The Mill on the Floss (60 page)

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her
pink drapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watching her
with affectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty
spaniel. If it appears to you at all incredible that young ladies
should be led on to talk confidentially in a situation of this
kind, I will beg you to remember that human life furnishes many
exceptional cases.

"You really
have
enjoyed the music to-night, haven't
you Maggie?"

"Oh yes, that is what prevented me from feeling sleepy. I think
I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty
of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into
my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with
music. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight."

"And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he?"

"Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that," said
Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair
back. "You are not impartial, and
I
think any barrel-organ
splendid."

"But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly; good
and bad too."

"Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should
not be so much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought to tremble
more."

"Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me! You think
he is conceited, I see that. But you don't dislike him, do
you?"

"Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming
people, that I should be very difficult to please? Besides, how
could I dislike any one that promised to make you happy, my dear
thing!" Maggie pinched Lucy's dimpled chin.

"We shall have more music to-morrow evening," said Lucy, looking
happy already, "for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him."

"Oh, Lucy, I can't see him," said Maggie, turning pale. "At
least, I could not see him without Tom's leave."

"Is Tom such a tyrant as that?" said Lucy, surprised. "I'll take
the responsibility, then,–tell him it was my fault."

"But, dear," said Maggie, falteringly, "I promised Tom very
solemnly, before my father's death,–I promised him I would not
speak to Philip without his knowledge and consent. And I have a
great dread of opening the subject with Tom,–of getting into a
quarrel with him again."

"But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What
harm can poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?"

"Oh no, pray don't, dear," said Maggie. "I'll go to him myself
to-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I've thought
before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not
had the courage to determine on it."

They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,–

"Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from
you."

Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to
her and said, "I
should
like to tell you about Philip.
But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one–least of
all to Philip himself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest."

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known the
relief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy
anything of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her
with sympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers,
encouraged her to speak on. On two points only she was not
expansive. She did not betray fully what still rankled in her mind
as Tom's great offence,–the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry
as the remembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one
else should know it at all, both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And
she could not bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her
father and Wakem, though it was this scene which she had ever since
felt to be a new barrier between herself and Philip. She merely
said, she saw now that Tom was, no the whole, right in regarding
any prospect of love and marriage between her and Philip as put out
of the question by the relation of the two families. Of course
Philip's father would never consent.

"There, Lucy, you have had my story," said Maggie, smiling, with
the tears in her eyes. "You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek.
I
was adored once."

"Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything,
and have learned so much since you left school; which always seemed
to me witchcraft before,–part of your general uncanniness," said
Lucy.

She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added,
looking at Maggie, "It is very beautiful that you should love
Philip; I never thought such a happiness would befall him. And in
my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are obstacles now;
but they may be done away with in time."

Maggie shook her head.

"Yes, yes," persisted Lucy; "I can't help being hopeful about
it. There is something romantic in it,–out of the common way,–just
what everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will
adore you like a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my
small brain to contrive some plot that will bring everybody into
the right mind, so that you may marry Philip when I marry–somebody
else. Wouldn't that be a pretty ending to all my poor, poor
Maggie's troubles?"

Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden
chill.

"Ah, dear, you are cold," said Lucy. "You must go to bed; and so
must I. I dare not think what time it is."

They kissed each other, and Lucy went away, possessed of a
confidence which had a strong influence over her subsequent
impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly sincere; her nature had
never found it easy to be otherwise. But confidences are sometimes
blinding, even when they are sincere.

Chapter IV
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
found him at home. He was not lodging with entire strangers. Our
friend Bob Jakin had, with Mumps's tacit consent, taken not only a
wife about eight months ago, but also one of those queer old
houses, pierced with surprising passages, by the water-side, where,
as he observed, his wife and mother could keep themselves out of
mischief by letting out two "pleasure-boats," in which he had
invested some of his savings, and by taking in a lodger for the
parlor and spare bedroom. Under these circumstances, what could be
better for the interests of all parties, sanitary considerations
apart, than that the lodger should be Mr. Tom?

It was Bob's wife who opened the door to Maggie. She was a tiny
woman, with the general physiognomy of a Dutch doll, looking, in
comparison with Bob's mother, who filled up the passage in the
rear, very much like one of those human figures which the artist
finds conveniently standing near a colossal statue to show the
proportions. The tiny woman curtsied and looked up at Maggie with
some awe as soon as she had opened the door; but the words, "Is my
brother at home?" which Maggie uttered smilingly, made her turn
round with sudden excitement, and say,–

"Eh, mother, mother–tell Bob!–it's Miss Maggie! Come in, Miss,
for goodness do," she went on, opening a side door, and endeavoring
to flatten her person against the wall to make the utmost space for
the visitor.

