The Mill on the Floss ...........................................................................................................................................1

George Eliot .............................................................................................................................................1

Chapter 6. Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a PocketKnife

A WIDE plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide,

rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships laden

with the freshscented firplanks, with rounded sacks of oilbearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal

are borne along to the town of St Ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its

wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tinging the water with a soft purple hue under the

transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patches of dark

earth, made ready for the seed of broadleaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the

tenderbladed autumnsown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of beehive ricks

rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant

ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their redbrown sails close among the branches of the

spreading ash. Just by the redroofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss.

How lovely the little river is with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I

wander along the bank and listen to its low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I

remember those large dipping willows... I remember the stone bridge... And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must

stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in

the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at perhaps the chill

damp season adds a charm to the trimlykept, comfortable dwellinghouse, as old as the elms and chestnuts

that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brim full now, and lies high in this little withy plantation,

and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid

grass, the delicate brightgreen powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from

under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their

heads far into the water here among the withes unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the

The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness which seems to heighten the

peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond.

And now there is the thunder of the huge covered waggon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest

waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till

he has fed his horses, the strong, submissive, meekeyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at

him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they

needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders, up the slope towards the bridge, with all the more

energy because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet that seem to grasp the firm earth, at

the patient strength of their necks bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling

haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardlyearned feed of corn, and see them, with

their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on

the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace and the arch of the covered waggon disappears at the

Now I can turn my eyes towards the mill again and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of

water. That little girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water

ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and

barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow in the beaver

bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire

to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening grey of the sky. It is time too for me to leave off

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair and dreaming

that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill as it looked one February afternoon many years

ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr and Mrs Tulliver were talking about as they sat by

the bright fire in the lefthand parlour on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.

`WHAT I want, you know,' said Mr Tulliver, `what I want, is to give Tom a good eddication: an eddication

as'll be a bread to him. That was what I was thinking on when I gave notice for him to leave th' Academy at

Ladyday. I mean to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The two years at th' Academy 'ud ha'

done well enough, if I'd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he's had a fine sight more schoolin' nor

I ever got: all the learnin' my father ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at th' other.

But I should like Tom to be a bit of scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks o'these fellows as talk fine and

write wi' a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits and arbitrations and things. I wouldn't make a

downright lawyer o' the lad I should be sorry for him to be a raskill but a sort o' engineer, or a surveyor,

or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o'them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay,

only for a big watchchain and a high stool. They're pretty nigh all one, and they're not far off being even wi'

the law, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. He's none

frighted at him.' Mr Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in a fanshaped cap. (I am

afraid to think how long it is since fanshaped caps were worn they must be so near coming in again. At

that time, when Mrs Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St Ogg's and considered sweet things.)

`Well, Mr Tulliver, you know best: I've no objections. But hadn't I better kill a couple o' fowl and have th'

aunts and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what Sister Glegg and Sister Pullet have got to say

`You may kill every fowl i' the yard, if you like, Bessy; but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do

`Dear heart,' said Mrs Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, `how can you talk so, Mr Tulliver? But

it's your way to speak disrespectful o' my family, and Sister Glegg throws all the blame upo' me, though I'm

sure I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. For nobody's ever heard me say as it wasn't lucky for my children to

have aunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tom's to go to a new school, I should like him to

go where I can wash him and mend him; else he might as well have calico as linen, for they'd be one as

yallow as th' other before they'd been washed halfadozen times. And then, when the box is goin'backards

and forrards, I could send the lad a cake, or a porkpie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit, bless him,

whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as most, thank God.'

`Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's cart, if other things fit in,' said Mr Tulliver. `But

you mustn't put a spoke i' the wheel about the washin', if we can't get a school near enough. That's the fault I

have to find wi' you, Bessy: if you see a stick i' the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd

`Dear heart!' said Mrs Tulliver, in mild surprise, `when did I iver make objections to a man, because he'd got

a mole on his face? I'm sure I'm rether fond o' the moles, for my brother, as is dead an' gone, had a mole on

his brow. But I can't remember your iver offering to hire a waggoner with a mole, Mr Tulliver. There was

John Gibbs hadn't a mole on his face no more nor you have, an' I was all for having you hire him; an' so you

did hire him, an' if he hadn't died o' th' inflammation, as we paid Dr Turnbull for attending him, he'd very like

ha' been driving the waggon now. He might have a mole somewhere out o' sight, but how was I to know that,

`No, no, Bessy; I didn't mean justly the mole; I meant it to stand for summat else; but niver mind it's

puzzling work, talking is. What I'm thinking on, is how to find the right sort o' school to send Tom to, for I

might be ta'en in again, as I've been wi' the 'Cademy. I'll have nothing to do wi' a 'Cademy again: whativer

school I send Tom to, it shan't be a 'Cademy. It shall be a place where the lads spend their time i' summat else

besides blacking the family's shoes, and getting up the potatoes. It's an uncommon puzzling thing to know

Mr Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands into his breeches' pockets as if he hoped to

find some suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, `I know what I'll do

`Well, Mr Tulliver, I've put the sheets out for the best bed, and Kezia's got 'em hanging at the fire. They aren't

the best sheets, but they're good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for as for them best

Holland sheets, I should repent buying 'em, only they'll do to lay us out in. An' if you was to die tomorrow,

Mr Tulliver, they're mangled beautiful, an' all ready, an' smell o' lavender as it 'ud be a pleasure to lay 'em

out. An' they lie at the lefthand corner o' the big oak linenchest, at the back: not as I should trust anybody

As Mrs Tulliver uttered the last sentence she drew a bright bunch of keys from her pocket, and single out one,

rubbing her thumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile, while she looked at the clear fire. If Mr

Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his conjugal relations, he might have supposed that she drew out the

key to aid her imagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state to justify the production of

the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not so: he was only susceptible in respect of his right to

waterpower; moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, and, since his mention of Mr

Riley, had been apparently occupied in a tactile examination of his woollen stockings.

`I think I've hit it, Bessy,' was his first remark after a short silence. `Riley's as likely a man as any to know

o'some school: he's had schooling himself, an' goes about to all sorts o' places, arbitratin' and vallyin' and that.

And we shall have time to talk it over tomorrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be such a

sort o' man as Riley, you know as can talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all wrote out for him, and knows a

good lot o' words as don't mean much, so as you can't lay hold of'em i' law; and a good solid knowledge o'

`Well,' said Mrs Tulliver, `so far as talking proper and knowing everything, and walking with a bend in his

back and setting his hair up, I shouldn't mind the lad being brought up to that. But them finetalking men

from the big towns mostly wear the false shirtfronts; they wear a frill till it's all a mess, and then hide it with

a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Tom's to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, he'll have a house with a

kitchen hardly big enough to turn in, an' niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, an'sleep up three pair o' stairs

`No, no,' said Mr Tulliver, `I've no thoughts of his going to Mudport: I mean him to set up his office at St

Ogg's close by us, an' live at home. But,' continued Mr Tulliver after a pause, `what I'm a bit afraid on is, as

Tom hasn't got the right sort o' brians for a smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit slowish. He takes after your family,

`Yes, that he does,' said Mrs Tulliver, accepting the last proposition entirely on its own merits, `he's

wonderful for liking a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way and my father's before him.'

`It seems a bit of a pity, though,' said Mr Tulliver, `as the lad should take after the mother's side istead o' the

little wench. That's the worst on't wi' the crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilate what'll come on't.

The little un takes after my side, now: she's twice as 'cute as Tom. Too 'cute for a woman, I'm afraid,'

continued Mr Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then on the other. `It's no mischief

much while she's a little un, but an over 'cute woman's no better nor a longtailed sheep she'll fetch none

`Yes, it is a mischief while she's a little un, Mr Tulliver, for it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a

clean pinafore two hours together passes my cunning. An' now you put me i' mind,' continued Mrs Tulliver,

rising and going to the window, `I don't know where she is now, an'it's pretty nigh teatime. Ah, I thought so

wanderin' up an' down by the water, like a wild thing: she'll tumble in same day.'

Mrs Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook her head, a process which she repeated more

`You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr Tulliver,' she observed as she sat down, `but I'm sure the child's half a idiot i' some

things, for if I send her upstairs to fetch anything she forgets what she's gone for, an' perhaps 'ull sit down

on the floor i' the sunshine an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', all the while I'm waiting

for her downstairs. That niver run i' my family, thank God, no more nor a brown skin as makes her look like

a mulatter. I don't like to fly i' the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but one gell, an' her

`Pooh, nonsense!' said Mr Tulliver, `she's a straight blackeyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I don't

know i' what she's behind other folk's children; an' she can read almost as well as the parson.'

`But her hair won't curl all I can do with it and she's so franzy about having it put i' paper, an' I've such work

`How can you talk so, Mr Tulliver? She's too big a gell, gone nine, and tall of her age to have her hair cut

short; an' there's her cousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, an' not a hair out o' place. It seems hard

as my sister Deane should have that pretty child; I'm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does.

Maggie, Maggie,' continued the mother, in a tone of halfcoaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature

entered the room, `where's the use o' my telling you to keep away from the water? You'll tumble in and be

Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed her mother's accusation: Mrs Tulliver,

desiring her daughter to have a curled crop, `like other folk's children,' had had it cut too short in front to be

pushed behind the ears, and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was

incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes an action which

`O dear, O dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to throw your bonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's

a good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an' change your shoes do, for

`O mother,' said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, `I don't want to do my patchwork.'

`It's foolish work,' said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, `tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again.

Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr Tulliver laughs audibly.

`I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr Tulliver,' said the mother, with lymphatic fretfulness in her tone.

`You encourage her i' naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as it's me spoils her.'

Mrs Tulliver was what is called a goodtempered person never cried when she was a baby on any slighter

ground than hunger and pins, and from the cradle upwards had been healthy, fair plump, and dullwitted, in

short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milk and mildness are not the best things for

keeping, and when they turn only a little sour they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have often

wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression,

kept their placidity undisturbed when their stronglimbed strongwilled boys got a little too old to do without

clothing. I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it

THE gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirtfrill, taking his brandy and water so pleasantly with his

good friend Tulliver, is Mr Riley: a gentleman with a waxen complexion and fat hands, rather highly

educated for an auctioneer and appraiser, but largehearted enough to show a great deal of bonhommie

towards simple country acquaintances of hospitable habits. Mr Riley spoke of such acquaintances kindly as

`people of the old school.' The conversation had come to a pause. Mr Tulliver, not without a particular

reason, had abstained from a seventh recital of the cool retort by which Riley had shown himself too many

for Dix, and how Wakem had had his comb cut for once in his life, now the business of the dam had been

settled by arbitration, and how there never would have been any dispute at all about the height of water if

everybody was what they should be, and Old Harry hadn't made the lawyers. Mr Tulliver was on the whole a

man of safe traditional opinions; but on one or two points he had trusted to his unassisted intellect and had

arrived at several questionable conclusions, among the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by

Old Harry. Unhappily he had no one to tell him that this was rampant Manich�ism, else he might have seen

his error. But today it was clear that the good principle was triumphant: this affair of the waterpower had

been a tangled business somehow, for all it seemed look at it one way as plain as water's water, but, big a

puzzle as it was, it hadn't got the better of Riley. Mr Tulliver took his brandy and water a little stronger than

usual, and, for a man who might be supposed to have a few hundreds lying idle at his banker's, was rather

incautiously open in expressing his high estimate of his friend's business talents.

But the dam was a subject of conversation that would keep: it could always be taken up again at the same

point and exactly in the same condition; and there was another subject, as you know, on which Mr Tulliver

was in pressing want of Mr Riley's advice. This was his particular reason for remaining silent for a short

space after his last draught, and rubbing his knees in a meditative manner. He was not a man to make an

abrupt transition. This was a puzzling world, as he often said, and if you drive your waggon in a hurry you

may light on an awkward corner. Mr Riley, meanwhile, was not impatient. Why should he be? Even Hotspur,

one would think, must have been patient in his slippers on a warm hearth, taking copious snuff, and sipping

`There's a thing I've got i' my head,' said Mr Tulliver at last, in rather a lower tone than usual, as he turned his

`Ah?' said Mr Riley, in a tone of mild interest. He was a man with heavy waxen eyelids and higharched

eyebrows, looking exactly the same under all circumstances. This immovability of face and the habit of

taking a pinch of snuff before he gave an answer, made him trebly oracular to Mr Tulliver.

At the sound of this name, Maggie, who was seated on a low stool close by the fire, with a large book open

on her lap, shook her heavy hair back and looked up eagerly. There were few sounds that roused Maggie

when she was dreaming over her book, but Tom's name served as well as the shrillest whistle: in an instant

she was on the watch, with gleaming eyes, like a Skye terrier suspecting mischief, or at all events determined

`You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsummer,' said Mr Tulliver, `he's comin' away from the

'Cademy at Ladyday, an' I shall let him run loose for a quarter; but after that I want to send him to a

`Well,' said Mr Riley, `there's no greater advantage you can give him than a good education. Not,' he added,

with polite significance, `not that a man can't be an excellent miller and farmer and a shrewd sensible fellow

`I believe you,' said Mr Tulliver, winking and turning his head on one side, `but that's where it is. I don't

mean Tom to be a miller and farmer. I see no fun i' that: why, if I made him a miller an' farmer, he'd be

expectin' to take to the mill an' the land, an' ahinting at me as it was time for me to lay by an' think o' my

latter end. Nay, nay, I've seen enough o' that wi' sons. I'll niver pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall give

Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he may make a nest for himself an' not want to push me out o'

mine. Pretty well if he gets it when I'm dead an' gone. I shan't be put off wi' spoonmeat afore I've lost my

This was evidently a point on which Mr Tulliver felt strongly, and the impetus which had given unusual

rapidity and emphasis to his speech showed itself still unexhausted for some minutes afterwards in a defiant

motion of the head from side to side, and an occasional `Nay, nay,' like a subsiding growl.

These angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, and cut her to the quick: Tom, it appeared, was

supposed capable of turning his father out of doors, and of making the future in some way tragic by his

wickedness. This was not to be borne, and Maggie jumped up from her stool, forgetting all about her heavy

book, which fell with a bang within the fender; and going up between her father's knees, said, in a half crying,

Mrs Tulliver was out of the room superintending a choice supperdish, and Mr Tulliver's heart was touched,

so Maggie was not scolded about the book. Mr Riley quietly picked it up and looked at it while the father

laughed with a certain tenderness in his hard lined face, and patted his little girl on the back, and then held her

`What, they mustn't say no harm o' Tom, eh?' said Mr Tulliver, looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye.

Then, in a lower voice, turning to Mr Riley, as though Maggie couldn't hear, `She understands what one's

talking about so as never was. And you should hear her read straight off, as if she knowed it all beforehand.

An' allays at her book!But it's bad it's bad,' Mr Tulliver added, sadly, checking this blamable exultation, `a

woman's no business wi' being so clever; it'll turn to trouble, I doubt. But, bless you!' here the exultation

was clearly recovering the mastery `she'll read the books and understand 'em, better nor half the folks as are

Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement: she thought Mr Riley would have a respect for

Mr Riley was turning over the leaves of the book and she could make nothing of his face with its higharched

`Come, come and tell me something about this book; here are some pictures I want to know what they

Maggie with deepening colour went without hesitation to Mr Riley's elbow and looked over the book, eagerly

`O, I'll tell you what that means. It's a dreadful picture, isn't it? But I can't help looking at it. That old woman

in the water's a witch they've put her in, to find out whether she's a witch or no, and if she swims she's a

witch, and if she's drowned and killed, you know, she's innocent, and not a witch, but only a poor silly

old woman. But what good would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose she'd go

the heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing

oh, isn't he ugly? I'll tell you what he is. He's the devil really' (here Maggie's voice became louder and more

emphatic) `and not a right blacksmith; for the devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets

people doing wicked things, and he's oftener in the shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if

people saw he was the devil, and he roared at 'em, they'd run away, and he couldn't make 'em do what he

`"The History of the Devil," by Daniel Defoe; not quite the right book for a little girl,' said Mr Riley. `How

`Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. They was all bound alike it's a good binding, you

see an' I thought they'd be all good books. There's Jeremy Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying" among 'em; I

read in it often of a Sunday' (Mr Tulliver felt somehow a familiarity with that great writer because his name

was Jeremy), `and there's a lot more of 'em, sermons mostly, I think; but they've all got the same covers, and I

thought they were all o' one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustn't judge by th' outside. This is a

`Well,' said Mr Riley, in an admonitory patronising tone, as he patted Maggie on the head, `I advise you to

put by the `History of the Devil,' and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier books?'

`O yes,' said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to vindicate the variety of her reading, `I know the reading

in this book isn't pretty but I like the pictures, and I make stories to the pictures out of my own head, you

know. But I've got "sop's Fables" and a book about kangaroos and things, and the "Pilgrim's Progress... "'

`Well, but there's a great deal about the devil in that,' said Maggie, triumphantly, `and I'll show you the

Maggie ran in an instant to the corner of the room, jumped on a chair, and reached down from the small

bookcase a shabby old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least trouble of search, at the

`Here he is,' she said, running back to Mr Riley, `And Tom coloured him for me with his paints when he was

at home last holidays the body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like fire, because he's all fire inside,

`Go, go!' said Mr Tulliver peremptorily; beginning to feel rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the

personal appearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers; `Shut up the book, and let's hear no more

o' such talk. It is as I thought the child 'ull learn more mischief nor good wi' the books. Go go and see

Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, but not being inclined to see after her mother, she

compromised the matter by going into a dark corner behind her father's chair and nursing her doll, towards

which she had an occasional fit of fondness in Tom's absence, neglecting its toilette, but lavishing so many

`Did you ever hear the like on't?' said Mr Tulliver, as Maggie retired. `It's a pity but what she'd been the lad

she'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would. It's the wonderful'st thing' here he lowered his voice

`as I picked the mother because she wasn't o'er 'cute bein' a goodlooking woman too, an' come of a rare

family for managing but I picked her from her sisters o' purpose 'cause she was a bit weak, like; for I wasn't

agoin' to be told the rights o' things by my own fireside. But, you see, when a man's got brains himself,

there's no knowing where they'll run to; an' a pleasant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads

and 'cute wenches, till it's like as if the world was turned topsyturvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing.'

Mr Riley's gravity gave way, and he shook a little under the application of his pinch of snuff, before he said,

`But your lad's not stupid, is he? I saw him, when I was here last, busy making fishingtackle; he seemed

`Well, he isn't not to say stupid he's got a notion o'things out o' door, an' a sort o' commonsense, as he'd lay

hold o' things by the right handle. But he's slow with his tongue, you see, and he reads but poorly, and can't

abide the books, and spells all wrong, they tell me, an' as shy as can be wi' strangers, an' you never hear him

say 'cute things like the little wench. Now, what I want is, to send him to a school where they'll make him a

bit nimble with his tongue and his pen, and make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi' these

fellows as have got the start o' me with having better schooling. Not but what, if the world had been left as

God made it, I could ha' seen my way and held my own wi' the best of'em; but things have got so twisted

round and wrapped up i' unreasonable words, as arn't a bit like 'em, as I'm clean at fault, often an' often.

Everything winds about so the more straightforrard you are, the more you're puzzled.'

Mr Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook his head in a melancholy manner, conscious of

exemplifying the truth that a perfectly sane intellect is hardly at home in this insane world.

`You're quite in the right of it, Tulliver,' observed Mr Riley. `Better Spend an extra hundred or two on your

son's education than leave it him in your will. I know I should have tried to do so by a son of mine, if I'd had

one, though, God knows, I haven't your ready money to play with, Tulliver; and I have a houseful of

`I daresay, now, you know of a school as 'ud be just the thing for Tom,' Said Mr Tulliver, not diverted from

Mr Riley took a pinch of snuff and kept Mr Tulliver in suspense by a silence that seemed deliberative, before

`I know of a very fine chance for any one that's got the necessary money, and that's what you have, Tulliver.

The fact is, I wouldn't recommend any friend of mine to send a boy to a regular school, if he could afford to

do better. But if any one wanted his boy to get superior instruction and training, where he would be the

companion of his master, and that master a firstrate fellow I know his man. I wouldn't mention the chance

to everybody, because I don't think everybody would succeed in getting it, if he were to try: but I mention it

The fixed inquiring glance with which Mr Tulliver had been watching his friend's oracular face became quite

`Ay, now, let's hear,' he said, adjusting himself in his chair with the complacency of a person who is thought

`He's an Oxford man,' said Mr Riley, sententiously, shutting his mouth close and looking at Mr Tulliver to

`Yes and an M.A. The bishop, I understand, thinks very highly of him: why, it was the bishop who got him

`Ah?' said Mr Tulliver, to whom one thing was as wonderful as another concerning these unfamiliar

`Why, the fact is, he's fond of teaching, and wishes to keep up his studies, and a clergyman has but little

opportunity for that in his parochial duties. He's willing to take one or two boys as pupils to fill up his time

profitably. The boys would be quite of the family the finest thing in the world for them under Stelling's

`But do you think they'd give the poor lad twice o' pudding?' said Mrs Tulliver, who was now in her place

again. `He's such a boy for pudding as never was; an' a growing boy like that it's dreadful to think o' their

`And what money 'ud he want?' said Mr Tulliver, whose instinct told him that the services of this admirable

`Why, I know of a clergyman who asks a hundred and fifty with his youngest pupils, and he's not to be

mentioned with Stelling, the man I speak of. I know on good authority that one of the chief people at Oxford

said, `Stelling might get the highest honours if he chose.' But he didn't care about university honours. He's a

`Ah, a deal better, a deal better,' said Mr Tulliver. `But a hundred and fifty's an uncommon price. I never

`A good education, let me tell you, Tulliver a good education is cheap at the money. But Stelling is

moderate in his terms he's not a grasping man. I've no doubt he'd take your boy at a hundred, and that's

what you wouldn't get many other clergymen to do. I'll write to him about it, if you like.'

`But belike he's a bachelor,' observed Mrs Tulliver in the interval, `an' I've no opinion o' housekeepers. There

was my brother as is dead an' gone had a housekeeper once, an'she took half the feathers out o' the best bed

an' packed em'up an' sent 'em away. An' it's unknown the linen she made away with Stott her name was. It

'ud break my heart to send Tom where there's a housekeeper, an' I hope you won't think of it, Mr Tulliver.'

`You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs Tulliver,' said Mr Riley, `for Stelling is married to as nice a

little woman as any man need wish for a wife. There isn't a kinder little soul in the world; I know her family

well. She has very much your complexion light curly hair. She comes of a good Mudport family, and it's

not every offer that would have been acceptable in that quarter. But Stelling's not an everyday man. Rather a

particular fellow as to the people he chooses to be connected with. But I think he would have no objection to

`I don't know what he could have again' the lad,' said Mrs Tulliver, with a slight touch of motherly

`But there's one thing I'm thinking on,' said Mr Tulliver, turning his head on one side and looking at Mr

Riley, after a long perusal of the carpet. `Wouldn't a parson be a'most too highlearnt to bring up a lad to be a

man o' business? My notion o' the parsons was as they'd got a sort o' learning as lay mostly out o' sight. And

that isn't what I want for Tom. I want him to know figures, and write like print, and see into things quick, and

know what folks mean, and how to wrap things up in words as aren't actionable. It's an uncommon fine thing,

that is,' concluded Mr Tulliver, shaking his head, `when you can let a man know what you think of him

`O my dear Tulliver,' said Mr Riley, `you're quite under a mistake about the clergy: all the best schoolmasters

are of the clergy. The schoolmasters who are not clergymen, are a very low set of men generally'...

`To be sure men who have failed in other trades, most likely. Now a clergyman is a gentleman by

profession and education: and besides that, he has the knowledge that will ground a boy, and prepare him for

entering on any career with credit. There may be some clergymen who are mere bookmen; but you may

depend upon it, Stelling is not one of them a man that's wide awake, let me tell you. Drop him a hint and

that's enough. You talk of figures, now: you have only to say to Stelling, `I want my son to be a thorough

Mr Riley paused a moment, while Mr Tulliver, somewhat reassured as to clerical tutorship, was inwardly

rehearsing to an imaginary Mr Stelling the statement, `I want my son to know 'rethmetic.'

`You see, my dear Tulliver,' Mr Riley continued, `when you get a thoroughly educated man, like Stelling, he's

at no loss to take up any branch of instruction. When a workman knows the use of his tools, he can make a

`Ay, that's true,' said Mr Tulliver, almost convinced now that the clergy must be the best of schoolmasters.

`Well, I'll tell you what I'll do for you,' said Mr Riley, `and I wouldn't do it for everybody. I'll see Stelling's

fatherinlaw or drop him a line when I get back to Mudport to say that you wish to place your boy with his

`But there's no hurry, is there?' said Mrs Tulliver, `for I hope, Mr Tulliver, you won't let Tom begin at his

new school before Midsummer. He began at the 'Cademy at the Ladyday quarter, and you see what good's

`Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi' bad malt upo' Michaelmas day, else you'll have a poor tap,' said Mr Tulliver,

winking and smiling at Mr Riley with the natural pride of a man who has a buxom wife conspicuously his

inferior in intellect. `But it's true there's no hurry you've hit it there, Bessy.'

`It might be as well not to defer the arrangement too long,' said Mr Riley, quietly, `for Stelling may have

propositions from other parties, and I know he would not take more than two or three boarders, if so many. If

I were you, I think I would enter on the subject with Stelling at once: there's no necessity for sending the boy

before Midsummer, but I would be on the safe side, and make sure that nobody forestalls you.'

`Father,' broke in Maggie, who had stolen unperceived to her father's elbow again, listening with parted lips,

while she held her doll topsyturvy and crushed its nose against the wood of the chair, `Father, is it a long

`Maggie came round promptly in front of Mr Riley, and said, `How far is it, please Sir?'

`O a long way off,' that gentleman answered, being of opinion that children when they are not naughty,

should always be spoken to jocosely. `You must borrow the sevenleagued boots to get to him.'

`That's nonsense!' said Maggie, tossing her head haughtily and turning away with the tears springing in her

eyes. She began to dislike Mr Riley: it was evident he thought her silly and of no consequence.

`Hush, Maggie, for shame of you, asking questions and chattering,' said her mother. `Come and sit down on

your little stool and hold your tongue, do. But,' added Mrs Tulliver, who had her own alarm awakened, `is it

`About fifteen miles that's all,' said Mr Riley. `You can drive there and back in a day quite comfortably. Or,

The entrance of supper opportunely adjourned this difficulty, and relieved Mr Riley from the labour of

suggesting some solution or compromise a labour which he would otherwise doubtless have undertaken,

for, as you perceive, he was a man of very obliging manners. And he had really given himself the trouble of

recommending Mr Stelling to his friend Tulliver without any positive expectation of a solid, definite

advantage resulting to himself, notwithstanding the subtle indications to the contrary which might have

misled a too sagacious observer. For there is nothing more widely misleading than sagacity if it happens to

get on a wrong scent, and sagacity persuaded that men usually act and speak from distinct motives, with a

consciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness

and deliberate contrivance in order to compass a selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the

dramatist: they demand too intense a mental action for many of our fellowparishioners to be guilty of them.

It is easy enough to spoil the lives of our neighbours without taking so much trouble: we can do it by lazy

acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial falsities for which we hardly know a reason, by small frauds

neutralised by small extravagances, by maladroit flatteries and clumsily improvised insinuations. We live

from hand to mouth, most of us, with a small family of immediate desires we do little else than snatch a

morsel to satisfy the hungry brood, rarely thinking of seedcorn or the next year's crop.

Mr Riley was a man of business and not cold towards his own interest, yet even he was more under the

influence of small promptings than of farsighted designs. He had no private understanding with the Rev.

Walter Stelling; on the contrary he knew very little of that M.A. and his acquirements not quite enough

perhaps to warrant so strong a recommendation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. But he believed

Mr Stelling to be an excellent classic, for Gadsby had said so, and Gadsby's first cousin was an Oxford tutor:

which was better ground for the belief even than his own immediate observation would have been, for though

Mr Riley had received a tincture of the classics at the great Mudport Free School and had a sense of

understanding Latin generally, his comprehension of any particular Latin was not ready. Doubtless there

remained a subtle aroma from his juvenile contact with the De Senectute and the Fourth Book of the Aeneid,

but it had ceased to be distinctly recognisable as classical, and was only perceived in the higher finish and

force of his auctioneering style. Then, Stelling was an Oxford man, and the Oxford men were always no,

no, it was the Cambridge men who were always good mathematicians. But a man who had had a university

education could teach anything he liked; especially a man like Stelling, who had made a speech at a Mudport

dinner on a political occasion and had acquitted himself so well that it was generally remarked, this

soninlaw of Timpson's was a sharp fellow. It was to be expected of a Mudport man from the parish of St

Ursula that he would not omit to do a good turn to a soninlaw of Timpson's, for Timpson was one of the

most useful and influential men in the parish, and had a good deal of business which he knew how to put into

the right hands. Mr Riley liked such men, quite apart from any money which might be diverted through their

good judgment, from less worthy pockets into his own; and it would be a satisfaction to him to say to

Timpson on his return home, `I've secured a good pupil for your soninlaw.' Timpson had a large family of

daughters: Mr Riley felt for him: besides, Louisa Timpson's face with its light curls had been a familiar object

to him over the pew wainscot on a Sunday for nearly fifteen years: it was natural her husband should be a

commendable tutor. Moreover, Mr Riley knew of no other schoolmaster whom he had any ground for

recommending in preference: why then should he not recommend Stelling? His friend Tulliver had asked him

for an opinion: it is always chilling in friendly intercourse to say you have no opinion to give. And if you

deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with an air of conviction and wellfounded

knowledge. You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond of it. Thus, Mr Riley, knowing no

harm of Stelling to begin with, and wishing him well so far as he had any wishes at all concerning him, had

no sooner recommended him than he began to think with admiration of a man recommended on such high

authority, and would soon have gathered so warm an interest on the subject, that if Mr Tulliver had in the end

declined to send Tom to Stelling, Mr Riley would have thought his friend of the old school a thoroughly

If you blame Mr Riley very severely for giving a recommendation on such slight grounds, I must say you are

rather hard upon him. Why should an auctioneer and appraister thirty years ago, who had as good as forgotten

his freeschool Latin, be expected to manifest a delicate scrupulosity which is not always exhibited by

gentlemen of the learned professions even in our present advanced stage of morality?

Besides, a man with the milk of human kindness in him can scarcely abstain from doing a goodnatured

action, and one can't be goodnatured all round. Nature herself occasionally quarters an inconvenient parasite

on an animal towards whom she has otherwise no illwill. What then? We admire her care for the parasite. If

Mr Riley had shrunk from giving a recommendation that was not based on valid evidence, he would not have

helped Mr Stelling to a paying pupil, and that would not have been so well for the reverend gentleman.

Consider, too, that all the pleasant little dim ideas and complacencies of standing well with Timpson, of

dispensing advice when he was asked for it, of impressing his friend Tulliver with additional respect, of

saying something and saying it emphatically, with other inappreciably minute ingredients that went along

with the warm hearth and the brandy and water to make up Mr Riley's consciousness on this occasion, would

IT was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not allowed to go with her father in the gig when he

went to fetch Tom home from the Academy; but the morning was too wet, Mrs Tulliver said, for a little girl

to go out in her best bonnet. Maggie took the opposite view very strongly, and it was a direct consequence of

this difference of opinion, that when her mother was in the act of brushing out the reluctant black crop,

Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and dipped her head in a basin of water standing near, in the

vindictive determination that there should be no more chance of curls that day. `Maggie, Maggie,' exclaimed

Mrs Tulliver, sitting stout and helpless with the brushes on her lap, `what is to become of you, if you're so

naughty? I'll tell your aunt Glegg and your aunt Pullet when they come next week, and they'll never love you

any more. O dear, O dear, look at your clean pinafore, wet from top to bottom. Folks 'ull think it's a judgment

Before this remonstrance was finished Maggie was already out of hearing, making her way towards the great

attic that ran under the old highpitched roof, shaking the water from her black locks as she ran, like a Skye

terrier escaped from his bath. This attic was Maggie's favourite retreat on a wet day, when the weather was

not too cold: here she fretted out all her illhumours, and talked aloud to the wormeaten floors and the

wormeaten shelves and the dark rafters festooned with cobwebs, and here she kept a Fetish which she

punished for all her misfortunes. This was the trunk of a large wooden doll, which once stared with the

roundest of eyes above the reddest of cheeks, but was now entirely defaced by a long career of vicarious

suffering. Three nails driven into the head commemorated as many crises in Maggie's nine years of earthly

struggle; that luxury of vengeance having been suggested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the

old Bible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke than usual, for the Fetish on that occasion

represented aunt Glegg. But immediately afterwards Maggie had reflected that if she drove many nails in, she

would not be so well able to fancy that the head was hurt when she knocked it against the wall, nor to comfort

it, and make believe to poultice it when her fury was abated; for even aunt Glegg would be pitiable when she

had been hurt very much, and thoroughly humiliated, so as to beg her niece's pardon. Since then, she had

driven no more nails in, but had soothed herself by alternately grinding and beating the wooden head against

the rough brick of the great chimneys that made two square pillars supporting the roof. That was what she did

this morning on reaching the attic, sobbing all the while with a passion that expelled every other form of

consciousness even the memory of the grievance that had caused it. As at last the sobs were getting quieter

and the grinding less fierce, a sudden beam of sunshine, falling through the wire lattice across the

wormeaten shelves, made her throw away the Fetish and run to the window. The sun was really breaking

out, the sound of the mill seemed cheerful again, the granary doors were open, and there was Yap, the queer

white and brown terrier with one ear turned back, trotting about and sniffing vaguely as if he were in search

of a companion. It was irresistible: Maggie tossed her hair back and ran downstairs, seized her bonnet without

putting it on, peeped and then dashed along the passage lest she should encounter her mother, and was

quickly out in the yard, whirling round like a Pythoness and singing as she whirled, `Yap, Yap, Tom's coming

home', while Yap pranced and barked round her, as much as to say, if there was any noise wanted, he was the

`Hegh, hegh, Miss, you'll make yourself giddy an' tumble down i' the dirt,' said Luke, the head miller, a tall

broadshouldered man of forty, blackeyed and blackhaired, subdued by a general mealiness, like an

Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, `O no, it doesn't make me giddy. Luke, may I go

Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and often came out with her black hair powdered to a

soft whiteness that made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din, the unresting motion of the

great stones giving her a dim delicious awe as at the presence of an uncontrollable force, the meal for ever

pouring, pouring, the fine white powder softening all surfaces and making the very spidernets look like

faery lacework, the sweet pure scent of the meal all helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a little

world apart from her outside everyday life. The spiders were especially a subject of speculation with her: she

wondered if they had any relations outside the mill, for in that case there must be a painful difficulty in their

family intercourse: a fat and floury spider, accustomed to take his fly well dusted with meal, must suffer a

little at a cousin's table where the fly was au naturel, and the lady spiders must be mutually shocked at each

other's appearance. But the part of the mill she liked best was the topmost story the cornhutch where there

were the great heaps of grain which she could sit on and slide down continually. She was in the habit of

taking this recreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom she was very communicative, wishing him to

Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him on the present occasion, for, as she sat sliding

on the heap of grain near which he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill pitch which was requisite in

`Nay, Miss an' not much o' that,' said Luke, with great frankness. `I'm no reader, I arn't.'

`But if I lent you one of my books, Luke? I've not got any very pretty books that would be easy for you to

read; but there's "Pug's Tour of Europe" that would tell you all about the different sorts of people in the

world, and if you didn't understand the reading, the pictures would help you they show the looks and ways

of the people and what they do. There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know and one sitting

`Nay, Miss, I'n no opinion o' Dutchmen. There ben't much good i' knowin' about them.'

`But they're our fellowcreatures, Luke we ought to know about our fellowcreatures.'

`Not much o' fellowcreaturs, I think, Miss: all I know my old master, as war a knowin' man, used to say,

says he, `If e'er I sow my wheat wi'out brinin', I'm a Dutchman,' says he; an' that war as much as to say as a

Dutchman war a fool, or next door. Nay, nay, I arn't goin' to bother mysen about Dutchmen. There's fools

`O well,' said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpectedly decided views about Dutchmen, `perhaps you

would like "Animated Nature" better that's not Dutchmen, you know, but elephants, and kangaroos, and the

civet cat, and the sunfish, and a bird sitting on its tail I forget its name. There are countries full of those

creatures, instead of horses and cows, you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, Luke?'

`Nay, Miss, I'n got to keep 'count o' the flour an' corn I can't do wi' knowin' so many things besides my

work. That's what brings folk to the gallows knowin' everything but what they'n got to get their bread by.

An' they're mostly lies, I think, what's printed i' the books: them printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i'

`Why you're like my brother Tom, Luke,' said Maggie, wishing to turn the conversation agreeably, `Tom's

not fond of reading. I love Tom so dearly, Luke better than anybody else in the world. When he grows up,

I shall keep his house, and we shall always live together. I can tell him everything he doesn't know. But I

think Tom's clever, for all he doesn't like books: he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbitpens.'

`Dead!' screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding seat on the corn. `O, dear Luke! What, the lopeared

`As dead as moles,' said Luke, fetching his comparison from the unmistakable corpses nailed to the stable

`O dear Luke,' said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the big tears rolled down her cheek, `Tom told me to take

`Well, you see, Miss, they war in that far toolhouse, an'it was nobody's business to see to 'em. I reckon Master

Tom told Harry to feed 'em, but there's no countin' on Harry he's a offal creatur as iver come about the

primises, he is. He remembers nothin' but his own inside an' I wish it 'ud gripe him.'

`O Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rabbits every day but how could I, when they did not

come into my head, you know? O, he will be so angry with me, I know he will, and so sorry about his rabbits

`Don't you fret, Miss,' said Luke, soothingly, `they're nash things, them lopeared rabbits they'd happen

ha'died, if they'd been fed. Things out o' natur niver thrive. God A'mighty doesn't like 'em. He made the

rabbits' ears to lie back, an' it's nothin' but contrairiness to make 'em hing down like a mastiff dog's. Master

Tom 'ull know better nor buy such things another time. Don't you fret, Miss. Will you come along home wi'

The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Maggie's grief, and her tears gradually subsided as she

trotted along by Luke's side to his pleasant cottage, which stood with its apple and pear trees, and with the

added dignity of a leanto pigsty, close by the brink of the Ripple. Mrs Moggs, Luke's wife, was a

decidedly agreeable acquaintance: she exhibited her hospitality in bread and treacle and possessed various

works of art. Maggie actually forgot that she had any special cause of sadness this morning, as she stood on a

chair to look at a remarkable series of pictures representing the Prodigal Son in the costume of Sir Charles

Grandison, except that, as might have been expected from his defective moral character, he had not, like that

accomplished hero, the taste and strength of mind to dispense with a wig. But the indefinable weight the dead

rabbits had left on her mind caused her to feel more than usual pity for the career of this weak young man,

particularly when she looked at the picture where he leaned against a tree with a flaccid appearance, his

kneebreeches unbuttoned and his wig awry, while the swine, apparently of some foreign breed, seemed to

`I'm very glad his father took him back again aren't you, Luke?' she said. `For he was very sorry, you know,

`Eh, Miss,' said Luke, `he'd be no great shakes, I doubt, let's feyther do what he would for him.'

That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished much that the subsequent history of the young man

TOM was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was another fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it

was late enough for the sound of the gig wheels to be expected; for if Mrs Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was

fondness for her boy. At last the sound came that quick light bowling of the gig wheels and in spite of the

wind which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to respect Mrs Tulliver's curls and capstrings,

she came outside the door, and even held her hand on Maggie's offending head, forgetting all the griefs of the

morning. `There he is, my sweet lad! But, Lord ha' mercy, he's got never a collar on; it's been lost on the road,

Mrs Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg and then on the other; while Tom

descended from the gig and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender emotions, `Hallo! Yap, what, are

Nevertheless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie hung on his neck in rather a

strangling fashion, while his bluegrey eyes wandered towards the croft and the lambs and the river where he

promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing tomorrow morning. He was one of those lads

that grow everywhere in England, and, at twelve or thirteen years of age, look as much alike as goslings: a

lad with light brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows a

physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but the generic character of boyhood; as

different as possible from poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and coloured with the

most decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep cunning which hides itself under the appearance of

openness, so that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly

preparing a refutation of their confident prophecies. Under these average boyish physiognomies that she

seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most rigid inflexible purposes, some of her most

unmodifiable characters, and the darkeyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a

passive being compared with this pink and white bit of masculinity with indeterminate features.

`Maggie,' said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner, as soon as his mother was gone out to examine

his box, and the warm parlour had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, `you don't know what

I've got in my pockets' nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery.

`No,' said Maggie. `How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles) or cobnuts?' Maggie's heart sank a

little, because Tom always said it was `no good' playing withher at those games she played so badly.

`Marls! no I've swopped all my marls with little fellows. And cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the

nuts are green. But see here!' He drew something half out of his righthand pocket.

`What is it?' said Maggie, in a whisper. `I can see nothing but a bit of yellow.'

`Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you,' said Tom, thrusting his hand back into his pocket, and looking

`No, Tom,' said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. `I'm not cross,

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, `Well, then; it's a new fishline two new uns one for you,

Maggie, all to yourself. I wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread o' purpose to save the money; and

Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks; see here!... I say, won't we go

and fish tomorrow down by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms round Tom's neck and hug and him and hold her cheek against his

without speaking, while he slowly unwound some of the line, saying, after a pause,

`Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You know, I needn't have bought it, if hadn't

Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke again.

`Hurt me? no,' said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocketknife, and slowly opening the

largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added,

`I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know that's what he got by wanting to leather me: I wasn't going to go

`O how brave you are, Tom I think you're like Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd

`How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions only in the shows.'

`No: but if we were in the lion countries, I mean, in Africa, where it's very hot the lions eat people there. I

`But if you hadn't got a gun we might have gone out, you know, not thinking just as we go fishing and

then a great lion might run towards us roaring, and we couldn't get away from him. What should you do,

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying, `But the lion isn't coming. What's the use of

`But I like to fancy how it would be,' said Maggie, following him. `Just think what you would do, Tom.'

Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in

trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow

and his anger. For Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things: it was quite a different anger from her own.

`Tom,' she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, `how much money did you give for your rabbits?'

`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 halfsovereigns and sovereigns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall be

`Well, but, Tom if mother would let me give you two halfcrowns and a sixpence out of my purse to put

Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round towards Maggie. `You forgot to feed 'em then, and

Harry forgot,' he said, his colour 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 shan't go fishing with me tomorrow. I told you to

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

`You're a naughty girl,' said Tom, severely, `and I'm sorry I bought you the fishline. I don't love you.'

`O Tom, it's very cruel,' sobbed Maggie, `I'd forgive you, if you forgot anything I wouldn't mind what you

`O, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break,' said Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom's arm, and

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, `Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I

`Didn't I think about your fishline all this quarter, and mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and

`But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozengebox, and the holidays before

that, you let the boat drag my fishline down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through

`Yes, you could,' said Tom, `if you'd minded what you were doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you shan't

With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie towards the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and

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 wormeaten 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? O, 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

`O 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

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 teatime, 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 footstep 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

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

`What, hasn't she been playing with you all this while?' said the father. `She'd been thinking o' nothing but

`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

`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, `asinging and talking to herself, and forgetting all about

`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

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr Tulliver was a peremptory man, and, as he said, would never let

anybody get hold of his whiphand; 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

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, `O Tom, please forgive me I can't bear it I will always be good always remember

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when we have quarrelled, express ourselves in

wellbred 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 behaviour to the mere impulsiveness

of the lower animals, but conduct ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilised 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

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

`Come along, Magsie, and have tea,' said Tom at last, when there was no more cake except what was

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishingrod 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 beaverbonnet 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 pocketknife, 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,

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 favourite spot always heightened Tom's goodhumour, 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

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her

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 dipping 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

chestnuttree under which they played at houses, their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed

like home, and Tom was always seeing the waterrats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the

reeds which she forgot and dropped afterwards, 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

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 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

The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellowbrown foliage of the oaks between me and

the blue sky, the white starflowers and the blueeyed speedwell and the ground ivy at my feet what grove

of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broadpetalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and

delicate fibres within me as this homescene? These familiar flowers, these wellremembered birdnotes,

this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it

by the capricious hedgerows such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language

that is laden with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them.

Our delight in the sunshine on the deep bladed grass today, might be no more than the faint perception of

wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the faroff years, which still live in us and

IT was Easter week and Mrs Tulliver's cheesecakes were more exquisitely light than usual: `a puff o' wind

'ud make 'em blow about like feathers,' kezia, the housemaid said, feeling proud to live under a mistress who

could make such pastry; so that no season or circumstances could have been more propitious for a family

party, even if it had not been advisable to consult sister Glegg and sister Pullet about Tom's going to school.

`I'd as lief not invite sister Deane this time,' said Mrs Tulliver, `for she's as jealous and having as can be, and

's allays trying to make the worst o' my poor children to their aunts and uncles.'

`Yes, yes,' said Mr Tulliver. `Ask her to come. I never hardly get a bit o' talk with Deane now: we haven't had

him this six months. What's it matter what she says? my children need be beholding to nobody.'

`That's what you allays say, Mr Tulliver; but I'm sure there's nobody o' your side, neither aunt nor uncle, to

leave 'em so much as a fivepound note for a leggicy. And there's sister Glegg, and sister Pullet too, saving

money unknown for they put by all their own interest and buttermoney too their husbands buy 'em

everything.' Mrs Tulliver was a mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a little when she has lambs.

`Tchuh!' said Mr Tulliver. `It takes a big loaf when there's many to breakfast. What signifies your sisters' bits

o' money when they've got halfadozen nevvies and nieces to divide it among? And your sister Deane won't

get 'em to leave all to one, I reckon, and make the country cry shame on 'em when they are dead?'

`I don't know what she won't get 'em to do,' said Mrs Tulliver, `for my children are so awk'ard wi' their aunts

and uncles. Maggie's ten times naughtier when they come than she is other days, and Tom doesn't like 'em,

bless him though it's more nat'ral in a boy than a gell And there's Lucy Deane's such a good child you

may set her on a stool, and there she'll sit for an hour together and never offer to get off I can't help loving

the child as if she was my own, and I'm sure she's more like my child than sister Deane's, for she'd allays a

`Well, well, if you're fond o' the child, ask her father and mother to bring her with 'em. And won't you ask

`O dear, Mr Tulliver, why, there'd be eight people besides the children, and I must put two more leaves i' the

table, besides reaching down more o' the dinner service. And you know as well as I do, as my sisters and your

`Well, well, do as you like, Bessy,' said Mr Tulliver, taking up his hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives

were more submissive than Mrs Tulliver on all points unconnected with her family relations; but she had

been a Miss Dodson, and the Dodsons were a very respectable family indeed as much looked up to as any

in their own parish or the next to it. The Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold up their heads very

high, and no one was surprised the two eldest had married so well: not at an early age, for that was not the

practice of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing everything in that family: particular

ways of bleaching the linen, of making the cowslip wine curing the hams and keeping the bottled

gooseberries, so that no daughter of that house could be indifferent to the privilege of having been born a

Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a Watson. Funerals were always conducted with peculiar propriety in the

Dodson family: the hatbands were never of a blue shade, the gloves never split at the thumb, everybody was

mourner who ought to be, and there were always scarfs for the bearers. When one of the family was in

trouble or sickness, all the rest went to visit the unfortunate member, usually at the same time, and did not

shrink from uttering the most disagreeable truths that correct family feeling dictated: if the illness or trouble

was the sufferer's own fault, it was not in the practice of the Dodson family to shrink from saying so. In short,

there was in this family a peculiar tradition as to what was the right thing in household management and

social demeanour, and the only bitter circumstance attending this superiority was a painful inability to

approve the condiments or the conduct of families ungoverned by the Dodson tradition. A female Dodson,

when in `strange houses,' always ate dry bread with her tea and declined any sort of preserves, having no

confidence in the butter and thinking that the preserves had probably begun to ferment from want of due

sugar and boiling. There were some Dodsons less like the family than others that was admitted but in so

far as they were `kin,' they were of necessity better than those who were `no kin.' And it is remarkable that

while no individual Dodson was satisfied with any other individual Dodson, each was satisfied, not only with

him or herself, but with the Dodsons collectively. The feeblest member of a family the one who has the

least character is often the merest epitome of the family habits and traditions, and Mrs Tulliver was a

thorough Dodson, though a mild one, as small beer, so long as it is anything, is only describable as very weak

ale. And though she had groaned a little in her youth under the yoke of her elder sisters, and still shed

occasional tears at their sisterly reproaches, it was not in Mrs Tulliver to be an innovator on the family ideas:

she was thankful to have been a Dodson, and to have one child who took after her own family, at least in his

features and complexion, in liking salt, and in eating beans, which a Tulliver never did.

In other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, and he was as far from appreciating his `kin' on

the mother's side as Maggie herself, generally absconding for the day with a large supply of the most portable

food when he received timely warning that his aunts and uncles were coming: a moral symptom from which

his aunt Glegg deduced the gloomiest views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie that Tom always

absconded without letting her into the secret, but the weaker sex are acknowledged to be serious impedimenta

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were coming, there were such various and suggestive

scents, as of plumcakes in the oven and jellies in the hot state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that it was

impossible to feel altogether gloomy: there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie made several inroads into

the kitchen, and, like other marauders, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being allowed to carry

`Tom,' said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder tree, eating their jam puffs, `shall you run away

`No,' said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eyeing the third, which was to be divided

`No, said Tom, opening his pocketknife and holding it over the puff, with his head on one side in a

dubitative manner. (It was a difficult problem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.)

`Is it the tipsycake, then?' said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic powers, while she leaned forward towards

`No, you silly, that'll be good the day after. It's the pudden. I know what the pudden's to be apricot rollup

With his interjection, the knife descended on the puff and it was in two, but the result was not satisfactory to

`I'll have that with the jam run out,' said Maggie, keeping her eyes shut to please Tom.

`Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if it comes to you fair, but I shan't give it you without.

Right or left you choose, now. Haaa!' said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggie peeped. `You keep

Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far, indeed I fear she cared less that Tom should enjoy the

utmost possible amount of puff than that he should be pleased with her for giving him the best bit. So she

shut her eyes quite close, till Tom told her to `say which,' and then she said, `Lefthand.'

`No: here, take it,' said Tom firmly, handing decidedly the best piece to Maggie.

Maggie, thinking it was no use to contend further, began too, and ate up her halfpuff with considerable

relish as well as rapidity. But Tom had finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her last morsel or

two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didn't know Tom was looking at her: she was seesawing

on the elder bough, lost to almost everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness.

`O, you greedy thing!' said Tom, when she had swallowed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted

very fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this and made up to him for it. He would have refused a

bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at a different point of view before and after one's own share of

`I wasn't going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You might have thought of it without, when you knew I gave

`Yes, but I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair, like Spouncer. He always takes the best bit, if you don't punch

him for it, and if you choose the best with your eyes shut, he changes his hands. But if I go halves I'll go 'em

With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his bough and threw a stone, with a `hoigh!' as a friendly

attention to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eatables vanished with an agitation of his ears and

feelings which could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet the excellent dog accepted Tom's attention

But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery which distinguishes the human being and places him at

a proud distance from the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still on her bough, and gave herself up to the

keen sense of unmerited reproach. She would have given the world not to have eaten all her puff, and to have

saved some of it for Tom. Not but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie's palate was not at all obtuse, but

she would have gone without it many times over, sooner than Tom should call her greedy and be cross with

her. And he had said he wouldn't have it and she ate it without thinking how could she help it? The tears

flowed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her for the next ten minutes; but by that time

resentment began to give way to the desire of reconciliation and she jumped from her bough to look for Tom.

He was no longer in the paddock behind the rickyard where was he likely to be gone, and Yap with him?

Maggie ran to the high bank against the great holly tree, where she could see far away towards the Floss.

There was Tom; but her heart sank again as she saw how far off he was on his way to the great river and that

he had another companion besides Yap naughty Bob Jakin, whose official, if not natural function, of

frightening the birds, was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt sure that Bob was wicked, without very

distinctly knowing why: unless it was because Bob's mother was a dreadfully large fat woman, who lived at a

queer round house down the river, and once, when Maggie and Tom had wandered thither there rushed out a

brindled dog that wouldn't stop barking, and when Bob's mother came out after it, and screamed above the

barking to tell them not to be frightened, Maggie though she was scolding them fiercely and her heart beat

with terror. Maggie thought it very likely that the round house had snakes on the floor, and bats in the

bedroom; for she had seen Bob take off his cap to show Tom a little snake that was inside it, and another time

he had a handful of young bats: altogether, he was an irregular character, perhaps even slightly diabolical,

judging from his intimacy with snakes and bats; and to crown all, when Tom had Bob for a companion he

It must be owned that Tom was fond of Bob's company. How could it be otherwise? Bob knew, directly he

saw a bird's egg, whether it was a swallow's or a tomtit's or a yellowhammer's; he found out all the wasps'

nests and could set all sorts of traps; he could climb the trees like a squirrel, and had quite a magical power of

detecting hedgehogs and stoats; and he had courage to do things that were rather naughty, such as making

gaps in the hedgerows, throwing stones after sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering incognito. Such

qualities in an inferior who could always be treated with authority in spite of his superior knowingness, had

necessarily a fatal fascination for Tom; and every holidaytime Maggie was sure to have days of grief

Well! there was no hope for it: he was gone now, and Maggie could think of no comfort but to sit down by

the holly or wander by the hedgerow, and fancy it was all different, refashioning her little world into just

Maggie's was a troublous life, and this was the form in which she took her opium.

Meanwhile Tom, forgetting all about Maggie and the sting of reproach which he had left in her heart, was

hurrying along with Bob whom he had met accidentally, to the scene of a great ratcatching in a

neighbouring barn. Bob knew all about this particular affair, and spoke of the sport with an enthusiasm which

no one, who is not either divested of all manly feeling or pitiably ignorant 'of ratcatching, can fail to

imagine. For a person suspected of preternatural wickedness, Bob was really not so very villainouslooking;

there was even something agreeable in his snubnosed face with its closecurled border of red hair. But then

his trousers were always rolled up at the knee for the convenience of wading on the slightest notice, and his

virtue, supposing it to exist, was undeniably `virtue in rags' which, on the authority even of bilious

philosophers, who think all welldressed merit overpaid, is notoriously likely to remain'recognised (perhaps

`I know the chap as owns the ferrets,' said Bob in a hoarse treble voice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue

eyes fixed on the river, like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion for darting in. `He lives up the

Kennel Yard at Sut Ogg's he does. He's the biggest rotcatcher anywhere he is. I'd sooner be a

rotcatcher nor anything I would. The moles is nothing to the rots. But Lors! you mun ha' ferrets. Dogs is

no good. Why, there's that dog, now,' Bob continued, pointing with an air of disgust towards Yap, `he's no

more good wi' a rot nor nothin'. I see it myself I did at the rotcatchin' i' your feyther's barn.'

Yap, feeling the withering influence of this scorn, tucked his tail in and shrank close to Tom's leg, who felt a

little hurt for him, but had not the superhuman courage to seem behindhand with Bob in contempt for a dog

`No, no,' he said, `Yap's no good at sport. I'll have regular good dogs for rats and everything, when I've done

`Hev ferrets, Measter Tom,' said Bob, eagerly, `them white ferrets wi' pink eyes Lors, you might catch your

own rots, an' you might put a rot in a cage wi' a ferret, an'see 'em fight you might. That's what I'd do, I

know. An'it 'ud be better fun a'most nor seein' two chaps fight if it wasn't them chaps as sell cakes an'

oranges at the Fair, as the things flew out o' their baskets, an' some o' the cakes was smashed... But they

tasted just as good,' added Bob, by way of note or addendum, after a moment's pause.

`But, I say, Bob,' said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, `ferrets are nasty biting things they'll bite a fellow

`Lors, why that's the beauty on 'em. If a chap lays hold o' your ferret, he won't be long before he hollows out

At this moment a striking incident made the boys pause suddenly in their walk. It was the plunging of some

small body in the water from among the neighbouring bulrushes if it was not a waterrat Bob intimated that

`Hoigh! Yap hoigh! there he is,' said Tom, clapping his hands, as the little black snout made its arrowy

Yap agitated his ears and wrinkled his brows, but declined to plunge, trying whether barking would not

`Ugh! you coward!' said Tom, and kicked him over, feeling humiliated as a sportsman to possess so

poorspirited an animal. Bob abstained from remark and passed on, choosing however to walk in the shallow

`He's none so full now, the Floss isn't,' said Bob, as he kicked the water up before him, with an agreeable

sense of being insolent to it. `Why, last 'ear, the meadows was all one sheet o' water, they was.'

`Ay, but,' said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an opposition between statements that were really quite

accordant, `but there was a big flood once when the Round Pool was made. I know there was, 'cause father

says so. And the sheep and cows were all drowned, and the boats went all over the fields ever such a way.'

I don't care about a flood comin',' said Bob, `I don't mind the water, no more nor the land. I'd swim I

`Ah, but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long?' said Tom, his imagination becoming quite active under

the stimulus of that dread. `When I'm a man, I shall make a boat with a wooden house on the top of it, like

Noah's ark, and keep plenty to eat in it rabbits and things all ready. And then if the flood came, you

know, Bob, I shouldn't mind... And I'd take you in, if I saw you swimming,' he added, in the tone of a

`I aren't frighted,' said Bob, to whom hunger did not appear so appalling. `But I'd get in, an' knock the rabbits

`Ah, and I should have halfpence, and we'd play at heads and tails,' said Tom, not contemplating the

possibility that this recreation might have fewer charms for his mature age. `I'd divide fair to begin with, and

`I'n got a halfpenny o' my own,' said Bob, proudly, coming out of the water and tossing his halfpenny in

`It wasn't,' said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. `You give me the halfpenny I've won it fair.'

Tom's blood was thoroughly up: he went at Bob with a lunge and threw him down, but Bob seized hold and

kept it like a cat, and pulled Tom down after him. They struggled fiercely on the ground for a moment or two,

`You say you'll give me the halfpenny now,' he said, with difficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the

But at this moment, Yap, who had been running on before, returned barking to the scene of action, and saw a

favourable opportunity for biting Bob's bare leg not only with impunity but with honour. The pain from Yap's

teeth, instead of surprising Bob into a relaxation of his hold, gave it a fiercer tenacity, and with a new

exertion of his force he pushed Tom backward and got uppermost. But now Yap, who could get no sufficient

purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so that Bob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom and

almost throttling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time Tom was up again, and before Bob had quite

recovered his balance after the act of swinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, threw him down and got his knee

Bob took the halfpenny out of his pocket and threw it away from him on the ground.

`There the halfpenny lies,' he said, `I don't want your halfpenny; I wouldn't have kept it. But you wanted to

cheat: I hate a cheat. I shan't go along with you any more,' he added, turning round homeward, not without

casting a regret towards the ratcatching and other pleasures which he must relinquish along with Bob's

`You may let it alone, then,' Bob called out after him. `I shall cheat if I like there's no fun i' playing, else.

And I know where there's goldfinch's nest, but I'll take care you don't... . An' you're a nasty fightin'

Tom walked on without looking round, and Yap followed his example, the cold bath having moderated his

`Go along wi' you, then, wi' your drownded dog I wouldn't own such a dog, I wouldn't,' said Bob, getting

louder, in a last effort to sustain his defiance. But Tom was not to be provoked into turning round, and Bob's

`An' I'n gi'en you everything an' showed you everything, an' niver wanted nothin' from you... . An' there's

your hornhanded knife, then, as you gi'en me'... . Here Bob flung the knife as far as he could after Tom's

retreating footsteps. But it produced no effect, except the sense in Bob's mind that there was a terrible void in

He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and disappeared behind the hedge. The knife would do no

good on the ground there it wouldn't vex Tom, and pride or resentment was a feeble passion in Bob's mind

compared with the love of a pocketknife. His very fingers sent entreating thrills that he would go and clutch

that familiar rough buck'shorn handle, which they had so often grasped for mere affection as it lay idle in his

pocket. And there were two blades and they had just been sharpened. What is life without a pocketknife to

him who has once tasted a higher existence? No: to throw the handle after the hatchet is a comprehensible act

of desperation, but to throw one's pocketknife after an implacable friend is clearly in every sense a

hyperbole or throwing beyond the mark. So Bob shuffled back to the spot where the beloved knife lay in the

dirt, and felt quite a new pleasure in clutching it again after the temporary separation, in opening one blade

after the other and feeling their edge with his wellhardened thumb. Poor Bob! he was not sensitive on the

point of honour not a chivalrous character. That fine moral aroma would not have been thought much of by

the public opinion of Kennel Yard, which was the very focus or heart of Bob's world, even if it could have

made itself perceptible there. Yet, for all that, he was not utterly a sneak and a thief, as our friend Tom had

But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Rhadamanthinepersonage, having more than the usual share of boys'

justice in him the justice that desires to hurt culprits as much as they deserve to be hurt, and is troubled with

no doubts concerning the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a cloud on his brow when he came

home, which checked her joy at his coming so much sooner than she had expected, and she dared hardly

speak to him as he stood silently throwing the small gravel stones into the milldam. It is not pleasant to give

up a ratcatching when you have set your mind on it. But if Tom had told his strongest feeling at that

moment, he would have said, `I'd do just the same again.' That was his usual mode of viewing his past

THE Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters.

As she sat in Mrs Tulliver's armchair, no impartial observer could have denied that for a woman of fifty she

had a very comely face and figure, though Tom and Maggie considered their aunt Glegg as the type of

ugliness. It is true she despised the advantages of costume, for though, as she often observed, no woman had

better clothes, it was not her way to wear her new things out before her old ones. Other women, if they liked,

might have their best thread lace in every wash, but when Mrs Glegg died, it would be found that she had

better lace laid by in the righthand drawer of her wardrobe, in the Spotted Chamber, than ever Mrs Wooll of

St Ogg's had bought in her life, although Mrs Wooll wore her lace before it was paid for. So of her curled

fronts. Mrs Glegg had doubtless the glossiest and crispest brown curls in her drawers, as well as curls in

various degrees of fuzzy laxness; but to look out on the weekday world from under a crisp and glossy front

would be to introduce a most dreamlike and unpleasant confusion between the sacred and the secular.

Occasionally, indeed, Mrs Glegg wore one of her thirdbest fronts on a weekday visit, but not at a sister's

house; especially not at Mrs Tulliver's, who since her marriage had hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by

wearing her own hair, though, as Mrs Glegg observed to Mrs Deane, a mother of a family, like Bessy, with a

husband always going to law, might have been expected to know better. But Bessy was always weak! So if

Mrs Glegg's front today was more fuzzy and lax than usual, she had a design under it: she intended the most

pointed and cutting allusion to Mrs Tulliver's bunches of blond curls separated from each other by a due wave

of smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs Tulliver had shed tears several times at sister Glegg's

unkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of looking the handsomer for

them naturally administered support. Mrs Glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the house today united and

tilted slightly, of course a frequent practice of hers when she was on a visit and happened to be in a severe

humour: she didn't know what draughts there might be in strange houses. For the same reason she wore a

small sable tippet which reached just to her shoulders and was very far from meeting across her wellformed

chest, while her long neck was protected by a chevauxdefrise of miscellaneous frilling. One would need to

be learned in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs Glegg's slatecoloured silk

gown must have been, but from certain constellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odour

about it suggestive of a damp clotheschest, it was probable that it belonged to a stratum of garments just old

Mrs Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand with the manydoubled chain round her fingers, and

observed to Mrs Tulliver who had just returned from a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be by other

`I don't know what ails sister Pullet,' she continued. `It used to be the way in our family for one to be as early

as another I'm sure it was so in my poor father's time and not for one sister to sit half an hour before the

others came. But if the ways o' the family are altered it shan't be my fault I'll never be the one to come into

a house when all the rest are going away. I wonder at sister Deane she used to be more like me. But if you'll

take my advice, Bessy, you'll put the dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, because folks are late as

`O dear, there's no fear but what they'll be all here in time, sister,' said Mrs Tulliver, in her mildpeevish tone.

`The dinner won't be ready till halfpast one. But if it's long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheesecake

`Well, Bessy!' said Mrs Glegg, with a bitter smile and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, `I should ha'

thought you'd know your own sister better. I never did eat between meals, and I'm not going to begin. Not but

what I hate that nonsense of having your dinner at halfpast one when you might have it at one. You was

`Why, Jane, what can I do? Mr Tulliver doesn't like his dinner before two o'clock, but I put it half an hour

`Yes, yes, I know how it is wi' husbands they're for putting everything off they'll put the dinner off till

after tea, if they've got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work: but it's a pity for you, Bessy, as you

haven't got more strength o' mind. It'll be well if your children don't suffer for it. And I hope you've not gone

and got a great dinner for us going to expense for your sisters as 'ud sooner eat a crust o' dry bread nor help

to ruin you with extravagance I wonder you don't take pattern by your sister Deane she's far more

sensible. And here you've got two children to provide for, and your husband's spent your fortin i' going to

law, and's like to spend his own too. A boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the kitchen,' Mrs Glegg

added, in a tone of emphatic protest, `and a plain pudding with a spoonful o' sugar and no spice, 'ud be far

With sister Glegg in this humour, there was a cheerful prospect for the day. Mrs Tulliver never went the

length of quarrelling with her, any more than a waterfowl that puts out its leg in a deprecating manner can be

said to quarrel with a boy who throws stones. But this point of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new,

`Mr Tulliver says he always will have a good dinner for his friends while he can pay for it,' she said, `and he's

`Well, Bessy, I can't leave your children enough out o'my savings, to keep 'em from ruin. And you mustn't

look to having any o' Mr Glegg's money for it's well if I don't go first he comes of a longlived family

and if he was to die and leave me well for my life, he'd tie all the money up to go back to his own kin.'

The sound of wheels while Mrs Glegg was speaking was an interruption highly welcome to Mrs Tulliver,

who hastened out to receive sister Pullet it must be sister Pullet because the sound was that of a

Mrs Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the mouth at the thought of the `fourwheel.' She

Sister Pullet was in tears when the onehorse chaise stopped before Mrs Tulliver's door, and it was

apparently requisite that she should shed a few more before getting out, for though her husband and Mrs

Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her head sadly as she looked through her tears at

`Why, whativer is the matter, sister?' said Mrs Tulliver. She was not an imaginative woman, but it occurred to

her that the large toilet glass in sister Pullet's best bedroom was possibly broken for the second time.

There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise,

not without casting a glance at Mr Pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress from injury. Mr

Pullet was a small man with a high nose, small twinkling eyes and thin lips, in a freshlooking suit of black

and a white cravat that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere

personal ease. He bore about the same relation to his tall, goodlooking wife, with her balloon sleeves,

abundant mantle and large befeathered and beribboned bonnet, as a small fishingsmack bears to a brig

It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity introduced into the emotions by a high state of

civilisation the sight of a fashionably drest female in grief. From the sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a

woman in large buckram sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an architectural bonnet and delicate

ribbonstrings what a long series of gradations! In the enlightened child of civilisation the abandonment

characteristic of grief is checked and varied in the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to

the analytic mind. If with a crushed heart and eyes halfblinded by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a

too devious step through a doorplace, she might crush her buckram sleeves too, and the deep consciousness

of this possibility produces a composition of forces by which she takes a line that just clears the doorpost.

Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward a

touching gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when capstrings

will once more have a charm. As the tears subside a little and with her head leaning backward at the angle

that will not injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when grief which has made all things else a

weariness has itself become weary, she looks down pensively at her bracelets and adjusts their clasps with

that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a calm and healthy

Mrs Pullet brushed each doorpost with great nicety, about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a

woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the

shoulders), and having done that sent the muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the

`Well, sister, you're late: what's the matter?' said Mrs Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands.

Mrs Pullet sat down lifting up her mantle carefully behind before she answered, `She's gone,' unconsciously

`Died the day before yesterday,' continued Mrs Pullet. `An' her legs was as thick as my body,' she added, with

deep sadness, after a pause. `They'd tapped her no end o'times, they say you might ha' swum in the water as

`Well, Sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, whoiver she may be,' said Mrs Glegg with the promptitude and

emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided; `but I can't think who you're talking of, for my part.'

`But I know,' said Mrs Pullet, sighing and shaking her head, `and there isn't another such a dropsy in the

`Well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance as I've ever heared of,' said Mrs Glegg, who always cried

just as much as was proper when anything happened to her own `kin' but not on other occasions.

`She's so much acquaintance as I've seen her legs when they was like bladders... . And an old lady as had

doubled her money over and over again, and kept it all in her own management to the last, and had her pocket

with her keys in under her pillow constant. There isn't many old parish'ners like her, I doubt.'

`And they say she'd took as much physic as 'ud fill a waggon,' observed Mr Pullet.

`Ah,' sighed Mrs Pullet, `she'd another complaint ever so many years before she had the dropsy, and the

doctors couldn't make out what it was. And she said to me, when I went to see her last Christmas, she said,

`Mrs Pullet, if iver you have the dropsy, you'll think o' me.' She did say so,' added Mrs Pullet, beginning to

cry bitterly again, `those were her very words. And she's to be buried o' Saturday, and Pullet's bid to the

`Sophy,' said Mrs Glegg, unable any longer to contain her spirit of rational remonstrance, `Sophy, I wonder at

you, fretting and injuring your health about people as don't belong to you. Your poor father never did so, nor

your aunt Frances neither, nor any o' the family as I ever heared of. You couldn't fret no more than this, if

Mrs Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided for

crying too much. It was not everybody who could afford to cry so much about their neighbours who had left

them nothing; but Mrs Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure and money to carry her crying

`Mrs Sutton didn't die without making her will, though,' said Mr Pullet, with a confused sense that he was

saying something to sanction his wife's tears; `ours is a rich parish, but they say there's nobody else to leave

as many thousands behind 'em as Mrs Sutton. And she's left no leggicies, to speak on left it all in a lump to

`There wasn't much good i' being so rich, then,' said Mrs Glegg, `if she'd got none but husband's kin to leave

it to. It's poor work when that's all you've got to pinch yourself for not as I'm one o' those as 'ud like to die

without leaving more money out at interest than other folks had reckoned. But it's a poor tale when it must go

`I'm sure, sister,' said Mrs Pullet, who had recovered sufficiently to take off her veil and fold it carefully, `it's

a nice sort o' man as Mrs Sutton has left her money to, for he's troubled with the asthmy and goes to bed

every night at eight o'clock. He told me about it himself, as free as could be, one Sunday when he came to our

church. He wears a hareskin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk quite a gentleman sort o' man. I

told him there wasn't many months in the year as I wasn't under the doctor's hands. And he said, `Mrs Pullet I

can feel for you.' That was what he said the very words. Ah!' sighed Mrs Pullet, shaking her head at the

idea that there were few who could enter fully into her experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, strong

stuff in small bottles, and weak stuff in large bottles, damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts at

eighteenpence. `Sister, I may as well go and take my bonnet off now. Did you see as the capbox was put

Mr Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had forgotten it. He hastened out with a stricken conscience

`They'll bring it upstairs, sister,' said Mrs Tulliver, wishing to go at once, lest Mrs Glegg should begin to

explain her feelings about Sophy's being the first Dodson who ever ruined her constitution with doctor's stuff.

Mrs Tulliver was fond of going upstairs with her sister Pullet, and looking thoroughly at her cap before she

put it on her head and discussing millinery in general. This was part of Bessy's weakness that stirred Mrs

Glegg's sisterly compassion: Bessy went far too welldrest, considering; and she was too proud to dress her

child in the good clothing her sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata of her wardrobe; it was a sin and

a shame to buy anything to dress that child, if it wasn't a pair of shoes. In this particular however, Mrs Glegg

did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs Tulliver had really made great efforts to induce Maggie to wear a

leghorn bonnet and a dyed silk frock made out of her aunt Glegg's but the results had been such1 that Mrs

Tulliver was obliged to bury them in her maternal bosom; for Maggie, declaring that the frock smelt of nasty

dye, had taken an opportunity of basting it together with the roast beef the first Sunday she wore it, and

finding this scheme answer, she had subsequently pumped on the bonnet with its green ribbons so as to give

it a general resemblance to a sage cheese garnished with withered lettuces. I must urge in excuse for Maggie

that Tom had laughed at her in the bonnet and said she looked like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made

presents of clothes, but these were always new and pretty enough to please Maggie as well as her mother. Of

all her sisters Mrs Tulliver certainly preferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of preference; but Mrs

Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty awkward children; she would do the best she could by them, but it

was a pity they weren't as good and as pretty as sister Deane's child. Maggie and Tom, on their part, thought

their aunt Pullet tolerable chiefly because she was not their aunt Glegg. Tom always declined to go more than

once during his holidays to see either of them: both his uncles tipped him that once, of course, but at his aunt

Pullet's there were a great many toads to pelt in the cellar area, so that he preferred the visit to her. Maggie

shuddered at the toads and dreamed of them horribly, but she liked her uncle Pullet's musical snuffbox. Still,

it was agreed by the sisters in Mrs Tulliver's absence that the Tulliver blood did not mix well with the Dodson

blood, that, in fact, poor Bessy's children were Tullivers and that Tom, notwithstanding he had the Dodson

complexion, was likely to be as `contrairy' as his father. As for Maggie, she was the picture of her aunt Moss,

Mr Tulliver's sister, a largeboned woman who had married as poorly as could be, had no china, and had a

husband who had much ado to pay his rent. But when Mrs Pullet was alone with Mrs Tulliver upstairs, the

remarks were naturally to the disadvantage of Mrs Glegg, and they agreed in confidence that there was no

knowing what sort of fright sister Jane would come out next. But their t�teat�te was curtailed by the

appearance of Mrs Deane with little Lucy, and Mrs Tulliver had to look on with a silent pang while Lucy's

blond curls were adjusted. It was quite unaccountable that Mrs Deane, the thinnest and sallowest of all the

Miss Dodsons, should have had this child who might have been taken for Mrs Tulliver's any day. And

She did today, when she and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their uncle Glegg. Maggie

had thrown her bonnet off very carelessly and coming in with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at

once to Lucy, who was standing by her mother's knee. Certainly the contrast between the cousins was

conspicuous and to superficial eyes was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie, though a connoisseur

might have seen `points' in her which had a higher promise for maturity than Lucy's natty completeness: it

was like the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest

little rosebud mouth to be kissed: everything about her was neat her little round neck with the row of coral

beads, her little straight nose, not at all snubby, her little clear eyebrows, rather darker than her curls, to

match her hazel eyes which looked up with shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarcely a year

older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight. She was fond of fancying a world where the people never

got any larger than children of their own age, and she made the queen of it just like Lucy with a little crown

on her head and a little sceptre in her hand... only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucy's form.

`O Lucy,' she burst out, after kissing her, `You'll stay with Tom and me, won't you? O kiss her, Tom.'

Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her no he came up to her with Maggie

because it seemed easier on the whole than saying, how do you do to all those aunts and uncles: he stood

looking at nothing in particular, with the blushing awkward air and semismile which are common to shy boys

when in company very much as if they had come into the world by mistake and found it in a degree of

`Heyday!' said aunt Glegg with loud emphasis, `do little boys and gells come into a room without taking

`Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears,' said Mrs Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She

`Well, and how do you do? And I hope you're good children, are you?' said aunt Glegg, in the same loud

emphatic way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her large rings and kissing their cheeks much

against their desire. `Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to boardingschools should hold their heads up.

Look at me, now.' Tom declined that pleasure, apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. `Put your hair

Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud emphatic way, as if she considered them deaf or perhaps rather

idiotic: it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they were accountable creatures, and might be a

salutary check on naughty tendencies. Bessy's children were so spoiled they'd need have somebody to make

`Well, my dears,' said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate voice, `you grow, wonderful fast. I doubt they'll

outgrow their strength,' she added, looking over their heads with a melancholy expression at their mother. `I

think the gell has too much hair. I'd have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I was you: it isn't good for her

health. It's that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldn't wonder. Don't you think so, sister Deane?'

I can't say, I'm sure, sister,' said Mrs Deane, shutting her lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a

`No, no,' said Mr Tulliver, `the child's healthy enough there's nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as

white, for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it 'ud be as well if Bessy 'ud have the child's hair

A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggie's breast, but it was arrested by the desire to know from her aunt

Deane whether she would leave Lucy behind: aunt Deane would hardly ever let Lucy come to see them. After

`Yes, please, mother,' said Lucy, timidly, blushing very pink all over her little neck.

`Well done, Lucy! Let her stay, Mrs Deane, let her stay,' said Mr Deane, a large but alertlooking man with a

type of physique to be seen in all ranks of English society bald crown, red whiskers, full forehead, and

general solidity without heaviness. You may see nobleman like Mr Deane, and you may see grocers or

daylabourers like him; but the keenness of his brown eyes was less common than his contour. He held a

silver snuffbox very tightly in his hand, and now and then exchanged a pinch with Mr Tulliver, whose box

was only silvermounted, so that it was naturally a joke between them that Mr Tulliver wanted to exchange

snuffboxes also. Mr Deane's box had been given him by the superior partners in the firm to which he

belonged, at the same time that they gave him a share in the business in acknowledgment of his valuable

services as manager. No man was thought more highly of in St Ogg's than Mr Deane, and some persons were

even of opinion that Miss Susan Dodson, who was held to have made the worst match of all the Dodson

sisters, might one day ride in a better carriage and live in a better house even than her sister Pullet. There was

no knowing where a man would stop, who had got his foot into a great millowning, shipowning business

like that of Guest Co. with a banking concern attached. And Mrs Deane, as her intimate female friends

observed, was proud and having enough: she wouldn't let her husband stand still in the world for want of

`Maggie,' said Mrs Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her and whispering in her ear as soon as this point of

Lucy's staying was settled, `go and get your hair brushed do, for shame. I told you not to come in without

`Tom, come out with me,' whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she passed him, and Tom followed

`Come upstairs with me, Tom,' she whispered when they were outside the door. `There's something I want to

`There's no time to play at anything before dinner,' said Tom, whose imagination was impatient of any

Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mother's room, and saw her go at once to a drawer from which she

Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight across the middle of her forehead.

`O, my buttons, Maggie you'll catch it!' exclaimed Tom. `You'd better not cut any more off.'

Snip! went the great scissors again while Tom was speaking, and he couldn't help feeling it was rather good

`Here Tom, cut it behind for me,' said Maggie, excited by her own daring and anxious to finish the deed.

`You'll catch it, you know,' said Tom, nodding his head in an admonitory manner, and hesitating a little as he

`Never mind make haste!' said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.

The black locks were so thick nothing could be more tempting to a lad who had already tasted the

forbidden pleasure of cutting the pony's mane. I speak to those who know the satisfaction of making a pair of

shears meet through a duly resisting mass of hair. One delicious grinding snip, and then another and another,

and the hinder locks fell heavily on the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged uneven manner, but with

a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain.

`O Maggie,' said Tom, jumping round her and slapping his knees as he laughed, `O, my buttons, what a queer

thing you look! Look at yourself in the glass you look like the idiot we throw our nutshells to at school.'

Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought beforehand chiefly of her own deliverance from her

teasing hair and teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother

and her aunts by this very decided course of action: she didn't want her hair to look pretty that was out of

the question she only wanted people to think her a clever little girl and not to find fault with her. But now

when Tom began to laugh at her and say she was like the idiot, the affair had quite a new aspect. She looked

in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale, and her

`Don't laugh at me, Tom,' said Maggie, in a passionate tone, with an outburst of angry tears, stamping and

`Now then spitfire!' said Tom. `What did you cut it off for then? I shall go down: I can smell the dinner going

He hurried downstairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter sense of the irrevocable which was almost an

everyday experience of her small soul. She could see clearly enough now the thing was done that it was

very foolish, and that she should have to hear and think more about her hair than ever; for Maggie rushed to

her deeds with passionate impulse, and then saw not only their consequences, but what would have happened

if they had not been done, with all the detail and exaggerated circumstances of an active imagination. Tom

never did the same sort of foolish things as Maggie, having a wonderful, instinctive discernment of what

would turn to his advantage or disadvantage, and so it happened that though he was much more wilful and

inflexible than Maggie, his mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make a mistake of that

sort he espoused it and stood by it: he `didn't mind': if he broke the lash of his father's gigwhip by lashing

the gate, he couldn't help it the whip shouldn't have got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a gate

he was convinced, not that the whipping of gates by all boys was a justifiable act, but that he Tom Tulliver

was justifiable in whipping that particular gate, and he wasn't going to be sorry. But Maggie, as she stood

crying before the glass, felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and endure the severe eyes and

severe words of her aunts, while Tom, and Lucy, and Kezia who waited at table, and perhaps her father and

her uncles, would laugh at her for if Tom had laughed at her of course every one else would: and if she had

only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lucy and had the apricot pudding and the custard!

What could she do but sob? She sat as helpless and despairing among her black locks as Ajax among the

slaughtered sheep. Very trivial, perhaps, this anguish seems to weatherworn mortals who have to think of

Christmas bills, dead loves and broken friendships, but it was not less bitter to Maggie perhaps it was even

more bitter than what we are fond of calling antithetically the real troubles of mature life. `Ah, my child,

you will have real troubles to fret about by and by,' is the consolation we have almost all of us had

administered to us in our childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have been grown up. We

have all of us sobbed so piteously standing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, when we lost sight of

our mother or nurse in some strange place, but we can no longer recall the poignancy of that moment till we

weep over it, as we do over the remembered sufferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen

moments has left its trace and lives in us still, but such traces have blent themselves irrecoverably with the

firmer texture of our youth and manhood; and so it comes that we can look on at the troubles of our children

with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their pain. Is there any one who can recover the experience of his

childhood, not merely with a memory of what he did and what happened to him, of what he liked and disliked

when he was in frock and trousers, but with an intimate penetration, a revived consciousness of what he felt

then when it was so long from one Midsummer to another? what he felt when his schoolfellows shut him

out of their game because he would pitch the ball wrong out of mere wilfulness; or on a rainy day in the

holidays when he didn't know how to amuse himself and fell from idleness into mischief, from mischief into

defiance, and from defiance into sulkiness; or when his mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat

that `half,' although every other boy of his age had gone into tails already? Surely if we could recall that early

bitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless conception of life that gave the bitterness its

`Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute,' said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. `Lawks! what have

`But I tell you, you're to come down, Miss, this minute: your mother says so,' said Kezia, going up to Maggie

`Get away, Kezia, I don't want any dinner,' said Maggie, resisting Kezia's arm, `I shan't come.'

`O well, I can't stay: I've got to wait at dinner,' said Kezia, going out again.

`Maggie, you little silly,' said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after, `why don't you come and have

your dinner? There's lots o' goodies, and my mother says you're to come. What are you crying for, you little

O it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and unconcerned: if he had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have

cried too. And there was the dinner, so nice; and she was so hungry. It was very bitter.

But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to cry, and did not feel that Maggie's grief spoiled his

prospect of the sweets; but he went and put his head near her, and said in a lower, comforting tone,

`Won't you come, then, Magsie? Shall I bring you a bit o' pudding when I've had mine?... and a custard and

`Very well,' said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said, `But you'd better come, you

Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the

keenest edge of her suffering, and nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their legitimate influence.

Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered locks and slowly she made her way downstairs. Then she stood

leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining parlour door, peeping in when it was ajar. She saw

Tom and Lucy with an empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a side table it was too

much. She slipped in and went towards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented

Mrs Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and felt such a `turn' that she dropt the large gravy spoon

into the dish with the most serious results to the tablecloth. For Kezia had not betrayed the reason of

Maggie's refusal to come down, not liking to give her mistress a shock in the moment of carving, and Mrs

Tulliver thought there was nothing worse in question than a fit of perverseness which was inflicting its own

Mrs Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears

began to burn, while uncle Glegg, a kindlooking, whitehaired old gentleman, said

`Heyday! what little gell's this why, I don't know her. It is some little gell you've picked up in the road,

`Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself,' said Mr Tulliver in an undertone to Mr Deane, laughing with

`Why, little miss. You've made yourself look very funny,' said uncle Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life

`Fie, for shame!' said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest tone of reproof. `Little gells as cut their own hair

should be whipped and fed on bread and water not come and sit down with their aunts and uncles.'

`Ay, ay,' said uncle Glegg, Meaning to give a playful turn to this denunciation, `she must be sent to gaol, I

`She's more like a gypsy nor ever,' said aunt Pullet, in a pitying tone, `It's very bad luck, sister, as the gell

should be so brown the boy's fair enough. I doubt it'll stand in her way i' life, to be so brown.'

`She's a naughty child, as 'll break her mother's heart,' said Mrs Tulliver, with tears in her eyes.

Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and derision. Her first flush came from anger which

gave her a transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the recent

appearance of the pudding and custard. Under this impression, he whispered, `O my! Maggie, I told you

you'd catch it.' He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy.

Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, and getting up from her chair, she ran to

`Come, come, my wench,' said her father soothingly putting his arms round her, `never mind. You was i' the

right to cut it off if it plagued you. Give over crying: father 'll take your part.'

Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these moments when her father `took her part:'

she kept them in her heart and thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had

`How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy!' said Mrs Glegg, in a loud `aside' to Mrs Tulliver. `It'll be

the ruin of her, if you don't take care. My father niver brought his children up so, else we should ha' been a

Mrs Tulliver's domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have reached the point at which insensibility

begins. She took no notice of her sister's remark, but threw back her capstrings and dispensed the pudding,

With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for the children were told they might have their

nuts and wine in the summerhouse, since the day was so mild, and they scampered out among the budding

bushes of the garden, with the alacrity of small animals getting from under a burningglass.

Mrs Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now the dinner was despatched and every one's mind

disengaged, it was the right moment to communicate Mr Tulliver's intention concerning Tom, and it would be

as well for Tom himself to be absent. The children were used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if they

were birds and could understand nothing, however they might stretch their necks and listen; but on this

occasion Mrs Tulliver manifested an unusual discretion because she had recently had evidence that the going

to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who looked at it as very much on a par with going to

school to a constable. Mrs Tulliver had a sighing sense that her husband would do as he liked, whatever sister

Glegg said, or sister Pullet either, but at least they would not be able to say, if the thing turned out ill, that

Bessy had fallen in with her husband's folly without letting her own friends know a word about it.

`Mr Tulliver,' she said, interrupting her husband in his talk with Mr Deane, `It's time now to tell the children's

`Very well,' said Mr Tulliver, rather sharply, `I've no objections to tell anybody what I mean to do with him.

I've settled,' he added, looking towards Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, `I've settled to send him to a Mr Stelling, a

parson, down at King's Lorton, there, an uncommon clever fellow, I understand, as'll put him up to most

There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the company, such as you may have observed in a country

congregation when they hear an allusion to their weekday affairs from the pulpit. It was equally astonishing

to the aunts and uncles to find a parson introduced into Mr Tulliver's family arrangements. As for uncle

Pullet, he could hardly have been more thoroughly obfuscated if Mr Tulliver had said that he was going to

send Tom to the Lord Chancellor: for uncle Pullet belonged to that extinct class of British yeomen who

dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to church, and ate a particularly good dinner on

Sunday, without dreaming that the British constitution in Church and State had a traceable origin any more

than the solar system and the fixed stars. It is melancholy, but true, that Mr Pullet had the most confused idea

of a bishop as a sort of a baronet, who might or might not be a clergyman; and as the rector of his own parish

was a man of high family and fortune, the idea that a clergyman could be a schoolmaster was too remote from

Mr Pullet's experience to be readily conceivable. I know it is difficult for people in these instructed times to

believe in uncle Pullet's ignorance; but let them reflect on the remarkable results of a great natural faculty

under favouring circumstances. And uncle Pullet had a great natural faculty for ignorance. He was the first to

`Why, what can you be going to send him to a parson for?' he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes,

looking at Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, to see if they showed any signs of comprehension.

`Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters by what I can make out,' said poor Mr Tulliver, who in

the maze of this puzzling world, laid hold of any clue with great readiness and tenacity. `Jacobs at th'

Academy's no parson, and he's done very bad by the boy, and I made up my mind if I sent him to school

again, It should be to somebody different to Jacobs. And this Mr Stelling, by what I can make out, is the sort

o' man I want. And I mean my boy to go to him at Midsummer,' he concluded, in a tone of decision, tapping

`You'll have to pay a swinging halfyearly bill then, eh, Tulliver? The clergymen have highish notions, in

general,' said Mr Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wishing to maintain a neutral

`What, do you think the parson 'll teach him to know a good sample o' wheat when he sees it, neighbour

Tulliver?' said Mr Glegg, who was fond of his jest, and, having retired from business, felt that it was not only

`Why, you see, I've got a plan i' my head about Tom,' said Mr Tulliver, pausing after that statement and

`Well, if I may be allowed to speak, and it's seldom as I am,' said Mrs Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, `I

should like to know what good is to come to the boy, by bringin' him up above his fortin.'

`Why,' said Mr Tulliver, not looking at Mrs Glegg, but at the male part of his audience, `you see, I've made

up my mind not to bring Tom up to my own business. I've had my thoughts about it all along, and I made up

my mind by what I saw with Garnett and his son. I mean to put him to some business, as he can go into

without capital, and I want to give him an eddication as he'll be even wi' the lawyers and folks, and put me up

Mrs Glegg emitted a long sort of guttural sound with closed lips that smiled in mingled pity and scorn.

`It 'ud be a fine deal better for some people,' she said, after that introductory note, `if they'd let the lawyers

`Is he at the head of a grammar school, then, this clergyman such as that at Market Bewley?' said Mr

`No nothing o' that,' said Mr Tulliver. `He won't take more than two or three pupils and so he'll have the

`Ah, and get his eddication done the sooner; they can't learn much at a time when there's so many of 'em,' said

uncle Pullet, feeling that he was getting quite an insight into this difficult matter.

`Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year that's all,' said Mr Tulliver, with some pride at his own spirited course. `But

then, you know, it's an investment, like; Tom's eddication 'ull be so much capital to him.'

`Ay, there's something in that,' said Mr Glegg. `Well, well, neighbour Tulliver, you may be right, you may be

I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at Buxton. But us that have got no learning had better

keep our money, eh, neighbour Pullet?' Mr Glegg rubbed his knees and looked very pleasant.

`Mr Glegg, I wonder at you,' said his wife. `It's very unbecoming in a man o' your age and belongings.'

`What's unbecoming, Mrs G.?' said Mr Glegg, winking pleasantly at the company. `My new blue coat as I've

`I pity your weakness, Mr Glegg. I say, it's unbecoming to be making a joke when you see your own kin

`If you mean me by that,' said Mr Tulliver, considerably nettled, `You needn't trouble yourself to fret about

`Bless me,' said Mr Deane, Judiciously introducing a new idea, `why, now I come to think of it, somebody

said Wakem was going to send his son the deformed lad to a clergyman, didn't they, Susan?' (appealing

`I can give no account of it, I'm sure,' said Mrs Deane, closing her lips very tightly again. Mrs Deane was not

`Well,' said Mr Tulliver, speaking all the more cheerfully that Mrs Glegg might see he didn't mind her, `if

Wakem thinks o' sending his son to a clergyman, depend on it I shall make no mistake i' sending Tom to one.

Wakem's as big a scoundrel as Old Harry ever made, but he knows the length of every man's foot he's got to

deal with. Ay, ay, tell me who's Wakem's butcher, and I'll tell you where to get your meat.'

`But lawyer Wakem's son's got a humpback,' said Mrs Pullet who felt as if the whole business had a

`Yes,' said Mr Glegg, interpreting Mrs Pullet's observation with erroneous plausibility, `you must consider

that, neighbour Tulliver; Wakem's son isn't likely to follow any business. Wakem 'ull make a gentleman of

`Mr Glegg,' said Mrs G., in a tone which implied that her indignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she

was determined to keep it corked up, `you'd far better hold your tongue. Mr Tulliver doesn't want to know

your opinion nor mine neither. There's folks in the world as know better than everybody else.'

`Why, I should think that's you, if we're to trust your own tale, said Mr Tulliver, beginning to boil up again.

`O, I say nothing,' said Mrs Glegg, sarcastically. `My advice has never been asked, and I don't give it.'

`It'll be the first time, then,' said Mr Tulliver. `It's the only thing you're overready at giving.'

`I've been overready at lending, then, if haven't been overready at giving,' said Mrs Glegg. `There's folks

`Come, come, come,' said Mr Glegg soothingly. But Mr Tulliver was not to be hindered of his retort.

`You've got a bond for it, I reckon,' he said. `And you've had your five per cent, kin or no kin.'

`Sister,' said Mrs Tulliver pleadingly, `drink your wine, and let me give you some almonds and raisins.'

`Bessy, I'm sorry for you,' said Mrs Glegg, very much with the feeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of

diverting his bark towards the man who carries no stick. `It's poor work talking o' almonds and raisins.'

`Lors, sister Glegg, don't be so quarrelsome,' said Mrs Pullet, beginning to cry a little. `You may be struck

with a fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are but just out o' mourning, all of us and all wi'

`I should think it is bad,' said Mrs Glegg. `Things are come to a fine pass when one sister invites the other to

But while he was speaking, Mr Tulliver, who had by no means said enough to satisfy his anger, burst out

`Who wants to quarrel with you?' he said. `It's you as can't let people alone, but must be gnawing at 'em for

`My place, indeed!' said Mrs Glegg, getting rather more shrill. `There's your betters, Mr Tulliver, as are dead

and in their grave, treated me with a different sort o' respect to what you do though I've got a husband as'll

sit by and see me abused by them as 'ud never ha' had the chance if there hadn't been them in our family as

`If you talk o' that,' said Mr Tulliver, `my family's as good as yours and better, for it hasn't got a damned

`Well!' said Mrs Glegg, rising from her chair, `I don't know whether you think it's a fine thing to sit by and

hear me swore at, Mr Glegg, but I'm not going to stay a minute longer in this house. You can stay behind, and

`Dear heart, dear heart!' said Mr Glegg in a melancholy tone, as he followed his wife out of the room.

`Mr Tulliver, how could you talk so?' said Mrs Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.

`Let her go,' said Mr Tulliver, too hot to be damped by any amount of tears. `Let her go, and the sooner the

`Sister Pullet,' said Mrs Tulliver, helplessly, `do you think it 'ud be any use for you to go after her and try to

`Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children?' said Mrs Tulliver, drying her eyes.

No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr Tulliver felt very much as if the air had been cleared of

obstrusive flies now the women were out of the room. There were few things he liked better than a chat with

Mr Deane, whose close application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. Mr Deane, he considered,

was the `knowingest' man of his acquaintance and he had besides a ready causticity of tongue which made an

agreeable supplement to Mr Tulliver's own tendency that way, which had remained in rather an embryonic or

inarticulate condition. And now the women were gone, they could carry on their serious talk without

frivolous interruption. They could exchange their views concerning the Duke of Wellington whose conduct in

the Catholic Question had thrown such an entirely new light on his character, and speak slightingly of his

conduct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would never have won if there hadn't been a great many

Englishmen at his back, not to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, as Mr Tulliver had heard from a

person of particular knowledge in that matter, had come up in the very nick of time; though here there was a

slight dissidence, Mr Deane remarking that he was not disposed to give much credit to the Prussians, the

build of their vessels together with the unsatisfactory character of transactions in Dantzic beer, inclining him

to form rather a low view of Prussian pluck generally. Rather beaten on this ground, Mr Tulliver proceeded to

express his fears that the country could never again be what it used to be; but Mr Deane, attached to a firm of

which the returns were on the increase, naturally took a more lively view of the present, and had some details

to give concerning the state of the imports especially in hides and spelter, which soothed Mr Tulliver's

imagination by throwing into more distant perspective the period when the country would become utterly the

Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these high matters. He didn't understand politics

himself thought they were a natural gift but by what he could make out, this Duke of Wellington was no

`SUPPOSE sister Glegg should call her money in it 'ud be very awkward for you to have to raise five

hundred pounds now,' said Mrs Tulliver to her husband that evening, as she took a plaintive review of the

day. Mrs Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, yet she retained in all the freshness of her early

married life a facility of saying things which drove him in the opposite direction to the one she desired. Some

minds are wonderful for keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal goldfish apparently retains to the

last its youthful illusion that it can swim in a straight line beyond the encircling glass. Mrs Tulliver was an

amiable fish of this kind, and after running her head against the same resisting medium for thirteen years

This observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr Tulliver that it would not be at all awkward for him

to raise five hundred pounds, and when Mrs Tulliver became rather pressing to know how he would raise it

without mortgaging the mill and the house which he had said he never would mortgage, since nowadays

people were none so ready to lend money without security, Mr Tulliver, getting warm, declared that Mrs

Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her money he should pay it in, whether or not. He was not

going to be beholding to his wife's sisters. When a man had married into a family where there was a whole

litter of women, he might have plenty to put up with if he choose. But Mr Tulliver did not choose.

Mrs Tulliver cried a little in a trickling quiet way as she put on her nightcap; but presently sank into a

comfortable sleep, lulled by the thought that she would talk everything over with her sister Pullet tomorrow

when she was to take the children to Garum Firs to tea. Not that she looked forward to any distinct issue from

that talk, but it seemed impossible that past events should be so obstinate as to remain unmodified when they

Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was thinking of a visit he would pay on the morrow, and his

ideas on the subject were not of so vague and soothing a kind as those of his amiable partner.

Mr Tulliver, when under the influence of a strong feeling, had a promptitude in action that may seem

inconsistent with that painful sense of the complicated puzzling nature of human affairs under which his more

dispassionate deliberations were conducted; but it is really not improbable that there was a direct relation

between these apparently contradictory phenomena, since I have observed that for getting a strong impression

that a skein is tangled, there is nothing like snatching hastily at a single thread. It was owing to this

promptitude that Mr Tulliver was on horseback soon after dinner the next day (he was not dyspeptic) on

his way to Basset to see his sister Moss and her husband. For having made up his mind irrevocably that he

would pay Mrs Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds, it naturally occurred to him that he had a promissory

note for three hundred pounds lent to his brotherinlaw Moss, and if said brotherinlaw could manage to

pay in the money within a given time, it would go far to lessen the fallacious air of inconvenience which Mr

Tulliver's spirited step might have worn in the eyes of weak people who require to know precisely how a

For Mr Tulliver was in a position neither new nor striking but, like other everyday things, sure to have a

cumulative effect that will be felt in the long run: he was held to be a much more substantial man than he

really was. And as we are all apt to believe what the world believes about us, it was his habit to think of

failure and ruin with the same sort of remote pity with which a spare longnecked man hears that his

plethoric shortnecked neighbour is stricken with apoplexy. He had been always used to hear pleasant jokes

about his advantages as a man who worked his own mill and owned a pretty bit of land; and these jokes

naturally kept up his sense that he was a man of considerable substance. They gave a pleasant flavour to his

glass on a marketday, and if it had not been for the recurrence of halfyearly payments Mr Tulliver would

really have forgotten that there was a mortgage of two thousand pounds on his mill and homestead. That was

not altogether his own fault, since one of the thousand pounds was his sister's fortune, which he had had to

pay on her marriage, and a man who has neighbours that will go to law with him is not likely to pay off his

mortgages, especially if he enjoys the good opinion of acquaintances who want to borrow a hundred pounds

on security too lofty to be represented by parchment. Our friend Mr Tulliver had a goodnatured fibre in him,

and did not like to give harsh refusals even to a sister, who had not only come into the world in that

superfluous way characteristic of sisters, creating a necessity for mortgages, but had quite thrown herself

away in marriage and had crowned her mistakes by having an eighth baby. On this point Mr Tulliver was

conscious of being a little weak, but he apologised to himself by saying that poor Gritty had been a

goodlooking wench before she married Moss he would sometimes say this even with a slight

tremulousness in his voice. But this morning he was in a mood more becoming a man a business, and in the

course of his ride along the Basset lanes, with their deep ruts, lying so far away from a markettown that the

labour of drawing produce and manure was enough to take away the best part of the profits on such poor land

as that parish was made of, he got up a due amount of irritation against Moss as a man without capital, who if

murrain and blight were abroad was sure to have his share of them, and who, the more you tried to help him

out of the mud, would sink the further in. It would do him good rather than harm, now, if he were obliged to

raise this three hundred pounds: it would make him look about him better, and not act so foolishly about his

wool this year as he did the last: in fact, Mr Tulliver had been too easy with his brotherinlaw, and because

he had let the interest run on for two years, Moss was likely enough to think that he should never be troubled

about the principal. But Mr Tulliver was determined not to encourage such shuffling people any longer, and a

ride along the Basset lanes was not likely to enervate a man's resolution by softening his temper. The

deeptrodden hoofmarks made in the muddiest days of winter gave him a shake now and then which

suggested a rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers who, whether by means of his hoof or

otherwise, had doubtless something to do with this state of the roads; and the abundance of foul land and

neglected fences that met his eye, though they made no part of his brother Moss's farm, strongly contributed

to his dissatisfaction with that unlucky agriculturist. If this wasn't Moss's fallow, it might have been: Basset

was all alike; it was a beggarly parish in Mr Tulliver's opinion, and his opinion was certainly not groundless.

Basset had a poor soil, poor roads, a poor nonresident landlord, a poor nonresident vicar, and rather less

than half a curate, also poor. If any one strongly impressed with the power of the human mind to triumph

over circumstances, will contend that the parishioners of Basset might nevertheless have been a very superior

class of people, I have nothing to urge against that abstract proposition: I only know that in point of fact the

Basset mind was in strict keeping with its circumstances. The muddy lanes, green or clayey, that seemed to

the unaccustomed eye to lead nowhere but into each other, did really lead, with patience, to a distant

highroad, but there were many feet in Basset which they led more frequently to a centre of dissipation

spoken of formally as the `Markis o' Granby' but among intimates as `Dickison's.' A large low room with a

sanded floor, a cold scent of tobacco modified by undetected beerdregs, Mr Dickison leaning against the

doorpost with a melancholy pimpled face looking as irrelevant to the daylight as a last night's guttered candle

all this may not seem a very seductive form of temptation; but the majority of men in Basset found it fatally

alluring when encountered on their road towards four o'clock on a wintry afternoon; and if any wife in Basset

wished to indicate that her husband was not a pleasureseeking man, she could hardly do it more

emphatically than by saying that he didn't spend a shilling at Dickison's from one Whitsuntide to another.

Mrs Moss had said so of her husband more than once, when her brother was in a mood to find fault with him,

as he certainly was today. And nothing could be less pacifying to Mr Tulliver than the behaviour of the

farmyard gate, which he no sooner attempted to push open with his riding stick than it acted as gates without

the upper hinge are known to do, to the peril of shins, whether equine or human. He was about to get down

and lead his horse through the damp dirt of the hollow farmyard, shadowed drearily by the large

halftimbered buildings, up to the long line of tumbledown dwellinghouse standing on a raised

causeway, but the timely appearance of a cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he had determined on,

namely not to get down from his horse during this visit. If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle

and speak from that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with the command of a distant horizon. Mrs

Moss heard the sound of the horse's feet and when her brother rode up, was already outside the kitchen door

with a halfweary smile on her face, and a blackeyed baby in her arms. Mrs Moss's face bore a faded

resemblance to her brother's: baby's little fat hand pressed against her cheek seemed to show more strikingly

`Brother, I'm glad to see you,' she said, in an affectionate tone. `I didn't look for you today. How do you do?'

`Oh... pretty well, Mrs Moss... pretty well,' answered the brother, with cool deliberateness, as if it were rather

too forward of her to ask that question. She knew at once that her brother was not in a good humour: he never

called her Mrs Moss expect when he was angry and when they were in company. But she thought it was in

the order of nature that people who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs Moss did not take her stand on

the equality of the human race: she was a patient, looselyhung, childproducing woman.

`Your husband isn't in the house, I suppose?' added Mr Tulliver, after a grave pause, during which four

children had run out, like chickens whose mother has been suddenly in eclipse behind the hencoop.

`No,' said Mrs Moss, `but he's only in the potatofield yonders. Georgy, run to the Far Close in a minute and

tell father your uncle's come. You'll get down, brother, won't you, and take something?'

`No, no; I can't get down I must be going home again directly,' said Mr Tulliver, looking at the distance.

`And how's Mrs Tulliver and the children?' said Mrs Moss humbly, not daring to press her invitation.

`Oh... pretty well. Tom's going to a new school at Midsummer a deal of expense to me. It's bad work for me

`I wish you'd be so good as let the children come and see their cousins some day. My little uns want to see

their cousin Maggie, so as never was. And me her godmother and so fond of her there's nobody 'ud make

a bigger fuss with her according to what they've got. And I know she likes to come for she's a loving child,

If Mrs Moss had been one of the most astute women in the world instead of being one of the simplest, she

could have thought of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise of Maggie. He seldom

found any one volunteering praise of `the little wench:' it was usually left entirely to himself to insist on her

merits. But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at her aunt Moss's: it was her Alsatia, where

she was out of the reach of law if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were

matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite of himself, Mr Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look

`Ay: she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. She takes after our family: not a bit of her mother's in

`Moss says, she's just like what I used to be,' said Mrs Moss, `though I was never so quick and fond o' the

books. But I think my Lizzy's like her she's sharp. Come here, Lizzy my dear, and let your uncle see you:

Lizzy, a blackeyed child of seven, looked very shy when her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses

were much in awe of their uncle from Dorlcote Mill. She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire and strength

of expression to make the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to Mr Tulliver's fatherly love.

`Ay, they're a bit alike,' he said, looking kindly at the little figure in the soiled pinafore. `They both take after

our mother. You've got enough o' gells, Gritty,' he added in a tone half compassionate, half reproachful.

`Four of 'em, bless 'em,' said Mrs Moss, with a sigh, stroking Lizzy's hair on each side of her forehead, `as

`Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves,' said Mr Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing

and trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. `They mustn't look to hanging on their brothers.'

`No: but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things and remember they came o' one father and mother: the

lads 'ull never be the poorer for that,' said Mrs Moss, flashing out with hurried timidity, like a halfsmothered

Mr Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checked it and said angrily, `Stand still with you!'

`And the more there is of 'em, the more they must love one another,' Mrs Moss went on, looking at her

children with a didactic purpose. But she turned towards her brother again to say, `Not but what I hope your

boy 'ull allays be good to his sister, though there's but two of 'em, like you and me, brother.'

That arrow went straight to Mr Tulliver's heart. He had not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie

was very near to him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by side with Tom's

relation to Maggie. Would the little wench ever be poorly off, and Tom rather hard upon her?

`Ay, ay, Gritty,' said the miller, with a new softness in his tone. `But I've allays done what I could for you,' he

`I'm not denying that, brother, and I'm noways ungrateful,' said poor Mrs Moss, too fagged by toil and

children to have strength left for any pride. `But here's the father. What a while you've been, Moss.'

`While, do you call it?' said Mr Moss, feeling out of breath and injured. `I've been running all the way. Won't

`Well, I'll just get down and have a bit o' talk with you in the garden,' said Mr Tulliver, feeling that he should

He got down and passed with Mr Moss into the garden towards an old yewtree arbour, while his sister stood

Their entrance into the yewtree arbour surprised several fowls, that were recreating themselves by

scratching deep holes in the dusty ground, and at once took flight with much pother and cackling. Mr Tulliver

sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously here and there with his stick, as if he suspected

some hollowness, opened the conversation by observing, with something like a snarl in his tone,

`Why, you've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see? and never a bit o' dressing on it. You'll do no good

Mr Moss, who when he married Miss Tulliver had been regarded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard

nearly a week old and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a machine horse. He answered in a

patientgrumbling tone, `Why, poor farmers like me must do as they can: they must leave it to them as have

got money to play with to put half as much into the ground as they mean to get out of it.'

`I don't know who should have money to play with, if it isn't them as can borrow money without paying

interest,' said Mr Tulliver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel: it was the most natural and easy

`I know I'm behind with the interest,' said Mr Moss, `but I was so unlucky wi' the wool last year, and what

`Ay,' snarled Mr Tulliver, `there's folks as things 'ull allays go awk'ard with: empty sacks 'ull never stand

`Well, I don't know what fault you've got to find wi' me, Mr Tulliver,' said Mr Moss deprecatingly, `I know

`What's the use o' that,' said Mr Tulliver, sharply, `when a man marries and's got no capital to work his farm,

but his wife's bit o' fortin? I was against it from the first; but you'd neither of you listen to me. And I can't lie

out o' My money any longer; for I've got to pay five hundred o' Mrs Glegg's, and there 'ull be Tom an

expense to me, as I should find myself short, even saying I'd got back all as is my own. You must look about

`Well, if that's what you mean,' said Mr Moss, looking blankly before him, `we'd better be sold up and ha'

done with it; I must part wi' every head o' stock I'n got, to pay you and the landlord too.'

Poor relations are undeniably irritating: their existence is so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are

almost always very faulty people. Mr Tulliver had succeeded in getting quite as much irritated with Mr Moss

`Well, you must do as you can. I can't find money for everybody else as well as myself. I must look to my

own business and my own family. I can't lie out o' my money any longer. You must raise it as quick as you

Mr Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbour as he uttered the last sentence and without looking round at Mr

Moss went on to the kitchen door where the eldest boy was holding his horse, and his sister was waiting in a

state of wondering alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for baby was making pleasant gurgling

sounds and performing a great deal of finger practice on the faded face. Mrs Moss had eight children, but

could never overcome her regret that the twins had not lived: Mr Moss thought their removal was not without

its consolations. `Won't you come in, brother?' she said, looking anxiously at her husband, who was walking

No man could feel more resolute till he got outside the yardgate and a little way along the deeprutted lane;

but before he reached the next turning, which would take him out of sight of the dilapidated farmbuildings,

he appeared to be smitten by some sudden thought, for he checked his horse and made it stand still in the

same spot for two or three minutes, during which he turned his head from side to side in a melancholy way,

as if he were looking at some painful object on more sides than one. Evidently, after his fit of promptitude,

Mr Tulliver was relapsing into the sense that this is a puzzling world. He turned his horse and rode slowly

back, giving vent to the climax of feeling which had determined this movement by saying aloud, as he struck

Mr Tulliver's return into the yard was descried by several young Mosses, who immediately ran in with the

exciting news to their mother, so that Mrs Moss was again on the doorstep when her brother rode up. She

had been crying, but was rocking baby to sleep in her arms now, and made no ostentatious show of sorrow as

`No, Gritty, no,' said Mr Tulliver, in a gentle tone. `Don't you fret that's all I'll make a shift without the

Mrs Moss's tears came again at this unexpected kindness, and she could say nothing.

`Come, come! the little wench shall come and see you. I'll bring her and Tom some day before he goes to

`Thank you for that word, brother,' said Mrs Moss, drying her tears; then turning to Lizzy, she said, `Run

now, and fetch the coloured egg for cousin Maggie.' Lizzy ran in, and quickly reappeared with a small paper

`It's boiled hard, brother, and coloured with thrums very pretty: it was done o' purpose for Maggie. Will

And so the respectable miller returned along the Basset lanes rather more puzzled than before as to ways and

means, but still with the sense of a danger escaped. It had come across his mind that if he were hard upon his

sister, it might somehow tend to make Tom hard upon Maggie, at some distant day, when her father was no

longer there to take her part; for simple people, like our friend Mr Tulliver, are apt to clothe unimpeachable

feelings in erroneous ideas, and this was his confused way of explaining to himself that his love and anxiety

WHILE the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupying her father's mind, she herself was tasting

only the bitterness of the present. Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of

outlived sorrow. The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure of having Lucy to look at,

and the prospect of the afternoon visit to Garum Firs where she would hear uncle Pullet's musicalbox had

been marred as early as eleven o'clock by the advent of the hairdresser from St Ogg's who had spoken in the

severest terms of the condition in which he had found her hair, holding up one jagged lock after another and

saying, `See here! tut tut tut!' in a tone of mingled disgust and pity, which to Maggie's imagination was

equivalent to the strongest expression of public opinion. Mr Rappit, the hairdresser, with his wellanointed

coronal locks tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame on a monumental urn, seemed to

her at that moment the most formidable of her contemporaries, into whose street at St Ogg's she would

Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious affair in the Dodson family, Martha was enjoined

to have Mrs Tulliver's room ready an hour earlier than usual, that the layingout of the best clothes might not

be deferred till the last moment, as was sometimes the case in families of lax views where the ribbonstrings

were never rolled up, where there was little or no wrapping in silver paper, and where the sense that the

Sunday clothes could be got at quite easily produced no shock to the mind. Already at twelve o'clock, Mrs

Tulliver had on her visiting costume with a protective apparatus of brown holland, as if she had been a piece

of stain furniture in danger of flies; Maggie was frowning and twisting her shoulders that she might if

possible shrink away from the prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was remonstrating, `Don't, Maggie, my

dear don't look so ugly!' and Tom's cheeks were looking particularly brilliant as a relief to his best blue suit,

which he wore with becoming calmness, having, after a little wrangling, effected what was always the one

point of interest to him in his toilette he had transferred all the contents of his everyday pockets to those

As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had been yesterday: no accidents ever happened to her

clothes, and she was never uncomfortable in them, so that she looked with wondering pity at Maggie, pouting

and writhing under the exasperating tucker. Maggie would certainly have torn it off, if she had not been

checked by the remembrance of her recent humiliation about her hair: as it was, she confined herself to

fretting and twisting and behaving peevishly about the cardhouses which they were allowed to build till

dinner, as a suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. Tom build perfect pyramids of

houses; but Maggie's would never bear the layingon of the roof: it was always so with the things that

Maggie made, and Tom had deduced the conclusion that no girls could ever make anything. But it happened

that Lucy proved wonderfully clever at building: she handled the cards so lightly and moved so gently that

Tom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, the more readily because she had asked him to

teach her. Maggie too would have admired Lucy's houses, and would have given up her own unsuccessful

building to contemplate them, without illtemper, if her tucker had not made her peevish and if Tom had not

`Don't laugh at me, Tom!' she burst out, angrily. `I'm not a stupid. I know a great many things you don't.'

`O, I daresay, Miss Spitfire! I'd never be such a cross thing as you making faces like that. Lucy doesn't do

`Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so,' said Maggie, starting up hurriedly from her place on the

floor and upsetting Tom's wonderful pagoda. She really did not mean it, but the circumstantial evidence was

against her, and Tom turned white with anger, but said nothing: he would have struck her, only he knew it

was cowardly to strike a girl, and Tom Tulliver was quite determined he would never do anything cowardly.

Maggie stood in dismay and terror while Tom got up from the floor and walked away, pale, from the

scattered ruins of his pagoda, and Lucy looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing from its lapping.

`O Tom,' said Maggie, at last, going halfway towards him, `I didn't mean to knock it down indeed, indeed

Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three hard peas out of his pocket and shot them with his

thumbnail against the window vaguely at first, but presently with the distinct aim of hitting a

superannuated bluebottle which was exposing its imbecility in the spring sunshine, clearly against the views

of nature, who had provided Tom and the peas for the speedy destruction of this weak individual.

Thus the morning had been made heavy to Maggie, and Tom's persistent coldness to her all through their

walk spoiled the fresh air and sunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at the halfbuilt bird's nest without

caring to show it Maggie, and peeled a willow switch for Lucy and himself without offering one to Maggie.

Still the sight of the peacock opportunely spreading his tail on the stackyard wall, just as they reached Garum

Firs was enough to divert the mind temporarily from personal grievances. And this was only the beginning of

beautiful sights at Garum Firs. All the farmyard life was wonderful there bantams, speckled and topknotted

Friesland hens, with their feathers all turned the wrong way; Guineafowls that flew and screamed and

dropped their prettyspotted feathers pouter pigeons and a tame magpie; nay, a goat, and a wonderful

brindled dog, half mastiff, half bulldog, as large as a lion. Then there were white railings and white gates all

about, and glittering weathercocks of various design, and gardenwalks paved with pebbles in beautiful

patterns nothing was quite common at Garum Firs; and Tom thought that the unusual size of the toads there

was simply due to the general unusualness which characterised uncle Pullet's possessions as a gentleman

farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally leaner. As for the house, it was not less remarkable: it had a

receding centre, and two wings with battlemented turrets, and was covered with glittering white stucco.

Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching from the window, and made haste to unbar and unchain

the front door, kept always in this fortified condition from fear of tramps who might be supposed to know of

the glasscase of stuffed birds in the hall and to contemplate rushing in and carrying it away on their heads.

Aunt Pullet too appeared at the doorway, and as soon as her sister was within hearing said, `Stop the children,

for God's sake, Bessy don't let 'em come up the doorsteps: Sally's bringing the old mat and the duster, to

Mrs Pullet's frontdoor mats were by no means intended to wipe shoes on: the very scraper had a deputy to

do its dirty work. Tom rebelled particularly against this shoewiping, which he always considered in the light

of an indignity to his sex. He felt it as the beginning of the disagreeables incident to a visit at aunt Pullet's,

where he had once been compelled to sit with towels wrapped round his boots; a fact which may serve to

correct the too hasty conclusion that a visit to Garum Firs must have been a great treat to a young gentleman

The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine companions: it was the mounting of the polished oak

stairs, which had very handsome carpets rolled up and laid by in a spare bedroom, so that the ascent of these

glossy steps might have served in barbarous times as a trial by ordeal from which none but the most spotless

virtue could have come off with unbroken limbs. Sophy's weakness about these polished stairs was always a

subject of bitter remonstrance on Mrs Glegg's part, but Mrs Tulliver ventured on no comment, only thinking

`Mrs Gray has sent home my new bonnet, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet, in a pathetic tone as Mrs Tulliver adjusted

`Has she, sister?' said Mrs Tulliver, with an air of much interest. `And how do you like it?'

`It's apt to make a mess with clothes, taking 'em out and putting 'em in again,' said Mrs Pullet, drawing a

bunch of keys from her pocket and looking at them earnestly, `but it 'ud be a pity for you to go away without

Mrs Pullet shook her head slowly at this last serious consideration, which determined her to single out a

`I'am afraid it'll be troublesome to you getting it out, sister,' said Mrs Tulliver, `but I should like to see what

Mrs Pullet rose with a melancholy air and unlocked one wing of a very bright wardrobe, where you may have

hastily supposed she would find the new bonnet. Not at all. Such a supposition could only have arisen from a

too superficial acquaintance with the habits of the Dodson family. In this wardrobe Mrs Pullet was seeking

`May the children come too, sister?' inquired Mrs Tulliver, who saw that Maggie and Lucy were looking

`Well,' said aunt Pullet, reflectively, `it'll perhaps be safer for 'em to come they'll be touching something, if

So they went in procession along the bright and slippery corridor, dimly lighted by the semilunar top of the

window, which rose above the closed shutter: it was really quite solemn. Aunt Pullet paused and unlocked a

door which opened on something still more solemn than the passage a darkened room, in which the outer

light, entering feebly, showed what looked like the corpses of furnitute in white shrouds. Everything that was

not shrouded stood with its legs upwards. Lucy laid hold of Maggie's frock, and Maggie's heart beat rapidly.

Aunt Pullet halfopened the shutter and then unlocked the wardrobe, with a melancholy deliberateness which

was quite in keeping with the funereal solemnity of the scene. The delicious scent of roseleaves that issued

from the wardrobe made the process of taking out sheet after sheet of silverpaper quite pleasant to assist at,

though the sight of the bonnet at last was an anticlimax to Maggie, who would have preferred something

more strikingly preternatural. But few things could have been more impressive to Mrs Tulliver. She looked

all round it in silence for some moments and then said emphatically, `Well, sister, I'll never speak against the

It was a great concession, and Mrs Pullet felt it: she felt something was due to it.

`You'd like to see it on, sister?' she said, sadly. `I'll open the shutter a bit further.'

Mrs Pullet took off her cap, displaying the brown silk scalp with a jutting promontory of curls which was

common to the more mature and judicious women of those times, and placing the bonnet on her head, turned

slowly round, like a draper's layfigure, that Mrs Tulliver might miss no point of view.

I've sometimes thought there's a loop too much o' ribbon on this left side, sister: what do you think?' said Mrs

Mrs Tulliver looked earnestly at the pointed indicated and turned her head to one side. `Well, I think it's best

`That's true,' said aunt Pullet, taking off the bonnet and looking at it contemplatively.

`How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister?' said Mrs Tulliver, whose mind was actively

engaged on the possibility of getting a humble imitation of this chefd'�uvre made from a piece of silk she

Mrs Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and then whispered: `Pullet pays for it: he said I was to

She began slowly to adjust the trimmings in preparation for returning it to its place in the wardrobe, and her

`Don't talk o' that, sister,' answered Mrs Tulliver. `I hope you'll have your health this summer.'

`Ah! but there may come a death in the family, as there did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. Cousin

Abbott may go, and we can't think o' wearing crape less nor half a year for him.'

`That would be unlucky,' said Mrs Tulliver, entering thoroughly into the possibility of an inopportune

decease. `There's never so much pleasure i' wearing a bonnet the second year, especially when the crowns are

`Ah, it's the way i' this world,' said Mrs Pullet, returning the bonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She

maintained a silence characterised by headshaking, until they had all issued from the solemn chamber and

were in her own room again. Then, beginning to cry, she said, `Sister, if you should never see that bonnet

Mrs Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was a woman of sparse tears, stout and healthy she

couldn't cry so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her deficiency at funerals. Her effort to bring

tears into her eyes issued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, looking on attentively, felt that there was

some painful mystery about her aunt's bonnet which she was considered too young to understand; indignantly

conscious, all the while, that she could have understood that, as well as everything else, if she had been taken

When they went down, uncle Pullet observed, with some acumen, that he reckoned the missis had been

showing her bonnet that was what had made them so long upstairs. With Tom the interval had seemed still

longer, for he had been seated in irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly opposite his uncle Pullet,

who regarded him with twinkling grey eyes and occasionally addressed him as `Young sir.'

`Well, young sir, what do you learn at school?' was a standing question with uncle Pullet; whereupon Tom

always looked sheepish, rubbed his hand across his face and answered, `I don't know.' It was altogether so

embarrassing to be seated t�teat�te with uncle Pullet, that Tom could not even look at the prints on the

walls, or the flycages, or the wonderful flowerpots: he saw nothing but his uncle's gaiters. Not that Tom

was in awe of his uncle's mental superiority: indeed, he had made up his mind that he didn't want to be a

gentleman farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such a thinlegged silly fellow as his uncle Pullet a

mollycoddle, in fact. A boy's sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmastering reverence: and while you

are making encouraging advances to him under the idea that he is overwhelmed by a sense of your age and

wisdom, ten to one he is thinking you extremely queer. The only consolation I can suggest to you is, that the

Greek boys probably thought the same of Aristotle. It is only when you have mastered a restive horse, or

thrashed a drayman, or have got a gun in your hand, that these shy juniors feel you to be a truly admirable

and enviable character. At least, I am quite sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on these points. In very tender

years, when he still wore a lace border under his outdoor cap, he was often observed peeping through the

bars of a gate and making minatory gestures with his small forefinger while he scolded the sheep with an

inarticulate burr, intended to strike terror into their astonished minds: indicating, thus early, that desire for

mastery over the inferior animals wild and domestic, including cockchafers, neighborus' dogs, and small

sisters, which in all ages has been an attribute of so much promise for the fortunes of our race. Now Mr Pullet

never rode anything taller than a low pony, and was the least predatory of men, considering firearms

dangerous as apt to go off themselves by nobody's particular desire. So that Tom was not without strong

reasons when, in confidential talk with a chum, he had described uncle Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at

The only alleviating circumstance in a t�teat�te with uncle Pullet was that he kept a variety of lozenges and

peppermint drops about his person, and when at a loss for conversation, he filled up the void by proposing a

`Do you like peppermints, young sir?' required only a tacit answer when it was accompanied by a

The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet the further solace of small sweet cakes, of which

he also kept a stock under lock and key for his own private eating on wet days: but the three children had no

sooner got the tempting delicacy between their fingers, than aunt Pullet desired them to abstain from eating it

till the tray and the plates came, since with those crisp cakes they would make the floor `all over' crumbs.

Lucy didn't mind that much, for the cake was so pretty, she thought it was rather a pity to eat it, but Tom,

watching his opportunity while the elders were talking, hastily stowed it in his mouth at two bites, and

chewed it furtively. As for Maggie, becoming fascinated, as usual, by a print of Ulysses and Nausicaa, which

uncle Pullet had bought as a `pretty Scripture thing,' she presently let fall her cake and in an unlucky

movement, crushed it beneath her foot a source of so much agitation to aunt Pullet and conscious disgrace

to Maggie that she began to despair of hearing the musical snuffbox today, till after some reflection, it

occurred to her that Lucy was in high favour enough to venture on asking for a tune. So she whispered to

Lucy, and Lucy, who always did what she was desired to do, went up quietly to her uncle's knee and blushing

all over her neck while she fingered her necklace, said, `Will you please play us a tune, uncle?'

Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in uncle Pullet that the snuffbox played such

beautiful tunes, and indeed the thing was viewed in that light by the majority of his neighbours in Garum. Mr

Pullet had bought the box, to begin with, and he understood winding it up, and knew which tune it was going

to play beforehand: altogether, the possession of this unique `piece of misic' was a proof that Mr Pullet's

character was not of that entire nullity which might otherwise have been attributed to it.

But uncle Pullet when entreated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it by a too ready consent.

`We'll see about it,' was the answer he always gave, carefully abstaining from any sign of compliance till a

suitable number of minutes had passed. Uncle Pullet had a programme for all great social occasions, and in

this way fenced himself in from much painful confusion and perplexing freedom of will.

Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie's enjoyment when the fairy tune began: for the first time she quite

forgot that she had a load on her mind that Tom was angry with her; and by the time `Hush, ye pretty

warbling choir' had been played, her face wore that bright look of happiness, while she sat immovable with

her hands clasped, which sometimes comforted her mother with the sense that Maggie could look rather

pretty now and then in spite of her brown skin. But when the magic music ceased, she jumped up and running

Lest you should think it showed a revolting insensibility in Tom that he felt any new anger towards Maggie

for this uncalled for and to him inexplicable caress, I must tell you that he had his glass of cowslip wine in his

hand, and that she jerked him so as to make him spill half of it. He must have been an extreme milksop not to

say angrily, `Look there, now!' expecially when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by general

`Little gells mustn't come to see me if they behave in that way,' said aunt Pullet.

Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out of her soul, and the seven small demons all in

Mrs Tulliver, foreseeing nothing but misbehaviour while the chilren remained indoors, took an early

opportunity of suggesting, that now they were rested after their walk, they might go and play out of doors,

and aunt Pullet gave permission, only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the garden, and if they

wanted to see the poultry fed, to view them from a distance on the horseblock: a restriction which had been

imposed ever since Tom had been found guilty of running after the peacock with an illusory idea that fright

Mrs Tulliver's thoughts had been temporarily diverted from the quarrel with Mrs Glegg by millinery and

maternal cares, but now the great theme of the bonnet was thrown into perspective and the children were out

`It weighs on my mind so as never was,' she said, by way of opening the subject, `sister Glegg's leaving the

`Ah,' said aunt Pullet, `there's no accounting for what Jane 'ull do. I wouldn't speak of it out o' the family if

it wasn't to Dr Turnbull but it's my belief Jane lives too low. I've said so to Pullet, often and often, and he

`Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came away from drinking tea with 'em,' said Mr Pullet,

beginning to nurse his knee and shelter it with his pocket handkerchief, as was his way when the conversation

`Very like I did,' said Mrs Pullet, `for you remember when I said things, better than I can remember myself.

He's got a wonderful memory, Pullet has,' she continued, looking pathetically at her sister. `I should be poorly

off if he was to have a stroke, for he always remembers when I've got to take my doctor's stuff and I'm

`There's the "pills as before" every other night, and the new drops at eleven and four, and the 'fervescing

mixture "when agreeable,"' rehearsed Mr Pullet, with a punctuation determined by a lozenge on his tongue.

`Ah, perhaps it 'ud be better for sister Glegg, if she'd go to the doctor sometimes, instead o' chewing Turkey

rhubarb whenever there's anything the matter with her,' said Mrs Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject

`It's dreadful to think on,' said aunt Pullet, raising her hands and letting them fall again, `people playing with

their own insides in that way! And it's flying i' the face o' Providence; for what are the doctors for, if we aren't

to call 'em in? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor it isn't respectable, as I've told Jane

`Well, we've no call to be ashamed,' said Mr Pullet, `for Doctor Turnbull hasn't got such another patient as

`Pullet keeps all my physicbottles did you know, Bessy?' said Mrs Pullet. `He won't have one sold. He

says it's nothing but right, folks should see 'em when I'm gone. They fill two o' the long storeroom shelves

a'ready but,' she added beginning to cry, `it's well if they ever fill three. I may go before I've made up the

dozen o' these last sizes. The pillboxes are in the closet in my room you'll remember that, sister but

`Don't talk o' your going, sister,' said Mrs Tulliver; `I should have nobody to stand between me and sister

Glegg if you was gone. And there's nobody but you can get her to make it up wi' Mr Tulliver, for sister

Deane's never o' my side, and if she was, it's not to be looked for as she can speak like them as have got an

`Well, your husband is awkard, you know, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet, goodnaturedly ready to use her deep

depression on her sister's account as well as her own. `He's never behaved quite so pretty to our family as he

should do. And the children take after him the boy's very mischievous and runs away from his aunts and

uncles, and the gell's rude and brown. It's your bad luck, and I'm sorry for you, Bessy; for you was allays my

`I know Tulliver's hasty and says odd things,' said Mrs Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the corner

of her eye, `but I'm sure he's never been the man since he married me to object to my making the friends o'

`I don't want to make the worst of you, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet, compassionately, `for I doubt you'll have

trouble enough without that and your husband's got that poor sister and her children hanging on him, and so

given to lawing, they say I doubt he'll leave you poorly off when he dies. Not as I'd have it said out o' the

This views of her position was naturally far from cheering to Mrs Tulliver. Her imagination was not easily

acted on, but she could not help thinking that her case was a hard one since it appeared that other people

`I'm sure, sister, I can't help myself,' she said, urged by the fear lest her anticipated misfortunes might be held

retributive, to take a comprehensive review of her past conduct. `There's no woman strives more for her

children; and I'm sure at scouring time this Ladyday as I've had all the bedhangings taken down, I did as

much as the two gells put together, and there's this last elderflower wine I've made beautiful! I allays offer

it along with the sherry, though sister Glegg will have it I'm so extravagant, and as for liking to have my

clothes tidy and not go a fright about the house, there's nobody in the parish can say anything against me in

respect o' backbiting and making mischief, for I don't wish anybody any harm, and nobody loses by sending

me a porkpie, for my pies are fit to show with the best o' my neighbours, and the linen's so in order, as if I

was to die tomorrow I shouldn't be ashamed. A woman can do no more nor she can.'

`But it's all o' no use, you know, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet, holding her head on one side and fixing her eyes

pathetically on her sister, `if your husband makes away with his money. Not but what if you was sold up, and

other folks bought your furniture, it's a comfort to think as you've kept it well rubbed. And there's the linen

with your maiden mark on, might go all over the country. It 'ud be a sad pity for our family.' Mrs Pullet shook

`But what can I do, sister?' said Mrs Tulliver. `Mr Tulliver's not a man to be dictated to not if I was to go to

the parson and get by heart what I should tell my husband for the best. And I'm sure I don't pretend to know

anything about putting out money and all that. I could never see into men's business as sister Glegg does.'

`Well, you're like me in that, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet. `And I think it 'ud be a deal more becoming o' Jane if

she'd have that pierglass rubbed oftener there was ever so many spots on it last week instead o' dictating

to folks as have more comings in than she ever had and telling 'em what they've to do with their money. But

Jane and me were allays contrairy: she would have striped things, and I like spots. You like a spot too, Bessy:

Mrs Pullet, affected by this last reminiscence, looked at her sister pathetically.

`Yes, Sophy,' said Mrs Tulliver, `I remember our having a blue ground with a white spot both alike I've got

a bit in a bedquilt now and if you would but go and see sister Glegg and persuade her to make it up with

Tulliver, I should take it very kind of you. You was allays a good sister to me.'

`But the right thing 'ud be for Tulliver to go and make it up with her himself and say he was sorry for

speaking so rash. If He's borrowed money of her, he shouldn't be above that,' said Mrs Pullet, whose partiality

did not blind her to principles: she did not forget what was due to people of independent fortune.

`It's no use talking o' that,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, almost peevishly. `If I was to go down on my bare knees

`Well, you can't expect me to persuade Jane to beg pardon,' said Mrs Pullet. `Her temper's beyond everything

it's well if it doesn't carry her off her mind though there never was any of our family went to a madhouse.'

`I'm not thinking of her begging pardon,' said Mrs Tulliver. `But if she'd just take no notice and not call her

money in as it's not so much for one sister to ask of another time 'ud mend things and Tulliver 'ud forget

Mrs Tulliver you perceive was not aware of her husband's irrevocable determination to pay in the five

`Well, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet, mournfully, `I don't want to help you on to ruin. I won't be behindhand i' doing

you a good turn, if it is to be done. And I don't like it said among acquaintance as we've got quarrels in the

family. I shall tell Jane that: and I don't mind driving to Jane's tomorrow, if Pullet doesn't mind. What do you

`I've no objections,' said Mr Pullet, who was perfectly contented with any course the quarrel might take, so

that Mr Tulliver did not apply to him for momey. Mr Pullet was nervous about his investments, and did not

see how a man could have any security for his money unless he turned it into land.

After a little further discussion as to whether it would not be better for Mrs Tulliver to accompany them on

the visit to sister Glegg, Mrs Pullet, observing that it was teatime, turned to reach from a drawer a delicate

damask napkin which she pinned before her in the fashion of an apron. The door did, in fact, soon open, but

instead of the teatray, Sally introduced an object so startling that both Mrs Pullet and Mrs Tulliver gave a

scream, causing uncle Pullet to swallow his lozenge for the fifth time in his life, as he afterwards noted.

THE startling object which thus made an epoch for uncle Pullet was no other than little Lucy, with one side

of her person, from her small foot to her bonnetcrown, wet and discoloured with mud, holding out two tiny

blackened hands and making a very piteous face. To account for this unprecedented apparition in aunt Pullet's

parlour, we must return to the moment when the three children went to play out of doors and the small

demons who had taken possession of Maggie's soul at an early period of the day had returned in all the

greater force after a temporary absence. All the disagreeable recollections of the morning were thick upon

her, when Tom, whose displeasure towards her had been considerably refreshed by her foolish trick of

causing him to upset his cowslip wine, said, `Here, Lucy, you come along with me,' and walked off to the

area where the toads were, as if there were no Maggie in existence. Seeing this Maggie lingered at a distance

looking like a small Medusa with her snakes cropped. Lucy was naturally pleased that cousin Tom was so

good to her, and it was very amusing to see him tickling a fat toad with a piece of string when the toad was

safe down the area with an iron grating over him. Still Lucy wished Maggie to enjoy the spectacle also,

especially as she would doubtless find a name for the toad and say what had been his past history; for Lucy

had a delighted semibelief in Maggie's stories about the live things they came upon by accident how Mrs

Earwig had a wash at home, and one of her children had fallen into the hot copper, for which reason, she was

running so fast to fetch the doctor. Tom had a profound contempt for this nonsense of Maggie's, smashing the

earwig at once as a superfluous yet easy means of proving the entire unreality of such a story; but Lucy, for

the life of her, could not help fancying there was something in it, and at all events thought it was very pretty

makebelieve. So now the desire to know the history of a very portly toad, added to her habitual

affectionateness, made her run back to Maggie and say, `O, there is such a big, funny toad, Maggie! Do come

and see.' Maggie said nothing, but turned away from her with a deeper frown. As long as Tom seemed to

prefer Lucy to her, Lucy made part of his unkindness. Maggie would have thought a little while ago that she

could never be cross with pretty little Lucy, any more than she could be cruel to a little white mouse; but

then, Tom had always been quite indifferent to Lucy before, and it had been left to Maggie to pet and make

much of her. As it was, she was actually beginning to think that she should like to make Lucy cry, by

slapping or pinching her, especially as it might vex Tom, whom it was of no use to slap even if she dared,

because he didn't mind it. And if Lucy hadn't been there, Maggie was sure he would have got friends with her

Tickling a fat toad who is not highly sensitive is an amusement that it is possible to exhaust, and Tom

byandby began to look round for some other mode of passing the time. But in so prim a garden where they

were not to go off the paved walks, there was not a great choice of sport. The only great pleasure such a

restriction allowed was the pleasure of breaking it, and Tom began to meditate an insurrectionary visit to the

`I say, Lucy,' he began, nodding his head up and down with great significance as he coiled up his string again.

`I mean to go to the pond, and look at the pike. You may go with me if you like,' said the young Sultan.

`O, I shall go out at the other end of the garden,' said Tom. `Nobody 'ull see us. Besides I don't care if they do

`But I couldn't run,' said Lucy, who had never before been exposed to such severe temptation.

Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side timidly enjoying the rare treat of doing something naughty

excited also by the mention of that celebrity, the pike, about which she was quite uncertain whether it was a

fish or a fowl. Maggie saw them leaving the garden, and could not resist the impulse to follow. Anger and

jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love, and that Tom and Lucy should do or see

anything of which she was ignorant would have been an intolerable idea to Maggie. So she kept a few yards

behind them, unobserved by Tom, who was presently absorbed in watching for the `jackpike' a highly

interesting monster he was said to be so very old, so very large, and to have such a remarkable appetite.

The pike, like other celebrities did not show when he was watched for, but Tom caught sight of something in

rapid movement in the water which attracted him to another spot on the brink of the pond.

`Here, Lucy!' he said in a loud whisper, `come here! Take care! Keep on the grass don't step where the

cows have been!' he added pointing to a peninsula of dry grass, with trodden mud on each side of it; for

Tom's contemptuous conception of a girl included the attribute of being unfit to walk in dirty places.

Lucy came carefully as she was bidden, and bent down to look at what seemed a golden arrowhead darting

through the water. It was a watersnake, Tom told her, and Lucy at last could see the serpentine wave of its

body, very much wondering that a snake could swim. Maggie had drawn nearer and nearer she must see it

too, though it was bitter to her like everything else, since Tom did not care about her seeing it. At last, she

was close by Lucy, and Tom, who had been aware of her approach, but would not notice it till he was

`Now, get away, Maggie. There's no room for you on the grass here. Nobody asked you to come.'

There were passions at war in Maggie at that moment to have made a tragedy, if tragedies were made by

passion only, but the essential Greek Word which was present in the passion, was wanting to the action; the

utmost Maggie could do, with a fierce thrust of her small brown arm, was to push poor little pinkandwhite

Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Maggie two smart slaps on the arm as he ran to pick up Lucy,

who lay crying helplessly. Maggie retreated to the roots of a tree a few yards off and looked on impenitently.

Usually her repentance came quickly after one rash deed, but now Tom and Lucy had made her so miserable,

she was glad to spoil their happiness glad to make everybody uncomfortable. Why should she be sorry?

`I shall tell mother, you know, Miss Mag,' said Tom, loudly and emphatically, as soon as Lucy was up and

ready to walk away. It was not Tom's practice to `tell,' but here justice clearly demanded that Maggie should

be visited with the utmost punishment: not that Tom had learnt to put his views in that abstract form; he never

mentioned `justice,' and had no idea that his desire to punish might be called by that fine name. Lucy was too

entirely absorbed by the evil that had befallen her the spoiling of her pretty best clothes, and the discomfort

of being wet and dirty to think much of the cause, which was entirely mysterious to her. She could never

have guessed what she had done to make Maggie angry with her. But she felt that Maggie was very unkind

and disagreeable, and made no magnanimous entreaties to Tom that he would not `tell,' only running along

by his side and crying piteously, while Maggie sat on the roots of the tree and looked after them with her

`Sally,' said Tom, when they reached the kitchen door, and Sally looked at them in speechless amaze, with a

piece of breadandbutter in her mouth and a toastingfork in her hand, `Sally, tell mother it was Maggie

`But Lors ha'massy, how did you get near such mud as that?' said Sally, making a wry face, as she stooped

Tom's imagination had not been rapid and capacious enough to include this question among the foreseen

consequences, but it was no sooner put than he foresaw whither it tended, and that Maggie would not be

considered the only culprit in the case. He walked quietly away from the kitchen door, leaving Sally to that

pleasure of guessing which active minds notoriously prefer to readymade knowledge.

Sally, as you are aware, lost no time in presenting Lucy at the parlour door, for to have so dirty an object

introduced into the house at Garum Firs was too great a weight to be sustained by a single mind.

`Goodness gracious!' aunt Pullet exclaimed after preluding by an inarticulate scream. `Keep her at the door,

`Why, she's tumbled into some nasty mud,' said Mrs Tulliver, going up to Lucy to examine into the amount

of damage to clothes for which she felt herself responsible to her sister Deane.

`If you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her in,' said Sally. `Master Tom's been and said so. And

they must ha' been to the pond, for it's only there they could ha'got into such dirt.'

`There it is, Bessy it's what I've been telling you,' said Mrs Pullet, in a tone of prophetic sadness, `it's your

Mrs Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched mother. As usual, the thought pressed upon her that

people would think she had done something wicked to deserve her maternal troubles, while Mrs Pullet began

to give elaborate directions to Sally how to guard the premises from serious injury in the course of removing

the dirt. Meantime tea was to be brought in by the cook, and the two naughty children were to have theirs in

an ignominious manner in the kitchen. Mrs Tulliver went out to speak to these naughty children, supposing

them to be close at hand, but it was not until after some search that she found Tom leaning with rather a

hardened careless air against the white paling of the poultry yard, and lowering his piece of string on the

`Tom, you naughty boy, where's your sister?' said Mrs Tulliver, in a distressed voice.

`I don't know,' said Tom. His eagerness for justice on Maggie had diminished since he had seen clearly that it

could hardly be brought about without the injustice of some blame on his own conduct.

`Sitting under the tree against the pond,' said Tom, apparently indifferent to everything but the string and the

`Then go and fetch her in this minute, you naughty boy. And how could you think o' going to the pond, and

taking your sister where there was dirt? You know she'll do mischief if there's mischief to be done.'

It was Mrs Tulliver's way, if she blamed Tom, to refer his misdemeanour, somehow or other, to Maggie.

The idea of Maggie sitting alone by the pond, roused an habitual fear in Mrs Tulliver's mind, and she

mounted the horseblock to satisfy herself by a sight of that fatal child, while Tom walked not very quickly

`They're such children for the water, mine are,' she said aloud, without reflecting that there was no one to hear

her. `They'll be brought in dead and drownded some day. I wish that river was far enough.'

But when she not only failed to discern Maggie, but presently saw Tom returning from the pool alone, this

hovering fear entered and took complete possession of her, and she hurried to meet him.

You may conceive the terrified search for Maggie, and the difficulty of convincing her mother that she was

not in the pond. Mrs Pullet observed, that the child might come to a worse end if she lived there was no

knowing; and Mr Pullet, confused and overwhelmed by this revolutionary aspect of things the tea deferred

and the poultry alarmed by the unusual running to and fro took up his spud as an instrument of search, and

reached down a key to unlock the goosepen, as a likely place for Maggie to lie perdue in.

Tom, after a while, started the idea that Maggie was gone home (without thinking it necessary to state that it

was what he should have done himself under the circumstances), and the suggestion was seized as a comfort

`Sister, for goodness' sake, let 'em put the horse in the carriage and take me home we shall perhaps find her

on the road. Lucy can't walk in her dirty clothes,' she said, looking at that innocent victim, who was wrapped

Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means of restoring her premises to order and quiet, and it

was not long before Mrs Tulliver was in the chaise looking anxiously at the most distant point before her.

What the father would say if Maggie was lost? was a question that predominated over every other.

MAGGIE'S intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than Tom had imagined. The resolution that gathered

in her mind, after Tom and Lucy had walked away, was not so simple as that of going home. No! she would

run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to

Maggie: she had been so often told she was like a gypsy and `half wild' that when she was miserable it

seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobrium and being entirely in harmony with circumstances, would

be to live in a little brown tent on the commons: the gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her and

pay her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point

to Tom, and suggested that he should stain his face brown and they should run away together; but Tom

rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies were thieves and hardly got anything to eat and

had nothing to drive but a donkey. Today, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which

gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that this was

a great crisis in her life; she would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there would

certainly be gypsies, and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, should never see

her any more. She thought of her father as she ran along, but she reconciled herself to the idea of parting with

him, by determining that she would secretly send him a letter by a small gypsy who would run away without

telling where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy, and always loved him very much.

Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time Tom got to the pond again, she was at the

distance of three long fields and was on the edge of the lane leading to the high road. She stopped to pant a

little, reflecting that running away was not a pleasant thing until one had got quite to the common where the

gypsies were, but her resolution had not abated: she presently passed through the gate into the lane, not

knowing where it would lead her, for it was not this way that they came from Dorlcote Mill to Garum Firs,

and she felt all the safer for that, because there was no chance of her being overtaken. But she was soon

aware, not without trembling, that there were two men coming along the lane in front of her: she had not

thought of meeting strangers she had been too much occupied with the idea of her friends coming after her.

The formidable strangers were two shabbylooking men with flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle on

a stick over his shoulder: but to her surprise, while she was dreading their disapprobation as a runaway, the

man with the bundle stopped, and in a half whining half coaxing tone asked her if she had a copper to give a

poor man. Maggie had a sixpence in her pocket her uncle Glegg's present which she immediately drew

out and gave this poor man with a polite smile, hoping he would feel very kindly towards her as a generous

person. `That's the only money I've got,' she said, apologetically. `Thank you, little miss,' said the man in a

less respectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and she even observed that he smiled and winked at

his companion. She walked on hurriedly, but was aware that the two men were standing still, probably to

look after her, and she presently heard them laughing loudly. Suddenly it occurred to her that they might

think she was an idiot: Tom had said that her cropped hair made her look like an idiot, and it was too

painful an idea to be readily forgotten. Besides she had no sleeves on only a cape and a bonnet. It was clear

that she was not likely to make a favourable impression on passengers, and she thought she would turn into

the fields again: but not on the same side of the lane as before, lest they should still be uncle Pullet's fields.

She turned through the first gate that was not locked, and felt a delighted sense of privacy in creeping along

by the hedgerows after her recent humiliating encounter. She was used to wandering about the fields by

herself, and was less timid there than on the highroad. Sometimes she had to climb over high gates, but that

was a small evil; she was getting out of reach very fast, and she should probably soon come within sight of

Dunlow Common, or at least of some other common, for she had heard her father say that you couldn't go

very far without coming to a common. She hoped so, for she was getting rather tired and hungry, and until

she reached the gypsies there was no definite prospect of breadandbutter. It was still broad daylight, for

aunt Pullet, retaining the early habits of the Dodson family, took tea at halfpast four by the sun and at five

by the kitchen clock; so, though it was nearly an hour since Maggie started, there was no gathering gloom on

the fields to remind her that the night would come. Still, it seemed to her that she had been walking a very

great distance indeed, and it was really surprising that the common did not come within sight. Hitherto she

had been in the rich parish of Garum where there was a great deal of pastureland, and she had only seen one

labourer at a distance: that was fortunate in some respects, as labourers might be too ignorant to understand

the propriety of her wanting to go to Dunlow Common; yet it would have been better if she could have met

some one who would tell her the way without wanting to know anything about her private business. At last,

however, the green fields came to an end and Maggie found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a

lane with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She had never seen such a wide lane before, and without

her knowing why, it gave her the impression that the common could not be far off; perhaps, it was because

she saw a donkey with a log to his foot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey with that

pitiable encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she had been across it in her father's gig. She crept through

the bars of the gate and walked on with new spirit, though not without haunting images of Apollyon, and a

highwayman with a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow with a mouth from ear to ear, and other

miscellaneous dangers. For poor little Maggie had at once the timidity of an active imagination, and the

daring that comes from overmastering impulse. She had rushed into the adventure of seeking her unknown

kindred, the gypsies, and now she was in this strange lane she hardly dared look on one side of her, lest she

should see the diabolical blacksmith in his leathern apron grinning at her with arms akimbo. It was not

without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by

the side of a hillock; they seemed something hideously preternatural a diabolical kind of fungus; for she

was too much agitated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes and the dark shaggy head attached to them.

It was a boy asleep, and Maggie trotted along faster and more lightly lest she should wake him: it did not

occur to her that he was one of her friends the gypsies, who in all probability would have very genial

manners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend in the lane, Maggie actually saw the little semicircular

black tent with the blue smoke rising before it which was to be her refuge from all the blighting obloquy that

had pursued her in civilised life. She even saw a tall female figure by the column of smoke doubtless the

gypsymother, who provided the tea and other groceries: it was astonishing to herself that she did not feel

more delighted. But it was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after all, and not on a common: indeed, it

was rather disappointing; for a mysterious illimitable common where there were sandpits to hide in, and one

was out of everybody's reach, had always made part of Maggie's picture of gypsy life. She went on, however,

and thought with some comfort that gypsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so there was no danger of

their falling into the mistake of setting her down at the first glance as an idiot. It was plain she had attracted

attention, for the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby in her arm, walked slowly to meet

her. Maggie looked up in the new face rather tremblingly as it approached, and was reassured by the thought

that her aunt Pullet and the rest were right when they called her a gypsy, for this face with the bright dark

eyes and the long hair was really something like what she used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off.

`My little lady, where are you going to?' the gypsy said, in a tone of coaxing deference.

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected: the gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady, and were

`Not any farther,' said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. `I'm come to

`That's pritty; come then why, what a nice little lady you are, to be sure,' said the gypsy, taking her by the

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old gypsywoman was seated on the ground

nursing her knees, and occasionally poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam:

two small shockheaded children were lying prone and resting on their elbows something like small sphinxes:

and a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl who, lying on her back, was scratching his nose and

indulging him with a bite of excellent stolen hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene

was really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would soon set out the

teacups. Everything would be quite charming when she had taught the gypsies to use a washingbasin and

to feel an interest in books. It was a little confusing, though, that the young woman began to speak to the old

one in a language which Maggie did not understand, while the tall girl who was feeding the donkey, sat up

`What, my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down, and tell us where you come from.'

It was just like a story: Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down and said,

`I'm come from home, because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll live with you, if you like, and I can

`Such a clever little lady,' said the woman with the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing baby to

crawl, `and such a pritty bonnet and frock,' she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at it while she

made an observation to the old woman, in the unknown language. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put it

on her own head hindforemost with a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this

`I don't want to wear a bonnet,' she said, `I'd rather wear a red handkerchief, like yours' (looking at her friend

by her side). `My hair was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off: but I dare say it will grow again very

soon,' she added apologetically, thinking it probable the gypsies had a strong prejudice in favour of long hair.

And Maggie had forgotten even her hunger at that moment in the desire to conciliate gypsy opinion.

`O what a nice little lady and rich, I'm sure,' said the old woman. `Didn't you live in a beautiful house at

`Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the river where we go fishing but I'm often very unhappy. I

should have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you

almost everything there is in my books, I've read them so many times and that will amuse you. And I can

tell you something about Geography too that's about the world we live in very useful and interesting. Did

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush she was really beginning to instruct the gypsies,

and gaining great influence over them. The gypsies themselves were not without amazement at this talk,

though their attention was divided by the contents of Maggie's pocket, which the friend at her right hand had

`Is that where you live, my little lady?' said the old woman, at the mention of Columbus.

`O no!' said Maggie, with some pity, `Columbus was a very wonderful man, who found out half the world

and they put chains on him and treated him very badly, you know it's in my Catechism of Geography but

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a sudden drop from patronising instruction to

`Why, she's hungry, poor little lady,' said the younger woman. `Give her some o' the cold victual. You've

`It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off,' said Maggie. `My father is Mr Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know

where I am, else he'll fetch me home again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?'

`What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?' said the younger woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was

constantly staring at Maggie and grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

`No,' said Maggie, `I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very good queen you might be glad when she died, and

you could choose another. If I was a queen, I'd be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.'

`Here's a bit o' nice victual, then,' said the old woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had

`Thank you,' said Maggie, looking at the food, without taking it, `but will you give me some bread and butter

`We've got no tea nor butter,' said the old woman with something like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of

`We ha'n't got no treacle,' said the old woman crossly, whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue between

the two woman in their unknown tongue, and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the breadandbacon and

began to eat it. At this moment the tall girl who had gone a few yards off, came back and said something,

which produced a strong effect. The old woman seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked the skewer into

the pot with new vigour, and the younger crept under the tent, and reached out some platters and spoons.

Maggie trembled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. Meanwhile the tall girl gave a

shrill cry and presently came running up the boy whom Maggie had passed as he was sleeping a rough

urchin about the age of Tom. He started at Maggie, and there ensued much incomprehensible chattering. She

felt very lonely, and was quite sure she should begin to cry before long: the gypsies didn't seem to mind her at

all, and she felt quite weak among them. But the springing tears were checked by a new terror, When two

men came up, whose approach had been the cause of the sudden excitement. The elder of the two carried a

bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone, which they answered by a

shower of treble sauciness; while a black cur ran barking up to Maggie and threw her into a tremor that only

found a new cause in the curses with which the younger man called the dog off, and gave him a rap with a

Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen of these people, or ever communicate to them

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, for they looked at her, and the tone of the

conversation became of that pacific kind which implies curiosity on one side and the power of satisfying it on

the other. At last the younger woman said in her previous deferential coaxing tone,

`Ay, very glad,' said the Younger man, who was looking at Maggie's silver thimble and other small matters

that had been taken from her pocket. He returned them all expect the thimble to the younger woman, with

some observation, and she immediately restored them to Maggie's pocket, while the men seated themselves

and began to attack the contents of the kettle a stew of meat and potatoes which had been taken off the

Maggie began to think that Tom might be right about the gypsies they must certainly be thieves, unless the

man meant to return her thimble by and by. She would willingly have given it him, for she was not at all

attached to her thimble; but the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort in

the revival of deference and attention towards her all thieves except Robin Hood were wicked people. The

`We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat,' said the old woman, in her coaxing tone. `And she's so hungry,

`Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this,' said the younger woman, handing some of the stew on a brown

dish with an iron spoon to Maggie, who remembering that the old woman had seemed angry with her for not

liking the bread and bacon, dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased away her appetite. If her father

would but come by in the gig and take her up! Or even if Jack the Giantkiller or Mr Greatheart or St George

who slew the dragon on the halfpennies, would happen to pass that way! But Maggie thought with a sinking

heart that these heroes were never seen in the neighbourhood of St Ogg's nothing very wonderful ever came

Maggie Tulliver you perceive was by no means that welltrained, wellinformed young person that a small

female of eight or nine necessarily is in these days: she had only been to school a year at St Ogg's, and had so

few books that she sometimes read the dictionary; so that in travelling over her small mind you would have

found the most unexpected ignorance as well as unexpected knowledge. She could have informed you that

there was such a word as `polygamy' and being also acquainted with `polysyllable,' she had deduced the

conclusion that `poly' meant `many;' but she had had no idea that gypsies were not well supplied with

groceries, and her thoughts generally were the oddest mixture of cleareyed acumen and blind dreams.

Her ideas about gypsies had undergone a rapid modification in the last five minutes. From having considered

them very respectful companions, amenable to instruction, she had begun to think that they meant perhaps to

kill her as soon as it was dark, and cut up her body for gradual cooking: the suspicion crossed her that the

fierceeyed old man was in fact the devil who might drop that transparent disguise at any moment, and turn

either into the grinning blacksmith or else a fieryeyed monster with dragon's wings. It was no use trying to

eat the stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was to offend the gypsies by betraying her extremely

unfavourable opinion of them, and she wondered with a keenness of interest that no theologian could have

`What, you don't like the smell of it, my dear,' said the young woman, observing that Maggie did not even

`No, thank you,' said Maggie, summoning all her force for a desperate effort, and trying to smile in a friendly

way. `I haven't time, I think it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and come again another

Maggie rose from her seat as she threw out this illusory prospect, devoutly hoping that Apollyon was

gullible; but her hope sank when the old gypsywoman said, `Stop a bit stop a bit, little lady we'll take you

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle

`Now then, little missis,' said the Younger man, rising, and leading the donkey forward, `tell us where you

`Dorlcote Mill is my home,' said Maggie, eagerly. `My father is Mr Tulliver he lives there.'

`Yes,' said Maggie. `Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there, if you please.'

`No, no, it'll be getting dark, we must make haste. And the donkey'll carry you as nice as can be you'll see.'

He lifted Maggie as he spoke and set her on the donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old man who

seemed to be going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.

`Here's your pretty bonnet,' said the Younger woman putting that recently despised but now welcome article

of costume on Maggie's head; `and you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you, and what a nice little

`O, Yes, thank you,' said Maggie, `I'm very much obliged to you. But I wish you'd go with me too.' She

thought anything was better than going with one of the dreadful men alone: it would be more cheerful to be

`Ah, You're fondest O' me, aren't you?' said the woman. `But I can't go You'll go too fast for me.'

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey holding Maggie before him, and she was as

incapable of remonstrating against this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no nightmare had ever

seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back and said goodbye, the donkey, at a

strong hint from the man's stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point Maggie had come

from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough urchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them

Not Leonore in that preternatural midnight excursion with her phantom lover, was more terrified than poor

Maggie in this entirely natural ride on a shortpaced donkey, with a gypsy behind her who considered that he

was earning halfacrown. The red light of the setting sun seemed to have a portentous meaning, with which

the alarming bray of the second donkey, with the log on its foot, must surely have some connection. Two low

thatched cottages the only houses they passed in this lane seemed to add to its dreariness: they had no

windows, to speak of, and the doors were closed: it was probable that they were inhabited by witches, and it

At last O sight of joy this lane, the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad

high road, where there was actually a coach passing! And there was fingerpost at the corner: she had surely

seen that fingerpost before `To St Ogg's, 2 miles.' The gypsy really meant to take her home, then: he was

probably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn't like coming with

him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well and

she was considering how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, and not only gratify his

feelings but efface the impression of her cowardice, when, as they reached a cross road, Maggie caught sight

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her, she was sobbing. Great was Mr

Tulliver's wonder, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

`Why, what's the meaning o' this?' he said, checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran

`The little miss lost herself, I reckon,' said the gypsy, `She'd come to our tent, at the far end o' Dunlow Lane,

and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It's a good way to come arter being on the tramp all

`O, yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home,' said Maggie. `A very kind, good man!'

`Here then, my man,' said Mr Tulliver, taking out five shillings. `It's the best day's work you ever did. I

`Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this,' he said, as they rode along, while she laid her head against her father

`O father,' sobbed Maggie, `I ran away, because I was so unhappy Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't

`Pooh, Pooh,' said Mr Tulliver, soothingly, `you mustn't think o' running away from father. What 'ud father

Mr Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that evening, and the effect was seen in the

remarkable fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about this

foolish business of her running away to the gypsies. Maggie was rather awestricken by this unusual

treatment, and sometimes thought that her conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to.

IN order to see Mr and Mrs Glegg at home, we must enter the town of St Ogg's that venerable town with

the redfluted roofs and the broad warehouse gables, where the black ships unlade themselves of their burthens

from the far north, and carry away, in exchange, the precious inland products, the wellcrushed cheese and

the soft fleeces, which my refined readers have doubtless become acquainted with through the medium of the

best classic pastorals. It is one of those old, old towns, which impress one as a continuation and outgrowth of

nature as much as the nests of the bower birds or the winding galleries of the white ants: a town which carries

the traces of its long growth and history, like a millennial tree, and has sprung up and developed in the same

spot between the river and the low hill from the time when the Roman legions turned their backs on it from

the camp on the hillside, and the longhaired seakings camp up the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes

at the fatness of the land. It is a town `familiar with forgotten years.' The shadow of the Saxon heroking still

walks there fitfully, reviewing the scenes of his youth and lovetime, and is met by the gloomier shadow of the

dreadful heathen Dane who was stabbed in the midst of his warriors by the sword of an invisible avenger and

who rises on autumn evenings like a white mist from his tumulus on the hill and hovers in the court of the old

Hall by the riverside the spot where he was thus miraculously slain in the days before the old Hall was

built. It was the Normans who began to build that fine old Hall, which is like the town telling of the

thoughts and hands of widelysundered generations; but it is all so old that we look with loving pardon at its

inconsistencies, and are well content that they who built the stone oriel and they who built the gothic facade

and towers of finest small brickwork with trefoil ornament, and the windows and battlements defined with

stone, did not sacrilegiously pull down the ancient halftimbered body with its oakroofed banquetinghall.

But older even than this old Hall is Perhaps the bit of wall now built into the belfry of the parish church and

said to be a remnant of the original chapel dedicated to St Ogg, the patron saint of this ancient town, of whose

history I possess several manuscript versions. I incline to the briefest, since if it should not be wholly true, it

is at least likely to contain the least falsehood. `Ogg the son of Beorl,' says my private hagiographer, `was a

boatman who gained a scanty living by ferrying passengers across the river Floss. And it came to pass one

evening when the winds were high, that there sat moaning by the bring of the river a woman with a child in

her arms; and she was clad in rags, and had a worn and withered look. And she craved to be rowed across the

river. And the men thereabout questioned her, and said `Wherefore dost thou desire to cross the river? Tarry

till the morning, and take shelter here for the night: so shalt thou be wise, and not foolish.' Still she went on to

mourn and crave. But Ogg the son of Beorl came up, and said, `I will ferry thee across: it is enough that thy

heart needs it.' And he ferried her across. And it came to pass when she stepped ashore, that her rags were

turned into robes of flowing white, and her face became bright with exceeding beauty and there was a glory

around it so that she shed a light on the water like the moon in its brightness. And she said `Ogg, the son of

Beorl, thou art blessed, in that thou didst not question and wrangle with the heart's need but wast smitten with

pity and didst straightway relieve the same. And from henceforth whose steps into thy boat shall be in no

peril from the storm, and whenever it puts forth to the rescue it shall save the lives both of men and beasts.'

And when the floods came, many were saved by reason of that blessing on the boat. But when Ogg the son of

Beorl died, behold, in the parting of his soul, the boat loosed itself from its moorings and was floated with the

ebbing tide in great swiftness to the ocean and was seen no more. Yet it was witnessed in the floods of

aftertime, that at the coming on of even, Ogg the son of Beorl was always seen with his boat upon the

widespreading waters, and the Blessed Virgin sat in the prow shedding a light around as of the moon in its

brightness, so that the rowers in the gathering darkness took heart and pulled anew.'

This legend, one sees, reflects from a faroff time the visitation of the floods, which even when they left

human life untouched, were widely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept as sudden death over all smaller

living things. But the town knew worse troubles even than the floods: troubles of the civil wars when it was a

continual fighting place where first puritans thanked God for the blood of the loyalists and then loyalists

thanked God for the blood of the puritans. Many honest citizens lost all their possessions for conscience sake

in those times and went forth beggared from their native town. Doubtless there are many houses standing

now on which those honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow: quaint gabled houses looking on the river,

jammed between newer warehouses and penetrated by surprising passages, which turn and turn at sharp

angles till they lead you out on a muddy strand overflowed continually by the rushing tide. Everywhere the

brick houses have a mellow look and in Mrs Glegg's day there was no incongruous newfashioned smartness,

no plateglass in shopwindows, no fresh stucco facing, or other fallacious attempt to make fine old red St

Ogg's wear the air of a town that sprang up yesterday. The shop windows were small and unpretending, for

the farmers' wives and daughters who came to do their shopping on market days, were not to be withdrawn

from their regular, wellknown shops; and the tradesmen had no wares intended for customers who would go

on their way and be seen no more. Ah, even Mrs Glegg's day seems far back in the past now, separated from

us by changes that widen the years. War and the rumour of war had then died out from the minds of men, and

if they were ever thought of by farmers in drab greatcoats who shook the grain out of their samplebags and

full marketplace, it was as a state of things that belonged to a past golden age when prices were high. Surely

the time was gone for ever when the broad river could bring up unwelcome ships: Russia was only the place

where the linseed came from the more the better making grist for the great vertical millstones with their

scythelike arms, roaring and grinding and carefully sweeping as if an informing soul were in them. The

Catholics, bad harvests, and the mysterious fluctuations of trade were the three evils mankind had to fear:

even the floods had not been great of late years. The mind of St Ogg's did not look extensively before or

after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and had no eyes for the spirits that walked the streets.

Since the centuries when St Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother at the prow had been seen on the wide

water, so many memories had been left behind and had gradually vanished like the receding hilltops! And

the present time was like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and earthquakes, thinking

tomorrow will be as yesterday and the giant forces that used to shake the earth are for ever laid to sleep. The

days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon by their faith, still less change it: the Catholics

were formidable because they would lay hold of government and property, and burn men alive; not because

any sane and honest parishioner of St Ogg's could be brought to believe in the Pope. One aged person

remembered how a rude multitude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in the cattlemarket, but for

a long while it had not been expected of preachers that they should shake the souls of men. An occasional

burst of fervour in dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism was the only symptom of a zeal

unsuited to sober times when men had done with change. Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms,

careless of proselytism: dissent was an inheritance along with a superior pew and a business connection, and

Churchmanship only wondered contemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that clung greatly to families in

the grocery and chandlering lines, though not incompatible with prosperous wholesale dealing. But with the

Catholic Question had come a slight wind of controversy to break the calm: the elderly rector had become

occasionally historical and argumentative, and Mr Spray the Independent minister had begun to preach

political sermons in which he distinguished with much subtlety between his fervent belief in the right of the

Catholics to the franchise and his fervent belief in their eternal perdition. But most of Mr Spray's hearers

were incapable of following his subtleties, and many oldfashioned dissenters were much pained by his

`siding with the Catholics'; while others thought he had better let politics alone. Public spirit was not held in

high esteem at St Ogg's, and men who busied themselves with political questions were regarded with some

suspicion as dangerous characters: they were usually persons who had little or no business of their own to

This was the general aspect of things at St Ogg's in Mrs Glegg's day and at that particular period in her family

history when she had had her quarrel with Mr Tulliver. It was a time when ignorance was much more

comfortable than at present, and was received with all the honours in very good society, without being

obliged to dress itself in an elaborate costume of knowledge: a time when cheap periodicals were not, and

when country surgeons never thought of asking their female patients if they were fond of reading, but simply

took it for granted that they preferred gossip: a time when ladies in rich silk gowns wore large pockets in

which they carried a mutton bone to secure them against cramp. Mrs Glegg carried such a bone, which she

had inherited from her grandmother with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty, like a suit of armour,

and a silverheaded walkingstick; for the Dodson family had been respectable for many generations.

Mrs Glegg had both a front and a back parlour in her excellent house at St Ogg's, so that she had two points

of view from which she could observe the weaknesses of her fellowbeings and reinforce her thankfulness

for her own exceptional strength of mind. From her front windows she could look down the Tofton Road

leading out of St Ogg's and note the growing tendency to `gadding about' in the wives of men not retired from

business, together with a practice of wearing woven cotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for the

coming generation; and from her back windows she could look down the pleasant garden and orchard which

stretched to the river, and observe the folly of Mr Glegg in spending his time among `them flowers and

vegetables.' For Mr Glegg having retired from active business as a woolstapler for the purpose of enjoying

himself through the rest of his life, had found this last occupation so much more severe than his business, that

he had been driven into amateur hard labour as a dissipation, and habitually relaxed by doing the work of two

ordinary gardeners. The economising of a gardener's wages might perhaps have induced Mrs Glegg to wink

at this folly, if it were possible for a healthy female mind even to simulate respect for a husband's hobby. But

it is well known that this conjugal complacency belongs only to the weaker portion of the sex, who are

scarcely alive to the responsibilities of a wife as a constituted check on her husband's pleasures which are

Mr Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental occupation, which gave every promise of being

inexhaustible. On the one hand, he surprised himself by his discoveries in natural history, finding that his

piece of garden ground contained wonderful caterpillars, slugs and insects, which, so far as he had heard, had

never before attracted human observation, and he noticed remarkable coincidences between these zoological

phenomena and the great events of that time, as, for example, that before the burning of York Minster there

had been mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rosetrees together with an unusual prevalence of

slugs which he had been puzzled to know the meaning of, until it flashed upon him with this melancholy

conflagration. (Mr Glegg had an unusual amount of mental activity which when disengaged from the wool

business naturally made itself a pathway in other directions.) And his second subject of meditation was the

`contrairiness' of the female mind, as typically exhibited in Mrs Glegg. That a creature made in a

genealogical sense out of a man's rib, and in this particular case maintained in the highest respectability

without any trouble of her own, should be normally in a state of contradiction to the blandest propositions

and even to the most accommodating concessions, was a mystery in the scheme of things to which he had

often in vain sought a clue in the early chapters of Genesis. Mr Glegg had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a

handsome embodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself of a moneygetting,

moneykeeping turn, had calculated on much conjugal harmony. But in that curious compound the feminine

character, it may easily happen that the flavour is unpleasant in spite of excellent ingredients; and a fine

systematic stinginess may be accompanied with a seasoning that quite spoils its relish. Now good Mr Glegg

himself was stingy in the most amiable manner: his neighbours called him `near,' which always means that

the person in question is a lovable skinflint. If you expressed a preference for cheeseparings, Mr Glegg

would remember to save them for you with a goodnatured delight in gratifying your palate, and he was

given to pet all animals which required no appreciable keep. There was no humbug or hypocrisy about Mr

Glegg: his eyes would have watered with true feeling over the sale of a widow's furniture, which a

fivepound note from his sidepocket would have prevented: but a donation of five pounds to a person `in a

small way of life' would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavishness rather than `charity' which had always

presented itself to him as a contribution of small aids, not a neutralising of misfortune. And Mr Glegg was

just as fond of saving other people's money as his own: he would have ridden as far round to avoid a turnpike

when his expenses were to be paid for him, as when they were to come out of his own pocket, and was

quite zealous in trying to induce indifferent acquaintances to adopt a cheap substitute for blacking. This

inalienable habit of saving, as an end in itself, belonged to the industrious men of business of a former

generation, who made their fortunes slowly, almost as the tracking of the fox belongs to the harrier it

constituted them a `race,' which is nearly lost in these days of rapid moneygetting, when lavishness comes

close on the back of want. In oldfashioned times, an `independence' was hardly ever made without a little

miserliness as a condition, and you would have found that quality in every provincial district combined with

characters as various as the fruits from which we can extract acid. The true Harpagons were always marked

and exceptional characters: not so the worthy taxpayers who having once pinched from real necessity retained

even in the midst of their comfortable retirement, with their wallfruit and winebins, the habit of regarding

life as an ingenious process of nibbling out one's livelihood without leaving any perceptible deficit, and who

would have been as immediately prompted to give up a newlytaxed luxury when they had their clear five

hundred a year as when they had only five hundred pounds of capital. Mr Glegg was one of these men, found

so impracticable by chancellors of the exchequer; and knowing this, you will be the better able to understand

why he had not swerved from the conviction that he had made an eligible marriage, in spite of the too

pungent seasoning that nature had given to the eldest Miss Dodson's virtues. A man with an affectionate

disposition, who finds a wife to concur with his fundamental idea of life, easily comes to persuade himself

that no other woman would have suited him so well, and does a little daily snapping and quarrelling without

any sense of alienation. Mr Glegg, being of a reflective turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much

wondering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female mind as unfolded to him in his domestic life:

and yet he thought Mrs Glegg's household ways a model for her sex: it struck him as a pitiable irregularity in

other women if they did not roll up their tablenapkins with the same tightness and emphasis as Mrs Glegg

did, if their pastry had a less leathery consistence, and their damson cheese a less venerable hardness than

hers: nay, even the peculiar combination of grocery and druglike odours in Mrs Glegg's private cupboard

impressed him as the only right thing in the way of cupboardsmells. I am not sure that he would not have

longed for the quarrelling again, if it had ceased for an entire week; and it is certain that an acquiescent mild

wife would have left his meditations comparatively jejune and barren of mystery.

Mr Glegg's unmistakable kindheartedness was shown in this, that it pained him more to see his wife at

variance with others even with Dolly, the servant than to be in a state of cavil with her himself, and the

quarrel between her and Mr Tulliver vexed him so much that it quite nullified the pleasure he would

otherwise have had in the state of his early cabbages as he walked in his garden before breakfast the next

morning. Still he went in to breakfast with some slight hope that now Mrs Glegg had `slept upon it,' her anger

might be subdued enough to give way to her usually strong sense of family decorum. She had been used to

boast that there had never been any of those deadly quarrels among the Dodsons which had disgraced other

families: that no Dodson had ever been `cut off with a shilling' and no cousin of the Dodsons disowned; as,

indeed, why should they be? for they had no cousins who had not money out at use, or some houses of their

There was one eveningcloud which had always disappeared from Mrs Glegg's brow when she sat at the

breakfasttable: it was her fuzzy front of curls; for as she occupied herself in household matters in the

morning, it would have been a mere extravagance to put on anything so superfluous to the making of leathery

pastry as a fuzzy curled front. By halfpast ten decorum demanded the front: until then Mrs Glegg could

economise it and society would never be any the wiser. But the absense of that cloud only left it more

apparent that the cloud of severity remained; and Mr Glegg, perceiving this as he sat down to his

milkporridge, which it was his old frugal habit to stem his morning hunger with, prudently resolved to leave

the first remark to Mrs Glegg, lest, to so delicate an article as a lady's temper, the slightest touch should do

mischief. People who seem to enjoy their illtemper have a way of keeping it in fine condition by inflicting

privations on themselves. That was Mrs Glegg's way: she made her tea weaker than usual this morning and

declined butter. It was a hard case that a vigorous mood for quarrelling, so highly capable of using any

opportunity should not meet with a single remark from Mr Glegg on which to exercise itself. But by and by it

appeared that his silence would answer the purpose, for he heard himself apostrophised at last in that tone

`Well, Mr Glegg! it's a poor return I get for making you the wife I've made you all these years. If this is the

way I'm to be treated, I'd better ha' known it before my poor father died, and then, when I'd wanted a home, I

Mr Glegg paused from his porridge and looked up not with any new amazement but simply with that quiet,

`There's husbands in the world,' continued Mrs Glegg after a pause, `as 'ud have known how to do something

different to siding with everybody else against their own wives. Perhaps I'm wrong, and you can teach me

better but I've allays heard as it's the husband's place to stand by the wife, instead o' rejoicing and

`Now, what call have you to say that?' said Mr Glegg, rather warmly, for though a kind man, he was not as

`There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out plain, Mr Glegg. I'd sooner you'd tell me to my face as

you make light of me, than try to make out as everybody's in the right but me, and come to your breakfast in

the morning, as I've hardly slept an hour this night, and sulk at me as if I was the dirt under your feet.'

`Sulk at you?' said Mr Glegg, in a tone of angry facetiousness. `You're like a tipsy man as thinks everybody's

`Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to me, Mr Glegg! It makes you look very small, though you

can't see yourself,' said Mrs Glegg in a tone of energetic compassion. `A man in your place should set an

`Yes; but will you listen to sense?' retorted Mr Glegg, sharply. `The best sense I can talk to you is what I said

last night as you're i' the wrong to think o' calling in your money, when it's safe enough if you'd let it alone,

all because of a bit of a tiff, and I was in hopes you'd ha' altered your mind this morning. But if you'd like to

call it in, don't do it in a hurry now, and breed more enmity in the family but wait till there's a pretty

mortgage to be had without any trouble. You'd have to set the lawyer to work now to find an investment, and

Mrs Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she tossed her head and emitted a guttural interjection

to indicate that her silence was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in fact, hostilities soon broke out again.

`I'll thank you for my cup o' tea now, Mrs G.,' said Mr Glegg, seeing that she did not proceed to give it him as

usual, when he had finished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with a slight toss of the head, and said,

`I'm glad to hear you'll thank me, Mr Glegg. It's little thanks I get for what I do for folks i' this world. Though

there's never a woman o' your side i' the family, Mr Glegg, as is fit to stand up with me, and I'd say it if I was

on my dying bed. Not but what I've allays conducted myself civil to your kin, and there isn't one of 'em can

say the contrary, though my equils they aren't, and nobody shall make me say it.'

`You'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you've left off quarrelling with your own, Mrs G.,' said Mr

`That's as false a word as ever you spoke, Mr Glegg,' said the lady, pouring out the milk with unusual

profuseness, as much as to say, if he wanted milk, he should have it with a vengeance. `And you know it's

false. I'm not the woman to quarrel with my own kin: you may, for I've known you do it.'

`Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your sister's house in a tantrum?'

`I'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr Glegg, and it's false to say it. Mr Tulliver's none o' my blood, and it was him

quarrelled with me, and drove me out o' the house. But perhaps you'd have had me stay and be swore at, Mr

Glegg; perhaps you was vexed not to hear more abuse and foul language poured out upo' your own wife. But

`Did ever anybody hear the like i' this parish?' said Mr Glegg, getting hot. `A woman with everything

provided for her, and allowed to keep her own money the same as if it was settled on her, and with a gig

newstuffed and lined at no end o' expense, and provided for when I die beyond anything she could expect...

to go on i' this way, biting and snapping like a mad dog! It's beyond everything as God A'mighty should ha'

made women so.' (These last words were uttered in a tone of sorrowful agitation: Mr Glegg pushed his tea

`Well, Mr Glegg! if those are your feelings, it's best they should be known,' said Mrs Glegg, taking off her

napkin, and folding it in an excited manner. `But if you talk o' my being provided for beyond what I could

expect, I beg leave to tell you as I'd a right to except a many things as I don't find. And as to my being like a

mad dog, it's well if you're not cried shame on by the county for your treatment of me, for it's what I can't

Here Mrs Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to cry, and breaking off from speech, she rang the bell

`Sally,' she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in rather a choked voice, `light a fire upstairs, and put the

blinds down. Mr Glegg, you'll please to order what you'd like for dinner. I shall have gruel.'

Mrs Glegg walked across the room to the small bookcase, and took down Baxter's `Saints' Everlasting

Rest'which she carried with her upstairs. It was the book she was accustomed to lay open before her on

special occasions: on wet Sunday mornings or when she heard of a death in the family or when, as in this

But Mrs Glegg carried something else upstairs with her, which together with the `Saints' Rest' and the gruel,

may have had some influence in gradually calming her feelings and making it possible for her to endure

existence on the groundfloor shortly before teatime. This was partly Mr Glegg's suggestion that she would

do well to let her five hundred lie still until a good investment turned up, and, further, his parenthetic hint at

his handsome provision for her in case of his death. Mr Glegg, like all men of his stamp, was extremely

reticent about his will, and Mrs Glegg in her gloomier moments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of

whom she had heard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening her grief at his death by leaving her

poorly off, in which case she was firmly resolved that she would have scarcely any weeper on her bonnet and

would cry no more than if he had been a second husband. But if he had really shown her any testamentary

tenderness, it would be affecting to think of him, poor man, when he was gone, and even his foolish fuss

about the flowers and gardenstuff, and his insistence on the subject of snails, would be touching when it was

once fairly at an end. To survive Mr Glegg and talk eulogistically of him, as a man who might have his

weaknesses, but who had done the right thing by her notwithstanding his numerous poor relations to have

sums of interest coming in more frequently and secrete it in various corners baffling to the most ingenious of

thieves (for, to Mrs Glegg's mind, banks and strong boxes would have nullified the pleasure of property she

might as well have taken her food in capsules) finally, to be looked up to by her own family and the

neighbourhood, so as no woman can ever hope to be who has not the praeterite and present dignity comprised

in being a `widow well left,' all this made a flattering and conciliatory view of the future. So that when

good Mr Glegg, restored to goodhumour by much hoeing, and moved by the sight of his wife's empty chair

with her knitting rolled up in the corner, went upstairs to her and observed that the bell had been tolling for

poor Mr Morton, Mrs Glegg answered magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjured woman,

Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for it was nearly five o'clock; and if people are to

quarrel often, it follows as a corollary that their quarrels cannot be protracted beyond certain limits.

