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《The Mill on the Floss》


 Book 1 CHAPTER 1

    Outside Dorlill

    A WIDE plain, where the broadening Floss hurries oween its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships - laden with the fresh-sted fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or wit<bdi>?99liｂ.</bdi>h the dark glitter of coal - are borne along to the town of St Oggs, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tinging the water with a soft purple hue uhe tra glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown . There is a remnant still of the last years golden clusters of bee-hive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedge-rows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretg their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by<samp>九九藏书</samp> the red-roofed towributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is with its dark, ging wavelets! It seems to me like a living panion while I wander along the bank and listen to its low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows... I remember the stone bridge... And this is Dorlill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on iernoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at - perhaps the chill damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, fortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brim full now, an<a>.9９liｂ.</a>d lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and brahat gleam from uhe bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes - unmindful of the awkward appearahey make in the drier world above.

    The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the se. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting o from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered waggon ing home with sacks of grain. That ho waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses, - the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they hat hint! See how they stretch their shoulders, up the slope towards the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home. Look at their grand shagg<q></q>y feet that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks bowed uhe heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of , ahem, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pad the arch of the covered waggon disappears at the turning behind the trees.

    Now I  turn my eyes towards the mill again and watch the uing wheel sending out its diamos of water. That little girl is watg it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in iual remonstrah the wheel; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow in the beaver bo is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out uhe deepening grey of the sky. It is time too for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge... .

    Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlill as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr and Mrs Tulliver were talking a<s>藏书网</s>bout as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.

 CHAPTER 2

    Mr Tulliver of Dorlill, Declares His Resolution about Tom

    `WHAT I want, you know, said Mr Tulliver, `what I want, is to give Tom a good eddication: an eddication asll be a bread to him. That was what I was thinking on when I gave notice for him to leave th Academy at Ladyday. I mean to put him to a dht good school at Midsummer. The two years at th Academy ud ha done well enough, if Id meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for hes had a fine sight more schoolin nor I ever got: all the learnin my father ever paid for was a bit o birch at one end and the alphabet at th other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks othese fellows as talk fine and write wi a flourish. It ud be a help to me wi these law-suits and arbitrations and things. I wouldnt make a dht lawyer o the lad - I should be sorry for him to be a raskill - but a sort o engineer, or a surveyor, or an aueer and vallyer, like Riley, or ohem smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch- and a high stool. Theyre pretty nigh all one, and theyre not far off being even wi the law, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i the face as hard as o looks another. Hes none frighted at him. Mr Tulliver eaking to his wife, a blond ely woman in a fan-shaped cap. (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shaped caps were worn - they must be so near ing in again. At that time, when Mrs Tulliver was nearly forty, they were  St Oggs and sidered sweet things.)

    `Well, Mr Tulliver, you know best: Ive no objes. But hadnt I better kill a couple o fowl and have th aunts and uo dinner  week, so as you may hear what Sister Glegg and Sister Pullet have got to say about it? Theres a couple o fowl wants killing!

    `You may kill every fowl i the yard, if you like, Bessy; but I shall ask her aunt nor uncle what Im to do wimy own lad, said Mr Tulliver, defiantly.

    `Dear heart, said Mrs Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, `how  you talk so, Mr Tulliver? But its your way to speak disrespectful o my family, and Sister Glegg throws all the blame upo me, though Im sure Im as i as the babe unborn. For nobodys ever heard me say as it wasnt lucky for my children to have aunts and uncles as  live indepe. Howiver, if Toms to go to a new school, I should like him to go where I  wash him and mend him; else he might as well have calico as linen, for theyd be one as yallow as th other before theyd been washed half-a-dozen times. And then, when the box is goinbackards and forrards, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he  do with ary bit, bless him, whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children  eat as much victuals as most, thank God.

    `Well, well, we wont send him out o reach o the carriers cart, if other things fit in, said Mr Tulliver. `But you mustnt put a spoke i the wheel about the washin, if we t get a school near enough. Thats the fault I have to find wi you, Bessy: if you see a stick i the road, youre allays thinkin you t step over it. Youd wa to hire a good waggoner, cause hed got a mole on his face.

    `Dear heart! said Mrs Tulliver, in mild surprise, `when did I iver make objes to a man, because hed got a mole on his face? Im sure Im rether fond o the moles, for my brother, as is dead an gone, had a mole on his brow. But I t remember your iver  to hire a waggoner with a mole, Mr Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadnt a mole on his faore nor you have, an I was all for having you hire him; an so you did hire him, an if he hadnt died o th inflammation, as we paid Dr Turnbull for attending him, hed very like ha been driving the waggon now. He might have a mole somewhere out o sight, but how was I to know that, Mr Tulliver?

    `No, no, Bessy; I didnt mean justly the mole; I meant it to stand for summat else; but niver mind - its puzzling work, talking is. What Im thinking on, is how to find the right sort o school to send Tom to, for I might be taen in again, as Ive been wi the Cademy. Ill have nothing to do wi a Cademy again: whativer school I send Tom to, it shant be a Cademy. It shall be a place where the lads spend their time i summat else besides blag the familys shoes, aing up the potatoes. Its an unon puzzling thing to know what school to pick.

    Mr Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands into his breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some suggestion there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, `I know what Ill do - Ill talk it over wiRiley: hes ing to-morrow, t arbitrate about the dam.

    `Well, Mr Tulliver, Ive put the sheets out for the best bed, and Kezias got em hanging at the fire. They arent the best sheets, but theyre good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for as for them best Holland sheets, I should repent buying em, only theyll do to lay us out in. An if you was to die to-morrow, Mr Tulliver, the<bdi></bdi>yre mangled beautiful, an all ready, an smell o lavender as it ud be a pleasure to lay em out. An they lie at the left-hand er o the big oak line, at the baot as I should trust anybody to look em out but myself.

    As Mrs Tulliver uttered the last sentence she drew a bright bunch of keys from her pocket, and si one, rubbihumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile, while she looked at the clear fire. If Mr Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his jugal relations, he might have supposed that she drew out the key to aid her imagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state to justify the produ of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not so: he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power; moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, and, since his mention of Mr Riley, had been apparently occupied in a tactile examination of his wo<q>99ｌiｂ?</q>ollen stogs.

    `I think Ive hit it, Bessy, was his first remark after a short silence. `Rileys as likely a man as any to know osome school: hes had schooling himself, an goes about to all sorts o places, arbitratin and vallyin and that. And we shall have time to talk it over to-morrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be such a sort o man as Riley, you know - as  talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all wrote out for him, and knows a good lot o words as dont mean much, so as you t lay hold ofem i law; and a good solid knowledge o busioo.

    `Well, said Mrs Tulliver, `so far as talking proper and knowing everything, and walking with a bend in his bad setting his hair up, I shouldnt mind the lad being brought up to that. But them fialking men from the big towns mostly wear the false shirt-fronts; they wear a frill till its all a mess, and then hide it with a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Toms to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, hell have a house with a kit hardly big enough to turn in, an niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, ansleep up three pair o stairs - or four, for what I know - anbe burnt to death before he gets down.

    `No, no, said Mr Tulliver, `Ive no thoughts of his going to Mudport: I mean him to set up his office at St Oggs close by us, an live at home. But, tinued Mr Tulliver after a pause, `what Im a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasnt got the right sort o brians for a smart fellow. I doubt hes a bit slowish. He takes after your family, Bessy.

    `Yes, that he does, said Mrs Tulliver, accepting the last propositioirely on its ows, `hes wonderful for liking a deal o salt in his broth. That was my brothers way and my fathers before him.

    `It seems a bit of a pity, though, said Mr Tulliver, `as the lad should take after the mothers side istead o the little wench. Thats the worst ont wi the crossing o breeds: you ever justly calkilate whatll e ont. The little un takes after my side, now: shes twice as cute as Tom. Too cute for a woman, Im afraid, tinued Mr Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then oher. `Its no mischief much while shes a little un, but an over cute womans er nor a long-tailed sheep - shell fetohe bigger price for that.

    `Yes, it is a mischief while shes a little un, Mr Tulliver, for it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a  pinafore two hours together passes my ing. An now you put me i mind, tinued Mrs Tulliver, rising and going to the window, `I dont<mark></mark> know where she is now, anits pretty nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought so - wanderin up an down by the water, like a wild thing: shell tumble in same day.

    Mrs Tulliver rapped the windoly, beed, and shook her head, - a process which she repeated more than once before she returo her chair.

    `You talk o ess, Mr Tulliver, she observed as she sat down, `but Im sure the childs half a idiot i some things, for if I send her up-stairs to fetything she fets what shes gone for, an perhaps ull sit down on the floor i the sunshine an plait her hair an sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur, all the while Im waiting for her down-stairs. That niver run i my family, thank God, no more nor a brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I dont like to fly i the face o Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but one gell, an her so ical.

    `Pooh, nonsense! said Mr Tulliver, `shes a straight black-eyed wench as anybody need wish to see. I dont know i what shes behind other folks children; an she  read almost as well as the parson.

    `But her hair wont curl all I  do with it and shes so franzy about having it put i paper, an Ive such work as never was to make her stand and have it pinched with thirons.

    `Cut i<s>99liｂ?</s>t off - cut if off short, said the father, rashly.

    `How  you talk so, Mr Tulliver? Shes too big a gell, gone nine, and tall of her age - to have her hair cut short; an theres her cousin Lucys got a row o curls round her head, an not a hair out o place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that pretty child; Im sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie, tihe mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mistake of nature ehe room, `wheres the use o my telling you to keep away from the water? Youll tumble in and be drownded some day, an then youll be sorry you didnt do as mother told you.

    Maggies hair, as she threw off her bo, painfully firmed her mothers accusation: Mrs Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have a curled crop, `like other folks children, had had it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears, and as it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the dark heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes - an a which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland pony.

    `O dear, O dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin of, to throw your bo down there? Take it upstairs, theres a good gell, a your hair be brushed, an put your other pinafore on, an ge your shoes - do, for shame; ane an go on with your patchwork, like a little lady.

    `O mother, said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, `I dont want to do my patchwork.

    `What, not your pretty patchwork, to make a terpane for your aunt Glegg?

    `Its foolish work, said Maggie, with a toss of her mane, - `te<bdi>九九藏书</bdi>aring things to pieces to sew em together again. And I dont want to do anything for my aunt Glegg - I dont like her.

    Exit Maggie, dragging her bo by the string, while Mr Tulliver laughs audibly.

    `I wo you, as youll laugh at her, Mr Tulliver, said the mother, with lymphatic fretfulness ione. `You ence her i naughtiness. An her aunts will have it as its me spoils her.

    Mrs Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered person - never cried when she was a baby on any slighter ground than hunger and pins, and from the cradle upwards had beehy, fair plump, and dull-witted, in short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milk and mildness are not the best things for keeping, and wheurn only a little sour they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expressioheir placidity undisturbed when their strong-limbed strong-willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became more and more iual.

 CHAPTER 3

    Mr Riley Gives His Advice ing a School for Tom

    THE gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill, taking his brandy and water so pleasantly with his good friend Tulliver, is Mr Riley: a gentleman with a waxen plexion and fat hands, rather highly educated for an aueer and appraiser, but large-hearted enough to show a great deal of bonhomm<strike>藏书网</strike>ie towards simple try acquaintances of hospitable habits. Mr Riley spoke of such acquaintances kindly as `people of the old school. The versation had e to a pause. Mr Tulliver, not without a particular reason, had abstained from a seventh recital of the cool retort by which Riley had shown himself too many for Dix, and how Wakem had had his b cut for on his life, now the business of the dam had beeled by arbitration, and how there never would have been any dispute at all about the height of water if everybody was what they should be, and Old Harry hadnt made the lawyers. Mr Tulliver was on the whole a man of safe traditional opinions; but on one or two points he had trusted to his unassisted intelled had arrived at several questionable clusions, among the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by Old Harry. Unhappily he had no oo tell him that this was rampant Manich?ism, else he might have seen his error. But to-day it was clear that the good principle was triumphant: this affair of the water-power had been a tangled business somehow, for all it seemed - look at it one way - as plain as waters water, but, big a puzzle as it was, it hadnt got the better of Riley. Mr Tulliver took his brandy and water a little strohan usual, and, for a man who might be supposed to have a few hundreds lying idle at his bankers, was rather incautiously open in expressing his high estimate of his friends busialents.

    But the dam was a subject of versation that would keep: it could always be taken up again at the same point aly in the same dition; and there was another subject, as you know, on which Mr Tulliver was in pressing want of Mr Rileys advice. This was his particular reason for remaining silent for a short space after his last draught, and rubbing his knees in a meditative manner. He was not a man to make an abrupt transition. This uzzling world, as he often said, and if you drive ygon in a hurry you may light on an awkward er. Mr Riley, meanwhile, was not impatient. Why should he be? Even Hotspur, one would think, must have been patient in his slippers on a warm hearth, taking copious snuff, and sipping gratuitous brandy and water.

    `Theres a thing Ive got i my head, said Mr Tulliver at last, in rather a lower tohan usual, as he turned his head and looked steadfastly at his panion.

    `Ah? said Mr Riley, in a tone of mild i. He was a man with heavy waxen eyelids and high-arched eyebrows, lookily the same under all circumstahis immovability of fad the habit of taking a pinch of snuff before he gave an answer, made him trebly oracular to Mr Tulliver.

    `Its a very particlar thing, he went on, `its about my boy Tom.

    At the sound of this name, Maggie, who was seated on a low stool close by the fire, with a large book open on her lap, shook her heavy hair bad looked up eagerly. There were few sounds that roused Maggie when she was dreaming over her book, but Toms name served as well as the shrillest whistle: in an instant she was och, with gleaming eyes, like a Skye terrier suspeg mischief, or at all events determio fly at any one who threate towards Tom.

    `You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsummer, said Mr Tulliver, `hes in away from the Cademy at Ladyday, an I shall let him run loose for a quarter; but after that I want to send him to a dht good school, where theyll make a scholard of him.

    `Well, said Mr Riley, `theres no greater advantage you  give him than a good education. Not, he added, with polite significe, `not that a man t be an excellent miller and farmer and a shrewd sensible fellow into the bargain without much help from the saster.

    `I believe you, said Mr Tulliver, winking and turning his head on one side, `but thats where it is. I doom to be a miller and farmer. I see no fun i that: why, if I made him a miller an farmer, hed be expe to take to the mill an the land, an a-hinting at me as it was time for me to lay by an think o my latter end. Nay, nay, Ive seen enough o that wi sons. Ill niver pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall give Tom an eddication an put him to a business, as he may make a  for himself an not want to push me out o mine. Pretty well if he gets it when Im dead an gone. I sha off wi spoo afore Ive lost my teeth.

    This was evidently a point on which Mr Tulliver felt strongly, and the impetus which had given unusual rapidity and emphasis to his speech showed itself still unexhausted for some minutes afterwards in a defiant motion of the head from side to side, and an occasional `Nay, nay, like a subsiding growl.

    These angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, and cut her to the quick: Tom, it appeared, was supposed capable of turning his father out of doors, and of making the future in some way tragic by his wiess. This was not to be borne, and Maggie jumped up from her stool, fetting all about her heavy book, which fell with a bang within the fender; and going up between her fathers knees, said, in a half g, half indignant voice,

    `Father, Tom wouldnt be naughty to you ever, I know he wouldnt.

    Mrs Tulliver was out of the room superintending a choice supper-dish, and Mr Tullivers heart was touched, so Maggie was not scolded about the book. Mr Riley quietly picked it up and looked at it while the father laughed with a certain tenderness in his hard lined face, and patted his little girl on the back, and then held her hands a her between his knees.

    `What, they mustnt say no harm o Tom, eh? said Mr Tulliver, looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye. Then, in a lower voice, turning to Mr Riley, as though Maggie couldnt hear, `She uands what oalking about so as never was. And you should hear her read - straight off, as if she k all beforehand. An allays at her book!But its bad - its bad, Mr Tulliver added, sadly, cheg this blamable exultation, `a womans no business wi being so clever; itll turn to trouble, I doubt. But, bless you! - here the exultation was clearly rec the mastery - `shell read the books and uand em, better nor half the folks as are growed up.

    Maggies cheeks began to flush with triumphaement: she thought Mr Riley would have a respect for her now; it had been evident that he thought nothing of her before.

    Mr Riley was turning over the leaves of the book and she could make nothing of his face with its high-arched eye-brows; but he presently looked at her and said,

    `e, e and tell me something about this book; here are some pictures - I want to know what they mean.

    Maggie with deepening colour went without hesitation to Mr Rileys elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one er and tossing back her mane, while she said,

    `O, Ill tell you what that means. Its a dreadful picture, isnt it? But I t help looking at it. That old woman iers a witch - theyve put her in, to find out whether shes a witch or no, and if she swims shes a witch, and if shes drowned - and killed, you know, - shes i, and not a witch, but only a poor silly old woman. But what good would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose shed go the heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing - oh, isnt he ugly? - Ill tell you what he is. Hes the devil really (here Maggies voice became louder and more emphatic) `and not a right blacksmith; for the devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks about as people doing wicked things, and hes oftener in the shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if people saw he was the devil, and he roared at em, theyd run away, and he couldnt make em do what he pleased.

    Mr Tulliver had listeo this exposition of Maggies with petrifying wonder.

    `Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on? he burst out, at last.

    `&quot;The History of the Devil,&quot; by Daniel Defoe; not quite the right book for a little girl, said Mr Riley. `How came it among your books, Tulliver?

    Maggie looked hurt and disced, while her father said,

    `Why, its ohe books I bought at Partridges sale. They was all bound alike - its a good binding, you see - an I thought theyd be all good books. Theres Jeremy Taylors &quot;Holy Living and Dying&quot; among em; I read in it often of a Sunday (Mr Tulliver felt somehow a familiarity with that great writer because his name was Jeremy), `and theres a lot more of em, sermons mostly, I think; but theyve all got the same covers, and I thought they were all o one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustnt judge by th outside. This is a puzzlin world.

    `Well, said Mr Riley, in an admonitory patronising tone, as he patted Maggie on the head, `I advise you to put by the `History of the Devil, and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier books?

    `O yes, said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to vindicate the variety of her reading, `I know the reading in this book isnt pretty - but I like the pictures, and I make stories to the pictures out of my own head, you know. But Ive got &quot;&amp;Aelig;sops Fables&quot; and a book about kangaroos and things, and the &quot;Pilgrims Progress... &quot;

    `Ah, a beautiful book, said Mr Riley. `You t read a better.

    `Well, but theres a great deal about the devil in that, said Maggie, triumphantly, `and Ill show you the picture of him in his true shape, as he fought with Christian.

    Maggie ran in an instant to the er of the room, jumped on a chair, and reached down from the small book-case a shabby old copy of Bunyan, which ope once, without the least trouble of search, at the picture she wanted.

    `Here he is, she said, running bar Riley, `And Tom coloured him for me with his paints when he was at home last holidays - the body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like fire, because hes all fire inside, and it shines out at his eyes.

    `Go, go! said Mr Tulliver peremptorily; beginning to feel rather unfortable at these free remarks on the personal appearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers; `Shut up the book, as hear no more o such talk. It is as I thought - the child ull learn more mischief nood wi the books. Go - go and see after your mother.

    Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, but not being ined to see after her mother, she promised the matter by going into a dark er behind her fathers chair and nursing her doll, towards which she had an occasional fit of fondness in Toms absenegleg its toilette, but lavishing so many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks had a wasted uhy appearance.

    `Did you ever hear the like ont? said Mr Tulliver, as Maggie retired. `Its a pity but what shed been the lad - shed ha been a match for the lawyers, she would. Its the wonderfulst thing - here he lowered his voice - `as I picked the mother because she wasnt oer cute - bein a good-looking woman too, an e of a rare family for managing - but I picked her from her sisters o purpose cause she was a bit weak, like; for I wasnt a-goin to be told the rights o things by my own fireside. But, you see, when a mans got brains himself, theres no knowing where theyll run to; an a pleasant sort o soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads and cute weill its like as if the world was turopsy-turvy. Its an unon puzzlin thing.

    Mr Rileys gravity gave way, and he shook a little uhe application of his pinch of snuff, before he said,

    `But your lads not stupid, is he? I saw him, when I was here last, busy making fishing-tackle; he seemed quite up to it.

    `Well, he isnt not to say stupid - hes got a notion othings out o door, an a sort o onsense, as hed lay hold o things by the right handle. But hes slow with his tongue, you see, a<dfn>.99lib.</dfn>nd he reads but poorly, and t abide the books, and spells all wrong, they tell me, an as shy as  be wi strangers, an you never hear him say cute things like the little wenow, what I want is, to send him to a school where theyll make him a bit nimble with his tongue and his pen, and make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi these fellows as have got the start o me with havier schooling. Not but what, if the world had bee as God made it, I could ha seen my way and held my own wi the best ofem; but things have got so twisted round and ed up i unreasonable words, as arnt a bit like em, as Im  at fault, often an often. Everything winds about so - the more straightforrard you are, the more youre puzzled.

    Mr Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook his head in a melananner, scious of exemplifying the truth that a perfectly saellect is hardly at home in this insane world.

    `Youre quite in the right of it, Tulliver, observed Mr Riley. `Better Spend ara hundred or two on your sons education than leave it him in your will. I know I should have tried to do so by a son of mine, if Id had ohough, God knows, I havent your ready moo play with, Tulliver; and I have a houseful of daughters into the bargain.

    `I daresay, now, you know of a school as ud be just the thing for Tom, Said Mr Tulliver, not diverted from his purpose by any sympathy with Mr Rileys deficy of ready cash.

    Mr Riley took a pinch of snuff a Mr Tulliver in suspense by a silehat seemed deliberative, before he said,

    `I know of a very fine ce for any ohats got the necessary money, and thats what you have, Tulliver. The fact is, I wouldnt reend any friend of mio send a boy tular school, if he could afford to do better. But if any one wanted his boy to get superior instru and training, where he would be the panion of his master, and that master a first-rate fellow - I know his man. I wouldion the ce to everybody, because I dont think everybody would succeed iing it, if he were to try: but I mention it to you, Tulliver - between ourselves.

    The fixed inquiring glah which Mr Tulliver had been watg his friends oracular face became quite eager.

    `Ay, now, lets hear, he said, adjusting himself in his chair with the placy of a person who is thought worthy of important unications.

    `Hes an Oxford man, said Mr Riley, seiously, shutting his mouth close and looking at Mr Tulliver to observe the effect of this stimulating information.

    `What! a parson? said Mr Tulliver, rather doubtfully.

    `Yes - and an M.A. The bishop, I uand, thinks very highly of him: why, it was the bishop who got him his present curacy.

    `Ah? said Mr Tulliver, to whom ohing was as wonderful as another ing these unfamiliar phenomena. `But what  he want wi Tom, then?

    `Why, the fact is, hes fond of teag, and wishes to keep up his studies, and a clergyman has but little opportunity for that in his parochial duties. Hes willing to take one or two boys as pupils to fill up his time profitably. The boys would be quite of the family - the fihing in the world for them - uellings eye tinually.

    `But do you think theyd give the poor lad twice o pudding? said Mrs Tulliver, who was now in her place again. `Hes such a boy for pudding as never was; an a growing boy like that - its dreadful to think o their stintin him.

    `And what money ud he want? said Mr Tulliver, whose instinct told him that the services of this admirable M.A. would bear a high price.

    `Why, I know of a clergyman who asks a hundred and fifty with his you pupils, and hes not to be mentioned with Stelling, the man I speak of. I know on good authority that one of the chief people at Oxford said, `Stelling might get the highest honours if he chose. But he didnt care about uy honours. Hes a quiet man - not showy, not noisy.

    `Ah, a deal better, a deal better, said Mr Tulliver. `But a hundred and fiftys an unon price. I hought o payin so much as that.

    `A good educatio me tell you, Tulliver - a good education is cheap at the money. But Stelling is moderate in his terms - hes not a grasping man. Ive no doubt hed take your boy at a hundred, and thats what you would many other clergymen to do. Ill write to him about it, if you like.

    Mr Tulliver rubbed his knees and looked at the carpet in a meditative manner.

    `But belike hes a bachelor, observed Mrs Tulliver ierval, `an Ive no opinion o housekeepers. There was my brother as is dead an gone had a housekeeper once, aook half the feathers out o the best bed an packed emup a em away. An its unknown the linen she made away with - Stott her name was. It ud break my heart to send Tom where theres a housekeeper, an I hope you wont think of it, Mr Tulliver.

    `You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs Tulliver, said Mr Riley, `for Stelling is married to as nice a little woman as any man need wish for a wife. There isnt a kinder little soul in the world; I know her family well. She has very much your plexion - light curly hair. She es of a good Mudport family, and its not every offer that would have been acceptable in that quarter. But Stellings not an everyday man. Rather a particular fellow as to the people he chooses to be ected with. But I think he would have no obje to take your son - I think he would not, on my representation.

    `I dont know what he could have again the lad, said Mrs Tulliver, with a slight touotherly indignation, `a nice fresh-skinned lad as anybody need wish to see.

    `But theres ohing Im thinking on, said Mr Tulliver, turning his head on one side and looking at Mr Riley, after a long perusal of the carpet. `Wouldnt a parson be amost too high-learnt t up a lad to be a man o business? My notion o the parsons was as theyd got a sort o learning as lay mostly out o sight. And that isnt what I want for Tom. I want him to know figures, and write like print, and see into things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to  things up in words as arent aable. Its an unon fihing, that is, cluded Mr Tulliver, shaking his head, `when you  let a man know what you think of him without paying for it.

    `O my dear Tulliver, said Mr Riley, `youre quite under a mistake about the clergy: all the best sasters are of the clergy. The sasters who are not clergymen, are a very low set of me<dfn></dfn>n generally...

    `Ay, that Jacobs is, at the Cademy, interposed Mr Tulliver.

    `To be sure - men who have failed in other trades, most likely. Now a clergyman is a gentleman by profession and education: and besides that, he has the knowledge that will ground a boy, and prepare him for entering on any career with credit. There may be some clergymen who are mere bookmen; but you may depend upon it, Stelling is not one of them - a man thats wide awake, let me tell you. Drop him a<u>.９９ｌｉｂ.</u> hint and thats enough. You talk of figures, now: you have only to say to Stelling, `I want my son to be a thh arithmeti, and you may leave the rest to him.

    Mr Riley paused a moment, while Mr Tulliver, somewhat reassured as to clerical tutorship, was inwardly rehearsing to an imaginary Mr Stelling the statement, `I want my son to know rethmetic.

    `You see, my dear Tulliver, Mr Riley tinued, `when you get a thhly educated man, like Stelling, hes at no loss to take up any branch of instru. When a workman knows the use of his tools, he  make a door as well as a window.

    `Ay, thats true, said Mr Tulliver, almost vinow that the clergy must be the best of sasters.

    `Well, Ill tell you what Ill do for you, said Mr Riley, `and I wouldnt do it for everybody. Ill see Stellings father-in-law or drop him a line when I get baudport to say that you wish to place your boy with his son-in-law, and I daresay Stelling will write to you, and send you his terms.

    `But theres no hurry, is there? said Mrs Tulliver, `for I hope, Mr Tulliver, you woom begin at his new school before Midsummer. He began at the Cademy at the Ladyday quarter, and you see what goods e of it.

    `Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi bad malt upo Michaelmas day, else youll have a poor tap, said Mr Tulliver, winking and smiling at Mr Riley with the natural pride of a man who has a buxom wife spicuously his inferior in intellect. `But its true theres no hurry - youve hit it there, Bessy.

    `It might be as well not to defer the arraoo long, said Mr Riley, quietly, `for Stelling may have propositions from other parties, and I know he would not take more than two or three boarders, if so many. If I were you, I think I would enter on the subject with Stelling at oheres no y for sending the boy before Midsummer, but I would be on the safe side, and make sure that nobody forestalls you.

    `Ay, theres summat i that, said Mr Tulliver.

    `Father, broke in Maggie, who had stolen unperceived to her fathers elbow again, listening with parted lips, while she held her doll topsy-turvy and crushed its nose against the wood of the chair, `Father, is it a long way off where Tom is to go? Shant we ever go to see him?

    `I dont know, my wench, said the father, tenderly. `Ask Mr Riley, he knows.

    `Maggie came round promptly in front of Mr Riley, and said, `How far is it, please Sir?

    `O a long way off, that gentleman answered, being of opinion that childrehey are not naughty, should always be spoken to jocosely. `You must borrow the seven-leagued boots to get to him.

    `Thats nonsense! said Maggie, tossing her head haughtily and turning away with the tears springing in her eyes. She began to dislike Mr Riley: it was evidehought her silly and of no sequence.

    `Hush, Maggie, for shame of you, asking questions and chattering, s<mark>.99ｌｉb?</mark>aid her mother. `e and sit down on your little stool and hold your tongue, do. But, added Mrs Tulliver, who had her own alarm awakened, `is it so far off as I couldnt wash him and mend him?

    `About fifteen miles - thats all, said Mr Riley. `You  drive there and ba a day quite fortably. Or, Stelling is a hospitable, pleasant man; hed be glad to have you stay.

    `But its too far off for the linen, I doubt, said Mrs Tulliver, sadly.

    The entrance of supper opportunely adjourhis difficulty, and relieved Mr Riley from the labour of suggesting some solution or promise - a labour which he would otherwise doubtless have uaken, for, as you perceive, he was a man of very obliging manners. And he had really given himself the trouble of reending Mr Stelling to his friend Tulliver without any positive expectation of a solid, definite advantage resulting to himself, notwithstanding the subtle indications to the trary which might have misled a too sagacious observer. For there is nothing more widely misleading than sagacity if it happens to get on a wrong st, and sagacity persuaded that men usually ad speak from distinct motives, with a sciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness and deliberate trivan order to pass a selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist: they demand too intense a mental a for many of our fellow-parishioo be guilty of them. It is easy enough to spoil the lives of our neighbours without taking so much trouble: we  do it by lazy acquiesd lazy omission, by trivial falsities for which we hardly know a reason, by small frauds ralised by small extravagances, by maladroit flatteries and clumsily improvised insinuations. We live from hand to mouth, most of us, with a small family of immediate desires - we do little else than snatch a morsel to satisfy the hungry brood, rarely thinking of seed- or the  years crop.

    Mr Riley was a man of business and not cold towards his own i, yet even he was more uhe influenall promptings than of far-sighted designs. He had no private uanding with the Rev. Walter Stelling; on the trary he knew very little of that M.A. and his acquirements - not quite enough perhaps to warrant s a reendation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. But he believed Mr Stelling to be an excellent classic, fadsby had said so, and Gadsbys first cousin was an Oxford tutor: which was better ground for the belief even than his own immediate observation would have been, for though Mr Riley had received a tincture of the classics at the great Mudport Free School and had a sense of uanding Latin generally, his prehension of any particular Latin was not ready. Doubtless there remained a subtle aroma from his juvenile tact with the De See and the Fourth Book of the Aeneid, but it had ceased to be distinctly reisable as classical, and was only perceived in the higher finish and force of his aueering style. Then, Stelling was an Oxford man, and the Oxford men were always - no, no, it was the Cambridge men who were always good mathematis. But a man who had had a uy education could teaything he liked; especially a man like Stelling, who had made a speech at a Mudport dinner on a political occasion and had acquitted himself so well that it was generally remarked, this son-in-law of Timpsons was a sharp fellow. It was to be expected of a Mudport man from the parish of St Ursula that he would not omit to do a good turn to a son-in-law of Timpsons, for Timpson was one of the most useful and iial men in the parish, and had a good deal of business which he knew how to put into the right hands. Mr Riley liked such men, quite apart from any money which might be diverted through their good judgment, from less worthy pockets into his own; and it would be a satisfa to him to say to Timpson on his return home, `Ive secured a good pupil for your son-in-law. Timpson had a large family of daughters: Mr Riley felt for him: besides, Louisa Timpsons face with its light curls had been a familiar obje over the pew wainscot on a Sunday for nearly fifteen years: it was natural her husband should be a endable tutor. Moreover, Mr Riley knew of no other saster whom he had any ground for reending in preference: why then should he not reend Stelling? His friend Tulliver had asked him for an opinion: it is always chilling in friendly intercourse to say you have no opinion to give. And if you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to do it with an air of vi and well-founded knowledge. You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond of it. Thus, Mr Riley, knowing no harm of Stelling to begin with, and wishing him well so far as he had any wishes at all ing him, had no sooner reended him than he began to think with admiration of a man reended on such high authority, and would soon have gathered so warm an i on the subject, that if Mr Tulliver had in the end deed to send Tom to Stelling, Mr Riley would have thought his friend of the old school a thhly pig-headed fellow.

    If you blame Mr Riley very severely fiving a reendation on such slight grounds, I must say you are rather hard upon him. Why should an aueer and appraister thirty years ago, who had as good as fotten his free-school Latin, be expected to ma a delicate scrupulosity which is not always exhibited by gentlemen of the learned professions even in our present advaage of morality?

    Besides, a man with the milk of human kindness in him  scarcely abstain from doing a good-natured a, and one t be good-natured all round. Nature herself occasionally quarters an inve parasite on an animal towards whom she has otherwise no ill-will. What then? We admire her care for the parasite. If Mr Riley had shrunk from giving a reendation that was not based on valid evidence, he would not have helped Mr Stelling to a paying pupil, and that would not have been so well for the revereleman. sider, too, that all the pleasant little dim ideas and placies - of standing well with Timpson, of dispensing advice when he was asked for it, of impressing his friend Tulliver with additional respect, of saying something and saying it emphatically, with other inappreciably minute ingredients that went along with the warm hearth and the brandy and water to make up Mr Rileys sciousness on this occasion, would have been a mere blank.

 CHAPTER 4

    Tom Is Expected

    IT was a heavy disappoio Maggie that she was not allowed to go with her father in the gig when he went to fet home from the Academy; but the m was too wet, Mrs Tulliver said, for a little girl to go out in her best bo. Maggie took the opposite view very strongly, and it was a direct sequence of this difference of opinion, that when her mother was i of brushing out the relut black aggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and dipped her head in a basin of water standing near, - in the vindictive determination that there should be no more ce of curls that day. `Maggie, Maggie, exclaimed Mrs Tulliver, sitting stout and helpless with the brushes on her lap, `what is to bee of you, if youre so naughty? Ill tell your aunt Glegg and your aunt Pullet when they e  week, and theyll never love you any more. O dear, O dear, look at your  pinafore, wet from top to bottom. Folks ull think its a judgment on me as Ive got such a child - theyll think Ive done summat wicked.

    Before this remonstrance was finished Maggie was already out of hearing, making her way towards the great attic that ran uhe old high-pitched roof, shaking the water from her black locks as she ran, like a Skye terrier escaped from his bath. This attic was Maggies favourite retreat on a wet day, when the weather was not too cold: here she fretted out all her ill-humours, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten floors and the worm-eaten shelves and the dark rafters festooned with cobwebs, and here she kept a Fetish which she punished for all her misfortuhis was the trunk of a large wooden doll, whice stared with the rou of eyes above the reddest of cheeks, but was irely defaced by a long career of vicarious suffering. Three nails driven into the head orated as many crises in Maggies nine years of earthly struggle; that luxury of vengeance having been suggested to her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the old Bible. The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke than usual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented aunt Glegg. But immediately afterwards Maggie had reflected that if she drove many nails in, she would not be so well able to fancy that the head was hurt when she k against the wall, nor to fort it, and make believe to poultice it when her fury was abated; for even aunt Glegg would be pitiable when she had been hurt very much, and thhly humiliated, so as to beg her nieces pardon. Sihen, she had driven no more nails in, but had soothed herself by alternately grinding aing the wooden head against the rough brick of the great eys that made two square pillars supp the roof. That was what she did this m on reag the attic, sobbing all the while with a passion that expelled every other form of sciousness - even the memory of the g<figure></figure>rievahat had caused it. As at last the sobs were getting quieter and the grinding less fierce, a sudden beam of sunshine, falling through the wire lattice across the worm-eaten shelves, made her throw away the Fetish and run to the window. The sun was really breaking out, the sound of the mill seemed cheerful again, the granary doors were open, and there was Yap, the queer white and brown terrier with ourned back, trotting about and sniffing vaguely as if he were in search of a panion. It was irresistible: Maggie tossed her hair bad ran downstairs, seized her bo without putting it on, peeped and then dashed along the passage lest she should enter her mother, and was quickly out in the yard, whirling round like a Pythoness and singing as she whirled, `Yap, Yap, Toms ing home, while Yap pranced and barked round her, as much as to say, if there was any noise wanted, he was the dog for it.

    `Hegh, hegh, Miss, youll make yourself giddy an tumble down i the dirt, said Luke, the head miller, a tall broad-shouldered man of forty, black-eyed and black-haired, subdued by a general mealiness, like an auricula.

    Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, `O no, it doesnt make me giddy. Luke, may I go into the mill with you?

    Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and often came out with her black hair powdered to a soft whitehat made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din, the uing motion of the great stones giving her a dim delicious awe as at the presence of an untrollable force, the meal for ever p, p, the fine white powder softening all surfaces and making the very spider-s look like faery lace-work, the sweet pure st of the meal - all helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a little world apart from her outside everyday life. The spiders were especially a subject of speculation with her: she wondered if they had aions outside the mill, for in that case there must be a painful difficulty in their family intercourse: a fat and floury spider, aced to take his fly well dusted with meal, must suffer a little at a cousins table where the fly was au naturel, and the lady spiders must be mutually shocked at each others appearance. But the part of the mill she liked best was the topmost story - the -hutch where there were the great heaps of grain whi<bdi></bdi>ch she could sit on and slide down tinually. She was in the habit of taking this recreation as she versed with Luke, to whom she was very unicative, wishing him to think well of her uanding, as her father did.

    Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him on the present occasion, for, as she sat sliding on the heap of grain near which he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill pitch which was requisite in mill-society,

    `I think you never read any book but the Bible, did you, Luke?

    `Nay, Miss - an not much o that, said Luke, with great frankness. `Im no reader, I arnt.

    `But if I lent you one of my books, Luke? Ive not got any very pretty books that would be easy for you to read; but theres &quot;Pugs Tour of Europe&quot; - that would tell you all about the different sorts of people in the world, and if you didnt uand the reading, the pictures would help you - they show the looks and ways of the people and what they do. There are the Dut, very fat, and smoking, you know - and oting on a barrel.

    `Nay, Miss, In no opinion o Dut. There bent much good i knowin about them.

    `But theyre our fellow-creatures, Luke - we ought to know about our fellow-creatures.

    `Not much o fellow-creaturs, I think, Miss: all I know - my old master, as war a knowin man, used to say, says he, `If eer I sow my wheat wiout brinin, Im a Dut, says he; an that war as much as to say as a Dut war a fool, or  door. Nay, nay, I arnt goin to bother mysen about Dut. Theres fools enoo - an rogues enoo - wiout lookin i books for em.

    `O well, said Maggie, rather foiled by Lukes uedly decided views about Dut, `perhaps you would like &quot;Animated Nature&quot; better - thats not Dut, you know, but elephants, and kangaroos, and the civet cat, and the sun-fish, and a bird sitting on its tail - I fet its here are tries full of those creatures, instead of horses and cows, you know. Shouldnt you like to know about them, Luke?

    `Nay, Miss, In got to keep t o the flour an  - I t do wi knowin so many things besides my work. Thats what brings folk to the gallows - knowihing but what theyn got to get their bread by. An theyre mostly lies, I think, rinted i the books: them printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i the streets.

    `Why youre like my brother Tom, Luke, said Maggie, wishing to turn the versation agreeably, `Toms not fond of reading. I love Tom s<kbd>99ｌiｂ.</kbd>o dearly, Luke - better than any-body else in the world. When he grows up, I shall keep his house, and we shall always live together. I  tell him everything he doesnt know. But I think Toms clever, for all he doesnt like books: he makes beautiful whip-cord and rabbit-pens.

    `Ah, said Luke, `but hell be fine an vexed as the rabbits are all dead.

    `Dead! screamed Maggie, jumping up from her slidi on the . `O, dear Luke! What, the lop-eared one, and the spotted doe, that Tom spent all his moo buy?

    `As dead as moles, said Luke, fetg his parison from the unmistakable corpses o the stable wall.

    `O dear Luke, said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the big tears rolled down her cheek, `Tom told me to take care ofem, and I fot. What shall I do?

    `Well, you see, Miss, they war in that far toolhouse, anit was nobodys busio see to em. I reaster Tom told Harry to feed em, but theres no tin on Harry - hes a offal creatur as iver e about the primises, he is. He remembers n<strike>九九藏书</strike>othin but his own inside - an I wish it ud gripe him.

    `O Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rabbits every day - but how could I, when they did not e into my head, you know? O, he will be so angry with me, I know he will, and so sorry about his rabbits - and so am I sorry. O what shall I do?

    `Dont you fret, Miss, said Luke, soothingly, `theyre nash things, them lop-eared rabbits - theyd happen hadied, if theyd beehings out o natur hrive. God Amighty doesnt like em. He made the rabbits ears to lie back, an its nothin but trairio make em hing down like a mastiff dogs. Master Tom ull know better nor buy such things aime. Dont you fret, Miss. Will you e along home wi me, and see my wife? Im agoin this minute.

    The invitation offered an agreeable distra to Maggies grief, aears gradually subsided as she trotted along by Lukes side to his pleasant cottage, which stood with its apple arees, and with the added dignity of a lean-to pig-sty, close by the brink of the Ripple. Mrs Moggs, Lukes wife, was a decidedly agreeable acquaintance: she exhibited her hospitality in bread and treacle and possessed various works of art. Maggie actually fot that she had any special cause of sadhis m, as she stood on a chair to look at a remar<q>藏书网</q>kable series of pictures representing the Prodigal Son in the e of Sir Charles Grandison, except that, as might have been expected from his defective moral character, he had not, like that aplished hero, the taste and strength of mind to dispeh a wig. But the indefinable weight the dead rabbits had left on her mind caused her to feel more than usual pity for the career of this weak young man, particularly when she looked at the picture where he leaned against a tree with a flaccid appearance, his knee-breeches unbuttoned and his wig awry, while the swine, apparently of some fn breed, seemed to insult him by their good spirits over their feast of husks.

    `Im very glad his father took him back agai you, Luke? she said. `For he was very sorry, you know, and wouldnt d again.

    `Eh, Miss, said Luke, `hed be no great shakes, I doubt, lets feyther do what he would for him.

    That ainful thought to Maggie, and she wished much that the subsequent history of the young man had not bee a blank.

 CHAPTER 5

    Tom es Home

    TOM was to arrive early iernoon, and there was another flutteri besides Maggies when it was late enough for the sound of the gig wheels to be expected; for if Mrs Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last the sound came - that quick light bowling of the gig wheels - and in spite of the wind which was blowing the clouds about, and was not likely to respect Mrs Tullivers curls and cap-strings, she came outside the door, and even held her hand on Maggies offending head, fetting all the griefs of the m. `There he is, my sweet lad! But, Lord ha mercy, hes got never a collar on; its been lost on the road, Ill be bound, and spoilt the set.

    Mrs Tulliver stood with her arms open; Maggie jumped first on one leg and then oher; while Tom desded from the gig and said, with mase retice as to the tender emotions, `Hallo! Yap, what, are you there?

    heless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, though Maggie hung on his ne rather a strangling fashion, while his blue-grey eyes waowards the croft and the lambs and the river where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the first thing to-morrow m. He was one of those lads that grow everywhere in England, and, at twelve or thirteen years of age, look as much alike as goslings: - a lad with light b<samp>９９lｉb?</samp>rown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, ierminate nose and eye-brows - a physiognomy in which it seems impossible to dis anything but the generic character of boyhood; as different as possible from pgies phiz, whiature seemed to have moulded and coloured with the most decided iion. But that same Nature has the deep ing which hides itself uhe appearance of openness, so that simple people think they  see through her quite well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their fident prophecies. Uhese average boyish physioghat she seems to turn off by the gross, she ceals some of her mid inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable characters, and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may after all turn out to be a passive being pared with this pink and white bit of masity with ierminate features.

    `Maggie, said Tom, fidentially, taking her into a er, as soon as his mother was go to examine his box, and the arlour had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive, `you dont know what Ive got in my pockets - nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery.

    `No, said Maggie. `How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls (marbles) - or uts? Maggies heart sank a little, because Tom always said it was `no good playing withher at those games - she played so badly.

    `Marls! no - Ive swopped all my marls with little fellows. And uts are no fun, you silly, only whes are green. But see here! He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.

    `What is it? said Maggie, in a whisper. `I  see nothing but a bit of yellow.

    `Why its... a... new... guess, Maggie!

    `O, I t guess, Tom, said Maggie, impatiently.

    `Dont be a spitfire, else I wont tell you, said Tom, thrusting his hand bato his pocket, and lookiermined.

    `No, Tom, said Maggie, implly, laying hold of the arm that was held stiffly in the pocket. `Im not cross, Tom - it was only because I t bear guessing. Please, be good to me.

    Toms arm slowly relaxed, and he said, `Well, then; its a new fish-liwo new uns - one for you, Maggie, all to <abbr>.９9ｌib.</abbr>yourself. I wouldnt go halves ioffee and gingerbread o purpose to save the money; and Gibson and Spouncer fought with me because I wouldnt. And heres hooks; see here!... I say, wont we go and fish to-morrow down by the Round Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put the worms on and everything - wont it be fun?

    Maggies answer was to throw her arms round Toms ned hug and him and hold her cheek against his without speaking, while he slowly unwound some of the line, saying, after a pause,

    `Wasnt I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to yourself? You know, I  have bought it, if hadnt liked.

    `Yes, very, very good... I do love you, Tom.

    Tom had put the line ba his pocket, and was looking at the hooks one by one, before he spoke again.

    `And the fellows fought me, because I wouldnt give in about the toffee.

    `O dear, I wish they wouldnt fight at your school, Tom. Didnt it hurt you?

    `Hurt me? no, said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added,

    `I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know - thats what he got by wanting to leather me: I wasnt going to go halves because anybody leathered me.

    `O how brave you are, Tom - I think youre like Samson. If there came a lion r at me, I think youd fight him - wouldnt you, Tom?

    `How  a lion e r at you, you silly thing? Theres no lions only in the shows.

    `No: but if we were in the lion tries, I mean, in Africa, where its very hot - the lio people there. I  show it you in the book where I read it.

    `Well, I should get a gun and shoot him.

    `But if you hadnt got a gun - we might have go, you know, not thinking - just as we go fishing - and then a great lion might run towards us r, and we could away from him. What should you do, Tom?

    Tom paused, and at last turned away ptuously, saying, `But the lion isnt ing. Whats the use of talking?

    `But I like to fancy how it would be, said Maggie, following him. `Just think what you would do, Tom.

    `O dont bother, Maggie! youre such a silly. I shall go and see my rabbits.

    Maggies heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trembling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his anger. Fgie dreaded Toms anger of all things: it was quite a different anger from her own.

    `Tom, she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, `how much money did you give for your rabbits?

    `Two half-s and a sixpence, said Tom, promptly.

    `I think Ive got a great deal more than that in my steel purse upstairs. Ill ask mother to give it you.

    `What for? said Tom. `I dont want your money, you silly thing. Ive got a great deal more mohan you, because Im a boy. I always have half-sns and sns for my Christmas boxes, because I shall be a man, and you only have five-shilling pieces, because youre only a girl.

    `Well, but, Tom - if mother would let me give you two half-s and a sixpe of my purse to put into your pocket and spend, you know - and buy some more rabbits with it?

    `More rabbits? I dont want any more.

    `O, but Tom, theyre all dead.

    Tom stopped immediately in his walk and turned round towards Maggie. `You fot to feed em then, and Harry fot, he said, his colour heightening for a moment, but soon subsiding. `Ill pitto Harry - Ill have him turned away. And I dont love you, Maggie. You shant go fishing with me to-morrow. I told you to go ahe rabbits every day. He walked on again.

    `Yes, but I fot - and I couldnt help it, iom. Im so very sorry, said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast.

    `Youre a naughty girl, said Tom, severely, `and Im sorry I bought you the fish-line. I dont love you.

    `O Tom, its very cruel, sobbed Maggie, `Id five you, if you fot anything - I wouldnt mind what you did - Id five you and love you.

    `Yes, youre a silly. But I never do <big></big>fet things, I dont.

    `O, please five me, Tom; my heart will break, said Maggie, shaking with sobs, ging to Toms arm, and laying her wet cheek on his shoulder.

    Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a per-emptory tone, `Now, Maggie, you just listen. Arent I a good brother to you?

    `Ye-ye-es, sobbed Maggie, her  rising and falling vulsedly.

    `Didnt I think about your fish-line all this quarter, ao buy it, and saved my money o purpose, and wouldnt go halves ioffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldnt?

    `Ye-ye-es... and I... lo-lo-love you so, Tom.

    `But youre a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that, you let the boat drag my fish-line down when Id set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite all for nothing.

    `But I didnt mean, said Maggie. `I couldnt help it.

    `Yes, you could, said Tom, `if youd minded what you were doing. And youre a naughty girl, and you shant go fishing with me to-morrow.

    With this terrible clusion, Tom ran away from Maggie towar<bdo>?99ｌｉｂ.</bdo>ds the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and plain to him of Harry.

    Maggie stood motionless, except from her sobs, for a minute or two; theurned round and ran into the house and up to her attic, where she sat on the floor and laid her head against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. Tom was e home and she had thought hoy she should be - and now he was cruel to her. What use was anything if Tom didnt love her? O, he was very cruel! Hadnt she wao give him the money and said how very sorry she was? She knew she was naughty to her mother, but she had never been naughty to Tom - had never meant to be naughty to him.

    `O he is cruel! Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretched pleasure in the hollow resohat came through the loy space of the attic. She hought of beating rinding her Fetish; she was too miserable to be angry.

    These bitter sorrows of childhood! - when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

    Maggie soon thought she had been hours iid it must be tea-time, and they were all having their tea, and not thinking of her. Well, then, she would stay up there and starve herself - hide herself behind the tub and stay there all night, and then they would all be frightened and Tom would be sorry. Thus Maggie thought in the pride of her heart, as she crept behind the tub; but presently she began tain at the idea that they didnt mind her being there. If she went down again to Tom now - would he five her? - perhaps her father would be there and he would take her part. But then, she waom tive her because he loved her, not because his father told him. No, she would never go down if Tom didnt e to fetch her. This resolution lasted i iy for five dark minutes behind the tub; but then the need of being loved, the stro need in pgies nature, began to wrestle with her pride and soon threw it. She crept from behiub into the twilight of the long attic, but just then she heard a quick footstep oairs.

    Tom had been too muterested in his talk with Luke, in going the round of the premises, walking in and out where he pleased, and whittling sticks without any particular reason except that he didnt whittle sticks at school, to think of Maggie and the effect his anger had produced on her. He meant to punish her, and that business having been performed, he occupied himself with other matters like a practical person. But when he had been called in to tea, his father said, `Why, wheres the little wench? and Mrs Tulliver, almost at the same moment, said, `Wheres your little sister? both of them having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all the afternoon.

    `I dont know, said Tom. He didnt want to `tell of Maggie, though he was angry with her, for Tom Tulliver was a lad of honour.

    `What, hasnt she been playing with you all this while? said the father. `Shed been thinking o nothing but your ing home.

    `I havent seehis two hours, says Tom, eng on the plum-cake.

    `Goodness heart! Shes got drownded, exclaimed Mrs Tulliver, rising from her seat and running to the window. `How could you let her do so? she added, as became a fearful woman, acg she didnt know whom of she didnt know what.

    `Nay, nay, shes none drownded, said Mr Tulliver. `Youve been naughty to her, I doubt, Tom?

    `Im sure I havent, father, said Tom, indignantly. `I think shes in the house.

    `Perhaps up in that attic, said Mrs Tulliver, `a-singing and talking to herself, and fetting all about meal-times.

    `You go ach her down, Tom, said Mr Tulliver, rather sharply, his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness fgie making him suspect that the lad had been hard upon `the little un, else she would never have left his side. `And be good to her, do you hear? Else Ill let you know better.

    Tom never disob<strike></strike>eyed his father, for Mr Tulliver eremptory man, and, as he said, would never let anybody get hold of his whip-hand; but he went out rather sullenly, carrying his piece of plum-cake, and not intending to reprieve Maggies punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as opeions, but he articularly clear and positive on one point, hat he would punish everybody who deserved it: why, he wouldnt have minded being punished himself if he deserved it, but then, he never did deserve it.

    It was Toms step, then, that Maggie heard oairs, when her need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she was going down with her swollen eyes and dishevelled hair to beg for pity. At least, her father would stroke her head and say, `Never mind, my wench. It is a wonderful subduer, this need of love, this hunger of the heart: as per-emptory as that other hunger by whiature forces us to submit to the Yoke, and ge the face of the world.

    But she koms step and her heart began to beat violently with the sudden shock of hope. He only stood still at the top of the stairs and said, `Maggie, youre to e down. But she rushed to him and g round his neck, sobbing, `O Tom, please five me - I t bear it - I will always be good - always remember things - do love me - please, dear Tom.

    We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep apart when we have quarrelled, express ourselves in well-bred phrases, and in this reserve a dignified alienation, showing much firmness on one side, and swallowing much grief oher. We no longer approximate in our behaviour to the mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but duct ourselves in every respect like members of a highly civilised society. Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and so she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a random, sobbing way, and there were tender fibres in the lad that had beeo ao Maggies fondling: so that he behaved with a weakness quite insistent with his resolution to punish her as much as she deserved: he actually began to kiss her iurn and say,

    `Dont cry then, Magsie: - here, eat a bit o cake.

    Maggies sobs began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake and bit a piece; and then Tom bit a piece, just for pany, and they ate together and rubbed each others cheeks and brows and ogether while they ate, with a humiliating resemblao two friendly ponies.

    `e along, Magsie, and have tea, said Tom at last, when there was no more cake except what was down-stairs.

    So ehe sorrows of this day, and the  m Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand, and a handle of the basket iher, stepping always by a peculiar gift in the muddiest places and looking darkly radiant from under her beaver-bo because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldnt feel (it was Toms private opinion that it didnt much matter if they did). He knew all about worms and fish and those things; and what birds were mischievous and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful - much more difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Toms superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge `stuff and did not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing: all girls were silly - they couldnt throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldnt do anything with a pocket-knife, and were frighte frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, a always to take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong.

    They were on their way to the Round Pool - that wonderful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago: no one knew how deep it was; and it was mysterious too that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favourite spot always heighteoms good-humour, and he spoke to Maggie in the most amicable whispers, as he opehe precious basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would e to her hook, and the large oo Toms. But she had fotten all about the fish and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, `Look, look, Maggie! and came running to prevent her from snatg her line away.

    Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench boung on the grass.

    Tom was excited.

    `O Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket.

    Maggie was not scious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and leased with her. There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listeo the light dipping sounds of the rising fish and the gentle rustling, as if the willows and the reeds and the water had their happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very much.

    It was one of their happy ms. They trotted along and sat down together with no thought that life would ever ge much for them: they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of each other, and the mill with its booming - the great chestnut-tree under which they played at houses, their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds which she fot and dropped afterwards, above all, the great Floss along which they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring tide - the awful Eagre - e up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man - these things would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe, and Maggie when she read about Christiana passing `the river over which there is ne always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash.

    Life did ge for Tom and Maggie; ahey were n in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no child-hood in it, - if it were not the earth where the same flowers e up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass - the same hips and haws oumn hedgerows - the same redbreasts that we used to call `Gods birds because they did no harm to the precious crops. What y is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known?

    The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers and the blue-eyed speedwell and the ground ivy at my feet - what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-se? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-his sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious hedgerows - such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle iricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the deep bladed grass today, might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us and transform our perception into love.

 CHAPTER 6

    The Aunts and Uncles Are ing

    IT was Easter week and Mrs Tullivers cheese-cakes were more exquisitely light than usual: `a puff o wind ud make em blow about like feathers, kezia, the house-maid said, feeling proud to live under a mistress who could make such pastry; so that no season or circumstances could have been more propitious for a family party, even if it had not been advisable to sult sister Glegg and sister Pullet about Toms going to school. `Id as lief not invite sister Deahis time, said Mrs Tulliver, `for shes as jealous and having as  be, and s allays trying to make the worst o my poor children to their aunts and uncles.

    `Yes, yes, said Mr Tulliver. `Ask her to e. I never hardly get a bit o talk with Deane now: we havent had him this six months. Whats it matter what she says? - my children need be beholding to nobody.

    `Thats what you allays say, Mr Tulliver; but Im sure theres nobody o your side, her aunt nor uo leave em so much as a five-pound note for a leggicy. And theres sister Glegg, and sister Pullet too, saving money unknown - for they put by all their own i and butter-mooo - their husbands buy em everything. Mrs Tulliver was a mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a little when she has lambs.

    `Tchuh! said Mr Tulliver. `It takes a big loaf when theres many to breakfast. What signifies your sisters bits o money when theyve got half-a-dozen nevvies and o divide it among? And your sister Deane wo em to leave all to one, I re, and make the try cry shame on em when they are dead?

    `I dont know what she wo em to do, said Mrs Tulliver, `for my children are so awkard wi their aunts and uncles. Maggies ten times naughtier when they e than she is other days, and Tom doesnt like em, bless him - though its more natral in a boy than a gell - And theres Lucy Deanes such a good child - you may set her on a stool, and there shell sit for an hether and never offer to get off - I t help loving the child as if she was my own, and Im sure shes more like my child than sister Deanes, for shed allays a very poor colour for one of our family, sister Deane had.

    `Well, well, if youre fond o the child, ask her father and mother t her with em. And wont you ask their aunt and uncle Moss too? and some o their children?

    `O dear, Mr Tulliver, why, thered be eight people besides the children, and I must put two more leaves i the table, besides reag down more o the dinner service. And you know as well as I do, as my sisters and your sister dont suit well together.

    `Well, well, do as you like, Bessy, said Mr Tulliver, taking up his hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were more submissive than Mrs Tulliver on all points unected with her family relations; but she had been a Miss Dodson, and the Dodsons were a very respectable family indeed - as much looked up to as any in their own parish or the o it. The Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold up their heads very high, and no one was surprised the two eldest had married so well: - not at an early age, for that was not the practice of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing everything in that family: particu-lar ways of bleag the linen, of making the cowslip wine g the hams and keeping the bottled gooseberries, so that no daughter of that house could be indifferent to the privilege of having been born a Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a Watson. Funerals were always ducted with peculiar propriety in the Dodson family: the hatbands were never of a blue shade, the gloves never split at the thumb, everybody was mourner who ought to be, and there were always scarfs for the bearers. When one of the family was in trouble or siess, all the rest went to visit the unfortunate member, usually at the same time, and did not shrink from uttering the most disagreeable truths that correct family feeling dictated: if the illness or trouble was the sufferers own fault, it was not in the practice of the Dodson family to shrink from saying so. In short, there was in this family a peculiar tradition as to what was the right thing in house-hold ma and social demeanour, and the only bitter circumstaending this superiority ainful inability to approve the ents or the duct of families ungoverned by the Dodson tradition. A female Dodson, when in `strange houses, always ate dry bread with her tea and deed any sort of preserves, having no fiden the butter and thinking that the preserves had probably begun to ferment from want of due sugar and boiling. There were some Dodsons less like the family than others - that was admitted - but in so far as they were `kin, they were of y better than those who were `no kin. And it is remarkable that while no individual Dodson was satisfied with any other individual Dodson, each was satisfied, not only with him or herself, but with the Dodsons collectively. The feeblest member of a family - the one who has the least character - is often the merest epitome of the family habits and traditions, and Mrs Tulliver was a thh Dodson, though a mild one, as small beer, so long as it is anything, is only describable as very weak ale. And though she had groaned a little in her youth uhe yoke of her elder sisters, and still shed occasional tears at their sisterly reproaches, it was not in Mrs Tulliver to be an innovator on the family ideas: she was thankful to <var></var>have been a Dodson, and to have one child who took after her own family, at least in his features and plexion, in liking salt, and iing beans, which a Tulliver never did.

    In other respects the true Dodson artly latent in Tom, and he was as far from appreciating his `kin ohers side as Maggie herself, generally absding for the day with a large supply of the most portable food when he received timely warning that his aunts and uncles were ing: a moral symptom from which his aunt Glegg deduced the gloomiest views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie that Tom always absded without letting her into the secret, but the weaker sex are aowledged to be serious impedimenta in cases of flight.

    On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were ing, there were such various and suggestive sts, as of plumcakes in the oven and jellies i state, mingled with the aroma of gravy, that it was impossible to feel altogether gloomy: there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie made several inroads into the kit, and, like other marauders, were io keep aloof for a time only by being allowed to carry away a suffit load of booty.

    `Tom, said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder tree, eating their jam puffs, `shall you run away tomorrow?

    `No, said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and was eyeing the third, which was to be divided between them. `No. I shant.

    `Why, Tom? Beause Lucys ing?

    `No, said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it over the puff, with his head on one side in a dubitative manner. (It was a difficult problem to divide that very irregular polygon into two equal parts.) `What do I care about Lucy? Shes only a girl - she t play at bandy.

    `Is it the tipsy-cake, then? said Maggie, exerting her hypothetic powers, while she leaned forward towards Tom with her eyes fixed on the h knife.

    `No, you silly, thatll be good the day after. Its the pudden. I know what the puddens to be - apricot roll-up - O my buttons!

    With his interje, the knife desded on the puff and it was in two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for he still eyed the halves doubtfully. At last he said,

    `Shut your eyes, Maggie.

    `What for?

    `You never mind what for. Shut em when I tell you.

    Maggie obeyed.

    `Now, Whichll you have Maggie - right hand or left?

    `Ill have that with the jam run out, said Maggie, keeping her eyes shut to please Tom.

    `Why, you dont like that, you silly. You may have it if it es to you fair, but I shant give it you without. Right or left - you choose, now. Ha-a-a! said Tom, in a tone of exasperation, as Maggie peeped. `You keep your eyes shut, now, else you shant have any.

    Maggies power of sacrifice did end so far, indeed I fear she cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost possible amount of puff than that he should be pleased with her fiving him the best bit. So she shut her eyes quite close, till Tom told her to `say which, and then she said, `Left-hand.

    `Youve got it, said Tom, in rather a bitter tone.

    `What, the bit with the jam run out?

    `No: here, take it, said Tom firmly, handing decidedly the best pieaggie.

    `O, please, Tom, have it: I dont mind - I like the other: please take this.

    `No, I shant, said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his own inferior piece.

    Maggie, thinking it was no use to tend further, began too, and ate up her half-puff with siderable relish as well as rapidity. But Tom had finished first, and had to look on while Maggie ate her last morsel or two, feeling in himself a capacity for more. Maggie didnt know Tom was looking at her: she was seesawing on the elder bough, lost to almost everything but a vague sense of jam and idleness.

    `O, you greedy thing! said Tom, when she had swallowed the last morsel. He was scious of having acted very fairly, and thought she ought to have sidered this and made up to him for it. He would have refused a bit of hers beforehand, but one is naturally at a different point of view before and after ones own share of puff is swallowed.

    Maggie turned quite pale. `O Tom, why didnt you ask me?

    `I wasnt going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You might have thought of it without, when you knew I gave you the best bit.

    `But I wanted you to have it - you know I did, said Maggie in an ione.

