Books: The Mill on the Floss

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"How do you do, Bob?" said Maggie, coming forward and putting out her
hand to him; "I always meant to pay your wife a visit, and I shall
come another day on purpose for that, if she will let me. But I was
obliged to come to-day to speak to my brother."

"He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finely, Mr. Tom is; he'll
be one o' the first men hereabouts,--you'll see that."

"Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever he becomes; he
said so himself only the other night, when he was talking of you."

"Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the more on't when
he says a thing, because his tongue doesn't overshoot him as mine
does. Lors! I'm no better nor a tilted bottle, I ar'n't,--I can't stop
mysen when once I begin. But you look rarely, Miss; it does me good to
see you. What do you say now, Prissy?"--here Bob turned to his
wife,--"Isn't it all come true as I said? Though there isn't many
sorts o' goods as I can't over-praise when I set my tongue to't."

Mrs. Bob's small nose seemed to be following the example of her eyes
in turning up reverentially toward Maggie, but she was able now to
smile and curtsey, and say, "I'd looked forrard like aenything to
seein' you, Miss, for my husband's tongue's been runnin' on you, like
as if he was light-headed, iver since first he come a-courtin' on me."

"Well, well," said Bob, looking rather silly. "Go an' see after the
taters, else Mr. Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em."

"I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob," said Maggie, smiling.
"I remember you used to say he wouldn't like your marrying."

"Eh, Miss," said Bob, "he made up his mind to't when he see'd what a
little un she was. He pretends not to see her mostly, or else to think
as she isn't full-growed. But about Mr. Tom, Miss," said Bob, speaking
lower and looking serious, "he's as close as a iron biler, he is; but
I'm a 'cutish chap, an' when I've left off carrying my pack, an' am at
a loose end, I've got more brains nor I know what to do wi', an' I'm
forced to busy myself wi' other folks's insides. An' it worrets me as
Mr. Tom'll sit by himself so glumpish, a-knittin' his brow, an'
a-lookin' at the fire of a night. He should be a bit livelier now, a
fine young fellow like him. My wife says, when she goes in sometimes,
an' he takes no notice of her, he sits lookin' into the fire, and
frownin' as if he was watchin' folks at work in it."

"He thinks so much about business," said Maggie.

"Ay," said Bob, speaking lower; "but do you think it's nothin' else,
Miss? He's close, Mr. Tom is; but I'm a 'cute chap, I am, an' I
thought tow'rt last Christmas as I'd found out a soft place in him. It
was about a little black spaniel--a rare bit o' breed--as he made a
fuss to get. But since then summat's come over him, as he's set his
teeth again' things more nor iver, for all he's had such good luck.
An' I wanted to tell _you_, Miss, 'cause I thought you might work it
out of him a bit, now you're come. He's a deal too lonely, and doesn't
go into company enough."

"I'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob," said Maggie, a
good deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a totally new idea to her
mind that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor fellow!--and in love
with Lucy too! But it was perhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officious
brain. The present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship and
gratitude. But Bob had already said, "Here's Mr. Tom," and the outer
door was opening.

"There is no time to spare, Tom," said Maggie, as soon as Bob left the
room. "I must tell you at once what I came about, else I shall be
hindering you from taking your dinner."

Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and Maggie was
seated opposite the light. He noticed that she was tremulous, and he
had a presentiment of the subject she was going to speak about. The
presentiment made his voice colder and harder as he said, "What is
it?"

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she put her
request in quite a different form from the one she had predetermined
on. She rose from her seat, and looking straight at Tom, said,--

"I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Or
rather, I promised you not to see him without telling you. I am come
to tell you that I wish to see him."

"Very well," said Tom, still more coldly.

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, defiant manner,
before she repented, and felt the dread of alienation from her
brother.

"Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I shouldn't have asked it,
only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucy's and she wishes him
to come, has invited him to come this evening; and I told her I
couldn't see him without telling you. I shall only see him in the
presence of other people. There will never be anything secret between
us again."

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for a
little while. Then he turned to her and said, slowly and
emphatically,--

"You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is no need
for my repeating anything I said a year ago. While my father was
living, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you, to prevent you
from disgracing him as well as yourself, and all of us. But now I must
leave you to your own choice. You wish to be independent; you told me
so after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you think of
Philip Wakem as a lover again, you must give up me."

