The Mill on the Floss

by George Eliot

  Chapter XI

  In the Lane

  Maggie had been four days at her aunt Moss's giving the early Junesunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed eyes of thataffectionate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great andsmall, who were learning her words and actions by heart, as if she hadbeen a transient avatar of perfect wisdom and beauty.

  She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousinsfeeding the chickens, at that quiet moment in the life of thefarmyards before the afternoon milking-time. The great buildings roundthe hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over theold garden-wall the straggling rose-bushes were beginning to tosstheir summer weight, and the gray wood and old bricks of the house, onits higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad afternoonsunlight, that suited the quiescent time. Maggie, with her bonnet overher arm, was smiling down at the hatch of small fluffy chickens, whenher aunt exclaimed,--

  "Goodness me! who is that gentleman coming in at the gate?"

  It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of thehorse were streaked black with fast riding. Maggie felt a beating athead and heart, horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savageenemy who had feigned death.

  "Who is it, my dear?" said Mrs. Moss, seeing in Maggie's face theevidence that she knew.

  "It is Mr. Stephen Guest," said Maggie, rather faintly. "My cousinLucy's--a gentleman who is very intimate at my cousin's."

  Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and nowraised his hat as he advanced.

  "Hold the horse, Willy," said Mrs. Moss to the twelve-year-old boy.

  "No, thank you," said Stephen, pulling at the horse's impatientlytossing head. "I must be going again immediately. I have a message todeliver to you, Miss Tulliver, on private business. May I take theliberty of asking you to walk a few yards with me?"

  He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a man gets when hehas been dogged by some care or annoyance that makes his bed and hisdinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if hiserrand were too pressing for him to trouble himself about what wouldbe thought by Mrs. Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs. Moss,rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman,was inwardly wondering whether she would be doing right or wrong toinvite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when Maggie, feelingall the embarrassment of the situation, and unable to say anything,put on her bonnet, and turned to walk toward the gate.

  Stephen turned too, and walked by her side, leading his horse.

  Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane, and had walkedfour or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight beforeher all the while, turned again to walk back, saying, with haughtyresentment,--

  "There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know whether youconsider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to place me in a positionthat forced me to come out with you, or whether you wished to insultme still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way."

  "Of course you are angry with me for coming," said Stephen, bitterly."Of course it is of no consequence what a man has to suffer; it isonly your woman's dignity that you care about."

  Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from the slightestpossible electric shock.

  "As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way; that I'm madwith love for you; that I resist the strongest passion a man can feel,because I try to be true to other claims; but you must treat me as ifI were a coarse brute, who would willingly offend you. And when, if Ihad my own choice, I should ask you to take my hand and my fortune andmy whole life, and do what you liked with them! I know I forgotmyself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I hate myself for having doneit. But I repented immediately; I've been repenting ever since. Youought not to think it unpardonable; a man who loves with his wholesoul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for amoment; but you know--you must believe--that the worst pain I couldhave is to have pained you; that I would give the world to recall theerror."

  Maggie dared not speak, dared not turn her head. The strength that hadcome from resentment was all gone, and her lips were quiveringvisibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full forgivenessthat rose in answer to that confession.

  They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she paused,trembling.

  "You must not say these things; I must not hear them," she said,looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front of her, to preventher from going farther toward the gate. "I'm very sorry for any painyou have to go through; but it is of no use to speak."

  "Yes, it _is_ of use," said Stephen, impetuously. "It would be of useif you would treat me with some sort of pity and consideration,instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. I could beareverything more quietly if I knew you didn't hate me for an insolentcoxcomb. Look at me; see what a hunted devil I am; I've been ridingthirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you."

  Maggie did not--dared not--look. She had already seen the harassedface. But she said gently,--

  "I don't think any evil of you."

  "Then, dearest, look at me," said Stephen, in deepest, tenderest tonesof entreaty. "Don't go away from me yet. Give me a moment's happiness;make me feel you've forgiven me."

  "Yes, I do forgive you," said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and allthe more frightened at herself. "But pray let me go in again. Pray goaway."

  A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids.

  "I can't go away from you; I can't leave you," said Stephen, withstill more passionate pleading. "I shall come back again if you sendme away with this coldness; I can't answer for myself. But if you willgo with me only a little way I can live on that. You see plainlyenough that your anger has only made me ten times more unreasonable."

  Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to make such spiritedremonstrances against this frequent change of direction, that Stephen,catching sight of Willy Moss peeping through the gate, called out,"Here! just come and hold my horse for five minutes."

  "Oh, no," said Maggie, hurriedly, "my aunt will think it so strange."

  "Never mind," Stephen answered impatiently; "they don't know thepeople at St. Ogg's. Lead him up and down just here for five minutes,"he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and then he turned toMaggie's side, and they walked on. It was clear that she _must_ go onnow.

