The Mill on the Floss (70 page)

"I would rather die than fall into that temptation," said
Maggie, with deep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spiritual
force of painful years coming to her aid in this extremity. She
drew her arm from his as she spoke.

"Tell me, then, that you don't care for me," he said, almost
violently. "Tell me that you love some one else better."

It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of
releasing herself from outward struggle,–to tell Stephen that her
whole heart was Philip's. But her lips would not utter that, and
she was silent.

"If you do love me, dearest," said Stephen, gently, taking her
hand again and laying it within his arm, "it is better–it is right
that we should marry each other. We can't help the pain it will
give. It is come upon us without our seeking; it is natural; it has
taken hold of me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it.
God knows, I've been trying to be faithful to tacit engagements,
and I've only made things worse; I'd better have given way at
first."

Maggie was silent. If it were
not
wrong–if she were
once convinced of that, and need no longer beat and struggle
against this current, soft and yet strong as the summer stream!

"Say've s' dearest," said Stephen, leaning to look entreatingly
in her face. "What could we care about in the whole world beside,
if we belonged to each other?"

Her breath was on his face, his lips were very near hers, but
there was a great dread dwelling in his love for her.

Her lips and eyelids quivered; she opened her eyes full on his
for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling
under caresses, and then turned sharp round toward home again.

"And after all," he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to
defeat his own scruples as well as hers, "I am breaking no positive
engagement; if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn from me and
given to some one else, I should have felt no right to assert a
claim on her. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are
neither of us bound."

"You don't believe that; it is not your real feeling," said
Maggie, earnestly. "You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in
the feelings and expectations we have raised in other minds. Else
all pledges might be broken, when there was no outward penalty.
There would be no such thing as faithfulness."

Stephen was silent; he could not pursue that argument; the
opposite conviction had wrought in him too strongly through his
previous time of struggle. But it soon presented itself in a new
form.

"The pledge
can't
be fulfilled," he said, with
impetuous insistence. "It is unnatural; we can only pretend to give
ourselves to any one else. There is wrong in that too; there may be
misery in it for
them
as well as for us. Maggie, you must
see that; you do see that."

He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of
compliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was
silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then
she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at him with solemn
sadness,–

"Oh, it is difficult,–life is very difficult! It seems right to
me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; but then,
such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former
life has made for us,–the ties that have made others dependent on
us,–and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple,
as it might have been in Paradise, and we could always see that one
being first toward whom–I mean, if life did not make duties for us
before love comes, love would be a sign that two people ought to
belong to each other. But I see–I feel it is not so now; there are
things we must renounce in life; some of us must resign love. Many
things are difficult and dark to me; but I see one thing quite
clearly,–that I must not, cannot, seek my own happiness by
sacrificing others. Love is natural; but surely pity and
faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live in me
still, and punish me if I did not obey them. I should be haunted by
the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. Don't urge
me; help me,–help me,
because
I love you."

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; her face
had become flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of appealing
love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to
her appeal; but in the same moment–how could it be otherwise?–that
pleading beauty gained new power over him.

"Dearest," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his
arm stole round her, "I'll do, I'll bear anything you wish. But–one
kiss–one–the last–before we part."

One kiss, and then a long look, until Maggie said tremulously,
"Let me go,–let me make haste back."

She hurried along, and not another word was spoken. Stephen
stood still and beckoned when they came within sight of Willy and
the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs. Moss was
standing alone at the door of the old porch; she had sent all the
cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness. It might be a joyful thing
that Maggie had a rich and handsome lover, but she would naturally
feel embarrassed at coming in again; and it might
not
be
joyful. In either case Mrs. Moss waited anxiously to receive Maggie
by herself. The speaking face told plainly enough that, if there
was joy, it was of a very agitating, dubious sort.

"Sit down here a bit, my dear." She drew Maggie into the porch,
and sat down on the bench by her; there was no privacy in the
house.

"Oh, aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched! I wish I could have died
when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then; it is
so hard now."

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell
into long, deep sobs.

Chapter XII
A Family Party

Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and
went to Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet according to
agreement. In the mean time very unexpected things had happened,
and there was to be a family party at Garum to discuss and
celebrate a change in the fortunes of the Tullivers, which was
likely finally to carry away the shadow of their demerits like the
last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto obscured virtues
to shine forth in full-rounded splendor. It is pleasant to know
that a new ministry just come into office are not the only
fellow-men who enjoy a period of high appreciation and full-blown
eulogy; in many respectable families throughout this realm,
relatives becoming creditable meet with a similar cordiality of
recognition, which in its fine freedom from the coercion of any
antecedents, suggests the hopeful possibility that we may some day
without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with
cockatrices who have ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer show
their teeth with any but the blandest intentions.

Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for
she longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the
wonderful news. It seemed, did it not? said Lucy, with her
prettiest air of wisdom, as if everything, even other people's
misfortunes (poor creatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear
aunt Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and naughty Maggie too, if she were
not obstinately bent on the contrary, as happy as they deserved to
be after all their troubles. To think that the very day–the
very day
–after Tom had come back from Newcastle, that
unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr. Wakem had placed at the Mill,
had been pitched off his horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at
St. Ogg's in a dangerous state, so that Wakem had signified his
wish that the new purchasers should enter on the premises at
once!

It was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem
as if the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other
time, in order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit
reward of his exemplary conduct,–papa thought so very highly of
him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly go to the Mill now, and keep
house for Tom; that was rather a loss to Lucy in the matter of
household comfort; but then, to think of poor aunty being in her
old place again, and gradually getting comforts about her
there!

On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she
and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into
the handsome parlor, where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner than
elsewhere, she directed her manœuvres, as any other great tactician
would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy.

"Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and
caressingly adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, "I want you
to make up your mind what linen and things you will give Tom toward
housekeeping; because you are always so generous,–you give such
nice things, you know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will
follow."

"That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with unusual
vigor, "for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' mine, I can
tell you. She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big
checks and live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen
is,–not a spot nor a diamond among 'em. But it's poor work dividing
one's linen before one dies,–I niver thought to ha' done that,
Bessy," Mrs. Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her
sister Tulliver, "when you and me chose the double diamont, the
first flax iver we'd spun, and the Lord knows where yours is
gone."

"I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister," said poor Mrs. Tulliver,
accustomed to consider herself in the light of an accused person.
"I'm sure it was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o'
nights thinking o' my best bleached linen all over the
country."

"Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle Pullet, feeling
that he was offering a cheap and wholesome form of comfort, which
he was recommending by example.

"Oh, but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, "you've so much beautiful
linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have
divided it when they were married."

"Well, I don't say as I won't do it," said Mrs. Pullet, "for now
Tom's so lucky, it's nothing but right his friends should look on
him and help him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale,
Bessy; it was nothing but good natur' o' me to buy 'em, for they've
been lying in the chest ever since. But I'm not going to give
Maggie any more o' my Indy muslin and things, if she's to go into
service again, when she might stay and keep me company, and do my
sewing for me, if she wasn't wanted at her brother's."

"Going into service" was the expression by which the Dodson mind
represented to itself the position of teacher or governess; and
Maggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offered
her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all
her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her
hair down her back, and altogether in a state of dubious promise,
was a most undesirable niece; but now she was capable of being at
once ornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and
uncle Glegg's presence, over the tea and muffins.

"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on
the back, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us hear of you taking a
place again, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up half-a-dozen
sweethearts at the bazaar; isn't there one of'em the right sort of
article? Come, now?"

"Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased
politeness in her severity which she always put on with her crisper
fronts, "you'll excuse me, but you're far too light for a man of
your years. It's respect and duty to her aunts, and the rest of her
kin as are so good to her, should have kept my niece from fixing
about going away again without consulting us; not sweethearts, if
I'm to use such a word, though it was never heared in
my
family."

"Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh,
neighbor Pullet? They thought us sweet enough then," said Mr.
Glegg, winking pleasantly; while Mr. Pullet, at the suggestion of
sweetness, took a little more sugar.

"Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if you're going to be undelicate,
let me know."

"La, Jane, your husband's only joking," said Mrs. Pullet; "let
him joke while he's got health and strength. There's poor Mr. Tilt
got his mouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was
to try."

"I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg," said Mrs.
G., "if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it's
other people must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her
mother's eldest sister, as is the head o' the family; and only
coming in and out on short visits, all the time she's been in the
town, and then settling to go away without my knowledge,–as I'd
laid caps out on purpose for her to make 'em up for me,–and me as
have divided my money so equal––"

"Sister," Mrs. Tulliver broke in anxiously, "I'm sure Maggie
never thought o' going away without staying at your house as well
as the others. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all, but
quite contrairy. I'm sure I'm innocent. I've said over and over
again, 'My dear, you've no call to go away.' But there's ten days
or a fortnight Maggie'll have before she's fixed to go; she can
stay at your house just as well, and I'll step in when I can, and
so will Lucy."

"Bessy," said Mrs. Glegg, "if you'd exercise a little more
thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to
unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the
time, when our house isn't above a quarter of an hour's walk from
Mr. Deane's. She can come the first thing in the morning, and go
back the last at night, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so
close to her to come and sit with. I know
I
should, when I
was her age."