"I don't wish it, dear Tom, at least as things are; I see that it
would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to another situation,
and I should like to be friends with him again while I am here. Lucy
wishes it."

The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little.

"I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncle's--I don't
want you to make a fuss on the subject. But I have no confidence in
you, Maggie. You would be led away to do anything."

That was a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble.

"Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not done
and borne everything as well as I could? And I kept my word to
you--when--when----My life has not been a happy one, any more than
yours."

She was obliged to be childish; the tears would come. When Maggie was
not angry, she was as dependent on kind or cold words as a daisy on
the sunshine or the cloud; the need of being loved would always subdue
her, as, in old days, it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. The
brother's goodness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could only
show itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm, and
said, in the tone of a kind pedagogue,--

"Now listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. You're always in
extremes; you have no judgment and self-command; and yet you think you
know best, and will not submit to be guided. You know I didn't wish
you to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good
home, and you might have lived respectably amongst your relations,
until I could have provided a home for you with my mother. And that is
what I should like to do. I wished my sister to be a lady, and I
always have taken care of you, as my father desired, until you were
well married. But your ideas and mine never accord, and you will not
give way. Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who
goes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily knows better
what is right and respectable for his sister than she can know
herself. You think I am not kind; but my kindness can only be directed
by what I believe to be good for you."

"Yes, I know, dear Tom," said Maggie, still half-sobbing, but trying
to control her tears. "I know you would do a great deal for me; I know
how you work, and don't spare yourself. I am grateful to you. But,
indeed, you can't quite judge for me; our natures are very different.
You don't know how differently things affect me from what they do
you."

"Yes, I _do_ know; I know it too well. I know how differently you must
feel about all that affects our family, and your own dignity as a
young woman, before you could think of receiving secret addresses from
Philip Wakem. If it was not disgusting to me in every other way, I
should object to my sister's name being associated for a moment with
that of a young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all,
and would spurn you. With any one but you, I should think it quite
certain that what you witnessed just before my father's death would
secure you from ever thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But I
don't feel certain of it with you; I never feel certain about anything
with _you_. At one time you take pleasure in a sort of perverse
self-denial, and at another you have not resolution to resist a thing
that you know to be wrong."

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words,--that hard rind of
truth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsympathetic minds. Maggie
always writhed under this judgment of Tom's; she rebelled and was
humiliated in the same moment; it seemed as if he held a glass before
her to show her her own folly and weakness, as if he were a prophetic
voice predicting her future fallings; and yet, all the while, she
judged him in return; she said inwardly that he was narrow and unjust,
that he was below feeling those mental needs which were often the
source of the wrong-doing or absurdity that made her life a planless
riddle to him.

She did not answer directly; her heart was too full, and she sat down,
leaning her arm on the table. It was no use trying to make Tom feel
that she was near to him. He always repelled her. Her feeling under
his words was complicated by the allusion to the last scene between
her father and Wakem; and at length that painful, solemn memory
surmounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not think of such
things with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not accuse her of
that. She looked up at him with a grave, earnest gaze and said,--

"I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I can say. But
I am not so shut out from all your feelings as you believe me to be. I
see as well as you do that from our position with regard to Philip's
father--not on other grounds--it would be unreasonable, it would be
wrong, for us to entertain the idea of marriage; and I have given up
thinking of him as a lover. I am telling you the truth, and you have
no right to disbelieve me; I have kept my word to you, and you have
never detected me in a falsehood. I should not only not encourage, I
should carefully avoid, any intercourse with Philip on any other
footing than of quiet friendship. You may think that I am unable to
keep my resolutions; but at least you ought not to treat me with hard
contempt on the ground of faults that I have not committed yet."

"Well, Maggie," said Tom, softening under this appeal, "I don't want
to overstrain matters. I think, all things considered, it will be best
for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy wishes him to come to the house.
I believe what you say,--at least you believe it yourself, I know; I
can only warn you. I wish to be as good a brother to you as you will
let me."

