The Mill on the Floss

Chapter VII

Philip Re-enters

The next morning was very wet,--the sort of morning on which maleneighbors who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to paytheir fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has beenendurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to become soheavy, and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, thatnothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit; latentdetestation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers,what can be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning? Englishsunshine is dubious; bonnets are never quite secure; and if you sitdown on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to bedepended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and presently findyourself in the seat you like best,--a little above or a little belowthe one on which your goddess sits (it is the same thing to themetaphysical mind, and that is the reason why women are at onceworshipped and looked down upon), with a satisfactory confidence thatthere will be no lady-callers.

”Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know,” said Lucy; ”healways does when it's rainy.”

Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to thinkshe should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she wouldhave gone to her aunt Glegg's this morning, and so have avoided himaltogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out ofthe room with her mother.

But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another visitor--anearer neighbor--who preceded him. When Philip entered the room, hewas going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance wasa secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advancedtoward him and put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had beentaken into her confidence. It was a moment of some agitation to both,though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like allpersons who have passed through life with little expectation ofsympathy, he seldom lost his self-control, and shrank with the mostsensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A littleextra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and thevoice pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seemexpressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usuallygave of an inward drama that was not without its fierceness. ButMaggie, who had little more power of concealing the impressions madeupon her than if she had been constructed of musical strings, felt hereyes getting larger with tears as they took each other's hands insilence. They were not painful tears; they had rather something of thesame origin as the tears women and children shed when they have foundsome protection to cling to and look back on the threatened danger.For Philip, who a little while ago was associated continually inMaggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her with somejustice, had now, in this short space, become a sort of outwardconscience to her, that she might fly to for rescue and strength. Hertranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root deep down in herchildhood, and its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinctsuccessive impressions the first instinctive bias,--the fact that inhim the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotednessthan to her vanity or other egoistic excitability of hernature,--seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary whereshe could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best partof herself must resist; which must bring horrible tumult within,wretchedness without. This new sense of her relation to Philipnullified the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest sheshould overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom wouldsanction and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in hereyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The scene was justwhat Lucy expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philipand Maggie together again; though, even with all _her_ regard forPhilip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom hadsome excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity betweenthe two,--a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn't like poetry andfairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set themat ease.

”This was very good and virtuous of you,” she said, in her prettytreble, like the low conversational notes of little birds, ”to come sosoon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you forrunning away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends nonotice. Come and sit down here,” she went on, placing the chair thatwould suit him best, ”and you shall find yourself treated mercifully.”

”You will never govern well, Miss Deane,” said Philip, as he seatedhimself, ”because no one will ever believe in your severity. Peoplewill always encourage themselves in misdemeanors by the certainty thatyou will be indulgent.”

Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not hear what itwas, for he had naturally turned toward Maggie, and she was looking athim with that open, affectionate scrutiny which we give to a friendfrom whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting hadbeen! And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He feltthis so keenly,--with such intense, detailed remembrance, with suchpassionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their lastconversation,--that with that jealousy and distrust which in diffidentnatures is almost inevitably linked with a strong feeling, he thoughthe read in Maggie's glance and manner the evidence of a change. Thevery fact that he feared and half expected it would be sure to makethis thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to thecontrary.

”I am having a great holiday, am I not?” said Maggie. ”Lucy is like afairy godmother; she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in notime. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she alwaysfinds out what I want before I know it myself.”

”I am sure she is the happier for having you, then,” said Philip. ”Youmust be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you lookwell. You are benefiting by the change.”

Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, tillLucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a good imitationof annoyance, that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out ofthe room.

In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the hands wereclasped again, with a look of sad contentment, like that of friendswho meet in the memory of recent sorrow.

”I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip; I asked him to releaseme from my promise, and he consented.”

Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once theposition they must hold toward each other; but she checked herself.The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for herwere so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them.It seemed almost like an injury toward Philip even to mention herbrother,--her brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking tooentirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment.

”Then we can at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hinderthat now?”

”Will not your father object?” said Maggie, withdrawing her hand.

”I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie,”said Philip, coloring. ”There are points on which I should alwaysresist my father, as I used to tell you. _That_ is one.”

”Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip,--seeingeach other and talking to each other while I am here; I shall soon goaway again. I mean to go very soon, to a new situation.”

”Is that inevitable, Maggie?”

”Yes; I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I mustbegin again at last. I can't live in dependence,--I can't live with mybrother, though he is very good to me. He would like to provide forme; but that would be intolerable to me.”

Philip was silent a few moments, and then said, in that high, feeblevoice which with him indicated the resolute suppression of emotion,--

”Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life, away from thosewho love you, the only one you will allow yourself to look forwardto?”

