gypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, 
 and just let him know that she was well and happy, and 
 always loved him very much. 
 
 Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the 
 time Tom got to the pond again she was at the distance of 
 three long fields, and was on the edge of the lane leading to 
 the highroad. She stopped to pant a little, reflecting that run- 
 ning away was not a pleasant thing until one had got quite to 
 the common where the gypsies were, but her resolution had 
 not abated ; she presently passed through the gate into the 
 lane, not knowing where it would lead her, for it was not this 
 way that they came from Porlcote Mill to Garum Firs, and 
 she felt all the safer for that, because there was no chance of 
 her being overtaken. But she was soon aware, not without 
 trembling, that there were two men coming along the lane 
 in front of her ; she had not thought of meeting strangers, 
 she had been too much occupied with the idea of her friends 
 coming after her. The formidable strangers were two shabby- 
 looking men with flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle 
 on a stick over his shoulder ; but to her surprise, while she was 
 dreading their disapprobation as ;i runaway, the man with the 
 bundle stopped, and in a halt-whining, hall-coaxing tone asked 
 her if she had a copper to give a poor man. Maggie had a 
 sixpence in her pocket, her tmcle Glegg's present, which 
 she immediately drew out and g;ive this poor man with a 
 polite smile, hoping he would feel very kindly towards her as 
 a generous person. "That's the only money I've got," she 
 said apologetically. "Thank you, little miss," said the man, in 
 a less respectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and 
 she even observed that he smiled and winked at his compan- 
 ion. She walked on hurriedly, but was aware that the two 
 men were standing still, probably to look alter her, and she 
 presently heard them laughing loudly. Suddenly it occurred 
 to her that they might think she was an idiot; Torn had 
 that her cropped hair made her look like an idiot, and it was 
 too painful an idea to be readily forgotten. Besides, she had 
 no sleeves on, only a cape and a bonnet. It was clear that 
 she was not likely to make a favourable impression on pas- 
 sengers, and she thought she would turn into the fields again, 
 but not on the same side of the lane as before, lest they should 
 still be uncle Pullet's fields. She turned through the first 
 gate that was not locked, and felt a delightful sense of privacy 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 97 
 
 in creeping along by the hedgerows, after her recent humiliat- 
 ing encounter. She was used to wandering about the fields 
 by herself, and was less timid there thaa on the highroad. 
 Sometimes she had to climb over high gates, but that was a 
 small evil ; she was getting out of reach very fast, and she 
 should probably soon come within sight of Dunlow Common, 
 or at least of some other common, for she had heard her 
 father say that you couldu 't go very far without coming to r> 
 common. She hoped so, for she was getting rather tired 
 and hungry, and until she reached the gypsies there was 
 no definite prospect of bread-and-butter. It was still broad 
 daylight, for aunt Pullet, retaining the early habits of the 
 Dodson family, took tea at half-past four by the sun, and at 
 five by the kitchen clock ; so, though it was nearly an hour 
 since Maggie started, there was no gathering gloom on the 
 fields to remind her that the night would come. Still, it 
 seemed to her that she had been walking a very great distance 
 indeed, and it was really surprising that the common did not 
 come within sight. Hitherto she had been in the rich parish 
 of Garum, where there was a great deal of pasture-land, and 
 she had only seen one labourer at a distance. That was fortu- 
 nate in some respects, as labourers might be too ignorant to 
 understand the propriety of her wanting to go to Dunlow 
 Common ; yet it would have been better if she could have 
 met some one who would tell her the way without wanting to 
 know anything about her private business. At last, however, 
 the green fields came to an end, and Maggie found herself 
 looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide 
 margin of grass on each side of it. She had never seen such 
 a wide lane before, and, Avithout her knowing why, it gave her 
 the impression that the common could not be far off ; perhaps 
 it was because she saw a donkey with a log to his foot feeding 
 on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey with that 
 pitiable encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she ha,d been 
 across it in her father's gig. She crept through the bars of 
 the gate and walked on with new spirit, though not without 
 haunting images of Apollyon, and a highwayman with a pis- 
 tol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow with a mouth from ear to 
 ear, and other miscellaneous dangers. For poor little Maggie 
 had at once the timidity of an active imagination and the 
 daring that comes from overmastering impulse. She had 
 rushed into the adventure of seeking her unknown kindred, 
 the gypsies : and now she was in uhis strange lane, she hardly 
 dared look on one side of her, lest she should see the diabol- 
 
98 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 ical blacksmith in his leathern apron grinning at her with 
 arms akimbo. It was not without a leaping of the heart that 
 she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet 
 uppermost, by the side of a hillock ; they seemed something 
 hideously preternatural, a diabolical kind of fungus ; for 
 she was too much agitated at the first glance to see the ragged 
 clothes and the dark shaggy head attached to them. It was a 
 boy asleep, and Maggie trotted along faster and more lightly, 
 lest she should wake him ; it did not occur to her that he was 
 one of her friends the gypsies, who in all probability would 
 have very genial manners. But the fact was so, for at the 
 next bend in the lane Maggie actually saw the little semi- 
 circular black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, which 
 was to be her refuge from all the blighting obloquy that had 
 pursued her in civilised life. She even saw a tall female 
 figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy-mother, 
 who provided the tea and other groceries j it was astonishing 
 to herself that she did not feel more delighted. But it was 
 startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after all, and not on a 
 common; indeed, it was rather disappointing; for a myste- 
 rious illimitable common, where there were sand-pits to hide in, 
 and one was out of everybody's reach, had always made part 
 of Maggie's picture of gypsy life. She went on, however, 
 and thought with some comfort that gypsies most likely knew 
 nothing about idiots, so there was no danger of their falling 
 into the mistake of setting her down at the first glance as an 
 idiot. It was plain she had attracted attention ; for the tall 
 figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby on her 
 arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggie looked up in the 
 new face rather tremblingly as it approached, ;md was reas- 
 sured by the thought that her aunt Pullet and the rest were 
 right when they called her a gypsy ; for this face, with the 
 bright dark eyes and the long hair, was really something like 
 what she used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off. 
 
 " My little lady, where are you going to ? " the gypsy said, 
 in a tone of coaxing deference. 
 
 It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected; the 
 gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were pre- 
 pared to treat her accordingly. 
 
 "Not any farther," said Maggie, feeling as if she were 
 saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. " I 'm come to 
 stay with you, please." 
 
 " That 's pretty ; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady 
 you are, to be sure ! " said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. 
 
BO Y AND GIRL. 99 
 
 Maggie thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not 
 been so dirty. 
 
 There was quite a group round the fire when they reached 
 it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing 
 her knees, and occasionally poking a skewer into the round 
 kettle that sent forth an odorous steam ; two small shock- 
 headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows, 
 something like small sphinxes; and a placid donkey was 
 bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was 
 scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent 
 stolen hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and 
 the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie 
 thought, only she hoped 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 feed- 
 ing 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 '11 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 daresay it will grow again very soon," she added apolo- 
 getically, thinking it probable the gj^psies had a strong prejudice 
 in favour of long hair. And Maggie had forgotten even her hun- 
 ger 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. " Did n't you live in a beautiful house at home ? " 
 
100 THE MILL O.V THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Yes, my home is pretty, and I 'm very fond of the river, 
 where we go fishing, but I 'in 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 in- 
 teresting. 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 
 iu 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 patronising 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 '11 be bound, my dear. Where 's your 
 home ? " 
 
 "It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off," said Maggie. "31y 
 father is Mr. Tulliver, but we must n't let him know where I 
 am, else he '11 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 is n'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. 
 
BO Y AND GIRL. 101 
 
 " Thank you," said Maggie, looking at the food without tak- 
 ing 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 vigour, and the younger crept under the 
 tent, and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trem- 
 bled 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 sleep- 
 ing, 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 did n'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 Mag- 
 gie, 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 use- 
 ful knowledge. 
 
 Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, fo: 
 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 ; are n'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 thim- 
 
102 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 ble 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 tire 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 
 fueling any comfort in the revival of deference and attention 
 towards 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 1 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 igno- 
 rance as well as unexpected knowledge. She could have in- 
 formed you that there was such a word as " polygamy," and 
 being also acquainted with " polysyllable," she had deduced 
 the conclusion that " poly " meant " 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 modifica- 
 tion in the last five minutes. From having considered them very 
 respectful companions, amenable to instruction, she had begun 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 
 
 to think that they meant perhaps to kill her as soon as it was 
 lark, 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 
 have n'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 '11 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 '11 be getting dark, we must make haste. And 
 the donkey '11 carry you as nice as can be ; you '11 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 '11 say we 've been very 
 
104 THI: MI LI, ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 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 mur- 
 li-ivd by a larger party. 
 
 tt Ah, you're fondest o' me, are n't you ? " said the woman. 
 " But I can't go ; you '11 go too fast for me." 
 
 It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the 
 donkey, holding Maggie before him, and she was as incapable 
 of remonstrating against this arrangement as the donkey 
 himself, thoxigh no nightmare had ever seemed to her more 
 horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and 
 said " Good-bye," the donkey, at a strong hint from the man's 
 stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point 
 Maggie had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the 
 rough urchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted 
 them for the first hundred yards, with much screaming and 
 thwacking. 
 
 Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion with 
 her phantom lover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in 
 this entirely natural ride on a short-paced donkey, with a 
 gypsy behind her, who considered that he was earning half- 
 a-crown. The red light of the setting sun seemed to have a 
 portentous meaning, with which the alarming bray of the 
 second donkey with the log on its foot must surely have some 
 connection. Two low thatched cottages the only houses 
 they passed in this lane seemed to add to its dreariness ; 
 they had no windows to speak of, and the doors were closed ; 
 it was probable that they were inhabited by witches, and it 
 was a relief to find that the donkey did not stop there. 
 
 At last oh, sight of joy! this lane, the longest in the 
 world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad high- 
 road, where there was actually a coach passing! And there 
 was a finger-post at the corner, she had surely seen that fin- 
 vr-post lictore, "To St. Ogg's, 2 miles." The gypsy really 
 meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good man, 
 after all, and might have been rat Jier hurt at the thought that 
 she did n't like coming with him alone. This idea became 
 stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the 
 road quite well, and she was considering how she might open 
 a conversation with the injured gypsy, and not only gratify 
 his feelings but efface the impression of her cowardice, when, 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 105 
 
 as they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one 
 coming on a white-faced horse. 
 
 " Oh, stop, stop ! " she cried out. " There 's my father ! Oh, 
 father, father!"' 
 
 The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father 
 reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's won- 
 der, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet 
 been home. 
 
 " Why, what 's the meaning o' this ? " he said, checking his 
 horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her 
 father's stirrup. 
 
 "The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gypsy. 
 " She 'd come to our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I 
 was bringing her where she said her home was. It 's a good 
 way to come arter being on the tramp all day." 
 
 " Oh yesj father, he 's been very good to bring me home," 
 said Maggie, "a very kind, good man ! " 
 
 "Here, then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five 
 shillings. " It 's the best day's work you ever did. I could n't 
 afford to lose the little wench ; here, lift her up before me." 
 
 " Why, Maggie, how 's this, how 's this ? " he said, as they 
 rode along, while she laid her head against her father and 
 sobbed. " How came you to be rambling about and lose your- 
 self ? " 
 
 " Oh, father," sobbed Maggie, " I ran away because I was 
 so unhappy ; Tom was so angry with me. I could n't bear it." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh," said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, " you must n't 
 think o' running away from father. What 'ud father do with- 
 out his little wench ? " 
 
 " Oh no, I never will again, father never." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached 
 home that evening ; and the effect was seen in the remarkable 
 fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother, 
 or one taunt from Tom, about this foolish business of her run- 
 ning away to the gypsies. Maggie was rather awe-stricken 
 by this unusual treatment, and sometimes thought that her 
 conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to. 
 
106 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. AND MRS. GLEGG AT HOME. 
 
 IN order to see Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home, we must enter 
 the town of St. Ogg's, that venerable town with the red- 
 fluted roofs and the broad warehouse gables, where the black 
 ships unlade themselves of their burthens from the far north, 
 iiiid carry away, in exchange, the precious inland products, the 
 well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeces, which my refined 
 readers have doubtless become acquainted with through the 
 medium of the best classic pastorals. 
 
 It is one of those old, old towns which impress one as a 
 continuation and outgrowth of nature, as much as the nests of 
 the bower-birds or the winding galleries of the white ants ; a 
 town which carries the traces of its long growth and history 
 like a millennial tree, and has sprung up and developed in the 
 same spot between the river and the low hill from the time 
 when the Roman legions turned their backs on it from the 
 camp on the hillside, and the long-haired sea-kings came up 
 the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fatness of 
 the land. It is a town " familiar with forgotten years." The 
 shadow of the Saxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, 
 reviewing the scenes of his youth and love-time, and is met 
 by the gloomier shadow of the dreadful heathen Dane, who 
 was stabbed in the midst of his warriors by the sword of an 
 invisible avenger, and who rises on autumn evenings like a 
 white mist from his tumulus on the hill, and hovers in the 
 court of the old hall by the river-side, the spot where he 
 was thus miraculously slain in the days before the old hall 
 was built. It was the Normans who began to build that fine 
 old hall, which is, like the town, telling of the thoughts and 
 hands of widely sundered generations ; but it is all so old 
 that we look with loving pardon at its inconsistencies, and an 
 well content that they who built the stone oriel, and they who 
 built the Gothic facade and towers of finest small brickwork 
 with the trefoil ornament, and the windows and battlements 
 
 di-ti 1 with stone, did not sacrilegiously pull down the ancient 
 
 half-timbered body with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall. 
 
 Put older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall 
 now built into the belfry of the parish church, and said to be 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 107 
 
 a remnant of the original chapel dedicated to St. Ogg, the 
 patron saint of this ancient town, of whose history I possess 
 several manuscript versions. I incline to the briefest, since, 
 if it should not be wholly true, it is at least likely to contain 
 the least falsehood. " Ogg the son of Beorl," says my private 
 hagiographer, " was a boatman who gained a scanty living by 
 ferrying passengers across the river Floss. And it came to 
 pass, one evening when the winds were high, that there sat 
 moaning by the brink of the river a woman with a child in 
 her arms ; and she was clad in rags, and had a worn and with- 
 ered look, and she craved to be rowed across the river. And 
 the men thereabout questioned her, and said, ' Wherefore dost 
 thou desire to cross the river ? Tarry till the morning, and 
 take shelter here for the night ; so shalt thou be wise and not 
 foolish.' Still she went on to mourn and crave. But Ogg 
 the son of Beorl came up and said, ' I will ferry thee across ; 
 it is enough that thy heart needs it.' And he ferried her 
 across. And it came to pass, when she stepped ashore, that 
 her rags were turned into robes of flowing white, and her face 
 became bright with exceeding beauty, and there was a glory 
 around it, so that she shed a light on the water like the moon 
 in its brightness. And she said, ' Ogg, the son of Beorl, 
 thou art blessed in that thou didst not question and wrangle 
 with the heart's need, but wast smitten with pity, and didst 
 straightway relieve the same. And from henceforth whoso 
 steps into thy boat shall be in no peril from the storm ; and 
 whenever it puts forth to the rescue, it shall save the lives 
 both of men and beasts.' And when the floods came, many 
 were saved by reason of that blessing on the boat. But when 
 Ogg the son of Beorl died, behold, in the parting of his soul, 
 the boat loosed itself from its moorings, and was floated with 
 the ebbing tide in great swiftness to the ocean, and was seen no 
 more. Yet it was witnessed in the floods of aftertime, that 
 at the coming on of eventide, Ogg the son of Beorl was always 
 seen with his boat upon the wide-spreading waters, and the 
 Blessed Virgin sat in the prow, shedding a light around as of 
 the moon in its brightness, so that the rowers in the gathering 
 darkness took heart and pulled anew." 
 
 This legend, one sees, reflects from a far-off time the visi- 
 tation of the floods, which, even when they left human life 
 untouched, were widely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept 
 as sudden death over all smaller living things. But the town 
 knew worse troubles even than the floods, troubles of the 
 civil wars, when it was a continual fighting-place, where first 
 
108 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Puritans thanked God for the blood of the Loyalists, and 
 then loyalists thanked God for the blood of the Puritans. 
 Many honest citizens lost all their possessions for conscience' 
 sake in those tunes, and went forth beggared from their native 
 town. Doubtless there are many houses standing now on 
 which those honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow, 
 quaint-gabled houses looking on the river, jammed betwi-'-n 
 newer warehouses, and penetrated by surprising passages, 
 which turn and turn at sharp angles till they lead you out 
 on a muddy strand overflowed continually by the rushing tide,. 
 Everywhere the brick houses have a mellow look, and in Mrs. 
 Glegg's day there was no incongruous new-fashioned smart- 
 ness, no plate-glass in shop-windows, no fresh stucco-facing or 
 other fallacious attempt to make fine old red St. Ogg's wear 
 the air of a town that sprang up yesterday. The shop-win- 
 dows were small and unpretending ; for the farmers' wives and 
 daughters who came to do their shopping on market-days 
 were not to be withdrawn from their regular well-known 
 shops ; and the tradesmen had no wares intended for custom- 
 ers who would go on their way and be seen no more. Ah ! 
 even Mrs. Glegg's day seems far back in the past now, sepa- 
 rated from us by changes that widen the years. War and the 
 rumour of war had then died out from the minds of men, and 
 if they were ever thought of by the farmers in drab greatcoats, 
 who shook the grain out of their sample-bags and buzzed over 
 it in the full market-place, it was as a state of things that 
 belonged to a past golden age, when prices were high. Surely 
 the time was gone for ever when the broad river could bring 
 up unwelcome ships ; Russia was only the place where the 
 linseed came from, the more the better, making grist for 
 the great vertical millstones with their scythe-like arms, 
 roaring and grinding and carefully sweeping as if an inform- 
 ing soul were in them. The Catholics, bad harvests, and the 
 mysterious fluctuations of trade were the three evils man- 
 kind had to fear ; even the floods had not been great of late 
 years. The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensively before 
 or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and 
 had no eyes for the spirits that walk the streets. Since the 
 centuries when St. Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother 
 at the prow had been seen on the wide water, so many mem- 
 ories had been left behind, and had gradually vanished like 
 the receding hill-tops ! And the present time was like the 
 level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and earth- 
 quakes, thinking to-morrow will be as yesterday, and the 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 109 
 
 giant forces that used to shake the earth are for ever laid to 
 sleep. The days were gone when people could be greatly 
 wrought upon by their faith, still less change it ; the Catholics 
 were formidable because they would lay hold of government 
 and property, and burn men alive ; not because any sane and 
 honest parishioner of St. Ogg's could be brought to believe 
 in the Pope. One aged person remembered how a rude multi- 
 tude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in the 
 cattle-market ; but for a long while it had not been ex- 
 pected of preachers that they should shake the souls of men. 
 An occasional burst of fervour in Dissenting pulpits on the 
 subject of infant baptism was the only symptom of a zeal 
 unsuited to sober times when men had done with change. 
 Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms, careless of 
 proselytism . Dissent was an inheritance along with a superior 
 pew and a business connection ; and Churchmanship only 
 wondered contemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that 
 clung greatly to families in the grocery and chandlering lines, 
 though not incompatible with prosperous wholesale dealing. 
 But with the Catholic Question had come a slight wind of 
 controversy to break the calm : the elderly rector had become 
 occasionally historical and argumentative ; and Mr. Spray, the 
 Independent minister, had begun to preach political sermons, 
 in which he distinguished with much subtlety between his 
 fervent belief in the right of the Catholics to the franchise and 
 his fervent belief in their eternal perdition. Most of Mr. 
 Spray's hearers, however, were incapable of following his sub- 
 tleties, and many old-fashioned Dissenters were much pained 
 by his " siding with the Catholics ; " while others thought he 
 had better let politics alone. Public spirit was not held in 
 high esteem at St. Ogg's, and men who busied themselves 
 with political questions were regarded with some suspicion, 
 as dangerous characters ; they were usually persons who had 
 little or no business of their own to manage, or, if they had, 
 were likely enough to become insolvent. 
 
 This was the general aspect of things at St. Ogg's in Mrs. 
 Glegg's day, and at that particular period in her family history 
 when she had had her quarrel with Mr. Tulliver. It was a time 
 when ignorance was much more comfortable than at present, 
 and was received with all the honours in very good society, 
 without being obliged to dress itself in an elaborate costume of 
 knowledge ; a time when cheap periodicals were not, and when 
 country surgeons never thought of asking their female patients 
 if they were fond of reading, but simply took it for granted 
 
110 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that they preferred gossip; a time when ladies In rich silk 
 gowns wore large pockets, in which they carried a mutton-bone 
 to secure them against cramp. Mrs. Glegg carried such a bone, 
 which she had inherited from her grandmother with a brocaded 
 gown that would stand up empty, like a suit of armour, and 
 a silver-headed walking-stick ; for the Dodson family had been 
 respectable for many generations. 
 
 Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlour in her excel- 
 lent house at St. Ogg's, so that she had two points of view 
 from which she could observe the weakness of her fellow- 
 beings, and reinforce her thankfulness for her own exceptional 
 strength of mind. From her front windows she could look 
 down the Tofton Itoad, leading out of St. Ogg's, and note the 
 growing tendency to "gadding about" in the wives of men 
 not retired from business, together with a practice of wearing 
 woven cotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for 
 the coming generation; and from her back windows she could 
 look down the pleasant garden and orchard which stretched to 
 the river, and observe the folly of Mr. Glegg in spending his 
 time among " them flowers and vegetables." For Mr. Glegg, hav- 
 ing retired from active business as a wool-stapler, for the pur- 
 pose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, had found 
 this last occupation so much more severe than his business, 
 that he had been driven into amateur hard labour as a dissipa- 
 tion, and habitually relaxed by doing the work of two ordinary 
 gardeners. The economising of a gardener's wages might per- 
 haps have induced Mrs. Glegg to wink at this folly, if it were 
 possible for a healthy female mind even to simulate respect 
 for a husband's hobby. But it is well known that this conjugal 
 complacency belongs only to the weaker portion of the sex, who 
 are scarcely alive to the responsibilities of a wife as a consti- 
 tuted check on her husband's pleasures, which are hardly ever 
 of a rational or commendable kind. 
 
 Mr. Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental 
 occupation, which gave every promise of being inexhaustible. 
 On the one hand, he surprised himself by his discoveries in 
 natural history, finding that his piece of garden-ground con- 
 tained wonderful caterpillars, slugs, and insects, which, so far 
 as he had heard, had never before attracted human observation ; 
 and he noticed remarkable coincidences between these zoological 
 phenomena and the great events of that time, as, for exam- 
 ple, that before the burning of York Minster there had been 
 mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose-trees, to- 
 gether with an unusual prevalence, of slugs, which he had been 
 
BOY AND GIRL. Ill 
 
 puzzled to know the meaning of, until it flashed upon him with 
 this melancholy conflagration. (Mr. Glegg had an unusual 
 amount of mental activity, which, when disengaged from the 
 wool business, naturally made itself a pathway in other direc- 
 tions.) And his second subject of meditation was the "con- 
 trairiness " of the female mind, as typically exhibited in Mrs. 
 Glegg. That a creature made in a genealogical sense out 
 of a man's rib, and in this particular case maintained in the high- 
 est respectability without any trouble of her own, should be 
 normally in a state of contradiction to the blandest propositions 
 and even to the most accommodating concessions, was a mys- 
 tery in the scheme of things to which he had often in vain 
 sought a clue in the early chapters of Genesis. Mr. Glegg had 
 chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsome embodiment of 
 female prudence and thrift, and being himself of a money- 
 getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much conjugal 
 harmony. But in that curious compound, the feminine char- 
 acter, it may easily happen that the flavour is unpleasant in 
 spite of excellent ingredients ; and a fine systematic stinginess 
 may be accompanied with a seasoning that quite spoils its 
 relish. Now, good Mr. Glegg himself was stingy in the most 
 amiable manner ; his neighbours called him " near," which 
 always means that the person in question is a lovable skinflint. 
 If you expressed a preference for cheese-parings, Mr. Glegg 
 would remember to save them for you, with a good-natured 
 delight in gratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all 
 animals which required no appreciable keep. There was no 
 humbug or hypocrisy about Mr. Glegg ; his eyes would have 
 watered with true feeling over the sale of a widow's furniture, 
 which a five-pound note from his side-pocket would have pre- 
 vented ; but a donation of five pounds to a person " in a small 
 way of life " would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavish- 
 ness rather than " charity," which had always presented itself 
 to him as a contribution of small aids, not a neutralising of mis- 
 fortune. And Mr. Glegg was just as fond of saving other peo- 
 ple's money as his own ; he would have ridden as far round to 
 avoid a turnpike when his expenses were to be paid for him, as 
 when they were to come out of his own pocket, and was quite 
 zealous in trying to induce indifferent acquaintances to adopt a 
 cheap substitute for blacking. This inalienable habit of saving, 
 as an end in itself, belonged- to the industrious men of business 
 of a former generation, who made their fortunes slowly, almost 
 as the tracking of the fox belongs to the harrier, it consti- 
 tuted them a " race," which is nearly lost in these days of rapid 
 
112 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 money-getting, when lavishness comes close on the back of 
 want. In old-fashioned times an " independence " was hardly 
 ever made without a little miserliness as a condition, and you 
 would have found that quality in every provincial district, com- 
 bined with characters as various as the fruits from which we can 
 extract acid. The true Harpagons were always marked and ex- 
 ceptional characters ; not so the worthy tax-payers, who, having 
 once pinched from real necessity, retained even in the midst of 
 their comfortable retirement, with their wall-fruit and wine- 
 bins, the habit of regarding life as an ingenious process of 
 nibbling out one's livelihood without leaving any perceptible 
 deficit, and who would have been as immediately prompted to 
 give up a newly taxed luxury when they had their clear five 
 hundred a-year, as when they had only five hundred pounds of 
 capital. Mr. Glegg was one of these men, found so impractica- 
 ble by chancellors of the exchequer ; and knowing this, you will 
 be the better able to understand why he had not swerved from 
 the conviction that he had made an eligible marriage, in spite 
 of the too pungent seasoning that nature had given to the eldest 
 Miss Dodson's virtues. A man with an affectionate disposition, 
 who finds a wife to concur with his fundamental idea of life, 
 easily comes to persuade himself that no other woman would 
 have suited him so well, and does a little daily snapping and 
 quarrelling without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg, being 
 of a reflective turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much 
 wondering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female 
 mind as unfolded to him in his domestic life ; and yet he thought 
 M rs. Glegg's household ways a model for her sex. It struck 
 him as a pitiable irregularity in other women if they did not 
 roll up their table-napkins with the same tightness and empha- 
 sis as Mrs. Glegg did, if their pastry had a less leathery consist- 
 ence, and their damson cheese a less venerable hardness than 
 hers ; nay. even the peculiar combination of grocery and drug- 
 like odours in Mrs. Glegg's private cupboard impressed him as 
 the only right thing in the way of cupboard smells. I am not 
 sure that he would not have longed for the quarrelling again, if 
 it had ceased for an entire week ; and it is certain that an ac- 
 quiescent, mild wife would have left his meditations compara- 
 tively jejune and barren of mystery. 
 
 Mr. (Hogg's unmistakeable kind-heartedness was shown in 
 this, that it pained him more to see his wife at variance with 
 others, even with Dolly, the servant, than to be in a state 
 of cavil with her himself; and the quarrel between her and 
 Mr. Tulliver vexed him so much that it quite nullified the 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 113 
 
 pleasure he would otherwise have had in the state of his early 
 cabbages, as he walked in his garden before breakfast the 
 next morning. Still, he went in to breakfast with some slight 
 hope that, now Mrs. Glegg had "slept upon it," her anger 
 might be subdued enough to give way to her usually strong 
 sense of family decorum. She had been used to boast that 
 there had never been any of those deadly quarrels among the 
 Dodsons which had disgraced other families ; that no Dodson 
 had ever been " cut off with a shilling," and no cousin of the 
 Dodsons disowned ; as, indeed, why should they be ? For they 
 had no cousins who had not money out at use, or some houses 
 of their own, at the very least. 
 
 There was one evening-cloud which had always disappeared 
 from Mrs. Glegg's brow when she sat at the breakfast-table. It 
 was her fuzzy front of curls ; for as she occupied herself in 
 household matters in the morning, it would have been a mere 
 extravagance to put on anything so superfluous to the making 
 of leathery pastry as a fuzzy curled front. By half-past ten 
 decorum demanded the front ; until then Mrs. Glegg could 
 economise it, and society would never be any the wiser. But 
 the absence of that cloud only left it more apparent that the 
 cloud of severity remained ; and Mr. Glegg, perceiving this, as 
 he sat down to his milk-porridge, which it was his old frugal 
 habit to stem his morning hunger with, prudently resolved to 
 leave the first remark to Mrs. Glegg, lest, to so delicate an 
 article as a lady's temper, the slightest touch should do mis- 
 chief. People who seem to enjoy their ill-temper have a 
 way of keeping it in fine condition by inflicting privations on 
 themselves. That was Mrs. Glegg's way. She made her tea 
 weaker than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was 
 a hard case that a vigorous mood for quarrelling, so highly 
 capable of using any opportunity, should not meet with a 
 single remark from Mr. Glegg on which to exercise itself. But 
 by-and-by it appeared that his silence would answer the pur- 
 pose, for he heard himself apostrophised at last in that tone 
 peculiar to the wife of one's bosom. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Glegg ! it 's a poor return I get for making you 
 the wife I 've made you all these years. If this is the way 
 I 'm to be treated, I 'd better ha' known it before my poor 
 father died, and then, when I 'd wanted a home, I should ha' 
 gone elsewhere, as the choice was offered me." 
 
 Mr. Glegg paused from his porridge and looked up, not 
 with any new amazement, but simply with that quiet, habitual 
 wonder with which we regard constant mysteries. 
 
 I 
 
114 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. G., what have I done now ? " 
 
 " Done now, Mr. Glegg ? done now ? I'm sorry for you." 
 
 Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg re- 
 verted to his porridge. 
 
 " There 's husbands in the world," continued Mrs. Glegg, 
 after a pause, " as 'ud have known how to do something dif- 
 ferent to siding with everybody else against their own wives. 
 Perhaps I 'm wrong and you can teach me better. But I 've 
 allays heard as it 's the husband's place to stand by the 
 wife, instead o' rejoicing and triumphing when folks insult 
 her." 
 
 " Now, what call have you to say that ? " said Mr. Glegg, 
 rather warmly, for though a kind man, he was not as meek as 
 Moses. " When did I rejoice or triumph over you ? " 
 
 "There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out 
 plain, Mr. Glegg. I 'd sooner you 'd tell me to my face as you 
 make light of me, than try to make out as everybody 's in the 
 right but me, and come to your breakfast in the morning, as 
 I 've hardly slept an hour this night, and sulk at me as if I 
 was the dirt under your feet." 
 
 " Sulk at you ? " said Mr. Glegg, in a tone of angry face- 
 tiousness. " You 're like a tipsy man as thinks everybody 's 
 had too much but himself." 
 
 "Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to me, 
 Mr. Glegg ! It makes you look very small, thoiigh you can't 
 see yourself," said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic com- 
 passion. " A man in your place should set an example, and 
 talk more sensible." 
 
 " Yes ; but will you listen to sense ? " retorted Mr. Glegg, 
 sharply. " The best sense I can talk to you is what I said 
 last night, as you 're i' the wrong to think o' calling in your 
 money, when it's safe enough if you'd let it alone, all because 
 of a bit of a tiff, and I was in hopes you 'd ha' altered your 
 mind this morning. But if you 'd like to call it in, don't do 
 it in a hurry now, and breed more enmity in the family, but 
 wait till there 's a pretty mortgage to be had without any 
 trouble. You 'd have to set the lawyer to work now to rim! 
 an investment, and make no end o' expense." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she 
 tossed her head and emitted a guttural interjection to indicate 
 that her silence was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in 
 fact, hostilities soon broke out again. 
 
 " I '11 thank you for my cup o' tea, now, Mrs. G.," said Mr. 
 Glegg, seeing that she did not proceed to give it him as usual, 
 
BO Y AND GIRL. 115 
 
 when he had finished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with 
 a slight toss of the head, and said, 
 
 " I 'm glad to hear you '11 thank me, Mr. Glegg. It 's little 
 thanks / get for what I do for folks i' this world. Though 
 there 's never a woman o' your side o' the family, Mr. Glegg, 
 as is fit to stand up with me, and I 'd say it if I was on my 
 dying bed. Not but what I 've allays conducted myself civil 
 to your kin, and there is n't one of 'em can say the contrary > 
 though my equils they are n't, and nobody shall make me say 
 it." 
 
 " You 'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you 've 
 left off quarrelling with your own, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg, 
 with angry sarcasm. " I '11 trouble you for the milk-jug." 
 
 " That 's as false a word as ever you spoke, Mr. Glegg," said 
 the lady, pouring out the milk with unusual profuseness, as 
 much as to say, if he wanted milk he should have it with a 
 vengeance. " And you know it 's false. I 'm not the woman 
 to quarrel with my own kin ; you may, for I 've known you 
 do it." 
 
 "Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your 
 sister's house in a tantrum ? " 
 
 " I 'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr. Glegg, and it 's false to 
 say it. Mr. Tulliver 's none o' my blood, and it was him 
 quarrelled with me, and drove me out o' the house. But per- 
 haps you 'd have had me stay and be swore at, Mr. Glegg ; 
 perhaps you was vexed not to hear more abuse and foul lan- 
 guage poured out upo' your own wife. But, let me tell you, 
 it 's your disgrace." 
 
 " Did ever anybody hear the like i' this parish ? " said Mr. 
 Glegg, getting hot. " A woman, with everything provided for 
 her, and allowed to keep her own money the same as if it was 
 settled on her, and with a gig new stuffed and lined at no end 
 o' expense, and provided for when I die beyond anything she 
 could expect to go on i' this way, biting and snapping like a 
 mad dog ! It 's beyond everything, as God A'mighty should 
 ha' made women so." (These last words were uttered in a 
 tone of sorrowful agitation. Mr. Glegg pushed his tea from 
 him, and tapped the table with both his hands.) 
 
 " Well, Mr. Glegg, if those are your feelings, it 's best they 
 should be known," said Mrs. Glegg, taking off her napkin, 
 and folding it in an excited manner. " But if you talk o' my 
 being provided for beyond what I could expect, I beg leave to 
 tell you as I 'd a right to expect a many things as I don't find. 
 And as to my being like a mad dog, it 's well if you 're not 
 
116 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 cried shame on by the county for your treatment of me, for 
 it 's what I can't bear, and I won't bear 
 
 Here Mrs. Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to 
 cry, and breaking off from speech, she rang the bell violently. 
 
 "Sally," she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in 
 rather a choked voice, "light a fire up-stairs, and put the 
 blinds down. Mr. Glegg, you '11 please to order what you 'd 
 like for dinner. I shall have gruel." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small book-case, 
 and took down Baxter's " Saints' Everlasting Rest," which she 
 carried with her up-stairs. It was the book she was accus- 
 tomed to lay open before heron special occasions, on wet 
 Sunday mornings, or when she heard of a death in the family, 
 or when, as in this case, her quarrel with Mr. Glegg had been 
 set an octave higher than usual. 
 
 But Mrs. Glegg carried something else up-stairs with her, 
 which, together with the " Saints' Rest " and the gruel, may 
 have had some influence in gradually calming her feelings, 
 and making it possible for her to endure existence on the 
 ground-floor shortly before tea-time. This was, partly, Mr. 
 Glegg's suggestion that she would do well to let her five 
 hundred lie still until a good investment turned up ; and, 
 further, his parenthetic hint at his handsome provision for her 
 in case of his death. Mr. Glegg, like all men of his stamp, 
 was extremely reticent about his will ; and Mrs. Glegg, in her 
 gloomier moments, had forebodings that, like other husbands 
 of whom she had heard, he might cherish the mean project of 
 heightening her grief at his death by leaving her poorly off, 
 in which case she was firmly resolved that she would have 
 scarcely any weeper on her bonnet, and would cry no more 
 than if he had been a second husband. But if he had really 
 shown her any testamentary tenderness, it would be affecting 
 to think of him, poor man, when he was gone ; and even his 
 foolish fuss about the flowers and garden-stuff, and his insist- 
 ance on the subject of snails, would be touching when it was 
 once fairly at an end. To survive Mr. Glegg, and talk eulo- 
 gistically of him as a man who might have his weaknesses, 
 but who had done the right thing by her, notwithstanding his 
 numerous poor relations ; to have sums of interest coming in 
 more frequently, and secrete it in various corners, baffling to 
 the most ingenious of thieves (for, to Mrs. Glegg's mind, 
 banks and strong-boxes would have nullified the pleasure of 
 property ; she might as well have taken her food in cap- 
 sules) ; finally, to be looked up to by her own family and the 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 117 
 
 neighbourhood, so as no won!.. ; v,ai ever hope to be who has 
 not the prset'.n-ite and present dignity comprised in being a 
 " widow well left," all this made a flattering and concilia- 
 tory view of the future. So that when good Mr. Glegg, 
 restored to good-humour by much hoeing, and moved by the 
 sight of his wife's empty chair, with her knitting rolled up in 
 the corner, went up-stairs to her, and observed that the bell 
 had been tolling for poor Mr. Morton, Mrs. Glegg answered 
 magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjured woman, 
 " Ah ! then, there '11 be a good business for somebody to take 
 to." 
 
 Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for 
 it was nearly five o'clock ; and if people are to quarrel often, 
 it follows as a corollary that their quarrels cannot be pro- 
 tracted beyond certain limits. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Glegg talked quite amicably about the Tulli- 
 vers that evening. Mr. Glegg went the length of admitting 
 that Tulliver was a sad man for getting into hot water, and 
 was like enough to run through his property ; and Mrs. Glegg, 
 meeting this acknowledgment half-way, declared that it was 
 beneath her to take notice of such a man's conduct, and that, 
 for her sister's sake, she would let him keep the five hundred 
 a while longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage she 
 should only get four per cent. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 MB. TULLIVER FURTHER ENTANGLES THE SKEIN OF LIFE, 
 
 OWING to this new adjustment of Mrs. Glegg's thoughts, 
 Mrs. Pullet found her task of mediation the next day surpris- 
 ingly easy. Mrs. Glegg, indeed, checked her rather sharply 
 for thinking it would be necessary to tell her elder sister what 
 was the right mode of behaviour in family matters. Mrs. Pul- 
 let's argument, that it would look ill in the neighbourhood if 
 people should have it in their power to say that there was a 
 quarrel in the family, was particularly offensive. If the fam- 
 ily name never suffered except through Mrs. Glegg, Mrs. Pul- 
 let might lay her head on her pillow in perfect confidence. 
 
 " It 's not to be expected, I suppose," observed Mrs. Glegg, 
 by way of winding up the subject, "as I shall go to the mill 
 
118 THE MILL ON THE F7.OSS. 
 
 again before Bessy comes to see me, or as I shall go and fall 
 down o' my knees to Mr. Tulliver, and ask his pardon for 
 showing him favours ; but I shall bear no malice, and when 
 Mr. Tulliver speaks civil to me, I'll speak civil to him. No- 
 body has any call to tell me what 's becoming." 
 
 Finding it unnecessary to plead for the Tullivers, it was 
 natural that aunt Pullet should relax a little in her anxiety 
 for them, and recur to the annoyance she had suffered yester- 
 .lay from the offspring of that apparently ill-fated house. 
 Mrs. Glegg heard a circumstantial narrative, to which Mr. 
 Pullet's remarkable memory furnished some items ; and while 
 aunt Pullet pitied poor Bessy's bad-luck with her children, 
 and expressed a half-formed project of paying for Maggie's 
 being sent to a distant boarding-school, which would not 
 prevent her being so brown, but might tend to subdue some 
 other vices in her, aunt Glegg blamed Bessy for her weakness, 
 and appealed to all witnesses who should be living when the 
 Tulliver children had turned out ill, that she, Mrs. Glegg, had 
 always said how it would be from the very first, observing 
 that it was wonderful to herself how all her words came 
 true. 
 
 " Then I may call and tell Bessy you '11 bear no malice, and 
 everything be as it was before ? " Mrs. Pullet said, just before 
 parting. 
 
 "Yes, you may, Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg; "you may tell 
 Mr. Tulliver, and Bessy too, as I 'in not going to behave ill 
 because folks behave ill to me ; I know it 's my place, as the 
 eldest, to set an example in every respect, and I do it. No- 
 body can say different of me, if they '11 keep to the truth." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg being in this state of satisfaction in her own 
 lofty magnanimity, I leave you to judge what effect was pro- 
 duced on her by the reception of a short letter from Mr. 
 Tulliver that very evening, after Mrs. Pullet's departure, in- 
 forming her that she need n't trouble her mind about her five 
 hundred pounds, for it should be paid back to her in the 
 course of the next month at farthest, together with the 
 interest due thereon until the time of payment. And fur- 
 thermore, that Mr. Tulliver had no wish to behave uncivilly 
 to Mrs. Glegg, and she was welcome to his house whenever 
 she liked to come, but he desired no favours from her, either 
 for himself or his children. 
 
 It was poor Mrs. Tulliver who had hastened this catastro- 
 phe, entirely through that irrepressible hopefulness of hers 
 which led her to expect that similar causes may at any time 
 
BOY AND GIRL. 119 
 
 produce different results. It Lad very often occurred in her 
 experience that Mr. Tulliver had done something because 
 other people had said he was not able to do it, or had 
 pitied him for his supposed inability, or in any other way 
 piqued his pride ; still, she thought to-day, if she told him 
 when he came in to tea that sister Pullet was gone to try and 
 make everything up with sister Glegg, so that he needn't 
 think about paying in the money, it would give a cheerful 
 effect to the meal. Mr. Tulliver had never slackened in 
 his resolve to raise the money, but now he at once determined 
 to write a letter to Mrs. Glegg, which should cut off all possi- 
 bility of mistake. Mrs. Pullet gone to beg and pray for 
 him indeed! Mr. Tulliver did not willingly write a letter, 
 and found the relation between spoken and written language, 
 briefly known as spelling, one of the most puzzling things in 
 this puzzling world. Nevertheless, like all fervid writing, the 
 task was done in less time than usual, and if the spelling dif- 
 fered from Mrs. Glegg's, why, she belonged, like himself, 
 to a generation with whom spelling was a matter of private 
 judgment. 
 
 Mrs. Glegg did not alter her will in consequence of this 
 letter, and cut off the Tulliver children from their sixth and 
 seventh share in her thousand pounds ; for she had her princi- 
 ples. No one must be able to say of her when she was dead 
 that she had not divided her money with perfect fairness among 
 her own kin. In the matter of wills, personal qualities were 
 subordinate to the great fundamental fact of blood ; and to be 
 determined in the distribution of your property by caprice, 
 and not make your legacies bear a direct ratio to degrees of 
 kinship, was a prospective disgrace that would have embittered 
 her life. This had always been a principle in the Dodson fam- 
 ily ; it was one form of that sense of honour and rectitude 
 which was a proud tradition in such families, a tradition 
 which has been the salt of our provincial society. 
 
 But though the letter could not shake Mrs. Glegg's princi- 
 ples, it made the family breach much more difficult to mend : 
 and as to the effect it produced on Mrs. Glegg's opinion of Mr. 
 Tulliver, she begged to be understood from that time forth 
 that she had nothing whatever to say about him ; his state of 
 mind, apparently, was too corrupt for her to contemplate it 
 for a moment. It was not until the evening before Tom went 
 to school, at the beginning of August, that Mrs. Glegg paid a 
 visit to her sister Tulliver, sitting in her gig all the while, and 
 showing her displeasure by markedly abstaining from all ad- 
 
120 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 vice and criticism ; for, as she observed to her sister Deane, 
 " Bessy must bear the consequence o' having such a husband, 
 though I 'm sorry for her," and Mrs. Deane agreed that Bessy 
 was pitiable. 
 
 That evening Tom observed to Maggie, " Oh my ! Maggie, 
 aunt Glegg 's beginning to come again ; I 'm glad I 'm going to 
 school. You 'II catch it all now ! " 
 
 Maggie was already so full of sorrow at the thought of 
 Tom's going away from her, that this playful exultation of 
 his seemed very unkind, and she cried herself to sleep that 
 night. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver's prompt procedure entailed on him further 
 promptitude in finding the convenient person who was de- 
 sirous of lending five hundred pounds on bond. " It must be 
 no client of Wakem's," he said to himself ; and yet at the end 
 of a fortnight it turned out to the contrary ; not because Mr. 
 Tulliver's will was feeble, but because external fact was 
 stronger. Wakem's client was the only convenient person 
 to be found. Mr. Tulliver had a destiny as well as CEdipus, 
 and in this case he might plead, like CEdipus, that his deed 
 was inflicted on him rather than committed by him. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 TOM'S "FIKST HALF." 
 
 TOM TULLIVER'S sufferings during the first quarter lie was 
 at King's Lorton, under the distinguished care of the Kev. 
 Walter Stelling, were rather severe. At Mr. Jacobs's academy 
 life had not presented itself to him as a difficult problem ; there 
 were plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom being good at 
 all active games, fighting especially, had that precedence 
 among them which appeared to him inseparable from the 
 personality of Torn Tulliver. Mr. Jacobs himself, familiarly 
 known as Old Goggles, from his habit of wearing spectacles, 
 imposed no painful awe ; and if it was the property of snuffy 
 old hypocrites like him to write like copperplate and surround 
 their signatures with arabesques, to spell without forethought, 
 and to spout " my name is ISTorval " without bungling, Tom, for 
 his part, was rather glad he was not in danger of those mean 
 accomplishments. He was not going to be a snuffy school- 
 master, he, but a substantial man, like his father, who used 
 to go hunting when he was younger, and rode a capital black 
 mare, as pretty a bit of horse-flesh as ever you saw ; Tom 
 had heard what her points were a hundred times. He meant 
 to go hunting too, and to be generally respected. When peo- 
 ple were grown up, he considered, nobody inquired about their 
 writing and spelling ; when he was a man, he should be master 
 of everything, and do just as he liked. It had been very diffi- 
 cult for him to reconcile himself to the idea that his school- 
 time was to be prolonged, and that he was not to be brought up 
 to his father's business, which he had always thought ex- 
 tremely pleasant ; for it was nothing but riding about, giving 
 orders, and going to market ; and he thought that a clergyman 
 would give him a great many Scripture lessons, and probably 
 
122 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 make him learn the Gospel and Epistle on a Sunday, as well as 
 the Collect. But in the absence of specific information, it was 
 impossible for him to imagine that school and a schoolmaster 
 would be something entirely different from the academy of 
 Mr. Jacobs. So, not to be at a deficiency, in case of his finding 
 genial companions, he had taken care to carry with him a small 
 box of percussion-caps ; not that there was anything particular 
 to be done with them, but they would serve to impress strange 
 boys with a sense of his familiarity with guns. Thus poor Tom, 
 though he saw very clearly through Maggie's illusions, was not 
 without illusions of his own, which were to be cruelly dissi- 
 pated by his enlarged experience at King's Lorton. 
 
 He had not been there a fortnight before it was evident to 
 him that life, complicated not only with the Latin grammar 
 but with a new standard of English pronunciation, was a very 
 difficult business, made all the more obscure by a thick mist of 
 bashfulness. Tom, as you have observed, was never an excep- 
 tion among boys for ease of address ; but the difficulty of enun- 
 ciating a monosyllable in reply to Mr. or Mrs. Stelling was so 
 great, that he even dreaded to be asked at table whether he 
 would have more pudding. As to the percussion-caps, he had 
 almost resolved, in the bitterness of his heart, that he would 
 throw them into a neighbouring pond ; for not only was he the 
 solitary pupil, but he began even to have a certain scepticism 
 about guns, and a general sense that his theory of life was 
 undermined. For Mr. Stelling thought nothing of guns, or 
 horses either, apparently ; and yet it was impossible for Tom 
 to despise Mr. Stelling as he had despised Old Goggles. If 
 there were anything that was not thoroughly genuine about 
 Mr. Stelling, it lay quite beyond Tom's power to detect it ; it is 
 only by a wide comparison of facts that the wisest full-grown 
 man can distinguish well-rolled barrels from more supernal 
 thunder. 
 
 Mr. Stelling was a well-sized, broad-chested man, not yet 
 thirty, with flaxen hair standing erect, and large lightish-grey 
 eyes, which were always very wide open ; he had a sonorous 
 bass voice, and an air of defiant self-confidence inclining to 
 brazenness. He had entered on his career with great vigour, 
 and intended to make a considerable impression on his fellow- 
 men. The Rev. Walter Stelling was not a man who would 
 remain among the " inferior clergy " all his life. He had a 
 true British determination to push his way in the world, as a 
 schoolmaster, in the first place, for there were capital master- 
 ships of grammar-schools to be had, and Mr. Stelling meant to 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 123 
 
 have one of them ; but as a preacher also, for he meant always 
 to preach in a striking manner, so as to have his congregation 
 swelled by admirers from neighbouring parishes, and to pro- 
 duce a great sensation whenever he took occasional duty for a 
 brother clergyman of minor gifts. The style of preaching he 
 had chosen was the extemporaneous, which was held little short 
 of the miraculous in rural parishes like King's Lorton. Some 
 passages of Massillon and Bourdaloue, which he knew by heart, 
 were really very effective when rolled out in Mr. Stelling's deep- 
 est tones ; but as comparatively feeble appeals of his own werb 
 delivered in the same loud and impressive manner, they wert> 
 often thought quite as striking by his hearers. Mr. Stelling's 
 doctrine was of no particular school ; if anything, it had a 
 tinge of evangelicalism, for that was "the telling thing " just 
 then in the diocese to which King's Lorton belonged. In short, 
 Mr. Stelling was a man who meant to rise in his profession, and 
 to rise by merit, clearly, since he had no interest beyond what 
 might be promised by a problematic relationship to a great 
 lawyer who had not yet become Lord Chancellor. A clergyman 
 who has such vigorous intentions naturally gets a little into 
 debt at starting ; it is not to be expected that he will live in the 
 meagre style of a man who means to be a poor curate all his life ; 
 and if the few hundreds Mr. Timpson advanced towards his 
 daughter's fortune did not suffice for the purchase of handsome 
 furniture, together with a stock of wine, a grand piano, and the 
 laying out of a superior flower-garden, it followed in the most 
 rigorous manner, either that these things must be procured by 
 some other means, or else that the Rev. Mr. Stelling must go 
 without them, which last alternative would be an absurd pro- 
 crastination of the fruits of success, where success was certain. 
 Mr. Stelling was so broad-chested and resolute that he felt 
 equal to anything ; he would become celebrated by shaking 
 the consciences of his hearers, and he Avould by-and-by edit a 
 Greek play, and invent several new readings. He had not yet 
 selected the play, for having been married little more than two 
 years, his leisure tim'e had been much occupied with attentions 
 to Mrs. Stelling ; but he had told that fine woman what he 
 meant to do some day, and she felt great confidence in her 
 husband, as a man who understood everything of that sort. 
 
 But the immediate step to future success was to bring on 
 Tom Tulliver during this first half-year; for, by a singular 
 coincidence, there had been some negotiation concerning 
 another pupil from the same neighbourhood, and it might 
 further a decision in Mr. Stelling's favour, if it were under- 
 
124 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 stood that young Tulliver, who, Mr. Stelling observed in con- 
 jugal privacy, was rather a rough cub, had made prodigious 
 progress in a short time. It was on this ground that he was 
 severe with Tom about his lessons ; he was clearly a boy 
 whose powers would never be developed through the medium 
 of the Latin grammar, without the application of some stern- 
 ness. Not that Mr. Stelling was a harsh-tempered or unkind 
 nan ; quite the contrary. He was jocose with Tom at table, 
 .,/.;il corrected his provincialisms and his deportment in the 
 most playful manner ; but poor Tom was only the more cowed 
 and confused by this double novelty, for he had never been 
 used to jokes at all like Mr. Stelliug's ; and for the first time 
 in his life he had a painful sense that he was all wrong some- 
 how. When Mr. Stelling said, as the roast-beef was being 
 uncovered, " Now, Tulliver ! which would you rather decline, 
 roast-beef or the Latin for it ? " Tom, to whom in his cool- 
 est moments a pun would have been a hard nut, was thrown 
 into a state of embarrassed alarm that made everything dim 
 to him except the feeling that he would rather not have any- 
 thing to do with Latin ; of course he answered, " Roast-beef," 
 whereupon there followed much laughter and some practical 
 joking with the plates, from which Tom gathered that ho had 
 in some mysterious way refused beef, and, in fact, made him- 
 self appear "a silly." If he could have seen a fellow-pupil 
 undergo these painful operations and survive them in good 
 spirits, he might sooner have taken them as a matter of course. 
 But there are two expensive forms of education, either of 
 which a parent may procure for his son by sending him as 
 solitary pupil to a clergyman : one is the enjoyment of the 
 reverend gentleman's undivided neglect ; the other is the en- 
 durance of the reverend gentleman's undivided attention. It 
 was the latter privilege for which Mr. Tulliver paid a high 
 price in Tom's initiatory months at King's Lorton. 
 
 That respectable miller and maltster had left Tom behind, 
 and driven homeward in a state of great mental satisfaction. 
 He considered that it was a happy moment for him when he 
 had thought of asking Riley's advice about a tutor for Tom. 
 Mr. Stelling's eyes were so wide open, and he talked in such 
 an off-hand, matter-of-fact way, answering every difficult, 
 slow remark of Mr. Tulliver's with, "I see, my good sir, I 
 see ; " " To be sure, to be sure ; " " You want your son to be a 
 man who will make his way in the world,'' that Mr. Tulliver 
 was delighted to find in him a clergyman whose knowledge 
 was so applicable to the every-day affairs of this life. Except 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 125 
 
 Counsellor Wylde, whom he had heard at the last sessions, Mr. 
 Tulliver thought the Rev. Mr. Stelliug was the shrewdest fel- 
 low he had ever met with, not unlike Wylde, in fact ; he 
 had the same way of sticking his thumbs in the armholes of 
 his waistcoat. Mr. Tulliver was not by any means an excep- 
 tion in mistaking brazenness for shrewdness ; most laymen 
 thought Stelling shrewd, and a man of remarkable powers 
 generally ; it was chiefly by his clerical brethren that he was 
 considered rather a dull fellow. But he told Mr. Tulliver 
 several stories about " Swing " and incendiarism, and asked his 
 advice about feeding pigs in so thoroughly secular and judicious 
 a manner, with so much polished glibness of tongue, that the 
 miller thought, here was the very thing he wanted for Tom. 
 He had no doubt this first-rate man was acquainted with every 
 branch of information, and knew exactly what Tom must learn 
 in order to become a match for the lawyers, which poor Mr. 
 Tulliver himself did not know, and so was necessarily thrown 
 for self-direction on this wide kind of inference. It is hardly 
 fair to laugh at him, for I have known much more highly in- 
 structed persons than he make inferences quite as wide, and 
 not at all wiser. 
 
 As for Mrs. Tulliver, finding that Mrs. Stelling's views as 
 to the airing of linen and the frequent recurrence of hunger 
 in a growing boy entirely coincided with her own ; moreover, 
 that Mrs. Stelling, though so young a woman, and only antici- 
 pating her second confinement, had gone through very nearly 
 the same experience as herself with regard to the behaviour 
 and fundamental character of the monthly nurse, she ex- 
 pressed great contentment to her husband, when they drove 
 away, at leaving Tom with a woman who, in spite of her 
 youth, seemed quite sensible and motherly, and asked advice 
 as prettily as could be. 
 
 " They must be very well off, though," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
 " for everything 's as nice as can be all over the house, and that 
 watered silk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pullet has 
 got one like it." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Tulliver, " he 's got some income besides the 
 curacy, I reckon. Perhaps her father allows 'em something. 
 There 's Tom 'ull be another hundred to him, and not nrach 
 trouble either, by his own account ; he says teaching comes 
 natural to him. That 's wonderful, now," added Mr. Tulliver, 
 turning his head on one side, and giving his horse a meditative 
 tickling on the flank. 
 
 Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr. 
 
126 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Stelling, that he set about it with that uniformity of method 
 and independence of circumstances which distinguish the 
 actions of animals understood to be under the immediate 
 teaching of nature. Mr. Broderip's amiable beaver, as that 
 charming naturalist tells us, busied himself as earnestly in 
 constructing a dam, in a room up three pair of stairs in 
 London, as if he had been laying his foundation in a stream 
 or lake in Upper Canada. It was " Binny's " function to 
 build; the absence of water or of possible progeny was an 
 accident for which he was not accountable. With the same 
 unerring instinct Mr. Stelling set to work at his natural 
 method of instilling the Eton Grammar and Euclid into the 
 mind of Tom Tulliver. This, he considered, was the only 
 basis of solid instruction ; all other means of education were 
 mere charlatanism, and could produce nothing better than 
 smatterers. Fixed on this firm basis, a man might observe 
 the display of various or special knowledge made by irregu- 
 larly educated people with a pitying smile ; all that sort of 
 thing was very well, but it was impossible these people could 
 form sound opinions. In holding this conviction Mr. Stelling 
 was not biassed, as some tutors have been, by the excessive 
 accuracy or extent of his own scholarship ; and as to his views 
 about Euclid, no opinion could have been freer from personal 
 partiality. Mr. Stelling was very far from being led astray 
 by enthusiasm, either religious or intellectual ; on the other 
 hand, he had no secret belief that everything was humbug. 
 He thought religion was a very excellent thing, and Aristotle 
 a great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful institu- 
 tions, and Great Britain the providential bulwark of Protes- 
 tantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to afflicted 
 minds ; he believed in all these things, as a Swiss hotel-keeper 
 believes in the beauty of the scenery around him, and in the 
 pleasure it gives to artistic visitors. And in the same way 
 Mr. Stelling believed in his method of education ; he had 
 no doubt that he was doing the very best thing for Mr. Tulli- 
 ver's boy. Of course, when the miller talked of " mapping " 
 and "summing" in a vague and diffident manner, Mr. Stelling 
 had set his mind at rest by an assurance that he understood 
 what was wanted ; for how was it possible the good man could 
 form any reasonable judgment about the matter ? Mr. Stel- 
 ling's duty was to teach the lad in the only right way, indeed 
 he knew no other ; he had not wasted his time in the acquire- 
 ment of anything abnormal. 
 
 He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 127 
 
 lad ; for though by hard labour he could get particular declen- 
 sions into his brain, anything so abstract as the relation be- 
 tween cases and terminations could by no means get such 
 a lodgment there as to enable him to recognise a chance 
 genitive or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling as something 
 more than natural stupidity; he suspected obstinacy, or at 
 any rate indifference, and lectured Tom severely on his 
 want of thorough application. " You feel no interest in 
 what you 're doing, sir," Mr. Stelling would say, and the 
 reproach was painfully true. Tom had never found any 
 difficulty in discerning a pointer from a setter, when once 
 he had been told the distinction, and his perceptive powers 
 were not at all deficient. I fancy they were quite as strong as 
 those of the Eev. Mr. Stelling ; for Tom could predict with 
 accuracy what number of horses were cantering behind him, 
 he could throw a stone right into the centre of a given ripple, 
 he could guess to a fraction how many lengths of his stick it 
 would take to reach across the playground, and could draw 
 almost perfect squares on his slate without any measurement. 
 But Mr. Stelling took no note of these things ; he only ob- 
 served that Tom's faculties failed him before the abstrac- 
 tions hideously symbolised to him in the pages of the Eton 
 Grammar, and that he was in a state bordering on idiocy with 
 regard to the demonstration that two given triangles must be 
 equal, though he could discern with great promptitude and 
 certainty the fact that they were equal. Whence Mr. Stelling 
 concluded that Tom's brain, being peculiarly impervious to 
 etymology and demonstrations, was peculiarly in need of be- 
 ing ploughed and harrowed by these patent implements ; it 
 was his favourite metaphor, that the classics and geometry 
 constituted that culture of the mind which prepared it for the 
 reception of any subsequent crop. I say nothing against 
 Mr. Stelling's theory ; if we are to have one regimen for all 
 minds, his seems to me as good as any other. I only know 
 it turned out as uncomfortably for Tom Tulliver as if he had 
 been plied with cheese in order to remedy a gastric weakness 
 which prevented him from digesting it. It is astonishing 
 what a different result one gets by changing the metaphor ! 
 Once call the brain an intellectual stomach, and one's in- 
 genious conception of the classics and geometry as ploughs 
 and harrows seems to settle nothing. But then it is open 
 to some one else to follow great authorities, and call the mind 
 a sheet of white paper or a mirror, in which case one's knowl- 
 edge of the digestive process becomes quite irrelevant. It was 
 
128 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 doubtless an ingenious idea to call the camel the ship of the 
 desert, but it would hardly lead one far in training that useful 
 beast. O Aristotle ! if you had had the advantage of being 
 " the freshest modern " instead of the greatest ancient, would 
 you not have mingled your praise of metaphorical speech, as a 
 sign of high intelligence, with a lamentation that intelligence 
 so rarely shows itself in speech without metaphor, that we 
 can so seldom declare what a thing is, except by saying it 
 is something else ? 
 
 Tom Tulliver, being abundant in no form of speech, did not 
 use any metaphor to declare his views as to the nature of Latin ; 
 he never called it an instrument of torture ; and it was not until 
 he had got on some way in the next half-year, and in the De- 
 lectus, that he was advanced enough to call it a " bore " and 
 "beastly stuff." At present, in relation to this demand that 
 he should learn Latin declensions and conjugations, Tom was 
 in a state of as blank unimaginativeness concerning the cause 
 and tendency of his sufferings, as if he had been an innocent 
 shrewmouse imprisoned in the split trunk of an ash-tree in 
 order to cure lameness in cattle. It is doubtless almost 
 incredible to instructed minds of the present day that a 
 boy of twelve, not belonging- strictly to " the masses," who 
 are now understood to have the monopoly of mental darkness, 
 should have had no distinct idea how there came to be such a 
 thing as Latin on this earth ; yet so it was with Tom. It 
 would have taken a long while to make conceivable to him 
 that there ever existed a people who bought and sold sheep 
 and oxen, and transacted the every-day affairs of life, through 
 the medium of this language ; and still longer to make him un- 
 derstand why he should be called upon to learn it, when its 
 connection with those affairs had become entirely latent. So 
 far as Tom had gained any acquaintance with the Romans 
 at Mr. Jacobs's academy, his knowledge was strictly correct, 
 but it went no farther than the fact that they were " in the 
 New Testament ; " and Mr. Stelling was not the man to 
 enfeeble and emasculate his pupil's mind by simplifying and 
 explaining, or to reduce the tonic effect of etymology by 
 mixing it with smattering, extraneous information, such as 
 is given to girls. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom 
 became more like a girl than he had ever been in his life 
 before. He had a large share of pride, which had hitherto 
 found itself very comfortable in the world, despising Old Gog- 
 gles, and reposing in the sense of unquestioned rights ; but 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 129 
 
 now this same pride met with nothing but bruises and crush- 
 ings. Tom was too clear-sighted not to be aware that Mr. 
 Stelling's standard of things was quite different, was certainly 
 something higher in the eyes of the world than that of the 
 people he had been living amongst, and that, brought in con- 
 tact with it, he, Tom Tulliver, appeared uncouth and stupid ; 
 he was by no means indifferent to this, and his pride got into 
 an uneasy condition which quite nullified his boyish self-satis- 
 faction, and gave him something of the girl's suceptibility. 
 He was of a very firm, not to say obstinate, disposition, but 
 there was no brute-like rebellion and recklessness in his 
 nature ; the human sensibilities predominated, and if it had 
 occurred to him that he could enable himself to show some 
 quickness at his lessons, and so acquire Mr. Stelling's appro- 
 bation, by standing on one leg for an inconvenient length of 
 time, or rapping his head moderately against the wall, or any 
 voluntary action of that sort, he would certainly have tried it. 
 But no ; Tom had never heard that these measures would 
 brighten the understanding, or strengthen the verbal memory ; 
 and he was not given to hypothesis and experiment. It did 
 occur to him that he could perhaps get some help by praying 
 for it ; but as the prayers he said every evening were forms 
 learned by heart, he rather shrank from the novelty and ir- 
 regularity of introducing an extempore passage on a topic of 
 petition for which he was not aware of any precedent. But 
 one day, when he had broken down, for the fifth time, in the 
 supines of the third conjugation, and Mr. Stelling, convinced 
 that this must be carelessness, since it transcended the bounds 
 of possible stupidity, had lectured him very seriously, point- 
 ing out that if he failed to seize the present golden opportu- 
 nity of learning supines, he would have to regret it when he 
 became a man, Tom, more miserable than usual, determined 
 to try his sole resource ; and that evening, after his usual form 
 of prayer for his parents and " little sister " (he had begun to 
 pray for Maggie when she was a baby), and that he might 
 be able always to keep God's commandments, he added, in 
 the same low whisper, " and please to make me always remem- 
 ber my Latin." He paused a little to consider how he should 
 pray about Euclid whether he should ask to see what it 
 meant, or whether there was any other mental state which 
 would be more applicable to the case. But at last he added, 
 "And make Mr. Stelling say I sha'n't do Euclid any more. 
 Amen." 
 
 The fact that he got through his supines without mistake 
 
 
 
130 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the next day, encouraged him to persevere in this appendix to 
 his prayers, and neutralised any scepticism that might have 
 arisen from Mr. Stelling's continued demand for Euclid. But 
 his faith broke down under the apparent absence of all help 
 when he got into the irregular verbs. It seemed clear that 
 Tom's despair under the caprices of the present tense did not 
 constitute a nodus worthy of interference, and since this was 
 the climax of his difficulties, where was the use of praying 
 for help any longer ? He made up his mind to this conclu- 
 sion in one of his dull, lonely evenings, which he spent in the 
 study, preparing his lessons for the morrow. His eyes were 
 apt to get dim over the page, though he hated crying, and 
 was ashamed of it; he couldn't help thinking with some 
 affection even of Spouncer, whom he used to tight and quarrel 
 with; he would have felt at home with Spouncer, and in a 
 condition of superiority. And then the mill, and the river, 
 and Yap pricking up his ears, ready to obey the least sign 
 whim Tom said, " Hoigh ! " would all come before him in a 
 sort of calenture, when his fingers played absently in his 
 pocket with his great knife and his coil of whipcord, and 
 other relics of the past. Tom, as I said, had never been so 
 much like a girl in his life before, and at that epoch of irregu- 
 lar verbs his spirit was further depressed by a new means of 
 mental development which had been thought of for him out 
 of school hours. Mrs. Stelling had lately had her second 
 baby, and as nothing could be more salutary for a boy than 
 to feel himself useful, Mrs. Stelling considered she was doing 
 Tom a service by setting him to watch the little cherub Laura 
 while the nurse was occupied with the sickly baby. It was 
 quite a pretty employment for Tom to take little Laura out 
 in the sunniest hour of the autumn day ; it would help to 
 make him feel that Lorton Parsonage was a home for him, and 
 that he was one of the family. The little cherub Laura, not 
 being an accomplished walker at present, had a ribbon fastened 
 rourd her waist, by which Tom held her as if she had been a 
 Jittl* dog during the minutes in which she chose to walk ; but 
 as th^se were rare, he was for the most part carrying this fine 
 child round and round the garden, within sight of Mrs. Stel- 
 ling's window, according to orders. If any one considers this 
 unfair and even oppressive towards Tom, I beg him to consider 
 that there are feminine virtues which are with difficulty com- 
 bined, even if they are not incompatible. When the wife of a 
 poor curate contrives, under all her disadvantages, to dress 
 extremely well, and to have a style of coiffure which requires 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 131 
 
 that her nurse shall occasionally officiate as lady's-maid; 
 when, moreover, her dinner-parties and her drawing-room 
 show that effort at elegance and completeness of appoint- 
 ment to which ordinary women might imagine a large income 
 necessary, it would be unreasonable to expect of her that she 
 should employ a second nurse, or even act as a nurse herself. 
 Mr. Stelling knew better ; he saw that his wife did wonders 
 already, and was proud of her. It was certainly not the best 
 thing in the world for young Tulliver's gait to carry a heavy 
 child, but he had plenty of exercise in long walks with him- 
 self, and next half-year Mr. Stelling would see about having a 
 drilling-master. Among the many means whereby Mr. Stel- 
 ling intended to be more fortunate than the bulk of his fellow- 
 men, he had entirely given up that of having his own way in 
 his own house. What then ? He had married " as kind a lit- 
 tle soul as ever breathed," according to Mr. Riley, who had 
 been acquainted with Mrs. Stelling's blond ringlets and smiling 
 demeanour throughout her maiden life, and on the strength of 
 that knowledge would have been ready any day to pronounce 
 that whatever domestic differences might arise in her married 
 life must be entirely Mr. Stelling's fault. 
 
 If Tom had had a worse disposition, he would certainly 
 have hated the little cherub Laura, but he was too kind-hearted 
 a lad for that ; there was too much in him of the fibre that 
 turns to true manliness, and to protecting pity for the weak. 
 I am afraid he hated Mrs. Stelling, and contracted a lasting 
 dislike to pale blond ringlets and broad plaits, as directly asso- 
 ciated with haughtiness of manner, and a frequent reference to 
 other people's " duty." But he could n't help playing with 
 little Laura, and liking to amuse her ; he even sacrificed his 
 percussion-caps for her sake, in despair of their ever serving 
 a greater purpose, thinking the small flash and bang would 
 delight her, and thereby drawing down on himself a rebuke from 
 Mrs. Stelling for teaching her child to play with fire. Laura 
 was a sort of playfellow and oh, how Tom longed for play- 
 fellows ! In his secret heart he yearned to have Maggie with 
 him, and was almost ready to dote on her exasperating acts of 
 forgetfulness ; though, when he was at home, he always repre- 
 sented it as a great favour on his part to let Maggie trot by his 
 side on his pleasure excursions. 
 
 A.nd before this dreary half-year was ended, Maggie actually 
 caaie. Mrs. Stelling had given a general invitation for the lit- 
 tle girl to come and stay with her brother ; so when Mr. Tulli- 
 ver drove over to King's Lorton late in October, Maggie came 
 
132 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 too, with the sense that she was taking a great journey, and 
 beginning to see the world. It was .Mr. Tnlliver's lirst visit to 
 see Tom, for the lad must learn not to think too much about 
 home. 
 
 "Well, my lad," he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling had left 
 the room to announce the arrival to his Avife, and Maggie had 
 begun to kiss Tom freely, "you look rarely! School agrees 
 with you." 
 
 Tom wished he had looked rather ill. 
 
 "I don't think I am well, father," said Tom ; "I wish you M 
 ask Mr. Stelling not to let me do Euclid ; it brings on the 
 toothache, I think." 
 
 (The toothache was the only malady to which Tom had ever 
 been subject.) 
 
 " Euclid, my lad, why, what 's that ? " said Mr. Tulliver. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; it 's definitions, and axioms, and tri- 
 angles, and things. It 's a book I 've got to learn in there 's 
 no sense in it." 
 
 " Go, go ! " said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly ; " you must n't 
 say so. You must learn what your master tells you. He 
 knows what it 's right for you to learn." 
 
 "I'll help you now, Tom," said Maggie, with a little air of 
 patronising consolation. " I 'm come to stay ever so long, if 
 Mrs. Stelling asks me. I 've brought my box and my pina- 
 fores, have n't I, father ? " 
 
 " You help me, you silly little thing ! " said Tom, in such high 
 spirits at this announcement that he quite enjoyed the idea of 
 confounding Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. " I 
 should like to see you doing one of my lessons ! Why, I learn 
 Latin, too ! Girls never learn such things. They 're too 
 silly." 
 
 " I know what Latin is very well," said Maggie, confidently. 
 " Latin 's a language. There are Latin words in the Diction- 
 ary. There 's bonus, a gift." 
 
 "Now, you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie!" said Tom, 
 secretly astonished. " You think you 're very wise ! But 
 ' bonus ' means ' good,' as it happens, bonus, bona, bonum." 
 
 " Well, that 's no reason why it should n't mean ' gift,' " said 
 Maggie, stoutly. " It may mean several things ; almost every 
 word does. There 's ' lawn,' it means the glass-plot, as well 
 as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of." 
 
 " Well done, little 'un," said Mr. Tulliver, laughing, while 
 Tom felt rather disgusted with Maggie's knowingness, though 
 beyond measure cheerful at the thought that she was going to 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 133 
 
 stay with him. Her conceit would soon be overawed by the 
 actual inspection of his books. 
 
 Mrs. Stelling, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a 
 longer time than a week for Maggie's stay ; but Mr. Stelling, 
 who took her between his knees, and asked her where she stole 
 her dark eyes from, insisted that she must stay a fortnight. 
 Maggie thought Mr. Stelling was a charming man, and Mr. Tul- 
 liver was quite proud to leave his little wench where she would 
 have an opportunity of showing her cleverness to appreciating 
 strangers. So it was agreed that she should not be fetched 
 home till the end of the fortnight. 
 
 "ISTow, then, come with me into the study, Maggie," said 
 Tom, as their father drove away. " What do you shake and 
 toss your head now for, you silly ? " he continued ; for though 
 her hair was now under a new dispensation, and was brushed 
 smoothly behind her ears, she seemed still in imagination to 
 be tossing it out of her eyes. " It makes you look as if you 
 were crazy. " 
 
 "Oh, I can't help it," said Maggie, impatiently. "Don't 
 tease me, Tom. Oh, what books ! " she exclaimed, as she saw 
 the bookcases in the study. " How I should like to have as 
 many books as that ! " 
 
 " Why, you could n't read one of 'em," said Tom, trium- 
 phantly. " They 're all Latin." 
 
 " No, they are n't," said Maggie. " I can read the back 
 of this, ' History of the Decline and Fall of the Koman 
 Empire.' " 
 
 " Well, what does that mean ? You don't know," said Tom, 
 wagging his head. 
 
 " But I could soon find out," said Maggie, scornfully. 
 
 " Why, how ? " 
 
 " I should look inside, and see what it was about." 
 
 "You'd better not, Miss Maggie," said Tom, seeing her 
 hand on the volume. " Mr. Stelling lets nobody touch his 
 books without leave, and / shall catch it, if you take it out." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Let me see all your books, then," said 
 Maggie, turning to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and 
 rub his cheek with her small round nose. 
 
 Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie 
 to dispute with and crow over again, seized her round the 
 waist, and began to jump with her round the large library 
 table. Away they jumped with more and more vigour, till 
 Maggie's hair flew from behind her ears, and twirled about like 
 an animated mop. But the revolutions round the table 
 
134 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 became more and more irregular in their sweep, till at last 
 reaching Mr. Stelling's reading-stand, they sent it thundering 
 down with its heavy lexicons to the floor. Happily it was 
 the ground-floor, and the study was a one-storied wing to the 
 house, so that the downfall made no alarming resonance, 
 though Tom stood dizzy and aghast for a few minutes, 
 dreading the appearance of Mr. or Mrs. Stelling. 
 
 " Oh, I say, Maggie," said Tom at last, lifting up the stand. 
 " we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break anything 
 Mrs. Stelling '11 make us cry peccavi." 
 
 " What 's that ? " said Maggie. 
 
 "Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding," said Tom, not 
 without some pride in his knowledge. 
 
 " Is she a cross woman ? " said Maggie. 
 
 " I believe you ! " said Tom, with an emphatic nod. 
 
 " I think all women are crosser than men," said Maggie. 
 "Aunt Glegg's a great deal crosser than uncle Glegg, and 
 mother scolds me more than father does." 
 
 " Well, you 'II be a woman some day," said Tom, " so you 
 needn't talk." 
 
 " But I shall be a clever woman," said Maggie, with a toss. 
 
 " Oh, I daresay, and a nasty conceited thing. Everybody '11 
 hate you." 
 
 " But you ought n't to hate me, Tom ; it '11 be very wicked 
 of you, for I shall be your sister." 
 
 " Yes, but if you 're a nasty disagreeable thing I shall hate 
 you." 
 
 "Oh but, Torn, you won't! I sha'n't be disagreeable. I 
 shall be very good to you, and I shall be good to everybody. 
 You won't hate me really, will you, Tom? " 
 
 " Oh, bother ! never mind ! Come, it 's time for me to learn 
 my lessons. See here ! what I 've got to do," said Tom, 
 drawing Maggie towards him and showing her his theorem, 
 while she pushed her hair behind her ears, and prepared her- 
 self to prove her capability of helping him in Euclid. She 
 began to read with full confidence in her own powers, but 
 presently, becoming quite bewildered, her face flushed with 
 irritation. It was unavoidable ; she must confess her incom- 
 petency, and she was not fond of humiliation. 
 
 " It 's nonsense ! " she said, " and very ugly stuff ; nobody 
 need want to make it out." 
 
 " Ah, there now, Miss Maggie ! " said Tom, drawing the 
 book away, and wagging his head at her, "you see you 're not 
 so clever as you thought you were." 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 135 
 
 " Oh," said Maggie, pouting, " I daresay I could make it 
 out, if I 'd learned what goes before, as you have." 
 
 " But that 's what you just could n't, Miss Wisdom," said 
 Tom. " For it 's all the harder when you know what goes 
 before ; for then you 've got to say what definition 3 is, and 
 what axiom V. is. But get along with you now ; I must go 
 on with this. Here 's the Latin Grammar. See what you can 
 make of that." 
 
 Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her 
 mathematical mortification ; for she delighted in new words, 
 and quickly found that there was an English Key at the end, 
 which would make her very wise about Latin, at slight 
 expense. She presently made up her mind to skip the rules 
 in the Syntax, the examples became so absorbing. These 
 mysterious sentences, snatched from an unknown context, 
 like strange horns of beasts, and leaves of unknown plants, 
 brought from some far-off region, gave boundless scope to 
 her imagination, and were all the more fascinating because 
 they were in a peculiar tongue of their own, which she could 
 learn to interpret. It was really very interesting, the Latin 
 Grammar that Tom had said no girls could learn ; and she 
 was proud because she found it interesting. The most frag- 
 mentary examples were her favourites. Mors omnibus est 
 communis would have been jejune, only she liked to know the 
 Latin ; but the fortunate gentleman whom every one congrat- 
 ulated because he had a son " endowed with such a disposi- 
 tion" afforded her a great deal of pleasant conjecture, and 
 she was quite lost in the " thick grove penetrable by no star," 
 when Tom called out, 
 
 " Now, then, Magsie, give us the Grammar ! " 
 
 " Oh, Tom, it 's such a pretty book ! " she said, as she 
 jumped out of the large arm-chair to give it him ; " it 's much 
 prettier than the Dictionary. I could learn Latin very soon. 
 I don't think it 's at all hard." 
 
 " Oh, I know what you 've been doing," said Tom ; " you 've 
 been reading the English at the end. Any donkey can do that." 
 
 Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and 
 business-like air, as much as to say that he had a lesson to 
 learn which no donkeys would find themselves equal to. Mag- 
 gie, rather piqued, turned to the bookcases to amuse herself 
 with puzzling out the titles. 
 
 Presently Tom called to her : " Here, Magsie, come and hear 
 if I can say this. Stand at that end of the table, where Mr. 
 Stalling sits when he hears me." 
 
136 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Maggie obeyed, and took the open book. 
 
 " Where do you begin, Tom ? " 
 
 " Oh, I begin at ' Ai^pellativa arborum,' because I say all over 
 again what I 've been learning this week." 
 
 Tom sailed along pretty well for three lines ; and Maggie 
 was beginning to forget her office of prompter in speculating 
 as to what mas could mean, which came twice over, when he 
 stuck fast at Sunt etiam volucrum. 
 
 " Don't tell me, Maggie ; Sunt etiam volucrum Sunt etiam 
 volucrum ut ostrea, cetus " 
 
 " No," said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her head. 
 
 " Sunt etiam volucrum," said Tom, very slowly, as if the 
 next words might be expected to come sooner when he gave 
 them this strong hint that they were waited for. 
 
 " C, e, u," said Maggie, getting impatient. 
 
 " Oh, I know hold your tongue," said Tom. " Ceu passer, 
 hit-undo; Ferarum ferarum " Tom took his pencil and 
 made several hard dots with it on his book-cover "fe- 
 rarum " 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, Tom," said Maggie, " what a time you 
 are! Ut " 
 
 " Ut ostrea " 
 
 " 17 o, no," said Maggie, " ut tigris " 
 
 " Oh yes, now I can do," said Tom ; " it was tigris, vulpes, 
 I 'd forgotten : ut tigris vulpes ; et Piscium" 
 
 With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got 
 through the next few lines. 
 
 "Now, then," he said, "the next is what I've just learned for 
 to-morrow. Give me hold of the book a minute." 
 
 After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of 
 his fist on the table, Tom returned the book. 
 
 " Mascula nomina in a" he began. 
 
 "No, Tom," said Maggie, "that doesn't come next. It's 
 JNomen non creskens genittivo " 
 
 " Creskens genittivo ! " exclaimed Tom, with a derisive laugh, 
 for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his yesterday's 
 :esson, and a young gentleman does not require an intimate 
 or extensive acquaintance with Latin before he can feel the 
 pitiable absurdity of a false quantity. ' Creskens genittivo ! 
 What a little silly you are, Maggie ! " 
 
 " Well, you need n't laugh, Tom, for you did n't remember it 
 at all. 1 'm sure it 's spelt so ; how was I to know ? " 
 
 " Phee-e-e-h ! I told you girls could n't learn Latin. It 's 
 Nomen non crescens genitivo" 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 137 
 
 ""Very well, then," said Maggie, pouting. "I can say that 
 as well as you can. And you don't mind your stops. For 
 you ought to stop twice as long at a semicolon as you do at a 
 comma, and you make the longest stops where there ought to 
 be no stop at all." 
 
 " Oh, well, don't chatter. Let me go on." 
 
 They were presently fetched to spend the rest of the even- 
 ing in the drawing-room, and Maggie became so animated 
 with Mr. Stelling, who, she felt sure, admired her cleverness, 
 that Tom was rather amazed and alarmed at her audacity. 
 But she was suddenly subdued by Mr. Stelling's alluding to a 
 little girl of whom he had heard that she once ran away to 
 the gypsies. 
 
 " What a very odd little girl that must be ! " said Mrs. Stel- 
 ling, meaning to be playful ; but a playfulness that turned on 
 her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie's taste. She 
 feared that Mr. Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, 
 and went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs. Stelling, she felt, 
 looked at her as if she thought her hair was very ugly because 
 it hung down straight behind. 
 
 Nevertheless it was a very happy fortnight to Maggie, this 
 visit to Tom. She was allowed to be in the study while he 
 had his lessons, and in her various readings got very deep 
 into the examples in the Latin Grammar. The astronomer 
 who hated women generally, caused her so much puzzling 
 speculation that she one day asked Mr. Stelling if all astrono- 
 mers hated women, or whether it was only this particular 
 astronomer. But forestalling his answer, she said, 
 
 " I suppose it 's all astronomers ; because, you know, they 
 live up in high towers, and if the women came there they 
 might talk and hinder them from looking at the stars." 
 
 Mr. Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were on 
 the best terms. She told Tom she should like to go to school 
 to Mr. Stelling, as he did, and learn just the same things. 
 She knew she could do Euclid, for she had looked into it 
 again, and she saw what ABC meant ; they were the names 
 of the lines. 
 
 " I 'm sure you could n't do it, now," said Tom ; " and I 'li 
 just ask Mr. Stelling if you could." 
 
 "I don't mind," said the little conceited minx, "I'll ask 
 him myself." 
 
 " Mr. Stelling," she said, that same evening when they were 
 in the drawing-room, "couldn't I do Euclid, and all Tom'a 
 lessons, if you were to teach me instead of him ? " 
 
138 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "No, you couldn't," said Tom, indignantly. "Girls can't 
 do Euclid 5 can they, sir ? " 
 
 " They can pick up a little of everything, I daresay," said 
 Mr. Stelling. " They 've a great deal of superficial cleverness ; 
 but they could n't go far into anything. They 're quick and 
 shallow." 
 
 Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph 
 by wagging his head at Maggie, behind Mr. Stelling's chair. 
 As for Maggie, she had hardly ever been so mortified. She 
 had been so proud to be called " quick " all her little life, 
 and now it appeared that this quickness was the brand of 
 inferiority. It would have been better to be slow, like 
 Tom. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Miss Maggie ! " said Tom, when they were alone ; 
 " you see it 's not such a fine thing to be quick. You '11 never 
 go far into anything, you know." 
 
 And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny that 
 she had no spirit for a retort. 
 
 But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was 
 fetched away in the gig by Luke, and the study wns once more 
 quite lonely for Tom, he missed her grievously. He had really 
 been brighter, and had got through his lessons better, since she 
 had been there ; and she had asked Mr. Stelling so many ques- 
 tions about the Roman Empire, and whether there really ever 
 was a man who said, in Latin, " I would not buy it for a farthing 
 or a rotten nut," or whether that had only been turned into Latin, 
 that Tom had actually come to a dim understanding of the fact 
 that there had once been people upon the earth who were so 
 fortunate as to know Latin without learning it through the 
 medium of the Eton Grammar. This luminous idea was a 
 great addition to his historical acquirements during this half- 
 year, which were otherwise confined to an epitomised history 
 of the Jews. 
 
 But the dreary half-year did come to an end. How glad 
 Torn was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before the 
 "id wind! The dark afternoons and the first December 
 snow seemed to him far livelier than the August sunshine; 
 and that he might make himself the surer about the flight 
 of the days that were carrying him homeward, he stuck 
 twenty-one sticks deep in a corner of the garden, when he was 
 three weeks from the holidays, and pulled one up every day 
 with a great wrench, throwing it to a distance with a vigour 
 of will which would have carried it to limbo, if it had been in 
 the nature of sticks to travel so far. 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 139 
 
 But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the 
 Latin Grammar, the happiness of seeing the bright light in 
 the parlour at home, as the gig passed noiselessly over the 
 snow-covered bridge ; the happiness of passing from the cold 
 air to the warmth and the kisses and the smiles of that fa- 
 miliar hearth, where the pattern of the rug and the grate and 
 the fire-irons were " first ideas " that it was no more possible 
 to criticise than the solidity and extension of matter. There 
 is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where 
 we were born, where objects became dear to us before we had 
 known the labour of choice, and where the outer world seemed 
 only an extension of our own personality ; we accepted and 
 loved it as we accepted our own sense of existence and 
 our own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture 
 of our early home might look if it were put up to auction ; an 
 improved taste in upholstery scorns it ; and is not the striving 
 after something better and better in our surroundings the grand 
 characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute, or, to sat- 
 isfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the 
 British man from the foreign brute ? But heaven knows where 
 that striving might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of 
 twining round those old inferior things ; if the loves and sanc- 
 tities of our life had no deep immovable roots in memory. 
 One's delight in an elderberry bush overhanging the confused 
 leafage of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladdening sight than 
 the finest cistus or fuchsia spreading itself on the softest 
 undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable preference to 
 a nursery-gardener, or to any of those severely regulated 
 minds who are free from the weakness of any attachment that 
 does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qualities. And 
 there is no better reason for preferring this elderberry bush 
 than that it stirs an early memory ; that it is no novelty in 
 my life, speaking to me merely through my present sensibili- 
 ties to form and color, but the long companion of my existence, 
 that wove itself into my joys when joys were vivid. 
 
140 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS. 
 
 FINE old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, 
 had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had 
 set off his rich gifts of warmth and colour with all the height- 
 ening contrast of frost and snow. 
 
 Snow lay on the croft and river-bank in undulations softer 
 than the limbs of infancy ; it lay with the neatliest finished 
 border on every sloping roof, making the dark-red gables 
 stand out with a new depth of colour ; it weighed heavily 
 on the laurels and fir-trees, till it fell from them with a shud- 
 dering sound ; it clothed the rough turnip-field with whiteness, 
 and made the sheep look like dark blotches ; the gates were 
 all blocked up with the sloping drifts, and here and there 
 a disregarded four-footed beast stood as if petrified " in unre- 
 cumbent sadness ; " there was no gleam, no shadow, for the 
 heavens, too, were one still, pale cloud ; no sound or motion in 
 anything but the dark river that flowed and moaned like an 
 unresting sorrow. But old Christmas smiled as he laid this 
 cruel-seeming spell on the outdoor world, for he meant to 
 light up home with new brightness, to deepen all the richness 
 of indoor colour, and give a keener edge of delight to the 
 warm fragrance of food ; he meant to prepare a sweet impris- 
 onment that would strengthen the primitive fellowship of kin- 
 dred, and make the sunshine of familiar human faces as 
 welcome as the hidden day-star. His kindness fell but hardly 
 on the homeless, fell but hardly on the homes where the 
 hearth was not very warm, and where the food had little 
 fragrance ; where the human faces had no sunshine in them, 
 'rut rather the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of unexpectant want. 
 ]-Ii it the fine old season meant well ; and if he has not learned 
 the secret how to bless men impartially, it is because his 
 father Time, with ever-unrelenting purpose, still hides that 
 secret in his own mighty, slow-beating heart. 
 
 And yet this Christmas day, in spite of Tom's fresh delight 
 in home, was not, he thought, somehow or other, quite so happy 
 as it had always been before. The red berries were just as 
 abundant on the holly, and he and Maggie had dressed all the 
 windows and mantelpieces and picture-frames on Christmas 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 141 
 
 eve with as much taste as ever, wedding the thick-set scarlet 
 clusters with branches of the black-berried ivy. There had 
 been singing under the windows after midnight, supernatural 
 singing, Maggie always felt, in spite of Tom's contemptuous 
 insistence that the singers were old Patch, the parish clerk, and 
 the rest of the church choir ; she trembled with awe when their 
 carolling broke in upon her dreams, and the image of men in 
 ftistian clothes was always thrust away by the vision of angels 
 resting on the parted cloud. The midnight chant had helped as 
 usual to lift the morning above the level of common days ; and 
 then there was the smell of hot toast and ale from the kitchen, 
 at the breakfast hour ; the favourite anthem, the green boughs, 
 and the short sermon gave the appropriate festal character to 
 the church-going ; and aunt and uncle Moss, with all their 
 seven children, were looking like so many reflectors of the 
 bright parlour-fire, when the church-goers came back, stamp- 
 ing the snow from their feet. The plum-pudding was of the 
 same handsome roundness as ever, and came in with the sym- 
 bolic blue flames around it, as if it had been heroically snatched 
 from the nether fires, into which it had been thrown by dys- 
 peptic Puritans ; the dessert was as splendid as ever, with its 
 golden oranges, brown nuts, and the crystalline light and dark 
 of apple-jelly and damson cheese ; in all these things Christmas 
 was as it had always been since Tom could remember ; it was 
 only distinguished, if by anything, by superior sliding and 
 snowballs. 
 
 Christmas was cheery, but not so Mr. Tulliver. He was 
 irate and defiant ; and Tom, though he espoused his father's 
 quarrels and shared his father's sense of injury, was not with- 
 out some of the feeling that oppressed Maggie when Mr. Tul- 
 liver got louder and more angry in narration and assertion 
 with the increased leisure of dessert. The attention that Tom 
 might have concentrated on his nuts and wine was distracted 
 by a sense that there were rascally enemies in the world, and 
 that the business of grown-up life could hardly be conducted 
 without a good deal of quarrelling. Now, Tom was not fond of 
 quarrelling, unless it could soon be put an end to by a fair 
 stand-up fight with an adversary whom he had every chance 
 of thrashing ; and his father's irritable talk made him uncom- 
 fortable, though he never accounted to himself for the feeling, 
 or conceived the notion that his father was faulty in this 
 respect. 
 
 The particular embodiment of the evil principle now excit- 
 ing Mr. Tulliver's determined resistance was Mr. Pivart, who, 
 
142 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 having lands higher up the Eipple, was taking measures for 
 their irrigation, which either were, or would be, or were bound 
 to be (on the principle that water was water), an infringement 
 on Mr. Tulliver's legitimate share of water-power. Dix, who 
 had a mill on the stream, was a feeble auxiliary of Old Harry 
 compared with Fivart. Dix had been brought to his senses by 
 arbitration, and Wakem's advice had not carried him far. No ; 
 Dix, Mr. Tulliver considered, had been as good as nowhere in 
 point of law ; and in the intensity of his indignation against 
 Fivart, his contempt for a baffled adversary like Dix began to 
 wear the air of a friendly attachment. He had no male audi- 
 ence to-day except Mr. Moss, who knew nothing, as he said, 
 of the "natur' o' mills," and could only assent to Mr. Tulli- 
 ver's arguments on the a priori ground of family relationship 
 and monetary obligation ; but Mr. Tulliver did not talk with 
 the futile intention of convincing his audience, he talked to 
 relieve himself; while good Mr. Moss made strong efforts to 
 keep his eyes wide open, in spite of the sleepiness which an 
 unusually good dinner produced in his hard-worked frame. 
 Mrs. Moss, more alive to the subject, and interested in every- 
 thing that affected her brother, listened and put in a word as 
 often as maternal preoccupations allowed. 
 
 " Why, Fivart 's a new name hereabout, brother, is n't it ? " 
 she said ; " he did n't own the land in father's time, nor yours 
 either, before I was married." 
 
 "New name ? Yes, I should think it is a new name," said 
 Mr. Tulliver, with angry emphasis. " Dorlcote Mill 's been in 
 our family a hundred year and better, and nobody ever heard 
 of a Fivart meddling with the river, till this fellow came and 
 bought Bincome's farm out of hand, before anybody else could 
 so much as say ' snap.' But I '11 Pivart him ! " added Mr. Tul- 
 liver, lifting his glass with a sense that he had defined his 
 resolution in an unmistakable manner. 
 
 "You won't be forced to go to law with him, I hope, 
 brother ? " said Mrs. Moss, with some anxiety. 
 
 " I don't know what I shall be forced to ; but I know what 
 I shall force him to, with his dykes and erigations, if there 's 
 any law to be brought to bear o' the right side. I know well 
 enough who 's at the bottom of it ; he 's got Wakem to back 
 him and egg him on. I know Wakem tells him the law can't 
 touch him for it, but there 's folks can handle the law besides 
 Wakem. It takes a big raskil to beat him ; but there 's bigger 
 to be found, as know more o' th' ins and outs o' the law, else 
 how came Wakem to lose Brumley's suit for him ? " 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 143 
 
 Mr. Tulliver was a strictly honest man, and proud of being 
 honest, but he considered that in law the ends of justice could 
 only be achieved by employing a stronger knave to frustrate a 
 weaker. Law was a sort of cock-fight, in which it was the 
 business of injured honesty to get a game bird with the best 
 pluck and the strongest spurs. 
 
 " Gore 's no fool ; you need n't tell me that," he observed 
 presently, in a pugnacious tone, as if poor Gritty had been 
 urging that lawyer's capabilities ; " but, you see, he is n't up 
 to the law as Wakem is. And water 's a very particular thing ; 
 you can't pick it up with a pitchfork. That 's why it 's 
 been nuts to Old Harry and the lawyers. It 's plain enough 
 what 's the rights and the wrongs of water, if you look at it 
 straightforrard ; for a river 's a river, and if you 've got a 
 mill, you must have water to turn it ; and it 's no use telling 
 me Pivart's erigation and nonsense won't stop my wheel ; I 
 knoAv what belongs to water better than that. Talk to me o' 
 what th' engineers say ! I say it 's common sense, as Pivart's 
 dykes must do me an injury. But if that 's their engineering, 
 I '11 put Tom to it by-and-by, and he shall see if he can't find 
 a bit more sense in th' engineering business than what that 
 comes to." 
 
