The Mill on the Floss (50 page)

"No, sir; I left Stowe in my place."

"Come, put down your pack, and let me see," said Mrs. Glegg,
drawing a chair to the window and seating herself with much
dignity.

"Don't you ask it, mum," said Bob, entreatingly.

"Make no more words," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, "but do as I
tell you."

"Eh mum, I'm loth, that I am," said Bob, slowly depositing his
pack on the step, and beginning to untie it with unwilling fingers.
"But what you order shall be done" (much fumbling in pauses between
the sentences). "It's not as you'll buy a single thing on me,–I'd
be sorry for you to do it,–for think o' them poor women up i' the
villages there, as niver stir a hundred yards from home,–it 'ud be
a pity for anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, it's as good as
a junketing to 'em when they see me wi' my pack, an' I shall niver
pick up such bargains for 'em again. Least ways, I've no time now,
for I'm off to Laceham. See here now," Bob went on, becoming rapid
again, and holding up a scarlet woollen Kerchief with an
embroidered wreath in the corner; "here's a thing to make a lass's
mouth water, an' on'y two shillin'–an' why? Why, 'cause there's a
bit of a moth-hole 'i this plain end. Lors, I think the moths an'
the mildew was sent by Providence o' purpose to cheapen the goods a
bit for the good-lookin' women as han't got much money. If it
hadn't been for the moths, now, every hankicher on 'em 'ud ha' gone
to the rich, handsome ladies, like you, mum, at five shillin'
apiece,–not a farthin' less; but what does the moth do? Why, it
nibbles off three shillin' o' the price i' no time; an' then a
packman like me can carry 't to the poor lasses as live under the
dark thack, to make a bit of a blaze for 'em. Lors, it's as good as
a fire, to look at such a hankicher!"

Bob held it at a distance for admiration, but Mrs. Glegg said
sharply:

"Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o' year. Put these
colored things by; let me look at your nets, if you've got
'em."

"Eh, mum, I told you how it 'ud be," said Bob, flinging aside
the colored things with an air of desperation. "I knowed it ud'
turn again' you to look at such paltry articles as I carry. Here's
a piece o' figured muslin now, what's the use o' you lookin' at it?
You might as well look at poor folks's victual, mum; it 'ud on'y
take away your appetite. There's a yard i' the middle on't as the
pattern's all missed,–lors, why, it's a muslin as the Princess
Victoree might ha' wore; but," added Bob, flinging it behind him on
to the turf, as if to save Mrs. Glegg's eyes, "it'll be bought up
by the huckster's wife at Fibb's End,–that's where
it'll
go–ten shillin' for the whole lot–ten yards, countin' the damaged
un–five-an'-twenty shillin' 'ud ha' been the price, not a penny
less. But I'll say no more, mum; it's nothing to you, a piece o'
muslin like that; you can afford to pay three times the money for a
thing as isn't half so good. It's nets
you
talked on;
well, I've got a piece as 'ull serve you to make fun on––"

"Bring me that muslin," said Mrs. Glegg. "It's a buff; I'm
partial to buff."

"Eh, but a
damaged
thing," said Bob, in a tone of
deprecating disgust. "You'd do nothing with it, mum, you'd give it
to the cook, I know you would, an' it 'ud be a pity,–she'd look too
much like a lady in it; it's unbecoming for servants."

"Fetch it, and let me see you measure it," said Mrs. Glegg,
authoritatively.

Bob obeyed with ostentatious reluctance.

"See what there is over measure!" he said, holding forth the
extra half-yard, while Mrs. Glegg was busy examining the damaged
yard, and throwing her head back to see how far the fault would be
lost on a distant view.

"I'll give you six shilling for it," she said, throwing it down
with the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum.

"Didn't I tell you now, mum, as it 'ud hurt your feelings to
look at my pack? That damaged bit's turned your stomach now; I see
it has," said Bob, wrapping the muslin up with the utmost
quickness, and apparently about to fasten up his pack. "You're used
to seein' a different sort o' article carried by packmen, when you
lived at the stone house. Packs is come down i' the world; I told
you that;
my
goods are for common folks. Mrs. Pepper 'ull
give me ten shillin' for that muslin, an' be sorry as I didn't ask
her more. Such articles answer i' the wearin',–they keep their
color till the threads melt away i' the wash-tub, an' that won't be
while
I'm
a young un."