”Yes, Philip,” she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if sheentreated him to believe that she was compelled to this course. ”Atleast, as things are; I don't know what may be in years to come. But Ibegin to think there can never come much happiness to me from loving;I have always had so much pain mingled with it. I wish I could makemyself a world outside it, as men do.”

”Now you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie,--thethought I used to combat,” said Philip, with a slight tinge ofbitterness. ”You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will bean escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escapepossible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature. What wouldbecome of me, if I tried to escape from pain? Scorn and cynicism wouldbe my only opium; unless I could fall into some kind of conceitedmadness, and fancy myself a favorite of Heaven because I am not afavorite with men.”

The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went onspeaking; the words were evidently an outlet for some immediatefeeling of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. There was a painpressing on him at that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from thefaintest allusion to the words of love, of plighted love that hadpassed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggieof a promise; it would have had for him something of the baseness ofcompulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had notchanged; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His lovefor Maggie was stamped, even more than the rest of his experience,with the exaggerated sense that he was an exception,--that she, thatevery one, saw him in the light of an exception.

But Maggie was conscience-stricken.

”Yes, Philip,” she said, with her childish contrition when he used tochide her, ”you are right, I know. I do always think too much of myown feelings, and not enough of others',--not enough of yours. I hadneed have you always to find fault with me and teach me; so manythings have come true that you used to tell me.”

Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head on herhand and looking at Philip with half-penitent dependent affection, asshe said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expressionthat, to her consciousness, gradually became less vague,--becamecharged with a specific recollection. Had his mind flown back tosomething that _she_ now remembered,--something about a lover ofLucy's? It was a thought that made her shudder; it gave newdefiniteness to her present position, and to the tendency of what hadhappened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urgedto change her position by that positive physical oppression at theheart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental pang.

”What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened?” Philip said, ininexpressible anxiety, his imagination being only too ready to weaveeverything that was fatal to them both.

”No, nothing,” said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must nothave that odious thought in his mind; she would banish it from herown. ”Nothing,” she repeated, ”except in my own mind. You used to sayI should feel the effect of my starved life, as you called it; and Ido. I am too eager in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now theyare come to me.”

She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philipwatched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than thisgeneral allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggie's character to beagitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violentwell-known ring at the door-bell resounding through the house.

”Oh, what a startling announcement!” said Maggie, quite mistress ofherself, though not without some inward flutter. ”I wonder where Lucyis.”

Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval longenough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herselfushered Stephen in.

”Well, old fellow,” he said, going straight up to Philip and shakinghim heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, ”it's gloriousto have you back again; only I wish you'd conduct yourself a littleless like a sparrow with a residence on the house-top, and not go inand out constantly without letting the servants know. This is aboutthe twentieth time I've had to scamper up those countless stairs tothat painting-room of yours, all to no purpose, because your peoplethought you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship.”

”I've so few visitors, it seems hardly worth while to leave notice ofmy exit and entrances,” said Philip, feeling rather oppressed justthen by Stephen's bright strong presence and strong voice.

”Are you quite well this morning, Miss Tulliver?” said Stephen,turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting out his hand withthe air of fulfilling a social duty.

Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, ”Quite well, thankyou,” in a tone of proud indifference. Philip's eyes were watchingthem keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their manner toeach other, and only thought with regret that there was some naturalantipathy which every now and then surmounted their mutual good-will.”Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritatedby something in him which she interprets as conceit,” was the silentobservation that accounted for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephenand Maggie had no sooner completed this studied greeting than eachfelt hurt by the other's coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on inquestions to Philip about his recent sketching expedition, wasthinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her intothe conversation as he had invariably done before. ”Maggie and Philipare not looking happy,” thought Lucy; ”this first interview has beensaddening to them.”

”I think we people who have not been galloping,” she said to Stephen,”are all a little damped by the rain. Let us have some music. We oughtto take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duetin 'Masaniello'; Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suither.”

”Come, then,” said Stephen, going toward the piano, and giving aforetaste of the tune in his deep ”brum-brum,” very pleasant to hear.

”You, please, Philip,--you play the accompaniment,” said Lucy, ”andthen I can go on with my work. You _will_ like to play, sha'n't you?”she added, with a pretty, inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest sheshould have proposed what was not pleasant to another; but withyearnings toward her unfinished embroidery.

Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no feeling,perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not findrelief in music,--that does not make a man sing or play the better;and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, ascomplex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love andjealousy and resignation and fierce suspicion, all at the same time.

”Oh, yes,” he said, seating himself at the piano, ”it is a way ofeking out one's imperfect life and being three people at once,--tosing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while,--orelse to sing and paint.”

”Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing with myhands,” said Stephen. ”That has generally been observed in men ofgreat administrative capacity, I believe,--a tendency to predominanceof the reflective powers in me! Haven't you observed that, MissTulliver?”

Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal toMaggie, and she could not repress the answering flush and epigram.

”I _have_ observed a tendency to predominance,” she said, smiling; andPhilip at that moment devoutly hoped that she found the tendencydisagreeable.

”Come, come,” said Lucy; ”music, music! We will discuss each other'squalities another time.”

Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began.She tried harder than ever to-day; for the thought that Stephen knewhow much she cared for his singing was one that no longer roused amerely playful resistance; and she knew, too, that it was his habitalways to stand so that he could look at her. But it was of no use;she soon threw her work down, and all her intentions were lost in thevague state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet,--emotion thatseemed to make her at once strong and weak; strong for all enjoyment,weak for all resistance. When the strain passed into the minor, shehalf started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that change. PoorMaggie! She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on inthis way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen theslightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame as she leaneda little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself; whileher eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, childishexpression of wondering delight which always came back in her happiestmoments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano whenMaggie was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to stealup to her and kiss her. Philip, too, caught a glimpse of her now andthen round the open book on the desk, and felt that he had neverbefore seen her under so strong an influence.

”More, more!” said Lucy, when the duet had been encored. ”Somethingspirited again. Maggie always says she likes a great rush of sound.”

”It must be 'Let us take the road,' then,” said Stephen,--”so suitablefor a wet morning. But are you prepared to abandon the most sacredduties of life, and come and sing with us?”

”Oh, yes,” said Lucy, laughing. ”If you will look out the 'Beggar'sOpera' from the large canterbury. It has a dingy cover.”

”That is a great clue, considering there are about a score covers hereof rival dinginess,” said Stephen, drawing out the canterbury.

”Oh, play something the while, Philip,” said Lucy, noticing that hisfingers were wandering over the keys. ”What is that you are fallinginto?--something delicious that I don't know.”

”Don't you know that?” said Philip, bringing out the tune moredefinitely. ”It's from the 'Sonnambula'--'Ah! perche non possoodiarti.' I don't know the opera, but it appears the tenor is tellingthe heroine that he shall always love her though she may forsake him.You've heard me sing it to the English words, 'I love thee still.'”

It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered into thissong, which might be an indirect expression to Maggie of what he couldnot prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had been opento what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she understood theplaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very finequalities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her; it had sung toher by snatches, in a subdued way, among the grassy walks and hollows,and underneath the leaning ash-tree in the Red Deeps. There seemed tobe some reproach in the words; did Philip mean that? She wished shehad assured him more distinctly in their conversation that she desirednot to renew the hope of love between them, _only_ because it clashedwith her inevitable circumstances. She was touched, not thrilled bythe song; it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and broughtquiet regret in the place of excitement.

”That's the way with you tenors,” said Stephen, who was waiting withmusic in his hand while Philip finished the song. ”You demoralize thefair sex by warbling your sentimental love and constancy under allsorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served upin a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent youfrom expressing your entire resignation. I must administer anantidote, while Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from herbobbins.”

Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy,--

”Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?”

and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new influence.Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went toward the piano withlaughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of herresistance to the spirit of the song and to the singer, was taken holdof and shaken by the invisible influence,--was borne along by a wavetoo strong for her.

But, angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her work, andwent on making false stitches and pricking her fingers with muchperseverance, not looking up or taking notice of what was goingforward, until all the three voices united in ”Let us take the road.”

I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification inher mind if she had known how entirely this saucy, defiant Stephen wasoccupied with her; how he was passing rapidly from a determination totreat her with ostentatious indifference to an irritating desire forsome sign of inclination from her,--some interchange of subdued wordor look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, whenthey had passed to the music of ”The Tempest.” Maggie, feeling theneed of a footstool, was walking across the room to get one, whenStephen, who was not singing just then, and was conscious of all hermovements, guessed her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting thefootstool with an entreating look at her, which made it impossible notto return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstoolplaced carefully by a too self-confident personage,--not _any_self-confident personage, but one in particular, who suddenly lookshumble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is notsome draught in that position between the window and the fireplace,and if he may not be allowed to move the work-table for her,--thesethings will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tendernessinto a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her girlish time to learnher life-lessons in very trivial language. And to Maggie such thingshad not been every-day incidents, but were a new element in her life,and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone ofgentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent towardher, and to say, ”No, thank you”; and nothing could prevent thatmutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the eveningbefore.

