The Mill on the Floss

George Eliot

Table of Contents

Book I: Boy and Girl

1. Outside Dorlcote Mill2. Mr. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution about Tom3. Mr. Riley Gives His Advice Concerning a School for Tom4. Tom Is Expected5. Tom Comes Home6. The Aunts and Uncles Are Coming7. Enter the Aunts and Uncles8. Mr. Tulliver Shows His Weaker Side9. To Garum Firs10. Maggie Behaves Worse Than She Expected11. Maggie Tries to Run away from Her Shadow12. Mr. And Mrs. Glegg at Home13. Mr. Tulliver Further Entangles the Skein of Life

Book II: School-Time

1. Tom's "First Half"2. The Christmas Holidays3. The New Schoolfellow4. "The Young Idea"5. Maggie's Second Visit6. A Love-Scene7. The Golden Gates Are Passed

Book III: The Downfall

1. What Had Happened at Home2. Mrs. Tulliver's Teraphim, or Household Gods3. The Family Council4. A Vanishing Gleam5. Tom Applies His Knife to the Oyster6. Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a Pocket-Knife7. How a Hen Takes to Stratagem8. Daylight on the Wreck9. An Item Added to the Family Register

Book IV: The Valley of Humiliation

1. A Variation of Protestantism Unknown to Bossuet2. The Torn Nest Is Pierced by the Thorns3. A Voice from the Past

Book V: Wheat and Tares

1. In the Red Deeps2. Aunt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bob's Thumb3. The Wavering Balance4. Another Love-Scene5. The Cloven Tree6. The Hard-Won Triumph7. A Day of Reckoning

Book VI: The Great Temptation

1. A Duet in Paradise2. First Impressions3. Confidential Moments4. Brother and Sister5. Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster6. Illustrating the Laws of Attraction7. Philip Re-enters8. Wakem in a New Light9. Charity in Full-Dress10. The Spell Seems Broken11. In the Lane12. A Family Party13. Borne Along by the Tide14. Waking

Book VII: The Final Rescue

1. The Return to the Mill2. St. Ogg's Passes Judgment3. Showing That Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us4. Maggie and Lucy5. The Last Conflict

Book I

_Boy and Girl_

Chapter I

Outside Dorlcote Mill

A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its greenbanks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks itspassage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the blackships--laden with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks ofoil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal--are borne along tothe town of St. Ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and thebroad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and theriver-brink, tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under thetransient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretchthe rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth made ready for theseed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint ofthe tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of lastyear's golden clusters of beehive-ricks rising at intervals beyond thehedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees; thedistant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching theirred-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just bythe red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively currentinto the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark changingwavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander alongthe bank, and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of onewho is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. Iremember the stone bridge. 

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on thebridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it isfar on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departingFebruary it is pleasant to look at, --perhaps the chill, damp seasonadds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old asthe elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. Thestream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicatebright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks andbranches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in lovewith moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their headsfar into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkwardappearance they make in the drier world above. 

The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamydeafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. Theyare like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the worldbeyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon cominghome with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is thinking of hisdinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he willnot touch it till he has fed his horses, --the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him frombetween their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in thatawful manner as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch theirshoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energybecause they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet thatseem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of theirstruggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over theirhardly earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freedfrom 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 thetrees. 

Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unrestingwheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl iswatching it too; she has been standing on just the same spot at theedge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queerwhite cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking inineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous becausehis playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It istime the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a verybright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepeninggray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my armson the cold stone of this bridge. . . . 

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on thearms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge infront of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many yearsago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. And Mrs. Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in theleft-hand parlor, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of. 

Chapter II

Mr. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution about Tom

"What I want, you know, " said Mr. Tulliver, --"what I want is to giveTom a good eddication; an eddication as'll be a bread to him. That waswhat I was thinking of when I gave notice for him to leave the academyat Lady-day. I mean to put him to a downright good school atMidsummer. The two years at th' academy 'ud ha' done well enough, ifI'd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he's had a finesight more schoolin' nor _I_ ever got. All the learnin' _my_ fatherever 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 mightbe up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and write with aflourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn't make a downright lawyer o' the lad, --I shouldbe sorry for him to be a raskill, --but a sort o' engineer, or asurveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o' themsmartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a bigwatch-chain and a high stool. They're pretty nigh all one, and they'renot far off being even wi' the law, _I_ believe; for Riley looksLawyer Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. _He's_ nonefrightened at him. "

Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in afan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shapedcaps were worn, they must be so near coming in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St. Ogg's, andconsidered sweet things). 

"Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best: _I've_ no objections. But hadn't Ibetter kill a couple o' fowl, and have th' aunts and uncles to dinnernext week, so as you may hear what sister Glegg and sister Pullet havegot 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 shallask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do wi' my own lad, " said Mr. Tulliver, defiantly. 

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, "how can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? But it's your way to speakdisrespectful o' my family; and sister Glegg throws all the blameupo'me, though I'm sure I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. Fornobody's ever heard me say as it wasn't lucky for my children to haveaunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tom's to go to anew 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 asyallow as th' other before they'd been washed half-a-dozen times. Andthen, when the box is goin' back'ard and forrard, I could send the lada cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit, bless him! whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children caneat as much victuals as most, thank God!"

"Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's cart, ifother things fit in, " said Mr. Tulliver. "But you mustn't put a spokei' the wheel about the washin, ' if we can't get a school near enough. That's the fault I have to find wi' you, Bessy; if you see a stick i'the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd want menot 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 ivermake objections to a man because he'd got a mole on his face? I'm sureI'm rether fond o' the moles; for my brother, as is dead an' gone, hada mole on his brow. But I can't remember your iver offering to hire awagoner with a mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadn't a moleon his face no more nor you have, an' I was all for having you hire_him_; an' so you did hire him, an' if he hadn't died o' th'inflammation, as we paid Dr. Turnbull for attending him, he'd verylike ha' been drivin' the wagon now. He might have a mole somewhereout 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 forsummat else; but niver mind--it's puzzling work, talking is. What I'mthinking 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 havenothing to do wi' a 'cademy again: whativer school I send Tom to, itsha'n't be a 'cademy; it shall be a place where the lads spend theirtime i' summat else besides blacking the family's shoes, and gettingup the potatoes. It's an uncommon puzzling thing to know what schoolto pick. "

Mr. Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands intohis breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, "I knowwhat I'll do: I'll talk it over 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, andKezia's got 'em hanging at the fire. They aren't the best sheets, butthey're good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for asfor them best Holland sheets, I should repent buying 'em, only they'lldo to lay us out in. An' if you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver, they're mangled beautiful, an' all ready, an' smell o' lavender as it'ud be a pleasure to lay 'em out; an' they lie at the left-hand cornero' the big oak linen-chest at the back: not as I should trust anybodyto look 'em out but myself. "

As Mrs. Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright bunch ofkeys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing her thumb andfinger up and down it with a placid smile while she looked at theclear fire. If Mr. Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his conjugalrelation, he might have supposed that she drew out the key to aid herimagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state tojustify the production of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was notso; he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power;moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, andsince his mention of Mr. Riley, had been apparently occupied in atactile examination of his woollen stockings. 

"I think I've hit it, Bessy, " was his first remark after a shortsilence. "Riley's as likely a man as any to know o' some school; he'shad schooling himself, an' goes about to all sorts o' places, arbitratin' and vallyin' and that. And we shall have time to talk itover to-morrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be sucha sort o' man as Riley, you know, --as can talk pretty nigh as well asif it was all wrote out for him, and knows a good lot o' words asdon't mean much, so as you can't lay hold of 'em i' law; and a goodsolid knowledge o' business too. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "so far as talking proper, and knowingeverything, and walking with a bend in his back, and setting his hairup, I shouldn't mind the lad being brought up to that. But themfine-talking men from the big towns mostly wear the falseshirt-fronts; they wear a frill till it's all a mess, and then hide itwith a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Tom's to go and live atMudport, like Riley, he'll have a house with a kitchen hardly bigenough to turn in, an' niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, an'sleep up three pair o' stairs, --or four, for what I know, --and beburnt to death before he can get down. "

"No, no, " said Mr. Tulliver, "I've no thoughts of his going toMudport: 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, "whatI'm a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasn't got the right sort o' brains fora smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit slowish. He takes after yourfamily, Bessy. "

"Yes, that he does, " said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the lastproposition entirely on its own merits; "he's wonderful for liking adeal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, and my father'sbefore him. "

"It seems a bit a pity, though, " said Mr. Tulliver, "as the lad shouldtake after the mother's side instead o' the little wench. That's theworst on't wi' crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilatewhat'll come on't. The little un takes after my side, now: she's twiceas 'cute as Tom. Too 'cute for a woman, I'm afraid, " continued Mr. Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then on theother. "It's no mischief much while she's a little un; but anover-'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep, --she'll fetchnone the bigger price for that. "

"Yes, it _is_ a mischief while she's a little un, Mr. Tulliver, for itruns to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean pinafore two hourstogether passes my cunning. An' now you put me i' mind, " continuedMrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the window, "I don't know where sheis now, an' it's pretty nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought so, --wanderin' upan' down by the water, like a wild thing: She'll tumble in some day. "

Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook herhead, --a process which she repeated more than once before she returnedto 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 sendher upstairs to fetch anything, she forgets what she's gone for, an'perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sunshine an' plait her hairan' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', all the while I'm waitingfor her downstairs. That niver run i' my family, thank God! no morenor a brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't like tofly i' the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have butone gell, an' her so comical. "

"Pooh, nonsense!" said Mr. Tulliver; "she's a straight, black-eyedwench as anybody need wish to see. I don't know i' what she's behindother folks's children; and she can read almost as well as theparson. "

"But her hair won't curl all I can do with it, and she's so franzyabout having it put i' paper, and I've such work as never was to makeher 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 hercousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, an' not a hair out o'place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that pretty child;I'm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie, " continued the mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature entered the room, "where's the use o'my telling you to keep away from the water? You'll tumble in and bedrownded some day, an' then you'll be sorry you didn't do as mothertold you. "

Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed hermother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have acurled crop, "like other folks's children, " had had it cut too shortin front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was usually straightan hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantlytossing her head to keep the dark, heavy locks out of her gleamingblack eyes, --an action which gave her very much the air of a smallShetland pony. 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin'of, to throw yourbonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's a good gell, an' let yourhair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an' change yourshoes, do, for shame; an' come an' go on with your patchwork, like alittle lady. "

"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 auntGlegg?"

"It's foolish work, " said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, --"tearingthings to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I don't want to doanything for my aunt Glegg. I don't like her. "

Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr. Tulliverlaughs audibly. 

"I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver, " said themother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. "You encourage 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; andfrom the cradle upward had been healthy, fair, plump, and dull-witted;in short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milkand mildness are not the best things for keeping, and when they turnonly a little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. Ihave often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with theblond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept their placidityundisturbed when their strong-limbed, strong-willed boys got a littletoo old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given tofeeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became moreand more ineffectual. 

Chapter III

Mr. Riley Gives His Advice Concerning a School for Tom

The gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill, taking hisbrandy-and-water so pleasantly with his good friend Tulliver, is Mr. Riley, a gentleman with a waxen complexion and fat hands, ratherhighly educated for an auctioneer and appraiser, but large-heartedenough to show a great deal of _bonhomie_ toward simple countryacquaintances of hospitable habits. Mr. Riley spoke of suchacquaintances kindly as "people of the old school. "

The conversation had come to a pause. Mr. Tulliver, not without aparticular reason, had abstained from a seventh recital of the coolretort by which Riley had shown himself too many for Dix, and howWakem had had his comb cut for once in his life, now the business ofthe dam had been settled by arbitration, and how there never wouldhave been any dispute at all about the height of water if everybodywas what they should be, and Old Harry hadn't made the lawyers. 

Mr. Tulliver 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; amongst the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by Old Harry. Unhappilyhe had no one to tell him that this was rampant Manichaeism, else hemight have seen his error. But to-day it was clear that the goodprinciple was triumphant: this affair of the water-power had been atangled business somehow, for all it seemed--look at it one way--asplain as water's water; but, big a puzzle as it was, it hadn't got thebetter of Riley. Mr. Tulliver took his brandy-and-water a littlestronger than usual, and, for a man who might be supposed to have afew hundreds lying idle at his banker's, was rather incautiously openin expressing his high estimate of his friend's business talents. 

But the dam was a subject of conversation that would keep; it couldalways be taken up again at the same point, and exactly in the samecondition; and there was another subject, as you know, on which Mr. Tulliver was in pressing want of Mr. Riley's advice. This was hisparticular reason for remaining silent for a short space after hislast draught, and rubbing his knees in a meditative manner. He was nota man to make an abrupt transition. This was a puzzling world, as heoften said, and if you drive your wagon in a hurry, you may light onan awkward corner. Mr. Riley, meanwhile, was not impatient. Why shouldhe be? Even Hotspur, one would think, must have been patient in hisslippers on a warm hearth, taking copious snuff, and sippinggratuitous brandy-and-water. 

"There's a thing I've got i' my head, " said Mr. Tulliver at last, inrather a lower tone than usual, as he turned his head and lookedsteadfastly at his companion. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Riley, in a tone of mild interest. He was a man withheavy waxen eyelids and high-arched eyebrows, looking exactly the sameunder all circumstances. This immovability of face, and the habit oftaking a pinch of snuff before he gave an answer, made him treblyoracular 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 closeby the fire, with a large book open on her lap, shook her heavy hairback and looked up eagerly. There were few sounds that roused Maggiewhen she was dreaming over her book, but Tom's name served as well asthe shrillest whistle; in an instant she was on the watch, withgleaming eyes, like a Skye terrier suspecting mischief, or at allevents determined to fly at any one who threatened it toward Tom. 

"You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsummer, " said Mr. Tulliver; "he's comin' away from the 'cademy at Lady-day, an' I shalllet him run loose for a quarter; but after that I want to send him toa downright good school, where they'll make a scholard of him. "

"Well, " said Mr. Riley, "there's no greater advantage you can give himthan a good education. Not, " he added, with polite significance, --"notthat a man can't be an excellent miller and farmer, and a shrewd, sensible fellow into the bargain, without much help from theschoolmaster. "

"I believe you, " said Mr. Tulliver, winking, and turning his head onone side; "but that's where it is. I don't _mean_ Tom to be a millerand farmer. I see no fun i' that. Why, if I made him a miller an'farmer, he'd be expectin' to take to the mill an' the land, an'a-hinting at me as it was time for me to lay by an' think o' my latterend. Nay, nay, I've seen enough o' that wi' sons. I'll never pull mycoat off before I go to bed. I shall give Tom an eddication an' puthim to a business, as he may make a nest for himself, an' not want topush 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 strongly; andthe impetus which had given unusual rapidity and emphasis to hisspeech showed itself still unexhausted for some minutes afterward in adefiant 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 tothe quick. Tom, it appeared, was supposed capable of turning hisfather out of doors, and of making the future in some way tragic byhis wickedness. This was not to be borne; and Maggie jumped up fromher stool, forgetting all about her heavy book, which fell with a bangwithin the fender, and going up between her father's knees, said, in ahalf-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 aboutthe book. Mr. Riley quietly picked it up and looked at it, while thefather laughed, with a certain tenderness in his hard-lined face, andpatted his little girl on the back, and then held her hands and kepther 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 understandswhat one's talking about so as never was. And you should hear herread, --straight off, as if she knowed it all beforehand. And allays ather book! But it's bad--it's bad, " Mr. Tulliver added sadly, checkingthis blamable exultation. "A woman's no business wi' being so clever;it'll turn to trouble, I doubt. But bless you!"--here the exultationwas clearly recovering the mastery, --"she'll read the books andunderstand 'em better nor half the folks as are growed up. "

Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement. She thoughtMr. Riley would have a respect for her now; it had been evident thathe thought nothing of her before. 

Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she could makenothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows; but he presentlylooked at her, and said, --

"Come, come and tell me something about this book; here are somepictures, --I want to know what they mean. "

Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to Mr. Riley'selbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one corner, andtossing 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 awitch, --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, youknow--she's innocent, and not a witch, but only a poor silly oldwoman. But what good would it do her then, you know, when she wasdrowned? Only, I suppose, she'd go to heaven, and God would make it upto her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing, --oh, isn't he ugly?--I'll tell you what he is. He's theDevil _really_" (here Maggie's voice became louder and more emphatic), "and not a right blacksmith; for the Devil takes the shape of wickedmen, and walks about and sets people doing wicked things, and he'softener 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 withpetrifying wonder. 

"Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on?" he burst out atlast. 

"The 'History of the Devil, ' by Daniel Defoe, --not quite the rightbook for a little girl, " said Mr. Riley. "How came it among yourbooks, Mr. Tulliver?"

Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said, --

"Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. They was allbound alike, --it's a good binding, you see, --and I thought they'd beall 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 afamiliarity with that great writer, because his name was Jeremy); "andthere's a lot more of 'em, --sermons mostly, I think, --but they've allgot the same covers, and I thought they were all o' one sample, as youmay say. But it seems one mustn't judge by th' outside. This is apuzzlin' world. "

"Well, " said Mr. Riley, in an admonitory, patronizing tone as hepatted Maggie on the head, "I advise you to put by the 'History of theDevil, ' and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier books?"

"Oh, yes, " said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to vindicatethe variety of her reading. "I know the reading in this book isn'tpretty; but I like the pictures, and I make stories to the picturesout of my own head, you know. But I've got 'AEsop's Fables, ' and a bookabout Kangaroos and things, and the 'Pilgrim's Progress. '"

"Ah, a beautiful book, " said Mr. Riley; "you can't read a better. "

"Well, but there's a great deal about the Devil in that, " said Maggie, triumphantly, "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 shabby old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least trouble of search, at thepicture she wanted. 

"Here he is, " she said, running back to Mr. Riley, "and Tom coloredhim for me with his paints when he was at home last holidays, --thebody all black, you know, and the eyes red, like fire, because he'sall fire inside, and it shines out at his eyes. "

"Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel ratheruncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal appearance of abeing powerful enough to create lawyers; "shut up the book, and let'shear no more o' such talk. It is as I thought--the child 'ull learnmore mischief nor good wi' the books. Go, go and see after yourmother. "

Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, but notbeing inclined to see after her mother, she compromised the matter bygoing into a dark corner behind her father's chair, and nursing herdoll, toward which she had an occasional fit of fondness in Tom'sabsence, neglecting its toilet, but lavishing so many warm kisses onit that the waxen cheeks had a wasted, unhealthy appearance. 

"Did you ever hear the like on't?" said Mr. Tulliver, as Maggieretired. "It's a pity but what she'd been the lad, --she'd ha' been amatch for the lawyers, _she_ would. It's the wonderful'st thing"--herehe lowered his voice--"as I picked the mother because she wasn't o'er'cute--bein' a good-looking woman too, an' come of a rare family formanaging; but I picked her from her sisters o' purpose, 'cause she wasa bit weak like; for I wasn't agoin' to be told the rights o' thingsby my own fireside. But you see when a man's got brains himself, there's no knowing where they'll run to; an' a pleasant sort o' softwoman may go on breeding you stupid lads and 'cute wenches, till it'slike as if the world was turned topsy-turvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin'thing. "

Mr. Riley's gravity gave way, and he shook a little under theapplication of his pinch of snuff before he said, --

"But your lad's not stupid, is he? I saw him, when I was 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 theright handle. But he's slow with his tongue, you see, and he reads butpoorly, 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 'cutethings like the little wench. Now, what I want is to send him to aschool where they'll make him a bit nimble with his tongue and hispen, and make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi' thesefellows as have got the start o' me with having better schooling. Notbut what, if the world had been left as God made it, I could ha' seenmy way, and held my own wi' the best of 'em; but things have got sotwisted round and wrapped up i' unreasonable words, as aren't a bitlike 'em, as I'm clean at fault, often an' often. Everything windsabout so--the more straightforrad you are, the more you're puzzled. "

Mr. Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook his headin a melancholy manner, conscious of exemplifying the truth that aperfectly 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, thanleave it him in your will. I know I should have tried to do so by ason of mine, if I'd had one, though, God knows, I haven't your readymoney to play with, Tulliver; and I have a houseful of daughters intothe bargain. "

"I dare say, now, you know of a school as 'ud be just the thing forTom, " said Mr. Tulliver, not diverted from his purpose by any sympathywith Mr. Riley's deficiency of ready cash. 

Mr. Riley took a pinch of snuff, and kept Mr. Tulliver in suspense bya silence that seemed deliberative, before he said, --

"I know of a very fine chance for any one that's got the necessarymoney and that's what you have, Tulliver. The fact is, I wouldn'trecommend any friend of mine to send a boy to a regular school, if hecould afford to do better. But if any one wanted his boy to getsuperior instruction and training, where he would be the companion ofhis master, and that master a first rate fellow, I know his man. Iwouldn't mention the chance to everybody, because I don't thinkeverybody would succeed in getting it, if he were to try; but Imention it to you, Tulliver, between ourselves. "

The fixed inquiring glance with which Mr. Tulliver had been watchinghis friend's oracular face became quite eager. 

"Ay, now, let's hear, " he said, adjusting himself in his chair withthe complacency of a person who is thought worthy of importantcommunications. 

"He's an Oxford man, " said Mr. Riley, sententiously, shutting hismouth close, and looking at Mr. Tulliver to observe the effect of thisstimulating 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 present curacy. "

"Ah?" said Mr. Tulliver, to whom one thing was as wonderful as anotherconcerning 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 hisstudies, and a clergyman has but little opportunity for that in hisparochial duties. He's willing to take one or two boys as pupils tofill up his time profitably. The boys would be quite of thefamily, --the finest thing in the world for them; under Stelling's eyecontinually. "

"But do you think they'd give the poor lad twice o' pudding?" saidMrs. Tulliver, who was now in her place again. "He's such a boy forpudding as never was; an' a growing boy like that, --it's dreadful tothink o' their stintin' him. "

"And what money 'ud he want?" said Mr. Tulliver, whose instinct toldhim 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 hisyoungest pupils, and he's not to be mentioned with Stelling, the man Ispeak of. I know, on good authority, that one of the chief people atOxford said, Stelling might get the highest honors if he chose. But hedidn't care about university honors; he's a quiet man--not noisy. "

"Ah, a deal better--a deal better, " said Mr. Tulliver; "but a hundredand fifty's an uncommon price. I never thought o' paying so much asthat. "

"A good education, let me tell you, Tulliver, --a good education ischeap at the money. But Stelling is moderate in his terms; he's not agrasping man. I've no doubt he'd take your boy at a hundred, andthat's what you wouldn't get many other clergymen to do. I'll write tohim about it, if you like. "

Mr. Tulliver rubbed his knees, and looked at the carpet in ameditative manner. 

"But belike he's a bachelor, " observed Mrs. Tulliver, in the interval;"an' I've no opinion o' housekeepers. There was my brother, as is deadan' gone, had a housekeeper once, an' she took half the feathers outo' the best bed, an' packed 'em up an' sent 'em away. An' it's unknownthe linen she made away with--Stott her name was. It 'ud break myheart to send Tom where there's a housekeeper, an' I hope you won'tthink of it, Mr. Tulliver. "

"You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs. Tulliver, " said Mr. Riley, "for Stelling is married to as nice a little woman as any manneed wish for a wife. There isn't a kinder little soul in the world; Iknow her family well. She has very much your complexion, --light curlyhair. She comes of a good Mudport family, and it's not every offerthat would have been acceptable in that quarter. But Stelling's not anevery-day man; rather a particular fellow as to the people he choosesto be connected with. But I _think_ he would have no objection to takeyour son; I _think_ he would not, on my representation. "

"I don't know what he could have _against_ the lad, " said Mrs. Tulliver, with a slight touch of motherly indignation; "a nicefresh-skinned lad as anybody need wish to see. "

"But there's one thing I'm thinking on, " said Mr. Tulliver, turninghis head on one side and looking at Mr. Riley, after a long perusal ofthe carpet. "Wouldn't a parson be almost too high-learnt to bring up alad to be a man o' business? My notion o' the parsons was as they'dgot a sort o' learning as lay mostly out o' sight. And that isn't whatI want for Tom. I want him to know figures, and write like print, andsee into things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to wrapthings up in words as aren't actionable. It's an uncommon fine thing, that is, " concluded Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head, "when you can leta man know what you think of him without paying for it. "

"Oh, my dear Tulliver, " said Mr. Riley, "you're quite under a mistakeabout the clergy; all the best schoolmasters are of the clergy. Theschoolmasters who are not clergymen are a very low set of mengenerally. "

"Ay, that Jacobs is, at the 'cademy, " interposed Mr. Tulliver. 

"To be sure, --men who have failed in other trades, most likely. Now, aclergyman is a gentleman by profession and education; and besidesthat, he has the knowledge that will ground a boy, and prepare him forentering on any career with credit. There may be some clergymen whoare mere bookmen; but you may depend upon it, Stelling is not one ofthem, --a man that's wide awake, let me tell you. Drop him a hint, andthat's enough. You talk of figures, now; you have only to say toStelling, 'I want my son to be a thorough arithmetician, ' and you mayleave the rest to him. "

Mr. Riley paused a moment, while Mr. Tulliver, some-what reassured asto 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 athoroughly educated man, like Stelling, he's at no loss to take up anybranch of instruction. When a workman knows the use of his tools, hecan make a door as well as a window. "

"Ay, that's true, " said Mr. Tulliver, almost convinced now that theclergy must be the best of schoolmasters. 

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do for you, " said Mr. Riley, "and Iwouldn't do it for everybody. I'll see Stelling's father-in-law, ordrop him a line when I get back to Mudport, to say that you wish toplace your boy with his son-in-law, and I dare say Stelling will writeto 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 Lady-day quarter, and you see whatgood's come of it. "

"Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi' bad malt upo' Michael-masday, elseyou'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 wifeconspicuously his inferior in intellect. "But it's true there's nohurry; you've hit it there, Bessy. "

"It might be as well not to defer the arrangement too long, " said Mr. Riley, quietly, "for Stelling may have propositions from otherparties, 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 withStelling at once: there's no necessity for sending the boy beforeMidsummer, but I would be on the safe side, and make sure that nobodyforestalls you. "

"Ay, there's summat in that, " said Mr. Tulliver. 

"Father, " broke in Maggie, who had stolen unperceived to her father'selbow again, listening with parted lips, while she held her dolltopsy-turvy, and crushed its nose against the wood of thechair, --"father, is it a long way off where Tom is to go? Sha'n't weever 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 faris it, please, sir?"

"Oh, a long, long way off, " that gentleman answered, being of opinionthat children, when they are not naughty, should always be spoken tojocosely. "You must borrow the seven-leagued boots to get to him. "

"That's nonsense!" said Maggie, tossing her head haughtily, andturning away, with the tears springing in her eyes. She began todislike Mr. Riley; it was evident he thought her silly and of noconsequence. 

"Hush, Maggie! for shame of you, asking questions and chattering, "said her mother. "Come and sit down on your little stool, and holdyour tongue, do. But, " added Mrs. Tulliver, who had her own alarmawakened, "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 drivethere and back in a day quite comfortably. Or--Stelling is ahospitable, pleasant man--he'd be glad to have you stay. "

"But it's too far off for the linen, I doubt, " said Mrs. Tulliver, sadly. 

The entrance of supper opportunely adjourned this difficulty, andrelieved Mr. Riley from the labor of suggesting some solution orcompromise, --a labor which he would otherwise doubtless haveundertaken; for, as you perceive, he was a man of very obligingmanners. And he had really given himself the trouble of recommendingMr. Stelling to his friend Tulliver without any positive expectationof a solid, definite advantage resulting to himself, notwithstandingthe subtle indications to the contrary which might have misled atoo-sagacious observer. For there is nothing more widely misleadingthan sagacity if it happens to get on a wrong scent; and sagacity, persuaded that men usually act and speak from distinct motives, with aconsciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies onimaginary game. 

Plotting covetousness and deliberate contrivance, in order to compassa selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist:they demand too intense a mental action for many of ourfellow-parishioners to be guilty of them. It is easy enough to spoilthe lives of our neighbors without taking so much trouble; we can doit by lazy acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial falsities forwhich we hardly know a reason, by small frauds neutralized by smallextravagances, by maladroit flatteries, and clumsily improvisedinsinuations. We live from hand to mouth, most of us, with a smallfamily of immediate desires; we do little else than snatch a morsel tosatisfy the hungry brood, rarely thinking of seed-corn or the nextyear'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 offar-sighted designs. He had no private understanding with the Rev. Walter Stelling; on the contrary, he knew very little of that M. A. Andhis acquirements, --not quite enough, perhaps, to warrant so strong arecommendation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. But hebelieved Mr. Stelling to be an excellent classic, for Gadsby had saidso, and Gadsby's first cousin was an Oxford tutor; which was betterground for the belief even than his own immediate observation wouldhave been, for though Mr. Riley had received a tincture of theclassics at the great Mudport Free School, and had a sense ofunderstanding Latin generally, his comprehension of any particularLatin was not ready. Doubtless there remained a subtle aroma from hisjuvenile contact with the "De Senectute" and the fourth book of the"AEneid, " but it had ceased to be distinctly recognizable as classical, and was only perceived in the higher finish and force of hisauctioneering style. Then, Stelling was an Oxford man, and the Oxfordmen were always--no, no, it was the Cambridge men who were always goodmathematicians. But a man who had had a university education couldteach anything he liked; especially a man like Stelling, who had madea speech at a Mudport dinner on a political occasion, and hadacquitted himself so well that it was generally remarked, thisson-in-law of Timpson's was a sharp fellow. It was to be expected of aMudport man, from the parish of St. Ursula, that he would not omit todo a good turn to a son-in-law of Timpson's, for Timpson was one ofthe most useful and influential men in the parish, and had a good dealof business, which he knew how to put into the right hands. Mr. Rileyliked such men, quite apart from any money which might be diverted, through their good judgment, from less worthy pockets into his own;and it would be a satisfaction to him to say to Timpson on his returnhome, "I've secured a good pupil for your son-in-law. " Timpson had alarge family of daughters; Mr. Riley felt for him; besides, LouisaTimpson's face, with its light curls, had been a familiar object tohim over the pew wainscot on a Sunday for nearly fifteen years; it wasnatural her husband should be a commendable tutor. Moreover, Mr. Rileyknew of no other schoolmaster whom he had any ground for recommendingin preference; why, then, should be not recommend Stelling? His friendTulliver had asked him for an opinion; it is always chilling, infriendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give. And if youdeliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with anair of conviction and well-founded knowledge. You make it your own inuttering it, and naturally get fond of it. Thus Mr. Riley, knowing noharm of Stelling to begin with, and wishing him well, so far as he hadany wishes at all concerning him, had no sooner recommended him thanhe began to think with admiration of a man recommended on such highauthority, and would soon have gathered so warm an interest on thesubject, that if Mr. Tulliver had in the end declined to send Tom toStelling, 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 recommendation onsuch slight grounds, I must say you are rather hard upon him. Whyshould an auctioneer and appraiser thirty years ago, who had as goodas forgotten his free-school Latin, be expected to manifest a delicatescrupulosity which is not always exhibited by gentlemen of the learnedprofessions, even in our present advanced stage of morality?

Besides, a man with the milk of human kindness in him can scarcelyabstain from doing a good-natured action, and one cannot begood-natured all round. Nature herself occasionally quarters aninconvenient parasite on an animal toward whom she has otherwise noill will. What then? We admire her care for the parasite. If Mr. Rileyhad shrunk from giving a recommendation that was not based on validevidence, he would not have helped Mr. Stelling to a paying pupil, andthat would not have been so well for the reverend gentleman. Consider, too, that all the pleasant little dim ideas and complacencies--ofstanding well with Timpson, of dispensing advice when he was asked forit, of impressing his friend Tulliver with additional respect, ofsaying something, and saying it emphatically, with other inappreciablyminute ingredients that went along with the warm hearth and thebrandy-and-water to make up Mr. Riley's consciousness on thisoccasion--would have been a mere blank. 

Chapter IV

Tom Is Expected

It was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not allowed to gowith her father in the gig when he went to fetch Tom home from theacademy; but the morning was too wet, Mrs. Tulliver said, for a littlegirl to go out in her best bonnet. Maggie took the opposite view verystrongly, and it was a direct consequence of this difference ofopinion that when her mother was in the act of brushing out thereluctant black crop Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands anddipped her head in a basin of water standing near, in the vindictivedetermination that there should be no more chance of curls that day. 

"Maggie, Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, sitting stout and helplesswith the brushes on her lap, "what is to become of you if you're sonaughty? I'll tell your aunt Glegg and your aunt Pullet when they comenext week, and they'll never love you any more. Oh dear, oh dear! lookat your clean pinafore, wet from top to bottom. Folks 'ull think it'sa judgment on me as I've got such a child, --they'll think I've donesummat wicked. "

Before this remonstrance was finished, Maggie was already out ofhearing, making her way toward the great attic that run under the oldhigh-pitched roof, shaking the water from her black locks as she ran, like a Skye terrier escaped from his bath. This attic was Maggie'sfavorite retreat on a wet day, when the weather was not too cold; hereshe fretted out all her ill humors, and talked aloud to the worm-eatenfloors and the worm-eaten shelves, and the dark rafters festooned withcobwebs; and here she kept a Fetish which she punished for all hermisfortunes. This was the trunk of a large wooden doll, which oncestared with the roundest of eyes above the reddest of cheeks; but wasnow entirely defaced by a long career of vicarious suffering. Threenails driven into the head commemorated as many crises in Maggie'snine years of earthly struggle; that luxury of vengeance having beensuggested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the oldBible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke thanusual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented aunt Glegg. Butimmediately afterward Maggie had reflected that if she drove manynails in she would not be so well able to fancy that the head was hurtwhen she knocked it against the wall, nor to comfort it, and makebelieve to poultice it, when her fury was abated; for even aunt Gleggwould be pitiable when she had been hurt very much, and thoroughlyhumiliated, so as to beg her niece's pardon. Since then she had drivenno more nails in, but had soothed herself by alternately grinding andbeating the wooden head against the rough brick of the great chimneysthat made two square pillars supporting the roof. That was what shedid this morning on reaching the attic, sobbing all the while with apassion that expelled every other form of consciousness, --even thememory of the grievance that had caused it. As at last the sobs weregetting quieter, and the grinding less fierce, a sudden beam ofsunshine, falling through the wire lattice across the worm-eatenshelves, made her throw away the Fetish and run to the window. The sunwas really breaking out; the sound of the mill seemed cheerful again;the granary doors were open; and there was Yap, the queerwhite-and-brown terrier, with one ear turned back, trotting about andsniffing vaguely, as if he were in search of a companion. It wasirresistible. Maggie tossed her hair back and ran downstairs, seizedher bonnet without putting it on, peeped, and then dashed along thepassage lest she should encounter her mother, and was quickly out inthe 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 forit. 

"Hegh, hegh, Miss! you'll make yourself giddy, an' tumble down i' thedirt, " said Luke, the head miller, a tall, broad-shouldered man offorty, 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 cameout with her black hair powdered to a soft whiteness that made herdark eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din, the unrestingmotion of the great stones, giving her a dim, delicious awe as at thepresence of an uncontrollable force; the meal forever pouring, pouring; the fine white powder softening all surfaces, and making thevery spidernets look like a faery lace-work; the sweet, pure scent ofthe meal, --all helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a littleworld apart from her outside every-day life. The spiders wereespecially a subject of speculation with her. She wondered if they hadany relatives outside the mill, for in that case there must be apainful difficulty in their family intercourse, --a fat and flouryspider, accustomed to take his fly well dusted with meal, must suffera little at a cousin's table where the fly was _au naturel_, and thelady spiders must be mutually shocked at each other's appearance. Butthe part of the mill she liked best was the topmost story, --thecorn-hutch, where there were the great heaps of grain, which she couldsit on and slide down continually. She was in the habit of taking thisrecreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom she was verycommunicative, wishing him to think well of her understanding, as herfather did. 

Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him on thepresent occasion for, as she sat sliding on the heap of grain nearwhich he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill pitch which wasrequisite in mill-society, --

"I think you never read any book but the Bible, did you, Luke?"

"Nay, Miss, an' not much o' that, " said Luke, with great frankness. "I'm no reader, I aren't. "

"But if I lent you one of my books, Luke? I've not got any _very_pretty books that would be easy for you to read; but there's 'Pug'sTour of Europe, '--that would tell you all about the different sorts ofpeople in the world, and if you didn't understand the reading, thepictures would help you; they show the looks and ways of the people, and what they do. There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, youknow, and one sitting on a barrel. "

"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 ourfellow-creatures. "

"Not much o' fellow-creaturs, I think, Miss; all I know--my oldmaster, as war a knowin' man, used to say, says he, 'If e'er I sow mywheat wi'out brinin', I'm a Dutchman, ' says he; an' that war as muchas to say as a Dutchman war a fool, or next door. Nay, nay, I aren'tgoin' to bother mysen about Dutchmen. There's fools enoo, an' roguesenoo, wi'out lookin' i' books for 'em. "

"Oh, well, " said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpectedly decidedviews 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 sunfish, and a bird sitting on its tail, --Iforget its name. There are countries full of those creatures, insteadof horses and cows, you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, Luke?"

"Nay, Miss, I'n got to keep count o' the flour an' corn; I can't dowi' knowin' so many things besides my work. That's what brings folksto the gallows, --knowin' everything but what they'n got to get theirbread by. An' they're mostly lies, I think, what's printed i' thebooks: them printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i' thestreets. "

"Why, you're like my brother Tom, Luke, " said Maggie, wishing to turnthe conversation agreeably; "Tom's not fond of reading. I love Tom sodearly, Luke, --better than anybody else in the world. When he grows upI shall keep his house, and we shall always live together. I can tellhim everything he doesn't know. But I think Tom's clever, for all hedoesn't like books; he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit-pens. "

"Ah, " said Luke, "but he'll be fine an' vexed, as the rabbits are alldead. "

"Dead!" screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding seat on the corn. "Oh dear, Luke! What! the lop-eared one, and the spotted doe that Tomspent all his money to buy?"

"As dead as moles, " said Luke, fetching his comparison from theunmistakable corpses nailed to the stable wall. 

"Oh dear, Luke, " said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the big tearsrolled 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 wasnobody's business to see to 'em. I reckon Master Tom told Harry tofeed 'em, but there's no countin' on Harry; _he's_ an offal creatur asiver come about the primises, he is. He remembers nothing but his owninside--an' I wish it'ud gripe him. "

"Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rabbits every day;but how could I, when they didn't come into my head, you know? Oh, hewill be so angry with me, I know he will, and so sorry about hisrabbits, and so am I sorry. Oh, what _shall_ I do?"

"Don't you fret, Miss, " said Luke, soothingly; "they're nash things, them lop-eared rabbits; they'd happen ha' died, if they'd been fed. Things out o' natur niver thrive: God A'mighty doesn't like 'em. Hemade the rabbits' ears to lie back, an' it's nothin' but contrairinessto make 'em hing down like a mastiff dog's. Master Tom 'ull knowbetter nor buy such things another time. Don't you fret, Miss. Willyou come along home wi' me, and see my wife? I'm a-goin' this minute. "

The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Maggie's grief, andher tears gradually subsided as she trotted along by Luke's side tohis pleasant cottage, which stood with its apple and pear trees, andwith the added dignity of a lean-to pigsty, at the other end of theMill fields. Mrs. Moggs, Luke's wife, was a decidely agreeableacquaintance. She exhibited her hospitality in bread and treacle, andpossessed various works of art. Maggie actually forgot that she hadany special cause of sadness this morning, as she stood on a chair tolook at a remarkable series of pictures representing the Prodigal Sonin the costume of Sir Charles Grandison, except that, as might havebeen expected from his defective moral character, he had not, likethat accomplished hero, the taste and strength of mind to dispensewith a wig. But the indefinable weight the dead rabbits had left onher mind caused her to feel more than usual pity for the career ofthis weak young man, particularly when she looked at the picture wherehe leaned against a tree with a flaccid appearance, his knee-breechesunbuttoned and his wig awry, while the swine apparently of someforeign breed, seemed to insult him by their good spirits over theirfeast of husks. 

"I'm very glad his father took him back again, aren't you, Luke?" shesaid. "For he was very sorry, you know, and wouldn't do wrong again. "

"Eh, Miss, " said Luke, "he'd be no great shakes, I doubt, let'sfeyther do what he would for him. "

That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished much that thesubsequent history of the young man had not been left a blank. 

Chapter V

Tom Comes Home

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was anotherfluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for thesound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had astrong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the soundcame, --that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels, --and in spite ofthe wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely torespect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside thedoor, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgettingall the griefs of the morning. 

"There he is, my sweet lad! But, Lord ha' mercy! he's got never acollar on; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and spoilt theset. "

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one legand 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 Maggiehung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-grayeyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where hepromised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrowmorning. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, andat twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings, --alad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows, --a physiognomy in which it seemsimpossible to discern anything but the generic character to boyhood;as different as possible from poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemedto have moulded and colored with the most decided intention. But thatsame Nature has the deep cunning which hides itself under theappearance of openness, so that simple people think they can seethrough her quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing arefutation of their confident prophecies. Under these average boyishphysiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross, she concealssome of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her mostunmodifiable characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebelliousgirl may after all turn out to be a passive being compared with thispink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features. 

"Maggie, " said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soonas his mother was gone out to examine his box and the warm parlor hadtaken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't knowwhat I've got in _my_ pockets, " nodding his head up and down as ameans of rousing her sense of mystery. 

"No, " said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles)or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said itwas "no good" playing with _her_ at those games, she played so badly. 

"Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, andcobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But seehere!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket. 

"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bitof yellow. "

"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"

"Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom, " said Maggie, impatiently. 

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you, " said Tom, thrusting hishand back into his pocket and looking determined. 

"No, Tom, " said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that washeld stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because Ican't bear guessing. _Please_ be good to me. "

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a newfish-line--two new uns, --one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. Iwouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to savethe 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-morrowdown by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie andput the worms on, and everything; won't it be fun?"

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's neck and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowlyunwound some of the line, saying, after a pause, --

"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? Youknow, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked. "

"Yes, very, very good--I _do_ love you, Tom. "

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

"And the fellows fought me, because I wouldn't give in about thetoffee. "

"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't ithurt you?"

"Hurt me? no, " said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out alarge pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which helooked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then headded, --

"I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know; that's what he got by wanting toleather _me;_ I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leatheredme. "

"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there camea 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 nolions, only in the shows. "

"No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa, whereit's very hot; the lions eat people there. I can show it you in thebook 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, notthinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might runtoward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should youdo, Tom?"

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But thelion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?"

"But I like to fancy how it would be, " said Maggie, following him. "Just think what you would do, Tom. "

"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly. I shall go and see myrabbits. "

Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sadtruth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as hewent out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften atonce his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of allthings; it was quite a different anger from her own. 

"Tom, " she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much moneydid 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 purseupstairs. 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, because I'm a boy. I alwayshave half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes because Ishall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you'reonly a girl. "

"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and asixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits with it?"

"More rabbits? I don't want any more. "

"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead. "

Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie. "You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot?" he said, his colorheightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into Harry. I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n'tgo fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbitsevery day. " He walked on again. 

"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so verysorry, " said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast. 

"You're a naughty girl, " said Tom, severely, "and I'm sorry I boughtyou the fish-line. I don't love you. "

"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel, " sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if _you_forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you andlove you. "

"Yes, you're silly; but I never _do_ forget things, _I_ don't. "

"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break, " said Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek onhis shoulder. 

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, "Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"

"Ye-ye-es, " sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly. 

"Didn't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean to buyit, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in thetoffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"

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

"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off mylozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag myfish-line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your headthrough my kite, all for nothing. "

"But I didn't mean, " said Maggie; "I couldn't help it. "

"Yes, you could, " said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. Andyou'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 themill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain to him of Harry. 

Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two;then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor and laid her head against the worm-eatenshelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she hadthought how happy she should be; and now he was cruel to her. What usewas anything if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't shewanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? Sheknew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty toTom--had never _meant_ to be naughty to him. 

"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure inthe hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of theattic. She never thought of beating or grinding her Fetish; she wastoo 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, andthe space from summer to summer seems measureless. 

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must betea-time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well, then, she would stay up there and starve herself, --hide herselfbehind the tub, and stay there all night, --and then they would all befrightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought in the prideof her heart, as she crept behind the tub; but presently she began tocry again at the idea that they didn't mind her being there. If shewent down again to Tom now--would he forgive her? Perhaps her fatherwould be there, and he would take her part. But then she wanted Tom toforgive her because he loved her, not because his father told him. No, she would never go down if Tom didn't come to fetch her. Thisresolution lasted in great intensity for five dark minutes behind thetub; but then the need of being loved--the strongest need in poorMaggie'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, butjust then she heard a quick foot-step on the stairs. 

Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke, in going theround of the premises, walking in and out where he pleased, andwhittling sticks without any particular reason, --except that he didn'twhittle sticks at school, --to think of Maggie and the effect his angerhad produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that business havingbeen performed, he occupied himself with other matters, like apractical person. But when he had been called in to tea, his fathersaid, "Why, where's the little wench?" and Mrs. Tulliver, almost atthe same moment, said, "Where's your little sister?"--both of themhaving supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all theafternoon. 

"I don't know, " said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, thoughhe was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor. 

"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said thefather. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your coming home. "

"I haven't seen her this two hours, " says Tom, commencing on theplumcake. 

"Goodness heart; she's got drownded!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, risingfrom her seat and running to the window. 

"How could you let her do so?" she added, as became a fearful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of she didn't know what. 

"Nay, nay, she's none drownded, " said Mr. Tulliver. "You've beennaughty to her, I doubt, Tom?"

"I'm sure I haven't, father, " said Tom, indignantly. "I think she's inthe house. "

"Perhaps up in that attic, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talkingto herself, and forgetting all about meal-times. "

"You go and fetch her down, Tom, " said Mr. Tulliver, rathersharply, --his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie makinghim suspect that the lad had been hard upon "the little un, " else shewould never have left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? ElseI'll let you know better. "

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man, and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold of his whip-hand;but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plumcake, andnot intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more thanshe deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views ingrammar and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as openquestions, but he was particularly clear and positive on onepoint, --namely, that he would punish everybody 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 herneed of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down withher swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At least herfather would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench. " It is awonderful subduer, this need of love, --this hunger of the heart, --asperemptory as that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit tothe yoke, and change the face of the world. 

But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently withthe sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairsand said, "Maggie, you're to come down. " But she rushed to him andclung round his neck, sobbing, "Oh, Tom, please forgive me--I can'tbear it--I will always be good--always remember things--do loveme--please, dear Tom!"

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when wehave quarrelled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases, and in thisway preserve a dignified alienation, showing much firmness on oneside, and swallowing much grief on the other. We no longer approximatein our behavior to the mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, butconduct ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilizedsociety. Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, andso she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a randomsobbing way; and there were tender fibres in the lad that had beenused to answer to Maggie's fondling, so that he behaved with aweakness quite inconsistent with his resolution to punish her as muchas she deserved. He actually began to kiss her in return, and say, --

"Don't cry, then, Magsie; here, eat a bit o' cake. "

Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cakeand bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and theyate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and brows and nosestogether, while they ate, with a humiliating resemblance to twofriendly ponies. 

"Come along, Magsie, and have tea, " said Tom at last, when there wasno more cake except what was down-stairs. 

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie wastrotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of thebasket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in themuddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under herbeaver-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'tfeel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if theydid). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and whatbirds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way thehandles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort ofknowledge was very wonderful, --much more difficult than rememberingwhat was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge "stuff, " and didnot feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion thatMaggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly, --they couldn'tthrow a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with apocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond ofhis sister, and meant always to take care of her, make her hishousekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong. 

They were on their way to the Round Pool, --that wonderful pool, whichthe floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; andit was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only tobe seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favoritespot always heightened Tom's good humor, and he spoke to Maggie in themost amicable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and preparedtheir tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into herhand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to herhook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about thefish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, ina loud whisper, "Look, look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent herfrom snatching her line away. 

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, asusual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tenchbouncing on the grass. 

Tom was excited. 

"O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket. "

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tomcalled her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to marher delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listenedto the light dripping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentlerustling, as if the willows and the reeds and the water had theirhappy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very niceheaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She neverknew she had a bite till Tom told her; but she liked fishing verymuch. 

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat downtogether, with no thought that life would ever change much for them;they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would alwaysbe like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond ofeach other. And the mill with its booming; the great chestnut-treeunder which they played at houses; their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing thewater-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 rushingspring-tide, the awful Eagle, come up like a hungry monster, or to seethe Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man, thesethings would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people wereat a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe; andMaggie, when she read about Christiana passing "the river over whichthere is no bridge, " always saw the Floss between the green pasturesby the Great Ash. 

Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong inbelieving that the thoughts and loves of these first years wouldalways make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earthso well if we had had no childhood in it, --if it were not the earthwhere the same flowers come up again every spring that we used togather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on thegrass; the same hips and haws on the autumn's hedgerows; the sameredbreasts that we used to call "God's birds, " because they did noharm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotonywhere everything is known, and _loved_ because it is known?

The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brownfoliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the whitestar-flowers and the blue-eyed speedwell and the ground ivy at myfeet, what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendidbroad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicatefibres within me as this home scene? These familiar flowers, thesewell-remembered bird-notes, this sky, with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personalitygiven to it by the capricious hedgerows, --such things as these are themother-tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with allthe subtle, inextricable associations the fleeting hours of ourchildhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on thedeep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception ofwearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in thefar-off years which still live in us, and transform our perceptioninto love. 

Chapter VI

The Aunts and Uncles Are Coming

It was Easter week, and Mrs. Tulliver's cheesecakes were moreexquisitely light than usual. "A puff o' wind 'ud make 'em blow aboutlike feathers, " Kezia the housemaid said, feeling proud to live undera mistress who could make such pastry; so that no season orcircumstances could have been more propitious for a family party, evenif it had not been advisable to consult sister Glegg and sister Pulletabout Tom's going to school. 

"I'd as lief not invite sister Deane this time, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "for she's as jealous and having as can be, and's allays trying tomake the worst o' my poor children to their aunts and uncles. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Tulliver, "ask her to come. I never hardly get abit o' talk with Deane now; we haven't had him this six months. What'sit matter what she says? My children need be beholding to nobody. "

"That's what you allays say, Mr. Tulliver; but I'm sure there's nobodyo' your side, neither aunt nor uncle, to leave 'em so much as afive-pound note for a leggicy. And there's sister Glegg, and sisterPullet too, saving money unknown, for they put by all their owninterest and butter-money too; their husbands buy 'em everything. "Mrs. Tulliver was a mild woman, but even a sheep will face about alittle when she has lambs. 

"Tchuh!" said Mr. Tulliver. "It takes a big loaf when there's many tobreakfast. What signifies your sisters' bits o' money when they've gothalf-a-dozen nevvies and nieces to divide it among? And your sisterDeane won't get 'em to leave all to one, I reckon, and make thecountry cry shame on 'em when they are dead?"

"I don't know what she won't get 'em to do, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "formy children are so awk'ard wi' their aunts and uncles. Maggie's tentimes naughtier when they come than she is other days, and Tom doesn'tlike 'em, bless him!--though it's more nat'ral in a boy than a gell. And there's Lucy Dean's such a good child, --you may set her on astool, and there she'llsit for an hour together, and never offer toget off. I can't help loving the child as if she was my own; and I'msure she's more like _my_ child than sister Deane's, for she'd allaysa very poor color for one of our family, sister Deane had. "

"Well, well, if you're fond o' the child, ask her father and mother tobring 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 thechildren, and I must put two more leaves i' the table, besidesreaching down more o' the dinner-service; and you know as well as I doas _my_ sisters and _your_ sister don't suit well together. "

"Well, well, do as you like, Bessy, " said Mr. Tulliver, taking up hishat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were more submissive thanMrs. Tulliver on all points unconnected with her family relations; butshe had been a Miss Dodson, and the Dodsons were a very respectablefamily indeed, --as much looked up to as any in their own parish, orthe next to it. The Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold uptheir heads very high, and no one was surprised the two eldest hadmarried so well, --not at an early age, for that was not the practiceof the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing everythingin that family: particular ways of bleaching the linen, of making thecowslip wine, curing the hams, and keeping the bottled gooseberries;so that no daughter of that house could be indifferent to theprivilege of having been born a Dodson, rather than a Gibson or aWatson. Funerals were always conducted with peculiar propriety in theDodson family: the hat-bands were never of a blue shade, the glovesnever split at the thumb, everybody was a mourner who ought to be, andthere were always scarfs for the bearers. When one of the family wasin trouble or sickness, all the rest went to visit the unfortunatemember, usually at the same time, and did not shrink from uttering themost disagreeable truths that correct family feeling dictated; if theillness or trouble was the sufferer's own fault, it was not in thepractice of the Dodson family to shrink from saying so. In short, there was in this family a peculiar tradition as to what was the rightthing in household management and social demeanor, and the only bittercircumstance attending this superiority was a painful inability toapprove the condiments or the conduct of families ungoverned by theDodson tradition. A female Dodson, when in "strange houses, " alwaysate dry bread with her tea, and declined any sort of preserves, havingno confidence in the butter, and thinking that the preserves hadprobably begun to ferment from want of due sugar and boiling. Therewere some Dodsons less like the family than others, that was admitted;but in so far as they were "kin, " they were of necessity better thanthose who were "no kin. " And it is remarkable that while no individualDodson was satisfied with any other individual Dodson, each wassatisfied, not only with him or her self, but with the Dodsonscollectively. The feeblest member of a family--the one who has theleast character--is often the merest epitome of the family habits andtraditions; and Mrs. Tulliver was a thorough Dodson, though a mildone, as small-beer, so long as it is anything, is only describable asvery weak ale: and though she had groaned a little in her youth underthe yoke of her elder sisters, and still shed occasional tears attheir sisterly reproaches, it was not in Mrs. Tulliver to be aninnovator on the family ideas. She was thankful to have been a Dodson, and to have one child who took after her own family, at least in hisfeatures and complexion, in liking salt and in eating beans, which aTulliver never did. 

In other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, and he wasas far from appreciating his "kin" on the mother's side as Maggieherself, generally absconding for the day with a large supply of themost portable food, when he received timely warning that his aunts anduncles were coming, --a moral symptom from which his aunt Glegg deducedthe gloomiest views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie thatTom always absconded without letting her into the secret, but theweaker sex are acknowledged to be serious _impedimenta_ in cases offlight. 

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were coming, therewere such various and suggestive scents, as of plumcakes in the ovenand jellies in the hot state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that itwas impossible to feel altogether gloomy: there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie made several inroads into the kitchen, and, like othermarauders, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being allowedto carry away a sufficient load of booty. 

"Tom, " said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder-tree, eating their jam-puffs, "shall you run away to-morrow?"

"No, " said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eyingthe third, which was to be divided between them, --"no, I sha'n't. "

"Why, Tom? Because Lucy's coming?"

"No, " said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it over the puff, with his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficultproblem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts. )"What do _I_ care about Lucy? She's only a girl, --_she_ can't play atbandy. "

"Is it the tipsy-cake, then?" said Maggie, exerting her hypotheticpowers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with her eyes fixed on thehovering knife. 

"No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the pudden. I knowwhat the pudden's to be, --apricot roll-up--O my buttons!"

With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff, and it was intwo, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for he still eyed thehalves doubtfully. At last he said, --

"Shut your eyes, Maggie. "

"What for?"

"You never mind what for. Shut 'em when I tell you. "

Maggie obeyed. 

"Now, which'll you have, Maggie, --right hand or left?"

"I'll have that with the jam run out, " said Maggie, keeping her eyesshut to please Tom. 

"Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if it comes toyou fair, but I sha'n't give it you without. Right or left, --youchoose, now. Ha-a-a!" said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggiepeeped. "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 shecared 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 bestpiece to Maggie. 

"Oh, please, Tom, have it; I don't mind--I like the other; please takethis. "

"No, I sha'n't, " said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his owninferior piece. 

Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began too, and ateup her half puff with considerable relish as well as rapidity. But Tomhad finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her lastmorsel or two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didn'tknow Tom was looking at her; she was seesawing on the elder-bough, lost to almost everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness. 

"Oh, you greedy thing!" said Tom, when she had swallowed the lastmorsel. He was conscious of having acted very fairly, and thought sheought to have considered this, and made up to him for it. He wouldhave refused a bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at adifferent point of view before and after one's own share of puff isswallowed. 

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 havethought of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit. "

"But I wanted you to have it; you know I did, " said Maggie, in aninjured tone. 

"Yes, but I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair, like Spouncer. Healways takes the best bit, if you don't punch him for it; and if youchoose the best with your eyes shut, he changes his hands. But if I gohalves, I'll go 'em fair; only I wouldn't be a greedy. "

With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his bough, and threwa stone with a "hoigh!" as a friendly attention to Yap, who had alsobeen looking on while the eatables vanished, with an agitation of hisears and feelings which could hardly have been without bitterness. Yetthe excellent dog accepted Tom's attention with as much alacrity as ifhe had been treated quite generously. 

But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery whichdistinguishes the human being, and places him at a proud distance fromthe most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still on her bough, and gaveherself up to the keen sense of unmerited reproach. She would havegiven the world not to have eaten all her puff, and to have saved someof it for Tom. Not but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie'spalate was not at all obtuse, but she would have gone without it manytimes over, sooner than Tom should call her greedy and be cross withher. And he had said he wouldn't have it, and she ate it withoutthinking; how could she help it? The tears flowed so plentifully thatMaggie saw nothing around her for the next ten minutes; but by thattime resentment began to give way to the desire of reconciliation, andshe jumped from her bough to look for Tom. He was no longer in thepaddock behind the rickyard; where was he likely to be gone, and Yapwith 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 herheart sank again as she saw how far off he was on his way to the greatriver, and that he had another companion besides Yap, --naughty BobJakin, whose official, if not natural, function of frightening thebirds was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt sure that Bob waswicked, without very distinctly knowing why; unless it was becauseBob's mother was a dreadfully large fat woman, who lived at a queerround house down the river; and once, when Maggie and Tom had wanderedthither, there rushed out a brindled dog that wouldn't stop barking;and when Bob's mother came out after it, and screamed above thebarking to tell them not to be frightened, Maggie thought she wasscolding them fiercely, and her heart beat with terror. Maggie thoughtit very likely that the round house had snakes on the floor, and batsin the bedroom; for she had seen Bob take off his cap to show Tom alittle snake that was inside it, and another time he had a handful ofyoung bats: altogether, he was an irregular character, perhaps evenslightly diabolical, judging from his intimacy with snakes and bats;and to crown all, when Tom had Bob for a companion, he didn't mindabout Maggie, and would never let her go with him. 

It must be owned that Tom was fond of Bob's company. How could it beotherwise? Bob knew, directly he saw a bird's egg, whether it was aswallow's, or a tomtit's, or a yellow-hammer's; he found out all thewasps' nests, and could set all sort of traps; he could climb thetrees like a squirrel, and had quite a magical power of detectinghedgehogs and stoats; and he had courage to do things that were rathernaughty, such as making gaps in the hedgerows, throwing stones afterthe sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering _incognito_. 

Such qualities in an inferior, who could always be treated withauthority in spite of his superior knowingness, had necessarily afatal fascination for Tom; and every holiday-time Maggie was sure tohave days of grief because he had gone off with Bob. 

Well! there was no hope for it; he was gone now, and Maggie couldthink of no comfort but to sit down by the hollow, or wander by thehedgerow, and fancy it was all different, refashioning her littleworld into just what she should like it to be. 

Maggie's was a troublous life, and this was the form in which she tookher opium. 

Meanwhile Tom, forgetting all about Maggie and the sting of reproachwhich he had left in her heart, was hurrying along with Bob, whom hehad met accidentally, to the scene of a great rat-catching in aneighboring barn. Bob knew all about this particular affair, and spokeof the sport with an enthusiasm which no one who is not eitherdivested of all manly feeling, or pitiably ignorant of rat-catching, can fail to imagine. For a person suspected of preternaturalwickedness, Bob was really not so very villanous-looking; there waseven something agreeable in his snub-nosed face, with its close-curledborder of red hair. But then his trousers were always rolled up at theknee, for the convenience of wading on the slightest notice; and hisvirtue, supposing it to exist, was undeniably "virtue in rags, " which, on the authority even of bilious philosophers, who think allwell-dressed merit overpaid, is notoriously likely to remainunrecognized (perhaps because it is seen so seldom). 

"I know the chap as owns the ferrets, " said Bob, in a hoarse treblevoice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue eyes fixed on the river, like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion for darting in. "Helives up the Kennel Yard at Sut Ogg's, he does. He's the biggestrot-catcher anywhere, he is. I'd sooner, be a rot-catcher noranything, I would. The moles is nothing to the rots. But Lors! you munha' ferrets. Dogs is no good. Why, there's that dog, now!" Bobcontinued, pointing with an air of disgust toward Yap, "he's no moregood wi' a rot nor nothin'. I see it myself, I did, at therot-catchin' i' your feyther's barn. "

Yap, feeling the withering influence of this scorn, tucked his tail inand shrank close to Tom's leg, who felt a little hurt for him, but hadnot the superhuman courage to seem behindhand with Bob in contempt fora dog who made so poor a figure. 

"No, no, " he said, "Yap's no good at sport. I'll have regular gooddogs for rats and everything, when I've done school. "

"Hev ferrets, Measter Tom, " said Bob, eagerly, --"them white ferretswi' pink eyes; Lors, you might catch your own rots, an' you might puta rot in a cage wi' a ferret, an' see 'em fight, you might. That'swhat I'd do, I know, an' it 'ud be better fun a'most nor seein' twochaps fight, --if it wasn't them chaps as sold cakes an' oranges at theFair, as the things flew out o' their baskets, an' some o' the cakeswas smashed--But they tasted just as good, " added Bob, by way of noteor addendum, after a moment's pause. 

"But, I say, Bob, " said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, "ferrets arenasty biting things, --they'll bite a fellow without being set on. "

"Lors! why that's the beauty on 'em. If a chap lays hold o' yourferret, 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 intheir walk. It was the plunging of some small body in the water fromamong the neighboring bulrushes; if it was not a water-rat, Bobintimated that he was ready to undergo the most unpleasantconsequences. 

"Hoigh! Yap, --hoigh! there he is, " said Tom, clapping his hands, asthe 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 purpose just as well. 

"Ugh! you coward!" said Tom, and kicked him over, feeling humiliatedas a sportsman to possess so poor-spirited an animal. Bob abstainedfrom remark and passed on, choosing, however, to walk in the shallowedge of the overflowing river by way of change. 

"He's none so full now, the Floss isn't, " said Bob, as he kicked thewater up before him, with an agreeable sense of being insolent to it. "Why, last 'ear, the meadows was all one sheet o' water, they was. "

"Ay, but, " said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an opposition betweenstatements that were really accordant, --"but there was a big floodonce, when the Round Pool was made. _I_ know there was, 'cause fathersays so. And the sheep and cows all drowned, and the boats went allover the fields ever such a way. "

"_I_ don't care about a flood comin', " said Bob; "I don't mind thewater, no more nor the land. I'd swim, _I_ would. "

"Ah, but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long?" said Tom, hisimagination becoming quite active under the stimulus of that dread. "When I'm a man, I shall make a boat with a wooden house on the top ofit, like Noah's ark, and keep plenty to eat in it, --rabbits andthings, --all ready. And then if the flood came, you know, Bob, Ishouldn'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 appear soappalling. "But I'd get in an' knock the rabbits on th' head when youwanted 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 mighthave fewer charms for his mature age. "I'd divide fair to begin with, and then we'd see who'd win. "

"I've got a halfpenny o' my own, " said Bob, proudly, coming out of thewater and tossing his halfpenny in the air. "Yeads or tails?"

"Tails, " said Tom, instantly fired with the desire to win. 

"It's yeads, " said Bob, hastily, snatching up the halfpenny as itfell. 

"It wasn't, " said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. "You give me thehalfpenny; 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. 

"Yes, I can. "

"You can't make me do nothing, you can't, " said Bob. 

"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 andshaking 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 threwhim down, but Bob seized hold and kept it like a cat, and pulled Tomdown after him. They struggled fiercely on the ground for a moment ortwo, till Tom, pinning Bob down by the shoulders, thought he had themastery. 

"_You_, say you'll give me the halfpenny now, " he said, withdifficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the command of Bob'sarms. 

But at this moment Yap, who had been running on before, returnedbarking to the scene of action, and saw a favorable opportunity forbiting Bob's bare leg not only with inpunity but with honor. The painfrom Yap's teeth, instead of surprising Bob into a relaxation of hishold, gave it a fiercer tenacity, and with a new exertion of his forcehe pushed Tom backward and got uppermost. But now Yap, who could getno sufficient purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so thatBob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom, and, almostthrottling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time Tom was upagain, and before Bob had quite recovered his balance after the act ofswinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, threw him down, and got his kneesfirmly on Bob's chest. 

"You give me the halfpenny now, " said Tom. 

"Take it, " said Bob, sulkily. 

"No, I sha'n't take it; you give it me. "

Bob took the halfpenny out of his pocket, and threw it away from himon the ground. 

Tom loosed his hold, and left Bob to rise. 

"There the halfpenny lies, " he said. "I don't want your halfpenny; Iwouldn't have kept it. But you wanted to cheat; I hate a cheat. Isha'n't go along with you any more, " he added, turning round homeward, not without casting a regret toward the rat-catching and otherpleasures which he must relinquish along with Bob's society. 

"You may let it alone, then, " Bob called out after him. "I shall cheatif I like; there's no fun i' playing else; and I know where there's agoldfinch's nest, but I'll take care _you_ don't. An' you're a nastyfightin' turkey-cock, you are----"

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

"Go along wi' you, then, wi' your drowned dog; I wouldn't own such adog--_I_ wouldn't, " said Bob, getting louder, in a last effort tosustain his defiance. But Tom was not to be provoked into turninground, and Bob's voice began to falter a little as he said, --

"An' I'n gi'en you everything, an' showed you everything, an' niverwanted nothin' from you. An' there's your horn-handed knife, then asyou gi'en me. " Here Bob flung the knife as far as he could after Tom'sretreating footsteps. But it produced no effect, except the sense inBob's mind that there was a terrible void in his lot, now that knifewas gone. 

He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and disappearedbehind the hedge. The knife would do not good on the ground there; itwouldn't vex Tom; and pride or resentment was a feeble passion inBob's mind compared with the love of a pocket-knife. His very fingerssent entreating thrills that he would go and clutch that familiarrough buck's-horn handle, which they had so often grasped for mereaffection, as it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades, and they had just been sharpened! What is life without a pocket-knifeto him who has once tasted a higher existence? No; to throw the handleafter the hatchet is a comprehensible act of desperation, but to throwone's pocket-knife after an implacable friend is clearly in everysense a hyperbole, or throwing beyond the mark. So Bob shuffled backto the spot where the beloved knife lay in the dirt, and felt quite anew pleasure in clutching it again after the temporary separation, inopening one blade after the other, and feeling their edge with hiswell-hardened thumb. Poor Bob! he was not sensitive on the point ofhonor, not a chivalrous character. That fine moral aroma would nothave been thought much of by the public opinion of Kennel Yard, whichwas the very focus or heart of Bob's world, even if it could have madeitself perceptible there; yet, for all that, he was not utterly asneak and a thief as our friend Tom had hastily decided. 

But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Rhadamanthine personage, havingmore than the usual share of boy's justice in him, --the justice thatdesires to hurt culprits as much as they deserve to be hurt, and istroubled with no doubts concerning the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a cloud on his brow when he came home, which checked herjoy at his coming so much sooner than she had expected, and she daredhardly speak to him as he stood silently throwing the smallgravel-stones into the mill-dam. It is not pleasant to give up arat-catching when you have set your mind on it. But if Tom had toldhis strongest feeling at that moment, he would have said, "I'd do justthe same again. " That was his usual mode of viewing his past actions;whereas Maggie was always wishing she had done something different. 

Chapter VII

Enter the Aunts and Uncles

The Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs. Glegg was notthe least handsome of the sisters. As she sat in Mrs. Tulliver'sarm-chair, no impartial observer could have denied that for a woman offifty she had a very comely face and figure, though Tom and Maggieconsidered their aunt Glegg as the type of ugliness. It is true shedespised the advantages of costume, for though, as she often observed, no woman had better clothes, it was not her way to wear her new thingsout before her old ones. Other women, if they liked, might have theirbest thread-lace in every wash; but when Mrs. Glegg died, it would befound that she had better lace laid by in the right-hand drawer of herwardrobe in the Spotted Chamber than ever Mrs. Wooll of St. Ogg's hadbought in her life, although Mrs. Wooll wore her lace before it waspaid for. So of her curled fronts: Mrs. Glegg had doubtless theglossiest and crispest brown curls in her drawers, as well as curls invarious degrees of fuzzy laxness; but to look out on the week-dayworld from under a crisp and glossy front would be to introduce a mostdreamlike and unpleasant confusion between the sacred and the secular. Occasionally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one of her third-best fronts ona week-day visit, but not at a sister's house; especially not at Mrs. Tulliver's, who, since her marriage, had hurt her sister's feelingsgreatly by wearing her own hair, though, as Mrs. Glegg observed toMrs. Deane, a mother of a family, like Bessy, with a husband alwaysgoing to law, might have been expected to know better. But Bessy wasalways weak!

So if Mrs. Glegg's front to-day was more fuzzy and lax than usual, shehad a design under it: she intended the most pointed and cuttingallusion to Mrs. Tulliver's bunches of blond curls, separated fromeach other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs. Tulliver had shed tears several times at sister Glegg'sunkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but theconsciousness of looking the handsomer for them naturally administeredsupport. Mrs. Glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the houseto-day, --united and tilted slightly, of course--a frequent practice ofhers 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. Forthe same reason she wore a small sable tippet, which reached just toher shoulders, and was very far from meeting across her well-formedchest, while her long neck was protected by a _chevaux-de-frise_ ofmiscellaneous frilling. One would need to be learned in the fashionsof those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs. Glegg'sslate-colored silk gown must have been; but from certainconstellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odor aboutit suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it was probable that itbelonged to a stratum of garments just old enough to have comerecently into wear. 

Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the many-doubledchain round her fingers, and observed to Mrs. Tulliver, who had justreturned from a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be byother people's clocks and watches, it was gone half-past twelve byhers. 

"I don't know what ails sister Pullet, " she continued. "It used to bethe way in our family for one to be as early as another, --I'm sure itwas so in my poor father's time, --and not for one sister to sit halfan hour before the others came. But if the ways o' the family arealtered, it sha'n't be _my_ fault; _I'll_ never be the one to comeinto a house when all the rest are going away. I wonder _at_ sisterDeane, --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 dinnerwon't be ready till half-past one. But if it's long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake and a glass o' wine. "

"Well, Bessy!" said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter smile and a scarcelyperceptible toss of her head, "I should ha' thought you'd known yourown sister better. I never _did_ eat between meals, and I'm not goingto begin. Not but what I hate that nonsense of having your dinner athalf-past one, when you might have it at one. You was never brought upin that way, Bessy. "

"Why, Jane, what can I do? Mr. Tulliver doesn't like his dinner beforetwo o'clock, but I put it half an hour earlier because o' you. "

"Yes, yes, I know how it is with husbands, --they're for puttingeverything off; they'll put the dinner off till after tea, if they'vegot wives as are weak enough to give in to such work; but it's a pityfor you, Bessy, as you haven't got more strength o' mind. It'll bewell if your children don't suffer for it. And I hope you've not goneand 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 withextravagance. I wonder you don't take pattern by your sister Deane;she's far more sensible. And here you've got two children to providefor, and your husband's spent your fortin i' going to law, and'slikely to spend his own too. A boiled joint, as you could make brothof 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 befar more becoming. "

With sister Glegg in this humor, there was a cheerful prospect for theday. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of quarrelling with her, anymore than a water-fowl that puts out its leg in a deprecating mannercan be said to quarrel with a boy who throws stones. But this point ofthe dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so that Mrs. Tullivercould make the same answer she had often made before. 

"Mr. Tulliver says he always _will_ have a good dinner for his friendswhile he can pay for it, " she said; "and he's a right to do as helikes in his own house, sister. "

"Well, Bessy, _I_ can't leave your children enough out o' my savingsto keep 'em from ruin. And you mustn't look to having any o' Mr. Glegg's money, for it's well if I don't go first, --he comes of along-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 interruptionhighly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, who hastened out to receive sisterPullet; it must be sister Pullet, because the sound was that of afour-wheel. 

Mrs. Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the mouth atthe thought of the "four-wheel. " She had a strong opinion on thatsubject. 

Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped beforeMrs. Tulliver's door, and it was apparently requisite that she shouldshed a few more before getting out; for though her husband and Mrs. Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her headsadly, as she looked through her tears at the vague distance. 

"Why, whativer is the matter, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver. She was notan imaginative woman, but it occurred to her that the largetoilet-glass in sister Pullet's best bedroom was possibly broken forthe second time. 

There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs. Pulletslowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without casting a glanceat Mr. Pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress frominjury. Mr. Pullet was a small man, with a high nose, small twinklingeyes, and thin lips, in a fresh-looking suit of black and a whitecravat, that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higherprinciple than that of mere personal ease. He bore about the samerelation to his tall, good-looking wife, with her balloon sleeves, abundant mantle, and a large befeathered and beribboned bonnet, as asmall fishing-smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread. 

It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexityintroduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization, thesight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From the sorrow of aHottentot to that of a woman in large buckram sleeves, with severalbracelets on each arm, an architectural bonnet, and delicate ribbonstrings, what a long series of gradations! In the enlightened child ofcivilization the abandonment characteristic of grief is checked andvaried in the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problemto the analytic mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half blindedby the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too-devious step througha door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves too, and the deepconsciousness of this possibility produces a composition of forces bywhich she takes a line that just clears the door-post. Perceiving thatthe tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws themlanguidly backward, a touching gesture, indicative, even in thedeepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings willonce more have a charm. As the tears subside a little, and with herhead leaning backward at the angle that will not injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when grief, which has made all thingselse a weariness, has itself become weary; she looks down pensively ather bracelets, and adjusts their clasps with that pretty studiedfortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more ina calm and healthy state. 

Mrs. Pullet brushed each door-post with great nicety, about thelatitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculousto an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half acrossthe shoulders), and having done that sent the muscles of her face inquest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor where Mrs. Gleggwas 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, beforeshe 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 legswas as thick as my body, "' she added, with deep sadness, after apause. "They'd tapped her no end o' times, and the water--they say youmight ha' swum in it, if you'd liked. "

"Well, Sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, whoever she may be, " saidMrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturallyclear and decided; "but I can't think who you're talking of, for mypart. "

"But _I_ know, " said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her head; "andthere isn't another such a dropsy in the parish. _I_ know as it's oldMrs. Sutton o' the Twentylands. "

"Well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance as I've everheared of, " said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as much as wasproper when anything happened to her own "kin, " but not on otheroccasions. 

"She's so much acquaintance as I've seen her legs when they was likebladders. And an old lady as had doubled her money over and overagain, and kept it all in her own management to the last, and had herpocket with her keys in under her pillow constant. There isn't manyold _par_ish'ners like her, I doubt. "

"And they say she'd took as much physic as 'ud fill a wagon, " observedMr. Pullet. 

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Pullet, "she'd another complaint ever so many yearsbefore she had the dropsy, and the doctors couldn't make out what itwas. And she said to me, when I went to see her last Christmas, shesaid, 'Mrs. Pullet, if ever 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, andPullet's bid to the funeral. "

"Sophy, " said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit ofrational remonstrance, --"Sophy, I wonder _at_ you, fretting andinjuring your health about people as don't belong to you. Your poorfather never did so, nor your aunt Frances neither, nor any o' thefamily as I ever heard of. You couldn't fret no more than this, ifwe'd heared as our cousin Abbott had died sudden without making hiswill. "

Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and ratherflattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too much. Itwas not everybody who could afford to cry so much about theirneighbors who had left them nothing; but Mrs. Pullet had married agentleman farmer, and had leisure and money to carry her crying andeverything 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 something to sanctionhis wife's tears; "ours is a rich parish, but they say there's nobodyelse to leave as many thousands behind 'em as Mrs. Sutton. And she'sleft no leggicies to speak on, --left it all in a lump to her husband'snevvy. "

"There wasn't much good i' being so rich, then, " said Mrs. Glegg, "ifshe'd got none but husband's kin to leave it to. It's poor work whenthat's all you've got to pinch yourself for. Not as I'm one o' thoseas 'ud like to die without leaving more money out at interest thanother folks had reckoned; but it's a poor tale when it must go out o'your own family. "

"I'm sure, sister, " said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered sufficientlyto take off her veil and fold it carefully, "it's a nice sort o' manas Mrs. Sutton has left her money to, for he's troubled with theasthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight o'clock. He told me aboutit himself--as free as could be--one Sunday when he came to ourchurch. He wears a hareskin on his chest, and has a trembling in histalk, --quite a gentleman sort o' man. I told him there wasn't manymonths in the year as I wasn't under the doctor's hands. And he said, 'Mrs. Pullet, I can feel for you. ' That was what he said, --the verywords. Ah!" sighed Mrs. Pullet, shaking her head at the idea thatthere were but few who could enter fully into her experiences in pinkmixture and white mixture, strong stuff in small bottles, and weakstuff in large bottles, damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts ateighteenpence. "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 herhusband. 

Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had forgotten it, andhastened out, with a stricken conscience, to remedy the omission. 

"They'll bring it upstairs, sister, " said Mrs. Tulliver, wishing to goat once, lest Mrs. Glegg should begin to explain her feelings aboutSophy's being the first Dodson who ever ruined her constitution withdoctor's stuff. 

Mrs. Tulliver was fond of going upstairs with her sister Pullet, andlooking thoroughly at her cap before she put it on her head, anddiscussing millinery in general. This was part of Bessy's weaknessthat stirred Mrs. Glegg's sisterly compassion: Bessy went far too welldressed, considering; and she was too proud to dress her child in thegood clothing her sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata ofher wardrobe; it was a sin and a shame to buy anything to dress thatchild, if it wasn't a pair of shoes. In this particular, however, Mrs. Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs. Tulliver hadreally made great efforts to induce Maggie to wear a leghorn bonnetand a dyed silk frock made out of her aunt Glegg's, but the resultshad been such that Mrs. Tulliver was obliged to bury them in hermaternal bosom; for Maggie, declaring that the frock smelt of nastydye, had taken an opportunity of basting it together with the roastbeef the first Sunday she wore it, and finding this scheme answer, shehad subsequently pumped on the bonnet with its green ribbons, so as togive it a general resemblance to a sage cheese garnished with witheredlettuces. I must urge in excuse for Maggie, that Tom had laughed ather in the bonnet, and said she looked like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of clothes, but these were always pretty enough toplease Maggie as well as her mother. Of all her sisters, Mrs. Tullivercertainly preferred her sister Pullet, not without a return ofpreference; but Mrs. Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty, awkwardchildren; she would do the best she could by them, but it was a pitythey weren't as good and as pretty as sister Deane's child. Maggie andTom, on their part, thought their aunt Pullet tolerable, chieflybecause she was not their aunt Glegg. Tom always declined to go morethan once during his holidays to see either of them. Both his unclestipped him that once, of course; but at his aunt Pullet's there were agreat many toads to pelt in the cellar-area, so that he preferred thevisit to her. Maggie shuddered at the toads, and dreamed of themhorribly, but she liked her uncle Pullet's musical snuff-box. Still, it was agreed by the sisters, in Mrs. Tulliver's absence, that theTulliver blood did not mix well with the Dodson blood; that, in fact, poor Bessy's children were Tullivers, and that Tom, notwithstanding hehad the Dodson complexion, was likely to be as "contrairy" as hisfather. As for Maggie, she was the picture of her aunt Moss, Mr. Tulliver's sister, --a large-boned woman, who had married as poorly ascould be; had no china, and had a husband who had much ado to pay hisrent. But when Mrs. Pullet was alone with Mrs. Tulliver upstairs, theremarks were naturally to the disadvantage of Mrs. Glegg, and theyagreed, in confidence, that there was no knowing what sort of frightsister Jane would come out next. But their _tete-a-tete_ was curtailedby the appearance of Mrs. Deane with little Lucy; and Mrs. Tulliverhad to look on with a silent pang while Lucy's blond curls wereadjusted. It was quite unaccountable that Mrs. Deane, the thinnest andsallowest of all the Miss Dodsons, should have had this child, whomight have been taken for Mrs. Tulliver's any day. And Maggie alwayslooked 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 theirfather and their uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bonnet off verycarelessly, 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 between the cousins was conspicuous, and tosuperficial eyes was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie though aconnoisseur might have seen "points" in her which had a higher promisefor maturity than Lucy's natty completeness. It was like the contrastbetween a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put upthe neatest little rosebud mouth to be kissed; everything about herwas neat, --her little round neck, with the row of coral beads; herlittle straight nose, not at all snubby; her little clear eyebrows, rather darker than her curls, to match hazel eyes, which looked upwith shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarcely ayear older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight. 

She was fond of fancying a world where the people never got any largerthan children of their own age, and she made the queen of it just likeLucy, with a little crown on her head, and a little sceptre in herhand--only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy's form. 

"Oh, Lucy, " she burst out, after kissing her, "you'll stay with Tomand me, won't you? Oh, kiss her, Tom. "

Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her--no;he came up to her with Maggie, because it seemed easier, on the whole, than saying, "How do you do?" to all those aunts and uncles. He stoodlooking at nothing in particular, with the blushing, awkward air andsemi-smile which are common to shy boys when in company, --very much asif they had come into the world by mistake, and found it in a degreeof undress that was quite embarrassing. 

"Heyday!" said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. "Do little boys andgells come into a room without taking notice of their uncles andaunts? 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 acommand to go and have her hair brushed. 

"Well, and how do you do? And I hope you're good children, are you?"said Aunt Glegg, in the same loud, emphatic way, as she took theirhands, hurting them with her large rings, and kissing their cheeksmuch against their desire. "Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go toboarding-schools should hold their heads up. Look at me now. " Tomdeclined that pleasure apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. "Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your frock on yourshoulder. "

Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud, emphatic way, as if sheconsidered them deaf, or perhaps rather idiotic; it was a means, shethought, of making them feel that they were accountable creatures, andmight be a salutary check on naughty tendencies. Bessy's children wereso spoiled--they'd need have somebody to make them feel their duty. 

"Well, my dears, " said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate voice, "yougrow wonderful fast. I doubt they'll outgrow their strength, " sheadded, looking over their heads, with a melancholy expression, attheir mother. "I think the gell has too much hair. I'd have it thinnedand cut shorter, sister, if I was you; it isn't good for her health. It's that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldn't wonder. Don't youthink so, sister Deane?"

"I can't say, I'm sure, sister, " said Mrs. Deane, shutting her lipsclose again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye. 

"No, no, " said Mr. Tulliver, "the child's healthy enough; there'snothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it 'ud be as well if Bessy 'udhave the child's hair cut, so as it 'ud lie smooth. "

A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggie's breast, but it wasarrested by the desire to know from her aunt Deane whether she wouldleave Lucy behind. Aunt Deane would hardly ever let Lucy come to seethem. After various reasons for refusal, Mrs. Deane appealed to Lucyherself. 

"You wouldn't like to stay behind without mother, should you, Lucy?"

"Yes, please, mother, " said Lucy, timidly, blushing very pink all overher little neck. 

"Well done, Lucy! Let her stay, Mrs. Deane, let her stay, " said Mr. Deane, a large but alert-looking man, with a type of _physique_ to beseen in all ranks of English society, --bald crown, red whiskers, fullforehead, and general solidity without heaviness. You may see noblemenlike Mr. Deane, and you may see grocers or day-laborers like him; butthe keenness of his brown eyes was less common than his contour. 

He held a silver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now and thenexchanged a pinch with Mr. Tulliver, whose box was onlysilver-mounted, so that it was naturally a joke between them that Mr. Tulliver wanted to exchange snuff-boxes also. Mr. Deane's box had beengiven 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, inacknowledgment of his valuable services as manager. No man was thoughtmore highly of in St. Ogg's than Mr. Deane; and some persons were evenof opinion that Miss Susan Dodson, who was once held to have made theworst match of all the Dodson sisters, might one day ride in a bettercarriage, 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 intoa great mill-owning, shipowning business like that of Guest & Co. , with a banking concern attached. And Mrs. Deane, as her intimatefemale friends observed, was proud and "having" enough; _she_ wouldn'tlet her husband stand still in the world for want of spurring. 

"Maggie, " said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and whisperingin her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy's staying was settled, "goand get your hair brushed, do, for shame. I told you not to come inwithout going to Martha first, you know I did. "

"Tom come out with me, " whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as shepassed him; and Tom followed willingly enough. 

"Come upstairs with me, Tom, " she whispered, when they were outsidethe door. "There's something I want to do before dinner. "

"There's no time to play at anything before dinner, " said Tom, whoseimagination was impatient of any intermediate prospect. 

"Oh yes, there is time for this; _do_ come, Tom. "

Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother's room, and saw her go atonce to a drawer, from which she took out a large pair of scissors. 

"What are they for, Maggie?" said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened. 

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

"Oh, my buttons! Maggie, you'll catch it!" exclaimed Tom; "you'dbetter not cut any more off. "

Snip! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking, and hecouldn't help feeling it was rather good fun; Maggie would look soqueer. 

"Here, Tom, cut it behind for me, " said Maggie, excited by her owndaring, and anxious to finish the deed. 

"You'll catch it, you know, " said Tom, nodding his head in anadmonitory manner, and hesitating a little as he took the scissors. 

"Never mind, make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little stamp with herfoot. Her cheeks were quite flushed. 

The black locks were so thick, nothing could be more tempting to a ladwho had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony'smane. I speak to those who know the satisfaction of making a pair ofscissors meet through a duly resisting mass of hair. One deliciousgrinding snip, and then another and another, and the hinder-locks fellheavily on the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged, unevenmanner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she hademerged from a wood into the open plain. 

"Oh, Maggie, " said Tom, jumping round her, and slapping his knees ashe laughed, "Oh, my buttons! what a queer thing you look! Look atyourself in the glass; you look like the idiot we throw out nutshellsto at school. "

Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly ather own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks aboutit, and something also of the triumph she should have over her motherand her aunts by this very decided course of action; she didn't wanther hair to look pretty, --that was out of the question, --she onlywanted people to think her a clever little girl, and not to find faultwith her. But now, when Tom began to laugh at her, and say she waslike an idiot, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked in theglass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie'scheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble a little. 

"Oh, Maggie, you'll have to go down to dinner directly, " said Tom. "Oh, my!"

"Don't laugh at me, Tom, " said Maggie, in a passionate tone, with anoutburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving him a push. 

"Now, then, spitfire!" said Tom. "What did you cut it off for, then? Ishall go down: I can smell the dinner going in. "

He hurried downstairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter sense of theirrevocable which was almost an every-day experience of her smallsoul. She could see clearly enough, now the thing was done, that itwas very foolish, and that she should have to hear and think moreabout her hair than ever; for Maggie rushed to her deeds withpassionate impulse, and then saw not only their consequences, but whatwould have happened if they had not been done, with all the detail andexaggerated circumstance of an active imagination. Tom never did thesame sort of foolish things as Maggie, having a wonderful instinctivediscernment of what would turn to his advantage or disadvantage; andso it happened, that though he was much more wilful and inflexiblethan Maggie, his mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom didmake a mistake of that sort, he espoused it, and stood by it: he"didn't mind. " If he broke the lash of his father's gigwhip by lashingthe gate, he couldn't help it, --the whip shouldn't have got caught inthe hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a gate, he was convinced, not thatthe whipping of gates by all boys was a justifiable act, but that he, Tom Tulliver, was justifiable in whipping that particular gate, and hewasn't going to be sorry. But Maggie, as she stood crying before theglass, felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endurethe severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom and Lucy, andMartha, 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 oneelse would; and if she had only let her hair alone, she could have satwith Tom and Lucy, and had the apricot pudding and the custard! Whatcould she do but sob? She sat as helpless and despairing among herblack locks as Ajax among the slaughtered sheep. Very trivial, perhaps, this anguish seems to weather-worn mortals who have to thinkof Christmas bills, dead loves, and broken friendships; but it was notless bitter to Maggie--perhaps it was even more bitter--than what weare fond of calling antithetically the real troubles of mature life. "Ah, my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by and by, "is the consolation we have almost all of us had administered to us inour childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have beengrown up. We have all of us sobbed so piteously, standing with tinybare legs above our little socks, when we lost sight of our mother ornurse in some strange place; but we can no longer recall the poignancyof that moment and weep over it, as we do over the rememberedsufferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen momentshas left its trace, and lives in us still, but such traces have blentthemselves irrecoverably with the firmer texture of our youth andmanhood; and so it comes that we can look on at the troubles of ourchildren with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their pain. Isthere any one who can recover the experience of his childhood, notmerely with a memory _of_ what he did and what happened to him, ofwhat he liked and disliked when he was in frock and trousers, but withan intimate penetration, a revived consciousness of what he felt then, when it was so long from one Midsummer to another; what he felt whenhis school fellows shut him out of their game because he would pitchthe ball wrong out of mere wilfulness; or on a rainy day in theholidays, when he didn't know how to amuse himself, and fell fromidleness into mischief, from mischief into defiance, and from defianceinto sulkiness; or when his mother absolutely refused to let him havea tailed coat that "half, " although every other boy of his age hadgone into tails already? Surely if we could recall that earlybitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectivelessconception of life, that gave the bitterness its intensity, we shouldnot pooh-pooh the griefs of our children. 

"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute, " said Kezia, enteringthe room hurriedly. "Lawks! what have you been a-doing? I never _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 mothersays so, " said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand toraise her from the floor. 

"Get away, Kezia; I don't want any dinner, " said Maggie, resistingKezia's arm. "I sha'n't come. "

"Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner, " said Kezia, going out again. 

"Maggie, you little silly, " said Tom, peeping into the room tenminutes after, "why don't you come and have your dinner? There's lotso' 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 beencrying on the floor, Maggie would have cried too. And there was thedinner, so nice; and she was _so_ hungry. It was very bitter. 

But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to cry, and didnot feel that Maggie's grief spoiled his prospect of the sweets; buthe went and put his head near her, and said in a lower, comfortingtone, --

"Won't you come, then, Magsie? Shall I bring you a bit o' pudding whenI've had mine, and a custard and things?"

"Ye-e-es, " said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little moretolerable. 

"Very well, " said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door andsaid, "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, andnuts with cowslip wine began to assert their legitimate influence. 

Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered locks, and slowly she madeher way downstairs. Then she stood leaning with one shoulder againstthe frame of the dining-parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. Shesaw Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were thecustards on a side-table; it was too much. She slipped in and wenttoward the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than sherepented 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 themost serious results to the table-cloth. For Kezia had not betrayedthe reason of Maggie's refusal to come down, not liking to give hermistress a shock in the moment of carving, and Mrs. Tulliver thoughtthere was nothing worse in question than a fit of perverseness, whichwas inflicting its own punishment by depriving Maggie of half herdinner. 

Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point asher own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to burn, while uncleGlegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said, --

"Heyday! what little gell's this? Why, I don't know her. Is it somelittle gell you've picked up in the road, Kezia?"

"Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself, " said Mr. Tulliver in anundertone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much enjoyment. "Did you everknow such a little hussy as it is?"

"Why, little miss, you've made yourself look very funny, " said UnclePullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an observation which wasfelt to be so lacerating. 

"Fie, for shame!" said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest tone ofreproof. "Little gells as cut their own hair should be whipped and fedon bread and water, --not come and sit down with their aunts anduncles. "

"Ay, ay, " said uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn to thisdenunciation, "she must be sent to jail, I think, and they'll cut therest of her hair off there, and make it all even. "

"She's more like a gypsy nor ever, " said aunt Pullet, in a pityingtone; "it's very bad luck, sister, as the gell should be so brown; theboy's fair enough. I doubt it'll stand in her way i' life to be sobrown. "

"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 ofdefiance, and Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by therecent appearance of the pudding and custard. Under this impression, he whispered, "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you you'd catch it. " He meant tobe friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in herignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, herheart swelled, and getting up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing. 

"Come, come, my wench, " said her father, soothingly, putting his armround her, "never mind; you was i' the right to cut it off if itplagued you; give over crying; father'll take your part. "

Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of thesemoments when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else said thather father had done very ill by his children. 

"How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy!" said Mrs. Glegg, in aloud "aside, " to Mrs. Tulliver. "It'll be the ruin of her, if youdon't take care. _My_ father never brought his children up so, else weshould ha' been a different sort o' family to what we are. "

Mrs. Tulliver's domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have reachedthe point at which insensibility begins. She took no notice of hersister's remark, but threw back her capstrings and dispensed thepudding, in mute resignation. 

With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for thechildren were told they might have their nuts and wine in thesummer-house, since the day was so mild; and they scampered out amongthe budding bushes of the garden with the alacrity of small animalsgetting from under a burning glass. 

Mrs. Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now thedinner was despatched, and every one's mind disengaged, it was theright moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver's intention concerning Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself to be absent. The childrenwere used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if they werebirds, and could understand nothing, however they might stretch theirnecks and listen; but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver manifested anunusual discretion, because she had recently had evidence that thegoing to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who lookedat it as very much on a par with going to school to a constable. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister Pullet either; but at least theywould not be able to say, if the thing turned out ill, that Bessy hadfallen in with her husband's folly without letting her own friendsknow a word about it. 

"Mr. Tulliver, " she said, interrupting her husband in his talk withMr. Deane, "it's time now to tell the children's aunts and uncles whatyou're thinking of doing with Tom, isn't it?"

"Very well, " said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, "I've no objections totell anybody 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 toa Mr. Stelling, a parson, down at King's Lorton, there, --an uncommonclever fellow, I understand, as'll put him up to most things. "

There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the company, such asyou may have observed in a country congregation when they hear anallusion to their week-day affairs from the pulpit. It was equallyastonishing to the aunts and uncles to find a parson introduced intoMr. Tulliver's family arrangements. As for uncle Pullet, he couldhardly have been more thoroughly obfuscated if Mr. Tulliver had saidthat he was going to send Tom to the Lord Chancellor; for uncle Pulletbelonged to that extinct class of British yeoman who, dressed in goodbroadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to church, and ate aparticularly good dinner on Sunday, without dreaming that the Britishconstitution in Church and State had a traceable origin any more thanthe solar system and the fixed stars. 

It is melancholy, but true, that Mr. Pullet had the most confused ideaof a bishop as a sort of a baronet, who might or might not be aclergyman; and as the rector of his own parish was a man of highfamily and fortune, the idea that a clergyman could be a schoolmasterwas too remote from Mr. Pullet's experience to be readily conceivable. I know it is difficult for people in these instructed times to believein uncle Pullet's ignorance; but let them reflect on the remarkableresults of a great natural faculty under favoring circumstances. Anduncle Pullet had a great natural faculty for ignorance. He was thefirst to give utterance to his astonishment. 

"Why, what can you be going to send him to a parson for?" he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes, looking at Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, to see if they showed any signs of comprehension. 

"Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters, by what I canmake out, " said poor Mr. Tulliver, who, in the maze of this puzzlingworld, laid hold of any clue with great readiness and tenacity. "Jacobs at th' academy's no parson, and he's done very bad by the boy;and I made up my mind, if I send him to school again, it should be tosomebody different to Jacobs. And this Mr. Stelling, by what I canmake out, is the sort o' man I want. And I mean my boy to go to him atMidsummer, " he concluded, in a tone of decision, tapping his snuff-boxand taking a pinch. 

"You'll have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill, then, eh, Tulliver?The clergymen have highish notions, in general, " said Mr. Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wishing to maintain aneutral 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 wasfond of his jest, and having retired from business, felt that it wasnot only allowable but becoming in him to take a playful view ofthings. 

