Books: The Mill on the Floss

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It was Stephen's tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice of
her own resolve, that made the balance tremble, and made her once
start from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write "Come!"

But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense of
contradiction with her past self in her moments of strength and
clearness came upon her like a pang of conscious degradation. No, she
must wait; she must pray; the light that had forsaken her would come
again; she should feel again what she had felt when she had fled away,
under an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony,--to conquer love;
she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when
Philip's letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her to the
calmer past.

She sat quite still, far on into the night, with no impulse to change
her attitude, without active force enough even for the mental act of
prayer; only waiting for the light that would surely come again. It
came with the memories that no passion could long quench; the long
past came back to her, and with it the fountains of self-renouncing
pity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were
marked by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long ago
learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent for
themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of
the rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind. "I
have received the Cross, I have received it from Thy hand; I will bear
it, and bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me."

But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but in a
sob,--"Forgive me, Stephen! It will pass away. You will come back to
her."

She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowly
on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word of
parting.

"I will bear it, and bear it till death. But how long it will be
before death comes! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have
patience and strength? Am I to struggle and fall and repent again? Has
life other trials as hard for me still?"

With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against the
table, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her soul went out to the
Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there was
something being taught her by this experience of great need; and she
must be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, that
the less erring could hardly know? "O God, if my life is to be long,
let me live to bless and comfort----"

At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden cold about
her knees and feet; it was water flowing under her. She started up;
the stream was flowing under the door that led into the passage. She
was not bewildered for an instant; she knew it was the flood!

The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hours
seemed to have left a great calm in her; without screaming, she
hurried with the candle upstairs to Bob Jakin's bedroom. The door was
ajar; she went in and shook him by the shoulder.

"Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house; let us see if we can make
the boats safe."

She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her baby,
burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if the
waters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at the
door leading from the staircase; she saw that the water was already on
a level with the step. While she was looking, something came with a
tremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded panes and the
old wooden framework inward in shivers, the water pouring in after it.

"It is the boat!" cried Maggie. "Bob, come down to get the boats!"

And without a moment's shudder of fear, she plunged through the water,
which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of the
candle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the window-sill,
and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging and
protruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying
without shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand.

"Why, they're both here,--both the boats," said Bob, as he got into
the one where Maggie was. "It's wonderful this fastening isn't broke
too, as well as the mooring."

In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it, and
mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred.
We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in
their danger, and Bob's mind was absorbed in possible expedients for
the safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that Maggie had been up,
had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague
impression of her as one who would help to protect, not need to be
protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off,
so as to release the boat from the overhanging window-frame.

"The water's rising so fast," said Bob, "I doubt it'll be in at the
chambers before long,--th' house is so low. I've more mind to get
Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could, and
trusten to the water,--for th' old house is none so safe. And if I let
go the boat--but _you_," he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of
his lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her
hand and her black hair streaming.

Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along the
line of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to the wide water,
with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of the
river.

In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but that
she had suddenly passed away from that life which she had been
dreading; it was the transition of death, without its agony,--and she
was alone in the darkness with God.

The whole thing had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that the threads of
ordinary association were broken; she sank down on the seat clutching
the oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conception
of her position. The first thing that waked her to fuller
consciousness was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that the
darkness was divided by the faintest light, which parted the
overhanging gloom from the immeasurable watery level below. She was
driven out upon the flood,--that awful visitation of God which her
father used to talk of; which had made the nightmare of her childish
dreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old
home, and Tom, and her mother,--they had all listened together.

"O God, where am I? Which is the way home?" she cried out, in the dim
loneliness.

What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearly
destroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress,--her mother and
her brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was
strained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces looking
for help into the darkness, and finding none.

She was floating in smooth water now,--perhaps far on the overflooded
fields. There was no sense of present danger to check the outgoing of
her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the
curtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her
whereabout,--that she might catch some faint suggestion of the spot
toward which all her anxieties tended.

Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level, the gradual
uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defining blackness of
objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must be out on the fields;
those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie?
Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black trees; looking before
her, there were none; then the river lay before her. She seized an oar
and began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope;
the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and
she could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound
where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in
the growing twilight; her wet clothes clung round her, and her
streaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly
conscious of any bodily sensations,--except a sensation of strength,
inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and
possible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home,
there was an undefined sense of reconcilement with her brother; what
quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in
the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of
our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive
mortal needs? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love
toward her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard,
cruel offence and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,
underlying, unshakable memories of early union.

But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to her
Maggie could discern the current of the river. The dark mass must
be--yes, it was--St. Ogg's. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the
first glimpse of the well-known trees--the gray willows, the now
yellowing chestnuts--and above them the old roof! But there was no
color, no shape yet; all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the
energies seemed to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were
a stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any
future.

She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she would
never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house; this was the
thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more
vividness the state of things round the old home. But then she might
be carried very far down, and be unable to guide her boat out of the
current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to
press upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for
hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now
without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distance and
the growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew must
be the well-known trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing,
muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple.

Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash against
her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What were
those masses?

For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony of dread.
She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being floated along,
more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was
transient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St. Ogg's.
She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; _now_, she must use all
her skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible out of
the current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; she
could see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery
field. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river,--such as had
been laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.

With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to
paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river,
and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts
from the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were
calling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Tofton
that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one
yearning look toward her uncle Deane's house that lay farther down the
river, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might across
the watery fields, back toward the Mill. Color was beginning to awake
now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the
tints of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right,
and the home chestnuts,--oh, how deep they lay in the water,--deeper
than the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill--where
was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple,--what had they
meant? But it was not the house,--the house stood firm; drowned up to
the first story, but still firm,--or was it broken in at the end
toward the Mill?

With panting joy that she was there at last,--joy that overcame all
distress,--Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she heard no
sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the
upstairs window. She called out in a loud, piercing voice,--

"Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is Maggie!"

Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she heard
Tom's voice,--

"Who is it? Have you brought a boat?"

"It is I, Tom,--Maggie. Where is mother?"

"She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yesterday. I'll
come down to the lower window."

"Alone, Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as he
opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.

"Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get in
quickly. Is there no one else?"

"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat; "I fear the man is drowned; he
was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the Mill fell with
the crash of trees and stones against it; I've shouted again and
again, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie."

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide
water,--he face to face with Maggie,--that the full meaning of what
had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering a
force,--it was such a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in
life that had lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen and
clear,--that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazing
at each other,--Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from a
weary, beaten face; Tom pale, with a certain awe and humiliation.
Thought was busy though the lips were silent; and though he could ask
no question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, divinely
protected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes,
and the lips found a word they could utter,--the old childish
"Magsie!"

Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that mysterious,
wondrous happiness that is one with pain.

As soon as she could speak, she said, "We will go to Lucy, Tom; we'll
go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the rest."

Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from poor
Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and
soon they would be at Tofton.

"Park House stands high up out of the flood," said Maggie. "Perhaps
they have got Lucy there."

Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward them by
the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way on one of the
wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was
rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out in
dreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness floated onward
the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that was
working its way along under the Tofton houses observed their danger,
and shouted, "Get out of the current!"

But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before him, saw
death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in fatal
fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice, loosing the
oars, and clasping her.

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and the
huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.

But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on the golden
water.

The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in an
embrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme moment
the days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed
the daisied fields together.

Conclusion

Nature repairs her ravages,--repairs them with her sunshine, and with
human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood had left little
visible trace on the face of the earth, five years after. The fifth
autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick clusters among
the distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss were
busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and
unlading.

And every man and woman mentioned in this history was still living,
except those whose end we know.

Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are not
rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new
growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills
underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To
the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.

Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard--where the brick
grave that held a father whom we know, was found with the stone laid
prostrate upon it after the flood--had recovered all its grassy order
and decent quiet.

Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon after the
flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace; and it was
visited at different moments by two men who both felt that their
keenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever buried there.

One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him; but
that was years after.

The other was always solitary. His great companionship was among the
trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed still to hover,
like a revisiting spirit.

The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and below the
names it was written,--

"In their death they were not divided."