There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the last words,
and Maggie's ready affection came back with as sudden a glow as when
they were children, and bit their cake together as a sacrament of
conciliation. She rose and laid her hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Dear Tom, I know you mean to be good. I know you have had a great
deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should like to be a
comfort to you, not to vex you. You don't think I'm altogether
naughty, now, do you?"

Tom smiled at the eager face; his smiles were very pleasant to see
when they did come, for the gray eyes could be tender underneath the
frown.

"No, Maggie."

"I may turn out better than you expect."

"I hope you will."

"And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see this extremely
small wife of Bob's again?"

"Yes; but trot away now, for I've no more time to spare," said Tom,
looking at his watch.

"Not to give me a kiss?"

Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said,--

"There! Be a good girl. I've got a great deal to think of to-day. I'm
going to have a long consultation with my uncle Deane this afternoon."

"You'll come to aunt Glegg's to-morrow? We're going all to dine early,
that we may go there to tea. You _must_ come; Lucy told me to say so."

"Oh, pooh! I've plenty else to do," said Tom, pulling his bell
violently, and bringing down the small bell-rope.

"I'm frightened; I shall run away," said Maggie, making a laughing
retreat; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, flung the bell-rope to
the farther end of the room; not very far either,--a touch of human
experience which I flatter myself will come home to the bosoms of not
a few substantial or distinguished men who were once at an early stage
of their rise in the world, and were cherishing very large hopes in
very small lodgings.

Chapter V

Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster

"And now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom," said Mr. Deane,
that same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room at the
Bank together, "there's another matter I want to talk to you about.
Since you're likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it at
Newcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a good prospect of some
sort to keep up your spirits."

Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion in
this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff-box and gratified
each nostril with deliberate impartiality.

"You see, Tom," said Mr. Deane at last, throwing himself backward,
"the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did when I was a
young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a
strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts
the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. The
looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast; I'd a
best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale,
sir,--in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that
has made the difference; it drives on every wheel double pace, and the
wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest said at the
anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, considering
he's seen nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, as
some people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and if the population
is to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use
its wits at inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share
as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing to
make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir, it's
a fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and bring
the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's our line
of business; and I consider it as honorable a position as a man can
hold, to be connected with it."

Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not urgent; Mr.
Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to allow either his
reminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed,
for the last month or two, there had been hints thrown out to Tom
which enabled him to guess that he was going to hear some proposition
for his own benefit. With the beginning of the last speech he had
stretched out his legs, thrust his hands in his pockets, and prepared
himself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr.
Deane had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say to
young men in general was, that if they didn't succeed too it was
because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his
uncle put a direct question to him.

"Let me see,--it's going on for seven years now since you applied to
me for a situation, eh, Tom?"

"Yes, sir; I'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom.

"Ah, it's as well not to say that, though; for you'd pass for a good
deal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your coming
very well; I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and that was
what made me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say I was right;
I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my
nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir; and if I'd
had a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."

Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a tone of
some feeling, "No, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."

"I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir; I've done my best,"
said Tom, in his proud, independent way.

"Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak of your conduct
as a son; though that weighs with me in my opinion of you. But what I
have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities you've
shown as a man o' business. Ours is a fine business,--a splendid
concern, sir,--and there's no reason why it shouldn't go on growing;
there's a growing capital, and growing outlets for it; but there's
another thing that's wanted for the prosperity of every concern, large
or small, and that's men to conduct it,--men of the right habits; none
o' your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this is
what Mr. Guest and I see clear enough. Three years ago we took Gell
into the concern; we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why,
because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it
will always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty near
ten years older than you, there are other points in your favor."

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on speaking; he was
conscious of something he had in his mind to say, which might not be
agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion rather
than an acceptance of the proposition he foresaw.

"It stands to reason," Mr. Deane went on, when he had finished his new
pinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in your favor; but I don't
deny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your conduct in
that affair of Pelley's bank would have led Mr. Guest and myself to
make some acknowledgment of the service you've been to us; and, backed
by your general conduct and business ability, it has made us determine
on giving you a share in the business,--a share which we shall be glad
to increase as the years go on. We think that'll be better, on all
grounds, than raising your salary. It'll give you more importance, and
prepare you better for taking some of the anxiety off my shoulders by
and by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank God; but
I'm getting older,--there's no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I would
open the subject to you; and when you come back from this northern
business, we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for a
young fellow of three-and-twenty, but I'm bound to say you've deserved
it."