Sad recollections crowded on Maggie as she entered the small
parlor, which was now all that poor Tom had to call by the name of
"home,"–that name which had once, so many years ago, meant for both
of them the same sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was
not strange to her in this new room; the first thing her eyes dwelt
on was the large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to
disperse the old memories. She stood without speaking.

"If you please to take the privilege o' sitting down, Miss,"
said Mrs. Jakin, rubbing her apron over a perfectly clean chair,
and then lifting up the corner of that garment and holding it to
her face with an air of embarrassment, as she looked wonderingly at
Maggie.

"Bob is at home, then?" said Maggie, recovering herself, and
smiling at the bashful Dutch doll.

"Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself;
I'll go and see," said Mrs. Jakin, disappearing.

But she presently came back walking with new courage a little
way behind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of his blue eyes
and regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing respectfully.

"How do you do, Bob?" said Maggie, coming forward and putting
out her hand to him; "I always meant to pay your wife a visit, and
I shall come another day on purpose for that, if she will let me.
But I was obliged to come to-day to speak to my brother."

"He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finely, Mr. Tom is;
he'll be one o' the first men hereabouts,–you'll see that."

"Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever he
becomes; he said so himself only the other night, when he was
talking of you."

"Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the more
on't when he says a thing, because his tongue doesn't overshoot him
as mine does. Lors! I'm no better nor a tilted bottle, I ar'n't,–I
can't stop mysen when once I begin. But you look rarely, Miss; it
does me good to see you. What do you say now, Prissy?"–here Bob
turned to his wife,–"Isn't it all come true as I said? Though there
isn't many sorts o' goods as I can't over-praise when I set my
tongue to't."

Mrs. Bob's small nose seemed to be following the example of her
eyes in turning up reverentially toward Maggie, but she was able
now to smile and curtsey, and say, "I'd looked forrard like
aenything to seein' you, Miss, for my husband's tongue's been
runnin' on you, like as if he was light-headed, iver since first he
come a-courtin' on me."

"Well, well," said Bob, looking rather silly. "Go an' see after
the taters, else Mr. Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em."

"I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob," said Maggie,
smiling. "I remember you used to say he wouldn't like your
marrying."

"Eh, Miss," said Bob, "he made up his mind to't when he see'd
what a little un she was. He pretends not to see her mostly, or
else to think as she isn't full-growed. But about Mr. Tom, Miss,"
said Bob, speaking lower and looking serious, "he's as close as a
iron biler, he is; but I'm a 'cutish chap, an' when I've left off
carrying my pack, an' am at a loose end, I've got more brains nor I
know what to do wi', an' I'm forced to busy myself wi' other
folks's insides. An' it worrets me as Mr. Tom'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, a fine young fellow like
him. My wife says, when she goes in sometimes, an' he takes no
notice of her, he sits lookin' into the fire, and frownin' as if he
was watchin' folks at work in it."

"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'
I thought tow'rt last Christmas as I'd found out a soft place in
him. It was about a little black spaniel–a rare bit o' breed–as he
made a fuss to get. But since then summat's come over him, as he's
set his teeth again' things more nor iver, for all he's had such
good luck. An' I wanted to tell
you
, Miss, 'cause I
thought you might work it out of him a bit, now you're come. He's a
deal too lonely, and doesn't go into company enough."

"I'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob," said
Maggie, a good deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a totally new
idea to her mind that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor
fellow!–and in love with Lucy too! But it was perhaps a mere fancy
of Bob's too officious brain. The present of the dog meant nothing
more than cousinship and gratitude. But Bob had already said,
"Here's Mr. Tom," and the outer door was opening.

"There is no time to spare, Tom," said Maggie, as soon as Bob
left the room. "I must tell you at once what I came about, else I
shall be hindering you from taking your dinner."

Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and Maggie
was seated opposite the light. He noticed that she was tremulous,
and he had a presentiment of the subject she was going to speak
about. The presentiment made his voice colder and harder as he
said, "What is it?"

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she put
her request in quite a different form from the one she had
predetermined on. She rose from her seat, and looking straight at
Tom, said,–

"I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Or
rather, I promised you not to see him without telling you. I am
come to 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
her brother.

"Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I shouldn't have
asked it, only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucy's and she
wishes him to come, has invited him to come this evening; and I
told her I couldn't see him without telling you. I shall only see
him in the presence of other people. There will never be anything
secret between us again."

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for
a little while. Then he turned to her and said, slowly and
emphatically,–

"You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is
no need for my repeating anything I said a year ago. While my
father was living, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you,
to prevent you from disgracing him as well as yourself, and all of
us. But now I must leave you to your own choice. You wish to be
independent; you told me so after my father's death. My opinion is
not changed. If you think of Philip Wakem as a lover again, you
must give up me."