The Mill on the Floss (63 page)

"Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar,"
Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the
room,–"taking young ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth
into scenes of dissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered
reticules! I should like to know what is the proper function of
women, if it is not to make reasons for husbands to stay at home,
and still stronger reasons for bachelors to go out. If this goes on
much longer, the bonds of society will be dissolved."

"Well, it will not go on much longer," said Lucy, laughing, "for
the bazaar is to take place on Monday week."

"Thank Heaven!" said Stephen. "Kenn himself said the other day
that he didn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of
charity; but just as the British public is not reasonable enough to
bear direct taxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive
enough to build and endow schools without calling in the force of
folly."

"Did he say so?" said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide
with anxiety. "I never heard him say anything of that kind; I
thought he approved of what we were doing."

"I'm sure he approves
you
," said Stephen, smiling at
her affectionately; "your conduct in going out to-night looks
vicious, I own, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom of
it."

"Oh, you think too well of me," said Lucy, shaking her head,
with a pretty blush, and there the subject ended. But it was
tacitly understood that Stephen would not come in the evening; and
on the strength of that tacit understanding he made his morning
visit the longer, 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-room till tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the
tiny silken pet, and comforting him for his mistress's absence,
when the sound of a footstep on the gravel made her look up, and
she saw Mr. Stephen Guest walking up the garden, as if he had come
straight from the river. It was very unusual to see him so soon
after dinner! He often complained that their dinner-hour was late
at Park House. Nevertheless, there he was, in his black dress; he
had evidently been home, and must have come again by the river.
Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart beating; it was
natural she should be nervous, for she was not accustomed to
receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up through the open
window, and raised his hat as he walked toward it, to enter that
way instead of by the door. He blushed too, and certainly looked as
foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession can be
expected 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 to
apologize for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted to come
into the town, and I got our man to row me; so I thought I would
bring these things from the 'Maid of Artois' for your cousin; I
forgot them this 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 new position.

"Well, you pampered minion!" said Stephen, leaning to pull the
long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It was not a
suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by
further development, it naturally left the conversation at a
standstill. It seemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that
he was obliged to do, and wonder at himself all the while,–to go on
stroking Minny's head. Yet it was very pleasant; he only wished he
dared look at Maggie, and that she would look at him,–let him have
one long look into those deep, strange eyes of hers, and then he
would be satisfied and quite reasonable after that. He thought it
was becoming a sort of monomania with him, to want that long look
from Maggie; and he was racking his invention continually to find
out some means by which he could have it without its appearing
singular and entailing subsequent embarrassment. As for Maggie, she
had no distinct thought, only the sense of a presence like that of
a closely hovering broad-winged bird in the darkness, for she was
unable to look up, and saw nothing but Minny'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 upright sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm
over the back and looking at Maggie. What should he say?

"We shall have a splendid sunset, I think; sha'n't you go out
and see it?"

"I don't know," said Maggie. Then courageously raising her eyes
and looking out of the window, "if I'm not playing cribbage with my
uncle."

A pause; during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficient
insight 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
at Stephen, she said, "Would it be quite civil to say've s'?"

"It
was
rather a dangerous question for an intruder to
ask," said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting
determined to stay for another. "But you will have more than half
an hour to yourself after I am gone," he added, taking out his
watch. "I know Mr. Deane never 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 back again, 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
you tell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I
saw him as I went home."

Maggie gave a little start,–it seemed hardly more than a
vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new
images summoned by Philip's name dispersed half the oppressive
spell she had been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden
resolution, and laying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy's
large work-basket from its corner. Stephen was vexed and
disappointed; he thought perhaps Maggie didn't like the name of
Wakem to be mentioned to her in that abrupt way, for he now
recalled what Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no
use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table
with her work, and looking chill and proud; and he–he looked like a
simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, entirely superfluous visit
of that sort was sure to make a man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of
course it was palpable to Maggie's thinking that he had dined
hastily in his own room for the sake of setting off again and
finding her alone.

