The Mill on the Floss

Chapter V

Maggie's Second Visit

This last breach between the two lads was not readily mended, and forsome time they spoke to each other no more than was necessary. Theirnatural antipathy of temperament made resentment an easy passage tohatred, and in Philip the transition seemed to have begun; there wasno malignity in his disposition, but there was a susceptibility thatmade him peculiarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox--wemay venture to assert it on the authority of a great classic--is notgiven to use his teeth as an instrument of attack, and Tom was anexcellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in a trulyingenious bovine manner; but he had blundered on Philip's tenderestpoint, and had caused him as much acute pain as if he had studied themeans with the nicest precision and the most envenomed spite. Tom sawno reason why they should not make up this quarrel as they had donemany others, by behaving as if nothing had happened; for though he hadnever before said to Philip that his father was a rogue, this idea hadso habitually made part of his feeling as to the relation betweenhimself and his dubious schoolfellow, who he could neither like nordislike, that the mere utterance did not make such an epoch to him asit did to Philip. And he had a right to say so when Philip hectoredover _him_, and called him names. But perceiving that his firstadvances toward amity were not met, he relapsed into his leastfavorable disposition toward Philip, and resolved never to appeal tohim either about drawing or exercise again. They were only so farcivil to each other as was necessary to prevent their state of feudfrom being observed by Mr. Stelling, who would have ”put down” suchnonsense with great vigor.

When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking with growinginterest at the new schoolfellow, although he was the son of thatwicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her father so angry. She had arrived inthe middle of school-hours, and had sat by while Philip went throughhis lessons with Mr. Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her wordthat Philip knew no end of stories,--not stupid stories like hers; andshe was convinced now from her own observation that he must be veryclever; she hoped he would think _her_ rather clever too, when shecame to talk to him. Maggie, moreover, had rather a tenderness fordeformed things; she preferred the wry-necked lambs, because it seemedto her that the lambs which were quite strong and well made wouldn'tmind so much about being petted; and she was especially fond ofpetting objects that would think it very delightful to be petted byher. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often wished that he _cared_more about her loving him.

”I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom,” she said, when they wentout of the study together into the garden, to pass the interval beforedinner. ”He couldn't choose his father, you know; and I've read ofvery bad men who had good sons, as well as good parents who had badchildren. And if Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more sorryfor him because his father is not a good man. _You_ like him, don'tyou?”

”Oh, he's a queer fellow,” said Tom, curtly, ”and he's as sulky as canbe with me, because I told him his father was a rogue. And I'd a rightto tell him so, for it was true; and _he_ began it, with calling menames. But you stop here by yourself a bit, Maggie, will you? I've gotsomething I want to do upstairs.”

”Can't I go too?” said Maggie, who in this first day of meeting againloved Tom's shadow.

”No, it's something I'll tell you about by-and-by, not yet,” said Tom,skipping away.

In the afternoon the boys were at their books in the study, preparingthe morrow's lesson's that they might have a holiday in the evening inhonor of Maggie's arrival. Tom was hanging over his Latin grammar,moving his lips inaudibly like a strict but impatient Catholicrepeating his tale of paternosters; and Philip, at the other end ofthe room, was busy with two volumes, with a look of contenteddiligence that excited Maggie's curiosity; he did not look at all asif he were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a rightangle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other; andPhilip, looking off his book once toward the fire-place, caught thepair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He thought this sisterof Tulliver's seemed a nice little thing, quite unlike her brother; hewished _he_ had a little sister. What was it, he wondered, that madeMaggie's dark eyes remind him of the stories about princesses beingturned into animals? I think it was that her eyes were full ofunsatisfied intelligence, and unsatisfied beseeching affection.

”I say, Magsie,” said Tom at last, shutting his books and putting themaway with the energy and decision of a perfect master in the art ofleaving off, ”I've done my lessons now. Come upstairs with me.”

