The Mill on the Floss (61 page)

"I don't wish it, dear Tom, at least as things are; I see that
it would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to another
situation, and I should like to be friends with him again while I
am here. Lucy wishes it."

The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little.

"I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncle's–I
don't want you to make a fuss on the subject. But I have no
confidence in you, Maggie. You would be led away to do
anything."

That was a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble.

"Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not
done and borne everything as well as I could? And I kept my word to
you–when–when––My life has not been a happy one, any more than
yours."

She was obliged to be childish; the tears would come. When
Maggie was not angry, she was as dependent on kind or cold words as
a daisy on the sunshine or the cloud; the need of being loved would
always subdue her, as, in old days, it subdued her in the
worm-eaten attic. The brother's goodness came uppermost at this
appeal, but it could only show itself in Tom's fashion. He put his
hand gently on her arm, and said, in the tone of a kind
pedagogue,–

"Now listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. You're
always in extremes; you have no judgment and self-command; and yet
you think you know best, and will not submit to be guided. You know
I didn't wish you to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing
to give you a good home, and you might have lived respectably
amongst your relations, until I could have provided a home for you
with my mother. And that is what I should like to do. I wished my
sister to be a lady, and I always have taken care of you, as my
father desired, until you were well married. But your ideas and
mine never accord, and you will not give way. Yet you might have
sense enough to see that a brother, who goes out into the world and
mixes with men, necessarily knows better what is right and
respectable for his sister than she can know herself. You think I
am not kind; but my kindness can only be directed by what I believe
to be good for you."

"Yes, I know, dear Tom," said Maggie, still half-sobbing, but
trying to control her tears. "I know you would do a great deal for
me; I know how you work, and don't spare yourself. I am grateful to
you. But, indeed, you can't quite judge for me; our natures are
very different. You don't know how differently things affect me
from what they do you."

"Yes, I
do
know; I know it too well. I know how
differently you must feel about all that affects our family, and
your own dignity as a young woman, before you could think of
receiving secret addresses from Philip Wakem. If it was not
disgusting to me in every other way, I should object to my sister's
name being associated for a moment with that of a young man whose
father must hate the very thought of us all, and would spurn you.
With any one but you, I should think it quite certain that what you
witnessed just before my father's death would secure you from ever
thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But I don't feel certain
of it with you; I never feel certain about anything with
you
. At one time you take pleasure in a sort of perverse
self-denial, and at another you have not resolution to resist a
thing that you know to be wrong."

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words,–that hard
rind of truth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsympathetic
minds. Maggie always writhed under this judgment of Tom's; she
rebelled and was humiliated in the same moment; it seemed as if he
held a glass before her to show her her own folly and weakness, as
if he were a prophetic voice predicting her future fallings; and
yet, all the while, she judged him in return; she said inwardly
that he was narrow and unjust, that he was below feeling those
mental needs which were often the source of the wrong-doing or
absurdity that made her life a planless riddle to him.

She did not answer directly; her heart was too full, and she sat
down, leaning her arm on the table. It was no use trying to make
Tom feel that she was near to him. He always repelled her. Her
feeling under his words was complicated by the allusion to the last
scene between her father and Wakem; and at length that painful,
solemn memory surmounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not
think of such things with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not
accuse her of that. She looked up at him with a grave, earnest gaze
and said,–

"I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I can
say. But I am not so shut out from all your feelings as you believe
me to be. I see as well as you do that from our position with
regard to Philip's father–not on other grounds–it would be
unreasonable, it would be wrong, for us to entertain the idea of
marriage; and I have given up thinking of him as a lover. I am
telling you the truth, and you have no right to disbelieve me; I
have kept my word to you, and you have never detected me in a
falsehood. I should not only not encourage, I should carefully
avoid, any intercourse with Philip on any other footing than of
quiet friendship. You may think that I am unable to keep my
resolutions; but at least you ought not to treat me with hard
contempt on the ground of faults that I have not committed
yet."

"Well, Maggie," said Tom, softening under this appeal, "I don't
want to overstrain matters. I think, all things considered, it will
be best for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy wishes him to come to
the house. I believe what you say,–at least you believe it
yourself, I know; I can only warn you. I wish to be as good a
brother to you as you will let me."

There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the last
words, and Maggie's ready affection came back with as sudden a glow
as when they were children, and bit their cake together as a
sacrament of conciliation. She rose and laid her hand on Tom's
shoulder.

"Dear Tom, I know you mean to be good. I know you have had a
great deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should like to be
a comfort to you, not to vex you. You don't think I'm altogether
naughty, now, do you?"