"Well, seven shilling," said Mrs. Glegg.

"Put it out o' your mind, mum, now do," said Bob. "Here's a bit
o' net, then, for you to look at before I tie up my pack, just for
you to see what my trade's come to,–spotted and sprigged, you see,
beautiful but yallow,–'s been lyin' by an' got the wrong color. I
could niver ha' bought such net, if it hadn't been yallow. Lors,
it's took me a deal o' study to know the vally o' such articles;
when I begun to carry a pack, I was as ignirant as a pig; net or
calico was all the same to me. I thought them things the most vally
as was the thickest. I was took in dreadful, for I'm a
straightforrard chap,–up to no tricks, mum. I can only say my nose
is my own, for if I went beyond, I should lose myself pretty quick.
An' I gev five-an'-eightpence for that piece o' net,–if I was to
tell y' anything else I should be tellin' you fibs,–an'
five-an'-eightpence I shall ask of it, not a penny more, for it's a
woman's article, an' I like to 'commodate the women.
Five-an'-eightpence for six yards,–as cheap as if it was only the
dirt on it as was paid for.'"

"I don't mind having three yards of it,'" said Mrs. Glegg.

"Why, there's but six altogether," said Bob. "No, mum, it isn't
worth your while; you can go to the shop to-morrow an' get the same
pattern ready whitened. It's on'y three times the money; what's
that to a lady like you?" He gave an emphatic tie to his
bundle.

"Come, lay me out that muslin," said Mrs. Glegg. "Here's eight
shilling for it."

"You
will
be jokin'," said Bob, looking up with a
laughing face; "I see'd you was a pleasant lady when I fust come to
the winder."

"Well, put it me out," said Mrs. Glegg, peremptorily.

"But if I let you have it for ten shillin', mum, you'll be so
good as not tell nobody. I should be a laughin'-stock; the trade
'ud hoot me, if they knowed it. I'm obliged to make believe as I
ask more nor I do for my goods, else they'd find out I was a flat.
I'm glad you don't insist upo' buyin' the net, for then I should
ha' lost my two best bargains for Mrs. Pepper o' Fibb's End, an'
she's a rare customer."

"Let me look at the net again," said Mrs. Glegg, yearning after
the cheap spots and sprigs, now they were vanishing.

"Well, I can't deny
you
, mum," said Bob handing it
out.

"Eh!, see what a pattern now! Real Laceham goods. Now, this is
the sort o' article I'm recommendin' Mr. Tom to send out. Lors,
it's a fine thing for anybody as has got a bit o' money; these
Laceham goods 'ud make it breed like maggits. If I was a lady wi' a
bit o' money!–why, I know one as put thirty pounds into them
goods,–a lady wi' a cork leg, but as sharp,–you wouldn't catch
her
runnin' her head into a sack;
she'd
see her
way clear out o' anything afore she'd be in a hurry to start. Well,
she let out thirty pound to a young man in the drapering line, and
he laid it out i' Laceham goods, an' a shupercargo o' my
acquinetance (not Salt) took 'em out, an' she got her eight per
zent fust go off; an' now you can't hold her but she must be
sendin' out carguies wi' every ship, till she's gettin' as rich as
a Jew. Bucks her name is, she doesn't live i' this town. Now then,
mum, if you'll please to give me the net––"

"Here's fifteen shilling, then, for the two," said Mrs. Glegg.
"But it's a shameful price."

"Nay, mum, you'll niver say that when you're upo' your knees i'
church i' five years' time. I'm makin' you a present o' th'
articles; I am, indeed. That eightpence shaves off my profits as
clean as a razor. Now then, sir," continued Bob, shouldering his
pack, "if you please, I'll be glad to go and see about makin' Mr.
Tom's fortin. Eh, I wish I'd got another twenty pound to lay out
my
sen; I shouldn't stay to say my Catechism afore I knowed
what to do wi't."

"Stop a bit, Mr. Glegg," said the lady, as her husband took his
hat, "you never
will
give me the chance o' speaking.
You'll go away now, and finish everything about this business, and
come back and tell me it's too late for me to speak. As if I wasn't
my nephey's own aunt, and the head o' the family on his mother's
side! and laid by guineas, all full weight, for him, as he'll know
who to respect when I'm laid in my coffin."

"Well, Mrs. G., say what you mean," said Mr. G., hastily.