    `Yes, but I wasnt going to do what wasnt fair, like Spouncer. He always takes the best bit, if you dont punch him for it, and if you choose the best with your eyes shut, he ges his hands. But if I go halves Ill go em fair - only I wouldnt be a greedy.

    With this cutting innuendo, Tom jumped down from his bough and threw a stone, with a `hoigh! as a friendly attention to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eatables vanished with an agitation of his ears and feelings which could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet the excellent dog accepted Toms attention with as much alacrity as if he had beeed quite generously.

    But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery which distinguishes the human being and places him at a proud distance from the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still on her bough, and gave herself up to the keen sense of ued reproach. She would have given the world not to have eaten all her puff, and to have saved some of it for Tom. Not but that the puff was very nice, fgies palate was not at all obtuse, but she would have gohout it many times over, soohan Tom should call her greedy and be cross with her. And he had said he wouldnt have it - and she ate it without thinking - how could she help it? The tears flowed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her for the en minutes; but by that time rese began to give way to the desire of reciliation and she jumped from her bough to look for Tom. He was no longer in the paddock behind the rickyard - where was he likely to be gone, and Yap with him? Maggie ran to the high bank against the great holly tree, where she could see far away towards the Floss. There was Tom; but her heart sank again as she saw how far off he was on his way to the great river and that he had another panion besides Yap - naughty Bob Jakin, whose official, if not natural fun, htening the birds, was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt sure that Bob was wicked, without very distinctly knowing why: unless it was because Bobs mother was a dreadfully large fat woman, who lived at a queer round house down the river, and <q></q>once, when Maggie and Tom had wahither there rushed out a brindled dog that wouldnt stop barking, and when Bobs mother came out after it, and screamed above the barking to tell them not to be frightened, Maggie though she was scolding them fiercely and her heart beat with terror. Maggie thought it very likely that the round house had snakes on the floor, and bats in the bedroom; for she had seen Bob take off his cap to show Tom a little shat was i, and aime he had a handful of young bats: altogether, he was an irregular character, perhaps even slightly diabolical, judging from his intimacy with snakes and bats; and to  all, when Tom had Bob for a panion he didnt mind about Maggie, and would never let her go with him.

    It must be owhat<dfn></dfn> Tom was fond of Bobs pany. How could it be otherwise? Bob knew, directly he saw a birds egg, whether it was a swallows or a tomtits or a yellowhammers; he found out all the s s and could set all sorts of traps; he could climb the trees like a squirrel, and had quite a magical power of deteg hedge-hogs and stoats; and he had ce to do things that were rather naughty, such as making gaps in the hedge-rows, throwing stones after sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering inito. Such qualities in an inferior who could always be treated with authority in spite of his superior knowingness, had necessarily a fatal fasation for Tom; and every holiday-time Maggie was sure to have days of grief because he had gone off with Bob.

    Well! there was no hope for it: he was gone now, and Maggie could think of no fort but to sit down by the holly or wander by the hedgerow, and fancy it was all different, refashioning her little world into just what she should like it to be.

    Maggies was a troublous life, and this was the form in which she took her opium.

    Meanwhile Tom, fetting all about Maggie and the sting of reproach which he had left in her heart, was hurrying along with Bob whom he had met actally, to the se of a great rat-catg in a neighb barn. Bob knew all about this particular affair, and spoke of the sport with ahusiasm whio one, who is her divested of all manly feeling or pitiably ignorant of rat-catg,  fail to imagine. For a person suspected of preternatural wiess, Bob was really not so very villainous-looking; there was even something agreeable in his snub-nosed face with its close-curled border of red hair. But then his trousers were always rolled up at the knee for the venience of wading on the slightest notice, and his virtue,<s>.99lib.</s> supposing it to exist, was undeniably `virtue in rags which, ohority even of bilious philosophers, who think all well-dressed merit overpaid, is notoriously likely to remainreised (perhaps because it is seen so seldom).

    `I know the chap as owns the ferrets, said Bob in a hoarse treble voice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue eyes fixed on the river, like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion for darting in. `He lives up the Kennel Yard at Sut Oggs - he does. Hes the biggest rot-catcher anywhere - he is. Id sooner be a rot-catcher nor anything - I would. The moles is nothing to the rots. But Lors! you mun ha ferrets. Dogs is no good. Why, theres that dog, now, Bob tinued, pointing with an air of disgust towards Yap, `hes nood wi a rot nor nothin. I see it myself - I did - at the rot-cat i your feythers barn.

    Yap, feeling the withering influence of this s, tucked his tail in and shrank close to Toms leg, who felt a little hurt for him, but had not the superhuman ce to seem behindhand with Bob in pt for a dog who made so poor a figure.

    `No, no, he said, `Yaps no good at sport. Ill have reg-ular good dogs for rats and everything, when Ive done school.

    `Hev ferrets, Measter Tom, said Bob, eagerly, `them white ferrets <strike></strike>wi pink eyes - Lors, you might catch your own rots, an you might put a rot in a cage wi a ferret, ansee em fight - you might. Thats what Id do, I know. Anit ud be better fun amost nor seein two chaps fight - if it wasnt them chaps as sell cakes an es at the Fair, as the things flew out o their baskets, an some o the cakes was smashed... But they tasted just as good, added Bob, by way of note or addendum, after a moments pause.

    `But, I say, Bob, said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, `ferrets are nasty biting things - theyll bite a fellow without bei on.

    `Lors, why thats the beauty on em. If a chap lays hold o your ferret, he wont be long before he hollows out a good un - he wont.

    At this moment a striking i made the boys pause suddenly in their walk. It was the plunging of some small body ier from among the neighb bulrushes - if it was not a water-rat Bob intimated that he was ready to undergo the most unpleasant sequences.

    `Hoigh! Yap - hoigh! there he is, said Tom, clapping his hands, as the little blaout made its arrowy course to the opposite bank. `Seize him, lad, seize him!

    Yap agitated his ears and wrinkled his brows, but deed to plurying whether barking would not ahe purpose just as well.

    `Ugh! you coward! said Tom, and kicked him over, feeling humiliated as a sportsman to possess so poor-spirited an animal. Bob abstained from remark and passed on, choosing however to walk in the shallow edge of the overflowing river by way of ge.

    `Hes none so full now, the Floss isnt, said Bob, as he kicked the water up before him, with an agreeable sense of being io it. `Why, last ear, the meadows was all one sheet o water, they was.

    `Ay, but, said Tom, whose mind roo see an oppositioween statements that were really quite accordant, `but there was a big flood once when the Round Pool was made. I know there was, cause father says so. And the sheep and cows were all drowned, and the boats went all over the fields ever such a way.

    I dont care about a flood in, said Bob, `I dont mind the water, no more nor the land. Id swim - I would.

    `Ah, but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long? said Tom, his imagination being quite active uhe stimulus of that dread. `When Im a man, I shall make a boat with a wooden house oop of it, like Noahs ark, and keep plenty to eat in it - rabbits and things - all ready. And then if the flood came, you know, Bob, I shouldnt mind... And Id take you in, if I saw you swimming, he added, ione of a benelovent patron.

    `I arent frighted, said Bob, to whom hunger did not appear so appalling. `But Id get in, an knock the rabbits on th head when you wao eat em.

    `Ah, and I should have half-pence, and wed play at heads and tails, said Tom, not plating the possibility that this recreation might have fewer charms for his mature age. `Id divide fair to begin with, and then wed see whod win.

    `In got a half-penny o my own, said Bob, proudly, ing out of the water and tossing his half-penny in the air. `Yeads or tails?

    `Tails, said Tom, instantly fired with the desire to win.

    `Its yeads, said Bob, hastily, snatg up the half-penny as it fell.

    `It wasnt, said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. `You give me the half-penny - Ive won it fair.

    `I shant, said Bob, holding it tight in his pocket.

    `Then Ill make you - see if I dont, said Tom.

    `You t make me do nothing, you t, said Bob.

    `Yes, I .

    `No, you t.

    `Im master.

    `I dont care for you.

    `But Ill make you care, you cheat, said Tom, c Bob and shaking him.

    `You get out wi you, said Bob, giving Tom a kick.

    Toms blood was thhly up: he went at Bob with a lunge and threw him down, but Bob seized hold a it like a cat, and pulled Tom down after him. They struggled fiercely on the ground for a moment or two, till Tom, pinning Bob down by the shoulders, thought he had the mastery.

    `You say youll give me the half-penny now, he said, with difficulty, while he exerted himself to keep the and of Bobs arms.

    But at this moment, Yap, who had been running on before, returned barking to the se of a, and saw a favourable opportunity for biting Bobs bare leg not only with impunity but with honour. The pain from Yaps teeth, instead of surprising Bob into a relaxation of his hold, gave it a fiercer tenacity, and with a ion of his force he pushed Tom backward and got uppermost. But no, who could get no suffit purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so that Bob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom and almost throttling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time Tom  again, and before Bob had quite recovered his balaer the act of swinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, threw him down and got his knee firmly on Bobs chest.

    `You give me the half-penny now, said Tom.

    `Take it, said Bob, sulkily.

    `No, I shant take it - you give it me.

    Bob took the half-penny out of his pocket and threw it away from him on the ground.

    Tom loosed his hold a Bob to rise.

    `There the half-penny lies, he said, `I dont want your half-penny; I wouldnt have kept it. But you wao cheat: I hate a cheat. I shant go along with you any more, he added, turning round homeward, not without casting a regret towards the rat-catg and other pleasures which he must relinquish along with Bobs society.

    `You may let it alohen, Bob called out after him. `I shall cheat if I like - theres no fun i playing, else. And I know where theres goldfinest, but Ill take care you dont... . An youre a nasty fightin turkey-cock, you are... .

    Tom walked on without looking round, and Yap followed his example, the cold bath having moderated his passions.

    `Go along wi you, then, wi your drownded dog - I wouldnt own such a dog, I wouldnt, said Bob, getting louder, in a last effort to sustain his defiance. But Tom was not to be provoked int round, and Bobs voice began to falter a little as she said,

    `An In gien you everything an showed you everything, an niver wanted nothin from you... . An theres your horn-handed khen, as you gien me... . Here Bob flung the knife as far as he could after Toms retreating footsteps. But it produo effect, except the sense in Bobs mind that there was a terrible void in his lot, now that knife was gone.

    He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and disappeared behind the hedge. The knife would do no good on the ground there - it wouldom, and pride or rese was a feeble passion in Bobs mind pared with the love of a pocket-knife. His very fingers sereating thrills that he would go and clutch that familiar rough bucks-horn handle, which they had so often grasped for mere affe as it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades - and they had just been sharpened. What is life without a pocket-ko him who has oasted a higher existeno: to throw the haer the hatchet is a prehensible act of desperation, but to throw ones pocket-ker an implacable friend is clearly in every sense a hyperbole or throwing beyond the mark. So Bob shuffled back to the spot where the beloved knife lay in the dirt, a quite a new pleasure in clutg it again after the temporary separation, in opening one blade after the other and feeling their edge with his well-hardehumb. Poor Bob! he was not sensitive on the point of honour - not a chivalrous character. That fine moral aroma would not have been thought much of by the public opinion of Kennel Yard, which was the very focus or heart of Bobs world, even if it could have made itself perceptible there. Yet, for all that, he was not utterly a sneak and a thief, as our friend Tom had hastily decided.

    But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Rhadamanthinepersonage, having more than the usual share of boys justi him - the justice that desires to hurt culprits as much as they deserve to be hurt, and is troubled with no doubts ing the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a cloud on his brow when he came home, which checked her joy at his ing so much soohan she had expected, and she dared hardly speak to him as he stood silently throwing the small gravel stones into the mill-dam. It is not pleasant to give up a rat-catg when you have set your mind on it. But if Tom had told his stro feeling at that moment, he would have said, `Id do just the same again. That was his usual mode of viewing his past as; whereas Maggie was always wishing she had done something different.

 CHAPTER 7

    Ehe Aunts and Uncles

    THE Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters. As she sat in Mrs Tullivers arm-chair, no impartial observer could have dehat for a woman of fifty she had a very ely fad figure, though Tom and Maggie sidered their aunt Glegg as the type of ugliness. It is true she despised the advantages of e, for though, as she often observed, no woman had better clothes, it was not her way to wear her hings out before her old ones. Other women, if they liked, might have their best thread la every wash, but when Mrs Glegg died, it would be found that she had better lace laid by in the right-hand drawer of her wardrobe, in the Spotted Chamber, than ever Mrs Wooll of St Oggs had bought in her life, although Mrs Wooll wore her lace before it aid for. So of her curled fronts. Mrs Glegg had doubtless the glossiest and crispest brown curls in her drawers, as well as curls in various degrees of fuzzy laxness; but to look out on the week-day world from under a crisp and glossy front would be to introduce a most dream-like and unpleasant fusioween the sacred and the secular. Occasionally, indeed, Mrs Glegg wore one of her third-best fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sisters house; especially not at Mrs Tullivers, who since her marriage had hurt her sisters feelings greatly by wearing her own hair, though, as Mrs Glegg observed to Mrs Deane, a mother of a family, like Bessy, with a husband always going to law, might have been expected to know better. But Bessy was always weak! So if Mrs Gleggs front to-day was more fuzzy and lax than usual, she had a design u: she intehe most pointed and cutting allusion to Mrs Tullivers bunches of blond curls separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the parting. Mrs Tulliver had shed tears several times at sister Gleggs unkindness on the subject of these unmatronly curls, but the sciousness of looking the handsomer for them naturally administered support. Mrs Glegg chose to wear her bo in the house to-day - united and tilted slightly, of course - a frequent practice of hers when she was on a visit and happeo be in a severe humour: she didnt know what draughts there might be in strange houses. For the same reason she wore a small sable tippet which reached just to her shoulders and was very far from meeting across her well-formed chest, while her long neck rotected by a chevaux-de-frise of miscellaneous frilling. One would o be learned in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of them Mrs Gleggs slate-coloured silk gown must have been, but from certain stellations of small yellow spots upon it, and a mouldy odour about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, it robable that it beloo a stratum of garments just old enough to have e retly into wear.

    Mrs Glegg held her large gold wat her hand with the many-doubled  round her fingers, and observed to Mrs Tulliver who had just returned from a visit to the kit, that whatever it might be by other peoples clocks and watches, it was gone half-past twelve by hers.

    `I dont know what ails sister Pullet, she tinued. `It used to be the way in our family for oo be as early as another - Im sure it was so in my poor fathers time - and not for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. But if the ways o the family are altered it shant be my fault - Ill never be the oo e into a house when all the rest are going away. I wo sister Deane - she used to be more like me. But if youll take my advice, Bessy, youll put the dinner for<mark></mark>rard a bit, soohan put it back, because folks are late as ought to ha knower.

    `O dear, theres no fear but what theyll be all here in time, sister, said Mrs Tulliver, in her mild-peevish tohe dinner wont be ready till half-past one. But if its long for you to wait, let me fetch you a cheese-cake and a glass o wine.

    `Well, Bessy! said Mrs Glegg, with a bitter smile and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, `I should ha thought youd know your own sister better. I never did eat between meals, and Im not going to begin. Not but what I hate that nonsense of having your di half-past one when you might have it at one. You was never brought up in that way, Bessy.

    `Why, Jane, what  I do? Mr Tulliver doesnt like his dinner before two oclock, but I put it half an hour earlier because o you.

    `Yes, yes, I know how it is wi husbands - theyre for putting everything off - theyll put the dinner off till after tea, if theyve got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work: but its a pity for you, Bessy, as you havent got more strength o mind. Itll be well if your children dont suffer for it. And I hope youve not gone and got a great dinner for us - going to expense for your sisters as ud soo a crust o dry bread nor help to ruin you with extravagance - I wonder you dont take pattern by your sister Deane - shes far more sensible. And here youve got two children to provide for, and your husbands spent your fortin i going to law, ands like to spend his own too. A boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the kit, Mrs Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic protest, `and a plain pudding with a spoonful o sugar and no spice, ud be far more being.

    With sister Glegg in this humour, there was a cheerful prospect for the day. Mrs Tulliver never went the length of quarrelling with her, any more than a waterfowl that puts out its leg in a depreg manner  be said to quarrel with a boy who throws stones. But this point of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so that Mrs Tulliver could make the same answer she had often made before.

    `Mr Tulliver says he always will have a good dinner for his friends while he  pay for it, she said, `and hes a right to do as he likes in his own house, sister.

    `Well, Bessy, I t leave your children enough out omy savings, to keep em from ruin. And you mustnt look to having any leggs money for its well if I dont go first - he es of a long-lived family - and if he was to die and leave me well for my life, hed tie all the money up to go back to his own kin.

    The sound of wheels while Mrs Glegg eaking was an interruption highly wele to Mrs Tulliver, who hastened out to receive sister Pullet - it must be sister Pullet because the sound was that of a four-wheel.

    Mrs Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the mouth at the thought of the `four-wheel. She had a strong opinion on that subject.

    Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped before Mrs Tullivers door, and it arently requisite that she should shed a few more befetting out, for though her husband and Mrs Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and shook her head sadly as she looked through her tears at the vague distance.

    `Why, whativer is the matter, sister? said Mrs Tulliver. She was not an imaginative woman, but it occurred to her that the large toilet glass in sister Pullets best bedroom ossibly broken for the sed time.

    There was no reply but a further shake of the head, as Mrs Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without casting a gla Mr Pullet to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress from injury. Mr Pullet was a small man with a high nose, small twinkling eyes and thin lips, in a fresh-looking suit of blad a white cravat that seemed to have been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere personal ease. He bore about the same relation to his tall, good-looking wife, with her balloon sleeves, abundant mantle and large be-feathered and be-ribboned bo, as a small fishing-smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread.

    It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the -plexity introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilisation - the sight of a fashionably drest female in grief. From the sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buckram sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an architectural bo and delicate ribbon-strings - what a long series of gradations! In the enlightened child of civilisation the abando characteristic of grief is checked and varied in the subtlest manner, so as to present an iing problem to the analytid. If with a crushed heart and eyes half-blinded by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too devious step through a door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves too, and the deep sciousness of this possibility produces a position of forces by which she takes a lihat just clears the doorpost. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpirings and throws them languidly backward - a toug gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. As the tears subside a little and with her head leaning backward at the ahat will not injure her bo, she ehat terrible moment when grief which has made all things else a weariness has itself bee weary, she looks down pensively at her bracelets and adjusts their clasps with that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a calm ahy state.

    Mrs Pullet brushed each doorpost with great y, about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), and having dohat sent the muscles of her fa quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlour where Mrs Glegg was seated.

    `Well, sister, youre late: whats the matter? said Mrs Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands.

    Mrs Pullet sat down - lifting up her mantle carefully behind before she answered, `Shes gone, unsciously using an impressive figure of rhetoric.

    `It isnt the glass this time, then, thought Mrs Tulliver.

    `Died the day before yesterday, tinued Mrs Pullet. `An her legs was as thick as my body, she added, with deep sadness, after a pause. `Theyd tapped her no end otimes, they say you might ha swum ier as came from her.

    `Well, Sophy, its a mercy shes gohen, whoiver she may be, said Mrs Glegg with the promptitude and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and decided; `but I t think who youre talking of, for my part.

    `But I know, said Mrs Pullet, sighing and shaking her head, `and there isnt another such a dropsy in the parish. I know as its old Mrs Sutton o the Twentylands.

    `Well, shes no kin o yours, nor much acquaintance as Ive ever heared of, said Mrs Glegg, who always cried just as much as roper when anything happeo her own `kin but not on other occasions.

    `Shes so much acquaintance as Ive seen her legs when they was like bladders... . And an old lady as had doubled her money over and ain, a it all in her own ma to the last, and had her pocket with her keys in under her pillow stant. There isnt many old parishners like her, I doubt.

    `And they say shed took as much physic as ud fill a waggon, observed Mr Pullet.

    `Ah, sighed Mrs Pullet, `shed another plaint ever so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors couldnt make out what it was. And she said to me, when I went to see her last Christmas, she said, `Mrs Pullet, if iver you have the dropsy, youll think o me. She did say so, added Mrs Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again, `those were her very words. And shes to be buried o Saturday, and Pullets bid to the funeral.

    `Sophy, said Mrs Glegg, unable any loo tain her spirit of rational remonstrance, `Sophy, I wo you, fretting and injuring your health about people as dont belong to you. Your poor father never did so, nor your aunt Franeither, nor any o the family as I ever heared of. You couldnt fret no more than this, if wed heared as our cousin Abbott had died sudden without making his will.

    Mrs Pullet was silent, having to finish her g, and rather flattered than indignant at being upbraided f too much. It was not everybody who could afford to cry so much about their neighbours who had left them nothing; but Mrs Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure and moo carry her g and everything else to the highest pitch of respectability.

    `Mrs Sutton didnt die without making her will, though, said Mr Pullet, with a fused sehat he was saying something to san his wifes tears; `ours is a rich parish, but they say theres nobody else to leave as many thousands behind em as Mrs Sutton. And shes left no leggicies, to speak on - left it all in a lump to her husbands nevvy.

    `There wasnt much good i being so rich, then, said Mrs Glegg, `if shed got  husbands kin to leave it to. Its poor work when thats all youve got to pinch yourself for - not as Im ohose as ud like to die without leaving more money out at ihan other folks had reed. But its a poor tale when it must go out o your own family.

    `Im sure, sister, said Mrs Pullet, who had recovered suffitly to take off her veil and fold it carefully, `its a nice sort o man as Mrs Sutton has left her moo, for hes troubled with the asthmy and goes to bed every night at eight oclock. He told me about it himself, as free as could be, one Sunday when he came to our church. He wears a hare-skin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk - quite a gentleman sort o man. I told him there wasnt many months in the year as I wasnt uhe doctors hands. And he said, `Mrs Pullet I  feel for you. That was what he said - the very words. Ah! sighed Mrs Pullet, shaking her head at the idea that there were few who could enter fully into her experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, strong stuff in small bottles, and weak stuff in large bottles, damp boluses at a shilling, and draughts at eighteenpence. `Sister, I may as well go and take my bo off now. Did you see as the cap-box ut out? she added, turning to her husband.

    Mr Pullet, by an unatable lapse of memory, had fotten it. He hastened out with a stri sedy the omission.

    `Theyll bring it upstairs, sister, said Mrs Tulliver, wishing to go at once, lest Mrs Glegg should begin to explain her feelings about Sophys being the first Dodson who ever ruined her stitution with doctors stuff.

    Mrs Tulliver was fond of going upstairs with her sister Pullet, and looking thhly at her cap before she put it on her head and discussing millinery in general. This art of Bessys weakhat stirred Mrs Gleggs sisterly passion: Bessy went far too well-drest, sidering; and she was too proud to dress her child in the good clothing her sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata of her wardrobe; it was a sin and a shame to buy anything to dress that child, if it wasnt a pair of shoes. In this particular however, Mrs Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs Tulliver had really made great efforts to induce Maggie to wear a leghorn bo and a dyed silk frock made out of her aunt Gleggs but the results had been such1 that Mrs Tulliver was obliged to bury them in her maternal bosom; fgie, declaring that the frock smelt of nasty dye, had taken an opportunity of basting it together with the roast beef the first Sunday she wore it, and finding this scheme answer, she had subsequently pumped on the bo with its green ribbons so as to give it a general resemblao a sage cheese garnished with withered lettuces. I must urge in excuse fgie that Tom had laughed at her in the bo and said she looked like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of clothes, but these were always neretty enough to please Maggie as well as her mother. Of all her sisters Mrs Tulliver certainly preferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of preference; but Mrs Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty awkward children; she would do the best she could by them, but it ity they werent as good and as pretty as sister Deanes child. Maggie and Tom, on their part, thought their aunt Pullet tolerable chiefly because she was not their aunt Glegg. Tom always deed to go more than once during his holidays to see either of them: both his uipped him that once, of course, but at his aunt Pullets there were a great many toads to pelt in the cellar area, so that he preferred the visit to her. Maggie shuddered at the toads and dreamed of them horribly, but she liked her uncle Pullets musical snuff-box. Still, it was agreed by the sisters in Mrs Tullivers absehat the Tulliver blood did not mix well with the Dodson blood, that, in fact, poor Bessys childreullivers and that Tom, notwithstanding he had the Dodson plexion, was likely to be as `trairy as his father. As fgie, she was the picture of her aunt Moss, Mr Tullivers sister, a large-boned woman who had married as poorly as could be, had no a, and had a husband who had much ado to pay his rent. But when Mrs Pullet was aloh Mrs Tulliver upstairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvantage legg, and they agreed in fidehat there was no knowing what sort ht sister Jane would e out . But their tête-a-tête was curtailed by the appearanrs Deah little Lucy, and Mrs Tulliver had to look on with a silent pang while Lucys blond curls were adjusted. It was quite unatable that Mrs Deahe thi and sallowest of all the Miss Dodsons, should have had this child who might have been taken for Mrs Tullivers any day. And Maggie always looked twice as dark as usual when she was by the side of Lucy.

    She did to-day, when she and Tom came in from the garden with their father and their uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown her bo off very carelessly and ing in with her hair rough as well as out of curl, rushed at oo Lucy, who was standing by her mothers knee. Certainly the trast between the cousins was spicuous and to superficial eyes was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie, though a oisseur might have seen `points in her which had a higher promise for maturity than Luatty pleteness: it was like the trast between a rough, dark, rown puppy and a white kitten. Lucy put up the  little rosebud mouth to be kissed: everything about her was  - her little round neck with the row of coral beads, her little straight nose, not at all snubby, her little clear eyebrows, rather darker than her curls, to match her hazel eyes which looked up with shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarcely a year older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight. She was fond of fang a world where the people never got any larger than children of their own age, and she made the queen of it just like Lucy with a little  on her head and a little sceptre in her hand... only the queen was Maggie herself in Lucys form.

    `O Lucy, she burst out, after kissing her, `Youll stay with Tom and me, wont you? O kiss her, Tom.

    Tom, too, had e up to Lucy, but he was not going to kiss her - no - he came up to her with Maggie because it seemed easier on the whole than saying, how do you do to all those aunts and uncles: he stood looking at nothing in particular, with the blushing awkward air and semismile which are on to shy boys when in pany - very much as if they had e into the world by mistake and found it in a degree of uhat was quite embarrassing.

    `Heyday! said aunt Glegg with loud emphasis, `do little boys and gells e into a room without taking notice otheir uncles and aunts? That wasnt the way when I was a little gell.

    `Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears, said Mrs Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She wao whisper to Maggie a and to go and have her hair brushed.

    `Well, and how do you do? And I hope yood children, are you? said aunt Glegg, in the same loud emphatic way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her large rings and kissing their cheeks much against their desire. `Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to b-schools should hold their heads up. Look at me, now. Tom deed that pleasure, apparently, for he tried to draw his hand away. `Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep your fro your shoulder.

    Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud emphatic way, as if she sidered them deaf or perhaps rather idiotic: it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they were atable creatures, and might be a salutary che naughty tendencies. Bessys children were so spoiled -theyd need have somebody to make them feel their duty.

    `Well, my dears, said aunt Pullet, in a passionate voice, `you grow, wonderful fast. I doubt theyll outgrow their strength, she added, looking over their heads with a melancholy expression at their mother. `I think the gell has too much hair. Id have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if I was you: it isnt good for her health. Its that as makes her skin so brown, I shouldnt wonder. Dont you think so, sister Deane?

    I t say, Im sure, sister, said Mrs Deane, shutting her lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye.

    `No, no, said Mr Tulliver, `the childs healthy enough - theres nothing ails her. Theres red wheat as well as white, for that matter, and some like the dark grai. But it ud be as well if Bessy ud have the childs hair cut, so as it ud lie smooth.

    A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggies breast, but it was arrested by the desire to know from her aunt Deane whether she would leave Lucy behind: aunt Deane would hardly ever let Lue to see them. After various reasons for refusal, Mrs Deane appealed to Lucy herself.

    `You wouldnt like to stay behind without mother, should you, Lucy?

    `Yes, please, mother, said Lucy, timidly, blushing very pink all over her little neck.

    `Well done, Lucy! Let her stay, Mrs Deane, let her stay, said Mr Deane, a large but alert-looking man with a type of physique to be seen in all ranks of English society - bald , red whiskers, full forehead, and general solidity without heaviness. You may see nobleman like Mr Deane, and you may see grocers or day-labourers like him; but the keenness of his brown eyes was less on than his tour. He held a silver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now and then exged a pinch with Mr Tulliver, whose box was only silver-mounted, so that it was naturally a joke betweehat Mr Tulliver wanted <abbr></abbr>to exge snuff-boxes also. Mr Deanes box had been given him by the superior partners in the firm to which he belonged, at the same time that they gave him a share in the business in aowledgment of his valuable services as manager. No man was thought more highly of in St Oggs than Mr Deane, and some persons were even of opinion that Miss Susan Dodson, who was held to have made the worst match of all the Dodson sisters, might one day ride in a better carriage and live in a better house even than her sister Pullet. There was no knowing where a man would stop, who had got his foot into a great mill-owning, ship-owning business like that of Guest &amp; Co. with a banking  attached. And Mrs Deane, as her intimate female friends observed, roud and having enough: she would her husband stand still in the world for want of spurring.

    `Maggie, said Mrs Tulliver, being Maggie to her and whispering in her ear as soon as this point of Lucys staying was settled, `go a your hair brushed - do, for shame. I told you not to e in without going to Martha first, you know I did.

    `Tom, e out with me, whispered Maggie, pulling his sleeve as she passed him, and Tom followed willingly enough.

    `e upstairs with me, Tom, she whispered when they were outside the door. `Theres something I want to do before dinner.

    `Theres no time to play at anything before dinner, said Tom, whose imagination was impatient of any intermediate prospect.

    `O yes, theres time for this - do e, Tom.

    Tom followed Maggie upstairs into her mothers room, and saw her go at oo a drawer from which she took out a large pair of scissors.

    `What are they for, Maggie? said Tom, feeling his curiosity awakened.

    Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them straight across the middle of her forehead.

    `O, my buttons, Maggie - youll catch it! exclaimed Tom. `Youd better not cut any more off.

    Snip! went the great scissain while Tom eaking, and he couldnt help feeling it was rather good fun: Maggie would look so queer.

    `Here Tom, cut it behind for me, said Maggie, excited by her own daring and anxious to finish the deed.

    `Youll catch it, you <dfn>.99lib.</dfn>know, said Tom, nodding his head in an admonitory manner, aating a little as he took the scissors.

    `Never mind - make haste! said Maggie, giving a little stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed.

    The black locks were so thick - nothing could be more tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleasure of cutting the ponys mane. I speak to those who know the satisfa of making a pair of shears meet through a duly resisting mass of hair. One delicious grinding snip, and then another and another, and the hinder locks fell heavily on the floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged uneven manner, but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had emerged from a wood into the open plain.

    `O Maggie, said Tom, jumping round her and slapping his knees as he laughed, `O, my buttons, what a queer thing you look! Look at yourself in the glass - you look like the idiot we throw our nutshells to at school.

    Maggie felt an ued pang. She had thought before-hand chiefly of her own deliverance from her teasing hair and teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very decided course of a: she didnt want her hair to look pretty - that was out of the question - she only wanted people to think her a clever little girl and not to find fault with her. But now when Tom began to laugh at her and say she was like the idiot, the affair had quite a neect. She looked in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and Maggies flushed cheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble a little.

    `O Maggie, youll have to go down to dinner directly, said Tom. `O my!

    `Dont laugh at me, Tom, said Maggie, in a passioone, with an outburst of angry tears, stamping and giving him a push.

    `Now then spitfire! said Tom. `What did you cut it off for then? I shall go down: I  smell the dinner going in.

    He hurried down-stairs a pgie to that bitter sense of the irrevocable which was almost an every-day experience of her small soul. She could see clearly enough now the thing was dohat it was very foolish, and that she should have to hear and think more about her hair than ever; fgie rushed to her deeds with passionate impulse, and then saw not only their sequences, but what would have happened if they had not been done, with all the detail and exaggerated circumstances of an active imagination. Tom never did the same sort of foolish things as Maggi<cite></cite>e, having a wonderful, instinctive disment of what would turn to his advantage or disadvantage, and so it happehat though he was much more wilful and inflexible than Maggie, his mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make a mistake of that sort he espoused it and stood by it: he `didnt mind: - if he broke the lash of his fathers gigwhip by lashing the gate, he couldnt help it - the whip shouldnt have got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a gate he was vinced, not that the whipping of gates by all boys was a justifiable act, but that he Tom Tulliver was justifiable in whipping that particular gate, and he wasnt going to be sorry. But Maggie, as she sto before the glass, felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and ehe severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom, and Lucy, and Kezia who waited at table, and perhaps her father and her uncles, would laugh at her - for if Tom had laughed at her of course every one else would: and if she had only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lud had the apricot pudding and the custard! What could she do but sob? She sat as helpless and despairing among her black locks as Ajax among the slaughtered sheep. Very trivial, perhaps, this anguish seems to weather-worn mortals who have to think of Christmas bills, dead loves and broken friendships, but it was not less bitter to Maggie - perhaps it was even more bitter - than what we are fond of calling antithetically the real troubles of mature life. `Ah, my child, you will have real troubles to fret about by and by, is the solation we have almost all of us had administered to us in our childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have been grown up. We have all of us sobbed so piteously standing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, when we lost sight of our mother or nurse in some strange place, but we o longer recall the poignancy of that moment till we weep over it, as we do over the remembered sufferings of five or ten years ago. Every one of those keen moments has left its trad lives in us still, but such traces have blent themselves irrecoverably with the firmer texture of our youth and man-hood; and so it es that we  look on at the troubles of our children with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their pain. Is there any one who  recover the experience of his childhood, not merely with a memory of what he did and what happeo him, of what he liked and disliked when he was in frod trousers, but with an intimate peion, a revived sciousness of what he felt then - when it was so long from one Midsummer to another? - what he felt when his schoolfellows shut him out of their game because he would pitch the ball wrong out of mere wilfulness; or on a rainy day in the holidays when he didnt know how to amuse himself and fell from idleness into mischief, from mischief into defiance, and from defiao sulkiness; or when his mother absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that `half, although every other boy of his age had goo tails already? Surely if we could recall that early bitterness, and the dim guesses, the strangely perspectiveless ception of life that gave the bitterness its iy, we should not pooh-pooh the griefs of our children.

    `Miss Maggie, youre to e down this minute, said Kezia, entering the room hurriedly. `Lawks! what have you been a-doing? I niver see such a fright.

    `Dont, Kezia, said Maggie, angrily. `Go away!

    `But I tell you, youre to e down, Miss, this minute: your mother says so, said Kezia, going up to Maggie and taking her by the hand to raise her from the floor.

    `Get away, Kezia, I dont want any dinner, said Maggie, resisting Kezias arm, `I shant e.

    `O well, I t stay: Ive got to wait at dinner, said Kezia, going out again.

    `Maggie, you little silly, said Tom, peeping into the room ten minutes after, `why dont you e and have your diheres lots o goodies, and my mother says youre to e. What are y for, you little spooney?

    O it was dreadful! Tom was so hard and uned: if he had been g on the floor, Maggie would have cried too. And there was the dinner, so nice; and she was so hungry. It was very bitter.

    But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not ined to cry, and did not feel that Maggies grief spoiled his prospect of the sweets; b<var>藏书网</var>ut he went and put his head near her, and said in a lower, f tone,

    `Wont you e, then, Magsie? Shall I bring you a bit o pudding when Ive had mine?... and a custard and things?

    `Ye-e-es, said Maggie, beginning to feel life a little more tolerable.

    `Very well, said Tom, going away. But he turned again at the door and said, `But youd better e, you know. Theres the dessert - nuts, you know - and cowslip wine.

    Maggies tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom left her. His good nature had taken off the kee edge of her suffering, and nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their legitimate influence.

    Slowly she rose from amongst her scattered locks and slowly she made her way downstairs. Theood leaning with one shoulder against the frame of the dining parlour door, peeping i was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy with ay chair between them, and there were the custards on a side table - it was too much. She slipped in aowards the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she repented and wished herself back again.

    Mrs Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, a such a `turn that she dropt the large gravy spoon into the dish with the most serious results to the table-cloth. For Kezia had not betrayed the reason of Maggies refusal to e down, not liking to give her mistress a sho the moment of carving, and Mrs Tulliver thought there was nothing worse iion than a fit of perverseness which was inflig its own punishment, by depriving Maggie of half her dinner.

    Mrs Tullivers scream made all eyes turn towards the same point as her own, and Maggies cheeks and ears began to burn, while uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, said--

    `Heyday! what little gells this - why, I dont know her. It is some little gell youve picked up in the road, Kezia?

    `Why, shes gone and cut her hair herself, said Mr Tulliver in an uoo Mr Deane, laughing with mujoyment. `Did you ever know such a little hussy as it is?

    `Why, little miss. Youve made yourself look very funny, said uncle Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an observation which was felt to be so lacerating.

    `Fie, for shame! said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest tone of reproof. `Little gells as cut their own hair should be whipped and fed on bread and water - not e and sit down with their aunts and uncles.

    `Ay, ay, said uncle Glegg, Meaning to give a playful turn to this denunciation, `she must be sent to gaol, I think, and theyll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even.

    `Shes more like a gypsy nor ever, said aunt Pullet, in a pitying tone, `Its very bad luck, sister, as the gell should be so brown - the boys fair enough. I doubt itll stand in her way i life, to be so brown.

    `Shes a naughty child, as ll break her mothers heart, said Mrs Tulliver, with tears in her eyes.

    Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproad derision. Her first flush came from anger which gave her a tra power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it out, supported by the ret appearance of the pudding and custard. Uhis impression, he whispered, `O my! Maggie, I told you youd catch it. He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt vihat Tom was rejoig in her ignominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, aing up from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her fa his shoulder and burst out into loud sobbing.

    `e, e, my wench, said her father soothingly putting his arms round her, `never mind. You was i the right to cut it off if it plagued you. Give over g: father ll take your part.

    Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never fot any of these moments when her father `took her part: she kept them in her heart and thought of them long years after, when every one else said that her father had done very ill by his children.

    `How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy! said Mrs Glegg, in a loud `aside to Mrs Tulliver. `Itll be the ruin of her, if you dont take care. My father niver brought his children up so, else we should ha been a different sort o family to what we are.

    Mrs Tullivers domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have reached the point at whisensibility begins. She took no notice of her sisters remark, but threw back her cap-strings and dispehe pudding, in mute resignation.

    With the dessert there came entire deliveranaggie, for the childreold they might have their nuts and wine in the summer-house, sihe day was so mild, and they scampered out among the budding bushes of the garden, with the alacrity of small animals getting from under a burning-glass.

    Mrs Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now the dinner was despatched and every ones mind disengaged, it was the right moment to unicate Mr Tullivers iion ing Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself to be absent. The children were used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if they were birds and could uand nothing, however they might stretch their necks and listen; but on this ocrs Tulliver maed an unusual discretion because she had retly had evidehat the going to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who looked at it as very mu a par with going to school to a stable. Mrs Tulliver had a sighing sehat her husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister Pullet either, but at least they would not be able to say, if the thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her husbands folly without letting her own friends know a word about it.

    `Mr Tulliver, she said, interrupting her husband in his talk with Mr Deane, `Its time now to tell the childrens aunts and uncles what youre thinking of doing with Tom, isnt it?

    `Very well, said Mr Tulliver, rather sharply, `Ive no objes to tell anybody what I mean to do with him. Ive settled, he added, looking towards Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, `Ive settled to send him to a Mr Stelling, a parson, down at Kings Lorton, there, an unon clever fellow, I uand, asll put him up to most things.

    There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the pany, such as you may have observed in a try gregatiohey hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from the pulpit. It was equally astonishing to the aunts and uo find a parson introduced into Mr Tullivers family arras. As for uncle Pullet, he could hardly have been more thhly obfuscated if Mr Tulliver had said that he was going to send Tom to the Lord cellor: for uncle Pullet beloo that extinct class of British yeomen who dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to church, and ate a particularly good dinner on Sunday, without dreaming that the British stitution in Churd State had a traceable in any more than the solar system and the fixed stars. It is melancholy, but true, that Mr Pullet had the most fused idea of a bishop as a sort of a baro, who might ht not be a clergyman; and as the rector of his own parish was a man of high family and fortuhe idea that a clergyman could be a saster was too remote from Mr Pullets experieo be readily ceivable. I know it is difficult for people in these instructed times to believe in uncle Pullets ignorance; but let them refle the remarkable results of a great natural faculty under fav circumstances. And uncle Pullet had a great natural faculty fnorance. He was the first to give utterao his astonishment.

    `Why, what  you be going to send him to a parson for? he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes, looking at Mr Glegg and Mr Deao see if they showed any signs of prehension.

    `Why, because the parsons are the best sasters by what I  make out, said poor Mr Tulliver, who in the maze of this puzzling world, laid hold of any clue with great readiness and tenacity. `Jacobs at th Academys no parson, and hes done very bad by the boy, and I made up my mind if I sent him to school again, It should be to somebody different to Jacobs. And this Mr Stelling, by what I  make out, is the sort o man I want. And I mean my boy to go to him at Midsummer, he cluded, in a tone of decision, tapping his snuff-box and taking a pinch.

    `Youll have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill theulliver? The clergymen have highish notions, in general, said Mr Deaaking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wishing to maintain a ral position.

    `What, do you think the parson ll teach him to know a good sample o wheat when he sees it, neighbour Tulliver? said Mr Glegg, who was fond of his jest, and, haviired from business, felt that it was not only allowable but being in him to take a playful view of things.

    `Why, you see, Ive got a plan i my head about Tom, said Mr Tulliver, pausing after that statement and lifting up his glass.

    `Well, if I may be allowed to speak, and its seldom as I am, said Mrs Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, `I should like to know what good is to e to the boy, by bringin him up above his fortin.

    `Why, said Mr Tulliver, not looking at Mrs Glegg, but at the male part of his audience, `you see, Ive made up my mind not t Tom up to my own business. Ive had my thoughts about it all along, and I made up my mind by what I saw with Gar and his son. I mean to put him to some business, as he  go into without capital, and I want to give him an eddication as hell be even wi the lawyers and folks, and put me up to a notion now an then.

    Mrs Glegg emitted a long sort of guttural sound with closed lips that smiled in mingled pity and s.

    `It ud be a fine deal better for some people, she said, after that introductory note, `if theyd let the lawyers alone.

    `Is he at the head of a grammar school, then, this clergyman - such as that at Market Bewley? said Mr Deane.

    `No - nothing o that, said Mr Tulliver. `He wont take more than two or three pupils - and so hell have the more time to attend to em, you know.

    `Ah, a his eddication dohe soohey t learn much at a time when theres so many of em, said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was getting quite an insight into this difficult matter.

    `But hell want the more pay, I doubt, said Mr Glegg.

    `Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year - thats all, said Mr Tulliver, with some pride at his own spirited course. `But then, you know, its an iment, like; Toms eddication ull be so much capital to him.

    `Ay, theres something in that, said Mr Glegg. `Well, well, neighbour Tulliver, you may be right, you may be right:

    &quot;When land is gone and moneys spent, Then learning is most excellent.&quot;

    I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at Buxton. But us that have got no learning had better keep our money, eh, neighbour Pullet? Mr Glegg rubbed his knees and looked very pleasant.

    `Mr Glegg, I wo you, said his wife. `Its very unbeing in a man o ye and belongings.

    `Whats unbeing, Mrs G.? said Mr Glegg, winking pleasantly at the pany. `My new blue coat as Ive got on?

    `I pity your weakness, Mr Glegg. I say, its unbeing to be making a joke when you see your own kin going headlongs to ruin.

    `If you mean me by that, said Mr Tulliver, siderably led, `You  trouble yourself to fret about me. I  manage my own affairs without troubling other folks.

    `Bless me, said Mr Deane, Judiciously introdug a new idea, `why, now I e to think of it, somebody said Wakem was going to send his son - the deformed lad - to a clergyman, didnt they, Susan? (appealing to his wife).

    `I  give no at of it, Im sure, said Mrs Deane, closing her lips very tightly again. Mrs Deane was not a woman to take part in a se where missiles were flying.

    `Well, said Mr Tulliver, speaking all the more cheerfully that Mrs Glegg might see he didnt mind her, `if Wakem thinks o sending his son to a clergyman, depend on it I shall make no mistake i sending Tom to one. Wakems as big a sdrel as Old Harry ever made, but he knows the length of every mans foot hes got to deal with. Ay, ay, tell me whos Wakems butcher, and Ill tell you where to get your meat.

    `But lawyer Wakems sons got a hump-back, said Mrs Pullet who felt as if the whole business had a funereal aspect, `its more natral to send him to a clergyman.

    `Yes, said Mr Glegg, interpreting Mrs Pullets observation with erroneous plausibility, `you must sider that, neighbour Tulliver; Wakems son isnt likely to follow any business. Wakem ull make a gentleman of him, poor fellow.

    `Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., in a tone which implied that her indignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she was determio keep it corked up, `youd far better hold your tongue. Mr Tulliver doesnt want to know your opinion nor miher. Theres folks in the world as know better than everybody else.

    `Why, I should think thats you, if were to trust your own tale, said Mr Tulliver, beginning to boil up again.

    `O, I say nothing, said Mrs Glegg, sarcastically. `My advice has never been asked, and I dont give it.

    `Itll be the first time, then, said Mr Tulliver. `Its the only thing youre over-ready at giving.

    `Ive been over-ready at lending, then, if havent been over-ready at giving, said Mrs Glegg. `Theres folks Ive lent moo, as perhaps I shall repent o lending moo kin.

    `e, e, e, said Mr Glegg soothingly. But Mr Tulliver was not to be hindered of his retort.

    `Youve got a bond for it, I re, he said. `And youve had your five per t, kin or no kin.

    `Sister, said Mrs Tulliver pleadingly, `drink your wine, a me give you some almonds and raisins.

    `Bessy, Im sorry for you, said Mrs Glegg, very much with the feeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of diverting his bark towards the man who carries no stick. `Its poor work talking o almonds and raisins.

    `Lors, sister Glegg, dont be so quarrelsome, said Mrs Pullet, beginning to cry a little. `You may be struck with a fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are but just out o m, all of us - and all wi gowns craped alike and just put by - its very bad among sisters.

    `I should think it is bad, said Mrs Glegg. `Things are e to a fine pass when one sister ihe other to her house o purpose to quarrel with her and abuse her.

    `Softly, softly, Jane - be reasonable - be reasonable, said Mr Glegg.

    But while he eaking, Mr Tulliver, who had by no means said enough to satisfy his anger, burst out again.

    `Who wants to quarrel with you? he said. `Its you as t let people alone, but must be gnawing at em for ever. I should never want to quarrel with any woman, if she kept her place.

    `My place, indeed! said Mrs Glegg, getting rather more shrill. `Theres your betters, Mr Tulliver, as are dead and in their grave, treated me with a different sort o respect to what you do - though Ive got a husband asll sit by and see me abused by them as ud never ha had the ce if there hadhem in our family as married worse than they might ha done.

    `If you talk o that, said Mr Tulliver, `my familys as good as yours - aer, for it hasnt got a damned illtempered woman in it.

    `Well! said Mrs Glegg, rising from her chair, `I dont know whether you think its a fihing to sit by and hear me swore at, Mr Glegg, but Im not going to stay a minute longer in this house. You  stay behind, and e home with the gig, and Ill walk home.

    `Dear heart, dear heart! said Mr Glegg in a melancholy tone, as he followed his wife out of the room.

    `Mr Tulliver, how could you talk so? said Mrs Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes.

    `Let her go, said Mr Tulliver, too hot to be damped by any amount of tears. `Let her go, and the soohe better: she worying to domineer over me again in a hurry.

    `Sister Pullet, said Mrs Tulliver, helplessly, `do you think it ud be any use for you to go after her and try to pacify her?

    `Better not, better not, said Mr Deane. `Youll make it up another day.

    `Then, sisters, shall we go and look at the children? said Mrs Tulliver, drying her eyes.

    No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr Tulliver felt very much as if the air had been cleared of obstrusive flies now the women were out of the room. There were few things he liked better than a chat with Mr Deane, whose close application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. Mr Deane, he sidered, was the `knowi man of his acquaintand he had besides a ready causticity of tongue which made an agreeable supplement to Mr Tullivers own tendency that way, which had remained in rather an embryonic or inarticulate dition. And now the women were gohey could carry on their serious talk without frivolous interruption. They could exge their views ing the Duke of Wellington whose du the Catholic Question had thrown su entirely new light on his character, and speak slightingly of his duct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would never have won if there hadnt been a great many Englishmen at his baot to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, as Mr Tulliver had heard from a person of particular knowledge in that matter, had e up in the very nick of time; though here there was a slight dissidence, Mr Deane remarking that he was not disposed to give much credit to the Prussians, the build of their vessels together with the unsatisfactory character of transas in Dantzic beer, ining him to form rather a low view of Prussian pluck generally. Rather beaten on this ground, Mr Tulliver proceeded to express his fears that the try could never again be what it used to be; but Mr Deatached to a firm of which the returns were on the increase, naturally took a more lively view of the present, and had some details to give ing the state of the imports especially in hides and spelter, which soothed Mr Tullivers imagination by throwing into more distant perspective the period when the try would bee utterly the prey of Papists and Radicals and there would be no more ce for ho men.

    Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these high matters. He didnt uand politics himself - thought they were a natural gift - but by what he could make out, this Duke of Wellington was er than he should be.

 CHAPTER 8

    Mr Tulliver Shows His Weaker Side

    `SUPPOSE sister Glegg should call her money in - it ud be very awkward for you to have to raise five hundred pounds now, said Mrs Tulliver to her husband that evening, as she took a plaintive review of the day. Mrs Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, yet she retained in all the freshness of her early married life a facility of saying things which drove him in the opposite dire to the one she desired. Some minds are wonderful for keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal gold-fish apparently retains to the last its youthful illusion that it  swim in a straight line beyond the encirg glass. Mrs Tulliver was an amiable fish of this kind, and after running her head against the same resisting medium for thirteen years would go at it again to-day with undulled alacrity.

    This observation of hers tended directly to vince Mr Tulliver that it would not be at all awkward for him to raise five hundred pounds, and when Mrs Tulliver became rather pressing to know how he would raise it without ming the mill and the house which he had said he never would me, sinoeople were none so ready to lend money without security, Mr Tulliver, getting warm, declared that Mrs Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her money - he should pay it in, whether or not. He was not going to be beholding to his wifes sisters. When a man had married into a family where there was a whole litter of women, he might have plenty to put up with if he choose. But Mr Tulliver did not choose.

    Mrs Tulliver cried a little in a trig quiet way as she put on her nightcap; but presently sank into a fortable sleep, lulled by the thought that she would talk everything over with her sister Pullet tomorrow when she was to take the children to Garum Firs to tea. Not that she looked forward to any distinct issue from that talk, but it seemed impossible that past events should be so obstinate as to remain unmodified when they were plained against.

    Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was thinking of a visit he would pay on the morrow, and his ideas on the subject were not of so vague and soothing a kind as those of his amiable partner.

    Mr Tulliver, when uhe influence of a strong feeling, had a promptitude in a that may seem insistent with that painful sense of the plicated puzzling nature of human affairs under which his more dispassionate deliberations were ducted; but it is really not improbable that there was a direct relatioween these apparently tradictory phenomena, since I have observed that fetting a strong impression that a skein is tahere is nothing like snatg hastily at a sihread. It was owing to this promptitude that Mr Tulliver was on horse-back soon after dihe  day - (he was not dyspeptic) - on his way to Basset to see his sister Moss and her husband. For having made up his mind irrevocably that he would pay Mrs Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds, it naturally occurred to him that he had a promissory note for three hundred pounds lent to his brother-in-law Moss, and if said brother-in-law could mao pay in the money within a given time, it would go far to lessen the fallacious air of invenience which Mr Tullivers spirited step might have worn in the eyes of eople who require to know precisely how a thing is to be done before they are strongly fident that it will be easy.

    For Mr Tulliver was in a positioher new nor striking but, like other everyday things, sure to have a cumulative effect that will be felt in the long run: he was held to be a much more substantial man than he really was. And as we are all apt to believe what the world believes about us, it was his habit to think of failure and ruin with the same sort of remote pity with which a spare long-necked man hears that his plethoric short-necked neighbour is stri with apoplexy. He had been always used to hear pleasant jokes about his advantages as a man who worked his own mill and owned a pretty bit of land; and these jokes naturally kept up his sehat<bdi>?99ｌib?</bdi> he was a man of siderable substahey gave a pleasant flavour to his glass on a market-day, and if it had not been for the recurrence of half-yearly payments Mr Tulliver would really have fotten that there was a me of two thousand pounds on his mill and homestead. That was not altogether his own fault, sine of the thousand pounds was his sisters fortune, which he had had to pay on her marriage, and a man who has neighbours that will go to law with him is not likely to pay off his mes, especially if he enjoys the good opinion of acquaintances who want to borrow a hundred pounds on security too lofty to be represented by part. Our friend Mr Tulliver had a good-natured fibre in him, and did not like to give harsh refusals even to a sister, who had not only e into the world in that superfluous way characteristic of sisters, creating a y for mes, but had quite thrown herself away in marriage and had ed her mistakes by having ah baby. On this point Mr Tulliver was scious of being a little weak, but he apologised to himself by saying that pritty had been a good-looking wench before she married Moss - he would sometimes say this even with a slight tremulousness in his voice. But this m he was in a mood more being a man a business, and in the course of his ride along the Basset lanes, with their deep ruts, lying so far away from a market-town that the labour of drawing produd manure was enough to take away the best part of the profits on such poor land as that parish was made of, he got up a due amount of irritation against Moss as a man without capital, who if murrain and blight were abroad was sure to have his share of them, and who, the more you tried to help him out of the mud, would sink the further in. It would do him good rather than harm, now, if he were obliged to raise this three hundred pounds: it would make him look about him better, and not act so foolishly about his wool this year as he did the last: in fact, Mr Tulliver had been too easy with his brother-in-law, and because he had let the i run on for two years, Moss was likely enough to think that he should never be troubled about the principal. But Mr Tulliver was determined not to ence such shuffling people any longer, and a ride along the Basset lanes was not likely to ee a mans resolution by softening his temper. The deep-trodden hoof-marks made in the muddiest days of winter gave him a shake now and then which suggested a rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers who, whether by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless something to do with this state of the roads; and the abundance of foul land and ed fehat met his eye, though they made no part of his brother Mosss farm, strongly tributed to his dissatisfa with that unlucky agriculturist. If this wasnt Mosss fallow, it might have been: Basset was all alike; it was a beggarly parish in Mr Tullivers opinion, and his opinion was certainly not groundless. Basset had a poor soil, poor roads, a poor non-resident landlord, a poor non-resident vicar, and rather less than half a curate, also poor. If any orongly impressed with the power of the human mind to triumph over circumstances, will tend that the parishioners of Basset might heless have been a very superior class of people, I have nothing te against that abstract proposition: I only know that in point of fact the Basset mind was in strict keeping with its circumstahe muddy lanes, green or clayey, that seemed to the unaced eye <tt>藏书网</tt>to lead nowhere but into each other, did really lead, with patieo a distant high-road, but there were ma in Basset which they led more frequently to a tre of dissipation spoken of formally as the `Markis o Granby but among intimates as `Dickisons. A large low room with a sanded floor, a cold st of tobaodified by ued beer-dregs, Mr Dickison leaning against the doorpost with a melancholy pimpled face looking as irrelevant to the daylight as a last nights guttered dle - all this may not seem a very seductive form of temptation; but the majority of men in Basset found it fatally alluring when entered on their road towards four oclo a wintry afternoon; and if any wife in Basset wished to indicate that her husband was not a pleasure-seeking man, she could hardly do it more emphatically than by saying that he didnt spend a shilling at Dickisons from one Whitsuo another. Mrs Moss had said so of her husband more than once, when her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, as he certainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacifying to Mr Tulliver than the behaviour of the farmyard gate, which he no sootempted to push open with his riding stick than it acted as gates without the upper hinge are known to do, to the peril of shins, whether equine or human. He was about to get down and lead his horse through the damp dirt of the hollow farmyard, shadowed drearily by the large half-tim-bered buildings, up to the long line of tumble-down dwelling-house standing on a raised causeway, but the timely appearance of a cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he had determined on, namely not to get down from his horse during this visit. If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle and speak from that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with the and of a distant horizon. Mrs Moss heard the sound of the horses feet and when her brother rode up, was already outside the kit door with a half-weary smile on her face, and a black-eyed baby in her arms. Mrs Mosss face bore a faded resemblao her brothers: babys little fat hand pressed against her cheek seemed to show more strikingly that the cheek was faded.

    `Brother, Im glad to see you, she said, in an affeate tone. `I didnt look for you today. How do you do?

    `Oh... pretty well, Mrs Moss... pretty well, answered the brother, with cool deliberateness, as if it were rather too forward of her to ask that question. She k ohat her brother was not in a good humour: he never called her Mrs Moss expect when he was angry and when they were in pany. But she thought it was in the order of nature that people who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs Moss did not take her stand on the equality of the human race: she atient, loosely-hung, child-produg woman.

    `Your husband isnt in the house, I suppose? added Mr Tulliver, after a grave pause, during which four children had run out, like chis whose mother has been suddenly in eclipse behind the hen-coop.

    `No, said Mrs Moss, `but hes only iato-field yey, run to the Far Close in a minute and tell father your uncles e. Youll get down, brother, wont you, and take something?

    `No, no; I t get down - I must be going home again directly, said Mr Tulliver, looking at the distance.

    `And hows Mrs Tulliver and the children? said Mrs Moss humbly, not daring to press her invitation.

    `Oh... pretty well. Toms going to a new school at Midsummer - a deal of<dfn>.99lib.</dfn> expeo me. Its bad work for me lying out o my money.

    `I wish youd be so good as let the children e aheir cousins some day. My little uns want to see their cousin Maggie, so as never was. And me her god-mother and so fond of her - theres nobody ud make a bigger fuss with her acc to what theyve got. And I know she likes to e - for shes a loving child, and how quid clever she is, to be sure!

    If Mrs Moss had been one of the most astute women in the world instead of being one of the simplest, she could have thought of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise of Maggie. He seldom found any one volunteering praise of `the little wench: it was usually left eo himself to insist on her merits. But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at her aunt Mosss: it was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach of law - if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were matters of course at her aunt Mosss. In spite of himself, Mr Tullivers eyes got milder, and he did not look away from his sister as he said,

    `Ay: shes fonder o you than o the other aunts, I think. She takes after our family: not a bit of her mothers in her.

    `Moss says, shes just like what I used to be, said Mrs Moss, `though I was never so quid fond o the books. But I think my Lizzys like her - shes sharp. e here, Lizzy my dear, a your uncle see you: he hardly knows you, you grow so fast.

    Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses were mu awe of their uncle from Dorlill. She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to make the resemblaweewo entirely flattering to Mr Tullivers fatherly love.

    `Ay, theyre a bit alike, he said, looking kindly at the little figure in the soiled pinafore. `They both take after our mother. Youve got enough o gells, Gritty, he added in a tone half passionate, half reproachful.

    `Four of em, bless em, said Mrs Moss, with a sigh, stroking Lizzys hair on each side of her forehead, `as many as theres boys. Theyve got a brother apiece.

    `Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves, said Mr Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing and trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. `They mustnt look to hanging on their brothers.

    `No: but I hope their brothers ull love the poor things and remember they came o oher and mother: the lads ull never be the poorer for that, said Mrs Moss, flashing out with hurried timidity, like a half-smothered fire.

    Mr Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checked it and said angrily, `Stand still with you! much to the astonishment of that i animal.

    `And the more there is of em, the more they must love one another, Mrs Moss went on, looking at her children with a didactic purpose. But she turowards her brain to say, `Not but what I hope your boy ull allays be good to his sister, though theres but two of em, like you and me, brother.

    That arrow went straight to Mr Tullivers heart. He had not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very o him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by side with Toms relation to Maggie. Would the little wench ever be poorly off, and Tom rather hard upon her?

    `Ay, ay, Gritty, said the miller, with a new softness in his tone. `But Ive allays done what I could for you, he added, as if vindig himself from a reproach.

    `Im not denying that, brother, and Im noways ungrateful, said poor Mrs Moss, too fagged by toil and children to have strength left for any pride. `But heres the father. What a while youve been, Moss.

    `While, do you call it? said Mr Moss, feeling out of breath and injured. `Ive been running all the way. Wont you light, Mr Tulliver?

    `Well, Ill just get down and have a bit o talk with you in the garden, said Mr Tulliver, feeling that he should be more likely to show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were not present.

    He got doassed with Mr Moss into the garden towards an old yew-tree arbour, while his sister stood tapping her baby on the bad looking wistfully after them.

    Their entrao the yew-tree arbour surprised several fowls, that were recreating themselves by scratg deep holes in the dusty ground, and at oook flight with much pother and cag. Mr Tulliver sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously here and there with his stick, as if he suspected some hollowness, opehe versation by , with something like a snarl in his tone,

    `Why, youve got wheat again in that er Close, I see? and never a bit o dressing on it. Youll do no good with it this year.

    Mr Moss, who when he married Miss Tulliver had been regarded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week old and had the depressed, uant air of a mae horse. He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, `Why, poor farmers like me must do as they : they must leave it to them as have got moo play with to put half as muto the ground as they mean to get out of it.

    `I dont know who should have moo play with, if it isnt them as  borrow money without paying i, said Mr Tulliver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel: it was the most natural and easy introdu to calling in money.

    `I know Im behind with the i, said Mr Moss, `but I was so unlucky wi the wool last year, and what with the Missis being laid up so, things have gone awkarder nor usual.

    `Ay, snarled Mr Tulliver, `theres folks as things ull allays go awkard with: empty sacks ull and upright.

    `Well, I dont know what fault youve got to find wi me, Mr Tulliver, said Mr Moss depregly, `I know there isnt a day-labourer works harder.

    `Whats the use o that, said Mr Tulliver, sharply, `when a man marries ands got no capital to work his farm, but his wifes bit o fortin? I was against it from the first; but youd her of you listen to me. And I t lie out o My money any longer; for Ive got to pay five hundred leggs, and there ull be Tom an expeo me, as I should find myself short, even saying Id got back all as is my own. You must look about and see how you  pay me the three hundred pounds.

    `Well, if thats what you mean, said Mr Moss, looking blankly before him, `wed better be sold up and ha doh it; I must part wi every head o sto got, to pay you and the landlord too.

    Poor relations are undeniably irritating: their existence is so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost always very faulty people. Mr Tulliver had succeeded iing quite as much irritated with Mr Moss as he had desired and he was able to say angrily, rising from his seat,

    `Well, you must do as you . I t find money for everybody else as well as myself. I must look to my own business and my own family. I t lie out o my money any longer. You must raise it as quick as you .

    Mr Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbour as he uttered the last sentend without looking round at Mr Moss went on to the kit door where the eldest boy was holding his horse, and his sister was waiting in a state of w alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for baby was making pleasant gurgling sounds and perf a great deal of finger practi the faded face. Mrs Moss had eight children, but could never overe her regret that the twins had not lived: Mr Moss thought their removal was not without its solations. `Wont you e in, brother? she said, looking anxiously at her husband, alking slowly up, while Mr Tulliver had his foot already iirrup.

    `No, no; good-by, said he, turning his horses head and riding away.