”What is it?” said Maggie, when they were outside the door, a slightsuspicion crossing her mind as she remembered Tom's preliminary visitupstairs. ”It isn't a trick you're going to play me, now?”

”No, no, Maggie,” said Tom, in his most coaxing tone; ”It's somethingyou'll like _ever so_.”

He put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his waist, andtwined together in this way, they went upstairs.

”I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know,” said Tom, ”elseI shall get fifty lines.”

”Is it alive?” said Maggie, whose imagination had settled for themoment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandestinely.

”Oh, I sha'n't tell you,” said he. ”Now you go into that corner andhide your face, while I reach it out,” he added, as he locked thebedroom door behind them. ”I'll tell you when to turn round. Youmustn't squeal out, you know.”

”Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall,” said Maggie, beginning to lookrather serious.

”You won't be frightened, you silly thing,” said Tom. ”Go and hideyour face, and mind you don't peep.”

”Of course I sha'n't peep,” said Maggie, disdainfully; and she buriedher face in the pillow like a person of strict honor.

But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet; then hestepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the door. Maggie kepther face buried without the aid of principle, for in thatdream-suggestive attitude she had soon forgotten where she was, andher thoughts were busy with the poor deformed boy, who was so clever,when Tom called out, ”Now then, Magsie!”

Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement of effectswould have enabled Tom to present so striking a figure as he did toMaggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied with the pacific aspect of aface which had no more than the faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow,together with a pair of amiable blue-gray eyes and round pink cheeksthat refused to look formidable, let him frown as he would before thelooking-glass (Philip had once told him of a man who had a horseshoefrown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning might to make ahorseshoe on his forehead), he had had recourse to that unfailingsource of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made himself a pair ofblack eyebrows that met in a satisfactory manner over his nose, andwere matched by a less carefully adjusted blackness about the chin. Hehad wound a red handkerchief round his cloth cap to give it the air ofa turban, and his red comforter across his breast as a scarf,--anamount of red which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and thedecision with which he grasped the sword, as he held it with its pointresting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximate idea ofhis fierce and bloodthirsty disposition.

Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed that momentkeenly; but in the next she laughed, clapped her hands together, andsaid, ”Oh, Tom, you've made yourself like Bluebeard at the show.”

It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of thesword,--it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous mind required a moredirect appeal to its sense of the terrible, and Tom prepared for hismaster-stroke. Frowning with a double amount of intention, if not ofcorrugation, he (carefully) drew the sword from its sheath, andpointed it at Maggie.

”Oh, Tom, please don't!” exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of suppresseddread, shrinking away from him into the opposite corner. ”I _shall_scream--I'm sure I shall! Oh, don't I wish I'd never come upstairs!”

The corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a smile ofcomplacency that was immediately checked as inconsistent with theseverity of a great warrior. Slowly he let down the scabbard on thefloor, lest it should make too much noise, and then said sternly,--

”I'm the Duke of Wellington! March!” stamping forward with the rightleg a little bent, and the sword still pointing toward Maggie, who,trembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got upon the bed, as the onlymeans of widening the space between them.

Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, even thoughthe spectator was only Maggie, proceeded, with the utmost exertion ofhis force, to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as wouldnecessarily be expected of the Duke of Wellington.

”Tom, I _will not_ bear it, I _will_ scream,” said Maggie, at thefirst movement of the sword. ”You'll hurt yourself; you'll cut yourhead off!”

”One--two,” said Tom, resolutely, though at ”two” his wrist trembled alittle. ”Three” came more slowly, and with it the sword swungdownward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. The sword had fallen, withits edge on Tom's foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too.Maggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and immediately there wasa rush of footsteps toward the room. Mr. Stelling, from his upstairsstudy, was the first to enter. He found both the children on thefloor. Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the collar ofhis jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought he was dead, poorchild! and yet she shook him, as if that would bring him back to life.In another minute she was sobbing with joy because Tom opened hiseyes. She couldn't sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot; it seemed asif all happiness lay in his being alive.