"Why, you see, I've got a plan i' my head about Tom, " said Mr. Tulliver, pausing after that statement and lifting up his glass. 

"Well, if I may be allowed to speak, and it's seldom as I am, " saidMrs. Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, "I should like to know whatgood 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 malepart of his audience, "you see, I've made up my mind not to bring Tomup to my own business. I've had my thoughts about it all along, and Imade up my mind by what I saw with Garnett and _his_ son. I mean toput him to some business as he can go into without capital, and I wantto 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 lips, that smiled in mingled pity and scorn. 

"It 'ud be a fine deal better for some people, " she said, after thatintroductory note, "if they'd let the lawyers alone. "

"Is he at the head of a grammar school, then, this clergyman, such asthat at Market Bewley?" said Mr. Deane. 

"No, nothing of that, " said Mr. Tulliver. "He won't take more than twoor three pupils, and so he'll have the more time to attend to 'em, youknow. "

"Ah, and get his eddication done the sooner; they can't learn much ata time when there's so many of 'em, " said uncle Pullet, feeling thathe was getting quite an insight into this difficult matter. 

"But he'll want the more pay, I doubt, " said Mr. Glegg. 

"Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year, that's all, " said Mr. Tulliver, withsome pride at his own spirited course. "But then, you know, it's aninvestment; Tom's eddication 'ull be so much capital to him. "

"Ay, there's something in that, " said Mr. Glegg. "Well well, neighborTulliver, 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 Buxton. But usthat have got no learning had better keep our money, eh, neighborPullet?" Mr. Glegg rubbed his knees, and looked very pleasant. 

"Mr. Glegg, I wonder _at_ you, " said his wife. "It's very unbecomingin a man o' your age and belongings. "

"What's unbecoming, Mrs. G. ?" said Mr. Glegg, winking pleasantly atthe company. "My new blue coat as I've got on?"

"I pity your weakness, Mr. Glegg. I say it's unbecoming to be making ajoke when you see your own kin going headlongs to ruin. "

"If you mean me by that, " said Mr. Tulliver, considerably nettled, "you needn't trouble yourself to fret about me. I can manage my ownaffairs without troubling other folks. "

"Bless me!" said Mr. Deane, judiciously introducing a new idea, "why, now I come to think of it, somebody said Wakem was going to send _his_son--the deformed lad--to a clergyman, didn't they, Susan?" (appealingto his wife). 

"I can give no account of it, I'm sure, " said Mrs. Deane, closing herlips very tightly again. Mrs. Deane was not a woman to take part in ascene 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 thinks o' sending hisson to a clergyman, depend on it I shall make no mistake i' sendingTom to one. Wakem's as big a scoundrel as Old Harry ever made, but heknows 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 yourmeat. "

"But lawyer Wakem's son's got a hump-back, " said Mrs. Pullet, who feltas if the whole business had a funereal aspect; "it's more nat'ral tosend _him_ to a clergyman. "

"Yes, " said Mr. Glegg, interpreting Mrs. Pullet's observation witherroneous plausibility, "you must consider that, neighbor Tulliver;Wakem's son isn't likely to follow any business. Wakem 'ull make agentleman of him, poor fellow. "

"Mr. Glegg, " said Mrs. G. , in a tone which implied that herindignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she was determined tokeep it corked up, "you'd far better hold your tongue. Mr. Tulliverdoesn't want to know your opinion nor mine either. There's folks inthe world as know better than everybody 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 hasnever been asked, and I don't give it. "

"It'll be the first time, then, " said Mr. Tulliver. "It's the onlything you're over-ready at giving. "

"I've been over-ready at lending, then, if I haven't been over-readyat giving, " said Mrs. Glegg. "There's folks I've lent money to, asperhaps I shall repent o' lending money to kin. "

"Come, come, come, " said Mr. Glegg, soothingly. But Mr. Tulliver wasnot to be hindered of his retort. 

"You've got a bond for it, I reckon, " he said; "and you've had yourfive per cent, kin or no kin. "

"Sister, " said Mrs. Tulliver, pleadingly, "drink your wine, and let megive you some almonds and raisins. "

"Bessy, I'm sorry for you, " said Mrs. Glegg, very much with thefeeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of diverting his barktoward the man who carries no stick. "It's poor work talking o'almonds and raisins. "

"Lors, sister Glegg, don't be so quarrelsome, " said Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry a little. "You may be struck with a fit, getting sored in the face after dinner, and we are but just out o' mourning, allof us, --and all wi' gowns craped alike and just put by; it's very badamong sisters. "

"I should think it _is_ bad, " said Mrs. Glegg. "Things are come to afine pass when one sister invites the other to her house o' purpose toquarrel 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 saidenough to satisfy his anger, burst out again. 

"Who wants to quarrel with you?" he said. "It's you as can't letpeople alone, but must be gnawing at 'em forever. _I_ should neverwant to quarrel with any woman if she kept her place. "

"My place, indeed!" said Mrs. Glegg, getting rather more shrill. "There's your betters, Mr. Tulliver, as are dead and in their grave, treated me with a different sort o' respect to what you do; _though_I've got a husband as'll sit by and see me abused by them as 'ud neverha' had the chance if there hadn't been them in our family as marriedworse than they might ha' done. "

"If you talk o' that, " said Mr. Tulliver, "my family's as good asyours, and better, for it hasn't got a damned ill-tempered woman init!"

"Well, " said Mrs. Glegg, rising from her chair, "I don't know whetheryou 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 staybehind, and come home with the gig, and I'll walk home. "

"Dear heart, dear heart!" said Mr. Glegg in a melancholy tone, as hefollowed his wife out of the room. 

"Mr. Tulliver, how could you talk so?" said Mrs. Tulliver, with thetears in her eyes. 

"Let her go, " said Mr. Tulliver, too hot to be damped by any amount oftears. "Let her go, and the sooner the better; she won't be trying todomineer over _me_ again in a hurry. "

"Sister Pullet, " said Mrs. Tulliver, helplessly, "do you think it 'udbe 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 anotherday. "

"Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children?" said Mrs. Tulliver, drying her eyes. 

No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr. Tulliver felt verymuch as if the air had been cleared of obtrusive flies now the womenwere out of the room. There were few things he liked better than achat with Mr. Deane, whose close application to business allowed thepleasure very rarely. Mr. Deane, he considered, was the "knowingest"man of his acquaintance, and he had besides a ready causticity oftongue that made an agreeable supplement to Mr. Tulliver's owntendency that way, which had remained in rather an inarticulatecondition. And now the women were gone, they could carry on theirserious talk without frivolous interruption. They could exchange theirviews concerning the Duke of Wellington, whose conduct in the CatholicQuestion had thrown such an entirely new light on his character; andspeak slightingly of his conduct at the battle of Waterloo, which hewould never have won if there hadn't been a great many Englishmen athis back, not to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, as Mr. Tulliver had heard from a person of particular knowledge in thatmatter, had come up in the very nick of time; though here there was aslight dissidence, Mr. Deane remarking that he was not disposed togive much credit to the Prussians, --the build of their vessels, together with the unsatisfactory character of transactions in Dantzicbeer, inclining him to form rather a low view of Prussian pluckgenerally. Rather beaten on this ground, Mr. Tulliver proceeded toexpress his fears that the country could never again be what it usedto be; but Mr. Deane, attached to a firm of which the returns were onthe increase, naturally took a more lively view of the present, andhad some details to give concerning the state of the imports, especially in hides and spelter, which soothed Mr. Tulliver'simagination by throwing into more distant perspective the period whenthe country would become utterly the prey of Papists and Radicals, andthere would be no more chance for honest men. 

Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these highmatters. He didn't understand politics himself, --thought they were anatural gift, --but by what he could make out, this Duke of Wellingtonwas no better than he should be. 

Chapter VIII

Mr. Tulliver Shows His Weaker Side

"Suppose sister Glegg should call her money in; it 'ud be very awkwardfor you to have to raise five hundred pounds now, " said Mrs. Tulliverto her husband that evening, as she took a plaintive review of theday. 

Mrs. Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, yet sheretained in all the freshness of her early married life a facility ofsaying things which drove him in the opposite direction to the one shedesired. Some minds are wonderful for keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal goldfish apparently retains to the last its youthfulillusion that it can swim in a straight line beyond the encirclingglass. Mrs. Tulliver was an amiable fish of this kind, and afterrunning her head against the same resisting medium for thirteen yearswould go at it again to-day with undulled alacrity. 

This observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr. Tulliver thatit would not be at all awkward for him to raise five hundred pounds;and when Mrs. Tulliver became rather pressing to know _how_ he wouldraise it without mortgaging the mill and the house which he had saidhe never _would_ mortgage, since nowadays people were none so ready tolend money without security, Mr. Tulliver, getting warm, declared thatMrs. Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her money, he shouldpay it in whether or not. He was not going to be beholden to hiswife's sisters. When a man had married into a family where there was awhole litter of women, he might have plenty to put up with if hechose. But Mr. Tulliver did _not_ choose. 

Mrs. Tulliver cried a little in a trickling, quiet way as she put onher nightcap; but presently sank into a comfortable sleep, lulled bythe thought that she would talk everything over with her sister Pulletto-morrow, when she was to take the children to Garum Firs to tea. Notthat she looked forward to any distinct issue from that talk; but itseemed impossible that past events should be so obstinate as to remainunmodified when they were complained against. 

Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was thinking of avisit he would pay on the morrow; and his ideas on the subject werenot of so vague and soothing a kind as those of his amiable partner. 

Mr. Tulliver, when under the influence of a strong feeling, had apromptitude in action that may seem inconsistent with that painfulsense of the complicated, puzzling nature of human affairs under whichhis more dispassionate deliberations were conducted; but it is reallynot improbable that there was a direct relation between theseapparently contradictory phenomena, since I have observed that forgetting a strong impression that a skein is tangled there is nothinglike snatching hastily at a single thread. It was owing to thispromptitude that Mr. Tulliver was on horseback soon after dinner thenext day (he was not dyspeptic) on his way to Basset to see his sisterMoss and her husband. For having made up his mind irrevocably that hewould pay Mrs. Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds, it naturallyoccurred to him that he had a promissory note for three hundred poundslent to his brother-in-law Moss; and if the said brother-in-law couldmanage to pay in the money within a given time, it would go far tolessen the fallacious air of inconvenience which Mr. Tulliver'sspirited step might have worn in the eyes of weak people who requireto know precisely _how_ a thing is to be done before they are stronglyconfident that it will be easy. 

For Mr. Tulliver was in a position neither new nor striking, but, likeother every-day things, sure to have a cumulative effect that will befelt in the long run: he was held to be a much more substantial manthan he really was. And as we are all apt to believe what the worldbelieves about us, it was his habit to think of failure and ruin withthe same sort of remote pity with which a spare, long-necked man hearsthat his plethoric short-necked neighbor is stricken with apoplexy. Hehad been always used to hear pleasant jokes about his advantages as aman who worked his own mill, and owned a pretty bit of land; and thesejokes naturally kept up his sense that he was a man of considerablesubstance. 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 twothousand pounds on his very desirable freehold. That was notaltogether his own fault, since one of the thousand pounds was hissister's fortune, which he had to pay on her marriage; and a man whohas neighbors that _will_ go to law with him is not likely to pay offhis mortgages, especially if he enjoys the good opinion ofacquaintances who want to borrow a hundred pounds on security toolofty to be represented by parchment. Our friend Mr. Tulliver had agood-natured fibre in him, and did not like to give harsh refusalseven to his sister, who had not only come in to the world in thatsuperfluous way characteristic of sisters, creating a necessity formortgages, but had quite thrown herself away in marriage, and hadcrowned her mistakes by having an eighth baby. On this point Mr. Tulliver was conscious of being a little weak; but he apologized tohimself by saying that poor Gritty had been a good-looking wenchbefore she married Moss; he would sometimes say this even with aslight tremulousness in his voice. But this morning he was in a moodmore becoming a man of business, and in the course of his ride alongthe Basset lanes, with their deep ruts, --lying so far away from amarket-town that the labor of drawing produce and manure was enough totake away the best part of the profits on such poor land as thatparish was made of, --he got up a due amount of irritation against Mossas a man without capital, who, if murrain and blight were abroad, wassure to have his share of them, and who, the more you tried to helphim out of the mud, would sink the further in. It would do him goodrather than harm, now, if he were obliged to raise this three hundredpounds; it would make him look about him better, and not act sofoolishly 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 hadlet the interest run on for two years, Moss was likely enough to thinkthat he should never be troubled about the principal. But Mr. Tulliverwas determined not to encourage such shuffling people any longer; anda ride along the Basset lanes was not likely to enervate a man'sresolution by softening his temper. The deep-trodden hoof-marks, madein the muddiest days of winter, gave him a shake now and then whichsuggested a rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers, who, whether by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless something todo with this state of the roads; and the abundance of foul land andneglected fences that met his eye, though they made no part of hisbrother Moss's farm, strongly contributed to his dissatisfaction withthat unlucky agriculturist. If this wasn't Moss's fallow, it mighthave 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, apoor non-resident vicar, and rather less than half a curate, alsopoor. If any one strongly impressed with the power of the human mindto triumph over circumstances will contend that the parishioners ofBasset might nevertheless have been a very superior class of people, Ihave nothing to urge against that abstract proposition; I only knowthat, in point of fact, the Basset mind was in strict keeping with itscircumstances. The muddy lanes, green or clayey, that seemed to theunaccustomed eye to lead nowhere but into each other, did really lead, with patience, to a distant high-road; but there were many feet inBasset which they led more frequently to a centre of dissipation, spoken of formerly as the "Markis o' Granby, " but among intimates as"Dickison's. " A large low room with a sanded floor; a cold scent oftobacco, modified by undetected beer-dregs; Mr. Dickison leaningagainst the door-post with a melancholy pimpled face, looking asirrelevant to the daylight as a last night's guttered candle, --allthis may not seem a very seductive form of temptation; but themajority of men in Basset found it fatally alluring when encounteredon their road toward four o'clock on a wintry afternoon; and if anywife in Basset wished to indicate that her husband was not apleasure-seeking man, she could hardly do it more emphatically than bysaying that he didn't spend a shilling at Dickison's from oneWhitsuntide to another. Mrs. Moss had said so of _her_ husband morethan once, when her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, ashe certainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacifying to Mr. Tulliver than the behavior of the farmyard gate, which he no soonerattempted to push open with his riding-stick than it acted as gateswithout 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 horsethrough the damp dirt of the hollow farmyard, shadowed drearily by thelarge half-timbered buildings, up to the long line of tumble-downdwelling-houses standing on a raised causeway; but the timelyappearance of a cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he haddetermined on, --namely, not to get down from his horse during thisvisit. If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle and speakfrom that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with thecommand of a distant horizon. Mrs. Moss heard the sound of the horse'sfeet, and, when her brother rode up, was already outside the kitchendoor, with a half-weary smile on her face, and a black-eyed baby inher 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 morestrikingly that the cheek was faded. 

"Brother, I'm glad to see you, " she said, in an affectionate tone. "Ididn't look for you to-day. How do you do?"

"Oh, pretty well, Mrs. Moss, pretty well, " answered the brother, withcool deliberation, as if it were rather too forward of her to ask thatquestion. 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 theywere in company. But she thought it was in the order of nature thatpeople who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs. Moss did not takeher stand on the equality of the human race; she was a patient, prolific, loving-hearted woman. 

"Your husband isn't in the house, I suppose?" added Mr. Tulliver aftera grave pause, during which four children had run out, like chickenswhose mother has been suddenly in eclipse behind the hen-coop. 

"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'scome. 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, " saidMr. Tulliver, looking at the distance. 

"And how's Mrs. Tulliver and the children?" said Mrs. Moss, humbly, not daring to press her invitation. 

"Oh, pretty well. Tom's going to a new school at Midsummer, --a deal ofexpense to me. It's bad work for me, lying out o' my money. "

"I wish you'd be so good as let the children come and see theircousins some day. My little uns want to see their cousin Maggie so asnever 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 Iknow she likes to come, for she's a loving child, and how quick andclever 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 ofnothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise ofMaggie. He seldom found any one volunteering praise of "the littlewench"; it was usually left entirely to himself to insist on hermerits. But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at heraunt Moss's; it was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach oflaw, --if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite ofhimself, Mr. Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look away fromhis sister as he said, --

"Ay; she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. She takesafter our family: not a bit of her mother's in her. "

"Moss says she's just like what I used to be, " said Mrs. Moss, "thoughI was never so quick and fond o' the books. But I think my Lizzy'slike her; _she's_ sharp. Come here, Lizzy, my dear, and let your unclesee you; he hardly knows you, you grow so fast. "

Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when her motherdrew her forward, for the small Mosses were much in awe of their unclefrom Dorlcote Mill. She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire andstrength of expression to make the resemblance between the twoentirely flattering to Mr. Tulliver's fatherly love. 

"Ay, they're a bit alike, " he said, looking kindly at the littlefigure in the soiled pinafore. "They both take after our mother. You've got enough o' gells, Gritty, " he added, in a tone halfcompassionate, half reproachful. 

"Four of 'em, bless 'em!" said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, strokingLizzy'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 braceit by throwing out a wholesome hint "They mustn't look to hanging ontheir brothers. "

"No; but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things, and rememberthey came o' one father and mother; the lads 'ull never be the poorerfor that, " said Mrs. Moss, flashing out with hurried timidity, like ahalf-smothered fire. 

Mr. Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checkedit, and said angrily, "Stand still with you!" much to the astonishmentof 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 hopeyour boy 'ull allays be good to his sister, though there's but two of'em, like you and me, brother. "

The arrow went straight to Mr. Tulliver's heart. He had not a rapidimagination, but the thought of Maggie was very near to him, and hewas not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by sidewith Tom's relation to Maggie. Would the little wench ever be poorlyoff, 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 ifvindicating himself from a reproach. 

"I'm not denying that, brother, and I'm noways ungrateful, " said poorMrs. Moss, too fagged by toil and children to have strength left forany pride. "But here's the father. What a while you've been, Moss!"

"While, do you call it?" said Mr. Moss, feeling out of breath andinjured. "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 thegarden, " said Mr. Tulliver, thinking that he should be more likely toshow a due spirit of resolve if his sister were not present. 

He got down, and passed with Mr. Moss into the garden, toward an oldyew-tree arbor, while his sister stood tapping her baby on the backand looking wistfully after them. 

Their entrance into the yew-tree arbor surprised several fowls thatwere recreating themselves by scratching deep holes in the dustyground, and at once took flight with much pother and cackling. Mr. Tulliver sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously hereand there with his stick, as if he suspected some hollowness, openedthe conversation by observing, with something like a snarl in histone, --

"Why, you've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see; and never abit o' dressing on it. You'll do no good with it this year. "

Mr. Moss, who, when he married Miss Tulliver, had been regarded as thebuck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week old, and had thedepressed, unexpectant air of a machine-horse. He answered in apatient-grumbling tone, "Why, poor farmers like me must do as theycan; they must leave it to them as have got money to play with, to puthalf 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 ascan borrow money without paying interest, " said Mr. Tulliver, whowished to get into a slight quarrel; it was the most natural and easyintroduction to calling in money. 

"I know I'm behind with the interest, " said Mr. Moss, "but I was sounlucky wi' the wool last year; and what with the Missis being laid upso, things have gone awk'arder nor usual. "

"Ay, " snarled Mr. Tulliver, "there's folks as things 'ull allays goawk'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 aday-laborer works harder. "

"What's the use o' that, " said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, "when a manmarries, and's got no capital to work his farm but his wife's bit o'fortin? I was against it from the first; but you'd neither of youlisten to me. And I can't lie out o' my money any longer, for I've gotto pay five hundred o' Mrs. Glegg's, and there'll be Tom an expense tome. I should find myself short, even saying I'd got back all as is myown. You must look about and see how you can pay me the three hundredpound. "

"Well, if that's what you mean, " said Mr. Moss, looking blankly beforehim, "we'd better be sold up, and ha' done with it; I must part wi'every head o' stock I've got, to pay you and the landlord too. "

Poor relations are undeniably irritating, --their existence is soentirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost always veryfaulty people. Mr. Tulliver had succeeded in getting quite as muchirritated with Mr. Moss as he had desired, and he was able to sayangrily, rising from his seat, --

"Well, you must do as you can. _I_ can't find money for everybody elseas well as myself. I must look to my own business and my own family. Ican't lie out o' my money any longer. You must raise it as quick asyou can. "

Mr. Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbor as he uttered the lastsentence, and, without looking round at Mr. Moss, went on to thekitchen door, where the eldest boy was holding his horse, and hissister was waiting in a state of wondering alarm, which was notwithout its alleviations, for baby was making pleasant gurglingsounds, and performing a great deal of finger practice on the fadedface. Mrs. Moss had eight children, but could never overcome herregret that the twins had not lived. Mr. Moss thought their removalwas not without its consolations. "Won't you come in, brother?" shesaid, 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, anda little way along the deep-rutted lane; but before he reached thenext turning, which would take him out of sight of the dilapidatedfarm-buildings, he appeared to be smitten by some sudden thought. Hechecked his horse, and made it stand still in the same spot for two orthree minutes, during which he turned his head from side to side in amelancholy way, as if he were looking at some painful object on moresides than one. Evidently, after his fit of promptitude, Mr. Tulliverwas relapsing into the sense that this is a puzzling world. He turnedhis horse, and rode slowly back, giving vent to the climax of feelingwhich had determined this movement by saying aloud, as he struck hishorse, "Poor little wench! she'll have nobody but Tom, belike, whenI'm gone. "

Mr. Tulliver's return into the yard was descried by several youngMosses, 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 rocking 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 youfret, --that's all, --I'll make a shift without the money a bit, onlyyou must be as clever and contriving as you can. "

Mrs. Moss's tears came again at this unexpected kindness, and shecould say nothing. 

"Come, come!--the little wench shall come and see you. I'll bring herand Tom some day before he goes to school. You mustn't fret. I'llallays be a good brother to you. "

"Thank you for that word, brother, " said Mrs. Moss, drying her tears;then turning to Lizzy, she said, "Run now, and fetch the colored eggfor cousin Maggie. " Lizzy ran in, and quickly reappeared with a smallpaper parcel. 

"It's boiled hard, brother, and colored with thrums, very pretty; itwas done o' purpose for Maggie. Will you please to carry it in yourpocket?"

"Ay, ay, " said Mr. Tulliver, putting it carefully in his side pocket. "Good-by. "

And so the respectable miller returned along the Basset lanes rathermore puzzled than before as to ways and means, but still with thesense of a danger escaped. It had come across his mind that if he werehard upon his sister, it might somehow tend to make Tom hard uponMaggie at some distant day, when her father was no longer there totake her part; for simple people, like our friend Mr. Tulliver, areapt to clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this washis confused way of explaining to himself that his love and anxietyfor "the little wench" had given him a new sensibility toward hissister. 

Chapter IX

To Garum Firs

While the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupying herfather's mind, she herself was tasting only the bitterness of thepresent. Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by nomemories of outlived sorrow. 

The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure ofhaving Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the afternoon visit toGarum Firs, where she would hear uncle Pullet's musical box, had beenmarred as early as eleven o'clock by the advent of the hair-dresserfrom St. Ogg's, who had spoken in the severest terms of the conditionin which he had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock afteranother and saying, "See here! tut, tut, tut!" in a tone of mingleddisgust and pity, which to Maggie's imagination was equivalent to thestrongest expression of public opinion. Mr. Rappit, the hair-dresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks tending wavily upward, like thesimulated pyramid of flame on a monumental urn, seemed to her at thatmoment the most formidable of her contemporaries, into whose street atSt. Ogg's she would carefully refrain from entering through the restof her life. 

Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious affair inthe Dodson family, Martha was enjoined to have Mrs. Tulliver's roomready an hour earlier than usual, that the laying out of the bestclothes might not be deferred till the last moment, as was sometimesthe case in families of lax views, where the ribbon-strings were neverrolled up, where there was little or no wrapping in silver paper, andwhere the sense that the Sunday clothes could be got at quite easilyproduced no shock to the mind. Already, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. Tulliver had on her visiting costume, with a protective apparatus ofbrown holland, as if she had been a piece of satin furniture in dangerof flies; Maggie was frowning and twisting her shoulders, that shemight if possible shrink away from the prickliest of tuckers, whileher mother was remonstrating, "Don't, Maggie, my dear; don't makeyourself so ugly!" and Tom's cheeks were looking particularlybrilliant as a relief to his best blue suit, which he wore withbecoming calmness, having, after a little wrangling, effected what wasalways the one point of interest to him in his toilet: he hadtransferred all the contents of his every-day pockets to thoseactually in wear. 

As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had beenyesterday; no accidents ever happened to her clothes, and she wasnever uncomfortable in them, so that she looked with wondering pity atMaggie, pouting and writhing under the exasperating tucker. Maggiewould certainly have torn it off, if she had not been checked by theremembrance of her recent humiliation about her hair; as it was, sheconfined herself to fretting and twisting, and behaving peevishlyabout the card-houses which they were allowed to build till dinner, asa suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. Tomcould build perfect pyramids of houses; but Maggie's would never bearthe laying on the roof. It was always so with the things that Maggiemade; and Tom had deduced the conclusion that no girls could ever makeanything. But it happened that Lucy proved wonderfully clever atbuilding; she handled the cards so lightly, and moved so gently, thatTom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, the morereadily because she had asked him to teach her. Maggie, too, wouldhave admired Lucy's houses, and would have given up her ownunsuccessful building to contemplate them, without ill temper, if hertucker had not made her peevish, and if Tom had not inconsideratelylaughed when her houses fell, and told her she was "a stupid. "

"Don't laugh at me, Tom!" she burst out angrily; "I'm not a stupid. Iknow a great many things you don't. "

"Oh, I dare say, Miss Spitfire! I'd never be such a cross thing asyou, making faces like that. Lucy doesn't do so. I like Lucy betterthan you; _I_ wish Lucy was _my_ sister. "

"Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so, " said Maggie, starting up hurriedly from her place on the floor, and upsetting Tom'swonderful pagoda. She really did not mean it, but the circumstantialevidence was against her, and Tom turned white with anger, but saidnothing; he would have struck her, only he knew it was cowardly tostrike a girl, and Tom Tulliver was quite determined he would never doanything cowardly. 

Maggie stood in dismay and terror, while Tom got up from the floor andwalked away, pale, from the scattered ruins of his pagoda, and Lucylooked on mutely, like a kitten pausing from its lapping. 

"Oh, Tom, " said Maggie, at last, going half-way toward him, "I didn'tmean to knock it down, indeed, indeed I didn't. "

Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three hard peasout of his pocket, and shot them with his thumbnail against thewindow, vaguely at first, but presently with the distinct aim ofhitting a superannuated blue-bottle which was exposing its imbecilityin the spring sunshine, clearly against the views of Nature, who hadprovided Tom and the peas for the speedy destruction of this weakindividual. 

Thus the morning had been made heavy to Maggie, and Tom's persistentcoldness to her all through their walk spoiled the fresh air andsunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at the half-built bird's nestwithout caring to show it Maggie, and peeled a willow switch for Lucyand himself, without offering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, "Maggie, shouldn't _you_ like one?" but Tom was deaf. 

Still, the sight of the peacock opportunely spreading his tail on thestackyard wall, just as they reached Garum Firs, was enough to divertthe mind temporarily from personal grievances. And this was only thebeginning of beautiful sights at Garum Firs. All the farmyard life waswonderful there, --bantams, speckled and top-knotted; Friesland hens, with their feathers all turned the wrong way; Guinea-fowls that flewand screamed and dropped their pretty spotted feathers; pouter-pigeonsand a tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a wonderful brindled dog, halfmastiff, half bull-dog, as large as a lion. Then there were whiterailings and white gates all about, and glittering weathercocks ofvarious design, and garden-walks paved with pebbles in beautifulpatterns, --nothing was quite common at Garum Firs; and Tom thoughtthat the unusual size of the toads there was simply due to the generalunusualness which characterized uncle Pullet's possessions as agentleman farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally leaner. As forthe house, it was not less remarkable; it had a receding centre, andtwo wings with battlemented turrets, and was covered with glitteringwhite stucco. 

Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching from the window, and made haste to unbar and unchain the front door, kept always inthis fortified condition from fear of tramps, who might be supposed toknow of the glass case of stuffed birds in the hall, and tocontemplate rushing in and carrying it away on their heads. AuntPullet, too, appeared at the doorway, and as soon as her sister waswithin hearing said, "Stop the children, for God's sake! Bessy; don'tlet 'em come up the door-steps; Sally's bringing the old mat and theduster, to rub their shoes. "

Mrs. Pullet's front-door mats were by no means intended to wipe shoeson; the very scraper had a deputy to do its dirty work. Tom rebelledparticularly against this shoewiping, which he always considered inthe light of an indignity to his sex. He felt it as the beginning ofthe disagreeables incident to a visit at aunt Pullet's, where he hadonce been compelled to sit with towels wrapped round his boots; a factwhich may serve to correct the too-hasty conclusion that a visit toGarum Firs must have been a great treat to a young gentleman fond ofanimals, --fond, that is, of throwing stones at them. 

The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine companions; it wasthe mounting of the polished oak stairs, which had very handsomecarpets rolled up and laid by in a spare bedroom, so that the ascentof these glossy steps might have served, in barbarous times, as atrial by ordeal from which none but the most spotless virtue couldhave come off with unbroken limbs. Sophy's weakness about thesepolished stairs was always a subject of bitter remonstrance on Mrs. Glegg's part; but Mrs. Tulliver ventured on no comment, only thinkingto herself it was a mercy when she and the children were safe on thelanding. 

"Mrs. Gray has sent home my new bonnet, Bessy, " said Mrs. Pullet, in apathetic 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 'emin again, " said Mrs. Pullet, drawing a bunch of keys from her pocketand looking at them earnestly, "but it 'ud be a pity for you to goaway without seeing it. There's no knowing what may happen. "

Mrs. Pullet shook her head slowly at this last serious consideration, which determined her to single out a particular key. 

"I'm afraid it'll be troublesome to you getting it out, sister, " saidMrs. Tulliver; "but I _should_ like to see what sort of a crown she'smade you. "

Mrs. Pullet rose with a melancholy air and unlocked one wing of a verybright wardrobe, where you may have hastily supposed she would find anew bonnet. Not at all. Such a supposition could only have arisen froma too-superficial acquaintance with the habits of the Dodson family. In this wardrobe Mrs. Pullet was seeking something small enough to behidden 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. Tulliver, who sawthat Maggie 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 semi-lunar top of the window which rose above theclosed shutter; it was really quite solemn. Aunt Pullet paused andunlocked a door which opened on something still more solemn than thepassage, --a darkened room, in which the outer light, entering feebly, showed what looked like the corpses of furniture in white shrouds. Everything that was not shrouded stood with its legs upward. Lucy laidhold 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 thefunereal solemnity of the scene. The delicious scent of rose-leavesthat issued from the wardrobe made the process of taking out sheetafter sheet of silver paper quite pleasant to assist at, though thesight of the bonnet at last was an anticlimax to Maggie, who wouldhave preferred something more strikingly preternatural. But few thingscould have been more impressive to Mrs. Tulliver. She looked all roundit 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 somethingwas due to it. 

"You'd like to see it on, sister?" she said sadly. "I'll open theshutter a bit further. "

"Well, if you don't mind taking off your cap, sister, " said Mrs. Tulliver. 

Mrs. Pullet took off her cap, displaying the brown silk scalp with ajutting promontory of curls which was common to the more mature andjudicious women of those times, and placing the bonnet on her head, turned slowly round, like a draper's lay-figure, that Mrs. Tullivermight miss no point of view. 

"I've sometimes thought there's a loop too much o' ribbon on this leftside, sister; what do you think?" said Mrs. Pullet. 

Mrs. Tulliver looked earnestly at the point indicated, and turned herhead on one side. "Well, I think it's best as it is; if you meddledwith it, sister, you might repent. "

"That's true, " said aunt Pullet, taking off the bonnet and looking atit contemplatively. 

"How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, whose mind was actively engaged on the possibility ofgetting a humble imitation of this _chef-d'oeuvre_ made from a pieceof silk she had at home. 

Mrs. Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and thenwhispered, "Pullet pays for it; he said I was to have the best bonnetat Garum Church, let the next best be whose it would. "

She began slowly to adjust the trimmings, in preparation for returningit to its place in the wardrobe, and her thoughts seemed to have takena melancholy turn, for she shook her head. 

"Ah, " she said at last, "I may never wear it twice, sister; whoknows?"

"Don't talk o' that sister, " answered Mrs. Tulliver. "I hope you'llhave your health this summer. "

"Ah! but there may come a death in the family, as there did soon afterI had my green satin bonnet. Cousin Abbott may go, and we can't thinko' wearing crape less nor half a year for him. "

"That _would_ be unlucky, " said Mrs. Tulliver, entering thoroughlyinto the possibility of an inopportune decease. "There's never so muchpleasure i' wearing a bonnet the second year, especially when thecrowns are so chancy, --never two summers alike. "

"Ah, it's the way i' this world, " said Mrs. Pullet, returning thebonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She maintained a silencecharacterized by head-shaking, until they had all issued from thesolemn 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'mdead and gone, you'll remember I showed it you this day. "

Mrs. Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was a womanof sparse tears, stout and healthy; she couldn't cry so much as hersister Pullet did, and had often felt her deficiency at funerals. Hereffort to bring tears into her eyes issued in an odd contraction ofher face. Maggie, looking on attentively, felt that there was somepainful mystery about her aunt's bonnet which she was considered tooyoung to understand; indignantly conscious, all the while, that shecould have understood that, as well as everything else, if she hadbeen taken into confidence. 

When they went down, uncle Pullet observed, with some acumen, that hereckoned the missis had been showing her bonnet, --that was what hadmade them so long upstairs. With Tom the interval had seemed stilllonger, for he had been seated in irksome constraint on the edge of asofa directly opposite his uncle Pullet, who regarded him withtwinkling gray eyes, and occasionally addressed him as "Young sir. "

"Well, young sir, what do you learn at school?" was a standingquestion with uncle Pullet; whereupon Tom always looked sheepish, rubbed his hands across his face, and answered, "I don't know. " It wasaltogether so embarrassing to be seated _tete-a-tete_ with unclePullet, that Tom could not even look at the prints on the walls, orthe flycages, or the wonderful flower-pots; he saw nothing but hisuncle's gaiters. Not that Tom was in awe of his uncle's mentalsuperiority; indeed, he had made up his mind that he didn't want to bea gentleman farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such athin-legged, silly fellow as his uncle Pullet, --a molly-coddle, infact. A boy's sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmasteringreverence; and while you are making encouraging advances to him underthe idea that he is overwhelmed by a sense of your age and wisdom, tento one he is thinking you extremely queer. The only consolation I cansuggest to you is, that the Greek boys probably thought the same ofAristotle. It is only when you have mastered a restive horse, orthrashed a drayman, or have got a gun in your hand, that these shyjuniors feel you to be a truly admirable and enviable character. Atleast, I am quite sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on these points. In very tender years, when he still wore a lace border under hisoutdoor cap, he was often observed peeping through the bars of a gateand making minatory gestures with his small forefinger while hescolded the sheep with an inarticulate burr, intended to strike terrorinto their astonished minds; indicating thus early that desire formastery over the inferior animals, wild and domestic, includingcockchafers, neighbors' dogs, and small sisters, which in all ages hasbeen an attribute of so much promise for the fortunes of our race. Now, Mr. Pullet never rode anything taller than a low pony, and wasthe least predatory of men, considering firearms dangerous, as apt togo off of themselves by nobody's particular desire. So that Tom wasnot without strong reasons when, in confidential talk with a chum, hehad described uncle Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at the sametime to observe that he was a very "rich fellow. "

The only alleviating circumstance in a _tete-a-tete_ with uncle Pulletwas that he kept a variety of lozenges and peppermint-drops about hisperson, and when at a loss for conversation, he filled up the void byproposing a mutual solace of this kind. 

"Do you like peppermints, young sir?" required only a tacit answerwhen it was accompanied by a presentation of the article in question. 

The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet thefurther solace of small sweet-cakes, of which he also kept a stockunder lock and key for his own private eating on wet days; but thethree children had no sooner got the tempting delicacy between theirfingers, than aunt Pullet desired them to abstain from eating it tillthe tray and the plates came, since with those crisp cakes they wouldmake the floor "all over" crumbs. Lucy didn't mind that much, for thecake was so pretty, she thought it was rather a pity to eat it; butTom, watching his opportunity while the elders were talking, hastilystowed it in his mouth at two bites, and chewed it furtively. As forMaggie, becoming fascinated, as usual, by a print of Ulysses andNausicaa, which uncle Pullet had bought as a "pretty Scripture thing, "she presently let fall her cake, and in an unlucky movement crushed itbeneath her foot, --a source of so much agitation to aunt Pullet andconscious disgrace to Maggie, that she began to despair of hearing themusical snuff-box to-day, till, after some reflection, it occurred toher that Lucy was in high favor enough to venture on asking for atune. So she whispered to Lucy; and Lucy, who always did what she wasdesired to do, went up quietly to her uncle's knee, and blush-all overher neck while she fingered her necklace, said, "Will you please playus a tune, uncle?"

Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in unclePullet that the snuff-box played such beautiful tunes, and indeed thething was viewed in that light by the majority of his neighbors inGarum. Mr. Pullet had _bought_ the box, to begin with, and heunderstood winding it up, and knew which tune it was going to playbeforehand; altogether the possession of this unique "piece of music"was a proof that Mr. Pullet's character was not of that entire nullitywhich might otherwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, when entreated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it bya too-ready consent. "We'll see about it, " was the answer he alwaysgave, carefully abstaining from any sign of compliance till a suitablenumber of minutes had passed. Uncle Pullet had a programme for allgreat social occasions, and in this way fenced himself in from muchpainful confusion and perplexing freedom of will. 

Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie's enjoyment when the fairytune began; for the first time she quite forgot that she had a load onher mind, that Tom was angry with her; and by the time "Hush, yepretty warbling choir, " had been played, her face wore that brightlook of happiness, while she sat immovable with her hands clasped, which sometimes comforted her mother with the sense that Maggie couldlook pretty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. But when themagic music ceased, she jumped up, and running toward Tom, put her armround his neck and said, "Oh, Tom, isn't it pretty?"

Lest you should think it showed a revolting insensibility in Tom thathe 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 cowslipwine in his hand, and that she jerked him so as to make him spill halfof it. He must have been an extreme milksop not to say angrily, "Lookthere, now!" especially when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by general disapprobation of Maggie's behavior. 

"Why don't you sit still, Maggie?" her mother said peevishly. 

"Little gells mustn't come to see me if they behave in that way, " saidaunt Pullet. 

"Why, you're too rough, little miss, " said uncle Pullet. 

Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. 

Mrs. Tulliver, foreseeing nothing but misbehavior while the childrenremained indoors, took an early opportunity of suggesting that, nowthey were rested after their walk, they might go and play out ofdoors; and aunt Pullet gave permission, only enjoining them not to gooff the paved walks in the garden, and if they wanted to see thepoultry fed, to view them from a distance on the horse-block; arestriction which had been imposed ever since Tom had been foundguilty of running after the peacock, with an illusory idea that frightwould make one of its feathers drop off. 

Mrs. Tulliver's thoughts had been temporarily diverted from thequarrel with Mrs. Glegg by millinery and maternal cares, but now thegreat theme of the bonnet was thrown into perspective, and thechildren were out of the way, yesterday's anxieties recurred. 

"It weighs on my mind so as never was, " she said, by way of openingthe subject, "sister Glegg's leaving the house in that way. I'm sureI'd no wish t' offend a sister. "

"Ah, " said aunt Pullet, "there's no accounting for what Jane 'ull 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. I've said so toPullet often and often, and he knows it. "

"Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came away fromdrinking tea with 'em, " said Mr. Pullet, beginning to nurse his kneeand shelter it with his pocket-hand-kerchief, as was his way when theconversation took an interesting turn. 

"Very like I did, " said Mrs. Pullet, "for you remember when I saidthings, better than I can remember myself. He's got a wonderfulmemory, Pullet has, " she continued, looking pathetically at hersister. "I should be poorly off if he was to have a stroke, for healways remembers when I've got to take my doctor's stuff; and I'mtaking three sorts now. "

"There's the 'pills as before' every other night, and the new drops ateleven and four, and the 'fervescing mixture 'when agreeable, '"rehearsed Mr. Pullet, with a punctuation determined by a lozenge onhis tongue. 

"Ah, perhaps it 'ud be better for sister Glegg if _she'd_ go to thedoctor sometimes, instead o' chewing Turkey rhubard whenever there'sanything the matter with her, " said Mrs. Tulliver, who naturally sawthe wide subject of medicine chiefly in relation to Mrs. Glegg. 

"It's dreadful to think on, " said aunt Pullet, raising her hands andletting them fall again, "people playing with their own insides inthat way! And it's flying i' the face o' Providence; for what are thedoctors for, if we aren't to call 'em in? And when folks have got themoney to pay for a doctor, it isn't respectable, as I've told Janemany a time. I'm ashamed of acquaintance knowing it. "

"Well, _we've_ no call to be ashamed, " said Mr. Pullet, "for DoctorTurnbull hasn't got such another patient as you i' this parish, nowold Mrs. Sutton's gone. "

"Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles, did you know, Bessy?" said Mrs. Pullet. "He won't have one sold. He says it's nothing but right folksshould see 'em when I'm gone. They fill two o' the long store-roomshelves a'ready; but, " she added, beginning to cry a little, "it'swell if they ever fill three. I may go before I've made up the dozeno' these last sizes. The pill-boxes are in the closet in myroom, --you'll remember that, sister, --but there's nothing to show forthe boluses, if it isn't the bills. "

"Don't talk o' your going, sister, " said Mrs. Tulliver; "I should havenobody to stand between me and sister Glegg if you was gone. Andthere's nobody but you can get her to make it up with Mr. Tulliver, for sister Deane's never o' my side, and if she was, it's not to belooked for as she can speak like them as have got an independentfortin. "

"Well, your husband _is_ awk'ard, you know, Bessy, " said Mrs. Pullet, good-naturedly ready to use her deep depression on her sister'saccount as well as her own. "He's never behaved quite so pretty to ourfamily as he should do, and the children take after him, --the boy'svery mischievous, and runs away from his aunts and uncles, and thegell'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 allays liked thesame patterns. "

"I know Tulliver's hasty, and says odd things, " said Mrs. Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner of her eye; "but I'm surehe's never been the man, since he married me, to object to my makingthe 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 onhim, --and so given to lawing, they say. I doubt he'll leave you poorlyoff when he dies. Not as I'd have it said out o' the family. "

This view of her position was naturally far from cheering to Mrs. Tulliver. Her imagination was not easily acted on, but she could nothelp thinking that her case was a hard one, since it appeared thatother people thought it hard. 

"I'm sure, sister, I can't help myself, " she said, urged by the fearlest her anticipated misfortunes might be held retributive, to takecomprehensive review of her past conduct. "There's no woman strivesmore for her children; and I'm sure at scouring-time this Lady-day asI've had all the bedhangings taken down I did as much as the two gellsput together; and there's the last elder-flower wine I'vemade--beautiful! I allays offer it along with the sherry, thoughsister Glegg will have it I'm so extravagant; and as for liking tohave my clothes tidy, and not go a fright about the house, there'snobody in the parish can say anything against me in respect o'backbiting and making mischief, for I don't wish anybody any harm; andnobody loses by sending me a porkpie, for my pies are fit to show withthe best o' my neighbors'; and the linen's so in order as if I was todie to-morrow I shouldn't be ashamed. A woman can do no more nor shecan. "

"But it's all o' no use, you know, Bessy, " said Mrs. Pullet, holdingher 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 wassold up, and other folks bought your furniture, it's a comfort tothink as you've kept it well rubbed. And there's the linen, with yourmaiden mark on, might go all over the country. It 'ud be a sad pityfor our family. " Mrs. Pullet shook her head slowly. 

"But what can I do, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver. "Mr. Tulliver's not aman to be dictated to, --not if I was to go to the parson and get byheart what I should tell my husband for the best. And I'm sure I don'tpretend to know anything about putting out money and all that. I couldnever see into men's business as sister Glegg does. "

"Well, you're like me in that, Bessy, " said Mrs. Pullet; "and I thinkit 'ud be a deal more becoming o' Jane if she'd have that pier-glassrubbed oftener, --there was ever so many spots on it lastweek, --instead o' dictating to folks as have more comings in than sheever had, and telling 'em what they're to do with their money. ButJane and me were allays contrairy; she _would_ have striped things, and I like spots. You like a spot too, Bessy; we allays hung togetheri' that. "

"Yes, Sophy, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "I remember our having a blue groundwith a white spot both alike, --I've got a bit in a bed-quilt now; andif you would but go and see sister Glegg, and persuade her to make itup with Tulliver, I should take it very kind of you. You was allays agood sister to me. "

"But the right thing 'ud be for Tulliver to go and make it up with herhimself, and say he was sorry for speaking so rash. If he's borrowedmoney of her, he shouldn't be above that, " said Mrs. Pullet, whosepartiality did not blind her to principles; she did not forget whatwas due to people of independent fortune. 

"It's no use talking o' that, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, almostpeevishly. "If I was to go down on my bare knees on the gravel toTulliver, he'd never humble himself. "

"Well, you can't expect me to persuade _Jane_ to beg pardon, " saidMrs. Pullet. "Her temper's beyond everything; it's well if it doesn'tcarry her off her mind, though there never _was_ any of our familywent to a madhouse. "

"I'm not thinking of her begging pardon, " said Mrs. Tulliver. "But ifshe'd just take no notice, and not call her money in; as it's not somuch for one sister to ask of another; time 'ud mend things, andTulliver 'ud forget all about it, and they'd be friends again. "

Mrs. Tulliver, you perceive, was not aware of her husband'sirrevocable determination to pay in the five hundred pounds; at leastsuch a determination exceeded her powers of belief. 

"Well, Bessy, " said Mrs. Pullet, mournfully, "_I_ don't want to helpyou on to ruin. I won't be behindhand i' doing you a good turn, if itis to be done. And I don't like it said among acquaintance as we'vegot quarrels in the family. I shall tell Jane that; and I don't minddriving to Jane's tomorrow, if Pullet doesn't mind. What do you say, Mr. Pullet?"

"I've no objections, " said Mr. Pullet, who was perfectly contentedwith any course the quarrel might take, so that Mr. Tulliver did notapply to _him_ for money. Mr. Pullet was nervous about hisinvestments, and did not see how a man could have any security for hismoney unless he turned it into land. 

After a little further discussion as to whether it would not be betterfor Mrs. Tulliver to accompany them on a visit to sister Glegg, Mrs. Pullet, observing that it was tea-time, turned to reach from a drawera delicate damask napkin, which she pinned before her in the fashionof an apron. The door did, in fact, soon open, but instead of thetea-tray, Sally introduced an object so startling that both Mrs. Pullet and Mrs. Tulliver gave a scream, causing uncle Pullet toswallow his lozenge--for the fifth time in his life, as he afterwardnoted. 

Chapter X

Maggie Behaves Worse Than She Expected

The startling object which thus made an epoch for uncle Pullet was noother than little Lucy, with one side of her person, from her smallfoot to her bonnet-crown, wet and discolored with mud, holding out twotiny blackened hands, and making a very piteous face. To account forthis unprecedented apparition in aunt Pullet's parlor, we must returnto the moment when the three children went to play out of doors, andthe small demons who had taken possession of Maggie's soul at an earlyperiod of the day had returned in all the greater force after atemporary absence. All the disagreeable recollections of the morningwere thick upon her, when Tom, whose displeasure toward her had beenconsiderably refreshed by her foolish trick of causing him to upsethis cowslip wine, said, "Here, Lucy, you come along with me, " andwalked off to the area where the toads were, as if there were noMaggie in existence. Seeing this, Maggie lingered at a distancelooking like a small Medusa with her snakes cropped. Lucy wasnaturally pleased that cousin Tom was so good to her, and it was veryamusing to see him tickling a fat toad with a piece of string when thetoad was safe down the area, with an iron grating over him. Still Lucywished Maggie to enjoy the spectacle also, especially as she woulddoubtless find a name for the toad, and say what had been his pasthistory; for Lucy had a delighted semibelief in Maggie's stories aboutthe live things they came upon by accident, --how Mrs. Earwig had awash at home, and one of her children had fallen into the hot copper, for which reason she was running so fast to fetch the doctor. Tom hada profound contempt for this nonsense of Maggie's, smashing the earwigat once as a superfluous yet easy means of proving the entireunreality of such a story; but Lucy, for the life of her, could nothelp fancying there was something in it, and at all events thought itwas very pretty make-believe. So now the desire to know the history ofa very portly toad, added to her habitual affectionateness, made herrun back to Maggie and say, "Oh, there is such a big, funny toad, Maggie! Do come and see!"

Maggie said nothing, but turned away from her with a deeper frown. Aslong as Tom seemed to prefer Lucy to her, Lucy made part of hisunkindness. Maggie would have thought a little while ago that shecould never be cross with pretty little Lucy, any more than she couldbe cruel to a little white mouse; but then, Tom had always been quiteindifferent to Lucy before, and it had been left to Maggie to pet andmake much of her. As it was, she was actually beginning to think thatshe 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 ifshe dared, because he didn't mind it. And if Lucy hadn't been there, Maggie was sure he would have got friends with her sooner. 

Tickling a fat toad who is not highly sensitive is an amusement thatit is possible to exhaust, and Tom by and by began to look round forsome other mode of passing the time. But in so prim a garden, wherethey were not to go off the paved walks, there was not a great choiceof sport. The only great pleasure such a restriction suggested was thepleasure of breaking it, and Tom began to meditate an insurrectionaryvisit to the pond, about a field's length beyond the garden. 

"I say, Lucy, " he began, nodding his head up and down with greatsignificance, as he coiled up his string again, "what do you think Imean 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 ifyou like, " said the young sultan. 

"Oh, Tom, _dare_ you?" said Lucy. "Aunt said we mustn't go out of thegarden. "

"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. "

"But _I_ couldn't run, " said Lucy, who had never before been exposedto such severe temptation. 

"Oh, never mind; they won't be cross with _you_, " said Tom. "You say Itook you. "

Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly enjoying therare treat of doing something naughty, --excited also by the mention ofthat celebrity, the pike, about which she was quite uncertain whetherit was a fish or a fowl. 

Maggie saw them leaving the garden, and could not resist the impulseto follow. Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of theirobjects than love, and that Tom and Lucy should do or see anything ofwhich she was ignorant would have been an intolerable idea to Maggie. So she kept a few yards behind them, unobserved by Tom, who waspresently absorbed in watching for the pike, --a highly interestingmonster; he was said to be so very old, so very large, and to havesuch a remarkable appetite. The pike, like other celebrities, did notshow when he was watched for, but Tom caught sight of something inrapid movement in the water, which attracted him to another spot onthe brink of the pond. 

"Here, Lucy!" he said in a loud whisper, "come here! take care! keepon 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 ofit; for Tom's contemptuous conception of a girl included the attributeof being unfit to walk in dirty places. 

Lucy came carefully as she was bidden, and bent down to look at whatseemed a golden arrow-head darting through the water. It was awater-snake, Tom told her; and Lucy at last could see the serpentinewave of its body, very much wondering that a snake could swim. Maggiehad drawn nearer and nearer; she _must_ see it too, though it wasbitter to her, like everything else, since Tom did not care about herseeing it. At last she was close by Lucy; and Tom, who had been awareof her approach, but would not notice it till he was obliged, turnedround and said, --

"Now, get away, Maggie; there's no room for you on the grass here. Nobody asked _you_ to come. "

There were passions at war in Maggie at that moment to have made atragedy, if tragedies were made by passion only; but the essential[Greek text] 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 slapson the arm as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay crying helplessly. Maggie retreated to the roots of a tree a few yards off, and looked onimpenitently. Usually her repentance came quickly after one rash deed, but now Tom and Lucy had made her so miserable, she was glad to spoiltheir happiness, --glad to make everybody uncomfortable. Why should shebe sorry? Tom was very slow to forgive _her_, however sorry she mighthave been. 

"I shall tell mother, you know, Miss Mag, " said Tom, loudly andemphatically, as soon as Lucy was up and ready to walk away. It wasnot Tom's practice to "tell, " but here justice clearly demanded thatMaggie should be visited with the utmost punishment; not that Tom hadlearned to put his views in that abstract form; he never mentioned"justice, " and had no idea that his desire to punish might be calledby that fine name. Lucy was too entirely absorbed by the evil that hadbefallen her, --the spoiling of her pretty best clothes, and thediscomfort of being wet and dirty, --to think much of the cause, whichwas entirely mysterious to her. She could never have guessed what shehad done to make Maggie angry with her; but she felt that Maggie wasvery unkind and disagreeable, and made no magnanimous entreaties toTom that he would not "tell, " only running along by his side andcrying piteously, while Maggie sat on the roots of the tree and lookedafter them with her small Medusa face. 

"Sally, " said Tom, when they reached the kitchen door, and Sallylooked at them in speechless amaze, with a piece of bread-and-butterin her mouth and a toasting-fork in her hand, --"Sally, tell mother itwas Maggie pushed Lucy into the mud. "

"But Lors ha' massy, how did you get near such mud as that?" saidSally, making a wry face, as she stooped down and examined the _corpusdelicti_. 

Tom's imagination had not been rapid and capacious enough to includethis question among the foreseen consequences, but it was no soonerput than he foresaw whither it tended, and that Maggie would not beconsidered the only culprit in the case. He walked quietly away fromthe kitchen door, leaving Sally to that pleasure of guessing whichactive minds notoriously prefer to ready-made knowledge. 

Sally, as you are aware, lost no time in presenting Lucy at the parlordoor, for to have so dirty an object introduced into the house atGarum Firs was too great a weight to be sustained by a single mind. 

"Goodness gracious!" aunt Pullet exclaimed, after preluding by aninarticulate scream; "keep her at the door, Sally! Don't bring her offthe oil-cloth, whatever you do. "

"Why, she's tumbled into some nasty mud, " said Mrs. Tulliver, going upto Lucy to examine into the amount of damage to clothes for which shefelt herself responsible to her sister Deane. 

"If you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her in, " said Sally;"Master Tom's been and said so, and they must ha' been to the pond, for it's only there they could ha' got into such dirt. "

"There it is, Bessy; it's what I've been telling you, " said Mrs. Pullet, in a tone of prophetic sadness; "it's your children, --there'sno knowing what they'll come to. "

Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched mother. Asusual, the thought pressed upon her that people would think she haddone something wicked to deserve her maternal troubles, while Mrs. Pullet began to give elaborate directions to Sally how to guard thepremises from serious injury in the course of removing the dirt. Meantime tea was to be brought in by the cook, and the two naughtychildren were to have theirs in an ignominious manner in the kitchen. Mrs. Tulliver went out to speak to these naughty children, supposingthem to be close at hand; but it was not until after some search thatshe found Tom leaning with rather a hardened, careless air against thewhite paling of the poultry-yard, and lowering his piece of string onthe other side as a means of exasperating the turkey-cock. 

"Tom, you naughty boy, where's your sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, in adistressed voice. 

"I don't know, " said Tom; his eagerness for justice on Maggie haddiminished since he had seen clearly that it could hardly be broughtabout without the injustice of some blame on his own conduct. 

"Why, where did you leave her?" said the mother, looking round. 

"Sitting under the tree, against the pond, " said Tom, apparentlyindifferent to everything but the string and the turkey-cock. 

"Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy. And how couldyou think o' going to the pond, and taking your sister where there wasdirt? You know she'll do mischief if there's mischief to be done. "

It was Mrs. Tulliver's way, if she blamed Tom, to refer hismisdemeanor, somehow or other, to Maggie. 

The idea of Maggie sitting alone by the pond roused an habitual fearin Mrs. Tulliver's mind, and she mounted the horse-block to satisfyherself by a sight of that fatal child, while Tom walked--not veryquickly--on his way toward her. 

"They're such children for the water, mine are, " she said aloud, without reflecting that there was no one to hear her; "they'll bebrought in dead and drownded some day. I wish that river was farenough. "

But when she not only failed to discern Maggie, but presently saw Tomreturning from the pool alone, this hovering fear entered and tookcomplete possession of her, and she hurried to meet him. 

"Maggie's nowhere about the pond, mother, " said Tom; "she's goneaway. "

You may conceive the terrified search for Maggie, and the difficultyof convincing her mother that she was not in the pond. Mrs. Pulletobserved that the child might come to a worse end if she lived, therewas no knowing; and Mr. Pullet, confused and overwhelmed by thisrevolutionary aspect of things, --the tea deferred and the poultryalarmed by the unusual running to and fro, --took up his spud as aninstrument 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 shouldhave done himself under the circumstances), and the suggestion wasseized as a comfort by his mother. 

"Sister, for goodness' sake let 'em put the horse in the carriage andtake me home; we shall perhaps find her on the road. Lucy can't walkin her dirty clothes, " she said, looking at that innocent victim, whowas wrapped up in a shawl, and sitting with naked feet on the sofa. 

Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means of restoringher premises to order and quiet, and it was not long before Mrs. Tulliver was in the chaise, looking anxiously at the most distantpoint before her. What the father would say if Maggie was lost, was aquestion 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 Tomimagined. The resolution that gathered in her mind, after Tom and Lucyhad walked away, was not so simple as that of going home. No! shewould run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her anymore. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie; she had been so oftentold she was like a gypsy, and "half wild, " that when she wasmiserable it seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobrium, andbeing entirely in harmony with circumstances, would be to live in alittle brown tent on the commons; the gypsies, she considered, wouldgladly receive her and pay her much respect on account of her superiorknowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to Tom andsuggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should runaway together; but Tom rejected the scheme with contempt, observingthat gypsies were thieves, and hardly got anything to eat and hadnothing to drive but a donkey. To-day however, Maggie thought hermisery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her refuge, and sherose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that thiswas a great crisis in her life; she would run straight away till shecame to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; andcruel 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 ranalong, but she reconciled herself to the idea of parting with him, bydetermining that she would secretly send him a letter by a smallgypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just lethim know that she was well and happy, and always loved him very much. 

Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time Tom got tothe pond again she was at the distance of three long fields, and wason the edge of the lane leading to the highroad. She stopped to pant alittle, reflecting that running away was not a pleasant thing untilone had got quite to the common where the gypsies were, but herresolution had not abated; she presently passed through the gate intothe lane, not knowing where it would lead her, for it was not this waythat they came from Dorlcote Mill to Garum Firs, and she felt all thesafer for that, because there was no chance of her being overtaken. But she was soon aware, not without trembling, that there were two mencoming along the lane in front of her; she had not thought of meetingstrangers, she had been too much occupied with the idea of her friendscoming after her. The formidable strangers were two shabby-looking menwith flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle on a stick over hisshoulder; but to her surprise, while she was dreading theirdisapprobation as a runaway, the man with the bundle stopped, and in ahalf-whining, half-coaxing tone asked her if she had a copper to givea poor man. Maggie had a sixpence in her pocket, --her uncle Glegg'spresent, --which she immediately drew out and gave this poor man with apolite smile, hoping he would feel very kindly toward her as agenerous person. "That's the only money I've got, " she saidapologetically. "Thank you, little miss, " said the man, in a lessrespectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and she evenobserved that he smiled and winked at his companion. She walked onhurriedly, but was aware that the two men were standing still, probably to look after her, and she presently heard them laughingloudly. Suddenly it occurred to her that they might think she was anidiot; 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, shehad no sleeves on, --only a cape and bonnet. It was clear that she wasnot likely to make a favorable impression on passengers, and shethought she would turn into the fields again, but not on the same sideof the lane as before, lest they should still be uncle Pullet'sfields. She turned through the first gate that was not locked, andfelt a delightful sense of privacy in creeping along by the hedgerows, after her recent humiliating encounter. She was used to wanderingabout the fields by herself, and was less timid there than on thehighroad. Sometimes she had to climb over high gates, but that was asmall evil; she was getting out of reach very fast, and she shouldprobably soon come within sight of Dunlow Common, or at least of someother common, for she had heard her father say that you couldn't govery far without coming to a common. She hoped so, for she was gettingrather tired and hungry, and until she reached the gypsies there wasno definite prospect of bread and butter. It was still broad daylight, for aunt Pullet, retaining the early habits of the Dodson family, tooktea 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 nogathering gloom on the fields to remind her that the night would come. Still, it seemed to her that she had been walking a very greatdistance indeed, and it was really surprising that the common did notcome within sight. Hitherto she had been in the rich parish of Garum, where was a great deal of pasture-land, and she had only seen onelaborer at a distance. That was fortunate in some respects, aslaborers might be too ignorant to understand the propriety of herwanting to go to Dunlow Common; yet it would have been better if shecould have met some one who would tell her the way without wanting toknow anything about her private business. At last, however, the greenfields came to an end, and Maggie found herself looking through thebars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side ofit. She had never seen such a wide lane before, and, without herknowing why, it gave her the impression that the common could not befar off; perhaps it was because she saw a donkey with a log to hisfoot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey with thatpitiable encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she had been across it inher father's gig. She crept through the bars of the gate and walked onwith new spirit, though not without haunting images of Apollyon, and ahighwayman with a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow with a mouthfrom ear to ear, and other miscellaneous dangers. For poor littleMaggie had at once the timidity of an active imagination and thedaring that comes from overmastering impulse. She had rushed into theadventure of seeking her unknown kindred, the gypsies; and now she wasin this strange lane, she hardly dared look on one side of her, lestshe should see the diabolical blacksmith in his leathern aprongrinning at her with arms akimbo. It was not without a leaping of theheart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock; they seemed somethinghideously preternatural, --a diabolical kind of fungus; for she was toomuch agitated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes and thedark shaggy head attached to them. It was a boy asleep, and Maggietrotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him; itdid not occur to her that he was one of her friends the gypsies, whoin all probability would have very genial manners. But the fact wasso, for at the next bend in the lane Maggie actually saw the littlesemicircular black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, whichwas to be her refuge from all the blighting obloquy that had pursuedher in civilized life. She even saw a tall female figure by the columnof smoke, doubtless the gypsy-mother, who provided the tea and othergroceries; it was astonishing to herself that she did not feel moredelighted. But it was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, afterall, and not on a common; indeed, it was rather disappointing; for amysterious illimitable common, where there were sand-pits to hide in, and one was out of everybody's reach, had always made part of Maggie'spicture of gypsy life. She went on, however, and thought with somecomfort that gypsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so therewas no danger of their falling into the mistake of setting her down atthe first glance as an idiot. It was plain she had attractedattention; for the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with ababy on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggie looked up in thenew face rather tremblingly as it approached, and was reassured by thethought that her aunt Pullet and the rest were right when they calledher a gypsy; for this face, with the bright dark eyes and the longhair, was really something like what she used to see in the glassbefore she cut her hair off. 

"My little lady, where are you going to?" the gypsy said, in a tone ofcoaxing deference. 

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected; the gypsies saw atonce that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat heraccordingly. 

"Not any farther, " said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what shehad rehearsed in a dream. "I'm come to stay with _you_, please. "

"That's pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, tobe sure!" said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought hervery agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty. 

There was quite a group round the fire when she reached it. An oldgypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, andoccasionally poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth anodorous steam; two small shock-headed children were lying prone andresting on their elbows something like small sphinxes; and a placiddonkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellentstolen hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scenewas really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hopedthey would soon set out the tea-cups. Everything would be quitecharming when she had taught the gypsies to use a washing-basin, andto feel an interest in books. It was a little confusing, though, thatthe young woman began to speak to the old one in a language whichMaggie did not understand, while the tall girl, who was feeding thedonkey, sat up and stared at her without offering any salutation. Atlast the old woman said, --

"What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down andtell us where you come from. "

It was just like a story; Maggie liked to be called pretty lady andtreated in this way. She sat down and said, --

"I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great manythings. "

"Such a clever little lady, " said the woman with the baby sitting downby Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; "and such a pretty bonnet andfrock, " she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at it whileshe made an observation to the old woman, in the unknown language. Thetall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremostwith a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any weakness onthis subject, as if she were susceptible about her bonnet. 

"I don't want to wear a bonnet, " she said; "I'd rather wear a redhandkerchief, like yours" (looking at her friend by her side). "Myhair was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I dare sayit will grow again very soon, " she added apologetically, thinking itprobable the gypsies had a strong prejudice in favor of long hair. AndMaggie had forgotten even her hunger at that moment in the desire toconciliate gypsy opinion. 

"Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I'm sure, " said the oldwoman. "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 gofishing, but I'm often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring mybooks with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tellyou almost everything there is in my books, I've read them so manytimes, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something aboutGeography too, --that's about the world we live in, --very useful andinteresting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?"

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush, --she wasreally beginning to instruct the gypsies, and gaining great influenceover them. The gypsies themselves were not without amazement at thistalk, though their attention was divided by the contents of Maggie'spocket, which the friend at her right hand had by this time emptiedwithout attracting her notice. 

"Is that where you live, my little lady?" said the old woman, at themention of Columbus. 

"Oh, no!" said Maggie, with some pity; "Columbus was a very wonderfulman, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him andtreated 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 teaso_. "

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a suddendrop from patronizing instruction to simple peevishness. 

"Why, she's hungry, poor little lady, " said the younger woman. "Giveher some o' the cold victual. You've been walking a good way, I'll bebound, 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 I am, else he'll fetch mehome again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?"

"What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?" said the youngerwoman. The tall girl meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie andgrinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable. 

"No, " said Maggie, "I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very goodqueen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If I was a queen, I'd be a very good queen, and kind to everybody. "

"Here's a bit o' nice victual, then, " said the old woman, handing toMaggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon. 

"Thank you, " said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; "butwill you give me some bread-and-butter and tea instead? I don't likebacon. "

"We've got no tea nor butter, " said the old woman, with something likea scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing. 

"Oh, a little bread and treacle would do, " said Maggie. 

"We han't got no treacle, " said the old woman, crossly, whereuponthere followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in their unknowntongue, 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 fewyards off, came back, and said something which produced a strongeffect. The old woman, seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked theskewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under thetent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled alittle, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. Meanwhilethe tall girl gave a shrill cry, and presently came running up the boywhom Maggie had passed as he was sleeping, --a rough urchin about theage of Tom. He stared at Maggie, and there ensued much incomprehensiblechattering. She felt very lonely, and was quite sure she should begin tocry before long; the gypsies didn't seem to mind her at all, and she feltquite weak among them. But the springing tears were checked by newterror, when two men came up, whose approach had been the causeof the sudden excitement. The elder of the two carried a bag, whichhe flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone, which they answered by a shower of treble sauciness; while a blackcur ran barking up to Maggie, and threw her into a tremor that onlyfound a new cause in the curses with which the younger man calledthe 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 thesepeople, or ever communicate to them amusing and useful knowledge. 

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, for they lookedat her, and the tone of the conversation became of that pacific kindwhich implies curiosity on one side and the power of satisfying it onthe other. At last the younger woman said in her previous deferential, coaxing tone, --

"This nice little lady's come to live with us; aren't you glad?"

"Ay, very glad, " said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie'ssilver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from herpocket. He returned them all except the thimble to the younger woman, with some observation, and she immediately restored them to Maggie'spocket, while the men seated themselves, and began to attack thecontents of the kettle, --a stew of meat and potatoes, --which had beentaken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter. 

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; theymust certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimbleby and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was notat all attached to her thimble; but the idea that she was amongthieves prevented her from feeling any comfort in the revival ofdeference and attention toward her; all thieves, except Robin Hood, were wicked people. The women saw she was frightened. 

"We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat, " said the old woman, in hercoaxing tone. "And she's so hungry, sweet little lady. "

"Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this, " said the youngerwoman, handing some of the stew on a brown dish with an iron spoon toMaggie, who, remembering that the old woman had seemed angry with herfor not liking the bread-and-bacon, dared not refuse the stew, thoughfear had chased away her appetite. If her father would but come by inthe gig and take her up! Or even if Jack the Giantkiller, or Mr. Greatheart, or St. George who slew the dragon on the half-pennies, would happen to pass that way! But Maggie thought with a sinking heartthat 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 ninenecessarily is in these days; she had only been to school a year atSt. Ogg's, and had so few books that she sometimes read thedictionary; so that in travelling over her small mind you would havefound the most unexpected ignorance as well as unexpected knowledge. She could have informed you that there was such a word as "polygamy, "and being also acquainted with "polysyllable, " she had deduced theconclusion that "poly" mean "many"; but she had had no idea thatgypsies were not well supplied with groceries, and her thoughtsgenerally were the oddest mixture of clear-eyed acumen and blinddreams. 

Her ideas about the gypsies had undergone a rapid modification in thelast five minutes. From having considered them very respectfulcompanions, amenable to instruction, she had begun to think that theymeant perhaps to kill her as soon as it was dark, and cut up her bodyfor gradual cooking; the suspicion crossed her that the fierce-eyedold man was in fact the Devil, who might drop that transparentdisguise at any moment, and turn either into the grinning blacksmith, or else a fiery-eyed monster with dragon's wings. It was no use tryingto eat the stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was to offend thegypsies, by betraying her extremely unfavorable opinion of them; andshe wondered, with a keenness of interest that no theologian couldhave exceeded, whether, if the Devil were really present, he wouldknow her thoughts. 

"What! you don't like the smell of it, my dear, " said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. "Try abit, come. "

"No, thank you, " said Maggie, summoning all her force for a desperateeffort, and trying to smile in a friendly way. "I haven't time, Ithink; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and comeagain another day, and then I can bring you a basket with somejam-tarts and things. "

Maggie rose from her seat as she threw out this illusory prospect, devoutly hoping that Apollyon was gullible; but her hope sank when theold gypsy-woman said, "Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we'll takeyou home, all safe, when we've done supper; you shall ride home, likea lady. "

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though shepresently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, andthrowing a couple of bags on his back. 

"Now, then, little missis, " said the younger man, rising, and leadingthe donkey forward, "tell us where you live; what's the name o' theplace?"

"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 walkthere, if you please. "

"No, no, it'll be getting dark, we must make haste. And the donkey'llcarry you as nice as can be; you'll see. "

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She feltrelieved that it was not the old man who seemed to be going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home. 

"Here's your pretty bonnet, " said the younger woman, putting thatrecently despised but now welcome article of costume on Maggie's head;"and you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you? and what anice little lady we said you was. "

"Oh yes, thank you, " said Maggie, "I'm very much obliged to you. But Iwish you'd go with me too. " She thought anything was better than goingwith one of the dreadful men alone; it would be more cheerful to bemurdered by a larger party. 

"Ah, you're fondest o' _me_, aren't you?" said the woman. "But I can'tgo; 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 remonstratingagainst this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no nightmarehad ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her onthe back, and said "Good-by, " the donkey, at a strong hint from theman's stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward the pointMaggie had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the roughurchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them for thefirst hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking. 

Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion with her phantomlover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in this entirely naturalride on a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind her, who consideredthat he was earning half a crown. The red light of the setting sunseemed to have a portentous meaning, with which the alarming bray ofthe second donkey with the log on its foot must surely have someconnection. Two low thatched cottages--the only houses they passed inthis lane--seemed to add to its dreariness; they had no windows tospeak of, and the doors were closed; it was probable that they wereinhabitated by witches, and it was a relief to find that the donkeydid not stop there. 

At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, wascoming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there wasactually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at thecorner, --she had surely seen that finger-post before, --"To St. Ogg's, 2 miles. " The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he wasprobably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at thethought that she didn't like coming with him alone. This idea becamestronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the roadquite well, and she was considering how she might open a conversationwith the injured gypsy, and not only gratify his feelings but effacethe impression of her cowardice, when, as they reached a cross-road. Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse. 

"Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my father! Oh, father, father!"

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's wonder, for he had made around from Basset, and had not yet been home. 

"Why, what's the meaning o' this?" he said, checking his horse, whileMaggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father's stirrup. 

"The little miss lost herself, I reckon, " said the gypsy. "She'd cometo our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing herwhere she said her home was. It's a good way to come after being onthe tramp all day. "

"Oh yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home, " saidMaggie, --"a very kind, good man!"

"Here, then, my man, " said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings. "It's the best day's work _you_ ever did. I couldn't afford to losethe little wench; here, lift her up before me. "

"Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?" he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. "How came youto be rambling about and lose yourself?"

"Oh, father, " sobbed Maggie, "I ran away because I was so unhappy; Tomwas so angry with me. I couldn't bear it. "

"Pooh, pooh, " said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, "you mustn't think o'running away from father. What 'ud father do without his littlewench?"

"Oh no, I never will again, father--never. "

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home thatevening; and the effect was seen in the remarkable fact that Maggienever heard one reproach from her mother, or one taunt from Tom, aboutthis foolish business of her running away to the gypsies. Maggie wasrather awe-stricken by this unusual treatment, and sometimes thoughtthat her conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to. 

Chapter XII

Mr. And Mrs. Glegg at Home

In order to see Mr. And Mrs. Glegg at home, we must enter the town ofSt. Ogg's, --that venerable town with the red fluted roofs and thebroad warehouse gables, where the black ships unlade themselves oftheir burthens from the far north, and carry away, in exchange, theprecious inland products, the well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeceswhich my refined readers have doubtless become acquainted with throughthe medium of the best classic pastorals. 

It is one of those old, old towns which impress one as a continuationand outgrowth of nature, as much as the nests of the bower-birds orthe winding galleries of the white ants; a town which carries thetraces of its long growth and history like a millennial tree, and hassprung up and developed in the same spot between the river and the lowhill from the time when the Roman legions turned their backs on itfrom the camp on the hillside, and the long-haired sea-kings came upthe river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fatness of theland. It is a town "familiar with forgotten years. " The shadow of theSaxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, reviewing the scenes ofhis youth and love-time, and is met by the gloomier shadow of thedreadful heathen Dane, who was stabbed in the midst of his warriors bythe sword of an invisible avenger, and who rises on autumn eveningslike a white mist from his tumulus on the hill, and hovers in thecourt of the old hall by the river-side, the spot where he was thusmiraculously slain in the days before the old hall was built. It wasthe Normans who began to build that fine old hall, which is, like thetown, telling of the thoughts and hands of widely sunderedgenerations; but it is all so old that we look with loving pardon atits inconsistencies, and are well content that they who built thestone oriel, and they who built the Gothic facade and towers of finestsmall brickwork with the trefoil ornament, and the windows andbattlements defined with stone, did not sacreligiously pull down theancient half-timbered body with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall. 

But older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall now builtinto the belfry of the parish church, and said to be a remnant of theoriginal chapel dedicated to St. Ogg, the patron saint of this ancienttown, of whose history I possess several manuscript versions. Iincline to the briefest, since, if it should not be wholly true, it isat least likely to contain the least falsehood. "Ogg the son ofBeorl, " says my private hagiographer, "was a boatman who gained ascanty living by ferrying passengers across the river Floss. And itcame to pass, one evening when the winds were high, that there satmoaning 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 shecraved to be rowed across the river. And the men thereabout questionedher, and said, 'Wherefore dost thou desire to cross the river? Tarrytill the morning, and take shelter here for the night; so shalt thoube wise and not foolish. ' Still she went on to mourn and crave. ButOgg the son of Beorl came up and said, 'I will ferry thee across; itis enough that thy heart needs it. ' And he ferried her across. And itcame to pass, when she stepped ashore, that her rags were turned intorobes of flowing white, and her face became bright with exceedingbeauty, and there was a glory around it, so that she shed a light onthe water like the moon in its brightness. And she said, 'Ogg, the sonof Beorl, thou art blessed in that thou didst not question and wranglewith the heart's need, but wast smitten with pity, and didststraightway relieve the same. And from henceforth whoso steps into thyboat shall be in no peril from the storm; and whenever it puts forthto the rescue, it shall save the lives both of men and beasts. ' Andwhen the floods came, many were saved by reason of that blessing onthe boat. But when Ogg the son of Beorl died, behold, in the partingof his soul, the boat loosed itself from its moorings, and was floatedwith the ebbing tide in great swiftness to the ocean, and was seen nomore. Yet it was witnessed in the floods of aftertime, that at thecoming on of eventide, Ogg the son of Beorl was always seen with hisboat upon the wide-spreading waters, and the Blessed Virgin sat in theprow, shedding a light around as of the moon in its brightness, sothat the rowers in the gathering darkness took heart and pulled anew. "

This legend, one sees, reflects from a far-off time the visitation ofthe floods, which, even when they left human life untouched, werewidely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept as sudden death overall smaller living things. But the town knew worse troubles even thanthe floods, --troubles of the civil wars, when it was a continualfighting-place, where first Puritans thanked God for the blood of theLoyalists, and then Loyalists thanked God for the blood of thePuritans. Many honest citizens lost all their possessions forconscience' sake in those times, and went forth beggared from theirnative town. Doubtless there are many houses standing now on whichthose honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow, --quaint-gabledhouses looking on the river, jammed between newer warehouses, andpenetrated by surprising passages, which turn and turn at sharp anglestill they lead you out on a muddy strand overflowed continually by therushing tide. Everywhere the brick houses have a mellow look, and inMrs. Glegg's day there was no incongruous new-fashioned smartness, noplate-glass in shop-windows, no fresh stucco-facing or otherfallacious attempt to make fine old red St. Ogg's wear the air of atown that sprang up yesterday. The shop-windows were small andunpretending; for the farmers' wives and daughters who came to dotheir shopping on market-days were not to be withdrawn from theirregular well-known shops; and the tradesmen had no wares intended forcustomers who would go on their way and be seen no more. Ah! even Mrs. Glegg's day seems far back in the past now, separated from us bychanges that widen the years. War and the rumor of war had then diedout from the minds of men, and if they were ever thought of by thefarmers in drab greatcoats, who shook the grain out of theirsample-bags and buzzed over it in the full market-place, it was as astate of things that belonged to a past golden age when prices werehigh. Surely the time was gone forever when the broad river couldbring up unwelcome ships; Russia was only the place where the linseedcame from, --the more the better, --making grist for the great verticalmillstones with their scythe-like arms, roaring and grinding andcarefully sweeping as if an informing soul were in them. TheCatholics, bad harvests, and the mysterious fluctuations of trade werethe three evils mankind had to fear; even the floods had not beengreat of late years. The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensivelybefore or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, andhad no eyes for the spirits that walk the streets. Since the centurieswhen St. Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother at the prow had beenseen on the wide water, so many memories had been left behind, and hadgradually vanished like the receding hilltops! And the present timewas like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes andearthquakes, thinking to-morrow will be as yesterday, and the giantforces that used to shake the earth are forever laid to sleep. Thedays were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon by theirfaith, still less change it; the Catholics were formidable becausethey would lay hold of government and property, and burn men alive;not because any sane and honest parishioner of St. Ogg's could bebrought to believe in the Pope. One aged person remembered how a rudemultitude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in thecattle-market; but for a long while it had not been expected ofpreachers that they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burstof fervor in Dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism wasthe only symptom of a zeal unsuited to sober times when men had donewith change. Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms, carelessof proselytism: Dissent was an inheritance along with a superior pewand a business connection; and Churchmanship only wonderedcontemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that clung greatly tofamilies in the grocery and chandlering lines, though not incompatiblewith prosperous wholesale dealing. But with the Catholic Question hadcome a slight wind of controversy to break the calm: the elderlyrector had become occasionally historical and argumentative; and Mr. Spray, the Independent minister, had begun to preach politicalsermons, in which he distinguished with much subtlety between hisfervent belief in the right of the Catholics to the franchise and hisfervent belief in their eternal perdition. Most of Mr. Spray'shearers, however, were incapable of following his subtleties, and manyold-fashioned Dissenters were much pained by his "siding with theCatholics"; while others thought he had better let politics alone. Public spirit was not held in high esteem at St. Ogg's, and men whobusied themselves with political questions were regarded with somesuspicion, as dangerous characters; they were usually persons who hadlittle or no business of their own to manage, or, if they had, werelikely enough to become insolvent. 

This was the general aspect of things at St. Ogg's in Mrs. Glegg'sday, and at that particular period in her family history when she hadhad her quarrel with Mr. Tulliver. It was a time when ignorance wasmuch more comfortable than at present, and was received with all thehonors in very good society, without being obliged to dress itself inan elaborate costume of knowledge; a time when cheap periodicals werenot, and when country surgeons never thought of asking their femalepatients if they were fond of reading, but simply took it for grantedthat they preferred gossip; a time when ladies in rich silk gowns worelarge pockets, in which they carried a mutton-bone to secure themagainst cramp. Mrs. Glegg carried such a bone, which she had inheritedfrom her grandmother with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty, like a suit of armor, and a silver-headed walking-stick; for theDodson family had been respectable for many generations. 

Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlor in her excellent houseat St. Ogg's, so that she had two points of view from which she couldobserve the weakness of her fellow-beings, and reinforce herthankfulness for her own exceptional strength of mind. From her frontwindow 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 mennot retired from business, together with a practice of wearing wovencotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for the cominggeneration; and from her back windows she could look down the pleasantgarden and orchard which stretched to the river, and observe the follyof Mr. Glegg in spending his time among "them flowers and vegetables. "For Mr. Glegg, having retired from active business as a wool-staplerfor the purpose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, hadfound this last occupation so much more severe than his business, thathe had been driven into amateur hard labor as a dissipation, andhabitually relaxed by doing the work of two ordinary gardeners. Theeconomizing of a gardener's wages might perhaps have induced Mrs. Glegg to wink at this folly, if it were possible for a healthy femalemind even to simulate respect for a husband's hobby. But it is wellknown that this conjugal complacency belongs only to the weakerportion of the sex, who are scarcely alive to the responsibilities ofa wife as a constituted check on her husband's pleasures, which arehardly ever of a rational or commendable kind. 

Mr. Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental occupation, which gave every promise of being inexhaustible. On the one hand, hesurprised himself by his discoveries in natural history, finding thathis piece of garden-ground contained wonderful caterpillars, slugs, and insects, which, so far as he had heard, had never before attractedhuman observation; and he noticed remarkable coincidences betweenthese zoological phenomena and the great events of that time, --as, forexample, that before the burning of York Minster there had beenmysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose-trees, togetherwith an unusual prevalence of slugs, which he had been puzzled to knowthe meaning of, until it flashed upon him with this melancholyconflagration. (Mr. Glegg had an unusual amount of mental activity, which, when disengaged from the wool business, naturally made itself apathway in other directions. ) And his second subject of meditation wasthe "contrairiness" of the female mind, as typically exhibited in Mrs. Glegg. That a creature made--in a genealogical sense--out of a man'srib, and in this particular case maintained in the highestrespectability without any trouble of her own, should be normally in astate of contradiction to the blandest propositions and even to themost accommodating concessions, was a mystery in the scheme of thingsto which he had often in vain sought a clew in the early chapters ofGenesis. Mr. Glegg had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsomeembodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself of amoney-getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much conjugalharmony. But in that curious compound, the feminine character, it mayeasily happen that the flavor is unpleasant in spite of excellentingredients; and a fine systematic stinginess may be accompanied witha seasoning that quite spoils its relish. Now, good Mr. Glegg himselfwas stingy in the most amiable manner; his neighbors called him"near, " which always means that the person in question is a lovableskinflint. If you expressed a preference for cheese-parings, Mr. Gleggwould remember to save them for you, with a good-natured delight ingratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all animals whichrequired no appreciable keep. There was no humbug or hypocrisy aboutMr. Glegg; his eyes would have watered with true feeling over the saleof a widow's furniture, which a five-pound note from his side pocketwould have prevented; but a donation of five pounds to a person "in asmall way of life" would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavishnessrather than "charity, " which had always presented itself to him as acontribution of small aids, not a neutralizing of misfortune. And Mr. Glegg was just as fond of saving other people's money as his own; hewould have ridden as far round to avoid a turnpike when his expenseswere to be paid for him, as when they were to come out of his ownpocket, and was quite zealous in trying to induce indifferentacquaintances to adopt a cheap substitute for blacking. Thisinalienable habit of saving, as an end in itself, belonged to theindustrious men of business of a former generation, who made theirfortunes slowly, almost as the tracking of the fox belongs to theharrier, --it constituted them a "race, " which is nearly lost in thesedays of rapid money-getting, when lavishness comes close on the backof want. In old-fashioned times an "independence" was hardly ever madewithout a little miserliness as a condition, and you would have foundthat quality in every provincial district, combined with characters asvarious as the fruits from which we can extract acid. The trueHarpagons were always marked and exceptional characters; not so theworthy tax-payers, who, having once pinched from real necessity, retained even in the midst of their comfortable retirement, with theirwallfruit and wine-bins, the habit of regarding life as an ingeniousprocess of nibbling out one's livelihood without leaving anyperceptible deficit, and who would have been as immediately promptedto give up a newly taxed luxury when they had had their clear fivehundred a year, as when they had only five hundred pounds of capital. Mr. Glegg was one of these men, found so impracticable by chancellorsof the exchequer; and knowing this, you will be the better able tounderstand why he had not swerved from the conviction that he had madean eligible marriage, in spite of the too-pungent seasoning thatnature had given to the eldest Miss Dodson's virtues. A man with anaffectionate disposition, who finds a wife to concur with hisfundamental idea of life, easily comes to persuade himself that noother woman would have suited him so well, and does a little dailysnapping and quarrelling without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg, being of a reflective turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had muchwondering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female mindas 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 apitiable irregularity in other women if they did not roll up theirtable-napkins with the same tightness and emphasis as Mrs. Glegg did, if their pastry had a less leathery consistence, and their damsoncheese a less venerable hardness than hers; nay, even the peculiarcombination of grocery and druglike odors in Mrs. Glegg's privatecupboard impressed him as the only right thing in the way of cupboardsmells. I am not sure that he would not have longed for thequarrelling again, if it had ceased for an entire week; and it iscertain that an acquiescent, mild wife would have left his meditationscomparatively jejune and barren of mystery. 

Mr. Glegg's unmistakable kind-heartedness was shown in this, that itpained him more to see his wife at variance with others, --even withDolly, 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 itquite nullified the pleasure he would otherwise have had in the stateof his early cabbages, as he walked in his garden before breakfast thenext morning. Still, he went in to breakfast with some slight hopethat, now Mrs. Glegg had "slept upon it, " her anger might be subduedenough to give way to her usually strong sense of family decorum. Shehad been used to boast that there had never been any of those deadlyquarrels among the Dodsons which had disgraced other families; that noDodson had ever been "cut off with a shilling, " and no cousin of theDodsons disowned; as, indeed, why should they be? For they had nocousins who had not money out at use, or some houses of their own, atthe 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 fuzzyfront of curls; for as she occupied herself in household matters inthe morning it would have been a mere extravagance to put on anythingso superfluous to the making of leathery pastry as a fuzzy curledfront. 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 thecloud of severity remained; and Mr. Glegg, perceiving this, as he satdown to his milkporridge, which it was his old frugal habit to stemhis morning hunger with, prudently resolved to leave the first remarkto Mrs. Glegg, lest, to so delicate an article as a lady's temper, theslightest touch should do mischief. People who seem to enjoy their illtemper have a way of keeping it in fine condition by inflictingprivations on themselves. That was Mrs. Glegg's way. She made her teaweaker than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was a hardcase that a vigorous mood for quarrelling, so highly capable of usingan opportunity, should not meet with a single remark from Mr. Glegg onwhich to exercise itself. But by and by it appeared that his silencewould answer the purpose, for he heard himself apostrophized at lastin that tone peculiar to the wife of one's bosom. 

"Well, Mr. Glegg! it's a poor return I get for making you the wifeI'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'dwanted a home, I should ha' gone elsewhere, as the choice was offeredme. "

Mr. Glegg paused from his porridge and looked up, not with any newamazement, but simply with that quiet, habitual wonder with which weregard constant mysteries. 

"Why, Mrs. G. , what have I done now?"

"Done now, Mr. Glegg? _done now?_--I'm sorry for you. "

Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg reverted to hisporridge. 

"There's husbands in the world, " continued Mrs. Glegg, after a pause, "as 'ud have known how to do something different to siding witheverybody else against their own wives. Perhaps I'm wrong and you canteach me better. But I've allays heard as it's the husband's place tostand by the wife, instead o' rejoicing and triumphing when folksinsult 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 Irejoice or triumph over you?"

"There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out plain, Mr. Glegg. I'd sooner you'd tell me to my face as you make light of me, than try to make out as everybody's in the right but me, and come toyour breakfast in the morning, as I've hardly slept an hour thisnight, and sulk at me as if I was the dirt under your feet. "

"Sulk at you?" said Mr. Glegg, in a tone of angry facetiousness. "You're like a tipsy man as thinks everybody's had too much buthimself. "

"Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to _me_, Mr. Glegg!It makes you look very small, though you can't see yourself, " saidMrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic compassion. "A man in your placeshould set an example, and talk more sensible. "

"Yes; but will you listen to sense?" retorted Mr. Glegg, sharply. "Thebest sense I can talk to you is what I said last night, --as you're i'the wrong to think o' calling in your money, when it's safe enough ifyou'd let it alone, all because of a bit of a tiff, and I was in hopesyou'd ha' altered your mind this morning. But if you'd like to call itin, 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, andmake no end o' expense. "

Mrs. Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she tossed herhead and emitted a guttural interjection to indicate that her silencewas only an armistice, not a peace. And, in fact hostilities soonbroke out again. 

"I'll 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 hadfinished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with a slight toss of thehead, 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 awoman o' _your_ side o' the family, Mr. Glegg, as is fit to stand upwith me, and I'd say it if I was on my dying bed. Not but what I'veallays conducted myself civil to your kin, and there isn't one of 'emcan say the contrary, though my equils they aren't, and nobody shallmake me say it. "

"You'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you've left offquarrelling with you own, Mrs. G. , " said Mr. Glegg, with angrysarcasm. "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, ifhe wanted milk he should have it with a vengeance. "And you know it'sfalse. I'm not the woman to quarrel with my own kin; _you_ may, forI've known you to do it. "

"Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your sister'shouse in a tantrum?"

"I'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr. Glegg, and it's false to say it. Mr. Tulliver's none o' my blood, and it was him quarrelled with me, and drove me out o' the house. But perhaps you'd have had me stay andbe swore at, Mr. Glegg; perhaps you was vexed not to hear more abuseand foul language poured out upo' your own wife. But, let me tell you, it's _your_ disgrace. "

"Did ever anybody hear the like i' this parish?" said Mr. Glegg, getting hot. "A woman, with everything provided for her, and allowedto keep her own money the same as if it was settled on her, and with agig new stuffed and lined at no end o' expense, and provided for whenI die beyond anything she could expect--to go on i' this way, bitingand snapping like a mad dog! It's beyond everything, as God A 'mightyshould ha' made women _so_. " (These last words were uttered in a toneof sorrowful agitation. Mr. Glegg pushed his tea from him, and tappedthe table with both his hands. )

"Well, Mr. Glegg, if those are your feelings, it's best they should beknown, " said Mrs. Glegg, taking off her napkin, and folding it in anexcited manner. "But if you talk o' my being provided for beyond whatI could expect, I beg leave to tell you as I'd a right to expect amany things as I don't find. And as to my being like a mad dog, it'swell if you're not cried shame on by the county for your treatment ofme, for it's what I can't bear, and I won't bear----"

Here Mrs. Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to cry, andbreaking off from speech, she rang the bell violently. 

"Sally, " she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in rather achoked 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 havegruel. "

Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small book-case, and tookdown Baxter's "Saints' Everlasting Rest, " which she carried with herup-stairs. It was the book she was accustomed to lay open before heron special occasions, --on wet Sunday mornings, or when she heard of adeath 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 someinfluence in gradually calming her feelings, and making it possiblefor her to endure existence on the ground-floor, shortly beforetea-time. This was, partly, Mr. Glegg's suggestion that she would dowell to let her five hundred lie still until a good investment turnedup; and, further, his parenthetic hint at his handsome provision forher in case of his death. Mr. Glegg, like all men of his stamp, wasextremely reticent about his will; and Mrs. Glegg, in her gloomiermoments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of whom she hadheard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening her grief athis death by leaving her poorly off, in which case she was firmlyresolved that she would have scarcely any weeper on her bonnet, andwould cry no more than if he had been a second husband. But if he hadreally shown her any testamentary tenderness, it would be affecting tothink of him, poor man, when he was gone; and even his foolish fussabout the flowers and garden-stuff, and his insistence on the subjectof snails, would be touching when it was once fairly at an end. Tosurvive Mr. Glegg, and talk eulogistically of him as a man who mighthave his weaknesses, but who had done the right thing by her, not-withstanding his numerous poor relations; to have sums of interestcoming in more frequently, and secrete it in various corners, bafflingto the most ingenious of thieves (for, to Mrs. Glegg's mind, banks andstrong-boxes would have nullified the pleasure of property; she mightas well have taken her food in capsules); finally, to be looked up toby her own family and the neighborhood, so as no woman can ever hopeto be who has not the praeterite and present dignity comprised in beinga "widow well left, "--all this made a flattering and conciliatory viewof the future. So that when good Mr. Glegg, restored to good humor bymuch hoeing, and moved by the sight of his wife's empty chair, withher knitting rolled up in the corner, went up-stairs to her, andobserved that the bell had been tolling for poor Mr. Morton, Mrs. Glegg answered magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjuredwoman: "Ah! then, there'll be a good business for somebody to taketo. "

Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for it wasnearly five o'clock; and if people are to quarrel often, it follows asa corollary that their quarrels cannot be protracted beyond certainlimits. 

Mr. And Mrs. Glegg talked quite amicably about the Tullivers thatevening. Mr. Glegg went the length of admitting that Tulliver was asad man for getting into hot water, and was like enough to run throughhis property; and Mrs. Glegg, meeting this acknowledgment half-way, declared that it was beneath her to take notice of such a man'sconduct, and that, for her sister's sake, she would let him keep thefive hundred a while longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage sheshould only get four per cent. 

Chapter XIII

Mr. Tulliver Further Entangles the Skein of Life

Owing to this new adjustment of Mrs. Glegg's thoughts, Mrs. Pulletfound her task of mediation the next day surprisingly easy. Mrs. Glegg, indeed checked her rather sharply for thinking it would benecessary to tell her elder sister what was the right mode of behaviorin family matters. Mrs. Pullet's argument, that it would look ill inthe neighborhood if people should have it in their power to say thatthere was a quarrel in the family, was particularly offensive. If thefamily name never suffered except through Mrs. Glegg, Mrs. Pulletmight lay her head on her pillow in perfect confidence. 

"It's not to be expected, I suppose, " observed Mrs. Glegg, by way ofwinding up the subject, "as I shall go to the mill again before Bessycomes to see me, or as I shall go and fall down o' my knees to Mr. Tulliver, and ask his pardon for showing him favors; but I shall bearno malice, and when Mr. Tulliver speaks civil to me, I'll speak civilto him. Nobody has any call to tell me what's becoming. "

Finding it unnecessary to plead for the Tullivers, it was natural thataunt Pullet should relax a little in her anxiety for them, and recurto the annoyance she had suffered yesterday from the offspring of thatapparently ill-fated house. Mrs. Glegg heard a circumstantialnarrative, to which Mr. Pullet's remarkable memory furnished someitems; and while aunt Pullet pitied poor Bessy's bad luck with herchildren, and expressed a half-formed project of paying for Maggie'sbeing sent to a distant boarding-school, which would not prevent herbeing so brown, but might tend to subdue some other vices in her, auntGlegg blamed Bessy for her weakness, and appealed to all witnesses whoshould be living when the Tulliver children had turned out ill, thatshe, Mrs. Glegg, had always said how it would be from the very first, observing that it was wonderful to herself how all her words cametrue. 

"Then I may call and tell Bessy you'll bear no malice, and everythingbe as it was before?" Mrs. Pullet said, just before parting. 