    No man could feel more resolute till he got outside the yard-gate and a little way along the deep-rutted lane; but before he reached the urning, which would take him out of sight of the dilapidated farm-buildings, he appeared to be smitten by some sudden thought, for he checked his horse and made it stand still in the same spot for two or three minutes, during which he turned his head from side to side in a melancholy way, as if he were looking at some painful objeore sides than one. Evidently, after his fit of promptitude, Mr Tulliver was relapsing into the sehat this is a puzzling world. He turned his horse and rode slowly back, givio the climax of feeling which had determihis movement by saying aloud, as he struck his horse,

    `Poor little wench! shell have nobody but Tom, belike, when Im gone.

    Mr Tullivers return into the yard was descried by several young Mosses, who immediately ran in with the exg o their mother, so that Mrs Moss was again on the door-step when her brother rode up. She had been g, but was rog baby to sleep in her arms now, and made no ostentatious show of sorrow as her brother looked at her, but merely said,

    `The fathers goo the field again, if you want him, brother.

    `No, Gritty, no, said Mr Tulliver, in a geone. `Dont you fret - thats all - Ill make a shift without the money a bit - only you must be as cliver and triving as you .

    Mrs Mosss tears came again at this ued kindness, and she could say nothing.

    `e, e! - the little wench sha<dfn></dfn>ll e and see you. Ill bring her and Tom some day before he goes to school. You mustnt fret... Ill allays be a good brother to you.

    `Thank you for that word, brother, said Mrs Moss, dryiears; then turning to Lizzy, she said, `Run now, ach the coloured egg for cousin Maggie. Lizzy ran in, and quickly reappeared with a small paper parcel.

    `Its boiled hard, brother, and coloured with thrums - very pretty: it was done o purpose fgie. Will you please to carry it in your pocket?

    `Ay, ay, said Mr Tulliver, putting it carefully in his side-pocket. `Good-by.

    And so the respectable miller returned along the Basset lanes rather more puzzled than before as to ways and means, but still with the sense of a danger escaped. It had e across his mind that if he were hard upon his sister, it might somehow tend to make Tom hard upon Maggie, at some dista<details></details>nt day, when her father was no lohere to take her part; for simple people, like our friend Mr Tulliver, are apt to clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this was his fused way of explaining to himself that his love and ay for `the little wench had given him a new sensibility towards his sister.

 CHAPTER 9

    Charity in Full Dress

    THE culmination of Maggies career as an admired member of society in St Oggs was certainly the day of the Bazaar, when her simple noble beauty, clad in a white muslin of some soft-floating kind, which I suspect must have e from the stores of aunt Pullets wardrobe, appeared with marked distinong the more adorned and ventional women around her. We perhaps never deteuch of our social demeanour is made up of artificial airs, until we see a person who is at once beautiful and simple: without the beauty we are apt to call simplicity awkwardness. The Miss Guests were much too well-bred to have any of the grimaces and affected tohat belong to pretentious vulgarity; but their stall beio the one where Maggie sat, it seemed newly obvious today that Miss Guest held her  too high, and that Miss Laura spoke and moved tinually with a view to effect. All well-drest St Oggs and its neighbourhood were there, and it would have been worth while to e even from a distao see the fine old Hall, with its open roof and carved oaken rafters and great oaken folding-doors, and light shed down from a height on the many-coloured show beh - a very quaint place with broad faded stripes painted on the walls and here and there a show of heraldiimals of a bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems of a noble family ohe seigniors of this now civic hall. A grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted an oaken orchestra with an open room behind it, where hothouse plants and stalls for refreshments were disposed - a very agreeable resort fentlemen disposed to loiter ao exge the occasional crush down below for a more odious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this a building for an admirable modern purpose tha<bdi>?</bdi>t made charity truly elegant, ahrough vanity up to the supply of a deficit, was so striking that hardly a persoered the room without exging the remark more than onear the great arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel with painted glass which was one of the venerable insistencies of the old Hall; and it was close by this that Lucy had her stall for the venience of certain large plain articles which she had taken charge of for Mrs Kenn. Maggie had begged to sit at the open end of the stall to have the sale of these articles rather than of bead mats and other elaborate products of which she had but a dim uanding. But it soon appeared that the gentlemens dressing-gowns, which were among her odities, were objects of such general attention and inquiry aed so troublesome a curiosity as to their lining and parative merits together with a determination to test them by trying on, as to make her post a very spicuous ohe ladies who had odities of their own to sell, and did not want dressing-gowns, saw at ohe frivolity and bad taste of this mase preference foods whiy tailor could furnish; and it is possible that the emphatiotice of various kinds which was drawn towards Miss Tulliver on this public occasion threw a very strong and unmistakable light on her subsequent du many minds the. Not that anger on at of spurned beauty  dwell in the celestial breasts of charitable ladies, but rather, that the errors of persons who have once been much admired necessarily take a deeper tinge from the mere force of trast, and also, that today Maggies spicuous position for the first time made evideain characteristics which were subsequently felt to have an explanatory bearing. There was something rather bold in Miss Tullivers direct gaze, and something undefinably coarse iyle of her beauty, which placed her, in the opinion of all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane; for the ladies of St Oggs had now pletely ceded to Lucy their hypothetic claims on the admiration of Mr Stephe.

    As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent triumph about the Mill, and all the affeate projects she was cherishing fgie and Philip, helped to give her the highest spirits today, and she felt nothing but pleasure in the evidenaggies attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very charming herself, and Stephen ayihe utmost attention on this public occasion - jealously buying up the articles he had seen under her fingers in the process of making, and gaily helpio cajole the male ers into the purchase of the most effemiilities. He chose to lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet Fez of her embr, but by superficial observers this was necessarily liable to be interpreted less as a pliment to Lucy than as a mark of bry. `Guest is a great b, young Torry observed, `but then he is a privileged person in St Oggs - he carries all before him: if another fellow did such things, everybody would say he made a fool of himself. (Young Torry had red hair.)

    And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, until Lucy said, in rather a vexed uone,

    `See, now; all the things of Maggies knitting will be gone, and you will not have bought ohere are those deliciously soft warm things for the wrists - do buy them.

    `Oh, no, said Stephen, `they must be intended for imaginative persons who  chill themselves on this warm day by thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stern reason is my forte, you know. You must get Philip to buy those. By the way, why doesnt he e?

    `He never likes going where there are many people, though I enjoined him to e. He said he would buy up any of my goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go and buy something of Maggie.

    `No, no - see - she has got a er: there is old Wakem himself just ing up.

    Lucys eyes turned with anxious iowards Maggie, to see how she went through this first interview since a sadly memorable time with a man towards whom she must have se a mixture of feelings, but she leased to notice that Wakem had taough to e oo talk about the bazaar wares and appear ied in purchasing, smiling now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling oo speak much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and tremulous.

    `Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiabl<var>藏书网</var>e to your cousin, said Stephen, in an uoo Lucy. `Is it pure magnanimity? You talked of a family quarrel.

    `O, that will soon be quite healed, I hope, said Lucy, being a little indiscreet in her satisfa, and speaking with an air of significe. But Stephen did not appear to notice this, and as some lady-purchasers came up, he lounged on towards Maggies end, handling trifles and standing aloof until Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his transas.

    `My son came with me, he overheard Wakem saying, `but he has vanished into some other part of the building, and has left all these charitable gallao me. I hope youll reproach him for his shabby duct.

    She returned his smile and bow, without speaking, aurned away, only then  Stephen and nodding to him. Maggie, scious that Stephen was still there, busied herself with ting money, and avoided looking up. She had been well pleased that he had devoted himself to Lucy today, and had not e near her. They had begun the m with an indifferent salutation and both had rejoiced in being aloof from each other, like a patient who has actually dohout his opium, in spite of former failures in resolution. And during the last few days they had even been making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward events that must soon e to separate them, as a reason for dispensing with self-quest iail.

    Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall and was half hidden by a s of draperies. Maggie went on ting her moill she suddenly heard a deep gentle voice saying, `Arent you very tired? Do let me bring you something - some fruit or jelly - maynt I?

    The ued tones shook her like a sudden actal vibration of a harp close by her.

    `O no, thank you, she said, faintly, and only half looking up for an instant.

    `You look so pale, Stephen insisted, in a more eing tone. `Im sure youre exhausted. I must disobey you, and bring something.

    `No, indeed I couldnt take it.

    `Are you angry with me? What have I done? Do look at me.

    `Pray, go away, said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes glang immediately form him to the opposite er of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sootered this ey than she was wretched at the admission it implied, but Stephen turned away at once, and, following her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem seated in the half-hidden er, so that he could and little more than that angle of the hall in which Maggie sat. Airely hought occurred to Stephen, and, linking itself with what he had observed of Wakems manner, and with Lucys reply to his observation, it vinced him that there had been some former relatioween Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately leave the hall, and go upstairs to the refreshment room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

    `Are you studying for a portrait, Phil, he said, `or for a sketch of that oriel window? By Gee, it makes a capital bit from this dark er, with the curtain just marking it off.

    `I have been studying expression, said Philip curtly.

    `What, Miss Tullivers? Its rather of the savage-moody order today, I think - something of the fallen princess serving behind a ter. Her cousi me to her with a civil offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, as usual. Theres a natural antipathy between us, I suppose - I have seldom the honour to please her.

    `What a hypocrite you are! said Philip, flushing angrily.

    `What, because experience must have told me that Im universally pleasing? I admit the law, but theres some disturbing force here.

    `I am going, said Philip, rising abruptly.

    `So am I - to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long enough.

    The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip turhrough the outer door into the churchyard, but Stephen, saying, `O by the by, I must call in here, went on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other end of the building, which were appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to himself and a man requires nothihan this, when he wants to dash his cap oable, throw himself astride a chair and stare at a high brick wall with a frown which would not have beeh the occasion if he had been slaying the Giant Python. The duct that issues from a moral flict has often so close a resemblao vice, that the distin escapes all outward judgments, founded on a mere parison of as. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite - capable of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end; a his fluctuatioween the indulgence of a feeling and the systematicealment of it might have made a good case in support of Philips accusation.

    Meanwhile, Maggie sate at her stall cold and trembling, with that painful sensation in the eyes whies from resolutely repressed tears. Was her life to be always like this? - always bringing some new source of inward strife? She heard fusedly the busy indifferent voices around her and wished her mind could flow into that easy, babbling current. It was at this moment that Dr Kenn, who had quite lately e into the hall, and was now walking down the middle with his hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed his eyes on Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the expression of pain on her beautiful face. She was sitting quite still, for the stream of ers had lesse this late hour iernoon: the gentlemen had chiefly chosen the middle of the day, and Maggies stall was looking rather bare. This, with her absent, pained expression, fihe trast between her and her panions, who were all bright, eager and busy. He was strongly arrested. Her face had naturally drawn his attention as a new and striking o church, and he had been introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr Deanes, but he had never spoken more than three words to her. He walked towards her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one approag, roused herself to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt a child-like, instinctive relief from the sense of uneasiness in this exertion, when she saw it was Dr Kenns face that was looking at her: - that plain, middle-aged face, with a grave, peing kindness in it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached a firm, safe strand, but was looking with helpful pity towards the strugglers still tossed by the waves, had an effeaggie at that moment which was afterwards remembered by her as if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, who have lived through their stro emotions, but are yet iime when memory is still half passionate and not merely plative, should surely be a sort of natural priesthood whom life has disciplined and secrated to be the refuge and rescue of early stumblers and victims of self-despair: most of us at some moment in our young lives, would have weled a priest of that natural order in any sort of icals or unicals, but had to scramble upwards into all the difficulties of eeirely without such aid, as Maggie did.

    `You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Miss Tulliver? said Dr Kenn.

    `It is, rather, said Maggie, simply, not being aced to simper amiable denials of obvious facts.

    `But I  tell Mrs Kenn that you have disposed of her goods very quickly, he added. `She will be very much obliged to you.

    `O I have dohing: the gentlemen came very fast to buy the dressing-gowns and embroidered waistcoats but I think any of the other ladies would have sold more: I didnt know what to say about them.

    Dr Kenn smiled. `I hope Im going to have you as a perma parishioner now, Miss Tulliver - am I? You have been at a distance from us hitherto.

    `I have been a teacher in a school, and Im going into another situation of the same kind very soon.

    `Ah? I was hoping you would remain among your friends who are all in this neighbour<q>9９lｉｂ.</q>hood, I believe.

    `O I must go, said Maggie, early, looking at Dr Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told him her history in those three words. It was one of those moments of implicit revelation which will sometimes happen eveween people who meet quite traly - on a miles journey, perhaps, or wheing by the wayside. There is always this possibility of a word or look from a strao keep alive the sense of human brotherhood.

    Dr Kenns ear aook in all the signs that this brief fidenaggies was charged with meaning.

    `I uand, he said; `you feel it right to go. But that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope - it will not prevent my knowing you better, if I  be of any service to you.

    He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly, before he turned away.

    `She has some trouble or other at heart, he thought. `Poor child! she looks as if she might turn out to be one of

    `The souls by nature pitchd too high, By suffering plungd too low.

    Theres something wonderfully ho in those beautiful eyes.

    It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imperfes an excessive delight in admiration and aowledged supremacy were not absent now, any more than when she was instrug the gypsies with a view towards achieving a royal position among them, was not more elated on a day when she had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, together with that satisfactory sciousness which had necessarily e from being taken before Lucys cheval glass and made to look at the full length of her tall beauty, ed by the night of her massy hair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, and for the moment had fottehing in the sense of her owy. If that state of mind could have lasted, her choice would have been to have Stephe at her feet,  her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily inse of adoration near and distant, with all possibilities of culture at her and. But there were things irohan vanity - passion, and affe, and long deep memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on her love and pity; and the stream of vanity was soo along and mingled imperceptibly with that wider current which was at its highest force today, uhe double urgency of the events and inward impulses brought by the last week.

    Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of obstacles between them on his fathers side - he shrank from that - but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that Maggie, being informed through her, might give him some encing sign that their being brought thus muearer to each other pio her. The rush of flig feelings was too great fgie to say much when Lucy with a face breathing playful joy, like one of Cios cherubs, poured forth her triumphant revelation, and Lucy could hardly be surprised that she could do little more than cry with gladness at the thought of her fathers wish being fulfilled and of Toms getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard striving. The details of preparation for the bazaar had then e to usurp Lucys attention for the  few days, and n<dfn>9９ｌib?</dfn>othing had been said by the cousins on subjects that were likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been to the house more than once, but Maggie had had no private versation with him, and thus she had beeo fight her inward battle without interference.

    But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were alone agaiing together at home, Lucy said,

    `You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss the day after tomorrow, Maggie: write a o her, and tell her you have put it off at my request and Ill send the man with it. She wont be displeased - youll have plenty of time to go by and by. And I dont want you to go out of the way just now.

    `Yes, indeed I must go, dear - I t put it off. I wouldnt leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall have very little time, for Im going away to a new situation owenty fifth of June.

    `Maggie! said Lucy, almost white with astonishment.

    `I didnt tell you, dear, said Maggie, making a great effort to and herself, `because youve been so busy. But some time ago, I wrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her to let me know if she met with any situation that I could fill, and the other day I had a letter from her tellihat I could take three orphan pupils of hers to the coast during the holidays and then make trial of a situation with her as teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept the offer.

    Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was uo speak.

    `Maggie, she said at last, `how could you be so unkind to me - not to tell me - to take such a step - and now! She hesitated a little, and then added - `And Philip? I thought everything was going to be so happy. O Maggie - what is the reason? Give it up - let me write. There is nothing now to keep you and Philip apart.

    `Yes, said Maggie, faintly. `There is Toms feeling. He said I must give him up, if I married Philip. And I know he will not ge - at least not for a long while - unless something happeo soften him.

    `But I will talk to him - hes ing back this week. And this good news about the Mill will soften him. And Ill talk to him about Philip. Toms always very pliant to me - I dont think hes so obstinate.

    `But I must go, said Maggie, in a distressed voice. `I must leave some time to pass. Dont press me to stay, dear Lucy.

    Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating. At length she k down by her cousin and looking up in her face with anxious seriousness, said--

    `Maggie, is it that you dont love Philip well enough to marry him? - tell me - trust me.

    Maggie held Lucys hands tightly in silence a little while. Her owns hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her voice was quietly clear and distinct.

    `Yes, Lucy - I would choose to marry him. I think it would be the best and highest lot for me - to make his life happy. He loved me first. No one else could be quite what he is to me. But I t divide myself from my brother for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray dont speak to me again about it.

    Lucy obeyed in pain and wohe  word she said was,

    `Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the da Park House tomorrow, and have some musid brightness, before you go to pay these dull, dutiful visits. Ah! here e aunty and the tea.

 CHAPTER 10

    The Spell Seems Broken

    THE suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and th<q>?９9ｌｉｂ.</q>e personal splendours of sixteen couples with attendant parents and guardians. The focus of brilliancy was the long drawing-room, where the dang went forward, uhe inspiration of the grand piano; the library into which it ope one end had the more sober illumination of maturity, with caps and cards; and at the other end the pretty sitting- room with a servatory attached, was left as an occasional cool retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black for the first time and had her pretty slimness set off by an abundant dress of white crape, was the aowledged queen of the occasion, for this was one of the Miss Guests thhly desding parties, including no member of any aristocracy higher than that of St Oggs, and stretg to the extreme limits of ercial and professional gentility. Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had fotten all the figures - it was so many years since she had da school; and she was glad to have that excuse, for it is ill dang with a heavy heart. But at length the music wrought in her young limbs, and the longing came; even though it was the horrible young Torry who walked up a sed time to try and persuade her. She warned him that she could not danything but a try dance, but he, of course, was willing to wait for that high felicity, meaning only to be plimentary when he assured her at several intervals that it was a `great bore that she couldnt waltz - he would have liked so much to waltz with her. But at last it was the turn of the good old-fashioned dance, which has the least of vanity and the most of merriment in it, and Maggie quite fot her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment of that half-rustic rhythm, which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. She felt quite charitably towards young Torry, as his hand bore her along and held her up in the dance; her eyes and cheeks had that fire of young joy in them which will flame out if it  find the least breath to fan it; and her simple black dress, with its bit of black lace, seemed like the dim setting of a jewel.

    Stephen had not yet asked her to dance - had not yet paid her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday, that inward vision of her which perpetually made part of his sciousness, had been half-sed by the image of Philip Wakem which came across it like a blot: there was some attat between her and Philip; at least there was an attat on his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here then, Stephen told himself, was another claim of honour which called on him to resist the attra that was tinually threatening to overpower him. He told himself so: a he had once or twice felt a certain savage resistance, and at another moment a shuddering repugo this intrusion of Philips image which almost made it a new i to rush towards Maggie and claim her for himself. heless he had done what he meant to do this evening: he had kept aloof from her: he had hardly looked at he<big></big>r; and he had been gaily assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were dev Maggie: he felt ined to kick young Torry out of the dance, and take his place. Then he wahe dao end that he might get rid of his parthe possibility that he too should dah Maggie, and have her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess him like a thirst. But even now their hands were meeting in the dance - were meeting still to the very end of it, though they were far off each other.

    Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic way he got through the duties of politeness ierval, until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone aga<dfn></dfn>in, at the farther end of the room. He made his way towards her round the couples that were f for the waltz, and when Maggie became scious that she was the person he sought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, a glowing gladness at heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightened with her child-like enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame was set to joy and tenderness: - even the ing pain could not seem bitter - she was ready to wele it as a part of life, for life at this moment seemed a keen vibrating sciousness poised above the pleasure or pain. This ohis last night, she might expand urainedly in the warmth of the present, without those chill eating thoughts of the past and the future.

    `Theyre going to waltz again, said Stephen, bending to speak to her, with that gland tone of subdued tenderness which young dreams create to themselves in the summer woods when low g voices fill the air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that is half-stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation.

    `They are going to waltz again: it is rather dizzy work to look on and the room is very warm. Shall we walk about a little?

    He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they walked on into the sitting-room, where the tables were strewn with engravings for the aodation of visitors who did not want to look at them. But no visitors were here at this moment. They passed on into the servatory.

    `How strange and uhe trees and flowers look with the lights among them, said Maggie, in a low voice. `They look as if they beloo an ented land, and would never fade away: - I could fancy they were all made of jewels.

    She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and Stephen made no answer; but he was looking at her - and does not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute, and light eloquent? Something strangely powerful there was in the light of Stephens long gaze, for it made Maggies face turn towards it and look upward at it - slowly, like a flower at the asding brightness. And they walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking - without feeling anything but that long grave mutual gaze which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The h thought that they must and would renounce each other made this moment of mute fession more intense in its rapture.

    But they had reached the end of the servatory, and were obliged to pause and turn. The ge of movement brought a new sciouso Maggie: she blushed deeply, turned away her head, and drew her arm from Stephens, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless and still pale.

    `O may I get this rose? said Maggie, making a great effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of irretrievable fession. `I think I am quite wicked with roses - I like to gather them and smell them till they have no st left.

    Stephen was mute: he was incapable of putting a senteogether, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward towards the large half-opened rose that had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a womans arm? - the unspeakable suggestions of tenderhat lie in the dimpled elbow and all the varied gently lessening curves down to the delicate wrist with its ti, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness. A womans arm touched the soul of a great sculptor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the time-worn marble of a headless trunk. Maggies was su arm as that - and it had the warm tints of life.

    A mad impulse seized on Stephen; he darted towards the arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist.

    But the  moment Maggie snatched it from him and glared at him like a wounded war-goddess, quivering with rage and humiliation.

    `How dare you? - she spoke in a deeply shaken, half-smothered voice. `What right have I given you to insult me?

    She darted from him into the adjoining room and threw herself on the sofa, panting and trembling.

    A horrible punishment was e upon her, for the sin of allowing a moments happihat was treachery to Lucy, to Philip - to her ower soul. That momentary happiness had been smitten with a blight - a leprosy: Stephen thought more lightly of her than he did of Lucy.

    As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of the servatory, dizzy with the flict of passions - love, rage and fused despair: despair at his want of self-mastery, and despair that he had offended Maggie.

    The last feeling surmounted every other: to be by her side again areat fiveness was the only thing that had the force of a motive for him, and she had not beeed more than a few minutes, when he came and stood humbly before her. But Maggies bitter rage was u.

    `Leave me to myself, if you please, she said, with impetuous haughtiness, `and for the future avoid me.

    Stephen turned away, and walked backwards and forwards at the other end of the room. There was the dire y of going bato the dang-room again, and he was beginning to be scious of that. They had been absent so short a time that when he went in again, the waltz was not ended.

    Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the pride of her nature was stung into activity: the hateful weakness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her self-respect, had at least wrought its own cure. The thoughts aations of the last month should all be flung away into an unvisited chamber of memory: there was nothing to allure her now; duty would be easy, and all the old calm purposes would reign peacefully once more. She re-ehe drawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, but with a sense of proud self-and that defied anything to agitate her. She refused to dance again, but she talked quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. And when they got home that night, she kissed Lucy with a free heart, almost exulting in this scorg moment which had delivered her from the possibility of another word or look that would have the stamp of treachery towards that gentle, unsuspicious sister.

    The  m Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so soon as she had expected. Her mother was to apany her in the carriage, and household business could not be despatched hastily by Mrs Tulliver. So Maggie, who had been in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for the drive, in the garden. Lucy was busy in the house ing up some bazaar presents for the younger o Basset, and when there was a l at the doorbell, Maggie felt some alarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her: it was sure to be Stephen.

    But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, aed himself by her on the garden chair. It was not Stephen.

    `We  just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from this seat, said Philip.

    They had taken each others hands in silence, but Maggie had looked at him with a more plete revival of the old childlike affeate smile than he had seen before, and he felt enced.

    `Yes, she said, `I often look at them, and wish I could see the low sunlight oems again. But I have never been that way but oo the churchyard, with my mother.

    `I have been there - I go there - tinually, said Philip. `I have nothing but the past to live upon.

    A keen remembrand keen pity impelled Maggie to put her hand in Philips. They had so often walked hand in hand!

    `I remember all the spots - just where you told me of particular things - beautiful stories that I had never heard of before.

    `You will go there again soon - wont you, Maggie? said Philip, getting timid and tremulous. `The Mill will soon be your brothers home again.

    `Yes - but I shall n<mark>.</mark>ot be there, said Maggie. `I shall only hear of that happiness. I am going away again - Lucy has not told you, perhaps?

    `Theure will never join on to the past again, Maggie? - That book is quite closed?

    The grey eyes that had so often looked up at her with eing worship, looked up at her now, with a last struggling ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her large sincere gaze.

    `That book never will be closed, Philip, she said, with grave sadness. `I desire no future that will break the ties of the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the stro. I  do nothing willingly that will divide me always from him.

    `Is that the only reason that would keep us apart for ever, Maggie? said Philip, with a desperate determination to have a definite answer.

    `The only reason, said Maggie, with calm decision. And she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the ented cup had been dashed to the ground. The reaary excitement that gave her a proud self-mastery had not subsided, and she looked at the future with a sense of calm choice.

    They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or speaking for a few minutes: in Maggies mind the first ses of love and parting were more present thaual moment, and she was looking at Philip in the Red Deeps.

    Philip felt that he ought to have been thhly happy in that answer of hers: she en and transparent as a rock-pool. Why was he not thhly happy? - Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omnisce that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart.

 CHAPTER 11

    In the Lane

    MAGGIE had been four days at her aunt Mos<bdi></bdi>ss giving the early June sunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed eyes of that affeate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great and small, who were learning her words and as by heart, as if she had been a tra avatar of perfect wisdom ay. She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousins feeding the chis, at that quiet moment in the life of the farmyard before the afternoon milking-time. The great buildings round the hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over the old garden wall the straggling rose-bushes were beginning to toss their summer weight, and the grey wood and old bricks of the house, on its higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad after-noon sunlight, that suited the quiest time. Maggie with her bo over her arm, was smiling down at a hatall fluffy chis when her aunt exclaimed,

    `Goodness me! who is that gentleman ing in at the gate?

    It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of the horse were streaked black with fast riding. Maggie felt a beating at head a - horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savage enemy who had feigned death.

    `Who is it, my dear? said Mrs Moss, seeing in Maggies face the evidehat she knew.

    `It is Mr Stephe, said Maggie, rather faintly. `My cousin Lucys - a gentleman who is very intimate at my cousins.

    Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and now raised 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 horses impatiently tossing head. `I must be going again immediately. I have a message to deliver to you, Miss Tulliver - on private business. May I take the liberty of asking you to walk a few yards with me?

    He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a mas when he has been dogged by some care or annoyahat makes his bed and his dinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if his erraoo pressing for him to trouble himself about what would be thought by Mrs Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs Moss, rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, was inwardly w whether she would be doing right  to invite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when Maggie, feeling all the embarrassment of the situation, and uo say anything, put on her bo and turo walk towards the gate.

    Stephen turoo and walked by her side, leading his horse.

    Not a word oken till they were out in the lane and had walked four or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight before her all the while, turned again to walk back saying, with haughty rese,

    `There is no need for me to go any farther. I dont know whether you sider it gentlemanly and delicate duct to place me in a position that forced me to e out with you - or whether you wished to insult me still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way.

    `Of course you are angry with me for ing, said Stephen, bitterly. `Of course it is of no sequence what a man has to suffer - it is only your womans dignity that you care about.

    Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have e from the slightest possible electric shock.

    `As if it were not enough that Im entangled in this way - that Im mad with love for you - that I resist the stro passion a man  feel, because I try to be true to other claims - but you must treat me as if I were a coarse brute who would willingly offend you. And when, if I had my own choice, I should ask you take my hand, and my fortune and my whole life, and do what you liked with them. I know I fot myself - I took an unwarrantable liberty - I <samp></samp>hate myself for having do. But I repented immediately - Ive beeing ever since. You ought not to think it unpardonable - a man who loves with his whole soul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for a moment; but you know - you must believe - that the worst pain I could have is to have pained you - that I would give the world to recall the error.

    Maggie dared not speak - dared not turn her head. The strength that had e from rese was all gone and her lips were quivering visibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full fivehat rose in ao that fession.

    They were e 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 prevent her from going farther towards the gate. `Im very sorry for any pain you have to gh, but it is of no use to speak.

    `Yes, it is of use, said Stephen, impetuously. `It would be of use if you would treat me with some sort of pity and sideration instead of doing me vile injusti your mind. I could bear everything more quietly if I knew you didnt hate me for an i b. Look at me - see what a hunted devil I am: Ive been riding thirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you.

    Maggie did not - dared not look. She had already seen the harassed face. But she said gently, `I dont think any evil of you.

    `Then, dearest, look at me, said Stephen, i, teones of ey. `Dont go away from me yet. Give me a moments happiness - make me feel youve fiven me.

    `Yes, I dive you, said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and all the more frighte herself. `But pray let me go in again. Pray go away.

    A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids.

    `I t go away from you - I t leave you, said Stephen, with still more passionate pleading. `I shall e back again if you send me away with this ess - I t answer for myself. But if you will go with me only a little way, I  live on that. You see plainly enough that yer has only made me ten times more unreasonable.

    Maggie turned. But Tahe bay horse, began to make such spirited remonstrances against this frequent ge of dire, that Stephen, catg sight of Willy Moss peeping thro.ugh the gate, called out, `Here! just e and hold my horse for five minutes.

    `O no, said Maggie, hurriedly, `my aunt will think it se.

    `Never mind, Stephen answered impatiently; `they dont know the people at St Oggs. Lead him up and down just here, for five minutes, he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and theuro Maggies side, and they walked on. It was clear that she must go on now.

    `Take my arm, said Stephereatingly; and she took it, feeling all the while as if she were sliding downwards in a nightmare.

    `There is o this misery, she began, struggling to repel the influence by speech. `It is wicked - base - ever allowing a word or look that Lucy - that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy.

    `I do think of her - bless her - If I didnt-- Stephen had laid his hand on Maggies that rested on his arm, and they both felt it difficult to speak.

    `And I have other ties, Maggie went on, at last, with a desperate effort, - `even if Lucy did .

    `You are eo Philip Wakem, said Stephen, hastily. `Is it so?

    `I sider myself eo him - I doo marry any one else.

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

    `It is unnatural - it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I love you, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake of belonging to each other. We should break all these mistakehat were made in blindness - aermio marry each other.

    `I would rather die than fall into that temptation, said Maggie, with deep, slow distiness, - all the gathered spiritual force of painful years ing to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from his as she spoke.

    `Tell me then that you dont care for me, he said, almost violently. `Tell me that you love some one else better.

    It dar<samp></samp>ted through Maggies mind that here was a mode of releasing herself from outward struggle - to tell Stephen that her whole heart hilips. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.

    `If you do love me, dearest, said Stephely, taking up her hand again and laying it within his arm, `it is better, it is right that we should marry each other. We t help the pain it will give. It is e upon us without our seeking: it is natural - it has taken hold of me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, Ive been trying to be faithful to tacit es, and Ive only made things worse - Id better have given way at first.

    `Maggie was silent. If it were n - if she were once vinced of that, and need no longer beat and struggle against this current, soft arong as the summer stream!

    `Say &quot;yes,&quot; dearest, said Stephen, leaning to look eingly in her face. `What could we care about in the whole world beside, if we beloo each other?

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

    Her lips and eyelids quivered - she opened her eyes full on his for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling under caresses, and then turned sharp round towards home again.

    `And after all, he went on, in an impatient torying to defeat his own scruples as well as hers, `I am breaking no positive e: - if Lucys affes had been withdrawn from me and given to some one else, I should have felt nht to assert a claim on her. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are her of us bound.

    `You dont believe that - it is not your real feeling, said Maggie, early. `You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in the feelings and expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges might be broken, when there was no outenalty. There would be no such thing as faithfulness.

    Stephen was silent: he could not pursue that argument; the opposite vi had wrought in him toly through his previous time of struggle. But it sooed itself in a new form.

    `The pledge t be fulfilled, he said, with impetuous insistance. `It is unnatural: we  only pretend to give ourselves to any one else. 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 pliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness,

    `O it is difficult - life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our stro feeling; - but then, such feelings tinually e across the ties that all our former life has made for us - the ties that have made others depe on us - and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in paradise, and we could always see that one being first towards whom... I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love es - love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to each other. But I see - I feel it is not so now: there are things we must renoun life - some of us must resign love. Many things are difficult and dark to me - but I see oh<tt></tt>ing quite clearly - that I must not, ot seek my oiness by sacrifig others. Love is natural - but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live iill, and punish me if I didnt obey them. I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. Dont urge me; help me - help me, because I love you.

    Maggie had beore and more ear as she went on; her face had bee 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 pleadiy gained new power over him.

    `Dearest, he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his arm stole round her, `Ill do, Ill bear anything you wish. But - one kiss - ohe last - before we part.

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

    She hurried along and not another word oken. Stephen stood still and beed when they came within sight of Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs Moss was standing alo the door of the old porch: she had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness; it might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rid handsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at ing in again - and it might not be joyful. Iher case, Mrs Moss waited anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The poor things face said plainly enough that if there was joy, it was of a very agitating dubious sort.

    `Sit down here a bit, my dear. She drew Maggie into the porch, and sat down on the bench by her. There was no priva the house.

    `O aunt Gritty, Im very wretched. I wish I could have died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then - it is so hard now.

    The poor child threw her arms round her aunts neck, and fell into long, deep sobs.

 CHAPTER 12

    A Family Party

    MAGGIE left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, ao Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet acc to agreement. In the mean time, very ued things had happened, and there was to be a family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a ge in the fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away the shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded splendour. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just e into office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high appreciation and full-blown eulogy: in many respectable families throughout this realm relatives being creditable meet with a similar cordiality nition, whi its fine freedom from the coer of any as, suggests the hopeful possibility that we may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have ceased to bite and wolves that no longer show their teeth with any but the bla iions. Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for the loo have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderful news. It seemed - did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of wisdom - as if everything, even other peoples misfortunes (poor creatures!) were spiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and haughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the trary, as happy as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To think that the very day - the very day - after Tom had e back from Newcastle,<dfn></dfn> that unfortunate yousome, whom Mr Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St Oggs in a dangerous state, so that Wakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on the premises at o was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as if the misfortune had happehen, rather than at any other time, in order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his exemplary duct - papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly go to the Mill now and keep house for Tom: that was rather a loss to Lu the matter of household fort; but then, to think of poor aunty being in her old place again and gradually getting forts about her there!

    On this last point Lucy had her ing projects, and when she and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into the handsome parlour where the very sunbeams seemed er than elsewhere, she directed her manoeuvres as any reat tacti would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy.

    `Aunt Pullet, she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly adjusting that ladys floating cap-string, `I want you to make up your mind what linen and things you will give Tom towards housekeeping; because youre always so generous, you give suice things, you know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow.

    `That she never , my dear, said Mrs Pullet, with unusual vigour, `for she hasnt got the lio follow suit wi mine, I  tell you. Shed he taste, not if shed spend the money. Big checks and live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is - not a spot nor a diamont among em. But its poor work, dividing ones linen before one dies - I hought to ha dohat, Bessy, Mrs Pullet tinued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver, `when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver wed spun - and the Lord knows where yours is gone.

    `Id no choice, Im sure, sister, said poor Mrs Tulliver, aced to sider herself in the light of an accused person. `Im sure it was no wish o mine, iver, as I should lie awake o nights thinking o my best bleached linen all over the try.

    `Take a peppermint, Mrs Tulliver, said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was  a cheap and wholesome form of fort, which he was reending by example.

    `O but, aunt Pullet, said Lucy, `youve so much beautiful linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it, when they were married.

    `Well, I dont say as I wont do it, said Mrs Pullet, `for now Toms so lucky, its nothing but right his friends should look on him and help him. Theres the table-cloths I bought at your sale, Bessy, it was nothing but good natur o me to buy em, for theyve been lying in the chest ever since. But Im not going to give Maggie any more o my Indy muslin and things, if shes to go into service again, when she might stay and keep me pany, and do my sewing for me, if she wasnt wa her brothers.

    `Going into service was the expression by which the Dodson mind represeo itself the position of teacher overness, and Maggies return to that menial dition, now circumstances offered her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hair down her bad altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a most undesirable niece; but now, she was capable of being at onental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle Gleggs presence, over the tea and muffins.

    `Hegh, hegh! said Mr Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on the back, `Nonsense, nonsense! Do us hear of you taking a place again, Maggie. Why, you must ha picked up half-a-dozehearts at the bazaar - isnt there one of em the right sort of article? e, now?

    `Mr Glegg, said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in her severity, which she alut on with her crisper fronts. `Youll excuse me, but youre far too light for a man of your years. Its resped duty to her aunts and the rest of her kin as are so good to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away again, without sulting us - not sweethearts, if Im to use such a word, though it was never heared in my family.

    `Why, what did they call us, when we went to see em, then, eh, neighbour Pullet? They thought us sweet enbbr></abbr>ough then, said Mr Glegg, winking pleasantly, while Mr Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness, took a little more sugar.

    `Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `if yoing to be undelicate, let me know.

    `La, Jane, your husbands only joking, said Mrs Pullet, `let him joke while hes got health and strength. Theres poor Mr Tilt got his mouth drawn all o one side, and couldnt laugh if he was to try.

    `Ill trouble you for the muffihen, Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though its other people must see the joke in a nieces putting a slight on her mothers eldest sister, as is the head o the family; and only ing in and out on short visits all the time shes been iown, and theling to go away without my knowledge - as Id laid caps out on purpose for her to make em up for me, - and me as have divided my money so equal--

    `Sister, Mrs Tulliver broke in, anxiously, `Im sure Maggie hought o going away without staying at your house as well as the others. Not as its my wish she should go away at all - but quite trairy. Im sure Im i. Ive said over and ain, &quot;My dear, youve no call to go away.&quot; But theres ten days or a fht Maggiell have before shes fixed to go: she  stay at your house just as well, as Ill step in when I , and so will Lucy.

    `Bessy, said Mrs Glegg, `if youd exercise a little more thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o the time, when our house isnt above a quarter of an hours walk from Mr Deanes. She  e the first thing in the m and go back the last at night, ahankful shes got a good aunt so close to her to e and sit with. I know I should, when I was her age.

    `La, Jane, said Mrs Pullet, `it ud do your beds good to have somebody to sleep iheres that Striped Room smells dreadful mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything: Im sure I thought I should be struck with death when you took me in.

    `O, there is Tom! exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. `Hes e on Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his promise.

    Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at this first meeting sihe prospect of returning to the Mill had been opeo him, and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by her side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a perpetual yearning ihat had its root deeper than all ge. He smiled at her very kindly this evening and said, `Well, Magsie, hows aunt Moss?

    `e, e, sir, said Mr Glegg, putting out his hand. `Why, youre such a big man, you carry all before you, it seems. Youre e into your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did - but I wish you joy, I wish you joy. Youll get the Mill all for your own again, some day, Ill be bound. You wont stop half- the hill.

    `But I hope hell bear in mind as its his mothers family as he owes it to, said Mrs Glegg. `If he hadnt had them to take after, hed ha been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor wastefulness in our family - nor dying without wills--

    `No, nor suddehs, said aunt Pullet. `Allays the doctor called in. But Tom had the Dodson skin - I said that from the first. And I dont know what you mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him a table cloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I dont say what more I shall do, but that I shall do, and if I should die to-morrow, Mr Pullet, youll bear it in mind - though youll be blundering with the keys, and never remember as that ohird shelf o the left hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broad ties - not the narrow-frilled uns - is the key o the drawer in the Blue Room, where the key o the Blue Closet is. Youll make a mistake and I shall niver be worthy to know it. Youve a memory for my pills and draughts, wonderful - Ill allays say that of you - but youre lost among the keys. This gloomy prospect of the fusion that would ensue on her decease was very affeg to Mrs Pullet.

    `You carry it too far, Sophy - that log in and out, said Mrs Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. `You go beyond your own family. Theres nobody  say I dont lock up; but I do whats reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out whats serviceable, to make a present of to my nevvie: Ive got cloth as has never been whittened, better worth having than other peoples fine holland; and I hope hell lie down in it and think of his aunt.

    Tom thanked Mrs Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on her virtues; and Mr Glegg effected a diversion for him by asking about Mr Deanes iions ing steam.

    Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to e on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the manservant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy. `You must sit by yourself, aunty, said that triving young lady, `because I must sit by Tom; Ive a great deal to say to him.

    In the eagerness of her affeate ay fgie, Lucy could not persuade herself to defer a versation about her with Tom, who, she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must bee pliant and flexible. Her nature supplied her with o Toms, and she uzzled as well as paio notice the unpleasant ge on his tenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philip had used his influeh his father. She had ted on this revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Toms heart towards Philip at once, and besides that, prove that the elder Wakem was ready to receive Maggie with all the honours of a daughter-in-law. Nothing was wahen, but for dear Tom, who always had that pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn pletely round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare that he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievances should be healed and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitable despatch: in cous<u></u>in Lucys opinion nothing could be easier.

    But to minds strongly marked by the positive aive qualities that create severity - strength of will, scious rectitude of purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of self-trol and a disposition to exert trol over others - prejudices e as the natural food of tendencies which  get no suste of that plex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye - however it may e, these minds will give it a habitation: it is something to assert strongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of sciht: it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will ahese purposes is self-evident. ood upright Tom Tullivers mind was of this class: his inward criticism of his fathers faults did not prevent him from adopting his fathers prejudice; it rejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a meeting-poin藏书网t for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal pride. Other feelings added their force to produs bitter repugo Philip and to Maggies union with him; and notwithstanding Lucys power over her strong-willed cousin, she got nothing but a cold refusal ever to san such a marriage: `but of course Maggie could do as she liked - she had declared her determination to be indepe. For Toms part, he held himself bound by his duty to his fathers memory, and by every manly feeling, o sent to aion with the Wakems.

    Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill Toms mind with the expectation that Maggies perverse resolve to go into a situation again, would presently metamorphose itself, as her resolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely different - a marriage with Philip Wakem.

 CHAPTER 13

    Borne Along by the Tide

    Ihan a week Maggie was at St Oggs again, - outwardly in much the same position as when her visit there had just begun. It was easy for her to fill her ms apart from Lucy without any obvious effort; for she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and it was natural that she should give her mother more than usual of her panionship in these last weeks, especially as there were preparations to be thought of for Toms housekeeping. But Lucy would hear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings: she must always e from aunt Gleggs before dinner - `else what shall I have of you? said Lucy, with a tearful pout that could not be resisted. And Mr Stephe had unatably taken to dining at Mr Deanes as often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At first he bega<cite></cite>n his ms with a resolution that he would not dihere - not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had even devised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable Juher: the headaches which he had stantly been alleging as a ground for stupidity and silence were a suffit ostensible motive. But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth m no distinct resolution was formed about the evenings: they were only foreseen as times when Maggie would still be present for a little while - when one more toulance might be snatched. For, why not? There was nothing to ceal betweehey knew - they had fessed their love, and they had renounced each other - they were going to part. Honour and sce were going to divide them - Maggie, with that appeal from her inmost soul had decided it: but surely they might cast a lingering look at each other across the gulf, before they turned away o look again till that strange light had for ever faded out of their eyes. Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiesd even torpor of manner, so trasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardour, that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a ge if she had not been vihat the position in which Maggie stood between Philip and her brother and the prospect of her self-imposed wearisome banishment were quite enough to at for a large amount of depression. But uhis torpor there was a fierce battle of emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never known or foreboded: it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her had lain in ambush till now and had suddenly started up full-armed with hideous, overp strength. There were moments in which a cruel selfishness seemed to be getting possession of her: why should not Lucy - why should not Philip suffer? She had had to suffer through many years of her life, and who had renounced anything for her? And when something like that fulness of existence - love, wealth, ease, refi - all that her nature craved was brought within her reach, why was she to it, that anht have it - another, who perhaps  less? But amidst all this new passioumult there were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. Was that existence which tempted her, the full existence she dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of early striving, all the deep pity for anothers pain which had been nurtured ihrough years of affe and hardship, all the divine prese of something higher than mere personal enjoyment which had made the saess of life? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as hope to enjoy aen which she set out by maiming the faith and sympathy that were the best ans of her soul. And then, if pain were so hard to her - what was it to others? - Ah, God! preserve me from inflig - give me strength to bear it. - How had she sunk into this struggle with a temptation that she would once have thought herself as secure from, as from deliberate crime? When was that first hateful moment in which she had been scious of a feeling that clashed with her truth, affe, and gratitude, and had not shaken it from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? - A, sihis strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, should not quer her - si was to remain simply her own suffering... her mind was meeting Stephens in that thought of his, that they might still snatents of mute fession before the parting came. For was not he suffering too? She saw it daily - saw it in the sied look of fatigue with which as soon as he was not pelled to exert himself he relapsed into indiffereowards everything but the possibility of watg her. Could she refuse sometimes to ahat beseeg look which she felt to be following her like a low murmur of love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last the evening for them both was sometimes made of a moments mutual gaze - they thought of it till it came, and when it had e, they thought of nothing else. Oher thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was, to sing: it was a way of speaking to Maggie - perhaps he was not distinctly scious that he was impelled to it by a secret longing, running ter to all his self-fessed resolves, to deepen the hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less scious purposes, and you will uand that tradi in Stephen.

    Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally in the evening, and it happehat he was there when Lucy said, as they sat out on the lawn, near su,

    `Now Maggies tale of visits to aunt Glegg is pleted, I mean that we shall go out boating every day until she goes: - She has not had half enough boating, because of these tiresome visits, and she likes it better than anything. Dont you, Maggie?

    `Better than any sort of lootion, I hope you mean, said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden chair, `else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who haunts the Floss - only for the sake of being drifted in a boat for ever.

    `Should you like to be her boatman? said Lucy. `Because, if you would, you  e with us and take an oar. If the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, we should be indepe of aleman, fgie  row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to ask services of knights and squires, who do not seem to offer them with great alacrity.

    She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto

    `The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine.

    He took no notice, but still kept aloof: he had done so frequently during Philips ret visits.

    `You dont seem ined for boating, said Lucy, when he came to sit down by her on the bench. `Doesnt rowing suit you now?

    `O, I hate a large party in a boat, he said, almost irritably. `Ill e when you have no one else.

    Lucy coloured, fearing that Philip would be hurt: it was quite a hing for Stephen to speak in that way, but he had certainly not been well of late. Philip coloured too, but less from a feeling of personal offehan from a vague suspi that Stephens moodiness had some relation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke, and had walked towards the hedge of laurels to look at the desding sunlight on the river.

    `As Miss Deane didnt know she was excluding others by inviting me, said Philip, `I am bound tn.

    `No, indeed, you shall not, said Lucy, much vexed. `I particularly wish for your pany tomorrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten - it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back, before the suoo hot. And how  you object to four people in a boat? she added, looking at Stephen.

    `I dont object to the people, but the number, said Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. `If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we wont divide the pleasure of esc the ladies - well take it alternately. Ill go the  day.

    This i had the effect of drawing Philips attention with freshened solicitude towards Stephen and Maggie; but when they re-ehe house, music roposed, and Mrs Tulliver and Mr Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart he table where the books and work were placed - doing nothing, however, but listening abstractedly to the music. Stephely turo a duet which he insisted that Lud Philip should sing: he had often dohe same thing before, but this evening Philip thought he divined some double iion in every word and look of Stephens, and watched him keenly - angry with himself all the while for this ging suspi. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for his doubts on her side? and she was truth itself; it was impossible not to believe her word and glance when they had last spoken together in the garden. Stephen might be strongly fasated by her (what was more natural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on what must be his friends painful secret. Still, he watched. Stephen, moving away from the piano, sauntered slowly towards the table near which Maggie sat, and turned over the neers, apparently in mere idleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the pianing a neer under his elbow and thrusting his hand through his hair, as if he had been attracted by some bit of loews in the Laceham Courier. He was iy looking at Maggie, who had not taken the slightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strength of resistance when Philip resent, just as we  restrain our speech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard the word `dearest, uttered in the softest tone of paireaty, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought to have been given without asking. She had never heard that word sihe moments in the la Basset, when it had e from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an instant towards Stephens face, but immediately look appreheowards himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed her, but a pang of shame uhe sense of this cealment made her move from her chair and walk to her mothers side to watch the game at cribbage.

    Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled with wretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist the vi that there was some mutual sciousness between Stephen and Maggie; and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerves were pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact: he could attempt no explanation that would recile it with her words and as. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to its habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth: - she was struggling, she was banishing herself - this was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But athwart that belief, there came other possibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imaginatiht out the whole story: Stephen was madly in love with her; he must have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. But would he give her up, knowing - Philip felt the fact with heart-crushing despair - that she was made half helpless by her feeling towards him?

    When the m came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping his e to go in the boat. In his present agitation he could decide on nothing: he could only alterween tradictory iions. First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie areat her to fide in him; then again, he distrusted his own interference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along? She had uttered words long ago in her young ignora was enough to make her hate him that these should be tinually present with her as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation of feelings which she had evidently inteo withhold from him? He would not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself that he could act from pure ay for her and not from egoistic irritation. He wrote a brief o Stephen a it early by the servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his e to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?

    Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite tent with Stephens refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this m at ten: Lindum was the very place she wao go to, to make purchases - important purchases, which must by no mea off to another opportunity; and aunt Tulliver must go too, because she was ed in some of the purchases.

    `You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know, she said to Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairs together, `Philip will be here at half- past ten, and it is a deli. Now, dont say a wainst it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your face against all the wonders I work for you? Dont think of awful cousin Tom: you may disobey him a little.

    Maggie did not persist in objeg. She was almost glad of the plan; for perhaps it would bring her some strength and ess to be aloh Philip again: it was like revisiting the se of a quieter life, in which the very struggles were repose pared with the daily tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat, and at half-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.

    The ring at the door-bell unctual, and she was thinking with half-sad, affeate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished a firm rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philips: the door opened and Stephe entered.

    In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the others were go. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating violently, and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. She thought Philip would be ing soon; and with great effort - for she trembled visibly - she rose to go to a distant chair.

    `He is not ing, said Stephen, in a low tone, `I am going in the boat.

    `O, we t go, said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. `Lucy did not expect - she would be hurt. Why is not Philip e?

    `He is not well - he asked me to e instead.

    `Lucy is goo Lindum, said Maggie, taking off her bo, with hurried, trembling fingers. `We must not go.

    `Very well, said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his arm on the back of his chair. `Then well stay here.

    He was looking into her deep, deep eyes - far-off and mysterious as the starlit blaess, a very near, and timidly loving. Maggie sat perfectly still - perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes - until the helpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her cheek.

    `The man is waiting - he has taken the cushions, she said. `Will you go and tell him?

    `What shall I tell him? said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was looking at the lips now.

    Maggie made no answer.

    `Let us go, Stephen murmured, eingly, rising, and taking her hand to raise her too. `We shall not be long together.

    And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden among the roses, being helped with firm tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had fotten) - all by this stronger presehat seemed to bear her along without any act of her own will, like the added self whies with the suddeing influence of a strong tonic - and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded.

    They glided rapidly along, to Stephens rowing, helped by the backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses - oween the silent, sunny fields and pastures which seemed filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now and then as if it were only the overflowing of brim-full gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold scioushat was mingled into one by that grave untiring gaze whieed not be averted - what else could there be in their minds for the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of love came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half automatically: otherwise, they spoke no word; for what could words have been, but an io thought? and thought did not belong to that ented haze in which they were enveloped - it beloo the past and the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly scious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with nnition on the villages: she khere were several to be passed before they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped ahe boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absehat she was likely enough to let her way-marks pass unnoticed.

    But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down oer as if watg the pace at which the boat glided without his help. This sudden ge roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretg fields - at the banks close by - ahat they were entirely strao her. A terrible alarm took possession of her.

    `O, have we passed Luckreth - where we were to stop? she exclaimed, looking back, to see if the place were out of sight. No village was to be seen. She turned round again, with a look of distressed questioning at Stephen.

    He went on watg the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, abseone, `Yes - a long way.

    `O what shall I do? cried Maggie, in an agony. `We shall not get home for hours - and Lucy - O God, help me!

    She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child: she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look of pained surprise and doubt - perhaps of just upbraiding.

    Stephen moved and sat beside her aly drew down the clasped hands.

    `Maggie, he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, `let us never go home again - till no one  part us - till we are married.

    The unusual tohe startling words, arrested Maggies sob, and she sat quite still - w: as if Stephen might have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and annual the wretched facts.

    `See, Maggie, how everything has e without our seeking - in spite of all our efforts. We hought of being aloogether again - it has all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out - away from all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make faster round us - and trying in vain. It will car<bdo>99lｉｂ?</bdo>ry us on to Torby, and we  land there, a some carriage, and hurry on to York, and then to Scotland - and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other so that only death  part us. It is the only right thing - dearest - it is the only way of esg from this wretched enta. Everything has curred to point it out to us. We have trived nothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves.

    Stephen spoke with deep, ear pleading. Maggie listened - passing from her startled wonderment to the yearning after that belief that the tide was doing it all - that she might glide along with the swift, silent stream and not struggle any more. But across that stealing influence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the sudden horror lest now at last the moment of fatal intoxication was close upon her, called up a feeling of angry resistaowards Stephen.

    `Let me go! she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free. `You have wao deprive me of any choice. You kneere e too far - you have dared to take advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly t me into such a position.

    Stung at this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at the difficulty Maggies words had made present to him. If she would not sent to go on, he must curse hims<mark>藏书网</mark>elf for the embarrassment he had led her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing: the ohing worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he had acted unworthily towards her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressed rage,

    `I didnt notice that assed Luckreth, till we had got to the  village - and then it came into my mind that we would go on. I t justify it - I ought to have told you. It is enough to make you hate me - since you dont love me well enough to make everything else indifferent to you - as I do you. Shall I stop the boat, and try to get you out here? Ill tell Lucy that I was mad - and that you hate me - and you shall be clear of me for ever. No one  blame you, because I have behaved unpardonably to you.

    Maggie aralysed: it was easier to resist Stephens pleading, than this picture he had called up of himself suffering, while she was vindicated - easier even to turn away from his look of tenderhan from this look of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfish isolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which the reasons which had acted on her sce seemed to be transmuted<bdo>99ｌib.</bdo> into mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched - and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had reproached him for being hurried into irrevocable trespass - she, who had been so weak herself.

    `As if I shouldnt feel what happeo you - just the same - she said, with reproach of another kind - the reproach of love, asking for more trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephens suffering was more fatal thaher yielding, because it was less distinguishable from that sense of others claims which was the moral basis of her resistance.

    He felt all the relenting in her look and tone, - it was heaven opening again. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the boat, and said nothing. He dreaded to utter another word - he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke another reproach or denial from her. Life hung on her sent - everything else was hopeless, fused, siing misery. They glided along in this way, both resting in that silence as in a haven - both dreadiheir feelings should be divided again, till they became aware that the clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible freshening of the breeze was growing and growing, till the whole character of the day was altered.

    `You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest.

    Maggie obeyed: there was an unspeakable charm in being told what to do, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again, covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to his ain, making haste; for they must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly scious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding is attended with a less vivid scioushaance - it is the partial sleep of thought - it is the submergence of our own personality by another. Every influeeo lull her into acquiesce: that dreamy gliding in the boat, which had lasted for four hours and had brought some weariness and exhaustion - the recoil of her fatigued sensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of the boat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long miles - all helped t her into more plete subje to that strong mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephehe death of all joy - which made the thought of wounding him like the first touch of the t iron before which resolution shrank. And then, there was the present happiness of being with him, which was enough to absorb all her languid energy.

    Presently Stephen observed a vessel ing after them. Several vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked more and more eagerly at this vessel as if a hought had e into his mind along with it and then he looked at Maggie, hesitatingly.

    `Maggie, dearest, he said, at last, `if this vessel should be going to Mudport or to any ve pla the coast northward, it would be our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued - and it may soon rain - it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby in this boat. Its only a trading vessel, but I dare say you  be made tolerably fortable. Well take the cushions out of the boat. It is really our best plan. Theyll be glad enough to take us - Ive got plenty of money about me - I  pay them well.

    Maggies heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this new proposition; but she was silent - one course seemed as difficult as another.

    Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel: going to Mudport, the English mate informed him, and if this wind held, would be there ihan two days.

    `We had got out too far with our boat, said Stephen. `I was trying to make for Torby. But Im afraid of the weather; and this lady - my wife - will be exhausted with fatigue and huake us on board, will you, and haul up the boat. Ill pay you well.

    Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken on board, making an iing object of plation to admiring Dut. The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, for they had no aodation for sutirely unlooked-for passengers - no private  larger than an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch liness, which makes all other invenieolerable; and the boat-cushions were spread into a couaggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and down the deck leaning on Stephen - being upheld by his strength - was the first ge that she needed: - then came food and then quiet reing on the cushions, with the sehat no new resolution could be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her, with her hand in his; they could only speak to each other in low tones, only look at each other now and then, for it would take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on board, and reduce these handsome young strao that minree of i which belongs in a sailard, to all objeearer than the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly happy. Every other thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certainty that Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now: he had been tortured by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmastering ination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. He murmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness - his adoration - his tenderness - his belief that their life together must be heaven - that her preseh him would give rapture to every on day - that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all other bliss - that everything was easy for her sake except to part with her: and now they never would part; he would belong to her for ever - and all that was his was hers - had no value for him except as it was hers. Such things, uttered in low broken tones by the one voice that has first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feeble effect - on experienced minds at a distance from them. To pgie they were very near: they were like ar held close to t<u>..</u>hirsty lips: there was, there must be, then, a life for mortals here below which was not hard and chill - in which affe would no longer be self-sacrifice. Stephens passionate words made the vision of such a life more fully present to her than it had ever been before; and the vision for the time excluded all realities - all except the returning sun-gleams which broke out oers as the evening approached, and mingled with the visionary sun-light of promised happiness - all except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love.

    There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to the horizon again, making the great purple rampart, and long purple isles of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goes down - the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was to sleep all night on the poop - it was better than going below - and she was covered with the warmest ings the ship could furnish. It was still early, wheigues of the day brought on a drowsy longing for perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint dying flush in the west where the one golden lamp was getting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against the vessels side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours which had flowed over her like a soft stream and made her entirely passive, there was the dim scioushat the dition was a tra one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life of struggle - that there were thoughts which would presently avehemselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her: she was being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over her, with those delicious visioing and fading like the wondrous a?rial land of the west.

 CHAPTER 14

    Waking

    WHEN Maggie was goo sleep, Stephen, weary too with his unaced amount of rowing and with the intense inward life of the last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged about the deck, with his cigar, far on into midnight, not seeing the dark water - hardly scious there were stars - living only in the near and distant future. At last fatigue quered restlessness, and he rolled himself up in a piece of tarpauling on the deear Maggies feet. She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for six hours before the fai hint of a midsummer daybreak was disible. She awoke from that vivid dreaming which makes the margin of our deeper rest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and ihering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grew till they saw it was the Virgied in St Oggs boat, and it came nearer and ill they saw the Virgin was Lud the boatman hilip - no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past without looking at her; and she rose to stretch out her arms and call to him, and their own boat turned over with the movement and they began to sink, till with one spasm of dread she seemed to awake and find she was a child again in the parlour at evening twilight, and Tom was not really angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passed to the real waking, to the plash of water against the vessel, and the sound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There was a moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangled from the fused web of dreams; but soon the whole terrible truth urged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now: she was aloh her own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blot her life had been itted - she had brought sorrow into the lives of others - into the lives that were knit up with hers by trust and love. The feeling of a few short weeks had hurried her into the sins her nature had most recoiled from - breach of faith and cruel selfishness; she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had made herself an outlawed soul with no guide but the wayward choice of her own passion. And where would that lead her? - where had it led her now? She had said she would rather die than fall into that temptation. She felt it now - now that the sequences of such a fall had e before the outward act was pleted. There was at least this fruit from all her years of striving after the highest a - that her soul, though betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately sent to a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God - not a choice of joy - but of scious cruel<big></big>ty and hardness; for could she ever cease to see before her Lud Philip with their murdered trust and hopes? Her life with Stephen could have no saess: she must for ever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uain impulse; for she had let go the clue of life - that clue whi the far off years her young need had clutched sly. She had renounced all delights then, before she khem, before they had e within her reach: Philip had been right wheold her that she knew nothing of renunciation: she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face to faow - that sad patient living strength which holds the clue of life, and saw that the thorns were for ever pressing on its brow. That yesterday which could never be revoked - if she could exge it now for ah of inward silent endurance she would have bowed beh that cross with a sense of rest.

    Daybreak came and the reddeniern light while her past life was grasping her in this way, with that tightening clutch whies in the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen now lying on the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him there came a wave of anguish that found its way in a long-suppressed sob. The worst bitterness of parting - the thought that urged the sharpest inward cry for help was the pain it must give to him. But surmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, the dread lest her sce should be benumbed again and not rise to energy till it was too late. - Too late! It was too late now, not to have caused misery - too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush away from the last act of baseness - the tasting of joys that were wrung from crushed hearts.

    The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sehat a day of resistance was beginning for her. Her eyelashes were still wet with tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at the slowly-rounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and, getting up from his hard bed, he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxious love saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He had a h dread of some resistan Maggies nature that he would be uo overe. He had the uneasy scioushat he had robbed her of perfect freedom yesterday: there was too muative honour in him, for him not to feel that if her will should recoil, his duct would have been odious, and she would have a right to reproach him.

    But Maggie did not feel that right: she was too scious of fatal weakness in herself - too full of the tenderhat es with the foreseen need for inflig a wound. She let him take her hand when he came to sit down beside her, and smiled at him - only with rather a sad glance: she could say nothing to pain him till the moment of possible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee together, and walked about the deck, and heard the captains assurahat they should be in at Mudport by five oclock, each with an inward burthen - but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to the ing hours to dissipate - i was a definite resolve on which she was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was tinually, through the m, expressing his ay at the fatigue and disfort she was suffering, and alluded to landing and to the ge of motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure himself more pletely by pre-supposing that everything would be as he had arra. For a long while Maggie tented herself with assuring him that she had had a good nights rest, and that she didnt mind about being on the vessel - it was not like being on the open sea - it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on the Floss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, and Stephen became more and more uneasy as the day advanced, uhe sehat Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but did not dare, to speak of their marriage - of where they would go after it, and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest, of what had happened. He loo assure himself of a tacit assent from her. But each time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread of the new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes. And they were more and more silent.

    `Here we are in sight of Mudport, he said, at last. `Now, dearest, he added, turning towards her with a look that was half beseeg, `the worst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we  and swiftness. In another hour and a half we shall be in a chaise together - and that will seem rest to you after this.

    Maggie felt it was time to speak - it would only be unkind now to assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he had done, but with distinct decision.

    `We shall not be together - we shall have parted.

    The blood rushed to Stephens face.

    `We shall not, he said. `Ill die first.

    It was as he had dreaded - there was a struggle ing. But her of them dared to say another word, till the boat was let down, and they were taken to the landing place. Here there was a cluster of gazers and passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St Oggs. Maggie had a dim sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurrying her along on his arm, that some one had advaowards her from that cluster as if he were ing to speak to her. But she was hurried along, and was indifferent to everything but the ing trial.

    A puided them to the  inn and postinghouse, and Stephen gave the order for the chaise as they passed through the yard. Maggie took no notice of this, and only said, `Ask them to show us into a room where we  sit down.

