The Mill on the Floss (5 page)

"Hegh, hegh, Miss! you'll make yourself giddy, an' tumble down
i' the dirt," said Luke, the head miller, a tall, broad-shouldered
man of forty, black-eyed and black-haired, subdued by a general
mealiness, like an auricula.

Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, "Oh
no, it doesn't make me giddy, Luke; may I go into the mill with
you?"

Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and
often came out with her black hair powdered to a soft whiteness
that made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din,
the unresting motion of the great stones, giving her a dim,
delicious awe as at the presence of an uncontrollable force; the
meal forever pouring, pouring; the fine white powder softening all
surfaces, and making the very spidernets look like a faery
lace-work; the sweet, pure scent of the meal,–all helped to make
Maggie feel that the mill was a little world apart from her outside
every-day life. The spiders were especially a subject of
speculation with her. She wondered if they had any relatives
outside the mill, for in that case there must be a painful
difficulty in their family intercourse,–a fat and floury spider,
accustomed to take his fly well dusted with meal, must suffer a
little at a cousin's table where the fly was
au naturel
,
and the lady spiders must be mutually shocked at each other's
appearance. But the part of the mill she liked best was the topmost
story,–the corn-hutch, where there were the great heaps of grain,
which she could sit on and slide down continually. She was in the
habit of taking this recreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom
she was very communicative, wishing him to think well of her
understanding, as her father did.

Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him
on the present occasion for, as she sat sliding on the heap of
grain near which he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill
pitch which was requisite 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's Tour of Europe,'–that would tell you all about the
different sorts of people in the world, and if you didn't
understand the reading, the pictures would help you; they show the
looks and ways of the people, and what they do. There are the
Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know, and one sitting on a
barrel."

"Nay, Miss, I'n no opinion o' Dutchmen. There ben't much good i'
knowin' about
them
."

"But they're our fellow-creatures, Luke; we ought to know about
our fellow-creatures."

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

"Oh, well," said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpectedly
decided views about Dutchmen, "perhaps you would like 'Animated
Nature' better; that's not Dutchmen, you know, but elephants and
kangaroos, and the civet-cat, and the sunfish, and a bird sitting
on its tail,–I forget its name. There are countries full of those
creatures, instead of horses and cows, you know. Shouldn't you like
to know about them, Luke?"

"Nay, Miss, I'n got to keep count o' the flour an' corn; I can't
do wi' knowin' so many things besides my work. That's what brings
folks to the gallows,–knowin' everything but what they'n got to get
their bread by. An' they're mostly lies, I think, what's printed i'
the books: them printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i' the
streets."

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

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

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

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

"Oh dear, Luke," said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the big
tears rolled down her cheek; "Tom told me to take care of 'em, and
I forgot. What
shall
I do?"

"Well, you see, Miss, they were in that far tool-house, an' it
was nobody's business to see to 'em. I reckon Master Tom told Harry
to feed 'em, but there's no countin' on Harry;
he's
an
offal creatur as iver come about the primises, he is. He remembers
nothing but his own inside–an' I wish it'ud gripe him."

"Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rabbits every
day; but how could I, when they didn't come into my head, you know?
Oh, he will be so angry with me, I know he will, and so sorry about
his rabbits, and so am 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. He made the rabbits' ears to lie back, an' it's nothin'
but contrairiness to make 'em hing down like a mastiff dog's.
Master Tom 'ull know better nor buy such things another time. Don't
you fret, Miss. Will you come along home wi' me, and see my wife?
I'm a-goin' this minute."

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

"I'm very glad his father took him back again, aren't you,
Luke?" she said. "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's
feyther do what he would for him."

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

Chapter V
Tom Comes Home

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another
fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the
sound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a
strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound
came,–that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels,–and in spite of
the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to
respect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the
door, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting
all the griefs of the morning.

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

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on
one leg and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig,
and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions,
"Hallo! Yap–what! are you there?"

Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though
Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his
blue-gray eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the
river, where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the
first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those lads that grow
everywhere in England, and at twelve or thirteen years of age look
as much alike as goslings,–a lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of
cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows,–a
physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but
the generic character to boyhood; as different as possible from
poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and colored
with the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep
cunning which hides itself under the appearance of openness, so
that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and
all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their
confident prophecies. Under these average boyish physiognomies that
she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most
rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable
characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may
after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this
pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate
features.

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

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

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

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

"Why, it's–a–new–guess, Maggie!"

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

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

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

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new
fish-line–two new uns,–one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I
wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to save
the money; and Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I
wouldn't. And here's hooks; see here–I say,
won't
we go
and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your
own fish, Maggie and put the worms on, and everything; won't it be
fun?"

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

"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to
yourself? You know, 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
hooks one by one, before he spoke again.

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

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

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

"I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know; that's what he got by
wanting to leather
me;
I wasn't going to go halves because
anybody leathered me."

"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If
there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't
you, Tom?"

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no
lions, only in the shows."

"No; but if we were in the lion countries–I mean in Africa,
where it's very hot; the lions eat people there. I can show it you
in the book where I read it."

"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."

"But if you hadn't got a gun,–we might have gone out, you know,
not thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might
run toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What
should you do, Tom?"

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But
the lion
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 my rabbits."

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