"Yes, you may, Sophy, " said Mrs. Glegg; "you may tell Mr. Tulliver, and Bessy too, as I'm not going to behave ill because folks behave illto me; I know it's my place, as the eldest, to set an example in everyrespect, and I do it. Nobody can say different of me, if they'll keepto the truth. "

Mrs. Glegg being in this state of satisfaction in her own loftymagnanimity, I leave you to judge what effect was produced on her bythe reception of a short letter from Mr. Tulliver that very evening, after Mrs. Pullet's departure, informing her that she needn't troubleher mind about her five hundred pounds, for it should be paid back toher in the course of the next month at farthest, together with theinterest due thereon until the time of payment. And furthermore, thatMr. Tulliver had no wish to behave uncivilly to Mrs. Glegg, and shewas welcome to his house whenever she liked to come, but he desired nofavors from her, either for himself or his children. 

It was poor Mrs. Tulliver who had hastened this catastrophe, entirelythrough that irrepressible hopefulness of hers which led her to expectthat similar causes may at any time produce different results. It hadvery often occurred in her experience that Mr. Tulliver had donesomething because other people had said he was not able to do it, orhad pitied him for his supposed inability, or in any other way piquedhis pride; still, she thought to-day, if she told him when he came into tea that sister Pullet was gone to try and make everything up withsister Glegg, so that he needn't think about paying in the money, itwould give a cheerful effect to the meal. Mr. Tulliver had neverslackened in his resolve to raise the money, but now he at oncedetermined to write a letter to Mrs. Glegg, which should cut off allpossibility of mistake. Mrs. Pullet gone to beg and pray for _him_indeed! Mr. Tulliver did not willingly write a letter, and found therelation between spoken and written language, briefly known asspelling, one of the most puzzling things in this puzzling world. Nevertheless, like all fervid writing, the task was done in less timethan usual, and if the spelling differed from Mrs. Glegg's, --why, shebelonged, like himself, to a generation with whom spelling was amatter of private judgment. 

Mrs. Glegg did not alter her will in consequence of this letter, andcut off the Tulliver children from their sixth and seventh share inher thousand pounds; for she had her principles. No one must be ableto say of her when she was dead that she had not divided her moneywith perfect fairness among her own kin. In the matter of wills, personal qualities were subordinate to the great fundamental fact ofblood; and to be determined in the distribution of your property bycaprice, and not make your legacies bear a direct ratio to degrees ofkinship, was a prospective disgrace that would have embittered herlife. This had always been a principle in the Dodson family; it wasone form if that sense of honor and rectitude which was a proudtradition in such families, --a tradition which has been the salt ofour provincial society. 

But though the letter could not shake Mrs. Glegg's principles, it madethe family breach much more difficult to mend; and as to the effect itproduced on Mrs. Glegg's opinion of Mr. Tulliver, she begged to beunderstood from that time forth that she had nothing whatever to sayabout him; his state of mind, apparently, was too corrupt for her tocontemplate it for a moment. It was not until the evening before Tomwent to school, at the beginning of August, that Mrs. Glegg paid avisit to her sister Tulliver, sitting in her gig all the while, andshowing her displeasure by markedly abstaining from all advice andcriticism; for, as she observed to her sister Deane, "Bessy must bearthe consequence o' having such a husband, though I'm sorry for her, "and Mrs. Deane agreed that Bessy was pitiable. 

That evening Tom observed to Maggie: "Oh my! Maggie, aunt Glegg'sbeginning to come again; I'm glad I'm going to school. _You'll_ catchit all now!"

Maggie was already so full of sorrow at the thought of Tom's goingaway 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 infinding the convenient person who was desirous of lending five hundredpounds on bond. "It must be no client of Wakem's, " he said to himself;and yet at the end of a fortnight it turned out to the contrary; notbecause Mr. Tulliver's will was feeble, but because external fact wasstronger. Wakem's client was the only convenient person to be found. Mr. Tulliver had a destiny as well as Oedipus, and in this casehe might plead, like Oedipus, that his deed was inflicted on himrather than committed by him. 

Book II

_School-Time_

Chapter I

Tom's "First Half"

Tom Tulliver'S sufferings during the first quarter he was at King'sLorton, under the distinguished care of the Rev. Walter Stelling, wererather severe. At Mr. Jacob's academy life had not presented itself tohim as a difficult problem; there were plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom being good at all active games, --fighting especially, --hadthat precedence among them which appeared to him inseparable from thepersonality of Tom Tulliver. Mr. Jacobs himself, familiarly known asOld Goggles, from his habit of wearing spectacles, imposed no painfulawe; and if it was the property of snuffy old hypocrites like him towrite like copperplate and surround their signatures with arabesques, to spell without forethought, and to spout "my name is Norval" withoutbungling, Tom, for his part, was glad he was not in danger of thosemean accomplishments. He was not going to be a snuffy schoolmaster, he, but a substantial man, like his father, who used to go huntingwhen he was younger, and rode a capital black mare, --as pretty a bitof horse-flesh as ever you saw; Tom had heard what her points were ahundred times. _He_ meant to go hunting too, and to be generallyrespected. When people were grown up, he considered, nobody inquiredabout their writing and spelling; when he was a man, he should bemaster of everything, and do just as he liked. It had been verydifficult for him to reconcile himself to the idea that hisschool-time was to be prolonged and that he was not to be brought upto his father's business, which he had always thought extremelypleasant; for it was nothing but riding about, giving orders, andgoing to market; and he thought that a clergyman would give him agreat many Scripture lessons, and probably make him learn the Gospeland Epistle on a Sunday, as well as the Collect. But in the absence ofspecific information, it was impossible for him to imagine that schooland a schoolmaster would be something entirely different from theacademy of Mr. Jacobs. So, not to be at a deficiency, in case of hisfinding genial companions, he had taken care to carry with him a smallbox of percussion-caps; not that there was anything particular to bedone with them, but they would serve to impress strange boys with asense of his familiarity with guns. Thus poor Tom, though he saw veryclearly through Maggie's illusions, was not without illusions of hisown, which were to be cruelly dissipated by his enlarged experience atKing's Lorton. 

He had not been there a fortnight before it was evident to him thatlife, complicated not only with the Latin grammar but with a newstandard of English pronunciation, was a very difficult business, madeall the more obscure by a thick mist of bash fulness. Tom, as you haveobserved, was never an exception among boys for ease of address; butthe difficulty of enunciating a monosyllable in reply to Mr. Or Mrs. Stelling was so great, that he even dreaded to be asked at tablewhether he would have more pudding. As to the percussion-caps, he hadalmost resolved, in the bitterness of his heart, that he would throwthem into a neighboring pond; for not only was he the solitary pupil, but he began even to have a certain scepticism about guns, and ageneral sense that his theory of life was undermined. For Mr. Stellingthought nothing of guns, or horses either, apparently; and yet it wasimpossible for Tom to despise Mr. Stelling as he had despised OldGoggles. If there were anything that was not thoroughly genuine aboutMr. Stelling, it lay quite beyond Tom's power to detect it; it is onlyby a wide comparison of facts that the wisest full-grown man candistinguish well-rolled barrels from mere supernal thunder. 

Mr. Stelling was a well-sized, broad-chested man, not yet thirty, withflaxen hair standing erect, and large lightish-gray eyes, which werealways very wide open; he had a sonorous bass voice, and an air ofdefiant self-confidence inclining to brazenness. He had entered on hiscareer with great vigor, and intended to make a considerableimpression on his fellowmen. The Rev. Walter Stelling was not a manwho would remain among the "inferior clergy" all his life. He had atrue British determination to push his way in the world, --as aschoolmaster, in the first place, for there were capital mastershipsof grammar-schools to be had, and Mr. Stelling meant to have one ofthem; but as a preacher also, for he meant always to preach in astriking manner, so as to have his congregation swelled by admirersfrom neighboring parishes, and to produce a great sensation wheneverhe took occasional duty for a brother clergyman of minor gifts. Thestyle of preaching he had chosen was the extemporaneous, which washeld little short of the miraculous in rural parishes like King'sLorton. Some passages of Massillon and Bourdaloue, which he knew byheart, were really very effective when rolled out in Mr. Stelling'sdeepest tones; but as comparatively feeble appeals of his own weredelivered in the same loud and impressive manner, they were oftenthought quite as striking by his hearers. Mr. Stelling's doctrine wasof no particular school; if anything, it had a tinge ofevangelicalism, for that was "the telling thing" just then in thediocese to which King's Lorton belonged. In short, Mr. Stelling was aman who meant to rise in his profession, and to rise by merit, clearly, since he had no interest beyond what might be promised by aproblematic relationship to a great lawyer who had not yet become LordChancellor. A clergyman who has such vigorous intentions naturallygets a little into debt at starting; it is not to be expected that hewill live in the meagre style of a man who means to be a poor curateall his life; and if the few hundreds Mr. Timpson advanced toward hisdaughter's fortune did not suffice for the purchase of handsomefurniture, together with a stock of wine, a grand piano, and thelaying out of a superior flower-garden, it followed in the mostrigorous manner, either that these things must be procured by someother means, or else that the Rev. Mr. Stelling must go without them, which last alternative would be an absurd procrastination of thefruits of success, where success was certain. Mr. Stelling was sobroad-chested and resolute that he felt equal to anything; he wouldbecome celebrated by shaking the consciences of his hearers, and hewould by and by edit a Greek play, and invent several new readings. Hehad not yet selected the play, for having been married little morethan two years, his leisure time had been much occupied withattentions to Mrs. Stelling; but he had told that fine woman what hemeant to do some day, and she felt great confidence in her husband, asa man who understood everything of that sort. 

But the immediate step to future success was to bring on Tom Tulliverduring this first half-year; for, by a singular coincidence, there hadbeen some negotiation concerning another pupil from the sameneighborhood and it might further a decision in Mr. Stelling's favor, if it were understood that young Tulliver, who, Mr. Stelling observedin conjugal privacy, was rather a rough cub, had made prodigiousprogress in a short time. It was on this ground that he was severewith Tom about his lessons; he was clearly a boy whose powers wouldnever be developed through the medium of the Latin grammar, withoutthe application of some sternness. Not that Mr. Stelling was aharsh-tempered or unkind man; quite the contrary. He was jocose withTom at table, and corrected his provincialisms and his deportment inthe most playful manner; but poor Tom was only the more cowed andconfused by this double novelty, for he had never been used to jokesat all like Mr. Stelling's; and for the first time in his life he hada painful sense that he was all wrong somehow. When Mr. Stelling said, as the roast-beef was being uncovered, "Now, Tulliver! which would yourather decline, roast-beef or the Latin for it?" Tom, to whom in hiscoolest moments a pun would have been a hard nut, was thrown into astate of embarrassed alarm that made everything dim to him except thefeeling that he would rather not have anything to do with Latin; ofcourse he answered, "Roast-beef, " whereupon there followed muchlaughter and some practical joking with the plates, from which Tomgathered that he had in some mysterious way refused beef, and, infact, made himself appear "a silly. " If he could have seen afellow-pupil undergo these painful operations and survive them in goodspirits, he might sooner have taken them as a matter of course. Butthere are two expensive forms of education, either of which a parentmay procure for his son by sending him as solitary pupil to aclergyman: one is the enjoyment of the reverend gentleman's undividedneglect; the other is the endurance of the reverend gentleman'sundivided attention. It was the latter privilege for which Mr. Tulliver paid a high price in Tom's initiatory months at King'sLorton. 

That respectable miller and maltster had left Tom behind, and drivenhomeward in a state of great mental satisfaction. He considered thatit was a happy moment for him when he had thought of asking Riley'sadvice 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 everydifficult, slow remark of Mr. Tulliver's with, "I see, my good sir, Isee"; "To be sure, to be sure"; "You want your son to be a man whowill make his way in the world, "--that Mr. Tulliver was delighted tofind in him a clergyman whose knowledge was so applicable to theevery-day affairs of this life. Except Counsellor Wylde, whom he hadheard at the last sessions, Mr. Tulliver thought the Rev. Mr Stellingwas the shrewdest fellow he had ever met with, --not unlike Wylde, infact; he had the same way of sticking his thumbs in the armholes ofhis waistcoat. Mr. Tulliver was not by any means an exception inmistaking brazenness for shrewdness; most laymen thought Stellingshrewd, and a man of remarkable powers generally; it was chiefly byhis clerical brethren that he was considered rather a full fellow. Buthe told Mr. Tulliver several stories about "Swing" and incendiarism, and asked his advice about feeding pigs in so thoroughly secular andjudicious a manner, with so much polished glibness of tongue, that themiller thought, here was the very thing he wanted for Tom. He had nodoubt this first-rate man was acquainted with every branch ofinformation, and knew exactly what Tom must learn in order to become amatch for the lawyers, which poor Mr. Tulliver himself did _not_ know, and so was necessarily thrown for self-direction on this wide kind ofinference. It is hardly fair to laugh at him, for I have known muchmore highly instructed 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 theairing of linen and the frequent recurrence of hunger in a growing boyentirely coincided with her own; moreover, that Mrs. Stelling, thoughso young a woman, and only anticipating her second confinement, hadgone through very nearly the same experience as herself with regard tothe behavior and fundamental character of the monthly nurse, --sheexpressed great contentment to her husband, when they drove away, atleaving Tom with a woman who, in spite of her youth, seemed quitesensible and motherly, and asked advice as prettily as could be. 

"They must be very well off, though, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "foreverything's as nice as can be all over the house, and that wateredsilk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pullet has got one likeit. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Tulliver, "he's got some income besides the curacy, Ireckon. Perhaps her father allows 'em something. There's Tom 'ull beanother hundred to him, and not much trouble either, by his ownaccount; he says teaching comes natural to him. That's wonderful, now, " added Mr. Tulliver, turning his head on one side, and giving hishorse a meditative tickling on the flank. 

Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr. Stelling, thathe set about it with that uniformity of method and independence ofcircumstances which distinguish the actions of animals understood tobe under the immediate teaching of nature. Mr. Broderip's amiablebeaver, as that charming naturalist tells us, busied himself asearnestly in constructing a dam, in a room up three pair of stairs inLondon, as if he had been laying his foundation in a stream or lake inUpper Canada. It was "Binny's" function to build; the absence of wateror of possible progeny was an accident for which he was notaccountable. With the same unerring instinct Mr. Stelling set to workat his natural method of instilling the Eton Grammar and Euclid intothe mind of Tom Tulliver. This, he considered, was the only basis ofsolid instruction; all other means of education were merecharlatanism, and could produce nothing better than smatterers. Fixedon this firm basis, a man might observe the display of various orspecial knowledge made by irregularly educated people with a pityingsmile; all that sort of thing was very well, but it was impossiblethese people could form sound opinions. In holding this conviction Mr. Stelling was not biassed, as some tutors have been, by the excessiveaccuracy or extent of his own scholarship; and as to his views aboutEuclid, no opinion could have been freer from personal partiality. Mr. Stelling was very far from being led astray by enthusiasm, eitherreligious or intellectual; on the other hand, he had no secret beliefthat everything was humbug. He thought religion was a very excellentthing, and Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and prebendsuseful institutions, and Great Britain the providential bulwark ofProtestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to afflictedminds; he believed in all these things, as a Swiss hotel-keeperbelieves in the beauty of the scenery around him, and in the pleasureit gives to artistic visitors. And in the same way Mr. Stellingbelieved in his method of education; he had no doubt that he was doingthe very best thing for Mr. Tulliver's boy. Of course, when the millertalked of "mapping" and "summing" in a vague and diffident manner, MrStelling had set his mind at rest by an assurance that he understoodwhat was wanted; for how was it possible the good man could form anyreasonable judgment about the matter? Mr Stelling's duty was to teachthe lad in the only right way, --indeed he knew no other; he had notwasted his time in the acquirement of anything abnormal. 

He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid lad; for thoughby hard labor he could get particular declensions into his brain, anything so abstract as the relation between cases and terminationscould by no means get such a lodgment there as to enable him torecognize a chance genitive or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling assomething more than natural stupidity; he suspected obstinacy, or atany rate indifference, and lectured Tom severely on his want ofthorough application. "You feel no interest in what you're doing, sir, " Mr. Stelling would say, and the reproach was painfully true. Tomhad never found any difficulty in discerning a pointer from a setter, when once he had been told the distinction, and his perceptive powerswere not at all deficient. I fancy they were quite as strong as thoseof the Rev. Mr. Stelling; for Tom could predict with accuracy whatnumber of horses were cantering behind him, he could throw a stoneright into the centre of a given ripple, he could guess to a fractionhow many lengths of his stick it would take to reach across theplayground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate withoutany measurement. But Mr. Stelling took no note of these things; heonly observed that Tom's faculties failed him before the abstractionshideously symbolized to him in the pages of the Eton Grammar, and thathe was in a state bordering on idiocy with regard to the demonstrationthat two given triangles must be equal, though he could discern withgreat promptitude and certainty the fact that they _were_ equal. Whence Mr. Stelling concluded that Tom's brain, being peculiarlyimpervious to etymology and demonstrations, was peculiarly in need ofbeing ploughed and harrowed by these patent implements; it was hisfavorite metaphor, that the classics and geometry constituted thatculture of the mind which prepared it for the reception of anysubsequent crop. I say nothing against Mr. Stelling's theory; if weare to have one regimen for all minds, his seems to me as good as anyother. I only know it turned out as uncomfortably for Tom Tulliver asif he had been plied with cheese in order to remedy a gastric weaknesswhich prevented him from digesting it. It is astonishing what adifferent result one gets by changing the metaphor! Once call thebrain an intellectual stomach, and one's ingenious conception of theclassics and geometry as ploughs and harrows seems to settle nothing. But then it is open to some one else to follow great authorities, andcall the mind a sheet of white paper or a mirror, in which case one'sknowledge of the digestive process becomes quite irrelevant. It wasdoubtless an ingenious idea to call the camel the ship of the desert, but it would hardly lead one far in training that useful beast. OAristotle! if you had had the advantage of being "the freshest modern"instead of the greatest ancient, would you not have mingled yourpraise of metaphorical speech, as a sign of high intelligence, with alamentation that intelligence so rarely shows itself in speech withoutmetaphor, --that we can so seldom declare what a thing is, except bysaying it is something else?

Tom Tulliver, being abundant in no form of speech, did not use anymetaphor to declare his views as to the nature of Latin; he nevercalled it an instrument of torture; and it was not until he had got onsome way in the next half-year, and in the Delectus, that he wasadvanced enough to call it a "bore" and "beastly stuff. " At present, in relation to this demand that he should learn Latin declensions andconjugations, Tom was in a state of as blank unimaginativenessconcerning the cause and tendency of his sufferings, as if he had beenan innocent shrewmouse imprisoned in the split trunk of an ash-tree inorder to cure lameness in cattle. It is doubtless almost incredible toinstructed minds of the present day that a boy of twelve, notbelonging strictly to "the masses, " who are now understood to have themonopoly of mental darkness, should have had no distinct idea howthere came to be such a thing as Latin on this earth; yet so it waswith Tom. It would have taken a long while to make conceivable to himthat there ever existed a people who bought and sold sheep and oxen, and transacted the every-day affairs of life, through the medium ofthis language; and still longer to make him understand why he shouldbe called upon to learn it, when its connection with those affairs hadbecome entirely latent. So far as Tom had gained any acquaintance withthe Romans at Mr. Jacob's academy, his knowledge was strictly correct, but it went no farther than the fact that they were "in the NewTestament"; and Mr. Stelling was not the man to enfeeble andemasculate his pupil's mind by simplifying and explaining, or toreduce the tonic effect of etymology by mixing it with smattering, extraneous information, such as is given to girls. 

Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom became morelike a girl than he had ever been in his life before. He had a largeshare of pride, which had hitherto found itself very comfortable inthe world, despising Old Goggles, and reposing in the sense ofunquestioned rights; but now this same pride met with nothing butbruises and crushings. Tom was too clear-sighted not to be aware thatMr. Stelling's standard of things was quite different, was certainlysomething higher in the eyes of the world than that of the people hehad been living amongst, and that, brought in contact with it, he, TomTulliver, appeared uncouth and stupid; he was by no means indifferentto this, and his pride got into an uneasy condition which quitenullified his boyish self-satisfaction, and gave him something of thegirl's susceptibility. He was a very firm, not to say obstinate, disposition, but there was no brute-like rebellion and recklessness inhis nature; the human sensibilities predominated, and if it hadoccurred to him that he could enable himself to show some quickness athis lessons, and so acquire Mr. Stelling's approbation, by standing onone leg for an inconvenient length of time, or rapping his headmoderately against the wall, or any voluntary action of that sort, hewould certainly have tried it. But no; Tom had never heard that thesemeasures would brighten the understanding, or strengthen the verbalmemory; and he was not given to hypothesis and experiment. It didoccur 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 anextempore passage on a topic of petition for which he was not aware ofany precedent. But one day, when he had broken down, for the fifthtime, in the supines of the third conjugation, and Mr. Stelling, convinced that this must be carelessness, since it transcended thebounds of possible stupidity, had lectured him very seriously, pointing out that if he failed to seize the present golden opportunityof learning supines, he would have to regret it when he became aman, --Tom, more miserable than usual, determined to try his soleresource; and that evening, after his usual form of prayer for hisparents and "little sister" (he had begun to pray for Maggie when shewas a baby), and that he might be able always to keep God'scommandments, he added, in the same low whisper, "and please to makeme always remember my Latin. " He paused a little to consider how heshould pray about Euclid--whether he should ask to see what it meant, or whether there was any other mental state which would be moreapplicable to the case. But at last he added: "And make Mr. Stellingsay 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, andneutralized any scepticism that might have arisen from Mr. Stelling'scontinued demand for Euclid. But his faith broke down under theapparent absence of all help when he got into the irregular verbs. Itseemed clear that Tom's despair under the caprices of the presenttense did not constitute a _nodus_ worthy of interference, and sincethis was the climax of his difficulties, where was the use of prayingfor help any longer? He made up his mind to this conclusion in one ofhis dull, lonely evenings, which he spent in the study, preparing hislessons 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 helpthinking with some affection even of Spouncer, whom he used to fightand quarrel with; he would have felt at home with Spouncer, and in acondition of superiority. And then the mill, and the river, and Yappricking up his ears, ready to obey the least sign when Tom said, "Hoigh!" would all come before him in a sort of calenture, when hisfingers played absently in his pocket with his great knife and hiscoil of whipcord, and other relics of the past. 

Tom, as I said, had never been so much like a girl in his life before, and at that epoch of irregular verbs his spirit was further depressedby a new means of mental development which had been thought of for himout of school hours. Mrs. Stelling had lately had her second baby, andas nothing could be more salutary for a boy than to feel himselfuseful, Mrs. Stelling considered she was doing Tom a service bysetting him to watch the little cherub Laura while the nurse wasoccupied with the sickly baby. It was quite a pretty employment forTom to take little Laura out in the sunniest hour of the autumn day;it would help to make him feel that Lorton Parsonage was a home forhim, and that he was one of the family. The little cherub Laura, notbeing an accomplished walker at present, had a ribbon fastened roundher waist, by which Tom held her as if she had been a little dogduring 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 thegarden, within sight of Mrs. Stelling's window, according to orders. If any one considers this unfair and even oppressive toward Tom, I beghim to consider that there are feminine virtues which are withdifficulty combined, even if they are not incompatible. When the wifeof a poor curate contrives, under all her disadvantages, to dressextremely well, and to have a style of coiffure which requires thather nurse shall occasionally officiate as lady's-maid; when, moreover, her dinner-parties and her drawing-room show that effort at eleganceand completeness of appointment to which ordinary women might imaginea large income necessary, it would be unreasonable to expect of herthat she should employ a second nurse, or even act as a nurse herself. Mr. Stelling knew better; he saw that his wife did wonders already, and was proud of her. It was certainly not the best thing in the worldfor young Tulliver's gait to carry a heavy child, but he had plenty ofexercise in long walks with himself, and next half-year Mr. Stellingwould see about having a drilling-master. Among the many means wherebyMr. Stelling intended to be more fortunate than the bulk of hisfellow-men, he had entirely given up that of having his own way in hisown house. What then? He had married "as kind a little soul as everbreathed, " according to Mr. Riley, who had been acquainted with Mrs. Stelling's blond ringlets and smiling demeanor throughout her maidenlife, and on the strength of that knowledge would have been ready anyday to pronounce that whatever domestic differences might arise in hermarried life must be entirely Mr. Stelling's fault. 

If Tom had had a worse disposition, he would certainly have hated thelittle cherub Laura, but he was too kind-hearted a lad for that; therewas too much in him of the fibre that turns to true manliness, and toprotecting pity for the weak. I am afraid he hated Mrs. Stelling, andcontracted a lasting dislike to pale blond ringlets and broad plaits, as directly associated with haughtiness of manner, and a frequentreference to other people's "duty. " But he couldn't help playing withlittle Laura, and liking to amuse her; he even sacrificed hispercussion-caps for her sake, in despair of their ever serving agreater purpose, --thinking the small flash and bang would delight her, and thereby drawing down on himself a rebuke from Mrs. Stelling forteaching her child to play with fire. Laura was a sort ofplayfellow--and oh, how Tom longed for playfellows! In his secretheart he yearned to have Maggie with him, and was almost ready to doteon her exasperating acts of forgetfulness; though, when he was athome, he always represented it as a great favor on his part to letMaggie 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 little girl to comeand stay with her brother; so when Mr. Tulliver drove over to King'sLorton late in October, Maggie came too, with the sense that she wastaking 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 thinktoo much about home. 

"Well, my lad, " he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling had left the room toannounce the arrival to his wife, and Maggie had begun to kiss Tomfreely, "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, Ithink. "

(The toothache was the only malady to which Tom had ever beensubject. )

"Euclid, my lad, --why, what's that?" said Mr. Tulliver. 

"Oh, I don't know; it's definitions, and axioms, and triangles, andthings. It's a book I've got to learn in--there's no sense in it. "

"Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly; "you mustn't say so. Youmust learn what your master tells you. He knows what it's right foryou to learn. "

"_I'll_ help you now, Tom, " said Maggie, with a little air ofpatronizing 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 highspirits at this announcement that he quite enjoyed the idea ofconfounding Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. "I should like tosee you doing one of _my_ lessons! Why, I learn Latin too! Girls neverlearn such things. They're too silly. "

"I know what Latin is very well, " said Maggie, confidently, "Latin's alanguage. There are Latin words in the Dictionary. There's bonus, agift. "

"Now, you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie!" said Tom, secretlyastonished. "You think you're very wise! But 'bonus' means 'good, ' asit happens, --bonus, bona, bonum. "

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

"Well done, little 'un, " said Mr. Tulliver, laughing, while Tom feltrather disgusted with Maggie's knowingness, though beyond measurecheerful at the thought that she was going to stay with him. Herconceit would soon be overawed by the actual inspection of his books. 

Mrs. Stelling, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a longertime than a week for Maggie's stay; but Mr. Stelling, who took herbetween his knees, and asked her where she stole her dark eyes from, insisted that she must stay a fortnight. Maggie thought Mr. Stellingwas a charming man, and Mr. Tulliver was quite proud to leave hislittle wench where she would have an opportunity of showing hercleverness to appreciating strangers. So it was agreed that she shouldnot be fetched home till the end of the fortnight. 

"Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie, " said Tom, as theirfather drove away. "What do you shake and toss your head now for, yousilly?" he continued; for though her hair was now under a newdispensation, and was brushed smoothly behind her ears, she seemedstill in imagination to be tossing it out of her eyes. "It makes youlook as if you were crazy. "

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

"Why, you couldn't read one of 'em, " said Tom, triumphantly. "They'reall Latin. "

"No, they aren't, " said Maggie. "I can read the back ofthis, --'History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. '"

"Well, what does that mean? _You_ don't know, " said Tom, wagging hishead. 

"But I could soon find out, " said Maggie, scornfully. 

"Why, how?"

"I should look inside, and see what it was about. "

"You'd better not, Miss Maggie, " said Tom, seeing her hand on thevolume. "Mr. Stelling 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 hersmall round nose. 

Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie to disputewith and crow over again, seized her round the waist, and began tojump with her round the large library table. Away they jumped withmore and more vigor, till Maggie's hair flew from behind her ears, andtwirled about like an animated mop. But the revolutions round thetable became more and more irregular in their sweep, till at lastreaching Mr. Stelling's reading stand, they sent it thundering downwith its heavy lexicons to the floor. Happily it was the ground-floor, and the study was a one-storied wing to the house, so that thedownfall made no alarming resonance, though Tom stood dizzy and aghastfor a few minutes, dreading the appearance of Mr. Or Mrs. Stelling. 

"Oh, I say, Maggie, " said Tom at last, lifting up the stand, "we mustkeep quiet here, you know. If we break anything Mrs. Stelling'll makeus cry peccavi. "

"What's that?" said Maggie. 

"Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding, " said Tom, not without somepride 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 agreat deal crosser than uncle Glegg, and mother scolds me more thanfather does. "

"Well, _you'll_ be a woman some day, " said Tom, "so _you_ needn'ttalk. "

"But I shall be a _clever_ woman, " said Maggie, with a toss. 

"Oh, I dare say, and a nasty conceited thing. Everybody'll hate you. "

"But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom; it'll be very wicked of you, for Ishall 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 verygood to you, and I shall be good to everybody. You won't hate mereally, will you, Tom?"

"Oh, bother! never mind! Come, it's time for me to learn my lessons. See here! what I've got to do, " said Tom, drawing Maggie toward himand showing her his theorem, while she pushed her hair behind herears, and prepared herself to prove her capability of helping him inEuclid. She began to read with full confidence in her own powers, butpresently, becoming quite bewildered, her face flushed withirritation. It was unavoidable; she must confess her incompetency, andshe was not fond of humiliation. 

"It's nonsense!" she said, "and very ugly stuff; nobody need want tomake it out. "

"Ah, there, now, Miss Maggie!" said Tom, drawing the book away, andwagging his head at her, "You see you're not so clever as you thoughtyou were. "

"Oh, " said Maggie, pouting, "I dare say I could make it out, if I'dlearned what goes before, as you have. "

"But that's what you just couldn't, Miss Wisdom, " said Tom. "For it'sall the harder when you know what goes before; for then you've got tosay what definition 3 is, and what axiom V. Is. But get along with younow; I must go on with this. Here's the Latin Grammar. See what youcan make of that. "

Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her mathematicalmortification; for she delighted in new words, and quickly found thatthere was an English Key at the end, which would make her very wiseabout Latin, at slight expense. She presently made up her mind to skipthe rules in the Syntax, the examples became so absorbing. Thesemysterious sentences, snatched from an unknown context, --like strangehorns of beasts, and leaves of unknown plants, brought from somefar-off region, --gave boundless scope to her imagination, and were allthe more fascinating because they were in a peculiar tongue of theirown, which she could learn to interpret. It was really veryinteresting, the Latin Grammar that Tom had said no girls could learn;and she was proud because she found it interesting. The mostfragmentary examples were her favourites. _Mors omnibus est communis_would have been jejune, only she liked to know the Latin; but thefortunate gentleman whom every one congratulated because he had a son"endowed with _such_ a disposition" afforded her a great deal ofpleasant conjecture, and she was quite lost in the "thick grovepenetrable 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 thelarge arm-chair to give it him; "it's much prettier than theDictionary. I could learn Latin very soon. I don't think it's at allhard. "

"Oh, I know what you've been doing, " said Tom; "you've been readingthe English at the end. Any donkey can do that. "

Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and business-likeair, as much as to say that he had a lesson to learn which no donkeyswould find themselves equal to. Maggie, rather piqued, turned to thebookcases to amuse herself with puzzling out the titles. 

Presently Tom called to her: "Here, Magsie, come and hear if I can saythis. Stand at that end of the table, where Mr. Stelling sits when hehears me. "

Maggie obeyed, and took the open book. 

"Where do you begin, Tom?"

"Oh, I begin at _'Appellativa arborum, '_ because I say all over againwhat I've been learning this week. "

Tom sailed along pretty well for three lines; and Maggie was beginningto forget her office of prompter in speculating as to what _mas_ couldmean, which came twice over, when he stuck fast at _Sunt etiamvolucrum_. 

"Don't tell me, Maggie; _Sunt etiam volucrum_--_Sunt etiamvolucrum_--_ut ostrea, cetus_----"

"No, " said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her head. 

"_Sunt etiam volucrum_, " said Tom, very slowly, as if the next wordsmight be expected to come sooner when he gave them this strong hintthat they were waited for. 

"C, e, u, " said Maggie, getting impatient. 

"Oh, I know--hold your tongue, " said Tom. "_Ceu passer, hirundo;Ferarum_--_ferarum_----" Tom took his pencil and made several harddots with it on his book-cover--"_ferarum_----"

"Oh dear, oh dear, Tom, " said Maggie, "what a time you are! _Ut_----"

"_Ut ostrea_----"

"No, no, " said Maggie, "_ut tigris_----"

"Oh yes, now I can do, " said Tom; "it was _tigris, vulpes_, I'dforgotten: _ut tigris, volupes; et Piscium_. "

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

"Now, then, " he said, "the next is what I've just learned forto-morrow. Give me hold of the book a minute. "

After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of his fist onthe table, Tom returned the book. 

"_Mascula nomina in a_, " he began. 

"No, Tom, " said Maggie, "that doesn't come next. It's _Nomen noncreskens genittivo_----"

"_Creskens genittivo!_" exclaimed Tom, with a derisive laugh, for Tomhad learned this omitted passage for his yesterday's lesson, and ayoung gentleman does not require an intimate or extensive acquaintancewith Latin before he can feel the pitiable absurdity of a falsequantity. "_Creskens genittivo!_ What a little silly you are, Maggie!"

"Well, you needn't laugh, Tom, for you didn't remember it at all. I'msure it's spelt so; how was I to know?"

"Phee-e-e-h! I told you girls couldn't learn Latin. It's _Nomen noncrescens genitivo_. "

"Very well, then, " said Maggie, pouting. I can say that as well as youcan. And you don't mind your stops. For you ought to stop twice aslong at a semicolon as you do at a comma, and you make the longeststops where there ought to be no stop at all. "

"Oh, well, don't chatter. Let me go on. "

They were presently fetched to spend the rest of the evening in thedrawing-room, and Maggie became so animated with Mr. Stelling, who, she felt sure, admired her cleverness, that Tom was rather amazed andalarmed at her audacity. But she was suddenly subdued by Mr. Stelling's alluding to a little girl of whom he had heard that sheonce ran away to the gypsies. 

"What a very odd little girl that must be!" said Mrs. Stelling, meaning to be playful; but a playfulness that turned on her supposedoddity was not at all to Maggie's taste. She feared that Mr. Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, and went to bed in rather lowspirits. Mrs. Stelling, she felt, looked at her as if she thought herhair was very ugly because it hung down straight behind. 

Nevertheless it was a very happy fortnight to Maggie, this visit toTom. She was allowed to be in the study while he had his lessons, andin her various readings got very deep into the examples in the LatinGrammar. The astronomer who hated women generally caused her so muchpuzzling speculation that she one day asked Mr. Stelling if allastronomers hated women, or whether it was only this particularastronomer. But forestalling his answer, she said, --

"I suppose it's all astronomers; because, you know, they live up inhigh towers, and if the women came there they might talk and hinderthem from looking at the stars. "

Mr. Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were on the bestterms. 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 doEuclid, for she had looked into it again, and she saw what A B Cmeant; they were the names of the lines. 

"I'm sure you couldn't do it, now, " said Tom; "and I'll just ask Mr. Stelling if you could. "

"I don't mind, " said the little conceited minx, "I'll ask him myself. "

"Mr. Stelling, " she said, that same evening when they were in thedrawing-room, "couldn't I do Euclid, and all Tom's lessons, if youwere to teach me instead of him?"

"No, you couldn't, " said Tom, indignantly. "Girls can't do Euclid; canthey, sir?"

"They can pick up a little of everything, I dare say, " said Mr. Stelling. "They've a great deal of superficial cleverness; but theycouldn't go far into anything. They're quick and shallow. "

Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph by wagginghis head at Maggie, behind Mr. Stelling's chair. As for Maggie, shehad hardly ever been so mortified. She had been so proud to be called"quick" all her little life, and now it appeared that this quicknesswas 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'snot such a fine thing to be quick. You'll never go far into anything, you know. "

And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny that she had nospirit for a retort. 

But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was fetched away inthe gig by Luke, and the study was once more quite lonely for Tom, hemissed her grievously. He had really been brighter, and had gotthrough his lessons better, since she had been there; and she hadasked Mr. Stelling so many questions about the Roman Empire, andwhether there really ever was a man who said, in Latin, "I would notbuy it for a farthing or a rotten nut, " or whether that had only beenturned into Latin, that Tom had actually come to a dim understandingof the fact that there had once been people upon the earth who were sofortunate as to know Latin without learning it through the medium ofthe Eton Grammar. This luminous idea was a great addition to hishistorical acquirements during this half-year, which were otherwiseconfined to an epitomized history of the Jews. 

But the dreary half-year _did_ come to an end. How glad Tom was to seethe last yellow leaves fluttering before the cold wind! The darkafternoons and the first December snow seemed to him far livelier thanthe August sunshine; and that he might make himself the surer aboutthe flight of the days that were carrying him homeward, he stucktwenty-one sticks deep in a corner of the garden, when he was threeweeks from the holidays, and pulled one up every day with a greatwrench, throwing it to a distance with a vigor of will which wouldhave carried it to limbo, if it had been in the nature of sticks totravel so far. 

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the LatinGrammar, the happiness of seeing the bright light in the parlor athome, as the gig passed noiselessly over the snow-covered bridge; thehappiness of passing from the cold air to the warmth and the kissesand the smiles of that familiar hearth, where the pattern of the rugand the grate and the fire-irons were "first ideas" that it was nomore possible to criticise than the solidity and extension of matter. There is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes wherewe were born, where objects became dear to us before we had known thelabor of choice, and where the outer world seemed only an extension ofour own personality; we accepted and loved it as we accepted our ownsense of existence and our own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early home might look if it were put up toauction; an improved taste in upholstery scorns it; and is not thestriving after something better and better in our surroundings thegrand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute, or, tosatisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes theBritish man from the foreign brute? But heaven knows where thatstriving might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of twininground those old inferior things; if the loves and sanctities of ourlife had no deep immovable roots in memory. One's delight in anelderberry bush overhanging the confused leafage of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladdening sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia spreadingitself on the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiablepreference to a nursery-gardener, or to any of those regulated mindswho are free from the weakness of any attachment that does not rest ona demonstrable superiority of qualities. And there is no better reasonfor preferring this elderberry bush than that it stirs an earlymemory; that it is no novelty in my life, speaking to me merelythrough my present sensibilities to form and color, but the longcompanion of my existence, that wove itself into my joys when joyswere vivid. 

Chapter II

The Christmas Holidays

Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, had done hisduty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set off his rich giftsof warmth and color with all the heightening contrast of frost andsnow. 

Snow lay on the croft and river-bank in undulations softer than thelimbs of infancy; it lay with the neatliest finished border on everysloping roof, making the dark-red gables stand out with a new depth ofcolor; it weighed heavily on the laurels and fir-trees, till it fellfrom them with a shuddering sound; it clothed the rough turnip-fieldwith whiteness, and made the sheep look like dark blotches; the gateswere all blocked up with the sloping drifts, and here and there adisregarded four-footed beast stood as if petrified "in unrecumbentsadness"; there was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, wereone still, pale cloud; no sound or motion in anything but the darkriver that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow. But oldChristmas smiled as he laid this cruel-seeming spell on the outdoorworld, for he meant to light up home with new brightness, to deepenall the richness of indoor color, and give a keener edge of delight tothe warm fragrance of food; he meant to prepare a sweet imprisonmentthat would strengthen the primitive fellowship of kindred, and makethe sunshine of familiar human faces as welcome as the hiddenday-star. His kindness fell but hardly on the homeless, --fell buthardly on the homes where the hearth was not very warm, and where thefood had little fragrance; where the human faces had had no sunshinein them, but rather the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of unexpectant want. But the fine old season meant well; and if he has not learned thesecret how to bless men impartially, it is because his father Time, with ever-unrelenting unrelenting purpose, still hides that secret inhis own mighty, slow-beating heart. 

And yet this Christmas day, in spite of Tom's fresh delight in home, was not, he thought, somehow or other, quite so happy as it had alwaysbeen before. The red berries were just as abundant on the holly, andhe and Maggie had dressed all the windows and mantlepieces andpicture-frames on Christmas eve with as much taste as ever, weddingthe thick-set scarlet clusters with branches of the black-berried ivy. There had been singing under the windows after midnight, --supernaturalsinging, Maggie always felt, in spite of Tom's contemptuous insistencethat the singers were old Patch, the parish clerk, and the rest of thechurch choir; she trembled with awe when their carolling broke in uponher dreams, and the image of men in fustian clothes was always thrustaway by the vision of angels resting on the parted cloud. The midnightchant had helped as usual to lift the morning above the level ofcommon days; and then there were the smell of hot toast and ale fromthe kitchen, at the breakfast hour; the favorite anthem, the greenboughs, and the short sermon gave the appropriate festal character tothe church-going; and aunt and uncle Moss, with all their sevenchildren, were looking like so many reflectors of the brightparlor-fire, when the church-goers came back, stamping the snow fromtheir feet. The plum-pudding was of the same handsome roundness asever, and came in with the symbolic blue flames around it, as if ithad been heroically snatched from the nether fires, into which it hadbeen thrown by dyspeptic Puritans; the dessert was as splendid asever, with its golden oranges, brown nuts, and the crystalline lightand dark of apple-jelly and damson cheese; in all these thingsChristmas was as it had always been since Tom could remember; it wasonly distinguished, it by anything, by superior sliding and snowballs. 

Christmas was cheery, but not so Mr. Tulliver. He was irate anddefiant; and Tom, though he espoused his father's quarrels and sharedhis father's sense of injury, was not without some of the feeling thatoppressed Maggie when Mr. Tulliver got louder and more angry innarration and assertion with the increased leisure of dessert. Theattention that Tom might have concentrated on his nuts and wine wasdistracted by a sense that there were rascally enemies in the world, and that the business of grown-up life could hardly be conductedwithout a good deal of quarrelling. Now, Tom was not fond ofquarrelling, unless it could soon be put an end to by a fair stand-upfight with an adversary whom he had every chance of thrashing; and hisfather's irritable talk made him uncomfortable, though he neveraccounted to himself for the feeling, or conceived the notion that hisfather was faulty in this respect. 

The particular embodiment of the evil principle now exciting Mr. Tulliver's determined resistance was Mr. Pivart, who, having landshigher up the Ripple, was taking measures for their irrigation, whicheither were, or would be, or were bound to be (on the principle thatwater was water), an infringement on Mr. Tulliver's legitimate shareof water-power. Dix, who had a mill on the stream, was a feebleauxiliary of Old Harry compared with Pivart. Dix had been brought tohis senses by arbitration, and Wakem's advice had not carried _him_far. No; Dix, Mr. Tulliver considered, had been as good as nowhere inpoint of law; and in the intensity of his indignation against Pivart, his contempt for a baffled adversary like Dix began to wear the air ofa friendly attachment. He had no male audience to-day except Mr. Moss, who knew nothing, as he said, of the "natur' o' mills, " and could onlyassent to Mr. Tulliver's arguments on the _a priori_ ground of familyrelationship and monetary obligation; but Mr. Tulliver did not talkwith the futile intention of convincing his audience, he talked torelieve himself; while good Mr. Moss made strong efforts to keep hiseyes wide open, in spite of the sleepiness which an unusually gooddinner produced in his hard-worked frame. Mrs. Moss, more alive to thesubject, and interested in everything that affected her brother, listened and put in a word as often as maternal preoccupationsallowed. 

"Why, Pivart's a new name hereabout, brother, isn't it?" she said; "hedidn't own the land in father's time, nor yours either, before I wasmarried. "

"New name? Yes, I should think it _is_ a new name, " said Mr. Tulliver, with angry emphasis. "Dorlcote Mill's been in our family a hundredyear and better, and nobody ever heard of a Pivart meddling with theriver, till this fellow came and bought Bincome's farm out of hand, before anybody else could so much as say 'snap. ' But I'll _Pivart_him!" added Mr. Tulliver, lifting his glass with a sense that he haddefined his resolution in an unmistakable manner. 

"You won't be forced to go to law with him, I hope, brother?" saidMrs. Moss, with some anxiety. 

"I don't know what I shall be forced to; but I know what I shall force_him_ to, with his dikes and erigations, if there's any law to bebrought to bear o' the right side. I know well enough who's at thebottom of it; he's got Wakem to back him and egg him on. I know Wakemtells him the law can't touch him for it, but there's folks can handlethe law besides Wakem. It takes a big raskil to beat him; but there'sbigger to be found, as know more o' th' ins and outs o' the law, elsehow came Wakem to lose Brumley's suit for him?"

Mr. Tulliver was a strictly honest man, and proud of being honest, buthe considered that in law the ends of justice could only be achievedby employing a stronger knave to frustrate a weaker. Law was a sort ofcock-fight, in which it was the business of injured honesty to get agame bird with the best pluck and the strongest spurs. 

"Gore's no fool; you needn't tell me that, " he observed presently, ina pugnacious tone, as if poor Gritty had been urging that lawyer'scapabilities; "but, you see, he isn't up to the law as Wakem is. Andwater's a very particular thing; you can't pick it up with apitchfork. 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 youlook at it straight-forrard; for a river's a river, and if you've gota mill, you must have water to turn it; and it's no use telling mePivart's erigation and nonsense won't stop my wheel; I know whatbelongs to water better than that. Talk to me o' what th' engineerssay! 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 heshall see if he can't find a bit more sense in th' engineeringbusiness than what _that_ comes to. "

Tom, looking round with some anxiety at this announcement of hisprospects, unthinkingly withdrew a small rattle he was amusing babyMoss with, whereupon she, being a baby that knew her own mind withremarkable clearness, instantaneously expressed her sentiments in apiercing yell, and was not to be appeased even by the restoration ofthe rattle, feeling apparently that the original wrong of having ittaken from her remained in all its force. Mrs. Moss hurried away withher into another room, and expressed to Mrs. Tulliver, who accompaniedher, the conviction that the dear child had good reasons for crying;implying that if it was supposed to be the rattle that baby clamoredfor, she was a misunderstood baby. The thoroughly justifiable yellbeing quieted, Mrs. Moss looked at her sister-in-law and said, --

"I'm sorry to see brother so put out about this water work. "

"It's your brother's way, Mrs. Moss; I'd never anything o' that sortbefore I was married, " said Mrs. Tulliver, with a half-impliedreproach. She always spoke of her husband as "your brother" to Mrs. Moss in any case when his line of conduct was not matter of pureadmiration. Amiable Mrs. Tulliver, who was never angry in her life, had yet her mild share of that spirit without which she could hardlyhave been at once a Dodson and a woman. Being always on the defensivetoward her own sisters, it was natural that she should be keenlyconscious of her superiority, even as the weakest Dodson, over ahusband's sister, who, besides being poorly off, and inclined to "hangon" her brother, had the good-natured submissiveness of a large, easy-tempered, untidy, prolific woman, with affection enough in hernot only for her own husband and abundant children, but for any numberof collateral relations. 

"I hope and pray he won't go to law, " said Mrs. Moss, "for there'snever 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 richmostly get things their own way. "

"As to that, " said Mrs. Tulliver, stroking her dress down, "I've seenwhat riches are in my own family; for my sisters have got husbands ascan afford to do pretty much what they like. But I think sometimes Ishall be drove off my head with the talk about this law and erigation;and my sisters lay all the fault to me, for they don't know what it isto marry a man like your brother; how should they? Sister Pullet hasher own way from morning till night. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Moss, "I don't think I should like my husband if hehadn'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 bepuzzling what else one should do. "

"If people come to talk o' doing what pleases their husbands, " saidMrs. Tulliver, with a faint imitation of her sister Glegg, "I'm sureyour brother might have waited a long while before he'd have found awife that 'ud have let him have his say in everything, as I do. It'snothing but law and erigation now, from when we first get up in themorning till we go to bed at night; and I never contradict him; I onlysay, 'Well, Mr. Tulliver, do as you like; but whativer you do, don'tgo to law. "

Mrs. Tulliver, as we have seen, was not without influence over herhusband. No woman is; she can always incline him to do either what shewishes, or the reverse; and on the composite impulses that werethreatening to hurry Mr. Tulliver into "law, " Mrs. Tulliver'smonotonous pleading had doubtless its share of force; it might even becomparable to that proverbial feather which has the credit ordiscredit of breaking the camel's back; though, on a strictlyimpartial view, the blame ought rather to lie with the previous weightof feathers which had already placed the back in such imminent perilthat an otherwise innocent feather could not settle on it withoutmischief. Not that Mrs. Tulliver's feeble beseeching could have hadthis feather's weight in virtue of her single personality; butwhenever she departed from entire assent to her husband, he saw in herthe representative of the Dodson family; and it was a guidingprinciple with Mr. Tulliver to let the Dodsons know that they were notto domineer over _him_, or--more specifically--that a male Tulliverwas far more than equal to four female Dodsons, even though one ofthem was Mrs. Glegg. 

But not even a direct argument from that typical Dodson female herselfagainst his going to law could have heightened his disposition towardit so much as the mere thought of Wakem, continually freshened by thesight of the too able attorney on market-days. Wakem, to his certainknowledge, was (metaphorically speaking) at the bottom of Pivart'sirrigation; Wakem had tried to make Dix stand out, and go to law aboutthe dam; it was unquestionably Wakem who had caused Mr. Tulliver tolose the suit about the right of road and the bridge that made athoroughfare of his land for every vagabond who preferred anopportunity of damaging private property to walking like an honest manalong the highroad; all lawyers were more or less rascals, but Wakem'srascality was of that peculiarly aggravated kind which placed itselfin opposition to that form of right embodied in Mr. Tulliver'sinterests and opinions. And as an extra touch of bitterness, theinjured miller had recently, in borrowing the five hundred pounds, been obliged to carry a little business to Wakem's office on his ownaccount. A hook-nosed glib fellow! as cool as a cucumber, --alwayslooking so sure of his game! And it was vexatious that Lawyer Gore wasnot more like him, but was a bald, round-featured man, with blandmanners and fat hands; a game-cock that you would be rash to bet uponagainst Wakem. Gore was a sly fellow. His weakness did not lie on theside of scrupulosity; but the largest amount of winking, howeversignificant, is not equivalent to seeing through a stone wall; andconfident 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 inthis affair of irrigation, he had an uncomfortable suspicion thatWakem had more law to show against this (rationally) irrefragableinference than Gore could show for it. But then, if they went to law, there was a chance for Mr. Tulliver to employ Counsellor Wylde on hisside, instead of having that admirable bully against him; and theprospect of seeing a witness of Wakem's made to perspire and becomeconfounded, as Mr. Tulliver's witness had once been, was alluring tothe love of retributive justice. 

Much rumination had Mr. Tulliver on these puzzling subjects during hisrides on the gray horse; much turning of the head from side to side, as the scales dipped alternately; but the probable result was stillout of sight, only to be reached through much hot argument anditeration in domestic and social life. That initial stage of thedispute which consisted in the narration of the case and theenforcement of Mr. Tulliver's views concerning it throughout theentire circle of his connections would necessarily take time; and atthe beginning of February, when Tom was going to school again, therewere scarcely any new items to be detected in his father's statementof the case against Pivart, or any more specific indication of themeasures he was bent on taking against that rash contravener of theprinciple that water was water. Iteration, like friction, is likely togenerate heat instead of progress, and Mr. Tulliver's heat wascertainly more and more palpable. If there had been no new evidence onany other point, there had been new evidence that Pivart was as "thickas mud" with Wakem. 

"Father, " said Tom, one evening near the end of the holidays, "uncleGlegg says Lawyer Wakem _is_ going to send his son to Mr. Stelling. Itisn't true, what they said about his going to be sent to France. Youwon't like me to go to school with Wakem's son, shall you?"

"It's no matter for that, my boy, " said Mr. Tulliver; "don't you learnanything 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 ofhis father in him. It's a sign Wakem thinks high o' Mr. Sterling, ashe sends his son to him, and Wakem knows meal from bran. "

Mr. Tulliver in his heart was rather proud of the fact that his sonwas to have the same advantages as Wakem's; but Tom was not at alleasy on the point. It would have been much clearer if the lawyer's sonhad not been deformed, for then Tom would have had the prospect ofpitching into him with all that freedom which is derived from a highmoral sanction. 

Chapter III

The New Schoolfellow

It was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to school; a dayquite in keeping with this severe phase of his destiny. If he had notcarried in his pocket a parcel of sugar-candy and a small Dutch dollfor little Laura, there would have been no ray of expected pleasure toenliven the general gloom. But he liked to think how Laura would putout her lips and her tiny hands for the bits of sugarcandy; and togive the greater keenness to these pleasures of imagination, he tookout the parcel, made a small hole in the paper, and bit off a crystalor two, which had so solacing an effect under the confined prospectand damp odors of the gig-umbrella, that he repeated the process morethan once on his way. 

"Well, Tulliver, we're glad to see you again, " said Mr. Stelling, heartily. "Take off your wrappings and come into the study tilldinner. You'll find a bright fire there, and a new companion. "

Tom felt in an uncomfortable flutter as he took off his woollencomforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip Wakem at St. Ogg's, but had always turned his eyes away from him as quickly as possible. He would have disliked having a deformed boy for his companion, evenif Philip had not been the son of a bad man. And Tom did not see how abad man's son could be very good. His own father was a good man, andhe would readily have fought any one who said the contrary. He was ina state of mingled embarrassment and defiance as he followed Mr. Stelling to the study. 

"Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with, Tulliver, " saidthat gentleman on entering the study, --"Master Philip Wakem. I shallleave you to make acquaintance by yourselves. You already knowsomething of each other, I imagine; for you are neighbors at home. "

Tom looked confused and awkward, while Philip rose and glanced at himtimidly. Tom did not like to go up and put out his hand, and he wasnot 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. 

Philip was at once too proud and too timid to walk toward Tom. Hethought, or rather felt, that Tom had an aversion to looking at him;every one, almost, disliked looking at him; and his deformity was moreconspicuous when he walked. So they remained without shaking hands oreven speaking, while Tom went to the fire and warmed himself, everynow and then casting furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to bedrawing absently first one object and then another on a piece of paperhe had before him. He had seated himself again, and as he drew, wasthinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to overcome his ownrepugnance to making the first advances. 

Tom began to look oftener and longer at Philip's face, for he couldsee it without noticing the hump, and it was really not a disagreeableface, --very old-looking, Tom thought. He wondered how much olderPhilip was than himself. An anatomist--even a mere physiognomist--would have seen that the deformity of Philip's spine was not acongenital hump, but the result of an accident in infancy; but youdo not expect from Tom any acquaintance with such distinctions;to him, Philip was simply a humpback. He had a vague notionthat the deformity of Wakem's son had some relation to the lawyer'srascality, of which he had so often heard his father talk with hotemphasis; and he felt, too, a half-admitted fear of him as probablya spiteful fellow, who, not being able to fight you, had cunningways of doing you a mischief by the sly. There was a humpbackedtailor in the neighborhood of Mr. Jacobs's academy, who was considereda very unamiable character, and was much hooted after by public-spiritedboys solely on the ground of his unsatisfactory moral qualities; sothat Tom was not without a basis of fact to go upon. Still, no facecould be more unlike that ugly tailor's than this melancholy boy'sface, --the brown hair round it waved and curled at the ends like agirl'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 atanything worth speaking of; but he handled his pencil in an enviablemanner, and was apparently making one thing after another withoutany trouble. What was he drawing? Tom was quite warm now, and wantedsomething new to be going forward. It was certainly more agreeableto have an ill-natured humpback as a companion than to stand lookingout of the study window at the rain, and kicking his foot againstthe washboard in solitude; something would happen every day, --"a quarrel or something"; and Tom thought he should rather like toshow 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 inthe corn!" he exclaimed, his tongue being completely loosed bysurprise and admiration. "Oh my buttons! I wish I could draw likethat. I'm to learn drawing this half; I wonder if I shall learn tomake dogs and donkeys!"

"Oh, you can do them without learning, " said Philip; "I never learneddrawing. "

"Never learned?" said Tom, in amazement. "Why, when I make dogs andhorses, 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, --andwindows in the roof, and all that. But I dare say I could do dogs andhorses if I was to try more, " he added, reflecting that Philip mightfalsely suppose that he was going to "knock under, " if he were toofrank about the imperfection of his accomplishments. 

"Oh, yes, " said Philip, "it's very easy. You've only to look well atthings, and draw them over and over again. What you do wrong once, youcan alter the next time. "

"But haven't you been taught _any_thing?" said Tom, beginning to havea puzzled suspicion that Philip's crooked back might be the source ofremarkable faculties. "I thought you'd been to school a long while. "

"Yes, " said Philip, smiling; "I've been taught Latin and Greek andmathematics, and writing and such things. "

"Oh, but I say, you don't like Latin, though, do you?" said Tom, lowering his voice confidentially. 

"Pretty well; I don't care much about it, " said Philip. 

"Ah, but perhaps you haven't got into the _Propria quae maribus_, " saidTom, 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 stupidity of thiswell-made, active-looking boy; but made polite by his own extremesensitiveness, as well as by his desire to conciliate, he checked hisinclination 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 asense of disappointment. 

"No; but I dare say I can help you. I shall be very glad to help youif I can. "

Tom did not say "Thank you, " for he was quite absorbed in the thoughtthat Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a fellow as might have beenexpected. 

"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 muchdifficulty in adjusting his attitude of mind toward the son of LawyerWakem, 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 changing thesubject. 

"No, " said Philip. "My father wishes me to give all my time to otherthings now. "

"What! Latin and Euclid, and those things?" said Tom. 

"Yes, " said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and was restinghis head on one hand, while Tom was learning forward on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration at the dog and the donkey. 

"And you don't mind that?" said Tom, with strong curiosity. 

"No; I like to know what everybody else knows. I can study what I likeby-and-by. "

"I can't think why anybody should learn Latin, " said Tom. "It's nogood. "

"It's part of the education of a gentleman, " said Philip. "Allgentlemen learn the same things. "

"What! do you think Sir John Crake, the master of the harriers, knowsLatin?" said Tom, who had often thought he should like to resemble SirJohn Crake. 

"He learned it when he was a boy, of course, " said Philip. "But I daresay he's forgotten it. "

"Oh, well, I can do that, then, " said Tom, not with any epigrammaticintention, but with serious satisfaction at the idea that, as far asLatin was concerned, there was no hindrance to his resembling Sir JohnCrake. "Only you're obliged to remember it while you're at school, else you've got to learn ever so many lines of 'Speaker. ' Mr. Stelling's very particular--did you know? He'll have you up ten timesif you say 'nam' for 'jam, '--he won't let you go a letter wrong, _I_can tell you. "

"Oh, I don't mind, " said Philip, unable to choke a laugh; "I canremember things easily. And there are some lessons I'm very fond of. I'm very fond of Greek history, and everything about the Greeks. Ishould like to have been a Greek and fought the Persians, and thenhave come home and have written tragedies, or else have been listenedto by everybody for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a granddeath. " (Philip, you perceive, was not without a wish to impress thewell-made barbarian with a sense of his mental superiority. )

"Why, were the Greeks great fighters?" said Tom, who saw a vista inthis direction. "Is there anything like David and Goliath and Samsonin the Greek history? Those are the only bits I like in the history ofthe Jews. "

"Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the Greeks, --aboutthe 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 wonderfulgiant than Goliath, --Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle ofhis 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 himroar like a thousand bulls. "

"Oh, what fun!" said Tom, jumping away from the table, and stampingfirst with one leg and then the other. "I say, can you tell me allabout those stories? Because I sha'n't learn Greek, you know. ShallI?" he added, pausing in his stamping with a sudden alarm, lest thecontrary might be possible. "Does every gentleman learn Greek? WillMr. Stelling make me begin with it, do you think?"

"No, I should think not, very likely not, " said Philip. "But you mayread those stories without knowing Greek. I've got them in English. "

"Oh, but I don't like reading; I'd sooner have you tell them me. Butonly the fighting ones, you know. My sister Maggie is always wantingto tell me stories, but they're stupid things. Girls' stories alwaysare. Can you tell a good many fighting stories?"

"Oh yes, " said Philip; "lots of them, besides the Greek stories. I cantell you about Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Saladin, and about WilliamWallace 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?_ I'm fifteen. "

"I'm only going in fourteen, " said Tom. "But I thrashed all thefellows at Jacob's--that's where I was before I came here. And I beat'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish Mr. Stelling would let us gofishing. _I_ could show you how to fish. You _could_ fish, couldn'tyou? It's only standing, and sitting still, you know. "

Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his favor. Thishunchback must not suppose that his acquaintance with fighting storiesput 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 peevishly, --

"I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting watchinga line hour after hour, or else throwing and throwing, and catchingnothing. "

"Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when they landed abig pike, I can tell you, " said Tom, who had never caught anythingthat was "big" in his life, but whose imagination was on the stretchwith indignant zeal for the honor of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his disagreeable points, and must be kept in due check. Happilyfor the harmony of this first interview, they were now called todinner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his unsoundviews on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to himself, that wasjust what he should have expected from a hunchback. 

Chapter IV

"The Young Idea"

The alterations of feeling in that first dialogue between Tom andPhilip continued to make their intercourse even after many weeks ofschoolboy intimacy. Tom never quite lost the feeling that Philip, being the son of a "rascal, " was his natural enemy; never thoroughlyovercame his repulsion to Philip's deformity. He was a boy who adheredtenaciously to impressions once received; as with all minds in whichmere perception predominates over thought and emotion, the externalremained to him rigidly what it was in the first instance. But then itwas impossible not to like Philip's company when he was in a goodhumor; he could help one so well in one's Latin exercises, which Tomregarded as a kind of puzzle that could only be found out by a luckychance; and he could tell such wonderful fighting stories about Hal ofthe Wynd, for example, and other heroes who were especial favoriteswith Tom, because they laid about them with heavy strokes. He hadsmall opinion of Saladin, whose cimeter could cut a cushion in two inan instant; who wanted to cut cushions? That was a stupid story, andhe didn't care to hear it again. But when Robert Bruce, on the blackpony, rose in his stirrups, and lifting his good battle-axe, crackedat once the helmet and the skull of the too hasty knight atBannockburn, then Tom felt all the exaltation of sympathy, and if hehad had a cocoanut at hand, he would have cracked it at once with thepoker. Philip in his happier moods indulged Tom to the top of hisbent, heightening the crash and bang and fury of every fight with allthe artillery of epithets and similes at his command. But he was notalways in a good humor or happy mood. The slight spurt of peevishsusceptibility which had escaped him in their first interview was asymptom of a perpetually recurring mental ailment, half of it nervousirritability, half of it the heart-bitterness produced by the sense ofhis deformity. In these fits of susceptibility every glance seemed tohim to be charged either with offensive pity or with ill-represseddisgust; at the very least it was an indifferent glance, and Philipfelt indifference as a child of the south feels the chill air of anorthern spring. Poor Tom's blundering patronage when they were out ofdoors together would sometimes make him turn upon the well-meaning ladquite savagely; and his eyes, usually sad and quiet, would flash withanything but playful lightning. No wonder Tom retained his suspicionsof the humpback. 

But Philip's self-taught skill in drawing was another link betweenthem; for Tom found, to his disgust, that his new drawing-master gavehim no dogs and donkeys to draw, but brooks and rustic bridges andruins, all with a general softness of black-lead surface, indicatingthat nature, if anything, was rather satiny; and as Tom's feeling forthe picturesque in landscape was at present quite latent, it is notsurprising that Mr. Goodrich's productions seemed to him anuninteresting form of art. Mr. Tulliver, having a vague intention thatTom should be put to some business which included the drawing out ofplans and maps, had complained to Mr. Riley, when he saw him atMudport, that Tom seemed to be learning nothing of that sort;whereupon that obliging adviser had suggested that Tom should havedrawing-lessons. Mr. Tulliver must not mind paying extra for drawing;let Tom be made a good draughtsman, and he would be able to turn hispencil to any purpose. So it was ordered that Tom should havedrawing-lessons; and whom should Mr. Stelling have selected as amaster if not Mr. Goodrich, who was considered quite at the head ofhis profession within a circuit of twelve miles round King's Lorton?By which means Tom learned to make an extremely fine point to hispencil, and to represent landscape with a "broad generality, " which, doubtless from a narrow tendency in his mind to details, he thoughtextremely dull. 

All this, you remember, happened in those dark ages when there were noschools of design; before schoolmasters were invariably men ofscrupulous integrity, and before the clergy were all men of enlargedminds and varied culture. In those less favored days, it is no fablethat there were other clergymen besides Mr. Stelling who had narrowintellects and large wants, and whose income, by a logical confusionto which Fortune, being a female as well as blindfold, is peculiarlyliable, was proportioned not to their wants but to their intellect, with which income has clearly no inherent relation. The problem thesegentlemen had to solve was to readjust the proportion between theirwants and their income; and since wants are not easily starved todeath, the simpler method appeared to be to raise their income. Therewas but one way of doing this; any of those low callings in which menare obliged to do good work at a low price were forbidden toclergymen; was it their fault if their only resource was to turn outvery poor work at a high price? Besides, how should Mr. Stelling beexpected to know that education was a delicate and difficult business, any more than an animal endowed with a power of boring a hole througha rock should be expected to have wide views of excavation? Mr. Stelling's faculties had been early trained to boring in a straightline, and he had no faculty to spare. But among Tom's contemporaries, whose fathers cast their sons on clerical instruction to find themignorant after many days, there were many far less lucky than TomTulliver. Education was almost entirely a matter of luck--usually ofill-luck--in those distant days. The state of mind in which you take abilliard-cue or a dice-box in your hand is one of sober certaintycompared with that of old-fashioned fathers, like Mr. Tulliver, whenthey selected a school or a tutor for their sons. Excellent men, whohad been forced all their lives to spell on an impromptu-phoneticsystem, and having carried on a successful business in spite of thisdisadvantage, had acquired money enough to give their sons a betterstart in life than they had had themselves, must necessarily taketheir chance as to the conscience and the competence of theschoolmaster whose circular fell in their way, and appeared to promiseso much more than they would ever have thought of asking for, including the return of linen, fork, and spoon. It was happy for themif some ambitious draper of their acquaintance had not brought up hisson to the Church, and if that young gentleman, at the age offour-and-twenty, had not closed his college dissipations by animprudent marriage; otherwise, these innocent fathers, desirous ofdoing the best for their offspring, could only escape the draper's sonby happening to be on the foundation of a grammar-school as yetunvisited by commissioners, where two or three boys could have, all tothemselves, the advantages of a large and lofty building, togetherwith a head-master, toothless, dim-eyed and deaf, whose eruditeindistinctness and inattention were engrossed by them at the rate ofthree hundred pounds a-head, --a ripe scholar, doubtless, when firstappointed; but all ripeness beneath the sun has a further stage lessesteemed in the market. 

Tom Tulliver, then, compared with many other British youths of histime who have since had to scramble through life with some fragmentsof more or less relevant knowledge, and a great deal of strictlyrelevant ignorance, was not so very unlucky. Mr. Stelling was abroad-chested, healthy man, with the bearing of a gentleman, aconviction that a growing boy required a sufficiency of beef, and acertain hearty kindness in him that made him like to see Tom lookingwell and enjoying his dinner; not a man of refined conscience, or withany deep sense of the infinite issues belonging to every-day duties, not quite competent to his high offices; but incompetent gentlemenmust live, and without private fortune it is difficult to see how theycould all live genteelly if they had nothing to do with education orgovernment. Besides, it was the fault of Tom's mental constitutionthat his faculties could not be nourished on the sort of knowledge Mr. Stelling had to communicate. A boy born with a deficient power ofapprehending signs and abstractions must suffer the penalty of hiscongenital deficiency, just as if he had been born with one legshorter than the other. A method of education sanctioned by the longpractice of our venerable ancestors was not to give way before theexceptional dulness of a boy who was merely living at the time thenpresent. And Mr. Stelling was convinced that a boy so stupid at signsand abstractions must be stupid at everything else, even if thatreverend gentleman could have taught him everything else. It was thepractice of our venerable ancestors to apply that ingenious instrumentthe thumb-screw, and to tighten and tighten it in order to elicitnon-existent facts; they had a fixed opinion to begin with, that thefacts were existent, and what had they to do but to tighten thethumb-screw? In like manner, Mr. Stelling had a fixed opinion that allboys with any capacity could learn what it was the only regular thingto teach; if they were slow, the thumb-screw must be tightened, --theexercises must be insisted on with increased severity, and a page ofVirgil be awarded as a penalty, to encourage and stimulate a toolanguid inclination to Latin verse. 

The thumb-screw was a little relaxed, however, during this secondhalf-year. Philip was so advanced in his studies, and so apt, that Mr. Stelling could obtain credit by his facility, which required littlehelp, much more easily than by the troublesome process of overcomingTom's dulness. Gentlemen with broad chests and ambitious intentions dosometimes disappoint their friends by failing to carry the worldbefore them. Perhaps it is that high achievements demand some otherunusual qualification besides an unusual desire for high prizes;perhaps it is that these stalwart gentlemen are rather indolent, their_divinae particulum aurae_ being obstructed from soaring by a too heartyappetite. Some reason or other there was why Mr. Stelling deferred theexecution of many spirited projects, --why he did not begin the editingof his Greek play, or any other work of scholarship, in his leisurehours, but, after turning the key of his private study with muchresolution, sat down to one of Theodore Hook's novels. Tom wasgradually allowed to shuffle through his lessons with less rigor, andhaving Philip to help him, he was able to make some show of havingapplied his mind in a confused and blundering way, without beingcross-examined into a betrayal that his mind had been entirely neutralin the matter. He thought school much more bearable under thismodification of circumstances; and he went on contentedly enough, picking up a promiscuous education chiefly from things that were notintended as education at all. What was understood to be his educationwas simply the practice of reading, writing, and spelling, carried onby an elaborate appliance of unintelligible ideas, and by much failurein the effort to learn by rote. 

Nevertheless, there was a visible improvement in Tom under thistraining; perhaps because he was not a boy in the abstract, existingsolely to illustrate the evils of a mistaken education, but a boy madeof flesh and blood, with dispositions not entirely at the mercy ofcircumstances. 

There was a great improvement in his bearing, for example; and somecredit on this score was due to Mr. Poulter, the village schoolmaster, who, being an old Peninsular soldier, was employed to drill Tom, --asource of high mutual pleasure. Mr. Poulter, who was understood by thecompany at the Black Swan to have once struck terror into the heartsof the French, was no longer personally formidable. He had rather ashrunken appearance, and was tremulous in the mornings, not from age, but from the extreme perversity of the King's Lorton boys, whichnothing but gin could enable him to sustain with any firmness. Still, he carried himself with martial erectness, had his clothesscrupulously brushed, and his trousers tightly strapped; and on theWednesday and Saturday afternoons, when he came to Tom, he was alwaysinspired with gin and old memories, which gave him an exceptionallyspirited air, as of a superannuated charger who hears the drum. Thedrilling-lessons were always protracted by episodes of warlikenarrative, much more interesting to Tom than Philip's stories out ofthe Iliad; for there were no cannon in the Iliad, and besides, Tom hadfelt some disgust on learning that Hector and Achilles might possiblynever have existed. But the Duke of Wellington was really alive, andBony had not been long dead; therefore Mr. Poulter's reminiscences ofthe Peninsular War were removed from all suspicion of being mythical. Mr. Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous figure at Talavera, and had contributed not a little to the peculiar terror with which hisregiment of infantry was regarded by the enemy. On afternoons when hismemory was more stimulated than usual, he remembered that the Duke ofWellington had (in strict privacy, lest jealousies should be awakened)expressed his esteem for that fine fellow Poulter. The very surgeonwho attended him in the hospital after he had received hisgunshot-wound had been profoundly impressed with the superiority ofMr. Poulter's flesh, --no other flesh would have healed in anythinglike the same time. On less personal matters connected with theimportant warfare in which he had been engaged, Mr. Poulter was morereticent, only taking care not to give the weight of his authority toany loose notions concerning military history. Any one who pretendedto a knowledge of what occurred at the siege of Badajos was especiallyan object of silent pity to Mr. Poulter; he wished that prating personhad been run down, and had the breath trampled out of him at the firstgo-off, as he himself had, --he might talk about the siege of Badajosthen! Tom did not escape irritating his drilling-master occasionally, by his curiosity concerning other military matters than Mr. Poulter'spersonal experience. 

"And General Wolfe, Mr. Poulter, --wasn't he a wonderful fighter?" saidTom, who held the notion that all the martial heroes commemorated onthe public-house signs were engaged in the war with Bony. 

"Not at all!" said Mr. Poulter, contemptuously. "Nothing o' the sort!Heads up!" he added, in a tone of stern 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 hisdiscipline; "they'd better not talk to me about General Wolfe. He didnothing but die of his wound; that's a poor haction, I consider. Anyother 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 wishyou'd bring your sword and do the sword-exercise!"

For a long while Mr. Poulter only shook his head in a significantmanner at this request, and smiled patronizingly, as Jupiter may havedone when Semele urged her too ambitious request. But one afternoon, when a sudden shower of heavy rain had detained Mr. Poulter twentyminutes longer than usual at the Black Swan, the sword wasbrought, --just for Tom to look at. 

"And this is the real sword you fought with in all the battles, Mr. Poulter?" said Tom, handling the hilt. "Has it ever cut a Frenchman'shead off?"

"Head off? Ah! and would, if he'd had three heads. "

"But you had a gun and bayonet besides?" said Tom. "_I_ should likethe gun and bayonet best, because you could shoot 'em first and spear'em after. Bang! Ps-s-s-s!" Tom gave the requisite pantomime toindicate the double enjoyment of pulling the trigger and thrusting thespear. 

"Ah, but the sword's the thing when you come to close fighting, " saidMr. Poulter, involuntarily falling in with Tom's enthusiasm, anddrawing 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 anEnglishman, "let me go and call Philip. He'll like to see you, youknow. "

"What! the humpbacked lad?" said Mr. Poulter, contemptuously; "what'sthe use of _his_ looking on?"

"Oh, but he knows a great deal about fighting, " said Tom, "and howthey used to fight with bows and arrows, and battle-axes. "

"Let him come, then. I'll show him something different from his bowsand arrows, " said Mr. Poulter, coughing and drawing himself up, whilehe gave a little preliminary play to his wrist. 

Tom ran in to Philip, who was enjoying his afternoon's holiday at thepiano, in the drawing-room, picking out tunes for himself and singingthem. He was supremely happy, perched like an amorphous bundle on thehigh stool, with his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on the oppositecornice, 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 'la la'there; come and see old Poulter do his sword-exercise in thecarriage-house!"

The jar of this interruption, the discord of Tom's tones coming acrossthe notes to which Philip was vibrating in soul and body, would havebeen enough to unhinge his temper, even if there had been no questionof Poulter the drilling-master; and Tom, in the hurry of seizingsomething to say to prevent Mr. Poulter from thinking he was afraid ofthe sword when he sprang away from it, had alighted on thisproposition to fetch Philip, though he knew well enough that Philiphated to hear him mention his drilling-lessons. Tom would never havedone so inconsiderate a thing except under the severe stress of hispersonal pride. 

Philip shuddered visibly as he paused from his music. Then turningred, he said, with violent passion, --

"Get away, you lumbering idiot! Don't come bellowing at me; you're notfit to speak to anything but a cart-horse!"

It was not the first time Philip had been made angry by him, but Tomhad never before been assailed with verbal missiles that he understoodso well. 

"I'm fit to speak to something better than you, you poor-spiritedimp!" said Tom, lighting up immediately at Philip's fire. "You know Iwon't hit you, because you're no better than a girl. But I'm an honestman's son, and _your_ father's a rogue; everybody says so!"

Tom flung out of the room, and slammed the door after him, madestrangely heedless by his anger; for to slam doors within the hearingof Mrs. Stelling, who was probably not far off, was an offence only tobe wiped out by twenty lines of Virgil. In fact, that lady didpresently descend from her room, in double wonder at the noise and thesubsequent cessation of Philip's music. She found him sitting in aheap on the hassock, and crying bitterly. 

"What's the matter, Wakem? what was that noise about? Who slammed thedoor?"

Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. "It was Tulliver whocame 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 obligingthan Tom, who was made useful in many ways. Still, his father paidmore than Mr. Tulliver did, and she meant him to feel that she behavedexceedingly well to him. Philip, however, met her advances toward agood understanding very much as a caressed mollusk meets an invitationto show himself out of his shell. Mrs. Stelling was not a loving, tender-hearted woman; she was a woman whose skirt sat well, whoadjusted her waist and patted her curls with a preoccupied air whenshe inquired after your welfare. These things, doubtless, represent agreat social power, but it is not the power of love; and no otherpower could win Philip from his personal reserve. 

He said, in answer to her question, "My toothache came on, and made mehysterical again. "

This had been the fact once, and Philip was glad of the recollection;it was like an inspiration to enable him to excuse his crying. He hadto accept eau-de-Cologne and to refuse creosote in consequence; butthat was easy. 

Meanwhile Tom, who had for the first time sent a poisoned arrow intoPhilip's heart, had returned to the carriage-house, where he found Mr. Poulter, with a fixed and earnest eye, wasting the perfections of hissword-exercise on probably observant but inappreciative rats. But Mr. Poulter was a host in himself; that is to say, he admired himself morethan a whole army of spectators could have admired him. He took nonotice of Tom's return, being too entirely absorbed in the cut andthrust, --the solemn one, two, three, four; and Tom, not without aslight feeling of alarm at Mr. Poulter's fixed eye and hungry-lookingsword, which seemed impatient for something else to cut besides theair, admired the performance from as great a distance as possible. Itwas not until Mr. Poulter paused and wiped the perspiration from hisforehead, that Tom felt the full charm of the sword-exercise, andwished it to be repeated. 

"Mr. Poulter, " said Tom, when the sword was being finally sheathed, "Iwish you'd lend me your sword a little while to keep. "

"No no, young gentleman, " said Mr. Poulter, shaking his headdecidedly; "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 armswith it, and all that. "

"No, no, it won't do, I tell you; it won't do, " said Mr. Poulter, preparing to depart. "What 'ud Mr. Stelling say to me?"

"Oh, I say, do, Mr. Poulter! I'd give you my five-shilling piece ifyou'd let me keep the sword a week. Look here!" said Tom, reaching outthe attractively large round of silver. The young dog calculated theeffect as well as if he had been a philosopher. 

"Well, " said Mr. Poulter, with still deeper gravity, "you must keep itout of sight, you know. "

"Oh yes, I'll keep it under the bed, " said Tom, eagerly, "or else atthe bottom of my large box. "

"And let me see, now, whether you can draw it out of the sheathwithout hurting yourself. " That process having been gone through morethan once, Mr. Poulter felt that he had acted with scrupulousconscientiousness, and said, "Well, now, Master Tulliver, if I takethe crown-piece, it is to make sure as you'll do no mischief with thesword. "

"Oh no, indeed, Mr. Poulter, " said Tom, delightedly handing him thecrown-piece, and grasping the sword, which, he thought, might havebeen lighter with advantage. 

"But if Mr. Stelling catches you carrying it in?" said Mr. Poulter, pocketing the crown-piece provisionally while he raised this newdoubt. 

"Oh, he always keeps in his upstairs study on Saturday afternoon, "said Tom, who disliked anything sneaking, but was not disinclined to alittle stratagem in a worthy cause. So he carried off the sword intriumph mixed with dread--dread that he might encounter Mr. Or Mrs. Stelling--to his bedroom, where, after some consideration, he hid itin the closet behind some hanging clothes. That night he fell asleepin the thought that he would astonish Maggie with it when shecame, --tie it round his waist with his red comforter, and make herbelieve that the sword was his own, and that he was going to be asoldier. There was nobody but Maggie who would be silly enough tobelieve him, or whom he dared allow to know he had a sword; and Maggiewas really coming next week to see Tom, before she went to aboarding-school with Lucy. 

If you think a lad of thirteen would have been so childish, you mustbe an exceptionally wise man, who, although you are devoted to a civilcalling, requiring you to look bland rather than formidable, yetnever, since you had a beard, threw yourself into a martial attitude, and frowned before the looking-glass. It is doubtful whether oursoldiers would be maintained if there were not pacific people at homewho like to fancy themselves soldiers. War, like other dramaticspectacles, might possibly cease for want of a "public. "

Chapter V

Maggie's Second Visit

This last breach between the two lads was not readily mended, and forsome time they spoke to each other no more than was necessary. Theirnatural antipathy of temperament made resentment an easy passage tohatred, and in Philip the transition seemed to have begun; there wasno malignity in his disposition, but there was a susceptibility thatmade him peculiarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox--wemay venture to assert it on the authority of a great classic--is notgiven to use his teeth as an instrument of attack, and Tom was anexcellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in a trulyingenious bovine manner; but he had blundered on Philip's tenderestpoint, and had caused him as much acute pain as if he had studied themeans with the nicest precision and the most envenomed spite. Tom sawno reason why they should not make up this quarrel as they had donemany others, by behaving as if nothing had happened; for though he hadnever before said to Philip that his father was a rogue, this idea hadso habitually made part of his feeling as to the relation betweenhimself and his dubious schoolfellow, who he could neither like nordislike, that the mere utterance did not make such an epoch to him asit did to Philip. And he had a right to say so when Philip hectoredover _him_, and called him names. But perceiving that his firstadvances toward amity were not met, he relapsed into his leastfavorable disposition toward Philip, and resolved never to appeal tohim either about drawing or exercise again. They were only so farcivil to each other as was necessary to prevent their state of feudfrom being observed by Mr. Stelling, who would have "put down" suchnonsense with great vigor. 

When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking with growinginterest at the new schoolfellow, although he was the son of thatwicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her father so angry. She had arrived inthe middle of school-hours, and had sat by while Philip went throughhis lessons with Mr. Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her wordthat Philip knew no end of stories, --not stupid stories like hers; andshe was convinced now from her own observation that he must be veryclever; she hoped he would think _her_ rather clever too, when shecame to talk to him. Maggie, moreover, had rather a tenderness fordeformed things; she preferred the wry-necked lambs, because it seemedto her that the lambs which were quite strong and well made wouldn'tmind so much about being petted; and she was especially fond ofpetting objects that would think it very delightful to be petted byher. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often wished that he _cared_more about her loving him. 

"I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom, " she said, when they wentout of the study together into the garden, to pass the interval beforedinner. "He couldn't choose his father, you know; and I've read ofvery bad men who had good sons, as well as good parents who had badchildren. And if Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more sorryfor him because his father is not a good man. _You_ like him, don'tyou?"

"Oh, he's a queer fellow, " said Tom, curtly, "and he's as sulky as canbe with me, because I told him his father was a rogue. And I'd a rightto tell him so, for it was true; and _he_ began it, with calling menames. But you stop here by yourself a bit, Maggie, will you? I've gotsomething I want to do upstairs. "

"Can't I go too?" said Maggie, who in this first day of meeting againloved Tom's shadow. 

"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, preparingthe morrow's lesson's that they might have a holiday in the evening inhonor of Maggie's arrival. Tom was hanging over his Latin grammar, moving his lips inaudibly like a strict but impatient Catholicrepeating his tale of paternosters; and Philip, at the other end ofthe room, was busy with two volumes, with a look of contenteddiligence that excited Maggie's curiosity; he did not look at all asif he were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a rightangle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other; andPhilip, looking off his book once toward the fire-place, caught thepair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He thought this sisterof Tulliver's seemed a nice little thing, quite unlike her brother; hewished _he_ had a little sister. What was it, he wondered, that madeMaggie's dark eyes remind him of the stories about princesses beingturned into animals? I think it was that her eyes were full ofunsatisfied intelligence, and unsatisfied beseeching affection. 

"I say, Magsie, " said Tom at last, shutting his books and putting themaway with the energy and decision of a perfect master in the art ofleaving off, "I've done my lessons now. Come upstairs with me. "

"What is it?" said Maggie, when they were outside the door, a slightsuspicion crossing her mind as she remembered Tom's preliminary visitupstairs. "It isn't a trick you're going to play me, now?"

"No, no, Maggie, " said Tom, in his most coaxing tone; "It's somethingyou'll like _ever so_. "

He put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his waist, andtwined together in this way, they went upstairs. 

"I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know, " said Tom, "elseI shall get fifty lines. "

"Is it alive?" said Maggie, whose imagination had settled for themoment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandestinely. 

"Oh, I sha'n't tell you, " said he. "Now you go into that corner andhide your face, while I reach it out, " he added, as he locked thebedroom door behind them. I'll tell you when to turn round. Youmustn't squeal out, you know. "

"Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall, " said Maggie, beginning to lookrather serious. 

"You won't be frightened, you silly thing, " said Tom. "Go and hideyour face, and mind you don't peep. "

"Of course I sha'n't peep, " said Maggie, disdainfully; and she buriedher face in the pillow like a person of strict honor. 

But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet; then hestepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the door. Maggie kepther face buried without the aid of principle, for in thatdream-suggestive attitude she had soon forgotten where she was, andher thoughts were busy with the poor deformed boy, who was so clever, when Tom called out, "Now then, Magsie!"

Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement of effectswould have enabled Tom to present so striking a figure as he did toMaggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied with the pacific aspect of aface which had no more than the faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow, together with a pair of amiable blue-gray eyes and round pink cheeksthat refused to look formidable, let him frown as he would before thelooking-glass (Philip had once told him of a man who had a horseshoefrown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning might to make ahorseshoe on his forehead), he had had recourse to that unfailingsource of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made himself a pair ofblack eyebrows that met in a satisfactory manner over his nose, andwere matched by a less carefully adjusted blackness about the chin. Hehad wound a red handkerchief round his cloth cap to give it the air ofa turban, and his red comforter across his breast as a scarf, --anamount of red which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and thedecision with which he grasped the sword, as he held it with its pointresting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximate idea ofhis fierce and bloodthirsty disposition. 

Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed that momentkeenly; but in the next she laughed, clapped her hands together, andsaid, "Oh, Tom, you've made yourself like Bluebeard at the show. "

It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of thesword, --it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous mind required a moredirect appeal to its sense of the terrible, and Tom prepared for hismaster-stroke. Frowning with a double amount of intention, if not ofcorrugation, he (carefully) drew the sword from its sheath, andpointed it at Maggie. 

"Oh, Tom, please don't!" exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of suppresseddread, shrinking away from him into the opposite corner. "I _shall_scream--I'm sure I shall! Oh, don't I wish I'd never come upstairs!"

The corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a smile ofcomplacency that was immediately checked as inconsistent with theseverity of a great warrior. Slowly he let down the scabbard on thefloor, lest it should make too much noise, and then said sternly, --

"I'm the Duke of Wellington! March!" stamping forward with the rightleg a little bent, and the sword still pointing toward Maggie, who, trembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got upon the bed, as the onlymeans of widening the space between them. 

Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, even thoughthe spectator was only Maggie, proceeded, with the utmost exertion ofhis force, to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as wouldnecessarily be expected of the Duke of Wellington. 

"Tom, I _will not_ bear it, I _will_ scream, " said Maggie, at thefirst movement of the sword. "You'll hurt yourself; you'll cut yourhead off!"

"One--two, " said Tom, resolutely, though at "two" his wrist trembled alittle. "Three" came more slowly, and with it the sword swungdownward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. The sword had fallen, withits edge on Tom's foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too. Maggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and immediately there wasa rush of footsteps toward the room. Mr. Stelling, from his upstairsstudy, was the first to enter. He found both the children on thefloor. Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the collar ofhis jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought he was dead, poorchild! and yet she shook him, as if that would bring him back to life. In another minute she was sobbing with joy because Tom opened hiseyes. She couldn't sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot; it seemed asif all happiness lay in his being alive. 

Chapter VI

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-shillingpiece remained a secret even to Maggie. But there was a terrible dreadweighing on his mind, so terrible that he dared not even ask thequestion which might bring the fatal "yes"; he dared not ask thesurgeon or Mr. Stelling, "Shall I be lame, Sir?" He mastered himselfso 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 childrensobbed together, with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom wasthinking of himself walking about on crutches, like the wheelwright'sson; and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed forcompany. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr. Stelling toanticipate this dread in Tom's mind, and to reassure him by hopefulwords. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaidMr. Stelling to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to askfor himself. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, --but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver will belame?"

"Oh, no; oh, no, " said Mr. Stelling, "not permanently; only for alittle 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 troublingabout that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet at present. "

It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of theaccident, --"Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard for him if heis"; and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offences were washed out by thatpity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a state of repulsion, but were being drawn into a common current of suffering and sadprivation. His imagination did not dwell on the outward calamity andits future effect on Tom's life, but it made vividly present to himthe probable state of Tom's feeling. Philip had only lived fourteenyears, but those years had, most of them, been steeped in the sense ofa lot irremediably hard. 

"Mr. Askern says you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did youknow?" he said rather timidly, as he stepped gently up to Tom's bed. "I've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he says you'll walk as wellas ever again by-and-day. "

Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath which comeswith a sudden joy; then he gave a long sigh, and turned his blue-grayeyes straight on Philip's face, as he had not done for a fortnight ormore. As for Maggie, this intimation of a possibility she had notthought of before affected her as a new trouble; the bare idea ofTom's being always lame overpowered the assurance that such amisfortune was not likely to befall him, and she clung to him andcried afresh. 

"Don't be a little silly, Magsie, " said Tom, tenderly, feeling verybrave now. "I shall soon get well. "

"Good-by, Tulliver, " said Philip, putting out his small, delicatehand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more substantial fingers. 

"I say, " said Tom, "ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and sit with mesometimes, 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 andMaggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much as ever, but heinsisted strongly on the fact that those great fighters who did somany wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armor fromhead to foot, which made fighting easy work, he considered. He shouldnot have hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened withgreat interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a verybad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadfully with the pain thathis friends could bear with him no longer, but put him ashore on adesert island, with nothing but some wonderful poisoned arrows to killanimals with for food. 

"I didn't roar out a bit, you know, " Tom said, "and I dare say my footwas as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar. "

But Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you very much, it wasquite permissible to cry out, and it was cruel of people not to bearit. She wanted to know if Philoctetes had a sister, and why _she_didn't go with him on the desert island and take care of him. 

One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Maggie were inthe study alone together while Tom's foot was being dressed. Philipwas at his books, and Maggie, after sauntering idly round the room, not caring to do anything in particular, because she would soon go toTom again, went and leaned on the table near Philip to see what he wasdoing, for they were quite old friends now, and perfectly at home witheach other. 

"What are you reading about in Greek?" she said. "It's poetry, I cansee that, because the lines are so short. "

"It's about Philoctetes, the lame man I was telling you of yesterday, "he answered, resting his head on his hand, and looking at her as if hewere not at all sorry to be interrupted. Maggie, in her absent way, continued to lean forward, resting on her arms and moving her feetabout, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed and vacant, as ifshe had quite forgotten Philip and his book. 

"Maggie, " said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on hiselbow and looking at her, "if you had had a brother like me, do youthink you should have loved him as well as Tom?"

Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, and said, "What?" Philip repeated his question. 

"Oh, yes, better, " she answered immediately. "No, not better; becauseI don't think I _could_ love you better than Tom. But I should be sosorry, --_so sorry_ for you. "

Philip colored; he had meant to imply, would she love him as well inspite of his deformity, and yet when she alluded to it so plainly, hewinced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake. Hitherto she had instinctively behaved as if she were quiteunconscious of Philip's deformity; her own keen sensitiveness andexperience under family criticism sufficed to teach her this as wellas if she had been directed by the most finished breeding. 

"But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing, " sheadded 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 wouldteach me everything; wouldn't you, --Greek and everything?"

"But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie, " said Philip, "andthen you'll forget all about me, and not care for me any more. Andthen I shall see you when you're grown up, and you'll hardly take anynotice of me. "

"Oh, no, I sha'n't forget you, I'm sure, " said Maggie, shaking herhead very seriously. "I never forget anything, and I think abouteverybody when I'm away from them. I think about poor Yap; he's got alump in his throat, and Luke says he'll die. Only don't you tell Tom. Because it will vex him so. You never saw Yap; he's a queer littledog, --nobody cares about him but Tom and me. "

"Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?" saidPhilip, smiling rather sadly. 

"Oh, yes, I should think so, " said Maggie, laughing. 

"I'm very fond of _you_, Maggie; I shall never forget _you_, " saidPhilip, "and when I'm very unhappy, I shall always think of you, andwish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours. "

"Why do you like my eyes?" said Maggie, well pleased. She had neverheard 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. Theyseem trying to speak, --trying to speak kindly. I don't like otherpeople to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, Maggie. "

"Why, I think you're fonder of me than Tom is, " said Maggie, rathersorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could convince Philip that shecould 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 whenI see you again, if it's ever so long. But I'll go now, because Ithink Mr. Askern's done with Tom's foot. "

When their father came the second time, Maggie said to him, "Oh, father, Philip Wakem is so very good to Tom; he is such a clever boy, and I _do_ love him. And you love him too, Tom, don't you? _Say_ youlove him, " she added entreatingly. 

Tom colored a little as he looked at his father, and said: "I sha'n'tbe friends with him when I leave school, father; but we've made it upnow, since my foot has been bad, and he's taught me to play atdraughts, and I can beat him. "

"Well, well, " said Mr. Tulliver, "if he's good to you, try and makehim amends, and be good to _him_. He's a poor crooked creature, andtakes after his dead mother. But don't you be getting too thick withhim; he's got his father's blood in him too. Ay, ay, the gray colt maychance to kick like his black sire. "

The jarring natures of the two boys effected what Mr. Tulliver'sadmonition alone might have failed to effect; in spite of Philip's newkindness, and Tom's answering regard in this time of his trouble, theynever became close friends. When Maggie was gone, and when Tomby-and-by began to walk about as usual, the friendly warmth that hadbeen kindled by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left themin their old relation to each other. Philip was often peevish andcontemptuous; and Tom's more specific and kindly impressions graduallymelted into the old background of suspicion and dislike toward him asa queer fellow, a humpback, and the son of a rogue. If boys and menare to be welded together in the glow of transient feeling, they mustbe made of metal that will mix, else they inevitably fall asunder whenthe heat dies out. 

Chapter VII

The Golden Gates Are Passed

So Tom went on even to the fifth half-year--till he was turnedsixteen--at King's Lorton, while Maggie was growing with a rapiditywhich her aunts considered highly reprehensible, at Miss Firniss'sboarding-school in the ancient town of Laceham on the Floss, withcousin Lucy for her companion. In her early letters to Tom she hadalways sent her love to Philip, and asked many questions about him, which were answered by brief sentences about Tom's toothache, and aturf-house which he was helping to build in the garden, with otheritems of that kind. She was pained to hear Tom say in the holidaysthat Philip was as queer as ever again, and often cross. They were nolonger very good friends, she perceived; and when she reminded Tomthat he ought always to love Philip for being so good to him when hisfoot was bad, he answered: "Well, it isn't my fault; _I_ don't doanything to him. " She hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder oftheir school-life; in the Midsummer holidays he was always away at theseaside, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long intervals inthe street of St. Ogg's. When they did meet, she remembered herpromise to kiss him, but, as a young lady who had been at aboarding-school, she knew now that such a greeting was out of thequestion, and Philip would not expect it. The promise was void, likeso many other sweet, illusory promises of our childhood; void aspromises made in Eden before the seasons were divided, and when thestarry blossoms grew side by side with the ripening peach, --impossibleto be fulfilled when the golden gates had been passed. 

But when their father was actually engaged in the long-threatenedlawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once of Pivart and Old Harry, wasacting against him, even Maggie felt, with some sadness, that theywere not likely ever to have any intimacy with Philip again; the veryname of Wakem made her father angry, and she had once heard him saythat if that crook-backed son lived to inherit his father's ill-gottengains, there would be a curse upon him. "Have as little to do with himat school as you can, my lad, " he said to Tom; and the command wasobeyed the more easily because Mr. Sterling by this time had twoadditional pupils; for though this gentleman's rise in the world wasnot of that meteor-like rapidity which the admirers of hisextemporaneous eloquence had expected for a preacher whose voicedemanded so wide a sphere, he had yet enough of growing prosperity toenable him to increase his expenditure in continued disproportion tohis income. 

