The Mill on the Floss

by George Eliot

  Chapter IV

  Maggie and Lucy

  By the end of the week Dr. Kenn had made up his mind that there wasonly one way in which he could secure to Maggie a suitable living atSt. Ogg's. Even with his twenty years' experience as a parish priest,he was aghast at the obstinate continuance of imputations against herin the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored andappealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting toopen the ears of women to reason, and their consciences to justice, onbehalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as powerless ashe was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influence theshape of bonnets. Dr. Kenn could not be contradicted; he was listenedto in silence; but when he left the room, a comparison of opinionsamong his hearers yielded much the same result as before. MissTulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable manner, even Dr. Kenn didnot deny that; how, then, could he think so lightly of her as to putthat favorable interpretation on everything she had done? Even on thesupposition that required the utmost stretch of belief,--namely, thatnone of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true,--still, sincethey _had_ been said about her, they had cast an odor round her whichmust cause her to be shrunk from by every woman who had to take careof her own reputation--and of Society. To have taken Maggie by thehand and said, "I will not believe unproved evil of you; my lips shallnot utter it; my ears shall be closed against it; I, too, am an erringmortal, liable to stumble, apt to come short of my most earnestefforts; your lot has been harder than mine, your temptation greater;let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling,"--tohave done this would have demanded courage, deep pity, self-knowledge,generous trust; would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquancy inevil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in condemning, thatcheated itself with no large words into the belief that life can haveany moral end, any high religion, which excludes the striving afterperfect truth, justice, and love toward the individual men and womenwho come across our own path. The ladies of St. Ogg's were notbeguiled by any wide speculative conceptions; but they had theirfavorite abstraction, called Society, which served to make theirconsciences perfectly easy in doing what satisfied their ownegoism,--thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver, andturning their backs upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr.Kenn, after two years of superfluous incense from his feminineparishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views inopposition to his; but then they maintained them in opposition to ahigher Authority, which they had venerated longer. That Authority hadfurnished a very explicit answer to persons who might inquire wheretheir social duties began, and might be inclined to take wide views asto the starting-point. The answer had not turned on the ultimate goodof Society, but on "a certain man" who was found in trouble by thewayside.

  Not that St. Ogg's was empty of women with some tenderness of heartand conscience; probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodnessin it as any other small trading town of that day. But until everygood man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid,--tootimid even to believe in the correctness of their own best promptings,when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St. Ogg'swere not all brave, by any means; some of them were even fond ofscandal, and to an extent that might have given their conversation aneffeminate character, if it had not been distinguished by masculinejokes, and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutualhatred of women. It was the general feeling of the masculine mind atSt. Ogg's that women were not to be interfered with in their treatmentof each other.

  And thus every direction in which Dr. Kenn had turned, in the hope ofprocuring some kind recognition and some employment for Maggie, proveda disappointment to him. Mrs. James Torry could not think of takingMaggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily,--a young woman aboutwhom "such things had been said," and about whom "gentlemen joked";and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, and wanted a reader andcompanion, felt quite sure that Maggie's mind must be of a qualitywith which she, for her part, could not risk _any_ contact. Why didnot Miss Tulliver accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg? Itdid not become a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she notgo out of the neighborhood, and get a situation where she was notknown? (It was not, apparently, of so much importance that she shouldcarry her dangerous tendencies into strange families unknown at St.Ogg's.) She must be very bold and hardened to wish to stay in a parishwhere she was so much stared at and whispered about.

  Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence ofthis opposition, as every firm man would have done, to contract acertain strength of determination over and above what would have beencalled forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily governessfor his younger children; and though he had hesitated in the firstinstance to offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protestwith the utmost force of his personal and priestly character againsther being crushed and driven away by slander, was now decisive. Maggiegratefully accepted an employment that gave her duties as well as asupport; her days would be filled now, and solitary evenings would bea welcome rest. She no longer needed the sacrifice her mother made instaying with her, and Mrs. Tulliver was persuaded to go back to theMill.