 Tom, looking round with some anxiety at this announcement 
 of his prospects, unthinkingly withdrew a small rattle he was 
 amusing baby Moss with, whereupon she, being a baby that 
 knew her own mind with remarkable clearness, instantane- 
 ously expressed her sentiments in a piercing yell, and was not 
 to be appeased even by the restoration of the rattle, feeling 
 apparently that the original wrong of having it taken from 
 her remained in all its force. Mrs. Moss hurried away with 
 her into another room, and expressed to Mrs. Tulliver, who 
 accompanied her, the conviction that the dear child had good 
 reasons for crying; implying that if it was supposed to be 
 the rattle that baby clamoured for, she was a misunderstood 
 baby. The thoroughly justifiable yell being quieted, Mrs. 
 Moss looked at her sister-in-law and said, 
 
 " I 'm sorry to see brother so put out about this water work." 
 
 " It 's your brother's way, Mrs. Moss ; I 'd never anything 
 o' that sort before I was married," said Mrs. Tulliver, with a 
 half-implied reproach. She always spoke of her husband as 
 " your brother " to Mrs. Moss in any case when his line of 
 conduct was not matter of pure admiration. Amiable Mrs. 
 Tulliver, who was never angry in her life, had yet her mild 
 share of that spirit without which she could hardly have been 
 
144 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 at once a Dodson and a woman. Being always on the defensive 
 towards her own sisters, it was natural that she should be 
 keenly conscious of her superiority, even as the weakest Dod- 
 son, over a husband's sister, who, besides being poorly off, and 
 inclined to " hang on " her brother, had the good-natured sub- 
 missiveness of a large, easy-tempered, untidy, prolific woman, 
 with affection enough in her not only for her own husband 
 and abundant children, but for any number of collateral 
 relations. 
 
 " I hope and pray he won't go to law," said Mrs. Moss, " for 
 there 's never any knowing where that '11 end. And the right 
 does n't allays win. This Mr. Pivart 's a rich man, by what 
 I can make out, and the rich mostly get things their own 
 way." 
 
 " As to that," said Mrs. Tulliver, stroking her dress down, 
 " I 've seen what riches are in my own family ; for my sisters 
 have got husbands as can afford to do pretty much what they 
 like. But I think sometimes I shall be drove off my head 
 with the talk about this law and erigation ; and my sisters lay 
 all the fault to me, for they don't know what it is to marry a 
 man like your brother ; how should they ? Sister Pullet has 
 her own way from morning till night." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Moss, " I don't think I should like my hus- 
 band if he had n't got any wits of his own, and I had to find 
 head-piece for him. It 's a deal easier to do what pleases 
 one's husband, than to be puzzling what else one should do." 
 
 " If people come to talk o' doing what pleases their hus- 
 bands," said Mrs. Tulliver, with a faint imitation of her sister 
 Glegg, "I'm sure your brother might have waited a long 
 while before he 'd have found a wife that 'ud have let him 
 have his say in everything, as I do. It 's nothing but law and 
 erigation now, from when we first get up in the morning till 
 we go to bed at night ; and I never contradict him ; I only 
 say, 'Well, Mr. Tulliver, do as you like; but whativer you 
 do, don't go to law.' " 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver, as we have seen, was not without influence 
 over her husband. No woman is ; she can always incline him 
 to do either what she wishes, or the reverse ; and on the com- 
 posite impulses that were threatening to hurry Mr. Tulliver 
 into "law," Mrs. Tulliver's monotonous pleading had doubt- 
 less its share of force ; it might even be comparable to that 
 proverbial feather which has the credit or discredit of break- 
 ing the camel's back ; though, on a strictly impartial view, 
 the blame ought rather to lie with the previous weight of 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 145 
 
 feathers which had already placed the back in such imminent 
 peril that an otherwise innocent feather could not settle on it 
 without mischief. Not that Mrs. Tulliver's feeble beseeching 
 could have had this feather's weight in virtue of her single 
 personality ; but whenever she departed from entire assent to 
 her husband, he saw in her the representative of the Dodson 
 family ; and it was a guiding principle with Mr. Tulliver to 
 let the Dodsons know that they were not to domineer over 
 him, or more specifically that a male Tulliver was far 
 more than equal to four female Dodsons, even though one of 
 them was Mrs. Glegg. 
 
 But not even a direct argument from that typical Dodson 
 female herself against his going to law could have heightened 
 his disposition towards it so much as the mere thought of 
 Wakem, continually freshened by the sight of the too able 
 attorney on market-clays. Wakem, to his certain knowledge, 
 was (metaphorically speaking) at the bottom of Pivart's irri- 
 gation ; Wakem had tried to make Dix stand out, and go to 
 law about the dam ; it was unquestionably Wakem who had 
 caused Mr. Tulliver to lose the suit about the right of road 
 and the bridge that made a thoroughfare of his land for every 
 vagabond who preferred an opportunity of damaging private 
 property to walking like an honest man along the highroad ; 
 all lawyers were more or less rascals, but Wakem's rascality 
 was of that peculiarly aggravated kind which placed itself in 
 opposition to that form of right embodied in Mr. Tulliver's 
 interests and opinions. And as an extra touch of bitterness, 
 the injured miller had recently, in borrowing the five hundred 
 pounds, been obliged to carry a little business to Wakem's 
 office on his own account. A hook-nosed glib fellow ! as cool 
 as a cucumber, always looking so sure of his game ! And 
 it was vexatious that Lawyer Gore was not more like him, but 
 was a bald, round-featured man, with bland manners and fat 
 hands ; a game-cock that you would be rash to bet upon 
 against Wakem. Gore was a sly fellow. His weakness did 
 not lie on the side of scrupulosity ; but the largest amount 
 of winking, however significant, is not equivalent to seeing 
 through a stone wall ; and confident as Mr. Tulliver was in his 
 principle that water was water, and in the direct inference 
 that Pivart had not a leg to stand on in this affair of irriga- 
 tion, he had an uncomfortable suspicion that Wakem had 
 more law to show against this (rationally) irrefragable infer- 
 ence, than Gore could show for it. But then, if they went 
 to law, there was a chance for Mr. Tulliver to employ Coun- 
 
 10 
 
146 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 seller Wylde on his side, instead of having that admirable 
 bully against him; and the prospect of seeing a witness of 
 Wakem's made to perspire and become confounded, as Mr. 
 Tulliver's witness had once been, was alluring to the love of 
 retributive justice. 
 
 Much rumination had Mr. Tulliver on these puzzling subjects 
 during his rides on the grey horse ; much turning of the head 
 from side to side, as the scales dipped alternately; but the 
 probable result was still out of sight, only to be reached 
 through much hot argument and iteration in domestic and 
 social life. That initial stage of the dispute which consisted 
 in the narration of the case and the enforcement of Mr. Tulli- 
 ver's views concerning it throughout the entire circle of his 
 connections would necessarily take time ; and at the beginning 
 of February, when Tom was going to school again, there were 
 scarcely any new items to be detected in his father's statement 
 of the case against Pivart, or any more specific indication of 
 the measures he was bent on taking against that rash con- 
 travener of the principle that water was water. Iteration, 
 like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of progress, and 
 Mr. Tulliver's heat was certainly more and more palpable. If 
 there had been no new evidence on any other point, there had 
 been new evidence that Pivart was as " thick as mud " with 
 Wakem. 
 
 " Father," said Tom, one evening near the end of the holi- 
 days, " uncle Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to send his 
 son to Mr. Stelling. It is n't true, what they said about his 
 going to be sent to France. You won't like me to go to school 
 with Wakem's son, shall you ? " 
 
 " It 's no matter for that, my boy," said Mr. Tulliver ; " don't 
 you learn anything bad of him, that's all. The lad's a poor 
 deformed creatur, and takes after his mother in the face ; I 
 think there is n't much of his father in him. It 's a sign 
 Wakem thinks high o' Mr. Stelling, as he sends his son to 
 him, and Wakem knows meal from bran." 
 
 .Mr. Tulliver in his heart was rather proud of the fact that 
 his son was to have the same advantages as Wakem's ; but 
 Tom was not at all easy on the point. It would have been 
 much clearer if the lawyer's son had not been deformed, 
 for then Tom would have had the prospect of pitching into 
 him with all that freedom which is derived from a high moral 
 sanction. 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 147 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE NEW SCHOOLFELLOW. 
 
 IT was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to 
 school ; a day quite in keeping with this severe phase of his 
 destiny. If he had not carried in his pocket a parcel of sugar- 
 candy and a small Dutch doll for little Laura, there would 
 have been no ray of expected pleasure to enliven the general 
 gloom. But he liked to think how Laura would put out her 
 lips and her tiny hands for the bits of sugar-candy ; and to 
 give the greater keenness to these pleasures of imagination, he 
 took out the parcel, made a small hole in the paper, and bit off 
 a crystal or two, which had so solacing an effect under the 
 confined prospect and damp odors of the gig-umbrella, that he 
 repeated the process more than once on his way. 
 
 " Well, Tulliver, we 're glad to see you again," said Mr. 
 Stelling, heartily. "Take off your wrappings and come into 
 the study till dinner. You '11 find a bright fire there, and a 
 new companion." 
 
 Tom felt in an uncomfortable flutter as he took off his 
 woollen comforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip 
 Wakem at St. Ogg's, but had always turned his eyes away 
 from him as quickly as possible. He would have disliked 
 having a deformed boy for his companion, even if Philip had 
 not been the son of a bad man. And Tom did not see how 
 a bad man's son could be very good. His own father was 
 a good man, and he would readily have fought any one who 
 said the contrary. He was in a state of mingled embarrass- 
 ment and defiance as he followed Mr. Stelling to the study. 
 
 " Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with, 
 Tulliver," said that gentleman on entering the study, 
 " Master Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make acquaint- 
 ance by yourselves. You already know something of each 
 other, I imagine ; for you are neighbours at home." 
 
 Tom looked confused and awkward, while Philip rose and 
 glanced at him timidly. Tom did not like to go up and put 
 out his hand, and he was not prepared to say, " How do you 
 do ? " 011 so short a notice. 
 
148 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Mr. Stalling wisely turned away, and closed the door behind 
 him; boys' shyness only wears off in the absence of their 
 riders. 
 
 1 'liilip was at once too proud and too timid to walk towards 
 Tom. He thought, or rather felt, that Tom had an aversion 
 to looking at him ; every one, almost, disliked looking at him ; 
 and his deformity was more conspicuous when he walked. So 
 they remained without shaking hands or even speaking, while 
 Tom went to the fire and warmed himself, every now and then 
 casting furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to be drawing 
 absently first one object and then another on a piece of paper 
 he had before him. He had seated himself again, and as he 
 drew, was thinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to 
 overcome his own repugnance to making the first advances. 
 
 Tom began to look oftener and longer at Philip's face, for 
 he could see it without noticing the hump, and it was really 
 not a disagreeable face, very old-looking, Tom thought. He 
 wondered how much older Philip was than himself. An an- 
 atomist even a mere physiognomist would have seen 
 that the deformity of Philip's spine was not a congenital 
 hump, but the result of an accident in infancy ; but you do 
 not expect from Tom any acquaintance Avith such distinc- 
 tions ; to him, Philip was simply a humpback. He had a 
 vague notion that the deformity of Wakem's son had some 
 relation to the lawyer's rascality, of which he had so often 
 heard his father talk with hot emphasis ; and he felt, too, a 
 half-admitted fear of him as probably a spiteful fellow, who, 
 not being able to fight you, had cunning ways of doing you a 
 mischief by the sly. There was a humpbacked tailor in the 
 neighbourhood of Mr. Jacobs's academy, who was considered 
 a very unamiable character, and was much hooted after by 
 public-spirited boys solely on the ground of his unsatisfactory 
 moral qualities ; so that Tom was not without a basis of fact 
 to go upon. Still, no face could be more unlike that ugly 
 tailor's than this melancholy boy's face, the brown hair 
 round it waved and curled at the ends like a girl's ; Tom 
 thought that truly pitiable. This Wakem was a pale, puny 
 fellow, and it was quite clear he would not be able to play at 
 anything worth speaking of ; but he handled his pencil in an 
 enviable manner, and was apparently making one thing after 
 another without any trouble. What was he drawing ? Tom 
 was quite warm now, and wanted something new to be going 
 forward. It was certainly more agreeable to have an ill- 
 natured humpback as a companion than to stand looking out 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 149 
 
 of the study window at the rain, and kicking his foot against 
 the washboard in solitude ; something would happen every 
 day, " a quarrel or something ; " and Tom thought he 
 should rather like to show Philip that he had better not 
 try his spiteful tricks on him. He suddenly walked across 
 the hearth and looked over Philip's paper. 
 
 " Why, that 's a donkey with panniers, and a spaniel, and 
 partridges in the corn ! " he exclaimed, his tongue being com- 
 pletely loosed by surprise and admiration. " my buttons ! 
 I wish I could draw like that. I 'm to learn drawing this half ; 
 I wonder if I shall learn to make dogs and donkeys ! " 
 
 " Oh, you can do them without learning," said Philip ; " I 
 never learned drawing." 
 
 " Never learned ? " said Tom, in amazement. " Why, when 
 I make dogs and horses, and those things, the heads and the 
 legs won't come right ; though I can see how they ought to be 
 very well. I can make houses, and all sorts of chimneys, 
 chimneys going all down the wall, and windows in the roof, 
 and all that. But I daresay I could do dogs and horses if I was 
 to try more," he added, reflecting that Philip might falsely 
 suppose that he was "oing to "knock under," if he were too 
 frank about the imperfection of his accomplishments. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Philip, " it 's very easy. You 've only to 
 look well at things, and draw them over and over again. What 
 you do wrong once, you can alter the next time." 
 
 " But have n't you been taught anything ? " said Tom, be- 
 ginning to have a puzzled suspicion that Philip's crooked back 
 might be the source of remarkable faculties. " I thought 
 you 'd been to school a long while." 
 
 " Yes," said Philip, smiling ; " I 've been taught Latin and 
 Greek and mathematics, and writing and such things." 
 
 " Oh, but I say, you don't like Latin, though, do you ? " said 
 Tom, lowering his voice confidentially. 
 
 " Pretty well ; I don't care much about it," said Philip. 
 
 " Ah, but perhaps you have n't got into the Propria quce 
 maribus," said Tom, nodding his head sideways, as much as to 
 say, " that was the test ; it was easy talking till you came to 
 that." 
 
 Philip felt some bitter complacency in the promising stupid- 
 ity of this well-made, active-looking boy ; but made polite by 
 his own extreme sensitiveness, as well as by his desire to con- 
 ciliate, he checked his inclination to laugh, and said quietly, 
 
 "I 've done with the grammar j I don't learn that any 
 more." 
 
150 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall ? " said 
 Tom, with a sense of disappointment. 
 
 " No ; but I daresay I can help you. I shall be very glad to 
 help you if I can." 
 
 Tom did not say " Thank you," for he was quite absorbed in 
 the thought that Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a fellow 
 as might have been expected. 
 
 " I say," he said presently, " do you love your father ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Philip, colouring deeply ; " don't you love 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Oh yes I only wanted to know," said Tom, rather 
 ashamed of himself, now he saw Philip colouring and looking 
 uncomfortable. He found much difficulty in adjusting his 
 attitude of mind towards the son of Lawyer Wakem, and it 
 had occurred to him that if Philip disliked his father, that 
 fact might go some way towards clearing up his perplexity. 
 
 " Shall you learn drawing now ? " he said, by way of chang- 
 ing the subject. 
 
 " No," said Philip. " My father wishes me to give all my 
 time to other things now." 
 
 " What ! Latin and Euclid, and those things ? " said Tom. 
 
 "Yes," said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and 
 was resting his head on one hand, while Tom was leaning for- 
 ward on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration 
 at the dog and the donkey. 
 
 " And you don't mind that ? " said Tom, with strong curiosity. 
 
 "No; I like to know what everybody else knows. I can 
 study what I like by-and-by." 
 
 " I can't think why anybody should learn Latin," said Tom. 
 " It 's no good." 
 
 " It 's part of the education of a gentleman," said Philip. 
 "All gentlemen learn the same things." 
 
 " What ! do you think Sir John Crake, the master of the 
 harriers, knows Latin ? " said Tom, who had often thought he 
 should like to resemble Sir John Crake. 
 
 " He learned it when he was a boy, of course," said Philip. 
 " But I daresay he 's forgotten it." 
 
 "Oh, well, I can do that, then," said Tom, not with any 
 epigrammatic intention, but with serious satisfaction at the 
 idea that, as far as Latin was concerned, there was no hindrance 
 to his resembling Sir John Crake. " Only you 're obliged to 
 remember it while you 're at school, else you 've got to learn 
 ever so many lines of ' Speaker.' Mr. Stelling 's very partic- 
 ular did you know ? He '11 have you up ten times if you 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 151 
 
 say 'nam' for 'jam,' he won't let you go a letter wrong, 1 
 can tell you." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind," said Philip, unable to choke a laugh ; 
 " I can remember things easily. And there are some lessons 
 I 'm very fond of. I 'm very fond of Greek history, and 
 everything about the Greeks. I should like to have been a 
 Greek and fought the Persians, and then have come home and 
 have written tragedies, or else have been listened to by every- 
 body for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a grand 
 death." (Philip, you perceive, was not without a wish to 
 impress the well-made barbarian with a sense of his mental 
 superiority.) 
 
 " Why, were the Greeks great fighters ? " said Tom, who 
 saw a vista in this direction. " Is there anything like David 
 and Goliath and Samson, in the Greek history ? Those are 
 the only bits I like in the history of the Jews." 
 
 "Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the 
 Greeks, about the heroes of early times who killed the wild 
 beasts, as Samson did. And in the Odyssey that 's a 
 beautiful poem there 's a more wonderful giant than Goliath, 
 Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle of his fore- 
 head ; and Ulysses, a little fellow, but very wise and cunning, 
 got a red-hot pine-tree and stuck it into this one eye, and made 
 him roar like a thousand bulls." 
 
 " Oh, what fun ! " said Tom, jumping away from the table, 
 and stamping first with one leg and then the other. " I say, 
 can you tell me all about those stories ? Because I sha' n't 
 learn Greek, you know. Shall I ? " he added, pausing in his 
 stamping with a sudden alarm, lest the contrary might be 
 possible. " Does every gentleman learn Greek ? Will Mr. 
 Stelling make me begin with it, do you think ? " 
 
 "No, I should think not, very likely not," said Philip. 
 "But you may read those stories without knowing Greek. 
 I've got them in English." 
 
 "Oh, but I don't like reading; I'd sooner have you tell 
 them me. But only the fighting ones, you know. My sister 
 Maggie is always wanting to tell me stories, but they 're stu- 
 pid things. Girls ' stories always are. Can you tell a good 
 many fighting stories ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said Philip ; " lots of them, besides the Greek 
 stories. I can tell you about Kichard Co?ur-de-Lion and Sala- 
 din, and about William Wallace and Kobert Bruce and James 
 Douglas, I know no end." 
 
 " You 're older than I am, are n't you ? " said Tom. 
 
152 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Why, how old are you ? I 'm fifteen." 
 
 " I 'm only going in fourteen," said Tom. " But I thrashed 
 all the fellows at Jacobs 's that 's where I was before I came 
 here. And I beat 'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish 
 Mr. Stelling would let us go fishing. / could show you how 
 to fish. You could fish, could n't you ? It 's only standing, 
 and sitting still, you know." 
 
 Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his 
 favour. This hunchback must not suppose that his acquaint- 
 ance with fighting stories put him on a par with an actual 
 fighting hero, like Tom Tulliver. Philip winced under this 
 allusion to his uiifitness for active sports, and he answered 
 almost peevishly, 
 
 " I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting 
 watching a line hour after hour, or else throwing and throw- 
 ing, and catching nothing." 
 
 "Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when 
 they landed a big pike, I can tell you," said Torn, who had 
 never caught anything that was " big " in his life, but whose 
 imagination was on the stretch with indignant zeal for the 
 honour of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his dis- 
 agreeable points, and must be kept in due check. Happily 
 for the harmony of this first interview, they were now called 
 to dinner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his 
 unsound views on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to 
 iiimself, that was just what he should have expected from a 
 hunchback. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "THE YOUNG IDEA." 
 
 THE alternations of feeling in that first dialogue between 
 Tom and Philip continued to mark their intercourse even after 
 many weeks of schoolboy intimacy. Tom never quite lost 
 the feeling that Philip, being the son of a " rascal," was his 
 natural enemy ; never thoroughly overcame his repulsion to 
 Philip's deformity. He was a boy who adhered tenaciously to 
 impressions once received ; as with all minds in which mere 
 perception predominates over thought and emotion, the exter- 
 nal remained to him rigidly what it was in the first instance. 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 153 
 
 But then it was impossible not to like Philip's company 
 when he was in a good humour ; he could help one so well in 
 one's Latin exercises, which Tom regarded as a kind of puzzle 
 that could only be found out by a lucky chance ; and he 
 could tell such wonderful fighting stories about Hal of the 
 Wynd, for example, and other heroes who were especial fa- 
 vourites with Tom, because they laid about them with heavy 
 strokes. He had small opinion of Saladin, whose scimitar 
 could cut a cushion in two in an instant; who wanted to 
 cut cushions ? That was a stupid story, and he did n't care 
 to hear it again. But when Robert Bruce, on the black pony, 
 rose in his stirrups, and lifting his good battle-axe, cracked 
 at once the helmet and the skull of the too hasty knight at 
 Bannockburn, then Tom felt all the exaltation of sympathy, 
 and if he had had a cocoa-nut at hand, he would have cracked 
 it at once with the poker. Philip in his happier moods in- 
 dulged Tom to the top of his bent, heightening the crash and 
 bang and fury of every fight with all the artillery of epithets 
 and similes at his command. But he was not always in a 
 good humour or happy mood. The slight spurt of peevish 
 susceptibility which had escaped him in their first interview 
 was a symptom of a perpetually recurring mental ailment, 
 half of it nervous irritability, half of it the heart-bitterness 
 produced by the sense of his deformity. In these fits of sus- 
 ceptibility every glance seemed to him to be charged either 
 with offensive pity or with ill-repressed disgust ; at the very 
 least it was an indifferent glance, and Philip felt indifference 
 as a child of the south feels the chill air of a northern spring. 
 Poor Tom's blundering patronage when they were out of doors 
 together would sometimes make him turn upon the well-mean- 
 ing lad quite savagely ; and his eyes, usually sad and quiet, 
 would flash with anything but playful lightning. No wonder 
 Tom retained his suspicions of the humpback. 
 
 But Philip's self-taught skill in drawing was another link 
 between them ; for Tom found, to his disgust, that his new 
 drawing-master gave him no dogs and donkeys to draw, but 
 brooks and rustic bridges and ruins, all with a general softness 
 of black-lead surface, indicating that nature, if anything, was 
 rather satiny; and as Tom's feeling for the picturesque in 
 landscape was at present quite latent, it is not surprising that 
 Mr. Goodrich's productions seemed to him an uninteresting 
 form of art. Mr. Tulliver, having a vague intention that Tom 
 should be put to some business which included the drawing 
 out of plans and maps, had complained to Mr. Riley, when he 
 
154 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 saw him at Mudport, that Tom seemed to be learning nothing 
 of that sort ; whereupon that obliging adviser had suggested 
 that Tom should have drawing-lessons. Mr. Tulliver must 
 not mind paying extra for drawing ; let Tom be made a good 
 draughtsman, and he would be able to turn his pencil to any 
 purpose. So it was ordered that Tom should have drawing- 
 lessons; and whom should Mr. Stelling have selected as a 
 master if not Mr. Goodrich, who was considered quite at the 
 head of his profession within a circuit of twelve miles round 
 King's Lorton ? By which means Tom learned to make an 
 extremely fine point to his pencil, and to represent landscape 
 with a "broad generality," which, doubtless from a narrow 
 tendency in his mind to details, he thought extremely dull. 
 
 All this, you remember, happened in those dark ages when 
 there were no schools of design ; before schoolmasters were 
 invariably men of scrupulous integrity, and before the clergy 
 were all men of enlarged minds and varied culture. In those 
 less favoured days, it is no fable that there were other clergy- 
 men besides Mr. Stelling who had narrow intellects and large 
 wants, and whose income, by a logical confusion to which 
 Fortune, being a female as well as blindfold, is peculiarly 
 liable, was proportioned not to their wants but to their intel- 
 lect, with which income has clearly no inherent relation. 
 The problem these gentlemen had to solve was to readjust 
 the proportion between their wants and their income ; and 
 since wants are not easily starved to death, the simpler method 
 appeared to be to raise their income. There was but one 
 way of doing this ; any of those low callings in which men 
 are obliged to do good work at a low price were forbidden to 
 clergymen; was it their fault if their only resource was to 
 turn out very poor work at a high price ? Besides, how 
 should Mr. Stelling be expected to know that education was a 
 delicate and difficult business, any more than an animal en- 
 dowed with a power of boring a hole through a rock should 
 be expected to have wide views of excavation ? Mr. Stelling's 
 faculties had been early trained to boring in a straight line, 
 and he had no faculty to spare. But among Tom's contempo- 
 raries, whose fathers cast their sons on clerical instruction to 
 find them ignorant after many days, there were many far less 
 lucky than Tom Tulliver. Education was almost entirely a 
 matter of luck usually of ill-luck in those distant days. 
 The state of mind in which you take a billiard-cue or a dice- 
 box in your hand is one of sober certainty compared with that 
 of old-fashioned fathers, like Mr. Tulliver, when they selected 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 155 
 
 a school or a tutor for their sons. Excellent men, who had 
 been forced all their lives to spell on an impromptu-phonetic 
 system, and having carried on a successful business in spite of 
 this disadvantage, had acquired money enough to give their 
 sons a better start in life than they had had themselves, must 
 necessarily take their chance as to the conscience and the com- 
 petence of the schoolmaster whose circular fell in their way, 
 and appeared to promise so much more than they would ever 
 have thought of asking for, including the return of linen, 
 fork, and spoon. It was happy for them if some ambitious 
 draper of their acquaintance had not brought up his son to 
 the Church, and if that young gentleman, at the age of four- 
 and-twenty, had not closed his college dissipations by an im- 
 prudent marriage ; otherwise, these innocent fathers, desirous 
 of doing the best for their offspring, could only escape the 
 draper's son by happening to be on the foundation of a gram- 
 mar-school as yet unvisited by commissioners, where two or 
 three boys could have, all to themselves, the advantages of a 
 large and lofty building, together with a head-master, tooth- 
 less, dim-eyed and deaf, whose erudite indistinctness and in- 
 attention were engrossed by them at the rate of three hundred 
 pounds a-head, a ripe scholar, doubtless, when first appointed ; 
 but all ripeness beneath the sun has a further stage less es- 
 teemed in the market. 
 
 Tom Tulliver, then, compared with many other British 
 youths of his time who have since had to scramble through 
 life with some fragments of more or less relevant knowledge, 
 and a great deal of strictly relevant ignorance, was not so very 
 unlucky. Mr. Stelling was a broad-chested, healthy man, with 
 the bearing of a gentleman, a conviction that a growing boy 
 required a sufficiency of beef, and a certain hearty kindness 
 in him that made him like to see Tom looking well and enjoy- 
 ing his dinner ; not a man of refined conscience, or with an} 
 deep sense of the infinite issues belonging to every-day duties 
 not quite competent to his high offices ; but incompetent gen- 
 tlemen must live, and without private fortune it is difficult to 
 see how they could all live genteelly if they had nothing to do 
 with education or government. Besides, it was the fault of 
 Tom's mental constitution that his faculties could not be nour- 
 ished on the sort of knowledge Mr. Stelling had to communi- 
 cate. A boy born with a deficient power of apprehending 
 signs and abstractions must suffer the penalty of his con- 
 genital deficiency, just as if he had been born with one leg 
 shorter than the other. A method of education sanctioned by 
 
156 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the long practice of our venerable ancestors was not to give 
 way before the exceptional dulness of a boy who was merely 
 living at the time then present. And Mr. Stalling was con- 
 vinced that a boy so stupid at signs and abstractions must be 
 stupid at everything else, even if that reverend gentleman 
 could have taught him everything else. It was the practice of 
 our venerable ancestors to apply that ingenious instrument the 
 thumb-screw, and to tighten and tighten it in order to elicit 
 non-existent facts ; they had a fixed opinion to begin with. 
 that the facts were existent, and what hail they to do but to 
 tighten the thumb-screw ? In like manner, Mr. Stelling had 
 a fixed opinion that all boys with any capacity could learn 
 what it was the only regular thing to teach; if they were 
 slow, the thumb-screw must be tightened, the exercises must 
 be insisted on with increased severity, and a page of Virgil 
 be awarded as a penalty, to encourage and stimulate a too 
 languid inclination to Latin verse. 
 
 The thumb-screw was a little relaxed, however, during this 
 second half-year. Philip was so advanced in his studies, and 
 so apt, that Mr. Stelling could obtain credit by his facility, 
 which required little help, much more easily than by the 
 troublesome process of overcoming Tom's dulness. Gentle- 
 men with broad chests and ambitious intentions do sometimes 
 disappoint their friends by failing to carry the world before 
 them. Perhaps it is that high achievements demand some 
 other unusual qualification besides an unusual desire for high 
 prizes ; perhaps it is that these stalwart gentlemen are rather 
 indolent, their dicince particulum aurce being obstructed from 
 soaring by a too hearty appetite. Some reason or other there 
 was why Mr. Stelling deferred the execution of many spirited 
 projects, why he did not begin the editing of his Greek 
 play, or any other work of scholarship, in his leisure hours, 
 but, after turning the key of his private study with much 
 uition, sat down to one of Theodore Hook's novels. Tom 
 was gradually allowed to shuffle through his lessons with less 
 rigour, and having Philip to help him, he was able to make 
 some show of having applied his mind in a confused and 
 blundering way, without being cross-examined into a betrayal 
 that his mind had been entirely neutral in the matter. He 
 thought school much more bearable under this modification of 
 circumstances ; and he went on contentedly enough, picking 
 up a promiscuous education chiefly from things that were not 
 intended as education at all. What was understood to be his 
 education was simply the practice of reading, writing, and 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 157 
 
 spelling, carried on by an elaborate appliance of unintelligible 
 ideas, and by much failure in the effort to learn by rote. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a visible improvement in Tom under 
 this training ; perhaps because he was not a boy in the abstract, 
 existing solely to illustrate the evils of a mistaken education, 
 but a boy made of flesh and blood, with dispositions not en- 
 tirely at the mercy of circumstances. 
 
 There was a great improvement in his bearing, for example ; 
 and some credit on this score was due to Mr. Poulter, the vil- 
 lage schoolmaster, who, being an old Peninsular soldier, was 
 employed to drill Tom, a source of high mutual pleasure. 
 Mr. Poulter, who was understood by the company at the Black 
 Swan to have once struck terror into the hearts of the French, 
 was no longer personally formidable. He had rather a shrunken 
 appearance, and was tremulous in the mornings, not from age, 
 but from the extreme perversity of the King's Lorton boys, 
 which nothing but gin could enable him to sustain with any 
 firmness. Still, he carried himself with martial erectness, had 
 his clothes scrupulously brushed, and his trousers tightly 
 strapped; and on the Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, 
 when he came to Tom, he was always inspired with gin and 
 old memories, which gave him an exceptionally spirited air, 
 as of a superannuated charger who hears the drum. The 
 drilling-lessons were always protracted by episodes of warlike 
 narrative, much more interesting to Tom than Philip's stories 
 out of the Iliad ; for there were no cannon in the Iliad, and 
 besides, Tom had felt some disgust on learning that Hector and 
 Achilles might possibly never have existed. But the Duke 
 of Wellington was really alive, and Bony had not been long 
 dead ; therefore Mr. Poulter's reminiscences of the Peninsular 
 AVar were removed from all suspicion of being mythical. Mr. 
 Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous figure at Talavera, 
 and had contributed not a little to the peculiar terror with 
 which his regiment of infantry was regarded by the enemy. 
 On afternoons when his memory was more stimulated than 
 usual, he remembered that the Duke of Wellington had (in 
 strict privacy, lest jealousies should be awakened) expressed 
 his esteem for that fine fellow Poulter. The very surgeon 
 who attended him in the hospital after he had received his 
 gunshot-wound had been profoundly impressed with the supe- 
 riority of Mr. Poulter's flesh, no other flesh would have 
 healed in anything like the same time. On less personal mat- 
 ters connected Avith the important warfare in which he had 
 been engaged, Mr. Poulter was more reticent, only taking 
 
158 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 care not to give the weight of his authority to any loose 
 notions concerning military history. Any one who pretended 
 to a knowledge of what occurred at the siege of Badajos was 
 especially an object of silent pity to Mr. Poulter; he wished 
 that prating person had been run down, and had the breath 
 trampled out of him at the first go-off, as he himself had, he 
 might talk about the siege of Badajos then! Tom did not 
 escape irritating his drilling-master occasionally, by his curi- 
 osity concerning other military matters than Mr. Poulter's 
 personal experience. 
 
 " And General Wolfe, Mr. Poulter, was n't he a wonderful 
 fighter ? " said Tom, who held the notion that all the martial 
 heroes commemorated on the public-house signs were engaged 
 in the war with Bony. 
 
 " Not at all ! " said Mr. Poulter, contemptuously. " Nothing 
 o' the sort ! Heads up ! " he added, in a tone of stern com- 
 mand, which delighted Tom, and made him feel as if he were 
 a regiment in his own person. 
 
 " No, no ! " Mr. Poulter would continue, on coming to a pause 
 in his discipline ; " they 'd better not talk to me about General 
 Wolfe. He did nothing but die of his wound ; that 's a poor 
 haction, I consider. Any other man 'ud have died o' the 
 wounds I 've had. One of ray sword-cuts 'ud ha' killed a fel- 
 low like General Wolfe." 
 
 " Mr. Poulter," Tom would say, at any allusion to the sword, 
 " I wish you 'd bring your sword and do the sword-exercise ! " 
 
 For a long while Mr. Poulter only shook his head in a 
 significant manner at this request, and smiled patronisingly, 
 as Jupiter may have done when Semele urged her too ambi- 
 tious request. But one afternoon, when a sudden shower of 
 heavy rain had detained Mr. Poulter twenty minutes longer 
 than usual at the Black Swan, the sword was brought, just 
 for Tom to look at. 
 
 " And this is the real sword you fought with in all the bat- 
 tles, Mr. Poulter ? " said Tom, handling the hilt. " Has it ever 
 cut a Frenchman's head off ? " 
 
 " Head off ? Ah ! and would, if he 'd had three heads." 
 
 " But you had a gun and bayonet besides ? " said Tom. 
 " / should like the gun and bayonet best, because you could 
 shoot 'em first and spear 'em after. Bang ! Ps-s-s-s ! " Tom 
 gave the requisite pantomime to indicate the double enjoy- 
 ment of pulling the trigger and thrusting the spear. 
 
 " Ah, but the sword 's the thing when you come to close 
 fighting," said Mr. Poulter, involuntarily falling in with Tom's 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 159 
 
 enthral", sin, and drawing the sword so suddenly that Tom 
 leaped back with much agility. 
 
 " Oh, but, Mr. Poulter, if you 're going to do the exercise," 
 said Tom, a little conscious that he had not stood his ground 
 as became an Englishman, " let me go and call Philip. He '11 
 like to see you, you know." 
 
 " What ! the humpbacked lad ? " said Mr. Poulter, con- 
 temptuously ; " what 's the use of his looking on ? " 
 
 " Oh, but he knows a great deal about fighting," said Tom, 
 " and how they used to fight with bows and arrows, and 
 battle-axes." 
 
 " Let him come, then. I '11 show him something different 
 from his bows and arrows," said Mr. Poulter, coughing and 
 drawing himself up, while he gave a little preliminary play 
 to his wrist. 
 
 Tom ran in to Philip, who was enjoying his afternoon's 
 holiday at the piano, in the drawing-room, picking out tunes 
 for himself and singing them. He was supremely happy, 
 perched like an amorphous bundle on the high stool, with 
 his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on the opposite cornice, 
 and his lips wide open, sending forth, with all his might, im- 
 promptu syllables to a tune of Arne's, which had hit his 
 fancy. 
 
 " Come, Philip," said Tom, bursting in ; " don't stay roar- 
 ing 'la la' there; come and see old Poulter do his sword- 
 exercise in the carriage-house ! " 
 
 The jar of this interruption, the discord of Tom's tones 
 coming across the notes to which Philip was vibrating in 
 soul and body, would have been enough to unhinge his temper, 
 even if there had been no question of Poulter the drilling- 
 master ; and Tom, in the hurry of seizing something to say to 
 prevent Mr. Poulter from thinking he was afraid of the sword 
 when he sprang away from it, had alighted on this proposition 
 to fetch Philip, though he knew well enough that Philip 
 hated to hear him mention his drilling-lessons. Tom would 
 never have done so inconsiderate a thing except under the 
 severe stress of his personal pride. 
 
 Philip shuddered visibly as he paused from his music. 
 Then turning red, he said, with violent passion, 
 
 " Get away, you lumbering idiot ! Don't come bellowing 
 at me ; you 're not fit to speak to anything but a cart-horse ! " 
 
 It was not the first time Philip had been made angry by 
 him, but Tom had never before been assailed with verbal 
 missiles that he understood so well. 
 
160 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " I 'm fit to speak to something better than you, you poor- 
 spirited imp ! " said Tom, lighting up immediately at Philip's 
 fire. " You know I won't hit you, because you 're no better 
 than a girl. But I 'm an honest man's son, and your father 's 
 a rogue ; everybody says so ! " 
 
 Tom flung out of the room, and slammed the door after 
 him, made strangely heedless by his anger ; for to slam doors 
 within the hearing of Mrs. Stelling, who was probably not 
 far off, was an offence only to be wiped out by twenty lines 
 of Virgil. In fact, that lady did presently descend from her 
 room, in double wonder at the noise and the subsequent cessa- 
 tion of Philip's music. She found him sitting in a heap on 
 the hassock, and crying bitterly. 
 
 " What 's the matter, Wakeni ? What was that noise about ? 
 Who slammed the door ? " 
 
 Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. " It was 
 Tulliver who came in to ask me to go out with him." 
 
 " And what are you in trouble about ? " said Mrs. Stelling. 
 
 Philip was not her favourite of the two pupils ; he was 
 less obliging than Tom, who was made useful in many ways. 
 Still, his father paid more than Mr. Tulliver did, and she 
 meant him to feel that she behaved exceedingly well to him. 
 Philip, however, met her advances towards a good understand- 
 ing very much as a caressed mollusk meets an invitation to 
 show himself out of his shell. Mrs. Stclling was not a loving, 
 tender-hearted woman ; she was a woman whose skirt sat well, 
 who adjusted her waist and patted her curls with a preoccu- 
 pied air when she inquired after your welfare. These things, 
 doubtless, represent a great social power, but it is not the 
 power of love ; and no other power could win Philip from his 
 personal reserve. 
 
 He said, in answer to her question, " My toothache came 
 on, and made me hysterical again." 
 
 This had been the fact once, and Philip was glad of the 
 recollection; it was like an inspiration to enable him to 
 excuse his crying. He had to accept eau-de-Cologne and t 
 refuse creosote in consequence; but that was easy. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom, who had for the first time sent a poisoned 
 arrow into Philip's heart, had returned to the carriage-house, 
 where he found Mr. Poulter, with a fixed and earnest eye, 
 wasting the perfections of his sword-exercise on probably 
 observant but inappreciative rats. But Mr. Poulter was a 
 host in himself; that is to say, he admired himself more than 
 a whole army of spectators could have admired him. He took 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 161 
 
 no notice of Tom's return, being too entirely absorbed in the 
 cut and thrust, the solemn one, two, three, four ; and Tom, 
 not without a slight feeling of alarm at Mr. Poulter's fixed 
 eye and hungry-looking sword, which seemed impatient for 
 something else to cut besides the air, admired the performance 
 from as great a distance as possible. It was not until Mr. 
 Poulter paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, 
 that Tom felt the full charm of the sword-exercise, and wished 
 it to be repeated. 
 
 "Mr. Poulter," said Tom, when the sword was being finally 
 sheathed, " I wish you 'd lend me your sword a little while 
 to keep." 
 
 "No, no, young gentleman," said Mr. Poulter, shaking his 
 head decidedly ; " you might do yourself some mischief with 
 it." 
 
 " No, I 'm sure I would n't ; I 'm sure I 'd take care and not 
 hurt myself. I should n't take it out of the sheath much, but 
 I could ground arms with it, and all that." 
 
 " No, no, it won't do, I tell you ; it won't do," said Mr. 
 Poulter, preparing to depart. "What 'ud Mr. Stelling say 
 to me?" 
 
 " Oh, I say, do, Mr. Poulter ! I 'd give you my five-shilling 
 piece if you 'd let me keep the sAvord a week. Look here ! " 
 said Tom, reaching out the attractively large round of silver. 
 The young dog calculated the effect as well as if he had been 
 a philosopher. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Poulter, with still deeper gravity, "you 
 must keep it out of sight, you know." 
 
 "Oh yes, I'll keep it under the bed," said Tom, eagerly, 
 "or else at the bottom of my large box." 
 
 " And let me see, now, whether you can draw it out of the 
 sheath without hurting yourself." 
 
 That process having been gone through more than once, 
 Mr. Poulter felt that he had acted with scrupulous conscien- 
 tiousness, and said, " Well, now, Master Tulliver, if I take the 
 crown-piece, it is to make sure as you '11 do no mischief with 
 the sword." 
 
 " Oh no, indeed, Mr. Poulter," said Tom, delightedly hand- 
 ing him the crown-piece, and grasping the sword, which, he 
 thought, might have been lighter with advantage. 
 
 " But if Mr. Stelling catches you carrying it in ? " said Mr. 
 Poulter, pocketing the crown-piece provisionally while he 
 raised this new doubt. 
 
 " Oh, he always keeps in his up-stairs study on Saturday af- 
 
 11 
 
162 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 ternoons," said Tom, who disliked anything sneaking, but was 
 not disinclined to a little stratagem in a worthy cause. So he 
 carried off the sword in triumph mixed with dread dread 
 that he might encounter Mr. or Mrs. Stelling to his bed- 
 room, where, after some consideration, he hid it in the closet 
 behind some hanging clothes. That night he fell asleep in 
 the thought that he would astonish Maggie with it when she 
 came, tie it round his waist with his red comforter, and 
 make her believe that the sword was his own, and that he was 
 going to be a soldier. There was nobody but Maggie who 
 would be silly enough to believe him, or whom he dared allow 
 to know that he had a sword ; and Maggie was really coining 
 next week to see Tom, before she went to a boarding-school 
 with Lucy. 
 
 If you think a lad of thirteen would not have been so child- 
 ish, you must be an exceptionally wise man, who, although 
 you are devoted to a civil calling, requiring you to look bland 
 rather than formidable, yet never, since you had a beard, 
 threw yourself into a martial attitude, and frowned before the 
 looking-glass. It is doubtful whether our soldiers would be 
 maintained if there were not pacific people at home who like 
 to fancy themselves soldiers. War, like other dramatic spec- 
 tacles, might possibly cease for want of a " public." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 MAGGIE'S SECOND VISIT. 
 
 THIS last breach between the two lads was not readily 
 mended, and for some time they spoke to each other no more 
 than was necessary. Their natural antipathy of temperament 
 made resentment an easy passage to hatred, and in Philip the 
 transition seemed to have begun ; there was no malignity in 
 his disposition, but there was a susceptibility that made him 
 peculiarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox 
 we may venture to assert it on the authority of a great classic 
 is not given to use his teeth as an instrument of attack , and 
 Tom was an excellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable ob- 
 jects in a truly ingenious bovine manner; but he had blun- 
 dered on Philip's tenderest point, and had caused him as mur-h 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 163 
 
 acute pain as if he had studied the means with the nicest pre- 
 cision and the most envenomed spite. Tom saw no reason 
 why they should not make up this quarrel as they had done 
 many others, by behaving as if nothing had happened ; for 
 though he had never before said to Philip that his father was 
 a rogue, this idea had so habitually made part of his feeling 
 as to the relation between himself and his dubious school- 
 fellow, whom he could neither like nor dislike, that the mere 
 utterance did not make such an epoch to him as it did to 
 Philip. And he had a right to say so when Philip hectored 
 over hint, and called him names. But perceiving that his first 
 advances towards amity were not met, he relapsed into his 
 least favourable disposition towards Philip, and resolved never 
 to appeal to him either about drawing or exercises again. 
 They were only so far civil to each other as was necessary 
 to prevent their state of feud from being observed by Mr. 
 Stelling, who would have " put down " such nonsense with 
 great vigour. 
 
 When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking 
 with growing interest at the new schoolfellow, although he 
 was the son of that wicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her 
 father so angry. She had arrived in the middle of school- 
 hours, and had sat by while Philip went through his lessons 
 with Mr. Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her word 
 that Philip knew no end of stories, not stupid stories like 
 hers ; and she was convinced now from her own observation 
 that he must be very clever ; she hoped he would think her 
 rather clever too, when she came to talk to him. Maggie, 
 moreover, had rather a tenderness for deformed things ; she 
 preferred the wry-necked lambs, because it seemed to her that 
 the lambs which were quite strong and well made would n't 
 mind so much about being petted ; and she was especially fond 
 of petting objects that would think it very delightful to be 
 petted by her. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often 
 wished that he cared more about her loving him. 
 
 " I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom." she said, 
 when they went out of the study together into the garden, to 
 pass the interval before dinner. "He couldn't choose his 
 father, you know ; and I Ve read of very bad men who had 
 good sons, as well as good parents who had bad children. And 
 if Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more sorry for 
 him because his father is not a good man. You like him, 
 don't you?" 
 
 " Oh, he 's a queer fellow, " said Tom, curtly, "and he's as 
 
164 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 sulky as can be with me, because I told him his father was a 
 rogue. And I 'd a right to tell him so, for it was true ; and 
 he began it, with calling me names. But you stop here by 
 yourself a bit, Magsie, will you ? I 've got something I want 
 to do up-stairs." 
 
 " Can't I go too ? " said Maggie, who in this first day of 
 meeting again loved Tom's shadow. 
 
 " No, it '.s something I '11 tell you about by-and-by, not yet," 
 said Tom, skipping away. 
 
 In the afternoon the boys were at their books in the study, 
 preparing the morrow's lessons, that they might have a holi- 
 day in the evening in honour of Maggie's arrival. Tom was 
 hanging over his Latin grammar, moving his lips inaudibly 
 like a strict but impatient Catholic repeating his tale of pater- 
 nosters ; and Philip, at the other end of the room, was busy 
 with two volumes, with a look of contented diligence that 
 excited Maggie's curiosity ; he did not look at all as if he 
 were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a 
 right angle with the two boys, watching first bne and then the 
 other; and Philip, looking off his book once towards the fire- 
 place, caught the pair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon 
 him. He thought this sister of Tulliver's seemed a nice little 
 thing, quite unlike her brother ; he wished he had a little 
 sister. What was it, he wondered, that made Maggie's dark 
 eyes remind him of the stories about princesses being turned 
 into animals ? I think it was that her eyes were full of 
 unsatisfied intelligence, and unsatisfied, beseeching affection. 
 
 " I say, Magsie," said Tom at last, shutting his books and 
 putting them away with the energy and decision of a perfect 
 master in the art of leaving off, " I 've done my lessons now. 
 Come up-stairs with me." 
 
 " What is it ? " said Maggie, when they were outside the 
 door, a slight suspicion crossing her mind as she remembered 
 Tom's preliminary visit up-stairs. " It is n't a trick you 're 
 going to play me, now ? " 
 
 "No, no, Maggie," said Tom, in his most coaxing tone; 
 " it 's something you '11 like ever so." 
 
 He put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his 
 waist, and twined together in this way, they went up-stairs. 
 
 " I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know," said 
 Tom, "else I shall get fifty lines." 
 
 " Is it alive ? " said Maggie, whose imagination had set- 
 tled for the moment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret 
 clandestinely. 
 
SC-HOOL-TIME. 165 
 
 " Oh, I sha'n't tell you," said he. " Now you go into that 
 corner and hide your face, while I reach it out," he added, as 
 he locked the bedroom door behind them. "I'll tell you 
 when to turn round. You must n't squeal out, you know." 
 
 " Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall," said Maggie, begin- 
 ning to look rather serious. 
 
 "You won't be frightened, you silly thing," said Tom. 
 " Go and hide your face, and mind you don't peep." 
 
 " Of course I sha'n't peep," said Maggie, disdainfully ; and 
 she buried her face in the pillow like a person of strict honour. 
 
 But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet ; 
 then he stepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the 
 door. Maggie kept her face buried without the aid of princi- 
 ple, for in that dream-suggestive attitude she had soon forgot- 
 ten where she was, and her thoughts were busy with the poor 
 deformed boy, who was so clever, when Tom called out, " Now 
 then, Magsie ! " 
 
 Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement 
 of effects could have enabled Tom to present so striking a 
 figure as he did to Maggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied 
 with the pacific aspect of a face which had no more than the 
 faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow, together with a pair of amia- 
 ble blue-grey eyes and round pink cheeks that refused to look 
 formidable, let him frown as he would before the looking- 
 glass (Philip had once told him of a man who had a horse- 
 shoe frown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning-might to 
 make a horseshoe on his forehead), he had had recourse to 
 that unfailing source of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made 
 himself a pair of black eyebrows that met in a satisfactory 
 manner over his nose, and were matched by a less carefully 
 adjusted blackness about the chin. He had wound a red hand- 
 kerchief round his cloth cap to give it the air of a turban, and 
 his red comforter across his breast as a scarf, an amount of 
 red which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and the 
 decision with which he grasped the sword, as he held it with 
 its point resting on the ground, would suffice to convey .an 
 approximative idea of his fierce and bloodthirsty disposition. 
 
 Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed 
 that moment keenly ; but in the next she laughed, clapped her 
 hands together, and said, "Oh, Tom, you've made yourself 
 like Bluebeard at the show." 
 
 It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of 
 the sword, it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous mind re- 
 quired a more direct appeal to its sense of the terrible, and 
 
166 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Tom prepared for his master-stroke. Frowning with a double 
 amount of intention, if not of corrugation, he (carefully} drew 
 the sword from its sheath, and pointed it at Maggie. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, please don't ! " exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of 
 suppressed dread, shrinking away from him into the opposite 
 corner. " I shall scream I 'm sure I shall ! Oh, don't ! I 
 wish I 'd never come up-stairs ! " 
 
 The corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a 
 smile of complacency that was immediately checked as incon- 
 sistent with the severity of a great warrior. Slowly he let 
 down the scabbard on the floor, lest it should make too much 
 noise, and then said sternly, 
 
 "I 'm the Duke of Wellington ! March ! " stamping forward 
 with the right leg a little bent, and the sword still pointing 
 towards Maggie, who, trembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got 
 upon the bed, as the only means of widening the space be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, 
 even though the spectator was only Maggie, proceeded, with 
 the utmost exertion of his force, to such an exhibition of the 
 cut and thrust as would necessarily be expected of the Duke 
 of Wellington. 
 
 "Tom, I will not bear it, I will scream," said Maggie, at 
 the first movement of the sword. " You '11 hurt yourself ; 
 you '11 cut your head off ! " 
 
 u One two," said Tom, resolutely, though at " two " his 
 wrist trembled a little. " Three " came more slowly, and with 
 it the sword swung downwards, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. 
 The sword had fallen, with its edge on Tom's foot, and in a 
 moment after he had fallen too. Maggie leaped from the bed, 
 still shrieking, and immediately there was a rush of footsteps 
 towards the room. Mr. Stelling, from his up-stairs study, 
 was the first to enter. He found both the children on the 
 floor. Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the 
 collar of his jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought 
 he was dead, poor child ! and yet she shook him, as if that 
 would bring him back to life. In another minute she was 
 sobbing with joy because Tom had opened his eyes. She 
 could n't sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot ; it seemed as 
 if all happiness lay in his being alive. 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 167 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A LOVE SCENE. 
 
 POOR Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was reso- 
 lute in not "telling" of Mr. Poulter more than was un- 
 avoidable ; the five-shilling piece remained a secret even to 
 Maggie. But there was a terrible dread weighing on his 
 mind, so terrible that he dared not even ask the question 
 which might bring the fatal " yes ; " he dared not ask the 
 surgeon or Mr. Stelling, " Shall I be lame, sir ? " He mas- 
 tered himself so as not to cry out at the pain ; but when his 
 foot had been dressed, and he was left alone with Maggie 
 seated by his bedside, the children sobbed together, with their 
 heads laid on the same pillow. Tom was thinking of himself 
 walking about on crutches, like the wheelwright's son; and 
 Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed for 
 company. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr. Stel- 
 ling to anticipate this dread in Tom's mind, and to reassure 
 him by hopeful words. But Philip watched the surgeon out 
 of the house, and waylaid Mr. Stelling to ask the very question 
 that Tom had not dared to ask for himself. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver 
 will be lame ? " 
 
 " Oh no, oh no," said Mr. Stelling, " not permanently ; only 
 for a little while." 
 
 " Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think ? " 
 
 "No; nothing was said to him on the subject." 
 
 " Then may I go and tell him, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; now you mention it, I daresay he may 
 be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very 
 quiet at present." 
 
 It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of the 
 accident, " Will Tulliver be lame ? It will be very hard for 
 him if he is ; " and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offences were 
 washed out by that pity. Philip felt that they were no longer 
 in a state of repulsion, but were being drawn into a common 
 current of suffering and sad privation. His imagination did 
 not dwell on the outward calamity and its future effect on 
 Tom's life, but it made vividly present to him the probable 
 
168 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 state of Tom's feeling. Philip had only lived fourteen years, 
 but those years had, most of them, been steeped in the sense 
 of a lot irremediably hard. 
 
 " Mr. Askern says you '11 soon be all right again, Tulliver, 
 did you know ? " he said rather timidly, as he stepped gently 
 up to Tom's bed. " I 've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he 
 says you '11 walk as well as ever again by-and-by." 
 
 Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath 
 which comes with a sudden joy ; then he gave a long sigh, 
 and turned his blue-grey eyes straight on Philip's face, as he 
 had not done for a fortnight or more. As for Maggie, this 
 intimation of a possibility she had not thought of before 
 affected her as a new trouble ; the bare idea of Tom's being 
 always lame overpowered the assurance that such a misfortune 
 was not likely to befall him, and she clung to him and cried 
 afresh. 
 
 " Don't be a little silly, Magsie," said Tom, tenderly, feeling 
 very brave now. " I shall soon get well." 
 
 " Good-bye, Tulliver," said Philip, putting out his small, 
 delicate haud, which Tom clasped immediately with his more 
 substantial fingers. 
 
 " I say," said Tom, " ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and 
 sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem ; and tell 
 me about Eobert Bruce, you know." 
 
 After that, Philip spent all his time out of school-hours 
 with Tom and Maggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as 
 much as ever, but he insisted strongly on the fact that those 
 great fighters, who did so many wonderful things and came 
 off unhurt, wore excellent armour from head to foot, which 
 made fighting easy work, he considered. He should not have 
 hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened with 
 great interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had 
 a very bad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadfully with 
 the pain that his friends could bear with him no longer, but 
 put him ashore on a desert island, with nothing but some won- 
 derful poisoned arrows to kill animals with for food. 
 
 " I did n't roar out a bit, you know," Tom said, " and I dare- 
 say my foot was as bad as his. It 's cowardly to roar." 
 
 But Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you 
 very much, it was quite permissible to cry out, and it was 
 cruel of people not to bear it. She wanted to know if Philoc- 
 tetes had a sister, and why she didn't go with him on the 
 desert island and take care of him. 
 
 One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 169 
 
 Maggie were in the study alone together while Tom's foot 
 was being dressed. Philip was at his books, and Maggie, 
 after sauntering idly round the room, not caring to do any- 
 thing in particular, because she would soon go to Tom again, 
 went and leaned on the table near Philip to see what he was 
 doing, for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly at 
 home with each other. 
 
 " What are you reading about in Greek ? " she said. " It 's 
 poetry, I can see that, because the lines are so short." 
 
 " It 's about Philoctetes, the lame man I was telling you of 
 yesterday," he answered, resting his head on his hand, and 
 looking at her as if he were not at all sorry to be interrupted. 
 Maggie, in her absent way, continued to lean forward, resting 
 on her arms and moving her feet about, while her dark eyes 
 got more and more fixed and vacant, as if she had quite for- 
 gotten Philip and his book. 
 
 "Maggie," said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning 
 on his elbow and looking at her, "if you had had a brother 
 like me, do you think you should have loved him as well as 
 Tom ? " 
 
 Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, 
 and said, " What ? " Philip repeated his question. 
 
 " Oh yes, better," she answered immediately. " No, not 
 better ; because I don't think I could love you better than 
 Tom. But I should be so sorry, so sorry for you." 
 
 Philip coloured ; he had meant to imply, would she love 
 him as well in spite of his deformity, and yet when she 
 alluded to it so plainly, he winced under her pity. Maggie, 
 young as she was, felt her mistake. Hitherto she had instinc- 
 tively behaved as if she were quite unconscious of Philip's 
 deformity ; her own keen sensitiveness and experience under 
 family criticism sufficed to teach her this as well as if she 
 had been directed by the most finished breeding. 
 
 " But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and 
 sing," she added quickly. " I wish you were my brother. I 'm 
 very fond of you. And you would stay at home with me 
 when Tom went out, and you would teach me everything; 
 would n't you, Greek and everything ? " 
 
 " But you '11 go away soon, and go to school, Maggie," said 
 Philip, " and then you '11 forget all about me, and not care for 
 me any more. And then I shall see you when you 're grown 
 up, and you '11 hardly take any notice of me." 
 
 " Oh no, I sha'n't forget you, I 'm sure," said Maggie, 
 shaking her head very seriously. " I never forget anything, 
 
170 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 and I think about everybody when I 'm away from them. I 
 think about poor Yap ; he 's got a lump in his throat, and 
 Luke says he '11 die. Only don't you tell Tom, because it 
 will vex him so. You never saw Yap ; he 's a queer little 
 dog, nobody cares about him but Tom and me." 
 
 " Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, 
 Maggie ? " said Philip, smiling rather sadly. 
 
 " Oh yes, I should think so," said Maggie, laughing. 
 
 " I 'm very fond of you, Maggie ; I shall never forget you," 
 said Philip, "and when I'm very unhappy, I shall always 
 think of you, and wish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like 
 yours." 
 
 " Why do you like my eyes ? " said Maggie, well pleased. 
 She had never heard any one but her father speak of her eyes 
 as if they had merit. 
 
 " I don't know," said Philip. " They 're not like any other 
 eyes. They seem trying to speak, trying to speak kindly. I 
 don't like other people to look at me much, but I like you to 
 look at me, Maggie." 
 
 " Why, I think you 're fonder of me than Tom is," said 
 Maggie, rather sorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could 
 convince Philip that she could like him just as well, although 
 he was crooked, she said, 
 
 " Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom. I will, if 
 you like." 
 
 " Yes, very much ; nobody kisses me." 
 
 Maggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite 
 earnestly. 
 
 "There now," she said, "I shall always remember you, 
 and kiss you when I see you again, if it 's ever so long. But 
 I '11 go now, because I think Mr. Askern 's done with Tom's 
 foot." 
 
 When their father came the second time, Maggie said to 
 him, " Oh, father, Philip Wakem is so very good to Tom ; 
 he is such a clever boy, and I do love him. And you love 
 him too, Tom, don't you ? Say you love him," she added 
 entreatingly. 
 
 Tom coloured a little as he looked at his father, and said, 
 " I sha'n't be friends with him when I leave school, father ; 
 but we 've made it up now, since my foot has been bad, and 
 he 's taught me to play at draughts, and I can beat him." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mr. Tulliver, " if he 's good to you, try 
 and make him amends, and be good to him. He 's a poor 
 crooked creatur, and takes after his dead mother. But don't 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 171 
 
 you be getting too thick Avith him ; he 's got his father's 
 blood in him too. Ay, ay, the grey colt may chance to kick 
 like his black sire." 
 
 The jarring natures of the two boys effected what Mr. 
 Tulliver's admonition alone might have failed t effect ; in 
 spite of Philip's new kindness, and Tom's answering regard 
 in this time of his trouble, they never became close friends. 
 When Maggie was gone, and Avhen Tom by-and-by began to 
 walk about as usual, the friendly warmth that had been kindled 
 by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left them in 
 their old relation to each other. Philip was often peevish 
 and contemptuous ; and Tom's more specific and kindly 
 impressions gradually melted into the old background of 
 suspicion and dislike towards him as a queer fellow, a hump- 
 back, and the son of a rogue. If boys and men are to be 
 welded together in the glow of transient feeling, they must 
 be made of metal that will mix, else they inevitably fall 
 asunder when the heat dies out. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATES ARE PASSED. 
 
 So Tom went on even to the fifth half-year till he was 
 turned sixteen at King's Lorton, while Maggie was growing 
 with a rapidity which her aunts considered highly repre- 
 hensible, at Miss Firniss's boarding-school in the ancient 
 town of Laceham on the Floss, with cousin Lucy for her 
 companion. In her early letters to Tom she had always sent 
 her love to Philip, and asked many questions about him, 
 which were answered by brief sentences about Tom's tooth- 
 ache, and a turf-house which he was helping to build in the 
 garden, with other items of that kind. She was pained to 
 hear Tom say in the holidays that Philip was as queer as ever 
 again, and often cross. They were no longer very good friends, 
 she perceived ; and when she reminded Tom that he ought 
 always to love Philip for being so good to him when his foot 
 was bad, he answered, " Well, it is n't my fault ; / don't do 
 anything to him." She hardly ever saw Philip during the 
 remainder of their school-life ; in the Midsummer holidays 
 
172 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 he was always away at the seaside, and at Christmas she 
 could only meet him at long intervals in the streets of St. 
 Ogg's. When they did meet, she remembered her promise 
 to kiss him, but, as a young lady who had been at a boarding- 
 school, she knew now that such a greeting was out of the 
 question, and Philip would not expect it. The promise was 
 void, like so many other sweet, illusory promises of our 
 childhood; void as promises made in Eden before the seasons 
 were divided, and when the starry blossoms grew side by side 
 with the ripening peach, impossible to be fulfilled when the 
 golden gates had been passed. 
 
 But when their father was actually engaged in the long- 
 threatened lawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once of Pivart 
 and Old Harry, was acting against him, even Maggie felt, 
 with some sadness, that they were not likely ever to have 
 any intimacy with Philip again; the very name of Wakem 
 made her father angry, and she had once heard him say 
 that if that crook-backed son lived to inherit his father's ill- 
 gotten gains, there would be a curse upon him. " Have as 
 little to do with him at school as you can, my lad," he said to 
 Torn ; and the command was obeyed the more easily because 
 Mr. Stelling by this time had two additional pupils ; for 
 though this gentleman's rise in the world was not of that 
 meteor-like rapidity which the admirers of his extempora- 
 neous eloquence had expected for a preacher whose voice 
 demanded so wide a sphere, he had yet enough of growing 
 prosperity to enable him to increase his expenditure in 
 continued disproportion to his income. 
 
 As for Tom's school course, it went on with mill-like 
 monotony, his mind continuing to move with a slow, half- 
 stifled pulse in a medium of uninteresting or unintelligible 
 ideas. But each vacation he brought home larger and larger 
 drawings with the satiny rendering of landscape, and water- 
 colours in vivid greens, together with manuscript books full 
 of exercises and problems, in which the handwriting was all 
 the finer because he gave his whole mind to it. Each vaca- 
 tion he brought home a new book or two, indicating his 
 progress through different stages of history, Christian doc- 
 trine, and Latin literature ; and that passage was not entirely 
 without result, besides the possession of the books. Tom's ear 
 and tongue had become accustomed to a great many words and 
 phrases which are understood to be signs of an educated con- 
 dition ; and though he had never really applied his mind to 
 any one of his lessons, the lessons had left a deposit of vague, 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 173 
 
 fragmentary, ineffectual notions. Mr. Tulliver, seeing signs 
 of acquirement beyond the reach of his own criticism, thought 
 it was probably all right with Tom's education ; he observed, 
 indeed, that there were no maps, and not enough " summing ; " 
 but he made no formal complaint to Mr. Stelling. It was a 
 puzzling business, this schooling ; and if he took Tom away, 
 where could he send him with better effect ? 
 
 By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's 
 Lorton, the years had made striking changes in him since the 
 day we saw him returning from Mr. Jacobs's academy. He 
 was a tall youth now, carrying himself without the least awk- 
 wardness, and speaking without more shyness than was a be- 
 coming symptom of blended diffidence and pride ; he wore his 
 tail-coat and his stand-up collars, and watched the down on 
 his lip with eager impatience, looking every day at his virgin 
 razor, with which he had provided himself in the last holi- 
 days. Philip had already left, at the autumn quarter, 
 that he might go to the south for the winter, for the sake of 
 his health ; and this change helped to give Tom the unsettled, 
 exultant feeling that usually belongs to the last months before 
 leaving school. This quarter, too, there was some hope of his 
 father's lawsuit being decided ; that made the prospect of home 
 more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who had gathered his 
 view of the case from his father's conversation, had no doubt 
 that Pivart would be beaten. 
 
 Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks, 
 a fact which did not surprise him, for his father and mother 
 were not apt to manifest their affection in unnecessary letters, 
 when, to his great surprise, 011 the morning of a dark, cold 
 day near the end of November, he was told, soon after entering 
 the study at nine o'clock, that his sister was in the drawing- 
 room. It was Mrs. Stelling Avho had come into the study to 
 tell him, and she left him to enter the drawing-room alone. 
 
 Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair ; 
 she was almost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen ; 
 and she really looked older than he did at that moment. She 
 had thrown off her bonnet, her heavy braids were pushed back 
 from her forehead, as if it would not bear that extra load, and 
 her young face had a strangely worn look, as her eyes turned 
 anxiously towards the door. When Tom entered she did not 
 speak, but only went up to him, put her arms round his neck, 
 and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various moods 
 of hers, and felt no alarm at the unusual seriousness of her 
 greeting. 
 
1T4 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Why, how is it you 're come so early this cold morning, 
 Maggie ? Did you come in the gig ? " said Tom, as she 
 backed towards the sofa, and drew him to her side. 
 
 " No, I came by the coach. I 've walked from the turn- 
 pike." 
 
 " But how is it you 're not at school ? The holidays have 
 not begun yet ? " 
 
 " Father Avanted me at home," said Maggie, with a slight 
 trembling of the lip. " I came home three or four days ago." 
 
 " Is n't my father well ? " said Tom, rather anxiously. 
 
 " Not quite," said Maggie. " He 's very unhappy, Tom. 
 The lawsuit is ended, and I came to tell yoii because I 
 thought it would be better for you to know it before you 
 came home, and I did n't like only to send you a letter." 
 
 " My father has n't lost ? " said Tom, hastily, springing from 
 the sofa, and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly 
 thrust in his pockets. 
 
 " Yes, dear Tom," said Maggie, looking up at him with 
 trembling. 
 
 Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the 
 floor. Then he said, 
 
 " My father will have to pay a good deal of money, then ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, rather faintly. 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped," said Tom, bravely, not trans- 
 lating the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible 
 results. " But my father 's very much vexed, I daresay ? " 
 he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking that her agitated 
 face was only part of her girlish way of taking tilings. 
 
 "Yes," said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller 
 speech by Tom's freedom from apprehension, she said loudly 
 and rapidly, as if the words would burst from her, " Oh, Tom, 
 he will lose the mill and the land and everything ; he will have 
 nothing left." 
 
 Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her, before 
 he turned pale, and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but 
 sat down on the sofa again, looking vaguely out of the oppo 
 site window. 
 
 Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. 
 His father had always ridden a good horse, kept a good house, 
 and had the cheerful, confident air of a man who has plenty of 
 property to fall back upon. Tom had never dreamed that his 
 father would " fail ; " that was a form of misfortune which he 
 had always heard spoken of as a deep disgrace, and disgrace 
 was an idea that he could not associate with any of his rela- 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 175 
 
 tions, least of all with his father. A proud sense of family 
 respectability was part of the very air Tom had been born and 
 brought up in. He knew there were people in St. Ogg's who 
 made a show without money to support it, and he had always 
 heard such people spoken of by his own friends with contempt 
 and reprobation. He had a strong belief, which was a life-long 
 habit, and required no definite evidence to rest on, that his 
 father could spend a great deal of money if he chose ; and 
 since his education at Mr. Stelling's had given him a more ex- 
 pensive view of life, he had often thought that when he got 
 older he would make a figure in the world, with his horse and 
 dogs and saddle, and other accoutrements of a fine young man, 
 and show himself equal to any of his contemporaries at St. 
 Ogg's, who might consider themselves a grade above him in 
 society, because their fathers were professional men, or had 
 large oil-mills. As to the prognostics and headshaking of his 
 aunts and uncles, they had never produced the least effect on 
 him, except to make him think that aunts and tincles were 
 disagreeable society ; he had heard them find fault in much 
 the same way as long as he could remember. His father knew 
 better than they did. 
 
 The down had come on Tom's lip, yet his thoughts and ex- 
 pectations had been hitherto only the reproduction, in changed 
 forms, of the boyish dreams in which he had lived three years 
 ago. He was awakened now with a violent shock. 
 
 Maggie was frightened at Tom's pale, trembling silence. 
 There was something else to tell him, something worse. 
 She threw her arms round him at last, and said, with a half 
 sob, 
 
 " Oh, Tom dear, dear Tom, don't fret too much ; try and 
 bear it well." 
 
 Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating 
 kisses, and there gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he 
 just rubbed away with his hand. The action seemed to rouse 
 him, for he shook himself and said, " I shall go home with you, 
 Maggie. Did n't my father say I was to go ? " 
 
 " No, Tom, father did n't wish it," said Maggie, her anxiety 
 about his feeling helping her to master her agitation. What 
 would he do when she told him all ? " But mother wants you 
 to come, poor mother ! she cries so. Oh, Tom, it 's very 
 dreadful at home." 
 
 Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost 
 as Tom had done. The two poor things clung closer to each 
 other, both trembling, the one at an unshapen fear, the other 
 
176 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 at the image of a terrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it 
 was hardly above a whisper. 
 
 " And and poor father " 
 
 Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable 
 to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison, as a consequence of 
 debt, was the shape his fears had begun to take. 
 
 " Where 's my father ? " he said impatiently. " Tell me, 
 Maggie." 
 
 " He 's at home," said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to 
 that question. "But," she added, after a pause, "not him- 
 self he fell off his horse. He has known nobody but me 
 ever since he seems to have lost his senses. father, 
 father " 
 
 With these last words, Maggie's sobs burst forth with the 
 more violence for the previous struggle against them. Tom 
 felt that pressure of the heart which forbids tears ; he had no 
 distinct vision of their troubles as Maggie had, who had been 
 at home ; he only felt the crushing weight of what seemed un- 
 mitigated misfortune. He tightened his arm almost convul- 
 sively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his face looked rigid 
 and tearless, his eyes blank, as if a black curtain of cloud 
 had suddenly fallen on his path. 
 
 But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly ; a single thought 
 had acted on her like a startling sound. 
 
 " We must set out, Tom, we must not stay. Father will 
 miss me ; we must be at the turnpike at ten to meet the 
 coach." She said this with hasty decision, rubbing her eyes, 
 and rising to seize her bonnet. 
 
 Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. " Wait a 
 minute, Maggie," he said. " I must speak to Mr. Stelling, and 
 then we '11 go." 
 
 He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were ; 
 but on his way he met Mr. Stelling, who had heard from his 
 wife that Maggie appeared to be in trouble when she asked for 
 her brother, and now that he thought the brother and sister 
 had been alone long enough, was coming to inquire and offer 
 his sympathy. 
 
 "Please, sir, I must go home," Tom said abruptly, as he 
 met Mr. Stelling in the passage. " I must go back with my 
 sister directly. My father 's lost his lawsuit he 's lost all 
 his property and he's very ill." 
 
 Mr. Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a 
 probable money loss for himself, but this had no appreciable 
 share in his feeling, while he looked with grave pity at the 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 177 
 
 brother and sister for whom youth and sorrow had begun 
 together. When he knew how Maggie had come, and how 
 eager she was to get home again, he hurried their departure, 
 only whispering something to Mrs. Stelling, who had followed 
 him, and who immediately left the room. 
 
 Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to set 
 out, when Mrs. Stelling came with a little basket, which she 
 hung on Maggie's arm, saying, "Do remember to eat some- 
 thing on the way, dear." Maggie's heart went out towards 
 this woman whom she had never liked, and she kissed her 
 silently. It was the first sign within the poor child of that 
 new sense which is the gift of sorrow, that susceptibility to 
 the bare offices of humanity which raises them into a bond of 
 loving fellowship, as to haggard men among the icebergs the 
 mere presence of an ordinary comrade stirs the deep fountains 
 of affection. 
 
 Mr. Stelling put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said, " God 
 bless you, my boy ; let me know how you get on." Then he 
 pressed Maggie's hand ; but there were no audible good-byes. 
 Tom had so often thought how joyful he should be the day he 
 left school " for good ! " And now his school years seemed 
 like a holiday that had come to an end. 
 
 The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on the 
 distant road, were soon lost behind the projecting hedgerow. 
 
 They had gone forth together into their new life of sorrow, 
 and they would never more see the sunshine undimmed by 
 remembered cares. They had entered the thorny wilderness, 
 and the golden gates of their childhood had for ever closed 
 behind them. 
 
 12 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 THE DOWNFALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHAT HAD HAPPENED AT HOME. 
 
 WHEN Mr. Tulliver first knew the fact that the lawsuit was 
 decided against him, and that Pivart and Wakem were tri- 
 umphant, every one who happened to observe him at the time 
 thought that, for so confident and hot-tempered a man, he 
 bore the blow remarkably well. He thought so himself ; he 
 thought he was going to show that if Wakem or anybody else 
 considered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. 
 He could not refuse to see that the costs of this protracted 
 suit would take more than he possessed to pay them ; but he 
 appeared to himself to be full of expedients by which he 
 could ward off any results but such as were tolerable, and 
 could avoid the appearance of breaking down in the world. 
 All the obstinacy and defiance of his nature, driven out of 
 their old channel, found a vent for themselves in the imme- 
 diate formation of plans by which he would meet his diffi- 
 culties, and remain Mr. Tulliver of Dorlcote Mill in spite of 
 them. There was such a rush of projects in his brain, that it 
 was no wonder his face was flushed when he came away from 
 his talk with his attorney, Mr. Gore, and mounted his horse 
 to ride home from Lindum. There was Furley, who held the 
 mortgage on the land, a reasonable fellow, who would see 
 his own interest, Mr. Tulliver was convinced, and who would 
 be glad not only to purchase the whole estate, including the 
 mill and homestead, but would accept Mr. Tulliver as tenant, 
 and be willing to advance money to be repaid with higli 
 interest out of the profits of the business, which would be 
 made over to him, Mr. Tulliver only taking enough barely to 
 maintain himself and his family. Who would neglect such a 
 profitable investment ? Certainly not Furley, for Mr. Tulliver 
 had determined that Furley should meet his plans with the 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 179 
 
 utmost alacrity ; and there are men whose brains have not yet 
 been dangerously heated by the loss of a lawsuit, who are apt 
 to see in their own interest or desires a motive for other men's 
 actions. There was no doubt (in the miller's mind) that Fur- 
 ley would do just what was desirable ; and if he did why, 
 things would not be so very much worse. Mr. Tulliver and 
 his family must live more meagrely and humbly, but it would 
 only be till the profits of the business had paid off Fur ley's 
 advances, and that might be while Mr. Tulliver had still a 
 good many years of life before him. It was clear that the 
 costs of the suit could be paid without his being obliged to 
 turn out of his old place, and look like a ruined man. It 
 was certainly an awkward moment in his affairs. There was 
 that suretiship for poor Riley, who had died suddenly last 
 April, and left his friend saddled with a debt of two hundred 
 and fifty pounds, a fact which had helped to make Mr. Tul- 
 liver's banking book less pleasant reading than a man might 
 desire towards Christmas. Well ! he had never been one of 
 those poor-spirited sneaks who would refuse to give a helping 
 hand to a fellow-traveller in this puzzling world. The really 
 vexatious business was the fact that some months ago the 
 creditor who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay 
 Mrs. Grlegg had become uneasy about his money (set on by 
 Wakem, of course), and Mr. Tulliver, still confident that he 
 should gain his suit, and finding it eminently inconvenient 
 to raise the said sum until that desirable issue had taken 
 place, had rashly acceded to the demand that he should give 
 a bill of sale on his household furniture and some other 
 effects, as security in lieu of the bond. It was all one, he had 
 said to himself; he should soon pay off the money, and there 
 was no harm in giving that security any more than another. 
 But now the consequences of this bill of sale occurred to him 
 in a new light, and he remembered that the time was close at 
 hand when it would be enforced unless the money were 
 repaid. Two months ago he would have declared stoutly that 
 he would never be beholden to his wife's friends ; but now he 
 told himself as stoutly that it was nothing but right and 
 natural that Bessy should go to the Pullets and explain the 
 thing to them; they would hardly let Bessy's furniture be 
 sold, and it might be security to Pullet if he advanced the 
 money, there would, after all, be no gift or favour in the 
 matter. Mr. Tulliver would never have asked for anything 
 from so poor-spirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do 
 so if she liked. 
 
180 THE MILL ON THE 
 
 It is precisely the proudest and most obstinate men who 
 are the most liable to shift their position and contradict them- 
 selves in this sudden manner; everything is easier to them 
 than to face the simple fact that they have been thoroughly 
 defeated, and must begin life anew. And Mr. Tulliver, you 
 perceive, though nothing more than a superior miller and 
 maltster, was as proud and obstinate as if he had been a YI r\ 
 lofty personage, in whom such dispositions might be a source 
 of that conspicuous, far-echoing tragedy, which sweeps the 
 stage in regal robes, and makes the dullest chronicler sublime. 
 The pride and obstinacy of millers and other insignificant 
 people, whom you pass unnoticingly on the road every day, 
 have their tragedy too ; but it is of that unwept, hidden sort 
 that goes on from generation to generation, and leaves no 
 record, such tragedy, perhaps, as lies in the conflicts of 
 young souls, hungry for joy, under a lot made suddenly hard 
 to them, under the dreariness of a home where the morning 
 brings no promise with it, and where the unexpectant discon- 
 tent of worn and disappointed parents weighs on the children 
 like a damp, thick air, in which all the functions of life are 
 depressed ; or such tragedy as lies in the slow or sudden death 
 that follows on a bruised passion, though it may be a death 
 that finds only a parish funeral. There are certain animals to 
 which tenacity of position is a law of life, they can never 
 flourish again, after a single wrench : and there are certain 
 human beings to whom predominance is a law of life, they 
 can only sustain humiliation so long as they can refuse to be- 
 lieve in it, and, in their own conception, predominate still. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver was still predominating, in his own imagination, 
 as he approached St. Ogg's, through which he had to pass on 
 his way homeward. But what was it that suggested to him, 
 as he saw the Laceham coach entering the town, to follow it to 
 the coach-office, and get the clerk there to write a letter, re- 
 qiiiring Maggie to come home the very next day ? Mr. Tulli- 
 ver's own hand shook too much under his excitement for him 
 to write himself, and he wanted the letter to be given to the 
 coachman to deliver at Miss Firniss's school in the morning. 
 There was a craving which he would not account for to him- 
 self, to have Maggie near him, without delay, she must 
 come back by the coach to-morrow. 
 
 To Mrs. Tulliver, when he got home, he would admit no dif- 
 ficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on hearing that 
 the lawsuit was lost, by angry assertions that there was noth- 
 ing to grieve about. He said nothing to her that night about 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 181 
 
 the bill of sale and the application to Mrs. Pullet, for he had 
 kept her in ignorance of the nature of that transaction, and 
 had explained the necessity for taking an inventory of the 
 goods as a matter connected with his will. The possession of 
 a wife conspicuously one's inferior in intellect is, like other 
 high privileges, attended with a few inconveniences, and, 
 among the rest, with the occasional necessity for using a 
 little deception. 
 
 The next day Mr. Tulliver was again on horseback in the 
 afternoon, on his way to Mr. Gore's office at St. Ogg's. Gore 
 was to have seen Furley in the morning, and to have sounded 
 him in relation to Mr. Tulliver's affairs. But he had not gone 
 lialf-way when he met a clerk from Mr. Gore's office, who was 
 bringing a letter to Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Gore had been pre- 
 vented by a sudden call of business from waiting at his office 
 to see Mr. Tulliver, according to appointment, but would be at 
 his office at eleven to-morrow morning, and meanwhile had 
 sent some important information by letter. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mr. Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening 
 it. " Then tell Gore I '11 see him to-morrow at eleven ; " and 
 he turned his horse. 
 
 The clerk, struck with Mr. Tulliver's glistening, excited 
 glance, looked after him for a few moments, and then rode 
 away. The reading of a letter was not the affair of an 
 instant to Mr. Tulliver ; he took in the sense of a statement 
 very slowly through the medium of written or even printed 
 characters ; so he had put the letter in his pocket, thinking he 
 would open it in his arm-chair at home. But by-and-by it 
 occurred to him that there might be something in the letter 
 Mrs. Tulliver must not know about, and if so, it would be 
 better to keep it out of her sight altogether. He stopped his 
 horse, took out the letter, and read it. It was only a short 
 letter ; the substance was, that Mr. Gore had ascertained, 
 on secret but sure authority, that Furley had been lately 
 much straitened for money, and had parted with his secu- 
 rities, among the rest, the mortgage on Mr. Tulliver's 
 property, which he had transferred to Wakem. 
 
 In half an hour after this Mr. Tulliver's own waggoner 
 found him lying by the roadside insensible, with an open 
 letter near him, and his grey horse snuffing uneasily about 
 him. 
 
 When Maggie reached home that evening, in obedience 
 to her father's call, he was no longer insensible. About an 
 hour before he had become conscious, and after vague, vacant 
 
182 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 looks around him, had muttered something about " a letter," 
 which he presently repeated impatiently. At the instance of 
 Mr. Turnbull, the medical man, Gore's letter was brought 
 and laid on the bed, and the previous impatience seemed to be 
 allayed. The stricken man lay for some time with his 
 fixed on the letter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts 
 by its help. But presently a new wave of memory seem* 
 have come and swept the other away ; he turned his eyes from 
 the letter to the door, and after looking uneasily, as if striving 
 to see something his eyes were too dim for, he said, " The little 
 wench." 
 
 He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, ap- 
 pearing entirely unconscious of everything except this one 
 importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife 
 or any one else ; and poor Mrs. Tulliver, her feeble faculties 
 almost paralysed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, 
 went backwards and forwards to the gate to see if the 
 Laceham coach were coming, though it was not yet time. 
 
 But it came at last, and set down the poor anxious girl, 
 no longer the "little wench," except to her father's fond 
 memory. 
 
 " Oh, mother, what is the matter ? " Maggie said, with pale 
 lips, as her mother came towards her crying. She did n't 
 think her father was ill, because the letter had come at his 
 dictation from the office at St. Ogg's. 
 
 But Mr. Turnbull came now to meet her ; a medical man is 
 the good angel of the troubled house, and Maggie ran towards 
 the kind old friend, whom she remembered as long as she 
 could remember anything, with a trembling, questioning look. 
 
 " Don't alarm yourself too much, my dear," he said, taking 
 her hand. "Your father has had a sudden attack, and lias not 
 quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for yon, 
 and it will do him good to see you. Keep as quiet as you can ; 
 take off your things, and come up-stairs with me." 
 
 Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which 
 makes existence seem simply a painful pulsation. The very 
 quietness with which Mr. Turubull spoke had frightened her sus- 
 ceptible imagination. Her father's eyes were still turned uneas- 
 ily towards the door when she entered and met the strange, 
 yearning, helpless look that had been seeking her in vain. With 
 a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the bed; she 
 rushed towards him, and clasped him with agonised kisses. 
 
 Poor child! it was very enrly for her to know one of those 
 supreme moments in life when all we have hoped or delighted 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 183 
 
 in, all we can dread or endure, falls away from our regard as 
 insignificant; is lost, like a trivial memory, in that simple, 
 primitive love which knits us to the beings who have been 
 nearest to us, in their times of helplessness or of anguish. 
 
 But that flash of recognition had been too great a strain on 
 the father's bruised, enfeebled powers. He sank back again 
 in renewed insensibility and rigidity, which lasted for many 
 hours, and was only broken by a flickering return of conscious- 
 ness, in which he took passively everything that was given to 
 him, and seemed to have a sort of infantine satisfaction in 
 Maggie's near presence, such satisfaction as a baby has when 
 it is returned to the nurse's lap. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wail- 
 ing and lifting up of hands below stairs. Both uncles and 
 aunts saw that the ruin of Bessy and her family was as com- 
 plete as they had ever foreboded it, and there was a general 
 family sense that a judgment had fallen on Mr. Tulliver, 
 which it would be an impiety to counteract by too much kind- 
 ness. But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely ever leaving 
 her father's bedside, where she sat opposite him with her 
 hand on his. Mrs. Tulliver wanted to have Tom fetched 
 home, and seemed to be thinking more of her boy even than 
 of her husband ; but the aunts and uncles opposed this. Tom 
 was better at school, since Mr. Turnbull said there was no 
 immediate danger, he believed. But at the end of the second 
 day, when Maggie had become more accustomed to her father's 
 fits of insensibility, and to the expectation that he would 
 revive from them, the thought of Tom had become urgent 
 with her too ; and when her mother sate crying at night and 
 saying, " My poor lad it 's nothing but right he should come 
 home," Maggie said, " Let me go for him, and tell him, 
 mother ; I '11 go to-morrow morning if father does n't know 
 me and want me. It would be so hard for Tom to come home 
 and not know anything about it beforehand." 
 
 And the next morning Maggie went, as we have seen. Sit- 
 ting on the coach on their way home, the brother and sistci 
 talked to each other in sad, interrupted whispers. 
 
 " They say Mr. Wakem has got a mortgage or something on 
 the land, Tom," said Maggie. " It was the letter with that 
 news in it that made father ill, they think." 
 
 " I believe that scoundrel 's been planning all along to ruin 
 my father," said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions 
 to a definite conclusion. " I '11 make him feel for it when I 'm 
 a man. Mind you never speak to Philip again." 
 
184 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 11 Oh, Tom ! " said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance ; 
 but she had no spirit to dispute anything then, still less to 
 vex Tom by opposing him. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 MRS. TULLIVER'S TERAPHIM, OR HOUSEHOLD GODS. 
 
 WIIEX the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five 
 hours since she had started from home, and she was thinking 
 with some trembling that her father had perhaps missed her, 
 and asked for " the little wench " in vain. She thought of no 
 other change that might have happened. 
 
 She hurried along the gravel-walk and entered the house 
 before Tom ; but in the entrance she was startled by a strong 
 smell of tobacco. The parlour door was ajar; that was 
 where the smell came from. It was very strange ; could any 
 visitor be smoking at a time like this ? Was her mother 
 there ? If so, she must be told that Tom was come. Maggie, 
 after this pause of surprise, was only in the act of opening 
 the door when Tom came up, and they both looked into the 
 parlour together. There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose 
 face Tom had some vague recollection, sitting in his father's 
 chair, smoking, with a jug and glass beside him. 
 
 The truth flashed on Tom's mind in an instant. To u have 
 the bailiff in the house," and "to be sold up," were phrases 
 which he had been used to, even as a little boy ; they were 
 part of the disgrace and misery of "failing," of losing all 
 one's money, and being ruined, sinking into the condition of 
 poor working people. It seemed only natural this should 
 Irippen, since his father had lost all his property, and he 
 i'-, r lit of no more special cause for this particular form of 
 trtune than the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate 
 presence of this disgrace was so much keener an experience to 
 Tom than the worst form of apprehension, that he felt at this 
 moment as if his real trouble had only j\ist begun ; it was a 
 touch on the irritated nerve compared with its spontaneous 
 dull aching. 
 
 " How do you do, sir ? " said the man, taking the pipe out 
 of his mouth, with rough, embarrassed civility. The two 
 young startled faces made him a little uncomfortable. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 185 
 
 But Tom turned away hastily without speaking ; the sight 
 was too hateful. Maggie had not understood the appearance 
 of this stranger, as Tom had. She followed him, whispering, 
 "Who can it be, Tom? What is the matter?" Then, with 
 a sudden undefined dread lest this stranger might have some- 
 thing to do with a change in her father, she rushed up-stairs, 
 checking herself at the bedroom door to throw off her bonnet, 
 and enter on tiptoe. All was silent there ; her father was 
 lying, heedless of everything around him, with his eyes closed 
 as when she had left him. A servant was there, but not her 
 mother. 
 
 " Where 's my mother ? " she whispered. The servant did 
 not know. 
 
 Maggie hastened out, and said to Tom, " Father is lying quiet ; 
 let us go and look for my mother. I wonder where she is." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was not down-stairs, not in any of the bed- 
 rooms. There was but one room below the attic which 
 Maggie had left unsearched ; it was the store-room, where 
 her mother kept all her linen and all the precious "best 
 things " that were only unwrapped and brought out on special 
 occasions. Tom, preceding Maggie as they returned along 
 the passage, opened the door of this room, and immediately 
 said, "Mother!" 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was seated there with all her laid-up treas- 
 ures. One of the linen chests was open; the silver teapot 
 was unwrapped from its many folds of paper, and the best 
 china was laid out on the top of the closed linen-chest ; spoons 
 and skewers and ladles were spread in rows on the shelves ; 
 and the poor woman was shaking her head and weeping, 
 with a bitter tension of the mouth, over the mark, " Elizabeth 
 Dodson," on the corner of some tablecloths she held in 
 her lap. 
 
 She dropped them, and started up as Tom spoke. 
 
 " Oh, my boy, my boy ! " she said, clasping him round the 
 neck. " To think as I should live to see this day ! We 're 
 ruined everything 's going to be sold up to think as your 
 father should ha' married me to bring me to this ! We 've 
 got nothing we shall be beggars we must go to the 
 workhouse " 
 
 She kissed him, then seated herself again, and took another 
 tablecloth on her lap, unfolding it a little way to look at 
 the pattern, while the children stood by in mute wretchedness, 
 their minds quite filled for the moment with the words 
 "beggars" and "workhouse." 
 
186 THE JUILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " To think o' these cloths as I spun myself," she went on, 
 lifting things out and turning them over with an excitement 
 all the more strange and piteous because the stout blond 
 woman was usually so passive, if she had been ruffled before, 
 it was at the surface merely, " and Job Haxey wove 'em, and 
 brought the piece home on his back, as I remember standing 
 at the door and seeing him come, before I ever thought o' 
 marrying your father ! And the pattern as I chose myself, 
 and bleached so beautiful, and I marked 'em so as nobody 
 ever saw such marking, they must cut the cloth to get it 
 out, for it 's a particular stitch. And they 're all to be sold, 
 and go into strange people's houses, and perhaps be cut with 
 the knives, and wore out before I 'm dead. You '11 never 
 have one of 'em, my boy," she said, looking up at Tom with her 
 eyes full of tears, " and I meant 'em for you. I wanted you 
 to have all o' this pattern. Maggie could have had the large 
 check it never shows so well when the dishes are on it." 
 
 Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry 
 reaction immediately. His face flushed as he said, 
 
 " But will my aunts let them be sold, mother ? Do they 
 know about it ? They '11 never let your linen go, will they ? 
 Have n't you sent to them ? " 
 
 " Yes, I sent Luke directly they 'd put the bailies in, and 
 your aunt Pullet 's been and, oh dear, oh dear, she cries so 
 and says your father 's disgraced my family and made it the 
 talk o' the country; and she'll buy the spotted cloths for 
 herself, because she 's never had so many as she wanted 
 o' that pattern, and they sha'n't go to strangers, but she 's got 
 more checks a'ready nor she can do with." (Here Mrs. 
 Tulliver began to lay back the tablecloths in the chest, fold- 
 ing and stroking them automatically.) " And your uncle 
 Glegg 's been too, and he says things must be bought in for 
 us to lie down on, but he must talk to your aunt ; and they 're 
 all coming to consult. But I know they '11 none of 'em take 
 my chany," she added, turning towards the cups and saucers, 
 " for they all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'cause 
 o' the small gold sprig all over 'em, between the flowers. 
 But there 's none of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt 
 Pullet herself ; and I bought it wi' my own money as I 'd 
 saved ever since I was turned fifteen ; and the silver tea- 
 pot, too, your father never paid for 'em. And to think 
 as he should ha' married me, and brought me to this." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver burst out crying afresh, and she sobbed with 
 her handkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but then r 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 187 
 
 ing it, she said in a deprecating way, still half sobbing, as if 
 she were called upon to speak before she could command her 
 voice, 
 
 " And I did say to him times and times, ' Whativer you do, 
 don't go to law, ' and what more could I do ? I 've had to 
 sit by while my own fortin 's been spent, and what should ha' 
 been my children's, too. You '11 have niver a penny, my boy 
 but it is n't your poor mother's fault." 
 
 She put out one arm towards Tom, looking up at him 
 piteously with her helpless, childish blue eyes. The poor lad 
 went to her and kissed her, and she clung to him. For the 
 first time Tom thought of his father with some reproach. 
 His natural inclination to blame, hitherto kept entirely in 
 abeyance towards his father by the predisposition to think 
 him always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom 
 Tulliver's father, was turned into this new channel by his 
 mother's plaints ; and with his indignation against Wakem 
 there began to mingle some indignation of another sort. 
 Perhaps his father might have helped bringing them all down 
 in the world, and making people talk of them with contempt, 
 but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver with contempt. 
 The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning 
 to assert itself, urged by the double stimulus of resentment 
 against his aunts, and the sense that he must behave like a 
 man and take care of his mother. 
 
 " Don't fret, mother," he said tenderly. " I shall soon be 
 able to get money ; I '11 get a situation of some sort." 
 
 " Bless you, my boy ! " said Mrs. Tulliver, a little soothed. 
 Then, looking round sadly, "But I shouldn't ha' minded so 
 much if we could ha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em." 
 
 Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering auger. 
 The implied reproaches against her father her father, who 
 was lying there in a sort of living death neutralised all her 
 pity for griefs about tablecloths and china ; and her anger 
 on her father's account was heightened by some egoistic 
 resentment at Tom's silent concurrence with her mother in 
 shutting her out from the common calamity. She had become 
 almost indifferent to her mother's habitual depreciation of 
 her, but she was keenly alive to any sanction of it, however 
 passive, that she might suspect in Tom. Poor Maggie was 
 by no means made up of unalloyed devotedness, but put forth 
 large claims for herself where she loved strongly. She burst 
 out at last in an agitated, almost violent tone, " Mother, how 
 can you talk so ; as if you cared only for things with your 
 
188 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 name on, and not for what has my father's name too ; and to 
 care about anything but dear father himself ! when he 's lying 
 there, and may never speak to us again. Tom, you ought to 
 say so too ; you ought not to let any one find fault with my 
 father." 
 