As for Tom's school course, it went on with mill-like monotony, hismind continuing to move with a slow, half-stifled pulse in a mediumuninteresting or unintelligible ideas. But each vacation he broughthome larger and larger drawings with the satiny rendering oflandscape, and water-colors in vivid greens, together with manuscriptbooks full of exercises and problems, in which the handwriting was allthe finer because he gave his whole mind to it. Each vacation hebrought home a new book or two, indicating his progress throughdifferent stages of history, Christian doctrine, and Latin literature;and that passage was not entirely without results, besides thepossession of the books. Tom's ear and tongue had become accustomed toa great many words and phrases which are understood to be signs of aneducated condition; and though he had never really applied his mind toany one of his lessons, the lessons had left a deposit of vague, fragmentary, ineffectual notions. Mr. Tulliver, seeing signs ofacquirement beyond the reach of his own criticism, thought it wasprobably all right with Tom's education; he observed, indeed, thatthere were no maps, and not enough "summing"; but he made no formalcomplaint to Mr. Stelling. It was a puzzling business, this schooling;and if he took Tom away, where could he send him with better effect?

By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's Lorton, theyears had made striking changes in him since the day we saw himreturning from Mr. Jacobs's academy. He was a tall youth now, carryinghimself without the least awkwardness, and speaking without moreshyness than was a becoming symptom of blended diffidence and pride;he wore his tail-coat and his stand-up collars, and watched the downon his lip with eager impatience, looking every day at his virginrazor, with which he had provided himself in the last holidays. Philiphad already left, --at the autumn quarter, --that he might go to thesouth for the winter, for the sake of his health; and this changehelped to give Tom the unsettled, exultant feeling that usuallybelongs to the last months before leaving school. This quarter, too, there was some hope of his father's lawsuit being decided; _that_ madethe prospect of home more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who hadgathered his view of the case from his father's conversation, had nodoubt that Pivart would be beaten. 

Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks, --a fact which didnot surprise him, for his father and mother were not apt to manifesttheir affection in unnecessary letters, --when, to his great surprise, on the morning of a dark, cold day near the end of November, he wastold, soon after entering the study at nine o'clock, that his sisterwas in the drawing-room. It was Mrs. Stelling who had come into thestudy to tell him, and she left him to enter the drawing-room alone. 

Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair; she wasalmost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen; and she reallylooked older than he did at that moment. She had thrown off herbonnet, her heavy braids were pushed back from her forehead, as if itwould not bear that extra load, and her young face had a strangelyworn look, as her eyes turned anxiously toward the door. When Tomentered she did not speak, but only went up to him, put her arms roundhis neck, and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various moods ofhers, and felt no alarm at the unusual seriousness of her greeting. 

"Why, how is it you're come so early this cold morning, Maggie? Didyou come in the gig?" said Tom, as she backed toward the sofa, anddrew him to her side. 

"No, I came by the coach. I've walked from the turnpike. "

"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 ofthe 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 isended, and I came to tell you because I thought it would be better foryou to know it before you came home, and I didn't like only to sendyou a letter. "

"My father hasn't lost?" said Tom, hastily, springing from the sofa, and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly thrust into hispockets. 

"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. Thenhe 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 translating theloss of a large sum of money into any tangible results. "But myfather's very much vexed, I dare say?" he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking that her agitated face was only part of her girlish wayof taking things. 

"Yes, " said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller speech byTom's freedom from apprehension, she said loudly and rapidly, as ifthe words _would_ burst from her: "Oh, Tom, he will lose the mill andthe land and everything; he will have nothing left. "

Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her, before he turnedpale, and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but sat down on the sofaagain, looking vaguely out of the opposite window. 

Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. His father hadalways ridden a good horse, kept a good house, and had the cheerful, confident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall back upon. Tom had never dreamed that his father would "fail"; _that_ was a formof 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 hisrelations, least of all with his father. A proud sense of familyrespectability was part of the very air Tom had been born and broughtup in. He knew there were people in St. Ogg's who made a show withoutmoney to support it, and he had always heard such people spoken of byhis own friends with contempt and reprobation. He had a strong belief, which was a lifelong habit, and required no definite evidence to reston, that his father could spend a great deal of money if he chose; andsince his education at Mr. Stelling's had given him a more expensiveview of life, he had often thought that when he got older he wouldmake a figure in the world, with his horse and dogs and saddle, andother accoutrements of a fine young man, and show himself equal to anyof his contemporaries at St. Ogg's, who might consider themselves agrade above him in society because their fathers were professionalmen, or had large oil-mills. As to the prognostics and headshaking ofhis aunts and uncles, they had never produced the least effect on him, except to make him think that aunts and uncles were disagreeablesociety; he had heard them find fault in much the same way as long ashe could remember. His father knew better than they did. 

The down had come on Tom's lip, yet his thoughts and expectations hadbeen hitherto only the reproduction, in changed forms, of the boyishdreams in which he had lived three years ago. He was awakened now witha violent shock. 

Maggie was frightened at Tom's pale, trembling silence. There wassomething else to tell him, --something worse. She threw her arms roundhim at last, and said, with a half sob:

"Oh, Tom--dear, dear Tom, don't fret too much; try and bear it well. "

Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kisses, andthere gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he just rubbed away withhis hand. The action seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself andsaid: "I shall go home, with you, Maggie. Didn't my father say I wasto go?"

"No, Tom, father didn't wish it, " said Maggie, her anxiety about _his_feeling helping her to master her agitation. What _would_ he do whenshe told him all? "But mother wants you to come, --poor mother!--shecries so. Oh, Tom, it's very dreadful at home. "

Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost as Tom haddone. The two poor things clung closer to each other, bothtrembling, --the one at an unshapen fear, the other at the image of aterrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it was hardly above a whisper. 

"And--and--poor father----"

Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable to Tom. Avague idea of going to prison, as a consequence of debt, was the shapehis fears had begun to take. 

"Where's my father?" he said impatiently. "_Tell_ me, Maggie. "

"He's at home, " said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to thatquestion. "But, " she added, after a pause, "not himself--he fell offhis horse. He has known nobody but me ever since--he seems to havelost his senses. O father, father----"

With these last words, Maggie's sobs burst forth with the moreviolence for the previous struggle against them. Tom felt thatpressure of the heart which forbids tears; he had no distinct visionof their troubles as Maggie had, who had been at home; he only feltthe crushing weight of what seemed unmitigated misfortune. Hetightened his arm almost convulsively round Maggie as she sobbed, buthis face looked rigid and tearless, his eyes blank, --as if a blackcurtain of cloud had suddenly fallen on his path. 

But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly; a single thought had actedon her like a startling sound. 

"We must set out, Tom, we must not stay. Father will miss me; we mustbe at the turnpike at ten to meet the coach. " She said this with hastydecision, rubbing her eyes, and rising to seize her bonnet. 

Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. "Wait a minute, Maggie, " he said. "I must speak to Mr. Stelling, and then we'll go. "

He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were; but on hisway he met Mr. Stelling, who had heard from his wife that Maggieappeared to be in trouble when she asked for her brother, and now thathe thought the brother and sister had been alone long enough, wascoming to inquire and offer his sympathy. 

"Please, sir, I must go home, " Tom said abruptly, as he met Mr. Stelling in the passage. "I must go back with my sister directly. Myfather's lost his lawsuit--he's lost all his property--and he's veryill. "

Mr. Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a probable moneyloss for himself, but this had no appreciable share in his feeling, while he looked with grave pity at the brother and sister for whomyouth 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, andwho immediately left the room. 

Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to set out, whenMrs. Stelling came with a little basket, which she hung on Maggie'sarm, saying: "Do remember to eat something on the way, dear. " Maggie'sheart went out toward this woman whom she had never liked, and shekissed her silently. It was the first sign within the poor child ofthat new sense which is the gift of sorrow, --that susceptibility tothe bare offices of humanity which raises them into a bond of lovingfellowship, as to haggard men among the ice-bergs the mere presence ofan ordinary comrade stirs the deep fountains of affection. 

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

The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on the distantroad, --were soon lost behind the projecting hedgerow. 

They had gone forth together into their life of sorrow, and they wouldnever more see the sunshine undimmed by remembered cares. They hadentered the thorny wilderness, and the golden gates of their childhoodhad forever closed behind them. 

Book III

_The Downfall_

Chapter I

What Had Happened at Home

When Mr. Tulliver first knew the fact that the law-suit was decidedagainst him, and that Pivart and Wakem were triumphant, every one whohappened to observe him at the time thought that, for so confident andhot-tempered a man, he bore the blow remarkably well. He thought sohimself; he thought he was going to show that if Wakem or anybody elseconsidered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. He couldnot refuse to see that the costs of this protracted suit would takemore than he possessed to pay them; but he appeared to himself to befull of expedients by which he could ward off any results but such aswere tolerable, and could avoid the appearance of breaking down in theworld. All the obstinacy and defiance of his nature, driven out oftheir old channel, found a vent for themselves in the immediateformation of plans by which he would meet his difficulties, and remainMr. Tulliver of Dorlcote Mill in spite of them. There was such a rushof projects in his brain, that it was no wonder his face was flushedwhen he came away from his talk with his attorney, Mr. Gore, andmounted his horse to ride home from Lindum. There was Furley, who heldthe mortgage on the land, --a reasonable fellow, who would see his owninterest, Mr. Tulliver was convinced, and who would be glad not onlyto purchase the whole estate, including the mill and homestead, butwould accept Mr. Tulliver as tenant, and be willing to advance moneyto be repaid with high interest out of the profits of the business, which would be made over to him, Mr. Tulliver only taking enoughbarely to maintain himself and his family. Who would neglect such aprofitable investment? Certainly not Furley, for Mr. Tulliver haddetermined that Furley should meet his plans with the utmost alacrity;and there are men whoses brains have not yet been dangerously heatedby the loss of a lawsuit, who are apt to see in their own interest ordesires a motive for other men's actions. There was no doubt (in themiller's mind) that Furley would do just what was desirable; and if hedid--why, things would not be so very much worse. Mr. Tulliver and hisfamily must live more meagrely and humbly, but it would only be tillthe profits of the business had paid off Furley's advances, and thatmight be while Mr. Tulliver had still a good many years of life beforehim. It was clear that the costs of the suit could be paid without hisbeing obliged to turn out of his old place, and look like a ruinedman. It was certainly an awkward moment in his affairs. There was thatsuretyship for poor Riley, who had died suddenly last April, and lefthis friend saddled with a debt of two hundred and fifty pounds, --afact which had helped to make Mr. Tulliver's banking book lesspleasant reading than a man might desire toward Christmas. Well! hehad never been one of those poor-spirited sneaks who would refuse togive a helping hand to a fellow-traveller in this puzzling world. Thereally vexatious business was the fact that some months ago thecreditor who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay Mrs. Glegghad become uneasy about his money (set on by Wakem, of course), andMr. Tulliver, still confident that he should gain his suit, andfinding it eminently inconvenient to raise the said sum until thatdesirable issue had taken place, had rashly acceded to the demand thathe should give a bill of sale on his household furniture and someother effects, as security in lieu of the bond. It was all one, he hadsaid to himself; he should soon pay off the money, and there was noharm in giving that security any more than another. But now theconsequences of this bill of sale occurred to him in a new light, andhe remembered that the time was close at hand when it would beenforced unless the money were repaid. Two months ago he would havedeclared stoutly that he would never be beholden to his wife'sfriends; but now he told himself as stoutly that it was nothing butright and natural that Bessy should go to the Pullets and explain thething to them; they would hardly let Bessy's furniture be sold, and itmight be security to Pullet if he advanced the money, --there would, after all, be no gift or favor in the matter. Mr. Tulliver would neverhave asked for anything 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 mostliable to shift their position and contradict themselves in thissudden manner; everything is easier to them than to face the simplefact that they have been thoroughly defeated, and must begin lifeanew. And Mr. Tulliver, you perceive, though nothing more than asuperior miller and maltster, was as proud and obstinate as if he hadbeen a very lofty personage, in whom such dispositions might be asource of that conspicuous, far-echoing tragedy, which sweeps thestage in regal robes, and makes the dullest chronicler sublime. Thepride and obstinacy of millers and other insignificant people, whomyou pass unnoticingly on the road every day, have their tragedy too;but it is of that unwept, hidden sort that goes on from generation togeneration, and leaves no record, --such tragedy, perhaps, as lies inthe conflicts of young souls, hungry for joy, under a lot madesuddenly hard to them, under the dreariness of a home where themorning brings no promise with it, and where the unexpectantdiscontent of worn and disappointed parents weighs on the childrenlike a damp, thick air, in which all the functions of life aredepressed; or such tragedy as lies in the slow or sudden death thatfollows on a bruised passion, though it may be a death that finds onlya parish funeral. There are certain animals to which tenacity ofposition is a law of life, --they can never flourish again, after asingle wrench: and there are certain human beings to whom predominanceis a law of life, --they can only sustain humiliation so long as theycan refuse to believe in it, and, in their own conception, predominatestill. 

Mr. Tulliver was still predominating, in his own imagination, as heapproached St. Ogg's, through which he had to pass on his wayhomeward. But what was it that suggested to him, as he saw the Lacehamcoach entering the town, to follow it to the coach-office, and get theclerk there to write a letter, requiring Maggie to come home the verynext day? Mr. Tulliver's own hand shook too much under his excitementfor him to write himself, and he wanted the letter to be given to thecoachman to deliver at Miss Firniss's school in the morning. There wasa craving which he would not account for to himself, to have Maggienear him, without delay, --she must come back by the coach to-morrow. 

To Mrs. Tulliver, when he got home, he would admit no difficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on hearing that the lawsuit waslost, by angry assertions that there was nothing to grieve about. Hesaid nothing to her that night about the bill of sale and theapplication to Mrs. Pullet, for he had kept her in ignorance of thenature of that transaction, and had explained the necessity for takingan inventory of the goods as a matter connected with his will. Thepossession of a wife conspicuously one's inferior in intellect is, like other high privileges, attended with a few inconveniences, and, among the rest, with the occasional necessity for using a littledeception. 

The next day Mr. Tulliver was again on horseback in the afternoon, onhis way to Mr. Gore's office at St. Ogg's. Gore was to have seenFurley 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 clerkfrom Mr. Gore's office, who was bringing a letter to Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Gore had been prevented by a sudden call of business from waiting athis office to see Mr. Tulliver, according to appointment, but would beat his office at eleven to-morrow morning, and meanwhile had sent someimportant information by letter. 

"Oh!" said Mr. Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening it. "Thentell 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 ofa letter was not the affair of an instant to Mr. Tulliver; he took inthe sense of a statement very slowly through the medium of written oreven printed characters; so he had put the letter in his pocket, thinking he would open it in his armchair at home. But by-and-by itoccurred 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 itout of her sight altogether. He stopped his horse, took out theletter, and read it. It was only a short letter; the substance was, that Mr. Gore had ascertained, on secret, but sure authority, thatFurley had been lately much straitened for money, and had parted withhis securities, --among the rest, the mortgage on Mr. Tulliver'sproperty, which he had transferred to----Wakem. 

In half an hour after this Mr. Tulliver's own wagoner found him lyingby the roadside insensible, with an open letter near him, and his grayhorse snuffing uneasily about him. 

When Maggie reached home that evening, in obedience to her father'scall, he was no longer insensible. About an hour before he had becomeconscious, and after vague, vacant looks around him, had mutteredsomething about "a letter, " which he presently repeated impatiently. At the instance of Mr. Turnbull, the medical man, Gore's letter wasbrought and laid on the bed, and the previous impatience seemed to beallayed. The stricken man lay for some time with his eyes fixed on theletter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help. Butpresently a new wave of memory seemed to have come and swept the otheraway; he turned his eyes from the letter to the door, and afterlooking uneasily, as if striving to see something his eyes were toodim for, he said, "The little wench. "

He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, appearingentirely unconscious of everything except this one importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or any one else; and poor Mrs. Tulliver, her feeble faculties almost paralyzed by this suddenaccumulation of troubles, went backward and forward to the gate to seeif 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 hermother 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 angelof the troubled house, and Maggie ran toward the kind old friend, whomshe remembered as long as she could remember anything, with atrembling, 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 hismemory. But he has been asking for you, and it will do him good to seeyou. Keep as quiet as you can; take off your things, and come upstairswith me. "

Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which makesexistence seem simply a painful pulsation. The very quietness withwhich Mr. Turnbull spoke had frightened her susceptible imagination. Her father's eyes were still turned uneasily toward the door when sheentered and met the strange, yearning, helpless look that had beenseeking her in vain. With a sudden flash and movement, he raisedhimself in the bed; she rushed toward him, and clasped him withagonized kisses. 

Poor child! it was very early for her to know one of those suprememoments in life when all we have hoped or delighted in, all we candread or endure, falls away from our regard as insignificant; is lost, like a trivial memory, in that simple, primitive love which knits usto the beings who have been nearest to us, in their times ofhelplessness or of anguish. 

But that flash of recognition had been too great a strain on thefather's bruised, enfeebled powers. He sank back again in renewedinsensibility and rigidity, which lasted for many hours, and was onlybroken by a flickering return of consciousness, in which he tookpassively everything that was given to him, and seemed to have a sortof infantine satisfaction in Maggie's near presence, --suchsatisfaction as a baby has when it is returned to the nurse's lap. 

Mrs. Tulliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wailing andlifting up of hands below stairs. Both uncles and aunts saw that theruin of Bessy and her family was as complete as they had everforeboded it, and there was a general family sense that a judgment hadfallen on Mr. Tulliver, which it would be an impiety to counteract bytoo much kindness. But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely everleaving her father's bedside, where she sat opposite him with her handon his. Mrs. Tulliver wanted to have Tom fetched home, and seemed tobe thinking more of her boy even than of her husband; but the auntsand uncles opposed this. Tom was better at school, since Mr. Turnbullsaid there was no immediate danger, he believed. But at the end of thesecond day, when Maggie had become more accustomed to her father'sfits of insensibility, and to the expectation that he would revivefrom them, the thought of Tom had become urgent with _her_ too; andwhen her mother sate crying at night and saying, "My poor lad--it'snothing but right he should come home, " Maggie said, "Let me go forhim, and tell him, mother; I'll go to-morrow morning if father doesn'tknow me and want me. It would be so hard for Tom to come home and notknow anything about it beforehand. "

And the next morning Maggie went, as we have seen. Sitting on thecoach on their way home, the brother and sister talked to each otherin sad, interrupted whispers. 

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

"I believe that scoundrel's been planning all along to ruin myfather, " said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions to a definiteconclusion. "I'll make him feel for it when I'm a man. Mind you neverspeak to Philip again. "

"Oh, Tom!" said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance; but she had nospirit to dispute anything then, still less to vex Tom by opposinghim. 

Chapter II

Mrs. Tulliver's Teraphim, or Household Gods

When the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five hours since shehad started from home, and she was thinking with some trembling thather father had perhaps missed her, and asked for "the little wench" invain. She thought of no other change that might have happened. 

She hurried along the gravel-walk and entered the house before Tom;but in the entrance she was startled by a strong smell of tobacco. Theparlor door was ajar; that was where the smell came from. It was verystrange; could any visitor be smoking at a time like this? Was hermother there? If so, she must be told that Tom was come. Maggie, afterthis pause of surprise, was only in the act of opening the door whenTom came up, and they both looked into the parlor together. 

There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose face Tom had some vaguerecollection, sitting in his father's chair, smoking, with a jug andglass beside him. 

The truth flashed on Tom's mind in an instant. To "have the bailiff inthe house, " and "to be sold up, " were phrases which he had been usedto, 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 intothe condition of poor working people. It seemed only natural thisshould happen, since his father had lost all his property, and hethought of no more special cause for this particular form ofmisfortune than the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate presence ofthis disgrace was so much keener an experience to Tom than the worstform of apprehension, that he felt at this moment as if his realtrouble had only just begin; it was a touch on the irritated nervecompared 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 madehim a little uncomfortable. 

But Tom turned away hastily without speaking; the sight was toohateful. Maggie had not understood the appearance of this stranger, asTom had. She followed him, whispering: "Who can it be, Tom? What isthe matter?" Then, with a sudden undefined dread lest this strangermight have something to do with a change in her father, she rushedupstairs, checking herself at the bedroom door to throw off herbonnet, and enter on tiptoe. All was silent there; her father waslying, heedless of everything around him, with his eyes closed as whenshe 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 usgo and look for my mother. I wonder where she is. "

Mrs. Tulliver was not downstairs, not in any of the bedrooms. Therewas but one room below the attic which Maggie had left unsearched; itwas the storeroom, where her mother kept all her linen and all theprecious "best things" that were only unwrapped and brought out onspecial occasions. 

Tom, preceding Maggie, as they returned along the passage, opened thedoor of this room, and immediately said, "Mother!"

Mrs. Tulliver was seated there with all her laid-up treasures. One ofthe linen chests was open; the silver teapot was unwrapped from itsmany folds of paper, and the best china was laid out on the top of theclosed linen-chest; spoons and skewers and ladles were spread in rowson the shelves; and the poor woman was shaking her head and weeping, with a bitter tension of the mouth, over the mark, "Elizabeth Dodson, "on the corner of some tablecloths she held in her lap. 

She dropped them, and started up as Tom spoke. 

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she said, clasping him round the neck. "To thinkas I should live to see this day! We're ruined--everything's going tobe sold up--to think as your father should ha' married me to bring meto this! We've got nothing--we shall be beggars--we must go to theworkhouse----"

She kissed him, then seated herself again, and took another tableclothon her lap, unfolding it a little way to look at the pattern, whilethe children stood by in mute wretchedness, their minds quite filledfor the moment with the words "beggars" and "workhouse. "

"To think o' these cloths as I spun myself, " she went on, liftingthings out and turning them over with an excitement all the morestrange and piteous because the stout blond woman was usually sopassive, --if she had been ruffled before, it was at the surfacemerely, --"and Job Haxey wove 'em, and brought the piece home on hisback, as I remember standing at the door and seeing him come, before Iever thought o' marrying your father! And the pattern as I chosemyself, and bleached so beautiful, and I marked 'em so as nobody eversaw such marking, --they must cut the cloth to get it out, for it's aparticular stitch. And they're all to be sold, and go into strangepeople's houses, and perhaps be cut with the knives, and wore outbefore I'm dead. You'll never have one of 'em, my boy, " she said, looking up at Tom with her eyes full of tears, "and I meant 'em foryou. I wanted you to have all o' this pattern. Maggie could have hadthe large check--it never shows so well when the dishes are on it. "

Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry reactionimmediately. 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 you sent to them?"

"Yes, I sent Luke directly they'd put the bailies in, and your auntPullet's been--and, oh dear, oh dear, she cries so and says yourfather's disgraced my family and made it the talk o' the country; andshe'll buy the spotted cloths for herself, because she's never had somany as she wanted o' that pattern, and they sha'n't go to strangers, but she's got more checks a'ready nor she can do with. " (Here Mrs. Tulliver began to lay back the tablecloths in the chest, folding andstroking them automatically. ) "And your uncle Glegg's been too, and hesays things must be bought in for us to lie down on, but he must talkto your aunt; and they're all coming to consult. But I know they'llnone of 'em take my chany, " she added, turning toward the cups andsaucers, "for they all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'causeo' the small gold sprig all over 'em, between the flowers. But there'snone of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt Pullet herself; and Ibought it wi' my own money as I'd saved ever since I was turnedfifteen; 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 herhandkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but then removing it, she saidin a deprecating way, still half sobbing, as if she were called uponto speak before she could command her voice, --

"And I _did_ say to him times and times, 'Whativer you do, don't go tolaw, ' and what more could I do? I've had to sit by while my ownfortin'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'sfault. "

She put out one arm toward Tom, looking up at him piteously with herhelpless, 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 fatherwith some reproach. His natural inclination to blame, hitherto keptentirely in abeyance toward his father by the predisposition to thinkhim always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom Tulliver'sfather, was turned into this new channel by his mother's plaints; andwith his indignation against Wakem there began to mingle someindignation of another sort. Perhaps his father might have helpedbringing them all down in the world, and making people talk of themwith contempt, but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver withcontempt. 

The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning toassert itself, urged by the double stimulus of resentment against hisaunts, and the sense that he must behave like a man and take care ofhis mother. 

"Don't fret, mother, " he said tenderly. "I shall soon be able to getmoney; 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 couldha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em. "

Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering anger. The impliedreproaches against her father--her father, who was lying there in asort of living death--neutralized all her pity for griefs abouttablecloths and china; and her anger on her father's account washeightened by some egoistic resentment at Tom's silent concurrencewith her mother in shutting her out from the common calamity. She hadbecome almost indifferent to her mother's habitual depreciation ofher, 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 ofunalloyed devotedness, but put forth large claims for herself whereshe loved strongly. She burst out at last in an agitated, almostviolent tone: "Mother, how can you talk so; as if you cared only forthings with _your_ name on, and not for what has my father's name too;and to care about anything but dear father himself!--when he's lyingthere, 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, andtook her old place on her father's bed. Her heart went out to him witha stronger movement than ever, at the thought that people would blamehim. Maggie hated blame; she had been blamed all her life, and nothinghad come of it but evil tempers. 

Her father had always defended and excused her, and her lovingremembrance of his tenderness was a force within her that would enableher to do or bear anything for his sake. 

Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst, --telling _him_ as wellas his mother what it was right to do! She ought to have learnedbetter than have those hectoring, assuming manners, by this time. Buthe presently went into his father's room, and the sight there touchedhim in a way that effaced the slighter impressions of the previoushour. When Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put herarm round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children forgoteverything else in the sense that they had one father and one sorrow. 

Chapter III

The Family Council

It was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts and unclescame to hold their consultation. The fire was lighted in the largeparlor, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with a confused impression that it wasa great occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels, andunpinned the curtains, adjusting them in proper folds, looking roundand shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of thetables, which sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficientbrightness. 

Mr. Deane was not coming, he was away on business; but Mrs. Deaneappeared punctually in that handsome new gig with the head to it, andthe livery-servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light onseveral 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 theDodson linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinateposition, as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the samekind, purchased in recent years, --a change which had caused anoccasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs. Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting "like the rest, " and therewould soon be little of the true Dodson spirit surviving except inherself, and, it might be hoped, in those nephews who supported theDodson name on the family land, far away in the Wolds. 

People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than thoseimmediately under our own eyes; and it seems superfluous, when weconsider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians, and howvery little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further whyHomer calls them "blameless. "

Mrs. Deane was the first to arrive; and when she had taken her seat inthe large parlor, Mrs. Tulliver came down to her with her comely facea little distorted, nearly as it would have been if she had beencrying. She was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except inmoments when the prospect of losing her furniture became unusuallyvivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm underpresent circumstances. 

"Oh, sister, what a world this is!" she exclaimed as she entered;"what trouble, oh dear!"

Mrs. Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well-consideredspeeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them afterward to herhusband, and asking him if she had not spoken very properly. 

"Yes, sister, " she said deliberately, "this is a changing world, andwe don't know to-day what may happen tomorrow. But it's right to beprepared for all things, and if trouble's sent, to remember as itisn't sent without a cause. I'm very sorry for you as a sister, and ifthe 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 properattendance while he's ill. "

"Thank you, Susan, " said Mrs. Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawingher 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 upstairs--I shall never put jelly into 'em no more. "

Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but thesound 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, ofexpressing 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 tohave had a recent resurrection from rather a creasy form of burial; acostume selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfecthumility into Bessy and her children. 

"Mrs. G. , won't you come nearer the fire?" said her husband, unwillingto take the more comfortable seat without offering it to her. 

"You see I've seated myself here, Mr. Glegg, " returned this superiorwoman; "_you_ can roast yourself, if you like. "

"Well, " said Mr. Glegg, seating himself good-humoredly, "and how's thepoor man upstairs?"

"Dr. Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning, " said Mrs. Tulliver; "he took more notice, and spoke to me; but he's never knownTom yet, --looks at the poor lad as if he was a stranger, though hesaid something once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says hismemory's gone a long way back, and he doesn't know Tom because he'sthinking of him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear!"

"I doubt it's the water got on his brain, " said aunt Pullet, turninground from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at the pier-glass. "It's much if he ever gets up again; and if he does, he'll most likebe childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man! They fed him with a spoon asif he'd been a babby for three year. He'd quite lost the use of hislimbs; but then he'd got a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him; andthat'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 tobe done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the family, and not totalk 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, drawing on hergloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated manner, "ifyou've got anything disrespectful to say o' Mr. Carr, I do beg of youas you won't say it to me. _I_ know what he was, " she added, with asigh; "his breath was short to that degree as you could hear him tworooms 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 Isaid before, I didn't come away from home to talk about acquaintances, whether they'd short breath or long. If we aren't come together forone to hear what the other 'ull do to save a sister and her childrenfrom the parish, _I_ shall go back. _One_ can't act without the other, I suppose; it isn't to be expected as _I_ should do everything. "

"Well, Jane, " said Mrs. Pullet, "I don't see as you've been so veryforrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the first time as hereyou've been, since it's been known as the bailiff's in the house; andI was here yesterday, and looked at all Bessy's linen and things, andI told her I'd buy in the spotted tablecloths. I couldn't speakfairer; for as for the teapot as she doesn't want to go out o' thefamily, it stands to sense I can't do with two silver teapots, not ifit _hadn't_ a straight spout, but the spotted damask I was allays fondon. "

"I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany and the bestcastors 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' thefamily chooses to buy 'em in, they can, but one thing must be bid foras well as another. "

"And it isn't to be looked for, " said uncle Pullet, with unwontedindependence of idea, "as your own family should pay more for thingsnor they'll fetch. They may go for an old song by auction. "

"Oh dear, oh dear, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "to think o' my chany beingsold i' that way, and I bought it when I was married, just as you didyours, Jane and Sophy; and I know you didn't like mine, because o' thesprig, but I was fond of it; and there's never been a bit broke, forI've washed it myself; and there's the tulips on the cups, and theroses, as anybody might go and look at 'em for pleasure. You wouldn'tlike _your_ chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, thoughyours has got no color in it, Jane, --it's all white and fluted, anddidn't cost so much as mine. And there's the castors, sister Deane, Ican't think but you'd like to have the castors, for I've heard you saythey'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 gatheredintensity from her long silence. "It drives me past patience to hearyou all talking o' best things, and buying in this, that, and theother, such as silver and chany. You must bring your mind to yourcircumstances, Bessy, and not be thinking o' silver and chany; butwhether you shall get so much as a flock-bed to lie on, and a blanketto 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'redependent upon _them_ for everything; for your husband lies therehelpless, and hasn't got a penny i' the world to call his own. Andit's for your own good I say this, for it's right you should feel whatyour state is, and what disgrace your husband's brought on your ownfamily, as you've got to look to for everything, and be humble in yourmind. "

Mrs. Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for the good ofothers is naturally exhausting. 

Mrs. Tulliver, always borne down by the family predominance of sisterJane, who had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister in verytender years, said pleadingly:

"I'm sure, sister, I've never asked anybody to do anything, only buythings as it 'ud be a pleasure to 'em to have, so as they mightn't goand be spoiled i' strange houses. I never asked anybody to buy thethings in for me and my children; though there's the linen I spun, andI thought when Tom was born, --I thought one o' the first things whenhe was lying i' the cradle, as all the things I'd bought wi' my ownmoney, and been so careful of, 'ud go to him. But I've said nothing asI wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my husband hasdone for _his_ sister's unknown, and we should ha' been better offthis day if it hadn't been as he's lent money and never asked for itagain. "

"Come, come, " said Mr. Glegg, kindly, "don't let us make things toodark. What's done can't be undone. We shall make a shift among us tobuy what's sufficient for you; though, as Mrs. G. Says, they must beuseful, plain things. We mustn't be thinking o' what's unnecessary. Atable, and a chair or two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, andsuch-like. Why, I've seen the day when I shouldn't ha' known myself ifI'd lain on sacking i'stead o' the floor. We get a deal o' uselessthings 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 tobuy anything for you; let me tell you, you _ought_ to have asked us. Pray, how are you to be purvided for, if your own family don't helpyou? You must go to the parish, if they didn't. And you ought to knowthat, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we can foryou, i'stead o' saying, and making a boast, as you've never asked usfor anything. "

"You talked o' the Mosses, and what Mr. Tulliver's done for 'em, " saiduncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive where advances of moneywere concerned. "Haven't _they_ been anear you? They ought to dosomething as well as other folks; and if he's lent 'em money, theyought to be made to pay it back. "

"Yes, to be sure, " said Mrs. Deane; "I've been thinking so. How is itMr. And Mrs. Moss aren't here to meet us? It is but right they shoulddo 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, theyniver hear anything only when Mr. Moss comes to market. But I nivergave 'em a thought. I wonder Maggie didn't, though, for she was allaysso fond of her aunt Moss. "

"Why don't your children come in, Bessy?" said Mrs. Pullet, at themention of Maggie. "They should hear what their aunts and uncles havegot to say; and Maggie, --when it's me as have paid for half herschooling, she ought to think more of her aunt Pullet than of auntMoss. 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 inthe room from the first. It's time they knew who they've to look to, and it's right as _somebody_ should talk to 'em, and let 'em knowtheir condition i' life, and what they're come down to, and make 'emfeel as they've got to suffer for their father's faults. "

"Well, I'll go and fetch 'em, sister, " said Mrs. Tulliver, resignedly. She was quite crushed now, and thought of the treasures in thestoreroom with no other feeling than blank despair. 

She went upstairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both in theirfather's room, and was on her way down again, when the sight of thestoreroom door suggested a new thought to her. She went toward it, andleft the children to go down by themselves. 

The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussion when thebrother and sister entered, --both with shrinking reluctance; forthough Tom, with a practical sagacity which had been roused intoactivity by the strong stimulus of the new emotions he had undergonesince yesterday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which hemeant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no meansamicably toward them, and dreaded meeting them all at once as he wouldhave dreaded a large dose of concentrated physic, which was but justendurable in small draughts. As for Maggie, she was peculiarlydepressed this morning; she had been called up, after brief rest, atthree o'clock, and had that strange dreamy weariness which comes fromwatching in a sick-room through the chill hours of early twilight andbreaking day, --in which the outside day-light life seems to have noimportance, and to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkenedchamber. Their entrance interrupted the conversation. The shaking ofhands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle Pulletobserved, as Tom approached him:

"Well, young sir, we've been talking as we should want your pen andink; you can write rarely now, after all your schooling, I shouldthink. "

"Ay, ay, " said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind, "we must look to see the good of all this schooling, as your father'ssunk so much money in, now, --

 'When land is gone and money's spent, Then learning is most excellent. '

Now's the time, Tom, to let us see the good o' your learning. Let ussee whether you can do better than I can, as have made my fortinwithout it. But I began wi' doing with little, you see; I could liveon a basin o' porridge and a crust o' bread-and-cheese. But I doubthigh 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, "whetherit's hard or no. He hasn't got to consider what's hard; he mustconsider as he isn't to trusten to his friends to keep him in idlenessand luxury; he's got to bear the fruits of his father's misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must behumble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what they're doing forhis mother and father, as must be turned out into the streets and goto the workhouse if they didn't help 'em. And his sister, too, "continued Mrs. Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down onthe sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the sense that she wasLucy's mother, "she must make up her mind to be humble and work; forthere'll be no servants to wait on her any more, --she must rememberthat. She must do the work o' the house, and she must respect and loveher aunts as have done so much for her, and saved their money to leaveto 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 fromlooking humbled, but he was preparing to say, in a respectful tone, something he had previously meditated, when the door opened and hismother re-entered. 

Poor Mrs. Tulliver had in her hands a small tray, on which she hadplaced her silver teapot, a specimen teacup and saucer, the castors, and sugar-tongs. 

"See here, sister, " she said, looking at Mrs. Deane, as she set thetray on the table, "I thought, perhaps, if you looked at the teapotagain, --it's a good while since you saw it, --you might like thepattern better; it makes beautiful tea, and there's a stand andeverything; you might use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucywhen she goes to housekeeping. I should be so loath for 'em to buy itat the Golden Lion, " said the poor woman, her heart swelling, and thetears coming, --"my teapot as I bought when I was married, and to thinkof its being scratched, and set before the travellers and folks, andmy letters on it, --see here, E. D. , --and everybody to see 'em. "

"Ah, dear, dear!" said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with deepsadness, "it's very bad, --to think o' the family initials going abouteverywhere--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 linenand spoons and everything to go, and some of 'em with your fullname, --and when it's got that straight spout, too. "

"As to disgrace o' the family, " said Mrs. Glegg, "that can't be helpedwi' buying teapots. The disgrace is, for one o' the family to ha'married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is, asthey'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, butTom saw her action and flushed face in time to prevent her fromspeaking. "Be quiet, Maggie, " he said authoritatively, pushing heraside. It was a remarkable manifestation of self-command and practicaljudgment in a lad of fifteen, that when his aunt Glegg ceased, hebegan to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though with a gooddeal of trembling in his voice; for his mother's words had cut him tothe quick. 

"Then, aunt, " he said, looking straight at Mrs. Glegg, "if you thinkit's a disgrace to the family that we should be sold up, wouldn't itbe better to prevent it altogether? And if you and aunt Pullet, " hecontinued, looking at the latter, "think of leaving any money to meand Maggie, wouldn't it be better to give it now, and pay the debtwe're going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting withher furniture?"

There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including Maggie, was astonished at Tom's sudden manliness of tone. Uncle Glegg was thefirst to speak. 

"Ay, ay, young man, come now! You show some notion o' things. Butthere's the interest, you must remember; your aunts get five per centon their money, and they'd lose that if they advanced it; you haven'tthought o' that. "

"I could work and pay that every year, " said Tom, promptly. "I'd doanything to save my mother from parting with her things. "

"Well done!" said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been drawing Tomout, rather than reflecting on the practicability of his proposal. Buthe had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife. "

"Yes, Mr. Glegg!" said that lady, with angry sarcasm. "It's pleasantwork for you to be giving my money away, as you've pretended to leaveat my own disposal. And my money, as was my own father's gift, and notyours, Mr. Glegg; and I've saved it, and added to it myself, and hadmore to put out almost every year, and it's to go and be sunk in otherfolks' furniture, and encourage 'em in luxury and extravagance asthey've no means of supporting; and I'm to alter my will, or have acodicil made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me when Idie, --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 hadthe same chance as me, only they've been wicked and wasteful. SisterPullet, _you_ may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob youback again o' the money he's given you, but that isn't _my_ sperrit. "

"La, Jane, how fiery you are!" said Mrs. Pullet. "I'm sure you'll havethe blood in your head, and have to be cupped. I'm sorry for Bessy andher children, --I'm sure I think of 'em o' nights dreadful, for I sleepvery bad wi' this new medicine, --but it's no use for me to think o'doing anything, if you won't meet me half-way. "

"Why, there's this to be considered, " said Mr. Glegg. "It's no use topay off this debt and save the furniture, when there's all the lawdebts behind, as 'ud take every shilling, and more than could be madeout o' land and stock, for I've made that out from Lawyer Gore. We'dneed save our money to keep the poor man with, instead o' spending iton 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, loudemphasis, bending her head toward him significantly. 

Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and his lipquivered; but he was determined not to give way. He would behave likea man. Maggie, on the contrary, after her momentary delight in Tom'sspeech, had relapsed into her state of trembling indignation. Hermother had been standing close by Tom's side, and had been clinging tohis arm ever since he had last spoken; Maggie suddenly started up andstood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a younglioness. 

"Why do you come, then, " she burst out, "talking and interfering withus and scolding us, if you don't mean to do anything to help my poormother--your own sister, --if you've no feeling for her when she's introuble, and won't part with anything, though you would never miss it, to save her from pain? Keep away from us then, and don't come to findfault with my father, --he was better than any of you; he was kind, --hewould have helped _you_, if you had been in trouble. Tom and I don'tever want to have any of your money, if you won't help my mother. We'drather 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 wereready to await all consequences. 

Mrs. Tulliver was frightened; there was something portentous in thismad outbreak; she did not see how life could go on after it. Tom wasvexed; it was no _use_ to talk so. The aunts were silent with surprisefor 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, Bessy, " saidMrs. Pullet; "she's beyond everything for boldness and unthankfulness. It's dreadful. I might ha' let alone paying for her schooling, forshe's worse nor ever. "

"It's no more than what I've allays said, " followed Mrs. Glegg. "Otherfolks may be surprised, but I'm not. I've said over and overagain, --years ago I've said, --'Mark my words; that child 'ull come tono good; there isn't a bit of our family in her. ' And as for herhaving so much schooling, I never thought well o' that. I'd my reasonswhen I said _I_ wouldn't pay anything toward it. "

"Come, come, " said Mr. Glegg, "let's waste no more time intalking, --let's go to business. Tom, now, get the pen and ink----"

While Mr. Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen hurryingpast the window. 

"Why, there's Mrs. Moss, " said Mrs. Tulliver. "The bad news must ha'reached her, then"; and she went out to open the door, Maggie eagerlyfollowing 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 whenit's her own brother. "

Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tulliver'smovement, as she drew her into the parlor automatically, withoutreflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among so many personsin the first painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, dark-hairedwoman was a strong contrast to the Dodson sisters as she entered inher shabby dress, with her shawl and bonnet looking as if they hadbeen hastily huddled on, and with that entire absence ofself-consciousness which belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie wasclinging to her arm; and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else exceptTom, whom she went straight up to and took by the hand. 

"Oh, my dear children, " she burst out, "you've no call to think wello' me; I'm a poor aunt to you, for I'm one o' them as take all andgive nothing. How's my poor brother?"

"Mr. Turnbull thinks he'll get better, " said Maggie. "Sit down, auntGritty. Don't fret. "

"Oh, my sweet child, I feel torn i' two, " said Mrs. Moss, allowingMaggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming to notice thepresence of the rest. "We've three hundred pounds o' my brother'smoney, and now he wants it, and you all want it, poor things!--and yetwe 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 Iwas a robber. But I'm sure I'd no thought as my brother----"

The poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob. 

"Three hundred pounds! oh dear, dear, " said Mrs. Tulliver, who, whenshe had said that her husband had done "unknown" things for hissister, had not had any particular sum in her mind, and felt a wife'sirritation at having been kept in the dark. 

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

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

"Yes, there _was_ security; my husband gave a note for it. We're notthat 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 bitbetter. "

"Well, but now, " said Mr. Glegg, gently, "hasn't your husband no wayo' raising this money? Because it 'ud be a little fortin, like, forthese 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. "

"Oh, sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband's had with hisstock. The farm's suffering so as never was for want o' stock; andwe've sold all the wheat, and we're behind with our rent, --not butwhat we'd like to do what's right, and I'd sit up and work half thenight, if it 'ud be any good; but there's them poor children, --four of'em such little uns----"

"Don't cry so, aunt; don't fret, " whispered Maggie, who had kept holdof Mrs. Moss's hand. 

"Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once?" said Mrs. Tulliver, still lost in the conception of things which had been "goingon" without her knowledge. 

"No; at twice, " said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes and making an effortto restrain her tears. "The last was after my bad illness four yearsago, as everything went wrong, and there was a new note made then. What with illness and bad luck, I've been nothing but cumber all mylife. "

"Yes, Mrs. Moss, " said Mrs. Glegg, with decision, "yours is a veryunlucky family; the more's the pity for _my_ sister. "

"I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o' what had happened, "said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. "I should never ha' stayedaway all this while, if you'd thought well to let me know. And itisn't as I'm thinking all about ourselves, and nothing about mybrother, only the money was so on my mind, I couldn't help speakingabout it. And my husband and me desire to do the right thing, sir, "she added, looking at Mr. Glegg, "and we'll make shift and pay themoney, 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 onlythe thought o' my poor children pulls me i' two. "

"Why, there's this to be thought on, Mrs. Moss, " said Mr. Glegg, "andit's right to warn you, --if Tulliver's made a bankrupt, and he's got anote-of-hand of your husband's for three hundred pounds, you'll beobliged to pay it; th' assignees 'ull come on you for it. "

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the bankruptcy, and not of Mrs. Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs. Moss herself listenedin trembling submission, while Maggie looked with bewildered distressat Tom to see if _he_ showed any signs of understanding this trouble, and caring about poor aunt Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful, withhis eyes on the tablecloth. 

"And if he isn't made bankrupt, " continued Mr. Glegg, "as I saidbefore, three hundred pounds 'ud be a little fortin for him, poor man. We don't know but what he may be partly helpless, if he ever gets upagain. I'm very sorry if it goes hard with you, Mrs. Moss, but myopinion is, looking at it one way, it'll be right for you to raise themoney; 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 thetablecloth, "I don't think it would be right for my aunt Moss to paythe 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: "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 hiswill?"

"Why, " said Tom, coloring, but trying to speak firmly, in spite of aboyish 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 thefire 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 alwaysbeen good to my sister, though she married against my will, and I'velent Moss money; but I shall never think of distressing him to pay it;I'd rather lose it. My children must not mind being the poorer forthat. ' And now my father's ill, and not able to speak for himself, Ishouldn't like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me. "

"Well, but then, my boy, " said Uncle Glegg, whose good feeling led himto enter into Tom's wish, but who could not at once shake off hishabitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities, oralienating anything important enough to make an appreciable differencein a man's property, "we should have to make away wi' the note, youknow, if we're to guard against what may happen, supposing yourfather'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 youspeak rash, don't say it was my fault. "

"That's such a thing as I never heared of before, " said uncle Pullet, who had been making haste with his lozenge in order to express hisamazement, --"making away with a note! I should think anybody could setthe constable on you for it. "

"Well, but, " said Mrs. Tulliver, "if the note's worth all that money, why can't we pay it away, and save my things from going away? We've nocall to meddle with your uncle and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think yourfather 'ud be angry when he gets well. "

Mrs. Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange, and wasstraining her mind after original ideas on the subject. 

"Pooh, pooh, pooh! you women don't understand these things, " saiduncle Glegg. "There's no way o' making it safe for Mr. And Mrs. Mossbut destroying the note. "

"Then I hope you'll help me do it, uncle, " said Tom, earnestly. "If myfather shouldn't get well, I should be very unhappy to think anythinghad been done against his will that I could hinder. And I'm sure hemeant me to remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey myfather's wish about his property. "

Even Mrs. Glegg could not withhold her approval from Tom's words; shefelt that the Dodson blood was certainly speaking in him, though, ifhis father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wickedalienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself fromleaping on Tom's neck, if her aunt Moss had not prevented her byherself rising and taking Tom's hand, while she said, with rather achoked voice:

"You'll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there's a Godabove; and if the money's wanted for your father, Moss and me 'ull payit, the same as if there was ever such security. We'll do as we'd bedone by; for if my children have got no other luck, they've got anhonest father and mother. "

"Well, " said Mr. Glegg, who had been meditating after Tom's words, "weshouldn't be doing any wrong by the creditors, supposing your father_was_ bankrupt. I've been thinking o' that, for I've been a creditormyself, and seen no end o' cheating. If he meant to give your aunt themoney before ever he got into this sad work o' lawing, it's the sameas if he'd made away with the note himself; for he'd made up his mindto be that much poorer. But there's a deal o' things to be considered, young man, " Mr. Glegg added, looking admonishingly at Tom, "when youcome to money business, and you may be taking one man's dinner away tomake another man's breakfast. You don't understand that, I doubt?"

"Yes, I do, " said Tom, decidedly. "I know if I owe money to one man, I've no right to give it to another. But if my father had made up hismind to give my aunt the money before he was in debt, he had a rightto do it. "

"Well done, young man! I didn't think you'd been so sharp, " said uncleGlegg, with much candor. "But perhaps your father _did_ make away withthe note. Let us go and see if we can find it in the chest. "

"It's in my father's room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty, " whisperedMaggie. 

Chapter IV

A Vanishing Gleam

Mr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which hadrecurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from hishorse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits andentrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. Hehad lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggietold her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any noticeof them. 

They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the headof the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put herhand on her father's without causing any change in his face. 

Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busyselecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom hadbrought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening thechest, --which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver's bed, --andpropping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise. 

"There's a tin box, " whispered Mr. Glegg; "he'd most like put a smallthing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I'll just lift upthese deeds, --they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose, --andsee what there is under 'em. "

Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawnback a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fellwith a loud bang that resounded over the house. 

Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact ofthe strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on theframe of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off theobstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and hisfather's father, and it had always been rather a solemn business tovisit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or aparticular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognizedvoice to us, --a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has beenused to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyesin the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at thechest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tinbox, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition. 

"What are you going to do with those deeds?" he said, in his ordinarytone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. "Come here, Tom. What do you do, going to my chest?"

Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father hadrecognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his fathercontinued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr. Glegg and the deeds. 

"What's been happening, then?" he said sharply. "What are you meddlingwith my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don't youtell me what you've been a-doing?" he added impatiently, as Mr. Gleggadvanced to the foot of the bed before speaking. 

"No, no, friend Tulliver, " said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone. "Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look andsee what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had tolook after things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough toattend to everything yourself. "

Mr. Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr. Glegg, andat Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated byhis side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw hissister. 

"Eh, Gritty!" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which hehad been wont to speak to her. "What! you're there, are you? How couldyou manage to leave the children?"

"Oh, brother!" said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, "I'mthankful I'm come now to see you yourself again; I thought you'd neverknow us any more. "

"What! have I had a stroke?" said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, looking atMr. Glegg. 

"A fall from your horse--shook you a bit, --that's all, I think, " saidMr. Glegg. "But you'll soon get over it, let's hope. "

Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silentfor two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He lookedup 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 ifher father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning toshow him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled. 

"Where's your mother?" he said, so preoccupied that he received thekiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it. 

"She's downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?"

"Ay, ay; poor Bessy!" and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie leftthe room. 

"You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, Tom. You'llbe badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. Andmind, --there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business, --hegave me a bit at a time, and he's got nothing to show for it. You mustpay him first thing. "

Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concernedthan ever, but Tom said firmly:

"Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for threehundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be doneabout it, father?"

"Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad, " said Mr. Tulliver. "Iallays meant to be easy about that money, because o' your aunt. Youmustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it, --and it's likeenough they can't. The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to begood to you, Gritty, " said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; "butyou know you aggravated me when you would have Moss. "

At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in muchagitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again. 

"Well, Bessy, " he said, as she kissed him, "you must forgive me ifyou're worse off than you ever expected to be. But it's the fault o'the law, --it's none o' mine, " he added angrily. "It's the fault o'raskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you've got the chance, you makeWakem smart. If you don't, you're a good-for-nothing son. You mighthorse-whip him, but he'd set the law on you, --the law's made to takecare o' raskills. "

Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on hisface. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was preventedby Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. "They'll make a shift topay everything, Bessy, " he said, "and yet leave you your furniture;and your sisters'll do something for you--and Tom'll grow up--thoughwhat he's to be I don't know--I've done what I could--I've given him aeddication--and there's the little wench, she'll get married--but it'sa poor tale----"

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and withthe last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Thoughthis was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck allpresent as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with thecompleteness of the revival, but because his words had all hadreference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poorTulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent underthickening shadows. 

Mr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he saidthis complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign, proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimaterecovery. 

Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit upprominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half hishumiliation unlearned. 

But Tom was clear upon two points, --that his uncle Moss's note must bedestroyed; and that Luke's money must be paid, if in no other way, outof his own and Maggie's money now in the savings bank. There weresubjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on theniceties of classical construction, or the relations of a mathematicaldemonstration. 

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 seehis 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 personto ask for advice about getting some employment. He was in a great wayof business; he had not the narrow notions of uncle Glegg; and he hadrisen in the world on a scale of advancement which accorded with Tom'sambition. 

It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain, --one ofthose mornings when even happy people take refuge in their hopes. AndTom was very unhappy; he felt the humiliation as well as theprospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proudnature; and with all his resolute dutifulness toward his father theremingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortunethe less endurable aspect of a wrong. Since these were theconsequences of going to law, his father was really blamable, as hisaunts and uncles had always said he was; and it was a significantindication of Tom's character, that though he thought his aunts oughtto do something more for his mother, he felt nothing like Maggie'sviolent resentment against them for showing no eager tenderness andgenerosity. There were no impulses in Tom that led him to expect whatdid not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why shouldpeople give away their money plentifully to those who had not takencare of their own money? Tom saw some justice in severity; and all themore, because he had confidence in himself that he should neverdeserve that just severity. It was very hard upon him that he shouldbe put at this disadvantage in life by his father's want of prudence;but he was not going to complain and to find fault with people becausethey did not make everything easy for him. He would ask no one to helphim, more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom was notwithout his hopes to take refuge in under the chill damp imprisonmentof the December fog, which seemed only like a part of his hometroubles. At sixteen, the mind that has the strongest affinity forfact cannot escape illusion and self-flattery; and Tom, in sketchinghis future, had no other guide in arranging his facts than thesuggestions 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 moneyslowly and retire on a moderate fortune like his uncle Glegg, but hewould be like his uncle Deane--get a situation in some great house ofbusiness and rise fast. He had scarcely seen anything of his uncleDeane for the last three years--the two families had been gettingwider apart; but for this very reason Tom was the more hopeful aboutapplying to him. His uncle Glegg, he felt sure, would never encourageany spirited project, but he had a vague imposing idea of theresources at his uncle Deane's command. He had heard his father say, long ago, how Deane had made himself so valuable to Guest & Co. Thatthey were glad enough to offer him a share in the business; that waswhat Tom resolved _he_ would do. It was intolerable to think of beingpoor and looked down upon all one's life. He would provide for hismother and sister, and make every one say that he was a man of highcharacter. He leaped over the years in this way, and, in the haste ofstrong purpose and strong desire, did not see how they would be madeup of slow days, hours, and minutes. 

By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the Floss and wasentering St. Ogg's, he was thinking that he would buy his father'smill and land again when he was rich enough, and improve the house andlive there; he should prefer it to any smarter, newer place, and hecould keep as many horses and dogs as he liked. 

Walking along the street with a firm, rapid step, at this point in hisreverie he was startled by some one who had crossed without hisnotice, and who said to him in a rough, familiar voice:

"Why, Master Tom, how's your father this morning?" It was a publicanof St. Ogg's, one of his father's customers. 

Tom disliked being spoken to just then; but he said civilly, "He'sstill very ill, thank you. "

"Ay, it's been a sore chance for you, young man, hasn't it, --thislawsuit 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 ofa bruise, even if there had been the most polite and delicatereference to his position. 

"That's Tulliver's son, " said the publican to a grocer standing on theadjacent door-step. 

"Ah!" said the grocer, "I thought I knew his features. He takes afterhis mother's family; she was a Dodson. 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 finegentleman, --not much else, I think. "

Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thorough consciousnessof the present, made all the greater haste to reach the warehouseoffices of Guest & Co. , where he expected to find his uncle Deane. Butthis was Mr. Deane's morning at the band, a clerk told him, and withsome contempt for his ignorance; Mr. Deane was not to be found inRiver Street on a Thursday morning. 

At the bank Tom was admitted into the private room where his unclewas, immediately after sending in his name. Mr. Deane was auditingaccounts; but he looked up as Tom entered, and putting out his hand, said, "Well, Tom, nothing fresh the matter at home, I hope? How's yourfather?"

"Much the same, thank you, uncle, " said Tom, feeling nervous. "But Iwant to speak to you, please, when you're at liberty. "

"Sit down, sit down, " said Mr. Deane, relapsing into his accounts, inwhich he and the managing-clerk remained so absorbed for the nexthalf-hour that Tom began to wonder whether he should have to sit inthis way till the bank closed, --there seemed so little tendency towarda conclusion in the quiet, monotonous procedure of these sleek, prosperous men of business. Would his uncle give him a place in thebank? It would be very dull, prosy work, he thought, writing thereforever to the loud ticking of a timepiece. He preferred some otherway of getting rich. But at last there was a change; his uncle took apen and wrote something with a flourish at the end. 

"You'll just step up to Torry's now, Mr. Spence, will you?" said Mr. Deane, and the clock suddenly became less loud and deliberate in Tom'sears. 

"Well, Tom, " said Mr. Deane, when they were alone, turning hissubstantial person a little in his chair, and taking out hissnuff-box; "what's the business, my boy; what's the business?" Mr. Deane, who had heard from his wife what had passed the day before, thought Tom was come to appeal to him for some means of averting thesale. 

"I hope you'll excuse me for troubling you, uncle, " said Tom, coloring, but speaking in a tone which, though, tremulous, had acertain proud independence in it; "but I thought you were the bestperson to advise me what to do. "

"Ah!" said Mr. Deane, reserving his pinch of snuff, and looking at Tomwith 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 withelaborate justice to each nostril. Tom thought snuff-taking a mostprovoking habit. 

"Why, let me see, how old are you?" said Mr. Deane, as he threwhimself backward again. 

"Sixteen; I mean, I am going in seventeen, " said Tom, hoping his unclenoticed how much beard he had. 

"Let me see; your father had some notion of making you an engineer, Ithink?"

"But I don't think I could get any money at that for a long while, could I?"

"That's true; but people don't get much money at anything, 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? Youunderstand 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, " addedTom, 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 theworld'll not get you a better place than a copying-clerk's, if youknow nothing of book-keeping, --nothing of accounts. And acopying-clerk's a cheap article. But what have you been learning atschool, then?"

Mr. Deane had not occupied himself with methods of education, and hadno precise conception of what went forward in expensive schools. 

"We learned Latin, " said Tom, pausing a little between each item, asif he were turning over the books in his school-desk to assist hismemory, --"a good deal of Latin; and the last year I did Themes, oneweek in Latin and one in English; and Greek and Roman history; andEuclid; and I began Algebra, but I left it off again; and we had oneday every week for Arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing-lessons;and there were several other books we either read or learned outof, --English Poetry, and Horae Pauline and Blair's Rhetoric, the lasthalf. "

Mr. Deane tapped his snuff-box again and screwed up his mouth; he feltin the position of many estimable persons when they had read the NewTariff, and found how many commodities were imported of which theyknew nothing; like a cautious man of business, he was not going tospeak rashly of a raw material in which he had had no experience. Butthe presumption was, that if it had been good for anything, sosuccessful a man as himself would hardly have been ignorant of it. 

About Latin he had an opinion, and thought that in case of anotherwar, since people would no longer wear hair-powder, it would be wellto put a tax upon Latin, as a luxury much run upon by the higherclasses, and not telling at all on the ship-owning department. But, for what he knew, the Hore Pauline might be something less neutral. Onthe whole, this list of acquirements gave him a sort of repulsiontoward poor Tom. 

"Well, " he said at last, in rather a cold, sardonic tone, "you've hadthree years at these things, --you must be pretty strong in 'em. Hadn'tyou better take up some line where they'll come in handy?"

Tom colored, and burst out, with new energy:

"I'd rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. I don't likeLatin and those things. I don't know what I could do with them unlessI went as usher in a school; and I don't know them well enough forthat! besides, I would as soon carry a pair of panniers. I don't wantto be that sort of person. I should like to enter into some businesswhere I can get on, --a manly business, where I should have to lookafter things, and get credit for what I did. And I shall want to keepmy mother and sister. "

"Ah, young gentleman, " said Mr. Deane, with that tendency to repressyouthful hopes which stout and successful men of fifty find one oftheir easiest duties, "that's sooner said than done, --sooner said thandone. "

"But didn't _you_ get on in that way, uncle?" said Tom, a littleirritated that Mr. Deane did not enter more rapidly into his views. "Imean, didn't you rise from one place to another through your abilitiesand good conduct?"

"Ay, ay, sir, " said Mr. Deane, spreading himself in his chair alittle, and entering with great readiness into a retrospect of his owncareer. "But I'll tell you how I got on. It wasn't by getting astridea stick and thinking it would turn into a horse if I sat on it longenough. I kept my eyes and ears open, sir, and I wasn't too fond of myown back, and I made my master's interest my own. Why, with onlylooking into what went on in the mill, , I found out how there was awaste of five hundred a-year that might be hindered. Why, sir, Ihadn't more schooling to begin with than a charity boy; but I sawpretty soon that I couldn't get on far enough without masteringaccounts, and I learned 'em between working hours, after I'd beenunlading. Look here. " Mr. Deane opened a book and pointed to the page. "I write a good hand enough, and I'll match anybody at all sorts ofreckoning by the head; and I got it all by hard work, and paid for itout of my own earnings, --often out of my own dinner and supper. And Ilooked into the nature of all the things we had to do in the business, and picked up knowledge as I went about my work, and turned it over inmy head. Why, I'm no mechanic, --I never pretended to be--but I'vethought of a thing or two that the mechanics never thought of, andit's made a fine difference in our returns. And there isn't an articleshipped or unshipped at our wharf but I know the quality of it. If Igot places, sir, it was because I made myself fit for 'em. If you wantto slip into a round hole, you must make a ball of yourself; that'swhere it is. "

Mr. Deane tapped his box again. He had been led on by pure enthusiasmin his subject, and had really forgotten what bearing thisretrospective survey had on his listener. He had found occasion forsaying the same thing more than once before, and was not distinctlyaware that he had not his port-wine before him. 

"Well, uncle, " said Tom, with a slight complaint in his tone, "that'swhat I should like to do. Can't _I_ get on in the same way?"

"In the same way?" said Mr. Deane, eyeing Tom with quiet deliberation. "There go two or three questions to that, Master Tom. That depends onwhat sort of material you are, to begin with, and whether you've beenput into the right mill. But I'll tell you what it is. Your poorfather went the wrong way to work in giving you an education. Itwasn't my business, and I didn't interfere; but it is as I thought itwould be. You've had a sort of learning that's all very well for ayoung fellow like our Mr. Stephen Guest, who'll have nothing to do butsign checks all his life, and may as well have Latin inside his headas any other sort of stuffing. "

"But, uncle, " said Tom, earnestly, "I don't see why the Latin needhinder me from getting on in business. I shall soon forget it all; itmakes no difference to me. I had to do my lessons at school, but Ialways thought they'd never be of any use to me afterward; I didn'tcare about them. "

"Ay, ay, that's all very well, " said Mr. Deane; "but it doesn't alterwhat I was going to say. Your Latin and rigmarole may soon dry offyou, but you'll be but a bare stick after that. Besides, it's whitenedyour 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 somuch of reckoning as a common shopman. You'll have to begin at a lowround 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, ifyou don't give yourself a new un. "

Tom bit his lips hard; he felt as if the tears were rising, and hewould rather die than let them. 

"You want me to help you to a situation, " Mr. Deane went on; "well, I've no fault to find with that. I'm willing to do something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think you're to begin with living well andworking easy; you've no notion of running afoot before you gethorseback. Now, you must remember what you are, --you're a lad ofsixteen, trained to nothing particular. There's heaps of your sort, like so many pebbles, made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might beapprenticed to some business, --a chemist's and druggist's perhaps;your Latin might come in a bit there----"

Tom was going to speak, but Mr. Deane put up his hand and said:

"Stop! hear what I've got to say. You don't want to be a 'prentice, --Iknow, I know, --you want to make more haste, and you don't want tostand behind a counter. But if you're a copying-clerk, you'll have tostand behind a desk, and stare at your ink and paper all day; thereisn't much out-look there, and you won't be much wiser at the end ofthe year than at the beginning. The world isn't made of pen, ink, andpaper, and if you're to get on in the world, young man, you must knowwhat the world's made of. Now the best chance for you 'ud be to have aplace on a wharf, or in a warehouse, where you'd learn the smell ofthings, but you wouldn't like that, I'll be bound; you'd have to standcold and wet, and be shouldered about by rough fellows. You're toofine a gentleman for that. "

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

"I would rather do what will be best for me in the end, sir; I wouldput up with what was disagreeable. "

"That's well, if you can carry it out. But you must remember it isn'tonly laying hold of a rope, you must go on pulling. It's the mistakeyou lads make that have got nothing either in your brains or yourpocket, to think you've got a better start in the world if you stickyourselves in a place where you can keep your coats clean, and havethe shopwenches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way _I_started, young man; when I was sixteen, my jacket smelt of tar, and Iwasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the reason I can wear goodbroadcloth now, and have my legs under the same table with the headof the best firms in St. Ogg's. "

Uncle Deane tapped his box, and seemed to expand a little under hiswaistcoat and gold chain, as he squared his shoulders in the chair. 

"Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, uncle, that Ishould do for? I should like to set to work at once, " said Tom, with aslight tremor in his voice. 

"Stop a bit, stop a bit; we mustn't be in too great a hurry. You mustbear in mind, if I put you in a place you're a bit young for, becauseyou happen to be my nephew, I shall be responsible for you. Andthere's no better reason, you know, than your being my nephew; becauseit remains to be seen whether you're good for anything. "

"I hope I shall never do you any discredit, uncle, " said Tom, hurt, asall boys are at the statement of the unpleasant truth that people feelno ground for trusting them. "I care about my own credit too much forthat. "

"Well done, Tom, well done! That's the right spirit, and I neverrefuse to help anybody if they've a mind to do themselves justice. There's a young man of two-and-twenty I've got my eye on now. I shalldo 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 anything in no time, and put me upthe other day to a new market for Swedish bark; he's uncommonlyknowing in manufactures, that young fellow. "

"I'd better set about learning book-keeping, hadn't I, uncle?" saidTom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert himself. 

"Yes, yes, you can't do amiss there. But--Ah, Spence, you're backagain. 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 dismissal, and Tomhad not courage to ask another question, especially in the presence ofMr. Spence. So he went out again into the cold damp air. He had tocall at his uncle Glegg's about the money in the Savings Bank, and bythe time he set out again the mist had thickened, and he could not seevery far before him; but going along River Street again, he wasstartled, when he was within two yards of the projecting side of ashop-window, by the words "Dorlcote Mill" in large letters on ahand-bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was thecatalogue of the sale to take place the next week; it was a reason forhurrying faster out of the town. 

Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made his wayhomeward; he only felt that the present was very hard. It seemed awrong toward him that his uncle Deane had no confidence in him, --didnot see at once that he should acquit himself well, which Tom himselfwas as certain of as of the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, waslikely to be held of small account in the world; and for the firsttime he felt a sinking of heart under the sense that he really wasvery ignorant, and could do very little. Who was that enviable youngman that could tell the cubic contents of things in no time, and makesuggestions about Swedish bark! Tom had been used to be so entirelysatisfied with himself, in spite of his breaking down in ademonstration, and construing _nunc illas promite vires_ as "nowpromise those men"; but now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage, because he knew less than some one else knew. There must be a world ofthings connected with that Swedish bark, which, if he only knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have been much easier tomake a figure with a spirited horse and a new saddle. 

Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St. Ogg's, he saw the distantfuture before him as he might have seen a tempting stretch of smoothsandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles; he was on the grassybank then, and thought the shingles might soon be passed. But now hisfeet were on the sharp stones; the belt of shingles had widened, andthe stretch of sand had dwindled into narrowness. 

"What did my Uncle Deane say, Tom?" said Maggie, putting her armthrough Tom's as he was warming himself rather drearily by the kitchenfire. "Did he say he would give you a situation?"

"No, he didn't say that. He didn't quite promise me anything; heseemed to think I couldn't have a very good situation. I'm too young. "

"But didn't he speak kindly, Tom?"

"Kindly? Pooh! what's the use of talking about that? I wouldn't careabout his speaking kindly, if I could get a situation. But it's such anuisance and bother; I've been at school all this while learning Latinand things, --not a bit of good to me, --and now my uncle says I mustset about learning book-keeping and calculation, and those things. Heseems to make out I'm good for nothing. "

Tom's mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked at thefire. 

"Oh, what a pity we haven't got Dominie Sampson!" said Maggie, whocouldn't help mingling some gayety with their sadness. "If he hadtaught 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, " saidTom. 

"Dear Tom, I was only joking, " said Maggie, putting her cheek againsthis coat-sleeve. 

"But it's always the same, Maggie, " said Tom, with the little frown heput on when he was about to be justifiably severe. "You're alwayssetting yourself up above me and every one else, and I've wanted totell you about it several times. You ought not to have spoken as youdid to my uncles and aunts; you should leave it to me to take care ofmy mother and you, and not put yourself forward. You think you knowbetter than any one, but you're almost always wrong. I can judge muchbetter than you can. "

Poor Tom! he had just come from being lectured and made to feel hisinferiority; the reaction of his strong, self-asserting nature musttake place somehow; and here was a case in which he could justly showhimself dominant. Maggie's cheek flushed and her lip quivered withconflicting resentment and affection, and a certain awe as well asadmiration of Tom's firmer and more effective character. She did notanswer immediately; very angry words rose to her lips, but they weredriven back again, and she said at last:

"You often think I'm conceited, Tom, when I don't mean what I say atall in that way. I don't mean to put myself above you; I know youbehaved better than I did yesterday. But you are always so harsh tome, Tom. "

With the last words the resentment was rising again. 

"No, I'm not harsh, " said Tom, with severe decision. "I'm always kindto you, and so I shall be; I shall always take care of you. But youmust mind what I say. "

Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that her burst oftears, which she felt must come, might not happen till she was safeupstairs. They were very bitter tears; everybody in the world seemedso hard and unkind to Maggie; there was no indulgence, no fondness, such as she imagined when she fashioned the world afresh in her ownthoughts. In books there were people who were always agreeable ortender, and delighted to do things that made one happy, and who didnot show their kindness by finding fault. The world outside the bookswas not a happy one, Maggie felt; it seemed to be a world where peoplebehaved the best to those they did not pretend to love, and that didnot belong to them. And if life had no love in it, what else was therefor Maggie? Nothing but poverty and the companionship of her mother'snarrow griefs, perhaps of her father's heart-cutting childishdependence. There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, nosuperadded life in the life of others; though we who looked on thinklightly of such premature despair, as if our vision of the futurelightened the blind sufferer's present. 

Maggie, in her brown frock, with her eyes reddened and her heavy hairpushed back, looking from the bed where her father lay to the dullwalls of this sad chamber which was the centre of her world, was acreature full of eager, passionate longings for all that was beautifuland glad; thirsty for all knowledge; with an ear straining afterdreamy music that died away and would not come near to her; with ablind, unconscious yearning for something that would link together thewonderful impressions of this mysterious life, and give her soul asense of home in it. 

No wonder, when there is this contrast between the outward and theinward, that painful collisions come of it. 

Chapter VI

Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of aPocket-Knife

In that dark time of December, the sale of the household furniturelasted beyond the middle of the second day. Mr. Tulliver, who hadbegun, in his intervals of consciousness, to manifest an irritabilitywhich often appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence ofspasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this living deaththroughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came nearestto his chamber. Mr. Turnbull had decided that it would be a less riskto let him remain where he was than to remove him to Luke'scottage, --a plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. Tulliver, thinking it would be very bad if the master were "to waken up" at thenoise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat imprisoned in thesilent chamber, watching the large prostrate figure on the bed, andtrembling lest the blank face should suddenly show some response tothe sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painfulrepetition. 

But it was over at last, that time of importunate certainty andeye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, almost as metallicas the rap that followed it, had ceased; the tramping of footsteps onthe gravel had died out. Mrs. Tulliver's blond face seemed aged tenyears by the last thirty hours; the poor woman's mind had been busydivining when her favorite things were being knocked down by theterrible hammer; her heart had been fluttering at the thought thatfirst one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers inthe hateful publicity of the Golden Lion; and all the while she had tosit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such things bring linesin well-rounded faces, and broaden the streaks of white among thehairs that once looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already, at three o'clock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-temperedhousemaid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as herpersonal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly vilequality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted bya continual low muttering against "folks as came to buy up otherfolk's things, " and made light of "scrazing" the tops of mahoganytables over which better folks than themselves had had to--suffer awaste of tissue through evaporation. She was not scrubbingindiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the sameatrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch away theirpurchases; but she was bent on bringing the parlor, where that"pipe-smoking pig, " the bailiff, had sat, to such an appearance ofscant comfort as could be given to it by cleanliness and the fewarticles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and theyoung folks should have their tea in it that night, Kezia wasdetermined. 

It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual teatime, when shecame upstairs and said that Master Tom was wanted. The person whowanted him was in the kitchen, and in the first moments, by theimperfect fire and candle light, Tom had not even an indefinite senseof any acquaintance with the rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him with a pairof blue eyes set in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly redlocks with a strong intention of respect. A low-crownedoilskin-covered hat, and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the restof the costume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested acalling that had to do with boats; but this did not help Tom's memory. 

"Sarvant, Master Tom, " said he of the red locks, with a smile whichseemed to break through a self-imposed air of melancholy. "You don'tknow me again, I doubt, " he went on, as Tom continued to look at himinquiringly; "but I'd like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please. "

"There's a fire i' the parlor, Master Tom, " said Kezia, who objectedto leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting. 

"Come this way, then, " said Tom, wondering if this young fellowbelonged to Guest & Co. 's Wharf, for his imagination ran continuallytoward that particular spot; and uncle Deane might any time be sendingfor him to say that there was a situation at liberty. 

The bright fire in the parlor was the only light that showed the fewchairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and the one table--no, notthe _one_ table; there was a second table, in a corner, with a largeBible and a few other books upon it. It was this new strange barenessthat Tom felt first, before he thought of looking again at the facewhich was also lit up by the fire, and which stole a half-shy, questioning glance at him as the entirely strange voice said:

"Why! you don't remember Bob, then, as you gen the pocket-knife to, Mr. Tom?"

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

"What! Bob Jakin?" said Tom, not with any cordial delight, for he felta little ashamed of that early intimacy symbolized by thepocket-knife, and was not at all sure that Bob's motives for recallingit were entirely admirable. 

"Ay, ay, Bob Jakin, if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's so many Bobsas you went arter the squerrils with, that day as I plumped right downfrom the bough, and bruised my shins a good un--but I got the squerriltight for all that, an' a scratter it was. An' this littlish blade'sbroke, you see, but I wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause they mightbe cheatin' me an' givin' me another knife instid, for there isn'tsuch 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 ownsharpness, only you, Mr. Tom; if it wasn't Bill Fawks as gen me theterrier pup istid o' drowndin't it, an' I had to jaw him a good unafore he'd give it me. "

Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got throughhis long speech with surprising despatch, giving the blade of hisknife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had finished. 

"Well, Bob, " said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the foregoingreminscences having disposed him to be as friendly as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaintance with Bob that heremembered better than the cause of their parting quarrel; "is thereanything I can do for you?"

"Why, no, Mr. Tom, " answered Bob, shutting up his knife with a clickand returning it to his pocket, where he seemed to be feeling forsomething 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 birdsfor, an' he flogged me a bit for fun when he catched me eatin' theturnip, as they say he'll niver lift up his head no more, --I shouldn'tha' come now to ax you to gi' me another knife 'cause you gen me oneafore. If a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me; Isha'n't ax him for another afore I sarve him out; an' a good turn'sworth 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_ wara little chap, for all you leathered me, and wouldn't look at meagain. There's Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as much as I'da mind; but lors! you get tired o' leatherin' a chap when you canniver make him see what you want him to shy at. I'n seen chaps as 'udstand starin' at a bough till their eyes shot out, afore they'd see asa bird's tail warn't a leaf. It's poor work goin' wi' such raff. Butyou war allays a rare un at shying, Mr. Tom, an' I could trusten toyou 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 canvas bag, and would perhaps not havepaused just then if Maggie had not entered the room and darted a lookof surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locksagain with due respect. But the next moment the sense of the alteredroom came upon Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought ofBob's presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the placewhere the bookcase had hung; there was nothing now but the oblongunfaded space on the wall, and below it the small table with the Bibleand the few other books. 

"Oh, Tom!" she burst out, clasping her hands, "where are the books? Ithought my uncle Glegg said he would buy them. Didn't he? Are thoseall they've left us?"

"I suppose so, " said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. "Whyshould they buy many books when they bought so little furniture?"

"Oh, but, Tom, " said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as sherushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. "Our dearold Pilgrim's Progress that you colored with your little paints; andthat picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, looking just like aturtle--oh dear!" Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over thefew books, "I thought we should never part with that while we lived;everything is going away from us; the end of our lives will havenothing in it like the beginning!"

Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair, withthe big tears ready to roll down her cheeks, quite blinded to thepresence of Bob, who was looking at her with the pursuant gaze of anintelligent dumb animal, with perceptions more perfect than hiscomprehension. 

"Well, Bob, " said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books wasunseasonable, "I suppose you just came to see me because we're introuble? That was very good-natured of you. "

"I'll tell you how it is, Master Tom, " said Bob, beginning to untwisthis canvas bag. "You see, I'n been with a barge this two 'ear; that'show I'n been gettin' my livin', --if it wasn't when I was tentin' thefurnace, between whiles, at Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I'd arare bit o' luck, --I allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niverset a trap but what I catched something; but this wasn't trap, it wasa fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else it 'ud set th' oilalight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns; he gen me 'em himselflast week. An' he said first, I was a sperrited chap, --but I knowedthat afore, --but then he outs wi' the ten suvreigns, an' that warsummat new. Here they are, all but one!" Here Bob emptied the canvasbag on the table. "An' when I'd got 'em, my head was all of a boillike a kettle o' broth, thinkin' what sort o' life I should take to, for there war a many trades I'd thought on; for as for the barge, I'mclean tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till they're as longas pigs' chitterlings. An' I thought first I'd ha' ferrets an' dogs, an' be a rat-catcher; an' then I thought as I should like a bigger wayo' life, as I didn't know so well; for I'n seen to the bottom o'rat-catching; an' I thought, an' thought, till at last I settled I'dbe a packman, --for they're knowin' fellers, the packmen are, --an' I'dcarry the lightest things I could i' my pack; an' there'd be a use fora feller's tongue, as is no use neither wi' rats nor barges. An' Ishould go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women wi'my tongue, an' get my dinner hot at the public, --lors! it 'ud be alovely life!"

Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if resolutelyturning his back on that paradisaic picture:

"But I don't mind about it, not a chip! An' I'n changed one o' thesuvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' I'n bought a blueplush wescoat, an' a sealskin 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 yeadisn't a turnip, an' I shall p'r'aps have a chance o' dousing anotherfire afore long. I'm a lucky chap. So I'll thank you to take the ninesuvreigns, Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with 'em somehow, if it's trueas the master's broke. They mayn't go fur enough, but they'll help. "

Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and suspicion. 

"You're a very kind fellow, Bob, " he said, coloring, with that littlediffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain charm even to Tom'spride and severity, "and I sha'n't forget you again, though I didn'tknow you this evening. But I can't take the nine sovereigns; I shouldbe taking your little fortune from you, and they wouldn't do me muchgood 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 agood penn'orth wi' picking feathers an' things; an' if she eatsnothin' but bread-an'-water, it runs to fat. An' I'm such a luckychap; an' I doubt you aren't quite so lucky, Mr. Tom, --th' old masterisn't, anyhow, --an' so you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harmdone. Lors! I found a leg o' pork i' the river one day; it had tumbledout o' one o' them round-sterned Dutchmen, I'll be bound. Come, thinkbetter on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance' sake, else I shall thinkyou bear me a grudge. "

Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could speak Maggie, clasping her hands, and looking penitently at Bob. Said:

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Bob; I never thought you were so good. Why, I thinkyou're the kindest person in the world!"

Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie wasperforming an inward act of penitence, but he smiled with pleasure atthis handsome eulogy, --especially from a young lass who, as heinformed his mother that evening, had "such uncommon eyes, they lookedsomehow as they made him feel nohow. "

"No, indeed Bob, I can't take them, " said Tom; "but don't think I feelyour kindness less because I say no. I don't want to take anythingfrom anybody, but to work my own way. And those sovereigns wouldn'thelp me much--they wouldn't really--if I were to take them. Let meshake hands with you instead. "

Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his hard, grimy hand within it. 

"Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again, " said Maggie; "and you'llcome and see us when you've bought your pack, Bob. "

"It's like as if I'd come out o' make believe, o' purpose to show 'emyou, " said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie gave him the bagagain, "a-taking 'em back i' this way. I _am_ a bit of a Do, you know;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. "

"Now, don't you be up to any tricks, Bob, " said Tom, "else you'll gettransported some day. "

"No, no; not me, Mr. Tom, " said Bob, with an air of cheerfulconfidence. "There's no law again' flea-bites. If I wasn't to take afool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev asuvreign to buy you and Miss summat, on'y for a token--just to matchmy pocket-knife. "

While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign, and resolutelytwisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the gold, and said, "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, morepersuasively:

"Not now, but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my father wantshelp that you can give, we'll let you know; won't we, Tom? That's whatyou would like, --to have us always depend on you as a friend that wecan go to, --isn't it, Bob?"

"Yes, Miss, and thank you, " said Bob, reluctantly taking the money;"that's what I'd like, anything 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'tbring in the tea now, or whether the toast was to get hardened to abrick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flux of words, and hastened hisparting bow. 

Chapter VII

How a Hen Takes to Stratagem

The days passed, and Mr. Tulliver showed, at least to the eyes of themedical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of a gradual return to hisnormal condition; the paralytic obstruction was, little by little, losing its tenacity, and the mind was rising from under it with fitfulstruggles, like a living creature making its way from under a greatsnowdrift, that slides and slides again, and shuts up the newly madeopening. 

Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by the bed, if it hadonly been measured by the doubtful, distant hope which kept count ofthe moments within the chamber; but it was measured for them by afast-approaching dread which made the nights come too quickly. WhileMr. Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his lot was hasteningtoward its moment of most palpable change. The taxing-masters had donetheir work like any respectable gunsmith conscientiously preparing themusket, that, duly pointed by a brave arm, will spoil a life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in Chancery, decrees of sale, are legalchain-shot or bomb-shells that can never hit a solitary mark, but mustfall with widespread shattering. So deeply inherent is it in this lifeof ours that men have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitablydiffusive is human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, andwe can conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark inpulsations of unmerited pain. 

By the beginning of the second week in January, the bills were outadvertising the sale, under a decree of Chancery, of Mr. Tulliver'sfarming and other stock, to be followed by a sale of the mill andland, held in the proper after-dinner hour at the Golden Lion. Themiller himself, unaware of the lapse of time, fancied himself still inthat first stage of his misfortunes when expedients might be thoughtof; and often in his conscious hours talked in a feeble, disjointedmanner of plans he would carry out when he "got well. " The wife andchildren were not without hope of an issue that would at least saveMr. Tulliver from leaving the old spot, and seeking an entirelystrange life. For uncle Deane had been induced to interest himself inthis stage of the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be a badspeculation for Guest & Co. To buy Dorlcote Mill, and carry on thebusiness, which was a good one, and might be increased by the additionof steam power; in which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still, Mr. Deane would say nothing decided about the matter; the factthat Wakem held the mortgage on the land might put it into his head tobid for the whole estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm ofGuest &Co. , who did not carry on business on sentimental grounds. Mr. Deane was obliged to tell Mrs. Tulliver something to that effect, whenhe rode over to the mill to inspect the books in company with Mrs. Glegg; for she had observed that "if Guest &Co. Would only think aboutit, Mr. Tulliver's father and grandfather had been carrying onDorlcote Mill long before the oil-mill of that firm had been so muchas thought of. "

Mr. Deane, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely the relationbetween the two mills which would determine their value asinvestments. As for uncle Glegg, the thing lay quite beyond hisimagination; the good-natured man felt sincere pity for the Tulliverfamily, but his money was all locked up in excellent mortgages, and hecould run no risk; that would be unfair to his own relatives; but hehad made up his mind that Tulliver should have some new flannelwaistcoats which he had himself renounced in favor of a more elasticcommodity, and that he would buy Mrs. Tulliver a pound of tea now andthen; it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted inbeforehand, to carry the tea and see her pleasure on being assured itwas the best black. 

Still, it was clear that Mr. Deane was kindly disposed toward theTullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was come home for theChristmas holidays, and the little blond angel-head had pressed itselfagainst Maggie's darker cheek with many kisses and some tears. Thesefair slim daughters keep up a tender spot in the heart of many arespectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps Lucy's anxious, pitying questions about her poor cousins helped to make uncle Deanemore prompt in finding Tom a temporary place in the warehouse, and inputting him in the way of getting evening lessons in book-keeping andcalculation. 

That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if therehad not come at the same time the much-dreaded blow of finding thathis father must be a bankrupt, after all; at least, the creditors mustbe asked to take less than their due, which to Tom's untechnical mindwas the same thing as bankruptcy. His father must not only be said tohave "lost his property, " but to have "failed, "--the word that carriedthe worst obloquy to Tom's mind. For when the defendant's claim forcosts had been satisfied, there would remain the friendly bill of Mr. Gore, and the deficiency at the bank, as well as the other debts whichwould make the assets shrink into unequivocal disproportion; "not morethan ten or twelve shillings in the pound, " predicted Mr. Deane, in adecided tone, tightening his lips; and the words fell on Tom like ascalding liquied, leaving a continual smart. 

He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits a little inthe unpleasant newness of his position, --suddenly transported from theeasy carpeted _ennui_ of study-hours at Mr. Stelling's, and the busyidleness of castle-building in a "last half" at school, to thecompanionship of sacks and hides, and bawling men thundering downheavy weights at his elbow. The first step toward getting on in theworld was a chill, dusty, noisy affair, and implied going withoutone's tea in order to stay in St. Ogg's and have an evening lessonfrom a one-armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of badtobacco. Tom's young pink-and-white face had its colors very muchdeadened by the time he took off his hat at home, and sat down withkeen hunger to his supper. No wonder he was a little cross if hismother or Maggie spoke to him. 

But all this while Mrs. Tulliver was brooding over a scheme by whichshe, and no one else, would avert the result most to be dreaded, andprevent Wakem from entertaining the purpose of bidding for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and amiable hen, by some portentousanomaly, taking to reflection and inventing combinations by which shemight prevail on Hodge not to wring her neck, or send her and herchicks to market; the result could hardly be other than much cacklingand fluttering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that everything had gone wrong, had begun to think she had been too passive in life; and that, if shehad applied her mind to business, and taken a strong resolution nowand then, it would have been all the better for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought of going to speak to Wakem on thisbusiness of the mill; and yet, Mrs. Tulliver reflected, it would havebeen quite the shortest method of securing the right end. It wouldhave been of no use, to be sure, for Mr. Tulliver to go, --even if hehad been able and willing, --for he had been "going to law againstWakem" and abusing him for the last ten years; Wakem was always likelyto have a spite against him. And now that Mrs. Tulliver had come tothe conclusion that her husband was very much in the wrong to bringher into this trouble, she was inclined to think that his opinion ofWakem was wrong too. To be sure, Wakem had "put the bailies in thehouse, and sold them up"; but she supposed he did that to please theman that lent Mr. Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks toplease than one, and he wasn't likely to put Mr. Tulliver, who hadgone to law with him, above everybody else in the world. The attorneymight be a very reasonable man; why not? He had married a Miss Clint, and at the time Mrs. Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summerwhen she wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts ofMr. 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 possibilitythat he could entertain anything but good-will, when it was oncebrought home to his observation that she, for her part, had neverwanted to go to law, and indeed was at present disposed to take Mr. Wakem's view of all subjects rather than her husband's. In fact, ifthat attorney saw a respectable matron like herself disposed "to givehim good words, " why shouldn't he listen to her representations? Forshe would put the matter clearly before him, which had never been doneyet. And he would never go and bid for the mill on purpose to spiteher, an innocent woman, who thought it likely enough that she haddanced with him in their youth at Squire Darleigh's, for at those bigdances she had often and often danced with young men whose names shehad forgotten. 

Mrs. Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom; for when she hadthrown out a hint to Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg that she wouldn't mindgoing 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 notlikely to give a candid attention to a more definite exposition of herproject; still less dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for"the children were always so against everything their mother said";and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakem as hisfather was. But this unusual concentration of thought naturally gaveMrs. Tulliver an unusual power of device and determination: and a dayor two before the sale, to be held at the Golden Lion, when there wasno longer any time to be lost, she carried out her plan by astratagem. There were pickles in question, a large stock of picklesand ketchup which Mrs. Tulliver possessed, and which Mr. Hyndmarsh, the grocer, would certainly purchase if she could transact thebusiness in a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Ogg's that morning; and when Tom urged that she might let the picklesbe at present, --he didn't like her to go about just yet, --she appearedso hurt at this conduct in her son, contradicting her about pickleswhich she had made after the family receipts inherited from his owngrandmother, who had died when his mother was a little girl, that hegave way, and they walked together until she turned toward DanishStreet, where Mr. Hyndmarsh retailed his grocery, not far from theoffices of Mr. Wakem. 

That gentleman was not yet come to his office; would Mrs. Tulliver sitdown by the fire in his private room and wait for him? She had notlong to wait before the punctual attorney entered, knitting his browwith an examining glance at the stout blond woman who rose, curtsyingdeferentially, --a tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundantiron-gray hair. You have never seen Mr. Wakem before, and are possiblywondering whether he was really as eminent a rascal, and as crafty, bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and of Mr. Tulliver inparticular, as he is represented to be in that eidolon or portrait ofhim which we have seen to exist in the miller's mind. 

It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret anychance-shot that grazed him as an attempt on his own life, and wasliable to entanglements in this puzzling world, which, dueconsideration had to his own infallibility, required the hypothesis ofa very active diabolical agency to explain them. It is still possibleto believe that the attorney was not more guilty toward him than aningenious machine, which performs its work with much regularity, isguilty toward the rash man who, venturing too near it, is caught up bysome fly-wheel or other, and suddenly converted into unexpectedmince-meat. 

But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance at hisperson; the lines and lights of the human countenance are like othersymbols, --not always easy to read without a key. On an _a priori_ viewof Wakem's aquiline nose, which offended Mr. Tulliver, there was notmore rascality than in the shape of his stiff shirt-collar, thoughthis too along with his nose, might have become fraught with damnatorymeaning 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 alarmed at herown courage, now she was really in presence of the formidable man, andreflecting that she had not settled with herself how she should begin. Mr. Wakem felt in his waistcoat pockets, and looked at her in silence. 

"I hope, sir, " she began at last, --"I hope, sir, you're not a-thinkingas _I_ bear you any ill-will because o' my husband's losing hislawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen being sold, --ohdear!--for I wasn't brought up in that way. I'm sure you remember myfather, sir, for he was close friends with Squire Darleigh, and weallays went to the dances there, the Miss Dodsons, --nobody could bemore looked on, --and justly, for there was four of us, and you'requite aware as Mrs. Glegg and Mrs. Deane are my sisters. And as forgoing to law and losing money, and having sales before you're dead, Inever saw anything o' that before I was married, nor for a long whileafter. 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 forbeing drawn in t' abuse you as other folks abuse you, sir, _that_ Iniver was, and nobody can say it of me. "

Mrs. Tulliver shook her head a little, and looked at the hem of herpocket-handkerchief. 

"I've no doubt of what you say, Mrs. Tulliver, " said Mr. Wakem, withcold 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'dhad some nat'ral feeling; and as for my husband, as hasn't beenhimself for this two months, I'm not a-defending him, in no way, forbeing so hot about th' erigation, --not but what there's worse men, forhe never wronged nobody of a shilling nor a penny, not willingly; andas for his fieriness and lawing, what could I do? And him struck as ifit was with death when he got the letter as said you'd the hold upo'the land. But I can't believe but what you'll behave as a gentleman. "

"What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver?" said Mr. Wakem rathersharply. "What do you want to ask me?"

"Why, sir, if you'll be so good, " said Mrs. Tulliver, starting alittle, and speaking more hurriedly, --"if you'll be so good not to buythe mill an' the land, --the land wouldn't so much matter, only myhusband ull' be like mad at your having it. "

Something like a new thought flashed across Mr. Wakem's face as hesaid, "Who told you I meant to buy it?"

"Why, sir, it's none o' my inventing, and I should never ha' thoughtof it; for my husband, as ought to know about the law, he allays usedto say as lawyers had never no call to buy anything, --either lands orhouses, --for they allays got 'em into their hands other ways. An' Ishould think that 'ud be the way with you, sir; and I niver said asyou'd be the man to do contrairy to that. "

"Ah, well, who was it that _did_ say so?" said Wakem, opening hisdesk, and moving things about, with the accompaniment of an almostinaudible 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 theprice. 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, themill was, and his grandfather built it, though I wasn't fond o' thenoise of it, when first I was married, for there was no mills in ourfamily, --not the Dodson's, --and if I'd known as the mills had so muchto do with the law, it wouldn't have been me as 'ud have been thefirst Dodson to marry one; but I went into it blindfold, that I did, erigation and everything. "

"What! Guest &Co. Would keep the mill in their own hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages?"

"Oh dear, sir, it's hard to think of, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, alittle 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 goanywhere else; and if you'll only think--if you was to bid for themill 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 mymanager 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 millstood still to beg and pray of him. For your name's like poison tohim, it's so as never was; and he looks upon it as you've been theruin of him all along, ever since you set the law on him about theroad through the meadow, --that's eight year ago, and he's been goingon 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, sir!" said Mrs. Tulliver, frightened at a result sodifferent from the one she had fixed her mind on; "I wouldn't wish tocontradict you, but it's like enough he's changed his mind with thisillness, --he's forgot a many things he used to talk about. And youwouldn't like to have a corpse on your mind, if he was to die; andthey _do_ say as it's allays unlucky when Dorlcote Mill changes hands, and the water might all run away, and _then_--not as I'm wishing youany ill-luck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your weddingas 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 havebusiness that must be attended to; and I think there is nothing morenecessary to be said. "

"But if you _would_ bear it in mind, sir, " said Mrs. Tulliver, rising, "and not run against me and my children; and I'm not denying Mr. Tulliver's been in the wrong, but he's been punished enough, andthere's worse men, for it's been giving to other folks has been hisfault. He's done nobody any harm but himself and his family, --themore's the pity, --and I go and look at the bare shelves every day, andthink where all my things used to stand. "

"Yes, yes, I'll bear it in mind, " said Mr. Wakem, hastily, lookingtoward the open door. 

"And if you'd please not to say as I've been to speak to you, for myson '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 noanswer to the attorney's "good morning, " but curtsied and walked outin 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. Ihave some business for him; ask him to come up. "

Although, when Mr. Wakem entered his office that morning, he had hadno intention of purchasing Dorlcote Mill, his mind was already madeup. Mrs. Tulliver had suggested to him several determining motives, and his mental glance was very rapid; he was one of those men who canbe prompt without being rash, because their motives run in fixedtracks, and they have no need to reconcile conflicting aims. 

To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of inveterate hatred towardTulliver that Tulliver had toward him would be like supposing that apike and a roach can look at each other from a similar point of view. The roach necessarily abhors the mode in which the pike gets hisliving, and the pike is likely to think nothing further even of themost indignant roach than that he is excellent good eating; it couldonly be when the roach choked him that the pike could entertain astrong personal animosity. If Mr. Tulliver had ever seriously injuredor thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not have refused him thedistinction of being a special object of his vindictiveness. But whenMr. Tulliver called Wakem a rascal at the market dinner-table, theattorneys' clients were not a whit inclined to withdraw their businessfrom him; and if, when Wakem himself happened to be present, somejocose cattle-feeder, stimulated by opportunity and brandy, made athrust at him by alluding to old ladies' wills, he maintained perfect_sang froid_, and knew quite well that the majority of substantial menthen present were perfectly contented with the fact that "Wakem wasWakem"; that is to say, a man who always knew the stepping-stones thatwould carry him through very muddy bits of practice. A man who hadmade a large fortune, had a handsome 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. AndI am not sure that even honest Mr. Tulliver himself, with his generalview of law as a cockpit, might not, under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the truth that "Wakem was Wakem";since I have understood from persons versed in history, that mankindis not disposed to look narrowly into the conduct of great victorswhen their victory is on the right side. Tulliver, then, could be noobstruction to Wakem; on the contrary, he was a poor devil whom thelawyer had defeated several times; a hot-tempered fellow, who wouldalways give you a handle against him. Wakem's conscience was notuneasy because he had used a few tricks against the miller; why shouldhe hate that unsuccessful plaintiff, that pitiable, furious bullentangled 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 whoopenly revile us. The successful Yellow candidate for the borough ofOld Topping, perhaps, feels no pursuant meditative hatred toward theBlue editor who consoles his subscribers with vituperative rhetoricagainst Yellow men who sell their country, and are the demons ofprivate life; but he might not be sorry, if law and opportunityfavored, to kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favoritecolor. Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then, as theytake a diversion, when it comes easily in their way, and is nohindrance to business; and such small unimpassioned revenges have anenormous effect in life, running through all degrees of pleasantinfliction, blocking the fit men out of places, and blackeningcharacters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see people who havebeen only insignificantly offensive to us reduced in life andhumiliated, without any special effort of ours, is apt to have asoothing, flattering influence. Providence or some other prince ofthis world, it appears, has undertaken the task of retribution for us;and really, by an agreeable constitution of things, our enemiessomehow _don't_ prosper. 

Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness toward theuncomplimentary miller; and now Mrs. Tulliver had put the notion intohis head, it presented itself to him as a pleasure to do the verything that would cause Mr. Tulliver the most deadly mortification, --and a pleasure of a complex kind, not made up of crude malice, butmingling with it the relish of self-approbation. To see an enemyhumiliated gives a certain contentment, but this is jejune comparedwith the highly blent satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by yourbenevolent action or concession on his behalf. That is a sort ofrevenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem was not withoutan intention of keeping that scale respectably filled. He had oncehad the pleasure of putting an old enemy of his into one of the St. Ogg's alms-houses, to the rebuilding of which he had given a largesubscription; and here was an opportunity of providing for another bymaking him his own servant. Such things give a completeness toprosperity, and contribute elements of agreeable consciousness thatare not dreamed of by that short-sighted, overheated vindictivenesswhich goes out its way to wreak itself in direct injury. And Tulliver, with his rough tongue filed by a sense of obligation, would make abetter servant than any chance-fellow who was cap-in-hand for asituation. Tulliver was known to be a man of proud honesty, and Wakemwas too acute not to believe in the existence of honesty. He was giventoo observing individuals, not to judging of them according to maxims, and no one knew better than he that all men were not like himself. Besides, he intended to overlook the whole business of land and millpretty closely; he was fond of these practical rural matters. Butthere were good reasons for purchasing Dorlcote Mill, quite apart fromany benevolent vengeance on the miller. It was really a capitalinvestment; besides, Guest &Co. Were going to bid for it. Mr. Guestand Mr. Wakem were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked topredominate over a ship-owner and mill-owner who was a little too loudin the town affairs as well as in his table-talk. For Wakem was not amere man of business; he was considered a pleasant fellow in the uppercircles of St. Ogg's--chatted amusingly over his port-wine, did alittle amateur farming, and had certainly been an excellent husbandand father; at church, when he went there, he sat under the handsomestof mural monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most men wouldhave married again under his circumstances, but he was said to be moretender to his deformed son than most men were to their best-shapenoffspring. Not that Mr. Wakem had not other sons beside Philip; buttoward them he held only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided forthem in a grade of life duly beneath his own. In this fact, indeed, there lay the clenching motive to the purchase of Dorlcote Mill. WhileMrs. Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapid-minded lawyer, among all the other circumstances of the case, that this purchasewould, in a few years to come, furnish a highly suitable position fora certain favorite lad whom he meant to bring on in the world. 

These were the mental conditions on which Mrs. Tulliver had undertakento act persuasively, and had failed; a fact which may receive someillustration from the remark of a great philosopher, that fly-fishersfail in preparing their bait so as to make it alluring in the rightquarter, for want of a due acquaintance with the subjectivity offishes. 

Chapter VIII

Daylight on the Wreck

It was a clear frosty January day on which Mr. Tulliver first camedownstairs. The bright sun on the chestnut boughs and the roofsopposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would becaged up no longer; he thought everywhere would be more cheery underthis sunshine than his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the barenessbelow, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had anunfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the marks wherewell-known objects once had been. The impression on his mind that itwas but yesterday when he received the letter from Mr. Gore was socontinually implied in his talk, and the attempts to convey to him theidea that many weeks had passed and much had happened since then hadbeen so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr. Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts byprevious knowledge. The full sense of the present could only beimparted gradually by new experience, --not by mere words, which mustremain weaker than the impressions left by the _old_ experience. Thisresolution to come downstairs was heard with trembling by the wife andchildren. Mrs. Tulliver said Tom must not go to St. Ogg's at the usualhour, he must wait and see his father downstairs; and Tom complied, though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene. Thehearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during thelast few days. For Guest & Co. Had not bought the mill; both mill andland had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been over the premises, and had laid before Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver'spresence, his willingness to employ Mr. Tulliver, in case of hisrecovery, as a manager of the business. This proposition hadoccasioned much family debating. Uncles and aunts were almostunanimously of opinion that such an offer ought not to be rejectedwhen there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr. Tulliver'smind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles shared it, was regarded asentirely unreasonable and childish, --indeed, as a transferring towardWakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr. Tulliver ought properlyto have directed against himself for his general quarrelsomeness, andhis special exhibition of it in going to law. Here was an opportunityfor Mr. Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without anyassistance from his wife's relations, and without that too evidentdescent into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable peopleto meet the degraded member of the family by the wayside. Mr. Tulliver, Mrs. Glegg considered, must be made to feel, when he came tohis right mind, that he could never humble himself enough; for _that_had come which she had always foreseen would come of his insolence intime past "to them as were the best friends he'd got to look to. " MrGlegg and Mr. Deane were less stern in their views, but they both ofthem thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his hot-temperedcrotchets and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihoodwas 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'tlike his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would lookmean-spirited; but his mother's main distress was the utterimpossibility of ever "turning Mr. Tulliver round about Wakem, " orgetting him to hear reason; no, they would all have to go and live ina pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who spoke "so as nobody could befairer. " Indeed, Mrs. Tulliver's mind was reduced to such confusion byliving in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against whichshe continually appealed by asking, "Oh dear, what _have_ I done todeserve worse than other women?" that Maggie began to suspect her poormother'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 happenedbefore he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She willsay something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keepher engaged with something in the kitchen. "

Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of stayingtill the master could get about again, "wage or no wage, " she hadfound a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress, scolding her for "moithering" herself, and going about all day withoutchanging her cap, and looking as if she was "mushed. " Altogether, thistime of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she couldscold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasionthere were drying clothes to be fetched in; she wished to know if onepair of hands could do everything in-doors and out, and observed that_she_ should have thought it would be good for Mrs. Tulliver to put onher bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful pieceof work. Poor Mrs. Tulliver went submissively downstairs; to beordered about by a servant was the last remnant of her householddignities, --she would soon have no servant to scold her. Mr. Tulliverwas resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, andMaggie and Tom were seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if heshould help master downstairs. 

"Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down, " said Mr. Tulliver pointing hisstick toward a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze whichconvalescent persons often have for those who have tended them, reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. For Luke hadbeen a constant night-watcher by his master's bed. 

"How's the water now, eh, Luke?" said Mr. Tulliver. "Dix hasn't beenchoking 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'sbeen to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday--Isaid----"

Mr. Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armchair, andlooking on the ground as if in search of something, striving aftervanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie lookedat Tom in mute distress, their father's mind was so far off thepresent, which would by-and-by thrust itself on his wanderingconsciousness! Tom was almost ready to rush away, with that impatienceof painful emotion which makes one of the differences between youthand maiden, man and woman. 

"Father, " said Maggie, laying her hand on his, "don't you rememberthat Mr. Riley is dead?"

"Dead?" said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with astrange, examining glance. 

"Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago. I remember hearing yousay you had to pay money for him; and he left his daughters badly off;one of them is under-teacher at Miss Firniss's, where I've been toschool, you know. "

"Ah?" said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But assoon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at _him_ with the sameinquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence ofthese two young people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the farpast, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces; they were notthose of the lad and the little wench who belonged to that past. 

"It's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father, " saidTom. "I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I wentto school at Mr. Stelling's. I've been at school there three years;don't you remember?"

Mr. Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlikeoutward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him fromexternal impressions. 

"Ay, ay, " he said, after a minute or two, "I've paid a deal o'money--I was determined my son should have a good eddication; I'd nonemyself, and I've 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 pausehe began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in hisside-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way, "Where have they put Gore's letter?"

It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for itbefore. 

"You know what there is in the letter, father?" said Tom, as he gaveit to him. 

"To be sure I do, " said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. "What o' that?If Furley can't take to the property, somebody else can; there'splenty o' people in the world besides Furley. But it's hindering--mynot being well--go and tell 'em to get the horse in the gig, Luke; Ican get down to St. Ogg's well enough--Gore's expecting me. "

"No, dear father!" Maggie burst out entreatingly; "it's a very longwhile since all that; you've been ill a great many weeks, --more thantwo months; everything is changed. "

Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startledgaze; the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing hadoften transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now withentire novelty. 

"Yes, father, " said Tom, in answer to the gaze. "You needn't troubleyour mind about business until you are quite well; everything issettled about that for the present, --about the mill and the land andthe debts. "

"What's settled, then?" said his father, angrily. 

"Don't you take on too much bout it, sir, " said Luke. "You'd ha' paidiverybody if you could, --that's what I said to Master Tom, --I saidyou'd ha' paid iverybody if you could. "

Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard-working men whoselives have been spent in servitude, that sense of natural fitness inrank which made his master's downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged, in his slow way, to say something that would express his share in thefamily sorrow; and these words, which he had used over and over againto Tom when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty poundsout of the children's money, were the most ready to his tongue. Theywere just the words to lay the most painful hold on his master'sbewildered mind. 

"Paid everybody?" he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing, and his eye lighting up. "Why--what--have they made me a _bankrupt?_"

"Oh, father, dear father!" said Maggie, who thought that terrible wordreally represented the fact; "bear it well, because we love you; yourchildren 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, ashe said, after a few moments:

"Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o'er. "

"But perhaps you will live to see me pay everybody, father, " said Tom, speaking with a great effort. 

"Ah, my lad, " said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, "but what'sbroke can never be whole again; it 'ud be your doing, not mine. " Thenlooking up at him, "You're only sixteen; it's an up-hill fight foryou, but you mustn't throw it at your father; the raskills have beentoo many for him. I've given you a good eddication, --that'll startyou. "

Something in his throat half choked the last words; the flush, whichhad alarmed his children because it had so often preceded a recurrenceof paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous. Tom said nothing; he was still struggling against his inclination torush away. His father remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind didnot seem to be wandering again. 

"Have they sold me up, then?" he said more clamly, as if he werepossessed simply by the desire to know what had happened. 

"Everything is sold, father; but we don't know all about the mill andthe land yet, " said Tom, anxious to ward off any question leading tothe fact that Wakem was the purchaser. 

"You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs, 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 everything, " said Mr. Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching out his other handtoward Luke. 

"Ay, sir, " said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, "you'll makeup your mind to't a bit better when you've seen iverything; you'll getused to't. That's what my mother says about her shortness o'breath, --she says she's made friends wi't now, though she foughtagain' it sore when it just 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 thegeneral shabbiness. She turned her father's chair, and pushed asidethe table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beatingheart to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advancedbefore him, carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on thehearth. Of those two young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixedpain, for Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if thesorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gavebreathing-space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that; hewould rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round ofheroic labors, than endure perpetual appeals to his pity, for evilsover which he can make no conquest. 

Mr. Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and lookinground him at all the bare places, which for him were filled with theshadows of departed objects, --the daily companions of his life. Hisfaculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footingon this demonstration of the senses. 

"Ah!" he said slowly, moving toward his chair, "they've sold meup--they've sold me up. "

Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke left theroom, he looked round again. 

"They've left the big Bible, " he said. "It's got everything in, --whenI was born and married; bring it me, Tom. "

The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and whilehe was reading with slowly travelling eyes Mrs. Tulliver entered theroom, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already, andwith the great Bible before him. 

"Ah, " he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, "my motherwas Margaret Beaton; she died when she was forty-seven, --hers wasn't along-lived family; we're our mother's children, Gritty and me are, --weshall go to our last bed before long. "

He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's birth andmarriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him; then hesuddenly 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 presently said:

"Ah--Elizabeth Dodson--it's eighteen year since I married her----"

"Come next Ladyday, " said Mrs. Tulliver, going up to his side andlooking at the page. 

Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face. 

"Poor Bessy, " he said, "you was a pretty lass then, --everybody saidso, --and I used to think you kept your good looks rarely. But you'resorely aged; don't you bear me ill-will--I meant to do well by you--wepromised one another for better or for worse----"

"But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had come over her oflate; "and my poor father gave me away--and to come on so all atonce----"

"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 wayall my life--your father never minded what I said--it 'ud have been o'no use for me to beg and pray--and it 'ud be no use now, not if I wasto go down o' my hands and knees----"

"Don't say so, Bessy, " said Mr. Tulliver, whose pride, in these firstmoments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the sense of some justicein his wife's reproach. "It there's anything left as I could do tomake you amends, I wouldn't say you nay. "

"Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might keep among myown sisters, --and me been such a good wife to you, and never crossedyou 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 aboutthat. "

"Let her be, " said Mr. Tulliver. "Say what you mean, Bessy. "

"Why, now the mill and the land's all Wakem's, and he's got everythingin his hands, what's the use o' setting your face against him, when hesays you may stay here, and speaks as fair as can be, and says you maymanage the business, and have thirty shillings a-week, and a horse toride about to market? And where have we got to put our heads? We mustgo into one o' the cottages in the village, --and me and my childrenbrought down to that, --and all because you must set your mind againstfolks 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'vebeen the bringing of you to poverty--this world's too many for me--I'mnought but a bankrupt; it's no use standing up for anything now. "

"Father, " said Tom, "I don't agree with my mother or my uncles, and Idon't think you ought to submit to be under Wakem. I get a pounda-week now, and you can find something else to do when you get well. "

"Say no more, Tom, say no more; I've had enough for this day. Give mea kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no ill-will; we shall neverbe young again--this world's been too many for me. "

Chapter IX

An Item Added to the Family Register

That first moment of renunciation and submission was followed by daysof violent struggle in the miller's mind, as the gradual access ofbodily strength brought with it increasing ability to embrace in oneview all the conflicting conditions under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily resign themselves to be tethered, and when we aresubdued by sickness it seems possible to us to fulfil pledges whichthe old vigor comes back and breaks. There were times when poorTulliver thought the fulfilment of his promise to Bessy was somethingquite too hard for human nature; he had promised her without knowingwhat she was going to say, --she might as well have asked him to carrya ton weight on his back. But again, there were many feelings arguingon her side, besides the sense that life had been made hard to her byhaving married him. He saw a possibility, by much pinching, of savingmoney out of his salary toward paying a second dividend to hiscreditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere to get a situation suchas he could fill. 

He had led an easy life, ordering much and working little, and had noaptitude for any new business. He must perhaps take to day-labor, andhis wife must have help from her sisters, --a prospect doubly bitter tohim, now they had let all Bessy's precious things be sold, probablybecause they liked to set her against him, by making her feel that hehad 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'ssake, with averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on themfurtively when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread ofneeding their help could have made it an easier alternative to taketheir advice. 

But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old premiseswhere he had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had done afterhim. The Tullivers had lived on this spot for generations, and he hadsat listening on a low stool on winter evenings while his fathertalked of the old half-timbered mill that had been there before thelast great floods which damaged it so that his grandfather pulled itdown and built the new one. It was when he got able to walk about andlook at all the old objects that he felt the strain of his clingingaffection for the old home as part of his life, part of himself. Hecouldn't bear to think of himself living on any other spot than this, where he knew the sound of every gate door, and felt that the shapeand color of every roof and weather-stain and broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been fed on them. Our instructedvagrancy, which was hardly time to linger by the hedgerows, but runsaway early to the tropics, and is at home with palms andbanyans, --which is nourished on books of travel and stretches thetheatre of its imagination to the Zambesi, --can hardly get a dimnotion of what an old-fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot, where all his memories centred, and where life seemed like a familiarsmooth-handled tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And justnow he was living in that freshened memory of the far-off time whichcomes to us in the passive hours of recovery from sickness. 

"Ay, Luke, " he said one afternoon, as he stood looking over theorchard gate, "I remember the day they planted those apple-trees. Myfather was a huge man for planting, --it was like a merry-making to himto get a cart full o' young trees; and I used to stand i' the coldwith him, and follow him about like a dog. "

Then he turned round, and leaning against the gate-post, looked at theopposite buildings. 

"The old mill 'ud miss me, I think, Luke. There's a story as when themill changes hands, the river's angry; I've heard my father say itmany 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 fingerin it--it's been too many for me, I know. "

"Ay, sir, " said Luke, with soothing sympathy, "what wi' the rust onthe wheat, an' the firin' o' the ricks an' that, as I've seen i' mytime, --things often looks comical; there's the bacon fat wi' our lastpig run away like butter, --it leaves nought but a scratchin'. "

"It's just as if it was yesterday, now, " Mr. Tulliver went on, "whenmy father began the malting. I remember, the day they finished themalt-house, I thought summat great was to come of it; for we'd aplum-pudding that day and a bit of a feast, and I said to mymother, --she was a fine dark-eyed woman, my mother was, --the littlewench 'ull be as like her as two peas. " Here Mr. Tulliver put hisstick between his legs, and took out his snuff-box, for the greaterenjoyment of this anecdote, which dropped from him in fragments, as ifhe every other moment lost narration in vision. "I was a little chapno higher much than my mother's knee, --she was sore fond of uschildren, Gritty and me, --and so I said to her, 'Mother, ' I said, 'shall we have plum-pudding _every_ day because o' the malt-house? Sheused to tell me o' that till her dying day. She was but a young womanwhen she died, my mother was. But it's forty good year since theyfinished the malt-house, and it isn't many days out of 'em all as Ihaven't looked out into the yard there, the first thing in themorning, --all weathers, from year's end to year's end. I should go offmy head in a new place. I should be like as if I'd lost my way. It'sall hard, whichever way I look at it, --the harness 'ull gall me, butit 'ud be summat to draw along the old road, instead of a new un. "

"Ay, sir, " said Luke, "you'd be a deal better here nor in some newplace. I can't abide new places mysen: things is allaysawk'ard, --narrow-wheeled waggins, belike, and the stiles all anothersort, an' oat-cake i' some places, tow'rt th' head o' the Floss, there. It's poor work, changing your country-side. "

"But I doubt, Luke, they'll be for getting rid o' Ben, and making youdo with a lad; and I must help a bit wi' the mill. You'll have a worseplace. "

"Ne'er mind, sir, " said Luke, "I sha'n't plague mysen. I'n been wi'you twenty year, an' you can't get twenty year wi' whistlin' for 'em, no more nor you can make the trees grow: you mun wait till GodA'mighty sends 'em. I can't abide new victual nor new faces, _I_can't, --you niver know but what they'll gripe you. "

The walk was finished in silence after this, for Luke had disburthenedhimself of thoughts to an extent that left his conversationalresources quite barren, and Mr. Tulliver had relapsed from hisrecollections into a painful meditation on the choice of hardshipsbefore him. Maggie noticed that he was unusually absent that eveningat tea; and afterward he sat leaning forward in his chair, looking atthe ground, moving his lips, and shaking his head from time to time. Then he looked hard at Mrs. Tulliver, who was knitting opposite him, then at Maggie, who, as she bent over her sewing, was intenselyconscious of some drama going forward in her father's mind. Suddenlyhe took up the poker and broke the large coal fiercely. 

"Dear heart, Mr. Tulliver, what can you be thinking of?" said hiswife, looking up in alarm; "it's very wasteful, breaking the coal, andwe've got hardly any large coal left, and I don't know where the restis to come from. "

"I don't think you're quite so well to-night, are you, father?" saidMaggie; "you seem uneasy. "

"Why, how is it Tom doesn't come?" said Mr. Tulliver, impatiently. 

"Dear heart, is it time? I must go and get his supper, " said Mrs. Tulliver, laying down her knitting, and leaving the room. 

"It's nigh upon half-past eight, " said Mr. Tulliver. "He'll be heresoon. Go, go and get the big Bible, and open it at the beginning, where everything's set down. And get the pen and ink. "

Maggie obeyed, wondering; but her father gave no further orders, andonly sat listening for Tom's footfall on the gravel, apparentlyirritated by the wind, which had risen, and was roaring so as to drownall other sounds. There was a strange light in his eyes that ratherfrightened Maggie; _she_ began to wish that Tom would come, too. 

"There he is, then, " said Mr. Tulliver, in an excited way, when theknock came at last. Maggie went to open the door, but her mother cameout of the kitchen hurriedly, saying, "Stop a bit, Maggie; I'll openit. "

Mrs. Tulliver had begun to be a little frightened at her boy, but shewas jealous of every office others did for him. 

"Your supper's ready by the kitchen-fire, my boy, " she said, as hetook off his hat and coat. "You shall have it by yourself, just as youlike, and I won't speak to you. "

"I think my father wants Tom, mother, " said Maggie; "he must come intothe parlor first. "

Tom entered with his usual saddened evening face, but his eyes fellimmediately on the open Bible and the inkstand, and he glanced with alook of anxious surprise at his father, who was saying, --

"Come, come, you're late; I want you. "

"Is there anything the matter, father?" said Tom. 

"You sit down, all of you, " said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily. 

"And, Tom, sit down here; I've got something for you to write i' theBible. "

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'll be the same grave made for us to lie down in, and we mustn'tbe bearing one another ill-will. I'll stop in the old place, and I'llserve under Wakem, and I'll serve him like an honest man; there's noTulliver but what's honest, mind that, Tom, "--here his voicerose, --"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 inharness, --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 anhonest man, though I shall never hold my head up no more. I'm a treeas is broke--a tree as is broke. "

He paused and looked on the ground. Then suddenly raising his head, hesaid, in a louder yet deeper tone:

"But I won't forgive him! I know what they say, he never meant me anyharm. That's the way Old Harry props up the rascals. He's been at thebottom of everything; but he's a fine gentleman, --I know, I know. Ishouldn't ha' gone to law, they say. But who made it so as there wasno 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 doingbusiness for poorer folks, and when he's made beggars of 'em he'llgive 'em charity. I won't forgive him! I wish he might be punishedwith shame till his own son 'ud like to forget him. I wish he may dosummat as they'd make him work at the treadmill! But he won't, --he'stoo big a raskill to let the law lay hold on him. And you mind this, Tom, --you never forgive him neither, if you mean to be my son. There'll maybe come a time when you may make him feel; it'll nevercome to me; I'n got my head under the yoke. Now write--write it i' theBible. "

"Oh, father, what?" said Maggie, sinking down by his knee, pale andtrembling. "It's wicked to curse and bear malice. "

"It isn't wicked, I tell you, " said her father, fiercely. "It's wickedas the raskills should prosper; it's the Devil's doing. Do as I tellyou, Tom. Write. "

"What am I to write?" said Tom, with gloomy submission. 

"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 tomake her what amends I could for her trouble, and because I wanted todie in th' old place where I was born and my father was born. Put thati' the right words--you know how--and then write, as I don't forgiveWakem for all that; and for all I'll serve him honest, I wish evil maybefall 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 aloudslowly. 

"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 signyour 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 IV

_The Valley of Humiliation_

Chapter I

A Variation of Protestantism Unknown to Bossuet

Journeying down the Rhone on a summer's day, you have perhaps felt thesunshine made dreary by those ruined villages which stud the banks incertain parts of its course, telling how the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying god, sweeping down the feeble generationswhose breath is in their nostrils, and making their dwellings adesolation. Strange contrast, you may have thought, between theeffect produced on us by these dismal remnants of commonplacehouses, which in their best days were but the sign of a sordid life, belonging in all its details to our own vulgar era, and the effectproduced by those ruins on the castled Rhine, which have crumbled andmellowed into such harmony with the green and rocky steeps that theyseem to have a natural fitness, like the mountain-pine; nay, even inthe day when they were built they must have had this fitness, as ifthey had been raised by an earth-born race, who had inherited fromtheir mighty parent a sublime instinct of form. And that was a day ofromance; If those robber-barons were somewhat grim and drunken ogres, they had a certain grandeur of the wild beast in them, --they wereforest boars with tusks, tearing and rending, not the ordinarydomestic grunter; they represented the demon forces forever incollision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of life; they madea fine contrast in the picture with the wandering minstrel, thesoft-lipped princess, the pious recluse, and the timid Israelite. Thatwas a time of color, when the sunlight fell on glancing steel andfloating banners; a time of adventure and fierce struggle, --nay, ofliving, religious art and religious enthusiasm; for were notcathedrals built in those days, and did not great emperors leave theirWestern palaces to die before the infidel strongholds in the sacredEast? Therefore it is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a senseof poetry; they belong to the grand historic life of humanity, andraise up for me the vision of an echo. But these dead-tinted, hollow-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress mewith the feeling that human life--very much of it--is a narrow, ugly, grovelling existence, which even calamity does not elevate, but rathertends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of conception; and I have acruel conviction that the lives these ruins are the traces of werepart of a gross sum of obscure vitality, that will be swept into thesame oblivion with the generations of ants and beavers. 

Perhaps something akin to this oppressive feeling may have weighedupon you in watching this old-fashioned family life on the banks ofthe Floss, which even sorrow hardly suffices to lift above the levelof the tragi-comic. It is a sordid life, you say, this of theTullivers and Dodsons, irradiated by no sublime principles, noromantic visions, no active, self-renouncing faith; moved by none ofthose wild, uncontrollable passions which create the dark shadows ofmisery and crime; without that primitive, rough simplicity of wants, that hard, submissive, ill-paid toil, that childlike spelling-out ofwhat nature has written, which gives its poetry to peasant life. Hereone has conventional worldly notions and habits without instructionand without polish, surely the most prosaic form of human life; proudrespectability in a gig of unfashionable build; worldliness withoutside-dishes. Observing these people narrowly, even when the iron handof misfortune has shaken them from their unquestioning hold on theworld, one sees little trace of religion, still less of adistinctively Christian creed. Their belief in the Unseen, so far asit manifests itself at all, seems to be rather a pagan kind; theirmoral notions, though held with strong tenacity, seem to have nostandard beyond hereditary custom. You could not live among suchpeople; you are stifled for want of an outlet toward somethingbeautiful, great, or noble; you are irritated with these dull men andwomen, as a kind of population out of keeping with the earth on whichthey live, --with this rich plain where the great river flows foreveronward, and links the small pulse of the old English town with thebeatings of the world's mighty heart. A vigorous superstition, thatlashes its gods or lashes its own back, seems to be more congruouswith the mystery of the human lot, than the mental condition of theseemmet-like Dodsons and Tullivers. 

I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness; but it isnecessary that we should feel it, if we care to understand how itacted on the lives of Tom and Maggie, --how it has acted on youngnatures in many generations, that in the onward tendency of humanthings have risen above the mental level of the generation beforethem, to which they have been nevertheless tied by the strongestfibres of their hearts. The suffering, whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every historical advance of mankind, is representedin this way in every town, and by hundreds of obscure hearths; and weneed not shrink from this comparison of small things with great; fordoes not science tell us that its highest striving is after theascertainment of a unity which shall bind the smallest things with thegreatest? In natural science, I have understood, there is nothingpetty to the mind that has a large vision of relations, and to whichevery single object suggests a vast sum of conditions. It is surelythe same with the observation of human life. 

Certainly the religious and moral ideas of the Dodsons and Tulliverswere of too specific a kind to be arrived at deductively, from thestatement that they were part of the Protestant population of GreatBritain. Their theory of life had its core of soundness, as alltheories must have on which decent and prosperous families have beenreared and have flourished; but it had the very slightest tincture oftheology. If, in the maiden days of the Dodson sisters, their Biblesopened more easily at some parts than others, it was because of driedtulip-petals, which had been distributed quite impartially, withoutpreference for the historical, devotional, or doctrinal. Theirreligion was of a simple, semi-pagan kind, but there was no heresy init, --if heresy properly means choice, --for they didn't know there wasany other religion, except that of chapel-goers, which appeared to runin families, like asthma. How _should_ they know? The vicar of theirpleasant rural parish was not a controversialist, but a good hand atwhist, and one who had a joke always ready for a blooming femaleparishioner. The religion of the Dodsons consisted in reveringwhatever was customary and respectable; it was necessary to bebaptized, else one could not be buried in the church-yard, and to takethe sacrament before death, as a security against more dimlyunderstood perils; but it was of equal necessity to have the properpall-bearers and well-cured hams at one's funeral, and to leave anunimpeachable will. A Dodson would not be taxed with the omission ofanything that was becoming, or that belonged to that eternal fitnessof things which was plainly indicated in the practice of the mostsubstantial parishioners, and in the family traditions, --such asobedience to parents, faithfulness to kindred, industry, rigidhonesty, thrift, the thorough scouring of wooden and copper utensils, the hoarding of coins likely to disappear from the currency, theproduction of first-rate commodities for the market, and the generalpreference of whatever was home-made. The Dodsons were a very proudrace, and their pride lay in the utter frustration of all desire totax them with a breach of traditional duty or propriety. A wholesomepride in many respects, since it identified honor with perfectintegrity, thoroughness of work, and faithfulness to admitted rules;and society owes some worthy qualities in many of her members tomothers of the Dodson class, who made their butter and their fromentywell, and would have felt disgraced to make it otherwise. To be honestand poor was never a Dodson motto, still less to seem rich thoughbeing poor; rather, the family badge was to be honest and rich, andnot only rich, but richer than was supposed. To live respected, andhave the proper bearers at your funeral, was an achievement of theends of existence that would be entirely nullified if, on the readingof your will, you sank in the opinion of your fellow-men, either byturning out to be poorer than they expected, or by leaving your moneyin a capricious manner, without strict regard to degrees of kin. Theright thing must always be done toward kindred. The right thing was tocorrect them severely, if they were other than a credit to the family, but still not to alienate from them the smallest rightful share in thefamily shoebuckles and other property. A conspicuous quality in theDodson character was its genuineness; its vices and virtues alike werephases of a proud honest egoism, which had a hearty dislike towhatever made against its own credit and interest, and would befrankly hard of speech to inconvenient "kin, " but would never forsakeor ignore them, --would not let them want bread, but only require themto eat it with bitter herbs. 

The same sort of traditional belief ran in the Tulliver veins, but itwas carried in richer blood, having elements of generous imprudence, warm affection, and hot-tempered rashness. Mr. Tulliver's grandfatherhad been heard to say that he was descended from one Ralph Tulliver, awonderfully clever fellow, who had ruined himself. It is likely enoughthat the clever Ralph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and wasvery decidedly of his own opinion. On the other hand, nobody had everheard of a Dodson who had ruined himself; it was not the way of thatfamily. 

If such were the views of life on which the Dodsons and Tullivers hadbeen reared in the praiseworthy past of Pitt and high prices, you willinfer from what you already know concerning the state of society inSt. Ogg's, that there had been no highly modifying influence to act onthem in their maturer life. It was still possible, even in that latertime of anti-Catholic preaching, for people to hold many pagan ideas, and believe themselves good church-people, notwithstanding; so we needhardly feel any surprise at the fact that Mr. Tulliver, though aregular church-goer, recorded his vindictiveness on the fly-leaf ofhis Bible. It was not that any harm could be said concerning the vicarof that charming rural parish to which Dorlcote Mill belonged; he wasa man of excellent family, an irreproachable bachelor, of elegantpursuits, --had taken honors, and held a fellowship. Mr. Tulliverregarded him with dutiful respect, as he did everything else belongingto the church-service; but he considered that church was one thing andcommon-sense another, and he wanted nobody to tell _him_ whatcommonsense was. Certain seeds which are required to find a nidus forthemselves under unfavorable circumstances have been supplied bynature with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will get a hold onvery unreceptive surfaces. The spiritual seed which had been scatteredover Mr. Tulliver had apparently been destitute of any correspondingprovision, and had slipped off to the winds again, from a totalabsence of hooks. 

Chapter II

The Torn Nest Is Pierced by the Thorns

There is something sustaining in the very agitation that accompaniesthe first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often astimulus, and produces an excitement which is transient strength. Itis in the slow, changed life that follows; in the time when sorrow hasbecome stale, and has no longer an emotive intensity that counteractsits pain; in the time when day follows day in dull, unexpectantsameness, and trial is a dreary routine, --it is then that despairthreatens; it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of ourexistence, which shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction. 

This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her short span ofthirteen years. To the usual precocity of the girl, she added thatearly experience of struggle, of conflict between the inward impulseand outward fact, which is the lot of every imaginative and passionatenature; and the years since she hammered the nails into her woodenFetish among the worm-eaten shelves of the attic had been filled withso eager a life in the triple world of Reality, Books, and WakingDreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years in everythingexcept in her entire want of that prudence and self-command which werethe qualities that made Tom manly in the midst of his intellectualboyishness. And now her lot was beginning to have a still, sadmonotony, which threw her more than ever on her inward self. Herfather 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 andfro every morning and evening, and became more and more silent in theshort intervals at home; what was there to say? One day was likeanother; and Tom's interest in life, driven back and crushed on everyother side, was concentrating itself into the one channel of ambitiousresistance to misfortune. The peculiarities of his father and motherwere very irksome to him, now they were laid bare of all the softeningaccompaniments of an easy, prosperous home; for Tom had very clear, prosaic eyes, not apt to be dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination. Poor Mrs. Tulliver, it seemed, would never recover her old self, herplacid household activity; how could she? The objects among which hermind had moved complacently were all gone, --all the little hopes andschemes and speculations, all the pleasant little cares about hertreasures which had made the world quite comprehensible to her for aquarter of a century, since she had made her first purchase of thesugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatched away from her, and sheremained bewildered in this empty life. Why that should have happenedto her which had not happened to other women remained an insolublequestion by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating comparison ofthe past with the present. It was piteous to see the comely womangetting thinner and more worn under a bodily as well as mentalrestlessness, which made her often wander about the empty house afterher work was done, until Maggie, becoming alarmed about her, wouldseek her, and bring her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that shewas injuring her health by never sitting down and resting herself. Yetamidst this helpless imbecility there was a touching trait of humble, self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly toward herpoor mother amidst all the little wearing griefs caused by her mentalfeebleness. She would let Maggie do none of the work that was heaviestand most soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish when Maggieattempted to relieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring: "Let italone, 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 eyesfail me. " And she would still brush and carefully tend Maggie's hair, which she had become reconciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl, now it was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child, and, ingeneral, would have been much better if she had been quite different;yet the womanly heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, founda future to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the motherpleased herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hands thathad so much more life in them. 

But the constant presence of her mother's regretful bewilderment wasless painful to Maggie than that of her father's sullen, incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis was upon him, andit seemed as if he might always be in a childlike condition ofdependence, --as long as he was still only half awakened to histrouble, --Maggie had felt the strong tide of pitying love almost as aninspiration, a new power, that would make the most difficult life easyfor his sake; but now, instead of childlike dependence, there had comea taciturn, hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast withhis old vehement communicativeness and high spirit; and this lastedfrom day to day, and from week to week, the dull eye never brighteningwith any eagerness or any joy. It is something cruelly incomprehensibleto youthful natures, this sombre sameness in middle-aged and elderlypeople, whose life has resulted in disappointment and discontent, towhose faces a smile becomes so strange that the sad lines all aboutthe lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries awayagain for want of a welcome. "Why will they not kindle up and beglad sometimes?" thinks young elasticity. "It would be so easy if theyonly liked to do it. " And these leaden clouds that never part are aptto create impatience even in the filial affection that streams forth innothing but tenderness and pity in the time of more obvious affliction. 

Mr. Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home; he hurried away frommarket, he refused all invitations to stay and chat, as in old times, in the houses where he called on business. He could not be reconciledwith his lot. There was no attitude in which his pride did not feelits bruises; and in all behavior toward him, whether kind or cold, hedetected an allusion to the change in his circumstances. Even the dayson which Wakem came to ride round the land and inquire into thebusiness were not so black to him as those market-days on which he hadmet several creditors who had accepted a composition from him. To savesomething toward the repayment of those creditors was the objecttoward which he was now bending all his thoughts and efforts; andunder the influence of this all-compelling demand of his nature, thesomewhat profuse man, who hated to be stinted or to stint any one elsein his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the keen-eyedgrudger of morsels. Mrs. Tulliver could not economize enough tosatisfy him, in their food and firing; and he would eat nothinghimself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, though depressedand strongly repelled by his father's sullenness, and the drearinessof home, entered thoroughly into his father's feelings about payingthe creditors; and the poor lad brought his first quarter's money, with a delicious sense of achievement, and gave it to his father toput into the tin box which held the savings. The little store ofsovereigns in the tin box seemed to be the only sight that brought afaint beam of pleasure into the miller's eyes, --faint and transient, for it was soon dispelled by the thought that the time would belong--perhaps longer than his life, --before the narrow savings couldremove the hateful incubus of debt. A deficit of more than fivehundred pounds, with the accumulating interest, seemed a deep pit tofill with the savings from thirty shillings a-week, even when Tom'sprobable savings were to be added. On this one point there was entirecommunity of feeling in the four widely differing beings who sat roundthe dying fire of sticks, which made a cheap warmth for them on theverge of bedtime. Mrs. Tulliver carried the proud integrity of theDodsons in her blood, and had been brought up to think that to wrongpeople of their money, which was another phrase for debt, was a sortof moral pillory; it would have been wickedness, to her mind, to haverun counter to her husband's desire to "do the right thing, " andretrieve his name. She had a confused, dreamy notion that, if thecreditors were all paid, her plate and linen ought to come back toher; but she had an inbred perception that while people owed moneythey were unable to pay, they couldn't rightly call anything theirown. She murmured a little that Mr. Tulliver so peremptorily refusedto receive anything in repayment from Mr. And Mrs. Moss; but to allhis requirements of household economy she was submissive to the pointof denying herself the cheapest indulgences of mere flavor; her onlyrebellion was to smuggle into the kitchen something that would makerather 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 daysof wide commercial views and wide philosophy, according to whicheverything rights itself without any trouble of ours. The fact that mytradesman is out of pocket by me is to be looked at through the serenecertainty that somebody else's tradesman is in pocket by somebodyelse; and since there must be bad debts in the world, why, it is mereegoism not to like that we in particular should make them instead ofour fellow-citizens. I am telling the history of very simple people, who had never had any illuminating doubts as to personal integrity andhonor. 

Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentration of desire, Mr. Tulliver retained the feeling toward his "little wench" which madeher 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 fatherlylove was now mingled with bitterness, like everything else. WhenMaggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get a lowstool and sit by her father's knee, leaning her cheek against it. Howshe wished he would stroke her head, or give some sign that he wassoothed by the sense that he had a daughter who loved him! But now shegot no answer to her little caresses, either from her father or fromTom, --the two idols of her life. Tom was weary and abstracted in theshort intervals when he was at home, and her father was bitterlypreoccupied with the thought that the girl was growing up, wasshooting up into a woman; and how was she to do well in life? She hada poor chance for marrying, down in the world as they were. And hehated 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 littlewench so pulled down by children and toil, as her aunt Moss was. Whenuncultured minds, confined to a narrow range of personal experience, are under the pressure of continued misfortune, their inward life isapt to become a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts;the same words, the same scenes, are revolved over and over again, thesame mood accompanies them; the end of the year finds them as muchwhat they were at the beginning as if they were machines set to arecurrent series of movements. 

The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. Uncles and auntspaid only short visits now; of course, they could not stay to meals, and the constraint caused by Mr. Tulliver's savage silence, whichseemed to add to the hollow resonance of the bare, uncarpeted roomwhen the aunts were talking, heightened the unpleasantness of thesefamily visits on all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for otheracquaintances, there is a chill air surrounding those who are down inthe world, and people are glad to get away from them, as from a coldroom; human beings, mere men and women, without furniture, withoutanything to offer you, who have ceased to count as anybody, present anembarrassing negation of reasons for wishing to see them, or ofsubjects on which to converse with them. At that distant day, therewas a dreary isolation in the civilized Christian society of theserealms for families that had dropped below their original level, unless they belonged to a sectarian church, which gets some warmth ofbrotherhood by walling in the sacred fire. 

Chapter III

A Voice from the Past

One afternoon, when the chestnuts were coming into flower, Maggie hadbrought her chair outside the front door, and was seated there with abook on her knees. Her dark eyes had wandered from the book, but theydid not seem to be enjoying the sunshine which pierced the screen ofjasmine on the projecting porch at her right, and threw leafy shadowson her pale round cheek; they seemed rather to be searching forsomething that was not disclosed by the sunshine. It had been a moremiserable day than usual; her father, after a visit of Wakem's had hada paroxysm of rage, in which for some trifling fault he had beaten theboy who served in the mill. Once before, since his illness, he had hada similar paroxysm, in which he had beaten his horse, and the scenehad left a lasting terror in Maggie's mind. The thought had risen, that some time or other he might beat her mother if she happened tospeak in her feeble way at the wrong moment. The keenest of all dreadwith her was lest her father should add to his present misfortune thewretchedness of doing something irretrievably disgraceful. Thebattered school-book of Tom's which she held on her knees could giveher no fortitude under the pressure of that dread; and again and againher eyes had filled with tears, as they wandered vaguely, seeingneither the chestnut-trees, nor the distant horizon, but only futurescenes of home-sorrow. 

Suddenly she was roused by the sound of the opening gate and offootsteps on the gravel. It was not Tom who was entering, but a man ina sealskin cap and a blue plush waistcoat, carrying a pack on hisback, and followed closely by a bullterrier of brindled coat anddefiant aspect. 

"Oh, Bob, it's you!" said Maggie, starting up with a smile of pleasedrecognition, for there had been no abundance of kind acts to effacethe recollection of Bob's generosity; "I'm so glad to see you. "

"Thank you, Miss, " said Bob, lifting his cap and showing a delightedface, but immediately relieving himself of some accompanyingembarrassment by looking down at his dog, and saying in a tone ofdisgust, "Get out wi' you, you thunderin' sawney!"

"My brother is not at home yet, Bob, " said Maggie; "he is always atSt. Ogg's in the daytime. "

"Well, Miss, " said Bob, "I should be glad to see Mr. Tom, but thatisn't just what I'm come for, --look here!"

Bob was in the act of depositing his pack on the door-step, and withit a row of small books fastened together with string. 

Apparently, however, they were not the object to which he wished tocall Maggie's attention, but rather something which he had carriedunder his arm, wrapped in a red handkerchief. 

"See here!" he said again, laying the red parcel on the others andunfolding it; "you won't think I'm a-makin' too free, Miss, I hope, but I lighted on these books, and I thought they might make up to youa bit for them as you've lost; for I heared you speak o' picturs, --an'as for picturs, _look_ here!"

The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a superannuated"Keepsake" and six or seven numbers of a "Portrait Gallery, " in royaloctavo; and the emphatic request to look referred to a portrait ofGeorge the Fourth in all the majesty of his depressed cranium andvoluminous neckcloth. 

"There's all sorts o' genelmen here, " Bob went on, turning over theleaves with some excitement, "wi' all sorts o' nones, --an' some baldan' some wi' wigs, --Parlament genelmen, I reckon. An' here, " he added, opening the "Keepsake, "--"_here's_ ladies for you, some wi' curly hairand some wi' smooth, an' some a-smiling wi' their heads o' one side, an' some as if they were goin' to cry, --look here, --a-sittin' on theground out o' door, dressed like the ladies I'n seen get out o' thecarriages at the balls in th' Old Hall there. My eyes! I wonder whatthe chaps wear as go a-courtin' 'em! I sot up till the clock was gonetwelve last night, a-lookin' at 'em, --I did, --till they stared at meout o' the picturs as if they'd know when I spoke to 'em. But, lors! Ishouldn't know what to say to 'em. They'll be more fittin' company foryou, Miss; and the man at the book-stall, he said they bangediverything for picturs; he said they was a fust-rate article. "

"And you've bought them for me, Bob?" said Maggie, deeply touched bythis simple kindness. "How very, very good of you! But I'm afraid yougave a great deal of money for them. "

"Not me!" said Bob. "I'd ha' gev three times the money if they'll makeup to you a bit for them as was sold away from you, Miss. For I'nniver 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 ofit wi' eyes a bit like your'n when you was frettin', --you'll excuse mytakin' the liberty, Miss, --I thought I'd make free to buy it for you, an' then I bought the books full o' genelmen to match; an' then"--hereBob took up the small stringed packet of books--"I thought you mightlike a bit more print as well as the picturs, an' I got these for asayso, --they're cram-full o' print, an' I thought they'd do no harmcomin' along wi' these bettermost books. An' I hope you won't say menay, an' tell me as you won't have 'em, like Mr. Tom did wi' thesuvreigns. "

"No, indeed, Bob, " said Maggie, "I'm very thankful to you for thinkingof me, and being so good to me and Tom. I don't think any one ever didsuch a kind thing for me before. I haven't many friends who care forme. "

"Hev a dog, Miss!--they're better friends nor any Christian, " saidBob, laying down his pack again, which he had taken up with theintention of hurrying away; for he felt considerable shyness intalking to a young lass like Maggie, though, as he usually said ofhimself, "his tongue overrun him" when he began to speak. "I can'tgive 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 expresshimself more diffusely than by a single affirmative movement of histail. ) "But I'd get you a pup, Miss, an' welcome. "

"No, thank you, Bob. We have a yard dog, and I mayn't keep a dog of myown. "

"Eh, that's a pity; else there's a pup, --if you didn't mind about itnot being thoroughbred; its mother acts in the Punch show, --anuncommon sensible bitch; she means more sense wi' her bark nor halfthe chaps can put into their talk from breakfast to sundown. There'sone chap carries pots, --a poor, low trade as any on the road, --hesays, 'Why Toby's nought but a mongrel; there's nought to look at inher. ' But I says to him, 'Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel?There wasn't much pickin' o' _your_ feyther an' mother, to look atyou. ' Not but I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't abide to seeone cur grinnin' at another. I wish you good evenin', Miss, " said Bob, abruptly taking up his pack again, under the consciousness that histongue was acting in an undisciplined manner. 

"Won't you come in the evening some time, and see my brother, Bob?"said Maggie. 

"Yes, Miss, thank you--another time. You'll give my duty to him, ifyou please. Eh, he's a fine growed chap, Mr. Tom is; he took togrowin' i' the legs, an' _I_ didn't. "

The pack was down again, now, the hook of the stick having somehowgone wrong. 

"You don't call Mumps a cur, I suppose?" said Maggie, divining thatany interest she showed in Mumps would be gratifying to his master. 

"No, Miss, a fine way off that, " said Bob, with pitying smile; "Mumpsis as fine a cross as you'll see anywhere along the Floss, an' I'nbeen up it wi' the barge times enow. Why, the gentry stops to look athim; but you won't catch Mumps a-looking at the gentry much, --he mindshis own business, he does. "

The expression of Mump's face, which seemed to be tolerating thesuperfluous existence of objects in general, was strongly confirmatoryof 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 company, Mumps does. He isn't a dog as 'ull be caught wi' gingerbread; he'd smell a thief agood deal stronger nor the gingerbread, he would. Lors, I talk to himby th' hour together, when I'm walking i' lone places, and if I'n donea bit o' mischief, I allays tell him. I'n got no secrets but whatMumps 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 singularlybroad specimen of that difference between the man and the monkey. "Ittells i' measuring out the flannel, you see. I carry flannel, 'causeit's light for my pack, an' it's dear stuff, you see, so a big thumbtells. I clap my thumb at the end o' the yard and cut o' the hitherside of it, and the old women aren't up to't. "

"But Bob, " said Maggie, looking serious, "that's cheating; I don'tlike 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 haggle an' haggle, an''ud like to get their flannel for nothing, an' 'ud niver asktheirselves how I got my dinner out on't. I niver cheat anybody asdoesn't want to cheat me, Miss, --lors, I'm a honest chap, I am; only Imust hev a bit o' sport, an' now I don't go wi' th' ferrets, I'n gotno varmint to come over but them haggling women. I wish you goodevening, Miss. "

"Good-by, Bob. Thank you very much for bringing me the books. And comeagain to see Tom. "

"Yes, Miss, " said Bob, moving on a few steps; then turning half roundhe said, "I'll leave off that trick wi' my big thumb, if you don'tthink well on me for it, Miss; but it 'ud be a pity, it would. Icouldn't find another trick so good, --an' what 'ud be the use o'havin' a big thumb? It might as well ha' been narrow. "

Maggie, thus exalted into Bob's exalting Madonna, laughed in spite ofherself; at which her worshipper's blue eyes twinkled too, and underthese favoring auspices he touched his cap and walked away. 

The days of chivalry are not gone, notwithstanding Burke's grand dirgeover them; they live still in that far-off worship paid by many ayouth and man to the woman of whom he never dreams that he shall touchso much as her little finger or the hem of her robe. Bob, with thepack on his back, had as respectful an adoration for this dark-eyedmaiden as if he had been a knight in armor calling aloud on her nameas he pricked on to the fight. 

That gleam of merriment soon died away from Maggie's face, and perhapsonly made the returning gloom deeper by contrast. She was toodispirited even to like answering questions about Bob's present ofbooks, and she carried them away to her bedroom, laying them downthere and seating herself on her one stool, without caring to look atthem just yet. She leaned her cheek against the window-frame, andthought that the light-hearted Bob had a lot much happier than hers. 

Maggie's sense of loneliness, and utter privation of joy, had deepenedwith the brightness of advancing spring. All the favorite outdoornooks about home, which seemed to have done their part with herparents in nurturing and cherishing her, were now mixed up with thehome-sadness, and gathered no smile from the sunshine. Everyaffection, every delight the poor child had had, was like an achingnerve to her. There was no music for her any more, --no piano, noharmonized voices, no delicious stringed instruments, with theirpassionate cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibrationthrough her frame. And of all her school-life there was nothing lefther now but her little collection of school-books, which she turnedover with a sickening sense that she knew them all, and they were allbarren of comfort. Even at school she had often wished for books with_more_ in them; everything she learned there seemed like the ends oflong threads that snapped immediately. And now--without the indirectcharm of school-emulation--Telemaque was mere bran; so were the hard, dry questions on Christian Doctrine; there was no flavor in them, nostrength. Sometimes Maggie thought she could have been contented withabsorbing fancies; if she could have had all Scott's novels and allByron's poems!--then, perhaps, she might have found happiness enoughto dull her sensibility to her actual daily life. And yet they werehardly what she wanted. She could make dream-worlds of her own, but nodream-world would satisfy her now. She wanted some explanation of thishard, real life, --the unhappy-looking father, seated at the dullbreakfast-table; the childish, bewildered mother; the little sordidtasks that filled the hours, or the more oppressive emptiness ofweary, joyless leisure; the need of some tender, demonstrative love;the cruel sense that Tom didn't mind what she thought or felt, andthat they were no longer playfellows together; the privation of allpleasant things that had come to _her_ more than to others, --shewanted some key that would enable her to understand, and inunderstanding, to endure, the heavy weight that had fallen on heryoung heart. If she had been taught "real learning and wisdom, such asgreat 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 menknew! Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sagesand poets. She knew little of saints and martyrs, and had gathered, asa general result of her teaching, that they were a temporary provisionagainst the spread of Catholicism, and had all died at Smithfield. 

In one of these meditations it occurred to her that she had forgottenTom's school-books, which had been sent home in his trunk. But shefound the stock unaccountably shrunk down to the few old ones whichhad been well thumbed, --the Latin Dictionary and Grammar, a Delectus, a torn Eutropius, the well-worn Virgil, Aldrich's Logic, and theexasperating Euclid. Still, Latin, Euclid, and Logic would surely be aconsiderable step in masculine wisdom, --in that knowledge which mademen contented, and even glad to live. Not that the yearning foreffectual wisdom was quite unmixed; a certain mirage would now andthen rise on the desert of the future, in which she seemed to seeherself honored for her surprising attainments. And so the poor child, with her soul's hunger and her illusions of self-flattery, began tonibble at this thick-rinded fruit of the tree of knowledge, fillingher vacant hours with Latin, geometry, and the forms of the syllogism, and feeling a gleam of triumph now and then that her understanding wasquite equal to these peculiarly masculine studies. For a week or twoshe went on resolutely enough, though with an occasional sinking ofheart, as if she had set out toward the Promised Land alone, and foundit a thirsty, trackless, uncertain journey. In the severity of herearly resolution, she would take Aldrich out into the fields, and thenlook off her book toward the sky, where the lark was twinkling, or tothe reeds and bushes by the river, from which the waterfowl rustledforth on its anxious, awkward flight, --with a startled sense that therelation between Aldrich and this living world was extremely remotefor her. The discouragement deepened as the days went on, and theeager heart gained faster and faster on the patient mind. Somehow, when she sat at the window with her book, her eyes _would_ fixthemselves blankly on the outdoor sunshine; then they would fill withtears, and sometimes, if her mother was not in the room, the studieswould all end in sobbing. She rebelled against her lot, she faintedunder its loneliness, and fits even of anger and hatred toward herfather 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 bysome thwarting difference, --would flow out over her affections andconscience like a lava stream, and frighten her with a sense that itwas not difficult for her to become a demon. Then her brain would bebusy with wild romances of a flight from home in search of somethingless sordid and dreary; she would go to some great man--Walter Scott, perhaps--and tell him how wretched and how clever she was, and hewould 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 sat still without noticing him, would saycomplainingly, "Come, am I to fetch my slippers myself?" The voicepierced through Maggie like a sword; there was another sadness besidesher own, and she had been thinking of turning her back on it andforsaking it. 

This afternoon, the sight of Bob's cheerful freckled face had givenher discontent a new direction. She thought it was part of thehardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen oflarger wants than others seemed to feel, --that she had to endure thiswide, hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that wasgreatest and best on this earth. She wished she could have been likeBob, with his easily satisfied ignorance, or like Tom, who hadsomething to do on which he could fix his mind with a steady purpose, and disregard everything else. Poor child! as she leaned her headagainst the window-frame, with her hands clasped tighter and tighter, and her foot beating the ground, she was as lonely in her trouble asif she had been the only gril in the civilized world of that day whohad come out of her school-life with a soul untrained for inevitablestruggles, with no other part of her inherited share in the hard-wontreasures of thought which generations of painful toil have laid upfor the race of men, than shreds and patches of feeble literature andfalse history, with much futile information about Saxon and otherkings of doubtful example, but unhappily quite without that knowledgeof the irreversible laws within and without her, which, governing thehabits, becomes morality, and developing the feelings of submissionand dependence, becomes religion, --as lonely in her trouble as ifevery other girl besides herself had been cherished and watched overby elder minds, not forgetful of their own early time, when need waskeen and impulse strong. 

At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books that lay on thewindow-shelf, and she half forsook her reverie to turn over listlesslythe leaves of the "Portrait Gallery, " but she soon pushed this asideto examine the little row of books tied together with string. "Beauties of the Spectator, " "Rasselas, " "Economy of Human Life, ""Gregory's Letters, "--she knew the sort of matter that was inside allthese; the "Christian Year, "--that seemed to be a hymnbook, and shelaid it down again; but _Thomas a Kempis?_--the name had come acrossher in her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which every oneknows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name that strays solitaryin the memory. She took up the little, old, clumsy book with somecuriosity; it had the corners turned down in many places, and somehand, now forever quiet, had made at certain passages strongpen-and-ink marks, long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leafto leaf, and read where the quiet hand pointed: "Know that the love ofthyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world. . . . If thouseekest this or that, and wouldst be here or there to enjoy thy ownwill and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet nor free from care; forin everything somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there willbe some that will cross thee. . . . Both above and below, which waysoever thou dost turn thee, everywhere thou shalt find the Cross; andeverywhere of necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt haveinward peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown. . . . If thou desirest tomount unto this height, thou must set out courageously, and lay theaxe to the root, that thou mayest pluck up and destroy that hiddeninordinate inclination to thyself, and unto all private and earthlygood. On this sin, that a man inordinately loveth himself, almost alldependeth, whatsoever is thoroughly to be overcome; which evil beingonce overcome and subdued, there will presently ensue great peace andtranquillity. . . . It is but little thou sufferest in comparison of themthat have suffered so much, were so strongly tempted, so grievouslyafflicted, so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest thereforeto call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayestthe easier bear thy little adversities. And if they seem not littleunto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause thereof. . . . Blessedare those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice, andlisten not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are those earswhich hearken not unto the voice which soundeth outwardly, but untothe Truth, which teacheth inwardly. "

A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she read, as ifshe had been wakened in the night by a strain of solemn music, tellingof beings whose souls had been astir while hers was in stupor. Shewent on from one brown mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed topoint, hardly conscious that she was reading, seeming rather to listenwhile a low voice said;

"Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place of thyrest? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all earthly things areto be looked on as they forward thy journey thither. All things passaway, and thou together with them. Beware thou cleavest not unto them, lest thou be entangled and perish. . . . If a man should give all hissubstance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great penances, yet are they but little. And if he should attain to all knowledge, heis yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue, and very ferventdevotion, yet is there much wanting; to wit, one thing, which is mostnecessary for him. What is that? That having left all, he leavehimself, and go wholly out of himself, and retain nothing ofself-love. . . . I have often said unto thee, and now again I say thesame, Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy muchinward peace. . . . Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations, 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 seea sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a secret of life thatwould enable her to renounce all other secrets; here was a sublimeheight to be reached without the help of outward things; here wasinsight, and strength, and conquest, to be won by means entirelywithin her own soul, where a supreme Teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of aproblem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from fixingher heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central necessityof the universe; and for the first time she saw the possibility ofshifting the position from which she looked at the gratification ofher own desires, --of taking her stand out of herself, and looking ather own life as an insignificant part of a divinely guided whole. Sheread on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues withthe invisible Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of allstrength; returning to it after she had been called away, and readingtill the sun went down behind the willows. With all the hurry of animagination that could never rest in the present, she sat in thedeepening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entiredevotedness; and in the ardor of first discovery, renunciation seemedto her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long beencraving in vain. She had not perceived--how could she until she hadlived longer?--the inmost truth of the old monk's out-pourings, thatrenunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggiewas still panting for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she hadfound the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines and systems, ofmysticism or quietism; but this voice out of the far-off middle ageswas the direct communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message. 

I suppose that is the reason why the small old-fashioned book, forwhich you need only pay sixpence at a book-stall, works miracles tothis day, turning bitter waters into sweetness; while expensivesermons and treatises, newly issued, leave all things as they werebefore. It was written down by a hand that waited for the heart'sprompting; it is the chronicle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust, and triumph, not written on velvet cushions to teachendurance to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it remains to all time a lasting record of human needs andhuman consolations; the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt andsuffered and renounced, --in the cloister, perhaps, with serge gown andtonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts, and with a fashionof speech different from ours, --but under the same silent far-offheavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, thesame failures, the same weariness. 

In writing the history of unfashionable families, one is apt to fallinto a tone of emphasis which is very far from being the tone of goodsociety, where principles and beliefs are not only of an extremelymoderate kind, but are always presupposed, no subjects being eligiblebut such as can be touched with a light and graceful irony. But thengood society has its claret and its velvet carpets, itsdinner-engagements six weeks deep, its opera and its faery ball-rooms;rides off its _ennui_ on thoroughbred horses; lounges at the club; hasto keep clear of crinoline vortices; gets its science done by Faraday, and its religion by the superior clergy who are to be met in the besthouses, --how should it have time or need for belief and emphasis? Butgood society, floated on gossamer wings of light irony, is of veryexpensive production; requiring nothing less than a wide and arduousnational life condensed in unfragrant deafening factories, crampingitself in mines, sweating at furnaces, grinding, hammering, weavingunder more or less oppression of carbonic acid, or else, spread oversheepwalks, and scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey orchalky corn-lands, where the rainy days look dreary. This widenational life is based entirely on emphasis, --the emphasis of want, which urges it into all the activities necessary for the maintenanceof good society and light irony; it spends its heavy years often in achill, uncarpeted fashion, amidst family discord unsoftened by longcorridors. Under such circumstances, there are many among its myriadsof souls who have absolutely needed an emphatic belief, life in thisunpleasurable shape demanding some solution even to unspeculativeminds, --just as you inquire into the stuffing of your couch whenanything galls you there, whereas eider-down and perfect Frenchsprings excite no question. Some have an emphatic belief in alcohol, and seek their _ekstasis_ or outside standing-ground in gin; but therest require something that good society calls "enthusiasm, " somethingthat will present motives in an entire absence of high prizes;something that will give patience and feed human love when the limbsache with weariness, and human looks are hard upon us; something, clearly, that lies outside personal desires, that includes resignationfor ourselves and active love for what is not ourselves. Now and thenthat sort of enthusiasm finds a far-echoing voice that comes from anexperience springing out of the deepest need; and it was by beingbrought within the long lingering vibrations of such a voice thatMaggie, with her girl's face and unnoted sorrows, found an effort anda hope that helped her through years of loneliness, making out a faithfor herself without the aid of established authorities and appointedguides; for they were not at hand, and her need was pressing. Fromwhat you know of her, you will not be surprised that she threw someexaggeration and wilfulness, some pride and impetuosity, even into herself-renunciation; her own life was still a drama for her, in whichshe 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 bybeing excessive in the outward act; she often strove after too high aflight, and came down with her poor little half-fledged wings dabbledin the mud. For example, she not only determined to work at plainsewing, that she might contribute something toward the fund in the tinbox, but she went, in the first instance, in her zeal ofself-mortification, to ask for it at a linen shop in St. Ogg's, instead of getting it in a more quiet and indirect way; and could seenothing but what was entirely wrong and unkind, nay, persecuting, inTom's reproof of her for this unnecessary act. "I don't like _my_sister to do such things, " said Tom, "_I'll_ take care that the debtsare paid, without your lowering yourself in that way. " Surely therewas some tenderness and bravery mingled with the worldliness andself-assertion of that little speech; but Maggie held it as dross, overlooking the grains of gold, and took Tom's rebuke as one of heroutward crosses. Tom was very hard to her, she used to think, in herlong night-watchings, --to her who had always loved him so; and thenshe strove to be contented with that hardness, and to require nothing. That is the path we all like when we set out on our abandonment ofegoism, --the path of martyrdom and endurance, where the palm-branchesgrow, rather than the steep highway of tolerance, just allowance, andself-blame, where there are no leafy honors to be gathered and worn. 

The old books, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich--that wrinkled fruit of thetree of knowledge--had been all laid by; for Maggie had turned herback on the vain ambition to share the thoughts of the wise. In herfirst ardor she flung away the books with a sort of triumph that shehad risen above the need of them; and if they had been her own, shewould have burned them, believing that she would never repent. Sheread so eagerly and constantly in her three books, the Bible, Thomas aKempis, and the "Christian Year" (no longer rejected as a"hymn-book"), that they filled her mind with a continual stream ofrhythmic memories; and she was too ardently learning to see all natureand life in the light of her new faith, to need any other material forher mind to work on, as she sat with her well-plied needle, makingshirts and other complicated stitchings, falsely called "plain, "--byno means plain to Maggie, since wristband and sleeve and the like hada capability of being sewed in wrong side outward in moments of mentalwandering. 

Hanging diligently over her sewing, Maggie was a sight any one mighthave been pleased to look at. That new inward life of hers, notwithstanding some volcanic upheavings of imprisoned passions, yetshone out in her face with a tender soft light that mingled itself asadded loveliness with the gradually enriched color and outline of herblossoming youth. Her mother felt the change in her with a sort ofpuzzled wonder that Maggie should be "growing up so good"; it wasamazing that this once "contrairy" child was become so submissive, sobackward to assert her own will. Maggie used to look up from her workand find her mother's eyes fixed upon her; they were watching andwaiting for the large young glance, as if her elder frame got someneedful warmth from it. The mother was getting fond of her tall, browngirl, --the only bit of furniture now on which she could bestow heranxiety and pride; and Maggie, in spite of her own ascetic wish tohave no personal adornment, was obliged to give way to her motherabout her hair, and submit to have the abundant black locks plaitedinto a coronet on the summit of her head, after the pitiable fashionof those antiquated times. 

"Let your mother have that bit o' pleasure, my dear, " said Mrs. Tulliver; "I'd trouble enough with your hair once. "

So Maggie, glad of anything that would soothe her mother, and cheertheir long day together, consented to the vain decoration, and showeda queenly head above her old frocks, steadily refusing, however, tolook at herself in the glass. Mrs. Tulliver liked to call the father'sattention to Maggie's hair and other unexpected virtues, but he had abrusk reply to give. 

"I knew well enough what she'd be, before now, --it's nothing new tome. But it's a pity she isn't made o' commoner stuff; she'll be thrownaway, 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 patientlyenough while she read him a chapter, or said something timidly whenthey were alone together about trouble being turned into a blessing. He took it all as part of his daughter's goodness, which made hismisfortunes the sadder to him because they damaged her chance in life. In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfiedvindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings; Mr. Tulliver didnot want spiritual consolation--he wanted to shake off the degradationof debt, and to have his revenge. 

Book V

_Wheat and Tares_

Chapter I

In the Red Deeps

The family sitting-room was a long room with a window at each end; onelooking toward the croft and along the Ripple to the banks of theFloss, the other into the mill-yard. Maggie was sitting with her workagainst the latter window when she saw Mr. Wakem entering the yard, asusual, on his fine black horse; but not alone, as usual. Some one waswith him, --a figure in a cloak, on a handsome pony. Maggie had hardlytime to feel that it was Philip come back, before they were in frontof the window, and he was raising his hat to her; while his father, catching the movement by a side-glance, looked sharply round at themboth. 

Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her work upstairs; forMr. Wakem sometimes came in and inspected the books, and Maggie feltthat the meeting with Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in thepresence of the two fathers. Some day, perhaps, she could see him whenthey could just shake hands, and she could tell him that sheremembered his goodness to Tom, and the things he had said to her inthe old days, though they could never be friends any more. It was notat all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again; she retained herchildish gratitude and pity toward him, and remembered his cleverness;and in the early weeks of her loneliness she had continually recalledthe 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 hadfancied it might have been, in their talk together. But that sort ofwishing had been banished along with other dreams that savored ofseeking her own will; and she thought, besides, that Philip might bealtered by his life abroad, --he might have become worldly, and reallynot care about her saying anything to him now. And yet his face waswonderfully little altered, --it was only a larger, more manly copy ofthe pale, small-featured boy's face, with the gray eyes, and theboyish waving brown hair; there was the old deformity to awaken theold 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. Shewondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes; with thatthought Maggie glanced toward the square looking-glass which wascondemned to hang with its face toward the wall, and she half startedfrom her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and snatchedup her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by forcing her memoryto recall snatches of hymns, until she saw Philip and his fatherreturning along the road, and she could go down again. 

It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to lengthen thedaily walk which was her one indulgence; but this day and thefollowing she was so busy with work which must be finished that shenever went beyond the gate, and satisfied her need of the open air bysitting out of doors. One of her frequent walks, when she was notobliged to go to St. Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what wascalled the "Hill, "--an insignificant rise of ground crowned by trees, lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of DorlcoteMill. Insignificant I call it, because in height it was hardly morethan a bank; but there may come moments when Nature makes a mere banka means toward a fateful result; and that is why I ask you to imaginethis high bank crowned with trees, making an uneven wall for somequarter of a mile along the left side of Dorlcote Mill and thepleasant fields behind it, bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just wherethis line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road turned offand led to the other side of the rise, where it was broken into verycapricious hollows and mounds by the working of an exhaustedstone-quarry, so long exhausted that both mounds and hollows were nowclothed with brambles and trees, and here and there by a stretch ofgrass which a few sheep kept close-nibbled. In her childish daysMaggie held this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, andneeded all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her to anexcursion thither, --visions of robbers and fierce animals hauntingevery hollow. But now it had the charm for her which any brokenground, any mimic rock and ravine, have for the eyes that resthabitually on the level; especially in summer, when she could sit on agrassy hollow under the shadow of a branching ash, stooping aslantfrom the steep above her, and listen to the hum of insects, liketiniest bells on the garment of Silence, or see the sunlight piercingthe distant boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenlyblue of the wild hyacinths. In this June time, too, the dog-roses werein their glory, and that was an additional reason why Maggie shoulddirect her walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, onthe first day she was free to wander at her will, --a pleasure sheloved so well, that sometimes, in her ardors of renunciation, shethought she ought to deny herself the frequent indulgence in it. 

You may see her now, as she walks down the favorite turning and entersthe Deeps by a narrow path through a group of Scotch firs, her tallfigure and old lavender gown visible through an hereditary black silkshawl of some wide-meshed net-like material; and now she is sure ofbeing unseen she takes off her bonnet and ties it over her arm. Onewould certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than herseventeenth year--perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of theglance from which all search and unrest seem to have departed; perhapsbecause her broad-chested figure has the mould of early womanhood. Youth and health have withstood well the involuntary and voluntaryhardships of her lot, and the nights in which she has lain on the hardfloor for a penance have left no obvious trace; the eyes are liquid, the brown cheek is firm and round, the full lips are red. With herdark coloring and jet crown surmounting her tall figure, she seems tohave a sort of kinship with the grand Scotch firs, at which she islooking up as if she loved them well. Yet one has a sense ofuneasiness in looking at her, --a sense of opposing elements, of whicha fierce collision is imminent; surely there is a hushed expression, such as one often sees in older faces under borderless caps, out ofkeeping with the resistant youth, which one expects to flash out in asudden, passionate glance, that will dissipate all the quietude, likea damp fire leaping out again when all seemed safe. 

But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She was clamlyenjoying the free air, while she looked up at the old fir-trees, andthought that those broken ends of branches were the records of paststorms, which had only made the red stems soar higher. But while hereyes were still turned upward, she became conscious of a moving shadowcast by the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked downwith 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 at the deformed figure before herwith frank eyes, filled for the moment with nothing but the memory ofher child's feelings, --a memory that was always strong in her. She wasthe first to speak. 

"You startled me, " she said, smiling faintly; "I never meet any onehere. How came you to be walking here? Did you come to meet _me?_"

It was impossible not to perceive that Maggie felt herself a childagain. 

"Yes, I did, " said Philip, still embarrassed; "I wished to see youvery much. I watched a long while yesterday on the bank near yourhouse to see if you would come out, but you never came. Then I watchedagain to-day, and when I saw the way you took, I kept you in sight andcame down the bank, behind there. I hope you will not be displeasedwith me. "

"No, " said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on as if she meantPhilip to accompany her, "I'm very glad you came, for I wished verymuch to have an opportunity of speaking to you. I've never forgottenhow good you were long ago to Tom, and me too; but I was not sure thatyou would remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great deal oftrouble since then, and I think _that_ makes one think more of whathappened before the trouble came. "

"I can't believe that you have thought of me so much as I have thoughtof you, " said Philip, timidly. "Do you know, when I was away, I made apicture of you as you looked that morning in the study when you saidyou 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 lockshanging down behind her ears, looking into space, with strange, dreamyeyes. It was a water-color sketch, of real merit as a portrait. 

"Oh dear, " said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure, "what aqueer little girl I was! I remember myself with my hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really _was_ like a gypsy. I dare say I am now, "she added, after a little pause; "am I like what you expected me tobe?"

The words might have been those of a coquette, but the full, brightglance Maggie turned on Philip was not that of a coquette. She reallydid hope he liked her face as it was now, but it was simply the risingagain of her innate delight in admiration and love. Philip met hereyes and looked at her in silence for a long moment, before he saidquietly, "No, Maggie. "

The light died out a little from Maggie's face, and there was a slighttrembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, but she did not turnaway her head, and Philip continued to look at her. Then he saidslowly:

"You are very much more beautiful than I thought you would be. "

"Am I?" said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper flush. Sheturned her face away from him and took some steps, looking straightbefore her in silence, as if she were adjusting her consciousness tothis new idea. Girls are so accustomed to think of dress as the mainground of vanity, that, in abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggiehad thought more of abandoning all care for adornment than ofrenouncing the contemplation of her face. Comparing herself withelegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that shecould produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed to like thesilence well. He walked by her side, watching her face, as if thatsight left no room for any other wish. They had passed from among thefir-trees, and had now come to a green hollow almost surrounded by anamphitheatre of the pale pink dog-roses. But as the light about themhad brightened, Maggie's face had lost its glow. 

She stood still when they were in the hollows, and looking at Philipagain, she said in a serious, sad voice:

"I wish we could have been friends, --I mean, if it would have beengood and right for us. But that is the trial I have to bear ineverything; I may not keep anything I used to love when I was little. The old books went; and Tom is different, and my father. It is likedeath. I must part with everything I cared for when I was a child. AndI must part with you; we must never take any notice of each otheragain. That was what I wanted to speak to you for. I wanted to let youknow that Tom and I can't do as we like about such things, and that ifI behave as if I had forgotten all about you, it is not out of envy orpride--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 deepening expression ofpain on Philip's face gave him a stronger resemblance to his boyishself, and made the deformity appeal more strongly to her pity. 

"I know; I see all that you mean, " he said, in a voice that had becomefeebler from discouragement; "I know what there is to keep us apart onboth 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 tosacrifice everything to other people's unreasonable feelings. I wouldgive up a great deal for _my_ father; but I would not give up afriendship or--or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to any wishof his that I didn't recognize as right. "

"I don't know, " said Maggie, musingly. "Often, when I have been angryand discontented, it has seemed to me that I was not bound to give upanything; and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that Icould think away all my duty. But no good has ever come of that; itwas an evil state of mind. I'm quite sure that whatever I might do, Ishould wish in the end that I had gone without anything for myself, rather than have made my father's life harder to him. "

"But would it make his life harder if we were to see each othersometimes?" said Philip. He was going to say something else, butchecked himself. 

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't like it. Don't ask me why, or anything aboutit, " said Maggie, in a distressed tone. "My father feels so stronglyabout some things. He is not at all happy. "

"No more am I, " said Philip, impetuously; "I am not happy. "

"Why?" said Maggie, gently. "At least--I ought not to ask--but I'mvery, very sorry. "

Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand still anylonger, and they went out of the hollow, winding amongst the trees andbushes in silence. After that last word of Philip's, Maggie could notbear to insist immediately on their parting. 

"I've been a great deal happier, " she said at last, timidly, "since Ihave given up thinking about what is easy and pleasant, and beingdiscontented because I couldn't have my own will. Our life isdetermined for us; and it makes the mind very free when we give upwishing, and only think of bearing what is laid upon us, and doingwhat is given us to do. "

"But I can't give up wishing, " said Philip, impatiently. "It seems tome we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughlyalive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, andwe _must_ hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without themuntil our feelings are deadened? I delight in fine pictures; I long tobe able to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what Iwant. That is pain to me, and always _will_ be pain, until myfaculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there are manyother things I long for, "--here Philip hesitated a little, and thensaid, --"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 nothave lived. "

"Oh, Philip, " said Maggie, "I wish you didn't feel so. " But her heartbegan to beat with something of Philip's discontent. 

"Well, then, " said he, turning quickly round and fixing his gray eyesentreatingly on her face, "I should be contented to live, if you wouldlet me see you sometimes. " Then, checked by a fear which her facesuggested, he looked away again and said more calmly, "I have nofriend to whom I can tell everything, no one who cares enough aboutme; and if I could only see you now and then, and you would let metalk to you a little, and show me that you cared for me, and that wemay always be friends in heart, and help each other, then I might cometo be glad of life. "

"But how can I see you, Philip?" said Maggie, falteringly. (Could shereally 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, --Iwould 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 atone-and-twenty, "if there is any enmity between those who belong tous, we ought all the more to try and quench it by our friendship; Imean, that by our influence on both sides we might bring about ahealing of the wounds that have been made in the past, if I could knoweverything about them. And I don't believe there is any enmity in myown father's mind; I think he has proved the contrary. "

Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under conflictingthoughts. It seemed to her inclination, that to see Philip now andthen, and keep up the bond of friendship with him, was something notonly innocent, but good; perhaps she might really help him to findcontentment as she had found it. The voice that said this made sweetmusic to Maggie; but athwart it there came an urgent, monotonouswarning from another voice which she had been learning to obey, --thewarning that such interviews implied secrecy; implied doing somethingshe would dread to be discovered in, something that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain; and that the admission of anything so neardoubleness would act as a spiritual blight. Yet the music would swellout again, like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, persuadingher that the wrong lay all in the faults and weaknesses of others, andthat there was such a thing as futile sacrifice for one to the injuryof another. It was very cruel for Philip that he should be shrunkfrom, because of an unjustifiable vindictiveness toward hisfather, --poor Philip, whom some people would shrink from only becausehe was deformed. The idea that he might become her lover or that hermeeting him could cause disapproval in that light, had not occurred toher; and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough, saw itwith a certain pang, although it made her consent to his request theless unlikely. There was bitterness to him in the perception thatMaggie was almost as frank and unconstrained toward him as when shewas a child. 

"I can't say either yes or no, " she said at last, turning round andwalking toward the way she come; "I must wait, lest I should decidewrongly. I must seek for guidance. "

"May I come again, then, to-morrow, or the next day, or next week?"

"I think I had better write, " said Maggie, faltering again. "I have togo to St. Ogg's sometimes, and I can put the letter in the post. "

"Oh no, " said Philip eagerly; "that would not be so well. My fathermight see the letter--and--he has not any enmity, I believe, but heviews things differently from me; he thinks a great deal about wealthand position. Pray let me come here once more. _Tell_ me when it shallbe; or if you can't tell me, I will come as often as I can till I dosee you. "

"I think it must be so, then, " said Maggie, "for I can't be quitecertain of coming here any particular evening. "

Maggie felt a great relief in adjourning the decision. She was freenow to enjoy the minutes of companionship; she almost thought shemight linger a little; the next time they met she should have to painPhilip by telling him her determination. 

"I can't help thinking, " she said, looking smilingly at him, after afew moments of silence, "how strange it is that we should have met andtalked to each other, just as if it had been only yesterday when weparted at Lorton. And yet we must both be very much altered in thosefive years, --I think it is five years. How was it you seemed to have asort of feeling that I was the same Maggie? I was not quite so surethat you would be the same; I know you are so clever, and you musthave seen and learnt so much to fill your mind; I was not quite sureyou would care about me now. "

"I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, whenever Imigh see you, " said Philip, --"I mean, the same in everything that mademe like you better than any one else. I don't want to explain that; Idon't think any of the strongest effects our natures are susceptibleof can ever be explained. We can neither detect the process by whichthey are arrived at, nor the mode in which they act on us. Thegreatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child; hecouldn't have told how he did it, and we can't tell why we feel it tobe divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature thatour understandings can make no complete inventory of. Certain strainsof music affect me so strangely; I can never hear them without theirchanging my whole attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect wouldlast, I might be capable of heroisms. "

"Ah! I know what you mean about music; _I_ feel so, " said Maggie, clasping her hands with her old impetuosity. "At least, " she added, ina saddened tone, "I used to feel so when I had any music; I never haveany now except the organ at church. "

"And you long for it, Maggie?" said Philip, looking at her withaffectionate pity. "Ah, you can have very little that is beautiful inyour life. Have you many books? You were so fond of them when you werea little girl. "

They were come back to the hollow, round which the dog-roses grew, andthey both paused under the charm of the faery evening light, reflectedfrom the pale pink clusters. 

"No, I have given up books, " said Maggie, quietly, "except a very, very few. "

Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, and waslooking at the back as he said:

"Ah, this is the second volume, I see, else you might have liked totake it home with you. I put it in my pocket because I am studying ascene for a picture. "

Maggie had looked at the back too, and saw the title; it revived anold impression with overmastering force. 

"'The Pirate, '" she said, taking the book from Philip's hands. "Oh, Ibegan that once; I read to where Minna is walking with Cleveland, andI 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 nevermake a happy ending out of that beginning. Poor Minna! I wonder whatis the real end. For a long while I couldn't get my mind away from theShetland Isles, --I used to feel the wind blowing on me from the roughsea. "

Maggie spoke rapidly, with glistening eyes. 

"Take that volume home with you, Maggie, " said Philip, watching herwith delight. "I don't want it now. I shall make a picture of youinstead, --you, among the Scotch firs and the slanting shadows. "

Maggie had not heard a word he had said; she was absorbed in a page atwhich she had opened. But suddenly she closed the book, and gave itback to Philip, shaking her head with a backward movement, as if tosay "avaunt" to floating visions. 

"Do keep it, Maggie, " said Philip, entreatingly; "it will give youpleasure. "

"No, thank you, " said Maggie, putting it aside with her hand andwalking on. "It would make me in love with this world again, as I usedto be; it would make me long to see and know many things; it wouldmake me long for a full life. "

"But you will not always be shut up in your present lot; why shouldyou starve your mind in that way? It is narrow asceticism; I don'tlike to see you persisting in it, Maggie. Poetry and art and knowledgeare 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 lastlong. "

"Don't hurry away from me without saying 'good-by, ' Maggie, " saidPhilip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, and she continuedstill to walk along without speaking. "I must not go any farther, Ithink, must I?"

"Oh no, I forgot; good-by, " said Maggie, pausing, and putting out herhand to him. The action brought her feeling back in a strong currentto Philip; and after they had stood looking at each other in silencefor a few moments, with their hands clasped, she said, withdrawing herhand:

"I'm very grateful to you for thinking of me all those years. It isvery sweet to have people love us. What a wonderful, beautiful thingit seems that God should have made your heart so that you could careabout a queer little girl whom you only knew for a few weeks! Iremember saying to you that I thought you cared for me more than Tomdid. "

"Ah, Maggie, " said Philip, almost fretfully, "you would never love meso well as you love your brother. "

"Perhaps not, " said Maggie, simply; "but then, you know, the firstthing I ever remember in my life is standing with Tom by the side ofthe Floss, while he held my hand; everything before that is dark tome. 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 mymind for five years, didn't I earn some part in her? She ought not totake herself quite away from me. "

"Not if I were free, " said Maggie; "but I am not, I must submit. " Shehesitated a moment, and then added, "And I wanted to say to you, thatyou had better not take more notice of my brother than just bowing tohim. He once told me not to speak to you again, and he doesn't changehis mind--Oh dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good-by. " Shegave 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 quicklydisappearing behind the last fir-tree; though Philip's gaze after herremained immovable for minutes as if he saw her still. 

Maggie went home, with an inward conflict already begun; Philip wenthome to do nothing but remember and hope. You can hardly help blaminghim severely. He was four or five years older than Maggie, and had afull consciousness of his feeling toward her to aid him in foreseeingthe character his contemplated interviews with her would bear in theopinion of a third person. But you must not suppose that he wascapable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been satisfiedwithout persuading himself that he was seeking to infuse somehappiness into Maggie's life, --seeking this even more than any directends for himself. He could give her sympathy; he could give her help. There was not the slightest promise of love toward him in her manner;it was nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shownhim when she was twelve. Perhaps she would never love him; perhaps nowoman ever _could_ love him. Well, then, he would endure that; heshould at least have the happiness of seeing her, of feeling somenearness to her. And he clutched passionately the possibility that she_might_ love him; perhaps the feeling would grow, if she could come toassociate him with that watchful tenderness which her nature would beso keenly alive to. If any woman could love him, surely Maggie wasthat woman; there was such wealth of love in her, and there was no oneto claim it all. Then, the pity of it, that a mind like hers should bewithering in its very youth, like a young forest-tree, for want of thelight and space it was formed to flourish in! Could he not hinderthat, by persuading her out of her system of privation? He would beher guardian angel; he would do anything, bear anything, for hersake--except not seeing her. 

Chapter II

Aunt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bob's Thumb

While Maggie's life-struggles had lain almost entirely within her ownsoul, one shadowy army fighting another, and the slain shadows foreverrising again, Tom was engaged in a dustier, noisier warfare, grapplingwith more substantial obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer ofhorses; inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and upliftedhands offering prayers, watching the world's combat from afar, fillingtheir long, empty days with memories and fears; outside, the men, infierce struggle with things divine and human, quenching memory in thestronger light of purpose, losing the sense of dread and even ofwounds in the hurrying ardor of action. 

From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth of whom youwould prophesy failure in anything he had thoroughly wished; thewagers are likely to be on his side, notwithstanding his small successin the classics. For Tom had never desired success in this field ofenterprise; and for getting a fine flourishing growth of stupiditythere is nothing like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjectsin which it feels no interest. But now Tom's strong will boundtogether his integrity, his pride, his family regrets, and hispersonal ambition, and made them one force, concentrating his effortsand surmounting discouragements. His uncle Deane, who watched himclosely, soon began to conceive hopes of him, and to be rather proudthat he had brought into the employment of the firm a nephew whoappeared to be made of such good commercial stuff. The real kindnessof placing him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in thehints his uncle began to throw out, that after a time he might perhapsbe trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for the firmvarious vulgar commodities with which I need not shock refined ears inthis place; and it was doubtless with a view to this result that Mr. Deane, when he expected to take his wine alone, would tell Tom to stepin and sit with him an hour, and would pass that hour in muchlecturing and catechising concerning articles of export and import, with an occasional excursus of more indirect utility on the relativeadvantages to the merchants of St. Ogg's of having goods brought intheir own and in foreign bottoms, --a subject on which Mr. Deane, as aship-owner, naturally threw off a few sparks when he got warmed withtalk and wine. 

Already, in the second year, Tom's salary was raised; but all, exceptthe price of his dinner and clothes, went home into the tin box; andhe shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into expenses in spiteof himself. Not that Tom was moulded on the spoony type of theIndustrious Apprentice; he had a very strong appetite forpleasure, --would have liked to be a Tamer of horses and to make adistinguished figure in all neighboring eyes, dispensing treats andbenefits to others with well-judged liberality, and being pronouncedone of the finest young fellows of those parts; nay, he determined toachieve these things sooner or later; but his practical shrewdnesstold him that the means no such achievements could only lie for him inpresent abstinence and self-denial; there were certain milestones tobe 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 withoutswerving, contracting some rather saturnine sternness, as a young manis likely to do who has a premature call upon him for self-reliance. Tom felt intensely that common cause with his father which springsfrom family pride, and was bent on being irreproachable as a son; buthis growing experience caused him to pass much silent criticism on therashness and imprudence of his father's past conduct; theirdispositions were not in sympathy, and Tom's face showed littleradiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of him, againstwhich she struggled as something unfair to her consciousness of widerthoughts and deeper motives; but it was of no use to struggle. Acharacter at unity with itself--that performs what it intends, subduesevery counteracting impulse, and has no visions beyond the distinctlypossible--is strong by its very negations. 

You may imagine that Tom's more and more obvious unlikeness to hisfather was well fitted to conciliate the maternal aunts and uncles;and Mr. Deane's favorable reports and predictions to Mr. Gleggconcerning Tom's qualifications for business began to be discussedamongst them with various acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, todo the family credit without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs. Pullet had always thought it strange if Tom's excellent complexion, soentirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a certainty that he wouldturn out well; his juvenile errors of running down the peacock, andgeneral disrespect to his aunts, only indicating a tinge of Tulliverblood which he had doubtless outgrown. Mr. Glegg, who had contracted acautious liking for Tom ever since his spirited and sensible behaviorwhen the execution was in the house, was now warming into a resolutionto further his prospects actively, --some time, when an opportunityoffered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate loss; butMrs. Glegg observed that she was not given to speak without book, assome people were; that those who said least were most likely to findtheir words made good; and that when the right moment came, it wouldbe seen who could do something better than talk. Uncle Pullet, aftersilent meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly tothe conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do well, it wasbetter not to meddle with him. 

Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any one buthimself, though, with a natural sensitiveness toward all indicationsof favorable opinion, he was glad to see his uncle Glegg look in onhim sometimes in a friendly way during business hours, and glad to beinvited to dine at his house, though he usually preferred declining onthe ground that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a yearago, something had occurred which induced Tom to test his uncleGlegg's friendly disposition. 

Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds without seeingTom and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge as he was coming home fromSt. Ogg's one evening, that they might have a little private talk. Hetook the liberty of asking if Mr. Tom had ever thought of making moneyby 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 hada particular friend who had offered to do a little business for him inthat way in Laceham goods, and would be glad to serve Mr. Tom on thesame footing. Tom was interested at once, and begged for fullexplanation, wondering he had not thought of this plan before. 

He was so well pleased with the prospect of a speculation that mightchange the slow process of addition into multiplication, that he atonce determined to mention the matter to his father, and get hisconsent to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to thepurchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have consulted hisfather, but he had just paid his last quarter's money into the tinbox, and there was no other resource. All the savings were there; forMr. Tulliver would not consent to put the money out at interest lesthe should lose it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of somecorn, and had lost by it, he could not be easy without keeping themoney under his eye. 

Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearthwith his father that evening, and Mr. Tulliver listened, leaningforward in his arm-chair and looking up in Tom's face with a scepticalglance. His first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he wasin some awe of Tom's wishes, and since he had the sense of being an"unlucky" father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness anddetermination to be master. He took the key of the bureau from hispocket, got out the key of the large chest, and fetched down the tinbox, --slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a painfulparting. Then he seated himself against the table, and opened the boxwith that little padlock-key which he fingered in his waistcoat pocketin all vacant moments. There they were, the dingy bank-notes and thebright sovereigns, and he counted them out on the table--only ahundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching. 

"How much do you want, then?" he said, speaking as if the words burnthis lips. 

"Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?" said Tom. 

Mr. Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his handover 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 weget. And in this way we might double our savings. "

"Ay, my lad, " said the father, keeping his hand on the money, "but youmight lose it, --you might lose a year o' my life, --and I haven't gotmany. "

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 sureon't. If you trust to luck, it's sure to be against me. It's OldHarry's got the luck in his hands; and if I lose one year, I shallnever pick it up again; death 'ull o'ertake me. "

Mr. Tulliver's voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutesbefore he said:

"I'll give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly. "

But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determined to askhis uncle Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on condition of receivingfive per cent. Of the profits. That was really a very small thing toask. So when Bob called the next day at the wharf to know thedecision, Tom proposed that they should go together to his uncleGlegg's to open the business; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel that Bobs' tongue would relieve him from someembarrassment. 

Mr. Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of a hotAugust day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to assure himselfthat the sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him entered Tom, in what appeared to Mr. Glegg very questionable companionship, --thatof a man with a pack on his back, --for Bob was equipped for a newjourney, --and of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow, swaying movement from side to side, and glanced from under hiseye-lids with a surly indifference which might after all be a cover tothe most offensive designs. 

Mr. Glegg's spectacles, which had been assisting him in counting thefruit, made these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him. 

"Heigh! heigh! keep that dog back, will you?" he shouted, snatching upa stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors werewithin three yards of him. 

"Get out wi' you, Mumps, " said Bob, with a kick. "He's as quiet as alamb, sir, "--an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl ashe retreated behind his master's legs. 

"Why, what ever does this mean, Tom?" said Mr. Glegg. "Have youbrought information about the scoundrels as cut my trees?" If Bob camein the character of "information, " Mr. Glegg saw reasons fortolerating some irregularity. 

"No, sir, " said Tom; "I came to speak to you about a little matter ofbusiness of my own. "

"Ay--well; but what has this dog got to do with it?" said the oldgentleman, getting mild again. 

"It's my dog, sir, " said the ready Bob. "An' it's me as put Mr. Tom upto the bit o' business; for Mr. Tom's been a friend o' mine iver sinceI was a little chap; fust thing iver I did was frightenin' the birdsfor 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'commission's paid, --as he shouldn't lay hold o' the chance for want o'money. An' when there's the Laceham goods, --lors! they're made o'purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy; light, an' takeup no room, --you may pack twenty pound so as you can't see thepassill; an' they're manifacturs as please fools, so I reckon theyaren't like to want a market. An' I'd go to Laceham an' buy in thegoods for Mr. Tom along wi' my own. An' there's the shupercargo o' thebit of a vessel as is goin' to take 'em out. I know him partic'lar;he's a solid man, an' got a family i' the town here. Salt, his nameis, --an' a briny chap he is too, --an' if you don't believe me, I cantake you to him. "

Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassedloquacity, with which his understanding could hardly keep pace. Helooked at Bob, first over his spectacles, then through them, then overthem again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle's impression, began towish he had not brought this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob's talkappeared less seemly, now some one besides himself was listening toit. 

"You seem to be a knowing fellow, " said Mr. Glegg, at last. 

"Ay, sir, you say true, " returned Bob, nodding his head aside; "Ithink my head's all alive inside like an old cheese, for I'm so fullo' plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn't Mumps to talk to, Ishould get top-heavy an' tumble in a fit. I suppose it's because Iniver went to school much. That's what I jaw my old mother for. Isays, 'You should ha' sent me to school a bit more, ' I says, 'an' thenI 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; sheates 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'sbotherin, ' a wife is, --and Mumps mightn't like her. "

Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retiredfrom business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still adisapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious. 

"Ah, " he said, "I should think you're at a loss for ways o' spendingyour money, else you wouldn't keep that big dog, to eat as much as twoChristians. It's shameful--shameful!" But he spoke more in sorrow thanin anger, and quickly added:

"But, come now, let's hear more about this business, Tom. I supposeyou want a little sum to make a venture with. But where's all your ownmoney? You don't spend it all--eh?"

"No, 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 poundsto begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I couldgradually 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 badnotion, and I won't say as I wouldn't be your man. But it 'ull be aswell for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then--here's thisfriend o' yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you've gotsomebody 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 meanit would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhapsit would be right for you to have some security. "

"You get your percentage out o' the purchase, I suppose?" said Mr. Glegg, looking at Bob. 

"No, sir, " said Bob, rather indignantly; "I didn't offer to get aapple for Mr. Tom, o' purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When Iplay folks tricks, there'll be more fun in 'em nor that. "

"Well, but it's nothing but right you should have a small percentage, "said Mr. Glegg. "I've no opinion o' transactions where folks do thingsfor 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 theend, --I make myself look big, wi' makin' a bigger purchase. That'swhat I'm thinking on. Lors! I'm a 'cute chap, --I am. "

"Mr. Glegg, Mr. Glegg!" said a severe voice from the open parlorwindow, "pray are you coming in to tea, or are you going to standtalking with packmen till you get murdered in the open daylight?"

"Murdered?" said Mr. Glegg; "what's the woman talking of? Here's yournephey Tom come about a bit o' business. "

"Murdered, --yes, --it isn't many 'sizes ago since a packman murdered ayoung woman in a lone place, and stole her thimble, and threw her bodyinto a ditch. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Glegg, soothingly, "you're thinking o' the manwi' 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 hisaunt know about it, instead o' whispering in corners, in thatplotting, 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. "Wedon't want anything. I don't deal wi' packmen. Mind you shut the gateafter you. "

"Stop a bit; not so fast, " said Mr. Glegg; "I haven't done with thisyoung man yet. Come in, Tom; come in, " he added, stepping in at theFrench window. 

"Mr. Glegg, " said Mrs. G. , in a fatal tone, "if you're going to letthat man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very face, be so goodas 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 oncethat Mrs. Glegg was a bit of game worth running down, and longed to beat the sport; "we'll stay out upo' the gravel here, --Mumps and mewill. 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'swonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies; and'spartic'lar fond of 'em when they've good shapes. Lors!" added Bob, laying down his pack on the gravel, "it's a thousand pities such alady as you shouldn't deal with a packman, i' stead o' goin' intothese newfangled shops, where there's half-a-dozen fine gents wi'their chins propped up wi' a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi'ornamental stoppers, an' all got to get their dinner out of a bit o'calico; it stan's to reason you must pay three times the price you paya 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 onhim, whether he will or no. But lors! mum, you know what it is betternor 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 effecton _her;_ while her husband, standing behind her with his hands in hispockets and legs apart, winked and smiled with conjugal delight at theprobability of his wife's being circumvented. 

"Ay, to be sure, mum, " said Bob. "Why, you must ha' dealt wi' no endo' packmen when you war a young lass--before the master here had theluck to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do, --seen th' housemany a time, --close upon Squire Darleigh's, --a stone house wi'steps----"

"Ah, that it had, " said Mrs. Glegg, pouring out the tea. "You knowsomething o' my family, then? Are you akin to that packman with asquint in his eye, as used to bring th' Irish linen?"