    When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose face had a desperate determination in it, was about t the bell, when she said, in a firm voice,

    `Im not going, we must part here.

    `Maggie, he said, turning round towards her, and speaking iones of a man who feels a process of torture beginning, `Do you mean to kill me? What is the use of it now? The whole thing is done.

    `No, it is not done, said Maggie - `Too much is done - more than we  ever remove the trace of. But I will go no farther. Dont try to prevail with me again. I couldnt choose yesterday.

    What was he to do? He dared not go near her - her anger might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked backwards and forwards in maddening perplexity.

    `Maggie, he said, at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a tone of impl wretess, `Have some pity - hear me - five me for what I did yesterday. - I will obey you now - I will do nothing without your full sent. But dont blight our lives for ever by a rash perversity that  answer no good purpose to any ohat  only create new evils. Sit down, dearest - wait - think what yoing to do. Dont treat me as if you couldnt trust me.

    He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggies will was fixed unswervingly on the ing wrench. She had made up her mind to suffer.

    `We must not wait, she said, in a low but distinct voice. `We must part at once.

    `art, Maggie, said Stephen, more impetuously. `I t bear it. What is the use of inflig that misery ohe blow - whatever it may have been - has been struow. Will it help any one else that you should drive me mad?

    `I will not begin any future, even for you, said Maggie, tremulously, `with a deliberate sent to what ought not to have been. What I told you at Basset I feel now: - I would rather have died than fall into this temptation. It would have beeer if arted for ever then. But we must part now.

    `We will not part, Stephen burst out, instinctively plag his back against the door - fetting everything he had said a few moments before. `I will not e. You<dfn>.９9ｌｉｂ.</dfn>ll make me desperate - I shant know what I do.

    Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effected suddenly. She must rely on a sloeal to Stepheer self - she must be prepared for a harder task than that of rushing away while resolution was fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watg her with that look of desperation which had e over him like a lurid light, approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her and grasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a frightened bird; but this direct opposition helped her - she felt her determination growing stronger.

    `Remember what you felt weeks ago, she began, with beseeg earness - `remember what we both felt - that we owed ourselves to others, and must quer every ination which could make us false to that debt. We have failed to keep our resolutions - but the wrong remains the same.

    `No, it does not remain the same, said Stephen. `roved that it was impossible to keep our resolutions. roved that the feeling which draws us towards each other is to to be overe. That natural law surmounts every other, - we t help what it clashes with.

    `It is not so, Stephen - Im quite sure that is wrong. I have tried to think it again and again - but I see, if we judged in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty - we should justify breaking the most sacred ties that  ever be formed oh. If the past is not to bind us, where  duty lie? We should have no law but the ination of the moment.

    `But there are ties that t be kept by mere resolution, said Stephen, starting up and walking about again. `What is outward faithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow as stancy without love?

    Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward as well as an outward test. At last she said, with a passionate assertion of her vi as much against herself as against him,

    `That seems right - at first - but when I look further, Im sure it is nht. Faithfulness and stancy mean something else besides doing what is easiest and pleasao ourselves. They mean renoung whatever is opposed to the reliahers have in us - whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our lives has made depe on us. If we - if I had beeer, nobler - those claims would have been sly present with me, I should have felt them pressing on my heart so tinually, just as they do now in the moments when my sce is awake - that the opposite feeling would never have grown in me, as it has done - it would have been que once - I should have prayed for help so early - I should have rushed away, as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for myself - none - I should never have failed towards Lud Philip as I have done, if I had not been week and selfish and hard - able to think of their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all temptation. O, what is Lucy feeling now? - She believed in me - she loved me - she was so good to me - think of her...

    Maggies voice was getting choked as she uttered these last words.

    `I t think of her, said Stephen, stamping as if with pain. `I  think of nothing but you. Maggie, you demand of a man what is impossible. I felt that once - but I t go back to it now. And where is the use of your thinking of it, except to torture me? You t save them from pain now - you  only tear yourself from me, and make my life worthless to me. And even if we could go bad both fulfil agements - if that were possible now - it would be hateful - horrible to think of your ever being Philips wife - of your ever being the wife of a man you didnt love. We have both been rescued from a mistake.

    A deep flush came gies face, and she couldnt speak. Stephen saw this. He sat down again, taking her hand in his and looking at her with passioreaty.

    `Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who  have so great a claim on you as I have? My life is bound up in your love. There is nothing in the past that  annul ht to each other - it is the first time we have either of us loved with our whole heart and soul.

    Maggie was still silent for a little while - looking down. Stephen was in a flutter of new hope - he was going to triumph. But she raised her eyes a his with a glahat was filled with the anguish ret - not with yielding.

    `No - not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen, she said, with timid resolution, `I have never seo it with my whole mind. There are memories, and affes, and longing after perfect goodness, that have such a strong hold ohey would never quit me for long - they would e bad be pain to me - repentance. I couldnt live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful siween myself and God. I have caused sorrow already - I know - I feel it - but I have never deliberately seo it - I have never said, &quot;They shall suffer, that I may have joy.&quot; It has never been my will to marry you - if you were to win sent from the momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not have my whole soul. If I could wake back again into the time before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmer affes and live without the joy of love.

    Stephen loosed her hand and, rising impatiently, walked up and down the room in suppres<u>..</u>sed rage.

    `Good God! he burst out, at last, `what a miserable thing a womans love is to a mans. I could it crimes for you - and you  baland choose in that way. But you dont love me - if you had a tithe of the feeling for me that I have for you, - it would be impossible to you to think for a moment of sacrifig me. But it weighs nothing with you that you are robbing me of my lifes happiness.

    Maggie pressed her fiogether almost vulsively as she held them clasped on her lap. A great terror on her - as if she were ever and anon seeing where she stood by great flashes of lightning, and then again stretched forth her hands in the darkness.

    `No - I dont sacrifice you - I couldnt sacrifice you, she said, as soon as she could speak again, `but I t believe in a good for you, that I feel - that we both feel is <var>.</var>a wrong towards others. We t choose happiness either for ourselves or for another - we t tell where that will lie. We  only choose whether we will indulge ourselves in the present moment or whether we will renouhat for the sake of obeying the divine voice within us - for the sake of being true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know that belief is hard - it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have felt that if I let it go for ever, I should have no light through the darkness of this life.

    `But Maggie, said Stepheing himself by her again, `Is it possible you dohat what happened yesterday has altered the whole position of things? What infatuation is it - what obstinate prepossession that blinds you to that? It is too late to say what we might have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting the very worst view of what has been do is a fact we must a now - our position is altered - the right course is no longer what it was before. We must accept our own as and start afresh from them. Suppose we had been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effe others would not have been different. It would only have made this differeo ourselves - Stephen added bitterly, `that you might have aowledged then, that your tie to me was strohan to others.

    Again a deep flush came gies face, and she was silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning to prevail - he had never yet believed that he should not prevail: there are possibilities whiinds shrink from too pletely for us to fear them.

    `Dearest, he said, in his deepest, teone, leaning towards her and putting his arm round her, `you are mine now - the world believes it - duty must spring out of that now - in a few hours you will be legally mine. And those who had claims on us will submit - they will see that there was a force which declared against their claims. A kiss - dearest - it is so long since--

    Maggies eyes opened wide ierrified look at the face that was close to hers, and she started up - pale again.

    `O I t do it she said, in a voice almost of agony - `Stephen - dont ask me - dont urge me. - I t argue any longer - I dont know what is wise - but my heart will not let me do it. I see - I feel their trouble now: it is as if it were branded on my mind. - I have suffered and have no oo pity me - and now I have made others suffer. It would never leave me - it would embitter your love to me - I do care for Philip - in a different way - I remember all we said to each other - I know how he thought of me as the one promise of his life. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard - and I have forsaken him. And Lucy - she has been deceived - she who trusted me more than any one. I arry you - I ot take a good for myself that has been wrung out of their misery. - It is not the force that ought to rule us - this that we feel for each other - it would rend me away from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I t set out on a fresh life, and fet that - I must go back to it, and g to it, - else I shall feel as if there were nothing firm beh my feet.

    `Good God, Maggie! said Stephen, rising too and grasping her arm, `You rave. How  you go back without marrying me? You dont know what will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is.

    `Yes, I do. But they will believe me - I will fess everything - Lucy will believe me - she will five you. And - and - O, some good will e by ging to the right. Dear - dear Stephen - let me go! - dont drag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never sented - it does not sent now.

    Stephe go her arm, and sank ba his chair, half stunned by despairing rage. He was silent a few moments, not looking at her - while her eyes were turowards him yearningly, in alarm at this sudden ge. At last he said, still without looking at her,

    `Go, then - leave me - dont torture me any longer - I t bear it.

    Involuntarily she leaowards him and put out her hand to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been burning iron, and said again,

    `Leave me.

    Maggie was not scious of a decision as she turned away from that gloomy averted face - and walked out of the room: it was like an automatic a that fulfils a fotten iion. What came after? A sense of stairs desded as if in a dream - of flagstones - of a chaise and horses standing - then a street, and a turning into aree? where a stage-coach was standing, taking in passengers - and the darting thought that that coach would take her aerhaps towards home. But she could ask nothi: she only got into the coach.

    Home - where her mother and brother were - Philip - Lucy - the se of her very cares and trials - was the haven towards which her mind tended - the sanctuary where sacred relics lay - where she would be rescued from more falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing pain which yet, as such pains do, seemed te all other thoughts into activity. But amohoughts, what others would say and think of her duct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorseful anguish left no room for that.

    The coach was takio York - farther away from home, but she did not learn that until she was set down in the old city at midnight. It was no matter: she could sleep there, and start home the  day. She had her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it - a bank-note and a sn: she had kept it in her pocket from fetfulness, after going out to make purchases the day before yesterday.

    Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that night with her will bent unwaveringly oh of pe sacrifice? - The great struggles of life are not so easy as that - the great problems of life are not so clear. - In the darkness of that night she saw Stephens face turowards her in passionate, reproachful misery - She lived through again all the tremulous delights of his preseh her that made existen easy floating in a stream of joy instead of a quiet resolved endurand effort: - the love she had renounced came back upon her with a cruel charm - she felt herself opening her arms to receive it once more and then it seemed to slip away and fade and vanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice that said, `Gone - for ever gone.

 BOOK 7 CHAPTER 1

    The Return to the Mill

    BETWEEN four and five oclo the afternoon of the fifth <s></s>day from that on which Stephen and Maggie had left St Oggs, Tom Tulliver was standing on the gravel walk outside the old house at Dorlill. He was master there now: he had half fulfilled his fathers dying wish, and by years of steady self-gover and eic work he had brought himself o the attai of more than the old respectability which had been the proud iance of the Dodsons and Tullivers. But Toms face, as he stood i still sunshine of that summer afternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His mouth wore its bitterest expression, his severe brow its hardest and deepest fold, as he drew down his hat farther over his eyes to shelter them from the sun, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, began to walk up and down the gravel. No news of his sister had been heard since Bob Jakin had e ba the steamer from Mudport and put ao all improbable suppositions of an act oer by stating that he had seen her land from a vessel with Mr Stephe. Would the  news be that she was married - or robably that she was not married: Toms mind was set to the expectation of the worst that could happen - not death, but disgrace.

    As he was walking with his back towards the entrae, and his face towards the rushing mill-stream, a tall dark-eyed figure, that we know well, approached the gate, and paused to look at him, with a fast-beati. Her brother was the human being of whom she had been most afraid, from her childhood upwards - afraid with that fear which springs in us when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable - with a mind that we ever mould ourselves upon, ahat we ot eo alienate from us. That deep-rooted fear was shaking Maggie now: but her mind was unswervingly bent o<dfn>９９ｌｉｂ?</dfn>urning to her brother, as the natural refuge that had been given her. In her deep humiliation uhe retrospect of her own weakness - in her anguish at the injury she had inflicted - she almost desired to ehe severity of Toms reproof, to submit in patient sileo that harsh disapproving judgment against which she had so often rebelled: it seemed no more than just to her noas weaker than she was? She craved that outward help to her better purpose which would e from plete, submissive fession - from being in the presence of those whose looks and words would be a refle of her own sce.

    Maggie had bee on her bed at York for a day with that prostrating headache which was likely to follow oerrible strain of the previous day and night. There was an expression of physical pain still about her brow and eyes, and her whole appearance, with her dress so long unged, was worn and distressed. She lifted the latch of the gate and walked in - slowly. Tom did not hear the gate - he was just then close upon the r dam; but he presently turned, and lifting up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and loneliness seemed to him a firmation of his worst jectures. He paused - trembling and white with disgust and indignation.

    Maggie paused too - three yards before him. She felt the hatred in his face - felt it rushing through her fibres: but she must speak.

    `Tom-- she began, faintly, `I am e back to you - I am e bae - fe - to tell you everything -

    `You will find no home with me, he answered with tremule. `You have disgraced us all - you have disgraced my fathers name. You have been a curse to your best friends. You have been base - deceitful - no motives are strong enough to restrain you. I wash my hands of you for ever. You dont belong to me.

    Their mother had e to the door now. She stood paralysed by the double shock of seeing Maggie and hearing Toms words.

    `Tom, said Maggie, with more ce, `I am perhaps not so guilty as you believe me to be. I never meant to give way to my feelings. I struggled against them. I was carried too far in the boat to e ba Tuesday. I came back as soon as I could.

    `I t believe in you any more, said Tom, gradually passing from the tremulous excitement of the first moment to cold inflexibility. `You have been carrying on a destiion with Stephe - as you did before with another. He went to see you at my aunt Mosss; you walked aloh him in the lanes: you must have behaved as no modest girl would have doo her cousins lover, else that could never have happehe people at Luckreth saw you pass - you passed all the other places: you knew what you were doing. You have been using Philip Wakem as a s to deceive Lucy - the ki friend you ever had. Go ahe return you have made her: shes ill - uo speak - my mother t go near her, lest she should remind her of you.

    Maggie was half stuoo heavily pressed upon by her anguish even to dis any differeween her actual guilt and her brothers accusations - still less to vindicate herself.

    `Tom, she said, crushing her hands together under her cloak, in the effort to speak again - `Whatever I have done - I repent it bitterly - I want to make amends - I will endure anything - I want to be kept from doing wrong again.

    `What will keep you? said Tom, with cruel bitterness. `Nion - not your natural feelings of gratitude and honour. And he - he would deserve to be shot, if it were not - But you are ten times worse than he is. I loathe your character and your duct. You struggled with your feelings, you say. Yes! I have had feelings tle with - but I quered them. I have had a harder life than you have had; but I have found my fort in doing my duty. But I will san no such character as yours: the world shall know that I feel the differeween right and wrong. If you are in want, I will provide for you - let my mother know. But you shall not e under my roof. It is enough that I have to bear the thought of your disgrace - the sight of you is hateful to me.

    Slowly Maggie was turning away, with despair in her heart. But the pohtened mothers move leaped out now, strohan all dread.

    `My child! Ill go with you. Youve got a mother.

    O the sweet rest of that embrace to the heart-stri Maggie! More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that will not forsake us.

    Tom turned and walked into the house.

    `e in, my child, Mrs Tulliver whispered. `Hell let you stay and sleep in my bed. He wohat, if I ask him.

    `No, mother, said Maggie, in a low tone, like a moan. `I will never go in.

    `Then wait for me outside. Ill get ready and e with you.

    When his mother appeared with her bo on, Tom came out to her in the passage, and put money into her hands.

    `My house is yours, mother, always, he said. `You will e a me know everything you want - you will e bae.

    Poor Mrs Tulliver took the mohteo say anything. She had only clear to her the mothers instinct, that she would go with her unhappy child.

    Maggie was waiting outside the gate; she took her mothers hand, and they walked a little way in silence.

    `Mother, said Maggie, at last, `we will go to Lukes cottage - Luke will take me in. He was very good to me when I was a little girl.

    `Hes got no room for us, my dear, now; his wifes got so many children. I dont know where to go, if it isnt to one o your aunts - and I hardly durst, said poor Mrs Tulliver, quite destitute of mental resources in this extremity.

    Maggie was silent a little while, and then said,

    `Let us go to<s>藏书网</s> Bob Jakins, mother: his wife will have room for us, if they have no other lodger.

    So they went on their way to St Oggs - to the old house by the river side.

    Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a two months old baby - quite the liveliest of its age that had ever been born to prince or pa. He would perhaps not so thhly have uood all the dubiousness of Maggies appearah Mr Stephe on the quay at Mudport, if he had not withe effect it produced on Tom, when he went to report it; and sihen, the circumstances whi any case gave a disastrous character to her elopement, had passed beyond the more polite circles of St Oggs and had beatter of on talk, accessible to the grooms and errand boys. So that when he opehe door and saw Maggie standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had no questions to ask: except one, which he dared only ask himself - where was Mr Stephe? Bob, for his part, hoped he might be in the warmest department of an asylum uood to exist iher world fentlemen who are likely to be in fallen circumstahere. The lodgings were vat, and both Mrs Jakin the larger and Mrs Jakin the less were ao make all thing fortable for `the old Missis and the young Miss - alas! that she was still `Miss. The ingenious Bob was sorely perplexed as to how this result could have e about - how Mr Stephe could have gone away from her, or could have let her go away from him when he had the ce of keeping her with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his wife to ask him a question; would not present himself in the room, lest it should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry; having the same chivalry towards dark-eyed Maggie, as in the days when he had bought her the memorable present of books.

    But after a day or two Mrs Tulliver was goo the Mill again for a few hours to see to Toms household matters. Maggie had wished this: after the first violent outburst of feeling which came as soon as she had no longer any active purpose to fulfil, she was less in need of her mothers presence; she even desired to be aloh her grief. But she had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-room that looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, and turning round her sad face as she said, `e in, she saw Bob enter with the baby in his arms, and Mumps at his heels.

    `Well go back, if it disturbs you, Miss, said Bob.

    `No, said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile.

    Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before her.

    `You see, weve got a little un, Miss, an I wanted you to look at it, an take it in your arms, if youd be so good. For we made free to  after you, an it ud be better for your takin a bit o noti it.

    Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive the tiny baby, while Mumps s it anxiously to ascertain that this transference was all right. Maggies heart had swelled at this a and speech of Bobs: she knew well enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy and respect.

    `Sit down, Bob, she said presently, a down in silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new fashion, refusing to say what he wa to say.

    `Bob, she said, after a few moments, looking down at the baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip from her mind and her fingers, `I have a favour to ask of you.

    `Dont you speak so, Miss, said Bob, grasping the skin of Mumpss neck, `if theres anything I  do for you, I should look upon it as a days earnings.

    `I want you to go to Dr Kenns, and ask to speak to him, and tell him that I am here, and should be very grateful if he would e to me while my mother is away. She will not e back till evening.

    `Eh, Miss - Id do it in a minute - it is but a step; but Dr Kenns wife lies dead - shes to be buried tomorrow - died the day I e from Mudport. Its all the more pity she should ha died just now, if you want him. I hardly like to go a-nigh him yet--

    `O, no, Bob, said Maggie, `we must let it be - till after a few days, perhaps - when you hear that he is going about again. But perhaps he may be going out of town - to a distance, she added, with a new sense of despondency at this idea.

    `Not he, Miss, said Bob. `Hell none go away. He isnt ohem gentlefolks as go to cry at waterin places when their wives die: hes got summat else to do. He looks fine an sharp after the parish - he does. He christehe little un; an he was at me to know what I did of a Sunday, as I didnt e to church. But I told him I o the travel three parts o the Sundays - An then Im so used to bein on my legs, I t sit so long on end - &quot;an lors, sir,&quot; says I, &quot;a pa  do wi a small lowance o church: it tastes strong,&quot; says I; &quot;theres no call to lay it on thick.&quot; Eh, Miss, how good the little un is wi you! Its like as if it knowed you: it partly does, Ill be bound - like the birds know the mornin.

    Bobs tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted bondage, and might even be in danger of doing more work than was required of it. But the subjects on which he loo be informed were so steep and difficult of approach that his tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to carry him on that uen road. He felt this, and was silent again for a little while, ruminating mu the possible forms in which he might put a question. At last he said, in a more timid voice than usual,

    `Will you give me leave to ask you only ohing, Miss?

    Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, `Yes, Bob, if it is about myself - not about any one else.

    `Well, Miss, its this: Do you owe anybody a grudge?

    `No, not any one, said Maggie, looking up at him inquiringly. `Why?

    `O lors, Miss, said Bob, ping Mumpss neck harder than ever, `I wish you did - an ud tell me - Id leather him till I couldnt see - I would - an the Justice might do what he liked to me arter.

    `O Bob, said Maggie, smiling faintly. `Youre a very good friend to me. But I shouldnt like to punish any one, even if theyd done me wrong - Ive done wrong myself too often.

    This view of things uzzling to Bob and threw more obscurity than ever over what could possibly have happened between Stephen and Maggie. But further questions would have been too intrusive, even if he could have framed them suitably, and he was obliged to carry baby away again to an expet mother.

    `Happen youd like Mumps for pany, Miss, he said, when he had taken the baby again. `Hes rare pany - Mumps is - he knows iverything, an makes no bother about it. If I tell him, hell lie before you an watch you - as still - just as he watches my pack. Youd better let me leave him a bit - hell get fond on you. Lor<tt>..t>s, its a fihing to hev a dumb brute fond on you; itll stick to you, an make no jaw.

    `Yes, do leave him, please, said Maggie. `I think I should like to have Mumps for a friend.

    `Mumps, lie down there, said Bob, pointing to a pla front of Maggie, `an niver do you stir till youre spoke to.

    Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness, when his master left the room.

 CHAPTER 2

    St Oggs Passes Judgment

    IT was soon known throughout St Oggs that Miss Tulliver was e back: she had not, then, eloped in order to be married to Mr Stephe - at all events, Mr Stephe had not married her - which came to the same thing, so far as her culpability was ed. We judge others acc to results; how else? - not knowing the process by which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few months of well-chosen travel, had returned as Mrs Stephe - with a post-marital trousseau and all the advantages possessed even by the most unwele wife of an only son, public opinion, which at St Oggs, as elsewhe<q>99liｂ?</q>re, always knew what to think, would have judged in strict sistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases, is always of the feminine gender - not the world, but the worlds wife: and she would have seen, that two handsome young people - the gentleman of quite the first family in St Oggs - having found themselves in a false position, had been led into a course, which, to say the least of it, was highly injudicious, and productive of sad pain and disappoi, especially to that sweet young thing, Miss Deane. Mr Stephe had certainly not behaved well; but then, young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attats - and bad as it might seem in Mrs Stepheo admit the fai advances from her cousins lover (i had been said that she was actually eo young Wakem - old Wakem himself had mentio) still she was very young - `and a deformed young man, you know! - and young Guest so very fasating, and, they say, he positively worshipped her (to be sure, that t last!) and he ran away with her in the boat quite against her will - and what could she do? She couldnt e back then: no one would have spoken to her. And how very well that maize-coloured satie bees her plexion - it seems as if the folds in front were quite e in - several of her dresses are made so - they say, he thinks nothing too handsome to buy for her. Poor Miss Deane! She is very pitiable - but then, there was no positive e - and the air at the coast will dood. After all, if young Guest felt no more for her than that, it was better for her not to marry him. What a wonderful marriage firl like Miss Tulliver - quite romantic! Why - young Guest will put up for the bh at the  ele. Nothing like erowadays! That young Wakem nearly went out of his mind - he always was rather queer; but hes gone abroad again to be out of the way - quite the best thing for a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares she will never visit Mr and Mrs Stephe - suonsense! pretending to be better than other people. Society couldnt be carried on if we inquired into private du that way - and Christianity tells us to think no evil - and my belief is, that Miss Unit had no cards sent her. But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant this extenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without a trousseau, without a husband - in that degraded and outcast dition to which error is well known to lead; and the worlds wife, with that fine instinct which is given her for the preservation of society, saw at ohat Miss Tullivers duct had been of the most aggravated kind. Could anything be more detestable? - A girl so mudebted to her friends - whose mother as well as herself had received so much kindness from the Deanes - to lay the design of winning a young mans affes away from her own cousin who had behaved like a sister to her? Winning his affes? That was not the phrase for such a girl as Miss Tulliver: it would have been more correct to say that she had been actuated by mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. There was always something questionable about her. That e with young Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on for years, looked very ill: disgusting, in fact! But with a girl o<s>9９lib?</s>f that disposition! - to the worlds wife there had always been something in Miss Tullivers very physique that a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm. As for poor Mr Stephe, he was rather pitiable than otherwise: a young man of five and twenty is not to be too severely judged in these cases - he is really very much at the mercy of a designing bold girl. And it was clear that he had given way in spite of himself - he had shaken her off as soon as he could: iheir having parted so soon looked very bladeed - for her. To be sure he had written a letter, laying all the blame on himself, and telling the story in a romantic fashion so as to try and make her appear quite i: of course he could do that! But the refined instinct of the worlds wife was not to be deceived: providentially! - else what would bee of society? Why - her own brother had turned her from his door - he had seen enough, you might be sure, before he would do that. A truly respectable young man - Mr Tom Tulliver - quite likely to rise in the world! His sisters disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It was to be hoped that she would go out of the neighbourhood - to America, or anywhere - so as to purify the air of St Oggs from the taint of her presence - extremely dangerous to daughters there! No good could happen to her: - it was only to be hoped she would repent, and that God would have mer her: He had not the care of society on His hands as the worlds wife had.

    It required nearly a fht for fine instinct to assure itself of these inspirations; i was a whole week before Stepheer came, telling his father the facts and adding that: he was gone across to Holland - had drawn upon the agent at Mudport for money - was incapable of any resolution at present.

    Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a monising ay, to spend any thought on the view that was being taken of her duct by the world of St Oggs: ay about Stephen - Lucy - Philip - beat on her poor heart in a hard, driving, ceaseless storm of mingled love, remorse, and pity. If she had thought of reje and injustice at all, it would have seemed to her that they had doheir worst - that she could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerable sihe words she had heard from her brothers lips. Across all her ay for the loved and the ihose words shot again and again, like a horrible pang that would have brought misery and dread even into a heaven of delights. The idea of ever rec happiness never glimmered in her mind for a moment; it seemed as if every sensitive fibre in her were too entirely preoccupied by paio vibrate again to another influence. Life stretched before her as o of penitence, and all she craved as she dwelt on her future lot, was something to guarantee her from more falling: her own weakness haunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities that made no peace ceivable except such as lay in the sense of a sure refuge.

    But she was not without practical iions: the love of independence was to an iand a habit for her not to remember that she must get her bread and when other projects looked vague, she fell ba that of returning to her plain sewing, and so getting enough to pay for her lodging at Bobs. She meant to persuade her mother to return to the Mill by and by, and live with Tom again; an<dfn></dfn>d somehow or other she would maintain herself at St Oggs. Dr Kenn would perhaps help her and advise her: she remembered his parting words at the bazaar, she remembered the momentary feeling of reliahat had sprung in her when he was talking with her, and she waited with yearning expectation for the opportunity of fiding everything to him. Her mother called every day at Mr Deao learn how Lucy was: the report was always sad - nothing had yet roused her from the feeble passivity which had e on with the first shock. But of Philip, Mrs Tulliver had learned nothing: naturally, no one whom she met would speak to her about what related to her daughter. But at last, she summoned ce to go and see sister Glegg, who of course would know everything, and had eveo see Tom at the Mill in Mrs Tullivers absehough he had said nothing of what had passed on the occasion.

    As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bo. She had resolved on walking to the Rectory and asking to see Dr Kenn: he was in deep grief - but the grief of another does not jar upon us in such circumstances. It was the first time she had been beyond the door since her returheless her mind was so bent on the purpose of her walk, that the unpleasantness of meeting people on the way and being stared at, did not occur to her. But she had no soon9９ｌｉb.er passed beyond the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bobs dwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; and this sciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid to look tht or left. Presently, however, she came full on Mrs and Miss Turnbull, old acquaintances of her family; they both looked at her strangely and turned a little aside without speaking. All hard looks were pain to Maggie, but her self-reproach was to for rese: no wohey will not speak to me, she thought - they are very fond of Lucy. But now she khat she was about to pass a group of gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiard-rooms, and she could not help seeing young Torry step out a little with his glass at his eye, and bow to her with that air of nonchalance which he might have bestowed on a friendly bar-maid. Maggies pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting even in the midst of her sorrow; and for the first time the thought took strong hold of her that she would have other obloquy cast on her besides that which was felt to be due to her breach of faith towards Lucy. But she was at the Rectory now; there, perhaps, she would find something else thaributioribution may e from any voice - the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted ur at the street-er  inflict it: surely help and pity are rarer things - more needful for the righteous to bestow.

    She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr Kenns study, where he sat amongst piled-up books, for which he had little appetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his you child, a girl of three. The child was sent away with the servant and when the door was closed, Dr Kenn said, plag a chair fgie,

    `I was ing to see you, Miss Tulliver - you have anticipated me - I am glad you did.

    Maggie looked at him with her childlike direess as she had do the bazaar, and said, `I want to tell you everything.  But her eyes filled fast with tears as she said it, and all the pent-up excitement of her humiliating walk would have its vent before she could say more.

    `Do tell me everything, Dr Kenn said, with quiet kindness in his grave firm voice. `Think of me as oo whom a long experience has been granted, which may enable him to help you.

    In rather brokeences - with some effort, at first, but soon with the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in the fidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that must be the beginning of a long sorrow. Only the day before, Dr Kenn had been made acquainted with the tents of Stepheer, and he had believed them at once, without the firmation of Maggies statement. That involuntary plaint of hers `O I must go, had remained with him as the sign that she was undergoing some inward flict.

    Maggie dwelt the lo on the feeling which had made her e back to her mother and brother, which made her g to all the memories of the past. When she had ended, Dr Kenn was silent for some mihere was a difficulty on his mind. He rose and walked up and down the hearth with his hands behind him. At last, he seated himself again, and said, looking at Maggie,

    `Your prompting to go to your  friends - to remain where all the ties of your life have been formed - is a true prompting, to which the Chur its inal stitution and discipline responds - opening its arms to the pe - watg over its children to the last - never abandoning them until they are hopelessly reprobate. And the Church ought to represent the feeling of the unity, so that every parish should be a family knit together by Christian brotherhood under a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and Christian fraternity are entirely relaxed - they  hardly be said to exist in the publid: ></a>they hardly survive except in the partial, tradictory form they have taken in the narrow unities of schismatics; and if I were not supported by the firm faith that the Church must ultimately recover the full force of that stitution which is aloted to human needs, I should often lose heart at  the want of fellowship and sense of mutual responsibility among my own flock. At present everything seems tending towards the relaxation of ties - towards the substitution of wayward choice for the adhereo obligation which has its roots in the past. Your sd your heart have given you true light on this point, Miss Tulliver; and I have said all this that you may know what my wish about you - what my advice to you - would be if they sprang from my own feeling and opinion unmodified by terag circumstances.

    Dr Kenn paused a little while. There was aire absence of effusive benevolen his mahere was something almost cold in the gravity of his look and voice. If Maggie had not known that his benevolence ersevering in proportion to its reserve, she might have been chilled and frightened. As it was, she listened expetly, quite sure that there would be some effective help in his words. He went on.

    `Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you from anticipating fully, the very unjust ceptions that will probably be formed ing your duct - ceptions which will have a baneful effect even in spite of known evideo disprove them.

    `O, I do - I begin to see, said Maggie, uo repress this utterance of her ret pain. `I know I shall be insulted - I shall be thought worse than I am.

    `You perhaps do not yet know, said Dr Kenn, with a touore personal pity, `that a letter is e which ought to satisfy every one who has known anything of you, that you chose the steep and difficult path of a return to the right at the moment when that return was most of all difficult.

    `Oh - where is he? said pgie, with a flush and tremor, that no presence could have hindered.

    `He is gone abroad; he has written of all that passed to his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost; and I hope the unication of that letter to your cousin will have a beneficial effe her.

    Dr Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he went on.

    `That letter, as I said, ought to suffice you to prevent false impressions ing you. But I am bound to tell you, Miss Tulliver, that not only the experieny whole life, but my observation within the last three days, makes me fear that there is hardly any evidence which will save you from the painful effect of false imputations. The persons who are the most incapable of a stious struggle such as yours, are precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you on the ground of an unjust judgment; because they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life here will be attended not only with much pain, but with many obstrus. For this reason - and for this only - I ask you to sider whether it will not perhaps be better for you to take a situation at a distance, acc to your former iion. I will exert myself at oo obtain one for you.

    `O, if I could but stop here! said Maggie. `I have  to begin a strange life again. I should have no stay. I should feel like a lonely wanderer - cut off from the past. I have written to the lady who offered me a situation to excuse myself. If I remained here, I could perhaps atone in some way to Lucy - to others - I could vihem that Im sorry. And, she added, with some of the old proud fire flashing out, `I will not go away because people say false things of me. They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at last, because - because others wish it, I will not go now.

    `Well, said Dr Kenn, after some sideration, `if you determine on that, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the influence my position gives me. I am bound to aid and tenance you, by the very duties of my office as a parish priest. I will add, that personally I have a deep i in your peaind and welfare.

    `The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable me to get my bread and be indepe, said Maggie. `I shall not want much. I  go on lodging where I am.

    `I must think over the subject maturely, said Dr Kenn, `And in a few days I shall be better able to ascertain the general feeling. I shall e to see you: I shall bear you stantly in mind.

    When Maggie had left him, Dr Kenn stood ruminating with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, under a painful sense of doubt and difficulty. The tone of Stepheer, which he had read, and the actual relations of all the persons ed, forced upon him powerfully the idea of an ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggie as the least evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St Oggs on any other supposition, until after years of separation, threw an insurmountable prospective difficulty gies stay here. Oher hand, he entered with all the prehension of a man who had known spiritual flid lived through years of devoted service to his fellow-men, into that state of Maggies heart and sce which made this sent to the marriage a desecration to her: her sce must not be tampered with: the principle on which she had acted was a safer guide than any balang of sequences. His experieold him that intervention was too dubious a responsibility to be lightly incurred: the possible issue either of an endeavour to restore the former relations with Lud Philip, or of selling submission to this irruption of a new feeling was hidden in a darkness all the more imperable because each immediate step was clogged with evil.

    The great problem of the shiftiioween passion and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending it: the question, whether the moment has e in which a man has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for which we have no master key that will fit all cases. The casuists have bee a by-word of reproach; but their perverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth to which eyes as are too often fatally sealed: the truth, that moral judgments must remain false and hollow, uhey are checked and enlightened by a perpetual refereo the special circumstahat mark the individual lot.

    All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugo the men of maxims; because such people early dis that the mysterious plexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, and that to lace ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress all the divine promptings and inspirations that spring from growing insight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popular representative of the minds that are guided in their moral judgment solely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justice by a ready-made patehod, without the trouble of exerting patience, discrimination, impartiality, without any care to assure themselves whether they have the insight that es from a hardly-earimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human.

 CHAPTER 3

    Showing that Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us

    WHEN Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her news of an ued line of du<cite>9９lib.</cite> 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 drowhat was far more probable than that her nied legatee should have done anything to wound the family honour ie point. When, at last, she learned from Tom that Maggie had e 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 pelled. 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 du 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 Maggies 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 friend to help to rob the girl of her fair fame, and to cast her out from family shelter to the s of the outer world, until she had bee unequivocally a family disgrace. The circumstances were unpreted in Mrs Gleggs 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 on el along with her fual ideas of ship, as they did in her lifelard to equity in money matters. She quarrelled with Mr Glegg, whose kindness, flowiirely into passion 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 one to her for advid help, shut herself up in her own room with Baxters Saints Rest from m till night, denying herself to all visitors, till Mr Glegg brought from Mr Deahe news of Stepheer. Then Mrs Glegg felt that she had adequate fighting-ground - then she laid aside Baxter and was ready to meet all ers. 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 e Oggs again, because `acquaintances knew of it all, Mrs Glegg only hoped that Mrs Wooll or any one else would e tobbr>?</abbr> 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 se of remonstrah Tom, all the more severe, in proportion to the greater strength of her present position. But Tom, like other immovable things, seemed only the midly fixed uhat attempt to shake him. Poor Tom! he judged by what he had been able to see: and the judgment ainful enough to himself. He thought he had the demonstration of facts observed through years by his own eyes which gave n of their imperfe, that Maggies nature was utterly untrustworthy and toly marked with evil tendeo be safely treated with leniency: he would a 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, a a slight deposit of polish. If you are ined 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 towards Maggie that derived its very iy from their early childish love iime when they had clasped tiny fiogether, and their later sense of nearness in a on duty and a on 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 ship in 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 duct 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 baaggie, `as I didnt go to her before - she said it wasnt for her to e to me first. But she spoke like a sister, too: having she allays was, and hard to please - O dear! - but shes said the ki word as ever been spoke by you yet, my child. For she says, for all shes been so set again having ory<u></u> in the house, and makiry spoons and things, and putting her about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, if youll go to her dutiful, and shell uphold you again folks as say harm of you when theyve no call. And I told her I thought you couldo see nobody but me - you was so beat down with trouble; but she said - &quot;I wont throw ill words at her - theres them out o th family ull be ready enough to do that. But Ill give her good advice - an she must be humble.&quot; Its wonderful o Jane - for Im 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.

    `O mother, said pgie, shrinking from the thought of all the tact her bruised mind would have to bear. `Tell her Im very grateful - Ill go to see her as soon as I ; but I t see any one just yet, except Dr Kenn. Ive been to him - he will advise me and help me to get some occupation. I t live with any one, or be depe oell aunt Glegg; I must get my own bread. But did you hear nothing to Philip - Philip Wakem? Have you never seen any ohat has mentioned him?

    `No, my dear: but Ive been to Lucys, and I saw your uncle, and he says, they got her to listen to the letter, and she took notiiss Guest, and asked questions, and the doctor thinks shes ourn to be better. What a world this is - what trouble, O dear! The law was the first beginning, an its gone from bad to worse all of a sudden, just when the luck seemed ourn. 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 pun, and throwing her arms round her mothers neck, `I was always naughty and troublesome to you. And now you might have been happy, if it hadnt been for me.

    `Eh, my dear, said Mrs Tulliver, leaning towards 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 - theres nothing else much to be fond on, for my furnitur went long ago. And youd got to be very good once - I t think how its turned out the wrong way so!

    Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard nothing of Philip: ay about him was being her predominant trouble, and she summoned ce at last to inquire about him of Dr Kenn, on his  visit to her. He did not even know if Philip was at home: the elder Wakem was made moody by an accumulation of annoyahe disappoi in this young <bdo>?</bdo>Jetsome, to whom apparently he was a good deal attached, had been followed close by the catastrophe to his sons hopes after he had ceded his feelings to them, and incautiously mentiohis cession in St Oggs; and he was almost fier 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 robable that he was go of the town for a little while. Maggie sied uhis suspense, and her imagination began to live more and more persistently in hilip was enduring. What did he believe about her?

    At last, Bht her a letter without a postmark - directed in a hand which she knew familiarly iters 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 vinced 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 - e and jealousy, my mind made its way to belief 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 Lucys sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that was not fatal for you, and that dread shut out the very thought nation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, and I believed then, as I believe now, that the strong attra which drew you together proceeded only from one side of your characters, and beloo that partial, divided a 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 tinually felt the want of in his. But perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the se over which his soul has brooded with love; he would tremble to see it fided 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 m - I was filled with selfish passion; I was shattered by a night of scious delirium. I told you long ago that I had never been resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers: how could I be resigo the loss of the ohing which had ever e to me oh with the promise of such deep joy as would give a new and blessed meaning to the foing pain, - the promise of another self that would lift my ag affe 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 . 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  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 e 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 art 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 at 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 reciles me to life. You have been to my affes what light, what colour is to my eyes - what music it to the inward ear: you have raised a dim u into a vivid sciousness. The new life I have found in g 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 suplete 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-sciousness. I even think sometimes that this gift of transferred life which has e 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  measure your sacrifice by what I have known in only one half-hour of your preseh me when I dreamed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, I have no just claim on you for more than affeate 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 inal error. But you will not misstrue 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 one where my mind must live, wherever I might travel. And remember that I am ungeably yours: yours - not with selfish wishes - but with a devotion that excludes such wishes.

    God fort you, - my loving, large-souled Maggie. If every one else had misceived you - remember that you have never been doubted by him whose heart reised 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 overp heat ines me to be perfectly quiest in the daytime. I am strong enough to obey any word which shall tell me that I  serve you by word or deed.

    Yours, to the last,

    PHILIP WAKEM

    As Maggie k 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 fet their pain?

 CHAPTER 4

    Maggie and Lucy

    BY the end of the week Dr Kenn had made up his mind that there was only one way in which he could secure Maggie a suitable living at St Oggs. Even with his twenty years experience as a parish priest, he was aghast at the obstinate tinuanputations against her in the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored and appealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting to open the ears of women to reason and their sces to justi behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as powerless as he was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influehe shape of bos. Dr Kenn could not be tradicted: he was listeo in silence; but when he left the room, a parison of opinions among his hearers yielded mubbr></abbr>ch the same result as before. Miss Tulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable manner: even Dr Kenn did not deny that: how then could he think so lightly of her as to put that favourable interpretation ohing she had done? Even on the supposition that required the utmost stretch of belief - namely, that none of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true; still, sihey had been said about her, they had cast an odour around her which must cause her to be shrunk from by every woman who had to take care of her owation - and of society. To have taken Maggie by the hand and said, `I will not believe unproved evil of you: my lips shall not utter it; my ears shall be closed against it. I, too, am an erring mortal, liable to stumble, apt to e short of my most ear efforts. Your lot has been harder than mine, your temptatioer. Let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling - to have dohis would have demanded ce, deep pity, self-knowledge, generous trust - would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquan evil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in ning, that cheated itself with ne words into the belief that life  have any moral end, any high religion, which excludes the striving after perfect truth, justice, and love towards the individual men and women who e across our own path. The ladies of St Oggs were not beguiled by any wide speculative ceptions; but they had their favourite abstra, called society, which served to make their sces perfectly easy in doing what satisfied their own egoism - thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver and turning their backs upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr Kenn, after two years of superfluous inse from his feminine parishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views in opposition to his; but then, they maintaihem in opposition to a higher authority, which they had veed lohat authority had furnished a very explicit ao persons who might inquire where their social duties began, and might be ined to take wide views as to the starting-point. The answer had not turned oimate good of society, but on `a certain man who was found in trouble by the wayside. Not that St Oggs was empty of women with some tenderness of heart and sce: probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodness in it as any other small trading town of that day. But until every good man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid: too timid even to believe in the correess of their ow promptings, when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St Oggs were not all brave, by any means: some of them were even fond of sdal - and to aent that might have given their versation an effeminate character, if it had not been distinguished by mase jokes and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutual hatred of women. It was the general feeling of the mase mind at St Oggs that women were not to be interfered with ireatment of each other.

    And so, every dire in which Dr Kenn had turned in the hope of pr some kind nition and some employment fgie, proved a disappoio him. Mrs James Torry could not think of taking Maggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily - a young woman about whom `such things had been said, and about whom `gentlemen joked; and Miss Kirke who had a spinal plaint and wanted a reader and panio quite sure that Maggies mind must be of a quality with which she, for her part, could not risk any tact. Why did not Miss Tulliver accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg? - it did not bee a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she not go out of the neighbourhood, a a situation where she was not known? (It was not apparently of so much importahat she should carry her dangerous tendencies inte families unknown at St Oggs.) She must be very bold and hardeo wish to stay in a parish where she was so much stared at and whispered about.

    Dr Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence of this opposition, as every firm man would have doo tract a certain streng<big></big>th of determination over and above what would have been called forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily governess for his younger children; and though he had hesitated in the first instao offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protest with the utmost force of his personal and priestly character against her being crushed and driven away by slander, was now decisive. Maggie gratefully accepted an employment that gave her high duties as well as a support: her days would be filled now, and solitary evenings would be a wele rest. She no longer he sacrifice her mother made in staying with her, and Mrs Tulliver ersuaded to go back to the Mill.

    But now it began to be dised that Dr Kenn, exemplary as he had hitherto appeared, had his crotchets, - possibly his weakhe mase mind of St Oggs smiled pleasantly, and did not wohat Kenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he was ined to take so le a view of the past: the feminine mind, regarded at that period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case. If Dr Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver! It was not safe to be too fident even about the best of men: an apostle had fallen - a bitterly afterwards; and though Peters denial was not a close pret, his repentance was likely to be.

    Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for more than three weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other being the Rectors wife had been talked of so often in fidehat ladies were beginning to discuss how they should behave to her in that position. For Dr Kenn, it had been uood, had sat in the schoolroom half and hour one m when Miss Tulliver was giving her lessons; nay, he had sat there every m: he had once walked home with her - he almost always walked home with her - and if not, he went to see her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! What a mother for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs Kenn turn in her grave, that they should be put uhe care of this girl only a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to propriety as to marry her before the year was out? The mase mind was sarcastid thought not.

    The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a folly in their rector: at least, their brother would be safe; and their knowledge of Stephens tenacity was a stant ground of alarm to them, lest he should e bad marry Maggie. They were not among those who disbelieved their brothers letter; but they had no fiden Maggies adhereo her renunciation of him; they suspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than from the marriage, and that she lingered in St Oggs, relying on his return to her. They had always thought her disagreeable: they now thought her artful and proud; having quite as good grounds for that judgment as you and I probably have for many strong opinions of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the plated match with Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage between Stephen and Maggie added its momentum to their gey and indignation on behalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that he should return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home she was to seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by going to the coast with the Miss Guests; and it was in their plans that Stephen should be io join them. On the very first hint of gossip ing Maggie and Dr Kenn, the report was veyed in Miss Guests letter to her brother.

    Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg, or Dr Kenn, of Lucys gradual progress towards recovery, ahoughts tended tinually towards her uncle Deanes house: she hungered for an interview with Lucy if it were only for five minutes - to utter a word of peniteo be assured by Lucys own eyes and lips that she did not believe in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved and trusted. But she khat, even if her uncles indignation had not closed his house against her, the agitation of su interview would have been forbidden to Lucy. Only to have seen her without speaking, would have been some relief; fgie was haunted by a face cruel in its very gentleness: a face that had been turned on hers with glad sweet looks of trust and love from the twilight time of memory: ged now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke; and as the days passed on, that pale image became more and more distinct - the picture grew and grew into more speaking definiteness uhe avenging hand of remorse; the soft hazel eyes in their look of pain, were bent for ever on Maggie and pierced her the more because she could 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 that departed, when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy was really going away in a few days to Scarbh with the Miss Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meet them there.

    Only those who have known what hardest inward flict is  know what Maggie felt as she sat in her lonelihe evening after hearing that news frlegg - only those who have known what it is to dread their own selfish desires as the watg mother would dread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain.

    She sat without dle iwilight with the window wide open towards the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itself undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair against the window, with her arm on the window-sill, she was looking blankly at the flowing river, swift with the advang tide, - struggling to see still the sweet fa its unreproag sadness, that seemed now from moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form that thrust itself between and made darkness. Hearing the door open, she thought Mrs Jakin was ing in with her supper, as usual; and with that repugo trivial speech whies with languor and wretess, she shrank from turning round and saying she wanted nothing: good little Mrs Jakin would be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But the  moment, without her having dised the sound of a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice close to her saying, `Maggie!

    The face was there - ged, but all the sweeter: the hazel eyes were there, with their heart-pierg tenderness.

    `Maggie! the soft voice said. `Lucy! answered a voice with a sharp ring of anguish in it.

    And Lucy threw her arms round Maggies ned leaned he pale cheek against the burning brow.

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

    I was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there would be something scorg in the words that would recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinct thought began to be overflowed by a wave of loviend words burst forth with a sob.

    `God bless you for ing, Lucy.

    The sobs came thi each other after that.

    `Maggie, dear, be forted, said Luow, putting her cheek against Maggies again. `Dont grieve. And she sat still, hoping to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress.

    `I dido deceive you, Lucy, said Maggie, as soon as she could speak. `It always made me wretched that I felt what I didnt like you to know... It was because I thought it would all be quered, 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 e on us all: - you have more to bear than I have - and you gave him up, when - You did what it must have been very hard to do.

    They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, and cheeks leao></a>gether.

    `Lucy, Maggie begain again, `he struggled too. He wao be true to you. He will e back to you. Five him - he will be happy then...

    These words were wrung forth from Maggies deepest soul with an effort like the vulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled and was silent.

    A gentle knock came at<mark>..</mark> the door. It was Alice, the maid, who entered and said,

    `I darednt stay any longer, Miss Deaheyll find it out, and therell be suger at your ing out so late.

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

    `Im to go away on Friday, Maggie, she added, when Alice had closed the dain. `When I e bad am strong, they will let me do as I like. I shall e to you when I please then.

    `Lucy, said Maggie, with anreat effort, `I pray to God tinually 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 up into the face that was bent over hers. Luever fot that look.

    `Maggie, she said in a low voice, that had the solemnity of fession in it, `you are better than I am. I t...

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

 CHAPTER 5

    The Last flict

    IN the sed week of September, Maggie was again sitting in her lonely room, battling with the old shadowy ehat were for ever slain and rising again. It ast midnight, and the rain was beating heavily against the window, driven with fitful force by the rushing, loud-moaning wind. For, the day after Lucys visit there had been a sudden ge in the weather: the heat and drought had given way to cold variable winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals; and she had been forbidden to risk the plated journey until the weather should beore settled. In the ties higher up the Floss, the rains had been tinuous, and the pletion of the harvest had been arrested. And now, for the last two days, the rains on this lower course of the river had been incessant, so that the old men had shaken their heads and talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort of weather happening about the equinox, brought on the great floods, which swept the bridge away, and reduced the town to great misery. But the younger geion, who had seen several small floods, thought lightly of these sombre recolles and forebodings, and Bob Jakin, naturally proo take a hopeful view of his own luck, laughed at his mother when she regretted their having taken a house by the river-side;  that but for that they would have had no boats, which were the most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged them to go to a distance for food. But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their beds now. 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 at the very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down the river wheide came in with violend so the waters would be carried off, without causing more than temporary invenience, and losses that would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity would relieve.

    All were in their beds now, for it ast midnight: all except some solitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little parlour towards the river with one dle, that left everything dim in the room, except a letter which lay before her oable. That letter, which had e to her today, was one of the causes that had kept her up far on into the night - unscious how the hours were going - careless of seeki - with no image of rest ing across her mind, except of that far, far off rest, from which there would be no more waking for her into this strugglihly life.

    Two days before Maggie received that letter she had been to the Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented her from going since; but there was another reason. Dr Kenn, at firs９9lｉｂ? enlightened only by a few hints as to the urn which gossip and slander had taken iion to Maggie, had retly been made more fully aware of it by an ear remonstrance from one of his male parishiainst the indiscretion of persisting iempt to overe the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of resistance. Dr Kenn, having a sce void of offen the matter, was still ined to persevere - was still averse to give way before a publitiment that was odious and ptible; but he was finally wrought upon by the sideration of the peculiar responsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance of evil - and that `appearance is always depe on the average quality of surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area of that `appearance is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in danger of ag from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty to succumb: stious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course; and to recede was alainful to Dr Kenn. He made up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St Oggs for a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacy as he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt to tenance her stay was a source of discord between himself and his parishioners, that was likely to obstruct his usefulness as a clergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend of his, who might possibly take her into his own family, as governess; and, if not, would probably know of some other available position for a young woman in whose welfare Dr Ke a strong i.

    Pgie listened with a trembling lip: she could say nothing but a faint `thank you - I shall be grateful; and she walked back to her lodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at her wly, because the days did not seem joyful to her; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse herself to receive new impressions - and she was so unspeakably, siingly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring - even those who pitied, were straio hardness. But ought she to plain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance of life, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load to some other sufferers, and so ging that passionate error into a new force of unselfish human love? All the  day she sat in her lonely room with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that future and wrestling for patience: - for what repose could pgie ever win except by wrestling?

    And ohird day - this day of which she had just sat out the close - the letter had e which was lying oable before her.

    The letter was from Stephen. He was e back from Holland: he was at Mudpain, unknown to any of his friends; and had written to her from that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted in St Oggs. From beginning to end, it assionate cry of reproach: an appeal against her useless sacrifice of him - of herself: against that perverted notion ht 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 overp passion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more than on his life.

    `They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I should believe that! Perhaps they have told you some such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I have been &quot;travelling.&quot; My body has been dragged about somewhere; but I have ravelled from the hideous place where you left me - where I started up from the stupor of helpless rage to find you gone.

    `Maggie! whose pain  have been like mine? Whose injury is like mine? Who besides me has met that long look of love that has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other image  e there? Maggie, call me back to you! - call me back to life and goodness! I am banished from both now. I have no motives: I am indifferent to everything. Two months have only deepehe certainty that I ever care for life without you. Write me one word - say, &quot;e!&quot; In two days I should be with you. Maggie - have you fotten what it was to be together? - to be within reach of a look - to be within hearing of each others voice?

    When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the chill dark caverurn with unworn ce from the warm light: but how, when we have trodden far 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 again to the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing from uhe pressure of pain is s that all less immediate motives are likely to be fotten - till the pain has been escaped from.

    For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hours every other thought that she strove to summon was thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him to her. She did not read the letter: she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her with its old strange power. All the day before she had been filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she must carry the burthen ret, upheld only by ging faith. And here - close within here reach - urging itself upon her even as a claim - was another future, in which hard endurand effort were to be exged for easy delicious leaning on anothers loving strength! Ahat promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make the dire force of the temptation to Maggie. It was Stephens tone of misery, - it was the doubt in the justice of her own resolve, that made the balaremble, and made her oart from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write `e!

    But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense of tradi with her past self in her moments of strength and clearness, came upon her like a pang of scious degradation. No - she must wait - she must pray - the light that had forsaken her would e again: she should feel again what she had felt, when she had fled away, under an inspiration strong enough to quer agony - to quer love: she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when Philips letter had stirred all the fibres that bouo the calmer past.

    She sat quite still, far on into the night: with no impulse to ge her attitude, without active forough even for the mental act of prayer: only waiting for the light that would surely e again.

    It came with the memories that no passion could long quench: the long past came back to her and with it the fountains of self-renoung pity and affe, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked by the quiet hand itle old book that she had long ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent for themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of the rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind: `I have received the Cross, I have received it from thy hand; I will bear it, and bear it till death, as thou hast laid it upon me.

    But soon other words rose that could find no uttera in a sob: `Five me, Stephen! It will pass away. You wil<tt>藏书网</tt>l e back to her.

    She took up the letter, held it to the dle, a burn slowly on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word of parting.

    `I will bear it, and bear it till death... But how long it will be before death es! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have patiend strength? O 藏书网God, am I tle and fall a again? - has life other trials as hard for me still? With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against the table, and buried her sorrow-stri face. Her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there was something being taught her by this experience of great need; and she must be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, that the less erring could hardly know? `O God, if my life is to be long, let me live to bless and fort--

    At that moment Maggie felt a startliion of sudden cold about her knees a: it was water flowing under her. She started up - the stream was flowing uhe door that led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an instant - she k was the flood!

    The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her: without screaming, she hurried with the dle upstairs to Bob Jakins bedroom. The door was ajar - she went in and shook him by the shoulder.

    `Bob, the Flood is e! it is in the house! let us see if we  make the boats safe.

    She lighted his dle, while the poor wife, snatg up her baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at the door leading from the staircase: she saw that the water was already on a level with the step. While she was looking, something came with a tremendous crash against the window, ahe leaded panes and the old wooden framework inwards in shivers, - the water p in after it.

    `It is the boat! cried Maggie. `Bob, e down to get the boats!

    And without a moments shudder of fear, she pluhrough the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of the dle she had left oairs, she mounted on to the window-sill, and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging and protruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying without shoes or stogs, but with the lanthorn in his hand.

    `Why, theyre both here - both the boats, said Bob, as he g<dfn>９９lｉｂ?</dfn>ot into the one where Maggie was. `Its wonderful this fastening isnt broke too, as well as the m.

    In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it and mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are panions in their danger, and Bobs mind was absorbed in possible expedients for the safety of the helpless in-doors. The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impression of her as one who would help to proteot o be protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off, so as to release the boat from the ing window-frame.

    `The waters rising so fast, said Bob, `I doubt itll be in at the chambers before long - th house is so low. Ive more mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could and trusten to the water - for th old house is none so safe. And if I let go the boat - but you, he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of his lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand and her black hair streaming.

    Maggie had no time to answer, for a idal current swept along the line 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 the river.

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

    The whole thing had been so rapid - so dreamlike - that the threads of ordinary association were broken: she sank down on the seat clutg the oar meically, and for a long while had no distinct ception of her position. The first thing that waked her to fuller sciousness, was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that the darkness was divided by the fai light, which parted the ing gloom from the immeasurable watery level below. She was driven out upon the flood: - that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk of - which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old home - and Tom - and her mother - they had all listeogether.

    `O God, where am I? Which is the way home? she cried out, in the dim loneliness.

    What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had onearly destroyed it. They might be in danger - in distress: her mother and her brother, alohere, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was strained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces looking for help into the darkness, and finding none.

    She was floating in smooth water now - perhaps far on the over-flooded fields. There was no sense of present dao check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her whereabout - that she might cate faint suggestion of the spot towards which all her aies tended.

    O how wele, the widening of that dismal watery level - the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament - the slowly defining blaess of obj<bdo></bdo>ects 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 before her there were hen, the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope: the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in a; and she could soohe poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in the growing twilight: her wet clothes g round her, areaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly scious of any bodily sensations - except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined sense of recilement with her brother: what quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other  subsist in the presence of a great calamity when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all oh each other in primitive mortal needs? Vaguely, Maggie felt this; - irong resurgent love towards her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offend misuanding, a only the deep, underlying, unshakable memories of early union.

    But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, agie could dis the current of the river. The dark mass must be - yes, it was - St Oggs. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known trees - the grey willows, the now yellowing chestnuts - and above them the old roof; but there was no colour, no shape yet: all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed to e and put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any future.

    She must get her boat into the current of the Floss - else she would never be able to pass the Ripple, and approach the house: this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more vividhe state of things round the old home. But then she might be carried very far down, and be uo guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now, without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distand the growing light, she began to dis the objects that she knew must be 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 against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What were those masses?--

    For the first time Maggies heart began to beat in an agony of dread. She sat helpless - dimly scious that she was being floated along - more intensely scious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was tra: it passed away before the oning warehouses of St Oggs: she had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then: now, she must use all her skill and power to mahe boat a if possible, out of the current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down: she could see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river - such as had been laid hands on must be employed in the flooded streets.

    With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to paddle: but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one yearning look towards her uncle Deanes house that lay farther down the river, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery fields, back towards the Mill. Colour was beginning to awake now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could dis the tints of the trees - could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and the home chestnuts - Oh! how deep they lay ier: deeper tharees on this side the hill. And the roof of the Mill - where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple - what had they meant? But it was not the house - the house stood firm: drowned up to the first story, but still firm - or was it broken in at the end towards the Mill?

    With panting joy that she was there at last - joy that overcame all distress, Maggie he front of the house. At first she heard no sound: she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the upstairs windows. She called out in a loud pierg voice,

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

    Soon, from the window of the atti the tral gable, she heard Toms voice:

    `Who is it? Have yht a boat?

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

    `She is not here: she went to Garum, the day before yesterday. Ill e down to the lower window.

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

    `Yes, Tom: God has taken care of me, t me to you. Get in quickly. Is there no one else?

    `No, said Tom, stepping into the boat, `I fear the man is drowned - he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it: Ive shouted again and again, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie.

    It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water - he face to face with Maggie - that the full meaning of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overp a force - su entirely new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in life, that had lain beyond his vision which he had fancied so keen and clear, that he was uo ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other: Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face - Tom pale with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy though the lips were silent: and though he could ask no question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous divinely-protected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-grey 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 happihat is oh pain.

    As soon as she could speak, she said, `We will go to Lucy, Tom: well go and see if she is safe, and then we  help the rest.

    Tom rowed with untired vigour, and with a different speed from pgies. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.

    `Park House stands high up out of the flood, said Maggie, `Perhaps they have got Lucy there.

    Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards them by the river. Some wooden maery had just given way on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation read out in dreadful clearness around them - in dreadful clearness floated onwards the hurrying, threatening masses. A large pany in a boat that was w its way along uhe Tofton houses, observed their danger, and shouted, `Get out of the current!

    But that could not be do once, and Tom, looking before him, saw Death rushing on them. Huge fragments, ging together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

    `It is ing, Maggie! Tom said, in a deep hoarse voice, loosing the oars, and clasping her.

    The  instant the boat was no longer seen upoer - and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.

    But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black spe the golden water.

    The boat reappeared - but brother and sister had gone down in an embraever to be parted - living through again in one supreme moment, the days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.

    clusion

    NATURE repairs her ravages - repairs them with her sunshine, and with human labour. The desolatiht by that flood, had left little visible tra the face of the earth, five years after. The fifth autumn was ri golden -stacks, rising in thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.

    And every man and womaioned in this history was still living - except those whose end we know.

    Nature repairs her ravages - but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again - the parted hills are left scarred: if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underh their greeure bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thh repair.

    Dorlill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard, - where the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood, - had recovered all its grassy order a quiet.

    hat brick grave there was a tomb erected very soon after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace: and it was often visited at different moments by two men who both felt that their kee joy and kee sorrow were for ever buried there.

    One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him - but that was years after.

    The other was always solitary. His great panionship was among the trees 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 the  was written--

    `In their death they were not divided.

 CHAPTER 7

    The Golden Gates Are Passed

    SO Tom went oo the fifth half year - till he was turned sixteen - at Kings Lorton, while Maggie was growing, with a rapidity which her aunts sidered highly reprehensible, at Miss Firnisss b school in the aown of Laceham on the Floss, with cousin Lucy for her panion. In her early letters to Tom she had always sent her love to Philip and asked many questions about him which were answered by brief sentences about Toms toothache, and a turf-house which he was helping to build in the garden, with other items of that kind. She aio hear Tom say in the holidays that Philip was as queer as ever again, and often cross: they were no longer very good friends, she perceived, and when she remiom that he ought always to love Philip for being so good to him when his foot was bad, he answered, `Well, it isnt my fault: I dont do anything to him. She hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder of their school life: in the Midsummer holidays he was always away at the seaside, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long intervals ireets of St Oggs. When they did meet, she reme<cite>.９9ｌｉｂ.</cite>mbered her promise to kiss him, but, as a young lady who had been at a b-school, she knew now that such a greeting was out of the question, and Philip would not expect it. The promise was void like so many other sweet, illusory promises of our childhood: void as promises made in Eden before the seasons were divided, and whearry blossoms grew side by side with the ripening peach - impossible to be fulfilled when the golden gates had been passed. But when their father was actually engaged in the long-threatened lawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once of Pivart and Old Harry, was ag against him, even Maggie felt, with some sadness, that they were not likely ever to have any intimacy with Philip again: the very name of Wakem made her father angry, and she had once heard him say that if that crookbacked son lived to i his fathers ill-gotten gains, there would be a curse upon him. `Have as little to do with him at school as you , my lad, he said to Tom; and the and was obeyed the more easily because Mr Stelling by this time had two additional pupils; for though this gentlemans rise in the world was not of that meteor-like rapidity which the admirers of his extemporaneous eloquence had expected for a preacher whose voice demanded so wide a sphere, he had yet enough of growing prosperity to enable him to increase his expenditure in tinued disproportion to his ine.

