The Mill on the Floss

by George Eliot

  Chapter V

  The Cloven Tree

  Secrets are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any programmeour fear has sketched out. Fear is almost always haunted by terribledramatic scenes, which recur in spite of the best-argued probabilitiesagainst them; and during a year that Maggie had had the burthen ofconcealment on her mind, the possibility of discovery had continuallypresented itself under the form of a sudden meeting with her father orTom when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was awarethat this was not one of the most likely events; but it was the scenethat most completely symbolized her inward dread. Those slightindirect suggestions which are dependent on apparently trivialcoincidences and incalculable states of mind, are the favoritemachinery of Fact, but are not the stuff in which Imagination is aptto work.

  Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggie's fears were furthestfrom troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, on whom, seeing thatshe did not live in St. Ogg's, and was neither sharp-eyed norsharp-tempered, it would surely have been quite whimsical of them tofix rather than on aunt Glegg. And yet the channel of fatality--thepathway of the lightning--was no other than aunt Pullet. She did notlive at St. Ogg's, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red Deeps,at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered.

  The day after Maggie's last meeting with Philip, being a Sunday onwhich Mr. Pullet was bound to appear in funeral hatband and scarf atSt. Ogg's church, Mrs. Pullet made this the occasion of dining withsister Glegg, and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was theone day in the week on which Tom was at home in the afternoon andtoday the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over inunusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invitation,"Come, Magsie, you come too!" when he strolled out with his mother inthe garden to see the advancing cherry-blossoms. He had been betterpleased with Maggie since she had been less odd and ascetic; he waseven getting rather proud of her; several persons had remarked in hishearing that his sister was a very fine girl. To-day there was apeculiar brightness in her face, due in reality to an undercurrent ofexcitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but itmight pass for a sign of happiness.

  "You look very well, my dear," said aunt Pullet, shaking her headsadly, as they sat round the tea-table. "I niver thought your girl 'udbe so good-looking, Bessy. But you must wear pink, my dear; that bluething as your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crowflower. Janenever _was_ tasty. Why don't you wear that gown o' mine?"

  "It is so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think it's too showy forme,--at least for my other clothes, that I must wear with it.

  "To be sure, it 'ud be unbecoming if it wasn't well known you've gotthem belonging to you as can afford to give you such things whenthey've done with 'em themselves. It stands to reason I must give myown niece clothes now and then,--such things as _I_ buy every year,and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, there's no giving toher, for she's got everything o' the choicest; sister Deane may wellhold her head up,--though she looks dreadful yallow, poor thing--Idoubt this liver complaint 'ull carry her off. That's what this newvicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the funeral sermon to-day."

  "Ah, he's a wonderful preacher, by all account,--isn't he, Sophy?"said Mrs. Tulliver.

  "Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day," continued Mrs.Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, "as I don't say Ihaven't got as good, but I must look out my best to match it."

  "Miss Lucy's called the bell o' St. Ogg's, they say; that's a cur'ousword," observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries of etymologysometimes fell with an oppressive weight.

  "Pooh!" said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, "she's a small thing,not much of a figure. But fine feathers make fine birds. I see nothingto admire so much in those diminutive women; they look silly by theside o' the men,--out o' proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose herthe right size,--neither too little nor too big."

  The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled complacently.

  "But the men aren't _all_ big," said uncle Pullet, not without someself-reference; "a young fellow may be good-looking and yet not be asix-foot, like Master Tom here.

  "Ah, it's poor talking about littleness and bigness,--anybody maythink it's a mercy they're straight," said aunt Pullet. "There's thatmismade son o' Lawyer Wakem's, I saw him at church to-day. Dear, dear!to think o' the property he's like to have; and they say he's veryqueer and lonely, doesn't like much company. I shouldn't wonder if hegoes out of his mind; for we never come along the road but he'sa-scrambling out o' the trees and brambles at the Red Deeps."

  This wide statement, by which Mrs. Pullet represented the fact thatshe had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, produced an effect onMaggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate opposite her, andshe was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At Philip's name shehad blushed, and the blush deepened every instant from consciousness,until the mention of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the wholesecret were betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoon lestshe should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands clasped underthe table, not daring to look round. Happily, her father was seated onthe same side with herself, beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not seeher face without stooping forward. Her mother's voice brought thefirst relief, turning the conversation for Mrs. Tulliver was alwaysalarmed when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband'spresence. Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look up; hereyes met Tom's, but he turned away his head immediately; and she wentto bed that night wondering if he had gathered any suspicion from herconfusion. Perhaps not; perhaps he would think it was only her alarmat her aunt's mention of Wakem before her father; that was theinterpretation her mother had put in it. To her father, Wakem was likea disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure theconsciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence recognized byothers; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about her father couldbe surprising, Maggie thought.

