The Mill on the Floss (79 page)

And thus every direction in which Dr. Kenn had turned, in the
hope of procuring some kind recognition and some employment for
Maggie, proved a disappointment to him. Mrs. James Torry could not
think of taking Maggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily,–a
young woman about whom "such things had been said," and about whom
"gentlemen joked"; and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, and
wanted a reader and companion, felt quite sure that Maggie's mind
must be of a quality with which she, for her part, could not risk
any
contact. Why did not Miss Tulliver accept the shelter
offered her by her aunt Glegg? It did not become a girl like her to
refuse it. Or else, why did she not go out of the neighborhood, and
get a situation where she was not known? (It was not, apparently,
of so much importance that she should carry her dangerous
tendencies into strange families unknown at St. Ogg's.) She must be
very bold and hardened to wish to stay in a parish where she was so
much stared at and whispered about.

Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence
of this opposition, as every firm man would have done, to contract
a certain strength of determination over and above what would have
been called forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily
governess for his younger children; and though he had hesitated in
the first instance to offer this position to Maggie, the resolution
to protest with the utmost force of his personal and priestly
character against her being crushed and driven away by slander, was
now decisive. Maggie gratefully accepted an employment that gave
her duties as well as a support; her days would be filled now, and
solitary evenings would be a welcome rest. She no longer needed the
sacrifice her mother made in staying with her, and Mrs. Tulliver
was persuaded to go back to the Mill.

But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exemplary as he
had hitherto appeared, had his crotchets, possibly his weaknesses.
The masculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled pleasantly, and did not
wonder that Kenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he
was inclined to take so lenient a view of the past; the feminine
mind, regarded at that period as less powerful, took a more
melancholy view of the case. If Dr. Kenn should be beguiled into
marrying that Miss Tulliver! It was not safe to be too confident,
even about the best of men; an apostle had fallen, and wept
bitterly afterwards; and though Peter's denial was not a close
precedent, his repentance was likely to be.

Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for many
weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other
becoming the Rector's wife had been talked of so often in
confidence, that ladies were beginning to discuss how they should
behave to her in that position. For Dr. Kenn, it had been
understood, had sat in the schoolroom half an hour one morning,
when Miss Tulliver was giving her lessons,–nay, he had sat there
every morning; he had once walked home with her,–he almost
always
walked home with her,–and if not, he went to see
her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! What a
mother
for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs.
Kenn turn in her grave, that they should be put under the care of
this girl only a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to
propriety as to marry her before the year was out? The masculine
mind was sarcastic, and thought
not
.

The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a
folly in their Rector; at least their brother would be safe; and
their knowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a constant ground of
alarm to them, lest he should come back and marry Maggie. They were
not among those who disbelieved their brother's letter; but they
had no confidence in Maggie's adherence to her renunciation of him;
they suspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than
from the marriage, and that she lingered in St. Ogg's, relying on
his return to her. They had always thought her disagreeable; they
now thought her artful and proud; having quite as good grounds for
that judgment as you and I probably have for many strong opinions
of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the
contemplated match with Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage
between Stephen and Maggie added its momentum to their genuine pity
and indignation on behalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making
them desire that he should return to her. As soon as Lucy was able
to leave home, she was to seek relief from the oppressive heat of
this August by going to the coast with the Miss Guests; and it was
in their plans that Stephen should be induced to join them. On the
very first hint of gossip concerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the
report was conveyed in Miss Guest's letter to her brother.

Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg,
or Dr. Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress toward recovery, and her
thoughts tended continually toward her uncle Deane's house; she
hungered for an interview with Lucy, if it were only for five
minutes, to utter a word of penitence, to be assured by Lucy's own
eyes and lips that she did not believe in the willing treachery of
those whom she had loved and trusted. But she knew that even if her
uncle's indignation had not closed his house against her, the
agitation of such an interview would have been forbidden to Lucy.
Only to have seen her without speaking would have been some relief;
for Maggie was haunted by a face cruel in its very gentleness; a
face that had been turned on hers with glad, sweet looks of trust
and love from the twilight time of memory; changed now to a sad and
weary face by a first heart-stroke. And as the days passed on, that
pale image became more and more distinct; the picture grew and grew
into more speaking definiteness under the avenging hand of remorse;
the soft hazel eyes, in their look of pain, were bent forever on
Maggie, and pierced her the more because she could see no anger in
them. But Lucy was not yet able to go to church, or any place where
Maggie could see her; and even the hope of that departed, when the
news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy was really going away in
a few days to Scarborough with the Miss Guests, who had been heard
to say that they expected their brother to meet them there.

Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is, can
know what Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the evening
after hearing that news from Mrs. Glegg,–only those who have known
what it is to dread their own selfish desires as the watching
mother would dread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own
pain.

She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window wide
open toward the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itself
undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair
against the window, with her arm on the windowsill she was looking
blankly at the flowing river, swift with the backward-rushing tide,
struggling to see still the sweet face in its unreproaching
sadness, that seemed now from moment to moment to sink away and be
hidden behind a form that thrust itself between, and made darkness.
Hearing the door open, she thought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with
her supper, as usual; and with that repugnance to trivial speech
which comes with languor and wretchedness, she shrank from turning
round and saying she wanted nothing; good little Mrs. Jakin would
be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But the next moment,
without her having discerned the sound of a footstep, she felt a
light hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice close to her saying,
"Maggie!"