A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman of
five-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference to
history, 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 the ball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that
gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met
them as he presented the ball to her.

"Good-bye," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseeching
discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust
both hands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she
had perhaps been rude.

"Won't you stay?" she said timidly, not looking away, for that
would have 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 the distant 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 a still gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she
did not say "No," for she moved away now toward the open window,
and he was obliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he
thought of something 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
of the firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment,
but the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside
them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination.
Either on that ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they
walked together round the grassplot and under the drooping green of
the laburnums, in the same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a
quarter of an hour before; only that Stephen had had the look he
longed for, without yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of
returning reasonableness, and Maggie had darting thoughts across
the dimness,–how came he to be there? 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
come like a rescue. "Good-evening."

In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to
the house. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only
add to the embarrassing recollections of the last half-hour. She
had no thought 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
the Red Deeps."

Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and
was soon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the
billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing "lives"
at pool. But he would not leave off. He was determined not to
think,–not to admit any more distinct remembrance than was urged
upon him by the perpetual presence 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
bitterly determining that he would never trust himself alone with
Maggie again. It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly
attached to Lucy, and engaged,–engaged as strongly as an honorable
man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to
be thrown into a fever by her in this way; she would make a sweet,
strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other, but he
would never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He
hoped she did–not. He ought not to have gone. He would master
himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her,
quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Was it possible to
quarrel with a creature who had such eyes,–defying and deprecating,
contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching,–full of
delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by love for one
would be a lot worth having–to another man.

There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward
soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and
thrusting his hands into his pockets, stalked along at a quieter
pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind.

Chapter VII
Philip Re-enters

The next morning was very wet,–the sort of morning on which male
neighbors who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to
pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has
been endurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to
become so heavy, and at the same time so certain to clear up by and
by, that nothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit;
latent detestation will not do at all. And if people happen to be
lovers, what can be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning?
English sunshine is dubious; bonnets are never quite secure; and if
you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is
to be depended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and
presently find yourself in the seat you like best,–a little above
or a little below the one on which your goddess sits (it is the
same thing to the metaphysical mind, and that is the reason why
women are at once worshipped and looked down upon), with a
satisfactory confidence that there will be no lady-callers.

"Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know," said Lucy; "he
always does when it's rainy."

Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to
think she should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain,
she would have gone to her aunt Glegg's this morning, and so have
avoided him altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for
remaining out of the room with her mother.

But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another
visitor–a nearer neighbor–who preceded him. When Philip entered the
room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their
acquaintance was a secret which he was bound not to betray; but
when she advanced toward him and put out her hand, he guessed at
once that Lucy had been taken into her confidence. It was a moment
of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in
preparing for it; but like all persons who have passed through life
with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his
self-control, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any
noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little
tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in
rather a higher key, that to strangers would seem expressive of
cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an
inward drama that was not without its fierceness. But Maggie, who
had little more power of concealing the impressions made upon her
than if she had been constructed of musical strings, felt her eyes
getting larger with tears as they took each other's hands in
silence. They were not painful tears; they had rather something of
the same origin as the tears women and children shed when they have
found some protection to cling to and look back on the threatened
danger. For Philip, who a little while ago was associated
continually in Maggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach
her with some justice, had now, in this short space, become a sort
of outward conscience to her, that she might fly to for rescue and
strength. Her tranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root
deep down in her childhood, and its memories of long quiet talk
confirming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive
bias,–the fact that in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity
and womanly devotedness than to her vanity or other egoistic
excitability of her nature,–seemed now to make a sort of sacred
place, a sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring
influence which the best part of herself must resist; which must
bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This new sense
of her relation to Philip nullified the anxious scruples she would
otherwise have felt, lest she should overstep the limit of
intercourse with him that Tom would sanction; and she put out her
hand to him, and felt the tears in her eyes without any
consciousness of an inward check. The scene was just what Lucy
expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philip and
Maggie together again; though, even with all
her
regard
for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom
had some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity
between the two,–a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn't like
poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible,
to set them at ease.