Mr and Mrs Glegg talked quite amicably about the Tullivers that evening: Mr Glegg went the length of

admitting that Tulliver was a sad man for getting into hot water, and was like enough to run through his

property; and Mrs Glegg, meeting this acknowledgment halfway, declared that it was beneath her to take

notice of such a man's conduct, and that for her sister's sake, she would let him keep the five hundred a while

longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage she should only get four per cent.

OWING to this new adjustment of Mrs Glegg's thoughts, Mrs Pullet found her task of mediation the next day

surprisingly easy. Mrs Glegg, indeed, checked her rather sharply for thinking it would be necessary to tell her

elder sister what was the right mode of behaviour in family matters. Mrs Pullet's argument that it would look

ill in the neighbourhood if people should have it in their power to say that there was a quarrel in the family,

was particularly offensive. If the family name never suffered except through Mrs Glegg, Mrs Pullet might lay

her head on her pillow in perfect confidence. `It's not to be expected, I suppose,' observed Mrs Glegg, by way

of winding up the subject, `as I shall go to the Mill again before Bessy comes to see me, or as I shall go and

fall down o' my knees to Mr Tulliver and ask his pardon for showing him favours; but I shall bear no malice,

and when Mr Tulliver speaks civil to me, I'll speak civil to him. Nobody has any call to tell me what's

Finding it unnecessary to plead for the Tullivers, it was natural that aunt Pullet should relax a little in her

anxiety for them, and recur to the annoyance she had suffered yesterday from the offspring of that apparently

illfated house. Mrs Glegg heard a circumstantial narrative, to which Mr Pullet's remarkable memory

furnished some items; and while aunt Pullet pitied poor Bessy's bad luck with her children, and expressed a

halfformed project of paying for Maggie's being sent to a distant boarding school, which would not prevent

her being so brown, but might tend to subdue some other vices in her, aunt Glegg blamed Bessy for her

weakness, and appealed to all witnesses who should be living when the Tulliver children had turned out ill,

that she, Mrs Glegg, had always said how it would be from the very first, observing that it was wonderful to

`Then I may call and tell Bessy you'll bear no malice, and everything be as it was before?' Mrs Pullet said,

`Yes, you may, Sophy,' said Mrs Glegg, `you may tell Mr Tulliver and Bessy too, as I'am not going to behave

ill, because folks behave ill to me: I know it's my place, as the eldest, to set an example in every respect, and I

Mrs Glegg being in this state of satisfaction in her own lofty magnanimity, I leave you to judge what effect

was produced on her by the reception of a short letter from Mr Tulliver that very evening after Mrs Pullet's

departure, informing her that she needn't trouble her mind about her five hundred pounds, for it should be

paid back to her in the course of the next month at farthest, together with the interest due thereon until the

time of payment. And furthermore, that Mr Tulliver had no wish to behave uncivilly to Mrs Glegg, and she

was welcome to his house whenever she liked to come, but he desired no favours from her, either for himself

It was poor Mrs Tulliver who had hastened this catastrophe, entirely through that irrepressible hopefulness of

hers which led her to expect that similar causes may at any time produce different results. It had very often

occurred in her experience that Mr Tulliver had done something because other people had said he was not

able to do it, or had pitied him for his supposed inability, or in any other way piqued his pride: still, she

thought today if she told him when he came in to tea that sister Pullet was gone to try and make everything up

with sister Glegg. So that he needn't think about paying in the money, it would give a cheerful effect to the

meal. Mr Tulliver had never slackened in his resolve to raise the money, but now he at once determined to

write a letter to Mrs Glegg which should cut off all possibility of mistake. Mrs Pullet gone to beg and pray for

him, indeed!Mr Tulliver did not willingly write a letter, and found the relation between spoken and written

language, briefly known as spelling, one of the most puzzling things in this puzzling world. Nevertheless, like

all fervid writing, the task was done in less time than usual, and if the spelling differed from Mrs Glegg's

why, she belonged, like himself, to a generation with whom spelling was a matter of private judgment.

Mrs Glegg did not alter her will in consequence of this letter, and cut off the Tulliver children from their sixth

and seventh share in her thousand pounds for she had her principles. No one must be able to say of her when

she was dead that she had not divided her money with perfect fairness among her own kin: in the matter of

Wills personal qualities were subordinate to the great fundamental fact of blood; and to be determined in the

distribution of your property by caprice and not make your legacies bear a direct ratio to degrees of kinship,

was a prospective disgrace that would have embittered her life. This had always been a principle in the

Dodson family; it was one form of that sense of honour and rectitude which was a proud tradition in such

But though the letter could not shake Mrs Glegg's principles, it made the family breach much more difficult

to mend and as to the effect it produced on Mrs Glegg's opinion of Mr Tulliver she begged to be understood

from that time forth that she had nothing whatever to say about him: his state of mind, apparently, was too

corrupt for her to contemplate it for a moment. It was not until the evening before Tom went to school, at the

beginning of August, that Mrs Glegg paid a visit to her sister Tulliver, sitting in her gig all the while, and

showing her displeasure by markedly abstaining from all advice and criticism, for, as she observed to her

sister Deane, `Bessy must bear the consequences o'having such a husband, though I'm sorry for her,' and Mrs

That evening Tom observed to Maggie, `O my! Maggie, aunt Glegg's beginning to come again; I'm glad I'm

Maggie was already so full of sorrow at the thought of Tom's going away from her, that this playful

exultation of his seemed very unkind, and she cried herself to sleep that night.

Mr Tulliver's prompt procedure entailed on him further promptitude in finding the convenient person who

was desirous of lending five hundred pounds on bond. `It must be no client of Wakem's,' he said to himself;

and yet at the end of a fortnight it turned out to the contrary; not because Mr Tulliver's will was feeble, but

because external fact was stronger. Wakem's client was the only convenient person to be found. Mr Tulliver

had a destiny as well as Oedipus, and in this case he might plead, like Oedipus, that his deed was inflicted on

TOM TULLIVER'S sufferings during the first quarter he was at King's Lorton under the distinguished care of

the Rev. Walter Stelling were rather severe. At Mr Jacobs' Academy, life had not presented itself to him as a

difficult problem: there were plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom being good at all active games, fighting

especially, had that precedence among them which appeared to him inseparable from the personality of Tom

Tulliver; Mr Jacobs himself, familiarly known as Old Goggles, from his habit of wearing spectacles, imposed

no painful awe; and if it was the property of snuffy old hypocrites like him to write like copperplate and

surround their signatures with arabesques, to spell without forethought, and to spout `My name is Norval'

without bungling, Tom for his part was rather glad he was not in danger of those mean accomplishments. He

was not going to be a snuffy schoolmaster he; but a substantial man, like his father, who used to go hunting

when he was younger, and rode a capital black mare as pretty a bit of horseflesh as ever you saw: Tom

had heard what her points were a hundred times. He meant to go hunting too, and to be generally respected.

When people were grown up, he considered, nobody inquired about their writing and spelling: when he was a

man, he should be master of everything and do just as he liked. It had been very difficult for him to reconcile

himself to the idea that his schooltime was to be prolonged, and that he was not to be brought up to his

father's business, which he had always thought extremely pleasant, for it was nothing but riding about, giving

orders, and going to market; and he thought that a clergyman would give him a great many Scripture lessons,

and probably make him learn the Gospel and Epistle on a Sunday as well as the Collect. But in the absence of

specific information, it was impossible for him to imagine that school and a schoolmaster would be

something entirely different from the Academy and Mr Jacobs. So, not to be at a deficiency, in case of his

finding genial companions, he had taken care to carry with him a small box of percussion caps; not that there

was anything particular to be done with them, but they would serve to impress strange boys with a sense of

his familiarity with guns. Thus poor Tom, though he saw very clearly through Maggie's illusions, was not

without illusions of his own, which were to be cruelly dissipated by his enlarged experience at King's Lorton.

He had not been there a fortnight before it was evident to him that life, complicated not only with the Latin

grammar but with a new standard of English pronunciation, was a very difficult business, made all the more

obscure by a thick mist of bashfulness. Tom, as you have observed, was never an exception among boys for

ease of address; but the difficulty of enunciating a monosyllable in reply to Mr or Mrs Stelling was so great,

that he even dreaded to be asked at table whether he would have more pudding. As to the percussion caps, he

had almost resolved, in the bitterness of his heart that he would throw them into a neighbouring pond: for not

only was he the solitary pupil, but he began even to have a certain scepticism about guns, and a general sense

that his theory of life was undermined. For Mr Stelling thought nothing of guns, or horses either, apparently;

and yet it was impossible for Tom to despise Mr Stelling as he had despised Old Goggles. If there were

anything that was not thoroughly genuine about Mr Stelling, it lay quite beyond Tom's power to detect it: it is

only by a wide comparison of facts that the wisest fullgrown man can distinguish wellrolled barrels from

Mr Stelling was a wellsized, broadchested man, not yet thirty, with flaxen hair standing erect, and large

lightishgrey eyes, which were always very wide open; he had a sonorous bass voice, and an air of defiant

selfconfidence inclining to brazenness. He had entered on his career with great vigour, and intended to make

a considerable impression on his fellowmen. The Rev. Walter Stelling was not a man who would remain

among the `inferior clergy' all his life. He had a true British determination to push his way in the world. As a

schoolmaster, in the first place: for there were capital masterships of grammarschools to be had, and Mr

Stelling meant to have one of them. But as a preacher also, for he meant always to preach in a striking

manner, so as to have his congregation swelled by admirers from neighbouring parishes, and to produce a

great sensation whenever he took occasional duty for a brother clergyman of minor gifts. The style of

preaching he had chosen was the extemporaneous, which was held little short of the miraculous in rural

parishes like King's Lorton. Some passages of Massillon and Bourdaloue, which he knew by heart, were

really very effective when rolled out in Mr Stelling's deepest tones, but as comparatively feeble appeals of his

own were delivered in the same loud and impressive manner, they were often thought quite as striking by his

hearers. Mr Stelling's doctrine was of no particular school: if anything, it had a tinge of evangelicalism, for

that was `the telling thing' just then in the diocese to which King's Lorton belonged. In short, Mr Stelling was

a man who meant to rise in his profession, and to rise by merit, clearly, since he had no interest beyond what

might be promised by a problematic relationship to a great lawyer who had not yet become Lord Chancellor.

A clergyman who has such vigorous intentions naturally gets a little into debt at starting: it is not to be

expected that he will live in the meagre style of a man who means to be a poor curate all his life, and if the

few hundreds Mr Timpson advanced towards his daughter's fortune did not suffice for the purchase of

handsome furniture together with a stock of wine, a grand piano, and the layingout of a superior

flowergarden, it followed in the most rigorous manner, either that these things must be procured by some

other means, or else, that the Rev. Mr Stelling must go without them which last alternative would be an

absurd procrastination of the fruits of success, where success was certain. Mr Stelling was so broadchested

and resolute that he felt equal to anything: he would become celebrated by shaking the consciences of his

hearers, and he would by and by edit a Greek play, and invent several new readings. He had not yet selected

the play, for having been married little more than two years, his leisure time had been much occupied with

attentions to Mrs Stelling; but he had told that fine woman what he meant to do some day, and she felt great

But the immediate step to future success was to bring on Tom Tulliver during this first halfyear; for, by a

singular coincidence, there had been some negotiation concerning another pupil from the same

neighbourhood, and it might further a decision in Mr Stelling's favour, if it were understood that young

Tulliver, who, Mr Stelling observed in conjugal privacy, was rather a rough cub, had made prodigious

progress in a short time. It was on this ground that he was severe with Tom about his lessons: he was clearly a

boy whose powers would never be developed through the medium of the Latin grammar without the

application of some sternness. Not that Mr Stelling was a harshtempered or unkind man quite the

contrary: he was jocose with Tom at table, and corrected his provincialisms and his deportment in the most

playful manner: but poor Tom was only the more cowed and confused by this double novelty, for he had

never been used to jokes at all like Mr Stelling's, and for the first time in his life he had a painful sense that he

was all wrong somehow. When Mr Stelling said, as the roast beef was being uncovered, `Now, Tulliver!

which would you rather decline, roast beef or the Latin for it?' Tom, to whom in his coolest moments a pun

would have been a hard nut, was thrown into a state of embarrassed alarm that made everything dim to him

except the feeling that he would rather not have anything to do with Latin: of course he answered, `Roast

beef,' whereupon there followed much laughter and some practical joking with the plates, from which Tom

gathered that he had in some mysterious way refused beef, and, in fact, made himself appear `a silly.' If he

could have seen a fellowpupil undergo these painful operations and survive them in good spirits, he might

sooner have taken them as a matter of course. But there are two expensive forms of education, either of which

a parent may procure for his son by sending him as solitary pupil to a clergyman: one is, the enjoyment of the

reverend gentleman's undivided neglect; the other is, the endurance of the reverend gentleman's undivided

attention. It was the latter privilege for which Mr Tulliver paid a high price in Tom's initiatory months at

That respectable miller and maltster had left Tom behind and driven homeward in a state of great mental

satisfaction. He considered that it was a happy moment for him when he had thought of asking Riley's advice

about a tutor for Tom. Mr Stelling's eyes were so wide open, and he talked in such an offhand,

matteroffact way, answering every difficult slow remark of Mr Tulliver's with, `I see, my good sir, I see,'

`To be sure, to be sure,' `You want your son to be a man who will make his way in the world,' that Mr

Tulliver was delighted to find in him a clergyman whose knowledge was so applicable to the everyday affairs

of this life. Except Counsellor Wylde, whom he had heard at the last sessions, Mr Tulliver thought the Rev.

Mr Stelling was the shrewdest fellow he had ever met with; not unlike Wylde, in fact he had the same way

of sticking his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Mr Tulliver was not by any means an exception in

mistaking brazenness for shrewdness: most laymen thought Stelling shrewd, and a man of remarkable powers

generally: it was chiefly by his clerical brethren that he was considered rather a dull fellow. But he told Mr

Tulliver several stories about `Swing' and incendiarism, and asked his advice about feeding pigs in so

thoroughly secular and judicious a manner, with so much polished glibness of tongue, that the miller thought,

here was the very thing he wanted for Tom. He had no doubt this firstrate man was acquainted with every

branch of information, and knew exactly what Tom must learn in order to become a match for the lawyers

which poor Mr Tulliver himself and did not know, and so was necessarily thrown for selfdirection on this

wide kind of inference. It is hardly fair to laugh at him, for I have known much more highlyinstructed

As for Mrs Tulliver, finding that Mrs Stelling's views as to the airing of linen and the frequent recurrence of

hunger in a growing boy, entirely coincided with her own, moreover, that Mrs Stelling, though so young a

woman, and only anticipating her second confinement, had gone through very nearly the same experience as

herself with regard to the behaviour and fundamental character of the monthly nurse she expressed great

contentment to her husband when they drove away, at leaving Tom with a woman who, in spite of her youth,

`They must be very well off, though,' said Mrs Tulliver, `for everything's as nice as can be all over the house,

and that watered silk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pullet has got one like it.'

`Ah,' said Mr Tulliver, `he's got some income besides the curacy, I reckon perhaps her father allows 'em

something. There's Tom 'ull be another hundred to him and not much trouble either, by his own account: he

says teaching comes natural to him. That's wonderful, now,' added Mr Tulliver, turning his head on one side

Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr Stelling that he set about it with that uniformity of

method and independence of circumstances which distinguish the actions of animals understood to be under

the immediate teaching of nature. Mr Broderip's amiable beaver, as that charming naturalist tells us, busied

himself as earnestly in constructing a dam, in a room up three pairs of stairs in London, as if he had been

laying his foundation in a stream or lake in Upper Canada. It was `Binny's' function to build: the absense of

water or of possible progeny was an accident for which he was not accountable. With the same unerring

instinct Mr Stelling set to work at his natural method of instilling the Eton Grammar and Euclid into the mind

of Tom Tulliver. This, he considered, was the only basis of solid instruction: all other means of education

were mere charlatanism, and could produce nothing better than smatterers. Fixed on this firm basis, a man

might observe the display of various or special knowledge made by irregularly educated people with a pitying

smile: all that sort of thing was very well, but it was impossible these people could form sound opinions. In

holding this conviction Mr Stelling was not biassed, as some tutors have been, by the excessive accuracy or

extent of his own scholarship, and as to his views about Euclid, no opinion could have been freer from

personal partiality. Mr Stelling was very far from being led astray by enthusiasm, either religious or

intellectual: on the other hand, he had no secret belief that everything was humbug. He thought religion was a

very excellent thing, and Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful institutions, and Great

Britain the providential bulwark of Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to afflicted minds:

he believed in all these things as a Swiss hotel keeper believes in the beauty of the scenery around him, and in

the pleasure it gives to artistic visitors. And in the same way Mr Stelling believed in his method of education:

he had no doubt that he was doing the very best thing for Mr Tulliver's boy. Of course, when the miller talked

of mapping and summing in a vague and diffident manner, Mr Stelling had set his mind at rest by an

assurance that he understood what was wanted; for how was it possible the good man could form any

reasonable judgement about the matter? Mr Stelling's duty was to teach the lad in the only right way

indeed, he knew no other: he had not wasted his time in the acquirement of anything abnormal.

He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid lad; for though by hard labour he could get particular

declensions into his brain, anything so abstract as the relation between cases and terminations could by no

means get such a lodgment there as to enable him to recognise a chance genitive or dative. This struck Mr

Stelling as something more than natural stupidity: he suspected obstinacy, or at any rate, indifference, and

lectured Tom severely on his want of thorough application. `You feel no interest in what you're doing, sir,'

Mr Stelling would say, and the reproach was painfully true. Tom had never found any difficulty in discerning

a pointer from a setter, when once he had been told the distinction, and his perceptive powers were not at all

deficient. I fancy they were quite as strong as those of the Rev. Mr Stelling; for Tom could predict with

accuracy what number of horses were cantering behind him, he could throw a stone right into the centre of a

given ripple, he could guess to a fraction how many lengths of his stick it would take to reach across the

playground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate without any measurement. But Mr Stelling

took no note of these things: he only observed that Tom's faculties failed him before the abstractions

hideously symbolised to him in the pages of the Eton Grammar, and that he was in a state bordering on idiocy

with regard to the demonstration that two given triangles must be equal though he could discern with great

promptitude and certainty the fact that they were equal. Whence Mr Stelling concluded that Tom's brain

being peculiarly impervious to etymology and demonstrations, was peculiarly in need of being ploughed and

harrowed by these patent implements: it was his favourite metaphor, that the classics and geometry

constituted that culture of the mind which prepared it for the reception of any subsequent crop. I say nothing

against Mr Stelling's theory: if we are to have one regimen for all minds his seems to me as good as any

other. I only know it turned out as uncomfortably for Tom Tulliver as if he had been plied with cheese in

order to remedy a gastric weakness which prevented him from digesting it. It is astonishing what a different

result one gets by changing the metaphor! Once call the brain an intellectual stomach, and one's ingenious

conception of the classics and geometry as ploughs and harrows seems to settle nothing. But then, it is open

to some one else to follow great authorities and call the mind a sheet of white paper or a mirror, in which case

one's knowledge of the digestive process becomes quite irrelevant. It was doubtless an ingenious idea to call

the camel the ship of the desert, but it would hardly lead one far in training that useful beast. O Aristotle! if

you had had the advantage of being `the freshest modern' instead of the greatest ancient, would you not have

mingled your praise of metaphorical speech as a sign of high intelligence, with a lamentation that intelligence

so rarely shows itself in speech without metaphor, that we can so seldom declare what a thing is, except by

Tom Tulliver being abundant in no form of speech, did not use any metaphor to declare his views as to the

nature of Latin: he never called it an instrument of torture; and it was not until he had got on some way in the

next halfyear and in the Delectus, that he was advanced enough to call it a `bore' and `beastly stuff'. At

present, in relation to this demand that he should learn Latin declensions and conjugations, Tom was in a

state of as blank unimaginativeness concerning the cause and tendency of his sufferings, as if he had been an

innocent shrewmouse imprisoned in the split trunk of an ash tree in order to cure lameness in cattle. It is

doubtless almost incredible to instructed minds of the present day that a boy of twelve, not belonging strictly

to `the masses' who are now understood to have the monopoly of mental darkness, should have had no

distinct idea how there came to be such a thing as Latin on this earth: yet so it was with Tom. It would have

taken a long while to make conceivable to him that there ever existed a people who bought and sold sheep

and oxen and transacted the everyday affairs of life through the medium of this language, and still longer to

make him understand why he should be called upon to learn it, when its connection with those affairs had

become entirely latent. So far as Tom had gained any acquaintance with the Romans at Mr Jacobs' Academy,

his knowledge was strictly correct, but it went no farther than the fact that they were `in the New Testament.'

And Mr Stelling was not the man to enfeeble and emasculate his pupil's mind by simplifying and explaining,

or to reduce the tonic effect of etymology by mixing it with smattering, extraneous information such as is

Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom became more like a girl than he had ever been in his

life before. He had a large share of pride, which had hitherto found itself very comfortable in the world,

despising Old Goggles, and reposing in the sense of unquestioned rights: but now this same pride met with

nothing but bruises and crushings. Tom was too clearsighted not to be aware that Mr Stelling's standard of

things was quite different, was certainly something higher in the eyes of the world, than that of the people he

had been living amongst, and that brought in contact with it, he, Tom Tulliver, appeared uncouth and stupid:

he was by no means indifferent to this, and his pride got into an uneasy condition which quite nullified his

boyish selfsatisfaction, and gave him something of the girl's susceptibility. He was of a very firm, not to say

obstinate, disposition, but there was no brutelike rebellion and recklessness in his nature: the human

sensibilities predominated, and if it had occurred to him that he could enable himself to show some quickness

at his lessons and so acquire Mr Stelling's approbation, by standing on one leg for an inconvenient length of

time or rapping his head moderately against the wall, or any voluntary action of that sort, he would certainly

have tried it. But no Tom had never heard that these measures would brighten the understanding, or

strengthen the verbal memory; and he was not given to hypothesis and experiment. It did occur to him that he

could perhaps get some help by praying for it, but as the prayers he said every evening were forms learned by

heart, he rather shrank from the novelty and irregularity of introducing an extempore passage on a topic of

petition for which he was not aware of any precedent. But one day when he had broken down for the fifth

time in the supines of the third conjugation, and Mr Stelling, convinced that this must be carelessness, since it

transcended the bounds of possible stupidity, had lectured him very seriously, pointing out that if he failed to

seize the present golden opportunity of learning supines, he would have to regret it when he became a man,

Tom, more miserable than usual, determined to try his sole resource, and that evening, after his usual form of

prayer for his parents and `little sister' (he had begun to pray for Maggie when she was a baby) and that he

might be able always to keep God's commandments, he added, in the same low whisper, `And please to make

me always remember my Latin.' He paused a little to consider how he should pray about Euclid Whether he

should ask to see what it meant, or whether there was any other mental state which would be more applicable

to the case. But at last he added `And make Mr Stelling say I shan't do Euclid any more. Amen.'

The fact that he got through his supines without mistake the next day, encouraged him to persevere in this

appendix to his prayers, and neutralised any scepticism that might have arisen from Mr Stelling's continued

demand for Euclid. But his faith broke down under the apparent absence of all help when he got into the

irregular verbs. It seemed clear that Tom's despair under the caprices of the present tense did not constitute a

nodus worthy of interference, and since this was the climax of his difficulties, where was the use of praying

for help any longer? He made up his mind to this conclusion in one of his dull, lonely evenings, which he

spent in the study, preparing his lessons for the morrow. His eyes were apt to get dim over the page though

he hated crying and was ashamed of it: he couldn't help thinking with some affection even of Spouncer whom

he used to fight and quarrel with; he would have felt at home with Spouncer, and in a condition of

superiority. And then the mill, and the river, and Yap pricking up his ears, ready to obey the least sign when

Tom said `Hoigh!' would all come before him in a sort of calenture, when his fingers played absently in his

pocket with his great knife and his coil of whipcord, and other relics of the past. Tom, as I said, had never

been so much like a girl in his life before, and at that epoch of irregular verbs his spirit was further depressed

by a new means of mental development, which had been thought of for him out of school hours. Mrs Stelling

had lately had her second baby, and as nothing could be more salutary for a boy than to feel himself useful,

Mrs Stelling considered she was doing Tom a service by setting him to watch the little cherub Laura, while

the nurse was occupied with the sickly baby. It was quite a pretty employment for Tom to take little Laura out

in the sunniest hour of the autumn day it would help to make him feel that Lorton Parsonage was a home

for him, and that he was one of the family. The little cherub Laura, not being an accomplished walker at

present, had a ribbon fastened round her waist, by which Tom held her as if she had been a little dog, during

the minutes in which she chose to walk, but as these were rare, he was for the most part carrying this fine

child round and round the garden, within sight of Mrs Stelling's window according to orders. If any one

considers this unfair and even oppressive towards Tom, I beg him to consider that there are feminine virtues

which are with difficulty combined, even if they are not incompatible. When the wife of a poor curate

contrives under all her disadvantages to dress extremely well, and to have a style of coiffure which requires

that her nurse shall occasionally officiate as lady's maid, when, moreover, her dinner parties and her

drawingroom show that effort at elegance and completeness of appointment to which ordinary women

might imagine a large income necessary, it would be unreasonable to expect of her that she should employ a

second nurse or even act as a nurse herself. Mr Stelling knew better: he saw that his wife did wonders

already, and was proud of her: it was certainly not the best thing in the world for young Tulliver's gait, to

carry a heavy child, but he had plenty of exercise in long walks with himself, and next halfyear Mr Stelling

would see about having a drillingmaster. Among the many means whereby Mr Stelling intended to be more

fortunate than the bulk of his fellowmen, he had entirely given up that of having his own way in his own

house. What then? he had married `as kind a little soul as ever breathed' according to Mr Riley, who had been

acquainted with Mrs Stelling's blond ringlets and smiling demeanour throughout her maiden life and on the

strength of that knowledge would have been ready any day to pronounce that whatever domestic differences

If Tom had had a worse disposition, he would certainly have hated the little cherub Laura, but he was too

kindhearted a lad for that there was too much in him of the fibre that turns to true manliness, and to

protecting pity for the weak. I am afraid he hated Mrs Stelling, and contracted a lasting dislike to pale blond

ringlets and broad plaits as directly associated with haughtiness of manner and a frequent reference to other

people's `duty.' But he couldn't help playing with little Laura, and liking to amuse her: he even sacrificed his

percussioncaps for her sake, in despair of their ever serving a greater purpose thinking the small flash and

bang would delight her, and thereby drawing down on himself a rebuke from Mrs Stelling for teaching her

child to play with fire. Laura was a sort of playfellow and O how Tom longed for playfellows! In his secret

heart, he yearned to have Maggie with him, and was almost ready to doat on her exasperating acts of

forgetfulness; though when he was at home, he always represented it as a great favour on his part to let

And before this dreary half year was ended, Maggie actually came. Mrs Stelling had given a general

invitation for the little girl to come and stay with her brother; so when Mr Tulliver drove over to King's

Lorton late in October, Maggie came too, with the sense that she was taking a great journey and beginning to

see the world. It was Mr Tulliver's first visit to see Tom, for the lad must learn not to think too much about

`Well, my lad,' he said to Tom, when Mr Stelling had left the room to announce the arrival to his wife, and

`I don't think I am well, father,' said Tom. `I wish you'd ask Mr Stelling not to let me do Euclid it brings on

`O I don't know: it's definitions and axioms and triangles and things. It's a book I've got to learn in there's

`Go, go!' said Mr Tulliver, reprovingly, `you mustn't say so. You must learn what your master tells you. He

`I'll help you now, Tom,' said Maggie, with a little air of patronising consolation. `I'm come to stay ever so

long, if Mrs Stelling asks me. I've brought my box and my pinafores, haven't I, father?'

`You help me, you silly little thing!' said Tom, in such high spirits at this announcement, that he quite

enjoyed the idea of confounding Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. `I should like to see you doing one

of my lessons! Why, I learn Latin too! Girls never learn such things. They're too silly.'

`I know what Latin is very well,' said Maggie, confidently. `Latin's a language. There are Latin words in the

`Now, you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie!' said Tom, secretly astonished. `You think you're very wise!

`Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean "gift," ' said Maggie, stoutly. `It may mean several things.

Almost every word does. There's `lawn' it means the grass plot, as well as the stuff pockethandkerchiefs

`Well done, little 'un,' said Mr Tulliver, laughing, while Tom felt rather disgusted with Maggie's

knowingness, though beyond measure cheerful at the thought that she was going to stay with him. Her

Mrs Stelling, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a longer time than a week for Maggie's stay, but Mr

Stelling, who took her between his knees and asked her where she stole her dark eyes from, insisted that she

must stay a fortnight. Maggie thought Mr Stelling was a charming man, and Mr Tulliver was quite proud to

leave his little wench where she would have an opportunity of showing her cleverness to appreciating

strangers. So it was agreed that she should not be fetched home till the end of the fortnight.

`Now then, come with me into the study, Maggie,' said Tom, as their father drove away. `What do you shake

and toss your head now for, you silly?' he continued; for though her hair was now under a new dispensation

and was brushed smoothly behind her ears, she seemed still in imagination to be tossing it out of her eyes. `It

`O, I can't help it,' said Maggie impatiently. `Don't tease me, Tom. O what books!' she exclaimed, as she saw

`Why, you couldn't read one of 'em,' said Tom, triumphantly. `They're all Latin.'

`No, they aren't,' said Maggie. `I can read the back of this... History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman

`You'd better not, Miss Maggie,' said Tom, seeing her hand on the volume. `Mr Stelling lets nobody touch his

`O very well! Let me see all your books, then,' said Maggie, turning to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and

Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie to dispute with and crow over again, seized her

round the waist and began to jump with her round the large library table. Away they jumped with more and

more vigour, till Maggie's hair flew from behind her ears and twirled about like an animated mop. But the

revolutions round the table became more and more irregular in their sweep, till at last reaching Mr Stelling's

readingstand, they sent it thundering down with its heavy lexicons to the floor. Happily it was the

groundfloor, and the study was a onestoried wing to the house, so that the downfall made no alarming

resonance, though Tom stood dizzy and aghast for a few minutes, dreading the appearance of Mr or Mrs

`O, I say, Maggie,' said Tom at last, lifting up the stand, `we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break

`O it's the Latin for a good scolding,' said Tom, not without some pride in his knowledge.

`I think all women are crosser than men,' said Maggie. `Aunt Glegg's a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg,

`But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom: it'll be very wicked of you, for I shall be your sister.'

`O but, Tom, you won't! I shan't be disagreeable. I shall be very good to you and I shall be good to

`O bother! never mind! Come, it's time for me to learn my lessons. See here! what I've got to do,' said Tom,

drawing Maggie towards him and showing her his theorem, while she pushed her hair behind her ears and

prepared herself to prove her capability of helping him in Euclid. She began to read with full confidence in

her own powers, but presently becoming quite bewildered, her face flushed with irritation. It was unavoidable

`It's nonsense!' she said. `And very ugly stuff nobody need want to make it out.'

`Ah, there now, Miss Maggie!' said Tom, drawing the book away and wagging his head at her, `you see

`O,' said Maggie, pouting, `I dare say I could make it out, if I'd learned what goes before, as you have.'

`But that's what you just couldn't, Miss Wisdom,' said Tom. `For it's all the harder when you know what goes

before: for then you've got to say what Definition 3 is and what Axiom V. is. But get along with you now: I

Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her mathematical mortification; for she delighted in

new words, and quickly found that there was an English Key at the end, which would make her very wise

about Latin at slight expense. She presently made up her mind to skip the rules in the Syntax, the examples

became so absorbing. These mysterious sentences snatched from an unknown context, like strange horns of

beasts leaves of unknown plants, brought from some faroff region, gave boundless scope to her imagination,

and were all the more fascinating because they were in a peculiar tongue of their own, which she could learn

to interpret. It was really very interesting the Latin Grammar that Tom had said no girls could learn: and

she was proud because she found it interesting. The most fragmentary examples were her favourites. Mors

omnibus est communis would have been jejune, only she liked to know the Latin; but the fortunate gentleman

whom every one congratulated because he had a son `endowed with such a disposition' afforded her a great

deal of pleasant conjecture, and she was quite lost in the `thick grove penetrable by no star,' when Tom called

`O Tom, it's such a pretty book!' she said, as she jumped out of the large armchair to give it him, `it's much

prettier than the Dictionary. I could learn Latin very soon. I don't think it's at all hard.'

`O I know what you've been doing,' said Tom, `you've been reading the English at the end. And donkey can

Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and businesslike air as much as to say that he had a

lesson to learn which no donkeys would find themselves equal to. Maggie, rather piqued, turned to the

Presently Tom called to her: `Here, Magsie, come and hear if I can say this. Stand at that end of the table,

`O, I begin at `Appellativa arborum,' because I say all over again what I've been learning this week.'

Tom sailed along pretty well for three lines; and Maggie was beginning to forget her office of prompter, in

speculating as to what mas could mean, which came twice over, when he stuck fast at Sunt etiam volucrum.

`Don't tell me, Maggie; Sunt etiam volucrum... Sunt etiam volucrum... ut ostrea, cetus... '

`Sunt etiam volucrum,' said Tom, very slowly, as if the next words might be expected to come sooner, when

`O, I know hold your tongue,' said Tom. `Ceu passer, hirundo, ferarum... ferarum... ' Tom took his pencil

`O yes, now I can do,' said Tom, `it was tigris, vulpes, I'd forgotten: ut tigris, vulpes, et piscium.'

With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got through the next few lines.

`Now then,' he said `the next is what I've just learnt for tomorrow. Give me hold of the book a minute.'

After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of his fist on the table, Tom returned the book.

`No, Tom,' said Maggie, `that doesn't come next. It's Nomen non creskens genittivo... '

`Creskens genittivo,' exclaimed Tom, with a derisive laugh, for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his

yesterday's lesson, and a young gentleman does not require an intimate or extensive acquaintance with Latin

before he can feel the pitiable absurdity of a false quantity. `Creskens genittivo! What a little silly you are,

`Well, you needn't laugh, Tom, for you didn't remember it at all. I'm sure it's spelt so. How was I to know?'

`Pheeeeh! I told you girls couldn't learn Latin. It's Nomen non crescens genitivo.'

`Very well, then,' said Maggie, pouting. `I can say that as well as you can. And you Don't mind your stops.

For you ought to stop twice as long at a semicolon as you do at a comma, and you make the longest stops

They were presently fetched to spend the rest of the evening in the drawingroom, and Maggie became so

animated with Mr Stelling, who she felt sure, admired her cleverness, that Tom was rather amazed and

alarmed at her audacity. But she was suddenly subdued by Mr Stelling's alluding to a little girl of whom he

`What a very odd little girl that must be!' said Mrs Stelling, meaning to be playful, but a playfulness that

turned on her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie's taste. She feared Mr Stelling, after all, did not think

much of her, and went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs Stelling, she felt, looked at her as if she thought her

Nevertheless it was a very happy fortnight to Maggie this visit to Tom. She was allowed to be in the study

while he had his lessons, and in her various readings got very deep into the examples in the Latin Grammar.

The astronomer who hated women generally caused her so much puzzling speculation that she one day asked

Mr Stelling if all astronomers hated women, or whether it was only this particular astronomer. But,

`I suppose it's all astronomers: because you know, they live up in high towers, and if the women came there,

Mr Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were on the best terms. She told Tom she should like to go

to school to Mr Stelling, as he did, and learn just the same things. She knew she could do Euclid, for she had

looked into it again, and she saw what A B C meant: they were the names of the lines.

`I'm sure you couldn't do it, now,' said Tom. `And I'll just ask Mr Stelling if you could.'

`Mr Stelling,' she said, that same evening, when they were in the drawingroom, `couldn't I do Euclid, and all

`No; you couldn't,' said Tom, indignantly. `Girls can't do Euclid: can they, sir?'

`They can pick up a little of everything, I daresay,' said Mr Stelling. `They've a great deal of superficial

Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph by wagging his head at Maggie behind Mr Stelling's

chair. As for Maggie, she had hardly ever been so mortified: she had been so proud to be called `quick' all her

little life, and now it appeared that this quickness was the brand of inferiority. It would have been better to be

`Ha, ha! Miss Maggie!' said Tom, when they were alone, `you see it's not such a fine thing to be quick. You'll

And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny that she had no spirit for a retort.

But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was fetched away in the gig by Luke, and the study was

once more quite lonely for Tom, he missed her grievously. He had really been brighter and had got through

his lessons better since she had been there; and she had asked Mr Stelling so many questions about the

Roman Empire, and whether there really ever was a man who said in Latin, `I would not buy it for a farthing

or a rotten nut,' or whether that had only been turned into Latin that Tom had actually come to a dim

understanding of the fact that there had once been people upon the earth who were so fortunate as to know

Latin without learning it through the medium of the Eton Grammar. This luminous idea was a great addition

to his historical acquirements during this half year which were otherwise confined to an epitomised History

But the dreary half year did come to an end. How glad Tom was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before

the cold wind! The dark afternoons and the first December snow seemed to him far livelier than the August

sunshine; and that he might make himself the surer about the flight of the days that were carrying him

homeward, he stuck twentyone sticks deep in a corner of the garden when he was three weeks from the

holidays, and pulled one up every day with a great wrench, throwing it to a distance, with a vigour of will

which would have carried it to limbo, if it had been in the nature of sticks to travel so far.

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the Latin Grammar the happiness of seeing the

bright light in the parlour at home as the gig passed noiselessly over the snowcovered bridge: the happiness

of passing from the cold air to the warmth and the kisses and the smiles of that familiar hearth where the

pattern of the rug and the grate and the fireirons were `first ideas' that it was no more possible to criticise

than the solidity and extension of matter. There is no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where

we were born, where objects became dear to us before we had known the labour of choice, and where the

outer world seemed only an extension of our own personality: we accepted and loved it as we accepted our

own sense of existence and our own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of our early home

might look if it were put up to auction: an improved taste in upholstery scorns it; and is not the striving after

something better and better in our surroundings, the grand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute

or, to satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distinguishes the British man from the foreign brute?

But heaven knows where that striving might lead us, if our affections had not a trick of twining round those

old inferior things, if the loves and sanctities of our life had no deep immovable roots in memory. One's

delight in an elderberry bush overhanging the confused leafage of a hedgerow bank as a more gladdening

sight than the finest cistus or fuchsia spreading itself on the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable

preference to a landscapegardener, or to any of those severely regulated minds who are free from the

weakness of any attachment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qualities. And there is no

better reason for preferring this elderberry bush than that it stirs an early memory that it is no novelty in my

life speaking to me merely through my present sensibilities to form and colour, but the long companion of my

FINE old Christmas with the snowy hair and ruddy face had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion,

and had set off his rich gifts of warmth and colour with all the heightening contrast of frost and snow. Snow

lay on the croft and riverbank in undulations softer than the limbs of infancy; it lay with the neatliest

finished border on every sloping roof, making the darkred gables stand out with a new depth of colour; it

weighed heavily on the laurels and firtrees till it fell from them with a shuddering sound; it clothed the

rough turnipfield with whiteness and made the sheep look like dark blotches; the gates were all blocked up

with the sloping drifts, and here and there a disregarded fourfooted beast stood as if petrified `in

unrecumbent sadness;' there was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens too were one still pale cloud no

sound or motion in anything but the dark river, that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow. But old

Christmas smiled as he laid this cruelseeming spell on the outdoor world, for he meant to light up home

with new brightness, to deepen all the richness of indoor colour, and give a keener edge of delight to the

warm fragrance of food: he meant to prepare a sweet imprisonment that would strengthen the primitive

fellowship of kindred, and make the sunshine of familiar human faces as welcome as the hidden daystar.

His kindness fell but hardly on the homeless fell but hardly on the homes where the hearth was not very

warm, and where the food had little fragrance; where the human faces had no sunshine in them, but rather the

leaden, blankeyed gaze of unexpectant want. But the fine old season meant well; and if he has not learnt the

secret how to bless men impartially, it is because his father Time, with ever unrelenting purpose, still hides

And yet this Christmas day, in spite of Tom's fresh delight in home, was not, he thought, somehow or other,

quite so happy as it had always been before. The red berries were just as abundant on the holly, and he and

Maggie had dressed all the windows and mantelpieces and pictureframes on Christmas Eve with as much

taste as ever, wedding the thickset scarlet clusters with branches of the blackberried ivy. There had been

singing under the windows after midnight supernatural singing, Maggie always felt, in spite of Tom's

contemptuous insistence that the singers were old Patch, the parish clerk, and the rest of the church choir: she

trembled with awe when their caroling broke in upon her dreams, and the image of men in fustian clothes was

always thrust away by the vision of angels resting on the parted cloud. But the midnight chant had helped as

usual to lift the morning above the level of common days; and then, there was the smell of hot toast and ale

from the kitchen, at the breakfast hour; the favourite anthem, the green boughs and the short sermon, gave the

appropriate festal character to the churchgoing; and aunt and uncle Moss, with all their seven children, were

looking like so many reflectors of the bright parlour fire, when the churchgoers came back stamping the

snow from their feet; the plumpudding was of the same handsome roundness as ever, and came in with the

symbolic blue flames around it, as if it had been heroically snatched from the nether fires into which it had

been thrown by dyspeptic puritans; the dessert was as splendid as ever with its golden oranges, brown nuts,

and the crystalline light and dark of apple jelly and damson cheese: in all these things Christmas was as it had

always been since Tom could remember; it was only distinguished, if by anything, by superior sliding and

Christmas was cheery; but not so Mr Tulliver. He was irate and defiant, and Tom, though he espoused his

father's quarrels and shared his father's sense of injury, was not without some of the feeling that oppressed

Maggie when Mr Tulliver got louder and more angry in narration and assertion with the increased leisure of

dessert. The attention that Tom might have concentrated on his nuts and wine was distracted by a sense that

there were rascally enemies in the world, and that the business of grownup life could hardly be conducted

without a good deal of quarrelling. Now Tom was not fond of quarrelling, unless it could soon be put an end

to by a fair standup fight, with an adversary whom he had every chance of thrashing; and his father's

irritable talk made him uncomfortable, though he never accounted to himself for the feeling, or conceived the

The particular embodiment of the evil principle now exciting Mr Tulliver's determined resistance was Mr

Pivart, who, having lands higher up the Ripple, was taking measures for their irrigation which either were or

would be or were bound to be (on the principle that water was water) an infringement on Mr Tulliver's

legitimate share of waterpower. Dix, who had a mill on the stream, was a feeble auxiliary of Old Harry

compared with Pivart: Dix had been brought to his senses by arbitration, and Wakem's advice had not carried

him far: no: Dix, Mr Tulliver considered, had been as good as nowhere, in point of law, and in the intensity of

his indignation against Pivart, his contempt for a baffled adversary like Dix began to wear the air of a friendly

attachment. He had no male audience today except Mr Moss, who knew nothing, as he said, of the `natur'

o'mills,' and could only assent to Mr Tulliver's arguments on the a priori ground of family relationship and

monetary obligation; but Mr Tulliver did not talk with the futile intention of convincing his audience he

talked to relieve himself: while good Mr Moss made strong efforts to keep his eyes wide open, in spite of the

sleepiness which an unusually good dinner produced in his hardworked frame. Mrs Moss, more alive to the

subject, and interested in everything that affected her brother, listened and put in a word as often as maternal

`Why, Pivart's new name hereabout, brother, isn't it?' she said. `He didn't own the land in father's time, nor

`New name? Yes I should think it is a new name,' said Mr Tulliver, with angry emphasis. `Dorlcote Mill's

been in our family a hundred year and better, and nobody ever heard of a Pivart meddling with the river, till

this fellow came and bought Bincome's farm out of hand, before anybody else could so much as say "snap."

But I'll pivart him!' added Mr Tulliver, lifting his glass with a sense that he had defined his resolution in an

`You won't be forced to go to law with him, I hope, brother?' said Mrs Moss, with some anxiety.

`I don't know what I shall be forced to but I know what I shall force him to with his dykes and erigations

if there's any law to be brought to bear o' the right side. I know well enough who's at the bottom of it: he's

got Wakem to back him and egg him on. I know Wakem tells him the law can't touch him for it: but there's

folks can handle the law besides Wakem. It takes a big raskil to beat him: but there's bigger to be found, as

know more o' th' ins and outs o' the law, else how came Wakem to lose Brumley's suit for him?'

Mr Tulliver was a strictly honest man, and proud of being honest, but he considered that in law the ends of

justice could only be achieved by employing a stronger knave to frustrate a weaker. Law was a sort of

cockfight in which it was the business of injured honesty to get a game bird with the best pluck and the

`Gore's no fool you needn't tell me that,' he observed presently, in a pugnacious tone, as if poor Gritty had

been urging that lawyer's capabilities, `but, you see, he isn't up to the law as Wakem is. And water's a very

particular thing you can't pick it up with a pitchfork. That's why it's been nuts to Old Harry and the lawyers.

It's plain enough what's the rights and the wrongs of water, if you look at it straight forrard; for a river's a

river, and if you've got a mill, you must have water to turn it; and it's no use telling me, Pivart's erigation and

nonsense won't stop my wheel: I know what belongs to water better than that. Talk to me o'what th' engineers

say! I say it's common sense, as Pivart's dykes must do me an injury. But if that's their engineering, I'll put

Tom to it by and by, and he shall see if he can't find a bit more sense in th' engineering business than what

Tom, looking round with some anxiety, at this announcement of his prospects, unthinkingly withdrew a small

rattle he was amusing Baby Moss with, whereupon she, being a baby that knew her own mind with

remarkable clearness, instantaneously expressed her sentiments in a piercing yell, and was not to be appeased

even by the restoration of the rattle, feeling apparently that the original wrong of having it taken from her

remained in all its force. Mrs Moss hurried away with her into another room, and expressed to Mrs Tulliver

who accompanied her, the conviction that the dear child had good reasons for crying, implying that if it was

supposed to be the rattle that baby clamoured for she was a misunderstood baby. The thoroughly justifiable

`It's your brother's way, Mrs Moss: I'd never anything o'that sort before I was married,' said Mrs Tulliver,

with a halfimplied reproach. She always spoke of her husband as `your brother' to Mrs Moss, in any case

when his line of conduct was not matter of pure admiration. Amiable Mrs Tulliver, who was never angry in

her life, had yet her mild share of that spirit without which she could hardly have been at once a Dodson and

a woman. Being always on the defensive towards her own sisters, it was natural that she should be keenly

conscious of her superiority, even as the weakest Dodson, over a husband's sister who, besides being poorly

off, and inclined to `hang on' her brother, had the good natured submissiveness of a large, easytempered,

untidy, prolific woman, with affection enough in her not only for her own husband and abundant children, but

`I hope and pray, he won't go to law,' said Mrs Moss, `for there's never any knowing where that'll end. And

the right doesn't allays win. This Mr Pivart's a rich man, by what I can make out, and the rich mostly get

`As to that,' said Mrs Tulliver, stroking her dress down, `I've seen what riches are in my own family; for my

sisters have got husbands as can afford to do pretty much what they like. But I think sometimes I shall be

drove off my head with the talk about this law and erigation; and my sisters lay all the fault to me, for they

don't know what it is to marry a man like your brother how should they? Sister Pullet has her own way

`Well,' said Mrs Moss, `I don't think I should like my husband if he hadn't got any wits of his own, and I had

to find headpiece for him. It's deal easier to do what pleases one's husband than to be puzzling what else one

`If people come to talk o' doing what pleases their husbands,' said Mrs Tulliver, with a faint imitation of her

sister Glegg, `I'm sure your brother might have waited a long while before he'd have found a wife that 'ud

have let him have his say in everything as I do. It's nothing but law and erigation now, from when we first get

up in the morning till we go to bed at night: and I never contradict him: I only say, "Well Mr Tulliver, do as

Mrs Tulliver, as we have seen, was not without influence over her husband. No woman is: she can always

incline him to do either what she wishes, or the reverse; and on the composite impulses that were threatening

to hurry Mr Tulliver into `law,' Mrs Tulliver's monotonous pleading had doubtless its share of force; it might

even be comparable to that proverbial feather which has the credit or discredit of breaking the camel's back,

though on a strictly impartial view the blame ought rather to lie with the previous weight of feathers which

had already placed the back in such imminent peril that an otherwise innocent feather could not settle on it

without mischief. Not that Mrs Tulliver's feeble beseeching could have had this feather's weight in virtue of

her single personality; but whenever she departed from entire assent to her husband, he saw in her the

representative of the Dodson family; and it was a guiding principle with Mr Tulliver, to let the Dodsons know

that they were not to domineer over him, or more specifically that a male Tulliver was far more than

But not even a direct argument from that typical Dodson female herself against his going to law, could have

heightened his disposition towards it so much as the mere thought of Wakem, continually freshened by the

sight of the too able attorney on market days. Wakem, to his certain knowledge, was (metaphorically

speaking) at the bottom of Pivart's irrigation: Wakem had tried to make Dix stand out, and go to law about

the dam: it was unquestionably Wakem who had caused Mr Tulliver to lose the suit about the right of road

and the bridge that made a thoroughfare of his land for every vagabond who preferred an opportunity of

damaging private property to walking like an honest man along the high road: all lawyers were more or less

rascals, but Wakem's rascality was of that peculiarly aggravated kind which placed itself in opposition to that

form of right embodied in Mr Tulliver's interests and opinions. And as an extra touch of bitterness, the

injured miller had recently, in borrowing the five hundred pounds, been obliged to carry a little business to

Wakem's office on his own account. A hooknosed glib fellow! as cool as cucumber always looking so

sure of his game! And it was vexatious that Lawyer Gore was not more like him, but was a bald,

roundfeatured man, with bland manners and fat hands: a gamecock that you would be rash to bet upon

against Wakem. Gore was a sly fellow: his weakness did not lie on the side of scrupulosity: but the largest

amount of winking, however significant, is not equivalent to seeing through a stone wall: and confident as Mr

Tulliver was in his principle that water was water and in the direct inference that Pivart had not a leg to stand

on in this affair of irrigation, he had an uncomfortable suspicion that Wakem had more law to show against

this (rationally) irrefragable inference than Gore could show for it. But then, if they went to law, there was a

chance for Mr Tulliver to employ Counsellor Wylde on his side, instead of having that admirable bully

against him, and the prospect of seeing a witness of Wakem's made to perspire and become confounded, as

Mr Tulliver's witness had once been, was alluring to the love of retributive justice.

Much rumination had Mr Tulliver on these puzzling subjects during his rides on the grey horse much

turning of the head from side to side, as the scales dipped alternately; but the probable result was still out of

sight, only to be reached through much hot argument and iteration in domestic and social life. That initial

stage of the dispute which consisted in the narration of the case and the enforcement of Mr Tulliver's views

concerning it throughout the entire circle of his connections would necessarily take time, and at the beginning

of February when Tom was going to school again, there were scarcely any new items to be detected in his

father's statement of the case against Pivart, or any more specific indication of the measures he was bent on

taking against that rash contravener of the principle that water was water. Iteration, like friction, is likely to

generate heat instead of progress, and Mr Tulliver's heat was certainly more and more palpable. If there had

been no new evidence on any other point, there had been new evidence that Pivart was as `thick as mud' with

`Father,' said Tom, one evening near the end of the holidays, `uncle Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to

send his son to Mr Stelling. It isn't true what they said about his going to be sent to France. You won't like

`It's no matter for that, my boy,' said Mr Tulliver. `Don't you learn anything bad of him, that's all. The lad's a

poor deformed creatur, and takes after his mother in the face: I think there isn't much of his father in him. It's

a sign Wakem thinks high o' Mr Stelling, as he sends his son to him, and Wakem knows meal from bran.'

Mr Tulliver in his heart was rather proud of the fact that his son was to have the same advantages as

Wakem's: but Tom was not at all easy on the point: it would have been much clearer if the lawyer's son had

not been deformed, for then Tom would have had the prospect of pitching into him with all that freedom

IT was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to school: a day quite in keeping with this severe

phase of his destiny. If he had not carried in his pocket a parcel of sugar candy and a small Dutch doll for

little Laura, there would have been no ray of expected pleasure to enliven the general gloom. But he liked to

think how Laura would put out her lips and her tiny hands for the bits of sugar candy, and, to give the greater

keenness to these pleasures of imagination, he took out the parcel, made a small hole in the paper and bit off a

crystal or two, which had so solacing an effect under the confined prospect and damp odours of the

gigumbrella, that he repeated the process more than once on his way. `Well, Tulliver, we're glad to see you

again,' said Mr Stelling, heartily. `Take off your wrappings and come into the study till dinner. You'll find a

Tom felt in an uncomfortable flutter as he took off his woollen comforter and other wrappings. He had seen

Philip Wakem at St Ogg's, but had always turned his eyes away from him as quickly as possible. He would

have disliked having a deformed boy for his companion even if Philip had not been the son of a bad man.

And Tom did not see how a bad man's son could be very good. His own father was a good man, and he would

readily have fought any one who said the contrary. He was in a state of mingled embarrassment and defiance

`Here is a new companion for you, to shake hands with, Tulliver,' said that gentleman on entering the study,

`Master Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make acquaintance by yourselves. You already know something

Tom looked confused and awkward while Philip rose and glanced at him timidly. Tom did not like to go up

and put out his hand, and he was not prepared to say, `How do you do?' on so short a notice.

Mr Stelling wisely turned away and closed the door behind him: boys' shyness only wears off in the absence

Philip was at once too proud and too timid to walk towards Tom. He thought, or rather felt, that Tom had an

aversion to looking at him: every one, almost, disliked looking at him; and his deformity was more

conspicuous when he walked. So they remained without shaking hands or even speaking, while Tom went to

the fire and warmed himself, every now and then casting furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to be drawing

absently first one object and then another on a piece of paper he had before him. He had seated himself again,

and as he drew was thinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to overcome his own repugnance to

Tom began to look oftener and longer at Philip's face, for he could see it without noticing the hump, and it

was really not a disagreeable face very oldlooking, Tom thought: he wondered how much older Philip was

than himself. An anatomist even a mere physiognomist would have seen that the deformity of Philip's

spine was not a congenital hump, but the result of an accident in infancy; but you do not expect from Tom

any acquaintance with such distinctions: to him, Philip was simply a humpback. He had a vague notion that

the deformity of Wakem's son had some relation to the lawyer's rascality, of which he had so often heard his

father talk with hot emphasis; and he felt too a halfadmitted fear of him as probably a spiteful fellow, who,

not being able to fight you, had cunning ways of doing you a mischief by the sly. There was a humpbacked

tailor in the neighbourhood of Mr Jacobs' Academy, who was considered a very unamiable character, and

was much hooted after by publicspirited boys solely on the ground of his unsatisfactory moral qualities; so

that Tom was not without a basis of fact to go upon. Still, no face could be more unlike that ugly tailor's than

this melancholy boy's face: the brown hair round it waved and curled at the ends like a girl's Tom thought

that truly pitiable. This Wakem was a pale, puny fellow, and it was quite clear he would not be able to play at

anything worth speaking of; but he handled his pencil in an enviable manner, and was apparently making one

thing after another without any trouble. What was he drawing? Tom was quite warm now, and wanted

something new to be going forward. It was certainly more agreeable to have an illnatured humpback as a

companion than to stand looking out of the study window at the rain and kicking his foot against the

washboard in solitude; something would happen every day `a quarrel or something;' and Tom thought he

should rather like to show Philip that he had better not try his spiteful tricks on him. He suddenly walked

`Why, that's donkey with panniers and a spaniel, and partridges in the corn!' he exclaimed, his tongue being

completely loosed by surprise and admiration. `O my buttons!I wish I could draw like that. I'm to learn

`Never learned?' said Tom, in amazement. `Why when I make dogs and horses and those things, the heads

and the legs won't come right; though I can see how they ought to be very well. I can make houses, and all

sorts of chimneys chimneys going all down the wall, and windows in the roof and all that. But I daresay I

could do dogs and horses if I was to try more,' he added, reflecting that Philip might falsely suppose that he

was going to `knock under,' if he were too frank about the imperfection of his accomplishments.

`O yes,' said Philip, `It's very easy. You've only to look well at things, and draw them over and over again.

`But haven't you been taught anything?' said Tom, beginning to have a puzzled suspicion that Philip's

crooked back might be the source of remarkable faculties, `I thought you'd been to school a long while,'

`Yes,' said Philip, smiling. `I've been taught Latin and Greek and mathematics... and writing and such things.'

`O but, I say, you don't like Latin though do you?' said Tom, lowering his voice confidentially.

`Ah, but perhaps you haven't got into the Propiae quae maribus,' said Tom, nodding his head sideways, as

much as to say, `that was the test: it was easy talking until you came to that.'

Philip felt some bitter complacency in the promising stupidity of this wellmade activelooking boy; but

made polite by his own extreme sensitiveness as well as by his desire to conciliate, he checked his inclination

`Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall,' said Tom, with a sense of disappointment.

Tom did not say `Thank You,' for he was quite absorbed in the thought that Wakem's son did not seem so

`O yes... I only wanted to know,' said Tom, rather ashamed of himself now he saw Philip colouring and

looking uncomfortable. He found much difficulty in adjusting his attitude of mind towards the son of Lawyer

Wakem, and it had occurred to him that if Philip disliked his father, that fact might go some way towards

`No', said Philip. `My father wishes me to give all my time to other things now.'

`Yes,' said Philip, who had left off using his pencil and was resting his head on one hand, while Tom was

leaning forward on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration at the dog and the donkey.

`No: I like to know what everybody else knows. I can study what I like by and by.'

`It's part of the education of a gentleman,' said Philip. `All gentlemen learn the same things.'

`What, do you think Sir John Crake, the master of the harriers, knows Latin?' said Tom, who had often

`He learnt it when he was a boy, of course,' said Philip `But I dare say he's forgotten it.'

`O, well, I can do that, then,' said Tom, not with any epigrammatic intention, but with serious satisfaction at

the idea that as far as Latin was concerned, there was no hindrance to his resembling Sir John Crake. `Only

you're obliged to remember it while you're at school, else you've got to learn ever so many lines of `Speaker'

Mr Stelling's very particular did you know? He'll have you up ten times if you say "nam" for "jam"... he

`O I don't mind,' said Philip, unable to choke a laugh, `I can remember things easily. And there are some

lessons I'm very fond of. I'm very fond of Greek history, and everything about the Greeks. I should like to

have been a Greek and fought the Persians, and then have come home and have written tragedies, or else have

been listened to by everybody for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a grand death.' (Philip, you

perceive, was not without a wish to impress the wellmade barbarian with a sense of his mental superiority.)

`Why, were the Greeks great fighters?' said Tom, who saw a vista in this direction. `Is there anything like

David and Goliath, and Samson, in the Greek history? Those are the only bits I like in the history of the

`O, there are very fine stories of that sort about the Greeks about the heroes of early times who killed the

wild beasts, as Samson did. And in the Odyssey that's a beautiful Poem there's a more wonderful giant

than Goliath Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead, and Ulysses, a little fellow,

but very wise and cunning, got a redhot pinetree and stuck it into this one eye and made him, roar like a

`O what fun!' said Tom, Jumping away from the table and stamping first with one leg and then the other. `I

say, can you tell me all about those stories? Because I shan't learn Greek, you know... . Shall I?' he added,

pausing in his stamping with a sudden alarm, lest the contrary might be possible. `Does every gentleman

`No, I should think not very likely not,' said Philip. `But you may read those stories without knowing

`O but I don't like reading: I'd sooner have you tell them me. But only the fighting ones, you know. My sister

Maggie is always wanting to tell me stories but they're stupid things. Girls' stories always are. Can you tell

`O Yes,' said Philip. `Lots of them, besides the Greek stories. I can tell you about Richard Coeur de Lion and

Saladin, and about William Wallace, and Robert Bruce and James Douglas I Know no end.'

`I'm only going in fourteen,' said Tom. `But I thrashed all the fellows at Jacobs' that's where I was before I

came here. And I beat 'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish Mr Stelling would let us go fishing. I could

show you how to fish. You could fish, couldn't you? It's only standing, and sitting still, you know.'

Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his favour. This hunchback must not suppose that his

acquaintance with fighting stories put him on a par with an actual fighting hero like Tom Tulliver. Philip

winced under this allusion to his unfitness for active sports, and he answered almost peevishly,

`I Can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting watching a line hour after hour or else throwing

`Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when they landed a big pike, I can tell you,' said Tom, who

had never caught anything that was `big' in his life, but whose imagination was on the stretch with indignant

zeal for the honour of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his disagreeable points, and must be kept in due

check. Happily for the harmony of this first interview, they were now called to dinner, and Philip was not

allowed to develop farther his unsound views on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to himself: that was just

THE alternations of feeling in that first dialogue between Tom and Philip Continued to mark their intercourse

even after many weeks of schoolboy intimacy. Tom never quite lost the feeling that Philip, being the son of a

`rascal,' was his natural enemy, never thoroughly overcame his repulsion to Philip's deformity: deformity: he

was a boy who adhered tenaciously to impressions once received: as with all minds in which mere perception

predominates over thought and emotion, the external remained to him rigidly what it was in the first instance.

But then, it was impossible not to like Philip's company when he was in a good humour: he could help one so

well in one's Latin exercises, which Tom regarded as a kind of puzzle that could only be found out be a lucky

chance; and he could tell such wonderful fighting stories about Hal of the Wynd, for example, and other

heroes who were especial favourites with Tom, because they laid about them with heavy strokes. He had

small opinion of Saladin whose scimitar could cut a cushion in two in an instant: who wanted to cut

cushions? That was a stupid story, and he didn't care to hear it again. But when Robert Bruce on the black

pony rose in his stirrups and lifting his good battleaxe cracked at once the helmet and the skull of the

toohasty knight at Bannockburn, then Tom felt all the exaltation of sympathy and if he had had a cocoanut

at hand, he would have cracked it at once with the poker. Philip in his happier moods, indulged Tom to the

top of his bent, heightening the crash and bang and fury of every fight with all the artillery of epithets at his

command. But he was not always in a good humour or happy mood. The slight spurt of peevish susceptibility

which had escaped him in their first interview, was a symptom of a perpetually recurring mental ailment

half of it nervous irritability, half of it the heartbitterness produced by the sense of his deformity. In these

fits of susceptibility every glance seemed to him to be charged either with offensive pity or with illrepressed

disgust at the very least it was an indifferent glance, and Philip felt indifference as a child of the south feels

the chill air of a northern spring. Poor Tom's blundering patronage when they were out of doors together

would sometimes make him turn upon the wellmeaning lad quite savagely, and his eyes, usually sad and

quiet, would flash with anything but playful lightning. No wonder Tom retained his suspicions of the

humpback. But Philip's selftaught skill in drawing was another link between them: for Tom found, to his

disgust, that his new drawingmaster gave him no dogs and donkeys to draw, but brooks and rustic bridges

and ruins all with a general softness of blacklead surface indicating that nature, if anything, was rather

satiny; and as Tom's feeling for the picturesque in landscape was at present quite latent, it is not surprising

that Mr Goodrich's productions seemed to him an uninteresting form of art. Mr Tulliver having a vague

intention that Tom should be put to some business which included the drawing out of plans and maps, had

complained to Mr Riley, when he saw him at Mudport, that Tom seemed to be learning nothing of that sort:

whereupon that obliging adviser had suggested that Tom should have drawing lessons. Mr Tulliver must not

mind paying extra for drawing: let Tom be made a good draughtsman, and he would be able to turn his pencil

to any purpose. So it was ordered that Tom should have drawing lessons; and whom should Mr Stelling have

selected as a master if not Mr Goodrich, who was considered quite at the head of his profession within a

circuit of twelve miles round King's Lorton? By which means Tom learned to make an extremely fine point

to his pencil and to represent landscape with a `broad generality' which, doubtless from a narrow tendency in

All this, you remember, happened in those dark ages when there were no Schools of Design, before

schoolmasters were invariably men of scrupulous integrity, and before the clergy were all men of enlarged

minds and varied culture. In those less favoured days, it is no fable that there were other clergymen besides

Mr Stelling who had narrow intellects and large wants, and whose income, by a logical confusion to which

Fortune, being a female as well as blindfold, is peculiarly liable, was proportioned not to their wants but to

their intellect with which income has clearly no inherent relation. The Problem these gentlemen had to

solve was to readjust the proportion between their wants and their income; and since wants are not easily

starved to death, the simpler method appeared to be to raise their income. There was but one way of doing

this: any of those low callings in which men are obliged to do good work at a low price were forbidden to

clergymen: was it their fault if their only resource was to turn out very poor work at a high price? Besides,

how should Mr Stelling be expected to know that education was a delicate and difficult business? any more

than an animal endowed with a power of boring a hole through rock should be expected to have wide views

of excavation. Mr Stelling's faculties had been early trained to boring in a strait line, and he had no faculty to

spare. But among Tom's contemporaries whose fathers cast their sons on clerical instruction to find them

ignorant after many days, there were many far less lucky than Tom Tulliver. Education was almost entirely a

matter of luck usually of illluck in those distant days. The state of mind in which you take a billiardcue

or a dicebox in your hand is one of sober certainty compared with that of oldfashioned fathers, like Mr

Tulliver, when they selected a school or a tutor for their sons. Excellent men, who had been forced all their

lives to spell on an impromptu phonetic system, and having carried on a successful business in spite of this

disadvantage, had acquired money enough to give their sons a better star in life than they had had themselves,

must necessarily take their change as to the conscience and the competence of the schoolmaster whose

circular fell in their way and appeared to promise so much more than they would ever have thought of asking

for including the return of linen, fork, and spoon. It was happy for them if some ambitious draper of their

acquaintance had not brought up his son to the Church and if that young gentleman, at the age of

fourandtwenty, had not closed his college dissipations by an imprudent marriage: otherwise, these

innocent fathers desirous of doing the best for their offspring could only escape the draper's son by happening

to be on the foundation of a grammar school as yet unvisited by commissioners where two or three boys

could have all to themselves the advantages of a large and lofty building, together with a headmaster,

toothless, dimeyed and deaf, whose erudite indistinctness and inattention were engrossed by them at the rate

of three hundred pounds a head a ripe scholar, doubtless, when first appointed; but all ripeness beneath the

Tom Tulliver, then, compared with many other British youths of his time who have since had to scramble

through life with some fragments of more or less relevant knowledge and a great deal of strictly relevant

ignorance, was not so very unlucky. Mr Stelling was a broadchested healthy man with the bearing of a

gentleman, a conviction that a growing boy required a sufficiency of beef, and a certain hearty kindness in

him that made him like to see Tom looking well and enjoying his dinner: not a man of refined conscience

or with any deep sense of the infinite issues belonging to everyday duties; not quite competent to his high

offices; but incompetent gentlemen must live, and without private fortune, it is difficult to see how they could

all live genteelly if they had nothing to do with education or government. Besides it was the fault of Tom's

mental Constitution that his faculties could not be nourished on the sort of knowledge Mr Stelling had to

communicate. A boy born with a deficient power of apprehending signs and abstractions must suffer the

penalty of his congenital deficiency, just as if he had been born with one leg shorter than the other; a method

of education sanctioned by the long practice of our venerable ancestors was not to give way before the

exceptional dulness of a boy who was merely living at the time then present. And Mr Stelling was convinced

that a boy so stupid at signs and abstractions must be stupid at everything else, even if that reverend

gentleman could have taught him everything else. It was the practice of our venerable ancestors to apply that

ingenious instrument the thumbscrew, and to tighten and tighten it in order to elicit nonexistent facts: they

had a fixed opinion to begin with, that the facts were existent, and what had they to do but to tighten the

thumbscrew? In like manner, Mr Stelling had a fixed opinion that all boys with any capacity could learn

what it was the only regular thing to teach: if they were slow, the thumbscrew must be tightened the

exercises must be insisted on with increased severity, and a page of Virgil be awarded as a penalty, to

Nevertheless the thumbscrew was relaxed a little during this second half year. Philip was so advanced in his

studies and so apt, that Mr Stelling could obtain credit by his facility which required little help, much more

easily than by the troublesome process of overcoming Tom's dulness. Gentlemen with broad chests and

ambitious intentions do sometimes disappoint their friends by failing to carry the world before them. Perhaps

it is, that high achievements demand some other unusual qualification besides an unusual desire for high

prizes; perhaps it is that these stalwart gentlemen are rather indolent, their divinae particulam aurae being

obstructed from soaring by a too hearty appetite. Some reason or other there was why Mr Stelling deferred

the execution of many spirited projects why he did not begin the editing of his Greek play, or any other

work of scholarship in his leisure hours, but, after turning the key of his private study with much resolution,

sat down to one of Theodore Hook's novels. Tom was gradually allowed to shuffle through his lessons with

less rigour, and having Philip to help him, he was able to make some show of having applied his mind in a

confused and blundering way, without being crossexamined into betrayal that his mind had been entirely

neutral in the matter. He thought school much more bearable under this modification of circumstances; and

he went on contentedly enough, picking up a promiscuous education chiefly from things that were not

intended as education at all. What was understood to be his education, was simply the practice of reading,

writing and spelling, carried on by an elaborate appliance of unintelligible ideas and by much failure in the

Nevertheless, there was a visible improvement in Tom under this training; perhaps because he was not a boy

in the abstract existing solely to illustrate the evils of a mistaken education, but a boy made of flesh and

There was a great improvement in his bearing, for example, and some credit on this score was due to Mr

Poulter, the village schoolmaster, who, being an old Peninsular soldier, was employed to drill Tom a source

of high mutual pleasure. Mr Poulter, who was understood by the company at the Black Swan to have once

struck terror into the hearts of the French, was no longer personally formidable. He had rather a shrunken

appearance, and was tremulous in the mornings, not from age, but from the extreme perversity of the King's

Lorton boys which nothing but gin could enable him to sustain with any firmness. Still, he carried himself

with martial erectness, had his clothes scrupulously brushed, and his trousers tightly strapped, and on the

Wednesday and Saturday afternoons when he came to Tom, he was always inspired with gin and old

memories Which gave him an exceptionally spirited air, as of a superannuated charger who hears the drum.

The drilling lessons were always protracted by episodes of warlike narrative much more interesting to Tom

than Philip's stories out of the Iliad; for there were no cannon in the Iliad, and besides, Tom had felt some

disgust on learning that Hector and Achilles might possibly never have existed. But the Duke of Wellington

was really alive, and Bony had not been long dead therefore Mr Poulter's reminiscences of the Peninsular

War were removed from all suspicion of being mythical. Mr Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous

figure at Talavera, and had contributed not a little to the peculiar terror with which his regiment of infantry

was regarded by the enemy. On afternoons when his memory was more stimulated than usual, he

remembered that the Duke of Wellington had (in strict privacy, lest jealousies should be awakened) expressed

his esteem for that fine fellow Poulter. The very surgeon who attended him in the hospital after he had

received his gunshot wound had been profoundly impressed with the superiority of Mr Poulter's flesh: no

other flesh would have healed in anything like the same time. On less personal matters connected with the

important warfare in which he had been engaged Mr Poulter was more reticent, only taking care not to give

the weight of his authority to any loose notions concerning military history. Any one who pretended to a

knowledge of what occurred at the siege of Badajos was especially an object of silent pity to Mr Poulter: he

wished that prating person had been run down and had the breath trampled out of him at the first gooff, as

he himself had he might talk about the siege of Badajos then!Tom did not escape irritating his drilling

master occasionally, by his curiosity concerning other military matters than Mr Poulter's personal experience.

`And General Wolfe, Mr Poulter? wasn't he a wonderful fighter?' said Tom, who held the notion that all the

martial heroes commemorated on the publichouse signs were engaged in the war with Bony.

`Not at all!' said Mr Poulter, contemptuously. `Nothing o' the sort!... Heads up!' he added in a tone of stern

command, which delighted Tom and made him feel as if he were a regiment in his own person.

`No, no!' Mr Poulter would continue, on coming to a pause in his discipline. `They'd better not talk to me

about General Wolfe. He did nothing but die of his would; that's a poor haction, I consider. Any other man

'ud have died o'the wounds I've had... . One of my swordcuts 'ud ha'killed a fellow like General Wolfe.'

`Mr Poulter,' Tom would say, at any allusion to the sword, `I wish you'd bring your sword and do the

For a long while Mr Poulter only shook his head in a significant manner at this request, and smiled

patronisingly, as Jupiter may have done when Semele urged her too ambitious request. But one afternoon

when a sudden shower of heavy rain had detained Mr Poulter twenty minutes longer than usual at the Black

`And this is the real sword you fought with in all the battles, Mr Poulter?' said Tom, handling the hilt. `Has it

`But you had a gun and bayonet besides?' said Tom. `I should like the gun and bayonet best, because you

could shoot 'em first and spear 'em after. Bang! Pssss!' Tom gave the requisite pantomime to indicate the

`Ah, but the sword's the thing when you come to close fighting,' said Mr Poulter, involuntarily falling in with

Tom's enthusiasm, and drawing the sword so suddenly that Tom leaped back with much agility.

`O but, Mr Poulter, if you're going to do the exercise,' said Tom, a little conscious that he had not stood his

ground as became an Englishman, `let me go and call Philip. He'll like to see you, you know.'

`What! the humpbacked lad?' said Mr Poulter contemptuously. `What's the use of his looking on?'

`O but he knows a great deal about fighting,' said Tom, `and how they used to fight with bows and arrows

`Let him come then I'll show him something different from his bows and arrows,' said Mr Poulter,

coughing and drawing himself up, while he gave a little preliminary play to his wrist.

Tom ran in to Philip who was enjoying his afternoon's holiday at the piano in the drawingroom, picking out

tunes for himself and singing them. He was supremely happy perched like an amorphous bundle on the high

stool, with his head thrown back, his eyes fixed on the opposite cornice, and his lips wide open, sending

forth, with all his might, impromptu syllables to a tune of Arne's; which had hit his fancy.

`Come, Philip,' said Tom, bursting in. `Don't stay roaring la la there come and see old Poulter do his sword

The jar of this interruption the discord of Tom's tones coming across the notes to which Philip was

vibrating in soul and body, would have been enough to unhinge his temper, even if there had been no

question of Poulter the drillingmaster. And Tom, in the hurry of seizing something to say to prevent Mr

Poulter from thinking he was afraid of the sword when he sprang away from it, had alighted on this

proposition to fetch Philip though he knew well enough that Philip hated to hear him mention his

drillinglessons. Tom would never have done so inconsiderate a thing except under the severe stress of his

Philip shuddered visibly as he paused from his music. Then turning red, he said, with violent passion,

`Get away, you lumbering idiot! Don't come bellowing at me you're not fit to speak to anything but a cart

It was not the first time Philip had been made angry by him, but Tom had never before been assailed with

`I'm fit to speak to something better than you you poorspirited imp!' said Tom, lighting up immediately at

Philip's fire. `You know I won't hit you because you're no better than a girl. But I'm an honest man's son,

Tom flung out of the room, and slammed the door after him, made strangely heedless by his anger; for to

slam doors within the hearing of Mrs Stelling, who was probably not far off, was an offence only to be wiped

out by twenty lines of Virgil. In fact, that lady did presently descend from her room, in double wonder at the

noise and the subsequent cessation of Philip's music. She found him sitting in a heap on the hassock, and

Philip looked up and hastily dried his eyes. `It was Tulliver who came in... to ask me to go out with him.'

Philip was not her favourite of the two pupils: he was less obliging than Tom, who was made useful in many

ways. Still his father paid more than Mr Tulliver did, and she meant him to feel that she behaved exceedingly

well to him. Philip, however, met her advances towards a good understanding very much as a caressed

mollusc meets an invitation to show himself out of his shell. Mrs Stelling was not a loving, tenderhearted

woman: she was a woman whose skirt sat well, who adjusted her waist, and patted her curls with a

preoccupied air when she inquired after your welfare. These things, doubtless, represent a great social power,

but it is not power of love and no other power could win Philip from his personal reserve.

He said, in answer to her question, `My toothache came on and made me hysterical again.'

This had been the fact once, and Philip was glad of the recollection it was like an inspiration to enable him

to excuse his crying. He had to accept eaudecologne, and to refuse creosote in consequence, but that was

Meanwhile Tom, who had for the first time sent a poisoned arrow into Philip's heart, had returned to the

carriagehouse, where he found Mr Poulter with a fixed and earnest eye, wasting the perfections of his sword

exercise on probably observant but inappreciative rats. But Mr Poulter was a host in himself; that is to say, he

admired himself more than a whole army of spectators could have admired him. He took no notice of Tom's

return, being too entirely absorbed in the cut and thrust the solemn one, two, three, four and Tom, not

without a slight feeling of alarm at Mr Poulter's fixed eye and hungrylooking sword which seemed impatient

for something else to cut besides the air, admired the performance from as great a distance as possible. It was

not until Mr Poulter paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, that Tom felt the full charm of the

`Mr Poulter,' said Tom, when the sword was being finally sheathed, `I wish you'd lend me your sword a little

`No, no, young gentleman,' said Mr Poulter, shaking his head decidedly, `you might do yourself some

`No, I'm sure I wouldn't I'm sure I'd take care and not hurt myself. I shouldn't take it out of the sheath much,

`No, no, it won't do, I tell you, it won't do,' said Mr Poulter, preparing to depart. `What 'ud Mr Stelling say to

`O, I say, do, Mr Poulter! I'd give you my fiveshilling piece, if you'd let me keep the sword a week. Look

here!' said Tom, reaching out the attractively large round of silver. The young dog calculated the effect as

`Well,' said Mr Poulter, with still deeper gravity, `you must keep it out of sight, you know.'

`O yes, I'll keep it under the bed,' said Tom, eagerly, `or else at the bottom of my large box.'

`And let me see, now, whether you can draw it out of the sheath without hurting yourself.'

That process having been gone through more than once, Mr Poulter felt that he had acted with scrupulous

conscientiousness and said, `Well, now, Master Tulliver, if I take the crownpiece, it is to make sure as you'll

`O no, indeed, Mr Poulter,' said Tom delightedly handing him the crownpiece, and grasping the sword,

`O he always keeps in his upstairs study on Saturday afternoons,' said Tom, who disliked anything sneaking,

but was not disinclined to a little stratagem in a worthy cause. So he carried off the sword in triumph mixed

with dread dread that he might encounter Mr or Mrs Stelling to his bedroom, where, after some

consideration, he hid it in the closet behind some hanging clothes. That night he fell asleep in the thought that

he would astonish Maggie with it when she came tie it round his waist with his red comforter, and make her

believe that the sword was his own and that he was going to be a soldier. There was nobody but Maggie who

would be silly enough to believe him, or whom he dared allow to know that he had a sword. And Maggie was

really coming next week, to see Tom before she went to a boardingschool with Lucy.

If you think a lad of thirteen would not have been so childish, you must be an exceptionally wise man, who,

although you are devoted to a civil calling, requiring you to look bland rather than formidable, yet never,

since you had a beard, threw yourself into a martial attitude and frowned before the lookingglass. It is

doubtful whether our soldiers would be maintained if there were not pacific people at home who like to fancy

themselves soldiers. War, like other dramatic spectacles, might possibly cease for want of a `public.'

THIS last breach between the two lads was not readily mended and for some time they spoke to each other no

more than was necessary. Their natural antipathy of temperament made resentment an easy passage to hatred,

and in Philip the transition seemed to have begun: there was no malignity in his disposition, but there was a

susceptibility that made him peculiarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox we may venture to

assert it on the authority of a great classic is not given to use his teeth as an instrument of attack; and Tom

was an excellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in a truly ingenuous bovine manner; but he had

blundered on Philip's tenderest point, and had caused him as much acute pain as if he had studied the means

with the nicest precision and the most envenomed spite. Tom saw no reason why they should not make up

this quarrel as they had done many others, by behaving as if nothing had happened; for though he had never

before said to Philip that his father was a rogue, this idea had so habitually made part of his feeling as to the

relation between himself and his dubious schoolfellow, whom he could neither like nor dislike, that the mere

utterance did not make such an epoch to him as it did to Philip. And he had a right to say so, when Philip

hectored over him and called him names. But perceiving that his first advances towards amity were not met,

he relapsed into his least favourable disposition towards Philip, and resolved never to appeal to him either

about drawing or exercises again. They were only so far civil to each other as was necessary to prevent their

state of feud from being observed by Mr Stelling, who would have `put down' such nonsense with great

vigour. When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking with growing interest at the new

schoolfellow, although he was the son of that wicked Lawyer Wakem who made her father so angry. She

had arrived in the middle of school hours, and had sat by while Philip went through his lessons with Mr

Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her word that Philip knew no end of stories not stupid stories like

hers and she was convinced now from her own observation that he must be very clever: she hoped he

would think her rather clever too, when she came to talk to him. Maggie moreover had rather a tenderness for

deformed things; she preferred the wrynecked lambs, because it seemed to her that the lambs which were

quite strong and well made wouldn't mind so much about being petted, and she was especially fond of petting

objects that would think it very delightful to be petted by her. She loved Tom very dearly, but she often

`I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom,' she said, when they went out of the study together into the

garden, to pass the interval before dinner. `He couldn't choose his father, you know; and I've read of very bad

men who had good sons, as well as good parents who had bad children. And if Philip is good, I think we

ought to be the more sorry for him because his father is not a good man. You like him, don't you?'

`O, he's a queer fellow,' said Tom, curtly, `and he's as sulky as can be with me, because I told him his father

was a rogue. And I'd a right to tell him so, for it was true and he began it, with calling me names. But you

can stop here by yourself a bit, Magsie, will you? I've got something I want to do upstairs.'

`Can't I go too?' said Maggie, who, in this first day of meeting again, loved 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, preparing the morrow's lessons, that they might

have a holiday in the evening in honour of Maggie's arrival. Tom was hanging over his Latin grammar,

moving his lips inaudibly like a strict but impatient Catholic repeating his tale of paternosters, and Philip, at

the other end of the room, was busy with two volumes, with a look of contented diligence that excited

Maggie's curiosity: he did not look at all as if he were learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly right

angle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other, and Philip looking off his book once towards

the fireplace, caught the pair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He thought this sister of Tulliver's

seemed a nice little thing, quite unlike her brother: he wished he had a little sister. What was it, he wondered,

that made Maggie's dark eyes remind him of the stories about princesses being turned into animals?... I think

it was, that her eyes were full of unsatisfied intelligence and unsatisfied, beseeching affection.

`I say, Magsie,' said Tom at last, shutting his books and putting them away with the energy and decision of a

perfect master in the art of `leaving off,' `I've done my lessons now. Come upstairs with me.'

`What is it?' said Maggie when they were outside the door, a slight suspicion crossing her mind as she

remembered Tom's Preliminary visit upstairs. `It isn't trick you're going to play me, now?'

`No, no, Maggie,' said Tom, in his most coaxing tone. `It's something you'll like ever so.'

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

`I say, Magsie, you must not tell anybody, you know,' said Tom, `else I shall get fifty lines.'

`Is it alive?' said Maggie, whose imagination had settled for the moment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret

`O, I shan't tell you,' said he. `Now you go into that corner and hide your face while I reach it out,' he added

as he locked the bedroom door behind them. `I'll tell you when to turn round. You mustn't squeal out, you

`O, but if you frighten me, I shall,' said Maggie, beginning to look rather serious.

`You won't be frightened, you silly thing,' said Tom. `Go and hide your face and mind you don't peep.'

`Of course I shan't peep,' said Maggie, disdainfully: and she buried her face in the pillow like a person of

But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet; then he stepped into the narrow space, and almost

closed the door. Maggie kept her face buried without the aid of principle, for in that dreamsuggestive

attitude she had soon forgotten where she was, and her thoughts were busy with the poor deformed boy who

Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement of effects could have enabled Tom to present so

striking a figure as he did to Maggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied with the pacific aspect of a face which

had no more than the faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow, together with a pair of amiable bluegrey eyes and

round pink cheeks that refused to look formidable let him frown as he would before the lookingglass

(Philip had once told him of a man who had a horseshoe frown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning

might to make a horseshoe on his forehead) he had had recourse to that unfailing source of the terrible,

burnt cork, and had made himself a pair of black eyebrows that met in a satisfactory manner over his nose

and were matched by a less carefully adjusted blackness about the chin. He had wound a red handkerchief

round his cloth cap to give it the air of a turban, and his red comforter across his breast as a scarf an amount

of red which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and the decision with which he grasped the sword as

he held it with its point resting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximate idea of his fierce and

Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed that moment keenly; but in the next, she laughed,

clapped her hands together and said, `O Tom, You've made yourself like Bluebeard at the show.'

It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of the sword it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous

mind required a more direct appeal to its sense of the terrible, and Tom prepared for his masterstroke.

Frowning with a double amount of intention, if not of corrugation, he (carefully) drew the sword from its

`O Tom, please don't,' exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of suppressed dread, shrinking away from him into the

opposite corner, `I shall scream I'm sure I shall! O don't! I wish I'd never come upstairs!'

The corners of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a smile of complacency that was immediately checked

as inconsistent with the severity of a great warrior. Slowly he let down the scabbard on the floor, lest it

`I'm the Duke of Wellington! March!' stamping forward with the right leg a little bent, and the sword still

pointing towards Maggie, who, trembling, and with tearfilled eyes, got upon the bed, as the only means of

Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, even though the spectator was only Maggie,

proceeded with the utmost exertion of his force, to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as would

`Tom, I will not bear it I will scream,' said Maggie, at the first movement of the sword. `You'll hurt

`One two,' said Tom, resolutely, though at `two' his wrist trembled a little. `Three,' came more slowly, and

with it the sword swung downwards, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. The sword had fallen, with its edge on

Tom's foot, and in a moment after, he had fallen too. Maggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and

immediately there was a rush of footsteps towards the room. Mr Stelling, from his upstairs study, was the

first to enter. He found both the children on the floor. Tom had fainted and Maggie was shaking him by the

collar of his jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought he was dead, poor child! and yet she shook him as

if that would bring him back to life. In another minute she was sobbing with joy because Tom had opened his

eyes. She couldn't sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot it seemed as if all happiness lay in his being alive.

POOR Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute in not `telling' of Mr Poulter more than was

avoidable: the fiveshilling piece remained a secret event to Maggie. But there was a terrible dread weighing

on his mind so terrible that he dared not even ask the question which might bring the fatal `yes' he dared

not ask the surgeon or Mr Stelling `Shall I be lame, sir?' He mastered himself so as not to cry out at the pain,

but when his foot had been dressed, and he was left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside, the children

sobbed together with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom was thinking of himself walking about on

crutches, like the wheelwright's son, and Maggie, who did not guess what was in his mind, sobbed for

company. It had not occurred to the surgeon or to Mr Stelling to anticipate this dread in Tom's mind and to

reassure him by hopeful words. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house and waylaid Mr Stelling to

ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask for himself. `I beg your pardon, sir but does Mr Askern

`Yes, to be sure: now you mention it, I daresay he may be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be

It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of the accident `Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard

for him if he is' and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offences were washed out by that pity. Philip felt that they

were no longer in a state of repulsion but were being drawn into a common current of suffering and sad

privation. His imagination did not dwell on the outward calamity and its future effect on Tom's life, but it

made vividly present to him the probable state of Tom's feeling: he had only lived fourteen years, but those

`Mr Askern says you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did you Know?' he said, rather timidly, as he stepped

gently up to Tom's bed. `I've just been to ask Mr Stelling, and he says you'll walk as well as ever again, by

Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath which comes with a sudden joy; then he gave a

long sigh, and turned his bluegrey eyes straight on Philip's face as he had not done for a fortnight or more.

As for Maggie, this intimation of a possibility she had not thought of before affected her as a new trouble: the

bare idea of Tom's being always lame overpowered the assurance that such a misfortune was not likely to

`Don't be a little silly, Magsie,' said Tom, tenderly, feeling very brave now. `I shall soon get well.'

`Goodby, Tulliver,' said Philip, putting out his small, delicate hand, which Tom clasped immediately with his

`I say,' said Tom `ask Mr Stelling to let you come and sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem

After that, Philip spent all his time out of schoolhours with Tom and Maggie. Tom liked to hear fighting

stories as much as ever, but he insisted strongly on the fact that those great fighters who did so many

wonderful things and came off unhurt, wore excellent armour from head to foot which made fighting easy

work, he considered. He should not have hurt his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened with great

interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a very bad wound in his foot, and cried out so

dreadfully with the pain, that his friends could bear with him no longer, but put him ashore on a desert island,

`I didn't roar out a bit, you know,' Tom said, `and I daresay my foot was as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar.'

But Maggie would have it that when anything hurt you very much it was quite permissible to cry out, and it

was cruel of people not to bear it. She wanted to know if Philoctetes had a sister, and why she didn't go with

One day, soon after Philip had told this story, he and Maggie were in the study alone together while Tom's

foot was being dressed. Philip was at his books, and Maggie, after sauntering idly round the room, not caring

to do anything in particular, because she would soon go to Tom again, went and leaned on the table near

Philip to see what he was doing, for they were quite old friends now and perfectly at home with each other.

`What are you reading about in Greek?' she said. `It's poetry I can see that, because the lines are so short.'