The face was there,–changed, but all the sweeter; the hazel eyes
were there, with their heart-piercing tenderness.

"Maggie!" the soft voice said. "Lucy!" answered a voice with a
sharp ring of anguish in it; and Lucy threw her arms round Maggie's
neck, and leaned her pale cheek against the burning brow.

"I stole out," said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat
down close to Maggie and held her hand, "when papa and the rest
were away. Alice is come with me. I asked her to help me. But I
must only stay a little while, because it is so late."

It was easier to say that at first than to say anything else.
They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must
end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt
that there would be something scorching in the words that would
recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every
distinct thought began to be overflowed by a wave of loving
penitence, and words burst forth with a sob.

"God bless you for coming, Lucy."

The sobs came thick on each other after that.

"Maggie, dear, be comforted," said Lucy now, putting her cheek
against Maggie's again. "Don't grieve." And she sat still, hoping
to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress.

"I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy," said Maggie, as soon as
she could speak. "It always made me wretched that I felt what I
didn't like you to know. It was because I thought it would all be
conquered, and you might never see anything to wound you."

"I know, dear," said Lucy. "I know you never meant to make me
unhappy. It is a trouble that has come on us all; you have more to
bear than I have–and you gave him up, when–you did what it must
have been very hard to do."

They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped
hands, and cheeks leaned together.

"Lucy," Maggie began again, "
he
struggled too. He
wanted to be true to you. He will come back to you. Forgive him–he
will be happy then––"

These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul, with an
effort like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled
and was silent.

A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, who
entered and said,–

"I daren't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They'll find it out, and
there'll be such anger at your coming out so late."

Lucy rose and said, "Very well, Alice,–in a minute."

"I'm to go away on Friday, Maggie," she added, when Alice had
closed the door again. "When I come back, and am strong, they will
let me do as I like. I shall come to you when I please then."

"Lucy," said Maggie, with another great effort, "I pray to God
continually that I may never be the cause of sorrow to you any
more."

She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and
looked up into the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never forgot
that look.

"Maggie," she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity of
confession in it, "you are better than I am. I can't––"

She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped each
other again in a last embrace.

Chapter V
The Last Conflict

In the second week of September, Maggie was again sitting in her
lonely room, battling with the old shadowy enemies that were
forever slain and rising again. It was past midnight, and the rain
was beating heavily against the window, driven with fitful force by
the rushing, loud-moaning wind. For the day after Lucy's visit
there had been a sudden change in the weather; the heat and drought
had given way to cold variable winds, and heavy falls of rain at
intervals; and she had been forbidden to risk the contemplated
journey until the weather should become more settled. In the
counties higher up the Floss the rains had been continuous, and the
completion of the harvest had been arrested. And now, for the last
two days, the rains on this lower course of the river had been
incessant, so that the old men had shaken their heads and talked of
sixty years ago, when the same sort of weather, happening about the
equinox, brought on the great floods, which swept the bridge away,
and reduced the town to great misery. But the younger generation,
who had seen several small floods, thought lightly of these sombre
recollections and forebodings; and Bob Jakin, naturally prone to
take a hopeful view of his own luck, laughed at his mother when she
regretted their having taken a house by the riverside, observing
that but for that they would have had no boats, which were the most
lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged them to go to
a distance for food.

But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their
beds now. There was hope that the rain would abate by the morrow;
threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws after falls of
snow, had often passed off, in the experience of the younger ones;
and at the very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down
the river when the tide came in with violence, and so the waters
would be carried off, without causing more than temporary
inconvenience, and losses that would be felt only by the poorer
sort, whom charity would relieve.

All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight; all except
some solitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little
parlor toward the river, with one candle, that left everything dim
in the room except a letter which lay before her on the table. That
letter, which had come to her to-day, was one of the causes that
had kept her up far on into the night, unconscious how the hours
were going, careless of seeking rest, with no image of rest coming
across her mind, except of that far, far off rest from which there
would be no more waking for her into this struggling earthly
life.

Two days before Maggie received that letter, she had been to the
Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented her
from going since; but there was another reason. Dr. Kenn, at first
enlightened only by a few hints as to the new turn which gossip and
slander had taken in relation to Maggie, had recently been made
more fully aware of it by an earnest remonstrance from one of his
male parishioners against the indiscretion of persisting in the
attempt to overcome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course
of resistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in the
matter, was still inclined to persevere,–was still averse to give
way before a public sentiment that was odious and contemptible; but
he was finally wrought upon by the consideration of the peculiar
responsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance
of evil,–an "appearance" that is always dependent on the average
quality of surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross,
the area of that "appearance" is proportionately widened. Perhaps
he was in danger of acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty
to succumb. Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that
which is the most painful course; and to recede was always painful
to Dr. Kenn. He made up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go
away from St. Ogg's for a time; and he performed that difficult
task with as much delicacy as he could, only stating in vague terms
that he found his attempt to countenance her stay was a source of
discord between himself and his parishioners, that was likely to
obstruct his usefulness as a clergyman. He begged her to allow him
to write to a clerical friend of his, who might possibly take her
into his own family as governess; and, if not, would probably know
of some other available position for a young woman in whose welfare
Dr. Kenn felt a strong interest.