Tom smiled at the eager face; his smiles were very pleasant to
see when they did come, for the gray eyes could be tender
underneath the frown.

"No, Maggie."

"I may turn out better than you expect."

"I hope you will."

"And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see this
extremely small wife of Bob's again?"

"Yes; but trot away now, for I've no more time to spare," said
Tom, looking at his watch.

"Not to give me a kiss?"

Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said,–

"There! Be a good girl. I've got a great deal to think of
to-day. I'm going to have a long consultation with my uncle Deane
this afternoon."

"You'll come to aunt Glegg's to-morrow? We're going all to dine
early, that we may go there to tea. You
must
come; Lucy
told me to say so."

"Oh, pooh! I've plenty else to do," said Tom, pulling his bell
violently, and bringing down the small bell-rope.

"I'm frightened; I shall run away," said Maggie, making a
laughing retreat; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, flung the
bell-rope to the farther end of the room; not very far either,–a
touch of human experience which I flatter myself will come home to
the bosoms of not a few substantial or distinguished men who were
once at an early stage of their rise in the world, and were
cherishing very large hopes in very small lodgings.

Chapter V
Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster

"And now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom," said Mr.
Deane, that same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room
at the Bank together, "there's another matter I want to talk to you
about. Since you're likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time
of it at Newcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a good
prospect of some sort to keep up your spirits."

Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion
in this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff-box and
gratified each nostril with deliberate impartiality.

"You see, Tom," said Mr. Deane at last, throwing himself
backward, "the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did when
I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much
such a strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between
the shafts the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his
hand. The looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so
fast; I'd a best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a
lower scale, sir,–in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam,
you see, that has made the difference; it drives on every wheel
double pace, and the wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr.
Stephen Guest said at the anniversary dinner (he hits these things
off wonderfully, considering he's seen nothing of business). I
don't find fault with the change, as some people do. Trade, sir,
opens a man's eyes; and if the population is to get thicker upon
the ground, as it's doing, the world must use its wits at
inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share as an
ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing to
make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir,
it's a fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and
bring the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's
our line of business; and I consider it as honorable a position as
a man can hold, 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 his reminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of
trade. Indeed, for the last month or two, there had been hints
thrown out to Tom which enabled him to guess that he was going to
hear some proposition for his own benefit. With the beginning of
the last speech he had stretched out his legs, thrust his hands in
his pockets, and prepared himself for some introductory
diffuseness, tending to show that Mr. Deane had succeeded by his
own merit, and that what he had to say to young men in general was,
that if they didn't succeed too it was because of their own
demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his uncle put a direct
question to him.

"Let me see,–it's going on for seven years now since you applied
to me for a situation, eh, Tom?"

"Yes, sir; I'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom.

"Ah, it's as well not to say that, though; for you'd pass for a
good deal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your
coming very well; I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and
that was what made me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say
I was right; I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy
at pushing my nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit,
sir; and if I'd had a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to
see him like you."

Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a
tone of some feeling, "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
conduct as a son; though that weighs with me in my opinion of you.
But what I have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the
qualities you've shown as a man o' business. Ours is a fine
business,–a splendid concern, sir,–and there's no reason why it
shouldn't go on growing; there's a growing capital, and growing
outlets for it; but there's another thing that's wanted for the
prosperity of every concern, large or small, and that's men to
conduct it,–men of the right habits; none o' your flashy fellows,
but such as are to be depended on. Now this is what Mr. Guest and I
see clear enough. Three years ago we took Gell into the concern; we
gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why, because Gell was a
fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it will always be,
sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty near ten years
older than you, there are other points in your favor."

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on speaking;
he was conscious of something he had in his mind to say, which
might not be agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new
suggestion rather than an acceptance of the proposition he
foresaw.

"It stands to reason," Mr. Deane went on, when he had finished
his new pinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in your favor; but
I don't deny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your
conduct in that affair of Pelley's bank would have led Mr. Guest
and myself to make some acknowledgment of the service you've been
to us; and, backed by your general conduct and business ability, it
has made us determine on giving you a share in the business,–a
share which we shall be glad to increase as the years go on. We
think that'll be better, on all grounds, than raising your salary.
It'll give you more importance, and prepare you better for taking
some of the anxiety off my shoulders by and by. I'm equal to a good
deal o' work at present, thank God; but I'm getting older,–there's
no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I would open the subject to you;
and when you come back from this northern business, we can go into
particulars. This is a great stride for a young fellow of
three-and-twenty, but I'm bound to say you've deserved it."

"I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir; of course I feel
the most indebted to
you
, who first took me into the
business, and have taken a good deal of pains with me 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 be of any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell, else
he wouldn't have been what he is."