 Maggie, almost choked with mingled grief and anger, left 
 the room, and took her old place on her father's bed. Her 
 heart went out to him with a stronger movement than ever, 
 at the thought that people would blame him. Maggie hated 
 blame ; she had been blamed all her life, and nothing had 
 come of it but evil tempers. Her father had always defended 
 and excused her, and her loving remembrance of his tender- 
 ness was a force within her that would enable her to do or 
 bear anything for his sake. 
 
 Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst, telling 
 him as well as his mother what it was right to do ! She 
 ought to have learned better than have those hectoring, assum- 
 ing manners, by this time. But he preseutly went into his 
 father's room, and the sight there touched him in a way that 
 effaced the slighter impressions of the previous hour. When 
 Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her 
 arm round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children 
 forgot everything else in the sense that they had one father 
 and one sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FAMILY COUNCIL. 
 
 IT was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts 
 and uncles came to hold their consultation. The fire was 
 lighted in the large parlour, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with a 
 confused impression that it was a great occasion, like a fune- 
 ral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and unpinned the curtains, 
 adjusting them in proper folds, looking round and shaking 
 her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, 
 which sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient 
 brightness. 
 
 Mr. Deane was not coming, he was away on business ; but 
 Mrs. Deane appeared punctually in that handsome new gig 
 with the head to it, and the livery-servant driving it, which 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 189 
 
 had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character 
 to some of her female friends in St. Ogg's. Mr. Deane had 
 been advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr. Tulliver had 
 being going down in it ; and in Mrs. Deane's house the Dod- 
 son linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate 
 position, as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of 
 the same kind, purchased in recent years, a change which had 
 caused an occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse be- 
 tween her and Mrs. Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting 
 "like the rest," and there would soon be little of the true 
 Dodson spirit surviving except in herself, and, it might be 
 hoped, in those nephews who supported the Dodson name on 
 the family land, far away in the Wolds. People who live at a 
 distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under 
 our own eyes ; and it seems superfluous, when we consider the 
 remote geographical position of the Ethiopians, and how very 
 little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why 
 Homer calls them " blameless." 
 
 Mrs. Deane was the first to arrive ; and when she had taken 
 her seat in the large parlour, Mrs. Tulliver came down to her 
 with her comely face a little distorted, nearly as it would have 
 been if she had been crying. She was not a woman who could 
 shed abundant tears, except in moments when the prospect of 
 losing her furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how 
 unfitting it was to be quite calm under present circumstances. 
 
 " Oh, sister, what a world this is ! " she exclaimed as she 
 entered ; " what trouble, oh dear ! " 
 
 Mrs. Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well- 
 considered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them after- 
 wards to her husband, and asking him if she had not spoken 
 very properly. 
 
 "Yes, sister," she said deliberately, "this is a changing 
 world, and we don't know to-day what may happen to-morrow. 
 But it 's right to be prepared for all things, and if trouble 's 
 sent, to remember as it is n't sent without a cause. I 'm very 
 sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for Mr. 
 Tulliver, I hope you '11 let me know. I '11 send it willingly ; 
 for it is but right he should have proper attendance while 
 he's ill." 
 
 "Thank you, Susan," said Mrs. Tulliver, rather faintly, 
 withdrawing her fat hand from her sister's thin one. "But 
 there 's been no talk o' jelly yet." Then after a moment's 
 pause she added, " There 's a dozen o' cut jelly -glasses up- 
 stairs I shall never put jelly into 'em no more." 
 
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, 
 but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr. and .Mrs. 
 Glegg were come, and were almost immediately followed by 
 Mr. and Mrs. Pullet. 
 
 Mrs. Pullet entered crying, as a compendious mode, at all 
 times, of expressing what were her views of life in general, 
 and what, in brief, were the opinions she held concerning the 
 particular case before her. 
 
 Mrs. Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which 
 appeared to have had a recent resurrection from rather a creasy 
 form of burial ; a costume selected with the high moral purpose 
 of instilling perfect humility into Bessy and her children. 
 
 " Mrs. G-., won't you come nearer the fire ? " said her hus- 
 band, unwilling to take the more comfortable seat without 
 offering it to her. 
 
 "You see I've seated myself here, Mr. Glegg," returned 
 this superior woman ; " you can roast yourself, if you 
 like." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Glegg, seating himself good-humouredly, 
 " and how 's the poor man up-stairs ? " 
 
 " Dr. Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver; "he took more notice, and spoke to me; but 
 he 's never known Tom yet, looks at the poor lad as if he 
 was a stranger, though he said something once about Tom 
 and the pony. The doctor says his memory 's gone a long way 
 back, and he does n't know Tom because he 's thinking of him 
 when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear ! " 
 
 " I doubt it 's the water got on his brain," said aunt Pullet, 
 turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at 
 the pier-glass. " It 's much if he ever gets up again ; and if he 
 does, he '11 most like be childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man ! 
 They fed him with a spoon as if he 'd been a babby for three 
 year. He 'd quite lost the use of his limbs ; but then he 'd got 
 a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him ; and that 's what you 
 won't have, I doubt, Bessy." 
 
 "Sister Pullet," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, "if I under- 
 stand right, we 've come together this morning to advise and 
 consult about what 's to be done in this disgrace as has fallen 
 upon the family, and not to talk o' people as don't belong to us. 
 Mr. Carr was none of our blood, nor noways connected with 
 us, as I've ever heared." 
 
 " Sister Glegg," said Mrs. Pullet, in a pleading tone, draw- 
 ing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated 
 manner, " if you 've got anything disrespectful to say o' Mr. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 191 
 
 Carr, I do beg of you as you won't say it to me. / know 
 what he was," she added, with a sigh ; " his breath was short 
 to that degree as you could hear him two rooms off." 
 
 " Sophy ! " said Mrs. Glegg, with indignant disgust, " you 
 do talk o' people's complaints till it 's quite undecent. But I 
 say again, as I said before, I did n't come away from home to 
 talk about acquaintance, whether they 'd short breath or long. 
 If we are n't come together for one to hear what the other 
 'ull do to save a sister and her children from the parish, / 
 shall go back. One can't act without the other, I suppose ; it 
 is n't to be expected as / should do everything." 
 
 "Well, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, "I don't see as you've 
 been so very forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the 
 first time as here you 've been, since it 's been known as the 
 bailiff 's in the house ; and I was here yesterday, and looked 
 at all Bessy's linen and things, and I told her I 'd buy in the 
 spotted tablecloths. I couldn't speak fairer; for as for the 
 teapot as she does n't want to go out o' the family, it stands 
 to sense I can't do with two silver teapots, not if it hadn't a 
 straight spout, but the spotted damask I was allays fond on." 
 
 " I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany 
 and the best castors needn't be put up for sale," said poor 
 Mrs. Tulliver, beseechingly, "and the sugar-tongs, the first 
 things ever I bought." 
 
 " But that can't be helped, you know," said Mr. Glegg. " If 
 one o' the family chooses to buy 'em in, they can, but one thing 
 must be bid for as well as another." 
 
 "And it isn't to be looked for," said uncle Pullet, with 
 unwonted independence of idea, " as your own family should 
 pay more for things nor they '11 fetch. They may go for an 
 old song by auction." 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, "to think o' my 
 chany being sold i' that way, and I bought it when I was 
 married, just as you did yours, Jane and Sophy ; and I know 
 you did n't like mine, because o' the sprig, but I was fond of 
 it ; and there 's never been a bit broke, for I 've washed it my- 
 self ; and there 's the tulips on the cups, and the roses, as 
 anybody might go and look at 'em for pleasure. You would n't 
 like your chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, 
 though yours has got no colour in it, Jane, it 's all white and 
 fluted, and did n't cost so much as mine. And there 's the 
 castors, sister Deane, I can't think but you'd like to have the 
 castors, for I 've heard you say they 're pretty." 
 
 " Well, I 've no objection to buy some of the best things," 
 
192 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 said Mrs. Deane, rather loftily ; " we can do with extra things 
 in our house." 
 
 " Best things ! " exclaimed Mrs. Glegg, with severity, which 
 had gathered intensity from her long silence. " It drives me 
 past patience to hear you all talking o' best things, and buy- 
 ing in this, that, and the other, such as silver and chany. You 
 must bring your mind to your circumstances, Bessy, and not 
 be thinking o' silver and chany ; but whether you shall get so 
 much as a flock-bed to lie on, and a blanket to cover you, and a 
 stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get 'em, it '11 be 
 because your friends have bought 'em for you, for you 're de- 
 pendent upon them for everything ; for your husband lies 
 there helpless, and has n't got a penny i' the world to call his 
 own. And it 's for your own good I say this, for it 's right 
 you should feel what your state is, and what disgrace your 
 husband 's brought on your own family, as you 've got to look 
 to for everything, and be humble in your mind." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for 
 the good of others is naturally exhausting. Mrs. Tulliver, 
 always borne down by the family predominance of sister 
 Jane, who had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister 
 in very tender years, said pleadingly, 
 
 " I 'm sure, sister, I 've never asked anybody to do anything, 
 only buy things as it 'ud be a pleasure to 'em to have, so as 
 they might n't go and be spoiled i' strange houses. I never 
 asked anybody to buy the things in for me and my children ; 
 though there 's the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was 
 born, I thought one o' the first things when he was lying i' 
 the cradle, as all the things I'd bought wi' my own money, 
 and been so careful of, 'ud go to him. But I 've said nothing 
 as I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my 
 husband has done for his sister 's unknown, and we should ha' 
 been better off this day if it had n't been as he 's lent money 
 and never asked for it again." 
 
 " Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, kindly, " don't let us make 
 things too dark. What's done can't be undone. We shall 
 make a shift among us to buy what 's sufficient for you ; 
 though, as Mrs. G. says, they must be useful, plain things. 
 We must n't be thinking o' what 's unnecessary. A table, and 
 a chair or two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and such- 
 like. Why, I 've seen the day when I should n't ha' known 
 myself if I 'd lain on sacking i'stead o' the floor. We get a 
 deal o' useless things about us, only because we 've got the 
 money to spend." 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 193 
 
 " Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., " if you '11 be kind enough to let 
 me speak, i'stead o' taking the words out o' my mouth, I 
 was going to say, Bessy, as it 's fine talking for you to say as 
 you 've never asked us to buy anything for you ; let me tell 
 you, you ought to have asked us. Pray, how are you to be 
 purvided for, if your own family don't help you ? You must 
 go to the parish, if they didn't. And you ought to know 
 that, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we 
 can for you, i'stead o' saying, and making a boast, as you 've 
 never asked us for anything." 
 
 " You talked o' the Mosses, and what Mr. Tulliver 's done 
 for 'em," said uncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive 
 where advances of money were concerned. " Have n't they 
 been anear you ? They ought to do something as well as 
 other folks ; and if he 's lent 'em money, they ought to be 
 made to pay it back." 
 
 " Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Deane ; " I 've been thinking 
 so. How is it Mr. and Mrs. Moss are n't here to meet us ? It 
 is but right they should do their share." 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said Mrs. Tulliver, " I never sent 'em word 
 about Mr. Tulliver, and they live so back'ard among the 
 lanes at Basset, they niver hear anything only when Mr. 
 Moss comes to market. But I niver gave 'em a thought. I 
 wonder Maggie didn't, though, for she was allays so fond 
 of her aunt Moss." 
 
 " Why don't your children come in, Bessy ? " said Mrs. 
 Pullet, at the mention of Maggie. " They should hear what 
 their aunts and uncles have got to say ; and Maggie, when it 's 
 me as have paid for half her schooling, she ought to think 
 more of her aunt Pullet than of aunt Mosses. I may go off 
 sudden when I get home to-day ; there 's no telling." 
 
 " If I 'd had my way," said Mrs. Glegg, " the children 'ud 
 ha' been in the room from the first. It 's time they knew who 
 they 've to look to, and it 's right as somebody should talk to 
 'em, and let 'em know their condition i' life, and what they 're 
 come down to, and make 'em feel as they 've got to suffer for 
 their father's faults." 
 
 " Well, I '11 go and fetch 'em, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, re- 
 signedly. She was quite crushed now, and thought of the 
 treasures in the store-room with no other feeling than blank 
 despair. 
 
 She went up-stairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both 
 in their father's room, and was on her way down again, when 
 the sight of the store-room door suggested a new thought to 
 
194 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 her. She went towards it, and left the children to go down 
 by themselves. 
 
 The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm dis- 
 cussion when the brother and sister entered, both with 
 shrinking reluctance; for though Tom, with a practical sa- 
 gacity which had been roused into activity by the strong 
 stimulus of the new emotions he had undergone since yes- 
 terday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which he 
 meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no 
 means amicably towards them, and dreaded meeting them all 
 at once as he would have dreaded a large dose of concentrated 
 physic, which was but just endurable in small draughts. As 
 for Maggie, she was peculiarly depressed this morning; she 
 had been called up, after brief rest, at three o'clock, and had 
 that strange dreamy weariness which comes from watching 
 in a sick-room through the chill hours of early twilight and 
 breaking day, in which the outside daylight life seems to 
 have no importance, and to be a mere margin to the hours in 
 the darkened chamber. Their entrance intorniptcd the con- 
 versation. The shaking of hands was a melancholy and si- 
 lent ceremony, till uncle Pullet observed, as Tom approached 
 him, 
 
 " Well, young sir, we 've been talking as we should want 
 your pen and ink ; you can write rarely now, after all your 
 schooling, I should think." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he 
 meant to be kind, "we must look to see the good of all 
 this schooling, as your father 's sunk so much money in, 
 now, 
 
 ' When land is gone and money 's spent, 
 Then learning is most excellent.' 
 
 Now 's the time, Tom, to let us see the good o' your learning. 
 Let us see whether you can do better than I can, as have made 
 my fortin without it. But I began wi' doing with little, you 
 see ; I could live on a basin o' porridge and a crust o' bread- 
 and-cheese. But I doubt high living and high learning 'ull 
 make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me." 
 
 " But he must do it," interposed aunt Glegg, energetically, 
 " whether it 's hard or no. He has n't got to consider what 's 
 hard ; he must consider as he is n't to trusten to his friends to 
 keep him in idleness and luxury ; he 's got to bear the fruits 
 of his father's misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard 
 and to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 195 
 
 his aunts and uncles for what they're doing for his mother 
 and father, as must be turned out into the streets and go to 
 the workhouse if they did n't help 'em. And his sister, too," 
 continued Mrs. Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had 
 sat down on the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the 
 sense that she was Lucy's mother, " she must make up her 
 mind to be humble and work ; for there '11 be no servants 
 to wait on her any more, she must remember that. She 
 must do the work o' the house, and she must respect and 
 love her aunts as have done so much for her, and saved 
 their money to leave to their nepheys and nieces." 
 
 Tom was still standing before the table in the centre of the 
 group. There, was a heightened colour in his face, and he was 
 very far from looking humbled, but he was preparing to say, 
 in a respectful tone, something he had previously meditated, 
 when the door opened and his mother re-entered. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Tulliver had in her hands a small tray, on 
 which she had placed her silver teapot, a specimen teacup 
 and saucer, the castors, and sugar-tongs. 
 
 " See here, sister," she said, looking at Mrs. Deane, as 
 she set the tray on the table, "I thought, perhaps, if you 
 looked at the teapot again, it 's a good while since you 
 saw it, you might like the pattern better ; it makes beau- 
 tiful tea, and there 's a stand and everything ; you might 
 use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucy when she 
 goes to housekeeping. I should be so loath for 'em to buy 
 it at the Golden Lion," said the poor woman, her heart 
 swelling, and the tears coming, "my teapot as I bought 
 when I was married, and to think of its being scratched, 
 and set before the travellers and folks, and my letters on 
 it, see here, E. D., and everybody to see 'em." 
 
 -' Ah, dear, dear ! " said aunt Pullet, shaking her head 
 with deep sadness, " it 's very bad, to think o' the family 
 initials going about everywhere, it niver was so before ; 
 you 're a very unlucky sister, Bessy. But what 's the use 
 o' buying the teapot, when there 's the linen and spoons 
 and everything to go, and some of 'em with your full name, 
 and when it 's got that straight spout, too." 
 
 " As to disgrace o' the family," said Mrs. Glegg, " that 
 can't be helped wi' buying teapots. The disgrace is, for 
 one o' the family to ha' married a man as has brought her 
 to beggary. The disgrace is, as they 're to be sold up. We 
 can't hinder the country from knowing that." 
 
 Maggie had started up from, the sofa at the allusion to 
 
196 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 her father, but Tom saw her action and flushed face in 
 time to prevent her from speaking. " Be quiet, Maggie," 
 he said authoritatively, pushing her aside. It was a re- 
 markable manifestation of self-command and practical judg- 
 ment in a lad of fifteen, that when his aunt Glegg ceased, 
 he began to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though 
 with a good deal of trembling in his voice ; for his mother's 
 words had cut him to the quick. 
 
 " Then, aunt," he said, looking straight at Mrs. Glegg, " if 
 you think it 's a disgrace to the family that we should be sold 
 up, would n't it be better to prevent it altogether ? And if 
 you and my aunt Pullet," he continued, looking at the latter, 
 "think of leaving any money to me and Maggie, wouldn't 
 it be better to give it now, and pay the debt we 're going to 
 be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her 
 furniture ? " 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including 
 Maggie, was astonished at Tom's sudden manliness of tone. 
 Uncle Glegg was the first to speak. 
 
 " Ay, ay, young man, come now ! You show some notion 
 o' things. But there 's the interest, you must remember ; your 
 aunts get five per cent on their money, and they 'd lose that if 
 they advanced it ; you have n't thought o' that." 
 
 " I could work and pay that every year," said Tom, promptly. 
 "I'd do anything to save my mother from parting with her 
 things." 
 
 " Well done ! " said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been 
 drawing Tom out, rather than reflecting on the practicability 
 of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result 
 of irritating his wife. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Glegg!" said that lady, with angry sarcasm. 
 " It 's pleasant work for you to be giving my money away, 
 as you 've pretended to leave at my own disposal. And my 
 money, as was my own father's gift, and not yours, Mr. Glegg ; 
 and I 've saved it, and added to it myself, and had more to put 
 out almost every year, and it 's to go and be sunk in other folks' 
 furniture, and encourage 'em in luxury and extravagance as 
 they 've no means of supporting ; and I 'm to alter my will, or 
 have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred less be- 
 hind me when I die, me as have allays done right and been 
 careful, and the eldest o' the family ; and my money 's to go 
 and be squandered on them as have had the same chance as 
 me, only they 've been wicked and wasteful. Sister Pullet, 
 you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 197 
 
 you back again o' the money he 's given you, but that is n't my 
 sperrit." 
 
 " La, Jane, how fiery you are ! " said Mrs. Pullet. " I 'm sure 
 you '11 have the blood in your head, and have to be cupped. I 'm 
 sorry for Bessy and her children, I 'm sure I think of 'em o' 
 nights dreadful, for I sleep very bad wi' this new medicine, 
 but it 's no use for me to think o' doing anything, if you won't 
 meet me half-way." 
 
 " Why, there 's this to be considered," said Mr. Glegg. " It 's 
 no use to pay off this debt and save the furniture, when there 's 
 all the law debts behind, as 'ud take every shilling, and more 
 than could be made out o' land and stock, for I 've made that out 
 from Lawyer Gore. We 'd need save our money to keep the 
 poor man with, instead o' spending it on furniture as he can 
 neither eat nor drink. You will be so hasty, Jane, as if I 
 did n't know what was reasonable." 
 
 " Then speak accordingly, Mr. Glegg ! " said his wife, 
 with slow, loud emphasis, bending her head towards him 
 significantly. 
 
 Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and 
 his lip quivered; but he was determined not to give way. 
 He would behave like a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after 
 her momentary delight in Tom's speech, had relapsed into her 
 state of trembling indignation. Her mother had been stand- 
 ing close by Tom's side, and had been clinging to his arm ever 
 since he had last spoken ; Maggie suddenly started up and 
 stood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a 
 young lioness. 
 
 " Why do you come, then," she burst out, " talking and in- 
 terfering with us and scolding us, if you don't mean to do any- 
 thing to help my poor mother your own sister, if you've 
 no feeling for her when she 's in trouble, and won't part with 
 anything, though you would never miss it, to save her from 
 pain ? Keep away from us then, and don't come to find fault 
 with my father, he was better than any of you; he was 
 kind, he would have helped you, if you had been in trouble. 
 Tom and I don't ever want to have any of your money, if you 
 won't help my mother. We 'd rather not have it ! We '11 do 
 without you." 
 
 Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in 
 this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, 
 as if she were ready to await all consequences. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver was frightened ; there was something por- 
 tentous in this mad outbreak ; she did not see how life could 
 
198 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 go on after it. Tom was vexed ; it was no use to talk so. The 
 aunts were silent with surprise for some moments. At length, 
 in a case of aberration such as this, comment presented itself 
 as more expedient than any answer. 
 
 " You have n't seen the end o' your trouble wi' that child. 
 Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet ; " she 's beyond everything for bold- 
 ness and unthankfulness. It 's dreadful. I might ha' let alone 
 paying for her schooling, for she 's worse nor ever." 
 
 "It's no more than what I've allays said," followed Mrs. 
 Glegg. " Other folks may be surprised, but I 'm not. 1 've 
 said over and over again, years ago I 've said, ' Mark my 
 words ; that child 'ull come to no good ; there is n't a bit of 
 our family in her.' And as for her having so much schooling, 
 I never thought well o' that. I 'd my reasons when I said 1 
 would n't pay anything towards it." 
 
 " Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, " let 's waste no more time 
 in talking, let 's go to business. Tom, now, get the pen and 
 ink " 
 
 While Mr. Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seeti 
 hurrying past the window. 
 
 " Why, there 's Mrs. Moss," said Mrs. Tulliver. " The bad 
 news must ha' reached her, then ; " and she went out to open 
 the door, Maggie eagerly following her. 
 
 "That's fortunate," said Mrs. Glegg. "She can agree to 
 the list o' things to be bought in. It 's but right she should 
 do her share when it 's her own brother." 
 
 Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tulliver's 
 movement, as she drew her into the parlour automatically, 
 without reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among 
 so many persons in the first painful moment of arrival. The 
 tall, worn, dark-haired woman was a strong contrast to the 
 Dodson sisters as she entered in her shabby dress, with her 
 shawl and bonnet looking as if they had been hastily huddled 
 on, and with that entire absence of self-consciousness which 
 belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie was clinging to hoi- 
 arm ; and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else except Tom, 
 whom she went straight up to and took by the hand. 
 
 "Oh, my dear children," she burst out, "you've no call to 
 think well o' me ; I 'm a poor aunt to you, for I 'm one o' them 
 as take all and give nothing. How : s my poor brother ? " 
 
 " Mr. Turnbull thinks he '11 get better," said Maggie. " Sit 
 down, aunt Gritty. Don't fret." 
 
 "Oh, my sweet child, I feel torn i' two," said Mrs. Moss, 
 allowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 199 
 
 to notice the presence of the rest. " We 've three hundred 
 pounds o' my brother's money, and now he wants it, and you 
 all want it, poor things ! and yet we must be sold up to pay 
 it, and there 's my poor children, eight of 'em, and the little 
 un of all can't speak plain. And I feel as if I was a robber. 
 But I 'm sure I 'd no thought as my brother " 
 
 The poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob. 
 
 " Three hundred pounds ! oh dear, dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
 who, when she had said that her husband had done " unknown " 
 things for his sister, had not had any particular sum in her 
 inind, and felt a wife's irritation at having been kept in the 
 dark. 
 
 " What madness, to be sure ! " said Mrs. Glegg. " A man 
 with a family ! He 'd no right to lend his money i' that 
 way ; and without security, I '11 be bound, if the truth was 
 known." 
 
 Mrs. Glegg's voice had arrested Mrs. Moss's attention, and 
 looking up, she said, 
 
 " Yes, there was security ; my husband gave a note for it. 
 We 're not that sort o' people, neither of us, as 'ud rob my 
 brother's children ; and we looked to paying back the money, 
 when the times got a bit better." 
 
 " Well, but now," said Mr. Glegg, gently, " has n't your hus- 
 band no way o' raising this money ? Because it 'ud be a little 
 fortin, like, for these folks, if we can do without Tulliver's be- 
 ing made a bankrupt. Your husband 's got stock ; it is but 
 right he should raise the money, as it seems to me, not but 
 what I 'm sorry for you, Mrs. Moss." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband 's had 
 with his stock. The farm 's suffering so as never was for want 
 o' stock ; and we 've sold all the wheat, and we 're behind with 
 our rent, not but what we 'd like to do what 's right, and I 'd 
 sit up and work half the night, if it 'ud be any good ; but 
 there 's them poor children, four of 'em such little uns " 
 
 "Don't cry so, aunt; don't fret," whispered Maggie, who 
 had kept hold of Mrs. Moss's hand. 
 
 " Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once ? " 
 said Mrs. Tulliver, still lost in the conception of things which 
 kad been " going on " without her knowledge. 
 
 " No ; at twice," said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes and mak- 
 ing an effort to restrain her tears. " The last was after my 
 bad illness four years ago, as everything went wrong, e,nd 
 there was a new note made then. What with illness and bad 
 luck, I Ve been nothing but cumber all my life." 
 
200 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Moss," said Mrs. Glegg, with decision, "yours 
 is a very unlucky family ; the more 's the pity for my sister." 
 
 " I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o' what had 
 happened," said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. "I 
 should never ha* stayed away all this while, if you 'd thought 
 well to let me know. And it is n't as I 'm thinking all about 
 ourselves, and nothing about my brother, only the money 
 was so on my mind, I could n't help speaking about it. And 
 my husband and me desire to do the right thing, sir," she 
 added, looking at Mr. Glegg, "and we'll make shift and pav 
 the money, come what will, if that 's all my brother 's got to 
 trust to. We 've been used to trouble, and don't look for much 
 else. It's only the thought o' my poor children pulls me i' 
 two." 
 
 " Why, there 's this to be thought on, Mrs. Moss," said Mr. 
 Glegg, " and it 's right to warn you, if Tulliver 's made a 
 bankrupt, and he 's got a note-of-hand of your husband's for 
 three hundred pounds, you '11 be obliged to pay it ; th' assign- 
 ees 'ull come on you for it." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear ! " said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the 
 bankruptcy, and not of Mrs. Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs. 
 Moss herself listened in trembling submission, while Maggie 
 looked with bewildered distress at Tom to see if he showed 
 any signs of understanding this trouble, and caring about poor 
 aunt Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful, with his eyes 
 on the tablecloth. 
 
 "And if he isn't made bankrupt," continued Mr. Glegg, 
 a as I said before, three hundred pounds 'ud be a little f ortin 
 for him, poor man. We don't know but what he may be partly 
 helpless, if he ever gets up again. I 'm very sorry if it goes 
 hard with you, Mrs. Moss, but my opinion is, looking at it 
 one way, it '11 be right for you to raise the money ; and look- 
 ing at it th' other way, you'll be obliged to pay it. You won't 
 think ill o' me for speaking the truth." 
 
 " Uncle," said Tom, looking up suddenly from his medita- 
 tive view of the tablecloth, " I don't think it would be right 
 for my aunt Moss to pay the money if it would be against 
 my father's will for her to pay it ; would it ? " 
 
 Mr. Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before h^ 
 said, " Why, no, perhaps not, Tom ; but then he 'd ha' destroyed 
 the note, you know. We must look for the note. What makes 
 you think it 'ud be against his will ? " 
 
 "Why," said Tom, colouring, but trying to speak firmly, 
 in spite of a boyish tremor, " I remember quite well, before I 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 201 
 
 went to school to Mr. Stelling, my father said to me one night, 
 when we were sitting by the fire together, and no one else was 
 in the room " 
 
 Tom hesitated a little, and then went on. 
 
 " He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said, 
 ( I 've always been good to niy sister, though she married 
 against my will, and I 've lent Moss money ; but I shall never 
 think of distressing him to pay it ; I 'd rather lose it. My 
 children must not mind being the poorer for that.' And now 
 my father 's ill, and not able to speak for himself, I should n't 
 like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me." 
 
 "Well, but then, my boy," said uncle Glegg, whose good 
 feeling led him to enter into Tom's wish, but who could not 
 at once shake off his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness 
 as destroying securities, or alienating anything important 
 enough to make an appreciable difference in a man's property, 
 " we should have to make away wi' the note, you know, if 
 we're to guard against what may happen, supposing your 
 father's made bankrupt " 
 
 "Mr. Glegg," interrupted his wife, severely, "mind what 
 you 're saying. You 're putting yourself very forrard in other 
 folks's business. If you speak rash, don't say it was my 
 fault." 
 
 " That 's such a thing as I never heared of before," said 
 uncle Pullet, who had been making haste with his lozenge in 
 order to express his amazement, " making away with a note ! 
 I should think anybody could set the constable on you for it." 
 
 " Well, but," said Mrs. Tulliver, " if the note 's worth all 
 that money, why can't we pay it away, and save my things 
 from going away ? We 've no call to meddle with your uncle 
 and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your father 'ud be angry 
 when he gets well." 
 
 Mrs. Tulli^r had not studied the question of exchange, and 
 was straining .^er mind after original ideas on the subject. 
 
 " Pooh, poc , pooh ! you women don't understand these 
 things," said icle Glegg. "There's no way o' making it 
 safe for Mr. am Mrs. Moss but destroying the note." 
 
 " Then I hop you '11 help me to do it, uncle," said Tom, 
 earnestly. "If my father shouldn't get well, I should be 
 very unhappy to think anything had been done against his 
 will that I could hinder. And I 'm sure he meant me to 
 remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my 
 father's wish about his property." 
 
 Even Mrs. Glegg could not withhold her approval from 
 
202 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Tom's words ; she felt that the Dodson blood was certainly 
 speaking in him, though, if his father had been a Dodson, 
 there would never have been this wicked alienation of money, 
 Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on 
 Tom's neck, if her aunt Moss had not prevented her by herself 
 rising and taking Tom's hand, while she said, with rather a 
 choked voice, 
 
 " You '11 never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there 's 
 a God above; and if the money's wanted for your father, 
 Moss and me 'ull pay it, the same as if there was ever such 
 security. We '11 do as we 'd be done by ; for if my children 
 have got no other luck, they've got an honest father and 
 mother." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Glegg, who had been meditating after 
 Tom's words, " we should n't be doing any wrong by the cred- 
 itors, supposing your father was bankrupt. I 've been think- 
 ing o' that, for I 've been a creditor myself, and seen no end o' 
 cheating. If he meant to give your aunt the money before 
 ever he got into this sad work o' lawing, it 's the same as if 
 he 'd made away with the note himself ; for he 'd made up his 
 mind to be that much poorer. But there 's a deal o' things to 
 be considered, young man," Mr. Glegg added, looking admon- 
 ishingly at Tom, "when you come to money business, and you 
 may be taking one man's dinner away to make another man's 
 breakfast. You don't understand that, I doubt ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," said Tom, decidedly. " I know if I owe money 
 to one man, I 've no right to give it to another. But if my 
 father had made up his mind to give my aunt the money before 
 he was in debt, he had a right to do it." 
 
 " Well done, young man ! I did n't think you 'd been so 
 sharp," said uncle Glegg, with much candour. " But perhaps 
 your lather did make away with the note. Let us go and see 
 if we can find it in the chest." 
 
 " It 's in my father's room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty/' 
 whispered Maggie. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 203 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A VANISHING GLEAM. 
 
 MR. TULLIVER, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity 
 which had recurred at intervals ever since he had been found 
 fallen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition 
 that the exits and entrances into his room were not felt to be 
 of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes closed, 
 all this morning, that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not 
 expect her father to take any notice of them. 
 
 They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near 
 the head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the 
 bed, and put her hand on her father's without causing any 
 change in his face. 
 
 Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and 
 were busy selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch 
 which Tom had brought from his father's bureau. They suc- 
 ceeded in opening the chest, which stood opposite the foot 
 of Mr. Tulliver's bed, and propping the lid with the iron 
 holder, without much noise. 
 
 " There 's a tin box," whispered Mr. Glegg j " he 'd most like 
 put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom ; but 
 I '11 just lift up these deeds, they're the deeds o' the house 
 and mill, I suppose, and see what there is under 'em." 
 
 Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately 
 drawn back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the 
 heavy lid fell with a loud bang that resounded over the house. 
 
 Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the 
 mere fact of the strong vibration that produced the instanta- 
 neous effect on the frame of the prostrate man, and for the time 
 completely shook off the obstruction of paralysis. The chest 
 had belonged to his father and his father's father, and it had 
 always been rather a solemn business to visit it. All long- 
 known objects, even a mere window fastening or a particular 
 door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognised voice to 
 us, a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been used 
 to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the 
 eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked 
 at the chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom 
 
204 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect consciousness 
 and recognition. 
 
 " What are you going to do witli those deeds ? " he said, in 
 his ordinary tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irri- 
 tated. " Come here, Tom. What do you do, going to my 
 chest ? " 
 
 Tom obeyed, with some trembling ; it was the first time his 
 father had recognised him. But instead of saying anything 
 more to him, his father continued to look with a growing dis- 
 tinctness of suspicion at Mr. Glegg and the deeds. 
 
 " What 's been happening, then ? " he said sharply. " What 
 are you meddling with my deeds for ? Is Wakem laying hold 
 of everything ? Why don't you tell me what you 've been 
 a-doing ? " he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg advanced to 
 the foot of the bed before speaking. 
 
 "No, no, friend Tulliver," said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing 
 tone. " Nobody 's getting hold of anything as yet. We only 
 came to look and see what was in the chest. You 've been ill, 
 you know, and we 've had to look after things a bit. But 
 let 's hope you '11 soon be well enough to attend to everything 
 yourself." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver looked round him meditatively, at Tom, at 
 Mr. Glegg, and at Maggie ; then suddenly appearing aware that 
 some one was seated by Ids side at the head of the bed, he 
 turned sharply round and saw his sister. 
 
 " Eh, Gritty ! " he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in 
 which he had been wont to speak to her. " What ! you 're there, 
 are you ? How could you manage to leave the children ? " 
 
 " Oh, brother ! " said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be 
 prudent, "I'm thankful I'm come now to see you yourself 
 again ; I thought you 'd never know us any more." 
 
 " What ! have I had a stroke ? " said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, 
 looking at Mr. Glegg. 
 
 "A fall from your horse shook you a bit, that's all, I 
 think," said Mr. Glegg. "But you'll soon get over it, let's 
 hope." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained 
 silent for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his 
 face. He looked up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, 
 " You got the letter, then, my wench ? " 
 
 "Yes, father," she said, kissing him with a full heart. She 
 felt as if her father were come back to her from the dead, and 
 her yearning to show him how she had always loved him could 
 be fulfilled. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 205 
 
 " Where 's your mother ? " he said, so preoccupied that he 
 received the kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have 
 received it. 
 
 " She 's down-stairs with my aunts, father. " Shall I fetch 
 her ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay ; poor Bessy ! " and his eyes turned towards Tom 
 as Maggie left the room. 
 
 " You '11 have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, 
 Tom. You '11 be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and 
 pay everybody. And mind, there 's fifty pound o' Luke's as I 
 put into the business, lie gave it me a bit at a time, and he 's 
 got nothing to show for it. You must pay him first thing." 
 
 Uncle Grlegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more 
 concerned than ever, but Tom said firmly, 
 
 " Yes, father. And have n't you a note from my uncle Moss 
 for three hundred pounds ? We came to look for that. What 
 do you wish to be done about it, father ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I 'm glad you thought o' that, my lad," said Mr. Tul- 
 liver. " I allays meant to be easy about that money, because 
 o' your aunt. You must n't mind losing the money, if they 
 can't pay it, and it 's like enough they can't. The note 's in 
 that box, mind ! I allays meant to be good to you, Gritty," 
 said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; "but you know you 
 aggravated me when you would have Moss." 
 
 At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who 
 came 'in much agitated by the news that her husband was 
 quite himself again. 
 
 " Well, Bessy," he said, as she kissed him, " you must for- 
 give me if you 're worse off than you ever expected to be. But 
 it 's the fault o' the law, it 's none o' mine," he added angrily. 
 " It 's the fault o' raskills. Tom, you mind this : if ever you 've 
 got the chance, you make Wakem smart. If you don't, you 're 
 a good-for-nothing son. You might horse-whip him, but he 'd 
 set the law on you, the law 's made to take care o' raskills." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was 
 on his face. Mr. Grlegg wanted to say something soothing, but 
 he was prevented by Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. 
 ; ' They '11 make a shift to pay everything, Bessy," he said, " and 
 yet leave you your furniture ; and your sisters '11 do something 
 for you and Tom '11 grow up though what he 's to be I 
 don't know I Ve done what I could I 've given him a 
 eddication and there 's the little wench, she '11 get married 
 but it 's a poor tale " 
 
 The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, 
 
206 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 and with the last words the poor man fell again, rigid and 
 insensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had 
 happened before, it struck all present as if it had been death, 
 not only from its contrast with the completeness of the 
 revival, but because his words had all had reference to the 
 possibility that his death was near. But with poor Tulliver 
 death was not to be a leap ; it was to be a long descent under 
 thickening shadows. 
 
 Mr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had 
 passed, he said this complete restoration, though only tempo- 
 rary, was a hopeful sign, proving that there was no permanent 
 lesion to prevent ultimate recovery. 
 
 Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had 
 gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of 
 memory had only lit up prominent ideas, and he sank into 
 forgetfulness again with half his humiliation unlearned. 
 
 But Tom was clear upon two points, that his uncle Moss's 
 note must be destroyed ; and that Luke's money must be paid, 
 if in no other way, out of his own and Maggie's money now 
 in the savings bank. There were subjects, you perceive, on 
 which Tom was much quicker than on the niceties of classical 
 construction, or the relations of a mathematical demonstration. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TOM APPLIES HIS KNIFE TO THE OYSTER. 
 
 THE next day, at ten o'clock, Tom was on his way to St. 
 egg's, to see his uncle Deane, who was to come home last 
 night, his aunt had said; and Tom had made up his mind 
 that his uncle Deane was the right person to ask for advice 
 about getting some employment. He was in a great way of 
 business ; he had not the narrow notions of uncle Glegg ; and 
 he had risen in the world on a scale of advancement which 
 accorded with Tom's ambition. 
 
 It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain, 
 one of those mornings when even happy people take refuge 
 in their hopes. And Tom was very unhappy; he felt the 
 humiliation as well as the prospective hardships of his lot 
 with all the keenness of a proud nature ; and with all his 
 resolute dutifulness towards his father there mingled an 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 207 
 
 irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortune 
 the less endurable aspect of a wrong. Since these were the 
 consequences of going to law, his father was really blarnable, 
 as his aunts and uncles had always said he was ; and it was 
 a significant indication of Tom's character, that though he 
 thought his aunts ought to do something more for his mother, 
 he felt nothing like Maggie's violent resentment against them 
 for showing no eager tenderness and generosity. There were 
 no impulses in Tom that led him to expect what did not pre- 
 sent itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why should 
 people give away their money plentifully to those who had 
 not taken care of their own money ? Tom saw some justice 
 in severity ; and all the more, because he had confidence in 
 himself that he should never deserve that just severity. It 
 was very hard upon him that he should be put at this disad- 
 vantage in life by his father's want of prudence ; but he was 
 not going to complain and to find fault with people because 
 they did not make everything easy for him. He would ask 
 no one to help him, more than to give him work and pay him 
 for it. Poor Tom was not without his hopes to take refuge 
 in under the chill damp imprisonment of the December fog, 
 which seemed only like a part of his home troubles. At six- 
 teen, the mind that has the strongest affinity for fact cannot 
 escape illusion and self-flattery; and Tom, in sketching his 
 future, had no other guide in arranging his facts than the 
 suggestions of his own brave self-reliance. Both Mr. Glegg 
 and Mr. Deane, he knew, had been very poor once ; he did 
 not want to save money slowly and retire on a moderate for- 
 tune like his uncle Glegg, but he would be like his uncle 
 Deane, get a situation in some great house of business and 
 rise fast. He had scarcely seen anything of his uncle Deane 
 for the last three years, the two families had been getting 
 wider apart ; but for this very reason Tom was the more 
 hopeful about applying to him. His uncle Glegg, he felt sure, 
 would never encourage any spirited project, but he had a 
 vague imposing idea of the resources at his uncle Deane's 
 command. He had heard his father say, long ago, how Deane 
 had made himself so valuable to Guest & Co. that they were 
 glad enough to offer him a share in the business ; that was 
 what Tom resolved he would do. It was intolerable to think 
 of being poor and looked down upon all one's life. He would 
 provide for his mother and sister, and make every one say 
 that he was a man of high character. He leaped over the 
 years in this way, and, in the haste of strong purpose and 
 
208 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS, 
 
 strong desire, did not see how they would be made up of slow 
 days, hours, and minutes. 
 
 By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the Floss 
 and was entering St.Ogg's, he was thinking that he would buy 
 his father's mill and land again when he was rich enough, 
 and improve the house and live there ; he should prefer it 
 to any smarter, newer place, and he could keep as many 
 horses and dogs as he liked. 
 
 Walking along the street with a firm, rapid step, at this 
 point in his reverie he was startled by some one who had 
 crossed without his notice, and who said to him in a rough, 
 familiar voice, 
 
 "Why, Master Tom, how's your father this morning?" 
 It was a publican of St. Ogg's, one of his father's customers. 
 
 Tom disliked being spoken to just then ; but he said civilly, 
 " He 's still very ill, thank you." 
 
 " Ay, it 's been a sore chance for you, young man, has n't it, 
 this lawsuit turning out against him?" said the publican, 
 with a confused, beery idea of being good-natured. 
 
 Tom reddened and passed on ; he would have felt it like the 
 handling of a bruise, even if there had been the most polite 
 and delicate reference to his position. 
 
 " That 's Tulliver's son," said the publican to a grocer 
 standing on the adjacent door-step. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the grocer, " I thought I knew his features. 
 He takes after his mother's family ; she was a Doclson. He 's 
 a fine, straight youth ; what 's he been brought up to ? " 
 
 " Oh ! to turn up his nose at his father's customers, and 
 be a fine gentleman, not much else, I think." 
 
 Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thorough 
 consciousness of the present, made all the greater haste to 
 reach the warehouse offices of Guest & Co., where he ex- 
 pected to find his uncle Deane. But this was Mr. Deane's 
 morning at the bank, a clerk told him, with some contempt 
 for his ignorance ; Mr. Deane was not to be found in River 
 Street on a Thursday morning. 
 
 At the bank Tom was admitted into the private room 
 where his uncle was, immediately after sending in his name. 
 Mr. Deane was auditing accounts ; but he looked up as Tom 
 entered, and putting out his hand, said, " Well, Tom, nothing 
 fresh the matter at home, I hope ? How 's your father ? " 
 
 "Much the same, thank you, uncle," said Tom, feeling 
 nervous. " But I want to speak to you, please, when you 're 
 at liberty." 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 209 
 
 ''f : :i, down, sit down," said Mr. Deane, relapsing into his 
 accounts, in which he and the managing-clerk remained so 
 absorbed for the next half-hour that Tom began to wonder 
 whether he should have to sit in this way till the bank 
 closed, there seemed so little tendency towards a conclu- 
 sion in the quiet, monotonous procedure of these sleek, pros- 
 perous men of business. Would his uncle give him a place 
 in the bank ? It would be very dull, prosy work, he thought, 
 writing there forever to the loud ticking of a time-piece. He 
 preferred some other way of getting rich. But at last there 
 was a change ; his uncle took a pen and wrote something with 
 a nourish at the end. 
 
 " You '11 just step up to Torry's now, Mr. Spence, will 
 you ? " said Mr. Deane, and the clock suddenly became less 
 loud and deliberate in Tom's ears. 
 
 " Well, Tom," said Mr. Deane, when they were alone, 
 turning his substantial person a little in his chair, and tak- 
 ing out his snuff-box, " what 's the business, my boy ; what 's 
 the business ? " Mr. Deane, who had heard from his wife 
 what had passed the day before, thought Tom was come to 
 appeal to him for some means of averting the sale. 
 
 " I hope you '11 excuse me for troubling you, uncle," said 
 Tom, colouring, but speaking in a tone which, though tremu- 
 lous, had a certain proud independence in it ; " but I thought 
 you were the best person to advise me what to do." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Deane, reserving his pinch of snuff, and 
 looking at Tom with new attention, "let us hear." 
 
 " I want to get a situation, uncle, so that I may earn 
 some money," said Tom, who never fell into circumlocution. 
 
 " A situation ? " said Mr. Deane, and then took his pinch 
 of snuff with elaborate justice to each nostril. Tom thought 
 snuff-taking a most provoking habit. 
 
 " Why, let me see, how old are you ? " said Mr. Deane, 
 as he threw himself backward again. 
 
 " Sixteen ; I mean, I am going in seventeen," said Tom, 
 hoping his uncle noticed how much beard he had. 
 
 " Let me see ; your father had some notion of making you 
 an engineer, I think ? " 
 
 " But I don't think I could get any money at that for a long 
 while, could I ? " 
 
 " That 's true ; but people don't get much money at any- 
 thing, my boy, when they 're only sixteen. You 've had a 
 good deal of schooling, however ; I suppose you 're pretty well 
 up in accounts, eh ? You understand book-keeping ? " 
 
 14 
 
210 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " No," said Tom, rather falteringly " I was in Practice. 
 But Mr. Stelling says I write a good hand, uncle. That 's my 
 writing," added Tom, laying on the table a copy of the list he 
 had made yesterday. 
 
 " Ah ! that 's good, that 's good. But, you see, the best 
 hand in the world '11 not get you a better place than a copy- 
 ing-clerk's, if you know nothing of book-keeping, nothing of 
 accounts. And a copying-clerk 's a cheap article. But what 
 have you been learning at school, then ? " 
 
 Mr. Deane had not occupied himself with methods of educa- 
 tion, and had no precise conception of what went forward in 
 expensive schools. 
 
 " We learned Latin," said Tom, pausing a little between 
 each item, as if he were turning over the books in his school- 
 desk to assist his memory, " a good deal of Latin ; and the 
 last year I did Themes, one week in Latin and one in Eng- 
 lish ; and Greek and Roman history ; and Euclid ; and I 
 began Algebra, but I left it oft' again ; and we had one day 
 every week for Arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing- 
 lessons ; and there were several other books we either read 
 or learned out of, English Poetry, and Hone Paulinae, and 
 Blair's Rhetoric, the last half." 
 
 Mr. Deane tapped his snuff-box again and screwed up his 
 mouth ; he felt in the position of many estimable persons 
 when they had read the New Tariff, and found how many 
 commodities were imported of which they knew nothing ; 
 like a cautious man of business, he was not going to speak 
 rashly of a raw material in which he had had no experience. 
 But the presumption was, that if it had been good for any- 
 thing, so successful a man as himself would hardly have been 
 ignorant of it. About Latin he had an opinion, and thought 
 that in case of another war, since people would no longer 
 wear hair-powder, it would be well to put a tax upon Latin, 
 as a luxury much run upon by the higher classes, and not 
 telling at all on the ship-owning department. But, for what 
 he knew, the Horae Paulinae might be something less neutral. 
 On the whole, this list of acquirements gave him a sort of 
 repulsion towards poor Tom. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, in rather a cold, sardonic tone, 
 " you 've had three years at these things, you must be 
 pretty strong in 'em. Hadn't you better take up some line 
 where they '11 come in handy ? " 
 
 Tom coloured, and burst out, with new energy, 
 
 " I 'd rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 211 
 
 1 don't like Latin and those things. I don't know what I 
 could do with them unless I went as usher in a school ; and I 
 don't know them well enough for that; besides, I would as 
 soon carry a pair of panniers. I don't want to be that sort of 
 person. I should like to enter into some business where I 
 can get on, a manly business, where I should have to look 
 after things, and get credit for what I did. And I shall want 
 to keep my mother and sister.'' 
 
 " Ah, young gentleman," said Mr. Deane, with that tendency 
 to repress youthful hopes which stout and successful men of 
 titty find one of their easiest duties, " that 's sooner said than 
 done, sooner said than done." 
 
 " But did n't you get on in that way, uncle ? " said Tom, 
 a little irritated that Mr. Deaiie did not enter more rapidly 
 into his views. " I mean, did n't you rise from one place 
 to another through your abilities and good conduct ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said Mr. Deane, spreading himself in his 
 chair a little, and entering with great readiness into a retro- 
 spect of his own career. " But I '11 tell you how I got on. It 
 was n't by getting astride a stick and thinking it would turn 
 into a horse if I sat on it long enough. I kept my eyes and 
 ears open, sir, and I was n't too fond of my own back, and I 
 made my master's interest my own. Why, with only looking 
 into what went on in the mill, I found out how there was 
 a waste of five hundred a-year that might be hindered. Why, 
 sir, I had n't more schooling to begin with than a charity boy ; 
 but I saw pretty soon that I could n't get on far without mas- 
 tering accounts, and I learned 'em between working hours, 
 after I'd been unlading. Look here." Mr. Deane opened 
 a book and pointed to the page. "I write a good hand 
 enough, and I '11 match anybody at all sorts of reckoning 
 by the head ; and I got it all by hard work, and paid for 
 it out of my own earnings, often out of my own dinner 
 and supper. And I looked into the nature of all the things 
 we had to do with in the business, and picked up knowledge 
 us I went about my work, and turned it over in my head. 
 Why, I 'm no mechanic, I never pretended to be but I 've 
 thought of a thing or two that the mechanics never thought of, 
 and it 's made a fine difference in our returns. And there 
 is n't an article shipped or unshipped at our wharf but I know 
 the quality of it. If I got places, sir, it was because I made 
 myself fit for 'em. If you want to slip into a round hole, you 
 must make a ball of yourself ; that 's where it is." 
 
 Mr. Deane tapped his box again. He had been led on 
 
212 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 by pure enthusiasm in his subject, and had really forgotten 
 \vhat bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener, 
 lie had found occasion for saying the same thing more than 
 once before, and was not distinctly aware that he had not his 
 port-wine before him. 
 
 "Well, uncle," said Tom, with a slight complaint in his 
 tone, " that 's what I should like to do. Can't / get on in tin* 
 same way ? " 
 
 "In the same way?" said Mr. Deane, eyeing Tom with 
 quiet deliberation. " There go two or three questions to that, 
 Master Tom. That depends on what sort of material you arc, 
 to begin with, and whether you 've been put into the right 
 mill. But I '11 tell you what it is. Your poor father went 
 the wrong way to work in giving you an education. It was n't 
 my business, and I did n't interfere ; but it is as I thought it 
 would be. You Ve had a sort of learning that 's all very well 
 for a young fellow like our Mr. Stephen Guest, who '11 have 
 nothing to do but sign cheques all his life, and may as well 
 have Latin inside his head as any other sort of stuffing." 
 
 "But, uncle," said Tom, earnestly, "I don't see why the 
 Latin need hinder me from getting on in business. I shall 
 soon forget it all ; it makes no difference to me. I had to do 
 my lessons at school, but I always thought they 'd never be of 
 any use to me afterwards ; I did n't care about them." 
 
 "Ay, ay, that's all very well," said Mr. Deane; "but it 
 does n't alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and rigma- 
 role may soon dry off you, but you '11 be but a bare stick after 
 that. Besides, it 's whitened your hands and taken the rough 
 work out of you. And what do you know ? Why, you know 
 nothing about book-keeping, to begin with, and not so much 
 of reckoning as a common shopman. You '11 have to begin at 
 a low round of the ladder, let me tell you, if you mean to get 
 on in life. It 's no use forgetting the education your father '3 
 been paying for, if you don't give yourself a new un." 
 
 Tom bit his lips hard ; he felt as if the tears were rising, 
 and he would rather die than let them. 
 
 " You want me to help you to a situation," Mr. Deane went 
 on; "well, I 've no fault to find with that. I 'm willing to do 
 something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think 
 you 're to begin with living well and working easy ; you 've no 
 notion of running afoot before you get on horseback. Now, 
 you must remember Avhat you are, you're a lad of sixteen, 
 trained to nothing particular. There's heaps of your sort, 
 like so many pebbles, made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 213 
 
 be apprenticed to some business, a chemist's and druggist's 
 perhaps ; your Latin might come in a bit there " 
 
 Tom was going to speak, but Mr. Deane put up his hand 
 and said, 
 
 " Stop ! hear what I 've got to say. You don't want to be a 
 'prentice, I know, I know, you want to make more haste, 
 and you don't want to stand behind a counter. But if you 're 
 a copying-clerk, you '11 have to stand behind a desk, and stare 
 at your ink and paper all day ; there is n't much out-look there, 
 and you won't be much wiser at the end of the year than at 
 the beginning. The world is n't made of pen, ink, and paper, 
 and if you 're to get on in the world, young man, you must 
 know what the world 's made of. Now the best chance for 
 you 'ud be to have a place on a wharf, or in a warehouse, 
 where you 'd learn the smell of things, but you would n't 
 like that, I '11 be bound ; you 'd have to stand cold and wet, 
 and be shouldered about by rough fellows. You 're too fine a 
 gentleman for that." 
 
 Mr. Deane paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly 
 felt some inward struggle before he could reply. 
 
 " I would rather do what will be best for me in the end, 
 sir ; I would put up with what was disagreeable." 
 
 " That 's well, if you can carry it out. But you must remem- 
 ber it is n't only laying hold of a rope, you must go on pull- 
 ing. It's the mistake you lads make that have got nothing 
 either in your brains or your pocket, to think you've got a 
 better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place 
 where you can keep your coats clean, and have the shop- 
 wenches take you for fine gentlemen. That was n't the way / 
 started, young man; when I was sixteen, my jacket smelt of 
 tar, and I wasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the 
 reason I can wear good broadcloth now, and have my legs 
 under the same table with the heads of the best firms in St. 
 Ogg's." 
 
 Uncle Deane tapped his box, and seemed to expand a little 
 under his waistcoat and gold chain, as he squared his shoulders 
 in the chair. 
 
 " Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, uncle, 
 that I should do for ? I should like to set to work at once," 
 said Tom, with a slight tremor in his voice. 
 
 " Stop a bit, stop a bit ; we must n't be in too great a hurry. 
 You must bear in mind, if I put you in a place you 're a bit 
 young for, because you happen to be my nephew, I shall be 
 responsible for you. And there 's no better reason, you know, 
 
214 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS, 
 
 than your being my nephew ; because it remains to be seen 
 whether you 're good for anything." 
 
 " I hope I should never do you any discredit, uncle," said 
 Tom, hurt, as all boys are at the statement of the unpleasant 
 truth that people feel no ground for trusting them. " I care 
 about my own credit too much for that." 
 
 "Well done, Tom, well done! That's the right spirit, and 
 I never refuse to help anybody if they've a mind to do them- 
 selves justice. There's a young man of two-and-twenty I 'TO 
 got my eye on now. I shall do what I can for that young 
 man; he's got some pith in him. But then, you see, h' 's 
 made good use of his time, a first-rate calculator, can tell 
 you the cubic contents of anything in no time, and put me up 
 the other day to a new market for Swedish bark ; he 's uncom- 
 monly knowing in manufactures, that young fellow." 
 
 " I 'd better set about learning book-keeping, had n't I, 
 uncle ? " said Tom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert 
 himself. 
 
 "Yes, yes, you can't do amiss there. But Ah, Speinv, 
 you 're back again. Well, Tom, there 's nothing more to be 
 said just now, I think, and I must go to business again. Good- 
 bye. Remember me to your mother." 
 
 Mr. Deane put out his hand, with an air of friendly dis- 
 missal, and Tom had not courage to ask another question, 
 especially in the presence of Mr. Spence. So he went out 
 again into the cold damp air. He had to call at his uncle 
 Glegg's about the money in the Savings Bank, and by the time 
 he set out again the mist had thickened, and he could not see 
 very far before him ; but going along River Street again, he 
 was startled, when he was within two yards of the projecting 
 side of a shop-window, by the words " Dorlcote Mill " in large 
 letters on a hand-bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. 
 It was the catalogue of the sale to take place the next week ; 
 it was a reason for hurrying faster out of the town. 
 
 Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he 
 made his way homeward ; lie only felt that the present was 
 vi TV hard. It seemed a wrong towards him that his uncle 
 Deane had no confidence in him, did not see at once that he 
 should acquit himself well, which Tom himself was as certain 
 of as of the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, was 
 likely to be held of small account in the world ; and for the 
 first time he felt a sinking of heart under the sense that he 
 really was very ignorant, and could do very little. Who was 
 that enviable young man that could tell the cubic contents of 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 215 
 
 things in no time, and make suggestions about Swedish bark ? 
 Swedish bark! Tom had been used to be so entirely satisfied 
 with himself, in spite of his breaking down in a demonstration, 
 and construing nunc illas promite vires as " now promise 'those 
 men ; " but now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage, because he 
 knew less than some one else knew. There must be a world 
 of things connected with that Swedish bark, which, if he only 
 knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have 
 been much easier to make a figure with a spirited horse and 
 a new saddle. 
 
 Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St. Ogg's, he saw the 
 distant future before him as he might have seen a tempting 
 stretch of smooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles ; 
 he was on the grassy bank then, and thought the shingles might 
 soon be passed. But now his feet were on the sharp stones ; 
 the belt of shingles had widened, and the stretch of sand had 
 dwindled into narrowness. 
 
 " What did my uncle Deane say, Tom ? " said Maggie, put< 
 ting her arm through Tom's as he was warming himself rather 
 drearily by the kitchen fire. " Did he say he would give you 
 a situation ? " 
 
 " No, he did n't say that. He did n't quite promise me any- 
 thing ; he seemed to think I could n't have a very good situa- 
 tion. I 'm too young." 
 
 " But did n't he speak kindly, Tom ? " 
 
 " Kindly ? Pooh ! what 's the use of talking about that ? 
 I would n't care about his speaking kindly, if I could get a 
 situation. But it 's such a nuisance and bother ; I 've been 
 at school all this while learning Latin and things, not a bit of 
 good to me, and now my uncle says I must set about learning 
 book-keeping and calculation, and those things. He seems to 
 make out I 'm good for nothing." 
 
 Tom's mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked 
 at the fire. 
 
 " Oh, what a pity we have n't got Dominie Sampson ! " said 
 Maggie, who could n't help mingling some gaiety with their 
 sadness. " If he had taught me book-keeping by double entry 
 and after the Italian method, as he did Lucy Bertram, I could 
 teach you, Tom." 
 
 " You teach ! Yes, I daresay. That 's always the tone you 
 take," said Tom. 
 
 "Dear Tom, I was only joking," said Maggie, putting her 
 cheek against his coat-sleeve. 
 
 " But it's always the same, Maggie/' said Tom, with the little 
 
216 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 frown he put on when he was about to be justifiably severe. 
 " You 're always setting yourself up above me and every one 
 else, and I 've wanted to tell you about it several times. You 
 ought not to have spoken as you did to my uncles and aunts ; 
 you should leave it to me to take care of my mother and you, 
 and not put yourself forward. You think you kno\v better 
 than any one, but you're almost always wrong. 1 can judge 
 much better than you can." 
 
 Poor Tom ! he had just come from being lectured and made 
 to feel his inferiority ; the reaction of his strong, self-asserting 
 nature must take place somehow ; and here was a case in which 
 he could justly show himself dominant. Maggie's cheek flushed 
 and her lip quivered with conflicting resentment and affection, 
 and a certain awe as well as admiration of Tom's firmer and 
 more effective character. She did not answer immediately ; 
 very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven back 
 again, and she said at last, 
 
 " You often think I 'm conceited, Tom, when I don't mean 
 what I say at all in that way. I don't mean to put myself 
 above you ; I know you behaved better than I did yesterday. 
 But you are always so harsh to me, Tom." 
 
 With the last words the resentment was rising again. 
 
 " No, I 'm not harsh," said Tom, with severe decision. " I 'm 
 always kind to you, and so I shall be ; I shall always take care 
 of you. But you must mind what I say." 
 
 Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that 
 her burst of tears, which she felt must come, might not 
 happen till she was safe up-stairs. They were very bitter 
 tears ; everybody in the world seemed so hard and unkind to 
 Maggie ; there was no indulgence, no fondness, such as she 
 imagined when she fashioned the world afresh in her own 
 thoughts. In books there were people who were always 
 agreeable or tender, and delighted to do things that made 
 one happy, and who did not show their kindness by finding 
 fault. The world outside the books was not a happy one, 
 Maggie felt ; it seemed to be a world where people behaved 
 the best to those they did not pretend to love, and that did not 
 belong to them. And if life had no love in it, what else was 
 there for Maggie ? Nothing but poverty and the companion- 
 ship of her mother's narrow griefs, perhaps of her father's 
 heart-cutting childish dependence. There is no hopelessness 
 so sad as that of early youth, when the soul is made up of 
 wants, and has no long memories, no superadded life in the 
 life of others ; though we who look on think lightly of such 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 217 
 
 premature despair, as if our vision of the future lightened 
 the blind sufferer's present. 
 
 .Maggie, in her brown frock, with her eyes reddened and her 
 heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed where her father 
 lay, to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the centre 
 of her world, was a creature full of eager, passionate longings 
 for all that was beautiful and glad ; thirsty for all knowledge ; 
 with an ear straining after dreamy music that died away and 
 would not come near to her ; with a blind, unconscious yearn- 
 ing for something that would link together the wonderful im- 
 pressions of this mysterious life, and give her soul a sense of 
 home in it. 
 
 No wonder, when there is this contrast between the outward 
 and the inward, that painful collisions come of it. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TENDING TO REFUTE THE POPULAR PREJUDICE AGAINST THE 
 PRESENT OF A POCKET-KNIFE. 
 
 IN that dark time of December, the sale of the household 
 furniture lasted beyond the middle of the second day. Mr. 
 Tulliver, who had begun, in his intervals of consciousness, to 
 manifest an irritability which often appeared to have as a direct 
 effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, 
 had lain in this living death throughout the critical hours when 
 the noise of the sale came nearest to his chamber. Mr. Turn- 
 bull had decided that it would be a less risk to let him remain 
 where he was than to move him to Luke's cottage, a plan 
 which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. Tulliver, thinking 
 it would be very bad if the master were " to waken up " at the 
 noise of the sale ; and the wife and children had sat impris- 
 oned in the silent chamber, watching the large prostrate figure 
 on the bed, and trembling lest the blank face should suddenly 
 show some response to the sounds which fell on their own ears 
 with such obstinate, painful repetition. 
 
 But it was over at last, that time of importunate certainty 
 and eye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, al- 
 most as metallic as the rap that followed it, had ceased ; the 
 tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver's blond face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty 
 
218 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 hours ; the poor woman's mind had been busy divining when 
 her favourite things were being knocked down by the terrible 
 hammer ; her heart had been fluttering at the thought that 
 first one thing and then another had gone to be identified 
 as hers in the hateful publicity of the Golden Lion ; and all 
 the while she had to sit and make no sign of this inward 
 agitation. Such things bring lines in well-rounded faces, 
 and broaden the streaks of white among the hairs that once 
 looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already, 
 at three o'clock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-tempered house- 
 maid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as her 
 personal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly 
 vile quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy 
 much assisted by a continual low muttering against "folks 
 as came to buy up other folks's things," and made light of 
 "scrazing" the tops of mahogany tables over which better 
 folks than themselves had had to suffer a waste of tissue 
 through evaporation. She was not scrubbing indiscriminately, 
 for there would be further dirt of the same atrocious kind 
 made by people who had still to fetch away their purchases ; 
 but she was bent on bringing the parlour, where that " pipe- 
 smoking pig," the bailiff, had sat, to such an appearance of 
 scant comfort as could be given to it by cleanliness and the 
 few articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mis- 
 tress and the young folks should have their tea in it that 
 night, Kezia was determined. 
 
 It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual tea-time, 
 when she came up-stairs and said that Master Tom was 
 wanted. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, 
 and in the first moments, by the imperfect fire and candle 
 light, Tom had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaint- 
 ance with the rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two 
 years older than himself, that looked at him with a pair of 
 blue eyes set in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly red 
 locks with a strong intention of respect. A low-crowned oil- 
 skin-covered hat, and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on tlu- 
 rest of the costume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, 
 suggested a calling that had to do with boats ; but this did 
 not help Tom's memory. 
 
 "Sarvant, Mister Tom," said he of the red locks, with 
 a smile which seemed to break through a self-imposed air of 
 melancholy. " You don't know me again, I doubt," he went 
 on, as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly ; " but I 'd 
 like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please." 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 219 
 
 " There 's a fire i' the parlour, Master Tom," said Kezia, 
 who objected to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting. 
 
 " Come this way, then," said Tom, wondering if this young 
 fellow belonged to Guest & Co.'s Wharf, for his imagination 
 ran continually towards that particular spot ; and uncle Deane 
 might any time be sending for him to say that there was a 
 situation at liberty. 
 
 The bright fire in the parlour was the only light that 
 showed the few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and 
 the one table no, not the one table ; there was a second 
 table, in a corner, with a large Bible and a few other books 
 upon it. It was this new strange bareness that Tom felt first, 
 before he thought of looking again at the face which was also 
 lit up by the fire, and which stole a half-shy, questioning 
 glance at him as the entirely strange voice said, 
 
 " Why ! you don't remember Bob, then, as you gen the 
 pocket-knife to, Mr. Tom?" 
 
 The rough-handled pocket-knife was taken out in the same 
 moment, and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible 
 demonstration. 
 
 " What ! Bob Jakin ? " said Tom, not with any cordial 
 delight, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy 
 symbolised by the pocket-knife, and was not at all sure that 
 Bob's motives for recalling it were entirely admirable. 
 
 "Ay, ay, Bob Jakin, if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's 
 so many Bobs as you went arter the squerrils with, that day 
 as I plumped right down from the bough, and bruised my 
 shins a good un but I got the squerril tight for all that, an' 
 a scratter it was. An' this littlish blade 's broke, you see, 
 but I wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause they might be 
 cheatin' me an' givin' me another knife istid, for there is n't 
 such a blade i' the country, it 's got used to my hand, like. 
 An' there was niver nobody else gen me nothin' but what I 
 got by my own sharpness, only you, Mr. Tom ; if it was n't 
 Bill Fawks as gen me the terrier pup istid o' drowndin' it, 
 an' I had to jaw him a good un afore he 'd give it me." 
 
 Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and 
 got through his long speech with surprising despatch, giving 
 the blade of his knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when 
 he had finished. 
 
 " Well, Bob," said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the 
 foregoing reminiscences having disposed him to be as friendly 
 as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaint- 
 ance with Bob that he remembered better than the cause 
 
220 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 of their parting quarrel ; " is there anything I can do for 
 you ? " 
 
 " Why, no, Mr Tom," answered Bob, shutting up his knife 
 with a click and returning it to his pocket, where he seemed 
 to be feeling for something else. " I should n't ha' come 
 back upon you now ye 're i' trouble, an' folks say as the 
 master, as I used to frighten the birds for, an' he flogged me 
 a bit for fun when he catched me eatin' the turnip, as t!n-y 
 say he '11 niver lift up his yead no more, 1 should n't ha' 
 come now to ax you to gi' me another knife 'cause you gen 
 me one afore, if a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough 
 for me ; I sha'n't ax him for another afore I sarve him out ; 
 an' a good turn's worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. 
 I shall niver grow down'ards again, Mr. Tom, an' you war 
 the little chap as I liked the best when / war a little cli;i|>, 
 for all you leathered me, and wouldn't look at me again. 
 There 's Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as iiiudi 
 as I'd a mind; but Ion 2 you get tired o' leatherin' a chap 
 when you ran nivrr make him see what you want him to shy at. 
 I'n seen chaps as "ad stand starin' at a bough till their cys 
 shot out, afore they'd see as a bird's tail war n't a leaf. It, 's 
 poor work goin' \vi' such raff. But you war allays a rare un 
 at shying, Mr. Tom, an' I could trusten to you for droppin' 
 down wi' your stick in the nick o 1 time at a runnin' rat, or 
 a stoat, or that, when I war a-beatin' the bushes." 
 
 Bob had drawn out a dirty canvas bag, and would perhaps 
 not have paused just then if Maggie had not entered the 
 room and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, 
 whereupon he pulled his red locks again with due respect. 
 But the next moment the sense of the altered room came upon 
 Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought of Bob's 
 presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the 
 place where the bookcase had hung ; there was nothing now 
 but the oblong unfaded space on the wall, and below it the 
 small table with the Bible and the few other books. 
 
 " Oh, Tom ! " she burst out, clasping her hands, " where are 
 the books ? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy 
 them. Did n't he ? Are those all they 've left us ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," said Tom, with a sort of desperate indiffer- 
 ence. " Why should they buy many books when they bought 
 so little furniture ? " 
 
 " Oh, but, Tom," said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as 
 she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. 
 " Our dear old Pilgrim's Progress that you coloured with youi 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 221 
 
 little paints ; and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, 
 looking just like a turtle oh dear ! " Maggie went on, half 
 sobbing as she turned over the few books. " I thought we 
 should never part with that while we lived; everything is 
 going away from vis ; the end of our lives will have nothing 
 in it like the beginning ! " 
 
 Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into 
 a chair, with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks, 
 quite blinded to the presence of Bob, who was looking at her 
 with the pursuant gaze of an intelligent dumb animal, with 
 perceptions more perfect than his comprehension. 
 
 "Well, Bob," said Tom, feeling that the subject of the 
 books was unseasonable, " I suppose you just came to see me 
 because we 're in trouble ? That was very good-natured of you." 
 
 " I '11 tell you how it is, Master Tom," said Bob, beginning 
 to untwist his. canvas bag. " You see, I 'n been with a barge 
 this two 'ear ; that 's how I 'n been gettin' my livin', if it 
 was n't when I was tentin' the furnace, between whiles, at 
 Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I 'd a rare bit o' luck, I 
 allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niver set a trap but 
 what I catched something ; but this was n't a trap, it was a 
 fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else it 'ud ha' set th' oil 
 alight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns ; he gen me 
 'em himself last week. An' he said first, I was a sperrited 
 chap, but I knowed that afore, but then he outs wi' the 
 ten suvreigns, an' that war summat new. Here they are, all 
 but one ! " Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. 
 " An' when I 'd got 'em, my head was all of a boil like a 
 kettle o' broth, thinkin' what sort o' life I should take to, 
 for there war a many trades I 'd thought on ; for as for the 
 barge, I 'm clean tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till 
 they 're as long as pigs' chitterlings. An' I thought first I 'd 
 ha' ferrets an' dogs, an' be a rat-catcher ; an' then I thought 
 as I should like a bigger way o' life, as I did n't know so well ; 
 for I 'n seen to the bottom o' rat-catching ; an' I thought, an' 
 thoiight, till at last I settled I 'd be a packman, for they 're 
 knowin' fellers, the packmen are, an' I'd carry the lightest 
 things I could i' my pack ; an' there 'd be a use for a feller's 
 tongue, as is no use neither wi' rats nor barges. An' I should 
 go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women 
 wi' my tongue, an' get my dinner hot at the public, lors ! it 
 'ud be a lovely life ! " 
 
 Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if reso- 
 lutely turning his back on that paradisaic picture, 
 
222 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " But I don't mind about it, not a chip ! An' I 'n changed 
 one o' the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' 
 i 'n bought a blue plush wescoat, an' a sealskin cap, for if 1 
 meant to be a packman, I 'd do it respectable. But I don't 
 mind about it, not a chip ! My yead is n't a turnip, an' I 
 shall p'r'aps have a chance o' dousing another fire afore long. 
 I 'm a lucky chap. So I '11 thank you to take the nine suvreigns, 
 Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with 'em somehow, if it's true 
 as the master 's broke. They may n't go fur enough, but the}- '11 
 help." 
 
 Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and 
 suspicion. 
 
 " You 're a very kind fellow, Bob," he said, colouring, with 
 that little diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain 
 charm even to Tom's pride and severity, " and 1 sha'n't forget 
 you again, though I did n't know you this evening. But I can't 
 take the nine sovereigns ; I should be taking your little for- 
 tune from you, and they wouldn't do me much good either." 
 
 ' Would n't they, Mr. Tom ? " said Bob, regretfully. "Now 
 don't say so 'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor 
 chap. My mother gets a good penn'orth wi' picking feathers 
 an' things ; an' if she eats nothin' but bread-an'-water, it runs 
 to fat. An' I 'm such a lucky chap ; an' I doubt you are n't 
 quite so lucky, Mr. Tom, th' old master is n't, anyhow, an' 
 so you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harm done. Lors ! 
 I found a leg o' pork i' the river one day ; it had tumbled out 
 o' one o' them round-sterned Dutchmen, I '11 be bound. Come, 
 think better on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance' sake, else I 
 shall think you bear me a grudge." 
 
 Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could 
 speak, Maggie, clasping her hands, and looking penitently at 
 Bob, said, 
 
 " Oh, I 'm so sorry, Bob ; I never thought you were so good. 
 Why, I think you're the kindest person in the world!" 
 
 Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which 
 Maggie was performing an inward act of penitence, but he 
 smiled with pleasure at this handsome eulogy, especially 
 from a young lass who, as he informed his mother that even- 
 ing, had " such uncommon eyes, they looked somehow as they 
 made him feel nohow." 
 
 "No, indeed, Bob, I can't take them," said Tom; "but don't 
 think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I don't 
 want to take anything from anybody, but to work my own 
 way. Aud those sovereigns would n't help me imu.'h they 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 223 
 
 wouldn't, really if I were to take them. Let me shake 
 hands with you instead." 
 
 Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place 
 his hard, grimy hand within it. 
 
 " Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again," said Maggie ; 
 " and you '11 come and see us when you 've bought your pack, 
 Bob." 
 
 " It 's like as if I 'd come out o' make believe, o' purpose to 
 show 'em you," said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie 
 gave him the bag again, " a-taking 'em back i' this way. I am 
 a bit of a Do, you know ; but it is n't that sort o' Do, it 's on'y 
 when a feller 's a big rogue, or a big flat, I like to let him in a 
 bit, that 's all." 
 
 " Xow, don't you be up to any tricks, Bob," said Tom, " else 
 you'll get transported some day." 
 
 " Xo, no ; not me, Mr. Tom," said Bob, with an air of cheer- 
 ful confidence. " There 's no law again' flea-bites. If I was n't 
 to take a fool in now and then, he 'd niver get any wiser. But, 
 lors ! hev a suvreign to buy you and Miss summat, on'y for a 
 token just to match my pocket-knife." 
 
 While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign, and 
 resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the 
 gold, and said, " N"o, indeed, Bob ; thank you heartily, but I 
 can't take it." And Maggie, taking it between her fingers, 
 held it up to Bob and said, more persuasively, 
 
 " Not now, but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my 
 father wants help that you can give, we'll let you know; 
 ivon't we, Tom ? That 's what you would like, to have us 
 always depend on you as a friend that we can go to, is n't it, 
 Bob ? " 
 
 "Yes, Miss, and thank you," said Bob, reluctantly taking 
 bhe money; "that's what I'd like, anything as you like. 
 An' I wish you good-bye, Miss, and good-luck, Mr: Tom, and 
 thank you for shaking hands wi' me, though you wouldn't 
 take the money." 
 
 Kezia's entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she 
 should n't bring in the tea now, or whether the toast was to 
 get hardened to a brick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flux 
 of words, and hastened his parting bow. 
 
224 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HOW A HEN TAKES TO STRATAGEM. 
 
 THE days passed, and Mr. Tulliver showed, at least to 
 the eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger symp- 
 toms of a gradual return to his normal condition ; the par- 
 alytic obstruction was, little by little, losing its tenacity, 
 and the mind was rising from under it with fitful struggles, 
 like a living creature making its way from under a great 
 snowdrift, that slides and slides again, and shuts up the 
 newly made opening. 
 
 Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by 
 the bed, if it had only been measured by the doubtful, dis- 
 tant hope which kept count of the moments within the 
 chamber ; but it was measured for them by a fast-approach- 
 ing dread which made the nights come too (juickly. While 
 Mr. Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his lot 
 was hastening towards its moment of most palpable change. 
 The taxing-masters had done their work like any respectable 
 gunsmith conscientiously preparing the musket, that, duly 
 pointed by a brave arm, will spoil a life or two. Alloca- 
 turs, filing of bills in Chancery, decrees of sale, are legal 
 chainshot or bomb-shells that can never hit a solitary mark, 
 but must fall with widespread shattering. So deeply inherent 
 is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each other's 
 sins, so inevitably diffusive is human suffering, that even jus- 
 tice makes its victims, and we can conceive no retribution that 
 does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of unmerited 
 pain. 
 
 By the beginning of the second week in January the bills 
 were out advertising the sale, under a decree of Cham 
 of Mr. Tulliver's farming and other stock, to be followed by a 
 sale of the mill and land, held in the proper after-dinner hour 
 at the Golden Lion. The miller himself, unaware of the lapse 
 of time, fancied himself still in that first stage of his mis- 
 fortunes when expedients might be thought of ; and often 
 in his conscious hours talked in a feeble, disjointed manner 
 of plans he would carry out when he "got well." The wife 
 and children were not without hope of an issue that would at 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 225 
 
 least save Mr. Tulliver from leaving the old spot, and seeking 
 an entirely strange life. For uncle Deane had been induced 
 to interest himself in this stage of the business. It would not, 
 he acknowledged, be a bad speculation for Guest & Co. to buy 
 Dorlcote Mill, and carry on the business, which was a good 
 one, and might be increased by the addition of steam, power ; 
 in which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still, 
 Mr. Deane would say nothing decided about the matter ; the 
 fact that Wakem held the mortgage on the land might put 
 it into his head to bid for the whole estate, and further, to 
 outbid the cautious firm of Guest & Co., who did not carry on 
 business on sentimental grounds. Mr. Deane was obliged to 
 tell Mrs. Tulliver something to that effect, when he rode over 
 to the mill to inspect the books in company with Mrs. Glegg ; 
 for she had observed that " if Guest & Co. would only think 
 about it, Mr. Tulliver's father and grandfather had been carry- 
 ing on Dorlcote Mill long before the oil-mill of that firm had 
 been so much as thought of." Mr. Deane, in reply, doubted 
 whether that was precisely the relation between the two mills 
 which would determine their value as investments. As for 
 uncle Glegg, the thing lay quite beyond his imagination ; the 
 good-natured man felt sincere pity for the Tulliver family, 
 but his money was all locked up in excellent mortgages, 
 and he could run no risk ; that would be unfair to his own 
 relatives ; but he had made up his mind that Tulliver should 
 have some new flannel waistcoats which he had himself re- 
 nounced in favour of a more elastic commodity, and that he 
 would buy Mrs. Tulliver a pound of tea now and then ; 
 it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted in 
 beforehand, to carry the tea, and see her pleasure on being 
 assured it was the best black. 
 
 Still, it was clear that Mr. Deane was kindly disposed 
 towards the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who 
 was come home for the Christmas holidays, and the little 
 blond angel-head had pressed itself against Maggie's darker 
 cheek with many kisses and some tears. These fair slim 
 daughters keep up a tender spot in the heart of many a 
 respectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps Lucy's 
 anxious, pitying questions about her poor cousins helped to 
 make uncle Deane more prompt in finding Tom a temporary 
 place in the warehouse, and in putting him in the way of 
 getting evening lessons in book-keeping and calculation. 
 
 That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, 
 if there had not come at the same time the much-dreaded 
 
 16 
 
226 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 blow of finding that his father must be a bankrupt, after all ; 
 at least, the creditors must be asked to take less than their 
 due, which to Tom's untechnical mind was the same thing 
 as bankruptcy. His father must not only be said to have 
 " lost his property," but to have " failed," the word that 
 carried the worst obloquy to Tom's mind. For when the 
 defendant's claim for costs had been satisfied, there would 
 remain the friendly bill of Mr. Gore, and the deficiency at 
 the bank, as well as the other debts, which would make 
 the assets shrink into unequivocal disproportion ; " not more 
 than ten or twelve shillings in the pound," predicted Mr. 
 Deane, in a decided tone, tightening his lips ; and the words 
 fell on Tom like a scalding liquid, leaving a continual smart. 
 
 He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits 
 a little in the unpleasant newness of his position, suddenly 
 transported from the easy carpeted ennui of study-hours at 
 Mr. Stelling's, and the busy idleness of castle-building in 
 a " last half " at school, to the companionship of sacks and 
 hides, and bawling men thundering down heavy weights at 
 his elbow. The first step towards getting on in the world 
 was a chill, dusty, noisy affair, and implied going without 
 one's tea in order to stay in St. Ogg's and have an evening 
 lesson from a one-armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling 
 strongly of bad tobacco. Tom's young pink-and-white face 
 had its colours very much deadened by the time he took off his 
 hat at home, and sat down with keen hunger to his supper. 
 No wonder he was a little cross if his mother or Maggie spoke 
 to him. 
 
 But all this while Mrs. Tiilliver was brooding over a scheme 
 by which she, and no one else, would avert the result most 
 to be dreaded, and prevent Wakem from entertaining the pur- 
 pose of bidding for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and 
 amiable hen, by some portentous anomaly, taking to reflection 
 and inventing combinations by which she might prevail on 
 Hodge not to wring her neck, or send her and her chicks to 
 market ; the result could hardly be other than much cackling 
 and fluttering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that everything had 
 gone wrong, had begun to think that she had been too passive 
 in life ; and that, if she had applied her mind to business, and 
 taken a strong resolution now and then, it would have been all 
 the better for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had 
 thought of going to speak to Wakem on this business of the 
 mill ; and yet, Mrs. Tulliver reflected, it wcmld have been quite 
 the shortest method of securing the right end. It would have 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 227 
 
 been of no use, to be sure, for Mr. Tulliver to go, even if he 
 had been able and willing, for he had been " going to law 
 against Wakem " and abusing him for the last ten years ; 
 Wakem was always likely to have a spite against him. And 
 now that Mrs. Tulliver had come to the conclusion that her hus- 
 band was very much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble, 
 she was inclined to think that his opinion of Wakem. was wrong 
 too. To be sure, Wakem had " put the bailies in the house, 
 and sold them up ; " but she supposed he did that to please the 
 man that lent Mr. Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more 
 folks to please than one, and he was n't likely to put Mr. Tulli- 
 ver, who had gone to law with him, above everybody else in 
 the world. The attorney might be a very reasonable man; 
 why not ? He had married a Miss Clint, and at the time Mrs. 
 Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summer when she 
 wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts of 
 Mr. Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. And certainly 
 towards herself, whom he knew to have been a Miss Dodson, 
 it was out of all possibility that he could entertain anything 
 but good-will, when it was once brought home to his observa- 
 tion that she, for her part, had never wanted to go to law, and 
 indeed was at present disposed to take Mr. Wakem's view of 
 all subjects rather than her husband's. In fact, if that attor- 
 ney saw a respectable matron like herself disposed " to give 
 him good words," why should n't he listen to her represen- 
 tations ? For she would put the matter clearly before him, 
 which had never been done yet. And he would never go and 
 bid for the mill on purpose to spite her, an innocent woman, 
 who thought it likely enough that she had danced with him in 
 their youth at Squire Darleigh's, for at those big dances she 
 had often and often danced with young men whose names she 
 had forgotten. 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom; for 
 when she had thrown out a hint to Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg 
 that she would n't mind going to speak to Wakem herself, they 
 had said, " No, no, no," and " Pooh, pooh," and " Let Wakem 
 alone," in the tone of men who were not likely to give a candid 
 attention to a more definite exposition of her project ; still 
 less dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for "the 
 children were always so against everything their mother said ; " 
 and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakem 
 as his father was. But this unusual concentration of thought 
 naturally gave Mrs. Tulliver an unusual power of device and 
 determination ; and a day or two before the sale, to be held at 
 
228 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the Golden Lion, when there was 110 longer any time to be lost, 
 she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles 
 in question, a large stock of pickles and ketchup which Mrs. 
 Tulliver possessed, and which Mr. Hyudmarsh, the grocer, 
 would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in 
 a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Ogg's 
 that morning; and when Tom urged that she might let the 
 pickles be at present, he didn't like her to go about just 
 yet, she appeared so hurt at this conduct in her son, contra- 
 dicting her about pickles which she had made after the family 
 receipts inherited from his own grandmother, who had died 
 when his mother was a little girl, that he gave way, and they 
 walked together until she turned towards Danish Street, where 
 Mr. Hyndmarsh retailed his grocery, not far from the offices 
 of Mr. Wakem. 
 
 That gentleman was not yet come to his office; would Mr:-. 
 Tulliver sit down by the fire in his private room and wait for 
 him ? She had not long to wait before the punctual attorney 
 entered, knitting his brow with an examining glance at the 
 stout blond woman who rose, curtsying deferentially, a 
 tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundant iron- 
 hair. You have never seen Mr. Wakem before, and are possi- 
 bly wondering whether he was really as eminent a rascal, and 
 as crafty, bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and 
 of Mr. Tulliver in particular, as he is represented to be in that 
 eidolon or portrait of him which we have seen to exist in the 
 miller's mind. 
 
 It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret 
 any chance-shot that grazed him as an attempt on his own 
 life, and was liable to entanglements in this pu/./ling world, 
 \\hich, due consideration had to his own infallibility, required 
 the hypothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain 
 them. It is still possible to believe that the attorney was not 
 more guilty towards him than an ingenious machine, which 
 performs its work with much regularity, is guilty towards the 
 rash man who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some 
 fly-wheel or other, and suddenly converted into unexpected 
 mince-meat. 
 
 But it is really impossible to decide this question by a 
 glance at his person ; the lines and lights of the human coun- 
 t. -nance are like other symbols, not always easy to read 
 without a key. On an a priori view of Wakem's aquiline nose, 
 which offended Mr. Tulliver, there was not more msi-a'itv than 
 in the shape of his stiff shirt-collar, though this too, along with 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 229 
 
 his nose, might have become fraught with damnatory meaning 
 when once the rascality was ascertained. 
 
 'Mrs. Tulliver, I think? " said Mr. Wakem. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Miss Elizabeth Dodsou as was." 
 
 "Pray be seated. You have some business with me ?" 
 
 " Well, sir, yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, beginning to feel alarmed 
 at her own courage, now she was really in presence of the for- 
 midable man, and reflecting that she had not settled with her- 
 self how she should begin. Mr. Wakem felt in his waistcoat 
 pockets, and looked at her in silence. 
 
 " I hope, sir," she began at last, "I hope, sir, you 're not 
 a-thinking as / bear you any ill-will because o' my husband's 
 losing his lawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen 
 being sold, oh dear ! for I was n't brought up in that way. 
 I 'm sure you remember my father, sir, for he was close friends 
 with Squire Darleigh, and we allays went to the dances there, 
 the Miss Dodsons, nobody could be more looked on, and 
 justly, for there was four of us, and you 're quite aware as Mrs. 
 G-legg and Mrs. Deane are my sisters. And as for going to law 
 and losing money, and having sales before you 're dead, I never 
 saw anything o' that before I was married, nor for a long while 
 after. And I 'in not to be answerable for my bad luck i' mar- 
 rying out o' my own family into one where the goings-on was 
 different. And as for being drawn in t' abuse you as other folks 
 abuse you, sir, that I niver was, and nobody can say it of me." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver shook her head a little, and looked at the hem 
 of her pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " I 've no doubt of what you say, Mrs. Tulliver," said Mr. 
 Wakem, with cold politeness. " But you have some question 
 to ask me ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, yes. But that 's what I Ve said to myself, I 've 
 said you 'd had some nat'ral feeling ; and as for my husband, 
 as has n't been himself for this two months, I 'in not a-def end- 
 ing him, in no way, for being so hot about th' erigation, not 
 but what there 's worse men, for he never wronged nobody of 
 a shilling nor a penny, not willingly ; and as for his fieriness 
 and lawing, what could I do ? And him struck as if it was 
 with death when he got the letter as said you 'd the hold upo' 
 the land. But I can't believe but what you'll behave as a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver ? " said Mr. Wakem, 
 rather sharply. " What do you want to ask me ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, if you '11 be so good," said Mrs. Tulliver, starting 
 a little, and speaking more hurriedly, " if you '11 be so good 
 
230 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 not to buy the mill an' the land, the land would n't so 
 much matter, only my husband 'ull be like mad at your 
 having it." 
 
 Something like a new thought flashed across Mr. Wakem's 
 face as he said, " Who told you I meant to buy it ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, it 's none o' my inventing, and I should never ha' 
 thought of it ; for my husband, as ought to know about the 
 law, he allays used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy 
 anything, either lands or houses, for they allays got 'em 
 into their hands other ways. An' I should think that 'ud be 
 the way with you, sir ; and I niver said as you 'd be the man to 
 do contrairy to that." 
 
 " Ah, well, who was it that did say so ? " said Wakem, open- 
 ing his desk, and moving things about, with the accompani- 
 ment of an almost inaudible whistle. 
 
 " Why, sir, it was Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, as have all the 
 management ; and Mr. Deane thinks as Guest & Co. 'ud buy 
 the mill and let Mr. Tulliver work it for 'em, if you did n't 
 bid for it and raise the price. And it 'ud be such a thing for 
 my husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living ; 
 for it was his father's before him, the mill was, and his grand- 
 father built it, though I was n't fond o' the noise of it, when 
 first I was married, for there was no mills in our family, not 
 the Dodsons', and if I 'd known as the mills had so much to 
 do with the law, it would n't have been me as 'ud have been 
 the first Dodson to marry one ; but I went into it blindfold, 
 that I did, erigation and everything." 
 
 "What! Guest & Co. would keep the mill in their own 
 hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, sir, it 's hard to think of," said poor Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver, a little tear making its way, "as my husband should t;ike 
 wage. But it 'ud look more like what used to bo, to stay at the 
 mill than to go anywhere else; and if you'll only think if 
 you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might be 
 truck worse than he was before, and niver get better again as 
 lie 's getting now." 
 
 "Well, biit if I bought the mill, and allowed your husband 
 to act as my manager in the same way, how then ? " said M i . 
 Wakem. 
 
 " Oh, sir, I doubt he could niver be got to do it, not if the 
 very mill stood still to beg and pray of him. For your name 's 
 like poison to him, it 's so as never was ; and he looks upon it 
 as you 've been the ruin of him all along, ever since you set 
 the law on him about the road through the meadow, that 's 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 231 
 
 eight year ago, and he 's been going on ever since as I 've 
 allays told him he was wrong " 
 
 " He 's a pig-headed, fonl-mouthed fool ! " burst out Mr. 
 Wakem, forgetting himself. 
 
 " Oh dear, sir ! " said Mrs. Tulliver, frightened at a result 
 so different from the one she had fixed her mind on ; "I 
 wouldn't wish to contradict you, but it's like enough he's 
 changed his mind with this illness, he 's forgot a many things 
 he used to talk about. And you would n't like to have a corpse 
 on your mind, ii he was to die ; and they do say as it 's allays 
 unlucky when Dorlcote Mill changes hands, and the water 
 might all run away, and then not as I'm wishing you any 
 ill-luck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your wed- 
 ding as if it was yesterday ; Mrs. Wakem was a Miss Clint, 
 1 know that ; and my boy, as there is n't a nicer, handsomer, 
 straighter boy nowhere, went to school with your son " 
 
 3Lr. Wakem rose, opened the door, and called to one of his 
 clerks. 
 
 " You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Tulliver ; I 
 have business that must be attended to ; and I think there is 
 nothing more necessary to be said." 
 
 " But if you would bear it in mind, sir," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
 rising, " and not run against me and my children ; and I 'in not 
 denying Mr. Tulliver 's been in the wrong, but he 's been pun- 
 ished enough, and there 's worse men, for it 's been giving to 
 other folks has been his fault. He 's done nobody any harm 
 but himself and his family, the more's the pity, and I go 
 and look at the bare shelves every day, and think where all 
 my things used to stand." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I '11 bear it in mind," said Mr. Wakem, hastily, 
 looking towards the open door. 
 
 " And if you 'd please not to say as I 've been to speak to 
 you, for my son 'ud be very angry with me for demeaning my- 
 self, I know he woiild, and I 've trouble enough without bsing 
 scolded by my children." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Tulliver's voice trembled a little, and she could 
 make no answer to the attorney's " good morning," but curt- 
 sied and walked out in silence. 
 
 " Which day is it that Dorlcote Mill is to be sold ? Where 's 
 the bill?" said Mr. Wakem to his clerk when they were 
 alone. 
 
 "Next Friday is the day, Friday at six o'clock." 
 
 " Oh, just run to Winship's the auctioneer, and see if he 's at 
 home. I have some business for him ; ask him to come up." 
 
232 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Although, when Mr. Wakera entered his office that morn 
 ing, he had had no intention of purchasing Dorlcote Mill, his 
 mind was already made up. Mrs. Tulliver had suggested to 
 him several determining motives, and his mental glance was 
 very rapid; he was one of those men who can be prompt with- 
 out being rash, because their motives run in fixed tracks, and 
 they have no need to reconcile conflicting aims. 
 
 To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of inveterate 
 hatred towards Tulliver that Tulliver had towards him would 
 be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each 
 other from a similar point of view. The roach necessarily 
 abhors the mode in which the pike gets his living, and the 
 pike is likely to think nothing further even of the most in- 
 dignant roach than that he is excellent good eating ; it could 
 only be when the roach choked him that the pike could enter- 
 tain a strong personal animosity. If Mr. Tulliver had ever 
 seriously injured or thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not 
 have refused him the distinction of being a special object of 
 his vindictiveness. But when Mr. Tulliver called \Vukem a 
 rascal at the market dinner-table, the attorney's clients were 
 not a whit inclined to withdraw their business from him ; and 
 if, when Wakem himself happened to be present, some jocose 
 cattle-feeder, stimulated by opportunity and brandy, made a 
 thrust at him by alluding to old ladies' wills, he maintained 
 perfect sang froid, and knew quite well that the majority of 
 substantial men then present were perfectly contented with the 
 fact that ' Wakem was Wakem ; " that is to say, a man who 
 always knew the stepping-stones that would carry him through 
 very muddy bits of practice. A man who had made a large 
 fortune, had a handsome house among the trees at Toftoii, and 
 decidedly the finest stock of port-wine in the neighbourhood of 
 St. egg's, was likely to feel himself on a level with public 
 opinion. And I am not sure that even honest Mr. Tulliver 
 himself, with his general view of law as a cockpit, might not, 
 under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriate- 
 ness in the truth that " Wakem was Wakem ; " since I have 
 understood from persons versed in history, that mankind is 
 not disposed to look narrowly into the conduct of great vic- 
 tors when their victory is on the right side. Tulliver, then, 
 could be no obstruction to Wakem ; on the contrary, he was a 
 poor devil whom the lawyer had defeated several times ; a 
 hot-tempered fellow, who would always give you a handle 
 against him. Wakem's conscience was not uneasy because he 
 had used a few tricks against the miller ; why should he hate 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 238 
 
 that unsuccessful plaintiff, that pitiable, furious bull entan- 
 gled in the meshes of a net ? 
 
 Still, among the various excesses to which human nature is 
 subject, moralists have never numbered that of being too fond 
 of the people who openly revile us. The successful Yellow 
 candidate for the borough of Old Topping, perhaps, feels 
 no pursuant meditative hatred toward the Blue editor who 
 consoles his subscribers with vituperative rhetoric against 
 Yellow men who sell their country, and are the demons of 
 private life ; but he might not be sorry, if law and oppor. 
 tunity favoured, to kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade 
 of his favourite colour. Prosperous men take a little ven- 
 geance now and then, as they take a diversion, when it 
 comes easily in their way, and is no hindrance to business ; 
 and such small unimpassioned revenges have an enormous 
 effect in life, running through all degrees of pleasant inflic- 
 tion, blocking the fit men out of places, and blackening char- 
 acters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see people who 
 have been only insignificantly offensive to us reduced in life 
 and humiliated, without any special efforts of ours, is apt to 
 have a soothing, flattering influence. Providence or some other 
 prince of this world, it appears, has undertaken the task of 
 retribution for us ; and really, by an agreeable constitution of 
 things, our enemies somehow don't prosper. 
 
 Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness 
 towards the uncomplimentary miller ; and now Mrs. Tulliver 
 had put the notion into his head, it presented itself to him as 
 a pleasure to do the very thing that would cause Mr. Tulliver 
 the most deadly mortification, and a pleasure of a complex 
 kind, not made up of crude malice, but mingling with it the 
 relish of self-approbation. To see an enemy humiliated gives 
 a certain contentment, but this is jejune compared with the 
 highly blent satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by your 
 benevolent action or concession on his behalf. That is a sort 
 of revenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem 
 was not without an intention of keeping that scale respectably 
 filled. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy 
 of his into one of the St. Ogg's alms-houses, to the rebuilding 
 of which he had given a large subscription ; and here was an 
 opportunity of providing for another by making him his own 
 servant. Such things give a completeness to prosperity, and 
 contribute elements of agreeable consciousness that are not 
 dreamed of by that short-sighted, over-heated vindictiveness 
 which goes out of its way to wreak itself in direct injury. 
 
234 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 And Tulliver, with his rough tongue filed by a sense of obliga- 
 tion, would make a better servant than any ehance-fello'W who 
 was cap-in-hand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a 
 man of proud honesty, and Wakem was too acute not to be- 
 lieve in the existence of honesty. He was given to observing 
 individuals, not to judging of them according to maxims, and 
 no one knew better than he that all men were not like himself. 
 Besides, he intended to overlook the whole business of land 
 and mill pretty closely ; he was fond of these practical rural 
 matters. But there were good reasons for purchasing Dorl- 
 cote Mill, quite apart from any benevolent vengeance on the 
 miller. It was really a capital investment ; besides, Guest & 
 Co. were going to bid for it. Mr. Guest and Mr. Wakem were 
 on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to predom- 
 inate over a ship-owner and mill-owner who was a little too 
 loud in the town affairs as well as in his table-talk. For 
 Wakem was not a mere man of business ; he was considered a 
 pleasant fellow in the upper circles of St. Ogg's chatted 
 amusingly over his port-wine, did a little amateur farming, 
 and had certainly been an excellent husband and father ; 
 at church, when he went there, he sat under the handsomest 
 of mural monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most 
 men would have married again under his circumstances, but 
 he was said to be more tender to his deformed son than 
 most men were to their best-shapen offspring. Not that 
 Mr. Wakem had not other sons besides Philip ; but towards 
 them he held only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for 
 them in a grade of life duly beneath his own. In this fact, 
 indeed, there lay the clenching motive to the purchase of 
 Dorlcote Mill. While Mrs. Tulliver was talking, it had 
 occurred to the rapid-minded lawyer, among all the other 
 circumstances of the case, that this purchase would, in a few 
 years to come, furnish a highly suitable position for a certain 
 favourite lad whom he meant to bring on in the world. 
 
 These were the mental conditions on which Mrs. Tulliver 
 had undertaken to act persuasively, and had failed ; a fact 
 which may receive some illustration from the remark of 
 a great philosopher, that fly-fishers fail in preparing their 
 bait so as to make it alluring in the right quarter, for want of 
 a due acquaintance with the subjectivity of fishes. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 235 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 DAYLIGHT ON THE WRECK. 
 
 IT was a clear frosty January day on which Mr. Tulliver 
 first came down-stairs. The bright sun on the chestnut boughs 
 and the roofs opposite his window had made him impatiently 
 declare that he would be caged up no longer ; he thought 
 everywhere would be more cheery under this sunshine than 
 his bedroom ; for he knew nothing of the bareness below, 
 which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had 
 an unfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the 
 marks where well-known objects once had been. The impres- 
 sion on his mind that it was but yesterday when he received 
 the letter from Mr. Gore was so continually implied in his 
 talk, and the attempts to convey to him the idea that many 
 weeks had passed and much had happened since then had 
 been so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even 
 Mr. Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet 
 the facts by previous knowledge. The full sense of the 
 present could only be imparted gradually by new experience, 
 not by mere words, which must remain weaker than the 
 impressions left by the old experience. This resolution to 
 come down-stairs was heard with trembling by the wife and 
 children. Mrs. Tulliver said Tom must not go to St. Ogg's 
 at the usual hour, he must wait and see his father down- 
 stairs ; and Tom complied, though with an intense inward 
 shrinking from the painful scene. The hearts of all three 
 had been more deeply dejected than ever during the last few 
 days. For Guest & Co. had not bought the mill ; both mill 
 and land had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been 
 over the premises, and had laid before Mr. Deane and Mr. 
 Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver's presence, his willingness to employ 
 Mr. Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a manager of the 
 business. This proposition had occasioned much family 
 debating. Uncles and aunts were almost unanimously of 
 opinion that such an offer ought not to be rejected when 
 there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr. Tulliver's 
 mind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles shared it, was 
 regarded as entirely unreasonable and childish, indeed, as 
 
236 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 a transferring towards Wakein of that indignation and hatred 
 which Mr. Tulliver ought properly to have directed against 
 himself for his general quarrelsomeness, and his special 
 exhibition of it in going to law. Here was an opportunity 
 for Mr. Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without 
 any assistance from his wife's relations, and without that 
 too evident descent into pauperism which makes it annoy n:; 
 to respectable people to meet the degraded member of 
 family by the wayside. Mr. Tulliver, Mrs. Glegg considered, 
 must be made to feel, when he came to his right mind, that he 
 could never humble himself enough ; for that had come which 
 she had always foreseen would come of his insolence in time past 
 " to them as were the best friends he 'd got to look to." Mr. 
 Glegg and Mr. Deane were less stern in their views, but they 
 both of them thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his 
 hot-tempered crotchets, and ought to put them out of the ques- 
 tion when a livelihood was offered him ; Wakem showed a 
 right feeling about the matter, he had no grudge against 
 Tulliver. Torn had protested against entertaining the propo- 
 sition. He should n't like his father to be under Wakem ; he 
 thought it would look mean-spirited; but his mother's main 
 distress was the utter impossibility of ever " turning M r. 
 Tulliver round about Wakem," or getting him to hear reason ; 
 no, they would all have to go and live in a pigsty on pur- 
 pose to spite Wakem, who spoke "so as nobody could be 
 fairer." Indeed, Mrs. Tulliver's mind was reduced to such 
 confusion by living in this strange medium of unaccountable 
 sorrow, against which she continually appealed by asking, 
 "Oh dear, what have I done to deserve worse than other 
 women?" that Maggie began to suspect her poor mother's 
 wits were quite going. 
 
 " Tom," she said, when they were out of their father's room 
 together, "we must try to make father understand a little of 
 what has happened before he goes down-stairs. But we must 
 get my mother away. She will say something that will do 
 harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her engaged 
 with something in the kitchen." 
 
 Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her inten- 
 tion of staying till the master could get about again, " wage 
 or no wage," she had found a certain recompense in keeping 
 a strong hand over her mistress, scolding her for "moither- 
 ing " herself, and going about all day without changing her 
 cap, and looking as if she was " mushed." Altogether, this 
 time of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 237 
 
 could scold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this 
 particular occasion there were drying clothes to be fetched 
 in ; she wished to know if one pair of hands could do every- 
 thing in-doors and out, and observed that she should have 
 thought it would be good for Mrs. Tulliver to put on her 
 bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful 
 piece of work. Poor Mrs. Tulliver went submissively down- 
 stairs ; to be ordered about by a servant was the last remnant 
 of her household dignities, she would soon have no servant 
 to scold her. Mr. Tulliver was resting in his chair a little 
 after the fatigue of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were 
 seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if he should help 
 master down-stairs. 
 
 "Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down," said Mr. Tulliver, 
 pointing his stick towards a chair, and looking at him with 
 that pursuant gaze which convalescent persons often have 
 for those who have tended them, reminding one of an infant 
 gazing about after its nurse. For Luke had been a constant 
 night-watcher by his master's bed. 
 
 " How 's the water now, eh, Luke ? " said Mr. Tulliver. " Dix 
 has n't been choking you up again, eh ? " 
 
 " No, sir, it 's all right." 
 
 " Ay, I thought not ; he won't be in a hurry at that again, 
 now Riley's been to settle him. That was what I said to 
 Riley yesterday I said " 
 
 Mr. Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arm- 
 chair, and looking on the ground as if in search of something, 
 striving after vanishing images like a man struggling against 
 a doze. Maggie looked at Tom in mute distress, their father's 
 mind was so far off the present, which would by-and-by thrust 
 itself on his wandering consciousness ! Tom was almost ready 
 to rush away, with that impatience of painful emotion which 
 makes one of the differences between youth and maiden, man 
 and woman. 
 
 "Father," said Maggie, laying her hand on his, "don't you 
 remember that Mr. Riley is dead ? " 
 
 " Dead ? " said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face 
 with a strange, examining glance. 
 
 " Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago. I remember 
 hearing you say you had to pay money for him ; and he left 
 his daughters badly off ; one of them is under-teacher at Miss 
 Firniss's, where I 've been to school, you know." 
 
 " Ah ? " said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. 
 But as soon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at him 
 
238 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 with the same inquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised 
 at the presence of these two young people. Whenever his mind 
 was wandering in the far past, he fell into this oblivion of their 
 actual faces ; they were not those of the lad and the little wench 
 who belonged to that past. 
 
 " It 's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, 
 father," said Tom. " I remember your talking about it three 
 years ago, before I went to school at Mr. Stelling's. 1 've been 
 at school there three years ; don't you remember '.' " 
 
 Mr. Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the child- 
 like outward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted 
 him from external impressions. 
 
 " Ay, ay," he said, after a minute or two, " I 've paid a deal 
 o' money I was determined my son should have a good eddi- 
 cation; I'd none myself, and I've felt the miss of it. And 
 he '11 want no other fortin, that 's what I say if Wakem was 
 to get the better of me again " 
 
 The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and aftt-r a 
 moment's pause he began to look at the coat he had on, and to 
 feel in his side-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in 
 his old sharp way, " Where have they put Gore's letter ? " 
 
 It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for 
 it before. 
 
 " You know what there is in the letter, father ? " said Tom, 
 as he gave it to him. 
 
 " To be sure I do," said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. " What 
 o' that? If Furley can't take to the property, somebody "1st- 
 can; there's plenty o' people in the world besides Furley. 
 But it 's hindering my not being well go and tell 'em to 
 get the horse in the gig, Luke ; I can get down to St. Ogg's 
 well enough Gore's expecting me." 
 
 " No, dear father ! " Maggie burst out entreatingly ; " it 's a 
 very long while since all that ; you 've been ill a great many 
 weeks, more than two months ; everything is changed." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a 
 startled gaze ; the idea that much had happened of which ln 
 knew nothing had often transiently arrested him before, but 
 it came upon him now with entire novelty. 
 
 " Yes, father," said Tom, in answer to the gaze. " You 
 need n't trouble your mind about business until you are quite 
 well ; everything is settled about that for the present, about 
 the mill and the land and the debts." 
 
 " What 's settled, then ? " said his father, angrily. 
 
 "Don't you take on too much about it, sir," said Luke. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 239 
 
 *< You'd ha' paid iverybody if you could, that's what I 
 said to Master Tom, I said you'd ha' paid iverybody if you 
 could." 
 
 Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard-working 
 men whose lives have been spent in servitude, that sense of 
 natural fitness in rank which made his master's downfall a 
 tragedy to him. He was urged, in his slow way, to say some- 
 thing that would express his share in the family sorrow ; and 
 these words, which he had used over and over again to Tom 
 when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty pounds 
 out of the children's money, were the most ready to his tongue. 
 They were just the words to lay the most painful hold on his 
 master's bewildered mind. 
 
 " Paid everybody ? " he said, with vehement agitation, his 
 face flushing, and his eye lighting up. "Why what have 
 they made me a bankrupt ? " 
 
 " Oh, father, dear father ! " said Maggie, who thought that 
 terrible word really represented the fact ; " bear it well, be- 
 cause we love you ; your children will always love you. Tom 
 will pay them all ; he says he will, when he 's a man." 
 
 She felt her father beginning to tremble ; his voice trembled 
 too, as he said, after a few moments, 
 
 " Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o'er." 
 
 " But perhaps you will live to see me pay everybody, father," 
 said Tom, speaking with a great effort. 
 
 " Ah, my lad," said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, 
 " but what 's broke can never be whole again ; it 'ud be your 
 doing, not mine." Then looking up at him, " You 're only six- 
 teen ; it 's an up-hill fight for you, but you must n't throw it 
 at your father ; the raskills have been too many for him. I 've 
 given you a good eddication, that '11 start you." 
 
 Something in his throat half choked the last words ; the 
 flush, which had alarmed his children because it had so often 
 preceded a recurrence of paralysis, had subsided, and his face 
 looked pale and tremulous. Tom said nothing ; he was still 
 struggling against his inclination to rush away. His father 
 remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind did not seem to 
 be wandering again. 
 
 " Have they sold me up, then ? " he said more calmly, as if 
 he were possessed simply by the desire to know what had 
 happened. 
 
 " Everything is sold, father ; but we don't know all about 
 the mill and the land yet," said Tom, anxious to ward off any 
 question leading to the fact that Wakem was the purchaser. 
 
240 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare 
 down-stairs, father," said Maggie ; " but there 's your chair and 
 the bureau ; they 're not gone." 
 
 " Let us go ; help me down, Luke, I '11 go and see every- 
 thing," said Mr. Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching 
 out his other hand towards Luke. 
 
 "Ay, sir," said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, 
 " you '11 make up your mind to 't a bit better when you 've 
 seen i very thing ; you '11 get used to 't. That 's what my 
 mother says about her shortness o' breath, she says she 's 
 made friends wi't now, though she fought again' it sore when 
 it fust come on." 
 
 Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary 
 parlour, where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed 
 part of the general shabbiness. She turned her father's chair, 
 and pushed aside the table to make an easy way for him, and 
 then stood with a beating heart to see him enter and look round 
 for the first time. Tom advanced before him, carrying the 
 leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of those two 
 young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixed pain, for Mag- 
 gie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sorrow 
 made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breathing- 
 space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that ; he 
 would rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any 
 round of heroic labours, than endure perpetual appeals to his 
 pity, for evils over which he can make no conquest. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, 
 and looking round him at all the bare places, which for him 
 were filled with the shadows of departed objects, the daily 
 companions of his life. His faculties seemed to be renewing 
 their strength from getting a footing on this demonstration of 
 the senses. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said slowly, moving towards his chair, " they 've 
 sold me up they 've sold me up." 
 
 Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke 
 left the room, he looked round again. 
 
 " They 've left the big Bible," he said. " It 's got every- 
 thing in, when I was born and married ; bring it me, 
 Tom." 
 
 The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, 
 and while he was reading with slowly travelling eyes, Mrs. 
 Tulliver entered the room, but stood in mute surprise to find 
 her husband down already, and with the great Bible before 
 him. 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 241 
 
 "Ah," he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, 
 "my mother was Margaret Beaton; she died when she was 
 forty-seven, hers was n't a long-lived family ; we 're our 
 mother's children, Gritty and me are, we shall go to our last 
 bed before long." 
 
 He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's birth 
 and marriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him ; 
 then he suddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a sharp tone 
 of alarm, 
 
 " They have n't coine upo' Moss for the money as I lent him, 
 have they ? " 
 
 " No, father," said Tom ; " the note was burnt." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and pres- 
 ently said, 
 
 " Ah Elizabeth Dodson it 's eighteen year since I mar- 
 ried her " 
 
 " Come next Ladyday," said Mrs. Tulliver, going up to 
 his side and looking at the page. 
 
 Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face. 
 
 "Poor Bessy," he said, "you was a pretty lass then, 
 everybody said so, and I used to think you kept your good 
 looks rarely. But you 're sorely aged ; don't you bear me 
 ill-will I meant to do well by you we promised one 
 another for better or for worse " 
 
 " But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this," said 
 poor Mrs. Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had 
 come over her of late ; " and my poor father gave me away 
 
 and to come on so all at once " 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " said Maggie, " don't talk in that way." 
 
 " No, I know you won't let your poor mother speak that 's 
 been the way all my life your father never minded what 
 I said it 'ud have been o' no use for me to beg and pray 
 and it 'ud be no use now, not if I was to go down o' my hands 
 and knees " 
 
 "Don't say so, Bessy," said Mr. Tulliver, whose pride, in 
 these first moments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the 
 sense of some justice in his wife's reproach. " If there 's 
 anything left as I could do to make you amends, I wouldn't 
 say you nay." 
 
 "Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might 
 keep among my own sisters, and me been such a good wife 
 to you, and never crossed you from week's end to week's end 
 
 and they all say so they say it 'ud be nothing but right, 
 only you 're so turned against Wakem." 
 
 16 
 
242 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Mother," said Tom, severely, " this is not the time to talk 
 about that." 
 
 " Let her be," said Mr. Tulliver. " Say what you mean, 
 Bessy." 
 
 " Why, now the mill and the land 's all Wakem's, and he 's 
 got everything in his hands, what 's the use o' setting your 
 face against him, when he says you may stay here, and 
 speaks as fair as can be, and says you may manage the 
 business, and have thirty shilling a-week, and a horse to ride 
 about to market ? And where have we got to put our 
 heads ? We must go into one o' the cottages in the village, 
 and me and my children brought down to that, and all 
 because you must set your mind against folks till there's 
 no turning you." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver had sunk back in his chair, trembling. 
 
 " You may do as you like wi' me, Bessy," he said, in a low 
 voice ; " I 've been the bringing of you to poverty this 
 world 's too many for me I'm nought but a bankrupt ; 
 it's no use standing up for anything now." 
 
 " Father," said Tom, " I don't agree with my mother or my 
 uncles, and I don't think you ought to submit to be under 
 Wakem. I get a pound a-week now, and you can find some- 
 thing else to do when you get well." 
 
 " Say no more, Tom, say no more ; I 've had enough for this 
 day. Give me a kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no 
 ill-will; we shall never be young again this world's been 
 too many for me." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN ITEM ADDED TO THE FAMILY REGISTER. 
 
 THAT first moment of renunciation and submission was 
 followed by days of violent struggle in the miller's mind, 
 as the gradual access of bodily strength brought with it 
 increasing ability to embrace in one view all the conflicting 
 conditions under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily 
 resign themselves to be tethered, and when we are subdued 
 by sickness it seems possible to us to fulfil pledges which the 
 old vigour comes back and breaks. There were times when 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 243 
 
 poor Tulliver thought the fulfilment of his promise to Bessy 
 was something quite too hard for human nature ; he had 
 promised her without knowing what she was going to say, 
 she might as well have asked him to carry a ton weight on his 
 back. But again, there were many feelings arguing on her 
 side, besides the sense that life had been made hard to her by 
 having married him. He saw a possibility, by much pinching, 
 of saving money out of his salary towards paying a second 
 dividend to his creditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere 
 to get a situation such as he could fill. He had led an easy 
 life, ordering much and working little, and had no aptitude for 
 any new business. He must perhaps take to day-labour, and 
 his wife must have help from her sisters, a prospect doubly 
 bitter to him, now they had let all Bessy's precious things be 
 sold, probably because they liked to set her against him, by 
 making her feel that he had brought her to that pass. He 
 listened to their admonitory talk, when they came to urge on 
 him what he was bound to do for poor Bessy's sake, with 
 averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on them fur- 
 tively when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread 
 of needing their help could have made it an easier alternative 
 to take their advice. 
 
 But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old 
 premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just 
 as Tom had done after him. The Tullivers had lived on this 
 spot for generations, and he had sat listening on a low stool on 
 winter evenings while his father talked of the old half-tim- 
 bered mill that had been there before the last great floods 
 which damaged it so that his grandfather pulled it down and 
 built the new one. It was when he got able to walk about 
 and look at all the old objects that he felt the strain of this 
 clinging affection for the old home as part of his life, part 
 of himself. He couldn't bear to think of himself living 
 on any other spot than this, where he knew the sound of 
 every gate and door, and felt that the shape and colour of 
 every roof and weather-stain and broken hillock was good, 
 because his growing senses had been fed on them. Our in- 
 structed vagrancy, which has hardly time to linger by the 
 hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropics, and is at home 
 with palms and banyans, which is nourished on books of 
 travel and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zam- 
 besi, can hardly get a dim notion of what an old-fashioned 
 man like Tulliver felt for this spot, where all his memories 
 centred, and where life seemed like a familiar smooth-handled 
 
244 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And just now 
 he was living in that freshened memory of the far-off time 
 which comes to us in the passive hours of recovery from 
 sickness. 
 
 " Ay, Luke," he said one afternoon, as he stood looking over 
 the orchard gate, " I remember the day they planted those 
 apple-trees. My father was a huge man for planting, it 
 was like a merry-making to him to get a cart full o' young 
 trees ; and I used to stand i' the cold with him, and follow 
 Iii in about like a dog." 
 
 Then he turned round, and leaning against the gate-post, 
 looked at the opposite buildings. 
 
 " The old mill 'ud miss me, I think, Luke. There 's a story 
 as when the mill changes hands, the river 's angry ; I 've 
 heard my father say it many a time. There 's no telling 
 whether there may n't be suuimat in the story, for this is 
 a puzzling world, and Old Harry 's got a finger in it it 's 
 been too many for me, I know." 
 
 " Ay, sir," said Luke, with soothing sympathy, " what wi' 
 the rust on the wheat, an' the firm' o' the ricks an' that, 
 as I 've seen i' my time, things often looks comical ; there 's 
 the bacon fat wi' our last pig runs away like butter, it 
 leaves nought but a scratchin'. " 
 
 " It 's just as if it was yesterday, now," Mr. Tulliver went 
 on, " when my father began the malting. I remember, the day 
 they finished the malt-house, I thought summat great was to 
 come of it ; for we 'd a plum-pudding that day and a bit of a 
 feast, and I said to my mother, she was a fine dark-eyed 
 woman, my mother was, the little wench 'ull be as like her 
 as two peas." Here Mr. Tulliver put his stick between his 
 legs, and took out his snuff-box, for the greater enjoyment of 
 this anecdote, which dropped from him in fragments, as if he 
 every other moment lost narration in vision. " I was a little 
 chap no higher much than my mother's knee, she was sore 
 fond of us children, Gritty and me, and so I said to her, 
 ' Mother,' I said, ( shall we have plum-pudding every day be- 
 cause o' the malt-house ? ' She used to tell me o' that till 
 her dying day. She was but a young woman when she died, 
 my mother was. But it 's forty good year since they finished 
 the malt-house, and it isn't many days out of 'em all as I 
 have n't looked out into the yard there, the first thing in the 
 morning, all weathers, from year's end to year's end. I 
 should go off my head in a new place. I should be like as if I 'd 
 lost my way. It 's all hard, whichever way I look at it, the 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 245 
 
 harness 'ull gall me, but it 'uii be sumiuat to draw along the 
 old road, instead of a new un." 
 
 "Ay, sir," said Luke, "you'd be a deal better here nor in 
 some new place. I can't abide new places mysen : things is 
 allays awk'arcl, narrow-wheeled waggins, belike, and the 
 stiles all another sort, an' oat-cake i' some places, tow'rt th' 
 head o' the Floss, there. It 's poor work, changing your 
 country-side." 
 
 " But I doubt, Luke, they '11 be for getting rid o' Ben, and 
 making you do with a lad ; and I must help a bit wi' the 
 mill. You'll have a worse place." 
 
 "Ne'er miud, sir," said Luke, "I sha'n't plague mysen. 
 I 'n been wi' you twenty year, an' you can't get twenty year 
 wi' whistlin' for 'em, no more nor you can make the trees 
 grow : you muu wait till God A'mighty sends 'em. I can't 
 abide new victual nor new faces, / can't, you niver know 
 but what they '11 gripe you." 
 
 The walk was finished in silence after this, for Luke had 
 disburthened himself of thoughts to an extent that left his 
 conversational resources quite barren, and Mr. Tulliver had 
 relapsed from his recollections into a painful meditation on the 
 choice of hardships before him. Maggie noticed that he was 
 unusually absent that evening at tea ; and afterwards he sat 
 leaning forward in his chair, looking at the ground, moving 
 his lips, and shaking his head from time to time. Then he 
 looked hard at Mrs. Tulliver, who was knitting opposite him, 
 then at Maggie, who, as she bent over her sewing, was intensely 
 conscious of some drama going forward in her father's mind. 
 Suddenly he took up the poker and broke the large coal 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Dear heart, Mr. Tulliver, what can you be thinking of ? " 
 said his wife, looking up in alarm ; " it 's very wasteful, break- 
 ing the coal, and we 've got hardly any large coal left, and I 
 don't know where the rest is to come from." 
 - "I don't think you're quite so well to-night, are you 
 father?" said Maggie; "you seem uneasy." 
 
 " Why, how is it Tom does n't come ? " said Mr, Tulliver, 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Dear heart ! is it time ? I must go and get his supper," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver, laying down her knitting, and leaving the room. 
 
 " It 's nigh upon half-past eight," said Mr. Tulliver. " He '11 
 be here soon. Go, go and get the big Bible, and open it at the 
 beginning, where everything 's set down. And get the pen 
 and ink." 
 
246 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Maggie obeyed, wondering ; but her father gave no further 
 orders, and only sat listening for Tom's footfall on the gravel, 
 apparently irritated by the wind, which had risen, and Avas 
 roaring so as to drown all other sounds. There was a strange 
 light in his eyes that rather frightened Maggie j she began to 
 wish that Tom would come, too. 
 
 " There he is, then," said Mr. Tulliver, in an excited way, 
 when the knock came at last. Maggie went to open the door, 
 but her mother came out of the kitchen hurriedly, saying, 
 " Stop a bit, Maggie ; I '11 open it." 
 
 Mrs. Tulliver had begun to be a little frightened at her boy, 
 but she was jealous of every office others did for him. 
 
 " Your supper 's ready by the kitchen-fire, my boy," she said, 
 as he took off his hat and coat. " You shall have it by your- 
 self, just as you like, and I won't speak to you." 
 
 " I think my father wants Tom, mother," said Maggie ; " he 
 must come into the parlour first." 
 
 Tom entered with his usual saddened evening face, but his 
 eyes fell immediately on the open Bible and the inkstand, and 
 he glanced with a look of anxious surprise at his father, who 
 was saying, 
 
 " Come, come, you 're late ; I want you." 
 
 " Is there anything the matter, father ? " said Tom. 
 
 "You sit down, all of you," said Mr. Tulliver, peremp- 
 torily. " And, Tom, sit down here ; I 've got something for 
 you to write i' the Bible." 
 
 They all three sat down, looking at him. He began to speak 
 slowly, looking first at his wife. 
 
 " I 've made up my mind, Bessy, and I '11 be as good as my 
 word to you. There '11 be the same grave made for us to lie 
 down in, and we must n't be bearing one another ill-will. I '1 
 stop in the old place, and I '11 serve under Wakem, and I '11 
 serve him like an honest man ; there 's no Tulliver but what 's 
 honest, mind that, Tom," here his voice rose, " they '11 have 
 it to throw up against me as I paid a dividend, but it was n't 
 my fault; it was because there's raskills in the world. 
 They 've been too many for me, and I must give in. I '11 put 
 my neck in harness, for you 've a right to say as I 've 
 brought you into trouble, Bessy, and I '11 serve him as hon- 
 est as if he was no raskill ; I 'm an honest man, though I shall 
 never hold my head up no more. I 'm a tree as is broke a 
 tree as is broke." 
 
 He paused, and looked on the ground. Then suddenly rais- 
 ing his head, he said, in a louder yet deeper tone, 
 
THE DOWNFALL. 247 
 
 " But I won't forgive him ! I know what they say, he 
 never meant me any harm. That 's the way Old Harry props 
 up the raskills. He 's been at the bottom of everything ; but 
 he's a fine gentleman, I know, I know. I shouldn't ha' 
 gone to law, they say. But who made it so as there was no 
 arbitrating and no justice to be got ? It signifies nothing to 
 him, I know that; he's one o' them fine gentlemen as get 
 money by doing business for poorer folks, and when he 's made 
 beggars of 'em he '11 give 'em charity. I won't forgive him ! 
 I wish he might be punished with shame till his own son 'ud 
 like to forget him. I wish he may do suminat as they 'd make 
 him work at the treadmill ! But he won't, he 's too big a 
 raskill to let the law lay hold on him. And you mind this, 
 Tom, you never forgive him neither, if you mean to be my 
 son. There '11 maybe come a time when you may make him 
 feel ; it '11 never come to me ; I 'n got my head under the yoke. 
 Now write write it i' the Bible." 
 
 " father, what ? " said Maggie, sinking down by his knee, 
 pale and trembling. " It 's wicked to curse and bear malice." 
 
 " It is n't wicked, I tell you," said her father, fiercely. " It 's 
 wicked as the raskills should prosper; it's the Devil's doing. 
 Do as I tell you, Tom. Write." 
 
 " What am I to write ? " said Tom, with gloomy sub- 
 mission. 
 
 " Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took service under 
 John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him, because I 'd 
 promised my wife to make her what amends I could for her 
 trouble, and because I wanted to die in th' old place where I 
 was born and my father was born. Put that i' the right 
 words you know how and then write, as I don't forgive 
 Wakem for all that ; and for all I '11 serve him honest, I wish 
 evil may befall him. Write that." 
 
 There was a dead silence as Tom's pen moved along the 
 paper ; Mrs. Tulliver looked scared, and Maggie trembled like a 
 leaf. 
 
 " Now let me hear what you 've wrote," said Mr. TulliveE 
 Tom read aloud slowly. 
 
 "Now write write as you'll remember what Wakem 's 
 done to your father, and you '11 make him and his feel it, if 
 ever the day comes. And sign your name Thomas Tulliver." 
 
 " Oh no, father, dear father ! " said Maggie, almost choked 
 with fear. " You should n't make Tom write that." 
 
 " Be quiet, Maggie J " said Tom. " I shall write it." 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A VARIATION OF PROTESTANTISM UNKNOWN TO BOSSUET. 
 
 JOURNEYING down the Rhone on a summer's day, you have 
 perhaps felt the sunshine made dreary by those ruined vil- 
 lages which stud the banks in certain parts of its course, tell- 
 ing how the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying 
 god, sweeping down the feeble generations whose breath is 
 in their nostrils, and making their dwellings a desolation. 
 Strange contrast, you may have thought, between the effect 
 produced on us by these dismal remnants of commonplace 
 houses, which in their best days were but the sign of a sordid 
 life, belonging in all its details to our own vulgar era, and the 
 effect produced by those ruins on the castled Rhine, which 
 have crumbled and mellowed into such harmony with the 
 green and rocky steeps that they seem to have a natural 
 fitness, like the mountain-pine; nay, even in the day when 
 they were built they must have had this fitness, as if they 
 had been raised by an earth-born race, who had inherited from 
 their mighty parent a sublime instinct of form. And that was 
 a day of romance ! If those robber-barons were somewhat 
 grim and drunken ogres, they had a certain grandeur of the 
 wild beast in them, they were forest boars with tusks, tear- 
 ing and rending, not the ordinary domestic grunter; they rep- 
 resented the demon forces for ever in collision with beauty, 
 virtue, and the gentle uses of life ; they made a fine contrast 
 in the picture with the wandering minstrel, the soft-lipped 
 princess, the pious recluse, and the timid Israelite. That was 
 a time of colour, when the sunlight fell on glancing steel and 
 floating banners ; a time of adventure and fierce struggle, 
 nay, of living, religious art and religious enthusiasm ; for 
 were not cathedrals built in those days, and did not great 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 249 
 
 emperors leave their Western palaces to die before the infidel 
 strongholds in the sacred East? Therefore it is that these 
 Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry ; they belong to 
 the grand historic life of humanity, and raise up for me the 
 vision of an epoch. But these dead tinted, hollowed-eyed, angu- 
 lar skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress me with the 
 feeling that human life very much of it is a narrow, ugly, 
 grovelling existence, which even calamity does not elevate, but 
 rather tends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of conception ; 
 and I have a cruel conviction that the lives these ruins are the 
 traces of were part of a gross sum of obscure vitality, that 
 will be swept into the same oblivion with the generations of 
 ants and beavers. 
 
 Perhaps something akin to this oppressive feeling may have 
 weighed upon you in watching this old-fashioned family life 
 on the banks of the Floss, which even sorrow hardly suffices 
 to lift above the level of the tragi-comic. It is a sordid life, 
 you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons, irradiated by no 
 sublime principles, no romantic visions, no active, self-renounc- 
 ing faith ; moved by none of those wild, uncontrollable passions 
 which create the dark shadows of misery and crime ; without 
 that primitive, rough simplicity of wants, that hard, submissive, 
 ill-paid toil, that child-like spelling-out of what nature has writ- 
 ten, which gives its poetry to peasant life. Here one has con- 
 ventional worldly notions and habits without instruction and 
 without polish, surely the most prosaic form of human life; 
 proud respectability in a gig of unfashionable build ; worldli- 
 ness without side-dishes. Observing these people narrowly, 
 even when the iron hand of misfortune has shaken them from 
 their unquestioning hold on the world, one sees little trace of 
 religion, still less of a distinctively Christian creed. Their be- 
 lief in the Unseen, so far as it manifests itself at all, seems to be 
 rather of a pagan kind ; their moral notions, though held with 
 strong tenacity, seem to have no standard beyond hereditary 
 custom. You could not live among such people ; you are stifled 
 for want of an outlet towards something beautiful, great, or 
 noble ; you are irritated with these dull men and women, as a 
 kind of population out of keeping with the earth on which they 
 live, with this rich plain where the great river flows for ever 
 onward, and links the small pulse of the old English town with 
 the beatings of the world's mighty heart. A vigorous supersti- 
 tion, that lashes its gods or lashes its own back, seems to be more 
 congruous with the mystery of the human lot, than the mental 
 condition of these emmet-like Dodsons and Tullivers. 
 
250 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness ; but it 
 is necessary that we should feel it, if we care to understand 
 how it acted on the lives of Tom and Maggie, how it has acted 
 on young natures in many generations, that in the onward ten- 
 dency of human things have risen above the mental level of 
 the generation before them, to which they have been neverthe- 
 less tied by the strongest fibres of their hearts. The suffering, 
 whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every historical 
 advance of mankind, is represented in this way in every town, 
 and by hundreds of obscure hearths ; and we need not shrink 
 from this comparison of small things with great ; for does not 
 science tell us that its highest striving is after the ascertainment 
 of a unity which shall bind the smallest things with the great- 
 est ? In natural science, I have understood, there is noth- 
 ing petty to the mind that has a large vision of relations, 
 and to which every single object suggests a vast sum of 
 conditions. It is surely the same with the observation of 
 human life. 
 
 Certainly the religious and moral ideas of the Dodsons and 
 Tullivers were of too specific a kind to be arrived at deduc- 
 tively, from the statement that they were part of the Protest- 
 ant population of Great Britain. Their theory of life had its 
 core of soundness, as all theories must have on which decent 
 and prosperous families have been reared and have nourished ; 
 but it had the very slightest tincture of theology. If, in the 
 maiden days of the Dodson sisters, their Bibles opened more 
 easily at some parts than others, it was because of dried tulip- 
 petals, which had been distributed quite impartially, without 
 preference for the historical, devotional, or doctrinal. Their 
 religion was of a simple, semi-pagan kind, but there was no 
 heresy in it, if heresy properly means choice, for they 
 didn't know there was any other religion, except that of 
 chapel-goers, which appeared to run in families, like asthma. 
 How should they know ? The vicar of their pleasant rural 
 parish was not a controversialist, but a good hand at whist, 
 and one who had a joke always ready for a blooming female 
 parishioner. The religion of the Dodsons consisted in revering 
 whatever was customary and respectable': it was necessary to 
 be baptized, else one could not be buried in the church-yard, 
 and to take the sacrament before death, as a security against 
 more dimly understood perils ; but it was of equal necessity 
 to have the proper pall-bearers and well-cured hams at one's 
 funeral, and to leave an unimpeachable will. A Dodson would 
 not be taxed with the omission of anything that was becoming, 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 251 
 
 or that belonged to that eternal iitness of things which was 
 plainly indicated in the practice of the most substantial pa- 
 rishioners, and in the family traditions, such as obedience to 
 parents, faithfulness to kindred, industry, rigid honesty, thrift, 
 the thorough scouring of wooden and copper utensils, the hoard- 
 ing of coins likely to disappear from the currency, the produc- 
 tion of first-rate commodities for the market, and the general 
 preference for whatever was home-made. The Dodsons were 
 a very proud race, and their pride lay in the utter frustration 
 of all desire to tax them with a breach of traditional duty or 
 propriety. A wholesome pride in many respects, since it iden- 
 tified honour with perfect integrity, thoroughness of work, and 
 faithfulness to admitted rules ; and society owes some worthy 
 qualities in many of her members to mothers of the Dodson 
 class, who made their butter and their fromenty well, and would 
 have felt disgraced to make it otherwise. To be honest and 
 poor was never a Dodson motto, still less to seem rich though 
 being poor ; . rather, the family badge was to be honest and 
 rich, and not only rich, but richer than was supposed. To live 
 respected, and have the proper bearers at your funeral, was an 
 achievement of the ends of existence that would be entirely 
 nullified if, on the reading of your will, you sank in the opinion 
 of your fellow-men, either by turning out to be poorer than 
 they expected, or by leaving your money in a capricious man- 
 ner, without strict regard to degrees of kin. The right thing 
 must always be done towards kindred. The right thing was 
 to correct them severely, if they were other than a credit to 
 the family, but still not to alienate from them the smallest 
 rightful share in the family shoe-buckles and other property. 
 A conspicuous quality in the Dodson character was its genu- 
 ineness ; its vices and virtues alike were phases of a proud 
 honest egoism, which had a hearty dislike to whatever made 
 against its own credit and interest, and would be frankly hard 
 of speech to inconvenient " kin," but would never forsake or 
 ignore them, would not let them want bread, but only re- 
 quire them to eat it with bitter herbs. 
 
 The same sort of traditional belief ran in the Tulliver veins, 
 but it was carried in richer blood, having elements of gener- 
 ous imprudence, warm affection, and hot-tempered rashness. 
 Mr. Tulliver's grandfather had been heard to say that he was 
 descended from one Ralph Tulliver, a wonderfully clever 
 fellow, who had ruined himself. It is likely enough that the 
 clever Ealph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and was 
 very decidedly of his own opinion. On the other hand, 
 
252 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 nobody had ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined himself j 
 it was not the way of that family. 
 
 If such were the views of life on which the Dodsons and 
 Tullivers had been reared in the praiseworthy past of Pitt 
 and high prices, you will infer from what you already know 
 concerning the state of society in St. Ogg's, that there had 
 IMTU no highly modifying influence to act on them in their 
 maturer life. It was still possible, even in that later time 
 of anti-Catholic preaching, for people to hold many pagan 
 ideas, and believe themselves good church-people notwith- 
 standing ; so we need hardly feel any surprise at the fact 
 that Mr. Tulliver, though a regular church-goer, recorded his 
 vindictiveness on the fly-leaf of his Bible. It was not that 
 any harm could be said concerning the vicar of that charm- 
 ing rural parish to which Dorlcote Mill belonged; he was 
 a man of excellent family, an irreproachable bachelor, of 
 elegant pursuits, had taken honours, and held a fellowship. 
 Mr. Tulliver regarded him with dutiful respect, as he did 
 everything else belonging to the church-service ; but he con- 
 sidered that church was one thing and common-sense another, 
 and he wanted nobody to tell him what common-sense was. 
 Certain seeds which are required to find a nidus for them- 
 selves under unfavourable circumstances, have been supplied 
 by nature with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will get 
 a hold on very unreceptive surfaces. The spiritual seed 
 which had been scattered over Mr. Tulliver had apparently 
 been destitute of any corresponding provision, and had slipped 
 off to the winds again, from a total absence of hooks. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE TORN NEST 18 PIERCED BY THE THORNS. 
 
 THERE is something sustaining in the very agitation that 
 accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain 
 is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which is 
 transient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that 
 follows ; in the time when sorrow has become stale, and has 
 no longer an emotive intensity that counteracts its pain ; in 
 the time when day follows day in dull, unexpectant sameness, 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 253 
 
 and trial is a dreary routine, it is then that despair threatens ; 
 it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye 
 and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our exist- 
 ence, which shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction. 
 This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her 
 short span of thirteen years. To the usual precocity of the 
 girl, she added that early experience of struggle, of conflict 
 between the inward impulse and outward fact, which is the 
 lot of every imaginative and passionate nature ; and the years 
 since she hammered the nails into her wooden Fetish among 
 the worm-eaten shelves of the attic had been filled with so 
 eager a life in the triple world of Reality, Books, and Waking 
 Dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years in every- 
 thing except in her entire want of that prudence and self- 
 command which were the qualities that made Tom manly in 
 the midst of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot 
 was beginning to have a still, sad monotony, which threw her 
 more than ever on her inward self. Her father was able to 
 attend to business again, his affairs were settled, and he was 
 acting as Wakem's manager on the old spot. Torn went to 
 and fro every morning and evening, and became more and 
 more silent in the short intervals at home ; what was there to 
 say ? One day was like another ; and Tom's interest in life, 
 driven back and crushed on every other side, was concentrat- 
 ing itself into the one channel of ambitious resistance to 
 misfortune. The peculiarities of his father and mother were 
 very irksome to him, now they were laid bare of all the 
 softening accompaniments of an easy, prosperous home ; for 
 Tom had very clear, prosaic eyes, not apt to be dimmed by 
 mists of feeling or imagination. Poor Mrs. Tulliver, it 
 seemed, would never recover her old self, her placid household 
 activity ; how could she ? The objects among which her 
 mind had moved complacently were all gone, all the little 
 hopes and schemes and speculations, all the pleasant little 
 cares about her treasures which had made the world quite 
 comprehensible to her for a quarter of a century, since she had 
 made her first purchase of the sugar-tongs, had been suddenly 
 snatched away from her, and she remained bewildered in this 
 empty life. Why that should have happened to her which 
 had not happened to other women remained an insoluble 
 question by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating 
 comparison of the past with the present. It was piteous to 
 see the comely woman getting thinner and more worn under 
 a bodily as well as mental restlessness, which made her often 
 
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 wander about the empty house after her work was done, until 
 Maggie, becoming alarmed about her, would seek her, and 
 bring her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that she 
 injuring her health by never sitting down and resting hersell. 
 Yet amidst this helpless imbecility there was a touching 
 trait of humble, self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie 
 feel tenderly towards her poor mother amidst all the little 
 wearing griefs caused by her mental feebleness. She would 
 let Maggie do none of the work that was heaviest and most 
 soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish when Maggie 
 attempted to relieve her from her grate-brushing and scour- 
 ing : " Let it alone, my dear ; your hands 'ull get as hard as 
 hard," she would say; "it's your mother's place to do that. 
 I can't do the sewing my eyes fail me." And she would 
 still brush and carefully tend Maggie's hair, which she had 
 become reconciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl, now it 
 was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child, and, 
 in general, would have been much better if she had been 
 quite different ; yet the womanly heart, so bruised in its 
 small personal desires, found a future to rest on in the life 
 of this young thing, and the mother pleased herself with 
 wearing out her own hands to save the hands that had so 
 much more life in them. 
 
 But the constant presence of her mother's regretful bewil- 
 derment was less painful to Maggie than that of her father's 
 sullen, incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis 
 was upon him, and it seemed as if he might always be in a 
 childlike condition of dependence, as long as he was still 
 only half awakened to his trouble, Maggie had felt the strong 
 tide of pitying love almost as an inspiration, a new power, 
 that would make the most difficult life easy for his sake ; but 
 now, instead of childlike dependence, there had come a taci- 
 turn, hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast with 
 his old vehement communicativeness and high spirit ; and 
 this lasted from day to day, and from week to week, the dull 
 eye never brightening with any eagerness or any joy. It is 
 something cruelly incomprehensible to youthful natures, this 
 sombre sameness in middle-aged and elderly people, whose 
 life has resulted in disappointment and discontent, to whose 
 faces a smile becomes so strange that the sad lines all about 
 the lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries 
 away again for want of a welcome. "Why will they not 
 kindle up and be glad sometimes ? " thinks young elasticity. 
 " It would be so easy if they only liked to do it." And these 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 255 
 
 leaden clouds that never part are apt to create impatience 
 even in the filial affection that streams forth in nothing but 
 tenderness and pity in the time of more obvious affliction. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home ; he hurried 
 away from market, he refused all invitations to stay and chat, 
 as in old times, in the houses where he called on business. 
 He could not be reconciled with his lot. There was no atti- 
 tude in which his pride did not fsel its bruises; and in all 
 behaviour towards him, whether kind or cold, he detected 
 an allusion to the change in his circumstances. Even the 
 days on which Wakem came to ride round the land and 
 inquire into the business were not so black to him as those 
 market-days on which he had met several creditors who had 
 accepted a composition from him. To save something towards 
 the repayment of those creditors was the object towards which 
 he was now bending all his thoughts and efforts ; and under 
 the influence of this all-compelling demand of his nature, the 
 somewhat profuse man, who hated to be stinted or to stint 
 any one else in his own house, was gradually metamorphosed 
 into the keen-eyed grudger of morsels. Mrs. Tulliver could 
 noj economise enough to satisfy him, in their food and firing ; 
 and he would eat nothing himself but what was of the coarsest 
 quality. Tom, though depressed and strongly repelled by his 
 father's sullenness, and the dreariness of home, entered thor- 
 oughly into his father's feelings about paying the creditors; 
 and the poor lad brought his first quarter's money, with a 
 delicious sense of achievement, and gave it to his father 
 to put into the tin box which held the savings. The little 
 store of sovereigns in the tin box seemed to be the only sight 
 that brought a faint beam of pleasure into the miller's eyes, 
 faint and transient, for it was soon dispelled by the thought 
 that the time would be long perhaps longer than his life, 
 before the narrow savings could remove the hateful incubus 
 of debt. A deficit of more than five hundred pounds, with 
 the accumulating interest, seemed a deep pit to fill with 
 the savings from thirty shillings a-week, even when Tom's 
 probable savings were to be added. On this one point there 
 was entire community of feeling in the four widely differing 
 beings who sat round the dying fire of sticks, which made a 
 cheap warmth for them on the verge of bed-time. Mrs. Tulli- 
 ver carried the proud integrity of the Dodsons in her blood, 
 and had been brought up to think that to wrong people of 
 their money, which was another phrase for debt, was a sort of 
 moral pillory ; it would have been wickedness, to her mind, to 
 
256 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 have run counter to her husband's desire to " do the right thing," 
 and retrieve his name. She had a confused, dreamy notion 
 that, it' the creditors were all paid, her plate and linen ought 
 to come back to her; but she had an inbred perception that 
 while people owed money they were unable to pay, they 
 could n't rightly call anything their own. She murmured 
 a little that Mr. Tulliver so peremptorily refused to receive 
 anything in repayment from Mr. and Mrs. Moss ; but to all 
 his requirements of household economy she was submissive to 
 the point of denying herself the cheapest indulgences of mere 
 flavour; her only rebellion was to smuggle into the kitchen 
 something that would make rather a better supper than usual 
 for Tom. 
 
 These narrow notions about debt, held by the old-fashioned 
 Tullivers, may perhaps excite a smile on the faces of many 
 readers in these days of wide commercial views and wide 
 philosophy, according to which everything rights itself with- 
 out any trouble of ours. The fact that my tradesman is out of 
 pocket by me is to be looked at through the serene certainty 
 that somebody else's tradesman is in pocket by somebody 
 else; and since there must be bad debts in the world, why, 
 it is mere egoism not to like that we in particular should 
 make them instead of our fellow-citizens. I am telling the 
 history of very simple people, who had never had any illumi- 
 nating doubts as to personal integrity and honour. 
 
 Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentra- 
 tion of desire, Mr. Tulliver retained the feeling towards 
 his " little wench " which made her presence a need to him, 
 though it would not suffice to cheer him. She was still 
 the desire of his eyes ; but the sweet spring of fatherly love 
 was now mingled with bitterness, like everything else. When 
 Maggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get 
 a low stool and sit by her father's knee, leaning her cheek 
 against it. How she wished he would stroke her head, or 
 give some sign that he was soothed by the sense that he 
 had a daughter who loved him ! But now she got no answer 
 to her little caresses, either from her father or from Tom, 
 the two idols of her life. Tom was weary and abstracted 
 in the short intervals when he was at home, and her father 
 was bitterly preoccupied with the thought that the girl was 
 growing up, was shooting up into a woman; and how was 
 she to do well in life ? She had a poor chance for marrying, 
 down in the world as they were. And he hated the thought 
 of her marrying poorly, as her aunt Gritty had done; that 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 257 
 
 would be a thing to make him turn in his grave, the little 
 wench so pulled down by children and toil, as her aunt Moss 
 was. When uncultured minds, confined to a narrow range 
 of personal experience, are under the pressure of continued 
 misfortune, their inward life is apt to become a perpetually 
 repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts ; the same words, 
 the same scenes, are revolved over and over again, the same 
 mood accompanies them ; the end of the year finds them 
 as much what they were at the beginning as if they were 
 machines set to a recurrent series of movements. 
 
 The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. 
 Uncles and aunts paid only short visits now; of course, they 
 could not stay to meals, and the constraint caused by Mr. 
 Tulliver's savage silence, which seemed to add to the hollow 
 resonance of the bare, uncarpeted room when the aunts were 
 talking, heightened the unpleasantness of these family visits 
 on all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for other 
 acquaintances, there is a chill air surrounding those who 
 are down in the world, and people are glad to get away 
 from them, as from a cold room ; human beings, mere men 
 and women, without furniture, without anything to offer you, 
 who have ceased to count as anybody, present an embar- 
 rassing negation of reasons for wishing to see them, or of 
 subjects on which to converse with them. At that distant 
 day, there was a dreary isolation in the civilised Christian 
 society of these realms for families that had dropped below 
 their original level, unless they belonged to a sectarian church, 
 which gets some warmth of brotherhood by walling in the 
 sacred fire. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 
 
 OXE afternoon, when the chestnuts were coming into flower, 
 Maggie had brought her chair outside the front door, and was 
 seated there with a book on her knees. Her dark eyes had 
 wandered from the book, but they did not seem to be enjoying 
 the sunshine which pierced the screen of jasmine on the pro- 
 jecting porch at her right, and threw leafy shadows on her 
 pale round cheek; they seemed rather to be searching for 
 
 II 
 
258 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 something that was not disclosed by the sunshine. It had 
 been a more miserable day than usual ; her father, after a 
 visit of Wakem's, had had a paroxysm of rage, in which 
 for some trifling fault he had beaten the boy who served in 
 the mill. Once before, since his illness, he had had a similar 
 paroxysm, in which he had beaten his horse, and the scene 
 had left a lasting terror in Maggie's mind. The thought had 
 risen, that some time or other he might beat her mother 
 if she happened to speak in her feeble way at the wrong 
 moment. The keenest of all dread with her was lest her 
 father should add to his present misfortune the wretchedness 
 of doing something irretrievably disgraceful. The battered 
 school-book of Tom's which she held on her knees could 
 give her no fortitude under the pressure of that dread ; and 
 again and again her eyes had filled with tears, as they 
 wandered vaguely, seeing neither the chestnut-trees, nor the 
 distant horizon, but only future scenes of home-sorrow. 
 
 Suddenly she was roused by the sound of the opening gate 
 and of footsteps on the gravel. It was not Tom who was enter- 
 ing, but a man in a sealskin cap and a blue plush waistcoat, 
 carrying a pack on his back, and followed closely by a bull- 
 terrier of brindled coat and defiant aspect. 
 
 " Oh, Bob, it 's you ! " said Maggie, starting up with a smile 
 of pleased recognition, for there had been no abundance of 
 kind acts to efface the recollection of Bob's generosity ; " I 'm 
 so glad to see you." 
 
 "Thank you, Miss," said Bob, lifting his cap and showing 
 a delighted face, but immediately relieving himself of some 
 accompanying embarrassment by looking down at his dog, and 
 saying in a tone of disgust, " Get out wi' you, you thunderin'* 
 sawney ! " 
 
 " My brother is not at home yet, Bob," said Maggie ; " he is 
 always at St. Ogg's in the daytime." 
 
 "Well, Miss," said Bob, "I should be glad to see Mr. 
 Tom, but that is n't just what I 'm come for, look here ! " 
 
 Bob was in the act of depositing his pack on the door-step, 
 and with it a row of small books fastened together with string. 
 Apparently, however, they were not the object to which he 
 wished to call Maggie's attention, but rather something which 
 he had carried under his arm, wrapped in a red handkerchief. 
 
 " See here ! " he said again, laying the red parcel on the 
 others and unfolding it ; " you won't think I 'm a-makin' too 
 free, Miss, I hope, but I lighted on these books, and I thought 
 they might make up to you a bit for them as you 've lost ; for 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 259 
 
 I beared you speak o' picturs, an' as for picturs, look 
 here ! " 
 
 The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a su- 
 perannuated " Keepsake " and six or seven numbers of a 
 " Portrait Gallery," in royal octavo ; and the emphatic re- 
 quest to look referred to a portrait of George the Fourth 
 in all the majesty of his depressed cranium and voluminous 
 neckcloth. 
 
 " There 's all sorts o' genelmen here," Bob went on, turn- 
 Ing over the leaves with some excitement, "wi' all sorts o' 
 noses, an' some bald an' some wi' wigs, Parlament genel- 
 men, I reckon. An' here," he added, opening the " Keep- 
 sake," " here 's ladies for you, some wi' curly hair and some 
 wi' smooth, an' some a-smiling wi' their heads o' one side, an' 
 some as if they was goin' to cry, look here, a-sittin' on the 
 ground out o' door, dressed like the ladies I 'n seen get out o' 
 the carriages at the balls in th' Old Hall there. My eyes ! I 
 wonder what, the chaps wear as go a-courtin' 'em ! I sot up 
 till the clock was gone twelve last night, a-lookin' at 'em, I 
 did, till they stared at me out o' the picturs as if they 'd 
 know when I spoke to 'em. But, lors ! I should n't know what 
 to say to 'em. They '11 be more fittin' company for you, Miss ; 
 and the man at the book-stall, he said they banged iverything 
 for picturs ; he said they was a fust-rate article." 
 
 " And you 've bought them for me, Bob ? " said Maggie, 
 deeply touched by this simple kindness. "How very, very 
 good of you ! But I 'm afraid you gave a great deal of money 
 for them." 
 
 " Not me ! " said Bob. " I 'd ha' gev three times the money 
 if they '11 make up to you a bit for them as was sold away 
 from you, Miss. For I 'n niver forgot how you looked when 
 you fretted about the books bein' gone ; it 's stuck by me as if 
 it was a pictur hingin' before me. An' when I see'd the 
 book open upo' the stall, wi' the lady lookin' out of it wi' 
 eyes a bit like your'n when you was frettin', you'll 
 excuse my takin' the liberty, Miss, I thought I'd make 
 free to buy it for you, an' then I bought the books full 
 o' genelmen to match; an' then" here Bob took up the 
 small stringed packet of books "I thought you might like a 
 bit more print as well as the picturs, an' I got these for a say- 
 so, they 're cram-full o' print, an' I thought they 'd do no 
 harm comin' along wi' these bettermost books. An' I hope 
 yoii won't say me nay, an' tell me as you won't have 'em, like 
 Mr. Tom did wi' the suvreigns." 
 
260 THE MILL UN THE FLOSS. 
 
 " No, indeed, Bob," said Maggie, " T 'in very thankful to 
 you for thinking of me, and being so good to me and Tom. I 
 don't think any one ever did such a kind thing lor me before. 
 I have n't many friends who care for me." 
 
 " Hev a dog, Miss ! they 're better friends nor any 
 Christian," said Bob, laying down his pack again, which he 
 had taken up with the intention of hurrying away ; for he 
 felt considerable shyness in talking to a young lass like Mag- 
 gie, though, as he usually said of himself, "his tongue over- 
 run him" when he began to speak. "I can't give you .Mumps, 
 'cause he'd break his heart to go away from me eh, Mumps, 
 what do you say, you riff-raff ? " (Mumps declined to ex- 
 press himself more diffusely than by a single afurmative 
 movement of his tail.) " But I 'd get you a pup, Miss, an' 
 welcome." 
 
 " No, thank you, Bob. We have a yard dog, and I may n't 
 keep a dog of my own." 
 
 "Eh, that 's a pity ; else there 's a pup, if you did n't mind 
 about it not being thorough-bred ; its mother acts in the Punch 
 show, an uncommon sensible bitch; she means more sense 
 wi' her bark nor half the chaps can put into their talk from 
 breakfast to sundown. There 's one chap carries pots, a 
 poor, low trade as any on the road, he says, ' Why, Toby 's 
 nought but a mongrel ; there 's nought to look at in her.' But 
 I says to him, ' Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel ? 
 There was n't much pickin' o' your feyther an' mother, to look 
 at you.' Not but what I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't 
 abide to see one cur grinnin' at another. I wish you good- 
 evenin', Miss," added Bob, abruptly taking up his pack agnin, 
 under the consciousness that his tongue was acting in an undis- 
 ciplined manner. 
 
 "Won't you come in the evening some time, and see my 
 brother, Bob ? " said Maggie. 
 
 "Yes, Miss, thank you another time. You'll give my 
 duty to him, if you please. Eh, he 's a fine growed chap, Mr. 
 Tom is ; he took to growin' i' the legs, an' / did n't." 
 
 The pack was down again, now, the hook of the stick 
 having somehow gone wrong. 
 
 " You don't call Mumps a cur, I suppose ? " said Maggie, 
 divining that any interest she showed in Mumps would be 
 gratifying to his master. 
 
 " No, Miss, a fine way off that," said Bob, with a pitying 
 smile ; " Mumps is as fine a cross as you '11 see anywhere 
 along the Floss, an' I 'n been up it wi' the barge times enow. 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 261 
 
 Why, the gentry stops to look at him ; but you won't catch 
 Mumps a-looking at the gentry much, he minds his own 
 business, he does." 
 
 The expression of Mumps's face, which seemed to be toler- 
 ating the superfluous existence of objects in general, was 
 strongly confirmatory of this high praise. 
 
 " He looks dreadfully surly," said Maggie. " Would he let 
 me pat him ? " 
 
 " Ay, that would he, and thank you. He knows his com- 
 pany, Mumps does. He is n't a dog as 'ull be caught wi' gin- 
 gerbread ; he 'd smell a thief a good deal stronger nor the 
 gingerbread, he would. Lors, I talk to him by th' hour 
 together, when I 'in walking i' lone places, and if I 'n done a 
 bit o' mischief, I allays tell him. I 'n got no secrets but 
 what Mumps knows 'em. He knows about my big thumb, 
 he does." 
 
 " Your big thumb what 's that, Bob ? " said Maggie. 
 
 " That 's what it is, Miss," said Bob, quickly, exhibiting a 
 singularly broad specimen of that difference between the man 
 and the monkey. " It tells i' measuring out the flannel, you 
 see. I carry flannel, 'cause it's light for my pack, an' it's 
 dear stuff, you see, so a big thumb tells. I clap my thumb at 
 the end o' the yard and cut o' the hither side of it, and the 
 old women are n't up to 't." 
 
 " But, Bob," said Maggie, looking serious, " that 's cheat- 
 ing; I don't like to hear you say that." 
 
 " Don't you, Miss ? " said Bob, regretfully. " Then I 'm 
 sorry I said it. But I 'm so used to talking to Mumps, an' he 
 does n't mind a bit o' cheating, when it 's them skinflint women, 
 as haggle an' haggle, an' 'ud like to get their flannel for 
 nothing, an' 'ud niver ask theirselves how I got my dinner out 
 on't. I niver cheat anybody as doesn't want to cheat me, 
 Miss, lors, I 'm a honest chap, I am ; only I must hev a bit 
 o' sport, an' now I don't go wi' th' ferrets, I 'n got no varmint 
 to come over but them haggling women. I wish you good- 
 evening, Miss." 
 
 " Good-bye, Bob. Thank you very much for bringing me 
 the books. And come again to see Tom." 
 
 " Yes, Miss," said Bob, moving on a few steps ; then turn- 
 ing half round he said, "I'll leave off that trick wi' my big 
 thumb, if you don't think well on me for it, Miss ; but it 'ud 
 be a pity, it would. I could n't find another trick so good, an' 
 what 'ud be the use o' havin' a big thumb ? It might as well 
 ha' been narrow." 
 
262 THE MILL ON Till': f-'LOSS. 
 
 Maggie, thus exalted into Bob's directing Madonna, laughed 
 in spite of herself; at which her worshipper's blue eyes 
 twinkled too, and under these favouring auspices he touched 
 his cap and walked away. 
 
 The days of chivalry are not gone, notwithstanding Burke's 
 grand dirge over them ; they live still in that far-off worship 
 paid by many a youth and man to the woman of whom lie 
 never dreams that he shall touch so much as her little fin^-r 
 or the hem of her robe. Bob, with the pack on his back, had 
 as respectful an adoration for this dark-eyed maiden as if he- 
 had been a knight in armour calling aloud on her name as he 
 pricked on to the fight. 
 
 That gleam of merriment soon died away from Maggie's 
 face, and perhaps only made the returning gloom deeper by 
 contrast. She was too dispirited even to like answering ques- 
 tions about Bob's present of books, and she carried them away 
 to her bedroom, laying them down there and seating herself 
 on her one stool, without caring to look at them just yet. 
 She leaned her cheek against the window-frame, and thought 
 that the light-hearted Bob had a lot much happier than 
 hers. 
 
 Maggie's sense of loneliness, and utter privation of joy, had 
 deepened with the brightness of advancing spring. All the 
 favourite outdoor nooks about home, which seemed to have 
 done their part with her parents in nurturing and cherishing 
 her, were now mixed up with the home-sadness, and gathered 
 no smile from the sunshine. Every affection, every delight, 
 the poor child had had, was like an aching nerve to her. 
 There was no music for her any more, no piano, no harmo- 
 nised voices, no delicious stringed instruments, with their pas- 
 sionate cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibration 
 through her frame. And of all her school-life there was nothing 
 left her now but her little collection of school-books, which she 
 turned over with a sickening sense that she knew them all, and 
 they were all barren of comfort. Even at school she had often 
 wished for books with more in them ; everything she learned 
 there seemed like the ends of long threads that snapped im- 
 mediately. And now without the indirect charm of school- 
 emulation Telemaque was mere bran ; so were the hard, 
 dry questions on Christian Doctrine ; there was no flavour in 
 them, no strength. Sometimes Maggie thought she could 
 have been contented with absorbing fancies ; if she could 
 have had all Scott's novels and all Byron's poems ! then, 
 perhaps, she might have found happiness enough to dull her 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 263 
 
 sensibility to her actual daily life. And yet they were hardly 
 what she wanted. She could make dream-worlds of her own, 
 but no dream-world would satisfy her now. She wanted some 
 explanation of this hard, real life, the unhappy -looking 
 father, seated at the dull breakfast-table ; the childish, bewil- 
 dered mother ; the little sordid tasks that tilled the hours, or 
 the more oppressive emptiness of weary, joyless leisure ; the 
 need of some tender, demonstrative love ; the cruel sense that 
 Tom did n't mind what she thought or felt, and that they were 
 no longer playfellows together ; the privation of all pleasant 
 things that had come to her more than to others, she wanted 
 some key that would enable her to understand, and, in under- 
 standing, endure, the heavy weight that had fallen on her 
 young heart. If she had been taught "real learning and, 
 wisdom, such as great men knew," she thought she should 
 have held the secrets of life ; if she had only books, that she 
 might learn for herself what wise men knew ! Saints and 
 martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sages and 
 poets. She knew little of saints and martyrs, and had gath- 
 ered, as a general result of her teaching, that they were a 
 temporary provision against the spread of Catholicism, and 
 had all died at Smithfield. 
 
 In one of these meditations it occurred to her that she had 
 forgotten Tom's school-books, which had been sent home in 
 his trunk. But she found the stock unaccountably shrunk 
 down to the few old ones which had been well thumbed, the 
 Latin Dictionary and Grammar, a Delectus, a torn Eutropius, 
 the well-worn Virgil, Aldrich's Logic, and the exasperating 
 Euclid. Still, Latin, Euclid, and Logic would surely be a 
 considerable step in masculine wisdom, in that knowledge 
 which made men contented, and even glad to live. Not that 
 the yearning for effectual wisdom was quite unmixed ; a cer- 
 tain mirage would now and then rise on the desert of the 
 future, in which she seemed to see herself honoured for her 
 surprising attainments. And so the poor child, with her soul's 
 hunger and her illusions of self-flattery, began to nibble at this 
 thick-rinded fruit of the tree of knowledge, filling her vacant 
 hours with Latin, geometry, and the forms of the syllogism, 
 and feeling a gleam of triumph now and then that her under- 
 standing was quite equal to these peculiarly masculine studies. 
 Foi a week or two she went on resolutely enough, though with 
 an occasional sinking of heart, as if she had set out toward 
 the Promised Land alone, and found it a thirsty, trackless, 
 uncertain journey. In the severity of her early resolution, she 
 
264 THE MILL ON THE FLOS*. 
 
 would take Aldrich out into the fields, and then look off her 
 book towards the sky, where the lark was twinkling, or to the 
 reeds and bushes by the river, from which the water-fowl 
 rustled forth on its anxious, awkward flight, with a startled 
 sense that the relation between Aldrich and this living world 
 was extremely remote for her. The discouragement deepened 
 as the days went on, and the eager heart gained faster and 
 faster on the patient mind. Somehow, when she sat at the 
 window with her book, her eyes would fix themselves blankly 
 on the outdoor sunshine ; then they would fill with tears, and 
 sometimes, if her mother was not in the room, the studies 
 would all end in sobbing. She rebelled against her lot, she 
 fainted under its loneliness, and fits even of anger and hatred 
 towards her father and mother, who were so unlike what she 
 would have them to be ; towards Tom, who checked her, and 
 met her thought or feeling always by some thwarting differ- 
 ence, would flow out over her affections and conscience like 
 a lava stream, and frighten her with a sense that it was not 
 difficult for her to become a demon. Then her brain would he 
 busy with wild romances of a flight from home in search of 
 something less sordid and dreary ; she would go to some great 
 man Walter Scott, perhaps and tell him how wretched 
 and how clever she was, and he would surely do something for 
 her. But, in the middle of her vision, her father would per- 
 haps enter the room for the evening, and, surprised that she 
 sat still without noticing him, would say coniplainingly, 
 " Come, am I to fetch my slippers myself ? " The voice 
 pierced through Maggie like a sword ; there was another sad- 
 ness besides her own, and she had been thinking of turning 
 her back on it and forsaking it. 
 
 This afternoon, the sight of Bob's cheerful freckled face 
 had given her discontent a new direction. She thought it was 
 part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her 
 the burthen of larger wants than others seemed to feel, that 
 Bhe had to endure this wide, hopeless yearning for that some- 
 thing, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this earth. 
 She wished she could have been like Bob, with his easily satis- 
 fied ignorance, or like Tom, who had something to do on which 
 he could fix his mind with a steady purpose, and disregard 
 everything else. Poor child ! as she leaned her head against 
 the window-frame, with her hands clasped tighter and tighter, 
 and her foot beating the ground, she was as lonely in her 
 trouble as if she had been the only girl in the civilised world 
 01 that day who had come out of her school-life with a soul 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 265 
 
 untrained for inevitable struggles, with no other part of her 
 inherited share in the hard-won treasures of thought which 
 generations of painful toil have laid up for the race of men, 
 than shreds and patches of feeble literature and false history, 
 with much futile information about Saxon and other kings 
 of doubtful example, but unhappily quite without that knowl- 
 edge of the irreversible laws within and without her, which, 
 governing the habits, becomes morality, and developing the 
 feelings of submission and dependence, becomes religion, 
 as lonely in her trouble as if every other girl besides herself 
 had been cherished and watched over by elder minds, not 
 forgetful of their own early time, when need was keen and 
 impulse strong. 
 
 At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books that lay 
 on the window-shelf, and she half forsook her reverie to turn 
 over listlessly the leaves of the " Portrait Gallery," but she 
 soon pushed this aside to examine the little row of books tied 
 together with string. " Beauties of the Spectator," " Rasselas," 
 " Economy of Human Life," " Gregory's Letters," she knew 
 the sort of matter that was inside all these ; the " Christian 
 Year," that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid it down 
 again ; but Thomas a Kemjris ? the name had come across 
 her in her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which every 
 one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name that 
 strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little, old, 
 clumsy book with some curiosity ; it had the corners turned 
 down in many places, and some hand, now for ever quiet, 
 had made at certain passages strong pen-and-ink marks, long 
 since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to leaf, and 
 read where the quiet hand pointed : " Know that the love of 
 thyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world. . . . 
 If thou seekest this or that, and wouldst be here or there to 
 enjoy thy own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet nor 
 free from care ; for in everything somewhat will be wanting, 
 and in every place there will be some that will cross thee. 
 . . . Both above and below, which way soever thou dost turn 
 thee, everywhere thou shalt find the Cross ; and everywhere of 
 necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt have inward 
 peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown. ... If thou desire to 
 mount unto this height, thou must set out courageously, and 
 lay the axe to the root, that thou mayest pluck up and destroy 
 that hidden inordinate inclination to thyself, and unto all pri- 
 vate and earthly good. On this sin, that a man inordinately 
 loveth himself, almost all dependeth, whatsoever is thoroughly 
 
266 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 to be overcome ; which evil being once overcome and subdued, 
 there will presently ensue great peace and tranquillity. ... It 
 is but little thou sufferest in comparison of them that have suf- 
 fered so much, were so strongly tempted, so grievously afflicted, 
 so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest therefore 
 to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou 
 mayest the easier bear thy little adversities. And if they seem 
 
 iot little unto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause 
 : hereof. . . . Blessed are those ears that receive the whispers 
 
 f the divine voice, and listen not to the whisperings of the 
 world. Blessed are those ears which hearken not unto the 
 voice which soundeth outwardly, but unto the Truth, which 
 teacheth inwardly." 
 
 A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she 
 read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of 
 solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir 
 while hers was in stupor. She went on from one brown 
 mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, 
 hardly conscious that she was reading, seeming rather to 
 listen while a low voice said, 
 
 " Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place 
 of thy rest ? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all 
 earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy journey 
 thither. All things pass away, and thou together with them. 
 Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be entangled and 
 perish. ... If a man should give all his substance, yet it is 
 as nothing. And if he should do great penances, yet are they 
 but little. And if he should attain to all knowledge, he is 
 yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue, and very fer- 
 vent devotion, yet is there much wanting ; to wit, one thing, 
 which is most necessary for him. What is that ? That hav- 
 ing left all, he leave himself, and go wholly out of himself, 
 and retain nothing of self-love. ... I have often said unto 
 thee, and now again I say the same, Forsake thyself, resign 
 thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much inward peace. . . . Then 
 shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations, and superfluous 
 
 ares fly away; then shall immoderate fear leave thee, and 
 inordinate love shall die." 
 
 Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, 
 as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was 
 a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other 
 secrets ; here was a sublime height to be reached without the 
 help of outward things ; here was insight, and strength, and 
 conquest, to be won by means entirely within her own soul, 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 267 
 
 where a supreme Teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed 
 through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of a prob- 
 lem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from 
 fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the cen- 
 tral necessity of the universe ; and for the first time she saw 
 the possibility of shifting the position from which she looked 
 at the gratification of her own desires, of taking her stand 
 out of herself, and looking at her own life as an insignificant 
 part of a divinely guided whole. She read on and on in the 
 old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible 
 Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength ; 
 returning to it after she had been called away, and reading 
 till the sun went down behind the willows. With all the 
 hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present, 
 she sat in the deepening twilight forming plans of self-humil- 
 iation and entire devotedness ; and in the ardour of first dis- 
 covery, renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that 
 satisfaction which she had so long been craving in vain. 
 She had not perceived how could she until she had lived 
 longer ? the inmost truth of the old monk's outpourings, 
 that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne 
 willingly. Maggie was still panting for happiness, and was 
 in ecstasy because she had found the key to it. She knew 
 nothing of doctrines and systems, of mysticism or quietism ; 
 but this voice out of the far-off middle ages was the direct 
 communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and 
 came to Maggie as an unquestioned message. 
 
 I suppose that is the reason why the small old-fashioned 
 book, for which you need only pay sixpence at a book-stall, 
 works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweet- 
 ness ; while expensive sermons and treatises, newly issued, 
 leave all things as they were before. It was written down 
 by a hand that waited for the heart's prompting ; it is the 
 chronicle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust, and 
 triumph, not written on velvet cushions to teach endurance 
 to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. 
 And so it remains to all time a lasting record of human needs 
 and human consolations ; the voice of a brother who, ages 
 ago, felt and suffered and renounced, in the cloister, per- 
 haps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with much chant- 
 ing and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from, 
 ours, but under the same silent far-off heavens, and with 
 the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same 
 failures, the same weariness. 
 
268 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 In writing the history of unfashionable families, one is apt 
 to fall into a tone of emphasis which is very far from being 
 the tone of good society, where principles and beliefs are not 
 only of an extremely moderate kind, but are always presup- 
 posed, no subjects being eligible but such as can be touched 
 with a light and graceful irony. But then good society has 
 its claret and its velvet carpets, its dinner-engagements six 
 weeks deep, its opera and its faery ball-rooms ; rides off its 
 ennui on thorough-bred horses ; lounges at the club ; has to 
 keep clear of crinoline vortices ; gets its science done by 
 Faraday, and its religion by the superior clergy who are to be 
 met in the best houses, how should it have time or need for 
 belief and emphasis ? But good society, floated on gossamer 
 wings of light irony, is of very expensive production ; requir- 
 ing nothing less than a wide and arduous national life con- 
 densed in unfragrant deafening factories, cramping itself in 
 mines, sweating at furnaces, grinding, hammering, weaving 
 under more or less oppression of carbonic acid, or else, spread 
 over sheepwalks, and scattered in lonely houses and huts on the 
 clayey or chalky corn-lands, where the rainy days look dreary. 
 This wide national life is based entirely on emphasis, the 
 emphasis of want, which urges it into all the activities neces- 
 sary for the maintenance of good society and light irony ; it 
 spends its heavy years often in a chill, uncarpeted fashion, 
 amidst family discord unsoftened by long corridors. Under 
 such circumstances, there are many among its myriads of souls 
 who have absolutely needed an emphatic belief, life in this 
 unpleasurable shape demanding some solution even to unspec- 
 ulative minds, just as you inquire into the stuffing of your 
 couch when anything galls you there, whereas eider-down and 
 perfect French springs excite no question. Some have an 
 emphatic belief in alcohol, and seek their ekstasis or outside 
 standing-ground in gin ; but the rest require something that 
 good society calls " enthusiasm," something that will present 
 motives in an entire absence of high prizes ; something that 
 '.Till give patience and feed human love when the limbs ache 
 with weariness, and human looks are hard upon us ; some- 
 thing, clearly, that lies outside personal desires, that includes 
 resignation for ourselves and active love for what is not our- 
 selves. Now and then that sort of enthusiasm finds a far- 
 echoing voice that comes from an experience springing out 
 of the deepest need ; and it was by being brought within the 
 long lingering vibrations of such a voice that Maggie, with 
 her girl's face and unnoted sorrows, found an effort and 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 269 
 
 a hope that helped her through years of loneliness, making 
 out a faith for herself without the aid of established authori- 
 ties and appointed guides ; for they were not at hand, and 
 her need was pressing. From what you know of her, you 
 will not be surprised that she threw some exaggeration and 
 wilfulness, some pride and impetuosity, even into her self- 
 renunciation ; her own life was still a drama for her, in which 
 she demanded of herself that her part should be played with 
 intensity. And so it came to pass that she often lost the 
 spirit of humility by being excessive in the outward act ; she 
 often strove after too high a flight, and came down with her 
 poor little half-fledged wings dabbled in the mud. For example, 
 she not only determined to work at plain sewing, that she 
 might contribute something towards the fund in the tin box, 
 but she went, in the first instance, in her zeal of self-mortifi- 
 cation, to ask for it at a linen-shop in St. Ogg's, instead of 
 getting it in a more quiet and indirect way ; and could see 
 nothing but what was entirely wrong and unkind, nay, perse- 
 cuting, in Tom's reproof of her for this unnecessary act. 
 " I don't like my sister to do such things," said Tom ; " I'll 
 take care that the debts are paid, without your lowering your- 
 self in that way." Surely there was some tenderness and 
 bravery mingled with the worldliness and self-assertion of 
 that little speech ; but Maggie held it as dross, overlooking 
 the grains of gold, and took Tom's rebuke as one of her out- 
 ward crosses. Tom was very hard to her, she used to think, 
 in her long night- watchings, to her who had always loved 
 him so ; and then she strove to be contented with that hard- 
 ness, and to require nothing. That is the path we all like 
 when we set out on our abandonment of egoism, the path 
 of martyrdom and endurance, where the palm-branches grow, 
 rather than the steep highway of tolerance, just allowance, 
 and self-blame, where there are no leafy honours to be 
 gathered and worn. 
 
 The old books, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich that wrinkled 
 fruit of the tree of knowledge had been all laid by ; for 
 Maggie had turned her back on the vain ambition to share 
 the thoughts of the wise. In her first ardour she flung 
 away the books with a sort of triumph that she had risen 
 above the need of them ; and if they had been her own, she 
 would have burned them, believing that she would never 
 repent. She read so eagerly and constantly in her three books, 
 the Bible, Thomas k Kempis, and the " Christian Year " (no 
 longer rejected as a "hymn-book"), that they filled her mind 
 
270 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 with a continual stream of rhythmic memories ; and she was 
 too ardently learning to see all nature and life in the light 
 of her new faith, to need any other material for her mind to 
 work on, as she sat with her well-plied needle, making shirts 
 and other complicated stitchings, falsely called "plain," by 
 no means plain to Maggie, since wristband and sleeve and the 
 like had a capability of being sewed in wrong side outwards 
 in moments of mental wandering. 
 
 Hanging diligently over her sewing, Maggie was a sight any 
 one might have been pleased to look at. That new inward 
 life of hers, notwithstanding some volcanic upheavings of im- 
 prisoned passions, yet shone out in her face with a tender soft 
 light that mingled itself as added loveliness with the gradually 
 enriched colour and outline of her blossoming youth. Her 
 mother felt the change in her with a sort of puzzled wonder 
 that Maggie should be " growing up so good ; " it was amazing 
 that this once " contrairy " child was become so submissive, so 
 backward to assert her own will. Maggie used to look up 
 from her work and find her mother's eyes fixed upon her; 
 they were watching and waiting for the large young glance, as 
 if her elder frame got some needful warmth from it. The 
 mother was getting fond of her tall, brown girl, the only bit 
 of furniture now on which she could bestow her anxiety and 
 pride ; and Maggie, in spite of her own ascetic wish to have no 
 personal adornment, was obliged to give way to her mother 
 about her hair, and submit to have the abundant black locks 
 plaited into a coronet on the summit of her head, after the 
 pitiable fashion of those antiquated times. 
 
 " Let your mother have that bit o' pleasure, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Tulliver; "I'd trouble enough with your hair once." 
 
 So Maggie, glad of anything that would soothe her mother, 
 and cheer their long day together, consented to the vain deco- 
 ration, and showed a queenly head above her old frocks, 
 steadily refusing, however, to look at herself in the glass. 
 M rs. Tulliver liked to call the father's attention to Maggie's 
 iiair and other unexpected virtues, but he had a brusque reply 
 to give. 
 
 "I knew well enough what she'd be, before now, it's 
 nothing new to me. But it 's a pity she is n't made o' com- 
 moner stuff ; she '11 be thrown away, I doubt, there '11 be 
 nobody to marry her as is fit for her." 
 
 And Maggie's graces of mind and body fed his gloom. He 
 sat patiently enough while she read him a chapter, or said 
 something timidly when they were alone together about trou- 
 
THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 271 
 
 ble being turned into a blessing. He took it all as part of his 
 daughter's goodness, which made his misfortunes the sadder to 
 him because they damaged her chance in life. In a mind 
 charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vindictive- 
 ness, there is no room for new feelings ; Mr. Tulliver did not 
 want spiritual consolation he wanted to shake off the degra- 
 dation of debt, and to have his revenge. 
 
BOOK Y. 
 
 WHEAT AND TARES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN THE RED DEEPS. 
 
 THE family sitting-room was a long room with a window at 
 each end ; one looking towards the croft and along the Ripple 
 to the banks of the Floss, the other into the mill-yard. Mag- 
 gie was sitting with her work against the latter window when 
 she saw Mr. Wakem entering the yard, as usual, on his fine 
 black horse ; but not alone, as usual. Some one was with 
 him, a figure in a cloak, on a handsome pony. Maggie had 
 hardly time to feel that it was Philip come back, before tin y 
 were in front of the window, and he was raising his hat to 
 her ; while his father, catching the movement by a side-glance, 
 looked sharply round at them both. 
 
 .Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her work 
 up-stairs ; for Mr. Wakem sometimes came in and inspected 
 the books, and Maggie felt that the meeting with Philip would 
 be robbed of all pleasure in the presence of the two fathers. 
 Some day, perhaps, she should see him when they could just 
 shake hands, and she could tell him that she remembered his 
 goodness to Tom, and the things he had said to her in the old 
 days, though they could never be friends any more. It was not 
 at all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again ; she retained her 
 childish gratitude and pity towards him, and remembered his 
 cleverness ; and in the early weeks of her loneliness she had 
 continually recalled the image of him among the people who 
 had been kind to her in life, often wishing she had him for a 
 brother and a teacher, as they had fancied it might have been, 
 in their talk together. But that sort of wishing had been 
 banished along with other dreams that savoured of seeking 
 her own will ; and she thought, besides, that Philip might be 
 altered by his life abroad, he might have become worldly, 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 273 
 
 and really not care about her saying anything to him now. 
 And yet his face was wonderfully little altered, it was 
 only a larger, more manly copy of the pale, small-featured 
 boy's face, with the grey eyes, and the boyish waving brown 
 hair ; there was the old deformity to awaken the old pity ; and 
 after all her meditations, Maggie felt that she really should 
 like to say a few words to him. He might still be melancholy, 
 as he always used to be, and like her to look at him kindly. 
 She wondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes ; 
 with that thought Maggie glanced towards the square looking- 
 glass which was condemned to hang with its face towards the 
 wall, and she half started from her seat to reach it down; 
 but she checked herself ard snatched up her work, trying 
 to repress the rising wishes by forcing her memory to recall 
 snatches of hymns, until she saw Philip and his father return- 
 ing along the road, and she could go down again. 
 
 It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to 
 lengthen the daily walk which was her one indulgence ; but 
 this day and the following she was so busy with work which 
 must be finished that she never went beyond the gate, and 
 satisfied her need of the open air by sitting out of doors. One 
 of her frequent walks, when she was not obliged to go to St. 
 Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what was called the 
 " Hill, " an insignificant rise of ground crowned by trees, 
 lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of 
 Dorlcote Mill. Insignificant I call it, because in height it was 
 hardly more than a bank ; but there may come moments when 
 Nature makes a mere bank a means towards a fateful result ; 
 and that is why I ask you to imagine this high bank crowned 
 with trees, making an iineven wall for some quarter of a mile 
 along the left side of Dorlcote Mill and the pleasant fields 
 behind it, bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just where 
 this line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road 
 turned off and led to the other side of the rise, where it was 
 broken into very capricious hollows and mounds by the work- 
 ing of an exhausted stone-quarry, so long exhausted that 
 both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles and 
 trees, and here and there by a stretch of grass which a few 
 sheep kept close-nibbled. In her childish days Maggie held 
 this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, and needed 
 all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her to an excur- 
 sion thither, visions of robbers and fierce animals haunting 
 every hollow. But now it had the charm for her which any 
 broken ground, any mimic rock and ravine, have for the eyes 
 
 18 
 
274 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that rest habitually on 'the level; especially in summer, when 
 she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow of a branch- 
 ing ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her, and listen to 
 the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the garment of Silence, 
 or see the sunlight piercing the distant boughs, as if to chase 
 and drive home the truant heavenly blue of the wild hyacinths. 
 In this June time, too, the dog-roses were in their glory, and 
 that was an additional reason why Maggie should direct her 
 walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, on the 
 first day she was free to wander at her will, a pleasure she 
 loved so well, that sometimes, in her ardours of renunciation, 
 she thought she ought to deny herself the frequent indulgence 
 in it. 
 
 You may see her now, as she walks down the favourite turn- 
 ing, and enters the Deeps by a narrow path through a group 
 of Scotch firs, her tall figure and old lavender gown visible 
 through an hereditary black silk shawl of some wide-meshed, 
 net-like material ; and now she is sure of being unseen, she 
 takes off her bonnet and ties it over her arm. One would cer- 
 tainly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seventeenth 
 year, perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of the 
 glance, from which all search and unrest seem to have de- 
 parted ; perhaps because her broad-chested figure has the mould 
 of early womanhood. Youth and health have withstood well the 
 involuntary and voluntary hardships of her lot, and the nights 
 in which she has lain on the hard floor for a penance have left 
 no obvious trace ; the eyes are liquid, the brown cheek is firm 
 and rounded, the full lips are red. With her dark colouring and 
 jet crown surmounting her tall figure, she seems to have a sort 
 of kinship with the grand Scotch firs, at which she is looking 
 up as if she loved them well. Yet one has a sense of uneas- 
 iness in looking at her, a sense of opposing elements, of 
 which a fierce collision is imminent ; surely there is a hushed 
 expression, such as one often sees in older faces under border- 
 less caps, out of keeping with the resistant youth, which one 
 expects to flash out in a sudden, passionate glance, that will 
 dissipate all the quietude, like a damp fire leaping out again 
 when all seemed safe. 
 
 But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She 
 was calmly enjoying the free air, while she looked up at the 
 old fir-trees, and thought that those broken ends of branches 
 were the records of past storms, which had only made the 
 red stems soar higher. But while her eyes were still turned 
 upward, she became conscious of a moving shadow cast by 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 275 
 
 the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked 
 down with a startled gesture to see Philip Wakem, who 
 first raised his hat, and then, blushing deeply, came forward 
 to her and put out his hand. Maggie, too, coloured with 
 surprise, which soon gave way to pleasure. She put out 
 her hand and looked down at the deformed figure before 
 her with frank eyes, filled for the moment with nothing 
 but the memory of her child's feelings, a memory that 
 was always strong in her. She was the first to speak. 
 
 You startled me," she said, smiling faintly ; " I never 
 meet any one here. How came you to be walking here ? 
 Did you come to meet me ? " 
 
 It was impossible not to perceive that Maggie felt herself a 
 child again. 
 
 " Yes, I did," said Philip, still embarrassed ; " I wished 
 to see you very much. I watched a long while yesterday 
 on the bank near your house to see if you would come out, 
 but you never came. Then I watched again to-day, and when 
 I saw the way you took, I kept you in sight and came down 
 the bank, behind there. I hope you will not be displeased 
 with me." 
 
 "No," said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on 
 as if she meant Philip to accompany her, " I 'm very glad you 
 came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of 
 speaking to you. I've never forgotten how good you were 
 long ago to Tom, and me too ; but I was not sure that you 
 would remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great 
 deal of trouble since then, and I think that makes one think 
 more of what happened before the trouble came." 
 
 " I can't believe that you have thought of me so much as I 
 have thought of you," said Philip, timidly. "Do you know, 
 when I was away, I made a picture of you as you looked 
 that morning in the study when you said you would not 
 forget me." 
 
 Philip drew a large miniature-case from his pocket, and 
 opened it. Maggie saw her old self leaning on a table, 
 with her black locks hanging down behind her ears, looking 
 into space with strange, dreamy eyes. It was a water-colour 
 sketch, of real merit as a portrait. 
 
 " Oh dear," said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure, 
 " what a queer little girl I was ! I remember myself with 
 my hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really was like 
 a gypsy. I daresay I am now," she added, after a little 
 pause ; " am I like what you expected me to be ? " 
 
276 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 The words might have been those of a coquette, but the 
 full, bright glance Maggie turned on Philip was not that 
 of a coquette. She really did hope he liked her face as it 
 was now, but it was simply the rising again of her innate 
 delight in admiration and love. Philip met her eyes and 
 looked at her in silence for a long moment, before he said 
 quietly, "No, Maggie." 
 
 The light died out a little from Maggie's face, and there 
 was a slight trembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, 
 but she did not turn away her head, and Philip continued 
 to look at her. Then he said sloAvly, 
 
 " You are very much more beautiful than I thought you 
 would be." 
 
 "Am I?" said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper 
 flush. She turned her face away from him and took some 
 steps, looking straight before her in silence, as if she were 
 adjusting her consciousness to this new idea. Girls are so accus- 
 tomed to think of dress as the main ground of vanity, that, in 
 abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggie had thought more 
 of abandoning all care for adornment than of renouncing the 
 contemplation of her face. Comparing herself with elegant, 
 wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that she 
 could produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed 
 to like the silence well. He walked by her side, watching 
 her face, as if that sight left no room for any other wish. 
 They had passed from among the fir-trees, and had now come 
 to a green hollow almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of 
 the pale pink dog-roses. But as the light about them had 
 brightened, Maggie's face had lost its glow. She stood still 
 when they were in the hollows, and looking at Philip again, 
 she said, in a serious, sad voice, 
 
 " I wish we could have been friends, I mean, if it would 
 have been good and right for us. But that is the trial I have 
 to bear in everything ; I may not keep anything I used to love 
 when I was little. The old books went ; and Tom is different, 
 and my father. It is like death. I must part with every- 
 thing I cared for when I was a child. And I must part with 
 you ; we must never take any notice of each other again. That 
 was what I wanted to speak to you for. I wanted to let you 
 know that Tom and I can't do as we like about such things, 
 and that if I behave as if I had forgotten all about you, it is 
 not out of envy or pride or or any bad feeling." 
 
 Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as 
 she went on, and her eyes began to till with tears. The deep- 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 277 
 
 ening expression of pain on Philip's face gave him a stronger 
 resemblance to his boyish self, and made the deformity appeal 
 more strongly to her pity. 
 
 " I know ; I see all that you mean," he said, in a voice 
 that had become feebler from discouragement ; " I know what 
 there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is not right, 
 Maggie, don't you be angry with me, I am so used to call 
 you Maggie in my thoughts, it is not right to sacrifice every- 
 thing to other people's unreasonable feelings. I would give 
 up a great deal for my father; but I would not give up a 
 friendship or or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to 
 any wish of his that I did n't recognise as right." 
 
 "I don't know," said Maggie, musingly. "Often, when 
 I have been angry and discontented, it has seemed to me that 
 I was not bound to give up anything; and I have gone on 
 thinking till it has seemed to me that I could think away all 
 my duty. But no good has ever come of that ; it was an 
 evil state of mind. I 'm quite sure that whatever I might 
 do, I should wish in the end that I had gone without any- 
 thing for myself, rather than have made my father's life 
 harder to him." 
 
 "But would it make his life harder if we were to see each 
 other sometimes ? " said Philip. He was going to say some- 
 thing else, but checked himself. 
 
 " Oh, I 'in sure he would n't like it. Don't ask me why, or 
 anything about it," said Maggie, in a distressed tone. "My 
 father feels so strongly about some things. He is not at all 
 happy." 
 
 " No more am I," said Philip, impetuously ; " I am not 
 happy." 
 
 " Why ? " said Maggie, gently. " At least I ought not 
 to ask but I'm very, very sorry." 
 
 Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand 
 still any longer, and they went out of the hollow, winding 
 amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last 
 word of Philip's, Maggie could not bear to insist immediately 
 on their parting. 
 
 " I 've been a great deal happier," she said at last, timidly, 
 "since I have given up thinking about what is easy and 
 pleasant, and being discontented because I could n't have my 
 own will. Our life is determined for us ; and it makes the 
 mind very free when we give up wishing, and only think of 
 bearing what is laid upon us, and doing what is given us 
 to do." 
 
278 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " But I can't give up wishing," said Philip, impatiently. "It 
 seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while 
 we are thoroughly alive. Then' arc certain things we feel 
 to be beautiful and good, and we m-ust hunger alter them. 
 How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings 
 are deadened? I delight in fine pictures; 1 long to be ;il.le 
 to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what 
 I want. That is pain to me, and always will be pain, until 
 my faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there 
 are many other things 1 long for," here Philip hesitated a 
 little, and then said, "things that other men have, and that 
 will always be denied me. My life will have nothing great 
 or beautiful in it; I would rather not have lived." 
 
 "Oh, Philip," said Maggie, "I wish you didn't feel so." 
 But her heart began to beat with something of Philip's 
 discontent. 
 
 " Well, then," said he, turning quickly round and fixing his 
 grey eyes entreatingly on her face, "I should be contented to 
 live, if you would let me see you sometimes." Then, checked 
 by a fear which her face suggested, he looked away again and 
 said more calmly, "I have no friend to whom I can tell every- 
 thing, no one who cares enough about me ; and if I could only 
 see you now and then, and you would let me talk to you a 
 little, and show me that you cared for me, and that we may 
 always be friends in heart, and help each other, then I might 
 come to be glad of life." 
 
 " But how can I see you, Philip ? " said Maggie, falteringly. 
 (Could she really do him good ? It would be very hard to 
 say " good-bye " this day, and riot speak to him again. Here 
 was a new interest to vary the days ; it was so much easier 
 to renounce the interest before it came.) 
 
 " If you would let me see you here sometimes, walk with 
 you here, I would be contented if it were only once or 
 twice in a month. That could injure no one's happiness, and 
 it would sweeten my life. Besides," Philip went on, with all 
 the inventive astuteness of love at one-and-twenty, "if there 
 is any enmity between those who belong to us, we ought all 
 the more to try and quench it by our friendship ; I mean, 
 that by our influence on both sides we might bring about a 
 healing of the wounds that have been made in the past, if I 
 could know everything about them. And I don't believe 
 there is any enmity in my own father's mind ; I think he has 
 proved the contrary." 
 
 Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under con- 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 279 
 
 flicting thoughts. It seemed to her inclination, that to see 
 Philip now and then, and keep up the bond of friendship with 
 him, was something not only innocent, but good ; perhaps she 
 might really help him to find contentment as she had found 
 it. The voice that said this made sweet music to Maggie; 
 but athwart it there came an urgent, monotonous warning 
 from another voice which she had been learning to obey, 
 the warning that such interviews implied secrecy ; implied 
 doing something she would dread to be discovered in, some- 
 thing that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain ; and 
 that the admission of anything so near doubleness would act 
 as a spiritual blight. Yet the music would swell out again, 
 like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, persuading 
 her that the wrong lay all in the faults and weaknesses of 
 others, and that there was such a thing as futile sacrifice for 
 one to the injury of another. It was very cruel for Philip 
 that he should be shrunk from, because of an unjustifiable 
 vindictiveness towards his father, poor Philip, whom some 
 people would shrink from only because he was deformed. 
 The idea that he might become her lover, or that her meeting 
 him could cause disapproval in that light, had not occurred 
 to her ; and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough, 
 saw it with a certain pang, although it made her consent to 
 his request the less unlikely. There was bitterness to him 
 in the perception that Maggie was almost as frank and uncon- 
 strained towards him as when she was a child. 
 