  "Take my arm," said Stephen, entreatingly; and she took it, feelingall the while as if she were sliding downward in a nightmare.

  "There is no end to this misery," she began, struggling to repel theinfluence by speech. "It is wicked--base--ever allowing a word or lookthat Lucy--that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy."

  "I do think of her--bless her. If I didn't----" Stephen had laid hishand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and they both felt itdifficult to speak.

  "And I have other ties," Maggie went on, at last, with a desperateeffort, "even if Lucy did not exist."

  "You are engaged to Philip Wakem?" said Stephen, hastily. "Is it so?"

  "I consider myself engaged to him; I don't mean to marry any oneelse."

  Stephen was silent again until they had turned out of the sun into aside lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he burst out impetuously,--

  "It is unnatural, it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I loveyou, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake ofbelonging to each other. We should break all these mistaken ties thatwere made in blindness, and determine to marry each other."

  "I would rather die than fall into that temptation," said Maggie, withdeep, slow distinctness, all the gathered spiritual force of painfulyears coming to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from hisas she spoke.

  "Tell me, then, that you don't care for me," he said, almostviolently. "Tell me that you love some one else better."

  It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of releasingherself from outward struggle,--to tell Stephen that her whole heartwas Philip
's. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.

  "If you do love me, dearest," said Stephen, gently, taking her handagain and laying it within his arm, "it is better--it is right that weshould marry each other. We can't help the pain it will give. It iscome upon us without our seeking; it is natural; it has taken hold ofme in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I'vebeen trying to be faithful to tacit engagements, and I've only madethings worse; I'd better have given way at first."

  Maggie was silent. If it were _not_ wrong--if she were once convincedof that, and need no longer beat and struggle against this current,soft and yet strong as the summer stream!

  "Say 'yes,' dearest," said Stephen, leaning to look entreatingly inher face. "What could we care about in the whole world beside, if webelonged to each other?"

  Her breath was on his face, his lips were very near hers, but therewas a great dread dwelling in his love for her.

  Her lips and eyelids quivered; she opened her eyes full on his for aninstant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling undercaresses, and then turned sharp round toward home again.

  "And after all," he went on, in an impatient tone, trying to defeathis own scruples as well as hers, "I am breaking no positiveengagement; if Lucy's affections had been withdrawn from me and givento some one else, I should have felt no right to assert a claim onher. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are neither of usbound."

  "You don't believe that; it is not your real feeling," said Maggie,earnestly. "You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in the feelingsand expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges mightbe broken, when there was no outward penalty. There would be no suchthing as faithfulness."

  Stephen was silent; he could not pursue that argument; the oppositeconviction had wrought in him too strongly through his previous timeof struggle. But it soon presented itself in a new form.

  "The pledge _can't_ be fulfilled," he said, with impetuous insistence."It is unnatural; we can only pretend to give ourselves to any oneelse. There is wrong in that too; there may be misery in it for _them_as well as for us. Maggie, you must see that; you do see that."

  He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of compliance;his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for afew moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deepbreath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness,--

  "Oh, it is difficult,--life is very difficult! It seems right to mesometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; but then, suchfeelings continually come across the ties that all our former life hasmade for us,--the ties that have made others dependent on us,--andwould cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it mighthave been in Paradise, and we could always see that one being firsttoward whom--I mean, if life did not make duties for us before lovecomes, love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to eachother. But I see--I feel it is not so now; there are things we mustrenounce in life; some of us must resign love. Many things aredifficult and dark to me; but I see one thing quite clearly,--that Imust not, cannot, seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love isnatural; but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too.And they would live in me still, and punish me if I did not obey them.I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would bepoisoned. Don't urge me; help me,--help me, _because_ I love you."

  Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on her face hadbecome flushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of appealing love.Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him that vibrated to her appeal;but in the same moment--how could it be otherwise?--that pleadingbeauty gained new power over him.

  "Dearest," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his armstole round her, "I'll do, I'll bear anything you wish. But--onekiss--one--the last--before we part."

  One kiss, and then a long look, until Maggie said tremulously, "Let mego,--let me make haste back."

  She hurried along, and not another word was spoken. Stephen stoodstill and beckoned when they came within sight of Willy and the horse,and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs. Moss was standing alone atthe door of the old porch; she had sent all the cousins in, with kindthoughtfulness. It might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich andhandsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming inagain; and it might _not_ be joyful. In either case Mrs. Moss waitedanxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The speaking face told plainlyenough that, if there was joy, it was of a very agitating, dubioussort.

  "Sit down here a bit, my dear." She drew Maggie into the porch, andsat down on the bench by her; there was no privacy in the house.

  "Oh, aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched! I wish I could have died when Iwas fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then; it is so hardnow."

  The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and fell intolong, deep sobs.