  But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exemplary as he hadhitherto appeared, had his crotchets, possibly his weaknesses. Themasculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled pleasantly, and did not wonder thatKenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he was inclinedto take so lenient a view of the past; the feminine mind, regarded atthat period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case.If Dr. Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver! Itwas not safe to be too confident, even about the best of men; anapostle had fallen, and wept bitterly afterwards; and though Peter'sdenial was not a close precedent, his repentance was likely to be.

  Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for many weeks,before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other becoming theRector's wife had been talked of so often in confidence, that ladieswere beginning to discuss how they should behave to her in thatposition. For Dr. Kenn, it had been understood, had sat in theschoolroom half an hour one morning, when Miss Tulliver was giving herlessons,--nay, he had sat there every morning; he had once walked homewith her,--he almost _always_ walked home with her,--and if not, hewent to see her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! Whata _mother_ for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs. Kennturn in her grave, that they should be put under the care of this girlonly a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to propriety asto marry her before the year was out? The masculine mind wassarcastic, and thought _not_.

  The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a follyin their Rector; at least their brother would be safe; and theirknowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a constant ground of alarm tothem, lest he should come back and marry Maggie. They were not amongthose who disbelieved their brother's letter; but they had noconfidence in Maggie's adherence to her renunciation of him; theysuspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than from themarriage, and that she lingered in St. Ogg's, relying on his return toher. They had always thought her disagreeable; they now thought herartful and proud; having quite as good grounds for that judgment asyou and I probably have for many strong opinions of the same kind.Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the contemplated matchwith Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage between Stephen andMaggie added its momentum to their genuine pity and indignation onbehalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that heshould return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home, she wasto seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by going to thecoast with the Miss Guests; and it was in their plans that Stephenshould be induced to join them. On the very first hint of gossipconcerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the report was conveyed in MissGuest's letter to her brother.

  Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg, or Dr.Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress toward recovery, and her thoughtstended continually toward her uncl
e Deane's house; she hungered for aninterview with Lucy, if it were only for five minutes, to utter a wordof penitence, to be assured by Lucy's own eyes and lips that she didnot believe in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved andtrusted. But she knew that even if her uncle's indignation had notclosed his house against her, the agitation of such an interview wouldhave been forbidden to Lucy. Only to have seen her without speakingwould have been some relief; for Maggie was haunted by a face cruel inits very gentleness; a face that had been turned on hers with glad,sweet looks of trust and love from the twilight time of memory;changed now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke. And asthe days passed on, that pale image became more and more distinct; thepicture grew and grew into more speaking definiteness under theavenging hand of remorse; the soft hazel eyes, in their look of pain,were bent forever on Maggie, and pierced her the more because shecould see no anger in them. But Lucy was not yet able to go to church,or any place where Maggie could see her; and even the hope of thatdeparted, when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy wasreally going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss Guests,who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meetthem there.

  Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is, can knowwhat Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the evening afterhearing that news from Mrs. Glegg,--only those who have known what itis to dread their own selfish desires as the watching mother woulddread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain.

  She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window wide opentoward the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itselfundistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair againstthe window, with her arm on the windowsill she was looking blankly atthe flowing river, swift with the backward-rushing tide, struggling tosee still the sweet face in its unreproaching sadness, that seemed nowfrom moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form thatthrust itself between, and made darkness. Hearing the door open, shethought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with her supper, as usual; and withthat repugnance to trivial speech which comes with languor andwretchedness, she shrank from turning round and saying she wantednothing; good little Mrs. Jakin would be sure to make some well-meantremarks. But the next moment, without her having discerned the soundof a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard avoice close to her saying, "Maggie!"

  The face was there,--changed, but all the sweeter; the hazel eyes werethere, with their heart-piercing tenderness.

  "Maggie!" the soft voice said. "Lucy!" answered a voice with a sharpring of anguish in it; and Lucy threw her arms round Maggie's neck,and leaned her pale cheek against the burning brow.

  "I stole out," said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat downclose to Maggie and held her hand, "when papa and the rest were away.Alice is come with me. I asked her to help me. But I must only stay alittle while, because it is so late."

  It was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They satlooking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end withoutmore speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there wouldbe something scorching in the words that would recall theirretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinctthought began to be overflowed by a wave of loving penitence, andwords burst forth with a sob.