 "I can't say either yes or no," she said at last, turning 
 round and walking towards the way she had come ; " I must 
 wait, lest I should decide wrongly. I must seek for guidance." 
 
 " May I come again, then, to-morrow, or the next day, or 
 next week?" 
 
 " I think I had better write," said Maggie, faltering again. 
 " I have to go to St. Ogg's sometimes, and I can put the letter 
 in the post." 
 
 " Oh no," said Philip, eagerly ; " that would not be so well. 
 My father might see the letter and he has not any 
 enmity, I believe, but he views things differently from me ; 
 he thinks a great deal about wealth and position. Pray let 
 me come here once more. Tell me when it shall be ; or if you 
 can't tell me, I will come as often as I can till I do see you." 
 
 " I think it must be so, then," said Maggie, " for I can't be 
 quite certain of coming here any particular evening." 
 
 Maggie felt a great relief in adjourning the decision. She 
 was free now to enjoy the minutes of companionship; she 
 
280 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 almost thought she might linger a little ; the next time they 
 met she should have to paiii Philip by telling him her 
 determination. 
 
 "I can't help thinking," she said, looking smilingly at him, 
 after a few moments of silence, " how strange it is that we 
 should have met and talked to each other, just as if it had 
 been only yesterday when we parted at Lorton. And yet we 
 must both be very much altered in those five years, I 
 think it is five years. How was it you seemed to have a sort 
 of feeling that I was the same Maggie ? I was not quite so 
 sure that you would be the same ; I know you are so clever, 
 and you must have seen and learnt so much to fill your mind ; 
 I was not quite sure you would care about me now." 
 
 " I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, 
 whenever I might see you," said Philip, "I mean, the same 
 in everything that made me like you better than any one else. 
 I don't want to explain that ; I don't think any of the strong- 
 est effects our natures are susceptible of can ever be explained. 
 We can neither detect the process by which they are arrived 
 at, nor the mode in which they act on us. The greatest of 
 painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child ; he 
 could n't have told how he did it, and we can't tell why we 
 feel it to be divine. I think there are stores laid up in our 
 human nature that our understandings can make no complete 
 inventory of. Certain strains of music affect me so strangely ; 
 I can never hear them without their changing my whole atti- 
 tude of mind for a time, and if the effect would last, I might 
 be capable of heroisms." 
 
 " Ah ! I know what you mean about music ; / feel so," 
 said Maggie, clasping her hands with her old impetuosity. 
 " At least," she added, in a saddened tone, " I used to feel so 
 when I had any music; I never have any now except the 
 organ at church." 
 
 " And you long for it, Maggie ? " said Philip, looking at her 
 with affectionate pity. " Ah, you can have very little that is 
 beautiful in your life. Have you many books ? You were so 
 fond of them when you were a little girl." 
 
 They were come back to the hollow, round which the dog- 
 roses grew, and they both paused under the charm of the 
 faery evening light, reflected from the pale pink clusters. 
 
 " No, I have given up books," said Maggie, quietly, " except 
 a very, very few." 
 
 Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, 
 and was looking at the back as he said, 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 281 
 
 " Ah, this is the second volume, I see, else you might have 
 liked to take it home with you. I put it in my pocket because 
 I am studying a scene for a picture." 
 
 Maggie had looked at the back too, and saw the title ; it 
 revived an. old impression with overmastering force. 
 
 " ' The Pirate,' " she said, taking the book from Philip's 
 hands. " Oh, I began that once ; I read to where Minna is 
 walking with Cleveland, and I could never get to read the 
 rest. I went on with it in my own head, and I made several 
 endings ; but they were all unhappy. I could never make a 
 happy ending out of that beginning. Poor Minna ! 'I wonder 
 what is the real end. For a long while I could n't get my 
 mind away from the Shetland Isles, I used to feel the wind 
 blowing on me from the rough sea." 
 
 Maggie spoke rapidly, with glistening eyes. 
 
 "Take that volume home with you, Maggie," said Philip, 
 watching her with delight. " I don't want it now. I shall 
 make a picture of you instead, you, among the Scotch firs 
 dnd the slanting shadows." 
 
 Maggie had not heard a word he had said ; she was absorbed 
 in a page at which she had opened. But suddenly she closed 
 the book, and gave it back to Philip, shaking her head with 
 a backward movement, as if to say "avaunt" to floating 
 visions. 
 
 " Do keep it, Maggie," said Philip, entreatingly ; " it will 
 give you pleasure." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Maggie, putting it aside with her 
 hand and walking on. " It would make me in love with this 
 world again, as I used to be ; it would make me long to see and 
 know many things ; it would make me long for a full life." 
 
 " But you will not always be shut up in your present lot ; 
 why should you starve your mind in that way ? It is narrow 
 asceticism ; I don't like to see you persisting in it, Maggie. 
 Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure." 
 
 " But not for me, not for me," said Maggie, walking more 
 hurriedly ; " because I should want too much. I must wait ; 
 this life will not last long." 
 
 " Don't hurry away from me without saying ' good-bye,' 
 Maggie," said Philip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, 
 and she continued still to walk along without speaking. "I 
 must not go any farther, I think, must I ? " 
 
 " Oh no, I forgot ; good-bye," said Maggie, pausing, and put- 
 ting out her hand to him. The action brought her feeling 
 back in a strong current to Philip ; and after they had stood 
 
282 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 looking at each other in silence for a few moments, with their 
 hands clasped, she said, withdrawing her hand, 
 
 " I 'm very grateful to you for thinking of me all those 
 years. It is very sweet to have people love us. What a won- 
 derful, beautiful thing it seems that God should have made 
 your heart so that you could care about a queer little girl 
 whom you only knew for a few weeks ! 1 remember saying to 
 you that I thought you cared for me more than Tom did." 
 
 "Ah, Maggie," said Philip, almost fretfully, "you would 
 never love me so well as you love your brother." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Maggie, simply ; " but then, you know, 
 the first thing I ever remember in my life is standing with 
 Tom by the side of the Floss, while he held my hand ; every- 
 thing before that is dark to me. But I shall never forget 
 you, though we must keep apart." 
 
 " Don't say so, Maggie," said Philip. " If I kept that little 
 girl in my mind for five years, did n't I earn some part in her ? 
 She ought not to take herself quite away from me." 
 
 "Not if I were free," said Maggie; "biit I am not, I must 
 submit." She hesitated a moment, and then added, "And I 
 wanted to say to you, that you had better not take more notice 
 of my brother than just bowing to him. He once told me not 
 to speak to you again, and he does n't change his mind Oh 
 dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good-bye." She 
 gave him her hand once more. 
 
 " I shall come here as often as I can till I see you again, 
 Maggie. Have some feeling for me as well as for others." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I have," said Maggie, hurrying away, and quickly 
 disappearing behind the last fir-tree ; though Philip's gaze 
 after her remained immovable for minutes as if he saw her 
 still. 
 
 Maggie went home, with an inward conflict already begun ; 
 Philip went home to do nothing but remember and hope. You 
 can hardly help blaming him severely. He was four or five 
 years older than Maggie, and had a full consciousness of his 
 feeling towards her to aid him in foreseeing the character his 
 contemplated interviews with her would bear in the opinion 
 of a third person. But you must not suppose that he was 
 capable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been satis- 
 fied without persuading himself that he was seeking to infuse 
 some happiness into Maggie's life, seeking this even more 
 than any direct ends for himself. He could give her sym- 
 pathy ; he could give her help. There was not the slightest 
 promise of love towards him in her manner ; it was nothing 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 288 
 
 more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shown him 
 when she was twelve. Perhaps she would never love him ; per- 
 haps no woman ever could love him. Well, then, he would 
 endure that ; he should at least have the happiness of seeing 
 her, of feeling some nearness to her. And he clutched pas- 
 sionately the possibility that she might love him ; perhaps the 
 feeling would grow, if she could come to associate him with 
 that watchful tenderness which her nature would be so keenly 
 alive to. If any woman could love him, surely Maggie was 
 that woman ; there was such wealth of love in her, and there 
 was no one to claim it all. Then, the pity of it, that a mind 
 like hers should be withering in its very youth, like a young 
 forest-tree, for want of the light and space it was formed to 
 flourish in ! Could he not hinder that, by persuading her out 
 of her system of privation ? He would be her guardian angel ; 
 he would do anything, bear anything, for her sake except 
 not seeing her. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AUNT GLEGG LEARNS THE BREADTH OF BOB'S THUMB. 
 
 WHILE Maggie's life-struggles had lain almost entirely 
 within her own soul, one shadowy army fighting another, and 
 the slain shadows for ever rising again, Tom was engaged in a 
 dustier, noisier warfare, grappling with more substantial ob- 
 stacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been 
 since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses ; 
 inside the gates, the Avomen with streaming hair and uplifted 
 hands offering prayers, watching the world's combat from afar, 
 filling their long, empty days with memories and fears ; out- 
 side, the men, in fierce struggle with things divine and human, 
 quenching memory in the stronger light of purpose, losing the 
 sense of dread and even of wounds in the hurrying ardour of 
 action. 
 
 From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth 
 of whom you would prophesy failure in anything he had thor- 
 oughly wished ; the wagers are likely to be on his side, not- 
 withstanding his small success in the classics. For Tom had 
 never desired success in this field of enterprise ; and for 
 getting a fine flourishing growth of stupidity there is nothing 
 
284 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjects in 
 which it feels no interest. But now Tom's strong will bound 
 together his integrity, his pride, his family regrets, and his 
 personal ambition, and made them one force, concentrating 
 his efforts and surmounting discouragements. His uncle 
 Deane, who watched him closely, soon began to conceive 
 hopes of him, and to be rather proud that he had brought 
 into the employment of the firm a nephew who appeared to 
 be made of such good commercial stuff. The real kindness of 
 placing him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in 
 the hints his uncle began to throw out, that after a time he might 
 perhaps be trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for 
 the firm various vulgar commodities with which I need not 
 shock refined ears in this place ; and it was doubtless with 
 a view to this result that Mr. Deane, when he expected to 
 take his wine alone, would tell Tom to step in and sit with 
 him an hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and 
 catechising concerning articles of export and import, with an 
 occasional excursus of more indirect utility on the relative 
 advantages to the merchants of St. Ogg's of having goods 
 brought in their own and in foreign bottoms, a subject on 
 which Mr. Deane, as a ship-owner, naturally threw off a few 
 sparks when he got warmed with talk and wine. Already, in 
 the second year, Tom's salary was raised ; but all, except the 
 price of his dinner and clothes, went home into the tin box ; 
 and he shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into ex- 
 penses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was moulded on 
 the spooney type of the Industrious Apprentice ; he had a 
 very strong appetite for pleasure, would have liked to be a 
 Tamer of horses and to make a distinguished figure in all 
 neighbouring eyes, dispensing treats and benefits to others 
 with well-judged liberality, and being pronounced one of 
 the finest young fellows of those parts ; nay, he determined 
 to achieve these things sooner or later ; but his practical 
 shrewdness told him that the means to such achievements 
 could only lie for him in present abstinence and self-denial ; 
 there were certain milestones to be passed, and one of the 
 first was the payment of his father's debts. Having made up 
 his mind on that point, he strode along without swerving, con- 
 tracting some rather saturnine sternness, as a young man is 
 likely to do who has a premature call upon him for self- 
 reliance. Tom felt intensely that common cause with his 
 father which springs from family pride, and was bent on 
 being irreproachable as a son j but his growing experience 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 285 
 
 caused him to pass much silent criticism on the rashness and 
 imprudence of his father's past conduct; their dispositions 
 were not in sympathy, and Tom's face showed little radiance 
 during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of him, 
 against which she struggled as something unfair to her con- 
 sciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives; but it 
 was of no use to struggle. A character at unity with itself 
 that performs what it intends, subdues every counteracting 
 impulse, and has no visions beyond the distinctly possible 
 is strong by its very negations. 
 
 You may imagine that Tom's more and more obvious un- 
 likeness to his father was well fitted to conciliate the mater- 
 nal aunts and uncles ; and Mr. Dearie's favourable reports 
 and predictions to Mr. Glegg concerning Tom's qualifications 
 for business began to be discussed amongst them with various 
 acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, to do the family credit 
 without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs. Pullet had 
 always thought it strange if Tom's excellent complexion, so 
 entirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a certainty that he 
 would turn out well ; his juvenile errors of running down the 
 peacock, and general disrespect to his aunts, only indicating 
 a tinge of Tulliver blood which he had doubtless outgrown. 
 Mr. Glegg, who had contracted a cautious liking for Tom ever 
 since his spirited and sensible behaviour when the executioii 
 was in the house, was now warming into a resolution to fur- 
 ther his prospects actively, some time, when an opportunity 
 offered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate 
 loss ; but Mrs. Glegg observed that she was not given to speak 
 without book, as some people were ; that those who said least 
 were most likely to find their words made good; and that 
 when the right moment came, it would be seen who could 
 do something better than talk. Uncle Pullet, after silent 
 meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly 
 to the conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do 
 well, it was better not to meddle with him. 
 
 Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any 
 one but himself, though, with a natural sensitiveness towards 
 all indications of favourable opinion, he was glad to see his 
 uncle Glegg look in on him sometimes in a friendly way 
 during business hours, and glad to be invited to dine at his 
 house, though he usually preferred declining on the ground 
 that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a year 
 ago, something had occurred which induced Tom to test his 
 uncle Glegg's friendly disposition. 
 
286 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds 
 without seeing Toin and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge 
 as he was coming home from St. Ogg's one evening, that they 
 might have a little private talk. He took the liberty of 
 asking if Mr. Tom had ever thought of making money by 
 trading a bit on his own account. Trading, how ? Tom 
 wished to know. Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo to 
 foreign ports ; because Bob had a particular friend who had 
 offered to do a little business for him in that way in Laceluui' 
 goods, and would be glad to serve Mr. Tom on the sain;- 
 looting. Tom was interested at once, and begged for full 
 explanation, wondering he had not thought of this plan 
 before. He was so well pleased with the prospect of a 
 speculation that might change the slow process of addition 
 into multiplication, that he at once determined to mention 
 the matter to his father, and get his consent to appro- 
 priate some of the savings in the tin box to the purchase 
 of a small cargo. He would rather riot have consulted 
 his father, but he had just paid his last quarter's money 
 into the tin box, and there was no other resource. All 
 the savings were there ; for Mr. Tulliver would not con- 
 sent to put the money out at interest lest he should lose 
 it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of some corn, 
 and had lost by it, he could not be easy without keeping 
 the money under his eye. 
 
 Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on 
 the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr. Tulliver lis- 
 tened, leaning forward in his arm-chair and looking up in Tom's 
 face with a sceptical glance. His first impulse was to give a 
 positive refusal, but he was in some awe of Tom's wishes, and 
 since he had had the sense of being an "unlucky" father, he 
 had lost some of his old peremptorincss and determination to 
 be master. He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, 
 got out the key of the large chest, and fetched down the tin 
 box, slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a 
 painful parting. Then he seated himself against the table, 
 and opened the box with that little padlock-key which he fin- 
 gered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant moments. There 
 they were, the dingy bank-notes and the bright sovereigns, 
 and he counted them out on the table only a hundred and 
 sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching. 
 
 " How much do you want, then ? " he said, speaking as if 
 the words burnt his lips. 
 
 "Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?" 
 said Tom. 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 287 
 
 Mr. Tuiliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping 
 his hand over it, said, 
 
 " It 's as much as I can save out o' my pay in a year." 
 
 " Yes, father ; it is such slow work, saving out of the 
 little money we get. And in this way we might double our 
 savings." 
 
 "Ay, my lad," said the father, keeping his hand on the 
 money, "but you might lose it, you might lose a year o' my 
 life, and I haven't got many." 
 
 Tom was silent. 
 
 " And you know I would n't pay a dividend with the first 
 hundred, because I wanted to see it all in a lump, and when 
 I see it, I 'm sure 011 't. If you trust to luck, it 's sure to be 
 against me. It 's Old Harry 's got the luck in his hands ; and 
 if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up again ; death 'ull 
 o'ertake me." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver's voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few 
 minutes before he said, 
 
 " I '11 give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly." 
 
 But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he deter- 
 mined to ask his uncle G-legg to venture twenty pounds, on 
 condition of receiving five per cent of th.e profits. That was 
 really a very small thing to ask. So *vhen Bob called the 
 next day at the wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed 
 that they should go together to his uncle Glegg's to open 
 the business ; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made 
 him feel that Bob's tongue would relieve him from some 
 embarrassment. 
 
 Mr. Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon 
 of a hot August day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to 
 assure himself that the sum total had not varied since yester- 
 day. To him entered Tom, in what appeared to Mr. Glegg 
 very questionable companionship, that of a man with a pack 
 on his back, for Bob was equipped for a new journey, and 
 of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow, sway- 
 ing movement from side to side, and glanced from under his 
 eyelids with a surly indifference which might after all be a 
 cover to the most offensive designs. Mr. Glegg's spectacles, 
 which had been assisting him in counting the fruit, made 
 these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him. 
 
 " Heigh ! heigh ! keep that dog back, will you ? " he shouted, 
 snatching up a stake and holding it before him as a shield when 
 the visitors were within three yards of him. 
 
 " Get out wi' you, Mumps," said Bob, with a kick. " He 's as 
 
288 THE MILL ON Till-: FLOSS. 
 
 quiet as a lamb, sir," an observation which Mumps corrobo- 
 rated by a low growl as he retreated behind his master's legs. 
 
 " Why, what ever does this mean, Tom ? " said Mr. Glegg. 
 " Have you brought information about the scoundrels as cut 
 my trees ? " If Bob came in the character of " information," 
 Mr. Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some irregularity. 
 
 " No, sir," said Tom ; " I came to speak to you about a little 
 matter of business of my own." 
 
 " Ay well ; but what has this dog got to do with it ? " said 
 the old gentleman, getting mild again. 
 
 " It 's my dog, sir," said the ready Bob. " An' it 's me as put 
 Mr. Tom up to the bit o' business ; for Mr. Tom 's been a friend 
 o' mine iver since I was a little chap ; fust thing iver I did was 
 frightenin' the birds for th' old master. An' if a bit o' luck 
 turns up, I 'in allays thinkin' if I can let Mr. Tom have a pull 
 at it. An' it 's a downright roarin' shame, as when he 's got 
 the chance o' making a bit o' money wi' sending goods out, 
 ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an' commission 's 
 paid, as he should n't lay hold o' the chance for want o' 
 money. An' when there 's the Laceham goods, lors ! they 're 
 made o' purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy ; 
 light, an' take up no room, you may pack twenty pound so 
 as you can't see the passill ; an' they 're manifacturs as please 
 fools, so I reckon they are n't like to want a market. An' I 'd 
 go to Laceham an' buy in the goods for Mr. Tom along wi' my 
 own. An' there 's the shupercargo o' the bit of a vessel as is 
 goin' to take 'em out. I know him partic'lar ; he 's a solid 
 man, an' got a family i' the town here. Salt, his name is, an' 
 a briny chap he is too, an' if you don't believe me, I can take 
 you to him." 
 
 Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this 
 unembarrassed loquacity, with which his understanding could 
 hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, 
 then through them, then over them again ; while Tom, doubt- 
 ful of his uncle's impression, began to wish he had not brought 
 this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob's talk appeared less 
 seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it. 
 
 " You seem to be a knowing fellow," said Mr. Glegg, at 
 last. 
 
 "Ay, sir, you say true," returned Bob, nodding his head 
 aside ; " I think my head 's all alive inside like an old cheese, 
 for I 'm so full o' plans, one knocks another over. If I had n't 
 Mumps to talk to, I should get top-heavy an' tumble in a fit. 
 I suppose it 's because I niver went to school much. That 's 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 289 
 
 what I jaw my old mother for. I says, 'You should ha' sent 
 me to school a bit more/ I says, 'an' then I could ha' read 
 i' the books like fun, an' kep' my head cool an' empty.' Lors, 
 she 's fine an' comfor'ble now, my old mother is ; she ates her 
 baked meat an' taters as often as she likes. For I 'm gettin' so 
 full o' money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it 's 
 botherin', a wife is, and Mumps might n't like her." 
 
 Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since 
 he had retired from business, was beginning to find Bob amus- 
 ing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which 
 kept his face serious. 
 
 " Ah," he said, " I should think you 're at a loss for ways o' 
 spending your money, else you would n't keep that big dog, to 
 eat as much as two Christians. It 's shameful shameful ! " 
 But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly 
 added, 
 
 " But, come now, let 's hear more about this business, Tom. 
 I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture with. But 
 where 's all your own money ? You don't spend it all eh ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said Tom, colouring ; " but my father is unwilling 
 to risk it, and I don't like to press him. If I could get twenty 
 or thirty pounds to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, 
 and then I could gradually make a little capital of my own, 
 and do without a loan." 
 
 "Ay ay," said Mr. Glegg, in an approving tone ; "that's 
 not a bad notion, and I won't say as I would n't be your man. 
 But it 'ull be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. 
 And then here 's this friend o' yours offers to buy the goods 
 for you. Perhaps you 've got somebody to stand surety for 
 you if the money 's put into your hands ? " added the cautious 
 old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob. 
 
 " I don't think that 's necessary, uncle," said Tom. " At least, 
 I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob 
 well; but perhaps it would be right for you to have some 
 security." 
 
 " You get your percentage out o' the purchase, I suppose ? " 
 said Mr. Glegg, looking at Bob. 
 
 " No, sir," said Bob, rather indignantly ; " I did n't offer to 
 get a apple for Mr. Tom, o' purpose to hev a bite out of it my 
 self. When I play folks tricks, there '11 be more fun in 'em 
 nor that." 
 
 " Well, but it 's nothing but right you should have a small 
 percentage," said Mr. Glegg. " I 've no opinion o' transactions 
 where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks bad." 
 
 19 
 
290 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Well, then," said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what 
 was implied, " I '11 tell you what I get by 't, an' it 's money in 
 my pocket in the end, I make myself look big, wi' makin' a 
 bigger purchase. That 's what I 'm thinking on. Lors ! I 'm a 
 'cute chap, I am." 
 
 " Mr. Glegg, Mi. Glegg ! " said a severe voice from the open 
 parlour window, " pray are you coining in to tea, or are you 
 going to stand talking with packmen till you get murdered in 
 the open daylight ? " 
 
 " Murdered ? " said Mr. Glegg ; " what 's the woman talking 
 of ? Here 's your nephey Tom come about a bit o' business." 
 
 " Murdered, yes, it is n't many 'sizes ago since a pack- 
 man murdered a young woman in a lone place, and stole her 
 thimble, and threw her body into a ditch." 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Mr. Glegg, soothingly, " you 're thinking 
 o' the man wi' no legs, as drove a dog-cart." 
 
 " Well, it 's the same thing, Mr. Glegg, only you 're fond 
 o' contradicting what I say ; and if my nephey 's come about 
 business, it 'ud be more fitting if you 'd bring him into the 
 house, and let his aunt know about :t, instead o' whispering in 
 corners, in that plotting, underminding way." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mr. Glegg, " we '11 come in now." 
 
 " You need n't stay here," said the lady to Bob, in a loud 
 voice, adapted to the moral, not the physical, distance between 
 them. " We don't want anything. I don't deal wi' packmen. 
 Mind you shut the gate after you." 
 
 " Stop a bit ; not so fast," said Mr. Glegg ; " I have n't 
 done with this young man yet. Come in, Tom ; come in," he 
 added, stepping in at the French window. 
 
 " Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., in a fatal tone, " if you 're going 
 to let that man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very 
 face, be so good as to let me know. A wife 's got a right to 
 ask that, I hope." 
 
 " Don't you be uneasy, mum," said Bob, touching his cap. 
 He saw at once that Mrs. Glegg was a bit of game worth 
 running down, and longed to be at the sport ; " we '11 stay out 
 upo' the gravel here, Mumps and me will. Mumps knows 
 his company, he does. I might hish at him by th' hour 
 together, before he 'd fly at a real gentlewoman like you. It 's 
 wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies ; 
 and 's partic'lar fond of 'em when they 've good shapes. 
 Lors ! " added Bob, laying down his pack on the gravel, " it 's 
 a thousand pities such u lady as you shouldn't deal with a 
 packman, i'stead o' goiu' into these newfangled shops, where 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 291 
 
 there 's half-a-dozen fine gents wi' their chins propped up wi' a 
 stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi' ornamental stoppers, an' 
 all got to get their dinner out of a bit o' calico ; it Stan's to rea- 
 son you must pay three times the price you pay a packman, as 
 is the nat'ral way o' gettin' goods, an' pays no rent, an' is n't 
 forced to throttle himself till the lies are squeezed out on him, 
 whether he will or no. But lors ! mum, you know what it is 
 better nor I do, you can see through them shopmen, I '11 be 
 bound." 
 
 " Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too," 
 observed Mrs. Glegg, intending to imply that Bob's flattery 
 had produced no effect on her while her husband, standing 
 behind her with his hands in his pockets and legs apart, 
 winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the probability of 
 his wife's being circumvented. 
 
 " Ay, to be sure, mum," said Bob. " Why, you must ha' 
 dealt wi' no end o' packmen when you war a young lass, 
 before the master here had the luck to set eyes on you. I 
 know where you lived, I do, seen th' house many a time, 
 close upon Squire Darleigh's, a stone house wi' steps " 
 
 " Ah, that it had," said Mrs. Glegg, pouring out the tea. 
 " You know something o' my family, then ? Are you akin to 
 that packman with a squint in his eye, as used to bring th' 
 Irish linen ? " 
 
 " Look you there now ! " said Bob, evasively. " Did n't 
 I know as you 'd remember the best bargains you 've made 
 in your life was made wi' packmen ? Why, you see even a 
 squintin' packman's better nor a shopman as can see straight. 
 Lors ! if I 'd had the luck to call at the stone house wi' my 
 pack, as lies here," stooping and thumping the bundle 
 emphatically with his fist, " an' th' handsome young lasses 
 all stannin' out on the stone steps, it 'ud ha' been summat like 
 openin a pack, that would. It ; s on'y the poor houses now as a 
 packman calls on, if it is n't for the sake o' the sarvant-maids. 
 They ! re paltry times, these are. Why, mum, look at the printed 
 cottons now, an' what they was when you wore 'em, why, 
 you would n't put such a thing on now, I can see. It must 
 be first-rate quality, the manifactur as you 'd buy, summat 
 as 'ud wear as well as your own faitures." 
 
 " Yes, better quality nor any you 're like to carry ; you 've 
 got nothing first-rate but brazenness, I '11 be bound," said Mrs. 
 Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagac- 
 ity. " Mr. Glegg, are you going ever to sit down to your 
 tea ? Tom, f,here 's a cup lor you." 
 
292 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " You speak true there, mum," said Bob. " My pack is n't 
 for ladies like you. The time 's gone by for that. Bargains 
 picked up dirt cheap ! A bit o' damage here an* there, as 
 can be cut out, or else niver seen i' the wearin', but not fit 
 to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o' things as 
 nobody sees. I 'm not the man as 'ud offer t' open my pack 
 to you, mum ; no, no ; I 'm a iinperent chap, as you say, 
 these times makes folks iniperent, but I 'm not up to the 
 mark o' that.'' 
 
 " Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?" said Mrs. 
 Glegg. " Fine-coloured things, I suppose, shawls an' that '! " 
 
 " All sorts, mum, all sorts," said Bob, thumping his bundle ; 
 " but let us say no more about that, if you please. I 'm here 
 upo' Mr. Tom's business, an' I 'm not the man to take up the 
 time wi' my own." 
 
 " And pray, what is this business as is to be kept from 
 me ? " said Mrs. Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, 
 was obliged to let the one-half wait. 
 
 " A little plan o' nephey Tom's here," said good-natured Mr. 
 Glegg ; " and not altogether a bad 'un, I think. A little plan 
 for making money ; that 's the right sort o' plan for young 
 folks as have got their fortin to make, eh, Jane ? " 
 
 " But I hope it is n't a plan where he expects iverything to 
 be done for him by his friends ; that 's what the young folks 
 think of mostly nowadays. And pray, what has this packman 
 got to do wi' what goes on in our family ? Can't you speak 
 for yourself, Tom, and let your aunt know things, as a nephey 
 should ? " 
 
 " This is Bob Jakin, aunt," said Tom, bridling the irritation 
 that aunt Glegg's voice always produced. " I 've known him 
 ever since we were little boys. He 's a very good fellow, and 
 always ready to do me a kindness. And he has had some 
 experience in sending goods out, a small part of a cargo as a 
 private speculation ; and he thinks if I could begin to do a 
 little in the same way, I might make some money. A large 
 interest is got in that way." 
 
 "Large int'rest?" said aunt Glegg, with eagerness; "and 
 what do you call large int'rest ? " 
 
 "Ten or twelve per cent, Bob says, after expenses are 
 paid." 
 
 " Then why was n't I let to know o' such things before, Mr. 
 Glegg ? " said Mrs. Glegg, turning to her husband, with a 
 deep grating tone of reproach. " Have n't you allays told me 
 as there was no getting more nor five per cent ? " 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 293 
 
 "Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman," said Mr. Glegg. 
 " You could n't go into trade, could you ? You can't get more 
 than five per cent with security.'' 
 
 " But I can turn a bit o' money for you, an' welcome, mum," 
 said Bob, " if you 'd like to risk it, not as there 's any risk 
 to speak on. But if you 'd a mind to lend a bit o' money to 
 Mr. Tom, he 'd pay you six or seven per zent, an' get a trifle 
 for himself as Avell ; an' a good-natur'd lady like you 'ud like 
 the feel o' the money better if your nephey took part on it." 
 
 " What do you say, Mrs. G. ? " said Mr. Glegg. " I 've a 
 notion, when I 've made a bit more inquiry, as I shall perhaps 
 start Tom here with a bit of a nest-egg, he '11 pay me int'rest, 
 you know, an' if you 've got some little sums lyin' idle 
 twisted up in a stockin' toe. or that " 
 
 " Mr. Glegg, it 's beyond iverything ! You '11 go and give in- 
 formation to the tramps next, as they may come and rob me." 
 
 "Well, well, as I was sayin', if you like to join me wi' 
 twenty pounds, you can I'll make it fifty. That'll be a 
 pretty good nest-egg, eh, Tom? " 
 
 " You 're not counting on me, Mr. Glegg, I hope," said his 
 wife. "You could do fine things wi' my money, I don't 
 doubt." 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. Glegg, rather snappishly, "then 
 we '11 do without you. I shall go with you to see this Salt," 
 he added, turning to Bob. 
 
 "And now, I suppose, you'll go all the other way, Mr. 
 Glegg," said Mrs. G., " and want to shut me out o' my own 
 nephey's business. I never said I would n't put money into 
 it, I don't say as it shall be twenty pounds, though you 're so 
 ready to say it for me, but he '11 see some day as his aunt 's 
 in the right not to risk the money she 's saved for him till it 's 
 proved as it won't be lost." 
 
 " Ay, that 's a pleasant sort o' risk, that is," said Mr. Glegg, 
 indiscreetly winking at Tom, who could n't avoid smiling. But 
 Bob stemmed the injured lady's outburst. 
 
 "Ay, mum," he said admiringly, "you know what's 
 what you do. An' it 's nothing but fair. You see how the 
 first bit of a job answers, an' then you'll come down hand- 
 some. Lors, it 's a fine thing to hev good kin. I got my bit 
 of a nest-egg, as the master calls it, all by my own sharp- 
 ness, ten suvreigns it was, wi' dousing the fire at Torry's 
 mill, an' it 's growed an' growed by a bit an' a bit, till I 'n got 
 a matter o' thirty poiind to lay out, besides makin' my mother 
 comf or'ble. I should get more, on'y I 'm such a soft wi' the 
 
294 THE MILL ON THE FLOSb. 
 
 women, I can't help lettin' 'em hev such good bargains. 
 There's this bundle, now," thumping it lustily, "any other 
 chap 'ml nrike a pretty penny out on it. But me! lors, I 
 shall sell 'em for pretty near what I paid for 'em." 
 
 " Have you got a bit of good net, now ? " said Mrs. Glegg, 
 in a patronising tone, moving from the tea-table, and folding 
 her napkin. 
 
 " Eh, mum, not what you 'd think it worth your while to 
 look at. I'd scorn to show it you. It 'ud be an insult to 
 you." 
 
 "But let me see," said Mrs. Glegg, still patronising. "If 
 they 're damaged goods, they 're like enough to be a bit the 
 better quality." 
 
 "No, mum. I know my place," said Bob, lifting up his 
 pack and shouldering it. "I'm not going t' expose the low- 
 ness o' my trade to a lady like } r ou. Packs is come down i' 
 the world ; it 'ud cut you to th' heart to see the difference. 
 I 'm at your sarvice, sir, when you 've a mind to go and see 
 Salt." 
 
 " All in good time," said Mr. Glegg, really unwilling to cut 
 short the dialogue. " Are you wanted at the wharf, Tom ? " 
 
 " Xo, sir ; I left Stowe in my place." 
 
 "Come, put down your pack, and let me see," said Mrs. 
 Glegg, drawing a chair to the window, and seating herself with 
 much dignity. 
 
 " Don't you ask it, mum," said Bob, entreatingly. 
 
 " Make no more words," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, " but do 
 as I tell yoii." 
 
 " Eh, mum, I 'm loth, that I am," said Bob, slowly depos- 
 iting his pack on the step, and beginning to untie it with 
 unwilling fingers. " But what you order shall be done " (much 
 fumbling in pauses between the sentences). "It's not as 
 you '11 buy a single thing on me, I 'd be sorry for you to do 
 : t, for think o' them poor women up i' the villages there, as 
 niver stir a hundred yards from home, it 'ud be a pity for 
 anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, it 's as good as a 
 junketing to 'em when they see me wi' my pack, an' I shall 
 niver pick up such bargains for 'em again. Least ways, I 've 
 no time now, for I 'm off to Laceham. See here now," Bob 
 went on, becoming rapid again, and holding up a scarlet wool- 
 len kerchief with an embroidered wreath in the corner ; here 's 
 a thing to make a lass's mouth water, an' on'y two shil- 
 lin' an' why ? Why, 'cause there 's a bit of a moth-hole i' 
 this plain end. Lors, I think the moths an' the mildew was 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 295 
 
 sent by Providence o' purpose to cheapen the goods a bit for 
 the good-lookin' women as han't got much money. If it 
 had n't been for the moths, now, every hankicher on 'em 'ud 
 ha' gone to the rich, handsome ladies, like you, mum, at five 
 shillin' apiece, not a farthin' less ; but what does the moth 
 do ? Why, it nibbles off three shillin' o' the price i' no time ; 
 an' then a packman like me can carry 't to the poor lasses as 
 live under the dark thack, to make a bit of a blaze for 'em. 
 Lors, it 's as good as a fire, to look at such a hankicher ! " 
 
 Bob held it at a distance for admiration, but Mrs. Glegg 
 said sharply, 
 
 " Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o' year. Put these 
 coloured things by; let me look at your nets, if you've got 
 'em/' 
 
 "Eh, mum, I told you how it 'ud be," said Bob, flinging 
 aside the coloured things with an air of desperation. " I 
 knowed it 'ud turn again' you to look at such paltry articles 
 as I carry. Here 's a piece o' figured muslin now. what 's the 
 use o' you lookin' at it ? You might as well look at poor 
 folks's victual, mum ; it 'ud on'y take away your appetite. 
 There 's a yard i' the middle on't as the pattern 's all missed, 
 lors, why, it 's a muslin as the Princess Victoree might ha' 
 wore; but," added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the 
 turf, as if to save Mrs. Glegg's eyes, " it '11 be bought up by 
 the huckster's wife at Fibb's End, that's where it'll go 
 ten shillin' for the whole lot ten yards, countin' the damaged 
 un five-an' -twenty shillin' 'ud ha' been the price, not a 
 penny less . But I '11 say no more, mum ; it 's nothing to you, 
 a piece o' muslin like that ; you can afford to pay three times 
 the money for a thing as is n't half so good. It 's nets you 
 talked on ; well, I 've got a piece as 'ull serve you to make fun 
 on " 
 
 "Bring me that muslin," said Mrs. Glegg. "It's a buff; 
 I'm partial to buff." 
 
 "Eh, but a damaged thing," said Bob, in a tone of depre- 
 cating disgust. "You'd 'do nothing with it, mum; you'd 
 give it to the cook, I know you would, an' it 'ud be a pity, 
 she'd look too much like a lady in it; it's unbecoming for 
 servants." 
 
 " Fetch it, and let me see you measure it," said Mrs. Glegg, 
 authoritatively. 
 
 Bob obeyed with ostentatious reluctance. 
 
 " See what there is over measure ! " he said, holding forth 
 the extra half-yard, while Mrs. Glegg was busy examining the 
 
296 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 damaged yard, and throwing her head back to see how far 
 the fault would be lost on a distant view. 
 
 " I '11 give you six shilling for it," she said, throwing it 
 down with the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum. 
 
 " Did n't I tell you now, mum, as it 'ud hurt your feelings 
 to look at my pack ? That damaged bit 's turned your 
 stomach now ; I see it has," said Bob, wrapping the muslin 
 up with the utmost quickness, and apparently about to fasten 
 up his pack. " You 're used to seein' a different sort o' article 
 carried by packmen, when you lived at the stone house. 
 Packs is come down i' the world ; I told you that : my goods 
 are for common folks. Mrs. Pepper 'ull give me ten shillin' 
 for that muslin, an' be sorry as I did n't ask her more. Such 
 articles answer i' the wearin', they keep their colour till 
 the threads melt away i' the wash-tub, an' that won't be while 
 1 'm a young un." 
 
 " Well, seven shilling," said Mrs. Glegg. 
 
 " Put it out o' your mind, mum, now do," said Bob. " Here 's 
 a bit o' net, then, for you to look at before I tie up my pack, 
 just for you to see what my trade 's come to, spotted and 
 sprigged, you see, beautiful but yallow, 's been lyin' by an' 
 got the wrong colour. I could niver ha' bought such net, if 
 it had n't been yallow. Lors, it 's took me a deal o' study to 
 know the vally o' such articles ; when I begun to carry a 
 pack, I was as ignirant as a pig ; net or calico was all the 
 same to me. I thought them things the most vally as was 
 the thickest. I was took in dreadful, for I 'in a straightfor- 
 rard chap, up to no tricks, mum. I can on'y say my nose 
 is my own, for if I went beyond, I should lose myself pretty 
 quick. An' I gev five-an'-eightpence for that piece o' net, 
 if I was to tell y' anything else I should be tellin' you fibs, 
 an' five-an'-eightpence I shall ask for it, not a penny more, 
 for it's a woman's article, an' I like to 'commodate the 
 women. Five-an'-eightpence for six yards, as cheap as if 
 it was only the dirt on it as was paid for." 
 
 " I don't mind having three yards of it," said Mrs. Glegg. 
 
 " Why, there 's but six altogether," said Bob. " No, mum, 
 it is n't worth your while ; you can go to the shop to-morrow 
 an' get the same pattern ready whitened. It 's ou'y three 
 times the money ; what 's that to a lady like you ? " He gave 
 an emphatic tie to his bundle. 
 
 " Come, lay me out that muslin," said Mrs. Glegg. " Here 's 
 eight shilling for it." 
 
 "You will be jokin', mum," said Bob, looking up with a 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 297 
 
 laughing face ; " I see'd you was a pleasant lady when I fust 
 come to the winder." 
 
 " Well, put it me out," said Mrs. Glegg, peremptorily. 
 
 " But if I let you have it for ten shilling muni, you '11 be so 
 good as not tell nobody. I should be a laughin'-stock ; the 
 trade 'ud hoot me, if they knowed it. I 'm obliged to make 
 believe as I ask more nor I do for my goods, else they 'd find 
 out I was a flat. I 'in glad you don't insist upo' buyin' the 
 net, for then I should ha' lost my two best bargains for 
 Mrs. Pepper o' Fibb's End, an' she 's a rare customer." 
 
 " Let me look at the net again," said Mrs. Glegg, yearning 
 after the cheap spots and sprigs, now they were vanishing. 
 
 " Well, I can't deny you, mum," said Bob, handing it out. 
 " Eh ! see what a pattern now ! Real Laceham goods. Now, 
 this is the sort o' article I 'm recommendin' Mr. Tom to send 
 out. Lors, it 's a fine thing for anybody as has got a bit 6* 
 money ; these Laceham goods 'ud make it breed like maggits. 
 If I was a lady wi' a bit o' money ! why, I know one as put 
 thirty pound into them goods, a lady wi' a cork leg, but as 
 sharp, you would n't catch her runnin' her head into a sack ; 
 she 'd see her way clear out o' anything afore she 'd be in a 
 hurry to start. Well, she let out thirty pound to a young 
 man in the drapering line, and he laid it out i' Laceham goods, 
 an' a shupercargo o' my acquinetance (not Salt) took 'em out, 
 an' she got her eight per zent fust go off ; an' now you can't 
 hold her but she must be sendin' out carguies wi' every ship, 
 till she 's gettin' as rich as a Jew. Bucks her name is, she 
 does n't live i' this town. Now then, mum, if you '11 please to 
 give me the net " 
 
 " Here 's fifteen shilling, then, for the two," said Mrs. Glegg. 
 " But it 's a shameful price." 
 
 " Nay, mum, you '11 niver say that when you 're upo' your 
 knees i' church i' five years' time. I 'm makin' you a present 
 o' th' articles ; I am, indeed. That eightpence shaves off my 
 profit as clean as a razor. Now then, sir," continued Bob, 
 shouldering his pack, "if you please, I'll be glad to go and 
 see about makin' Mr. Tom's fortin. Eh, I wish I'd got 
 another twenty pound to lay out for mi/sen ; I should n't stay 
 to say nay Catechism afore I knowed what to do wi't." 
 
 " Stop a bit, Mr. Glegg," said the lady, as her husband took 
 his hat, "you never will give me the chance o' speaking. 
 You '11 go away now, and finish everything about this business, 
 and come back and tell me it 's too late for me to speak. As 
 if I was n't my nephey's own aunt, and th' head o' the family 
 
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 on his mother's side ! and laid by guineas, all full weight, foi 
 him, as he '11 know who to respect when 1 'm laid in my 
 coffin." 
 
 \Vell, Mrs. G., say what you mean," said Mr. G., hastily. 
 
 "Well, then, 1 desire as nothing may be done without my 
 knowing. I don't say as I sha'n't venture twenty pounds, if 
 you make out as everything 's right and safe. And if I do, 
 Tom," concluded Mrs. Glegg, turning impressively to her 
 nephew, "I hope you '11 allays bear it in mind and be grateful 
 for such an aunt. I mean you to pay me interest, you know ; 1 
 don't approve o' giving; we niver looked for that in my 
 family." 
 
 "Thank you, aunt," said Tom, rather proudly. "I prefer 
 having the money only lent to me." 
 
 " Very well ; that 's the Dodson sperrit," said Mrs. Glegg, 
 rising to get her knitting with the sense that any further 
 remark after this would be bathos. 
 
 Salt that eminently " briny chap " having been dis- 
 covered in a cloud of tobacco-smoke at the Anchor Tavern, 
 Mr. Glegg commenced inquiries which turned out satisfactorily 
 enough to warrant the advance of the "nest-egg," to which 
 aunt Glegg contributed twenty pounds ; and in this modest 
 beginning you see the ground of a fact which might otherwise 
 surprise you; namely, Tom's accumulation of a fund, unknown 
 to his father, that promised in no very long time to meet the 
 more tardy process of saving, and quite cover the deficit. 
 When once his attention had been turned to this source of 
 gain, Tom determined to make the most of it, and lost no 
 opportunity of obtaining information and extending his small 
 enterprises. In not telling his father, he was influenced by 
 that strange mixture of opposite feelings which often gives 
 equal truth to those who blame an action and those who 
 admire it, partly, it was that disinclination to confidence 
 which is seen between near kindred, that family repulsion 
 which spoils the most sacred relations of our lives ; partly, 
 it was the desire to surprise his father with a great joy. He 
 did not see that it would have been better to soothe the 
 interval with a new hope, and prevent the delirium of a too 
 sudden elation. 
 
 At the time of Maggie's first meeting with Philip, Tom had 
 already nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his own capital ; 
 and while they were walking by the evening light in the Red 
 Deeps, he, by the same evening light, was riding into Lace- 
 ham, proud of being on his first journey on behalf of Guest & 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 299 
 
 Co., and revolving in his niind all the chances that by the end 
 of another year he should have doubled his gains, lifted off 
 the obloquy of debt from his father's name, and perhaps for 
 he should be twenty-one have got a new start for himself, 
 on a higher platform of employment. Did he not deserve it ? 
 He was quite sure that he did. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WAVERING BALANCE. 
 
 I SAID that Maggie went home that evening from the Red 
 Deeps with a mental conflict already begun. You have seen 
 clearly enough, in her interview with Philip, what that con- 
 flict was. Here suddenly was an opening in the rocky wall 
 which shut in the narrow valley of humiliation, where all her 
 prospect was the remote, unfathonied sky ; and some of the 
 memory-haunting earthly delights were no longer out of her 
 reach. She might have books, converse, affection ; she might 
 hear tidings of the world from which her mind had not yet 
 lost its sense of exile ; and it would be a kindness to Philip 
 too, who was pitiable, clearly not happy. And perhaps here 
 was an opportunity indicated for making her mind more wor- 
 thy of its highest service ; perhaps the noblest, completest 
 devoutness could hardly exist without some width of knowl- 
 edge ; must she always live in this resigned imprisonment ? 
 It was so blameless, so good a thing that there should be 
 friendship between her and Philip ; the motives that forbade 
 it were so unreasonable, so unchristian ! But the severe 
 monotonous warning came again and again, that she was 
 losing the simplicity and clearness of her life by admitting a 
 ground of concealment ; and that, by forsaking the simple rule 
 of renunciation, she was throwing herself under the seductive 
 guidance of illimitable wants. She thought she had won 
 strength to obey the warning before she allowed herself the 
 next week to turn her steps in the evening to the Red Deeps. 
 But while she was resolved to say an affectionate farewell to 
 Philip, how she looked forward to that evening walk in the 
 still, fleckered shade of the hollows, away from all that was 
 harsh and unlovely j to the affectionate, admiring looks that 
 
300 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 would meet her; to the sense of comradeship that childish 
 memories would give to wiser, older talk ; to the certainty that 
 Philip would care to hear everything she said, which no one 
 else cared for ! It was a half-hour that it would be very hard 
 to turn her back upon, with the sense that there would be no 
 other like it. Yet she said what she meant to say ; she looked 
 firm as well as sad. 
 
 "Philip, I have made up my mind; it is right that we 
 should give each other up, in everything but memory. I 
 could not see you without concealment stay, I know what 
 you are going to say, it is other people's wrong feelings that 
 make concealment necessary ; but concealment is bad, however 
 it may be caused. I feel that it would be bad for me, for us 
 both. And then, if our secret were discovered, there would 
 be nothing but misery, dreadful anger ; and then we must 
 part after all, and it would be harder, when we were used to 
 seeing each other." 
 
 Philip's face had flushed, and there was a momentary eager- 
 ness of expression, as if he had been about to resist this deci- 
 sion with all his might. But he controlled himself, and said, 
 with assumed calmness, "Well, Maggie, if we must part, let 
 us try and forget it for one half-hour ; let us talk together a 
 little while, for the last time." 
 
 He took her hand, and Maggie felt no reason to withdraw 
 it ; his quietness made her all the more sure she had given 
 him great pain, and she wanted to show him how unwill- 
 ingly she had given it. They walked together hand in hand 
 in silence. 
 
 " Let us sit down in the hollow," said Philip, " where we 
 stood the last time. See how the dog-roses have strewed the 
 ground, and spread their opal petals over it." 
 
 They sat down at the roots of the slanting ash. 
 
 "I've begun my picture of you among the Scotch firs, 
 Maggie," said Philip, " so you must let me study your face a 
 little, while you stay, since I am not to see it again. Please 
 turn your head this way." 
 
 This was said in an entreating voice, and it would have 
 been very hard of Maggie to refuse. The full, lustrous face, 
 with the bright black coronet, looked down like that of a 
 divinity well pleased to be worshipped, on the pale-hued, 
 small-featured face that was turned up to it. 
 
 " I shall be sitting for my second portrait, then," she said, 
 smiling. " Will it be larger than the other ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, much larger. It is an oil-painting. You will 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 301 
 
 look like a tall Hamadryad, dark and strong and noble, just 
 issued from one of the fir-trees, when the stems are casting 
 their afternoon shadows on the grass." 
 
 " You seem to think more of painting than of anything 
 now, Philip?" 
 
 " Perhaps I do," said Philip, rather sadly ; " but I think of 
 too many things, sow all sorts of seeds, and get no great 
 harvest from any one of them. I'm cursed with suscepti- 
 bility in every direction, and effective faculty in none. I care 
 for painting and music ; I care for classic literature, and 
 mediaeval literature, and modern literature ; I flutter all ways, 
 and fly in none." 
 
 " But surely that is a happiness to have so many tastes, to 
 enjoy so many beautiful things, when they are within your 
 reach," said Maggie, musingly. " It always seemed to me a 
 sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent, almost 
 like a carrier-pigeon." 
 
 " It might be a happiness to have many tastes if I were like 
 other men," said Philip, bitterly. " I might get some power 
 and distinction by mere mediocrity, as they do; at least I 
 should get those middling satisfactions which make men con- 
 tented to do without great ones. I might think society at St. 
 Ogg's agreeable then. But nothing could make life worth the 
 purchase-money of pain to me, but some faculty that would lift 
 me above the dead level of provincial existence. Yes, there 
 is one thing, a passion answers as well as a faculty." 
 
 Maggie did not hear the last words ; she was struggling 
 against the consciousness that Philip's words had set her own 
 discontent vibrating again as it used to do. 
 
 " I understand what you mean," she said, " though I know 
 so much less than you do. I used to think I could never bear 
 life if it kept on being the same every day, and I must always 
 be doing things of no consequence, and never know anything 
 greater. But, dear Philip, I think we are only like children, 
 that some one who is wiser is taking care of. Is it not right 
 to resign ourselves entirely, whatever may be denied us ? 
 I have found great peace in that for the last two or three years, 
 even joy in subduing my own will." 
 
 "Yes, Maggie," said Philip, vehemently; "and you are 
 shutting yourself up in a narrow, self-delusive fanaticism, 
 which is only a way of escaping pain by starving into dul- 
 ness all the highest powers of your nature. Joy and peace 
 are not resignation ; resignation is the willing endurance of a 
 pain that is not allayed, that you don't expect to be allayed. 
 
302 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Stupefaction is not resignation ; and it is stupefaction to re- 
 main in ignorance, to shut up all the avenues by which the 
 life of your fellow-men might become known to you. I am 
 not resigned ; 1 am not sure that life is long enough to learn 
 that lesson. You are not resigned; you are only trying to 
 stupefy yourself." 
 
 Maggie's lips trembled ; she felt there was some truth in 
 what Philip said, and yet there was a deeper consciousness 
 that, for any immediate application it had to her conduct, 
 it was no better than falsity. Her double impression corre- 
 sponded to the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seriously 
 believed what he said, but he said it with vehemence because 
 it made an argument against the resolution that opposed his 
 wishes. But Maggie's face, made more childlike by the gath- 
 ering tears, touched him with a tenderer, less egoistic feeling. 
 He took her hand and said gently, 
 
 " Don't let us think of such things in this short half-hour, 
 Maggie. Let us only care about being together. We shall be 
 friends in spite of separation. We shall always think of each 
 other. I shall be glad to live as long as you are alive, because 
 I shall think there may always come a time when I can 
 when you will let me help you in some way." 
 
 " What a dear, good brother you would have been, Philip," 
 said Maggie, smiling through the haze of tears. " I think you 
 would have made as much fuss about me, and been as pleased 
 for me to love you, as would have satisfied even me. You 
 would have loved me well enough to bear with me, and 
 forgive me everything. That was what I always longed 
 that Tom should do. I was never satisfied with a little of 
 anything. That is why it is better for me to do without 
 earthly happiness altogether. I never felt that I had enough 
 music, I wanted more instruments playing together ; I 
 wanted voices to be fuller and deeper. Do you ever sing 
 now, Philip ? " she added abruptly, as if she had forgotten 
 what went before. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " every day, almost. But my voice is only 
 middling, like everything else in me." 
 
 "Oh, sing me something, just one song. I may listen 
 to that before I go, something you used to sing at Lorton 
 on a Saturday afternoon, when we had the drawing-room all 
 to ourselves, and I put my apron over my head to listen." 
 
 "/ know," said Philip; and Maggie buried her face in 
 her hands while he sang sotto voce, "Love in her eyes sits 
 playing, " and then said, " That 's it, is n't it ? " 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 303 
 
 " Oh no, I won't stay," said Maggie, starting up. " It will 
 only haunt me. Let us walk, Philip. I must go home." 
 
 She moved away, so that he was obliged to rise and follow 
 her. 
 
 " Maggie," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, " don't persist 
 in this wilful, senseless privation. It makes me wretched to 
 see you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way. 
 You were so full of life when you were a child; I thought 
 you would be a brilliant woman, all wit and bright imag- 
 ination. And it flashes out in your face still, until you draw 
 that veil of dull quiescence over it." 
 
 "Why do you speak so bitterly to me, Philip?" said 
 Maggie. 
 
 "Because I foresee it will not end well; you can never 
 carry on this self-torture." 
 
 " I shall have strength given me," said Maggie, tremulously. 
 
 " No, you will not, Maggie ; no one has strength given to 
 do what is unnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek safety 
 in negations. No character becomes strong in that way. 
 You will be thrown into the world some day, and then 
 every rational satisfaction of your nature that you deny 
 now will assault you like a savage appetite." 
 
 Maggie started and paused, looking at Philip with alarm in 
 her face. 
 
 " Philip, how dare you shake me in this way ? You are a 
 tempter." 
 
 " No, I am not ; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight 
 often gives foreboding. Listen to me, let me supply you 
 with books ; do let me see you sometimes, be your brother 
 and teacher, as you said at Lorton. It is less wrong that you 
 should see me than that you should be committing this long 
 suicide." 
 
 Maggie felt unable to speak. She shook her head and 
 walked on in silence, till they came to the end of the Scotch 
 firs, and she put out her hand in sign of parting. 
 
 " Do you banish me from this place for ever, then, Maggie ? 
 Surely I may come and walk in it sometimes ? If I meet you 
 by chance, there is no concealment in that ? " 
 
 It is the moment when our resolution seems about to become 
 irrevocable when the fatal iron gates are about to close upon 
 us that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear rea- 
 soning and firm conviction, we snatch at any sophistry that 
 will nullify our long struggles, and bring us the defeat that 
 we love better than victory. 
 
304 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Maggie felt her heart leap at this subterfuge of Philip's, 
 and there passed over her face that almost imperceptible 
 shock which accompanies any relief. He saw it, and they 
 parted in silence. 
 
 Philip's sense of the situation was too complete for him not 
 to be visited with glancing fears lest he had been intervening 
 too presumptuously in the action of Maggie's conscience, per- 
 haps for a selfish end. But no! he persuaded himself his 
 end was not selfish. He had little hope that Maggie would 
 ever return the strong feeling he had for her; and it must 
 be better for Maggie's future life, when these petty family 
 obstacles to her freedom had disappeared, that the present 
 should not be entirely sacrificed, and that she should have 
 some opportunity of culture, some interchange with a mind 
 above the vulgar level of those she was now condemned to 
 live with. If we only look far enough off for the consequence 
 of our actions, we can always find some point in the combination 
 of results by which those actions can be justified ; by adopting 
 the point of view of a Providence who arranges results, or of 
 a philosopher who traces them, we shall find it possible to 
 obtain perfect complacency in choosing to do what is most 
 agreeable to us in the present moment. And it was in this 
 way that Philip justified his subtle efforts to overcome Mag- 
 gie's true prompting against a concealment that would intro- 
 duce doubleuess into her own mind, and might cause new 
 misery to those who had the primary natural claim on her. 
 But there was a surplus of passion in him that made him half 
 independent of justifying motives. His longing to see Maggie, 
 and make an element in her life, had in it some of that savage 
 impulse to snatch an offered joy which springs from a life in 
 which the mental and bodily constitution have made pain pre- 
 dominate. He had not his full share in the common good of 
 men; he could not even pass muster with the insignificant, 
 but must be singled out for pity, and excepted from what was 
 a matter of course with others. Even to Maggie he was JMI 
 exception ; it was clear that the thought of his being her lover 
 had never entered her mind. 
 
 Do not think too hardly of Philip. Ugly and deformed 
 people have great need of unusual virtues, because they are 
 likely to be extremely uncomfortable without them ; but the 
 theory that unusual virtues spring by a direct consequence out 
 of personal disadvantages, as animals get thicker wool in severe 
 climates, is perhaps a little overstrained. The temptations of 
 beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only bear the 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 
 
 same relation to those of ugliness, as the temptation to excess 
 at a feast, where the delights are varied for eye and ear as 
 well as palate, bears to the temptations that assail the des- 
 peration of hunger. Does not the Hunger Tower stand as 
 the type of the utmost trial to what is human in us ? 
 
 Philip had never been soothed by that mother's love which 
 flows out to us in the greater abundance because our need is 
 greater, which clings to us the more tenderly because we 
 are the less likely to be winners in the game of life ; and 
 the sense of his father's affection and indulgence towards 
 him was marred by the keener perception of his father's 
 faults. Kept aloof from all practical life as Philip had 
 been, and by nature half feminine in sensitiveness, he had 
 some of the woman's intolerant repulsion towards world- 
 liness and the deliberate pursuit of sensual enjoyment ; 
 and this one strong natural tie in his life, his relation 
 as a son, was like an aching limb to him. Perhaps there 
 is inevitably something morbid in a human being who is 
 in any way unfavourably excepted from ordinary conditions, 
 until the good force has had time to triumph ; and it has 
 rarely had time for that at two-and-twenty. That force 
 was present in Philip in much strength, but the sun him- 
 self looks feeble through the morning mists. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ANOTHER LOVE-SCENE. 
 
 EARLY in the following April, nearly a year after that 
 dubious parting you have just witnessed, you may, if you like, 
 again see Maggie entering the Red Deeps through the group 
 of Scotch firs. But it is early afternoon and not evening, and 
 the edge of sharpness in the spring air makes her draw her 
 large shawl close about her and trip along rather quickly ; 
 though she looks round, as usual, that she may take in the 
 sight of her beloved trees. There is a more eager, inquiring 
 look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile is 
 hovering about her lips, as if some playful speech were 
 awaiting the right hearer. The hearer was not long in 
 appearing. 
 
 20 
 
306 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Take back your Corinne" said Maggie, drawing a book 
 from under her shawl. "You were right in telling me she 
 would do me no good ; but you were wrong in thinking I 
 should wish to be like her." 
 
 " Would n't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, 
 Maggie ? " said Philip, looking up in her face as we look 
 at a first parting in the clouds that promises us a bright 
 heaven once more. 
 
 "Not at all," said Maggie, laughing. "The Muses were 
 uncomfortable goddesses, I think, obliged always to carry 
 rolls and musical instruments about with them. If I carried 
 a harp in this climate, you know, I must have a green baize 
 cover for it; and I should be sure to leave it behind me by 
 mistake." 
 
 " You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then ? " 
 
 " I did n't finish the book," said Maggie. " As soon as I 
 came to the blond-haired young lady reading in the park, I 
 shut it up, and determined to read no further. I foresaw 
 that that light-cornplexioned girl would win away all the love 
 from Corinne and make her miserable. I 'm determined to 
 read no more books where the blond-haired women carry 
 away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudice 
 against them. If you could give me some story, now, where 
 the dark woman triumphs, it would restore the balance. I 
 want to avenge Rebecca and Flora Maclvor and Minna, and 
 all the rest of the dark unhappy ones. Since you are my 
 tutor, you ought to preserve my mind from prejudices ; you 
 are always arguing against prejudices." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your 
 own person, and carry away all the love from your cousin 
 Lucy. She is sure to have some handsome young man of 
 St. Ogg's at her feet now ; and you have only to shine upon 
 him, your fair little cousin will be quite quenched in your 
 beams." 
 
 " Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to 
 anything real,". said Maggie, looking hurt. "As if I, with my 
 old gowns and want of all accomplishments, could be a rival 
 of dear little Lucy, who knows and does all sorts of charming 
 things, and is ten times prettier than I am, even if I were 
 odious and base enough to wish to be her rival. Besides, I 
 never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there ; it is only 
 because dear Lucy is good, and loves me, that she comes to 
 see me, and will have me go to see her sometimes." 
 
 '' Maggie," said Philip, with surprise, " it is not like you to 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 307 
 
 take playfulness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg's 
 this morning, and brought away a slight infection of dulness." 
 
 "Well," said Maggie, smiling, "if you meant that for a 
 joke, it was a poor one ; but I thought it was a very good 
 reproof. I thought you wanted to remind me that I am 
 vain, and wish every one to admire me most. But it is n't 
 for that that I'm jealous for the dark women, not because 
 I 'm dark myself ; it 's because I always care the most about 
 the unhappy people. If the blond girl were forsaken, I should 
 like her best. I always take the side of the rejected lover in 
 the stories." 
 
 " Then you would never have the heart to reject one your- 
 self, should you, Maggie ? " said Philip, flushing a little. 
 
 " I don't know," said Maggie, hesitatingly. Then with a 
 bright smile, " I think perhaps I could if he were very con- 
 ceited ; and yet, if he got extremely humiliated afterwards, 1 
 should relent." 
 
 " I 've often wondered, Maggie," Philip said, with some 
 effort, " whether you would n't really be more likely to 
 love a man that other women were not likely to love." 
 
 " That would depend on what they did n't like him for," 
 said Maggie, laughing. "He might be very disagreeable. 
 He might look at me through an eye-glass stuck in his 
 eye, making a hideous face, as young Torry does. I should 
 think other women are not fond of that ; but I never felt any 
 pity for young Torry. I 've never any pity for conceited 
 people, because I think they carry their comfort about with 
 them." 
 
 " But suppose, Maggie, suppose it was a man who was not 
 conceited, who felt he had nothing to be conceited about; 
 who had been marked from childhood for a peculiar kind of 
 suffering, and to whom you were the day-star of his life; 
 who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely that he felt it 
 happiness enough for him if you would let him see you at rare 
 moments " 
 
 Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession 
 should cut short this very happiness, a pang of the same 
 dread that had kept his love mute through long months. A 
 rush of self-consciousness told him that he was besotted to 
 have said all this. Maggie's manner this morning had been 
 as unconstrained and indifferent as ever. 
 
 But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the 
 unusual emotion in Philip's tone, she had turned quickly to 
 look at him ; and as he went on speaking, a great change came 
 
308 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 over her face, a flush and slight spasm of the features, such 
 as we see in people who hear some news that will require 
 them to readjust their conceptions of the past. She wcis 
 quite silent, and walking on towards the trunk of a fallen 
 tree, she sat down, as if she had no strength to spare for 
 her muscles. She was trembling. 
 
 " Maggie," said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in 
 every fresh moment of silence, "1 was a fool to say it; 
 forget that I 've said it. I shall be contented if things can 
 be as they were." 
 
 The distress with which he spoke urged Maggie to say 
 something. "I am so surprised, Philip; I had not thought 
 of it." And the effort to say this brought the tears down 
 too. 
 
 " Has it made you hate me, Maggie ? " said Philip, im- 
 petuously. " Do you think I 'in a presumptuous fool ? " 
 
 " Oh, Philip ! " said Maggie, " how can you think I have 
 such feelings ? As if I were not grateful for any love. 
 But but I had never thought of your being my lover. It 
 seemed so far off like a dream only like one of the 
 stories one imagines that I should ever have a lover." 
 
 " Then can you bear to think of me as your lover, Maggie ? " 
 said Philip, seating himself by her, and taking her hand, in 
 the elation of a sudden hope. " Do you love me ? " 
 
 Maggie turned rather pale; this direct question seemed 
 not easy to answer. But her eyes met Philip's, which were 
 in this moment liquid and beautiful with beseeching love. 
 She spoke with hesitation, yet with sweet, simple, girlish 
 tenderness. 
 
 "I think I could hardly love any one better; there is 
 nothing but what I love you for." She paused a little 
 while, and then added, "But it will be better for us not 
 to say any more about it, won't it, dear Philip ? You 
 know we couldn't even be friends, if our friendship were 
 discovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving 
 way about seeing you, though it has been so precious 
 to me in some ways ; and now the fear comes upon me 
 strongly again, that it will lead to evil." 
 
 "But no evil has come, Maggie; and if you had been 
 guided by that fear before, you would only have lived 
 through another dreary, benumbing year, instead of reviv- 
 ing into your real self." 
 
 Maggie shook her head. " It has been very sweet, I 
 know, all the talking together, and the books, and the 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 309 
 
 feeling that I had the walk to look forward to, when I could 
 tell you the thoughts that had come into my head while I was 
 away from you. But it has made me restless; it has made 
 me think a great deal about the world ; and I have impatient 
 thoughts again, I get weary of my home ; and then it cuts 
 me to the heart afterwards, that I should ever have felt weary 
 of my father and mother. I think what you call being be- 
 numbed was better better for me for then my selfish de- 
 sires were benumbed." 
 
 Philip had risen again, and was walking backwards and 
 forwards impatiently. 
 
 "No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-conquest, as 
 I've often told you. What you call self-conquest blind- 
 ing and deafening yourself to all but one train of impres- 
 sions is only the culture of monomania in a nature like 
 yours." 
 
 He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down 
 by her again and took her hand. 
 
 " Don't think of the past now, Maggie ; think only of our 
 love. If you can really cling to me with all your heart, every 
 obstacle will be overcome in time ; we need only wait. I can 
 live on hope. Look at me, Maggie ; tell me again it is possi- 
 ble for you to love me. Don't look away from me to that 
 cloven tree ; it is a bad omen." 
 
 She turned her large dark glance upon him with a sad 
 smile. 
 
 " Come, Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better 
 to me at Lorton. You asked me if I should like you to kiss 
 me, don't you remember ? and you promised to kiss me 
 when you met me again. You never kept the promise." 
 
 The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet re- 
 lief to Maggie. It made the present moment less strange 
 to her. She kissed him almost as simply and quietly as 
 she had done when she was twelve years old. Philip's eyes 
 flashed with delight, but his next words were words of dis- 
 content. 
 
 " You don't seem happy enough, Maggie ; you are forcing 
 yourself to say you love me, out of pity." 
 
 "No, Philip," said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old 
 (hildish way ; " I 'm telling you the truth. It is all new and 
 strange to me ; but I don't think I could love any one better 
 than I love you. I should like always to live with you to 
 make you happy. I have always been happy when I have 
 been with you. There is only one thing I will not do for your 
 
310 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 sake ; I will never do anything to wound my father. 
 must never ask that from me." 
 
 " No, Maggie, I will ask nothing ; I will bear everything ; 
 I '11 wait another year only for a kiss, if you will only give 
 me the first place in your heart." 
 
 " No," said Maggie, smiling, " I won't make you wait so 
 long as that." But then, looking serious again, she added, as 
 she rose from her seat, 
 
 " But what would your own father say, Philip ? Oh, it is 
 quite impossible we can ever be more than friends, brother 
 and sister in secret, as we have been. Let us give up thinking 
 of everything else." 
 
 " No, Maggie, I can't give you up, unless you are deceiv- 
 ing me ; unless you really only care for me as if I were your 
 brother. Tell me the truth."" 
 
 " Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so 
 great as being with you, since I was a little girl, the days 
 Tom was good to me ? And your mind is a sort of world to 
 me ; you can tell me all I want to know. I think I should 
 never be tired of being with you." 
 
 They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other ; 
 Maggie, indeed, was hurrying along, for she felt it time to be 
 gone. But the sense that their parting was near made hoi- 
 more anxious lest she should have unintentionally left some 
 painful impression on Philip's mind. It was one of those dan- 
 gerous moments when speech is at once sincere and deceptive ; 
 when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leaves flood- 
 marks which are never reached again. 
 
 They stopped to part among the Scotch firs. 
 
 "Then my life will be filled with hope, Maggie, and I 
 shall be happier than other men, in spite of all ? We do 
 belong to each other for always whether we are apart or 
 together ? " 
 
 " Yes, Philip ; I should like never to part ; I should like to 
 make your life very happy." 
 
 "I am waiting for something else. I wonder whether it 
 will come." 
 
 Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stooped her 
 tall head to kiss the pale face that was full of pleading, timid 
 love, like a woman's. 
 
 She had a moment of real happiness then, a moment of 
 belief that, if there were sacrifice in this love, it was all the 
 richer and more satisfying. 
 
 She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 311 
 
 since she had trodden this road before, a new era had begun 
 for her. The tissue of vague dreams must now get narrower 
 and narrower, and all the threads of thought and emotion be 
 gradually absorbed in the woof of her actual daily life, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE CLOVEN TREE. 
 
 SECRETS are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any 
 programme our fear has sketched out. Fear is almost always 
 haunted by terrible dramatic scenes, which recur in spite of 
 the best-argued probabilities against them ; and during a year 
 that Maggie had had the burthen of concealment on her mind, 
 the possibility of discovery had continually presented itself 
 under the form of a sudden meeting with her father or Tom 
 when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was 
 aware that this was not one of the most likely events ; but it 
 was the scene that most completely symbolised her inward 
 dread. Those slight indirect suggestions which are dependent 
 on apparently trivial coincidences and incalculable states of 
 mind, are the favourite machinery of Fact, but are not the 
 stuff in which Imagination is apt to work. 
 
 Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggie's fears 
 were furthest from troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, 
 on whom, seeing that she did not live in St. Ogg's, and was 
 neither sharp-eyed nor sharp-tempered, it would surely have 
 been quite whimsical of them to fix rather than on aunt G-legg. 
 And yet the channel of fatality the pathway of the light- 
 ning was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live at St. 
 Ogg's, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red Deeps, 
 at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered. 
 
 The day after Maggie's last meeting with Philip, being a 
 Sunday 011 which Mr. Pullet was bound to appear in funeral 
 hat-band and scarf at St. Ogg's church, Mrs. Pullet made this 
 the occasion of dining with sister Glegg, and taking tea with 
 poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was the one day in the week on 
 which Tom was at home in the afternoon; and to-day thd 
 brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over ia 
 unusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invi- 
 
312 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 tation, " Come, Magsie, you come too ! " when he strolled out 
 with his mother in the garden to see the advancing cherry- 
 blossoms. He had been better pleased with Maggie since she 
 had been less odd and ascetic; he was even getting rather 
 proud of her; several persons had remarked in his hearing 
 that his sister was a very fine girl. To-day there was a peculiar 
 brightness in her face, due in reality to an undercurrent of 
 excitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure 
 in it ; but it might pass for a sign of happiness. 
 
 " You look very well, my dear," said aunt Pullet, shaking 
 her head sadly, as they sat round the tea-table. "I niver 
 thought your girl 'ud be so good-looking, Bessy. But you 
 must wear pink, my dear ; that blue thing as your aunt Glegg 
 gave you turns you into a crowflower. Jane never was tasty. 
 Why don't you wear that gown o' mine ? " 
 
 " It is so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think it 's too 
 showy for me, at least for my other clothes, that I must 
 wear with it." 
 
 "To be sure, it 'ud be unbecoming if it was n't well known 
 you 've got them belonging to you as can afford to give you 
 such things when they 've done with 'em themselves. It 
 stands to reason I must give my own niece clothes now and 
 then, such things as I buy every year, and never wear any- 
 thing out. And as for Lucy, there 's no giving to her, for 
 she 's got everything o' the choicest ; sister Deane may well 
 hold her head up, though she looks dreadful yallow, poor 
 thing, I doubt this liver complaint 'ull carry her off. 
 That's what this new vicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the 
 funeral sermon to-day." 
 
 " Ah, he 's a wonderful preacher, by all account, is n't 
 he, Sophy ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. 
 
 'Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating man- 
 ner, " as I don't say I have n't got as good, but I must look 
 out my best to match it. " 
 
 " Miss Lucy 's called the bell o' St. Ogg's, they say ; that 's 
 a cur'ous word," observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries 
 of etymology sometimes fell with an oppressive weight. 
 
 '' Pooh ! " said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, " she 's a 
 small thing, not much of a figure. But fine feathers make 
 fine birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those dimin- 
 utive women ; they look silly by the side o' the men, out o' 
 proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose her the right 
 size, neither too little nor too big." 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 313 
 
 The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled complacently. 
 
 " But the men are n't all big," said uncle Pullet, not with- 
 out some self-reference ; "a young fellow may be good-looking 
 and yet not be a six-foot, like Master Tom here." 
 
 " Ah, it 's poor talking about littleness and bigness, any- 
 body may think it 's a mercy they 're straight," said aunt Pul- 
 let. " There 's that mismade son o' Lawyer Wakern's, I saw 
 him at church to-day. Dear, dear ! to think o' the property 
 he 's like to have ; and they say he 's very queer and lonely, 
 does n't like much company. I should n't wonder if he goes 
 out of his mind ; for we never come along the road but he 's 
 a-scrambling out o' the trees and brambles at the Ked Deeps." 
 
 This wide statement, by which Mrs. Pullet represented the 
 fact that she had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, pro- 
 duced an effect on Maggie which was all the stronger because 
 Tom sate opposite her, and she was intensely anxious to look 
 indifferent. At Philip's name she had blushed, and the blush 
 deepened every instant from consciousness, until the mention 
 of the Eed Deeps made her feel as if the whole secret were 
 betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoon lest she 
 should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands 
 clasped under the table, not daring to look round. Happily, 
 her father was seated on the same side with herself, beyond 
 her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without stooping 
 forward. Her mother's voice brought the first relief, turn- 
 ing the conversation ; for Mrs. Tulliver was always alarmed 
 when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband's 
 presence. Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to 
 look up ; her eyes met Tom's, but he turned away his head 
 immediately ; and she went to bed that night wondering if he 
 had gathered any suspicion from her confusion. Perhaps not ; 
 perhaps he would think it was only her alarm at her aunt's 
 mention of Wakem before her father ; that was the interpre- 
 tation her mother had put on it. To her father,. Wakem was 
 like a disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure 
 the consciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence 
 recognised by others ; and no amount of sensitiveness in her 
 about her father could be surprising, Maggie thought. 
 
 But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with such an 
 interpretation ; he had seen clearly enough that there was some- 
 thing distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's exces- 
 sive confusion. In trying to recall all the details that could 
 give shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately hear* 
 ing his mother scold Maggie for walking in the Eed Deep* 
 
314 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 when the ground was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged 
 with red soil; blill Tom, retaining all his old repulsion for 
 Philip's deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister the 
 probability of feeling more than a friendly interest in such an 
 unfortunate exception to the common run of men. Tom's was 
 a nature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to 
 everything exceptional. A love for a deformed man would be 
 odious in any woman, in a sister intolerable. But if she had 
 been carrying on any kind of intercourse whatever with Philip, 
 a stop must be put to it at once ; she was disobeying her fa- 
 ther's strongest feelings and her brother's express commands, 
 besides compromising herself by secret meetings. He left home 
 the next morning in that watchful state of mind which turns 
 the most ordinary course of things into pregnant coincidences. 
 
 That afternoon, about half-past three o'clock, Tom was 
 standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the prob- 
 ability of the good ship Adelaide coming in, in a day or two, 
 with results highly important to both of them. 
 
 " Eh," said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields 
 on the other side of the river, " there goes that crooked young 
 Wakem. I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see 
 'em ; I 'm allays lighting on him o' that side the river." 
 
 A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom's 
 mind. " I must go, Bob," he said ; " I 've something to attend 
 to," hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for 
 some one to take his place; he was called away home on 
 peremptory business. 
 
 The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the 
 gate, and he was pausing to open it deliberately, that he 
 might walk into the house with an appearance of perfect 
 composure, when Maggie came out at the front door in bon- 
 net and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and he waited for 
 her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him. 
 
 " Tom, how is it you are come home ? Is there anything 
 the matter ? " Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice. 
 
 " I 'm come to walk with you to the Red Deeps and meet 
 Philip Wakem," said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which 
 had become habitual with him, deepening as he spoke. 
 
 Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, 
 then, Tom knew everything. At last she said, " I 'm not 
 going," and turned round. 
 
 " Yes, you are ; but I want to speak to you first. Where 18 
 my father?" 
 
 " Out on horseback." 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 315 
 
 * And my mother ? " 
 
 " In the yard, I think, with the poultry." 
 
 " I can go in, then, without her seeing me ? n 
 
 They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlour, 
 said to Maggie, " Come in here." 
 
 She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her. 
 
 "Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has 
 passed between you and Philip Wakem." 
 
 "Does my father know anything?" said Maggie, still 
 trembling. 
 
 " No," said Tom, indignantly. " But he shall know, if you 
 attempt to use deceit towards me any further." 
 
 "I don't wish to use deceit," said Maggie, flushing into 
 resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct. 
 
 " Tell me the whole truth, then." 
 
 "Perhaps you know it." 
 
 " Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly 
 what has happened, or my father shall know everything." 
 
 " I tell it for my father's sake, then." 
 
 " Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, 
 when you have despised his strongest feelings." 
 
 " You never do wrong, Tom," said Maggie, tauntingly. 
 
 " Not if I know it," answered Tom, with proud sincerity. 
 " But I have nothing to say to you beyond this : tell me what 
 has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you 
 first meet him in the Red Deeps ? " 
 
 "A year ago," said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave 
 her a certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in 
 abeyance. " You need ask me no more questions. We have 
 been friendly a year. We have met and walked together 
 often. He has lent me books." 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Tom, looking straight at her with his 
 frown. 
 
 Maggie paused a moment ; then, determined to make an end 
 of Tom's right to accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily, 
 
 " No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved 
 me. I did n't think of it before then ; I had only thought of 
 him as an old friend." 
 
 " And you encouraged him ? " said Tom, with an expression 
 of disgust. 
 
 " I told him that I loved him too." 
 
 Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and 
 frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last he looked up 
 and said coldly, 
 
316 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you to 
 take, either you vow solemnly to me, with your hand on my 
 father's Bible, that you will never have another meeting or 
 speak another word in private with Philip Wakeni, or you 
 refuse, and I tell my father everything ; and this month, when 
 by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you will 
 c him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, 
 itful daughter, who throws away her own respectability by 
 clandestine meetings with the son of a man that has helped to 
 ruin her father. Choose ! " Tom ended with cold decision, 
 going up to the large Bible, drawing it forward, and opening 
 it at the fly-leaf, where the writing was. 
 
 It was a crushing alternative to Maggie. 
 
 " Tom," she said, urged out of pride into pleading, " don't 
 ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse 
 with Philip, if you will let me see him once, or even only 
 write to him and explain everything, to give it up as long as 
 it would ever cause any pain to my father. I feel something 
 for Philip too. He is not happy." 
 
 " I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings ; I have 
 said exactly what I mean. Choose, and quickly, lest my 
 mother should come in." 
 
 " If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me 
 as if I laid my hand on the Bible. I don't require that to 
 bind me." 
 
 " Do what / require," said Tom. " I can't trust you, Maggie. 
 There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on this Bible, 
 and say, 'I renounce all private speech and intercourse with 
 Philip Wakem from this time forth.' Else you will bring 
 shame on us all, and grief on my father ; and what is the use 
 of my exerting myself and giving up everything else for the 
 sake of paying my father's debts, if you are to bring madness 
 and vexation on him, just when he might be easy and hold up 
 his head once more ? " 
 
 " Oh, Tom, will the debts be paid soon ? " said Maggie, 
 clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her 
 wretchedness. 
 
 " If things turn out as I expect," said Tom. " But," he 
 added, his voice trembling with indignation, "while I have 
 been contriving and working that my father may have some 
 peace of mind before he dies, working for the respectability 
 of our family, you have done all you can to destroy both." 
 
 Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction ; for the 
 moment, her mind ceased to contend against what she felt to 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 817 
 
 be cruel and unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified 
 her brother. 
 
 " Torn," she said in a low voice, " it was wrong of me ; but 
 I was so lonely, and I was sorry for Philip. And I think 
 enmity and hatred are wicked." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Tom. " Your duty was clear enough. 
 Say no more; but promise, in the words I told you." 
 
 " I rrnist speak to Philip once more." 
 
 " You will go with me now and speak to him." 
 
 " I give you my word not to meet him or write to him again 
 without your knowledge. That is the only thing I will say. 
 I will put my hand on the Bible if you like." 
 
 " Say it, then." 
 
 Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated 
 the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, "Now let us 
 go." 
 
 Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was 
 suffering in anticipation of what Philip was about to suffer, 
 and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from 
 Tom's lips ; but she felt it was in vain to attempt any- 
 thing but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her 
 conscience and her deepest dread ; she writhed under the 
 demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her 
 conduct, and yet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair 
 from its incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus 
 of his indignation diverted towards Philip. He did not 
 know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere per- 
 sonal pride and animosity was concerned in the bitter severity 
 of the words by which he meant to do the duty of a son and 
 a brother. Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own 
 motives any more than into other matters of an intangible 
 kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as 
 actions were good, else he would have had nothing to do 
 with them. 
 
 Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first 
 time, have prevented Philip from coming. Then there would 
 be delay, then she might get Tom's permission to write to 
 him. Her heart beat with double violence when they got 
 under the Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, 
 she thought ; Philip always met her soon after she got beyond 
 them. But they passed across the more open green space, and 
 entered the narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turn- 
 ing, and they came so close upon him that both Tom and 
 Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There 
 
318 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 was a moment's silence, in which Philip darted a look of in 
 quiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the pule. 
 parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Jlcr 
 imagination, always rushing extravagantly beyond an imme- 
 diate impression, saw her tall, strong brother grasping the 
 feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him. 
 
 " Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentle- 
 man, sir ? " Tom said, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as 
 Philip's eyes were turned on him again. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " answered Philip, haughtily. 
 
 " Mean ? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands 
 on you, and I '11 tell you what I mean. I mean, taking 
 advantage of a young girl's foolishness and ignorance to get 
 her to have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle 
 with the respectability of a family that has a good and honest 
 name to support." 
 
 "I deny that," interrupted Philip, impetuously. "I could 
 never trifle with anything that affected your sister's hap- 
 piness. She is dearer to me than she is to you ; I honour 
 her more than you can ever honour her ; I would give up 
 my life to her." 
 
 " Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir ! Do you mean 
 to pretend that you did n't know it would be injurious to her 
 to meet you here week after week ? Do you pretend you 
 had any right to make professions of love to her, even if 
 you had been a fit husband for her, when neither her father 
 nor your father would ever consent to a marriage between 
 you ? And you, you to try and worm yourself into the 
 affections of a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has 
 been shut out from the world by her father's misfortunes ! 
 That 's your crooked notion of honour, is it ? I call it base 
 treachery ; I call it taking advantage of circumstances to win 
 what 's too good for you, what you 'd never get by fair 
 means." 
 
 " It is manly of you to talk in this way to me" said Philip, 
 bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions. " Giants 
 have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You 
 are incapable even of understanding what I feel for your sister. 
 I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friend- 
 ship with you." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to understand your feelings," said 
 Tom, with scorching contempt. "What I wish is that you 
 should understand me, that I shall take care of my sister, 
 and that if you dare to make the least attempt to come near 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 319 
 
 her, or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her 
 mind, your puny, miserable body, that ought to have put some 
 modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. I '11 thrash 
 you ; I '11 hold you up to public scorn. Who would n't laugh 
 at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl ? " 
 
 " Tom, I will not bear it ; I will listen no longer," Maggie 
 burst out, in a convulsed voice. 
 
 " Stay, Maggie ! " said Philip, making a strong effort to 
 speak. Then looking at Tom, "You have dragged your 
 sister here, I suppose, that she may stand by while you 
 threaten and insult me. These naturally seemed to you the 
 right means to influence me. But you are mistaken. Let 
 your sister speak. If she says she is bound to give me up, 
 I shall abide by her wishes to the slightest word." 
 
 " It was for my father's sake, Philip," said Maggie, implor- 
 ingly. "Tom threatens to tell my father, and he couldn't 
 bear it ; I have promised, I have vowed solemnly, that 
 we will not have any intercourse without my brother's 
 knowledge." 
 
 " It is enough, Maggie. / shall not change ; but I wish you 
 to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me ; remember that I 
 can never seek for anything but good to what belongs to you." 
 
 "Yes," said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philip's, 
 " you can talk of seeking good for her and what belongs 
 to her now ; did you seek her good before ? " 
 
 " I did, at some risk, perhaps. But I wished ner to have 
 a friend for life, who would cherish her, who would do her 
 more justice than a coarse and narrow-minded brother, that 
 she has always lavished her affections on." 
 
 " Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours ; 
 and I '11 teli you what is my way. I '11 save her from dis- 
 obeying and disgracing her father ; I '11 save her from throw- 
 ing herself away on you, from making herself a laughing- 
 stock, from being flouted by a man like your father, because 
 she 's not good enough for his son. You know well enough 
 what sort of justice and cherishing you were preparing for 
 her. I 'm not to be imposed upon by fine words ; I can see 
 what actions mean. Come away, Maggie." 
 
 He seized Maggie's right wrist as he spoke, and she put out 
 her left hand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one eager 
 look, and then hurried away. 
 
 Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He 
 was still holding her wrist tightly, as if he were compelling a 
 culprit from the scene of action. At last Maggie, with a vio- 
 
320 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 lent snatch, drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long-gath- 
 ered irritation burst into utterance. 
 
 " Don't suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow 
 to your will. I despise the feelings you have shown in speaking 
 to Philip ; I detest your insulting, unmanly allusions to his defor- 
 mity. You have been reproaching other people all your life ; you 
 have been always sure you yourself are right. It is because you 
 have not a mind large enough to see that there is anything bet- 
 ter than your own conduct and your own petty aims." 
 
 "Certainly," said Tom, coolly. "I don't see that your 
 conduct is better, or your aims either. If your conduct, and 
 Philip Wakem's conduct, has been right, why are you ashamed 
 of its being known ? Answer me that. I know what I have 
 aimed at in my conduct, and I Ve succeeded ; pray, what good 
 has your conduct brought to you or any one else ? " 
 
 " I don't want to defend myself," said Maggie, still with 
 vehemence : " I know I 've been wrong, often, continually. 
 But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been 
 because I have feelings that you would be the better for, 
 if you had them. If you were in fault ever, if you had 
 done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain 
 it brought you; I should not want punishment to be heaped 
 on you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me ; you 
 have always been hard and cruel to me; even when I was 
 a little girl, and always loved you better than any one else 
 in the world, you would let me go crying to bed without 
 forgiving me. You have no pity; you have no sense of 
 your own imperfection and your own sins. It is a sin to 
 be hard; it is not fitting for a mortal, for a Christian. 
 You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for noth- 
 ing but your own virtues; you think they are great 
 enough to win you everything else. You have not even 
 a vision of feelings by the side of which your shining 
 virtues are mere darkness ! " 
 
 "Well," said Tom, with cold scorn, "if your feelings are 
 so much better than mine, let me see you show them in 
 some other way than by conduct that 's likely to disgrace 
 us all, than by ridiculous flights first into one extreme 
 and then into another. Pray, how have you shown your 
 love, that you talk of, either to me or my father ? By 
 disobeying and deceiving us. I have a different way of 
 showing my affection." 
 
 "Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can 
 do something in the world." 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 321 
 
 " Then, if you can do nothing, submit to those that can." 
 
 "So I will submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be 
 right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from 
 my father, but I will not submit to it from you. You 
 boast of your virtues as if they purchased you a right to 
 be cruel and unmanly, as you 've been to-day. Don't sup- 
 pose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedience to you. 
 The deformity you insult would make me cling to him and 
 care for him the more." 
 
 " Very well ; that is your view of things," said Tom, more 
 coldly than ever ; " you need say no more to show me what a 
 wide distance there is between us. Let us remember that in 
 future, and be silent." 
 
 Tom went back to St. Ogg's, to fulfil an appointment with 
 his uncle Deane, and receive directions about a journey on 
 which he was to set out the next morning. 
 
 Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that in- 
 dignant remonstrance, against which Tom's mind was close 
 barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of un- 
 satisfied anger was gone by, came the recollection of that 
 quiet time before the pleasure which had ended in to-day's 
 misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity of her life. 
 She used to think in that time that she had made great con- 
 quests, and won a lasting stand on serene heights above 
 worldly temptations and conflict. And here she was down 
 again in the thick of a hot strife with her own and others' 
 passions. Life was not so short, then, and perfect rest was 
 not so near as she had dreamed when she was two years 
 younger. There was more struggle for her, perhaps more 
 falling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong, and 
 that Tom had been entirely right, she could sooner have 
 recovered more inward harmony ; but now her penitence 
 and submission were constantly obstructed by resentment 
 that would present itself to her no otherwise than as a just 
 indignation. Her heart bled for Philip; she went on re- 
 calling the insults that had been flung at him with so 
 vivid a conception of what he had felt under them, that 
 it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, making her 
 beat the floor with her foot, and tighten her fingers on her 
 palm. 
 
 And yet, how was it that she was now and then conscious 
 of a certain dim background of relief in the forced separation 
 from Philip ? Surely it was only because the sense of a de- 
 liverance from concealment wa,s welcome at any cost. 
 
 SU 
 
322 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE HARD-WON TRIUMPH. 
 
 THREE weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest 
 moment in all the year, the great chestnuts in blossom, and 
 the grass all deep and daisied, Tom Tulliver came home to 
 it earlier than usual in the evening, and as he passed over the 
 bridge, he looked with the old deep-rooted affection at the re- 
 spectable red brick house, which always seemed cheerful and 
 inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts as 
 sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light in 
 Tom's blue-grey eyes as he glances at the house-windows ; 
 that fold in his brow never disappears, but it is not unbe- 
 coming ; it seems to imply a strength of will that may 
 possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth 
 have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomes 
 quicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the 
 compression which is meant to forbid a smile. 
 
 The eyes in the parlour were not turned towards the 
 bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in un- 
 expectant silence, Mr. Tulliver in his arm-chair, tired 
 with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn look, fixed 
 chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing 
 while her mother was making the tea. 
 
 They all looked up with surprise when they heard the 
 well-known foot. 
 
 " Why, what 's up now, Tom ? " said his father. " You 're 
 a bit earlier than usual." 
 
 " Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. 
 Well, mother!" 
 
 Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of 
 unusual good-humour with him. Hardly a word or look 
 had passed between him and Maggie in all the three 
 weeks ; but his usual incommunicativeness at home pre- 
 vented this from being noticeable to their parents. 
 
 "Father," said Tom, when they had finished tea, "do you 
 know exactly how much money there is in the tin box ?" 
 
 "Only a hundred and ninety-three pound," said Mr. Tul- 
 liver. " You 've brought less o' late ; but young fellows like 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 323 
 
 to have their own way with their money. Though I did n't 
 do as I liked before / was of age." He spoke with rather 
 timid discontent. 
 
 " Are you quite sure that 's the sum, father ? " said Tom. 
 " I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. 
 I think you have perhaps made a mistake." 
 
 " How should I make a mistake ? " said his father, sharply. 
 " I 've counted it often enough ; but I can fetch it, if you 
 won't believe me." 
 
 It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy 
 life, to fetch the tin box and count the money. 
 
 " Don't go out of the room, mother," said Tom, as he saw 
 her moving when his father was gone up-stairs. 
 
 " And is n't Maggie to go ? " said Mrs. Tulliver ; " because 
 somebody must take away the things." 
 
 " Just as she likes," said Tom, indifferently. 
 
 That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped 
 with the sudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their 
 father the debts could be paid ; and Tom would have let her 
 be absent when that news was told ! But she carried away 
 the tray and came back immediately. The feeling of injury 
 on her own behalf could not predominate at that moment. 
 
 Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when 
 the tin box was set down and opened, and the red evening 
 light falling on them made conspicuous the worn, sour gloom 
 of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of 
 the fair-complexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the 
 other end of the table, the one in blank patience, the other in 
 palpitating expectation. 
 
 Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on 
 the table, and then said, glancing sharply at Tom, 
 
 " There now ! you see I was right enough." 
 
 He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency. 
 
 " There 's more nor three hundred wanting ; it '11 be a fine 
 while before 7 can save that. Losing that forty-two pound 
 wi' the corn was a sore job. This world 's been too many for 
 me. It's took four year to lay this by; it's much if I'm 
 above ground for another four year. I must trusten to you to 
 pay 'em," he went on, with a trembling voice, " if you keep i' 
 the same mind now you 're coming o' age. But you 're like 
 enough to bury me first." 
 
 He looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for 
 some assurance. 
 
 " No, father," said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, 
 
324 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 though there was tremor discernible in his voice too, " you will 
 live to see the debts all paid. You shall pay them with your 
 own hand." 
 
 His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or 
 resolution. A :-, light electric shock seemed to pass through 
 Mr. Tulliver, and lie kept his eyes fixed on Tom with a look of 
 eager inquiry., while Maggie, unable to restrain herself, rushed 
 to her father's side and knelt down by him. Tom was silent 
 a little while before he went on. 
 
 "A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money 
 to trade with, and that has answered. I have three hundred 
 and twenty pounds in the bank." 
 
 His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last 
 words were uttered, and she said, half crying, 
 
 " Oh, my boy, I knew you 'd make iverything right again, 
 when you got a man." 
 
 But his father was silent ; the flood of emotion hemmed in 
 all power of speech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with 
 fear lest the shock of joy might even be fatal. But the 
 blessed relief of tears came. The broad chest heaved, the 
 muscles of the face gave way, and the grey-haired man burst 
 into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually subsided, and he 
 sat quiet, recovering the regularity of his breathing. At last 
 he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentle tone, 
 
 " Bessy, you must come and kiss me now the lad has made 
 you amends. You '11 see a bit o' comfort again, belike." 
 
 When she had kissed him, and he had held her hand a 
 minute, his thoughts went back to the money. 
 
 " I wish you 'd brought me the money to look at, Tom," he 
 said, fingering the sovereigns on the table ; " I should ha' felt 
 surer." 
 
 " You shall see it to-morrow, father," said Tom. " My uncle 
 Deane has appointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the 
 Golden Lion, and he has ordered a dinner for them at two 
 o'clock. My uncle Glegg and he will both be there. It was 
 advertised in the Messenger' on Saturday." 
 
 "Then Wakem knows on't!" said Mr. Tulliver, his eye 
 kindling with triumphant fire. "Ah ! " he went on, with a 
 long-drawn guttural enunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the 
 only luxury he had left himself, and tapping it with something 
 of his old air of defiance. "I'll get from under his thumb 
 now, though I mitst leave the old mill. T thought I could ha' 
 held out to die here but I can't We 've got a glass o 1 
 nothing in the house, have we, Bessy ? " 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 325 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced 
 bunch of keys, " there 's some brandy sister Deane brought 
 me when I was ill." 
 
 " Get it me, then ; get it me. I feel a bit weak." 
 
