The Mill on the Floss

Chapter 6

It was Easter week, and Mrs. Tulliver's cheesecakes were more

exquisitely light than usual. "A puff o' wind 'ud make 'em blow about

like feathers," Kezia the housemaid said, feeling proud to live under

a mistress who could make such pastry; so that no season or

circumstances could have been more propitious for a family party, even

if it had not been advisable to consult sister Glegg and sister Pullet

about Tom's going to school.

"I'd as lief not invite sister Deane this time," said Mrs. Tulliver,

"for she's as jealous and having as can be, and's allays trying to

make the worst o' my poor children to their aunts and uncles."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Tulliver, "ask her to come. I never hardly get a

bit o' talk with Deane now; we haven't had him this six months. What's

it matter what she says? My children need be beholding to nobody."

"That's what you allays say, Mr. Tulliver; but I'm sure there's nobody

o' your side, neither aunt nor uncle, to leave 'em so much as a

five-pound note for a leggicy. And there's sister Glegg, and sister

Pullet too, saving money unknown, for they put by all their own

interest and butter-money too; their husbands buy 'em everything."

Mrs. Tulliver was a mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a

little when she has lambs.

"Tchuh!" said Mr. Tulliver. "It takes a big loaf when there's many to

breakfast. What signifies your sisters' bits o' money when they've got

half-a-dozen nevvies and nieces to divide it among? And your sister

Deane won't get 'em to leave all to one, I reckon, and make the

country cry shame on 'em when they are dead?"

"I don't know what she won't get 'em to do," said Mrs. Tulliver, "for

my children are so awk'ard wi' their aunts and uncles. Maggie's ten

times naughtier when they come than she is other days, and Tom doesn't

like 'em, bless him!--though it's more nat'ral in a boy than a gell.

And there's Lucy Dean's such a good child,--you may set her on a

stool, and there she'llsit for an hour together, and never offer to

get off. I can't help loving the child as if she was my own; and I'm

sure she's more like _my_ child than sister Deane's, for she'd allays

a very poor color for one of our family, sister Deane had."

"Well, well, if you're fond o' the child, ask her father and mother to

bring her with 'em. And won't you ask their aunt and uncle Moss too,

and some o' _their_ children?"

"Oh, dear, Mr. Tulliver, why, there'd be eight people besides the

children, and I must put two more leaves i' the table, besides

reaching down more o' the dinner-service; and you know as well as I do

as _my_ sisters and _your_ sister don't suit well together."

"Well, well, do as you like, Bessy," said Mr. Tulliver, taking up his

hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were more submissive than

Mrs. Tulliver on all points unconnected with her family relations; but

she had been a Miss Dodson, and the Dodsons were a very respectable

family indeed,--as much looked up to as any in their own parish, or

the next to it. The Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold up

their heads very high, and no one was surprised the two eldest had

married so well,--not at an early age, for that was not the practice

of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing everything

in that family: particular ways of bleaching the linen, of making the

cowslip wine, curing the hams, and keeping the bottled gooseberries;

so that no daughter of that house could be indifferent to the

privilege of having been born a Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a

Watson. Funerals were always conducted with peculiar propriety in the

Dodson family: the hat-bands were never of a blue shade, the gloves

never split at the thumb, everybody was a mourner who ought to be, and

there were always scarfs for the bearers. When one of the family was

in trouble or sickness, all the rest went to visit the unfortunate

member, usually at the same time, and did not shrink from uttering the

most disagreeable truths that correct family feeling dictated; if the

illness or trouble was the sufferer's own fault, it was not in the

practice of the Dodson family to shrink from saying so. In short,

there was in this family a peculiar tradition as to what was the right

thing in household management and social demeanor, and the only bitter

circumstance attending this superiority was a painful inability to

approve the condiments or the conduct of families ungoverned by the

Dodson tradition. A female Dodson, when in "strange houses," always

ate dry bread with her tea, and declined any sort of preserves, having

no confidence in the butter, and thinking that the preserves had

probably begun to ferment from want of due sugar and boiling. There

were some Dodsons less like the family than others, that was admitted;

