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MILL OX THE FLOSS.

GEORGE ELIOT,

-8CE5ES OF CUHU1 IOC UO -ADAM i

KEW TOBK:

HARPER A BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
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W. L POOLEY A CO,

FtillLII IQUAU.

1860 .

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HARVARD COllUK IMMIV
ABROTT LMMKNC U)«CU

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BOOK FIRST.

BOY AND GIRL.

*'•*7*, a ?// .

l/'

HARVARD COltaiK INMM

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ABBOTT UNMR9K UHWJL

BOOK FIRST.

BOY AND GIRL.

CONTENTS.

BOOK FIRST.

BOY AND GIRL.

CHAPTER PAGB

I. Outside Dorlcote Mill. 7

II. Mr. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, declares his Resolution about

Tom. 9

III. Mr. Riley gives his Advice concerning a School for Tom. 14

IV. Tom is expected. 25

V. Tom comes home. 30

VI. The Aunts and Uncles are coming. 38

VII. Enter the Aunts and Uncles... 48

VIII. Mr. Tulliver shows his weaker Side. 68

IX. To Garum Firs. 77

X. Maggie behaves worse than she expected..* 89

XI. Maggie tries to run away from her Shadow... 94

XII. Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home. 104

Xni. Mr. Tulliver further entangles the Skein of Life. 115

BOOK SECOND.

SCHOOL-TIME.

I. Tom’s “ First Half”. 119

II. The Christmas Holidays... 137

III. The new Schoolfellow... 143

IV. “The young Idea”. 148

V. Maggie’s second Visit.. 158

VI. A Love Scene. 162

VII. The Golden Gates are passed. 166

BOOK THIRD.

THE DOWNFALL.

I. What happened at home. 173

II. Mrs. Tulliver’s Teraphim, or household Gods. 178

III. The Family Council. 183

IV. A vanishing Gleam. 196

V. Tom applies his Knife to the Oyster.. 199

VI. Tending to refute the popular Prejudice against the Present of a

Pocket-knife. 210

VTI. How a Hen takes to Stratagem. 216

VIII. Daylight on the Wreck. 226

IX. An Item added to the family Register. 238

CONTENTS.

BOOK FOURTH.

THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. A Variation of Protestantism unknown to Bossuet. 239

II. The torn Nest is pierced by the Thorns. 243

IIL A Voice from the Past. 248

BOOK FIFTH.

WHEAT AND TARES.

I. In the red Deeps. 261

II. Aunt Glegg learns the Breadth of Bob’s Thumb... 272

III. The wavering Balance. 287

IV. Another Love Scene. 293

V. The cloven Tree... 298

VI. The hard-won Triumph.. 309

VII. A day of Beckoning. 313

BOOK SIXTH.

THE GREAT TEMPTATION.

I. A Duet in Paradise. 319

II. First Impressions. 326

III. Confidential Moments. 338

IV. Brother and Sister. 342

V. Showing that Tom had opened the Oyster. 349

VI. Illustrating the Laws of Attraction. 353

VII. Philip re-enters. 362

VIII. Wakem in a new Light. 374

IX. Charity in Full-dress. 380

X. The Spell seems broken. 389

XI. In the Lane. 394

XII. A Family Party. 400

XIII . Borne along by the Tide. 407

XIV. Waking. 418

BOOK SEVENTH.

THE FINAL RESCUE.

I. The Return to the Mill. 429

II. St. Ogg’s passes Judgment. 435

HI. Showing that old Acquaintances are capable of surprising us. 443

IV. Maggie and Lucy. 448

V. The last Conflict. 454

Conclusion. 464

THE MILL ON THE FLOS&

CHAPTER L

OUTSIDE DORLCOTE 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,
tinging 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 Df beehive
ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and every
where 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 liv¬
ing companion while I wander along the bank and listf^to its
low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf analoving.

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 pleasant to look at it—per¬
haps the chill damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept,
comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms ani. ctaestnnts
that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream
' now, and lies high in this little withy plantation^ anA \ia5&

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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,
^*1 am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that
| are dipping their heads far into the water here among the
^withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in
*fhe 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 thun¬
der of the huge covered wagon, coming home with sacks of
:grain. That honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting
sadly dry in the*oven at this late hour; but he will not touch
it tifi he has fed his horses—the strong, submissive, meek-eyed
s beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from
I 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 toward 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 wagon disappears at
the turning behind the trees.

Now I can turn my eyes toward 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 tb£$tridge. 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
fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepen¬
ing-gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off rest*:
ing 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.

Th K MILL ON THE FLOSS*

I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliyer were talk¬
ing about as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlor
on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.

CHAPTER H.

MB. TULLIVKR, OP DORLCOTE MILL, DECLARES HIS BESOLUTION
ABOUT TOM.

“What I want, you know,” said Mr. Tulliver— “what I
want is to give Tom a good eddication—an eddication as’ll be
a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I
gave notice for him to leave th’ 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 Fd
meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he’s had a fine
sight more schoolin’ nor I 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 law¬
suits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn’t make a down¬
right lawyer 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, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer
Wakem i’ the face as hard as one cat looks another. Hds
none frightened at him.”

Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blonde comely wom¬
an, 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 com¬
ing in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly
forty, they were new at St. Ogg’s, and considered sweet things).

“Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best; Fve no objections.
But hadn’t I better kill a couple o’ fowl and have th’ aunts
and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sis¬
ter 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 J” said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at
rhetoric, “how cm yon talk so, Mr.Tulliver? "But

A 2

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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
wasn’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 extra 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, if other things fit in,” said Mr. Tulliver. “ But you
; mustn’t put a spoke i’ the wheel about the washin’, if we can’t
1 get a school near enough. That’s the fault I have to find wi’
I 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
■ wagoner, ’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 rather fond of the moles, for my
brother, as is dead an’ gone, had a mole on his brow. But I
can’t remember you iver offering to hire a wagoner with a
mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadn’t a mole on
his face no more than you have, an’ I was all for having you
hire him ji an’ so you did hire him, an’ if he hadn’t died o’ th*
inflammation, as we paid Dr. Turnbull for attending him, he’d
very like ha’ been driving the wagon now. He might have a
mole somewhere out o’ sight, but how was I to know that,
Mr. Tulliver ?”

“ No, no, Bessy, I didn’t mean justly the mole; I meant it
to stand for summat 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 ’ca-
demy again: whativer school I send Tom to, it sha’n’t be a
’qademy; 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 , “ 1 know what I’ll do—I’U talk it over

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

wi’ Riley: 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 aren’t the best
sheets, but they’re good enough for any body to sleep in, be
he who he will; for as for them best Holland sheets, I should
repent buying ’em, only'' they’ll do to lay us out in. An’ if
you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver, they’re mangled beauti¬
ful, an’ all ready, an’ smell o’ lavender as it ’ud be a pleasure
to lay them out; an’ they lie at the left-hand comer o’ the big f
oaken chest, at the back—not as I should trust any body 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 anticipa¬
ting the moment when he would be in a state to justify the
production 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 ap¬
parently occupied in a tactile examination of his woolen stock¬
ings.

“ 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 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 every thing, and walking with a bend in his back,
and setting his hair up, I shouldn’t mind the lad being brought
up to that. But them fine-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’ll 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 pu\r
stai rs-^or four, for what I know —an’ be burnt. t,o deuthhs&stfc
he can get down."

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ 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 hasn’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 tfalkilate what’ll 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, turn¬
ing 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 clean pinafore
two hours together passes my cunning. An’, now you put me
i’ mind,” continued Mrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the win¬
dow, “ 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 wa¬
ter, like a wild thing: she’ll 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.

“ 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 any thing, she forgets what
^ she’s gone for, an’ perhaps ’ull sit down on the floor i’ the sun-
' shine an’ plait her hair an’ sing to herself like a Bedlam crea-
^ tur’, all the while I’m waiting lor her down stairs. That niver
~j 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
y 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 any body need wish to see. I don’t know
i’ what she’s behind other folks’s children; and she can read al-
most as well as the parson.”

66 But her hair won’t curl all I can do with it, and she’s so
franzy about having it put i’ paper, and T\e aueh worV

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 mis- • ^
take of nature entered the room, “ where’s the use o’ my tell-" ?
mg you to keep away from the water ? You’ll tumble in and
be drownded some day, an’ then you’ll be sorry you didn’t do
as mother told you.”

Maggie’s hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirm¬
ed her mother’s accusation: Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daugh¬
ter 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.”

w 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 any thing 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’ll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver,” said
the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. “ You encour¬
age 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 upward.>
fair plump, and dull-witted —in short, the flower oi\rer fexKvq
for beauty snd amiability . But milk and mildiveaa are

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

best things for keeping, and when they turn only a little sour,
they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have

S 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 m.

ME. BILEY GIVES HIS ADVICE CONCERNING A SCHOOL FOE TOM.

The gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill,
taking 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
bonhommie toward simple country acquaintances of hospitable
habits. Mr. Riley spoke of such acquaintances kindly as ‘‘peo¬
ple 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 every body was what they
should be, and Old Harry hadn’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 intellect,
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 Manichaeism, 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 some¬
how, for all it seemed—look at it one way—as plain as water’s
water; but, big a puzzle as it was, it hadn’t got the better of
Riley. Mr. Tulliver took his brandy and water a little strong¬
er than usual, and, for a man who might be supposed to have
a few hundreds lying idle at his banker’s, was rather incau-
tiously open in expressing his high estimate of his friend’s
bu8ines8 talents.

But the dam was a subject of conversation

'l'H K Al 1LL ON THK FLOSS*

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 wagon in a hurry, you may light on an
awkward comer. 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, look¬
ing exactly the same under all circumstances. This immova¬
bility 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 whis¬
tle : in an instant she was on the watch, with gleaming eyes,
like a Skye terrier suspecting mischief, or, at all events, de¬
termined to fly at any one who threatened it toward Tom.

“ You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsum¬
mer,” said Mr. Tulliver; “ he’s cornin’ 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’ll 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 mill¬
er and farmer, and a shrewd sensible fellow into the bargain,
without much help from the schoolmaster.”

“ I believe you,” said Mr. Tulliver, winking, and turning his
head on one side, w 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
the land, an’ arhinting at me as it was time fox me to \a.^ exJ
think o’my latter end. Nay, nay, I’ve seen enough, o' that

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS*

sons. Fll 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’m 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 strong¬
ly, and the impetus which had given unusual rapidity and em¬
phasis to his speech showed itself still unexhausted for some
minutes afterward 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
to be borne; and Maggie jumped up from her stool, forgetting
all about her heavy book, which 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 wouldn’t be naughty to you ever; I know
he wouldn’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. Riley 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 girl on
the back, and then held her hands and kept her between his
knees.

“ What! they mustn’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 couldn’t
hear, “ She 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

( 5ad—it’s bad,” Mr. Tulliver added, sadly, checking this blam-
ible exultation; “ a woman’s no business wi’ being so clever;
t’ll turn to trouble, I doubt. But, bless you!”—here the ex-
iltation was clearly recovering the mastery—“ she’ll read the
books and understand ’em better nor half the folks as are
growed up.”

Maggie’s cheeks began to flush with triumphant excite¬
ment : she thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her
now; it had been evident that he thought nothing of her be¬
fore.

Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she
could make nothing of Ins face, with its high-arched eyebrows;
but he presently looked at her and said,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 17

“Come, come and tell me something about this book; here
are some pictures—I want to know what they mean.”

Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to
Mr. Riley’s elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing
one comer and tossing back her mane, while she said,

“ Oh, I’ll tell you what that means. It’s a dreadful picture,
isn’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
up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akim¬
bo, laughing—oh, isn’t he ugly ?—I’ll tell you what he is. He’s
the devil really ” (here Maggie’s voice became louder and more
emphatic ), 66 and not a right blacksmith; for the devil takes
the shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets people do¬
ing 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.

44 Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on ?” he
burst out, at last.

444 The History of the Devil,’ by Daniel Defoe; not quite
the right book for a little girl,” said Mr. Riley. “ How came
it among your books, Tulliver ?”

Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said,

44 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 ); 44 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 mustn’t judge by th’ outside.
This is a puzzlin’ world.”

“Well,” said Mr.Riley, in an admonitory patronizing tone,
as he patted Maggie on the head, “I advise you to put by the
‘History of the Oevil,’ and read some prettier book. Have
you no prettier books ?”

44 Oh yes, 99 said Maggie , reviving a little in the deeire to
dicate the variety of her reading, “I know the tending in \Jcasfc

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

book isn’t pretty, but I like the pictures, and I make stories to
the pictures out of my own head, you know. But I’ve got
‘ASsop’s Fables,’ and a book about kangaroos and things, and
the 4 Pilgrim’s Progress.’ ” . . . .

44 Ah! a beautiful book,” said Mr. Riley; 44 you can’t read a
^better.”

44 Well, but there’s a great deal about the devil in that,” said
Maggie, triumphantly , 44 and I’ll 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 shab¬
by old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least
trouble of search, at the picture she wanted.

44 Here he is,” she said, running back to Mr. Riley , 44 and Tom
colored 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.”

44 Go, go !” said Mr.Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel
rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal ap¬
pearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers; 44 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 fa¬
ther’s chair, and nursing her doll, toward which she had an oc¬
casional fit of fondness in Tom’s absence, neglecting its toilette,
but lavishing so many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks
had a wasted, unhealthy appearance.

44 Did you ever hear the like on’t?” said Mr. Tulliver, as
Maggie retired. 44 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 — 44 as I picked
the mother because she wasn’t o’er ’cute—bein’ a good-look¬
ing woman too, an’ come of a rare family for managing; but
I picked her from her sisters o’ purpose, ’cause she was a bit
weak, like ; for I wasn’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’ll run to; an’ a pleas¬
ant sort o’ soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads
and ’cute wenches till it’s like as if the world was turned top¬
syturvy. 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 be said,

“But your Jad’s not stupid, is be? I saw b\m,was

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

here last, busy making fishing-tackle; he seemed quite up to
it.”

“ Well, he isn’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 lit¬
tle wench. Now what I want is to send him to a school where
they’ll make him a bit nimble with his tongue and his pen, and
make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi’ these
fellows as have got the start o’ me with having better school¬
ing. Not but what, if the world had been left as God made
it, I 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 am’t a bit like ’em, as I’m clean at fault
often an’ often. Every thing winds about so — the more
straightforrard you are, the more you’re puzzled.”

Mr. Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook
his head in a melancholy manner, conscious of exemplifying
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 to 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 haven’t your ready money to play with, Tulli¬
ver ; and I have a houseful of daughters into the bargain.”

“ I dare say, 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
necessaiw money, and that’s what you have, Tulliver. The
fact is, I wouldn’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 train¬
ing, where he would be the companion of his master, and that
master a first-rate fellow, I know his man. I wouldn’t mention
the chance to every body, 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 .Tuffiv er \\2A\>eea
watching his friend’s oracular face became quite eager.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ 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¬
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 won¬
derful 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 , i Stelling might get the
highest honors if he chose.’ But he didn’t care about uni¬
versity honors. 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’ pavin’ so much as that.”

“ A good education, let me 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 wouldn’t get
many other clergymen to do. I’ll write to him about it, if
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, 66 an 9 I’ve no opinion o’ housekeepers. There was my
brother, as is dead an’ gone, bad a houaek&epet aha

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

took half the feathers oat o’ the best bed, an’ packed ’em ap ^
an’ sent ’em away. An’ it’s unknown the linen she made 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.”

44 You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs. Tulliver,”
said Mr. Riley, 44 for Stelling is married to as nice a little wom¬
an as any man need wish for a wife. There isn’t a kinder lit¬
tle 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 objec¬
tion to take your son—I think he would not, on my repre¬
sentation.”

44 1 don’t know what he could have against the lad,” said
Mrs. Tulliver, with a slight touch of motherly indignation— 44 a
nice fresh-skinned lad as any body need wish to see.”

44 But there’s one thing I’m thinking on,” said Mr. Tulliver,
turning his head on one side and looking at Mr. Riley, after a
long perusal of the carpet. 44 Wouldn’t a parson be almost
too high-leamt 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 isn’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 aren’t actionable. It’s an uncom¬
mon fine thing, that is,” concluded Mr. Tulliver, shaking his
head, 44 when you can let a man know what you think of him
without paying for it.”

44 Oh, my dear Tulliver,” said Mr. Riley, 44 you’re quite under
a mistake about the clergy; all the best schoolmasters are of
the clergy. The schoolmasters who are not of the clergy are
a very low set of men generally” . . .

44 Ay, that Jacobs is, at the ’cademy,” interposed Mr. Tulliver.

44 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 who 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 oubj
to say to Stelling*, 4 1 want my son to be a thotou^a.
mn/ and you may leave the rest to him.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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’ll tell you what I’ll do for you,” said Mr.Riley,
“and I wouldn’t do it for every body. I’ll see Stelling’s
father-in-law, or "drop him a line when I get back to Brassing,
to say that you wish to place your boy with his son-in-law, and
I dare say 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 ’cademy at the Ladydap
quarter, and you see what good’s come of it.”

“ Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi’ bad malt upo’ Michaelmas
day, else you’ll 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 proposi¬
tions 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 of 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. TuUiver.

“ 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
always be spoken to jocosely. “ You must borrow the seven-
leagued boots to get to him.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ That’s nonsense!” said Maggie, tossing her head haughti¬
ly, 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
couldn’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. X)r—Stell-
ing 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 difficul¬
ty, and relieved Mr. Riley from the labor of suggesting some
solution or compromise—a labor which he woidd otherwise
doubtless have undertaken; for, as you perceive, he was a
man of very obliging manners. And he had really given him¬
self-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 in¬
dications to the contrary which might have misled a too saga¬
cious observer. For there is nothing more widely misleading
than sagacity if it happens to get on a wrong scent; and sagac¬
ity, persuaded that men usually act and speak from distinct
motives, with a consciously proposed end in view, is certain to
waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness
and deliberate contrivance, in order to compass a selfish end,
are nowhere abundant 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 neighbors without taking so much trouble:
we can do it by lazy acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial
falsities for wnich we hardly know a reason, by small frauds
naturalized 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 toward his
own interest, yet even he was more under the influence of
small promptings than of far-sighted designs. He had no pri¬
vate understanding with the Rev. Walter Stelling*, on con¬
trary, he knew very little of that M. A. and Ins acc^\ntomon\»—

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

not quite enough, perhaps, to warrant so strong a recommend¬
ation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. But he be¬
lieved 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 re¬
ceived a tincture of the classics at the great Mudport free-
school, and had a sense of understanding Latin generally, his
comprehension of any particular Latin was not ready. Doubt¬
less there remained a subtle aroma from his juvenile contact
with the JDe Senectute and the Fourth Book of the ^Eneid, but
it had ceased to be distinctly recognizable as classical, and was
only perceived in the higher finish and force of his auctioneer¬
ing 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 uni¬
versity education could teach any thing he liked, especially a
man like Stelling, who had made a speech at a Mudport dinner
on a political occasion, and had acquitted himself 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 satisfac¬
tion to him to say to Timpson on his return home, “ I’ve se¬
cured 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 that her husband should be a commend¬
able tutor. Moreover, Mr. Riley knew of no other school¬
master whom he had any ground for recommending. in. prefer¬
ence ; why, then, should he not recommend Stelling ? His
friend Tulliver had asked him for an opinion: it is always chill¬
ing, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give.
And if you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to
do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowledge.
You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond
of it. Thus, Mr. Riley, knowing no harm of Stelling to begin
with, and wishing him-well, so far as he had any wishes at all
concerning him, had no sooner recommended him than he be-
gan to think with admiration of a man recommended on such

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

high authority, and would soon have gathered so warm an in¬
terest on the subject, that, if Mr. Tolliver had in the end de¬
clined to send Tom to Steliing, Mr. Riley would have thought
his friend of the old school a thoroughly pig-headed fellow.

If you blame Mr. Riley very severely for giving a recom¬
mendation 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 freeschool
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 can
not be good-natured all round. Nature herself occasionally
quarters an inconvenient parasite on an animal toward whom
she has otherwise no ill will. What then? We admire her
care for the parasite. If Mr. Riley had shrunk from giving a
recommendation that was not based on valid evidence, he would
not have helped Mr. Steliing 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 complacencies—
of standing well with Timpson, of dispensing advice when he
was asked for it, of impressing his friend Tulliver with addi¬
tional 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.

CHAPTER IY.

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 de- ;
termination that there should be no more chance of curls that '
day.

“Maggie, Maggie, 99 exclaimed Mrs. TuUivet, aittang atorafc

V> 26

the mill oh the floss.

and helpless with the brushes on her lap, cc what is to become
of you if you’re so naughty ? I’ll tell your aunt Glegg and
your aunt Pullet when they come next week, and they’ll never
love you any more. Oh dear, oh dear, look at your clean pin¬
afore, wet from top to bottom. Folks ’ull think it’s a judg¬
ment 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 toward 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 favorite retreat on a wet day,
when the weather was not too cold; here she fretted out all
her ill-humors, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten floors and
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 ca¬
reer 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 suggested to
her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the old Bible.
The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke than
usual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented aunt Glegg.
But immediately afterward 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 alternately grinding and
beating the wooden head against the rough brick of the great
| chimneys that made two square pillars supporting 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 were 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 window. The sun
was really breaking out; the sound of the mill seemed cheerful
again; the granary doors were open; and there was Yap, thtf
queer white and brown terrier, with one ear turned back, trot-
twg about and snuffing vaguely as if be were m search of a

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 passage lest she should en¬
counter 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’ll make yourself giddy, an’ tumble
down r 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 doesn’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 a 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 forever pouring, pouring—the fine white pow¬
der softening all surfaces, and making the very spider-nets look
like a faery lacework—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 es¬
pecially a subject of speculation with her. She wondered if
they had any relations outside the mill, for in that case there
must be a painful difficulty in their family intercourse—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 communica¬
tive, wishing him to think well of her understanding, 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
shnil pitch which was requisite m mill-society,

“ I think you never read any book but the Bible—did you,
Luke?”

“Nay, miss— an’ not much o’ that,” said Luke,
franknasa “I’m no reader, I arn’t.”

the hill on the floss.

“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 didn’t un¬
derstand 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.”

u Nay, miss, I’n no opinion o’ Dutchmen. There ben’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’ fellow-creatures, I think, miss; all I know—
my old master, as war a knowin’ man, used to say, says he, 4 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 wur a fool, or
next door. Nay, nay, I arn’t goin’ to bother mysen about
Dutchmen. There’s fools enoo—an’ rogues enoo—wi’out look¬
in’ i’ books for ’em.”

44 Oh, well,” said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke’s unexpect¬
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’ com— I
can’t do wi’ knowin’ so many things besides my work. That’s
what brings folk to the gallows—knowin’ every thing 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 any body
else in the world. When he grows up, I shall keep his house,
and we shall always live together. I can tell him every thing
he doesn’t know. But I think Tom’s clever, for all he doesn’t
like books: he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit-pens.”

“ Ah!” said Luke, “ but he’ll be fine an’ vexed, as the rabbits
are all dead.”

“ Dead!” screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding seat
on the com. “ Oh dear, Luke! What! the lop-eared r one,
and the spotted doe that Tom spent all his money to buy ?”

“As dead as moles,” said Luke, fetching his comparison from ,
the unmistakable corpses nailed to the etahle-wall.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

u Oh dear, Luke,” said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the
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 counting on Harry— he's
a offal creatur as iver come about the primises, he is. He re¬
members nothing but his own inside—an’ I wish it ’ud gripe
him.”

“ Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rab¬
bits every day; but how could I, when they did not 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 I sorry.
Oh, what shall I do ?”

u 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 of natur niver thrive: ’ God A’mighty
doesn’t like ’em. He made the rabbits’ ears to lie back, an’ it’s
nothin’ but contrariness to make ’em hing down like a mastiff
dog’s. Master Tom ’ull know better nor buy such things an¬
other time. Don’t you fret, miss. Will you come along home
wi’ me and see my wife ? I’m agoin’ 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,
close by the brink of the Ripple. 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, seem¬
ed to insult him by their good spirits over their feast of husks.

“ I am very glad his father took him back again—aren’t you,
Luke?” she said. “For he was very sorry,'youkaioro,mA
wouldn’t do wrong again.”

“Eb, miss,”said Luke, “he’d be no great ^hak.ea,\ WoX
let’s feytber do what be would for him.”

THE MILL ON TUB FLOSS*

That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished much
that the subsequent history of the young man had been left a
blank.

CHAPTER V.

TOM COMES HOME.

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was an¬
other 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—the 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 morn¬
ing.

“ 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’ll 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-gray eyes wandered toward 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 every where 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, in¬
determinate nose and eyebrows—a physiognomy in which it
seems impossible to discern any thing but the generic charac¬
ter of boyhood; as different as possible from poor Maggie’s
phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and colored with
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 refutation of
their confident prophecies. Under these average boyish phys¬
iognomies that she seems to turn off by the groSs, she conceals
some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most
unmodifiable characters; and the dark-eyed, demeusXraXjvNe,

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

rebellions girl may after all turn out to be a passive being
compared with this pink and white bit of masculinity with the
indeterminate features.

44 Maggie,” said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a comer
as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and
the warm parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the
long drive, “ you don’t know what I’ve got in my pockets,”
nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her
sense of mystery.

44 No,” said Maggie. 44 How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it
marls (marbles) or cobnuts?” Maggie’s heart sank a little,
because Tom always said it was 44 no good” playing with her
at those games—she played so badly.

44 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 herel” He drew something half out of his
right-hand pocket.

44 What is it?” said Maggie, in a whisper. 44 1 can see noth¬
ing but a bit of yellow.”

44 Why, it’s . . . a . . . new . . . guess, Maggie.”

44 Oh, I can't guess, Tom,” said Maggie, impatiently.

44 Don’t be a spitfire, else I won’t tell you,” said Tom, thrust¬
ing his hand back into his pocket, and looking determined.

44 No, Tom,” said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the
arm that was held stiffly m the pocket. 44 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, 44 Well, then, it’s a
new fish-line—two new uns—one for you, Maggie, all to your¬
self. I wouldn’t go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on
purpose to save the money; and Gibson and Spouncer fought
with me because I wouldn’t. And here’s hooks — see here!
.... I say, won't we go and fish to-morrow down by Round
Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put
the worms on, and every thing: won’t it be fun ?”

Maggie’s answer was to throw her arms around 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,

44 Wasn’t I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to
yourself? You lmow, I needn’t have bought it if I hadn’t
liked.”

44 Yes, very, very good . ... I do love you, Tom.”

Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at
the hooks one by on% before he spoke again.

44 And the fellows fought me because I
about the toffee."

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Oh dear! I wish they wouldn’t fight at your school, Tom.
Didn’t it hurt you ?”

“ Hurt me ? no,” said Tom, putting up the hooks again, tak¬
ing 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 he got
by wanting to leather me ; I wasn’t going to go halves because
any body leathered me.”

“ Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you’re like Samson.
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 Af¬
rica, 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 hadn’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 toward us roaring, and we couldn’t get away
from him. What should you do, Tom ?”

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, say¬
ing, “ 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 trem¬
bling 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
Maggie dreaded Tom’s anger of all things—it was quite a dif¬
ferent 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.

“I think I’ve got a great deal more than that in my steel
purse up stairs. I’ll ask mother to give it you.”

“ What for ?” said Tom. “ I don’t want your money, you
silly thing. I’ve got a great deal more money than you, be¬
cause I’m 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, Tomr— if mother would let me give you two
half crowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your

the mill on the floss.

pocket to spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits with
it?”

44 More rabbits ? I don’t want any more.”

44 Oh, but, Tom, they’re all dead.”

Tom stopped immediately in his walk ^nd turned round to¬
ward Maggie. 44 You forgot to feed ’em, then, and Harry for¬
got ?” he said, his color heightening for a moment, but soon
subsiding. 44 I’ll pitch into Harry—I’ll 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.

44 Yes, but I forgot—and I couldn’t help it, indeed, Tom.

Tm so very sorry,” said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.

44 You’re a naughty girl,” said Tom, severely , 44 and I’m sorry
I bought you the fisn-Ene. I don’t love you.”

44 Oh, Tom, it’s very cruel,” sobbed Maggie. 44 I’d forgive
you if you forgot any thing—I wouldn’t mind what you did
—I’d forgive you and love you.”

44 Yes, you’re a silly; but I never do forget things— I don’t.”

44 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 of£ and stopped again, saying in a peremp¬
tory tone, 44 Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren’t I a good
brother to you ?”

44 Ye-ye-es,” sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling con¬
vulsively.

44 Didn’t I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and
mean to buy it, and saved my money o’ purpose, and wouldn’t
go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I
wouldn’t?”

44 Ye-ye-es... and I... lo-lo-love you so, Tom.”

44 But you’re a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the ,
paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let u
the boat drag my fish-line down when I set you to watch it,
and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing.”

44 But 1 didn’t mean,” said Maggie; 44 1 couldn’t help it.”

44 Yes, you could,” #aid Tom, 44 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
toward the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain
to him of Harry.

Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minnte
or two; then she turned round and ran into the
to her attic, where she sat on the floor, and laid her

B 2

p/WN

THE MILL pN THE FLOSS.

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 didn’t love her ? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn’t
she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry
she was ? She knew she was naughty to her mother, but she
had never been naughty to Tom—had never meant to be
naughty to him.

“ Oh, he is cruel!” Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretch :
ed pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the
long empty space of the attic. She never thought of beating
or grinding her Fetish; she was too miserable to be angry.

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new
and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond
the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer
seems measureless.

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it
must be teatime, and they were all having their tea, and not
thinking of her. W ell, then, she would stay up there and starve
herself—-hide herself behind the tub, and stay there all night;
and then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be sorry.
Thus Maggie thought in the pride of her heart, as she crept be¬
hind the tub; but presently she began to cry again at the idea
that they didn’t mind her being there. If she went down again
to Tom now, would he forgive her ? Perhaps her father would
be there, and he would take her part. But, then, she wanted
Tom to forgive her because he loved her, not because his father
told him. No, she would never go down if Tom didn’t come
I to fetch her. This resolution lasted in great intensity for five
/ dark minutes behind the tub; but then the need of being loved,
V the strongest need in poor Maggie’s nature, began to wrestle
with her pride, and soon threw it. She crept from behind her
tub into the twilight of the long attic, but just then she heard
a quick 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, ex¬
cept 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 occu¬
pied 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ I don’t know,” said Tom. He didn’t want to “ tell” on
Maggie, though he was angry with her; for Tom Tolliver was
a lad of honor.

“ What! hasn’t she been playing with you all this while ?”
said the father. “ She’d been thinking o’ nothing but your com¬
ing home.”

“ I haven’t seen her this two hours,” says Tom, commencing
on the plum-cake.

“Goodness heart! she’s got drownded,” exclaimed Mrs.
Tolliver,;rising from her seat and running to the window.

“ How could you let her do so ?” she added, as became a fear¬
ful woman, accusing she didn’t know whom of she didn’t know
what..

“ Hay, nay,she’s none drownded,” said Mr. Tolliver. “ You’ve
been naughty to her, I doubt, Tom ?”

“ I’m sure I haven’t, father,” said Tom, indignantly. “ I
think she’s in the house.”

“ Perhaps up in that attic,” said Mrs. Tulliver, u a-singing
and talking to herself, and forgetting all about mealtimes.”

“ 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 rather 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 bet¬
ter.”

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a pe¬
remptory man, and, as he said, would never let any body get
hold of his whip-hand; but he went out rather sullenly, carry¬
ing his piece of plum-cake, and not intending to retrieve Mag¬
gie’s punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom
was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and
arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions,
but he was particularly clear and positive on one point, name¬
ly, that he would punish every body who deserved it; why, he
wouldn’t have minded being punished himself, if he deserved
it; but, then, he never did deserve it.

It was Tom’s step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs
when her need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she
was going down with her swollen eyes and disheveled hair to
beg tor 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 nW
lently with the sadden shock of hope. He only atooA eNSl. at

'I'hK MILL ON TKlK FLOSS*

the top of the stairs and said, 44 Maggie, you’re to come down.”
But she rushed to him and clung round his neck, sobbing,
44 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 quarreled, express ourselves in well-bred
pnrases, and in this way preserve a dignified alienation, show¬
ing much firmness on one side, and swallowing much grief on
the other. We no longer approximate in our behavior to the
mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but conduct ourselves
in every respect like members of a highly civilized society.
Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and
so she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a
random, sobbing way; and there were tender fibres in the lad
that had been used to answer to Maggie’s fondling, so that he
behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent with his resolution
to punish her as much as she deserved: he actually began to
kiss her in return, and say,

44 Don’t cry, then, Magsie—here, eat a bit o’ cake.”

Maggie’s sobs began to subside, and she put out? her mouth
for the cake and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just
for company; and they ate together, and rubbed each other’s
cheeks, and brows, and noses together, while they ate, with a
humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies.

44 Come along, Magsie, and have tea, said Tom at last,
when there was no more cake except what was down stairs.

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning
Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and
a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a pe¬
culiar 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; ana 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 44 stuff,” and did not feel surprised
at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie
was a silty little thing; all girls were silly: they couldn’t throw
a stone so as to hit any thing, couldn’t do any thing with a

THE MllJi ON THE FLOSS*

pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very
fond of his sister, and meant always to take care of her, make
her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong.

They were on their way to the Round Pool—that 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 favorite spot always
heightened Tom’s good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the
most amiable 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 y
fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom’s.
But she had forgotfen all about the fish, and was looking
dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whis-

E er, 44 Look! look, Maggie!” and came running to prevent her
•om 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.

44 Oh Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket.”

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was
enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her.
There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the
dreamy silences, when she listened to the light 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.
Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by
the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew
she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very
much.

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along
and sat down together, with no thought that life would ever
change much for them: they would only get bigger and not
go to school, and it would always be like the holidays; they
would always live together and be fond of each other. And
the mill with its booming—the great chestnut-tree under which
they played at houses—their own little river, the Ripple, where
the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the
water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of
the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward—above all,
the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense of
travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awfulTL&gt^
like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash uv&fe

,r\fJ

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

wailed and groaned like a man—these things would always be
just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disad¬
vantage who lived on any other- spot of the globe; and Mag¬
gie, when she read about Christiana passing 44 the river over
which there is no bridge,” always saw the Floss between the
green pastures by the Great Ash.

Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were
not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these
first years would always make part of their lives. We could
never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood
in it—if it were not the earth where the same flowers come
up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny
fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass—the same
hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows—the same redbreasts
that we used to call 44 God’s birds,” because they did no harm
to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet mo¬
notony where every thing 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-petaled blossoms, could ever
thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-
scene ? These familial’ 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
transform our perception into love.

CHAPTER VI.

THE AUNTS AND UNCLES ARE COMING.

It was Easter week, and Mrs. Tulliver’s cheese-cakes were
more exquisitely light than usual: w a puff o’ wind ’ud make
’em blow 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 pro-

the mill on the floss.

pitious for a family party, even if it had not been advisable 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. Tul¬
liver, “ 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 haven’t had him
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’ vour 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 every thing.” Mrs. Tulliver was a
mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a little when
she has lambs.

“ Tchuh!” said Mr. Tulliver. “ It takes a big loaf when
there’s many to breakfast. What signifies your sisters’ bits o’
money when they’ve got half a dozen nevvies and nieces to di¬
vide 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 off. I can’t
help loving the chijd as if she was my own; and Pm sure she’s
more like my child than sister Deane’s, for she’d allays a very
poor color for one of our family, sister Deane had.”

“Well, well, if you’re fond of 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, be¬
sides reaching down more o’ the dinner-service; and you know
as well as I do as my sisters and your sisters don’t suit well
together.”

“ Well, well, do as you like, Bessy,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking
up his hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were more
submissive than Mrs. Tulliver on all points unconnected with

the mill on the floss.

her family relations; but she had been a Miss Dodson, and the
Dodsons were a very respectable family indeed—as much look¬
ed 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 had mar¬
ried so well—not at an early age, for that was not the practice
of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing
every thing in that family—particular ways of bleaching the
linen, of making the cowslip wine, curing the hams, and keep¬
ing the bottled gooseberries, so that no daughter of that house
could be indifferent to the privilege of having been bom a
Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a Watson. Funerals were
always conducted with peculiar propriety in the Dodson fam¬
ily : the hat-bands were never of a blue shade, the gloves never
split at the thumb, every body was a mourner who ought to
be, 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 fjjpn uttering the most disagreeable truths that
correct family feeling dictated: if the illness or trouble was
the sufferer’s ote fault, it was not in the practice of the Dod¬
son 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 demeanor, 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 44 strange houses,” always ate dry bread with her tea, and
declined any sort of preserves, having no confidence in the but¬
ter, 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 44 kin,” they were, of necessity, bet¬
ter than those who were 44 no kin.” And it is remarkable that
while no individual Dodson was satisfied with any other indi¬
vidual Dodson, each was satisfied not only with him or her
self, but with the Dodsons collectively. The feeblest member
of a family—the one who has the least character—is often the
merest epitome of the family habits and traditions; and Mrs.
Tulliver was a thorough Dodson, though a mild one, as small-
beer, so long as it is any thing, is only describable 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 JDodson, and to have one child who took het own farm

THE MTTJj ON THE FLOSS.

ily, 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 44 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 gloomiest
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 impedimenta in
cases of flight.

