The Mill on the Floss

harity in Full-Dress

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 soft-floating 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 well-bred 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 to-day that Miss Guest held her chin too high, and
that Miss Laura spoke and moved continually with a view to effect.

All well-dressed 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 folding-doors, and light shed down from a height on the
many-coloured 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, long-snouted 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; an 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, and 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 dressing-gowns, 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 dressing-gowns, 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 toward 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
to-day 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 Stephen Guest.

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 to-day, 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
gayly 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 say
he made a fool of himself.”

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 deliciously soft warm things
for the wrists,—do buy them.”

“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. By the way, why doesn’t he come?”

“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.”

“No, no; see, she has got a customer; there is old Wakem himself just
coming up.”

Lucy’s eyes turned with anxious interest toward Maggie to see how she
went through this first interview, since a sadly memorable time, with a
man toward 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
much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and tremulous.

“Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable to your cousin,”
said Stephen, in an undertone to Lucy; “is it pure magnanimity? You
talked of a family quarrel.”

“Oh, 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
lady-purchasers came up, he lounged on toward Maggie’s end, handling
trifles and standing aloof until Wakem, who had taken out his purse,
had finished his transactions.

“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 to-day, 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 self-conquest 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, mayn’t I?”

The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental vibration of a
harp close by her.

“Oh no, thank you,” she said faintly, and only half looking up for an
instant.

“You look so pale,” Stephen insisted, in a more entreating tone. “I’m
sure you’re exhausted. I must disobey you, and bring something.”

“No, indeed, I couldn’t take it.”

“Are you angry with me? What have I done? Do look at me.”

“Pray, go away,” said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes
glancing immediately from 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 sealed in the half-hidden
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 hand
on his shoulder.

“Are you studying for a portrait, Phil,” he said, “or for a sketch of
that oriel window? By George, it makes a capital bit from this dark
corner, with the curtain just marking it off.”

“I have been studying expression,” said Philip, curtly.

“What! Miss Tulliver’s? It’s rather of the savage-moody order to-day, 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 natural antipathy between
us, I suppose; I have seldom the honour to please her.”

“What a hypocrite you are!” said Philip, flushing angrily.

“What! because experience must have told me that I’m universally
pleasing? I admit the law, but there’s some disturbing force here.”

“I am going,” said Philip, rising abruptly.

“So am I—to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I
think I have done suit and service long enough.”

The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip
turned through the outer door into the court-yard; but Stephen, saying,
“Oh, 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 might have made a good case in support of Philip’s accusation.

Meanwhile, Maggie sat 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 toward 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, middle-aged 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 toward the strugglers still tossed by
the waves, had an effect on Maggie at this moment which was afterward
remembered by her as if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, 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 self-despair. 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 upward into
all the difficulties of nineteen entirely without such aid, as Maggie
did.

“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 simpler
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 obliged to you.”

“Oh, I have done nothing; the gentlemen came very fast to buy the
dressing-gowns 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 have been at a distance from
us hitherto.”

“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.”

“Oh, 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 sense of human brotherhood.

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 prevent my knowing you
better, if I can be of any service to you.”

He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly before he turned away.

“She has some trouble or other at heart,” he thought. “Poor child! she
looks as if she might turn out to be one of

‘The souls by nature pitched too high,
By suffering plunged too low.’

“There’s something wonderfully honest in those beautiful eyes.”

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 toward 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 chevalglass, 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, and 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 brought by the last
week.

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 inward battle without
interference.

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
to-morrow, 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 25th of June.”

“Maggie!” said Lucy, almost white with astonishment.

“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 yesterday to accept the offer.”

Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was unable to speak.

“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.
Oh, 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 pack. Don’t press me to stay, dear Lucy.”

Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating.
At length she knelt down by her cousin, and looking up in her face with
anxious seriousness, said,—

“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 own
hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her voice was quite clear
and distinct.

“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.”

Lucy obeyed in pain and wonder. The next word she said was,—

“Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at Park House
to-morrow, and have some music and brightness, before you go to pay
these dull dutiful visits. Ah! here come aunty and the tea.”