`It's about Philoctetes the lame man, I was telling you of yesterday,' he answered, resting his head on his

hand and looking at her, as if he were not at all sorry to be interrupted. Maggie, in her absent way, continued

to lean forward, resting on her arms and moving her feet about, while her dark eyes got more and more fixed

`Maggie,' said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on his elbow and looking at her, `if you had had a

Maggie started a little on being roused for her reverie, and said, `What?' Philip repeated his question.

`O yes, better,' she answered, immediately. `No, not better: because I don't think I could love you better than

Philip coloured: he had meant to imply, would she love him as well in spite of his deformity, and yet when

she alluded to it so plainly, he winced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake. Hitherto

she had instinctively behaved as if she were quite unconscious of Philip's deformity: her own keen

sensitiveness and experience under family criticism sufficed to teach her this, as well as if she had been

`But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing,' she added, quickly, `I wish you were my

brother I'm very fond of you, and you would stay at home with me when Tom went out, and you would

`But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie,' said Philip, `and then you'll forget all about me and not

care for me any more. And then I shall see you when you're grown up, and you'll hardly take any notice of

`O no, I shan't forget you, I'm sure,' said Maggie, shaking her head very seriously. `I never forget anything,

and I think about everybody when I'm away from them. I think about poor Yap he's got a lump in his

throat, and Luke says he'll die. Only don't you tell Tom, because it will vex him so. You never saw Yap: he's

`Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?' said Philip, smiling rather sadly.

`I'am very fond of you, Maggie; I shall never forget you,' said Philip, `and when I'm very unhappy, I shall

`Why do you like my eyes?' said Maggie, well pleased. She had never heard any one but her father speak of

`I don't know,' said Philip. `They're not like any other eyes. They seem trying to speak trying to speak

kindly. I don't like other people to look at me much, but I like you to look at me, Maggie.'

`Why, I think you're fonder of me than Tom is,' said Maggie, rather sorrowfully. Then, wondering how she

could convince Philip that she could like him just as well, although he was crooked, she said,

`There now,' she said, `I shall always remember you, and kiss you when I see you again, if it's ever so long.

When their father came the second time, Maggie said to him, `O father, Philip Wakem is so very good to

Tom he is such a clever boy, and I do love him. And you love him too, Tom, don't you? Say you love him,'

Tom coloured a little as he looked at his father and said, `I shan't be friends with him when I leave school,

father; but we've made it up now, since my foot has been bad, and he's taught me to play at draughts, and I

`Well, Well,' said Mr Tulliver, `if he's good to you, try and make him amends and be good to him. He's a poor

crooked creatur and takes after his dead mother. But don't you be getting too thick with him he's got his

father's blood in him too. Ay, ay, the grey colt may chance to kick like his black sire.'

The jarring natures of the two boys effected what Mr Tulliver's admonition alone might have failed to effect:

in spite of Philip's new kindness and Tom's answering regard in this time of his trouble they never became

close friends. When Maggie was gone, and when Tom by and by began to walk about as usual, the friendly

warmth that had been kindled by pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left them in their old relation to

each other. Philip was often peevish and contemptuous: and Tom's more specific and kindly impressions

gradually melted into the old background of suspicion and dislike towards him as a queer fellow, a

humpback, and the son of a rogue. If boys and men are to be welded together in the glow of transient feeling,

they must be made of metal that will mix: else they inevitably fall asunder when the heat dies out.

SO Tom went on even to the fifth half year till he was turned sixteen at King's Lorton, while Maggie was

growing, with a rapidity which her aunts considered highly reprehensible, at Miss Firniss's boarding school in

the ancient town of Laceham on the Floss, with cousin Lucy for her companion. In her early letters to Tom

she had always sent her love to Philip and asked many questions about him which were answered by brief

sentences about Tom's toothache, and a turfhouse which he was helping to build in the garden, with other

items of that kind. She was pained to hear Tom say in the holidays that Philip was as queer as ever again, and

often cross: they were no longer very good friends, she perceived, and when she reminded Tom that he ought

always to love Philip for being so good to him when his foot was bad, he answered, `Well, it isn't my fault: I

don't do anything to him.' She hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder of their school life: in the

Midsummer holidays he was always away at the seaside, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long

intervals in the streets of St Ogg's. When they did meet, she remembered her promise to kiss him, but, as a

young lady who had been at a boardingschool, she knew now that such a greeting was out of the question,

and Philip would not expect it. The promise was void like so many other sweet, illusory promises of our

childhood: void as promises made in Eden before the seasons were divided, and when the starry blossoms

grew side by side with the ripening peach impossible to be fulfilled when the golden gates had been passed.

But when their father was actually engaged in the longthreatened lawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once

of Pivart and Old Harry, was acting against him, even Maggie felt, with some sadness, that they were not

likely ever to have any intimacy with Philip again: the very name of Wakem made her father angry, and she

had once heard him say that if that crookbacked son lived to inherit his father's illgotten gains, there would

be a curse upon him. `Have as little to do with him at school as you can, my lad,' he said to Tom; and the

command was obeyed the more easily because Mr Stelling by this time had two additional pupils; for though

this gentleman's rise in the world was not of that meteorlike rapidity which the admirers of his

extemporaneous eloquence had expected for a preacher whose voice demanded so wide a sphere, he had yet

enough of growing prosperity to enable him to increase his expenditure in continued disproportion to his

As for Tom's school course, it went on with milllike monotony, his mind continuing to move with a slow,

halfstifled pulse in a medium of uninteresting or unintelligible ideas. But each vacation he brought home

larger and larger drawings with the satiny rendering of landscape and watercolours in vivid greens, together

with manuscript books full of exercises and problems, in which the handwriting was all the finer because he

gave his whole mind to it. Each vacation he brought home a new book or two, indicating his progress through

different stages of history, Christian doctrine, and Latin literature; and that passage was not entirely without

result besides the possession of the books. Tom's ear and tongue had become accustomed to a great many

words and phrases which are understood to be signs of an educated condition, and though he had never really

applied his mind to any one of his lessons, the lessons had left a deposit of vague, fragmentary ineffectual

notions. Mr Tulliver, seeing signs of acquirement beyond the reach of his own criticism, thought it was

probably all right with Tom's education: he observed, indeed, that there were no maps, and not enough

`summing,' but he made no formal complaint to Mr Stelling. It was a puzzling business, this schooling; and if

By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's Lorton, the years had made striking changes in him

since the day we saw him returning from Mr Jacobs' Academy. He was a tall youth now, carrying himself

without the least awkwardness, and speaking without more shyness than was a becoming symptom of

blended diffidence and pride: he wore his tailed coat and his standup collars, and watched the down on his

lip with eager impatience looking every day at his virgin razor, with which he had provided himself in the last

holidays. Philip had already left at the Autumn quarter that he might go to the South for the winter, for

the sake of his health; and this change helped to give Tom the unsettled, exulting feeling that usually belongs

to the last months before leaving school. This quarter too, there was some hope of his father's lawsuit being

decided: that made the prospect of home more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who had gathered his view of

the case from his father's conversation, had no doubt that Pivart would be beaten.

Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks a fact which did not surprise him, for his father

and mother were not apt to manifest their affection in unnecessary letters when to his great surprise on the

morning of a dark cold day near the end of November, he was told, soon after entering the study at nine

o'clock, that his sister was in the drawingroom. It was Mrs Stelling who had come into the study to tell him,

Maggie too was tall now, with braided and coiled hair: she was almost as tall as Tom, though she was only

thirteen; and she really looked older than he did at that moment. She had thrown off her bonnet, her heavy

braids were pushed back from her forehead as if it would not bear that extra load, and her young face had a

strangely worn look as her eyes turned anxiously towards the door. When Tom entered, she did not speak, but

only went up to him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various moods of

`Why, how is it you're come so early this cold morning, Maggie? Did you come in the gig?' said Tom, as she

`Father wanted me at home,' said Maggie, with a slight trembling of the lip. `I came home three or four days

`Not quite,' said Maggie. `He's very unhappy, Tom. The lawsuit is ended, and I came to tell you, because I

thought it would be better for you to know it before you came home, and I didn't like only to send you a

`My father hasn't lost?' said Tom, hastily, springing from the sofa, and standing before Maggie with his hands

`Well, it can't be helped,' said Tom, bravely, not translating the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible

results. `But my father's very much vexed, I dare say?' he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking that her

`Yes,' said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller speech by Tom's freedom from apprehension, she said

loudly and rapidly, as if the words would burst from her, `O Tom, he will lose the mill and the land, and

Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her before he turned pale and trembled visibly. He said

nothing, but sat down on the sofa again, looking vaguely out of the opposite window.

Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. His father had always ridden a good horse, kept a

good house, and had the cheerful, confident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall back upon. Tom

had never dreamed that his father would `fail:' that was a form of misfortune which he had always heard

spoken of as a deep disgrace, and disgrace was an idea that he could not associate with any of his relations,

least of all with his father. A proud sense of family respectability was part of the very air Tom had been born

and brought up in. He knew there were people in St Ogg's who made a show without money to support it, and

he had always heard such people spoken of by his own friends with contempt and reprobation: he had a

strong belief, which was a lifelong habit, and required no definite evidence to rest on, that his father could

spend a great deal of money if he chose; and since his education at Mr Stelling's had given him a more

expensive view of life, he had often thought that when he got older he would make a figure in the world, with

his horse and dogs and saddle, and other accoutrements of a fine young man, and show himself equal to any

of his contemporaries at St Ogg's, who might consider themselves a grade above him in society, because their

fathers were professional men or had large oilmills. As to the prognostics and headshaking of his aunts and

uncles, they had never produced the least effect on him except to make him think that aunts and uncles were

disagreeable society: he had heard them find fault in much the same way as along as he could remember. His

The down had come on Tom's lip, yet his thoughts and expectations had been hitherto only the reproduction

in changed forms of the boyish dreams in which he had lived three years ago. He was awakened now with a

Maggie was frightened at Tom's pale, trembling silence. There was something else to tell him something

Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kisses, and there gathered a moisture in his eyes,

which he just rubbed away with his hand. The action seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself and said, `I

`No, Tom, father didn't wish it,' said Maggie, her anxiety about his feeling helping her to master her agitation:

What would he do when she told him all? `But mother wants you to come poor mother she cries so. O

Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost as Tom had done. The two poor things clung

closer to each other both trembling the one at an unshapen fear, the other at the image of a terrible

Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison as a

`He's at home,' said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to that question. `But,' she added, after a pause, `not

himself... . He fell off his horse... . He has known nobody but me ever since... . He seems to have lost his

With these last words Maggie's sobs burst forth with the more violence for the previous struggle against

them. Tom felt that pressure of the heart which forbids tears: he had no distinct vision of their troubles as

Maggie had, who had been at home: he only felt the crushing weight of what seemed unmitigated misfortune.

He tightened his arm almost convulsively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his face looked rigid and tearless

But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly: a single thought had acted on her like a startling sound.

`We must set out, Tom we must not stay father will miss me we must be at the turnpike at ten to meet

the coach.' She said this with hasty decision, rubbing her eyes, and rising to seize her bonnet.

Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. `Wait a minute, Maggie,' he said. `I must speak to Mr

He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were, but on his way he met Mr Stelling, who had heard

from his wife that Maggie appeared to be in trouble when she asked for her brother, and, now that he thought

the brother and sister had been alone long enough, was coming to inquire and offer his sympathy.

`Please, sir, I must go home,' Tom said abruptly, as he met Mr Stelling in the passage. `I must go back with

my sister directly. My father's lost his lawsuit he's lost all his property and he's very ill.'

Mr Stelling felt like a kindhearted man: he foresaw a probable money loss for himself, but this had no

appreciable share in his feeling while he looked with grave pity at the brother and sister for whom youth and

sorrow had begun together. When he knew how Maggie had come and how eager she was to get home again,

he hurried their departure, only whispering something to Mrs Stelling, who had followed him, and who

Tom and Maggie were standing on the doorstep, ready to set out, when Mrs Stelling came with a little

basket, which she hung on Maggie's arm, saying, `Do remember to eat something on the way, dear.' Maggie's

heart went out towards this woman whom she had never liked, and she kissed her silently. It was the first sign

within the poor child of that new sense which is the gift of sorrow that susceptibility to the bare offices of

humanity which raises them into a bond of loving fellowship, as to haggard men among the icebergs the mere

Mr Stelling put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said, `God bless you, my boy: let me know how you get on.'

Then he pressed Maggie's hand; but there were no audible goodbys. Tom had so often thought how joyful

he should be the day he left school `for good!' And now his school years seemed like a holiday that had come

The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on the distant road were soon lost behind the

They had gone forth together into their new life of sorrow, and they would never more see the sunshine

undimmed by remembered cares. They had entered the thorny wilderness, and the golden gates of their

WHEN Mr Tulliver first knew the fact that the lawsuit was decided against him and that Pivart and Wakem

were triumphant, every one who happened to observe him at the time thought that for so confident and

hottempered a man he bore the blow remarkably well. He thought so himself: he thought he was going to

show that if Wakem or anybody else considered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. He could

not refuse to see that the costs of this protracted suit would take more than he possessed to pay them, but he

appeared to himself to be full of expedients by which he could ward off any results but such as were

tolerable, and could avoid the appearance of breaking down in the world. All the obstinacy and defiance of

his nature, driven out of their old channel, found a vent for themselves in the immediate formation of plans by

which he would meet his difficulties and remain Mr Tulliver of Dorlcote Mill in spite of them. There was

such a rush of projects in his brain, that it was no wonder his face was flushed when he came away from his

talk with his attorney, Mr Gore, and mounted his horse to ride home from Lindum. There was Furley, who

held the mortgage on the land a reasonable fellow who would see his own interest, Mr Tulliver was

convinced, and who would be glad not only to purchase the whole estate including the mill and homestead,

but would accept Mr Tulliver as tenant, and be willing to advance money to be repaid with high interest out

of the profits of the business which would be made over to him, Mr Tulliver only taking enough barely to

maintain himself and his family. Who would neglect such a profitable investment? Certainly not Furley, for

Mr Tulliver had determined that Furley should meet his plans with the utmost alacrity; and there are men

whose brains have not yet been dangerously heated by the loss of a lawsuit who are apt to see in their own

interest or desires a motive for other men's actions. There was no doubt (in the miller's mind) that Furley

would do just what was desirable; and if he did why, things would not be so very much worse. Mr Tulliver

and his family must live more meagrely and humbly, but it would only be till the profits of the business had

paid off Furley's advances, and that might be while Mr Tulliver had still a good many years of life before

him. It was clear that the costs of the suit could be paid without his being obliged to turn out of his old place

and look like a ruined man. It was certainly an awkward moment in his affairs. There was that suretyship for

poor Riley, who had died suddenly last April, and left his friend saddled with a debt of two hundred and fifty

pounds: a fact which had helped to make Mr Tulliver's banking book less pleasant reading than a man might

desire towards Christmas. Well! he had never been one of those poorspirited sneaks who would refuse to

give a helping hand to a fellowtraveller in this puzzling world. The really vexatious business was the fact

that some months ago the creditor who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay Mrs Glegg, had

become uneasy about his money (set on by Wakem, of course), and Mr Tulliver, still confident that he should

gain his suit, and finding it eminently inconvenient to raise the said sum until that desirable issue had taken

place, had rashly acceded to the demand that he should give a bill of sale on his household furniture and

some other effects as security in lieu of the bond. It was all one, he had said to himself: he should soon pay

off the money, and there was no harm in giving that security any more than another. But now the

consequences of this bill of sale occurred to him in a new light, and he remembered that the term was close at

hand when it would be enforced unless the money were repaid. Two months ago he would have declared

stoutly that he would never be beholding to his wife's friends; but now he told himself as stoutly, that it was

nothing but right and natural that Bessy should go to the Pullets and explain the thing to them: they would

hardly let Bessy's furniture be sold, and it might be security to Pullet, if he advanced the money: there would,

after all, be no gift or favour in the matter. Mr Tulliver would never have asked for anything from so

poorspirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do so if she liked. It is precisely the proudest and most

obstinate men who are the most liable to shift their position and contradict themselves in this sudden manner:

everything is easier to them than to face the simple fact, that they have been thoroughly defeated and must

begin life anew. And Mr Tulliver, you perceive, though nothing more than a superior miller and maltster, was

as proud and obstinate as if he had been a very lofty personage, in whom such dispositions might be a source

of that conspicuous, farechoing tragedy which sweeps the stage in regal robes, and makes the dullest

chronicler sublime. The pride and obstinacy of millers and other insignificant people, whom you pass

unnoticingly on the road every day, have their tragedy too, but it is of that unwept, hidden sort, that goes on

from generation to generation and leaves no record such tragedy, perhaps, as lies in the conflicts of young

souls, hungry for joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, under the dreariness of a home where the

morning brings no promise with it, and where the unexpectant discontent of worn and disappointed parents

weighs on the children like a damp, thick air in which all the functions of life are depressed; or such tragedy

as lies in the slow or sudden death that follows on a bruised passion, though it may be a death that finds only

a parish funeral. There are certain animals to which tenacity of position is a law of life they can never

flourish again after a single wrench: and there are certain human beings to whom predominance is a law of

life and who can only sustain humiliation so long as they can refuse to believe in it, and, in their own

Mr Tulliver was still predominating in his own imagination as he approached St Ogg's, through which he had

to pass on his way homeward. But what was it that suggested to him as he saw the Laceham coach entering

the town, to follow it to the coach office, and get the clerk there to write a letter requiring Maggie to come

home the very next day? Mr Tulliver's own hand shook too much under his excitement for him to write

himself, and he wanted the letter to be given to the coachman to deliver at Miss Firniss's school in the

morning. There was a craving which he would not account for to himself, to have Maggie near him without

To Mrs Tulliver when he got home, he would admit no difficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on

hearing that the lawsuit was lost, by angry assertions that there was nothing to grieve about. He said nothing

to her that night about the bill of sale, and the application to Mrs Pullet, for he had kept her in ignorance of

the nature of that transaction and had explained the necessity for taking an inventory of the goods as a matter

connected with his Will. The possession of a wife conspicuously one's inferior in intellect, is, like other high

privileges, attended with a few inconveniences, and among the rest with the occasional necessity for using a

The next day Mr Tulliver was again on horseback in the afternoon, on his way to Mr Gore's office at St

Ogg's. Gore was to have seen Furley in the morning, and to have sounded him in relation to Mr Tulliver's

affairs. But he had not gone halfway when he met a clerk from Mr Gore's office, who was bringing a letter to

Mr Tulliver. Mr Gore had been prevented by a sudden call of business from waiting at his office to see Mr

Tulliver according to appointment, but would be at his office at eleven tomorrow morning, and meanwhile

`O!' said Mr Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening it. `Then tell Gore I'll see him tomorrow at eleven.'

The clerk, struck with Mr Tulliver's glistening excited glance, looked after him for a few moments, and then

rode away. The reading of a letter was not the affair of an instant to Mr Tulliver: he took in the sense of a

statement very slowly through the medium of written or even printed characters; so he had put the letter in his

pocket, thinking he would open it in his armchair at home. But by and by it occurred to him that there might

be something in the letter Mrs Tulliver must not know about, and if so, it would be better to keep it out of her

sight altogether. He stopped his horse, took out the letter and read it. It was only a short letter: the substance

was, that Mr Gore had ascertained on secret but sure authority that Furley had been lately much straitened for

money, and had parted with his securities, among the rest, the mortgage on Mr Tulliver's property, which he

In half an hour after this, Mr Tulliver's own waggoner found him lying by the roadside insensible, with an

When Maggie reached home that evening in obedience to her father's call, he was no longer insensible. About

an hour before, he had become conscious, and after vague, vacant looks around him, had muttered something

about `a letter,' which he presently repeated impatiently. At the instance of Mr Turnbull, the medical man,

Gore's letter was brought and laid on the bed, and the previous impatience seemed to be allayed. The stricken

man lay for some time with his eyes fixed on the letter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help.

But presently a new wave of memory seemed to have come and swept the other away: he turned his eyes

from the letter to the door and after looking uneasily, as if striving to see something his eyes were too dim

He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, appearing entirely unconscious of everything except

this one importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or any one else, and poor Mrs Tulliver,

her feeble faculties almost paralysed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, went backwards and forwards

to the gate to see if the Laceham coach were coming, though it was not yet time.

But it came at last and set down the poor anxious girl, no longer the `little wench' except to her father's fond

`O mother, what is the matter?' Maggie said, with pale lips, as her mother came towards her crying. She didn't

think her father was ill, because the letter had come at his dictation from the office at St Ogg's.

But Mr Turnbull came now to meet her: a medical man is the good angel of the troubled house, and Maggie

ran towards the kind old friend whom she remembered as long as she could remember anything, with a

`Don't alarm yourself too much, my dear,' he said, taking her hand. `Your father has had a sudden attack, and

has not quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for you, and it will do him good to see you. Keep

Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which makes existence seem simply a painful

pulsation. The very quietness with which Mr Turnbull spoke, had frightened her susceptible imagination. Her

father's eyes were still turned uneasily towards the door when she entered and met the strange, yearning,

helpless look that had been seeking her in vain. With a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the

Poor child! it was very early for her to know one of those supreme moments in life when all we have hoped

or delighted in, all we can dread or endure, falls away from our regard as insignificant, is lost, like a trivial

memory, in that simple, primitive love which knits us to the beings who have been nearest to us, in their

But that flash of recognition had been too great a strain on the father's bruised, enfeebled powers. He sank

back again in renewed insensibility and rigidity which lasted for many hours, and was only broken by

flickering returns of consciousness, in which he took passively everything that was given to him and seemed

to have a sort of infantine satisfaction in Maggie's near presence such satisfaction as a baby has when it is

Mrs Tulliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wailing and lifting up of hands below stairs: both uncles

and aunts saw that the ruin of Bessy and her family was as complete as they had ever foreboded it, and there

was a general family sense that a judgment had fallen on Mr Tulliver, which it would be an impiety to

counteract by too much kindness. But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely ever leaving her father's bedside,

where she sat opposite him with her hand on his. Mrs Tulliver wanted to have Tom fetched home, and

seemed to be thinking more of her boy even than of her husband; but the aunts and uncles opposed this

Tom was better at school, since Mr Turnbull said there was no immediate danger, he believed. But at the end

of the second day, when Maggie had become more accustomed to her father's fits of insensibility, and to the

expectation that he would revive from them, the thought of Tom had become urgent with her too, and when

her mother sate crying at night and saying, `My poor lad... it's nothing but right he should come home,'

Maggie said, `Let me go for him, and tell him, mother: I'll go tomorrow morning if father doesn't know me

and want me. It would be so hard for Tom to come home and not know anything about it beforehand.'

And the next morning Maggie went, as we have seen. Sitting on the coach on their way home, the brother and

`They say Mr Wakem has got a mortgage or something on the land, Tom,' said Maggie. `It was the letter with

`I believe that scoundrel's been planning all along to ruin my father,' said Tom, leaping from the vaguest

impressions to a definite conclusion. `I'll make him feel for it when I'm a man. Mind you never speak to

`O Tom!' said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance; but she had no spirit to dispute anything then, still less

WHEN the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five hours since she had started from home, and she was

thinking with some trembling that her father had perhaps missed her and asked for `the little wench' in vain.

She thought of no other change that might have happened. She hurried along the gravel walk and entered the

house before Tom, but in the entrance she was startled by a strong smell of tobacco. The parlour door was

ajar that was where the smell came from. It was very strange: could any visitor be smoking at a time like

this? Was her mother there? If so, she must be told that Tom was come. Maggie, after this pause of surprise

was only in the act of opening the door when Tom came up and they both looked in the parlour together.

There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose face Tom had some vague recollection, sitting in his father's chair,

The truth flashed on Tom's mind in an instant. To `have the bailiff in the house,' and `to be sold up,' were

phrases which he had been used to, even as a little boy: they were part of the disgrace and misery of `failing,'

of losing all one's money and being ruined sinking into the condition of poor working people. It seemed

only natural this should happen since his father had lost all his property, and he thought of no more special

cause for this particular form of misfortune than the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate presence of this

disgrace was so much keener an experience to Tom than the worst form of apprehension, that he felt at this

moment as if his real trouble had only just begun: it was a touch on the irritated nerve compared with its

`How do you do, sir?' said the man, taking the pipe out of his mouth with rough, embarrassed civility. The

But Tom turned away hastily without speaking: the sight was too hateful. Maggie had not understood the

appearance of this stranger, as Tom had: she followed him, whispering `Who can it be, Tom? What is the

matter?' Then with a sudden undefined dread lest this stranger might have something to do with a change in

her father, she rushed upstairs, checking herself at the bedroom door to throw off her bonnet, and enter on

tiptoe. All was silent there: her father was lying, heedless of everything around him, with his eyes closed as

Maggie hastened out, and said to Tom, `Father is lying quiet: let us go and look for my mother; I wonder

Mrs Tulliver was not downstairs not in any of the bedrooms. There was but one room below the attic which

Maggie had left unsearched: it was the storeroom where her mother kept all her linen and all the precious

`best things' that were only unwrapped and brought out on special occasions. Tom, preceding Maggie as they

returned along the passage, opened the door of this room and immediately said, `Mother!'

Mrs Tulliver was seated there with all her laidup treasures. One of the linenchests was open: the silver

teapot was unwrapped from its many folds of paper, and the best china was laid out on the top of the closed

linenchest; spoons and skewers and ladles were spread in rows on the shelves; and the poor woman was

shaking her head and weeping with a bitter tension of the mouth, over the mark `Elizabeth Dodson' on the

`O my boy, my boy,' she said, clasping him round the neck. `To think as I should live to see this day! We're

ruined... everything's going to be sold up... to think as your father should ha' married me to bring me to this!

She kissed him, then seated herself again, and took another table cloth on her lap, unfolding it a little way to

look at the pattern, while the children stood by in mute wretchedness their minds quite filled for the

`To think o' these cloths as I spun myself,' she went on, lifting things out and turning them over with an

excitement all the more strange and piteous because the stout lymphatic woman was usually so passive: if

she had been ruffled before, it was at the surface merely `and Job Haxey wove 'em, and brought the piece

home on his back, as I remember standing at the door and seeing him come, before I ever thought o' marrying

your father! And the pattern as I chose myself and bleached so beautiful and I marked 'em so as nobody

ever saw such marking they must cut the cloth to get it out, for it's a particular stitch. And they're all to be

sold and go into strange people's houses, and perhaps be cut with the knives, and wore out before I'm dead.

You'll never have one of 'em, my boy,' she said, looking up at Tom with her eyes full of tears, `and I meant

'em for you. I wanted you to have all o' this pattern. Maggie could ha' had the large check it never shows so

Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry reaction immediately. His face flushed as he said.

`But will my aunts let them be sold, mother? Do they know about it? They'll never let your linen go, will

`Yes, I sent Luke directly they'd put the bailies in, and your aunt Pullet's been and O dear, O dear, she cries

so, and says your father's disgraced my family and made it the talk o' the country: and she'll buy the spotted

cloths for herself because she's never has so many as she wanted o'that pattern, and they shan't go to

strangers, but she's got more checks a'ready nor she can do with.' (Here Mrs Tulliver began to lay back the

table cloths in the chest, folding and stroking them automatically.) `And your uncle Glegg's been too, and he

says things must be bought in for us to lie down on, but he must talk to your aunt; and they're all coming to

consult... . But I know they'll none of 'em take my chany' she added, turning towards the cups and saucers

`for they all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'cause o' the small gold sprig all over 'em, between the

flowers. But there's none of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt Pullet herself, and I bought it wi' my

own money as I'd saved ever since I was turned fifteen, and the silver teapot, too your father never paid

Mrs Tulliver burst out crying afresh, and she sobbed with her handkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but

then removing it, she said in a deprecating way, still half sobbing as if she were called upon to speak before

`And I did say to him times and times, `Whativer you do, don't go to law' and what more could I do? I've

had to sit by while my own fortin's been spent, and what should ha' been my children's too. You'll have niver

She put out one arm towards Tom, looking up at him piteously with her helpless, childish blue eyes. The poor

lad went to her and kissed her and she clung to him. For the first time Tom thought of his father with some

reproach. His natural inclination to blame, hitherto kept entirely in abeyance towards his father by the

predisposition to think him always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom Tulliver's father was turned

into this new channel by his mother's plaints, and with his indignation against Wakem there began to mingle

some indignation of another sort. Perhaps his father might have helped bringing them all down in the world,

and making people talk of them with contempt: but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver with contempt.

The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning to assert itself, urged by the double stimulus of

resentment against his aunts, and the sense that he must behave like a man and take care of his mother.

`Don't fret, mother,' he said, tenderly. `I shall soon be able to get money: I'll get a situation of some sort.'

`Bless you, my boy!' said Mrs Tulliver, a little soothed. Then, looking round sadly, `But I shouldn't ha'

Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering anger. The implied reproaches against her father her father

who was lying there in a sort of living death, neutralised all her pity for griefs about table cloths and china,

and her anger on her father's account was heightened by some egoistic resentment at Tom's silent concurrence

with her mother in shutting her out from the common calamity. She had become almost indifferent to her

mother's habitual depreciation of her, but she was keenly alive to any sanction of it, however passive, that she

might suspect in Tom. Poor Maggie was by no means made up of unalloyed devotedness, but put forth large

claims for herself where she loved strongly. She burst out, at last, in an agitated, almost violent tone, `Mother,

how can you talk so? As if you cared only for things with your name on, and not for what has my father's

name too. And to care about anything but dear father himself! when he's lying there and may never speak to

us again. Tom, you ought to say so too you ought not to let any one find fault with my father.'

Maggie, almost chocked with mingled grief and anger, left the room, and took her old place on her father's

bed. Her heart went out to him with a stronger movement than ever at the thought that people would blame

him. Maggie hated blame: she had been blamed all her life, and nothing had come of it but evil tempers. Her

father had always defended and excused her, and her loving remembrance of his tenderness was a force

Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst telling him as well as his mother what it was right to do! She

ought to have learned better than have those hectoring, assuming manners by this time. But he presently went

into his father's room and the sight there touched him in a way that effaced the slighter impressions of the

previous hour. When Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her arm round his neck as he

sat by the bed, and the two children forgot everything else in the sense that they had one father and one

IT was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts and uncles came to hold their consultation. The fire

was lighted in the large parlour, and poor Mrs Tulliver, with a confused impression that it was a great

occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bellrope tassels and unpinned the curtains, adjusting them in proper

folds looking round and shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, which sister

Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient brightness. Mr Deane was not coming he was away on

business; but Mrs Deane appeared punctually in that handsome new gig with the head to it and the livery

servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character to some of her female

friends in St Ogg's. Mr Deane had been advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr Tulliver had been going

down in it, and in Mrs Deane's house, the Dodson linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate

position as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the same kind, purchased in recent years: a change

which had caused an occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs Glegg, who felt that

Susan was getting `like the rest,' and there would soon be little of the true Dodson spirit surviving except in

herself, and it might be hoped, in those nephews who supported the Dodson name on the family land far away

in the Wolds. People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own

eyes; and it seems superfluous, when we consider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians and how

very little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why Homer calls them `blameless.'

Mrs Deane was the first to arrive, and when she had taken her seat in the large parlour, Mrs Tulliver came

down to her with her comely face a little distorted nearly as it would have been if she had been crying: she

was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except in moments when the prospect of losing her

furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm under present

`O sister, what a world this is!' she exclaimed as she entered. `What trouble, O dear!'

Mrs Deane was a thinlipped woman who made small wellconsidered speeches on peculiar occasions,

repeating them afterwards to her husband and asking him if she had not spoken very properly.

`Yes, sister,' she said deliberately, `this is a changing world, and we don't know today what may happen

tomorrow. But it's right to be prepared for all things, and if trouble's sent, to remember as it isn't sent without

a cause. I'm very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for Mr Tulliver, I hope you'll let me

know: I'll send it willingly. For it is but right he should have proper attendance while he's ill.'

`Thank you, Susan,' said Mrs Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawing her fat hand from her sister's thin one. `But

there's been no talk o' jelly yet.' Then after a moment's pause, she added, `There's a dozen o' cut jellyglasses

Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr

and Mrs Glegg were come and were almost immediately followed by Mr and Mrs Pullet.

Mrs Pullet entered crying, as a compendious mode, at all times, of expressing what were her views of life in

general, and what, in brief, were the opinions she held concerning the particular case before her.

Mrs Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which appeared to have had a recent resurrection from

rather a creasy form of burial: a costume selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfect humility

`Mrs G., won't you come nearer the fire?' said her husband, unwilling to take the more comfortable seat

`You see I've seated myself here, Mr Glegg,' returned this superior woman, `you can roast yourself, if you

`Well,' said Mr Glegg, seating himself goodhumouredly, `and how's the poor man upstairs?'

`Dr Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning,' said Mrs Tulliver; `he took more notice, and spoke to

me but he's never known Tom yet looks at the poor lad as if he was a stranger, though he said something

once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says his memory's gone a long way back, and he doesn't know

`I doubt it's the water got on his brain,' said aunt Pullet, turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy

way at the pierglass. `It's much if he ever gets up again, and if he does he'll most like be childish, as Mr Carr

was, poor man! They fed him with a spoon as if he'd been a babby for three year. He'd quite lost the use of his

limbs; but then, he'd got a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him; and that's what you won't have, I doubt,

`Sister Pullet,' said Mrs Glegg, severely, `if I understand right, we've come together this morning, t' advise

and consult about what's to be done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the family, and not to talk o' people as

don't belong to us. Mr Carr was none of our blood, nor noways connected with us, as I've ever heared.'

`Sister Glegg,' said Mrs Pullet in a pleading tone, drawing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an

agitated manner, `if you've got anything disrespectful to say o'Mr Carr, I do beg of you, as you won't say it to

me. I know what he was,' she added, with a sigh. `His breath was short to that degree as you could hear him

`Sophy!' said Mrs Glegg, with indignant disgust, `you do talk o' people's complaints till it's quite undecent.

But I say again, as I said before, I didn't come away from home to talk about acquaintance, whether they'd

short breath or long. If we aren't come together for one to hear what the other 'ull do to save a sister and her

children from the parish, I shall go back. One can't act without the other, I suppose; it isn't to be expected as I

`Well, Jane,' said Mrs Pullet, `I don't see as you've been so very forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the

first time as here you've been, since it's been known as the bailiff's in the house, and I was here yesterday and

looked at all Bessy's linen and things, and I told her I'd buy in the spotted table cloths I couldn't speak

fairer; for as for the teapot as she doesn't want to go out o' the family, it stands to sense I can't do with two

silver teapots, not if it hadn't a straight spout but the spotted damask I was allays fond on.'

`I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany and the best castors needn't be put up for sale,' said

poor Mrs Tulliver, beseechingly, `and the sugar tongs, the first things ever I bought.'

`But that can't be helped, you know,' said Mr Glegg. `If one o' the family chooses to buy 'em in, they can, but

`And it isn't to be looked for,' said uncle Pullet, with unwonted independence of idea, `as your own family

should pay more for things nor they'll fetch. They may go for an old song by auction.'

`O dear, O dear,' said Mrs Tulliver, `to think o' my chany being sold i' that way and I bought it when I was

married just as you did yours, Jane and Sophy: and I know you didn't like mine, because o' the sprig, but I

was fond of it, and there's never been a bit broke, for I've washed it myself and there's the tulips on the

cups, and the roses, as anybody might go and look at 'em for pleasure. You wouldn't like your chany to go for

an old song and be broke to pieces, though yours has got no colour in it, Jane it's all white and fluted, and

didn't cost so much as mine. And there's the castors sister Deane, I can't think but you'd like to have the

`Well, I've no objection to buy some of the best things,' said Mrs Deane, rather loftily. `We can do with extra

`Best things!' exclaimed Mrs Glegg, with severity which had gathered intensity from her long silence. `It

drives me past patience to hear you all talking o' best things, and buying in this that and the other, such as

silver and chany. You must bring your mind to your circumstances, Bessy, and not be thinking o' silver and

chany, but whether you shall get so much as a flock bed to lie on, and a blanket to cover you, and a stool to

sit on. You must remember, if you get 'em, it'll be because your friends have bought 'em for you, for you're

dependent upo' them for everything: for your husband lies there helpless, and hasn't got a penny i' the world

to call his own. And it's for your own good I say this, for it's right you should feel what your state is, and

what disgrace your husband's brought on your own family, as you've got to look to for everything and be

Mrs Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for the good of others is naturally exhausting. Mrs

Tulliver, always borne down by the family predominance of sister Jane, who had made her wear the yoke of a

`I'm sure, sister, I've never asked anybody to do anything, only buy things as it 'ud be a pleasure to 'em to

have, so as they mightn't go and be spoiled i' strange houses. I never asked anybody to buy the things in for

me and my children, though there's the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was born I thought one o' the

first things when he was lying i' the cradle, as all the things I'd bought wi' my own money and been so careful

of 'ud go to him. But I've said nothing as I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me; what my husband

has done for his sister's unknown, and we should ha' been better off this day if it hadn't been as he's lent

`Come, come,' said Mr Glegg, kindly, `don't let us make things too dark. What's done can't be undone. We

shall make a shift among us to buy what's sufficient for you though, as Mrs G. says, they must be useful,

plain things. We mustn't be thinking o' what's unnecessary. A table and a chair or two, and kitchen things, and

a good bed and suchlike. Why, I've seen the day when I shouldn't ha' known myself, if I'd lain on sacking

i'stead o' the floor. We get a deal o' useless things about us, only because we've got the money to spend.'

`Mr Glegg,' said Mrs G., `if you'll be kind enough to let me speak, i'stead of taking the words out o' my

mouth, I was going to say, Bessy, as it's fine talking for you to say as you've never asked us to buy anything

for you: let me tell you, you ought to ha' asked us. Pray, how are you to be purvided for, if your own family

don't help you? You must go to the parish, if they didn't. And you ought to know that, and keep it in mind,

and ask us humble to do what we can for you, i'stead o' saying, and making a boast, as you've never asked us

`You talked o' the Mosses, and what Mr Tulliver's done for 'em,' said Uncle Pullet, who became unusually

suggestive where advances of money were concerned. `Haven't they been anear you? They ought to do

something, as well as other folks; and if he's lent 'em money, they ought to be made to pay it back.'

`Yes, to be sure,' said Mrs Deane, `I've been thinking so. How is it Mr and Mrs Moss aren't here to meet us?

`O dear!' said Mrs Tulliver, `I niver sent 'em word about Mr Tulliver, and they live so back'ard among the

lanes at Basset, they niver hear anything only when Mr Moss comes to market. But I niver gave 'em a

thought. I wonder Maggie didn't, though, for she was allays so fond of her aunt Moss.'

`Why don't your children come in, Bessy?' said Mrs Pullet, at the mention of Maggie. `They should hear what

their aunts and uncles have got to say: and Maggie when it's me as have paid for half her schooling, she

ought to think more of her aunt Pullet nor of aunt Mosses. I may go off sudden when I get home today

`If I'd had my way,' said Mrs Glegg, `the children 'ud ha'been in the room from the first. It's time they knew

who they've to look to, and it's right as somebody should talk to 'em, and let 'em know their condition i' life,

and what they're come down to, and make 'em feel as they've got to suffer for their father's faults.'

`Well, I'll go and fetch 'em, sister,' said Mrs Tulliver, resignedly; she was quite crushed now, and thought of

She went upstairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both in their father's room, and was on her way down

again, when the sight of the storeroom door suggested a new thought to her. She went towards it and left the

The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussion when the brother and sister entered both

with shrinking reluctance; for though Tom with a practical sagacity which had been roused into activity by

the strong stimulus of the new emotions he had undergone since yesterday, had been turning over in his mind

a plan which he meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no means amicably towards them

and dreaded meeting them all at once, as he would have dreaded a large dose of concentrated physic which

was but just endurable in small draughts. As for Maggie, she was peculiarly depressed this morning: she had

been called up, after brief rest, at three o'clock, and had that strange dreamy weariness which comes from

watching in a sickroom through the chill hours of early twilight and breaking day in which the outside

daylight life seems to have no importance and to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkened chamber.

Their entrance interrupted the conversation. The shaking of hands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till

`Well, young sir, we've been talking as we should want your pen and ink; you can write rarely now after all

`Ay, ay,' said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind, `we must look to see the good of all

`When land is gone and money spent Then learning is most excellent ' Now's the time, Tom, to let us see the

good o' your learning. Let us see whether you can do better than I can, as have made my fortin without it. But

I began wi' doing with little, you see: I could live on a basin o' porridge and a crust o' bread and cheese. But I

doubt high living and high learning 'ull make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me.'

`But he must do it,' interposed aunt Glegg, energetically, `whether it's hard or no. He hasn't got to consider

what's hard he must consider as he isn't to trusten to his friends to keep him in idleness and luxury: he's got

to bear the fruits o' his father's misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must be

humble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what they're doing for his mother and father, as must be

turned out into the streets and go to the workhouse if they didn't help 'em. And his sister, too,' continued Mrs

Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the

sense that she was Lucy's mother, `She must make up her mind to be humble and work; for there'll be no

servants to wait on her any more she must remember that. She must do the work o' the house, and she must

respect and love her aunts, as have done so much for her, and saved their money to leave to their nevvies and

Tom was still standing before the table in the centre of the group. There was a heightened colour in his face,

and he was very far from looking humbled, but he was preparing to say, in a respectful tone, something he

Poor Mrs Tulliver had in her hands a small tray on which she had placed her silver teapot, a specimen

`See here, sister,' she said, looking at Mrs Deane, as she set the tray on the table, `I thought, perhaps, if you

looked at the teapot again it's a good while since you saw it you might like the pattern better: it makes

beautiful tea, and there's a stand and everything: you might use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucy

when she goes to housekeeping. I should be so loth for 'em to buy it at the Golden Lion,' said the poor

woman, her heart swelling, and the tears coming, `my teapot as I bought when I was married, and to think o'

its being scratched, and set before the travellers and folks and my letters on it see here E. D. and

`Ah, dear, dear!' said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with deep sadness, `it's very bad to think o' the family

initials going about everywhere. It niver was so before: you're a very unlucky sister, Bessy! But what's the

use o'buying the teapot when there's the linen and spoons and everything to go, and some of 'em with your

`As to disgrace o' the family,' said Mrs Glegg, `that can't be helped wi' buying teapots. The disgrace is, for

one o'the family to ha' married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is as they're to be sold up.

Maggie had started up from the sofa at the allusion to her father, but Tom saw her action and flushed face in

time to prevent her from speaking. `Be quiet, Maggie,' he said, authoritatively, pushing her aside. It was a

remarkable manifestation of selfcommand and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen that when his aunt

Glegg ceased he began to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though with a good deal of trembling in his

`Then aunt,' he said, looking straight at Mrs Glegg, `if you think it's a disgrace to the family that we should be

sold up, wouldn't it be better to prevent it altogether? And if you and my aunt Pullet,' he continued, looking at

the latter, `think of leaving any money to me and Maggie, wouldn't it be better to give it now, and pay the

debt we're going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her furniture?'

There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including Maggie, was astonished at Tom's sudden

`Ay, ay, young man come now! You show some notion o'things. But there's the interest, you must

remember your aunts get five per cent on their money, and they'd lose that, if they advanced it you

`I could work and pay that every year,' said Tom, promptly. `I'd do anything to save my mother from parting

`Well done!' said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been drawing Tom out, rather than reflecting on the

practicability of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife.

`Yes, Mr Glegg!' said that lady, with angry sarcasm. `It's pleasant work for you to be giving my money away,

as you've pretended to leave at my own disposial. And my money as was my own father's gift, and not yours,

Mr Glegg, and I've saved it and added to it myself and had more to put out welly every year, and it's to go and

be sunk in other folks's furniture, and encourage 'em in luxury and extravagance as they've no means of

supporting, and I'm to alter my will or have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me

when I die me as have allays done right and been careful, and the eldest o' the family, and my money's to

go and be squandered on them as have had the same chance as me, only they've been wicked and wasteful.

Sister Pullet, you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you back again o' the money he's

`La, Jane, how fiery you are!' said Mrs Pullet. `I'm sure you'll have the blood in your head, and have to be

cupped. I'm sorry for Bessy and her children I'm sure I think of 'em o' nights dreadful, for I sleep very bad

wi' this new medicine but it's no use for me to think o' doing anything, if you won't meet me half way.'

`Why, there's this to be considered,' said Mr Glegg. `It's no use to pay off this debt and save the furniture,

when there's all the law debts behind, as 'ud take every shilling and more than could be made out o' land and

stock, for I've made that out from Lawyer Gore. We'd need save our money to keep the poor man with,

instead o' spending it on furniture as he can neither eat nor drink. You will be so hasty, Jane as if I didn't

`Then... speak accordingly... Mr Glegg!' said his wife, with slow, loud emphasis, bending her head towards

Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and his lip quivered; but he was determined not to

give way. He would behave like a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after her momentary delight in Tom's

speech, had relapsed into her state of trembling indignation. Her mother had been standing close by Tom's

side and had been clinging to his arm ever since he had last spoken: Maggie suddenly started up and stood in

`Why do you come, then,' she burst out, `talking, and interfering with us and scolding us, if you don't mean to

do anything to help my poor mother your own sister if you've no feeling for her when she's in trouble,

and won't part with anything, though you would never miss it, to save her from pain. Keep away from us

then, and don't come to find fault with my father he was better than any of you he was kind he would

have helped you, if you had been in trouble. Tom and I don't ever want to have any of your money, if you

Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes

Mrs Tulliver was frightened: there was something portentous in this mad outbreak: she did not see how life

could go on after it. Tom was vexed; it was no use to talk so. The aunts were silent with surprise for some

moments. At length, in a case of aberration such as this, comment presented itself as more expedient than any

`You haven't seen the end o' your trouble wi' that child, Bessy,' said Mrs Pullet; `she's beyond everything for

boldness and unthankfulness. It's dreadful. I might ha' let alone paying for her schooling, for she's worse nor

`It's no more than what I've allays said,' followed Mrs Glegg. `Other folks may be surprised, but I'm not. I've

said over and over again years ago I've said "Mark my words; that child 'ull come to no good: there isn't a

bit of our family in her." And as for her having so much schooling, I never thought well o' that. I'd my

`Come, come,' said Mr Glegg, `let's waste no more time in talking let's go to business. Tom now, get the

While Mr Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen hurrying past the window.

`Why, there's Mrs Moss,' said Mrs Tulliver. `The bad news must ha' reached her, then.' And she went out to

`That's fortunate,' said Mrs Glegg. `She can agree to the list o' things to be bought in. It's but right she should

Mrs Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs Tulliver's movement as she drew her into the parlour,

automatically, without reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among so many persons in the first

painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, darkhaired woman was a strong contrast to the Dodson sisters as

she entered in her shabby dress, with her shawl and bonnet looking as if they had been hastily huddled on,

and with that entire absence of selfconsciousness which belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie was clinging

to her arm, and Mrs Moss seemed to notice no one else except Tom, whom she went straight up to and took

`O my dear children,' she burst out, `you've no call to think well o' me; I'm a poor aunt to you, for I'm one o'

`Mr Turnbull thinks he'll get better,' said Maggie. `Sit down, aunt Gritty. Don't fret.'

`O my sweet child, I feel torn i' two,' said Mrs Moss, allowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa but still not

seeming to notice the presence of the rest. `We've three hundred pounds o' my brother's money, and now he

wants it, and you all want it, poor things and yet we must be sold up to pay it, and there's my poor children

eight of 'em, and the little un of all can't speak plain. And I feel as if I was a robber. But I'm sure I'd no

`Three hundred pound! O dear, dear,' said Mrs Tulliver, who, when she had said that her husband had done

unknown things for his sister, had not had any particular sum in her mind, and felt a wife's irritation at having

`What madness, to be sure!' said Mrs Glegg. `A man with a family! He'd no right to lend his money i' that

`Yes, there was security: my husband gave a note for it. We're not that sort o' people, neither of us, as 'ud rob

my brother's children, and we looked to paying back the money, when the times got a bit better.'

`Well, but now,' said Mr Glegg, gently, `hasn't your husband no way o' raising this money? Because it 'ud be

a little fortin, like, for these folks, if we can do without Tulliver's being made a bankrupt. Your husband's got

stock: it is but right he should raise the money, as it seems to me not but what I'm sorry for you, Mrs Moss.'

`O sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband's had with his stock the farm's suffering so as never was

for want o' stock, and we've sold all the wheat, and we're behind with our rent... not but what we'd like to do

what's right, and I'd sit up and work half the night, if it 'ud be any good... but there's them poor children... four

`Don't cry so, aunt don't fret,' whispered Maggie, who had kept hold of Mrs Moss's hand.

`Did Mr Tulliver, let you have the money all at once?' said Mrs Tulliver, still lost in the conception of things

`No, at twice,' said Mrs Moss, rubbing her eyes, and making an effort to restrain her tears. `The last was after

my bad illness, four years ago, as everything went wrong, and there was a new note made then. What with

`Yes, Mrs Moss,' said Mrs Glegg, with decision. `Yours is a very unlucky family: the more's the pity for my

`I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o' what had happened,' said Mrs Moss, looking at Mrs Tulliver. `I

should never ha' staid away all this while, if you'd thought well to let me know. And it isn't as I'm thinking all

about ourselves and nothing about my brother only the money was so on my mind, I couldn't help speaking

about it. And my husband and me desire to do the right thing, sir,' she added, looking at Mr Glegg, `and we'll

make shift and pay the money, come what will, if that's all my brother's got to trust to. We've been used to

trouble, and don't look for much else. It's only the thought o' my poor children pulls me i' two.'

`Why, there's this to be thought on, Mrs Moss,' said Mr Glegg, `and it's right to warn you. If Tulliver's made a

bankrupt, and he's got a noteofhand of your husband's for three hundred pounds, you'll be obliged to pay it:

`O dear, O dear!' said Mrs Tulliver, thinking of the bankruptcy, and not of Mrs Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs

Moss herself listened in trembling submission, while Maggie looked with bewildered distress at Tom to see if

he showed any signs of understanding this trouble, and caring about poor aunt Moss. Tom was only looking

`And if he isn't made bankrupt,' continued Mr Glegg, `as I said before, three hundred pounds 'ud be a little

fortin' for him, poor man. We don't know but what he may be partly helpless, if he ever gets up again. I'm

very sorry if it goes hard with you, Mrs Moss but my opinion is, looking at it one way, it'll be right for you

to raise the money; and looking at it th' other way, you'll be obliged to pay it. You won't think ill o' me for

`Uncle,' said Tom, looking up suddenly from his meditative view of the tablecloth, `I don't think it would be

right for my aunt Moss to pay the money, if it would be against my father's will for her to pay it, would it?'

Mr Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before he said, `Why, no, perhaps not, Tom; but then he'd

ha'destroyed the note you know. We must look for the note. What makes you think it 'ud be against his will?'

`Why,' said Tom, colouring, but trying to speak firmly in spite of a boyish tremor, `I remember quite well,

before I went to school to Mr Stelling, my father said to me one night, when we were sitting by the fire

`He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said, `I've always been good to my sister, though she

married against my will; and I've lent Moss money, but I shall never think of distressing him to pay it: I'd

rather lose it: my children must not mind being the poorer for that.' And now my father's ill and not able to

speak for himself, I shouldn't like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me.'

`Well, but then, my boy,' said uncle Glegg, whose good feeling led him to enter into Tom's wish, but who

could not at once shake off his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities or alienating

anything important enough to make an appreciable difference in a man's property, `we should have to make

away wi' the note, you know, if we're to guard against what may happen, supposing your father's made

`Mr Glegg,' interrupted his wife, severely. `Mind what you're saying. You're putting yourself very forrard in

`That's such a thing as I never heared of before,' said uncle Pullet, who had been making haste with his

lozenge, in order to express his amazement, `making away with a note: I should think anybody could set the

`Well but,' said Mrs Tulliver, `if the note's worth all that money, why can't we pay it away and save my things

from going away? We've no call to meddle with your uncle and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your father 'ud

Mrs Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange and was straining her mind after original ideas on the

`Pooh, pooh, pooh! you women don't understand these things,' said uncle Glegg. `There's no way o' making it

`Then I hope you'll help me to do it, uncle,' said Tom, earnestly. `If my father shouldn't get well, I should be

very unhappy to think anything had been done against his will, that I could hinder. And I'm sure he meant me

to remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my father's wish about his property.'

Even Mrs Glegg could not withhold her approval from Tom's words: she felt that the Dodson blood was

certainly speaking in him, though if his father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wicked

alienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on Tom's neck, if her aunt

Moss had not prevented her by herself rising and taking Tom's hand, while she said, with rather a choked

`You'll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there's a God above: and if the money's wanted for your

father, Moss and me 'ull pay it, the same as if there was ever such security. We'll do as we'd be done by, for if

`Well,' said Mr Glegg, who had been meditating after Tom's words, `we shouldn't be doing any wrong by the

creditors, supposing your father was bankrupt I've been thinking o' that, for I've been a creditor myself, and

seen no end o' cheating for if he meant to give your aunt the money before ever he got into this sad work o'

lawing, it's the same as if he'd made away with the note himself for he'd made up his mind to be that much

poorer. But there's a deal o' things to be considered, young man,' Mr Glegg added, looking admonishingly at

Tom, `when you come to money business, and you may be taking one man's dinner away to make another

`Yes, I do,' said Tom, decidedly. `I know if I owe money to one man I've no right to give it to another. But if

my father had made up his mind to give my aunt the money before he was in debt, he had a right to do it.'

`Well done, young man! I didn't think you'd been so sharp,' said uncle Glegg, with much candour. `But

perhaps your father did make away with the note. Let us go and see if we can find it in the chest.'

MR TULLIVER, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had recurred at intervals ever since he

had been found fallen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and entrances into

his room were not felt to be of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning,

that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice of them. They entered very

quietly, and Mrs Moss took her seat near the head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed,

Mr Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy selecting the key of the old oak chest

from the bunch which Tom had brought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening the chest

which stood opposite the foot of Mr Tulliver's bed and propping the lid with the iron holder, without much

`There's a tin box,' whispered Mr Glegg, `he'd most like put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom;

but I'll just lift up these deeds they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose and see what there is

Mr Glegg had lifted out the parchments and had fortunately drawn back a little, when the iron holder gave

Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of the strong vibration that produced the

instantaneous effect on the frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the obstruction

of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his father's father, and it had always been rather a

solemn business to visit it. All longknown objects, even a mere windowfastening or a particular door latch,

have sounds which are a sort of recognised voice to us a voice that will thrill and awaken when it has been

used to touch deeplying fibres. In the same moment when all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he

started up and looked at the chest, the parchments in Mr Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tin box, with a

`What are you going to do with those deeds?' he said, in his ordinary tone of sharp questioning whenever he

Tom obeyed, with some trembling: it was the first time his father had recognised him. But instead of saying

anything more to him, his father continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr Glegg and

`What's been happening then?' he said, sharply. `What are you meddling with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying

hold of everything?... Why don't you tell me what you've been adoing?' he added, impatiently, as Mr Glegg

`No, no, friend Tulliver,' said Mr Glegg, in a soothing tone. `Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We

only came to look and see what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had to look after

things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough to attend to everything yourself.'

Mr Tulliver looked round him meditatively at Tom, at Mr Glegg and at Maggie; then suddenly appearing

aware that some one was seated by his side at the head of the bed, he turned sharply round and saw his sister.

`Eh, Gritty!' he said in the halfsad, affectionate tone in which he had been wont to speak to her, `what,

`O, brother!' said good Mrs Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, `I'm thankful I'm come now to see you

`A fall from your horse shook you a bit that's all, I think,' said Mr Glegg. `But you'll soon get over it, let's

Mr Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed clothes, and remained silent for two or three minutes. A new shadow

came over his face. He looked up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, `You got the letter, then, my

`Yes, father,' she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if her father were come back to her from the

dead, and her yearning to show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.

`Where's your mother?' he said, so preoccupied that he received the kiss as passively as some quiet animal

`You'll have to take care of 'em both, if I die, you know, Tom. You'll be badly off, I doubt. But you must see

and pay everybody. And mind there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business, he gave it me a bit at a

Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned than ever, but Tom said firmly,

`Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for three hundred pounds? We came to look for

`Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that my lad,' said Mr Tulliver. `I allays meant to be easy about that money,

because o' your aunt. You mustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it and it's like enough they can't.

The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to be good to you, Gritty,' said Mr Tulliver, turning to his sister,

At this moment Maggie reentered with her mother who came in much agitated by the news that her husband

`Well, Bessy,' he said, as she kissed him, `you must forgive me if you're worse off than you ever expected to

be. But it's the fault o' the law it's none o' mine,' he added, angrily. `It's the fault o' raskills! Tom you

mind this if ever you've got the chance, you make Wakem smart. If you don't, you're a goodfornothing

son. You might horsewhip him but he'd set the law on you the law's made to take care o' raskills.'

Mr Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his face. Mr Glegg wanted to say something

soothing, but he was prevented by Mr Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. `They'll make a shift to pay

everything, Bessy,' he said, `and yet leave you your furniture; and your sisters'll do something for you... and

Tom'll grow up... though what he's to be I don't know... I've done what I could... I've given him a eddication...

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with the last words, the poor man fell again

rigid and insensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all present as

if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the completeness of the revival, but because his words had

all had reference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor Tulliver, death was not to be a leap:

Mr Turnbull was sent for, but when he heard what had passed, he said this complete restoration, though only

temporary, was a hopeful sign, proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate recovery.

Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale: the

flash of memory had only lit up prominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his

But Tom was clear upon two points that his uncle Moss's note must be destroyed, and that Luke's money

must be paid, if in no other way, out of his own and Maggie's money now in the savings' bank. There were

subjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on the niceties of classical construction, or the

THE next day, at ten o'clock, Tom was on his way to St Ogg's, to see his uncle Deane, who was to come

home last night, his aunt had said; and Tom had made up his mind that his uncle Deane was the right person

to ask for advice about getting some employment. He was in a great way of business; he had not the narrow

notions of uncle Glegg; and he had risen in the world on a scale of advancement which accorded with Tom's

ambition. It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain one of those mornings when even happy

people take refuge in their hopes. And Tom was very unhappy: he felt the humiliation as well as the

prospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proud nature; and with all his resolute dutifulness

towards his father there mingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortune the less

endurable aspect of a wrong. Since these were the consequences of going to law, his father was really

blamable as his aunts and uncles had always said he was; and it was a significant indication of Tom's

character, that though he thought his aunts ought to do something more for his mother, he felt nothing like

Maggie's violent resentment against them for showing no eager tenderness and generosity. There were no

impulses in Tom that led him to expect what did not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why

should people give away their money plentifully to those who had not taken care of their own money? Tom

saw some justice in severity and all the more because he had confidence in himself that he should never

deserve that just severity. It was very hard upon him that he should be put at this disadvantage in life by his

father's want of prudence, but he was not going to complain and to find fault with people because they did not

make everything easy for him. He would ask no one to help him, more than to give him work and pay him for

it. Poor Tom was not without his hopes to take refuge in under the chill damp imprisonment of the December

fog which seemed only like a part of his home troubles. At sixteen, the mind that has the strongest affinity for

fact cannot escape illusion and selfflattery and Tom, in sketching his future had no other guide in arranging

his facts, than the suggestions of his own brave selfreliance. Both Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, he knew, had

been very poor once: he did not want to save money slowly and retire on a moderate fortune like his uncle

Glegg, but he would be like his uncle Deane get a situation in some great house of business and rise fast.

He had scarcely seen anything of his uncle Deane for the last three years the two families had been getting

wider apart, but for this very reason Tom was the more hopeful about applying to him. His uncle Glegg, he

felt sure, would never encourage any spirited project, but he had a vague imposing idea of the resources at his

uncle Deane's command. He had heard his father say, long ago, how Deane had made himself so valuable to

Guest Co. that they were glad enough to offer him a share in the business: that was what Tom resolved he

would do. It was intolerable to think of being poor and looked down upon all one's life. He would provide for

his mother and sister, and make every one say that he was a man of high character. He leaped over the years

in this way, and in the haste of strong purpose and strong desire, did not see how they would be made up of

By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the Floss, and was entering St Ogg's, he was thinking that he

would buy his father's mill and land again, when he was rich enough, and improve the house and live there:

he should prefer it to any smarter, newer place, and he could keep as many horses and dogs as he liked.

Walking along the street with a firm, rapid step at this point in his reverie he was startled by some one who

`Why, Master Tom, how's your father this morning?' It was a publican of St Ogg's one of his father's

Tom disliked being spoken to just then, but he said civilly, `He's still very ill, thank you.'

`Ay, it's been a sore chance for you, young man, hasn't it? this lawsuit turning out against him,' said the

Tom reddened and passed on: he would have felt it like the handling of a bruise even if there had been the

`That's Tulliver's son,' said the publican to a grocer standing on the adjacent doorstep.

`Ah!' said the grocer, `I thought I knew his features, like. He takes after his mother's family: she was a

`Oh! to turn up his nose at his father's customers and be a fine gentleman not much else, I think.'

Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thorough consciousness of the present, made all the greater

haste to reach the warehouse offices of Guest Co. where he expected to find his uncle Deane. But this was Mr

Deane's morning at the Bank, a clerk told him, with some contempt for his ignorance: Mr Deane was not to

At the Bank Tom was admitted into the private room where his uncle was, immediately after sending in his

name. Mr Deane was auditing accounts, but he looked up as Tom entered and, putting out his hand, said,

`Much the same, thank you, uncle,' said Tom, feeling nervous. `But I want to speak to you, please, when

`Sit down, sit down,' said Mr Deane, relapsing into his accounts, in which he and the managing clerk

remained so absorbed for the next half hour that Tom began to wonder whether he should have to sit in this

way till the bank closed there seemed so little tendency towards a conclusion in the quiet monotonous

procedure of these sleek, prosperous men of business. Would his uncle give him a place in the bank? it would

be very dull, prosy work, he thought writing there, forever, to the loud ticking of a timepiece. He preferred

some other way of getting rich. But at last there was a change: his uncle took a pen and wrote something with

`You'll just step up to Torry's now, Mr Spence, will you?' said Mr Deane, and the clock suddenly became less

`Well, Tom,' said Mr Deane, when they were alone, turning his substantial person a little in his chair, and

taking out his snuffbox, `what's the business, my boy, what's the business?' Mr Deane, who had heard from

his wife what had passed the day before, thought Tom was come to appeal to him for some means of averting

`I hope you'll excuse me for troubling you, uncle,' said Tom, colouring, but speaking in a tone which, though

tremulous, had a certain proud independence in it, `but I thought you were the best person to advise me what

`Ah?' said Mr Deane, reserving his pinch of snuff, and looking at Tom with new attention. `Let us hear.'

`I want to get a situation, uncle, so that I may earn some money,' said Tom, who never fell into

`A situation?' said Mr Deane, and then took his pinch of snuff with elaborate justice to each nostril. Tom

`Why, let me see, how old are you?' said Mr Deane, as he threw himself backward again.

`Sixteen I mean, I am going in seventeen,' said Tom, hoping his uncle noticed how much beard he had.

`That's true: but people don't get much money at anything, my boy, when they're only sixteen. You've had a

good deal of schooling, however: I suppose you're pretty well up in accounts, eh? You understand

`No,' said Tom, rather falteringly. `I was in fractions. But Mr Stelling says I write a good hand, uncle. That's

my writing,' added Tom, laying on the table a copy of the list he had made yesterday.

`Ah! That's good, that's good. But, you see, the best hand in the world'll not get you a better place than a

copying clerk's, if you know nothing of bookkeeping nothing of accounts. And a copying clerk's a cheap

Mr Deane had not occupied himself with methods of education, and had no precise conception of what went

`We learned Latin,' said Tom, pausing a little between each item, as if he were turning over the books in his

schooldesk to assist his memory, `a good deal of Latin; and the last year I did Themes, one week in Latin

and one in English; and Greek and Roman History; and Euclid; and I began Algebra, but I felt it off again;

and we had one day every week for Arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing lessons; and there were several

other books we either read or learned out of, English Poetry, and Horae Paulinae, and Blair's Rhetoric, the

Mr Deane tapped his snuffbox again and screwed up his mouth: he felt in the position of many estimable

persons when they had read the New Tariff and found how many commodities were imported of which they

knew nothing: like a cautious man of business, he was not going to speak rashly of a raw material in which he

had had no experience. But the presumption was, that if it had been good for anything, so successful a man as

himself would hardly have been ignorant of it. About Latin he had an opinion, and thought that in case of

another war, since people would no longer wear hair powder, it would be well to put a tax upon Latin as

luxury much run upon by the higher classes and not telling at all on the shipowing department. But, for what

he knew, the Horae Paulinae might be something less neutral. On the whole, this list of acquirements gave

`Well,' he said, at last, in rather a cold, sardonic tone, `you've had three years at these things you must be

pretty strong in 'em. Hadn't you better take up some line where they'll come in handy?'

`I'd rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. I don't like Latin and those things. I don't know what I

could do with them unless I went as usher in a school; and I don't know them well enough for that: besides, I

would as soon carry a pair of panniers. I don't want to be that sort of person. I should like to enter into some

business where I can get on a manly business, where I should have to look after things and get credit for

`Ah, young gentleman,' said Mr Deane, with that tendency to repress youthful hopes which stout and

successful men of fifty find one of their easiest duties, `that's sooner said than done sooner said than done.'

`But didn't you get on in that way, uncle?' said Tom, a little irritated that Mr Deane did not enter more rapidly

into his views. `I mean, didn't you rise from one place to another through your abilities and good conduct?'

`Ay, ay, sir,' said Mr Deane, spreading himself in his chair a little, and entering with great readiness into a

retrospect of his own career. `But I'll tell you how I got on: it wasn't by getting astride a stick and thinking it

would turn into a horse if I sat on it long enough. I kept my eyes and ears open, sir, and I wasn't too fond of

my own back, and I made my master's interest my own. Why, with only looking into what went on in the

mill, I found out how there was a waste of five hundred a year that might be hindered. Why, sir, I hadn't more

schooling to begin with than a charity boy but I saw pretty soon that I couldn't get on far without mastering

accounts, and I learned 'em between working hours, after I'd been unlading. Look here' Mr Deane opened a

book, and pointed to the page `I write a good hand enough, and I'll match anybody at all sorts of reckoning

by the head, and I got it all by hard work, and paid for it out of my own earnings often out of my own

dinner and supper. And I looked into the nature of all the things we had to do with in the business, and picked

up knowledge as I went about my work, and turned it over in my head. Why, I'm no mechanic I never

pretended to be, but I've thought of a thing or two that the mechanics never thought of, and it's made a fine

difference in our returns. And there isn't an article shipped or unshipped at our wharf but I know the quality

of it. If I got places, sir, it was because I made myself fit for 'em. If you want to slip into a round hole, you

Mr Deane tapped his box again. He had been led on by pure enthusiasm in his subject and had really

forgotten what bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener. He had found occasion for saying the

same thing more than once before, and was not distinctly aware that he had not his port wine before him.

`Well, uncle,' said Tom, with a slight complaint in his tone, `that's what I should like to do. Can't I get on in

`In the same way?' said Mr Deane, eyeing Tom with quiet deliberation. `There go two or three questions to

that, Master Tom. That depends on what sort of article you are to begin with, and whether you've been put

into the right mill. But I'll tell you what it is. Your poor father went the wrong way to work in giving you an

education. It wasn't my business, and I didn't interfere: but it is as I thought it would be you've had a sort of

learning that's all very well for a young fellow like our Mr Stephen Guest, who'll have nothing to do but sign

cheques all his life, and may as well have Latin inside his head as any other sort of stuffing.'

`But uncle,' said Tom earnestly, `I don't see why the Latin need hinder me from getting on in business: I shall

soon forget it all it makes no difference to me. I had to do my lessons at school; but I always thought they'd

`Ay, ay, that's all very well,' said Mr Deane, `but it doesn't alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and

rigmarole may soon dry off you, but you'll be but a bare stick, after that. Besides it's whitened your hands and

taken the rough work out of you. And what do you know? Why, you know nothing about bookkeeping to

begin with, and not so much of reckoning as a common shopman. You'll have to begin at a low round of the

ladder, let me tell you, if you mean to get on in life. It's no use forgetting the education your father's been

Tom bit his lips hard; he felt as if the tears were rising, and he would rather die than let them.

`You want me to help you to a situation,' Mr Deane went on, `well, I've no fault to find with that: I'm willing

to do something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think you're to begin with living well and working

easy you've no notion of running afoot, before you get on horseback. Now, you must remember what you

are you're a lad of sixteen, trained to nothing particular. There's heaps of your sort, like so many pebbles

made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might be apprenticed to some business a chemist's and druggists,

`Stop! hear what I've got to say. You don't want to be a 'prentice I know, I know you want to make more

haste and you don't want to stand behind a counter. But if you're a copying clerk you'll have to stand behind

a desk, and stare at your ink and paper all day: there isn't much outlook there, and you won't be much wiser at

the end of the year than at the beginning. The world isn't made of pen, ink and paper, and if you're to get on

in the world, young man, you must know what the world's made of. Now the best chance for you 'ud be to

have a place on a wharf or in a warehouse, where you'd learn the smell of things but you wouldn't like that,

I'll be bound: you'd have to stand cold and wet and be shouldered about by rough fellows. You're too fine a

Mr Deane paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly felt some inward struggle before he could reply.

`I would rather do what will be best for me in the end, Sir: I would put up with what was disagreeable.'

`That's well, if you can carry it out. But you must remember, it isn't only laying hold of a rope you must go

on pulling. It's the mistake you lads make that have got nothing either in your brains or your pocket, to think

you've got a better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place where you can keep your coats clean

and have the shopwenches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way I started, young man: when I was

sixteen my jacket smelt of tar, and I wasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the reason I can wear good

broadcloth now, and have my legs under the same table with the heads of the best firms in St Ogg's.'

Uncle Deane tapped his box, and seemed to expand a little under his waistcoat and gold chain, as he squared

`Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, uncle, that I should do for? I should like to set to work at

`Stop a bit, stop a bit: we mustn't be in too great a hurry. You must bear in mind, if I put you in a place you're

a bit young for, because you happen to be my nephew, I shall be responsible for you. And there's no better

reason, you know, than your being my nephew; because it remains to be seen whether you're good for

`I hope I should never do you any discredit, uncle,' said Tom, hurt, as all boys are at the statement of the

unpleasant truth that people feel no ground for trusting them. `I care about my own credit too much for that.'

`Well done, Tom, well done! That's the right spirit, and I never refuse to help anybody, if they've a mind to

do themselves justice. There's a young man of twoandtwenty I've got my eye on now I shall do what I

can for that young man he's got some pith in him. But then you see he's made good use of his time a

firstrate calculator can tell you the cubic contents of anything in no time, and put me up the other day to a

new market for Swedish bark; he's uncommonly knowing in manufactures, that young fellow.'

`I'd better set about learning bookkeeping, hadn't I, uncle?' said Tom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert

`Yes, yes, you can't do amiss there. But... ah, Spence, you're back again. Well, Tom, there's nothing more to

be said just now, I think, and I must go to business again. Goodby. Remember me to your mother.'

Mr Deane put out his hand, with an air of friendly dismissal, and Tom had not courage to ask another

question, especially in the presence of Mr Spence. So he went out again into the cold damp air. He had to call

at his uncle Glegg's about the money in the Savings' Bank, and by the time he set out again, the mist had

thickened and he could not see very far before him, but going along River Street again, he was startled when

he was within two yards of the projecting side of a shopwindow, by the words `Dorlcote Mill' in large letters

on a handbill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was the catalogue of the sale to take place the next

Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made his way homeward; he only felt that the present

was very hard. It seemed a wrong towards him that his uncle Deane had no confidence in him did not see at

once that he should acquit himself well, which Tom himself was as certain of as of the daylight. Apparently

he, Tom Tulliver, was likely to be held of small account in the world, and for the first time he felt a sinking of

heart under the sense that he really was very ignorant and could do very little. Who was that enviable young

man, that could tell the cubic contents of things in no time, and make suggestions about Swedish bark?

Swedish bark! Tom had been used to be so entirely satisfied with himself in spite of his breaking down in a

demonstration and construing nunc illas promite vires, as `now promise those men:' but now he suddenly felt

at a disadvantage, because he knew less than some one else knew. There must be a world of things connected

with that Swedish bark, which, if he only knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have been

Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St Ogg's, he saw the distant future before him, as he might have seen

a tempting stretch of smooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles: he was on the grassy bank then,

and thought the shingles might soon be passed. But now his feet were on the sharp stones: the belt of shingles

`What did my uncle Deane say, Tom?' said Maggie, putting her arm through Tom's as he was warming

himself rather drearily by the kitchen fire. `Did he say he would give you a situation?'

`No, he didn't say that. He didn't quite promise me anything: he seemed to think I couldn't have a very good

`Kindly? Pooh! what's the use of talking about that? I wouldn't care about his speaking kindly if I could get a

situation. But it's such a nuisance and bother I've been at school all this while learning Latin and things

not a bit of good to me and now my uncle says, I must set about learning bookkeeping and calculation and

`O what a pity we haven't got Dominie Sampson,' said Maggie, who couldn't help mingling some gaiety with

their sadness. `If he had taught me bookkeeping by double entry and after the Italian method, as he did Lucy

`Dear Tom! I was only joking,' said Maggie, putting her cheek against his coat sleeve.

`But it's always the same, Maggie,' said Tom, with the little frown he put on when he was about to be

justifiably severe. `You're always setting yourself up above me and every one else. And I've wanted to tell

you about it several times. You ought not to have spoken as you did to my uncles and aunts you should

leave it to me to take care of my mother and you, and not put yourself forward. You think you know better

than any one, but you're almost always wrong. I can judge much better than you can.'

Poor Tom! he had just come from being lectured and made to feel his inferiority: the reaction of his strong,

selfasserting nature must take place somehow, and here was a case in which he could justly show himself

dominant. Maggie's cheek flushed and her lip quivered with conflicting resentment and affection and a

certain awe as well as admiration of Tom's firmer and more effective character. She did not answer

immediately; very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven back again, and she said at last,

`You often think I'm conceited, Tom, when I don't mean what I say at all in that way. I don't mean to put

myself above you I know you behaved better than I did yesterday. But you are always so harsh to me,

`No, I'm not harsh,' said Tom, with severe decision. `I'm always kind to you; and so I shall be: I shall always

Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that her burst of tears, which she felt must come, might

not happen till she was safe upstairs. They were very bitter tears: everybody in the world seemed so hard and

unkind to Maggie: there was no indulgence, no fondness, such as she imagined when she fashioned the world

afresh in her own thoughts. In books there were people who were always agreeable or tender, and delighted

to do things that made one happy, and who did not show their kindness by finding fault. The world outside

the books was not a happy one, Maggie felt: it seemed to be a world where people behaved the best to those

they did not pretend to love and that did not belong to them. And if life had no love in it, what else was there

for Maggie? Nothing but poverty and the companionship of her mother's narrow griefs perhaps of her

father's heartcutting childish dependence. There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, when the

soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, no superadded life in the life of others; though we who

look on think lightly of such premature despair, as if our vision of the future lightened the blind sufferer's

Maggie in her brown frock with her eyes reddened and her heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed

where her father lay, to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the centre of her world, was a creature

full of eager, passionate longings for all that was beautiful and glad: thirsty for all knowledge: with an ear

straining after dreamy music that died away and would not come near to her: with a blind, unconscious

yearning for something that would link together the wonderful impressions of this mysterious life and give

No wonder, when there is this contrast between the outward and the inward, that painful collisions come of it.

A girl of no startling appearance, and who will never be a Sappho or a Madame Roland or anything else that

the world takes wide note of, may still hold forces within her as the living plantseed does, which will make

CHAPTER 6. Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a PocketKnife

IN that dark time of December the sale of the household furniture lasted beyond the middle of the second

day. Mr Tulliver, who had begun, in his intervals of consciousness, to manifest an irritability which often

appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this

living death throughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came nearest to his chamber. Mr Turnbull

had decided that it would be a less risk to let him remain where he was, than to move him to Luke's cottage, a

plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs Tulliver, thinking it would be very bad if the master were `to

waken up' at the noise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat imprisoned in the silent chamber,

watching the large prostrate figure on the bed, and trembling lest the blank face should suddenly show some

response to the sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painful repetition. But it was over at

last that time of importunate certainty and eyestraining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice almost as

metallic as the rap that followed it had ceased; the tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs

Tulliver's blond face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty hours: the poor woman's mind had been busy

divining when her favourite things were being knocked down by the terrible hammer, her heart had been

fluttering at the thought that first one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers in the hateful

publicity of the Golden Lion; and all the while she had to sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such

things bring lines in wellrounded faces, and broaden the streaks of white among the hairs that once looked

as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already at three o'clock, Kezia, the goodhearted, badtempered

housemaid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as her personal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was

of a peculiarly vile quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted by a continual low

muttering against `folks as came to buy up other folks's things,' and made light of `scrazing' the tops of

mahogany tables over which better folks than themselves had had to suffer a waste of tissue through

evaporation. She was not scrubbing indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the same atrocious

kind made by people who had still to fetch away their purchases: but she was bent on bringing the parlour,

where that `pipesmoking pig' the bailiff had sat, to such an appearance of scant comfort as could be given to

it by cleanliness and the few articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and the young folks

It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual teatime, when she came upstairs and said that Master

Tom was wanted. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, and in the first moments, by the imperfect

fire and candlelight Tom had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintance with the rather broadset but

active figure, perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him with a pair of blue eyes set in a disc of

freckles, and pulled some curly red locks with a strong intention of respect. A lowcrowned oilskincovered

hat and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest of the costume, as of tables prepared for writing upon,

suggested a calling that had to do with boats, but this did not help Tom's memory.

`Sarvant, Mr Tom,' said he of the red locks, with a smile which seemed to break through a selfimposed air

of melancholy. `You don' know me again, I doubt,' he went on, as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly,

`There's a fire i' the parlour, Mr Tom,' said Kezia, who objected to leaving the kitchen in the crises of

`Come this way, then,' said Tom, wondering if this young fellow belonged to Guest Co.'s Wharf; for his

imagination ran continually towards that particular spot, and uncle Deane might any time be sending for him

The bright fire in the parlour was the only light that showed the few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor

and the one table no, not the one table: there was a second table in a corner, with a large Bible and a few

other books upon it. It was this new strange bareness that Tom felt first, before he thought of looking again at

the face which was also lit up by the fire, and which stole a halfshy, questioning glance at him as the

The roughhandled pocket knife was taken out in the same moment and the largest blade opened by way of

`What! Bob Jakin?' said Tom not with any cordial delight, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy

symbolised by the pocketknife, and was not at all sure that Bob's motives for recalling it were entirely

`Ay, ay, Bob Jakin if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's so many Bobs as you went arter the squerrils with, that

day as I plumped right down from the bough, and bruised my shins a good un but I got the squerril tight for

all that, an' a scratter it war. An' this littlish blade's broke, you see, but I wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause

they might be cheatin' me an' givin' me another knife istid, for there isn't such a blade i' the country it's got

used to my hand, like. An' there was niver nobody else gen me nothin' but what I got by my own sharpness,

only you, Mr Tom; if it wasn't Bill Fawks as gen me the terrier pup istid o' drowndin' it, and' I had to jaw him

Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got through his long speech with surprising despatch,

giving the blade of his knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had finished.

`Well, Bob,' said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the foregoing reminiscences having disposed him to be

as friendly as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaintance with Bob that he remembered

better than the cause of their parting quarrel, `is there anything I can do for you?'

`Why, no, Mr Tom,' answered Bob, shutting up his knife with a click and returning it to his pocket, where he

seemed to be feeling for something else. `I shouldn't ha' come back upon you now you're i' trouble an' folks

say as the master, as I used to frighten the birds for, an' he flogged me a bit for fun when he catched me eatin'

the turnip, as they say he'll niver lift up his yead no more I shouldn't ha' come now to ax you to gi' me

another knife 'cause you gen me one afore. If a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me: I shan't ax

him for another afore I sarve him out: an' a good turn's worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. I shall niver grow

down'ards again, Mr Tom, an' you war the little chap as I liked the best when I war a little chap, for all you

leathered me, and wouldn't look at me again. There's Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as much as I'd a

mind: but lors! you get tried o' leatherin' a chap when you can niver make him see what you want him to shy

at. I'n seen chaps as 'ud stand starin' at a bough till their eyes shot out, afore they'd see as a bird's tail warn't a

leaf. It's poor work goin' wi' such raff but you war allays a rare un at shying, Mr Tom, an' I could trusten

you for droppin' down wi' your stick in the nick o' time at a runnin'rot, or a stoat, or that, when I war abeatin'

Bob had drawn out a dirty canvas bag, and would perhaps not have paused just then, if Maggie had not

entered the room and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locks again

with due respect. But the next moment the sense of the altered room came upon Maggie with a force that

overpowered the thought of Bob's presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where

the bookcase had hung; there was nothing now but the oblong unfaded space on the wall, and below it the

`O Tom,' she burst out, clasping her hands, `where are the books? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would

`I suppose so,' said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. `Why should they buy many books when they

`O but, Tom,' said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as she rushed up to the table to see what books had

been rescued. `Our dear old Pilgrim's Progress that you coloured with your little paints, and that picture of

Pilgrim with a mantle on, looking just like a turtle O dear!' Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over

the few books. `I thought we should never part with that while we lived everything is going away from us

Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair with the big tears ready to roll down her

cheeks quite blinded to the presence of Bob, who was looking at her with the pursuant gaze of an intelligent

`Well, Bob,' said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books was unseasonable, `I suppose you just came to

`I'll tell you how it is, Master Tom,' said Bob, beginning to untwist his canvas bag. `You see, I'n been with a

barge this two 'ear that's how I'n been gettin' my livin' if it wasn't when I was tentin' the furnace between

whiles at Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I'd a rare bit o' luck I allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niver

set a trap but what I catched so'thing but this wasn't a trap, it was a fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else it

'ud ha' set th' oil alight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns he gen me 'em himself last week. An' he said

first, I was a sperrited chap but I knowed that afore but then he outs wi' the ten suvreigns, an' that war

summat new. Here they are all but one!' Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. `An' when I'd got

'em, my head was all of a boil like a kettle o' broth, thinkin' what sort o' life I should take to for there war a

many trades I'd thought on, for as for the barge I'm clean tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till they're as

long as pig's chitterlings. An' I thought first I'd ha'ferrets an' dogs an' be a rotketcher an' then I thought as I

should like a bigger way o' life, as I didn't know so well; for I'n seen to the bottom o' rotketching; an' I

thought an'thought till at last I settled I'd be a packman, for they're knowin' fellers, the packmen are an' I'd

carry the lightest things I could i' my pack an' there'd be a use for a feller's tongue, as is no use, neither wi'

rots nor barges. An' I should go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women wi' my tongue, an'

Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if resolutely turning his back on that paradisaic picture

`But I don't mind about it, not a chip! An' I'n changed one o' the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for

dinner, an' I'n bought a blue plush wescoat an' a sealskin cap for if I meant to be a packman, I'd do it

respectable. But I don't mind about it not a chip! My yead isn't turnup, an' I shall p'r'aps have a chance o'

dousing another fire before long I'm a lucky chap. So I'll thank you to take the nine suvreigns, Mr Tom, and

set yoursen up with 'em somehow, if it's true as the master's broke. They mayn't go fur enough but they'll

`You're a very kind fellow, Bob,' he said colouring, with that little, diffident tremor in his voice which gave a

certain charm even to Tom's pride and severity, `and I sha'n't forget you again, though I didn't know you this

evening. But I can't take the nine sovereigns: I should be taking your little fortune from you, and they

`Wouldn't they, Mr Tom?' said Bob regretfully. `Now don't say so 'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor

chap: my mother gets a good penn'orth wi' picking feathers an' things, an' if she eats nothin' but bread an'

water it runs to fat: an' I'm such a lucky chap an' I doubt you aren't quite so lucky Mr Tom th' old master

isn't, anyhow an'so you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harm done. Lors! I found a leg o' port i' the

river one day it had tumbled out o' one o' them roundsterned Dutchmen, I'll be bound. Come, think better

on it, Mr Tom, for old 'quinetance sake else I shall think you bear me a grudge.'

Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could speak, Maggie, clasping her hands and looking

`O, I'm sorry, Bob I never thought you were so good. Why, I think you're the kindest person in the world!'

Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie was performing an inward act of

penitence, but he smiled with pleasure at this handsome eulogy, especially from a young lass who, as he

informed his mother that evening, had `such uncommon eyes, they looked somehow as they made him feel

`No, indeed, Bob, I can't take them,' said Tom, `but don't think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I

don't want to take anything from anybody, but to work my own way. And those sovereigns wouldn't help me

much they wouldn't really if I were to take them. Let me shake hands with you instead.'

Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his hard, grimy hand within it.

`Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again,' said Maggie, `and you'll come and see us when you've bought

`It's like as if I'd come out o' makebelieve, o' purpose to show 'em you,' said Bob, with an air of discontent

as Maggie gave him the bag again `ataking 'em back i' this way. I am a bit of a Do, you know, but it isn't

that sort o' Do: it's on'y when a feller's a big rogue or a big flat, I like to let him in a bit, that's all.'

`Now, don't you be up to any tricks Bob,' said Tom, `else you'll get transported some day.'

`No, no; not me Master Tom,' said Bob, with an air of cheerful confidence. `There's no law again' fleabites.

If I wasn't to take a fool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev a suvreign to buy you and

While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign and resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed

back the gold, and said, `No, indeed, Bob: thank you heartily; but I can't take it.' And Maggie, taking it

`Not now but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my father wants help that you can give, we'll let you

know won't we, Tom? That's what you would like to have us always depend on you as a friend that we

`Yes, Miss, and thank you,' said Bob, reluctantly taking the money, `that's what I'd like anything as you

like. An'I wish you goodby, Miss, and good luck, Master Tom, and thank you for shaking hands wi' me,

Kezia's entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she shouldn't bring in tea now, or whether the toast was

to get hardened to a brick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flux of words, and hastened his parting bow.

THE days passed, and Mr Tulliver showed, at least to the eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger

symptoms of a gradual return to his normal condition: the paralytic obstruction was, little by little, losing its

tenacity, and the mind was rising from under it with fitful struggles, like a living creature making its way

from under a great snowdrift that slides and slides again, and shuts up the newly made opening. Time would

have seemed to creep to the watchers by the bed, if it had only been measured by the doubtful distant hope

which kept count of the moments within the chamber: but it was measured for them by a fastapproaching

dread which made the nights come too quickly. While Mr Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his

lot was hastening towards its moment of most palpable change. The taxingmasters had done their work like

any respectable gunsmith conscientiously preparing the musket that, duly pointed by a brave arm, will spoil a

life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in Chancery, decrees of sale, are legal chainshot or bombshells that

can never hit a solitary mark but must fall with widespread shattering. So deeply inherent is it in this life of

ours that men have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is human suffering, that even justice

makes its victims, and we can conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of

By the beginning of the second week in January the bills were out advertising the sale, under a decree of

Chancery, of Mr Tulliver's farming and other stock to be followed by a sale of the mill and land held in the

proper afterdinner hour at the Golden Lion. The miller himself, unaware of the lapse of time, fancied

himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes when expedients might be thought of; and often in his

conscious hours talked in a feeble, disjointed manner, of plans he would carry out when he `got well.' The

wife and children were not without hope of an issue that would at least save Mr Tulliver from leaving the old

spot and seeking an entirely strange life. For uncle Deane had been induced to interest himself in this stage of

the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be a bad speculation for Guest and Co. to buy Dorlcote Mill and

carry on the business, which was a good one, and might be increased by the addition of steam power: in

which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still Mr Deane would say nothing decided about the

matter: the fact that Wakem held the mortgage on the land might put in into his head to bid for the whole

estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm of Guest and Co. who did not carry on business on sentimental

grounds. Mr Deane was obliged to tell Mrs Tulliver something to that effect, when he rode over to the mill to

inspect the books in company with Mrs Glegg: for she had observed that `if Guest and Co. would only think

about it, Mr Tulliver's father and grandfather had been carrying on Dorlcote Mill long before the oilmill of

that firm had been so much as thought of.' Mr Deane, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely the

relation between the two mills which would determine their value as investments. As for uncle Glegg, the

thing lay quite beyond his imagination: the goodnatured man felt sincere pity for the Tulliver family, but his

money was all locked up in excellent mortgages and he could run no risk: that would be unfair to his own

relatives: but he had made up his mind that Tulliver should have some new flannel waistcoats which he had

himself renounced in favour of a more elastic commodity, and that he would buy Mrs Tulliver a pound of tea

now and then: it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted in beforehand, to carry the tea and see

Still, it was clear that Mr Deane was kindly disposed towards the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy,

who was come home for the Christmas holidays, and the little blond angelhead had pressed itself against

Maggie's darker cheek with many kisses and some tears. These fair slim daughters keep up a tender spot in

the heart of many a respectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps Lucy's anxious pitying questions

about her poor cousins helped to make uncle Deane more prompt in finding Tom a temporary place in the

warehouse, and in putting him in the way of getting evening lessons in bookkeeping and calculation.