 " Tom, my lad," he said, in a stronger voice, when he had 
 taken some brandy -and-water, "you shall make a speech to 
 'em. I '11 tell 'em it 's you as got the best part o' the money. 
 They'll see I'm honest at last, and ha' got an honest son. 
 Ah ! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine, a 
 fine straight fellow, i'stead o' that poor crooked creatur ! 
 You '11 prosper i' the world, my lad ; you '11 maybe see the day 
 when Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. 
 You '11 like enough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle 
 Deane was before you, you 're in the right way for 't ; and 
 then there 's nothing to hinder your getting rich. And if ever 
 you 're rich enough mind this try and get th' old mill 
 again." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, 
 which had so long been the home of nothing but bitter dis- 
 content and foreboding, suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with 
 visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence prevented 
 him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening to himself. 
 
 " Shake hands wi" me, my lad," he said, suddenly putting 
 out his hand. " It 's a great thing when a man can be proud as 
 he 's got a good son. I 've had that luck." 
 
 Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as 
 that ; and Maggie could n't help forgetting her own grievances. 
 Tom was good ; and in the sweet humility that springs in us 
 all in moments of true admiration and gratitude, she felt that 
 the faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, 
 as his faults were. She felt no jealousy this evening that, 
 for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the back- 
 ground in her father's mind. 
 
 There was much more talk before bed-time. Mr. Tulliver 
 naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom's trading 
 adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and 
 delight. He was curious to know what had been said on every 
 occasion ; if possible, what had been thought ; and Bob Ja- 
 kin's part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts 
 of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that re- 
 markable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had 
 come under Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that 
 sense of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable 
 in all reminiscences of the childhood of great men. 
 
326 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 It was well that there was this interest of narrative to 
 under the vague but tierce sense of triumph over Wakem, 
 which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would 
 have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that 
 feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, 
 in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation. 
 
 It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and 
 the sleep, when it came, was tilled with vivid dreams. At 
 half-past five o'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was 
 already rising, he alarmed her by starting up with a sort of 
 smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at 
 the walls of the bedroom. 
 
 "What's the matter, Mr. Tulliver?" said his wife. He 
 looked at her, still with a puzzled expression, and said at 
 last, 
 
 "Ah ! I was dreaming did I make a noise ? I thought 
 I 'd got hold of him." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A DAT OF BECKONING. 
 
 MR. TULLIVER was an essentially sober man, able to take 
 his glass and not averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds 
 of moderation. He had naturally an active Hotspur tempera- 
 ment, which did not crave liquid fire to set it aglow ; his 
 impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting occasion with- 
 out any such reinforcements ; and his desire for the brandy- 
 and-water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a 
 dangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom 
 and unaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful tottering 
 moment passed, he seemed to gather strength with his gath- 
 ering excitement ; and the next day, when he was seated at 
 table with his creditors, his eye kindling and his cheek flushed 
 with the consciousness that he was about to make an honour- 
 able figure once more, he looked more like the proud, confi- 
 dent, warm-hearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of old times 
 than might have seemed possible to any one who had met 
 him a week before, riding along as had been his wont for the 
 last four years since the sense of failure and debt had been 
 upon him, with his head hanging down, casting brief, unwill- 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 327 
 
 ing looks on those who forced themselves on his notice. He 
 made his speech, asserting his honest principles with his old 
 confident eagerness, alluding to the rascals and the luck that 
 had been against him, but that he had triumphed over, to 
 some extent, by hard efforts and the aid of a good son; and 
 winding up with the story of how Tom had got the best part 
 of the needful money. But the streak of irritation and 
 hostile triumph seemed to melt 'for a little while into purer 
 i'atherly pride and pleasure, when, Tom's health having been 
 proposed, and uncle Deane having taken occasion to say a 
 few words of eulogy on his general character and conduct, 
 Tom himself got up and made the single speech of his life. 
 It could hardly have been briefer. He thanked the gentlemen 
 for the honour they had done him. He was glad that he had 
 been able to help his father in proving his integrity and 
 regaining his honest name ; and, for his own part, he hoped 
 he should never undo that work and disgrace that name. 
 But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom looked 
 so gentlemanly as well as tall and straight, that Mr. Tulliver 
 remarked, in an explanatory manner, to his friends on his 
 right and left, that he had spent a deal of money on his 
 son's education. 
 
 The party broke up in very sober fashion at five o'clock. 
 Tom remained in St. Ogg' s to attend to some business, and 
 Mr. Tulliver mounted his horse to go home, and describe the 
 memorable things that had been said and done, to "poor 
 Bessy and the little wench." The air of excitement that 
 hung about him was but faintly due to good cheer or any 
 stimulus but the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not 
 choose any back street to-day, but rode slowly, with uplifted 
 head and free glances, along the principal street all the way 
 to the bridge. Why did he not happen to meet "Wakem ? 
 The want of that coincidence vexed him, and set his mind at 
 work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakein was gone out of 
 town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing anything 
 of an honourable action which might well cause him some 
 unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, 
 Mr. Tulliver would look straight at him, and the rascal 
 would perhaps be forsaken a little by his cool, domineering 
 impudence. He would know by-and-by that an honest man 
 was not going to serve him any longer, and lend his honesty 
 to fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains. Perhaps 
 the luck was beginning to turn ; perhaps the Devil did n't 
 always hold the best cards in this world. 
 
328 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Simmering in this way, Mr. Tulliver approached the yard- 
 gates of Dorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known 
 figure coming out of them on a fine black horse. They met 
 about fifty yards from the gates, between the great chestnuts 
 and elms and the high bank. 
 
 " Tulliver," said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than 
 usual, " what a fool's trick you did, spreading those hard 
 lumps on that Far Close ! I told you how it would be ; but 
 you men never learn to farm with any method." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up ; " get somebody 
 else to farm for you, then, as '11 ask you to teach him." 
 
 "You have been drinking, I suppose," said Wakem, really 
 believing that this was the meaning of Tulliver's flushed face 
 and sparkling eyes. 
 
 " No, I 've not been drinking," said Tulliver ; " I want no 
 drinking to help me make up my mind as I '11 serve no longer 
 under a scoundrel." 
 
 " Very well ! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then ; 
 hold your insolent tongue and let me pass." (Tulliver was 
 backing his horse across the road to hem Wakem in.) 
 
 " No, I sha'n't let you pass," said Tulliver, getting fiercer. 
 " I shall tell you what I think of you first. You 're too big 
 a raskill to get hanged you 're " 
 
 " Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or I'll ride over you." 
 
 Mr. Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip, made 
 a rush forward ; and Wakem's horse, rearing and staggering 
 backward, threw his rider from the saddle and sent him side- 
 ways on the ground. Wakem had had the presence of mind 
 to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse only staggered 
 a few paces and then stood still, he might have risen and 
 remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a 
 shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse 
 too. The sight of the long-hated predominant man down, 
 and in his power, threw him into a frenzy of triumphant ven- 
 geance, which seemed to give him preternatural agility and 
 strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in the act of trying 
 to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as to press 
 Wakem's whole Aveight on the right arm, which rested on the 
 ground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding- 
 whip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a 
 woman's scream was heard, and the cry of " Father, father ! " 
 
 Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulliver's 
 arm ; for the flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own arm 
 was relaxed. 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 329 
 
 " Get away with you go ! " said Tulliver, angrily. But 
 it was not to Wakeru that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, 
 and, as he turned his head, saw that Tulliver's arms were 
 being held by a girl, rather by the fear of hurting the girl 
 that clung to him with all her young might. 
 
 " Oh, Luke mother come and help Mr. Wakem ! " Maggie 
 cried, as she heard the longed-for footsteps. 
 
 " Help me on to that low horse," said Wakem to Luke, 
 " then I shall perhaps manage ; though confound it I 
 think this arm is sprained." 
 
 With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's 
 horse. Then he turned towards the miller and said, with 
 white rage, " You '11 suffer for this, sir. Your daughter is a 
 witness that you've assaulted me." 
 
 " I don't care," said Mr. Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice ; 
 " go and show your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you. Tell 
 7 em I 've made things a bit more even i' the world." 
 
 "Kide my horse home with me," said Wakem to Luke. 
 "By the Tofton Ferry, not through the town." 
 
 "Father, come in!" said Maggie, imploringly. Then, see- 
 ing that Wakem had ridden off, and that no further violence 
 was possible, she slackened her hold and burst into hysteric 
 sobs, while poor Mrs. Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering 
 with fear. But Maggie became conscious that as she was 
 slackening her hold, her father was beginning to grasp her and 
 lean on her. The surprise checked her sobs. 
 
 " I feel ill f aintish," he said. " Help me in, Bessy I 'm 
 giddy I 've a pain i' the head." 
 
 He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter, and 
 tottered into his arm-chair. The almost purple flush had given 
 way to paleness, and his hand was cold. 
 
 " Had n't we better send for the doctor ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. 
 
 He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her ; but 
 presently, when she said to Maggie, " Go and see for some- 
 body to fetch the doctor," he looked up at her with full com- 
 prehension, and said, " Doctor ? No no doctor. It 's my 
 head, that's all. Help me to bed." 
 
 Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a 
 beginning of better times ! But mingled seed must bear a 
 mingled crop. 
 
 In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came 
 home. Bob Jakin was with him, come to congratulate "the 
 old master, " not without some excusable pride that he had 
 had his share in bringing about Mr. Tom's good luck ; and Tom 
 
330 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 had thought his father would like nothing better, as a finish 
 to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tom could only 
 spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant 
 consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his 
 father's long-smothered hate. After the painful news had 
 been told, he sat in silence ; he had not spirit or inclination to 
 tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner ; they 
 hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in the 
 web of their life was so curiously twisted together, that there 
 could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it. Tom 
 was dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort must 
 always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others ; Maggie was 
 living through, over and over again, the agony of the moment 
 in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father's 
 arm, with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes 
 to conie. Not one of the three felt any particular alarm about 
 Mr. Tulliver's health ; the symptoms did not recall his former 
 dangerous attack, and it seemed only a necessary consequence 
 that his violent passion and effort of strength, after many 
 hours of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill. 
 Rest would probably cure him. 
 
 Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept 
 soundly ; it seemed to him as if he had only just come to bed, 
 when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the grey 
 light of early morning. 
 
 " My boy, you must get up this minute ; I 've sent for the 
 doctor, and your father wants you and Maggie to come to 
 him." 
 
 " Is he worse, mother ? " 
 
 " He 's been very ill all night with his head, but he does n't 
 say it 's worse ; he only said sudden, l Bessy, fetch the boy 
 and girl. Tell 'em to make haste.' " 
 
 Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill 
 grey light, and reached their father's room almost at the same 
 moment. He was watching for them with an expression of 
 1:1 in on his brow, but with sharpened, anxious consciousness in 
 his eyes. Mrs. Tulliver stood at the foot of the bed, fright- 
 ened and trembling, looking worn and aged from disturbed 
 rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her father's glance 
 was towards Tom, who came and stood next to her. 
 
 " Tom, my lad, it 's come upon me as I sha'n't get up 
 again. This world's been too many for me, my lad, but 
 you 've done what you could to make things a bit even. Shake 
 hands wi' me again, my lad, beiure I go away from you." 
 
WHEAT AND TARES. 331 
 
 The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other 
 an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly, 
 
 " Have you any wish, father that I can fulfil, when " 
 
 "Ay, my lad you'll try and get the old mill back." 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 " And there 's your mother you '11 try and make her 
 amends, all you can, for my bad luck and there 's the little 
 wench " 
 
 The father turned his eyes on Maggie with a still more 
 eager look, while she, with a bursting heart, sank on her 
 knees, to be closer to the dear, time-worn face which had been 
 present with her through long years, as the sign of her deepest 
 love and hardest trial. 
 
 "You must take care of her, Tom don't you fret, my 
 wench there '11 come somebody as '11 love you and take your 
 part and you must be good to her, my lad. I was good to 
 my sister. Kiss me, Maggie. Come, Bessy. You '11 man- 
 age to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your mother and me 
 can lie together." 
 
 He looked away from them all when he had said this, and 
 lay silent for some minutes, while they stood watching him, 
 not daring to move. The morning light was growing clearer 
 for them, and they could see the heaviness gathering in his 
 face, and the dulness in his eyes. But at last he looked 
 towards Tom and said, 
 
 " I had my turn I beat him. That was nothing but fair. 
 I never wanted anything but what was fair." 
 
 "But, father, dear father," said Maggie, an unspeakable 
 anxiety predominating over her grief, " you forgive him you 
 forgive every one now ? " 
 
 He did not move his eyes to look at her, but he said, 
 
 " No, my wench. I don't forgive him. What 's forgiving 
 to do ? I can't love a raskill ' 
 
 His voice had become thicker ; but he wanted to say more, 
 and moved his lips again and again, struggling in vain to 
 speak. At length the words forced their way. 
 
 " Does God forgive raskills ? but if He does, He won't 
 be hard wi' me." 
 
 His hands moved uneasily, as if he wanted them to remove 
 some obstruction that weighed upon him. Two or three times 
 there fell from him some broken words, 
 
 " This world 's too many honest man puzzling " 
 
 Soon they merged into mere mutterings ; the eyes had ceased 
 to discern ; and then came the final silence. 
 
332 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 But not of death. For an hour or more the chest heaved, 
 the loud, hard breathing continued, getting gradually slower, 
 as the cold dews gathered on the brow. 
 
 At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimly 
 lighted soul had for ever ceased to be vexed with the painful 
 riddle of this world. 
 
 Help was come now ; Luke and his wife were there, and Mr. 
 lurnbull had arrived, too late for everything but to say, 
 'This is death." 
 
 Tom and Maggie went down-stairs together into the room 
 where their father's place was empty. Their eyes turned to 
 the same spot, and Maggie spoke, 
 
 " Tom, forgive me let us always love each other ; " and 
 they clung and wept together. 
 
BOOK VI. 
 
 THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A DUET IN PARADISE. 
 
 THE well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand 
 piano, and the pleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a 
 boat-house by the side of the Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat 
 little lady in mourning, whose light-brown ringlets are falling 
 over the coloured embroidery with which her fingers are busy, 
 is of course Lucy Deane ; and the fine young man who is lean- 
 ing down from his chair to snap the scissors in the extremely 
 abbreviated face of the " King Charles " lying on the young 
 lady's feet, is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose dia- 
 mond ring, attar of roses, and air of nonchalant leisure, at 
 twelve o'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous 
 result of the largest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in 
 St. egg's. There is an apparent trivially in the action with 
 the scissors, but your discernment perceives at once that 
 there is a design in it which makes it eminently worthy of 
 a large-headed, long-limbed young man ; for you see that Lucy 
 wants the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as she may be, 
 to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smile 
 playfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level 
 with her knee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to 
 say, 
 
 " My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasun 
 of persecuting my poor Minny." 
 
 The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, 
 it seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Confound the scissors ! The oval lies the wrong way. 
 Please, draw them off for me." 
 
 'Draw them off with your other hand," says Miss Lucy, 
 roguishly. 
 
334 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh, but that 's my left hand ; I 'm not left-handed." 
 
 Lucy laughs, and the scissors are drawn off with gentle 
 touches from tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen 
 for a repetition da capo. Accordingly, he watches for the 
 release of the scissors, that he may get them into his pos- 
 session again. 
 
 "No, no," said Lucy, sticking them in her band, "you shall 
 not have my scissors again, you have strained them already. 
 Now don't set Minny growling again. Sit up and behave prop- 
 erly, and then I will tell you some news." 
 
 "What is that?" said Stephen, throwing himself back and 
 hanging his right arm over the corner of his chair. He might 
 have been sitting for his portrait, which would have repre- 
 sented a rather striking young man of five-and-twenty, with a 
 square forehead, short dark-brown hair, standing erect, with a 
 slight wave at the end, like a thick crop of corn, and a half- 
 ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his well-marked hori- 
 zontal eyebrows. " Is it very important news ? " 
 
 "Yes, very. Guess." 
 
 " You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three 
 ratafias soaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily ? " 
 
 " Quite wrong." 
 
 " Well, then, Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buckram, 
 and you ladies have all been sending him a round-robin, saying, 
 ' This is a hard doctrine ; who can bear it ? " 
 
 " For shame ! " said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. 
 " It is rather dull of you not to guess my news, because it is 
 about something I mentioned to you not very long ago." 
 
 " But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. 
 Does your feminine tyranny require that when you say the 
 thing you mean is one of several things, I should know it 
 immediately by that mark ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know you think I am silly." 
 
 " I think you are perfectly charming." 
 
 " And my silliness is part of my charm ? " 
 
 "I didn't say that." 
 
 " But I know you like women to be rather insipid. Philip 
 Wakem betrayed you ; he said so one day when you were not 
 here." 
 
 "Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point; he makes it 
 quite a personal matter. I think he must be love-sick for 
 some unknown lady, some exalted Beatrice whom he met 
 abroad." 
 
 " By the by," said Lucy, pausing in her work, " it has just 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 835 
 
 occurred to me that I have never found out whether my cousin 
 Maggie will object to see Philip, as her brother does. Tom 
 will not enter a room where Philip is, if he knows it ; perhaps 
 Maggie may be the same, and then we sha'n't be able to sing 
 our glees, shall we ? " 
 
 " What ! is your cousin coming to stay with you ? " said 
 Stephen, with a look of slight annoyance. 
 
 " Yes ; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She 's 
 going to leave her situation, where she has been nearly two 
 years, poor thing, ever since her father's death; and she 
 will stay with me a month or two, many months, I hope." 
 
 " And am I bound to be pleased at that news ? " 
 
 " Oh no, not at all," said Lucy, with a little air of pique. 
 " / am pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why you 
 should be pleased. There is no girl in the world I love 
 so Avell as my cousin Maggie." 
 
 "And you will be inseparable, I suppose, when she comes. 
 There will be no possibility of a tete-a-tete with you any more, 
 unless you can find an admirer for her, who will pair off with 
 her occasionally. What is the ground of dislike to Philip ? 
 He might have been a resource." 
 
 "It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were 
 very painful circumstances, I believe. I never quite under- 
 stood them, or knew them all. My uncle Tulliver was unfor- 
 tunate and lost all his property, and I think he considered Mr. 
 Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakem bought 
 Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. 
 You must remember my uncle Tulliver, don't you ? " 
 
 " No," said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. 
 '' I 've always known the name, and I daresay I knew the man 
 by sight, apart from his name. I know half the names 
 and faces in the neighbourhood in that detached, disjointed 
 way." 
 
 " He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when 
 I was a little girl and used to go to see my cousins, he often 
 frightened me by talking as if he were angry. Papa told me 
 there was a dreadful quarrel, the very day before my uncle's 
 death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it was hushed up. 
 That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle was 
 quite mistaken in many ways ; his mind had become embit- 
 tered. But Tom and Maggie must naturally feel it very 
 painful to be reminded of these things. They have had so 
 much, so very much trouble. Maggie was at school with 
 me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of 
 
336 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 her father's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure 
 since, I think. She has been in a dreary situation in a school 
 since uncle's death, because she is determined to be inde- 
 pendent, and not live with aunt Pullet; and I could hardly 
 wish her to come to me then, because dear mamma was ill, 
 and everything was so sad. That is why I want her to come 
 to me now, and have a long, long holiday." 
 
 " Very sweet and angelic of you," said Stephen, looking 
 at her with an admiring smile; "and all the more so if 
 she has the conversational qualities of her mother." 
 
 " Poor aunty ! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very 
 valuable to me, I know. She manages the house beautifully, 
 much better than any stranger would, and she was a 
 great comfort to me in mamma's illness." 
 
 " Yes, but in point of companionship, one would prefer that 
 she should be represented by her brandy-cherries and cream- 
 cakes. I think with a shudder that her daughter will always 
 be present in person, and have no agreeable proxies of that 
 kind, a fat, blond girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare 
 at us silently." 
 
 " Oh yes ! " exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly, and clap- 
 ping her hands, '"that is just my cousin Maggie. You must 
 have seen her ! " 
 
 " No, indeed ; I 'm only guessing what Mrs. Tulliver's 
 daughter must be ; and then if she is to banish Philip, our only 
 apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore." 
 
 "But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you 
 to call on Philip and tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. 
 He is quite aware of Tom's feeling, and always keeps out 
 of his way; so he will understand, if you tell him, that I 
 asked you to warn him not to come until I write to ask 
 him." 
 
 " I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take ; 
 Phil is so sensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten 
 him off coming at all, and we had hard work to get him. I 
 can never induce him to come to the park ; he does n't like my 
 sisters, I think. It is only your faery touch that can lay his 
 ruffled feathers." 
 
 Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying towards 
 the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy 
 felt very proud and happy. She and Stephen were in that 
 stage of courtship which makes the most exquisite moment of 
 youth, the freshest blossom-time of passion, when each is 
 sure of the other's love, but no formal declaration has been 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 337 
 
 made, and all is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial 
 word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate and delicious as 
 wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagement 
 wears off this finest edge of susceptibility; it is jasmine 
 gathered and presented in a large bouquet. 
 
 " But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on 
 Maggie's appearance and manners," said the cunning Lucy, 
 moving to reach her desk, " because she might have been like 
 her brother, you know ; and Tom has not round eyes ; and he 
 is as far as possible from staring at people." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose he is like the father; he seems to be as 
 proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should 
 think." 
 
 " I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo : 
 and papa is very fond of him : he says Tom has excellent 
 principles. It was through him that his father was able to 
 pay all his debts before he died." 
 
 " Oh, ah ; I 've heard about that. I heard your father and 
 mine talking about it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of 
 their interminable discussions about business. They think of 
 doing something for young Tulliver ; he saved them, from a 
 considerable loss by riding home in some marvellous way, like 
 Turpin, to bring them news about the stoppage of a bank, 
 or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy at the 
 time." 
 
 Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, 
 humming in falsetto, "Graceful Consort," as he turned over 
 the volume of " The Creation," which stood open on the desk. 
 
 " Come and sing this," he said, when he saw Lucy rising. 
 
 " What, ' Graceful Consort ' ? I don't think it suits your 
 voice." 
 
 " Never mind ; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip 
 will have it, is the grand element of good singing. I notice 
 men with indifferent voices are usually of that opinion." 
 
 "Philip burst into one of his invectives against The 
 Creation ' the other day," said Lucy, seating herself at the 
 piano. "He says it has a sort of sugared complacency and 
 flattering make-believe in it, as if it were written for the 
 birthday fete of a German Grand-Duke." 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. 
 We are Adam and Eve unfallen, in Paradise. Now, then, 
 the recitative, for the sake of the moral. You will sing the 
 whole duty of woman, ' And from obedience grows my pride 
 and happiness.' " 
 
338 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the tempo, 
 as you will," said Lucy, beginning to play the duet. 
 
 Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears 
 must be that in which the lovers can sing together. The 
 sense of mutual fitness that springs from the two deep notes 
 fulfilling expectation just at the right moment between the 
 notes of the silvery soprano, from the perfect accord of de- 
 cending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted loving chase 
 of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate de- 
 mand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto 
 will not care to catechise the bass ; the tenor will foresee no 
 embarrassing dearth of remark in evenings spent with the 
 lovely soprano. In the provinces, too, where music was so 
 scarce in that remote time, how could the musical people 
 avoid falling in love with each other ? Even political 
 principle must have been in danger of relaxation under 
 such circumstances ; and the violin, faithful to rotten bor- 
 oughs, must have been tempted to fraternise in a demoralis- 
 ing way with a reforming violoncello. In this case, the linnet- 
 throated soprano and the full-toned bass singing, 
 
 " With thee delight is ever new, 
 With thee is lii'e iucessant bliss, " 
 
 believed what they sang all the more because they sang it. 
 
 " Now for Raphael's great song," said Lucy, when they had 
 finished the duet. "You do the 'heavy beasts' to perfection." 
 
 " That sounds complimentary," said Stephen, looking at his 
 watch. " By Jove, it 's nearly half-past one ! Well, I can 
 just sing this." 
 
 Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes rep- 
 resenting the tread of the heavy beasts ; but when a singer 
 has an audience of two, there is room for divided sentiments. 
 Minny's mistress was charmed ; but Minny, who had in- 
 trenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as tho 
 music began, found this thunder so little to his taste that 
 he leaped out and scampered under the remotest chiffonniar, 
 as the most eligible place in which a small dog could await 
 the crack of doom. 
 
 "Adieu, 'graceful consort,'" said Stephen, buttoning his 
 coat across when he had done singing, and smiling down 
 from his tall height, with the air of rather a patronising 
 lover, at the little lady on the music-stool. " My bliss is 
 not incessant, for I must gallop home. I promised to be 
 there at lunch," 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 339 
 
 " You will not be able to call on Philip, then ? It is of no 
 consequence ; I have said everything in my note." 
 
 " You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 "Yes, we are going to have a little family-party. My 
 cousin Tom will dine with us ; and poor aunty will have 
 her two children together for the first time. It will be 
 very pretty ; I think a great deal about it." 
 
 ' But 1 may come the next day ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie ; 
 though you can hardly be said not to have seen her, you have 
 described her so well." 
 
 " Good-bye, then." And there was that slight pressure of the 
 hands, and momentary meeting of the eyes, which will often 
 leave a little lady with a slight flush and smile on her face 
 that do not subside immediately when the door is closed, and 
 with an inclination to walk up and down the room rather 
 than to seat herself quietly at her embroidery, or other 
 rational and improving occupation. At least this was the 
 effect on Lucy ; and you will not, I hope, consider it an in- 
 dication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, 
 that she just glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought 
 her near it. The desire to know that one has not looked an 
 absolute fright during a few hours of conversation may be 
 construed as lying within the bounds of a laudable benevo- 
 lent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much of 
 this benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her 
 small egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are 
 people not altogether unknown to you, whose small benevo- 
 lences have a predominant and somewhat rank odour of 
 egoism. Even now, that she is walking up and down with 
 a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the sense 
 that she is loved by the person of chief consequence in her 
 small world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present 
 sunny benignity, in which the momentary harmless flashes of 
 personal vanity are quite lost ; and if she is happy in think- 
 ing of her lover, it is because the thought of him mingles 
 readily with all the gentle affections and good-natured offices 
 with which she fills her peaceful days. Even now, her mind, 
 with that instantaneous alternation which makes two currents 
 of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, is glancing con- 
 tinually from Stephen to the preparations she has only half 
 finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated 
 as well as the grandest lady-visitor, nay, better, for she 
 
340 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 should have Lucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, 
 and the very finest bouquet of spring flowers on her table. 
 -Maggie would enjoy all that, she was so fond of pretty 
 things ! And there was poor aunt Tulliver, that no one made 
 any account of, she was to be surprised with the present of 
 a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunk in 
 a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot 
 with her father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to 
 indulge in long reveries about her own happy love-affair^ 
 With this thought she walked towards the door, but paused 
 there. 
 
 " What 's the matter, then, Minny ? " she said, stooping in 
 answer to some whimpering of that small quadruped, and 
 lifting his glossy head against her pink cheek. " Did you 
 think I was going without you ? Come, then, let us go and 
 see Sinbad." 
 
 Sinbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always fed with 
 her own hand when he was turned out in the paddock. She 
 was fond of feeding dependent creatures, and knew the pri- 
 vate tastes of all the animals about the house, delighting in 
 the little rippling sounds of her canaries when their beaks 
 were busy with fresh seed, and in the small nibbling pleasures 
 of certain animals which, lest she should appear too trivial, I 
 will here call " the more familiar rodents." 
 
 Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that 
 this slim maiden of eighteen Avas quite the sort of wife a man 
 would not be likely to repent of marrying, a woman who 
 was loving and thoughtful for other women, not giving them 
 Judas-kisses with eyes askance on their welcome defects, but 
 with real care and vision for their half-hidden pains and mor- 
 tifications, with long ruminating enjoyment of little pleasures 
 prepared for them ? Perhaps the emphasis of his admiration 
 did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her; perhaps 
 he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did not 
 strike him as a remarkable rarity. A man likes his wife to be 
 pretty ; well, Lucy was pretty, but not to a maddening extent. 
 A man likes his wife to be accomplished, gentle, affectionate. 
 and not stupid ; and Lucy had all these qualifications. Stephen 
 was not surprised to find himself in love with her, and was 
 conscious of excellent judgment in preferring her to Miss 
 Leyburn, the daughter of the county member, although Lucy 
 was only the daughter of his father's subordinate partner ; be- 
 sides, he had had to defy and overcome a slight unwillingness 
 and disappointment in his father and sisters, a circumstance 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 341 
 
 which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of his 
 own dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and in- 
 dependence enough to choose the wife who was likely to make 
 him happy, unbiassed by any indirect considerations. He 
 meant to choose Lucy ; she was a little darling, and exactly 
 the sort of woman he had always most admired. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 FIRST IMPBESSIONS. 
 
 " HE is very clever, Maggie," said Lucy. She was kneeling 
 on a footstool at Maggie's feet, after placing that dark lady in 
 the large crimson-velvet chair. " I feel sure you will like 
 him. I hope you will." 
 
 " I shall be very difficult to please," said Maggie, smiling, 
 and holding up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight 
 might shine through it. " A gentleman who thinks he is good 
 enough for Lucy must expect to be sharply criticised." 
 
 " Indeed, he 's a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, 
 when he is away, I almost think it can't really be that he 
 loves me. But I can never doubt it when he is with me, 
 though I could n't bear any one but you to know that I feel in 
 that way, Maggie." 
 
 "Oh, then, if I disapprove of him you can give him up, 
 since you are not engaged," said Maggie, with playful gravity. 
 
 " I would rather not be engaged. When people are engaged, 
 they begin to think of being married soon," said Lucy, too 
 thoroughly preoccupied to notice Maggie's joke ; " and I should 
 like everything to go on for a long while just as it is. Some- 
 times I am quite frightened lest Stephen should say that he 
 has spoken to papa ; and from something that fell from papa 
 the other day, I feel sure he and Mr. Guest are expecting that. 
 And Stephen's sisters are very civil to me now. At first, I 
 think they did n't like his paying me attention ; and that was 
 natural. It does seem out of keeping that I should ever live 
 in a great place like the Park House, such a little insignifi- 
 cant thing as I am." 
 
 " But people are not expected to be large in proportion to 
 the houses they live in, like snails," said Maggie, laughing. 
 " Pray, are Mr. Guest's sisters giantesses ? " 
 
342 THE MILL &N THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh no ; and not handsome, that is, not very," said Lucy, 
 half-penitent at this uncharitable remark. " But he is at 
 least he is generally considered very handsome." 
 
 " Though you are unable to share that opinion ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Lucy, blushing pink over brow and 
 neck. " It is a bad plan to raise expectation ; you will per- 
 haps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming sui 
 prise for him ; I shrill have a glorious laugh against him. ' 
 shall not tell you what it is, though." 
 
 Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, hold 
 ing her pretty head on one side, as if she had been arranging 
 Maggie for a portrait, and wished to judge of the general 
 effect. 
 
 " Stand up a moment, Maggie." 
 
 " What is your pleasure now ? " said Maggie, smiling lan- 
 guidly as she rose from her chair and looked down on her 
 slight, aerial cousin, whose figure was quite subordinate to her 
 faultless drapery of silk and crape. 
 
 Lucy kept her contemplative attitude a moment or two in 
 silence, and then said, 
 
 " I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that 
 makes you look best in shabby clothes ; though you really 
 miast have a new dress now. But do you know, last night I 
 was trying to fancy you in a handsome, fashionable dress, and 
 do what I would, that old limp merino would come back as the 
 only right thing for you. I wonder if Marie Antoinette looked 
 all the grander when her gown was darned at the elbows. 
 Now, if ./"were to put anything shabby on, I should be quite 
 unnoticeable. I should be a mere rag." 
 
 " Oh, quite," said Maggie, with mock gravity. " You would 
 be liable to be swept out of the room with the cobwebs and 
 carpet-dust, and to find yourself under the grate, like Cinder- 
 ella. May n't I sit down now ? " 
 
 " Yes, now you may," said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an 
 air of serious reflection, unfastening her large jet brooch, 
 " But you must change brooches, Maggie ; that little butterfly 
 looks silly on you." 
 
 " But won't that mar the charming effect of my consistent 
 shabbiness ? " said Maggie, seating herself submissively, while 
 Lucy knelt again and unfastened the contemptible butterfly. 
 " I wish my mother were of your opinion, for she was fretting 
 last night because this is my best frock. I 've been saving my 
 money to pay for some lessons ; I shall never get a bettei 
 situation without more accomplishments." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 343 
 
 Maggie gave a little sigh. 
 
 " Now, don't put on that sad look again," said Lucy, pinning 
 the large brooch below Maggie's fine throat. " You 're forget- 
 ting that you 've left that dreary schoolroom behind you, and 
 have no little girls' clothes to mend." 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie. " It is with me as I used to think it 
 would be with the poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. 
 I thought he must have got so stupid with the habit of turning 
 backwards and forwards in that narrow space, that he would 
 keep doing it if they set him free. One gets a bad habit of 
 being unhappy." 
 
 "But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that 
 will make you lose that bad habit," said Lucy, sticking the 
 black butterfly absently in her own collar, while her eyes met 
 Maggie's affectionately. 
 
 " You dear, tiny thing," said Maggie, in one of her bursts of 
 loving admiration, "you enjoy other people's happiness so 
 much, I believe you would do without any of your own. I 
 wish I were like you." 
 
 " I 've never been tried in that way," said Lucy. " I 've 
 always been so happy. I don't know whether I could bear 
 much trouble ; I never had any but poor mamma's death. 
 You have been tried, Maggie ; and I 'in sure you feel for other 
 people quite as much as I do." 
 
 " No, Lucy," said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, " I 
 don't enjoy their happiness as you do, else I should be more 
 contented. I do feel for them when they are in trouble ; I 
 don't think I could ever bear to make any one wnhappy ; and 
 yet I often hate myself, because I get angry sometimes at the 
 sight of happy people. I think I get worse as I get older, 
 more selfish. That seems very dreadful." 
 
 " Now, Maggie ! " said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, " I 
 don't believe a word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy, just 
 because you are depressed by a dull, wearisome life." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is," said Maggie, resolutely clearing away 
 the clouds from her face with a bright smile, and throwing 
 herself backward in her chair. " Perhaps it comes from the 
 school diet, watery rice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let 
 us hope it will give way before my mother's custards and this 
 charming Geoffrey Crayon." 
 
 Maggie took up the " Sketch Book," which lay by her on the 
 table. 
 
 " Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch ? " said 
 Lucy, going to survey the effect in the chimney-glass. 
 
344 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh no, Mr. Guest will be obliged to go out of the room 
 again if he sees you in it. Pray make haste and put another 
 on." 
 
 Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the 
 opportunity of opening her book ; she let it fall on her knees, 
 while her eyes wandered to the window, where she could see 
 the sunshine falling on the rich clumps of spring flowers and 
 on the long hedge of laurels, and beyond, the silvery breadth 
 of the dear old Floss, that at this distance seemed to be sleep- 
 ing in a morning holiday. The sweet fresh garden-scent cum:- 
 through the open window, and the birds were busy flitting and 
 alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's eyes began to 
 fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush 
 of memories so painful, that even yesterday she had only been 
 able to rejoice in her mother's restored comfort and Tom's 
 brotherly friendliness as we rejoice in good news of friends at 
 a distance, rather than in the presence of a happiness which 
 we share. Memory and imagination urged upon her a sense of 
 privation too keen to let her taste what was offered in the 
 transient present. Her future, she thought, was likely to be 
 worse than her past, for after her years of contented renun- 
 ciation, she had slipped back into desire and longing; she 
 found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder and harder ; 
 she found the image of the intense and varied life she 
 yearned for, and despaired of, becoming more and more 
 importunate. The sound of the opening door roused her, and 
 hastily wiping away her tears, she began to turn over the 
 leaves of her book. 
 
 " There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest 
 dismalness will never resist," said Lucy, beginning to speak 
 as soon as she entered the room. " That is music, and I mean 
 you to have quite a riotous feast of it. I mean you to get up 
 your playing again, which used to be so much better than 
 mine, when we were at Laceham." 
 
 " You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls' 
 tunes over and over to them, when I took them to practice," 
 said Maggie, " just for the sake of fingering the dear keys 
 again. But I don't know whether I could play anything more 
 difficult now than ' Begone, dull care ! ' ' 
 
 " I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when 
 
 the glee-men came round," said Lucy, taking up her embroi- 
 
 (Irry; "and we might have all those old glees that you used 
 
 to love so, if I were certain that you don't feel exactly as 
 
 Tom does about some things." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 845 
 
 "I should have thought there was nothing you might be 
 more certain of," said Maggie, smiling. 
 
 " I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because 
 if you feel just as he does about that, we shall want our third 
 voice. St. Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gen- 
 tlemen. There are really only Stephen and Philip Wakem 
 who have any knowledge of music, so as to be able to sing a 
 part." 
 
 Lucy had looked up from her work as she uttered the last 
 sentence, and saw that there was a change in Maggie's face. 
 
 " Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie ? 
 If it does, I will not speak of him again. I know Tom will 
 not see him if he can avoid it." 
 
 " I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject," said Mag- 
 gie, rising and going to the window as if she wanted to see 
 more of the landscape. " I 've always liked Philip Wakem 
 ever since I was a little girl, and saw him at Lorton. He was 
 so good when Tom hurt his foot." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm so glad ! " said Lucy. " Then you won't mind 
 his coming sometimes, and we can have much more music than 
 we could without him. I 'm very fond of poor Philip, only I 
 wish he were not so morbid about his deformity. I suppose 
 it is his deformity that makes him so sad, and sometimes bit- 
 ter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poor little crooked 
 body and pale face among great strong people." 
 
 "But, Lucy " said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling 
 stream. 
 
 " Ah, there is the door-bell. That must be Stephen," Lucy 
 went on, not noticing Maggie's faint effort to speak. " One 
 of the things I most admire in Stephen is that he makes a 
 greater friend of Philip than any one." 
 
 It was too late for Maggie to speak now ; the drawing-room 
 door was opening, and Minny was already growling in a small 
 way at the entrance of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy 
 and took her hand with a half-polite, half-tender glance and tone 
 of inquiry, which seemed to indicate that he was unconscious 
 of any other presence. 
 
 " Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver," said 
 Lucy, turning with wicked enjoyment towards Maggie, who 
 now approached from the farther window. "This is Mr. 
 Stephen Guest." 
 
 For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment 
 at the sight of this tall, dark-eyed nymph with her jet-black 
 coronet of hair; the next, Maggie felt herself, for the first 
 
346 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 time in her life, receiving the tribute of a very deep blush and 
 a very deep bow from a person towards whom she herself was 
 conscious of timidity. This new experience was very agree- 
 able to her, so agreeable that it almost effaced her previous 
 emotion about Philip. There was a new brightness in her 
 eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as she seated 
 herself. 
 
 " I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew th<^ 
 day before yesterday," said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of tri 
 umph. She enjoyed her lover's confusion ; the advantage was 
 usually on his side. 
 
 "This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me, Miss 
 Tulliver," said Stephen, seating himself by Lucy, and stoop- 
 ing to play with Minny, only looking at Maggie furtively. 
 " She said you had light hair and blue eyes." 
 
 "Nay, it was you who said so," remonstrated Lucy. "I 
 only refrained from destroying your confidence in your own 
 second-sight." 
 
 " I wish I could always err in the same way," said Ste- 
 phen, " and find reality so much more beautiful than my 
 preconceptions." 
 
 "Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion," 
 said Maggie, " and said what it was incumbent on you to say 
 under the circumstances." 
 
 She flashed a slightly defiant look at him ; it was clear to 
 her that he had been drawing a satirical portrait of her be- 
 forehand. Lucy had said he was inclined to be satirical, 
 and Maggie had mentally supplied the addition, "and rather 
 conceited." 
 
 " An alarming amount of devil there," was Stephen's first 
 thought. The second, when she had bent over her work, was, 
 "I wish she would look at me again." The next was to 
 answer, 
 
 " I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn 
 to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he says 
 'Thank you.' It's rather hard upon him that he must us. 
 same words with which all the world declines a disagreeable 
 invitation, don't you think so, Miss Tulliver ? " 
 
 " No," said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance ; 
 
 " if we use common words on a great occasion, they are the 
 
 more striking, because they are felt at once to have a particu- 
 
 ' lar meaning, like old banners, or every-day clothes, hung up 
 
 k in a sacred place." 
 
 " Then my compliment ought to be eloquent," said Stephen, 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 347 
 
 really not quite knowing what he said while Maggie looked 
 at him, "seeing that the words were so far beneath the 
 occasion." 
 
 " No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression 
 of indifference," said Maggie, flushing a little. 
 
 Lucy was rather alarmed ; she thought Stephen and Maggie 
 were not going to like each other. She had always feared lest 
 Maggie should appear too odd and clever to please that critical 
 gentleman. " Why, dear Maggie," she interposed, " you have 
 always pretended that you are too fond of being admired ; 
 and now, I think, you are angry because some one ventures to 
 admire you." 
 
 " Not at all," said Maggie ; " I like too well to feel that I 
 am admired, but compliments never make me feel that." 
 
 " I will never pay you a compliment again, Miss Tulliver," 
 said Stephen. 
 
 " Thank you ; that will be a proof of respect." 
 
 Poor Maggie ! She was so unused to society that she could 
 take nothing as a matter of course, and had never in her life 
 spoken from the lips merely, so that she must necessarily ap- 
 pear absurd to more experienced ladies, from the excessive 
 feeling she was apt to throw into very trivial incidents. But 
 she was even conscious herself of a little absurdity in this 
 instance. It was true she had a theoretic objection to compli- 
 ments, and had once said impatiently to Philip, that she did n't 
 see why women were to be told with a simper that they were 
 beautiful, any more than old men were to be told that they 
 were venerable ; still, to be so irritated by a common practice 
 in the case of a stranger like Mr. Stephen Guest, and to care 
 about his having spoken slightingly of her before he had seen 
 her, was certainly unreasonable, and as soon as she was silent 
 she began to be ashamed of herself. It did not occur to her 
 that her irritation was due to the pleasanter emotion which 
 preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of glow- 
 ing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us 
 as a sudden smart. 
 
 Stephen was too well-bred not to seem unaware that the 
 previous conversation could have been felt embarrassing, and 
 at once began to talk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if 
 she knew when the bazaar was at length to take place, so that 
 there might be some hope of seeing her rain the influence of 
 her eyes on objects more grateful than those worsted flowers 
 that were growing under her fingers. 
 
 '' Some day next month, I believe," said Lucy. " But your 
 
348 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 sisters are doing more for it than I am ; they are to have tlie 
 largest stall." 
 
 "Ah yes ; but they carry on their manufactures in their own 
 sitting-room, where I don't intrude on them. I see you arc nut, 
 addicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss Tullivciy ' 
 said Stephen, looking at Maggie's plain hemming. 
 
 "No," said Maggie, " I can do nothing more difficult or more 
 elegant than shirt-making." 
 
 " And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie," said Lucy, 
 " that I think I shall beg a few specimens of you to show 
 as fancy-work. Your exquisite sewing is quite a mystery to 
 me, you used to dislike that sort of work so much in old 
 days." 
 
 " It is a mystery easily explained, dear," said Maggie, look- 
 ing up quietly. " Plain sewing was the only thing I could get 
 money by, so I was obliged to try and do it well." 
 
 Lucy, good and simple as she was, could not help blushing a 
 little. She did not quite like that Stephen should know that ; 
 Maggie need not have mentioned it. Perhaps there was some 
 pride in the confession, the pride of poverty that will not 
 be ashamed of itself. But if Maggie had been the queen of 
 coquettes she could hardly have invented a means of giving 
 greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes ; I am not 
 sure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty 
 would have done alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made 
 Maggie more unlike other women even than she had seemed 
 at first. 
 
 " But I can knit, Lucy," Maggie went on, " if that will be of 
 any use for your bazaar." 
 
 " Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scar- 
 let wool to-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable per- 
 son," continued Lucy, turning to Stephen, " to have the talent of 
 modelling. She is doing a wonderful bust of Dr. Kenn entirely 
 from memory." 
 
 " Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near to- 
 gether, and the corners of the mouth very far apart, the like- 
 ness can hardly fail to be striking in St. Ogg's." 
 
 " Now that is very wicked of you," said Lucy, looking rather 
 hurt. " I did n't think you would speak disrespectfully of Dr. 
 Kenn." 
 
 " I say anything disrespectful of Dr. Kenn ? Heaven for- 
 bid ! But I am not bound to respect a libellous bust of him. 
 I think Kenn one of the finest fellows in the world. I don't 
 care much about the tall candlesticks he has put on the com- 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 349 
 
 munion-table, and I should n't like to spoil my temper by 
 getting up to early prayers every morning. But he 's the only 
 man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have anything 
 of the real apostle in him, a man who has eight hundred a- 
 year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef be- 
 cause he gives away two-thirds of his income. That was a 
 very fine thing of him, taking into his house that poor lad 
 Grattan, who shot his mother by accident. He sacrifices more 
 time than a less busy man could spare, to save the poor fellow 
 from getting into a morbid state of mind about it. He takes 
 the lad out with him constantly, I see." 
 
 " That is beautiful," said Maggie, who had let her work fall, 
 and was listening with keen interest. " I never knew any one 
 who did such things." 
 
 " And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more," 
 said Stephen, " because his manners in general are rather cold 
 and severe. There 's nothing sugary and maudlin about him." 
 
 " Oh, I think he 's a perfect character ! " said Lucy, with 
 pretty enthusiasm. 
 
 " No ; there I can't agree with you," said Stephen, shaking 
 his head with sarcastic gravity. 
 
 " Now, what fault can you point out in him ? " 
 
 " He 's an Anglican." 
 
 "Well, those are the right views, I think," said Lucy, 
 gravely. 
 
 " That settles the question in the abstract," said Stephen, 
 " but not from a parliamentary point of view. He has set the 
 Dissenters and the Church people by the ears ; and a rising 
 senator like myself, of whose services the country is very 
 much in need, will find it inconvenient when he puts up for 
 the honour of representing St. Ogg's in Parliament." 
 
 " Do you really think of that ? " said Lucy, her eyes bright- 
 ening with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the argu- 
 mentative interests of Anglicanism. 
 
 "Decidedly, whenever old Mr. Leyburn's public spirit and 
 gout induce him to give way. My father's heart is set on it ; 
 and gifts like mine, you know " here Stephen drew himself 
 up, and rubbed his large white hands over his hair with playful 
 self -admiration " gifts like mine involve great responsibil- 
 ities. Don't you think so, Miss Tulliver ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up ; " so much 
 fluency and self-possession should not be wasted entirely on 
 private occasions." 
 
 " Ah, I cee how much penetration you have," said Stephen. 
 
350 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " You have discovered already that I am talkative and impu- 
 dent. Now superficial people never discern that, owing to 
 my manner, I suppose." 
 
 " She does n't look at me when I talk of myself," he 
 thought, while his listeners were laughing. " I must try 
 other subjects." 
 
 Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book 
 Club next week ? was the next question. Then followed 
 recommendation to choose Southey's " Life of Cowper," mil. ; 
 she were inclined to be philosophical, and startle the ladies oi 
 St. Ogg's by voting for one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Ol 
 course Lucy wished to know what these alarmingly learned 
 books were ; and as it is always pleasant to improve the minds 
 of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of which they 
 know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an account of 
 Buckland's Treatise, which he had just been reading. He was 
 rewarded by seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradually 
 get so absorbed in his wonderful geological story that she sat 
 looking at him, leaning forward with crossed arms, and with 
 an entire absence of self-consciousness, as if he had been the 
 snuinest of old professors, and she a downy-lipped alumnus. 
 He was so fascinated by this clear, large gaze, that at last he 
 forgot to look away from it occasionally towards Lucy ; but 
 she, sweet child, was only rejoicing that Stephen was proving 
 to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would certainly 
 be good friends after all. 
 
 " I will bring you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver ? " said 
 Stephen, when he found the stream of his recollections running 
 rather shallow. " There are many illustrations in it that you 
 will like to see." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," said Maggie, blushing with returning self- 
 consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her work 
 again. 
 
 " No, no," Lucy interposed. " I must forbid your plunging 
 Maggie in books. I shall never get her away from them ; and 
 I want her to have delicious do-nothing days, filled with boat- 
 ing and chatting and riding and driving ; that is the holiday 
 she needs." 
 
 " Apropos ! " said Stephen, looking at his watch. " Shall 
 we go out for a row on the river now ? The tide will suit for 
 us to go the Tofton way, and we can walk back." 
 
 That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was 
 years since she had been on the river. When she was gone 
 to put on her bonnet, Lucy lingered to give an order to the ser- 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 351 
 
 rant, and took the opportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie 
 had no objection to seeing Philip, so that it was a pity she had 
 sent that note the day before yesterday. But she would write 
 another to-morrow and invite him. 
 
 " I '11 call and beat him up to-morrow," said Stephen, " and 
 bring him with me in the evening, shall I ? My sisters will 
 want to call on you when I tell them your cousin is with you. 
 I must leave the field clear for them in the morning." 
 
 " Oh yes, pray bring him," said Lucy. " And you will like 
 Maggie, sha'n't you ? " she added, in a beseeching tone. " Is n't 
 she a dear, noble-looking creature ? " 
 
 "Too tall," said Stephen, smiling down upon her, "and a 
 little too fiery. She is not my type of woman, you know." 
 
 Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudent 
 confidences to ladies concerning their unfavourable opinion of 
 sister fair ones. That is why so many women have the advan- 
 tage of knowing that they are secretly repulsive to men who 
 have self-denyingly made ardent love to them. And hardly 
 anything could be more distinctively characteristic of Lucy, 
 than that she both implicitly believed what Stephen said, and 
 was determined that Maggie should not know it. But you, 
 who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide you, have 
 already foreseen, as the direct sequence to that unfavourable 
 opinion of Stephen's, that he walked down to the boat-house cal- 
 culating, by the aid of a vivid imagination, that Maggie must 
 give him her hand at least twice in consequence of this pleas- 
 ant boating plan, and that a gentleman who wishes ladies to 
 look at him is advantageously situated when he is rowing 
 them in a boat. What then ? Had he fallen in love with 
 this surprising daughter of Mrs. Tulliver at first sight ? 
 Certainly not. Such passions are never heard of in real life. 
 Besides, he was in love already, and half-engaged to the 
 clearest little creature in the world ; and he was not a man 
 to make a fool of himself in any way. But when one is five- 
 and-twenty, one has not chalk-stones at one's finger-ends that 
 the touch of a handsome girl should be entirely indifferent. 
 It was perfectly natural and safe to adm.ire beauty and enjoy 
 looking at it, at least under such circumstances as the 
 present. And there was really something very interesting 
 about this girl, with her poverty and troubles ; it was grati- 
 fying to see the friendship between the two cousins. Gener- 
 ally, Stephen admitted, he was not fond of women who had 
 any peculiarity of character, but here the peculiarity seemed 
 really of a superior kind ; arid provided one is not obliged to 
 
352 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 marry such women, why, they certainly make a variety in 
 social intercourse. 
 
 Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him 
 during the first quarter of an hour ; her eyes were too full of 
 the old banks that she knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off 
 from Philip, the only person who had ever seemed to love 
 her devotedly, as she had always longed to be loved. But 
 presently the rhythmic movement of the oars attracted her, 
 and she thought she should like to learn how to row. This 
 roused her from her reverie, and she asked if she might take 
 an oar. It appeared that she required much teaching, and she 
 became ambitious. The exercise brought the warm blood into 
 her cheeks, and made her inclined to take her lesson merrily. 
 
 " I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, 
 and row you and Lucy," she said, looking very bright as 
 she stepped out of the boat. Maggie, we know, was apt 
 to forget the thing she was doing, and she had chosen an 
 inopportune moment for her remark ; her foot slipped, but 
 happily Mr. Stephen Guest held her hand, and kept her 
 up with a firm grasp. 
 
 " You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope ? " he said, 
 bending to look in her face with anxiety. It was very 
 charming to be taken care of in that kind, graceful manner 
 by some one taller and stronger than one's self. Maggie 
 had never felt just in the same way before. 
 
 When they reached home again, they found uncle and 
 aiint Pullet seated with Mrs. Tulliver in the drawing-room, 
 and Stephen hurried away, asking leave to come again in 
 the evening. 
 
 " And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you 
 took away," said Lucy. "I want Maggie to hear your best 
 songs." 
 
 Aunt Pullet, under the certainty that Maggie would be 
 invited to go out with Lucy, probably to Park House, was 
 much shocked at the shabbiness of her clothes, which, when 
 witnessed by the higher society of St. Ogg's, would be a 
 discredit to the family, that demanded a strong and prompt 
 remedy; and the consultation as to what would be most 
 suitable to this end from among the superfluities of Mrs. 
 Pullet's wardrobe was one that Lucy as well as Mrs. Tulliver 
 entered into with some zeal. Maggie must really have an 
 evening dress as soon as possible, and she was about the 
 same height as aunt Pullet. 
 
 " But she 's so much broader across the shoulders than I am, 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 353 
 
 It 's very ill-convenient," said Mrs. Pullet, " else she might 
 wear that beautiful black brocade o' mine without any altera- 
 tion ; and her arms are beyond everything," added Mrs. Pullet, 
 sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggie's large round arm. " She 'd 
 never get my sleeves on." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, aunt ; pray send us the dress," said 
 Lucy. " I don't mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I 
 have abundance of black lace for trimming. Her arms will 
 look beautiful." 
 
 "Maggie's arms are a pretty shape," said Mrs. Tulliver. 
 " They 're like mine used to be, only mine was never brown ; 
 I wish she'd had our family skin." 
 
 " Nonsense, aunty ! " said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's 
 shoulder, "you don't understand those things. A painter 
 would think Maggie's complexion beautiful." 
 
 " May be, my dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively, " You 
 know better than I do. Only when I was young a brown skin 
 was n't thought well on among respectable folks." 
 
 '*No," said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in 
 the ladies' conversation as he sucked his lozenges. " Though 
 there was a song about the ' Nut-brown Maid ' too ; I think she 
 was crazy, crazy Kate, but I can't justly remember." 
 
 " Oh dear, dear ! " said Maggie, laughing, but impatient ; 
 " I think that will be the end of my brown skin, if it is always 
 to be talked about so much." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CONFIDENTIAL MOMENTS. 
 
 WHEN Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it 
 appeared that she was not at all inclined to undress. She 
 set down her candle on the first table that presented itself, 
 and began to walk up and down her re/om, which was a large 
 one, with a firm, regular, and rather rapid step, which showed 
 that the exercise was the instinctive vent of strong excite- 
 ment. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish bril- 
 liancy; her head was thrown backward, and her hands were 
 clasped with the palms outward, and with that tension of the 
 arms which is apt to accompany mental absorption. 
 
 Had anything remarkable happened ? 
 
 23 
 
354 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest 
 degree unimportant. She had been hearing some fine music 
 sung by a fine bass voice, but then it was sung in a pro- 
 vincial, amateur fashion, such as would have left a critical ear 
 much to desire. And she was conscious of having been looked 
 at a great deal, in rather a furtive manner, from beneath a 
 pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glance that 
 seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of the 
 voice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect on a 
 thoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly bal- 
 anced mind, who had had all the advantages of fortune, 
 training, and refined society. But if Maggie had been that 
 young lady, you would probably have known nothing about 
 her : her life would have had so few vicissitudes that it could 
 hardly have been written; for the happiest women, like the 
 happiest nations, have no history. 
 
 In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature, just come 
 away from a third-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds 
 and petty round of tasks, these apparently trivial ca 
 had the effect of rousing and exalting her imagination in a 
 way that was mysterious to herself. It was not that she 
 thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt on 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 pri- 
 vation, 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, have n'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 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 355 
 
 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, have n't you, 
 Maggie ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, that is what prevents 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, has n'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 / 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, you 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 Wakeni 
 with him." 
 
 " Oh, Lucy, I can't see him," said Maggie, turning pale. 
 " At least, I could not see him without Tom's leave." 
 
356 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Is Tom such a tyrant as that ? " said Lucy, surprised. 
 " I '11 take the responsibility, then, tell him it was my 
 fault." 
 
 " But, dear," said Maggie, f alteringly, " 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 unreason- 
 able. What harm can poor Philip have done ? May I speak 
 to Tom about it V " 
 
 " Oh no, pray don't, dear," said Maggie. " I '11 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 towards 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. / was adored once." 
 
 " Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and every- 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 357 
 
 thing, and have learned so much since you left school ; which 
 always seemed to me witchcraft before, part of your general 
 uneanniness," 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 subse- 
 quent impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly sincere ; 
 her nature had never found it easy to be otherwise. But con- 
 fidences are sometimes blinding, even when they are sincere. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 MAGGIE was obliged to go to Tom's lodgings in the mid- 
 dle of the day, when he would be coming in to dinner, else 
 she would not have found him at home. He was not lodg- 
 ing 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 wii'e and mother could keep themselves out of 
 
858 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 mischief by letting out two " pleasure-boats," in which h 
 had invested some of his savings, and by taking in a lodger 
 for the parlour and spare bedroom. Under these circum- 
 stances, 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 endeavouring 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 '11 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 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 359 
 
 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 '11 be one o' the first men hereabouts, you '11 
 see that." 
 
 " Well, Bob, I 'm sure he '11 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 th< 
 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 arn'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, " Is n't it all come true as I said ? Though there is n'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 towards Maggie, but 
 she was able now to smile and curtsy, 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 would n't 
 like your marrying." 
 
 "Eh, Miss," said Bob, grinning, "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 is n'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 I 'm a 
 'cutish chap, an' when I 've left off carrying my pack, an' am 
 at a loose end, I 've got more brains nor I know what to do 
 wi', an' I 'm forced to busy myself wi' other folks's insides 
 An' it worrets me as Mr. Tom '11 sit by himself so glump- 
 ish, a-knittin' his brow, an' a-lookin' at the fire of a night. 
 He should be a bit livelier now, a fine young fellow like 
 him. My wife says, when she goes in some times, an' he 
 takes no notice of her, he sits lockin' into the fire, and 
 frownin' as if he was watchin' folks at work in it." 
 
 " He thinks so much about business," said Maggie. 
 
 " Ay," said Bob, speaking lower ; " but do you think it 's 
 
360 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 nothin' else, Miss ? He 's close, Mr. Tom is ; but I 'm a 'cute 
 chap, I am, an' I thought tow'rt last Christmas as I 'd found 
 out a soft place in him. It was about a little black spaniel 
 a rare bit o' breed as he made a fuss to get. But since then 
 summat's come over him, as he's set his teeth again' things 
 more nor iver, for all he 's had such good-luck. Au' I wanted 
 to tell you, Miss, 'cause I thought you might work it out of 
 him a bit, now you 're come. He 's a deal too lonely, and 
 loes n't go into company enough." 
 
 u I 'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob," said 
 Maggie, a good deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a 
 totally new idea to her mind, that Tom could have his love 
 troubles. Poor fellow ! and in love with Lucy too ! But 
 it was perhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officious brain. The 
 present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship and 
 gratitude. But Bob had already said, " Here 's Mr. Tom," 
 and the outer door was opening. 
 
 " There 's no time to spare, Tom," said Maggie, as soon 
 as Bob had left the room. " I must tell you at once what I 
 came about, else I shall be hindering you from taking your 
 dinner." 
 
 Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and 
 Maggie was seated opposite the light. He noticed that she 
 was tremulous, and he had a presentiment of the subject she 
 was going to speak about. The presentiment made his voice 
 colder and harder as he said, " What is it ? " 
 
 This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she 
 put her request in quite a different form from the one she had 
 predetermined on. She rose from her seat, and looking straight 
 at Tom, said, 
 
 " I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip 
 Wakem. Or rather, I promised you not to see him without 
 telling you. T am come to tell you that I wish to see him." 
 
 11 Very well," said Tom, still more coldly. 
 
 But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, de- 
 :i;nit manner, before she repented, and felt the dread of aliena- 
 .ion from her brother. 
 
 " Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I should n't 
 have asked it, only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucy's, 
 and she wishes him to come, has invited him to come this 
 evening; and I told her I couldn't see him without telling 
 you. I shall only see him in the presence of other people. 
 There will never be anything secret between us again." 
 
 Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 361 
 
 strongly for a little while. Then he turned to her and 
 said, slowly and emphatically, 
 
 "You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. 
 There is no need for my repeating anything I said a year ago. 
 While my father was living, I felt bound to use the utmost 
 power over you, to prevent you from disgracing him as well 
 as yourself, and all of us. But now I must leave you to your 
 own choice. You wish to be independent; you told me so 
 after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you 
 think of Philip Wakem as a lover again, you must give up 
 me." 
 
 " I don't wish it, dear Tom, at least as things are ; I see 
 that it would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to an- 
 other situation, and I should like to be friends with him again 
 while I am here. Lucy wishes it." 
 
 The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little. 
 
 "I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my 
 uncle's I don't want you to make a fuss on the subject. 
 But I have no confidence in you, Maggie. You would be 
 led away to do anything." 
 
 That was a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble. 
 
 "Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. 
 Have I not done and borne everything as well as I could? 
 And I have kept my word to you when when My life 
 has not been a happy one, any more than yours." 
 
 She was obliged to be childish ; the tears would come. 
 When Maggie was not angry, she was as dependent on kind 
 or cold words as a daisy on the sunshine or the cloud ; the 
 need of being loved would always subdue her, as, in old 
 days, it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. The brother's 
 goodness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could only show 
 itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm, 
 and said, in the tone of a kind pedagogue, 
 
 "]S~ow listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. 
 You 're always in extremes ; you have no judgment and self- 
 command ; and yet you think you know best, and will not sub- 
 mit to be guided. You know I didn't wish you to take a 
 situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good 
 home, and you might have lived respectably amongst your re- 
 lations, until I could have provided a home for you with my 
 mother. And that is what I should like to do. I wished my 
 sister to be a lady, and I would always have taken care of you, 
 as my father desired, until you were well married. But your 
 ideas and mine never accord, and you will not give way. Yet 
 
362 THE MILL ON THE FLGSS. 
 
 you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who goes 
 out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily knows 
 better what is right and respectable for his sister than she can 
 know herself. You think I am not kind ; but my kindness 
 can only be directed by what I believe to be good for you." 
 
 "Yes, I know, dear Tom," said Maggie, still half-sob- 
 bing, but trying to control her tears. " I know you would do 
 a great deal for me; I know how you work, and don't spun- 
 yourself. I am grateful to you. But, indeed, you can't quite 
 judge for me ; our natures are very different. You don't know 
 how differently things affect me from what they do you." 
 
 " Yes, I do know ; I know it too well. I know how differ- 
 ently you must feel about all that affects our family, and your 
 own dignity as a young woman, before you could think of re- 
 ceiving secret addresses from Philip Wakem. If it was not 
 disgusting to me in every other way, I should object to my 
 sister's name being associated for a moment with that of a 
 young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all, 
 and would spurn you. With any one but you, I should think 
 it quite certain that what you witnessed just before my father's 
 death would secure you from ever thinking again of Philip 
 Wakem as a lover. But I don't feel certain of it with you ; I 
 never feel certain about anything with you. At one time you 
 take pleasure in a sort of perverse self-denial, and at another 
 you have not resolution to resist a thing that you know to be 
 wrong." 
 
 There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words, that 
 hard rind of truth which is discerned by unimaginative, un- 
 sympathetic minds. Maggie always writhed under this judg- 
 ment of Tom's ; she rebelled and was humiliated in the same 
 moment ; it seemed as if he held a glass before her to show 
 her her own folly and weakness, as if he were a prophetic 
 voice predicting her future fallings ; and yet, all the while, 
 she judged him in return ; she said inwardly that he was nar- 
 row and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs 
 which were often the source of the wrong-doing or absurdity 
 that made her life a planless riddle to him. 
 
 She did not answer directly ; her heart was too full, and she 
 sat down, leaning her arm on the table. It was no use trying 
 to make Tom feel that she was near to him. He always re- 
 pelled her. Her feeling under his words was complicated by 
 the allusion to the last scene between her father and Wakem ; 
 and at length that painful, solemn memory surmounted the 
 immediate grievance. No ! She did not think of such things 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 363 
 
 with frivolous indifference, and Toin must not accuse her of 
 that. She looked up at him with a grave, earnest gaze, and 
 said, 
 
 " I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I 
 can say. But I am not so shut out from all your feelings as 
 you believe me to be. I see as well as you do, that from 
 our position with regard to Philip's father not on other 
 grounds it would be unreasonable, it would be wrong, f GJ- 
 us to entertain the idea of marriage ; and I have given up 
 thinking of him as a lover. I am telling you the truth, and 
 you have no right to disbelieve me ; I have kept my word to 
 you, and you have never detected me in a falsehood. I should 
 not only not encourage, I should carefully avoid, any inter- 
 course with Philip on any other footing than of quiet friend- 
 ship. You may think that I am unable to keep my resolutions ; 
 but at least you ought not to treat me with hard contempt on 
 the ground of faults that I have not committed yet." 
 
 " Well, Maggie," said Tom, softening under this appeal, " I 
 don't want to overstrain matters. I think, all things consid- 
 ered, it will be best for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy 
 wishes him to come to the house. I believe what you say, at 
 least you believe it yourself, I know ; I can only warn you. I 
 wish to be as good a brother to you as you will let me." 
 
 There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the 
 last words, and Maggie's ready affection came back with as 
 sudden a glow as when they were children, and bit their cake 
 together as a sacrament of conciliation. She rose and laid 
 her hand on Tom's shoulder. 
 
 " Dear Tom, I know you mean to be good. I know you have 
 had a great deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should 
 like to be a comfort to you, not to vex you. You don't think 
 I 'in altogether naughty now, do you ? " 
 
 Tom smiled at the eager face ; his smiles were very pleasant 
 to see when they did come, for the grey eyes could be tender 
 underneath the frown. 
 
 "No, Maggie." 
 
 " I may turn out better than you expect." 
 
 " I hope you will." 
 
 " And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see 
 this extremely small wife of Bob's again ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but trot away now, for I 've no more time to spare," 
 said Tom, looking at his watch. 
 
 " Not to give me a kiss ? " 
 
 Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said, 
 
364 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "There ! Be a good girl. I 've got a great deal to think of 
 to-day. I 'in going to have a long consultation with my uncle 
 Deane this afternoon." 
 
 " You '11 come to aunt Glegg 's to-morrow ? We 're going all 
 to dine early, that we may go there to tea. You must come ; 
 Lucy told me to say so." 
 
 " Oh, pooh ! I 've plenty else to do," said Tom, pulling his 
 bell violently, and bringing down the small bell-rope. 
 
 " I 'm frightened ; I shall run away," said Maggie, making 
 a laughing retreat ; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, 
 flung the bell-rope to the farther end of the room ; not very 
 far either, a touch of human experience which I flatter myself 
 will come home to the bosoms of not a few substantial or dis- 
 tinguished men who were once at an early stage of their rise 
 in the world, and were cherishing very large hopes in very 
 small lodgings. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SHOWING THAT TOM HAD OPENED THE OYSTER. 
 
 " AND now we 've settled this Newcastle business, Tom," 
 said Mr. Deane, that same afternoon, as they were seated in 
 the private room at the Bank together, " there 's another mat- 
 ter I want to talk to you about. Since you 're likely to have 
 rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it at Newcastle for the 
 next few weeks, you '11 want a good prospect of some sort to 
 keep up your spirits." 
 
 Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former 
 occasion in this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff- 
 box and gratified each nostril with deliberate impartiality. 
 
 " You see, Tom," said Mr. Deane at last, throwing himself 
 backward, " the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did 
 when I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when 
 I was much such a strapping youngster as you, a man expected 
 to pull between the shafts the best part of his life, before he 
 got the whip in his hand. The looms went slowish, and fash- 
 ions did n't alter quite so fast ; I 'd a best suit that lasted me 
 six years. Everything was on a lower scale, sir, in point of 
 expenditure, I mean. It 's this steam, you see, that has made 
 the difference ; it drives on every wheel double pace, and the 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 365 
 
 wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest 
 said at the anniversary dinner (he hits these things off won- 
 derfully, considering he 's seen nothing of business). I don't 
 find fault with the change, as some people do. Trade, sir, 
 opens a man's eyes ; and if the population is to get thicker 
 upon the ground, as it 's doing, the world must use its wits at 
 inventions of one sort or other. I know I 've done my share 
 as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it 's a 
 line thing to make two ears of corn grow where only one grew 
 before ; but, sir, it 's a fine thing, too, to further the exchange 
 of commodities, and bring the grains of corn to the moutns 
 that are hungry. And that 's our line of business ; and I con- 
 sider it as honourable a position as a man can hold, to be con- 
 nected with it." 
 
 Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak or was not 
 urgent ; Mr. Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to 
 allow either his reminiscences or his snuff to impede the prog- 
 ress of trade. Indeed, for the last month or two, there had 
 been hints thrown out to Tom which enabled him to guess 
 that he was going to hear some proposition for his own benefit. 
 With the beginning of the last speech he had stretched out his 
 legs, thrust his hands in his pockets, and prepared himself for 
 some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr. Deane 
 had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say to 
 young men in general was, that if they did n't succeed too, it 
 was because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, 
 then, when his uncle put a direct question to him. 
 
 " Let me see, it 's going on for seven years now since you 
 applied to me for a situation, eh, Tom ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I 'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom. 
 
 " Ah, it 's as well not to say that, though ; for you 'd pass 
 for a good deal older, and age tells well in business. I remem- 
 ber your coming very well ; I remember I saw there was some 
 pluck in you, and that was what made me give you encourage- 
 ment. And I 'm happy to say I was right ; I 'm not often 
 deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my nephew, 
 but I 'm happy to say you 've done me credit, sir ; and if I 'd 
 had a son o' my own, I should n't have been sorry to see him 
 like you." 
 
 Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in 
 a tone of some feeling, " jSTo, I should n't have been sorry to 
 see him like you." 
 
 " I 'm very glad I 've given you satisfaction, sir ; I 've done 
 my best," said Tom, in his proud, independent way. 
 
366 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak 
 of your conduct as a, sou; though that weighs with me in 
 my opinion of you. But what I have to do with, as a partner 
 in our firm, is the qualities you 've shown as a man o' busi- 
 ness. Ours is a fine business, a splendid concern, sir, and 
 there's no reason why it shouldn't go on growing; there's 
 a growing capital, and growing outlets for it; but there's 
 another thing that's wanted for the prosperity of every con- 
 cern, large or small, and that's men to conduct it, men of 
 the right habits ; none o' your flashy fellows, but such as are 
 to be depended on. Now this is what Mr. Guest and I see 
 clear enough. Three years ago we took Gell into the concern ; 
 we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why '' Why, be- 
 cause Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. 
 So it will always be, sir. So it was Avith me. And though 
 Gell is pretty near ten years older than you, there are other 
 points in your favour." 
 
 Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on 
 speaking ; he was conscious of something he had in his mind 
 to say, which might not be agreeable to his uncle, simply 
 because it was a new suggestion rather than an acceptance of 
 the proposition he foresaw. 
 
 " It stands to reason." Mr. Deane went on, when he had fin- 
 ished his new pinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in 
 your favour; but I don't deny that if you 'd been no relation of 
 mine at all, your conduct in that affair of Pelley's bank would 
 have led Mr. Guest and myself to make some acknowledgment 
 of the service you've been to us ; and, backed by your general 
 conduct and business ability, it has made us determine on giving 
 you a share in the business, a share which we shall be glad 
 to increase as the years go on. We think that '11 be better, on 
 all grounds, than raising your salary. It '11 give you more 
 importance, and prepare you better for taking some of the 
 anxiety off my shoulders by-and-by. I 'in equal to a good deal 
 o' work at present, thank God ; but I 'm getting older, there 's 
 no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I would open the subject 
 to you ; and when you come back from this northern busii 
 we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for a youn;.' 
 fellow of three-and-twenty, but I 'm bound to say you 've 
 deserved it." 
 
 " I 'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir ; of course I 
 feel the most indebted to you, who first took me into the 
 business, and have taken a good deal of pains with me 
 aince." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 367 
 
 Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had 
 said this. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mr. Deane. " I don't spare pains when I 
 see they'll be of any use. I gave myself some trouble with 
 Gell, else he would n't have been what he is." 
 
 "But there's one thing I should like to mention to you, 
 uncle. I 've never spoken to you of it before. If you 
 remember, at the time my father's property was sold, there 
 was some thought of your firm buying the Mill ; I know you 
 thought it would be a very good investment, especially if 
 steam were applied." 
 
 "To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us; he'd 
 made up his mind to that. He's rather fond of carrying 
 everything over other people's heads." 
 
 " Perhaps it 's of no use my mentioning it at present," Tom 
 went on, " but I wish you to know what I have in my mind 
 about the Mill. I 've a strong feeling about it. It was my 
 father's- dying wish that I should try and get it back again 
 whenever I could; it was in his family for five generations. 
 I promised my father ; and besides that, I 'm attached to the 
 place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should 
 ever suit your views to buy it for the firm, I should have 
 a better chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I should n't 
 have liked to mention the thing to you, only you've been 
 kind enough to say my services have been of some value. 
 And I 'd give up a much greater chance in life for the sake of 
 having the Mill again, I mean having it in my own hands, 
 and gradually working off the price." 
 
 Mr. Deane had listened attentively, and now looked thought- 
 ful. 
 
 " I see, I see," he said, after a while ; " the thing would be 
 possible if there were any chance of Wakem's parting with 
 the property. But that I don't see. He 's put that young 
 Jetsome in the place ; and he had his reasons when he bought 
 it, I '11 be bound." 
 
 " He 's a loose fish, that young Jetsome," said Tom. " He 's 
 taking to drinking, and they say he 's letting the business go 
 down. Luke told me about it, our old miller. He says he 
 sha'n't stay unless there 's an alteration. I was thinking, if 
 things went on in that way, Wakem might be more willing to 
 part with the Mill. Luke says he 's getting very sour about 
 the way things are going on." 
 
 " Well, I '11 turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the 
 matter, and go into it with Mr. Guest. But, you see, it 's 
 
368 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 rather striking out a new branch, and putting you to that, 
 instead of keeping you where you are, which, was what 
 we'd wanted." 
 
 " I should be able to manage more than the Mill when 
 things were once set properly going, sir. I want to have 
 plenty of work. There 's nothing else I care about much." 
 
 There was something rather sad in that speech from a 
 young man of three-and-twenty, even in Uncle Deane's busi- 
 ness-loving ears. 
 
 "Pooh, pooh ! you'll be having a wife to care about one of 
 these days, if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to 
 this Mill, we must n't reckon on our chickens too early. How- 
 ever, I promise you to bear it in mind, and when you come 
 back we '11 talk of it again. I am going to dinner now. Come 
 and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, and say good-bye to 
 your mother and sister before you start." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ILLUSTRATING THE LAWS OF ATTRACTION. 
 
 IT is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at 
 moment in her life which must be considered by all prudent 
 persons as a great opportunity for a young woman. Launched 
 into the higher society of St. Ogg's, with a striking person, 
 which had the advantage of being quite unfamiliar to the 
 majority of beholders, and with such moderate assistance of 
 costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious col- 
 loquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new starting- 
 point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Tony 
 fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that 
 "the dark-eyed girl there in the corner" might see him in 
 all the additional style conferred by his eye-glass ; and several 
 young ladies went home intending to have short sleeves with 
 black lace, and to plait their hair in a broad coronet at the 
 back of their head, " That cousin of Miss Deane's looked so 
 very well." In fact, poor Maggie, with all her inward con- 
 sciousness of a painful past and her presentiment of a troub- 
 lous future, was on the way to become an object of some envy, 
 a topic of discussion in the newly established billiard-room, 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 369 
 
 and between fair friends who had no secrets from each other 
 on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associ- 
 ated chiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. 
 Ogg's, and were the glass of fashion there, took some excep- 
 tion to Maggie's manners. She had a way of not assenting at 
 once to the observations current in good society, and of saying 
 that she did n't know whether those observations were true or 
 not, which gave her an air of gaucherie, and impeded the even 
 flow of conversation ; but it is a fact capable of an amiable 
 interpretation, that ladies are not the worst disposed towards 
 a new acquaintance of their own sex because she has points of 
 inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without those pretty 
 airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of driv- 
 ing gentlemen to despair, that she won some feminine pity 
 for being so ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not 
 had many advantages, poor thing ! and it must be admitted 
 there was no pretension about her ; her abruptness and un- 
 evenness of manner were plainly the result of her secluded 
 and lowly circumstances. It was only a wonder that there 
 was no tinge of vulgarity about her, considering what the 
 rest of poor Lucy's relations were, an allusion which always 
 made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not agreeable 
 to think of any connection by marriage with such people as 
 the Gleggs and the Pullets ; but it was of no use to contradict 
 Stephen when once he had set his mind on anything, and cer- 
 tainly there was no possible objection to Lucy in herself, no 
 one could help liking her. She would naturally desire that 
 the Miss Guests should behave kindly to this cousin of whom 
 she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great fuss if they 
 were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances the in- 
 vitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, 
 also, Miss Deane was too popular and too distinguished a 
 member of society in St. Ogg's for any attention towards her 
 to be neglected. 
 
 Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young 
 lady's life, and knew what it was to get up in the morning 
 without any imperative reason for doing one thing more than 
 another. This new sense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment 
 amidst the soft-breathing airs and garden-scents of advancing 
 spring amidst the new abundance of music, and lingering 
 strolls in the sunshine, and the delicious dreaminess of glid- 
 ing on the river could hardly be without some intoxicating 
 effect on her, after her years of privation ; and even in the first 
 week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories 
 
 24 
 
370 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 and anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now ; 
 it was becoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to 
 feel that she was one of the beautiful things of this spring- 
 time. And there were admiring eyes always awaiting her 
 now ; she was no longer an unheeded person, liable to be chid, 
 from whom attention was continually claimed, and on whom 
 no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant, too, when 
 Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at the 
 piano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers 
 and the keys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kin- 
 ship not to be worn out by separation ; to get the tunes she 
 had heard the evening before, and repeat them again and again 
 until she had found out a way of producing them so as to 
 make them a more pregnant, passionate language to her. The 
 mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and she 
 would often take up a book of studies rather than any melody, 
 that she might taste more keenly by abstraction the more 
 primitive sensation of intervals. Not that her enjoyment of 
 music was of the kind that indicates a great specific talent ; it 
 was rather that her sensibility to the supreme excitement of 
 music was only one form of that passionate sensibility which 
 belonged to her whole nature, and made her faults and virtues 
 all merge in each other; made her affections sometimes an 
 impatient demand, but also prevented her vanity from taking 
 the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it 
 the poetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long 
 while, and need to be told, not her characteristics, but her 
 history, which is a thing hardly to be predicted even from the 
 completest knowledge of characteristics. For the tragedy of 
 our lives is not created entirely from within. "Character," 
 says Novalis, in one of his questionable aphorisms, " char- 
 acter is destiny." But not the whole of our destiny. Hamlet, 
 Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we 
 have a great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had 
 lived to a good old age, and his uncle had died an early death, 
 we can conceive Hamlet's having married Ophelia, and got 
 through life with a reputation of sanity, notwithstanding 
 many soliloquies, and some moody sarcasms towards the fail- 
 daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the frankest incivility 
 to his father-in-law. 
 
 Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must 
 wait for it to reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river ; 
 we only know that the river is full and rapid, and that for all 
 rivers there is the same final home. Under the charm of her 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 371 
 
 new pleasures, Maggie herself was ceasing to think, with her 
 eager prefiguring imagination, of her future lot; and her 
 anxiety about her first interview with Philip was losing its 
 predominance ; perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she was not 
 sorry that the interview had been deferred. 
 
 For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and 
 Mr. Stephen Guest brought word that he was gone to the coast, 
 probably, he thought, on a sketching expedition ; but it was 
 not certain when he would return. It was just like Philip, 
 to go off in that way without telling any one. It was not un- 
 til the twelfth day that he returned, to find both Lucy's notes 
 awaiting him ; he had left before he knew of Maggie's arrival. 
 
 Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite con- 
 vinced of the feelings that were crowded for Maggie into 
 those twelve days ; of the length to which they were 
 stretched for her by the novelty of her experience in them, 
 and the varying attitudes of her mind. The early days of an 
 acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, and 
 fill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent 
 periods, which have been less filled with discovery and new 
 impressions. There were not many hours in those ten days 
 in which Mr. Stephen Guest was not seated by Lucy's side, or 
 standing near her at the piano, or accompanying her on some 
 outdoor excursion ; his attentions were clearly becoming more 
 assiduous, and that was what every one had expected. Lucy 
 was very happy, all the happier because Stephen's society 
 seemed to have become much more interesting and amusing 
 since Maggie had been there. Playful discussions some- 
 times serious ones were going forward, in which both 
 Stephen and Maggie revealed themselves, to the admiration 
 of the gentle, unobtrusive Lucy ; and it more than once crossed 
 her mind what a charming quartet they should have through 
 life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable thing 
 that a girl should enjoy her lover's society the more for the 
 presence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm 
 of jealousy that the third person had the conversation habitu- 
 ally directed to her ? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted 
 as Lucy, thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows 
 the state of her companions' affections, and not prone to the 
 feelings which shake such a belief in the absence of positive 
 evidence against it. Besides, it was Lucy by whom Stephen 
 sat, to whom he gave his arm, to whom he appealed as the 
 person sure to agree with him ; and every day there was the 
 same tender politeness towards her, the same consciousnees of 
 
372 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 her wants and care to supply them. Was there really the 
 same ? It seemed to Lucy that there was more ; and it was 
 no wonder that the real significance of the change escaped her. 
 It was a subtle act of conscience in Stephen that even he him- 
 self was not aware of. His personal attentions to Maggie 
 were comparatively slight, and there had even sprung up an 
 apparent distance between them, that prevented the renewal 
 of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he had fallen 
 the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was 
 out of the room, if Lucy left them together, they never spoke 
 to each other ; Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books 
 or music, and Maggie bent her head assiduously over her 
 work. Each was oppressively conscious of the other's pres- 
 ence, even to the finger-ends. Yet each looke' and longed 
 for the same thing' to happen the next day. Neither of them 
 had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, "To 
 what does all this tend ? " Maggie only felt that life was re- 
 vealing something quite new to her ; and she was absorbed in 
 the direct, immediate experience, without any energy left for 
 taking account of it and reasoning .about it. Stephen wilfully 
 abstained from self-questioning, and would not admit to himself 
 that he felt an influence which was to have any determining 
 effect on his conduct. And when Lucy came into the room 
 again, they were once more unconstrained ; Maggie could con- 
 tradict Stephen, and laugh at him, and he could recommend to 
 her consideration the example of that most charming heroine, 
 Miss Sophia Western, who had a great " respect for the un- 
 derstandings of men." Maggie could look at Stephen, which, 
 for some reason or other, she always avoided when they were 
 alone ; and he could even ask her to play his accompaniment 
 for him, since Lucy's fingers were so busy with that bazaar- 
 work, and lecture her on hurrying the tempo, which was cer- 
 tainly Maggie's weak point. 
 
 One day it was the day of Philip's return Lucy had 
 formed a sudden engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. 
 Kenn, whose delicate state of health, threatening to become 
 confirmed illness through an attack of bronchitis, obliged her 
 to resign her functions at the coming bazaar into the hands of 
 other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to be one. The en- 
 gagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he had 
 heard Lucy promise to dine early and call at six o'clock for 
 Miss Torry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request. 
 
 " Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar," 
 Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room. 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 373 
 
 " taking young ladies from the duties of the domestic 
 hearth into scenes of dissipation among urn-rugs and em- 
 broidered reticules ! I should like to know what is the 
 proper function of women, if it is not to make reasons for 
 husbands to stay at home, and still stronger reasons for 
 bachelors to go out. If this goes on much longer, the bonds 
 of society will be dissolved." 
 
 " Well, it will not go on much longer," said Lucy, laughing, 
 " for the bazaar is to take place on Monday week." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " said Stephen. " Kenn himself said the 
 other day that he did n't like this plan of making vanity do 
 the work of charity ; but just as the British public is not rea- 
 sonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St. Ogg's has not 
 got force of motive enough to build and endow schools without 
 calling in the force of folly." 
 
 " Did he say so ? " said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening 
 wide with anxiety. " I never heard him say anything of that 
 kind ; I thought he approved of what we were doing." 
 
 " I 'm sure he approves you" said Stephen, smiling at her 
 affectionately ; " your conduct in going out to-night looks 
 vicious, I own, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom 
 of it." ' 
 
 " Oh, you think too well of me," said Lucy, shaking her head, 
 with a pretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was 
 tacitly understood that Stephen would not come in the evening ; 
 and on the strength of that tacit understanding, he made his 
 morning visit the longer, not saying good-bye until after four. 
 
 Maggie was seated in the drawing-room, alone, shortly after 
 dinner, with Minny on her lap, having left her uncle to his 
 wine and his nap, and her mother to the compromise between 
 knitting and nodding, which, when there was no company, she 
 always carried on in the dining-room till tea-time. Maggie 
 was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, and comforting him 
 for his mistress's absence, when the sound of a footstep on the 
 gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephen Guest 
 walking up the garden, as if he had come straight from the 
 river. It was very unusual to see him so soon after dinner ! 
 He often complained that their dinner-hour was late at Park 
 House. Nevertheless, there he was, in his black dress ; he 
 had evidently been home, and must have come again by the 
 river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart beating ; 
 it was natural she should be nervous, for she was not accus- 
 tomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up 
 through the open window, and raised his hat as he walked 
 
374 THE MILL ON 1 THE FLOSS. 
 
 towards it, to enter that way instead of by the door. He 
 blushed too, and certainly looked as foolish as a young man 
 of some wit and self-possession can be expected to look, as he 
 walked in with a roll of music in his hand, and said, with an 
 air of hesitating improvisation, 
 
 " You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver ; I ought 
 to apologise for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to 
 come into the town, and I got our man to row me ; so I thought 
 1 would bring these things from the ' Maid of Artois ' for your 
 cousin ; I forgot them this morning. Will you give them to 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny 
 in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat 
 down again. 
 
 Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled 
 on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had 
 never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite 
 aware that it was an entirely new position. 
 
 " Well, you pampered minion ! " said Stephen, leaning to pull 
 the long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It w;is 
 not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it 
 up by further development, it naturally left the conversation 
 at a stand-still. It seemed to Stephen like some action in a 
 dream that he was obliged to do, and wonder at himself all 
 the while, to go on stroking Minny's head. Yet it was very 
 pleasant ; he only wished he dared look at Maggie, and that 
 she would look at him, let him have one long look into those 
 deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he would be satisfied and 
 quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a 
 sort of monomania with him, to want that long look from 
 Maggie ; and he was racking his invention continually to find 
 out some means by which he could have it without its appear- 
 ing singular and entailing subsequent embarrassment. As 
 for Maggie, she had no distinct thought, only the sense of a 
 presence like that of a closely hovering broad-winged bird in 
 the darkness, for she was unable to look up, and saw nothing 
 but Minny's black wavy coat. 
 
 But this must end some time, perhaps it ended very soon, 
 and only seemed long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at 
 last sat upright sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and 
 arm over the back and looking at Maggie. What should he 
 say? 
 
 " We shall have a splendid sunset, I think } sha'n't you go 
 out and see it ? " 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 375 
 
 " I don't know," said Maggie. Then, courageously raising 
 her eyes and looking out of the window, " if I 'm not playing 
 cribbage with my uncle." 
 
 A pause ; during which Minny is stroked again, but has suf- 
 ficient insight not to be grateful for it, to growl rather. 
 
 " Do you like sitting alone ? " 
 
 A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just glanc- 
 ing at Stephen, she said, "Would it be quite civil to say 
 1 yes ' ? " 
 
 " It was rather a dangerous question for an intruder to 
 ask," said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting 
 determined to stay for another. "But you will have more 
 than half an hour to yourself after I am gone," he added, 
 taking out his watch. " I know Mr. Deane never comes in 
 till half-past seven." 
 
 Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out 
 of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to 
 look down at Minny 's back again, and said, 
 
 " I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our 
 music." 
 
 " We shall have a new voice to-morrow night," said Stephen. 
 " Will you tell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is 
 come back ? I saw him as I went home." 
 
 Maggie gave a little start, it seemed hardly more than a 
 vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But 
 the new images summoned by Philip's name dispersed half 
 the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose from her 
 chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his 
 cushion, went to reach Lucy's large work-basket from its 
 corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thought 
 perhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be men- 
 tioned to her in that abrupt way, for he now recalled what 
 Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no use 
 to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table 
 with her work, and looking chill and proud ; and he he 
 looked like a simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, en 
 tirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man disa 
 greeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie's 
 thinking, that he had dined hastily in his own room for 
 the sake of setting off again and finding her alone. 
 
 A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentle- 
 man of five-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge ! But a 
 reference to history, perhaps, may make it not incredible. 
 
 At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along 
 
376 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the ground, and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, 
 and picking up the ball, met her with a vexed, complaining 
 look that gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, 
 whose own eyes met them as he presented the ball to her. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same 
 beseeching discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out 
 his hand; he thrust both hands into his tail-pockets as he 
 spoke. Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude. 
 
 " Won't you stay ? " she said timidly, not looking away, for 
 that would have seemed rude again. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Stephen, looking still into the half- 
 unwilling, half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks towards 
 the track of the distant brook. " The boat is waiting for me. 
 You '11 tell your cousin ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " That I brought the music, I mean ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And that Philip is come back ? " 
 
 " Yes." (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time.) 
 
 " Won't you come out a little way into the garden ? " said 
 Stephen, in a still gentler tone ; but the next moment he was 
 vexed that she did not say " No," for she moved away now 
 towards the open window, and he was obliged to take his hat 
 and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make 
 him amends. 
 
 " Do take my arm," he said, in a low tone, as if it were a 
 secret. 
 
 There is something strangely winning to most women in 
 that offer of the firm arm ; the help is not wanted physically 
 at that moment, but the sense of help, the presence of strength 
 that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of 
 the imagination. Either on that ground or some other, Maggie 
 took the arm. And they walked together round the grass-plot 
 and under the drooping green of the laburnums, in the same 
 dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour 
 'Before ; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, 
 vithout yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning 
 reasonableness, and Maggie had darting thoughts across the 
 dimness, how came he to be there ? Why had she come 
 out ? Not a word was spoken. If it had been, each would 
 have been less intensely conscious of the other. 
 
 " Take care of this step," said Stephen at last. 
 
 " Oh, I will go in now," said Maggie, feeling that the step 
 had come like a rescue. " Good evening." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 377 
 
 In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running 
 back to the house. She did not reflect that this sudden action 
 would only add to the embarrassing recollections of the last 
 half -hour. She had no thought left for that. She only threw 
 herself into the low arm-chair, and burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again so 
 quietly in the Red Deeps." 
 
 Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the 
 boat, and was soon landed at the wharf. He spent the even- 
 ing in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and 
 losing " lives " at pool. But he would not leave off. He was 
 determined not to think, not to admit any more distinct 
 remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual pres- 
 ence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his 
 arm. 
 
 But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool 
 starlight, and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, 
 and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself 
 alone with Maggie again. It was all madness ; he was in 
 love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and engaged, engaged 
 as strongly as an honourable man need be. He wished he 
 had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever 
 by her in this way ; she would make a sweet, strange, trou- 
 blesome, adorable wife to some man or other, but he would 
 never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did ? 
 He hoped she did not. He ought not to have gone. He 
 would master himself in future. He would make himself dis- 
 agreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with 
 her ? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had 
 such eyes, defying and deprecating, contradicting and cling- 
 ing, imperious and beseeching, full of delicious opposites ? 
 To see such a creature subdued by love for one would be a 
 lot worth having to another man. 
 
 There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward 
 soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, 
 and thrusting his hands into his pockets, stalked along at a 
 quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a 
 benedictory kind. 
 
378 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PHILIP KE-ENTEKS. 
 
 THE next morning was very wet , the sort of morning on 
 which male neighbours who have no imperative occupation 
 at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. 
 The rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or 
 ride one way, is sure to become so heavy, and at the same 
 time so certain to clear up by-and-by, that nothing but an 
 open quarrel can abbreviate the visit ; latent detestation will 
 not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what can 
 be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning? English 
 sunshine is dubious ; bonnets are never quite secure ; and if 
 you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the 
 rain is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a mack- 
 intosh, and presently find yourself in the seat you like best, 
 a little above or a little below the one on which your god- 
 dess sits (it is the same thing to the metaphysical mind, and 
 that is the reason why women are at once worshipped and 
 looked down upon), with a satisfactory confidence that there 
 will be no lady-callers. 
 
 " Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know," said 
 Lucy ; " he always does when it 's rainy." 
 
 Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen ; 
 she began to think she should dislike him ; and if it had not 
 been for the rain, she would have gone to her aunt Glegg's 
 this morning, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, 
 she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with 
 her mother. 
 
 But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another 
 visitor a nearer neighbour who preceded him. When 
 Philip entered the room, he was going merely to bow to 
 Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which 
 he was bound not to betray ; but when she advanced towards 
 him and put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had 
 been taken into her confidence. It was a moment of some 
 agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in 
 preparing for it ; but like all persons who have passed through 
 life with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 379 
 
 self-control, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from 
 any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, 
 a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice 
 pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seem 
 expressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip 
 usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its 
 fierceness. But Maggie, who had little more power of con- 
 cealing the impressions made upon her than if she had been 
 constructed of musical strings, felt her eyes getting larger 
 with tears as they took each other's hands in silence. They 
 were not painful tears; they had rather something of the 
 same origin as the tears women and children shed when they 
 have found some protection to cling to and look back on the 
 threatened danger. For Philip, who a little while ago was 
 associated continually in Maggie's mind with the sense that 
 Tom might reproach her with some justice, had now, in this 
 short space, become a sort of outward conscience to her, that 
 she might fly to for rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender 
 affection for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, 
 and its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinct suc- 
 cessive impressions the first instinctive bias, the fact that 
 in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly 
 devotedness than to her vanity or other egoistic excitability 
 of her nature, seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a 
 sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influ- 
 ence which the best part of herself must resist ; which must 
 bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This 
 new sense of her relation to Philip nullified the anxious 
 scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest she should over- 
 step the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would sanc- 
 tion ; and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in 
 her eyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The 
 scene was just what Lucy expected, and her kind heart 
 delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again ; 
 though, even with all her regard for Philip, she could not 
 resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse 
 for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity between the 
 two, a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who did n't like 
 poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as 
 possible, to set them at ease. 
 
 " This was very good and virtuous of you," she said, in her 
 pretty treble, like the low conversational notes of little birds, 
 "to come so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I 
 will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, 
 
880 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 and giving your friends no notice. Come and sit down here," 
 she went on, placing the chair that would suit him best, ''and 
 you shall find yourself treated mercifully." 
 
 " You will never govern well, Miss l5eane," said Philip, as 
 he seated himself, " because no one will ever believe in your 
 severity. People will always encourage themselves in misde- 
 meanours by the certainty that you will be indulgent." 
 
 Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not 
 hear what it was, for he had naturally turned towards Maggie, 
 and she was looking at him with that open, affectionate 
 scrutiny which we give to a friend from whom we have \x-c\\ 
 long separated. What a moment their parting had been ! 
 And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He 
 felt this so keenly, with such intense, detailed remembrance, 
 with such passionate revival of all that had been said and 
 looked in their last conversation, that with that jealousy 
 and distrust which in diffident natures is almost inevitably 
 linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggie's 
 glance and manner the evidence of a change. The very 1'aet 
 that he feared and half expected it would be sure to make 
 this thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the 
 contrary. 
 
 " I am having a great holiday, am I not ? " said Maggie. 
 " Lucy is like a fairy godmother ; she has turned me from a 
 drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge 
 myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want 
 before I know it myself." 
 
 " I am sure she is the happier for having you, then," said 
 Philip. " You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets 
 to her. And you look well. You are benefiting by the 
 change." 
 
 Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, 
 till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a 
 good imitation of annoyance, that she had forgotten some- 
 thing, and was quickly out of the room. 
 
 In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the 
 hands were clasped again, with a look of sad contentment, 
 like that of friends who meet in the memory of recent sorrow. 
 
 " I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip ; I asked 
 him to release me from my promise, and he consented." 
 
 Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at 
 once the position they must hold towards each other ; but she 
 checked herself. The things that had happened since he had 
 spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 381 
 
 from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like 
 an injury towards Philip even to mention her brother, her 
 brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking too 
 entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that 
 moment. 
 
 " Then we can at least be friends, Maggie ? There is noth- 
 ing to hinder that now ? " 
 
 " Will not your father object ? " said Maggie, withdrawing 
 her hand. 
 
 " I should not give you up on any ground but your own 
 wish, Maggie," said Philip, colouring. "There are points on 
 which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. 
 That is one." 
 
 " Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip, 
 seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here; 
 I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon, to a new 
 situation." 
 
 " Is that inevitable, Maggie ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for 
 the life I must begin again at last. I can't live in dependence, 
 I can't live with my brother, though he is very good to me. 
 He would like to provide for me ; but that would be intoler- 
 able to me." 
 
 Philip was silent a few moments, and then said, in that 
 high, feeble voice which with him indicated the resolute sup- 
 pression of emotion, 
 
 " Is there no other alternative, Maggie ? Is that life, away 
 from those who love you, the only one you will allow yourself 
 to look forward to ? " 
 
 " Yes, Philip," she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if she 
 entreated him to believe that she was compelled to this course. 
 "At least, as things are ; I don't know what may be in years to 
 come. But I begin to think there can never come much hap- 
 piness to me from loving; I have always had so much pain 
 mingled with it. I wish I could make myself a world outside 
 it, as men do." 
 
 " Now you are returning to your old thought in a new form, 
 Maggie, the thought I used to combat," said Philip, with a 
 slight tinge of bitterness. " You want to find out a mode of 
 renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you 
 again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or 
 mutilating one's nature. What would become of me, if I 
 tried to escape from pain ? Scorn and cynicism would be my 
 only opium ; unless I could fall into some kind of conceited 
 
THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 madness, and fancy myself a favourite of Heaven because 1 
 ain not a favourite with men." 
 
 The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip 
 went on speaking ; the words were evidently an outlet for sonic 
 immediate feeling of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. 
 There was a pain pressing on him at that moment. He shrank 
 with proud delicacy from the faintest allusion to the words of 
 love, of plighted love that had passed between them. It 
 would have seemed to him like reminding Maggie of a promise ; 
 it would have had for him something of the baseness of com- 
 pulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had 
 not changed ; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. 
 His love for Maggie was stamped, even more than the rest of 
 his experience, with the exaggerated sense that he was an 
 exception, that she, that every one, saw him in the light of 
 an exception. 
 
 But Maggie was conscience-stricken. 
 
 " Yes, Philip," she said, with her childish contrition when 
 he used to chide her, " you are right, I know. I do always 
 think too much of my own feelings, and not enough of 
 others', not enough of yours. I had need have you always 
 to find fault with me and teach me j so many things have come 
 true that you used to tell me." 
 
 Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head 
 on her hand and looking at Philip with half-penitent depend- 
 ent affection, as she said this ; while he was returning her 
 gaze with an expression that, to her consciousness, gradually 
 became less vague, became charged with a specific recollec- 
 tion. Had his mind flown back to something that she now 
 remembered, something about a lover of Lucy's ? It was 
 a thought that made her shudder ; it gave new definiteness to 
 her present position, and to the tendency of what had hap- 
 pened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, 
 urged to change her position by that positive physical oppres- 
 sion at the heart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental 
 pang. 
 
 " What is the matter, Maggie ? Has something happened ? " 
 Philip said, in inexpressible anxiety, his imagination being 
 only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them 
 both. 
 
 " No, nothing," said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip 
 must not have that odious thought in his mind; she would 
 banish it from her own. " Nothing," she repeated, " except 
 in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the effect 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 383 
 
 of my starved life, as you called it ; and I do. I am too eager 
 in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now they are 
 come to me." 
 
 She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while 
 Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she had anything 
 more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in 
 Maggie's character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. But 
 soon there came a violent well-known ring at the door-bell 
 resounding through the house. 
 
 " Oh, what a startling announcement ! " said Maggie, quite 
 mistress of herself, though not without some inward nutter, 
 "I wonder where Lucy is." 
 
 Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval 
 long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she 
 herself ushered Stephen in. 
 
 " Well, old fellow," he said, going straight up to Philip and 
 shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in pass- 
 ing, " it 's glorious to have you back again ; only I wish you 'd 
 conduct yourself a little less like a sparrow with a residence 
 on the house-top, and not go in and out constantly without 
 letting the servants know. This is about the twentieth time 
 I 've had to scamper up those countless stairs to that painting- 
 room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought 
 you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship." 
 
 " I 've so few visitors, it seems hardly worth while to leave 
 notice of my exit and entrances," said Philip, feeling rather 
 oppressed just then by Stephen's bright strong presence and 
 strong voice. 
 
 " Are you quite well this morning, Miss Tulliver ? " said 
 Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting 
 out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty. 
 
 Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, " Quite well, 
 thank you," in a tone of proud indifference. Philip's eyes 
 were watching them keenly ; but Lucy was used to seeing 
 variations in their manner to each other, and only thought 
 with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every 
 now and then surmounted their mutual good-will. " Maggie 
 is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated 
 by something in him which she interprets as conceit," was the 
 silent observation that accounted for everything to guileless 
 Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner completed this 
 studied greeting than each felt hurt by the other's coldness. 
 And Stephen, while rattling on in questions to Philip about 
 his recent sketching expedition, was thinking all the more 
 
384 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the com < i- 
 sation as he had invariably done before. " Maggie and Philip 
 are not looking happy," thought Lucy ; " this first interview 
 has been saddening to them." 
 
 "I think we people who have not been galloping," she said 
 to Stephen, " are all a little damped by the rain. Let us have 
 some music. We ought to take advantage of having Philip 
 and you together. Give us the duet in ' Masaniello ; ' Maggie 
 has not heard that, and I know it will suit her." 
 
 " Come, then," said Stephen, going towards the piano, and 
 giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep " brum-bruin," very 
 pleasant to hear. 
 
 "You, please, Philip, you play the accompaniment," said 
 Lucy, " and then I can go on with my work. You will like to 
 play, sha'n't you ? " she added, with a pretty, inquiring look, 
 anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not 
 pleasant to another ; but with yearnings towards her unfin- 
 ished embroidery. 
 
 Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no 
 feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that 
 does not find relief in music, that does not make a man 
 sing or play the better ; and Philip had an abundance of pent- 
 up feeling at this moment, as complex as any trio or quartet 
 that was ever meant to express love and jealousy and resig- 
 nation and fierce suspicion, all at the same time. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said, seating himself at the piano, " it is 
 a way of eking out one 's imperfect life and being three 
 people at once, to sing and make the piano sing, and hear 
 them both all the while, or else to sing and paint." 
 
 "Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing 
 with niy hands," said Stephen. "That has generally been 
 observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe, 
 a tendency to predominance of the reflective powers in me ! 
 Have n't you observed that, Miss Tulliver ? " 
 
 Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful 
 appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering 
 flush and epigram. 
 
 " I have observed a tendency to predominance," she said, 
 smiling; and Philip at that moment devoutly hoped that 
 she found the tendency disagreeable. 
 
 " Come, come," said Lucy ; " music, music ! We will discuss 
 each other's qualities another time." 
 
 Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when 
 music began. She tried harder than ever to-day ; for the 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 385 
 
 thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his 
 singing was one that no longer roused a merely playful 
 resistance ; and she knew, too, that it was his habit always 
 to stand so that he could look at her. But it was of no 
 use ; she soon threw her work down, and all her intentions 
 were lost in the vague state of emotion produced by the 
 inspiring duet, emotion that seemed to make her at once 
 strong and weak ; strong for all enjoyment, weak for all 
 resistance. When the strain passed into the minor, she 
 half started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that 
 change. Poor Maggie ! She looked very beautiful when 
 her soul was being played on in this way by the inexorable 
 power of sound. You might have seen the slightest percep- 
 tible quivering through her whole frame as she leaned a 
 little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself ; 
 while her eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, 
 childish expression of wondering delight which always came 
 back in her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other times 
 had always been at the piano when Maggie was looking 
 in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her 
 and kiss her. Philip, too, caught a glimpse of her now and 
 then round the open book on the desk, and felt that he 
 had never before seen her under so strong an influence. 
 
 " More, more ! " said Lucy, when the duet had been encored. 
 " Something spirited again. Maggie always says she likes a 
 great rush of sound." 
 
 "It must be 'Let us take the road,' then," said Stephen, 
 " so suitable for a wet morning. But are you prepared to 
 abandon the most sacred duties of life, and come and sing 
 with us ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said Lucy, laughing. " If you will look out the 
 ' Beggar's Opera' from the large canterbury. It has a dingy 
 cover." 
 
 "That is a great clue, considering there are about a score 
 covers here of rival dinginess," said Stephen, drawing out 
 the canterbury. 
 
 " Oh, play something the while, Philip," said Lucy, noticing 
 that his fingers were wandering over the keys. " What is 
 that you are falling into ? something delicious that I don't 
 know." 
 
 "Don't you know that?" said Philip, bringing out the 
 tune more definitely. " It 's from the ' Somnambula ' 
 'Ah! perche non posso odiarti.' I don't know the opera, but 
 it appears the tenor is telling the heroine that he shall always 
 
 25 
 
386 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 love her thcmgh she may forsake him. You 've heard me 
 sin'.,' it to the English words, ' I love thee still.' " 
 
 It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered 
 into this song, which might be an indirect expression to 
 Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to 
 her directly. Her ears had been open to what he was say- 
 ing, and when he began to sing, she understood the plaintive 
 passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very fine 
 qualities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her ; it had 
 sung to her by snatches, in a subdued way, among the grassy 
 walks and hollows, and underneath the leaning ash-tree in the 
 Red Deeps. There seemed to be some reproach in the words ; 
 did Philip mean that ? She wished she had assured him more 
 distinctly in their conversation that she desired not to renew 
 the hope of love between them, only because it clashed with 
 her inevitable circumstances. She was touched, not thrilled 
 by the song ; it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, 
 and brought quiet regret in the place of excitement. 
 
 '< That 's the way with you tenors," said Stephen, who was 
 waiting with music in his hand while Philip finished the song. 
 "You demoralise the fair sex by warbling your sentimental 
 love and constancy under all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing 
 short of having your heads served up in a dish like that me- 
 diaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent you from expressing 
 your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote, while 
 Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins." 
 
 Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy, 
 
 " Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 Die because a woman 's fair ? " 
 
 and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new 
 influence. Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went 
 towards the piano with laughing, admiring looks at him ; and 
 Maggie, in spite of her resistance to the spirit of the song 
 and to the singer, was taken hold of and shaken by the invis- 
 ible influence, was borne along by a wave too strong for her. 
 
 But, angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her 
 work, and went on making false stitches and pricking her 
 fingers with much perseverance, not looking up or taking 
 notice of what was going forward, until all the three voices 
 united in " Let us take the road." 
 
 I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing grati- 
 fication in her mind if she had known how entirely this saucy, 
 defiant Stephen was occupied with her ; how he was passing 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 387 
 
 rapidly from a determination to treat her with ostentatious in- 
 difference to an irritating desire for some sign of inclination 
 from her, some interchange of subdued word or look with 
 her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when 
 they had passed to the music of " The Tempest." Maggie, 
 feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room 
 to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then, and 
 was conscious of all her movements, guessed her want, and 
 Hew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with an entreating 
 look at her, which made it impossible not to return a glance of 
 gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed carefully by 
 a too self-confident personage, not any self-confident person- 
 age, but one in particular, who suddenly looks humble and 
 anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is not some 
 draught in that position between the window and the fireplace, 
 and if he may not be allowed to move the work-table for her, 
 these things will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous 
 tenderness into a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her 
 girlish time to learn her life-lessons in very trivial language. 
 And to Maggie such things had not been every-day incidents, 
 but were a new element in her life, and found her keen ap- 
 petite for homage quite fresh. That tone of gentle solicitude 
 obliged her to look at the face that was bent towards her, and 
 to say, " No, thank you ; " and nothing could prevent that 
 mutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the 
 evening before. 
 
 It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen ; it had 
 hardly taken two minutes ; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely 
 noticed it. But to Philip's mind, filled already with a vague 
 anxiety that was likely to find a definite ground for itself in 
 any trivial incident, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the 
 change in Maggie's face, which was plainly reflecting a beam 
 from his, seemed so strong a contrast with the previous over- 
 wrought signs of indifference, as to be charged with painful 
 meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again, jarred upon his 
 nervous susceptibility as if it had been the clang of sheet-iron, 
 and he felt inclined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. 
 He had really seen no communicable ground for suspecting 
 any unusual feeling between Stephen and Maggie; his own 
 reason told him so, and he wanted to go home at once that he 
 might reflect coolly on these false images, till he had convinced 
 himself of their nullity. But then, again, he wanted to stay as 
 long ixs Stephen stayed, always to be present when Stephen 
 was present with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural, 
 
388 THE MILL ON THE FLUSH. 
 
 nay, inevitable, that any man who was near Maggie should fall 
 in love with her ! There was no promise oi happiness for her 
 if she were beguiled into loving Stephen Guest; and this 
 thought emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in 
 the light of a less unequal offering. He was beginning to play 
 very falsely under this deafening inward tumult, and Lucy 
 was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs. Tulliver's en- 
 tranee to summon them to lunch came as an excuse for ab- 
 ruptly breaking off the music. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Philip ! " said Mr. Deane, when they entered the 
 dining-room, "I've not seen you for a long while. Vour 
 father's not at home, I think, is he ? I went after him to the 
 otfice the other day, and they said ho was out of town." 
 
 " He 's been to Mudport on business for several days," said 
 Philip ; " but he 's come back now." 
 
 " As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh ? " 
 
 " I believe so," said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden 
 interest in his father's pursuits. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Deane, " he 's got some land in his own 
 hands on this side the river as well as the other, I think ? " 
 
 " Yes, he has." 
 
 " Ah ! " continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeon- 
 pie, " he must find farming a heavy item, an expensive 
 hobby. I never had a hobby myself, never would give in 
 to that. And the worst of all hobbies are those that people 
 think they can get money at. They shoot their money down 
 like corn out of a sack then." 
 
 Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently 
 gratuitous criticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it 
 ceased there, and Mr. Deane became unusually silent ;m<l 
 meditative during his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch 
 all indications in her father, arid having reasons, which had 
 recently become strong, for an extra interest in what referred 
 to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had 
 prompted her father's questions. His subsequent silence mad' 1 
 her suspect there had been some special reason for them in hi:, 
 mind. 
 
 With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan 
 when she wanted to tell or ask her father anything particular : 
 she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the dining- 
 room after dinner, and seated herself on a small stool at her 
 father's knee. Mr. Deane, under those circumstances, con- 
 sidered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments 
 his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 389 
 
 Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually 
 began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions. 
 
 " You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, do you ? " she 
 said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large fingers 
 that clutched the snuff-box. 
 
 " Not yet," said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit 
 in the decanter. " But what do you want ? " he added, pinch- 
 ing the dimpled chin fondly, " to coax some more sovereigns 
 out of my pocket for your bazaar ? Eh ? " 
 
 " No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to 
 talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip 
 Wakem about his father's farming to-day, papa ? It seemed 
 rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him 
 about his father ; and why should you care about Mr. Wakem's 
 losing money by his hobby ? " 
 
 " Something to do with business," said Mr. Deane, waving 
 his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery. 
 
 " But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakem has brought Philip 
 up like a girl; how came you to think you should get any 
 business knowledge out of him ? Those abrupt questions 
 sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer." 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! " said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his 
 social demeanour, with which he had taken some pains in his 
 upward progress. " There 's a report that Wakem's mill and 
 farm on the other side of the river Dorlcote Mill, your xmcle 
 Tulliver's, you know is n't answering so well as it did. I 
 wanted to see if your friend Philip would let anything out 
 about his father's being tired of farming." 
 
 " Why ? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he Tvould part 
 with it ? " said Lucy, eagerly. " Oh, tell me everything ; 
 here, you shall have your snuff-box if you '11 tell me. Because 
 Maggie says all their hearts are set on Tom's getting back the 
 mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said 
 to Tom, that he must get back the mill." 
 
 " Hush, you little puss," said Mr. Deane, availing himself 
 of the restored snuff-box. " You must not say a word about 
 this thing ; do you hear ? There 's very little chance of their 
 getting the mill, or of anybody's getting it out of Wakem's 
 hands. And if he knew that we wanted it with a view to 
 the Tullivers' getting it again, he 'd be the less likely to part 
 with it. It 's natural, after what happened. He behaved well 
 enough to Tulliver before ; but a horsewhipping is not likely 
 to be paid for with sugar-plums." 
 
 "Now, papa," said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, 
 
390 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " will you trust me ? You must not ask me all my reasons 
 for what I'm going to say, but I have very strong reasons. 
 And I 'm very cautious ; I am, indeed." 
 
 " Well, let us hear." 
 
 " Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into 
 our confidence, let me tell him all about your wish to buy, 
 and what it's for; that my cousins wish to have it, and why 
 they wish to have it, I believe Philip would help to bring it 
 about. I know he would desire to do it." 
 
 " I don't see how that can be, child," said Mr. Deane, look- 
 ing puzzled. "Why should he care?" then, with a sud- 
 den penetrating look at his daughter, "You don't think the 
 poor lad 's fond of you, and so you can make him do what 
 you like ? " (Mr. Deane felt quite safe about his daughter's 
 affections.) 
 
 " ISTo, papa ; he cares very little about me, not so much as 
 I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite sure of 
 what I say. Don't you ask me. And if you ever guess, don't 
 tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think fit about it." 
 
 Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father's knee, 
 and kissed him with that last request. 
 
 " Are you sure you won't do mischief, now ? " he said, look- 
 ing at her with delight. 
 
 " Yes, papa, quite sure. I 'm very wise ; I 've got all your 
 business talents. Did n't you admire my accompt-book, now, 
 when I showed it you?" 
 
 " Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there 
 won't be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think 
 there 's not much chance for us any other way. Now, let me 
 go off to sleep." 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 WAKEM IN A NEW LIGHT. 
 
 BEFORE three days had passed after the conversation you 
 have just overheard between Lucy and her father, she had 
 contrived to have a private interview with Philip during a 
 visit of Maggie's to her aunt Glegg. For a day and a night 
 Philip turned over in his mind with restless agitation all that 
 Lucy had told him in that interview, till he had thoroughly 
 
THE ORE AT TEMPTATION. 391 
 
 resolved on a course of action. He thought he saw before him 
 now a possibility of altering his position with respect to Mag- 
 gie, and removing at least one obstacle between them. He 
 laid his plan and calculated all his moves with the fervid 
 deliberation of a chess-player in the days of his first ardour, 
 and was. amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tactician. 
 His plan was as bold as it was thoroughly calculated. Having 
 watched for a moment when his father had nothing more 
 argent on his hands than the newspaper, he went behind him, 
 laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, 
 
 " Father, will you come up into my sanctum, and look at my 
 new sketches ? I 've arranged them now." 
 
 " I 'in getting terribly stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing 
 those stairs of yours,;" said Wakem, looking kindly at his son 
 as he laid down his paper. "But come along, then." 
 
 " This is a nice place for you, is n't it, Phil ? a capital 
 light that from the roof, eh ? " was, as usual, the first thing he 
 said on entering the painting-room. He liked to remind him- 
 self and his son too that his fatherly indulgence had provided 
 the accommodation. He had been a good father. Emily 
 would have nothing to reproach him with there, if she came 
 back again from her grave. 
 
 "Come, come," he said, putting his double eye-glass over 
 his nose, and seating himself to take a general view while he 
 rested, " you 've got a famous show here. Upon my word, 
 I don't see that your things are n't as good as that London 
 artist's what 's his name that Ley burn gave so much money 
 for." 
 
 Philip shook his head and smiled. He had seated himself 
 on his painting-stool, and had taken a lead pencil in his hand, 
 with which he was making strong marks to counteract the 
 sense of tremulousness. He watched his father get up, and 
 walk slowly round, good-naturedly dwelling on the pictures 
 much longer than his amount of genuine taste for landscape 
 would have prompted, till he stopped before a stand on which 
 two pictures were placed, one much larger than the other, 
 the smaller one in a leather case. 
 
 " Bless me ! what have you here ? " said Wakem, startled 
 by a sudden transition from landscape to portrait. " I thought 
 you 'd left off figures. Who are these ? " 
 
 " They are the same person," said Philip, with calm prompt- 
 ness, "at different ages." 
 
 " And what person ? " said Wakem, sharply fixing his eyes 
 with a growing look of suspicion on the larger picture. 
 
392 THE MILL ON THE FLOS*. 
 
 " Miss Tulliver. The small one is something like what she 
 was when I was at school with her brother at King's Lorton ; 
 the larger one is not quite so good a likeness of what she was 
 \vln-n I came from abroad.'' 
 
 \Vakem turned round fiercely, with a flushed face, letting 
 his eye-glass fall, and looking at his son with a savage expres- 
 sion for a moment, as if he was ready to strike that daring 
 feebleness from the stool. But he threw himself into the arm- 
 chair again, and thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, still 
 looking angrily at his son, however. Philip did not return the 
 look, but sat quietly watching the point of his pencil. 
 
 "And do you mean to say, then, that you have had any 
 acquaintance with her since you came from abroad ? " said 
 Wakem, at last, with that vain effort which rage always makes 
 to throw as much punishment as it desires to inflict into words 
 and tones, since blows are forbidden. 
 
 " Yes ; I saw a great deal of her for a whole year before 
 her father's death. We met often in that thicket the Red 
 Deeps near Dorlcote Mill. I love her dearly j I shall m-vcr 
 love any other woman. I have thought of her ever since she 
 was a little girl." 
 
 " Go on, sir ! And you have corresponded with her all this 
 while ? " 
 
 "No. I never told her I loved her till just before we 
 parted, and she promised her brother not to see me again or to 
 correspond with me. I am not sure that she loves me or would 
 consent to marry me. But if she would consent, if she did 
 love me well enough, I should marry her." 
 
 " And this is the return you make me for all the indulgences 
 I 've heaped on you ? " said Wakem, getting white, and begin- 
 ning to tremble under an enraged sense of impotence before 
 Philip's calm defiance and concentration of purpose. 
 
 " No, father," said Philip, looking up at him for the first 
 time ; " I don't regard it as a return. You have been an indul- 
 gent father to me ; but I have always felt that it was because 
 you had an affectionate wish to give me as much happiness as 
 my unfortunate lot would admit of, not that it was a debt 
 you expected me to pay by sacrificing all my chances of happi- 
 ness to satisfy feelings of yours which I can never share." 
 
 " I think most sons would share their father's feelings in 
 this case," said Wakem, bitterly. " The girl's father was an 
 ignorant mad brute, who was within an inch of murdering me. 
 The whole town knows it. And the brother is just as inso- 
 lent, only in a cooler way. He forbade her seeing you, you 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 393 
 
 say ; he '11 break every bone in your body, for your greater 
 happiness, if you don't take care. But you seem to have made 
 up your mind ; you have counted the consequences, I suppose. 
 Of course you are independent of me ; you can marry this girl 
 to-morrow, if you like ; you are a man of five-and-twenty, you 
 can go your way, and I can go mine. We need have no more 
 to do with each other." 
 
 Wakem rose and walked towards the door, but something 
 held him back, and instead of leaving the room, he walked up 
 and down it. Philip was slow to reply, and when he spoke, 
 his tone had a more incisive quietness and clearness than 
 ever. 
 
 " No ; I can't marry Miss Tulliver, even if she would have 
 me, if I have only my own resources to maintain her with. 
 I have been brought up to no profession. I can't offer her 
 poverty as well as deformity." 
 
 "Ah, there is a reason for your clinging to me, doubtless," 
 said Wakem, still bitterly, though Philip's last words had 
 given him a pang ; they had stirred a feeling which had been 
 a habit for a quarter of a century. He threw himself into 
 the chair again. 
 
 " I expected all this," said Philip. " I know these scenes 
 are often happening between father and son. If I were like 
 other men of my age, I might answer your angry words by 
 still angrier; we might part; I should marry the woman I 
 love, and have a chance of being as happy as the rest. But 
 if it will be a satisfaction to you to annihilate the very object 
 of everything you 've done for me, you have an advantage over 
 most fathers ; you can completely deprive me of the only 
 thing that would make my life worth having." 
 
 Philip paused, but his father was silent. 
 
 " You know best what satisfaction you would have, beyond 
 that of gratifying a ridiculous rancour worthy only of wan- 
 dering savages." 
 
 " Ridiculous rancour ! " Wakem burst out. " What do you 
 mean ? Damn it ! is a man to be horsewhipped by a boor 
 and love him for it ? Besides, there 's that cold, proud devil 
 of a son, who said a word to me I shall not forget when we 
 had the settling. He would be as pleasant a mark for a 
 bullet as I know, if he were worth the expense." 
 
 " I don't mean your resentment towards them," said Philip, 
 who had his reasons for some sympathy with this view of Tom, 
 " though a feeling of revenge is not worth much, that you 
 should care to keep it. I mean your extending the enmity 
 
894 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 to a helpless girl, who has too much sense and goodness to 
 share their narrow prejudices. She has never entered into 
 the i'amily quarrels." 
 
 " What does that signify ? We don't ask what a woman 
 does ; we ask whom she belongs to. It 's altogether a degrad- 
 ing thing to you, to think of marrying old Tulliver's daughter." 
 
 For the first time in the dialogue, Philip lost some of his 
 self-control, and coloured with anger. 
 
 "Miss Tulliver," he said, with bitter incisiveness, "has 
 the only grounds of rank that anything but vulgar folly can 
 suppose to belong to the middle class; she is thoroughly 
 refilled, and her friends, whatever else they may be, are 
 respected for irreproachable honour and integrity. All St. 
 Ogg's, I fancy, would pronounce her to be more than my 
 equal." 
 
 Wakem darted a glance of fierce question at his son ; but 
 Philip was not looking at him, and with a certain penitent 
 consciousness went on, in a few moments, as if in amplifica- 
 tion of his last words, 
 
 "Find a single person in St. Ogg's who will not tell you 
 that a beautiful creature like her would be throwing herself 
 away on a pitiable object like me." 
 
 " Not she ! " said Wakem, rising again, and forgetting 
 everything else in a burst of resentful pride, half fatherly, 
 half personal. "It would be a deuced fine match for her. 
 It 's all stuff about an accidental deformity, when a girl 's 
 really attached to a man." 
 
 " But girls are not apt to get attached under those circum- 
 stances," said Philip. 
 
 " Well, then," said Wakem, rather brutally, trying to recover 
 his previous position, " if she does n't care for you, you might 
 have spared yourself the trouble of talking to me about her, 
 and you might have spared me the trouble of refusing my 
 consent to what was never likely to happen." 
 
 Wakem strode to the door, and without looking round 
 igain, banged it after him. 
 
 Philip was not without confidence that his father would 
 be ultimately wrought upon as he had expected, by what had 
 passed ; but the scene had jarred upon his nerves, which were 
 as sensitive as a woman's. He determined not to go down to 
 dinner; he couldn't meet his father again that day. It was 
 Wakem's habit, when he had no company at home, to go out 
 in the evening, often as early as half-past seven ; and as it 
 was far on in the afternoon now, Philip locked up his room 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 395 
 
 and went out for a long ramble, thinking he would not return 
 until his father was out of the house again. He got into a 
 boat, and went down the river to a favourite village, where 
 he dined, and lingered till it was late enough for him to 
 return. He had never had any sort of quarrel with his 
 father before, and had a sickening fear that this contest, just- 
 begun, might go on for weeks ; and what might not happen in 
 that time ? He would not allow himself to define what that 
 involuntary question meant. But if he could once be in tlu 
 position of Maggie's accepted, acknowledged lover, thero 
 would be less room for vague dread. He went up to his 
 painting-room again, and threw himself with a sense of fatigue 
 into the arm-chair, looking round absently at the views of 
 water and rock that were ranged around, till he fell into a 
 doze, in which he fancied Maggie was slipping down a glisten- 
 ing, green, slimy channel of a waterfall, and he was looking 
 on helpless, till he was awakened by what seemed a sudden, 
 awful crash. 
 
 It was the opneing of the door, and he could hardly have 
 dozed more than a few moments, for there was no perceptible 
 change in the evening light. It was his father who entered ; 
 and when Philip moved to vacate the chair for him, he 
 said, 
 
 " Sit still. I 'd rather walk about." 
 
 He stalked up and down the room once or twice, and then, 
 standing opposite Philip with his hands thrust in his side 
 pockets, he said, as if continuing a conversation that had not 
 been broken off, 
 
 "But this girl seems to have been fond of you, Phil, else 
 she wouldn't have met you in that way." 
 
 Philip's heart was beating rapidly, and a transient flush 
 passed over his face like a gleam. It was not quite easy to 
 speak at once. 
 
 " She liked me at King's Lorton, when she was a little girl, 
 because I used to sit with her brother a great deal when he 
 had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and 
 thought of me as a friend of a long while ago. She did n't 
 think of me as a lover when she met me." 
 
 " Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she 
 say then ? " said Wakem, walking about again. 
 
 "She said she did love me then." 
 
 " Confound it, then ; what else do you want ? Is she a jilt ? " 
 
 " She was very young then," said Philip, hesitatingly. 
 ' I 'm afraid she hardly knew what she felt. I 'm afraid our 
 
396 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 long separation, and the idea that events must always divide 
 us, may have made a difference." 
 
 " But she 's in the town. I 've seen her at church. 
 Have n't you spoken to her since you came back ? " 
 
 " Yes, at Mr. Deane's. But I could n't renew my proposals 
 to her on several grounds. One obstacle would be removed 
 if you would give your consent, if you would be willing to 
 think of her as a daughter-in-law." 
 
 Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggie's 
 picture. 
 
 " She 's not the sort of woman your mother was, though, 
 Phil," he said, at last. " I saw her at church, she 's hand- 
 somer than this, deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw ; 
 but rather dangerous and unmanageable, eh ? " 
 
 " She 's very tender and affectionate, and so simple, with- 
 out the airs and petty contrivances other women have." 
 
 "Ah?" said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, 
 " But your mother looked gentler ; she had that brown wavy 
 hair and grey eyes, like yours. You can't remember her very 
 well. It was a thousand pities I 'd no likeness of her." 
 
 " Then, should n't you be glad for me to have the same sort 
 of happiness, father, to sweeten my life for me ? There can 
 never be another tie so strong to you as that which began 
 eighty-and-twenty years ago, when you married my mother, 
 and you have been tightening it ever since." 
 
 " Ah, Phil, you 're the only fellow that knows the best of 
 me," said Wakem, giving his hand to his son. "We must 
 keep together if we can. And now, what am I to do ? You 
 must come down-stairs and tell me. Am I to go and call on 
 this dark-eyed damsel ? " 
 
 The barrier once thrown down in this way, Philip could 
 talk freely to his father of their entire relation with the 
 Tullivers, of the desire to get the mill and land back into the 
 family, and of its transfer to Guest & Co. as an intermediate 
 step. He could venture now to be persuasive and urgent, 
 and his father yielded with more readiness than he had cal- 
 culated on. 
 
 " / don't care about the mill," he said at last, with a sort 
 of angry compliance. " I 've had an infernal deal of bother 
 lately about the mill. Let them pay me for my improve- 
 ments, that 's all. But there 's one thing you need n't ask me. 
 I shall have no direct transactions with young Tulliver. If 
 you like to swallow him for his sister's sake, you may ; but 
 I've no sauce that will make him go down." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 397 
 
 I leave you to imagine the agreeable feelings with which 
 Philip went to Mr. Deane the next day, to say that Mr. 
 Wakem was ready to open the negotiations, and Lucy's 
 pretty triumph as she appealed to her father whether she 
 had not proved her great business abilities. Mr. Deane was 
 rather puzzled, and suspected that there had been something 
 " going on " among the young people to which he wanted a clue. 
 But to men of Mr. Deane's stamp, what goes on among the 
 young people is as extraneous to the real business of life as 
 what goes on among the birds and butterflies, until it can be 
 shown to have a malign bearing on monetary affairs. And in 
 this case the bearing appeared to be entirely propitious. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CHARITY IN FULL-DRESS. 
 
 THE culmination of Maggie's career as an admired member 
 of society in St. Ogg's was certainly the day of the bazaar, 
 when her simple noble beauty, clad in a white muslin of some 
 soft-floating kind, which I suspect must have come from the 
 stores of aunt Pullet's wardrobe, appeared with marked dis- 
 tinction among the more adorned and conventional women 
 around her. We perhaps never detect how much of our 
 social demeanour is made up of artificial airs, until we see 
 a person who is at once beautiful and simple ; without the 
 beauty, we are apt to call simplicity awkwardness. The Miss 
 Guests were much too well-bred to have any of the grimaces 
 and affected tones that belong to pretentious vulgarity ; but 
 their stall being next to the one where Maggie sat, it seemed 
 newly obvious to-day that Miss Guest held her chin too high, 
 and that Miss Laura spoke and moved continually with a view 
 to effect. 
 
 All well-dressed St. Ogg's and its neighbourhood were there ; 
 and it would have been worth while to come even from a dis- 
 tance, to see the fine old hall, with its open roof and carved 
 oaken rafters, and great oaken folding-doors, and light shed 
 down from a height on the many-coloured show beneath ; a 
 very quaint place, with broad faded stripes painted on the 
 walls, and here and there a show of heraldic animals of a 
 
398 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems of a 
 noble family once the seigniors of this now civic hall. A 
 grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted 
 an oaken orchestra, with an open room behind it, where hot- 
 house plants and stalls for refreshments were disposed ; an 
 agreeable resort for gentlemen, disposed to loiter, and yet to 
 exchange the occasional crush down below for a more com- 
 modious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this 
 ancient building for an admirable modern purpose, that made 
 charity truly elegant, and led through vanity up to the supply 
 of a deficit, was so striking that hardly a person entered 
 the room without exchanging the remark more than once. 
 Near the great arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel 
 with painted glass, which was one of the venerable incon- 
 sistencies of the old hall ; and it was close by this that Lucy 
 had her stall, for the convenience of certain large plain arti- 
 cles which she had taken charge of for Mrs. Kenn. Maggie 
 had begged to sit at the open end of the stall, and to have the 
 sale of these articles rather than of bead-mats and other elab- 
 orate products, of which she had but a dim understanding. 
 But it soon appeared that the gentlemen's dressing-gowns, 
 which were among her commodities, were objects of such 
 general attention and inquiry, and excited so troublesome a 
 curiosity as to their lining and comparative merits, together 
 with a determination to test them by trying on, as to make 
 her post a very conspicuous one. The ladies who had com- 
 modities of their own to sell, and did not want dressing- 
 gowns, saw at once the frivolity and bad taste of this mas- 
 culine preference for goods which any tailor could furnish ; 
 and it is possible that the emphatic notice of various kinds 
 which was drawn towards Miss Tulliver on this public occa- 
 sion, threw a very strong and unmistakeable light on her sub- 
 sequent conduct in many minds then present. Not that anger, 
 on account of spurned beauty can dwell in the celestial 
 breasts of charitable ladies, but rather, that the errors of 
 persons who have once been much admired necessarily take 
 a deeper tinge from the mere force of contrast ; and also, that 
 to-day Maggie's conspicuous position, for the first time, nun It- 
 evident certain characteristics which were subsequently felt to 
 have an explanatory bearing. There was something rather 
 bold in Miss Tulliver's direct gaze, and something undefinably 
 coarse in the style of her beauty, which placed her, in the 
 opinion of all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss 
 Deane ; for the ladies of St. Ogg's had now completely ceded 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 399 
 
 to Lucy their hypothetic claims on the admiration of Mr. 
 Stephen Guest. 
 
 As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent triumph 
 about the Mill, and all the affectionate projects she was cher- 
 ishing for Maggie and Philip, helped to give her the highest 
 spirits to-day, and she felt nothing but pleasure in the evi- 
 dence of Maggie's attractiveness. It is true, she was looking 
 very charming herself, and Stephen was paying her the ut- 
 most attention on this public occasion; jealously buying up 
 the articles he had seen under her fingers in the process 
 of making, and gaily helping her to cajole the male cus- 
 tomers into the purchase of the most effeminate futilities. 
 He chose to lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet fez of her 
 embroidering ; but by superficial observers this was necessa- 
 rily liable to be interpreted less as a compliment to Lucy than 
 us a mark of coxcombry. " Guest is a great coxcomb," young 
 lorry observed ; " but then he is a privileged person in St. 
 Dgg's he carries all before him ; if another fellow did such 
 things, everybody would say he made a fool of himself." 
 
 And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, 
 jntil Lucy said, in rather a vexed vindertone, 
 
 " See, now ; all the things of Maggie's knitting will be 
 ^one, and you will not have bought one. There are those de- 
 Uciously soft warm things for the wrists, do buy them." 
 
 " Oh no," said Stephen, " they must be intended for imagi- 
 native persons, who can chill themselves on this warm day by 
 thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stern reason is my forte, 
 you know. You must get Philip to buy those. By the way, 
 why does n't he come ? " 
 
 " He never likes going where there are many people, though 
 I enjoined him to come. He said he would buy up any of my 
 goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go 
 and buy something of Maggie." 
 
 " No, no ; see, she has got a customer ; there is old Wakcm 
 himself just coming up." 
 
 Lucy's eyes turned Avith anxious interest towards Maggie to 
 see how she went through this first interview, since a sadly 
 memorable time, with a man towards whom she must have 
 so strange a mixture of feelings ; but she was pleased to notice 
 that Wakem had tact enough to enter at once into talk about 
 the bazaar wares, and appear interested in purchasing, smil- 
 ing now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling on her to 
 speak much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and 
 tremuWs, 
 
400 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable to 
 your cousin," said Stephen, in an undertone to Lucy ; " is it 
 pure magnanimity ? You talked of a family quarrel." 
 
 " Oh, that will soon be quite healed, I hope," said Lucy, 
 becoming a little indiscreet in her satisfaction, and speaking 
 with an air of significance. But Stephen did not appear to 
 notice this, and as some lady-purchasers came up, he lounged 
 on towards Maggie's end, handling trifles and standing aloof 
 until Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his 
 transactions. 
 
 " My son came with me," he overheard Wakem saying, " but 
 ho has vanished into some other part of the building, and has 
 left all these charitable gallantries to me. I hope you '11 re- 
 proach him for his shabby conduct." 
 
 She returned his smile and bow without speaking, and he 
 turned away, only then observing Stephen, and nodding to 
 him. Maggie, conscious that Stephen was still there, busied 
 herself with counting money, and avoided looking up. She 
 had been well pleased that he had devoted himself to Lucy 
 to-day, and had not come near her. They had begun the 
 morning with an indifferent salutation, and both had rejoiced 
 in being aloof from each other, like a patient who has act- 
 ually done without his opium, in spite of former failures 
 in resolution. And during the last few days they had even 
 been making up their minds to failures, looking to the out- 
 ward events that must soon come to separate them, as a 
 reason for dispensing with self-conquest in detail. 
 
 Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly 
 dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall, 
 and was half hidden by a screen of draperies. Maggie went 
 on counting her money till she suddenly heard a deep gentle 
 voice saying, " Are n't you very tired ? Do let me bring you 
 something, some fruit or jelly, may n't I ? " 
 
 The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental 
 vibration of a harp close by her. 
 
 " Oh no, thank you," she said faintly, and only half looking 
 up for an instant. 
 
 " You look so pale," Stephen insisted, in a more entreating 
 tone. " I 'm sure you 're exhausted. I must disobey you, and 
 bring something." 
 
 " No, indeed, I could n't take it." 
 
 " Are you angry with me ? What have I done ? Do look 
 at me." 
 
 " Pray, go away," said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 401 
 
 eyes glancing immediately from him to the opposite corner of 
 the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old 
 faded green curtain. Maggie had no sooner uttered this en- 
 treaty than she was wretched at the admission it implied ; 
 but Stephen turned away at once, and following her upward 
 glance, he saw Philip Wakem seated in the half-hidden corner, 
 so that he could command little more than that angle of the 
 hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely new thought occurred 
 to Stephen, and linking itself with what he had observed of 
 Wakem's manner, and with Lucy's reply to his observation, it 
 convinced him that there had been some former relation be- 
 tween Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which 
 he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately 
 leave the hall and go up-stairs to the refreshment-room, where, 
 walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Are you studying for a portrait, Phil," he said, " or for a 
 sketch of that oriel window ? By George, it makes a capital 
 bit from this dark corner, with the curtain just marking it off." 
 
 "I have been studying expression," said Philip, curtly. 
 
 " What ! Miss Tulliver's ? It 's rather of the savage-moody 
 order to-day, I think, something of the fallen princess serv- 
 ing behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to her with a civil 
 offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, 
 as usual. There 's a natural antipathy between us, I suppose ; 
 I have seldom the honour to please her." 
 
 " What a hypocrite you are ! " said Philip, flushing angrily. 
 
 " What ! because experience must have told me that I 'm 
 universally pleasing ? I admit the law, but there 's some 
 disturbing force here." 
 
 " I am going," said Philip, rising abruptly. 
 
 " So am I to get a breath of fresh air ; this place gets op- 
 pressive. I think I have done suit and service long enough." 
 
 The two friends walked down-stairs together without speak- 
 ing. Philip turned through the outer door into the courtyard ; 
 but Stephen, saying, " Oh, by the by, I must call in here," went 
 on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other end of 
 the building, which were appropriated to the town library. 
 He had the room all to himself, and a man requires nothing 
 less than this, when he wants to dash his cap on the table, 
 throw himself astride a chair, and stare at a high brick wall 
 with a frown which would not have been beneath the occasion 
 if he had been slaying " the giant Python." The conduct that 
 issues from a moral conflict has often so close a resemblance to 
 
 26 
 
402 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 vice, that the distinction escapes all outward judgments founded 
 on a mere comparison of actions. It is clear to you, I hope, that 
 Stephen was not a hypocrite, capable of deliberate doubleness 
 for a selfish end ; and yet his fluctuations between the indul- 
 gence of a feeling and the systematic concealment of it, might 
 have made a good case in support of Philip's accusation. 
 
 Meanwhile, Maggie sat at her stall cold and trembling, with 
 that painful sensation in the eyes which comes from resolutely 
 repressed tears. Was her life to be always like this, always 
 bringing some new source of inward strife ? She heard con- 
 fusedly the busy, indifferent voices around her, and wished 
 her mind could flow into that easy babbling current. It was 
 at this moment that Dr. Kenn, who had quite lately come 
 into the hall, and was now walking down the middle with his 
 hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed his eyes on 
 Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the expression 
 of pain on her beautiful face. She was sitting quite still, for 
 the stream of customers had lessened at this late hour in the 
 afternoon; the gentlemen had chiefly chosen the middle of the 
 day, and Maggie's stall was looking rather bare. This, with 
 her absent, pained expression, finished the contrast between 
 her and her companions, who were all bright, eager, and busy. 
 He was strongly arrested. Her face had naturally drawn his 
 attention as a new and striking one at church, and he had been 
 introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr. Deane's, 
 but he had never spoken more than three words to her. He 
 walked towards her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one 
 approaching, roused herself to look up and be prepared to 
 speak. She felt a childlike, instinctive relief from the sense 
 of uneasiness in this exertion, when she saw it was Dr. Kenn's 
 face that was looking at her ; that plain, middle-aged face, 
 with a grave, penetrating kindness in it, seeming to tell of a 
 human being who had reached a firm, safe strand, but was look- 
 ing with helpful pity towards the strugglers still tossed by the 
 waves, had an effect on Maggie at this moment which wai 
 afterwards remembered by her as if it had been a promise. 
 The middle-aged, who have lived through their strongest eino 
 tions, but are yet in the time when memory is still half pas- 
 sionate and not merely contemplative, should surely be a sort 
 of natural priesthood, whom life has disciplined and conse- 
 crated to be the refuge and rescue of early stumblers and vic- 
 tims of self-despair. Most of us, at some moment in our young 
 lives, would have welcomed a priest of that natural order in 
 any sort of canonicals or uncanonicals, but had to scramble 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 403 
 
 upwards into all the difficulties of nineteen entirely without 
 such aid, as Maggie did. 
 
 "You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Miss 
 Tulliver," said Dr. Kenn. 
 
 " It is, rather," said Maggie, simply, not being accustomed 
 to simper amiable denials of obvious facts. 
 
 "But I can tell Mrs. Kenii that you have disposed of her 
 goods very quickly," he added ; " she will be very much 
 obliged to you." 
 
 " Oh, I have done nothing ; the gentlemen came very fast 
 to buy the dressing-gowns and embroidered waistcoats, but I 
 think any of the other ladies would have sold more ; I did n't 
 know what to say about them." 
 
 Dr. Kenn smiled. " I hope I 'in going to have you as a per- 
 manent parishioner now, Miss Tulliver ; am I ? You have 
 been at a distance from us hitherto." 
 
 " I have been a teacher in a school, and I 'm going into 
 another situation of the same kind very soon." 
 
 " Ah ? I was hoping you would remain among your friends, 
 who are all in this neighbourhood, I believe." 
 
 " Oh, / must go," said Maggie, earnestly, looking at Dr. 
 Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told him 
 her history in those three words. It was one of those moments 
 of implicit revelation which will sometimes happen even be- 
 tween people who meet quite transiently, on a mile's journey, 
 perhaps, or when resting by the wayside. There is always 
 this possibility of a word or look from a stranger to keep alive 
 the sense of human brotherhood. 
 
 Dr. Kenn's ear and eye took in all the signs that this brief 
 confidence of Maggie's was charged with meaning. 
 
 " I understand," he said ; " you feel it right to go. But 
 that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope ; it will not 
 prevent my knowing you better, if I can be of any service to 
 you." 
 
 He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly before he 
 turned away. 
 
 "She has some trouble or other at heart," he thought. 
 " Poor child ! she looks as if she might turn out to be 
 one of 
 
 ' The souls by nature pitched too high, 
 By suffering plunged too low.' 
 
 There's something wonderfully honest in those beautiful 
 eyes." 
 
404 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imper- 
 fections an excessive delight in admiration and acknowledged 
 supremacy were not absent now, any more than when she was 
 instructing the gypsies with a view towards achieving a royal 
 position among them, was not more elated on a day when she 
 had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, together 
 with that satisfactory consciousness which had necessarily 
 come from being taken before Lucy's cheval-glass, and mail- 
 to look at the full length of her tall beauty, crowned by the 
 night of her massy hair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, 
 and for the moment had forgotten everything in the sense of 
 her own beauty. If that state of mind could have lasted, her 
 choice would have been to have Stephen Guest at her feet, 
 offering her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily incense 
 of adoration near and distant, and with all possibilities of 
 culture at her command. But there were things in her 
 stronger than vanity, passion and affection, and long, deep 
 memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on 
 her love and pity ; and the stream of vanity was soon swept 
 along and mingled imperceptibly with that wider current 
 which was at its highest force to-day, under the double ur- 
 gency of the events and inward impulses brought by the 
 last week. 
 
 Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of 
 obstacles between them on his father's side, he shrank from 
 that ; but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that 
 Maggie, being informed through her, might give him some en- 
 couraging sign that their being brought thus much nearer to 
 each other was a happiness to her. The rush of conflicting feel- 
 ings was too great for Maggie to say much when Lucy, with a 
 face breathing playful joy, like one of Correggio's cherubs, 
 poured forth her triumphant revelation ; and Lucy could hardly 
 be surprised that she could do little more than cry with glad- 
 ness at the thought of her father's wish being fulfilled, and 
 of Tom's getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard 
 striving. The details of preparation for the bazaar had then 
 come to usurp Lucy's attention for the next few days, and 
 nothing had been said by the cousins on subjects that were 
 likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been to the house 
 more than once, but Maggie had had no private conversation 
 with him, and thus she had been left to fight her inward battle 
 without interference. 
 
 But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were 
 alone again, resting together at home, Lucy said, 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 405 
 
 " You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss the 
 day after to-morrow, Maggie ; write a note to her, and tell her 
 you have put it off at my request, and I '11 send the man with 
 it. She won't be displeased ; you '11 have plenty of time to 
 go by-and-by ; and I don't want you to go out of the way just 
 now." 
 
 " Yes, indeed I must go, dear ; I can't put it off. I would n't 
 leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall have very 
 little time, for I 'm going away to a new situation on the 25th 
 of June." 
 
 " Maggie ! " said Lucy, almost white with astonishment. 
 
 " I did n't tell you, dear," said Maggie, making a great effort 
 to command herself, "because you've been so busy. But some 
 time ago I wrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her 
 to let me know if she met with any situation that I could fill, 
 and the other day I had a letter from her telling me that I 
 could take three orphan pupils of hers to the coast during 
 the holidays, and then make trial of a situation with her as 
 teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept the offer." 
 
 Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was unable to 
 speak. 
 
 " Maggie," she said at last, " how could you be so unkind to 
 me not to tell me to take such a step and now ! " She 
 hesitated a little, and then added, " And Philip ? I thought 
 everything was going to be so happy. Oh, Maggie, what is 
 the reason ? Give it up ; let me write. There is nothing now 
 to keep you and Philip apart." 
 
 " Yes," said Maggie, faintly. " There is Tom's feeling. He 
 said I must give him up if I married Philip. And I know he 
 will not change at least not for a long while unless some- 
 thing happened to soften him." 
 
 " But I will talk to him ; he 's coming back this week. And 
 this good news about the Mill will soften him. And I '11 talk 
 to him about Philip. Tom 's always very compliant to me ; I 
 don't think he 's so obstinate." 
 
 " But I must go," said Maggie, in a distressed voice. " I 
 must leave some time to pass. Don't press me to stay, dear 
 Lucy." 
 
 Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and 
 ruminating. At length she knelt down by her cousin, and 
 looking up in her face with anxious seriousness, said, 
 
 "Maggie, is it that you don't love Philip well enough to 
 marry him ? Tell me trust me." 
 
 Maggie held Lucy's hands tightly in silence a little while. 
 
406 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Her own hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her 
 voice was quite clear and distinct. 
 
 " Yes, Lucy, I would choose to marry him. I think it would 
 be the best and highest lot for ine, to make his life happy. 
 He loved me first. No one else could be quite what he is to 
 me. But I can't divide myself from my brother for life. I 
 must go away, and wait. Pray don't speak to me again about 
 it." 
 
 Lucy obeyed in pain and wonder. The next word she said 
 was, 
 
 "Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at 
 Park House to-morrow, and have some music and bright \ 
 before you go to pay these dull dutiful visits. Ah ! here conie 
 aunty and the tea." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SPELL SEEMS BROKEN. 
 
 THE suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House 
 looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and the personal 
 splendours of sixteen couples, with attendant parents and 
 guardians. The focus of brilliancy was the long drawing- 
 room, where the dancing went forward, under the inspira- 
 tion of the grand piano ; the library, into which it opened at 
 one end, had the more sober illumination of maturity, with 
 caps and cards ; and at the other end the pretty sitting-room, 
 with a conservatory attached, was left as an occasional cool 
 retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black for the first time, 
 and had her pretty slimness set off by an abundant dress of 
 white crape, was the acknowledged queen of the occasion ; for 
 this was one of the Miss Guests' thoroughly condescending par- 
 ties, including no member of any aristocracy higher than that 
 of St. Ogg's, and stretching to the extreme limits of commer- 
 cial and professional gentility. 
 
 Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had for- 
 gotten all the figures it was so many years since she had 
 danced at school ; and she was glad to have that excuse, for it 
 is ill dancing with a heavy heart. But at length the music 
 wrought in her young limbs, and the longing came ; even 
 though it was the horrible young Torry, who walked up 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 407 
 
 a second time to try and persuade her. She warned him 
 that she could not dance anything but a country-dance ; 
 but he, of course, was willing to wait for that high 
 felicity, meaning only to be complimentary when he as- 
 sured her at several intervals that it was a " great bore " 
 that she could n't waltz, he would have liked so much 
 to waltz with her. But at last it was the turn of the 
 good old-fashioned dance which has the least of vanity 
 and the most of merriment in it, and Maggie quite for- 
 got her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment of that half- 
 rustic rhythm, which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. 
 She felt quite charitably towards young Torry, as his hand 
 bore her along and held her up in the dance ; her eyes and 
 cheeks had that fire of young joy in them which will flame 
 out if it can find the least breath to fan it ; and her simple 
 black dress, Avith its bit of black lace, seemed like the dim 
 setting of a jewel. 
 
 Stephen had not yet asked her to dance ; had not yet paid 
 her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday, that in- 
 ward vision of her which perpetually made part of his 
 consciousness, had been half screened by the image of 
 Philip Wakem, which came across it like a blot ; there 
 was some attachment between her and Philip ; at least there 
 was an attachment on his side, which made her feel in 
 some bondage. Here, then, Stephen told himself, was an- 
 other claim of honour which called on him to resist the 
 attraction that was continually threatening to overpower 
 him. He told himself so ; and yet he had once or twice 
 felt a certain savage resistance, and at another moment a 
 shuddering repugnance, to this intrusion of Philip's image, 
 which almost made it a new incitement to rush towards 
 Maggie and claim her for himself. Nevertheless, he had 
 done what he meant to do this evening, he had kept 
 aloof from her; he had hardly looked at her; and he had 
 been gaily assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were de- 
 vouring Maggie; he felt inclined to kick young Torry out 
 of the dance, and take his place. Then he wanted the 
 dance to end that he might get rid of his partner. The 
 possibility that he too should dance with Maggie, and 
 have her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess 
 him like a thirst. But even now their hands were meeting 
 in the dance, were meeting still to the very end of it, 
 though they were far off each other. 
 
 Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what auto- 
 
408 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 matic way he got through the duties of politeness in the 
 interval, until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone 
 again, at the farther end of the room. He made his way 
 towards her round the couples that were forming for the 
 waltz ; and when Maggie became conscious that she was 
 the person he sought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts 
 that had gone before, a glowing gladness at heart. Her 
 eyes and cheeks were still brightened with her childlike 
 enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame was set to joy 
 and tenderness ; even the coming pain could not seem 
 bitter, she was ready to welcome it as a part of life, 
 for life at this moment seemed a keen, vibrating conscious- 
 ness poised above pleasure or pain. This one, this last 
 night, she might expand unrestrainedly in the warmth of 
 the present, without those chill, eating thoughts of the past 
 and the future. 
 
 " They 're going to waltz again," said Stephen, bending to 
 speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued tenderness 
 which young dreams create to themselves in the summer 
 woods when low, cooing voices fill the air. Such glances and 
 tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that 
 is half stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation. 
 
 " They are going to waltz again. It is rather dizzy work to 
 look on, and the room is very warm ; shall we walk about a 
 little ? " 
 
 He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they 
 walked on into the sitting-room, where the tables were strewn 
 with engravings for the accommodation of visitors who would 
 not want to look at them. But no visitors were here at this 
 moment. They passed on into the conservatory. 
 
 "How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with 
 the lights among them ! " said Maggie, in a low voice. 
 "They look as if they belonged to an enchanted land, and 
 would never fade away ; I could fancy they were all made 
 of jewels." 
 
 She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and 
 Stephen made no answer ; but he was looking at her ; and does 
 not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling 
 darkness mute, and light eloquent ? Something strangely 
 powerful there was in the light of Stephen's long gaze, for 
 it made Maggie's face turn towards it and look upward at 
 it, slowly, like a flower at the ascending brightness. And 
 they walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were 
 walking ; without feeling anything but that long, grave, mu- 
 
THE GTREAT TEMPTATION. 409 
 
 tual gaze which, has the solemnity belonging to all deep 
 human passion. The hovering thought that they must and 
 would renounce each other made this moment of mute confes- 
 sion more intense in its rapture. 
 
 But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and were 
 obliged to pause and turn. The change of movement brought 
 a new consciousness to Maggie; she blushed deeply, turned 
 away her head, and drew her arm from Stephen's, going up to 
 some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless, and 
 still pale. 
 
 " Oh, may I get this rose ? " said Maggie, making a great 
 effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of 
 irretrievable confession. "I think I am quite wicked with 
 roses ; I like to gather them and smell them till they have no 
 scent left." 
 
 Stephen was mute ; he was incapable of putting a sentence 
 together, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward towards 
 the large half-opened rose that had attracted her. Who has 
 not felt the beauty of a woman's arm ? The unspeakable 
 suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow, and 
 all the varied gently lessening curves, down to the delicate 
 wrist, with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm 
 softness. A woman's arm touched the soul of a great sculptor 
 two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for 
 the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the 
 time-worn marble of a headless trunk. Maggie's was such an 
 arm as that, and it had the warm tints of life. 
 
 A mad impulse seized on Stephen ; he darted towards the 
 arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist. 
 
 But the next moment Maggie snatched it from him, and 
 glared at him like a wounded war-goddess, quivering with 
 rage and humiliation. 
 
 " How dare you ? " She spoke in a deeply shaken, half- 
 smothered voice. "What right have I given you to insult 
 me?" 
 
 She darted from him into the adjoining room, and threw her- 
 self on the sofa, panting and trembling. 
 
 A horrible punishment was conie upon her for the sin of 
 allowing a moment's happiness that was treachery to Lucy, to 
 Philip, to her own better soul. That momentary happiness 
 had been smitten with a blight, a leprosy ; Stephen thought 
 more lightly of her than he did of Lucy. 
 
 As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of 
 the conservatory, dizzy with the conflict of passions, love, 
 
410 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 rage, and confused despair; despair at his want of self-mas- 
 tery, and despair that he had offended Maggie. 
 
 The last feeling surmounted every other ; to be by her side 
 again and entreat forgiveness was the only thing that had the 
 force of a motive for him, and she had not been seated more 
 than a few minutes when he came and stood humbly before 
 her. But Maggie's bitter rage was unspent. 
 
 "Leave me to myself, if you please," she said, with ini 
 petuous haughtiness, " and for the future avoid me." 
 
 Stephen turned away, and walked backwards and forwards 
 at the other end of the room. There was the dire necessity 
 of going back into the dancing-room again, and he was begin- 
 ning to be conscious of that. They had been absent so short 
 a time, that when he went in again the waltz was not ended. 
 
 Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the 
 pride of her nature was stung into activity ; the hateful weak- 
 ness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her 
 self-respect had at least wrought its own cure. The thoughts 
 and temptations of the last month should all be flung away 
 into an unvisited chamber of memory. There was nothing to 
 allure her now ; duty would be easy, and all the old calm pur- 
 poses would reign peacefully once more. She re-entered the 
 drawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, 
 but with a sense of proud self-command that defied anything 
 to agitate her. She refused to dance again, but she talked 
 quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. 
 And when they got home that night, she kissed Lucy with a 
 free heart, almost exulting in this scorching moment, which 
 had delivered her from the possibility of another word or look 
 that would have the stamp of treachery towards that gentle, 
 unsuspicious sister. 
 
 The next morning Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so 
 soon as she had expected. Her mother was to accompany her 
 in the carriage, and household business could not be despatched 
 hastily by Mrs. Tulliver. So Maggie, who had been in a hurry 
 to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for the driv" 
 in the garden. Lucy was busy in the house wrapping up son: 
 bazaar presents for the younger ones at Basset, and when there 
 was a loud ring at the door-bell, Maggie felt some alarm lest 
 Lucy should bring out Stephen to her; it was sure to be 
 Stephen. 
 
 But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, 
 and seated himself by her on the garden-chair. It was not 
 Stephen. 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 411 
 
 "We can just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from 
 this seat," said Philip. 
 
 They had taken each other's hands in silence, but Maggie 
 had looked at him with a more complete revival of the old 
 childlike affectionate smile than he had seen before, and he 
 felt encouraged. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I often look at them, and wish I could 
 see the low sunlight on the stems again. But I have 
 never been that way but once, to the churchyard with my 
 mother." 
 
 "I have been there, I go there, continually," said Philip. 
 " I have nothing but the past to live upon." 
 
 A keen remembrance and keen pity impelled Maggie to put 
 her hand in Philip's. They had so often walked hand in 
 hand ! 
 
 " I remember all the spots," she said, " just where you 
 told me of particular things, beautiful stories that I had 
 never heard of before." 
 
 " You will go there again soon, won't you, Maggie ? " said 
 Philip, getting timid. " The Mill will soon be your brother's 
 home again." 
 
 " Yes ; but I shall not be there," said Maggie. " I shall 
 only hear of that happiness. I am going away again ; Lucy 
 has not told you, perhaps ? " 
 
 "Then the future will never join on to the past again, 
 Maggie ? That book is quite closed ? " 
 
 The grey eyes that had so often looked up at her with en- 
 treating worship, looked up at her now, with a last struggling 
 ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her large 
 sincere gaze. 
 
 " That book never will be closed, Philip," she said, with 
 grave sadness ; " I desire no future that will break the ties of 
 the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the strongest. 
 I can do nothing willingly that will divide me always from 
 him." 
 
 " Is that the only reason that would keep us apart for ever, 
 Maggie ? " said Philip, with a desperate determination to have 
 a definite answer. 
 
 " The only reason," said Maggie, with calm decision. And 
 she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the enchanted 
 cup had been dashed to the ground. The reactionary excite- 
 ment that gave her a proud self-mastery had not subsided, 
 and she looked at the future with a sense of calm choice. 
 
 They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or 
 
412 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 speaking for a few minutes ; in Maggie's mind the first scenes 
 of love and parting were more present than the actual monit'iit, 
 and she was looking at Philip in the Keel Deeps. 
 
 Philip felt that he ought to have been thoroughly happy in 
 that answer of hers ; she was as open and transparent as a 
 rock-pool. Why was he not thoroughly happy ? Jealou 
 never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that 
 would detect the subtlest fold of the heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN THE LANE. 
 
 MAGGIE had been four days at her aunt Moss's, giving the 
 early June sunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed 
 eyes of that affectionate woman, and making an epoch for her 
 cousins great and small, who were learning her words and 
 actions by heart, as if she had been a transient avatar of per- 
 fect wisdom and beauty. 
 
 She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a 
 group of cousins feeding the chickens, at that quiet moment 
 in the life of the farmyard before the afternoon milking-time. 
 The great buildings round the hollow yard were as dreary and 
 tumble-down as ever, but over the old garden-wall the strag- 
 gling rose-bushes were beginning to toss their summer weight, 
 and the grey wood and old bricks of the house, on its higher 
 level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad afternoon sunlight, 
 that suited the quiescent time. Maggie, with her bonnet over 
 her arm, was smiling down at the hatch of small fluffy chick- 
 ens, when her aunt exclaimed, 
 
 "Goodness me! who is that gentleman coming in at the 
 gate ? " 
 
 It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse ; and the flanks and 
 neck of the horse were streaked black with fast riding. 
 Maggie felt a beating at head and heart, horrible as the 
 sudden leaping to life of a savage enemy who had feigned 
 death. 
 
 Who is it, my dear ? " said Mrs. Moss, seeing in Maggie's 
 face the evidence that she knew. 
 
 "It is Mr. Stephen Guest," said Maggie, rather faintly. 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 413 
 
 "My cousin Lucy's a gentleman who is very intimate at 
 my cousin's." 
 
 Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his 
 horse, and now raised his hat as he advanced. 
 
 " Hold the horse, Willy," said Mrs. Moss to the twelve-year- 
 old boy. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Stephen, pulling at the horse's im- 
 patiently tossing head. " I must be going again immediately. 
 I have a message to deliver to you, Miss Tulliver, on private 
 business. May I take the liberty of asking you to walk a few 
 yards with me ? " 
 
 He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a man gets 
 when he has been dogged by some care or annoyance that 
 makes his bed and his dinner of little use to him. He 
 spoke almost abruptly, as if his errand were too pressing 
 for him to trouble himself about what would be thought by 
 Mrs. Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs. Moss, rather 
 nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, 
 was inwardly wondering whether she would be doing right 
 or wrong to invite him again to leave his horse and walk 
 in, when Maggie, feeling all the embarrassment of the sit- 
 uation, and unable to say anything, put on her bonnet, and 
 turned to walk towards the gate. 
 
 Stephen turned too, and walked by her side, leading his 
 horse. 
 
 Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane, and 
 had walked four or five yards, when Maggie, who had been 
 looking straight before her all the while, turned again to walk 
 back, saying, with haughty resentment, 
 
 " There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know 
 whether you consider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to 
 place me in a position that forced me to come out with you, 
 or whether you wished to insult me still further by thrusting 
 an interview upon ine in this way." 
 
 " Of course you are angry with me for coming," said Ste- 
 phen, bitterly. "Of course it is of no consequence what a 
 man has to suffer; it is only your woman's dignity that 
 you care about." 
 
 Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from 
 the slightest possible electric shock. 
 
 " As if it were not enough that I 'm entangled in this way ; 
 that I 'm mad with love for you ; that I resist the strongest 
 passion a man can feel, because I try to be true to other 
 claims; but you must treat me as if I were a coarse brute. 
 
414 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 who would willingly offend you. And when, if I had my own 
 choice, I should ask you to take my hand and my ioitunr 
 and my whole life, and do what you liked with them ! 1 know 
 I forgot myself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I hate my- 
 self for having done it. But I repented immediately ; J ' . > 
 been repenting ever since. You ought not to think it unpardon- 
 able ; a man who loves with his whole soul, as I do you, is 
 liable to be mastered by his feelings for a moment; but you 
 know you must believe that the worst pain I could hav. 
 is to have pained you; that I would give the world to recall 
 the error." 
 
 Maggie dared not speak, dared not turn her head. Tlic 
 strength that had come from resentment was all gone, and 
 her lips were quivering visibly. She could not trust herself 
 to utter the full forgiveness that rose in answer to that 
 confession. 
 
 They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she 
 paused, trembling. 
 
 " You must not say these things ; I must not hear them," 
 she said, looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front 
 of her, to prevent her from going farther towards the gate. 
 " I 'm very sorry for any pain you have to go through ; but it 
 is of no use to speak." 
 
 " Yes, it is of use," said Stephen, impetuously. " It would 
 be of use if you would treat me with some sort of pity and 
 consideration, instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. 
 I could bear everything more quietly if I knew you did n't hate 
 me for an insolent coxcomb. Look at me ; see what a hunted 
 devil I am ; I 've been riding thirty miles every day to get 
 away from the thought of you." 
 
 Maggie did not dared not look. She had already seen 
 the harassed face. But she said gently, 
 
 " I don't think any evil of you." 
 
 "Then, dearest, look at me," said Stephen, in deepest, 
 tenderest tones of entreaty. "Don't go away from nn- 
 yet. Give me a moment's happiness ; make me feel you 've 
 forgiven me." 
 
 " Yes, I do forgive you," said Maggie, shaken by those tones, 
 and all the more frightened at herself. " But pray let me go 
 in again. Pray go away." 
 
 A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids. 
 
 "I can't go away from you; I can't leave you," said 
 Stephen, with still more passionate pleading. " I shall 
 come back again if you send me away with this coldness ; 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 415 
 
 I can't answer for myself. But if you will go with me 
 only a little way I can live on that. You see plainly 
 enough that your anger has only made me ten times more 
 unreasonable." 
 
 Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to make 
 such spirited remonstrances against this frequent change of 
 direction, that Stephen, catching sight of Willy Moss peeping 
 through the gate, called out, " Here ! just come and hold my 
 horse for five minutes." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Maggie, hurriedly, " my aunt will think it so 
 strange." 
 
 " Never mind," Stephen answered impatiently ; " they don't 
 know the people at St. Ogg's. Lead him up and down just 
 here for five minutes," he added to Willy, who was now close 
 to them ; and then he turned to Maggie's side, and they 
 walked on. It was clear that she must go on now. 
 
 " Take my arm," said Stephen, entreatingly ; and she took 
 it, feeling all the while as if she were sliding downwards in a 
 nightmare. 
 
 " There is no end to this misery," she began, struggling to 
 repel the influence by speech. "It is wicked base ever 
 allowing a word or look that Lucy that others might not 
 have seen. Think of Lucy." 
 
 " I do think of her bless her. If I did n't " Stephen 
 had laid his hand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and they 
 both felt it difficult to speak. 
 
 " And I have other ties," Maggie went on, at last, with a 
 desperate effort, " even if Lucy did not exist." 
 
 " You are engaged to Philip Wakem ? " said Stephen, 
 hastily. " Is it so ? " 
 
 " I consider myself engaged to him ; I don't mean to marry 
 any one else." 
 
 Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the 
 un into a side lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he burst 
 lit impetuously, 
 
 " It is unnatural, it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as 
 I love you, we should throw everything else to the winds for 
 the sake of belonging to each other. We should break all these 
 mistaken ties that were made in blindness, and determine to 
 marry each other." 
 
 "I would rather die than fall into that temptation," said 
 Maggie, with deep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spirit- 
 ual force of painful years coming to her aid in this extremity. 
 She drew her arm from his as she spoke. 
 
416 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Tell me, then, that you don't care for me," he said, almost 
 violently. " Tell me that you love some one else better." 
 
 It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of 
 releasing herself from outward struggle, to tell Stephen that 
 her whole heart was Philip's. But her lips would riot utter 
 that, and she was silent. 
 
 " If you do love me, dearest," said Stephen, gently, taking 
 up her hand again and laying it within his arm, " it is bet- 
 ter it is right that we should marry each other. We can't 
 help the pain it will give. It is come upon us without our 
 seeking ; it is natural ; it has taken hold of me in spite of 
 every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I've been 
 trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I 've only made 
 things worse; I'd better have given way at first." 
 
 Maggie was silent. If it were not wrong if she were once 
 convinced of that, and need no longer beat and struggle against 
 this current, soft and yet strong as the summer stream ! 
 
 " Say l yes/ dearest," said Stephen, leaning to look entreat- 
 ingly in her face. "What could we care about in the whole 
 world beside, if we belonged to each other ? " 
 
 Her breath was on his face, his lips were very near hers, 
 but there was a great dread dwelling in his love for her. 
 
 Her lips and eyelids quivered ; she opened her eyes full on 
 his for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and strug- 
 gling under caresses, and then turned sharp round towards 
 home again. 
 
 "And after all," he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to 
 defeat his own scruples as well as hers, "I am breaking no 
 positive engagement ; if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn 
 from me and given to some one else, I should have felt no 
 right to assert a claim on her. If you are not absolutely 
 pledged to Philip, we are neither of us bound." 
 
 " You don't believe that ; it is not your real feeling," said 
 Maggie, earnestly. "You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies 
 in the feelings and expectations we have raised in other minds. 
 Else all pledges might be broken, when there was no outward 
 penalty. There would be no such thing as faithfulness." 
 
 Stephen was silent ; he could not pursue that argument ; the 
 opposite conviction had wrought in him too strongly through 
 his previous time of struggle. But it soon presented itself in 
 a new form. 
 
 "The pledge can't be fulfilled," he said, with impetuous 
 insistance. " It is unnatural ; we can only pretend to give 
 ourselves to any one else. There is wrong in that too ; there 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 417 
 
 may be misery in it for them as well as for us. Maggie, you 
 must see that; you do see that." 
 
 He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of 
 compliance ; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. 
 She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the 
 ground ; then she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at 
 him with solemn sadness, 
 
 " Oh, it is difficult, life is very difficult ! It seems right 
 to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling ; 
 but then, such feelings continually come across the ties that 
 all our former life has made for us, the ties that have made 
 others dependent on us, and would cut them in two. If life 
 were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in Paradise, 
 and we could always see that one being first towards whom 
 I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love comes, 
 love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to each 
 other. But I see I feel it is not so now; there are things 
 we must renounce in life ; some of us must resign love. 
 Many things are difficult and dark to me ; but I see one thing 
 quite clearly, that I must not, cannot, seek my own happi- 
 ness by sacrificing others. Love is natural ; but surely pity 
 and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they 
 would live in me still, and punish me if I did not obey them. 
 I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love 
 would be poisoned. Don't urge me ; help me, help me, 
 because I love you." 
 
 Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on ; 
 her face had become flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of 
 appealing love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him 
 that vibrated to her appeal ; but in the same moment how 
 could it be otherwise ? that pleading beauty gained new 
 power over him. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while 
 his arm stole round her, " I '11 do, I '11 bear anything you 
 wish. But one kiss one the last before we part." 
 
 One kiss, and then a long look, until Maggie said tremu- 
 lously, "Let me go, let us make haste back." 
 
 She hurried along, and not another word was spoken. Ste- 
 phen stood still and beckoned when they came within sight of 
 Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. 
 Mrs. Moss was standing alone at the door of the old porch ; 
 she had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness. It 
 might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich and handsome 
 lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming in 
 
 27 
 
418 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 again; and it might not be joyful. In either case Mrs. Moss 
 waited anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The speaking 
 face told plainly enough that, if there was joy, it was of a 
 very agitating, dubious sort. 
 
 " Sit down here a bit, my dear." She drew Maggie into the 
 porch, and sat down on the bench by her ; there was no pri- 
 vacy in the house. 
 
 " Oh, aunt Gritty, I 'm very wretched. I wish I could have 
 died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up 
 then ; it is so hard now." 
 
 The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and 
 fell into long, deep sobs. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A FAMILY PARTY. 
 
 MAGGIE left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, 
 and went to Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet accord- 
 ing to agreement. In the meantime very unexpected things 
 had happened, and there was to be a family party at Garum to 
 discuss and celebrate a change in the fortunes of the Tullivers, 
 which was likely finally to carry away the shadow of their de- 
 merits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto 
 obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded splendour. It 
 is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come into office 
 are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high appre- 
 ciation and full-blown eulogy ; in many respectable families 
 throughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable meet 
 with a similar cordiality of recognition, which in its fine 
 freedom from the coercion of any antecedents, suggests the 
 hopeful possibility that we may some day without any notice 
 find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have 
 ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer show their teeth 
 with any but the blandest intentions. 
 
 Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg ; 
 for she longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie 
 about the wonderful news. It seemed, did it not ? said Lucy, 
 with her prettiest air of wisdom, as if everything, even other 
 people's misfortunes ( poor creatures ! ) were conspiring now 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 419 
 
 to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and naughty 
 Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the contrary, 
 as happy as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To 
 think that the very day the very day after Tom had come 
 back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom 
 Mr. Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his 
 horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dan- 
 gerous state, so that Wakem had signified his wish that 
 the new purchasers should enter on the premises at once ! It 
 was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did 
 seem as if the misfortune had happened then, rather than 
 at any other time, in order that cousin Tom might all the 
 sooner have the fit reward of his exemplary conduct, papa 
 thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly 
 go to the Mill now, and keep house for Tom ; that was rather 
 a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort ; but then, 
 to think of poor aunty being in her old place again, and grad- 
 ually getting comforts about her there ! 
 
 On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when 
 she and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the 
 bright stairs into the handsome parlour, where the very 
 sunbeams seemed cleaner than elsewhere, she directed her 
 manoeuvres, as any other great tactician would have done, 
 against the weaker side of the enemy. 
 
 "Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and 
 caressingly adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, " I want 
 you to make up your mind what linen and things you will 
 give Tom towards housekeeping; because you are always 
 so generous, you give such nice things, you know; and 
 if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow." 
 
 "That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with 
 unusual vigour, " for she has n't got the linen to follow 
 suit wi' mine, I can tell you. She 'd niver the taste, not 
 if she 'd spend the money. Big checks and live things, like 
 stags and foxes, all her table-linen is, not a spot nor a 
 diamont among 'em. But it 's poor work dividing one's linen 
 before one dies, I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy," 
 Mrs. Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her 
 sister Tulliver, " when you and me chose the double diamont, 
 the first flax iver we 'd spun, and the Lord knows where yours 
 is gone." 
 
 " I 'd no choice, I 'm sure, sister," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, 
 accustomed to consider herself in the light of an accused per- 
 son. " I 'm sure it was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie 
 
420 77/7? MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 awake o' nights thinking o' my best bleached linen all over 
 the country." 
 
 "Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle Pullet, 
 feeling that he was offering a cheap and wholesome form 
 of comfort, which he was recommending by example. 
 
 " Oh, but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, " you 've so much beauti- 
 ful 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. I Sir. 
 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 mi-lit 
 stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if .she 
 was n'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 ; is n't there 
 one of 'em the right sort of article ? Come, no\v V " 
 
 " Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased 
 politeness in her severity which she always put on with her 
 <;risper 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 consult- 
 ing 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. 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 
 
 " 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 '11 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 put- 
 ting 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 '11 have 
 before she 's fixed to go ; she can stay at your house just as 
 well, and I '11 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 is n'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 
 
422 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 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 cany 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 '11 
 ;-'t the Mill all for your own again some day, I'll be bound. 
 V'ou 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 '11 bear it in mind, though you 11 be blunder- 
 ing 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 o' the 
 drawer in the Blue Boom, where the key o' the Blue Closet is. 
 You '11 make a mistake, and I shall niver be worthy to know 
 it. You 've a memory for my pills and draughts, wonderful, 
 I '11 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 
 ,vhittened, better worth having than other people's fine hoi- 
 land ; and I hope he '11 lie down in it and think of his aiint." 
 
 Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to medi- 
 tate 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 GREAT TEMPTATION. 423 
 
 the man-servant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to 
 drive home his mother and Lucy. " You must sit by your- 
 self, 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 n 
 key to Tom's ; and she was puzzled as well as pained to notin 
 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 towards 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 de- 
 lighted 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 tenden- 
 cies which can get no sustenance out of that complex, fragmen- 
 tary, doubt-provoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a 
 prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hear- 
 say, 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 sponta- 
 neous 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 repug- 
 nance to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him ; and notwith- 
 
424 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 standing 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 de- 
 clared 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 per- 
 verse resolve to go into a situation again would presently 
 metamorphose itself, as her resolves were apt to do, into some- 
 thing 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, out- 
 wardly in much the same position az 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 prom- 
 ised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and it was natural that 
 she should give her mother more than usual of her companion- 
 ship 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 re.-iaimrj away in the evenings; 
 she must always come from nunt 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 unac- 
 countably 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 agree- 
 able 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 Maggie 
 would still be present for a little while, when one more touch, 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 425 
 
 one more glance, might be snatched. For why not ? There 
 was nothing to conceal between them; they knew, they had 
 confessed their love, and they had renounced each other ; they 
 were going to part. Honour and conscience were going to 
 divide them ; Maggie, with that appeal from her inmost soul, 
 had decided it ; but surely they might cast a lingering look at 
 each other across the gulf, before they turned away never to 
 look again till that strange light had for ever faded out of 
 :heir eyes. 
 
 Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and 
 even torpor of manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful 
 brightness and ardour, that Lucy would have had to seek some 
 other cause for such a change, if she had not been convinced 
 that the position in which Maggie stood between Philip and 
 her brother, and the prospect of her self-imposed wearisome 
 banishment, were quite enough to account for a large amount 
 of depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce bat- 
 tle of emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle 
 had never known or foreboded; it seemed to her as if all 
 the worst evil in her had lain in ambush till now, and had 
 suddenly started up full-armed, with hideous, overpowering 
 strength ! There were moments in which a cruel selfishness 
 seemed to be getting possession of her ; why should not 
 Lucy, why should not Philip, suffer ? She had had to suffer 
 through many years of her life ; and who had renounced any- 
 thing for her ? And when something like that fulness of ex- 
 istence love, wealth, ease, refinement, all that her nature 
 craved was brought within her reach, why was she to forego 
 it, that another might have it, another, who perhaps needed 
 it less ? But amidst all this new passionate tumult there were 
 the old voices making themselves heard with rising power, till, 
 from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. Was that ex- 
 istence which tempted her the full existence she dreamed ? 
 Where, then, would be all the memories of early striving ; all 
 the deep pity for another's pain, which had been nurtured in 
 her through years of affection and hardship; all the divine 
 presentiment of something higher than mere personal enjoy- 
 ment, which had made the sacredness of life ? She might as 
 well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as hope to 
 enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming the faith 
 and sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And 
 then, if pain were so hard to her, what was it to others ? " Ah, 
 God ! preserve me from inflicting give me strength to bear 
 ib." How had she sunk into this struggle with a temptation 
 
426 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that she would once have thought herself as secure from as 
 from deliberate crime ? When was that first hateful moment 
 in which she had been conscious of a feeling that clashed 
 with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had riot shaken 
 it from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing ? 
 And yet, since this strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, 
 should not, conquer her, since it was to remain simply her 
 own suffering, her mind was meeting Stephen's in that 
 thought of his, that they might still snatch moments of mut< 
 confession before the parting came. For was not he suffer- 
 ing too ? She saw it daily saw it in the sickened look of 
 fatigue with which, as soon as he was not compelled to exert 
 himself, he relapsed into indifference towards everything but 
 the possibility of watching her. Could she refuse sometimes 
 to answer that beseeching look which she felt to be following 
 her like a low murmur of love and pain ? She refused it less 
 and less, till at last the evening for them both was sometimes 
 made of a moment 's mutual gaze ; they thought of it till it 
 came, and when it had come, they thought of nothing else. 
 One other thing Stephen seemed now and then "to care for, 
 and that was to sing ; it was a way of speaking to Maggie. 
 Perhaps he was not distinctly conscious that he was impelled 
 to it by a secret longing running counter to all his self- 
 confessed resolves to deepen the hold he hud on her. Watch 
 your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less 
 conscious purposes, and you will understand that contradic- 
 tion in Stephen. 
 
 Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occa- 
 sionally in the evening, and it happened that he was there 
 when Lucy said, as they sat out on the lawn, near sunset, 
 
 " Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I 
 mean that we shall go out boating every day until she goes. 
 She has not had half enough boating because of these tire- 
 some visits, and she likes it better than anything. Don't 
 you, Maggie ? " 
 
 "Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean." 
 said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in :i 
 low garden-chair; "else she will be selling her soul to thai 
 ghostly boatman who haunts the Floss, only for the sake of 
 being drifted in a boat for ever." 
 
 "Should you like to be her boatman?" said Lucy. "Be- 
 cause, if you would, you can come with us and take an oar. If 
 the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, we should 
 be independent of any gentleman, for Maggie can row splen- 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 427 
 
 didly, As it is, we are reduced to ask services of knights 
 and squires, who do not seem to offer them with great 
 alacrity." 
 
 She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering 
 up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto, 
 
 " The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 Doth ask a drink divine." 
 
 He took no notice, but still kept aloof; he had done so fre- 
 quently during Philip's recent visits. 
 
 " You don't seem inclined for boating," said Lucy, when he 
 came to sit down by her on the bench. " Does n't rowing suit 
 you now ? " 
 
 " Oh, I hate a large party in a boat," he said, almost irri- 
 tably. " I '11 come when you have no one else." 
 
 Lucy coloured, fearing that Philip would be hurt ; it was 
 quite a new thing for Stephen to speak in that way ; but he had 
 certainly not been well of late. Philip coloured too, but less 
 from a feeling of personal offence than from a vague suspicion 
 that Stephen's moodiness had some relation to Maggie, who 
 had started up from her chair as he spoke, and had walked 
 towards the hedge of laurels to look at the descending sunlight 
 on the river. 
 
 " As Miss Deane did n't know she was excluding others by 
 inviting me," said Philip, " I am bound to resign." 
 
 "No, indeed, you shall not," said Lucy, much vexed. "I 
 particularly wish for your company to-morrow. The tide will 
 suit at half-past ten ; it will be a delicious time for a couple 
 of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back, before the sun 
 gets too hot. And how can you object to four people in a 
 boat ? " she added, looking at Stephen. 
 
 " I don't object to the people, but the number," said 
 Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather ashamed 
 of his rudeness. " If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it 
 would be you, Phil. But we won't divide the pleasure of 
 escorting the ladies ; we '11 take it alternately. I '11 go the 
 next day." 
 
 This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention 
 with freshened solicitude towards Stephen and Maggie; but 
 when they re-entered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs. 
 Tulliver and Mr. Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie 
 sat apart near the table where the books and work were 
 placed, doing nothing, however, but listening abstractedly 
 to the music. Stephen presently turned to a duet which 
 
428 THE MILL ON Till-: I- LOSS, 
 
 he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing ; he had often 
 done the same thing before ; but this evening Philip thought 
 he divined some double intention in every word and look of 
 Stephen's, and watched him keenly, angry with himself all 
 the while for this clinging suspicion. For had not Maggie 
 virtually denied any ground for his doubts on her side ? And 
 she was truth itself} it was impossible not to believe her 
 word and glance when they had last spoken together in the 
 garden. Stephen might .be strongly fascinated by her (what 
 was more natural ?), but Philip felt himself rather base for 
 intruding on what must be his friend's painful secret. Still 
 he watched. Stephen, moving away from the piano, sauntered 
 slowly towards the table near which Maggie sat, and turned 
 over the newspapers, apparently in mere idleness. Then he 
 seated himself with his back to the piano, dragging a news- 
 paper under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his 
 hair, as if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in 
 the " Laceham Courier." He was in reality looking at Maggie, 
 who had not taken the slightest notice of.' his approach. She 
 had always additional strength of resistance when Philip was 
 present, just as we can restrain our speech better in a spot 
 that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard the word 
 " dearest " uttered in the softest tone of pained entreaty, like 
 that of a patient who asks for something that ought to have 
 been given without asking. She had never heard that word 
 since the moments in the lane at Basset, when it had come 
 from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily as if 
 it had been an inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no word, 
 but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, and could 
 see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an instant towards 
 Stephen's face, but immediately look apprehensively towards 
 himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed 
 her ; but a pang of shame, under the sense of this conceal- 
 ment, made her move from her chair and walk to her mother's 
 side to watch the game at cribbage. 
 
 Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt 
 mingled with wretched certainty. It was impossible for him 
 now to resist the conviction that there was some mutual 
 consciousness between Stephen and Maggie ; and for half the 
 night his irritable, susceptible nerves were pressed upon 
 almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact ; he could attempt 
 no explanation that would reconcile it with her words and 
 actions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose 
 to its habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 429 
 
 the truth, she was struggling, she was banishing herself ; this 
 was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But athwart 
 that belief there came other possibilities that would not be 
 driven out of sight. His imagination wrought out the whole 
 story : Stephen was madly in love with her ; he must have 
 told her so ; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. 
 But would he give her up, knowing Philip felt the fact 
 with heart-crushing despair that she was made half helpless 
 by her feeling towards him ? 
 
 When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of 
 keeping his engagement to go in the boat. In his present 
 agitation he could decide on nothing ; he could only alternate 
 between contradictory intentions. First, he thought he must 
 have an interview with Maggie, and entreat her to confide in 
 him ; then, again, he distrusted his own interference. Had 
 he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along ? She 
 had uttered words long ago in her young ignorance ; it was 
 enough to make her hate him that these should be contin- 
 ually present with her as a bond. And had he any right to 
 ask her for a revelation of feelings which she had evidently 
 intended to withhold from him ? He would not trust him- 
 self to see her, till he had assured himself that he could act 
 from pure anxiety for her, and not from egoistic irritation. 
 He wrote a brief note to Stephen, and sent it early by the 
 servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his 
 engagement to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, 
 and fill his place ? 
 
 Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her 
 quite content with Stephen's refusal to go in the boat. She 
 discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this morn- 
 ing at ten ; Lindum was the very place she wanted to go to, 
 to make purchases, important purchases, which must by no 
 means be put off to another opportunity; and aunt Tulliver 
 must go too, because she was concerned in some of the 
 purchases. 
 
 "You will have your row in the boat just the same, you 
 know," she said to Maggie when they went out of the break- 
 fast-room and up-stairs together ; " Philip will be here at half- 
 past ten, and it is a delicious morning. Now don't say a word 
 against it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use of my 
 being a fairy godmother, if you set your face against all the 
 wonders I work for you ? Don't think of awful cousin Tom ; 
 you mny disobey him a little." 
 
 Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad 
 
430 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS, 
 
 of the plan, for perhaps it would bring her some strength and 
 calmness to be alone with Philip again; it was like revisit- 
 ing the scene of a quieter life, in which the very struggles 
 were repose, compared with the daily tumult of the present. 
 She prepared herself for the boat, and at half-past ten sat 
 waiting in the drawing-room. 
 
 The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was think- 
 ing with half-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip 
 would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when 
 she distinguished a firm, rapid step across the hall, that was 
 certainly not Philip's; the door opened, and Stephen Guest 
 entered. 
 
 In the first moment they were both too much agitated to 
 speak ; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the 
 others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down 
 again, with her heart beating violently; and Stephen, throw- 
 ing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. 
 She thought Philip would be coming soon ; and with great 
 effort for she trembled visibly she rose to go to a distant 
 chair. 
 
 " He is not coming," said Stephen, in a low tone. " / am 
 going in the boat." 
 
 " Oh, we can't go," said Maggie, sinking into her chair 
 again. "Lucy did not expect she would be hurt. Why is 
 not Philip come ? " 
 
 " He is not well ; he asked me to come instead." 
 
 "Lucy is gone to Lindum," said Maggie, taking off her 
 bonnet with hurried, trembling fingers. " We must not go." 
 
 "Very well," said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he 
 rested his arm on the back of his chair. " Then we '11 stay 
 here." 
 
 He was looking into her deep, deep eyes, far off and myste- 
 rious as the starlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly 
 loving. Maggie sat perfectly still perhaps for moment 
 perhaps for minutes until the helpless trembling had ceased, 
 and there was a warm glow on her cheek. 
 
 "The man is waiting; he has taken the cushions," she sai< : . 
 " Will you go and tell him ? " 
 
 " What shall I tell him ? " said Stephen, almost in a 
 whisper. He was looking at the lips now. 
 
 Maggie made no answer. 
 
 "Let us go," Stephen murmured entreatingly, rising, and 
 taking her hand to raise her too. " We shall not be long 
 together." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 431 
 
 And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down 
 the garden among the roses, being helped with firm, tender 
 care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for 
 her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had for- 
 gotten), all by this stronger presence that seemed to bear her 
 along without any act of her own will, like the added self 
 wMch conies with the sudden exalting influence of a strong 
 ionic, and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded. 
 
 They glided rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by the 
 backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses; 
 on between the silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed 
 filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The 
 breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip 
 of the oars, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now 
 and then, as if it were only the overflowing of brimful glad- 
 ness, the sweet solitude of a twofold consciousness that was 
 mingled into one by that grave, untiring gaze which need not 
 be averted, - what else could there be in their minds for the 
 first hour ? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of love 
 came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing 
 idly, half automatically ; otherwise they spoke no word ; for 
 what could words have been but an inlet to thought ? and 
 thought did not belong to that enchanted haze in which they 
 were enveloped, it belonged to the past and the future that 
 lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly conscious of the 
 banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with no recognition 
 on the villages ; she knew there were several to be passed be- 
 fore they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped and 
 left the boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of ab- 
 sence, that she was likely enough to let her way-marks pass 
 unnoticed. 
 
 But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more 
 idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, 
 and looked down on the water as if watching the pace at 
 which the boat glided without his help. This sudden change 
 roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretching fields, at 
 the banks close by, and felt that they were entirely strange 
 to her. A terrible alarm took possession of her. 
 
 " Oh, have we passed Luckreth, where we were to stop ? " 
 she exclaimed, looking back to see if the place were out of 
 sight. No village was to be seen. She turned round again, 
 with a look of distressed questioning at Stephen. 
 
 He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, 
 dreamy, absent tone, " Yes, a long way." 
 
432 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " Oh, what shall I do ? " cried Maggie, in an agony. " We 
 shall not get home for hours, and Lucy, God, help 
 me !" 
 
 She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a fright- 
 ened child ; she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and 
 seeing her look of pained surprise and doubt, perhaps of 
 just upbraiding. 
 
 Stephen moved and sat near her, and gently drew down the 
 clasped hands. 
 
 " Maggie," he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, " let us 
 never go home again, till no one can part us, till we are 
 married." 
 
 The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's 
 sob, and she sat quite still, wondering ; as if Stephen might 
 have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and 
 annul the wretched facts. 
 
 " See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking, 
 in spite of all our efforts. We never thought of being alone 
 together again ; it has all been done by others. See how the 
 tide is carrying us out, away from all those unnatural bonds 
 that we have been trying to make faster round us, and trying 
 in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we can land there, 
 and get some carriage, and hurry on to York and then to Scot- 
 land, and never pause a moment till we are bound to each 
 other, so that only death can part us. It is the only right 
 thing, dearest ; it is the only way of escaping from this 
 wretched entanglement. Everything has concurred to point it 
 out to us. We have contrived nothing, we have thought of 
 nothing ourselves." 
 
 Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie lis- 
 tened, passing from her startled wonderment to the yearning 
 after that belief that the tide was doing it all, that she might 
 glide along with the swift, silent stream, and not struggle any 
 more. But across that stealing influence came the terrible 
 shadow of past thoughts ; and the sudden horror lest now, at 
 last, the moment of fatal intoxication was close upon her, 
 called up feelings of angry resistance towards Stephen. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an 
 indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free. 
 " You have wanted to deprive me of any choice. You knew 
 we were come too far ; you have dared to take advantage 
 of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me into 
 such a position." 
 
 Stung by this reproach, he released her hands, moved back 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 433 
 
 to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of des- 
 peration at the difficulty Maggie's words had made present 
 to him. If she would not consent to go on, he must curse 
 himself for the embarrassment he had led her into. But 
 the reproach was the unendurable thing ; the one thing worse 
 than parting with her was, that she should feel he had acted 
 unworthily towards her. At last he said, in a tone of sup- 
 pressed rage, 
 
 " I did n't notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had got 
 to the next village ; and then it came into my mind that we 
 would go on. I can't justify it ; I ought to have told you. It 
 is enough to make you hate me, since you don't love me well 
 enough to make everything else indifferent to you, as I do you. 
 Shall I stop the boat and try to get you out here ? I '11 tell 
 Lucy that I Avas mad, and that you hate me ; and you shall be 
 clear of me for ever, No one can blame you, because I have 
 behaved unpardonably to you." 
 
 Maggie was paralysed; it was easier to resist Stephen's 
 pleading than this picture he had called up of himself suf- 
 fering while she was vindicated; easier even to turn away 
 from his look of tenderness than from this look of angry 
 misery, that seemed to place her in selfish isolation from 
 him. He had called up :< state of feeling in which the 
 reasons which had acted r:-. her conscience seemed to be 
 transmuted into mere self-regard. Tho indignant fire in 
 
 O o 
 
 her eyes Avas quenched, and she began to look at him with 
 timid distress. She had reproached him for being hurried 
 into irrevocable trespass, r 1 "^ who had been so weak 
 herself. 
 
