Tom and Maggie Tulliver

by George Eliot

  Chapter VIII.

  MAGGIE AND THE GIPSIES.

  After Tom and Lucy had walked away, Maggie's quick mind formed a planwhich was not so simple as that of going home. No; she would run awayand go to the gipsies, and Tom should never see her any more. She hadbeen often told she was like a gipsy, and "half wild;" so now she wouldgo and live in a little brown tent on the common.

  The gipsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her muchrespect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once mentionedher views on this point to Tom, and suggested that he should stain hisface brown, and they should run away together; but Tom rejected thescheme with contempt, observing that gipsies were thieves, and hardlygot anything to eat, and had nothing to drive but a donkey. To-day,however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at whichgipsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the rootsof 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 therewould certainly be gipsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of herrelations who found fault with her, should never see her any more. Shethought of her father as she ran along, but made up her mind that shewould secretly send him a letter by a small gipsy, who would run awaywithout telling where she was, and just let him know that she was welland happy, and always loved him very much.

  Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time that Tomgot to the pond again she was at the distance of three long fields, andwas on the edge of the lane leading to the highroad.

  She presently passed through the gate into the lane, and she was soonaware, not without trembling, that there were two men coming along thelane in front of her.

  She had not thought of meeting strangers; and, to her surprise, whileshe was dreading their scolding as a runaway, one of the men stopped,and in a half-whining, half-coaxing tone asked her if she had a copperto give a poor fellow.

  Maggie had a sixpence in her pocket--her Uncle Glegg's present--whichshe drew out and gave this "poor fellow" with a polite smile. "That'sthe only money I've got," she said. "Thank you, little miss," said theman in a less grateful tone than Maggie expected, and she even saw thathe smiled and winked at his companion.

  She now went on, and turning through the first gate that was notlocked, crept along by the hedgerows. She was used to wandering aboutthe 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 sooncome within sight of Dunlow Common. She hoped so, for she was gettingrather tired and hungry. It was still broad daylight, yet it seemed toher that she had been walking a very great distance indeed, and it wasreally surprising that the common did not come in sight.

  At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and Maggie foundherself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a widemargin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars of thegate and walked on with a new spirit, and at the next bend in the laneMaggie actually saw the little black tent with the blue smoke risingbefore it which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall femalefigure by the column of smoke--doubtless the gipsy-mother, who providedthe tea and other groceries; it was astonishing to herself that she didnot feel more delighted. But it was startling to find the gipsies in alane after all, and not on a common--indeed, it was ratherdisappointing; for a mysterious common, where there were sand-pits tohide in, and one was out of everybody's reach, had always made part ofMaggie's picture of gipsy life.

  She went on, however, and before long a tall figure, who proved to be ayoung woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggielooked up in the new face and thought that her Aunt Pullet and the restwere right when they called her a gipsy; for this face, with the brightdark eyes and the long hair, was really something like what she used tosee in her own glass before she cut her hair off.

  "My little lady, where are you going to?" the gipsy said.

  It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected--the gipsy saw at oncethat she was a little lady.

  "Not any farther," said Maggie. "I'm come to stay with you, please."

  "That's pritty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, tobe sure!" said the gipsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought hervery nice, but wished she had not been so dirty.

  There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An oldgipsy-woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking askewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam; twosmall, shock-headed children were lying down resting on their elbows;and a donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on herback, was scratching his nose and feeding him with a bite of excellentstolen hay.

  The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was reallyvery pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they wouldsoon set out the tea-cups. It was a little confusing, though, that theyoung woman began to speak to the old one in a language which Maggiedid not understand, while the tall girl who was feeding the donkey satup and stared at her. At last the old woman said,--

  "What, my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down, andtell us where you come from."

  "My pretty lady, are you come to stay with us?"]

  It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady andtreated in this way. She sat down and said,--

  "I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a gipsy.I'll live with you, if you like, and I can teach you a great manythings."

  "Such a clever little lady," said the woman with the baby, sitting downby Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; "and such a pritty bonnet andfrock," she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at it whileshe spoke to the old woman in the unknown language. The tall girlsnatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost with agrin; but Maggie was determined not to show that she cared about herbonnet.

  "I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said; "I'd rather wear a redhandkerchief, like yours" (looking at her friend by her side). "Myhair was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I dare sayit will grow again very soon."

  "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 gofishing; but I'm often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring mybooks with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tellyou almost everything there is in my books, I've read them so manytimes, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something aboutgeography too--that's about the world we live in--very useful andinteresting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?"

  "Is that where you live, my little lady?" said the old woman at themention of Columbus.

  "Oh no!" said Maggie, with some pity. "Columbus was a very wonderfulman, who found out half the world; and they put chains on him andtreated him very badly, you know--but perhaps it's rather too long totell before tea. _I want my tea so_."

  "Why, she's hungry, poor little lady," said the younger woman. "Giveher some o' the cold victual.--You've been walking a good way, I'll bebound, 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 mehome again. Where does the queen of the gipsies live?"

  "What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?" said the youngerwoman.

  "No," said Maggie; "I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very goodqueen 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 toMaggie 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; "butwill you give me some bread and butter and tea instead? I don't likebacon." />
  "We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman with something like ascowl.

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

  "We han't got no treacle," said the old woman crossly.

  Meanwhile the tall girl gave a shrill cry, and presently there camerunning up a rough urchin about the age of Tom. He stared at Maggie,and she felt very lonely, and was quite sure she should begin to crybefore long. But the springing tears were checked when two rough mencame up, while a black cur ran barking up to Maggie, and threw her intoa tremor of fear.

  Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen of _these_people.

  "This nice little lady's come to live with us," said the young woman."Aren't you glad?"

  "Ay, very glad," said the younger man, who was soon examining Maggie'ssilver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from herpocket. He returned them all except the thimble to the younger woman,and she immediately restored them to Maggie's pocket, while the menseated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle--astew of meat and potatoes--which had been taken off the fire and turnedout into a yellow platter.