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were
coming, there were such various and suggestive scents, as of
plum-cakes in the oven and jellies in the hot state, mingled
with the 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 maraud¬
ers, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being al¬
lowed to carry away a sufficient load of booty.

“Torn,” said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder-
tree, eating their jam puffs, “ shall you run away to-mor¬
row ?”

44 No,” said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and
was eying the third, which was to be divided between them,
44 no, I sha’n’t.”

44 Why, Tom ? Because Lucy’s coming ?”

44 No,” 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.) 44 What do I care about Lucy ?
She’s only a girl; she can’t play at bandy.”

44 Is it the tipsy-cake, then ?” said Maggie, exerting her hy¬
pothetic powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with
her eyes fixed on the hovering knife.

44 No, you silly; that’ll be good the day after. It’s the
pudden. I know what the pudden’s to be—apricot roll-up—
Oh, 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,

44 Shut your eyes, Maggie.”

44 What for?”

44 You never mind what for—shut ’em when I tell you”

Maggie obeyed.

“Now, which ’ll you have, Maggie, right hand ox

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ I’ll have that with the jam run out,” said Maggie, keeping
her eyes shut to please Tom.

“ Why, you don’t like that, you silly. You may have it if
it comes to you fair, but I sha’n’t give it to 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 possible
amount of puff, than that he should be pleased with her for
giving him the best bit. So she shut her eyes quite close till
Tom told her to “ say which,” and then she said, “ Left hand.”

“ You’ve got it,” said Tom, in rather a bitter tone.

“ What! the bit with the jam run out ?”

“No; 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.”

“ No, I sha’n’t,” said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his
own inferior piece.

Maggie, thinking it was ho 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 didn’t know Tom was looking at
her: she was seesawing on the elder bough, lost to almost
every thing but a vague sense of jam and idleness.

“ Oh, you greedy thing!” said Tom, when she had swallow¬
ed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted very
fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this, ana
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 didn’t you ask
me ?”

“ I wasn’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 Mag¬
gie, in an injured tone.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to do what wasn’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’ll go ’em fair—only
I wouldn’t be a greedy.”

With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS*

bough, and threw a stone with a “ hoigh!” as a friendly at¬
tention to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eata¬
bles 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
proud distance from the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still
on her bough, and gave herself up to the keen sense of unmer¬
ited reproach. She would have given the world not to have
eaten all her puff, and to have saved some of it for Tom. Not
hut 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 flow¬
ed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her for the
next ten minutes; but by that time resenttnent 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 rick-yard—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 toward 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 house down the river; and once, when Mag¬
gie and Tom had wandered thither, there rushed out a brin¬
dled dog that wouldn’t stop barking; and when Bob’s mother
rushed 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 bedroom; 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 irregu¬
lar 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 didn’t mind about,
and would never let her go with him.

It must he owned that Tom was fond of Bob? a *

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

How could he be otherwise ? Bob knew, directly he saw a
bird’s egg, whether it was a swallow’s, or a tomtit’s, or a yel-
lowhammer’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 hedgehogs and stoats;
and he had courage to do things that were rather naughty,
such as making gaps in the hedgerows, throwing stones after
the sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering 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 holiday-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 holly, 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 neighboring 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 imagine.
For a person suspected of preternatural wickedness, Bob was
really not so very villainous-looking; there was even some¬
thing agreeable in his snub-nosed face, with its close-curled
border of red hair. But then his trowsers were always rolled
up at the knee, for the convenience of wading on the slightest

notice; and his virtue, supposing it to exist, was undeniably
“ virtue in rags,” which, on the authority even of bilious phi¬
losophers, who think all well-dressed merit overpaid, is notori¬
ously likely to remain unrecognized (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 any where—he is. Td
sooner be a rot-catcher nor any thing—I would. The moles
is nothing to the rots. But Lors! you mun ha’ ferrets. Bogs
Is no good. Why, there’s that dog, now!” Bob continued,
pointing with an air of disgust toward. uo v&oce

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 for
him, but had not the superhuman courage to seem behindhand
with Bob in contempt lor a dog who made so poor a figure.

“ No, no,” he said, “ Yap’s no good at sport. I’ll have reg¬
ular good dogs for rats and every thing 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
fight—-you might. That’s what I’d do, I know, an’ it ’ud be
better fun a’most nor seein’ two chaps fight—if it wasn’t them
chaps as sell 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.

u But, I say, Bob,” said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, “ fer¬
rets are nasty biting things : they’ll bite a fellow without be¬
ing set on.”

u 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 neighboring 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 isn’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.”

u Ay, but,” said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an op¬
position between statements that were really quite amrcd&uV
“but there was a big flood once, when the Hound. YocJi

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

made. I know there was, ’cause father says so. And the
sheep and cows were all drowned, and the boats went all over
the fields ever such a way.”

“ I don’t care about a flood cornin’,” said Bob; “ I don’t
mind the water no more nor the land. I’d swim —I 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 shouldn’t mind .... And
I’d take you in, if I saw you swimming,” he added, in the tone
of a benevolent patron.

“ I aren’t frighted,” said Bob, to whom hunger did not ap¬
pear 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’n got a halfpenny o’ my own,” said Bob, proudly, com¬
ing out of the water and tossing his halfpenny in the air.
“ leads or tails?”

“ Tails,” said Tom, instantly fired with the design 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’ll 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’ll 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’ll give me the halfpenny now,” he said, with
difficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the command of
Bob 9 b arms .

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

But at this moment, Yap, who had been running on before,
returned barking to the scene of action, and saw a favorable
opportunity for biting Bob’s bare leg not only with impunity,
but with honor. . The pain from Yap’s teeth, instead of sur¬
prising Bob into a relaxation of his hold, gave it a fiercer te¬
nacity, 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, al¬
most 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.

44 You give me the halfpenny now,” said Tom.

u 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.

44 There the halfpenny lies,” he said. 44 1 don’t want your
halfpenny; I wouldn’t have kept it. But you wanted to cheat:

I hate a cheat. I sha’n’t go along with you any more,” be
added, turning round homeward, not without casting a regret
toward the rat-catching and other pleasures which he must re¬
linquish along with Bob’s society.

44 You may let it alone, then,” Bob called out after him. 44 1
shall cheat if I like; there’s no fun i’ playing else; and I know
where there’s a goldfinch’s nest, but I’ll take care you don’t
.An’ you’re a nasty fightin’ turkey-cock, you are . . . .”

Tom walked on without looking round, and Yap followed
his example, the cold bath having moderated his passions.

44 Go along wi’ you, then, wi’ your drownded dog; I wouldn’t
own such a dog —I wouldn’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,

44 An’ Fn gi’en you every thing, an’ showed you every thing,

an’ niver wanted nothin’ from you.An’ there’s your horn-

handled 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 effespt, except the sense in Bob’s mind that there
was a terrible void in his lot now that knife was gone.

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 wouldn't vex Tom, and pride ox TeeexAr
ment was a feeble passion in Bob's mind compared VvXXi \5nfc

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

love of a pocket-knife. His very fingers sent entreating thrills
that he would go and clutch that familiar rough buck’s-hom
handle, which they had so often grasped for mere affection as
it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades, and they
had just been sharpened! What is life without a pocket-knife
to him who has once tasted a higher existence ? No; to throw
the handle after the hatchet is a comprehensible act of despe¬
ration, but to throw one’s pocket-knife after an implacable
friend is clearly in every sense a hyperbole, or throwing be¬
yond 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 sensitive on the
point of honor—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 itself 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 Rhadamanthine per¬
sonage, having more than the usual share of boy’s justice in
him—the justice that desires to hurt culprits as muon as they
deserve to be hurt, and is troubled with no doubts concerning
the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a cloud on his
brow when he came home, which checked her joy at his com¬
ing so much sooner than she had expected, and she dared hard¬
ly 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.

CHAPTER VH.

ENTEB 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 face and
figure, though Tom and Maggie considered their aunt Glegg
as the type of ugliness. It is true, she despised the advantages

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 StI 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 crisp¬
est brown curls in h er d rawers, as well as curls in various de¬
grees of fuzzylaxness; but to look out on the week-day world
from under a crisp and glossy front would be to introduce a
most dream-like and unpleasant confusion between the sacred
and the: secular. Occasionally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one
of her third-best fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister’s
house; especially not at Mrs. Tulliver’s, who, since her mar¬
riage, had hurt her sisters’ feelings greatly by wearing her own
hair, though, as Mrs. Glegg observed to Mrs. Deane, a mother
3Ta family, like Bessy, with a husband always going to law,
might have been expected to know better. But Bessy was al¬
ways 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 blonde curls,
separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on
each side of the parting. Mrs. TuUiver had shed tears several
times at sister Glegg’s unkindness on the subject of these un-
matronly curls, but the consciousness of looking the handsomer
for them naturally administered support. Mrs. Glegg chose to
wear her bonnet in the house to-day—untied and tilted slight¬
ly, of course—a frequent practice of hers when she was on a
visit, and happened to be in a severe humor: 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 chevavx
de frise of miscellaneous frilling. One would need to be learn¬
ed in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear
of them Mrs. Glegg’s slate-colored silk gown must have been;
but, from certain constellations of small yellow spots upon it,
and a mouldy odor about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest,
it was probable 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
Tnlhrer, who had just returned from a visit to tbebaXdfcssa*

the mill on the floss.

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. M It
used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as an¬
other—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; FU
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’ll take my advice, Bessy, you’ll 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’ll be all here in time,
sister,” said Mrs. Tulliver, in her mild-peevish tone. “ The din¬
ner won’t be ready till half past one. But if it’s long for you
to wait, let me fetch you a cneese-cake 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 know 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 doesn’t like his
dinner before two o’clock, but I put it half an hour earlier be¬
cause o’ you.”

# “Yes, yes, I know how it is wi’ husbands—they’re for put¬
ting every thing 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 haven’t got more strength
o’ mind. It’ll 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 ’ud 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 sensi¬
ble. And here you’ve got two children to provide for, and
your husband’s spent your fortin i’ going to law, and’s like 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 humor, there was a cheerful pros¬
pect for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of quar-
reling 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 wea

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

one, and not at all new, so that Mrs. Tolliver 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, Zcan’t leave your children enough out o’ my
savings to keep ’em from ruin. And you mustn’t look to hav¬
ing 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 hastened 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, 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 pos¬
sibly 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 fish¬
ing-smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread.

It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity
introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization—
the sight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From the
sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buckram
sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an axc\ntee,V\n^
bonnet, and delicate ribbon-strings —what a long aenfca cSL gear
dationaf In the enlightened child of civilization \2no atoaxAssnr

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

ment characteristic of grief is checked and varied in the sub¬
tlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to the
analytic mind. If, with a crashed heart and eyes half-blinded
by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too devious step
through a door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves too,
and the deep consciousness of this possibility produces a com¬
position of forces by which she takes a line that just clears the
door-post. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she un¬
pins her strings and throws them languidly backward—a touch¬
ing gesture, indicative, even in the deepest 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 lean¬
ing 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 calm and healthy state.

Mrs. Pullet brushed each door-post 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 parlor 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 behind
before she answered,

“ She’s gone,” unconsciously using an impressive figure of
rhetoric.

“ It isn’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—they say you might ha’ swum in it, if you’d
liked.”

“Well, Sophy, it’s a mercy she’s gone, then, whoiver 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 I know,” said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her
head; “ and there isn’t another such a dropsy in the parish. I
know as it’s old Mrs. Sutton o’ the Twentylands.”

“Well, she’s no kin o’ yours, nor much acquaintance, as Tve
ever heared of,” said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as
much as was proper when any thing happened to her own
4 kin,” but not on other occasions.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ 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 isn’t many old/wrish’ners
like her, I doubt.”

“ And they say she’d took as much physic as ’ud fill a wag¬
on,” observed Mr. Pullet. /

“ Ah!” sighed Mrs. Pullet, “she’d another complaint .ever
so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors
couldn’t make out what it was. And she saijl to me, when I
went to see her last Christmas, she said, ‘ Mrs. Pullet, if iver
you have the dropsy, you’ll think o’ me.’ She did say so,”
added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; “ those
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, fret-
tang 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
couldn’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 every body who could afford to cry so
much about their neighbors who had left them nothing; but
Mrs. Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure
and money to carry her crying and every thing else to the
highest pitch of respectability.

“ Mrs. Sutton didn’t die without making her will, though,”
said Mr. Pullet, with a confused sense that he was saying some¬
thing to sanction his wife’s tears; w ours is a rich parish, but
they say there’s nobody else to leave as many thousands be¬
hind ’em as Mrs. Sutton. And she’s left no leggicies, to speak
on—left it all in a lump to her husband’s nevvy.”

“ 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 without 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.’ r

“ I’m sure, sister,” said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered suf¬
ficiently 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 lie’s
troubled with the asthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight

THE yiLL ON TUB FLOSS*

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 gen¬
tleman sort o’ man. I told him there wasn’t many months in
the year as I wasn’t under the doctor’s hands. And he said,

4 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 eighteen pence. “ 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.

44 They’ll 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 7
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 any thing to dress that
child, if it wasn’t a pair of shoes. In this particular, however,
Mrs. Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs. Tulli¬
ver 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 Vas
obliged to bury them in her maternal bosom; for Maggie, de¬
claring that the frock smelt of nasty dye, had taken an oppor¬
tunity of basting it together with the roast beef the first Sun¬
day she wore it, and, finding this scheme answer, she had sub¬
sequently 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 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 certainly pre¬
ferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of preference;
but Mrs. Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty awkward

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

children; she would do the best she could by them, but it was
a pity they weren’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 holi¬
days, 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 preferred 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 ab¬
sence, that the Tulliver blood did not mix well with the Dod¬
son 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 confidence, 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 blonde curls were adjusted. It was
quite unaccountable that Mrs. Deane, the thinnest and sallow-
est of all the Miss Dodsons, should have had this child, who
might have been taken for Mrs. Tulliver’s any day. And Mag¬
gie 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 have 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 rose-bud
mouth to be kissed: every thing about her was neat—her lit¬
tle round neck, with the row of coral beads; her little straight
nose, not at all snubby; her little clear eyebrows, rather dark¬
er than her curls, to match her hazel eyes, which looked up
with shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarce-

THE MILL OK THE FL06S.

ly 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
qneen 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.

1 “ Oh Lucy,” she hurst 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, hut he was not going to
kiss her—no; he came up to her with Maggie because it seem¬
ed easier, on the whole, than saying “ How do you do ?” to
all those aunts and uncles: he stood looking at nothing in par¬
ticular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile which
are common to shy hoys when in company—very much as if
they had come into the world by mistake, and found it in a de¬
gree of undress that was quite embarrassing.

“ Heyday!” said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. “ Do lit¬
tle boys and gells come into a room without taking notice o’

' their uncles and aunts ? That wasn’t the way when I 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 chil¬
dren, are you?” said aunt Glegg, in the.same loud emphatic
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 de¬
clined 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 father idiotic:
it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they
were accountable creatures, and might be a salutary check on
naughty tendencies. Bessie’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 melan¬
choly expression, at their mother. “ I think the gell has toff^
much hair. Fd have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if
was you: it isn’t good for her health. It’s that as makes he
skin so brown, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you think so, sist*
Deane?”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“I can’t say, Fm sure, sister,” said Mrs. Deane, shutting her
lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye.

“No, no,” said Mr.Tolliver, “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
he 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.

44 You wouldn’t like to stay behind without mother, should
you, Lucy ?”

44 Yes, please, mother,” said Lucy, timidly, blushing very
pink all over her little neck.

44 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 wniskers, full forehead, and general solidity without heav¬
iness. You may see noblemen like Mr. Deane, and you may
see grocers or day-laborers like him; but the keenness of his
brown eyes was less common than his contour. He held a sil¬
ver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now and then ex¬
changed 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 snuffboxes 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 serv¬
ices 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 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 banking concern attached. And Mrs.
Deane, as her intimate female friends observed, was proud and
44 having” enough: she wouldn’t let her husband stand still in
the world for want of spurring.

44 Maggie,” said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and
whispering in her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy’s staying
was settled, 44 go and get your hair brushed—do, for shame. I
told you not to come in without going to Martha first; you
know I did.”

C 2

TH B M1LL ON THE FLOSS*

41 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 be¬
fore dinner.”

“There’s no time to play at any thing before dinner,” said
Tom, 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 curios¬
ity awakened.

Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them
straight across the middle of her forehead.

“ Oh my buttons, Maggie, you’ll 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 couldn’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’ll 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 manner,
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 I Look at yourself in the glass: you look like the
idiot we throw our nutshells to at school.”

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 didn’t want her hair to look

THE MTTJj on the floss.

pretty—that was out of the question—she only wanted people
to think her a clever little girl, and not to find fault with her.
Bat 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.

44 Oh, Maggie, you’ll have to go down to dinner directly,”
said Tom. “Oh my!”

44 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 distinctive discernment of what would turn to his
advantage or disadvantage; and so it happened, that though
he was much more willful and inflexible than Maggie, his
mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make
a mistake or that sort, he espoused it, and stood by it: he
44 didn’t mind.” If he broke the lash of his father’s gig-whip
by lashing the gate, he couldn’t help it—the whip shouldn’t
have got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a

E ‘ , he was convinced, not that the whipping of gates by all
\ was a justifiable act, but that he, Tom Tulliver, was justi-
e in whipping that particular gate, and he wasn’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 en¬
dure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom,
and Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her
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,
ana 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 anti¬
thetically the real troubles of mature life. “ Ah! my child,
you will have real troubles to fret about by-and-by,” is the con¬
solation 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, stand¬
ing 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 suffering of five or ten
|l years ago. Every one of those keen moments has left its
| brace, and lives in us still, but such traces have blent them-
1 reives irrevocably with the firmer texture of our youth and
Knanhood, 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 w'as
in frock and trowsers, but with an intimate penetration, a re¬
vived 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 because he would

S itch the ball wrong out of mere willfulness; or on a rainy
ay in the holidays, when he didn’t know how to amuse him¬
self, and fell from idleness into mischief, from mischief into de¬
fiance, and from defiance into sulkiness; or when his mother
absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that “ half,” al¬
though every other boy of his age had gone into tails already?
Surely if wo 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.”

“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 tak¬
ing her by the hand to raise her from the floor.

“ Get away, Kezia; I dont want any dinner,” said Maggie,
resisting Kezia’s arm. “ I sha’n’t come.”

“Oh, well, I can’t stay. I’ve got to wait at dinner,” said
Kesda, going out again.

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

“Maggie, you little silly,” said Tom, peeping into the room
ten minutes after, “why don’t you come and have your din¬
ner ? 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 hun¬
gry. 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 prospects
of the sweets; but he went and put his head near her, and
said, in a lower, comforting tone,

“ Won’t you come, then, Maggie ? Shall I bring you a bit
o’ pudding when I’ve had mine ? . . . and a custard and
things?”

“Ye-e-es,” said Magsie, 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 influence.

Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly
she made her way down stairs. Then she stood leaning with
one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlor door, peep¬
ing 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 toward
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 come down,
not liking to give her mistress a shock in the moment of carv¬
ing, 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 toward the same
point as her own, and Maggie’s cheeks and ears began to burn,
while uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman,
said,

“Heyday! what little gell’s this—why,I don’t know her.
Is it some little gell you’ve picked up in the road, Kesria?”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Why, she’s gone and cut her hair herself,” said Mr. Tul-
liver in an under-tone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much en¬
joyment. “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 ob¬
servation 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’ll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even.”

“ She’s more like a gipsy 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 ’ll stand in her
way i’ life to be so brown.”

“ She’s a naughty child, as ’ll 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 braving
it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and
custard. Under this impression, he whispered, “Oh mv!
Maggie, I told you you’d catch it.” He meant to be friendly,
but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ig¬
nominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant,
her heart swelled, ana, 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
cut it off if it plagued you; give over crying; father ’ll take
your part.”

Delicious words of 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, Bessie!” said Mrs.
Glegg, in a loud “ aside” to Mrs. Tulliver. “ It ’ll be the ruin
of her if you don’t take care. My father niver brought his
children up so, else we should ha’ been a different sort o’ £un-
ily to what we are.”

Mrs. Tulliver’s domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to
have reached the point at which insensibility begins. She took

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

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 buming-

Mrs.Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now
the dinner was dispatched, and every one’s mind disengaged,
it was the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver’s inten¬
tion concerning Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself
to be absent. The children were used to hear themselves talk¬
ed 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 dis¬
cretion, because she had recently had evidence that the going
to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who look¬
ed at it as very much on a par with going to school to a con¬
stable. 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 hus¬
band’s folly without letting her own friends know a word
about itr

“ 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, isn’t it ?”

“Very well,” said Mr.Tulliver, rather sharply, “I’ve no ob¬
jections to tell any body what I mean to do with him. I’ve
settled,” he added, “ looking toward Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane,
“I’ve settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson down at
King’s Lorton there—an uncommon clever fellow, I under¬
stand, as ’ll put him up to most things.”

There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the com¬
pany, such as you may have observed in a country congrega¬
tion when they hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from
the pulpit. It was equally astonishing to the aunts and uncles
to find a parson introduced into Mr. Tulliver’s family arrange¬
ments. As for uncle Pullet, he could hardly have been more
thoroughly obfuscated if Mr. Tulliver had said that he was go¬
ing to send Tom to the lord chancellor; for uncle Pullet be¬
longed 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, m\hou\> dvsaxn-
ing that tie British Constitution in Church, and. ataXft had a

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

traceable origin any more than the solar system and the fixed
stars. It is melancholy, but true, that Mr. JPullet 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 clergy¬
man 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 ig¬
norance ; but let them reflect on the remarkable results of a
great natural faculty under favoring circumstances. And un¬
cle 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 com-
prehension.

“ Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters, by
what I can make out,” said poor Tulliver, who, in the maze of
this puzzling world, laid hold of any clew 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 different to Ja¬
cobs. 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 Mid¬
summer,” he concluded, in a tone of decision, tapping his snuff¬
box and taking a pinch.

“ You’ll have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill then, eh, Tul¬
liver ? The clergymen have highish notions in general,” said
Mr. Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wish¬
ing to maintain a neutral position.

“ What! do you think the parson ’ll teach him to know a
good sample o’ wheat when he sees it, neighbor 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 liting 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. Fve had my
thoughts about it all along, and I made wp my mind by what

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS,

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’ll 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
bps, that smiled in mingled pity and scorn.

w It ’ud be a fine deal better for some people,” she said, after
that introductory note, 44 if they’d let the lawyers alone.”

44 Is he at the head of a grammar-school, then, this clergy¬
man, such as that at Market Bewley ?” said Mr. Deane.

a No, nothing o’ that,” said Mr. Tulliver. 44 He won’t take
more than two or three pupils, and so he’ll have the more
time to attend to ’em, you know.”

44 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.

44 But he’ll want the more pay, I doubt,” said Mr. Glegg.

44 Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year—that’s all,” said Mr. Tulli¬
ver, with some pride at his own spirited course. 44 But then,
yon 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,
well, neighbor Tulliver, you may be right, you may be right:

“‘When land is gone and money’s spent,

Then learning is most excellent.*

I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at Bux¬
ton. But us that have got no learning had better keep our
money, eh, neighbor Pullet ?” Mr. Glegg rubbed his knees
and looked very pleasant.

44 Mr. Glegg, I wonder at you,” said his wife. 44 It’s very
unbecoming in a man o’ your age and belongings.”

w What’s unbecoming, Mrs. G. ?” said Mr. Glegg, winking
pleasantly at the company. 44 My new blue coat as I’ve got
on?” #

44 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.”

44 If you mean me by that,” said Mr. Tulliver, considerably
nettled, 64 you needn’t trouble yourself to fret about me. I
can manage my own affairs without troubling other folks.”

44 Bless me,” said Mr. Deane, judiciously introducing a new
idea, 44 why, now I come to think of it, somebody said Wakem
was going to send his son—the deformed lad—to a clergy¬
man, didn’t they, Susan ?” (appealing to his wife.^

U I can give no account of it, I’m sure,” savl

yHB MILL OH THE FLOSS.

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 didn’t mind her, “ if Wakem
tliinks o’ sending his son to a clergyman, depe nd 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 Wakem’s butcher, and I’ll 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 aspect;
“ it’s more nat’ral to send him to a clergyman.”

“ Yes,” said Mr. Glegg, interpreting Mrs. Pullet’s observar
tion with erroneous plausibility, “ you must consider that,
neighbor Tulliver; Wakem’s son isn’t likely to follow any
business. Wakem ’ull make a gentleman of him, poor fel¬
low.”

“ Mr. Glegg,” said Mrs. G., in a tone which implied that her
indignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she was de¬
termined to keep it corked up, “ you’d far better hold your
tongue. Mr. Tulliver doesn’t want to know your opinion nor
mine neither. 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, I say nothing,” said Mrs. Glegg, sarcastically. “ My
advice has never been asked, and I don’t give it.”

“ It ’ll 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 haven’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 diverting his
bark toward 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

J fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are but just
I out o’ mourning* all of us—and all wi’ gowns craped alike and
I just put by—it’s very bad among sisters.”

I u I should think it is bad,” said Mrs.Glegg. “Things are
f cotoe 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 ’em forever. 1
should never want to quarrel with any woman if she kept her
place.”

“ My place, indeed!” said Mrs. Glegg, getting rather more
shrill. w 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 ’ll sit by me and see me
abused by them as ’ud never ha’ had the chance if there hadn’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 hasn’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 hear 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’ll w^lk 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 pacify
her ?”

“ Better not, better not,” said Mr. Deane. “ You’ll 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

• 08

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

things he liked better than a chat with Mr. Deane, whose dose I
application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. Mr. 1
Deane, he considered, was the “ knowingest” man of his ao- 1
quaintance, and he had, besides, a ready causticity of tongue, 1
that made an agreeable supplement to Mr. Tulliver’s own tend- -
ency that way, which had remained.in rather an inarticulate
condition. And, now the women were gone, they could carry
on their serious talk without frivolous interruption. They coula
exchange their views concerning the Duke of W ellington, whose
conduct in the Catholic Question had thrown such an entirely
new light on his character; and speak slightingly of his con¬
duct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would never have won
if there hadn’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 knowledge in that matter,
had come up in the very nick of time; though here there was
a slight dissidence, Mr. Deane remarking that he was not dis¬
posed to give much credit to the Prussians—the build of their
vessels, together with the unsatisfactory character of transac¬
tions in Dantzic beer, inclining him to form rather a low view
of Prussian pluck generally. Rather 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, at¬
tached to a firm of which the" returns were on the increase,
naturally took a more lively view of the present, and had some
details to give concerning the state 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 Radi¬
cals, and there would be no more chance for honest men.

Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these
high matters. He didn’t understand politics himself—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 VHI.

MB. TULLIVEB 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 fa-

THE MILL ON” THE FLOSS.

dlity of saying things which drove him in the opposite direc¬
tion to the one she desired. Some minds are wonderful for
keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal goldfish ap¬
parently retains to the last its youthful illusion that it can swim
m 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.

Tins observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr.
Tulliver that it would not be at all awkward for him to raise
five hundred pounds; and when Mrs. Tulliver became rather
pressing to know how he would raise it without mortgaging
the mill and the house, which he had said he never would mort¬
gage, 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. He was not going to be be¬
holding 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. Tulliver 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 every thing
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 im¬
possible 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 think¬
ing 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 di¬
rect relation between these apparently contradictory phenom¬
ena, 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 after 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. Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

it naturally occurred to him that he had a promissory note for
three hundred pounds lent to his brother-in-law Moss, and if
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 incon¬
venience 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,
but, like other every-day things, sure to have a cumulative ef¬
fect 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 pleth¬
oric short-necked neighbor is stricken with apoplexy. He
had been always used to hear pleasant jokes about his advant¬
ages 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
flavor 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 thou¬
sand pounds on his very desirable freehold. That was not al¬
together his own fault, since one of the thousand pounds was
his sister’s fortune, which he had had to pay on her marriage;
and a man who has neighbors that will go to law with him, is
not likely to pay off his mortgages, especially 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 charac¬
teristic of sisters, creating 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. Tulli¬
ver was conscious of being a little weak; but he apologized 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 morn¬
ing 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—lying so far away from a market-town that the labor of
drawing 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

THE HILL OH THE FLOSS.

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
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 in¬
i' terest 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 peo¬
ple any longer; and a ride along the Basset lanes was not
likely to enervate a man’s resolution by softening his temper.
The defep-trodden hoof-marks, made in the muddiest days of
winter, gave him a shake now and then which suggested a
rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers, ho, wheth¬
er by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless something
to do with this state of the roads; and the abundance 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 agriculturist. If this wasn’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 strong¬
ly impressed with the power of the human mind to triumph
over circumstances will contend that the parishioners of Bas¬
set might nevertheless have been a very superior class of peo¬
ple, 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 unaccustomed eye to lead nowhere
but into each other, did really lead, with patience, to a distant
high-road; but there were many feet in Basset which they led
more frequently to a centre of dissipation, spoken of formally
as the “ Markis o’ Granby,” but among intimates as “Dicki-
son’s.” A large low room with a sanded floor, a cold scent of
tobacco, modified by undetected beer-dregs, Mr. Dickison lean¬
ing against the door-post with a melancholy pimpled face, look¬
ing as irrelevant to the daylight as a last night’s guttered can¬
dle—all this may not seem a very seductive form of tempta¬
tion ; but the majority of men in Basset found it fatally allur¬
ing when encountered on their road toward four o’clock on a
wintry afternoon; and if any wife in Basset wished to indicate
that her husband was not a pleasure-seeking man, stae cw&i

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

hardly do it more emphatically than by saying that he didn’t
spend a shilling at Dickison’s from one Whitsuntide to another.
Mrs. Moss had said so of her husband more than once, when
her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, as he cer¬
tainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacifying to
Mr. Tulliver than the behavior of the farm-yard 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 hol¬
low farm-yard, shadowed drearily by the large, half-timbered
buildings, up to the long line of tumble-down dwelling-house
standing on a raised causeway, but the timely appearance of a
cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he had determ¬
ined 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’m glad to see you,” she said, in an affectionate
tone. “ I didn’t look for you to-day. How do you do ?”

“ Oh . . . . pretty well, Mrs. Moss .... pretty well,” an¬
swered 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 humor: 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 isn’t m the house, I suppose ?” asked 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’ll 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Oh .... pretty well. Tom’s going to a new school at
Midsummer—a deal of expense to me. It’s bad work for me,
lying out o’ my money.”

u 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 godmother, 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 she
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 Maggie. He seldom found any one volunteering
praise of “ the little wenchit 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 Al-
satia, where she was out of the reach of law—if she upset any
thing, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were
matters of course at her aunt Moss’s. In spite of himself, Mr.
TuHiver’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.”

w 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 Lizzie’s like her— she’s sharp. Come here,
Lizzy, my dear, and let your uncle see you: he hardly knows
you, yQu 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 inferior

enough to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to make
the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to Mr.
Tolliver’s fatherly love.

u Ay, they’re a bit alike,” he said, looking kindly at the lit¬
tle 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 Mr. Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing, and
trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. “ They
mustn’t look to hanging on their brothers.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

44 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 youJ” 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 toward her brother again
to say, “ Not but what I hope your boy ’ull allays be good to
lus 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
f 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, feeling 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,
toward an old yew-tree arbor, while his sister stood tapping
her baby on the back, and looking wistfully after them.

Their entrance into the yew-tree arbor 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
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’ll do no good with it
this year.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

Mr. Moss, who, when he married Miss Tulliver, had been re¬
garded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week
old, and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a machine-
horse. He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, “Why,
poor formers 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
isn’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 ’uli
allays go awk’ard with: empty sacks ’ull never stand upright.”

“ Well, I don’t know what fault you’ve got to find wi’ me,
Mr. Tulliver,” said Mr. Moss, deprecatingly; “ I know there
isn’t a day-laborer works harder.”

“ What’s the use o’ that,” said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, “ when
a man marries, an’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 ’ull be Tom an expense to me, as I should find my¬
self 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 hund¬
red 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’n 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 al¬
ways very faulty people. Mr. Tulliver had succeeded in get¬
ting quite as much irritated with Mr. Moss as he had desired,
and he was able to say angrily, rising from his seat,

“Well, you must do as you can. I can’t find money for
every body else as well as myself. I must look to my own
family. I can’t lie out o’ my money any longer. You must
raise it as <juick as you can.”

Mr. Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbor as he uttered
the last sentence, and, without looking round at Mr. Moss,
went on to the kitchen door, where the eldest boy was hold¬
ing his horse, and his sister was waiting in a state of wonder¬
ing alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for baby was

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 with¬
out 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 already in the stirrup.

“No, no; good-by,” 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 smit¬
ten 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 painful 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 move¬
ment by saying aloud, as he struck his horse, “Poor little
wench! she’ll have nobody but Tom, belike, 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.”

“No, Gritty, no,” said Mr.Tulliver, in a gentle tone. “Don’t
you fret—that’s all—I’ll make a shift without the money a bit
—only you must be as diver 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’ll bring her and Tom some day before he goes to school.
You mustn’t fret. ... I’ll allays be a good brother to you.”

% “ Thank you for that word, brother,” said Mrs. Moss, dry¬
ing her tears; then turning to Lizzy, she said, “ Run, now,
and fetch the colored egg for cousin Maggie.” Lizzy ran in,
and quickly reappeared with a small paper parcel.

“ It’s boiled hard, brother, and colored with thrums—very
pretty; it was done o’ purpose for Maggie. Will you please
to carry it in your pocket ?”

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 77

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Tolliver, potting it carefblly in his side-
pocket. “Good-by”

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. Tolliver, are apt to
clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this was
his confusea way of explaining to himself that his love and
anxiety for “ the little wench” had given him a new sensibility
toward his sister.

CHAPTER IX.

TO GABUM FIBS.

While the possible troubles of Maggie’s future were occu¬
pying her father’s mind, she herself was tasting only the bit¬
terness 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
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 hair-dresser 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. Kappit, the hair¬
dresser, 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 care¬
fully 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 lay¬
ing 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
waa little or no wrapping in silver paper, and where the sense
that the Sunday clothes could be got at quite easily produced

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

no shock to the mind. Already, at twelve o’clock, Mrs. Tolli¬
ver had on her visiting costume, with a protective apparatus
of brown holland, as if she had been a piece of satin furniture
in danger of flies; Maggie was frowning and twisting 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 look so ugly!” and Tours
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 toilette—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
suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes.
Tom could build perfect pyramids of houses, but Maggie’s
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 any thing. 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.
Maggie, 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 peev¬
ish, and 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; w Fm
not a stupid. I know a great many things you don’t.”

“ Oh, I dare say, Miss Spitfire! Fd never be such a cross
thing as you, making faces like that. Lucy doesn’t do so. I
like Lucy better than you: I wish Lucv 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; he would have
struck her, only he knew it was cowardly to strike a girl, and

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 79

Tom Tolliver was quite determined that 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 nuns of
his pagoda, and Lucy looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing
from its lapping.

“ Oh, Tom,” said Maggie, at last, going half way toward
him, u I didn’t mean to knock it down — indeed, indeed I
didn’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 Maggie,
and peeled a willow switch for Lucy and himself without of¬
fering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, “ Maggie, shouldn’t
you Eke one ?” but Tom was deaf.

Still the sight of the peacock opportijpely spreading his tail
on the stack-yard wall, just as they reached Garum Firs, was
enough to divert the mind temporarily from personal griev¬
ances. And this was only the beginning of beautiful sights at
Garum Firs. All the farm-yard life was wonderful there—
bantams, speckled and top-knotted; Friesland hens, with their
feathers afl turned the wrong way; Guinearfowls that flew,
and screamed, and dropped their pretty-spotted feathers;
pouter pigeons and a tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a won¬
derful brindled dog, half mastiff, half bull-dog, as large as a
lion. Then there were white railings and white gates all about,
and glittering weathercocks of various designs, and garden-
walks paved with pebbles in beautiful patterns—nothing was
quite common at Garum Firs; and Tom thought that the un¬
usual size of the toads there was simply due to the general
unusualness which characterized uncle Pullet’s possessions as a
gentleman farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally lean¬
er. As for the house, it was not less remarkable: it had a re¬
ceding 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 door¬
way, and as soon as her sister was within nearing, 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 Mb
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 wMch 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.

The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine eom-

E anions: it was the mounting of the polished oak stairs, wMch
ad very handsome carpets rolled up and laidJby 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 think.
mg 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 con¬
sideration, wMch determined her to single out a particular key.

“ I’m afraid it ’ll be troublesome to you getting it out, sis¬
ter,” 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 ao-

the mill ok the floss.

qnaintance 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. Tul-
liver, who saw that Maggy and Lucy were looking rather
eager.

“Well,” said aunt Pullet, reflectively, “it ’ll perhaps be
safer for ’em to come—they’ll be touching something if we
leave ’em behind.”

So they went in procession along the bright and slippery
corridor, dimly lighted by the semilunar top of the window
which 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 upward.
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 funeral solemnity of the scene. The de¬
licious 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 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’ll 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’ll open
the shutter a bit farther.”

“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
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

D 2

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 pff 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
then whispered, u Pullet pays for it; he said I was to have
the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be whose
it would.”

She began slowly to adjust the trimmings in preparation,
for returning it to its place ill 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 than half a
year for him.”

“ That would be unlucky,” said Mrs. Tulliver, entering thor¬
oughly 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 sum¬
mers 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 characterized 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’ll re¬
member I showed it you this day.”