but in so far as they were "kin," they were of necessity better than

those who were "no kin." And it is remarkable that while no individual

Dodson was satisfied with any other individual Dodson, each was

satisfied, not only with him or her self, but with the Dodsons

collectively. The feeblest member of a family--the one who has the

least character--is often the merest epitome of the family habits and

traditions; and Mrs. Tulliver was a thorough Dodson, though a mild

one, as small-beer, so long as it is anything, is only describable as

very weak ale: and though she had groaned a little in her youth under

the yoke of her elder sisters, and still shed occasional tears at

their sisterly reproaches, it was not in Mrs. Tulliver to be an

innovator on the family ideas. She was thankful to have been a Dodson,

and to have one child who took after her own family, at least in his

features and complexion, in liking salt and in eating beans, which a

Tulliver never did.

In other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, and he was

as far from appreciating his "kin" on the mother's side as Maggie

herself, generally absconding for the day with a large supply of the

most portable food, when he received timely warning that his aunts and

uncles were coming,--a moral symptom from which his aunt Glegg deduced

the gloomiest views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie that

Tom always absconded without letting her into the secret, but the

weaker s*x are acknowledged to be serious _impedimenta_ in cases of

flight.

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were coming, there

were such various and suggestive scents, as of plumcakes in the oven

and jellies in the hot state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that it

was impossible to feel altogether gloomy: there was hope in the air.

Tom and Maggie made several inroads into the kitchen, and, like other

marauders, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being allowed

to carry away a sufficient load of booty.

"Tom," said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder-tree,

eating their jam-puffs, "shall you run away to-morrow?"

"No," said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eying

the third, which was to be divided between them,--"no, I sha'n't."

"Why, Tom? Because Lucy's coming?"

"No," said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it over the puff,

with his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficult

problem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.)

"What do _I_ care about Lucy? She's only a girl,--_she_ can't play at

bandy."

"Is it the tipsy-cake, then?" said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic

powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with her eyes fixed on the

hovering knife.

"No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the pudden. I know

what the pudden's to be,--apricot roll-up--O my buttons!"

With this interjection, the knife descended on the puff, and it was in

two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for he still eyed the

halves doubtfully. At last he said,--

"Shut your eyes, Maggie."

"What for?"

"You never mind what for. Shut 'em when I tell you."

Maggie obeyed.

"Now, which'll you have, Maggie,--right hand or left?"

"I'll have that with the jam run out," said Maggie, keeping her eyes

shut to please Tom.

"Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if it comes to

you fair, but I sha'n't give it you without. Right or left,--you

choose, now. Ha-a-a!" said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggie

peeped. "You keep your eyes shut, now, else you sha'n't have any."

Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far; indeed, I fear she

cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost possible amount of puff,

than that he should be pleased with her for giving him the best bit.

So she shut her eyes quite close, till Tom told her to "say which,"

and then she said, "Left hand."

"You've got it," said Tom, in rather a bitter tone.

"What! the bit with the jam run out?"

"No; here, take it," said Tom, firmly, handing, decidedly the best

piece to Maggie.

"Oh, please, Tom, have it; I don't mind--I like the other; please take

this."

"No, I sha'n't," said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his own

inferior piece.

Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began too, and ate

up her half puff with considerable relish as well as rapidity. But Tom

had finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her last

morsel or two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didn't

know Tom was looking at her; she was seesawing on the elder-bough,

lost to almost everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness.

"Oh, you greedy thing!" said Tom, when she had swallowed the last

morsel. He was conscious of having acted very fairly, and thought she

ought to have considered this, and made up to him for it. He would

have refused a bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at a

different point of view before and after one's own share of puff is

swallowed.

Maggie turned quite pale. "Oh, Tom, why didn't you ask me?"

"I wasn't going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You might have

thought of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit."

"But I wanted you to have it; you know I did," said Maggie, in an

injured tone.

"Yes, but I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair, like Spouncer. He

always takes the best bit, if you don't punch him for it; and if you

choose the best with your eyes shut, he changes his hands. But if I go

halves, I'll go 'em fair; only I wouldn't be a greedy."

With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his bough, and threw

a stone with a "hoigh!" as a friendly attention to Yap, who had also

been looking on while the eatables vanished, with an agitation of his

ears and feelings which could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet

the excellent dog accepted Tom's attention with as much alacrity as if

he had been treated quite generously.