That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if there had not come at the same time the

muchdreaded blow of finding that his father must be a bankrupt, after all: at least, the creditors must be

asked to take less than their due, which to Tom's untechnical mind was the same thing as bankruptcy. His

father must not only be said to have `lost his property,' but to have `failed' the word that carried the worst

obloquy to Tom's mind. For when the defendant's claim for costs had been satisfied, there would remain the

friendly bill of Mr Gore, and the deficiency at the bank as well as the other debts, which would make the

assets shrink into unequivocal disproportion: `not more than ten or twelve shillings in the pound,' predicted

Mr Deane, in a decided tone, tightening his lips; and the words fell on Tom like a scalding liquid, leaving a

He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits a little in the unpleasant newness of his position

suddenly transported from the easy carpeted ennui of studyhours at Mr Stelling's, and the busy idleness of

castlebuilding in a `last half' at school, to the companionship of sacks and hides, and bawling men

thundering down heavy weights at his elbow. The first step towards getting on in the world was a chill, dusty,

noisy affair, and implied going without one's tea in order to stay in St Ogg's and have an evening lesson from

a onearmed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of bad tobacco. Tom's young pink and white face had

its colours very much deadened by the time he took off his hat at home and sat down with keen hunger to his

But all this while, Mrs Tulliver was brooding over a scheme by which she and no one else, would avert the

result most to be dreaded, and prevent Wakem from entertaining the purpose of bidding for the mill. Imagine

a truly respectable and amiable hen, by some portentous anomaly, taking to reflection and inventing

combinations by which she might prevail on Hodge not to wring her neck or send her and her chicks to

market: the result could hardly be other than much cackling and fluttering. Mrs Tulliver, seeing that

everything had gone wrong, had begun to think that she had been too passive in life, and that, if she had

applied her mind to business, and taken a strong resolution now and then, it would have been all the better for

her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought of going to speak to Wakem on this business of the

mill, and yet, Mrs Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the shortest method of securing the right end. It

would have been of no use, to be sure, for Mr Tulliver to go even if he had been able and willing for he

had been `going to law against Wakem' and abusing him for the last ten years; Wakem was always likely to

have a spite against him. And now that Mrs Tulliver had come to the conclusion that her husband was very

much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble, she was inclined to think that his opinion of Wakem was

wrong too. To be sure, Wakem had `put the bailies in the house and sold them up,' but she supposed he did

that to please the man that lent Mr Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks to please than one, and he

wasn't likely to put Mr Tulliver who had gone to law with him above everybody else in the world. The

attorney might be a very reasonable man why not? He had married a Miss Clint, and at the time Mrs

Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summer when she wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any

thoughts of Mr Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. And certainly towards herself whom he knew to

have been a Miss Dodson it was out of all possibility that he could entertain anything but good will, when it

was once brought home to his observation that she, for her part, had never wanted to go to law, and indeed

was at present disposed to take Mr Wakem's view of all subjects rather than her husband's. In fact, if that

attorney saw a respectable matron like herself disposed `to give him good words' why shouldn't he listen to

her representations? For she would put the matter clearly before him which had never been done yet. And he

would never go and bid for the mill on purpose to spite her, an innocent woman, who thought it likely enough

that she had danced with him in their youth at Squire Darleigh's, for at those big dances she had often and

Mrs Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom; for when she had thrown out a hint to Mr Deane and Mr

Glegg, that she wouldn't mind going to speak to Wakem herself, they had said, `No, no, no,' and `Pooh, pooh,'

and `Let Wakem alone,' in the tone of men who were not likely to give a candid attention to a more definite

exposition of her project. Still less dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for `the children were

always so against everything their mother said,' and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against

Wakem as his father was. But this unusual concentration of thought naturally gave Mrs Tulliver an unusual

power of device and determination, and a day or two before the sale to be held at the Golden Lion, when

there was no longer any time to be lost she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles in question

a large stock of pickles and ketchup which Mrs Tulliver possessed and which Mr Hyndmarsh the grocer

would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in a personal interview, so she would walk with

Tom to St Ogg's that morning: and when Tom urged that she might let the pickles be, at present he didn't

like her to go about just yet she appeared so hurt at this conduct in her son, contradicting her about pickles

which she had made after the family receipts inherited from his own grandmother who had died when his

mother was a little girl, that he gave way, and they walked together until she turned towards Danish Street,

That gentleman was not yet come to his office: would Mrs Tulliver sit down by the fire in his private room

and wait for him? She had not long to wait before the punctual attorney entered, knitting his brow with an

examining glance at the stout blond woman who rose, curtsying deferentially: a tallish man, with an

aquiline nose and abundant irongrey hair. You have never seen Mr Wakem before, and are possibly

wondering whether he was really as eminent a rascal and as crafty, bitter an enemy of honest humanity in

general and of Mr Tulliver in particular, as he is represented to be in that eidolon or portrait of him which we

It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret any chance shot that grazed him as an attempt on his

own life, and was liable to entanglements in this puzzling world which, due consideration had to his own

infallibility, required the hypothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them. It is still possible to

believe that the attorney was not more guilty towards him, than an ingenious machine which performs its

work with much regularity is guilty towards the rash man who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some

But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance at his person: the lines and lights of the human

countenance are like other symbols not always easy to read without a key. On an a priori view of Wakem's

aquiline nose which offended Mr Tulliver there was not more rascality than in the shape of his stiff shirt

collar, though this too, along with his nose, might have become fraught with damnatory meaning when once

`Well, sir, yes,' said Mrs Tulliver, beginning to feel alarmed at her own courage now she was really in

presence of the formidable man, and reflecting that she had not settled with herself how she should begin. Mr

`I hope, sir,' she began at last, `I hope, sir, you're not athinking as I bear you any illwill because o' my

husband's losing his lawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen being sold O dear!... for I wasn't

brought up in that way. I'm sure you remember my father, sir, for he was close friends with Squire Darleigh,

and we allays went to the dances there the Miss Dodsons nobody could be more looked on and justly,

for there was four of us, and you're quite aware as Mrs Glegg and Mrs Deane are my sisters. And as for going

to law and losing money and having sales before you're dead, I never saw anything o' that before I was

married nor for a long while after. And I'm not to be answerable for my bad luck i' marrying out o' my own

family into one where the goingson was different. And as for being drawn in t' abuse you as other folks

Mrs Tulliver shook her head a little and looked at the hem of her pocket handkerchief.

`I've no doubt of what you say, Mrs Tulliver,' said Mr Wakem, with cold politeness. `But you have some

`Well, sir, yes. But that's what I've said to myself I've said you'd have some nat'ral feeling; and as for my

husband as hasn't been himself for this two months, I'm not adefending him, in no way, for being so hot

about th' erigation not but what there's worse men, for he never wronged nobody of a shilling nor a penny,

not willingly and as for his fieriness and lawing, what could I do? And him struck as if it was with death

when he got the letter as said you'd the hold upo' the land. But I can't believe but what you'll behave as a

`What does all this mean, Mrs Tulliver?' said Mr Wakem, rather sharply. `What do you want to ask me?'

`Why, sir, if you'll be so good,' said Mrs Tulliver, starting a little, and speaking more hurriedly, `if you'll be

so good not to buy the mill an' the land the land wouldn't so much matter, only my husband 'ull be like mad

Something like a new thought flashed across Mr Wakem's face as he said, `Who told you I meant to buy it?'

`Why, sir, it's none o' my inventing and I should never ha' thought of it, for my husband, as ought to know

about the law, he allays used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy anything either lands or houses

for they allays got 'em into their hands other ways. An' I should think that 'ud be the way with you, sir and I

`Ah, well, who was it that did say so?' said Wakem, opening his desk, and moving things about, with the

`Why, sir, it was Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, as have all the management: and Mr Deane thinks as Guest and

Co. 'ud buy the mill and let Mr Tulliver work it for 'em, if you didn't bid for it and raise the price. And it 'ud

be such a thing for my husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living: for it was his father's before

him, the mill was, and his grandfather built it, though I wasn't fond o' the noise of it, when first I was married,

for there was no mills in our family not the Dodsons and if I'd known as the mills had so much to do with

the law, it wouldn't have been me as 'ud have been the first Dodson to marry one; but I went into it blindfold,

`What Guest and Co. would keep the mill in their own hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages?'

`O dear, sir, it's hard to think of,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, a little tear making its way, `as my husband should

take wage. But it 'ud look more like what used to be, to stay at the mill, than to go anywhere else. And if

you'll only think if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might be struck worse than he was

`Well, but if I bought the mill, and allowed your husband to act as my manager in the same way how then?'

`O sir, I doubt he could niver he got to do it, not if the very mill stood still to beg and pray of him. For your

name's like poison to him, it's so as never was, and he looks upon it as you've been the ruin of him all along,

ever since you set the law on him about the road through the meadow that's eight year ago, and he's been

`O dear, sir!' said Mrs Tulliver, frightened at a result so different from the one she had fixed her mind on, `I

wouldn't wish to contradict you, but it's like enough he's changed his mind with this illness he's forgot a

many things he used to talk about. And you wouldn't like to have a corpse on your mind, if he was to die; and

they do say as it's allays unlucky when Dorlcote Mill changes hands, and the water might all run away and

then... not as I'm wishing you any illluck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your wedding as if it was

yesterday Mrs Wakem was a Miss Clint, I know that and my boy, as there isn't nicer, handsomer, straiter

`You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs Tulliver, I have business that must be attended to; and I think

`But if you would bear it in mind, sir,' said Mrs Tulliver, rising, `and not run against me and my children

and I'm not denying Mr Tulliver's been in the wrong, but he's been punished enough, and there's worse men,

for it's been giving to other folks has been his fault he's done nobody any harm but himself and his family

the more's the pity and I go and look at the bare shelves every day and think where all my things used to

`Yes, yes, I'll bear it in mind,' said Mr Wakem hastily, looking towards the open door.

`And if you'd please not to say as I've been to speak to you, for my son 'ud be very angry with me for

demeaning myself, I know he would, and I've trouble enough without being scolded by my children.'

Poor Mrs Tulliver's voice trembled a little, and she could make no answer to the attorney's `good morning,'

`Which day is it that Dorlcote Mill is to be sold? Where's the bill?' said Mr Wakem to his clerk when they

`Oh; just run to Winship's, the auctioneer and see if he's at home. I have some business for him: ask him to

Although when Mr Wakem entered his office that morning, he had had no intention of purchasing Dorlcote

Mill, his mind was already made up: Mrs Tulliver had suggested to him several determining motives, and his

mental glance was very rapid: he was one of those men who can be prompt without being rash, because their

motives run in fixed tracks, and they have no need to reconcile conflicting aims.

To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of inveterate hatred towards Tulliver, that Tulliver had towards

him, would be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each other from a similar point of view. The

roach necessarily abhors the mode in which the pike gets his living, and the pike is likely to think nothing

further even of the most indignant roach than that he is excellent good eating: it could only be when the roach

choked him that the pike could entertain a strong personal animosity. If Mr Tulliver had ever seriously

injured or thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not have refused him the distinction of being a special object

of vindictiveness. But when Mr Tulliver called Wakem a rascal at the market dinnertable, the attorney's

clients were not a whit inclined to withdraw their business from him, and if when Wakem himself happened

to be present, some jocose cattlefeeder, stimulated by opportunity and brandy, made a thrust at him by

alluding to old ladies' wills, he maintained perfect sangfroid, and knew quite well that the majority of

substantial men then present were perfectly contented with the fact that `Wakem was Wakem,' that is to say, a

man who always knew the steppingstones that would carry him through very muddy bits of practice. A

man who had made a large fortune, had a handsome house among the trees at Tofton, and decidedly the finest

stock of port wine in the neighbourhood of St Ogg's, was likely to feel himself on a level with public opinion.

And I am not sure that even honest Mr Tulliver himself, with his general view of law as a cockpit, might

not, under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the truth that `Wakem was Wakem;'

since I have understood from persons versed in history, that mankind is not disposed to look narrowly into

the conduct of great victors when their victory is on the right side. Tulliver, then, could be no obstruction to

Wakem: on the contrary he was a poor devil whom the lawyer had defeated several times a hottempered

fellow, who would always give you a handle against him. Wakem's conscience was not uneasy because he

had used a few tricks against the miller: why should he hate that unsuccessful plaintiff that pitiable, furious

Still, among the various excesses to which human nature is subject, moralists have never numbered that of

being too fond of the people who openly revile us. The successful Yellow candidate for the borough of Old

Topping perhaps fells no pursuant meditative hatred toward the Blue tor who consoles his subscribers with

vituperative rhetoric against Yellow men who sell their country and are the demons of private life: but he

might not be sorry, if law and opportunity favoured, to kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favourite

colour. Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then, as they take a diversion, when it comes easily

in their way and is no hindrance to business; and such small unimpassioned revenges have an enormous

effect in life, running through all degrees of pleasant infliction, blocking the fit men out of places, and

blackening characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see people who have been only insignificantly

offensive to us, reduced in life and humiliated without any special efforts of ours is apt to have a soothing,

flattering influence: Providence, or some other prince of this world, it appears, has undertaken the task of

retribution for us; and really, by an agreeable constitution of things, our enemies, somehow, don't prosper.

Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness towards the uncomplimentary miller, and now Mrs

Tulliver had put the notion into his head it presented itself to him as a pleasure to do the very thing that would

cause Mr Tulliver the most deadly mortification, and a pleasure of a complex kind, not made up of crude

malice but mingling with it the relish of selfapprobation. To see an enemy humiliated gives a certain

contentment, but this is jejune compared with the highly blent satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by your

benevolent action of concession on his behalf. That is a sort of revenge which falls into the scale of virtue,

and Wakem was not without an intention of keeping that scale respectably filled. He had once had the

pleasure of putting an old enemy of his into one of the St Ogg's almshouses, to the rebuilding of which he had

given a large subscription; and here was an opportunity of providing for another by making him his own

servant. Such things give a completeness to prosperity, and contribute elements of agreeable consciousness

that are not dreamed of by that shortsighted overheated vindictiveness, which goes out of its way to wreak

itself in direct injury. And Tulliver with his rough tongue field by a sense of obligation, would make a better

servant than any chance fellow who was capinhand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a man of

proud honesty, and Wakem was too acute not to believe in the existence of honesty. He was given to

observing individuals, not to judging of them according to maxims, and no one knew better than he, that all

men were not like himself. Besides he intended to overlook the whole business of land and mill pretty

closely: he was fond of these practical rural matters. But there were good reasons for purchasing Dorlcote

Mill, quite apart form any benevolent vengeance on the miller. It was really a capital investment; besides,

Guest Co. were going to bid for it. Mr Guest and Mr Wakem were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney

liked to predominate over a shipowner and millowner who was a little too loud in the town affairs as well

as in his table talk. For Wakem was not a mere man of business: he was considered a pleasant fellow in the

upper circles at Ogg's, chatted amusingly over his port wine, did a little amateur farming, and had certainly

been an excellent husband and father: at church, when he went there, he sat under the handsomest of mural

monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most men would have married again under his circumstances

but he was said to be more tender to his deformed son than most men were to their best shapen offspring. Not

that Mr Wakem had not other sons besides Philip, but towards them he held only a chiaroscuro parentage,

and provided for them in a grade of life duly beneath his own. In this fact, indeed, there lay the clenching

motive to the purchase of Dorlcote Mill. While Mrs Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapidminded

lawyer, among all the other circumstances of the case, that this purchase would in a few years to come furnish

a highly suitable position for a certain favourite lad whom he meant to bring on in the world.

These were the mental conditions on which Mrs Tulliver had undertaken to act persuasively, and had failed: a

fact which may receive some illustration from the remark of a great philosopher, that flyfishers fail in

preparing their bait so as to make it alluring in the right quarter for want of a due acquaintance with the

IT was a clear frosty January day on which Mr Tulliver first came downstairs: the bright sun on the chestnut

boughs and the roofs opposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would be caged up no

longer; he thought everywhere would be more cheery under this sunshine than his bedroom; for he knew

nothing of the bareness below, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had an unfeeling

pleasure in showing the empty places and the marks where wellknown objects once had been. The

impression on his mind that it was but yesterday when he received the letter from Mr Gore was so continually

implied in his talk, and the attempts to convey to him the idea that many weeks had passed and much had

happened since then had been so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr Turnbull had

begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts by previous knowledge. The full sense of the present

could only be imparted gradually by new experience not by mere words which must remain weaker than

the impressions left by the old experience. This resolution to come downstairs was heard with trembling by

the wife and children. Mrs Tulliver said Tom must not go to St Ogg's at the usual hour he must wait and see

his father downstairs: and Tom complied, though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene.

The hearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during the last few days. For Guest and Co.

had not bought the mill: both mill and land had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been over the

premises and had laid before Mr Deane and Mr Glegg, in Mrs Tulliver's presence, his willingness to employ

Mr Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a manager of the business. This proposition had occasioned much

family debating. Uncles and aunts were almost unanimously of opinion that such an offer ought not to be

rejected when there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr Tulliver's mind, which, as neither aunts nor

uncles shared it, was regarded as entirely unreasonable and childish indeed as a transferring towards

Wakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr Tulliver ought properly to have directed against himself for

his general quarrelsomeness and his special exhibition of it in going to law. Here was an opportunity for Mr

Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without any assistance from his wife's relations, and without that

too evident descent into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable people to meet the degraded

member of the family by the wayside. Mr Tulliver, Mrs Glegg considered, must be made to feel, when he

came to his right mind, that he could never humble himself enough: for that had come which she had always

foreseen would come of his insolence in time past `to them as were the best friends he'd got to look to.' Mr

Glegg and Mr Deane were less stern in their views, but they both of them thought Tulliver had done enough

harm by his hottempered crotchets, and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihood was offered

him: Wakem showed a right feeling about the matter he had no grudge against Tulliver. Tom had protested

against entertaining the proposition: he shouldn't like his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would look

meanspirited; but his mother's main distress was the utter impossibility of ever `turning Mr Tulliver round

about Wakem' or getting him to hear reason no, they would all have to go and live in a pigsty on purpose to

spite Wakem who spoke so as nobody could be fairer. Indeed, Mrs Tulliver's mind was reduced to such

confusion by living in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against which she continually appealed

by asking, `O dear, what have I done to deserve worse than other women?' that Maggie began to suspect her

poor mother's wits were quite going. `Tom,' she said, when they were out of their father's room together, `we

must try to make father understand a little of what has happened before he goes downstairs. But we must get

my mother away. She will say something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her

Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of staying till the master could get about again,

`wage or no wage,' she had found a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress, scolding

her for `moithering' herself and going about all day without changing her cap and looking as if she was

`mushed.' Altogether this time of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she could scold her betters

with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasion there were drying clothes to be fetched in: she wished

to know if one pair of hands could do everything indoors and out, and observed that she should have thought

it would be good for Mrs Tulliver to put on her bonnet and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful

piece of work. Poor Mrs Tulliver went submissively downstairs: to be ordered about by a servant was the last

Mr Tulliver was resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were seated

`Ay, ay, Luke, stop a bit, sit down,' said Mr Tulliver, pointing his stick towards a chair, and looking at him

with that pursuant gaze which convalescent persons often have for those who have tended them, reminding

one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. And Luke had been a constant nightwatcher by his master's

`How's the water now, eh, Luke?' said Mr Tulliver. `Dix hasn't been choking you up again, eh?'

`Ay, I thought not: he won't be in a hurry at that again, now Riley's been to settle him. That was what I said to

Mr Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armchair, and looking on the ground as if in search of

something striving after vanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie looked at Tom in

mute distress their father's mind was so far off the present, which would by and by thrust itself on his

wandering consciousness!Tom was almost ready to rush away, with that impatience of painful emotion which

`Father,' said Maggie, laying her hand on his, `Don't you remember that Mr Riley is dead?'

`Dead?' said Mr Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with a strange, examining glance.

`Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago; I remember hearing you say you had to pay money for him; and

he left his daughters badly off one of them is underteacher at Miss Firniss's where I've been to school, you

`Ah?' said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But as soon as Tom began to speak he turned to

look at him with the same inquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence of these two young

people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the far past, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces: they

`It's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father,' said Tom. `I remember your talking about it

three years ago, before I went to school at Mr Stelling's. I've been at school there three years; don't you

Mr Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlike outward glance, under a rush of new ideas

`Ay, ay,' he said, after a minute or two, `I've paid a deal o' money... I was determined my son should have a

good eddication: I'd none myself, and I've felt the miss of it. And he'll want no other fortin: that's what I say...

The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moment's pause he began to look at the coat he had

on, and to feel in his sidepocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way, `Where have they

`To be sure I do,' said Mr Tulliver, rather angrily, `What o' that? If Furley can't take to the property,

somebody else can: there's plenty o' people in the world besides Furley. But it's hindering my not being

well go and tell 'em to get the horse in the gig, Luke: I can get down to St Ogg's well enough Gore's

`No, dear father!' Maggie burst out, entreatingly, `it's a very long while since all that: you've been ill a great

Mr Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startled gaze: the idea that much had happened of

which he knew nothing had often transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now with entire

`Yes, father,' said Tom, in answer to the gaze. `You needn't trouble your mind about business until you are

quite well: everything is settled about that for the present about the mill and the land and the debts.'

`Don't you take on too much about it, sir,' said Luke. `You'd ha' paid iverybody if you could that's what I

Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard working men whose lives have been spent in servitude,

that sense of natural fitness in rank which made his master's downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged, in his

slow way, to say something that would express his share in the family sorrow, and these words which he had

used over and over again to Tom, when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty pounds out of the

children's money, were the most ready to his tongue. They were just the words to lay the most painful hold on

`Paid everybody?' he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing, and his eye lighting up. `Why... what...

`O father, dear father!' said Maggie, who thought that terrible word really represented the fact. `Bear it well

because we love you your children will always love you Tom will pay them all he says he will, when

She felt her father beginning to tremble his voice trembled too, as he said, after a few moments,

`But perhaps you will live to see my pay everybody, father,' said Tom, speaking with a great effort.

`Ah, my lad,' said Mr Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, `but what's broke can never be whole again: it 'ud be

your doing, not mine.' Then, looking up at him, `You're only sixteen it's an uphill fight for you but you

mustn't throw it at your father; the raskills have been too many for him. I've given you a good eddication

Something in his throat half choked the last words the flush which had alarmed his children because it had

so often preceded a recurrence of paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous. Tom said

nothing; he was still struggling against his inclination to rush away. His father remained quiet a minute or

`Have they sold me up, then?' he said, more calmly, as if he were possessed simply by the desire to know

`Everything is sold, father; but we don't know all about the mill and the land yet,' said Tom, anxious to ward

`You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs, father,' said Maggie, `but there's your

`Let us go help me down, Luke I'll go and see everything,' said Mr Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and

`Ay, sir,' said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, `you'll make up your mind to't a bit better when you've

seen iverything: you'll get used to't. That's what my mother says, about her shortness o' breath she says,

she's made friends wi't now, though she fought again' it sore when it fust come on.'

Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlour where the fire, dulled by the frosty

sunshine, seemed part of the general shabbiness. She turned her father's chair and pushed aside the table to

make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beating heart to see him enter and look round for the first

time. Tom advanced before him carrying the legrest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of those two

young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixed pain, for Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if

the sorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breathing space to her passionate nature. No

true boy feels that: he would rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round of heroic labours, than

endure perpetual appeals to his pity for evils over which he can make no conquest.

Mr Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and looking round him at all the bare places which

for him were filled with the shadows of departed objects, the daily companions of his life. His faculties

seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footing on this demonstration of the senses.

`Ah!' he said, slowly, moving towards his chair, `they've sold me up... they've sold me up.'

Then seating himself and laying down his stick, while Luke left the room, he looked round again.

`They'n left the big Bible,' he said. `It's got everything in when I was born and married bring it me, Tom.'

The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the flyleaf, and while he was reading with slowlytravelling

eyes, Mrs Tulliver entered the room, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already and with

`Ah,' he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, `My mother was Margaret Beaton she died when

she was fortyseven hers wasn't a longlived family we're our mother's children Gritty and me are

He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's birth and marriage, as if it were suggesting new

thoughts to him: them he suddenly looked up at Tom and said in a sharp tone of alarm

`Come next Lady Day,' said Mrs Tulliver, going up to his side and looking at the page.

`Poor Bessy,' he said, `you was a pretty lass than everybody said so and I used to think you kept your

good looks rarely. But you're sorely aged... don't you bear me illwill ... I meant to do well by you... We

`But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that

had come over her of later, `and my poor father gave me away... and to come on so all at once... '

`No, I know you won't let your poor mother speak... that's been the way all my life... your father never

minded what I said... it 'ud have been o' no use for me to beg and pray... and it 'ud be no use now, not if I was

`Don't say so, Bessy,' said Mr Tulliver, whose pride, in these first moments of humiliation, was in abeyance

to the sense of some justice in his wife's reproach, `If there's anything left as I could no to make you amends,

`Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might keep among my own sisters... and me been such a

good wife to you and never crossed you from week's end to week's end... and they all say so... they say it 'ud

`Why, now the mill and the land's all Wakem's, and he's got everything in his hands, what's the use o' setting

your face against him? when you says you may stay here, and speaks as fair as can be, and says you may

manage the business, and have thirty shilling a week, and a horse to ride about to market? And where have

we got to put our heads? We must go into one o' the cottages in the village... and me and my children brought

downs to that... and all because you must set your mind against folks till there's no turning you.'

`You may do as you like wi' me, Bessy,' he said in a low voice, `I'n been the bringing of you to poverty... this

world's too many for me... I'm nought but a bankrupt it's no use standing up for anything now.'

`Father,' said Tom, `I don't agree with my mother or my uncles, and I don't think you ought to submit to be

under Wakem. I get a pound a week now, and you can find something else to do when you get well.'

`Say no more, Tom, say no more: I've had enough for this day. Give me a kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one

another no illwill: we shall never be young again... This world's been too many for me.'

THAT first moment of renunciation and submission was followed by days of violent struggle in the miller's

mind, as the gradual access of bodily strength brought with it increasing ability to embrace in one view all the

conflicting conditions under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily resign themselves to be tethered,

and when we are subdued by sickness it seems possible to us to fulfil pledges which the old vigour comes

back and breaks. There were times when poor Tulliver thought the fulfilment of his promise to Bessy was

something quite too hard for human nature: he had promised her without knowing what she was going to say

she might as well have asked him to carry a ton weight on his back. But again, there were many feelings

arguing on her side, besides the sense that life had been made hard to her by having married him. He saw a

possibility, by much pinching, of saving money out of his salary towards paying a second dividend to his

creditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere to get a situation such as he could fill. He had led an easy life,

ordering much and working little, and had no aptitude for any new business. He must perhaps take to

daylabour, and his wife must have help from her sisters, a prospect doubly bitter to him, now they had let all

Bessy's precious things be sold, probably because they liked to set her against him, by making her feel that he

had brought her to that pass. He listened to their admonitory talk, when they came to urge on him what he

was bound to do for poor Bessy's sake, with averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on them furtively

when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread of needing their help could have made it an easier

alternative to take their advice. But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old premises where he

had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had done after him. The Tullivers had lived on this spot for

generations, and he had sat listening on a low stool on winter evenings while his father talked of the old

halftimbered mill that had been there before the last great floods, which damaged it so that his grandfather

pulled it down and built the new one. It was when he got able to walk about and look at all the old objects,

that he felt the strain of this clinging affection for the old home as part of his life, part of himself. He couldn't

bear to think of himself living on any other spot than this, where he knew the sound of every gate and door,

and felt that the shape and colour of every roof and weather stain and broken hillock was good, because his

growing senses had been fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy which has hardly time to linger by the

hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropics and is at home with palms and banyans, which is nourished

on books of travel and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zambesi can hardly get a dim notion of

what an old fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot where all his memories centred and where life

seemed like a familiar smoothhandled tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And just now he was

living in that freshened memory of the faroff time which comes to us in the passive hours of recovery from

`Ay, Luke,' he said, one afternoon, as he stood looking over the orchard gate, `I remember the day they

planted those apple trees. My father was a huge man for planting it was like a merrymaking to him to get

a cart full o' young trees and I used to stand i' the cold with him, and follow him about like a dog.'

Then he turned round, and, leaning against the gate post, looked at the opposite buildings.

`The old mill 'ud miss me, I think, Luke. There's a story as when the mill changes hands, the river's angry

I've heard my father say it many a time. There's no telling whether there mayn't be summat in the story, for

this is a puzzling world and Old Harry's got a finger in it it's been too many for me, I know.'

`Ay, sir,' said Luke, with soothing sympathy, `what wi'the rust on the wheat, an' the firin' o' the ricks an' that,

as I've seen i' my time things often looks comical: there's the bacon fat wi' our last pig runs away like butter

`It's just as if it was yesterday, now,' Mr Tulliver went on, `when my father began the malting. I remember,

the day they finished the malthouse, I thought summat great was to come of it; for we'd a plumpudding

that day and a bit of a feast, and I said to my mother she was a fine dark eyed woman, my mother was the

little wench 'ull be as like her as two peas.' Here Mr Tulliver put his stick between his legs, and took out his

snuffbox, for the greater enjoyment of this anecdote, which dropped from him in fragments, as if he every

other moment lost narration in vision. `I was a little chap no higher much than my mother's knee she was

sore fond of us children, Gritty and me and so I said to her, "Mother," I said, "shall we have plumpudding

every day because o' the malthouse?" She used to tell me o' that till her dying day she was but a young

woman when she died, my mother was. But it's forty good year since they finished the malthouse, and it isn't

many days out of 'em all as I haven't looked out into the yard there, the first thing in the morning all

weathers, from year's end to year's end. I should go off my head in a new place I should be like as if I'd lost

my way. It's all hard, whichever way I look at it the harness 'ull gall me but it 'ud be summat to draw

`Ay, sir,' said Luke, `you'd be a deal better here nor in some new place. I can't abide new plazen mysen:

things is allays awk'ard narrowwheeled waggins, belike, and the stiles all another sort, an' oatcake i'

some plazen, tow'rt th' head o' the Floss, there. It's poor work, changing your country side.'

`But I doubt, Luke, they'll be for getting rid o' Ben, and making you do with a lad and I must help a bit wi'

`Ne'er mind, sir,' said Luke, `I shan't plague mysen. I'n been wi' you twenty year, an' you can't get twenty year

wi' whistlin' for 'em, no more nor you can make the trees grow: you mun wait till God A'mighty sends 'em. I

can't abide new victual nor new fazen, I can't you niver know but what they'll gripe you.'

The walk was finished in silence after this, for Luke had disburthened himself of thoughts to an extent that

left his conversational resources quite barren, and Mr Tulliver had relapsed from his recollections into a

painful meditation on the choice of hardships before him. Maggie noticed that he was unusually absent that

evening at tea; and afterwards he sat leaning forward in his chair, looking at the ground, moving his lips, and

shaking his head from time to time. Then he looked hard at Mrs Tulliver, who was knitting opposite him,

then at Maggie, who as she bent over her sewing was intensely conscious of some drama going forward in

her father's mind. Suddenly he took up the poker and broke the large coal fiercely.

`Dear heart, Mr Tulliver, what can you be thinking of?' said his wife, looking up in alarm. `It's very wasteful,

breaking the coal, and we've got hardly any large coal left, and I don't know where the rest is to come from.'

`I don't think you're quite so well tonight, are you, father?' said Maggie; `you seem uneasy.'

`Dear heart! is it time? I must go and get his supper,' said Mrs Tulliver, laying down her knitting, and leaving

`It's nigh upon half past eight,' said Mr Tulliver. `He'll be here soon. Go, go and get the big Bible, and open it

Maggie obeyed, wondering: but her father gave no further orders, and only sat listening for Tom's footfall on

the gravel, apparently irritated by the wind, which had risen and was roaring so as to drown all other sounds.

There was a strange light in his eyes that rather frightened Maggie: she began to wish that Tom would come,

`There he is, then,' said Mr Tulliver, in an excited way, when the knock came at last. Maggie went to open the

door, but her mother came out of the kitchen hurriedly, saying, `Stop a bit, Maggie, I'll open it.'

Mrs Tulliver had begun to be a little frightened at her boy, but she was jealous of every office others did for

`Your supper's ready by the kitchen fire, my boy,' she said as he took off his hat and coat. `You shall have it

`I think my father wants Tom, mother,' said Maggie, `he must come into the parlour first.'

Tom entered with his usual saddened evening face, but his eyes fell immediately on the open Bible and the

inkstand, and he glanced with a look of anxious surprise at his father, who was saying,

`You sit down all of you,' said Mr Tulliver, peremptorily. `And, Tom, sit down here, I've got something for

They all three sat down, looking at him. He began to speak, slowly, looking first at his wife.

`I've made up my mind, Bessy, and I'll be as good as my word to you. There's the same grave made for us to

lie down in, and we mustn't be bearing one another illwill. I'll stop in the old place, and I'll serve under

Wakem and I'll serve him like an honest man there's no Tulliver but what's honest, mind that, Tom'

here his voice rose: `they'll have it to throw up against me as I paid a dividend but it wasn't my fault it

was because there's raskills in the world They've been too many for me, and I must, give in. I'll put my neck

in harness for you've a right to say as I've brought you into trouble, Bessy and I'll serve him as honest as

if he was no raskill: I'm an honest man, though I shall never hold my head up no more I'm a tree as is broke

He paused and looked on the ground. Then suddenly raising his head, he said in a louder yet deeper tone,

`But I won't forgive him! I know what they say he never meant me any harm that's the way Old Harry

props up the raskills he's been at the bottom of everything but he's a fine gentleman I know, I know. I

shouldn't ha'gone to law, they say. But who made it so as there was no arbitratin', and no justice to be got? It

signifies nothing to him I know that he's one o' them fine gentlemen as get money by doing business for

poorer folks, and when he's made beggars of 'em, he'll give 'em charity. I won't forgive him! I wish he might

be punished with shame till his own son 'ud like to forget him. I wish he may do summat as they'd make him

work at the treadmill! But he won't he's too big a raskill to let the law lay hold on him. And you mind this,

Tom you never forgive him, neither, if you mean to be my son. There'll may be come a time, when you

may make him feel it'll never come to me I'n got my head under the yoke. Now write write it i' the

`O father, what?' said Maggie, sinking down by his knee, pale and trembling. `It's wicked to curse and bear

`It isn't wicked, I tell you,' said her father fiercely. `It's wicked as the raskills should prosper it's the devil's

`Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took service under John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him,

because I'd promised my wife to make her what amends I could for her trouble, and because I wanted to die

in th' old place, where I was born and my father was born. Put that i' the right words you know how and

then write, as I don't forgive Wakem, for all that; and for all I'll serve him honest, I wish evil may befall him.

There was a dead silence while Tom's pen moved along the paper: Mrs Tulliver looked scared, and Maggie

`Now write write as you'll remember what Wakem's done to your father, and you'll make him and his feel

`O no, father, dear father!' said Maggie, almost choked with fear. `You shouldn't make Tom write that.'

JOURNEYING down the Rh�ne on a summer's day, you have perhaps felt the sunshine made dreary by those

ruined villages which stud the banks in certain parts of its course, telling how the swift river once rose, like

an angry, destroying god sweeping down the feeble generations whose breath is in their nostrils and making

their dwellings a desolation. Strange contrast, you may have thought, between the effect produced on us by

these dismal remnants of commonplace houses, which in their best days were but the sign of a sordid life,

belonging in all its details to our own vulgar era and the effect produced by those ruins on the castled Rhine

which have crumbled and mellowed into such harmony with the green and rocky steeps, that they seem to

have a natural fitness, like the mountain pine: nay, even in the day when they were built they must have had

this fitness, as if they had been raised by an earthborn race who had inherited from their mighty parent a

sublime instinct of form. And that was a day of romance! If those robber barons were somewhat grim and

drunken ogres, they had a certain grandeur of the wild beast in them they were forest boars with tusks

tearing and rending, not the ordinary domestic grunter: they represented the demon forces for ever in collision

with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of life: they made a fine contrast in the picture with the wandering

minstrel, the softlipped princess, the pious recluse and the timid Israelite. That was a time of colour when

the sunlight fell on glancing steel and floating banners: a time of adventure and fierce struggle nay, of

living, religious art and religious enthusiasm; for were not cathedrals built in those days and did not great

emperors leave their western palaces to die before the infidel strongholds in the sacred east? Therefore it is

that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry: they belong to the grand historic life of humanity,

and raise up for me the vision of an epoch. But these deadtinted, holloweyed, angular skeletons of villages

on the Rh�ne, oppress me with the feeling that human life very much of it is a narrow, ugly, grovelling

existence, which even calamity does not elevate, but rather tends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of

conception; and I have a cruel conviction that the lives these ruins are the traces of were part of a gross sum

of obscure vitality, that will be swept into the same oblivion with the generations of ants and beavers. Perhaps

something akin to this oppressive feeling may have weighed upon you in watching this oldfashioned family

life on the banks of the Floss, which even sorrow hardly suffices to lift above the level of the tragicomic. It

is a sordid life, you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons irradiated by no sublime principles, no romantic

visions, no active, selfrenouncing faith moved by none of those wild, uncontrollable passions which create

the dark shadows of misery and crime without that primitive rough simplicity of wants, that hard

submissive illpaid toil, that childlike spellingout of what nature has written, which gives its poetry to

peasant life. Here, one has conventional worldly notions and habits without instruction and without polish

surely the most prosaic form of human life: proud respectability in a gig of unfashionable build: worldliness

without sidedishes. Observing these people narrowly, even when the iron hand of misfortune has shaken

them from their unquestioning hold on the world, one sees little trace of religion, still less of a distinctively

Christian creed. Their belief in the unseen, so far as it manifests itself at all, seems to be rather of a pagan

kind: their moral notions, though held with strong tenacity, seem to have no standard beyond hereditary

custom. You could not live among such people; you are stifled for want of an outlet towards something

beautiful, great, or noble: you are irritated with these dull men and women, as a kind of population out of

keeping with the earth on which they live with this rich plain where the great river flows for ever onward

and links the small pulse of the old English town with the beatings of the world's mighty heart. A vigorous

superstition that lashes its gods or lashes its own back, seems to be more congruous with the mystery of the

I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness; but it is necessary that we should feel it, if we care to

understand how it acted on the lives of Tom and Maggie how it has acted on young natures in many

generations, that in the onward tendency of human things have risen above the mental level of the generation

before them, to which they have been nevertheless tied by the strongest fibres of their hearts. The suffering,

whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every historical advance of mankind, is represented in this way

in every town and by hundreds of obscure hearths: and we need not shrink from this comparison of small

things with great; for does not science tell us that its highest striving is after the ascertainment of a unity

which shall bind the smallest things with the greatest? In natural science, I have understood, there is nothing

petty to the mind that has a large vision of relations, and to which every single object suggests a vast sum of

Certainly, the religious and moral ideas of the Dodsons and Tullivers were of too specific a kind to be arrived

at deductively, from the statement that they were part of the Protestant population of Great Britain. Their

theory of life had its core of soundness, as all theories must have on which decent and prosperous families

have been reared and have flourished; but it had the very slightest tincture of theology. If, in the maiden days

of the Dodson sisters, their bibles opened more easily at some parts than others, it was because of dried tulip

petals, which had been distributed quite impartially, without preference for the historical, devotional, or

doctrinal. Their religion was of a simple, semipagan kind, but there was no heresy in it, if heresy properly

means choice, for they didn't know there was any other religion, except that of chapelgoers, which appeared

to run in families, like asthma. How should they know? The vicar of their pleasant rural parish was not a

controversialist, but a good hand at whist, and one who had a joke always ready for a blooming female

parishioner. The religion of the Dodsons consisted in revering whatever was customary and respectable: it

was necessary to be baptised, else one could not be buried in the churchyard, and to take the sacrament before

death as a security against more dimly understood perils; but it was of equal necessity to have the proper

pallbearers and wellcured hams at one's funeral, and to leave an unimpeachable will. A Dodson would not

be taxed with the omission of anything that was becoming, or that belonged to that eternal fitness of things

which was plainly indicated in the practice of the most substantial parishioners, and in the family traditions

such as obedience to parents, faithfulness to kindred, industry, rigid honesty, thrift, the thorough scouring of

wooden and copper utensils, the hoarding of coins likely to disappear from the currency, the production of

firstrate commodities for the market, and the general preference for whatever was homemade. The Dodsons

were a very proud race, and their pride lay in the utter frustration of all desire to tax them with a breach of

traditional duty or propriety. A wholesome pride in many respects; since it identified honour with perfect

integrity, thoroughness of work, and faithfulness to admitted rules; and society owes some worthy qualities in

many of her members to mothers of the Dodson class, who made their butter and their fromenty well and

would have felt disgraced to make it otherwise. To be honest and poor was never a Dodson motto, still less,

to seem rich though being poor; rather, the family badge was to be honest and rich, and not only rich, but

richer than was supposed. To live respected and have the proper bearers at your funeral was an achievement

of the ends of existence that would be entirely nullified if on the reading of your Will, you sank in the opinion

of your fellowmen either by turning out to be poorer than they expected or by leaving your money in a

capricious manner without strict regard to degrees of kin. The right thing must always be done towards

kindred: the right thing was to correct them severely, if they were other than a credit to the family, but still

not to alienate from them the smallest rightful share in the family shoebuckles and other property. A

conspicuous quality in the Dodson character was its genuineness: its vices and virtues alike were phrases of a

proud, honest egoism which had a hearty dislike to whatever made against its own credit and interest, and

would be frankly hard of speech to inconvenient `kin' but would never forsake or ignore them would not let

The same sort of traditional belief ran in the Tulliver veins, but it was carried in richer blood, having elements

of generous imprudence, warm affection and hottempered rashness. Mr Tulliver's grandfather had been

heard to say that he was descended from one Ralph Tulliver, a wonderfully clever fellow who had ruined

himself. It is likely enough that the clever Ralph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and was very

decidedly of his own opinion. On the other hand, nobody had ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined

If such were the views of life on which the Dodsons and Tullivers had been reared in the praiseworthy past of

Pitt and high prices, you will infer from what you already know concerning the state of society in St Ogg's

that there had been no highly modifying influence to act on them in their maturer life. It was still possible,

even in that later time of antiCatholic preaching, for people to hold many pagan ideas and believe

themselves good church people notwithstanding: so we need hardly feel any surprise at the fact that Mr

Tulliver, though a regular churchgoer, recorded his vindictiveness on the flyleaf of his Bible. It was not

that any harm could be said concerning the vicar of that charming rural parish to which Dorlcote Mill

belonged: he was a man of excellent family, an irreproachable bachelor, of elegant pursuits, had taken

honours, and held a fellowship: Mr Tulliver regarded him with dutiful respect, as he did everything else

belonging to the churchservice; but he considered that church was one thing and common sense another,

and he wanted nobody to tell him what common sense was. Certain seeds which are required to find a nidus

for themselves under unfavourable circumstances have been supplied by nature with an apparatus of hooks,

so that they will get a hold on very unreceptive surfaces. The spiritual seed which had been scattered over Mr

Tulliver had apparently been destitute of any corresponding provision, and had slipped off to the winds again

THERE is something sustaining in the very agitation that accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an

acute pain is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which is transient strength. It is in the slow,

changed life that follows in the time when sorrow has become stale and has no longer an emotive intensity

that counteracts its pain, in the time when day follows day in dull unexpectant sameness and trial is a dreary

routine it is then that despair threatens: it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and

ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence which shall give to endurance the nature of

satisfaction. This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her short span of thirteen years. To the usual

precocity of the girl, she added that early experience of struggle, of conflict between the inward impulse and

outward fact which is the lot of every imaginative and passionate nature; and the years since she hammered

the nails into her wooden fetish among the wormeaten shelves of the attic, had been filled with so eager a

life in the triple world of reality, books and waking dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years in

everything except in her entire want of that prudence and selfcommand which were the qualities that made

Tom manly in the midst of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot was beginning to have a still, sad

monotony, which threw her more than ever on her inward self. Her father was able to attend to business

again, his affairs were settled, and he was acting as Wakem's manager on the old spot. Tom went to and fro

every morning and evening and became more and more silent in the short intervals at home: what was there

to say? One day was like another, and Tom's interest in life, driven back and crushed on every other side, was

concentrating itself into the one channel of ambitious resistance to misfortune. The peculiarities of his father

and mother were very irksome to him now they were laid bare of all the softening accompaniments of an easy

prosperous home, for Tom had very clear prosaic eyes not apt to be dimmed by mists of feeling or

imagination. Poor Mrs Tulliver, it seemed, would never recover her old self her placid household activity:

how could she? The objects among which her mind had moved complacently were all gone: all the little

hopes, and schemes, and speculations, all the pleasant little cares about her treasures which had made this

world quite comprehensible to her for a quarter of a century, since she had made her first purchase of the

sugartongs, had been suddenly snatched away from her, and she remained bewildered in this empty life.

Why that would have happened to her which had not happened to other women, remained an insoluble

question by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating comparison of the past with the present. It was

piteous to see the comely blond stout woman getting thinner and more worn under a bodily as well as mental

restlessness which made her often wander about the empty house after her work was done, until Maggie,

becoming alarmed about her, would seek her and bring her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that she

was injuring her health by never sitting down and resting herself. Yet amidst this helpless imbecility, there

was a touching trait of humble selfdevoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly towards her poor

mother amidst all the little wearing griefs caused by her mental feebleness. She would let Maggie do none of

the work that was heaviest and most soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish when Maggie attempted to

relieve her from her gratebrushing and scouring: `Let it alone, my dear, your hands 'ull get as hard as hard,'

she would say: `it's your mother's place to do that I can't do the sewing my eyes fail me.' And she would

still brush and carefully tend Maggie's hair, which she had become reconciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl,

now it was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child and, in general, would have been much better

if she had been quite different; yet the womanly heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, found a future

to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mother pleased herself with wearing out her own hands to

But the constant presence of her mother's regretful bewilderment was less painful to Maggie than that of her

father's sullen incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis was upon him and it seemed as if he

might always be in a childlike condition of dependence as long as he was still only halfawakened to his

trouble, Maggie had felt the strong tide of pitying love almost as an inspiration, a new power, that would

make the most difficult life easy for his sake; but now, instead of childlike dependence there had come a

taciturn hard concentration of purpose in strange contrast with his old vehement communicativeness and high

spirit, and this lasted from day to day and from week to week, the dull eye never brightening with any

eagerness or any joy. It is something cruelly incomprehensible to youthful natures this sombre sameness in

middleaged and elderly people whose life has resulted in disappointment and discontent, to whose faces a

smile becomes so strange that the sad lines all about the lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it

hurries away again for want of a welcome. `Why will they not kindle up and be glad sometimes?' thinks

young elasticity. `It would be so easy, if they only liked to do it.' And these leaden clouds that never part are

apt to create impatience even in the filial affection that streams forth in nothing but tenderness and pity in the

Mr Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home: he hurried away from market, he refused all invitations to

stay and chat, as in old times, in the houses where he called on business. He could not be reconciled with his

lot: there was no attitude in which his pride did not feel its bruises; and in all behaviour towards him, whether

kind or cold, he detected an allusion to the change in his circumstances. Even the days on which Wakem

came to ride round the land and inquire into the business, were not so black to him as those market days on

which he had met several creditors who had accepted a composition from him. To save something towards

the repayment of those creditors was the object towards which he was now bending all his thoughts and

efforts; and under the influence of this allcompelling demand of his nature, the somewhat profuse man who

hated to be stinted or to stint any one else in his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the

keeneyed grudger of morsels. Mrs Tulliver could not economise enough to satisfy him, in their food and

firing, and he would eat nothing himself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, though depressed and

strongly repelled by his father's sullennness and the dreariness of home, entered thoroughly into his father's

feelings about paying the creditors and the poor lad brought his first quarter's money, with a delicious sense

of achievement, and gave it to his father to put into the tin box which held the savings. The little store of

sovereigns in the tin box seemed to be the only sight that brought a faint beam of pleasure into the miller's

eyes faint and transient, for it was soon dispelled by the thought that the time would be long perhaps

longer than his life before the narrow savings could remove the hateful incubus of debt. A deficit of more

than five hundred pounds with the accumulating interest seemed a deep pit to fill with the savings from thirty

shillings a week, even when Tom's probable savings were to be added. On this one point there was entire

community of feeling in the four widely differing beings who sat round the dying fire of sticks which made a

cheap warmth for them on the verge of bed time. Mrs Tulliver carried the proud integrity of the Dodsons in

her blood, and had been brought up to think that to wrong people of their money, which was another phrase

for debt, was a sort of moral pillory: it would have been wickedness, to her mind, to have run counter to her

husband's desire to `do the right thing' and retrieve his name. She had a confused dreamy notion that if the

creditors were all paid, her plate and linen ought to come back to her, but she had an inbred perception that

while people owed money they were unable to pay, they couldn't rightly call anything their own. She

murmured a little that Mr Tulliver so peremptorily refused to receive anything in repayment from Mr and Mrs

Moss: but to all his requirements of household economy she was submissive to the point of denying herself

the cheapest indulgences of mere flavour: her only rebellion was to smuggle into the kitchen something that

These narrow notions about debt, held by the oldfashioned Tullivers, may perhaps excite a smile on the

faces of many readers in these days of wide commercial views and wide philosophy, according to which

everything rights itself without any trouble of ours the fact that my tradesman is out of pocket by me is to

be looked at through the serene certainty that somebody else's tradesman is in pocket by somebody else, and

since there must be bad debts in the world, why, it is mere egoism not to like that we in particular should

make them instead of our fellowcitizens. I am telling the history of very simple people, who had never had

Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentration of desire, Mr Tulliver retained the feeling

towards his `little wench' which made her presence a need to him though it would not suffice to cheer him.

She was still the desire of his eyes, but the sweet spring of fatherly love was now mingled with bitterness,

like everything else. When Maggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get a low stool and sit by

her father's knee, leaning her cheek against it. How she wished he would stroke her head, or give her some

sign that he was soothed by the sense that he had a daughter who loved him! But now she got no answer to

her little caresses, either from her father or from Tom the two idols of her life. Tom was weary and

abstracted in the short intervals when he was at home, and her father was bitterly preoccupied with the

thought that the girl was growing up was shooting up into a woman; and how was she to do well in life?

She had a poor chance for marrying, down in the world as they were. And he hated the thought of her

marrying poorly, as her aunt Gritty had done: that would be a thing to make him turn in his grave the little

wench so pulled down by children and toil as her aunt Moss was. When uncultured minds, confined to a

narrow range of personal experience, are under the pressure of continued misfortune, their inward life is apt

to become a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts: the same words, the same scenes are

revolved over and over again, the same mood accompanies them the end of the year finds them as much

what they were at the beginning as if they were machines set to a recurrent series of movements.

The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. Uncles and aunts paid only short visits now: of course

they could not stay to meals, and the constraint caused by Mr Tulliver's savage silence, which seemed to add

to the hollow resonance of the bare uncarpeted room when the aunts were talking, heightened the

unpleasantness of these family visits on all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for other acquaintances

there is a chill air surrounding those who are down in the world and people are glad to get away from them,

as from a cold room: human beings, mere men and women, without furniture, without anything to offer you,

who have ceased to count as anybody, present an embarrassing negation of reasons for wishing to see them,

or of subjects on which to converse with them. At that distant day, there was a dreary isolation in the civilised

Christian society of these realms for families that had dropped below their original level, unless they

belonged to a sectarian church, which gets some warmth of brotherhood by walling in the sacred fire.

ONE afternoon when the chestnuts were coming into flower, Maggie had brought her chair outside the front

door and was seated there with a book on her knees. Her dark eyes had wandered from the book, but they did

not seem to be enjoying the sunshine which pierced the screen of jasmine on the projecting porch at her right

and threw leafy shadows on her pale round cheek; they seemed rather to be searching for something that was

not disclosed by the sunshine. It had been a more miserable day than usual: her father, after a visit of

Wakem's had had a paroxysm of rage, in which for some trifling fault he had beaten the boy who served in

the mill. Once before, since his illness, he had had a similar paroxysm, in which he had beaten his horse, and

the scene had left a lasting terror in Maggie's mind. The thought had risen, that some time or other he might

beat her mother if she happened to speak in her feeble way at the wrong moment. The keenest of all dread

with her was, lest her father should add to his present misfortune the wretchedness of doing something

irretrievably disgraceful. The battered schoolbook of Tom's which she held on her knees, could give her no

fortitude under the pressure of that dread, and again and again her eyes had filled with tears, as they wandered

vaguely, seeing neither the chestnut trees nor the distant horizon, but only future scenes of homesorrow.

Suddenly she was roused by the sound of the opening gate and of footsteps on the gravel. It was not Tom

who was entering, but a man in a sealskin cap and a blue plush waistcoat, carrying a pack on his back, and

`O Bob, it's you!' said Maggie, starting up with a smile of pleased recognition, for there had been no

abundance of kind acts to efface the recollection of Bob's generosity. `I'm so glad to see you.'

`Thank you, Miss,' said Bob, lifting his cap and showing a delighted face, but immediately relieving himself

of some accompanying embarrassment by looking down at his dog, and saying in a tone of disgust, `Get out

`My brother is not at home yet, Bob,' said Maggie, `he is always at St Ogg's in the daytime.'

`Well, Miss,' said Bob, `I should be glad to see Mr Tom but that isn't just what I'm come for look here!'

Bob was in the act of depositing his pack on the doorstep, and with it a row of small books fastened together

with string. Apparently, however, they were not the object to which he wished to call Maggie's attention, but

rather something which he had carried under his arm, wrapped in a red handkerchief.

`See here!' he said again, laying the red parcel on the others and unfolding it, `you won't think I'm amakin'

too free, Miss, I hope, but I lighted on these books, and I thought they might make up to you a bit for them as

The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a superannuated `Keepsake' and six or seven numbers of a

`Portrait Gallery,' in royal octavo; and the emphatic request to look referred to a portrait of George the Fourth

`There's all sorts o' genelmen here,' Bob went on, turning over the leaves with some excitement, `wi' all sorts

o' noses an' some bald an' some wi' wigs Parlament genelmen, I reckon. An' here,' he added, opening the

`Keepsake,' `here's ladies for you, some wi' curly hair and some wi'smooth, an' some asmiling wi' their

heads o' one side an'some as if they was goin' to cry look here asittin' on the ground out o' door dressed

like the ladies I'n seen get out o'the carriages at the balls in th' Old Hall there. My eyes, I wonder what the

chaps wear as go acourtin' 'em! I sot up till the clock was gone twelve last night alookin' at 'em I did

till they stared at me out o' the picturs as if they'd know when I spoke to 'em. But, lors! I shouldn't know what

to say to 'em. They'll be more fittin' company for you, Miss, and the man at the bookstall, he said they

`And you've bought them for me, Bob?' said Maggie, deeply touched by this simple kindness. `How very,

`Not me!' said Bob. `I'd ha' gev three times the money, if they'll make up to you a bit for them as was sold

away from you, Miss. For I'n niver forgot how you looked when you fretted about the books bein' gone it's

stuck by me as if it was a pictur hingin' before me. An' when I see'd the book open upo' the stall, wi' the lady

lookin' out of it wi' eyes a bit life your'n when you was frettin' you'll excuse my takin' the liberty, Miss I

thought I'd make free to buy it for you, an' then I bought the books full o' genelmen to match an then' here

Bob took up the small stringed packet of books `I thought you might like a bit more print as well as the

picturs, an' I got these for a sayso they're cramfull o' print, an' I thought they'd do no harm comin' along

wi' these bettermost books. An' I hope you won't say me nay, an' tell me as you won't have 'em, like Mr Tom

`No, indeed, Bob,' said Maggie, `I'm very thankful to you for thinking of me, and being so good to me and

Tom. I don't think any one ever did such a kind thing for me before. I haven't many friends who care for me.'

`Hev a dog, Miss they're better friends nor any Christian,' said Bob, laying down his pack again, which he

had taken up with the intention of hurrying away; for he felt considerable shyness in talking to a young lass

like Maggie, though, as he usually said of himself, `his tongue overrun him' when he began to speak. `I can't

give you Mumps, 'cause he'd break his heart to go away from me Eh, Mumps, what do you say, you

riffraff?' (Mumps declined to express himself more diffusely than by a single affirmative movement of his

`Eh, that's a pity: else there's a pup if you didn't mind about it not bein' thorough bred its mother acts in

the Punch show an uncommon sensable bitch she means more sense wi' her bark nor half the chaps can

put into their talk from breakfast to sundown. There's one chap carries pots, a poor low trade as any on the

road he says, "Why, Toby's nought but a mongrel there's nought to look at in her." But I says to him,

"Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel? There wasn't much pickin' o' your feyther an' mother, to look at

you." Not but what I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't abide to see one cur grinnin' at another. I wish you

good evenin', Miss,' added Bob, abruptly taking up his pack again, under the consciousness that his tongue

`Won't you come in the evening some time, and see my brother, Bob?' said Maggie.

`Yes, Miss, thank you another time. You'll give my duty to him, if you please. Eh, he's a fine growed chap,

`You don't call Mumps a cur, I suppose,' said Maggie, divining that any interest she showed in Mumps would

`No, Miss, a fine way off that,' said Bob, with a pitying smile, `Mumps is as fine a cross as you'll see

anywhere along the Floss, an' I'n been up it wi' the barge times enoo. Why, the gentry stops to look at him,

but you won't catch Mumps alooking at the gentry much he minds his own business he does.'

The expression of Mumps's face, which seemed to be tolerating the superfluous existence of objects in

`Ay, that would he, and thank you. He knows his company, Mumps does. He isn't a dog as 'ull be caught wi'

gingerbread: he'd smell a thief a good deal stronger nor the gingerbread he would. Lors, I talk to him by th'

hour together, when I'm walking i'lone places, and if I'n done a bit o' mischief I allays tell him I'n got no

`That's what it is, Miss,' said Bob, quickly, exhibiting a singularly broad specimen of that difference between

the man and the monkey. 85 `It tells i' measuring out the flannel, you see. I carry flannel, 'cause it's light for

my pack, an' it's dear stuff, you see, so a big thumb tells. I clap my thumb at the end o' the yard and cut o' the

`But, Bob,' said Maggie, looking serious, `that's cheating: I don't like to hear you say that.'

`Don't you, Miss?' said Bob, regretfully. `Then I'm sorry I said it. But I'm so used to talking to Mumps, an' he

doesn't mind a bit o' cheating, when it's them skinflint women, as haggle and haggle, an' 'ud like to get their

flannel for nothing, an' 'ud niver ask theirselves how I got my dinner out on't. I niver cheat anybody as doesn't

want to cheat me, Miss lors, I'm a honest chap, I am, only I must hev a bit o' sport, an' now I don't go wi'

the ferrets, I'n got no varmint to come over but them haggling women. I wish you good evening, Miss.'

`Goodby, Bob. Thank you very much for bringing me the books. And come again to see Tom.'

`Yes, Miss,' said Bob, moving on a few steps; then turning half round, he said, `I'll leave off that trick wi' my

big thumb, if you don't think well on me for it, Miss but it 'ud be a pity, it would. I couldn't find another

trick so good an' what 'ud be the use o' havin' a big thumb? It might as well ha' been narrer.'

Maggie, thus exalted into Bob's directing Madonna, laughed in spite of herself, at which her worshipper's

blue eyes twinkled too, and under these favouring auspices he touched his cap and walked away.

The days of chivalry are not gone, notwithstanding Burke's grand dirge over them: they live still in that

faroff worship paid by many a youth and man to the woman of whom he never dreams that he shall touch so

much as her little finger or the hem of her robe. Bob, with the pack on his back, had as respectful an adoration

for this darkeyed maiden as if he had been a knight in armour calling aloud on her name as he pricked on to

That gleam of merriment soon died away from Maggie's face, and perhaps only made the returning gloom

deeper by contrast. She was too dispirited even to like answering questions about Bob's present of books, and

she carried them away to her bedroom, laying them down there and seating herself on her one stool, without

caring to look at them just yet. She leaned her cheek against the window frame and thought that the

Maggie's sense of loneliness and utter privation of joy had deepened with the brightness of advancing spring.

All the favourite outdoor nooks about home, which seemed to have done their part with her parents in

nurturing and cherishing her, were not mixed up with the home sadness and gathered no smile from the

sunshine. Every affection, every delight the poor child had had was like an aching nerve to her. There was no

music for her any more no piano, no harmonised voices, no delicious stringed instruments with their

passionate cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibration through her frame. And of all her school

life, there was nothing left her now but her little collection of school books, which she turned over with a

sickening sense that she knew them all, and they were all barren of comfort. Even at school she had often

wished for books with more in them: everything she learned there seemed like the ends of long threads that

snapped immediately. And now without the indirect charm of school emulation T�l�maque was mere

bran: so were the hard dry questions on Christian doctrine: there was no flavour in them, no strength.

Sometimes Maggie thought she could have been contented with absorbing fancies: if she could have had all

Scott's novels and all Byron's poems! then perhaps she might have found happiness enough to dull her

sensibility to her actual daily life. And yet... they were hardly what she wanted. She could make

dreamworlds of her own but no dreamworld would satisfy her now. She wanted some explanation of this

hard, real life: the unhappylooking father seated at the dull breakfasttable; the childish bewildered mother;

the little sordid tasks that filled the hours, or the more oppressive emptiness of weary, joyless leisure; the

need of some tender, demonstrative love; the cruel sense that Tom didn't mind what she thought or felt, and

that they were no longer playfellows together; the privation of all pleasant things that had come to her more

than to others: she wanted some key that would enable her to understand and, in understanding, endure, the

heavy weight that had fallen on her young heart. If she had been taught `real learning and wisdom, such as

great men knew,' she thought she should have held the secrets of life; if she had only books that she might

learn for herself what wise men knew! Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sages and

poets. She knew little of saints and martyrs, and had gathered, as a general result of her teaching, that they

were a temporary provision against the spread of Catholicism and had all died at Smithfield.

In one of these meditations, it occurred to her that she had forgotton Tom's schoolbooks, which had been

sent home in his trunk. But she found the stock unaccountably shrunk down to the few old ones which had

been well thumbed the Latin Dictionary and Grammar, a Delectus, a torn Eutropius, the wellworn Virgil,

Aldrich's Logic, and the exasperating Euclid. Still, Latin, Euclid and Logic would surely be a considerable

step in masculine wisdom in that knowledge which made men contented and even glad to live. Not that the

yearning for effectual wisdom was quite unmixed: a certain mirage would now and then rise on the desert of

the future, in which she seemed to see herself honoured for her surprising attainments. And so the poor child,

with her soul's hunger and her illusions of selfflattery, began to nibble at this thickrinded fruit of the tree of

knowledge, filling her vacant hours with Latin, geometry, and the forms of the syllogism, and feeling a gleam

of triumph now and then that her understanding was quite equal to these peculiarly masculine studies. For a

week or two she went on resolutely enough, though with an occasional sinking of heart, as if she had set out

toward the Promised Land alone, and found it a thirsty, trackless, uncertain journey. In the severity of her

early resolution she would take Aldrich out into the fields, and then look off her book towards the sky where

the lark was twinkling or to the reeds and bushes by the river where the waterfowl rustled out on her

anxious, awkward flight with a startled sense that the relation between Aldrich and this living world was

extremely remote for her. The discouragement deepened as the days went on, and the eager heart gained

faster and faster on the patient mind. Somehow, when she sat at the window with her book, her eyes would

fix themselves blankly on the outdoor sunshine: then they would fill with tears, and sometimes, if her mother

was not in the room, the studies would all end in sobbing. She rebelled against her lot, she fainted under its

loneliness, and fits even of anger and hatred towards her father and mother who were so unlike what she

would have them to be towards Tom, who checked her and met her thought or feeling always by some

thwarting difference would flow out over her affections and conscience like a lava stream and frighten her

with the sense that it was not difficult for her to become a demon. Then her brain would be busy with wild

romances of a flight from home in search of something less sordid and dreary: she would go to some great

man Walter Scott, perhaps, and tell him how wretched and how clever she was, and he would surely do

something for her. But in the middle of her vision her father would perhaps enter the room for the evening,

and, surprised that she sat still, without noticing him, would say complainingly, `Come, am I to fetch my

slippers myself?' The voice pierced through Maggie like a sword: there was another sadness besides her own,

This afternoon, the sight of Bob's cheerful freckled face had given her discontent a new direction. She

thought it was part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen of larger wants than

others seemed to feel, that she had to endure this wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was,

that was greatest and best on this earth. She wished she could have been like Bob, with his easily satisfied

ignorance, or like Tom, who had something to do on which he could fix his mind with a steady purpose and

disregard everything else. Poor child! as she leaned her head against the windowframe with her hands

clasped tighter and tighter and her foot beating the ground, she was as lonely in her trouble as if she had been

the only girl in the civilised world of that day, who had come out of her schoollife with a soul untrained for

inevitable struggles with no other part of her inherited share in the hardwon treasures of thought, which

generations of painful toil have laid up for the race of men than shreds and patches of feeble literature and

false history with much futile information about Saxon and other kings of doubtful example, but unhappily

quite without that knowledge of the irreversible laws within and without her which, governing the habits,

becomes morality, and, developing the feelings of submission and dependence, becomes religion: as lonely

in her trouble as if every other girl besides herself had been cherished and watched over by elder minds, not

At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books that lay on the window shelf, and she half forsook her

reverie to turn over listlessly the leaves of the `Portrait Gallery,' but she soon pushed this aside to examine the

little row of books tied together with string. `Beauties of the Spectator,' `Rasselas,' `Economy of Human Life,'

`Gregory's Letters' she knew the sort of matter that was inside all these: the `Christian Year' that seemed

to be a hymnbook, and she laid it down again; but Thomas � Kempis? the name had come across her in

her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which every one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name

that strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little, old, clumsy book with some curiosity: it had the

corners turned down in many places, and some hand, now for ever quiet, had made at certain passages strong

pen and ink marks, long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to leaf and read where the quiet

hand pointed... `Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world... If thou seekest

this or that, and wouldst be here or there, to enjoy thy own will and pleasure thou shalt never be quiet nor free

from care: for in everything somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will cross

thee... Both above and below, which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere thou shalt find the Cross:

and everywhere of necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt have inward peace, and enjoy an

everlasting crown... If thou desire to mount unto this height, thou must set out courageously, and lay the axe

to the root; that thou mayst pluck up and destroy that hidden inordinate inclination to thyself, and unto all

private and earthly good. On this sin, that a man inordinately loveth himself, almost all dependeth,

whatsoever is thoroughly to be overcome; which evil being once overcome and subdued, there will presently

ensue great peace and tranquillity... It is but little thou sufferest in comparison of them that have suffered so

much, were so strongly tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest

therefore to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayst the easier bear thy little

adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause thereof... Blessed

are those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice, and listen not to the whisperings of the world.

Blessed are those ears which hearken not unto the voice which soundeth outwardly, but unto the Truth which

A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a

strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir while hers was in stupor. She went on

from one brown mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, hardly conscious that she was

`Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place of thy rest? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling,

and all earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy journey thither. All things pass away, and thou

together with them. Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be entangled and perish... If a man should

give all his substance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great penances, yet are they but little. And if

he should attain to all knowledge, he is yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue, and very fervent

devotion, yet is there much wanting; to wit, one thing, which is most necessary for him. What is that? That

having left all, he leave himself, and go wholly out of himself, and retain nothing of selflove... I have often

said unto thee, and now again I say the same: Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much

inward peace... Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations, and superfluous cares fly away; then shall

Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here,

then, was a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other secrets here was a sublime height to be

reached without the help of outward things here was insight, and strength, and conquest, to be won by

means entirely within her own soul, where a supreme teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her

like the suddenly apprehended solution of a problem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from

fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central necessity of the universe; and for the first time

she saw the possibility of shifting the position from which she looked at the gratification of her own desires,

of taking her stand out of herself, and looking at her own life as an insignificant part of a divinely guided

whole. She read on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, the

pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength; returning to it after she had been called away, and reading till the

sun went down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present,

she sat in the deepening twilight forming plans of selfhumiliation and entire devotedness, and in the ardour

of first discovery, renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long been

craving in vain. She had not perceived how could she until she had lived longer? the inmost truth of the

old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still

panting for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she had found the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines

and systems of mysticism or quietism: but this voice out of the faroff middle ages, was the direct

communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message.

I suppose that is the reason why the small oldfashioned book, for which you need only pay sixpence at a

bookstall, works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness; while expensive sermons and

treatises newly issued leave all things as they were before. It was written down by a hand that waited for the

heart's prompting, it is the chronicle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust and triumph not written on

velvet cushions to teach endurance to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it

remains to all time, a lasting record of human needs and human consolations, the voice of a brother who, ages

ago, felt and suffered and renounced in the cloister, perhaps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with

much chanting and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from ours but under the same silent

faroff heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same

In writing the history of unfashionable families, one is apt to fall into a tone of emphasis which is very far

from being the tone of good society, where principles and beliefs are not only of an extremely moderate kind,

but are always presupposed, no subjects being eligible but such as can be touched with a light and graceful

irony. But then, good society has its claret and its velvet carpets, its dinnerengagements six weeks deep, its

opera and its fa�ry ballrooms; rides of its ennui on thoroughbred horses, lounges at the club, has to keep clear

of crinoline vortices, gets is science done by Faraday, and its religion by the superior clergy who are to be

met in the best houses: how should it have time or need for belief and emphasis? But good society, floated on

gossamer wings of light irony, is of very expensive production; requiring nothing less than a wide and

arduous national life condensed in unfragrant deafening factories, cramping itself in mines, sweating at

furnaces, grinding, hammering, weaving under more or less oppression of carbonic acid or else, spread over

sheepwalks, and scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey or chalky cornlands, where the rainy days

look dreary. This wide national life is based entirely on emphasis the emphasis of want, which urges it into

all the activities necessary for the maintenance of good society and light irony: it spends its heavy years often

in a chill, uncarpeted fashion amidst family discord unsoftened by long corridors. Under such circumstances

there are many among its myriads of souls who have absolutely needed an emphatic belief, life in this

unpleasurable shape demanding some solution even to unspeculative minds; just as you inquire into the

stuffing of your couch when anything galls you there, whereas eiderdown and perfect French springs excite

no question. Some have an emphatic belief in alcohol, and seek their ekstasis or outside standingground in

gin, but the rest require something that good society calls enthusiasm, something that will present motives in

an entire absence of high prizes, something that will give patience and feed human love when the limbs ache

with weariness and human looks are hard upon us something, clearly, that lies outside personal desires, that

includes resignation for ourselves and active love for what is not ourselves. Now and then that sort of

enthusiasm finds a farechoing voice that comes from an experience springing out of the deepest need. And it

was by being brought within the long lingering vibrations of such a voice that Maggie, with her girl's face and

unnoted sorrows, found an effort and a hope that helped her through two years of loneliness, making out a

faith for herself without the aid of established authorities and appointed guides for they were not at hand,

and her need was pressing. From what you know of her, you will not be surprised that she threw some

exaggeraction and wilfulness, some pride and impetuosity even into her selfrenunciation: her own life was

still a drama for her, in which she demanded of herself that her part should be played with intensity. And so it

came to pass that she often lost the spirit of humility by being excessive in the outward act; she often strove

after too high a flight and came down with her poor little halffledged wings dabbled in the mud. For

example, she not only determined to work at plain sewing, that she might contribute something towards the

fund in the tin box, but she went in the first instance in her zeal of selfmortification to ask for it at a

linenshop in St Ogg's, instead of getting it in a more quiet and indirect way, and could see nothing but what

was entirely wrong and unkind, nay, persecuting, in Tom's reproof of her for this unnecessary act. `I don't like

my sister to do such things,' said Tom, `I'll take care that the debts are paid, without your lowering yourself in

that way.' Surely there was some tenderness and bravery mingled with the worldliness and selfassertion of

that little speech, but Maggie held it as dross, overlooking the grains of gold, and took Tom's rebuke as one of

her outward crosses. Tom was very hard to her, she used to think, in her long nightwatchings to her who

had always loved him so; and then she strove to be contented with that hardness, and to require nothing. That

is the path we all like when we set out on our abandonment of egoism the path of martyrdom and

endurance, where the palmbranches grow, rather than the steep highway of tolerance, just allowance, and

The old books, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich that wrinkled fruit of the tree of knowledge had been all laid

by, for Maggie had turned her back on the vain ambition to share the thoughts of the wise. In her first ardour,

she flung away the books with a sort of triumph that she had risen above the need of them, and if they had

been her own she would have burned them, believing that she would never repent. She read so eagerly and

constantly in her three books, the Bible, Thomas�Kempis, and the `Christian Year' (no longer rejected as a

`hymnbook') that they filled her mind with a continual stream of rhythmic memories; and she was too

ardently learning to see all nature and life in the light of her new faith to need any other material for her mind

to work on, as she sat with her wellplied needle, making shirts and other complicated stitchings falsely

called `plain' by no means plain to Maggie, since wristband and sleeve and the like had a capability of

Hanging diligently over her sewing, Maggie was a sight any one might have been pleased to look at. That

new inward life of hers, notwithstanding some volcanic upheavings of imprisoned passions, yet shone out in

her face with a tender soft light that mingled itself as added loveliness with the gradually enriched colour and

outline of her blossoming youth. Her mother felt the change in her with a sort of puzzled wonder that Maggie

should be `growing up so good;' it was amazing that this once `contrairy' child was become so submissive, so

backward to assert her own will. Maggie used to look up from her work and find her mother's eyes fixed

upon her: they were watching and waiting for the large young glance, as if her elder frame got some needful

warmth from it. The mother was getting fond of her tall, brown girl, the only bit of furniture now on which

she could bestow her anxiety and pride, and Maggie, in spite of her own ascetic wish to have no personal

adornment was obliged to give way to her mother about her hair and submit to have the abundant black locks

plaited into a coronet on the summit of her head after the pitiable fashion of those antiquated times.

`Let your mother have that bit o' pleasure, my dear,' said Mrs Tulliver, `I'd trouble enough with your hair

So Maggie, glad of anything that would soothe her mother and cheer their long day together, consented to the

vain decoration, and showed a queenly head above her old frocks steadily refusing, however, to look at

herself in the glass. Mrs Tulliver liked to call the father's attention to Maggie's hair and other unexpected

`I knew well enough what she'd be, before now it's nothing new to me. But it's a pity she isn't made o'

commoner stuff she'll be thrown away, I doubt: there'll be nobody to marry her as is fit for her.'

And Maggie's graces of mind and body fed his gloom. He sat patiently enough while she read him a chapter,

or said something timidly when they were alone together about trouble being turned into a blessing. He took

it all as part of his daughter's goodness, which made his misfortunes the sadder to him because they damaged

her change in life. In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vindictiveness, there is no

room for new feelings: Mr Tulliver did not want spiritual consolation he wanted to shake off the

THE family sittingroom was long room with a window at each end one looking towards the croft and along

the Ripple to the banks of the Floss, the other into the millyard. Maggie was sitting with her work against

the latter window when she saw Mr Wakem entering the yard, as usual, on his fine black horse; but not alone,

as usual. Some one was with him a figure in a clock, on a handsome pony. Maggie had hardly time to feel

that it was Philip come back, before they were in front of the window, and he was raising his hat to her, while

his father, catching the movement by a side glance, looked sharply round at them both. Maggie hurried away

from the window and carried her work upstairs; for Mr Wakem sometimes came in and inspected the books,

and Maggie felt that the meeting with Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in the presence of the two

fathers. Some day, perhaps, she should see him when they could just shake hands and she could tell him that

she remembered his goodness to Tom, and the things he had said to her in the old days, though they could

never be friends any more. It was not at all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again: she retained her childish

gratitude and pity towards him and remembered his cleverness; and in the early weeks of her loneliness she

had continually recalled the image of him among the people who had been kind to her in life, often wishing

she had him for a brother and a teacher, as they had fancied it might have been, in their talk together. But that

sort of wishing had been banished along with other dreams that savoured of seeking her own will; and she

thought, besides, that Philip might be altered by his life abroad he might have become worldly, and really

not care about her saying anything to him now. And yet, his face was wonderfully little altered it was only

a larger, more manly copy of the pale smallfeatured boy's face, with the grey eyes and the boyish waving

brown hair; there was the old deformity to awaken the old pity, and after all her meditations, Maggie felt that

she really should like to say a few words to him. He might still be melancholy, as he always used to be, and

like her to look at him kindly. She wondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes. With that

thought Maggie glanced towards the square lookingglass which was condemned to hang with its face

towards the wall, and she halfstarted from her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and snatched up

her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by forcing her memory to recall snatches of hymns, until she saw

It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to lengthen the daily walk which was her one indulgence;

but this day and the following she was so busy with work which must be finished, that she never went beyond

the gate, and satisfied her need of the open air by sitting out of doors. One of her frequent walks, when she

was not obliged to go to St Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what was called the `hill' an insignificant

rise of ground crowned by trees, lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of Dorlcote Mill.

Insignificant, I call it, because in height it was hardly more than a bank; but there may come moments when

Nature makes a mere bank a means towards a fateful result, and that is why I ask you to imagine this high

bank crowned with trees, making an uneven wall for some quarter of a mile along the left side of Dorlcote

Mill and the pleasant fields behind it bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just where this line of bank sloped

down again to the level, a byroad turned off and led to the other side of the rise, where it was broken into

very capricious hollows and mounds by the working of an exhausted stonequarry so long exhausted that

both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles and trees, and here and there by a stretch of grass

which a few sheep kept closenibbled. In her childish days Maggie held this place, called the Red Deeps, in

very great awe, and needed all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her to an excursion thither,

visions of robbers and fierce animals haunting every hollow. But now it had the charm for her which any

broken ground, any mimic rock and ravine have for the eyes that rest habitually on the level, especially in

summer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow of a branching ash, stooping aslant from the

steep above her, and listen to the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the garment of Silence, or see the

sunlight piercing the distant boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenly blue of the wild

hyacinths. In this June time too, the dogroses were in their glory, and that was an additional reason why

Maggie should direct her walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, on the first day she was free to

wander at her will a pleasure she loved so well that sometimes, in her ardours of renunciation, she thought

You may see her now, as she walks down the favourite turning and enters the Deeps by a narrow path

through a group of Scotch firs her tall figure and old lavender gown visible through an hereditary black silk

shawl of some widemeshed netlike material; and now she is sure of being unseen, she takes off her bonnet

and ties it over her arm. One would certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seventeenth year

perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of the glance, from which all search and unrest seem to have

departed, perhaps because her broadchested figure has the mould of early womanhood. Youth and health

have withstood well the involuntary and voluntary hardships of her lot, and the nights in which she has lain

on the hard floor for a penance have left no obvious trace: the eyes are liquid, the brown cheek is firm and

rounded, the full lips are red. With her dark colouring and jet crown surmounting her tall figure, she seems to

have a sort of kinship with the grand Scotch firs, at which she is looking up as if she loved them well. Yet

one has a sense of uneasiness in looking at her a sense of opposing elements, of which a fierce collision is

imminent: surely there is a hushed expression such as one often sees in older faces under borderless caps, out

of keeping with the resistant youth, which one expects to flash out in a sudden, passionate glance that will

dissipate all the quietude, like a damped fire leaping out again when all seemed safe.

But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She was calmly enjoying the free air, while she looked up

at the old firtrees and thought that those broken ends of branches were the records of past storms which had

only made the red stems soar higher. But while her eyes were still turned upward, she became conscious of a

moving shadow cast by the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked down with a startled

gesture to see Philip Wakem, who first raised his hat, and then blushing deeply, came forward to her and put

out his hand. Maggie too coloured with surprise which soon gave way to pleasure. She put out her hand and

looked down at the lower deformed figure before her with frank eyes, filled for the moment with nothing but

the memory of her child's feelings a memory that was always strong in her. She was the first to speak.

`You startled me,' she said, smiling faintly. `I never meet any one here. How came you to be walking here?

`Yes, I did,' said Philip, still embarrassed. `I wished to see you very much. I watched a long while yesterday

on the bank near your house to see if you would come out; but you never came. Then I watched again today,

and when I saw the way you took, I kept you in sight and came down the bank, behind there. I hope you will

`No,' said Maggie with simple seriousness, walking on, as if she meant Philip to accompany her, `I'm very

glad you came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of speaking to you. I've never forgotten how

good you were long ago to Tom, and me too; but I was not sure that you would remember us so well. Tom

and I have had a great deal of trouble since then, and I think that makes one think more of what happened

`I can't believe that you have thought of me so much as I have thought of you,' said Philip, timidly. `Do you

know, when I was away, I made a picture of you as you looked that morning in the study when you said you

Philip drew a large miniaturecase from his pocket, and opened it. Maggie saw her old self leaning on a

table, with her black locks hanging down behind her ears, looking into space with strange, dreamy eyes. It

`O dear,' said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure. `What a queer little girl I was. I remember myself

with my hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really was like a gypsy. I daresay I am now,' she added, after a

The words might have been those of a coquette, but the full bright glance Maggie turned on Philip was not

that of a coquette. She really did hope he liked her face as it was now, but it was simply the rising again of

her innate delight in admiration and love. Philip met her eyes and looked at her in silence for a long moment,

The light died out a little from Maggie's face, and there was a slight trembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell

lower, but she did not turn away her head, and Philip continued to look at her. Then he said, slowly,

`Am I?' said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper flush. She turned her face away from him and took

some steps looking straight before her in silence, as if she were adjusting her consciousness to this new idea.

Girls are so accustomed to think of dress as the main ground of vanity, that in abstaining from the

lookingglass, Maggie had thought more of abandoning all care for adornment, than of renouncing the

contemplation of her face. Comparing herself with elegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her

that she could produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed to like the silence well. He walked by her

side, watching her face, as if that sight left no room for any other wish. They had passed from among the

firtrees and had now come to a green hollow almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of the pale pink

dogroses. But as the light about them had brightened, Maggie's face had lost its glow. She stood still when

they were in the hollows, and looking at Philip again, she said in a serious, sad voice,

`I wish we could have been friends I mean, if it would have been good and right for us. But that is the trial I

have to bear in everything: I may not keep anything I used to love when I was little. The old books went; and

Tom is different and my father. It is like death. I must part with everything I cared for when I was a child.

And I must part with you: we must never take any notice of each other again. That was that I wanted to speak

to you for. I wanted to let you know, that Tom and I can't do as we like about such things, and that if I behave

as if I had forgotten all about you, it is not out of envy or pride or or any bad feeling.'

Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as she went on, and her eyes began to fill with tears.

The deepening expression of pain of Philip's face gave him a stronger resemblance to his boyish self, and

`I know I see all that you mean,' he said in a voice that had become feebler from discouragement, `I know

what there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is not right, Maggie don't you be angry with me, I am so

used to call you Maggie in my thoughts it is not right to sacrifice everything to other people's unreasonable

feelings. I would give up a great deal for my father; but I would not give up a friendship or or an

attachment of any sort, in obedience to any wish of his that I didn't recognise as right.'

`I don't know,' said Maggie, musingly. `Often, when I have been angry and discontented, it has seemed to me

that I was not bound to give up anything and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that I could

think away all my duty. But no good has ever come of that it was an evil state of mind. I'm quite sure that

whatever I might do, I should wish in the end that I had gone without anything for myself, rather than have

`But would it make his life harder, if we were to see each other sometimes?' said Philip. He was going to say

`O, I'm sure he wouldn't like it. Don't ask me why, or anything about it,' said Maggie, in a distressed tone.

`Why?' said Maggie, gently. `At least I ought not to ask but I'm very, very sorry.'

Philip turned to walk on as if he had not patience to stand still any longer, and they went out of the hollow,

winding amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last word of Philip's Maggie could not bear to

`I've been a great deal happier,' she said, at last, timidly, `since I have given up thinking about what is easy

and pleasant, and being discontented because I couldn't have my own will. Our life is determined for us and

it makes the mind very free when we give up wishing and only think of bearing what is laid upon us and

`But I can't give up wishing,' said Philip, impatiently. `It seems to me we can never give up longing and

wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must

hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings are deadened? I delight in

fine pictures I long to be able to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what I want. That is pain

to me, and always will be pain, until my faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then, there are many

other things I long for' here Philip hesitated a little, and then said `things that other men have, and that

will always be denied me. My life will have nothing great or beautiful in it I would rather not have lived.'

`O Philip,' said Maggie, `I wish you didn't feel so.' But her heart began to beat with something of Philip's

`Well, then,' said he, turning quickly round and fixing his grey eyes entreatingly on her face, `I should be

contented to live, if you would let me see you sometimes.' Then, checked by a fear which her face suggested,

he looked away again, and said more calmly, `I have no friend to whom I can tell everything no one who

cares enough about me. And if I could only see you now and then, and you would let me talk to you a little,

and show me that you cared for me and that we may always be friends in heart, and help each other then I

`But how can I see you, Philip?' said Maggie, falteringly. (Could she really do him good? It would be very

hard to say `goodby' this day, and not speak to him again. Here was a new interest to vary the days it was

`If you would let me see you here sometimes walk with you here I would be contented if it were only

once or twice in a month. That could injure no one's happiness, and it would sweeten my life. Besides'

Philip went on, with all the inventive astuteness of love at oneandtwenty, `if there is any enmity between

those who belong to us, we ought all the more to try and quench it by our friendship I mean, that by our

influence on both sides we might bring about a healing of the wounds that have been made in the past, if I

could know everything about them. And I don't believe there is any enmity in my own father's mind: I think

Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under conflicting thoughts. It seemed to her inclination that to

see Philip now and then and keep up the bond of friendship with him, was something not only innocent but

good; perhaps she might really help him to find contentment, as she had found it. The voice that said this

made sweet music to Maggie; but athwart it there came an urgent monotonous warning from another voice

which she had been learning to obey the warning that such interviews implied secrecy, implied doing

something she would dread to be discovered in, something that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain, and

that the admission of anything so near doubleness would act as a spiritual blight. Yet the music would swell

out again, like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, persuading her that the wrong lay all in the faults

and weaknesses of others, and that there was such a thing as futile sacrifice for one, to the injury of another. It

was very cruel for Philip that he should be shrunk from because of an unjustifiable vindictiveness towards his

father poor Philip, whom some people would shrink from only because he was deformed. The idea that he

might become her lover, or that her meeting him could cause disapproval in that light, had not occurred to

her, and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough saw it with a certain pang, although it made her

consent to his request the less unlikely. There was bitterness to him in the perception that Maggie was almost

`I can't say either yes or no,' she said at last, turning round and walking towards the way she had come, `I

`I think I had better write,' said Maggie faltering again. `I have to go to St Ogg's sometimes, and I can put the

`O no,' said Philip eagerly. `That would not be so well. My father might see the letter and he has not any

enmity, I believe, but he views things differently from me; he thinks a great deal about wealth and position.

Pray let me come here once more. Tell me when it shall be; or, if you can't tell me, I will come as often as I

`I think it must be so, then,' said Maggie, `for I can't be quite certain of coming here any particular evening.'

Maggie felt a great relief in adjourning the decision. She was free now to enjoy the minutes of companionship

she almost thought she might linger a little: the next time they met, she should have to pain Philip by telling

`I can't help thinking,' she said, looking smilingly at him, after a few moments of silence, `how strange it is

that we should have met and talked to each other just as if it had been only yesterday when we parted at

Lorton. And yet we must both be very much altered in those five years I think it is five years. How was it

you seemed to have a sort of feeling that I was the same Maggie? I was not quite so sure that you would be

the same: I know you are so clever, and you must have seen and learnt so much to fill your mind I was not

`I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, whenever I might see you,' said Philip. `I mean, the

same in everything that made me like you better than any one else. I don't want to explain that: I don't think

any of the strongest effects our natures are susceptible of can ever be explained. We can neither detect the

process by which they are arrived at nor the mode in which they act on us. The greatest of painters only once

painted a mysteriously divine child he couldn't have told how he did it and we can't tell why we feel it to

be divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature that our understanding can make no complete

inventory of. Certain strains of music affect me so strangely I can never hear them without their changing

my whole attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect would last I might be capable of heroisms.'

`Ah! I know what you mean about music I feel so,' said Maggie, clasping her hands with her old

impetuosity. `At least,' she added, in a saddened tone, `I used to feel so when I had any music: I never have

`And you long for it, Maggie?' said Philip, looking at her with affectionate pity. `Ah, you can have very little

that is beautiful in your life. Have you many books? You were so fond of them when you were a little girl.'

They were come back to the hollow, round which the dogroses grew, and they both paused under the charm

Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, and was looking at the back, as he said,

`Ah, this is the second volume, I see, else you might have liked to take it home with you. I put it in my pocket

Maggie had looked at the back too and saw the title: it revived an old impression with overmastering force.

`"The Pirate,"' she said, taking the book from Philip's hands. `O, I began that once I read to where Minna is

walking with Cleveland and I could never get to read the rest. I went on with it in my own head, and I made

several endings; but they were all unhappy. I could never make a happy ending out of that beginning. Poor

Minna! I wonder what is the real end. For a long while I couldn't get my mind away from the Shetland Isles

`Take that volume home with you, Maggie,' said Philip, watching her with delight. `I don't want it now. I

shall make a picture of you, instead you among the Scotch firs and the slanting shadows.'

Maggie had not heard a word he had said she was absorbed in a page at which she had opened. But

suddenly she closed the book, and gave it back to Philip shaking her head with a backward movement, as if to

`No, thank you,' said Maggie, putting it aside with her hand and walking on. `It would make me in love with

this world again, as I used to be; it would make me long to see and know many things it would make me

`But you will not always be shut up in your present lot: why should you starve your mind in that way? It is

narrow asceticism I don't like to see you persisting in it, Maggie. Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred

`But not for me not for me,' said Maggie, walking more hurriedly. `Because I should want too much. I must

`Don't hurry away from me without saying "good by," Maggie,' said Philip, as they reached the group of

Scotch firs, and she continued still to walk along without speaking. `I must not go any farther, I think, must

`O no, I forgot; goodby,' said Maggie, pausing and putting out her hand to him. The action brought her

feeling back in a strong current to Philip, and after they had stood looking at each other in silence for a few

`I'm very grateful to you for thinking of me all those years. It is very sweet to have people love us. What a

wonderful, beautiful thing it seems that God should have made your heart so that you could care about a

queer little girl whom you only knew for a few weeks. I remember saying to you, that I thought you cared for

`Ah, Maggie,' said Philip, almost fretfully, `you would never love me so well as you love your brother.'