  "God bless you for coming, Lucy."

  The sobs came thick on each other after that.

  "Maggie, dear, be comforted," said Lucy now, putting her cheek againstMaggie's again. "Don't grieve." And she sat still, hoping to sootheMaggie with that gentle caress.

  "I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy," said Maggie, as soon as shecould speak. "It always made me wretched that I felt what I didn'tlike you to know. It was because I thought it would all be conquered,and you might never see anything to wound you."

  "I know, dear," said Lucy. "I know you never meant to make me unhappy.It is a trouble that has come on us all; you have more to bear than Ihave--and you gave him up, when--you did what it must have been veryhard to do."

  They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, andcheeks leaned together.

  "Lucy," Maggie began again, "_he_ struggled too. He wanted to be trueto you. He will come back to you. Forgive him--he will be happythen----"

  These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul, with aneffort like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled andwas silent.

  A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, who enteredand said,--

  "I daren't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They'll find it out, andthere'll be such anger at your coming out so late."

  Lucy rose and said, "Very well, Alice,--in a minute."

  "I'm to go away on Friday, Maggie," she added, when Alice had closedthe door again. "When I come back, and am strong, they will let me doas I like. I shall come to you when I please then."

  "Lucy," said Maggie, with another great effort, "I pray to Godcontinually that I may never be the cause of sorrow to you any more."

  She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and looked upinto the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never forgot that look.

  "Maggie," she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity ofconfession in it, "you are better than I am. I can't----"

  She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped each otheragain in a last embrace.

  Chapter V

  The Last Conflict

  In the second week of September, Maggie was again sitting in herlonely room, battling with the old shadowy enemies that were foreverslain and rising again. It was past midnight, and the rain was beatingheavily against the window, driven with fitful force by the rushing,loud-moaning wind. For the day after Lucy's visit there had been asudden change in the weather; the heat and drought had given way tocold variable winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals; and she hadbeen forbidden to risk the contemplated journey until the weathershould become more settled. In the counties higher up the Floss therains had been continuous, and the completion of the harvest had beenarrested. And now, for the last two days, the rains on this lowercourse of the river had been incessant, so that the old men had shakentheir heads and talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort ofweather, happening about the equinox, brought on the great floods,which swept the bridge away, and reduced the town to great misery. Butthe younger generation, who had seen several small floods, thoughtlightly of these sombre recollections and forebodings; and Bob Jakin,naturally prone to take a hopeful view of his own luck, laughed at hismother when she regretted their having taken a house by the riverside,observing that but for that they would have had no boats, which werethe most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged them togo to a distance for food.

  But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their bedsnow. There was hope that the rain would abate by the morrow;threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws after falls of snow,had often passed off, in the experience of the younger ones; and atthe very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down the riverwhen the tide came in with violence, and so the waters would becarried off, without causing more than temporary inconvenience, andlosses that would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity wouldrelieve.

  All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight; all except somesolitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little parlortoward the river, with one candle, that left everything dim in theroom except a letter which lay before her on the table. That letter,which had come to her to-day, was one of the causes that had kept herup far on into the night, unconscious how the hours were going,careless of seeking rest, with no image of rest coming across hermind, except of that far, far off rest from which there would be nomore waking for her into this struggling earthly life.

  Two days before Maggie received that letter, she had been to theRectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented herfrom going since; but there was another reason. Dr. Kenn, at firstenlightened only by a few hints as to the new turn which gossi
p andslander had taken in relation to Maggie, had recently been made morefully aware of it by an earnest remonstrance from one of his maleparishioners against the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt toovercome the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course ofresistance. Dr. Kenn, having a conscience void of offence in thematter, was still inclined to persevere,--was still averse to give waybefore a public sentiment that was odious and contemptible; but he wasfinally wrought upon by the consideration of the peculiarresponsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance ofevil,--an "appearance" that is always dependent on the average qualityof surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area ofthat "appearance" is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in dangerof acting from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty to succumb.Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is themost painful course; and to recede was always painful to Dr. Kenn. Hemade up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St. Ogg'sfor a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacyas he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt tocountenance her stay was a source of discord between himself and hisparishioners, that was likely to obstruct his usefulness as aclergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend ofhis, who might possibly take her into his own family as governess;and, if not, would probably know of some other available position fora young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn felt a strong interest.

  Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip; she could say nothing but afaint "Thank you, I shall be grateful"; and she walked back to herlodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation.She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, thatwould look at her wonderingly, because the days did not seem joyful toher; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouseherself to receive new impressions; and she was so unspeakably,sickeningly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring; eventhose who pitied were constrained to hardness. But ought she tocomplain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance oflife, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load tosome other sufferers, and so changing that passionate error into a newforce of unselfish human love? All the next day she sat in her lonelyroom, with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain,thinking of that future, and wrestling for patience; for what reposecould poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling?

  And on the third day--this day of which she had just sat out theclose--the letter had come which was lying on the table before her.

  The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from Holland; he was atMudport again, unknown to any of his friends, and had written to herfrom that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted inSt. Ogg's. From beginning to end it was a passionate cry of reproach;an appeal against her useless sacrifice of him, of herself, againstthat perverted notion of right which led her to crush all his hopes,for the sake of a mere idea, and not any substantial good,--_his_hopes, whom she loved, and who loved her with that single overpoweringpassion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more thanonce in his life.

  "They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I shouldbelieve that! Perhaps they have told you some such fables about me.Perhaps they tell you I've been 'travelling.' My body has been draggedabout somewhere; but _I_ have never travelled from the hideous placewhere you left me; where I started up from the stupor of helpless rageto find you gone.

  "Maggie! whose pain can have been like mine? Whose injury is likemine? Who besides me has met that long look of love that has burntitself into my soul, so that no other image can come there? Maggie,call me back to you! Call me back to life and goodness! I am banishedfrom both now. I have no motives; I am indifferent to everything. Twomonths have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for lifewithout you. Write me one word; say 'Come!' In two days I should bewith you. Maggie, have you forgotten what it was to be together,--tobe within reach of a look, to be within hearing of each other'svoice?"

  When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptationhad only just begun. At the entrance of the chill dark cavern, we turnwith unworn courage from the warm light; but how, when we have troddenfar in the damp darkness, and have begun to be faint and weary; how,if there is a sudden opening above us, and we are invited back againto the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing from under thepressure of pain is so strong, that all less immediate motives arelikely to be forgotten--till the pain has been escaped from.

  For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hoursevery other thought that she strove to summon was thrust aside by theimage of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him toher. She did not _read_ the letter: she heard him uttering it, and thevoice shook her with its old strange power. All the day before she hadbeen filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she mustcarry the burthen of regret, upheld only by clinging faith. And here,close within her reach, urging itself upon her even as a claim, wasanother future, in which hard endurance and effort were to beexchanged for easy, delicious leaning on another's loving strength!And yet that promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make thedire force of the temptation to Maggie.

  It was Stephen's tone of misery, it was the doubt in the justice ofher own resolve, that made the balance tremble, and made her oncestart from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write "Come!"

  But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense ofcontradiction with her past self in her moments of strength andclearness came upon her like a pang of conscious degradation. No, shemust wait; she must pray; the light that had forsaken her would comeagain; she should feel again what she had felt when she had fled away,under an inspiration strong enough to conquer agony,--to conquer love;she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, whenPhilip's letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her to thecalmer past.

  She sat quite still, far on into the night, with no impulse to changeher attitude, without active force enough even for the mental act ofprayer; only waiting for the light that would surely come again. Itcame with the memories that no passion could long quench; the longpast came back to her, and with it the fountains of self-renouncingpity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that weremarked by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long agolearned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent forthemselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving ofthe rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind. "Ihave received the Cross, I have received it from Thy hand; I will bearit, and bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me."

  But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but in asob,--"Forgive me, Stephen! It will pass away. You will come back toher."

  She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowlyon the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word ofparting.

  "I will bear it, and bear it till death. But how long it will bebefore death comes! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I havepatience and strength? Am I to struggle and fall and repent again? Haslife other trials as hard for me still?"

