The Mill on the Floss (65 page)

"That is a great clue, considering there are about a score
covers here of rival dinginess," said Stephen, drawing out the
canterbury.

"Oh, play something the while, Philip," said Lucy, noticing that
his fingers were wandering over the keys. "What is that you are
falling into?–something delicious that I don't know."

"Don't you know that?" said Philip, bringing out the tune more
definitely. "It's from the 'Sonnambula'–'Ah! perchè non posso
odiarti.' I don't know the opera, but it appears the tenor is
telling the heroine that he shall always love her though she may
forsake him. You've heard me sing it to the English words, 'I love
thee still.'"

It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered into
this song, which might be an indirect expression to Maggie of what
he could not prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears
had been open to what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she
understood the plaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor
had no very fine qualities as a voice, but it was not quite new to
her; it had sung to her by snatches, in a subdued way, among the
grassy walks and hollows, and underneath the leaning ash-tree in
the Red Deeps. There seemed to be some reproach in the words; did
Philip mean that? She wished she had assured him more distinctly in
their conversation that she desired not to renew the hope of love
between them,
only
because it clashed with her inevitable
circumstances. She was touched, not thrilled by the song; it
suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and brought quiet regret
in the place of excitement.

"That's the way with you tenors," said Stephen, who was waiting
with music in his hand while Philip finished the song. "You
demoralize the fair sex by warbling your sentimental love and
constancy under all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of
having your heads served up in a dish like that mediæval tenor or
troubadour, would prevent you from expressing your entire
resignation. I must administer an antidote, while Miss Deane
prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins."

Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy,–

"Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?"

and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new
influence. Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went toward the
piano with laughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of
her resistance to the spirit of the song and to the singer, was
taken hold of and shaken by the invisible influence,–was borne
along by a wave too strong for her.

But, angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her
work, and went on making false stitches and pricking her fingers
with much perseverance, not looking up or taking notice of what was
going forward, until all the three voices united in "Let us take
the road."

I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing
gratification in her mind if she had known how entirely this saucy,
defiant Stephen was occupied with her; how he was passing rapidly
from a determination to treat her with ostentatious indifference to
an irritating desire for some sign of inclination from her,–some
interchange of subdued word or look with her. It was not long
before he found an opportunity, when they had passed to the music
of "The Tempest." Maggie, feeling the need of a footstool, was
walking across the room to get one, when Stephen, who was not
singing just then, and was conscious of all her movements, guessed
her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with an
entreating look at her, which made it impossible not to return a
glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed
carefully by a too self-confident personage,–not
any
self-confident personage, but one in particular, who suddenly looks
humble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is
not some draught in that position between the window and the
fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the work-table for
her,–these things will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous
tenderness into a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her girlish
time to learn her life-lessons in very trivial language. And to
Maggie such things had not been every-day incidents, but were a new
element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite
fresh. That tone of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the
face that was bent toward her, and to say, "No, thank you"; and
nothing could prevent that mutual glance from being delicious to
both, as it had been the evening before.

It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had
hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely
noticed it. But to Philip's mind, filled already with a vague
anxiety that was likely to find a definite ground for itself in any
trivial incident, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the change
in Maggie's face, which was plainly reflecting a beam from his,
seemed so strong a contrast with the previous overwrought signs of
indifference, as to be charged with painful meaning. Stephen's
voice, pouring in again, jarred upon his nervous susceptibility as
if it had been the clang of sheet-iron, and he felt inclined to
make the piano shriek in utter discord. He had really seen no
communicable ground for suspecting any ususual feeling between
Stephen and Maggie; his own reason told him so, and he wanted to go
home at once that he might reflect coolly on these false images,
till he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then, again, he
wanted to stay as long as Stephen stayed,–always to be present when
Stephen was present with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so
natural, nay, inevitable, that any man who was near Maggie should
fall in love with her! There was no promise of happiness for her if
she were beguiled into loving Stephen Guest; and this thought
emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in the light of a
less unequal offering. He was beginning to play very falsely under
this deafening inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in
astonishment, when Mrs. Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch
came as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music.

"Ah, Mr. Philip!" said Mr. Deane, when they entered the
dining-room, "I've not seen you for a long while. Your father's not
at home, I think, is he? I went after him to the office the other
day, and they said he was out of town."

"He's been to Mudport on business for several days," said
Philip; "but he's come back now."

"As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?"

"I believe so," said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden
interest in his father's pursuits.

"Ah!" said Mr. Deane, "he's got some land in his own hands on
this side the river as well as the other, I think?"

"Yes, he has."

"Ah!" continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeonpie, "he
must find farming a heavy item,–an expensive hobby. I never had a
hobby myself, never would give in to that. And the worst of all
hobbies are those that people think they can get money at. They
shoot their money down like corn out of a sack then."

Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently
gratuitous criticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it ceased
there, and Mr. Deane became unusually silent and meditative during
his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch all indications in her
father, and having reasons, which had recently become strong, for
an extra interest in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unsual
curiosity to know what had prompted her father's questions. His
subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special
reason for them in his mind.

With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when
she wanted to tell or ask her father anything particular: she found
a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leaving the dining-room after
dinner, and seated herself on a small stool at her father's knee.
Mr. Deane, under those circumstances, considered that he tasted
some of the most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in
life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair
powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on
such occasions.

"You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa,
do
you?" she
said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large fingers that
clutched the snuff-box.

"Not yet," said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in
the decanter. "But what do
you
want?" he added, pinching
the dimpled chin fondly,–"to coax some more sovereigns out of my
pocket for your bazaar? Eh?"

"No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to talk,
not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his
father's farming to-day, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you
never hardly say anything to him about his father; and why should
you care about Mr. Wakem's losing money by his hobby?"

"Something to do with business," said Mr. Deane, waving his
hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery.

"But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakem has brought Philip up like
a girl; how came you to think you should get any business knowledge
out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip
thought them queer."

"Nonsense, child!" said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his social
demeanor, with which he had taken some pains in his upward
progress. "There's a report that Wakem's mill and farm on the other
side of the river–Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver's, you
know–isn't answering so well as it did. I wanted to see if your
friend Philip would let anything out about his father's being tired
of farming."

"Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?"
said Lucy, eagerly. "Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have
your snuff-box if you'll tell me. Because Maggie says all their
hearts are set on Tom's getting back the mill some time. It was one
of the last things her father said to Tom, that he must get back
the mill."

"Hush, you little puss," said Mr. Deane, availing himself of the
restored snuff-box. "You must not say a word about this thing; do
you hear? There's very little chance of their getting the mill or
of anybody's getting it out of Wakem's hands. And if he knew that
we wanted it with a view to the Tulliver's getting it again, he'd
be the less likely to part with it. It's natural, after what
happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a
horsewhipping is not likely to be paid for with sugar-plums."

"Now, papa," said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, "will
you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what I'm going
to say, but I have very strong reasons. And I'm very cautious; I
am, indeed."

"Well, let us hear."

"Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our
confidence,–let me tell him all about your wish to buy, and what
it's for; that my cousins wish to have it, and why they wish to
have it,–I believe Philip would help to bring it about. I know he
would desire to do it."

"I don't see how that can be, child," said Mr. Deane, looking
puzzled. "Why should
he
care?"–then, with a sudden
penetrating look at his daughter, "You don't think the poor lad's
fond of you, and so you can make him do what you like?" (Mr. Deane
felt quite safe about his daughter's affections.)

"No, papa; he cares very little about me,–not so much as I care
about him. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say.
Don't you ask me. And if you ever guess, don't tell me. Only give
me leave to do as I think fit about it."

Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father's knee,
and kissed him with that last request.

"Are you sure you won't do mischief, now?" he said, looking at
her with delight.

"Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise; I've got all your
business talents. Didn't you admire my accompt-book, now, when I
showed it you?"

"Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there
won't be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think there's not
much chance for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep."

Chapter VIII
Wakem in a New Light

Before three days had passed after the conversation you have
just overheard between Lucy and her father she had contrived to
have a private interview with Philip during a visit of Maggie's to
her aunt Glegg. For a day and a night Philip turned over in his
mind with restless agitation all that Lucy had told him in that
interview, till he had thoroughly resolved on a course of action.
He thought he saw before him now a possibility of altering his
position with respect to Maggie, and removing at least one obstacle
between them. He laid his plan and calculated all his moves with
the fervid deliberation of a chess-player in the days of his first
ardor, and was amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tactician.
His plan was as bold as it was thoroughly calculated. Having
watched for a moment when his father had nothing more urgent on his
hands than the newspaper, he went behind him, laid a hand on his
shoulder, and said,–

"Father, will you come up into my sanctum, and look at my new
sketches? I've arranged them now."

"I'm getting terrible stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing
those stairs of yours," said Wakem, looking kindly at his son as he
laid down his paper. "But come along, then."

"This is a nice place for you, isn't it, Phil?–a capital light
that from the roof, eh?" was, as usual, the first thing he said on
entering the painting-room. He liked to remind himself and his son
too that his fatherly indulgence had provided the accommodation. He
had been a good father. Emily would have nothing to reproach him
with there, if she came back again from her grave.

"Come, come," he said, putting his double eye-glass over his
nose, and seating himself to take a general view while he rested,
"you've got a famous show here. Upon my word, I don't see that your
things aren't as good as that London artist's–what's his name–that
Leyburn gave so much money for."