Mrs. Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was
a woman of sparse tears, stout ar*d healthy; she couldn’t cnr
so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her defi¬
ciency at funerals. Her effort to bring tears into her eyes is¬
sued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, looking on
attentively, felt that there was some painful mystery about her
aunt’s bonnet which she was considered too young to under¬
stand ; indignantly conscious, all the while, that she could have
understood that, as well as every thing else, if she had been
taken into confidence.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 83

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 op¬
posite his uncle Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling gray
eyes, and occasionally addressed him as “ Young sir.”

“Well, young sir, what do you learn at school?” was a
standing question with uncle Pullet; whereupon Tom always
looked sheepish, rubbed his hand across his face, and answer¬
ed, “ I don’t know.” It was altogether so embarrassing to be
seated tete-aAete 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,
he had made up his mind that he didn’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 mollycoddle, in fact. A boy’s
sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmastering 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

E robably thought the same of Aristotle. It is only when you
ave 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 out¬
door cap, he was often observed peeping through the bars of
a gate, and making minatory gestures with his small forefinger
while he scolded the sheep with an inarticulate burr, intended j
to strike terror into their astonished minds; indicating thus I
early that desire for mastery over the inferior animals, wild j
mid domestic, including cockchafers, neighbors’ dogs, and small I
sisters, which in all ages has been an attribute of so much prom- I
ise for the fortunes of our race. Now Mr. Pullet never rode *
any thing taller than a low pony, and was the least predatory of
men, considering fire-arms dangerous, as apt to go off of them¬
selves by nobody’s particular 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 ar¬
ticle in question.

The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet '
the further solace of small sweet-cakes, 6f which he also kept
a stock under lock and key for his own private eating on wet
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 u all over”
crumbs. Lucy didn’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, hasti¬
ly stowed it in ms 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 disgrace 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 favor 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 snuffbox played such beautiful tunes, and,
indeed, the thing was viewed m that light by the majority of
his neighbors 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 posses¬
sion of this unique “ piece of music” was a proof that Mr. Pul¬
let’s character was not of that entire nullity which might oth¬
erwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, when en¬
treated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it by
a too ready consent. “ We’ll 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

the mill on the floss.

she had a load on her mind—that Tom was angry with her;
and by the time 44 Hush, ye pretty warbling choir,” had been
played, her face wore that bright look of happiness, while she
sat immovable with her hands clasped, which sometimes com¬
forted her mother with the sense that Maggie could look pret¬
ty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. But when the
magic music ceased, she jumped up, and, running toward Tom,
put her arm round his neck and said, 44 Oh, Tom, isn’t it pret¬
ty?”

Lest you should think it a revolting insensibility in Tom
that be felt any new anger toward Maggie for this uncalled-
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 ex¬
treme milksop not to say angrily, 44 Look there, now!” espe¬
cially when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by gen¬
eral disapprobation of Maggie’s behavior.

44 Why don’t you sit still, Maggie ?” her mother said, peev¬
ishly.

44 Little gells mustn’t come to see me if they behave in that
way,” said aunt Pullet.

44 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 misbehavior while the
children remained in-doors, took an early opportunity of sug¬
gesting that, now they were rested after their walk, they might
go and play out of doors; and aunt Pullet gave permission,
only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the gar¬
den, and if they wanted to see the poultry fed, to view them
from a distance on the horse-block—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.

44 It weighs on my mind so as never was,” she said, by way
of opening the subject, 44 sister Glegg’s leaving the house in
that way. I’m sure I’d no wish t’ onend a sister.”

44 Ah!” said aunt Pullet, 44 there’s no accounting for what
Jane ’nil do. I wouldn’t speak of it out o’ the family—if it
wasn’t to Dr. Turnbull; but it’s my belief Jane lives too low.
Fve said so to Pullet often and often, and he knows it.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came
away from drinking tea with ’em,” 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. 44 I should be 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.”

44 There’s the 4 pills as before’ every other night, and the new
drops at eleven and four, and the ’ferveseing mixture 4 when
agreeable,’ ” rehearsed Mr. Pullet, with a punctuation determ¬
ined by a lozenge on his tongue.

44 Ah! perhaps it ’ud be better for sister- Glegg if aAe’d go
to the doctor sometimes instead o’ chewing Turkey rhubarb
whenever there’s any thing the matter with her,” said Mrs.
Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject of medicine chief¬
ly in relation to Mrs. Glegg.

44 It’s dreadful to think on,” said aunt Pullet, raising hen
hands and letting them fall again, 44 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 aren’t to call ’em
in ? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor,
it isn’t respectable, as I’ve told Jane many a time. Pm
ashamed of acquaintance knowing it.”

44 Well, we’ve no call to be ashamed,” said Mr. Pullet, 44 for
.Doctor Turnbull hasn’t got such another patient as you i’ this
parish, now old Mrs. Sutton’s gone.”

44 Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles—did you know, Bessy ?”
said Mrs. Pullet. 44 He won’t have one sold. He says it’s
nothing but right folks should see ’em when I’m gone. They
fill two of the long store-room shelves a’ready—but,” she add¬
ed, beginning to cry, 44 it’s well if they ever fill three. I may
go before I’ve made up the dozen of these last sizes. The pill¬
boxes are in the closet in my room—you’ll remember that, sis¬
ter—but there’s nothing to show for the boluses, if it isn’t the
bills.”

44 Don’t talk o’ your going, sister,” said Mrs. Tulliver; 44 1
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 wi’ Mr. Tulliver, for sister Deane’s never o’ 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.”

44 Well, your husband is awk’ard, you know, Bessy,” said

the mill on the floss.

8 1

Mm. Pallet, good-naturedly ready to use her deep depression
on her sisters 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’m sorry for you, Bessy; for
you was allays my favorite sister, and we allaya liked the same
patterns.”

“I know Tolliver’s hasty, and says odd things,” said Mrs.
Tolliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner of her
eye, “but I’m sure he’s never been the man, since he married
me, 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’ll have trouble enough
without that; and your husband’s got that poor sister and her
children hanging on him, and so given to lawing, they say. I
doubt he’ll 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
1 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 retrib¬
utive, to take a comprehensive review of her past conduct.

“ There’s no woman strives more for her children; and I’m
sure, at scouring-time this Ladyday, as Pve had all the bed-
hangings taken down, I did as much as the two gells put to¬
gether; and there’s this last elder-flower wine I’ve made—
beautiful! I allays offer it along with the sherry, though sis¬
ter Glegg will have it I’m 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 any thing against me in
respect o’ backbiting and making mischief, for I don’t wish
any body any harm; and nobody loses by sending me a pork-
pie, for my pies are fit to show with the best o’ my neighbors’;
and the linen’s so in order, as if I was to die to-morrow I
shouldn’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,
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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

over the country. It ’ud be a sad pity for your family.” Mrs.
Pullet shook her head slowly.

“ But what can I do, sister ?” said Mrs. Tulliver. “ Mr.
Tulliver’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 Pm sure I don’t pretend to know any thing
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.”

Mrs. Pullet, affected by this last reminiscence, looked at her
sister pathetically.

“ 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 shouldn’t be above that,”
said Mrs. Pullet, whose partiality did not blind her to princi¬
ples : she did not forget what was due to people of independ¬
ent 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 par¬
don,” said Mrs.Pullet. “Her temper’s beyond every thing;
it’s well if it doesn’t carry her off her mind, though there nev¬
er was any of our family went to a mad-house.”

“ I’m not thinking of her begging pardon,” said Mrs. Tulli¬
ver. “ But if she’d just take no notice, and not call her mon¬
ey 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.”

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, “I don’t want
to help you on to ruin. I won’t be behindhand i’ doing you a

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

good tarn, 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 ten
Jane that; and I don’t mind driving to Jane’s to-morrow, if
Pullet doesn’t mind. What do you say, Mr. Ptdlet ?”

“ Fve no objections,” said Mr. Pullet, who was perfectly con¬
tented with any course the quarrel might take, so that Mr.
Tulliver did not apply to him for money. Mr. Pullet was nerv¬
ous 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 farther discussion as to whether it would not
he better for Mrs. Tulliver to accompany them on the visit to
sister Glegg, Mrs. Pullet, observing that it was teartime, turn¬
ed 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 teartray Sally introduced 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 me, as he afterward noted.

CHAPTER X.

MAGGIE BEHAVES WOESE 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 per¬
son, from her small foot to her bonnet-crown, wet and discol¬
ored with mud, holding out two tiny blackened hands, and
making a very piteous face. To account for this unprecedent¬
ed apparition m aunt Pullet’s parlor, we must return to the
moment 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 great¬
er force after a temporary absence. All the disagreeable rec¬
ollections of the morning were thick upon her, when Tom,
whose displeasure toward her had been considerably refreshed
bjr 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 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 find a name for the toad.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

and say what had been his past history; for Lucy had a de¬
lighted semi-belief in Maggie’s stories about {he live things
they came upon by accident—how Mrs. Earwig had a wash at
home, and one of her children had fallen into the hot copper,
for which resfeon 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 deep¬
er 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 vex Tom, whom it was of
no use to slap, even if she dared, because he didn’t mind it.
And if Lucy hadn’t been there, Maggie was sure be would
have got friends with her 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 allowed was the pleasure of break¬
ing it, and Tom 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 mustn’t
go out of the garden.”

“ Oh, I shall go out at the other end of the garden,” said
Tom. “ Nobody ’ull see us. Besides, I don’t care if they do
—I’ll run off home.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

44 But I couldn’t run,” said Lucy, who had never before been
exposed to such severe temptation.

44 Oh, never mind; they won’t be cross with yow,” said Tom.
“You say I took you.”

Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly en¬
joying the rare treat of doing something naughty—excited
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 mem 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 any thing 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 presently absorbed in
watching for the pike—a highly interesting monster; he was
said to be so* very old, so very large, and to have such a re¬
markable appetite. The pike, like other celebrities, did not
show when he was watched for, but Tom caught sight of some¬
thing in rapid movement in the water, which attracted him to
another spot on the brink of the pond.

44 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 contemptuous con¬
ception 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 wonder¬
ing that a snake could swim. Maggie had drawn nearer and
nearer—she must see it too, though it was bitter to her like
every thing 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,

44 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 tl fieyedog which was present in the passion
was wanting to the action; the utmost Maggie could do, with
a fierce 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 cry-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

ing 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
Inade her so miserable, she was glad to spoil their happiness—
glad to make every body uncomfortable. Why should she be
sorry ? Tom was very slow to forgive her, however sorry she
might have been.

44 1 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 44 tell,” but here justice
clearly demanded that Maggie should be visited with the ut¬
most punishment; not that Tom had learned to put his views
in that abstract form; he never mentioned 44 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 tnink 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 entreaties to Tom that he wotdd
not 44 tell,” only running along by his side and crying piteous¬
ly, while Maggie sat on the roots of the tree and looked after
them with her small Medusa face.

44 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,
44 Sally, tell mother it was Maggie pushed Lucy into the mud.”

44 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, but
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 parlor door, for to have so dirty an object introduced mto
the house at Garum Firs was too great a weight to be sus¬
tained by a single mind.

44 Goodness gracious!” aunt Pullet exclaimed, after preluding
by an inarticulate scream; 44 keep her at the door, Sally! Don’t
brin g h er off the oilcloth, whatever you do.”

44 Why, she’s tumbled into some nasty mud,” said Mrs. Tul-

TliE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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; 44 it’s your children
—there’s no knowing what they’ll come to.”

Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched
mother. As usual, the thought pressed upon her that people
would think that she had done something wicked to deserve
her maternal troubles, while Mrs. Pullet began to give elabo¬
rate 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, sup¬
posing them to be close at hand; but it was not until after
some search that she found Tom v leaning with rather a harden¬
ed, 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.

‘‘Tom, you naughty boy, where is your sister?” said Mrs.
Tulliver, in a distressed voice.

“ I don’t know,” said Tom; his eagerness for justice on Mag¬
gie 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, look¬
ing round.

“ Sitting under the tree against the pond,” said Tom, appar¬
ently indifferent to every thing but the string and the tur¬
key-cock.

“ Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy.
And how could you think of going to the pond, and taking
your sister where there was dirt? You know she’ll do mis¬
chief, if there’s mischief to be done.”

It was Mrs. Tulliver’s way, if she blamed Tom, to refer his
misdemeanor, somehow or other, to Maggie.

The idea of Maggie sitting alone by the pond roused an ha¬
bitual fear in Mrs. Tulliver’s mind, and she mounted the horse¬
block to satisfy herself by a sight of that fatal child, while Tom
walked—not very quickly—on his way toward her.

44 They’re such children for the water, mine are,” she said

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

aloud, without reflecting that there was no one to hear her;
“ they’ll 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 hur¬
ried 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 mother 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. Pul¬
let, confused and overwhelmed by this revolutionary aspect of
things—the tea deferred, and the poultry alarmed by the unu¬
sual running to and fro—took up his spud as an instrument 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.

“ Sister, for goodness’ sake, let ’em puli the horse in the car¬
riage 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, ana
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
gipsies, 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 gipsy, and “ half wild,” that when she was

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

miserable it seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobri¬
um, and being entirely in harmony with circumstances would
be to live in a little brown tent on the commons: the gipsies,
she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much
respect on account of her superior knowledge. 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 to¬
gether ; but Tom rejected the scheme with contempt, observ¬
ing that gipsies were thieves, and hardly got any thing to eat,
and had nothing to drive but a donkey. To-day, however,
Maggie thought her misery had reached a point at which gip-
sydom 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 rim straight away till she came to Dunlow *
Common, where there would certainly be gipsies, 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 reconciled herself to the idea of parting
with him by determining that she would secretly send him a
letter by a small gipsy, who would run away without telling
where she was, and just let him know that she was well ana
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 high road. 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 gipsies 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 Dorlcote 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 trem¬
bling, 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 a runaway, the man with the
bundle stopped, ana in a half-whining, half-coaxing tone asked
her if she bad a copper to give a poor man. Maggie had a
sixpence in her pocket—her Uncle Glegg’s present—which she
immediately drew out and gave this poor man with a polite
smile, hoping he would feel very kindly toward her as a gen¬
erous person. “ That’s the only money I’ve got,” she said.

THIS MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 after her, and she
presently heard them laughing loudly. Suddenly it occur¬
red to her that they might think she was an idiot: Tom had
said 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 bonnet. It was clear
that she was not likely to make a favorable 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
m still be uncle Pullet’s fields. She turned through the first gate
* that was not locked, and felt a delightful sense of privacy in
creeping along by hedgerows after her recent humiliating en¬
counter. She was used to wandering about the fields by her¬
self, and was less timid there than on the high road. Some¬
times 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 some other common, for she had heard her father say that
you couldn’t go very far without coming to a common. She
hoped so, for she was getting rather tired and hungry, and un¬
til she reached the gipsies there was no definite prospect of
bread and butter. It was still broad daylight, for aunt Pullet,
retaining the early habits of the Dobson 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 walk¬
ing 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 laborer at a dis¬
tance. That was fortunate in some respects, as laborers 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 with some one who would tell her the way
without wanting to know any thing 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 nev¬
er seen such a wide lane before, and, without 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

foot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey
with that pitiable encumbrance on D unlow Common when she
had 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 pistol, 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
gipsies; and now she was in this strange lane, she hardly dared
look on one side of her, lest she should see the diabolical black¬
smith in his leathern apron grinning at her with arms akimbo.
It was not without aleaping 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 preternat¬
ural—a diabolical kind of fungus; for she was too much agi¬
tated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes, and the dark,
shaggy head attached to them. It was a boy asleep; and Mag¬
gie trotted along fester and more lightly, lest she should wake
him : it did not occur to her that he was one of her friends

the gipsies, who in all probability would have very genial man¬
ners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend m the lane
Maggie actually saw the little semicircular 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 civilized life.
She even saw a tall female figure' by the column of smoke—
doubtless the gipsy-mother, who provided the tea and other
groceries; it was astonishing to herself that she did not feel
more delighted. But it was startling to find the gipsies in a
lane, after all, and not on a common; indeed, it was rather dis¬
appointing ; for a mysterious illimitable common, where there
were sand-pits to hide in, and one was out of every body’s
reach, had always made part of Maggie’s picture of gipsy life.
She went on, however, and thought with some comfort that
gipsies 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 attract¬
ed 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 ap¬
proached, and was reassured by the thought that her aunt
Pallet and the rest were right when they called her a gipsy,
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 cat her hair off.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ My little lady, where are yon going to ?” the gipsy said, in
a tone of coaxing deference.

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected: the gip¬
sies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared
to treat her accordingly.

“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were say¬
ing what she had rehearsed in a dream. “ I’m come to stay
with you, please.”

“That’s pritty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady
you are, to be sure,*” said the gipsy, taking her by the hand
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 gipsy-woman was seated on the ground nursing
her knees, ana 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 elbowB
something like small sphinxes; and a placid donkey was bend¬
ing his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratch¬
ing his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen
hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the
scene was very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only
she hoped they would soon set out the tea-cups. Every thing
would be quite charming when she had taught the gipsies 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 a language which Maggie did not under¬
stand, while the tall girl, who was feeding 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 gipsy. I’ll 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 Mag¬
gie’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.

TUB HILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “ Fd 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 dare say it will grow again very soon,” she added
apologetically, thinking it probable the gipsies had a strong
prejudice in fayor of long hair. And Maggie had forgotten
even her hunger at that moment in the desire to conciliate
gipsy opinion.

“ Oh, what a nice little lady!—and rich, Pm sure,” said the
old woman. “Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”

“ Yes, my home is pretty, and I’m very fond of the river, ?
where we go fishing; but I’m often very unhappy. I should s
have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a
hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost every thing there
is in my books, Fve 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 inter¬
esting. 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 gipsies, and gain¬
ing great influence over them. The gipsies 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 wom¬
an, at the mention of Columbus.

“ Oh no I” said Maggie, with some pitv; “ 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 in 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 patronizing 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, Fll be bound, my dear. Where’s your
home ?”

“It’s Dorlcote Mill—a good way off,” said Maggie. “My
father is Mr. Tulliver; but we mustn’t let him know where 1
am, else he’ll fetch me home again. Where does the queen of
the gipsies 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 maimers were certainly
not agreeable.

100

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

tt No,” said Maggie; “Pm only thinking that if she isn’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 every body.”

“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 nag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.

“ 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 hadn’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 vigor, 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
sleeping—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 gipsies didn’t seem to mind her at all,
and she felt quite weak among them. But the springing tears
were checked by a 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, address¬
ing the women in a loud and scolding tone, which they answer¬
ed by a shower of treble sauciness, while a black cur ran bark¬

ing up to Maggie, 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 ana use¬
ful knowledge.

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie,
for they looked at her, and the tone of the conversation be¬
came of that pacific kind which implies curiosity on one side
and the power of satisfying it on the other. At last the young¬
er woman said, in her previous deferential coaxing tone,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

101

“This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you
glad?”

“ Ay, very glad,” said the younger, who was looking at Mag¬
gie’s silver thimble and other small matters that had been tak¬
en from her pocket. He returned them all except the thimble
to the younger woman, with some observation, and she immo*
diately restored them to Maggie’s pocket, while the men seat¬
ed themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle
—a stew of meat and potatoes—which had been taken off the
fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the
gipsies—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
feeling any comfort in the revival of deference and attention
toward her—all thieves except Robin Hood were wicked peo¬
ple. The woman 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 Giant-killer, 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
neighborhood 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 traveling 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 gipsies were not well supplied with groceries, and
her thoughts generally were the oddest mixture of dear-eyed
acumen and bund dreams.

102

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

Her ideas about the gipsies had undergone a rapid modifi¬
cation in the last five minutes. From having considered them
very respectful companions, amenable to instruction, she had
begun to think that they meant perhaps to kill her as Boon as
it was dark, and cut up her body for gradual cooking: the
suspicion crossed her that the fierce-eyed old man was m 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 try¬
ing to eat the stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was
to offend the gipsies by betraying her extremely unfavorable
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.

u 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. “ TW 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
haven’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 nice 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 gipsy-woman said, “ Stop a bit, stop a
bit, little lady; we’ll 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’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And
the donkey ’ll carry you as nice as can be—you’ll 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, put¬
ting that recently despised but now welcome article of cos-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

103

tome on Maggie’s head; “ and you’ll say we’ve been very good
to you, won’t you? and what a nice little lady we sand you
was.”

44 Oh yes, thank you,” said Maggie. 44 I’m very much obliged
to you. But I wish you’d go with me too.” She thought any
thing was better than going with one of the dreadful men
alone: it would be more cheerful to be murdered by a larger
party.

44 Ah! you’re fondest o’ me, aren’t you ?” said the woman.
44 But I can’t go; you’ll 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 him-
sel£ though no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horri¬
ble. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said
44 Good-by,” the donkey, at a* strong hint from the man’s stick,
set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward 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 gipsy be¬
hind 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 win¬
dows 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¬
ger-post before— 44 To St. egg’s, 2 miles.” The gipsy really
meant to take her home, then: he was probably a good man,
after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that
she didn’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 gipsy, and not only gratify his
feelings, but efface the impression of her cowardice, when, as
they reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one
coming on a white-faced horse.

104 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

44 Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. 44 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.

44 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 gipsy.
44 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.”

44 Oh yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,”
said Maggie. 44 A very kind, good man !”

46 Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five
shillings. 44 It’s the best day’s work you ever did. I couldn’t,
afford to lose the little wench; here, lift her up before me.”

44 Why, Maggie, how’s this—how’s this ?” he said, as they
rode along, while she laid her head against her father and
sobbed. 44 How came you to be rambling about and lose your¬
self?”

44 Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, 44 1 ran away because I was
so unhappy—Tom was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”

44 Pooh! pooh!” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, 44 you mustn’t
think o’ running away from father. What ’ud father do with¬
out his little wench ?”

44 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 gipsies. Maggie was rather awe-stricken by
this unusual treatment, and sometimes thought that her con¬
duct had been too wicked to be alluded to.

* CHAPTER Xn.

MB. AND MBS. 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 burdens from the far north, and
carry away, in exchange, the precious inland products, the
well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeces, which my refined

i *H B MILL ON xh B J^LOSS*

105

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 hill-side, and the long-haired searkings came up
the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fatness of
the land. It is a town 44 familiar with forgotten years.” The
shadow of the Saxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, re¬
viewing 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 invis¬
ible 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 thoughts and hands of wide¬
ly-sundered generations; but it is all so old that we look with
loving pardon at its inconsistencies, and are 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 defined with stone,
did not sacrilegiously pull down the ancient half-timbered body
with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall.

But older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall
now built into the belfry of the parish church, and sftid to be
a remnant of the original chapel dedicated to St. irgg, the pa¬
tron saint of this ancient town, of whose history I possess sev¬
eral manuscript versions. I incline to the briefest^ince, if it
should not be wholly true, it is at least likely to contain the
least falsehood. 44 Ogg, the son of Beorl,” says my private ha-
giographer, 44 was a boatman, who gained a scanty living by
ferrying passengers across the River Floss. And it came to
pa*n 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 withered
look, and she craved to be rowed across the river. And the
men thereabout questioned her, and said, 4 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 fool¬
ish.’ Still she went on to mourn and crave. But Ogg, the

E 2

100

THE HILL OH THE FLOSS.

son of Beorl, came np and said, ‘I wil l ferry thrr WOWT it is
enough that thy heart needs it.* Arid Be ISffied 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, 4 Ogg, the son of Beorl, thou art
blessed in that thou jidat_ ^^*^ag«tion ^ and
he^ltf siRSed;UHTwast smitten with pity,an ddidststraightMa r

henceforth ^Tioso steps into thy
boarshaffbe'm 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 rea¬
son of that blessing on the boat. But wnen 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 after-time that at the coming
on of even, 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 visita¬
tion of the floods, which, even when they left human life un¬
touched, 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
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 times, 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 between newer ware¬
houses, 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. Every where the
brick houses have a mellow look, and in Mrs. Glegg’s day there
was no incongruous new-fashioned smartness, no plate-glass in
shop windows, no fresh stucco-facing or other fallacious at¬
tempts to make fine old red St. Ogg’s wear the air of a town
that sprang up yesterday. The shop windows were small and
unpretending; for the farmers’ wives and daughters who came
to do their shopping on market-days were not to be withdrawn

THE MILL OX THE FLOSS.

107

from their regular, well-known shops, and the tradesmen had
no wares intended for customers who would go on their way
and be seen no more. Ah 1 even Mrs. Glegg’s day seems far
back in the past now, separated by changes that widen the
years. War and the rumor of war had then died out from
the minds of men, and if they were ever thought of by the
farmers in drab great-coats, who shook the grain out of their
sample-bags and buzzed oyer 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 forever 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 mill-stones with their scythe¬
like arms, roaring, and grinding, and carefully sweeping as if an
informing soul was in them. The Catholics, bad harvests, and
the mysterious fluctuation 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 walked 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 memo¬
ries had been left behind, and had gradually vanished like the
receding hill-tops! Anr | thli P^ p ” PT ? t ^thae-was like the level
pl aiurW A CTfi men 1 o a e thei* b e B S?firvo lc a noe s and earthquakes,
tliirrhyijj aft yesterday, and^he-giant forces

that used to dMcetne earth are forever laid to sleep. The
days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon
by their frith, still less change it: the Catholics were formida-
, ble because they would lay hold of government and property,
! and bum men alive; not because any sane and honest parish*
ioner of St. Ogg’s could be brought to believe in the Pope.
One aged person remembered how a rude multitude had been
swayed when John Wesley preached in the cattle-market; but
for a long while it had not been expected of preachers that
they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burst of
fervor 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, un¬
mindful of schisms, careless of proselytism; Dissent was an in¬
heritance along with a superior pew and a business connection;
and Churchmanship only wondefed contemptuously at Dissent
as a foolish habit that clung greatly to families in the grocery
and chandlering lines, though not incompatible with prosper¬
ous wholesale dealing. But with the Catholic Question had
come a alight wind of controversy to break the calm; the dr

108

the mill on the floss.

derly rector had become occasionally historical and argument¬
ative, and Mr. Spray, the Independent minister, had begun to
preach political sermons, in winch 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.
But most of Mr. Spray’s hearers were incapable of following
his subtleties, 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 dan¬
gerous 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. egg’s in Mrs.
Glegg’s day, and at that particular period in her family his¬
tory 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 honors in very good so-
1 ciety without being obliged to dress itself in an elaborate cos-
i tume of knowledge; a time when cheap periodicals were not,
and when country surgeons never thought of asking their fe¬
male patients if they were fond of reading, but simply took it
for granted 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 car¬
ried such a bone, which she had inherited from her grandmoth¬
er with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty, like a
suit of armor, and a silver-headed walking-stick; for the Dod¬
son family had been respectable for many generations.

Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlor in her excel¬
lent house at St. Ogg’s, so that she had two poi nts of view
from which she could observe the weaknesses of her.fellow-be¬
ings, and re-enforce her thankfulness for her own exceptional
strength of mind. From her front windows she could look
down the Tofton Road, 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 vegetablesfor Mr. Glegg,
having retired from active business as a wool-stapler, for the

C ose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, had
i this last occupation so much more severe than his busi-

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

109

ness, that he had been driven into amateur hard labor as a dis¬
sipation, and habitually relaxed by doing the work of two or¬
dinary gardeners. The economizing of a gardener’s wages
might perhaps 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 constituted check on her husband’s pleasures, which are
hardly ever of a rational or commendable land.

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, a»d insects, which, so far
as he had heard, had never before attracted human observa¬

tion ; and he noticed remarkable coincidences between these
zoological phenomena and the great events of that time—as,
for example, that before the burning of York Minster there had
been mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose-
trees, together with an unusual prevalence of slugs, which he
had been 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 therWbol business, naturally made itself a pathway in
other directions.) And his second subject of meditation was
the u contrariness” 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 highest 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 mystery in the scheme of things to which he had often
in vain sought a clew in the early chapters of Genesis. Mi.
Glegg had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsome em¬
bodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself or
a money-getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much
conjugal harmony. But in that curious compound, the fem¬
inine character, it may easily happen that the flavor is unpleas-j
ant in spite'of excellent ingredients, and a fine systematic stin-J
giness may be accompanied with a seasoning that quite spoils
its relish. Now good Mr. Glegg himself was stingy in thej
most amiable manner: his neighbors called him “ near,” which 1
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

110

THE VTTT, OK THE FLOSS.

delight in gratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all
animals which required no appreciable keep. There was no
hnmbug 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 neutralizing of
misfortune. And Mr. Glegg was just as fond of saving other
people’s money as his own: ne 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 har¬
rier—it constituted them a “race,” which is nearly lost in
these days of rapid money-getting, when lavishness comes close
on the back of want. In old-fashioned times, an “independ¬
ence” was hardly ever made without a little miserliness as a
condition, and you would have found that quality in every pro¬
vincial district, combined with characters as various as the
fruits from which we can extract acid. The true Harpagons
were always marked and exceptional characters; not so the
worthy tax-payers, who, having once pinched from real neces¬
sity, retained even in the midst of their comfortable retire¬
ment, with their wall-fruit and wine-bins, the habit of regard¬
ing 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 lux¬
ury 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 impracticable 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 quarreling
without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg, being of a reflect¬
ive turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much won¬
dering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female

THE MILL OK' TUB FLOSS.

Ill

mind as unfolded to him in his domestic life; and yet he
thought Mrs. 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
emphasis as Mrs. Glegg did, if their pastry had a less leathery
consistence, and their damson cheese a less venerable hardness
than hers; nay, even the peculiar combination of grocery and
drug-like odors 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 quarreling
again, if it had ceased for an entire week; and it is certain that
an acquiescent mild wife would have left his meditations com¬
paratively jejune and barren of mystery.

Mr. Glegg’s unmistakable kind-heartedness was shown in
this, that it pained frim 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 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 de¬
corum. 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 any thing 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
economize 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 them-

112

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

pelves. That was Mrs. Glegg’s way: she made her tea weak¬
er than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was a hard
case that a vigorous mood for quarreling, 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 purpose, for he
heard himself apostrophized 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 to 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.

“ Why, Mrs. G., what have I done now ?”

“Done now, Mr. Glegg? done nowf .... I’m sorry for
you.”

Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg re¬
verted to his porridge.

“There’s husband’s in the world,” continued Mrs. Glegg,
after a pause, “ as ’ud have known how to do something dif¬
ferent to siding with every body 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 every body’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 every body’s
had too much but himself.”

“ Don’t lower yourself with using coarse language to me,
Mr. Glegg! It makes you look very small, though you can’t
see yourself,” said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic compas¬
sion. “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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

113

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 tifl^ 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 find 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 inteijection to indicate
that her silence was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in
fact, hostilities soon broke out again.

“ Til 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,
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’ll thank me, Mr. Glegg. It’s little
thanks I get for what I do for folks i’ this world, though
there’s never a woman o’ your side i’ 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 isn’t one of ’em can say the contrary,
though my equils they aren’t, and nobody shall make me say
it.”

“ You’d better leave finding fault wi’ my kin till you’ve left
off quarreling with your own, Mrs. G.,” said Mr. Glegg, with
angry sarcasm. “ I’ll 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’vo 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 quar¬
reled with me, and drove me out o’ the house. But perhaps
you’d have had me stay, and be swore at, Mr. Glegg; perhaps
you was vexed not to hear more abuse and foul language
poured out upo’ your own wife. But, let me tell you, it’s your
disgrace.” •

“ Did ever any body hear the like i’ this parish ?” said Mr.
Glegg, getting hot. “ A woman, with every thing provided
for her, and allowed to keep her own money the same as if it
wtt settled on her, and with a gig new stuffed and lined at no

114

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

end o’ expense, and provided for when I die beyond any thing
she could expect . ... to go on i’ this way, biting and snap¬
ping like a mad dog! It’s beyond every thing 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 cried
shame on by the county for your treatment of me, for it’s what
I can’t bear, and I won’t bear—”

Hero 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’ll please to order what you’d
like for dinner. I shall have gruel.”

Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small bookcase,
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 beiore her on 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 par¬
enthetic 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 mo¬
ments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of whom she
bad heard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening
her grief at his death by leaving her poorly ofl^ 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 insistance on the subject

ft OH TUB FLOSS.

115

of snails, would be touching when it was once fairly at an end.
To survive Mr. Glegg, and talk eulogistically 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 se¬
crete 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 capsules)—finally, to be looked up
to by her own family and the neighborhood, so as no woman
can ever hope to-be who has not the praeterite and present
dignity comprised in being a “ widow well left”—all this made
anattering and conciliatory view of the future; so that when
good Mr. Glegg, restored to good-humor by much hoeing, and
moved by the sight of his wife’s empty chair, with her knitting
rolled up in the comer, 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’ll 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 corollaiy that their quarrels can not be protract¬
ed 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
like plough to run through his property; and Mrs. Glegg,
meeting this acknowledgment half way, declared that it was
beneath her to take notice of su£h 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 sho
should only get four per cent.

CHAPTER A ill.

MB. TOLLIVER FUBTHEB 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 wnat
was the right mode of behavior in family matters. Mrs. Pul¬
let’s argument that it would look ill in the neighborhood if
people should have it in their power to say that there was a

110

THE MTT/r ON THE FLOSS.

quarrel in-the family, was particularly offensive. If the family
name never suffered except through Mrs. Glegg, Mrs. Pullet
might lay her head on her pillow in perfect confidence.

44 It’s not to he expected, I suppose,” observed Mrs. Glegg,
by way of winding up the subject, “as I shall go to the mill
again before Bessy comes to see me, or as I shall go and fell
down o’ my knees to Mr. Tulliver and ask his pardon for show¬
ing him favors; but I shall bear no malice, and when Mr. Tul¬
liver speaks civil to me, I’ll speak civil to him. Nobody 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 yesterday
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 ex¬
pressed a half-formed project of paying for Maggie’s being sent
to a distant boarding-school, which would not prevent her be¬
ing 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 chib
dren 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’ll bear no malice, and
every thing be as it was before?” Mrs.Pullet said, just before
parting.

“Yes, you may, Sophy,” said Mrs. Glegg; 44 you may tell
Mr. Tulliver, and Bessy too, as I’m 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’ll 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 produced
on her by the reception of a short letter from Mr. Tulliver that
very evening, after Mrs. Pullet’s departure, informing her that
she needn’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 furthermore, that Mr. Tulliver had
no wish to behave uncivilly to Mrs. Glegg, and she was wel¬
come to his house whenever she liked to come, but he desired
no favors from her, either for himself or his children.

It was poor Mrs. Tulliver who had hastened this catastrophe,
entirely through that irrepressible hopefulness of hers which

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS* 117

led her to expect that similar causes may at any time produce
different results. It had 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 ms sup¬
posed 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 every thing 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. Tulli¬
ver 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 possibility of mistake. Mrs. Pullet
gone to beg and pray for Aim, 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 differed from Mrs. Glegg’s —why, she be¬
longed, 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 let¬
ter, and cut off the Tulliver children from their sixth and sev¬
enth share in her thousand pounds; for she had her principles.
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 subor¬
dinate to the great fundamental fact of blood; and to be de¬
termined in the distribution of your property by caprice, and
not make your legacies bear a direct ratio to degrees of kin¬
ship, 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 honor 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 mo¬
ment. 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 Tumver, sitting in her gig all the while, and showing her
displeasure by markedly abstaining from all advice and criti¬
cism ; for, as she observed to her sister Deane, “ Bessy must
bear the consequences o’ having such a husband, though I’m

118

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS*

sorry for her;” and Mrs.Deane agreed that Bessy was piti¬
able.

That evening Tom observed to Maggie, “ Oh my! Maggie,
aunt Glegg’s beginning to come again; Fm glad I’m going to
school. You'U 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 desir¬
ous of lending five hundred pounds on bond. “It must be no
client ofWakem’s,” he said to himself, and yet, at the end of
a fortnight, it turned out to the contrary; not because Mr.
Tullivers will was feeble, but because external fact was stron¬
ger. 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 in¬
flicted on him rather than committed by him*

BOOK SECOND.

SCHOOL-TIME.

CHAPTER L

tom’s “ FIRST HALF.”