  With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against thetable, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her soul went out to theUnseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there wassomething being taught her by this experience of great need; and shemust be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, thatthe less erring could hardly know? "O God, if my life is to be long,let me live to bless and comfort----"

  At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden cold abouther knees and feet; it was water flowing under her. She started up;the stream was flowing under the door that led into the passage. Shewas not bewildered for an instant; she knew it was the flood!

  The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hoursseemed to have left a great calm in her; without screaming, shehurried with the candle upstairs to Bob Jakin's bedroom. The
door wasajar; she went in and shook him by the shoulder.

  "Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house; let us see if we can makethe boats safe."

  She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her baby,burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if thewaters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at thedoor leading from the staircase; she saw that the water was already ona level with the step. While she was looking, something came with atremendous crash against the window, and sent the leaded panes and theold wooden framework inward in shivers, the water pouring in after it.

  "It is the boat!" cried Maggie. "Bob, come down to get the boats!"

  And without a moment's shudder of fear, she plunged through the water,which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of thecandle she had left on the stairs, she mounted on to the window-sill,and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging andprotruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurryingwithout shoes or stockings, but with the lanthorn in his hand.

  "Why, they're both here,--both the boats," said Bob, as he got intothe one where Maggie was. "It's wonderful this fastening isn't broketoo, as well as the mooring."

  In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it, andmastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred.We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are companions intheir danger, and Bob's mind was absorbed in possible expedients forthe safety of the helpless indoors. The fact that Maggie had been up,had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vagueimpression of her as one who would help to protect, not need to beprotected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off,so as to release the boat from the overhanging window-frame.

  "The water's rising so fast," said Bob, "I doubt it'll be in at thechambers before long,--th' house is so low. I've more mind to getPrissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could, andtrusten to the water,--for th' old house is none so safe. And if I letgo the boat--but _you_," he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light ofhis lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in herhand and her black hair streaming.

  Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current swept along theline of the houses, and drove both the boats out on to the wide water,with a force that carried them far past the meeting current of theriver.

  In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of nothing, but thatshe had suddenly passed away from that life which she had beendreading; it was the transition of death, without its agony,--and shewas alone in the darkness with God.

  The whole thing had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that the threads ofordinary association were broken; she sank down on the seat clutchingthe oar mechanically, and for a long while had no distinct conceptionof her position. The first thing that waked her to fullerconsciousness was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that thedarkness was divided by the faintest light, which parted theoverhanging gloom from the immeasurable watery level below. She wasdriven out upon the flood,--that awful visitation of God which herfather used to talk of; which had made the nightmare of her childishdreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the oldhome, and Tom, and her mother,--they had all listened together.

  "O God, where am I? Which is the way home?" she cried out, in the dimloneliness.

  What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had once nearlydestroyed it. They might be in danger, in distress,--her mother andher brother, alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul wasstrained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces lookingfor help into the darkness, and finding none.

  She was floating in smooth water now,--perhaps far on the overfloodedfields. There was no sense of present danger to check the outgoing ofher mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against thecurtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of herwhereabout,--that she might catch some faint suggestion of the spottoward which all her anxieties tended.

  Oh, how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level, the gradualuplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defining blackness ofobjects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must be out on the fields;those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did the river lie?Looking behind her, she saw the lines of black trees; looking beforeher, there were none; then the river lay before her. She seized an oarand began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope;the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action andshe could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a moundwhere they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns inthe growing twilight; her wet clothes clung round her, and herstreaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardlyconscious of any bodily sensations,--except a sensation of strength,inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger andpossible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home,there was an undefined sense of reconcilement with her brother; whatquarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist inthe presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture ofour life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitivemortal needs? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent lovetoward her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard,cruel offence and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,underlying, unshakable memories of early union.

  But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and near to herMaggie could discern the current of the river. The dark mass mustbe--yes, it was--St. Ogg's. Ah, now she knew which way to look for thefirst glimpse of the well-known trees--the gray willows, the nowyellowing chestnuts--and above them the old roof! But there was nocolor, no shape yet; all was faint and dim. More and more strongly theenergies seemed to come and put themselves forth, as if her life werea stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for anyfuture.