    As for Toms school course, it went on with mill-like monotony, his mind tinuing to move with a slow, half-stifled pulse in a medium of uing or unintelligible ideas. But each vacation he brought home larger and larger drawings with the satiny rendering of landscape and water-colours in vivid greens, together with manuscript books full of exercises and problems, in which the handwriting was all the finer because he gave his whole mind to it. Each vacation he brought home a new book or two, indig his progress through different stages of history, Christian doe, and Latin literature; and that passage was ir<mark>99ｌｉｂ?</mark>ely without result besides the possession of the books. Toms ear and tongue had bee aced to a great many words and phrases which are uood to be signs of an educated dition, and though he had never really applied his mind to any one of his lessons, the lessons had left a deposit of vague, fragmentary iual notions. Mr Tulliver, seeing signs of acquirement beyond the reach of his own criticism, thought it robably all right with Toms education: he observed, ihat there were no maps, and not enough `summing, but he made no formal plaint to Mr Stelling. It uzzling business, this schooling; and if he took Tom away, where could he send him with better effect?

    By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at Kings Lorton, the years had made striking ges in him sihe day we saw him returning from Mr Jacobs Academy. He was a tall youth now, carrying himself without the least awkwardness, and speaking without more shyhan was a being symptom of blended diffidend pride: he wore his tailed coat and his stand-up collars, and watched the down on his lip with eager impatience looking every day at his virgin razor, with which he had provided himself in the last holidays. Philip had already left - at the Autumn quarter - that he might go to the South for the winter, for the sake of his health; and this ge helped to give Tom the uled, exulting feeling that usually belongs to the last months before leaving school. This quarter too, there was some hope of his fathers lawsuit being decided: that made the prospect of home more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who had gathered his view of the case from his fathers versation, had no doubt that Pivart would be beaten.

    Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks - a fact which did not surprise him, for his father and mother were not apt to maheir affe in unnecessary letters - when to his great surprise on the m of a dark cold day he end of November, he was told, soon after entering the study at nine oclock, that his sister was in the drawing-room. It was Mrs Stelling who had e into the study to tell him, and she left him to ehe drawing-room alone.

    Maggie too was tall now, with braided and coiled hair: she was almost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen; and she really looked older than he did at that moment. She had thrown off her bo, her heavy braids were pushed back from her forehead as if it would not bear that extra load, and her young face had a strangely worn look as her eyes turned anxiously towards the door. When Tom entered, she did not speak, but only went up to <details></details>him, put her arms round his ned kissed him early. He was used to various moods of hers, a no alarm at the unusual seriousness of her greeting.

    `Why, how is it youre e so early this , Maggie? Did you e in the gig? said Tom, as she backed towards the sofa and drew him to her side.

    `No, I came by the coach - Ive walked from the turnpike.

    `But how is it youre not at school? The holidays have not begu?

    `Father wanted me at home, said Maggie, with a slight trembling of the lip. `I came home three or four days ago.

    `Isnt my father well? said Tom, rather anxiously.

    `Not quite, said Maggie. `Hes very unhappy, Tom. The lawsuit is ended, and I came to tell you, because I thought it would be better for you to know it before you came home, and I didnt like only to send you a letter.

    `My father hasnt lost? said Tom, hastily, springing from the sofa, and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly thrust in his pockets.

    `Yes, dear Tom, said Maggie, looking up at him with trembling.

    Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Then he said--

    `My father will have to pay a good deal of mohen?

    `Yes, said Maggie, rather faintly.

    `Well, it t be helped, said Tom, bravely, not translating the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible results. `But my fathers very much vexed, I dare say? he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking that her agitated face was only part of her girlish way of taking things.

    `Yes, said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller speech by Toms freedom from apprehension, she said loudly and rapidly, as if the words would burst from her, `O Tom, he will lose the mill and the land, and everything. He will have nothi.

    Toms eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her before he turned pale and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but sat down on the sofa again, looking vaguely out of the opposite window.

    Ay about the future had never eoms mind. His father had always ridden a good horse, kept a good house, and had the cheerful, fident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall back upon. Tom had never dreamed that his father would `fail: that was a form of misfortune which he had always heard spoken of as a deep disgrace, and disgrace was ahat he could not associate with any of his relations, least of all with his father. A proud sense of family respectability art of the very air Tom had been born and brought up in. He khere were people in St Oggs who made a show without moo support it, and he had always heard such people spoken of by his own friends with pt and reprobation: he had a strong belief, which was a life-long habit, and required no definite evideo rest on, that his father could spend a great deal of money if he chose; and since his education at Mr Stellings had given him a more expensive view of life, he had often <strike>九九藏书</strike>thought that whe older he would make a figure in the world, with his horse and dogs and saddle, and other accoutrements of a fine young man, and show himself equal to any of his poraries at St Oggs, who might sider themselves a grade above him in society, because their fathers were professional men or had large oil-mills. As to the prognostid head-shaking of his aunts and uhey had never produced the least effe him except to make him think that aunts and uncles were disagreeable society: he had heard them find fault in much the same way as along as he could remember. His father knew better than they did.

    The down had e on Toms lip, yet his thoughts and expectations had been hitherto only the reprodu in ged forms of the boyish dreams in which he had lived three years ago. He was awakened now with a violent shock.

    Maggie was frighte Toms pale, trembling silehere was something else to tell him - something worse. She threw her arms round him at last, and said, with a half sob,

    `O Tom - dear, dear Tom, dont fret too much - try and bear it well.

    Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her eing kisses, and there gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he just rubbed away with his hand. The a seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself and said, `I shall go home with you Maggie? Didnt my father say I was to go?

    `No, Tom, father didnt wish it, said Maggie, her ay about his feeling helpio master her agitation: - What would he do wheold him all? `But mother wants you to e - poor mother - she cries so. O Tom, its very dreadful at home.

    Maggies lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost as Tom had dohe two poor things g closer to each other - both trembling - the o an unshapen fear, the other at the image of a terrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it was hardly above a whisper.

    `And ... and ... poor father ...

    Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison as a sequence of debt, was the shape his fears had begun to take.

    `Wheres my father? he said, impatiently. `Tell me, Maggie.

    `Hes at home, said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to that question. `But, she added, after a pause, `not himself... . He fell off his horse... . He has known nobody but me ever since... . He seems to have lost his senses... . O, father, father... .

    With these last words Maggies sobs burst forth with the more violence for the previous struggle against them. Tom felt that pressure of the heart which forbids tears: he had no distinct vision of their troubles as Maggie had, who had been at home: he only felt the crushi of what seemed unmitigated misfortune. He tightened his arm almost vulsively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his face looked rigid and tearless - his eyes blank - as if a black curtain of cloud had suddenly fallen on his path.

    But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly: a sihought had acted on h<details>99lib?</details>er like a startling sound.

    `We must set out, Tom - we must not stay - father will miss me - we must be at the tur ten to meet the coach. She said this with hasty decision, rubbing her eyes, and rising to seize her bo.

    Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. `Wait a minute, Maggie, he said. `I must speak to Mr Stelling, and then well go.

    He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were, but on his way he met Mr Stelling, who had heard from his wife that Maggie appeared to be in trouble when she asked for her brother, and, now that he thought the brother and sister had been alone long enough, was ing to inquire and offer his sympathy.

    `Please, sir, I must go home, Tom said abruptly, as he met Mr Stelling in the passage. `I must go back with my sister directly. My fathers lost his law-suit - hes lost all his property - and hes very ill.

    Mr Stelli like a kied man: he foresarobable money loss for himself, but this had no appreciable share in his feeling while he looked with grave pity at the brother and sister for whom youth and sorrow had begun together. When he knew how Maggie had e and how eager she was to get home again, he hurried their departure, only whispering something to Mrs Stelling, who had followed him, and who immediately left the room.

    Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to set out, when Mrs Stelling came with a little basket, which she hung on Maggies arm, saying, `Do remember to eat something on the way, dear. Maggies heart went out towards this woman whom she had never liked, and she kissed her silently. It was the first sign within the poor child of that new sense which is the gift of sorrow - that susceptibility to the bare offices of humanity which raises them into a bond of loving fellowship, as to haggard men among the icebergs the mere presence of an ordinary rade stirs the deep fountains of affe.

    Mr Stelling put his hand on Toms shoulder and said, `God bless you, my boy: let me know how you get on. Then he pressed Maggies hand; but there were no audible good-bys. Tom had so often thought how joyful he should be the day he left school `food! And now his school years seemed like a holiday that had e to an end.

    The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistin the distant road - were soon lost behind the projeg hedgerow.

    They had gone forth together into their new life of sorrow, and they would never more see the sunshine undimmed by remembered cares. They had ehe thorny wilderness, and the golden gates of their childhood had for ever closed behind them.

 BOOK 3 CHAPTER 1

    What Had Happe Home

    WHEN Mr Tulliver first khe fact that the lawsuit was decided against him and that Pivart and Wakem were triumphant, every one who happeo observe him at the time thought that for so fident and hot-tempered a man he bore the blow remarkably well. He thought so himself: he thought he was going to show that if Wakem or anybody else sidered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. He could not refuse to see that the costs of this protracted suit would take more than he possessed to pay them, but he appeared to himself to be full of expedients by which he could ward off as but such as were tolerable, and could avoid the appearance of breaking down in the world. All the obstinad defiance of his nature, driven out of their old el, found a vent for themselves in the immediate formation of plans by which he would meet his difficulties and remain Mr Tulliver of Dorlill in spite of them. There was such a rush of projects in his brain, that it was no wonder his face was flushed when he came away from his talk with his attorney, Mr Gore, and mounted his horse to ride home from Lindum. There was Furley, who held the me on the land - a reasonable felloould see his own i, Mr Tulliver was vinced, and who would be glad not only to purchase the whole estate including the mill and homestead, but would accept Mr Tulliver as tenant, and be willing to advance moo be repaid with high i out of the profits of the business which would be made over to him, Mr Tulliver only taking enough barely to maintain himself and his family. Who would  such a<u>藏书网</u> profitable iment? Certainly not Furley, for Mr Tulliver had determihat Furley should meet his plans with the utmost alacrity; and there are men whose brains have not yet been dangerously heated by the loss of a lawsuit who are apt to see in their own i or desires a motive for other mens as. There was no doubt (in the millers mind) that Furley would do just what was desirable; and if he did - why, things would not be so very much worse. Mr Tulliver and his family must live more meagrely and humbly, but it would only be till the profits of the business had paid off Furleys advances, and that might be while Mr Tulliver had still a good many years of life before him. It was clear that the costs of the suit could be paid without his being obliged to turn out of his old plad look like a ruined man. It was certainly an awkward moment in his affairs. There was that suretyship for poor Riley, who had died suddenly last April, a his friend saddled with a debt of two hundred and fifty pounds: a fact which had helped to make Mr Tullivers banking book less pleasant reading than a man might desire towards Christmas. Well! he had never been one of those poor-spirited sneaks who would refuse to give a helping hand to a fellow-traveller in this puzzling world. The really vexatious business was the fact that some months ago the creditor who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay Mrs Glegg, had bee uneasy about his money (set on by Wakem, of course), and Mr Tulliver, still fident that he should gain his suit, and finding it emily inveo raise the said sum until that desirable issue had taken place, had rashly acceded to the demand that he should give a bill of sale on his house-hold furniture and some other effects as security in lieu of the bond. It was all one, he had said to himself: he should soon pay off the money, and there was no harm in giving that security any more than another. But now the sequences of this bill of sale occurred to him in a new light, and he remembered that the term was close at hand when it would be enforced uhe money were repaid. Two months ago he would have declared stoutly that he would never be beholding to his wifes friends; but now he told himself as stoutly, that it was nothing but right and natural that Bessy should go to the Pullets and explaihing to them: they would hardl<details>.99lib.</details>y let Bessys furniture be sold, and it might be security to Pullet, if he advahe mohere would, after all, be no gift or favour iter. Mr Tulliver would never have asked for anything from so poor-spirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do so if she liked. It is precisely the proudest and most obstinate men who are the most liable to shift their position and tradict themselves in this sudden manner: everything is easier to them than to face the simple fact, that they have been thhly defeated and must begin life anew. And Mr Tulliver, you perceive, though nothing more than a superior miller and maltster, roud and obstinate as if he had been a very lofty personage, in whom such dispositions might be a source of that spicuous, far-eg tragedy which sweeps the stage in regal robes, and makes the dullest icler sublime. The pride and obstinaillers and other insignifit people, whom you pass unnotigly on the road every day, have their tragedy too, but it is of that u, hidden sort, that goes eion to geion and leaves no record - such tragedy, perhaps, as lies in the flicts of young souls, hungry for joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, uhe dreariness of a home where the m brings no promise with it, and where the uant distent of worn and disappointed parents weighs on the children like a damp, thick air in which all the funs of life are depressed; or such tragedy as lies in the slow or suddeh that follows on a bruised passion, though it may be a death that finds only a parish funeral. There are certain animals to which tenacity of position is a law of life - they ever flourish again after a single wrench: and there are certain human beings to whom predominance is a law of life and who  only sustain humiliation so long as they  refuse to believe in it, and, in their own ception, predomiill.

    Mr Tulliver was still predominating in his own imagination as he approached St Oggs, through which he had to pass on his way homeward. But what was it that suggested to him as he saw the Laceham coatering the town, to follow it to the coach office, ahe clerk there to write a letter requiring Maggie to e home the very  day? Mr Tullivers own hand shook too muder his excitement for him to write himself, and he wahe letter to be given to the an to deliver at Miss Firnisss school in the m. There was a craving which he would not at for to himself, to have Maggie near him - without delay - she must e back by the coaorrow.

    To Mrs Tulliver whe home, he would admit no difficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on hearing that the lawsuit was lost, by angry assertions that there was nothing to grieve about. He said nothing to her that night about the bill of sale, and the application to Mrs Pullet, for he had kept her in ignorance of the nature of that transa and had explaihe y for taking an iory of the goods as a matter ected with his Will. The possession of a wife spicuously ones inferior in intellect, is, like h privileges, attended with a few inveniences, and among the rest with the occasional y for using a little deception.

    The  day Mr Tulliver was again on horseba the afternoon, on his way tores office at St Oggs. Gore was to have seen Furley in the m, and to have sounded him iion to Mr Tullivers affairs. But he had not gone halfway whe a clerk frores office, who was bringing a letter to Mr Tulliver. Mr Gore had beeed by a sudden call of business from waiting at his office to see Mr Tulliver acc to<bdi>九九藏书</bdi> appoi, but would be at his office at eleven to-morrow m, and meanwhile had sent some important information by letter.

    `O! said Mr Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening it. `Then tell Gore Ill see him tomorrow at eleven. Aurned his horse.

    The clerk, struck with Mr Tullivers glistenied glance, looked after him for a few moments, and then rode away. The reading of a letter was not the affair of an instant to Mr Tulliver: he took in the sense of a statement very slowly through the medium of written or even printed characters; so he had put the letter in his pocket, thinking he would open it in his armchair at home. But by and by it occurred to him that there might be something iter Mrs Tulliver must not know about, and if so, it would be better to keep it out of her sight altogether. He stopped his horse, took out the letter and read it. It was only a short letter: the substance was, that Mr Gore had ascertained o but sure authority that Furley had been lately much straitened for money, and had parted with his securities, among the rest, the me on Mr Tullivers property, which he had transferred to - Wakem.

    In half an hour after this, Mr Tullivers own waggoner found him lying by the roadside insensible, with an opeer  him, and his grey horse snuffing uneasily about him.

    When Maggie reached home that evening in obedieo her fathers call, he was no longer insensible. About an hour before, he had bee scious, and after vague, vat looks around him, had muttered something about `a letter, which he presently repeated impatiently. At the instanr Turnbull, the medical man, Gores letter was brought and laid on the bed, and the previous impatience seemed to be allayed. The stri man lay for some time with his eyes fixed oter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help. But presently a new wave of memory seemed to have e and swept the other away: he turned his eyes from the letter to the door and after looking uneasily, as if striving to see something his eyes were too dim for, he said, `The little wench.

    He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, appeariirely unscious of everything except this one importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or any one else, and poor Mrs Tulliver, her feeble faculties almost paralysed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, went backwards and forwards to the gate to see if the Laceham coach were ing, though it was not yet time.

    But it came at last a down the poor anxious girl, no lohe `little wench except to her fathers fond memory.

    `O mother, what is the matter? Maggie said, with pale lips, as her mother came towards her g. She didnt think her father was ill, because the letter had e at his dictation from the office at St Oggs.

    But Mr Turnbull came now to meet her: a medical man is the good angel of the troubled house, and Maggie ran towards the kind old friend whom she remembered as long as she could remember anything, with a trembling, questioning look.

    `Dont alarm yourself too much, my dear, he said, taking her hand. `Your father has had a sudden attack, and has not quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for you, and it will do him good to see you. Keep as quiet as you : take off your things and e upstairs with me.

    Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which makes existence seem simply a painful pulsation. The very quietness with which Mr Turnbull spoke, had frightened her susceptible imagination. Her fathers eyes were still turned uneasily towards the door wheered ahe strange, yearning, helpless look that had been seeking her in vain. With a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the bed - she rushed towards him, and clasped him with agonised kisses.

    Poor child! it was very early for her to know one of those supreme moments in life when all we have hoped or delighted in, all we  dread or endure, falls away from ard as insignifit, - is lost, like a trivial memory, in that simple, primitive love whiits us to the beings who have been o us, iimes of helplessness or of anguish.

    But that flash nition had been too great a strain ohers bruised, enfeebled powers. He sank back again in renewed insensibility and rigidity which lasted for many hours, and was only broken by flickeriurns of sciousness, in which he took passively everything that was given to him and seemed to have a sort o<strike></strike>f infaisfa in Maggies near presence - such satisfa as a baby has when it is returo the nurses lap.

    Mrs Tulliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wailing and lifting up of hands below stairs: both uncles and aunts saw that the ruin of Bessy and her family was as plete as they had ever foreboded it, and there was a general family sehat a judgment had fallen on Mr Tulliver, which it would be an impiety to teract by too much kindness. But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely ever leaving her fathers bedside, where she sat opposite him with her hand on his. Mrs Tullive<big></big>r wao have Tom fetched home, and seemed to be thinking more of her boy even than of her husband; but the aunts and uncles opposed this - Tom was better at school, since Mr Turnbull said there was no immediate danger, he believed. But at the end of the sed day, when Maggie had beore aced to her fathers fits of insensibility, and to the expectation that he would revive from them, the thought of Tom had bee urgent with her too, and when her mother sate g at night and saying, `My poor lad... its nothing but right he should e home, Maggie said, `Let me go for him, and tell him, mother: Ill go tomorrow m if father doesnt know me and wa would be so hard for Tom to e home and not know anything about it beforehand.

    And the  m Maggie went, as we have seen. Sitting on the coa their way home, the brother and sister talked to each other in sad, interrupted whispers.

    `They say Mr Wakem has got a me or something on the land, Tom, said Maggie. `It was the letter with that news in it that made father ill, they think.

    `I believe that sdrels been planning all along to ruin my father, said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions to a definite clusion. `Ill make him feel for it when Im a man. Mind you never speak to Philip again.

    `O Tom! said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance; but she had no spirit to dispute anything then, still less to vex Tom by opposing him.

 CHAPTER 2

    Mrs Tullivers Teraphim, or Household Gods

    WHEN the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five hours since she had started from home, and she was thinking with some trembling that her father had perhaps missed her and asked for `the little wen vain. She thought of no other ge that might have happened. She hurried along the gravel walk aered the house before Tom, but irance she was startled by a strong smell of tobacco. The parlour door was ajar - that was where the smell came from. It was very strange: could any visitor be smoking at a time like this? Was her mother there? If so, she must be told that Tom was e. Maggie, after this pause of surprise was only i of opening the door when Tom came up and they both looked in the parlether. There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose fa had some vague recolle, sitting in his fathers chair, smoking, with a jug and glass beside him.

    The truth flashed on Toms mind in an instant. To `have the bailiff in the house, and `to be sold up, were phrases which he had beeo, even as a little boy: they were part of the disgrad misery of `failing, of losing all ones money and being ruined - sinking into the dition of poor w people. It seemed only natural this should happen since his father had lost all his property, ahought of no more special cause for this particular form of misfortuhan the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate presence of this disgrace was so much keener an experieo Tom than the worst form of apprehension, that he felt at this moment as if his real trouble had only just begun: it was a tou the irritated nerve pared with its spontaneous dull ag.

    `How do you do, sir? said the man, taking the pipe out of his mouth with rough, embarrassed civility. The two young startled faces made him a little unfortable.

    But Tom turned away hastily without speaking: the sight<bdi></bdi> was too hateful. Maggie had not uood the appearance of this stranger, as Tom had: she followed him, whispering `Who  it be, Tom? What is the matter? Then with a sudden undefined dread lest this stranger might have something to do with a ge in her father, she rushed upstairs, cheg herself at the bedroom door to throw off her bo, aer on tiptoe. All was silent there: her father was lying, heedless of everything around him, with his eyes closed as when she had left him. A servant was there, but not her mother.

    `Wheres my mother? she whispered. The servant did not know.

    Maggie hastened out, and said to Tom, `Father is lying quiet: let us go and look for my mother; I wonder where she is.

    Mrs Tulliver was not downstairs - not in any of the bedrooms. There was but one room be<var>.99ｌｉb?</var>low the attic which Maggie had left unsearched: it was the store-room where her mother kept all her linen and all the precious `best things that were only uned and brought out on special occasions. Tom, preg Maggie as they returned along the passage, opehe door of this room and immediately said, `Mother!

    Mrs Tulliver was seated there with all her laid-up treasures. One of the lines en: the silver tea-pot was uned from its many folds of paper, and the best a was laid out oop of the closed line; spoons and skewers and ladles were spread in rows on the shelves; and the poor woman was shaking her head and weeping with a bitter tension of the mouth, over the mark `Elizabeth Dodson on the er of some table cloths she held in her lap.

    She dropped them and started up as Tom spoke.

    `O my boy, my boy, she said, clasping him round the neck. `To think as I should live to see this day! Were ruined... everythings going to be sold up... to think as your father should ha married me t me to this! Weve got nothing... we shall be beggars... we must go to the workhouse...

    She kissed him, theed herself again, and took aable cloth on her lap, unfolding it a little way to look at the pattern, while the children stood by in mute wretess - their minds quite filled for the moment with the words `beggars and `workhouse.

    `To think o these cloths as I spun myself, she went on, lifting things out and turning them over with aement all the more strange and piteous because the stout lymphatian was usually so passive: - if she had been ruffled before, it was at the surface merely - `and Job Haxey wove em, and brought the piee on his back, as I remember standing at the door and seeing him e, before I ever thought o marrying your father! And the pattern as I yself - and bleached so beautiful - and I marked em so as nobody ever saw such marking - they must cut the cloth to get it out, for its a particular stitch. And theyre all to be sold - and go inte peoples houses, and perhaps be cut with the knives, and wore out before Im dead. Youll never have one of em, my boy, she said, looking up at Tom with her eyes full of tears, `and I meant em for you. I wanted you to have all o this pattern. Maggie could ha had the large check - it never shows so well when the dishes are on it.

    Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry reamediately. His face flushed as he said.

    `But will my aunts let them be sold, mother? Do they know about it? Theyll never let your linen go, will they? Havent you sent to them?

    `Yes, I sent Luke directly theyd put the bailies in, and your aunt Pullets been - and O dear, O dear, she cries so, and says your fathers disgraced my family and made it the talk o the try: and shell buy the spotted cloths for herself because shes never has so many as she wahat <mark>.99lib.</mark>pattern, and they shant go ters, but shes got more checks aready nor she  do with. (Here Mrs Tulliver began to lay back the table cloths in the chest, folding and stroking them automatically.) `And your uncle Gleggs been too, and he says things must be bought in for us to lie down on, but he must talk to your aunt; and theyre all ing to sult... . But I know theyll none of em take my y she added, turning towards the cups and saucers - `for they all found fault with em when I bought em, cause o the small gold sprig all over em, between the flowers. But theres none of em got better y, not even your aunt Pullet herself, - and I bought it wi my own money as Id saved ever since I was turned fifteen, and the silver tea-pot, too - your father never paid for em. And to think as he should ha married me and brought me to this.

    Mrs Tulliver burst out g afresh, and she sobbed with her handkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but then removing it, she said in a depreg way, still half sobbing as if she were called upon to speak before she could and her voice,

    `And I did say to him times and times, `Whativer you do, dont go to law - and what more could I do? Ive had to sit by while my own fortins bee, and what should ha been my childrens too. Youll have niver a penny, my boy... but it isnt your poor mothers fault.

    She put out one arm towards Tom, looking up at him piteously with her helpless, childish blue eyes. The poor lad went to her and kissed her and she g to him. For the first time Tom thought of his father with some reproach. His natural ination to blame, - hitherto kept entirely in abeyaowards his father by the predisposition to think him always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom Tullivers father - was turned into this new el by his mothers plaints, and with his indignation against Wakem there began to mingle some indignation of another sort. Perhaps his father might have helped bringing them all down in the world, and making people talk of them with pt: but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver with pt. The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning to assert itself, urged by the double stimulus of rese against his aunts, and the sehat he must behave like a man and take care of his mother.

    `Dont fret, mother, he said, tenderly. `I shall soon be able to get money: Ill get a situation of some sort.

    `Bless you, my boy! said Mrs Tulliver, a little soothed. Then, looking round sadly, `But I shouldnt ha minded<big>.99lib.</big> so much if we could ha kept the things wi my name on em.

    Maggie had withis se with gathering ahe implied reproaches against her father - her father who was lying there in a sort of livih, ralised all her pity friefs about table cloths and a, and her anger on her fathers at was heightened by some egoistic rese at Toms silent curreh her mother in shutting her out from the on calamity. She had bee almost indifferent to her mothers habitual depreciation of her, but she was keenly alive to any san of it, however passive, that she might suspe Tom. Pgie was by no means made up of unalloyed devotedness, but put forth large claims for herself where she loved strongly. She burst out, at last, in an agitated, almost violent tone, `Mother, how  you talk so? As if you cared only for things with your name on, and not for what has my fathers <bdi>9９liｂ?</bdi>oo. And to care about anything but dear father himself! - when hes lying there and may never speak to us again. Tom, you ought to say so too - you ought not to let any one find fault with my father.

    Maggie, almost chocked with mingled grief and anger, left the room, and took her old pla her fathers bed. Her heart went out to him with a stronger movement tha the thought that people would blame him. Maggie hated blame: she had been blamed all her life, and nothing had e of it but evil tempers. Her father had always defended and excused her, and her loving remembrance of his tenderness was a force withihat would enable her to do or bear anything for his sake.

    Tom was a little shocked at Maggies outburst - telling him as well as his mother what it was right to do! She ought to have learned better than have those hect, assuming manners by this time. But he presently went into his fathers room and the sight there touched him in a way that effaced the slighter impressions of the previous hour. When Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her arm round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children fot everything else in the sehat they had oher and one sorrow.

 CHAPTER 3

    The Family cil

    IT was at eleven oclock the  m that the aunts and uncles came to hold their sultation. The fire was lighted in the large parlour, and poor Mrs Tulliver, with a fused impression that it was a great occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels and unpihe curtains, adjusting them in proper folds - looking round and shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, which sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insuffit brightness. Mr Deane was not ing - he was away on business; but Mrs Deane appeared punctually in that handsome new gig with the head to it and the livery servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character to some of her female friends in St Oggs. Mr Deane had been advang in the world as rapidly as Mr Tulliver had been going down in it, and in Mrs Deanes house, the Dodson linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate position as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the same kind, purchased i years: a ge which had caused an occasional ess in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting `like the rest, and there would sootle of the true Dodson spirit surviving except in herself, and it might be hoped, in those nephews who supported the Dod<u></u>son name on the family land far away in the Wolds. People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own eyes; and it seems superfluous, when we sider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians and how very little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why Homer calls them `blameless.

    Mrs Deane was the first to arrive, and when she had taken her seat in the large parlour, Mrs Tulliver came down to her with her ely face a little distorted nearly as it would have been if she had been g: she was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except in moments when the prospect of losing her furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm under present circumstances.

    `O sister, what a world this is! she exclaimed as she entered. `What trouble, O dear!

    Mrs Deane was a thin-lipped woman who made small well-sidered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them afterwards to her husband and asking him if she had not spoken very properly.

    `Yes, sister, she said deliberately, `this is a ging world, and we dont know to-day what may happen tomorrow. But its right to be prepared for all things, and if troubles sent, to remember as it is without a cause. Im very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for Mr Tulliver, I hope youll let me know: Ill send it willingly. For it is but right he should have proper attendance while hes ill.

    `Thank you, Susan, said Mrs Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawing her fat hand from her sisters thin one. `But theres been no talk o jelly yet. Then after a moments pause, she added, `Theres a dozen o cut jelly-glasses upstairs... . I shall niver put jelly into em no more.

    Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr and Mrs Glegg were e and were almost immediately followed by Mr and Mrs Pullet.

    Mrs Pullet entered g, as a pendious mode, at all times, of expressing what were her views of life in general, and what, in brief, were the opinions she held ing the particular case before her.

    Mrs Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which appeared to have had a ret resurre from rather a creasy form of burial: a e selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfect humility into Bessy and her children.

    `Mrs G., wont you e he fire? said her husband, unwilling to take the more fortable seat without  it to her.

    `You see Ive seated myself here, Mr Glegg, returhis superior woman, `you  roast yourself, if you like.

    `Well, said Mr Glegg, seating himself good-humouredly, `and hows the poor man upstairs?

    `Dr Turnbull thought him a deal better this m, said Mrs Tulliver; `he took more notice, and spoke to me - but hes never known Tom yet - looks at the poor lad as if he was a strahough he said something once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says his memone a long way back, and he doesnt know Tom because hes thinking of him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear!

    `I doubt its the water got on his brain, said aunt Pullet, turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at the pier-glass. `Its much if he ever gets up again, and if he does hell most like be childish, as Mr Carr oor man! They fed him with a spoon as if hed been a babby for three year. Hed quite lost the use of his limbs; but then, hed got a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him; and thats what you wont have, I doubt, Bessy.

    `Sister Pullet, said Mrs Glegg, severely, `if I uand right, weve e together this m, t advise and sult about whats to be done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the family, and not to talk o people as dont belong to us. Mr Carr was none of our blood, nor noways ected with us, as Ive ever heared.

    `Sister Glegg, said Mrs Pullet in a pleading tone, drawing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated manner, `if youve got <u>九九藏书</u>anything disrespectful to say oMr Carr, I do beg of you, as you wont say it to me. I know what he was, she added, with a sigh. `His breath was short to that degree as you could hear him two rooms off.

    `Sophy! said Mrs Glegg, with indignant disgust, `you do talk o peoples plaints till its quite u. But I say again, as I said before, I didnt e away from home to talk about acquaintance, whether theyd short breath or long. If we arent e together for oo hear what the other ull do to save a sister and her children from the parish, I shall go back. One t act without the other, I suppose; it isnt to be expected as I should do everything.

    `Well, Jane, said Mrs Pullet, `I dont see as youve been so very forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the first time as here youve been, sis been known as the bailiffs in the house, and I was here yesterday and looked at all Bessys linen and things, and I told her Id buy in the spotted table cloths - I couldnt speak fairer; for as for the tea-pot as she doesnt want to go out o the family, it stands to sense I t do with two silver tea-pots, not if it hadnt a straight spout - but the spotted damask I was allays fond on.

    `I wish it could be managed so as my tea-pot and y and the best castors  be put up for sale, said poor Mrs Tulliver, beseegly, `and the sugar tongs, the first things ever I bought.

    `But that t be helped, you know, said Mr Glegg. `If ohe family chooses to buy em in, they , but ohing must be bid for as well as another.

    `And it isnt to be looked for, said uncle Pullet, with unwonted independence of idea, `as your own family should pay more for things nor theyll fetch. They may go for an old song by au.

    `O dear, O dear, said Mrs Tulliver, `to think o my y being sold i that way - and I bought it when I was married just as you did yours, Jane and Sophy: and I know you didnt like mine, because o the sprig, but I was fond of it, and theres never been a bit broke, for Ive washed it myself - and theres the tulips on the cups, and the roses, as anybody might go and look at em for pleasure. You wouldnt like your y to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though yours has got no colour in it, Jane - its all white and fluted, and didnt cost so much as mine. And theres the castors - sister Deane, I t think but youd like to have the castors, for Ive heard you say theyre pretty.

    `Well, Ive no obje to buy some of the best things, said Mrs Deane, rather loftily. `We  do with extra things in our house.

    `Best things! exclaimed Mrs Glegg, with severity which had gathered iy from her long silence. `It drives me past patieo hear you all talking o best things, and buying in this that and the other, such as silver and y. You must bring your mind to your circumstances, Bessy, and not be thinking o silver and y, but whether you shall get so much as a flock bed to lie on, and a blao cover you, and a stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get em, itll be because your friends have bought em for you, for youre depe upo them for everything: for your husband lies there helpless, and hasnt got a penny i the world to call his own. And its for your own good I say this, for its right you should feel what your state is, and what disgrace your husbands brought on your own family, as youve got to look to for everything - and be humble in your mind.

    Mrs Glegg paused, for speaking with muergy for the good of others is naturally exhausting. Mrs Tulliver, always borne down by the family predominance of sister Jane, who had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister iender years, said pleadingly,

    `Im sure, sister, Ive never asked anybody to do anything, only buy things as it ud be a pleasure to em to have, so as they mightnt go and be spoiled i strange houses. I never asked anybody to buy the things in for me and my children, though theres the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was born - I thought ohe first things when he was lying i the cradle, as all the things Id bought wi my own money and been so careful of ud go to him. But Ive said nothing as I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me; - what my husband has done for his sisters unknown, and we should ha beeer off this day if it hadnt been as hes lent money and never asked for it again.

    `e, e, said Mr Glegg, kindly, `do us make things too dark. Whats done t be undone. We shall make a shift among us to buy whats suffit for you - though, as Mrs G. says, they must be useful, plain things. We musthinking o whats unnecessary. A table and a chair or two, and kit things, and a good bed and suchlike. Why, Ive seen the day when I shouldnt ha known myself, if Id lain on sag istead o the floor. We get a deal o useless things about us, only because weve got the moo spend.

    `Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `if youll be kind enough to let me speak, istead of taking the words out o my mouth, I was going to say, Bessy, as its fialking for you to say as youve never asked us to buy anything for you: let me tell you, you ought to ha asked us. Pray, how are you to be purvided for, if your own family dont help you? You must go to the parish, if they didnt. And you ought to know that, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we  for you, istead o saying, and making a boast, as youve never asked us for anything.

    `You talked o the Mosses, and what Mr Tullivers done for em, said Uncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive where advanoney were ed. `Havent they been anear you? They ought to do something, as well as other folks; and if hes lent em mohey ought to be made to pay it back.

    `Yes, to be sure, said Mrs Deane, `Ive been thinking so. How is it Mr and Mrs Moss areo meet us? It is but right they should do their share.

    `O dear! said Mrs Tulliver, `I niver sent em word about Mr Tulliver, and they live so backard among the la Basset, they niver hear anything only when Mr Moss es to market. But I niver gave em a thought. I wgie didnt, though, for she was allays so fond of her aunt Moss.

    `Why dont your children e in, Bessy? said Mrs Pullet, at the mention of Maggie. `They should hear what their aunts and uncles have got to say: - and Maggie - when its me as have paid for half her schooling, she ought to think more of her aunt Pullet nor of aunt Mosses. I may go off sudden when I get home to-day - theres no telling.

    `If Id had my way, said Mrs Glegg, `the children ud habeen in the room from the first. Its time they knew who theyve to look to, and its right as somebody should talk to em, a em know their dition i life, and what theyre e down to, and make em feel as theyve got to suffer for their fathers faults.

    `Well, Ill go ach em, sister, said Mrs Tulliver, resignedly; she was quite crushed now, and thought of the treasures iore-room with no other feeling than blank despair.

    She went upstairs to fet and Maggie, who were both in their fathers room, and was on her way down again, when the sight of the store-room dgested a hought to her. She went towards it ahe children to go down by themselves.

    The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussiohe brother and sister entered - both with shrinkiance; for though Tom with a practical sagacity which had been roused into activity by the strong stimulus of the ions he had undergone since yesterday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which he meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no means amicably towards them and dreaded meeting them all at once, as he would have dreaded a large dose of trated physic which was but just endurable in small draughts. As fgie, she eculiarly depressed this m: she had been called up, after brief rest, at three oclock, and had that strange dreamy weariness whies from watg in a si through the chill hours of early twilight and breaking day - in which the outside day-light life seems to have no importand to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkened chamber. Their entraerrupted the versation. The shaking of hands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle Pullet observed, as Tom approached him--

    `Well, young sir, weve been talking as we should want your pen and ink; you  write rarely now after all your schooling, I should think.

    `Ay, ay, said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind, `we must look to see the good of all this schooling, as your fathers sunk so much money in now.

    `When land is gone and money spent Then learning is most excellent -

    Nows the time, Tom, to let us see the good o your learning. Let us see whether you  do better than I , as have made my fortin without it. But I began wi doing with little, you see: I could live on a basin e and a crust o bread and cheese. But I doubt high living and high learning ull make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me.

    `But he must do it, interposed aunt Glegg, eically, `whether its hard or no. He hasnt got to sider whats hard - he must sider as he isnt to trusten to his friends to keep him in idleness and luxury: hes got to bear the fruits o his fathers misduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what theyre doing for his mother and father, as must be turned out into the streets and go to the workhouse if they didnt help em. And his sister, too, tinued Mrs Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the sehat she was Lucys mother, `She must make up her mind to be humble and work; for therell be no servants to wait on her any more - she must remember that. She must do the work o the house, and she must resped love her aunts, as have done so much for her, and saved their moo leave to their nevvies and nieces.

    Tom was still standing before the table in the tre of the group. There was a heightened colour in his face, and he was very far from looking humbled, but he reparing to say, in a respectful tone, something he had previously meditated, when the door opened and his mother re-entered.

    Poor Mrs Tulliver had in her hands a small tray on which she had placed her silver tea-pot, a spe tea-cup and saucer, the castors, and sugar tongs.

    `See here, sister, she said, looking at Mrs Deane, as she set the tray oable, `I thought, perhaps, if you looked at the tea-pot again - its a good while since you saw it - you might like the patterer: it makes be<code>.99lib.</code>autiful tea, and theres a stand and everything: you might use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucy when she goes to house-keeping. I should be so loth for em to buy it at the Golden Lion, said the poor woman, her heart swelling, and the tears ing, `my tea-pot as I bought when I was married, and to think o its being scratched, a before the travellers and folks - and my letters on it - see here - E. D. - and everybody to see em.

    `Ah, dear, dear! said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with deep sadness, `its very bad - to think o the family initials going about everywhere. It niver was so before: youre a very unlucky sister, Bessy! But whats the use obuying the tea-pot - when theres the linen and spoons and everything to go, and some of em with your full name - and when its got that straight spout too.

    `As to disgrace o the family, said Mrs Glegg, `that t be helped wi buying tea-pots. The disgrace is, for ohe family to ha married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is as theyre to be sold up. We t hihe try from knowing that.

    Maggie had started up from the sofa at the allusion to her father, but Tom saw her a and flushed fa time to prevent her from speaking. `Be quiet, Maggie, he said, authoritatively, pushing her aside. It was a remarkable maion of self-and and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen that when his aunt Glegg ceased he began to speak in a quiet and respectful mahough with a good deal of trembling in his voice, for his mothers words had cut him to the quick.

    `Then aunt, he said, looking straight at Mrs Glegg, `if you think its a disgrace to the family that we should be sold up, wouldnt it be better to prevent it altogether? And if you and my aunt Pullet, he tinued, looking at the latter, `think of leaving any moo me and Maggie, wouldnt it be better to give it noay the debt were going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her furniture?

    There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including Maggie, was asto Toms sudden manliness of tone. Uncle Glegg was the first to speak.

    `Ay, ay, young man - e now! You show some notion othings. But theres the i, you must remember - your aunts get five per t on their money, and theyd lose that, if they adva - you havent thought o that.

    `I could work and pay that every year, said Tom, promptly. `Id do anything to save my mother from parting with her things.

    `Well done! said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been drawing Tom out, rather than refleg on the practicability of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife.

    `Yes, Mr Glegg! said that lady, with angry sarcasm. `Its pleasant work for you to be giving my money away, as youve preteo leave at my own disposial. And my money as was my own fathers gift, and not yours, Mr Glegg, and Ive saved it and added to it myself and had more to put out welly every year, and its to go and be sunk in other folkss furniture, and ence em in luxury aravagance as theyve no means of supp, and Im to alter my will or have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me when I die - me as have allays dht and been careful, and the eldest o the family, and my moo go and be squandered on them as have had the same ce as me, only theyve been wicked and wasteful. Sister Pullet, you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you back again o the money hes given you, but that isnt my sperrit.

    `La, Jane, how fiery you are! said Mrs Pullet. `Im sure youll have the blood in your head, and have to be cupped. Im sorry for Bessy and her children - Im sure I think of em o nights dreadful, for I sleep very bad wi this new medie - but its no use for me to think o doing anything, if you wo me half way.

    `Why, theres this to be sidered, said Mr Glegg. `Its no use to pay off this debt and save the furniture, when theres all the law debts behind, as ud take every shilling and more than could be made out o land and stock, for Ive made that out from Lawyer Gore. Wed need save our moo keep the poor man with, instead o spending it on furniture as he either eat nor drink. You will be so hasty, Jane - as if I didnt know what was reasonable.

    `Then... speak accly... Mr Glegg! said his wife, with slow, loud emphasis, bending her head towards him signifitly.

    Toms tenance had fallen during this versation, and his lip quivered; but he was determined not to give way. He would behave like a man. Maggie, on the trary, after her momentary delight in Toms speech, had relapsed into her state of trembling indignation. Her mother had been standing close by Toms side and had been ging to his arm ever since he had last spoken: Maggie suddenly started up and stood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a young lioness.

    `Why do you e, then, she burst out, `talking, and interfering with us and scolding us, if you doo do anything to help my poor mother - your own sister - if youve no feeling for her when shes in trouble, and wont part with anything, though you would never miss it, to save her from pain. Keep away from us then, and dont e to find fault with my father - he was better than any of you - he was kind - he would have helped you, if you had been in trouble. Tom and I dont ever want to have any of your money, if you wont help my mother. Wed rather not have it! well do without you.

    Maggie, having hurled her defia aunts and uncles in this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, as if she were ready to await all sequences.

    Mrs Tulliver was frightehere was something portentous in this mad outbreak: she did not see how life could go on after it. Tom was vexed; it was no use to talk so. The aunts were silent with surprise for some moments. At length, in a case of aberration such as this, ent preseself as more expedient than any answer.

    `You havehe end o your trouble wi that child, Bessy, said Mrs Pullet; `shes beyond everything for boldness and unthankfulness. Its dreadful. I might ha let alone paying for her schooling, for shes worse nor ever.

    `Its no more than what Ive allays said, followed Mrs Glegg. `Other folks may be surprised, but Im not. Ive said over and ain - years ago Ive said - &quot;Mark my words; that child ull e to no good: there isnt a bit of our family in her.&quot; And as for her having so much schooling, I hought well o that. Id my reasons when I said I wouldnt pay anything towards it.

    `e, e, said Mr Glegg, `lets waste no more time in talking - lets go to business. Tom now, get the pen and ink...

    While Mr Glegg eaking, a tall dark figure was seen hurrying past the window.

    `Why, theres Mrs Moss, said Mrs Tulliver. `The bad news must ha reached her, then. And she went out to open the door, Maggie eagerly following her.

    `Thats fortunate, said Mrs Glegg. `She  agree to the list o things to be bought in. Its but right she should do her share when its her own brother.

    Mrs Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs Tullivers movement as she drew her into the parlour, automatically, without refleg that it was hardly kind to take her among so many persons in the first painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, dark-haired woman was a strong trast to the Dodson sisters as she entered in her shabby dress, with her shawl and bo looking as if they had been hastily huddled on, and with that entire absence of self-sciousness which belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie was ging to her arm, and Mrs Moss seemed to notio one else except Tom, whom she went straight up to and took by the hand.

    `O my dear children, she burst out, `youve no call to think well o me; Im a poor aunt to you, for Im ohem as take all and give nothing. Hows my poor brother?

    `Mr Turnbull thinks hell get better, said Maggie. `Sit down, aunt Gritty. Dont fret.

    `O my sweet child, I feel torn i two, said Mrs Moss, allowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa but still not seeming to notice the presence of the rest. `Weve three hundred pounds o my brothers money, and now he wants it, and you all want it, poor things - a we must be sold up to pay it, and theres my poor childre of em, and the little un of all t speak plain. And I feel as if I was a robber. But Im sure Id no thought as my brother...

    The poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob.

    `Three hundred pound! O dear, dear, said Mrs Tulliver, who, when she had said that her husband had done unknown things for his sister, had not had any particular sum in her mind, a a wifes irritation at having bee in the dark.

    `What madness, to be sure! said Mrs Glegg. `A man with a family! Hed nht to lend his money i that way: and without security, Ill be bound, if the truth was known.

    Mrs Gleggs voice had arrested Mrs Mosss attention, and, looking up, she said,

    `Yes, there was security: my husband gave a note for it. Were not that sort o people, her of us, as ud rob my brothers children, and we looked to paying back the money, wheimes got a bit better.

    `Well, but now, said Mr Glegg, gently, `hasnt your husband no way o raising this money? Because it ud be a little fortin, like, for these folks, if we  do without Tullivers being made a bankrupt. Your husbands got stock: it is but right he should raise the money, as it seems to me - not but what Im sorry for you, Mrs Moss.

    `O sir, you dont know what bad luck my husbands had with his stock - the farms suffering so as never was for want o stock, and weve sold all the wheat, and were behind with our rent... not but what wed like to do whats right, and Id sit up and work half the night, if it ud be any good... but theres them poor children... four of em such little uns...

    `Dont cry so, aunt - dont fret, whispered Maggie, who had kept hold of Mrs Mosss hand.

    `Did Mr Tulliver, let you have the money all at once? said Mrs Tulliver, still lost in the ception of things which had been `going on without her knowledge.

    `No, at twice, said Mrs Moss, rubbing her eyes, and making an effort to restraiears. `The last was after my bad illness, four years ago, as everythi wrong, and there was a new note made then. What with illness and bad luck, Ive been nothing but cumber all my life.

    `Yes, Mrs Moss, said Mrs Glegg, with decision. `Yours is a very unlucky family:- the mores the pity for my sister.

    `I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o what had happened, said Mrs Moss, looking at Mrs Tulliver. `I should never ha staid away all this while, if youd thought well to let me know. And it isnt as Im thinking all about ourselves and nothing about my brother - only the money was so on my mind, I coul<bdo>藏书网</bdo>dnt help speaking about it. And my husband and me desire to do the right thing, sir, she added, looking at Mr Glegg, `and well make shift and pay the money, e what will, if thats all my brot to trust to. Weve beeo trouble, and dont look for much else. Its only the thought o my poor children pulls me i two.

    `Why, theres this to be thought on, Mrs Moss, said Mr Glegg, `and its right to warn you. If Tullivers made a bankrupt, and hes got a note-of-hand of your husbands for three hundred pounds, youll be obliged to pay it: thassignees ull e on you for it.

    `O dear, O dear! said Mrs Tulliver, thinking of the bankruptcy, and not of Mrs Mosss  in it. Poor Mrs Moss herself listened in trembling submission, while Maggie looked with bewildered distress at Tom to see if he showed any signs of uanding this trouble, and g about poor aunt Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful with his eyes oable-cloth.

    `And if he isnt made bankrupt, tinued Mr Glegg, `as I said before, three hundred pounds ud be a little fortin for him, poor man. We dont know but what he may be partly helpless, if he ever gets up again. Im very sorry if it goes hard with you, Mrs Moss - but my opinion is, looking at it one way, itll be right for you to raise the money; and looking at it th other way, youll be obliged to pay it. You wont think ill o me for speaking the truth.

    `Uncle, said Tom, looking up suddenly from his meditative view of the table-cloth, `I dont think it would be right for my aunt Moss to pay the money, if it would be against my fathers will for her to pay it, would it?

    Mr Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before he said, `Why, no, perhaps not, Tom; but then hed hadestroyed the note you know. We must look for the note. What makes you think it ud be against his will?

    `Why, said Tom, c, but trying to speak firmly in spite of a boyish tremor, `I remember quite well, before I went to school to Mr Stelling, my father said to me one night, when we were sitting by the fire together and no one else was in the room...

    Tom hesitated a little, and the on,

    `He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said, `Ive always been good to my sister, though she married against my will; and Ive lent Moss money, but I shall hink of distressing him to pay it: Id rather lose it: my children must not mind being the poorer for that. And now my fathers ill and not able to speak for himself, I shouldnt like anything to be done trary to what he said to me.

    `Well, but then, my boy, said uncle Glegg, whose good feeling led him to enter into Toms wish, but who could not at once shake off his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities or alienating anything important enough to make an appreciable differen a mans property, `we should have to make away wi the note, you know, if were to guard against what may happen, supposing your fathers made bankrupt...

    `Mr Glegg, interrupted his wife, severely. `Mind what youre saying. Youre putting yourself very forrard in other folks business. If you speak rash, dont say it was my fault.

    `Thats such a thing as I never heared of before, said uncle Pullet, who had been making haste with his lozenge, in order to express his amazement, `making away with a note: I should think anybody could set the stable on you for it.

    `Well but, said Mrs Tulliver, `if the notes worth all that money, why t we pay it away and save my things from going away? Weve no call to meddle with your uncle and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your father ud be angry whes well.

    Mrs Tulliver had not studied the question of exge and was straining her mind after inal ideas on the subject.

    `Pooh, pooh, pooh! you women dont uand these things, said uncle Glegg. `Theres no way o making it safe for Mr and Mrs Moss, but destroying the note.

    `Then I hope youll help me to do it, uncle, said Tom, early. `If my father should well, I should be very unhappy to think anything had been done against his will, that I could hinder. And Im sure he meao remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my fathers wish about his property.

    Even Mrs Glegg could not withhold her approval from Toms words: she felt that the Dodson blood was certainly speaking in him, though if his father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wicked alienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on Toms neck, if her aunt Moss had not prevented her by herself rising and taking Toms hand, while she said, with rather a choked voice,

    `Youll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if theres a God above: and if the moneys wanted for your father, Moss and me ull pay it, the same as if there was ever such security. Well do as wed be done by, for if my children have got no other luck, theyve got an ho father and mother.

    `Well, said Mr Glegg, who had beeating after Toms words, `we shouldnt be doing any wrong by the creditors, supposing your father was bankrupt - Ive been thinking o that, for Ive been a creditor myself, and seen no end o cheating - for if he meant to give your aunt the money before ever he got into this sad work o lawing, its the same as if hed m<u></u>ade away with the note himself - for hed made up his mind to be that much poorer. But theres a deal o things to be sidered, young man, Mr Glegg added, looking admonishingly at Tom, `when you e to money business, and you may be taking one mans dinner away to make another mans breakfast. You dont uand that, I doubt?

    `Yes, I do, said Tom, decidedly. `I know if I owe moo one man Ive nht to give it to another. But if my father had made up his mind to give my aunt the money before he was i, he had a right to do it.

    `Well done, young man! I didnt think youd been so sharp, said uncle Glegg, with much dour. `But perhaps your father did make away with the note. Let us go and see if we  find it in the chest.

    `Its in my fathers room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty, whispered Maggie.

 CHAPTER 4

    A Vanishing Gleam

    MR TULLIVER, evewees of spasmodic rigidity which had recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a dition that the exits arances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this m, that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not exp<details></details>ect her father to take any notice of them. They entered very quietly, and Mrs Moss took her seat he head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old pla the bed, and put her hand on her fathers, without causing any ge in his face.

    Mr Glegg and Tom had also ereading softly, and were busy seleg the key of the old oak chest from the bunch whi had brought from his fathers bureau. They succeeded in opening the chest - which stood opposite the foot of Mr Tullivers bed - and propping the lid with the iron holder, without muoise.

    `Theres a tin box, whispered Mr Glegg, `hed most like put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but Ill just lift up these deeds - theyre the deeds o the house and mill, I suppose - and see what there is under em.

    Mr Glegg had lifted out the parts and had fortunately drawn back a little, when the iron have way, and the heavy lid fell with a loud bang that resounded over the house.

    Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effe the frame of the prostrate man, and for the time pletely shook off the obstru of paralysis. The chest had beloo his father and his fathers father, and it had always been rather a solemn busio visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window-fastening or a particular door latch, have sounds which are a sort nised voice to us - a voice that will thrill and awake has beeo touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment when all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the chest, the parts in Mr Gleggs hand, and Tom holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect sciousness and reition.

    `What are you going to do with those deeds? he said, in his ordinary tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. `e here, Tom. What do you do, going to my chest?

    Tom obeyed, with some trembling: it was the first time his father had reised him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father tio look with a growing distiness of suspi at Mr Glegg and the deeds.

    `Whats been happening then? he said, sharply. `What are you meddling with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything?... Why dont you tell me what youve been a-doing? he added, impatiently, as Mr Glegg advao the foot of the bed before speaking.

    `No, no, friend Tulliver, said Mr Glegg, in a soothing tone. `Nobodys getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and see what was in the chest. Youve been ill, you know, and weve had to look after things a bit. But lets hope youll soon be well enough to attend to everythi<var>.99ｌiｂ?</var>ng yourself.

    Mr Tulliver looked round him meditatively - at Tom, at Mr Glegg and at Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by his side at the head of the bed, he turned sharply round and saw his sister.

    `Eh, Gritty! he said in the half-sad, affeate tone in which he had been wont to speak to her, `what, youre there, are you? How could you mao leave the children?

    `O, brother! said good Mrs Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, `Im thankful Im e now to see you yourself again - I thought youd never know us any more.

    `What, have I had a stroke? said Mr Tulliver, anxiously, looking at Mr Glegg.

    `A fall from your horse - shook you a bit - thats all, I think, said Mr Glegg. `But youll soo over it, lets hope.

    Mr Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed clot<strike>.99lib.</strike>hes, and remained silent for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, `You got the letter, then, my wench?

    `Yes, father, she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if her father were e back to her from the dead, and her yearning to show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.

    `Wheres your mother? he said, so preoccupied that he received the kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it.

    `Shes downstairs with my aunts, father: shall I fetch her?

    `Ay, ay: poor Bessy! and his eyes turowards Tom as Maggie left the room.

    `Youll have to take care of em both, if I die, you know, Tom. Youll be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And mind - theres fifty pound o Lukes as I put into the business, he gave it me a bit at a time and hes got nothing to show for it. You must pay him first thing.

    Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more ed than ever, but Tom said firmly,

    `Yes, father. And havent you a note from my uncle Moss for three hundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done about it, father?

    `Ah! Im glad you thought o that my lad, said Mr Tulliver. `I allays meant to be easy about that money, because o your aunt. You mustnt mind losing the money, if they t pay it - and its like enough they t. The notes in that box, mind! I allays meant to be good to you, Gritty, said Mr Tulliver, turning to his sister, `but, you know, you aggravated me when you would have Moss.

    At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother who came in much agitated by the hat her husband was quite himself again.

    `Well, Bessy, he said, as she kissed him, `you must five me if youre worse off than you ever expected to be. But its the fault o the law - its none o mine, he added, angrily. `Its the fault o raskills! Tom - you mind this - if ever youve got the ce, you make Wakem smart. If you dont, youre a good-for-nothing son. You might horsewhip him - but hed set the law on you - the laws made to take care o raskills.

    Mr Tulliver was gettied, and an alarming flush was on his face. Mr Glegg wao say something soothing, but he revented by Mr Tullivers speaking again to his wife. `Theyll make a shift to pay everything, Bessy, he said, `a leave you your furniture; and your sistersll do something for you... and Tomll grow up... though what hes to be I dont know... Ive done what I could... Ive given him a eddication... and theres the little wench, shell get married... but <footer></footer>its a poor tale...

    The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with the last words, the poor man fell again rigid and insensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all present as if it had beeh, not only from its trast with the pleteness of the revival, but because his words had all had refereo <tt>99lib?t>the possibility that his death was near. But with poor Tulliver, death was not to be a leap: it was to be a long dest uhiing shadows.

    Mr Turnbull was sent for, but when he heard what had passed, he said this plete restoration, though only temporary, eful sign, proving that there was no perma lesion to prevent ultimate recovery.

    Among the threads of the past which the stri man had gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale: the flash of memory had only lit up promi ideas, and he sank intetfulness again with half his humiliation unlearned.

    But Tom was clear upon two points - that his uncle Mosss note must be destroyed, and that Lukes money must be paid, if in no other way, out of his own and Maggies money now in the savings bank. There were subjects, you perceive, on whi was much quicker than on the ies of classical stru, or the relations of a mathematical demonstration.

 CHAPTER 5

    Tom Applies His Ko the Oyster

    THE  day, at ten oclock, Tom was on his way to St Oggs, to see his uncle Deane, who was to e home last night, his aunt had said; and Tom had made up his mind that his uncle Deane was the right person to ask for advice about getting some employment. He was in a great way of business; he had not the narrow notions of uncle Glegg; and he had risen in the world on a scale of adva which accorded with Toms ambition. It was a dark, chill, misty m, likely to end in rain - one of those ms when even happy people take refuge in their hopes. And Tom was very unhappy: he felt the humiliation as well as the prospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proud nature; and with all his resolute dutifulowards his father there mingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortuhe less endurable aspect of a wrong. Sihese were the sequences of going to law, his father was really blamable as his aunts and uncles had always said he was; and it was a signifit indication of Toms character, that though he thought his aunts ought to do something more for his mother, he felt nothing like Maggies violement against them for showing no eager tenderness and generosity. There were no impulses in Tom that led him to expect what did not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why should people give away their money plentifully to those who had not taken care of their own moom saw some justi severity - and all the more because he had fiden himself that he should never deserve that just severity. It was very hard upon him that he should be put at this disadvantage in life by his fathers want of prudence, but he was not going to plain and to find fault with people because they did not make everything easy for him. He would ask no oo help him, more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom was not without his hopes to take refuge in uhe chill damp impriso of the December fog which seemed only like a part of his home troubles. At sixteen, the mind that has the stro affinity for fact ot escape illusion and self-flattery and Tom, ig his future had no uide in arranging his facts, than the suggestions of his own brave self-reliance. Both Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, he knew, had been very poor once: he did not want to save money slowly aire on a moderate fortune like his uncle Glegg, but he would be like his uncle Deane - get a situation in some great house of business and rise fast. He had scarcely seen anything of his uncle Deane for the last three years - the two families had beeing wider apart, but for this very reason Tom was the more hopeful about applying to him. His uncle Glegg, he felt sure, would never ence any spirited project, but he had a vague imposing idea of the resources at his uncle Deanes and. He had heard his father say, long ago, how Deane had made himself so valuable to Guest &amp; Co. that they were glad enough to offer him a share in the business: that was what Tom resolved he would do. It was intolerable to think of being poor and looked down upon all ones life. He would provide for his mother and sister, and make every one say that he was a man of high character. He leaped over the years in this way, and in the haste of strong purpose and strong desire, did not see how they would be made up of slow days, hours, and minutes.

    By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the Floss, and was entering St Oggs, he was thinking that he would buy his fathers mill and land again, when he was riough, and improve the house and live there: he should prefer it to any smarter, newer place, and he could keep as many horses and dogs as he liked.

    Walking along the street with a firm, rapid step at this point in his reverie he was startled by some one who had crossed without his notice, and who said to him in a rough, familiar voice,

    `Why, Master Tom, hows your father this m? It ubli of St Oggs - one of his fathers ers.

    Tom disliked being spoken to just then, but he said civilly, `Hes still very ill, thank you.

    `Ay, its been a sore ce for you, young man, hasnt it? - this lawsuit turning out against him, said the publi, with a fused beery idea of being good-natured.

    Tom reddened and passed on: he would have felt it like the handling of a bruise even if there had been the most polite and delicate refereo his position.

    `Thats Tullivers son, said the publi to a grocer standing on the adjat door-step.

    `Ah! said the grocer, `I thought I knew his features, like. He takes after his mothers family: she was a Dodson. Hes a firaight youth: whats he been brought up to?

    `Oh! to turn up his  his fathers ers and be a fileman - not much else, I think.

    Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thh sciousness of the present, made all the greater haste to reach the warehouse offices of Guest &amp; Co. where he expected to find his uncle Deane. But this was Mr Deanes m at the Bank, a clerk told him, with some pt for his ignorance: Mr Deane was not to be found in River Street on a Thursday m.

    At the Bank Tom was admitted into the private room where his uncle was, immediately after sending in his name. Mr Deane was auditing ats, but he looked up as Tom entered and, putting out his hand, said, `Well, Tom - nothing fresh the matter at home, I hope? Hows your father?

    `Much the same, thank you, uncle, said Tom, feeling nervous. `But I want to speak to you, please, when youre at liberty.

    `Sit down, sit down, said Mr Deane, relapsing into his ats, in which he and the managing clerk remained so absorbed for the  half hour that Tom began to wonder whether he should have to sit in this way till the bank closed - there seemed so little tendency towards a clusion in the quiet monotonous procedure of these sleek, prosperous men of business. Would his uncle give him a pla the bank? it would be very dull, prosy work, he thought writing there, forever, to the loud tig of a time-piece. He preferred some other way of getting rich. But at last there was a ge: his uook a pen and wrote something with a flourish at the end.

    `Youll just step up to Torrys now, Mr Spence, will you? said Mr Deane, and the clock suddenly became less loud and deliberate in Toms ears.

    `Well, Tom, said Mr Deane, when they were alourning his substantial person a little in his chair, and taking out his snuff-box, `whats the business, my boy, whats the business? Mr Deane, who had heard from his wife what had passed the day before, thought Tom was e to appeal to him for some means of averting the sale.

    `I hope youll excuse me for troubling you, uncle, said Tom, c, but speaking in a tone which, though tremulous, had a certain proud independen it, `but I thought you were the best person to advise me what to do.

    `Ah? said Mr Deane, reserving his pinch of snuff, and looking at Tom with tention. `Let us hear.

    `I want to get a situation, uncle, so that I may earn some money, said Tom, who never fell into circumlocution.

    `A situation? said Mr Deane, and then took his pinch of snuff with elaborate justice to eaostril. Tom thought snuff-taking a most provoking habit.

    `Why, let me see, how old are you? said Mr Deane, as he threw himself backward again.

    `Sixteen - I mean, I am going ieen, said Tom, hoping his uiced how much beard he had.

    `Let me see - your father had some notion of making you an engineer, I think?

    `But I dont think I could get any mo that for a long while, could I?

    `Thats true: but people do much mo anything, my boy, when theyre only sixteen. Youve had a good deal of schooling, however: I<abbr>九九藏书</abbr> suppose youre pretty well up in ats, eh? You uand book-keeping?

    `No, said Tom, rather falteringly. `I was in fras. But Mr Stelling says I write a good hand, uhats my writing, added Tom, laying oable a copy of the list he had made yesterday.