`Perhaps not,' said Maggie, simply, `but then, you know, the first thing I ever remember in my life is standing

with Tom by the side of the Floss while he held my hand everything before that is dark to me. But I shall

`Don't say so, Maggie,' said Philip. `If I kept that little girl in my mind for five years, didn't I earn some part

`Not if I were free,' said Maggie, `but I am not I must submit.' She hesitated a moment and then added,

`And I wanted to say to you, that you had better not take more notice of my brother than just bowing to him.

He once told me not to speak to you again, and he doesn't change his mind... O dear, the sun is set. I am too

`I shall come here as often as I can till I see you again, Maggie. Have some feeling for me, as well as for

`Yes, yes, I have,' said Maggie, hurrying away, and quickly disappearing behind the last firtree; though

Maggie went home, with an inward conflict already begun; Philip went home to do nothing but remember

and hope. You can hardly help blaming him severely. He was four or five years older than Maggie, and had a

full consciousness of his feeling towards her to aid him in foreseeing the character his contemplated

interviews with her would bear in the opinion of a third person. But you must not suppose that he was

capable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been satisfied without persuading himself that he was

seeking to infuse some happiness into Maggie's life seeking this even more than any direct ends for

himself. He could give her sympathy he could give her help. There was not the slightest promise of love

towards him in her manner; it was nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shown him when

she was twelve: perhaps, she would never love him perhaps no woman ever could love him: well, then, he

would endure that he should at least have the happiness of seeing her of feeling some nearness to her.

And he clutched passionately the possibility, that she might love him: perhaps the feeling would grow, if she

could come to associate him with that watchful tenderness, which her nature would be so keenly alive to. If

any woman could love him surely Maggie was that woman: there was such wealth of love in her, and there

was no one to claim it all. Then the pity of it that a mind like hers should be withering in its very youth, like

a young forest tree, for want of the light and space it was formed to flourish in! Could he not hinder that, by

persuading her out of her system of privation? He would be her guardian angel; he would do anything bear

WHILE Maggie's lifestruggles had lain almost entirely within her own soul, one shadowy army fighting

another, and the slain shadows for ever rising again, Tom was engaged in a dustier, noisier warfare, grappling

with more substantial obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been since the days of

Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses: inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted hands

offering prayers, watching the world's combat from afar, filling their long, empty days with memories and

fears: outside, the men in fierce struggle with things divine and human, quenching memory in the stronger

light of purpose, losing the sense of dread and even of wounds in the hurrying ardour of action. From what

you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth of whom you would prophesy failure in anything he had

thoroughly wished: the wagers are likely to be on his side notwithstanding his small success in the classics.

For Tom had never desired success in this field of enterprise: and for getting a fine flourishing growth of

stupidity there is nothing like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjects in which it feels no interest.

But now Tom's strong will bound together his integrity, his pride, his family regrets and his personal

ambition, and made them one force, concentrating his efforts and surmounting discouragements. His uncle

Deane, who watched him closely, soon began to conceive hopes of him, and to be rather proud that he had

brought into the employment of the firm a nephew who appeared to be made of such good commercial stuff.

The real kindness of placing him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in the hints his uncle began

to throw out that after a time he might perhaps be trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for the firm

various vulgar commodities with which I need not shock refined ears in this place; and it was doubtless with

a view to this result that Mr Deane, when he expected to take his wine alone, would tell Tom to step in and sit

with him an hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and catechising concerning articles of export

and import, with an occasional excursus of more indirect utility on the relative advantages to the merchants of

St Ogg's of having goods brought in their own and in foreign bottoms a subject on which Mr Deane, as a

shipowner, naturally threw off a few sparks when he got warmed with talk and wine. Already, in the second

year, Tom's salary was raised; but all except the price of his dinner and clothes went home into the tin box;

and he shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into expenses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was

moulded on the spooney type of the Industrious Apprentice; he had a very strong appetite for pleasure

would have liked to be a Tamer of horses, and to make a distinguished figure in all neighbouring eyes,

dispensing treats and benefits to others with welljudged liberality, and being pronounced one of the finest

young fellows of those parts; nay, he determined to achieve these things sooner or later; but his practical

shrewdness told him that the means to such achievements could only lie for him in present abstinence and

selfdenial: there were certain milestones to be passed and one of the first was the payment of his father's

debts. Having made up his mind on that point, he strode along without swerving, contracting some rather

saturnine sternness, as a young man is likely to do who has a premature call upon him for selfreliance. Tom

felt intensely that common cause with his father which springs from family pride, and was bent on being

irreproachable as a son; but his growing experience caused him to pass much silent criticism on the rashness

and imprudence of his father's past conduct: their dispositions were not in sympathy, and Tom's face showed

little radiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of him, against which she struggled, as

something unfair to her consciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives; but it was of no use to struggle.

A character at unity with itself that performs what it intends, subdues every counteracting impulse and has

You may imagine that Tom's more and more obvious unlikeness to his father was well fitted to conciliate the

maternal aunts and uncles; and Mr Deane's favourable reports and predictions to Mr Glegg concerning Tom's

qualifications for business, began to be discussed amongst them with various acceptance. He was likely, it

appeared, to do the family credit, without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs Pullet has always thought

it strange if Tom's excellent complexion, so entirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a certainty that he

would turn out well, his juvenile errors of running down the peacock and general disrespect to his aunts only

indicating a tinge of Tulliver blood which he had doubtless outgrown. Mr Glegg, who had contracted a

cautious liking for Tom ever since his spirited and sensible behaviour when the execution was in the house,

was now warming into a resolution to further his prospects actively some time, when an opportunity

offered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate loss; but Mrs Glegg observed that she was not

given to speak without book, as some people were that those who said least were mostly likely to find their

words made good, and that when the right moment came, it would be seen who could do something better

than talk. Uncle Pullet, after silent meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly to the

conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do well, it was better not to meddle with him.

Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any one but himself, though, with a natural

sensitiveness towards all indications of favourable opinion, he was glad to see his uncle Glegg look in on him

sometimes in a friendly way during business hours, and glad to be invited to dine at his house, though he

usually preferred declining on the ground that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a year ago

something had occurred which induced Tom to test his uncle Glegg's friendly disposition.

Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds without seeing Tom and Maggie, awaited him on the

bridge as he was coming home from St Ogg's one evening, that they might have a little private talk, He took

the liberty of asking if Mr Tom had ever thought of making money by trading a bit on his own account.

Trading, how? Tom wished to know. Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo to foreign ports; because Bob had

a particular friend who had offered to do a little business for him in that way, in Laceham goods, and would

be glad to serve Mr Tom on the same footing. Tom was interested at once, and begged for full explanation;

wondering he had not thought of this plan before. He was so well pleased with the prospect of a speculation

that might change the slow process of addition into multiplication, that he at once determined to mention the

matter to his father and get his consent to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to the purchase of a

small cargo. He would rather not have consulted his father, but he had just paid his last quarter's money into

the tin box, and there was no other resource. All the savings were there: for Mr Tulliver would not consent to

put the money out at interest lest he should lose it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of some corn and

Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr

Tulliver listened, learning forward in his armchair and looking up in Tom's face with a sceptical glance. His

first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he was in some awe of Tom's wishes, and since he had had the

sense of being an `unlucky' father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness and determination to be master.

He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, got out the key of the large chest, and fetched down the tin

box slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a painful parting. Then he seated himself against

the table and opened the box with that little padlockkey which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all

vacant moments. There they were, the dingy bank notes and the bright sovereigns, and he counted them out

on the table only a hundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching.

Mr Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his hand over it, said,

`Yes, father: it is such work saving out of the little money we get. And in this way we might double our

`Ay, my lad,' said the father, keeping his hand on the money, `but you might lose it you might lose a year o'

`And you know I wouldn't pay a dividend with the first hundred, because I wanted to see it all in a lump

and when I see it, I'm sure on't. If you trust to luck, it's sure to be against me. It's Old Harry's got the luck in

his hands. And if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up again death 'ull o'ertake me.'

Mr Tulliver's voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutes before he said,

But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determined to ask his uncle Glegg to venture twenty

pounds, on condition of receiving five per cent of the profits. That was really a very small thing to ask. So

when Bob called the next day at the Wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed that they should go together

to his uncle Glegg's to open the business; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel that Bob's

Mr Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of a hot August day, was naturally counting his

wallfruit to assure himself that the sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him entered Tom, in what

appeared to Mr Glegg very questionable companionship that of a man with a pack on his back for Bob

was equipped for a new journey and of a huge brindled bullterrier, who walked with a slow swaying

movement from side to side, and glanced from under his eyelids with a surly indifference which might after

all be a cover to the most offensive designs. Mr Glegg's spectacles, which had been assisting him in counting

`Heigh! Heigh! Keep that dog back, will you,' he shouted, snatching up a stake and holding it before him as a

`Get out wi' you, Mumps,' said Bob, with a kick. `He's as quiet as a lamb, sir,' an observation which Mumps

`Why, whatever does this mean, Tom?' said Mr Glegg. `Have you brought information about the scoundrels

as cut my trees?' If Bob came in the character of `information,' Mr Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some

`No, sir,' said Tom. `I came to speak to you about a little matter of business of my own.'

`Ay well but what has this dog got to do with it?' said the old gentleman, getting mild again.

`It's my dog, sir,' said the ready Bob. `An' it's me as put Mr Tom up to the bit o' business, for Mr Tom's been

a friend o' mine iver since I wor little chap fust thing iver I did was frightenin' the birds for th' old master.

An' if a bit o' luck turns up, I'm allays thinkin' if I can let Mr Tom have a pull at it. An' it's a downright roarin'

shame, as when he's got the chance o' making a bit o' money wi' sending goods out ten or twelve per zent

clear when freight an' commission's paid as he shouldn't lay hold o' the chance for want o' money. An' when

there's the Laceham goods lors, they're made o' purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy light,

an' take up no room; you may pack twenty pound so as you can't see the passill an' they're manifacturs as

please fools, so I reckon they aren't like to want a market. An' I'd go to Laceham an' buy in the goods for Mr

Tom along wi' my own; an' there's the shupercargo o' the bit of a vessel as is goin' to take 'em out I know

him partic'lar; he's a solid man, an' got a family i' the town here: Salt his name is an' a briny chap he is,

Uncle Glegg stood openmouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed loquacity, with which his

understanding could hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob first over his spectacles, then through them, then

over them again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle's impression, began to wish he had not brought this

singular Aaron or mouthpiece: Bob's talk appeared less seemly now some one besides himself was listening

`Ay, sir, you say true,' returned Bob, nodding his head aside, `I think my head's all alive inside like an old

cheese, for I'm so full o' plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn't Mumps to talk to, I should get topheavy

an' tumble in a fit. I suppose it's because I niver went to school much. That's what I jaw my old mother for I

says, "you should ha' sent me to school a bit more " I says "an' then I could ha' read i' the books like fun,

an' kep' my head cool an' empty." Lors, she's fine an' comfor'ble now, my old mother is she ates here baked

meat an' taters as often as she likes. For I'm gettin' so full o' money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me but

Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired from business, who beginning to

find Bob amusing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.

`Ah,' he said, `I should think you're at a loss for ways o'spending your money, else you wouldn't keep that big

dog, to eat as much as two Christians. It's shameful shameful!' But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger,

`But, come now, let's hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture

`No, sir,' said Tom, colouring. `But my father is unwilling to risk it, and I don't like to press him. If I could

get twenty or thirty pounds to begin with I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could gradually make a

`Ay... Ay,' said Mr Glegg, in an approving tone. `That's not a bad notion, and I won't say as I wouldn't be

your man. But it'll be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then... here's this friend o' yours

offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you've got somebody to stand surety for you, if the money's put into

your hands?' added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.

`I don't think that's necessary, uncle,' said Tom. `At least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I

`You get your percentage out o' the purchase, I suppose?' said Mr Glegg, looking at Bob.

`No, sir,' said Bob, rather indignantly, `I didn't offer to get a apple for Mr Tom, o' purpose to hev a bite out of

`Well, but it's nothing but right you should have a small percentage,' said Mr Glegg. `I've no opinion o'

`Well, then,' said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied, `I'll tell you what I get by't, an' it's

money in my pocket in the end. I make myself look big, wi' makin' a bigger purchase. That's what I'm

`Mr Glegg, Mr Glegg,' said a severe voice from the open parlour window, `pray are you coming in to tea?

or are you going to stand talking with packmen till you get murdered in th' open daylight?'

`Murdered?' said Mr Glegg; `what's the woman talking of? Here's your nevvy Tom come about a bit o'

`Murdered yes it isn't many 'sizes ago, since a packman murdered a young woman in a lone place and

`Nay, nay,' said Mr Glegg, soothingly, `you're thinking o' the man wi' no legs, as drove a dogcart.'

`Well, it's the same thing, Mr Glegg only you're found o' contradicting what I say. And if my nevvy's come

about business, it 'ud be more fitting if you'd bring him into the house, and let his aunt know about it, instead

`You needn't stay here,' said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted to the moral not the physical distance

between them. `We don't want anything. I don't deal wi' packmen. Mind you shut the gate after you.'

`Stop a bit; not so fast,' said Mr Glegg: `I haven't done with this young man yet. Come in, Tom, come in,' he

`Mr Glegg,' said Mrs G. in a fatal tone. `If you're going to let that man and his dog in on my carpet before my

very face, be so good as to let me know. A wife's got a right to ask that, I hope.'

`Don't you be uneasy, mum,' said Bob, touching his cap. He saw at once that Mrs Glegg was a bit of game

worth running down, and longed to be at the sport. `We'll stay out upo' the gravel here, Mumps and me will.

Mumps knows his company he does. I might hish at him by th' hour together before he'd fly at a real

gentlewoman like you. It's wonderful how he knows which is the goodlooking ladies and's partic'lar fond

of 'em when they've good shapes. Lors,' added Bob, laying down his pack on the gravel, `it's a thousand pities

such a lady as you shouldn't deal with a packman, i'stead o' goin' into these newfangled shops where there's

half a dozen fine gents wi' their chins propped up wi' a stiff stock, alooking like bottles wi' ornamental

stoppers, an' all got to get their dinner out of a bit o' calico it stan's to reason you mun pay three times the

price you pay a packman, as is the nat'ral way o' gettin' goods an' pays no rent, an' isn't forced to throttle

himself till the lies are squeezed out on him, whether he will or no. But lors, mum, you know what it is better

`Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too,' observed Mrs Glegg, intending to imply that Bob's

flattery had produced no effect on her; while her husband standing behind her with his hands in his pockets

and legs apart, winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the probability of his wife's being circumvented.

`Ay, to be sure, mum,' said Bob. `Why, you must ha' dealt wi' no end o' packmen when you war a young lass

before the master here had the luck to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do seen th' house many

`Ah, that it had,' said Mrs Glegg, pouring out the tea. `You know something o' my family then... are you akin

`Look you there now!' said Bob evasively. `Didn't I know as you'd remember the best bargains y'ever made in

your life was made wi' packmen? Why, you see, even a squintin' packman's better nor a shopman as can see

straight. Lors, if I'd had the luck to call at the stone house wi' my pack as lies here,' stooping and thumping

the bundle emphatically with his fist `an' th' handsome young lasses all stannin' out on the stone steps, it 'ud

ha' been summat like openin' a pack that would. It's on'y the poor houses now as a packman calls on, if it

isn't for the sake o' the sarvantmaids. They're paltry times, there are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons

now, an' what they was when you wore 'em why, you wouldn't put such a thing on now, I can see. It must

be firstrate quality the manifactur as you'd buy summat as 'ud wear as well as your own faitures.'

`Yes, better quality nor any you're like to carry: you've got nothing firstrate but brazenness, I'll be bound,'

said Mrs Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. `Mr Glegg, are you going ever to sit

`You speak true there, mum,' said Bob. `My pack isn't for ladies like you. The time's gone by for that.

Bargains picked up dirt cheap a bit o' damage here an' there, as can be cut out or else niver seen i' the

wearin'; but not fit to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o' things as nobody sees. I'm not the man as

'ud offer t' open my pack to you, mum: no, no; I'm imperent chap, as you say these times makes folks

`Why, what goods to you carry in your pack?' said Mrs Glegg. `Finecoloured things, I suppose, shawls an'

`All sorts, mum, all sorts,' said Bob, thumping his bundle, `but let us say no more about that, if you please.

I'm here upo' Mr Tom's business an' I'm not the man to take up the time wi' my own.'

`And pray, what is this business as is to be kept from me?' said Mrs Glegg, who, solicited by a double

`A little plan o' nevvy Tom's here,' said goodnatured Mr Glegg; `and not altogether a bad un, I think. A little

plan for making money that's the right sort o' plan for young folks as have got their fortin to make, eh, Jane?'

`But I hope it isn't a plan where he expects iverything to be done for him by his friends that's what the

young folks think of mostly nowadays. And pray, what has this packman got to do wi' what goes on in our

family? Can't you speak for yourself Tom, and let your aunt know things, as a nevvy should?'

`This is Bob Jakin, aunt,' said Tom, bridling the irritation that aunt Glegg's voice always produced. `I've

known him ever since we were little boys. He's a very good fellow, and always ready to do me a kindness.

And he has had some experience in sending goods out a small part of a cargo as a private speculation; and

he thinks if I could begin to do a little in the same way, I might make some money. A large interest is got in

`Large int'rest?' said aunt Glegg, with eagerness, `and what do you call large int'rest?'

`Then why wasn't I let to know o' such things before, Mr Glegg?' said Mrs Glegg, turning to her husband,

with a deep grating tone of reproach. `Haven't you allays told me as there was no getting more nor five per

`Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman,' said Mr Glegg. `You couldn't go into trade, could you? You can't

`But I can turn a bit o' money for you, an' welcome, mum,' said Bob, `if you'd like to risk it not as there's

any risk to speak on. But if you'd a mind to lend a bit o' money to Mr Tom, he'd pay you six or seven per zent

an' get a trifle for himself as well an' a goodnatur'd lady like you 'ud like the feel o' the money better if your

`What do you say, Mrs G.?' said Mr Glegg. `I've a notion, when I've made a bit more inquiry, as I shall

perhaps start Tom here with a bit of a nestegg he'll pay me int'rest, you know an' if you've got some

`Mr Glegg, it's beyond iverything! You'll go and give information to the tramps next, as they may come and

`Well, well, as I was sayin', if you like to join me wi' twenty pounds, you can I'll make it fifty. That'll be a

`You're not counting on me, Mr Glegg, I hope,' said his wife. `You could do fine things wi' my money, I don't

doubt.' `Very well,' said Mr Glegg, rather snappishly, `then we'll do without you. I shall go with you to see

`And now, I suppose, you'll go all the other way, Mr Glegg,' said Mrs G., `and want to shunt me out o' my

own nevvy's business. I never said I wouldn't put money into it I don't say as it shall be twenty pounds,

though you're so ready to say it for me but he'll see some day as his aunt's in the right not to risk the money

`Ay, that's a pleasant sort o' risk, that is,' said Mr Glegg, indiscreetly winking at Tom, who couldn't avoid

`Ay, mum,' he said, admiringly, `you know what's what, you do. An' it's nothing but fair. You see how the

first bit of a job answers, an' then you'll come down handsome. Lors, it's a fine thing to hev good kin. I got

my bit of a nestegg as the master calls it, all by my own sharpness ten suvreigns it was wi' dousing the

fire at Torry's mill, an' it's growed an' growed by a bit an' a bit, till I'n got a matter o' thirty pound to lay out,

besides makin' my mother comfor'ble. I should get more, on'y I'm such a soft wi' the women I can't help

lettin' 'em hev such good bargains. There's this bundle, now' (thumping it lustily), `any other chap 'ud make a

pretty penny out on it. But me!... lors, I shall sell 'em for pretty near what I paid for 'em.'

`Have you got a bit of good net, now?' said Mrs Glegg, in a patronising tone, moving from the teatable, and

`Eh, mum, not what you'd think it worth your while to look at. I'd scorn to show it you. It 'ud be an insult to

`But let me see,' said Mrs Glegg, still patronising. `If they're damaged goods, they're like enough to be a bit

`No, mum. I know my place,' said Bob, lifting up his pack and shouldering it. `I'm not going t' expose the

lowness o' my trade to a lady like you. Packs is come down i' the world: it 'ud cut you to th' heart to see the

`All in good time,' said Mr Glegg, really unwilling to cut short the dialogue. `Are you wanted at the wharf,

`Come, put down you pack, and let me see,' said Mrs Glegg, drawing a chair to the window, and seating

`Eh, mum, I'm loth that I am,' said Bob, slowly depositing his pack on the step, and beginning to untie it

with unwilling fingers. `But what you order shall be done' (much fumbling in pauses between the sentences).

`It's not as you'll buy a single thing on me... I'd be sorry for you to do it... for think o' them poor women up i'

the villages there, as niver stir a hundred yards from home... it 'ud be a pity for anybody to buy up their

bargains. Lors, it's as good as a junketing to 'em when they see me wi' my pack... an' I shall niver pick up

such bargains for 'em again. Least ways, I've no time now, for I'm off to Laceham. See here, now,' Bob went

on, becoming rapid again, and holding up a scarlet woollen kerchief with an embroidered wreath in the corner

`Here's a thing to make a lass's mouth water, an' on'y two shillin' an' why? Why, 'cause there's a bit of a

mothhole i' this plain end. Lors, I think the moths an' the mildew was sent by Providence o' purpose to

cheapen the goods a bit for the good lookin' women as han't got much money. If it hadn't been for the moths,

now, every hankicher on 'em 'ud ha' gone to the rich handsome ladies like you, mum, at five shillin' apiece

not a farthin' less but what does the moth do? Why, it nibbles off three shillin' o' the price i' no time, an'

then a packman like me can carry't to the poor lasses as live under the dark thack, to make a bit of a blaze for

`Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o' year. Put these coloured things by let me look at your nets, if

`Eh, mum, I told you how it 'ud be,' said Bob, flinging aside the coloured things with an air of desperation. `I

knowed it 'ud turn again' you to look at such paltry articles as I carry. Here's a piece o' figured muslim now

what's the use o' your lookin' at it? You might as well look at poor folks's victual, mum it 'ud on'y take

away your appetite. There's a yard i' the middle on't, as the pattern's all missed lors, why it's a muslin as the

Princess Victoree might ha' wore but,' added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf, as if to save Mrs

Glegg's eyes, `it'll be bought up by th' huckster's wife at Fibb's End that's where it'll go ten shillin' for the

whole lot ten yards, countin' the damaged 'un fivean'twenty shillin' 'ud ha' been the price not a penny

less. But I'll say no more, mum, it's nothing to you a piece o' muslim like that you can afford to pay three

times the money for a thing as isn't half so good. It's nets you talked on well, I've got a piece as 'ull serve

`Eh, but a damaged thing,' said Bob, in a tone of deprecating disgust. `You'd do nothing with it, mum you'd

give it to the cook, I know you would an' it 'ud be a pity she'd look too much like a lady in it it's

`See what there is over measure!' he said, holding forth the extra half yard, while Mrs Glegg was busy

examining the damaged yard and throwing her head back to see how far the fault would be lost on a distant

`I'll give you six shilling for it,' she said, throwing it down with the air of a person who mentions an

`Didn't I tell you, now, mum, as it 'ud hurt your feelings to look at my pack? That damaged bit's turned your

stomach now, I see it has,' said Bob, wrapping the muslim up with the utmost quickness, and apparently

about to fasten up his pack. `You're used to seein' a different sort o' article carried by packmen, when you

lived at the Stone House. Packs is come down i' the world, I told you that: my goods are for common folks.

Mrs Pepper 'ull give me ten shillin' for that muslin, an' be sorry as I didn't ask her more. Such articles answer

i' the wearin' they keep their colour till the threads melt away i' the washtub, an' that won't be while I'm a

`Put it out o' your mind, mum, now do,' said Bob. `Here's a bit o' net, then, for you to look at before I tie my

pack: just for you to see what my trade's come to: spotted and sprigged, you see, beautiful, but yallow's

been lyin' by an' got the wrong colour. I could niver ha' bought such net, if it hadn't been yallow. Lors, it's

took me a deal o' study to know the vally o' such articles: when I begun to carry a pack I was as ignirant as a

pig net or calico was all the same to me. I thought them things the most vally as was the thickest. I was took

in dreadful for I'm a straitforrard chap up to no tricks, mum. I can on'y say my nose is my own, for if I

went beyond, I should lose myself pretty quick. An' I gev five an' eightpence for that piece o' net if I was to

tell y' anything else I should be tellin' you fibs: an' five an' eightpence I shall ask for it not a penny more

for it's a woman's article, an' I like to 'commodate the women. Five an' eightpence for six yards as cheap as

`Why, there's but six altogether,' said Bob `no, mum, it isn't worth your while: you can go to the shop

tomorrow an' get the same pattern ready whitened. It's on'y three times the money what's that to a lady like

`You will be jokin', mum,' said Bob, looking up with a laughing face. `I see'd you was a pleasant lady, when I

`But if I let you have it for ten shillin', mum, you'll be so good as not tell nobody. I should be a laughin'stock

the trade, 'ud hoot me, if they knowed it. I'm obliged to make believe as I ask more nor I do for my goods,

else they'd find out I war a flat. I'm glad you don't insist upo' buyin' the net, for then I should ha' lost my two

`Let me look at the net again,' said Mrs Glegg, yearning after the cheap spots and sprigs now they were

`Well, I can't deny you, mum,' said Bob, handing it out. `Eh see what a pattern now! Real Laceham goods.

Now, this is the sort o' article I'm recommendin' Mr Tom to send out. Lors, it's a fine thing for anybody as has

got a bit o' money these Laceham goods 'ud make it breed like maggits. If I was a lady wi' a bit o' money!

why, I know one as put thirty pound into them goods a lady wi' a cork leg, but as sharp you wouldn't

catch her runnin' her head into a sack: she'd see her way clear out o' anything afore she'd be in a hurry to start.

Well, she let out thirty pound to a young man in the drapering line, and he laid it out i' Laceham goods, an' a

shupercargo o' my acquinetance (not Salt) took 'em out, an' she got her eight per zent fust go off an' now

you can't hold her but she must be sendin' out carguies wi' every ship, till she's gettin' as rich as a Jew. Bucks

her name is she doesn't live i' this town. Now, then, mum, if you'll please to give me the net... '

`Here's fifteen shilling, then, for the two,' said Mrs Glegg. `But it's a shameful price.'

`Nay, mum, you'll niver say that when you're upo' your knees i' church i' five years' time. I'm makin' you a

present o' th' articles I am, indeed. That eightpence shaves off my profit as clean as a razor. Now then, sir,'

continued Bob, shouldering his pack, `if you please, I'll be glad to go and see about makin' Mr Tom's fortin.

Eh, I wish I'd got another twenty pound to lay out for mysen: I shouldn't stay to say my Catechism afore I

`Stop a bit, Mr Glegg,' said the lady, as her husband took his hat, `you never will give me the chance o'

speaking. You'll go away now, and finish everything about this business, and come back and tell me it's too

late for me to speak. As if I wasn't my nevvy's own aunt, and th' head o' the family on his mother's side! and

laid by guineas, all full weight for him as he'll know who to respect when I'm laid in my coffin.'

`Well, then, I desire as nothing may be done without my knowing. I don't say as I shan't venture twenty

pounds, if you make out as everything's right and safe. And if I do, Tom,' concluded Mrs Glegg, turning

impressively to her nephew, `I hope you'll allays bear it in mind and be grateful for such an aunt I mean

you to pay me interest, you know I don't approve o' giving: we niver looked for that in my family.'

`Thank you, aunt,' said Tom, rather proudly. `I prefer having the money only lent to me.'

`Very well: that's the Dodson sperrit,' said Mrs Glegg, rising to get her knitting with the sense that any further

Salt that eminently `briny chap' having been discovered in a cloud of tobacco smoke at the Anchor

Tavern, Mr Glegg commenced inquiries which turned out satisfactorily enough to warrant the advance of the

`nestegg,' to which aunt Glegg contributed twenty pounds; and in this modest beginning you see the ground

of a fact which might otherwise surprise you, namely, Tom's accumulation of a fund, unknown to his father,

that promised in no very long time to meet the more tardy process of saving and quite cover the deficit. When

once his attention had been turned to this source of gain, Tom determined to make the most of it, and lost no

opportunity of obtaining information and extending his small enterprises. In not telling his father, he was

influenced by that strange mixture of opposite feelings which often gives equal truth to those who blame an

action and those who admire it: partly, it was that disinclination to confidence which is seen between near

kindred that family repulsion which spoils the most sacred relations of our lives; partly, it was the desire to

surprise his father with a great joy. He did not see that it would have been better to soothe the interval with a

At the time of Maggie's first meeting with Philip, Tom had already nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his

own capital, and while they were walking by the evening light in the Red Deeps, he, by the same evening

light, was riding into Laceham, proud of being on his first journey on behalf of Guest and Co., and revolving

in his mind all the chances that by the end of another year he should have doubled his gains, lifted off the

obloquy of debt from his father's name, and perhaps for he should be twentyone have got a new start for

himself, on a higher platform of employment. Did he not deserve it? He was quite sure that he did.

I SAID that Maggie went home that evening from the Red Deeps with a mental conflict already begun. You

have seen clearly enough in her interview with Philip, what that conflict was. Here suddenly was an opening

in the rocky wall which shut in the narrow Valley of Humiliation, where all her prospect was the remote

unfathomed sky; and some of the memoryhaunting earthly delights were no longer out of her reach. She

might have books, converse, affection she might hear tidings of the world from which her mind had not yet

lost its sense of exile; and it would be a kindness to Philip too, who was pitiable clearly not happy; and

perhaps here was an opportunity indicated for making her mind more worthy of its highest service perhaps

the noblest, completest devoutness could hardly exist without some width of knowledge: must she always

live in this resigned imprisonment? It was so blameless, so good a thing that there should be friendship

between her and Philip; the motives that forbade it were so unreasonable so unchristian! But the severe

monotonous warning came again and again that she was losing the simplicity and clearness of her life by

admitting a ground of concealment, and that by forsaking the simple rule of renunciation, she was throwing

herself under the seductive guidance of illimitable wants. She thought she had won strength to obey the

warning before she allowed herself the next week to turn her steps in the evening to the Red Deeps. But while

she was resolved to say an affectionate farewell to Philip, how she looked forward to that evening walk in the

still, fleckered shade of the hollows, away from all that was harsh and unlovely; to the affectionate admiring

looks that would meet her; to the sense of comradeship that childish memories would give to wiser, older

talk; to the certainty that Philip would care to hear everything she said, which no one else cared for! It was a

half hour that it would be very hard to turn her back upon, with the sense that there would be no other like it.

Yet she said what she meant to say: she looked firm as well as sad. `Philip, I have made up my mind it is

right that we should give each other up, in everything but memory. I could not see you without concealment

say, I know what you are going to say it is another people's wrong feelings that make concealment

necessary but concealment is bad, however it may be caused: I feel that it would be bad for me, for us both.

And then, if our secret were discovered, there would be nothing but misery dreadful anger and then we

must part after all, and it would be harder, when we were used to seeing each other.'

Philip's face had flushed and there was a momentary eagerness of expression as if he had been about to resist

this decision with all his might. But he controlled himself, and said with assumed calmness, `Well, Maggie, if

we must part, let us try and forget it for one half hour let us talk together a little while for the last time.'

He took her hand, and Maggie felt no reason to withdraw it: his quietness made her all the more sure she had

given him great pain, and she wanted to show him how unwillingly she had given it. They walked together

`Let us sit down in this hollow,' said Philip, `where we stood the last time. See how the dogroses have

`I've begun my picture of you among the Scotch firs, Maggie,' said Philip, `so you must let me study your

face a little, while you stay since I am not to see it again. Please, turn your head this way.'

This was said in an entreating voice, and it would have been very hard of Maggie to refuse. The full lustrous

face with the bright black coronet, looked down like that of a divinity well pleased to be worshipped on the

`I shall be sitting for my second portrait, then,' she said, smiling. `Will it be larger that the other?'

`O yes, much larger. It is an oilpainting. You will look like at tall Hamadryad, dark and strong and noble,

just issued from one of the firtrees, when the stems are casting their afternoon shadows on the grass.'

`Perhaps I do,' said Philip, rather sadly, `but I think of too many things sow all sorts of seeds, and get no

great harvest from any one of them. I'm cursed with susceptibility in every direction, and effective faculty in

none. I care for painting and music I care for classic literature, and mediaeval literature and modern

`But surely that is a happiness to have so many tastes to enjoy so many beautiful things when they are

within your reach,' said Maggie, musingly. `It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only to have one

`It might be a happiness to have many tastes if I were like other men,' said Philip, bitterly. `I might get some

power and distinction by mere mediocrity, as they do at least I should get those middling satisfactions

which make men contented to do without great ones. I might think society at St Ogg's agreeable then. But

nothing could make life worth the purchasemoney of pain to me but some faculty that would lift me above

the dead level of provincial existence. Yes there is one thing: a passion answers as well as a faculty.'

Maggie did not hear the last words: she was struggling against the consciousness that Philip's words had set

`I understand what you mean,' she said, `though I know so much less that you do. I used to think I could

never bear life if it kept on being the same every day, and I must always be doing things of no consequence,

and never know anything greater. But, dear Philip, I think we are only like children, that some one who is

wiser is taking care of. Is it not right to resign ourselves entirely, whatever may be denied us? I have found

great peace in that for the last two on three years even joy in subduing my own will.'

`Yes, Maggie,' said Philip, vehemently, `and you are shutting yourself up in a narrow selfdelusive

fanaticism which is only a way of escaping pain by starving into dulness all the highest powers of your

nature. Joy and peace are not resignation: resignation is the willing endurance of a pain that is not allayed

that you don't expect to be allayed. Stupefaction is not resignation: and it is stupefaction to remain in

ignorance to shut up all the avenues by which the life of your fellowmen might become known to you. I

am not resigned: I am not sure that life is long enough to learn that lesson. You are not resigned: you are only

Maggie's lips trembled; she felt there was some truth in what Philip said, and yet there was a deeper

consciousness that for any immediate application it had to her conduct it was no better than falsity. Her

double impression corresponded to the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seriously believed what he said,

but he said it with vehemence because it made an argument against the resolution that opposed his wishes.

But Maggie's face, made more childlike by the gathering tears, touched him with a tenderer, less egoistic

`Don't let us think of such things in this short half hour, Maggie. Let us only care about being together... we

shall be friends in spite of separation... we shall always think of each other. I shall be glad to live as long as

you are alive, because I shall think there may always come a time when I can when you will let me help

`What a dear, good brother you would have been Philip,' said Maggie, smiling through the haze of tears. `I

think you would have made as much fuss about me, and been as pleased for me to love you, as would have

satisfied even me. You would have loved me well enough to bear with me, and forgive me everything. That

was what I always longed that Tom should do. I was never satisfied with a little of anything. That is why it is

better for me to do without earthly happiness altogether... I never felt that I had enough music I wanted

more instruments playing together I wanted voices to be fuller and deeper. Do you ever sing now, Philip?'

`Yes,' he said, `every day, almost. But my voice is only middling like everything else in me.'

`O sing me something just on song. I may listen to that, before I go something you used to sing a Lorton

on a Saturday afternoon, when we had the drawingroom all to ourselves, and I put my apron over my head,

`I know,' said Philip, and Maggie buried her face in her hands, while he sang, sotto voce `Love in her eyes

`O no, I won't stay,' said Maggie, starting up. `It will only haunt me. Let us walk, Philip. I must go home.'

`Maggie,' he said, in a tone of remonstrance, `Don't persist in this wilful senseless privation. It makes me

wretched to see you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way. You were so full of life when you

were a child I thought you would be a brilliant woman all wit and bright imagination. And it flashes out

`Because I foresee it will not end well; you can never carry on this selftorture.'

`No, you will not, Maggie: no one has strength given to do what is unnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek

safety in negations. No character becomes strong in that way. You will be thrown into the world some day,

and then every rational satisfaction of your nature that you deny now, will assault you like a savage appetite.'

`No, I am not; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight often gives foreboding. Listen to me let me

supply you with books. Do let me see you sometimes by your brother and teacher, as you said at Lorton. It

is less wrong that you should see me than that you should be committing this long suicide.'

Maggie felt unable to speak. She shook her head and walked on in silence till they came to the end of the

`Do you banish me from this place for ever, then, Maggie? Surely I may come and walk in it sometimes. If I

It is the moment when our resolution seems about to become irrevocable when the fatal iron gates are about

to close upon us that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear reasoning and firm conviction, we snatch

at any sophistry that will nullify our long struggles and bring us the defeat that we love better that victory.

Maggie felt her heart leap at this subterfuge of Philip's, and there passed over her face that almost

imperceptible shock which accompanies any relief. He saw it, and they parted in silence.

Philip's sense of the situation was too complete for him not to be visited with glancing fears lest he had been

intervening too presumptuously in the action of Maggie's conscience perhaps for a selfish end. But no! he

persuaded himself his end was not selfish. He had little hope that Maggie would ever return the strong feeling

he had for her; and it must be better for Maggie's future life, when these petty family obstacles to her freedom

had disappeared, that the present should not be entirely sacrificed, and that she should have some opportunity

of culture, some interchange with a mind above the vulgar level of those she was now condemned to live

with. If we only look far enough off for the consequences of our actions, we can always find some point in

the combination of results by which those actions can be justified: by adopting the point of view of a

Providence who arranges results or of a philosopher who traces them, we shall find it possible to obtain

perfect complacency in choosing to do what is most agreeable to us in the present moment. And it was in this

way that Philip justified his subtle efforts to overcome Maggie's true prompting against a concealment that

would introduce doubleness into her own mind and might cause new misery to those who had the primary

natural claim on her. But there was a surplus of passion in him that made him half independent of justifying

motives. His longing to see Maggie and make an element in her life, had in it some of that savage impulse to

snatch an offered joy which springs from a life in which the mental and bodily constitution have made pain

predominate. He had not his full share in the common good of men: he could not even pass muster with the

insignificant, but must be singled out for pity, and excepted from what was a matter of course with others.

Even to Maggie he was an exception: it was clear that the thought of his being her lover had never entered her

Do not think too hardly of Philip. Ugly and deformed people have great need of unusual virtues, because they

are likely to be extremely uncomfortable without them: but the theory that unusual virtues spring by a direct

consequence out of personal disadvantages, as animals get thicker wool in severe climates, is perhaps a little

overstrained. The temptations of beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only bear the same relation to

those of ugliness, as the temptation to excess at a feast, where the delights are varied for eye and ear as well

as palate, bears to the temptations that assail the desperation of hunger. Does not the Hunger Tower stand as

Philip had never been soothed by that mother's love which flows out to us in the greater abundance because

our need is greater, which clings to us the more tenderly because we are the less likely to be winners in the

game of life; and the sense of his father's affection and indulgence towards him was marred by the keener

perception of his father's faults. Kept aloof from all practical life as Philip had been, and by nature half

feminine in sensitiveness, he had some of the woman's intolerant repulsion towards worldliness and the

deliberate pursuit of sensual enjoyment, and this one strong natural tie in his life his relation as a son was

like an aching limb to him. Perhaps there is inevitably something morbid in a human being who is in any way

unfavourably excepted from ordinary conditions until the good force has had time to triumph, and it has

rarely had time for that at twoandtwenty. That force was present in Philip in much strength, but the sun

EARLY in the following April, nearly a year after that dubious parting you have just witnessed, you may, if

you like, again see Maggie entering the Red Deeps through the group of Scotch firs. But it is early afternoon

and not evening, and the edge of sharpness in the spring air makes her draw her large shawl close about her

and trip along rather quickly; though she looks round, as usual, that she may take in the sight of her beloved

trees. There is a more eager, inquiring look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile is hovering about

her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting the right hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing.

`Take back your Corinne,' said Maggie, drawing a book from under her shawl. `You were right in telling me

she would do me no good. But you were wrong in thinking I should wish to be like her.'

`Wouldn't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Maggie?' said Philip, looking up in her face as we look at

`Not at all,' said Maggie, laughing. `The Muses were uncomfortable goddesses, I think obliged always to

carry rolls and musical instruments about with them. If I carried a harp in this climate, you know, I must have

a green baize cover for it and I should be sure to leave it behind me by mistake.'

`I didn't finish the book,' said Maggie. `As soon as I came to the blondhaired young lady reading in the park,

I shut it up and determined to read no further. I foresaw that that light complexioned girl would win away all

the love from Corinne and make her miserable. I'm determined to read no more books where the blond haired

women carry away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudice against them If you could give me

some story, now, where the dark woman triumphs, it would restore the balance I want to avenge Rebecca

and Flora MacIvor, and Minna and all the rest of the dark unhappy ones. Since you are my tutor you ought to

`Well, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your own person: carry away all the love from your

cousin Lucy. She is sure to have some handsome young man of St Ogg's at her feet now and you have only

to shine upon him your fair little cousin will be quite quenched in your beams.'

`Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to anything real,' said Maggie, looking hurt. `As if I,

with my old gowns, and want of all accomplishments, could be a rival of dear little Lucy, who knows and

does all sorts of charming things, and is ten times prettier than I am even if I were odious and base enough

to wish to be her rival. Besides, I never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there: it is only because dear Lucy

is good and loves me that she comes to see me, and will have me go to see her sometimes.'

`Maggie,' said Philip, with surprise, `it is not like you to take playfulness literally. You must have been in St

`Well,' said Maggie, smiling, `if you meant that for a joke, it was a poor one; but I thought it was a very good

reproof. I thought you wanted to remind me that I am vain, and wish every one to admire me most. But it isn't

for that, that I'm jealous for the dark women not because I'm dark myself. It's because I always care the

most about the unhappy people: if the blonde girl was forsaken, I should like her best. I always take the side

`Then you would never have the heart to reject one yourself should you, Maggie?' said Philip, flushing a

`I don't know,' said Maggie, hesitatingly. Then with a bright smile `I think perhaps I could if he were very

conceited. And yet, if he got extremely humiliated afterwards, I should relent.'

`I've often wondered, Maggie,' Philip said, with some effort, `whether you wouldn't really be more likely to

`That would depend on what they didn't like him for,' said Maggie, laughing. `He might be very disagreeable.

He might look at me through an eyeglass stuck in his eye, making a hideous face, as young Torry does. I

should think other women are not fond of that; but I never felt any pity for young Torry. I've never any pity

for conceited people, because I think they carry their comfort about with them.'

`But suppose, Maggie suppose it was a man who was not conceited who felt he had nothing to be

conceited about who had been marked from childhood for a peculiar kind of suffering and to whom you

were the daystar of his life who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely that he felt it happiness enough for

Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession should cut short this very happiness a pang of the

same dread that had kept his love mute through long months. A rush of selfconsciousness told him that he

was besotted to have said all this. Maggie's manner this morning had been as unconstrained and indifferent as

But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the unusual emotion in Philip's tone she had turned

quickly to look at him, and as he went on speaking, a great change came over her face a flush and slight

spasm of the features such as we see in people who hear some news that will require them to readjust their

conceptions of the past. She was quite silent, and walking on towards the trunk of a fallen tree, she sat down,

`Maggie,' said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in every fresh moment of silence, `I was a fool to say it

The distress with which he spoke, urged Maggie to say something. `I am so surprised, Philip I had not

`Has it made you hate me, Maggie?' said Philip, impetuously. `Do you think I'm a presumptuous fool?'

`O Philip!' said Maggie, `how can you think I have such feelings as if I were not grateful for any love.

But... but I had never thought of your being my lover. It seemed so far off like a dream only like one of

`They can you bear to think of me as your lover Maggie?' said Philip, seating himself by her and taking her

Maggie turned rather pale: this direct question seemed not easy to answer. But her eyes met Philip's, which

were in this moment liquid and beautiful with beseeching love. She spoke with hesitation, yet with sweet,

`I think I could hardly love any one better: there is nothing but what I love you for.' She paused a little while,

and then added, `But it will be better for us not to say any more about it won't it, dear Philip? You know we

couldn't even be friends, if our friendship were discovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving way

about seeing you though it has been so precious to me in some ways and now the fear comes upon me

`But no evil has come, Maggie and if you had been guided by that fear before, you would only have lived

through another dreary benumbing year, instead of reviving into your real self.'

Maggie shook her head. `It has been very sweet, I know all the talking together, and the books, and the

feeling that I had the walk to look forward to when I could tell you the thoughts that had come into my head

while I was away from you. But it has made me restless it has made me think a great deal about the world;

and I have impatient thoughts again I get weary of my home. And that cuts me to the heart afterwards that I

should ever have left weary of my father and mother. I think what you call being benumbed was better

`No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of selfconquest, as I've often told you. What you call selfconquest

blinding and deafening yourself to all but one train of impressions, is only the culture of monomania in a

He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down by her again and took her hand.

`Don't think of the past now, Maggie: think only of our love. If you can really cling to me with all your heart,

every obstacle will be overcome in time we need only wait. I can live on hope. Look at me, Maggie tell

me again, it is possible for you to love me. Don't look away from me to that cloven tree it is a bad omen.'

`Come, Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better to me at Lorton. You asked me if I should like

you to kiss me. Don't you remember? And you promised to kiss me when you met me again. You never kept

The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet relief to Maggie. It made the present moment less

strange to her. She kissed him almost as simply and quietly as she had done when she was twelve years old.

Philip's eyes flashed with delight, but his next words were words of discontent.

`You don't seem happy enough, Maggie: you are forcing yourself to say you love me, out of pity.'

`No, Philip,' said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old childish way. `I'm telling you the truth. It is all new

and strange to me; but I don't think I could love any one better than I love you. I should like always to live

with you to make you happy. I have always been happy when I have been with you. There is only one thing

I will not do for your sake I will never do anything to wound my father. You must never ask that from me.'

`No, Maggie: I will ask nothing I will bear everything I'll wait another year only for a kiss, if you will

`No,' said Maggie, smiling, `I won't make you wait so long as that.' But then, looking serious again, she

`But what would your own father say, Philip? O, it is quite impossible we can ever be more than friends

brother and sister in secret as we have been. Let us give up thinking of everything else.'

`No, Maggie, I can't give you up unless you are deceiving me unless you really only care for me as if I

`Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so great as being with you? since I was a little girl

the days Tom was good to me. And your mind is a sort of world to me You can tell me all I want to know. I

They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other Maggie indeed was hurrying along, for she felt it

time to be gone. But the sense that their parting was near, made her more anxious lest she should have

unintentionally left some painful impression on Philip's mind. It was one of those dangerous moments when

speech is at once sincere and deceptive when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leaves

`Then my life will be filled with hope, Maggie and I shall be happier than other men, in spite of all? We do

`Yes, Philip: I should like never to part: I should like to make your life very happy.'

Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stopped her tall head to kiss the low pale face that was full of

She had a moment of real happiness than a moment of belief that if there were sacrifice in this love it was

She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour since she had trodden this road before, a new era

had begun for her. The tissue of vague dreams must now get narrower and narrower, and all the threads of

SECRETS are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any programme our fear has sketched out. Fear is

almost always haunted by terrible dramatic scenes, which recur in spite of the best argued probabilities

against them; and during a year that Maggie had had the burthen of concealment on her mind, the possibility

of discovery had continually presented itself under the form of a sudden meeting with her father or Tom

when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was aware that this was not one of the most likely

events; but it was the scene that most completely symbolised her inward dread. Those slight indirect

suggestions which are dependent on apparently trivial coincidences and incalculable states of mind are the

favourite machinery of Fact, but are not the stuff in which imagination is apt to work. Certainly one of the

persons about whom Maggie's fears were farthest from troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, on whom,

seeing that she did not live in St Ogg's, and was neither sharpeyed nor sharptempered, it would surely have

been quite whimsical of them to fix rather than on aunt Glegg. And yet the channel of fatality the pathway

of the lightning was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live at St Ogg's, but the road from Garum Firs

The day after Maggie's last meeting with Philip, being a Sunday on which Mr Pullet was bound to appear in

funereal hatband and scarf at St Ogg's church, Mrs Pullet made this the occasion of dining with sister Glegg,

and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was the one day in the week on which Tom was at home in

the afternoon; and today the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in unusually cheerful open

chat with his father, and in the invitation, `Come, Magsie, you come too!' when he strolled out with his

mother in the garden to see the advancing cherry blossoms. He had been better pleased with Maggie since she

had been less odd and ascetic; he was even getting rather proud of her: several persons had remarked in his

hearing that his sister was a very fine girl. Today there was a peculiar brightness in her face, due in reality to

an undercurrent of excitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but it might pass for a

`You look very well, my dear,' said aunt Pullet, shaking her head, sadly, as they sat round the teatable. `I

niver thought your girl 'ud be so goodlooking Bessy. But you must wear pink, my dear: that blue thing as

your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crowflower. Jane never was tasty. Why don't you wear that gown

`It's so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think it's too showy for me at least for my other clothes, that I must wear

`To be sure it 'ud be unbecoming if it wasn't wellknown you've got them belonging to you, as can afford to

give you such things, when they've done with 'em themselves. It stands to reason I must give my own niece

clothes now and then such things as I buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, there's

no giving to her, for she's got everything o' the choicest: sister Deane may well hold her head up, though she

looks dreadful yallow, poor thing I doubt this livercomplaint 'ull carry her off. That's what this new Vicar,

`Ah, he's a wonderful preacher, by all account isn't he, Sophy?' said Mrs Tulliver.

`Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day,' continued Mrs Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating

manner, `as I don't say I haven't got as good, but I must look out my best to match it.'

`Miss Lucy's called the bell o' St Ogg's, they say that's a cur'ous word,' observed Mr Pullet, on whom the

`Pooh!' said Mr Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, `She's a small thing, not much of a figure. But fine feathers

make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those diminitive women: they look silly by the side o' the

men out o'proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose her the right size neither too little nor too big.'

`But the men aren't all big,' said uncle Pullet, not without some selfreference. `A young fellow may be

`Ah, it's poor talking about littleness and bigness, anybody may think it's a mercy they're straight,' said aunt

Pullet. `There's that mismade son o' Lawyer Wakem's I saw him at church today. Dear, dear! to think o'

the property he's like to have. And they say he's very queer and unked doesn't like much company. I

shouldn't wonder if he goes out of his mind, for we never come along the road but he's ascrambling out o'

This wide statement, by which Mrs Pullet represented the fact that she had twice seen Philip at the spot

indicated, produced an effect on Maggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate opposite her, and she

was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At Philip's name she had blushed, and the blush deepened every

instant from consciousness, until the mention of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the whole secret were

betrayed, and she dared not even hold her teaspoon lest she should show how she trembled. She sat with her

hands clasped under the table, not daring to look round. Happily, her father was seated on the same side with

herself beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without stooping forward. Her mother's voice

brought the first relief, turning the conversation for Mrs Tulliver was always alarmed when the name of

Wakem was mentioned in her husband's presence. Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look

up: her eyes met Tom's, but he turned away his head immediately, and she went to bed that night wondering

if he had gathered any suspicion from her confusion. Perhaps not perhaps he would think it was only her

alarm at her aunt's mention of Wakem before her father: that was the interpretation her mother had put on it.

To her father, Wakem was like a disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure the consciousness,

but was exasperated to have the existence recognised by others; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about

But Tom was too keensighted to rest satisfied with such an interpretation: he had seen clearly enough that

there was something distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's excessive confusion. In trying to

recall all the details that could give shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately hearing his mother

scold Maggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged with

red soil: still Tom, retaining all his old repulsion for Philip's deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister

the probability of feeling more than a friendly interest in such an unfortunate exception to the common run of

men. Tom's was a nature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to everything exceptional. A love for a

deformed man would be odious in any woman in a sister intolerable. But if she had been carrying on any

kind of intercourse whatever with Philip, a stop must be put to it at once; she was disobeying her father's

strongest feelings and her brother's express commands, besides compromising herself by secret meetings. He

left home the next morning in that watchful state of mind which turns the most ordinary course of things into

That afternoon, about half past three o' clock, Tom was standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about

the probability of the good ship Adelaide coming in in a day or two with results highly important to both of

`Eh,' said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on the other side of the river, `there goes that

crooked young Wakem I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see 'em. I'm allays lighting on him o'

A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom's mind. `I must go, Bob,' he said, `I've something to

attend to,' hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his place he was called

The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate, and he was pausing to pen it deliberately that he

might walk into the house with an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came out at the front door

in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently

`Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the matter?' Maggie spoke in a low tremulous voice.

`I'm come to walk with you to the Red Deeps and meet Philip Wakem,' said Tom, the central fold in his brow

Maggie stood helpless pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom knew everything. At last, she said, `I'm

They walked in together, and Tom entering the parlour, said to Maggie, `Come in here.'

`Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed between you and Philip Wakem.'

`No,' said Tom, indignantly. `But he shall know, if you attempt to use deceit towards me any further.'

`I don't wish to use deceit,' said Maggie, flushing into resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct.

`Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what has happened, or my father shall know

`Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, when you have despised his strongest feelings.'

`Not if I know it,' answered Tom, with proud sincerity. `But I have nothing to say to you, beyound this: tell

me what has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the Red Deeps?'

`A year ago,' said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave her a certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of

error in abeyance. `You need ask me no more questions. We have been friends a year. We have met and

Maggie paused a moment: then, determined to make an end of Tom's right to accuse her of deceit, she said,

`No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me I didn't think of it before then I had only

Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last,

`Now then Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take: either you vow solemnly to me with your hand

on my father's Bible, that you will never hold another meeting or speak another word in private with Philip

Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything, and this month, when by my exertions he might be

made happy once more, you will cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitful

daughter, who throws away her own respectability by clandestine meetings with the son of a man that has

helped to ruin her father. Choose!' Tom ended with cold decision, going up to the large Bible, drawing it

`Tom,' she said, urged out of pride into pleading, `don't ask me that. I will promise you to give up all

intercourse with Philip, if you will let me see him once or even write to him and explain everything to

give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain to my father... I feel something for Philip too. He is not

`I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactly what I mean. Choose and quickly, lest

`If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me, as if I had laid my hand on the Bible. I don't

`Do what I require,' said Tom. `I can't trust you, Maggie. There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on

this Bible, and say, "I renounce all private speech and intercourse with Philip Wakem from this time forth."

Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on my father; and what is the use of my exerting myself and

giving up everything else for the sake of paying my father's debts if you are to bring madness and vexation

`O Tom will the debts be paid soon?' said Maggie, clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her

`If things turn out as I expect,' said Tom. `But,' he added, his voice trembling with indignation, `while I have

been contriving and working that my father may have some peace of mind before he dies working for the

Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction: for the moment, her mind ceased to contend against what she

felt to be cruel and unreasonable, and in her selfblame she justified her brother.

`Tom,' she said, in a low voice, `It was wrong of me but I was so lonely and I was sorry for Philip. And I

`Nonsense!' said Tom. `Your duty was clear enough. Say no more but promise, in the words I told you.'

`I give you my word not to meet him or write to him again without your knowledge. That is the only thing I

Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated the promise. Tom closed the book, and said,

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering in anticipation of what Philip was about

to suffer, and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she felt it was in vain to

attempt anything but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her conscience and her deepest dread: she

writhed under the demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, and yet her whole soul

rebelled against it as unfair from its incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignation

diverted towards Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride

and animosity was concerned in the bitter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of a son

and a brother: Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own motives, any more than into other matters of

an intangible kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as actions were good, else he would have

Maggie's only hope was that something might for the first time have prevented Philip from coming. Then

there would be delay then she might get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with double

violence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, she thought, Philip always

met her soon after she got beyond them. But they passed across the more open green space and entered the

narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turning, and they came so close upon him, that both Tom and

Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a moment's silence in which Philip darted a

look of inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of

the large eyes. Her imagination always rushing extravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw her tall

strong brother grasping the feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.

`Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, sir?' Tom said in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as

`Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and I'll tell you what I mean. I mean taking

advantage of a young girl's foolishness and ignorance to get her to have secret meetings with you. I mean,

daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that has a good and honest name to support.'

`I deny that!' interrupted Philip, impetuously. `I could never trifle with anything that affected your sister's

happiness. She is dearer to me than she is to you I honour her more than you can ever honour her I would

`Don't talk highflown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean to pretend that you didn't know it would be

injurious to her to meet you here week after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professions of

love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for, when neither her father nor your father would ever consent

to a marriage between you? And you you to try and worm yourself into the affections of a handsome girl

who is not eighteen, and has been shut out from the world by her father's misfortunes! That's your crooked

notion of honour, is it? I call it base treachery I call it taking advantage of circumstances to win what's too

`It is manly of you to talk in this way to me,' said Philip bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions.

`Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You are incapable even of understanding

what I feel for your sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friendship with you.'

`I should be very sorry to understand your feelings,' said Tom, with scorching contempt. `What I wish is that

you should understand me that I shall take care of my sister, and that if you dare to make the least attempt

to come near her, or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, that

ought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. I'll thrash you I'll hold you up to

public scorn. Who wouldn't laugh at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl?'

`Tom, I will not bear it I will listen no longer,' Maggie burst out in a convulsed voice.

`Stay, Maggie!' said Philip, making a strong effort to speak. Then, looking at Tom, `You have dragged your

sister here, I suppose, that she may stand by while you threaten and insult me. These naturally seemed to you

the right means to influence me. But you are mistaken. Let your sister speak. If she says she is bound to give

`It was for my father's sake, Philip,' said Maggie, imploringly. `Tom threatens to tell my father and he

couldn't bear it I have promised, I have vowed solemnly that we will not have any intercourse without my

`It is enough, Maggie. I shall not change; but I wish you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me

`Yes,' said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philip's, `you can talk of seeking good for her and what

`I did at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have a friend for life who would cherish her, who would

do her more justice than a coarse and narrowminded brother, that she has always lavished her affections on.'

`Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours and I'll tell you what is my way. I'll save her from

disobeying and disgracing her father I'll save her from throwing herself away on you from making herself

a laughingstock from being flouted by a man like your father, because she's not good enough for his son.

You know well enough what sort of justice and cherishing you were preparing for her. I'm not to be imposed

He seized Maggie's right wrist as he spoke, and she put out her left hand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one

Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He was still holding her wrist tightly as if he were

compelling a culprit form the scene of action. At last Maggie, with a violent snatch drew her hand away, and

`Don't suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow to your will. I despise the feelings you have

shown in speaking to Philip I detest your insulting unmanly allusions to his deformity. You have been

reproaching other people all your life you have been always sure you yourself are right: it is because you

have not a mind large enough to see that there is anything better than your own conduct and your own petty

`Certainly,' said Tom, coolly. `I don't see that your conduct is better, or your aims either. If your conduct, and

Philip Wakem's conduct, has been right, why are you ashamed of its being known? Answer me that. I know

what I have aimed at in my conduct and I've succeeded: pray, what good has your conduct brought to you or

`I don't want to defend myself' said Maggie, still with vehemence: `I know I've been wrong often,

continually. But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would

be the better for if you had them. If you were in fault ever if you had done anything very wrong, I should be

sorry for the pain it brought you I should not want punishment to be heaped on you. But you have always

enjoyed punishing me you have always been hard and cruel to me even when I was a little girl, and

always loved you better than any one else in the world, you would let me go crying to bed without forgiving

me. You have no pity you have no sense of your own imperfection and you own sins. It is a sin to be hard

it is not fitting for a mortal for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but

your own virtues you think they are great enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision of

`Well,' said Tom, with cold scorn, `if your feelings are so much better than mine, let me see you show them

in some other way than by conduct that's likely to disgrace us all than by ridiculous flights first into one

extreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shown your love that you talk of either to me or my

father? By disobeying and deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affection.'

`Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can do something in the world.'

`So I will submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from

my father, but I will not submit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchased you a right to

be cruel and unmanly as you've been today. Don't suppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedience to

you. The deformity you insult would make me cling to him and care for him the more.'

`Very well that is your view of things,' said Tom, more coldly than ever. `You need say no more to show

me what a wide distance there is between us. Let us remember that in future and be silent.'

Tom went back to St Ogg's, to fulfil an appointment with his uncle Deane, and receive directions about a

Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignant remonstrance, against which Tom's mind was

close barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by, came the recollection

of that quiet time before the pleasure which had ended in today's misery had perturbed the clearness and

simplicity of her life. She used to think in that time that she had made great conquests, and won a lasting

stand on serene heights above worldly temptations and conflict. And here she was down again in the thick of

a hot strife with her own and others' passions. Life was not so short, then, and perfect rest was not so near, as

she had dreamed when she was two years younger? There was more struggle for her perhaps more falling.

If she had felt that she was entirely wrong and that Tom had been entirely right, she could sooner have

recovered more inward harmony, but now her penitence and submission were constantly obstructed by

resentment that would present itself to her no otherwise than as just. Her heart bled for Philip she went on

recalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid a conception of what he had felt under them, that

it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot, and tighten her fingers

And yet how was it that she was now and then conscious of a certain dim background of relief in the forced

separation from Philip? Surely it was only because the sense of a deliverance from concealment was welcome

THREE weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment in all the year the great chestnuts in

blossom, and the grass all deep and daisied Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the evening,

and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the old deeprooted affection at the respectable red brick

house, which always seemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts as sad as

they might, inside. There is a very pleasant light in Tom's bluegrey eyes as he glances at the

housewindows: that fold in his brow never disappears but it is not unbecoming it seems to imply a

strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their gentlest

expression. His firm step becomes quicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compression which

The eyes in the parlour were not turned towards the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in

unexpectant silence: Mr Tulliver in his armchair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn look,

fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing while her mother was making the tea.

Tom went up to his mother and kissed her a sign of unusual goodhumour with him. Hardly a word or look

had passed between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at home

`Father,' said Tom, when they had finished tea, `do you know exactly how much money there is in the tin

`Only a hundred and ninetythree pound,' said Mr Tulliver. `You've brought less o' late but young fellows

like to have their own way with their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before I was of age.' He spoke with

`Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?' said Tom: `I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box

`How should I make a mistake?' said his father, sharply. `I've counted it often enough. But I can fetch it if

It was always an incident Mr Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and count the money.

`Don't go out of the room, mother,' said Tom, as he saw her moving, when his father was gone upstairs.

`And isn't Maggie to go?' said Mrs Tulliver, `because somebody must take away the things.'

That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden conviction that Tom was going to

tell their father, the debts could be paid and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told!

But she carried away the tray, and came back immediately. The feeling of injury on her own behalf could not

Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father, when the tin box was set down and opened, and the red

evening light falling on them made conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the darkeyed father and the

suppressed joy in the face of the faircomplexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the other end of the

Mr Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table, and then said, glancing sharply at Tom,

`There's more nor three hundred wanting it'll be a fine while before I can save that. Losing that fortytwo

pound wi' the corn was a sore job. This world's been too many for me. It's took four year to lay this by it's

much if I'm above ground for another four year... I must trusten to you to pay 'em,' he went on with a

trembling voice, `if you keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age... But you're like enough to bury me

`No, father,' said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though there was tremor discernible in his voice too,

`You will live to see the debts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.'

His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. A slight electric shock seemed to pass

through Mr Tulliver, and he kept his eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie, unable to

restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt down by him. Tom was silent a little while, before he

`A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to trade with, and that has answered. I have three

His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words were uttered, and she said, halfcrying,

But his father was silent: the flood of emotion hemmed in all power of speech. Both Tom and Maggie were

struck with fear lest the shock of joy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. The broad chest

heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and the greyhaired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping

gradually subsided and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of his breathing. At last he looked up at his wife

`Bessy, you must come and kiss me now the lad has made y' amends. You'll see a bit o' comfort again

When she had kissed him and he had held her hand a minute, his thoughts went back to the money.

`I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom,' he said, fingering the sovereigns on the table. `I should

`You shall see it tomorrow, father,' said Tom. `My uncle Deane has appointed the creditors to meet tomorrow

at the Golden Lion, and he has ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and he will both be

`Then Wakem knows on't!' said Mr Tulliver, his eye kindling with triumphant fire. `Ah!' he went on, with a

longdrawn guttural enunciation, taking out his snuffbox, the only luxury he had left himself, and tapping it

with something of his old air of defiance. `I'll get from under his thumb now though I must leave th' old

mill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here but I can't... We've got a glass o' nothing in the house, have

`Yes,' said Mrs Tulliver drawing out her muchreduced bunch of keys, `there's some brandy sister Deane

`Tom, my lad,' he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken some brandy and water, `You shall make a

speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it's you as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last, and ha' got

an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine a fine straight fellow i'stead o'

that poor crooked creatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the day when Wakem and his

son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll like enough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was

before you you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing to hinder your getting rich... And if ever

Mr Tulliver threw himself back in his chair his mind, which had so long been the home of nothing but bitter

discontent and foreboding suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune. But some subtle

influence prevented him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening to himself.

`Shake hands wi' me, my lad,' he said, suddenly putting out his hand. `It's a great thing when a man can be

Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that, and Maggie couldn't help forgetting her own

grievances. Tom was good; and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true admiration and

gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt

no jealousy this evening that for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the background in her father's

There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr Tulliver naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom's

trading adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know what had

been said on every occasion if possible, what had been thought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw

him into peculiar outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remarkable packman. Bob's

juvenile history so far as it had come under Mr Tulliver's knowledge was recalled with that sense of

astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminiscences of the childhood of great men.

It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under the vague but fierce sense of triumph over

Wakem which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with dangerous force.

Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of

It was long before Mr Tulliver got to sleep that night, and the sleep, when it came, was filled with vivid

dreams. At half past five o'clock in the morning, when Mrs Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by

starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at the walls of the

`What's the matter, Mr Tulliver?' said his wife. He looked at her, still with a puzzled expression and said at

MR TULLIVER was an essentially sober man able to take his glass and not averse to it, but never

exceeding the bounds of moderation. He had naturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave

liquid fire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting occasion, without any such

reinforcements, and his desire for the brandy and water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a

dangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom and unaccustomed hard fare. But that first

doubtful tottering moment passed, he seemed to gather strength with his gathering excitement, and the next

day, when he was seated at table with his creditors, his eye kindling and his cheek flushed with the

consciousness that he was about to make an honourable figure once more, he looked more like the proud,

confident, warmhearted and warmtempered Tulliver of old times, than might have seemed possible to any

one who had met him a week before, riding along as had been his wont for the last four years since the sense

of failure and debt had been upon him with his head hanging down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those

who forced themselves on his notice. He made his speech, asserting his honest principles with his old

confident eagerness, alluding to the rascals and the luck that had been against him, but that he had triumphed

over to some extent by hard effort and the aid of a good son, and winding up with the story of how Tom had

got the best part of the needful money. But the streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemed to melt for a

little while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure, when, Tom's health having been proposed, and uncle Deane

having taken occasion to say a few words of eulogy on his general character and conduct, Tom himself got up

and made the single speech of his life. It could hardly have been briefer: he thanked the gentlemen for the

honour they had done him. He was glad that he had been able to help his father in proving his integrity and

regaining his honest name, and, for his own part, he hoped he should never undo that work and disgrace that

name. But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom looked so gentlemanly as well as tall and

straight, that Mr Tulliver remarked in an explanatory manner to his friends on his right and left that he had

spent a deal of money on his son's education. The party broke up in very sober fashion at five o'clock. Tom

remained in St Ogg's to attend to some business and Mr Tulliver mounted his horse to go home, and describe

the memorable things that had been said and done, to `poor Bessy and the little wench.' The air of excitement

that hung about him, was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulus but the potent wine of triumphant joy.

He did not choose any back street today, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances along the

principal street all the way to the bridge. Why did he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that

coincidence vexed him and set his mind at work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakem was gone out of town

today on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing anything of an honorable action, which might well cause him

some unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr Tulliver would look straight at him, and the

rascal would perhaps be forsaken a little by his cool domineering impudence. He would know by and by that

an honest man was not going to serve him any longer, and lend his honesty to fill a pocket already over full of

dishonest gains. Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn: perhaps the devil didn't always hold the best cards in

Simmering in this way, Mr Tulliver approached the yardgates of Dorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well

known figure coming out of them on a fine black horse. They met about fifty yards from the gates, between

`Tulliver,' said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than usual, `What a fool's trick you did spreading

those hard lumps on that Far Close. I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farm with any

`Oh!' said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up. `Get somebody else to farm for you, then, as 'll ask you to teach

`You have been drinking, I suppose,' said Wakem, really believing that this was the meaning of Tulliver's

`No, I've not been drinking,' said Tulliver, `I want no drinking to help me make up my mind as I'll serve no

`Very well! you may leave my premises tomorrow, then: hold your insolent tongue and let me pass.' (Tulliver

`No, I shan't let you pass,' said Tulliver, getting fiercer. `I shall tell you what I think of you first. You're too

Mr Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip made a rush forward, and Wakem's horse, rearing and

staggering backward, threw his rider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the ground. Wakem had had

the presence of mind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse only staggered a few paces and then stood

still, he might have risen and remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a shake. But before he

could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight of the longhated predominant man down and in his

power threw him into a frenzy of triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give him preternatural agility and

strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in the act of trying to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm

so as to press Wakem's whole weight on the right arm, which rested on the ground, and flogged him fiercely

across the back with his ridingwhip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman's scream

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr Tulliver's arm, for the flogging ceased, and the grasp of

`Get away with you go!' said Tulliver angrily. But it was not to Wakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer

rose, and, as he turned his head, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl rather by fear of hurting

`O Luke mother come and help Mr Wakem!' Maggie cried, as she heard the longedfor footsteps.

`Help me on to that low horse,' said Wakem to Luke, `then I shall perhaps manage: though confound it I

With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse. Then he turned towards the miller and said,

with white rage, `You'll suffer for this, sir. Your daughter is a witness that you've assaulted me.'

`I don't care,' said Mr Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice, `Go and show your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you.

`Ride my horse home with me,' said Wakem to Luke. `By the Toften Ferry not through the town.' `Father,

come in!' said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing that Wakem had ridden off and that no further violence was

possible, she slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs Tulliver stood by in silence,

quivering with fear. But Maggie became conscious that as she was slackening her hold, her father was

`I feel ill faintish,' he said. `Help me in, Bessy I'm giddy: I've a pain i' the head.'

He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter, and tottered into his armchair. The almost purple

He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her, but presently, when she said to Maggie, `Go and see for

somebody to fetch the doctor,' he looked up at her with full comprehension, and said, `Doctor? No No

Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a beginning of better times! But mingled seed must bear

In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. Bob Jakin was with him come to

congratulate `the old master,' not without some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about

Mr Tom's goodluck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothing better as a finish to the day than a

talk with Bob. But now Tom could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant

consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father's longsmothered hate. After the painful

news had been told, Tom sat in silence: he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother and sister anything

about the dinner they hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so

curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it. Tom was

dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrongdoing of others:

Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of the moment in which she had rushed to throw

herself on her father's arm with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come. Not one of the

three felt any particular alarm about Mr Tulliver's health: the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous

attack, and it seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion and effort of strength after many

hours of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill. Rest would probably cure him.

Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept soundly; it seemed to him as if he had only just

come to bed, when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the grey light of early morning.

`My boy, you must get up this minute: I've sent for the doctor, and your father wants you and Maggie to

`He's been very ill all night with his head, but he doesn't say it's worse only said sudden, "Bessy, fetch the

Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill grey light, and reached their father's room almost

at the same moment. He was watching for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but with sharpened

anxious consciousness in his eyes. Mrs Tulliver stood at the foot of the bed, frightened and trembling,

looking worn and aged from disturbed rest. Maggie was at his bedside first, but her father's glance was

`Tom, my lad, it's come upon me, as I shan't get up again... This world's been too many for me, my lad, but

you've done what you could to make things a bit even. Shake hands wi' me again, my lad, before I go away

The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly,

`And there's your mother you'll try and make her amends, all you can, for my bad luck... and there's the

The father turned his eyes on Maggie with a still more eager look, while she, with a bursting heart, sank on

her knees, to be closer to the dear, timeworn face which had been present with her through long years as the

`You must take care of her, Tom... don't you fret, my wench... there'll come somebody as'll love you and take

your part... and you must be good to her, my lad I was good to my sister. Kiss me, Maggie... Come, Bessy...

You'll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your mother and me can lie together.'

He looked away from them all when he had said this, and lay silent for some minutes, while they stood

watching him, not daring to move. The morning light was growing clearer for them, and they could see the

heaviness gathering in his face, and the dullness in his eyes. But at last he looked towards Tom and said,

`I had my turn I beat him. That was nothing but fair. I never wanted anything but what was fair.'

`But, father, dear father,' said Maggie, an unspeakable anxiety predominating over her grief, `You forgive

`No, my wench. I don't forgive him... What's forgiving to do? I can't love a raskill... '

His voice had become thicker; but he wanted to say more, and moved his lips again and again, struggling in

His hands moved uneasily, as if he wanted them to remove some obstruction that weighted upon him. Two or

Soon they merged into mere mutterings; the eyes had ceased to discern; and then came the final silence.

But not of death. For an hour or more the chest heaved, the loud hard breathing continued, getting gradually

At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimlylighted soul had for ever ceased to be vexed with

Help was come now: Luke and his wife were there, and Mr Turnbull had arrived, too late for everything but

Tom and Maggie went downstairs together into the room where their father's place was empty. Their eyes

`Tom, forgive me let us always love each other,' and they clung and wept together.

THE wellfurnished drawingroom, with the open grand piano and the pleasant outlook down a sloping

garden to a boathouse by the side of the Floss, is Mr Deane's. The neat little lady in mourning, whose light

brown ringlets are falling over the coloured embroidery with which here fingers are busy, is of course Lucy

Deane; and the fine young man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors in the extremely

abbreviated face of the `King Charles' lying on the young lady's feet, is no other than Mr Stephen Guest,

whose diamond ring, attar of roses, and air of nonchalant leisure at twelve o'clock in the day are the graceful

and odoriferous result of the largest oilmill and the most extensive wharf in St Ogg's. There is an apparent

triviality in the action with the scissors, but your discernment perceives at once that there is a design in it

which makes it eminently worthy of a largeheaded, longlimbed young man; for you see that Lucy wants

the scissors and is compelled, reluctant as she may be, to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes,

smile playfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with her knee, and holding out her little

shellpink palm, to say, `My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure of persecuting my poor

The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped

`Confound the scissors! The oval lies the wrong way. Please, draw them off for me.'

`O but that's my left hand: I'm not lefthanded.' Lucy laughs and the scissors are drawn off with gentle

touches from tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr Stephen for a repetition da capo. Accordingly, he watches

`No, no,' said Lucy, sticking them in her band, `you shall not have my scissors again you have strained

them already. Now don't set Minny growling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell you some

`What is that?' said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging his right arm over the corner of his chair. He

might have been sitting for his portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young man of five and

twenty, with a square forehead, short darkbrown hair standing erect with a slight wave at the end like a thick

crop of corn, and a halfardent, halfsarcastic glance from under his well marked horizontal eyebrows. `Is it

`You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three ratafias soaked in a dessertspoonful of cream

`Well, then, Dr Kenn has been preaching against buckram, and you ladies have all been sending him a round

`For shame!' said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. `It is rather dull of you not to guess my news,

`But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does your feminine tyranny require that when you

say, the thing you mean is one of several things, I should know it immediately by that mark?'

`But I know you like women to be rather insipid. Philip Wakem betrayed you: he said so one day when you

`O I know Phil is fierce on that point he makes it quite a personal matter. I think he must be lovesick for

`By the by!' said Lucy, pausing in her work. `It has just occurred to me that I have never found out whether

my cousin Maggie will object to see Philip, as her brother does. Tom will not enter a room where Philip is if

he knows it: perhaps Maggie may be the same and then we shan't be able to sing our glees, shall we?'

`What, is your cousin coming to stay with you?' said Stephen, with a look of slight annoyance.

`Yes; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She's going to leave her situation, where she has been

nearly two years, poor thing ever since her father's death, and she will stay with me a month or two many

`O no, not at all,' said Lucy, with a little air of pique. `I am pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why you

should be pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousin Maggie.'

`And you will be inseparable, I suppose, when she comes. There will be no possibility of a t�te�t�te with

you any more, unless you can find an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. What is the

`It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were very painful circumstances, I believe I never quite

understood them or knew them all. My uncle Tulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, and I think he

considered Mr Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr Wakem bought Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place,

`No,' said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. `I've always known the name, and I daresay I knew

the man by sight, apart from his name. I know half the names and faces in the neighbourhood in that

`He was a very hottempered man. I remember, when I was a little girl and used to go to see my cousins, he

often frightened me by talking as if he was angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel the very day

before my uncle's death, between him and Mr Wakem, but it was hushed up. That was when you were in

London. Papa says my uncle was quite mistaken in many ways his mind had become embittered. But Tom

and Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of these things. They have had so much so

very much trouble. Maggie was at school with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of her

father's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, I think. She has been in a dreary situation in a

school since uncle's death because she is determined to be independent, and not live with aunt Pullet; and I

could hardly wish her to come to me then, because dear mamma was ill and everything was so sad. That is

`Very sweet and angelic of you,' said Stephen, looking at her with an admiring smile, `and all the more so if

`Poor aunty! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very valuable to me, I know. She manages the house

beautifully much better than any stranger would. And she was a great comfort to me in mamma's illness.'

`Yes, but in point of companionship, one would prefer that she should be represented by her brandy cherries

and cream cakes. I think with a shudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and have no

agreeable proxies of that kind a fat blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare at us silently.'

`O yes!' exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly and clapping her hands, `that is just my cousin Maggie. You

`No, indeed: I'm only guessing what Mrs Tulliver's daughter must be. And then, if she is to banish Philip, our

`But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philip and tell him Maggie is coming tomorrow.

He is quite aware of Tom's feeling and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand if you tell him that

`I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take. Phil is so sensitive, you know the least thing might

frighten him off coming at all, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to come to the Park:

he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only your fa�ry touch that can lay his ruffled feathers.'

Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying towards the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little

Lucy felt very proud and happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes the most

exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossomtime of passion when each is sure of the other's love, but

no formal declaration has been made and all is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial word, the lightest

gesture, into thrills delicate and delicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagement wears

off this finest edge of susceptibility: it is jasmine gathered and presented in a large bouquet.

`But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie's appearance and manners,' said the

cunning Lucy, moving to reach her desk, `because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tom

`O, I suppose he is like the father he seems to be as proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I

`I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo. And papa is very fond of him he says Tom has

excellent principles. It was through him that his father was able to pay all his debts before he died.'

`Oh, ah, I've heard about that; I heard your father and mine talking about it a little while ago, after dinner, in

one of their interminable discussions about business. They think of doing something for young Tulliver he

saved them from a considerable loss by riding home in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them

news about the stoppage of a bank or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy at the time.'

Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming in falsetto, `Graceful Consort,' as he turned

`Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it, is the grand element of good singing. I

`Philip burst into one of his invectives against "The Creation" the other day,' said Lucy, seating herself at the

piano. `He says it has a sort of sugared complacency and flattering makebelieve in it, as if it were written for

`O pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam and Eve unfallen in paradise. Now,

then the recitative, for the sake of the moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman "And from

`O no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the tempo, as you will,' said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.

Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that in which the lovers can sing together.

The sense of mutual fitness that springs from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at the right

moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from the perfect accord of descending thirds and fifths,

from the preconcerted loving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate demand for less

impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will not care to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no

embarrassing dearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In the provinces, too, where music

was so scarce in that remote time, how could the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Even

political principle must have been in danger of relaxation under such circumstances; and a violin faithful to

rotten boroughs must have been tempted to fraternise in a demoralising way with a reforming violoncello. In

`With thee delight is every new, With thee is life incessant bliss,' believed what they sang all the more

`Now for Raphael's great song,' said Lucy, when they had finished the duet. `You do the "heavy beasts" to

`That sounds complimentary,' said Stephen, looking at his watch. `By Jove, it's nearly halfpast one. Well, I

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing the tread of the heavy beasts: but when a

singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided sentiments. Minny's mistress was charmed, but

Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as the music began, found this thunder

so little to his taste that he leaped out and scampered under the remotest chiffonni�re, as the most eligible

`Adieu, "graceful consort,"' said Stephen, buttoning his coat across when he had done singing, and smiling

down from his tall height, with the air of rather a patronising lover to the little lady on the musicstool. `My

bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. I promised to be there at lunch.'

`You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of no consequence: I have said everything in my note.'

`Yes, we are going to have a little family party. My cousin Tom will dine with us, and poor aunty will have

her two children together for the first time. It will be very pretty I think a great deal about it.'

`O yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie though you can hardly be said not to have seen her,

`Goodby, then.' And there was that slight pressure of the hands and momentary meeting of the eyes, which

will often leave a little lady with a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subside immediately when

the door is closed, and with an inclination to walk up and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at

her embroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least this was the effect on Lucy; and you will

not, I hope, consider it an indication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that she just glanced

in the chimney glass as her walk brought her near it. The desire to know that one has not looked an absolute

fright during a few hours of conversation may be construed as lying within the bounds of a laudable

benevolent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much of this benevolence in her nature that I am

inclined to think her small egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people not altogether unknown

to you, whose small benevolences have a predominant and somewhat rank odour of egoism. Even now, that

she is walking up and down with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the sense that she is loved by

the person of chief consequence in her small world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever present sunny

benignity in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanity are quite lost, and if she is happy in

thinking of her lover it is because the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentle affections and

goodnatured offices with which she fills her peaceful days. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous

alternation which makes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, is glancing continually

from Stephen to the preparations she has only half finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie shall be treated

as well as the grandest lady visitor nay, better, for she shall have Lucy's best prints and drawings in her

bedroom, and the very finest bouquet of spring flowers on her table. Maggie would enjoy all that she was

so fond of pretty things! And there was poor aunt Tulliver, that no one made any account of she was to be

surprised with the present of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunk in a gratifying manner,

for which Lucy was going to lay a plot with her father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in

long reveries about her own happy loveaffairs! With this thought she walked towards the door, but paused

`What's the matter, then, Minny?' she said, stooping in answer to some whimpering of that small quadruped,

and lifting his glossy head against her pink cheek. `Did you think I was going without you? Come, then, let

Sindbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always fed with her own hand when he was turned out in the

paddock. She was fond of feeding dependent creatures, and knew the private tastes of all the animals about

the house, delighting in the little rippling sounds of her canaries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed,

and in the small nibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appear too trivial, I will here call

Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that this slim maiden of eighteen was quite the sort of

wife a man would not be likely to repent of marrying? a woman who was loving and thoughtful for other

women, not giving them Judaskisses with eyes askance on their welcome defects, but with real care and

vision for their halfhidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment of little pleasures

prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of his admiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her

perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did not strike him as a remarkable rarity. A

man likes his wife to be pretty: well, Lucy was pretty, but not to a maddening extent. A man likes his wife to

be accomplished, gentle, affectionate and not stupid; and Lucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not

surprised to find himself in love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment in preferring her to Miss

Leyburn, the daughter of the county member, although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's subordinate

partner; besides, he had had to defy and overcome a slight unwillingness and disappointment in his father and

sisters a circumstance which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of his own dignity. Stephen

was aware that he had sense and independence enough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy,

unbiassed by any indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy: she was a little darling, and exactly the

`HE is very clever, Maggie,' said Lucy. She was kneeling on a footstool at Maggie's feet, after placing that

dark lady in the large crimson velvet chair. `I feel sure you will like him. I hope you will.' `I shall be very

difficult to please,' said Maggie, smiling, and holding up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight might

shine through it. `A gentleman who thinks he is good enough for Lucy, must expect to be sharply criticised.'

`Indeed, he's a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, when he is away, I almost think it can't really be,

that he loves me. But I can never doubt it when he is with me though I couldn't bear any one but you to

`Oh, then, if I disapprove of him, you can give him up, since you are not engaged,' said Maggie with playful

`I would rather not be engaged: When people are engaged, they begin to think of being married soon,' said

Lucy, too thoroughly preoccupied to notice Maggie's joke, `and I should like everything to go on for a long

while just as it is. Sometimes I am quite frightened lest Stephen should say that he has spoken to papa, and

from something that fell from papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr Guest are expecting that. And

Stephen's sisters are very civil to me now: at first, I think they didn't like his paying me attention; and that

was natural. It does seem out of keeping that I should ever live in a great place like the Park House such a

`But people are not expected to be large in proportion to the houses they live in, like snails,' said Maggie,

`O no and not handsome that is, not very,' said Lucy, halfpenitent at this uncharitable remark. `But he is

`O, I don't know,' said Lucy, blushing pink over brow and neck. `It is a bad plan to raise expectation; you will

perhaps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming surprise for him; I shall have a glorious laugh

Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, holding her pretty head on one side, as if she had been

`What is your pleasure now?' said Maggie, smiling languidly, as she rose from her chair, and looked down on

her slight, a�rial cousin, whose figure was quite subordinate to her faultless drapery of silk and crape.

`I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you look best in shabby clothes; though you

really must have a new dress now. But do you know, last night I was trying to fancy you in a handsome

fashionable dress, and do what I would, that old limp merino would come back as the only right thing for

you. I wonder if Marie Antoinette looked all the grander when her gown was darned at the elbows. Now, if I

were to put anything shabby on, I should be quite unnoticeable I should be a mere rag.'

`O quite,' said Maggie, with mock gravity. `You would be liable to be swept out of the room with the

cobwebs and carpet dust, and to find yourself under the grate, like Cinderella. Mayn't I sit down now?'

`Yes, now you may,' said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an air of serious reflection, unfastening her large jet

brooch, `But you must change brooches, Maggie; that little butterfly looks silly on you.'

`But won't that mar the charming effect of my consistent shabbiness?' said Maggie, seating herself

submissively, while Lucy knelt again and unfastened the contemptible butterfly. `I wish my mother were of

your opinion, for she was fretting last night because this is my best frock. I've been saving my money to pay

for some lessons: I shall never get a better situation without more accomplishments.'

`Now, don't put on that sad look again,' said Lucy, pinning the large brooch below Maggie's fine throat.

`You're forgetting that you've left that dreary schoolroom behind you, and have no little girls' clothes to

`Yes,' said Maggie. `It is with me as I used to think it would be with the poor uneasy white bear I saw at the

show. I thought he must have got so stupid with the habit of turning backwards and forwards in that narrow

space that he would keep doing it if they set him free. One gets a bad habit of being unhappy.'

`But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that will make you lose that bad habit,' said Lucy, sticking

the black butterfly absently in her own collar, while her eyes met Maggie's affectionately.

`You dear tiny thing,' said Maggie, in one of her bursts of loving admiration, `you enjoy other people's

happiness so much, I believe you would do without any of your own. I wish I were like you.'

`I've never been tried in that way,' said Lucy. `I've always been so happy. I don't know whether I could bear

much trouble I never had any but poor mamma's death. You have been tried, Maggie; and I'm sure you feel

`No, Lucy,' said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, `I don't enjoy their happiness as you do else I should be

more contented. I do feel for them when they are in trouble I don't think I could ever bear to make any one

unhappy and yet, I often hate myself, because I get angry sometimes at the sight of happy people. I think I

`Now, Maggie!' said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, `I don't believe a word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy

`Well, perhaps it is,' said Maggie, resolutely clearing away the clouds from her face with a bright smile, and

throwing herself backward in her chair. `Perhaps it comes from the school diet watery ricepudding spiced

with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way before my mother's custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon.'

`Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?' said Lucy, going to survey the effect in the chimney glass.

`O no, Mr Guest will be obliged to go out of the room again if he sees you in it. Pray make haste and put

Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the opportunity of opening her book: she let it fall on

her knees, while her eyes wandered to the window where she could see the sunshine falling on the rich

clumps of spring flowers and on the long hedge of laurels and beyond, the silvery breadth of the dear old

Floss that at this distance seemed to be sleeping in a morning holiday. The sweet fresh garden scent came

through the open window, and the birds were busy flitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's

eyes began to fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush of memories so painful that even

yesterday she had only been able to rejoice in her mother's restored comfort and Tom's brotherly friendliness

as we rejoice in good news of friends at a distance rather than in the presence of a happiness which we share.

Memory and imagination urged upon her a sense of privation too keen to let her taste what was offered in the

transient present: her future, she thought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years of contented

renunciation, she had slipped back into desire and longing: she found joyless days of distasteful occupation

harder and harder she found the image of the intense and varied life she yearned for and despaired of,

becoming more and more importunate. The sound of the opening door roused her, and hastily wiping away

`There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest dismalness will never resist,' said Lucy, beginning

to speak as soon as she entered the room. `That is music. And I mean you to have quite a riotous feast of it. I

mean you to get up your playing again, which used to be so much better than mine when we were at

`You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls' tunes over and over to them, when I took them to

practice,' said Maggie, `just for the sake of fingering the dear keys again. But I don't know whether I could

`I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when the gleemen came round,' said Lucy, taking up her

embroidery, `and we might have all those old glees that you used to love so, if I were certain that you don't

`I should have thought there was nothing you might be more certain of,' said Maggie, smiling.

`I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because if you feel just as he does about that, we shall want

our third voice. St Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gentlemen. There are really only Stephen and

Lucy looked up from her work as she uttered the last sentence, and saw that there was a change in Maggie's

`Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie? If it does, I will not speak of him again. I know Tom

`I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject,' said Maggie, rising and going to the window as if she wanted

to see more of the landscape. `I've always liked Philip Wakem ever since I was a little girl and saw him at

`O, I'm so glad!' said Lucy. `Then you won't mind his coming sometimes, and we can have much more music

than we could without him. I'm very fond of poor Philip, only I wish he were not so morbid about his

deformity. I suppose it is his deformity that makes him so sad and sometimes bitter. It is certainly very

piteous to see his poor little crooked body and pale face among great strong people.'

