The Mill on the Floss (17 page)

Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time Tom
got to the pond again she was at the distance of three long fields,
and was on the edge of the lane leading to the highroad. She
stopped to pant a little, reflecting that running away was not a
pleasant thing until one had got quite to the common where the
gypsies were, but her resolution had not abated; she presently
passed through the gate into the lane, not knowing where it would
lead her, for it was not this way that they came from Dorlcote Mill
to Garum Firs, and she felt all the safer for that, because there
was no chance of her being overtaken. But she was soon aware, not
without trembling, that there were two men coming along the lane in
front of her; she had not thought of meeting strangers, she had
been too much occupied with the idea of her friends coming after
her. The formidable strangers were two shabby-looking men with
flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle on a stick over his
shoulder; but to her surprise, while she was dreading their
disapprobation as a runaway, the man with the bundle stopped, and
in a half-whining, half-coaxing tone asked her if she had a copper
to give a poor man. Maggie had a sixpence in her pocket,–her uncle
Glegg's present,–which she immediately drew out and gave this poor
man with a polite smile, hoping he would feel very kindly toward
her as a generous person. "That's the only money I've got," she
said apologetically. "Thank you, little miss," said the man, in a
less respectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and she
even observed that he smiled and winked at his companion. She
walked on hurriedly, but was aware that the two men were standing
still, probably to look after her, and she presently heard them
laughing loudly. Suddenly it occurred to her that they might think
she was an idiot; Tom had said that her cropped hair made her look
like an idiot, and it was too painful an idea to be readily
forgotten. Besides, she had no sleeves on,–only a cape and bonnet.
It was clear that she was not likely to make a favorable impression
on passengers, and she thought she would turn into the fields
again, but not on the same side of the lane as before, lest they
should still be uncle Pullet's fields. She turned through the first
gate that was not locked, and felt a delightful sense of privacy in
creeping along by the hedgerows, after her recent humiliating
encounter. She was used to wandering about the fields by herself,
and was less timid there than on the highroad. Sometimes she had to
climb over high gates, but that was a small evil; she was getting
out of reach very fast, and she should probably soon come within
sight of Dunlow Common, or at least of some other common, for she
had heard her father say that you couldn't go very far without
coming to a common. She hoped so, for she was getting rather tired
and hungry, and until she reached the gypsies there was no definite
prospect of bread and butter. It was still broad daylight, for aunt
Pullet, retaining the early habits of the Dodson family, took tea
at half-past four by the sun, and at five by the kitchen clock; so,
though it was nearly an hour since Maggie started, there was no
gathering gloom on the fields to remind her that the night would
come. Still, it seemed to her that she had been walking a very
great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the common
did not come within sight. Hitherto she had been in the rich parish
of Garum, where was a great deal of pasture-land, and she had only
seen one laborer at a distance. That was fortunate in some
respects, as laborers might be too ignorant to understand the
propriety of her wanting to go to Dunlow Common; yet it would have
been better if she could have met some one who would tell her the
way without wanting to know anything about her private business. At
last, however, the green fields came to an end, and Maggie found
herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide
margin of grass on each side of it. She had never seen such a wide
lane before, and, without her knowing why, it gave her the
impression that the common could not be far off; perhaps it was
because she saw a donkey with a log to his foot feeding on the
grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey with that pitiable
encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she had been across it in her
father's gig. She crept through the bars of the gate and walked on
with new spirit, though not without haunting images of Apollyon,
and a highwayman with a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow with
a mouth from ear to ear, and other miscellaneous dangers. For poor
little Maggie had at once the timidity of an active imagination and
the daring that comes from overmastering impulse. She had rushed
into the adventure of seeking her unknown kindred, the gypsies; and
now she was in this strange lane, she hardly dared look on one side
of her, lest she should see the diabolical blacksmith in his
leathern apron grinning at her with arms akimbo. It was not without
a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of
bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock;
they seemed something hideously preternatural,–a diabolical kind of
fungus; for she was too much agitated at the first glance to see
the ragged clothes and the dark shaggy head attached to them. It
was a boy asleep, and Maggie trotted along faster and more lightly,
lest she should wake him; it did not occur to her that he was one
of her friends the gypsies, who in all probability would have very
genial manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the
lane Maggie actually saw the little semicircular black tent with
the blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge from
all the blighting obloquy that had pursued her in civilized life.
She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless
the gypsy-mother, who provided the tea and other groceries; it was
astonishing to herself that she did not feel more delighted. But it
was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after all, and not on
a common; indeed, it was rather disappointing; for a mysterious
illimitable common, where there were sand-pits to hide in, and one
was out of everybody's reach, had always made part of Maggie's
picture of gypsy life. She went on, however, and thought with some
comfort that gypsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so
there was no danger of their falling into the mistake of setting
her down at the first glance as an idiot. It was plain she had
attracted attention; for the tall figure, who proved to be a young
woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggie
looked up in the new face rather tremblingly as it approached, and
was reassured by the thought that her aunt Pullet and the rest were
right when they called her a gypsy; for this face, with the bright
dark eyes and the long hair, was really something like what she
used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off.