 "As if I should n't feel what happened to you just the 
 same," she said, with reproach of another kind, the re- 
 proach of love, asking for more trust. This yielding to 
 the idea of Stephen's suffering was more fatal than the 
 other yielding, because it was less distinguishable from that 
 sense of others' claims which was the moral basis of her 
 resistance. 
 
 He felt all the relenting in her look and tone ; it was 
 heaven opening again. He moved to her side, and took 
 her hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the boat, and 
 saying nothing. He dreaded to utter another word, he 
 dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke 
 another reproach or denial from her. Life hung on her 
 consent ; everything else was hopeless, confused, sickening 
 misery. They glided along in this way, both resting in 
 
 28 
 
434 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that silence as in a haven, both dreading lest their feelings 
 should be divided again, till they became aware that the 
 clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible fresh- 
 ening of the breeze was growing and growing, so that the 
 whole character of the 1 day was altered. 
 
 "You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me 
 raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant, 
 dearest." 
 
 Maggie obeyed ; there was an unspeakable charm in being 
 told what to do, and having everything decided for her. She 
 sat down again covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to his 
 oars again, making haste ; for they must try to get to Torby as 
 fast as they could. Maggie was hardly conscious of having said 
 or done anything decisive. All yielding is attended with a less 
 vivid consciousness than resistance ; it is the partial sleep of 
 thought ; it is the submergence of our own personality by an- 
 other. Every influence tended to lull her into acquiescence. 
 That dreamy gliding in the boat which had lasted for four 
 hours, and had brought some weariness and exhaustion ; the 
 recoil of her fatigued sensations from the impracticable diffi- 
 culty of getting out of the boat at this unknown distance from 
 home, and walking for long miles, all helped to bring her into 
 more complete subjection to that strong, mysterious charm 
 which made a last parting from Stephen seem the death of all 
 joy, and made the thought of wounding him like the first touch 
 of the torturing iron before which resolution shrank. And then 
 there was the present happiness of being with him, which was 
 enough to absorb all her languid energy. 
 
 Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming after them. 
 Several vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had 
 passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they 
 had seen none. He looked more and more eagerly at this 
 vessel, as if a new thought had come into his mind along 
 with it, and then he looked at Maggie hesitatingly. 
 
 " Maggie, dearest," he said at last, " if this vessel should 
 he going to Mudport, or to any convenient place on the 
 coast northward, it would be our best plan to get them 
 to take us on board. You are fatigued, and it may soon 
 rain ; it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby in 
 this boat. It 's only a trading vessel, but I daresay you 
 can be made tolerably comfortable. We '11 take the cushions 
 out of the boat. It is really our best plan. They '11 be glad 
 enough to take us. I Ve got plenty of money about me. 
 I can pay them well." 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 435 
 
 Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this 
 new proposition ; but she was silent, one course seemed as 
 difficult as another. 
 
 Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to 
 Mudport, the English mate informed him, and, if this wind 
 held, would be there in less than two days. 
 
 " We had got out too far with our boat," said Stephen. " I 
 was trying to make for Torby. But I 'm afraid of the weath- 
 er ; and this lady my wife will be exhausted with fatigue 
 and hunger. Take us on board will you ? and haul up the 
 boat. I '11 pay you well." 
 
 Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken 
 on board, making an interesting object of contemplation to ad- 
 miring Dutchmen. The mate feared the lady would have a poor 
 time of it on board, for they had no accommodation for such en- 
 tirely unlooked-for passengers, no private cabin larger than 
 an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch 
 cleanliness, which makes all other inconveniences tolerable ; 
 and the boat-cushions were spread into a couch for Mag- 
 gie 011 the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and 
 down the deck leaning on Stephen being upheld by his 
 strength was the first change that she needed; then came 
 food, and then quiet reclining on the cushions, with the sense 
 that no new resolution could be taken that day. Everything 
 must wait till to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her with her 
 hand in his ; they could only speak to each other in low 
 tones ; only look at each other now and then, for it would 
 take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on 
 board, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that 
 minor degree of interest which belongs, in a sailor's regard, 
 to all objects nearer than the horizon. But Stephen was tri- 
 umphantly happy. Every other thought or care was thrown 
 into unmarked perspective by the certainty that Maggie must 
 be his. The leap had been taken now ; he had been tortured 
 by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmastering inclina- 
 tion, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. He 
 murmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness, his 
 adoration, his tenderness, his belief that their life together 
 must be heaven, that her presence with him would give rap- 
 ture to every common day ; that to satisfy her lightest wish 
 was dearer to him than all other bliss ; that everything was 
 easy for her sake, except to part with her ; and now they never 
 would part ; he would belong to her for ever, and all that was 
 his was hers, had no value for him except as it was hers. Such 
 
436 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 things, uttered in low, broken tones by the one voice that has 
 first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a < 
 effect on experienced minds at a distance from them. To 
 poor Maggie they were very near ; they were like nectar i 
 close to thirsty lips ; there was, there must be, then, a life for 
 mortals here below which was not hard and chill, in which 
 affection would no longer be self-sacrifice. Stephen's passion- 
 ate words made the vision of such a life more fully present to 
 her than it had ever been before ; and the vision for the time 
 excluded all realities, all except the returning sun-gleams 
 which broke out on the waters as the evening approached, and 
 mingled with the visionary sunlight of promised happiness ; 
 all except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke 
 to her, and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable 
 love. 
 
 There was to be no rain, after all ; the clouds rolled off to 
 the horizon again, making the great purple rampart and long 
 purple isles of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us 
 when the sun goes down, the land that the evening star 
 watches over. Maggie was to sleep all night on the poop; 
 it was better than going below ; and she was covered with the 
 warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It was still early, 
 when the fatigues of the day brought on a drowsy longing for 
 perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint, 
 dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was get- 
 ting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, 
 who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his 
 arm against the vessel's side. Behind all the delicious visions 
 of these last hours, which had flowed over her like a soft 
 stream, and made her entirely passive, there was the dim con- 
 sciousness that the condition was a transient one, and that the 
 morrow must bring back the old life of struggle ; that there 
 were thoughts which would presently avenge themselves for 
 this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her ; she was 
 being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over 
 her, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the 
 wondrous aerial land of the west. 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 437 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WAKING. 
 
 WHEN Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with 
 his unaccustomed amount of rowing, and with the intense in- 
 ward life of the last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, 
 walked and lounged about the deck with his cigar far on into 
 midnight, not seeing the dark water, hardly conscious there 
 were stars, living only in the near and distant future. At 
 last fatigue conquered restlessness, and he rolled himself up 
 in a piece of tarpauling on the deck near Maggie's feet. 
 
 She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for 
 six hours before the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak 
 was discernible. She awoke from that vivid dreaming which 
 makes the margin of our deeper rest. She was in a boat on 
 the wide water with Stephen, and in the gathering darkness 
 something like a star appeared, that grew and grew till they 
 saw it was the Virgin seated in St. Ogg's boat, and it came 
 nearer and nearer, till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the 
 boatman was Philip, no, not Philip, but her brother, who 
 rowed past without looking at her ; and she rose to stretch 
 out her arms and call to him, and their own boat turned over 
 with the movement, and they began to sink, till with one 
 spasm of dread she seemed to awake, and find she was a 
 child again in the parlour at evening twilight, and Tom was 
 not really angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking 
 she passed to the real waking, to the plash of water against 
 the vessel, and the sound of a footstep on the deck, and the 
 awful starlit sky. There was a moment of utter bewilder- 
 ment before her mind could get disentangled from the con- 
 fused web of dreams ; but soon the whole terrible truth urged 
 itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now ; she was alone 
 with her own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable 
 wrong that must blot her life had been committed ; she had 
 brought sorrow into the lives of others, into the lives that 
 were knit up with hers by trust and love. The feeling of a 
 few short weeks had hurried her into the sins her nature had 
 most recoiled from, breach of faith and cruel selfishness ; 
 she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and 
 
438 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 had made herself an outlawed soul, with no guide but the 
 wayward choice of her own passion. And where would that 
 lead her? Where had it led her now? She had said she 
 would rather die than fall into that temptation. She felt it 
 now, now that the consequences of such a fall had com* 
 fore the outward act was completed. There was at least tlii. 
 fruit from all her years of striving after the highest and best, 
 that her soul, though betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could 
 never deliberately consent to a choice of the lower. And a 
 choice of what ? God ! not a choice of joy, but of con- 
 scious cruelty and hardness; for could she ever cease to see 
 before her Lucy and Philip, with their murdered trust and 
 hopes ? Her life with Stephen could have no sacredness ; she 
 must for ever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uncertain 
 impulse ; for she had let go the clue of life, that clue which 
 once in the far-off years her young need had clutched so 
 strongly. She had renounced all delights then, before she 
 knew them, before they had come within her reach. Philip 
 had been right when he told her that she knew nothing of re- 
 nunciation ; she had thought it was quiet ecstasy ; she saw it 
 face to face now, that sad, patient, loving strength which 
 holds the clue of life, and saw that the thorns were for ever 
 pressing on its brow. The yesterday, which could never lie 
 revoked, if she could have changed it now for any length 
 of inward silent endurance, she would have bowed beneath 
 that cross with a sense of rest. 
 
 Daybreak came and the reddening eastern light, while her 
 past life was grasping her in this way, with that tightening 
 clutch which comes in the last moments of possible rescue. 
 She could see Stephen now lying on the deck still fast asleep, 
 and with the sight of him there came a wave of anguish that 
 found its way in a long-suppressed sob. The worst bitterness 
 of parting the thought that urged the sharpest inward cry 
 for help was the pain it must give to him. But surmounting 
 3 very thing was the horror at her own possible failure, the 
 dread lest her conscience should be benumbed again, and not 
 rise to energy till it was too iate. Too late ! it was too late 
 already not to have caused misery ; too late for everything, 
 perhaps, but to rush away from the last act of baseness, the 
 tasting of joys that were wrung from crushed hearts. 
 
 The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the 
 sense that a day of resistance was beginning for her. Her 
 eyelashes were still wet with tears, as, with her shawl over 
 her head, she sat looking at the slowly rounding sun. Some- 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 489 
 
 thing roused Stephen too, and getting up from his hard bed, 
 he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxious love 
 saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He 
 had a hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature 
 that he would be unable to overcome. He had the uneasy con- 
 sciousness that he had robbed her of perfect freedom yester- 
 day ; there was too much native honour in him, for him not to 
 feel that, if her will should recoil, his conduct would have 
 been odious, and she would have a right to reproach him. 
 
 But Maggie did not feel that right ; she was too conscious 
 of fatal weakness in herself, too full of the tenderness that 
 comes with the foreseen need for inflicting a wound. She let 
 him take her hand when he came to sit down beside her, and 
 smiled at him, only with rather a sad glance ; she could say 
 nothing to pain him till the moment of possible parting was 
 nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee together, and 
 walked about the deck, and heard the captain's assurance that 
 they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with an in- 
 ward burthen ; but in him it was an undefined fear, which he 
 trusted to the coming hours to dissipate ; in her it was a defi- 
 nite resolve on which she was trying silently to tighten her 
 hold. Stephen was continually, through the morning, express- 
 ing his anxiety at the fatigue and discomfort she was suffering, 
 and alluded to landing and to the change of motion and repose 
 she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure himself more 
 completely by presupposing that everything would be as he 
 had arranged it. For a long while Maggie contented herself 
 with assuring him that she had had a good night's rest, and 
 that she did n't mind about being on the vessel, it was not 
 like being on thB open sea, it was only a little less pleasant 
 than being in a boat on the Floss. But a suppressed resolve 
 will betray itself in the eyes, and Stephen became more and 
 more uneasy as the day advanced, under the sense that Maggie 
 had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but did not dare, 
 to speak of their marriage, of where they would go after it, 
 and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest 
 of what had happened. He longed to assure himself of a 
 tacit assent from her. But each time he looked at her, he 
 gathered a stronger dread of the new, quiet sadness with 
 which she met his eyes. And they were more and more 
 silent. 
 
 " Here we are in sight of Mudport," he said at last. " Now, 
 dearest," he added, turning towards her with a look that was 
 half beseeching, " the worst part of your fatigue is over. On 
 
440 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 the land we can command swiftness. In another hour and a 
 half we shall be in a chaise together, and that will seem rest 
 to you after this." 
 
 Maggie felt it was time to speak ; it would only be unkind 
 now to assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he 
 had done, but with distinct decision. 
 
 " We shall not be together ; we shall have parted." 
 
 The blood rushed to Stephen's face. 
 
 We shall not," he said. " I '11 die first." 
 
 It was as he had dreaded there was a struggle coming. 
 But neither of them dared to say another word till the boat 
 was let down, and they were taken to the landing-place. Here 
 there was a cluster of gazers and passengers awaiting the de- 
 parture of the steamboat to St. Ogg's. Maggie had a dim 
 sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurrying her 
 along on his arm, that some one had advanced towards her from 
 that cluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But she 
 was hurried along, and was indifferent to everything but the 
 coming trial. 
 
 A porter guided them to the nearest inn and posting-house, 
 and Stephen gave the order for the chaise as they passed 
 through the yard. Maggie took no notice of this, and only 
 said, " Ask them to show us into a room where we can sit 
 down." 
 
 When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, 
 whose face had a desperate determination in it, was about to 
 ring the bell, when she said, in a firm voice, 
 
 " I 'm not going ; we must part here." 
 
 "Maggie," he said, turning round towards her, and speak- 
 ing in the tones of a man who feels a process of torture be- 
 ginning, " do you mean to kill me ? What is the use of it 
 now ? The whole thing is done." 
 
 " No, it is not done," said Maggie. " Too much is done, 
 more than we can ever remove the trace of. But I will go 
 no farther. Don't try to prevail with me again. I could n't 
 choose yesterday." 
 
 What was he to do ? He dared not go near her ; her anger 
 might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked back- 
 wards and forwards in maddening perplexity. 
 
 " Maggie," he said at last, pausing before her, and speaking 
 in a tone of imploring wretchedness, " have some pity hear 
 me forgive me for what I did yesterday. I will obey you 
 now ; I will do nothing without your full consent. But don't 
 blight our lives for ever by a rash perversity that can answer 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 441 
 
 no good purpose to any one, that can only create new evils. 
 Sit down, dearest ; wait think what you are going to do. 
 Don't treat me as if you couldn't trust me." 
 
 He had chosen the most effective appeal ; but Maggie's will 
 was fixed unswervingly on the coming wrench. She had made 
 up her mind to suffer. 
 
 " We must not wait," she said, in a low but distinct voice; 
 " we must part at once." 
 
 " We can't part, Maggie," said Stephen, more impetuously. 
 " I can't bear it. What is the use of inflicting that misery 
 on me ? The blow whatever it may have been has been 
 struck now. Will it help any one else that you should drive 
 me mad ? " 
 
 "'I will not begin any future, even for you," said Maggie, 
 tremulously, " with a deliberate consent to what ought not to 
 have been. What I told you at Basset I feel now ; I would 
 rather have died than fall into this temptation. It would have 
 been better if we had parted for ever then. But we must part 
 now." 
 
 " We will not part," Stephen burst out, instinctively placing 
 his back against the door, forgetting everything he had said 
 a few moments before ; " I will not endure it. You '11 make 
 me desperate ; I sha'n't know what I do." 
 
 Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be 
 effected suddenly. She must rely on a slower appeal to Ste- 
 phen's better self; she must be prepared for a harder task 
 than that of rushing away while resolution was fresh. She 
 sat down. Stephen, watching her with that look of despera- 
 tion which had come over him like a lurid light, approached 
 slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her, and 
 grasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a fright- 
 ened bird ; but this direct opposition helped her. She felt her 
 determination growing stronger. 
 
 " Remember what jon felt weeks ago," she began, with be- 
 seeching earnestness ; " remember what we both felt, that 
 we owed ourselves to others, and must conquer every inclina- 
 tion which could make us false to that debt. We have failed 
 to keep our resolutions ; but the wrong remains the same." 
 
 "No, it does not remain the same," said Stephen. "We 
 have proved that it was impossible to keep our resolutions. 
 We have proved that the feeling which draws us towards each 
 other is too strong to be overcome. That natural law surmounts 
 every other ; we can't help what it clashes with." 
 
 " It is not so, Stephen ; I 'm quite sure that is wrong. I 
 
442 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 have tried to think it again and again ; but T see, if we judged 
 in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and 
 cruelty ; we should justify breaking the most sacred ties that 
 can ever be formed on earth. If the past is not to bind us, 
 where can duty lie ? We should have no law but the incli- 
 nation of the moment." 
 
 "But there are ties that can't be kept by mere resolution," 
 said Stephen, starting up and walking about again. " What is 
 outward faithfulness ? Would they have thanked us for any- 
 thing so hollow as constancy without love ? " 
 
 Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing 
 an inward as well as an outward contest. At last she said, 
 with a passionate assertion of her conviction, as much against 
 herself as against him, 
 
 " That seems right at first ; but when I look further, I 'm 
 sure it is not right. Faithfulness and constancy mean some- 
 thing else besides doing what is easiest and pleasantest to our- 
 selves. They mean renouncing whatever is opposed to the 
 reliance others have in us, whatever would cause misery to 
 those whom the course of our lives has made dependent on us. 
 If we if I had been better, nobler, those claims would have 
 been so strongly present with me, I should have felt them 
 pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now in the 
 moments when my conscience is awake, that the opposite 
 feeling would never have grown in me, as it has done ; it would 
 have been quenched at once, I should have prayed for help so 
 earnestly, I should have rushed away as we rush from hideous 
 danger. I feel no excuse for myself, none. I should never 
 have failed towards Lucy and Philip as I have done, if I had 
 not been weak, selfish, and hard, able to think of their 
 pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all 
 temptation. Oh, what is Lucy feeling now ? She believed 
 in me she loved me she was so good to me. Think of 
 her " 
 
 Maggie's voice was getting choked as she uttered these last 
 words. 
 
 " I can't think of her," said Stephen, stamping as if with 
 pain. " I can think of nothing but you, Maggie. You de- 
 mand of a man what is impossible. I felt that once ; but I 
 can't go back to it now. And where is the use of your think- 
 ing of it, except to torture me ? You can't save them from 
 pain now ; you can only tear yourself from me, and make my 
 life worthless to me. And even if we could go back, and both 
 fulfil our engagements, if that were possible now, it would 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION 1 . 443 
 
 be hateful, horrible, to think of your ever being Philip's 
 wife, of your ever being the wife of a man you did n't love. 
 We have both been rescued from a mistake." 
 
 A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't 
 speak. Stephen saw this. He sat down again, taking her 
 hand in his, and looking at her with passionate entreaty. 
 
 "Maggie ! Dearest ! If you love me, you are mine. Who 
 can have so great a claim on you as I have ? My life is bound 
 up in your love. There is nothing in the past that can annul 
 our right to each other ; it is the first time we have either of 
 us loved with our whole heart and soul." 
 
 Maggie was still silent for a little while, looking down. 
 Stephen was in a flutter of new hope ; he was going to triumph. 
 But she raised her eyes and met his with a glance that was 
 filled with the anguish of regret, not with yielding. 
 
 " Xo, not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen," she 
 said, with timid resolution. " I have never consented to it 
 with my whole mind. There are memories, and affections, 
 and longings after perfect goodness, that have such a strong 
 hold on me ; they would never quit me for long ; they would 
 come back and be pain to me repentance. I could n't live 
 in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself 
 and God. I have caused sorrow already I know I feel 
 it ; but I have never deliberately consented to it ; I have never 
 said, 'They shall suffer, that I may have joy.' It has never 
 been my will to marry you ; if you were to win consent from 
 the momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not 
 have my whole soul. If I could wake back again into the time 
 before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmer affec- 
 tions, and live without the joy of love." 
 
 Stephen loosed her hand, and rising impatiently, walked up 
 and down the room in suppressed rage. 
 
 " Good God ! " he burst out at last, " what a miserable 
 thing a woman's love is to a man's ! I could commit crimes 
 for you, and you can balance and choose in that way. But 
 you don't love me ; if you had a tithe of the feeling for me 
 that I have for you, it would be impossible to you to think for 
 a moment of sacrificing me. But it weighs nothing with you 
 that you are robbing me of my life's happiness." 
 
 Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as 
 she held them clasped on her lap. A great terror was upon 
 her, as if she were ever and anon seeing where she stood by 
 great flashes of lightning, and then again stretched forth her 
 hands in the darkness. 
 
444 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "No, I don't sacrifice you I couldn't sacrifice you," she 
 said, as soon as she could speak again ; "but I can't believe in 
 a good for you, that I feel that we both feel, is a wrong, 
 towards others. We can't choose happiness either for our- 
 selves or for another ; we can't tell where that will lie. We 
 can only choose whether we will indulge ourselves in the pres- 
 ent moment, or whether we will renounce that, for the sake 
 of obeying the divine voice within us, for the sake of being 
 true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know this belief 
 is hard ; it has slipped away from me again and again ; but 1 
 have felt that if I let it go for ever, I should have no light 
 through the darkness of this life." 
 
 " But, Maggie," said Stephen, seating himself by her again, 
 "is it possible you don't see that what happened yesterday 
 has altered the whole position of things ? What infatuation 
 is it, what obstinate prepossession, that blinds you to that ? 
 It is too late to say what we might have done or what we 
 ought to have done. Admitting the very worst view of 
 'what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now ; our 
 position is altered; the right course is no longer what it was 
 before. We must accept our own actions and start afresh 
 from them. Suppose we had been married yesterday ? It is 
 nearly the same thing. The effect on others would not have 
 been different. It would only have made this difference to 
 ourselves," Stephen added bitterly, "that you might have 
 acknowledged then that your tie to me was stronger than to 
 others." 
 
 Again a deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she was 
 silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning to pre- 
 vail, he had never yet believed that he should not prevail ; 
 there are possibilities which our minds shrink from too com- 
 pletely for us to fear them. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning 
 towards her, and putting his arm round her, "you are mine 
 now, the world believes it ; duty must spring out of that 
 now In a few hours you will be legally mine, and those who 
 had claims on us will submit, they will see that there was a 
 force which declared against their claims." 
 
 Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face 
 that was close to hers, and she started up, pale again. 
 
 " Oh, I can't do it," she said, in a voice almost of agony ; 
 " Stephen, don't ask me don't urge me. I can't argue any 
 longer, I don't know what is wise ; but my heart will not 
 let me do it. I see, I feel their trouble now ; it is as if it 
 
THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 445 
 
 were branded on my mind. / have suffered, and had no one 
 to pity me ; and now I have made others suffer. It would 
 never leave me ; it would embitter your love to me. I do care 
 for Philip in a different way ; I remember all we said to 
 each other ; I know how he thought of me as the one promise 
 of his life. He was given to me that I might make his lot less 
 hard ; and I have forsaken him. And Lucy she has been 
 deceived, she who trusted me more than any one. I cannot 
 marry you; I cannot take a good for myself that has been 
 wrung out of their misery. It is not the force that ought to 
 rule us, this that we feel for each other; it would rend me 
 away from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. 
 I can't set out on a fresh life, and forget that ; I must go back 
 to it, and cling to it, else I shall feel as if there were nothing 
 firm beneath my feet." 
 
 " Good God, Maggie ! " said Stephen, rising too and grasping 
 her arm, " you rave. How can you go back without marrying 
 me ? You don't know what will be said, dearest. You see 
 nothing as it really is." 
 
 " Yes, I do. But they will believe me. I will confess every- 
 thing. Lucy will believe me she will forgive you, and 
 and oh, some good will come by clinging to the right. 
 Dear, dear Stephen, let me go! don't drag me into deeper 
 remorse. My whole soul has never consented ; it does not 
 consent now." 
 
 Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half- 
 stunned by despairing rage. He was silent a few moments, 
 not looking at her; while her eyes were turned towards 
 him yearningly, in alarm at this sudden change. At last 
 he said, still without looking at her, 
 
 " Go, then, leave me ; don't torture me any longer, I 
 can't bear it." 
 
 Involuntarily she leaned towards him and put out her hand 
 to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been burning 
 iron, and said again, 
 
 " Leave me." 
 
 Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away 
 from that gloomy averted face, and walked out of the room ; 
 it was like an automatic action that fulfils a forgotten inten- 
 tion. What came after ? A sense of stairs descended as if 
 in a dream, of flagstones, of a chaise and horses standing, 
 then a street, and a turning into another street where a stage- 
 coach was standing, taking in passengers, and the darting 
 thought that that coach would take her away, perhaps towards 
 
446 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 home. But she could ask nothing yet ; she only got into the 
 coach. 
 
 Home where her mother and brother were, Philip, Lucy. 
 the scene of her very cares and trials was the haven 
 towards which her mind tended ; the sanctuary where sacred 
 relics lay, where she would be rescued from more falling. 
 The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing pain, 
 which yet, as such pains do, seemed to urge all other thoughts 
 into activity. But among her thoughts, what others would 
 say and think of her conduct was hardly present. Love and 
 deep pity and remorseful anguish left no room for that. 
 
 The coach was taking her to York, farther away from 
 home ; but she did not learn that until she was set down 
 in the old city at midnight. It was no matter ; she could 
 sleep there, and start home the next day. She had her purse 
 in her pocket, with all her money in it, a bank-note and 
 a sovereign; she had kept it in her pocket from forgetfulneas, 
 after going out to make purchases the day before yesterday. 
 
 Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that 
 night with her will bent unwaveringly on the path of penitent 
 sacrifice ? The great struggles of life are not so easy as that ; 
 the great problems of life are not so clear. In the darkness 
 of that night she saw Stephen's face turned towards her in 
 passionate, reproachful misery ; she lived through again all 
 the tremulous delights of his presence with her that made ex- 
 istence an easy floating in a stream of joy, instead of a quiet 
 resolved endurance and effort. The love she had renounced 
 came back upon her with a cruel charm ; she felt herself open- 
 ing her arms to receive it once more ; and then it seemed to 
 slip away and fade and vanish, leaving only the dying sound 
 of a deep, thrilling voice that said, " Gone, for ever gone." 
 
BOOK VII. 
 
 THE FINAL RESCUE. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE RETURN TO THE MILL. 
 
 BETWEEN four and five o'clock on the afternoon of the fifth 
 day from that on which Stephen and Maggie had left St. Ogg's, 
 Tom Tulliver was standing on the gravel-walk outside the old 
 house at Dorlcote Mill. He was master there now; he had 
 half fulfilled his father's dying wish, and by years of steady 
 self-government and energetic work he had brought himself 
 near to the attainment of more than the old respectability 
 which had been the proud inheritance of the Dodsons and 
 Tullivers. 
 
 But Tom's face, as he stood in the hot, still sunshine of that 
 summer afternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His 
 mouth wore its bitterest expression, his severe brow its hardest 
 and deepest fold, as he drew down his hat farther over his eyes 
 to shelter them from the sun, and thrusting his hands deep 
 into his pockets, began to walk up and down the gravel. No 
 news of his sister had been heard since Bob Jakin had come 
 back in the steamer from Mudport, and put an end to all im- 
 probable suppositions of an accident on the water by stating 
 that he had seen her land from a vessel with Mr. Stephen 
 Guest. Would the next news be that she was married, or 
 what ? Probably that she was not married , Tonvs mind was 
 set to the expectation of the worst that could happen, not 
 death, but disgrace. 
 
 As he was walking with his back towards the entrance gate, 
 and his face towards the rushing mill-stream, a tall, dark-eyed 
 figure that we know well, approached the gate, and paused to 
 look at him with a fast-beating heart. Her brother was the 
 human being of whom she had been most afraid from her 
 childhood upwards ; afraid with that fear which springs in us 
 
448 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable, 
 with a mind that we can never mould ourselves upon, and \ <(. 
 that we cannot endure to alienate from us. Thai deep-rooted 
 fear was shaking Maggie now; but her mind was unsv. 
 bent on returning to her brother, as the natural refuge that 
 had been given her. In her deep humiliation under the retro- 
 spect of her own weakness, in her anguish at the injury 
 she had inflicted, she almost desired to endure the severity 
 of Tom's reproof, to submit in patient silence to that harsh, 
 disapproving judgment against which she had so often re- 
 belled; it seemed no more than just to her now, who 
 was weaker than she was ? She craved that outward help 
 to her better purpose which would come from complete, sub- 
 missive confession; from being in the presence of those 
 whose looks and words would be a reflection of her own 
 conscience. 
 
 Maggie had been kept on her bed at York for a day with 
 that prostrating headache which was likely to follow on the 
 terrible strain of the previous day and night. There was an 
 expression of physical pain still about her brow and eyes, and 
 her whole appearance, with her dress so long unchanged, was 
 worn and distressed. She lifted the latch of the gate and 
 walked in slowly. Tom did not hear the gate ; he was just 
 then close upon the roaring dam; but he presently turned, 
 and lifting, up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and 
 loneliness seemed to him a confirmation of his worst con- 
 jectures. He paused, trembling and white with disgust and 
 indignation. 
 
 Maggie paused too, three yards before him. She felt the 
 hatred in his face, felt it rushing through her fibres ; but she 
 must speak. 
 
 " Tom," she began faintly, " I am come back to you, I 
 am come back home for refuge to tell you everything." 
 
 "You will find no home with me," he answered, with trem- 
 ulous rage. "You have disgraced us all. You have dis- 
 graced my father's name. You have been a curse to your 
 best friends. You have been base, deceitful ; no motives 
 are strong enough to restrain you. I wash my hands of you 
 for ever. You don't belong to me." 
 
 Their mother had come to the door now. She stood par- 
 alysed by the double shock of seeing Maggie and hearing 
 Tom's words. 
 
 "Tom," said Maggie, with more courage, "I am perhaps 
 not so guilty as you believe me to be. I never meant to 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 449 
 
 give way to my feelings. I struggled against them. I was 
 carried too far in the boat to come back on Tuesday. I 
 came back as soon as I could." 
 
 "I can't believe in you any more," said Tom, gradually 
 passing from the tremulous excitement of the first moment 
 to cold inflexibility. "You have been carrying on a clan- 
 destine relation with Stephen Guest, as you did before 
 with another. He went to see you at my aunt Moss's ; you 
 walked alone with him in the lanes ; you must have be- 
 haved as no modest girl would have done to her cousin's 
 lover, else that could never have happened. The people at 
 Luckreth saw you pass ; you passed all the other places ; 
 you knew what you were doing. You have been using' 
 Philip Wakem as a screen to deceive Lucy, the kindest 
 friend you ever had. Go and see the return you have 
 made her. She 's ill ; unable to speak. My mother can't 
 go near her, lest she should remind her of you." 
 
 Maggie was half stunned, too heavily pressed upon by 
 her anguish even to discern any difference between her ac- 
 tual guilt and her brother's accusations, still less to vin- 
 dicate herself. 
 
 " Tom," she said, crushing her hands together under her 
 cloak, in the effort to speak again, " whatever I have done, 
 I repent it bitterly. I want to make amends. I will endure 
 anything. I want to be kept from doing wrong again." 
 
 " What will keep you ? " said Tom, with cruel bitterness. 
 " Not religion ; not your natural feelings of gratitude and 
 honour. And he he would deserve to be shot, if it were 
 not But you are ten times worse than he is. I loathe 
 your character and your conduct. You struggled with your 
 feelings, you say. Yes ! / have had feelings to struggle 
 with ; but I conquered them. I have had a harder life than 
 you have had ; but I have found my comfort in doing my 
 duty. But I will sanction no such character as yours ; the 
 world shall know that / feel the difference between right 
 and wrong. If you are in want, I will provide for you; 
 let my mother know. But you shall not come under my 
 roof. It is enough that I have to bear the thought of your 
 disgrace; the sight of you is hateful to me." 
 
 Slowly Maggie was turning away with despair in her heart. 
 But the poor frightened mother's love leaped out now, stronger 
 than all dread. 
 
 " My child ! I '11 go with you. You 've got a mother." 
 
 Oh, the sweet rest of that embrace to the heart-stricken 
 
 89 
 
450 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Maggie! More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of 
 simple human pity that will not forsake us. 
 
 Tom turned and walked into the house. 
 
 "Come in, my child," Mrs. Tulliver whispered. "He'll let 
 you stay and sleep in niy bed. He won't deny that if I ask 
 him." 
 
 " No, mother," said Maggie, in a low tone, like a moan. " I 
 will never go in." 
 
 " Then wait for me outside. I '11 get ready and come with 
 you." 
 
 When his mother appeared with her bonnet on, Tom came 
 out to her in the passage, and put money into her hands. 
 
 " My house is yours, mother, always," he said. " You will 
 come and let rue know everything you want ; you will come 
 back to me." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Tulliver took the money, too frightened to say 
 anything. The only thing clear to her was the mother's in- 
 stinct that she would go with her unhappy child. 
 
 Maggie was waiting outside the gate ; she took her mother's 
 hand, and they walked a little way in silence. 
 
 " Mother," said Maggie, at last, " we will go to Luke's cot- 
 tage. Luke will take me in. He was very good to me when 
 I was a little girl." 
 
 " He 's got no room for us, my dear, now ; his wife 's got 
 so many children. I don't know where to go, if it is n't to one 
 o' your aunts; and I hardly durst," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, 
 quite destitute of mental resources in this extremity. 
 
 Maggie was silent a little while, and then said, 
 
 " Let us go to Bob Jakin's, mother ; his wife will have room 
 for us, if they have no other lodger." 
 
 So they went on their way to St. Ogg's, to the old house 
 by the river-side. 
 
 Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which 
 resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a two months' 
 old baby, quite the liveliest of its age that h;id ever been horn 
 to prince or packman. He would perhaps not so thoroughly 
 have understood all the dubiousness of Maggie's appeal-am < 
 witli Mr. Stephen Guest on the quay at Mudport if he had not 
 witnessed the effect it produced on Tom when he went to re- 
 port it ; and since then, the circumstances which in any case 
 gave a disastrous character to her elopement had passed be- 
 yond the more polite circles of St. Ogg's, and had become 
 matter of common talk, accessible to the grooms and errand- 
 boys. So that when he opened the door and saw Maggie 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 451 
 
 standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had no 
 questions to ask except one which he dared only ask himself, 
 where was Mr. Stephen Guest ? Bob, for his part, hoped he 
 might be in the warmest department of an asylum understood 
 to exist in the other world for gentlemen who are likely to be 
 in fallen circumstances there. 
 
 The lodgings were vacant, and both Mrs. Jakin the larger 
 and Mrs. Jakin the less were commanded to make all things 
 comfortable for " the old Missis and the young Miss ; " alas 
 that she was still " Miss " ! The ingenious Bob was sorely per- 
 plexed as to how this result could have come about; how Mr. 
 btephen Guest could have gone away from her, or could have 
 let her go away from him, when he had the chance of keeping 
 her with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his 
 wife to ask him a question ; would not present himself in the 
 room, lest it should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry ; 
 having the same chivalry towards dark-eyed Maggie as in 
 the days when he had bought her the memorable present of 
 books. 
 
 But after a day or two Mrs. Tulliver was gone to the Mill 
 again for a few hours to see to Tom's household matters. 
 Maggie had wished this; after the first violent outburst of 
 feeling which came as soon as she had no longer any active 
 purpose to fulfil, she was less in need of her mother's pres- 
 ence ; she even desired to be alone with her grief. But she 
 had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-room 
 that looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, 
 and turning round her sad face as she said "Come in," she 
 saw Bob enter, with the baby in his arms and Mumps at his 
 heels. 
 
 " We '11 go back, if it disturbs you, Miss," said Bob. 
 
 " No," said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile. 
 
 Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before 
 her. 
 
 " You see, we 've got a little un, Miss, and I wanted you to 
 look at it, and take it in your arms, if you 'd be so good. For 
 we made free to name it after you, and it 'ud be better for your 
 takin' a bit o' notice on it." 
 
 Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive 
 the tiny baby, while Mumps snuffed at it anxiously, to ascer- 
 tain that this transference was all right. Maggie's heart had 
 swelled at this action and speech of Bob's ; she knew well 
 enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy 
 and respect. 
 
452 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Sit down, Bob," she said presently, and he sat down in 
 silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new 
 fashion, refusing to say what he wanted it to say. 
 
 " Bob," she said, after a few moments, looking down at the 
 baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip 
 from her mind and her fingers, "I have a favour to ask of 
 you." 
 
 " Don't you speak so, Miss," said Bob, grasping the skin of 
 Muinps's neck ; " if there 's anything I can do for you, I should 
 look upon it as a day's earnings." 
 
 " I want you to go to Dr. Kenn's, and ask to speak to him, 
 and tell him that I am here, and should be very grateful if he 
 would come to me while my mother is away. She will not 
 come back till evening." 
 
 "Eh, Miss, I 'd do it in a minute, it is but a step, but Dr. 
 Kenn's wife lies dead ; she 's to be buried to-morrow ; died the 
 day I come from Mudport. It 's all the more pity she should 
 ha' died just now, if you want him. I hardly like to go a-nigh 
 him yet." 
 
 " Oh no, Bob," said Maggie, " we must let it be, till after 
 a few days, perhaps, when you hear that he is going about 
 again. But perhaps he may be going out of town to a dis- 
 tance," she added, with a new sense of despondency at this 
 idea. 
 
 " Not he, Miss," said Bob. " He 'II none go away. He is n't 
 one o' them gentlefolks as go to cry at waterin'-places when 
 their wives die ; he 's got summat else to do. He looks fine 
 an' sharp after the parish, he does. He christened the little 
 un ; an' he was at me to know what I did of a Sunday, as I 
 didn't come to church. But I told him I was upo' the 
 travel three parts o' the Sundays, an' then I 'm so used to 
 bein' on my legs, I can't sit so long on end, ' an' lors, sir,' 
 says I, ' a packman can do wi' a small 'lowance o' church ; 
 it tastes strong,' says I; 'there's no call to lay it on thick.' 
 Eh, Miss, how good, the little un is wi' you ! It's like as if it 
 knowed you; it partly does, I'll be bound, like the birds 
 know the mornin'." 
 
 Bob's tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted 
 bondage, and might even be in danger of doing more work 
 than was required of it. But the subjects on which he longed 
 to be informed were so steep and difficult of approach, that 
 his tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to 
 carry him on that unbeaten road. He felt this, and was silent 
 again for a little while, ruminating much on the possible forms 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 453 
 
 in which he might put a question. At last he said, in a more 
 timid voice than usual, 
 
 " Will you give me leave to ask you only one thing, Miss ? " 
 
 Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, " Yes, Bob, if 
 it is about myself not about any one else." 
 
 " Well, Miss, it 's this. Do you owe anybody a grudge ? " 
 
 " No, not any one," said Maggie, looking up at him inquir- 
 ingly. " Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, lors, Miss," said Bob, pinching Mumps's neck harder 
 than ever. " I wish you did, an' 'ud tell me ; I 'd leather him 
 till I could n't see I would an' the Justice might do what 
 he liked to me arter." 
 
 " Oh, Bob," said Maggie, smiling faintly, " you 're a very 
 good friend to me. But I should n't like to punish any one, 
 even if they 'd done me wrong ; I 've done wrong myself too 
 often." 
 
 This view of things was puzzling to Bob, and threw more 
 obscurity than ever over what could possibly have happened 
 between Stephen and Maggie. But further questions would 
 have been too intrusive, even if he could have framed them 
 suitably, and he was obliged to carry baby away again to an 
 expectant mother. 
 
 " Happen you 'd like Mumps for company, Miss," he said 
 when he had taken the baby again. " He 's rare company, 
 Mumps is ; he knows iverything, an' makes no bother about 
 it. If I tell him, he '11 lie before you an' watch you, as still, 
 just as he watches my pack. You 'd better let me leave 
 him a bit ; he '11 get fond on you. Lors, it 's a fine thing to 
 hev a dumb brute fond on you ; it '11 stick to you, an' make 
 no jaw." 
 
 "Yes, do leave him, please," said Maggie. "I think I 
 should like to have Mumps for a friend." 
 
 " Mumps, lie down there," said Bob, pointing to a place in 
 front of Maggie, " and niver do you stir till you 're spoke to." 
 
 Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness 
 when his master left the room. 
 
454 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ST. OGG'S PASSES JUDGMENT. 
 
 IT was soon known throughout St. Ogg's that Miss Tulliver 
 was come back ; she had not, then, eloped in order to be 
 married to Mr. Stephen Guest, at all events, Mr. Stephen 
 Guest had not married her ; which came to the same thing, 
 so far as her culpability was concerned. We judge others 
 according to results ; how else ? not knowing the process 
 by which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a 
 few months of well-chosen travel, had returned as Mrs. 
 Stephen Guest, with a post-marital trousseau, and all the 
 advantages possessed eren by the most unwelcome wife of an 
 only son, public opinion, which at St. Ogg's, as elsewhere, 
 always knew what to think, would have judged in strict con- 
 sistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases, 
 is always of the feminine gender, not the world, but the 
 world's wife ; and she would have seen that two handsome 
 young people the gentleman of quite the first family in St. 
 Ogg's having found themselves in a false position, had been 
 led into a course which, to say the least of it, was highly 
 injudicious, and productive of sad pain and disappointment, 
 especially to that sweet young thing, Miss Deane. Mr. 
 Stephen Guest had certainly not behaved well ; but then, 
 young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attach- 
 ments ; and bad as it might seem in Mrs. Stephen Guest to 
 admit the faintest advances from her cousin's lover (indeed it 
 had been said that she was actually engaged to young Wakem, 
 
 old Wakem himself had mentioned it), still, she was very 
 young, " and a deformed young man, you know ! and 
 young Guest so very fascinating; and, they say, he positively 
 worships her (to be sure, that can't last ! ), and he ran away 
 with her in the boat quite against her will, and what could 
 she do ? She could n't come back then ; no one would have 
 spoken to her ; and how very well that maize-coloured satin- 
 ette becomes her complexion ! It seems as if the folds in 
 front were quite come in ; several of her dresses are made so, 
 
 they say he thinks nothing too handsome to buy for her- 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 455 
 
 Poor Miss Deane ! She is very pitiable ; but then there was 
 no positive engagement ; and the air at the coast will do her 
 good. After all, if young Guest felt no more for her than 
 that, it was better for her not to marry him. What a wonder- 
 ful marriage for a girl like Miss Tulliver, quite romantic ! 
 Why, young Guest will put up for the borough at the next 
 election. Nothing like commerce nowadays ! That young 
 Wakem nearly went out of his mind ; he always was rather 
 queer ; but he 's gone abroad again to be out of the way, quite 
 the best thing for a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares 
 she will never visit Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Guest, such 
 nonsense ! pretending to be better than other people. Society 
 couldn't be carried on if we inquired into private conduct in 
 that way, and Christianity tells us to think no evil, and 
 my belief is, that Miss Unit had no cards sent her." 
 
 But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant 
 this extenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without 
 a trousseau, without a husband, in that degraded and out- 
 cast condition to which error is well known to lead; and the 
 world's wife, with that fine instinct which is given her for the 
 preservation of Society, saw at once that Miss Tulliver's con- 
 duct had been of the most aggravated kind. Could anything 
 be more detestable ? A girl so much indebted to her friends 
 whose mother as well as herself had received so much 
 kindness from the Deanes to lay the design of winning a 
 young man 's affections away from her own cousin, who had 
 behaved like a sister to her ! Winning his affections ? That 
 was not the phrase for such a girl as Miss Tulliver ; it would 
 have been more correct to say that she had been actuated by 
 mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. There was 
 always something questionable about her. That connection 
 with young Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on 
 for years, looked very ill, disgusting, in fact ! But with 
 a girl of that disposition! To the world's wife there had 
 always been something in Miss Tulliver's very physique that 
 a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm. As for poor 
 Mr. Stephen Guest, he was rather pitiable than otherwise ; 
 a young man of five-and-twenty is not to be too severely 
 judged in these cases, he is really very much at the mercy 
 of a designing, bold girl. And it was clear that he had given 
 way in spite of himself : he had shaken her off as soon as he 
 could ; indeed, their having parted so soon looked very black 
 indeed for her. To be sure, he had written a letter, lay- 
 ing all the blame on himself, and telling the story in a roman- 
 
456 THE M/LL (AY THE FLOSS. 
 
 tic, fashion so as to try and make her appear quite innocent; 
 of course he would do that! l>ut tlie retined instinct of the 
 world's wife was not to ho deceived; providentially! else 
 what would become of Society ? Why, her own brother had 
 turned her from his door ; he had seen enough, you might be 
 sure, before he would do that. A truly respectable young 
 man, Mr. Tom Tulliver ; quite likely to rise in the world! 
 His sister's disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It 
 was to be hoped that she would go out of the neighbourhood, 
 to America, or anywhere, so as to purify the air of St. 
 Ogg's from the taint of her presence, extremely dangerous 
 to daughters there! No good could happen to her; it was 
 only to be hoped she would repent, and that God would have 
 mercy on her : He had not the care of society on His hands, 
 as the world's wife had. 
 
 It required nearly a fortnight for fine instinct to assure 
 itself of these inspirations ; indeed, it was a whole week 
 before Stephen's letter came, telling his father the facts, and 
 adding that he was gone across to Holland, had drawn upon 
 the agent at Mudport for money, was incapable of any 
 resolution at present. 
 
 Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a more 
 agonising anxiety to spend any thought on the view that was 
 being taken of her conduct by the world of St. Ogg's ; anxiety 
 about Stephen, Lucy, Philip, beat on her poor heart in a hard, 
 driving, ceaseless storm of mingled love, remorse, and pity. 
 If she had thought of rejection and injustice at all, it would 
 have seemed to her that they had done their worst ; that she 
 could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerable since the 
 words she had heard from her brother's lips. Across all her 
 anxiety for the loved and the injured, those words shot again 
 and again, like a horrible pang that would have brought 
 misery and dread even into a heaven of delights. The idea 
 of ever recovering happiness never glimmered in her mind 
 for a moment; it seemed as if every sensitive fibre in her 
 were too entirely preoccupied by pain ever to vibrate again 
 to another influence. Life stretched before her as one act of 
 penitence ; and all she craved, as she dwelt on her future lot, 
 was something to guarantee her from more falling ; her own 
 weakness haunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities, 
 that made no peace conceivable except such as lay in the 
 sense of a sure refuge. 
 
 But she was not without practical intentions ; the love of 
 independence was too strong an inheritance and a habit for 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 457 
 
 her not to remember that she must get her bread ; and when 
 other projects looked vague, she fell back on that of return- 
 ing to her plain sewing, and so getting enough to pay for her 
 lodging at Bob's. She meant to persuade her mother to 
 return to the Mill by-and-by, and live with Tom again ; and 
 somehow or other she would maintain herself at St. Ogg's. 
 Dr. Kenn would perhaps help her and advise her. She 
 remembered his parting words at the bazaar. She remembered 
 the momentary feeling of reliance that had sprung in her 
 when he was talking with her, and she waited with yearning 
 expectation for the opportunity of confiding everything to 
 him. Her mother called every day at Mr. Deane's to learn 
 how Lucy was ; the report was always sad, nothing had yet 
 roused her from the feeble passivity which had come on with 
 the first shock. But of Philip, Mrs. Tulliver had learned 
 nothing ; naturally, no one whom she met would speak to her 
 about what related to her daughter. But at last she sum- 
 moned courage to go and see sister Glegg, who of course 
 would know everything, and had been even to see Tom at the 
 Mill in Mrs. Tulliver's absence, though he had said nothing 
 of what had passed on the occasion. 
 
 As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bonnet. 
 She had resolved on walking to the Eectory and asking to see 
 Dr. Kenn ; he was in deep grief, but the grief of another does 
 not jar upon us in such circumstances. It was 'the first time 
 she had been beyond the door since her return ; nevertheless 
 her mind was so bent on the purpose of her walk, that the 
 unpleasantness of meeting people on the way, and being stared 
 at, did not occur to her. But she had no sooner passed beyond 
 the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bob's dwell- 
 ing, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; 
 and this consciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid 
 to look to right or left. Presently, however, she came full 
 on Mrs. and Miss Turnbull, old acquaintances of her family ; 
 they both looked at her strangely, and turned a little aside 
 without speaking. All hard looks were pain to Maggie, but 
 her self-reproach was too strong for resentment. No wonder 
 they will not speak to me. she thought ; they are very fond 
 of Lucy. But now she knew that she was about to pass a 
 group of gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the 
 billiard-rooms, and she could not help seeing young Torry step 
 out a little with his glass at his eye, and bow to her with that 
 air of nonchalance which he might have bestowed on a friendly 
 bar-maid. Maggie's pride was too intense for her not to feel 
 
453 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that sting, even in the midst of her sorrow ; and for the first 
 time the thought took strong hold of her that she would have 
 other obloquy cast on her besides that which was felt to be due 
 to her breach of faith towards Lucy. But she was at the 
 Rectory now ; there, perhaps, she would rind something else 
 than retribution. Retribution may come from any voice ; the 
 hardest, cruelest, most imbruted urchin at the street-corner 
 can inflict it ; surely help and pity are rarer things, more 
 needful for the righteous to bestow. 
 
 She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr. 
 Kenn's study, where he sat amongst piled-up books, for which 
 he had little appetite, leaning his cheek against the head of 
 his youngest child, a girl of three. The child was sent away 
 with the servant, and when the door was closed, Dr. Kenn said, 
 placing a chair for Maggie, 
 
 "I was coming to see you, Miss Tulliver; you have antici- 
 pated me ; I am glad you did." 
 
 Maggie looked at him with her childlike directness as she 
 had done at the bazaar, and said, " I want to tell you every- 
 thing." But her eyes filled fast with tears as she said it, and 
 all the pent-up excitement of her humiliating walk would have 
 its vent before she could say more. 
 
 "Do tell me everything," Dr. Kenn said, with quiet kind- 
 ness in his grave, firm voice. " Think of me as one to whom a 
 long experience has been granted, which may enable him to 
 help you." 
 
 In rather broken sentences, and with some effort at first, but 
 soon with the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in 
 the confidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that 
 must be the beginning of a long sorrow. Only the day before, 
 Dr. Kenn had been made acquainted with the contents of Ste- 
 phen's letter, and he had believed them at once, without the 
 confirmation of Maggie's statement. That involuntary plaint 
 of hers, " Oh, I must go" had remained with him as the sign 
 that she was undergoing some inward conflict. 
 
 Maggie dwelt the longest on the feeling which had made her 
 come back to her mother and brother, which made her cling to 
 all the memories of the past. When she had ended, Dr. Kenn 
 was silent for some minutes ; there was a difficulty on his mind. 
 He rose, and walked up and down the hearth with his hands 
 behind him. At last he seated himself again, and said, look- 
 ing at Maggie, 
 
 " Your prompting to go to your nearest friends, to remain 
 where all the ties of your life have been formed, is a true 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 459 
 
 prompting, to which the Church in its original constitution 
 and discipline responds, opening its arms to the penitent, 
 watching over its children to the last; never abandoning 
 them until they are hopelessly reprobate. And the Church 
 ought to represent the feeling of the community, so that every 
 parish should be a family knit together by Christian brother- 
 hood under a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and 
 Christian fraternity are entirely relaxed, they can hardly be 
 .<aid to exist in the public mind ; they hardly survive except 
 in the partial, contradictory form they have taken in the nar- 
 row communities of schismatics ; and if I were not supported 
 by the firm faith that the Church must ultimately recover the 
 full force of that constitution which is alone fitted to human 
 needs, I should often lose heart at observing the want of fellow- 
 ship and sense of mutual responsibility among my own flock. 
 At present everything seems tending towards the relaxation of 
 ties, towards the substitution of wayward choice for the 
 adherence to obligation, which lias its roots in the past. Your 
 conscience and your heart have given you true light on this 
 point, Miss Tulliver ; and I have said all this that you may know 
 what my wish about you what my advice to you would 
 be, if they sprang from my own feeling and opinion unmod- 
 ified by counteracting circumstances." 
 
 Dr. Kenn paused a little while. There was an entire ab- 
 sence of effusive benevolence in his manner ; there was some- 
 thing almost cold in the gravity of his look and voice. If 
 Maggie had not known that his benevolence was persevering in 
 proportion to its reserve, she might have been chilled and 
 frightened. As it was, she listened expectantly, quite sure 
 that there would be some effective help in his words. He 
 went on. 
 
 "Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents 
 you from anticipating fully the very unjust conceptions that 
 will probably be formed concerning your conduct, concep- 
 tions which will have a baneful effect, even in spite of known 
 evidence to disprove them." 
 
 " Oh, I do, I begin to see," said Maggie, unable to repress 
 this utterance of her recent pain. "I know I shall be in- 
 sulted; I shall be thought worse than I am." 
 
 "You perhaps do not yet know," said Dr. Kenn, with a 
 touch of more personal pity, "that a letter is come which 
 ought to satisfy every one who has known anything of you, that 
 you chose the steep and difficult path of a return to the right, 
 at the moment when that return was most of all difficult." 
 
460 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 "Oh, where is he?" said poor Maggie, with a flush and 
 tremor that no presence could have hindered. 
 
 " He is gone abroad ; he has written of all that passed to 
 his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost ; and I hope 
 the communication of that letter to your cousin will have a 
 beneficial effect on her." 
 
 Dr. Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he 
 went on. 
 
 " That letter, as I said, ought to suffice to prevent false im- 
 pressions concerning you. But I am bound to tell you, Mis.- 
 Tulliver, that not only the experience of my whole life, but 
 my observation within the last three days, makes me fear that 
 there is hardly any evidence which will save you from the 
 painful effect of false imputations. The persons who are the 
 most incapable of a conscientious struggle such as yours are 
 precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you, be- 
 cause they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life 
 here will be attended not only with much pain, but with many 
 obstructions. For this reason and for this only I ask 
 you to consider whether it will not perhaps be better for you 
 to take a situation at a distance, according to your former in- 
 tention. I will exert myself at once to obtain one for you." 
 
 " Oh, if 1 could but stop here ! " said Maggie. " I have no 
 heart to begin a strange life again. I should have no stay. I 
 should feel like a lonely wanderer, cut off from the past. I 
 have written to the lady who offered me a situation to excuse 
 myself. If I remained here, I could perhaps atone in some 
 way to Lucy toothers; I could convince them that I'm 
 sorry. And," she added, with some of the old proud fire 
 flashing out, "I will not go away because people say false 
 things of me. They shall learn to retract them. If I must 
 go away at last, because because others wish it, I will not 
 go now." 
 
 " Well," said Dr. Kenn, after some consideration, " if you 
 determine on that, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the in 
 fltience my position gives me. I am bound to aid and coun 
 tenance you by the very duties of my office as a parish priest. 
 I will add, that personally I have a deep interest in your peace 
 of mind and welfare." 
 
 " The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable 
 me to get my bread and be independent," said Maggie. "I 
 shall not want much. I can go on lodging where I am." 
 
 "I must think over the subject maturely," said Dr. Kenn, 
 "and in a few days I shall be better able to ascertain the 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 461 
 
 general feeling. I shall come to see you ; I shall bear you con- 
 stantly in mind." 
 
 When Maggie had left him, Dr. Kenn stood ruminating with 
 his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, under 
 a painful sense of doubt and difficulty. The tone of Stephen's 
 letter, which he had read, and the actual relations of all the 
 persons concerned, forced upon him powerfully the idea of an 
 ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggie as the least 
 evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St. Ogg's 
 on any other supposition, until after years of separation, 
 threw an insurmountable prospective difficulty over Maggie's 
 stay there. On the other hand, he entered with all the com- 
 prehension of a man who had known spiritual conflict, and 
 lived through years of devoted service to his fellow-men, into 
 that state of Maggie's heart and conscience which made the 
 consent to the marriage a desecration to her ; her conscience 
 must not be tampered with ; the principle on which she had 
 acted was a safer guide than any balancing of consequences. 
 His experience told him that intervention was too dubious a 
 responsibility to be lightly incurred ; the possible issue either 
 of an endeavour to restore the former relations with Lucy and 
 Philip, or of counselling submission to this irruption of a new 
 feeling, was hidden in a darkness all the more impenetrable 
 because each immediate step was clogged with evil. 
 
 The great problem of the shifting relation between passion 
 and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending it ; 
 the question whether the moment has come in which a man 
 has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will 
 carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion 
 against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for 
 which we have no master-key that will fit all cases. The 
 casuists have become a byword of reproach ; but their per- 
 verted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a 
 truth to which eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed, 
 the truth, that moral judgments must remain false and hollow, 
 unless they are checked and enlightened by a perpetual refer- 
 ence to the special circumstances that mark the individual lot. 
 
 All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repug- 
 nance to the men of maxims ; because such people early dis- 
 cern that the mysterious complexity of our life is not to be 
 embraced by maxims, and that to lace ourselves up in for- 
 mulas of that sort is to repress all the divine promptings 
 and inspirations that spring from growing insight and sym- 
 pathy. And the man of maxims is the popular representative 
 
462 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 of the minds that are guided in their moral judgment solely by 
 general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justice by 
 a ready-made patent method, without the trouble of exerting 
 patience, discrimination, impartiality, without any care to 
 assure themselves whether they have the insight that comes 
 from a hardly earned estimate of temptation, or from a life 
 vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellow-feeling 
 with all that is human. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SHOWING THAT OLD ACQUAINTANCES ARE CAPABLE OP 
 SURPRISING US. 
 
 WHEN Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her 
 news of an unexpected line of conduct in aunt Glegg. As long 
 as Maggie had not been heard of, Mrs. Glegg had half closed 
 her shutters and drawn down her blinds. She felt assured that 
 Maggie was drowned ; that was far more probable than that 
 her niece and legatee should have done anything to wound 
 the family honour in the tenderest point. When at last she 
 learned from Tom that Maggie had come home, and gath- 
 ered from him what was her explanation of her absence, she 
 burst forth in severe reproof of Tom for admitting the worst 
 of his sister until he was compelled. If you were not to stand 
 by your "kin" as long as there was a shred of honour attribu- 
 table to them, pray what were you to stand by ? Lightly to 
 admit conduct in one of your own family that would force 
 you to alter your will, had never been the way of the Dodsons ; 
 and though Mrs. Glegg had always augured ill of Maggie's 
 future at a time when other people were perhaps less clear- 
 sighted, yet fair-play was a jewel, and it was not for her owr 
 friends to help to rob the girl of her fair fame, and to cast hi 
 out from family shelter to the scorn of the outer world, unt; 
 she had become unequivocally a family disgrace. The civ 
 cumstances were unprecedented in Mrs. Glegg's experience ; 
 nothing of that kind had happened among the Dodsons be- 
 fore ; but it was a case in which her hereditary rectitude and 
 personal strength of character found a common channel along 
 with her fundamental ideas of clanship, as they did in her life- 
 long regard to equity in money matters. She quarrelled with 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 463 
 
 Mr. Glegg, whose kindness, flowing entirely into compassion 
 for Lucy, made him as hard in his judgment of Maggie as Mr. 
 Deane himself was ; and fuming against her sister Tulliver 
 because she did not at once come to her for advice and help, 
 shut herself up in her own room with Baxter's " Saints' Eest " 
 from morning till night, denying herself to all visitors, till Mr. 
 Glegg brought from Mr. Deane the news of Stephen's letter. 
 Then Mrs. Glegg felt that she had adequate fighting-ground ; 
 then she laid aside Baxter, and was ready to meet all comers. 
 While Mrs. Pullet could do nothing but shake her head and 
 cry, and wish that cousin Abbot had died, or any number of 
 funerals had happened rather than this, which had never hap- 
 pened before, so that there was no knowing how to act, and 
 Mrs. Pullet could never enter St. Ogg's again, because "ac- 
 quaintances " knew of it all, Mrs. Glegg only hoped that Mrs. 
 Wooll, or any one else, would come to her with their false tales 
 about her own niece, and she would know what to say to that 
 ill-advised person ! 
 
 Again she had a scene of remonstrance with Tom, all the 
 more severe in proportion to the greater strength of her pres- 
 ent position. But Tom, like other immovable things, seemed 
 only the more rigidly fixed under that attempt to shake him. 
 Poor Tom ! he judged by what he had been able to see ; and 
 the judgment was painful enough to himself. He thought he 
 had the demonstration of facts observed through years by his 
 own eyes, which gave no warning of their imperfection, that 
 Maggie's nature was utterly untrustworthy, and too strongly 
 marked with evil tendencies to be safely treated with leni- 
 ency. He would act on that demonstration at any cost ; but 
 the thought of it made his days bitter to him. Tom, like 
 every one of us, was imprisoned within the limits of his 
 own nature, and his education had simply glided over him, 
 leaving a slight deposit of polish ; if you are inclined to be 
 severe on his severity, remember that the responsibility of 
 tolerance lies with those who have the wider vision. There 
 had arisen in Tom a repulsion towards Maggie that derived 
 its very intensity from their early childish love in the time 
 when they had clasped tiny fingers together, and their later 
 sense of nearness in a common duty and a common sorrow ; 
 the sight of her, as he had told her, was hateful to him. 
 In this branch of the Dodson family aunt Glegg found a 
 stronger nature than her own; a nature in which family 
 feeling had lost the character of clanship by taking on a 
 doubly deep dye of personal pride. Mrs. Glegg allowed 
 
464 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 that Maggie ought to be punished, she was not a woman to 
 deny that; she knew what conduct was, but punished in 
 proportion to the misdeeds proved against her, not to those 
 which were cast upon her by people outside her own family, 
 who might wish to show that their own kin were better. 
 
 " Your aunt Glegg scolded me so as niver was, my dear," 
 said poor Mrs. Tulliver, when she came back to Maggie, " as 
 I did n't go to her before ; she said it was n't for her to 
 come to me first. But she spoke like a sister, too; having 
 she allays was, and hard to please, oh dear ! but she 's said 
 the kindest word as has ever been spoke by you yet, my child. 
 For she says, for all she 's been so set again' having one extry 
 in the house, and making extry spoons and things, and putting 
 her about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, 
 if you '11 go to her dutiful, and she '11 uphold you against folks 
 as say harm of you when they 've no call. And I told her I 
 thought you could n't bear to see anybody but me, you were 
 so beat down with trouble ; but she said, ' / won't throw ill 
 words at her ; there 's them out o' th' family 'ull be ready 
 enough to do that. But I '11 give her good advice ; an' she 
 must be humble.' It 's wonderful o' Jane ; for I 'm sure she 
 used to throw everything I did wrong at me, if it was the 
 raisin-wine as turned out bad, or the pies too hot, or what- 
 iver it was." 
 
 " Oh, mother," said poor Maggie, shrinking from the thought 
 of all the contact her bruised mind would have to bear, " tell 
 her I 'm very grateful ; I '11 go to see her as soon as I can ; 
 but I can't see any one just yet, except Dr. Kenn. I 've been 
 to him, he will advise me, and help me to get some occupa- 
 tion. I can't live with any one, or be dependent on them, tell 
 aunt Glegg; I must get my own bread. But did you hear 
 nothing of Philip Philip Wakem ? Have you never seen 
 any one that has mentioned him ? " 
 
 " No, my dear ; but I 've been to Lucy's, and I saw your 
 uncle, and he says they got her to listen to the letter, and 
 she took notice o' Miss Guest, and asked questions, and the 
 doctor thinks she J s on the turn to be better. What a world 
 this is, what trouble, oh dear ! The law was the first be- 
 ginning, and it 's gone from bad to worse, all of a sudden, 
 just when the luck seemed on the turn." This was the first 
 lamentation that Mrs. Tulliver had let slip to Maggie, but 
 old habit had been revived by the interview with sister 
 Glegg. 
 
 " My poor, poor mother ! " Maggie burst out, cut to the 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 465 
 
 heart with pity and compunction, and throwing her arms 
 round her mother's neck ; " I was always naughty and trouble- 
 some to you. And now you might have been happy if it 
 hadn't been for me." 
 
 "Eh, my dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, leaning towards the 
 warm young cheek ; " I must put up wi' my children, I 
 shall never have no more ; and if they bring me bad luck, 
 I must be fond on it. There 's nothing else much to be 
 fond on, for my furnitur' went long ago. And you 'd got 
 to be very good once; I can't think how it's turned out 
 the wrong way so ! " 
 
 Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard 
 nothing of Philip ; anxiety about him was becoming her 
 predominant trouble, and she summoned courage at last to 
 inquire about him of Dr. Kenn, on his next visit to her. 
 He did not even know if Philip was at home. The elder 
 Wakem was made moody by an accumulation of annoy- 
 ance ; the disappointment in this young Jetsome, to whom, 
 apparently, he was a good deal attached, had been followed 
 close by the catastrophe to his son's hopes after he had 
 done violence to his own strong feeling by conceding to 
 them, and had incautiously mentioned this concession in 
 St. Ogg's ; and he was almost fierce in his brusqueness when 
 any one asked him a question about his son. But Philip 
 could hardly have been ill, or it would have been known 
 through the calling in of the medical man ; it was probable 
 that he was gone out of the town for a little while. Mag- 
 gie sickened under this suspense, and her imagination be- 
 gan to live more and more persistently in what Philip was 
 enduring. What did he believe about her? 
 
 At last Bob brought her a letter, without a postmark, 
 directed in a hand which she knew familiarly in the let- 
 ters of her own name, a hand in which her name had 
 been written long ago, in a pocket Shakespeare which she 
 possessed. Her mother was in the room, and Maggie, in 
 violent agitation, hurried upstairs that she might read the 
 letter in solitude. She read it with a throbbing brow. 
 
 " MAGGIE, I believe in you ; I know you never meant 
 to deceive me ; I know you tried to keep faith to me and 
 to all. I believed this before I had any other evidence of 
 it than your own nature. The night after I last parted 
 from you I suffered torments. I had seen what convinced 
 me that you were not free ; that there was another whose 
 
 30 
 
466 Till': MILL OX THE FLOSS. 
 
 presence had a power over you which mine never pos- 
 sessed; but through all the suggestions almost murder- 
 ous suggestions of rage and jealousy, my mind made its 
 way to believe in your truthfulness. I was sure that you 
 meant to cleave to me, as you had said; that you had re- 
 jected him; that you struggled to renounce him, for Lucy's 
 sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that was not 
 fatal for you; and that dread shut out the very thought 
 of resignation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, 
 and I believed then, as I believe now, that the strong attrac- 
 tion which drew you together proceeded only from one side 
 of your characters, and belonged to that partial, divided 
 action of our nature which makes half the tragedy of the 
 human lot. I have felt the vibration of chords in your na- 
 ture that I have continually felt the want of in his. But 
 perhaps I am wrong ; perhaps I feel about you as the artist 
 does about the scene over which his soul has brooded with 
 love ; he would tremble to see it confided to other hands ; 
 he would never believe that it could bear for another all 
 the meaning and the beauty it bears for him. 
 
 " I dared not trust myself to see you that morning ; I 
 was filled with selfish passion; I was shattered by a night 
 of conscious delirium. I told you long ago that I had 
 never been resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers ; 
 how could I be resigned to the loss of the one thing which 
 had ever come to me on earth with the promise of such 
 deep joy as would give a new and blessed meaning to the 
 foregoing pain, the promise of another self that would 
 lift my aching affection into the divine rapture of an ever- 
 springing, ever-satisfied want? 
 
 "But the miseries of that night had prepared me for 
 what came before the next. It was no surprise to me. I 
 was certain that he had prevailed on you to sacrifice every- 
 thing to him, and I waited with equal certainty to hear of 
 your marriage. I measured your love and his by my own 
 But I was wrong, Maggie. There is something strongei 
 in you than your love for him. 
 
 "I will not tell you what I went through in that inter- 
 val. But even in its utmost agony even in those terrible 
 throes that love must suffer before it can be disembodied 
 of selfish desire my love for you sufficed to withhold me 
 from suicide, without the aid of any other motive. In the 
 midst of my egoism, I yet could not bear to come like a 
 death -shadow across the feast of your joy. I could not 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 467 
 
 bear to forsake the world in which you still lived and 
 might need me ; it was part of the faith I had vowed to 
 you, to wait and endure. Maggie, that is a proof of what 
 I write now to assure you of, that no anguish I have 
 had to bear on your account has been too heavy a price 
 to pay for the new life into which I have entered in loving 
 you. I want you to put aside all grief because of the 
 grief you have caused rne. I was nurtured in the sense 
 of privation ; I never expected happiness ; and in knowing 
 you, in loving you, I have had, and still have, what recon- 
 ciles me to life. You have been to my affections what 
 light, what colour is to my eyes, what music is to the 
 inward ear ; you have raised a dim unrest into a vivid con- 
 sciousness. The new life I have found in caring for your 
 joy and sorrow more than for what is directly my own, 
 has transformed the spirit of rebellious murmuring into that 
 willing endurance which is the birth of strong sympathy. 
 I think nothing but such complete and intense love could 
 have initiated me into that enlarged life which grows and 
 grows by appropriating the life of others ; for before, I 
 was always dragged back from it by ever-present painful 
 self-consciousness. I even think sometimes that this gift 
 of transferred life which has come to me in loving you, 
 may be a new power to me. 
 
 "Then, dear one, in spite of all, you have been the bless- 
 ing of my life. Let no self-reproach weigh on you because 
 of me. It is I who should rather reproach myself for having 
 urged my feelings upon you, and hurried you into words that 
 you have felt as fetters. You meant to be true to those words ; 
 you have been true. I can measure your sacrifice by what I 
 have known in only one half-hour of your presence with me, 
 when I dreamed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, 
 I have no just claim on you for more than affectionate 
 remembrance. 
 
 " For some time I have shrunk from writing to you, because 
 I have shrunk even from the appearance of wishing to thrust 
 myself before you, and- so repeating my original error. But 
 you will not misconstrue me. I know that we must keep 
 apart for a long while ; cruel tongues would force us apart, 
 if nothing else did. But I shall not go away. The place 
 where you are is the one where my mind must live, where- 
 ever I might travel. And remember that I am unchange- 
 ably yours, yours not with selfish wishes, but with a 
 devotion that excludes such wishes. 
 
408 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 " God comfort you, my loving, large-souled Maggie. If 
 every one else has misconceived you, remember that you have 
 never been doubted by him whose heart recognised you ten 
 years ago. 
 
 " Do not believe any one who says I am ill, because I am 
 not seen out of doors. I have only had nervous headaches, 
 no worse than I have sometimes had them before. But 
 the overpowering heat inclines me to be perfectly quiescent 
 in the daytime. I am strong enough to obey any word 
 which shall tell me that I can serve you by word or deed. 
 
 " Yours to the last, 
 
 "PHILIP WAKEM." 
 
 As Maggie knelt by the bed sobbing, with that letter 
 pressed under her, her feelings again and again gathered 
 themselves in a whispered cry, always in the same words, 
 
 " O God, is there any happiness in love that could make 
 me forget their pain '/ " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MAGGIE AND LUCY. 
 
 BY the end of the week Dr. Kenn had made up his mind 
 that there was only one way in which he could secure to 
 Maggie a suitable living at St. Ogg's. Even with his twenty 
 years' experience as a parish priest, he was aghast at the 
 obstinate continuance of imputations against her in the face 
 of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored and 
 appealed to than was quite agreeable to him ; but now, in 
 attempting to open the ears of women to reason, and their 
 consciences to justice, on behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he sud- 
 denly found himself as powerless as he was aware he would 
 have been if he had attempted to influence the shape of bon- 
 nets. Dr. Kenn could not be contradicted ; he was listened 
 to in silence ; but when he left the room, a comparison of 
 opinions among his hearers yielded much the same result as 
 before. Miss Tulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable 
 manner, even Dr. Kenn did not deny that; how, then, could 
 he think so lightly of her as to put that favourable interpre- 
 tation on everything she had done ? Even on the supposition 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 469 
 
 that required the utmost stretch of belief, namely, that none 
 of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true, still, since 
 they had been said about her, they had cast an odour round 
 her which must cause her to be shrunk from by every woman 
 who had to take care of her own reputation and of Society. 
 To have taken Maggie by the hand and said, "I will not 
 believe unproved evil of you ; my lips shall not utter it ; my 
 ears shall be closed against it ; I, too, am an erring mortal, 
 liable to stumble, apt to come short of my most earnest efforts ; 
 your lot has been harder than mine, your temptation greater ; 
 let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling," 
 
 to have done this would have demanded courage, deep pity, 
 self-knowledge, generous trust ; would have demanded a mind 
 that tasted no piquancy in evil-speaking, that felt no self-exal- 
 tation in condemning, that cheated itself with no large words 
 into the belief that life can have any moral end, any high 
 religion, which excludes the striving after perfect truth, 
 justice, and love towards the individual men and women who 
 come across our own path. The ladies of St. Ogg's were not 
 beguiled by any wide speculative conceptions ; but they had 
 their favourite abstraction, called Society, which served to 
 make their consciences perfectly easy in doing what satisfied 
 their own egoism, thinking and speaking the worst of 
 Maggie Tulliver, and turning their backs upon her. It was 
 naturally disappointing to Dr. Kenn, after two years of super- 
 fluous incense from his feminine parishioners, to find them sud- 
 denly maintaining their views in opposition to his ; but then 
 they maintained them in opposition to a higher Authority, 
 which they had venerated longer. That Authority had fur- 
 nished a very explicit answer to persons who might inquire 
 where their social duties began, and might be inclined to take 
 wide views as to the starting-point. The answer had not 
 turned on the ultimate good of Society, but on " a certain 
 man" who was found in trouble by the wayside. 
 
 Not that St. Ogg's was empty of women with some tender- 
 ness of heart and conscience ; probably it had as fair a propor- 
 tion of human goodness in it as any other small trading town 
 of that day. But until every good man is brave, we must 
 expect to find many good women timid, too timid even to 
 believe in the correctness of their own best promptings, when 
 these would place them in a minority. And the men at St. 
 Ogg's were not all brave, by any means ; some of them were 
 even fond of scandal, and to an extent that might have given 
 their conversation an effeminate character, if it had not been 
 
470 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 distinguished by masculine jokes, and by an occasional shrug 
 of the shoulders at the mutual hatred of women. It was tin-. 
 general feeling of the masculine mind at St. Ogg's that women 
 were not to be interfered with in their treatment of each 
 other. 
 
 And thus every direction in which Dr. Kenn had turned, 
 in the hope of procuring some kind recognition and some 
 employment for Maggie, proved a disappointment to him. 
 -Mrs. James Torry could not think of taking Maggie as a 
 nursery governess, even temporarily, a young woman about 
 whom "such things had been said," and about whom "gentle- 
 men joked ; " and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, 
 and wanted a reader and companion, felt quite sure that 
 Maggie's mind must be of a quality with which she, for her 
 part, could not risk any contact. Why did not Miss Tulliver 
 accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg ? It did not 
 become a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she not 
 go out of the neighbourhood, and get a situation where she 
 was not known ? (It was not, apparently, of so much impor- 
 tance that she should carry her dangerous tendencies into 
 strange families unknown at St. Ogg's.) She must be very 
 bold and hardened to wish to stay in a parish where she was 
 so much stared at and whispered about. 
 
 Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the 
 presence of this opposition, as every firm man would have 
 done, to contract a certain strength of determination over 
 and above what would have been called forth by the end in 
 view. He himself wanted a daily governess for his younger 
 children ; and though he had hesitated in the first instance 
 to offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protest with 
 the utmost force of his personal and priestly character against 
 her being crushed and driven away by slander, was now deci- 
 sive. Maggie gratefully accepted an employment that gave 
 her duties as well as a support ; her days would be filled now, 
 and solitary evenings would be a welcome rest. She no 
 longer needed the sacrifice her mother made in staying with 
 her, and Mrs. Tulliver was persuaded to go back to the Mill. 
 
 But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exem- 
 plary as he had hitherto appeared, had his crotchets, possibly 
 his weaknesses. The masculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled 
 pleasantly, and did not wonder that Kenn liked to see a fine 
 pair of eyes daily, or that he was inclined to take so lenient 
 a view of the past; the feminine mind, regarded at that 
 period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 471 
 
 case. If Dr. Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that 
 Miss Tulliver ! It was not safe to be too confident, even 
 about the best of men ; an apostle had fallen, and wept 
 bitterly afterwards ; and though Peter's denial was not a 
 close precedent, his repentance was likely to be. 
 
 Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for 
 many weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time 
 or other becoming the Rector's wife had been talked of so 
 It -a in confidence, that ladies were beginning to discuss how 
 they should behave to her in that position. For Dr. Kenn, 
 it had been understood, had sat in the schoolroom half an 
 hour one morning, when Miss Tulliver was giving her les- 
 sons, nay, he had sat there every morning; he had once 
 walked home with her, he almost always walked home 
 with her, and if not, he went to see her in the evening. 
 What an artful creature she was ! What a mother for those 
 children ! It was enough to make poor Mrs. Kenn turn in her 
 grave, that they should be put under the care of this girl 
 only a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to 
 propriety as to marry her before the year was out ? The 
 masculine mind was sarcastic, and thought not. 
 
 The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of wit- 
 nessing a folly in their Rector ; at least their brother would 
 be safe ; and their knowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a con- 
 stant ground of alarm to them, lest he should come back and 
 marry Maggie. They were not among those who disbelieved 
 their brother's letter ; but they had no confidence in Maggie's 
 adherence to her renunciation of him ; they suspected that she 
 had shrunk rather from the elopement than from the marriage, 
 and that she lingered in St. Ogg's, relying on his return to 
 her. They had always thought her disagreeable ; they now 
 thought her artful and proud ; having quite as good grounds 
 for that judgment as you and I probably have for many strong 
 opinions of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether 
 delighted in the contemplated match with Lucy, but now their 
 dread of a marriage between Stephen and Maggie added its 
 momentum to their genuine pity and indignation on behalf of 
 the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that he should 
 return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home, she 
 was to seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by 
 going to the coast with the Miss Guests ; and it was in their 
 plans that Stephen should be induced to join them. On the 
 very first hint of gossip concerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the 
 report was conveyed in Miss Guest's letter to her brother. 
 
472 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt 
 Glegg, or Dr. Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress towards recov- 
 ery, and her thoughts tended continually towards her uncle 
 Deane's house ; she hungered for an interview with Lucy, if it 
 were only for five minutes, to utter a word of penitence, to 
 be assured by Lucy's own eyes and lips that she did not be- 
 lieve in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved 
 and trusted. But she knew that even if her uncle's indigna- 
 tion had not closed his house against her, the agitation of such 
 an interview would have been forbidden to Lucy. Only to 
 have seen her without speaking would have been some relief ; 
 for Maggie was haunted by a face cruel in its very gentleness ; 
 a face that had been turned on hers with glad, sweet looks of 
 trust and love from the twilight time of memory; changed 
 now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke. And as 
 the days passed on, that pale image became more and more dis- 
 tinct ; the picture grew and grew into more speaking definite- 
 ness under the avenging hand of remorse ; the soft hazel eyes, 
 in their look of pain, were bent for ever on Maggie,, and pierced 
 her the more because she could see no anger in them. But 
 Lucy was not yet able to go to church, or any place where 
 Maggie could see her; and even the hope of that departed, 
 when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy was 
 really going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss 
 Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their 
 brother to meet them there. 
 
 Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is, 
 can know what Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the 
 evening after hearing that news from Mrs. Glegg, only those 
 who have known what it is to dread their own selfish desires 
 as the watching mother would dread the sleeping-potion that 
 was to still her own pain. 
 
 She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window 
 wide open towards the river; the sense of oppressive heat 
 adding itself undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. 
 Seated on a chair against the window, with her arm on the 
 window-sill, she was looking blankly at the flowing river, swift 
 with the backward-rushing tide, struggling to see still the 
 sweet face in its unreproaching sadness, that seemed now from 
 moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form 
 that thrust itself between, and made darkness. Hearing the 
 door open, she thought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with her sup- 
 per, as usual ; and with that repugnance to trivial speech which 
 comes with languor and wretchedness, she shrank from turn- 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 473 
 
 ing round and saying she wanted nothing; good little Mrs. 
 Jakin would be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But 
 the next moment, without her having discerned the sound of a 
 footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a 
 voice close to her saying, " Maggie ! " 
 
 The face was there, changed, but all the sweeter ; the hazel 
 eyes were there, with their heart-piercing tenderness. 
 
 " Maggie ! " the soft voice said. " Lucy ! " answered a voice 
 with a sharp ring of anguish in it ; and Lucy threw her arms 
 round Maggie's neck, and leaned her pale cheek against the 
 burning brow. 
 
 " I stole out," said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat 
 down close to Maggie and held her hand, " when papa and the 
 rest were away. Alice is come with me. I asked her to help 
 me. But I must only stay a little while, because it is so 
 late." 
 
 It was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. 
 They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview 
 must end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. 
 Each felt that there would be something scorching in the 
 words that would recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, as 
 Maggie looked, every distinct thought began to be overflowed 
 by a wave of loving penitence, and words burst forth with 
 a sob. 
 
 " God bless you for coming, Lucy." 
 
 The sobs came thick on each other after that. 
 
 " Maggie, dear, be comforted," said Lucy now, putting her 
 cheek against Maggie's again. " Don't grieve." And she sat 
 still, hoping to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress. 
 
 " I did n't mean to deceive you, Lucy," said Maggie, as soon 
 as she could speak. " It always made me wretched that I felt 
 what I did n't like you to know. It was because I thought it 
 would all be conquered, and you might never see anything to 
 wound you. " 
 
 "I know, dear," said Lucy. "I know you never meant to 
 make me unhappy. It is a trouble that has come on us all ; 
 you have more to bear than I have and you gave him up, 
 when you did what it must have been very hard to do." 
 
 They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped 
 hands, and cheeks leaned together. 
 
 " Lucy," Maggie began again, " he struggled too. He wanted 
 to be true to you. He will come back to you. Forgive him 
 he will be happy then " 
 
 These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul, 
 
474 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 with an effort like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. 
 Lucy trembled and was silent. 
 
 A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, 
 who entered and said, 
 
 " I dare n't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They '11 find it 
 out, and there '11 be such anger at your coming out so late." 
 
 Lucy rose and said, " Very well, Alice, in a minute." 
 
 " I 'in to go away on Friday, Maggie," she added, when Alice 
 had closed the door again. "When I come back, and am 
 strong, they will let me do as I like. I shall come to you 
 when I please then." 
 
 " Lucy," said Maggie, with another great effort, " I pray to 
 God continually that I may never be the cause of sorrow tf> 
 you any more." 
 
 She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and 
 looked up into the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never 
 forgot that look. 
 
 " Maggie," she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity 
 of confession in it, "you are better than I am. I can't " 
 
 She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped 
 each other again in a last embrace. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LAST CONFLICT. 
 
 IN the second week of September, Maggie was again sitting 
 in her lonely room, battling with the old shadowy enemies that 
 were for ever slain and rising again. It was past midnight, 
 and the rain was beating heavily against the window, driven 
 with fitful force by the rushing, loud-moaning wind. For the 
 day after Lucy's visit there had been a sudden change in the 
 weather ; the heat and drought had given way to cold variable 
 winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals ; and she had been 
 forbidden to risk the contemplated journey until the weather 
 should become more settled. In the counties higher up the 
 Floss the rains had been continuous, and the completion of 
 the harvest had been arrested. And now, for the last two days, 
 the rains on this lower course of the river had been incessant, 
 so that the old men had shaken their heads and talked of sixty 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 475 
 
 years ago, when the same sort of weather, happening about 
 the equinox, brought on the great floods, which swept the 
 bridge away, and reduced the town to great misery. But the 
 younger generation, who had seen several small floods, thought 
 lightly of these sombre recollections and forebodings ; and 
 Bob Jakin, naturally prone to take a hopeful view of his own 
 luck, laughed at his mother when she regretted their having 
 taken a house by the riverside, observing that but for that 
 they would have had no boats, which were the most lucky of 
 possessions in case of a flood that obliged them to go to a 
 distance for food. 
 
 But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their 
 beds now. There was hope that the rain would abate by the 
 morrow; threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws 
 after falls of snow, had often passed off, in the experience 
 of the younger ones ; and at the very worst, the banks would 
 be sure to break lower down the river when the tide came in 
 with violence, and so the waters would be carried off, withoiit 
 causing more than temporary inconvenience, and losses that 
 would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity would 
 relieve. 
 
 All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight ; all 
 except some solitary watchers such as Maggie. She was 
 seated in her little parlour towards the river, with one 
 candle, that left everything dim in the room except a letter 
 which lay before her on the table. That letter, which had 
 come to her to-day, was one of the causes that had kept her 
 up far on into the night, unconscious how the hours were 
 going, careless of seeking rest, with no image of rest com- 
 ing across her mind, except of that far, far off rest from 
 which there would be no more waking for her into this 
 struggling earthly life. 
 
 Two days before Maggie received that letter, she had been 
 to the Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have 
 prevented her from going since ; but there was another reason. 
 Dr. Kenn, at first enlightened only by a few hints as to the 
 new turn which gossip and slander had taken in relation to 
 Maggie, had recently been made more fully aware of it by 
 an earnest remonstrance from one of his male parishioners 
 against the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt to 
 overcome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of 
 resistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in 
 the matter, was still inclined to persevere, was still averse 
 to give way before a public sentiment that was odious and con- 
 
476 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 temptible ; but he was finally wrought upon by the considera- 
 tion of the peculiar responsibility attached to his office, of 
 avoiding the appearance of evil, an "appearance" that is al- 
 ways dependent on the average quality of surrounding minds. 
 Where these minds are low and gross, the area of that " ap- 
 pearance " is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in 
 danger of acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty 
 to succumb. Conscientious people are apt to see their duty 
 in that which is the most painful course ; and to recede was 
 always painful to Dr. Kenn. He made up his mind that he 
 must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg's for a time ; 
 and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacy 
 as he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his at- 
 tempt to countenance her stay was a source of discord between 
 himself and his parishioners, that was likely to obstruct his 
 usefulness as a clergyman. He begged her to allow him to 
 write to a clerical friend of his, who might possibly take her 
 into his own family as governess ; and, if not, would probably 
 know of some other available position for a young woman in 
 whose welfare Dr. kenn felt a strong interest. 
 
 Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip ; she could say 
 nothing but a faint "Thank you, I shall be grateful;" and 
 she walked back to her lodgings, through the driving rain, 
 with a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wan- 
 derer ; she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at 
 her wonderingly, because the days did not seem joyful to her ; 
 she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse 
 herself to receive new impressions ; and she was so unspeak- 
 ably, sickeningly weary ! There was no home, no help for the 
 erring; even those who pitied were constrained to hardness. 
 But ought she to complain ? Ought she to shrink in this way 
 from the long penance of life, which was all the possibility 
 .she had of lightening the load to some other sufferers, and so 
 changing that passionate error into a new force of unselfish 
 human love ? All the next day she sat in her lonely room, 
 with a window darkened by the cloxid and the driving rain, 
 thinking of that future, and wrestling for patience ; for what 
 repose could poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling ? 
 
 And on the third day this day of which she had just sat 
 out the close the letter had come which was lying on the 
 table before her. 
 
 The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from 
 Holland; he was at Mudport again, unknown to any of his 
 friends, and had written to her from that place, enclosing 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 477 
 
 the letter to a person whom he trusted in St. Ogg's. From 
 beginning to end it was a passionate cry of reproach ; an ap- 
 peal against her useless sacrifice of him, of herself, against 
 that perverted notion of right which led her to crush all his 
 hopes, for the sake of a mere idea, and not any substantial 
 good, his hopes, whom she loved, and who loved her with 
 that single overpowering passion, that worship, which a man 
 never gives to a woman more than once in his life. 
 
 " They have written to me that you are to marry Kenu. As 
 if I should believe that ! Perhaps they have told you some 
 such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I 've been ' trav- 
 elling.' My body has been dragged about somewhere ; but / 
 have never travelled from the hideous place where you left 
 me ; where I started up from the stupor of helpless rage to 
 find you gone. 
 
 " Maggie ! whose pain can have been like mine ? Whose 
 injury is like mine ? Who besides me has met that long look 
 of love that has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other im- 
 age can come there ? Maggie, call me back to you ! Call me 
 back to life and goodness ! I am banished from both now. I 
 have no motives ; I am indifferent to everything. Two months 
 have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for life 
 without you. Write me one word ; say ' Come ! ' In two days 
 I should be with you. Maggie, have you forgotten what it was 
 to be together, to be within reach of a look, to be within 
 hearing of each other's voice ? " 
 
 When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real 
 temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the chill 
 dark cavern, we turn with unworn courage from the warm 
 light ; but how, when we have trodden far in the damp dark- 
 ness, and have begun to be faint and weary ; how, if there is 
 a sudden opening above us, and we are invited back again to 
 the life-nourishing day ? The leap of natural longing from 
 under the pressure of pain is so strong, that all less imme- 
 diate motives are likely to be forgotten till the pain has 
 been escaped from. 
 
 For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. 
 For hours every other thought that she strove to summon was 
 thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single 
 word that would bring him to her. She did not read the 
 letter; she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her 
 with its old strange power. All the day before she had been 
 filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she 
 must carry the burthen of regret, upheld only by clinging 
 
478 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 faith. And here, close within her reach, urging itself upon 
 her even as a claim, was another future, in which hard en- 
 durance and effort were to be exchanged for easy, delicious 
 leaning on another's loving strength ! And yet that promise 
 of joy in the place of sadness did not make the dire force of 
 the temptation to Maggie. It was Stephen's tone of misery, 
 it was the doubt in the justice of her own resolve, that made 
 the balance tremble, and made her once start from her seat to 
 reach the pen and paper, and write " Come ! " 
 
 But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled ; and the 
 sense of contradiction with her past self in her moments of 
 strength and clearness came upon her like a pang of conscious 
 degradation. No, she must wait ; she must pray ; the light 
 that had forsaken her would come again ; she should feel again 
 what she had felt when she had fled away, under an inspira- 
 tion strong enough to conquer agony, to conquer love ; she 
 should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, 
 when Philip's letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her 
 to the calmer past. 
 
 She sat quite still, far on into the night, with no impulse to 
 change her attitude, without active force enough even for the 
 mental act of prayer; only waiting for the light that would 
 surely come again. It came with the memories that no pas- 
 sion could long quench ; the long past came back to her, and 
 with it the fountains of self-renouncing pity and affection, 
 of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked 
 by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long 
 ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a 
 vent for themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in 
 the loud driving of the rain against the window and the 
 loud moan and roar of the wind. " I have received the Cross, 
 I have received it from Thy hand ; I will bear it, and bear it 
 till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me." 
 
 But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but 
 in a sob, " Forgive me, Stephen ! It will pass away. You 
 will come back to her." 
 
 She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it 
 burn slowly on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to 
 him the last word of parting. 
 
 " I will bear it, and bear it till death. But how long it will 
 be before death comes ! I am so young, so healthy. How 
 shall I have patience and strength ? Am I to struggle and 
 fall and repent again? Has life other trials as hard for 
 me still?" 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 479 
 
 With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees 
 against the table, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her 
 soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to 
 the end. Surely there was something being taught her by 
 this experience of great need ; and she must be learning a 
 secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, that the less 
 erring could hardly know ? "0 God, if my life is to be long, 
 let me live to bless and comfort " 
 
 At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden 
 cold about her knees and feet ; it was water flowing under her. 
 She started up; the stream was flowing under the door that 
 led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an instant ; 
 she knew it was the flood ! 
 
 The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last 
 twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her ; with- 
 out screaming, she hurried with the caudle up-stairs to Bob 
 Jakin's bedroom. The door was ajar ; she went in and shook 
 him by the shoulder. 
 
 " Bob, the flood is come ! it is in the house ! let us see if we 
 can make the boats safe." 
 
 She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up 
 her baby, burst into screams ; and then she hurried down 
 again to see if the waters were rising fast. There was a 
 step down into the room at the door leading from the stair- 
 case ; she saw that the water was already on a level with 
 the step. While she was looking, something came with a 
 tremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded 
 panes and the old wooden framework inwards in shivers, 
 the water pouring in after it. 
 
 " It is the boat ! " cried Maggie. " Bob, come down to <s;et 
 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 is n'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 
 
480 THE MILL UX Till: 
 
 Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fean 
 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 pro- 
 tect, 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 '11 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 noth- 
 ing, 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 1 
 of her childish dreams. And with that thought there rushedi 
 in the vision of the old home, and Tom, and her mother, 
 they had all listened together. 
 
 " 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 dis- 
 tress, her mother and her brother, alone there, beyond reach 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 481 
 
 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 
 over-flooded fields. There was no sense of present danger to 
 check the outgoing of her rnind 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 towards which all her anxie* 
 ties tended. 
 
 Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level, 
 the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly de- 
 fining 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 wak- 
 ening 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 grow- 
 ing twilight ; her wet clothes clung round her, and her stream- 
 ing 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 recon- 
 cilement 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 towards her brother that swept away all the later impres- 
 sions 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 grey 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 
 
 si 
 
482 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 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 lessen- 
 ing 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 antici- 
 pated 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 swift- 
 ness 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 towards 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 towards the Mill. Colour was beginning to awake 
 now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could dis- 
 cern the tints of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far 
 
THE FINAL RESCUE. 483 
 
 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 frag- 
 ments hurrying down the Kipple, what had they meant ? 
 But it was not the house, the house stood firm ; drowned up 
 to the first storey, but still firm, or was it broken in at the 
 end towards the Mill ? 
 
 With panting joy that she was there at last, joy that over 
 came 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 up-stairs 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 yes- 
 terday. I '11 come down to the lower window." 
 
 " Alone, Maggie ? " said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish 
 ment, 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 reve- 
 lation 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 humil- 
 iation. 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 gath- 
 ered over the blue-grey eyes, and the lips found a word they 
 could utter, the old childish " Magsie ! " 
 
484 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 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 '11 go and see if she is safe, and then we can help 
 the rest." 
 
 Tom rowed with untired vigour, 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 
 towards them by the river. Some wooden machinery had just 
 given \ray 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 
 uround them ; in dreadful clearness floated nwards the hur- 
 rying, 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 huge mass was hurrying on in hideous 
 triumph. 
 
 But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on 
 the golden water. 
 
 The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down 
 in an embrace never to be parted ; living through again in one 
 supreme moment the days when they had clasped their little 
 hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together. 
 
CONCLUSION. 485 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 NATURE repairs her ravages, repairs them with her sun- 
 shine, and with human labour. The desolation wrought by 
 that flood had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, 
 five years after. The fifth autumn was rich in golden corn- 
 stacks, rising in thick clusters among the distant hedge- 
 rows ; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss were busy 
 again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and 
 unlading. 
 
 And every man and woman mentioned in this history was 
 still living, except those whose end we know. 
 
 Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees 
 are not rooted again ; the parted hills are left scarred ; if 
 there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, 
 and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of 
 the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, 
 there is no thorough repair. 
 
 Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard 
 where the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was 
 found with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood 
 had recovered all its grassy order and decent quiet. 
 
 Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon 
 after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close em- 
 brace ; and it was visited at different moments by two men 
 who both felt that their keenest joy and keenest sorrow were 
 for ever buried there. 
 
 One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside 
 him ; but that was years after. 
 
 The other was always solitary. His great companionship 
 was among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried 
 joy seemed still to hover, like a revisiting spirit. 
 
 The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and 
 below the names it was written, 
 
 " In their death they were not divided." 
 
 THE END. 
 
JAN 2 7 1986 
 
IIIIUUIll 11111 111""' 
 
 A 000 563 877