Tom Tuixiver’s sufferings during the first quarter he was
at King’s Lorton, raider the distinguished care of the Rev.
Walter Stelling, were rather severe. At Jacobs’ 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 per¬
sonality of Tom 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 hyp¬
ocrites like him to write like copperplate and surround their
signatures with arabesques, to spell without forethought, and
to spout “My name is Norval” without bungling, Tom, for his
part, was rather glad he was not in danger of those mean ac¬
complishments. He was not going to be a snuffy schoolmaster
—he, but a substantial man, like his father, who used to go hunt¬
ing when he was younger, and rode a capital black mare—as
pretty a bit of horseflesh as ever you saw: Tom had heard
what her points were a hundred times. He meant to go hunt¬
ing too, and to be generally respected. When people were
grown up, he considered, nobody inquired about their writing
and spelling: when he was a man, he should be master of ev¬
ery filing, and do just as he liked. It had been very difficult
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 extremely pleas¬
ant, for it was nothing but riding about, giving orders, and go¬
ing to market; and he thought that a clergyman would give
him a great many Scripture lessons, and probably make him
learn the Gospel and Epistle on a Sunday as well as the Col¬
lect. But in the absence of specific information, it was impos-

120

the mill on the floss.

sible for him to imagine that school and a schoolmaster would
be something entirely different from the academy of Mr. Ja¬
cobs. 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 any thing particular to
be done with them, but they would serve to impress strange
boys with a sense of his familiarity with gunrf. Thus poor
Tom, though he saw very clearly through Maggie’s illusions,
was not without illusions of his own, which were to be cruelly
dissipated by his enlarged experience at Kind’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 neighboring pond; for not only was he the
solitary pupil, but he began even to have a certain skepticism
about guns, and a general sense that his theory of life was un¬
dermined. For Mr. Stelling thought nothing of guns, or horses
either, apparently, and yet it was impossible for Tom to de¬
spise Mr. Stelling as he had despised Old Goggles. If there
was any thing 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-gray
eyes, which were always very wide open; he had a sonorous
bass voice, and an air of defiant self-confidence inclining to bra¬
zenness. He had entered on his career with great vigor, 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 schoolmas¬
ter, in the first place; for there were capital masterships of
grammar-schools to be had, and Mr. Stelling meant to have^one
of them. But as a preacher also, for he meant always to pr$adk
in a striking manner, so as to have his congregation swelled fefP
admirers from neighboring parishes, and to produce a great
sensation whenever he took occasional duty for a brother

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

121

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 were
delivered in the same loud and impressive manner, they were
often thought quite as striking by his hearers. Mr. Stelling’s
doctrine was of no particular school; if any thing, 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 profes¬
sion, and to rise by merit clearly, since he had no interest be¬
yond 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 ad¬
vanced toward his daughter’s fortune did not suffice for the
purchase of handsome mrniture, 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 procrastination of the fruits of success,
where success was certain. Mr. Stelling was so broad-chested
and resolute that he felt equal to any thing; he would become
celebrated by shaking the consciences of his hearers, and he
would 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 time 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 m her husband as a man who understood
every thing of that sort.

But the immediate step to future success was to bring on
Tom Tulliver during his first half year; for, by a singular co¬
incidence, there had been some negotiation concerning another
pupil from the same neighborhood, and it might further a decis¬
ion in Mr. Stelling’s favor if it were understood that young Tulli¬
ver, who, Mr. Stelling observed in conjugal privacy, was rather a
rough cub, had made prodigious progress in a snort time. It
was on this ground tnat 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

122

THE HILL OST THE FLOSS.

the application of some sternness. Not that Mr. Stelling was
a harsh-tempered man—quite the contrary; he was jocose with
Tom at table, and corrected his provincialisms and his deport¬
ment 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. Stelling’s, and for the
first time in his life he had a painful sense that he was all wrong
somehow. 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 coolest
moments a pun would have been a hard nut, was thrown into
a state of embarrassed alarm that made every thing dim to
him except the feeling that he would rather not have any thing
to do with Latin: of course he answered “ Roast beef,” where¬
upon there followed much laughter and some practical joking
with the plates, from which Tom gathered that he had in some
mysterious way refused beef, and, in fact, made himself 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 clergy¬
man : one is, the enjoyment of the reverend gentleman’s undi¬
vided neglect; the other is, the endurance of the reverend gen¬
tleman’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 Coun¬
selor Wylde, whom he had heard at the last sessions, Mr. Tul¬
liver thought the Rev. Mr. Stelling was the shrewdest fellow
he had ever met with—not unlike Wylde, in fact: he had the
same way of sticking his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waist¬
coat. Mr. Tulliver was not by any means an exception in mis¬
taking brazenness for shrewdness: most laymen thought Stell¬
ing shrewd, and a man of remarkable powers generally; it
was chiefly by his clerical brethren that he was considered

T UB M l i 1 it j 017 THK FLOSS#

123

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 behavior
and fundamental character of the monthly nurse, she express¬
ed great contentment to her husband, when they drove away,
at leaving Tom with a woman who, in spite of her youth, seem¬
ed quite sensible and motherly, and asked advice as prettily as
could be.

“ They must be very well off, though,” said Mrs. Tulliver,
M for every thing’s as nice as can be all over the house, and
that watered-silk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pul¬
let has got one like it.”

u Ah!” said Mr. Tulliver, “ he’s got some income besides
the curacy, I reckon. Perhaps her father allows ’em some¬
thing. There’s Tom ’ull be another hundred to him, and not
much 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. Stell¬
ing that he set about it with that uniformity of method and in¬
dependence of circumstances which distinguish the actions of
animals understood to be under the immediate teaching of na¬
ture. Mr. Broderip’s amiable beaver, as that charming natur¬
alist 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 u Binny’s” function to build: the absence of water or
qf possible progeny was an accident for which he was not ac¬
countable. With the same unerring instinct Mr.

124

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

to work at his natural method of instilling the Eton Grammar
and Euclid into the mind of Tom Tnlliver. This, he consider¬
ed, 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
irregularly 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 biased, as some tutors have been, by the ex¬
cessive 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 every thing was hum¬
bug. He thought religion was a very excellent thing, and
Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful
institutions, and Great Britain the providential bulwark of
Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to af¬
flicted 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. Tul-
liver’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. Stell-
ing’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 any thing abnormal.

He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid
lad; for though by hard labor he could get particular declen¬
sions into his brain, any thing so abstract as the relation be¬
tween cases and terminations could by no means get such a
lodgment there as to enable him to recognize a chance genitive
or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling as something more than
natural stupidity; he suspected obstinacy, or, at any rate, in¬
difference, 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 Rev. Mr. Stelling; for

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

125

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 play¬
ground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate
without any measurement. But Mr. Stelling took no note of
these things: he only observed that Tom’s facilities failed him
before the abstractions hideously symbolized to him in the
pages of the Eton Grammar, and that he was in a state border¬
ing on idiocy with regard to the demonstration that two given
triangles must be equal—though he could discern with great
pro mptitude and certainty the fact that they were equal.
W hence Mr. Stelling concluded that Tom’s brain, being pecul¬
iarly impervious to etymology and demonstrations, was pecul¬
iarly in need of being plowed and harrowed by these patent
implements: it was his favorite 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 weak¬
ness 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 ingenious
conception of the classics and geometry as plows 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 knowledge of the di¬
gestive process becomes quite irrelevant. It was 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. Oh
Aristotle! if you had had the advantage of being “the freshest
modem” 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 sel¬
dom 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 Delectus, 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

126

the mill on the floss.

was in a state of as blank unimaginativeness concerning the
cause and tendency of his sufferings as if he had been an inno¬
cent shrewmouse imprisoned in the split trunk of an ash tree
in order to cure lameness in cattle. It is doubtless almost in¬
credible 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 understand why
he should be cartled 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’ acad¬
emy, his knowledge was strictly correct, but it went no farther
than the fact that they were “in the hfew 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, ex¬
traneous information such as is given to girls.

Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom be¬
came 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 Goggles, and re¬
posing in the sense of unquestioned rights; but now this same
pride met with nothing but bruises and crushings. 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 among, and that, brought in contact with it, he, Tom
Tullivei, 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-satisfaction, and gave him
sometliing of the girl’s susceptibility. He was of a very firm,
not to say obstinate disposition, but there was no brute-like re¬
bellion and recklessness in his nature: the human sensibilities
predominated, and if it had occurred to him that he could en¬
able himself to show some quickness at his lessons, and so ac¬
quire Mr. Stelling’s approbation, 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 strength¬
en the verbal memory, and he was not given to hypothesis and

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 127

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 irregularity of introducing an extempore pas¬
sage 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 trans¬
cended the bounds of possible stupidity, had lectured him very
seriously, pointing out that if he failed to seize the present gold¬
en opportunity of learning supines, he would have to regret it
when he became a man, Tom, more miserable than usual, de¬
termined 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 re¬
member 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
the next day encouraged him to persevere in this appendix to
his prayers, and neutralized any skepticism 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 conclusion 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 fight 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 prick¬
ing up his ears, ready to obey the least sign when 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 whip-cord, 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 irregular verbs his spirit waa ftx-

128

TH tC MILL 017 T HE FLOSS*

ther depressed by a new means of mental development, which
had been thought of for him out of school hours. Mrs. Stel-
ling 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 domg Tom a service by setting him to watch
the little cherub Laura while the nurse was occupied with the
sickly baby. It was auite a pretty employment for Tom to take
little Laura out in tne 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 round her waist, by which Tom held her
as if she had been a little dog during the minutes in which she
chose to walk; but as these were rare, he was, for the most
part, carrying this fine child round and round the garden, with¬
in sight of Mrs. Stelling’s window—according to orders. If
any one considers this unfair and even oppressive toward Tom,
I beg him to consider that there are feminine virtues which are
with difficulty combined, even if they are not incompatible.
When the wife of a poor curate contrives, under all her disad¬
vantages, to dress extremely well, and to have a style of coif¬
fure which requires that her nurse shall occasionally officiate as
lady’s-maid—when, moreover, her dinner-parties and her draw¬
ing-room show that effort at elegance and completeness of ap¬
pointment to which ordinary women might imagine a large in¬
come necessary, it would be unreasonable to expect of her that
she should employ a second nurse, or even act as a nurse her¬
self. Mr. Stelling knew better: he saw that his wife did won¬
ders 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
himself, 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 httle
soul as ever breathed,” according to Mr. Riley, who had been
acquainted with Mrs. Stelling’s blonde ringlets and smiling de¬
meanor throughout her maiden life, and on the strength oi 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

129

afraid he hated Mrs. Stelling, and contracted a lasting dislike
to pale blonde ringlets and broad plaits, as directly associated
with haughtiness of manner and a frequent reference to other
people’s “ duty.” But he couldn’t help playing with little
Laura, and liking to amuse her: he even sacrificed his percus¬
sion-caps for her sake, in despair of their ever serving a greater
purpose—thinking the small flash and bang would delict 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 playfellows!
In his secret heart he yearned to have Maggie with him, and
was almost ready to dote on her exasperating act of forgetful¬
ness ; though, when he was at home, he always represented it
as a great favor on his part to let Maggie trot by his side on
his pleasure excursions.

And before this dreary half year was ended Maggie actually
came. Mrs. Stelling had given a general invitation for the lit¬
tle girl to come and stay with her brother; so, when Mr. Tul-
liver drove over to King’s Lorton late in October, Maggie came
too, with the sense that she was taking a great journey, and
beginning to see the world. It was Mr. Tulliver’s first visit to
see Tom, for the lad must learn not to think too much about
home. x

u Well, my lad,” he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling had left
the room to announce the arrival to his wife, 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’d
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.)

. u Euclid, my lad—why, what’s that ?” said Mr. Tulliver..

tc Oh, I don’t know: it’s definitions, and axioms, and trian¬
gles, and things. It’s a book I’ve got to learn in—there’s no
sense in it.”

M Go, go!” said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly, “ you musn’t say
so. You must learn what your master tells you. He knows
what it’s right for you to learn.”

“TU help you now, Tom,” said Maggie, with a little air of
patronizing consolation. “ I’m come to stay ever so long, if
Mrs. Stelling asks me. I’ve brought my box and my pinafores
—haven’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, ei

F 2

130

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

confounding Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. 44 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.”

44 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 4 bo¬
nus’ means 4 good,’ as it happens—bonus, bona, bonum.”

44 Well, that’s no reason why it shouldn’t mean 4 gift,’” said
Maggie, stoutly. 44 It may mean several things—almost every
word does. There’s 4 lawn’—it means the grass-plot, as well
as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of.”

44 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
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 fort¬
night. Maggie thought Mr. Stelling was a charming man, and
Mr. Tulliver 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.

44 Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie,” said
Tom, as their father drove away. 44 What do you shake and
toss your head now for, you silly ?” he continued; for, though
her hair was under a new dispensation, and was brushed
smoothly behind her ears, she seemed still, in imagination, to
be tossing it out of her eyes. 44 It makes you look as if you
were crazy.”

44 Oh, I can’t help it,” said Maggie, impatiently. 44 Don’t
tease me, Tom*. Oh, what books!” she exclaimed, as she saw
the bookcases in the study. 44 How I should like to have as
many books as that!”

44 Why, you couldn’t read one of ’em,” said Tom, triumph¬
antly. 44 They’re all Latin.”

44 No they aren’t,” said Maggie. 44 1 can read the back of
this .... History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Em¬
pire.”

44 Well, what does that mean ? You don’t know,” said Tom,
wagging his head.

44 But I could soon find out,” said Maggie, scornfully.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

131

“ 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. Steliing lets nobody touch his
books without leave, and I 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 ta¬
ble. Away they jumped with more and more vigor, till Mag¬
gie’s hair flew from behind her ears, and twirled about like an
animated mop. But the revolutions round the table 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 on the ground-
floor, and the study was a one-stoned wing to the house, so
that the downfall made no alarming resonance, though Tom
stood dizzy and aghast for a few minutes, dreading the appear¬
ance of Mr. or Mrs. Steliing.

“ Oh, I say, Maggie,” said Tom at last, lifting up the stand,
“ we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break any thing,
Mrs. Steliing ’ll make us cry peccavi.”

“What’s that?” said Maggie.

“ Oh, it’s the Latin for a good scolding,” said Tom, not with¬
out 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'll 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 dare say, and a nasty conceited thing. Every body
’ll hate you.”

“ But you oughtn’t to hate me, Tom: it’ll 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, Tom, you won’t! I sha’n’t be disagreeable. I
shall be very good to you—and I shall be good to every body.
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, draw-

132

the mill oh the floss.

ing Maggie toward him and showing her his theorem, while
she pushed her hair behind her ears, and prepared herself to
prove her capacity of helping him in Euclid. She began to
read with full confidence in her own powers, but presently, be¬
coming quite bewildered, her face flushed with irritation. It
was unavoidable—she must confess her incompetency, 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.”

“Oh,” said Magffie, pouting, “I dare say I could make it
out if I’d learned what goes before, as you have.”

“But that’s what you just couldn’t, Miss Wisdom,” said
Tom; “ for it’s all the harder when you know what goes be¬
fore ; 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 ex¬
pense. She presently made up her mind to skip the rules in
the Syntax, the examples became so absorbing. These mys¬
terious 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 imagi¬
nation, and were all the more fascinating because they were in
a peculiar tongue of their own, which she could learn to inter¬
pret. 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 fragmentary examples
were her favorites. Mors omnibus est communis would have
been jejune, only she liked to know the Latin; but the fortu¬
nate gentleman whom every one congratulated because he had
a son “ endowed with such a disposition” 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. 1 don’t
think it’s at all hard.”

“ Oh, I know what you’ve been doing,” said Tom; “ you’ve

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

133

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: 44 Here, Magsie, come and
hear if I can say this. Stand at that end of the table, where
Mr. Stelling sits when he hears me.”

Maggie obeyed and took the open book.

44 Where do you begin, Tom ?”

44 Oh, I begin at 6 Appellativa 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 . . .”

44 Ho,” said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her
head.

44 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.

44 O, e, u,” said Maggie, getting impatient.

44 Oh, I know—hold your tongue,” said Tom. 44 Ceupasser,
hirundo; Ferarum . . . . ferarum , . Tom took his pen¬
cil and made several hard dots with it on his book-cover. . . .”
44 ferarum . . . .”

44 Oh dear, oh dear, Tom,” said Maggie, 44 what a time you
are! Ut . . . .”

44 Ut , ostrea . . .

44 No, no,” said Maggie, 44 ut, tigris . . . .”

44 Oh yes, now I can do,” said Tom; 44 it was tigris, wipes ,
Fd forgotten: ut tigris, vulpes ; et Piscium?

With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got
through the next few lines.

44 Now, then,” he said, 44 the next is what Fve 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.

44 Mascrula nomina in a,” he began.

44 No, Tom,” said Maggie, 44 that doesn’t come next. It’s
Nomen non creskens gemttivo . . . .”

44 Creskens genittivo ,” exclaimed Tom, with a derisive lau^h^

134

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his yesterday’s
lesson, and a young gentleman does not require an intimate or
extensive acquaintance with Latin before he can feel thepiti-
able absurdity of a false quantity. Creskens genittivo / What
a little silly you are, Maggie!”

“Well, you needn’t laugh, Tom, for you didn’t remember it
at all. I’m sure it’s spelt so; how was I to know ?”

“Phee-e-e-h! I told you girls couldn’t learn Latin. It’s
Nomen non crescens genitivo .”

“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 remainder of the
evening 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
gipsies.

“What a very odd little girl that must be,” said Mrs. Stell¬
ing, meaning to be playful; but a playfulness that turned on
her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie’s taste. She
feared Mr. Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, and
went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs. Stelling, she felt, look¬
ed 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 specula¬
tion that she one day asked Mr. Stelling if all astronomers
hated women, or whether it was only this particular astrono¬
mer. 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 135

“ Fm sure you couldn’t do it, now,” said Tom; “ and Fll
just ask Mr. Stelling if you could.”

“I don’t mind,” said the little conceited minx. “Ill 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’s les¬
sons, if you were to teach me instead of him ?”

“ No, you couldn’t,” said Tom, indignantly. “ Girls can’t do
Euclid; can they, sir

“ They can pick up a little of every thing, I dare say,” said
Mr. Stelling. “ They’ve a good deal of superficial cleverness;
but they couldn’t go far into any thing. 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’ll never
go far into any thing, 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 was once more
quite lonely for Tom, he missed her grievously. He had real¬
ly been brighter, and had got through his lessons better since
she had been there; and she had asked Mr. Stelling so many
questions 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 turn¬
ed into Latin, that Tom had' actually come to a dim under¬
standing of the fact that there had once been people upon the
earth who were so fortunate as to know Latin without learn¬
ing it through the medium of the Eton Grammar. This lu¬
minous idea was a great addition to his historical acquire¬
ments during this half year, which were otherwise confined to
an epitomized history of the Jews.

But the dreary half year did come to an end.. How glad
Tom was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before the
cold 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 comer of the garden when he was three weeks from

136

the mill on the floss.

the holidays, and pulled up one every day with a great wrench,
throwing it to a distance with a vigor of will which would
have carried it to limbo, if it had been in the nature of sticks
to travel so far.

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the
Latin Grammar—the happiness of seeing the bright light in
the parlor 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 familiar
hearth, where the pattern of the rug, and the gf&te, 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
hown 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 satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distin¬
guishes 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 sanctities 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 gladden¬
ing sight than the finest cistus or fuchsias preading itself on
the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable prefer¬
ence to a landscape-gardener, or to any of those severely reg¬
ulated minds who are free from the weakness of any attach¬
ment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qual¬
ities. And there is no better reason for preferring this elder¬
berry bush than that it stirs an early memory—that it is no
novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through my present
sensibilities to form and color, but the long companion of my
existence, that wove itself into my j oys. wh en joys ^wgre vivid.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

137

CHAPTER H.

THE CHBISTMAS 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 color with all the heightening
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 bor¬
der on every sloping roof, making the dark-red gables stand
out with a new depth of color; it weighed heavily on the lau¬
rels and fir-trees till it fell from them with a shuddering 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 unrecumbent sadness
there was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one
still, pale cloud—no sound or motion in any thing 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
out-door world, for he meant to light up home with new bright¬
ness, to deepen all the richness of in-door color, and give a
keener edge of delight to the warm fragrance of food: he
meant to prepare a sweet imprisonment that would strengthen
the primitive fellowship of kindred, and make the sunshine of
familiar human faces as welcome as the hidden daystar. 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, but rather the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of un¬
expectant want. But 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 hap¬
py 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 mantel-pieces, and picture-frames on Christmas-
eve with as much taste as ever, wedding the thick-set scarlet
clusters with branches of the black-berried ivy. Thera haA

138

TH ^ MlLL ON T HE JPLOSS«

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 caroling broke in upon her dreams, and the image of men
in fustian clothes was always thrust away by the vision of an¬
gels resting on the parted cloud. But the midnight chaht 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 favorite anthem, the
green boughs, and the short sermon, gave the appropriate fes¬
tal character to the church-going; and aunt and uncle Moss,
with all their seven children, were looking like so many re¬
flectors of the bright parlor fire when the church-goers came
back, stamping the snow from their feet. The plum-pudding
was of the same handsome roundness as ever, and came in
with the symbolic blue flames around it, as if it had been he¬
roically snatched from the nether fires into which it had been
thrown by dyspeptic 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 any thing, by supe¬
rior 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 without some
of the feeling that oppressed Maggie when Mr. Tulliver got
louder and more angry in narration and assertion with the in¬
creased 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 quarreling. Now Tom was not fond of quarrel¬
ing, unless it could soon be put an end to by a fair stand-up
fight with an adversary whom he had every chance of thrash¬
ing ; and his father’s irritable talk made him uncomfortable,
though he never accounted to himself for the feeling, or con¬
ceived 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,
having lands higher up the Ripple, 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

THIS MI LL ON THB FLOSS•

139

compared with Pivart. 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 no¬
where in point of law; and in the intensity of his indignation
against Pivart, his contempt for a baffled adversary like Dix
began to wear the air of a friendly attachment. He had no
male audience to-day except Mr. Moss, who knew nothing, as
he said, of the 44 natur’ o’ mills,” and could only assent to Mr.
Tulliver’s arguments on the d priori ground of family relation¬
ship 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.

44 Why, Pivart’s a new name hereabout, brother, isn’t it ?”
she said: 44 he didn’t own the land in father’s time, nor yours
either, before I was married.”

44 New name ? Yes, I should think it is a new name,” said
Mr. Tulliver, with angry emphasis. 44 Dorlcote Mill’s been in
our family a hundred year and better, and nobody ever heard
of a Pivart meddling with the river, till this fellow came and
bought Bincome’s farm out of hand, before any body else could
so much as sajr 4 snap.’ But I’ll Pivart him!” added Mr. Tul¬
liver, lifting his glass with a sense that he had defined his res¬
olution in an unmistakable manner.

u You won’t be forced to go to law with him, I hope, broth¬
er ?” said Mrs. Moss, with some anxiety.

44 1 don’t know what I shall be forced to; but I know what
I shall force him to, with his dikes 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
4 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?”

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 cockfight, in which it was the
business of injured honesty to get a game bird with the best
pluck and the strongest spurs.

44 Gore’s no fool — you needn’t tell me that,” he observed

140

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

presently, in a pugnacious tone, as if poor Gritty had been
urging that lawyers capabilities; “ but, you see, he isn’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 straight-
forrard; for a river’s a nver, and if you’ve got a mill, you must
have water to turn it; and it’s no use telling me, Pivart’s eri-
gation and nonsense won’t stop my wheel: I know what be¬
longs to water better than that. Talk to me o’ what th’ en¬
gineers say! I say it’s common sense, as Pivart’s dikes must
do me an injury. But if that’s their engineering, I’ll 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 announce¬
ment 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, instanta¬
neously expressed her sentiments in a piercing yell, and was
not to be appeased even by the restoration of the rattle, feel¬
ing 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 clamored for she was a misunderstood baby.
The thoroughly justifiable yell being quieted, Mrs. Moss look¬
ed 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 any thing
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 con¬
duct was not matter of pure admiration. Amiable Mrs. Tul¬
liver, who was never angry in her life, had yet her mild share
of that spirit without which she could hardly have been at
once a Dodson and a woman. Being always on the defensive
toward her own sisters, it was natural that she should be keen¬
ly conscious of her superiority, even as the weakest Dodson,
over a husband’s sister, who, besides being poorly ofl£ and in¬
clined 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,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

141

“ for there’s never any knowing where that ’ll end. And the
right doesn’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,
“ Fve 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 witn
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
husband if he hadn’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 every thing, 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 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 personal¬
ity ; but whenever she departed from entire assent to her hus¬
band, he saw in her the representative of the Dodson family;
and it was a guiding principle with Mr. Tulliver to let the Dod¬
sons 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

142

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

female herself against his going to law could have heightened
his disposition toward it so much as the mere thought of Wa¬
kem, continually freshened by the sight of the too able attor¬
ney on market-days. Wakem, to his certain knowledge, was
(metaphorically speaking) at the bottom of Pivart’s irrigation:
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 high road: 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 cu¬
cumber—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 ne 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 irrigation, he had an un¬
comfortable suspicion that Wakem had more law to show
against this (rationally) irrefragable inference than Gore could
show for it. But then, if they went to law, there was a chance
for Mr. Tulliver to employ Counselor Wylde on his side, in¬
stead 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 gray 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 narra¬
tion of the case and the enforcement of Mr. Tulliver’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

the mill on the floss.

143

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 contravener 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 evi¬
dence that Pivart was as w thick as mud” with Wakem.

“ Father,” said Tom, one even ing near the end of the holi¬
days, 44 uncle Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to send his
son to Mr. Stelling. It isn’t true what they said about his
going to France. You won’t like me to go to school with
Wakem’s son, shall you ?”

44 It’s no matter for that, my boy,” said Mr. Tulliver; 44 don’t
you learn any thing bad of him, that’s all. The lad’s a poor
deformed creatur, and takes after his mother in the face: I
think there isn’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.

CHAPTER HI.

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
Bps 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
confinea prospect and damp odors of the gig-umbrella, that he
repeated the process more than once on his way.

44 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’ll find a bright fire there, and a
new companion.”

144

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

Tom felt in an nnoomfortable flatter as he took off his woolen
comforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip Wakem
at St. Ogg’s, bat had always tamed 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 coaid
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 embarrassment and defiance as he fol>
lowed Mr. Stelling to the study.

“Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with,
Tulliver,” said that gentleman on entering the study—“ Mas¬
ter Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make acquaintance by
yourselves. You already know something of each other,!
imagine, for you are neighbors 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 ?” on so short a notice.

Mr. Stelling wisely turned away and closed the door behind
him: boys’ shyness only wears off in the absence of their elders.

Philipwas at once too proud and too timid to walk toward
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—veiy old-looking, Tom thought. He
wondered how much older Philip was than himself. An anat¬
omist—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 with such distinctions; to him, Philip
was simply a humpback. He had a vague notion that the de¬
formity of Wakem’s son had some relation to the lawyer’s ras¬
cality, of which he had so often hearcj his father talk with hot
emphasis; and he felt, too, a half-admitted fear of him as prob¬
ably a spiteful fellow, who, not being able to fight you, had
cunning ways of doing you a mischief by the sly. There was

the mill oh the floss.

145

a humpbacked tailor in the neighborhood of Mr. Jacobs’ acad¬
emy who was considered a very unamiable character, and was
mnch hooted after by public-spirited boys solely on the ground
of his unsatisfactory moral qualities, so that Tom was not with¬
out 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 any thing worth speaking of; but he handled his pen¬
cil in an enviable manner, and was apparently making one
thing after another without any trouble. What was he draw¬
ing? 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 of the study-window at the rain, and kicking his foot
against the washboard in solitude; something would happen
every day— 44 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. 44 Oh 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!”

44 Oh, you can do them without learning,” said Philip; 44 1
never learned drawing.”

44 Never learned?” said Tom, in amazement. 44 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 dare say I could do dogs and horses if I
was to try more,” he added, reflecting that Philip might falsely
suppose that he was going to 44 knock under,” if he were too
frank about the imperfection of his accomplishments.

44 Oh yes,” said Philip, 44 it’s very easy. You’ve o nly to look
well at things, and draw them over and over again. What you
do wrong once you can alter the next time.”

^ 44 But haven’t you been taught any thing?” said Tom, be¬
ginning to have a puzzled suspicion that Philip’s crooked back
might be the source of remarkable faculties. 44 1 thought you’d
been to school a long while.”

“Yes,” said Philip, smiling, 44 I’ve been taught Latin, and
Greek, and mathematics—and writing, and such thinua*”

146

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Oh but, I say, yon don’t like Latin, though, do yon ?” said
Tom, lowering his voice confidentially.

“Pretty well; I don’t care much about it,” said Philip.

“Ah I but perhaps you haven’t got into the Propria* qum
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; I don’t learn that any
more.”

“Then you won’t have the same lessons as I shall?” said
Tom, with a sense of disappointment.

“ No; but I dare say 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, coloring deeply; “don’t you-love yours?”

“ Oh yes.I only wanted to know,” said Tom, rather

ashamed of himself, now he saw Philip coloring and looking
uncomfortable. He found much difficulty in adjusting his at¬
titude of-mind toward the son of Lawyer Wakem, and it had
occurred to him that if Philip disliked his father, that fact might
go some way toward 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 forward
on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration on the
dog and the donkey.

“ And you don’t mind that ?” said Tom, with strong curi¬
osity.

“ No; I like to know what every body else knows. I can
study what I like by-and-by.”

“ I can’t think why any body 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 147

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.
44 But I dare say he’s forgotten it.”

44 Oh, well, I can do that, then,” said Tom, not with any epi¬
grammatic intention, but with serious satisfaction at the idea
that, as far as Latin was Concerned, there was no hinderance to
his resembling Sir John Crake. 44 Only you’re obliged to re¬
member it while you’re at school, else you’ve got to Team ever
so many lines of 4 Speaker.’ Mr. Stelling’s very particular—did
you know ? He’ll have you up ten times if you say 4 nam’ for
* 4 jam:’ he won’t let you go a letter wrong, I can tell you.”

44 Oh, I don’t mind,” said Philip, unable to choke a laugh;
can remember things easily. And there are some lessons
Pm very fond of. I’m very fond of Greek history, and every
thing about the Greeks. 1 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 any thing like David,
and Goliath, and Samson in the Greek history ? Those are
the only bits I like iij 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 forehead; 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.”

44 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 pos¬
sible. 44 Does every gentleman learn Greek ? . . . . Will Mr.
Stalling make me begin with it, do you think ?”

44 No, I should think not—very likely not,” said Philip.
44 But you may read those stories without knowing Greek.
I’ve got them m English.”

44 Oh, but I don’t like reading; I’d sooner have you tell them
me —but only the fighting ones, you know. My sister Mag¬
gie is always wanting to tell me stories—but they’re

148

the mill on the floss.

things. Girls 9 stories always are. Can yon tell a good many
fighting stories ?”

“ Oh yes,” said Philip, “ lots of them, besides the Greek sto¬
ries. I can tell you about Richard Cceur de Lion and Saladin,
and about William Wallace, and Robert Bruce, and James
Douglas—I know no end.”

“You’re older than I am, aren’t you?” said Tom.

“ Why, how old are you f I’m fifteen.”

“Pm only going in fourteen,” said Tom. “ But I thrashed
all the fellows at Jacobs’—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. I could show you how
to fish. You could fish, couldn’t you? It’s only standing,
and sitting still, you know.”

Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his fa¬
vor. This hunchback must not suppose that his acquaintance
with fighting stories put him on a par with an actual fighting
hero like Tom Tulliver. Philip winced under this allusion to
his unfitness for active sports, and he answered almost peev¬
ishly,

“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.”

“AhI but you wouldn’t say they looked like fools when
they landed a big pike, I can tell you,” said Tom, who had
never caught any thing that was “ big” in his life, but whose
imagination was on the stretch with indignant zeal for the
honor of sport. Wakem’s son, it was plain, had his disagree¬
able points, and must be kept in due check. Happily for the
harmony of this first interview, they were now called to din¬
ner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his unsound
views on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to himself 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 or school-boy intimacy. Tom never quite lost the
feeling that Philip, being the son of a “ rascal,” was his natu¬
ral enemy—never thoroughly overcame his repulsion to Philip’s
deformity: he was a boy who adhered tenaciously to impres¬
sions once received: as with all minds in which mere percept

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

149

tion predominates over thought and emotion, the external re¬
mained to him rigidly what it was in the first instance. But
then it was impossible not to like Philip’s company when he
was in a good humor; 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 Wind, for exam¬
ple, and other heroes who were especial favorites with Tom,
because they laid about them with heavy strokes. He had
small opinion of Saladin, whose cimeter could cut a cushion in
two in an instant: who wanted to cut cushions ? That was a
stupid story, and he didn’t care to hear it again. But when
Robert Bruce, on the black pony, rose in his stirrups, and, lift¬
ing 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 cocoanut
at hand, he would have cracked it at once with the poker.
Philip, in his happier moods, indulged 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 humor or happy mood. The
slight spurt of peevish susceptibility which had escaped him
in their first interview was a symptom of a perpetually-recur¬
ring mental ailment—half of it nervous irritability, half of it
the heart-bitterness produced by the sense of his deformity.
In these fits of susceptibility, 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-meaning lad quite savagely, and his eyes,
usually sad and quiet, would flash with any thing but playful
lightning. No wonder Tom retained his suspicions of the
humpback.

But Philip’s self-taught skill in drawing was another link be¬
tween them; for Tom found, to his disgust, that his new draw¬
ing-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 any thing, was
rather satiny; and as Tom’s feeling for the picturesque in
land 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. ^

150

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

saw him at Madport, 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 mas¬
ter 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 extreme¬
ly 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 unscrupulous integrity, and before the cler¬
gy were all men of enlarged minds and varied culture. In
those less-favored days, it is no fable that there were other
clergymen 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 intellect—
with which income has clearly no inherent relation. The prob¬
lem these gentlemen had to solve was to readjust the propor¬
tion 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 do¬
ing this: any of those low callings in which men were obliged
to do good work at a low price were forbidden to clergymen:
was it their fault that 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 endowed 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 contemporaries, 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-fashidned fathers, like Mr.
Tulliver, when they selected 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 suo-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

151

cessful 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 competence 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 gen¬
tleman, at the age of four-and-twenty, had not closed his col¬
lege dissipations by an imprudent marriage: otherwise these
innocent fathers, desirous of doing the best by their offspring,
could only escape the draper’s son by happening to be on the
foundation of a grammar-school as yet unvisited by commis¬
sioners, where two or three boys could have, all to tnemselves,
the advantages of a large and lofty building, together with a
head-master, toothless, dim-eyed, and deaf, whose erudite indis¬
tinctness and inattention 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 esteemed 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 enjoying
his dinrfer; not a man of refined conscience, or with any deep
sense of the infinite issues belonging to every-day duties; not
quite competent to his high offices; but incompetent gentle¬
men 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 nourished
on the sort of knowledge Mr. Stelling had to communicate.
A boy born with a deficient power of apprehending signs and
abstractions must suffer the penalty of his congenital deficien¬
cy, just as if he had been born with one leg shorter than the
other. A method of education sanctioned by the long prac¬
tice of our venerable ancestors was not to give way before the
exceptional dullness of a boy who was merely living at the
time then present. And Mr. Stelling was convinced that a
boy so stupid at signs and abstractions must be stupid at every
thing else, even if that reverend gentleman could have taught

152 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

him every thing 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 had they to do but to tighten the
thumb-screw ? In like manner, Mr. Stelling had a fixed opin¬
ion 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 in¬
creased severity, and a page of Virgil be awarded as a penalty,
to encourage and stimulate a too languid inclination to Latin
verse.

Nevertheless, the thumb-screw was relaxed a little 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 dullness. 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 divince particulum auros 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 resolution, sat
down to one of Theodore Hook’s novels. Tom was gradually
allowed to shuffle through his lessons with less rigor, 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 educa¬
tion at all. What was understood to be his education was
simply the practice of reading, writing, and 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 un¬
der 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 entirely at the mercy of circumstances.

There was a great improvement in his bearing, for example.

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

153

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 sus¬
tain with any firmness. Still, he carried himself with martial
erectness, had his clothes scrupulously brushed, and his trow-
sers 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 war¬
like 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 War were removed from all suspicion of being
mythical. v Mr. Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous
figure at Talavera, and had contributed not a little to the pe¬
culiar 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 Wel¬
lington had (in strict privacy, lest jealousies should be awak¬
ened) expressed his esteem for that fine fellow Poulter. The
very surgeon who attended him in the hospital after he had
received his gun-shot wound had been profoundly impressed
with the superiority of Mr. Poulter’s flesh: no other flesh
would have healed in any thing like the same time. On less
personal matters connected with the important warfare in
which he had been engaged, Mr. Poulter was more reticent,
only taking care not to give the weight of his authority to any
loose notions concerning military history. Any one who pre¬
tended to a knowledge of what occurred at the siege of Bada-
jos 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
curiosity concerning other military matters than Mi*. Poulter’s
personal experience.

154

TUB mttj, ON THE FLOSS.

“And General Wolfe, Mr. Poulter—wasn’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 I” said Mr. Poulter, contemptuously. “ Noth¬
ing o’ the sort! . . . Heads up 1” he added, in a tone of stem
command, 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 my sword-cuts ’ud ha’ killed

a fellow 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 sig¬
nificant mann er at this request, and smiled patronizingly, as
Jupiter may have done when Semele urged her too ambitious
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 tne 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. “ I
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 enjoyment 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
enthusiasm, 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’ll
like to see you, you know.”

“ What! the humpbacked lad ?” said Mr. Poulter, contempt¬
uously. “ 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 bat¬
tle-axes.”

“Let him come, then. I’ll show him somethings different

THE UHL OH THE FLOSS.

155

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 holi¬
day at the piano in the drawing-room, picking out tones for
himself and singing them. He was supremely happy, perched
like an amorphous bundle on the high stool, with ms head
thrown back, his eyes fixed on the opposite cornice, and his
lips wide open, sending forth, with all his might, impromptu
syllables to a tune of Arne’s, which had hit his fancy.

“ Come, Philip,” said Tom, bursting in; “ don’t stay roaring
4 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-mas¬
ter ; and Tom, in the hurry of seizing something to say to pre¬
vent 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 any thing but a cart-horse 1”

It was not the first time Philip had been made angry by
him, but Tom never before had been assailed with verbal mis¬
siles that he understood so well.

“ 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 nit you, because you’re no better
than a girl. But I’m an honest man’s son, and your father’s a
rogue—every body says so!”

Tom flung out of the room, and slammed the door after him,
made strangely heedless by his anger; for to slam doors with¬
in the hearing of Mrs. Stelling, who was probably not far off,
was an offense 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 cessation of
Philip’s music. She found him sitting in a heap on the has¬
sock, and crying bitterly.

u What’s the matter, Wakem ? What was that noise about?
Who dammed the door ?”