But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery which

distinguishes the human being, and places him at a proud distance from

the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still on her bough, and gave

herself up to the keen sense of unmerited reproach. She would have

given the world not to have eaten all her puff, and to have saved some

of it for Tom. Not but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie's

palate was not at all obtuse, but she would have gone without it many

times over, sooner than Tom should call her greedy and be cross with

her. And he had said he wouldn't have it, and she ate it without

thinking; how could she help it? The tears flowed so plentifully that

Maggie saw nothing around her for the next ten minutes; but by that

time resentment began to give way to the desire of reconciliation, and

she jumped from her bough to look for Tom. He was no longer in the

paddock behind the rickyard; where was he likely to be gone, and Yap

with him? Maggie ran to the high bank against the great holly-tree,

where she could see far away toward the Floss. There was Tom; but her

heart sank again as she saw how far off he was on his way to the great

river, and that he had another companion besides Yap,--naughty Bob

Jakin, whose official, if not natural, function of frightening the

birds was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt sure that Bob was

wicked, without very distinctly knowing why; unless it was because

Bob's mother was a dreadfully large fat woman, who lived at a queer

round house down the river; and once, when Maggie and Tom had wandered

thither, there rushed out a brindled dog that wouldn't stop barking;

and when Bob's mother came out after it, and screamed above the

barking to tell them not to be frightened, Maggie thought she was

scolding them fiercely, and her heart beat with terror. Maggie thought

it very likely that the round house had snakes on the floor, and bats

in the bedroom; for she had seen Bob take off his cap to show Tom a

little snake that was inside it, and another time he had a handful of

young bats: altogether, he was an irregular character, perhaps even

slightly diabolical, judging from his intimacy with snakes and bats;

and to crown all, when Tom had Bob for a companion, he didn't mind

about Maggie, and would never let her go with him.

It must be owned that Tom was fond of Bob's company. How could it be

otherwise? Bob knew, directly he saw a bird's egg, whether it was a

swallow's, or a tomtit's, or a yellow-hammer's; he found out all the

wasps' nests, and could set all sort of traps; he could climb the

trees like a squirrel, and had quite a magical power of detecting

hedgehogs and stoats; and he had courage to do things that were rather

naughty, such as making gaps in the hedgerows, throwing stones after

the sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering _incognito_.

Such qualities in an inferior, who could always be treated with

authority in spite of his superior knowingness, had necessarily a

fatal fascination for Tom; and every holiday-time Maggie was sure to

have days of grief because he had gone off with Bob.

Well! there was no hope for it; he was gone now, and Maggie could

think of no comfort but to sit down by the hollow, or wander by the

hedgerow, and fancy it was all different, refashioning her little

world into just what she should like it to be.

Maggie's was a troublous life, and this was the form in which she took

her opium.

Meanwhile Tom, forgetting all about Maggie and the sting of reproach

which he had left in her heart, was hurrying along with Bob, whom he

had met accidentally, to the scene of a great rat-catching in a

neighboring barn. Bob knew all about this particular affair, and spoke

of the sport with an enthusiasm which no one who is not either

divested of all manly feeling, or pitiably ignorant of rat-catching,

can fail to imagine. For a person suspected of preternatural

wickedness, Bob was really not so very villanous-looking; there was

even something agreeable in his snub-nosed face, with its close-curled

border of red hair. But then his trousers were always rolled up at the

knee, for the convenience of wading on the slightest notice; and his

virtue, supposing it to exist, was undeniably "virtue in rags," which,

on the authority even of bilious philosophers, who think all

well-dressed merit overpaid, is notoriously likely to remain

unrecognized (perhaps because it is seen so seldom).

"I know the chap as owns the ferrets," said Bob, in a hoarse treble

voice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue eyes fixed on the river,

like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion for darting in. "He

lives up the Kennel Yard at Sut Ogg's, he does. He's the biggest

rot-catcher anywhere, he is. I'd sooner, be a rot-catcher nor

anything, I would. The moles is nothing to the rots. But Lors! you mun

ha' ferrets. Dogs is no good. Why, there's that dog, now!" Bob

continued, pointing with an air of disgust toward Yap, "he's no more

good wi' a rot nor nothin'. I see it myself, I did, at the

rot-catchin' i' your feyther's barn."