    `Ah! Thats good, thats good. But, you see, the best hand in the worldll not get you a better place than a copying clerks, if you know nothing of book-keeping - nothing of ats. And a copying clerks a cheap article. But what have you been learning at school, then?

    Mr Deane had not occupied himself with methods of education, and had no precise ception of what went forward in expensive schools.

    `We learned Latin, said Tom, pausing a little between each item, as if he were turning over the books in his school-desk to assist his memory, `a good deal of Latin; and the last year I did Themes, one week in Latin and one in English; and Greek and Roman History; and Euclid; and I began Algebra, but I felt it off again; and we had one day every week for Arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing lessons; and there were several other books we either read or learned out of, English Poetry, and Horae Paulinae, and Blairs Rhetoric, the last Half.

    Mr Deaapped his snuff-box again and screwed up his mouth: he felt in the position of maimable persons when they had read the ariff and found how many odities were imported of which they knew nothing: like a cautious man of business, he was not going to speak rashly of a raw material in which he had had no experience. But the presumption was, that if it had been good for anything, so successful a man as himself would hardly have been ignorant of it. About Latin he had an opinion, and thought that in case of another war, since people would no longer wear hair powder, it would be well to put a tax upon Latin as luxury much run upon by the higher classes and not telling at all on the ship-owiment. But, for what he khe Horae Paulinae might be something less ral. On the whole, this list of acquirements gave him a sort of repulsion towards poor Tom.

    `Well, he said, at last, in rather a cold, sardonie, `youve had three years at these things - you must be pretty strong in em. Hadnt you better take up some line where theyll e in handy?

    Tom coloured and burst out, with new energy,

    `Id rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. I dont like Latin and those things. I dont know what I could do with them unless I went as usher in a school; and I dont know them well enough for that: besides, I would as soon carry a pair of panniers. I dont want to be that sort of person. I should like to enter into some business where I  get on - a manly business, where I should have to look after things a credit for what I did. And I shall want to keep my mother and sister.

    `Ah, youleman, said Mr Deane, with that tendency to repress youthful hopes which stout and successful men of fifty find one of their easiest duties, `thats sooner said than done - sooner said than done.

    `But didnt you get on in that way, uncle? said Tom, a little irritated that Mr Deane did er more rapidly into his views. `I mean, didnt you rise from one place to ahrough your abilities and good duct?

    `Ay, ay, sir, said Mr Deane, spreading himself in his chair a little, aering with great readiness into a retrospect of his own career. `But Ill tell you how I got on: it wasnt by getting astride a stid thinking it would turn into a horse if I sat on it long enough. I kept my eyes and ears open, sir, and I wasnt too fond of my own back, and I made my masters i my own. Why, with only looking into what went on in the mill, I found out how there was a waste of five hundred a year that might be hindered. Why, sir, I hadnt more schooling to begin with than a charity boy but I saw pretty soon that I could on far without mastering ats, and I learned em between w hours, after Id been unlading. Look here-- Mr Deane opened a book, and poio the page - `I write a good hand enough, and Ill matybody at all sorts of reing by the head, and I got it all b<samp>99lib.</samp>y hard work, and paid for it out of my own earnings - often out of my own dinner and supper. And I looked into the nature of all the things we had to do with in the business, and picked up knowledge as I went about my work, and tur over in my head. Why, Im no meic - I never preteo be, but Ive thought of a thing or two that the meiever thought of, and its made a fine differen our returns. And there isnt an article shipped or unshipped at our wharf but I know the quality of it. If I got places, sir, it was because I made myself fit for em. If you want to slip into a round hole, you must make a ball of yourself - thats where it is.

    Mr Deaapped his box again. He had been led on by pure enthusiasm in his subjed had really fotten what bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener. He had found occasion for saying the same thing more than once before, and was not distinctly aware that he had not his port wine before him.

    `Well, uncle, said Tom, with a slight plaint in his tohats what I should like to do. t I get on in the same way?

    `In the same way? said Mr Deane, eyeing Tom with quiet deliberation. `There go two or three questions to that, Master Tom. That depends on what sort of article you are to begin with, and whether youve been put into the right mill. But Ill tell you what it is. Your poor father went the wrong way to work in giving you an education. It wasnt my business, and I didnt interfere: but it is as I thought it would be - youve had a sort of learning thats all very well for a young fellow like our Mr Stephe, wholl have nothing to do but sign cheques all his life, and may as well have Latin inside his head as any other sort of stuffing.

    `But uncle, said Tom early, `I dont see why the Latin need hinder me from getting on in business: I shall soon fet it all - it makes no differeo me. I had to do my lessons at school; but I always thought theyd never be of any use to me afterwards - I didnt care about them.

    `Ay, ay, thats all very well, said Mr Deane, `but it doesnt alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and rigmarole may soon dry off you, but youll be but a bare stick, after that. Besides its whitened your hands and taken the rough work out of you. And what do you know? Why, you know nothing about book-keeping to begin with, and not so much of reing as a on shopman. Youll have to begin at a low round of the ladder, let me tell you, if you mean to get on in life. Its no use fetting the education your fathers been paying for, if you dont give yourself a new un.

    Tom bit his lips hard; he felt as if the tears were rising, and he would rather die thahem.

    `You wao help you to a situation, Mr Dea on, `well, Ive no fault to find with that: Im willing to do something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think youre to begin with living well and w easy - youve no notion of running afoot, before you get on horsebaow, you must remember what you are - youre a lad of sixteen, traio nothing particular. Theres heaps of your sort, like so many pebbles made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might be appreo some business - a chemists and druggists, perhaps: your Latin might e in a bit there...

    Tom was going to speak, but Mr Dea up his hand and said--

    `Stop! hear what Ive got to say. You dont want to be a prentice - I know, I know - you want to make more haste - and you dont want to stand behind a ter. But if youre a copying clerk youll have to stand behind a desk, and stare at your ink and paper all day: there isnt much outlook there, and you wont be much wiser at the end of the year than at the beginning. The world isnt made of pen, ink and paper, and if youre to get on in the world, young man, you must know what the worlds made of. Now the best ce for you ud be to have a pla a wharf or in a warehouse, where youd learn the smell of things - but you wouldnt like that, Ill be bound: youd have to stand cold a and be shouldered about by rough fellows. Youre too fine a gentleman for that.

    Mr Deane paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly felt some inward struggle before he could reply.

    `I would rather do what will be best for me in the end, Sir: I would put up with what was disagreeable.<abbr>99lib.</abbr>

    `Thats well, if you  carry it out. But you must remember, it isnt only laying hold of a rope - you must go on pulling. Its the mistake you lads make that have got nothiher in your brains or your pocket, to think youve got a better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place where you  keep your coats  and have the shopweake you for filemen. That wasnt the way I started, young man: when I was sixteen my jacket smelt of tar, and I wasnt afraid of handling cheeses. Thats the reason I  wear good broadcloth now, and have my legs uhe same table with the heads of the best firms in St Oggs.

    Uncle Deaapped his box, and seemed to expand a little under his waistcoat and gold , as he squared his shoulders in the chair.

    `Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, uh<mark>9９liｂ?</mark>at I should do for? I should like to set to work at once, said Tom, with a slight tremor in his voice.

    `Stop a bit, stop a bit: we mustnt be in too great a hurry. You must bear in mind, if I put you in a place youre a bit young for, because you happen to be my nephew, I shall be responsible for you. And theres er reason, you know, than your being my nephew; because it remains to be seeher yood for anything.

    `I hope I should never do you any discredit, uncle, said Tom, hurt, as all boys are at the statement of the unpleasant truth that people feel no ground for trusting them. `I care about my ow too much for that.

    `Well doom, well dohats the right spirit, and I never refuse to help anybody, if theyve a mind to do themselves justice. Theres a young man of two-and-twenty Ive got my eye on now - I shall do what I  for that young man - hes got some pith in him. But then you see hes made good use of his time - a first-rate calculator -  tell you the cubitents of anything in no time, and put me up the other day to a new market for Swedish bark; hes unonly knowing in manufactures, that young fellow.

    `Id better set about learning book-keeping, hadnt I, uncle? said Tom, anxious to prove his readio exert himself.

    `Yes, yes, you t do amiss there. But... ah, Spence, youre back again. Well, Tom, theres nothing more to be said just now, I think, and I must go to business again. Goodby. Remember me to your mother.

    Mr Dea out his hand, with an air of friendly dismissal, and Tom had not ce to ask another question, especially in the presenr Spence. So he went out again into the cold damp air. He had to call at his uncle Gleggs about the money in the Savings Bank, and by the time he set out again, the mist had thied and he could not see very far before him, but going along River Street again, he was startled when he was within two yards of the projeg side of a shop-window, by the words `Dorlill in large letters on a hand-bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was the catalogue of the sale to take place the  week - it was a reason for hurrying faster out of the town.

    Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made his way homeward; he only felt that the present was very hard. It seemed a wrong towards him that his uncle Deane had no fiden him - did not see at ohat he should acquit himself well, whi himself was as certain of as of the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, was likely to be held of small at in the world, and for the first time he felt a sinking of heart uhe sehat he really was very ignorant and could do very little. Who was that enviable young man, that could tell the cubitents of things in no time, and make suggestions about Swedish bark? Swedish bark! Tom had beeo be so entirely satisfied with himself in spite of his breaking down in a demonstration and struing nunc illas promite vires, as `now promise those men: but now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage, because he knew less than some one else khere must be a world of things ected with that Swedish bark, which, if he only khem, might have helped him to get on. It would have been much easier to make a figure with a spirited horse and a new saddle.

    Two ho, as Tom was walking to St Oggs, he saw the distant future before him, as he might have seen a tempting stretooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles: he was on the grassy bank then, and thought the shingles might soon be passed. But now his feet were on the sharp stohe belt of shingles had widened, and the stretch of sand had dwindled into narrowness.

    `What did my uncle Deane say, Tom? said Maggie, putting her arm through Toms as he was warming himself rather drearily by the kit fire. `Did he say he would give you a situation?

    `No, he didnt say that. He didnt quite promise me anything: he seemed to think I couldnt have a very good situation. Im too young.

    `But didnt he speak kindly, Tom?

    `Kindly? Pooh! whats the use of talking about that? I wouldnt care about his speaking kindly if I could get a situation. But its such a nuisand bother - Ive been at school all this while learning Latin and things - not a bit of good to me - and now my uncle says, I must set about learning book-keeping and calculation and those things. He seems to make out Im good for nothing.

    Toms mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked at the fire.

    `O what a pity we havent got Dominie Sampson, said Maggie, who couldnt help mingling some gaiety with their sadness. `If he had taught me book-keeping by double entry and after the Italiahod, as he did Lucy Bertram, I could teach you, Tom.

    `You teach! Yes, I daresay. Thats always the tone you take, said Tom.

    `Dear Tom! I was only joking, said Maggie, putting her cheek against his coat sleeve.

    `But its always the same, Maggie, said Tom, with the little frow on when he was about to be justifiably severe. `Youre always setting yourself up above me and every one else. And Ive wao tell you about it several times. You ought not to have spoken as you did to my uncles and aunts - you should leave it to me to take care of my mother and you, and not put yourself forward. You think you know better than any one, but youre almost always wrong. I  judge much better than you .

    Poor Tom! he had just e from beiured and made to feel his inferiority: the rea of his strong, self-asserting nature must take plaehow, and here was a case in which he could justly show himself dominant. Maggies cheek flushed and her lip quivered with flig rese and affe and a certain awe as well as admiration of Toms firmer and more effective character. She did not answer immediately; very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven back again, and she said at last,

    `You often think Im ceited, Tom, when I dont mean what I say at all in that way. I doo put myself above you - I know you behaved better than I did yesterday. But you are always so harsh to me, Tom.

    With the last words the rese was rising again.

    `No, Im not harsh, said Tom, with severe decision. `Im always kind to you; and so I shall be: I shall always take care of you. But you must mind what I say.

    Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that her burst of tears, which she felt must e, might not happen till she was safe upstairs. They were very bitter tears: everybody in the world seemed so hard and unkind to Maggie: there was no indulgeno fondness, such as she imagined when she fashiohe world afresh in her own thoughts. In books there were people who were always agreeable or tender, and delighted to do things that made one happy, and who did not show their kindness by finding fault. The world outside the books was not a happy one, Maggie felt: it seemed to be a world where people behaved the best to those they did not pretend to love and that did not belong to them. And if life had no love in it, what else was there fgie? Nothing but poverty and the panionship of her mothers narrow griefs - perhaps of her fathers heart-cutting childish dependehere is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, no superadded life in the life of others; though we who look on think lightly of such premature despair, as if our vision of the future lightehe blind sufferers present.

    Maggie in her brown frock with her eyes reddened and her heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed where her father lay, to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the tre of her world, was a creature full of eager, passionate longings for all that was beautiful and glad: thirsty for all knowledge: with an ear straining after dreamy music that died away and would not e o her: with a blind, unscious yearning for something that would link together the wonderful impressions of this mysterious life and give her soul a sense of home in it.

    No wonder, when there is this trast betweeward and the inward, that painful collisions e of it. A girl of no startling appearance, and who will never be a Sappho or <code>.９9ｌｉｂ?</code>a Madame Roland or anything else that the world takes wide note of, may still hold forces within her as the living plant-seed does, which will make a way for themselves, often in a shattering, violent manner.

 CHAPTER 6

    Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a Pocket-Knife

    IN that dark time of December the sale of the household furniture lasted beyond the middle of the sed day. Mr Tulliver, who had begun, in his intervals of sciousness, to <footer></footer>ma an irritability which often appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this livih throughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came o his chamber. Mr Turnbull had decided that it would be a less risk to let him remain where he was, than to move him to Lukes cottage, a plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs Tulliver, thinking it would be very bad if the master were `to waken up at the noise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat imprisoned in the silent chamber, watg the large prostrate figure on the bed, and tremblihe blank face should suddenly show some respoo the sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painful repetition. But it was over at last - that time of importunate certainty and eye-straining suspehe sharp sound of a voice almost as metallic as the rap that followed it had ceased; the tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs Tullivers blond face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty hours: the poor womans mind had been busy divining when her favourite things were being knocked down by the terrible hammer, her heart had been fluttering at the thought that first ohing and then another had goo be identified as hers ieful publicity of the Golden Lion; and all the while she had to sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such things bring lines in well-rounded faces, and broadereaks of white among the hairs that once looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already at three oclock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-tempered housemaid, wharded all people that came to the sale as her personal ehe dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly vile quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted by a tinual low muttering against `folks as came to buy up other folkss things, and made light of `scrazing the tops of mahogany tables over which better folks than themselves had had to - suffer a waste of tissue through evaporation. She was not scrubbing indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the same atrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch away their purchases: but she was bent ing the parlour, where that `pipe-smoking pig the bailiff had sat, to su appearance of st fort as could be given to it by liness and the few articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and the young folks should have their tea in it that night, Kezia was determined.

    It was between five and six ocloear the usual teatime, when she came up-stairs and said that Master Tom was wahe person who wanted him was i, and in the first moments, by the imperfect fire and dlelight Tom had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintah the rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him with a pair of blue eyes set in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly red locks with a strong iion of respect. A low-ed oilskin-covered hat and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest of the e, as of tables prepared for writing upon, suggested a calling that had to do with boats, but this did not help Toms memory.

    `Sarvant, Mr Tom, said he of the red locks, with a smile which seemed to break through a self-imposed air of melancholy. `You don know me again, I doubt, he went on, as Tom tio look at him inquiringly, `but Id like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please.

    `Theres a fire i the parlour, Mr Tom, said Kezia, who objected to leaving the kit in the crises of toasting.

    `e this way, then, said Tom, w if this young fellow beloo Guest &amp; Co.s Wharf; for his imagination ran tinually towards that particular spot, and uncle Deane might any time be sending for him to say that there was a situation at liberty.

    The bright fire in the parlour was the only light that showed the few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor and the oable - no, not the oable: there was a sed table in a er, with a larg<kbd>?99lｉｂ?</kbd>e Bible and a few other books upon it. It was this range barehat Tom felt first, before he thought of looking again at the face which was also lit up by the fire, and which stole a half-shy, questioning gla him as the entirely strange voice said--

    `Why! you dont remember Bob, then, as you gen the pocket knife, Mr Tom?

    The rough-handled pocket knife was taken out in the same moment and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible demonstration.

    `What! Bob Jakin? said Tom - not with any cordial delight, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy symbolised by the pocket-knife, and was not at all sure that Bobs motives for recalling it were entirely admirable.

    `Ay, ay, Bob Jakin - if Jakin it must be, cause theres so many Bobs as you went arter the squerrils with, that day as I plumped right down from the bough, and bruised my shins a good un - but I got the squerril tight for all that, an a scratter it war. An this littlish blades broke, you see, but I wouldnt hev a new un put in, cause they might be cheatin me an givin me another kid, for there isnt such a blade i the try - its got used to my hand, like. An there was niver nobody else gehin but what I got by my own sharpness, only you, Mr Tom; if it wasnt Bill Fawks as gen <samp>九九藏书</samp>me the terrier pup istid o drowndin it, and I had to jaw him a good un afore hed give it me.

    Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got through his long speech with surprisich, giving the blade of his knife an affeate rub on his sleeve when he had finished.

    `Well, Bob, said Tom, with a slight air of patrohe foing reminisces having disposed him to be as friendly as was being, though there was no part of his acquaintah Bob that he remembered better than the cause of their parting quarrel, `is there anything I  do for you?

    `Why, no, Mr Tom, answered Bob, shutting up his kh a clid returning it to his pocket, where he seemed to be feeling for something else. `I shouldnt ha e back upon you now youre i trouble an folks say as the master, as I used thten the birds for, an he flogged me a bit for fun wheched me eatiurnip, as they say hell niver lift up his yead no more - I shouldnt ha e now to ax you to gi me another knife cause you gen me one afore. If a chap gives me one black eye, thats enough for me: I shant ax him for another afore I sarve him out: an a good turns worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. I shall niver grow downards again, Mr Tom, an you war the little chap as I liked the best when I war a little chap, for all you leathered me, and wouldnt look at me again. Theres Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as much as Id a mind: but lors! you get tried o leatherin a chap when you iver make him see what you want him to shy at. In seen chaps as ud stand starin at a bough till their eyes shot out, afore theyd see as a birds tail warnt a leaf. Its poor woin wi such raff - but you war allays a rare un at shying, Mr Tom, an I could trusten you for droppin down wi your sti the nie at a runninrot, or a stoat, or that, when I war a-beatin the bushes.

    Bob had drawn out a dirty vas bag, and would perhaps not have paused just then, if Maggie had ered the room and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locks again with due respect. But the  moment the sense of the altered room came upon Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought of Bobs presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where the bookcase had hung; there was nothing now but the oblong unfaded spa the wall, and below it the small table with the Bible and the few other books.

    `O Tom, she burst out, clasping her hands, `where are the books? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy them - didnt he? - are those all theyve left us?

    `I suppose so, said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. `Why should they buy many books when they bought so little furniture?

    `O but, Tom, said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. `Our dear old Pilgrims Progress that you coloured with your little paints, and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, looking just like a turtle - O dear! Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over the few books. `I thought we should never part with that while we lived - everything is going away from us - the end of our lives will have nothing in it like the beginning!

    Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks - quite blio the presen<bdo></bdo>ce of Bob, who was looking at her with the pursuant gaze of an intelligent dumb animal, with perceptions more perfect than his prehension.

    `Well, Bob, said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books was unseasonable, `I suppose you just came to see me because were in trouble? That was very good natured of you.

    `Ill tell you how it is, Master Tom, said Bob, beginning to untwist his vas bag. `You see, In been with a barge this two ear - thats how In beein my livin - if it wasnt when I was tentin the furween whiles at Torrys mill. But a fortnit ago Id a rare bit o luck - I allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niver set a trap but what I catched sothing - but this wasnt a trap, it was a fire i Torrys mill, an I doused it, else it ud ha set th oil alight, an the genelman geen suvreigns - he gen me em himself last week. An he said first, I errited chap - but I khat afore - but thes wi the ten suvreigns, an that war summat new. Here they are - all but one! Here Bob emptied the vas bag oable. `An when Id got em, my head was all of a boil like a kettle o broth, thinkin what sort o life I should take to - for there war a many trades Id thought on, for as for the barge Im  tired out wit, for it pulls the days out till theyre as long as pigs chitterlings. An I thought first Id haferrets an dogs an be a rotketcher an then I thought as I should like a bigger way o life, as I didnt know so well; for Io the bottom o rotketg; an I thought anthought till at last I settled Id be a pa, for theyre knowin fellers, the pa are - an Id carry the lightest things I could i my pack - an thered <strike></strike>be a use for a fellers tongue, as is no use, her wi rots nor barges. An I should go about the try far an wide, an e round the women wi my tongue, a my dinner hot at the public - lors, it ud be a lovely life!

    Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if resolutely turning his ba that paradisaic picture--

    `But I dont mind about it, not a chip! An In ged ohe suvreigns to buy my moose for dinner, an In bought a blue plush wescoat an a sealskin cap - for if I meant to be a pa, Id do it respectable. But I dont mind about it - not a chip! My yead isnt turnup, an I shall praps have a ce o dousing another fire before long - Im a lucky chap. So Ill thank you to take the nine suvreigns, Mr Tom, a yoursen up with em somehow, if its true as the masters broke. They maynt go fur enough - but theyll help.

    Tom was touched keenly enough tet his pride and suspi.

    `Youre a very kind fellow, Bob, he said c, with that little, diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain charm even to Toms pride and severity, `and I shant fet you again, though I didnt know you this evening. But I t take the nine sns: I should be taking your little fortune from you, and they wouldnt do me much good either.

    `Wouldnt they, Mr Tom? said Bretfully. `Now dont say so cause you think I want em. I arent a poor chap: my mets a good pennorth wi pig feathers an things, an if she eats nothin but bread an water it runs to fat: an Im such a lucky chap - an I doubt you arent quite so lucky Mr Tom - th old master isnt, anyhow - anso you might take a sliy luck, an no harm done. Lors! I found a leg o port i the river one day - it had tumbled out o ohem round-sterned Dut, Ill be bound. e, thier on it, Mr Tom, for old quiance sake - else I shall think you bear me a grudge.

    Bob pushed the sns forward, but before Tom could speak, Maggie, clasping her hands and lookiently at Bob, said,

    `O, Im sorry, Bob - I hought you were so good. Why, I think youre the ki person in the world!

    Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie erf an inward act of penitence, but he smiled with pleasure at this handsome eulogy, especially from a young lass who, as he informed his mother that evening, had `suohey looked somehow as they made him feel nohow.

    `No, indeed, Bob, I t take them, said Tom, `but dont think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I dont want to take anything from anybody, but to work my own way. And those sns wouldnt help me much - they wouldnt really - if I were to take them. Let me shake hands with you instead.

    Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his hard, grimy hand within it.

    `Let me put the sns in the bag again, said Maggie, `and youll e and see us when youve bought your pack, Bob.

    `Its like as if Id e out o make-believe, o purpose to show em you, said Bob, with an air of distent as Maggie gave him the bag again `a-taking em back i this way. I am a bit of a Do, you know, but it isnt that sort o Do: its ony when a fellers a big rogue or a big flat, I like to let him in a bit, thats all.

    `Now, dont you be up to any tricks Bob, said Tom, `else youll get transported some day.

    `No, no; not me Master Tom, said Bob, with an air of cheerful fideheres no law again flea-bites. If I wasnt to take a fool in now and then, hed niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev a suvreign to buy you and Miss summat, ony for a token - just to match my pocket knife.

    While Bob eaking he laid down the sn and resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the gold, and said, `No, indeed, Bob: thank you heartily; but I t take it. And Maggie, taking it between her fingers, held it up to Bob, and said more persuasively,

    `Not now - but perhaps aime. If ever Tom or my father wants help that you  give, well let you know - woom? Thats what you would like - to have us always depend on you as a friend that we  go to - isnt it, Bob?

    `Yes, Miss, and thank you, said Bob, relutly taking the money, `thats what Id like - anything as you like. AnI wish you good-by, Miss, and good luck, Master Tom, and thank you for shaking hands wi me, though you wouldnt take the money.

    Kezias entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she shouldnt bring in tea now, or whether the toast was to get hardeo a brick, was a seasonable che Bobs flux of words, and hastened his parting bow.

 CHAPTER 7

    How a Hen Takes Tem

    THE days passed, and Mr Tulliver showed, at least to the eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of<cite></cite> a gradual return to his normal dition: the paralytic obstru was, little by little, losing its tenacity, and the mind was rising from u with fitful struggles, like a living creature making its way from under a great snowdrift that slides and slides again, and shuts up the newly made opening. Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by the bed, if it had only been measured by the doubtful distant hope which kept t of the moments within the chamber: but it was measured for them by a fast-approag dread which made the nights e too quickly. While Mr Tulliver was slowly being himself again, his lot was hastening towards its moment of most palpable ge. The taxing-masters had doheir work like any respectable gunsmith stiously preparing the musket that, duly pointed by a brave arm, will spoil a life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in cery, decrees of sale, are legal -shot or bomb-shells that ever hit a solitary mark but must fall with widespread shattering. So deeply i is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each others sins, so iably diffusive is human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we  ceive ribution that does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of ued pain.

    By the beginning of the sed week in January the bills were out advertising the sale, under a decree of cery, of Mr Tullivers farming and other stock to be followed by a sale of the mill and land held in the proper after-dinner hour at the Golden Lion. The miller himself, unaware of the lapse of time, fancied himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes when expedients might be thought of; and often in his scious hours talked in a feeble, disjointed manner, of plans he would carry out when he `got well. The wife and children were not without hope of an issue that would at least save Mr Tulliver from leaving the old spot and seeking airely strange life. For uncle Deane had been io i himself in this stage of the business. It would not, he aowledged, be a bad speculation fuest and Co. to buy Dorlill and carry on the business, which was a good one, and might be inc<kbd>九九藏书</kbd>reased by the addition of steam power: in which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still Mr Deane would say nothing decided about the matter: the fact that Wakem held the me on the land might put in into his head to bid for the whole estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm of Guest and Co. who did not carry on business oimental grounds. Mr Deane was obliged to tell Mrs Tulliver something to that effect, when he rode over to the mill to ihe books in pany with Mrs Glegg: for she had observed that `if Guest and Co. would only think about it, Mr Tullivers father and grandfather had been carrying on Dorlill long before the oil-mill of that firm had been so much as thought of. Mr Deane, in reply, doubted whether that recisely the relatioweewo mills which would determiheir value as iments. As for uncle Glegg, the thing lay quite beyond his imagination: the goodnatured ma siy for the Tulliver family, but his money was all locked up in excellent mes and he could run no risk: that would be unfair to his owives: but he had made up his mind that Tulliver should have some new flannel waistcoats which he had himself renounced in favour of a more elastiodity, and that he would buy Mrs Tulliver a pound of tea now and then: it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted in beforehand, to carry the tea and see her pleasure on being assured it was the best black.

    Still, it was clear that Mr Deane was kindly disposed towards the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was e home for the Christmas holidays, and the little blond angel-head had pressed itself against Maggies darker cheek with many kisses and some tears. These fair slim daughters keep up a tender spot in the heart of many a respectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps Lucys anxious pitying questions about her poor cousins helped to make uncle Deane more prompt in finding Tom a temporary pla the warehouse, and in putting him in the way of getting evening lessons in book-keeping and calculation.

    That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if there had not e at the same time the much-dreaded blow of finding that his father must be a bankrupt, after all: - at least, the creditors must be asked to take less than their due, whis unteical mind was the same thing as bankruptcy. His father must not only be said to have `lost his property, but to have `failed - the word that carried the worst obloquy to Toms mind. For when the defendants claim for costs had been satisfied, there would remain the friendly bill ore, and the deficy at the bank as well as the other debts, which would make the assets shrink into unequivocal disproportion: `not more than ten or twelve shillings in the pound, predicted Mr Deane, in a decided toightening his lips; and the words fell on Tom like a scalding liquid, leaving a tinual smart.

    He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits a little in the unpleasant newness of his position - suddenly transported from the easy carpeted ennui of study-hours at Mr Stellings, and the busy idleness of castle-building in a `last half at school, to the panionship of sacks and hides, and bawlihundering down heavy weights at his elbow. The first step tetting on in the world was a chill, dusty, noisy affair, and implied going without oea in order to stay in St Oggs and have an evening lesson from a one-armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of bad tobacco. Toms young pink and white face had its colours very much deadened by the time he took off his hat at home and sat down with keen huo his supper. No wonder he was a little cross if his mother gie spoke to him.

    But all this while, Mrs Tulliver was brooding over a scheme by which she and no one else, would avert the result most to be dreaded, and prevent Wakem from eaining the purpose of bidding for the mill. Imagiruly respectable and amiable hen, by some portentous anomaly, taking to refle and iing binations by which she might prevail on Hodge not t her neck or send her and her chicks to market: the result could hardly be other than much cag and fluttering. Mrs Tulliver, seeing that everything had gone wrong, had begun to think that she had been too passive in life, and that, if she had applied her mind to business, and taken a strong resolution now and then, it would have been all the better for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought of going to speak to Wakem on this business of the mill, a, Mrs Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the shortest method of seg the right end. It would have been of no use, to be sure, for Mr Tulliver to go - even if he had been able and willing - for he had been `going to law against Wakem and abusing him for the last ten years; Wakem was always likely to have a spite against him. And now that Mrs Tulliver had e to the clusion that her husband was very mu the wrong t her into this trouble, she was ined to think that his opinion of Wakem was wrong too. To be sure, Wakem had `put the bailies in the house and sold them up, but she supposed he did that to please the man that lent Mr Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks to please than one, and he wasnt likely to put Mr Tulliver who had goo law with him above everybody else in the world. The attorney might be a very reasonable man - why not? - He had married a Miss t, and at the time Mrs Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summer when she wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts of Mr Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. Aainly towards herself - whom he ko have been a Miss Dodson - it was out of all possibility that he could eain anything but good will, when it was once brought home to his observation that she, for her part, had never wao go to law, and indeed<bdi>藏书网</bdi> resent disposed to take Mr Wakems view of all subjects rather than her husbands. In fact, if that attorney saw a respectable matron like herself disposed `to give him good words why shouldnt he listen to her representations? For she would put the matter clearly before him which had never been do. And he would never go and bid for the mill on purpose to spite her, an i woman, who thought it likely enough that she had danced with him in their youth at Squire Darleighs, for at those big dances she had often and often danced with young men whose names she had fotten.

    Mrs Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom; for when she had thrown out a hint to Mr Deane and Mr Glegg, that she wouldnt mind going to speak to Wakem herself, they had said, `No, no, no, and `Pooh, pooh, and `Let Wakem alone, ione of men who were not likely to give a did attention to a more definite exposition of her project. Still less dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for `the children were always so against everything their mother said, and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakem as his father was. But this unusual tration of thought naturally gave Mrs Tulliver an unusual power of devid determination, and a day or two before the sale to be held at the Golden Lion, when there was no longer any time to be lost she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles iion - a large stock of pickles achup which Mrs Tulliver possessed and which Mr Hyndmarsh the grocer would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St Oggs that m: and when Ted that she might let the pickles be, at present - he didnt like her to go about just yet - she appeared so hurt at this du her son, tradig her about pickles which she had made after the family receipts ied from his own grandmother who had died when his mother was a little girl, that he gave way, and they walked together until she turowards Danish Street, where Mr Hyndmarsh retailed his grocery, not far from the offir Wakem.

    That gentleman was not yet e to his office: would Mrs Tulliver sit down by the fire in his private room and wait for him? She had not long to wait before the punctual attorered, knitting his brow with an examining gla the stout blond woman who rose, curtsying deferentially: - a tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundant iron-grey hair. You have never seen Mr Wakem before, and are possibly w whether he was really as emi a rascal and as crafty, bitter an enemy of ho humanity in general and of Mr Tulliver in particular, as he is represeo be in that eidolon or portrait of him which we have seen to exist in the millers mind.

    It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret any ce shot that grazed him as an attempt on his own life, and was liable to entas in this puzzling world which, due sideration had to his own infallibility, require<strike>.9９liｂ?</strike>d the hypothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them. It is still possible to believe that the attorney was not muilty towards him, than an ingenious mae which performs its work with much regularity is guilty towards the rash man who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some fly-wheel or other, and suddenly verted into ued sausages.

    But it is really impossible to decide this question by a gla his person: the lines and lights of the human tenance are like other symbols - not always easy to read without a key. On an a priori view of Wakems aquiline nose which offended Mr Tulliver there was not more rascality than in the shape of his stiff shirt collar, though this too, along with his nose, might have bee fraught with damnatory meaning when ohe rascality was ascertained.

    `Mrs Tulliver, I think? said Mr Wakem.

    `Yes, sir, Miss Elizabeth Dodson as was.

    `Pray be seated. You have some business with me?

    `Well, sir, yes, said Mrs Tulliver, beginning to feel alarmed at her own ce now she was really in presence of the formidable man, and refleg that she had not settled with herself how she should begin. Mr Wakem felt in his waistcoat pockets and looked at her in silence.

    `I hope, sir, she began at last, `I hope, sir, youre not a-thinking as I bear you any ill-will because o my husbands losing his lawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen being sold - O dear!... for I wasnt brought up in that way. Im sure you remember my father, sir, for he was close friends with Squire Darleigh, and we allays went to the dahere - the Miss Dodsons - nobody could be more looked on - and justly, for there was four of us, and youre quite aware as Mrs Glegg and Mrs Deane are my sisters. And as foing to law and losing money and having sales before youre dead, I never saw anything o that before I was married nor for a long while after. And Im not to be answerable for my bad luck i marrying out o my own family into one where the goings-on was different. And as for being drawn in t abuse you as other folks abuse you, sir, that I niver was, and nobody  say it of me.

    Mrs Tulliver shook her head a little and looked at the hem of her pocket handkerchief.

    `Ive no doubt of what you say, Mrs Tulliver, said Mr Wakem, with cold politeness. `But you have some question to ask me?

    `Well, sir, yes. But thats what Ive said to myself - Ive said youd have some natral feeling; and as for my husband as hasnt been himself for this two months, Im not a-defending him, in no way, for being so hot about th erigation - not but what theres worse men, for he never wronged nobody of a shilling nor a penny, not willingly - and as for his fieriness and lawing, what could I do? And him struck as if it was with death whe the letter as said youd the hold upo the land. But I t believe but what youll behave as a gentleman.

    `What does all this mean, Mrs Tulliver? said Mr Wakem, rather sharply. `What do you want to ask me?

    `Why, sir, if youll be so good, said Mrs Tulliver, starting a little, and speaking more hurriedly, `if youll be so good not to buy the mill an the land - the land wouldnt so much matter, only my husband ull be like mad at your having it.

    Something like a hought flashed ar Wakems face as he said, `Who told you I meant to buy it?

    `Why, sir, its none o my iing and I should never ha thought of it, for my husband, as ought to know about the law, he allays used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy anything - either lands or houses - for they allays got em into their hands other ways. An I should think that ud be the way with you, sir and I niver said as youd be the man to do trairy to that.

    `Ah, well, who was it that did say so? <cite>藏书网</cite>said Wakem, opening his desk, and moving things about, with the apa of an almost inaudible whistle.

    `Why, sir, it was Mr Glegg and Mr Deane, as have all the ma: and Mr Deahinks as Guest and Co. ud buy the mill a Mr Tulliver work it for em, if you didnt bid for it and raise the price. And it ud be such a thing for my husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living: for it was his fathers before him, the mill was, and his grandfather built it, though I wasnt fond o the noise of it, when first I was married, for there was no mills in our family - not the Dodsons - and if Id known as the mills had so much to do with the law, it wouldnt have been me as ud have been the first Dodson to marry one; but I went into it blindfold, that I did, erigation and everything.

    `What - Guest and Co. would keep the mill in their own hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages?

    `O dear, sir, its hard to think of, said poor Mrs Tulliver, a little tear making its way, `as my husband should take wage. But it ud look more like what used to be, to stay at the mill, than to go anywhere else. And if youll only think - if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might be struck worse than he was before, and niver get better again as hes getting now.

    `Well, but if I bought the mill, and allowed your husband to act as my manager in the same way - how then? said Mr Wakem.

    `O sir, I doubt he could niver he got to do it, not if the very mill stood still to beg and pray of him. For your names like poison to him, its so as never was, and he looks upon it as youve been the ruin of him all along, ever since you set the law on him about the road through the meadow - thats eight year ago, and hes been going on ever since - as Ive allays told him he was wrong...

    `Hes a pig-headed, foul-mouthed fool! burst out Mr Wakem, fetting himself.

    `O dear, sir! said Mrs Tulliver, frighte a result so different from the one she had fixed her mind on, `I wouldnt wish to tradict you, but its like enough hes ged his mind with this illness - hes fot a many things he used to talk about. And you wouldnt like to have a corpse on your mind, if he was to die; and they do say as its allays unlucky when Dorlill ges hands, and the water might all run away and then... not as Im wishing you any ill-luck, sir, for I fot to tell you as I remember your wedding as if it was yesterday - Mrs Wakem was a Miss t, I know that - and my boy, as there isnt nicer, handsomer, straiter boy nowhere, went to school with your son...

    Mr Wakem rose, opehe door and called to one of his clerks.

    `You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs Tulliver, I have busihat must be atteo; and I think there is nothing more, necessary to be said.

    `But if you would bear it in mind, sir, said Mrs Tulliver, rising, `and not run against me and my children - and Im not denying Mr Tullivers been in the wrong, but hes been punished enough, and theres worse men, for its been giving to other folks has been his fault - hes done nobody any harm but himself and his family - the mores the pity - and I go and look at the bare shelves every day and think where all my things used to stand.

    `Yes, yes, Ill bear it in mind, said Mr Wakem hastily, looking towards the open door.

    `And if youd please not to say as Ive been to speak to you, for my son ud be very angry with me for demeaning myself, I know he would, and Ive trouble enough without being scolded by my children.

    Poor Mrs Tullivers voice trembled a little, and she could make no ao the attorneys `good m, but curtsied and walked out in silence.

    `Which day is it that Dorlill is to be sold? Wheres the bill? said Mr Wakem to his clerk when they were alone.

    ` Friday is the day: Friday, at six oclock.

    `Oh; just run to Winships, the aueer - and see if hes at home. I have some business for him: ask him to e up.

    Although when Mr Wakem entered his office that m, he had had no iion of purchasing Dorlill, his mind was already made up: Mrs Tulliver had suggested to him several determining motives, and his mental glance was very rapid: he was one of those men who  be prompt without being rash, because their motives run in fixed tracks, and they have o recile flig aims.

    To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of ie hatred towards Tulliver, that Tulliver had towards him, would be like supposing that a pike and a roach  look at each other from a similar point of view. The roaecessarily abhors the mode in which the pike gets his living, and the pike is likely to think nothing further even of the most indignant roach than that he is excellent good eating: it could only be when the roach choked him that the pike could eain a strong personal animosity. If Mr Tulliver had ever seriously injured or thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not have refused him the distin of being a special object of vindictiveness. But when Mr Tulliver called Wakem a rascal at the market diable, the attorneys ts were not a whit ined to withdraw their business from him, and if when Wakem himself happeo be present, some jocose cattle-feeder, stimulated by opportunity and brandy, made a thrust at him by alluding to old ladies wills, he maintained perfect sang-froid, and knew quite well that the majority of substantial men the were perfectly tented with the fact that `Wakem was Wakem, that is to say, a man who always khe step-ping-stohat would carry him through very muddy bits of practice. A man who had made a large fortune, had a handsome house among the trees at Tofton, and decidedly the fi stock of port wine in the neighbourhood of St Oggs, was likely to feel himself on a level with public opinion. And I am not sure that even ho Mr Tulliver himself, with his general view of law as a cock-pit, might not, under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriateness iruth that `Wakem was Wakem; since I have uood from persons versed in history, that mankind is not disposed to look narrowly into the duct of great victors when their victory is on the right side. Tulliver, then, could be no obstru to Wakem: on the trary he oor devil whom the lawyer had defeated several times - a hot-tempered felloould always give you a handle against him. Wakems sce was not uneasy because he had used a few tricks against the miller: why should he hate that unsuccessful plaintiff - that pitiable, furious bull entangled in the meshes of a ?

    Still, among the various excesses to which human nature is subject, moralists have never numbered that of being too fond of the people who openly revile us. The successful Yellow didate for the bh of Old Topping perhaps fells no pursuaative hatred toward the Blue tor who soles his subscribers with vituperative rhetoric against Yellow men who sell their try and are the demons of private life: but he might not be sorry, if law and opportunity favoured, to kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favourite colour. Prosperous men take a little vengeanow and then, as they take a diversion, when it es easily in their way and is no hindrao business; and such small unimpassioned revenges have an enormous effe life, running through all degrees of pleasant infli, blog the fit men out of places, and blaing characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see people who have been only insignifitly offeo us, reduced in life and humiliated without any special efforts of ours is apt to have a soothing, flattering influence: Providence, or some other prince of this world, it appears, has uakeask of retribution for us; and really, by an agreeable stitution of things, our enemies, somehow, dont prosper.

    Wakem was not without this pareidictiveowards the unplimentary miller, and now Mrs Tulliver had put the notion into his head it preseself to him as a pleasure to do the very thing that would cause Mr Tulliver the most deadly mortification, and a pleasure of a plex kind, not made up of crude malice but mingling with it the relish of self-approbation. To see an enemy humiliated gives a certain te, but this is jejune pared with the highly blent satisfa of seeing him humiliated by your benevolent a of cession on his behalf. That is a sort of revenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem was not without an iion of keeping that scale respectably filled. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy of his into one of the St Oggs almshouses, to the rebuilding of which he had given a large subscription; and here portunity of providing for another by making him his own servant. Such things give a pleteo prosperity, and tribute elements of agreeable scioushat are not dreamed of by that short-sighted overheated vindictiveness, which goes out of its way to wreak itself in direjury. And Tulliver with his rough tongue field by a sense of obligation, would make a better servant than any ce felloas cap-in-hand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a man of proud hoy, and Wakem was too acute not to believe in the existence of hoy. He was given to  individuals, not to judging of them acc to maxims, and no one knew better thahat all men were not like himself. Besides he inteo overlook the whole business of land and mill pretty closely: he was fond of these practical rural matters. But there were good reasons for purchasing Dorlill, quite apart form any benevolent vengean the miller. It was really a capital iment; besides, Guest &amp; Co. were going to bid for it. Mr Guest and Mr Wakem were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to predominate over a ship-owner and mill-owner who was a little too loud iown affairs as well as in his table talk. For Wakem was not a mere man of business: he was sidered a pleasant fellow in the upper circles at Oggs, chatted amusingly over his port wine, did a little amateur farming, and had certainly been an excellent husband and father: at church, when he went there, he sat uhe handsomest of mural mos erected to the memory of his wife. Most men would have married again under his circumstances but he was said to be more teo his deformed son than most meo their best shapen offspring. Not that Mr Wakem had not other sons besides Philip, but towards them he held only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for them in a grade of life duly beh his own. In this fact, ihere lay the g motive to the purchase of Dorlill. While Mrs Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapid-minded lawyer, among all the other circumstances of the case, that this purchase would in a few years to e furnish a highly suitable position for a certain favourite lad whom he meant t on in the world.

    These were the mental ditions on which Mrs Tulliver had uaken to act persuasively, and had failed: a fact which may receive some illustration from the remark of a great philosopher, that fly-fishers fail in preparing their bait so as to make it alluring in the right quarter for want of a due acquaintah the subjectivity of fishes.

 CHAPTER 8

    Daylight on the Wreck

    IT was a clear frosty January day on which Mr Tulliver first came downstairs: the bright sun on the chestnut boughs and the roofs opposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would be caged up no longer; he thought everywhere woul<bdi></bdi>d be more cheery uhis sunshihan his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the bareness below, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had an unfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places and the marks where well-known objects once had been. The impression on his mind that it was but yesterday when he received the letter frore was so tinually implied in his talk, and the attempts to vey to him the idea that many weeks had passed and much had happened sihen had been so soo away by recurrent fetfulness, that even Mr Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts by previous knowledge. The full sense of the present could only be imparted gradually by new experience - not by mere words which must remain weaker than the impressio by the old experiehis resolution to e downstairs was heard with trembling by the wife and children. Mrs Tulliver said Tom must not go to St Oggs at the usual hour - he must wait and see his father downstairs: and Tom plied, though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful se. The hearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during the last few days. Fuest and Co. had not bought the mill: both mill and land had been knocked down to Wakem, who had beehe premises and had laid before Mr Deane and Mr Glegg, in Mrs Tullivers presence, his willio employ Mr Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a manager of the business. This proposition had occasioned much family debating. Uncles and aunts were almost unanimously of opinion that su ht not to be rejected when there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr Tullivers mind, which, as her aunts nor uncles shared it, was regarded as entirely unreasonable and childish - indeed as a transferring towards Wakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr Tulliver ought properly to have directed against himself for his general quarrelsomeness and his special exhibition of it in going to law. Here portunity for Mr Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without any assistance from his wifes relations, and without that too evident dest into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable people to meet the degraded member of the family by the wayside. Mr Tulliver, Mrs Glegg sidered, must be made to feel, when he came to his right mind, that he could never humble himself enough: for that had e which she had always foreseen would e of his insolen time past `to them as were the best friends hed got to look tlegg and Mr Deane were less stern in their views, but they both of them thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his hot-tempered crotchets, and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihood was offered him: Wakem showed a right feeling about the matter - he had ne ag<a>?９9lib.</a>ainst Tulliver. Tom had protested agaiertaining the proposition: he shouldnt like his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would look mean-spirited; but his mothers main distress was the utter impossibility of ever `turning Mr Tulliver round about Wakem etting him to hear reason - no, they would all have to go and live in a pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem who spoke so as nobody could be fairer. Indeed, Mrs Tullivers mind was reduced to such fusion by living in this strange medium of unatable sorrow, against which she tinually appealed by asking, `O dear, what have I doo deserve worse than other women? that Maggie began to suspect her poor mothers wits were quite going. `Tom, she said, when they were out of their fathers room together, `we must try to make father uand a little of what has happened before he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She will say something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her engaged with something i.

    Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her iion of staying till the master could get about again, `wage or no wage, she had found a certain repense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress, scolding her for `moithering herself and going about all day without ging her cap and looking as if she was `mushed. Altogether this time of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she could scold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occa<dfn></dfn>sion there were drying clothes to be fetched in: she wished to know if one pair of hands could do everything indoors and out, and observed that she should have thought it would be good for Mrs Tulliver to put on her bo a a breath of fresh air by doing that needful piece of work. Poor Mrs Tulliver went submissively downstairs: to be ordered about by a servant was the last remnant of her household dignities - she would soon have no servant to scold her.

    Mr Tulliver was resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were seated near him, when Luke eo ask if he should help master downstairs.

    `Ay, ay, Luke, stop a bit, sit down, said Mr Tulliver, pointing his stick towards a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze which valest persons often have for those who have tehem, reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. And Luke had been a stant night-watcher by his masters bed.

    `Hows the water now, eh, Luke? said Mr Tulliver. `Dix hasnt been choking you up again, eh?

    `No, sir, its all right.

    `Ay, I thought not: he wont be in a hurry at that again, now Rileys been to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday... I said...

    Mr Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arm-chair, and looking on the ground as if in search of something - striving after vanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie looked at Tom in mute distress - their fathers mind was so far off the present, which would by and by thrust itself on his wandering sciousom was almost ready to rush away, with that impatience of painful emotion which makes one of the differences between youth and maiden, man and woman.

    `Father, said Maggie, laying her hand on his, `Dont you remember that Mr Riley is dead?

    `Dead? said Mr Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with a strange, examining glance.

    `Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago; I remember hearing you say you had to pay money for him; and he left his daughters badly off - one of them is ueacher at Miss Firnisss where Ive been to school, you know...

    `Ah? said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But as soon as Tom began to speak he turo look at him with the same inquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence of these two young people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the far past, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces: they were not those of lad and the little wench who beloo that past.

    `Its a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father, said Tom. `I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I went to school at Mr Stellings. Ive been at school there three years; dont you remember?

    Mr Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the child-like outward glance, under a rush of new ideas which diverted him from external impressions.

    `Ay, ay, he said, after a minute or two, `Ive paid a deal o money... I was determined my son should have a good eddication: Id none myself, and Ive felt the miss of it. And hell want no other fortin: thats what I say... if Wakem was to get the better of me again...

    The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moments pause he began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in his side-pocket. Theuro Tom, and said in his old sharp way, `Where have they put Gores letter?

    It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for it before.

    `You know what there is iter, father? said Tom, as he gave it to him.

    `To be sure I do, said Mr Tulliver, rather angrily, `What o that? If Furley t take to the property, somebody else : theres plenty o people in the world besides Furley. But its hindering - my not being well - go and tell em to get the horse in the gig, Luke: I  get down to St Oggs well enough - Gores expeg me.

    `No, dear father! Maggie burst out, eingly, `its a very long while since all that: youve been ill a great many weeks - more than two months - everything is ged.

    Mr Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startled gaze: the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing had often traly arrested him before, but it came upon him now with entire y.

    `Yes, father, said Tom, in ao the gaze. `You  trouble your mind about business until you are quite well: everything is settled about that for the present - about the mill and the land and the debts.

    `Whats settled then? said his father, angrily.

    `Dont you take on too much about it, sir, said Luke. `Youd ha pa<strike></strike>id iverybody if you could - thats what I said to Master Tom - I said, youd ha paid iverybody, if you could.

    Good Luke felt, after the manner of tented hard w men whose lives have bee iude, that sense of natural fitness in rank which made his masters downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged, in his slow way, to say something that would express his share in the family sorrow, and these words which he had used over and ain to Tom, when he wao dee the full payment of his fifty pounds out of the childrens money, were the most ready to his tohey were just the words to lay the most painful hold on his masters bewildered mind.

    `Paid everybody? he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing, and his eye lighting up. `Why... what... have they made me a bankrupt?

    `O father, dear father! said Maggie, who thought that terrible word really represehe fact. `Bear it well - because we love you - your children will always love you - Tom will pay them all - he says he will, when hes a man.

    She felt her father beginning to tremble - his voice trembled too, as he said, after a few moments,

    `Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice oer.

    `But perhaps you will live to see my pay everybody, father, said Tom, speaking with a great effort.

    `Ah, my lad, said Mr Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, `but whats broke ever be whole again: it ud be your doing, not mihen, looking up at him, `Youre only sixteen - its an uphill fight for you - but you mustnt throw it at your father; the raskills have been too many for him. Ive given you a good eddication - thatll start you.

    Something in his throat half choked the last words - the flush which had alarmed his children because it had so often preceded a recurrence of paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous. Tom said nothing; he was still struggling against his ination to rush away. His father remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind did not seem to be wandering again.

    `Have they sold me up, then? he said, more calmly, as if he were possessed simply by the desire to know what had happened.

    `Everything is sold, father; but we dont know all about the mill and the la, said Tom, anxious to ward off any question leading to the fact that Wakem was the purchaser.

    `You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs, father, said Maggie, `but theres your chair and the bureau - theyre not gone.

    `Let us go - help me down, Luke - Ill go and see everything, said Mr Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretg out his other hand towards Luke.

    `Ay, sir, said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, `youll make up your mind tot a bit better when youve seehing: youll get used tot. Thats what my mother says, about her shortness o breath - she says, shes made friends wit now, though she fought again it sore when it fust e on.

    Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlour where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed part of the general shabbiness. She turned her fathers chair and pushed aside the table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beati to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advanced before him carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of those two yous Toms suffered the most unmixed pain, fgie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breathing space to her passioure. No true boy feels that: he would rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round of heroic labours, than endure perpetual appeals to his pity for evils over which he  make no quest.

    Mr Tulliver paused just ihe door, resting on Luke, and looking round him at all the bare places which for him were filled with the shadows of departed objects, the daily panions of his life. His faculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footing on this demonstration of the senses.

    `Ah! he said, slowly, moving towards his chair, `theyve sold me up... theyve sold me up.

    Theing himself and laying down his stick, while Luke left the room, he looked round again.

    `Theyhe big Bible, he said. `Its got everything in - when I was born and married - bring it me, Tom.

    The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and while he was reading with slowly-travelling eyes, Mrs Tulliver ehe room, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already and with the great Bible before him.

    `Ah, he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, `My mother was Margaret Beaton - she died when she was forty-seven - hers wasnt a long-lived family - were our mothers children - Gritty and me are - we shall go to our last bed before long.

    He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sisters birth and marriage, as if it were suggestihoughts to him: them he suddenly looked up at Tom and said in a sharp tone of alarm--

    `They havent e upo Moss for the money as I lent him, have they?

    `No, father, said Tom, `the note was burnt.

    Mr Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and presently said,

    `Ah... Elizabeth Dodson... its eighteen year since I married her...

    `e  Lady Day, said Mrs Tulliver, going up to his side and looking at the page.

    Her husband fixed his eyes early on her face.

    `Poor Bessy, he said, `you retty lass than - everybody said so - and I used to think you kept yood looks rarely. But youre sorely aged... dont you bear me ill-will ... I meant to do well by you... We promised one another for better or for worse...

    `But I hought it ud be so for worse as this, said poor Mrs Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had e over her of later, `and my poor father gave me away... and to e on so all at once...

    `O mother, said Maggie, `dont talk in that way.

    `No, I know you wo your poor mother speak... thats been the way all my life... your father never minded what I said... it ud have been o no use for me to beg and pray... and it ud be no use now, not if I was to go down o my hands and knees...

    `Dont say so, Bessy, said Mr Tulliver, whose pride, in these first moments of humiliation, was in abeyao the sense of some justi his wifes reproach, `If theres anythi as I could no to make you amends, I wouldnt say you nay.

    `Then we might stay here a a living, and I might keep among my own sisters... and me been such a good wife to you and never crossed you from weeks end to weeks end... and they all say so... they say it ud be nothing but right... only youre so turned against Wakem.

    `Mother, said Tom, severely, `this is not the time to talk about that.

    `Let her be, said Mr Tulliver. `Say what you mean, Bessy.

    `Why, now the mill and the lands all Wakems, and hes got everything in his hands, whats the use o setting your face against him? - when you says you may stay here, and speaks as fair as  be, and says you may mahe business,<bdi></bdi> and have thirty shilling a week, and a horse to ride about to market? And where have we got to put our heads? We must go into ohe cottages in the village... and me and my children brought downs to that... and all because you must set your mind against folks till theres n you.

    Mr Tulliver had sunk ba his chair, trembling.

    `You may do as you like wi me, Bessy, he said in a low voice, `Ihe bringing of you to poverty... this worlds too many for me... Im nought but a bankrupt - its no use standing up for anything now.

    `Father, said Tom, `I dont agree with my mother or my uncles, and I dont think you ought to submit to be under Wakem. I get a pound a week now, and you  find something else to do when you get well.

    `Say no more, Tom, say no more: Ive had enough for this day. Give me a kiss, Bessy, a us bear one another no ill-will: we shall never be young again... This worlds been too many for me.

 CHAPTER 9

    An Item Added to the Family Register

    THAT first moment of renunciation and submission was followed by days of violent struggle in the millers mind, as the gradual access of bodily strength brought with it increasing ability to embra one view all the flig ditions under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily resign themselves to be tethered, and when we are subdued by siess it seems possible to us to fulfil pledges which the old vigour es bad breaks. There were times when poor Tulliver thought the fulfilment of his promise to Bessy was something quite too hard for human nature: he had promised her without knowing what she was going to say - she might as well have asked him to carry a to on his back. But a<big></big>gain, there were many feelings arguing on her side, besides the sehat life had been made hard to her by having married him. He saossibility, by much ping, of saving money out of his salary towards paying a sed dividend to his creditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere to get a situation such as he could fill. He had led an easy life,  mud w little, and had no aptitude for any new business. He must perhaps take to day-labour, and his wife must have help from her sisters, a prospect doubly bitter to him, now they had let all Bessys precious things be sold, probably because they liked to set her against him, by making her feel that he had brought her to that pass. He listeo their admonitory talk, when they came te on him what he was bound to do for poor Bessys sake, with averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on them furtively when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread of needing their help could have made it an easier alternative to take their advice. But the stro influence of all was the love of the old premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had doer him. The Tullivers had lived on this spot feions, and he had sat listening on a low stool on winter evenings while his father talked of the old half-timbered mill that had been there before the last great floods, which damaged it so that his grandfather pulled it down and built the new o was whe able to walk about and look at all the old objects, that he felt the strain of this ging affe for the old home as part of his life, part of himself. He couldo think of himself living on any other spot than this, where he khe sound of every gate and door, ahat the shape and colour of every roof aher stain and broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy which has hardly time to linger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropid is at home<cite>.9９lｉb?</cite> with palms and banyans, - which is nourished on books of travel and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zambesi  hardly get a dim notion of what an old- fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot where all his memories tred and where life seemed like a familiar smooth-haool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And just now he was living in that freshened memory of the far-off time whies to us in the passive hours of recovery from siess.

    `Ay, Luke, he said, oernoon, as he stood looking over the orchard gate, `I remember the day they plahose apple trees. My father was a huge man for planting - it was like a merry-making to him to get a cart full o young trees - and I used to stand i the cold with him, and follow him about like a dog.

    Theurned round, and, leaning against the gate post, looked at the opposite buildings.

    `The old mill ud miss me, I think, Luke. Theres a story as when the mill ges hands, the rivers angry - Ive heard my father say it many a time. Theres no telling whether there maynt be summat iory, for this is a puzzling world and Old Harrys got a finger in it - its been too many for me, I know.

    `Ay, sir, said Luke, with soothing sympathy, `what withe rust on the wheat, an the firin o the ricks an that, as Ive <bdo>99lib.</bdo>seen i my time - things often looks ical: theres the ba fat wi our last pig runs away like butter - it leaves nought but a scrat.

    `Its just as if it was yesterday, now, Mr Tulliver went on, `when m<details>九九藏书</details>y father began the malting. I remember, the day they fihe malt-house, I thought summat great was to e of it; for lum-pudding that day and a bit of a feast, and I said to my mother - she was a fine dark eyed woman, my mother was - the little wench ull be as like her as two peas. - Here Mr Tulliver put his stick between his legs, and took out his snuff-box, for the greater enjoyment of this ae, which dropped from him in fragments, as if he every other moment lost narration in vision. `I was a little chap no higher much than my mothers knee - she was sore fond of us children, Gritty and me - and so I said to her, &quot;Mother,&quot; I said, &quot;shall lum-pudding every day because o the malthouse?&quot; She used to tell me o that till her dying day - she was but a young woman when she died, my mother was. But its food year sihey fihe malthouse, and it isnt many days out of em all as I havent looked out into the yard there, the first thing in the m - all weathers, from years end to years end. I should go off my head in a new place - I should be like as if Id lost my way. Its all hard, whichever way I look at it - the harness ull gall me - but it ud be summat to draw along the old road, istead of a new un.

    `Ay, sir, said Luke, `youd be a deal better here nor in some new place. I t abide new plazen mysen: things is allays awkard - narrow-wheeled waggins, belike, and the stiles all another sort, an oat-cake i some plazen, towrt th head o the Floss, there. Its poor work, ging your try side.

    `But I doubt, Luke, theyll be fetting rid o Ben, and making you do with a lad - and I must help a bit wi the mill. Youll have a worse place.

    `Neer mind, sir, said Luke, `I shant plague mysen. In been wi you twenty year, an you t get twenty year wi whistlin for em, no more nor you  make the trees grow: you mun wait till God Amighty sends em. I t abide new victual nor new fazen, I t - you niver know but what theyll gripe you.

    The walk was finished in sileer this, for Luke had disburthened himself of thoughts to aent that left his versational resources quite barren, and Mr Tulliver had relapsed from his recolles into a painful meditation on the choice of hardships before him. Maggie noticed that he was unusually absent that evening at tea; and afterwards he sat leaning forward in his chair, looking at the ground, moving his lips, and shaking his head from time to time. Then he looked hard at Mrs Tulliver, who was knitting opposite him, then at Maggie, who as she bent over her sewing was intensely scious of some drama going forward in her fathers mind. Suddenly he took up the poker and broke the large coal fiercely.

    `Dear heart, Mr Tulliver, what  you be thinking of? said his wife, looking up in alarm. `Its very wasteful, breaking the coal, and weve got hardly any large coal left, and I dont know where the rest is to e from.

    `I dont think youre quite so well to-night, are you, father? said Maggie; `you seem uneasy.

    `Why, how is it Tom doesnt e? said Mr Tulliver, impatiently.

    `Dear heart! is it time? I must go a his supper, said Mrs Tulliver, laying down her knitting, and leaving the room.

    `Its nigh upon half past eight, said Mr Tulliver. `Hell be here soon. Go, go ahe big Bible, and open it at the beginning where everythings set down. Ahe pen and ink.

    Maggie obeyed, w: but her father gave no further orders, and only sat listening for Toms footfall on the gravel, apparently irritated by the wind, which had risen and was r so as to drown all other sounds. There was a strange light in his eyes that rather frightened Maggie: she began to wish that Tom would e, too.

    `There he is, then, said Mr Tulliver, in aed way, when the knock came at last. Maggie went to open the door, but her mother came out of the kit hurriedly, saying, `Stop a bit, Maggie, Ill open it.

    Mrs Tulliver had begun to be a little frighte her boy, but she was jealous of every office others did for him.

    `Your suppers ready by the kit fire, my boy, she said as he took off his hat and coat. `You shall have it by yourself, just as you like, and I wont speak to you.

    `I think my father wants Tom, mother, said Maggie, `he must e into the parlour first.

    Tom entered with his usual saddened evening face, but his eyes fell immediately on the open Bible and the inkstand, and he glanced with a look of anxious surprise at his father, who was saying,

    `e, e, youre late - I want you.

    `Is there anything the matter, father? said Tom.

    `You sit down - all of you, said Mr Tulliver, peremptorily. `And, Tom, sit down here, Ive got something for you to write i the Bible.

    They all three sat down, looking at him. He began to speak, slowly, looking first at his wife.

    `Ive made up my mind, Bessy, and Ill be as good as my word to you. Theres the same grave made for us to lie down in, and we mustnt be bearing one another ill-will. Ill stop in the old place, and Ill serve under Wakem - and Ill serve him like an ho man - theres no Tulliver but whats ho, mind that, Tom - here his voice rose: `theyll have it to throw up against me as I paid a dividend - but it wasnt my fault - it was because theres raskills in the world - Theyve been too many for me, and I must, give in. Ill put my ne harness - for youve a right to say as Ive brought you into trouble, Bessy - and Ill serve him as ho as if he was no raskill: Im an ho man, though I shall never hold my head up no more - Im a tree as is broke - a tree as is broke.

    He paused and looked on the ground. Then suddenly raising his head, he said in a louder yet deeper tone,

    `But I wont five him! I know what they say - he never meant me any harm - thats the way Old Harry props up the raskills - hes been at the bottom of everything - but hes a fileman - I know, I know. I shouldnt hagoo law, they say. But who made it so as there was no arbitratin, and no justice to be got? It signifies nothing to him - I know that - hes ohem filemen as get money by doing business for poorer folks, and when hes made beggars of em, hell give em charity. I wont five him! I wish he might be punished with shame till his own son ud like tet him. I wish he may<code></code> do summat as theyd make him work at the treadmill! But he wont - hes too big a raskill to let the law lay hold on him. And you mind this, Tom - you never five him, her, if you mean to be my son. Therell may be e a time, when you may make him feel - itll never e to me - In got my head uhe yoke. Now write - write it i the Bible.

