The Mill on the Floss (53 page)

"To be sure, it 'ud be unbecoming if it wasn't well known you've
got them belonging to you as can afford to give you such things
when they've done with 'em themselves. It stands to reason I must
give my own niece clothes now and then,–such things as
I
buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy,
there's no giving to her, for she's got everything o' the choicest;
sister Deane may well hold her head up,–though she looks dreadful
yallow, poor thing–I doubt this liver complaint 'ull carry her off.
That's what this new vicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the funeral
sermon to-day."

"Ah, he's a wonderful preacher, by all account,–isn't he,
Sophy?" said Mrs. Tulliver.

"Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day," continued Mrs.
Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, "as I don't say
I haven't got as good, but I must look out my best to match
it."

"Miss Lucy's called the bell o' St. Ogg's, they say; that's a
cur'ous word," observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries of
etymology sometimes fell with an oppressive weight.

"Pooh!" said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, "she's a small
thing, not much of a figure. But fine feathers make fine birds. I
see nothing to admire so much in those diminutive women; they look
silly by the side o' the men,–out o' proportion. When I chose my
wife, I chose her the right size,–neither too little nor too
big."

The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled
complacently.

"But the men aren't
all
big," said uncle Pullet, not
without some self-reference; "a young fellow may be good-looking
and yet not be a six-foot, like Master Tom here.

"Ah, it's poor talking about littleness and bigness,–anybody may
think it's a mercy they're straight," said aunt Pullet. "There's
that mismade son o' Lawyer Wakem's, I saw him at church to-day.
Dear, dear! to think o' the property he's like to have; and they
say he's very queer and lonely, doesn't like much company. I
shouldn't wonder if he goes out of his mind; for we never come
along the road but he's a-scrambling out o' the trees and brambles
at the Red Deeps."

This wide statement, by which Mrs. Pullet represented the fact
that she had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, produced an
effect on Maggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate
opposite her, and she was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At
Philip's name she had blushed, and the blush deepened every instant
from consciousness, until the mention of the Red Deeps made her
feel as if the whole secret were betrayed, and she dared not even
hold her tea-spoon lest she should show how she trembled. She sat
with her hands clasped under the table, not daring to look round.
Happily, her father was seated on the same side with herself,
beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without
stooping forward. Her mother's voice brought the first relief,
turning the conversation; for Mrs. Tulliver was always alarmed when
the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband's presence.
Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look up; her eyes
met Tom's, but he turned away his head immediately; and she went to
bed that night wondering if he had gathered any suspicion from her
confusion. Perhaps not; perhaps he would think it was only her
alarm at her aunt's mention of Wakem before her father; that was
the interpretation her mother had put on it. To her father, Wakem
was like a disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure
the consciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence
recognized by others; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about
her father could be surprising, Maggie thought.

But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with such an
interpretation; he had seen clearly enough that there was something
distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's excessive
confusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give
shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately hearing his
mother scold Maggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground
was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged with red soil; still Tom,
retaining all his old repulsion for Philip's deformity, shrank from
attributing to his sister the probability of feeling more than a
friendly interest in such an unfortunate exception to the common
run of men. Tom's was a nature which had a sort of superstitious
repugnance to everything exceptional. A love for a deformed man
would be odious in any woman, in a sister intolerable. But if she
had been carrying on any kind of intercourse whatever with Philip,
a stop must be put to it at once; she was disobeying her father's
strongest feelings and her brother's express commands, besides
compromising herself by secret meetings. He left home the next
morning in that watchful state of mind which turns the most
ordinary course of things into pregnant coincidences.

That afternoon, about half-past three o'clock, Tom was standing
on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the probability of the
good ship Adelaide coming in, in a day or two, with results highly
important to both of them.

"Eh," said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on
the other side of the river, "there goes that crooked young Wakem.
I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see 'em; I'm allays
lighting on him o' that side the river."

A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom's mind. "I
must go, Bob," he said; "I've something to attend to," hurrying off
to the warehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his
place; he was called away home on peremptory business.

The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate,
and he was pausing to open it deliberately, that he might walk into
the house with an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came
out at the front door in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was
fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently
when she saw him.

"Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the
matter?" Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice.

"I'm come to walk with you to the Red Deeps, and meet Philip
Wakem," said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which had become
habitual with him, deepening as he spoke.

Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom
knew everything. At last she said, "I'm, not going," and turned
round.

"Yes, you are; but I want to speak to you first. Where is my
father?"

"Out on horseback."

"And my mother?"

"In the yard, I think, with the poultry."

"I can go in, then, without her seeing me?"

They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlor, said to
Maggie, "Come in here."

She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her.

"Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed
between you and Philip Wakem."

"Does my father know anything?" said Maggie, still
trembling.

"No," said Tom indignantly. "But he
shall
know, if you
attempt to use deceit toward me any further."

"I don't wish to use deceit," said Maggie, flushing into
resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct.

"Tell me the whole truth, then."

"Perhaps you know it."

"Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what has
happened, or my father shall know everything."

"I tell it for my father's sake, then."

"Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, when
you have despised his strongest feelings."

"You never do wrong, Tom," said Maggie, tauntingly.

"Not if I know it," answered Tom, with proud sincerity.

"But I have nothing to say to you beyond this: tell me what has
passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in
the Red Deeps?"

"A year ago," said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave her a
certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in abeyance.
"You need ask me no more questions. We have been friendly a year.
We have met and walked together often. He has lent me books."

"Is that all?" said Tom, looking straight at her with his
frown.

Maggie paused a moment; then, determined to make an end of Tom's
right to accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily:

"No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me. I
didn't think of it before then; I had only thought of him as an old
friend."

"And you
encouraged
him?" said Tom, with an expression
of disgust.

"I told him that I loved him too."

Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and
frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last he looked up and
said coldly,–

"Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you to
take,–either you vow solemnly to me, with your hand on my father's
Bible, that you will never have another meeting or speak another
word in private with Philip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my
father everything; and this month, when by my exertions he might be
made happy once more, you will cause him the blow of knowing that
you are a disobedient, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own
respectability by clandestine meetings with the son of a man that
has helped to ruin her father. Choose!" Tom ended with cold
decision, going up to the large Bible, drawing it forward, and
opening it at the fly-leaf, where the writing was.

It was a crushing alternative to Maggie.

"Tom," she said, urged out of pride into pleading, "don't ask me
that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if
you will let me see him once, or even only write to him and explain
everything,–to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain
to my father. I feel something for Philip too.
He
is not
happy."

"I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said
exactly what I mean. Choose, and quickly, lest my mother should
come in."

"If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me as
if I laid my hand on the Bible. I don't require that to bind
me."

"Do what
I
require," said Tom. "I can't trust you,
Maggie. There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on this
Bible, and say, 'I renounce all private speech and intercourse with
Philip Wakem from this time forth.' Else you will bring shame on us
all, and grief on my father; and what is the use of my exerting
myself and giving up everything else for the sake of paying my
father's debts, if you are to bring madness and vexation on him,
just when he might be easy and hold up his head once more?"

"Oh, Tom,
will
the debts be paid soon?" said Maggie,
clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her
wretchedness.

"If things turn out as I expect," said Tom. "But," he added, his
voice trembling with indignation, "while I have been contriving and
working that my father may have some peace of mind before he
dies,–working for the respectability of our family,–you have done
all you can to destroy both."

Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction; for the moment, her
mind ceased to contend against what she felt to be cruel and
unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified her brother.

"Tom," she said in a low voice, "it was wrong of me; but I was
so lonely, and I was sorry for Philip. And I think enmity and
hatred are wicked."

"Nonsense!" said Tom. "Your duty was clear enough. Say no more;
but promise, in the words I told you."

"I
must
speak to Philip once more."

"You will go with me now and speak to him."

"I give you my word not to meet him or write to him again
without your knowledge. That is the only thing I will say. I will
put my hand on the Bible if you like."

"Say it, then."

Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated the
promise. Tom closed the book, and said, "Now let us go."

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering
in anticipation of what Philip was about to suffer, and dreading
the galling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she
felt it was in vain to attempt anything but submission. Tom had his
terrible clutch on her conscience and her deepest dread; she
writhed under the demonstrable truth of the character he had given
to her conduct, and yet her whole soul rebelled against it as
unfair from its incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of
his indignation diverted toward Philip. He did not know how much of
an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity
was concerned in the bitter severity of the words by which he meant
to do the duty of a son and a brother. Tom was not given to inquire
subtly into his own motives any more than into other matters of an
intangible kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as
actions were good, else he would have had nothing to do with
them.

Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first time,
have prevented Philip from coming. Then there would be delay,–then
she might get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with
double violence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the
last moment of suspense, she thought; Philip always met her soon
after she got beyond them. But they passed across the more open
green space, and entered the narrow bushy path by the mound.
Another turning, and they came so close upon him that both Tom and
Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a
moment's silence, in which Philip darted a look of inquiry at
Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the pale, parted lips,
and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Her imagination,
always rushing extravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw
her tall, strong brother grasping the feeble Philip bodily,
crushing him and trampling on him.

"Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman,
sir?" Tom said, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's eyes
were turned on him again.