Yap, feeling the withering influence of this scorn, tucked his tail in

and shrank close to Tom's leg, who felt a little hurt for him, but had

not the superhuman courage to seem behindhand with Bob in contempt for

a dog who made so poor a figure.

"No, no," he said, "Yap's no good at sport. I'll have regular good

dogs for rats and everything, when I've done school."

"Hev ferrets, Measter Tom," said Bob, eagerly,--"them white ferrets

wi' pink eyes; Lors, you might catch your own rots, an' you might put

a rot in a cage wi' a ferret, an' see 'em fight, you might. That's

what I'd do, I know, an' it 'ud be better fun a'most nor seein' two

chaps fight,--if it wasn't them chaps as sold cakes an' oranges at the

Fair, as the things flew out o' their baskets, an' some o' the cakes

was smashed--But they tasted just as good," added Bob, by way of note

or addendum, after a moment's pause.

"But, I say, Bob," said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, "ferrets are

nasty biting things,--they'll bite a fellow without being set on."

"Lors! why that's the beauty on 'em. If a chap lays hold o' your

ferret, he won't be long before he hollows out a good un, _he_ won't."

At this moment a striking incident made the boys pause suddenly in

their walk. It was the plunging of some small body in the water from

among the neighboring bulrushes; if it was not a water-rat, Bob

intimated that he was ready to undergo the most unpleasant

consequences.

"Hoigh! Yap,--hoigh! there he is," said Tom, clapping his hands, as

the little black snout made its arrowy course to the opposite bank.

"Seize him, lad! seize him!"

Yap agitated his ears and wrinkled his brows, but declined to plunge,

trying whether barking would not answer the purpose just as well.

"Ugh! you coward!" said Tom, and kicked him over, feeling humiliated

as a sportsman to possess so poor-spirited an animal. Bob abstained

from remark and passed on, choosing, however, to walk in the shallow

edge of the overflowing river by way of change.

"He's none so full now, the Floss isn't," said Bob, as he kicked the

water up before him, with an agreeable sense of being insolent to it.

"Why, last 'ear, the meadows was all one sheet o' water, they was."

"Ay, but," said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an opposition between

statements that were really accordant,--"but there was a big flood

once, when the Round Pool was made. _I_ know there was, 'cause father

says so. And the sheep and cows all drowned, and the boats went all

over the fields ever such a way."

"_I_ don't care about a flood comin'," said Bob; "I don't mind the

water, no more nor the land. I'd swim, _I_ would."

"Ah, but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long?" said Tom, his

imagination becoming quite active under the stimulus of that dread.

"When I'm a man, I shall make a boat with a wooden house on the top of

it, like Noah's ark, and keep plenty to eat in it,--rabbits and

things,--all ready. And then if the flood came, you know, Bob, I

shouldn't mind. And I'd take you in, if I saw you swimming," he added,

in the tone of a benevolent patron.

"I aren't frighted," said Bob, to whom hunger did not appear so

appalling. "But I'd get in an' knock the rabbits on th' head when you

wanted to eat 'em."

"Ah, and I should have halfpence, and we'd play at heads-and-tails,"

said Tom, not contemplating the possibility that this recreation might

have fewer charms for his mature age. "I'd divide fair to begin with,

and then we'd see who'd win."

"I've got a halfpenny o' my own," said Bob, proudly, coming out of the

water and tossing his halfpenny in the air. "Yeads or tails?"

"Tails," said Tom, instantly fired with the desire to win.

"It's yeads," said Bob, hastily, snatching up the halfpenny as it

fell.

"It wasn't," said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. "You give me the

halfpenny; I've won it fair."

"I sha'n't," said Bob, holding it tight in his pocket.

"Then I'll make you; see if I don't," said Tom.

"Yes, I can."

"You can't make me do nothing, you can't," said Bob.

"No, you can't."

"I'm master."

"I don't care for you."

"But I'll make you care, you cheat," said Tom, collaring Bob and

shaking him.

"You get out wi' you," said Bob, giving Tom a kick.