156

the mill on the floss.

Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. “ It was Tol¬
liver 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 favorite 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, how¬
ever, met her advances toward a good understanding very
much as a caressed mollusc meets an invitation to show him¬
self out of his shell.* Mrs. Stelling was not a loving, tender¬
hearted woman; she was a woman whose skirt sat well, who
adjusted her waist and patted her ourls with a preoccupied air
when she inquired after your welfare. These things, doubt¬
less, 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 rec¬
ollection—it was like an inspiration to enable him to excuse
his crying. He had to accept eau de Cologne, and to 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 ob¬
servant 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
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-lookmg sword, which seemed impatient for some¬
thing 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 wouldn’t—I’m sure I’d take care and not
hurt myself. I shouldn’t take it out of the sheath much, but I
could ground arms with it, and all that.”

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

167

“ 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 sword a week. Look here l”
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’ll 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
afternoons,” said Tom, who disliked any thing 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 coming
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 look¬
ing-glass. It is doubtful whether our soldiers

158

the mill ok the floss.

tained if there were not pacific people at home who like to
fancy themselves soldiers. War, like other dramatic spectacles,
might possibly cease for want of a “ public.”

CHAPTER Y.

Maggie’s second visit.

This last breach between tbe 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 m his
disposition, but there was a susceptibility that made him pecul¬
iarly 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 objects in
a truly ingenuous bovine manner; but he had blundered on
Philip’s tenderest point, and had caused him as much acute
pain as if he had studied the means with the nicest precision
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 rela¬
tion between himself and his dubious schoolfellow, 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 him, and called him
names. But, perceiving that his first advances toward amity
were not met, he relapsed into his least favorable disposition
toward 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 vigor.

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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS* 159

T clever; she hoped he would think her rather clever too,
*he came to talk to him. Maggie, moreover, had rather
Alness f° r deformed things: she preferred the wry-neck- \
ttbs, because it seemed to her that the lambs whicn were \
strong and well made wouldn’t mind so much about be¬
lted ; and she was especially fond of petting objects that
Id think it very delightful to be petted by her. She loved
. very dearly, but she often wished that he cared more about
oving him.

W 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 fa¬
ther, 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?”

44 Oh, he’s a queer fellow,” said Tom, curtly, 44 and he’s as
sulky as he 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, mil you? I’ve got something I want
to do up stairs.”

44 Can’t I go too?” said Maggie, who, in this first day of
meeting again, loved Tom’s shadow.

44 No, it’s something I’ll 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 honor 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 ex¬
cited Maggie’s cnriosity; 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 one and then the other;
and Philip, looking off his book once toward the fireplace,
caught the pair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He
thought this sister of Tollivers 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
Jiim of the stories about princesses being turned into animals?
.I think it was that her eyes were full of unsatisfied in¬
telligence, and unsatisfied, beseeching affection.

M 1 say, Magsie,” said Tom at last, shutting hi& bootea wAl

160

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

putting them away with the energy and decision of a perfect
master in the art of leaving ofl^ “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. 44 It isn’t a trick you’re go¬
ing to play me now ?”

44 No, no, Maggie,” said Tom, in his most coaxing tone, 44 it’s
something you’ll like ever so.”

He put Ins arm round her neck, and she put hers round his
waist, and, twined together in this way, they went up stairs.

44 I say, Magsie, you must not tell any body, you knpw,” said
Tom, w else I shall get fifty lines.”

44 Is it alive ?” said Maggie, whose imagination had settled
for the moment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandes¬
tinely.

44 Oh, I sha’n’t tell you,” said he. 44 Now you go into that
comer and hide your face, while I reach it out,” he added, as
he locked the bedroom door behind them. 44 I’ll tell you when
to turn round. You mustn’t squeal out, you know.”

44 Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall,” said Maggie, begin¬
ning to look rather serious.

44 You won’t be frightened, you silly thing,” said Tom. 44 Go
and hide your face, and mind you don’t peep.”

44 Of course I sha’n’t peep,” said Maggie, disdainfully; and
she buried her face in the pillow like a person of strict honor.

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 prin¬
ciple, for in that dream-suggestive attitude she had soon for¬
gotten where she was, and her thoughts were busy with the
poor deformed boy, who was so clever, when Tom called out,
44 N o w, then, Magsie!”

Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement
of effects could have enabled Tom to present so striking a fig¬
ure 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 amiable
blue-gray 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 horse-shoe on his forehead)—he had had recourse to that
unfailing source of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made him¬
self a pair of black eyebrows that met in a satisfactory man¬
ner over his nose, and were matched by a less carefully adjust-

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

.101

ed blackness about the chin. He had wound a red handker¬
chief 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 the point
resting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximar
tive idea of his tierce 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, ana said, 44 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
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.

44 Oh, Tom, please don’t,” exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of sup¬
pressed dread, shrinking away from him into the opposite cor¬
ner ; “ 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 inconsistent
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 to¬
ward Maggie, who, trembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got
upon the bed, as the only means of widening the space between
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.

44 Tom, I will not bear it—I will scream,” said Maggie, at the
first movement of the sword. 44 You’ll hurt yourself; you’ll cut
your head off!”

44 One—two,” said Tom, resolutely, though at “two” his
wrist trembled a little. 44 Three,” came more slowly, and with
it the sword swung downward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek.
The sword had Mien, 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
toward the room. Mr. Stelling, from his up-stairs

162

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 minpte she was sobbing with joy
because Tom had opened his eyes: she couldn’t sorrow yet

( that he had hurt his foot—it seemed as if all happiness lay in
his being alive.

CHAPTER YL

A LOVE SCENE.

Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute
in not “telling” of Mr.Poulter more than was unavoidable:
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 mastered 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 sob¬
bed 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. Stelling 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. Stall¬
ing to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask
for himself.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but does Mr. Askem 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 dare say he may
be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very qui¬
et at present.”

a It had been Philip’s first thought when he heard of the ac¬
cident—“ Will Tulliver be lame ? It will be very hard for him
if he is”—and Tom’s hitherto unforgiven offenses were wash¬
ed out by that pity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

163

state of repulsion, but were being drawn into a common cur¬
rent 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 state of Tom’s feel¬
ing : he had only lived fourteen years, but those, years had,
most of them, been steeped in the sense of a lot irremediably
hard.

w Mr. Askem says you’ll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did
you know ?” he said, rather timidly, as he stepped gently up
to Tom’s bed. 44 I’ve just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he
says you’ll 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-gray eyes straight on Philip’s face, as he
had not done for a fortnight or more. As for Maggie, this in¬
timation 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.

44 Don’t be a little silly, Magsie,” said Tom, tenderly, feeling
very brave now. 44 I shall soon get well.”

44 Good-by, Tulliver,” said Philip, putting out his small, del¬
icate hand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more sub¬
stantial fingers.

“I say,” said Tom, 44 ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and
sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem—and tell
me about Robert 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 un¬
hurt, wore excellent armor 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 wonder¬
ful poisoned arrows to kill animals with for food.

44 I didn’t roar out a bit, you know,” Tom said, 44 and I dare *
say my foot was as bad as his. It’s cowardly to roar.”

But Maggie would have it that when any thing 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 des¬
ert island and take care of him.

164

the mill on the floss.

One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Mag¬
gie were m the study alone together while Tom’s foot was be¬
ing dressed. Philip was at his books, and Maggie, after saun¬
tering idly round the room, not caring to do any tiling in par¬
ticular, 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 bis 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 revery, 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 sorry —so sorry —for you.”

Philip colored: 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 nad instinctively behaved
as if she were quite unconscious of Philip’s deformity: her own
keen sensitiveness and experience under family criticism suf¬
ficed 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 every thing—
wouldn’t you? Greek and every thing?”

“ But you’ll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie,” said
Philip, “ and then you’ll forget all about me, and not care for
me any more. And then I shall see you when you’re grown
up, and you’ll hardly take any notice of me.”

“ Oh no, I sha’n’t forget you, I’m sure,” said Maggie, shak¬
ing her head very seriously. “ I never forget any thing, and
I think about every body when Pm away from them. I think
about poor Yap—he’s got a lump in his throat, and Luke Bays

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 165

he’ll 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.

“ Pm very fond of ycm, Maggie; I shall never forget yow,”
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 Mag¬
gie, rather sorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could con¬
vince 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’ll
go now, because I think Mr. Askem’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, en-
treatingly. .

Tom colored 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
tau ght 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 ms dead mother. But don’t
you be getting too thick with him—he’s got his father’s blood
m him too. Ay, ay, the gray colt may chance to kick like his
black sire.”

The jarring natures of the two boys effected'what Mr. Till-
liver’s admonition alone might have failed to effect: in spite
of Philip’s new kindness, and Tom’s answering regard m \5caa

166

THE ON THE FLOSS.

time of his trouble, they never became dose friends. When
Maggie was gone, and when Tom by-ancUby 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 con¬
temptuous ; and Toil’s more specific and kindly impressions
gradually melted into the old background of suspicion and dis¬
like toward him as a queer fellow, a humpback, 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 VJL

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 reprehensi¬
ble, 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 an¬
swered by brief sentences about Tom’s toothache, 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 isn’t my fault: I don’t do any thing to. him.” She
hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder of their school-
life ; m the Midsummer holidays he was always away at the
sea-side, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long in¬
tervals 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 greet¬
ing was out of the question, arid Philip would not expect it.
The promise was void, like so many other sweet, illusory prom¬
ises 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-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

167

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 inti¬
macy with Philip again: the very name of Wakem made her
father angry, and she had once heard him say, that if that
crookbacked 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 Tom; and the
command was obeyed the more easily because Mr. Stelling by
this time had two additional pupils; for, though this gentle¬
man’s rise in the world was not of that meteor-like rapidity
which the admirers of his extemporaneous eloquence had ex¬
pected for a preacher whose voice demanded so wide a sphere,
he had yet enough of growing prosperity to enable him to in¬
crease his expenditure in continued disproportion to his in¬
come.

As for Tom’s school course, it went on with mill-like monot¬
ony, 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-colors 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 vacation he brought home a new book
or two, indicating his progress through different stages of his¬
tory, Christian doctrine, and Latin literature; and that pas¬
sage 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 condition; and though he had never real¬
ly applied TusTmnd to any one of his lessons, the lessons had
left a deposit of vague, fragmentary, ineffectual notions. Mr.
Tolliver, 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 “ summingbut 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 Lor-
ton, jbhe years had made striking changes in him since the day
we saw nhn returning from Mr. Jacobs’ academy. He was a
tall youth now, carrying himself without the least awkward¬
ness, and speaking without more shyness than was a becoming
symptom of blended diffidence and pride: he wore his tail-coat
andnis stand-up collars, and watched the down on his 'mXk

168

T&E MILL ON THE FLOSS.

eager impatience, looking every day at his virgin razor, with
which he had provided himself in the last holidays. 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 pleas¬
urable ; 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 any thing 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, on the morning of a dark cold
day near the end of November, he was tola, soon after en¬
tering the study at nine oxlock, that his sister was in the
drawing-room. It was Mrs. Stelling who 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 aid 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 toward 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 greet-
ing.

“ Why, how is it you’re come so early this cold morning,
Maggie ? Did you come in the gig ?” said Tom, as she back¬
ed toward 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 wanted me at home,” said Maggie, with a slight
trembling of the lip. “ I came home three or four days ago.”

“ Isn’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 you, because I thought
it would be better for you to know it before you came home,
and I didn’t like only to send you a letter.”

“My father hasn’t lost ?” said Tom, hastily, springing from

THE MTLL ON THE FLOSS*

169

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 transla¬
ting the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible results.
“ But my father’s very much vexed, I dare say ?” he added,
looking at Maggie, and thinking that her agitated face was
only part of her girlish way of taking things.

“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 every thing; 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 opposite
window.

Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom’s mind.
His father had always ridden a good horse, and had the cheer¬
ful, 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 relations, 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 repro¬
bation. 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 expensive
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 head-shaking of his aunts
and uncles, they had never produced the least effect on

170

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

except to make him think that aunts and uncles were disagree¬
able 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,

44 Oh Tom—dear, dear Tom, don’t fret too much; try and
bear it well.”

Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kiss¬
es, 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, 44 I shall go home with you, Mag¬
gie. Didn’t my father say I was to go ?”

44 No, Tom, father didn’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 ? 44 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
at the image of a terrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it
was hardly above a whisper.

44 And . . . and .... poor father . . . .”

Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolera¬
ble to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison, as a consequence
of debt, was the shape his fears had begun to take.

44 Where’s my father ?” he said, impatiently. 44 TeU me,
Maggie.”

44 He’s at home,” said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to
that question. 44 But,” she added, after a pause , 44 not him¬
self. . . . He fell off his horse. . . . He has known nobody but

me ever since.He seems to have lost his senses.

Oh, 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 Ins arm almost convuls¬
ively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his fece looked rigid and

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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. 44 1 must speak to Mr. Stelling, and
then we’ll 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.

44 Please, sir, I must go home,” Tom said, abruptly, as he met
Mr. Stelling in the passage. 44 1 must go back with my sister
directly. My father’s lost his lawsuit—he’s lost all his prop¬
erty—and he’s very ill.”

Mr. Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a prob¬
able money loss for himself, but this had no appreciable share
in his feeling, while he looked with grave pity at the 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 arms, saying, “Do remember to eat
something on the way, dear.” Maggie’s heart went out to¬
ward 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 fouritains
of affection.

Mr. Stelling put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and said, 44 God
bless you, my boy; let me know how you get on.” Then he
pressed Maggie’s hand; but there were no audible good-bys.
Tom had so often thought how joyful he should be the day ho
left school “for good!” And now his school-years seemed
like a holiday that had come to an end.

172

the mill on the floss.

The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on
the distant road—were soon lost behind the projecting hedge¬
row.

They had gone forth together into their new life of sorrow,
and they would never more see the sunshine undimmed by re¬
membered cares. They had entered the thorny wilderness,
and the golden gates of their childhood had forever dosed be¬
hind them.

BOOK THIRD.

THE DOWNFALL.

CHAPTER L

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 any body else consid¬
ered 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 ap¬
peared 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 obsti¬
nacy and defiance of his nature, driven out of their old chan¬
nel, found a vent for themselves in the immediate formation of

S \ by which he would meet his difficulties, and remain Mr.

ver 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 attor¬
ney, Mr. Gore, and mounted his horse to ride home from Lin-
dum. There was Furley, who held the mortgage on the land
—a reasonable fellow, who would see his own interest, Mr. Tul¬
liver was convinced, and who would be glad not only to .pur¬
chase 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 high 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 views with the utmost alacrity; and there are men
whose brains have not yet been dangerously heated by th&Vsgv

174

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

of a lawsuit, who are apt to see in their own interests or de¬
sires a motive for other men’s actions. There was no doubt
(in the miller’s mind) that Furley would do just what was de¬
sirable ; 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 th6 profits of the business
had paid off Furley’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 suretyship for poor Riley, who had died suddenly last
April, and left nis friend saddled with a debt of two hundred
and fifty pounds—a fact which had helped to make Mr. Tulli-
ver’s banking book less pleasant reading than a man might de¬
sire toward Christmas. Well! he had never been one of those
poor-spirited sneaks who would refuse to give a helping hand
to a fellow-traveler in this puzzling world. The really vexa¬
tious business was the fact that some months ago the creditor
who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay Mrs. Glegg
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 house¬
hold 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 se¬
curity 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 un¬
less 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 fu r-
nituje be sold, and it might be security to Pullet if he advanced
the money—there would, after all, be no gift or favor in the
matter. Mr. Tulliver would never have asked for any thing
from so poor-spirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do
so if she liked. * "

It is precisely the proudest and most obstinate men who are
the most liable to shift their position and contradict themselves
in this sudden manner: every thing 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,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS,

1 15

though nothing more than a superior miller and maltster, was
as proud and obstinate as if he had been a very lofty^fferson-
age, in whom such dispositions might be a source of that con¬
spicuous, 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 trag¬
edy too; but it is of that unwept, hidden sort, that goes on
from generation to generation, and leaves no record—such trag¬
edy, perhaps, as lies in the conflicts of young souls, hungry for
joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, under the dreari¬
ness of a home where the morning brings no promise with it,
and where the un expectant discontent of worn and disappoint¬
ed 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 maybe a death that finds only a parish fu¬
neral. 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 predom¬
inance is a law of life—they can only sustain humiliation so
long as they can refuse to believe in it, and, in their own con¬
ception, 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,
requiring Maggie to come home the very next day ? Mr. Tul-
liveris 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, lie 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 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
tion.

176

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

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
half way when he met a clerk from Mr. Gore’s office, who was
bringing a letter to Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Gore had been prevent¬
ed 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.

44 Oh!” said Mr. Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening
it. 44 Then tell Gore I’ll 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 slow¬
ly 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 let¬
ter, 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 securities—among the rest, the mortgage
on Mr. Tulliver’s property, which he had transferred to—Wa-
kem.

In half an hour after this Mr. Tulliver’s own wagoner found
him lying by the road-side insensible, with an open letter near
him, and his gray 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 looks
around him, had muttered something about 44 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 eyes fixed on the
letter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help.
But presently a new wave of memory seemed to 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 bis eyes were too dim for, he said, 44 The little
wench.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, ap¬
pearing entirely unconscious of every thing except this one
importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or
any one else; and poor Mrs. Tulliver, her feeble faculties al¬
most paralyzed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, went
backward and forward 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 toward her crying. She didn’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 toward
the kind old friend, whom she remembered as long as she
could remember any thing, 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 has not
quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for you,
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 only a painful pulsation. The very quiet¬
ness with which Mr. Turnbull spoke had frightened her sus¬
ceptible imagination. Her father’s eyes were still turned un¬
easily toward the door when she entered and met the strange,
yea rning, helpless look that’had been seeking her in vain.
With a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the
bed—she rushed toward him, and clasped him with agonized
kisses.

Poor child! it was very early for her to know one of those
supreme moments in life when all we have hoped or delighted
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 every thing that? was given to
him, and seemed to have a sort of infantine satisfaction in Mag¬
gie’s near presence—such satisfaction as a baby has when it is
returned to the nurse’s lap.

H 2

178

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

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 complete 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 kindness.
But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely ever leaving her fa¬
ther’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 hus¬
band ; but the aunts and uncles opposed this. Tom was bet¬
ter 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 sat crying at night and saying, u My
poor lad .... it’s nothing but right he should come home
Maggie said, 44 Let me go for him, and tell him, mother: I’ll
go to-morrow morning if father doesn’t know me and want
me. It would be soiiard for Tom to come home and not know
any thing 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 sister
talked to each other in sad, interrupted whispers.

“They say Mr. Wakem has got a mortgage or something
on the land, Tom,” said Maggie. 44 It was the letter with that
news in it that made father ill, they think.”

44 1 believe that scoundrel’s been planning all along to ruin
my father,” said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions to
a definite conclusion. 44 I’ll make him feel for it when I’m a
man. Mind you never speak to Philip again.”

44 Oh, Tom!” said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance;
but she had no spirit to dispute any thing then, still less to vex
Tom by opposing him.

*’ \

CHAPTER n.

MBS. TXJLLTVEB’s TERAPHIM, OR HOUSEHOLD GODS.

When the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five
hours since he had started from home, and she was thi nkin g
with some trembling that her father had perhaps missed her,
and asked for 44 the little wench” in vain. She thought of no
other change that might have happened.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

170

She hurried along the gravel-walk and entered the house be¬
fore Tom; but in the entrance she was startled by a strong
smell of tobacco. The parlor 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 in the parlor 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 “ 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 happen
since his father had lost all his property, and he thought of no
more special cause for this particular form of misfortune 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 just begun: it was a touch on the ir¬
ritated 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.

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 ly¬
ing, heedless oi every thing 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
sne 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 bsc Tnsj&ar

180

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 treasures.
One of the linen-chests was open: the silver teapot was un¬
wrapped from its many folds of paper, and the best china was
laid out on the top of the closed linen-chest; spoons, and skew¬
ers, 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, 44 Elizabeth Dodson,” on
the corner of some table-cloths she held in her lap.

She dropped them, and started up as Tom spoke.

“ Oh my boy, my boy P’ she said, clasping him round the
neck. “ To think as I should live to see this day! We’re
ruined .... every thing’s going to be sold up .... to think
as your father should ha’ married me to bnng me to this!
We’ve got nothing .... we shall be beggars .... we must
go to the work-house . . . .”

She kisse<TEm, then seated herself again, and took another
table-cloth 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 44 beggars"
and u work-house.”

44 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 blonde
woman was usually so passive: if she had been ruffled before,
it was at the surface merely: 44 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’ll never have one of’em,
my boy," she said, looking up at Tom with her eyes full of
tears, 44 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 re¬
action immediately. His face flushed as he said,

“But will my aunts let them be sold, mother? Do they
know about it ? They’ll never let your linen go, will they ?
Haven’t vou sent to them?"

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

181

“ 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 her¬
self 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 be¬
gan to lay back the table-cloths in the chest, folding and strok¬
ing 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 con¬
sult.But I know they’ll none of ’em take my chany,”

she added, turning toward 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 teapot, 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 remov¬
ing it, she said id 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’ll have niver a penny, my boy ....
but it isn’t your poor mother’s fault.”

She put out one arm toward Tom, looking up at him pite¬
ously 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 nat¬
ural inclination to blame, hitherto kept entirely in abeyance
toward 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
tne sense that he must behave like a man and take case
mother. v

182

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“ Don’t fret, mother,” he said, tenderly. “ I shall soon be
able to get money: I’ll 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 anger.
The implied reproaches against her father—her father, who
was lying there in a sort of living death—neutralized all her
pity for griefs about table-cloths and china; and her anger on
her father’s account was heightened by some egoistic resent¬
ment 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 name on,
and not for what has my father’s name too—and to care about
any thing 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 ex¬
cused her, and her loving remembrance of his tenderness was
a force within her that would enable her to do or bear any
thing 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 1 She ought to
have learned better than have those hectoring, assuming man¬
ners by this time. But he presently went into his lather’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 for¬
got every thing else in the sense tjiat they had one father and
one sorrow.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

183

CHAPTER HI.

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 parlor, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with a con¬
fused impression that it was a great occasion, like a funeral,
unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and unpinned the curtains, ad¬
justing 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
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 been
going down in it; and in Mrs. Deane’s house, the Dodson lin¬
en and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate posi¬
tion, 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 Dod¬
son spirit surviving except in herself, and, it might be hoped,
in those nephews who supported the Dodson name on the fam¬
ily land far away in the Wolds. People who live at a distance!
are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own I
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 parlor, 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 I” she exclaimed as she en¬
tered ; w what trouble, oh dear I”

184

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

Mrs. Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well-
considered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them aft¬
erward 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-mor¬
row. But it’s right to be prepared for all things, and if trou¬
ble’s sent, to remember as it isn’t sent without a cause. Tm
very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for
Mr. Tulliver, I hope you’ll let me know: I’ll 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, with¬
drawing 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 niver put jelly into ’em no more.”

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 pur¬
pose 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 of¬
fering 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-humoredly,
“ 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 doesn’t know Tom because he’s thinking of
him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear!”

u 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

185

he does, he’ll most like be childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man!
They fed him with a spoon as if he’d been a baby 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 understand
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 any thing disrespectful to say o’ Mr.
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 didn’t come away from home to
talk about acquaintance, whether they’d short breath or long.
If we aren’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 isn’t to
be expected as I should do every thing.”

“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
table-cloths. I couldn’t speak fairer; for as for the teapot as
she doesn’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 casters 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 tmcle Pullet, with un¬
wonted independence of idea, “ as your own family should pay
more for things nor they’ll fetch. They may go for an old
song by auction.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs. Tulliver, “to think o’ my

186

the mill on the floss.

chany being sold i’ that way—and I bought it when' I was
married, iust as you did yours, Jane and Sophy; and I know
you didn’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 myself—
and there’s the tulips on the cups, and the roses, as any body
might go and look at ’em for pleasure. You wouldn’t like
your chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though
yours has got no cdlor in it, Jane—it’s all white and fluted, and
didn’t cost so much as mine. And there’s the casters—sister
Deane, I can’t think but you’d like to have the casters, for Fve
heard you say they’re pretty.”

“Well, I’ve no objection to buy some of the best things,”
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 buying
m 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’ll be
because your friends have bought ’em for you, for you’re de¬
pendent upon them for every thing; for your husband lies
there helpless, and hasn’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 hus¬
band’s brought on your own family, as you’ve got to look to
for every thing—and be humble in your own 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 tender
years, said pleadingly,

“ I’m sure, sister, I’ve never asked any body to do any thing,
only buy things as it ’ud be a pleasure to ’em to have, so as
they mightn’t go and be spoiled i’ strange houses. I never
asked any body to buy the things in for me and my children;
though there’s the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was
bora—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 hus¬
band has done for his sister’s unknown, and we should ha’
been better off this day if it hadn’t been as he’s lent money
and never asked for it again.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

182

u Come, come,” said Mr. Glegg, kindly, “ don’t let ns make
things too dark. What’s done can’t be undone. We shall
make a shift among ns to buy what’s sufficient for you; though,
as Mrs. G. says, they must be useful, plain things. We mustn’t
be thinking o’ what’s unnecessary. A table, and a chair or
two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and suchlike. Why,
I’ve seen the day when I shouldn’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.”

“ Mr. Glegg,” said Mrs. G., “ if you’ll 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 any thing 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 any thing.”

“ 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. “Haven’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 aren’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 any thing 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. Pul¬
let, at the mention of Maggie. u They should hear what then*
aunts arid 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 nor 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 talk 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.”

188

THE MILL OS THE FL06S.

44 Well, m 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
her. She went toward 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 shrink¬
ing reluctance; for though Tom, with a practical sagacity
which had been roused into activity by the strong stimulus of
the new emotions he had undergone since yesterday, 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 toward
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 pe¬
culiarly depressed this morning: she had been called up, after
brief rest, at three o’clock, and had that strange dreamy wea¬
riness which comes from w atching 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 interrupted the conversation. The shaking of hands
was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle Pullet ob¬
served, 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, u 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 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 hasn’t got to consider what’s
hard; he must consider as he isn’t to trusten to his fiiends to
keep him in idleness and luxury; he’s got to bear the fruits

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

189

of his father’s misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and
to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to his
aunts and uncles for what they’re doing for his mother and fa-
ther, as must be turned out into the streets and go to the work-
house if they didn’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 hum¬
ble and work; for there’ll 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 color 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 casters, 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 beautiful tea, and there’s a
stand ana every thing: you might use it for every day, or -else
lay it by for Lucy when she goes to housekeeping. I should
be so loth 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 o’ its being
scratched, and set before the travelers and folks, and my let¬
ters on it—see here, E. D.—and every body 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 every where—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 every thing 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 her
father, but Tom saw her action and flushed face in time to pre-

190

the mill om the floss.

vent her from speaking. “ Be quiet, Maggie,” he said, author¬
itatively’, poshing her aside. It was a remarkable manifesta¬
tion of self-command and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen,
that, when his aunt Glegg ceased, he began to speak in a
qniet and respectful manner, though with a good deal of trem¬
bling in his voice; for his mother’s words had cot 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, wouldn’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 weVe going to be
sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her furni¬
ture ?”

There was silence for a few moments, for every one, includ¬
ing 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 haven’t thought o’ that.”

“ I could work and pay that every year,” said Tom, prompt¬
ly. “ I’d do any thing 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 disposial. 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’s furniture, and encourage ’em in luxury and extrava¬
gance as they’ve no means of supporting; and Fm to alter my
will, or have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred
less behind 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 you
back again o’ the money he’s given you, but that isn’t my
sperrit.”

“La, Jane, how fiery you are!” said Mrs. Pullet. “Fm

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

191

sure you’ll have the blood in your head, and have to be cup¬
ped. 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 any thing
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
didn’t know what was reasonable.”

“Then speak accordingly, Mr. Glegg!” said his wife, with
slow, loud emphasis, bending her head toward him signifi¬
cantly.

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 standing 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 lion¬
ess.

“ 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 any
thing, 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’ll 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 porten¬
tous in this mad outbreak; she did not see how life could go
on after it. Tom was vexed; it was no me 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 haven't seen the end o’ your trouble wi’ that child.*

192

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

Bessy,” said Mrs. Pullet; “ she’s beyond every thing 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 Fm not. Fvc
said over and over again—years ago I’ve said—- 4 Mark my
words, that child ’ull come to no good: there isn’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 I
wouldn’t pay any thing toward 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 seen
hurrying past the window. ^

“Why, there’s Mrs. Moss,” said Mrs. Tulliver. “The bad
news must ha’ reached her, thenand 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. TuBi-
ver’s movement as she drew her into the parlor 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 her
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 Fm one o’ them
as take all and give nothing. How’s my poor brother?”

“ Mr. Turnbull thinks he’ll get better,” said Maggie. “ Sit
down, aunt Gritty. Don’t fret.” ,

“ Oh my sweet child, I feel torn i’ two,” said Mrs. Moss, al¬
lowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming
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.

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

193

44 Three hundred pounds! Oh dear, dear,” said Mrs. Tulli¬
ver, who, when she had said that her husband had done 44 un¬
known” things for his. sister, had not had any particular sum
in her mind, and felt a wife’s irritation at having been kept in
the dark.

“ What madness, to be sure!” said Mrs. Glegg. 44 A man
with a family! He’d no right to lend his money i’ that way;
and without security, I’ll be bound, if the truth was known.”

Mrs. Glegg’s voice had arrested Mrs. Moss’s attention, and,
looking up, she said,

44 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, 44 hasn’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
being 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.”

44 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 . . . .”

u Don’t cry so, aunt—don’t fret,” whispered Maggie, who
had kept hold of Mrs. Moss’s hand.

44 Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once?”
said Mrs. Tulliver, still lost to the conception of things which
had been 44 going on” without her knowledge.

44 No; at twice,” said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes, and mak¬
ing an effort to restrain her tears. 44 The last was after my bad
illness four years ago, as every thing went wrong, and there
was a new note made then. What with illness ana bad luck,
I’ve been nothing but cumber all my life.”

44 Yes, Mi's. Moss,” said Mrs. Glegg, with decision, 44 yours is
a very unlucky family; the more’s the pity for my sister.”

44 1 set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o’ what had
happened,” said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. 44 1 should
never ha’ staid away all this while if you’d thought well to let
me know. And it isn’t as I’m thinking all about ourselves,
and nothing about my brother—only the money was so on my
mind, I couldn’t help speaking about it. And my husband
and me desire to do the right thing, sir,” she added, looking at

194

THE KILL ON THE FLOSS.

Mr. Glegg, “ and we’ll make shift and pay 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 its right to warn you: if Tulliver’s made a bank¬
rupt, and he’s got a note of hand of your husband’s for three
hundred pounds,you’ll be obliged to pay it: th’ assignees ’ull
come on you for it.”

“ Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the bank¬
ruptcy, 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
table-cloth.

“ And if he isn’t made bankrupt,” continued Mr. Glegg, w as
I said before, three hundred pounds ’ud be a little fortm’ for
him, poor man. We don’t know but what he may be partly
helpless, if he ever gets up again. Pm very sorry if it goes
hard with you, Mrs. Moss; but my opinion is, looking at it one
way, it’ll be right for you to raise the money; and looking 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 meditative
view of the table-cloth, “ 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 he
said, M 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, coloring, but trying to speak firmly, in
spite of a boyish tremor, “ I remember quite well, before I 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 my 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 chil¬
dren must not mind being the poorer for that.’ And now my
father’s ill, and not able to speak for himself, I shouldn’t like
any thing to be done contrary to what he said to me.”

“Well, but, then, my boy,” said uncle Glegg, whose good

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

195

feeling led him to enter into Tom’s wish, bnt who could not at
once shake off* his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as
destroying securities, or alienating any thing 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 heard 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 any body could set the constable on you for it.”

44 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. Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange, and „
-was straining her mind after original ideas on the subject.

“Pooh! pooh! pooh! you women don’t understand these
things,” said uncle Glegg. “ There’s no way o’ making it safe
for Mr. and Mrs. Moss but destroying the note.”

“ Then I hope you’ll help me to do it, uncle,” said Tom,
earnestly. “ If my father shouldn’t get well, I should be very
unhappy to think any thing 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
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. Mag¬
gie 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,

44 You’D 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 ’uU pay it, the same as if there was ever such security.
We’D 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 shouldn’t be doing any wrong by the cred¬
itors, supposing your father was bankrupt. I’ve been thinking

196

the mill on the floss.

o’ that, for Fve 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 9 la wing, it’s the same as if
he 9 d made away with the note himself; for he 9 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 ra¬
ther 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 didn’t think you’dbeen so sharp,”
said uncle Glegg, with much candor. “But perhaps your fa¬
ther did make away with the note. Let us go and Bee if we
can find it in the chest.”

“ It’s in my father’s room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty,”
whispered Maggie.

CHAPTER IV.

A VANISHING GLEAM.

Mr. Tolliver, 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 dosed,
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 nis face.

Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and
were busy selecting the key of the 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; “ he’d most like
put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but
I’ll just lift up these deeds—they’re the deeds o’ the house and
mill, I suppose—and see what there is under ’em.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

197

Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunate¬
ly 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 fathers 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 recognized 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 holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect con¬
sciousness and recognition.

“ What are you going to do with 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 recognized him. But instead of saying any thing
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 every thing ? . . . . Why don’t you tell me what you’ve
been ardoing” 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 any thing 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’ll soon be well enough to attend to every thing your-
self.”

Mr. Tulliver looked round him meditatively—at Tom, at Mr.
Glegg, and at Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that
some one was seated by his 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 of her. “ What! you’re
there, are you ? How could you manage to leave the chil¬
dren?”

“ Oh, brother I” said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be

108

THS3QLL ON THE FLOSS.

prudent, “Pm thankful Fm come now to see yon yourself
again; I thought you’d never know us any more.”

“ What! have l had a stroke ?” said Mr. TuUiver, 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.

“ Where’s your mother ?” he said, so preoccupied that he re¬
ceived the kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have
received it.

“ She’s down stairs with my aunts, father; shall I fetch
her ?”

Tom. You’ll be badly of£ I doubt. But you must see and

r iy every body. And mind—there’s fifty pound o’ Luke’s as
put into the business—he gave it me a bit at a time, and he’s
got nothing to show for it. You must pay him first thing.”

IJncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more
concerned than ever; but Tom said firmly,

“ Yes, father. And haven’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! Fm 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 mustn’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. Tul¬
liver, 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-

you mind this:

• you’ve

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 199

got the chance, you make Wakem smart. If you don’t, you’re
a good for nothing son. You might horsewhip 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. Glegg wanted to say something soothing,
but he was prevented by Mr. Tulliver’s speaking again to his
wife. u They’ll make a shift to pay every thing, Bessy,” he
said, “ and yet leave you your furniture; and your sisters ’ll
do something for you .... and Tom ’ll 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’ll get married .... but it’s a poor tale ....”

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted,
and with the last words the poor man fell again, rigid and in¬
sensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had hap¬
pened 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 mem¬
ory had only lit up prominent ideas, and he sank into forget¬
fulness 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.
Ogg’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 busi-

200

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

ness; he had not the narrow notions of nnele Glegg; and he
had risen in the world on a scale of advancement which ac¬
corded 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 humil¬
iation, as well as the prospective hardships of his lot, with all
the keenness of a proud nature; and with all his resolute du¬
tifulness toward his father there mingled an irrepressible in¬
dignation against him which gave misfortune the less endura¬
ble aspect of a wrong. Since these were the consequences pf
going to law, his father was really blamable, as his aunts and
uncles had always said he was; and it was a significant indi¬
cation 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 present 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 disadvantage in life by
his father’s want of prudence; but he was not going to com¬
plain and to find fault with people because they did not make
every thing 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 sixteen, the mind that
has the strongest affinity for fact can not 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 fortune 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
any thing of his uncle Deane for the last three years—the two
families had been getting wider apart; but for this very rea¬
son 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

THE MILL OH THE ELOSS.

201

& 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 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, hasn’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 po¬
lite and delicate reference to his position.

“That’s Tulliver’s son,” said the publican to a grocer stand¬
ing on the adjacent door-step.

“Ah!” said the grocer, “I thought I knew his features,
like. He takes after his mother’s familv: she was a Dod¬
son. 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 expect¬
ed to find his uncle Deane. But this was Mr. Deane’s morn¬
ing 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 en-

I 2

208

THE HILL OH THE 1X060.

tered, and, putting ont 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 nerv¬
ous. “But I want to speak to you, please, when you’re at
liberty.”

“ Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Deane, relapsing into his ac¬
counts, in which he and the managing clerk remained so ab¬
sorbed for the next half hour that Tom began to wonder
whether he should have to sit in this way till the bank dosed
—there seemed so little tendency toward a conclusion in the
quiet monotonous procedure of these sleek, prosperous men of
business. Would nis uncle give him a place in the bank? it
would be very dull, prosy work, he thought, writing there for¬
ever to the loud clicking 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 flourish at
the end.

“ You’ll just step up to Tony’s now, Mr. Spence, win you ?”
said Mr. Deane, and the dock suddenly became less loud and
deliberate in Tom’s ears.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Deane, when they were alone, turn¬
ing his substantial person a little in his chair, and taking out
his snuff-box, “ what’s the business, my boy—what’s the busi¬
ness?” Mr. Deane, who had heard from his wife what had
passed the day before, thought Tom was come to appeal to
nim for some means of averting the sale. *

“ I hope you’U excuse me for troubling you, unde,” said
Tom, coloring, but speaking in a tone winch, 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 snuffy 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, hop¬
ing 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 Lcould get any money at that for a long
while, could I?”