"Well, then, I desire as nothing may be done without my knowing.
I don't say as I sha'n't venture twenty pounds, if you make out as
everything's right and safe. And if I do, Tom," concluded Mrs.
Glegg, turning impressively to her nephew, "I hope you'll allays
bear it in mind and be grateful for such an aunt. I mean you to pay
me interest, you know; I don't approve o' giving; we niver looked
for that in
my
family."

"Thank you, aunt," said Tom, rather proudly. "I prefer having
the money only lent to me."

"Very well; that's the Dodson sperrit," said Mrs. Glegg, rising
to get her knitting with the sense that any further remark after
this would be bathos.

Salt–that eminently "briny chap"–having been discovered in a
cloud of tobacco-smoke at the Anchor Tavern, Mr. Glegg commenced
inquiries which turned out satisfactorily enough to warrant the
advance of the "nest-egg," to which aunt Glegg contributed twenty
pounds; and in this modest beginning you see the ground of a fact
which might otherwise surprise you; namely, Tom's accumulation of a
fund, unknown to his father, that promised in no very long time to
meet the more tardy process of saving, and quite cover the deficit.
When once his attention had been turned to this source of gain, Tom
determined to make the most of it, and lost on opportunity of
obtaining information and extending his small enterprises. In not
telling his father, he was influenced by that strange mixture of
opposite feelings which often gives equal truth to those who blame
an action and those who admire it,–partly, it was that
disinclination to confidence which is seen between near kindred,
that family repulsion which spoils the most sacred relations of our
lives; partly, it was the desire to surprise his father with a
great joy. He did not see that it would have been better to soothe
the interval with a new hope, and prevent the delirium of a too
sudden elation.

At the time of Maggie's first meeting with Philip, Tom had
already nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his own capital; and
while they were walking by the evening light in the Red Deeps, he,
by the same evening light, was riding into Laceham, proud of being
on his first journey on behalf of Guest & Co., and revolving in
his mind all the chances that by the end of another year he should
have doubled his gains, lifted off the obloquy of debt from his
father's name, and perhaps–for he should be twenty-one–have got a
new start for himself, on a higher platform of employment. Did he
not desire it? He was quite sure that he did.

Chapter III
The Wavering Balance

I said that Maggie went home that evening from the Red Deeps
with a mental conflict already begun. You have seen clearly enough,
in her interview with Philip, what that conflict was. Here suddenly
was an opening in the rocky wall which shut in the narrow valley of
humiliation, where all her prospect was the remote, unfathomed sky;
and some of the memory-haunting earthly delights were no longer out
of her reach. She might have books, converse, affection; she might
hear tidings of the world from which her mind had not yet lost its
sense of exile; and it would be a kindness to Philip too, who was
pitiable,–clearly not happy. And perhaps here was an opportunity
indicated for making her mind more worthy of its highest service;
perhaps the noblest, completest devoutness could hardly exist
without some width of knowledge;
must
she always live in
this resigned imprisonment? It was so blameless, so good a thing
that there should be friendship between her and Philip; the motives
that forbade it were so unreasonable, so unchristian! But the
severe monotonous warning came again and again,–that she was losing
the simplicity and clearness of her life by admitting a ground of
concealment; and that, by forsaking the simple rule of
renunciation, she was throwing herself under the seductive guidance
of illimitable wants. She thought she had won strength to obey the
warning before she allowed herself the next week to turn her steps
in the evening to the Red Deeps. But while she was resolved to say
an affectionate farewell to Philip, how she looked forward to that
evening walk in the still, fleckered shade of the hollows, away
from all that was harsh and unlovely; to the affectionate, admiring
looks that would meet her; to the sense of comradeship that
childish memories would give to wiser, older talk; to the certainty
that Philip would care to hear everything she said, which no one
else cared for! It was a half-hour that it would be very hard to
turn her back upon, with the sense that there would be no other
like it. Yet she said what she meant to say; she looked firm as
well as sad.

"Philip, I have made up my mind; it is right that we should give
each other up, in everything but memory. I could not see you
without concealment–stay, I know what you are going to say,–it is
other people's wrong feelings that make concealment necessary; but
concealment is bad, however it may be caused. I feel that it would
be bad for me, for us both. And then, if our secret were
discovered, there would be nothing but misery,–dreadful anger; and
then we must part after all, and it would be harder, when we were
used to seeing each other."