Tom's blood was thoroughly up: he went at Bob with a lunge and threw

him down, but Bob seized hold and kept it like a cat, and pulled Tom

down after him. They struggled fiercely on the ground for a moment or

two, till Tom, pinning Bob down by the shoulders, thought he had the

mastery.

"_You_, say you'll give me the halfpenny now," he said, with

difficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the command of Bob's

arms.

But at this moment Yap, who had been running on before, returned

barking to the scene of action, and saw a favorable opportunity for

biting Bob's bare leg not only with inpunity but with honor. The pain

from Yap's teeth, instead of surprising Bob into a relaxation of his

hold, gave it a fiercer tenacity, and with a new exertion of his force

he pushed Tom backward and got uppermost. But now Yap, who could get

no sufficient purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so that

Bob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom, and, almost

throttling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time Tom was up

again, and before Bob had quite recovered his balance after the act of

swinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, threw him down, and got his knees

firmly on Bob's chest.

"You give me the halfpenny now," said Tom.

"Take it," said Bob, sulkily.

"No, I sha'n't take it; you give it me."

Bob took the halfpenny out of his pocket, and threw it away from him

on the ground.

Tom loosed his hold, and left Bob to rise.

"There the halfpenny lies," he said. "I don't want your halfpenny; I

wouldn't have kept it. But you wanted to cheat; I hate a cheat. I

sha'n't go along with you any more," he added, turning round homeward,

not without casting a regret toward the rat-catching and other

pleasures which he must relinquish along with Bob's society.

"You may let it alone, then," Bob called out after him. "I shall cheat

if I like; there's no fun i' playing else; and I know where there's a

goldfinch's nest, but I'll take care _you_ don't. An' you're a nasty

fightin' turkey-c**k, you are----"

Tom walked on without looking around, and Yap followed his example,

the cold bath having moderated his passions.

"Go along wi' you, then, wi' your drowned dog; I wouldn't own such a

dog--_I_ wouldn't," said Bob, getting louder, in a last effort to

sustain his defiance. But Tom was not to be provoked into turning

round, and Bob's voice began to falter a little as he said,--

"An' I'n gi'en you everything, an' showed you everything, an' niver

wanted nothin' from you. An' there's your horn-handed knife, then as

you gi'en me." Here Bob flung the knife as far as he could after Tom's

retreating footsteps. But it produced no effect, except the sense in

Bob's mind that there was a terrible void in his lot, now that knife

was gone.

He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and disappeared

behind the hedge. The knife would do not good on the ground there; it

wouldn't vex Tom; and pride or resentment was a feeble passion in

Bob's mind compared with the love of a pocket-knife. His very fingers

sent entreating thrills that he would go and clutch that familiar

rough buck's-horn handle, which they had so often grasped for mere

affection, as it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades,

and they had just been sharpened! What is life without a pocket-knife

to him who has once tasted a higher existence? No; to throw the handle

after the hatchet is a comprehensible act of desperation, but to throw

one's pocket-knife after an implacable friend is clearly in every

sense a hyperbole, or throwing beyond the mark. So Bob shuffled back

to the spot where the beloved knife lay in the dirt, and felt quite a

new pleasure in clutching it again after the temporary separation, in

opening one blade after the other, and feeling their edge with his

well-hardened thumb. Poor Bob! he was not sensitive on the point of

honor, not a chivalrous character. That fine moral aroma would not

have been thought much of by the public opinion of Kennel Yard, which

was the very focus or heart of Bob's world, even if it could have made

itself perceptible there; yet, for all that, he was not utterly a

sneak and a thief as our friend Tom had hastily decided.

But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Rhadamanthine personage, having

more than the usual share of boy's justice in him,--the justice that

desires to hurt culprits as much as they deserve to be hurt, and is

troubled with no doubts concerning the exact amount of their deserts.

Maggie saw a cloud on his brow when he came home, which checked her

joy at his coming so much sooner than she had expected, and she dared

hardly speak to him as he stood silently throwing the small

gravel-stones into the mill-dam. It is not pleasant to give up a

rat-catching when you have set your mind on it. But if Tom had told

his strongest feeling at that moment, he would have said, "I'd do just

the same again." That was his usual mode of viewing his past actions;

whereas Maggie was always wishing she had done something different.