“That’s true; but people don’t get much money at any

THE MILL ON TEDS FLOSS.

203

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?”

“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 ’ll 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 English;
and Greek and Roman History; and Euclid; and I began Al¬
gebra, but I left it off 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
ofy English Poetry, and Horae 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 commod¬
ities were imported of which they knew nothing: like a cau¬
tious man of business, he was not going to speak rashly of a
raw material in which he had no experience. But the pre¬
sumption was, that if it had been good for any thing, so suc¬
cessful 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-pow¬
der, 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, Horse
Paulinae might be something less neutral. On the whole, this
list of acquirements gave him a sort of repulsion toward poor
Tom.

4 4 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’ll come in handy?”

Ton* colored, and burst out, with new energy,

*04

THE lm.T, ON THE FL06S.

u Fd rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. I
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 car¬
ry 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 moth¬
er and sister.”

“ Ah! young gentleman,” said Mr. Deane, with that tend¬
ency to repress youthful hopes which stout and successful men
of fifty find one of their easiest duties, “ that’s sooner said than
done—sooner said than done.”

“But didn’t you get on in that way, unde?” said Tom, a
little irritated that Mr. Deane did not enter more rapidly into
his views. “ I mean, didn’t you rise from one place to anoth¬
er 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 retrospect of
his own career. “But I’ll tell you how I got on. It wasn’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 wasn’t too fond of my own back, and I made
my master’s interest my own. Why, 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 hadn’t
more schooling to begin with than a charity-boy; but I saw
pretty soon that I couldn’t'get on far without mastering ac¬
counts, and I learned ’em between working hours, after Fd
been unlading. Look here.” Mr. Deane opened a book, and
pointed to the page. “ I write a good hand enough, and I’ll
match any body 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 as I went about my work, and turn¬
ed it over in my head. Why, I’m no mechanic—I never pre¬
tended to be—but I’ve thought of a thing or two that the me¬
chanics never thought of, and it’s made a fine difference in our
returns. And there isn’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 by
pure enthusiasm in his subject, and had really forgotten what

THE MILT/ ON THE FLOSS.

205

bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener. He had
found occasion for saying the same thing more than once be¬
fore, 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 I get on in the same
way ?”

“ In the same way ?” said Mr. Deane, eying Tom with quiet
deliberation. “ There go two or three questions to that, Mas¬
ter Tom. That depends on what sort of material you are, to
begin with, and whether you’ve been put into the right mill.
But I’ll tell you what it is: your father went the wrong way
to work in giving vou an education. It wasn’t my business,
and I didn’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’ll have nothing to do
but sign checks 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 thev’d never be of any
use to me afterward—I didn’t care about them.”

“Ay, ay, that’s all very well,” said Mr. Dearie; “but it
doesn’t alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and rig¬
marole may soon dry off you, but you’ll be but a bare stick
after that. Besides, it has 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’ll 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’s 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 wefl and working easy: you’ve no
notion of running afoot before you get on horseback. Now,
you must remember what‘you are—you’re a lad of sixteen,
trained to nothing particular. There’s he aps of your sort, like
so many pebbles, made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might be
apprenticed to some business—a chemist’s and druggist’s per¬
haps : your Latin might come in a bit there ....

200

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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’ll have to stand behind a desk, and stare
at your ink and paper all day: there isn’t much outlook there,
and you won’t be much wiser at the end of the year than at
the beginning. The world isn’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 o’ things; but you wouldn’t like that,
I’ll be bound; you’d have to stand cold and wet, and be
shouldered about by rough fellows. You’re too fine a gentle¬
man for that.”

Mr. Deane paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly
felt some inward struggle before he could reply.

U 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 isn’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 wasn’t the way
I 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, unde,
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 mustn’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,
than your being my nephew, because it remains to be seen
whether you’re good for any thing.”

46 I hope I should never do you any discredit, unde,” said
Tom, hurt, as all boys are at the statement of the unpleasant

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 207

truth that people feel no ground for trusting them. 44 1 care
about my own credit too much for that.”

44 Well done,Tom, well done! That’s the right spirit, and
I never refuse to help any body, if they’ve a mind to do them¬
selves justice. There’s a young man of two-and-twenty I’ve
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, he’s made
good use of his time—a first-rate calculator—can tell you the
cubic contents of any thing in no time, and put me up the other
day to a new market for Swedish bark: he’s uncommonly
knowing in manufactures, that young fellow.”

44 Fd better set about learning book-keeping, hadn’t I,
uncle ?” said Tom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert him¬
self!

44 Yes, yes, you can’t do amiss there. But... ah! Spence,
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-
by. Remember me to your mother.”

Mr. Deane put out his hand with an air of friendly dismiss¬
al, and Tom had not courage to ask another question, especial¬
ly 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 start¬
led, when he was within two yards of the projecting side of a
shop window, by the words 44 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; he only felt that the present was very
hard. It seemed a wrong toward 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 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 iliac promite vires , as 44 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

208

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 tempt¬
ing 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 didn’t say that. He didn’t quite promise me any
thing; he seemed to think I couldn’t have a very good situa¬
tion. I’m too young.”

“ But didn’t he speak kindly, Tom?”

“ Kindly ? Pooh! what’s the use of talking about that ? I
wouldn’t care about his speaking kindly if I could get a situa¬
tion. 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 haven’t got Dominie Sampson,” said
Maggie, who couldn’t help mingling some gayety 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 dare say. That’s always the tone you
take,” said Tom.

“ Dear Tom, I was only joking,” said Maggie, putting her
cheek against his eoat-sleeve.

“ But it’s always the same, Maggie,” said Tom, with the
little frown he put on when he was about to be justifiably se¬
vere. “ 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 know
better than any one, but you’re almost always wrong. I can
judge much better than you can.”

THE MILL OK THE VLOSS.

209

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 flush¬
ed and her lip quivered with conflicting resentment and affec¬
tion, and a certain awe as well as admiration of Tom’s firmer
and more effective character. She did not answer immediate¬
ly ; very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven
back again, and she said at last,

“ You often think Fm 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; “ Fm
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: every
body in the world seemed so harsh 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

E retend to love, and that did not belong to them. And if life
as no love in it, what else was there for Maggie? Nothing
but poverty and the companionship of her mother’s narrow
griefo--perhaps of her father’s heart-cutting childish depend¬
ence. 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 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 ber father
lay to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the centre
or 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 veam-
ing for something that would link together the wonderful im-

210

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

pressions of this mysterious life, and give her soul a sense of
home in it.

No wonder, when there is this contrast between the out¬
ward and the inward, that painful collisions come of it.

CHAPTER VL

TENDING TO REF ITTE 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 di¬
rect effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibil¬
ity, had lain in this living death throughout the critical houiB
wnen the noise of the sale came nearest to his chamber. Mr.
Turnbull 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,
thinkin g it would be very bad if the master were 46 to waken
up” at the noise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat
imprisoned in the silent chamber, watching the large prostrate
figure on the bed, and trembling lest the blank face should sud¬
denly fehow 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. Tolli¬
ver’s blonde face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty
hours: the poor woman’s mmd had been busy divining when
her favorite 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 housemaid, who regarded all peo¬
ple 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

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

211

things,” and made light of 44 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 par¬
lor, where that “ pipe-smoking pig” the bailiff had sat, to such
an appearance of scant comfort as could be given to it by clean¬
liness and the few articles of furniture bought in for tne fam¬
ily. Her mistress 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 want¬
ed. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, and in
the first moments, by the imperfect fire and candlelight, Tom
had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintance 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 disk 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 the rest of the cos¬
tume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested a call¬
ing 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. 44 You don’t know me again, I doubt,” he went
on, as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly; “ but Fd like
to talk to you by yourself a bit, please.

44 There’s a fire i’ the parlor, Master Tom,” said Kezia, who
objected to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting.

u Come this way, then,” said Tom, wondering if this young
fellow belonged to Guest & Co.’s wharf; for his imagination
ran continually toward that particular spot, and uncleDeane
might any time be sending for him to say that there was a sit¬
uation at liberty.

The bright me in the parlor 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
comer, 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,

44 Why, you don’t remember Bob, then, as you gen the pock¬
et-knife, Mr. Tom ?”

212

THE MILL OH THE TLOS8.

The rough-handled pocket-knife was taken out in the mmm
moment, and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible
demonstration.

44 What! Bob Jakin!” said Tom, not with any cordial de¬
light, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy sym¬
bolized 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 flnina
a good un; but I got the squerril tight for all that, an’ a scrat-
ter 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 isn’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 wasn’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 dispatch, 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 acquaintance
with Bob that he remembered better than the cause of their
parting quarrel, “is there any thing 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 shouldn’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 they say he’ll niver
lift up his yead no more—I shouldn’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 I war a little chap, for all you leathered
me, and wouldn’t look at me again. There’s Dick Brumby,
there, I could leather him as much as I’d a mind; but lors!
you get tired o’ leatherin’ a chap when you can niver make
him see what you want him to shy at. I’n seen chaps as ’ud
stand starin’ at a bough till their eyes shot out afore they’d

the mill on the floss. 213

see as a bird’s tail warn’t a leaf, It’s poor work goin’ wi’ 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’ time at a runnin’ rat, or a stoat, or that, when I war
a-beatin’ the bushes.”

Bob had drawn out a dirty cafivas 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 presenoe. Her
eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where
the bookcase had hung: there was nothing now but the ob¬
long unfaded space on the wall, and below it the small table
with the Bible and the few other books.

44 Oh, Tom,” she burst out, clasping her hands, “ where are
the books? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy
tjiem—didn’t he? Are those all they’ve left us?”

44 I su ppos e so,” said Tom, with a sort of desperate indiffer¬
ence. 44 Why should they buy many books when they bought
bo little furniture ?”

44 Oh but, Tom,” said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears as
she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued,

44 our dear old Pilgrim’s Progress that you colored with your j
little paints; and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, j
looking just like a turtle—oh dear!” Maggie went on, half I
Bobbing as she turned over the few books. 44 1 thought we !
should never part with that while we lived: every thing is
going away from us; 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.

44 Well, Bob,” said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books
was unseasonable, 44 1 suppose you just came to see me because
we’re in trouble? That was very good-natured of you.”

44 I’ll tell you how it is, Master Tom,” said Bob, beginning
to untwist his canvas bag. 44 You see, Fn been with a barge
this two ’ear—that’s how Fn been gettin’ my livin’—if it
wasn’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 so’thing; but this wasn’t a trap; it was a fire i’ Ter¬
ry’s mill, an’ I doused it, else it ’ud ha’ set th’ oil alight, an’

214

THB HILL ON THB FLOSS.

the genelman gen me ten suvreigns—he gen me ’em himself
last week. An 9 he said first I was a sperrited chap; but I
knowed that afore; but then he oats wi’ the ten suvreigns,
an’ that war surnmat 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’ bipth,
thinkin’ what sort o’ life I should take to—for there war a
many trades Td thought on; for as for the barge, Pm dean
tired out wi’t, for it pulls the days out till they are as long as
pigs’ chitterlings. An’ I thought first Td ha’ ferrets an* dogs,
an’ be a rat-ketcher; an’ then I thought as I should like a big¬
ger way o’ life, as I didn’t know so well; for I’n seen to fife
bottom o’ rat-ketching; an’ I thought an’ thought till at last I
settled Pd be a packman, for they’re knowin’ fellers, the pack¬
men are; an’ I’d cany 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 fir
an’ wide, an’ come round the women wi’ my tongue, an’ get
my dinner hot at the public—lore! 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,

“But I don’t mind about it not a chip! An’ Pn changed
one o’ the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an’
I’n bought a blue plush wescoat an’ a seal-skin cap; for if I
meant to be a packman, I’d do it respectable. But I don’t
mind about it not a chip! My yead isn’t a turnup, an’ I shall
p’r’aps have a chance o’ dousing another fire afore long. Tm
a lucky chap. So I’ll 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 mayn’t go fur enough, but they’ll
help.”

Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and sus¬
picion.

“ You’re a very kind fellow, Bob,” he said, coloring, with
that little, diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain
charm even to Tom’s pride and severity, “ and I sha’n’t forget
you again, though I didn’t know you this evening. But I
can’t take the nine sovereigns. I should be taking your little
fortune from you, and they wouldn’t do me much good either.”

“ Wouldn’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 featners
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 aren’t
quite so lucky, Mr. Tom—th’ old master isn’t, anyhow—an’ so
you might take a slice o’ my luck, an’ no harm done. Lots!

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS*

215

I found a leg o’ pork i’ the river one day: it had tumbled out
o’ one o’ them round-stemed Dutchmen, I’ll 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,

44 Oh, I’m so sorry, Bob—I never thought you were so good.
Why, I think you’re the kindest person m 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 evening, had
44 such uncommon eyes, they looked somehow as they made him
feel nohow.”

44 No, indeed, Bob, I can’t take them,” said Tom; 44 but don’t
think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I don’t want
to take any thing from any body, but to work my own way.
And those sovereigns wouldn’t help me much—they wouldn’t,
really—if 1 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.

44 Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again,” said Mag¬
gie; 44 and you’ll come and see us when you’ve bought your
pack, Bob.”

44 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, 44 a-taking ’em back i’ this way. lam
a bit of a Do, you how; but it isn’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.”

44 Now don’t you be up to any tricks, Bob,” said Tom, 44 else
you’ll get transported some day.”

44 No, no, not me, Mr.Tom,” said Bob, with an air of cheer¬
ful confidence. 44 There’s no law again’ fleabites. If I wasn’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 mv pocket-knife.”

While Bob was spealring he laid down the sovereign, and
resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the
gold ana said, 44 No, 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,

44 Not now—but perhaps another time. Ii ever Tom or my
lather wants help that you can give, we’ll let you know—won’t

216

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

we,Tom? That’s what you would like—to have us always
depend on you as a friend that we can go to—isn’t it, Bob

“ Yes, miss, and thank you,” said Bob, reluctantly taking the
money; “that’s what I’d like—any thing as you like. An’ I
wish you good-by, 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
shouldn’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.

CHAPTER VH.

HOW A HEN TAKES TO STRATAGEM.

The days passed, and Mr. Tolliver showed, at least to the
eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of a
gradual return to his normal condition: the paralytic obstruc¬
tion 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 distant hope
which kept count of the moments within the chamber; but it
was measured for them by a fast-a ppro aching dread which
made the nights come too quickly. While Mr. Tulliver was
slowly becoming himself again, his lot was hastening toward
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. Allocators, filing of bills in Chancery, de¬
crees of sale, are legal chain-shot 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 justice makes its victims, and we can con¬
ceive 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 Chancery, of
Mr. Tulliver’s farming and other stock, to be followed by a side
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,

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

217

fancied himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes 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 ana children were
not without hope of an issue that would at least save Mr. Tul-
liver from leaving the old spot, and seeking an entirely strange
life. For uncle Deane had been induced to interest himself m
this stage of the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be
a bad speculation for Guest and Co. to buy Dorlcote Mill, and
carry on the business, which was a good one, and might be in¬
creased 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 and Co., who did not carry on business on sentimental
grounds. Mr. Deane was obliged to tell Mrs. Tulliver some¬
thing to that effect when he rode over to the mill to inspect
the books in company with Mrs. Glegg; for she haci observed
that “ if Guest and Co. would only think about it, Mr.Tulliver’s
father and grandfather had been carrying 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 sin¬
cere 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 Tulliver should have some new flannel waistcoats which
he had himself renounced in favor 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 toward
the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was come
home for the Christmas holidays, and the little blonde angel-
head had pressed itself against Maggie’s darker cheek with
many lasses and some tears. These fair slim daughters keep
up a tender spot in the heart of many a partner in a respecta¬
ble 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 put¬
ting him in the way of getting evening lessons in book-keep-
ing and calculation.

218

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little,
if there had not come at the same time the much-dreaded 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 oblo¬
quy to Tom’s mind. For when the defendant’s chum 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 dispro¬
portion : “ 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 trans¬
ported 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 toward getting on in the world was a chill,
dusty, noisy affair, and implied going without one’s tea in or¬
der to stay in St. Ogg’s and have an evening lesson from a one-
armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of bad tobac¬
co. Tom’s young pink and white face had its colors veiy 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 time Mrs. Tulliver 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 purpose
of bidding for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and ami¬
able 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 flut¬
tering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that every thing had gone wrong,
had begun to think that she had been too passive in life, and
that, if she had applied her mind to busmess, and taken a
6trong resolution now and then, it would have been all the bet¬
ter for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought
of going to speak to Wakem on this busmess of the mill; and
yet, Mrs. Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the
shortest method of securing the right end. It would have
been of no use, to be sure, for Mr. Tulliver to go, even if he had

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

219

,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 husband was very
much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble, she was in¬
clined 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 wasn’t likely to put Mr. Tulliver,
who had gone to law with him, above every body 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. Tul¬
liver 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 toward
herself—whom he knew to have been a Miss Dodson—it was
out of all possibility that he could entertain any thing but good¬
will, when it was once brought home to his observation 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 sub¬
jects rather than her husband’s. In fact, if that attorney saw
a respectable matron like herself disposed “ to give him good
words,” why shouldn’t he listen to her representations ? 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 wouldn’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 chil¬
dren were always so against every thing 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
the Golden Lion, when there was no 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. Hyndmarsh, the

220

the mill on the floss.

would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in
a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Ogg^
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 conduot in her son, contradicting
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 toward 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 Mrs.
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 blonde woman who rose, courtesying deferentially—a
tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundant iron-gray hair.
You have never seen Mr. Wakem before, and are possibly won¬
dering whether he was really as eminent a rascal, and as crafty,
bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and of Mr. Tul¬
liver 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 puzzling world, which,
due consideration had to his own infallibility, required the hy¬
pothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them.
It is still possible to believe that the attorney was not more
guilty toward him than an ingenious machine, which performs
its work with much regularity, is guilty toward the rash man
who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some fly-wheel or
other, and suddenly converted into unexpected sausages.

But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance
at his person: the lines and lights of the human countenance
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 rascality than in the
shape of his stiff shirt collar, though this too, along with 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 Dodson as was.”

“ Pray be seated. You have some business with me ?”

“ Well, sir, yes,” said Mrs. Tulliver, beginning to feel alarm¬
ed at her own courage, now she was really in presence of the

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

221

formidable man, and reflecting that she had not settled with
herself how she should begin. Mr. Wakem felt in his waist¬
coat pockets, and looked at her in silence.

“ I hope, sir,” she began at last—“ I hope, sir, you’re not
a-thinking as I 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 wasn’t brought up in that
way. I’m sure you remember my father, sir, for he was dose
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. Glegg 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 any thing o’ that before I was married, nor for a
long while after. And I’m not to be answerable for my bad
luck i’ marrying 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 have some nat’ral feeling; and as for my husband,
as hasn’t been himself for this two months, I’m not ^-defending
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 gentle¬
man.”

“ What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver ?” said Mr. Wakem,
rather sharply. “ What do you want to ask me ?”

“ Why, sir, if you’ll fee so good,” said Mrs. Tulliver, starting
a little, and speaking more hurriedly, “ if you’ll be so good as
not to buy the mill an’ the land—the land wouldn’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
any thing—either lands or houses—for they allays got ’em into

222

THE vttx ON THE FLOSS.

their hands other ways. An 5 1 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,
opening his desk, and moving things about, with the accom¬
paniment 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 didn’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 grandfather
built it, though I wasn’t fond o’ the noise of it when first I was
married, for there was no mills in our family—not the Dod¬
sons—and if I’d known as the mills had so much to do with
the law, it wouldn’t have been me as ’ud have been the first
Dodson to marry one; but I went into it blindfold, that I did,
Crigation and every thing.”

“ What! Guest and 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. Tulliver,
a little tear making its way, “ as my husband should take
wage. But it ’ud look more like what used to be, to stay at
the mill than to go any where else; and if you’ll only think—
if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might
be struck worse than he was before, and niver get better again
as he’s getting now.”

“Well, but if I bought the mill, and allowed your husband
to act as my manager in the same way, how then ?” said Mr.
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 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, foul-mouthed fool!” burst out Mr.
Wakem, forgetting himself.

. “ Oh dear, sir1” said Mrs. Tulliver, frightened at a result so
different from the one which 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 wouldn’t like to have a corpse
on your mind if he was to die; and they do say as it’s allays
unlucky when Dorlcote Mill changes hands, and the water

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

223

might all run away, and then . . . not as Fm wishing yon any
ill Tuck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your wed¬
ding as if it was yesterday—Mrs. Wakem was a Miss Clint, I
know that; and my boy, as there isn’t a nicer, handsomer,
straighter boy nowhere, went to school with your son . .

Mr. 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 Fm not
denying Mr. Tulliver’s been in the wrong, but has 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, Fll bear it in mind,” said Mr. Wakem, hastily,
looking toward 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
myself, I know he would, and I’ve trouble enough without
being 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 courte-
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.”

Although, when Mr. Wakem entered his office that morn¬
ing, he 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 without
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 toward Tulliver that Tulliver had toward him, would
be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each oth¬
er 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 indigpmt»ww&L

224

THE ifTT'T. ON THE FLOSS*

than that he is excellent good eating; it could only be when
the roach choked him that the pike could entertain 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 Wakem a rascal at the market
dinner-table, the attorney’s clients were not a whit inclined to
withdraw their business from him; and i£ when Wakem him¬
self happened to be present, some jocose cattle-feeder, stimu¬
lated by opportunity and brandy, made a thrust at him by al¬
luding to old ladies’ wills, he maintained perfect sangfroid, and
knew quite well that the majority of substantial men then pres¬
ent were perfectly content with the fact that “ Wakem was
Wakem;” that is to say, a man who always knew the step¬
ping-stones that would carry him through very muddy bits of
practice. A man who had made a large fortune, had a hand¬
some house among the trees at Tofton, and decidedly the finest
stock of port wine in the neighborhood of St. Ogg’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 circum¬
stances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the truth that
“ Wakem was Wakem,” since I have understood from per¬
sons versed in history that mankind is not disposed to look
narrowly into the conduct of great victors 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 con¬
science was not uneasy because he had used a few tricks
against the miller: why should he hate that unsuccessful plain¬
tiff—that pitiable, furious bull entangled 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 con¬
soles 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 opportunity favored, to
kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favorite color.
Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then, as they
take a diversion, when it comes easily in their way, and is no
hinderance to business; and such small unimpassioned revenges
have.an enormous effect in life, ru nnin g through all degrees of

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

225

pleasant infliction, blocking the fit men out of places, and black¬
ening characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see
people who have been only insignificantly offensive to us re¬
duced in life and humiliated without any special efforts of
ours, is apt to have a soothing, flattering influence: Provi¬
dence, or some other prince of this world, it appears, has un¬
dertaken the task of retribution for us; and really, by an
agreeable constitution of things, our enemies, somehow, dorCt
prosper.

Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness to¬
ward the uncomplimentary miller; and, now Mrs. Tulliver had
put the notion mto 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 be¬
nevolent action or concession on his behalf. This is a sort of
revenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem was
not without an intention of keeping that scale respectably fill¬
ed. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy
of his into one of the St. Ogg’s alma-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, overheated vindictiveness,
which goes out of its way to wreak itself in direct injury.
And Tulliver, with his rough tongue filed by a sense of obliga¬
tion, would make a better servant than any chance fellow 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 of judging 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 anjr benevolent vengeance on the
miller. It was really a capital investment; besides, Guest and
Co. were going to bid for it. Mr. Guest and Mr. Wakem
were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to pre¬
dominate 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: be

K 2

226

the mill on the floss.

a pleasant fellow in the upper circles of St. Ogg’s—chatted
amusingly over his port wine, did a little amateur arming, 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 toward them he held
only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for them in a grade
of fife 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 favorite 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 foiled; 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 ac¬
quaintance with the subjectivity of fishes.

CHAPTER YHI.

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
every where 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 impression 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 pass¬
ed 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 previ¬
ous knowledge. The full sense of the present could only be
imparted gradually by new experience—not by mere words.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

22 1

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 and Co. had not bo ugh t
the mill: both mill and land had been knocked down to Wa-
kem, who had been over the premises, and had laid before Mr.
Deane and Mr. Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver’s presence, his willing¬
ness to employ Mr. Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a mana¬
ger 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 regard¬
ed as entirely unreasonable and childish—indeed, as a trans¬
ferring toward Wakem 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 annoying to respectable people
to meet the degraded member of the 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 fore¬
seen 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 question wnen a
livelihood was offered him: Wakem showed a right feeling
about the matter —he had no grudge against Tulliver. Tom
had protested against entertaining the proposition: he shouldn’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 Mr. Tulliver round about Wa¬
kem,” or getting him to hear reason—no, they would all have
to go and live in a pigsty on purpose 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 con&Hfe
allj appealed by asking,“ Oh dear, haoe\ V* ^

228

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

serve worse than other women ?” that Maggie began to sus¬
pect 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 intention
oi 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 “ moithering” herself,
and going about all day without changing her cap, and look¬
ing as if 6he was “ mushed.” Altogether, this time of trouble
was rather a Satumalian time to Kezia: she could scold her
betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occa¬
sion 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 toward 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
hasn’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 fa¬
ther’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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

229

which makes one of the differences between youth and maiden,
man and woman.

“ Father,” said Maggie, laying her hand on his, 44 don’t you
remember that Mr. Riley is dead ?”

44 Dead ?” said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with
a strange, examining glance.

44 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 MissFir-
niss’s, where Fve been to school, you know . . . .”

44 Ah ?” said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face.
But as soon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at him
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 lit¬
tle wench who belonged to that past.

44 It’s a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, far
ther,” said Tom. 44 1 remember your talking about it three
years ago, before I went to school at Mr. Stelling’s. I’ve been
at school there three years; don’t you remember ?”

Mr. Tulliver threw himself back again, losing the childish
outward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him
from external impressions.

44 Ay, ay,” he said, after a minute or two, 44 Fve paid a deal
o’ money .... I was determined my son should have a good
eddication: I’d none myself, and Fve felt the miss of it. And
he’ll 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 after 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, 44 Where have they put Gore’s letter ?”

It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for
it before.

44 You know what there is in the letter, father ?” said Tom,
as he gave it to him.

44 To be sure I do,” said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. 44 What
o’ that ? If Furley can’t take to the property, somebody else
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.”

44 No, dear father!” Maggie burst out entreatingly, 44 it’s a
very long while since all that: you’ve been ill a great many
weeks—more than two months—every

230

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a start¬
led gaze: the idea that much had happened of which he knew
nothing had often transiently arrested him before, bat it came
upon him now with entire novelty.

44 Yes, father,” said Tom, in answer to the gaze. “You
needn’t trouble your mind about business until you are quite
well; every thing is settled about that for the present—about
the mill, and the land, and the debts.”

44 What’s settled, then ?” said his father, angrily.

44 Don’t you take on too much about it, sir,” said Luke.
44 You’d ha’paid ivery body if you could—that’s what I said
to Master Tom—I said you’a ha’ paid ivery body if you
could.”

Good Lukfe felt, after the manner of contented hard-work¬
ing 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.

44 Paid every body,” he said, with vehement agitation, his
face flushing, and his eye lighting up. 44 Why .... what
.... have they made me a bankrupt

44 Oh father, dear father!” said Maggie, who thought that
terrible word really represented the fact, 44 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,

44 Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o’er.”

44 But perhaps you will live to see me pay every body, fa-
ther,” said Tom, speaking with a great effort.

44 Ay! my lad,” said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly,
44 but what’s broke can never be whole again: it ’ud be your
doing, not mine.” Then, looking up at him, 44 YouHre only six¬
teen—it’s an up-hill fight for you—but you mustn’t throw it
at your father; the raskills have been too many for him. Fve
given you a good eddication—that’ll start you.”

Something in his throat half choked the last words; the flush
which had alarmed his children because it had so often pre¬
ceded a recurrence of paralysis had subsided, and his face look¬
ed pale and tremulous. Tom said nothing; he was still strug-
gling against his inclination to rush away. His father remain-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

231

ed 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 hap¬
pened.

“ Every thing 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.

“ 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’ll go and see every
thing,” said Mr. TuUiver, leaning on his stick, and stretching
out his other hand toward Luke.

“Ay, sir,” said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master,
“ you’ll make up your mind to’t a bit better when you’ve seen
ivery thing—you’ll 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 agin it sore when it fust come
on.”

Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary
parlor, 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
Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sor¬
row made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breath¬
ing-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 labors, 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 toward 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’n left the big Bible,” he said. “ It’s got every things
in—when I was bom and married—bring it

232

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leafi
and while he was reading with slowly-traveling eyes, Mrs.
Tulliver entered the room, but stood in mute surprise to find
her husband down already, and with the great Bible before
him.

“ Ah!” he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested,
“my mother was Margaret Beaton — she died when she was
forty-seven: hers wasn’t a long-lived family: we’re our moth¬
er’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
them; then he suddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a
sharp tone of alarm,

“ They haven’t come 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 present¬
ly said,

“ Ah! . . . . Elizabeth Dodson .... it’s eighteen years since
I married 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—every
body 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 anoth¬
er 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 mind¬
ed 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 any
thing 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

233

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.”

“ Mother,” said Tom, severely, “ this is not the time to talk
about that.”

“ Let her be,” said Mr. Tulliver. “ Say what you mean,
Bessy.”

“ WTiy, now the mill and the land’s all Wakem’s, and he’s
got every thing 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 mar¬
ket ? 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’n been the bringing of you to poverty .... this
world’s too many for me .... Pm naught but a bankrupt—
it’s no use standing up for any thing 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 BEGISTEB.

That first moment of renunciation and submission was fol¬
lowed 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 sick¬
ness it seems possible for us to fulfill pledges which the old
vigor comes back and breaks. There were times when poor
Tulliver thought the fulfillment 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

234

THE mttx oh the floss.

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 mon¬
ey out of his salary toward 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-labor, and his wife must hare 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 furtively when their backs were turn¬
ed. 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 win¬
ter evenings while his father talked of the old half-timbered
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 af¬
fection 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 color of every roof, and weather-stain, and
broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been
fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy, which has hardly time
to linger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the trop¬
ics, and is at home with palms and banyans—which is nourish¬
ed on books of travel, and stretches the theatre of its imagina¬
tion to the Zambesi, 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 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
^e-trees. My father was a huge mau for planting—it was

the mill on the floss.

235

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 him about
like a dog.”

Then he turned round, and, leaning against the gate-post,
looked at the opposite buildings.

44 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 mayn’t be summat 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.”

44 Ay, sir,” said Luke, with soothing sympathy, 44 what wi’
the rust on the wheat, an’ the firin’ o’ the ricks an’ that, as Fve
seen i’ my time, things often looks comical: there’s the bacon
fat wi’ our last pig runs away like butter; it leaves naught but
a scratchin’.”

44 It’s just as if it was yesterday, now,” Mr. Tulliver went on,
44 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 wom¬
an, 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 anec¬
dote, which dropped from him in fragments, as if he every oth¬
er moment lost narration in vision. 44 I was a little chap no
higher much than my mother’s knee—she was sore fond of us
chddren, Gritty and me—and so I said to her, c Mother,’ I said,
4 shall we have plum-pudding every day because 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 haven’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 harness ’ull gall me—but it
’ud be summat to draw along the old road istead of a new un.”

44 Ay, sir,” said Luke, 44 you’d be a deal better here nor in
some new place. I can’t abide new, places mysen: things is
allays awk’ard—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.”

44 But I doubt, Luke, they’ll be for getting rid o’ Ben, and
making you do with a lad—and I must help a bit wi’ the mill.
Ton’ll have a worse place.”

236

THE wttx ON THE FL068*

“ Ne’er mind, sir,” said Luke, “ I sha’n’t plague my sen. Fn
been wi’ you twenty year, an’ you can’t get twenty year wi’
whislin’ for ’em, no more nor you can make the trees grow:
you man wait till God A’mighty sends ’em. I can’t abide new
victual nor new faces, Jcan’t—you niver know but what they’ll
gripe you.”

The walk was finished in silence after this, for Luke had dis:
burdened himself of thoughts to an extent that left his conver¬
sational 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 unusu¬
ally absent that evening at tea, and afterward 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 Mag¬
gie, 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, fa¬
ther ?” said Maggie; “ you seem uneasy.”

“ Why, how is it Tom doesn’t come ?” said Mr. Tulliver, im¬
patiently.

“ 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’ll
be here soon. Go—go and get the big Bible, and open it at
the beginning, where every thing’s set down. And get the
pen and ink.”

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 was roar¬
ing so as to drown all other sounds. There was a strange
light in his eyes that rather frightened Maggie: 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’ll 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

287

said, as he took off his hat and coat. “ You shall have it by
yourself, 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 parlor 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,

u Come, come, you’re late—I want you.”

“ Is there any thing the matter, father ?” said Tom.

“You sit down, all of you,” said Mr.Tulliver, peremptorily.
u 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’ll be as good as my
word to you. There’s the same grave made for us to lie down
in, and we mustn’t be bearing one another ill will. I’ll stop in
the old place, and I’ll serve under Wakem—and I’ll serve him
like an honest man: there’s no Tulliver but what’s honest,
mind that,Tom.” Here his voice rose: “They’ll have it to
throw up against me as I paid a dividend; but it wasn’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’ll put my neck
in harness—for you’ve a right to say as I’ve brought you into
trouble, Bessy—and I’ll serve him as honest 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,

“ But I won’t forgive him! I know what they say—he nev¬
er meant me any harm: that’s the way Old Harry props up
the raskills: he’s been at the bottom of every thing—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 arbitratin’,
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’ll 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 summat 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 min'd this, Tom, you never forgive
him neither, if you mean to be my son. There’ll maybe come
a time when you may make him feel—it’ll never come to me
—Tn got my head under the yoke. How write—wvvte
the Bible.”

238

the hill on the floss.

“ Oh, father, what ?” said Maggie, sinking down by his knee
pale and trembling. “ It’s wicked to curse and bear malice.”

“It isn’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, father ?” 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 bom. 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’ll 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. Tulliver.
Tom read aloud slowly.

“ Now write—write as you’ll remember what Wakem’s done
to your father, and you’ll 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 shouldn’t make Tom write that.”

“ Be quiet, Maggie,” said Tom. “ I shall write it.”

BOOK FOURTH.

THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

CHAPTER L

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 villages
which stud the banks in certain parts of its course, telling how
the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying god, sweep¬
ing down the feeble generations whose breath is in their nos¬
trils, and making their dwellings a desolation. Strange con¬
trast, you may have thought, between the effect produced on
ns 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 ta 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

E ine; nay, even in the day when they were built they must
ave had this fitness, as if they had been raised by an earth-
born race, who had inherited from their mighty parent a sub¬
lime 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, tearing and rending, not the or¬
dinary domestic grunter; they represented the demon forces
forever in collision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of
life; they made a fine contrast in the picture with the wander¬
ing minstrel, the soft-lipped princess, the pious recluse, and the
timid Israelite. That was a time of color, 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 emperors leave their Western palaces to die be¬
fore the infidel strong-holds in the sacred East ? Therefore it
is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry •.

240

THE MTT.T, ON THE FL068.

they belong to the grand historic life of humanity, and raise
up for me the vision of an epoch. But these dead-tinted, hol¬
low-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress
me with the feeling that human life—very much of it—is a
narrow, ugly, groveling 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 ob¬
scure 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 pas¬
sions which create the dark shadows of misery and crime—
without that primitive rough simplicity of wants, that hard,
submissive, ill-paid toil, that childlike spelling-out of what Na¬
ture has written, which gives its poetry to peasant life. Here
one has conventional worldly notions and habits without in¬
struction and without polish—surely the most prosaic form of
human life: proud respectability m a gig of unfashionable
build: worldliness without side-dishes. Observing these peo¬
ple 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 belief 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 toward 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 forever onward, and links the small pulse of
the old English town with the beatings of the world’s mighty
heart. A vigorous superstition, 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.

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 act¬
on young natures in many generations, that in the onward

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

241

tendency of human things have risen above the mental level
of the generation before them, to which they have been never¬
theless tied by the strongest fibres of their hearts. The suffer¬
ing, whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every his¬
torical 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 greatest ? In natural science, I have understood,
there is nothing 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 deduct¬
ively from the statement that they were part of the Protestant
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 flourished; 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 prefer¬
ence 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 ap¬
peared to run in families, like asthma. How should they know?
The vicar of their pleasant rural parish was not a controver¬
sialist, but a good hand at whist, and one who had a joke al¬
ways 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 any thing that was becoming, or that belonged to
that eternal fitness of things which was plainly indicated in the
practice of the most substantial parishioners 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 hoarding of coins likely to disappear
from tne currency, the production of first-rate commodities for

242

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 identified honor with perfect integ¬
rity, thoroughness of work, and faithfulness to admitted roles;
and society^ owes some worthy qualities in many of her mem¬
bers 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 i£ 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 manner, without strict
regard to degrees of kin. The right thing must always he
done toward kindred. The right thing was to correct ^jthem
severely if they were other than a credit of the family, bat still
not to alienate from them the smallest rightful share in the
family shoe-buckles and other property. A conspicuous qual¬
ity in the Dodson character was its genuineness: 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 require 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 generous
imprudence, warm affection, and hot-tempered rashness. Mr.
Tulliver’s grandfather had been heard to say that he was de¬
scended from one Ralph Tulliver, a wonderfully clever fellow,
who had ruined himself. It is likely enough that the clever
Ralph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and was very de¬
cidedly of his own opinion. On the other hand, nobody had
ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined himself: it was not the
way of that family.

fif 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 con¬
cerning the state of society in St. Ogg’s, that there had been
no highly modifying influence to act on them in their maturer
ll fe. It was still possible, even in that later time of anti-Catholic

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

243

preaching, for people to hold many pagan ideas, and believe
themselves good Church-people notwithstanding; 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 concern¬
ing the vicar of that charming rural parish to which Dorlcote
Mill belonged: he was a man of excellent family, an irreproach¬
able bachelor, of elegant pursuits, had taken honors, and held a
fellowship. Mr. Tulliver regarded him with dutiful respect, as
he did every thing else belonging to the Church-service; but
he considered 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
themselves under unfavorable circumstances have been sup¬
plied by nature with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will
get hold of 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 H.

