The Mill on the Floss (81 page)

Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash
against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon.
What were those 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 was transient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses
of St. Ogg's. She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then;
now
, she must use all her skill and power to manage the
boat and get it if possible out of the current. She could see now
that the bridge was broken down; she could see the masts of a
stranded vessel far out over the watery field. But no boats were to
be seen moving on the river,–such as had been laid hands on were
employed in the flooded streets.

With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again
to paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the
river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear
shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if the people
there were calling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly
to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then
with one yearning look toward her uncle Deane's house that lay
farther down the river, she took to both her oars and rowed with
all her might across the watery fields, back toward the Mill. Color
was beginning to awake now, and as she approached the Dorlcote
fields, she could discern the tints 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,–deeper than the trees on this side the hill!
And the roof of the Mill–where was it? Those heavy fragments
hurrying down the Ripple,–what had they meant? But it was not the
house,–the house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but
still firm,–or was it broken in at the end toward the Mill?

With panting joy that she was there at last,–joy that overcame
all distress,–Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she
heard no sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level
with the upstairs 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
heard Tom'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'll come down to the lower window."

"Alone, Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as
he opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.

"Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get in
quickly. Is there no one else?"

"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat; "I fear the man is
drowned; he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the
Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it; I've
shouted again and again, and there has been no answer. Give me the
oars, Maggie."

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide
water,–he face to face with Maggie,–that the full meaning of what
had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering a
force,–it was such a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in
life that had lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen
and clear,–that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely
gazing at each other,–Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out
from a weary, beaten face; Tom pale, with a certain awe and
humiliation. Thought was busy though the lips were silent; and
though he could ask no question, he guessed a story of almost
miraculous, divinely protected 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'll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the
rest."

Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from
poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the river again,
and soon they would be at Tofton.

"Park House stands high up out of the flood," said Maggie.
"Perhaps they have got Lucy there."

Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward
them by the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way on one
of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The
sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was
spread out in dreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness
floated onward the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in
a boat that was working 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,
saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in
fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice,
loosing the oars, and clasping her.

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and
the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.

But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on the
golden water.

The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in an
embrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme
moment the days when they had clasped their little hands in love,
and roamed the daisied fields together.

Nature repairs her ravages,–repairs them with her sunshine, and
with human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood had left
little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years after.
The fifth autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick
clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on
the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with
hopeful lading and unlading.

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
not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a
new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills
underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending.
To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough
repair.

Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard–where the
brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found with the
stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood–had recovered all its
grassy order and decent quiet.

Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon after
the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace; and it
was visited at different moments by two men who both felt that
their keenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever buried there.

One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him;
but that was years after.

The other was always solitary. His great companionship was among
the trees 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
the names it was written,–

"In their death they were not divided."

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