The Mill on the Floss

Chapter 5

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another

fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough for the

sound of the gig-wheels to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a

strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound

came,--that quick light bowling of the gig-wheels,--and in spite of

the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to

respect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap-strings, she came outside the

door, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting

all the griefs of the morning.

"There he is, my sweet lad! But, Lord ha' mercy! he's got never a

collar on; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and spoilt the

set."

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg

and then on the other; while Tom descended from the gig, and said,

with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, "Hallo! Yap--what!

are you there?"

Nevertheless he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie

hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-gray

eyes wandered toward the croft and the lambs and the river, where he

promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow

morning. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and

at twelve or thirteen years of age look as much alike as goslings,--a

lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips,

indeterminate nose and eyebrows,--a physiognomy in which it seems

impossible to discern anything but the generic character to boyhood;

as different as possible from poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed

to have moulded and colored with the most decided intention. But that

same Nature has the deep cunning which hides itself under the

appearance of openness, so that simple people think they can see

through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a

refutation of their confident prophecies. Under these average boyish

physiognomies that she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals

some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most

unmodifiable characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious

girl may after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this

pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features.

"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon

as his mother was gone out to examine his box and the warm parlor had

taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, "you don't know

what I've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up and down as a

means of rousing her sense of mystery.

"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles)

or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom always said it

was "no good" playing with _her_ at those games, she played so badly.

"Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and

cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But see

here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.

"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a bit

of yellow."

"Why, it's--a--new--guess, Maggie!"

"Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting his

hand back into his pocket and looking determined.

"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was

held stiffly in the pocket. "I'm not cross, Tom; it was only because I

can't bear guessing. _Please_ be good to me."

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, "Well, then, it's a new

fish-line--two new uns,--one for you, Maggie, all to yourself. I

wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on purpose to save

the money; and Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't.

And here's hooks; see here--I say, _won't_ we go and fish to-morrow

down by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie and

put the worms on, and everything; won't it be fun?"

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's neck and hug him,

and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly

unwound some of the line, saying, after a pause,--

"Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You

know, I needn't have bought it, if I hadn't liked."

"Yes, very, very good--I _do_ love you, Tom."

Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks

one by one, before he spoke again.

"And the fellows fought me, because I wouldn't give in about the

toffee."

"Oh, dear! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it

hurt you?"

"Hurt me? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a

large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he

looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he

added,--

"I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know; that's what he got by wanting to

leather _me;_ I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered

me."

"Oh, how brave you are, Tom! I think you're like Samson. If there came

a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?"

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no

lions, only in the shows."

"No; but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa, where

it's very hot; the lions eat people there. I can show it you in the

book where I read it."

"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."

"But if you hadn't got a gun,--we might have gone out, you know, not

thinking, just as we go fishing; and then a great lion might run

toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you

do, Tom?"

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, "But the

lion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?"

"But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, following him.

"Just think what you would do, Tom."

"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly. I shall go and see my

rabbits."

Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad

truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he

went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at

once his sorrow and his anger; for Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all

things; it was quite a different anger from her own.

"Tom," she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much money

did you give for your rabbits?"

"Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly.

"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse

upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it you."

"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want _your_ money, you silly thing.

I've got a great deal more money than you, because I'm a boy. I always

have half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes because I

shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because you're

only a girl."

"Well, but, Tom--if mother would let me give you two half-crowns and a

sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know,

and buy some more rabbits with it?"

"More rabbits? I don't want any more."

"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."

Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward Maggie.

"You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot?" he said, his color

heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch into Harry.

I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n't

go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits

every day." He walked on again.

"Yes, but I forgot--and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so very

sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.

"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely, "and I'm sorry I bought

you the fish-line. I don't love you."

"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if _you_

forgot anything--I wouldn't mind what you did--I'd forgive you and

love you."

"Yes, you're silly; but I never _do_ forget things, _I_ don't."

"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie,

shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek on

his shoulder.

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone,

"Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to you?"

"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.

"Didn't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean to buy

it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in the

toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"

"Ye-ye-es--and I--lo-lo-love you so, Tom."

"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my

lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my

fish-line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head

through my kite, all for nothing."

"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."

"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And

you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow."

With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward the

mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain to him of Harry.

Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two;

then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her attic,

where she sat on the floor and laid her head against the worm-eaten

shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come home, and she had

thought how happy she should be; and now he was cruel to her. What use

was anything if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he was very cruel! Hadn't she

wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry she was? She

knew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty to

Tom--had never _meant_ to be naughty to him.

"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in

the hollow resonance that came through the long empty space of the

attic. She never thought of beating or grinding her Fetish; she was

too miserable to be angry.

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange,

when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and

the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must be

tea-time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her.

Well, then, she would stay up there and starve herself,--hide herself

behind the tub, and stay there all night,--and then they would all be

frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought in the pride

of her heart, as she crept behind the tub; but presently she began to

cry again at the idea that they didn't mind her being there. If she

went down again to Tom now--would he forgive her? Perhaps her father

would be there, and he would take her part. But then she wanted Tom to

forgive her because he loved her, not because his father told him. No,

she would never go down if Tom didn't come to fetch her. This

resolution lasted in great intensity for five dark minutes behind the

tub; but then the need of being loved--the strongest need in poor

Maggie's nature--began to wrestle with her pride, and soon threw it.

