The Mill on the Floss

Love-Scene

Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute in not
“telling” of Mr Poulter more than was unavoidable; the five-shilling
piece remained a secret even 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 say Tulliver will be lame?”

“Oh, no; oh, no,” said Mr Stelling, “not permanently; only for a little
while.”

“Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?”

“No; nothing was said to him on the subject.”

“Then may I go and tell him, sir?”

“Yes, to be sure; now you mention it, I dare say he may be troubling
about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet at present.”

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. Philip had only lived fourteen years, but those years had,
most of them, been steeped in the sense of a lot irremediably hard.

“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-and-day.”

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 blue-gray
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 befall him, and she clung to him and cried afresh.

“Don’t be a little silly, Magsie,” said Tom, tenderly, feeling very
brave now. “I shall soon get well.”

“Good-by, Tulliver,” said Philip, putting out his small, delicate hand,
which Tom clasped immediately with his more substantial fingers.

“I say,” said Tom, “ask Mr Stelling to let you come and sit with me
sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem; and tell me about Robert Bruce,
you know.”

After that, Philip spent all his time out of school-hours 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 armor 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, with nothing but some wonderful poisoned arrows to kill animals
with for food.

“I didn’t roar out a bit, you know,” Tom said, “and I dare say 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 him on the desert island and take care of him.

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 and vacant, as if
she had quite forgotten Philip and his book.

“Maggie,” said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on his
elbow and looking at her, “if you had had a brother like me, do you
think you should have loved him as well as Tom?”

Maggie started a little on being roused from her reverie, and said,
“What?” Philip repeated his question.

“Oh, yes, better,” she answered immediately. “No, not better; because I
don’t think I could love you better than Tom. But I should be so
sorry,—so sorry for you.”

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
directed by the most finished breeding.

“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 teach
me everything; wouldn’t you,—Greek and everything?”

“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 me.”

“Oh, no, I sha’n’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 a queer little dog,—nobody
cares about him but Tom and me.”

“Do you care as much about me as you do about Yap, Maggie?” said
Philip, smiling rather sadly.

“Oh, yes, I should think so,” said Maggie, laughing.

“I’m very fond of you, Maggie; I shall never forget you,” said
Philip, “and when I’m very unhappy, I shall always think of you, and
wish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours.”

“Why do you like my eyes?” said Maggie, well pleased. She had never
heard any one but her father speak of her eyes as if they had merit.

“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:

“Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom? I will, if you like.”

“Yes, very much; nobody kisses me.”

Maggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite earnestly.

“There now,” she said, “I shall always remember you, and kiss you when
I see you again, if it’s ever so long. But I’ll go now, because I think
Mr Askern’s done with Tom’s foot.”

When their father came the second time, Maggie said to him, “Oh,
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,” she added entreatingly.

Tom coloured a little as he looked at his father, and said: “I sha’n’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 can beat him.”

“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 creature, 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 gray 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 toward 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.