  But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with such aninterpretation he had seen clearly enough that there was somethingdistinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's excessiveconfusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give shapeto his suspicions, he remembered only lately hearing his mother scoldMaggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground was wet, andbringing home shoes clogged with red soil; still Tom, retaining allhis old repulsion for Philip's deformity, shrank from attributing tohis sister the probability of feeling more than a friendly interest insuch an unfortunate exception to the common run of men. Tom's was anature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to everythingexceptional. A love for a deformed man would be odious in any woman,in a sister intolerable. But if she had been carrying on any kind ofintercourse whatever with Philip, a stop must be put to it at once;she was disobeying her father's strongest feelings and her brother'sexpress commands, besides compromising herself by secret meetings. Heleft home the next morning in that watchful state of mind which turnsthe most ordinary course of things into pregnant coincidences.

  That afternoon, about half-past three o'clock, Tom was standing on thewharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the probability of the good shipAdelaide coming in, in a day or two, with results highly important toboth of them.

  "Eh," said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields on theother side of the river, "there goes that crooked young Wakem. I knowhim or his shadder as far off as I can see 'em; I'm allays lighting onhim o' that side the river."

  A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom's mind. "I must go,Bob," he said; "I've something to attend to," hurrying off to thewarehouse, where he left notice for some one to take his place; he wascalled away home on peremptory business.

  The swiftest pace and the shortest road took him to the gate, and hewas pausing to open it deliberately, that he might walk into the housewith an appearance of perfect composure, when Maggie came out at thefront door in bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and hewaited for her at the gate. She started violently when she
saw him.

  "Tom, how is it you are come home? Is there anything the matter?"Maggie spoke in a low, tremulous voice.

  "I'm come to walk with you to the Red Deeps, and meet Philip Wakem,"said Tom, the central fold in his brow, which had become habitual withhim, deepening as he spoke.

  Maggie stood helpless, pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom kneweverything. At last she said, "I'm not going," and turned round.

  "Yes, you are; but I want to speak to you first. Where is my father?"

  "Out on horseback."

  "And my mother?"

  "In the yard, I think, with the poultry."

  "I can go in, then, without her seeing me?"

  They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlor, said to Maggie,"Come in here."

  She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her.

  "Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed betweenyou and Philip Wakem."

  "Does my father know anything?" said Maggie, still trembling.

  "No," said Tom indignantly. "But he _shall_ know, if you attempt touse deceit toward me any further."

  "I don't wish to use deceit," said Maggie, flushing into resentment athearing this word applied to her conduct.

  "Tell me the whole truth, then."

  "Perhaps you know it."

  "Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what hashappened, or my father shall know everything."

  "I tell it for my father's sake, then."

  "Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your father, when youhave despised his strongest feelings."

  "You never do wrong, Tom," said Maggie, tauntingly.

  "Not if I know it," answered Tom, with proud sincerity.

  "But I have nothing to say to you beyond this: tell me what has passedbetween you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the RedDeeps?"

  "A year ago," said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave her a certainfund of defiance, and kept her sense of error in abeyance. "You needask me no more questions. We have been friendly a year. We have metand walked together often. He has lent me books."

  "Is that all?" said Tom, looking straight at her with his frown.

  Maggie paused a moment; then, determined to make an end of Tom's rightto accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily:

  "No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me. I didn'tthink of it before then; I had only thought of him as an old friend."

  "And you _encouraged_ him?" said Tom, with an expression of disgust.

  "I told him that I loved him too."

  Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and frowning, withhis hands in his pockets. At last he looked up and said coldly,--

  "Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take,--eitheryou vow solemnly to me, with your hand on my father's Bible, that youwill never have another meeting or speak another word in private withPhilip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything; and thismonth, when by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you willcause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitfuldaughter, who throws away her own respectability by clandestinemeetings with the son of a man that has helped to ruin her father.Choose!" Tom ended with cold decision, going up to the large Bible,drawing it forward, and opening it at the fly-leaf, where the writingwas.

  It was a crushing alternative to Maggie.

  "Tom," she said, urged out of pride into pleading, "don't ask me that.I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if you willlet me see him once, or even only write to him and explaineverything,--to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain tomy father. I feel something for Philip too. _He_ is not happy."

  "I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactlywhat I mean. Choose, and quickly, lest my mother should come in."