THE TORN NEST IS 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 tran- I
sient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that follows— i
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, and trial is j
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 j
are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence, which i
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

244

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

which were the qualities that made Tom manly‘in the midst
^ of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot was beginning
S 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. Tom went to and fro every morn¬
ing and evening, and became more and more silent in the short
intervals at homfe: 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 concentrating 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, pros¬
perous home; for Tom had very clear prosaic eyes, not apt to
be dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination. Poor Mrs.Tul-
liver, 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 this world quite compre¬
hensible to her for a quarter of a century, since she had made
her first purchase of the sugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatch¬
ed 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
blonde stout woman getting thinner and more worn under a
bodily as well as mental restlessness, which made her often
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 was injur¬
ing her health by never sitting down and resting herself. Yet
amid this helpless imbecility there was a touching trait of hum¬
ble, self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly
toward her poor mother amid 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 re¬
lieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring: 44 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. Mag¬
gie was not her pet child, and, in general, would have been

much better if she had been quite different; yet^T ®

heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, foufc .
to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mother, Jittlo
herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hanac^
had so much more life in them.

But the constant presence of her mother’s regretful bewff5
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 taciturn,
hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast with his cld
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 same*
ness in middle-aged and elderly people, whose life has resulted
in disappointment and discontent, to whose faces a smile be¬
comes 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 leaden clouds that
never part are apt to create impatience even in the filial affec¬
tion 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 attitude
in which his pride did not feel its bruises; and in all behavior
toward him, whether kind or cold, he detected an allusion to
the change in his circumstances. . Even the days in 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 com¬
position from him. To save something toward the repayment
of those creditors was the object toward which he was now
bending all his thoughts and efforts; and under the influence
of this all-compelling demand of his nature, the somewhat pro¬
fuse 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 not economize

244

THE KILL ON THE FLOSS.

which we J’®^ g fy him in their food and firing, and he would
ot his in ^Jg himself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom,
*° unimpressed and strongly repelled by his father’s sullen-
°’\^nnd the dreariness of home, entered thoroughly into his
j|^?fer’s feelings about paying the creditors ; and the poor lad
brought his first quarter’s money, with a delicious sense of
e^iievement, 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 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 point there was entire community of feeling in the four
widely differing beings who sat round the dying lire of sticks,
which made a cheap warmth for them on the verge of bed¬
time. Mrs. Tulliver carried the proud integrity of the Dod¬
sons 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 wicked¬
ness, to her mind, to have run counter to her husband’s desire
to “ do the right thing,” and retrieve his name. She had a
confused dreamy notion that, if 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 couldn’t rightly call any thing their own.
She murmured a little that Mr. Tulliver so peremptorily re¬
fused to receive any thing 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 flavor : 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 every thing 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 t ellin g the history

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 247

of very simple people, who had never had any illuminating
doubts as to personal integrity and honor.

Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentration
of desire, Mr. Tulliver retained the feeling toward 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 every thing 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 hoV 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 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 press¬
ure 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. Un¬
cles and aunts paid only short visits now; of course, they
could not stay to meals, and the constraint caused by Mr. Tul-
liver’s savage silence, which seemed to add to the hollow res¬
onance 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 ac¬
quaintances—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 any thing to offer you, who
have ceased to count as any body, present an embarrassing ne¬
gation of reasons for wishing to see them, or of subjects on
which to converse with them. At that distant day there was
a drqary isolation in the civilized Christian society of these
realms for fa mili es that had dropped below their original level.

848

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

unless they belonged to a sectarian Church, which gets some
warmth of brotherhood by walling in the sacred fire.

CHAPTER HI.

A VOICE FBOM THE PAST.

One afternoon, when the chestnuts were coining 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 some¬
thing 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 tri¬
fling 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 last¬
ing 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 pres¬
ent misfortune the wretchedness of doing something irretriev¬
ably 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 chest¬
nut 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 en¬
tering, but a man in a seal-skin cap and a blue plush waistcoat,
carrying a pack on his back, and followed closely by a bull-ter¬
rier of brindled coat and defiant aspect.

M 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; M 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 ac¬
companying embarrassment by looking down at his dog, and
saying in a tone of disgust, “ Get out wi’ you, you thunderin’
sawney!”

THK MILL ON TBUBB FLOSS*

249

“ My brother is not at home yet, Bob,” said Maggie; u he is
always at St. Ogg’s in the daytime.”

“ Well, miss,” said Bob, “ I should be glad to see Mr. Tom;
but that isn’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 oth¬
ers and unfolding it; u you won’t think I’m a-making 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 I
heared you speak o’ picturs—an’ as forpicturs, look here!”

The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a super¬
annuated “ Keepsake” and six or seven numbers of a M Portrait
Gallery,” in royal octavo; and the emphatic request to look re¬
ferred 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, turning
over the leaves with some excitement, “ wi’ all sorts o’ noses
—an’ some bald an’ some wi’ wigs—Parlament genelmen, I
reckon. An’ here,” he added, opening the “ Keepsake,” “Aere’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-sitting 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. They’ll be more fittin’ company for you, miss; and the
man at the book-stall, he said they banged ivery thing for pic¬
turs—he said they was a fust-rate article.”

“ And you’ve bought them for me, Bob ?” said Maggie, deep¬
ly 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’ll 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’

L 2

250

THE mttt, OK THE FL068.

then I bought the books full o’ genelmen to match—an 1 then”
—here Bod 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 cornin’ along wi’ these better-most
books. An’ I hope you won’t say me nay, an’ tell me as you
won’t have ’em, like Mr. Tom did wi’ the suvreigns.”

44 No, indeed, Bob,” said Maggie, 44 I’m 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 for me before. I
haven’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 Maggie, though, as he
usually said of himself, 44 his tongue overrun him” when he be¬
gan to speak. 44 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 express himself more dif¬
fusely than by a single affirmative movement of his tail.) 44 But
I’d get you a pup, miss, an’ welcome.”

44 No, thank you, Bob. We have a yard-dog, and I mayn’t
keep a dog of my own.”

“ Eh, that’s a pity; else there’s a pup—if you didn’t mind
about it not bein’thoroughbred : it’s mother acts in the Punch
show—an uncommon sensable 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, 4 Why, Toby’s naught
but a mongrel—there’s naught to look at in her.’ But I says
to him, 4 Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel ? There
wasn’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 again, under
the consciousness that his tongue was acting m an undisciplined
manner.

‘‘Won’t you come in the evening some time,and see my
brother, Bob ?” said Maggie.

44 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’Z didn’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, di¬
vining that any interest she showed in Mumps would be grati¬
fying to his master.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

251

tc No, miss, a fine way off that,” said Bob, with a pitying
smile“Mumps is as fine a cross as you’ll see any where along
the Floss, an’ I’n been up it wi’ the barge times enoo. 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 isn’t a dog as ’ull be caught wi’ gin¬
ger bread ; he’d smell a thief a good deal stronger nor the gin¬
gerbread—he would. Lors, I talk to him by th* hour together
when I’m walking i’ lone places, and if I’n done a bit o’ mis¬
chief 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
stuffy 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 aren’t up to’t.”

“ But, Bob,” said Maggie, looking serious, “ that’s cheating:
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 doesn’t
mind a bit o’ cheating when it’s them skinflint women as hag¬
gle 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 any body 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 wr the ferrets, I’n got no varmint to come over
but them haggling women. I wish you good-evening, miss.”

“ Good-by, 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 turning
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 couldn’t find another trick so good—an’ what’ud
be the use o’ havin’ a big thumb ? It might as well ha’ been
narrer.”

Maggie, thus exalted into Bob’s directing Madonna, laughed

the hill on the floss.

359

in spite of herself; at which her worshiper’s bine eyes twinkled
too, and under these favoring auspices he touched his oap 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 he
never dreams that he shall touch so much as her little finger
or the hem of her robe. Bob, with the pack on his back, had
os respectful an adoration for this dark-eyed maiden as if he
had been a knight in armor 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
favorite 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 harmonized
voices, no delicious stringed instruments, with their passionate
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: every thing she
learned there seemed like the ends of long threads that snapped
immediately. And now, without the indirect charm of school-
emulation, Tdl6maque was mere bran; so were the hard, dry
questions on Christian doctrine: there was no flavor 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 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 ex¬
planation of this hard, real life: the unhappy-looking father,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

253

seated at the dull breakfast-table; the childish, bewildered
mother; the little sordid tasks that filled the hours, or the
more oppressive emptiness of weary joyless leisure; the need
of some tender, demonstrative love; the cruel sense that Tom
didn’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 understand¬
ing, 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 gathered, as a gen¬
eral result of her teaching, that they were a temporary provi*
sion against the spread of Catholicism, and had all died at Smith-
field.

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 con¬
siderable step in masculine wisdom—in that knowledge which
made men contented, and even glad to live. Not that the

made men contented^and even glad to live. Not that the
yearning for effectual wisdom was quite unmixed: a certain
mirage would now and then rise on the desert of the future,
in which she seemed to see herself honored 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 feel¬
ing a gleam of triumph now and then that her understanding
was quite equal to these peculiarly masculine studies. For 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, uncer¬
tain journey. In the severity of her early resolution, she would
take Aldrich out into the fields, and tnen look off her book

toward 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 ex¬
tremely remote for her. The discouragement deepened as the

254

THE MTTX OK THE FLOSS.

days went on, and the eager heart gained fester and fester on
the patient mind. Somehow, when she sat at the window with
her book, her eyes would fix themselves blankly on the out¬
door 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 toward her fa¬
ther and mother, who were so unlike what she would have
them to be—toward Tom, who checked her, and met her
thought or feeling always by some thwarting difference—
would flow out over affections and conscience like a lava-
stream, and frighten her with the sense that it was not diffi¬
cult for her to become a demon. Then her brain would be
busy with wild romances of 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 perhaps enter
the room for the evening, and, surprised that she still sat with¬
out noticing him, would say, complainingly, “ Come, am I to
fetch my slippers myself?” The voice pierced through Mag¬
gie like a sword: there was another sadness besides her own,
and she had been thinking of turning her back on it and for-
saking 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 burden of larger wants than others seemed to feel—that
she 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 satisfied ignorance, or like Tom, who had something to
do on which he could fix his mind with a steady purpose, and
disregard every thing 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 lone¬
ly in her trouble as if she had been the only girl in the civilized
world of that day who had come out of her school-life with a
soul 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 knowledge
of the irreversible laws within and without her, which, gov¬
erning the habits, becomes morality, and, developing the feel-

the mill on the floss.

255

ings of submission and dependence, becomes religion—as lone¬
ly 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 Gallerybut she
soon pushed this aside to examine the little row of books tied
together with string. “ Beauties of the Spectator,” w Rasse-
las,” “Economy of Human Life,” “Gregory’s Letters” — she
knew the sort of matter that was inside all these: the “ Chris¬
tian Year”—that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid it
down again; but Thomas a Kempis f —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 forever
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 pomted. . .. “ Know that the
love of thyself doth hurt thee more than any thing 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 every thing 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, every where thou shalt find the Cross; and
every where 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 cour¬
ageously, and lay the axe to the root, that thou mayst pluck
up and destroy that hidden inordinate inclination to thyself,
and unto all private and earthly good. On this sin, that a'
man inordinately loveth himself, almost all dependeth, whatso¬
ever is thoroughly 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 compari¬

son of them that have suffered so much, were so strongly
tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and ex¬
ercised. Thou oughtest therefore to call to mind the more
heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayst the easier bear thy
little adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, be¬
ware lest thy impatience be the cause thereoT..... Blessed
are those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice,
and listen not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are

255

the mtlt, OK THE FL068.

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 con¬
scious 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 jour¬
ney thither. All things pass away, and thou together with
them. Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be en¬
tangled and perish.If a man should give all his sub¬

stance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great pen¬
ances, 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 fervent devotion, yet is there much wanting;
to wit, one thing, which is most necessary for him. What is
that ? That having 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 perturba¬

tions, and superfluous cares 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 se¬
crets—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,
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 fix¬
ing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central
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 imagina-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

257

tion that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deep¬
ening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entire de¬
votedness, and, in the ardor of first discovery, 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 sor¬
row, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still pant¬
ing 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 Mid¬
dle Ages was the direct communication of a human soul’s be¬
lief 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- 0
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 chron- ^
icle 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 re¬
mains 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, perhaps, with serge
gown and tonsured head, with much chanting 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 de¬
sires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weari¬
ness.

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 presupposed,
no subjects being eligible but such as can be touched with a
light and graceful irony. But then, good society has its clar¬
et 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 re¬
ligion by the superior clergy, who are to be met in the best
houses; how should it have time or need for belief and empha¬
sis ? But good society, floated on gossamer wings of light
irony, is of very expensive production, requiring nothing less
than a wide ana arduous national life condensed in unfragrant

deafening factories, cramping itself in mines, sweating at fur¬
naces, grinding, hammering, weaving under more or less op
pression of carbonic acid, or else spread over sheep-walks, and
scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey or chalky
corn-lands, where the rainy days look dreary. This wide na¬
tional life is based entirely on emphasis—the emphasis of want,
which urges it into all the activities necessary for the mainte¬
nance of good society and light irony; it spends its heavy years
often in a chill, uncarpeted fashion, amid family discord un-
softened 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 de¬
manding some solution even to unspeculative minds, just as yon
inquire into the stuffing of your couch when any thing galls
you there, whereas eider-down and perfect French springs ex¬
cite 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 “ enthusi¬
asm,” something that will present motives in an entire absence
of high prizes, something that will give patience and feed hu¬
man love when the limbs ache with weariness, and human
looks arc hard upon us—something, clearly, that lies outside
personal desires, that includes resignation for ourselves and
active love for what is not ourselves. 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 wan
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 a hope that helped her through years of
loneliness, making out a faith for herself without the aid of
established authorities 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 willfulness, 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 sew¬
ing, that she might contribute something toward the fund in
the tin box, but she went, in the first instance, in her zeal of
self-mortification, to ask for it at a linen-shop in St. Ogg^s, in¬
stead of getting it in a more quiet and indirect way, and could
see nothing but what was entirely wrong and unkind, nay,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

259

persecuting, in Tom’s reproof of her for this unnecessary act.
u I don’t like my sister to do such things,” said Tom; u 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 outward
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 hardness, and
to require nothing. That is the path we all like when we set
out on on; ^Tj^rni ths puth of mwtijrrHnrr

whf™ ■■ grew ;rather l 1 — *

steep highway of tolerance, just allowance, and qel£h lame T
wh ere therej geyng faffy hnnnra fro worn.

THe dftTTJooEs, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich—that wrinkled
fruit of the tree of knowledge—had been all laid by, for Mag¬
gie had turned her back on the vain ambition to share the
thoughts of the wise. In her first ardor 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 reject¬
ed as a “ hymn-book”), that they filled her mind with a con¬
tinual stream of rhythmic memories; and she was too ardent¬
ly 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 outward 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 gradual¬
ly enriched color 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 goodit was amaz¬
ing that this once “ contrairy” child was become so submis¬
sive, 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.

260

THE HIIX ON THE FLOSS.

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 any thing that would soothe her mother,
and cheer their long day together, consented to the vain dec¬
oration, and showed a queenly head above her old frocks—
steadily refusing, however, to look at herself in the glass. Mrs.
Tulliver liked to call the father’s attention to Maggie’s hair
and other unexpected virtues, but he had a brusque reply to
give.

“ I knew well enough what she’d be before now—it’s noth¬
ing new to me. But it’s a pity she isn’t made o’ commoner
stuff; she’ll be thrown away, I doubt: there’ll 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
trouble being turned into a blessing. He took it all as part
of his daughter’s goodness, which made his misfortune the sad¬
der to him because they damaged her chance in life. In a
mind charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vin¬
dictiveness, there is no room for new feelings: Mr. Tulliver
did not want spiritual consolation; he wanted to shake off the
degradation of debt, and to have his revenge.

BOOK FIFTH.

WHEAT AND TARES.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE BED DEEPS.

The family sitting-room was a long room with a window at
each end; one looking towards the croft and along the Rip¬
ple to the banks of the Floss, the other into the mill-yard.
Maggie 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 they
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 t
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 savored of seeking her own will; and she thought, besides,
that Philip might be altered by his life abroad—he might have
become worldly, and really not care about her saying any¬
thing to him now. And yet, his face was wonderfully little
altered—it was only a larger, more manly copy of the pale

262

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

small-featured boy’s face, with the grey eyes and the boyish
waving brown hair: there was the old deformity to awaken
the ola 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 and
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 returning 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 uneven waff 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 excursion 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 that rest habitually on the level; especially in sum¬
mer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow
of a branching ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her,
and listen to the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the gar

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

263

ment 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 towan-
der at her will—a pleasure she loved so well, that sometimes,
in her ardors of renunciation, she thought she ought to deny
herself the frequent indulgence in it.

You may see her now, as she walks down the favorite 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 of her bonnet and ties it over her arm. One would
certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seven¬
teenth year—perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of
the glance, from which all search and unrest seem to have
departed, perhaps because her broad-chested figure has the
mould of early womanhood. Youth and health have with¬
stood 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 coloring 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 lov ed them well^
Yet one^haa-a-eensey of uneamess in looking at her—a Sense
of glfiaaents,-nf mhinh n CofijgtPtt « wv mi ittf mt v•-

surely there is a hushed expression, such as one often sees in
older faces under borderless 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
damped 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
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, colored with surprise,
which soon gave way to pleasure. She put out her hand and
looked down pt the deformed figure before her with frank

eyes, filled lor 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 a^ain 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.”

“ Ho,” said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on,
as if she meant Philip to accompany her, “ Pm very glad you
came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of speak¬
ing 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
f 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-color 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 froGk. 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 ?”

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, “Ho,
Maggie.”

The light died out a little from Maggie’s face, and there

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

266

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, slowly—

“ 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 ana took some
steps, looking straight before her in silence, as if she were
adjusting her consciousness to this new idea. Girls are so
accustomed 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 renounc¬
ing 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 bright¬
ened, 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 r
—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 f
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 fill with tears. The deep¬
ening expression of pain on Philip’s face gave him a stronger
resemblance to his boyish selfj and made the deformity appeal
more strongly to her pity.

u 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

266

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

friendship or—or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to
any wish of his that I didn’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 anything for
myself rather than have made my father’s life harder to him.’ 1

“ 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’m sure he wouldn’t like it. Don’t ask me why, 01
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

“ 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 plea¬
sant, and being discontented because I couldn’t have my own
will. Ouf life is determined for us—and it m a koo tfae 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.”

“ 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. There are certain things we
feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them.
How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings
are deadened ? I delight in fine pictures—I long to be able
to paint such. I strive and strive, and can’t produce what I
want. That is pain to me, and always wiU be pain, until my
faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there are
many other things I 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.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

267

But her heart began to beat with something of Philip’s dis¬
content.

“ Well, then,” said he, turning quickly round and fixing his
grey eyes entreatingly in her face, u 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
everything—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-by” this day, and not 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 the
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¬
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 secresy—im¬
plied doing something she would dread to be discovered in—
something that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain;
and that the adLmission 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, per¬
suading 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

268

THE MILL OX THE FLOSS.

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; u I must
wait, lest I should decide wrongly. I must seek for guid¬
ance.”

“ 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.”

“ O no,” said Philip, eagerly; w 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
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
almost thought she might linger a little; the next time they
met she should have to pain Philip by telling him her deter¬
mination.

“ 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 that 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 t hink any of the strong-

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260

est effects our natures are susceptible of can 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 couldn’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 changing my whole
attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect would last, I
might be capable of heroisms.”

44 Ah I I know what you mean about music— I 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.”

44 And you long for it, Maggie ?” said Philip, looking at her
with affectionate pity. 44 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.

“ Ho, I have given up books,” said Maggie, quietly, 44 except
a very, very few.”

Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume,
and was looking at the back, as he said—

44 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.

444 The Pirate,’ ” she said, taking the book from Philip’s
hands. 44 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 couldn’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.

44 Take that volume home with you, Maggie,” said Philip,
watching her with delight. 44 1 don’t want it now. I shall
make a picture of you instead—you, among the Scotch firs
and the slanting shadows.”

210

THE MITX ON THE FLOSS.

Mag gie 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-by,’
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-by,” said Maggie, pausing, and
putting out her hand to him. The action brought her feeling
back in a strong current to Philip ; and after they had stood
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
wonderful, 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. I 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, didn’t I earn some part in her ?
She ought not to take herself quite away from me.”

“ Not if I were free,” said Maggie ; “ but I am not—I must
submit.” She hesitated a moment and then added, “ An d I

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271

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 doesn’t change his mind.
. . . Oh dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good-
by.” 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

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 ftill 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
satisfiec^vithout persuading himself that he was seeking to
infuse some happmess into Maggie’s life—seeking this even
more than any direct ends for himself. He could give her
sympathy—he could give her help. There was not the
slightest promise of love towards him in her manner; it was
nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shown
him when she was twelve: perhaps she would never love him
—perhaps 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
passionately 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 persuad¬
ing 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 TL

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
obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been
since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses:
inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted
hands offering prayers, watching the world’s combat from
afar, fillin g their long, empty days with memories and fears:
outside, 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 m the hurrying
ardor 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
thoroughly wished: the wagers are likely to be on his side,
notwithstanding 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
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 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 cate¬
chising 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

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273

brought in their own and in foreign bottoms—a subject cm
which Mr. Dean, as a shipowner, 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
expenses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was moulded on
the spoony 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
neighboring 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 mile¬
stones 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, contracting some rather satur¬
nine sternness, as a young man is likely to do who has a prema¬
ture 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; but his grow¬
ing experience 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 consciousness 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 counter¬
acting impulse, and has no visions beyond the distinctly possi¬
ble—is strong by its very negations.

You may imagine that Tom’s more and more obvious
unlikeness to his lather was well fitted to conciliate the mater¬

nal aunts and uncles; and Mr. Deane’s favorable 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 familv
credit, without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs. Pul¬
let had always thought it strange if Tom’s excellent com¬
plexion, so entirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a cer¬
tainty that he would turn out well, his juvenile errors of run¬
ning down the peacock, and general disrespect to his aunts,
only indicating a tinge of TulHver blood which he had doubt¬
less outgrown. Mr. Glegg, who had contracted a cautious

274

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liking for lom ever since his spirited and sensible behavior
when the execution was in the house, was now wanning into
a resolution to further 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 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 favorable opinion, he was glad to see his unde
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, some¬
thing had occurred which induced Tom to test > his unde
Glegg’s friendly disposition.

Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds with¬
out seeing Tom 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 Laceham goods, and would be
glad to serve Mr. Tom on the same footing. Tom was inte¬
rested 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 deter¬
mined to mention the matter to his father, and get his consent
to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to the
purchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have con¬
sulted 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 consent 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

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275

the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr. Tulliver
listened, leaning forward in his arm-chair and looking np 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 peremptoriness, and deter¬
mination 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 fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant mo¬
ments. 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.

Mr. Tulliver 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 wouldn’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 on’t. If you trust to luck, it’s sure to be
against ine. It’s Old Harry’s got the luck in his hands; and
ifl lose one year, I shall never pick it up again—death ’ull o’er-
take me.”

Mr. Tulliver’s voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few
minutes before he said—

“ Ill give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly.”

But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he deter¬
mined to ask his unde Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on
condition of receiving five per cent, of the profits. That was
really a very small thing to ask. So when 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 busi¬
ness; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel

276

THB MILL ON TH3S FLOSS.

that Bob’s tongue would relieve him from some embar¬
rassment.

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 Ins
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.

u 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.

u Get out wi’ you, Mumps,” said Bob, with a kick. w He’s
as quiet as a lamb, sir,”—an observation which Mumps corro¬
borated by a low growl as he retreated behind his master’s
legs.

“ Why, whatever 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 u 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 ivir I
did was frightenin’ the birds for th’ old master. An’ if a bit
o’ luck turns up, I’m 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’ commis¬
sion’s paid—as he shouldn’t lay hold o’ the chance for want o’
money. An’ when there’s the Laceham goods—lore! 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 aren’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

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277

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 hadn’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
what I jaw my old mother for. I says c you should ha’ sent
me to school a bit more, 5 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 mightn’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 wouldn’t keep that big dog,
to eat as much as two Christians. It’s shameful—shameful 1 ”
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 ? ”

“ Ho, sir,” said Tom coloring; “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 wouldn’t be
your man. But it’ll be as well for me to see this Salt, as you
talk on. And then .... here’s this friend o’ yours offers

278

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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.”

u You get your per centage out o’ the purchase, I suppose ?”
said Mr. Glegg, looking at Bob.

“No, sir,” said Bob, rather indignantly; “ I didn’t offer to
get a apple for Mr. Tom, o’ purpose to hev a bite out of it
myself. When I play folks tricks there’ll be more fun in ’em
nor that.”

“Well, but it’s nothing but right you should have a small
per centage,” said Mr. Glegg. “ I’ve no opinion o’ transac¬
tions where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks
bad.”

“ Well, then,” said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what
was implied, “ I’ll 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, Mr. Glegg,” said a severe voice from the
open parlor window, “ pray are you coming 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 talk¬
ing of? Here’s -your nephey Tom come about a bit o’
business.”

“ Murdered—yes—it isn’t many ’sizes ago, since a packman
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 it, instead o’ whispering in
comers, in that plotting, underminding way.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Glegg, “we’ll come in now.”

“You needn’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 haven’t

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

219

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’U 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 sugh a lady as you shouldn’t
deal with a packman, i’stead o’ goin’ into these newfangled
shops, where there’s half-ardozen fine gents wi’ their chins
propped up wi’ a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi’ orna¬
mental stoppers, an’ all got to get their dinner out of a bit o’
calico: it stan’s to reason 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’ isn’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’ll 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. “ Didn’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

280

THB MILL ON THB 1LQ68.

pack, as lies here,"—stooping and thumping the'bundle
emphatically with his fist ,— 44 an 9 th’ handsome young lasses
all stannin 9 out on the stone steps, it 9 nd ha’ been summst
like openin’ a pack—that would. It’s on*y the poor houses
now as a packman calls on, if it isn’t for the sake o’ the sar-
vant-maids. They’re paltry times—these are. Why, mum,
look at the printed cottons now, an’ what they was when you
wore ’em—why, yon wouldn’t put such a thing on now, I
can see. It must be first-rate quality—the manifactur as
you’d buy—sunwnat as ’ud wear as well your own faitures.”

44 Yes, better quality nor any you’re like to carry: you’ve
got nothing first-rate but brazenness, YU be bound,” said Mrs.
Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity.
44 Mr. Glegg, are you going ever to sit down to your tea?
Tom, there’s a cup for you.”

44 You speak true there, mum,” said Bob. 44 My pack isn’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 never seen i’ the wearin’; but not fit to
offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o’ things as nobody
sees. I am not the man as ’ud offer t’ open my pack to you,
mum: no, no; I’m a imperent chap, as you say—these times
makes folks imperent—but I’m not up to the mark o’ that.”

44 Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?” said Mrs.
Glegg. 44 Fine-colored things, I suppose—shawls an’ that ?”

44 All sorts, mum, all sorts,” said Bob, thumping his bundle:
44 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.”

44 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.

44 A little plan o’ nephey Tom’s here,” said good-natured
Mr. Glegg; 44 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 foilin’ to make, eh, Jane ?”

44 But I hope it isn’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?”

44 This is Bob Jakin, aunt,” said Tom, bridling the irritation
that aunt Glegg’s voice always produced. 44 Tve 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

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281

experience in sending goods out—a small part of a cargo as
a private speculation; and he thinks if 1 could begin to do a
little in the same way, I might make some money. A large
interest is got in that way.”

a Large int’rest ?” said aunt Glegg, with eagerness; “ and
what do you call large int’rest ?”

“Ten or twelve per cent.^Bob says, Writer expenses are
paid.”

“ Then why wasn’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. ~ “ Haven’t you allays told me
as there was no getting more nor five per cent.”

<<r Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman,” said Mr. Glegg.
“ You couldn’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 well; 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’ll pay me mt’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’ll go and give
information 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’ll 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 wouldn’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’ll 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.”

282

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

44 Ay, that’s a pleasant sort o’ risk, that is,” said Mr. Glegg,
indiscreetly winking at Tom, who couldn’t avoid smiling.
But Bob stemmed tne injured lady’s outburst.

44 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 handsome.
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 sharpness—ten suv-
reigns 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 pound
to lay out, besides makin’ my mother comfor’ble. I should
get more, on’y I’m such a soft wi’ the women—I can’t help
lettin’ ’em hev such good bargains. There’s this bundle,
now” (thumping it lustily), 44 any other chap ’ud make a pretty
penny out on it. But me! .. .. lore, I shall sell ’em for
pretty near what I paid for ’em.”

44 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.

44 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.”

44 But let me see,” said Mrs. Glegg, still patronising. 44 If
they’re damaged goods, they’re like enough to be a bit the
better quality.”

44 No, mum. I know my place,” said Bob, lifting up his
pack and shouldering it. 44 I’m not going t’ expose the low¬
ness o’ my trade to a lady like you. 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 an’ see
Salt.”

44 All in good time,” said Mr. Glegg, really unwilling to cut
short the dialogue. 44 Are you wanted at the whar£ Tom ?”

44 No, sir; I left Stowe in my place.”

44 Come, put down your pack, and let me see,” said Mrs.
Glegg, drawing a chair to the window, and seating herself
with much dignity.

44 Don’t you ask it, mum,” said Bob, entreatingly.

44 Make no more words,” said Mrs. Glegg, severely, 44 but
do as I tell you.”

44 Eh, mum, I’m loth—that I am,” said Bob, slowly deposit¬
ing his pack on the step, and beginning to untie it with
unwilling fingers. 44 But what you order shall be done”
(much fumbling in pauses between the sentences). 44 It’s not

as you’ll buy a single thing on me.I’d be sorry for you

to do it .... for think o’ them poor women up i’ the villages

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

283

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 woollen kerchief with an embroidered wreath in
the corner; “ here’s a thing to make a lass’s mouth water, an’
on’y two shillin’—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 sent by Providence o’ purpose to cheapen the
goods a bit for the good-lookin’ women as han’t got much
money. If it hadn’t been for the moths, now, every hanki-
cher on ’em ’ud ha’ gone to the rich handsome ladies, like you,
mum, at five shilliri’ a-piece—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 colored 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 colored 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’ your 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 Yictoree might ha’
wore—but,” added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf,
as if to save Mrs. Glegg’s eyes, “ it’ll be bought up by th’
huckster’s wife at Fibb’s End—that’s where t$’ll go—ten shil¬
lin’ 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’ll 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 isn’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.

284

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

give it to the cook, I know you would—an 9 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
damaged yard, and throwing her head back to see how for
the fault would be lost on a distant view.

u I’ll give you six shilling for it,” she said, throwing it down
with the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum.

“ Didn’t I tell you now, mum, as it ’ud hurt your feelings
to look at my pack ? That damaged bit’s turned your sto¬
mach 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 didn’t ask her more. Such
articles answer i’ the wearin’—they keep their color till the
threads melt away i’ the wash-tub, an’ that won’t be while
JT’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 color. I could niver ha’ bought such net, if it
hadn’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 thick¬
est. I was took in dreadful—for I’m a straitforrard 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’-eight¬
pence 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’-eight¬
pence 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. u No, mum,
it isn't worth your while; you can go to the shop to-morrow

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

286

an* get the same pattern ready whitened. It’s on’y three
times the money—what’s that to a ladylike 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
laughing face; “ I see’d you was a pleasant lady when I fast
come to the winder.”

“ Well, put it me out,” said Mrs. Glegg, peremptorily.

“ But if I let you have it for ten shillin’, mum, you’ll be
so good as not tell nobody. I should be a laaghin’-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 Aid
out I was a flat. I’m 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 lecommendin’ Mr. Tom to send
out. Lors, it’s a fine thing for anybody as has got a bit o’
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 wouldn’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 fast go off—an’ now you can’t
hold her but she must be sendin’ out carguies wi’ eveiy ship,
till she’s gettin’ as rich as a Jew. Bucks her name is—she
doesn’t live i’ this town. Now then, mum, if you’ll 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’ll niver say that when you’re upo’ your
knees i’ church i’ five years’ time. I’m makm’ 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 mysen: I shouldn’t stay
to say my Catechism afore I know’d what to do wi’t.”

“ stop a bit, Mr v Glegg,” said the lady, Y&t

286

THE ynx ON THE FLOSS.

took his hat, “you never vritt give me the chance o’ speaking.
You’ll go a wav now, and finish everything about this business,
and come back and tell me it’s too late for me to speak. As
if I wasn’t my nephey’s own aunt, and th’ head o’ the family
on his mother’s side ! and laid by guineas, all full weight, for
him —as he’ll know who to respect when I’m laid in my !
coffin.”

“ Well, Mrs. G., say what you mean,” said Mr. G., hastily.

“Well, then, I desire as nothing may be done without my
knowing. I don’t say as I shan’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’ll allays bear it in mind and be grateful
for such an aunt. I mean you to pay me interest, you know—

I 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 discovered
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 begin-
ning 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

287

Deeps, he, by the same evening light, was riding into Laceham,
proud of being on his first Journey on behalf of Guest and
Co., and revolving in his mind 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 HI.

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 conflict
was. Here suddenly was an opening in the rocky wall which
shut in the narrow valley of humiliation, where all her pros¬
pect was the remote unfathomed sky; and some of the
memory-haunting earthly delights were no longerjout 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
worthy of its highest service—perhaps the noblest, completest
devoutness could hardly exist without some width of know¬
ledge: 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
strengtfiTto 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 resolyed 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; to the affectionate admiring looks that
would meet her; to the sense of comradeship that childish
memories would give to wiser, older talk \ to

288

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

tfrrtr Philip would care to hear everything die said, which no
one else cared for! It was a half-hoar 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 halfhour: 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 unwillingly 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, Mag¬
gie,” 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 ? ”

u Oh yes, much larger. It is an oil-painting. You will 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.”

p^Y ou seem to think more of painting than of anything now.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

269

44 Perhaps I do,” said Philip, rather sadly; 44 hut 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 susceptibility
in every direction, and effective faculty in none. I care for
painting and music; I care for classic literature, and mediaeval
literature, and modem literature: I flutter all ways, and fly
in none.”

44 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. 44 It always seemed to me a >
sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent—almost 1
like a carrier-pigeon.”

44 It might be a happiness to have many tastes if I were like
other men,” said Phmp, bitterly. 44 1 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.

44 1 understand what you mean,” she said, 44 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.”

44 Yes, Maggie,” said Philip, vehemently; 44 and you are
shutting yourself up in a narrow self-delusive fanaticism, which
is only a way of escaping pain by starving into dulness all the
highest powers of your nature. Joy and peace are not resig¬
nation ; resignation is the willing endurance of a pain that is
not allayed—that you don’t expect to be allayed. Stupefac¬
tion is not resignation: and it is stupefaction to remain in
ignorance—to shut up all the avenues by which the life of
your fellow-men might become known to you. I am not re¬
signed : I 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 eoma

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THE MILL OS THE FLOSS.

wliat Philip said, and yet there was a deeper consciousness
that for any immediate application it had to her conduct, it
was’no better than fhlsity. Her double impression corre¬
sponded to the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seri¬
ously 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 child-like
by the gathering tears, touched him with a tenderer, less ego¬
istic 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.”

44 What a dear, good brother you would have been, Philip,”
said Maggie, smiling through the haze of tears. 44 1 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 any¬
thing. 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.

44 Yes,” he said, 44 every day, almost. But my voice is only
middling—like everything else in me.”

44 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 , 44 Love in her eyes sits play¬
ing and then said, 44 That’s it, isn’t it ?”

“ Oh no, I won’t stay,” said Maggie, starting up. 44 It will
only haunt me. Let us walk, Philip. I must go nome.”

She moved away, so that he was obliged to rise and follow
her.

“ Maggie,” he said, in a tone of remonstrance, 44 don’t per-
jgjt in this wilful, senseless privation. It makes me wretched
10 see you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way.
You were so full of life when you were a child: I thought
«pr y br illiant woman—all wit and bright imagina-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

291

tion. 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, tremu¬
lously.

“ 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 lace.

“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 reasoning 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.

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—
perhaps 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 \

292

THE lmXi ON THE FLOSS.

