The Mill on the Floss

aggie Tries to Run away from Her Shadow

Maggie’s intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than Tom
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.
To-day however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which
gypsydom was her 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 highroad. 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 shabby-looking 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 toward 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 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 delightful 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 bread and butter. It was still broad daylight, for
aunt Pullet, retaining the early habits of the Dodson family, took tea
at half-past 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
was a great deal of pasture-land, 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 gypsy-mother, 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 sand-pits 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 on 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 prepared to treat her
accordingly.

“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she
had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m come to stay with you, please.”

“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be
sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very
agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when she reached it. An old
gypsy woman 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 shock-headed 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 tea-cups. Everything would be quite
charming when she had taught the gypsies to use a washing-basin, 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 and stared at her without offering any salutation. At last the
old woman said,—

“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 teach you a great many things.”

“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby sitting down
by Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; “and such a pretty 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 hind-foremost
with a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this
subject, as if she were susceptible about her bonnet.

“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.

“Oh, what a nice little lady!—and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman.
“Didn’t you live in a beautiful house at home?”

“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 you ever hear about Columbus?”

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 by this time emptied
without attracting her notice.

“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the
mention of Columbus.

“Oh, 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 perhaps it’s rather too long to tell before tea—I want my tea
so.”

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a sudden
drop from patronizing instruction to simple peevishness.

“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give
her some o’ the cold victual. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be
bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”

“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 taken from a bag of scraps,
and a piece of cold bacon.

“Thank you,’ said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; “but
will you give me some bread-and-butter and tea instead? I don’t like
bacon.”

“We’ve got no tea nor butter,” said the old woman, with something like
a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.

“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.

“We han’t got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly, whereupon there
followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in their unknown
tongue, and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread-and-bacon,
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 vigor, 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 stared 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 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 great stick he held in his hand.

Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen of these
people, or ever communicate to them amusing and useful knowledge.

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,—

“This nice little lady’s come to live with us; aren’t you glad?”

“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 except 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 fire and turned out into a yellow platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must 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 to 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 toward her; all thieves, except Robin Hood, were wicked
people. The women saw she was frightened.

“We’ve got nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman, in her
coaxing tone. “And she’s so hungry, sweet little lady.”

“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 half-pennies, 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 there.

Maggie Tulliver, you perceive, was by no means that well trained,
well-informed 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” mean “many”; but she had had no idea that gypsies were not well
supplied with groceries, and her thoughts generally were the oddest
mixture of clear-eyed acumen and blind dreams.

Her ideas about the 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 fierce-eyed 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
fiery-eyed 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 exceeded,
whether, if the Devil were really present, he would know her thoughts.

“What! you don’t like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman,
observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. “Try a
bit, come.”

“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 day, and then I can bring you a basket with some
jam-tarts and things.”

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 gypsy-woman said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take
you home, all safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a
lady.”

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she
presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and
throwing a couple of bags on his back.

“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading
the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name o’ the
place?”

“Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. “My father is Mr
Tulliver; he lives there.”

“What! a big mill a little way this side o’ St Ogg’s?”

“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 lady we said you was.”

“Oh 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
murdered by a larger party.

“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 “Good-by,” the donkey, at a strong hint from the man’s
stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward the point Maggie
had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough urchin,
also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them for the first
hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking.

Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion with her phantom
lover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in this entirely natural
ride on a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind her, who considered
that he was earning half a crown. 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
inhabitated by witches, and it was a relief to find that the donkey did
not stop there.

At last—oh, sight of joy!—this lane, the longest in the world, was
coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was
actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the
corner,—she had surely seen that finger-post 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 of some one coming on a white-faced horse.

“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. “There’s my father! Oh, father,
father!”

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 to her father’s stirrup.

“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 after being on the tramp
all day.”

“Oh 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 couldn’t afford to lose the
little wench; here, lift her up before me.”

“Why, Maggie, how’s this, how’s this?” he said, as they rode along,
while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. “How came you to
be rambling about and lose yourself?”

“Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, “I ran away because I was so unhappy; Tom
was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr Tulliver, soothingly, “you mustn’t think o’
running away from father. What ’ud father do without his little wench?”

“Oh no, I never will again, father—never.”

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 awe-stricken by this unusual treatment, and sometimes thought
that her conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to.