The Mill on the Floss

howing That Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us

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 clear-sighted, yet fair play was a jewel, and it was
not for her own friends 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 fighting-ground; 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 ill-advised
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, leaving 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 toward 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 by 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,—oh dear!—but
she’s said the kindest word as has 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 against folks as say harm of you when
they’ve no call. And I told her I thought you couldn’t bear to see
anybody but me, you were 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 raisin-wine as turned out
bad, or the pies too hot, or whativer it was.”

“Oh, 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 of Philip—Philip Wakem? Have you never seen any one that has
mentioned him?”

“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, oh dear! The law was the
first beginning, and 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
happy if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Eh, my dear,” said Mrs Tulliver, leaning toward 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 out the wrong way so!”

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 done violence to his own strong feeling by
conceding to them, and had 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 calling in 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 Philip was enduring. What did he believe about her?

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 read the letter in solitude.
She read it with a throbbing brow.

“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 believe 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 into the divine rapture of an ever-springing,
ever-satisfied want?

“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
stronger in you than your love for him.

“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 death-shadow 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 is
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 ever-present painful
self-consciousness. 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 self-reproach 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 half-hour
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 remembrance.

“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 the 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, large-souled Maggie. If every one else
has 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 you by word or
deed.

“Yours to the last,

“Philip Wakem.”

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 make me forget
their pain?”