`Ah, there is the doorbell. That must be Stephen,' Lucy went on, not noticing Maggie's faint effort to speak.

`One of the things I most admire in Stephen is, that he makes a greater friend of Philip than any one.'

It was too late for Maggie to speak now: the drawingroom door was opening, and Minny was already

growling in a small way, at the entrance of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy and took her hand with a

half polite, half tender glance and tone of inquiry, which seemed to indicate that he was unconscious of any

`Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver,' said Lucy, turning with wicked enjoyment towards

For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment at the sight of this tall darkeyed nymph with her

jet black coronet of hair, the next, Maggie felt herself, for the first time in her life, receiving the tribute of a

very deep blush and a very deep bow from a person towards whom she herself was conscious of timidity.

This new experience was very agreeable to her so agreeable that it almost effaced her previous emotion

about Philip. There was a new brightness in her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek as she seated

`I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew the day before yesterday,' said Lucy, with a pretty

laugh of triumph. She enjoyed her lover's confusion the advantage was usually on his side.

`This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me, Miss Tulliver,' said Stephen, seating himself by Lucy and

stooping to play with Minny only looking at Maggie furtively. `She said you had light hair and blue eyes.'

`Nay, it was you who said so,' remonstrated Lucy. `I only refrained from destroying your confidence in your

`I wish I could always err in the same way,' said Stephen, `and find reality so much more beautiful than my

`Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion,' said Maggie, `and said what it was incumbent on you

She flashed a slightly defiant look at him: it was clear to her that he had been drawing a satirical portrait of

her beforehand. Lucy had said he was inclined to be satirical, and Maggie had mentally supplied the addition

`An alarming amount of devil there,' was Stephen's first thought. The second, when she had bent over her

`I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he

says "thank you." It's rather hard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the world declines

`No,' said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance; `if we use common words on a great occasion, they

are the more striking, because they are felt at once to have a particular meaning, like old banners or everyday

`Then my compliment ought to be eloquent,' said Stephen, really not quite knowing what he said while

`No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression of indifference,' said Maggie, flushing a little.

Lucy was rather alarmed she thought Stephen and Maggie were not going to like each other. She had

always feared lest Maggie should appear too odd and clever to please that critical gentleman. `Why, dear

Maggie,' she interposed, `you have always pretended that you are too fond of being admired, and now, I

`Not at all,' said Maggie, `I like too well to feel that I am admired, but compliments never make me feel that.'

Poor Maggie! She was so unused to society that she could take nothing as a matter of course, and had never

in her life spoken from the lips merely, so that she must necessarily appear absurd to more experienced

ladies, from the excessive feeling she was apt to throw into very trivial incidents. But she was even conscious

herself of a little absurdity in this instance. It was true, she had a theoretic objection to compliments and had

once said impatiently to Philip that she didn't see why women were to be told with a simper that they were

beautiful any more than old men were to be told that they were venerable: still, to be so irritated by a

common practice in the case of a stranger like Mr Stephen Guest, and to care about his having spoken

slightingly of her before he had seen her, was certainly unreasonable, and as soon as she was silent she began

to be ashamed of herself. It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter emotion which

had preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of glowing warmth an innocent drop of cold water

Stephen was too wellbred not to seem unaware that the previous conversation could have been felt

embarrassing, and at once began to talk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if she knew when the bazaar was

at length to take place, so that there might be some hope of seeing her rain the influence of her eyes on

objects more grateful than those worsted flowers that were growing under her fingers.

`Some day next month, I believe,' said Lucy. `But your sisters are doing more for it than I am: they are to

`Ah, yes: but they carry on their manufactures in their own sittingroom where I don't intrude on them. I see

you are not addicted to the fashionable vice of fancywork, Miss Tulliver,' said Stephen looking at Maggie's

`No,' said Maggie, `I can do nothing more difficult or more elegant than shirtmaking.'

`And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie,' said Lucy, `that I think I shall beg a few specimens of you to

show as fancywork. Your exquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me you used to dislike that sort of work

`It is a mystery explained, dear,' said Maggie, looking up quietly. `Plain sewing was the only thing I could get

Lucy, good and simple as she was, could not help blushing a little: she did not quite like that Stephen should

know that Maggie need not have mentioned it. Perhaps there was some pride in the confession: the pride of

poverty that will not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggie had been the queen of coquettes she could hardly

have invented a means of giving greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes: I am not sure that the quiet

admission of plain sewing and poverty would have done alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made Maggie

`But I can knit, Lucy,' Maggie went on, `if that will be of any use for your bazaar.'

`O yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scarlet wool tomorrow. But your sister is the most

enviable person,' continued Lucy, turning to Stephen, `to have the talent of modelling. She is doing a

`Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near together, and the corners of the mouth very far apart, the

`Now, that is very wicked of you,' said Lucy, looking rather hurt. `I didn't think you would speak

`I say anything disrespectful of Dr Kenn? Heaven forbid!But I am not bound to respect a libellous bust of

him. I think Kenn one of the finest fellows in the world. I don't care much about the tall candlesticks he has

put on the communion table, and I shouldn't like to spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every

morning. But he's the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have anything of the real apostle

in him a man who has eight hundred a year and is contented with deal furniture and boiled beef because he

gives away two thirds of his income. That was a very fine thing of him taking into his house that poor lad

Grattan, who shot his mother by accident. He sacrifices more time than a less busy man could spare, to save

the poor fellow from getting into a morbid state of mind about it. He takes the lad out with him constantly, I

`That is beautiful,' said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and was listening with keen interest, `I never knew

`And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the more,' said Stephen, `because his manners in general are

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

`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 honour of representing St

`Do you really think of that?' said Lucy, her eyes brightening with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the

`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 selfadmiration `gifts like mine involve great responsibilities. Don't you think so,

`Yes,' said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; `so much fluency and self possession should not be wasted

`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

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 selfconsciousness, as if he had been

the snuffiest of old professors and she a downylipped alumnus. He was so fascinated by this clear, large

gaze that at last he forgot to look away from it occasionally towards 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

`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.'

`O thank you,' said Maggie, blushing with returning selfconsciousness at this direct address, and taking up

`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 donothing days, filled with boating and chatting and riding and

`Apropos!' said Stephen, looking at his watch, `shall we go out for a row on the river now? The tide will suit

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

`I'll call and beat him up tomorrow,' 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 have the field clear for them in the

`O yes, pray bring him,' said Lucy. `And you will like Maggie, shan't you?' she added, in a beseeching tone.

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

Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudent confidences to ladies concerning their

unfavourable 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 selfdenyingly 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 unfavourable 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

chalkstones 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 found 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

`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

`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 oneself.

When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet seated with Mrs Tulliver in the

drawingroom 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

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

`But she's so much broader across the shoulders than I am it's very illconvenient,' 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

`O, never mind that, aunt, pray send us the dress,' said Lucy. `I don't mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I

`Maggie's arms are a pretty shape,' said Mrs Tulliver. `They're like mine used to be; only mine was never

`Nonsense, aunty!' said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's shoulder, `you don't understand those things. A

`May be, my dear,' said Mrs Tulliver, submissively. `You know better than I do. Only when I was young a

`No,' said uncle Pullet, who took intense interest in the ladies' conversation, as he sucked his lozenges.

`Though there was a song about the "Nutbrown Maid" too I think she was crazy like crazy Kate but I

`O dear, dear!' said Maggie, laughing but impatient, `I think that will be the end of my brown skin if it is

WHEN Maggie went up to her bedroom that night it appeared that she was not 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

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 your 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 wellmarked 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 welleducated 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;

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

halfremote 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 a�rial world again when a little tap came at the

`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 dressinggown and unplait your hair.'

`Well, you are not very forward,' retorted Maggie, hastily reaching her own pink cotton gown, and looking at

`O 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.'

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pink drapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette

table, watching her with affectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. If it appears to you at

all incredible that young ladies should be led on to talk confidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg

`O yes, that is what prevents me from feeling sleepy. I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could

always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to

go on without effort, when I am filled with music. At other times one is conscious of carrying a weight.'

`Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that,' said Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her

`O I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not be so much at ease and so selfconfident. He

`Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me!You think he is conceited I see that. But you don't

`Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people, that I should be very difficult to please?

Besides how could I dislike any one that promised to make you happy, you dear thing!' Maggie pinched

`We shall have more music tomorrow evening,' said Lucy, looking happy already, `for Stephen will bring

`O Lucy, I can't see him,' said Maggie, turning pale. `At least, I could not see him without Tom's leave.'

`Is Tom such a tyrant as that?' said Lucy, surprised. `I'll take the responsibility then tell him it was my

`But, dear,' said Maggie, faltering, `I promised Tom very solemnly before my father's death I promised

him I would not speak to Philip without his knowledge and consent. And I have a great dread of opening the

`But I never heard of anything so strange and unreasonable. What harm can poor Philip have done? May I

`O no, pray don't, dear,' said Maggie. `I'll go to him myself tomorrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to

come. I've thought before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I've not had the courage to

Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to her and said, `I should like to tell you about

Philip. But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known the relief of such an outpouring: she had never

before told Lucy anything of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent towards her with sympathetic interest,

and the little hand pressing hers, encouraged her to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She

did not betray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom's great offence the insults he had heaped on

Philip. Angry as the remembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one else should know it all

both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she could not bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and

Wakem though it was this scene which she had ever since felt to be a new barrier between herself and

Philip. She only told Lucy that she saw now, Tom was on the whole right in regarding any prospect of love

and marriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the relation of the two families. Of course

`There, Lucy, you have had my story,' said Maggie, smiling with the tears in her eyes. `You see I am like Sir

`Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and have learned so much since you felt

school which always seemed to me witchcraft before part of your general uncanniness,' said Lucy.

She mused a little with her eyes downward and then added, looking at Maggie, `It is very beautiful that you

should love Philip: I never thought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you ought not to

`Yes, yes,' persisted Lucy. `I can't help being hopeful about it. There is something romantic in it out of the

common way just what everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you like a

husband in a fairy tale. O I shall puzzle my small brain to contrive some plot that will bring everybody into

the right mind so that you may marry Philip, when I marry somebody else. Wouldn't that be a pretty

`Ah, dear, you are cold,' said Lucy. `You must go to bed; and so must I. I dare not think what time it is.'

They kissed each other and Lucy went away possessed of a confidence which had a strong influence over

her subsequent impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly sincere: her nature had never found it easy to be

MAGGIE was obliged to go to Tom's lodgings in the middle of the day, when he would be coming in to

dinner, else she would not have found him at home. He was not lodging with entire strangers. Our friend Bob

Jakin had, with Mumps's tacit consent, taken not only a wife about eight months ago, but also one of those

queer old houses pierced with surprising passages, by the waterside, where, as he observed, his wife and

mother could keep themselves out of mischief by letting out two `pleasureboats' in which he had invested

some of his savings, and by taking a lodger for the parlour and spare bedroom. Under these circumstances,

what could be better for the interests of all parties, sanitary considerations apart, than that the lodger should

be Mr Tom? It was Bob's wife who opened the door to Maggie. She was a tiny woman, with the general

physiognomy of a Dutch doll, looking, in comparison with Bob's mother who filled up the passage in the

rear, very much like one of those human figures which the artist finds conveniently standing near a colossal

statue to show the proportions. The tiny woman curtsied and looked up at Maggie with some awe as soon as

she had opened the door; but the words, `Is my brother at home?' which Maggie uttered smilingly, made her

`Eh, mother, mother tell Bob! it's Miss Maggie! Come in, Miss, for goodness do,' she went on, opening a

side door, and endeavouring to flatten her person against the wall to make the utmost space for the visitor.

Sad recollections crowded on Maggie as she entered the small parlour, which was now all that poor Tom had

to call by the name of `home' that name which had once, so many years ago, meant for both of them the

same sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was not strange to her in this new room: the first thing her

eyes dwelt on was the large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to disperse the old memories. She stood

`If you please to take the privilege o' sitting down, Miss,' said Mrs Jakin, rubbing her apron over a perfectly

clean chair, and then lifting up the corner of that garment and holding it to her face with an air of

`Bob is at home, then?' said Maggie, recovering herself, and smiling at the bashful Dutch doll.

`Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself I'll go and see,' said Mrs Jakin,

But she presently came back walking with new courage a little way behind her husband, who showed the

brilliancy of his blue eyes and regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing respectfully.

`How do you do, Bob?' said Maggie, coming forward and putting out her hand to him. `I always meant to pay

your wife a visit, and I shall come another day on purpose for that, if she will let me. But I was obliged to

`He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finely, Mr Tom is: he'll be one o' the fust men hereabouts you'll

`Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever he becomes: he said so himself only the other night,

`Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the more on't when he says a thing, because his tongue doesn't

over shoot him as mine does. Lors! I'm no better nor a tilted bottle I arn't I can't stop mysen when once I

begin. But you look rarely, Miss it does me good to see you. What do you say now, Prissy?' here Bob

turned to his wife. `Isn't it all come true as I said? Though there isn't many sorts o'goods as I can't overpraise

Mrs Bob's small nose seemed to be following the example of her eyes in turning up reverentially towards

Maggie, but she was able now to smile and curtsy, and say, `I'd looked forrard like aenything to seein' you,

Miss, for my husband's tongue's been runnin' on you like as if he was lightheaded, iver since first he come

`Well, well,' said Bob, looking rather silly. `Go an' see after the taters, else Mr Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em.'

`I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs Jakin, Bob,' said Maggie, smiling. `I remember you used to say, he

`Eh, Miss,' said Bob, grinning, `he made up his mind to' t when he see'd what a little un she was. He pretends

not to see her mostly, or else to think as she isn't fullgrowed. But about Mr Tom, Miss,' said Bob, speaking

lower and looking serious. `He's as close as a iron biler, he is; but I'm a 'cutish chap, an' when I've left off

carrying my pack an' am at a loose end I've got more brains nor I know what to do wi', an' I'm forced to

busy myself wi' other folks's insides. An' it worrets me as Mr Tom 'ull sit by himself so glumpish, aknittin'

his brow an' alookin' at the fire of a night. He should be a bit livelier now a fine young fellow like him.

My wife says, when she goes in sometimes an' he takes no notice of her, he sits lookin' into the fire and

`Ay,' said Bob, speaking lower, `but do you think it's nothin' else, Miss? He's close, Mr Tom is, but I'm a 'cute

chap, I am, an' I thought tow'rt last Christmas, as I'd found out a soft place in him. It was about a little black

spaniel a rare bit o' breed as he made a fuss to get. But since then summat's come over him as he's set his

teeth again' things more nor iver, for all he's had such good luck. An' I wanted to tell you, Miss, 'cause I

thought you might work it out of him a bit, now you're come. He's a deal too lonely an' doesn't go into

`I'm afraid I have very little power over him, Bob,' said Maggie, a good deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It

was a totally new idea to her mind, that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor fellow! and in love with

Lucy too! But it was perhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officious brain. The present of the dog meant nothing

more than cousinship and gratitude. But Bob and already said, `Here's Mr Tom,' and the outer door was

`There's no time to spare, Tom,' said Maggie, as soon as Bob had left the room. `I must tell you at once what I

Tom stood with his back against the chimney piece and Maggie was seated opposite the light. He noticed that

she was tremulous, and he had a presentiment of the subject she was going to speak about. The presentiment

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie and she put her request in quite a different form from the one

she had predetermined on. She rose from her seat and looking straight at Tom, said,

`I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Or rather, I promised you not to see him

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, defiant manner, before she repented and felt the dread

`Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I shouldn't have asked it, only that Philip, you know, is a friend of

Lucy's, and she wishes him to come has invited him to come this evening, and I told her I couldn't see him

without telling you. I shall only see him in the presence of other people. There will never be anything secret

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for a little while. Then he turned to her and

`You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is no need for my repeating anything I said a

year ago. While my father was living, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you, to prevent you from

disgracing him as well as yourself and all of us. But now I must leave you to your own choice. You wish to

be independent you told me so after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you think of Philip

`I don't wish it, dear Tom at least as things are I see that it would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away

to another situation, and I should like to be friends with him again while I am here. Lucy wishes it.'

`I shouldn't mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncle's I don't want you to make a fuss on the subject.

`Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not done and borne everthing as well as I could?

And I have kept my word to you when when... My life has not been a happy one any more than yours.'

She was obliged to be childish the tears would come. When Maggie was not angry, she was as dependent

on kind or cold words as a daisy on the sunshine or the cloud: the need of being loved would always subdue

her as in old days it subdued her in the wormeaten attic. The brother's goodness came uppermost at this

appeal, but it could only show itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm and said in the tone

`Now listen to me, Maggie: I'll tell you what I mean. You're always in extremes you have no judgment and

selfcommand; and yet you think you know best, and will not submit to be guided. You know I didn't wish

you to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good home, and you might have lived

respectably amongst your relations until I could have provided a home for you with my mother. And that is

what I should like to do. I wished my sister to be a lady, and I would always have taken care of you as my

father desired, until you were well married. But your ideas and mine never accord, and you will not give way.

Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who goes out into the world and mixes with men,

necessarily knows better what is right and respectable for his sister than she can know herself. You think I am

not kind but my kindness can only be directed by what I believe to be good for you.'

`Yes I know dear Tom,' said Maggie, still halfsobbing, but trying to control her tears. `I know you

would do a great deal for me I know how you work and don't spare yourself. I am grateful to you. But,

indeed, you can't quite judge for me our natures our very different. You don't know how differently things

`Yes, I do know I know it too well. I know how differently you must feel about all that affects our family

and your own dignity as a young woman, before you could think of receiving secret addresses from Philip

Wakem. If it was not disgusting to me in every other way, I should object to my sister's name being

associated for a moment with that of a young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all, and

would spurn you. With any one but you, I should think it quite certain that what you witnessed just before my

father's death, would secure you from ever thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But I don't feel certain

of it with you I never feel certain about anything with you. At one time you take pleasure in a sort of

perverse selfdenial, and at another, you have not resolution to resist a thing that you know to be wrong.'

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words that hard rind of truth which is discerned by

unimaginative, unsympathetic minds. Maggie always writhed under this judgment of Tom's: she rebelled and

was humiliated in the same moment: it seemed as if he held a glass before her to show her her own folly and

weakness as if he were a prophetic voice predicting her future fallings and yet, all the while, she judged

him in return: she said inwardly, that he was narrow and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs

which were often the source of the wrongdoing or absurdity that made her life a planless riddle to him.

She did not answer directly her heart was too full, and she sat down, leaning her arm on the table. It was no

use trying to make Tom feel that she was near to him. He always repelled her. Her feeling under his words

was complicated by the allusion to the last scene between her father and Wakem, and at length that painful,

solemn memory surmounted the immediate grievance. No! She did not think of such things with frivolous

indifference, and Tom must not accuse her of that. She looked up at him with a grave, earnest gaze, and said,

`I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I can say. But I am not so shut out from all your

feelings as you believe me to be. I see as well as you do, that from our position with regard to Philip's father

not on other grounds it would be unreasonable it would be wrong for us to entertain the idea of

marriage, and I have given up thinking of him as a lover... I am telling you the truth and you have no right to

disbelieve me: I have kept my word to you, and you have never detected me in a falsehood. I should not only

not encourage, I should carefully avoid any intercourse with Philip on any other footing than that of quiet

friendship of a distant kind. You may think that I am unable to keep my resolutions but at least you ought

not to treat me with that hard contempt on the ground of faults that I have not committed yet.'

`Well, Maggie,' said Tom, softening under this appeal, `I don't want to overstrain matters. I think, all things

considered, it will be best for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy wishes him to come to the house. I believe

what you say at least you believe it yourself, I know: I can only warn you. I wish to be as good a brother to

There was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the last words, and Maggie's ready affection came back

with as sudden a glow as when they were children and bit their cake together as a sacrament of conciliation.

`Dear Tom I know you mean to be good. I know you have had a great deal to bear, and have done a great

deal. I should like to be a comfort to you not to vex you. You don't think I'm altogether naughty, now, do

Tom smiled at the eager face: his smiles were very pleasant to see when they did come, for the grey eyes

`And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see this extremely small wife of Bob's again?'

`Yes, but trot away now, for I've no more time to spare,' said Tom, looking at his watch.

`There! Be a good girl. I've got a great deal to think of today. I'm going to have a long consultation with my

`You'll come to aunt Glegg's tomorrow? We're going all to dine early, that we may go there to tea. You must

`O Pooh! I've plenty else to do,' said Tom, pulling his bell violently and bringing down the small bellrope.

`I'm frightened I shall run away,' said Maggie, making a laughing retreat; while Tom, with masculine

philosophy, flung the bellrope to the father end of the room not very far either: a touch of human

experience which I flatter myself will come home to the bosoms of not a few substantial or distinguished men

who were once at an early stage of their rise in the world and were cherishing very large hopes in very small

`AND now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom,' said Mr Deane, that same afternoon, as they were

seated in the private room at the Bank together, `there's another matter I want to talk to you about. Since

you're likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it in Newcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a

good prospect of some sort to keep up your spirits.' Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former

occasion in this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff box and gratified each nostril with deliberate

`You see, Tom,' said Mr Deane, at last, throwing himself backward, `the world goes on at a smarter pace now

than it did when I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a strapping youngster

as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand.

The looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast I'd a best suit that lasted me six years.

Everything was on a lower scale, sir in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that has made

the difference it drives on every wheel double pace and the wheel of Fortune along with 'em, as our Mr

Stephen Guest said at the Anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, considering he's seen

nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, as some people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and

if the population is to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use its wits at inventions of

one sort or other. I know I've done my share as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine

thing to make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before: but, sir, it's a fine thing too, to further the

exchange of commodities, and bring the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's our line of

business and I consider it as honourable a position as a man can hold, to be connected with it.'

Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not urgent; Mr Deane was too shrewd and practical a

man to allow either his reminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed for the last month

or two there had been hints thrown out to Tom which enabled him to guess that he was going to hear some

proposition for his own benefit. With the beginning of the last speech he had stretched out his legs, thrust his

hands in his pockets and prepared himself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr Deane

had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say to young men in general was, that if they didn't

succeed too, it was because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his uncle put a direct

`Let me see it's going on for seven years now since you applied to me for a situation eh, Tom?'

`Ah it's as well not to say that, though; for you'd pass for a good deal older, and age tells well in business. I

remember your coming very well: I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and that was what made

me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say, I was right I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a

little shy at pushing my nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir and if I'd had a son o' my

Mr Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a tone of some feeling `No, I shouldn't have

`I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir; I've done my best,' said Tom, in his proud, independent way.

`Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak of your conduct as a son though that weighs with me

in my opinion of you. But what I have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities you've shown as a

man o' business. Ours is a fine business a splendid concern, sir and there's no reason why it shouldn't go

on growing: there's a growing capital and growing outlets for it, but there's another thing that's wanted for the

prosperity of every concern, large or small, and that's men to conduct it men of the right habits, none o'

your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this is what Mr Guest and I see clear enough.

Three years ago, we took Gell into the concern we gave him a share in the oilmill. And why? Why,

because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it will always be, sir. So it was with me.

And though Gell is pretty near ten years older than you, there are other points in your favour.'

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr Deane went on speaking: he was conscious of something he had in his

mind to say, which might not be agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion rather than an

`It stands to reason,' Mr Deane went on, when he had finished his new pinch, `that your being my nephew

weighs in your favour, but I don't deny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your conduct in that affair

of Pelley's bank would have led Mr Guest and myself to make some acknowledgment of the service you've

been to us and, backed by your general conduct and business ability it has made us determine on giving you

a share in the business a share which we shall be glad to increase as the years go on. We think that'll be

better on all grounds than raising your salary. It'll give you more importance, and prepare you better for

taking some of the anxiety off my shoulders by and by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank

God; but I'm getting older there's no denying that. I told Mr Guest I would open the subject to you, and

when you come back from this northern business, we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for a young

`I'm very grateful to Mr Guest and you, sir of course I feel the most indebted to you, who first took me into

`Yes, yes,' said Mr Deane. `I don't spare pains when I see they'll be of any use. I gave myself some trouble

`But there's one thing I should like to mention to you, uncle. I've never spoken to you of it before. If you

remember, at the time my father's property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buying the Mill: I

know you thought it would be a very good investment, especially if steam were applied.'

`To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us he'd made up his mind to that. He's rather fond of carrying

`Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present,' Tom went on, `but I wish you to know what I have in my

mind about the Mill. I've a strong feeling about it. It was my father's dying wish that I should try and get it

back again whenever I could it was in his family for five generations. I promised my father. And besides

that, I'm attached to the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should ever suit your views to buy

it for the firm I should have a better chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shouldn't have liked to mention

the thing to you, only you've been kind enough to say my services have been of some value. And I'd give up a

much greater chance in life for the sake of having the Mill again I mean, having it in my own hands, and

`I see, I see,' he said, after a while, `the thing would be possible, if there were any chance of Wakem's parting

with the property. But that I don't see. He's put that young Jetsome in the place, and he had his reasons when

`He's a loose fish that young Jetsome,' said Tom. `He's taking to drinking, and they say he's letting the

business go down. Luke told me about it our old miller. He says, he shan't stay unless there's an alteration. I

was thinking, if things went on in that way, Wakem might be more willing to part with the Mill. Luke says

`Well, I'll turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and go into it with Mr Guest. But, you see, it's

rather striking out a new branch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are which was

`I should be able to manage more than the mill when things were once set properly going, sir. I want to have

There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man of three and twenty, even in uncle Deane's

`Pooh, pooh! you'll be having a wife to care about one of these days, if you get on at this pace in the world.

But as to this Mill, we mustn't reckon our chickens too early. However, I promise you to bear it in mind, and

when you come back, we'll talk of it again. I am going to dinner now. Come and have breakfast with us

IT is evident to you now, that Maggie had arrived at a moment in her life which must be considered by all

prudent persons as a great opportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St Ogg's, with

a striking person which had the advantage of being quite unfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with

such moderate assistance of costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious colloquy with aunt

Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new startingpoint in life. At Lucy's first evening party, young Torry

fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that `the darkeyed girl there, in the corner,' might see

him in all the additional style conferred by his eyeglass; and several young ladies went home intending to

have short sleeves with black lace and to plait their hair in a broad coronet at the back of their head `That

cousin of Miss Deane's looked so very well.' In fact poor Maggie, with all her inward consciousness of a

painful past and her presentiment of a troublesome future, was on the way to become an object of some envy

a topic of discussion in the newlyestablished billiardroom, and between fair friends who had no secrets

from each other on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated chiefly on terms of

condescension with the families of St Ogg's, and were the glass of fashion there, took some exception to

Maggie's manners. She had a way of not assenting at once to the observations current in good society and of

saying that she didn't know whether those observations were true or not which gave her an air of gaucherie

and impeded the even flow of conversation; but it is a fact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are

not the worse disposed towards a new acquaintance of their own sex because she has points of inferiority.

And Maggie was so entirely without those pretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of

driving gentlemen to despair, that she won some feminine pity for being so ineffective in spite of her beaty.

She had not had many advantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was no pretension about her: her

abruptness and unevenness of manner were plainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It was

only a wonder that there was no tinge of vulgarity about her, considering what the rest of poor Lucy's

relations were: an allusion which always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not agreeable to think

of any connection by marriage with such people as the Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to

contradict Stephen, when once he had set his mind on anything, and certainly there was no possible objection

to Lucy in herself no one could help liking her. She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should

behave kindly to this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great fuss if they were

deficient in civility. Under these circumstances the invitations to Park House were not wanting, and

elsewhere also, Miss Deane was too popular and too distinguished a member of society in St Ogg's for any

Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young lady's life, and knew what it was to get up in the

morning without any imperative reason for doing one thing more than another. This new sense of leisure and

unchecked enjoyment amidst the softbreathing airs and garden scents of advancing Spring, amidst the new

abundance of music, and lingering strolls in the sunshine and delicious dreaminess of gliding on the river,

could hardly be without some intoxicating effect on her after her years of privation; and even in the first week

Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories and anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just

now: it was becoming very pleasant to dress in the evening and to feel that she was one of the beautiful things

of this spring time. And there were admiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheeded

person, liable to be chid, from whom attention was continually claimed, and on whom no one felt bound to

confer any. It was pleasant, too, when Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at the piano alone,

and find that the old fitness between her fingers and the keys remained and revived, like a sympathetic

kinship not to be worn out by separation to get the tunes she had heard the evening before and repeat them

again and again until she had found out a way of producing them so as to make them a more pregnant,

passionate language to her. The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and she would often take

up a book of Studies rather than any melody, that she might taste more keenly by abstraction the more

primitive sensation of intervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind that indicates a great

specific talent: it was rather that her sensibility to the supreme excitement of music was only one form of that

passionate sensibility which belonged to her whole nature and made her faults and virtues all merge in each

other made her affection sometimes an angry demand, but also prevented her vanity from taking the form

of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it the poetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a

long while, and need to be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is hardly to be predicted even

from the completest knowledge of characteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirely from

within. `Character' says Novalis, in one of his questionable aphorisms `character is destiny.' But not the

whole of our destiny. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we have a great tragedy

in consequence. But if his father had lived to a good old age, and his uncle had died an early death, we can

conceive Hamlet's having married Ophelia and got through life with a reputation of sanity notwithstanding

many soliloquies, and some moody sarcasms towards the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the

Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for it to reveal itself like the course of an

unmapped river: we only know that the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is the same final

home. Under the charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herself was ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring

imagination, of her future lot, and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip was losing its

predominance: perhaps, unconsciously to herself, she was not sorry that the interview had been deferred.

For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and Mr Stephen Guest brought word that he was gone

to the coast probably, he thought, on a sketching expedition; but it was not certain when he would return. It

was just like Philip to go off in that way without telling any one. It was not until the twelfth day that he

returned, to find both Lucy's notes awaiting him: he had left before he knew of Maggie's arrival.

Perhaps one had need to be nineteen again to be quite convinced of the feelings that were crowded for

Maggie into those twelve days of the length to which they were stretched for her by the novelty of her

experience in them and the varying attitudes of her mind. The early days of an acquaintance almost always

have this importance for us, and fill up a larger space in our memory than longer subsequent periods which

have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. There were not many hours in those ten days in

which Mr Stephen Guest was not seated by Lucy's side, or standing near her at the piano, or accompanying

her on some outdoor excursion: his attentions were clearly becoming more assiduous, and that was what

every one had expected. Lucy was very happy all the happier because Stephen's society seemed to have

become much more interesting and amusing since Maggie had been there. Playful discussions sometimes

serious ones where going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealed themselves, to the

admiration of the gentle unobtrusive Lucy; and it more than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet

they should have through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable thing that a girl should enjoy

her lover's society the more for the presence of a third person, and be without the slightest spasm of jealousy

that the third person had the conversation habitually directed to her? Not when that girl is as tranquilhearted

as Lucy, thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of her companions' affections, and not

prone to the feelings which shake such a belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, it was

Lucy by whom Stephen sate, to whom he gave his arm, to whom he appealed as the person sure to agree with

him; and every day there was the same tender politeness towards her, the same consciousness of her wants

and care to supply them. Was there really the same? it seemed to Lucy that there was more, and it was no

wonder that the real significance of the change escaped her. It was a subtle act of conscience in Stephen, that

even he himself was not aware of. His personal attentions to Maggie were comparatively slight, and there had

even sprung up an apparent distance between them that prevented the renewal of that faint resemblance to

gallantry into which he had fallen the first day, in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was out of the

room if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to each other: Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining

books or music, and Maggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each was oppressively conscious of

the other's presence, even to the fingerends. Yet each looked and longed for the same thing to happen the

next day. Neither of them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently to ask, `To what does all this tend?'

Maggie only felt that life was revealing something quite new to her, and she was absorbed in the direct,

immediate experience without any energy left for taking account of it, and reasoning about it. Stephen

wilfully abstained from selfquestioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt an influence which was

to have any determining effect on his conduct. And when Lucy came into the room again, they were once

more unconstrained: Maggie could contradict Stephen and laugh at him, and he could recommend to her

consideration the example of that most charming heroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great `respect for

the understandings of men.' Maggie could look at Stephen which for some reason or other, she always

avoided when they were alone, and he could even ask her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's

fingers were so busy with that bazaarwork; and lecture her on hurrying the tempo, which was certainly

One day it was the day of Philip's return Lucy had formed a sudden engagement to spend the evening

with Mrs Kenn, whose delicate state of health, threatening to become confirmed illness through an attack of

bronchitis, obliged her to resign her functions at the coming bazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom

she wished Lucy to be one. The engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he had heard Lucy

promise to rise early and call at six o'clock for Miss Torry, who brought Mrs Kenn's request.

`Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar,' Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left

the room `taking young ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into scenes of dissipation among

urnrugs and embroidered reticules! I should like to know what is the proper function of women if it is not to

make reasons for husbands to stay at home and still stronger reasons for bachelors to go out. If this goes on

`Well, it will not go on much longer,' said Lucy, laughing, `for the bazaar is to take place on Monday week.'

`Thank heaven!' said Stephen. `Kenn himself said the other day, that he didn't like this plan of making vanity

do the work of charity; but just as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St

Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build and endow schools without calling in the force of folly.'

`Did he say so?' said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide with anxiety. `I never heard him say anything of

`I'm sure he appoves you,' said Stephen, smiling at her affectionately; `your conduct in going out tonight

`O, you think too well of me,' said Lucy, shaking her head, with a pretty blush. And there the subject ended.

But it was tacitly understood that Stephen would not come in the evening, and on the strength of that tacit

understanding he made his morning visit the longer, not saying goodby until after four.

Maggie was seated in the drawingroom alone, shortly after dinner, with Minny on her lap, having left her

uncle to his wine and his nap, and her mother to the compromise between knitting and nodding which, when

there was no company, she always carried on in the diningroom till teatime. Maggie was stooping to caress

the tiny silken pet, and comforting him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of a footstep on the gravel

made her look up and she saw Mr Stephen Guest walking up the garden as if he had come straight from the

river. It was very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often complained that their dinnerhour was

late at Park House. Nevertheless, there he was, in his black dress: he had evidently been home, and must have

come again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart beating: it was natural she should be so

nervous, for she was not accustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up through the open

window, and raised his hat as he walked towards it, to enter that way instead of by the door. He blushed too,

and certainly looked as foolish as a young man of some wit and selfpossession can be expected to look, as

he walked in with a roll of music in his hand, and said with an air of hesitating improvisation,

`You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver I ought to apologise for coming upon you by surprise, but

I wanted to come into the town, and I got our man to row me, so I thought I would bring these things from the

"Maid of Artois" for your cousin. I forgot them this morning. Will you give them to her?'

`Yes,' said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what to

Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her.

He had never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was an entirely new position.

`Well, you pampered minion!' said Stephen, leaning to pull the long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's

arm. It was not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by further development, it

naturally left the conversation at a standstill. It seemed to Stephen like some action in a dream that he was

obliged to do, and wonder at himself all the while to go on stroking Minny's head. Yet it was very pleasant:

he only wished he dared look at Maggie, and that she would look at him, let him have one long look into

those deep strange eyes of hers and then he would be satisfied and quite reasonable after that. He thought it

was becoming a sort of monomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie, and he was racking his

invention continually to find out some means by which he could have it without its appearing singular and

entailing subsequent embarrassment. As for Maggie she had no distinct thought only the sense of a

presence like that of a closelyhovering broadwinged bird in the darkness, for she was unable to look up

But this must end some time perhaps it ended very soon, and only seemed long, as a minute's dream does.

Stephen at last sat upright, sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the back and looking at

`I don't know,' said Maggie. Then, courageously raising her eyes and looking out of the window, `If I'm not

A pause: during which Minny is stroked again, but has sufficient insight not to be grateful for it to growl

A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and just glancing at Stephen, she said, `Would it be quite civil to

`It was rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask,' said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and

getting determined to stay for another. `But you will have more than half an hour to yourself after I am gone,'

he added, taking out his watch. `I know Mr Deane never comes in till halfpast seven.'

Another pause: during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her

`We shall have a new voice tomorrow night,' said Stephen. `Will you tell your cousin that your friend Philip

Maggie gave a little start it seemed hardly more than a vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant.

But the new images summoned by Philip's name, dispersed half the oppressive spell she had been under. She

rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his cushion went to reach Lucy's large

workbasket from its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed: he thought, perhaps Maggie didn't like the

name of Wakem to be mentioned to her in that abrupt way for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of

the family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table with her work

and looking chill and proud; and he he looked like a simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, entirely

superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to

Maggie's thinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake of setting off again and finding her

A boyish state of mind of an accomplished young gentleman of five and twenty, not without legal

At this moment Maggie's ball of knittingwool rolled along the ground and she started up to reach it. Stephen

rose too, and, picking up the ball, met her with a vexed complaining look that gave his eyes quite a new

`Goodby,' said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseeching discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out

his hand he thrust both hands into his tail pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude.

`Won't you stay?' she said timidly, not looking away for that would have seemed rude again.

`No, thank you,' said Stephen, looking still into the halfunwilling, halffascinated eyes, as a thirsty man

looks towards the track of the distant brook. `The boat is waiting for me,... You'll tell your cousin.'

`Won't you come out a little way into the garden?' said Stephen, in a still gentler tone, but the next moment he

was vexed that she did not say `No,' for she moved away now towards the open window, and he was obliged

to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make him amends.

There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm: the help is not wanted

physically at that moment, but the sense of help the presence of strength that is outside them and yet theirs,

meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on that ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And

they walked together round the grassplot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, in the same dim

dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour before; only that Stephen had had the look he longed

for, without yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and Maggie had darting

thoughts across the dimness: how came she to be there? why had she come out? Not a word was spoken.

`O, I will go in now,' said Maggie, feeling that the step had come like a rescue. `Good evening.'

In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to the house. She did not reflect that this

sudden action would only add to the embarrassing recollections of the last halfhour she had no thought

left for that. She only threw herself into the low armchair, and burst into tears.

Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and was soon landed at the Wharf. He spent the

evening in the billiardroom, smoking one cigar after another, and losing lives at pool. But he would not

leave off. He was determined not to think not to admit any more distinct remembrance than was urged upon

him by the perpetual presence of Maggie. He was looking at her and she was on his arm.

But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight: and with it the necessity of cursing his

own folly, and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again. It was all

madness: he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and engaged engaged as strongly as an honourable

man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by her in this way:

she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other but he would never

have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did not. He ought not to have gone. He

would master himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her quarrel with her perhaps.

Quarrel with her? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes defying and deprecating,

contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching full of delicious opposites. To see such a creature

There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his

last cigar, and thrusting his hands into his pockets stalked along at a quieter pace through the shrubbery. It

THE next morning was very wet the sort of morning on which male neighbours who have no imperative

occupation at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has been endurable

enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to become so heavy and at the same time so certain to clear up

by and by, that nothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit: latent detestation will not do at all. And if

people happen to be lovers, what can be so delightful in England as a rainy morning? English sunshine is

dubious: bonnets are never quite secure; and if you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain

is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh and presently find yourself in the seat you like

best a little above or a little below the one on which your goddess sits (it is the same thing to the

metaphysic mind, and that is the reason why women are at once worshipped and looked down upon) with a

satisfactory confidence that there will be no ladycallers. `Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know,'

Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to think she should dislike him; and if it

had not been for the rain, she would have gone to her aunt Glegg's this morning, and so have avoided him

altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with her mother.

But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another visitor a nearer neighbour who preceded him.

When Philip entered the room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a

secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advanced towards him and put out her hand, he

guessed at once that Lucy had been taken into her confidence. It was a moment of some agitation to both,

though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like all persons who have passed through life with

little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his selfcontrol, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from

any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and

the voice pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seem expressive of cold indifference, were all

the signs Philip usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its fierceness. But Maggie who had

little more power of concealing the impressions made upon her than if she had been constructed of musical

strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took each other's hands in silence. They were not painful

tears: they had rather something of the same origin as the tears women and children shed when they have

found some protection to cling to, and look back on the threatened danger. For Philip who a little while ago

was associated continually in Maggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her with some justice,

had now, in this short space, become a sort of outward conscience to her, that she might fly to rescue and

strength. Her tranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and its memories

of long quiet talk confirming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive bias the fact that in him

the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotedness than to her vanity or other egoistic

excitability of her nature seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary where she could find

refuge from an alluring influence which the best part of herself must resist, which must bring horrible tumult

within, wretchedness without. This new sense of her relation to Philip multiplied the anxious scruples she

would otherwise have felt lest she should overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would sanction,

and she put out her hand to him and felt the tears in her eyes without any consciousness of an inward check.

The scene was just what Lucy expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together

again; though even with all her regard for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom had

some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity between the two a prosaic person like cousin

Tom, who didn't like poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set them at ease.

`This was very good and virtuous of you,' she said, in her pretty treble, like the low conversational notes of

little birds, `to come so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you for running away in an

inopportune manner, and giving your friends no notice. Come and sit down here,' she went on, placing the

chair that would suit him best, `and you shall find yourself treated mercifully.'

`You will never govern well, Miss Deane,' said Philip, as he seated himself, `because no one will ever believe

in your severity. People will always encourage themselves in misdemeanours by the certainty that you will be

Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not hear what it was, for he had naturally turned towards

Maggie, and she was looking at him with that open, affectionate scrutiny which we give to a friend from

whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting had been!And Philip felt as if he were only

in the morrow of it. He felt this so keenly with such intense, detailed remembrance with such passionate

revival of all that had been said and looked in their last conversation that with that jealousy and distrust

which in diffident natures is almost inevitably linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggie's

glance and manner the evidence of a change. The very fact that he feared and half expected it, would be sure

`I am having a great holiday, am I not?' said Maggie. `Lucy is like a fairy godmother: she has turned me from

a drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she always finds out

`I'm sure she is the happier for having you, then,' said Philip. `You must be better than a whole menagerie of

Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed

with a good imitation of annoyance that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out of the room.

In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad

`I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip I asked him to release me from my promise, and he

Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once the position they must hold towards each other

but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so

painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like an injury towards Philip

even to mention her brother her brother who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be

`I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie,' said Philip, colouring. `There are points

`Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip seeing each other and talking to each other while I

`Yes: I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I must begin again at last. I can't live in

dependence I can't live with my brother though he is very good to me. He would like to provide for me

Philip was silent a few moments, and then said in that high, feeble voice which with him indicated the

`Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life away from those who love you, the only one you will allow

`Yes, Philip,' she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if she entreated him to believe that she was compelled to

this course. `At least, as things are. I don't know what may be in years to come. But I begin 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

`Now, you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie the thought I used to combat,' said

Philip, with a slight tinge of bitterness. `You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape

from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature.

What would become of me, if I tried to escape from pain? Scorn and cynicism would be my only opium

unless I could fall into some kind of conceited madness, and fancy myself a favourite of Heaven, because I

The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went on speaking: the words were evidently an outlet

for some immediate feeling of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. There was a pain pressing on him at

that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from the faintest allusion to the words of love of plighted love

that had passed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggie of a promise; it would

have had for him something of the baseness of compulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had

not changed; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His love for Maggie was stamped, even more

than the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sense that he was an exception that she, that every one,

`Yes, Philip,' she said with her childish contrition when he used to chide her, `You are right, I know. I do

always think too much of my own feelings, and not enough of others' not enough of yours. I had need have

you always to find fault with me and teach me so many things have come true that you used to tell me.'

Maggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her head on her hand and looking at Philip with

halfpenitent dependent affection, as she said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expression that,

to her consciousness, gradually became less vague became charged with a specific recollection. Had his

mind flown back to something that she now remembered? something about a lover of Lucy's? It was a

thought that made her shudder: it gave new definiteness to her present position, and to the tendency of what

had happened the evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urged to change her position by that

positive physical oppression at the heart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental pang.

`What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened?' Philip said, in inexpressible anxiety his

imagination being only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them both.

`No nothing,' said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind: she

would banish it from her own. `Nothing,' she repeated, `except in my own mind. You used to say I should

feel the effect of my starved life, as you called it, and I do. I am too eager in my enjoyment of music and all

She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she

had anything more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggie's character to be agitated by

vague selfreproach. But soon there came a violent wellknown ring at the doorbell resounding through the

`O what a startling announcement!' said Maggie, quite mistress of herself, though not without some inward

Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried

`Well, old fellow,' he said, going straight up to Philip and shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to

Maggie in passing, `it's glorious to have you back again only I wish you'd conduct yourself a little less like

a sparrow with a residence on the housetop and not go in and out constantly without letting the servants

know. This is about the twentieth time I've had to scamper up those countless stairs to that painting room of

yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought you were at home. Such incidents embitter friendship.'

`I've so few visitors it seems hardly worth while to leave notice of my exits and entrances,' said Philip,

feeling rather oppressed just then 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

Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, `Quite well, thank you,' in a tone of proud indifference. Philip's

eyes were watching them keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their manner to each other, and

only thought with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every now and then surmounted their

mutual goodwill. `Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated by something in

him which she interprets as conceit,' was the silent observation that accounted for everything to guileless

Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner completed this studied greeting than each felt hurt by the other's

coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on in questions to Philip about his recent sketching expedition, was

thinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the conversation, as he invariably

done before. `Maggie and Philip are not looking happy,' thought Lucy. `Perhaps this first interview has been

`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 ought to take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duet in

`Come, then,' said Stephen, going towards the piano, and giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep

`You, please, Philip you play the accompaniment,' said Lucy, `and then I can go on with my work. You will

like to play, shan't you?' she added, with a pretty inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest she should have

proposed what was not pleasant to another, but with yearnings towards 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 find relief in music that does not make a man sing or play the better; and Philip had an

abundance of pentup feeling at this moment, as complex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to

express love and jealousy and resignation and fierce suspicion all at the same time.

`O yes,' he said, seating himself at the piano, `it is a way of eking out one's imperfect life and being three

people at once to sing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while or else to sing and paint.'

`Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing with my hands,' said Stephen. `That has generally

been observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe. A tendency to predominance of the

Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the

`I have observed a tendency to predominance,' she said, smiling, and Philip at that moment devoutly hoped

`Come, come,' said Lucy, `music, music! We will discuss each other's qualities another time.'

Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began. She tried harder than ever today, for

the thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his singing, was one that no longer roused a merely

playful resistance, and she knew too that it was his habit always 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 the vague state of emotion

produced by the inspiring duet emotion that seemed to make her at once strong and weak, strong for all

enjoyment, weak for all resistance. When the strain passed into the minor she half started from her seat with

the sudden thrill of that change. Poor Maggie!She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on

in this way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen the slightest perceptible quivering

through her whole frame, as she leaned a little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself, while her

eyes dilated and brightened into that wideopen, childish expression of wondering delight which always

came back in her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano when Maggie

was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her and kiss her. Philip too caught a

glimpse of her now and then round the open book on the desk, and felt that he had never before seen her

`More, more!' said Lucy, when the duet had been encored `Something spirited again: Maggie always says

`It must be "Let us take the road," then,' said Stephen `so suitable for a wet morning. But are you prepared

`O yes,' said Lucy, laughing. `If you will look out the "Beggar's Opera" from the large canterbury. It has a

`That is a great clue, considering there are about a score covers here of rival dinginess,' said Stephen, drawing

`O, play something the while, Philip,' said Lucy, noticing that his fingers were wandering over the keys.

`Don't you know that?' said Philip, bringing out the tune more definitely. `It's from the Sonnambula "Ah!

perch� non posso odiarti." I don't know the opera but it appears the tenor is telling the 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

It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered into this song which might be an indirect expression

to Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had been open to what he

was saying, and when he began to sing, she understood the plaintive passion of the music. That pleading

tenor had no very fine qualities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her: it had sung to her by snatches in a

subdued way among the grassy walks and hollows and under the leaning ashtree in the Red Deeps. There

seemed to be some reproach in the words did Philip mean that? She wished she had assured him more

distinctly in their conversation that she desired not to renew the hope of love between them, only because it

clashed with her inevitable circumstances. She was touched not thrilled by the song: it suggested distinct

`That's the way with you tenors,' said Stephen, who was waiting with music in his hand while Philip finished

the song. `You demoralise the fair sex by warbling your sentimental love and constancy under all sorts of vile

treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served up in a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour,

would prevent you from expressing your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote while Miss Deane

`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 towards the piano with laughing,

admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of her resistance to the spirit of the song and to the singer, was

taken hold of and shaken by the invisible influence was borne along by a wave too strong for her.

But angrily resolved not to betray herself she seized her work, and went on making false stitches and pricking

her fingers with much perseverance, not looking up or taking notice of what was going forward, until all the

I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification in her mind if she had known how entirely

this saucy, defiant Stephen was occupied with her, how he was passing rapidly from a determination to treat

her with ostentatious indifference, to an irritating desire for some sign of inclination from her, some

interchange of subdued work or look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when they had

passed to the music of `The Tempest.' Maggie, feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room

to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then and was conscious of all her movements, guessed

her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with an entreating look at her, which made it

impossible not to return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed carefully by a too

selfconfident personage not any selfconfident personage, but one in particular who suddenly looks

humble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is not some draught in that position between the

window and the fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the worktable for her these things will

summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tenderness into a woman's eyes, compelled as she is in her girlish

time to learn her lifelessons in very trivial language. And to Maggie these things had not been everyday

incidents, but were a new element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone

of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent towards her and to say, `No, thank you' and

once looking nothing could prevent that mutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the

It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was

singing, scarcely noticed it. But to Philip's mind, filled already with a vague anxiety that was likely to find a

definite ground for itself in any trivial incident, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the change in Maggie's

face, which was plainly reflecting a beam from his, seemed so strong a contrast with the previous

overwrought signs of indifference as to be charged with painful meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again,

jarred upon his 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 had really seen no communicable ground for suspecting any unusual feeling

between Stephen and Maggie his own reason told him so, and he wanted to go home at once that he might

reflect coolly on these false images till he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then again, he wanted to

stay as long as Stephen stayed always to be present when Stephen was present with Maggie. It seemed to

poor Philip so natural nay, inevitable that any man who was near Maggie should fall in love with her! And

there was no promise of happiness for her if she were beguiled into loving Stephen Guest: the thought

emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal offering. He was beginning to

play very falsely under this deafening inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when

Mrs Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch, came as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music.

`Ah, Mr Philip,' said Mr Deane, when they entered the diningroom, `I've not seen you for a long while.

Your father's not at home, I think, is he? I went after him to the office, the other day, and they said he was out

`He's been to Mudport on business for several days,' said Philip, `but he's come back now.'

`I believe so,' said Philip, rather wondering at this sudden interest in his father's pursuits.

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

`Ah!' continued Mr Deane, as he dispensed the pigeon pie, `he must find farming a heavy item an

expensive hobby. I never had a hobby myself never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies are

those that people think they can get money at. They shoot their money down like corn out of a sack then.'

Lucy felt a little nervous under her father's apparently gratuitous criticism 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 having reasons, which had recently become strong, for an extra

interest in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had prompted her father's

questions. His subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind.

With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when she wanted to tell or ask her father anything

particular: she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the diningroom 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 most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to

have her hair powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuffbox on such occasions.

`You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, do you?' she said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large

`Not yet,' said Mr Deane, glancing at the reward of merit in the decanter. `But what do you want?' he added,

pinching the dimpled chin fondly. `To coax some more sovereigns out of my pocket for your bazaar? Eh?'

`No, I have no base motives at all today. I only want to talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask

Philip Wakem about his father's farming today, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardly say

anything to him about his father and why should you care about Mr Wakem's losing money by his hobby?'

`Something to do with business,' said Mr Deane, waving his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery.

`But, papa, you always say Mr Wakem has brought Philip up like a girl how came you to think you should

get any business knowledge out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them

`Nonsense, child!' said Mr Deane, willing to justify his social demeanour, 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 the river

Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver's, you know isn't answering so well as it did. I wanted to see if your

friend Philip would let anything out about his father's being tired of farming.'

`Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?' said Lucy, eagerly. `O, tell me everything

here, you shall have your snuffbox if you'll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Tom's

getting back the mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said to Tom that he must get back

`Hush, you little puss,' said Mr Deane, availing himself of the restored snuffbox. `You must not say a word

about this thing do you hear? There's very little chance of their getting the mill or of anybody's getting it

out of Wakem's hands. And if he knew that we wanted it with a view to the Tullivers getting it again, he'd be

the less likely to part with it. It's natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but

`Now, papa,' said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, `will you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons

for what I'm going to say but I have very strong reasons. And I'm very cautious I am, indeed.'

`Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our confidence let me tell him all about your

wish to buy and what it's for that my cousins wish to have it and why they wish to have it I believe Philip

`I don't see how that can be, child,' said Mr Deane, looking puzzled. `Why should he care?' then, with a

sudden penetrating looking at his daughter, `You don't think the poor lad's fond of you and so you can

make him do what you like?' (Mr Deane felt quite safe about his daughter's affections.)

`No, papa; he cares very little about me not so much as I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite

sure of what I say. Don't you ask me. And if you ever guess, don't tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think

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

`Are you sure you won't do mischief, now?' he said, looking at her with delight.

`Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise I've got all your business talents. Didn't you admire my

`Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there won't be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I

think there's not much chance for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep.'

BEFORE three days had passed after the conversation you have just overheard between Lucy and her father,

she had contrived to have a private interview with Philip during a prearranged absence of Maggie's at her

aunt Glegg's. For a day and a night Philip turned over in his mind with restless agitation all that Lucy had told

him in that interview, till he had thoroughly resolved on a course of action. He thought he saw before him

now a possibility of altering his position with respect to Maggie and removing at least one obstacle between

them. He laid his plan and calculated all his moves with the fervid deliberation of a chessplayer in the days

of his first ardour, and was amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tactician. His plan was as bold as it was

thoroughly calculated. Having watched for a moment when his father had nothing more urgent on his hands

than the newspaper, he went behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, `Father, will you come up into

`I'm getting terribly stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing those stairs of yours,' said Wakem, looking kindly at

`This is a nice place for you, isn't it, Phil? a capital light that from the roof, eh?' was, as usual, the first thing

he said on entering the painting room. He liked to remind himself and his son too that his fatherly indulgence

had provided the accommodation. He had been a good father. Emily would have nothing to reproach him

`Come, come,' he said, putting his double eyeglass over his nose, and seating himself to take a general view

while he rested, `you've got a famous show here. Upon my word, I don't see that your things aren't as good as

Philip shook his head and smiled. He had seated himself on his paintingstool, and had taken a lead pencil in

his hand, with which he was making strong marks to counteract the sense of tremulousness. He watched his

father get up, and walk slowly round, goodnaturedly dwelling on the pictures much longer than his amount of

genuine taste for landscape would have prompted, till he stopped before a stand on which two pictures were

`Bless me! what have you here?' said Wakem, startled by a sudden transition from landscape to portrait. `I

`They are the same person,' said Philip, with calm promptness, `at different ages.'

`And what person?' said Wakem, sharply, fixing his eyes with a growing look of suspicion on the larger

`Miss Tulliver. The small one is something like what she was when I was at school with her brother at King's

Lorton: the large one is not quite so good a likeness of what she was when I came from abroad.'

Wakem turned round fiercely, with a flushed face, letting his eyeglass fall, and looking at his son with a

savage expression for a moment as if he was ready to strike that daring feebleness from the stool. But he

threw himself into the armchair again and thrust his hands into his trouserpockets, still looking angrily at his

son, however. Philip did not return the look but sat quietly watching the point of his pencil.

`And do you mean to say, then, that you have had any acquaintance with her since you came from abroad?'

said Wakem, at last, with that vain effort which rage always makes, to throw as much punishment as it

`Yes: I saw a great deal of her for a whole year before her father's death. We met often, in that thicket the

Red Deeps near Dorlcote Mill. I love her dearly: I shall never love any other woman. I have thought of her

`No. I never told her I loved her till just before we parted, and she promised her brother not to see me again or

to correspond with me. I am not sure that she loves me, or would consent to marry me. But if she would

`And this is the return you make me for all the indulgences I've heaped on you?' said Wakem, getting white

and beginning to tremble under an enraged sense of impotence before Philip's calm defiance and

`No, father,' said Philip, looking up at him for the first time. `I don't regard it as a return. You have been an

indulgent father to me but I have always felt that it was because you had an affectionate wish to give me as

much happiness as my unfortunate lot would admit of not that it was a debt you expected me to pay by

sacrificing all my chances of happiness to satisfy feelings of yours which I can never share.'

`I think most sons would share their father's feelings in this case,' said Wakem, bitterly. `The girl's father was

an ignorant mad brute, who was within an inch of murdering me the whole town knows it. And the brother

is just as insolent: only in a cooler way. He forbade her seeing you, you say: he'll break every bone in your

body, for your greater happiness, if you don't take care. But you seem to have made up your mind: you have

counted the consequences, I suppose. Of course you are independent of me: you can marry this girl

tomorrow, if you like: you are a man of sixandtwenty you can go your way, and I can go mine. We need

Wakem rose and walked towards the door, but something held him back, and instead of leaving the room he

walked up and down it. Philip was slow to reply, and when he spoke, his tone had a more incisive quietness

`No: I can't marry Miss Tulliver, even if she would have me if I have only my own resources to maintain

her with. I have been brought up to no profession. I can't offer her poverty as well as deformity.'

`Ah, there is a reason for your clinging to me, doubtless,' said Wakem, still bitterly, though Philip's last words

had given him a pang they had stirred a feeling which had been a habit for a quarter of a century. He threw

`I expected all this,' said Philip. `I know these scenes are often happening between father and son. If I were

like other men of my age, I might answer your angry words by still angrier we might part I should marry

the woman I love and have a chance of being as happy as the rest. But if it will be a satisfaction to you to

annihilate the very object of everything you've done for me, you have an advantage over most fathers: you

can completely deprive me of the only thing that would make my life worth having.'

`You know best what satisfaction you would secure beyond that of gratifying a ridiculous rancour worthy

`Ridiculous rancour!' Wakem burst out. `What do you mean? Damn it! is a man to be horsewhipped by a

boor and love him for it? Besides, there's that cold, proud devil of a son, who said a word to me I shall not

forget when we had the settling. He would be as pleasant a mark for a bullet as I know if he were worth the

`I don't mean your resentment towards them,' said Philip, who had his reasons for some sympathy with this

view of Tom, `though a feeling of revenge is not worth much, that you should care to keep it. I mean your

extending the enmity to a helpless girl, who was too much sense and goodness to share their narrow

`What does that signify? We don't ask what a woman does we ask whom she belongs to. It's altogether a

For the first time in the dialogue Philip lost some of his self control, and coloured with anger.

`Miss Tulliver,' he said, with bitter incisiveness, `has the only grounds of rank that anything but vulgar folly

can suppose to belong to the middle class: she is thoroughly refined, and her friends, whatever else they may

be, are respected for irreproachable honour and integrity. All St Ogg's, I fancy, would pronounce her to be

Wakem darted a glance of fierce question at his son, but Philip was not looking at him, and with a certain

penitent consciousness went on, in a few moments, as if in amplification of his last words:

`Find a single person in St Ogg's who will not tell you that a beautiful creature like her would be throwing

`Not she!' said Wakem, rising again, and forgetting everything else in a burst of resentful pride, half fatherly,

half personal. `It would be a deuced fine match for her. It's all stuff about an accidental deformity, when a

`Well, then,' said Wakem, rather brutally trying to recover his previous position. `If she doesn't care for

you, you might have spared yourself the trouble of talking to me about her and you might have spared me

Wakem strode to the door, and, without looking round again, banged it after him.

Philip was not without confidence that his father would be ultimately wrought upon as he had expected by

what had passed; but the scene had jarred upon his nerves, which were as sensitive as a woman's. He

determined not to go down to dinner he couldn't meet his father again that day. It was Wakem's habit, when

he had no company at home, to go out in the evening often as early as halfpast seven; and as it was far on

in the afternoon now, Philip locked up his room and went out for a long ramble, thinking he would not return

until his father was out of the house again. He got into a boat, and went down the river to a favourite village,

where he dined, and lingered till it was late enough for him to return. He had never had any sort of quarrel

with his father before, and had a sickening fear that this contest just begun, might go on for weeks and what

might not happen in that time? He would not allow himself to define what that involuntary question meant.

But if he could once be in the position of Maggie's accepted, acknowledged lover, there would be less room

for vague dread. He went up to his painting room again and threw himself with a sense of fatigue into the

armchair, looking round absently at the views of water and rock that were ranged around, till he fell into a

doze in which he fancied Maggie was slipping down a glistening, green, slimy channel of a waterfall, and he

was looking on helpless, till he was awakened by what seemed a sudden, awful crash.

It was the opening of the door, and he could hardly have dozed more than a few moments, for there was no

perceptible change in the evening light. It was his father who entered, with a cigar in his mouth, and when

He stalked up and down the room once or twice and then standing opposite Philip, with one hand thrust in his

sidepocket, he said, as if continuing a conversation that had not been broken off,

`But this girl seems to have been fond of you, Phil, else she wouldn't have met you in that way.'

Philip's heart was beating rapidly, and a transient flush passed over his face like a gleam. It was not quite easy

`She liked me at King's Lorton, when she was a little girl, because I used to sit with her brother a great deal

when he had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and thought of me as a friend of a long while

`Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she say then?' said Wakem, taking to his cigar and walking

`She was very young then,' said Philip, hesitatingly. `I'm afraid she hardly knew what she felt. I'm afraid our

long separation, and the idea that events must always divide us may have made a difference.'

`But she's in the town I've seen her at church. Haven't you spoken to her since you came back?'

`Yes, at Mr Deane's. But I couldn't renew my proposals to her on several grounds. But one obstacle would be

removed if you would give your consent if you would be willing to think of her as a daughterinlaw.'

`She's not the sort of woman your mother was, though, Phil,' he said, at last. `I saw her at church she's

handsomer than this deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw; but rather dangerous and unmanageable, eh?'

`She's very tender and affectionate and so simple without the airs and petty contrivances other women

`Ah?' said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, `But your mother looked gentler she had that brown

wavy hair, and grey eyes, like yours. You can't remember her very well. It was a thousand pities I'd no

`Then, shouldn't you be glad for me to have the same sort of happiness, father to sweeten my life for me?

There can never be another tie so strong to you as that which began eight and twenty years ago when you

`Ay, Phil you're the only fellow that knows the best of me,' said Wakem, throwing away the end of his

cigar, and giving his hand to his son. `We must keep together, if we can. And now, what am I to do? You

The barrier once thrown down in this way, Philip could talk freely to his father of their entire relation with the

Tullivers of the desire to get the mill and land back into the family and of its transfer to Guest Co. as an

intermediate step. He could venture now to be persuasive and urgent, and his father yielded with more

`I don't care about the Mill,' he said at last with a sort of angry compliance. `I've had an infernal deal of

bother lately about the Mill. Let them pay me for my improvements, that's all. But there's one thing you

needn't ask me. I shall have no direct transactions with young Tulliver. If you like to swallow him for his

I leave you to imagine the agreeable feelings with which Philip went to Mr Deane the next day to say that Mr

Wakem was ready to open the negotiations, and Lucy's pretty triumph as she appealed to her father whether

she had not proved her great business abilities. Mr Deane was rather puzzled, and suspected that there had

been something `going on' among the young people to which he wanted a clue. But to men of Mr Deane's

stamp, what goes on among the young people is as extraneous to the real business of life as what goes on

among the birds and butterflies until it can be shown to have a malign bearing on monetary affairs. And in

THE culmination of Maggie's career as an admired member of society in St Ogg's was certainly the day of

the Bazaar, when her simple noble beauty, clad in a white muslin of some softfloating kind, which I suspect

must have come from the stores of aunt Pullet's wardrobe, appeared with marked distinction among the more

adorned and conventional women around her. We perhaps never detect how much of our social demeanour is

made up of artificial airs, until we see a person who is at once beautiful and simple: without the beauty we are

apt to call simplicity awkwardness. The Miss Guests were much too wellbred to have any of the grimaces

and affected tones that belong to pretentious vulgarity; but their stall being next to the one where Maggie sat,

it seemed newly obvious today that Miss Guest held her chin too high, and that Miss Laura spoke and moved

continually with a view to effect. All welldrest St Ogg's and its neighbourhood were there, and it would

have been worth while to come even from a distance to see the fine old Hall, with its open roof and carved

oaken rafters and great oaken foldingdoors, and light shed down from a height on the manycoloured show

beneath a very quaint place with broad faded stripes painted on the walls and here and there a show of

heraldic animals of a bristly, longsnouted character, the cherished emblems of a noble family once the

seigniors of this now civic hall. A grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted an oaken

orchestra with an open room behind it, where hothouse plants and stalls for refreshments were disposed a

very agreeable resort for gentlemen disposed to loiter and yet to exchange the occasional crush down below

for a more commodious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this ancient building for an admirable

modern purpose that made charity truly elegant, and led through vanity up to the supply of a deficit, was so

striking that hardly a person entered the room without exchanging the remark more than once. Near the great

arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel with painted glass which was one of the venerable inconsistencies

of the old Hall; and it was close by this that Lucy had her stall for the convenience of certain large plain

articles which she had taken charge of for Mrs Kenn. Maggie had begged to sit at the open end of the stall to

have the sale of these articles rather than of bead mats and other elaborate products of which she had but a

dim understanding. But it soon appeared that the gentlemen's dressinggowns, which were among her

commodities, were objects of such general attention and inquiry and excited so troublesome a curiosity as to

their lining and comparative merits together with a determination to test them by trying on, as to make her

post a very conspicuous one. The ladies who had commodities of their own to sell, and did not want

dressinggowns, saw at once the frivolity and bad taste of this masculine preference for goods which any

tailor could furnish; and it is possible that the emphatic notice of various kinds which was drawn towards

Miss Tulliver on this public occasion threw a very strong and unmistakable light on her subsequent conduct

in many minds then present. Not that anger on account of spurned beauty can dwell in the celestial breasts of

charitable ladies, but rather, that the errors of persons who have once been much admired necessarily take a

deeper tinge from the mere force of contrast, and also, that today Maggie's conspicuous position for the first

time made evident certain characteristics which were subsequently felt to have an explanatory bearing. There

was something rather bold in Miss Tulliver's direct gaze, and something undefinably coarse in the style of her

beauty, which placed her, in the opinion of all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane; for the

ladies of St Ogg's had now completely ceded to Lucy their hypothetic claims on the admiration of Mr

As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent triumph about the Mill, and all the affectionate projects she

was cherishing for Maggie and Philip, helped to give her the highest spirits today, and she felt nothing but

pleasure in the evidence of Maggie's attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very charming herself, and

Stephen was paying her the utmost attention on this public occasion jealously buying up the articles he had

seen under her fingers in the process of making, and gaily helping her to cajole the male customers into the

purchase of the most effeminate futilities. He chose to lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet Fez of her

embroidering, but by superficial observers this was necessarily liable to be interpreted less as a compliment to

Lucy than as a mark of coxcombry. `Guest is a great coxcomb,' young Torry observed, `but then he is a

privileged person in St Ogg's he carries all before him: if another fellow did such things, everybody would

And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, until Lucy said, in rather a vexed undertone,

`See, now; all the things of Maggie's knitting will be gone, and you will not have bought one. There are those

`Oh, no,' said Stephen, `they must be intended for imaginative persons who can chill themselves on this warm

day by thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stern reason is my forte, you know. You must get Philip to buy those.

`He never likes going where there are many people, though I enjoined him to come. He said he would buy up

any of my goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go and buy something of Maggie.'

Lucy's eyes turned with anxious interest towards Maggie, to see how she went through this first interview

since a sadly memorable time with a man towards whom she must have so strange a mixture of feelings, but

she was pleased to notice that Wakem had tact enough to enter at once into talk about the bazaar wares and

appear interested in purchasing, smiling now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling on her to speak

`Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable to your cousin,' said Stephen, in an undertone to Lucy.

`O, that will soon be quite healed, I hope,' said Lucy, becoming a little indiscreet in her satisfaction, and

speaking with an air of significance. But Stephen did not appear to notice this, and as some ladypurchasers

came up, he lounged on towards Maggie's end, handling trifles and standing aloof until Wakem, who had

`My son came with me,' he overheard Wakem saying, `but he has vanished into some other part of the

building, and has left all these charitable gallantries to me. I hope you'll reproach him for his shabby conduct.'

She returned his smile and bow, without speaking, and he turned away, only then observing Stephen and

nodding to him. Maggie, conscious that Stephen was still there, busied herself with counting money, and

avoided looking up. She had been well pleased that he had devoted himself to Lucy today, and had not come

near her. They had begun the morning with an indifferent salutation and both had rejoiced in being aloof from

each other, like a patient who has actually done without his opium, in spite of former failures in resolution.

And during the last few days they had even been making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward

events that must soon come to separate them, as a reason for dispensing with selfconquest in detail.

Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly dragged, until he had got round the open end of

the stall and was half hidden by a screen of draperies. Maggie went on counting her money till she suddenly

heard a deep gentle voice saying, `Aren't you very tired? Do let me bring you something some fruit or jelly

The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental vibration of a harp close by her.

`You look so pale,' Stephen insisted, in a more entreating tone. `I'm sure you're exhausted. I must disobey

`Pray, go away,' said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes glancing immediately form him to the

opposite corner of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie

had no sooner uttered this entreaty than she was wretched at the admission it implied, but Stephen turned

away at once, and, following her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem seated in the halfhidden corner, so

that he could command little more than that angle of the hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely new thought

occurred to Stephen, and, linking itself with what he had observed of Wakem's manner, and with Lucy's reply

to his observation, it convinced him that there had been some former relation between Philip and Maggie

beyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately leave the hall,

and go upstairs to the refreshment room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his

`Are you studying for a portrait, Phil,' he said, `or for a sketch of that oriel window? By George, it makes a

`What, Miss Tulliver's? It's rather of the savagemoody order today, I think something of the fallen

princess serving behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to her with a civil offer to get her some refreshment,

but I have been snubbed, as usual. There's a natural antipathy between us, I suppose I have seldom the

`What, because experience must have told me that I'm universally pleasing? I admit the law, but there's some

`So am I to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long

The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip turned through the outer door into the

churchyard, but Stephen, saying, `O by the by, I must call in here,' went on along the passage to one of the

rooms at the other end of the building, which were appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to

himself and a man requires nothing less than this, when he wants to dash his cap on the table, throw himself

astride a chair and stare at a high brick wall with a frown which would not have been beneath the occasion if

he had been slaying the Giant Python. The conduct that issues from a moral conflict has often so close a

resemblance to vice, that the distinction escapes all outward judgments, founded on a mere comparison of

actions. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite capable of deliberate doubleness for a

selfish end; and yet his fluctuations between the indulgence of a feeling and the systematic concealment of it

Meanwhile, Maggie sate at her stall cold and trembling, with that painful sensation in the eyes which comes

from resolutely repressed tears. Was her life to be always like this? always bringing some new source of

inward strife? She heard confusedly the busy indifferent voices around her and wished her mind could flow

into that easy, babbling current. It was at this moment that Dr Kenn, who had quite lately come into the hall,

and was now walking down the middle with his hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed his eyes on

Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the expression of pain on her beautiful face. She was sitting

quite still, for the stream of customers had lessened at this late hour in the afternoon: the gentlemen had

chiefly chosen the middle of the day, and Maggie's stall was looking rather bare. This, with her absent, pained

expression, finished the contrast between her and her companions, who were all bright, eager and busy. He

was strongly arrested. Her face had naturally drawn his attention as a new and striking one at church, and he

had been introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr Deane's, but he had never spoken more than

three words to her. He walked towards her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one approaching, roused

herself to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt a childlike, instinctive relief from the sense of

uneasiness in this exertion, when she saw it was Dr Kenn's face that was looking at her: that plain,

middleaged face, with a grave, penetrating kindness in it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached

a firm, safe strand, but was looking with helpful pity towards the strugglers still tossed by the waves, had an

effect on Maggie at that moment which was afterwards remembered by her as if it had been a promise. The

middleaged, who have lived through their strongest emotions, but are yet in the time when memory is still

half passionate and not merely contemplative, should surely be a sort of natural priesthood whom life has

disciplined and consecrated to be the refuge and rescue of early stumblers and victims of selfdespair: most

of us at some moment in our young lives, would have welcomed a priest of that natural order in any sort of

canonicals or uncanonicals, but had to scramble upwards into all the difficulties of nineteen entirely without

`You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Miss Tulliver?' said Dr Kenn.

`It is, rather,' said Maggie, simply, not being accustomed to simper amiable denials of obvious facts.

`But I can tell Mrs Kenn that you have disposed of her goods very quickly,' he added. `She will be very much

`O I have done nothing: the gentlemen came very fast to buy the dressinggowns and embroidered waistcoats

but I think any of the other ladies would have sold more: I didn't know what to say about them.'

Dr Kenn smiled. `I hope I'm going to have you as a permanent parishioner now, Miss Tulliver am I? You

`I have been a teacher in a school, and I'm going into another situation of the same kind very soon.'

`Ah? I was hoping you would remain among your friends who are all in this neighbourhood, I believe.'

`O I must go,' said Maggie, earnestly, looking at Dr Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told

him her history in those three words. It was one of those moments of implicit revelation which will

sometimes happen even between people who meet quite transiently on a mile's journey, perhaps, or when

resting by the wayside. There is always this possibility of a word or look from a stranger to keep alive the

Dr Kenn's ear and eye took in all the signs that this brief confidence of Maggie's was charged with meaning.

`I understand,' he said; `you feel it right to go. But that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope it will not

`She has some trouble or other at heart,' he thought. `Poor child! she looks as if she might turn out to be one

`The souls by nature pitch'd too high, By suffering plung'd too low.' There's something wonderfully honest in

It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imperfections an excessive delight in admiration and

acknowledged supremacy were not absent now, any more than when she was instructing the gypsies with a

view towards achieving a royal position among them, was not more elated on a day when she had had the

tribute of so many looks and smiles, together with that satisfactory consciousness which had necessarily

come from being taken before Lucy's cheval glass and made to look at the full length of her tall beauty,

crowned by the night of her massy hair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, and for the moment had forgotten

everything in the sense of her own beauty. If that state of mind could have lasted, her choice would have been

to have Stephen Guest at her feet, offering her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily incense of adoration

near and distant, with all possibilities of culture at her command. But there were things in her stronger than

vanity passion, and affection, and long deep memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on her

love and pity; and the stream of vanity was soon swept along and mingled imperceptibly with that wider

current which was at its highest force today, under the double urgency of the events and inward impulses

Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of obstacles between them on his father's side he

shrank from that but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that Maggie, being informed through

her, might give him some encouraging sign that their being brought thus much nearer to each other was a

happiness to her. The rush of conflicting feelings was too great for Maggie to say much when Lucy with a

face breathing playful joy, like one of Correggio's cherubs, poured forth her triumphant revelation, and Lucy

could hardly be surprised that she could do little more than cry with gladness at the thought of her father's

wish being fulfilled and of Tom's getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard striving. The details of

preparation for the bazaar had then come to usurp Lucy's attention for the next few days, and nothing had

been said by the cousins on subjects that were likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been to the house

more than once, but Maggie had had no private conversation with him, and thus she had been left to fight her

But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were alone again, resting together at home, Lucy said,

`You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss the day after tomorrow, Maggie: write a note to her,

and tell her you have put it off at my request and I'll send the man with it. She won't be displeased you'll

have plenty of time to go by and by. And I don't want you to go out of the way just now.'

`Yes, indeed I must go, dear I can't put it off. I wouldn't leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall

have very little time, for I'm going away to a new situation on the twenty fifth of June.'

`I didn't tell you, dear,' said Maggie, making a great effort to command herself, `because you've been so busy.

But some time ago, I wrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her to let me know if she met with any

situation that I could fill, and the other day I had a letter from her telling me that I could take three orphan

pupils of hers to the coast during the holidays and then make trial of a situation with her as teacher. I wrote

`Maggie,' she said at last, `how could you be so unkind to me not to tell me to take such a step and

now!' She hesitated a little, and then added `And Philip? I thought everything was going to be so happy. O

Maggie what is the reason? Give it up let me write. There is nothing now to keep you and Philip apart.'

`Yes,' said Maggie, faintly. `There is Tom's feeling. He said I must give him up, if I married Philip. And I

know he will not change at least not for a long while unless something happened to soften him.'

`But I will talk to him he's coming back this week. And this good news about the Mill will soften him. And

I'll talk to him about Philip. Tom's always very compliant to me I don't think he's so obstinate.'

`But I must go,' said Maggie, in a distressed voice. `I must leave some time to pass. Don't press me to stay,

Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating. At length she knelt down by her

`Maggie, is it that you don't love Philip well enough to marry him? tell me trust me.'

Maggie held Lucy's hands tightly in silence a little while. Her owns hands were quite cold. But when she

`Yes, Lucy I would choose to marry him. I think it would be the best and highest lot for me to make his

life happy. He loved me first. No one else could be quite what he is to me. But I can't divide myself from my

brother for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray don't speak to me again about it.'

`Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at Park House tomorrow, and have some music and

brightness, before you go to pay these dull, dutiful visits. Ah! here come aunty and the tea.'

THE suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and

the personal splendours of sixteen couples with attendant parents and guardians. The focus of brilliancy was

the long drawingroom, where the dancing went forward, under the inspiration of the grand piano; the library

into which it opened at one end had the more sober illumination of maturity, with caps and cards; and at the

other end the pretty sitting room with a conservatory attached, was left as an occasional cool retreat. Lucy,

who had laid aside her black for the first time and had her pretty slimness set off by an abundant dress of

white crape, was the acknowledged queen of the occasion, for this was one of the Miss Guests' thoroughly

condescending parties, including no member of any aristocracy higher than that of St Ogg's, and stretching to

the extreme limits of commercial and professional gentility. Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she

had forgotten all the figures it was so many years since she had danced at school; and she was glad to have

that excuse, for it is ill dancing with a heavy heart. But at length the music wrought in her young limbs, and

the longing came; even though it was the horrible young Torry who walked up a second time to try and

persuade her. She warned him that she could not dance anything but a country dance, but he, of course, was

willing to wait for that high felicity, meaning only to be complimentary when he assured her at several

intervals that it was a `great bore' that she couldn't waltz he would have liked so much to waltz with her.

But at last it was the turn of the good oldfashioned dance, which has the least of vanity and the most of

merriment in it, and Maggie quite forgot her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment of that halfrustic

rhythm, which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. She felt quite charitably towards young Torry, as his

hand bore her along and held her up in the dance; her eyes and cheeks had that fire of young joy in them

which will flame out if it can find the least breath to fan it; and her simple black dress, with its bit of black

Stephen had not yet asked her to dance had not yet paid her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday,

that inward vision of her which perpetually made part of his consciousness, had been halfscreened by the

image of Philip Wakem which came across it like a blot: there was some attachment between her and Philip;

at least there was an attachment on his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here then, Stephen told

himself, was another claim of honour which called on him to resist the attraction that was continually

threatening to overpower him. He told himself so: and yet he had once or twice felt a certain savage

resistance, and at another moment a shuddering repugnance, to this intrusion of Philip's image which almost

made it a new incitement to rush towards Maggie and claim her for himself. Nevertheless he had done what

he meant to do this evening: he had kept aloof from her: he had hardly looked at her; and he had been gaily

assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were devouring Maggie: he felt inclined to kick young Torry out of the

dance, and take his place. Then he wanted the dance to end that he might get rid of his partner. The

possibility that he too should dance with Maggie, and have her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess

him like a thirst. But even now their hands were meeting in the dance were meeting still to the very end of

Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic way he got through the duties of politeness in the

interval, until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone again, at the farther end of the room. He made his

way towards her round the couples that were forming for the waltz, and when Maggie became conscious that

she was the person he sought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, a glowing gladness at

heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightened with her childlike enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame

was set to joy and tenderness: even the coming pain could not seem bitter she was ready to welcome it as

a part of life, for life at this moment seemed a keen vibrating consciousness poised above the pleasure or

pain. This one, this last night, she might expand unrestrainedly in the warmth of the present, without those

`They're going to waltz again,' said Stephen, bending to speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued

tenderness which young dreams create to themselves in the summer woods when low cooing voices fill the

air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that is halfstifling with glaring

`They are going to waltz again: it is rather dizzy work to look on and the room is very warm. Shall we walk

He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they walked on into the sittingroom, where the tables

were strewn with engravings for the accommodation of visitors who did not want to look at them. But no

`How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with the lights among them,' said Maggie, in a low voice.

`They look as if they belonged to an enchanted land, and would never fade away: I could fancy they were

She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and Stephen made no answer; but he was looking at

her and does not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute, and light eloquent?

Something strangely powerful there was in the light of Stephen's long gaze, for it made Maggie's face turn

towards it and look upward at it slowly, like a flower at the ascending brightness. And they walked

unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking without feeling anything but that long grave mutual

gaze which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The hovering thought that they must and

would renounce each other made this moment of mute confession more intense in its rapture.

But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and were obliged to pause and turn. The change of

movement brought a new consciousness to Maggie: she blushed deeply, turned away her head, and drew her

arm from Stephen's, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless and still pale.

`O may I get this rose?' said Maggie, making a great effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense

of irretrievable confession. `I think I am quite wicked with roses I like to gather them and smell them till

Stephen was mute: he was incapable of putting a sentence together, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward

towards the large halfopened rose that had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a woman's arm?

the unspeakable suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow and all the varied gently lessening

curves down to the delicate wrist with its tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness. A woman's

arm touched the soul of a great sculptor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for the

Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the timeworn marble of a headless trunk. Maggie's was

A mad impulse seized on Stephen; he darted towards the arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist.

But the next moment Maggie snatched it from him and glared at him like a wounded wargoddess, quivering

`How dare you?' she spoke in a deeply shaken, halfsmothered voice. `What right have I given you to

She darted from him into the adjoining room and threw herself on the sofa, panting and trembling.

A horrible punishment was come upon her, for the sin of allowing a moment's happiness that was treachery to

Lucy, to Philip to her own better soul. That momentary happiness had been smitten with a blight a

As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of the conservatory, dizzy with the conflict of passions

love, rage and confused despair: despair at his want of selfmastery, and despair that he had offended

The last feeling surmounted every other: to be by her side again and entreat forgiveness was the only thing

that had the force of a motive for him, and she had not been seated more than a few minutes, when he came

`Leave me to myself, if you please,' she said, with impetuous haughtiness, `and for the future avoid me.'

Stephen turned away, and walked backwards and forwards at the other end of the room. There was the dire

necessity of going back into the dancingroom again, and he was beginning to be conscious of that. They had

been absent so short a time that when he went in again, the waltz was not ended.

Maggie, too, was not long before she reentered. All the pride of her nature was stung into activity: the

hateful weakness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her selfrespect, had at least wrought

its own cure. The thoughts and temptations of the last month should all be flung away into an unvisited

chamber of memory: there was nothing to allure her now; duty would be easy, and all the old calm purposes

would reign peacefully once more. She reentered the drawingroom still with some excited brightness in

her face, but with a sense of proud selfcommand that defied anything to agitate her. She refused to dance

again, but she talked quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. And when they got home

that night, she kissed Lucy with a free heart, almost exulting in this scorching moment which had delivered

her from the possibility of another word or look that would have the stamp of treachery towards that gentle,

The next morning Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so soon as she had expected. Her mother was to

accompany her in the carriage, and household business could not be despatched hastily by Mrs Tulliver. So

Maggie, who had been in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for the drive, in the garden.

Lucy was busy in the house wrapping up some bazaar presents for the younger ones at Basset, and when

there was a loud ring at the doorbell, Maggie felt some alarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her: it

But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, and seated himself by her on the garden chair. It was

`We can just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from this seat,' said Philip.

They had taken each other's hands in silence, but Maggie had looked at him with a more complete revival of

the old childlike affectionate smile than he had seen before, and he felt encouraged.

`Yes,' she said, `I often look at them, and wish I could see the low sunlight on the stems again. But I have

`I have been there I go there continually,' said Philip. `I have nothing but the past to live upon.'

A keen remembrance and keen pity impelled Maggie to put her hand in Philip's. They had so often walked

`I remember all the spots just where you told me of particular things beautiful stories that I had never

`You will go there again soon won't you, Maggie?' said Philip, getting timid and tremulous. `The Mill will

`Yes but I shall not be there,' said Maggie. `I shall only hear of that happiness. I am going away again

`Then the future will never join on to the past again, Maggie? That book is quite closed?'

The grey eyes that had so often looked up at her with entreating worship, looked up at her now, with a last

struggling ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her large sincere gaze.

`That book never will be closed, Philip,' she said, with grave sadness. `I desire no future that will break the

ties of the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the strongest. I can do nothing willingly that will divide me

`Is that the only reason that would keep us apart for ever, Maggie?' said Philip, with a desperate

`The only reason,' said Maggie, with calm decision. And she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the

enchanted cup had been dashed to the ground. The reactionary excitement that gave her a proud selfmastery

They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or speaking for a few minutes: in Maggie's mind the first

scenes of love and parting were more present than the actual moment, and she was looking at Philip in the

Philip felt that he ought to have been thoroughly happy in that answer of hers: she was as open and

transparent as a rockpool. Why was he not thoroughly happy? Jealousy is never satisfied with anything

MAGGIE had been four days at her aunt Moss's giving the early June sunshine quite a new brightness in the

caredimmed eyes of that affectionate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great and small, who

were learning her words and actions by heart, as if she had been a transient avatar of perfect wisdom and

beauty. She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousins feeding the chickens, at that

quiet moment in the life of the farmyard before the afternoon milkingtime. The great buildings round the

hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over the old garden wall the straggling rosebushes

were beginning to toss their summer weight, and the grey wood and old bricks of the house, on its higher

level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad afternoon sunlight, that suited the quiescent time. Maggie with

her bonnet over her arm, was smiling down at a hatch of small fluffy chickens when her aunt exclaimed,

It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of the horse were streaked black with fast

riding. Maggie felt a beating at head and heart horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savage enemy who

`Who is it, my dear?' said Mrs Moss, seeing in Maggie's face the evidence that she knew.

`It is Mr Stephen Guest,' said Maggie, rather faintly. `My cousin Lucy's a gentleman who is very intimate at

Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and now raised his hat as he advanced.

`No, thank you,' said Stephen, pulling at the horse's impatiently tossing head. `I must be going again

immediately. I have a message to deliver to you, Miss Tulliver on private business. May I take the liberty

He had a halfjaded, halfirritated look, such as a man gets when he has been dogged by some care or

annoyance that makes his bed and his dinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if his errand

were too pressing for him to trouble himself about what would be thought by Mrs Moss of his visit and

request. Good Mrs Moss, rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, was inwardly

wondering whether she would be doing right or wrong to invite him again to leave his horse and walk in,

when Maggie, feeling all the embarrassment of the situation, and unable to say anything, put on her bonnet

Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane and had walked four or five yards, when Maggie, who

had been looking straight before her all the while, turned again to walk back saying, with haughty resentment,

`There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know whether you consider it gentlemanly and delicate

conduct to place me in a position that forced me to come out with you or whether you wished to insult me

`Of course you are angry with me for coming,' said Stephen, bitterly. `Of course it is of no consequence what

Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from the slightest possible electric shock.

`As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way that I'm mad with love for you that I resist the

strongest passion a man can feel, because I try to be true to other claims but you must treat me as if I were a

coarse brute who would willingly offend you. And when, if I had my own choice, I should ask you take my

hand, and my fortune and my whole life, and do what you liked with them. I know I forgot myself I took an

unwarrantable liberty I hate myself for having done it. But I repented immediately I've been repenting

ever since. You ought not to think it unpardonable a man who loves with his whole soul, as I do you, is

liable to be mastered by his feelings for a moment; but you know you must believe that the worst pain I

could have is to have pained you that I would give the world to recall the error.'

Maggie dared not speak dared not turn her head. The strength that had come from resentment was all gone

and her lips were quivering visibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full forgiveness that rose in answer

`You must not say these things I must not hear them,' she said, looking down in misery, as Stephen came in

front of her, to prevent her from going farther towards the gate. `I'm very sorry for any pain you have to go

`Yes, it is of use,' said Stephen, impetuously. `It would be of use if you would treat me with some sort of pity

and consideration instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. I could bear everything more quietly if I

knew you didn't hate me for an insolent coxcomb. Look at me see what a hunted devil I am: I've been

Maggie did not dared not look. She had already seen the harassed face. But she said gently, `I don't think

`Then, dearest, look at me,' said Stephen, in deepest, tenderest tones of entreaty. `Don't go away from me yet.

`Yes, I do forgive you,' said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and all the more frightened at herself. `But pray

`I can't go away from you I can't leave you,' said Stephen, with still more passionate pleading. `I shall come

back again if you send me away with this coldness I can't answer for myself. But if you will go with me

only a little way, I can live on that. You see plainly enough that your anger has only made me ten times more

Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to make such spirited remonstrances against this frequent

change of direction, that Stephen, catching sight of Willy Moss peeping through the gate, called out, `Here!

`Never mind,' Stephen answered impatiently; `they don't know the people at St Ogg's. Lead him up and down

just here, for five minutes,' he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and then he turned to Maggie's

`Take my arm,' said Stephen, entreatingly; and she took it, feeling all the while as if she were sliding

`There is no end to this misery,' she began, struggling to repel the influence by speech. `It is wicked base

ever allowing a word or look that Lucy that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy.'

`I do think of her bless her If I didn't' Stephen had laid his hand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and

`And I have other ties,' Maggie went on, at last, with a desperate effort, `even if Lucy did not exist.'

Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the sun into a side lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he

`It is unnatural it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I love you, we should throw everything else to the

winds for the sake of belonging to each other. We should break all these mistaken ties that were made in

`I would rather die than fall into that temptation,' said Maggie, with deep, slow distinctness, all the gathered

spiritual force of painful years coming to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from his as she spoke.