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 consequences
of our actions, we can always find some point in the com¬
bination 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
Maggie’s true prompting against a concealment that would
introduce doubleness 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 predominate. He had not his full share in the common
good of men: he could not even pass muster with the insignia
Scant, but must be singled out for pity, and excepted from
what was a matter of course with others. Even to Maggie
he was an 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 tempta¬
tions of beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only
bear the 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
desperation 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

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

293

half-feminine in sensitiveness, he had some of the woman’s
intolerant repulsion towards worldliness 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 unfavorably 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 himself looks feeble through the morning mists.

CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER LOVE SCENE.

E arly in the following April, nearly a year after that dubi¬
ous 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 hover¬
ing about her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting the
right hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing.

44 Take back your Corinnef ’ said Maggie, drawing a book
from under her shawl. 44 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.”

44 Wouldn’t you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Mag¬
gie ?” 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. 44 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.”

44 You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then ?”

44 1 didn’t finish the book,” said Maggie. 44 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. \ foresaw

294

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

that light-complexioned 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 Mac-Ivor, 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 to go to see her sometimes.”

“Maggie,” said Philip, with surprise, “it is not like you to
take playfulness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg’s
this morning, and brought away a slight infection of dul-
ness.”

“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 isn’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 blonde 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, I
should relent.”

“I’ve often wondered, Maggie,” Philip said, with some
effort, “ whether you wouldn’t really be more likely to love a
man that other women were not likely to love.”

THE MILL ON THE ELOSS. 295

“ That would depend on what they didn’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 uncon¬
strained ana 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
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 was 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, “ I 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 impetu¬
ously. “ Do you think Pm a presumptuous fool ?”

“ Oh, Philip!” 6aid 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

206

THB MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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 your—
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 reviving into your
real self.”

Maggie shook her head. “ It has been very sweet, I know
—all the talking together, and the books, and the 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 benumbed
was better—better for me—for then my selfish desires 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—blinding
and deafening yourself to all but one train of impressions—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 pos¬
sible 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 t# kiss

THE IMIYiTi OK THE FLOSS*

297

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 relief
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 discontent.

“You don’t seem happy enough, Maggie: you are forcing
yourself to 6ay you love me, out of pity.”

“No, Philip,” said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old
childish 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 sake: I will never do anything to wound my father.
You must never ask that from me.”

“No, Maggie: I will ask nothing—I will bear everything—
I’ll 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. Letus give up thinking
of everything else.”

“No, Maggie, I can’t give you up—unless you are de¬
ceiving 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 1 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 her
more anxious lest she should have unintentionally left some
painful impression on Philip’s mind. It was one of those
dangerous 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 sKa

N 2

298

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

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.”

“Iam 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 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 Y.

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 dur¬
ing a year that Maggie had had the burthen of concealment
on her mind, the possibility 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 favorite machinery of Fact, but are
not the stuff in which imagination is apt t o work.

Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggie’s fears
were farthest 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
Glegg. And yet the channel of fatality—the pathway of the
lightning —was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

299

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 on 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 the
brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in
unusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invi¬
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
under-current 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 wasn’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 ser¬
mon to-day.”

“ Ah, he’s a wonderful preacher, by all account—isn’t he,
Sophy ? ” said Mrs. Tulliver.

“ Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day,” con¬
tinued Mrs. Pullett, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating man¬
ner, “ as I don’t say I haven’t got as good, but I must look
out my best to match it.”

300

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

44 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.

44 Pooh I” 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 diminitive
women; they look silly by the side o’ the men—out o’ pro¬
portion. When I chose my wife, I chose her the right size—
neither too little nor too big.”

The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled compla¬
cently.

44 But the men aren’t all. big,” said unde Pullet, not with¬
out some self-reference; 44 a young fellow may be good-looking
and yet not be a six-foot, like Master Tom here.”

44 Ah, it’s poor talking about littleness and bigness,—any¬
body may think it’s a mercy they’re straight,” said aunt
Pullet. 44 There’s that mis-made son o’ Lawyer Wakem’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—doesn’t like mutfh company. I shouldn’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 Red
Deeps.”

This wide statement, by which Mrs. Pullet represented the
feet 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 Red 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—turning
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 interpretation her
mother had put on it. To her father, Wakem was like a
disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure the

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

801

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
something distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie’s
excessive confusion. In trying to recall all the details that
could give shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately
hearing his mother scold Maggie for walking in the Red Deeps
when the ground was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged
with red soil: still 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
father’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 coinci¬
dences.

That afternoon, about half-past three o’clock, Tom was
standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the
probability 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—be 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
bonnet 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 yon to the Red v&rsN.

302

the hill on the floss.

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, “ Pm not
going,” and turned round.

“ Yes, you are; but I want to speak to you first. Where
is my father ?”

“ Out on horseback.”

“ And my mother ?”

“In the yard, I think, with the poultry.”

“ I can go in, then, without her seeing me ?”

They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlor,
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 vou and Philip Wakem?”

“ Does my father know anything ?” said Maggie, still trem¬
bling.

“ 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 at 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
and 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 didn’t think of it before then—I had only thought of
him as an old friend.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

303

44 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—

“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 Wakem, 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 cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedi¬
ent, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own respecta¬
bility 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 some¬
thing 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 I require,” said Tom. “ I can’t trust you, Ma^-
gie. 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

304

the MTTX on the floss.

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
be cruel and unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified
her brother.

“ Tom,” 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 dear enough.
Say no more; but promise, in the words I told you.”

“ I must 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 anything
but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her con¬
science and her deepest dread : she writhed under the demon¬
strable 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 indig¬
nation diverted towards Philip. He did not know how muen
of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal 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 oifrn motives as well as actions were good,
else he would have 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 a narrow bushy path by the mound. Another
turning, and they came so close upon him that both Tom and

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

305

Philip stopped suddenly'within a yard of each other. There
was a moment’s silence, in which Philip darted a look of
inquiry at Maggie’s face. He saw an answer there, in the
pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes.
Her imagination, always rushing extravagantly beyond an
immediate impression, saw her tall strong brother grasping
the feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.

44 Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman,
sir ? ” Tom said, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip’s
eyes were turned on him again.

44 What do you mean ? ” answered Philip, haughtily.

44 Mean ? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands
on you, and I’ll tell you what I mean. I mean, taking advan¬
tage 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.”

44 I deny that,” interrupted Philip, impetuously. 44 I could
never trifle with any thing that affected your sister’s happi¬
ness. She is dearer to me than she is to you; I honor her
more than you can ever honor her; I would give up my life
to her.”

44 Don’t talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean
to pretend that you didn’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 6hut out
from the world by her father’s misfortunes I That’s your
crooked notion of honor, 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.”

44 It is manly of you to talk in this way to mef' said Philip,
bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions. 44 Giants
have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse.
Tou 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 friendship with you.”

44 1 should be very sorry to understand your feelings,” said
Tom, with scorching contempt. 44 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 her,
or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind,
your puny, miserable body, that ought to bw*

306

THE KILL ON THE FLOSS.

modesty into your mind, shall not prot ect you. I’ll thrash
you—I’ll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn’t laugh
at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl ?”

“ Tom, I will not bear it—1 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 sis¬
ter 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 tne slightest word.”

“ It was for my father’s sake, Philip,” said Maggie implor¬
ingly. “ Tom threatens to tell my farther—and he couldn’t
bear it: I have promised, I have vowed solemnly, that we
will not have any intercourse without my brother’s know¬
ledge.”

“ It is enough, Maggie. I 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 her 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’ll tell you what is my way. I’ll save her from disobey¬
ing and disgracing her father: I’ll save her from throwing
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 wrist as he spoke, and she put out her
left hand. Philip clasped it in 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
violent snatch, drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long-
gathered irritation burst into utterance.

“ Don’t suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

30 1

bow to your will. I despise the feelings you have shown in
speaking to Philip : I detest your insulting, unmanly allusions
to his deformity. 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 better than your own conduct and your
own petty aims.”

“ Certainly,” said Tom, coolly. “ I don’t see that your con¬
duct 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 cpnduct, 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 have 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 nothing but your own
virtues—you think they are great enough to win you every¬
thing 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 snowing my affec¬
tion.”

“ Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can
do something in the world.”

“ Than 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 rigj\t» to

308

THE VTTX ON THE FLOSS.

unmanly asyou’ve been to-day. Don’t suppose 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
indignant remonstrance, against which Tom’s mind was dose
barred, in bitter tears. Tffien, when the first burst of unsatis¬
fied anger was gone by, came the recollection of that quiet
time before the pleasure which had ended in to-day’s misery
had perturbed tne clearness and simplicity of her life. She
used to think in that time that she had made great conquests,
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. K 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 con¬
stantly obstructed by resentment that would present itself to
her no otherwise than as a just indignation. Her heart bled
for Philip: she went on recalling 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 deli¬
verance from concealment was welcome at any cost.

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
respectable 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 unbecom¬
ing ; it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be
without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their gen¬
tlest expression. His firm step becomes quicker, and the. cor¬
ners of his mouth rebel against the compression whieh is
meant to forbid a smile.

The eyes in the parlor were not turned towards the bridge
just then, and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence
—Mr. Tulliver in his armchair, tired with a long ride, and
ruminating with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who
was bendmg 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. u 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 unu¬
sual good-humor with him. Hardly a word or look had passed
between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his
usual incommunicativeness at home prevented 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
to have their own way with their money. Thou^A Y

310

do as I liked before I was of age.” He spoke with rather
timid discontent.

“ Are you quite sure that’s the sum, father f” 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 w as 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 upstairs.

“ And isn’t Maggie to go ?” said Mrs. Tulliver, M 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
li^ht 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’ll be a fine
while before I 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 co min g 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,
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.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

311

His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or
resolution. A slight electric shock seemed to pass through
Mr. Tulliver, and he 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, halficrying—

“ 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’ll see a bit o’ comfort again belike.”

When she had kissed him7 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 some¬
thing of his eld air of defiance—“ I’ll get from under his
thumb now—though I must leave th’ old mill. I thought

I could ha’ held out to die here—but I can’t.We’ve

got a glass o’ nothing in the house, have we, Bessy ?”

“ 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,

812

THE MILL ON THE FL068.

taken some brandy-and-water, “you shall make a speech to
»em. I’ll tell ’em it’s you as got the best part o’ the money.
They’ll see I’m honest at last, and ha 9 got an honest son.
Ah! Wakem ’ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine— ft
fine straight fellow—i’stead o’ that poor crooked creator I
You’ll prosper i’ the world, my lad; you’ll maybe see the
day when Wakem and his son ’ull be a round or two below
you. You’ll like enough be ta’en into partnership, as your j
uncle Deane was before you—you’re in the right way fort; |
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 couldn’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 background
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
Jakin’s part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts
of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remark¬
able 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 til
reminiscences of the childhood of great men.

It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep
under the vague but fierce 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.

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

313

It was long before Mr. Tolliver got to sleep that night, and
the sleep, when it came, was filled 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 around 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 mm.”

CHAPTER VJL

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 a-glow; his
impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting occasion without
any such reinforcements; and his desire for the brandy-and-
water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a dan¬
gerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom
and unaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful totter¬
ing moment passed, he seemed to gather strength with his
gathering 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
honorable figure once more, he looked more like the proud,
confident, 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¬
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 wind-
ing 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 {&&ss&|
pride and pleasure, when, Tom’s health having neen

314

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

and unde Deane having taken occasion to aa y a few words of
eulogy on his general character and conduct, Tom hirn^f got
up and made the single speech of his life. It could haraly
have been briefer; he thanked the gentlemen for the honor
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 owh 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 Wakemf
The want of that coincidence vexed him, and set his mind at
work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakem was gone out
of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing any¬
thing of an honorable 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 impu¬
dence. 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 full of dishonest gains. Perhaps the luck
was beginning to turn; perhaps the devil didn’t always hold
the best cards in this world.

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 some-
bodyelse to farm for you, then, as ’ll ask you to teach him.”

“Tou have been drinking, I suppose,” said Wakem, really

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

315

believing that this was the meaning of Tulliver’s flashed face
and sparkling eyes.

“No, I’ve not been drinking,” said Tolliver; “I want no
drinking to help me make op my mind as I’ll 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 shan'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 vengeance,
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 weight 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 womans scream was heard, and the cry of “ Father, father!”

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulli¬
ver’s arm; for the flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own
arm was relaxed.

“ Get away with you—go 1” said Tulliver, angrily. But it
was not to Wakem 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 l” Maggie
oried, 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, white
with rage, “ You’ll suffer for this, sir. Your daughter is a
witness that you’ve assaulted me.”

816

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

“I don’t care," said Mr. Tolliver, in a thick, fierce voice;
“go and show them your back, and tell ’em I thrashed you.
Tell ’em I’ve made things a bit more even i’ the world.”

“ Bide my horse home with me,” said Wakem to Luke.
“ By the Toften Ferry—not through the town.”

“ Father, come in!” said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing
that Wakem had ridden off, ana 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 slacken¬
ing her hold, her father was beginning to grasp her and lean
on her. The surprise checked her sobs.

“ I feel ill—feintish,” 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.

“ Hadn’t we better send for the doctor ?” said Mrs. Tulliver.

He seemed to be too feint 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
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 nor 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 come. Not one of the three felt any particular

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

317

alarm about Mr. Tulliver’s health: the symptoms did not
recall his former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a neces¬
sary 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.

44 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. ”

44 Is he worse, mother ?”

44 He’s been very ill all night with his head, but he doesn’t
say it’s worse—he only said sudden , 4 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
pain 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.

44 Tom, my lad, it’s come upon me as I shan’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, before I go away from you.”

The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other
an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly—

44 Have you any wish, father—that I can fulfil, when ....”

44 Ay, my lad .... you’ll try and get the old mill back.”

44 Yes, father.”

44 And there’s your mother—you’ll try and make her amends,
all you can, for my bad luck...... and there’s the little

wench ....”

The father turned his eves 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 free which had been
present with her through long years, as the sign of her deep¬
est love and hardest trial.

44 You must take care of her, Tom .... don’t you fret, my
wench .... there’ll come somebody as’ll love you and take
your part.... and you must be good to her, my lad. I was
good to my aster. Kiss me, Maggie.... Come, Bessy....
You’ll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your
mother and me can lie together.”

318

THE MILL 03! THE FLOSS.

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 grow in g dearer
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 grie£ “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.

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 Tolliver’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. Turnbull 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 SIXTH.

THE GREAT TEMPTATION.

CHAPTER L

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 Sir. Deane’s. The neat
littlejady in mourning, whose light-brown ringlets are falling
over the colored embroidery with which her fingers are busy,
is of course Lucy Deane; and the fine young man who is
leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors in the ex¬
tremely abbreviated lace of the u King Charles ” lying on the
young lady’s feet, is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose
diamond 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. Ogg’s. There is an apparent triviality 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 play¬
fully 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 plea¬
sure oi persecuting my poor Minny.”

The foolish scissors have slipped too &r 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.

“ 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 &

320

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

tition da capo . Accordingly he watches for the release of the
scissors, that he may get them into his possession again.

M No, do,” said Lucy, sticking them in her hand, “you
shall not have my scissors again—you have strained them
already. Now don’t set Minny growling again. Sit up and
behave properly, and then I will tell you some news.”

“ What is that ? ” said Stephen, throwing himself back and
hanging his right arm over the comer 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 com, and a half-
ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his well-marked hori¬
zontal eyebrows. “ Is it very important news ? ”

“ Yes—very. Guess.”

w 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 buck¬
ram, and you ladies have all been sending him a round-robin,
saying— c This is a hard doctrine; who can bear it ? * ”

“ For shame ! ” said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth
gravely. M 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, u it has just
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 knowB it:
perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then we shan’t be able
to sing our glees—shall we ? ’’

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

321

44 What! is your cousin coming to stay with you?” said
Stephen, with a look of slight annoyance.

44 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.”

44 And am I bound to be pleased at that news ? ”

44 Oh no, not at all,” said Luoy, with a little air of pique.
44 1 am pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why you
should be pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so
well as my cousin Maggie.”

44 And you will be inseparable, I suppose, when she comes.
There will be no possibility of a tdte-d-tUe 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.”

44 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 ? ”

44 No,” said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference.
44 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 m the neighborhood in that detached, disjointed way.”

44 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 em¬
bittered. 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 her
father’s misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure
since, I think. She has been in a dreary situation m a school
since uncle’s death, because she is determined to be indepen¬
dent, 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 nave a long, long holiday.”

44 Very sweet and angelic of you,” said Stephen, looking
02

322

THE WTTT. ON THE FLOSS.

her with an admiring smile; “ and all the more so if she has
the conversational qualities of her mother.”

44 Poor aunty! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very
valuable to mo, 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.”

44 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, blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will Btare
at us silently.”

44 Oh yes 1” exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly and clapping
her hands, 44 that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have
seen her 1”

44 No, indeed: I’m only guessing what Mrs. Tolliver’s
daughter must be; and then if she is to banish Philip, our
only apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore.”

44 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.”

44 1 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 doesn’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 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 format declaration has been made, and all
is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial word, the light¬
est 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.

44 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, 44 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.”

44 Oh, I suppose he is like the father: he seems to be as

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

323

proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion though. I should
think.*

“ I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lido;
and papa is very fond of him: he says Tom has excellent prin¬
ciples. 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.

w 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 9 the other day,” said Luoy, 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 f§te of a German Grand-Duke.”

“ Oh, pooh I He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper.
We are Adam and Eve unfallen, in paradise. Now, then—the
fecitative, for the sake of the moral. You will sing the whole
duty of woman— 4 And from obedience grows my pride and
happiness. 9 99

“ 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 doubta 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
descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted loving
chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate
demand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The con¬
tralto 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 musio was so

324

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS,

scarce in that remote time, how could the musical people
avoid falling in love with each other ? Even political prmciple
must have been in danger of relaxation under such circum¬
stances ; and a violin, faithful to rotten boroughs, must have
been tempted to fraternise in a demoralising 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 life incessant bliss,”

believed what they sang all the more because they sang it*

44 Now for Raphael’s great song,” said Lucy, when they
had finished the auet. “ You do the 4 heavy beasts’ to per¬
fection.”

44 That sounds complimentary,” said Stephen, looking at his
watch. 44 By Jove, it’s nearly half-past one. Well, I can just
sing this.”

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes
representing the tread of the heavy beasts: but when a
singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided senti¬
ments. Minny’s mistress was charmed; but Minny, who had
intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as the
muffle began, found this thunder so little to his taste that he
leaped out and scampered under the remotest chiffonihre^ as
the most eligible place in which a small dog could await the
crack of doom.

44 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. 44 My bliss is not incessant, for
I must gallop home. I promised to be there at lunch.”

44 You will not be able to call on Philip, then ? It is of no
consequence: I have said everything in my note.”

44 You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I
suppose ?”

44 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.”

44 But I may come the next day ?”

44 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.”

44 Good-by, then.” And there was that slight pressure of
the hands, and momentary meeting of the eyes, which will

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS*

325

often leave a little lady with a slight flash and gpaile 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 indi¬
cation 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 benevolent
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 odor 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 thinking of her lover, it
is because the thought of him mingles readily with all the
gentle affections and good-natured offices with which she Alls
her peaceful days. Even now, her mind, with that instan¬
taneous alternation which makes two currents of feeling or
imagination seem simultaneous, is glancing continually from
Stephen to the preparations she has omy half finished in
Maggie’s room. Cousin Maggie should be treated as well as
the grandest lady visitor—nay, better, for she 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-affairs. 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 Sindbad.”

Sindbad was Lucy’s chestnut horse, that she always •&&.

326

THIS MILL ON THE FLOSS.

with her own hand when he was turned out in the paddock.
She was fond of feeding dependent creatures, and knew the
private tastes of all the animals about the house, delighting
m 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 tocr trivial, I
will here call “ the more familiar rodents.”

Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that
this slim maiden of eighteen was 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
mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment of little plea¬
sures prepared for them ? Perhaps the emphasis of his admi¬
ration 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, ana was conscious of excellent judgment in
preferring her to Miss Leybum, the daughter of the county
member, although Lucy was only the daughter of his father’s
subordinate partner; besides, he had had to defy and over¬
come a slight unwillingness and disappointment in his father
and sisters—a circumstance which gives a young man an
agreeable consciousness of his own dignity. Stephen was
aware that he had sense and independence 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.

CHAPTER H.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

“ He is very clever, Maggie,” said Lucy. She was kneel¬
ing 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,

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 327

and bolding 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 some¬
times, 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 couldn’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. Sometimes 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 didn’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, insignificant 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 ?”

“ 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
perhaps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming
surprise for him ; I shall have a glorious laugh against him.
I snail not tell you what it is, though.”

Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance,
holding 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
languidly 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
silenoe, and then said—

328

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“ I can’t think what witchery it is in von, Maggie, that
makes you look best in shabby clothes; though you really
must 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 oome 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, u I 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 cob¬
webs and carpet-dust, ana to find yourself under the grate,
like Cinderella. Mayn’t I sit down now?”

“ Yes, now you may,” said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an
air of serious reflection, unfastening her huge jet brooch,
“ But you must change brooches, Maggie; that little butter¬
fly 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 better
situation without more accomplishments.”

Maggie gave a little sigh.

“ Now, don’t put on that sad look again,” said Lucy, pin¬
ning the large brooch below Maggie’s fine throat. “ You’re
forgetting 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 turn-
ing 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 Mag¬
gie’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. “ Fve
always been so happy. I don’t know whether I could bear
much trouble; I never had any but poor mamma’s death.

THE MILL OH THE FLOSS.

329

Ton have been tried, Maggie; and I’m sure you feel for
other people quite as much as I do.”
j “ No, Lucy,” said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, “ I don’t
‘ enjoy their happiness as you do—else I should be more con¬
tented. 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 fhce 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 Geoflrey 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.

“ 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 tall 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 came
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 happi¬
ness 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 con¬
tented renunciation, 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

930

THE MTI ON THE FLOSS.

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 1 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.”

44 You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls’
tunes over and over to them, when I took them to practice,”
said Maggife, “just for the sake of fingering the dear keys
again. But I don’t know whether I could play anything more
difficult now than 4 Begone, dull care! ’”

44 1 know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when
the glee-men came round,” said Lucy, taking up her embroi¬
dery, 44 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.”

44 1 should have thought there was nothing you might be
more certain of,” said Maggie, smiling.

44 1 ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because
if you feel just as he does about that, we shall want a 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.

44 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.”

. 44 1 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. 44 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.”

44 Oh, I’m so glad!” said Lucy. 44 Then you won’t mind his
coming sometimes, and we can have mucn more music than
we could without him. Pm 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 atroug people.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

331

“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. w 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.

u 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. Ste¬
phen 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
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
agreeable to her—so agreeable, that it almost effaced her
previous emotion about Philip. There was a new brightness
m her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as she
seated herself.

“ I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew
the day before yesterday,” said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of
triumph. 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 stooping
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, 1 ’ said Stephen,
“ and find reality so much more beautiful than my preconcep¬
tions.”

u 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
beforehand. Lucy had said he was inclined to be satirical^

832

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS.

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. 9 ’ 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. 9 It’s rather hard upon him that he must use the
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 parti¬
cular meaning, like old banners, or everyday clothes, hung up
in a sacred place.”

“Then my compliment ought to be eloquent,” said Stephen,
really not quite knowing what he said while Maggie looked
at him, “ seeing that therwords were so far beneath the occa¬
sion.”

“No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression
of indifference,” said Maggie, flushing a little.

Lucy was rather alarmed: she thought Stephen and Mag¬
gie 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 inter¬
posed, “ 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 neces¬
sarily appear absurd to more experienced ladies, from the
excessive feeling she was apt to throw into very trivial inci¬
dents. But she was even conscious herself of a little absur¬
dity in this instance. It was true, she had a theoretic objection
to compliments, and had once said impatiently to Philip, that
she didn’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 com¬
mon practice in the case of a stranger like Mr. Stephen Quest,

THE HILL OUT THE FLOSS. 333

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 glowing 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
sisters are doing more for it than I am: they are to have the
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
are not addicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss
Tulliver,” 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 1 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, Luoy,” Maggie went on, “ if that will be
of any use for your bazaar.”

u Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with
scarlet wool to-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable

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the MILL OK THE FLOSS.

person,” continued Lucy, turning to Stephen, “ to have the
talent of modelling. She is doing a wondering bust of Dr.
Kenn entirely from memory.”

“Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near
together, and the corners of the mouth very far apart, the
likeness can hardly fail to be striking in St. Ogg’s.”

“Now, that is very wicked of you,” said Lucy, looking
rather hurt. “ I didn’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¬
munion-table, and I shouldn’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 any¬
thing of the real apostle in him—a man who has eight hun¬
dred a-year, and is contented with deal furniture ana boiled
beef because 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 honor of representing St. Ogg’s in parliament.”

“Do you really think of that? ” said Lucy, her eyes bright-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

835

ening with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the argu¬
mentative interests of Anglicanism.

“ Decidedly—whenever old Mr. Leybum’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 pipe¬
ful self-admiration—“ gifts like mine involve great responsibi¬
lities. 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 see how much penetration you have,” said Stephen.

“ You have discovered already that I am talkative and impu¬
dent. Now superficial people never discern that—owing to
my manner, I suppose.”

“ She doesn’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 the
recommendation to choose Southey’s “ Life of Cowper,” unless
she were inclined to be philosophical, and startle the ladies of
St. Ogg’s by voting for one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Of
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 Buokland’s Treatise, which he had just been reading. He
was rewarded by seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradu¬
ally 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 8nuffiest of old professors, and she a downy-lipped alum¬
nus. 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 plun@8%

330

TUB ^TT T, OK THE FLOSS.

Maggie in books. I shall never get her away from them; I
and I want her to have delicions ao-nothing days, filled with
boating, and chatting, and riding, and driving: that is the
holiday she needs.”

“Apropos!” said Stephen, looking at his watch. “Shall
we go ont 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
servant, 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’ll 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 witt like
Maggie, shan’t you ?” she added, in a beseeching tone. “ Isn’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 impru¬
dent confidences to ladies concerning their unfavorable opinion
of sister fair ones. That is why so many women have the
advantage 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
unfavorable opinion of Stephen’s, that he walked down to the
boat-house calculating, by the aid of a vivid imagination, that
Maggie must give him her hand at least twice in consequence
of this pleasant 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 dear¬
est little creature in the world; and ho 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 indifier-

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

S3 1

ent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admire 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. Gene¬
rally, Stephen admitted, he was not fond of women who had
any peculiarity of character—but here the peculiarity seemed
of a superior kind; and provided one is not obliged to marry
such women, why, they certainly make a variety in sooial
intercourse.

Maggie did not fulfil Stephen’s hope by looking at him dur¬
ing 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 pre¬
sently 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 step¬
ped out of the boat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the
thing she was doing, and she had chosen an inopportune mo¬
ment 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, bend¬
ing 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 aunt
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 Paw: House, was
much shocked at the shabbiness of her clothes, which, when
witnessed by the higher society at St. Ogg’s, would be a
discredit to the family, that demanded a strong and prompt
remedy; end the consultation as to what would be most suvV

888

THE HILL ON THE FLOSS.

able 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
—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 1” 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 wasn’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 m.

CONFIDENTIAL MOMENTS.

W hen Maggie went up to the 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 room, which was a large one, with a
firm, regular, and rather rapid step, which showed that the
exercise was the instinctive vent of strong excitement. Her
eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish brilliancy; her head
was thrown backward, and her hands were clasped with the

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

839

palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is apt
to accompany mental absorption.

Had anything remarkable happened ?

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 provin¬
cial, amateur fashion, such as would have left your 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
balanced. 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 causes 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 akhteF-witft admiration; it was rather that she

Q an d beauty

Tfcgttg^mittgled all the

pmripy flCrtTromance she had ever read, or had ever woven in
her. dfa ea ray - ye vorio a. Her mind glanced back once or twice
to the time when she had courted privation, when she had
thought all longing, all impatience, was subdued; but that
condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she recoiled from
the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, would
bring back that negative peace ; the battle of her life, it
seemed, was not to be decided in that short and easy way—
by perfect renunciation at the very threshold of her youth.
The music was vibrating in her still—-Purcell’s music, with its
wild pa&ion and fancy—and she could not stay in the recollec¬
tion 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.

44 Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven’t you begun to
undress ? ” said Lucy, in astonishment. 44 1 promised not to
come and talk to you, because I thought you must be tired*

840

THE MILL ON THE FL06S.

But here you are, looking as if you were ready to dress for a
ball. Come, come, get on your dressing-gown, and unplait
your hair.”

“ Well, you are not very forward,” retorted Maggie,
hastily, reaching her own pink cotton gown, and looking at
Lucy’s light-brown hair brushed back in curly disorder.

“ Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to
you, till I see you are really on the way to bed.”

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over
her pink drapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watch¬
ing her with affectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a
pretty spaniel. If it appears to you at all incredible that young
ladies should be led on to talk confidentially in a situation of
this kind, I will beg you to remember that human life furnishes
many exceptional cases.

“You really have enjoyed the music to-night, haven’t you,
Maggie ?”

“ Oh yes, that is what 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 carying a weight.”

“ And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn’t he ? ”

“Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that,” said
Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long
hair back. “ You are not impartial, and I think any barrel-
organ splendid.”

“ But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly
—good and bad too.”

“ Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover
should not be so much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought
to tremble more.”

“ Nonsense, Maggie ! As if any one could tremble at me !
You think he is conceited—I see that. But you don’t dislike
him, do you ? ”

“Dislike him 1 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 dim¬
pled chin.

“We shall have more music to-morrow evening,” said Lucy,
looking happy already, “ for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem
with him.”

“ Oh Lucy, I can’t see him,” said Maggie, turning pale.
“At least, I could not see him without Tom’s leave.”

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

341

“ Is Tom such a tyrant as that ? ” said Lucy, surprised.

“ I’ll take the responsibility, then—tell him it was my fault.”

“But, dear,” said Maggie, falteringly, “I promised Tom
very solemnly—before my father’s death—I promised him I
would not speak to Philip without his knowledge and consent.
And I have a great dread of opening the subject with Tom—
of getting into a quarrel with him again.”

“ But I never heard of anything so strange and unreason¬
able. What harm can poor Philip have done ? May I speak
to Tom about it?”

“ Oh no, pray don’t, dear,” said Maggie. “ I’ll go to him
myself to-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come.
I’ve thought before of asking him to absolve me from my
promise, but I’ve not had the courage to determine on it.”

They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy
said—

“ Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from
you.”

Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she
turned to her and said, “ I should like to tell you about Philip.
But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one
—least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest.’’

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before
known the relief of such an outpouring: she had never before
told Lucy anything of her inmost life; and the sweet face
bent 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
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 6aid, 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^ smil¬
ing, with the tears in her eyes. “You see I am like Sir
Andrew Ague-cheek —I was adored once.”

“ Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and every¬
thing, and have learned so much since you left school; which
always seemed to me witchcraft before—part of your general
uncanniness,” said Lucy.

842

THB MTTA ON THE FL06B.

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 m my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are
obstacles now; but they may be done away witn 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 com¬
mon 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 sub¬
sequent impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly sincere :
her nature had never found it easy to be otherwise. But
confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they are
sincere.

CHAPTER IV.

BBOTHEE AND SISTEB.

Maggie was obliged to go to Tom’s lodgings in the middle
of the day, when he would be coming in to dinner, else she
would not have found him at home. He was not lodging
with entire strangers. Our friend Bob Jakin had, with
Mumps’s tacit consent, taken not only a wife about eight
months ago, but also one of those queer old houses pierced
with surprising passages, by the water-side, where, as he
observed, his wife and mother could keep themselves out of
mischief by letting out two “ pleasure-boats,” in which he
had invested some of his savings, and by taking in a lodger
for the parlor and spare bedroom. Under these circumstan¬
ces, what could be better for the interests of all parties,
sanitary considerations apart, than that the lodger should be
Mr. Tom? 5

It was Bob’s wife who opened the door to Maggie. She

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

343

was a tiny woman, with the general physiognomy of a Dutch
doll, looting, 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 I
Come in, Miss, for goodness do,” she went on, opening a
side-door, and endeavoring to flatten her person against the
wall to make the utmost space for the visitor.

Sad recollections crowded on Maggie as she entered the
small parlor, 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, Mss; but I think he must be washing and dressing
himself—I’ll go and see,” said Mrs. Jakin, disappearing.

But she presently came back walking with new courage a
little way behind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of
his blue eyes and regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing
respectfully.

“How do you do, Bob?” said Maggie, coming forward
and putting out her hand to him; “ I always meant to pay
your wife a visit, and I shall come another day on purpose
for that, if she will let me. But I was obliged to come to¬
day, to speak to my brother.”

u He’ll be in before long, Mss. He’s doin’ finelv, Mr. Tom
is : he’ll be one o’ the first men hereabouts—you’ll ^ee that.”

“Well, Bob, I’m sure he’H 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 wav o’ takin’ it. But I think the
more on’t when he says a thing, because his tongue doesn’t

844

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

overshoot him as mine does. Lors! I’m no better nor i
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.
44 Isn’t it all come true as I said ? Though there isn’t many
sorts o’ goods as I can’t over-praise when I set my tongue
to’t.”

Mrs. Bob’s small nose seemed to be following the example
of her eyes in turning up reverentially towards Maggie, but
she was able now to smile and curtsy, and say, 44 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 came a courtin’ on me.”

44 Well, well,” said Bob, looking rather silly. 44 Go an’ see
after the taters, else Mr. Tom ’ull have to wait for ’em.

44 1 hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob,” said
Maggie, smiling. 44 1 remember you used to say, he wouldn’t
like your marrying.”

44 Eh, Miss,” said Bob grinning, 44 he made up his mind to’t
when he see’d what a little un she was. He pretends not to
see her mostly, or else to think as she isn’t full-growed. But
about Mr. Tom, Miss,” said Bob, speaking lower and looking
serious, 44 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 ’ull sit by himself so glumpish, 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 sometimes, an’ he takes no notice of her, he
sits lookin’ into the fire, and frownin’ as if he was watchin’
folks at work in it.”

44 He thinks so much about business,” said Maggie.

44 Ay,” said Bob, speaking lower; 44 but do you think it’s
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 agin’ things
more nor iver, for all he’s had such good-luck. An’ 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 an’
doesn’t go into company enough.”

44 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

THE MILL OK THE FLOSS*

845

troubles. Poor fellow!—and in love with Lucy too! But it
was jjerhaps 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 ms 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 6ee him without
telling you. I am come to tell you that I wish to see him.”

u V ery well,” said Tom, still more coldly.

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, de¬
fiant manner, before she repented, and felt the dread of aliena¬
tion from- her brother.

“ Not for myself, dear Tom. Don’t be angry. I shouldn’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
strongly for a little while. Then lie 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.”

u I doxi’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
another situation, and I should like to be friends with him
again while I am here. Lucy wishes it.” . -J

P 2

846

THJE irnx. ON THE FLOSS.

The severity of Tom’s face relaxed a little.

44 1 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 Vas a cruel word. Maggie’s lip began to tremble.

44 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 good¬
ness 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—

“Now 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
submit 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
relations, 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 you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who

f oes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily
nows better what is righl 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.”

44 Yes—I know—dear Tom,” said Maggie, still half-sobbing,
but trying to control her tears. 44 I know you would do a
great deal for me: I know how you work and don’t spare
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.”

44 Yes, I do know: I know it too well. I know how aiffer-
ently you must feel about all that affects our family, and your
own dignity as a young woman, before you could t hink of
receiving secret addresses from Philip Wakem. If it was not
disgusting to me in every other way, I should objeot to my

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

347

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 <}on’t feel certain of it with you—
I never feel certain about any thing 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, unsym¬
pathetic minds. Maggie always writhed under this judgment
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 narrow
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 repelled her. Her feeling under his words was com¬
plicated by the allusion to the last scene between her father
and Wakem; and at length that painful, solemn memory sur
mounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not think
of such things with frivolous indifference, and Tom 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 for us to
entertain the idea of marriage ; and I have given up thinking

of him as a lover.Iam 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 intercourse
with Philip on any other footing than that of quiet friendship.
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.”

* l Well, Maggie,” said Tom, softening under this appeal, “ l

848

TUB MILL OK THB FLOSS.

don’t want to overstrain matters. I think, all things con¬
sidered, 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 yon 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
sadden 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 yon—not to vex yon. You
don’t think I’m 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 yon, 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—

“ There ! Be a good girl. I’ve got a great deal to think
of to-day. I’m going to have a long consultation with my
uncle Deane this afternoon.”

“You’ll 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 Ins
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 OYSTEB.

“And now we’ve settled this N ewcastle business, Tom,” said
Mr. Deane, that same afternoon, as they were seated in the
private room at the Bank together, “there’s another matter 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’ll 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 fashions didn’t alter quite so fast: I’d a best suit that
lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower sdale, 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 wheel of fortune along with ’em, as our Mr. Stephen
Guest said at the anniversary dinner (he hits these things off
wonderfully, 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 fine
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 com to the mouths
that are hungry. And that’s our line of business; and I con¬
sider it as honorable a position as a man can hold!, to be con¬
nected with it.”

Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not
urgent; Mr. Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to
allow either his reminiscences or his snuff to impede the pro*

850

THS *rrrx. ON THE FLOSS.

gress 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 bis own benefit.
With the beginning of the last speech he bad stretched out
bis 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 didn’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
encouragement. And I’m happy to say, I was right—Fm 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 a son o’ my

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Full text of "Mill On The Floss (1860) George Eliot"

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