  "If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me as if Ilaid my hand on the Bible. I don't require that to bind me."

  "Do what _I_ require," said Tom. "I can't trust you, Maggie. There isno consistency in you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, 'Irenounce all private speech and intercourse with Philip Wakem fromthis time forth.' Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on myfather; and what is the use of my exerting myself and giving upeverything else for the sake of paying my father's debts, if you areto bring madness and vexation on him, just when he might be easy andhold up his head once more?"

  "Oh, Tom, _will_ the debts be paid soon?" said Maggie, clasping herhands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretchedness.

  "If things turn out as I expect," said Tom. "But," he added, his voicetrembling with indignation, "while I have been contriving and workingthat my father may have some peace of mind before he dies,--workingfor the respectability of our family,--you have done all you can todestroy both."

  Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction for the moment, her mindceased to contend against what she felt to be cruel and unreasonable,and in her self-blame she justified her brother.

  "Tom," she said in a low voice, "it was wrong of me; but I was solonely, and I was sorry for Philip. And I think enmity and hatred arewicked."

  "Nonsense!" said Tom. "Your duty was clear enough. Say no more; butpromise, in the words I told you."

  "I _must_ speak to Philip once more."

  "You will go with me now and speak to him."

  "I give you my word not to meet him or write to him again without yourknowledge. That is the only thing I will say. I will put my hand onthe Bible if you like."

  "Say it, then."

  Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and repeated thepromise. Tom closed the book, and said, "Now let us go."

  Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering inanticipation of what Philip was about to suffer, and dreading thegalling words that would fall on him from Tom's lips; but she felt itwas in vain to attempt anything but submission. Tom had his terribleclutch on her conscience and her deepest dread; she writhed under thedemonstrable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, andyet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from itsincompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignationdiverted toward Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyishrepulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was concerned inthe bitter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of ason and a brother. Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his ownmotives any more than into other matters of an intangible kind; he wasquite sure that his own motives as well as actions were good, else hewould have had nothing to do with them.

  Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first time, haveprevented Philip from coming. Then there would be delay,--then shemight get Tom's permission to write to him. Her heart beat with doubleviolence when they got under the Scotch firs. It was the last momentof suspense, she thought; Philip always met her soon after she gotbeyond them. But they passed across the more open green space, andentered the narrow bushy path by the mound. Another turning, and theycame so close upon him that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenlywithin a yard of each other. There was a moment's silence, in whichPhilip darted a look of inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answerthere, in the pale, parted lips, and the terrified tension of thelarge eyes. Her imagination, always rushing extravagantly beyond animmediate impression, saw her tall, strong brother grasping the feeblePhilip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.

  "Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, sir?" Tomsaid, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's eyes were turnedon him again.

  "What do you mean?" answered Philip, haughtily.

  "Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and I'lltell you what I mean. I mean, taking advantage of a young girl'sfoolishness and ignorance to get her to have secret meetings with you.I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that hasa good and honest name to support."

  "I deny that," interrupted Philip, impetuously. "I could never triflewith anything that affected you
r sister's happiness. She is dearer tome than she is to you; I honor her more than you can ever honor her; Iwould give up my life to her."

  "Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir! Do you mean to pretendthat you didn't know it would be injurious to her to meet you hereweek after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professionsof love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for her, whenneither her father nor your father would ever consent to a marriagebetween you? And _you_,--_you_ to try and worm yourself into theaffections of a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has been shutout from the world by her father's misfortunes! That's your crookednotion of honor, is it? I call it base treachery; I call it takingadvantage of circumstances to win what's too good for you,--what you'dnever get by fair means."

  "It is manly of you to talk in this way to _me_," said Philip,bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violent emotions. "Giants have animmemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. You are incapableeven of understanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much forher that I could even desire to be at friendship with _you_."

  "I should be very sorry to understand your feelings," said Tom, withscorching contempt. "What I wish is that you should understand_me_,--that I shall take care of _my_ sister, and that if you dare tomake the least attempt to come near her, or to write to her, or tokeep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, thatought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you.I'll thrash you; I'll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn't laughat the idea of _your_ turning lover to a fine girl?"

  Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He burst out, in aconvulsed voice.

  "Stay, Maggie!" said Philip, making a strong effort to speak. Thenlooking at Tom, "You have dragged your sister here, I suppose, thatshe may stand by while you threaten and insult me. These naturallyseemed to you the right means to influence me. But you are mistaken.Let your sister speak. If she says she is bound to give me up, I shallabide by her wishes to the slightest word."