    `O father, what? said Maggie, sinking down by his knee, pale and trembling. `Its wicked to curse and bear malice.

    `It isnt wicked, I tell you, said her father fiercely. `Its wicked as the raskills should prosper - its the devils doing. Do as I tell you, Tom. Write.

    `What am I to write, Father? said Tom, with gloomy submission.

    `Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took servider John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him, because Id promised my wife to make her what amends I could for her trouble, and because I wao die in th old place, where I was born and my father was born. Put that i the right words - you know how - and then write, as I dont five Wakem, for all that; and for all Ill serve him ho, I wish evil may befall him. Write that.

    There was a dead silence while Toms pen moved along the paper: Mrs Tulliver looked scared, and Maggie trembled like a leaf.

    `Now let me hear what youve wrote, said Mr Tulliver. Tom read aloud, slowly.

    `Now write - write as youll remember what Wakems doo your father, and youll make him and his feel it, if ever the day es. And sign your homas Tulliver.

    `O no, father, dear father! said Maggie, almost choked with fear. `You shouldnt make Tom write that.

    `Be quiet, Maggie! said Tom. `I shall write it.

 BOOK 4 CHAPTER 1

    A Variation of Protestantism Unknown to Bossuet

    JOURNEYING down the Rh?ne on a summers day, you have perhaps felt the sunshine made dreary by those ruined villages which stud the banks iain parts of its course, telling how the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying god sweeping down the feeble geions whose breath is in their nostrils and making their dwellings a desolation. Strange trast, you may have thought, between the effect produced on us by these dismal remnants of onplace houses, whi their best days were but the sign of a sordid life, belonging in all its details to our own vulgar era - and the effect produced by those ruins on the castled Rhine which have crumbled and mellowed into such harmony with the green and rocky steeps, that they seem to have a natural fitness, like the mountain pine: nay, even in the day when they were built t<big>藏书网</big>hey must have had this fitness, as if they had been raised by ah-born race who had ied from their mighty parent a sublime instinct of form. And that was a day of romance! If those robber barons were somewhat grim and drunken ogres, they had a certain grandeur of the wild beast in them - they were forest boars with tusks tearing and rending, not the ordinary domestic gruhey represehe demon forces for ever in collision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of life: they made a fine trast in the picture with the wandering mihe soft-lipped princess, the pious recluse and the timid Israelite. That was a time of colour when the sunlight fell on glang steel and floating banners: a time of adventure and fierce struggle - nay, of living, religious art and religious enthusiasm; for were not cathedrals built in those days and did not great emperors leave their western palaces to die before the irongholds in the sacred east? Therefore it is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry: they belong to the grand historic life of humanity, and raise up for me the vision of an epoch. But these dead-tinted, hollow-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rh?ne, oppress me with the feeling that human life - very much of it - is a narrow, ugly, grovellience, which even calamity does not elevate, but rather tends to exhibit in all its bare vulgarity of ception; and I have a cruel vi that the lives these ruins are the traces of were part of a gross sum of obscure vitality, that will be swept into the same oblivion with the geions of ants and beavers. Perhaps something akin to this oppressive feeling may have weighed upon you in watg this old-fashioned family life on the banks of the Floss, which even sorrow hardly suffices to lift above the level of the tragi-ic. It is a s<var></var>ordid life, you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons - irradiated by no sublime principles, no romantic visions, no active, self-renoung faith - moved by none of those wild, untrollable passions which create the dark shadows of misery and crime - without that primitive rough simplicity of wants, that hard submissive ill-paid toil, that child-like spelling-out of what nature has written, which gives its poetry to peasant life. Here, one has ventional worldly notions and habits without instru and without polish - surely the most prosai of human life: proud respectability in a gig of unfashionable build: worldliness without side-dishes.  these people narrowly, evehe iron hand of misfortune has shaken them from their uioning hold on the world, one sees little trace ion, still less of a distinctively Christian creed. Their belief in the unseen, so far as it mas itself at all, seems to be rather of a pagan kind: their moral notions, though held with strong tenacity, seem to have no standard beyond hereditary . You could not live among such people; you are stifled for want of an outlet towards somethiiful, great, or noble: you are irritated with these dull men and women, as a kind of population out of keeping with the earth on which they live - with this rich plaihe great river flows for ever onward and links the small pulse of the old English town with the beatings of the worlds mighty heart. A vigorous superstition that lashes its gods or lashes its own back, seems to be more gruous with the mystery of the human lot, than the mental dition of these emmet-like Dodsons and Tullivers.

    I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness; but it is necessary that we should feel it, if we care to uand how it acted on the lives of Tom and Maggie - how it has acted on young natures in many geions, that in the onward tendency of human things have risen above the mental level of the geion before them, to which they have beeheless tied by the stro fibres of their hearts. The suffering, whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every historical advanankind, is represented in this way iown and by hundreds of obscure hearths: and we need not shrink from this parison of small things with great; for does not sce tell us that its highest striving is after the ascertai of a unity which shall bind the smallest things with the greatest? In natural sce, I have uood, there is nothiy to the mind that has a large vision of relations, and to which every single object suggests a vast sum of ditions. It is surely the same with the observation of human life.

    Certainly, the religious and moral ideas of the Dodsons and Tullivers were of too specific a kind to be arrived at deductively, from the statement that they were part of the Protestant population of Great Britain. Their theory of life had its core of soundness, as all theories must have on which det and prosperous families have been reared and have flourished; but it had the very slightest tincture of theology. If, in the maiden days of the Dodson sisters, their bibles opened more easily at some parts than others, it was because of dried tulip petals, which had been distributed quite impartially, without preference for the historical, devotional, or doal. Their religion was of a simple, semi-pagan kind, but there was no heresy in it, if heresy properly means choice, for they didnt know there was any other religion, except that of chapel-goers, which appeared to run in families, like asthma. How should they know? The vicar of their pleasant rural parish was not a troversialist, but a good hand at whist, and one who had a joke always ready for a blooming female parishiohe religion of the Dodsons sisted in revering whatever was ary and respectable: it was necessary to be baptised, else one could not be buried in the churchyard, and to take the sacrament before death as a security against more dimly uood perils; but it was of equal y to have the proper pall-bearers and well-cured hams at ones funeral, and to leave an unimpeachable will. A Dodson would n<code></code>ot be taxed with the omission of anything that was being, or that beloo that eternal fitness of things which lainly indicated in the practice of the most substantial parishioners, and in the family traditions - such as obedieo parents, faithfulo kindred, industry, rigid hoy, thrift, the thh sc of wooden and copper utensils, the h of s likely to disappear from the currency, the produ of first-rate odities for the market, and the general preference for whatever was homemade. The Dodsons were a very proud race, and their pride lay ier frustration of all desire to tax them with a breach of traditional duty or propriety. A wholesome pride in many respects; si identified honour with perfetegrity, thhness of work, and faithfulo admitted rules; and society owes some worthy qualities in many of her members to mothers of the Dodson class, who made their butter and their fromenty well and would have felt disgraced to make it otherwise. To be ho and poor was never a Dodson motto, still less, to seem rich though being poor; rather, the family badge was to be ho and rich, and not only rich, but richer than was supposed. To live respected and have the proper bearers at your funeral was an achievement of the ends of existehat would be entirely nullified if on the reading of your Will, you sank in the opinion of your fellow-meher by turning out to be poorer than they expected or by leaving your money in a caprianner without strict regard to degrees of kin. The right thing must always be doowards kihe right thing was to correct them severely, if they were other than a credit to the family, but still not to alienate from them the smallest rightful share in the family shoe-buckles and other property. A spicuous quality in the Dodson character was its ge<details></details>nuineness: its vices and virtues alike were phrases of a proud, ho egoism which had a hearty dislike to whatever made against its ow and i, and would be frankly hard of speech to inve `kin but would never forsake hem - would not let them want bread, but only require them to eat it with bitter herbs.

    The same sort of traditional belief ran iulliver veins, but it was carried in richer blood, having elements of generous imprudence, warm affe and hot-tempered rashness. Mr Tullive<q>?9９lib.</q>rs grandfather had been heard to say that he was desded from one Ralph Tulliver, a wonderfully clever fellow who had ruined himself. - It is likely enough that the clever Ralph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and was very decidedly of his own opinion. Oher hand, nobody had ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined himself: it was not the way of that family.

    If such were the views of life on which the Dodsons and Tullivers had been reared in the praiseworthy past of Pitt and high prices, you will infer from what you already know ing the state of society in St Oggs that there had been no highly modifying influeo a them in their maturer life. It was still possible, even in that later time of anti-Catholic preag, for people to hold many pagan ideas and believe themselves good church people notwithstanding: so we need hardly feel any surprise at the fact that Mr Tulliver, though a regular church-goer, recorded his vindictiveness on the fly-leaf of his Bible. It was not that any harm could be said ing the vicar of that charming rural parish to which Dorlill belonged: he was a man of excellent family, an irreproachable bachelor, of elegant pursuits, had taken honours, and held a fellowship: Mr Tulliver regarded him with dutiful respect, as he did everything else belonging to the church-service; but he sidered that church was ohing and on sense another, and he wanted nobody to tell him what on sense was. Certain seeds which are required to find a nidus for themselves under unfavourable circumstances have been supplied by nature with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will get a hold on very uive surfaces. The spiritual seed which had been scattered over Mr Tulliver had apparently beeute of any corresponding provision, and had slipped off to the winds again from a total absence of hooks.

 CHAPTER 2

    The Tor Is Pierced by the Thorns

    THERE is something sustaining in the very agitation that apahe first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often a stimulus, and produces aement which is tra strength. It is in the slow, ged life that follows - iime when sorrow has bee stale and has no longer aive iy that teracts its pain, iime when day follows day in dull uant sameness and trial is a dreary routine - it is then that despair threatens: it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence which shall give to endurahe nature of satisfa. This time of utmost need was e to Maggie, with her short span of thirteen years. To the usual precocity of the girl, she added that early experience of struggle, of flict between the inward impulse and outward fact which is the lot of every imaginative and passioure; and the years since she hammered the nails into her<details>.99lｉb.</details> woodeish among the worm-eaten shelves of the attic, had been filled with so eager a life iriple world of reality, books and waking dreams, that Maggie was strangely old for her years ihing except in her entire want of that prudend self-and which were the qualities that made Tom manly in the midst of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot was beginning to have a still, sad monotony, which threw her more than ever on her inward self. Her father was able to attend to business again, his affairs were settled, and he was ag as Wakems manager on the old spot. Tom went to and fro every m and evening and became more and more silent in the short intervals at home: what was there to say? One day was like another, and Toms i in life, driven bad crushed on every other side, was trating itself into the one el of ambitious resistao misfortuhe peculiarities of his father and mother were very irksome to him now they were laid bare of all the softening apas of an easy prosperous home, for Tom had very clear prosaic eyes not apt to be dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination. Poor Mrs Tulliver, it seemed, would never recover her old self - her placid household activity: how could she? The objects among which her mind had moved platly were all gone: all the little hopes, and schemes, and speculations, all the pleasant little cares about her treasures which had made this world quite prehensible to her for a quarter of a tury, since she had made her first purchase of the sugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatched away from her, and she remained bewildered in this empty life. Why that would have happeo her which had not happeo other women, remained an insoluble question by which she expressed her perpetual ruminating parison of the past with the present. It iteous to see the ely blond stout womaing thinner and more worn under a bodily as well as mental restlessness which made her often wander about the empty house<q>9９ｌiｂ.</q> after her work was done, until Maggie, being alarmed about her, would seek her and bring her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that she was injuring her health by never sitting down aing herself. Yet amidst this helpless imbecility, there was a toug trait of humble self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly towards her poor mother amidst all the little wearing griefs caused by her mental feebleness. She would let Maggie do none of the work that was heaviest and most soiling to the hands, and was quite peevish when Maggie attempted to relieve her from her grate-brushing and sc: `Let it alone, my dear, your hands ull get as hard as hard, she would say: `its your mothers place to do that - I t do the sewing - my eyes fail me. And she would still brush and carefully tend Maggies hair, which she had bee reciled to, in spite of its refusal to curl, now it was so long and massy. Maggie was not her pet child - and, in general, would have been much better if she had been quite different; yet the womanly heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, found a future to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mother pleased herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hands that had so much more life in them.

    But the stant presence of her mothers regretful bewilderment was less painful to Maggie than that of her fathers sullen inunicative depression. As long as the paralysis on him and it seemed as if he might always be in a childlike dition of dependence - as long as he was still only half-awakeo his trouble, Maggie had felt the strong tide of pitying love almost as an i<samp>.99lib.</samp>nspiration, a new power, that would make the most difficult life easy for his sake; but now, instead of childlike dependehere had e a taciturn hard tration of purpose in strange trast with his old vehement unicativeness and high spirit, and this lasted from day to day and from week to week, the dull eye never brightening with any eagerness or any joy. It is something cruelly inprehensible to youthful natures - this sombre sameness in middle-aged and elderly people whose life has resulted in disappoi and distent, to whose faces a smile bees se that the sad lines all about the lips and brow seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries away again for want of a wele. `Why will they not kindle up and be glad sometimes? thinks youicity. `It would be so easy, if they only liked to do it. And these leaden clouds that never part are apt to create impatience even in the filial affe that streams forth in nothing but tenderness and pity iime of more obvious affli.

    Mr Tulliver lingered nowhere away from home: he hurried away from market, he refused all invitations to stay and chat, as in old times, in the houses where he called on business. He could not be reciled with his lot: there was no attitude in which his pride did not feel its bruises; and in all behaviour towards him, whether kind or cold, he detected an allusion to the ge in his circumstances. Even the days on which Wakem came to ride round the land and inquire into the business, were not so bla as those market days on which he had met several creditors who had accepted a position from him. To save something towards the repayment of those creditors was the object towards which he was now bending all his thoughts and efforts; and uhe influence of this all-pelling demand of his nature, the somerofuse man who hated to be stinted or to stint any one else in his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the keen-eyed grudger of morsels. Mrs Tulliver could not eise enough to satisfy him, in their food and firing, and he would eat nothing himself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, though depressed and strongly repelled by his fathers sullennness and the dreariness of home, ehhly into his fathers feelings about paying the creditors and the poor lad brought his first quarters money, with a delicious sense of achievement, and gave it to his father to put into the tin box which held the savings. The little store of sns iin box seemed to be the only sight that brought a faint beam of pleasure into the millers eyes - faint and tra, for it was soon dispelled by the thought that the time would be long - perhaps lohan his life - before the narrow savings could remove the hateful incubus of debt. A deficit<dfn></dfn> of more than five hundred pounds with the accumulating i seemed a deep pit to fill with the savings from thirty shillings a week, eveoms probable savings were to be added. On this one point there was entire unity of feeling in the four widely differing beings who sat round the dying fire of sticks which made a cheap warmth for them on the verge of bed time. Mrs Tulliver carried the proud iy of the Dodsons in her blood, and had been brought up to think that t people of their money, which was another phrase for debt, was a sort of moral pillory: it would have been wiess, to her mind, to have run ter to her husbands desire to `do the right thing arieve his name. She had a fused dreamy notion that if the creditors were all paid, her plate and linen ought to e back to her, but she had an inbred perception that while people owed mohey were uo pay, they couldnt rightly call anything their own. She murmured a little that Mr Tulliver so peremptorily refused to receive anything in repayment from Mr and Mrs Moss: but to all his requirements of household ey she was submissive to the point of denying herself the cheapest indulgenere flavour: her only rebellion was to smuggle into the kit something that would make rather a better supper than usual for Tom.

    These narrow notions about debt, held by the old-fashioullivers, may perhaps excite a smile on the faany readers in these days of wide ercial views and wide philosophy, acc to which everything rights itself without any trouble of ours - the fact that my tradesman is out of pocket by me is to be looked at through the sereainty that somebody elses tradesman is in pocket by somebody else, and sihere must be bad debts in the world, why, it is mere egoism not to like that we in particular should make them instead of our fellow-citizens. I am telling the history of very simple people, who had never had any illuminating doubts as to personal iy and honour.

    Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing tration of desire, Mr Tulliver retaihe feeling towards his `little wench which made her presence a o him though it would not suffice to cheer him. She was still the desire of his eyes, but the sweet spring of fatherly love was now mingled with bitterness, like everything else. When Maggie laid down her work at night, it was her habit to get a low stool and sit by her fathers knee, leaning her cheek against it. How she wished he would stroke her head, ive her some sign that he was soothed by the sehat he had a daughter who loved him! But now she got no ao her little caresses, either from her father or from Tom - the two idols of her life. Tom was weary and abstracted in the short intervals when he was at home, and her father was bitterly preoccupied with the thought that the girl was growing up - was shooting up into a woman; and how was she to do well in life? She had a poor arrying, down in the world as they were. Aed the thought of her marrying poorly, as her aunt Gritty had dohat would be a thing to make him turn in his grave - the little wench so pulled down by children and toil as her aunt Moss was. When uncultured minds, fio a narre of personal experience, are uhe pressure of tinued misfortuheir inward life is apt to bee a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts: the same words, the same ses are revolved over and ain, the same mood apahem - the end of the year finds them as much what they were at the beginning as if they were maes set to a recurrent series of movements.

    The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. Uncles and aunts paid only short visits now: of course they could not stay to meals, and the straint caused by Mr Tullivers savage silence, which seemed to add to the hollow resonance of the bare uncarpeted room when the aunts were talking, heightehe unpleasantness of these family visits on all sides, and teo make them rare. As for other acquaintances - there is a chill air surrounding those who are down in the world and people are glad to get away from them, as from a cold room: human beings, mere men and women, without furniture, without anything to offer you, who have ceased to t as anybody, present an embarrassiion of reasons for wishing to see them, or of subjects on which to verse with them. At<strike>99lib?</strike> that distant day, there was a dreary isolation in the civilised Christian society of these realms for families that had dropped below their inal level, uhey beloo a sectarian church, which gets some warmth of brotherhood by walling in the sacred fire.

 CHAPTER 3

    A Voice from the Past

    Oernoohe chestnuts were ing into flower, Maggie had brought her chair outside the front door and was seated there with a book on her knees. Her dark eyes had wandered from the book, but they did not seem to be enjoying the sunshine which pierced the s of jasmine on the projeg porch at her right and threw leafy shadows on her pale round cheek; they seemed rather to be searg for something that was not disclosed by the sunshi had been a more miserable day than usual: her father, after a visit of Wakems had had a paroxysm e, in which for some trifling fault he had beaten the boy who served in the mill. Once before, since his illness, he had had a similar paroxysm, in which he had beaten his horse, and the se had left a lasting terror in Maggies mind. The thought had risen, that some time or other he might beat her mother if she happeo speak in her feeble way at the wrong moment. The kee of all dread with her was, lest her father should add to his present misfortuhe wretess of doing something irretrievably disgraceful. The battered school-book of Toms which she held on her knees, could give her no fortitude uhe pressure of that dread, and again and again her eyes had filled with tears, as they wandered vaguely, seeiher the chestnut trees nor the distant horizon, but only future ses of home-sorrow. Suddenly she was roused by the sound of the opening gate and of footsteps on the gravel. It was not Tom who was entering, but a man in a sealskin cap and a blue plush waistcoat, carrying a pa his back, and followed closely by a bull-terrier of brindled coat and defiant aspect.

    `O Bob, its you! said Maggie, starting up with a smile of pleased reition, for there had been no abundance of kind acts to efface the recolle of Bobs generosity. `Im so glad to see you.

    `Thank you, Miss, said Bob, lifting his cap and showing a delighted face, but immediately relieving himself of some apanying embarrassment by looking down at his dog, and saying in a tone of disgust, `Get out wi you, you thunderin sawney!

    `My brother is not at home yet, Bob, said Maggie, `he is always at St Oggs in the daytime.

    `Well, Miss, said Bob, `I should be glad to see Mr Tom - but that isnt just what Im e for - look here!

    Bob was i of depositing his pa the doorstep, and with it a row of small books fasteogether with string. Apparently, however, they were not the object to which he wished to call Maggies attention, but rather something which he had carried under his arm, ed in a red handkerchief.

    `See here! he said again, laying the red parcel ohers and unfolding it, `you wont think Im a-makin too free, Miss, I hope, but I lighted on these books, and I thought they might make up to you a bit for them as youve lost; for I heared you speak o picturs - an as for picturs, look here!

    The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a superannuated `Keepsake and six or seven numbers of a `Portrait Gallery, in royal octavo; and the emphatic request to look referred to a portrait of Gee the Fourth in all the majesty of his depressed ium and voluminous neckcloth.

    `Theres all sorts o genelmen here, Bob went on, turning over the leaves with some excitement, `wi all sorts o noses - an some bald an some wi wigs - Parlament genelmen, I re. An here, he added, opening the `Keepsake, `heres ladies for you, some wi curly hair and some wismooth, an some a-smiling wi their heads o one side ansome as if they was goin to cry - look here - a-sittin on the ground out o door dressed like the ladies In see out othe carriages at the balls in th Old Hall there. My eyes, I wonder what the chaps wear as go a-courtin em! I sot up till the clock was gowelve last night a-lookin at em - I did - till they stared at me out o the picturs as if theyd know when I spoke to em. But, lors! I shouldnt know what to say to em. Theyll be more fittin pany for you, Miss, and the man at the book-stall, he said they banged ivery-things for picturs - he said they was a fust-rate article.

    `And youve bought them for me, Bob? said Maggie, deeply touched by this simple kindness. `How very, very good of you! But Im afraid you gave a great deal of money for them.

    `Not me! said Bob. `Id ha gev three times the money, if theyll make up to you a bit for them as was sold away from you, Miss. For In niver fot how you looked when you fretted about the books bein gone - its stuck by me as if it ictur hingin before me. An when I seed the book open upo the stall, wi the lady lookin out of it wi eyes a bit life yourn when you was frettin - youll excuse my takin the liberty, Miss - I thought Id make free to buy it for you, an then I bought the books full o geo match - an then - here Bob took up the small stringed packet of books - `I thought you might like a bit more print as well as the picturs, an I got these for a say-so - theyre cram-full o print, an I thought theyd do no harm in along wi these bettermost books. An I hope you wont say me nay, an tell me as you wont have em, like Mr Tom did wi the suvreigns.

    `No, indeed, Bob, said Maggie, `Im very thankful to you for thinking of me, and being so good to me and Tom. I dont think any one ever did such a kind thing for me before. I havent many friends who care for me.

    `Hev a dog, Miss - theyre better friends nor any Christian, said Bob, laying down his pack again, which he had taken up with the iion of hurrying away; for he felt siderable shyness in talking to a young lass like Maggie, though, as he usually said of himself, `his tongue overrun him when he began to speak. `I t give you Mumps, cause hed break his heart to go away from me - Eh, Mumps, what do you say, you riff-raff? - (Mumps deed to express himself more diffusely than by a single affirmative movement of his tail.) `But Id get you a pup, Miss, an wele.

    `No, thank you, Bob. We have a yard dog, and I maynt keep a dog of my own.

    `Eh, thats a pity: else theres a pup - if you didnt mind about it not bein thh bred - its mother acts in the Punch show - an unon sensable bitch - she means more sense wi her bark nor half the chaps  put into their talk from breakfast to sundown. Theres one chap carries pots, a poor low trade as any on the road - he says, &quot;Why, Tobys nought but a mongrel - theres nought to look at in her.&quot; But I says to him, &quot;Why, what are you yoursen but a mohere wasnt much pi o your feyther an mother, to look at you.&quot; Not but what I like a bit o breed myself, but I t abide to see one cur grinnin at another. I wish you good evenin, Miss, added Bob, abruptly taking up his pack again, uhe scioushat his tongue was ag in an undisciplined manner.

    `Wont you e in the evening some time, and see my brother, Bob? said Maggie.

    `Yes, Miss, thank you - aime. Youll give my duty to him, if you please. Eh, hes a fine growed chap, Mr Tom is; he took to growin i the legs, an I didnt.

    The pack was down again, now - the hook of the stick having somehow gone wrong.

    `You dont call Mumps a cur, I suppose, said Maggie, divining that any i she showed in Mumps would be gratifying to his master.

    `No, Miss, a fine way off that, said Bob, with a pitying smile, `Mumps is as fine a cross as youll see anywhere along the Floss, an In been up it wi the barge times enoo. Why, the gentry stops to look at him, but you wont catch Mumps a-looking at the gentry much - he minds his own business - he does.

    The expression of Mumpss face, which seemed to be tolerating the superfluous existence of objects in general, was strongly firmatory of this high praise.

    `He looks dreadfully surly, said Maggie. `Would he let me pat him?

    `Ay, that would he, and thank you. He knows his pany, Mumps does. He isnt a dog as ull be caught wi gingerbread: hed smell a thief a good deal stronger nor the gingerbread - he would. Lors, I talk to him by th hether, when Im walking ilone places, and if In done a bit o mischief - I allays tell him - In got s but what Mumps knows em. He knows about my big thumb, he does.

    `Y thumb - whats that Bob? said Maggie.

    `Thats what it is, Miss, said Bob, quickly, exhibiting a singularly broad spe of that differeween the man and the monkey. 85 `It tells i measuring out the flannel, you see. I carry flannel, cause its light for my pack, an its dea<details></details>r stuff, you see, so a big thumb tells. I clap my thumb at the end o the yard and cut o the hither side of it, and the old wome up tot.

    `But, Bob, said Maggie, looking serious, `thats cheating: I dont like to hear you say that.

    `Dont you, Miss? said Bretfully. `Then Im sorry I said it. But Im so used to talking to Mumps, an he doesnt mind a bit o cheating, when its them skinflint women, as haggle and haggle, an ud like to get their flannel for nothing, an ud niver ask theirselves how I got my dinner out ont. I niver cheat anybody as doesnt want to cheat me, Miss - lors, Im a ho chap, I am, only I must hev a bit o sport, an now I dont go wi the ferrets, In got no varmint to e over but them haggling women. I wish you good evening, Miss.

    `Goodby, Bob. Thank you very much fihe books. And e again to see Tom.

    `Yes, Miss, said Bob, moving on a few steps; then turning half round, he said, `Ill leave off that trick wi my big thumb, if you dont think well on me for it, Miss - but it ud be a pity, it would. I couldnt find arick so good - an what ud be the use o havin a big thumb? It might as well ha been narrer.

    Maggie, thus exalted into Bobs direg Madonna, laughed in spite of herself, at which her worshippers blue eyes twioo, and uhese fav auspices he touched his cap and walked away.

    The days of chivalry are not gone, notwithstanding Burkes grand dirge over them: they live still in that far-off worship paid by many a youth and man to the woman of whom he never dreams that he shall touuch as her little finger or the hem of her robe. Bob, with the pa his back, had as respectful an adoration for this dark-eyed maiden as if he had been a knight in armour calling aloud on her name as he pricked on to the fight.

    That gleam of merriment soon died away from Maggies face, and perhaps only made the returning gloom deeper by trast. She was too dispirited even to like answering questions about Bobs present of books, and she carried them away to her bedroom, laying them down there aing herself on her oool, without g to look at them just yet. She leaned her cheek against the window frame and thought that the light-hearted Bob had a lot much happier than hers.

    Maggies sense of loneliness and utter privation of joy had deepened with the brightness of advang spring. All the favourite outdoor nooks about home, which seemed to have doheir part with her parents in nurturing and cherishing her, were not mixed up with the home sadness and gathered no smile from the sunshine. Every affe, every delight the poor child had had was like an ag o her. There was no music for her any more - no piano, no harmonised voices, no delicious stringed instruments with their passionate cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibration through her frame. And of all her school life, there was nothi her now but her little colle of school books, which she turned over with a siing sehat she khem all, and they were all barren of fort. Even at school she had often wished for books with more in them: everything she learhere seemed like the ends of long threads that snapped immediately. And now - without the i charm of sulation - Télémaque was mere bran: so were the hard dry quest<details></details>ions on Christian doe: there was no flavour in them, nth. Sometimes Maggie thought she could have been tented with abs fancies: if she could have had all Scotts novels and all Byrons poems! - then perhaps she might have found happiness enough to dull her sensibility to her actual daily life. A... they were hardly what she wanted. She could make dream-worlds of her own - but no dream-world would satisfy her now. She wanted some explanation of this hard, real life: the unhappy-looking father seated at the dull breakfast-table; the childish bewildered mother; the little sordid tasks that filled the hours, or the more oppressive emptiness of weary, joyless leisure; the need of some tender, demonstrative love; the cruel sehat Tom didnt mind what she thought or felt, and that they were no longer playfellows together; the privation of all pleasant things that had e to her more than to others: she wanted some key that would enable her to uand and, in uanding, ehe heavy weight that had fallen on her you. If she had been taught `real learning and wisdom, such as great men knew, she thought she should have held the secrets of life; if she had only books that she might learn for herself what wise men knew! Saints and martyrs had never ied Maggie so much as sages and poets. She knew little of saints and martyrs, and had gathered, as a general result of her teag, that they were a temporary provision against the spread of Catholicism and had all died at Smithfield.

    In one of these meditations, it occurred to her that she had fotton Toms school-books, which had bee home in his trunk. But she found the stoatably shrunk down to the few old ones which had beehumbed - the Latin Diary and Grammar, a Delectus, a torropius, the well-worn Virgil, Aldrichs Logid the exasperating Euclid. Still, Latin, Euclid and Logic would surely be a siderable step in mase wisdom - in that knowledge which made men tented and even glad to live. Not that the yearning for effectual wisdom was quite unmixed: a certain mirage would now and then rise on the desert of the future, in which she seemed to see herself honoured for her surprising attais. And so the poor child, with her souls hunger and her illusions of self-flattery, began to nibble at this thick-rinded fruit of the tree of knowledge, filling her vat hours with Latiry, and the forms of the syllogism, and feeling a gleam of triumph now and then that her uanding was quite equal to these peculiarly mase studies. For a week or two she went on resolutely enough, though with an occasional sinking of heart, as if she had set out toward the Promised Land alone, and found it a thirsty, trackless, uain journey. In the severity of her early resolution she would take Aldrich out into the fields, and then look off her book towards the sky where the lark was twinkling or to the reeds and bushes by the river wh<big></big>ere the water-fowl rustled out on her anxious, awkward flight - with a startled sehat the relatioween Aldrid this living world was extremely remote for her. The discement deepened as the days went on, and the eager heart gained faster and faster oient mind. Somehow, whe at the window with her book, her eyes would fix themselves blankly odoor sunshihen they would fill with tears, and sometimes, if her mother was not in the room, the studies would all end in sobbing. She rebelled against her lot, she fainted us loneliness, and fits even of anger and hatred towards her father and mother who were so unlike what she would have them to be - towards Tom, who checked her a her thought or feeling always by some thwarting difference - would flow out over her affes and sce like a lava stream and frighten her with the sehat it was not difficult for her to bee a demon. Then her brain would be busy with wild romances of a flight from home in search of something less sordid and dreary: - she would go to some great man - Walter Scott, perhaps, and tell him how wretched and how clever she was, and he would surely do something for her. But in the middle of her vision her father would perhaps ehe room for the evening, and, surprised that she sat still, without notig him, would say plainingly, `e, am I to fetch my slippers myself? The voice pierced through Maggie like a sword: there was another sadness besides her own, and she had been thinking of turning her ba it and forsaking it.

    This afternoon, the sight of Bobs cheerful freckled face had given her distent a new dire. She thought it art of the hardship of her life that there was laid upohe burthen of larger wants than others seemed to feel, that she had to ehis wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that was greatest a on this earth. She wished she could have been like Bob, with his easily satisfied ignorance, or like Tom, who had something to do on which he could fix his mind with a steady purpose and disregard everything else. Poor child! as she leaned her head against the window-frame with her hands clasped tighter and tighter and her foot beating the ground, she was as lonely irouble as if she had been the only girl in the civilised world of that day, who had e out of her school-life with a soul untrained for iable struggles - with no other part of her ied share in the hard-won treasures of thought, which geions of painful toil have laid up for the raen than shreds and patches of feeble literature and false history - with much futile information about Saxon and other kings of doubtful example, but unhappily quite without that knowledge of the irreversible laws within and without her which, g the habits, bees morality, and, developing the feelings of submission and dependence, bees religion: - as lonely irouble as if every irl besides herself had been cherished and watched over by elder minds, not fetful of their own early time when need was keen and impulse strong.

    At last Maggies eyes glanced down on the books that lay on the window shelf, and she half forsook her reverie to turn over listlessly the leaves of the `Portrait Gallery, but she soon pushed this aside to examihe little row of books tied together with string. `Beauties of the Spectator, `Rasselas, `Ey of Human Life, `Gregorys Letters - she khe sort of matter that was inside all these: the `Christian Year - that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid it down again; but Thomas à Kempis? - the name had e across her in her reading, and she felt the satisfa, which every one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a hat strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little, old, clumsy book with some curiosity: it had the ers turned down in many places, and some hand, now for ever quiet, had made at certain passages strong pen and ink marks, long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to leaf and read where the quiet hand pointed... `Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world... If thou seekest this or that, and wouldst be here or there, to enjoy thy own will and pleasure thou shalt never be quiet nor free from care: for ihing somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will cross thee... Both above and below, which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere thou shalt find the Cross: and everywhere of y thou must have patience, if thou wilt have ineace, and enjoy an everlasting ... If thou desire to mount unto this height, thou must set out ceously, and lay the axe to the root; that thou mayst pluck up aroy that hidden inordinate ination to thyself, and unto all private ahly good. On this sin, that a man inordinately loveth himself, almost all depeh, whatsoever is thhly to be overe; which evil being once overe and subdued, there will presently ensue great pead tranquillity... It is but little thou sufferest in parison of them that have suffered so much, were sly tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest therefore to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayst the easier bear thy little adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause thereof... Blessed are those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice, and listen not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are those ears which hearken not unto the voice which souh outwardly, but unto the Truth which teacheth inwardly...

    A strahrill of a<kbd>.99lib.</kbd>we passed through Maggie while she read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir while hers was in stupor. She went on from one brown mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, hardly scious that she was reading - seeming rather to listen while a low voice said,

    `Why dost thou here gaze about, sihis is not the place of thy rest? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy jourhither. All things pass away, and thou together with them. Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be entangled and perish... If a man should give all his substance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great penances, yet are they but little. And if he should attain to all knowledge, he is yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue, and very ferveio is there much wanting; to wit, ohing, which is most necessary for him. What is that? That havi all, he leave himself, and go wholly out of himself, aain nothing of self-love... I have often said unto thee, and now again I say the same: Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy mueace... Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations, and superfluous cares fly away; then shall immoderate fear leave thee and inordinate love shall die.

    Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other secrets - here was a sublime height to be reached without the help of outward things - here was insight, and strength, and quest, to be won by meairely within her own soul, where a supreme teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of a problem, that all the miseries of her young life had e from fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the tral y of the universe; and for the first time she saw the possibility of shifting the position from which she looked at the gratification of her own desires, of takiand out of herself, and looking at her own life as an insignifit part of a divinely guided whole. She read on and on in the old book, dev eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength; returning to it after she had been called away, and reading till the su down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deepening twilight f plans of self-humiliation aire devotedness, and in the ardour of first discovery, renunciation seemed to her the entrao that satisfa which she had so long been craving in vain. She had not perceived - how could she until she had lived longer? - the inmost truth of the old monks outps, that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still panting for happiness, and was iasy because she had found the key to it. She knew nothing of does and systems - of mysticism or quietism: but this voice out of the far-off middle ages, was the direunication of a human souls belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an uioned message.

    I suppose that is the reason why the small old-fashioned book, for which you need only pay sixpe a book-stall, works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness; while expensive sermons and treatises newly issued leave all things as they were before. It was written down by a hand that waited for the hearts prompting, it is the icle of a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust and triumph - not written o cushions to teadurao those who are treading with bleedi oones. And so it remains to all time, a lasting record of human needs and human solations, the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt and suffered and renounced - in the cloister, perhaps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with much ting and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from ours - but uhe same silent far-off heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weariness.

    In writing the history of unfashionable families, one is apt to fall into a tone of emphasis which is very far from being the tone of good society, where principles and beliefs are not only of aremely moderate kind, but are alresupposed, no subjects being eligible but such as  be touched with a light and graceful irony. But then, good society has its claret and its velvet carpets, its dinner-es six weeks deep, its opera and its fa?ry ballrooms; rides of its ennui on thhbred horses, lou the club, has to keep clear of oline vortices, gets is sce done by Faraday, and its religion by the superior clergy who are to be met in the best houses: how should it have time or need for belief and emphasis? But good society, floated on gossamer wings of light irony, is of very expensive produ; requiring nothihan a wide and arduous national life densed in unfragrant deafening factories, cramping itself in mines, sweating at furnaces, grinding, hammering, weaving under more or less oppression of carbonic acid - or else, spread over sheepwalks, and scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey or chalky lands, where the rainy days look dreary. This wide national life is based entirely on emphasis - the emphasis of want, which urges it into all the activities necessary for the maintenance of good society and light irony: it spends its heavy years often in a chill, uncarpeted fashion amidst family discord unsoftened by long corridors. Under such circumstahere are many among its myriads of souls who have absolutely needed an emphatic belief, life in this unpleasurable shape demanding some solutioo unspeculative minds; just as you inquire into the stuffing of your couch when anything galls you ther<bdo>99lib.</bdo>e, whereas eider-doerfect French sprie no question. Some have an emphatic belief in alcohol, aheir ekstasis or outside standing-ground in gin, but the rest require something that good society calls enthusiasm, something that will present motives in aire absence of high prizes, something that will give patiend feed human love when the limbs ache with weariness and human looks are hard upon us - something, clearly, that lies outside personal desires, that includes resignation for ourselves and active love for what is not ourselves. Now and then that sort of enthusiasm finds a far-eg voice that es from an experience springing out of the deepest need. And it was by being brought within the long lingering vibrations of such a voice that Maggie, with her girls fad unnoted sorrows, found an effort and a hope that helped her through two years of loneliness, making out a faith for herself without the aid of established authorities and appointed guides - for they were not at hand, and her need ressing. From what you know of her, you will not be surprised that she threw some exaggera and wilfulness, some pride and impetuosity even into her self-renunciation: her own life was still a drama for her, in which she demanded of herself that her part should be played with iy. And so it came to pass that she often lost the spirit of humility by being excessive iward act; she often strove after too high a flight and came down with her poor little half-fledged wings dabbled in the mud. For example, she not only determio work at plain sewing, that she might tribute something towards the fund iin box, but she went in the first instan her zeal of self-mortification to ask for it at a linen-shop in St Oggs, instead of getting it in a more quiet and i way, and could see nothing but what was entirely wrong and unkind, nay, perseg, in Toms reproof of her for this unnecessary act. `I dont like my sister to do such things, said Tom, `Ill take care that the debts are paid, without your l yourself in that way. Surely there was some tenderness and bravery mingled with the worldliness and self-assertion of that little speech, but Maggie held it as dross, overlooking the grains of gold, and took Toms rebuke as one of her outward crosses. Tom was very hard to her, she used to think, in her long night-watgs - to her who had always loved him so; and therove to be tented with that hardness, and to require nothing. That is the path we all like whe out on our abando of egoism - the path of martyrdom and endurance, where the palm-branches grow, rather thaeep highway of tolerance, just allowance, and self-blame, where there are no leafy honours to be gathered and worn.

    The old books, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich - that wrinkled fruit of the tree of knowledge - had been all laid by, fgie had turned her ba the vain ambition to share the thoughts of the wise. In her first ardour, she flung away the books with a sort of triumph that she had risen above the need of them, and if they had been her own she would have burhem, believing that she would never repent. She read so eagerly and stantly ihree books, the Bible, Thomas-à-Kempis, and the `Christian Year (no longer rejected as a `hymn-book) that they filled her mind with a tinual stream of rhythmic memories; and she was too ardently learning to see all nature and life in the light of her new faith to need any other material for her mind to work on, as she sat with her well-plied needle, making shirts and other plicated stitgs falsely called `plain - by no means plain to Maggie, since wristband and sleeve and the like had a capability of being sewed-in wrong side outwards in moments of mental wandering.

    Hanging diligently over her sewing, Maggie was a sight any one might have been pleased to look at. That new inward life of hers, notwithstanding some volic upheavings of imprisoned passions, yet sho in her face with a tender soft light that miself as added loveliness with the gradually enriched colour and outline of her blossoming youth. Her mother felt the ge in her with a sort of puzzled wohat Maggie should be `growing up so good; it was amazing that this once `trairy child was bee so submissive, so backward to assert her own will. Maggie used to look up from her work and find her mothers eyes fixed upohey were watg and waiting for the large young glance, as if her elder frame got some needful warmth from it. The mother was getting fond of her tall, brown girl, the only bit of furniture now on which she could bestow her ay and pride, and Maggie, in spite of her own ascetic wish to have no personal ador was obliged to give way to her mother about her hair and submit to have the abundant black locks plaited into a et on the summit of her head after the pitiable fashion of those antiquated times.

    `Let your mother have that bit o pleasure, my dear, said Mrs Tulliver, `Id trouble enough with your hair once.

    So Maggie, glad of anything that would soothe her mother and cheer their long day together, seo the vain decoration, and showed a queenly head above her old frocks - steadily refusing, however, to look at herself in the glass. Mrs Tulliver liked to call the fathers attention to Maggies hair and other ued virtues, but he had a brusque reply to give.

    `I knew well enough what shed be, before now - its nothio me. But its a pity she isnt made o ouff - shell be thrown away, I doubt: therell be nobody to marry her as is fit for her.

    And Maggies graind and body fed his gloom. He sat patiently enough while she read him a chapter, or said something timidly when they were aloogether about trouble being turned into a blessing. He took it all as part of his daughters goodness, which made his misfortuhe sadder to him because they damaged her ge in life. In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings: Mr Tulliver did not want spiritual solation - he wao shake off the degradation of debt and to have his revenge.

 BOOK 5 CHAPTER 1

    In the Red Deeps

    THE family sittingroom was long room with a window at ead - one looking towards the croft and along the Ripple to the banks of the Floss, the other into the mill-yard. Maggie was sitting with her wainst the latter window when she saw Mr Wakem entering the yard, as usual, on his fine black horse; but not alone, as usual. Some one was with him - a figure in a clock, on a handsome pony. Maggie had hardly time to feel that it hilip e back, before they were in front of the window, and he was raising his hat to her, while his father, catg the movement by a side glance, looked sharply round at them both. Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her work up-stairs; for Mr Wakem sometimes came in and ied the books, and Maggie felt that the meeting with Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in the presence of the two fathers. Some day, perhaps, she should see him when they could just shake hands and she could tell him that she remembered his goodo Tom, and the things he had said to her in the old days, though they could never be friends any more. It was not at all agitating to Maggie to see Philip again: she retained her childish gratitude and pity towards him and remembered his cleverness; and in the early weeks of her loneliness she had tinually recalled the image of him among the people who had been kind to her in life, often wishing she had him for a brother and a teacher, as they had fa might have been, ialk together. But that sort of wishing had been banished along with other dreams that savoured of seeking her own will; and she thought, besides, that Philip might be altered by his life abroad - he might have bee worldly, and really not care about her saying anything to him now. A, his face was wonderfully little altered - it was only a larger, more manly copy of the pale small-featured boys face, with the grey eyes and the boyish waving brown hair; there was the old deformity to awaken the old pity, and after all her meditations, Maggie felt that she really should like to say a few words to him. He might still be melancholy, as he always used to be, and like her to look at him kindly. She wondered if he remembered how he used to like her eyes. With that thought Maggie glaowards the square looking-glass which was o hang with its face towards the wall, and she half-started from her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and snatched up her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by f her memory to recall snatches of hymns, until she saw Philip and his father returning along the road, and she could go down again.

    It was far on in June now, and Maggie was ined to lehe daily walk which was her one indulgence; but this day and the following she was so busy with work which must be fihat she never went beyond the gate, and satisfied her need of the open air by sitting out of doors. One of her frequent walks, when she was not obliged to go to St Oggs, was to a spot that lay beyond what was called the `hill - an insignifit rise of ground ed by trees, lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of Dorlill. Insignifit, I call it, because i it was hardly more than a bank; - but there may oments when Nature makes a mere bank a means towards a fateful result, and that is why I ask you to imagihis high bank ed with trees, making an uneven wall for some quarter of a mile along t<u>9９ｌｉｂ?</u>he left side of Dorlill and the pleasant fields behind it bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just where this line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road turned off ao the other side of the rise, where it was broken into very capricious hollows and mounds by the w of an exhausted stone-quarry - so long exhausted that both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles and trees, and here and there by a stretch of grass which a few sheep kept close-nibbled. In her childish days Maggie held this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, and needed all her fiden Toms bravery to recile her to an excursion thither, visions of robbers and fierimals haunting every hollow. But now it had the charm for her whiy broken ground, any mimic rod ravine have for the eyes that rest habitually on the level, especially in summer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow uhe shadow of a brang ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her, and listen to the hum of is, like ti bells on the garment of Silence, or see the sunlight pierg the distant boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenly blue of the wild hyaths. In this Juime too, the dogroses were in their glory, and that was an additional reason why Maggie should direct her walk to the Red Deeps, rather than to any other spot, on the first day she was free to wa her will - a pleasure she loved so well that sometimes, in her ardours of renunciation, she thought she ought to deny herself the frequent indulgen it.

    You may see her now, as she walks down the favourite turning aers the Deeps by a narrow path through a group of Scotch firs - her tall figure and old lavender gown visible through an hereditary black silk shawl of some wide-meshed -like material; and now she is sure of being unseen, she takes off her bo and ties it over her arm. One would certainly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seveh year - perhaps because of the slned sadness of the glance, from which all seard u seem to have departed, perhaps because her broad-chested figure has the mould of early womanhood. Youth ah have withstood well the involuntary and voluntary hardships of her lot, and the nights in which she has lain on the hard floor for a penance have left no obvious trace: the eyes are liquid, the brown cheek is firm and rouhe full lips are red. With her dark c a  surmountiall figure, she seems to have a sort of kinship with the grand Scotch firs, at which she is looking up as if she loved them well. Yet one has a sense of uneasiness in looking at her - a sense of opposing elements, of which a fierce collision is immi: surely there is a hushed expression such as oen sees in older faces under borderless caps, out of keeping with the resistant youth, whie expects to flash out in a sudden, passionate glahat will dissipate all the quietude, like a damped fire leaping out again when all seemed safe.

    But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She was calmly enjoying the free air, while she looked up at the old fir-trees and thought that those broken ends of branches were the records of past storms which had only made the red stems sher. But while her eyes were still turned upward, she became scious of a moving shadow cast by the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked down with a startled gesture to see Philip Wakem, who first raised his hat, and then blushing deeply, came forward to her and put out his hand. Maggie too coloured with surprise which soon gave way to pleasure. She put out her hand and looked down at the lower deformed figure before her with frank eyes, filled for the moment with nothing but the memory of her childs feelings - a memory that was always strong in her. She was the first to speak.

    `You startled me, she said, smiling faintly. `I never meet any one here. How came you to be walking here? Did you e to meet me?

    It was impossible not to perceive that Maggie felt herself a child again.

    `Yes, I did, said Philip, still embarrassed. `I wished to see you very much. I watched a long while yesterday on the bank near your house to see if you would e out; but you never came. Then I watched again today, and when I saw the way you took, I kept you in sight and came down the bank, behind there. I hope you will not be displeased with me.

    `No, said Maggie with simple seriousness, walking on, as if she meant Philip to apany her, `Im very glad you came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of speaking to you. Ive never fotten how good you were long ago to Tom, aoo; but I was not sure that you would remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great deal of trouble sihen, and I think that makes ohink more of what happened before the trouble came.

    `I t believe that you have thought of me so much as I have thought of you, said Philip, timidly. `Do you know, when I was away, I made a picture of you as you looked that m iudy when you said you would not fet me.

    Philip drew a large miniature-case from his pocket, and ope. Maggie saw her old self leaning on a table, with her black locks hanging down behind her ears, looking into space with strange, dreamy eyes. It was a water-colour sketch, of real merit as a portrait.

    `O dear, said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure. `What a queer little girl I was. I remember myself with my hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really was like a gypsy. I daresay I am now, she added, after a little pause: `am I like what you expected me to be?

    The words might have been those of a coquette, but the full bright glance Maggie turned on Philip was not that of a coquette. She really did hope he liked her face as it was now, but it was simply the rising again of her innate delight in admiration and love. Philip met her eyes and looked at her in silence for a long moment, before he said, quietly, `No, Maggie.

    The light died out a little from Maggies face, and there was a slight trembling of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, but she did not turn away her head, and Philip tio look at her. Then he said, slowly,

    `You are very much more beautiful than I thought you would be.

    `Am I? said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper flush. She turned her face away from him and took some steps looking straight before her in silence, as if she were adjusting her sciouso this new idea. Girls are so aced to think of dress as the main ground of vanity, that in abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggie had thought more of abandoning all care for ador, than of renoung the plation of her face. paring herself with elegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that she could produy effect with her person. Philip seemed to like the silence well. He walked by her side, watg her face, as if that sight left no room for any other wish. They had <q></q>passed from among the fir-trees and had now e to a green hollow almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of the pale pink dogroses. But as the light about them had brightened, Maggies face had lost its glow. She stood still when they were in the hollows, and looking at Philip again, she said in a serious, sad voice,

    `I wish we could have been friends - I mean, if it would have been good and right for us. But that is the trial I have to bear ihing: I may not keep anything I used to love when I was little. The old books went; and Tom is different - and my father. It is like death. I must part with everything I cared for when I was a child. And I must part with you: we must ake any notice of each ain. That was that I wao speak to you for. I wao let you know, that Tom and I t do as we like about such things, and that if I behave as if I had fotten all about you, it is not out of envy or pride - or - or any bad feeling.

    Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as she went on, and her eyes began to fill with tears. The deepening expression of pain of Philips face gave him a stronger resemblao his boyish self, and made the deformity appeal more strongly to her pity.

    `I know - I see all that you mean, he said in a voice that had bee feebler from discement, `I know what there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is nht, Maggie - dont you be angry with me, I am so used to call you Maggie in my thoughts - it is nht to sacrifice everything to other peoples unreasonable feelings. I would give up a great deal for my father; but I would not give up a friendship or - or an attat of any sort, in obedieo any wish of his that I didnt reise as right.

    `I dont know, said Maggie, musingly. `Often, when I have been angry and distented, it has seemed to me that I was not bound to give up anything - and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that I could think away all my duty. But no good has ever e of that - it was an evil state of mind. Im quite sure that whatever I might do, I should wish in the end that I had gohout anything for myself, rather than have made my fathers life harder to him.

    `But would it make his life harder, if we were to see each other sometimes? said Philip. He was going to say something else, but checked himself.

    `O, Im sure he wouldnt like it. Dont ask me why, or anything about it, said Maggie, in a distressed tone. `My father feels sly about some things. He is not at all happy.

    `No more am I, said Philip, impetuously, `I am not happy.

    `Why? said Maggie, gently. `At least - I ought not to ask - but Im very, very sorry.

    Philip turo walk on as if he had not patieo stand still any longer, and they went out of the hollow, winding amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last word of Philips Maggie could not bear to insist immediately on their parting.

    `Ive been a great deal happier, she said, at last, timidly, `since I have given up thinking about what is easy and pleasant, and being distented because I couldnt have my own will. Our life is determined for us - and it makes the mind very free when we give up wishing and only think of bearing what is laid upon us and doing what is given us to do.

    `But I <var>99lib?</var>t give up wishing, said Philip, impatiently. `It seems to me we ever give up longing and wishing while we are thhly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them. How  we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings are deadened? I delight in fine pictures - I long to be able to paint such. I strive and strive, and t produce what I want. That is pain to me, and always will be pain, until my faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then, there are many other things I long for - here Philip hesitated a little, and then said - `things that other men have, and that will always be denied me. My life will have nothing great or beautiful in it - I would rather not have lived.

    `O Philip, said Maggie, `I wish you didnt feel so. But her heart began to beat with something of Philips distent.

    `Well, then, said he, turning quickly round and fixing his grey eyes eingly on her face, `I should be teo live, if you would let me see you sometimes. Then, checked by a fear which her face suggested, he looked away again, and said more calmly, `I have no friend to whom I  tell everything - no one who cares enough about me. And if I could only see you now and then, and you would let me talk to you a little, and show me that you cared for me - and that we may always be friends i, and help each other - then I might e to be glad of life.

    `But how  I see you, Philip? said Maggie, falteringly. (Could she really do him good? It would be very hard to say `good-by this day, and not speak to him again. Here was a new io vary the days - it was so much easier to renouhe i before it came.)

    `If you would let me see you here sometimes - walk with you here - I would be tented if it were only once or twi a month. That could injure no ones happiness, and it would sweeten my life. Besides-- Philip went on, with all the iive astuteness of love at one-and-twenty, `if there is ay between those who belong to us, we ought all the more to try and quench it by our friendship - I mean, that by our influen both sides we might bring about a healing of the wounds that have been made in the past, if I could know everything about them. And I dont believe there is ay in my own fathers mind: I think he has proved the trary.

    Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under flig thoughts. It seemed to her ination that to see Philip now and then and keep up the bond of friendship with him, was something not only i but good; perhaps she might really help him to find te, as she had found it. The voice that said this made sweet musiaggie; but athwart it there came an urgent monotonous warning from another voice which she had been learning to obey - the warning that suterviews implied secrecy, implied doing something she would dread to be discovered in, something that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain, and that the admission of anything so near doubleness would act as a spiritual blight. Yet the music would swell out again, like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, persuadihat the wrong lay all in the faults and weaknesses of others, and that there was such a thing as futile sacrifice for oo the injury of another. It was very cruel for Philip that he should be shrunk from because of an unjustifiable vindictiveowards his father - poor Philip, whom some people would shrink from only because he was deformed. The idea that he might bee her lover, or that her meeting him could cause disap<details></details>proval in that light, had not occurred to her, and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough - saw it with a certain pang, although it made her sent to his request the less unlikely. There was bittero him in the perception that Maggie was almost as frank and unstraiowards him as when she was a child.

    `I t say either yes or no, she said at last, turning round and walking towards the way she had e, `I must wait, lest I should decide wrongly. I must seek fuidance.

    `May I e again, then - to-morrow - or the  day - or  week?

    `I think I had better write, said Maggie faltering again. `I have to go to St Oggs sometimes, and I  put the letter in the post.

    `O no, said Philip eagerly. `That would not be so well. My father might see the letter - and - he has not ay, I believe, but he views things differently from me; he thinks a great deal about wealth and position. Pray let me e here once more. Tell me when it shall be; or, if you t tell me, I will e as often as I  till I do see you.

    `I think it must be so, then, said Maggie, `for I t be quite certain of ing here any particular evening.

    Maggie felt a great relief in adj the decision. She was free now to enjoy the minutes of panionship - she almost thought she might linger a little: the ime they met, she should have to pain Philip by telling him her determination.

    `I t help thinking, she said, looking smilingly at him, after a few moments of silence, `how stra is that we should have met and talked to each other just as if it had been only yesterday when we parted at Lorton. A we must both be very much altered in those five years - I think it is five years. How was it you seemed to have a sort of feeling that I was the same Maggie? - I was not quite so sure that you would be the same: I know you are so clever, and you must have seen a so much to fill your mind - I was not quite sure you would care about me now.

    `I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, whenever I might see you, said Philip. `I mean, the same ihing that made me like you better than any one els<a></a>e. I dont want to explain that: I dont think any of the stro effects our natures are susceptible of  ever be explained. We either detect the process by which they are arrived at nor the mode in which they a us. The greatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child - he couldnt have told how he did it - and we t tell why we feel it to be divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature that our uanding  make no plete iory of. Certain strains of music affect me sely - I ever hear them without their ging my whole attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect would last I might be capable of heroisms.

    `Ah! I know what you mean about music - I feel so, said Maggie, clasping her hands with her old impetuosity. `At least, she added, in a saddeone, `I used to feel so when I had any music: I never have any now, except the an at church.

    `And you long for it, Maggie? said Philip, looking at her with affeate pity. `Ah, you  have very little that is beautiful in your life. Have you many books? You were so fond of them when you were a little girl.

    They were e back to the hollow, round which the dogroses grew, and they both paused uhe charm of the fa?ry evening light, reflected from the pale-pink clusters.

    `No, I have given up books, said Maggie, quietly, `except a very, very few.

    Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, and was looking at the back, as he said,

    `Ah, this is the sed volume, I see, else you might have liked to take it home with you. I put it in my pocket because I am studying a se for a picture.

    Maggie had looked at the back too and saw the title: it revived an old impression with overmastering force.

    `&quot;The Pirate,&quot; she said, taking the book from Philips hands. `O, I began that once - I read to where Minna is walking with Cleveland - and I could never get to read the rest. I went on with it in my own head, and I made several endings; but they were all unhappy. I could never make a happy ending out of that beginning. Poor Minna! I wonder what is the real end. For a long while I could my mind away from the Shetland Isles - I used to feel the wind blowing on me from the rough sea.

    Maggie spoke rapidly with glistening eyes.

    `Take that volume home with you, Maggie, said Philip, watg her with delight. `I dont want it now. I shall make a picture of you, instead - you among the Scotch firs and the slanting shadows.

    Maggie had not heard a word he had said - she was absorbed in a page at which she had opened. But suddenly she closed the book, and gave it back to Philip shaking her head with a backward movement, as if to say `avaunt to floating visions.

    `Do keep it, Maggie, said Philip, eingly, `it will give you pleasure.

    `No, thank you, said Maggie, putting it aside with her hand and walking on. `It would make me in love with this world again, as I used to be; it would make me long to see and know many things - it would make me long for a full life.

    `But you will not always be shut up in your present lot: why should you starve your mind in that way? It is narrow asceticism - I dont like to see you persisting in it, Maggie. Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.

    `But not for me - not for me, said Maggie, walking more hurriedly. `Because I should want too much. I must wait - this life will not last long.

    `Dont hurry away from me without saying &quot;good by,&quot; Maggie, said Philip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, and she tiill to walk along without speaking. `I must not go any farther, I think, must I?

    `O no, I fot; goodby, said Maggie, pausing and putting out her hand to him. The a brought her feeling ba a strong current to Philip, and after they had stood looking at each other in silence for a few moments, with their hands clasped, she said, withdrawing her hand,

    `Im very grateful to you for thinking of me all those years. It is very sweet to have people love us. What a wonderful, beautiful thing it seems that God should have made your heart so that you could care about a queer little girl whom you only knew for a few weeks. I remember saying to you, that I thought you cared for me more than Tom did.

    `Ah, Maggie, said Philip, almost fretfully, `you would never love me so well as you love your brother.

    `Perhaps not, said Maggie, simply, `but then, you know, the first thing I ever remember in my life is standing with Tom by the side of the Floss while he held my hand - everything before that is dark to me. But I shall never fet you - though we must keep apart.

    `Dont say so, Maggie, said Philip. `If I kept that little girl in my mind for five years, didnt I earn some part in her? She ought not to take herself quite away from me.

    `Not if I were free, said Maggie, `but I am not - I must submit. She hesitated a moment and then added, `And I wao say to you, that you had better not take more notiy brother than just bowing to him. He oold me not to speak to you again, and he doesnt ge his mind... O dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good by. She gave him her hand once more.

    `I shall e here as often as I  till I see you again, Maggie. - Have some feeling for me, as well as for others.

    `Yes, yes, I have, said Maggie, hurrying away, and quickly disappearing behind the last fir-tree; though Philips gaze after her remained immovable for minutes, as if he saw her still.

    Maggie went home, with an inward flict already begun; Philip went home to do nothing but remember and hope. You  hardly help blaming him severely. He was four or five years older than Maggie, and had a full sciousness of his feeling towards her to aid him in foreseeing the character his plated interviews with her would bear in the opinion of a third person. But you must not suppose that he was capable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been satisfied without persuading himself that he was seeking to infuse some happiness into Maggies life - seeking this even more than any direds for himself. He could give her sympathy - he could give her help. There was not the slightest promise of love towards him in her manner; it was nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shown him when she was twelve: perhaps, she would never love him - perhaps no woman ever could love him: well, then, he would ehat - he should at least have the happiness of seeing her - of feeling some nearo her. And he clutched passiohe possibility, that she might love him: perhaps the feeling would grow, if she could e to associate him with that watchful tenderness, which her nature would be so keenly alive to. If any woman could love him - surely Maggie was that woman: there was such wealth of love in her, and there was no oo claim it all. Then - the pity of it that a mind like hers should be withering in its very youth, like a young forest tree, for want of the light and space it was formed to flourish in! Could he not hihat, by persuading her out of her system of privation? He would be her guardian angel; he would do anything bear anything for her sake - except not seeing her.

 CHAPTER 2

    Aunt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bobs Thumb

    WHILE Maggies life-struggles had lain almost entirely within her own soul, one shadowy army fighting another, and the slain shadows for ever rising again, Tom was engaged in a dustier, noisier warfare, grappling with more substantial obstacles, and gaining more definite quests. So it has been sihe days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses: ihe gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted hands  prayers, watg the worlds bat from afar, filling their loy days with memories and fears: outside, the men in fierce struggle with things divine and human, queng memory irht of purpose, losing the sense of dread and even of wounds in the hurrying ardour of a. From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth of whom you would prophesy failure in anything he had thhly wished: the wagers are likely to be on his side notwithstanding his small success in the classics. For Tom had never desired success in this field of enterprise: and fetting a fine flourishing growth of stupidity there is nothing like p out on a mind a good amount of subjects in which it feels no i. But now Toms strong will bound together his iy, his pride, his family regrets and his personal ambition, and made them one force, trating his efforts and surmounting discements. His uncle Deane, who watched him closely, soon began to ceive hopes of him, and to be rather proud that he had brought into the employment of the firm a nephew eared to be made of such good ercial stuff. The real kindness of plag him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in the hints his uncle began to throw out that after a time he might perhaps be trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for the firm various vulgar odities with which I need not shock refined ears in this place; and it was doubtless with a view to this result that Mr Deane, when he expected to take his wine alone, would tell Tom to step in and sit with him an hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and catechising ing articles of export and import, with an occasional excursus of more i utility on the relative advao the merts of St Oggs of having goods brought in their own and in fn bottoms - a subje which Mr Deane, as a ship-owner, naturally threw off a few sparks whe warmed with talk and wine. Already, in the sed year, Toms salary was raised; but all except the price of his dinner and clothes went home into the tin box; and he shunned radeship, lest it should lead him into expenses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was moulded on the spooype of the Industrious Apprentice; he had a very strong appetite for pleasure - would have liked to be a Tamer of horses, and to make a distinguished figure in all neighb eyes, dispensing treats and bes to others with well-judged liberality, and being pronounced one of the fi young fellows of those parts; nay, he determio achieve these things sooner or later; but his practical shrewdold him that the means to such achievements could only lie for him i abstinend self-denial: there were certain milestoo be passed and one of the first was the payment of his fathers debts. Having made up his mind on that point, he strode along without swerving, trag some rather saturernness, as a young man is likely to do who has a premature call upon him for self-reliaom felt intehat on cause with his father which springs from family pride, and was bent on being irreproachable as a son; but his growing experience caused him to pass much silent criticism on the rashness and imprudence of his fathers past duct: their dispositions were not in sympathy, and Toms face showed little radiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of him, against which she struggled, as something unfair to her sciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives; but it was of no use tle. A character at unity with itself - that performs what it<cite>藏书网</cite> intends, subdues every terag impulse and has no visions beyond the distinctly possible, is strong by its very ions.