"Look you there now!" said Bob, evasively. "Didn't I know as you'dremember the best bargains you've made in your life was made wi'packmen? Why, you see even a squintin' packman's better nor a shopmanas can see straight. Lors! if I'd had the luck to call at the stonehouse wi' my pack, as lies here, "--stooping and thumping the bundleemphatically with his fist, --"an' th' handsome young lasses allstannin' out on the stone steps, it ud' ha' been summat like openin' apack, that would. It's on'y the poor houses now as a packman calls on, if it isn't for the sake o' the sarvant-maids. They're paltry times, these are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons now, an' what theywas when you wore 'em, --why, you wouldn't put such a thing on now, Ican see. It must be first-rate quality, the manifactur as you'dbuy, --summat as 'ud wear as well as your own faitures. "

"Yes, better quality nor any you're like to carry; you've got nothingfirst-rate but brazenness, I'll be bound, " said Mrs. Glegg, with atriumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. "Mr. Glegg, are yougoing ever to sit down to your tea? Tom, there's a cup for you. "

"You speak true there, mum, " said Bob. "My pack isn't for ladies likeyou. The time's gone by for that. Bargains picked up dirt cheap! A bito' damage here an' there, as can be cut out, or else niver seen i' thewearin', but not fit to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o'things as nobody sees. I'm not the man as 'ud offer t' open my pack to_you_, mum; no, no; I'm a imperent chap, as you say, --these timesmakes folks imperent, --but I'm not up to the mark o' that. "

"Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?" said Mrs. Glegg. "Fine-colored things, I suppose, --shawls an' that?"

"All sorts, mum, all sorts, " said Bob, --thumping his bundle; "but letus say no more about that, if _you_ please. I'm here upo' Mr. Tom'sbusiness, an' I'm not the man to take up the time wi' my own. "

"And pray, what _is_ this business as is to be kept from me?" saidMrs. Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, was obliged to letthe one-half wait. 

"A little plan o' nephey Tom's here, " said good-natured Mr. Glegg;"and not altogether a bad 'un, I think. A little plan for makingmoney; that's the right sort o' plan for young folks as have got theirfortin to make, eh, Jane?"

"But I hope it isn't a plan where he expects iverything to be done forhim by his friends; that's what the young folks think of mostlynowadays. And pray, what has this packman got to do wi' what goes onin our family? Can't you speak for yourself, Tom, and let your auntknow things, as a nephey should?"

"This is Bob Jakin, aunt, " said Tom, bridling the irritation that auntGlegg's voice always produced. "I've known him ever since we werelittle boys. He's a very good fellow, and always ready to do me akindness. And he has had some experience in sending goods out, --asmall part of a cargo as a private speculation; and he thinks if Icould begin to do a little in the same way, I might make some money. Alarge interest is got in that way. "

"Large int'rest?" said aunt Glegg, with eagerness; "and what do youcall large int'rest?"

"Ten or twelve per cent, Bob says, after expenses are paid. "

"Then why wasn't I let to know o' such things before, Mr. Glegg?" saidMrs. Glegg, turning to her husband, with a deep grating tone ofreproach. "Haven't you allays told me as there was no getting more norfive per cent?"

"Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman, " said Mr. Glegg. "You couldn'tgo into trade, could you? You can't get more than five per cent withsecurity. "

"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. Butif you'd a mind to lend a bit o' money to Mr. Tom, he'd pay you six orseven per zent, an' get a trifle for himself as well; an' agood-natur'd lady like you 'ud like the feel o' the money better ifyour nephey took part on it. "

"What do you say, Mrs. G. ?" said Mr. Glegg. "I've a notion, when I'vemade a bit more inquiry, as I shall perhaps start Tom here with a bitof a nest-egg, --he'll pay me int'rest, you know, --an' if you've gotsome little sums lyin' idle twisted up in a stockin' toe, or that----"

"Mr. Glegg, it's beyond iverything! You'll go and give information tothe tramps next, as they may come and rob me. "

"Well, well, as I was sayin', if you like to join me wi' twentypounds, you can--I'll make it fifty. That'll be a pretty goodnest-egg, eh, Tom?"

"You're not counting on me, Mr. Glegg, I hope, " said his wife. "Youcould do fine things wi' my money, I don't doubt. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Glegg, rather snappishly, "then we'll do withoutyou. 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, " saidMrs. G. , "and want to shut me out o' my own nephey's business. I neversaid I wouldn't put money into it, --I don't say as it shall be twentypounds, though you're so ready to say it for me, --but he'll see someday as his aunt's in the right not to risk the money she's saved forhim till it's proved as it won't be lost. "

"Ay, that's a pleasant sort o'risk, that is, " said Mr. Glegg, indiscreetly winking at Tom, who couldn't avoid smiling. But Bobstemmed the injured lady's outburst. 

"Ay, mum, " he said admiringly, "you know what's what--you do. An' it'snothing 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 goodkin. I got my bit of a nest-egg, as the master calls it, all by my ownsharpness, --ten suvreigns it was, --wi' dousing the fire at Torry'smill, an' it's growed an' growed by a bit an' a bit, till I'n got amatter o' thirty pound to lay out, besides makin' my mothercomfor'ble. I should get more, on'y I'm such a soft wi' the women, --Ican't help lettin' 'em hev such good bargains. There's this bundle, now, " thumping it lustily, "any other chap 'ud make a pretty penny outon it. But me!--lors, I shall sell 'em for pretty near what I paid for'em. "

"Have you got a bit of good net, now?" said Mrs. Glegg, in apatronizing tone, moving from the tea-table, and folding her napkin. 

"Eh, mum, not what you'd think it worth your while to look at. I'dscorn to show it you. It 'ud be an insult to you. "

"But let me see, " said Mrs. Glegg, still patronizing. "If they'redamaged goods, they're like enough to be a bit the better quality. "

"No, mum, I know my place, " said Bob, lifting up his pack andshouldering it. "I'm not going t' expose the lowness o' my trade to alady 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 amind to go and see Salt. "

"All in good time, " said Mr. Glegg, really unwilling to cut short thedialogue. "Are you wanted at the wharf, Tom?"

"No, sir; I left Stowe in my place. "

"Come, put down your pack, and let me see, " said Mrs. Glegg, drawing achair to the window and seating herself with much dignity. 

"Don't you ask it, mum, " said Bob, entreatingly. 

"Make no more words, " said Mrs. Glegg, severely, "but do as I tellyou. "

"Eh mum, I'm loth, that I am, " said Bob, slowly depositing his pack onthe step, and beginning to untie it with unwilling fingers. "But whatyou order shall be done" (much fumbling in pauses between thesentences). "It's not as you'll buy a single thing on me, --I'd besorry for you to do it, --for think o' them poor women up i' thevillages there, as niver stir a hundred yards from home, --it 'ud be apity for anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, it's as good as ajunketing to 'em when they see me wi' my pack, an' I shall niver pickup such bargains for 'em again. Least ways, I've no time now, for I'moff to Laceham. See here now, " Bob went on, becoming rapid again, andholding up a scarlet woollen Kerchief with an embroidered wreath inthe corner; "here's a thing to make a lass's mouth water, an' on'y twoshillin'--an' why? Why, 'cause there's a bit of a moth-hole 'i thisplain end. Lors, I think the moths an' the mildew was sent byProvidence 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 hankicher on 'em 'ud ha' gone to the rich, handsome ladies, likeyou, mum, at five shillin' apiece, --not a farthin' less; but what doesthe moth do? Why, it nibbles off three shillin' o' the price i' notime; an' then a packman like me can carry 't to the poor lasses aslive 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 coloredthings 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 thecolored things with an air of desperation. "I knowed it ud' turnagain' you to look at such paltry articles as I carry. Here's a pieceo' figured muslin now, what's the use o' you lookin' at it? You mightas well look at poor folks's victual, mum; it 'ud on'y take away yourappetite. There's a yard i' the middle on't as the pattern's allmissed, --lors, why, it's a muslin as the Princess Victoree might ha'wore; but, " added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf, as if tosave Mrs. Glegg's eyes, "it'll be bought up by the huckster's wife atFibb's End, --that's where _it'll_ go--ten shillin' for the wholelot--ten yards, countin' the damaged un--five-an'-twenty shillin' 'udha' been the price, not a penny less. But I'll say no more, mum; it'snothing to you, a piece o' muslin like that; you can afford to paythree 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 funon----"

"Bring me that muslin, " said Mrs. Glegg. "It's a buff; I'm partial tobuff. "

"Eh, but a _damaged_ thing, " said Bob, in a tone of deprecatingdisgust. "You'd do nothing with it, mum, you'd give it to the cook, Iknow you would, an' it 'ud be a pity, --she'd look too much like a ladyin 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 extrahalf-yard, while Mrs. Glegg was busy examining the damaged yard, andthrowing her head back to see how far the fault would be lost on adistant view. 

"I'll give you six shilling for it, " she said, throwing it down withthe air of a person who mentions an ultimatum. 

"Didn't I tell you now, mum, as it 'ud hurt your feelings to look atmy pack? That damaged bit's turned your stomach now; I see it has, "said Bob, wrapping the muslin up with the utmost quickness, andapparently about to fasten up his pack. "You're used to seein' adifferent sort o' article carried by packmen, when you lived at thestone 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' forthat muslin, an' be sorry as I didn't ask her more. Such articlesanswer i' the wearin', --they keep their color till the threads meltaway i' the wash-tub, an' that won't be while _I'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 tosee what my trade's come to, --spotted and sprigged, you see, beautifulbut yallow, --'s been lyin' by an' got the wrong color. I could niverha' bought such net, if it hadn't been yallow. Lors, it's took me adeal o' study to know the vally o' such articles; when I begun tocarry a pack, I was as ignirant as a pig; net or calico was all thesame to me. I thought them things the most vally as was the thickest. I was took in dreadful, for I'm a straightforrard chap, --up to notricks, mum. I can only say my nose is my own, for if I went beyond, Ishould lose myself pretty quick. An' I gev five-an'-eightpence forthat piece o' net, --if I was to tell y' anything else I should betellin' you fibs, --an' five-an'-eightpence I shall ask of it, not apenny more, for it's a woman's article, an' I like to 'commodate thewomen. Five-an'-eightpence for six yards, --as cheap as if it was onlythe dirt on it as was paid for. '"

"I don't mind having three yards of it, '" said Mrs. Glegg. 

"Why, there's but six altogether, " said Bob. "No, mum, it isn't worthyour while; you can go to the shop to-morrow an' get the same patternready 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 eightshilling for it. "

"You _will_ be jokin', " said Bob, looking up with a laughing face; "Isee'd you was a pleasant lady when I fust come to the winder. "

"Well, put it me out, " said Mrs. Glegg, peremptorily. 

"But if I let you have it for ten shillin', mum, you'll be so good asnot tell nobody. I should be a laughin'-stock; the trade 'ud hoot me, if they knowed it. I'm obliged to make believe as I ask more nor I dofor my goods, else they'd find out I was a flat. I'm glad you don'tinsist upo' buyin' the net, for then I should ha' lost my two bestbargains 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 thecheap 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 thesort o' article I'm recommendin' Mr. Tom to send out. Lors, it's afine 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 pounds into them goods, --a ladywi' a cork leg, but as sharp, --you wouldn't catch _her_ runnin' herhead into a sack; _she'd_ see her way clear out o' anything aforeshe'd be in a hurry to start. Well, she let out thirty pound to ayoung 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' shegot her eight per zent fust go off; an' now you can't hold her but shemust be sendin' out carguies wi' every ship, till she's gettin' asrich as a Jew. Bucks her name is, she doesn't live i' this town. Nowthen, mum, if you'll please to give me the net----"

"Here's fifteen shilling, then, for the two, " said Mrs. Glegg. "Butit's a shameful price. "

"Nay, mum, you'll niver say that when you're upo' your knees i' churchi' five years' time. I'm makin' you a present o' th' articles; I am, indeed. That eightpence shaves off my profits as clean as a razor. Nowthen, sir, " continued Bob, shouldering his pack, "if you please, I'llbe glad to go and see about makin' Mr. Tom's fortin. Eh, I wish I'dgot another twenty pound to lay out _my_sen; I shouldn't stay to saymy Catechism afore I knowed what to do wi't. "

"Stop a bit, Mr. Glegg, " said the lady, as her husband took his hat, "you never _will_ give me the chance o' speaking. You'll go away now, and finish everything about this business, and come back and tell meit's too late for me to speak. As if I wasn't my nephey's own aunt, and the 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 laidin 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. Idon't say as I sha'n't venture twenty pounds, if you make out aseverything's right and safe. And if I do, Tom, " concluded Mrs. Glegg, turning impressively to her nephew, "I hope you'll allays bear it inmind 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 themoney only lent to me. "

"Very well; that's the Dodson sperrit, " said Mrs. Glegg, rising to gether knitting with the sense that any further remark after this wouldbe bathos. 

Salt--that eminently "briny chap"--having been discovered in a cloudof tobacco-smoke at the Anchor Tavern, Mr. Glegg commenced inquirieswhich turned out satisfactorily enough to warrant the advance of the"nest-egg, " to which aunt Glegg contributed twenty pounds; and in thismodest beginning you see the ground of a fact which might otherwisesurprise you; namely, Tom's accumulation of a fund, unknown to hisfather, that promised in no very long time to meet the more tardyprocess of saving, and quite cover the deficit. When once hisattention had been turned to this source of gain, Tom determined tomake the most of it, and lost on opportunity of obtaining informationand extending his small enterprises. In not telling his father, he wasinfluenced by that strange mixture of opposite feelings which oftengives equal truth to those who blame an action and those who admireit, --partly, it was that disinclination to confidence which is seenbetween near kindred, that family repulsion which spoils the mostsacred relations of our lives; partly, it was the desire to surprisehis father with a great joy. He did not see that it would have beenbetter to soothe the interval with a new hope, and prevent thedelirium of a too sudden elation. 

At the time of Maggie's first meeting with Philip, Tom had alreadynearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his own capital; and while theywere walking by the evening light in the Red Deeps, he, by the sameevening light, was riding into Laceham, proud of being on his firstjourney on behalf of Guest & Co. , and revolving in his mind all thechances that by the end of another year he should have doubled hisgains, lifted off the obloquy of debt from his father's name, andperhaps--for he should be twenty-one--have got a new start forhimself, on a higher platform of employment. Did he not desire it? Hewas quite sure that he did. 

Chapter III

The Wavering Balance

I said that Maggie went home that evening from the Red Deeps with amental conflict already begun. You have seen clearly enough, in herinterview with Philip, what that conflict was. Here suddenly was anopening in the rocky wall which shut in the narrow valley ofhumiliation, where all her prospect was the remote, unfathomed sky;and some of the memory-haunting earthly delights were no longer out ofher reach. She might have books, converse, affection; she might heartidings of the world from which her mind had not yet lost its sense ofexile; and it would be a kindness to Philip too, who waspitiable, --clearly not happy. And perhaps here was an opportunityindicated for making her mind more worthy of its highest service;perhaps the noblest, completest devoutness could hardly exist withoutsome width of knowledge; _must_ she always live in this resignedimprisonment? It was so blameless, so good a thing that there shouldbe friendship between her and Philip; the motives that forbade it wereso unreasonable, so unchristian! But the severe monotonous warningcame again and again, --that she was losing the simplicity andclearness of her life by admitting a ground of concealment; and that, by forsaking the simple rule of renunciation, she was throwing herselfunder the seductive guidance of illimitable wants. She thought she hadwon strength to obey the warning before she allowed herself the nextweek to turn her steps in the evening to the Red Deeps. But while shewas resolved to say an affectionate farewell to Philip, how she lookedforward to that evening walk in the still, fleckered shade of thehollows, away from all that was harsh and unlovely; to theaffectionate, admiring looks that would meet her; to the sense ofcomradeship that childish memories would give to wiser, older talk; tothe certainty that Philip would care to hear everything she said, which no one else cared for! It was a half-hour that it would be veryhard to turn her back upon, with the sense that there would be noother like it. Yet she said what she meant to say; she looked firm aswell as sad. 

"Philip, I have made up my mind; it is right that we should give eachother up, in everything but memory. I could not see you withoutconcealment--stay, I know what you are going to say, --it is otherpeople's wrong feelings that make concealment necessary; butconcealment is bad, however it may be caused. I feel that it would bebad for me, for us both. And then, if our secret were discovered, there would be nothing but misery, --dreadful anger; and then we mustpart after all, and it would be harder, when we were used to seeingeach other. "

Philip's face had flushed, and there was a momentary eagerness ofexpression, as if he had been about to resist this decision with allhis might. 

But he controlled himself, and said, with assumed calmness: "Well, Maggie, if we must part, let us try and forget it for one half hour;let us talk together a little while, for the last time. "

He took her hand, and Maggie felt no reason to withdraw it; hisquietness made her all the more sure she had given him great pain, andshe wanted to show him how unwillingly she had given it. They walkedtogether hand in hand in silence. 

"Let us sit down in the hollow, " said Philip, "where we stood the lasttime. See how the dog-roses have strewed the ground, and spread theiropal petals over it. "

They sat down at the roots of the slanting ash. 

"I've begun my picture of you among the Scotch firs, Maggie, " saidPhilip, "so you must let me study your face a little, while youstay, --since I am not to see it again. Please turn your head thisway. "

This was said in an entreating voice, and it would have been very hardof Maggie to refuse. The full, lustrous face, with the bright blackcoronet, looked down like that of a divinity well pleased to beworshipped, on the pale-hued, small-featured face that was turned upto it. 

"I shall be sitting for my second portrait then, " she said, smiling. "Will it be larger than the other?"

"Oh yes, much larger. It is an oil-painting. You will look like a tallHamadryad, dark and strong and noble, just issued from one of thefir-trees, when the stems are casting their afternoon shadows on thegrass. "

"You seem to think more of painting than of anything now, Philip?"

"Perhaps I do, " said Philip, rather sadly; "but I think of too manythings, --sow all sorts of seeds, and get no great harvest from any oneof them. I'm cursed with susceptibility in every direction, andeffective faculty in none. I care for painting and music; I care forclassic literature, and mediaeval literature, and modern literature; Iflutter all ways, and fly in none. "

"But surely that is a happiness to have so many tastes, --to enjoy somany beautiful things, when they are within your reach, " said Maggie, musingly. "It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only tohave one sort of talent, --almost like a carrier-pigeon. "

"It might be a happiness to have many tastes if I were like othermen, " said Philip, bitterly. "I might get some power and distinctionby mere mediocrity, as they do; at least I should get those middlingsatisfactions which make men contented to do without great ones. Imight think society at St. Ogg's agreeable then. But nothing couldmake life worth the purchase-money of pain to me, but some facultythat 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 theconsciousness that Philip's words had set her own discontent vibratingagain as it used to do. 

"I understand what you mean, " she said, "though I know so much lessthan you do. I used to think I could never bear life if it kept onbeing the same every day, and I must always be doing things of noconsequence, and never know anything greater. But, dear Philip, Ithink we are only like children that some one who is wiser is takingcare of. Is it not right to resign ourselves entirely, whatever may bedenied us? I have found great peace in that for the last two or threeyears, even joy in subduing my own will. "

"Yes, Maggie, " said Philip, vehemently; "and you are shutting yourselfup in a narrow, self-delusive fanaticism, which is only a way ofescaping pain by starving into dulness all the highest powers of yournature. Joy and peace are not resignation; resignation is the willingendurance of a pain that is not allayed, that you don't expect to beallayed. Stupefaction is not resignation; and it is stupefaction toremain in ignorance, --to shut up all the avenues by which the life ofyour fellow-men might become known to you. I am not resigned; I am notsure that life is long enough to learn that lesson. _You_ are notresigned; you are only trying to stupefy yourself. "

Maggie's lips trembled; she felt there was some truth in what Philipsaid, and yet there was a deeper consciousness that, for any immediateapplication it had to her conduct, it was no better than falsity. Herdouble impression corresponded to the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seriously believed what he said, but he said it with vehemencebecause it made an argument against the resolution that opposed hiswishes. But Maggie's face, made more childlike by the gathering tears, touched him with a tenderer, less egotistic feeling. He took her handand said gently:

Don't let us think of such things in this short half-hour, Maggie. Letus only care about being together. We shall be friends in spite ofseparation. We shall always think of each other. I shall be glad tolive as long as you are alive, because I shall think there may alwayscome a time when I can--when you will let me help you in some way. "

"What a dear, good brother you would have been, Philip, " said Maggie, smiling through the haze of tears. "I think you would have made asmuch fuss about me, and been as pleased for me to love you, as wouldhave satisfied even me. You would have loved me well enough to bearwith me, and forgive me everything. That was what I always longed thatTom should do. I was never satisfied with a _little_ of anything. Thatis why it is better for me to do without earthly happiness altogether. I never felt that I had enough music, --I wanted more instrumentsplaying together; I wanted voices to be fuller and deeper. Do you eversing now, Philip?" she added abruptly, as if she had forgotten whatwent before. 

"Yes, " he said, "every day, almost. But my voice is only middling, like everything else in me. "

"Oh, sing me something, --just one song. I _may_ listen to that beforeI 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 overmy head to listen. "

"_I_ know, " said Philip; and Maggie buried her face in her hands whilehe sang _sotto voce_, "Love in her eyes sits playing, " and then said, "That's it, isn't it?"

"Oh no, I won't stay, " said Maggie, starting up. "It will only hauntme. Let us walk, Philip. I must go home. "

She moved away, so that he was obliged to rise and follow her. 

"Maggie, " he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "don't persist in thiswilful, senseless privation. It makes me wretched to see you benumbingand cramping your nature in this way. You were so full of life whenyou were a child; I thought you would be a brilliant woman, --all witand bright imagination. And it flashes out in your face still, untilyou 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 thisself-torture. "

"I shall have strength given me, " said Maggie, tremulously. 

"No, you will not, Maggie; no one has strength given to do what isunnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek safety in negations. Nocharacter becomes strong in that way. You will be thrown into theworld some day, and then every rational satisfaction of your naturethat you deny now will assault you like a savage appetite. "

Maggie started and paused, looking at Philip with alarm in her face. 

"Philip, how dare you shake me in this way? You are a tempter. "

"No, I am not; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight often givesforeboding. _Listen_ to me, --let _me_ supply you with books; do let mesee you sometimes, --be your brother and teacher, as you said atLorton. It is less wrong that you should see me than that you shouldbe committing this long suicide. "

Maggie felt unable to speak. She shook her head and walked on insilence, till they came to the end of the Scotch firs, and she put outher hand in sign of parting. 

"Do you banish me from this place forever, then, Maggie? Surely I maycome and walk in it sometimes? If I meet you by chance, there is noconcealment in that?"

It is the moment when our resolution seems about to becomeirrevocable--when the fatal iron gates are about to close uponus--that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear reasoning andfirm conviction, we snatch at any sophistry that will nullify our longstruggles, and bring us the defeat that we love better than victory. 

Maggie felt her heart leap at this subterfuge of Philip's, and therepassed over her face that almost imperceptible shock which accompaniesany relief. He saw it, and they parted in silence. 

Philip's sense of the situation was too complete for him not to bevisited with glancing fears lest he had been intervening toopresumptuously in the action of Maggie's conscience, perhaps for aselfish end. But no!--he persuaded himself his end was not selfish. Hehad little hope that Maggie would ever return the strong feeling hehad for her; and it must be better for Maggie's future life, whenthese petty family obstacles to her freedom had disappeared, that thepresent should not be entirely sacrificed, and that she should havesome opportunity of culture, --some interchange with a mind above thevulgar level of those she was now condemned to live with. If we onlylook far enough off for the consequence of our actions, we can alwaysfind some point in the combination of results by which those actionscan be justified; by adopting the point of view of a Providence whoarranges results, or of a philosopher who traces them, we shall findit possible to obtain perfect complacency in choosing to do what ismost agreeable to us in the present moment. And it was in this waythat Philip justified his subtle efforts to overcome Maggie's trueprompting against a concealment that would introduce doubleness intoher own mind, and might cause new misery to those who had the primarynatural claim on her. But there was a surplus of passion in him thatmade him half independent of justifying motives. His longing to seeMaggie, and make an element in her life, had in it some of that savageimpulse to snatch an offered joy which springs from a life in whichthe mental and bodily constitution have made pain predominate. He hadnot his full share in the common good of men; he could not even passmuster with the insignificant, but must be singled out for pity, andexcepted from what was a matter of course with others. Even to Maggiehe was an exception; it was clear that the thought of his being herlover had never entered her mind. 

Do not think too hardly of Philip. Ugly and deformed people have greatneed of unusual virtues, because they are likely to be extremelyuncomfortable without them; but the theory that unusual virtues springby a direct consequence out of personal disadvantages, as animals getthicker wool in severe climates, is perhaps a little overstrained. Thetemptations of beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only bearthe same relation to those of ugliness, as the temptation to excess ata feast, where the delights are varied for eye and ear as well aspalate, bears to the temptations that assail the desperation ofhunger. Does not the Hunger Tower stand as the type of the utmosttrial to what is human in us?

Philip had never been soothed by that mother's love which flows out tous in the greater abundance because our need is greater, which clingsto us the more tenderly because we are the less likely to be winnersin the game of life; and the sense of his father's affection andindulgence toward him was marred by the keener perception of hisfather's faults. Kept aloof from all practical life as Philip hadbeen, and by nature half feminine in sensitiveness, he had some of thewoman's intolerant repulsion toward worldliness and the deliberatepursuit of sensual enjoyment; and this one strong natural tie in hislife, --his relation as a son, --was like an aching limb to him. Perhapsthere is inevitably something morbid in a human being who is in anyway unfavorably excepted from ordinary conditions, until the goodforce has had time to triumph; and it has rarely had time for that attwo-and-twenty. That force was present in Philip in much strength, butthe sun himself looks feeble through the morning mists. 

Chapter IV

Another Love-Scene

Early in the following April, nearly a year after that dubious partingyou have just witnessed, you may, if you like, again see Maggieentering the Red Deeps through the group of Scotch firs. But it isearly afternoon and not evening, and the edge of sharpness in thespring air makes her draw her large shawl close about her and tripalong rather quickly; though she looks round, as usual, that she maytake 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 ishovering about her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting theright hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing. 

"Take back your _Corinne_, " said Maggie, drawing a book from under hershawl. "You were right in telling me she would do me no good; but youwere wrong in thinking I should wish to be like her. "

"Wouldn't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Maggie?" saidPhilip looking up in her face as we look at a first parting in theclouds that promises us a bright heaven once more. 

"Not at all, " said Maggie, laughing. "The Muses were uncomfortablegoddesses, I think, --obliged always to carry rolls and musicalinstruments about with them. If I carried a harp in this climate, youknow, I must have a green baize cover for it; and I should be sure toleave it behind me by mistake. "

"You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then?"

"I didn't finish the book, " said Maggie. "As soon as I came to theblond-haired young lady reading in the park, I shut it up, anddetermined to read no further. I foresaw that that light-complexionedgirl would win away all the love from Corinne and make her miserable. I'm determined to read no more books where the blond-haired womencarry away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudiceagainst them. If you could give me some story, now, where the darkwoman triumphs, it would restore the balance. I want to avenge Rebeccaand Flora MacIvor and Minna, and all the rest of the dark unhappyones. Since you are my tutor, you ought to preserve my mind fromprejudices; you are always arguing against prejudices. "

"Well, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your own person, andcarry away all the love from your cousin Lucy. She is sure to havesome handsome young man of St. Ogg's at her feet now; and you haveonly to shine upon him--your fair little cousin will be quite quenchedin your beams. "

"Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to anythingreal, " said Maggie, looking hurt. "As if I, with my old gowns and wantof all accomplishments, could be a rival of dear little Lucy, --whoknows and does all sorts of charming things, and is ten times prettierthan I am, --even if I were odious and base enough to wish to be herrival. Besides, I never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there; itis only because dear Lucy is good, and loves me, that she comes to seeme, and will have me go to see her sometimes. "

"Maggie, " said Philip, with surprise, "it is not like you to takeplayfulness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg's this morning, and brought away a slight infection of dulness. "

"Well, " said Maggie, smiling, "if you meant that for a joke, it was apoor one; but I thought it was a very good reproof. I thought youwanted to remind me that I am vain, and wish every one to admire memost. But it isn't for that that I'm jealous for the dark women, --notbecause I'm dark myself; it's because I always care the most about theunhappy people. If the blond girl were forsaken, I should like _her_best. I always take the side of the rejected lover in the stories. "

"Then you would never have the heart to reject one yourself, shouldyou, 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 conceited; and yet, if he gotextremely humiliated afterward, I should relent. "

"I've often wondered, Maggie, " Philip said, with some effort, "whetheryou wouldn't really be more likely to love a man that other women werenot likely to love. "

"That would depend on what they didn't like him for, " said Maggie, laughing. "He might be very disagreeable. He might look at me throughan eye-glass stuck in his eye, making a hideous face, as young Torrydoes. I should think other women are not fond of that; but I neverfelt any pity for young Torry. I've never any pity for conceitedpeople, because I think they carry their comfort about with them. "

"But suppose, Maggie, --suppose it was a man who was not conceited, whofelt he had nothing to be conceited about; who had been marked fromchildhood for a peculiar kind of suffering, and to whom you were theday-star of his life; who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely thathe felt it happiness enough for him if you would let him see you atrare moments----"

Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession should cutshort this very happiness, --a pang of the same dread that had kept hislove mute through long months. A rush of self-consciousness told himthat he was besotted to have said all this. Maggie's manner thismorning had been as unconstrained and indifferent as ever. 

But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the unusualemotion in Philip's tone, she had turned quickly to look at him; andas he went on speaking, a great change came over her face, --a flushand slight spasm of the features, such as we see in people who hearsome news that will require them to readjust their conceptions of thepast. She was quite silent, and walking on toward the trunk of afallen tree, she sat down, as if she had no strength to spare for hermuscles. She was trembling. 

"Maggie, " said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in every freshmoment 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 amso surprised, Philip; I had not thought of it. " And the effort to saythis brought the tears down too. 

"Has it made you hate me, Maggie?" said Philip, impetuously. "Do youthink I'm a presumptuous fool?"

"Oh, Philip!" said Maggie, "how can you think I have such feelings? Asif I were not grateful for _any_ love. But--but I had never thought ofyour being my lover. It seemed so far off--like a dream--only like oneof 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 asudden hope. "_Do_ you love me?"

Maggie turned rather pale; this direct question seemed not easy toanswer. But her eyes met Philip's, which were in this moment liquidand beautiful with beseeching love. She spoke with hesitation, yetwith sweet, simple, girlish tenderness. 

"I think I could hardly love any one better; there is nothing but whatI love you for. " She paused a little while, and then added: "But itwill be better for us not to say any more about it, won't it, dearPhilip? You know we couldn't even be friends, if our friendship werediscovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving way aboutseeing you, though it has been so precious to me in some ways; and nowthe 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 fearbefore, you would only have lived through another dreary, benumbingyear, instead of reviving into your real self. "

Maggie shook her head. "It has been very sweet, I know, --all thetalking together, and the books, and the feeling that I had the walkto look forward to, when I could tell you the thoughts that had comeinto 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 haveimpatient thoughts again, --I get weary of my home; and then it cuts meto the heart afterward, that I should ever have felt weary of myfather and mother. I think what you call being benumbed wasbetter--better for me--for then my selfish desires were benumbed. "

Philip had risen again, and was walking backward and forwardimpatiently. 

"No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-conquest, as I've often toldyou. What you call self-conquest--binding and deafening yourself toall but one train of impressions--is only the culture of monomania ina nature like yours. "

He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down by her againand took her hand. 

"Don't think of the past now, Maggie; think only of our love. If youcan really cling to me with all your heart, every obstacle will beovercome in time; we need only wait. I can live on hope. Look at me, Maggie; tell me again it is possible for you to love me. Don't lookaway 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 atLorton. You asked me if I should like you to kiss me, --don't youremember?--and you promised to kiss me when you met me again. Younever kept the promise. "

The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet relief toMaggie. It made the present moment less strange to her. She kissed himalmost as simply and quietly as she had done when she was twelve yearsold. Philip's eyes flashed with delight, but his next words were wordsof discontent. 

"You don't seem happy enough, Maggie; you are forcing yourself to sayyou 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 Idon't think I could love any one better than I love you. I should likealways to live with you--to make you happy. I have always been happywhen I have been with you. There is only one thing I will not do foryour sake; I will never do anything to wound my father. You must neverask that from me. "

"No, Maggie, I will ask nothing; I will bear everything; I'll waitanother year only for a kiss, if you will only give me the first placein 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 herseat, --

"But what would your own father say, Philip? Oh, it is quiteimpossible we can ever be more than friends, --brother and sister insecret, as we have been. Let us give up thinking of everything else. "

"No, Maggie, I can't give you up, --unless you are deceiving me; unlessyou really only care for me as if I were your brother. Tell me thetruth. "

"Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so great as beingwith you, --since I was a little girl, --the days Tom was good to me?And your mind is a sort of world to me; you can tell me all I want toknow. 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 sensethat their parting was near made her more anxious lest she should haveunintentionally left some painful impression on Philip's mind. It wasone of those dangerous moments when speech is at once sincere anddeceptive; when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leavesfloodmarks 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 happierthan other men, in spite of all? We _do_ belong to each other--foralways--whether we are apart or together?"

"Yes, Philip; I should like never to part; I should like to make yourlife very happy. "

"I am waiting for something else. I wonder whether it will come. "

Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stooped her tall headto kiss the pale face that was full of pleading, timid love, --like awoman's. 

She had a moment of real happiness then, --a moment of belief that, ifthere were sacrifice in this love, it was all the richer and moresatisfying. 

She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour since shehad trodden this road before, a new era had begun for her. The tissueof vague dreams must now get narrower and narrower, and all thethreads of thought and emotion be gradually absorbed in the woof ofher actual daily life. 

Chapter V

The Cloven Tree

Secrets are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any programmeour fear has sketched out. Fear is almost always haunted by terribledramatic scenes, which recur in spite of the best-argued probabilitiesagainst them; and during a year that Maggie had had the burthen ofconcealment on her mind, the possibility of discovery had continuallypresented itself under the form of a sudden meeting with her father orTom when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was awarethat this was not one of the most likely events; but it was the scenethat most completely symbolized her inward dread. Those slightindirect suggestions which are dependent on apparently trivialcoincidences and incalculable states of mind, are the favoritemachinery of Fact, but are not the stuff in which Imagination is aptto work. 

Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggie's fears were furthestfrom troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, on whom, seeing thatshe did not live in St. Ogg's, and was neither sharp-eyed norsharp-tempered, it would surely have been quite whimsical of them tofix rather than on aunt Glegg. And yet the channel of fatality--thepathway of the lightning--was no other than aunt Pullet. She did notlive 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 onwhich Mr. Pullet was bound to appear in funeral hatband and scarf atSt. Ogg's church, Mrs. Pullet made this the occasion of dining withsister Glegg, and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was theone day in the week on which Tom was at home in the afternoon; andtoday the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over inunusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invitation, "Come, Magsie, you come too!" when he strolled out with his mother inthe garden to see the advancing cherry-blossoms. He had been betterpleased with Maggie since she had been less odd and ascetic; he waseven getting rather proud of her; several persons had remarked in hishearing that his sister was a very fine girl. To-day there was apeculiar brightness in her face, due in reality to an undercurrent ofexcitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but itmight pass for a sign of happiness. 

"You look very well, my dear, " said aunt Pullet, shaking her headsadly, as they sat round the tea-table. "I niver thought your girl 'udbe so good-looking, Bessy. But you must wear pink, my dear; that bluething as your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crowflower. Janenever _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 forme, --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 gotthem belonging to you as can afford to give you such things whenthey've done with 'em themselves. It stands to reason I must give myown niece clothes now and then, --such things as _I_ buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, there's no giving toher, for she's got everything o' the choicest; sister Deane may wellhold her head up, --though she looks dreadful yallow, poor thing--Idoubt this liver complaint 'ull carry her off. That's what this newvicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the funeral sermon 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, " continued Mrs. Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, "as I don't say Ihaven't got as good, but I must look out my best to match it. "

"Miss Lucy's called the bell o' St. Ogg's, they say; that's a cur'ousword, " observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries of etymologysometimes fell with an oppressive weight. 

"Pooh!" said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, "she's a small thing, not much of a figure. But fine feathers make fine birds. I see nothingto admire so much in those diminutive women; they look silly by theside o' the men, --out o' proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose herthe right size, --neither too little nor too big. "

The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled complacently. 

"But the men aren't _all_ big, " said uncle Pullet, not without someself-reference; "a young fellow may be good-looking and yet not be asix-foot, like Master Tom here. 

"Ah, it's poor talking about littleness and bigness, --anybody maythink it's a mercy they're straight, " said aunt Pullet. "There's thatmismade 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 veryqueer and lonely, doesn't like much company. I shouldn't wonder if hegoes out of his mind; for we never come along the road but he'sa-scrambling out o' the trees and brambles at the Red Deeps. "

This wide statement, by which Mrs. Pullet represented the fact thatshe had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, produced an effect onMaggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate opposite her, andshe was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At Philip's name shehad blushed, and the blush deepened every instant from consciousness, until the mention of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the wholesecret were betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoon lestshe should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands clasped underthe table, not daring to look round. Happily, her father was seated onthe same side with herself, beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not seeher face without stooping forward. Her mother's voice brought thefirst relief, turning the conversation; for Mrs. Tulliver was alwaysalarmed when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband'spresence. Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look up; hereyes met Tom's, but he turned away his head immediately; and she wentto bed that night wondering if he had gathered any suspicion from herconfusion. Perhaps not; perhaps he would think it was only her alarmat her aunt's mention of Wakem before her father; that was theinterpretation her mother had put in it. To her father, Wakem was likea disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure theconsciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence recognized byothers; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about her father couldbe surprising, Maggie thought. 

But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with such aninterpretation; he had seen clearly enough that there was somethingdistinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's excessiveconfusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give shapeto his suspicions, he remembered only lately hearing his mother scoldMaggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground was wet, andbringing home shoes clogged with red soil; still Tom, retaining allhis old repulsion for Philip's deformity, shrank from attributing tohis sister the probability of feeling more than a friendly interest insuch an unfortunate exception to the common run of men. Tom's was anature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to everythingexceptional. 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 ofintercourse whatever with Philip, a stop must be put to it at once;she was disobeying her father's strongest feelings and her brother'sexpress commands, besides compromising herself by secret meetings. Heleft home the next morning in that watchful state of mind which turnsthe most ordinary course of things into pregnant coincidences. 

That afternoon, about half-past three o'clock, Tom was standing on thewharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the probability of the good shipAdelaide coming in, in a day or two, with results highly important toboth of them. 

"Eh, " said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on theother side of the river, "there goes that crooked young Wakem. I knowhim or his shadder as far off as I can see 'em; I'm allays lighting onhim 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 thewarehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his place; he wascalled away home on peremptory business. 

The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate, and hewas pausing to open it deliberately, that he might walk into the housewith an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came out at thefront door in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and hewaited for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him. 

"Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the matter?"Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice. 

"I'm come to walk with you to the Red Deeps, and meet Philip Wakem, "said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which had become habitual withhim, deepening as he spoke. 

Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom kneweverything. At last she said, "I'm, 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 betweenyou and Philip Wakem. "

"Does my father know anything?" said Maggie, still trembling. 

"No, " said Tom indignantly. "But he _shall_ know, if you attempt touse deceit toward me any further. "

"I don't wish to use deceit, " said Maggie, flushing into resentment athearing 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 hashappened, 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 youhave 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 passedbetween you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the RedDeeps?"

"A year ago, " said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave her a certainfund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in abeyance. "You needask me no more questions. We have been friendly a year. We have metand walked together often. He has lent me books. "

"Is that all?" said Tom, looking straight at her with his frown. 

Maggie paused a moment; then, determined to make an end of Tom's rightto accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily:

"No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me. I didn'tthink of it before then; I had only thought of him as an old friend. "

"And you _encouraged_ him?" said Tom, with an expression of disgust. 

"I told him that I loved him too. "

Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and frowning, withhis hands in his pockets. At last he looked up and said coldly, --

"Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take, --eitheryou vow solemnly to me, with your hand on my father's Bible, that youwill never have another meeting or speak another word in private withPhilip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything; and thismonth, when by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you willcause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitfuldaughter, who throws away her own respectability by clandestinemeetings 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 writingwas. 

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 willlet me see him once, or even only write to him and explaineverything, --to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain tomy father. I feel something for Philip too. _He_ is not happy. "

"I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactlywhat 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 Ilaid my hand on the Bible. I don't require that to bind me. "

"Do what _I_ require, " said Tom. "I can't trust you, Maggie. There isno consistency in you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, 'Irenounce all private speech and intercourse with Philip Wakem fromthis time forth. ' Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on myfather; and what is the use of my exerting myself and giving upeverything else for the sake of paying my father's debts, if you areto bring madness and vexation on him, just when he might be easy andhold up his head once more?"

"Oh, Tom, _will_ the debts be paid soon?" said Maggie, clasping herhands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretchedness. 

"If things turn out as I expect, " said Tom. "But, " he added, his voicetrembling with indignation, "while I have been contriving and workingthat my father may have some peace of mind before he dies, --workingfor the respectability of our family, --you have done all you can todestroy both. "

Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction; for the moment, her mindceased 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 solonely, and I was sorry for Philip. And I think enmity and hatred arewicked. "

"Nonsense!" said Tom. "Your duty was clear enough. Say no more; butpromise, 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 yourknowledge. That is the only thing I will say. I will put my hand onthe Bible if you like. "

"Say it, then. "

Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated thepromise. Tom closed the book, and said, "Now let us go. "

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering inanticipation of what Philip was about to suffer, and dreading thegalling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she felt itwas in vain to attempt anything but submission. Tom had his terribleclutch on her conscience and her deepest dread; she writhed under thedemonstrable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, andyet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from itsincompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignationdiverted toward Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyishrepulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was concerned inthe bitter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of ason and a brother. Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his ownmotives any more than into other matters of an intangible kind; he wasquite sure that his own motives as well as actions were good, else hewould have had nothing to do with them. 

Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first time, haveprevented Philip from coming. Then there would be delay, --then shemight get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with doubleviolence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the last momentof suspense, she thought; Philip always met her soon after she gotbeyond them. But they passed across the more open green space, andentered the narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turning, and theycame so close upon him that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenlywithin a yard of each other. There was a moment's silence, in whichPhilip darted a look of inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answerthere, in the pale, parted lips, and the terrified tension of thelarge eyes. Her imagination, always rushing extravagantly beyond animmediate impression, saw her tall, strong brother grasping the feeblePhilip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him. 

"Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, sir?" Tomsaid, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's eyes were turnedon him again. 

"What do you mean?" answered Philip, haughtily. 

"Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and I'lltell you what I mean. I mean, taking advantage of a young girl'sfoolishness and ignorance to get her to have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that hasa good and honest name to support. "

"I deny that, " interrupted Philip, impetuously. "I could never triflewith anything that affected your sister's happiness. She is dearer tome than she is to you; I honor her more than you can ever honor her; Iwould give up my life to her. "

"Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean to pretendthat you didn't know it would be injurious to her to meet you hereweek after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professionsof love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for her, whenneither her father nor your father would ever consent to a marriagebetween you? And _you_, --_you_ to try and worm yourself into theaffections of a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has been shutout from the world by her father's misfortunes! That's your crookednotion of honor, is it? I call it base treachery; I call it takingadvantage of circumstances to win what's too good for you, --what you'dnever get by fair means. "

"It is manly of you to talk in this way to _me_, " said Philip, bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions. "Giants have animmemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You are incapableeven of understanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much forher that I could even desire to be at friendship with _you_. "

"I should be very sorry to understand your feelings, " said Tom, withscorching contempt. "What I wish is that you should understand_me_, --that I shall take care of _my_ sister, and that if you dare tomake the least attempt to come near her, or to write to her, or tokeep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, thatought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. I'll thrash you; I'll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn't laughat the idea of _your_ turning lover to a fine girl?"

Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He burst out, in aconvulsed voice. 

"Stay, Maggie!" said Philip, making a strong effort to speak. Thenlooking at Tom, "You have dragged your sister here, I suppose, thatshe may stand by while you threaten and insult me. These naturallyseemed 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 shallabide by her wishes to the slightest word. "

"It was for my father's sake, Philip, " said Maggie, imploringly. "Tomthreatens to tell my father, and he couldn't bear it; I have promised, I have vowed solemnly, that we will not have any intercourse withoutmy brother's knowledge. "

"It is enough, Maggie. _I_ shall not change; but I wish you to holdyourself entirely free. But trust me; remember that I can never seekfor anything but good to what belongs to you. "

"Yes, " said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philip's, "you cantalk of seeking good for her and what belongs to her now; did you seekher good before?"

"I did, --at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have a friend forlife, --who would cherish her, who would do her more justice than acoarse and narrow-minded brother, that she has always lavished heraffections on. "

"Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours; and I'll tellyou what is my way. I'll save her from disobeying and disgracing herfather; I'll save her from throwing herself away on you, --from makingherself a laughing-stock, --from being flouted by a man like _your_father, because she's not good enough for his son. You know wellenough what sort of justice and cherishing you were preparing for her. I'm not to be imposed upon by fine words; I can see what actions mean. Come away, Maggie. "

He seized Maggie's right wrist as he spoke, and she put out her lefthand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one eager look, and thenhurried away. 

Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He was stillholding her wrist tightly, as if he were compelling a culprit from thescene of action. At last Maggie, with a violent snatch, drew her handaway, and her pent-up, long-gathered irritation burst into utterance. 

"Don't suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow to yourwill. I despise the feelings you have shown in speaking to Philip; Idetest your insulting, unmanly allusions to his deformity. You havebeen reproaching other people all your life; you have been always sureyou yourself are right. It is because you have not a mind large enoughto see that there is anything better than your own conduct and yourown petty aims. "

"Certainly, " said Tom, coolly. "I don't see that your conduct isbetter, or your aims either. If your conduct, and Philip Wakem'sconduct, has been right, why are you ashamed of its being known?Answer me that. I know what I have aimed at in my conduct, and I'vesucceeded; pray, what good has your conduct brought to you or any oneelse?"

"I don't want to defend myself, " said Maggie, still with vehemence: "Iknow I've been wrong, --often, continually. But yet, sometimes when Ihave done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would bethe better for, if you had them. If _you_ were in fault ever, if youhad done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain itbrought you; I should not want punishment to be heaped on you. But youhave always enjoyed punishing me; you have always been hard and cruelto me; even when I was a little girl, and always loved you better thanany one else in the world, you would let me go crying to bed withoutforgiving me. You have no pity; you have no sense of your ownimperfection and your own sins. It is a sin to be hard; it is notfitting for a mortal, for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but your own virtues; you think they aregreat enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision offeelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!"

"Well, " said Tom, with cold scorn, "if your feelings are so muchbetter than mine, let me see you show them in some other way than byconduct that's likely to disgrace us all, --than by ridiculous flightsfirst into one extreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shownyour love, that you talk of, either to me or my father? By disobeyingand deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affection. "

"Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can do something inthe world. "

"Then, if you can do nothing, submit to those that can. "

"So I _will_ submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be right. I willsubmit even to what is unreasonable from my father, but I will notsubmit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchasedyou a right to be cruel and unmanly, as you've been to-day. Don'tsuppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedience to you. Thedeformity you insult would make me cling to him and care for him themore. "

"Very well; that is your view of things. " said Tom, more coldly thanever; "you need say no more to show me what a wide distance there isbetween us. Let us remember that in future, and be silent. "

Tom went back to St. Ogg's, to fulfill an appointment with his uncleDeane, and receive directions about a journey on which he was to setout the next morning. 

Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignantremonstrance, against which Tom's mind was close barred, in bittertears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by, came the recollection of that quiet time before the pleasure which hadended in to-day's misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity ofher life. She used to think in that time that she had made greatconquests, and won a lasting stand on serene heights above worldlytemptations and conflict. And here she was down again in the thick ofa 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 wastwo years younger. There was more struggle for her, and perhaps morefalling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong, and that Tom hadbeen entirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inwardharmony; but now her penitence and submission were constantlyobstructed by resentment that would present itself to her no otherwisethan as a just indignation. Her heart bled for Philip; she went onrecalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid aconception of what he had felt under them, that it was almost like asharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot andtighten her fingers on her palm. 

And yet, how was it that she was now and then conscious of a certaindim background of relief in the forced separation from Philip? Surelyit was only because the sense of a deliverance from concealment waswelcome at any cost. 

Chapter VI

The Hard-Won Triumph

Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment inall the year, --the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deepand daisied, --Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in theevening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the olddeep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which alwaysseemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and thehearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light inTom's blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold inhis brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to implya strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when theeyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomesquicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compressionwhich is meant to forbid a smile. 

The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence, --Mr. Tulliverin his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a wornlook, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing whileher mother was making the tea. 

They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot. 

"Why, what's up now, Tom?" said his father. "You're a bit earlier thanusual. "

"Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well, mother!"

Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humorwith him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie inall the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at homeprevented this from being noticeable to their parents. 

"Father, " said Tom, when they had finished tea, "do you know exactlyhow much money there is in the tin box?"

"Only a hundred and ninety-three pound, " said Mr. Tulliver. "You'vebrought less o' late; but young fellows like to have their own waywith their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before _I_ was ofage. " He spoke with rather timid discontent. 

"Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?" said Tom. "I wish youwould take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you haveperhaps made a mistake. "

"How should I make a mistake?" said his father, sharply. "I've countedit often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won't believe me. "

It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, tofetch the tin box and count the money. 

"Don't go out of the room, mother, " said Tom, as he saw her movingwhen his father was gone upstairs. 

"And isn't Maggie to go?" said Mrs. Tulliver; "because somebody musttake away the things. "

"Just as she likes, " said Tom indifferently. 

That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with thesudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debtscould be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news wastold! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. Thefeeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at thatmoment. 

Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin boxwas set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on themmade conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and thesuppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The motherand Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blankpatience, 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 sorejob. 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 musttrusten to you to pay 'em, " he went on, with a trembling voice, "ifyou keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age. But you're likeenough 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 therewas tremor discernible in his voice too, "you will live to see thedebts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand. "

His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. Aslight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr. Tulliver, and he kepthis eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie, unable to restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt downby him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on. 

"A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to tradewith, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds inthe bank. "

His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words wereuttered, and she said, half crying:

"Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, when you got aman. "

But his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power ofspeech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock ofjoy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. Thebroad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and thegray-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping graduallysubsided, and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of hisbreathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentletone:

"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 him, and he had held her hand a minute, histhoughts 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 hasappointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and hehas ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and hewill both be there. It was advertised in the 'Messenger' on Saturday. "

"Then Wakem knows on't!" said Mr. Tulliver, his eye kindling withtriumphant fire. "Ah!" he went on, with a long-drawn gutturalenunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had lefthimself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance. "I'll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the oldmill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here--but I can't----we'vegot 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, when he had taken somebrandy-and-water, "you shall make a speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it'syou as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last, and ha' got an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have ason like mine, --a fine straight fellow, --i'stead o' that poor crookedcreatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the daywhen Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll likeenough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was beforeyou, --you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing tohinder your getting rich. And if ever you're rich enough--mindthis--try and get th' old mill again. "

Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had solong been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding, suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the goodfortune 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; andMaggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good;and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of trueadmiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon inher had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousythis evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown intothe background in her father's mind. 

There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wantedto hear all the particulars of Tom's trading adventures, and helistened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to knowwhat had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had beenthought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiaroutbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of thatremarkable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had comeunder Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense ofastonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in allreminiscences of the childhood of great men. 

It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep underthe vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which wouldotherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into withdangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gavethreats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevantexclamation. 

It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and thesleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past fiveo'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, healarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and lookinground 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 ofhim. "

Chapter VII

A Day of Reckoning

Mr. Tulliver was an essentially sober man, --able to take his glass andnot averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds of moderation. He hadnaturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave liquidfire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to an excitingoccasion without any such reinforcements; and his desire for thebrandy-and-water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with adangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom andunaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful tottering momentpassed, he seemed to gather strength with his gathering excitement;and the next day, when he was seated at table with his creditors, hiseye kindling and his cheek flushed with the consciousness that he wasabout to make an honorable figure once more, he looked more like theproud, confident, warm-hearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of oldtimes than might have seemed possible to any one who had met him aweek before, riding along as had been his wont for the last four yearssince the sense of failure and debt had been upon him, --with his headhanging down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those who forcedthemselves on his notice. He made his speech, asserting his honestprinciples with his old confident eagerness, alluding to the rascalsand the luck that had been against him, but that he had triumphedover, to some extent, by hard efforts and the aid of a good son; andwinding up with the story of how Tom had got the best part of theneedful money. But the streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemedto melt for a little while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure, when, Tom's health having been proposed, and uncle Deane having takenoccasion to say a few words of eulogy on his general character andconduct, Tom himself got up and made the single speech of his life. Itcould hardly have been briefer. He thanked the gentlmen for the honorthey had done him. He was glad that he had been able to help hisfather in proving his integrity and regaining his honest name; and, for his own part, he hoped he should never undo that work and disgracethat name. But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom lookedso gentlemanly as well as tall and straight, that Mr. Tulliverremarked, in an explanatory manner, to his friends on his right andleft, 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 remainedin St. Ogg's to attend to some business, and Mr. Tulliver mounted hishorse to go home, and describe the memorable things that had been saidand done, to "poor Bessy and the little wench. " The air of excitementthat hung about him was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulusbut the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not choose any backstreet to-day, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances, along the principal street all the way to the bridge. 

Why did he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that coincidencevexed him, and set his mind at work in an irritating way. PerhapsWakem was gone out of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing orhearing anything of an honorable action which might well cause himsome unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr. Tulliverwould look straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken alittle by his cool, domineering impudence. He would know by and bythat an honest man was not going to serve _him_ any longer, and lendhis honesty to fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains. Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn; perhaps the Devil didn'talways hold the best cards in this world. 

Simmering in this way, Mr. Tulliver approached the yardgates ofDorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known figure coming out ofthem 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 FarClose! I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farmwith any method. "

"Oh!" said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up; "get somebody else to farmfor you, then, as'll ask _you_ to teach him. "

"You have been drinking, I suppose, " said Wakem, really believing thatthis was the meaning of Tulliver's flushed face and sparkling eyes. 

"No, I've not been drinking, " said Tulliver; "I want no drinking tohelp me make up my mind as I'll serve no longer under a scoundrel. "

"Very well! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then; hold yourinsolent tongue and let me pass. " (Tulliver was backing his horseacross the road to hem Wakem in. )

"No, I _sha'n't_ let you pass, " said Tulliver, getting fiercer. "Ishall tell you what I think of you first. You're too big a raskill toget 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 rushforward; and Wakem's horse, rearing and staggering backward, threw hisrider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the ground. Wakem hadhad the presence of mind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horseonly staggered a few paces and then stood still, he might have risenand remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight ofthe long-hated predominant man down, and in his power, threw him intoa frenzy of triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give himpreternatural agility and strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in theact of trying to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so asto press Wakem's whole weight on the right arm, which rested on theground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman's scream washeard, and the cry of "Father, father!"

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulliver's arm; forthe flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own arm was relaxed. 

"Get away with you--go!" said Tulliver, angrily. But it was not toWakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned hishead, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl, rather bythe fear of hurting the girl that clung to him with all her youngmight. 

"Oh, Luke--mother--come and help Mr. Wakem!" Maggie cried, as sheheard the longed-for footsteps. 

"Help me on to that low horse, " said Wakem to Luke, "then I shallperhaps manage; though--confound it--I think this arm is sprained. "

With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse. Then heturned toward the miller and said, with white rage, "You'll suffer forthis, sir. Your daughter is a witness that you've assaulted me. "

"I don't care, " said Mr. Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice; "go andshow your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you. Tell 'em I've made thingsa bit more even i' the world. "

"Ride my horse home with me, " said Wakem to Luke. "By the ToftonFerry, not through the town. "

"Father, come in!" said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing that Wakemhad ridden off, and that no further violence was possible, sheslackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs. Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear. But Maggie becameconscious that as she was slackening her hold her father was beginningto grasp her and lean on her. The surprise checked her sobs. 

"I feel ill--faintish, " he said. "Help me in, Bessy--I'm giddy--I've apain i' the head. "

He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter and totteredinto 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 faint and suffering to hear her; but presently, when she said to Maggie, "Go and seek for somebody to fetch thedoctor, " he looked up at her with full comprehension, 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 ofbetter times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled crop. 

In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. BobJakin was with him, come to congratulate "the old master, " not withoutsome excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr. Tom's good luck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothingbetter, as a finish to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tomcould only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasantconsequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father'slong-smothered hate. After the painful news had been told, he sat insilence; he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother andsister anything about the dinner; they hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was socuriously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrowcoming close upon it. Tom was dejected by the thought that hisexemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others;Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of themoment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father's arm, with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come. Notone of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr. Tulliver'shealth; the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, andit seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion andeffort of strength, after many hours of unusual excitement, shouldhave 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 tosee his mother standing by him in the gray light of early morning. 

"My boy, you must get up this minute; I've sent for the doctor, andyour father wants you and Maggie to come to him. "

"Is he worse, mother?"

"He's been very ill all night with his head, but he doesn't say it'sworse; he only said suddenly, 'Bessy, fetch the boy and girl. Tell 'emto make haste. '"

Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill gray light, and reached their father's room almost at the same moment. He waswatching for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but withsharpened, anxious consciousness in his eyes. Mrs. Tulliver stood atthe foot of the bed, frightened and trembling, looking worn and agedfrom disturbed rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her father'sglance was toward Tom, who came and stood next to her. 

"Tom, my lad, it's come upon me as I sha'n't get up again. Thisworld's been too many for me, my lad, but you've done what you couldto make things a bit even. Shake hands wi' me again, my lad, before Igo away from you. "

The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly, --

"Have you any wish, father--that I can fulfil, when----"

"Ay, my lad--you'll try and get the old mill back. "

"Yes, father. "

"And there's your mother--you'll try and make her amends, all you can, for my bad luck--and there's the little wench----"

The father turned his eyes on Maggie with a still more eager look, while she, with a bursting heart, sank on her knees, to be closer tothe dear, time-worn face which had been present with her through longyears, as the sign of her deepest love and hardest trial. 

"You must take care of her, Tom--don't you fret, my wench--there'llcome somebody as'll love you and take your part--and you must be goodto her, my lad. I was good to _my_ sister. Kiss me, Maggie. --Come, Bessy. --You'll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your motherand me can lie together. "

He looked away from them all when he had said this, and lay silent forsome minutes, while they stood watching him, not daring to move. Themorning light was growing clearer for them, and they could see theheaviness gathering in his face, and the dulness in his eyes. But atlast he looked toward Tom and said, --

"I had my turn--I beat him. That was nothing but fair. I never wantedanything but what was fair. "

"But, father, dear father, " said Maggie, an unspeakable anxietypredominating over her grief, "you forgive him--you forgive every onenow?"

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'tlove a raskill----"

His voice had become thicker; but he wanted to say more, and moved hislips again and again, struggling in vain to speak. At length the wordsforced 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 someobstruction that weighed upon him. Two or three times there fell fromhim 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, hardbreathing continued, getting gradually slower, as the cold dewsgathered on the brow. 

At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimly lightedsoul had forever ceased to be vexed with the painful riddle of thisworld. 

Help was come now; Luke and his wife were there, and Mr. Turnbull hadarrived, too late for everything but to say, "This is death. "

Tom and Maggie went downstairs together into the room where theirfather's place was empty. Their eyes turned to the same spot, andMaggie spoke, --

"Tom, forgive me--let us always love each other"; and they clung andwept together. 

Book VI

_The Great Temptation_

Chapter I

A Duet in Paradise

The well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano, and thepleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat-house by the side ofthe Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat little lady in mourning, whoselight-brown ringlets are falling over the colored embroidery withwhich her fingers are busy, is of course Lucy Deane; and the fineyoung man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors inthe extremely abbreviated face of the "King Charles" lying on theyoung lady's feet is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose diamondring, attar of roses, and air of _nonchalant_ leisure, at twelveo'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous result of thelargest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in St. Ogg's. There isan apparent triviality in the action with the scissors, but yourdiscernment perceives at once that there is a design in it which makesit eminently worthy of a large-headed, long-limbed young man; for yousee that Lucy wants the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as shemay be, to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smileplayfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with herknee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to say, --

"My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure ofpersecuting my poor Minny. "

The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hopelessly. 

"Confound the scissors! The oval lies the wrong way. Please draw themoff 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 fromtiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen for a repetition _dacapo_. Accordingly, he watches for the release of the scissors, thathe may get them into his possession again. 

"No, no, " said Lucy, sticking them in her band, "you shall not have myscissors again, --you have strained them already. Now don't set Minnygrowling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell yousome news. "

"What is that?" said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging hisright arm over the corner of his chair. He might have been sitting forhis portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young manof five-and-twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair, standing erect, with a slight wave at the end, like a thick crop ofcorn, and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under hiswell-marked horizontal eyebrows. "Is it very important news?"

"Yes, very. Guess. "

"You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three ratafiassoaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily?"

"Quite wrong. "

"Well, then, Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buckram, and youladies have all been sending him a roundrobin, saying, 'This is a harddoctrine; who can bear it?'"

"For shame!" said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. "It israther dull of you not to guess my news, because it is about somethingI mentioned to you not very long ago. "

"But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does yourfeminine tyranny require that when you say the thing you mean is oneof 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 betrayedyou; he said so one day when you were not here. "

"Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point; he makes it quite a personalmatter. I think he must be love-sick for some unknown lady, --someexalted Beatrice whom he met abroad. "

"By the by, " said Lucy, pausing in her work, "it has just occurred tome that I never found out whether my cousin Maggie will object to seePhilip, as her brother does. Tom will not enter a room where Philipis, if he knows it; perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then wesha'n't be able to sing our glees, shall we?"

"What! is your cousin coming to stay with you?" said Stephen, with alook of slight annoyance. 

"Yes; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She's going to leaveher situation, where she has been nearly two years, poor thing, --eversince her father's death; and she will stay with me a month ortwo, --many months, I hope. "

"And am I bound to be pleased at that news?"

"Oh no, not at all, " said Lucy, with a little air of pique. "_I_ ampleased, but that, of course, is no reason why _you_ should bepleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousinMaggie. "

"And you will be inseparable I suppose, when she comes. There will beno possibility of a _tete-a-tete_ with you any more, unless you canfind an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. Whatis the ground of dislike to Philip? He might have been a resource. "

"It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were very painfulcircumstances, I believe. I never quite understood them, or knew themall. My uncle Tulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, andI think he considered Mr. Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakembought Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. Youmust remember my uncle Tulliver, don't you?"

"No, " said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. "I'vealways known the name, and I dare say I knew the man by sight, apartfrom his name. I know half the names and faces in the neighborhood inthat detached, disjointed way. "

"He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I was a little girland used to go to see my cousins, he often frightened me by talking asif he were angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel, the veryday before my uncle's death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it washushed up. That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle wasquite mistaken in many ways; his mind had become embittered. But Tomand Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of thesethings. They have had so much, so very much trouble. Maggie was atschool with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of herfather's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, Ithink. She has been in a dreary situation in a school since uncle'sdeath, because she is determined to be independent, and not live withaunt Pullet; and I could hardly wish her to come to me then, becausedear mamma was ill, and everything was so sad. That is why I want herto come to me now, and have a long, long holiday. "

"Very sweet and angelic of you, " said Stephen, looking at her with anadmiring smile; "and all the more so if she has the conversationalqualities of her mother. "

"Poor aunty! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very valuable to_me_, I know. She manages the house beautifully, --much better than anystranger would, --and she was a great comfort to me in mamma'sillness. "

"Yes, but in point of companionship one would prefer that she shouldbe represented by her brandy-cherries and cream-cakes. I think with ashudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and haveno agreeable proxies of that kind, --a fat, blond girl, with round blueeyes, who will stare at us silently. "

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly, and clapping her hands, "that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have seen her!"

"No, indeed; I'm only guessing what Mrs. Tulliver's daughter must be;and then if she is to banish Philip, our only apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore. "

"But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philipand tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. He is quite aware of Tom'sfeeling, and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand, ifyou tell him, that I asked you to warn him not to come until I writeto ask him. "

"I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take; Phil is sosensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten him off coming atall, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to cometo the park; he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only yourfaery touch that can lay his ruffled feathers. "

Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying toward the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy felt very proud andhappy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes themost exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time ofpassion, --when each is sure of the other's love, but no formaldeclaration has been made, and all is mutual divination, exalting themost trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate anddelicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagementwears off this finest edge of susceptibility; it is jasmine gatheredand presented in a large bouquet. 

"But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie'sappearance and manners, " said the cunning Lucy, moving to reach herdesk, "because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tomhas not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring atpeople. "

"Oh, I suppose he is like the father; he seems to be as proud asLucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should think. "

"I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo; and papa is veryfond of him: he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through himthat 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 talkingabout it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of theirinterminable discussions about business. They think of doing somethingfor young Tulliver; he saved them from a considerable loss by ridinghome in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them news about thestoppage of a bank, or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsyat the time. "

Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming infalsetto, "Graceful Consort, " as he turned over the volume of "TheCreation, " which stood open on the desk. 

"Come and sing this, " he said, when he saw Lucy rising. 

"What, 'Graceful Consort'? I don't think it suits your voice. "

"Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it, is the grand element of good singing. I notice men with indifferentvoices are usually of that opinion. "

"Philip burst into one of his invectives against 'The Creation' theother day, " said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. "He says it has asort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as ifit were written for the birthday _fete_ of a German Grand-Duke. "

"Oh, pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam andEve unfallen, in Paradise. Now, then, --the recitative, for the sake ofthe moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman, --'And from obediencegrows my pride and happiness. '"

"Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the _tempo_, as youwill, " said Lucy, beginning to play the duet. 

Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that inwhich the lovers can sing together. The sense of mutual fitness thatsprings from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at theright moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from theperfect accord of descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcertedloving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediatedemand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will notcare to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassingdearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In theprovinces, too, where music was so scarce in that remote time, howcould the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Evenpolitical principle must have been in danger of relaxation under suchcircumstances; and the violin, faithful to rotten boroughs, must havebeen tempted to fraternize in a demoralizing way with a reformingvioloncello. In that case, the linnet-throated soprano and thefull-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. 

"Now for Raphael's great song, " said Lucy, when they had finished theduet. "You do the 'heavy beasts' to perfection. "

"That sounds complimentary, " said Stephen, looking at his watch. "ByJove, it's nearly half-past one! Well, I can just sing this. "

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing thetread of the heavy beasts; but when a singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided sentiments. Minny's mistress was charmed;but Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket assoon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his tastethat he leaped out and scampered under the remotest _chiffonnier_, asthe most eligible place in which a small dog could await the crack ofdoom. 

"Adieu, 'graceful consort, '" said Stephen, buttoning his coat acrosswhen he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, withthe air of rather a patronizing lover, at the little lady on themusic-stool. "My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. Ipromised to be there at lunch. "

"You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of noconsequence; I have said everything in my note. "

"You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I suppose?"

"Yes, we are going to have a little family-party. My cousin Tom willdine with us; and poor aunty will have her two children together forthe first time. It will be very pretty; I think a great deal aboutit. "

"But I may come the next day?"

"Oh yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie; though you canhardly be said not to have seen her, you have described her so well. "

"Good-bye, then. " And there was that slight pressure of the hands, andmomentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little ladywith a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subsideimmediately when the door is closed, and with an inclination to walkup and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at herembroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least thiswas the effect on Lucy; and you will not, I hope, consider it anindication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that shejust glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought her near it. Thedesire to know that one has not looked an absolute fright during a fewhours of conversation may be construed as lying within the bounds of alaudable benevolent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much ofthis benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her smallegoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people notaltogether unknown to you whose small benevolences have a predominantand somewhat rank odor of egoism. Even now, that she is walking up anddown with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at thesense that she is loved by the person of chief consequence in hersmall world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present sunnybenignity, in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanityare quite lost; and if she is happy in thinking of her lover, it isbecause the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentleaffections and good-natured offices with which she fills her peacefuldays. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous alternation whichmakes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, isglancing continually from Stephen to the preparations she has onlyhalf finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated aswell as the grandest lady-visitor, --nay, better, for she should haveLucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very finestbouquet of spring flowers on her table. Maggie would enjoy all that, she was so found of pretty things! And there was poor aunt Tulliver, that no one made any account of, she was to be surprised with thepresent of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunkin a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot withher father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in longreveries about her own happy love-affairs. With this thought shewalked toward the door, but paused there. 

"What's the matter, then, Minny?" she said, stooping in answer to somewhimpering of that small quadruped, and lifting his glossy headagainst her pink cheek. "Did you think I was going without you? Come, then, let us go and see Sinbad. "

Sinbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always fed with her ownhand when he was turned out in the paddock. She was fond of feedingdependent creatures, and knew the private tastes of all the animalsabout the house, delighting in the little rippling sounds of hercanaries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed, and in the smallnibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appeartoo trivial, I will here call "the more familiar rodents. "

Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that this slimmaiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man would not belikely to repent of marrying, --a woman who was loving and thoughtfulfor other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askance ontheir welcome defects, but with real care and vision for theirhalf-hidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoymentof little pleasures prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of hisadmiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her;perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did notstrike 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 hiswife to be accomplished, gentle, affectionate, and not stupid; andLucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to findhimself in love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment inpreferring her to Miss Leyburn, the daughter of the county member, although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's subordinatepartner; besides, he had had to defy and overcome a slightunwillingness and disappointment in his father and sisters, --acircumstance which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of hisown dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and independenceenough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassedby any indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy; she was alittle darling, and exactly the sort of woman he had always admired. 

Chapter II

First Impressions

"He is very clever, Maggie, " said Lucy. She was kneeling on afootstool at Maggie's feet, after placing that dark lady in the largecrimson-velvet chair. "I feel sure you will like him. I hope youwill. "

"I shall be very difficult to please, " said Maggie, smiling, andholding up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight might shinethrough it. "A gentleman who thinks he is good enough for Lucy mustexpect to be sharply criticised. "

"Indeed, he's a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, when he isaway, I almost think it can't really be that he loves me. But I cannever doubt it when he is with me, though I couldn't bear any one butyou to know that I feel in that way, Maggie. "

"Oh, then, if I disapprove of him you can give him up, since you arenot engaged, " said Maggie, with playful gravity. 

"I would rather not be engaged. When people are engaged, they begin tothink of being married soon, " said Lucy, too thoroughly preoccupied tonotice Maggie's joke; "and I should like everything to go on for along while just as it is. Sometimes I am quite frightened lest Stephenshould say that he has spoken to papa; and from something that fellfrom papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr. Guest are expectingthat. And Stephen's sisters are very civil to me now. At first, Ithink 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 placelike the Park House, such a little insignificant thing as I am. "

"But people are not expected to be large in proportion to the housesthey 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 heis 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. "Itis a bad plan to raise expectation; you will perhaps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming surprise for _him;_ I shall have aglorious laugh against him. I shall not tell you what it is, though. "

Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, holding herpretty head on one side, as if she had been arranging Maggie for aportrait, and wished to judge of the general effect. 

"Stand up a moment, Maggie. "

"What is your pleasure now?" said Maggie, smiling languidly as sherose from her chair and looked down on her slight, aerial cousin, whose figure was quite subordinate to her faultless drapery of silkand crape. 

Lucy kept her contemplative attitude a moment or two in silence, andthen said, --

"I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you lookbest 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 wouldcome back as the only right thing for you. I wonder if MarieAntoinette looked all the grander when her gown was darned at theelbows. Now, if _I_ were to put anything shabby on, I should be quiteunnoticeable. I should be a mere rag. "

"Oh, quite, " said Maggie, with mock gravity. "You would be liable tobe swept out of the room with the cobwebs and carpet-dust, and to findyourself under the grate, like Cinderella. Mayn't I sit down now?"

"Yes, now you may, " said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an air of seriousreflection, unfastening her large jet brooch, "But you must changebrooches, Maggie; that little butterfly looks silly on you. "

"But won't that mar the charming effect of my consistent shabbiness?"said Maggie, seating herself submissively, while Lucy knelt again andunfastened the contemptible butterfly. "I wish my mother were of youropinion, for she was fretting last night because this is my bestfrock. I've been saving my money to pay for some lessons; I shallnever get a better situation without more accomplishments. "

Maggie gave a little sigh. 

"Now, don't put on that sad look again, " said Lucy, pinning the largebrooch below Maggie's fine throat. "You're forgetting that you've leftthat dreary schoolroom behind you, and have no little girls' clothesto mend. "

"Yes, " said Maggie. "It is with me as I used to think it would be withthe poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. I thought he must havegot so stupid with the habit of turning backward and forward in thatnarrow space that he would keep doing it if they set him free. Onegets a bad habit of being unhappy. "

"But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that will make youlose that bad habit, " said Lucy, sticking the black butterfly absentlyin her own collar, while her eyes met Maggie's affectionately. 

"You dear, tiny thing, " said Maggie, in one of her bursts of lovingadmiration, "you enjoy other people's happiness so much, I believe youwould do without any of your own. I wish I were like you. "

"I've never been tried in that way, " said Lucy. "I've always been sohappy. I don't know whether I could bear much trouble; I never had anybut poor mamma's death. You _have_ been tried, Maggie; and I'm sureyou feel for other people quite as much as I do. "

"No, Lucy, " said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, "I don't enjoy theirhappiness as you do, else I should be more contented. I do feel forthem when they are in trouble; I don't think I could ever bear to makeany one _un_happy; and yet I often hate myself, because I get angrysometimes at the sight of happy people. I think I get worse as I getolder, more selfish. That seems very dreadful. "

"Now, Maggie!" said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, "I don't believea word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy, just because you aredepressed by a dull, wearisome life. "

"Well, perhaps it is, " said Maggie, resolutely clearing away theclouds from her face with a bright smile, and throwing herselfbackward in her chair. "Perhaps it comes from the school diet, --wateryrice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way beforemy mother's custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon. "

Maggie took up the "Sketch Book, " which lay by her on the table. 

"Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?" said Lucy, goingto survey the effect in the chimney-glass. 

"Oh no, Mr. Guest will be obliged to go out of the room again if hesees you in it. Pray make haste and put another on. "

Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the opportunityof opening her book; she let it fall on her knees, while her eyeswandered to the window, where she could see the sunshine falling onthe rich clumps of spring flowers and on the long hedge of laurels, and beyond, the silvery breadth of the dear old Floss, that at thisdistance seemed to be sleeping in a morning holiday. The sweet freshgarden-scent came through the open window, and the birds were busyflitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's eyes beganto fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush ofmemories so painful that even yesterday she had only been able torejoice in her mother's restored comfort and Tom's brotherlyfriendliness as we rejoice in good news of friends at a distance, rather than in the presence of a happiness which we share. Memory andimagination urged upon her a sense of privation too keen to let hertaste what was offered in the transient present. Her future, shethought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years ofcontented 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 life she yearned for, and despaired of, becoming more and more importunate. The sound of theopening door roused her, and hastily wiping away her tears, she beganto turn over the leaves of her book. 

"There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest dismalnesswill never resist, " said Lucy, beginning to speak as soon as sheentered the room. "That is music, and I mean you to have quite ariotous feast of it. I mean you to get up your playing again, whichused to be so much better than mine, when we were at Laceham. "

"You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls' tunes overand over to them, when I took them to practise, " said Maggie, "justfor the sake of fingering the dear keys again. But I don't knowwhether I could play anything more difficult now than 'Begone, dullcare!'"

"I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when the glee-mencame round, " said Lucy, taking up her embroidery; "and we might haveall those old glees that you used to love so, if I were certain thatyou don't feel exactly as Tom does about some things. "

"I should have thought there was nothing you might be more certainof, " said Maggie, smiling. 

"I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because if youfeel just as he does about that, we shall want our third voice. St. Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gentlemen. There arereally 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, andsaw that there was a change in Maggie's face. 

"Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie? If it does, Iwill not speak of him again. I know Tom will not see him if he canavoid it. "

"I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject, " said Maggie, risingand going to the window as if she wanted to see more of the landscape. "I've always liked Philip Wakem ever since I was a little girl, andsaw him at Lorton. He was so good when Tom hurt his foot. "

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Lucy. "Then you won't mind his comingsometimes, and we can have much more music than we could without him. I'm very fond of poor Philip, only I wish he were not so morbid abouthis deformity. I suppose it _is_ his deformity that makes him so sad, and sometimes bitter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poorlittle crooked body and pale face among great, strong people. "

"But, Lucy----" said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling stream. 

"Ah, there is the door-bell. That must be Stephen, " Lucy went on, notnoticing Maggie's faint effort to speak. "One of the things I mostadmire in Stephen is that he makes a greater friend of Philip than anyone. "

It was too late for Maggie to speak now; the drawingroom door wasopening, and Minny was already growling in a small way at the entranceof a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy and took her hand with ahalf-polite, half-tender glance and tone of inquiry, which seemed toindicate that he was unconscious of any other presence. 

"Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver, " said Lucy, turningwith wicked enjoyment toward Maggie, who now approached from thefarther window. "This is Mr. Stephen Guest. "

For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment at thesight of this tall, dark-eyed nymph with her jet-black coronet ofhair; 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 aperson toward whom she herself was conscious of timidity. 

This new experience was very agreeable to her, so agreeable that italmost effaced her previous emotion about Philip. There was a newbrightness in her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as sheseated herself. 

"I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew the day beforeyesterday, " said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of triumph. She enjoyed herlover'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 withMinny, only looking at Maggie furtively. "She said you had light hairand blue eyes. "

"Nay, it was you who said so, " remonstrated Lucy. "I only refrainedfrom destroying your confidence in your own second-sight. "

"I wish I could always err in the same way, " said Stephen, "and findreality so much more beautiful than my preconceptions. "

"Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion, " said Maggie, "and said what it was incumbent on you to say under thecircumstances. "

She flashed a slightly defiant look at him; it was clear to her thathe had been drawing a satirical portrait of her beforehand. Lucy hadsaid he was inclined to be satirical, and Maggie had mentally suppliedthe addition, "and rather conceited. "

"An alarming amount of devil there, " was Stephen's first thought. Thesecond, when she had bent over her work, was, "I wish she would lookat me again. " The next was to answer, --

"I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he says 'Thank you. ' It's ratherhard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the worlddeclines a disagreeable invitation, don't you think so, MissTulliver?"

"No, " said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance; "if we usecommon words on a great occasion, they are the more striking, becausethey are felt at once to have a particular meaning, like old banners, or every-day clothes, hung up in a sacred place. "

"Then my compliment ought to be eloquent, " said Stephen, really notquite knowing what he said while Maggie looked at him, "seeing thatthe words were so far beneath the occasion. "

"No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression ofindifference, " said Maggie, flushing a little. 

Lucy was rather alarmed; she thought Stephen and Maggie were not goingto like each other. She had always feared lest Maggie should appeartoo old and clever to please that critical gentleman. "Why, dearMaggie, " she interposed, "you have always pretended that you are toofond of being admired; and now, I think, you are angry because someone 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, " saidStephen. 

"Thank you; that will be a proof of respect. "

Poor Maggie! She was so unused to society that she could take nothingas a matter of course, and had never in her life spoken from the lipsmerely, so that she must necessarily appear absurd to more experiencedladies, from the excessive feeling she was apt to throw into verytrivial incidents. But she was even conscious herself of a littleabsurdity in this instance. It was true she had a theoretic objectionto compliments, and had once said impatiently to Philip that shedidn't see why women were to be told with a simper that they werebeautiful, any more than old men were to be told that they werevenerable; still, to be so irritated by a common practice in the caseof a stranger like Mr. Stephen Guest, and to care about his havingspoken slightingly of her before he had seen her, was certainlyunreasonable, and as soon as she was silent she began to be ashamed ofherself. It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to thepleasanter emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfiedwith a sense of glowing warmth an innocent drop of cold water may fallupon us as a sudden smart. 

Stephen was too well bred not to seem unaware that the previousconversation could have been felt embarrassing, and at once began totalk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if she knew when the bazaarwas at length to take place, so that there might be some hope ofseeing her rain the influence of her eyes on objects more gratefulthan those worsted flowers that were growing under her fingers. 

"Some day next month, I believe, " said Lucy. "But your sisters aredoing more for it than I am; they are to have the largest stall. "

"Ah yes; but they carry on their manufactures in their ownsitting-room, where I don't intrude on them. I see you are notaddicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss Tulliver, " saidStephen, looking at Maggie's plain hemming. 

"No, " said Maggie, "I can do nothing more difficult or more elegantthan shirt-making. "

"And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie, " said Lucy, "that Ithink I shall beg a few specimens of you to show as fancy-work. Yourexquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me, you used to dislike thatsort of work so much in old days. "

"It is a mystery easily explained, dear, " said Maggie, looking upquietly. "Plain sewing was the only thing I could get money by, so Iwas 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 nothave mentioned it. Perhaps there was some pride in the confession, --the pride of poverty that will not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggiehad been the queen of coquettes she could hardly have invented a meansof giving greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes; I am notsure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty would havedone alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made Maggie more unlikeother women even than she had seemed at first. 

"But I can knit, Lucy, " Maggie went on, "if that will be of any usefor your bazaar. "

"Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scarlet woolto-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable person, " continuedLucy, turning to Stephen, "to have the talent of modelling. She isdoing a wonderful bust of Dr. Kenn entirely from memory. "

"Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near together, and thecorners of the mouth very far apart, the likeness can hardly fail tobe striking in St. Ogg's. "

"Now that is very wicked of you, " said Lucy, looking rather hurt. "Ididn't think you would speak disrespectfully of Dr. Kenn. "

"I say anything disrespectful of Dr. Kenn? Heaven forbid! But I am notbound to respect a libellous bust of him. I think Kenn one of thefinest fellows in the world. I don't care much about the tallcandlesticks he has put on the communion-table, and I shouldn't liketo spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every morning. Buthe's the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to haveanything of the real apostle in him, --a man who has eight hundreda-year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef because hegives away two-thirds of his income. That was a very fine thing ofhim, --taking into his house that poor lad Grattan, who shot his motherby 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 aboutit. He takes the lad out with him constantly, I see. "

"That is beautiful, " said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and waslistening with keen interest. "I never knew any one who did such things. "

"And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more, " saidStephen, "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 prettyenthusiasm. 

"No; there I can't agree with you, " said Stephen, shaking his headwith 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 notfrom a parliamentary point of view. He has set the Dissenters and theChurch people by the ears; and a rising senator like myself, of whoseservices the country is very much in need, will find it inconvenientwhen he puts up for the honor of representing St. Ogg's inParliament. "

"Do you really think of that?" said Lucy, her eyes brightening with aproud pleasure that made her neglect the argumentative interests ofAnglicanism. 

"Decidedly, whenever old Mr. Leyburn's public spirit and gout inducehim 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 whitehands over his hair with playful self-admiration--"gifts like mineinvolve great responsibilities. Don't you think so, Miss Tulliver?"

"Yes, " said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; "so much fluency andself-possession should not be wasted entirely on private occasions. "

"Ah, I see how much penetration you have, " said Stephen. "You havediscovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now superficialpeople never discern that, owing to my manner, I suppose. "

"She doesn't look at me when I talk of myself, " he thought, while hislisteners were laughing. "I must try other subjects. "

Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book Club nextweek? was the next question. Then followed the recommendation tochoose Southey's "Life of Cowper, " unless she were inclined to bephilosophical, and startle the ladies of St. Ogg's by voting for oneof the Bridgewater Treatises. Of course Lucy wished to know what thesealarmingly learned books were; and as it is always pleasant to improvethe minds of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of whichthey know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an account ofBuckland's Treatise, which he had just been reading. He was rewardedby seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradually get so absorbed inhis wonderful geological story that she sat looking at him, leaningforward with crossed arms, and with an entire absence ofself-consciousness, as if he had been the snuffiest of old professors, and she a downy-lipped alumna. He was so fascinated by the clear, large gaze that at last he forgot to look away from it occasionallytoward Lucy; but she, sweet child, was only rejoicing that Stephen wasproving to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would certainly begood 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 returningself-consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her workagain. 

"No, no, " Lucy interposed. "I must forbid your plunging Maggie inbooks. I shall never get her away from them; and I want her to havedelicious do-nothing days, filled with boating and chatting and ridingand driving; that is the holiday she needs. "

"Apropos!" said Stephen, looking at his watch. "Shall we go out for arow on the river now? The tide will suit for us to the Tofton way, andwe can walk back. "

That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was years sinceshe 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 theopportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie had no objection to seeingPhilip, so that it was a pity she had sent that note the day beforeyesterday. But she would write another to-morrow and invite him. 

"I'll call and beat him up to-morrow, " said Stephen, "and bring himwith me in the evening, shall I? My sisters will want to call on youwhen I tell them your cousin is with you. I must leave the field clearfor them in the morning. "

"Oh yes, pray bring him, " said Lucy. "And you _will_ like Maggie, sha'n't you?" she added, in a beseeching tone. "Isn't she a dear, noble-looking creature?"

"Too tall, " said Stephen, smiling down upon her, "and a little toofiery. She is not my type of woman, you know. "

Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudentconfidences to ladies concerning their unfavorable opinion of sisterfair ones. That is why so many women have the advantage of knowingthat they are secretly repulsive to men who have self-denyingly madeardent love to them. And hardly anything could be more distinctivelycharacteristic of Lucy than that she both implicitly believed whatStephen said, and was determined that Maggie should not know it. Butyou, who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide you, havealready foreseen, as the direct sequence to that unfavorable opinionof Stephen's, that he walked down to the boathouse calculating, by theaid of a vivid imagination, that Maggie must give him her hand atleast twice in consequence of this pleasant boating plan, and that agentleman who wishes ladies to look at him is advantageously situatedwhen he is rowing them in a boat. What then? Had he fallen in lovewith 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 dearest littlecreature in the world; and he was not a man to make a fool of himselfin any way. But when one is five-and-twenty, one has not chalk-stonesat one's finger-ends that the touch of a handsome girl should beentirely indifferent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admirebeauty and enjoy looking at it, --at least under such circumstances asthe present. And there was really something very interesting aboutthis girl, with her poverty and troubles; it was gratifying to see thefriendship between the two cousins. Generally, Stephen admitted, hewas not fond of women who had any peculiarity of character, but herethe peculiarity seemed really of a superior kind, and provided one isnot obliged to marry such women, why, they certainly make a variety insocial intercourse. 

Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him during thefirst quarter of an hour; her eyes were too full of the old banks thatshe knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from Philip, --the onlyperson who had ever seemed to love her devotedly, as she had alwayslonged to be loved. But presently the rhythmic movement of the oarsattracted 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 anoar. It appeared that she required much teaching, and she becameambitious. The exercise brought the warm blood into her cheeks, andmade her inclined to take her lesson merrily. 

"I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, and row youand Lucy, " she said, looking very bright as she stepped out of theboat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the thing she was doing, andshe had chosen an inopportune moment for her remark; her foot slipped, but happily Mr. Stephen Guest held her hand, and kept her up with afirm grasp. 

"You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope?" he said, bending to lookin her face with anxiety. It was very charming to be taken care of inthat kind, graceful manner by some one taller and stronger than one'sself. Maggie had never felt just in the same way before. 

When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet seatedwith 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 goout with Lucy, probably to Park House, was much shocked at theshabbiness of her clothes, which when witnessed by the higher societyof St. Ogg's, would be a discredit to the family, that demanded astrong and prompt remedy; and the consultation as to what would bemost suitable to this end from among the superfluities of Mrs. Pullet's wardrobe was one that Lucy as well as Mrs. Tulliver enteredinto with some zeal. Maggie must really have an evening dress as soonas 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 veryill-convenient, " said Mrs. Pullet, "else she might wear that beautifulblack brocade o' mine without any alteration; and her arms are beyondeverything, " added Mrs. Pullet, sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggie'slarge round arm, "She'd never get my sleeves on. "

"Oh, never mind that, aunt; send us the dress, " said Lucy. "I don'tmean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I have abundance of black lacefor trimming. Her arms will look beautiful. "

"Maggie's arms _are_ a pretty shape, " said Mrs. Tulliver. "They'relike mine used to be, only mine was never brown; I wish she'd had_our_ family skin. "

"Nonsense, aunty!" said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's shoulder, "you don't understand those things. A painter would think Maggie'scomplexion beautiful. "

"Maybe, my dear, " said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively. "You know betterthan I do. Only when I was young a brown skin wasn't thought well onamong respectable folks. "

"No, " said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in the ladies'conversation as he sucked his lozenges. "Though there was a song aboutthe 'Nut-brown Maid' too; I think she was crazy, --crazy Kate, --but Ican't justly remember. "

"Oh dear, dear!" said Maggie, laughing, but impatient; "I think thatwill be the end of _my_ brown skin, if it is always to be talked aboutso much. "

Chapter III

Confidential Moments

When Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it appeared that shewas not at all inclined to undress. She set down her candle on thefirst table that presented itself, and began to walk up and down herroom, which was a large one, with a firm, regular, and rather rapidstep, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent ofstrong excitement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverishbrilliancy; her head was thrown backward, and her hands were claspedwith the palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is aptto accompany mental absorption. 

Had anything remarkable happened?

Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest degreeunimportant. She had been hearing some fine music sung by a fine bassvoice, --but then it was sung in a provincial, amateur fashion, such aswould have left a critical ear much to desire. And she was consciousof having been looked at a great deal, in rather a furtive manner, from beneath a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glancethat seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of thevoice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect on athoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly balanced mind, who had had all the advantages of fortune, training, and refinedsociety. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probablyhave known nothing about her: her life would have had so fewvicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiestwomen, like the happiest nations, have no history. 

In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature, --just come away from athird-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds and petty round oftasks, --these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing andexalting her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. Itwas not that she thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt onthe indications that he looked at her with admiration; it was ratherthat she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love and beautyand delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry andromance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries. Her mind glanced back once or twice to the time when she had courtedprivation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience wassubdued; but that condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and sherecoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, wouldbring back that negative peace; the battle of her life, it seemed, wasnot to be decided in that short and easy way, --by perfect renunciationat the very threshold of her youth. 

The music was vibrating in her still, --Purcell's music, with its wildpassion and fancy, --and she could not stay in the recollection of thatbare, lonely past. She was in her brighter aerial world again, when alittle tap came at the door; of course it was her cousin, who enteredin ample white dressing-gown. 

"Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to undress?" saidLucy, in astonishment. "I promised not to come and talk to you, because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as ifyou were ready to dress for a ball. Come, come, get on yourdressing-gown and unplait your hair. "

"Well, _you_ are not very forward, " retorted Maggie, hastily reachingher own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucy's light-brown hairbrushed back in curly disorder. 

"Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you till Isee you are really on the way to bed. "

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pinkdrapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watching her withaffectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. Ifit appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led onto talk confidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you toremember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases. 

"You really _have_ enjoyed the music to-night, haven't you Maggie?"

"Oh yes, that is what prevented me from feeling sleepy. I think Ishould have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty ofmusic. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into mybrain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled withmusic. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight. "

"And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he?"

"Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that, " said Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. "Youare not impartial, and _I_ think any barrel-organ splendid. "

"But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly; good and badtoo. "

"Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not beso 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 isconceited, I see that. But you don't dislike him, do you?"

"Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people, that I should be very difficult to please? Besides, how could Idislike any one that promised to make you happy, my dear thing!"Maggie pinched Lucy's dimpled chin. 

"We shall have more music to-morrow evening, " said Lucy, looking happyalready, "for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him. "

"Oh, Lucy, I can't see him, " said Maggie, turning pale. "At least, Icould not see him without Tom's leave. "

"Is Tom such a tyrant as that?" said Lucy, surprised. "I'll take theresponsibility, 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 Philipwithout his knowledge and consent. And I have a great dread of openingthe subject with Tom, --of getting into a quarrel with him again. "

"But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What harmcan poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?"

"Oh no, pray don't, dear, " said Maggie. "I'll go to him myselfto-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I've thoughtbefore of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not hadthe 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 andsaid, "I _should_ like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you mustnot betray that you know it to any one--least of all to Philiphimself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest. "

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known therelief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy anythingof her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her withsympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers, encouragedher to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did notbetray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom's greatoffence, --the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as theremembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one elseshould know it at all, both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she couldnot 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 newbarrier between herself and Philip. She merely said, she saw now thatTom was, no the whole, right in regarding any prospect of love andmarriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by therelation of the two families. Of course Philip's father would neverconsent. 

"There, Lucy, you have had my story, " said Maggie, smiling, with thetears in her eyes. "You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. _I_ wasadored once. "

"Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and havelearned so much since you left school; which always seemed to mewitchcraft before, --part of your general uncanniness, " said Lucy. 

She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, looking atMaggie, "It is very beautiful that you should love Philip; I neverthought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, youought not to give him up. There are obstacles now; but they may bedone away with in time. "

Maggie shook her head. 

"Yes, yes, " persisted Lucy; "I can't help being hopeful about it. There is something romantic in it, --out of the common way, --just whateverything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore youlike a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain tocontrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, sothat you may marry Philip when I marry--somebody else. Wouldn't thatbe 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 mustI. I dare not think what time it is. "

They kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed of a confidencewhich had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggiehad been thoroughly sincere; her nature had never found it easy to beotherwise. But confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they aresincere. 

Chapter IV

Brother and Sister

Maggie was obliged to go to Tom's lodgings in the middle of the day, when he would be coming in to dinner, else she would not have foundhim at home. He was not lodging with entire strangers. Our friend BobJakin had, with Mumps's tacit consent, taken not only a wife abouteight months ago, but also one of those queer old houses, pierced withsurprising passages, by the water-side, where, as he observed, hiswife and mother could keep themselves out of mischief by letting outtwo "pleasure-boats, " in which he had invested some of his savings, and by taking in a lodger for the parlor and spare bedroom. Underthese circumstances, what could be better for the interests of allparties, sanitary considerations apart, than that the lodger should beMr. Tom?

It was Bob's wife who opened the door to Maggie. She was a tiny woman, with the general physiognomy of a Dutch doll, looking, in comparisonwith Bob's mother, who filled up the passage in the rear, very muchlike one of those human figures which the artist finds convenientlystanding near a colossal statue to show the proportions. The tinywoman curtsied and looked up at Maggie with some awe as soon as shehad opened the door; but the words, "Is my brother at home?" whichMaggie uttered smilingly, made her turn round with sudden excitement, and say, --

"Eh, mother, mother--tell Bob!--it's Miss Maggie! Come in, Miss, forgoodness do, " she went on, opening a side door, and endeavoring toflatten her person against the wall to make the utmost space for thevisitor. 

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 bothof them the same sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was notstrange to her in this new room; the first thing her eyes dwelt on wasthe large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to disperse the oldmemories. 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 thenlifting up the corner of that garment and holding it to her face withan air of embarrassment, as she looked wonderingly at Maggie. 

"Bob is at home, then?" said Maggie, recovering herself, and smilingat the bashful Dutch doll. 

"Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself; I'llgo and see, " said Mrs. Jakin, disappearing. 

But she presently came back walking with new courage a little waybehind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of his blue eyes andregular white teeth in the doorway, bowing respectfully. 