  "It was for my father's sake, Philip," said Maggie, imploringly. "Tomthreatens to tell my father, and he couldn't bear it; I have promised,I have vowed solemnly, that we will not have any intercourse withoutmy brother's knowledge."

  "It is enough, Maggie. _I_ shall not change; but I wish you to holdyourself entirely free. But trust me; remember that I can never seekfor anything but good to what belongs to you."

  "Yes," said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philip's, "you cantalk of seeking good for her and what belongs to her now; did you seekher good before?"

  "I did,--at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have a friend forlife,--who would cherish her, who would do her more justice than acoarse and narrow-minded brother, that she has always lavished heraffections on."

  "Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours; and I'll tellyou what is my way. I'll save her from disobeying and disgracing herfather; I'll save her from throwing herself away on you,--from makingherself a laughing-stock,--from being flouted by a man like _your_father, because she's not good enough for his son. You know wellenough what sort of justice and cherishing you were preparing for her.I'm not to be imposed upon by fine words; I can see what actions mean.Come away, Maggie."

  He seized Maggie's right wrist as he spoke, and she put out her lefthand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one eager look, and thenhurried away.

  Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He was stillholding her wrist tightly, as if he were compelling a culprit from thescene of action. At last Maggie, with a violent snatch, drew her handaway, and her pent-up, long-gathered irritation burst into utterance.

  "Don't suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow to yourwill. I despise the feelings you have shown in speaking to Philip; Idetest your insulting, unmanly allusions to his deformity. You havebeen reproaching other people all your life; you have been always sureyou yourself are right. It is because you have not a mind large enoughto see that there is anything better than your own conduct and yourown petty aims."

  "Certainly," said Tom, coolly. "I don't see that your conduct isbetter, or your aims either. If your conduct, and Philip Wakem'sconduct, has been right, why are you ashamed of its being known?Answer me that. I know what I have aimed at in my conduct, and I'vesucceeded; pray, what good has your conduct brought to you or any oneelse?"

  "I don't want to defend myself," said Maggie, still with vehemence: "Iknow I've been wrong,--often, continually. But yet, sometimes when Ihave done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would bethe better for, if you had them. If _you_ were in fault ever, if youhad done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain itbrought you; I should not want punishment to be heaped on you. But youhave always enjoyed punishing me; you have always been hard and cruelto me; even when I was a little girl, and always loved you better thanany one else in the world, you would let me go crying to bed withoutforgiving me. You have no pity; you have no sense of your ownimperfection and your own sins. It is a sin to be hard; it is notfitting for a mortal, for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee.You thank God for nothing but your own virtues; you think they aregreat enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision offeelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!"

  "Well," said Tom, with cold scorn, "if your feelings are so muchbetter than mine, let me see you show them in some other way than byconduct that's likely to disgrace us all,--than by ridiculous flightsfirst into one extreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shownyour love, that you talk of, either to me or my father? By disobeyingand deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affection."

  "Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can do something inthe world."

  "Then, if you can do nothing, submit to those that can."

  "So I _will_ submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be right. I willsubmit even to what is unreasonable from my father, but I will notsubmit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchasedyou a right to be cruel and unmanly, as you've been to-day. Don'tsuppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedience to you. Thedeformity you insult would make me cling to him and care for him themore."

  "Very well; that is your view of things." said Tom, more coldly thanever; "you need say no more to show me what a wide distance there isbetween us. Let us remember that in future, and be silent."

  Tom went back to St. Ogg's, to fulfill an appointment with his uncleDeane, and receive directions about a journey on which he was to setout the next morning.

  Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignantremonstrance, against which Tom's mind was close barred, in bittertears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by,came the recollection of that quiet time before the pleasure which hadended in to-day's misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity ofher life. She used to think in that time that she had made greatconquests, and won a lasting stand on serene heights above worldlytemptations and conflict. And here she was down again in the thick ofa hot strife with her own and others' passions. Life was not so short,then, and perfect rest was not so near as she had dreamed when she wastwo years younger. There was more struggle for her, and perhaps morefalling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong, and that Tom hadbeen entirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inwardharmony; but now her penitence and submission were constantlyobstructed by resentment that would present itself to her no otherwisethan as a just indignation. Her heart bled for Philip; she went onrecalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid aconception of what he had felt under them, that it was almost like asharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot andtighten her fingers on her palm.

  And yet, how was it that she was now and then conscious of a certaindim background of relief in the forced separation from Philip? Surelyit was only because the sense of a deliverance from concealment waswelcome at any cost.