"I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir; of course I feel the
most indebted to _you_, who first took me into the business, and have
taken a good deal of pains with me since."

Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had said this.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Deane. "I don't spare pains when I see they'll be
of any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell, else he wouldn't
have been what he is."

"But there's one thing I should like to mention to you uncle. I've
never spoken to you of it before. If you remember, at the time my
father's property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buying
the Mill; I know you thought it would be a very good investment,
especially if steam were applied."

"To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us; he'd made up his mind to
that. He's rather fond of carrying everything over other people's
heads."

"Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present," Tom went on,
"but I wish you to know what I have in my mind about the Mill. I've a
strong feeling about it. It was my father's dying wish that I should
try and get it back again whenever I could; it was in his family for
five generations. I promised my father; and besides that, I'm attached
to the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should
ever suit your views to buy it for the firm, I should have a better
chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shouldn't have liked to
mention the thing to you, only you've been kind enough to say my
services have been of some value. And I'd give up a much greater
chance in life for the sake of having the Mill again,--I mean having
it in my own hands, and gradually working off the price."

Mr. Deane had listened attentively, and now looked thoughtful.

"I see, I see," he said, after a while; "the thing would be possible
if there were any chance of Wakem's parting with the property. But
that I _don't_ see. He's put that young Jetsome in the place; and he
had his reasons when he bought it, I'll be bound."

"He's a loose fish, that young Jetsome," said Tom. "He's taking to
drinking, and they say he's letting the business go down. Luke told me
about it,--our old miller. He says he sha'n't stay unless there's an
alteration. I was thinking, if things went on that way, Wakem might be
more willing to part with the Mill. Luke says he's getting very sour
about the way things are going on."

"Well, I'll turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and go
into it with Mr. Guest. But, you see, it's rather striking out a new
branch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are,
which was what we'd wanted."

"I should be able to manage more than the Mill when things were once
set properly going, sir. I want to have plenty of work. There's
nothing else I care about much."

There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man of
three-and-twenty, even in uncle Deane's business-loving ears.

"Pooh, pooh! you'll be having a wife to care about one of these days,
if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to this Mill, we
mustn't reckon on our chickens too early. However, I promise you to
bear it in mind, and when you come back we'll talk of it again. I am
going to dinner now. Come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, and
say good-bye to your mother and sister before you start."

Chapter VI

Illustrating the Laws of Attraction

It is evident to you now that Maggie had arrived at a moment in her
life which must be considered by all prudent persons as a great
opportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St.
Ogg's, with a striking person, which had the advantage of being quite
unfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderate
assistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious
colloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new
starting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torry
fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that "the
dark-eyed girl there in the corner" might see him in all the
additional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladies
went home intending to have short sleeves with black lace, and to
plait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head,--"That
cousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well." In fact, poor Maggie,
with all her inward consciousness of a painful past and her
presentiment of a troublous future, was on the way to become an object
of some envy,--a topic of discussion in the newly established
billiard-room, and between fair friends who had no secrets from each
other on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated
chiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, and
were the glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggie's
manners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observations
current in good society, and of saying that she didn't know whether
those observations were true or not, which gave her an air of
_gaucherie_, and impeded the even flow of conversation; but it is a
fact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not the
worst disposed toward a new acquaintance of their own sex because she
has points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without those
pretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of
driving gentlemen to despair that she won some feminine pity for being
so ineffective in spite of her beauty. She had not had many
advantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was no
pretension about her; her abruptness and unevenness of manner were
plainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It was
only a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her,
considering what the rest of poor Lucy's relations were--an allusion
which always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not
agreeable to think of any connection by marriage with such people as
the Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to contradict Stephen
when once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was no
possible objection to Lucy in herself,--no one could help liking her.
She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindly
to this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great
fuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these circumstances the
invitations to Park House were not wanting; and elsewhere, also, Miss
Deane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St.
Ogg's for any attention toward her to be neglected.