"My little lady, where are you going to?" the gypsy said, in a
tone of coaxing deference.

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected; the gypsies
saw at once that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat
her accordingly.

"Not any farther," said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying
what she had rehearsed in a dream. "I'm come to stay with
you
, please."

"That's pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you
are, to be sure!" said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie
thought her very agreeable, but wished she had not been so
dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when she reached it. An
old gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and
occasionally poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth
an odorous steam; two small shock-headed children were lying prone
and resting on their elbows something like small sphinxes; and a
placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on
her back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of
excellent stolen hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them,
and the scene was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie
thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the tea-cups.
Everything would be quite charming when she had taught the gypsies
to use a washing-basin, and to feel an interest in books. It was a
little confusing, though, that the young woman began to speak to
the old one in a language which Maggie did not understand, while
the tall girl, who was feeding the donkey, sat up and stared at her
without offering any salutation. At last the old woman said,–

"What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down
and tell us where you come from."

It was just like a story; Maggie liked to be called pretty lady
and treated in this way. She sat down and said,–

"I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a
gypsy. I'll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great
many things."

"Such a clever little lady," said the woman with the baby
sitting down by Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; "and such a
pretty bonnet and frock," she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and
looking at it while she made an observation to the old woman, in
the unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it
on her own head hind-foremost with a grin; but Maggie was
determined not to show any weakness on this subject, as if she were
susceptible about her bonnet.

"I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said; "I'd rather wear a
red handkerchief, like yours" (looking at her friend by her side).
"My hair was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I
dare say it will grow again very soon," she added apologetically,
thinking it probable the gypsies had a strong prejudice in favor of
long hair. And Maggie had forgotten even her hunger at that moment
in the desire to conciliate gypsy opinion.

"Oh, what a nice little lady!–and rich, I'm sure," said the old
woman. "Didn't you live in a beautiful house at home?"

"Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the river, where
we go fishing, but I'm often very unhappy. I should have liked to
bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I
can tell you almost everything there is in my books, I've read them
so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you
something about Geography too,–that's about the world we live
in,–very useful and interesting. Did you ever hear about
Columbus?"

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush,–she
was really beginning to instruct the gypsies, and gaining great
influence over them. The gypsies themselves were not without
amazement at this talk, though their attention was divided by the
contents of Maggie's pocket, which the friend at her right hand had
by this time emptied without attracting her notice.

"Is that where you live, my little lady?" said the old woman, at
the mention of Columbus.

"Oh, no!" said Maggie, with some pity; "Columbus was a very
wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on
him and treated him very badly, you know; it's in my Catechism of
Geography, but perhaps it's rather too long to tell before
tea–
I want my tea so
."

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a
sudden drop from patronizing instruction to simple peevishness.

"Why, she's hungry, poor little lady," said the younger woman.
"Give her some o' the cold victual. You've been walking a good way,
I'll be bound, my dear. Where's your home?"

"It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off," said Maggie. "My father is
Mr. Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know where I am, else he'll
fetch me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?"

"What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?" said the
younger woman. The tall girl meanwhile was constantly staring at
Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

"No," said Maggie, "I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very
good queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose
another. If I was a queen, I'd be a very good queen, and kind to
everybody."

"Here's a bit o' nice victual, then," said the old woman,
handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a
bag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon.

"Thank you,' said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it;
"but will you give me some bread-and-butter and tea instead? I
don't like bacon."

"We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman, with
something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of
coaxing.

"Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said Maggie.

"We han't got no treacle," said the old woman, crossly,
whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in
their unknown tongue, and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the
bread-and-bacon, and began to eat it. At this moment the tall girl,
who had gone a few yards off, came back, and said something which
produced a strong effect. The old woman, seeming to forget Maggie's
hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new vigor, and the
younger crept under the tent and reached out some platters and
spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would
come into her eyes. Meanwhile the tall girl gave a shrill cry, and
presently came running up the boy whom Maggie had passed as he was
sleeping,–a rough urchin about the age of Tom. He stared at Maggie,
and there ensued much incomprehensible chattering. She felt very
lonely, and was quite sure she should begin to cry before long; the
gypsies didn't seem to mind her at all, and she felt quite weak
among them. But the springing tears were checked by new terror,
when two men came up, whose approach had been the cause of the
sudden excitement. The elder of the two carried a bag, which he
flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone, which
they answered by a shower of treble sauciness; while a black cur
ran barking up to Maggie, and threw her into a tremor that only
found a new cause in the curses with which the younger man called
the dog off, and gave him a rap with a great stick he held in his
hand.