"How do you do, Bob?" said Maggie, coming forward and putting out herhand to him; "I always meant to pay your wife a visit, and I shallcome another day on purpose for that, if she will let me. But I wasobliged to come to-day to speak to my brother. "

"He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finely, Mr. Tom is; he'llbe one o' the first men hereabouts, --you'll see that. "

"Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever he becomes; hesaid so himself only the other night, when he was talking of you. "

"Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the more on't whenhe says a thing, because his tongue doesn't overshoot him as minedoes. Lors! I'm no better nor a tilted bottle, I ar'n't, --I can't stopmysen when once I begin. But you look rarely, Miss; it does me good tosee you. What do you say now, Prissy?"--here Bob turned to hiswife, --"Isn't it all come true as I said? Though there isn't manysorts 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 eyesin turning up reverentially toward Maggie, but she was able now tosmile and curtsey, and say, "I'd looked forrard like aenything toseein' you, Miss, for my husband's tongue's been runnin' on you, likeas if he was light-headed, iver since first he come a-courtin' on me. "

"Well, well, " said Bob, looking rather silly. "Go an' see after thetaters, else Mr. Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em. "

"I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob, " said Maggie, smiling. "I remember you used to say he wouldn't like your marrying. "

"Eh, Miss, " said Bob, "he made up his mind to't when he see'd what alittle un she was. He pretends not to see her mostly, or else to thinkas she isn't full-growed. But about Mr. Tom, Miss, " said Bob, speakinglower and looking serious, "he's as close as a iron biler, he is; butI'm a 'cutish chap, an' when I've left off carrying my pack, an' am ata loose end, I've got more brains nor I know what to do wi', an' I'mforced to busy myself wi' other folks's insides. An' it worrets me asMr. Tom'll 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, afine 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, andfrownin' as if he was watchin' folks at work in it. "

"He thinks so much about business, " said Maggie. 

"Ay, " said Bob, speaking lower; "but do you think it's nothin' else, Miss? He's close, Mr. Tom is; but I'm a 'cute chap, I am, an' Ithought tow'rt last Christmas as I'd found out a soft place in him. Itwas about a little black spaniel--a rare bit o' breed--as he made afuss to get. But since then summat's come over him, as he's set histeeth again' 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 itout of him a bit, now you're come. He's a deal too lonely, and doesn'tgo into company enough. "

"I'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob, " said Maggie, agood deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a totally new idea to hermind that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor fellow!--and in lovewith Lucy too! But it was perhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officiousbrain. The present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship andgratitude. But Bob had already said, "Here's Mr. Tom, " and the outerdoor was opening. 

"There is no time to spare, Tom, " said Maggie, as soon as Bob left theroom. "I must tell you at once what I came about, else I shall behindering you from taking your dinner. "

Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and Maggie wasseated opposite the light. He noticed that she was tremulous, and hehad a presentiment of the subject she was going to speak about. Thepresentiment made his voice colder and harder as he said, "What isit?"

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she put herrequest in quite a different form from the one she had predeterminedon. She rose from her seat, and looking straight at Tom, said, --

"I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Orrather, I promised you not to see him without telling you. I am cometo tell you that I wish to see him. "

"Very well, " said Tom, still more coldly. 

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, defiant manner, before she repented, and felt the dread of alienation from herbrother. 

"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 himto come, has invited him to come this evening; and I told her Icouldn't see him without telling you. I shall only see him in thepresence of other people. There will never be anything secret betweenus again. "

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for alittle while. Then he turned to her and said, slowly andemphatically, --

"You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is no needfor my repeating anything I said a year ago. While my father wasliving, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you, to prevent youfrom disgracing him as well as yourself, and all of us. But now I mustleave you to your own choice. You wish to be independent; you told meso after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you think ofPhilip Wakem as a lover again, you must give up me. "

"I don't wish it, dear Tom, at least as things are; I see that itwould 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. Lucywishes it. "

The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little. 

"I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncle's--I don'twant you to make a fuss on the subject. But I have no confidence inyou, Maggie. You would be led away to do anything. "

That was a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble. 

"Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not doneand borne everything as well as I could? And I kept my word toyou--when--when----My life has not been a happy one, any more thanyours. "

She was obliged to be childish; the tears would come. When Maggie wasnot angry, she was as dependent on kind or cold words as a daisy onthe sunshine or the cloud; the need of being loved would always subdueher, as, in old days, it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. Thebrother's goodness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could onlyshow itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm, andsaid, in the tone of a kind pedagogue, --

"Now listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. You're always inextremes; you have no judgment and self-command; and yet you think youknow best, and will not submit to be guided. You know I didn't wishyou to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a goodhome, and you might have lived respectably amongst your relations, until I could have provided a home for you with my mother. And that iswhat I should like to do. I wished my sister to be a lady, and Ialways have taken care of you, as my father desired, until you werewell married. But your ideas and mine never accord, and you will notgive way. Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, whogoes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily knows betterwhat is right and respectable for his sister than she can knowherself. You think I am not kind; but my kindness can only be directedby what I believe to be good for you. "

"Yes, I know, dear Tom, " said Maggie, still half-sobbing, but tryingto control her tears. "I know you would do a great deal for me; I knowhow 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 doyou. "

"Yes, I _do_ know; I know it too well. I know how differently you mustfeel about all that affects our family, and your own dignity as ayoung woman, before you could think of receiving secret addresses fromPhilip Wakem. If it was not disgusting to me in every other way, Ishould object to my sister's name being associated for a moment withthat 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 quitecertain that what you witnessed just before my father's death wouldsecure you from ever thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But Idon't feel certain of it with you; I never feel certain about anythingwith _you_. At one time you take pleasure in a sort of perverseself-denial, and at another you have not resolution to resist a thingthat you know to be wrong. "

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words, --that hard rind oftruth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsympathetic minds. Maggiealways writhed under this judgment of Tom's; she rebelled and washumiliated in the same moment; it seemed as if he held a glass beforeher to show her her own folly and weakness, as if he were a propheticvoice predicting her future fallings; and yet, all the while, shejudged him in return; she said inwardly that he was narrow and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs which were often thesource of the wrong-doing or absurdity that made her life a planlessriddle 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 feelthat she was near to him. He always repelled her. Her feeling underhis words was complicated by the allusion to the last scene betweenher father and Wakem; and at length that painful, solemn memorysurmounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not think of suchthings with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not accuse her ofthat. 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. ButI am not so shut out from all your feelings as you believe me to be. Isee as well as you do that from our position with regard to Philip'sfather--not on other grounds--it would be unreasonable, it would bewrong, for us to entertain the idea of marriage; and I have given upthinking of him as a lover. I am telling you the truth, and you haveno right to disbelieve me; I have kept my word to you, and you havenever detected me in a falsehood. I should not only not encourage, Ishould carefully avoid, any intercourse with Philip on any otherfooting than of quiet friendship. You may think that I am unable tokeep my resolutions; but at least you ought not to treat me with hardcontempt on the ground of faults that I have not committed yet. "

"Well, Maggie, " said Tom, softening under this appeal, "I don't wantto overstrain matters. I think, all things considered, it will be bestfor 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; Ican only warn you. I wish to be as good a brother to you as you willlet me. "

There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the last words, and Maggie's ready affection came back with as sudden a glow as whenthey were children, and bit their cake together as a sacrament ofconciliation. 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 greatdeal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should like to be acomfort to you, not to vex you. You don't think I'm altogethernaughty, now, do you?"

Tom smiled at the eager face; his smiles were very pleasant to seewhen they did come, for the gray eyes could be tender underneath thefrown. 

"No, Maggie. "

"I may turn out better than you expect. "

"I hope you will. "

"And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see this extremelysmall 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'mgoing 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 his bellviolently, and bringing down the small bell-rope. 

"I'm frightened; I shall run away, " said Maggie, making a laughingretreat; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, flung the bell-rope tothe farther end of the room; not very far either, --a touch of humanexperience which I flatter myself will come home to the bosoms of nota few substantial or distinguished men who were once at an early stageof their rise in the world, and were cherishing very large hopes invery small lodgings. 

Chapter V

Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster

"And now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom, " said Mr. Deane, that same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room at theBank 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 atNewcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a good prospect of somesort to keep up your spirits. "

Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion inthis apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff-box and gratifiedeach 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 ayoung fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such astrapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shaftsthe best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. Thelooms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast; I'd abest suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale, sir, --in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, thathas made the difference; it drives on every wheel double pace, and thewheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest said at theanniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, consideringhe's seen nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, assome people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and if the populationis to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must useits wits at inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my shareas an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing tomake two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir, it'sa fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and bringthe grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's our lineof business; and I consider it as honorable a position as a man canhold, to be connected 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 hisreminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed, for the last month or two, there had been hints thrown out to Tomwhich enabled him to guess that he was going to hear some propositionfor his own benefit. With the beginning of the last speech he hadstretched out his legs, thrust his hands in his pockets, and preparedhimself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr. Deane had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say toyoung men in general was, that if they didn't succeed too it wasbecause of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when hisuncle put a direct question to him. 

"Let me see, --it's going on for seven years now since you applied tome 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 gooddeal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your comingvery well; I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and that waswhat made me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say I was right;I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing mynephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir; and if I'dhad a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you. "

Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a tone ofsome feeling, "No, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you. "

"I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir; I've done my best, "said Tom, in his proud, independent way. 

"Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak of your conductas a son; though that weighs with me in my opinion of you. But what Ihave to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities you'veshown as a man o' business. Ours is a fine business, --a splendidconcern, sir, --and there's no reason why it shouldn't go on growing;there's a growing capital, and growing outlets for it; but there'sanother thing that's wanted for the prosperity of every concern, largeor small, and that's men to conduct it, --men of the right habits; noneo' your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this iswhat Mr. Guest and I see clear enough. Three years ago we took Gellinto the concern; we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why, because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So itwill always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty nearten years older than you, there are other points in your favor. "

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on speaking; he wasconscious of something he had in his mind to say, which might not beagreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion ratherthan an acceptance of the proposition he foresaw. 

"It stands to reason, " Mr. Deane went on, when he had finished his newpinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in your favor; but I don'tdeny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your conduct inthat affair of Pelley's bank would have led Mr. Guest and myself tomake some acknowledgment of the service you've been to us; and, backedby your general conduct and business ability, it has made us determineon giving you a share in the business, --a share which we shall be gladto increase as the years go on. We think that'll be better, on allgrounds, than raising your salary. It'll give you more importance, andprepare you better for taking some of the anxiety off my shoulders byand by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank God; butI'm getting older, --there's no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I wouldopen the subject to you; and when you come back from this northernbusiness, we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for ayoung fellow of three-and-twenty, but I'm bound to say you've deservedit. "

"I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir; of course I feel themost indebted to _you_, who first took me into the business, and havetaken a good deal of pains with me since. "

Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had said this. 

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Deane. "I don't spare pains when I see they'll beof any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell, else he wouldn'thave been what he is. "

"But there's one thing I should like to mention to you uncle. I'venever spoken to you of it before. If you remember, at the time myfather's property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buyingthe Mill; I know you thought it would be a very good investment, especially if steam were applied. "

"To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us; he'd made up his mind tothat. He's rather fond of carrying everything over other people'sheads. "

"Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present, " Tom went on, "but I wish you to know what I have in my mind about the Mill. I've astrong feeling about it. It was my father's dying wish that I shouldtry and get it back again whenever I could; it was in his family forfive generations. I promised my father; and besides that, I'm attachedto the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it shouldever suit your views to buy it for the firm, I should have a betterchance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shouldn't have liked tomention the thing to you, only you've been kind enough to say myservices have been of some value. And I'd give up a much greaterchance in life for the sake of having the Mill again, --I mean havingit in my own hands, and gradually working off the price. "

Mr. Deane had listened attentively, and now looked thoughtful. 

"I see, I see, " he said, after a while; "the thing would be possibleif there were any chance of Wakem's parting with the property. Butthat I _don't_ see. He's put that young Jetsome in the place; and hehad his reasons when he bought it, I'll be bound. "

"He's a loose fish, that young Jetsome, " said Tom. "He's taking todrinking, and they say he's letting the business go down. Luke told meabout it, --our old miller. He says he sha'n't stay unless there's analteration. I was thinking, if things went on that way, Wakem might bemore willing to part with the Mill. Luke says he's getting very sourabout the way things are going on. "

"Well, I'll turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and gointo it with Mr. Guest. But, you see, it's rather striking out a newbranch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are, which was what we'd wanted. "

"I should be able to manage more than the Mill when things were onceset properly going, sir. I want to have plenty of work. There'snothing else I care about much. "

There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man ofthree-and-twenty, even in uncle Deane's business-loving ears. 

"Pooh, pooh! you'll be having a wife to care about one of these days, if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to this Mill, wemustn't reckon on our chickens too early. However, I promise you tobear it in mind, and when you come back we'll talk of it again. I amgoing to dinner now. Come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, andsay good-bye to your mother and sister before you start. "

Chapter VI

Illustrating the Laws of Attraction

It is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at a moment in herlife which must be considered by all prudent persons as a greatopportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St. Ogg's, with a striking person, which had the advantage of being quiteunfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderateassistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxiouscolloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a newstarting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torryfatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that "thedark-eyed girl there in the corner" might see him in all theadditional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladieswent home intending to have short sleeves with black lace, and toplait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head, --"Thatcousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well. " In fact, poor Maggie, with all her inward consciousness of a painful past and herpresentiment of a troublous future, was on the way to become an objectof some envy, --a topic of discussion in the newly establishedbilliard-room, and between fair friends who had no secrets from eachother on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associatedchiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, andwere the glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggie'smanners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observationscurrent in good society, and of saying that she didn't know whetherthose observations were true or not, which gave her an air of_gaucherie_, and impeded the even flow of conversation; but it is afact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not theworst disposed toward a new acquaintance of their own sex because shehas points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without thosepretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation ofdriving gentlemen to despair that she won some feminine pity for beingso ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not had manyadvantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was nopretension about her; her abruptness and unevenness of manner wereplainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It wasonly a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her, considering what the rest of poor Lucy's relations were--an allusionwhich always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was notagreeable to think of any connection by marriage with such people asthe Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to contradict Stephenwhen once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was nopossible objection to Lucy in herself, --no one could help liking her. She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindlyto this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a greatfuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances theinvitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, also, MissDeane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St. Ogg's for any attention toward her to be neglected. 

Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young lady'slife, and knew what it was to get up in the morning without anyimperative reason for doing one thing more than another. This newsense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment amidst the soft-breathingairs and garden-scents of advancing spring--amidst the new abundanceof music, and lingering strolls in the sunshine, and the deliciousdreaminess of gliding on the river--could hardly be without someintoxicating effect on her, after her years of privation; and even inthe first week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories andanticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now; it wasbecoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to feel that shewas one of the beautiful things of this spring-time. And there wereadmiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheededperson, liable to be chid, from whom attention was continuallyclaimed, and on whom no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant, too, when Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at thepiano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers and thekeys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kinship not to be wornout by separation; to get the tunes she had heard the evening before, and repeat them again and again until she had found out a way ofproducing them so as to make them a more pregnant, passionate languageto her. The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and shewould often take up a book of studies rather than any melody, that shemight taste more keenly by abstraction the more primitive sensation ofintervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind thatindicates a great specific talent; it was rather that her sensibilityto the supreme excitement of music was only one form of thatpassionate sensibility which belonged to her whole nature, and madeher faults and virtues all merge in each other; made her affectionssometimes an impatient demand, but also prevented her vanity fromtaking the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it thepoetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long while, and needto be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is a thinghardly to be predicted even from the completest knowledge ofcharacteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirelyfrom within. "Character, " says Novalis, in one of his questionableaphorisms, --"character is destiny. " But not the whole of our destiny. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we havea great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had lived to a goodold age, and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceiveHamlet's having married Ophelia, and got through life with areputation of sanity, notwithstanding many soliloquies, and some moodysarcasms toward the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of thefrankest incivility to his father-in-law. 

Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for itto reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river; we only knowthat the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is thesame final home. Under the charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herselfwas ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring imagination, of herfuture lot; and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip waslosing its predominance; perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she wasnot sorry that the interview had been deferred. 

For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and Mr. StephenGuest brought word that he was gone to the coast, --probably, hethought, on a sketching expedition; but it was not certain when hewould return. It was just like Philip, to go off in that way withouttelling any one. It was not until the twelfth day that he returned, tofind both Lucy's notes awaiting him; he had left before he knew ofMaggie's arrival. 

Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite convinced of thefeelings that were crowded for Maggie into those twelve days; of thelength to which they were stretched for her by the novelty of herexperience in them, and the varying attitudes of her mind. The earlydays of an acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, andfill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent periods, which have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. Therewere not many hours in those ten days in which Mr. Stephen Guest wasnot seated by Lucy's side, or standing near her at the piano, oraccompanying her on some outdoor excursion; his attentions wereclearly becoming more assiduous, and that was what every one hadexpected. Lucy was very happy, all the happier because Stephen'ssociety seemed to have become much more interesting and amusing sinceMaggie had been there. Playful discussions--sometimes seriousones--were going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealedthemselves, to the admiration of the gentle, unobtrusive Lucy; and itmore than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet they shouldhave through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicablething that a girl should enjoy her lover's society the more for thepresence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm ofjealousy that the third person had the conversation habituallydirected to her? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy, thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of hercompanions' affections, and not prone to the feelings which shake sucha belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, itwas Lucy by whom Stephen sat, to whom he gave his arm, to whom heappealed as the person sure to agree with him; and every day there wasthe same tender politeness toward her, the same consciousness of herwants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? It seemed toLucy that there was more; and it was no wonder that the realsignificance of the change escaped her. It was a subtle act ofconscience in Stephen that even he himself was not aware of. Hispersonal attentions to Maggie were comparatively slight, and there hadeven sprung up an apparent distance between them, that prevented therenewal of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he hadfallen the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was outof the room, if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to eachother; Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books or music, andMaggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each was oppressivelyconscious of the other's presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet eachlooked and longed for the same thing to happen the next day. Neitherof them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, "Towhat does all this tend?" Maggie only felt that life was revealingsomething quite new to her; and she was absorbed in the direct, immediate experience, without any energy left for taking account of itand reasoning about it. Stephen wilfully abstained fromself-questioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt aninfluence which was to have any determining effect on his conduct. Andwhen Lucy came into the room again, they were once more unconstrained;Maggie could contradict Stephen, and laugh at him, and he couldrecommend to her consideration the example of that most charmingheroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great "respect for theunderstandings of men. " Maggie could look at Stephen, which, for somereason or other she always avoided when they were alone; and he couldeven ask her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's fingerswere so busy with that bazaar-work, and lecture her on hurrying thetempo, which was certainly Maggie's weak point. 

One day--it was the day of Philip's return--Lucy had formed a suddenengagement to spend the evening with Mrs. Kenn, whose delicate stateof health, threatening to become confirmed illness through an attackof bronchitis, obliged her to resign her functions at the comingbazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to beone. The engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he hadheard Lucy promise to dine early and call at six o'clock for MissTorry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request. 

"Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar, " Stephenburst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room, --"taking youngladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into scenes ofdissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered reticules! I should like toknow what is the proper function of women, if it is not to makereasons for husbands to stay at home, and still stronger reasons forbachelors to go out. If this goes on much longer, the bonds of societywill be dissolved. "

"Well, it will not go on much longer, " said Lucy, laughing, "for thebazaar is to take place on Monday week. "

"Thank Heaven!" said Stephen. "Kenn himself said the other day that hedidn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity; butjust as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear directtaxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build andendow schools without calling in the force of folly. "

"Did he say so?" said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide withanxiety. "I never heard him say anything of that kind; I thought heapproved of what we were doing. "

"I'm sure he approves _you_, " said Stephen, smiling at heraffectionately; "your conduct in going out to-night looks vicious, Iown, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom of it. "

"Oh, you think too well of me, " said Lucy, shaking her head, with apretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was tacitlyunderstood that Stephen would not come in the evening; and on thestrength of that tacit understanding he made his morning visit thelonger, not saying good-bye until after four. 

Maggie was seated in the drawing-room, alone, shortly after dinner, with Minny on her lap, having left her uncle to his wine and his nap, and her mother to the compromise between knitting and nodding, which, when there was no company, she always carried on in the dining-roomtill tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, andcomforting him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of afootstep on the gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephen Guestwalking up the garden, as if he had come straight from the river. Itwas very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often complainedthat their dinner-hour was late at Park House. Nevertheless, there hewas, in his black dress; he had evidently been home, and must havecome again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heartbeating; it was natural she should be nervous, for she was notaccustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up throughthe open window, and raised his hat as he walked toward it, to enterthat way instead of by the door. He blushed too, and certainly lookedas foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession can beexpected to look, as he walked in with a roll of music in his hand, and said, with an air of hesitating improvisation, --

"You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver; I ought toapologize for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to come intothe town, and I got our man to row me; so I thought I would bringthese things from the 'Maid of Artois' for your cousin; I forgot themthis morning. Will you give them to her?"

"Yes, " said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat down again. 

Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely newposition. 

"Well, you pampered minion!" said Stephen, leaning to pull the longcurly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a suggestiveremark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by furtherdevelopment, it naturally left the conversation at a standstill. Itseemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was obliged todo, and wonder at himself all the while, --to go on stroking Minny'shead. Yet it was very pleasant; he only wished he dared look atMaggie, and that she would look at him, --let him have one long lookinto those deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he would be satisfiedand quite reasonable after that. He thought it was becoming a sort ofmonomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie; and he wasracking his invention continually to find out some means by which hecould have it without its appearing singular and entailing subsequentembarrassment. As for Maggie, she had no distinct thought, only thesense of a presence like that of a closely hovering broad-winged birdin the darkness, for she was unable to look up, and saw nothing butMinny's black wavy coat. 

But this must end some time, perhaps it ended very soon, and only_seemed_ long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen at last sat uprightsideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back andlooking at Maggie. What should he say?

"We shall have a splendid sunset, I think; sha'n't you go out and seeit?"

"I don't know, " said Maggie. Then courageously raising her eyes andlooking out of the window, "if I'm not playing cribbage with myuncle. "

A pause; during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficientinsight not to be grateful for it, to growl rather. 

"Do you like sitting alone?"

A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just glancing atStephen, she said, "Would it be quite civil to say've s'?"

"It _was_ rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask, " saidStephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stayfor another. "But you will have more than half an hour to yourselfafter I am gone, " he added, taking out his watch. "I know Mr. Deanenever comes in till half-past seven. "

Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny's backagain, and said, --

"I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music. "

"We shall have a new voice to-morrow night, " said Stephen. "Will youtell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw himas I went home. "

Maggie gave a little start, --it seemed hardly more than a vibrationthat passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new imagessummoned by Philip's name dispersed half the oppressive spell she hadbeen under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, andlaying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy's large work-basketfrom its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thoughtperhaps Maggie didn't like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her inthat abrupt way, for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of thefamily quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie wasseating herself at the table with her work, and looking chill andproud; and he--he looked like a simpleton for having come. Agratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make aman disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie'sthinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake ofsetting off again and finding her alone. 

A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman offive-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference tohistory, perhaps, may make it not incredible. 

At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground, and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and picking up theball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that gave his eyes quitea new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presentedthe ball to her. 

"Good-bye, " said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseechingdiscontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust bothhands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she hadperhaps been rude. 

"Won't you stay?" she said timidly, not looking away, for that wouldhave seemed rude again. 

"No, thank you, " said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling, half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks toward the track of thedistant brook. "The boat is waiting for me. You'll tell your cousin?"

"Yes. "

"That I brought the music, I mean?"

"Yes. "

"And that Philip is come back?"

"Yes. " (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time. )

"Won't you come out a little way into the garden?" said Stephen, in astill gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she did notsay "No, " for she moved away now toward the open window, and he wasobliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought ofsomething to make him amends. 

"Do take my arm, " he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret. 

There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer ofthe firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, butthe sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them andyet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on thatground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked togetherround the grassplot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, inthe same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hourbefore; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yetperceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, andMaggie had darting thoughts across the dimness, --how came he to bethere? Why had she come out? Not a word was spoken. If it had been, each would have been less intensely conscious of the other. 

"Take care of this step, " said Stephen at last. 

"Oh, I will go in now, " said Maggie, feeling that the step had comelike a rescue. "Good-evening. "

In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to thehouse. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only add tothe embarrassing recollections of the last half-hour. She had nothought left for that. She only threw herself into the low arm-chair, and burst into tears. 

"Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again--so quietly--in theRed Deeps. "

Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and wassoon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing "lives" at pool. But hewould not leave off. He was determined not to think, --not to admit anymore distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetualpresence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his arm. 

But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight, and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterlydetermining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again. It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, andengaged, --engaged as strongly as an honorable man need be. He wishedhe had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever byher in this way; she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never have chosen herhimself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did--not. He ought notto have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himselfdisagreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Wasit possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes, --defying anddeprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching, --full of delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by lovefor one would be a lot worth having--to another man. 

There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, asStephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his handsinto his pockets, stalked along at a quieter pace through theshrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind. 

Chapter VII

Philip Re-enters

The next morning was very wet, --the sort of morning on which maleneighbors who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to paytheir fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has beenendurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to become soheavy, and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, thatnothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit; latentdetestation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what can be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning? Englishsunshine is dubious; bonnets are never quite secure; and if you sitdown on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to bedepended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and presently findyourself in the seat you like best, --a little above or a little belowthe one on which your goddess sits (it is the same thing to themetaphysical mind, and that is the reason why women are at onceworshipped and looked down upon), with a satisfactory confidence thatthere will be no lady-callers. 

"Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know, " said Lucy; "healways does when it's rainy. "

Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to thinkshe should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she wouldhave gone to her aunt Glegg's this morning, and so have avoided himaltogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out ofthe room with her mother. 

But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another visitor--anearer neighbor--who preceded him. When Philip entered the room, hewas going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance wasa secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advancedtoward him and put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had beentaken into her confidence. It was a moment of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like allpersons who have passed through life with little expectation ofsympathy, he seldom lost his self-control, and shrank with the mostsensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A littleextra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and thevoice pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seemexpressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usuallygave of an inward drama that was not without its fierceness. ButMaggie, who had little more power of concealing the impressions madeupon her than if she had been constructed of musical strings, felt hereyes getting larger with tears as they took each other's hands insilence. They were not painful tears; they had rather something of thesame origin as the tears women and children shed when they have foundsome protection to cling to and look back on the threatened danger. For Philip, who a little while ago was associated continually inMaggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her with somejustice, had now, in this short space, become a sort of outwardconscience to her, that she might fly to for rescue and strength. Hertranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root deep down in herchildhood, and its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinctsuccessive impressions the first instinctive bias, --the fact that inhim the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotednessthan to her vanity or other egoistic excitability of hernature, --seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary whereshe could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best partof herself must resist; which must bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This new sense of her relation to Philipnullified the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest sheshould overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom wouldsanction; and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in hereyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The scene was justwhat Lucy expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philipand Maggie together again; though, even with all _her_ regard forPhilip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom hadsome excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity betweenthe two, --a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn't like poetry andfairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set themat ease. 

"This was very good and virtuous of you, " she said, in her prettytreble, like the low conversational notes of little birds, "to come sosoon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you forrunning away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends nonotice. Come and sit down here, " she went on, placing the chair thatwould suit him best, "and you shall find yourself treated mercifully. "

"You will never govern well, Miss Deane, " said Philip, as he seatedhimself, "because no one will ever believe in your severity. Peoplewill always encourage themselves in misdemeanors by the certainty thatyou will be indulgent. "

Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not hear what itwas, for he had naturally turned toward Maggie, and she was looking athim with that open, affectionate scrutiny which we give to a friendfrom whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting hadbeen! And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He feltthis so keenly, --with such intense, detailed remembrance, with suchpassionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their lastconversation, --that with that jealousy and distrust which in diffidentnatures is almost inevitably linked with a strong feeling, he thoughthe read in Maggie's glance and manner the evidence of a change. Thevery fact that he feared and half expected it would be sure to makethis thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to thecontrary. 

"I am having a great holiday, am I not?" said Maggie. "Lucy is like afairy godmother; she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in notime. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she alwaysfinds out what I want before I know it myself. "

"I am sure she is the happier for having you, then, " said Philip. "Youmust be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you lookwell. You are benefiting by the change. "

Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, tillLucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a good imitationof annoyance, that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out ofthe room. 

In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the hands wereclasped again, with a look of sad contentment, like that of friendswho meet in the memory of recent sorrow. 

"I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip; I asked him to releaseme from my promise, and he consented. "

Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once theposition they must hold toward each other; but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for herwere so painful that she shrank from being the first to alude to them. It seemed almost like an injury toward Philip even to mention herbrother, --her brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking tooentirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment. 

"Then we can at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hinderthat now?"

"Will not your father object?" said Maggie, withdrawing her hand. 

"I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie, "said Philip, coloring. "There are points on which I should alwaysresist my father, as I used to tell you. _That_ is one. "

"Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip, --seeingeach other and talking to each other while I am here; I shall soon goaway again. I mean to go very soon, to a new situation. "

"Is that inevitable, Maggie?"

"Yes; I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I mustbegin again at last. I can't live in dependence, --I can't live with mybrother, though he is very good to me. He would like to provide forme; but that would be intolerable to me. "

Philip was silent a few moments, and then said, in that high, feeblevoice which with him indicated the resolute suppression of emotion, --

"Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life, away from thosewho love you, the only one you will allow yourself to look forwardto?"

"Yes, Philip, " she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if sheentreated him to believe that she was compelled to this course. "Atleast, as things are; I don't know what may be in years to come. But Ibegin to think there can never come much happiness to me from loving;I have always had so much pain mingled with it. I wish I could makemyself a world outside it, as men do. "

"Now you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie, --thethought I used to combat, " said Philip, with a slight tinge ofbitterness. "You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will bean escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escapepossible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature. What wouldbecome of me, if I tried to escape from pain? Scorn and cynicism wouldbe my only opium; unless I could fall into some kind of conceitedmadness, and fancy myself a favorite of Heaven because I am not afavorite with men. "

The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went onspeaking; the words were evidently an outlet for some immediatefeeling of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. There was a painpressing on him at that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from thefaintest allusion to the words of love, of plighted love that hadpassed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggieof a promise; it would have had for him something of the baseness ofcompulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had notchanged; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His lovefor Maggie was stamped, even more than the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sense that he was an exception, --that she, thatevery one, saw him in the light of an exception. 

But Maggie was conscience-stricken. 

"Yes, Philip, " she said, with her childish contrition when he used tochide her, "you are right, I know. I do always think too much of myown feelings, and not enough of others', --not enough of yours. I hadneed have you always to find fault with me and teach me; so manythings have come true that you used to tell me. "

Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head on herhand and looking at Philip with half-penitent dependent affection, asshe said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expressionthat, to her consciousness, gradually became less vague, --becamecharged with a specific recollection. Had his mind flown back tosomething that _she_ now remembered, --something about a lover ofLucy's? It was a thought that made her shudder; it gave newdefiniteness to her present position, and to the tendency of what hadhappened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urgedto change her position by that positive physical oppression at theheart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental pang. 

"What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened?" Philip said, ininexpressible anxiety, his imagination being only too ready to weaveeverything that was fatal to them both. 

"No, nothing, " said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must nothave that odious thought in his mind; she would banish it from herown. "Nothing, " she repeated, "except in my own mind. You used to sayI should feel the effect of my starved life, as you called it; and Ido. I am too eager in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now theyare come to me. "

She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philipwatched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than thisgeneral allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggie's character to beagitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violentwell-known ring at the door-bell resounding through the house. 

"Oh, what a startling announcement!" said Maggie, quite mistress ofherself, though not without some inward flutter. "I wonder where Lucyis. "

Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval longenough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herselfushered Stephen in. 

"Well, old fellow, " he said, going straight up to Philip and shakinghim heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, "it's gloriousto have you back again; only I wish you'd conduct yourself a littleless like a sparrow with a residence on the house-top, and not go inand out constantly without letting the servants know. This is aboutthe twentieth time I've had to scamper up those countless stairs tothat painting-room of yours, all to no purpose, because your peoplethought you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship. "

"I've so few visitors, it seems hardly worth while to leave notice ofmy exit and entrances, " said Philip, feeling rather oppressed justthen by Stephen's bright strong presence and strong voice. 

"Are you quite well this morning, Miss Tulliver?" said Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting out his hand withthe air of fulfilling a social duty. 

Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, "Quite well, thankyou, " in a tone of proud indifference. Philip's eyes were watchingthem keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their manner toeach other, and only thought with regret that there was some naturalantipathy which every now and then surmounted their mutual good-will. "Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritatedby something in him which she interprets as conceit, " was the silentobservation that accounted for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephenand Maggie had no sooner completed this studied greeting than eachfelt hurt by the other's coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on inquestions to Philip about his recent sketching expedition, wasthinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her intothe conversation as he had invariably done before. "Maggie and Philipare not looking happy, " thought Lucy; "this first interview has beensaddening to them. "

"I think we people who have not been galloping, " she said to Stephen, "are all a little damped by the rain. Let us have some music. We oughtto take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duetin 'Masaniello'; Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suither. "

"Come, then, " said Stephen, going toward the piano, and giving aforetaste of the tune in his deep "brum-brum, " very pleasant to hear. 

"You, please, Philip, --you play the accompaniment, " said Lucy, "andthen I can go on with my work. You _will_ like to play, sha'n't you?"she added, with a pretty, inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest sheshould have proposed what was not pleasant to another; but withyearnings toward her unfinished embroidery. 

Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not findrelief in music, --that does not make a man sing or play the better;and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, ascomplex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love andjealousy and resignation and fierce suspicion, all at the same time. 

"Oh, yes, " he said, seating himself at the piano, "it is a way ofeking out one's imperfect life and being three people at once, --tosing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while, --orelse to sing and paint. "

"Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing with myhands, " said Stephen. "That has generally been observed in men ofgreat administrative capacity, I believe, --a tendency to predominanceof the reflective powers in me! Haven't you observed that, MissTulliver?"

Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal toMaggie, and she could not repress the answering flush and epigram. 

"I _have_ observed a tendency to predominance, " she said, smiling; andPhilip at that moment devoutly hoped that she found the tendencydisagreeable. 

"Come, come, " said Lucy; "music, music! We will discuss each other'squalities another time. "

Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began. She tried harder than ever to-day; for the thought that Stephen knewhow much she cared for his singing was one that no longer roused amerely playful resistance; and she knew, too, that it was his habitalways to stand so that he could look at her. But it was of no use;she soon threw her work down, and all her intentions were lost in thevague state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet, --emotion thatseemed to make her at once strong and weak; strong for all enjoyment, weak for all resistance. When the strain passed into the minor, shehalf started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that change. PoorMaggie! She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on inthis way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen theslightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame as she leaneda little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself; whileher eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, childishexpression of wondering delight which always came back in her happiestmoments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano whenMaggie was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to stealup to her and kiss her. Philip, too, caught a glimpse of her now andthen round the open book on the desk, and felt that he had neverbefore seen her under so strong an influence. 

"More, more!" said Lucy, when the duet had been encored. "Somethingspirited again. Maggie always says she likes a great rush of sound. "

"It must be 'Let us take the road, ' then, " said Stephen, --"so suitablefor a wet morning. But are you prepared to abandon the most sacredduties of life, and come and sing with us?"

"Oh, yes, " said Lucy, laughing. "If you will look out the 'Beggar'sOpera' from the large canterbury. It has a dingy cover. "

"That is a great clue, considering there are about a score covers hereof rival dinginess, " said Stephen, drawing out the canterbury. 

"Oh, play something the while, Philip, " said Lucy, noticing that hisfingers were wandering over the keys. "What is that you are fallinginto?--something delicious that I don't know. "

"Don't you know that?" said Philip, bringing out the tune moredefinitely. "It's from the 'Sonnambula'--'Ah! perche non possoodiarti. ' I don't know the opera, but it appears the tenor is tellingthe heroine that he shall always love her though she may forsake him. You've heard me sing it to the English words, 'I love thee still. '"

It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered into thissong, which might be an indirect expression to Maggie of what he couldnot prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had been opento what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she understood theplaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very finequalities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her; it had sung toher by snatches, in a subdued way, among the grassy walks and hollows, and underneath the leaning ash-tree in the Red Deeps. There seemed tobe some reproach in the words; did Philip mean that? She wished shehad assured him more distinctly in their conversation that she desirednot to renew the hope of love between them, _only_ because it clashedwith her inevitable circumstances. She was touched, not thrilled bythe song; it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and broughtquiet regret in the place of excitement. 

"That's the way with you tenors, " said Stephen, who was waiting withmusic in his hand while Philip finished the song. "You demoralize thefair sex by warbling your sentimental love and constancy under allsorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served upin a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent youfrom expressing your entire resignation. I must administer anantidote, while Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from herbobbins. "

Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy, --

 "Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?"

and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new influence. Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went toward the piano withlaughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of herresistance to the spirit of the song and to the singer, was taken holdof and shaken by the invisible influence, --was borne along by a wavetoo strong for her. 

But, angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her work, andwent on making false stitches and pricking her fingers with muchperseverance, not looking up or taking notice of what was goingforward, until all the three voices united in "Let us take the road. "

I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification inher mind if she had known how entirely this saucy, defiant Stephen wasoccupied with her; how he was passing rapidly from a determination totreat her with ostentatious indifference to an irritating desire forsome sign of inclination from her, --some interchange of subdued wordor look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, whenthey had passed to the music of "The Tempest. " Maggie, feeling theneed of a footstool, was walking across the room to get one, whenStephen, who was not singing just then, and was conscious of all hermovements, guessed her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting thefootstool with an entreating look at her, which made it impossible notto return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstoolplaced carefully by a too self-confident personage, --not _any_self-confident personage, but one in particular, who suddenly lookshumble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is notsome draught in that position between the window and the fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the work-table for her, --thesethings will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tendernessinto a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her girlish time to learnher life-lessons in very trivial language. And to Maggie such thingshad not been every-day incidents, but were a new element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone ofgentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent towardher, and to say, "No, thank you"; and nothing could prevent thatmutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the eveningbefore. 

It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardlytaken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely noticed it. Butto Philip's mind, filled already with a vague anxiety that was likelyto find a definite ground for itself in any trivial incident, thissudden eagerness in Stephen, and the change in Maggie's face, whichwas plainly reflecting a beam from his, seemed so strong a contrastwith the previous overwrought signs of indifference, as to be chargedwith painful meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again, jarred uponhis nervous susceptibility as if it had been the clang of sheet-iron, and he felt inclined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. He hadreally seen no communicable ground for suspecting any ususual feelingbetween Stephen and Maggie; his own reason told him so, and he wantedto go home at once that he might reflect coolly on these false images, till he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then, again, hewanted to stay as long as Stephen stayed, --always to be present whenStephen was present with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural, nay, inevitable, that any man who was near Maggie should fall in lovewith her! There was no promise of happiness for her if she werebeguiled into loving Stephen Guest; and this thought emboldened Philipto view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal offering. He was beginning to play very falsely under this deafening inwardtumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs. Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch came as an excuse forabruptly breaking off the music. 

"Ah, Mr. Philip!" said Mr. Deane, when they entered the dining-room, "I've not seen you for a long while. Your father's not at home, Ithink, is he? I went after him to the office the other day, and theysaid he was out of town. "

"He's been to Mudport on business for several days, " said Philip; "buthe's come back now. "

"As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?"

"I believe so, " said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden interestin his father's pursuits. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Deane, "he's got some land in his own hands on thisside the river as well as the other, I think?"

"Yes, he has. "

"Ah!" continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeonpie, "he mustfind farming a heavy item, --an expensive hobby. I never had a hobbymyself, never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies arethose that people think they can get money at. They shoot their moneydown like corn out of a sack then. "

Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently gratuitouscriticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr. Deane became unusually silent and meditative during his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch all indications in her father, and havingreasons, which had recently become strong, for an extra interest inwhat referred to the Wakems, felt an unsual curiosity to know what hadprompted her father's questions. His subsequent silence made hersuspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind. 

With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when shewanted to tell or ask her father anything particular: she found areason for her aunt Tulliver to leaving the dining-room after dinner, and seated herself on a small stool at her father's knee. Mr. Deane, under those circumstances, considered that he tasted some of the mostagreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered withsnuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions. 

"You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, _do_ you?" she said, as shebrought up her stool and opened the large fingers that clutched thesnuff-box. 

"Not yet, " said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in thedecanter. "But what do _you_ want?" he added, pinching the dimpledchin fondly, --"to coax some more sovereigns out of my pocket for yourbazaar? Eh?"

"No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to talk, not tobeg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his father'sfarming to-day, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardlysay anything to him about his father; and why should you care aboutMr. Wakem's losing money by his hobby?"

"Something to do with business, " said Mr. Deane, waving his hands, asif to repel intrusion into that mystery. 

"But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakem has brought Philip up like agirl; how came you to think you should get any business knowledge outof him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thoughtthem queer. "

"Nonsense, child!" said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his socialdemeanor, with which he had taken some pains in his upward progress. "There's a report that Wakem's mill and farm on the other side of theriver--Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver's, you know--isn't answeringso well as it did. I wanted to see if your friend Philip would letanything out about his father's being tired of farming. "

"Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?" saidLucy, eagerly. "Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have yoursnuff-box if you'll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts areset on Tom's getting back the mill some time. It was one of the lastthings her father said to Tom, that he must get back the mill. "

"Hush, you little puss, " said Mr. Deane, availing himself of therestored snuff-box. "You must not say a word about this thing; do youhear? There's very little chance of their getting the mill or ofanybody's getting it out of Wakem's hands. And if he knew that wewanted it with a view to the Tulliver's getting it again, he'd be theless likely to part with it. It's natural, after what happened. Hebehaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horsewhipping is notlikely to be paid for with sugar-plums. "

"Now, papa, " said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, "will youtrust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what I'm going tosay, but I have very strong reasons. And I'm very cautious; I am, indeed. "

"Well, let us hear. "

"Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into ourconfidence, --let me tell him all about your wish to buy, and what it'sfor; that my cousins wish to have it, and why they wish to have it, --Ibelieve Philip would help to bring it about. I know he would desire todo it. "

"I don't see how that can be, child, " said Mr. Deane, looking puzzled. "Why should _he_ care?"--then, with a sudden penetrating look at hisdaughter, "You don't think the poor lad's fond of you, and so you canmake him do what you like?" (Mr. Deane felt quite safe about hisdaughter's affections. )

"No, papa; he cares very little about me, --not so much as I care abouthim. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say. Don't youask me. And if you ever guess, don't tell me. Only give me leave to doas I think fit about it. "

Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father's knee, andkissed him with that last request. 

"Are you sure you won't do mischief, now?" he said, looking at herwith delight. 

"Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise; I've got all your businesstalents. Didn't you admire my accompt-book, now, when I showed ityou?"

"Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there won't bemuch harm done. And to tell the truth, I think there's not much chancefor us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep. "

Chapter VIII

Wakem in a New Light

Before three days had passed after the conversation you have justoverheard between Lucy and her father she had contrived to have aprivate interview with Philip during a visit of Maggie's to her auntGlegg. For a day and a night Philip turned over in his mind withrestless agitation all that Lucy had told him in that interview, tillhe had thoroughly resolved on a course of action. He thought he sawbefore him now a possibility of altering his position with respect toMaggie, and removing at least one obstacle between them. He laid hisplan and calculated all his moves with the fervid deliberation of achess-player in the days of his first ardor, and was amazed himself athis sudden genius as a tactician. His plan was as bold as it wasthoroughly calculated. Having watched for a moment when his father hadnothing more urgent on his hands than the newspaper, he went behindhim, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, --

"Father, will you come up into my sanctum, and look at my newsketches? I've arranged them now. "

"I'm getting terrible stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing thosestairs of yours, " said Wakem, looking kindly at his son as he laiddown his paper. "But come along, then. "

"This is a nice place for you, isn't it, Phil?--a capital light thatfrom the roof, eh?" was, as usual, the first thing he said on enteringthe painting-room. He liked to remind himself and his son too that hisfatherly indulgence had provided the accommodation. He had been a goodfather. Emily would have nothing to reproach him with there, if shecame back again from her grave. 

"Come, come, " he said, putting his double eye-glass over his nose, andseating himself to take a general view while he rested, "you've got afamous show here. Upon my word, I don't see that your things aren't asgood as that London artist's--what's his name--that Leyburn gave somuch money for. "

Philip shook his head and smiled. He had seated himself on hispainting-stool, and had taken a lead pencil in his hand, with which hewas making strong marks to counteract the sense of tremulousness. Hewatched his father get up, and walk slowly round, good-naturedlydwelling on the pictures much longer than his amount of genuine tastefor landscape would have prompted, till he stopped before a stand onwhich two pictures were placed, --one much larger than the other, thesmaller one in a leather case. 

"Bless me! what have you here?" said Wakem, startled by a suddentransition from landscape to portrait. "I thought you'd left offfigures. Who are these?"

"They are the same person, " said Philip, with calm promptness, "atdifferent ages. "

"And what person?" said Wakem, sharply fixing his eyes with a growinglook of suspicion on the larger picture. 

"Miss Tulliver. The small one is something like what she was when Iwas at school with her brother at King's Lorton; the larger one is notquite so good a likeness of what she was when I came from abroad. "

Wakem turned round fiercely, with a flushed face, letting hiseye-glass fall, and looking at his son with a savage expression for amoment, as if he was ready to strike that daring feebleness from thestool. But he threw himself into the armchair again, and thrust hishands into his trouser-pockets, still looking angrily at his son, however. Philip did not return the look, but sat quietly watching thepoint of his pencil. 

"And do you mean to say, then, that you have had any acquaintance withher since you came from abroad?" said Wakem, at last, with that vaineffort which rage always makes to throw as much punishment as itdesires to inflict into words and tones, since blows are forbidden. 

"Yes; I saw a great deal of her for a whole year before her father'sdeath. We met often in that thicket--the Red Deeps--near DorlcoteMill. I love her dearly; I shall never love any other woman. I havethought of her ever since she was a little girl. "

"Go on, sir! And you have corresponded with her all this while?"

"No. I never told her I loved her till just before we parted, and shepromised her brother not to see me again or to correspond with me. Iam not sure that she loves me or would consent to marry me. But if shewould consent, --if she _did_ love me well enough, --I should marryher. "

"And this is the return you make me for all the indulgences I'veheaped on you?" said Wakem, getting white, and beginning to trembleunder an enraged sense of impotence before Philip's calm defiance andconcentration of purpose. 

"No, father, " said Philip, looking up at him for the first time; "Idon't regard it as a return. You have been an indulgent father to me;but I have always felt that it was because you had an affectionatewish to give me as much happiness as my unfortunate lot would admit, not that it was a debt you expected me to pay by sacrificing all mychances of happiness to satisfy feelings of yours which I can nevershare. "

"I think most sons would share their father's feelings in this case, "said Wakem, bitterly. "The girl's father was an ignorant mad brute, who was within an inch of murdering me. The whole town knows it. Andthe brother is just as insolent, only in a cooler way. He forbade herseeing you, you say; he'll break every bone in your body, for yourgreater happiness, if you don't take care. But you seem to have madeup your mind; you have counted the consequences, I suppose. Of courseyou are independent of me; you can marry this girl to-morrow, if youlike; you are a man of five-and-twenty, --you can go your way, and Ican go mine. We need have no more to do with each other. "

Wakem rose and walked toward the door, but something held him back, and instead of leaving the room, he walked up and down it. Philip wasslow to reply, and when he spoke, his tone had a more incisivequietness and clearness than ever. 

"No; I can't marry Miss Tulliver, even if she would have me, if I haveonly my own resources to maintain her with. I have been brought up tono profession. I can't offer her poverty as well as deformity. "

"Ah, _there_ is a reason for your clinging to me, doubtless, " saidWakem, still bitterly, though Philip's last words had given him apang; they had stirred a feeling which had been a habit for a quarterof a century. He threw himself into the chair again. 

"I expected all this, " said Philip. "I know these scenes are oftenhappening between father and son. If I were like other men of my age, I might answer your angry words by still angrier; we might part; Ishould marry the woman I love, and have a chance of being as happy asthe rest. But if it will be a satisfaction to you to annihilate thevery object of everything you've done for me, you have an advantageover most fathers; you can completely deprive me of the only thingthat would make my life worth having. "

Philip paused, but his father was silent. 

"You know best what satisfaction you would have, beyond that ofgratifying a ridiculous rancor worthy only of wandering savages. "

"Ridiculous rancor!" Wakem burst out. "What do you mean? Damn it! is aman to be horsewhipped by a boor and love him for it? Besides, there'sthat cold, proud devil of a son, who said a word to me I shall notforget when we had the settling. He would be as pleasant a mark for abullet as I know, if he were worth the expense. "

"I don't mean your resentment toward them, " said Philip, who had hisreasons for some sympathy with this view of Tom, "though a feeling ofrevenge is not worth much, that you should care to keep it. I meanyour extending the enmity to a helpless girl, who has too much senseand goodness to share their narrow prejudices. _She_ has never enteredinto the family quarrels. "

"What does that signify? We don't ask what a woman does; we ask whomshe belongs to. It's altogether a degrading thing to you, to think ofmarrying old Tulliver's daughter. "

For the first time in the dialogue, Philip lost some of hisself-control, and colored with anger. 

"Miss Tulliver, " he said, with bitter incisiveness, "has the onlygrounds of rank that anything but vulgar folly can suppose to belongto the middle class; she is thoroughly refined, and her friends, whatever else they may be, are respected for irreproachable honor andintegrity. All St. Ogg's, I fancy, would pronounce her to be more thanmy equal. "

Wakem darted a glance of fierce question at his son; but Philip wasnot looking at him, and with a certain penitent consciousness went on, in a few moments, as if in amplification of his last words, --

"Find a single person in St. Ogg's who will not tell you that abeautiful creature like her would be throwing herself away on apitiable object like me. "

"Not she!" said Wakem, rising again, and forgetting everything else ina burst of resentful pride, half fatherly, half personal. "It would bea deuced fine match for her. It's all stuff about an accidentaldeformity, when a girl's really attached to a man. "

"But girls are not apt to get attached under those circumstances, "said Philip. 

"Well, then, " said Wakem, rather brutally, trying to recover hisprevious position, "if she doesn't care for you, you might have sparedyourself the trouble of talking to me about her, and you might havespared me the trouble of refusing my consent to what was never likelyto happen. "

Wakem strode to the door, and without looking round again, banged itafter him. 

Philip was not without confidence that his father would be ultimatelywrought upon as he had expected, by what had passed; but the scene hadjarred upon his nerves, which were as sensitive as a woman's. Hedetermined not to go down to dinner; he couldn't meet his father againthat day. It was Wakem's habit, when he had no company at home, to goout in the evening, often as early as half-past seven; and as it wasfar on in the afternoon now, Philip locked up his room and went outfor a long ramble, thinking he would not return until his father wasout of the house again. He got into a boat, and went down the river toa favorite village, where he dined, and lingered till it was lateenough for him to return. He had never had any sort of quarrel withhis father before, and had a sickening fear that this contest, justbegun, might go on for weeks; and what might not happen in that time?He would not allow himself to define what that involuntary questionmeant. But if he could once be in the position of Maggie's accepted, acknowledged lover, there would be less room for vague dread. He wentup to his painting-room again, and threw himself with a sense offatigue into the armchair, looking round absently at the views ofwater and rock that were ranged around, till he fell into a doze, inwhich he fancied Maggie was slipping down a glistening, green, slimychannel of a waterfall, and he was looking on helpless, till he wasawakened by what seemed a sudden, awful crash. 

It was the opening of the door, and he could hardly have dozen morethan a few moments, for there was no perceptible change in the eveninglight. It was his father who entered; and when Philip moved to vacatethe chair for him, he said, --

"Sit still. I'd rather walk about. "

He stalked up and down the room once or twice, and then, standingopposite Philip with his hands thrust in his side pockets, he said, asif continuing a conversation that had not been broken off, --

"But this girl seems to have been fond of you, Phil, else she wouldn'thave met you in that way. "

Philip's heart was beating rapidly, and a transient flush passed overhis face like a gleam. It was not quite easy to speak at once. 

"She liked me at King's Lorton, when she was a little girl, because Iused to sit with her brother a great deal when he had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and thought of me as a friend of along while ago. She didn't think of me as a lover when she met me. "

"Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she say then?" saidWakem, walking about again. 

"She said she _did_ love me then. "

"Confound it, then; what else do you want? Is she a jilt?"

"She was very young then, " said Philip, hesitatingly. "I'm afraid shehardly knew what she felt. I'm afraid our long separation, and theidea that events must always divide us, may have made a difference. "

"But she's in the town. I've seen her at church. Haven't you spoken toher since you came back?"

"Yes, at Mr. Deane's. But I couldn't renew my proposals to her onseveral grounds. One obstacle would be removed if you would give yourconsent, --if you would be willing to think of her as a daughter-in-law. "

Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggie's picture. 

"She's not the sort of woman your mother was, though, Phil, " he said, at last. "I saw her at church, --she's handsomer than this, --deucedfine eyes and fine figure, I saw; but rather dangerous andunmanageable, eh?"

"She's very tender and affectionate, and so simple, --without the airsand petty contrivances other women have. "

"Ah?" said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, "But your motherlooked gentler; she had that brown wavy hair and gray eyes, likeyours. You can't remember her very well. It was a thousand pities I'dno likeness of her. "

"Then, shouldn't you be glad for me to have the same sort ofhappiness, father, to sweeten my life for me? There can never beanother tie so strong to you as that which began eight-and-twentyyears ago, when you married my mother, and you have been tightening itever since. "

"Ah, Phil, you're the only fellow that knows the best of me, " saidWakem, giving his hand to his son. "We must keep together if we can. And now, what am I to do? You must come downstairs and tell me. Am Ito go and call on this dark-eyed damsel?"

The barrier once thrown down in this way, Philip could talk freely tohis father of their entire relation with the Tullivers, --of the desireto get the mill and land back into the family, and of its transfer toGuest & Co. As an intermediate step. He could venture now to bepersuasive and urgent, and his father yielded with more readiness thanhe had calculated on. 

"_I_ don't care about the mill, " he said at last, with a sort of angrycompliance. "I've had an infernal deal of bother lately about themill. Let them pay me for my improvements, that's all. But there's onething you needn't ask me. I shall have no direct transactions withyoung Tulliver. If you like to swallow him for his sister's sake, youmay; but I've no sauce that will make him go down. "

I leave you to imagine the agreeable feelings with which Philip wentto Mr. Deane the next day, to say that Mr. Wakem was ready to open thenegotiations, and Lucy's pretty triumph as she appealed to her fatherwhether she had not proved her great business abilities. Mr. Deane wasrather puzzled, and suspected that there had been something "going on"among the young people to which he wanted a clew. But to men of Mr. Deane's stamp, what goes on among the young people is as extraneous tothe real business of life as what goes on among the birds andbutterflies, until it can be shown to have a malign bearing onmonetary affairs. And in this case the bearing appeared to be entirelypropitious. 

Chapter IX

Charity in Full-Dress

The culmination of Maggie's career as an admired member of society inSt. Ogg's was certainly the day of the bazaar, when her simple noblebeauty, clad in a white muslin of some soft-floating kind, which Isuspect must have come from the stores of aunt Pullet's wardrobe, appeared with marked distinction among the more adorned andconventional women around her. We perhaps never detect how much of oursocial demeanor is made up of artificial airs until we see a personwho is at once beautiful and simple; without the beauty, we are apt tocall simplicity awkwardness. The Miss Guests were much too well-bredto have any of the grimaces and affected tones that belong topretentious vulgarity; but their stall being next to the one whereMaggie sat, it seemed newly obvious to-day that Miss Guest held herchin too high, and that Miss Laura spoke and moved continually with aview to effect. 

All well-dressed St. Ogg's and its neighborhood were there; and itwould have been worth while to come even from a distance, to see thefine old hall, with its open roof and carved oaken rafters, and greatoaken folding-doors, and light shed down from a height on themany-colored show beneath; a very quaint place, with broad fadedstripes painted on the walls, and here and there a show of heraldicanimals of a bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems ofa noble family once the seigniors of this now civic hall. A grandarch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted an oaken orchestra, with an open room behind it, where hothouse plants and stalls forrefreshments were disposed; an agreeable resort for gentlemen disposedto loiter, and yet to exchange the occasional crush down below for amore commodious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of thisancient building for an admirable modern purpose, that made charitytruly elegant, and led through vanity up to the supply of a deficit, was so striking that hardly a person entered the room withoutexchanging the remark more than once. Near the great arch over theorchestra was the stone oriel with painted glass, which was one of thevenerable inconsistencies of the old hall; and it was close by thisthat Lucy had her stall, for the convenience of certain large plainarticles which she had taken charge of for Mrs. Kenn. Maggie hadbegged to sit at the open end of the stall, and to have the sale ofthese articles rather than of bead-mats and other elaborate productsof which she had but a dim understanding. But it soon appeared thatthe gentlemen's dressing-gowns, which were among her commodities, wereobjects of such general attention and inquiry, and excited sotroublesome a curiosity as to their lining and comparative merits, together with a determination to test them by trying on, as to makeher post a very conspicuous one. The ladies who had commodities oftheir own to sell, and did not want dressing-gowns, saw at once thefrivolity and bad taste of this masculine preference for goods whichany tailor could furnish; and it is possible that the emphatic noticeof various kinds which was drawn toward Miss Tulliver on this publicoccasion, threw a very strong and unmistakable light on her subsequentconduct in many minds then present. Not that anger, on account ofspurned beauty can dwell in the celestial breasts of charitableladies, but rather that the errors of persons who have once been muchadmired necessarily take a deeper tinge from the mere force ofcontrast; and also, that to-day Maggie's conspicuous position, for thefirst time, made evident certain characteristics which weresubsequently felt to have an explanatory bearing. There was somethingrather bold in Miss Tulliver's direct gaze, and something undefinablycoarse in the style of her beauty, which placed her, in the opinion ofall feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane; for the ladiesof St. Ogg's had now completely ceded to Lucy their hypothetic claimson the admiration of Mr. Stephen Guest. 

As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent triumph about theMill, and all the affectionate projects she was cherishing for Maggieand Philip, helped to give her the highest spirits to-day, and shefelt nothing but pleasure in the evidence of Maggie's attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very charming herself, and Stephen waspaying her the utmost attention on this public occasion; jealouslybuying up the articles he had seen under her fingers in the process ofmaking, and gayly helping her to cajole the male customers into thepurchase of the most effeminate futilities. He chose to lay aside hishat and wear a scarlet fez of her embroidering; but by superficialobservers this was necessarily liable to be interpreted less as acompliment to Lucy than as a mark of coxcombry. "Guest is a greatcoxcomb, " young Torry observed; "but then he is a privileged person inSt. Ogg's--he carries all before him; if another fellow did suchthings, everybody would say he made a fool of himself. "

And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, until Lucy said, in rather a vexed undertone, --

"See, now; all the things of Maggie's knitting will be gone, and youwill not have bought one. There are those deliciously soft warm thingsfor the wrists, --do buy them. "

"Oh no, " said Stephen, "they must be intended for imaginative persons, who can chill themselves on this warm day by thinking of the frostyCaucasus. Stern reason is my forte, you know. You must get Philip tobuy those. By the way, why doesn't he come?"

"He never likes going where there are many people, though I enjoinedhim to come. He said he would buy up any of my goods that the rest ofthe world rejected. But now, do go and buy something of Maggie. "

"No, no; see, she has got a customer; there is old Wakem himself justcoming up. "

Lucy's eyes turned with anxious interest toward Maggie to see how shewent through this first interview, since a sadly memorable time, witha man toward whom she must have so strange a mixture of feelings; butshe was pleased to notice that Wakem had tact enough to enter at onceinto talk about the bazaar wares, and appear interested in purchasing, smiling now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling on her to speakmuch, as if he observed that she was rather pale and tremulous. 

"Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable to your cousin, "said Stephen, in an undertone to Lucy; "is it pure magnanimity? Youtalked of a family quarrel. "

"Oh, that will soon be quite healed, I hope, " said Lucy, becoming alittle indiscreet in her satisfaction, and speaking with an air ofsignificance. But Stephen did not appear to notice this, and as somelady-purchasers came up, he lounged on toward Maggie's end, handlingtrifles and standing aloof until Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his t transactions. 

"My son came with me, " he overheard Wakem saying, "but he has vanishedinto some other part of the building, and has left all thesecharitable gallantries to me. I hope you'll reproach him for hisshabby conduct. "

She returned his smile and bow without speaking, and he turned away, only then observing Stephen and nodding to him. Maggie, conscious thatStephen was still there, busied herself with counting money, andavoided looking up. She had been well pleased that he had devotedhimself to Lucy to-day, and had not come near her. They had begun themorning with an indifferent salutation, and both had rejoiced in beingaloof from each other, like a patient who has actually done withouthis opium, in spite of former failures in resolution. And during thelast few days they had even been making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward events that must soon come to separate them, asa reason for dispensing with self-conquest in detail. 

Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall, and was half hiddenby a screen of draperies. Maggie went on counting her money till shesuddenly heard a deep gentle voice saying, "Aren't you very tried? Dolet me bring you something, --some fruit or jelly, mayn't I?"

The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental vibration of aharp close by her. 

"Oh no, thank you, " she said faintly, and only half looking up for aninstant. 

"You look so pale, " Stephen insisted, in a more entreating tone. "I'msure you're exhausted. I must disobey you, and bring something. "

"No, indeed, I couldn't take it. "

"Are you angry with me? What have I done? _Do_ look at me. "

"Pray, go away, " said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyesglancing immediately from him to the opposite corner of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sooner uttered this entreaty than she was wretched atthe admission it implied; but Stephen turned away at once, andfollowing her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem sealed in thehalf-hidden corner, so that he could command little more than thatangle of the hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely new though occurredto Stephen, and linking itself with what he had observed of Wakem'smanner, and with Lucy's reply to his observation, it convinced himthat there had been some former relation between Philip and Maggiebeyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulsemade him immediately leave the hall and go upstairs to therefreshment-room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder. 

"Are you studying for a portrait, Phil, " he said, "or for a sketch ofthat oriel window? By George, it makes a capital bit from this darkcorner, with the curtain just marking it off. "

"I have been studying expression, " said Philip, curtly. 

"What! Miss Tulliver's? It's rather of the savage-moody order to-day, I think, --something of the fallen princess serving behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to her with a civil offer to get her somerefreshment, but I have been snubbed, as usual. There's naturalantipathy between us, I suppose; I have seldom the honor to pleaseher. "

"What a hypocrite you are!" said Philip, flushing angrily. 

"What! because experience must have told me that I'm universallypleasing? I admit the law, but there's some disturbing force here. "

"I am going, " said Philip, rising abruptly. 

"So am I--to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. Ithink I have done suit and service long enough. "

The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philipturned through the outer door into the court-yard; but Stephen, saying, "Oh, by the by, I must call in here, " went on along thepassage to one of the rooms at the other end of the building, whichwere appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to himself, and a man requires nothing less than this when he wants to dash hiscap on the table, throw himself astride a chair, and stare at a highbrick wall with a frown which would not have been beneath the occasionif he had been slaying "the giant Python. " The conduct that issuesfrom a moral conflict has often so close a resemblance to vice thatthe distinction escapes all outward judgments founded on a merecomparison of actions. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen wasnot a hypocrite, --capable of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end;and yet his fluctuations between the indulgence of a feeling and thesystematic concealment of it might have made a good case in support ofPhilip's accusation. 

Meanwhile, Maggie sat at her stall cold and trembling, with thatpainful sensation in the eyes which comes from resolutely repressedtears. Was her life to be always like this, --always bringing some newsource of inward strife? She heard confusedly the busy, indifferentvoices around her, and wished her mind could flow into that easybabbling current. It was at this moment that Dr. Kenn, who had quitelately come into the hall, and was now walking down the middle withhis hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed his eyes on Maggiefor the first time, and was struck with the expression of pain on herbeautiful face. She was sitting quite still, for the stream ofcustomers had lessened at this late hour in the afternoon; thegentlemen had chiefly chosen the middle of the day, and Maggie's stallwas looking rather bare. This, with her absent, pained expression, finished the contrast between her and her companions, who were allbright, eager, and busy. He was strongly arrested. Her face hadnaturally drawn his attention as a new and striking one at church, andhe had been introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr. Deane's, but he had never spoken more than three words to her. Hewalked toward her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one approaching, roused herself to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt achildlike, instinctive relief from the sense of uneasiness in thisexertion, when she saw it was Dr. Kenn's face that was looking at her;that plain, middle-aged face, with a grave, penetrating kindness init, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached a firm, safestrand, but was looking with helpful pity toward the strugglers stilltossed by the waves, had an effect on Maggie at this moment which wasafterward remembered by her as if it had been a promise. Themiddle-aged, who have lived through their strongest emotions, but areyet in the time when memory is still half passionate and not merelycontemplative, should surely be a sort of natural priesthood, whomlife has disciplined and consecrated to be the refuge and rescue ofearly stumblers and victims of self-despair. Most of us, at somemoment in our young lives, would have welcomed a priest of thatnatural order in any sort of canonicals or uncanonicals, but had toscramble upward into all the difficulties of nineteen entirely withoutsuch aid, as Maggie did. 

"You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Miss Tulliver, "said Dr. Kenn. 

"It is, rather, " said Maggie, simply, not being accustomed to simpleramiable denials of obvious facts. 

"But I can tell Mrs. Kenn that you have disposed of her goods veryquickly, " he added; "she will be very much obliged to you. "

"Oh, I have done nothing; the gentlemen came very fast to buy thedressing-gowns and embroidered waistcoats, but I think any of theother ladies would have sold more; I didn't know what to say aboutthem. "

Dr. Kenn smiled. "I hope I'm going to have you as a permanentparishioner now, Miss Tulliver; am I? You have been at a distance fromus hitherto. "

"I have been a teacher in a school, and I'm going into anothersituation of the same kind very soon. "

"Ah? I was hoping you would remain among your friends, who are all inthis neighborhood, I believe. "

"Oh, _I must go_, " said Maggie, earnestly, looking at Dr. Kenn with anexpression of reliance, as if she had told him her history in thosethree words. It was one of those moments of implicit revelation whichwill sometimes happen even between people who meet quitetransiently, --on a mile's journey, perhaps, or when resting by thewayside. There is always this possibility of a word or look from astranger to keep alive the sense of human brotherhood. 

Dr. Kenn's ear and eye took in all the signs that this briefconfidence of Maggie's was charged with meaning. 

"I understand, " he said; "you feel it right to go. But that will notprevent our meeting again, I hope; it will not prevent my knowing youbetter, if I can be of any service to you. "

He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly before he turned away. 

"She has some trouble or other at heart, " he thought. "Poor child! shelooks as if she might turn out to be one of

 'The souls by nature pitched too high, By suffering plunged too low. '

"There's something wonderfully honest in those beautiful eyes. "

It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imperfections anexcessive delight in admiration and acknowledged supremacy were notabsent now, any more than when she was instructing the gypsies with aview toward achieving a royal position among them, was not more elatedon a day when she had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, together with that satisfactory consciousness which had necessarilycome from being taken before Lucy's chevalglass, and made to look atthe full length of her tall beauty, crowned by the night of her massyhair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, and for the moment hadforgotten everything in the sense of her own beauty. If that state ofmind could have lasted, her choice would have been to have StephenGuest at her feet, offering her a life filled with all luxuries, withdaily incense of adoration near and distant, and with allpossibilities of culture at her command. But there were things in herstronger than vanity, --passion and affection, and long, deep memoriesof early discipline and effort, of early claims on her love and pity;and the stream of vanity was soon swept along and mingledimperceptibly with that wider current which was at its highest forcetoday, under the double urgency of the events and inward impulsesbrought by the last week. 

Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of obstaclesbetween them on his father's side, --he shrank from that; but he hadtold everything to Lucy, with the hope that Maggie, being informedthrough her, might give him some encouraging sign that their beingbrought thus much nearer to each other was a happiness to her. Therush of conflicting feelings was too great for Maggie to say much whenLucy, with a face breathing playful joy, like one of Correggio'scherubs, poured forth her triumphant revelation; and Lucy could hardlybe surprised that she could do little more than cry with gladness atthe thought of her father's wish being fulfilled, and of Tom's gettingthe Mill again in reward for all his hard striving. The details ofpreparation for the bazaar had then come to usurp Lucy's attention forthe next few days, and nothing had been said by the cousins onsubjects that were likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been tothe house more than once, but Maggie had had no private conversationwith him, and thus she had been left to fight her inward battlewithout interference. 

But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were aloneagain, resting together at home, Lucy said, --

"You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss the day afterto-morrow, Maggie; write a note to her, and tell her you have put itoff at my request, and I'll send the man with it. She won't bedispleased; you'll have plenty of time to go by-and-by; and I don'twant you to go out of the way just now. "

"Yes, indeed I must go, dear; I can't put it off. I wouldn't leaveaunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall have very little time, forI'm going away to a new situation on the 25th of June. "

"Maggie!" said Lucy, almost white with astonishment. 

"I didn't tell you, dear, " said Maggie, making a great effort tocommand herself, "because you've been so busy. But some time ago Iwrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her to let me know ifshe met with any situation that I could fill, and the other day I hada letter from her telling me that I could take three orphan pupils ofhers to the coast during the holidays, and then make trial of asituation with her as teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept the offer. "

Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was unable to speak. 

"Maggie, " she said at last, "how could you be so unkind to me--not totell me--to take _such_ a step--and now!" She hesitated a little, andthen added, "And Philip? I thought everything was going to be sohappy. Oh, Maggie, what is the reason? Give it up; let me write. Thereis nothing now to keep you and Philip apart. "

"Yes, " said Maggie, faintly. "There is Tom's feeling. He said I mustgive him up if I married Philip. And I know he will not change--atleast not for a long while--unless something happened to soften him. "

"But I will talk to him; he's coming back this week. And this goodnews about the Mill will soften him. And I'll talk to him aboutPhilip. Tom's always very compliant to me; I don't think he's soobstinate. "

"But I must go, " said Maggie, in a distressed voice. "I must leavesome time to pack. Don't press me to stay, dear Lucy. "

Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating. At length she knelt down by her cousin, and looking up in her facewith anxious seriousness, said, --

"Maggie, is it that you don't love Philip well enough to marry him?Tell me--trust me. "

Maggie held Lucy's hands tightly in silence a little while. Her ownhands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her voice was quite clearand distinct. 

"Yes, Lucy, I would choose to marry him. I think it would be the bestand highest lot for me, --to make his life happy. He loved me first. Noone else could be quite what he is to me. But I can't divide myselffrom my brother for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray don't speakto me again about it. "

Lucy obeyed in pain and wonder. The next word she said was, --

"Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at Park Houseto-morrow, and have some music and brightness, before you go to paythese dull dutiful visits. Ah! here come aunty and the tea. "

Chapter X

The Spell Seems Broken

The suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House looked dulybrilliant with lights and flowers and the personal splendors ofsixteen couples, with attendant parents and guardians. The focus ofbrilliancy was the long drawing-room, where the dancing went forward, under the inspiration of the grand piano; the library, into which itopened at one end, had the more sober illumination of maturity, withcaps and cards; and at the other end the pretty sitting-room, with aconservatory attached, was left as an occasional cool retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black for the first time, and had her prettyslimness set off by an abundant dress of white crape, was theacknowledged queen of the occasion; for this was one of the MissGuests' thoroughly condescending parties, including no member of anyaristocracy higher than that of St. Ogg's, and stretching to theextreme limits of commercial and professional gentility. 

Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had forgotten allthe figures--it was so many years since she had danced at school; andshe was glad to have that excuse, for it is ill dancing with a heavyheart. But at length the music wrought in her young limbs, and thelonging came; even though it was the horrible young Torry, who walkedup a second time to try and persuade her. She warned him that shecould not dance anything but a country-dance; but he, of course, waswilling to wait for that high felicity, meaning only to becomplimentary when he assured her at several intervals that it was a"great bore" that she couldn't waltz, he would have liked so much towaltz with her. But at last it was the turn of the good old-fashioneddance which has the least of vanity and the most of merriment in it, and Maggie quite forgot her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment ofthat half-rustic rhythm which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. She felt quite charitably toward young Torry, as his hand bore heralong and held her up in the dance; her eyes and cheeks had that fireof young joy in them which will flame out if it can find the leastbreath to fan it; and her simple black dress, with its bit of blacklace, seemed like the dim setting of a jewel. 

Stephen had not yet asked her to dance; had not yet paid her more thana passing civility. Since yesterday, that inward vision of her whichperpetually made part of his consciousness, had been half screened bythe image of Philip Wakem, which came across it like a blot; there wassome attachment between her and Philip; at least there was anattachment on his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here, then, Stephen told himself, was another claim of honor which called onhim to resist the attraction that was continually threatening tooverpower him. He told himself so; and yet he had once or twice felt acertain savage resistance, and at another moment a shudderingrepugnance, to this intrusion of Philip's image, which almost made ita new incitement to rush toward Maggie and claim her for himself. Nevertheless, he had done what he meant to do this evening, --he hadkept aloof from her; he had hardly looked at her; and he had beengayly assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were devouring Maggie; hefelt inclined to kick young Torry out of the dance, and take hisplace. Then he wanted the dance to end that he might get rid of hispartner. The possibility that he too should dance with Maggie, andhave her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess him like athirst. But even now their hands were meeting in the dance, --weremeeting still to the very end of it, though they were far off eachother. 

Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic way he gotthrough the duties of politeness in the interval, until he was freeand saw Maggie seated alone again, at the farther end of the room. Hemade his way toward her round the couples that were forming for thewaltz; and when Maggie became conscious that she was the person hesought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, aglowing gladness at heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightenedwith her childlike enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame was set tojoy and tenderness; even the coming pain could not seem bitter, --shewas ready to welcome it as a part of life, for life at this momentseemed a keen, vibrating consciousness poised above pleasure or pain. This one, this last night, she might expand unrestrainedly in thewarmth of the present, without those chill, eating thoughts of thepast and the future. 

"They're going to waltz again, " said Stephen, bending to speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued tenderness which young dreamscreate to themselves in the summer woods when low, cooing voices fillthe air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with theminto a room that is half stifling with glaring gas and hardflirtation. 

"They are going to waltz again. It is rather dizzy work to look on, and the room is very warm; shall we walk about a little?"

He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they walked on intothe sitting-room, where the tables were strewn with engravings for theaccommodation of visitors who would not want to look at them. But novisitors were here at this moment. They passed on into theconservatory. 

"How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with the lightsamong them!" said Maggie, in a low voice. "They look as if theybelonged to an enchanted land, and would never fade away; I couldfancy they were all made of jewels. "

She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and Stephenmade no answer; but he was looking at her; and does not a supreme poetblend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute, and lighteloquent? Something strangely powerful there was in the light ofStephen's long gaze, for it made Maggie's face turn toward it and lookupward at it, slowly, like a flower at the ascending brightness. Andthey walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking;without feeling anything but that long, grave, mutual gaze which hasthe solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The hoveringthought that they must and would renounce each other made this momentof mute confession more intense in its rapture. 

But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and were obliged topause and turn. The change of movement brought a new consciousness toMaggie; she blushed deeply, turned away her head, and drew her armfrom Stephen's, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stoodmotionless, and still pale. 

"Oh, may I get this rose?" said Maggie, making a great effort to saysomething, and dissipate the burning sense of irretrievableconfession. "I think I am quite wicked with roses; I like to gatherthem and smell them till they have no scent left. "

Stephen was mute; he was incapable of putting a sentence together, andMaggie bent her arm a little upward toward the large half-opened rosethat had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a woman's arm?The unspeakable suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpledelbow, and all the varied gently lessening curves, down to thedelicate wrist, with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in thefirm softness. A woman's arm touched the soul of a great sculptor twothousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for theParthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the timewornmarble of a headless trunk. Maggie's was such an arm as that, and ithad the warm tints of life. 

A mad impulse seized on Stephen; he darted toward the arm, andshowered kisses on it, clasping the wrist. 

But the next moment Maggie snatched it from him, and glared at himlike a wounded war-goddess, quivering with rage and humiliation. 

"How dare you?" She spoke in a deeply shaken, half-smothered voice. "What right have I given you to insult me?"

She darted from him into the adjoining room, and threw herself on thesofa, panting and trembling. 

A horrible punishment was come upon her for the sin of allowing amoment's happiness that was treachery to Lucy, to Philip, to her ownbetter soul. That momentary happiness had been smitten with a blight, a leprosy; Stephen thought more lightly of _her_ than he did of Lucy. 

As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of theconservatory, dizzy with the conflict of passions, --love, rage, andconfused despair; despair at his want of self-mastery, and despairthat he had offended Maggie. 

The last feeling surmounted every other; to be by her side again andentreat forgiveness was the only thing that had the force of a motivefor him, and she had not been seated more than a few minutes when hecame and stood humbly before her. But Maggie's bitter rage wasunspent. 

"Leave me to myself, if you please, " she said, with impetuoushaughtiness, "and for the future avoid me. "

Stephen turned away, and walked backward and forward at the other endof the room. There was the dire necessity of going back into thedancing-room again, and he was beginning to be conscious of that. Theyhad been absent so short a time, that when he went in again the waltzwas not ended. 

Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the pride of hernature was stung into activity; the hateful weakness which had draggedher within reach of this wound to her self-respect had at leastwrought its own cure. The thoughts and temptations of the last monthshould all be flung away into an unvisited chamber of memory. Therewas nothing to allure her now; duty would be easy, and all the oldcalm purposes would reign peacefully once more. She re-entered thedrawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, but witha sense of proud self-command that defied anything to agitate her. Sherefused to dance again, but she talked quite readily and calmly withevery one who addressed her. And when they got home that night, shekissed Lucy with a free heart, almost exulting in this scorchingmoment, which had delivered her from the possibility of another wordor look that would have the stamp of treachery toward that gentle, unsuspicious sister. 

The next morning Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so soon as shehad expected. Her mother was to accompany her in the carriage, andhousehold business could not be dispatched hastily by Mrs. Tulliver. So Maggie, who had been in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sitwaiting, equipped for the drive, in the garden. Lucy was busy in thehouse wrapping up some bazaar presents for the younger ones at Basset, and when there was a loud ring at the door-bell, Maggie felt somealarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her; it was sure to beStephen. 

But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, and seatedhimself by her on the garden-chair. It was not Stephen. 

"We can just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from thisseat, " said Philip. 

They had taken each other's hands in silence, but Maggie had looked athim with a more complete revival of the old childlike affectionatesmile than he had seen before, and he felt encouraged. 

"Yes, " she said, "I often look at them, and wish I could see the lowsunlight on the stems again. But I have never been that way butonce, --to the churchyard with my mother. "

"I have been there, I go there, continually, " said Philip. "I havenothing but the past to live upon. "

A keen remembrance and keen pity impelled Maggie to put her hand inPhilip's. They had so often walked hand in hand!

"I remember all the spots, " she said, --"just where you told me ofparticular things, beautiful stories that I had never heard ofbefore. "

"You will go there again soon, won't you, Maggie?" said Philip, getting timid. "The Mill will soon be your brother's home again. "

"Yes; but I shall not be there, " said Maggie. "I shall only hear ofthat happiness. I am going away again; Lucy has not told you, perhaps?"

"Then the future will never join on to the past again, Maggie? Thatbook is quite closed?"

The gray eyes that had so often looked up at her with entreatingworship, looked up at her now, with a last struggling ray of hope inthem, and Maggie met them with her large sincere gaze. 

"That book never will be closed, Philip, " she said, with gravesadness; "I desire no future that will break the ties of the past. Butthe tie to my brother is one of the strongest. I can do nothingwillingly that will divide me always from him. "

"Is that the only reason that would keep us apart forever, Maggie?"said Philip, with a desperate determination to have a definite answer. 

"The only reason, " said Maggie, with calm decision. And she believedit. At that moment she felt as if the enchanted cup had been dashed tothe ground. The reactionary excitement that gave her a proudself-mastery had not subsided, and she looked at the future with asense of calm choice. 

They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or speaking for afew minutes; in Maggie's mind the first scenes of love and partingwere more present than the actual moment, and she was looking atPhilip in the Red Deeps. 

Philip felt that he ought to have been thoroughly happy in that answerof hers; she was as open and transparent as a rock-pool. Why was henot thoroughly happy? Jealousy is never satisfied with anything shortof an omniscience that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart. 

Chapter XI

In the Lane

Maggie had been four days at her aunt Moss's giving the early Junesunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed eyes of thataffectionate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great andsmall, who were learning her words and actions by heart, as if she hadbeen a transient avatar of perfect wisdom and beauty. 

She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousinsfeeding the chickens, at that quiet moment in the life of thefarmyards before the afternoon milking-time. The great buildings roundthe hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over theold garden-wall the straggling rose-bushes were beginning to tosstheir summer weight, and the gray wood and old bricks of the house, onits higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad afternoonsunlight, that suited the quiescent time. Maggie, with her bonnet overher arm, was smiling down at the hatch of small fluffy chickens, whenher aunt exclaimed, --

"Goodness me! who is that gentleman coming in at the gate?"

It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of thehorse were streaked black with fast riding. Maggie felt a beating athead and heart, horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savageenemy who had feigned death. 

"Who is it, my dear?" said Mrs. Moss, seeing in Maggie's face theevidence that she knew. 

"It is Mr. Stephen Guest, " said Maggie, rather faintly. "My cousinLucy's--a gentleman who is very intimate at my cousin's. "

Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and nowraised his hat as he advanced. 

"Hold the horse, Willy, " said Mrs. Moss to the twelve-year-old boy. 

"No, thank you, " said Stephen, pulling at the horse's impatientlytossing head. "I must be going again immediately. I have a message todeliver to you, Miss Tulliver, on private business. May I take theliberty of asking you to walk a few yards with me?"

He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a man gets when hehas been dogged by some care or annoyance that makes his bed and hisdinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if hiserrand were too pressing for him to trouble himself about what wouldbe thought by Mrs. Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs. Moss, rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, was inwardly wondering whether she would be doing right or wrong toinvite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when Maggie, feelingall the embarrassment of the situation, and unable to say anything, put on her bonnet, and turned to walk toward the gate. 

Stephen turned too, and walked by her side, leading his horse. 

Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane, and had walkedfour or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight beforeher all the while, turned again to walk back, saying, with haughtyresentment, --

"There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know whether youconsider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to place me in a positionthat forced me to come out with you, or whether you wished to insultme still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way. "

"Of course you are angry with me for coming, " said Stephen, bitterly. "Of course it is of no consequence what a man has to suffer; it isonly your woman's dignity that you care about. "

Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from the slightestpossible electric shock. 

"As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way; that I'm madwith love for you; that I resist the strongest passion a man can feel, because I try to be true to other claims; but you must treat me as ifI were a coarse brute, who would willingly offend you. And when, if Ihad my own choice, I should ask you to take my hand and my fortune andmy whole life, and do what you liked with them! I know I forgotmyself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I hate myself for having doneit. But I repented immediately; I've been repenting ever since. Youought not to think it unpardonable; a man who loves with his wholesoul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for amoment; but you know--you must believe--that the worst pain I couldhave is to have pained you; that I would give the world to recall theerror. "

Maggie dared not speak, dared not turn her head. The strength that hadcome from resentment was all gone, and her lips were quiveringvisibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full forgivenessthat rose in answer to that confession. 

They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she paused, trembling. 

"You must not say these things; I must not hear them, " she said, looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front of her, to preventher from going farther toward the gate. "I'm very sorry for any painyou have to go through; but it is of no use to speak. "

"Yes, it _is_ of use, " said Stephen, impetuously. "It would be of useif you would treat me with some sort of pity and consideration, instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. I could beareverything more quietly if I knew you didn't hate me for an insolentcoxcomb. Look at me; see what a hunted devil I am; I've been ridingthirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you. "

Maggie did not--dared not--look. She had already seen the harassedface. But she said gently, --

"I don't think any evil of you. "

"Then, dearest, look at me, " said Stephen, in deepest, tenderest tonesof entreaty. "Don't go away from me yet. Give me a moment's happiness;make me feel you've forgiven me. "

"Yes, I do forgive you, " said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and allthe more frightened at herself. "But pray let me go in again. Pray goaway. "

A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids. 

"I can't go away from you; I can't leave you, " said Stephen, withstill more passionate pleading. "I shall come back again if you sendme away with this coldness; I can't answer for myself. But if you willgo with me only a little way I can live on that. You see plainlyenough that your anger has only made me ten times more unreasonable. "

Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to make such spiritedremonstrances against this frequent change of direction, that Stephen, catching sight of Willy Moss peeping through the gate, called out, "Here! just come and hold my horse for five minutes. "

"Oh, no, " said Maggie, hurriedly, "my aunt will think it so strange. "

"Never mind, " Stephen answered impatiently; "they don't know thepeople at St. Ogg's. Lead him up and down just here for five minutes, "he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and then he turned toMaggie's side, and they walked on. It was clear that she _must_ go onnow. 

"Take my arm, " said Stephen, entreatingly; and she took it, feelingall the while as if she were sliding downward in a nightmare. 

"There is no end to this misery, " she began, struggling to repel theinfluence by speech. "It is wicked--base--ever allowing a word or lookthat Lucy--that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy. "

"I do think of her--bless her. If I didn't----" Stephen had laid hishand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and they both felt itdifficult to speak. 

"And I have other ties, " Maggie went on, at last, with a desperateeffort, "even if Lucy did not exist. "

"You are engaged to Philip Wakem?" said Stephen, hastily. "Is it so?"

"I consider myself engaged to him; I don't mean to marry any oneelse. "

Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the sun into aside lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he burst out impetuously, --

"It is unnatural, it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I loveyou, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake ofbelonging to each other. We should break all these mistaken ties thatwere made in blindness, and determine to marry each other. "

"I would rather die than fall into that temptation, " said Maggie, withdeep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spiritual force of painfulyears coming to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from hisas she spoke. 

"Tell me, then, that you don't care for me, " he said, almostviolently. "Tell me that you love some one else better. "

It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of releasingherself from outward struggle, --to tell Stephen that her whole heartwas Philip's. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent. 

"If you do love me, dearest, " said Stephen, gently, taking her handagain and laying it within his arm, "it is better--it is right that weshould marry each other. We can't help the pain it will give. It iscome upon us without our seeking; it is natural; it has taken hold ofme in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I'vebeen trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I've only madethings worse; I'd better have given way at first. "

Maggie was silent. If it were _not_ wrong--if she were once convincedof that, and need no longer beat and struggle against this current, soft and yet strong as the summer stream!

"Say've s' dearest, " said Stephen, leaning to look entreatingly inher face. "What could we care about in the whole world beside, if webelonged to each other?"

Her breath was on his face, his lips were very near hers, but therewas a great dread dwelling in his love for her. 

Her lips and eyelids quivered; she opened her eyes full on his for aninstant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling undercaresses, and then turned sharp round toward home again. 

"And after all, " he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to defeathis own scruples as well as hers, "I am breaking no positiveengagement; if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn from me and givento some one else, I should have felt no right to assert a claim onher. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are neither of usbound. "

"You don't believe that; it is not your real feeling, " said Maggie, earnestly. "You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in the feelingsand expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges mightbe broken, when there was no outward penalty. There would be no suchthing as faithfulness. "

Stephen was silent; he could not pursue that argument; the oppositeconviction had wrought in him too strongly through his previous timeof struggle. But it soon presented itself in a new form. 

"The pledge _can't_ be fulfilled, " he said, with impetuous insistence. "It is unnatural; we can only pretend to give ourselves to any oneelse. There is wrong in that too; there may be misery in it for _them_as well as for us. Maggie, you must see that; you do see that. "

He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of compliance;his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for afew moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deepbreath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness, --

"Oh, it is difficult, --life is very difficult! It seems right to mesometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; but then, suchfeelings continually come across the ties that all our former life hasmade for us, --the ties that have made others dependent on us, --andwould cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it mighthave been in Paradise, and we could always see that one being firsttoward whom--I mean, if life did not make duties for us before lovecomes, love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to eachother. But I see--I feel it is not so now; there are things we mustrenounce in life; some of us must resign love. Many things aredifficult and dark to me; but I see one thing quite clearly, --that Imust not, cannot, seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love isnatural; but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live in me still, and punish me if I did not obey them. I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would bepoisoned. Don't urge me; help me, --help me, _because_ I love you. "

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; her face hadbecome flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of appealing love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal;but in the same moment--how could it be otherwise?--that pleadingbeauty gained new power over him. 

"Dearest, " he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his armstole round her, "I'll do, I'll bear anything you wish. But--onekiss--one--the last--before we part. "

One kiss, and then a long look, until Maggie said tremulously, "Let mego, --let me make haste back. "

She hurried along, and not another word was spoken. Stephen stoodstill and beckoned when they came within sight of Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs. Moss was standing alone atthe door of the old porch; she had sent all the cousins in, with kindthoughtfulness. It might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich andhandsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming inagain; and it might _not_ be joyful. In either case Mrs. Moss waitedanxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The speaking face told plainlyenough that, if there was joy, it was of a very agitating, dubioussort. 

"Sit down here a bit, my dear. " She drew Maggie into the porch, andsat down on the bench by her; there was no privacy in the house. 

"Oh, aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched! I wish I could have died when Iwas fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then; it is so hardnow. "

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell intolong, deep sobs. 

Chapter XII

A Family Party

Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and went toGarum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet according to agreement. Inthe mean time very unexpected things had happened, and there was to bea family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a change in thefortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away theshadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and causetheir hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-roundedsplendor. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come intooffice are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of highappreciation and full-blown eulogy; in many respectable familiesthroughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable meet with asimilar cordiality of recognition, which in its fine freedom from thecoercion of any antecedents, suggests the hopeful possibility that wemay some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have ceased to bite, and wolves that no longershow their teeth with any but the blandest intentions. 

Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for shelonged to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderfulnews. It seemed, did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air ofwisdom, as if everything, even other people's misfortunes (poorcreatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, andcousin Tom, and naughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately benton the contrary, as happy as they deserved to be after all theirtroubles. To think that the very day--the _very day_--after Tom hadcome back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr. Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in adrunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dangerous state, so thatWakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter onthe premises at once!

It was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as ifthe misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other time, inorder that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of hisexemplary conduct, --papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tullivermust certainly go to the Mill now, and keep house for Tom; that wasrather a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort; but then, tothink of poor aunty being in her old place again, and graduallygetting comforts about her there!

On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she andMaggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into thehandsome parlor, where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner thanelsewhere, she directed her manoeuvres, as any other great tacticianwould have done, against the weaker side of the enemy. 

"Aunt Pullet, " she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressinglyadjusting that lady's floating cap-string, "I want you to make up yourmind what linen and things you will give Tom toward housekeeping;because you are always so generous, --you give such nice things, youknow; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow. "

"That she never can, my dear, " said Mrs. Pullet, with unusual vigor, "for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' mine, I can tell you. She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big checks andlive things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is, --not a spotnor a diamond among 'em. But it's poor work dividing one's linenbefore one dies, --I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy, " Mrs. Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver, "when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'dspun, and the Lord knows where yours is gone. "

"I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, accustomedto consider herself in the light of an accused person. "I'm sure itwas no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o' nights thinking o'my best bleached linen all over the country. "

"Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver, " said uncle Pullet, feeling that hewas offering a cheap and wholesome form of comfort, which he wasrecommending by example. 

"Oh, but, aunt Pullet, " said Lucy, "you've so much beautiful linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it whenthey were married. "

"Well, I don't say as I won't do it, " said Mrs. Pullet, "for now Tom'sso lucky, it's nothing but right his friends should look on him andhelp him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale, Bessy; it wasnothing but good natur' o' me to buy 'em, for they've been lying inthe chest ever since. But I'm not going to give Maggie any more o' myIndy muslin and things, if she's to go into service again, when shemight stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if she wasn'twanted at her brother's. "

"Going into service" was the expression by which the Dodson mindrepresented to itself the position of teacher or governess; andMaggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offeredher more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with allher relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hairdown her back, and altogether in a state of dubious promise, was amost undesirable niece; but now she was capable of being at onceornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncleGlegg's presence, over the tea and muffins. 

"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on theback, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us hear of you taking a placeagain, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up half-a-dozen sweethearts atthe bazaar; isn't there one of'em the right sort of article? Come, now?"

"Mr. Glegg, " said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness inher severity which she always put on with her crisper fronts, "you'llexcuse me, but you're far too light for a man of your years. It'srespect and duty to her aunts, and the rest of her kin as are so goodto her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away againwithout consulting us; not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word, though it was never heared in _my_ family. "

"Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh, neighbor Pullet? They thought us sweet enough then, " said Mr. Glegg, winking pleasantly; while Mr. Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness, took a little more sugar. 

"Mr. Glegg, " said Mrs. G. , "if you're going to be undelicate, let meknow. "

"La, Jane, your husband's only joking, " said Mrs. Pullet; "let himjoke while he's got health and strength. There's poor Mr. Tilt got hismouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was to try. "

"I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg, " said Mrs. G. , "if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it's otherpeople must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her mother'seldest sister, as is the head o' the family; and only coming in andout on short visits, all the time she's been in the town, and thensettling to go away without my knowledge, --as I'd laid caps out onpurpose for her to make 'em up for me, --and me as have divided mymoney so equal----"

"Sister, " Mrs. Tulliver broke in anxiously, "I'm sure Maggie neverthought o' going away without staying at your house as well as theothers. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all, but quitecontrairy. I'm sure I'm innocent. I've said over and over again, 'Mydear, you've no call to go away. ' But there's ten days or a fortnightMaggie'll have before she's fixed to go; she can stay at your housejust as well, and I'll step in when I can, and so will Lucy. "

"Bessy, " said Mrs. Glegg, "if you'd exercise a little more thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin abed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the time, whenour house isn't above a quarter of an hour's walk from Mr. Deane's. She can come the first thing in the morning, and go back the last atnight, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so close to her to comeand sit with. I know _I_ should, when I was her age. "

"La, Jane, " said Mrs. Pullet, "it 'ud do your beds good to havesomebody to sleep in 'em. There's that striped room smells dreadfulmouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything. I'm sure I thought Ishould be struck with death when you took me in. "

"Oh, there is Tom!" exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. "He's come onSindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep hispromise. "

Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, atthis first meeting since the prospect of returning to the Mill hadbeen opened to him; and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair byher side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still aperpetual yearning in her, that had its root deeper than all change. He smiled at her very kindly this evening, and said, "Well, Magsie, how's aunt Moss?"

"Come, come, sir, " said Mr. Glegg putting out his hand. "Why, you'resuch a big man, you carry all before you, it, seems. You're come intoyour luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did; but I wish youjoy, I wish you joy. You'll get the Mill all for your own again someday, I'll be bound. You won't stop half-way up the hill. "

"But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's family as he owesit to, " said Mrs. Glegg. "If he hadn't had them to take after, he'dha' been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, norwastefulness in our family, nor dying without wills----"

"No, nor sudden deaths, " said aunt Pullet; "allays the doctor calledin. But Tom had the Dodson skin; I said that from the first. And Idon't know what _you_ mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give hima tablecloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. Idon't say what more I shall do; but _that_ I shall do, and if I shoulddie to-morrow, Mr. Pullet, you'll bear it in mind, --though you'll beblundering with the keys, and never remember as that on the thirdshelf o' the left-hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broadties, --not the narrow-frilled uns, --is the key of the drawer in theBlue Room, where the key o' the Blue Closet is. You'll make a mistake, and I shall niver be worthy to know it. You've a memory for my pillsand draughts, wonderful, --I'll allays say that of you, --but you'relost among the keys. " This gloomy prospect of the confusion that wouldensue on her decease was very affecting to Mrs. Pullet. 

"You carry it too far, Sophy, --that locking in and out, " said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. "You go beyond yourown family. There's nobody can say I don't lock up; but I do what'sreasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what'sserviceable, to make a present of to my nephey; I've got cloth as hasnever been whitened, better worth having than other people's fineholland; and I hope he'll lie down in it and think of his aunt. "

Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly onher virtues; and Mrs. Glegg effected a diversion for him by askingabout Mr. Deane's intentions concerning steam. 

Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to come on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the man-servant was toride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy. "You must sit by yourself, aunty, " said that contriving young lady, "because I must sit by Tom; I've a great deal to say to him. "

In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, Lucy couldnot persuade herself to defer a conversation about her with Tom, who, she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapidfulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must become pliant andflexible. Her nature supplied her with no key to Tom's; and she waspuzzled as well as pained to notice the unpleasant change on hiscountenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philiphad used his influence with his father. She had counted on thisrevelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's hearttoward Philip at once, and, besides that, prove that the elder Wakemwas ready to receive Maggie with all the honors of a daughter-in-law. Nothing was wanted, then, but for dear Tom, who always had thatpleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn completelyround, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declarethat he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievancesshould be healed, and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitabledespatch; in cousin Lucy's opinion nothing could be easier. 

But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualitiesthat create severity, --strength of will, conscious rectitude ofpurpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power ofself-control, and a disposition to exert control over others, --prejudicescome as the natural food of tendencies which can get no sustenanceout of that complex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge whichwe call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye, --however it may come, these minds will give it a habitation; it is something to assertstrongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneousideas, something to impose on others with the authority of consciousright; it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that willanswer these purposes is self-evident. Our good, upright Tom Tulliver'smind was of this class; his inward criticism of his father's faultsdid not prevent him from adopting his father's prejudice; it was aprejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was ameeting-point for all the disappointed feelings of family and personalpride. Other feelings added their force to produce Tom's bitterrepugnance to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him; andnotwithstanding Lucy's power over her strong-willed cousin, she gotnothing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage; "but ofcourse Maggie could do as she liked, --she had declared herdetermination to be independent. For Tom's part, he held himself boundby his duty to his father's memory, and by every manly feeling, neverto consent to any relation with the Wakems. "

Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fillTom's mind with the expectation that Maggie's perverse resolve to gointo a situation again would presently metamorphose itself, as herresolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirelydifferent, --a marriage with Philip Wakem. 

Chapter XIII

Borne Along by the Tide

In less than a week Maggie was at St. Ogg's again, --outwardly in muchthe same position as when her visit there had just begun. It was easyfor her to fill her mornings apart from Lucy without any obviouseffort; for she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, andit was natural that she should give her mother more than usual of hercompanionship in these last weeks, especially as there werepreparations to be thought of for Tom's housekeeping. But Lucy wouldhear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings; she mustalways come from aunt Glegg's before dinner, --"else what shall I haveof you?" said Lucy, with a tearful pout that could not be resisted. 

And Mr. Stephen Guest had unaccountably taken to dining at Mr. Deane'sas often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. Atfirst he began his mornings with a resolution that he would not dinethere, not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had evendevised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable Juneweather; the headaches which he had constantly been alleging as aground for stupidity and silence were a sufficient ostensible motive. But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth morning no distinctresolution was formed about the evenings; they were only foreseen astimes when Maggie would still be present for a little while, --when onemore touch, one more glance, might be snatched. For why not? There wasnothing to conceal between them; they knew, they had confessed theirlove, and they had renounced each other; they were going to part. Honor and conscience were going to divide them; Maggie, with thatappeal from her inmost soul, had decided it; but surely they mightcast a lingering look at each other across the gulf, before theyturned away never to look again till that strange light had foreverfaded out of their eyes. 

Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and even torporof manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardor, that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a change, if she had not been convinced that the position in which Maggie stoodbetween Philip and her brother, and the prospect of her self-imposedwearisome banishment, were quite enough to account for a large amountof depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce battle ofemotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never knownor foreboded; it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her hadlain in ambush till now, and had suddenly started up full-armed, withhideous, overpowering strength! There were moments in which a cruelselfishness seemed to be getting possession of her; why should notLucy, why should not Philip, suffer? _She_ had had to suffer throughmany years of her life; and who had renounced anything for her? Andwhen something like that fulness of existence--love, wealth, ease, refinement, all that her nature craved--was brought within her reach, why was she to forego it, that another might have it, --another, whoperhaps needed it less? But amidst all this new passionate tumultthere were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power, till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. _Was_ thatexistence which tempted her the full existence she dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of early striving; all the deep pityfor another's pain, which had been nurtured in her through years ofaffection and hardship; all the divine presentiment of somethinghigher than mere personal enjoyment, which had made the sacredness oflife? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, ashope to enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming the faithand sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And then, if painwere so hard to _her_, what was it to others? "Ah, God! preserve mefrom inflicting--give me strength to bear it. " How had she sunk intothis struggle with a temptation that she would once have thoughtherself as secure from as from deliberate crime? When was that firsthateful moment in which she had been conscious of a feeling thatclashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had not shakenit from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? And yet, since this strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, should not, conquer her, --since it was to remain simply her own suffering, --hermind was meeting Stephen's in that thought of his, that they mightstill snatch moments of mute confession before the parting came. Forwas not he suffering too? She saw it daily--saw it in the sickenedlook of fatigue with which, as soon as he was not compelled to exerthimself, he relapsed into indifference toward everything but thepossibility of watching her. Could she refuse sometimes to answer thatbeseeching look which she felt to be following her like a low murmurof love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last theevening for them both was sometimes made of a moment's mutual gaze;they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they thought ofnothing else. 

One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that wasto sing; it was a way of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was notdistinctly conscious that he was impelled to it by a secretlonging--running counter to all his self-confessed resolves--to deepenthe hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it isguided by your less conscious purposes, and you will understand thatcontradiction in Stephen. 

Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally inthe evening, and it happened that he was there when Lucy said, as theysat out on the lawn, near sunset, --

"Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I mean thatwe shall go out boating every day until she goes. She has not had halfenough boating because of these tiresome visits, and she likes itbetter than anything. Don't you, Maggie?"

"Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean, " said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden-chair;"else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who hauntsthe Floss, only for the sake of being drifted in a boat forever. "

"Should you like to be her boatman?" said Lucy. "Because, if youwould, you can come with us and take an oar. If the Floss were but aquiet lake instead of a river, we should be independent of anygentleman, for Maggie can row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced toask services of knights and squires, who do not seem to offer themwith great alacrity. "

She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up anddown, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto, --

 "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine. "

He took no notice, but still kept aloof; he had done so frequentlyduring Philip's recent visits. 

"You don't seem inclined for boating, " said Lucy, when he came to sitdown by her on the bench. "Doesn't rowing suit you now?"

"Oh, I hate a large party in a boat, " he said, almost irritably. "I'llcome when you have no one else. "

Lucy colored, fearing that Philip would be hurt; it was quite a newthing for Stephen to speak in that way; but he had certainly not beenwell of late. Philip colored too, but less from a feeling of personaloffence than from a vague suspicion that Stephen's moodiness had somerelation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke, andhad walked toward the hedge of laurels to look at the descendingsunlight on the river. 

"As Miss Deane didn't know she was excluding others by inviting me, "said Philip, "I am bound to resign. "

"No, indeed, you shall not, " said Lucy, much vexed. "I particularlywish for your company to-morrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten;it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckrethand walk back, before the sun gets too hot. And how can you object tofour people in a boat?" she added, looking at Stephen. 

"I don't object to the people, but the number, " said Stephen, who hadrecovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. "If I votedfor a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we won'tdivide the pleasure of escorting the ladies; we'll take italternately. I'll go the next day. "

This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention withfreshened solicitude toward Stephen and Maggie; but when theyre-entered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs. Tulliver and Mr. Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart near the tablewhere the books and work were placed, doing nothing, however, butlistening abstractedly to the music. Stephen presently turned to aduet which he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing; he had oftendone the same thing before; but this evening Philip thought he divinedsome double intention in every word and look of Stephen's, and watchedhim keenly, angry with himself all the while for this clingingsuspicion. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for hisdoubts on her side? And she was truth itself; it was impossible not tobelieve her word and glance when they had last spoken together in thegarden. Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was morenatural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on whatmust be his friend's painful secret. Still he watched. Stephen, movingaway from the piano, sauntered slowly toward the table near whichMaggie sat, and turned over the newspapers, apparently in mereidleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the piano, dragginga newspaper under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his hair, as if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in the "LacehamCourier. " He was in reality looking at Maggie who had not taken theslightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strengthof resistance when Philip was present, just as we can restrain ourspeech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last sheheard the word "dearest" uttered in the softest tone of painedentreaty, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought tohave been given without asking. She had never heard that word sincethe moments in the lane at Basset, when it had come from Stephen againand again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulatecry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite sideof the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes aninstant toward Stephen's face, but immediately look apprehensivelytoward himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observedher; but a pang of shame, under the sense of this concealment, madeher move from her chair and walk to her mother's side to watch thegame at cribbage. 

Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled withwretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist theconviction that there was some mutual consciousness between Stephenand Maggie; and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerveswere pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact; he couldattempt no explanation that would reconcile it with her words andactions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to itshabitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth, --shewas struggling, she was banishing herself; this was the clue to all hehad seen since his return. But athwart that belief there came otherpossibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imaginationwrought out the whole story; Stephen was madly in love with her; hemust have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. But would he give her up, knowing--Philip felt the fact withheart-crushing despair--that she was made half helpless by her feelingtoward him?

When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping hisengagement to go in the boat. In his present agitation he could decideon nothing; he could only alternate between contradictory intentions. First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie, and entreather to confide in him; then, again, he distrusted his owninterference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along?She had uttered words long ago in her young ignorance; it was enoughto make her hate him that these should be continually present with heras a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation offeelings which she had evidently intended to withhold from him? Hewould not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself thathe could act from pure anxiety for her, and not from egoisticirritation. He wrote a brief note to Stephen, and sent it early by theservant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his engagementto Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?

Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite contentwith Stephen's refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that herfather was to drive to Lindum this morning at ten; Lindum was the veryplace she wanted to go to, to make purchases, --important purchases, which must by no means be put off to another opportunity; and auntTulliver must go too, because she was concerned in some of thepurchases. 

"You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know, " she saidto Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairstogether; "Philip will be here it half-past ten, and it is a deliciousmorning. Now don't say a word against it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your faceagainst all the wonders I work for you? Don't think of awful cousinTom; you may disobey him a little. "

Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad of the plan, for perhaps it would bring her some strength and calmness to be alonewith Philip again; it was like revisiting the scene of a quieter life, in which the very struggles were repose, compared with the dailytumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat and athalf-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room. 

The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was thinking withhalf-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have infinding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished afirm, rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip's; thedoor opened, and Stephen Guest entered. 

In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; forStephen had learned from the servant that the others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beatingviolently; and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and satby her in silence. She thought Philip would be coming soon; and withgreat effort--for she trembled visibly--she rose to go to a distantchair. 

"He is not coming, " said Stephen, in a low tone. "I am going in theboat. "

"Oh, we can't go, " said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. "Lucydid not expect--she would be hurt. Why is not Philip come?"

"He is not well; he asked me to come instead. "

"Lucy is gone to Lindum, " said Maggie, taking off her bonnet withhurried, trembling fingers. "We must not go. "

"Very well, " said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested hisarm on the back of his chair. "Then we'll stay here. "

He was looking into her deep, deep eyes, far off and mysterious at thestarlit blackness, and yet very near, and timidly loving. Maggie satperfectly still--perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes--until thehelpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her check. 

"The man is waiting; he has taken the cushions, " she said. "Will yougo and tell him?"

"What shall I tell him?" said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He waslooking at the lips now. 

Maggie made no answer. 

"Let us go, " Stephen murmured entreatingly, rising, and taking herhand to raise her too. "We shall not be long together. "

And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the gardenamong the roses, being helped with firm, tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasolopened for her (which she had forgotten), all by this strongerpresence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her ownwill, like the added self which comes with the sudden exaltinginfluence of a strong tonic, and she felt nothing else. Memory wasexcluded. 

They glided rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by thebackward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses; on betweenthe silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed filled with anatural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentarysong of a passing bird heard now and then, as if it were only theoverflowing of brimful gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofoldconsciousness that was mingled into one by that grave, untiring gazewhich need not be averted, --what else could there be in their mindsfor the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of lovecame from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, halfautomatically; otherwise they spoke no word; for what could words havebeen but an inlet to thought? and thought did not belong to thatenchanted haze in which they were enveloped, --it belonged to the pastand the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimlyconscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with norecognition on the villages; she knew there were several to be passedbefore they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped and left theboat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absence, that she waslikely enough to let her waymarks pass unnoticed. 

But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased torow, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down on the wateras if watching the pace at which the boat glided without his help. This sudden change roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretchingfields, at the banks close by, and felt that they were entirelystrange to her. A terrible alarm took possession of her. 

"Oh, have we passed Luckreth, where we were to stop?" she exclaimed, looking back to see if the place were out of sight. No village was tobe seen. She turned around again, with a look of distressedquestioning at Stephen. 

He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, absenttone, "Yes, a long way. "

"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Maggie, in an agony. "We shall not gethome for hours, and Lucy? O God, help me!"

She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child;she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look ofpained surprise and doubt, perhaps of just upbraiding. 

Stephen moved and sat near her, and gently drew down the claspedhands. 

"Maggie, " he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, "let us never gohome again, till no one can part us, --till we are married. "

The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's sob, and shesat quite still, wondering; as if Stephen might have seen somepossibilities that would alter everything, and annul the wretchedfacts. 

"See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking, --in spiteof all our efforts. We never thought of being alone together again; ithas all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out, awayfrom all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make fasterround us, and trying in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we canland there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York and then toScotland, --and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other, so that only death can part us. It is the only right thing, dearest;it is the only way of escaping from this wretched entanglement. Everything has concurred to point it out to us. We have contrivednothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves. "

Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened, passingfrom her startled wonderment to the yearning after that belief thatthe tide was doing it all, that she might glide along with the swift, silent stream, and not struggle any more. But across that stealinginfluence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the suddenhorror lest now, at last, the moment of fatal intoxication was closeupon her, called up feelings of angry resistance toward Stephen. 

"Let me go!" she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant lookat him, and trying to get her hands free. "You have wanted to depriveme of any choice. You knew we were come too far; you have dared totake advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me intosuch a position. "

Stung by this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to hisformer place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at thedifficulty Maggie's words had made present to him. If she would notconsent to go on, he must curse himself for the embarrassment he hadled her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing; the onething worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he hadacted unworthily toward her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressedrage, --

"I didn't notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had got to thenext village; and then it came into my mind that we would go on. Ican't justify it; I ought to have told you. It is enough to make youhate me, since you don't love me well enough to make everything elseindifferent to you, as I do you. Shall I stop the boat and try to getyou out here? I'll tell Lucy that I was mad, and that you hate me; andyou shall be clear of me forever. No one can blame you, because I havebehaved unpardonably to you. "

Maggie was paralyzed; it was easier to resist Stephen's pleading thanthis picture he had called up of himself suffering while she wasvindicated; easier even to turn away from his look of tenderness thanfrom this look of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfishisolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which thereasons which had acted on her conscience seemed to be transmittedinto mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched, and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had reproachedhim for being hurried into irrevocable trespass, --she, who had been soweak herself. 

"As if I shouldn't feel what happened to you--just the same, " shesaid, with reproach of another kind, --the reproach of love, asking formore trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen's suffering was morefatal than the other yielding, because it was less distinguishablefrom that sense of others' claims which was the moral basis of herresistance. 

He felt all the relenting in her look and tone; it was heaven openingagain. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow onthe back of the boat, and saying nothing. He dreaded to utter anotherword, he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke anotherreproach or denial from her. Life hung on her consent; everything elsewas hopeless, confused, sickening misery. They glided along in thisway, both resting in that silence as in a haven, both dreading lesttheir feelings should be divided again, --till they became aware thatthe clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible fresheningof the breeze was growing and growing, so that the whole character ofthe day was altered. 

"You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloakover your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest. "

Maggie obeyed; there was an unspeakable charm in being told what todo, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again coveredwith the cloak, and Stephen took to his oars again, making haste; forthey must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardlyconscious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding isattended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance; it is thepartial sleep of thought; it is the submergence of our own personalityby another. Every influence tended to lull her into acquiescence. Thatdreamy gliding in the boat which had lasted for four hours, and hadbrought some weariness and exhaustion; the recoil of her fatiguedsensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of theboat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for longmiles, --all helped to bring her into more complete subjection to thatstrong, mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephen seemthe death of all joy, and made the thought of wounding him like thefirst touch of the torturing iron before which resolution shrank. Andthen there was the present happiness of being with him, which wasenough to absorb all her languid energy. 

Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming after them. Severalvessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with theearly tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked moreand more eagerly at this vessel, as if a new thought had come into hismind along with it, and then he looked at Maggie hesitatingly. 

"Maggie, dearest, " he said at last, "if this vessel should be going toMudport, or to any convenient place on the coast northward, it wouldbe our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued, and it may soon rain; it may be a wretched business, getting to Torbyin this boat. It's only a trading vessel, but I dare say you can bemade tolerably comfortable. We'll take the cushions out of the boat. It is really our best plan. They'll be glad enough to take us. I'vegot plenty of money about me. I can pay them well. "

Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this newproposition; but she was silent, --one course seemed as difficult asanother. 

Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to Mudport, theEnglish mate informed him, and, if this wind held, would be there inless than two days. 

"We had got out too far with our boat, " said Stephen. "I was trying tomake for Torby. But I'm afraid of the weather; and this lady--mywife--will be exhausted with fatigue and hunger. Take us onboard--will you?--and haul up the boat. I'll pay you well. "

Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was t aken on board, making an interesting object of contemplation to admiring Dutchmen. The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, forthey had no accommodation for such entirely unlooked-forpassengers, --no private cabin larger than an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch cleanliness, which makes all otherinconveniences tolerable; and the boat cushions were spread into acouch for Maggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up anddown the deck leaning on Stephen--being upheld by his strength--wasthe first change that she needed; then came food, and then quietreclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new resolution_could_ be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her with her hand in his; they could only speak toeach other in low tones; only look at each other now and then, for itwould take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men onboard, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that minor degreeof interest which belongs, in a sailor's regard, to all objects nearerthan the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly happy. Every otherthought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certaintythat Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now; he had beentortured by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmasteringinclination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. Hemurmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness, his adoration, his tenderness, his belief that their life together must be heaven, that her presence with him would give rapture to every common day;that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all otherbliss; that everything was easy for her sake, except to part with her;and now they never _would_ part; he would belong to her forever, andall that was his was hers, --had no value for him except as it washers. Such things, uttered in low, broken tones by the one voice thathas first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feebleeffect--on experienced minds at a distance from them. To poor Maggiethey were very near; they were like nectar held close to thirsty lips;there was, there _must_ be, then, a life for mortals here below whichwas not hard and chill, --in which affection would no longer beself-sacrifice. Stephen's passionate words made the vision of such alife more fully present to her than it had ever been before; and thevision for the time excluded all realities, --all except the returningsun-gleams which broke out on the waters as the evening approached, and mingled with the visionary sunlight of promised happiness; allexcept the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love. 

There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to thehorizon again, making the great purple rampart and long purple islesof that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goesdown, --the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was tosleep all night on the poop; it was better than going below; and shewas covered with the warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It wasstill early, when the fatigues of the day brought on a drowsy longingfor perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint, dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was gettingbrighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was stillseated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against thevessel's side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours, which had flowed over her like a soft stream, and made her entirelypassive, there was the dim consciousness that the condition was atransient one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life ofstruggle; that there were thoughts which would presently avengethemselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her; shewas being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing overher, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the wondrousaerial land of the west. 

Chapter XIV

Waking

When Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with hisunaccustomed amount of rowing, and with the intense inward life of thelast twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged aboutthe deck with his cigar far on into midnight, not seeing the darkwater, hardly conscious there were stars, living only in the near anddistant future. At last fatigue conquered restlessness, and he rolledhimself up in a piece of tarpaulin on the deck near Maggie's feet. 

She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for six hoursbefore the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak was discernible. Sheawoke from that vivid dreaming which makes the margin of our deeperrest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and in thegathering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grewtill they saw it was the Virgin seated in St. Ogg's boat, and it camenearer and nearer, till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the boatmanwas Philip, --no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past withoutlooking at her; and she rose to stretch out her arms and call to him, and their own boat turned over with the movement, and they began tosink, till with one spasm of dread she seemed to awake, and find shewas a child again in the parlor at evening twilight, and Tom was notreally angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passedto the real waking, --to the plash of water against the vessel, and thesound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There wasa moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangledfrom the confused web of dreams; but soon the whole terrible truthurged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now; she was alone withher own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blother life had been committed; she had brought sorrow into the lives ofothers, --into the lives that were knit up with hers by trust and love. The feeling of a few short weeks had hurried her into the sins hernature had most recoiled from, --breach of faith and cruel selfishness;she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had madeherself an outlawed soul, with no guide but the wayward choice of herown passion. And where would that lead her? Where had it led her now?She had said she would rather die than fall into that temptation. Shefelt it now, --now that the consequences of such a fall had come beforethe outward act was completed. There was at least this fruit from allher years of striving after the highest and best, --that her soulthough betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately consentto a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God! not a choice ofjoy, but of conscious cruelty and hardness; for could she ever ceaseto see before her Lucy and Philip, with their murdered trust andhopes? Her life with Stephen could have no sacredness; she mustforever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uncertain impulse; for shehad let go the clue of life, --that clue which once in the far-offyears her young need had clutched so strongly. She had renounced alldelights then, before she knew them, before they had come within herreach. Philip had been right when he told her that she knew nothing ofrenunciation; she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face toface now, --that sad, patient, loving strength which holds the clue oflife, --and saw that the thorns were forever pressing on its brow. Theyesterday, which could never be revoked, --if she could have changed itnow for any length of inward silent endurance, she would have bowedbeneath that cross with a sense of rest. 

Day break came and the reddening eastern light, while her past lifewas grasping her in this way, with that tightening clutch which comesin the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen nowlying on the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him therecame a wave of anguish that found its way in a long-suppressed sob. The worst bitterness of parting--the thought that urged the sharpestinward cry for help--was the pain it must give to _him_. Butsurmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, thedread lest her conscience should be benumbed again, and not rise toenergy till it was too late. Too late! it was too late already not tohave caused misery; too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush awayfrom the last act of baseness, --the tasting of joys that were wrungfrom crushed hearts. 

The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sense that aday of resistance was beginning for her. Her eyelashes were still wetwith tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at theslowly rounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and getting up fromhis hard bed, he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxiouslove saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He hada hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature that he wouldbe unable to overcome. He had the uneasy consciousness that he hadrobbed her of perfect freedom yesterday; there was too much nativehonor in him, for him not to feel that, if her will should recoil, hisconduct would have been odious, and she would have a right to reproachhim. 

But Maggie did not feel that right; she was too conscious of fatalweakness in herself, too full of the tenderness that comes with theforeseen need for inflicting a wound. She let him take her hand whenhe came to sit down beside her, and smiled at him, only with rather asad glance; she could say nothing to pain him till the moment ofpossible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffeetogether, and walked about the deck, and heard the captain's assurancethat they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with an inwardburthen; but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to thecoming hours to dissipate; in her it was a definite resolve on whichshe was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was continually, through the morning, expressing his anxiety at the fatigue anddiscomfort she was suffering, and alluded to landing and to the changeof motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assurehimself more completely by presupposing that everything would be as hehad arranged it. For a long while Maggie contented herself withassuring him that she had had a good night's rest, and that she didn'tmind about being on the vessel, --it was not like being on the opensea, it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on theFloss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, andStephen became more and more uneasy as the day advanced, under thesense that Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, butdid not dare, to speak of their marriage, of where they would go afterit, and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest, ofwhat had happened. He longed to assure himself of a tacit assent fromher. But each time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread ofthe new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes. And they were moreand more silent. 

"Here we are in sight of Mudport, " he said at last. "Now, dearest, " headded, turning toward her with a look that was half beseeching, "theworst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we can commandswiftness. In another hour and a half we shall be in a chaisetogether, and that will seem rest to you after this. "

Maggie felt it was time to speak; it would only be unkind now toassent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he had done, butwith distinct decision. 

"We shall not be together; we shall have parted. "

The blood rushed to Stephen's face. 

"We shall not, " he said. "I'll die first. "

It was as he had dreaded--there was a struggle coming. But neither ofthem dared to say another word till the boat was let down, and theywere taken to the landing-place. Here there was a cluster of gazersand passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St. Ogg's. Maggie had a dim sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurryingher along on his arm, that some one had advanced toward her from thatcluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But she was hurriedalong, and was indifferent to everything but the coming trial. 

A porter guided them to the nearest inn and posting-house, and Stephengave the order for the chaise as they passed through the yard. Maggietook no notice of this, and only said, "Ask them to show us into aroom where we can sit down. "

When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose facehad a desperate determination in it, was about to ring the bell, whenshe said, in a firm voice, --

"I'm not going; we must part here. "

"Maggie, " he said, turning round toward her, and speaking in the tonesof a man who feels a process of torture beginning, "do you mean tokill me? What is the use of it now? The whole thing is done. "

"No, it is not done, " said Maggie. "Too much is done, --more than wecan ever remove the trace of. But I will go no farther. Don't try toprevail with me again. I couldn't choose yesterday. "

What was he to do? He dared not go near her; her anger might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked backward and forward in maddeningperplexity. 

"Maggie, " he said at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a toneof imploring wretchedness, "have some pity--hear me--forgive me forwhat I did yesterday. I will obey you now; I will do nothing withoutyour full consent. But don't blight our lives forever by a rashperversity that can answer no good purpose to any one, that can onlycreate new evils. Sit down, dearest; wait--think what you are going todo. Don't treat me as if you couldn't trust me. "

He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggie's will was fixedunswervingly on the coming wrench. She had made up her mind to suffer. 

"We must not wait, " she said, in a low but distinct voice; "we mustpart at once. "

"We _can't_ part, Maggie, " said Stephen, more impetuously. "I can'tbear it. What is the use of inflicting that misery on me? Theblow--whatever it may have been--has been struck now. Will it help anyone else that you should drive me mad?"

"I will not begin any future, even for you, " said Maggie, tremulously, "with a deliberate consent to what ought not to have been. What I toldyou at Basset I feel now; I would rather have died than fall into thistemptation. It would have been better if we had parted forever then. But we must part now. "

"We will _not_ part, " Stephen burst out, instinctively placing hisback against the door, forgetting everything he had said a few momentsbefore; "I will not endure it. You'll make me desperate; I sha'n'tknow what I do. "

Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effectedsuddenly. She must rely on a slower appeal to Stephen's better self;she must be prepared for a harder task than that of rushing away whileresolution was fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watching her with thatlook of desperation which had come over him like a lurid light, approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her, andgrasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a frightened bird;but this direct opposition helped her. She felt her determinationgrowing stronger. 

"Remember what you felt weeks ago, " she began, with beseechingearnestness; "remember what we both felt, --that we owed ourselves toothers, and must conquer every inclination which could make us falseto that debt. We have failed to keep our resolutions; but the wrongremains the same. "

"No, it does _not_ remain the same, " said Stephen. "We have provedthat it was impossible to keep our resolutions. We have proved thatthe feeling which draws us toward each other is too strong to beovercome. That natural law surmounts every other; we can't help whatit clashes with. "

"It is not so, Stephen; I'm quite sure that is wrong. I have tried tothink it again and again; but I see, if we judged in that way, therewould be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty; we should justifybreaking the most sacred ties that can ever be formed on earth. If thepast is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law butthe inclination of the moment. "

"But there are ties that can't be kept by mere resolution, " saidStephen, starting up and walking about again. "What is outwardfaithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow asconstancy without love?"

Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward aswell as an outward contest. At last she said, with a passionateassertion of her conviction, as much against herself as against him, --

"That seems right--at first; but when I look further, I'm sure it is_not_ right. Faithfulness and constancy mean something else besidesdoing what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They meanrenouncing whatever is opposed to the reliance others have inus, --whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our liveshas made dependent on us. If we--if I had been better, nobler, thoseclaims would have been so strongly present with me, --I should havefelt them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now inthe moments when my conscience is awake, --that the opposite feelingwould never have grown in me, as it has done; it would have beenquenched at once, I should have prayed for help so earnestly, I shouldhave rushed away as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse formyself, none. I should never have failed toward Lucy and Philip as Ihave done, if I had not been weak, selfish, and hard, --able to thinkof their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed alltemptation. Oh, what is Lucy feeling now? She believed in me--sheloved me--she was so good to me. Think of her----"

Maggie's voice was getting choked as she uttered these last words. 

"I _can't_ think of her, " said Stephen, stamping as if with pain. "Ican think of nothing but you, Maggie. You demand of a man what isimpossible. I felt that once; but I can't go back to it now. And whereis the use of _your_ thinking of it, except to torture me? You can'tsave them from pain now; you can only tear yourself from me, and makemy life worthless to me. And even if we could go back, and both fulfilour engagements, --if that were possible now, --it would be hateful, horrible, to think of your ever being Philip's wife, --of your everbeing the wife of a man you didn't love. We have both been rescuedfrom a mistake. "

A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't speak. Stephensaw this. He sat down again, taking her hand in his, and looking ather with passionate entreaty. 

"Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who can have so greata claim on you as I have? My life is bound up in your love. There isnothing in the past that can annul our right to each other; it is thefirst time we have either of us loved with our whole heart and soul. "

Maggie was still silent for a little while, looking down. Stephen wasin a flutter of new hope; he was going to triumph. But she raised hereyes and met his with a glance that was filled with the anguish ofregret, not with yielding. 

"No, not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen, " she said with timidresolution. "I have never consented to it with my whole mind. Thereare memories, and affections, and longings after perfect goodness, that have such a strong hold on me; they would never quit me for long;they would come back and be pain to me--repentance. I couldn't live inpeace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. Ihave caused sorrow already--I know--I feel it; but I have neverdeliberately consented to it; I have never said, 'They shall suffer, that I may have joy. ' It has never been my will to marry you; if youwere to win consent from the momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not have my whole soul. If I could wake back again into thetime before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmeraffections, and live without the joy of love. "

Stephen loosed her hand, and rising impatiently, walked up and downthe room in suppressed rage. 

"Good God!" he burst out at last, "what a miserable thing a woman'slove is to a man's! I could commit crimes for you, --and you canbalance and choose in that way. But you _don't_ love me; if you had atithe of the feeling for me that I have for you, it would beimpossible to you to think for a moment of sacrificing me. But itweighs nothing with you that you are robbing me of _my_ life'shappiness. "

Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as she heldthem clasped on her lap. A great terror was upon her, as if she wereever and anon seeing where she stood by great flashes of lightning, and then again stretched forth her hands in the darkness. 

"No, I don't sacrifice you--I couldn't sacrifice you, " she said, assoon as she could speak again; "but I can't believe in a good for you, that I feel, that we both feel, is a wrong toward others. We can'tchoose happiness either for ourselves or for another; we can't tellwhere that will lie. We can only choose whether we will indulgeourselves in the present moment, or whether we will renounce that, forthe sake of obeying the divine voice within us, --for the sake of beingtrue to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know this belief ishard; it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have feltthat if I let it go forever, I should have no light through thedarkness of this life. "

"But, Maggie, " said Stephen, seating himself by her again, "is itpossible you don't see that what happened yesterday has altered thewhole position of things? What infatuation is it, what obstinateprepossession, that blinds you to that? It is too late to say what wemight have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting the veryworst view of what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now; ourposition is altered; the right course is no longer what it was before. We must accept our own actions and start afresh from them. Suppose wehad been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effect onothers would not have been different. It would only have made thisdifference to ourselves, " Stephen added bitterly, "that you might haveacknowledged then that your tie to me was stronger than to others. "

Again a deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she was silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning to prevail, --he had neveryet believed that he should _not_ prevail; there are possibilitieswhich our minds shrink from too completely for us to fear them. 

"Dearest, " he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning towardher, and putting his arm round her, "you _are_ mine now, --the worldbelieves it; duty must spring out of that now. 

"In a few hours you will be legally mine, and those who had claims onus will submit, --they will see that there was a force which declaredagainst their claims. "

Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face that wasclose to hers, and she started up, pale again. 

"Oh, I can't do it, " she said, in a voice almost of agony; "Stephen, don't ask me--don't urge me. I can't argue any longer, --I don't knowwhat is wise; but my heart will not let me do it. I see, --I feel theirtrouble now; it is as if it were branded on my mind. _I_ havesuffered, and had no one to pity me; and now I have made otherssuffer. It would never leave me; it would embitter your love to me. I_do_ care for Philip--in a different way; I remember all we said toeach other; I know how he thought of me as the one promise of hislife. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard; and Ihave forsaken him. And Lucy--she has been deceived; she who trusted memore than any one. I cannot marry you; I cannot take a good for myselfthat has been wrung out of their misery. It is not the force thatought to rule us, --this that we feel for each other; it would rend meaway from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I can'tset out on a fresh life, and forget that; I must go back to it, andcling to it, else I shall feel as if there were nothing firm beneathmy feet. "

"Good God, Maggie!" said Stephen, rising too and grasping her arm, "you rave. How can you go back without marrying me? You don't knowwhat will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is. "

"Yes, I do. But they will believe me. I will confess everything. Lucywill believe me--she will forgive you, and--and--oh, _some_ good willcome by clinging to the right. Dear, dear Stephen, let me go!--don'tdrag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never consented; itdoes not consent now. "

Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half-stunned bydespairing rage. He was silent a few moments, not looking at her;while her eyes were turned toward him yearningly, in alarm at thissudden change. At last he said, still without looking at her, --

"Go, then, --leave me; don't torture me any longer, --I can't bear it. "

Involuntarily she leaned toward him and put out her hand to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been burning iron, and saidagain, --

"Leave me. "

Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away from thatgloomy averted face, and walked out of the room; it was like anautomatic action that fulfils a forgotten intention. What came after?A sense of stairs descended as if in a dream, of flagstones, of achaise and horses standing, then a street, and a turning into anotherstreet where a stage-coach was standing, taking in passengers, and thedarting thought that that coach would take her away, perhaps towardhome. But she could ask nothing yet; she only got into the coach. 

Home--where her mother and brother were, Philip, Lucy, the scene ofher very cares and trials--was the haven toward which her mind tended;the sanctuary where sacred relics lay, where she would be rescued frommore falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbingpain, which yet, as such pains do, seemed to urge all other thoughtsinto activity. But among her thoughts, what others would say and thinkof her conduct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorsefulanguish left no room for that. 

The coach was taking her to York, farther away from home; but she didnot learn that until she was set down in the old city at midnight. Itwas no matter; she could sleep there, and start home the next day. Shehad her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it, --a bank-noteand a sovereign; she had kept it in her pocket from forgetfulness, after going out to make purchases the day before yesterday. 

Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that night withher will bent unwaveringly on the path of penitent sacrifice? Thegreat struggles of life are not so easy as that; the great problems oflife are not so clear. In the darkness of that night she saw Stephen'sface turned toward her in passionate, reproachful misery; she livedthrough again all the tremulous delights of his presence with her thatmade existence an easy floating in a stream of joy, instead of a quietresolved endurance and effort. The love she had renounced came backupon her with a cruel charm; she felt herself opening her arms toreceive it once more; and then it seemed to slip away and fade andvanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice thatsaid, "Gone, forever gone. "

Book VII

_The Final Rescue_

Chapter I

The Return to the Mill

Between four and five o'clock on the afternoon of the fifth day fromthat on which Stephen and Maggie had left St. Ogg's, Tom Tulliver wasstanding on the gravel walk outside the old house at Dorlcote Mill. Hewas master there now; he had half fulfilled his father's dying wish, and by years of steady self-government and energetic work he hadbrought himself near to the attainment of more than the oldrespectability which had been the proud inheritance of the Dodsons andTullivers. 

But Tom's face, as he stood in the hot, still sunshine of that summerafternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His mouth wore itsbitterest expression, his severe brow its hardest and deepest fold, ashe drew down his hat farther over his eyes to shelter them from thesun, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, began to walk upand down the gravel. No news of his sister had been heard since BobJakin had come back in the steamer from Mudport, and put an end to allimprobable suppositions of an accident on the water by stating that hehad seen her land from a vessel with Mr. Stephen Guest. Would the nextnews be that she was married, --or what? Probably that she was notmarried; Tom's mind was set to the expectation of the worst that couldhappen, --not death, but disgrace. 

As he was walking with his back toward the entrance gate, and his facetoward the rushing mill-stream, a tall, dark-eyed figure, that we knowwell, approached the gate, and paused to look at him with afast-beating heart. Her brother was the human being of whom she hadbeen most afraid from her childhood upward; afraid with that fearwhich springs in us when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable, with a mind that we can never mould ourselves upon, andyet that we cannot endure to alienate from us. 

That deep-rooted fear was shaking Maggie now; but her mind wasunswervingly bent on returning to her brother, as the natural refugethat had been given her. In her deep humiliation under the retrospectof her own weakness, --in her anguish at the injury she hadinflicted, --she almost desired to endure the severity of Tom'sreproof, to submit in patient silence to that harsh, disapprovingjudgment against which she had so often rebelled; it seemed no morethan just to her now, --who was weaker than she was? She craved thatoutward help to her better purpose which would come from complete, submissive confession; from being in the presence of those whose looksand words would be a reflection of her own conscience. 

Maggie had been kept on her bed at York for a day with thatprostrating headache which was likely to follow on the terrible strainof the previous day and night. There was an expression of physicalpain still about her brow and eyes, and her whole appearance, with herdress so long unchanged, was worn and distressed. She lifted the latchof the gate and walked in slowly. Tom did not hear the gate; he wasjust then close upon the roaring dam; but he presently turned, andlifting up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and lonelinessseemed to him a confirmation of his worst conjectures. He paused, trembling and white with disgust and indignation. 

Maggie paused too, three yards before him. She felt the hatred in hisface, felt it rushing through her fibres; but she must speak. 

"Tom, " she began faintly, "I am come back to you, --I am come backhome--for refuge--to tell you everything. "

"You will find no home with me, " he answered, with tremulous rage. "You have disgraced us all. You have disgraced my father's name. Youhave been a curse to your best friends. You have been base, deceitful;no motives are strong enough to restrain you. I wash my hands of youforever. You don't belong to me. "

Their mother had come to the door now. She stood paralyzed by thedouble shock of seeing Maggie and hearing Tom's words. 

"Tom, " said Maggie, with more courage, "I am perhaps not so guilty asyou believe me to be. I never meant to give way to my feelings. Istruggled against them. I was carried too far in the boat to come backon Tuesday. I came back as soon as I could. "

"I can't believe in you any more, " said Tom, gradually passing fromthe tremulous excitement of the first moment to cold inflexibility. "You have been carrying on a clandestine relation with StephenGuest, --as you did before with another. He went to see you at my auntMoss's; you walked alone with him in the lanes; you must have behavedas no modest girl would have done to her cousin's lover, else thatcould never have happened. The people at Luckreth saw you pass; youpassed all the other places; you knew what you were doing. You havebeen using Philip Wakem as a screen to deceive Lucy, --the kindestfriend you ever had. Go and see the return you have made her. She'sill; unable to speak. My mother can't go near her, lest she shouldremind her of you. "

Maggie was half stunned, --too heavily pressed upon by her anguish evento discern any difference between her actual guilt and her brother'saccusations, still less to vindicate herself. 

"Tom, " she said, crushing her hands together under her cloak, in theeffort to speak again, "whatever I have done, I repent it bitterly. Iwant to make amends. I will endure anything. I want to be kept fromdoing wrong again. "

"What _will_ keep you?" said Tom, with cruel bitterness. "Notreligion; not your natural feelings of gratitude and honor. And he--hewould deserve to be shot, if it were not----But you are ten timesworse than he is. I loathe your character and your conduct. Youstruggled with your feelings, you say. Yes! _I_ have had feelings tostruggle with; but I conquered them. I have had a harder life than youhave had; but I have found _my_ comfort in doing my duty. But I willsanction no such character as yours; the world shall know that _I_feel the difference between right and wrong. If you are in want, Iwill provide for you; let my mother know. But you shall not come undermy roof. It is enough that I have to bear the thought of yourdisgrace; the sight of you is hateful to me. "

Slowly Maggie was turning away with despair in her heart. But the poorfrightened mother's love leaped out now, stronger than all dread. 

"My child! I'll go with you. You've got a mother. "

Oh, the sweet rest of that embrace to the heart-stricken Maggie! Morehelpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that willnot forsake us. 

Tom turned and walked into the house. 

"Come in, my child, " Mrs. Tulliver whispered. "He'll let you stay andsleep in my bed. He won't deny that if I ask him. "

"No, mother, " said Maggie, in a low tone, like a moan. "I will nevergo in. "

"Then wait for me outside. I'll get ready and come with you. "

When his mother appeared with her bonnet on, Tom came out to her inthe passage, and put money into her hands. 

"My house is yours, mother, always, " he said. "You will come and letme know everything you want; you will come back to me. "

Poor Mrs. Tulliver took the money, too frightened to say anything. Theonly thing clear to her was the mother's instinct that she would gowith her unhappy child. 

Maggie was waiting outside the gate; she took her mother's hand andthey walked a little way in silence. 

"Mother, " said Maggie, at last, "we will go to Luke's cottage. Lukewill take me in. He was very good to me when I was a little girl. "

"He's got no room for us, my dear, now; his wife's got so manychildren. I don't know where to go, if it isn't to one o' your aunts;and I hardly durst, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, quite destitute ofmental resources in this extremity. 

Maggie was silent a little while, and then said, --

"Let us go to Bob Jakin's, mother; his wife will have room for us, ifthey have no other lodger. "

So they went on their way to St. Ogg's, to the old house by theriver-side. 

Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which resisted eventhe new joy and pride of possessing a two-months'-old baby, quite theliveliest of its age that had ever been born to prince or packman. Hewould perhaps not so thoroughly have understood all the dubiousness ofMaggie's appearance with Mr. Stephen Guest on the quay at Mudport ifhe had not witnessed the effect it produced on Tom when he went toreport it; and since then, the circumstances which in any case gave adisastrous character to her elopement had passed beyond the morepolite circles of St. Ogg's, and had become matter of common talk, accessible to the grooms and errand-boys. So that when he opened thedoor and saw Maggie standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had no questions to ask except one which he dared only askhimself, --where was Mr. Stephen Guest? Bob, for his part, hoped hemight be in the warmest department of an asylum understood to exist inthe other world for gentlemen who are likely to be in fallencircumstances there. 

The lodgings were vacant, and both Mrs. Jakin the larger and Mrs. Jakin the less were commanded to make all things comfortable for "theold Missis and the young Miss"; alas that she was still "Miss!" Theingenious Bob was sorely perplexed as to how this result could havecome about; how Mr. Stephen Guest could have gone away from her, orcould have let her go away from him, when he had the chance of keepingher with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his wife to askhim a question; would not present himself in the room, lest it shouldappear like intrusion and a wish to pry; having the same chivalrytoward dark-eyed Maggie as in the days when he had bought her thememorable present of books. 

But after a day or two Mrs. Tulliver was gone to the Mill again for afew hours to see to Tom's household matters. Maggie had wished this;after the first violent outburst of feeling which came as soon as shehad no longer any active purpose to fulfil, she was less in need ofher mother's presence; she even desired to be alone with her grief. But she had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-roomthat looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, andturning round her sad face as she said "Come in, " she saw Bob enter, with the baby in his arms and Mumps at his heels. 

"We'll go back, if it disturbs you, Miss, " said Bob. 

"No, " said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile. 

Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before her. 

"You see, we've got a little un, Miss, and I want'd you to look at it, and take it in your arms, if you'd be so good. For we made free toname it after you, and it 'ud be better for your takin' a bit o'notice on it. "

Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive the tinybaby, while Mumps snuffed at it anxiously, to ascertain that thistransference was all right. Maggie's heart had swelled at this actionand speech of Bob's; she knew well enough that it was a way he hadchosen to show his sympathy and respect. 

"Sit down, Bob, " she said presently, and he sat down in silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new fashion, refusing tosay what he wanted it to say. 

"Bob, " she said, after a few moments, looking down at the baby, andholding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip from her mind andher fingers, "I have a favor to ask of you. "

"Don't you speak so, Miss, " said Bob, grasping the skin of Mumps'sneck; "if there's anything I can do for you, I should look upon it asa day's earnings. "

"I want you to go to Dr. Kenn's, and ask to speak to him, and tell himthat I am here, and should be very grateful if he would come to mewhile my mother is away. She will not come back till evening. "

"Eh, Miss, I'd do it in a minute, --it is but a step, --but Dr. Kenn'swife lies dead; she's to be buried to-morrow; died the day I come fromMudport. It's all the more pity she should ha' died just now, if youwant him. I hardly like to go a-nigh him yet. "

"Oh no, Bob, " said Maggie, "we must let it be, --till after a few days, perhaps, when you hear that he is going about again. But perhaps hemay be going out of town--to a distance, " she added, with a new senseof despondency at this idea. 

"Not he, Miss, " said Bob. "_He'll_ none go away. He isn't one o' themgentlefolks as go to cry at waterin'-places when their wives die; he'sgot summat else to do. He looks fine and sharp after the parish, hedoes. He christened the little un; an' he was _at_ me to know what Idid of a Sunday, as I didn't come to church. But I told him I was upo'the travel three parts o' the Sundays, --an' then I'm so used to bein'on my legs, I can't sit so long on end, --'an' lors, sir, ' says I, 'apackman can do wi' a small 'lowance o' church; it tastes strong, ' saysI; 'there's no call to lay it on thick. ' Eh, Miss, how good the littleun is wi' you! It's like as if it knowed you; it partly does, I'll bebound, --like the birds know the mornin'. "

Bob's tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted bondage, andmight even be in danger of doing more work than was required of it. But the subjects on which he longed to be informed were so steep anddifficult of approach, that his tongue was likely to run on along thelevel rather than to carry him on that unbeaten road. He felt this, and was silent again for a little while, ruminating much on thepossible forms in which he might put a question. At last he said, in amore timid voice than usual, --

"Will you give me leave to ask you only one thing, Miss?"

Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, "Yes, Bob, if it isabout myself--not about any one else. "

"Well, Miss, it's this. _Do_ you owe anybody a grudge?"

"No, not any one, " said Maggie, looking up at him inquiringly. "Why?"

"Oh, lors, Miss, " said Bob, pinching Mumps's neck harder than ever. "Iwish you did, an' tell me; I'd leather him till I couldn't see--Iwould--an' the Justice might do what he liked to me arter. "

"Oh, Bob, " said Maggie, smiling faintly, "you're a very good friend tome. But I shouldn't like to punish any one, even if they'd done mewrong; I've done wrong myself too often. "

This view of things was puzzling to Bob, and threw more obscurity thanever over what could possibly have happened between Stephen andMaggie. But further questions would have been too intrusive, even ifhe could have framed them suitably, and he was obliged to carry babyaway again to an expectant mother. 

"Happen you'd like Mumps for company, Miss, " he said when he had takenthe baby again. "He's rare company, Mumps is; he knows iverything, an'makes no bother about it. If I tell him, he'll lie before you an'watch you, as still, --just as he watches my pack. You'd better let meleave him a bit; he'll get fond on you. Lors, it's a fine thing to heva dumb brute fond on you; it'll stick to you, an' make no jaw. "

"Yes, do leave him, please, " said Maggie. "I think I should like tohave Mumps for a friend. "

"Mumps, lie down there, " said Bob, pointing to a place in front ofMaggie, "and niver do you stir till you're spoke to. "

Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness when hismaster left the room. 

Chapter II

St. Ogg's Passes Judgment

It was soon known throughout St. Ogg's that Miss Tulliver was comeback; she had not, then, eloped in order to be married to Mr. StephenGuest, --at all events, Mr. Stephen Guest had not married her; whichcame to the same thing, so far as her culpability was concerned. Wejudge others according to results; how else?--not knowing the processby which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few monthsof well-chosen travel, had returned as Mrs. Stephen Guest, with apost-marital _trousseau_, and all the advantages possessed even by themost unwelcome wife of an only son, public opinion, which at St. Ogg's, as else where, always knew what to think, would have judged instrict consistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases, is always of the feminine gender, --not the world, but the world'swife; and she would have seen that two handsome young people--thegentleman of quite the first family in St. Ogg's--having foundthemselves in a false position, had been led into a course which, tosay the least of it, was highly injudicious, and productive of sadpain and disappointment, especially to that sweet young thing, MissDeane. Mr. Stephen Guest had certainly not behaved well; but then, young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attachments; and badas it might seem in Mrs. Stephen Guest to admit the faintest advancesfrom her cousin's lover (indeed it _had_ been said that she wasactually engaged to young Wakem, --old Wakem himself had mentioned it), still, she was very young, --"and a deformed young man, you know!--andyoung Guest so very fascinating; and, they say, he positively worshipsher (to be sure, that can't last!), and he ran away with her in theboat quite against her will, and what could she do? She couldn't comeback then; no one would have spoken to her; and how very well thatmaize-colored satinette becomes her complexion! It seems as if thefolds in front were quite come in; several of her dresses are madeso, --they say he thinks nothing too handsome to buy for her. Poor MissDeane! She is very pitiable; but then there was no positiveengagement; and the air at the coast will do her good. After all, ifyoung Guest felt no more for her than _that_ it was better for her notto marry him. What a wonderful marriage for a girl like MissTulliver, --quite romantic? Why, young Guest will put up for theborough at the next election. Nothing like commerce nowadays! Thatyoung Wakem nearly went out of his mind; he always _was_ rather queer;but he's gone abroad again to be out of the way, --quite the best thingfor a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares she will never visit Mr. And Mrs. Stephen Guest, --such nonsense! pretending to be better thanother people. Society couldn't be carried on if we inquired intoprivate conduct in that way, --and Christianity tells us to think noevil, --and my belief is, that Miss Unit had no cards sent her. "

But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant thisextenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without a _trousseau_, without a husband, --in that degraded and outcast condition to whicherror is well known to lead; and the world's wife, with that fineinstinct which is given her for the preservation of Society, saw atonce that Miss Tulliver's conduct had been of the most aggravatedkind. Could anything be more detestable? A girl so much indebted toher friends--whose mother as well as herself had received so muchkindness from the Deanes--to lay the design of winning a young man'saffections away from her own cousin, who had behaved like a sister toher! Winning his affections? That was not the phrase for such a girlas Miss Tulliver; it would have been more correct to say that she hadbeen actuated by mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. Therewas always something questionable about her. That connection withyoung Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on for years, lookedvery ill, --disgusting, in fact! But with a girl of that disposition!To the world's wife there had always been something in Miss Tulliver'svery _physique_ that a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm. As for poor Mr. Stephen Guest, he was rather pitiable than otherwise;a young man of five-and-twenty is not to be too severely judged inthese cases, --he is really very much at the mercy of a designing, boldgirl. And it was clear that he had given way in spite of himself: hehad shaken her off as soon as he could; indeed, their having parted sosoon looked very black indeed--_for her_. To be sure, he had written aletter, laying all the blame on himself, and telling the story in aromantic fashion so as to try and make her appear quite innocent; ofcourse he would do that! But the refined instinct of the world's wifewas not to be deceived; providentially!--else what would become ofSociety? Why, her own brother had turned her from his door; he hadseen enough, you might be sure, before he would do that. A trulyrespectable young man, Mr. Tom Tulliver; quite likely to rise in theworld! His sister's disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It wasto be hoped that she would go out of the neighborhood, --to America, oranywhere, --so as to purify the air of St. Ogg's from the stain of herpresence, extremely dangerous to daughters there! No good could happento her; it was only to be hoped she would repent, and that God wouldhave mercy on her: He had not the care of society on His hands, as theworld's wife had. 

It required nearly a fortnight for fine instinct to assure itself ofthese inspirations; indeed, it was a whole week before Stephen'sletter came, telling his father the facts, and adding that he was goneacross to Holland, --had drawn upon the agent at Mudport formoney, --was incapable of any resolution at present. 

Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a more agonizinganxiety to spend any thought on the view that was being taken of herconduct by the world of St. Ogg's; anxiety about Stephen, Lucy, Philip, beat on her poor heart in a hard, driving, ceaseless storm ofmingled love, remorse, and pity. If she had thought of rejection andinjustice at all, it would have seemed to her that they had done theirworst; that she could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerablesince the words she had heard from her brother's lips. Across all heranxiety for the loved and the injured, those words shot again andagain, like a horrible pang that would have brought misery and dreadeven into a heaven of delights. The idea of ever recovering happinessnever glimmered in her mind for a moment; it seemed as if everysensitive fibre in her were too entirely preoccupied by pain ever tovibrate again to another influence. Life stretched before her as oneact of penitence; and all she craved, as she dwelt on her future lot, was something to guarantee her from more falling; her own weaknesshaunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities, that made no peaceconceivable except such as lay in the sense of a sure refuge. 

But she was not without practical intentions; the love of independencewas too strong an inheritance and a habit for her not to remember thatshe must get her bread; and when other projects looked vague, she fellback on that of returning to her plain sewing, and so getting enoughto pay for her lodging at Bob's. She meant to persuade her mother toreturn to the Mill by and by, and live with Tom again; and somehow orother she would maintain herself at St. Ogg's. Dr. Kenn would perhapshelp her and advise her. She remembered his parting words at thebazaar. She remembered the momentary feeling of reliance that hadsprung in her when he was talking with her, and she waited withyearning expectation for the opportunity of confiding everything tohim. Her mother called every day at Mr. Deane's to learn how Lucy was;the report was always sad, --nothing had yet roused her from the feeblepassivity which had come on with the first shock. But of Philip, Mrs. Tulliver had learned nothing; naturally, no one whom she met wouldspeak to her about what related to her daughter. But at last shesummoned courage to go and see sister Glegg, who of course would knoweverything, and had been even to see Tom at the Mill in Mrs. Tulliver's absence, though he had said nothing of what had passed onthe occasion. 

As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bonnet. She hadresolved on walking to the Rectory and asking to see Dr. Kenn; he wasin deep grief, but the grief of another does not jar upon us in suchcircumstances. It was the first time she had been beyond the doorsince her return; nevertheless her mind was so bent on the purpose ofher walk, that the unpleasantness of meeting people on the way, andbeing stared at, did not occur to her. But she had no sooner passedbeyond the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bob'sdwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; andthis consciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid to look toright or left. Presently, however, she came full on Mrs. And MissTurnbull, old acquaintances of her family; they both looked at herstrangely, and turned a little aside without speaking. All hard lookswere pain to Maggie, but her self-reproach was too strong forresentment. No wonder they will not speak to me, she thought; they arevery fond of Lucy. But now she knew that she was about to pass a groupof gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiard-rooms, andshe could not help seeing young Torry step out a little with his glassat his eye, and bow to her with that air of _nonchalance_ which hemight have bestowed on a friendly barmaid. 

Maggie's pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting, even inthe midst of her sorrow; and for the first time the thought tookstrong hold of her that she would have other obloquy cast on herbesides that which was felt to be due to her breach of faith towardLucy. But she was at the Rectory now; there, perhaps, she would findsomething else than retribution. Retribution may come from any voice;the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted urchin at the street-corner caninflict it; surely help and pity are rarer things, more needful forthe righteous to bestow. 

She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr. Kenn'sstudy, where he sat amongst piled-up books, for which he had littleappetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his youngest child, agirl of three. The child was sent away with the servant, and when thedoor was closed, Dr. Kenn said, placing a chair for Maggie, --

"I was coming to see you, Miss Tulliver; you have anticipated me; I amglad you did. "

Maggie looked at him with her childlike directness as she had done atthe bazaar, and said, "I want to tell you everything. " But her eyesfilled fast with tears as she said it, and all the pent-up excitementof her humiliating walk would have its vent before she could say more. 

"Do tell me everything, " Dr. Kenn said, with quiet kindness in hisgrave, firm voice. "Think of me as one to whom a long experience hasbeen granted, which may enable him to help you. "

In rather broken sentences, and with some effort at first, but soonwith the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in theconfidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that must be thebeginning of a long sorrow. Only the day before, Dr. Kenn had beenmade acquainted with the contents of Stephen's letter, and he hadbelieved them at once, without the confirmation of Maggie's statement. That involuntary plaint of hers, "_Oh, I must go_, " had remained withhim as the sign that she was undergoing some inward conflict. 

Maggie dwelt the longest on the feeling which had made her come backto her mother and brother, which made her cling to all the memories ofthe past. When she had ended, Dr. Kenn was silent for some minutes;there was a difficulty on his mind. He rose, and walked up and downthe hearth with his hands behind him. At last he seated himself again, and said, looking at Maggie, --

"Your prompting to go to your nearest friends, --to remain where allthe ties of your life have been formed, --is a true prompting, to whichthe Church in its original constitution and discipline responds, opening its arms to the penitent, watching over its children to thelast; never abandoning them until they are hopelessly reprobate. Andthe Church ought to represent the feeling of the community, so thatevery parish should be a family knit together by Christian brotherhoodunder a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and Christianfraternity are entirely relaxed, --they can hardly be said to exist inthe public mind; they hardly survive except in the partial, contradictory form they have taken in the narrow communities ofschismatics; and if I were not supported by the firm faith that theChurch must ultimately recover the full force of that constitutionwhich is alone fitted to human needs, I should often lose heart atobserving the want of fellowship and sense of mutual responsibilityamong my own flock. At present everything seems tending toward therelaxation of ties, --toward the substitution of wayward choice for theadherence to obligation, which has its roots in the past. Yourconscience and your heart have given you true light on this point, Miss Tulliver; and I have said all this that you may know what my wishabout you--what my advice to you--would be, if they sprang from my ownfeeling and opinion unmodified by counteracting circumstances. "

Dr. Kenn paused a little while. There was an entire absence ofeffusive benevolence in his manner; there was something almost cold inthe gravity of his look and voice. If Maggie had not known that hisbenevolence was persevering in proportion to its reserve, she mighthave been chilled and frightened. As it was, she listened expectantly, quite sure that there would be some effective help in his words. Hewent on. 

"Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you fromanticipating fully the very unjust conceptions that will probably beformed concerning your conduct, --conceptions which will have a banefuleffect, even in spite of known evidence to disprove them. "

"Oh, I do, --I begin to see, " said Maggie, unable to repress thisutterance of her recent pain. "I know I shall be insulted. I shall bethought worse than I am. "

"You perhaps do not yet know, " said Dr. Kenn, with a touch of morepersonal pity, "that a letter is come which ought to satisfy every onewho has known anything of you, that you chose the steep and difficultpath of a return to the right, at the moment when that return was mostof all difficult. "

"Oh, where is he?" said poor Maggie, with a flush and tremor that nopresence could have hindered. 

"He is gone abroad; he has written of all that passed to his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost; and I hope the communication ofthat letter to your cousin will have a beneficial effect on her. "

Dr. Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he went on. 

"That letter, as I said, ought to suffice to prevent false impressionsconcerning you. But I am bound to tell you, Miss Tulliver, that notonly the experience of my whole life, but my observation within thelast three days, makes me fear that there is hardly any evidence whichwill save you from the painful effect of false imputations. Thepersons who are the most incapable of a conscientious struggle such asyours are precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you, because they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life herewill be attended not only with much pain, but with many obstructions. For this reason--and for this only--I ask you to consider whether itwill not perhaps be better for you to take a situation at a distance, according to your former intention. I will exert myself at once toobtain one for you. "

"Oh, if I could but stop here!" said Maggie. "I have no heart to begina strange life again. I should have no stay. I should feel like alonely wanderer, cut off from the past. I have written to the lady whooffered me a situation to excuse myself. If I remained here, I couldperhaps atone in some way to Lucy--to others; I could convince themthat I'm sorry. And, " she added, with some of the old proud fireflashing out, "I will not go away because people say false things ofme. They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at last, because--because others wish it, I will not go now. "

"Well, " said Dr. Kenn, after some consideration, "if you determine onthat, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the influence my positiongives me. I am bound to aid and countenance you by the very duties ofmy office as a parish priest. I will add, that personally I have adeep interest in your peace of mind and welfare. "

"The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable me to getmy bread and be independent, " said Maggie. "I shall not want much. Ican go on lodging where I am. "

"I must think over the subject maturely, " said Dr. Kenn, "and in a fewdays I shall be better able to ascertain the general feeling. I shallcome to see you; I shall bear you constantly in mind. "

When Maggie had left him, Dr. Kenn stood ruminating with his handsbehind him, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, under a painful sense ofdoubt and difficulty. The tone of Stephen's letter, which he had read, and the actual relations of all the persons concerned, forced upon himpowerfully the idea of an ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggieas the least evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St. Ogg's on any other supposition, until after years of separation, threwan insurmountable prospective difficulty over Maggie's stay there. Onthe other hand, he entered with all the comprehension of a man who hadknown spiritual conflict, and lived through years of devoted serviceto his fellow-men, into that state of Maggie's heart and consciencewhich made the consent to the marriage a desecration to her; herconscience must not be tampered with; the principle on which she hadacted was a safer guide than any balancing of consequences. Hisexperience told him that intervention was too dubious a responsibilityto be lightly incurred; the possible issue either of an endeavor torestore the former relations with Lucy and Philip, or of counsellingsubmission to this irruption of a new feeling, was hidden in adarkness all the more impenetrable because each immediate step wasclogged with evil. 

The great problem of the shifting relation between passion and duty isclear to no man who is capable of apprehending it; the questionwhether the moment has come in which a man has fallen below thepossibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and mustaccept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as atrespass, is one for which we have no master-key that will fit allcases. The casuists have become a byword of reproach; but theirperverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth towhich eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed, --the truth, thatmoral judgments must remain false and hollow, unless they are checkedand enlightened by a perpetual reference to the special circumstancesthat mark the individual lot. 

All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance tothe men of maxims; because such people early discern that themysterious complexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, andthat to lace ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress allthe divine promptings and inspirations that spring from growinginsight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popularrepresentative of the minds that are guided in their moral judgmentsolely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justiceby a ready-made patent method, without the trouble of exertingpatience, discrimination, impartiality, --without any care to assurethemselves whether they have the insight that comes from a hardlyearned estimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enoughto have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human. 

Chapter III

Showing That Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us

When Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her news of anunexpected line of conduct in aunt Glegg. As long as Maggie had notbeen heard of, Mrs. Glegg had half closed her shutters and drawn downher blinds. She felt assured that Maggie was drowned; that was farmore probable than that her niece and legatee should have doneanything to wound the family honor in the tenderest point. When atlast she learned from Tom that Maggie had come home, and gathered fromhim what was her explanation of her absence, she burst forth in severereproof of Tom for admitting the worst of his sister until he wascompelled. If you were not to stand by your "kin" as long as there wasa shred of honor attributable to them, pray what were you to stand by?Lightly to admit conduct in one of your own family that would forceyou to alter your will, had never been the way of the Dodsons; andthough Mrs. Glegg had always augured ill of Maggie's future at a timewhen other people were perhaps less clear-sighted, yet fair play was ajewel, and it was not for her own friends to help to rob the girl ofher fair fame, and to cast her out from family shelter to the scorn ofthe outer world, until she had become unequivocally a family disgrace. The circumstances were unprecedented in Mrs. Glegg's experience;nothing of that kind had happened among the Dodsons before; but it wasa case in which her hereditary rectitude and personal strength ofcharacter found a common channel along with her fundamental ideas ofclanship, as they did in her lifelong regard to equity in moneymatters. She quarrelled with Mr. Glegg, whose kindness, flowingentirely into compassion for Lucy, made him as hard in his judgment ofMaggie as Mr. Deane himself was; and fuming against her sisterTulliver because she did not at once come to her for advice and help, shut herself up in her own room with Baxter's "Saints' Rest" frommorning till night, denying herself to all visitors, till Mr. Gleggbrought from Mr. Deane the news of Stephen's letter. Then Mrs. Gleggfelt that she had adequate fighting-ground; then she laid asideBaxter, and was ready to meet all comers. While Mrs. Pullet could donothing but shake her head and cry, and wish that cousin Abbot haddied, or any number of funerals had happened rather than this, whichhad never happened before, so that there was no knowing how to act, and Mrs. Pullet could never enter St. Ogg's again, because"acquaintances" knew of it all, Mrs. Glegg only hoped that Mrs. Wooll, or any one else, would come to her with their false tales about herown niece, and she would know what to say to that ill-advised person!

Again she had a scene of remonstrance with Tom, all the more severe inproportion to the greater strength of her present position. But Tom, like other immovable things, seemed only the more rigidly fixed underthat attempt to shake him. Poor Tom! he judged by what he had beenable to see; and the judgment was painful enough to himself. Hethought he had the demonstration of facts observed through years byhis own eyes, which gave no warning of their imperfection, thatMaggie's nature was utterly untrustworthy, and too strongly markedwith evil tendencies to be safely treated with leniency. He would acton that demonstration at any cost; but the thought of it made his daysbitter to him. Tom, like every one of us, was imprisoned within thelimits of his own nature, and his education had simply glided overhim, leaving a slight deposit of polish; if you are inclined to besevere on his severity, remember that the responsibility of tolerancelies with those who have the wider vision. There had arisen in Tom arepulsion toward Maggie that derived its very intensity from theirearly childish love in the time when they had clasped tiny fingerstogether, and their later sense of nearness in a common duty and acommon sorrow; the sight of her, as he had told her, was hateful tohim. In this branch of the Dodson family aunt Glegg found a strongernature than her own; a nature in which family feeling had lost thecharacter of clanship by taking on a doubly deep dye of personalpride. 

Mrs. Glegg allowed that Maggie ought to be punished, --she was not awoman to deny that; she knew what conduct was, --but punished inproportion to the misdeeds proved against her, not to those which werecast upon her by people outside her own family who might wish to showthat their own kin were better. 

"Your aunt Glegg scolded me so as niver was, my dear, " said poor Mrs. Tulliver, when she came back to Maggie, "as I didn't go to her before;she said it wasn't for her to come to me first. But she spoke like asister, too; _having_ she allays was, and hard to please, --ohdear!--but she's said the kindest word as has ever been spoke by youyet, my child. For she says, for all she's been so set again' havingone extry in the house, and making extry spoons and things, andputting her about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, if you'll go to her dutiful, and she'll uphold you against folks assay harm of you when they've no call. And I told her I thought youcouldn't bear to see anybody but me, you were so beat down withtrouble; but she said, '_I_ won't throw ill words at her; there's themout o' th' family 'ull be ready enough to do that. But I'll give hergood advice; an' she must be humble. ' It's wonderful o' Jane; for I'msure she used to throw everything I did wrong at me, --if it was theraisin-wine as turned out bad, or the pies too hot, or whativer itwas. "

"Oh, mother, " said poor Maggie, shrinking from the thought of all thecontact her bruised mind would have to bear, "tell her I'm verygrateful; I'll go to see her as soon as I can; but I can't see any onejust yet, except Dr. Kenn. I've been to him, --he will advise me, andhelp me to get some occupation. I can't live with any one, or bedependent on them, tell aunt Glegg; I must get my own bread. But didyou hear nothing of Philip--Philip Wakem? Have you never seen any onethat has mentioned him?"

"No, my dear; but I've been to Lucy's, and I saw your uncle, and hesays they got her to listen to the letter, and she took notice o' MissGuest, and asked questions, and the doctor thinks she's on the turn tobe better. What a world this is, --what trouble, oh dear! The law wasthe first beginning, and it's gone from bad to worse, all of a sudden, just when the luck seemed on the turn?" This was the first lamentationthat Mrs. Tulliver had let slip to Maggie, but old habit had beenrevived by the interview with sister Glegg. 

"My poor, poor mother!" Maggie burst out, cut to the heart with pityand compunction, and throwing her arms round her mother's neck; "I wasalways naughty and troublesome to you. And now you might have beenhappy if it hadn't been for me. "

"Eh, my dear, " said Mrs. Tulliver, leaning toward the warm youngcheek; "I must put up wi' my children, --I shall never have no more;and if they bring me bad luck, I must be fond on it. There's nothingelse much to be fond on, for my furnitur' went long ago. And you'd gotto be very good once; I can't think how it's turned out the wrong wayso!"

Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard nothing ofPhilip; anxiety about him was becoming her predominant trouble, andshe summoned courage at last to inquire about him of Dr. Kenn, on hisnext visit to her. He did not even know if Philip was at home. Theelder Wakem was made moody by an accumulation of annoyance; thedisappointment in this young Jetsome, to whom, apparently, he was agood deal attached, had been followed close by the catastrophe to hisson's hopes after he had done violence to his own strong feeling byconceding to them, and had incautiously mentioned this concession inSt. Ogg's; and he was almost fierce in his brusqueness when any oneasked him a question about his son. 

But Philip could hardly have been ill, or it would have been knownthrough the calling in of the medical man; it was probable that he wasgone out of the town for a little while. Maggie sickened under thissuspense, and her imagination began to live more and more persistentlyin what Philip was enduring. What did he believe about her?

At last Bob brought her a letter, without a postmark, directed in ahand which she knew familiarly in the letters of her own name, --a handin which her name had been written long ago, in a pocket Shakespearewhich she possessed. Her mother was in the room, and Maggie, inviolent agitation, hurried upstairs that she might read the letter insolitude. She read it with a throbbing brow. 

 "Maggie, --I believe in you; I know you never meant to deceive me; I know you tried to keep faith to me and to all. I believed this before I had any other evidence of it than your own nature. The night after I last parted from you I suffered torments. I had seen what convinced me that you were not free; that there was another whose presence had a power over you which mine never possessed; but through all the suggestions--almost murderous suggestions--of rage and jealousy, my mind made its way to believe in your truthfulness. I was sure that you meant to cleave to me, as you had said; that you had rejected him; that you struggled to renounce him, for Lucy's sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that was not fatal for _you;_ and that dread shut out the very thought of resignation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, and I believed then, as I believe now, that the strong attraction which drew you together proceeded only from one side of your characters, and belonged to that partial, divided action of our nature which makes half the tragedy of the human lot. I have felt the vibration of chords in your nature that I have continually felt the want of in his. But perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the scene over which his soul has brooded with love; he would tremble to see it confided to other hands; he would never believe that it could bear for another all the meaning and the beauty it bears for him. 

 "I dared not trust myself to see you that morning; I was filled with selfish passion; I was shattered by a night of conscious delirium. I told you long ago that I had never been resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers; how could I be resigned to the loss of the one thing which had ever come to me on earth with the promise of such deep joy as would give a new and blessed meaning to the foregoing pain, --the promise of another self that would lift my aching affection into the divine rapture of an ever-springing, ever-satisfied want?

 "But the miseries of that night had prepared me for what came before the next. It was no surprise to me. I was certain that he had prevailed on you to sacrifice everything to him, and I waited with equal certainty to hear of your marriage. I measured your love and his by my own. But I was wrong, Maggie. There is something stronger in you than your love for him. 

 "I will not tell you what I went through in that interval. But even in its utmost agony--even in those terrible throes that love must suffer before it can be disembodied of selfish desire--my love for you sufficed to withhold me from suicide, without the aid of any other motive. In the midst of my egoism, I yet could not bear to come like a death-shadow across the feast of your joy. I could not bear to forsake the world in which you still lived and might need me; it was part of the faith I had vowed to you, --to wait and endure. Maggie, that is a proof of what I write now to assure you of, --that no anguish I have had to bear on your account has been too heavy a price to pay for the new life into which I have entered in loving you. I want you to put aside all grief because of the grief you have caused me. I was nurtured in the sense of privation; I never expected happiness; and in knowing you, in loving you, I have had, and still have, what reconciles me to life. You have been to my affections what light, what color is to my eyes, what music is to the inward ear, you have raised a dim unrest into a vivid consciousness. The new life I have found in caring for your joy and sorrow more than for what is directly my own, has transformed the spirit of rebellious murmuring into that willing endurance which is the birth of strong sympathy. I think nothing but such complete and intense love could have initiated me into that enlarged life which grows and grows by appropriating the life of others; for before, I was always dragged back from it by ever-present painful self-consciousness. I even think sometimes that this gift of transferred life which has come to me in loving you, may be a new power to me. 

 "Then, dear one, in spite of all, you have been the blessing of my life. Let no self-reproach weigh on you because of me. It is I who should rather reproach myself for having urged my feelings upon you, and hurried you into words that you have felt as fetters. You meant to be true to those words; you _have_ been true. I can measure your sacrifice by what I have known in only one half-hour of your presence with me, when I dreamed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, I have no just claim on you for more than affectionate remembrance. 

 "For some time I have shrunk from writing to you, because I have shrunk even from the appearance of wishing to thrust myself before you, and so repeating my original error. But you will not misconstrue me. I know that we must keep apart for a long while; cruel tongues would force us apart, if nothing else did. But I shall not go away. The place where you are is the one where my mind must live, wherever I might travel. And remember that I am unchangeably yours, --yours not with selfish wishes, but with a devotion that excludes such wishes. 

 "God comfort you, my loving, large-souled Maggie. If every one else has misconceived you, remember that you have never been doubted by him whose heart recognized you ten years ago. 

 "Do not believe any one who says I am ill, because I am not seen out of doors. I have only had nervous headaches, --no worse than I have sometimes had them before. But the overpowering heat inclines me to be perfectly quiescent in the daytime. I am strong enough to obey any word which shall tell me that I can serve you by word or deed. 

 "Yours to the last, "_Philip Wakem_. "

As Maggie knelt by the bed sobbing, with that letter pressed underher, her feelings again and again gathered themselves in a whisperedcry, always in the same words, --

"O God, is there any happiness in love that could make me forget_their_ pain?"

Chapter IV

Maggie and Lucy

By the end of the week Dr. Kenn had made up his mind that there wasonly one way in which he could secure to Maggie a suitable living atSt. Ogg's. Even with his twenty years' experience as a parish priest, he was aghast at the obstinate continuance of imputations against herin the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored andappealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting toopen the ears of women to reason, and their consciences to justice, onbehalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as powerless ashe was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influence theshape of bonnets. Dr. Kenn could not be contradicted; he was listenedto in silence; but when he left the room, a comparison of opinionsamong his hearers yielded much the same result as before. MissTulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable manner, even Dr. Kenn didnot deny that; how, then, could he think so lightly of her as to putthat favorable interpretation on everything she had done? Even on thesupposition that required the utmost stretch of belief, --namely, thatnone of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true, --still, sincethey _had_ been said about her, they had cast an odor round her whichmust cause her to be shrunk from by every woman who had to take careof her own reputation--and of Society. To have taken Maggie by thehand and said, "I will not believe unproved evil of you; my lips shallnot utter it; my ears shall be closed against it; I, too, am an erringmortal, liable to stumble, apt to come short of my most earnestefforts; your lot has been harder than mine, your temptation greater;let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling, "--tohave done this would have demanded courage, deep pity, self-knowledge, generous trust; would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquancy inevil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in condemning, thatcheated itself with no large words into the belief that life can haveany moral end, any high religion, which excludes the striving afterperfect truth, justice, and love toward the individual men and womenwho come across our own path. The ladies of St. Ogg's were notbeguiled by any wide speculative conceptions; but they had theirfavorite abstraction, called Society, which served to make theirconsciences perfectly easy in doing what satisfied their ownegoism, --thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver, andturning their backs upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr. Kenn, after two years of superfluous incense from his feminineparishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views inopposition to his; but then they maintained them in opposition to ahigher Authority, which they had venerated longer. That Authority hadfurnished a very explicit answer to persons who might inquire wheretheir social duties began, and might be inclined to take wide views asto the starting-point. The answer had not turned on the ultimate goodof Society, but on "a certain man" who was found in trouble by thewayside. 

Not that St. Ogg's was empty of women with some tenderness of heartand conscience; probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodnessin it as any other small trading town of that day. But until everygood man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid, --tootimid even to believe in the correctness of their own best promptings, when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St. Ogg'swere not all brave, by any means; some of them were even fond ofscandal, and to an extent that might have given their conversation aneffeminate character, if it had not been distinguished by masculinejokes, and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutualhatred of women. It was the general feeling of the masculine mind atSt. Ogg's that women were not to be interfered with in their treatmentof each other. 

And thus every direction in which Dr. Kenn had turned, in the hope ofprocuring some kind recognition and some employment for Maggie, proveda disappointment to him. Mrs. James Torry could not think of takingMaggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily, --a young woman aboutwhom "such things had been said, " and about whom "gentlemen joked";and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, and wanted a reader andcompanion, felt quite sure that Maggie's mind must be of a qualitywith which she, for her part, could not risk _any_ contact. Why didnot Miss Tulliver accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg? Itdid not become a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she notgo out of the neighborhood, and get a situation where she was notknown? (It was not, apparently, of so much importance that she shouldcarry her dangerous tendencies into strange families unknown at St. Ogg's. ) She must be very bold and hardened to wish to stay in a parishwhere she was so much stared at and whispered about. 

Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence ofthis opposition, as every firm man would have done, to contract acertain strength of determination over and above what would have beencalled forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily governessfor his younger children; and though he had hesitated in the firstinstance to offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protestwith the utmost force of his personal and priestly character againsther being crushed and driven away by slander, was now decisive. Maggiegratefully accepted an employment that gave her duties as well as asupport; her days would be filled now, and solitary evenings would bea welcome rest. She no longer needed the sacrifice her mother made instaying with her, and Mrs. Tulliver was persuaded to go back to theMill. 

But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exemplary as he hadhitherto appeared, had his crotchets, possibly his weaknesses. Themasculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled pleasantly, and did not wonder thatKenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he was inclinedto take so lenient a view of the past; the feminine mind, regarded atthat period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case. If Dr. Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver! Itwas not safe to be too confident, even about the best of men; anapostle had fallen, and wept bitterly afterwards; and though Peter'sdenial was not a close precedent, his repentance was likely to be. 

Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for many weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other becoming theRector's wife had been talked of so often in confidence, that ladieswere beginning to discuss how they should behave to her in thatposition. For Dr. Kenn, it had been understood, had sat in theschoolroom half an hour one morning, when Miss Tulliver was giving herlessons, --nay, he had sat there every morning; he had once walked homewith her, --he almost _always_ walked home with her, --and if not, hewent to see her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! Whata _mother_ for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs. Kennturn in her grave, that they should be put under the care of this girlonly a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to propriety asto marry her before the year was out? The masculine mind wassarcastic, and thought _not_. 

The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a follyin their Rector; at least their brother would be safe; and theirknowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a constant ground of alarm tothem, lest he should come back and marry Maggie. They were not amongthose who disbelieved their brother's letter; but they had noconfidence in Maggie's adherence to her renunciation of him; theysuspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than from themarriage, and that she lingered in St. Ogg's, relying on his return toher. They had always thought her disagreeable; they now thought herartful and proud; having quite as good grounds for that judgment asyou and I probably have for many strong opinions of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the contemplated matchwith Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage between Stephen andMaggie added its momentum to their genuine pity and indignation onbehalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that heshould return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home, she wasto seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by going to thecoast with the Miss Guests; and it was in their plans that Stephenshould be induced to join them. On the very first hint of gossipconcerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the report was conveyed in MissGuest's letter to her brother. 

Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg, or Dr. Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress toward recovery, and her thoughtstended continually toward her uncle Deane's house; she hungered for aninterview with Lucy, if it were only for five minutes, to utter a wordof penitence, to be assured by Lucy's own eyes and lips that she didnot believe in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved andtrusted. But she knew that even if her uncle's indignation had notclosed his house against her, the agitation of such an interview wouldhave been forbidden to Lucy. Only to have seen her without speakingwould have been some relief; for Maggie was haunted by a face cruel inits very gentleness; a face that had been turned on hers with glad, sweet looks of trust and love from the twilight time of memory;changed now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke. And asthe days passed on, that pale image became more and more distinct; thepicture grew and grew into more speaking definiteness under theavenging hand of remorse; the soft hazel eyes, in their look of pain, were bent forever on Maggie, and pierced her the more because shecould see no anger in them. But Lucy was not yet able to go to church, or any place where Maggie could see her; and even the hope of thatdeparted, when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy wasreally going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meetthem there. 

Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is, can knowwhat Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the evening afterhearing that news from Mrs. Glegg, --only those who have known what itis to dread their own selfish desires as the watching mother woulddread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain. 

She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window wide opentoward the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itselfundistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair againstthe window, with her arm on the windowsill she was looking blankly atthe flowing river, swift with the backward-rushing tide, struggling tosee still the sweet face in its unreproaching sadness, that seemed nowfrom moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form thatthrust itself between, and made darkness. Hearing the door open, shethought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with her supper, as usual; and withthat repugnance to trivial speech which comes with languor andwretchedness, she shrank from turning round and saying she wantednothing; good little Mrs. Jakin would be sure to make some well-meantremarks. But the next moment, without her having discerned the soundof a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard avoice close to her saying, "Maggie!"

The face was there, --changed, but all the sweeter; the hazel eyes werethere, with their heart-piercing tenderness. 

"Maggie!" the soft voice said. "Lucy!" answered a voice with a sharpring of anguish in it; and Lucy threw her arms round Maggie's neck, and leaned her pale cheek against the burning brow. 

"I stole out, " said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat downclose to Maggie and held her hand, "when papa and the rest were away. Alice is come with me. I asked her to help me. But I must only stay alittle while, because it is so late. "

It was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They satlooking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end withoutmore speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there wouldbe something scorching in the words that would recall theirretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinctthought began to be overflowed by a wave of loving penitence, andwords burst forth with a sob. 

"God bless you for coming, Lucy. "

The sobs came thick on each other after that. 

"Maggie, dear, be comforted, " said Lucy now, putting her cheek againstMaggie's again. "Don't grieve. " And she sat still, hoping to sootheMaggie with that gentle caress. 

"I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy, " said Maggie, as soon as shecould speak. "It always made me wretched that I felt what I didn'tlike you to know. It was because I thought it would all be conquered, and you might never see anything to wound you. "

"I know, dear, " said Lucy. "I know you never meant to make me unhappy. It is a trouble that has come on us all; you have more to bear than Ihave--and you gave him up, when--you did what it must have been veryhard to do. "

They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, andcheeks leaned together. 

"Lucy, " Maggie began again, "_he_ struggled too. He wanted to be trueto you. He will come back to you. Forgive him--he will be happythen----"

These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul, with aneffort like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled andwas silent. 

A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, who enteredand said, --

"I daren't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They'll find it out, andthere'll be such anger at your coming out so late. "

Lucy rose and said, "Very well, Alice, --in a minute. "

"I'm to go away on Friday, Maggie, " she added, when Alice had closedthe door again. "When I come back, and am strong, they will let me doas I like. I shall come to you when I please then. "

"Lucy, " said Maggie, with another great effort, "I pray to Godcontinually that I may never be the cause of sorrow to you any more. "

She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and looked upinto the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never forgot that look. 

"Maggie, " she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity ofconfession in it, "you are better than I am. I can't----"

She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped each otheragain in a last embrace. 

Chapter V

The Last Conflict

In the second week of September, Maggie was again sitting in herlonely room, battling with the old shadowy enemies that were foreverslain and rising again. It was past midnight, and the rain was beatingheavily against the window, driven with fitful force by the rushing, loud-moaning wind. For the day after Lucy's visit there had been asudden change in the weather; the heat and drought had given way tocold variable winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals; and she hadbeen forbidden to risk the contemplated journey until the weathershould become more settled. In the counties higher up the Floss therains had been continuous, and the completion of the harvest had beenarrested. And now, for the last two days, the rains on this lowercourse of the river had been incessant, so that the old men had shakentheir heads and talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort ofweather, happening about the equinox, brought on the great floods, which swept the bridge away, and reduced the town to great misery. Butthe younger generation, who had seen several small floods, thoughtlightly of these sombre recollections and forebodings; and Bob Jakin, naturally prone to take a hopeful view of his own luck, laughed at hismother when she regretted their having taken a house by the riverside, observing that but for that they would have had no boats, which werethe most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged them togo to a distance for food. 

But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their bedsnow. There was hope that the rain would abate by the morrow;threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws after falls of snow, had often passed off, in the experience of the younger ones; and atthe very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down the riverwhen the tide came in with violence, and so the waters would becarried off, without causing more than temporary inconvenience, andlosses that would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity wouldrelieve. 

All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight; all except somesolitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little parlortoward the river, with one candle, that left everything dim in theroom except a letter which lay before her on the table. That letter, which had come to her to-day, was one of the causes that had kept herup far on into the night, unconscious how the hours were going, careless of seeking rest, with no image of rest coming across hermind, except of that far, far off rest from which there would be nomore waking for her into this struggling earthly life. 

Two days before Maggie received that letter, she had been to theRectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented herfrom going since; but there was another reason. Dr. Kenn, at firstenlightened only by a few hints as to the new turn which gossip andslander had taken in relation to Maggie, had recently been made morefully aware of it by an earnest remonstrance from one of his maleparishioners against the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt toovercome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course ofresistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in thematter, was still inclined to persevere, --was still averse to give waybefore a public sentiment that was odious and contemptible; but he wasfinally wrought upon by the consideration of the peculiarresponsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance ofevil, --an "appearance" that is always dependent on the average qualityof surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area ofthat "appearance" is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in dangerof acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty to succumb. Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is themost painful course; and to recede was always painful to Dr. Kenn. Hemade up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg'sfor a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacyas he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt tocountenance her stay was a source of discord between himself and hisparishioners, that was likely to obstruct his usefulness as aclergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend ofhis, who might possibly take her into his own family as governess;and, if not, would probably know of some other available position fora young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn felt a strong interest. 

Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip; she could say nothing but afaint "Thank you, I shall be grateful"; and she walked back to herlodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, thatwould look at her wonderingly, because the days did not seem joyful toher; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouseherself to receive new impressions; and she was so unspeakably, sickeningly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring; eventhose who pitied were constrained to hardness. But ought she tocomplain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance oflife, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load tosome other sufferers, and so changing that passionate error into a newforce of unselfish human love? All the next day she sat in her lonelyroom, with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that future, and wrestling for patience; for what reposecould poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling?

And on the third day--this day of which she had just sat out theclose--the letter had come which was lying on the table before her. 

The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from Holland; he was atMudport again, unknown to any of his friends, and had written to herfrom that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted inSt. Ogg's. From beginning to end it was a passionate cry of reproach;an appeal against her useless sacrifice of him, of herself, againstthat perverted notion of right which led her to crush all his hopes, for the sake of a mere idea, and not any substantial good, --_his_hopes, whom she loved, and who loved her with that single overpoweringpassion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more thanonce in his life. 

"They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I shouldbelieve that! Perhaps they have told you some such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I've been 'travelling. ' My body has been draggedabout somewhere; but _I_ have never travelled from the hideous placewhere you left me; where I started up from the stupor of helpless rageto find you gone. 

"Maggie! whose pain can have been like mine? Whose injury is likemine? Who besides me has met that long look of love that has burntitself into my soul, so that no other image can come there? Maggie, call me back to you! Call me back to life and goodness! I am banishedfrom both now. I have no motives; I am indifferent to everything. Twomonths have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for lifewithout you. Write me one word; say 'Come!' In two days I should bewith you. Maggie, have you forgotten what it was to be together, --tobe within reach of a look, to be within hearing of each other'svoice?"

When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptationhad only just begun. At the entrance of the chill dark cavern, we turnwith unworn courage from the warm light; but how, when we have troddenfar in the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint and weary; how, if there is a sudden opening above us, and we are invited back againto the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing from under thepressure of pain is so strong, that all less immediate motives arelikely to be forgotten--till the pain has been escaped from. 

For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hoursevery other thought that she strove to summon was thrust aside by theimage of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him toher. She did not _read_ the letter: she heard him uttering it, and thevoice shook her with its old strange power. All the day before she hadbeen filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she mustcarry the burthen of regret, upheld only by clinging faith. And here, close within her reach, urging itself upon her even as a claim, wasanother future, in which hard endurance and effort were to beexchanged for easy, delicious leaning on another's loving strength!And yet that promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make thedire force of the temptation to Maggie. 

It was Stephen's tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice ofher own resolve, that made the balance tremble, and made her oncestart from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write "Come!"

But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense ofcontradiction with her past self in her moments of strength andclearness came upon her like a pang of conscious degradation. No, shemust wait; she must pray; the light that had forsaken her would comeagain; she should feel again what she had felt when she had fled away, under an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony, --to conquer love;she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, whenPhilip's letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her to thecalmer past. 

She sat quite still, far on into the night, with no impulse to changeher attitude, without active force enough even for the mental act ofprayer; only waiting for the light that would surely come again. Itcame with the memories that no passion could long quench; the longpast came back to her, and with it the fountains of self-renouncingpity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that weremarked by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long agolearned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent forthemselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving ofthe rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind. "Ihave received the Cross, I have received it from Thy hand; I will bearit, and bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me. "

But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but in asob, --"Forgive me, Stephen! It will pass away. You will come back toher. "

She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowlyon the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word ofparting. 

"I will bear it, and bear it till death. But how long it will bebefore death comes! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I havepatience and strength? Am I to struggle and fall and repent again? Haslife other trials as hard for me still?"

With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against thetable, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her soul went out to theUnseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there wassomething being taught her by this experience of great need; and shemust be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, thatthe less erring could hardly know? "O God, if my life is to be long, let me live to bless and comfort----"

At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden cold abouther knees and feet; it was water flowing under her. She started up;the stream was flowing under the door that led into the passage. Shewas not bewildered for an instant; she knew it was the flood!

The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hoursseemed to have left a great calm in her; without screaming, shehurried with the candle upstairs to Bob Jakin's bedroom. The door wasajar; she went in and shook him by the shoulder. 

"Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house; let us see if we can makethe boats safe. "

She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if thewaters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at thedoor leading from the staircase; she saw that the water was already ona level with the step. While she was looking, something came with atremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded panes and theold wooden framework inward in shivers, the water pouring in after it. 

"It is the boat!" cried Maggie. "Bob, come down to get the boats!"

And without a moment's shudder of fear, she plunged through the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of thecandle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the window-sill, and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging andprotruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurryingwithout shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand. 

"Why, they're both here, --both the boats, " said Bob, as he got intothe one where Maggie was. "It's wonderful this fastening isn't broketoo, as well as the mooring. "

In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it, andmastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions intheir danger, and Bob's mind was absorbed in possible expedients forthe safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vagueimpression of her as one who would help to protect, not need to beprotected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off, so as to release the boat from the overhanging window-frame. 

"The water's rising so fast, " said Bob, "I doubt it'll be in at thechambers before long, --th' house is so low. I've more mind to getPrissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could, andtrusten to the water, --for th' old house is none so safe. And if I letgo the boat--but _you_, " he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light ofhis lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in herhand and her black hair streaming. 

Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along theline of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to the wide water, with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of theriver. 

In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but thatshe had suddenly passed away from that life which she had beendreading; it was the transition of death, without its agony, --and shewas alone in the darkness with God. 

The whole thing had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that the threads ofordinary association were broken; she sank down on the seat clutchingthe oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conceptionof her position. The first thing that waked her to fullerconsciousness was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that thedarkness was divided by the faintest light, which parted theoverhanging gloom from the immeasurable watery level below. She wasdriven out upon the flood, --that awful visitation of God which herfather used to talk of; which had made the nightmare of her childishdreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the oldhome, and Tom, and her mother, --they had all listened together. 

"O God, where am I? Which is the way home?" she cried out, in the dimloneliness. 

What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearlydestroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress, --her mother andher brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul wasstrained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces lookingfor help into the darkness, and finding none. 

She was floating in smooth water now, --perhaps far on the overfloodedfields. There was no sense of present danger to check the outgoing ofher mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against thecurtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of herwhereabout, --that she might catch some faint suggestion of the spottoward which all her anxieties tended. 

Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level, the gradualuplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defining blackness ofobjects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must be out on the fields;those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie?Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black trees; looking beforeher, there were none; then the river lay before her. She seized an oarand began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope;the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; andshe could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a moundwhere they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns inthe growing twilight; her wet clothes clung round her, and herstreaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardlyconscious of any bodily sensations, --except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger andpossible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined sense of reconcilement with her brother; whatquarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist inthe presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture ofour life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitivemortal needs? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent lovetoward her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offence and misunderstanding, and left only the deep, underlying, unshakable memories of early union. 

But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to herMaggie could discern the current of the river. The dark mass mustbe--yes, it was--St. Ogg's. Ah, now she knew which way to look for thefirst glimpse of the well-known trees--the gray willows, the nowyellowing chestnuts--and above them the old roof! But there was nocolor, no shape yet; all was faint and dim. More and more strongly theenergies seemed to come and put themselves forth, as if her life werea stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for anyfuture. 

She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she wouldnever be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house; this was thethought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and morevividness the state of things round the old home. But then she mightbe carried very far down, and be unable to guide her boat out of thecurrent again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began topress upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room forhesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went nowwithout effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distance andthe growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew mustbe the well-known trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing, muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple. 

Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash againsther boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What werethose masses?

For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony of dread. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being floated along, more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror wastransient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St. Ogg's. She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; _now_, she must use allher skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible out ofthe current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; shecould see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the wateryfield. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river, --such as hadbeen laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets. 

With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again topaddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shoutsfrom the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there werecalling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Toftonthat she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with oneyearning look toward her uncle Deane's house that lay farther down theriver, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might acrossthe watery fields, back toward the Mill. Color was beginning to awakenow, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern thetints of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and the home chestnuts, --oh, how deep they lay in the water, --deeperthan the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill--wherewas it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple, --what had theymeant? But it was not the house, --the house stood firm; drowned up tothe first story, but still firm, --or was it broken in at the endtoward the Mill?

With panting joy that she was there at last, --joy that overcame alldistress, --Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she heard nosound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with theupstairs window. She called out in a loud, piercing voice, --

"Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is Maggie!"

Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she heardTom's voice, --

"Who is it? Have you brought a boat?"

"It is I, Tom, --Maggie. Where is mother?"

"She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yesterday. I'llcome down to the lower window. "

"Alone, Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as heopened the middle window, on a level with the boat. 

"Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get inquickly. Is there no one else?"

"No, " said Tom, stepping into the boat; "I fear the man is drowned; hewas carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the Mill fell withthe crash of trees and stones against it; I've shouted again andagain, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie. "

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the widewater, --he face to face with Maggie, --that the full meaning of whathad happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering aforce, --it was such a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths inlife that had lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen andclear, --that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazingat each other, --Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from aweary, beaten face; Tom pale, with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy though the lips were silent; and though he could askno question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, divinelyprotected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and the lips found a word they could utter, --the old childish"Magsie!"

Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that mysterious, wondrous happiness that is one with pain. 

As soon as she could speak, she said, "We will go to Lucy, Tom; we'llgo and see if she is safe, and then we can help the rest. "

Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from poorMaggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, andsoon they would be at Tofton. 

"Park House stands high up out of the flood, " said Maggie. "Perhapsthey have got Lucy there. "

Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward them bythe river. Some wooden machinery had just given way on one of thewharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun wasrising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out indreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness floated onwardthe hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that wasworking its way along under the Tofton houses observed their danger, and shouted, "Get out of the current!"

But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before him, sawdeath rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in fatalfellowship, made one wide mass across the stream. 

"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice, loosing theoars, and clasping her. 

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and thehuge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph. 

But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on the goldenwater. 

The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in anembrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme momentthe days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamedthe daisied fields together. 

Conclusion

Nature repairs her ravages, --repairs them with her sunshine, and withhuman labor. The desolation wrought by that flood had left littlevisible trace on the face of the earth, five years after. The fifthautumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick clusters amongthe distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss werebusy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading andunlading. 

And every man and woman mentioned in this history was still living, except those whose end we know. 

Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are notrooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a newgrowth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hillsunderneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. Tothe eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair. 

Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard--where the brickgrave that held a father whom we know, was found with the stone laidprostrate upon it after the flood--had recovered all its grassy orderand decent quiet. 

Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon after theflood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace; and it wasvisited at different moments by two men who both felt that theirkeenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever buried there. 

One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him; butthat was years after. 

The other was always solitary. His great companionship was among thetrees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed still to hover, like a revisiting spirit. 

The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and below thenames it was written, --

 "In their death they were not divided. "