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Authors: George Eliot

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BOOK: The Mill on the Floss
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"Tom," she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, "how much
money did you give for your rabbits?"

"Two half-crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly.

"I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel purse
upstairs. I'll ask mother to give it you."

"What for?" said Tom. "I don't want
your
money, you
silly thing. I've got a great deal more money than you, because I'm
a boy. I always have half-sovereigns and sovereigns for my
Christmas boxes because I shall be a man, and you only have
five-shilling pieces, because you're only a girl."

"Well, but, Tom–if mother would let me give you two half-crowns
and a sixpence out of my purse to put into your pocket and spend,
you know, and buy some more rabbits with it?"

"More rabbits? I don't want any more."

"Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead."

Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round toward
Maggie. "You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry forgot?" he said,
his color heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. "I'll pitch
into Harry. I'll have him turned away. And I don't love you,
Maggie. You sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go
and see the rabbits every day." He walked on again.

"Yes, but I forgot–and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. I'm so
very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.

"You're a naughty girl," said Tom, severely, "and I'm sorry I
bought you the fish-line. I don't love you."

"Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. "I'd forgive you, if
you
forgot anything–I wouldn't mind what you did–I'd
forgive you and love you."

"Yes, you're silly; but I never
do
forget things,
I
don't."

"Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break," said Maggie,
shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and laying her wet cheek
on his shoulder.

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory
tone, "Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good brother to
you?"

"Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling
convulsedly.

"Didn't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean
to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't go halves in
the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn't?"

"Ye-ye-es–and I–lo-lo-love you so, Tom."

"But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint
off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat
drag my fish-line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed
your head through my kite, all for nothing."

"But I didn't mean," said Maggie; "I couldn't help it."

"Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were
doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with
me to-morrow."

With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie toward
the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain to him of
Harry.

Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or
two; then she turned round and ran into the house, and up to her
attic, where she sat on the floor and laid her head against the
worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was come
home, and she had thought how happy she should be; and now he was
cruel to her. What use was anything if Tom didn't love her? Oh, he
was very cruel! Hadn't she wanted to give him the money, and said
how very sorry she was? She knew she was naughty to her mother, but
she had never been naughty to Tom–had never
meant
to be
naughty to him.

"Oh, he is cruel!" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched
pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the long empty
space of the attic. She never thought of beating or grinding her
Fetish; she was too miserable to be angry.

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and
strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and
weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it must
be tea-time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking
of her. Well, then, she would stay up there and starve
herself,–hide herself behind the tub, and stay there all night,–and
then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be sorry. Thus
Maggie thought in the pride of her heart, as she crept behind the
tub; but presently she began to cry again at the idea that they
didn't mind her being there. If she went down again to Tom
now–would he forgive her? Perhaps her father would be there, and he
would take her part. But then she wanted Tom to forgive her because
he loved her, not because his father told him. No, she would never
go down if Tom didn't come to fetch her. This resolution lasted in
great intensity for five dark minutes behind the tub; but then the
need of being loved–the strongest need in poor Maggie's
nature–began to wrestle with her pride, and soon threw it. She
crept from behind her tub into the twilight of the long attic, but
just then she heard a quick foot-step on the stairs.

Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke, in going
the round of the premises, walking in and out where he pleased, and
whittling sticks without any particular reason,–except that he
didn't whittle sticks at school,–to think of Maggie and the effect
his anger had produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that
business having been performed, he occupied himself with other
matters, like a practical person. But when he had been called in to
tea, his father said, "Why, where's the little wench?" and Mrs.
Tulliver, almost at the same moment, said, "Where's your little
sister?"–both of them having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been
together all the afternoon.

"I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to "tell" of Maggie,
though he was angry with her; for Tom Tulliver was a lad of
honor.

"What! hasn't she been playing with you all this while?" said
the father. "She'd been thinking o' nothing but your coming
home."

"I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing on the
plumcake.

"Goodness heart; she's got drownded!" exclaimed Mrs. Tulliver,
rising from her seat and running to the window.

"How could you let her do so?" she added, as became a fearful
woman, accusing she didn't know whom of she didn't know what.

