The Mill on the Floss (59 page)

"That is beautiful," said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and
was listening with keen interest. "I never knew any one who did
such things."

"And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more," said
Stephen, "because his manners in general are rather cold and
severe. There's nothing sugary and maudlin about him."

"Oh, I think he's a perfect character!" said Lucy, with pretty
enthusiasm.

"No; there I can't agree with you," said Stephen, shaking his
head with sarcastic gravity.

"Now, what fault can you point out in him?"

"He's an Anglican."

"Well, those are the right views, I think," said Lucy,
gravely.

"That settles the question in the abstract," said Stephen, "but
not from a parliamentary point of view. He has set the Dissenters
and the Church people by the ears; and a rising senator like
myself, of whose services the country is very much in need, will
find it inconvenient when he puts up for the honor of representing
St. Ogg's in Parliament."

"Do you really think of that?" said Lucy, her eyes brightening
with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the argumentative
interests of Anglicanism.

"Decidedly, whenever old Mr. Leyburn's public spirit and gout
induce him to give way. My father's heart is set on it; and gifts
like mine, you know"–here Stephen drew himself up, and rubbed his
large white hands over his hair with playful self-admiration–"gifts
like mine involve great responsibilities. Don't you think so, Miss
Tulliver?"

"Yes," said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; "so much
fluency and self-possession should not be wasted entirely on
private occasions."

"Ah, I see how much penetration you have," said Stephen. "You
have discovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now
superficial people never discern that, owing to my manner, I
suppose."

"She doesn't look at me when I talk of myself," he thought,
while his listeners were laughing. "I must try other subjects."

Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book Club
next week? was the next question. Then followed the recommendation
to choose Southey's "Life of Cowper," unless she were inclined to
be philosophical, and startle the ladies of St. Ogg's by voting for
one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Of course Lucy wished to know
what these alarmingly learned books were; and as it is always
pleasant to improve the minds of ladies by talking to them at ease
on subjects of which they know nothing, Stephen became quite
brilliant in an account of Buckland's Treatise, which he had just
been reading. He was rewarded by seeing Maggie let her work fall,
and gradually get so absorbed in his wonderful geological story
that she sat looking at him, leaning forward with crossed arms, and
with an entire absence of self-consciousness, as if he had been the
snuffiest of old professors, and she a downy-lipped alumna. He was
so fascinated by the clear, large gaze that at last he forgot to
look away from it occasionally toward Lucy; but she, sweet child,
was only rejoicing that Stephen was proving to Maggie how clever he
was, and that they would certainly be good friends after all.

"I will bring you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver?" said
Stephen, when he found the stream of his recollections running
rather shallow. "There are many illustrations in it that you will
like to see."

"Oh, thank you," said Maggie, blushing with returning
self-consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her work
again.

"No, no," Lucy interposed. "I must forbid your plunging Maggie
in books. I shall never get her away from them; and I want her to
have delicious do-nothing days, filled with boating and chatting
and riding and driving; that is the holiday she needs."

"Apropos!" said Stephen, looking at his watch. "Shall we go out
for a row on the river now? The tide will suit for us to the Tofton
way, and we can walk back."

That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was years
since she had been on the river. When she was gone to put on her
bonnet, Lucy lingered to give an order to the servant, and took the
opportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie had no objection to
seeing Philip, so that it was a pity she had sent that note the day
before yesterday. But she would write another to-morrow and invite
him.

"I'll call and beat him up to-morrow," said Stephen, "and bring
him with me in the evening, shall I? My sisters will want to call
on you when I tell them your cousin is with you. I must leave the
field clear for them in the morning."

"Oh yes, pray bring him," said Lucy. "And you
will
like
Maggie, sha'n't you?" she added, in a beseeching tone. "Isn't she a
dear, noble-looking creature?"

"Too tall," said Stephen, smiling down upon her, "and a little
too fiery. She is not my type of woman, you know."

Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudent
confidences to ladies concerning their unfavorable opinion of
sister fair ones. That is why so many women have the advantage of
knowing that they are secretly repulsive to men who have
self-denyingly made ardent love to them. And hardly anything could
be more distinctively characteristic of Lucy than that she both
implicitly believed what Stephen said, and was determined that
Maggie should not know it. But you, who have a higher logic than
the verbal to guide you, have already foreseen, as the direct
sequence to that unfavorable opinion of Stephen's, that he walked
down to the boathouse calculating, by the aid of a vivid
imagination, that Maggie must give him her hand at least twice in
consequence of this pleasant boating plan, and that a gentleman who
wishes ladies to look at him is advantageously situated when he is
rowing them in a boat. What then? Had he fallen in love with this
surprising daughter of Mrs. Tulliver at first sight? Certainly not.
Such passions are never heard of in real life. Besides, he was in
love already, and half-engaged to the dearest little creature in
the world; and he was not a man to make a fool of himself in any
way. But when one is five-and-twenty, one has not chalk-stones at
one's finger-ends that the touch of a handsome girl should be
entirely indifferent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admire
beauty and enjoy looking at it,–at least under such circumstances
as the present. And there was really something very interesting
about this girl, with her poverty and troubles; it was gratifying
to see the friendship between the two cousins. Generally, Stephen
admitted, he was not fond of women who had any peculiarity of
character, but here the peculiarity seemed really of a superior
kind, and provided one is not obliged to marry such women, why,
they certainly make a variety in social intercourse.

Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him during
the first quarter of an hour; her eyes were too full of the old
banks that she knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from
Philip,–the only person who had ever seemed to love her devotedly,
as she had always longed to be loved. But presently the rhythmic
movement of the oars attracted her, and she thought she should like
to learn how to row. This roused her from her reverie, and she
asked if she might take an oar. It appeared that she required much
teaching, and she became ambitious. The exercise brought the warm
blood into her cheeks, and made her inclined to take her lesson
merrily.

"I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, and row
you and Lucy," she said, looking very bright as she stepped out of
the boat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the thing she was
doing, and she had chosen an inopportune moment for her remark; her
foot slipped, but happily Mr. Stephen Guest held her hand, and kept
her up with a firm grasp.

"You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope?" he said, bending to
look in her face with anxiety. It was very charming to be taken
care of in that kind, graceful manner by some one taller and
stronger than one's self. Maggie had never felt just in the same
way before.

When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet
seated with Mrs. Tulliver in the drawing-room, and Stephen hurried
away, asking leave to come again in the evening.

"And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you took
away," said Lucy. "I want Maggie to hear your best songs."

Aunt Pullet, under the certainty that Maggie would be invited to
go out with Lucy, probably to Park House, was much shocked at the
shabbiness of her clothes, which when witnessed by the higher
society of St. Ogg's, would be a discredit to the family, that
demanded a strong and prompt remedy; and the consultation as to
what would be most suitable to this end from among the
superfluities of Mrs. Pullet's wardrobe was one that Lucy as well
as Mrs. Tulliver entered into with some zeal. Maggie must really
have an evening dress as soon as possible, and she was about the
same height as aunt Pullet.

"But she's so much broader across the shoulders than I am, it's
very ill-convenient," said Mrs. Pullet, "else she might wear that
beautiful black brocade o' mine without any alteration; and her
arms are beyond everything," added Mrs. Pullet, sorrowfully, as she
lifted Maggie's large round arm, "She'd never get my sleeves
on."

"Oh, never mind that, aunt; send us the dress," said Lucy. "I
don't mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I have abundance of
black lace for trimming. Her arms will look beautiful."

"Maggie's arms
are
a pretty shape," said Mrs. Tulliver.
"They're like mine used to be, only mine was never brown; I wish
she'd had
our
family skin."

"Nonsense, aunty!" said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's
shoulder, "you don't understand those things. A painter would think
Maggie's complexion beautiful."

"Maybe, my dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively. "You know
better than I do. Only when I was young a brown skin wasn't thought
well on among respectable folks."

"No," said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in the
ladies' conversation as he sucked his lozenges. "Though there was a
song about the 'Nut-brown Maid' too; I think she was crazy,–crazy
Kate,–but I can't justly remember."

"Oh dear, dear!" said Maggie, laughing, but impatient; "I think
that will be the end of
my
brown skin, if it is always to
be talked about so much."

Chapter III
Confidential Moments

When Maggie went up to her bedroom that night, it appeared that
she was not at all inclined to undress. She set down her candle on
the first table that presented itself, and began to walk up and
down her room, which was a large one, with a firm, regular, and
rather rapid step, which showed that the exercise was the
instinctive vent of strong excitement. Her eyes and cheeks had an
almost feverish brilliancy; her head was thrown backward, and her
hands were clasped with the palms outward, and with that tension of
the arms which is apt to accompany mental absorption.

Had anything remarkable happened?

Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest
degree unimportant. She had been hearing some fine music sung by a
fine bass voice,–but then it was sung in a provincial, amateur
fashion, such as would have left a critical ear much to desire. And
she was conscious of having been looked at a great deal, in rather
a furtive manner, from beneath a pair of well-marked horizontal
eyebrows, with a glance that seemed somehow to have caught the
vibratory influence of the voice. Such things could have had no
perceptible effect on a thoroughly well-educated young lady, with a
perfectly balanced mind, who had had all the advantages of fortune,
training, and refined society. But if Maggie had been that young
lady, you would probably have known nothing about her: her life
would have had so few vicissitudes that it could hardly have been
written; for the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no
history.

In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature,–just come away
from a third-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds and petty
round of tasks,–these apparently trivial causes had the effect of
rousing and exalting her imagination in a way that was mysterious
to herself. It was not that she thought distinctly of Mr. Stephen
Guest, or dwelt on the indications that he looked at her with
admiration; it was rather that she felt the half-remote presence of
a world of love and beauty and delight, made up of vague, mingled
images from all the poetry and romance she had ever read, or had
ever woven in her dreamy reveries. Her mind glanced back once or
twice to the time when she had courted privation, when she had
thought all longing, all impatience was subdued; but that condition
seemed irrecoverably gone, and she recoiled from the remembrance of
it. No prayer, no striving now, would bring back that negative
peace; the battle of her life, it seemed, was not to be decided in
that short and easy way,–by perfect renunciation at the very
threshold of her youth.

The music was vibrating in her still,–Purcell's music, with its
wild passion and fancy,–and she could not stay in the recollection
of that bare, lonely past. She was in her brighter aerial world
again, when a little tap came at the door; of course it was her
cousin, who entered in ample white dressing-gown.

"Why, Maggie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to undress?"
said Lucy, in astonishment. "I promised not to come and talk to
you, because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking
as if you were ready to dress for a ball. Come, come, get on your
dressing-gown and unplait your hair."

"Well,
you
are not very forward," retorted Maggie,
hastily reaching her own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucy's
light-brown hair brushed back in curly disorder.

"Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you
till I see you are really on the way to bed."