`Tell me then that you don't care for me,' he said, almost violently. `Tell me that you love some one else

It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of releasing herself from outward struggle to tell

Stephen that her whole heart was Philip's. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.

`If you do love me, dearest,' said Stephen, gently, taking up her hand again and laying it within his arm, `it is

better, it is right that we should marry each other. We can't help the pain it will give. It is come upon us

without our seeking: it is natural it has taken hold of me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God

knows, I've been trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I've only made things worse I'd better have

`Maggie was silent. If it were not wrong if she were once convinced of that, and need no longer beat and

`Say "yes," dearest,' said Stephen, leaning to look entreatingly in her face. `What could we care about in the

Her breath was on his face his lips were very near hers but there was a great dread dwelling in his love

Her lips and eyelids quivered she opened her eyes full on his for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid

`And after all,' he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to defeat his own scruples as well as hers, `I am

breaking no positive engagement: if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn from me and given to some one

else, I should have felt no right to assert a claim on her. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are

`You don't believe that it is not your real feeling,' said Maggie, earnestly. `You feel, as I do, that the real tie

lies in the feelings and expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges might be broken, when

Stephen was silent: he could not pursue that argument; the opposite conviction had wrought in him too

strongly through his previous time of struggle. But it soon presented itself in a new form.

`The pledge can't be fulfilled,' he said, with impetuous insistance. `It is unnatural: we can only pretend to give

ourselves to any one else. There is wrong in that too there may be misery in it for them as well as for us.

He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of compliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her

hand. She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deep breath, and

`O it is difficult life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest

feeling; but then, such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has made for us

the ties that have made others dependent on us and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and

simple, as it might have been in paradise, and we could always see that one being first towards whom... I

mean, if life did not make duties for us before love comes love would be a sign that two people ought to

belong to each other. But I see I feel it is not so now: there are things we must renounce in life some of us

must resign love. Many things are difficult and dark to me but I see one thing quite clearly that I must

not, cannot seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love is natural but surely pity and faithfulness

and memory are natural too. And they would live in me still, and punish me if I didn't obey them. I should be

haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. Don't urge me; help me help me,

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; her face had become flushed, and her eyes fuller

and fuller of appealing love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal; but in the

same moment how could it be otherwise? that pleading beauty gained new power over him.

`Dearest,' he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his arm stole round her, `I'll do, I'll bear anything

One kiss and then a long look until Maggie said tremulously, `Let me go let us make haste back.'

She hurried along and not another word was spoken. Stephen stood still and beckoned when they came within

sight of Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs Moss was standing alone at the door

of the old porch: she had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness; it might be a joyful thing that

Maggie had a rich and handsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming in again and it

might not be joyful. In either case, Mrs Moss waited anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The poor thing's

face said plainly enough that if there was joy, it was of a very agitating dubious sort.

`Sit down here a bit, my dear.' She drew Maggie into the porch, and sat down on the bench by her. There was

`O aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched. I wish I could have died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell into long, deep sobs.

MAGGIE left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and went to Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt

Pullet according to agreement. In the mean time, very unexpected things had happened, and there was to be a

family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a change in the fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely

finally to carry away the shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto

obscured virtues to shine forth in fullrounded splendour. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come

into office are not the only fellowmen who enjoy a period of high appreciation and fullblown eulogy: in

many respectable families throughout this realm relatives becoming creditable meet with a similar cordiality

of recognition, which in its fine freedom from the coercion of any antecedents, suggests the hopeful

possibility that we may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who

have ceased to bite and wolves that no longer show their teeth with any but the blandest intentions. Lucy

came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for the longed to have some undisturbed talk with

Maggie about the wonderful news. It seemed did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of wisdom as if

everything, even other people's misfortunes (poor creatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear aunt

Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and haughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the contrary, as happy

as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To think that the very day the very day after Tom had come

back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been

pitched off his horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St Ogg's in a dangerous state, so that Wakem had

signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on the premises at once! It was very dreadful for that

unhappy young man, but it did seem as if the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other time, in

order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his exemplary conduct papa thought so

very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly go to the Mill now and keep house for Tom: that was rather

a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort; but then, to think of poor aunty being in her old place

On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she and Maggie had made their dangerous way

down the bright stairs into the handsome parlour where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner than elsewhere,

she directed her manoeuvres as any other great tactician would have done, against the weaker side of the

`Aunt Pullet,' she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly adjusting that lady's floating capstring, `I

want you to make up your mind what linen and things you will give Tom towards housekeeping; because

you're always so generous, you give such nice things, you know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will

`That she never can, my dear,' said Mrs Pullet, with unusual vigour, `for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit

wi' mine, I can tell you. She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big checks and live things, like

stags and foxes, all her tablelinen is not a spot nor a diamont among 'em. But it's poor work, dividing one's

linen before one dies I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy,' Mrs Pullet continued, shaking her head and

looking at her sister Tulliver, `when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'd spun and

`I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, accustomed to consider herself in the light of an

accused person. `I'm sure it was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o' nights thinking o' my best

`Take a peppermint, Mrs Tulliver,' said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was offering a cheap and wholesome

`O but, aunt Pullet,' said Lucy, `you've so much beautiful linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then

`Well, I don't say as I won't do it,' said Mrs Pullet, `for now Tom's so lucky, it's nothing but right his friends

should look on him and help him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale, Bessy, it was nothing but

good natur o' me to buy 'em, for they've been lying in the chest ever since. But I'm not going to give Maggie

any more o' my Indy muslin and things, if she's to go into service again, when she might stay and keep me

`Going into service' was the expression by which the Dodson mind represented to itself the position of

teacher or governess, and Maggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offered her more

eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form,

with her hair down her back and altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a most undesirable niece; but

now, she was capable of being at once ornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle

`Hegh, hegh!' said Mr Glegg, goodnaturedly patting Maggie on the back, `Nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us

hear of you taking a place again, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up halfadozen sweethearts at the

`Mr Glegg,' said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in her severity, which she always put on

with her crisper fronts. `You'll excuse me, but you're far too light for a man of your years. It's respect and

duty to her aunts and the rest of her kin as are so good to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about

going away again, without consulting us not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word, though it was never

`Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh, neighbour Pullet? They thought us sweet

enough then,' said Mr Glegg, winking pleasantly, while Mr Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness, took a little

`La, Jane, your husband's only joking,' said Mrs Pullet, `let him joke while he's got health and strength.

There's poor Mr Tilt got his mouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was to try.'

`I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr Glegg,' said Mrs G., `if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking.

Though it's other people must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her mother's eldest sister, as is the

head o' the family; and only coming in and out on short visits all the time she's been in the town, and then

settling to go away without my knowledge as I'd laid caps out on purpose for her to make 'em up for me,

`Sister,' Mrs Tulliver broke in, anxiously, `I'm sure Maggie never thought o' going away without staying at

your house as well as the others. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all but quite contrairy. I'm sure

I'm innicent. I've said over and over again, "My dear, you've no call to go away." But there's ten days or a

fortnight Maggie'll have before she's fixed to go: she can stay at your house just as well, as I'll step in when I

`Bessy,' said Mrs Glegg, `if you'd exercise a little more thought, you might know I should hardly think it was

worth while to unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the time, when our house isn't

above a quarter of an hour's walk from Mr Deane's. She can come the first thing in the morning and go back

the last at night, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so close to her to come and sit with. I know I should,

`La, Jane,' said Mrs Pullet, `it 'ud do your beds good to have somebody to sleep in 'em. There's that Striped

Room smells dreadful mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything: I'm sure I thought I should be struck

`O, there is Tom!' exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. `He's come on Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he

Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at this first meeting since the prospect of

returning to the Mill had been opened to him, and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by her side. To

have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a perpetual yearning in her, that had its root deeper than all

change. He smiled at her very kindly this evening and said, `Well, Magsie, how's aunt Moss?'

`Come, come, sir,' said Mr Glegg, putting out his hand. `Why, you're such a big man, you carry all before

you, it seems. You're come into your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did but I wish you joy, I

wish you joy. You'll get the Mill all for your own again, some day, I'll be bound. You won't stop halfway up

`But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's family as he owes it to,' said Mrs Glegg. `If he hadn't had

them to take after, he'd ha' been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor wastefulness in our

`No, nor sudden deaths,' said aunt Pullet. `Allays the doctor called in. But Tom had the Dodson skin I said

that from the first. And I don't know what you mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him a table cloth

of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I don't say what more I shall do, but that I shall do, and if

I should die tomorrow, Mr Pullet, you'll bear it in mind though you'll be blundering with the keys, and

never remember as that on the third shelf o' the left hand wardrobe, behind the nightcaps with the broad ties

not the narrowfrilled uns is the key o' the drawer in the Blue Room, where the key o' the Blue Closet is.

You'll make a mistake and I shall niver be worthy to know it. You've a memory for my pills and draughts,

wonderful I'll allays say that of you but you're lost among the keys.' This gloomy prospect of the

`You carry it too far, Sophy that locking in and out,' said Mrs Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly.

`You go beyond your own family. There's nobody can say I don't lock up; but I do what's reasonable, and no

more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what's serviceable, to make a present of to my nevvie: I've got

cloth as has never been whittened, better worth having than other people's fine holland; and I hope he'll lie

Tom thanked Mrs Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on her virtues; and Mr Glegg effected a

Lucy had had her farsighted views in begging Tom to come on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go

home, that the manservant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy.

`You must sit by yourself, aunty,' said that contriving young lady, `because I must sit by Tom; I've a great

In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, Lucy could not persuade herself to defer a

conversation about her with Tom, who, she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid fulfilment

of his wish about the Mill, must become pliant and flexible. Her nature supplied her with no key to Tom's,

and she was puzzled as well as pained to notice the unpleasant change on his countenance when she gave him

the history of the way in which Philip had used his influence with his father. She had counted on this

revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's heart towards Philip at once, and besides that,

prove that the elder Wakem was ready to receive Maggie with all the honours of a daughterinlaw. Nothing

was wanted, then, but for dear Tom, who always had that pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to

turn completely round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare that he, for his part,

was delighted that all the old grievances should be healed and that Maggie should have Philip with all

But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualities that create severity strength of will,

conscious rectitude of purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of selfcontrol and a

disposition to exert control over others prejudices come as the natural food of tendencies which can get no

sustenance out of that complex, fragmentary, doubtprovoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a

prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye however it may

come, these minds will give it a habitation: it is something to assert strongly and bravely, something to fill up

the void of spontaneous ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of conscious right: it is at

once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will answer these purposes is selfevident. Our good upright

Tom Tulliver's mind was of this class: his inward criticism of his father's faults did not prevent him from

adopting his father's prejudice; it was a prejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a

meetingpoint for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal pride. Other feelings added their force

to produce Tom's bitter repugnance to Philip and to Maggie's union with him; and notwithstanding Lucy's

power over her strongwilled cousin, she got nothing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage: `but

of course Maggie could do as she liked she had declared her determination to be independent. For Tom's

part, he held himself bound by his duty to his father's memory, and by every manly feeling, never to consent

Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill Tom's mind with the expectation that

Maggie's perverse resolve to go into a situation again, would presently metamorphose itself, as her resolves

were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely different a marriage with Philip Wakem.

IN less than a week Maggie was at St Ogg's again, outwardly in much the same position as when her visit

there had just begun. It was easy for her to fill her mornings apart from Lucy without any obvious effort; for

she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and it was natural that she should give her mother more

than usual of her companionship in these last weeks, especially as there were preparations to be thought of for

Tom's housekeeping. But Lucy would hear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings: she must

always come from aunt Glegg's before dinner `else what shall I have of you?' said Lucy, with a tearful pout

that could not be resisted. And Mr Stephen Guest had unaccountably taken to dining at Mr Deane's as often

as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At first he began his mornings with a resolution that he

would not dine there not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had even devised a plan of

starting off on a journey in this agreeable June weather: the headaches which he had constantly been alleging

as a ground for stupidity and silence were a sufficient ostensible motive. But the journey was not taken, and

by the fourth morning no distinct resolution was formed about the evenings: they were only foreseen as times

when Maggie would still be present for a little while when one more touch, one more glance might be

snatched. For, why not? There was nothing to conceal between them: they knew they had confessed their

love, and they had renounced each other they were going to part. Honour and conscience were going to

divide them Maggie, with that appeal from her inmost soul had decided it: but surely they might cast a

lingering look at each other across the gulf, before they turned away never to look again till that strange light

had for ever faded out of their eyes. Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and even torpor of

manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardour, that Lucy would have had to seek some

other cause for such a change if she had not been convinced that the position in which Maggie stood between

Philip and her brother and the prospect of her selfimposed wearisome banishment were quite enough to

account for a large amount of depression. But under this torpor there was a fierce battle of emotions, such as

Maggie in all her life of struggle had never known or foreboded: it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her

had lain in ambush till now and had suddenly started up fullarmed with hideous, overpowering strength.

There were moments in which a cruel selfishness seemed to be getting possession of her: why should not

Lucy why should not Philip suffer? She had had to suffer through many years of her life, and who had

renounced anything for her? And when something like that fulness of existence love, wealth, ease,

refinement all that her nature craved was brought within her reach, why was she to forego it, that another

might have it another, who perhaps needed it less? But amidst all this new passionate tumult there were the

old voices making themselves heard with rising power till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. Was

that existence which tempted her, the full existence she dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of

early striving, all the deep pity for another's pain which had been nurtured in her through years of affection

and hardship, all the divine presentiment of something higher than mere personal enjoyment which had made

the sacredness of life? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as hope to enjoy an

existence in which she set out by maiming the faith and sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. And

then, if pain were so hard to her what was it to others? Ah, God! preserve me from inflicting give me

strength to bear it. How had she sunk into this struggle with a temptation that she would once have thought

herself as secure from, as from deliberate crime? When was that first hateful moment in which she had been

conscious of a feeling that clashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had not shaken it from her with

horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? And yet, since this strange, sweet, subduing influence did not,

should not conquer her since it was to remain simply her own suffering... her mind was meeting Stephen's

in that thought of his, that they might still snatch moments of mute confession before the parting came. For

was not he suffering too? She saw it daily saw it in the sickened look of fatigue with which as soon as he

was not compelled to exert himself he relapsed into indifference towards everything but the possibility of

watching her. Could she refuse sometimes to answer that beseeching look which she felt to be following her

like a low murmur of love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last the evening for them both was

sometimes made of a moment's mutual gaze they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they

thought of nothing else. One other thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was, to sing: it

was a way of speaking to Maggie perhaps he was not distinctly conscious that he was impelled to it by a

secret longing, running counter to all his selfconfessed resolves, to deepen the hold he had on her. Watch

your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less conscious purposes, and you will understand that

Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally in the evening, and it happened that he

`Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, I mean that we shall go out boating every day until

she goes: She has not had half enough boating, because of these tiresome visits, and she likes it better than

`Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean,' said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling

backward in a low garden chair, `else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who haunts the

`Should you like to be her boatman?' said Lucy. `Because, if you would, you can come with us and take an

oar. If the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, we should be independent of any gentleman, for

Maggie can row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to ask services of knights and squires, who do not seem

She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo

`The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine.' He took no notice, but still kept aloof: he had

`You don't seem inclined for boating,' said Lucy, when he came to sit down by her on the bench. `Doesn't

`O, I hate a large party in a boat,' he said, almost irritably. `I'll come when you have no one else.'

Lucy coloured, fearing that Philip would be hurt: it was quite a new thing for Stephen to speak in that way,

but he had certainly not been well of late. Philip coloured too, but less from a feeling of personal offence than

from a vague suspicion that Stephen's moodiness had some relation to Maggie, who had started up from her

chair as he spoke, and had walked towards the hedge of laurels to look at the descending sunlight on the river.

`As Miss Deane didn't know she was excluding others by inviting me,' said Philip, `I am bound to resign.'

`No, indeed, you shall not,' said Lucy, much vexed. `I particularly wish for your company tomorrow. The tide

will suit at halfpast ten it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back,

before the sun gets too hot. And how can you object to four people in a boat?' she added, looking at Stephen.

`I don't object to the people, but the number,' said Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather

ashamed of his rudeness. `If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we won't divide

the pleasure of escorting the ladies we'll take it alternately. I'll go the next day.'

This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention with freshened solicitude towards Stephen and

Maggie; but when they reentered the house, music was proposed, and Mrs Tulliver and Mr Deane being

occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart near the table where the books and work were placed doing

nothing, however, but listening abstractedly to the music. Stephen presently turned to a duet which he

insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing: he had often done the same thing before, but this evening Philip

thought he divined some double intention in every word and look of Stephen's, and watched him keenly

angry with himself all the while for this clinging suspicion. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground

for his doubts on her side? and she was truth itself; it was impossible not to believe her word and glance when

they had last spoken together in the garden. Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was more

natural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on what must be his friend's painful secret. Still, he

watched. Stephen, moving away from the piano, sauntered slowly towards the table near which Maggie sat,

and turned over the newspapers, apparently in mere idleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the

piano, dragging a newspaper under his elbow and thrusting his hand through his hair, as if he had been

attracted by some bit of local news in the Laceham Courier. He was in reality looking at Maggie, who had not

taken the slightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strength of resistance when Philip was

present, just as we can restrain our speech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard

the word `dearest', uttered in the softest tone of pained entreaty, like that of a patient who asks for something

that ought to have been given without asking. She had never heard that word since the moments in the lane at

Basset, when it had come from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an

inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, and could see

Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an instant towards Stephen's face, but immediately look apprehensively

towards himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed her, but a pang of shame under the sense

of this concealment made her move from her chair and walk to her mother's side to watch the game at

Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled with wretched certainty. It was impossible

for him now to resist the conviction that there was some mutual consciousness between Stephen and Maggie;

and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerves were pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one

wretched fact: he could attempt no explanation that would reconcile it with her words and actions. When, at

last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to its habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth:

she was struggling, she was banishing herself this was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But

athwart that belief, there came other possibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imagination

wrought out the whole story: Stephen was madly in love with her; he must have told her so; she had rejected

him, and was hurrying away. But would he give her up, knowing Philip felt the fact with heartcrushing

When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping his engagement to go in the boat. In his

present agitation he could decide on nothing: he could only alternate between contradictory intentions. First,

he thought he must have an interview with Maggie and entreat her to confide in him; then again, he distrusted

his own interference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along? She had uttered words long ago

in her young ignorance; it was enough to make her hate him that these should be continually present with her

as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation of feelings which she had evidently intended to

withhold from him? He would not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself that he could act from

pure anxiety for her and not from egoistic irritation. He wrote a brief note to Stephen and sent it early by the

servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his engagement to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his

Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite content with Stephen's refusal to go in the

boat. She discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this morning at ten: Lindum was the very place

she wanted to go to, to make purchases important purchases, which must by no means be put off to another

opportunity; and aunt Tulliver must go too, because she was concerned in some of the purchases.

`You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know,' she said to Maggie when they went out of the

breakfastroom and upstairs together, `Philip will be here at half past ten, and it is a delicious morning.

Now, don't say a word against it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if

you set your face against all the wonders I work for you? Don't think of awful cousin Tom: you may disobey

Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad of the plan; for perhaps it would bring her some

strength and calmness to be alone with Philip again: it was like revisiting the scene of a quieter life, in which

the very struggles were repose compared with the daily tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the

The ring at the doorbell was punctual, and she was thinking with halfsad, affectionate pleasure of the

surprise Philip would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished a firm rapid

step across the hall, that was certainly not Philip's: the door opened and Stephen Guest entered.

In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; for Stephen had learned from the servant that

the others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating violently, and

Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. She thought Philip would be

coming soon; and with great effort for she trembled visibly she rose to go to a distant chair.

`O, we can't go,' said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. `Lucy did not expect she would be hurt. Why is

`Lucy is gone to Lindum,' said Maggie, taking off her bonnet, with hurried, trembling fingers. `We must not

`Very well,' said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his arm on the back of his chair. `Then we'll

He was looking into her deep, deep eyes faroff and mysterious as the starlit blackness, and yet very near,

and timidly loving. Maggie sat perfectly still perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes until the helpless

`The man is waiting he has taken the cushions,' she said. `Will you go and tell him?'

`What shall I tell him?' said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was looking at the lips now.

`Let us go,' Stephen murmured, entreatingly, rising, and taking her hand to raise her too. `We shall not be

And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden among the roses, being helped with firm

tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol opened for her

(which she had forgotten) all by this stronger presence that seemed to bear her along without any act of her

own will, like the added self which comes with the sudden exalting influence of a strong tonic and she felt

They glided rapidly along, to Stephen's rowing, helped by the backwardflowing tide, past the Tofton trees

and houses on between the silent, sunny fields and pastures which seemed filled with a natural joy that had

no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the

fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now and then as if it were only the overflowing of brimfull

gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold consciousness that was mingled into one by that grave untiring gaze

which need not be averted what else could there be in their minds for the first hour? Some low, subdued,

languid exclamation of love came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half

automatically: otherwise, they spoke no word; for what could words have been, but an inlet to thought? and

thought did not belong to that enchanted haze in which they were enveloped it belonged to the past and the

future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly conscious of the banks, as they passed them, and

dwelt with no recognition on the villages: she knew there were several to be passed before they reached

Luckreth, where they always stopped and left the boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absence, that

But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his

arms, and looked down on the water as if watching the pace at which the boat glided without his help. This

sudden change roused Maggie. She looked at the farstretching fields at the banks close by and felt that

`O, have we passed Luckreth where we were to stop?' she exclaimed, looking back, to see if the place were

out of sight. No village was to be seen. She turned round again, with a look of distressed questioning at

He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, absence tone, `Yes a long way.'

`O what shall I do?' cried Maggie, in an agony. `We shall not get home for hours and Lucy O God, help

She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child: she thought of nothing but of meeting

Lucy, and seeing her look of pained surprise and doubt perhaps of just upbraiding.

`Maggie,' he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, `let us never go home again till no one can part us till

The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's sob, and she sat quite still wondering: as if Stephen

might have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and annual the wretched facts.

`See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seeking in spite of all our efforts. We never thought of

being alone together again it has all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out away from

all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make faster round us and trying in vain. It will carry

us on to Torby, and we can land there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York, and then to Scotland

and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other so that only death can part us. It is the only right

thing dearest it is the only way of escaping from this wretched entanglement. Everything has concurred to

point it out to us. We have contrived nothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves.'

Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened passing from her startled wonderment to the

yearning after that belief that the tide was doing it all that she might glide along with the swift, silent stream

and not struggle any more. But across that stealing influence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and

the sudden horror lest now at last the moment of fatal intoxication was close upon her, called up a feeling of

`Let me go!' she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free.

`You have wanted to deprive me of any choice. You knew we were come too far you have dared to take

advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me into such a position.'

Stung at this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort

of desperation at the difficulty Maggie's words had made present to him. If she would not consent to go on,

he must curse himself for the embarrassment he had led her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing:

the one thing worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he had acted unworthily towards her. At

`I didn't notice that we had passed Luckreth, till we had got to the next village and then it came into my

mind that we would go on. I can't justify it I ought to have told you. It is enough to make you hate me

since you don't love me well enough to make everything else indifferent to you as I do you. Shall I stop the

boat, and try to get you out here? I'll tell Lucy that I was mad and that you hate me and you shall be clear

of me for ever. No one can blame you, because I have behaved unpardonably to you.'

Maggie was paralysed: it was easier to resist Stephen's pleading, than this picture he had called up of himself

suffering, while she was vindicated easier even to turn away from his look of tenderness than from this look

of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfish isolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in

which the reasons which had acted on her conscience seemed to be transmuted into mere selfregard. The

indignant fire in her eyes was quenched and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had

reproached him for being hurried into irrevocable trespass she, who had been so weak herself.

`As if I shouldn't feel what happened to you just the same' she said, with reproach of another kind the

reproach of love, asking for more trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen's suffering was more fatal than

the other yielding, because it was less distinguishable from that sense of others' claims which was the moral

He felt all the relenting in her look and tone, it was heaven opening again. He moved to her side, and took

her hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the boat, and said nothing. He dreaded to utter another word he

dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke another reproach or denial from her. Life hung on

her consent everything else was hopeless, confused, sickening misery. They glided along in this way, both

resting in that silence as in a haven both dreading lest their feelings should be divided again, till they

became aware that the clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible freshening of the breeze was

`You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant,

Maggie obeyed: there was an unspeakable charm in being told what to do, and having everything decided for

her. She sat down again, covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to his oars again, making haste; for they

must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly conscious of having said or done anything

decisive. All yielding is attended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance it is the partial sleep of

thought it is the submergence of our own personality by another. Every influence tended to lull her into

acquiescence: that dreamy gliding in the boat, which had lasted for four hours and had brought some

weariness and exhaustion the recoil of her fatigued sensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting

out of the boat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long miles all helped to bring her into

more complete subjection to that strong mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephen seem the

death of all joy which made the thought of wounding him like the first touch of the torturing iron before

which resolution shrank. And then, there was the present happiness of being with him, which was enough to

Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming after them. Several vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport,

had passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked more and more

eagerly at this vessel as if a new thought had come into his mind along with it and then he looked at Maggie,

`Maggie, dearest,' he said, at last, `if this vessel should be going to Mudport or to any convenient place on the

coast northward, it would be our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued and it may

soon rain it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby in this boat. It's only a trading vessel, but I dare

say you can be made tolerably comfortable. We'll take the cushions out of the boat. It is really our best plan.

They'll be glad enough to take us I've got plenty of money about me I can pay them well.'

Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this new proposition; but she was silent one course

Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel: going to Mudport, the English mate informed him, and if

`We had got out too far with our boat,' said Stephen. `I was trying to make for Torby. But I'm afraid of the

weather; and this lady my wife will be exhausted with fatigue and hunger. Take us on board, will you,

Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken on board, making an interesting object of

contemplation to admiring Dutchmen. The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, for

they had no accommodation for such entirely unlookedfor passengers no private cabin larger than an

oldfashioned churchpew. But at least they had Dutch cleanliness, which makes all other inconveniences

tolerable; and the boatcushions were spread into a couch for Maggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to

pace up and down the deck leaning on Stephen being upheld by his strength was the first change that she

needed: then came food and then quiet reclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new resolution

could be taken that day. Everything must wait till tomorrow. Stephen sat beside her, with her hand in his;

they could only speak to each other in low tones, only look at each other now and then, for it would take a

long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on board, and reduce these handsome young strangers to that

minor degree of interest which belongs in a sailor's regard, to all objects nearer than the horizon. But Stephen

was triumphantly happy. Every other thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certainty

that Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now: he had been tortured by scruples, he had fought

fiercely with overmastering inclination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. He murmured forth

in fragmentary sentences his happiness his adoration his tenderness his belief that their life together

must be heaven that her presence with him would give rapture to every common day that to satisfy her

lightest wish was dearer to him than all other bliss that everything was easy for her sake except to part with

her: and now they never would part; he would belong to her for ever and all that was his was hers had no

value for him except as it was hers. Such things, uttered in low broken tones by the one voice that has first

stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feeble effect on experienced minds at a distance from them.

To poor Maggie they were very near: they were like nectar held close to thirsty lips: there was, there must be,

then, a life for mortals here below which was not hard and chill in which affection would no longer be

selfsacrifice. Stephen's passionate words made the vision of such a life more fully present to her than it had

ever been before; and the vision for the time excluded all realities all except the returning sungleams

which broke out on the waters as the evening approached, and mingled with the visionary sunlight of

promised happiness all except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the eyes that

There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to the horizon again, making the great purple rampart,

and long purple isles of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goes down the land that

the evening star watches over. Maggie was to sleep all night on the poop it was better than going below

and she was covered with the warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It was still early, when the fatigues

of the day brought on a drowsy longing for perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint dying

flush in the west where the one golden lamp was getting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at

Stephen, who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against the vessel's side. Behind

all the delicious visions of these last hours which had flowed over her like a soft stream and made her entirely

passive, there was the dim consciousness that the condition was a transient one, and that the morrow must

bring back the old life of struggle that there were thoughts which would presently avenge themselves for

this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her: she was being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still

flowing over her, with those delicious visions melting and fading like the wondrous a�rial land of the west.

WHEN Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with his unaccustomed amount of rowing and with the

intense inward life of the last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged about the deck, with

his cigar, far on into midnight, not seeing the dark water hardly conscious there were stars living only in

the near and distant future. At last fatigue conquered restlessness, and he rolled himself up in a piece of

tarpauling on the deck near Maggie's feet. She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for six

hours before the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak was discernible. She awoke from that vivid dreaming

which makes the margin of our deeper rest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and in the

gathering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grew till they saw it was the Virgin seated in

St Ogg's boat, and it came nearer and nearer till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the boatman was Philip

no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past without looking at her; and she rose to stretch out her arms

and call to him, and their own boat turned over with the movement and they began to sink, till with one

spasm of dread she seemed to awake and find she was a child again in the parlour at evening twilight, and

Tom was not really angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passed to the real waking, to the

plash of water against the vessel, and the sound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There was

a moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangled from the confused web of dreams;

but soon the whole terrible truth urged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now: she was alone with her

own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blot her life had been committed she had

brought sorrow into the lives of others into the lives that were knit up with hers by trust and love. The

feeling of a few short weeks had hurried her into the sins her nature had most recoiled from breach of faith

and cruel selfishness; she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had made herself an outlawed

soul with no guide but the wayward choice of her own passion. And where would that lead her? where had

it led her now? She had said she would rather die than fall into that temptation. She felt it now now that the

consequences of such a fall had come before the outward act was completed. There was at least this fruit

from all her years of striving after the highest and best that her soul, though betrayed, beguiled, ensnared,

could never deliberately consent to a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God not a choice of joy

but of conscious cruelty and hardness; for could she ever cease to see before her Lucy and Philip with their

murdered trust and hopes? Her life with Stephen could have no sacredness: she must for ever sink and

wander vaguely, driven by uncertain impulse; for she had let go the clue of life that clue which once in the

far off years her young need had clutched so strongly. She had renounced all delights then, before she knew

them, before they had come within her reach: Philip had been right when he told her that she knew nothing of

renunciation: she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face to face now that sad patient living

strength which holds the clue of life, and saw that the thorns were for ever pressing on its brow. That

yesterday which could never be revoked if she could exchange it now for any length of inward silent

Daybreak came and the reddening eastern light while her past life was grasping her in this way, with that

tightening clutch which comes in the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen now lying on

the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him there came a wave of anguish that found its way in a

longsuppressed sob. The worst bitterness of parting the thought that urged the sharpest inward cry for help

was the pain it must give to him. But surmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, the

dread lest her conscience should be benumbed again and not rise to energy till it was too late. Too late! It

was too late now, not to have caused misery too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush away from the last

The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sense that a day of resistance was beginning for her.

Her eyelashes were still wet with tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at the

slowlyrounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and, getting up from his hard bed, he came to sit beside

her. The sharp instinct of anxious love saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He had a

hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature that he would be unable to overcome. He had the

uneasy consciousness that he had robbed her of perfect freedom yesterday: there was too much native honour

in him, for him not to feel that if her will should recoil, his conduct would have been odious, and she would

But Maggie did not feel that right: she was too conscious of fatal weakness in herself too full of the

tenderness that comes with the foreseen need for inflicting a wound. She let him take her hand when he came

to sit down beside her, and smiled at him only with rather a sad glance: she could say nothing to pain him

till the moment of possible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee together, and walked

about the deck, and heard the captain's assurance that they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with

an inward burthen but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to the coming hours to dissipate

in her it was a definite resolve on which she was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was continually,

through the morning, expressing his anxiety at the fatigue and discomfort she was suffering, and alluded to

landing and to the change of motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure himself more

completely by presupposing that everything would be as he had arranged it. For a long while Maggie

contented herself with assuring him that she had had a good night's rest, and that she didn't mind about being

on the vessel it was not like being on the open sea it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on

the Floss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, and Stephen became more and more uneasy

as the day advanced, under the sense that Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but did not

dare, to speak of their marriage of where they would go after it, and the steps he would take to inform his

father, and the rest, of what had happened. He longed to assure himself of a tacit assent from her. But each

time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread of the new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes.

`Here we are in sight of Mudport,' he said, at last. `Now, dearest,' he added, turning towards her with a look

that was half beseeching, `the worst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we can command swiftness. In

another hour and a half we shall be in a chaise together and that will seem rest to you after this.'

Maggie felt it was time to speak it would only be unkind now to assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest

It was as he had dreaded there was a struggle coming. But neither of them dared to say another word, till

the boat was let down, and they were taken to the landing place. Here there was a cluster of gazers and

passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St Ogg's. Maggie had a dim sense, when she had

landed, and Stephen was hurrying her along on his arm, that some one had advanced towards her from that

cluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But she was hurried along, and was indifferent to everything but

A porter guided them to the nearest inn and postinghouse, and Stephen gave the order for the chaise as they

passed through the yard. Maggie took no notice of this, and only said, `Ask them to show us into a room

When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose face had a desperate determination in it,

`Maggie,' he said, turning round towards her, and speaking in the tones of a man who feels a process of

torture beginning, `Do you mean to kill me? What is the use of it now? The whole thing is done.'

`No, it is not done,' said Maggie `Too much is done more than we can ever remove the trace of. But I will

go no farther. Don't try to prevail with me again. I couldn't choose yesterday.'

What was he to do? He dared not go near her her anger might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked

`Maggie,' he said, at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a tone of imploring wretchedness, `Have some

pity hear me forgive me for what I did yesterday. I will obey you now I will do nothing without your

full consent. But don't blight our lives for ever by a rash perversity that can answer no good purpose to any

one that can only create new evils. Sit down, dearest wait think what you are going to do. Don't treat

He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggie's will was fixed unswervingly on the coming wrench.

`We must not wait,' she said, in a low but distinct voice. `We must part at once.'

`We can't part, Maggie,' said Stephen, more impetuously. `I can't bear it. What is the use of inflicting that

misery on me? The blow whatever it may have been has been struck now. Will it help any one else that

`I will not begin any future, even for you,' said Maggie, tremulously, `with a deliberate consent to what ought

not to have been. What I told you at Basset I feel now: I would rather have died than fall into this

temptation. It would have been better if we had parted for ever then. But we must part now.'

`We will not part,' Stephen burst out, instinctively placing his back against the door forgetting everything

he had said a few moments before. `I will not endure it. You'll make me desperate I shan't know what I do.'

Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effected suddenly. She must rely on a slower appeal to

Stephen's better self she must be prepared for a harder task than that of rushing away while resolution was

fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watching her with that look of desperation which had come over him like a

lurid light, approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her and grasped her hand. Her heart

beat like the heart of a frightened bird; but this direct opposition helped her she felt her determination

`Remember what you felt weeks ago,' she began, with beseeching earnestness `remember what we both felt

that we owed ourselves to others, and must conquer every inclination which could make us false to that

`No, it does not remain the same,' said Stephen. `We have proved that it was impossible to keep our

resolutions. We have proved that the feeling which draws us towards each other is too strong to be overcome.

`It is not so, Stephen I'm quite sure that is wrong. I have tried to think it again and again but I see, if we

judged in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty we should justify breaking the

most sacred ties that can ever be formed on earth. If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should

`But there are ties that can't be kept by mere resolution,' said Stephen, starting up and walking about again.

`What is outward faithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow as constancy without

Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward as well as an outward contest. At last she

said, with a passionate assertion of her conviction as much against herself as against him,

`That seems right at first but when I look further, I'm sure it is not right. Faithfulness and constancy mean

something else besides doing what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They mean renouncing whatever is

opposed to the reliance others have in us whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our

lives has made dependent on us. If we if I had been better, nobler those claims would have been so

strongly present with me, I should have felt them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now in

the moments when my conscience is awake that the opposite feeling would never have grown in me, as it

has done it would have been quenched at once I should have prayed for help so earnestly I should have

rushed away, as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for myself none I should never have failed

towards Lucy and Philip as I have done, if I had not been week and selfish and hard able to think of their

pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all temptation. O, what is Lucy feeling now? She

`I can't think of her,' said Stephen, stamping as if with pain. `I can think of nothing but you. Maggie, you

demand of a man what is impossible. I felt that once but I can't go back to it now. And where is the use of

your thinking of it, except to torture me? You can't save them from pain now you can only tear yourself

from me, and make my life worthless to me. And even if we could go back and both fulfil our engagements

if that were possible now it would be hateful horrible to think of your ever being Philip's wife of your

ever being the wife of a man you didn't love. We have both been rescued from a mistake.'

A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't speak. Stephen saw this. He sat down again, taking

`Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who can have so great a claim on you as I have? My life is

bound up in your love. There is nothing in the past that can annul our right to each other it is the first time

Maggie was still silent for a little while looking down. Stephen was in a flutter of new hope he was going

to triumph. But she raised her eyes and met his with a glance that was filled with the anguish of regret not

`No not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen,' she said, with timid resolution, `I have never consented to

it with my whole mind. There are memories, and affections, and longing after perfect goodness, that have

such a strong hold on me they would never quit me for long they would come back and be pain to me

repentance. I couldn't live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. I have caused

sorrow already I know I feel it but I have never deliberately consented to it I have never said, "They

shall suffer, that I may have joy." It has never been my will to marry you if you were to win consent from

the momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not have my whole soul. If I could wake back again

into the time before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmer affections and live without the joy of

Stephen loosed her hand and, rising impatiently, walked up and down the room in suppressed rage.

`Good God!' he burst out, at last, `what a miserable thing a woman's love is to a man's. I could commit crimes

for you and you can balance and choose in that way. But you don't love me if you had a tithe of the

feeling for me that I have for you, it would be impossible to you to think for a moment of sacrificing me.

Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as she held them clasped on her lap. A great terror

was upon her as if she were ever and anon seeing where she stood by great flashes of lightning, and then

`No I don't sacrifice you I couldn't sacrifice you,' she said, as soon as she could speak again, `but I can't

believe in a good for you, that I feel that we both feel is a wrong towards others. We can't choose happiness

either for ourselves or for another we can't tell where that will lie. We can only choose whether we will

indulge ourselves in the present moment or whether we will renounce that for the sake of obeying the divine

voice within us for the sake of being true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know that belief is hard

it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have felt that if I let it go for ever, I should have no light

`But Maggie,' said Stephen, seating himself by her again, `Is it possible you don't see that what happened

yesterday has altered the whole position of things? What infatuation is it what obstinate prepossession that

blinds you to that? It is too late to say what we might have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting

the very worst view of what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now our position is altered the right

course is no longer what it was before. We must accept our own actions and start afresh from them. Suppose

we had been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effect on others would not have been

different. It would only have made this difference to ourselves' Stephen added bitterly, `that you might have

Again a deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she was silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning

to prevail he had never yet believed that he should not prevail: there are possibilities which our minds

`Dearest,' he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning towards her and putting his arm round her, `you are

mine now the world believes it duty must spring out of that now in a few hours you will be legally

mine. And those who had claims on us will submit they will see that there was a force which declared

Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face that was close to hers, and she started up pale

`O I can't do it' she said, in a voice almost of agony `Stephen don't ask me don't urge me. I can't argue

any longer I don't know what is wise but my heart will not let me do it. I see I feel their trouble now: it

is as if it were branded on my mind. I have suffered and have no one to pity me and now I have made

others suffer. It would never leave me it would embitter your love to me I do care for Philip in a

different way I remember all we said to each other I know how he thought of me as the one promise of

his life. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard and I have forsaken him. And Lucy she

has been deceived she who trusted me more than any one. I cannot marry you I cannot take a good for

myself that has been wrung out of their misery. It is not the force that ought to rule us this that we feel for

each other it would rend me away from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I can't set out on

a fresh life, and forget that I must go back to it, and cling to it, else I shall feel as if there were nothing

`Good God, Maggie!' said Stephen, rising too and grasping her arm, `You rave. How can you go back without

marrying me? You don't know what will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is.'

`Yes, I do. But they will believe me I will confess everything Lucy will believe me she will forgive

you. And and O, some good will come by clinging to the right. Dear dear Stephen let me go! don't

drag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never consented it does not consent now.'

Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half stunned by despairing rage. He was silent a few

moments, not looking at her while her eyes were turned towards him yearningly, in alarm at this sudden

Involuntarily she leaned towards him and put out her hand to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been

Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away from that gloomy averted face and walked out

of the room: it was like an automatic action that fulfils a forgotten intention. What came after? A sense of

stairs descended as if in a dream of flagstones of a chaise and horses standing then a street, and a

turning into another street where a stagecoach was standing, taking in passengers and the darting thought

that that coach would take her away, perhaps towards home. But she could ask nothing yet: she only got into

Home where her mother and brother were Philip Lucy the scene of her very cares and trials was the

haven towards which her mind tended the sanctuary where sacred relics lay where she would be rescued

from more falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing pain which yet, as such pains do,

seemed to urge all other thoughts into activity. But among her thoughts, what others would say and think of

her conduct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorseful anguish left no room for that.

The coach was taking her to York farther away from home, but she did not learn that until she was set

down in the old city at midnight. It was no matter: she could sleep there, and start home the next day. She had

her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it a banknote and a sovereign: she had kept it in her pocket

Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that night with her will bent unwaveringly on the path

of penitent sacrifice? The great struggles of life are not so easy as that the great problems of life are not

so clear. In the darkness of that night she saw Stephen's face turned towards her in passionate, reproachful

misery She lived through again all the tremulous delights of his presence with her that made existence an

easy floating in a stream of joy instead of a quiet resolved endurance and effort: the love she had renounced

came back upon her with a cruel charm she felt herself opening her arms to receive it once more and then it

seemed to slip away and fade and vanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice that said,

BETWEEN four and five o'clock on the afternoon of the fifth day from that on which Stephen and Maggie

had left St Ogg's, Tom Tulliver was standing on the gravel walk outside the old house at Dorlcote Mill. He

was master there now: he had half fulfilled his father's dying wish, and by years of steady selfgovernment

and energetic work he had brought himself near to the attainment of more than the old respectability which

had been the proud inheritance of the Dodsons and Tullivers. But Tom's face, as he stood in the hot still

sunshine of that summer afternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His mouth wore its bitterest expression,

his severe brow its hardest and deepest fold, as he drew down his hat farther over his eyes to shelter them

from the sun, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, began to walk up and down the gravel. No news

of his sister had been heard since Bob Jakin had come back in the steamer from Mudport and put an end to all

improbable suppositions of an accident on the water by stating that he had seen her land from a vessel with

Mr Stephen Guest. Would the next news be that she was married or what? Probably that she was not

married: Tom's mind was set to the expectation of the worst that could happen not death, but disgrace.

As he was walking with his back towards the entrance gate, and his face towards the rushing millstream, a

tall darkeyed figure, that we know well, approached the gate, and paused to look at him, with a fastbeating

heart. Her brother was the human being of whom she had been most afraid, from her childhood upwards

afraid with that fear which springs in us when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable

with a mind that we can never mould ourselves upon, and yet that we cannot endure to alienate from us. That

deeprooted fear was shaking Maggie now: but her mind was unswervingly bent on returning to her brother,

as the natural refuge that had been given her. In her deep humiliation under the retrospect of her own

weakness in her anguish at the injury she had inflicted she almost desired to endure the severity of Tom's

reproof, to submit in patient silence to that harsh disapproving judgment against which she had so often

rebelled: it seemed no more than just to her now who was weaker than she was? She craved that outward

help to her better purpose which would come from complete, submissive confession from being in the

presence of those whose looks and words would be a reflection of her own conscience.

Maggie had been kept on her bed at York for a day with that prostrating headache which was likely to follow

on the terrible strain of the previous day and night. There was an expression of physical pain still about her

brow and eyes, and her whole appearance, with her dress so long unchanged, was worn and distressed. She

lifted the latch of the gate and walked in slowly. Tom did not hear the gate he was just then close upon

the roaring dam; but he presently turned, and lifting up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and

loneliness seemed to him a confirmation of his worst conjectures. He paused trembling and white with

Maggie paused too three yards before him. She felt the hatred in his face felt it rushing through her fibres:

`Tom' she began, faintly, `I am come back to you I am come back home for refuge to tell you

`You will find no home with me,' he answered with tremulous rage. `You have disgraced us all you have

disgraced my father's name. You have been a curse to your best friends. You have been base deceitful no

motives are strong enough to restrain you. I wash my hands of you for ever. You don't belong to me.'

Their mother had come to the door now. She stood paralysed by the double shock of seeing Maggie and

`Tom,' said Maggie, with more courage, `I am perhaps not so guilty as you believe me to be. I never meant to

give way to my feelings. I struggled against them. I was carried too far in the boat to come back on Tuesday.

`I can't believe in you any more,' said Tom, gradually passing from the tremulous excitement of the first

moment to cold inflexibility. `You have been carrying on a clandestine relation with Stephen Guest as you

did before with another. He went to see you at my aunt Moss's; you walked alone with him in the lanes: you

must have behaved as no modest girl would have done to her cousin's lover, else that could never have

happened. The people at Luckreth saw you pass you passed all the other places: you knew what you were

doing. You have been using Philip Wakem as a screen to deceive Lucy the kindest friend you ever had. Go

and see the return you have made her: she's ill unable to speak my mother can't go near her, lest she

Maggie was half stunned: too heavily pressed upon by her anguish even to discern any difference between

`Tom,' she said, crushing her hands together under her cloak, in the effort to speak again `Whatever I have

done I repent it bitterly I want to make amends I will endure anything I want to be kept from doing

`What will keep you?' said Tom, with cruel bitterness. `Not religion not your natural feelings of gratitude

and honour. And he he would deserve to be shot, if it were not But you are ten times worse than he is. I

loathe your character and your conduct. You struggled with your feelings, you say. Yes! I have had feelings

to struggle with but I conquered them. I have had a harder life than you have had; but I have found my

comfort in doing my duty. But I will sanction no such character as yours: the world shall know that I feel the

difference between right and wrong. If you are in want, I will provide for you let my mother know. But you

shall not come under my roof. It is enough that I have to bear the thought of your disgrace the sight of you

Slowly Maggie was turning away, with despair in her heart. But the poor frightened mother's move leaped

O the sweet rest of that embrace to the heartstricken Maggie! More helpful than all wisdom is one draught

`Come in, my child,' Mrs Tulliver whispered. `He'll let you stay and sleep in my bed. He won't deny that, if I

When his mother appeared with her bonnet on, Tom came out to her in the passage, and put money into her

`My house is yours, mother, always,' he said. `You will come and let me know everything you want you

Poor Mrs Tulliver took the money, too frightened to say anything. She had only clear to her the mother's

Maggie was waiting outside the gate; she took her mother's hand, and they walked a little way in silence.

`Mother,' said Maggie, at last, `we will go to Luke's cottage Luke will take me in. He was very good to me

`He's got no room for us, my dear, now; his wife's got so many children. I don't know where to go, if it isn't to

one o' your aunts and I hardly durst,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, quite destitute of mental resources in this

`Let us go to Bob Jakin's, mother: his wife will have room for us, if they have no other lodger.'

Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a

two months' old baby quite the liveliest of its age that had ever been born to prince or packman. He would

perhaps not so thoroughly have understood all the dubiousness of Maggie's appearance with Mr Stephen

Guest on the quay at Mudport, if he had not witnessed the effect it produced on Tom, when he went to report

it; and since then, the circumstances which in any case gave a disastrous character to her elopement, had

passed beyond the more polite circles of St Ogg's and had become matter of common talk, accessible to the

grooms and errand boys. So that when he opened the door and saw Maggie standing before him in her sorrow

and weariness, he had no questions to ask: except one, which he dared only ask himself where was Mr

Stephen Guest? Bob, for his part, hoped he might be in the warmest department of an asylum understood to

exist in the other world for gentlemen who are likely to be in fallen circumstances there. The lodgings were

vacant, and both Mrs Jakin the larger and Mrs Jakin the less were commanded to make all thing comfortable

for `the old Missis and the young Miss' alas! that she was still `Miss.' The ingenious Bob was sorely

perplexed as to how this result could have come about how Mr Stephen Guest could have gone away from

her, or could have let her go away from him when he had the chance of keeping her with him. But he was

silent, and would not allow his wife to ask him a question; would not present himself in the room, lest it

should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry; having the same chivalry towards darkeyed Maggie, as in the

But after a day or two Mrs Tulliver was gone to the Mill again for a few hours to see to Tom's household

matters. Maggie had wished this: after the first violent outburst of feeling which came as soon as she had no

longer any active purpose to fulfil, she was less in need of her mother's presence; she even desired to be alone

with her grief. But she had been solitary only a little while in the old sittingroom that looked on the river,

when there came a tap at the door, and turning round her sad face as she said, `Come in,' she saw Bob enter

`You see, we've got a little 'un, Miss, an' I wanted you to look at it, an' take it in your arms, if you'd be so

good. For we made free to name it after you, an' it 'ud be better for your takin' a bit o' notice on it.'

Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive the tiny baby, while Mumps snuffed at it

anxiously to ascertain that this transference was all right. Maggie's heart had swelled at this action and speech

of Bob's: she knew well enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy and respect.

`Sit down, Bob,' she said presently, and he sat down in silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a

`Bob,' she said, after a few moments, looking down at the baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it

`Don't you speak so, Miss,' said Bob, grasping the skin of Mumps's neck, `if there's anything I can do for you,

`I want you to go to Dr Kenn's, and ask to speak to him, and tell him that I am here, and should be very

grateful if he would come to me while my mother is away. She will not come back till evening.'

`Eh, Miss I'd do it in a minute it is but a step; but Dr Kenn's wife lies dead she's to be buried tomorrow

died the day I come from Mudport. It's all the more pity she should ha' died just now, if you want him. I

`O, no, Bob,' said Maggie, `we must let it be till after a few days, perhaps when you hear that he is going

about again. But perhaps he may be going out of town to a distance,' she added, with a new sense of

`Not he, Miss,' said Bob. `He'll none go away. He isn't one o' them gentlefolks as go to cry at waterin' places

when their wives die: he's got summat else to do. He looks fine an' sharp after the parish he does. He

christened the little 'un; an' he was at me to know what I did of a Sunday, as I didn't come to church. But I

told him I was upo' the travel three parts o' the Sundays An' then I'm so used to bein' on my legs, I can't sit

so long on end "an' lors, sir," says I, "a packman can do wi' a small 'lowance o' church: it tastes strong,"

says I; "there's no call to lay it on thick." Eh, Miss, how good the little un is wi' you! It's like as if it knowed

Bob's tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted bondage, and might even be in danger of doing

more work than was required of it. But the subjects on which he longed to be informed were so steep and

difficult of approach that his tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to carry him on that

unbeaten road. He felt this, and was silent again for a little while, ruminating much on the possible forms in

which he might put a question. At last he said, in a more timid voice than usual,

Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, `Yes, Bob, if it is about myself not about any one else.'

`O lors, Miss,' said Bob, pinching Mumps's neck harder than ever, `I wish you did an' 'ud tell me I'd

leather him till I couldn't see I would an' the Justice might do what he liked to me arter.'

`O Bob,' said Maggie, smiling faintly. `You're a very good friend to me. But I shouldn't like to punish any

This view of things was puzzling to Bob and threw more obscurity than ever over what could possibly have

happened between Stephen and Maggie. But further questions would have been too intrusive, even if he

could have framed them suitably, and he was obliged to carry baby away again to an expectant mother.

`Happen you'd like Mumps for company, Miss,' he said, when he had taken the baby again. `He's rare

company Mumps is he knows iverything, an' makes no bother about it. If I tell him, he'll lie before you

an' watch you as still just as he watches my pack. You'd better let me leave him a bit he'll get fond on

you. Lors, it's a fine thing to hev a dumb brute fond on you; it'll stick to you, an' make no jaw.'

`Yes, do leave him, please,' said Maggie. `I think I should like to have Mumps for a friend.'

`Mumps, lie down there,' said Bob, pointing to a place in front of Maggie, `an' niver do you stir till you're

Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness, when his master left the room.

IT was soon known throughout St Ogg's that Miss Tulliver was come back: she had not, then, eloped in order

to be married to Mr Stephen Guest at all events, Mr Stephen Guest had not married her which came to the

same thing, so far as her culpability was concerned. We judge others according to results; how else? not

knowing the process by which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few months of wellchosen

travel, had returned as Mrs Stephen Guest with a postmarital trousseau and all the advantages possessed

even by the most unwelcome wife of an only son, public opinion, which at St Ogg's, as elsewhere, always

knew what to think, would have judged in strict consistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases,

is always of the feminine gender not the world, but the world's wife: and she would have seen, that two

handsome young people the gentleman of quite the first family in St Ogg's having found themselves in a

false position, had been led into a course, which, to say the least of it, was highly injudicious, and productive

of sad pain and disappointment, especially to that sweet young thing, Miss Deane. Mr Stephen Guest had

certainly not behaved well; but then, young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attachments and bad

as it might seem in Mrs Stephen Guest to admit the faintest advances from her cousin's lover (indeed it had

been said that she was actually engaged to young Wakem old Wakem himself had mentioned it) still she

was very young `and a deformed young man, you know! and young Guest so very fascinating, and, they

say, he positively worshipped her (to be sure, that can't last!) and he ran away with her in the boat quite

against her will and what could she do? She couldn't come back then: no one would have spoken to her.

And how very well that maizecoloured satinette becomes her complexion it seems as if the folds in front

were quite come in several of her dresses are made so they say, he thinks nothing too handsome to buy

for her. Poor Miss Deane! She is very pitiable but then, there was no positive engagement and the air at

the coast will do her good. After all, if young Guest felt no more for her than that, it was better for her not to

marry him. What a wonderful marriage for a girl like Miss Tulliver quite romantic! Why young Guest

will put up for the borough at the next election. Nothing like commerce nowadays! That young Wakem

nearly went out of his mind he always was rather queer; but he's gone abroad again to be out of the way

quite the best thing for a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares she will never visit Mr and Mrs Stephen

Guest such nonsense! pretending to be better than other people. Society couldn't be carried on if we

inquired into private conduct in that way and Christianity tells us to think no evil and my belief is, that

Miss Unit had no cards sent her.' But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant this extenuation of

the past. Maggie had returned without a trousseau, without a husband in that degraded and outcast

condition to which error is well known to lead; and the world's wife, with that fine instinct which is given her

for the preservation of society, saw at once that Miss Tulliver's conduct had been of the most aggravated

kind. Could anything be more detestable? A girl so much indebted to her friends whose mother as well as

herself had received so much kindness from the Deanes to lay the design of winning a young man's

affections away from her own cousin who had behaved like a sister to her? Winning his affections? That was

not the phrase for such a girl as Miss Tulliver: it would have been more correct to say that she had been

actuated by mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. There was always something questionable

about her. That connection with young Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on for years, looked very

ill: disgusting, in fact! But with a girl of that disposition! to the world's wife there had always been

something in Miss Tulliver's very physique that a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm. As for poor Mr

Stephen Guest, he was rather pitiable than otherwise: a young man of five and twenty is not to be too severely

judged in these cases he is really very much at the mercy of a designing bold girl. And it was clear that he

had given way in spite of himself he had shaken her off as soon as he could: indeed, their having parted so

soon looked very black indeed for her. To be sure he had written a letter, laying all the blame on himself,

and telling the story in a romantic fashion so as to try and make her appear quite innocent: of course he could

do that! But the refined instinct of the world's wife was not to be deceived: providentially! else what would

become of society? Why her own brother had turned her from his door he had seen enough, you might be

sure, before he would do that. A truly respectable young man Mr Tom Tulliver quite likely to rise in the

world! His sister's disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It was to be hoped that she would go out of

the neighbourhood to America, or anywhere so as to purify the air of St Ogg's from the taint of her

presence extremely dangerous to daughters there! No good could happen to her: it was only to be hoped

she would repent, and that God would have mercy on her: He had not the care of society on His hands as the

It required nearly a fortnight for fine instinct to assure itself of these inspirations; indeed it was a whole week

before Stephen's letter came, telling his father the facts and adding that: he was gone across to Holland had

drawn upon the agent at Mudport for money was incapable of any resolution at present.

Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a more agonising anxiety, to spend any thought on the

view that was being taken of her conduct by the world of St Ogg's: anxiety about Stephen Lucy Philip

beat on her poor heart in a hard, driving, ceaseless storm of mingled love, remorse, and pity. If she had

thought of rejection and injustice at all, it would have seemed to her that they had done their worst that she

could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerable since the words she had heard from her brother's lips.

Across all her anxiety for the loved and the injured, those words shot again and again, like a horrible pang

that would have brought misery and dread even into a heaven of delights. The idea of ever recovering

happiness never glimmered in her mind for a moment; it seemed as if every sensitive fibre in her were too

entirely preoccupied by pain ever to vibrate again to another influence. Life stretched before her as one act of

penitence, and all she craved as she dwelt on her future lot, was something to guarantee her from more

falling: her own weakness haunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities that made no peace conceivable

But she was not without practical intentions: the love of independence was too strong an inheritance and a

habit for her not to remember that she must get her bread and when other projects looked vague, she fell back

on that of returning to her plain sewing, and so getting enough to pay for her lodging at Bob's. She meant to

persuade her mother to return to the Mill by and by, and live with Tom again; and somehow or other she

would maintain herself at St Ogg's. Dr Kenn would perhaps help her and advise her: she remembered his

parting words at the bazaar, she remembered the momentary feeling of reliance that had sprung in her when

he was talking with her, and she waited with yearning expectation for the opportunity of confiding everything

to him. Her mother called every day at Mr Deane's to learn how Lucy was: the report was always sad

nothing had yet roused her from the feeble passivity which had come on with the first shock. But of Philip,

Mrs Tulliver had learned nothing: naturally, no one whom she met would speak to her about what related to

her daughter. But at last, she summoned courage to go and see sister Glegg, who of course would know

everything, and had even been to see Tom at the Mill in Mrs Tulliver's absence, though he had said nothing

As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bonnet. She had resolved on walking to the Rectory and

asking to see Dr Kenn: he was in deep grief but the grief of another does not jar upon us in such

circumstances. It was the first time she had been beyond the door since her return; nevertheless her mind was

so bent on the purpose of her walk, that the unpleasantness of meeting people on the way and being stared at,

did not occur to her. But she had no sooner passed beyond the narrower streets which she had to thread from

Bob's dwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; and this consciousness made her hurry

along nervously, afraid to look to right or left. Presently, however, she came full on Mrs and Miss Turnbull,

old acquaintances of her family; they both looked at her strangely and turned a little aside without speaking.

All hard looks were pain to Maggie, but her selfreproach was too strong for resentment: no wonder they will

not speak to me, she thought they are very fond of Lucy. But now she knew that she was about to pass a

group of gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiardrooms, and she could not help seeing

young Torry step out a little with his glass at his eye, and bow to her with that air of nonchalance which he

might have bestowed on a friendly barmaid. Maggie's pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting

even in the midst of her sorrow; and for the first time the thought took strong hold of her that she would have

other obloquy cast on her besides that which was felt to be due to her breach of faith towards Lucy. But she

was at the Rectory now; there, perhaps, she would find something else than retribution. Retribution may

come from any voice the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted urchin at the streetcorner can inflict it: surely

She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr Kenn's study, where he sat amongst piledup

books, for which he had little appetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his youngest child, a girl of

three. The child was sent away with the servant and when the door was closed, Dr Kenn said, placing a chair

`I was coming to see you, Miss Tulliver you have anticipated me I am glad you did.'

Maggie looked at him with her childlike directness as she had done at the bazaar, and said, `I want to tell you

everything. ' But her eyes filled fast with tears as she said it, and all the pentup excitement of her

`Do tell me everything,' Dr Kenn said, with quiet kindness in his grave firm voice. `Think of me as one to

In rather broken sentences with some effort, at first, but soon with the greater ease that came from a sense

of relief in the confidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that must be the beginning of a long

sorrow. Only the day before, Dr Kenn had been made acquainted with the contents of Stephen's letter, and he

had believed them at once, without the confirmation of Maggie's statement. That involuntary plaint of hers `O

I must go,' had remained with him as the sign that she was undergoing some inward conflict.

Maggie dwelt the longest on the feeling which had made her come back to her mother and brother, which

made her cling to all the memories of the past. When she had ended, Dr Kenn was silent for some minutes:

there was a difficulty on his mind. He rose and walked up and down the hearth with his hands behind him. At

`Your prompting to go to your nearest friends to remain where all the ties of your life have been formed

is a true prompting, to which the Church in its original constitution and discipline responds opening its

arms to the penitent watching over its children to the last never abandoning them until they are hopelessly

reprobate. And the Church ought to represent the feeling of the community, so that every parish should be a

family knit together by Christian brotherhood under a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and

Christian fraternity are entirely relaxed they can hardly be said to exist in the public mind: they hardly

survive except in the partial, contradictory form they have taken in the narrow communities of schismatics;

and if I were not supported by the firm faith that the Church must ultimately recover the full force of that

constitution which is alone fitted to human needs, I should often lose heart at observing the want of

fellowship and sense of mutual responsibility among my own flock. At present everything seems tending

towards the relaxation of ties towards the substitution of wayward choice for the adherence to obligation

which has its roots in the past. Your conscience and your heart have given you true light on this point, Miss

Tulliver; and I have said all this that you may know what my wish about you what my advice to you

would be if they sprang from my own feeling and opinion unmodified by counteracting circumstances.'

Dr Kenn paused a little while. There was an entire absence of effusive benevolence in his manner; there was

something almost cold in the gravity of his look and voice. If Maggie had not known that his benevolence

was persevering in proportion to its reserve, she might have been chilled and frightened. As it was, she

listened expectantly, quite sure that there would be some effective help in his words. He went on.

`Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you from anticipating fully, the very unjust

conceptions that will probably be formed concerning your conduct conceptions which will have a baneful

`O, I do I begin to see,' said Maggie, unable to repress this utterance of her recent pain. `I know I shall be

`You perhaps do not yet know,' said Dr Kenn, with a touch of more personal pity, `that a letter is come which

ought to satisfy every one who has known anything of you, that you chose the steep and difficult path of a

`Oh where is he?' said poor Maggie, with a flush and tremor, that no presence could have hindered.

`He is gone abroad; he has written of all that passed to his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost; and I

hope the communication of that letter to your cousin will have a beneficial effect on her.'

`That letter, as I said, ought to suffice you to prevent false impressions concerning you. But I am bound to tell

you, Miss Tulliver, that not only the experience of my whole life, but my observation within the last three

days, makes me fear that there is hardly any evidence which will save you from the painful effect of false

imputations. The persons who are the most incapable of a conscientious struggle such as yours, are precisely

those who will be likely to shrink from you on the ground of an unjust judgment; because they will not

believe in your struggle. I fear your life here will be attended not only with much pain, but with many

obstructions. For this reason and for this only I ask you to consider whether it will not perhaps be better

for you to take a situation at a distance, according to your former intention. I will exert myself at once to

`O, if I could but stop here!' said Maggie. `I have no heart to begin a strange life again. I should have no stay.

I should feel like a lonely wanderer cut off from the past. I have written to the lady who offered me a

situation to excuse myself. If I remained here, I could perhaps atone in some way to Lucy to others I

could convince them that I'm sorry. And,' she added, with some of the old proud fire flashing out, `I will not

go away because people say false things of me. They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at last,

`Well,' said Dr Kenn, after some consideration, `if you determine on that, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all

the influence my position gives me. I am bound to aid and countenance you, by the very duties of my office

as a parish priest. I will add, that personally I have a deep interest in your peace of mind and welfare.'

`The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable me to get my bread and be independent,' said

`I must think over the subject maturely,' said Dr Kenn, `And in a few days I shall be better able to ascertain

the general feeling. I shall come to see you: I shall bear you constantly in mind.'

When Maggie had left him, Dr Kenn stood ruminating with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the

carpet, under a painful sense of doubt and difficulty. The tone of Stephen's letter, which he had read, and the

actual relations of all the persons concerned, forced upon him powerfully the idea of an ultimate marriage

between Stephen and Maggie as the least evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St Ogg's on any

other supposition, until after years of separation, threw an insurmountable prospective difficulty over

Maggie's stay here. On the other hand, he entered with all the comprehension of a man who had known

spiritual conflict and lived through years of devoted service to his fellowmen, into that state of Maggie's

heart and conscience which made this consent to the marriage a desecration to her: her conscience must not

be tampered with: the principle on which she had acted was a safer guide than any balancing of

consequences. His experience told him that intervention was too dubious a responsibility to be lightly

incurred: the possible issue either of an endeavour to restore the former relations with Lucy and Philip, or of

counselling submission to this irruption of a new feeling was hidden in a darkness all the more impenetrable

The great problem of the shifting relation between passion and duty is clear to no man who is capable of

apprehending it: the question, whether the moment has come in which a man has fallen below the possibility

of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion against which he had

struggled as a trespass, is one for which we have no master key that will fit all cases. The casuists have

become a byword of reproach; but their perverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth

to which eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed: the truth, that moral judgments must remain false and

hollow, unless they are checked and enlightened by a perpetual reference to the special circumstances that

All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance to the men of maxims; because such people

early discern that the mysterious complexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, and that to lace

ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress all the divine promptings and inspirations that spring from

growing insight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popular representative of the minds that are

guided in their moral judgment solely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justice by a

readymade patent method, without the trouble of exerting patience, discrimination, impartiality, without any

care to assure themselves whether they have the insight that comes from a hardlyearned estimate of

temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellowfeeling with all that is

WHEN Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her news of an unexpected line of conduct in aunt

Glegg. As long as Maggie had not been heard of, Mrs Glegg had half closed her shutters and drawn down her

blinds: she felt assured that Maggie was drowned: that was far more probable than that her niece and legatee

should have done anything to wound the family honour in the tenderest point. When, at last, she learned from

Tom that Maggie had come home, and gathered from him what was her explanation of her absence, she burst

forth in severe reproof of Tom for admitting the worst of his sister until he was compelled. If you were not to

stand by your `kin' as long as there was a shred of honour attributable to them, pray what were you to stand

by? Lightly to admit conduct in one of your own family that would force you to alter your will, had never

been the way of the Dodsons; and though Mrs Glegg had always augured ill of Maggie's future at a time

when other people were perhaps less clearsighted, yet fair play was a jewel, and it was not for her own

friend to help to rob the girl of her fair fame, and to cast her out from family shelter to the scorn of the outer

world, until she had become unequivocally a family disgrace. The circumstances were unprecedented in Mrs

Glegg's experience nothing of that kind had happened among the Dodsons before; but it was a case in

which her hereditary rectitude and personal strength of character found a common channel along with her

fundamental ideas of clanship, as they did in her lifelong regard to equity in money matters. She quarrelled

with Mr Glegg, whose kindness, flowing entirely into compassion for Lucy made him as hard in his judgment

of Maggie as Mr Deane himself was, and, fuming against her sister Tulliver because she did not at once come

to her for advice and help, shut herself up in her own room with Baxter's Saints' Rest from morning till night,

denying herself to all visitors, till Mr Glegg brought from Mr Deane the news of Stephen's letter. Then Mrs

Glegg felt that she had adequate fightingground then she laid aside Baxter and was ready to meet all

comers. While Mrs Pullet could do nothing but shake her head and cry, and wish that cousin Abbot had died

or any number of funerals had happened rather than this, which had never happened before, so that there was

no knowing how to act, and Mrs Pullet could never enter St Ogg's again, because `acquaintances' knew of it

all, Mrs Glegg only hoped that Mrs Wooll or any one else would come to her with their false tales about her

own niece, and she would know what to say to that illadvised person. Again she had a scene of

remonstrance with Tom, all the more severe, in proportion to the greater strength of her present position. But

Tom, like other immovable things, seemed only the more rigidly fixed under that attempt to shake him. Poor

Tom! he judged by what he had been able to see: and the judgment was painful enough to himself. He

thought he had the demonstration of facts observed through years by his own eyes which gave no warning of

their imperfection, that Maggie's nature was utterly untrustworthy and too strongly marked with evil

tendencies to be safely treated with leniency: he would act on that demonstration at any cost but the thought

of it made his days bitter to him. Tom, like every one of us, was imprisoned within the limits of his own

nature, and his education had simply glided over him, and left a slight deposit of polish. If you are inclined to

be severe on his severity, remember that the responsibility of tolerance lies with those who have the wider

vision. There had arisen in Tom a repulsion towards Maggie that derived its very intensity from their early

childish love in the time when they had clasped tiny fingers together, and their later sense of nearness in a

common duty and a common sorrow: the sight of her, as he had told her, was hateful to him. In this branch of

the Dodson family aunt Glegg found a stronger nature than her own a nature in which family feeling had

lost the character of clanship in taking on a doubly deep dye of personal pride. Mrs Glegg allowed that

Maggie ought to be punished she was not a woman to deny that she knew what conduct was but

punished in proportion to the misdeeds proved against her, not to those which were cast upon her by people

outside her own family, who might wish to show that their own kin were better. `Your aunt Glegg scolded me

so as niver was, my dear,' said poor Mrs Tulliver, when she came back to Maggie, `as I didn't go to her before

she said it wasn't for her to come to me first. But she spoke like a sister, too: having she allays was, and

hard to please O dear! but she's said the kindest word as ever been spoke by you yet, my child. For she

says, for all she's been so set again' having one extry in the house, and making extry spoons and things, and

putting her about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, if you'll go to her dutiful, and she'll

uphold you again' folks as say harm of you when they've no call. And I told her I thought you couldn't bear to

see nobody but me you was so beat down with trouble; but she said "I won't throw ill words at her

there's them out o' th' family 'ull be ready enough to do that. But I'll give her good advice an' she must be

humble." It's wonderful o' Jane for I'm sure she used to throw everything I did wrong at me if it was the

`O mother,' said poor Maggie, shrinking from the thought of all the contact her bruised mind would have to

bear. `Tell her I'm very grateful I'll go to see her as soon as I can; but I can't see any one just yet, except Dr

Kenn. I've been to him he will advise me and help me to get some occupation. I can't live with any one, or

be dependent on them, tell aunt Glegg; I must get my own bread. But did you hear nothing to Philip Philip

`No, my dear: but I've been to Lucy's, and I saw your uncle, and he says, they got her to listen to the letter,

and she took notice o' Miss Guest, and asked questions, and the doctor thinks she's on the turn to be better.

What a world this is what trouble, O dear! The law was the first beginning, an' it's gone from bad to worse

all of a sudden, just when the luck seemed on the turn.' This was the first lamentation that Mrs Tulliver had

let slip to Maggie, but old habit had been revived by the interview with sister Glegg.

`My poor, poor mother!' Maggie burst out, cut to the heart with pity and compunction, and throwing her arms

round her mother's neck, `I was always naughty and troublesome to you. And now you might have been

`Eh, my dear,' said Mrs Tulliver, leaning towards the warm young cheek, `I must put up wi' my children I

shall never have no more. And if they bring me bad luck, I must be fond on it there's nothing else much to

be fond on, for my furnitur' went long ago. And you'd got to be very good once I can't think how it's turned

Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard nothing of Philip: anxiety about him was becoming

her predominant trouble, and she summoned courage at last to inquire about him of Dr Kenn, on his next visit

to her. He did not even know if Philip was at home: the elder Wakem was made moody by an accumulation

of annoyance: the disappointment in this young Jetsome, to whom apparently he was a good deal attached,

had been followed close by the catastrophe to his son's hopes after he had conceded his feelings to them, and

incautiously mentioned this concession in St Ogg's; and he was almost fierce in his brusqueness when any

one asked him a question about his son. But Philip could hardly have been ill or it would have been known

through the callingin of the medical man: it was probable that he was gone out of the town for a little while.

Maggie sickened under this suspense, and her imagination began to live more and more persistently in what

At last, Bob brought her a letter without a postmark directed in a hand which she knew familiarly in the

letters of her own name: a hand in which her name had been written long ago in a pocket Shakespeare which

she possessed. Her mother was in the room, and Maggie, in violent agitation, hurried upstairs, that she might

MAGGIE, I believe in you I know you never meant to deceive me I know you tried to keep faith to me,

and to all. I believed this before I had any other evidence of it than your own nature. The night after I last

parted from you I suffered torments. I had seen what convinced me that you were not free that there was

another whose presence had a power over you which mine never possessed; but through all the suggestions

almost murderous suggestions of rage and jealousy, my mind made its way to belief in your truthfulness. I

was sure that you meant to cleave to me, as you had said; that you had rejected him; that you struggled to

renounce him, for Lucy's sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that was not fatal for you, and that dread

shut out the very thought of resignation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, and I believed then, as I

believe now, that the strong attraction which drew you together proceeded only from one side of your

characters, and belonged to that partial, divided action of our nature which makes half the tragedy of the

human lot. I have felt the vibration of chords in your nature that I have continually felt the want of in his. But

perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the scene over which his soul has

brooded with love; he would tremble to see it confided to other hands he would never believe that it could

bear for another all the meaning and the beauty it bears for him. I dared not trust myself to see you that

morning I was filled with selfish passion; I was shattered by a night of conscious delirium. I told you long

ago that I had never been resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers: how could I be resigned to the loss

of the one thing which had ever come to me on earth with the promise of such deep joy as would give a new

and blessed meaning to the foregoing pain, the promise of another self that would lift my aching affection

But the miseries of that night had prepared me for what came before the next. It was no surprise to me. I was

certain that he had prevailed on you to sacrifice everything to him, and I waited with equal certainty to hear

of your marriage. I measured your love and his by my own. But I was wrong, Maggie. There is something

I will not tell you what I went through in that interval. But even in its utmost agony even in those terrible

throes that love must suffer before it can be disembodied of selfish desire my love for you sufficed to

withhold me from suicide, without the aid of any other motive. In the midst of my egoism, I yet could not

bear to come like a deathshadow across the feast of your joy: I could not bear to forsake the world in which

you still lived and might need me: it was part of the faith I had vowed to you, to wait and endure. Maggie,

that is a proof of what I write now to assure you of that no anguish I have had to bear on your account has

been too heavy a price to pay for the new life into which I have entered in loving you. I want you to put aside

all grief because of the grief you have caused me. I was nurtured in the sense of privation: I never expected

happiness: and in knowing you, in loving you, I have had, and still have, what reconciles me to life. You have

been to my affections what light, what colour is to my eyes what music it to the inward ear: you have raised

a dim unrest into a vivid consciousness. The new life I have found in caring for your joy and sorrow more

than for what is directly my own, has transformed the spirit of rebellious murmuring into that willing

endurance which is the birth of strong sympathy. I think nothing but such complete and intense love could

have initiated me into that enlarged life which grows and grows by appropriating the life of others; for before,

I was always dragged back from it by everpresent painful selfconsciousness. I even think sometimes that

this gift of transferred life which has come to me in loving you, may be a new power to me.

Then dear one in spite of all, you have been the blessing of my life. Let no selfreproach weigh on you

because of me. It is I, who should rather reproach myself for having urged my feelings upon you and hurried

you into words that you have felt as fetters. You meant to be true to those words; you have been true: I can

measure your sacrifice by what I have known in only one halfhour of your presence with me when I

dreamed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, I have no just claim on you for more than affectionate

For some time I have shrunk from writing to you, because I have shrunk even from the appearance of wishing

to thrust myself before you, and so repeating my original error. But you will not misconstrue me. I know that

we must keep apart for a long while; cruel tongues would force us apart, if nothing else did. But I shall not go

away. The place where you are is one where my mind must live, wherever I might travel. And remember that

I am unchangeably yours: yours not with selfish wishes but with a devotion that excludes such wishes.

God comfort you, my loving, largesouled Maggie. If every one else had misconceived you remember

that you have never been doubted by him whose heart recognised you ten years ago.

Do not believe any one who says I am ill because I am not seen out of doors. I have only had nervous

headaches no worse than I have sometimes had them before. But the overpowering heat inclines me to be

perfectly quiescent in the daytime. I am strong enough to obey any word which shall tell me that I can serve

As Maggie knelt by the bed sobbing with that letter pressed under her, her feelings again and again gathered

themselves in a whispered cry always in the same words: `O God is there any happiness in love that could

BY the end of the week Dr Kenn had made up his mind that there was only one way in which he could secure

Maggie a suitable living at St Ogg's. Even with his twenty years' experience as a parish priest, he was aghast

at the obstinate continuance of imputations against her in the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather

more adored and appealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting to open the ears of

women to reason and their consciences to justice on behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as

powerless as he was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influence the shape of bonnets. Dr

Kenn could not be contradicted: he was listened to in silence; but when he left the room, a comparison of

opinions among his hearers yielded much the same result as before. Miss Tulliver had undeniably acted in a

blamable manner: even Dr Kenn did not deny that: how then could he think so lightly of her as to put that

favourable interpretation on everything she had done? Even on the supposition that required the utmost

stretch of belief namely, that none of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true; still, since they had

been said about her, they had cast an odour around her which must cause her to be shrunk from by every

woman who had to take care of her own reputation and of society. To have taken Maggie by the hand and

said, `I will not believe unproved evil of you: my lips shall not utter it; my ears shall be closed against it. I,

too, am an erring mortal, liable to stumble, apt to come short of my most earnest efforts. Your lot has been

harder than mine, your temptation greater. Let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling' to

have done this would have demanded courage, deep pity, selfknowledge, generous trust would have

demanded a mind that tasted no piquancy in evilspeaking, that felt no selfexaltation in condemning, that

cheated itself with no large words into the belief that life can have any moral end, any high religion, which

excludes the striving after perfect truth, justice, and love towards the individual men and women who come

across our own path. The ladies of St Ogg's were not beguiled by any wide speculative conceptions; but they

had their favourite abstraction, called society, which served to make their consciences perfectly easy in doing

what satisfied their own egoism thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver and turning their backs

upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr Kenn, after two years of superfluous incense from his feminine

parishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views in opposition to his; but then, they maintained

them in opposition to a higher authority, which they had venerated longer. That authority had furnished a

very explicit answer to persons who might inquire where their social duties began, and might be inclined to

take wide views as to the startingpoint. The answer had not turned on the ultimate good of society, but on `a

certain man' who was found in trouble by the wayside. Not that St Ogg's was empty of women with some

tenderness of heart and conscience: probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodness in it as any other

small trading town of that day. But until every good man is brave, we must expect to find many good women

timid: too timid even to believe in the correctness of their own best promptings, when these would place them

in a minority. And the men at St Ogg's were not all brave, by any means: some of them were even fond of

scandal and to an extent that might have given their conversation an effeminate character, if it had not been

distinguished by masculine jokes and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutual hatred of women.

It was the general feeling of the masculine mind at St Ogg's that women were not to be interfered with in

And so, every direction in which Dr Kenn had turned in the hope of procuring some kind of 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 neighbourhood, 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

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 high 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 discerned 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

Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for more than three 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 and 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

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

towards recovery, and her thoughts tended continually towards 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 heartstroke; 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 for ever 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

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 sleepingpotion that was to still her

She sat without candle in the twilight with the window wide open towards 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 advancing 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 wellmeant 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

The face was there changed, but all the sweeter: the hazel eyes were there, with their heartpiercing

`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 he 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

I 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

`Maggie, dear, be comforted,' said Lucy now, putting her cheek against Maggie's again. `Don't grieve.' And

`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

`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

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

`Lucy,' Maggie begain again, `he struggled too. He wanted to be true to you. He will come back to you.

These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul with an effort like the convulsed clutch of a

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

`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

She pressed the little hand that she held between hers and looked up into the face that was bent over hers.

`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.

IN the second week of September, Maggie was again sitting in her lonely room, battling with the old

shadowy enemies that were for ever slain and rising again. It was past midnight, and the rain was beating

heavily against the window, driven with fitful force by the rushing, loudmoaning 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 parlour towards 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 today, 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

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 and that `appearance' 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

Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip: she could say nothing but a faint `thank you I shall be grateful;'

and she walked back to her lodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation. She must be a

lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at her wonderingly, because the days

did not seem joyful to her; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse herself to receive new

impressions and she was so unspeakably, sickeningly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring

even those who pitied, were constrained to hardness. But ought she to complain? Ought she to shrink in this

way from the long penance of life, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load to some other

sufferers, and so changing that passionate error into a new force of unselfish human love? All the next day

she sat in her lonely room with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that future

and wrestling for patience: for what repose could poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling?

And on the third day this day of which she had just sat out the close the letter had come which was lying

The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from Holland: he was at Mudport again, unknown to any of

his friends; and had written to her from that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted in St

Ogg's. From beginning to end, it was a passionate cry of reproach: an appeal against her useless sacrifice of

him of herself: against that perverted notion of right which led her to crush all his hopes, for the sake of a

mere idea, and not any substantial good his hopes, whom she loved, and who loved her with that single

overpowering passion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more than once in his life.

`They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I should believe that! Perhaps they have told you

some such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I have been "travelling." My body has been dragged about

somewhere; but I have never travelled from the hideous place where you left me where I started up from

`Maggie! whose pain can have been like mine? Whose injury is like mine? Who besides me has met that long

look of love that has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other image can come there? Maggie, call me back

to you! call me back to life and goodness! I am banished from both now. I have no motives: I am

indifferent to everything. Two months have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for life without

you. Write me one word say, "Come!" In two days I should be with you. Maggie have you forgotten what

it was to be together? to be within reach of a look to be within hearing of each other's voice?'

When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the

chill dark cavern, we turn with unworn courage from the warm light: but how, when we have trodden far in

the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint and weary how, if there is a sudden opening above us, and

we are invited back again to the lifenourishing day? The leap of natural longing from under the pressure of

pain is so strong that all less immediate motives are likely to be forgotten till the pain has been escaped

For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hours every other thought that she strove to

summon was thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him to her.

She did not read the letter: she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her with its old strange power. All

the day before she had been filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she must carry the burthen

of regret, upheld only by clinging faith. And here close within here reach urging itself upon her even as a

claim was another future, in which hard endurance and effort were to be exchanged for easy delicious

leaning on another's loving strength! And yet that promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make the dire

force of the temptation to Maggie. It was Stephen's tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice of her

own resolve, that made the balance tremble, and made her once start from her seat to reach the pen and paper,

But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense of contradiction with her past self in her

moments of strength and clearness, came upon her like a pang of conscious degradation. No she must wait

she must pray the light that had forsaken her would come again: she should feel again what she had felt,

when she had fled away, under an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony to conquer love: she should

feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when Philip's letter had stirred all the fibres that bound

She sat quite still, far on into the night: with no impulse to change her attitude, without active force enough

even for the mental act of prayer: only waiting for the light that would surely come again.

It came with the memories that no passion could long quench: the long past came back to her and with it the

fountains of selfrenouncing pity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked by

the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found

a vent for themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of the rain against the window

and the loud moan and roar of the wind: `I have received the Cross, I have received it from thy hand; I will

But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but in a sob: `Forgive me, Stephen! It will pass away.

She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowly on the hearth. Tomorrow she would write

`I will bear it, and bear it till death... But how long it will be before death comes! I am so young, so healthy.

How shall I have patience and strength? O God, am I to struggle and fall and repent again? has life other

trials as hard for me still?' With that cry of selfdespair, Maggie fell on her knees against the table, and

buried her sorrowstricken face. Her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end.

Surely there was something being taught her by this experience of great need; and she must be learning a

secret of human tenderness and longsuffering, that the less erring could hardly know? `O God, if my life is

At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden cold about her knees and feet: it was water

flowing under her. She started up the stream was flowing under the door that led into the passage. She was

The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in

her: without screaming, she hurried with the candle upstairs to Bob Jakin's bedroom. The door was ajar she

`Bob, the Flood is come! it is in the house! let us see if we can make the boats safe.'

She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried

down again to see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at the door leading from

the staircase: she saw that the water was already on a level with the step. While she was looking, something

came with a tremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded panes and the old wooden framework

And without a moment's shudder of fear, she plunged through the water, which was rising fast to her knees,

and by the glimmering light of the candle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the windowsill, and

crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging and protruding through the window. Bob was not

long after her, hurrying without shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand.

`Why, they're both here both the boats,' said Bob, as he got into the one where Maggie was. `It's wonderful

In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it and mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with

the danger Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions in their danger,

and Bob's mind was absorbed in possible expedients for the safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that

Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impression of her

as one who would help to protect, not need to be protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had

`The water's rising so fast,' said Bob, `I doubt it'll be in at the chambers before long th' house is so low. I've

more mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could and trusten to the water for th'

old house is none so safe. And if I let go the boat but you,' he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of his

lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand and her black hair streaming.

Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along the line of the houses, and drove both the

boats out on to the wide water, with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of the river.

In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but that she had suddenly passed away from

that life which she had been dreading: it was the transition of death, without its agony and she was alone in

The whole thing had been so rapid so dreamlike that the threads of ordinary association were broken: she

sank down on the seat clutching the oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conception of her

position. The first thing that waked her to fuller consciousness, was the cessation of the rain, and a perception

that the darkness was divided by the faintest light, which parted the overhanging gloom from the

immeasurable watery level below. She was driven out upon the flood: that awful visitation of God which

her father used to talk of which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And with that thought there

rushed in the vision of the old home and Tom and her mother they had all listened together.

`O God, where am I? Which is the way home?' she cried out, in the dim loneliness.

What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearly destroyed it. They might be in danger

in distress: her mother and her brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was strained now

on that thought; and she saw the longloved faces looking for help into the darkness, and finding none.

She was floating in smooth water now perhaps far on the overflooded fields. There was no sense of

present danger to check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the

curtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her whereabout that she might catch some faint

O how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament

the slowly defining blackness of objects above the glassy dark! Yes she must be out on the fields those

were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie? Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black

trees: looking before her there were none: then, the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to

paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope: the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly,

now she was in action; and she could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound where

they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in the growing twilight: her wet clothes clung

round her, and her streaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly conscious of any bodily

sensations except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and

possible rescue for those longremembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined sense of

reconcilement with her brother: what quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the

presence of a great calamity when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each

other in primitive mortal needs? Vaguely, Maggie felt this; in the strong resurgent love towards her brother

that swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offence and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,

But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to her Maggie could discern the current of the

river. The dark mass must be yes, it was St Ogg's. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the first

glimpse of the wellknown trees the grey willows, the now yellowing chestnuts and above them the old

roof; but there was no colour, no shape yet: all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies

seemed to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were a storedup force that was being spent in this

She must get her boat into the current of the Floss else she would never be able to pass the Ripple, and

approach the house: this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more vividness

the state of things round the old home. But then she might be carried very far down, and be unable to guide

her boat out of the current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there

was no choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now,

without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distance and the growing light, she began to discern the

objects that she knew must be the wellknown trees and roofs: nay, she was not far off a rushing muddy

Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash against her boat as she passed, and cause her to

For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony of dread. She sat helpless dimly conscious that

she was being floated along more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was transient:

it passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St Ogg's: she had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then:

now, she must use all her skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible, out of the current. She

could see now that the bridge was broken down: she could see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the

watery field. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river such as had been laid hands on must be

With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to paddle: but the now ebbing tide added to

the swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts from the

windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had passed on

nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one yearning look towards her

uncle Deane's house that lay farther down the river, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might

across the watery fields, back towards the Mill. Colour was beginning to awake now, and as she approached

the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints of the trees could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and

the home chestnuts Oh! how deep they lay in the water: deeper than the trees on this side the hill. And the

roof of the Mill where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple what had they meant?

But it was not the house the house stood firm: drowned up to the first story, but still firm or was it broken

With panting joy that she was there at last joy that overcame all distress, Maggie neared the front of the

house. At first she heard no sound: she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the upstairs

`She is not here: she went to Garum, the day before yesterday. I'll come down to the lower window.'

`Alone, Maggie?' said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as he opened the middle window on a level with

`Yes, Tom: God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get in quickly. Is there no one else?'

`No,' said Tom, stepping into the boat, `I fear the man is drowned he was carried down the Ripple, I think,

when part of the mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it: I've shouted again and again, and there

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water he face to face with Maggie that the

full meaning of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering a force such an

entirely new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in life, that had lain beyond his vision which he had fancied

so keen and clear, that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other: Maggie with

eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face Tom pale with a certain awe and humiliation.

Thought was busy though the lips were silent: and though he could ask no question, he guessed a story of

almost miraculous divinelyprotected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the bluegrey eyes, and the lips

Maggie could make no answer but a long deep sob of that mysterious wondrous happiness that is one with

As soon as she could speak, she said, `We will go to Lucy, Tom: we'll go and see if she is safe, and then we

Tom rowed with untired vigour, and with a different speed from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the

`Park House stands high up out of the flood,' said Maggie, `Perhaps they have got Lucy there.'

Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards them by the river. Some wooden machinery

had just given way on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was rising

now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness around them in dreadful

clearness floated onwards the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that was working its

way along under the Tofton houses, observed their danger, and shouted, `Get out of the current!'

But that could not be done at once, and Tom, looking before him, saw Death rushing on them. Huge

fragments, clinging together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

`It is coming, Maggie!' Tom said, in a deep hoarse voice, loosing the oars, and clasping her.

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous

The boat reappeared but brother and sister had gone down in an embrace never to be parted living

through again in one supreme moment, the days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed

NATURE repairs her ravages repairs them with her sunshine, and with human labour. The desolation

wrought by that flood, had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years after. The fifth autumn

was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and

warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.

And every man and woman mentioned in this history was still living except those whose end we know.

Nature repairs her ravages but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again the parted hills are left

scarred: if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green

vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough

Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard, where the brick grave that held a father whom we

know, was found with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood, had recovered all its grassy order and

Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected very soon after the flood, for two bodies that were found in

close embrace: and it was often visited at different moments by two men who both felt that their keenest joy

One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him but that was years after.

The other was always solitary. His great companionship was among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the

The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and below the names it was written