"Nay, nay, she's none drownded," said Mr. Tulliver. "You've been
naughty to her, I doubt, Tom?"

"I'm sure I haven't, father," said Tom, indignantly. "I think
she's in the house."

"Perhaps up in that attic," said Mrs. Tulliver, "a-singing and
talking to herself, and forgetting all about meal-times."

"You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, rather
sharply,–his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for Maggie
making him suspect that the lad had been hard upon "the little un,"
else she would never have left his side. "And be good to her, do
you hear? Else I'll let you know better."

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a
peremptory man, and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold
of his whip-hand; but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his
piece of plumcake, and not intending to reprieve Maggie's
punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom was only
thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and arithmetic,
regarding them for the most part as open questions, but he was
particularly clear and positive on one point,–namely, that he would
punish everybody who deserved it. Why, he wouldn't have minded
being punished himself if he deserved it; but, then, he never
did
deserve it.

It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs, when
her need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going
down with her swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At
least her father would stroke her head and say, "Never mind, my
wench." It is a wonderful subduer, this need of love,–this hunger
of the heart,–as peremptory as that other hunger by which Nature
forces us to submit to the yoke, and change the face of the
world.

But she knew Tom's step, and her heart began to beat violently
with the sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of
the stairs and said, "Maggie, you're to come down." But she rushed
to him and clung round his neck, sobbing, "Oh, Tom, please forgive
me–I can't bear it–I will always be good–always remember things–do
love me–please, dear Tom!"

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart
when we have quarrelled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases,
and in this way preserve a dignified alienation, showing much
firmness on one side, and swallowing much grief on the other. We no
longer approximate in our behavior to the mere impulsiveness of the
lower animals, but conduct ourselves in every respect like members
of a highly civilized society. Maggie and Tom were still very much
like young animals, and so she could rub her cheek against his, and
kiss his ear in a random sobbing way; and there were tender fibres
in the lad that had been used to answer to Maggie's fondling, so
that he behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent with his
resolution to punish her as much as she deserved. He actually began
to kiss her in return, and say,–

"Don't cry, then, Magsie; here, eat a bit o' cake."

Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for
the cake and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for
company, and they ate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and
brows and noses together, while they ate, with a humiliating
resemblance to two friendly ponies.

"Come along, Magsie, and have tea," said Tom at last, when there
was no more cake except what was down-stairs.

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie
was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of
the basket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in
the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under her
beaver-bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom,
however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for
her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms
couldn't feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much
matter if they did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those
things; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened,
and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie
thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful,–much more
difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was
rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who
called her knowledge "stuff," and did not feel surprised at her
cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly
little thing; all girls were silly,–they couldn't throw a stone so
as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, and
were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister,
and meant always to take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and
punish her when she did wrong.

They were on their way to the Round Pool,–that wonderful pool,
which the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it
was; and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect
round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was
only to be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the
old favorite spot always heightened Tom's good humor, and he spoke
to Maggie in the most amicable whispers, as he opened the precious
basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and
put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the
small fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But
she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at
the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, "Look, look,
Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from snatching her line
away.

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong,
as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large
tench bouncing on the grass.

Tom was excited.

"O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket."

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough
that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was
nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences,
when she listened to the light dripping sounds of the rising fish,
and the gentle rustling, as if the willows and the reeds and the
water had their happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would
make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never
be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her; but
she liked fishing very much.

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat
down together, with no thought that life would ever change much for
them; they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would
always be like the holidays; they would always live together and be
fond of each other. And the mill with its booming; the great
chestnut-tree under which they played at houses; their own little
river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was
always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple
plumy tops of the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward;
above all, the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense
of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eagre, come up
like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once
wailed and groaned like a man, these things would always be just
the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who
lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read
about Christiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge,"
always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great
Ash.

Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong
in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would
always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the
earth so well if we had had no childhood in it,–if it were not the
earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we
used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves
on the grass; the same hips and haws on the autumn's hedgerows; the
same redbreasts that we used to call "God's birds," because they
did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet
monotony where everything is known, and
loved
because it
is known?

BOOK: The Mill on the Floss
12.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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