She crept from behind her tub into the twilight of the long attic, but

just then she heard a quick foot-step on the stairs.

Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke, in going the

round of the premises, walking in and out where he pleased, and

whittling sticks without any particular reason,--except that he didn't

whittle sticks at school,--to think of Maggie and the effect his anger

had produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that business having

been performed, he occupied himself with other matters, like a

practical person. But when he had been called in to tea, his father

said, "Why, where's the little wench?" and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at

the same moment, said, "Where's your little sister?"--both of them

having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all the

afternoon.

"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie, though

he was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honor.

"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said the

father. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your coming home."

"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the

plumcake.

"Goodness heart; she's got drownded!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver, rising

from her seat and running to the window.

"How could you let her do so?" she added, as became a fearful woman,

accusing she didn't know whom of she didn't know what.

"Nay, nay, she's none drownded," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been

naughty to her, I doubt, Tom?"

"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom, indignantly. "I think she's in

the house."

"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and talking

to herself, and forgetting all about meal-times."

"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather

sharply,--his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie making

him suspect that the lad had been hard upon "the little un," else she

would never have left his side. "And be good to her, do you hear? Else

I'll let you know better."

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a peremptory man,

and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold of his whip-hand;

but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plumcake, and

not intending to reprieve Maggie's punishment, which was no more than

she deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in

grammar and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open

questions, but he was particularly clear and positive on one

point,--namely, that he would punish everybody who deserved it. Why,

he wouldn't have minded being punished himself if he deserved it; but,

then, he never _did_ deserve it.

It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when her

need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with

her swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At least her

father would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my wench." It is a

wonderful subduer, this need of love,--this hunger of the heart,--as

peremptory as that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit to

the yoke, and change the face of the world.

But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently with

the sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs

and said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed to him and

clung round his neck, sobbing, "Oh, Tom, please forgive me--I can't

bear it--I will always be good--always remember things--do love

me--please, dear Tom!"

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when we

have quarrelled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases, and in this

way preserve a dignified alienation, showing much firmness on one

side, and swallowing much grief on the other. We no longer approximate

in our behavior to the mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but

conduct ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilized

society. Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and

so she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random

sobbing way; and there were tender fibres in the lad that had been

used to answer to Maggie's fondling, so that he behaved with a

weakness quite inconsistent with his resolution to punish her as much

as she deserved. He actually began to kiss her in return, and say,--

"Don't cry, then, Magsie; here, eat a bit o' cake."

Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake

and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for company, and they

ate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and brows and noses

together, while they ate, with a humiliating resemblance to two

friendly ponies.

"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there was

no more cake except what was down-stairs.

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie was

trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the

basket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in the

muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under her

beaver-bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however,

that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her,

although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn't

feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if they

did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and what

birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the

handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of

knowledge was very wonderful,--much more difficult than remembering

what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority,

for he was the only person who called her knowledge "stuff," and did

not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that

Maggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly,--they couldn't

throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a

pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of

his sister, and meant always to take care of her, make her his

housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong.

They were on their way to the Round Pool,--that wonderful pool, which

the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; and

it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round,

framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to

be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite

spot always heightened Tom's good humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the

most amicable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared

their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her

hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her

hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the

fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in

a loud whisper, "Look, look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her

from snatching her line away.

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as

usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench

bouncing on the grass.

Tom was excited.

"O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket."

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom

called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar

her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened

to the light dripping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle

rustling, as if the willows and the reeds and the water had their

happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice

heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never

knew she had a bite till Tom told her; but she liked fishing very

much.

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down

together, with no thought that life would ever change much for them;

they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always

be like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of

each other. And the mill with its booming; the great chestnut-tree

under which they played at houses; their own little river, the Ripple,

where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the

water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds,

which she forgot and dropped afterward; above all, the great Floss,

along which they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing

spring-tide, the awful Eagle, come up like a hungry monster, or to see

the Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man, these

things would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people were

at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe; and

Maggie, when she read about Christiana passing "the river over which

there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the green pastures

by the Great Ash.

Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in

believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would

always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth

so well if we had had no childhood in it,--if it were not the earth

where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to

gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the

grass; the same hips and haws on the autumn's hedgerows; the same

redbreasts that we used to call "God's birds," because they did no

harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony

where everything is known, and _loved_ because it is known?

The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown

foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white

star-flowers and the blue-eyed speedwell and the ground ivy at my

feet, what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid

broad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate

fibres within me as this home scene? These familiar flowers, these

well-remembered bird-notes, this sky, with its fitful brightness,

these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality

given to it by the capricious hedgerows,--such things as these are the

mother-tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all

the subtle, inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our

childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the

deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of

wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the

far-off years which still live in us, and transform our perception

into love.