  She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she wouldnever be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house; this was thethought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and morevividness the state of things round the old home. But then she mightbe carried very far down, and be unable to guide her boat out of thecurrent again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began topress upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room forhesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went nowwithout effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distance andthe growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew mustbe the well-known trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing,muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple.

  Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash againsther boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What werethose masses?

  For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony of dread.She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being floated along,more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash. But the horror wastransient; it passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St. Ogg's.She had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; _now_, she must use allher skill and power to manage the boat and get it if possible out ofthe current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; shecould see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the wateryfield. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river,--such as hadbeen laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.

  With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again topaddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river,and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shoutsfrom the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there werecalling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Toftonthat she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with oneyearning look toward her uncle Deane's house that lay farther down theriver, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might acrossthe watery fields, back toward the Mill. Color was beginning to awakenow, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern thetints of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far
to the right,and the home chestnuts,--oh, how deep they lay in the water,--deeperthan the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill--wherewas it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple,--what had theymeant? But it was not the house,--the house stood firm; drowned up tothe first story, but still firm,--or was it broken in at the endtoward the Mill?

  With panting joy that she was there at last,--joy that overcame alldistress,--Maggie neared the front of the house. At first she heard nosound; she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with theupstairs window. She called out in a loud, piercing voice,--

  "Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is Maggie!"

  Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she heardTom's voice,--

  "Who is it? Have you brought a boat?"

  "It is I, Tom,--Maggie. Where is mother?"

  "She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yesterday. I'llcome down to the lower window."

  "Alone, Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonishment, as heopened the middle window, on a level with the boat.

  "Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you. Get inquickly. Is there no one else?"

  "No," said Tom, stepping into the boat; "I fear the man is drowned; hewas carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the Mill fell withthe crash of trees and stones against it; I've shouted again andagain, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie."

  It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the widewater,--he face to face with Maggie,--that the full meaning of whathad happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overpowering aforce,--it was such a new revelation to his spirit, of the depths inlife that had lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen andclear,--that he was unable to ask a question. They sat mutely gazingat each other,--Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from aweary, beaten face; Tom pale, with a certain awe and humiliation.Thought was busy though the lips were silent; and though he could askno question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, divinelyprotected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes,and the lips found a word they could utter,--the old childish"Magsie!"

  Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that mysterious,wondrous happiness that is one with pain.

  As soon as she could speak, she said, "We will go to Lucy, Tom; we'llgo and see if she is safe, and then we can help the rest."

  Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed from poorMaggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, andsoon they would be at Tofton.

  "Park House stands high up out of the flood," said Maggie. "Perhapsthey have got Lucy there."

  Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried toward them bythe river. Some wooden machinery had just given way on one of thewharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun wasrising now, and the wide area of watery desolation was spread out indreadful clearness around them; in dreadful clearness floated onwardthe hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that wasworking its way along under the Tofton houses observed their danger,and shouted, "Get out of the current!"

  But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before him, sawdeath rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging together in fatalfellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

  "It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice, loosing theoars, and clasping her.

  The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and thehuge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.

  But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on the goldenwater.

  The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in anembrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme momentthe days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamedthe daisied fields together.

  Conclusion

  Nature repairs her ravages,--repairs them with her sunshine, and withhuman labor. The desolation wrought by that flood had left littlevisible trace on the face of the earth, five years after. The fifthautumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in thick clusters amongthe distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss werebusy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading andunlading.

  And every man and woman mentioned in this history was still living,except those whose end we know.

  Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees are notrooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a newgrowth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hillsunderneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. Tothe eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair.

  Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard--where the brickgrave that held a father whom we know, was found with the stone laidprostrate upon it after the flood--had recovered all its grassy orderand decent quiet.

  Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon after theflood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace; and it wasvisited at different moments by two men who both felt that theirkeenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever buried there.

  One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him; butthat was years after.

  The other was always solitary. His great companionship was among thetrees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed still to hover,like a revisiting spirit.

  The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and below thenames it was written,--

  "In their death they were not divided."