It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardlytaken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely noticed it. Butto Philip's mind, filled already with a vague anxiety that was likelyto find a definite ground for itself in any trivial incident, thissudden eagerness in Stephen, and the change in Maggie's face, whichwas plainly reflecting a beam from his, seemed so strong a contrastwith the previous overwrought signs of indifference, as to be chargedwith painful meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again, jarred uponhis nervous susceptibility as if it had been the clang of sheet-iron,and he felt inclined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. He hadreally seen no communicable ground for suspecting any ususual feelingbetween Stephen and Maggie; his own reason told him so, and he wantedto go home at once that he might reflect coolly on these false images,till he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then, again, hewanted to stay as long as Stephen stayed,--always to be present whenStephen was present with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural,nay, inevitable, that any man who was near Maggie should fall in lovewith her! There was no promise of happiness for her if she werebeguiled into loving Stephen Guest; and this thought emboldened Philipto view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal offering.He was beginning to play very falsely under this deafening inwardtumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs.Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch came as an excuse forabruptly breaking off the music.

”Ah, Mr. Philip!” said Mr. Deane, when they entered the dining-room,”I've not seen you for a long while. Your father's not at home, Ithink, is he? I went after him to the office the other day, and theysaid he was out of town.”

”He's been to Mudport on business for several days,” said Philip; ”buthe's come back now.”

”As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?”

”I believe so,” said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden interestin his father's pursuits.

”Ah!” said Mr. Deane, ”he's got some land in his own hands on thisside the river as well as the other, I think?”

”Yes, he has.”

”Ah!” continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeonpie, ”he mustfind farming a heavy item,--an expensive hobby. I never had a hobbymyself, never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies arethose that people think they can get money at. They shoot their moneydown like corn out of a sack then.”

Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently gratuitouscriticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr.Deane became unusually silent and meditative during his luncheon.Lucy, accustomed to watch all indications in her father, and havingreasons, which had recently become strong, for an extra interest inwhat referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what hadprompted her father's questions. His subsequent silence made hersuspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind.

With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when shewanted to tell or ask her father anything particular: she found areason for her aunt Tulliver to leaving the dining-room after dinner,and seated herself on a small stool at her father's knee. Mr. Deane,under those circumstances, considered that he tasted some of the mostagreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life,notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered withsnuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions.

”You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, _do_ you?” she said, as shebrought up her stool and opened the large fingers that clutched thesnuff-box.

”Not yet,” said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in thedecanter. ”But what do _you_ want?” he added, pinching the dimpledchin fondly,--”to coax some more sovereigns out of my pocket for yourbazaar? Eh?”

”No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to talk, not tobeg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his father'sfarming to-day, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardlysay anything to him about his father; and why should you care aboutMr. Wakem's losing money by his hobby?”

”Something to do with business,” said Mr. Deane, waving his hands, asif to repel intrusion into that mystery.

”But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakem has brought Philip up like agirl; how came you to think you should get any business knowledge outof him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thoughtthem queer.”

”Nonsense, child!” said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his socialdemeanor, with which he had taken some pains in his upward progress.”There's a report that Wakem's mill and farm on the other side of theriver--Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver's, you know--isn't answeringso well as it did. I wanted to see if your friend Philip would letanything out about his father's being tired of farming.”

”Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?” saidLucy, eagerly. ”Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have yoursnuff-box if you'll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts areset on Tom's getting back the mill some time. It was one of the lastthings her father said to Tom, that he must get back the mill.”

”Hush, you little puss,” said Mr. Deane, availing himself of therestored snuff-box. ”You must not say a word about this thing; do youhear? There's very little chance of their getting the mill or ofanybody's getting it out of Wakem's hands. And if he knew that wewanted it with a view to the Tulliver's getting it again, he'd be theless likely to part with it. It's natural, after what happened. Hebehaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horsewhipping is notlikely to be paid for with sugar-plums.”

”Now, papa,” said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, ”will youtrust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what I'm going tosay, but I have very strong reasons. And I'm very cautious; I am,indeed.”

”Well, let us hear.”

”Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into ourconfidence,--let me tell him all about your wish to buy, and what it'sfor; that my cousins wish to have it, and why they wish to have it,--Ibelieve Philip would help to bring it about. I know he would desire todo it.”

”I don't see how that can be, child,” said Mr. Deane, looking puzzled.”Why should _he_ care?”--then, with a sudden penetrating look at hisdaughter, ”You don't think the poor lad's fond of you, and so you canmake him do what you like?” (Mr. Deane felt quite safe about hisdaughter's affections.)

”No, papa; he cares very little about me,--not so much as I care abouthim. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say. Don't youask me. And if you ever guess, don't tell me. Only give me leave to doas I think fit about it.”

Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father's knee, andkissed him with that last request.

”Are you sure you won't do mischief, now?” he said, looking at herwith delight.

”Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise; I've got all your businesstalents. Didn't you admire my accompt-book, now, when I showed ityou?”

”Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there won't bemuch harm done. And to tell the truth, I think there's not much chancefor us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep.”