    You may imagihat Toms more and more obvious unlikeo his father was well fitted to ciliate the maternal aunts and uncles; and Mr Deanes favourable reports and predis tlegg ing Toms qualifications for business, began to be discussed amongst them with various acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, to do the family credit, without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs Pullet has always thought it strange if Toms excellent plexion, so ehat of the Dodsons, did nue a certainty that he would turn out well, his juvenile errors of running down the peacod general disrespect to his aunts only indig a tinge of Tulliver blood which he had doubtless outgrown. Mr Glegg, who had tracted a cautious liking for Tom ever since his spirited and sensible behaviour when the execution was in the house, was now warming into a resolution to further his prospects actively - some time, when an opportunity offered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate loss; but Mrs Glegg observed that she was not given to speak without book, as some people were that those who said least were mostly likely to find their words made good, and that when the right moment came, it would be seen who could do somethier than talk. Uncle Pullet, after sileation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly to the clusion, that when a young man was likely to do well, it was better not to meddle with him.

    Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any o himself, though, with a natural sensitiveowards all indications of favourable opinion, he was glad to see his uncle Glegg look in on him sometimes in a friendly way during business hours, and glad to be io di his house, though he usually preferred deing on the ground that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a year ago something had occurred whiduced Tom to test his uncle Gleggs friendly disposition.

    Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds without seeing Tom and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge as he was ing home from St Oggs one evening, that they might have a little private talk, He took the liberty of asking if Mr Tom had ever thought of making money by trading a bit on his own at. Trading, how? Tom wished to know. Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo tn ports; because Bob had a particular friend who had offered to do a little business for him in that way, in Laceham goods, and would be glad to serve Mr Tom on the same footing. Tom was ied at once, and begged for full explanation; w he had not thought of this plan before. He was so well pleased with the prospect of a speculation that might ge the slow process of addition into multiplication, that he at oermio mentioter to his father a his sent to appropriate some of the savings iin box to the purchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have sulted his father, but he had just paid his last quarters money into the tin box, and there was no other resource. All the savings were there: for Mr Tulliver would not sent to put the money out at i lest he should lose it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of some  and had lost by it, he could not be easy without keeping the money under his eye.

    Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr Tulliver listened, learning forward in his armchair and looking up in Toms face with a sceptical glance. His first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he was in some awe of Toms wishes, and since he had had the sense of being an `unlucky father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness aermination to be master. He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, got out the key of the large chest, ached dowin box - slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a painful parting. Then he seated himself against the table and opehe box with that little padlock-key which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vat moments. There they were, the dingy bank notes and the bright sns, and he ted them out oable - only a hundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after all the ping.

    `How much do you want, then? he said, speaking as if the words burnt his lips.

    `Suppose I begin with the thirty six pounds, father? said Tom.

    Mr Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his hand over it, said,

    `Its as much as I  save out o my pay in a year.

    `Yes, father: it is such work - saving out of the little money we get. And in this way we might double our savings.

    `Ay, my lad, said the father, keeping his hand on the money, `but you might lose it - you might lose a year o my life - and I havent got many.

    Tom was silent.

    `And you know I wouldnt pay a dividend with the first hundred, because I wao see it all in a lump - and when I see it, Im sure ont. If you trust to luck, its sure to be against me. Its Old Harrys got the lu his hands. And if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up again - death ull oertake me.

    Mr Tullivers voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutes before he said,

    `Ill give it up, father, since you object to it sly.

    But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determio ask his uncle Glegg to vewenty pounds, on dition of receiving five per t of the profits. That was really a very small thing to ask. So when Bob called the  day at the Wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed that they should go together to his uncle Gleggs to open the business; for his diffident pride g to him, and made him feel that Bobs tongue would relieve him from some embarrassment.

    Mr Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four iernoon of a hot August day, was naturally ting his wall-fruit to assure himself that the sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him eom, in peared tlegg very questionable panionship - that of a man with a pa his back - for Bob was equipped for a new journey - and of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow swaying movement from side to side, and glanced from under his eyelids with a surly indifference which might after all be a cover to the most offensive designs. Mr Gleggs spectacles, which had been assisting him in ting the fruit, made these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him.

    `Heigh! Heigh! Keep that dog back, will you, he shouted, snatg up a stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors were within three yards of him.

    `Get out wi you, Mumps, said Bob, with a kick. `Hes as quiet as a lamb, sir, - an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl as he retreated behind his masters legs.

    `Why, whatever does this mean, Tom? said Mr Glegg. `Have yht information about the sdrels as cut my trees? If Bob came in the character of `information, Mr Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some irregularity.

    `No, sir, said Tom. `I came to speak to you about a little matter of business of my own.

    `Ay - well - but what has this dog got to do with it? said the old gentlemaing mild again.

    `Its my dog, sir, said the ready Bob. `An its me as put Mr Tom up to the bit o business, for Mr Toms been a friend o mine iver since I wor little chap - fust thing iver I did was frightenin the birds for th old master. An if a bit o luck turns up, Im allays thinkin if I  let Mr Tom have a pull at it. An its a dht roarin shame, as when hes got the aking a bit o money wi sending goods out - ten or twelve per zent clear whe an issions paid - as he shouldnt lay hold o the ce for want o money. Aheres the Laceham goods - lors, theyre made o purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy - light, an take up no room; you may pack twenty pound so as you t see the passill - an theyre manifacturs as please fools, so I re they arent like to want a market. An Id go to Laceham an buy in the goods for Mr Tom along wi my own; an theres the shupercargo o the bit of a vessel as is goin to take em out - I know him particlar; hes a solid man, an got a family i the town here: - Salt his name is - an a briny chap he is, too - an if you dont believe me, I  take you to him.

    Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed loquacity, with which his uanding could hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob first over his spectacles, then through them, thehem again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncles impression, began to wish he had nht this singular Aaron or mouthpiece: Bobs talk appeared less seemly now some one besides himself was listening to it.

    `You seem to be a knowing fellow, said Mr Glegg, at last.

    `Ay, sir, you say true, returned Bob, nodding his head aside, `I think my heads all alive inside like an old cheese, for Im so full o plans, one knocks another over. If I hadnt Mumps to talk to, I should get top-heavy an tumble in a fit. I suppose its because I niver went to such. Thats what I jaw my old mother for - I says, &quot;you should ha seo school a bit more - &quot; I says - &quot;an then I could ha read i the books like fun, an kep my head cool ay.&quot; Lors, shes fine an forble now, my old mother is - she ates here baked meat an taters as often as she likes. For Im gettin so full o money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me - but its botherin a wife is and Mumps mightnt like her.

    Uncle Glegg, wharded himself as a joan since he had retired from business, who beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.

    `Ah, he said, `I should think youre at a loss for ways ospending your money, else you wouldhat big dog, to eat as much as two Christians. Its shameful - shameful! But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly added,

    `But, e now, lets hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you want a little sum to make a veh. But wheres all your own money? - You dont spend it all, eh?

    `No, sir, said Tom, c. `But my father is unwilling to risk it, and I dont like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds to begin with I could pay five per t for it, and then I could gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.

    `Ay... Ay, said Mr Glegg, in an approving tohats not a bad notion, and I wont say as I wouldnt be your man. But itll be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then... heres this friend o yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps youve got somebody to stand surety for you, if the moneys put into your hands? added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.

    `I dont think thats necessary, uncle, said Tom. `At least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it would be right for you to have some security.

    `You get your per-tage out o the purchase, I suppose? said Mr Glegg, looking at Bob.

    `No, sir, said Bob, rather indignantly, `I didnt offer to get a apple for Mr Tom, o purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When I play folks tricks therell be more fun in em nor that.

    `Well, but its nothing but right you should have a small per-tage, said Mr Glegg. `Ive no opinion o transas where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks bad.

    `Well, then, said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied, `Ill tell you what I get byt, an its money in my pocket in the end. I make myself look big, wi makin a bigger purchase. Thats what Im thinking on. Lors, Im a cute chap, I am.

    `Mr Glegg, Mr Glegg, said a severe voice from the open parlour window, `pray are you ing in to tea? - or are you going to stand talking with pa till you get murdered in th open daylight?

    `Murdered? said Mr Glegg; `whats the woman talking of? Heres your nevvy Tom e about a bit o business.

    `Murdered - yes - it isnt many sizes ago, since a pa murdered a young woman in a lone plad stole her thimble and threw here body into a ditch.

    `Nay, nay, said Mr Glegg, soothingly, `youre thinking o the man wi no legs, as drove a dog-cart.

    `Well, its the same thing, Mr Glegg - only youre found o tradig what I say. And if my nevvys e about business, it ud be more fitting if youd bring him into the house, a his aunt know about it, instead o whispering in ers, in that plotting, underminding way.

    `Well, well, said Mr Glegg, `well e in now.

    `You  stay here, said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted to the moral not the physical distaween them. `We dont want anything. I dont deal wi pa. Mind you shut the gate after you.

    `Stop a bit; not so fast, said Mr Glegg: `I havent doh this young ma. e in, Tom, e in, he added, stepping in at the Fre<u></u>nch window.

    `Mr Glegg, said Mrs G. in a fatal tone. `If yoing to let that man and his dog in on my carpet before my very face, be so good as to let me know. A wifes got a right to ask that, I hope.

    `Dont you be uneasy, mum, said Bob, toug his cap. He saw at ohat Mrs Glegg was a bit of game worth running down, and loo be at the sport. `Well stay out upo the gravel here, Mumps and me will. Mumps knows his pany - he does. I might hish at him by th hether before hed fly at a real gentlewoman like you. Its wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies - ands particlar fond of em when theyve good shapes. Lors, added Bob, laying down his pa the gravel, `its a thousand pities such a lady as you shouldnt deal with a pa, istead o goin into these newfangled shops where theres half a dozen fis wi their s propped up wi a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi oral stoppers, an all got to get their dinner out of a bit o calico - it stans to reason you mun pay three times the price you pay a pa, as is the natral way o gettin goods - an pays , an isnt forced to throttle himself till the lies are squeezed out on him, whether he will or no. But lors, mum, you know what it is better nor I do - you  see through them shopmen, Ill be bound.

    `Yes, I re I , and through the pa too, observed Mrs Glegg, intending to imply that Bobs flattery had produo effe her; while her husband standing behind her with his hands in his pockets and legs apart, winked and smiled with jugal delight at the probability of his wifes being circumvented.

    `Ay, to be sure, mum, said Bob. `Why, you must ha dealt wi no end o pa when you war a young lass - before the master here had the luck to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do - seen th house many a time - close upon Squire Darleighs - a stone house wi steps...

    `Ah, that it had, said Mrs Glegg, p out the tea. `You know something o my family then... are you akin to that pa with a squint in his eye, as used t th Irish linen?

    `Look you there now! said Bob evasively. `Didnt I know as youd remember the best bargains yever made in your life was made wi pa? Why, you see, even a squintin pas better nor a shopman as  see straight. Lors, if Id had the luck to call at the stone house wi my pack as lies here, - stooping and thumping the bundle emphatically with his fist - `an th handsome young lasses all stannin out ooeps, it ud ha been summat like openin a pack - that would. Its ony the poor houses now as a pa calls on, if it isnt for the sake o the sarvant-maids. Theyre paltry times, there are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons now, an what they was when you wore em - why, you wouldnt put such a thing on now, I  see. It must be first-rate quality - the manifactur as youd buy - summat as ud wear as well as your own faitures.

    `Yes, better quality nor any youre like to carry: youve got nothing first-rate but brazenness, Ill be bound, said Mrs Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. `Mr Glegg, are you going ever to sit down to your tea? Tom, theres a cup for you.

    `You speak true there, mum, said Bob. `My pack isnt for ladies like you. The times gone by for that. Bargains picked up dirt cheap - a bit o damage here an there, as  be cut out or else niver seen i the wearin; but not fit to offer to rich folks as  pay for the look o things as nobody sees. Im not the man as ud offer t open my pack to you, mum: no, no; Im imperent chap, as you say - these times makes folks imperent - but Im not to put the mark o that.

    `Why, what goods to you carry in your pack? said Mrs Glegg. `Fine-coloured things, I suppose, shawls an that.

    `All sorts, mum, all sorts, said Bob, thumping his bundle, `but let us say no more about that, if you please. Im here upo Mr Toms business an Im not the man to take up the time wi my own.

    `And pray, what is this business as is to be kept from me? said Mrs Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, was obliged to let the one half wait.

    `A little plan o nevvy Toms here, said good-natured Mr Glegg; `and not altogether a bad un, I think. A little plan for making mohats the right sort o plan for young folks as have got their fortin to make, eh, Jane?

    `But I hope it isnt a plan where he expects iverything to be done for him by his friends - thats what the young folks think of mostly nowadays. And pray, what has this pack-man got to do wi what goes on in our family? t you speak for yourself Tom, a your aunt know things, as a nevvy should?

    `This is Bob Jakin, aunt, said Tom, bridling the irritation that aunt Gleggs voice alroduced. `Ive known him ever since we were little boys. Hes a very good fellow, and always ready to do me a kindness. And he has had some experien sending goods out - a small part of a cargo as a<s>9９ｌｉｂ?</s> private speculation; ahinks if I could begin to do a little in the same way, I might make some money. A large i is got in that way.

    `Large i? said aunt Glegg, with eagerness, `and what do you call large i?

    `Ten or twelve per t, Bob says, `after expenses are paid.

    `Then why wasnt I let to know o such things before, Mr Glegg? said Mrs Glegg, turning to her husband, with a deep grating tone of reproach. `Havent you allays told me as there was ing more nor five per t.

    `Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman, said Mr Glegg. `You couldnt go into trade, could you? You t get more than five per t with security.

    `But I  turn a bit o money for you, an wele, mum, said Bob, `if youd like to risk it - not as theres any risk to speak on. But if youd a mind to lend a bit o moo Mr Tom, hed pay you six or seven per zent a a trifle for himself as well an a good-naturd lady like you ud like the feel o the money better if your nevvy took part on it.

    `What do you say, Mrs G.? said Mr Glegg. `Ive a notion, when Ive made a bit more inquiry, as I shall perhaps start Tom here with a bit of a -egg - hell pay me i, you know - an if youve got some little sums lyin idle twisted up in a sto toe, or that...

    `Mr Glegg, its beyond iverything! Youll go and give information to the tramps , as they may e and rob me.

    `Well, well, as I was sayin, if you like to join me wi twenty pounds, you  - Ill make it fifty. Thatll be a pretty good -egg - eh, Tom?

    `Youre not ting on me, Mr Glegg, I hope, said his wife. `You could do fihings wi my money, I dont doubt. `Very well, said Mr Glegg, rather snappishly, `then well do without you. I shall go with you to see this Salt, he added, turning to Bob.

    `And now, I suppose, youll go all the other way, Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `and want to shu o my own nevvys business. I never said I wouldnt put money into it - I dont say as it shall be twenty pounds, though youre so ready to say it for me - but hell see some day as his aunts in the right not to risk the money shes saved for him till its proved as it wont be lost.

    `Ay, thats a pleasant sort o risk, that is, said Mr Glegg, indiscreetly winking at Tom, who couldnt avoid smiling. But Bob stemmed the injured ladys outburst.

    `Ay, mum, he said, admiringly, `you know whats what, you do. An its nothing but fair. You see how the first bit of a job answers, an then youll e down handsome. Lors, its a fihing to hev good kin. I got my bit of a -egg as the master calls it, all by my own sharpness - ten suvreigns it was - wi dousing the fire at Torrys mill, an its growed an growed by a bit an a bit, till In got a matter o thirty pound to lay out, besides makin my mother forble. I should get more, ony Im such a soft wi the women - I t help lettin em hev such good bargains. Theres this bundle, now (thumping it lustily), `any other chap ud make a pretty penny out on it. But me!... lors, I shall sell em for pretty near what I paid for em.

    `Have you got a bit of good , now? said Mrs Glegg, in a patronising tone, moving from the tea-table, and folding her napkin.

    `Eh, mum, not what youd think it worth your while to look at. Id s to show it you. It ud be an insult to you.

    `But let me see, said Mrs Glegg, still patronising. `If theyre damaged goods, theyre like enough to be a bit the better quality.

    `No, mum. I know my place, said Bob, lifting up his pad shouldering it. `Im not going t expose the lowness o my trade to a lady like you. Packs is e down i the world: it ud cut you to th heart to see the difference. Im at your service, sir, when youve a mind to go an see Salt.

    `All in good time, said Mr Glegg, really unwilling to cut short the dialogue. `Are you wa the wharf, Tom?

    `No, sir; I left Stowe in my place.

    `e, put down you pack, a me see, said Mrs Glegg, drawing a chair to the window, aing herself with much dignity.

    `Dont you ask it, mum, said Bob, eingly.

    `Make no more words, said Mrs Glegg, severely, `but do as I tell you.

    `Eh, mum, Im loth - that I am, said Bob, slowly depositing his pa the step, and beginning to u with unwilling fingers. `But what you order shall be done (much fumbling in pauses between the sentences). `Its not as youll buy a sihing on me... Id be sorry for you to do it... for think o them poor women up i the villages there, as ir a hundred yards from home... it ud be a pity for anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, its as good as a juing to em when they see me wi my pack... an I shall niver pick up such bargains for em agai ways, Ive no time now, for Im off to Laceham. See here, now, Bob went on, being rapid again, and holding up a scarlet woollen kerchief with an embroidered wreath in the er - `Heres a thing to make a lasss mouth water, an ony two shillin - an why? Why, cause theres a bit of a moth-hole i this plain end. Lors, I think the moths an the mildew was sent by Providence o purpose to cheapen the goods a bit for the good lookin women as hant got much money. If it hadnt been for the moths, now, every hankicher on em ud ha goo the rich handsome ladies like you, mum, at five shillin apiece - not a farthin less - but what does the moth do? Why, it nibbles off three shillin o the price i no time, an then a pa like me  carryt to the poor lasses as live uhe dark thack, to make a bit of a blaze for em. Lors, its as good as a fire, to look at such a hankicher!

    Bob held at a distance for admiration, but Mrs Glegg said sharply,

    `Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o year. Put these coloured things by - let me look at your s, if youve got em.

    `Eh, mum, I told you how it ud be, said Bob, flinging aside the coloured things with an air of desperation. `I k ud turn again you to look at such paltry articles as I carry. Heres a piece o figured muslim now - whats the use o your lookin at it? You might as well look at poor folkss victual, mum - it ud ony take away your appetite. Theres a yard i the middle ont, as the patterns all missed - lors, why its a muslin as the Princess Victoree might ha wore - but, added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf, as if to save Mrs Gleggs eyes, `itll be bought up by th hucksters wife at Fibbs End - thats where itll go - ten shillin for the whole lot - ten yards, tin the damaged un - five-ay shillin ud ha been the price - not a penny less. But Ill say no more, mum, its nothing to you - a pieuslim like that - you  afford to pay three times the money for a thing as isnt half so good. Its s you talked on - well, Ive got a piece as ull serve you to make fun on...

    `Brihat muslin, said Mrs Glegg, `its a buff - Im partial to buff.

    `Eh, but a damaged thing, said Bob, in a tone of depreg disgust. `Youd do nothing with it, mum - youd give it to the cook, I know you would - an it ud be a pity - shed look too much like a lady in it - its unbeing for sarvants.

    `Fetch it a me see you measure it, said Mrs Glegg, authoritatively.

    Bob obeyed with ostentatious reluce.

    `See what there is over measure! he said, holding forth the extra half yard, while Mrs Glegg was busy examining the damaged yard and throwing her head back to see how far the fault would be lost on a distant view.

    `Ill give you six shilling for it, she said, throwing it down with the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum.

    `Didnt I tell you, now, mum, as it ud hurt your feelings to look at my pack? That damaged bits turned your stomaow, I see it has, said Bob, ing the muslim up with the utmost quiess, and apparently about to fasten up his pack. `Youre used to seein a different sort o article carried by pa, when you lived at the Stone House. Packs is e down i the world, I told you that: my goods are for on folks. Mrs Pepper ull give me ten shillin for that muslin, an be sorry as I didnt ask her more. Such articles answer i the wearin - they keep their colour till the threads melt away i the wash-tub, an that wont be while Im a young un.

    `Well, seven shilling, said Mrs Glegg.

    `Put it out o your mind, mum, now do, said Bob. `Heres a bit o hen, for you to look at before I tie my pack: just for you to see what my trades e to: spotted and sprigged, you see, beautiful, but yallow--s been lyin by an got the wrong colour. I could niver ha bought suet, if it hadnt been yallow. Lors, its took me a deal o study to know the vally o such articles: when I begun to carry a pack I was as ignirant as a pig -  or calico was all the same to me. I thought them things the most vally as was the thickest. I was took in dreadful - for Im a strait-forrard chap - up to no tricks, mum. I  ony say my nose is my own, for if I went beyond, I should lose myself pretty quick. An I gev five apence for that piece o  - if I was to tell y anything else I should be tellin you fibs: an five apence I shall ask for it - not a penny more - for its a womans article, an I like to odate the women. Five apence for six yards - as cheap as if it was only the dirt on it aid for.

    `I dont mind having three yards of it, said Mrs Glegg.

    `Why, theres but six altogether, said Bob - `no, mum, it isnt worth your while: you  go to the shop tomorrow ahe same pattern ready whitened. Its ony three times the money - whats that to a lady like you? He gave an emphatic tie to his bundle.

    `e, lay me out that muslin, said Mrs Glegg. `Heres eight shilling for it.

    `You will be jokin, mum, said Bob, looking up with a laughing face. `I seed you leasant lady, when I fust e to the winder.

    `Well, put it me out, said Mrs Glegg, peremptorily.

    `But if I let you have it for ten shillin, mum, youll be so good as not tell nobody. I should be a laughin-stock - the trade, ud hoot me, if they k. Im obliged to make believe as I ask more nor I do for my goods, else theyd find out I war a flat. Im glad you dont insist upo buyi, for then I should ha lost my two best bargains for Mrs Pepper o Fibbs End - an shes a rare er.

    `Let me look at the  again, said Mrs Glegg, yearning after the cheap spots and sprigs now they were vanishing.

    `Well, I t deny you, mum, said Bob, handing it out. `Eh see what a pattern now! Real Laceham goods. Now, this is the sort o article Im reendin Mr Tom to send out. Lors, its a fihing for anybody as has got a bit o money - these Laceham goods ud make it breed like maggits. If I was a lady wi a bit o money! - why, I know one as put thirty pound into them goods - a lady wi a cork leg, but as sharp - you wouldnt catch her runnin her head into a sack: shed see her way clear out o anything afore shed be in a hurry to start. Well, she let out thirty pound to a young man in the drapering line, and he laid it out i Laceham goods, an a shupery aetanot Salt) took em out, a her eight per zent fust go off - an now you t hold her but she must be sendin out carguies wi every ship, till shes gettin as rich as a Jew. Bucks her name is - she doesnt live i this town. Now, then, mum, if youll please to give me the ...

    `Heres fifteen shilling, then, for the two, said Mrs Glegg. `But its a shameful price.

    `Nay, mum, youll niver say that when youre upo your knees i church i five years time. Im makin you a present o th articles - I am, ihat eightpence shaves off my profit as  as a razor. Now then, sir, tinued Bob, shouldering his pack, `if you please, Ill be glad to go and see<u></u> about makin Mr Toms fortin. Eh, I wish Id got awenty pound to lay out for mysen: I shouldnt stay to say my Catechism afore I knowd what to do wit.

    `Stop a bit, Mr Glegg, said the lady, as her husband took his hat, `you never will give me the ce o speaking. Youll go away now, and finish everything about this business, and e bad tell me its too late for me to speak. As if I wasnt my nevvys own aunt, and th head o the family on his mothers side! and laid by guineas, all full weight for him - as hell know who to respect when Im laid in my coffin.

    `Well, Mrs G., say what you mean, said Mr G. hastily.

    `Well, then, I desire as nothing may be dohout my knowing. I dont say as I shaure twenty pounds, if you make out as everythings right and safe. And if I do, Tom, cluded Mrs Glegg, turning impressively to her nephew, `I hope youll allays bear it in mind and be grateful for su aunt - I mean you to pay me i, you know - I dont approve o giving: we niver looked for that in my family.

    `Thank you, aunt, said Tom, rather proudly. `I prefer having the money only lent to me.

    `Very well: thats the Dodso, said Mrs Glegg, rising to get her knitting with the sehat any further remark after this would be bathos.

    Salt - that emily `briny chap - having been discovered in a cloud of tobaoke at the Anchor Tavern, Mr Glegg enced inquiries which turned out satisfactorily enough to warrant the advance of the `-egg, to which aunt Glegg tributed twenty pounds; and in this modest beginning you see the ground of a fact which might otherwise surprise you, namely, Toms accumulation of a fund, unknown to his father, that promised in no very long time to meet the more tardy process of saving and quite cover the deficit. When once his attention had been turo this source of gain, Tom determio make the most of it, and lost no opportunity of obtaining information aending his small enterprises. In not telling his father, he was influenced by that strange mixture of opposite feelings which often gives equal truth to those who blame an a and those who admire it: partly, it was that disination to fidence which is seeween near kindred - that family repulsion which spoils the most sacred relations of our lives; partly, it was the desire to surprise his father with a great joy. He did not see that it would have beeer to soothe the interval with a new hope, and prevent the delirium of a too suddeion.

    At the time of Maggies first meeting with Philip, Tom had already nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his oital, and while they were walking by the evening light in the Red Deeps, he, by t<s>藏书网</s>he same evening light, was riding into Laceham, proud of being on his first journey on behalf of Guest and Co., and revolving in his mind all the ces that by the end of another year he should have doubled his gains, lifted off the obloquy of debt from his fathers name, and perhaps - for he should be twenty-one - have got a art for himself, on a higher platform of employment. Did he not deserve it? He was quite sure that he did.

 CHAPTER 3

    The Wavering Balance

    I SAID that Maggie went home that evening from the Red Deeps with a mental flict already begun. You have seen clearly enough in her interview<abbr></abbr> with Philip, what that flict was. Here suddenly ening in the rocky wall which shut in the narrow Valley of Humiliation, where all her prospect was the remote unfathomed sky; and some of the memory-hauntihly delights were no longer out of her reach. She might have books, verse, affe - she might hear tidings of the world from which her mind had not yet lost its sense of exile; and it would be a kio Philip too, who itiable - clearly not happy; and perhaps here portunity indicated for making her mind more worthy of its highest service - perhaps the , pletest devoutness could hardly exist without some width of knowledge: must she always live in this resigned impriso? It was so blameless, so good a thing that there should be friendship between her and Philip; the motives that forbade it were so unreasonable - so unchristian! - But the severe monotonous warning came again and again - that she was losing the simplicity and clearness of her life by admitting a ground of cealment, and that by forsaking the simple rule of renunciation, she was throwing herself uhe seductive guidance of illimitable wants. She thought she had won strength to obey the warning before she allowed herself the  week to tureps in the evening to the Red Deeps. But while she was resolved to say an affeate farewell to Philip, how she looked forward to that evening walk iill, fleckered shade of the hollows, away from all that was harsh and unlovely; to the affeate admiring looks that would meet her; to the sense of radeship that childish memories would give to wiser, older talk; to the certainty that Philip would care to hear everything she said, whio one else cared for! It was a half hour that it would be very hard to turn her back upon, with the sehat there would be no other like it. Yet she said what she meant to say: she looked firm as well as sad. `Philip, I have made up my mind - it is right that we should give each other up, ihing but memory. I could not see you without cealment - say, I know what yoing to say - it is another peoples wrong feelings that make cealment necessary - but cealment is bad, however it may be caused: I feel that it would be bad for me, for us both. And then, if our secret were discovered, there would be nothing but misery - dreadful anger - and then we must part after all, and it would be harder, when we were used to seeing each other.

    Philips face had flushed and there was a momentary eagerness of expression as if he had been about to resist this decision with all his might. But he trolled himself, and said with assumed ess, `Well, Maggie, if we must part, let us try and fet it for one half hour - let us talk together a little while - for the last time.

    He took her hand, and Maggie felt no reason to withdraw it: his quietness made her all the more sure she had given him great pain, and she wao show him how unwillingly she had given it. They walked together hand in hand in silence.

    `Let us sit down in this hollohilip, `where we stood the last time. See how the dog-roses have strewed the ground, and spread their opal petals over it!

    They sat down at the roots of the slanting ash.

    `Ive begun my picture of you among the Scotch firs, Maggie, said Philip, `so you must let me study your face a little, while you stay - since I am not to see it again. Please, turn your head this way.

    This was said in areating voice, and it would have been very hard of Maggie to refuse. The full lustrous face with the bright black et, looked down like that of a divinity well pleased to be worshipped on the pale-hued, small-featured face that was turned up to it.

    `I shall be sitting for my sed portrait, then, she said, smiling. `Will it be larger that the other?

    `O yes, much larger. It is an oil-painting. You will look like at tall Hamadryad, dark and strong and noble, just issued from one of the fir-trees, wheems are casting their afternoon shadows on the grass.

    `You seem to think more of painting that of anything now, Philip?

    `Perhaps I do, said Philip, rather sadly, `but I think of too many things - sow all sorts of seeds, a no great harvest from any one of them. Im cursed with susceptibility in every dire, and effective faculty in none. I care for painting and music - I care for classic literature, and mediaeval literature and modern literature - I flutter all ways, and fly in none.

    `But surely that is a happio have so many tastes - to enjoy so maiful things - when they are within your reach, said Maggie, musingly. `It always seemed to me a sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent - almost like a carrier-pigeon.

    `It might be a happio have many tastes if I were like other men, said Philip, bitterly. `I might get some power and distin by mere mediocrity, as they do - at least I should get those middling satisfas which make men teo do without great ones. I might think society at St Oggs agreeable then. But nothing could make life worth the purchase-money of pain to me but some faculty that would lift me above the dead level of provincial existence. Yes - there is ohing: a passion answers as well as a faculty.

    Maggie did not hear the last words: she was struggling against the scioushat Philips words had set her own distent vibrating again as it used to do.

    `I uand what you mean, she said, `though I know so much less that you do. I used to think I could never bear life if it kept on being the same every day, and I must always be doing things of no sequence, and never k<strike>九九藏书</strike>now anything greater. But, dear Philip, I think we are only like children, that some one who is wiser is taking care of. Is it nht tn ourselves entirely, whatever may be denied us? I have found great pea that for the last two on three years - even joy in subduing my own will.

    `Yes, Maggie, said Philip, vehemently, `and you are shutting yourself up in a narrow self-delusive fanaticism which is only a way of esg pain by starving into dulness all the highest powers of your nature. Joy and peace are nnatination is the willing endurance of a pain that is not allayed - that you dont expect to be allayed. Stupefa is nnation: and it is stupefa to remain in ignorao shut up all the avenues by which the life of your fellow-men might bee known to you. I am nned: I am not sure that life is long enough to learn that lesson. You are nned: you are only trying to stupefy yourself.

    Maggies lips trembled; she felt there was some truth in hilip said, ahere was a deeper scioushat for any immediate application it had to her duct it was er than falsity. Her double impression correspoo the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seriously believed what he said, but he said it with vehemence because it made an argument against the resolution that opposed his wishes. But Maggies face, made more child-like by the gathering tears, touched him with a tenderer, less egoistic feeling. He took her hand and said gently--

    `Do us think of such things in this short half hour, Maggie. Let us only care about being together... we shall be friends in spite of separation... we shall always think of each other. I shall be glad to live<code>99lib.</code> as long as you are alive, because I shall think there may always e a time when I  - when you will let me help you in some way.

    `What a dear, good brother you would have been Philip, said Maggie, smiling through the haze of tears. `I think you would have made as much fuss about me, and been as pleased for me to love you, as would have satisfied even me. You would have loved me well enough to bear with me, and five me everything. That was what I always lohat Tom should do. I was never satisfied with a little of anything. That is why it is better for me to do without earthly happiness altogether... I never felt that I had enough music - I wanted more instruments playing together - I wanted voices to be fuller and deeper. Do you ever sing now, Philip? she added abruptly, as if she had fotten what went before.

    `Yes, he said, `every day, almost. But my voice is only middling - like everything else in me.

    `O sing me something - just on song. I may listen to that, before I go - something you used to sing a Lorton on a Saturday afternoon, when we had the drawing-room all to ourselves, and I put my apron over my head, to listen.

    `I knohilip, and Maggie buried her fa her hands, while he sang, sotto voce `Love in her eyes sits playing, and then said, `Thats it, isnt it?

    `O no, I wont stay, said Maggie, starting up. `It will only haunt me. Let us walk, Philip. I must go home.

    She moved away, so that he was obliged to rise and follow her.

    `Maggie, he said, in a tone of remonstrance, `Dont persist in this wilful senseless privation. It makes me wretched to see you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way. You were so full of life when you were a child - I thought you would be a brilliant woman - all wit and bright imagination. And it flashes out in your face still, until you draw that veil of dull quiesce over it.

    `Why do you speak so bitterly to me, Philip? said Maggie.

    `Because I foresee it will not end well; you ever carry on this self-torture.

    `I shall have strength given me, said Maggie, tremulously.

    `No, you will not, Maggie: no one has strength given to do what is unnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek safety iions. No character bees strong in that way. You will be thrown into the world some day, and then every rational satisfa of your nature that you deny now, will assault you like a savage appetite.

    Maggie started a paused, looking at Philip with alarm in her face.

    `Philip, how dare you shake me in this way? You are a tempter.

    `No, I am not; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight often gives foreboding. Listen to me - let me supply you with books. Do let me see you sometimes - by your brother and teacher, as you said at Lorton. It is less wrong that you should see me than that you should be itting this long suicide.

    Maggie felt uo speak. She shook her head and walked on in sileill they came to the end of the Scotch firs, and she put out her hand in sign of parting.

    `Do you banish me from this place for ever, then, Maggie? Surely I may e and walk in it sometimes. If I meet you by ce, there is no cealment in that?

    It is the moment when our resolution seems about to bee irrevocable - wheal iron gates are about to close upon us - that tests our strength. Then, after hours of clear reasoning and firm vi, we snatch at any sophistry that will nullify our long struggles and bring us the defeat that we love better t<var>九九藏书</var>hat victory.

    Maggie felt her heart leap at this subterfuge of Philips, and there passed over her face that almost impercepti<cite>99lib.</cite>ble shock which apanies any relief. He saw it, and they parted in silence.

    Philips sense of the situation was too plete for him not to be visited with glang fears lest he had been intervening too presumptuously iion of Maggies sce - perhaps for a selfish end. But no! - he persuaded himself his end was not selfish. He had little hope that Maggie would ever returrong feeling he had for her; and it must be better fgies future life, when these petty family obstacles to her freedom had disappeared, that the present should not be entirely sacrificed, and that she should have some opportunity of culture, some interge with a mind above the vulgar level of those she was now o live with. If we only look far enough off for the sequences of our as, we  always find some point in the bination of results by which those as  be justified: by adopting the point of view of a Providence whes results or of a philosopher who traces them, we shall find it possible to obtain perfepla choosing to do what is most agreeable to us in the present moment. And it was in this way that Philip justified his subtle efforts to overaggies true prompting against a cealment that would introduce doubleness into her own mind and might cause new misery to those who had the primary natural claim on her. But there was a surplus of passion in him that made him half indepe of justifying motives. His longing to see Maggie and make a in her life, had in it some of that savage impulse to snat offered joy which springs from a life in which the mental and bodily stitution have made pain predominate. He had not his full share in the on good of men: he could not even pass muster with the insignifit, but must be singled out for pity, and excepted from what was a matter of course with others. Even to Maggie he was an exception: it was clear that the thought of his being her lover had never entered her mind.

    Do not think too hardly of Philip. Ugly and deformed people have great need of unusual virtues, because they are likely to be extremely unfortable without them: but the theory that unusual virtues spring by a direct seque of personal disadvantages, as animals get thicker wool in severe climates, is perhaps a little overstraihe temptations of beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only bear the same relation to those of ugliness, as the temptation to excess at a feast, where the delights are varied for eye and ear as well as palate, bears to the temptations that assail the desperation of hunger. Does not the Huower stand as the type of the utmost trial to what is human in us?

    Philip had never been soothed by that mothers love which flows out to us in the greater abundance because our need is greater, which gs to us the more tenderly because we are the less likely to be winners in the game of life; and the sense of his fathers affe and indulgeowards him was marred by the keener perception of his fathers faults. Kept aloof from all practical life as Philip had been, and by nature half feminine iiveness, he had some of the womans i repulsion towards worldliness and the deliberate pursuit of sensual enjoyment, and this orong natural tie in his life - his relation as a son - was like an ag limb to him. Perhaps there is iably something morbid in a human being who is in any way unfavourably excepted from ordinary ditions until the good force has had time to triumph, and it has rarely had time for that at two-and-twenty. That force resent in Philip in much strength, but the sun himself looks feeble through the m mists.

 CHAPTER 4

    Another Love Se

    EARLY in the following April, nearly a year after that dubious parting you have just witnessed, you may, if you like, again see Maggie entering the Red Deeps through the group of Scotch firs. But it is early afternoon and not evening, and the edge of sharpness in the spring air<abbr>.９9ｌｉｂ.</abbr> makes her draw her large shawl close about her and trip along rather quickly; though she looks round, as usual, that she may take in the sight of her beloved trees. There is a more eager, inquiring look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile is h about her lips, as if some playful speech were awaiting the right hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing. `Take back your ne, said Maggie, drawing a book from under her shawl. `You were right in telling me she would do me no good. But you were wrong in thinking I should wish to be like her.

    `Wouldnt you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Maggie? said Philip, looking up in her face as we look at a first parting in the clouds, that promises us a bright heaven once more.

    `Not at all, said Maggie, laughing. `The Muses were unfortable goddesses, I think - obliged always to carry rolls and musical instruments about with them. If I carried a harp in this climate, you know, I must have a green baize cover for it - and I should be sure to leave it behind me by mistake.

    `You agree with me in not liking hen?

    `I didnt finish the book, said Maggie. `As soon as I came to the blond-haired young lady reading in the park, I shut it up aermio read no further. I foresaw that that light plexioned girl would win away all the love from ne and make her miserable. Im determio read no more books where the blond haired women carry away all the happiness. I should begin to have a prejudice against them - If you could give me some story, now, where the dark woman triumphs, it would restore the balance - I want to avenge Rebecd Flora MacIvor, and Minna and all the rest of the dark unhappy ones. Since you are my tutor you ought to preserve my mind from prejudices, you are always arguing against prejudices.

    `Well, perhaps you will avehe dark women in your own person: - carry away all the love from your cousin Lucy. She is sure to have some handsome young man of St Oggs at her feet now - and you have only to shine upon him - your fair little cousin will be quite quenched in your beams.

    `Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonseo anything real, said Maggie, looking hurt. `As if I, with my old gowns, and want of all aplishments, could be a rival of dear little Lucy, who knows and does all sorts of charming things, and is ten times prettier than I am - even if I were odious and base enough to wish to be her rival. Besides, I never go to aunt Deanes when any one is there: it is only because dear Lucy is good and loves me that she es to see me, and will have me go to see her sometimes.

    `Maggie, said Philip, with surprise, `it is not like you to take playfulness literally. You must have been in St Oggs this m, and brought away a slight iion of dulness.

    `Well, said Maggie, smiling, `if you meant that for a joke, it oor one; but I thought it was a very good reproof. I thought you wao remihat I am vain, and wish every oo admire me most. But it isnt for that, that Im jealous for the dark women - not because Im dark myself. Its because I always care the most about the unhappy people: if the blonde girl was forsaken, I should like her best. I always take the side of the rejected lover iories.

    `Then you would never have the heart to rejee yourself - should you, Maggie? said Philip, flushing a little.

    `I dont know, said Mag<s></s>gie, hesitatingly. Then with a bright smile - `I think perhaps I could if he were very ceited. A, if he got extremely humiliated afterwards, I should relent.

    `Ive often wondered, Maggie, Philip said, with some effort, `whether you wouldnt really be more likely to love a man that other women were not likely to love.

    `That would depend on what they didnt like him for, said Maggie, laughing. `He might be very disagreeable. He might look at me through an eyeglass stu his eye, making a hideous face, as young Torry does. I should think other wome fond of that; but I never felt any pity for young Torry. Ive never any pity for ceited people, because I think they carry their fort about with them.

    `But suppose, Maggie - suppose it was a man who was not ceited - who felt he had nothing to be ceited about - who had been marked from childhood for a peculiar kind of suffering - and to whom you were the day-star of his life - who loved you, worshipped you, so ehat he felt it happiness enough for him if you would let him see you at rare moments...

    Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his fession should cut short this very happiness - a pang of the same dread that had kept his love mute through long months. A rush of self-sciousold him that he was besotted to have said all this. Maggies mahis m had been as unstrained and indifferent as ever.

    But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the unusual emotion in Philips tone she had turned quickly to look at him, and as he went on speaking, a great ge came over her face - a flush and slight spasm of the features such as we see in people who hear some hat will require them to readjust their ceptions of the past. She was quite silent, and walking on towards the trunk of a fallen tree, she sat down, as if she had nth to spare for her muscles. She was trembling.

    `Maggie, said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in every fresh moment of silence, `I was a fool to say it - fet that Ive said it. I shall be tented, if things  be as they were.

    The distress with which he spoke, urged Maggie to say something. `I am so surprised, Philip - I had not thought of it. And the effort to say this brought the tears down too.

    `Has it made you hate me, Maggie? said Philip, impetuously. `Do you think Im a presumptuous fool?

    `O Philip! said Maggie, `how  you think I have such feelings - as if I were not grateful for any love. But... but I had hought of your being my lover. It seemed so far off - like a dream - only like one of the stories one imagines - that I should ever have a lover.

    `They  you bear to think of me as your lover - Maggie? said Philip, seating himself by her and taking her hand, in the elation of a sudden hope. `Do you love me?

    Maggie turned rather pale: this direct question seemed not easy to answer. But her eyes met Philips, which were in this moment liquid aiful with beseeg love. She spoke with hesitatio with sweet, simple, girlish tenderness.

    `I think I could hardly love any oer: there is nothing but what I love you for. She paused a little while, and then added, `But it will be better for us not to say any more about it - wont it, dear Philip? You know we couldnt even be friends, if our friendship were discovered. I have never felt that I was right in giving way about seeing you - though it has been so precious to me in some ways - and now the fear es uporongly again that it will lead to evil.

    `But no evil has e, Maggie - and if you had been guided by that fear before, you would only have lived through another dreary benumbing year, instead of reviving into your real self.

    Maggie shook her head. `It has been very sweet, I know - all the talking together, and the books, and the feeling that I had the walk to look forward to when I could tell you the thoughts that had e into my head while I was away from you. But it has made me restless - it has made me think a great deal about the world; and I have impatient thoughts again - I get weary of my home. And that cuts me to the heart afterwards that I should ever have left weary of my father and mother. I think what you call being benumbed was better <q>.9９lib?</q>- better for me - for then my selfish desires were benumbed.

    Philip had risen again and was walking backwards and forwards impatiently.

    `No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-quest, as Ive often told you. What you call self-quest - blinding and deafening yourself to all but orain of impressions, is only the culture of monomania in a nature like yours.

    He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down by her again and took her hand.

    `Dont think of the past now, Maggie: think only of our love. If you  really g to me with all your heart, every obstacle will be overe in time - we need only wait. I  live on hope. Look at me, Maggie - tell me again, it is possible for you to love me. Dont look away from me to that cloven tree - it is a bad omen.

    She turned her large dark glance upon him with a sad smile.

    `e, Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better to me at Lorton. You asked me if I should like you to kiss me. Dont you remember? And you promised to kiss me when you met me again. You never kept the promise.

    The recolle of that childish time came as a sweet relief to Maggie. It made the present moment less strao her. She kissed him almost as simply and quietly as she had done when she was twelve years old. Philips eyes flashed with delight, but his  words were words of distent.

    `You dont seem happy enough, Maggie: you are f yourself to say you love me, out of pity.

    `No, Philip, said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old childish way. `Im telling you the truth. It is all new and strao me; but I dont think I could love any oer than I love you. I should like always to live with you - to make you happy. I have always been happy when I have been with you. There is only ohing I will not do for your sake - I will never do anything to wound my father. You must never ask that from me.

    `No, Maggie: I will ask nothing - I will bear everything - Ill wait another year only for a kiss, if you will only give me the first pla your heart.

    `No, said Maggie, smiling, `I wont make you wait so long as that. But then, looking serious again, she added, as she rose from her seat,

    `But what would your own father say, Philip? O, it is quite impossible we  ever be m<strike></strike>ore than friends - brother and sister i - as we have bee us give up thinking of everything else.

    `No, Maggie, I t give you up - unless you are deceiving me - unless you really only care for me as if I were your brother. Tell me the truth.

    `Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had so great as being with you? - since I was a little girl - the days Tom was good t<bdo>?9９ｌｉｂ.</bdo>o me. And your mind is a sort of world to me - You  tell me all I want to know. I think I should never be tired of being with you.

    They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other - Maggie indeed was hurrying along, for she felt it time to be gone. But the sehat their parting was near, made her more anxious lest she should have uionally left some painful impression on Philips mind. It was one of those dangerous moments when speech is at once sincere aive - when feeling, rising high above its average depth, leaves flood-marks which are never reached again.

    They stopped to part among the Scotch firs.

    `Then my life will be filled with hope, Maggie - and I shall be happier than other men, in spite of all? We do belong to each other - for always - whether we are apart ether?

    `Yes, Philip: I should like o part: I should like to make your life very happy.

    `I am waiting for something else - I wonder whether it will e.

    Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stopped her tall head to kiss the low pale face that was full of pleading, timid love - like a womans.

    She had a moment of real happihan - a moment of belief that if there were sacrifi this love - it was all the richer and more satisfying.

    She turned away and hurried home, feeling that in the hour since she had trodden this road before, a new era had begun for her. The tissue of vague dreams must now get narrower and narrower, and all the threads of thought aion be gradually absorbed in the woof of her actual daily life.

 CHAPTER 5

    The Cloven Tree

    SECRETS are rarely betrayed or discovered acc to any programme our fear has sketched out. Fear is almost always haunted by terrible dramatic ses, which recur in spite of the best argued probabilities against them; and during a year that Maggie had had the burthen of cealment on her mind, the possibility of discovery had tinually preseself uhe form of a suddeing with her father or Tom when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She was aware that this was not one of the most likely events; but it was the se that most pletely symbolised her inward dread. Those slight i suggestions which are depe on apparently trivial ces and incalculable states of mind are the favourite maery of Fact, but are not the stuff in which imagination is apt to work. Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggies fears were farthest from troubling themselves was her aunt Pullet, on whom, seeing that she did not live in St Oggs, and was her sharp-eyed nor sharp-tempered, it would surely have been quite whimsical of them to fix rather than on aunt Glegg. Ahe el of fatality - the pathway of the lightning - was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live at St Oggs, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red Deeps at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered.

    The day after Maggies last meeting with Philip, being a Sunday on which Mr Pullet was bound to appear in funereal hat-band and scarf at St Oggs church, Mrs Pullet made this the occasion of dining with sister Glegg, and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was the one day in the week on whi was at home iernoon; and today the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in unusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invitation, `e, Magsie, you e too! wherolled out with his mother in the garden to see the advang cherry blossoms. He had beeer pleased with Maggie since she had been less odd and ascetic; he was eveing rather proud of her: several persons had remarked in his hearing that his sister was a very fine girl. Today there eculiar brightness in her face, due iy to an under-current of excitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but it might pass for a sign of happiness.

    `You look very well, my dear, said aunt Pullet, shaking her head, sadly, as they sat round the tea-table. `I hought yirl ud be so good-looking Bessy. But you must ink, my dear: that blue thing as your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crow-flower. Jane never was tasty. Why dont you wear that gown o mine?

    `Its so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think its too showy for me - at least for my other clothes, that I must wear with it.

    `To be sure it ud be unbeing if it wasnt well-known youve got them belonging to you, as  afford to give you such things, when theyve doh em themselves. It stands to reason I must give my own niece clothes now and then - such things as I buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, theres no giving to her, for shes got everything o the choicest: sister Deane may well hold her head up, though she looks dreadful yallow, poor thing - I doubt this liver-plaint ull carry her off. Thats what this new Vicar, this Dr Kenn, said in the funeral sermon today.

    `Ah, hes a wonderful preacher, by all at - isnt he, Sophy? said Mrs Tulliver.

    `Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day, tinued Mrs Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, `as I dont say I havent got as good, but I must look out my best to match it.

    `Miss Lucys called the bell o St Oggs, they say - thats a curous word, observed Mr Pullet, on whom the mysteries of etymology sometimes fell with an oppressive weight.

    `Pooh! said Mr Tulliver, jealous fgie, `Shes a small thing, not much of a figure. But fihers make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so mu those diminitive women: they look silly by the side o the men - out oproportion. When I y wife, I chose her the right size - her too little nor too big.

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

    `But the me all big, said uncle Pullet, not without some self-reference. `A young fellow may be good-looking a not be a six-foot, like Mr Tom here.

    `Ah, its poor talking about littleness and bigness, - anybody may think its a mercy theyre straight, said aunt Pullet. `Theres that mis-made son o Lawyer Wakems - I saw him at church today. Dear, dear! to think o the property hes like to have. And they say hes very queer and unked - doesnt like mupany. I shouldnt wonder if he goes out of his mind, for we never e along the road but hes a-scrambling out o the trees and brambles at the Red Deeps.

    This wide statement, by which Mrs Pullet represehe fact that she had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, produced an effeaggie which was all the stronger because Tom sate opposite her, and she was intensely anxious to look indifferent. At Philips name she had blushed, and the blush deepened every instant from sciousness, until the mention of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the whole secret were betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoo she should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands clasped uhe table, not daring to look round. Happily, her father was seated on the same side with herself beyond her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without stooping forward. Her mothers voice brought the first relief, turning the versation - for Mrs Tulliver was always alarmed when the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husbands presence. Gradually Maggie recovered posure enough to look up: her eyes met Toms, but he turned away his head immediately, and she went to bed that night w if he had gathered any suspi from her fusion. Perhaps not - perhaps he would think it was only her alarm at her aunts mention of Wakem before her father: that was the interpretation her mother had put on it. To her father, Wakem was like a disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to ehe sciousness, but was exasperated to have the existence reised by others; and no amount of sensitiveness in her about her father could be surprising, Maggie thought.

    But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with su interpretation: he had seen clearly enough that there was something distinct from ay about her father in Maggies excessive fusion. In trying to recall all the details that could give shape to his suspis, he remembered only lately hearing his mother saggie for walking in the Red Deeps when the ground was wet, and bringing home shoes clogged with red soil: - still Tom, retaining all his old repulsion for Philips deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister the probability of feeling more than a friendly i in su unfortunate exception to the on run of men. Toms was a nature which had a sort of superstitio everything exceptional. 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 of intercourse whatever with Philip, a stop must be put to it at once; she was disobeying her fathers stro feelings and her brothers express ands, besides promising herself by secret meetings. He left home the  m in that watchful state of mind which turns the most ordinary course of things intnant ces.

    That afternoon, about half past three o clock, Tom was standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the probability of the good ship Adelaide ing in in a day or two with results highly important to both of them.

    `Eh, said Bob, pareically, as he looked over the fields oher side of the river, `there goes that crooked young Wakem - I know him or his shadder as far off as I  see em. Im allays lighting on him o that side the river.

    A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Toms mind. `I must go, Bob, he said, `Ive something to attend to, hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for some oo take his place - he was called away home on peremptory business.

    The swiftest pad the shortest road took him to the gate, and he ausing to pen it deliberately that he might walk into the house with an appearance of perfeposure, when Maggie came out at the front door in bo and shawl. His jecture was fulfilled, and he waited for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him.

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

    `Im e to walk with you to the Red Deeps a Philip Wakem, said Tom, the tral fold in his brow which had bee habitual with him, <big>藏书网</big>deepening as he spoke.

    Maggie stood helpless - pale and cold. By some means, then, Tom knew everything. At last, she said, `Im 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  go in, then, without her seeing me?

    They walked in together, and Tom entering the parlour, said to Maggie, `e in here.

    She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her.

    `Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has passed between you and Philip Wakem.

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

    `No, said Tom, indignantly. `But he shall know, if you attempt to use deceit towards me any further.

    `I dont wish to use deceit, said Maggie, flushing into rese at hearing this word applied to her duct.

    `Tell me the whole truth then.

    `Perhaps you know it.

    `Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly what has happened, or my father shall know everything.

    `I tell it for my fathers sake, then.

    `Yes, it bees you to profess affe for your father, when you have despised his stro feelings.

    `You never d, Tom, said Maggie, tauntingly.

    `Not if I know it, answered Tom, with proud siy. `But I have nothing to say to you, beyound this: tell me what has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you first meet him in the Red Deeps?

    `A year ago, said Maggie, quietly. Toms severity gave her a certain fund of defiance, a her sense of error in abeyance. `You need ask me no more questions. We have been friends a year. We have met and walked together often. He has lent me books.

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

    Maggie paused a moment: theermio make an end of Tht to accuse her of deceit, she said, haughtily,

    `No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me - I didnt think of it before then - I had only thought of him as an old friend.

    `And you enced 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, with his hands in his pockets. At last, he looked up, and said, coldly,

    `Now then Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take: either you vow solemnly to me with your hand on my fathers Bible, that you will never hold another meeting or speak another word in private with Philip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything, and this month, when by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you will cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own respectability by destiings 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 writing was.

    It was a crushing alternative to Maggie.

    `Tom, she said, urged out of pride into pleading, `dont ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if you will let me see him once - or even write to him and explaihing - to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain to my father... I feel something for Philip too. He is not happy.

    `I dont wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactly what I mean. Choose - and quickly, lest my mother should e in.

    `If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me, as if I had laid my hand on the Bible. I dont require that to bind me.

    `Do what I require, said Tom. `I t trust you, Maggie. There is no sisten you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, &quot;I renounce all private speed intercourse with Philip Wakem from this time forth.&quot; Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on my father; and what is the use of my exerting myself and giving up everything else for the sake of paying my fathers debts - if you are to<mark>９9ｌiｂ?</mark> bring madness aion on him just when he might be easy and hold up his head once more?

    `O Tom - will the debts be paid soon? said Maggie, clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretess.

    `If things turn out as I expect, said Tom. `But, he added, his voice trembling with indignation, `while I have been triving and w that my father may have some peaind before he dies - w for the respectability of our family - you have done all you  to destroy both.

    Maggie felt a deep movement of pun: for the moment, her mind ceased to tend 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 so lonely - and I was sorry for Philip. And I thiy and hatred are wicked.

    `Nonsense! said Tom. `Your duty was clear enough. Say no more - but promise, 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 your knowledge. That is the only thing I will say. I will put my hand on the Bible if you like.

    `Say it then.

    Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript aed the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, `Now, let us go.

    Not a word oken as they walked along. Maggie was suffering in anticipation of hilip was about to suffer, and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from Toms lips; but she felt it was in vain to attempt a<details></details>nything but submission. Tom had his terrible clut her sd her deepest dread: she writhed uhe demonstrable truth of the character he had given to her duct, a her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from its inpleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indignation diverted towards Philip. He did not know how much of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and animosity was ed iter severity of the words by which he meant to do the duty of a son and a brother: Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own motives, any more than into other matters of an intangible kind; he was quite sure that his own motives as well as as were good, else he would have had nothing to do with them.

    Maggies only hope was that something might for the first time have prevented Philip from ing. Then there would be delay - then she might get Toms permission to write to him. Her heart beat with double violence when they got uhe Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, she thought, Philip always met her soon after she got beyond them. But they passed across the more open green spad ehe narrow bushy path by the mound. Aurning, and they came so close upon him, that both Tom and Philip stopped suddenly within a yard of each other. There was a moments silen which Philip darted a look of inquiry at Maggies face. He saw an ahere, in the pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. Her imagination always rushiravagantly beyond an immediate impression, saw her tall strong brrasping the feeble Philip bodily, crushing him and trampling on him.

    `Do you call this ag the part of a man and a gentleman, sir? Tom said in a voice of harsh s, as soon as Philips eyes were turned on him again.

    `What do you mean? answered Philip, haughtily.

    `Mean? Stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands on you, and Ill tell you what I mean. I mean - taking advantage of a young girls foolishness and ignorao get her to have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle with the respectability of a family that has a good and ho o support.

    `I deny that! interrupted Philip, impetuously. `I could rifle with anything that affected your sisters happiness. She is dearer to me than she is to you - I honour her more than you  ever honour her - I would give up my life to her.

    `Dont talk high-flown nonseo me, sir! Do you mean to pretend that you didnt know it would be injurious to her to meet you here week after week? Do you pretend you had any right to make professions of love to her, even if you had been a fit husband for, wheher her father nor your father would ever sent to a marriage between you? And you - you to try and worm yourself into the affes of a handsome girl who is een, and has been shut out from the world by her fathers misfortuhats your crooked notion of honour, is it? I call it base treachery - I <q></q>call it taking advantage of circumstao win whats too good for you - what youd never get by fair means.

    `It is manly of you to talk in this way to me, said Philip bitterly, his whole frame shaken by violeions. `Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and i abuse. You are incapable even of uanding what I feel for your sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be at friendship with you.

    `I should be very sorry to uand your feelings, said Tom, with scorg pt. `What I wish is that you should uahat I shall take care of my sister, and that if you dare to make the least attempt to e near her, or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind, your puny, miserable body, that ought to have put some modesty into your mind, shall not protect you. Ill thrash you - Ill hold you up to public s. Who wouldnt laugh at the idea of your turning lover to a fine girl?

    `Tom, I will not bear it - I will listen no longer, Maggie burst out in a vulsed voice.

    `Stay, Maggie! said Philip, making a strong effort to speak. Then, looking at Tom, `You have dragged your sister here, I suppose, that she may stand by while you threaten and insult me. These naturally seemed to you the right means to influence me. But you are mistake your sister speak. If she says she is bound to give me up, I shall abide by her wishes to the slightest word.

    `It was for my fathers sake, Philip, said Maggie, implly. `Tom threatens to tell my father - and he couldnt bear it - I have promised, I have vowed solemnly that we will not have any intercourse without my brothers knowledge.

    `It is enough, Maggie. I shall not ge; but I wish you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me - remember that I ever seek for anything but good to what belongs to you.

    `Yes, said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philips, `you  talk of seeking good for her and what belongs to her now: did you seek her good before?

    `I did - at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have a friend for life - who would cherish her, who would do her more justice than a coarse and narrow-minded brother, that she has always lavished her affes on.

    `Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours - and Ill tell you what is my way. Ill save her from disobeying and disgrag her father - Ill save her from throwing herself away on you - from making herself a laughing-stock - from being flouted by a man like your father, because shes not good enough for his son. You know well enough what sort of justid cherishing you were preparing for her. Im not to be imposed upon by fine words - I  see what aean. e away, Maggie.

    He seized Maggies right wrist as he spoke, and she put out her left hand. Philip clasped it an instant, with one eager look and then hurried away.

    Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He was still holding her wrist tightly as if he were pelling a culprit form the se of a. At last Maggie, with a violent snatch drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long-gathered irritation burst into utterance.

    `Dont suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I bow to your will. I despise the feelings you have shown in speaking to Philip - I detest your insulting unmanly allusions to his deformity. You have been reproag other people all your life - you have been always sure you yourself are right: it is because you have not a mind large enough to see that there is anythier than your own dud your owy aims.

    `Certainly, said Tom, coolly. `I dohat your duct is better, or your aims either. If your duct, and Philip Wakems duct, has been right, why are you ashamed of its being known? Answer me that. I know what I have aimed at in my dud Ive succeeded: pray, what good has your duct brought to you or any one else?

    `I dont want to defend myself-- said Maggie, still with vehemence: `I know Ive been wrong - often,<kbd>９9lib?</kbd> tinually. But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would be the better for if you had them. If you were in fault ever - if you had done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain it brought you - I should not unishment to be heaped on you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me - you have always been hard and cruel to me - even when I was a little girl, and always loved you better than any one else in the world, you would let me g to bed without fiving me. You have no pity - you have no sense of your own imperfe and you own sins. It is a sin to be hard - it is not fitting for a mortal - for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but your own virtues - you think they are great enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision of feelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!

    `Well, said Tom, with cold s, `if your feelings are so much better than mine, let me see you show them in some other way than by duct thats likely to disgrace us all - than by ridiculous flights first into oreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shown your love that you talk of either to me or my father? By disobeying and deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affe.

    `Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and  do something in the world.

    `Then, if you  do nothing, submit to those that .

    `So I will submit to what I aowledge ao be right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from my father, but I will not submit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchased you a right to be cruel and unmanly as youve been today. Dont suppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedieo you. The deformity you insult would make me g to him and care for him the more.

    `Very well - that is your view of things, said Tom, more coldly than ever. `You need say no more to show me what a wide distahere is between us. Let us remember that in future and be silent.

    Tom went back to St Oggs, to fulfil an appoi with his uncle Deane, and receive dires about a journey on which he was to set out the  m.

    Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignant remonstrance, against whiind was close barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by, came the recolle of that quiet time before the pleasure which had ended in todays misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity of her life. She used to think in that time that she had made great quests, and won a lasting stand on seres above worldly temptations and flict. And here she was down again ihick of a 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 was two years youhere was more struggle for her - perhaps more falling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong and that Tom had beeirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inward harmony, but now her penitend submission were stantly obstructed by resehat would present itself to her no otherwise than as just. Her heart bled for Philip - she went on recalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid a ception of what he had felt uhem, that it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot, and tighten her fingers on her palm.

    A - how was it that she was now and then scious of a certain dim background of relief in the forced separation from Philip? Surely it was only because the sense of a deliverance from cealment was wele at any cost?

 CHAPTER 6

    The Hard-Won Triumph

    THREE weeks later, when Dorlill was at its prettiest moment in all the year - the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deep and daisied - Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the evening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the old deep-rooted affe at the respectable red brick house, which always seemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts as sad as they might, ihere is a very pleasant light in Toms blue-grey eyes as he gla the house-windows: that fold in his brow never disappears but it is not unbeing - it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their ge expression. His firm step bees quicker, and the ers of his mouth rebel against the pression which is meant to forbid a smile.

    The eyes in the parlour were not turowards the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in uant silence: Mr Tulliver in his armchair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing while her mother was making the tea.

    They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot.

    `Why whats up now, Tom? said his father. `Youre a bit earlier than usual.

    `O, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well, mother!

    Tom went up to his mother and kissed her - a sign of unusual good-humour with him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his usual inunicativeness at home prevehis from being noticeable to their parents.

    `Father, said Tom, when they had fiea, `do you kly how much mohere is iin box?

    `Only a hundred and hree pound, said Mr Tulliver. `Youve brought less o late - but young fellows like to have their oith their mohough I didnt do as I liked before I was of age. He spoke with rather timid distent.

    `Are you quite sure thats the sum, father? said Tom: `I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you have perhaps made a mistake.

    `How should I make a mistake? said his father, sharply. `Ive ted it often enough. But I  fetch it - if you wont believe me.

    It was always an i Mr Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and t the money.

    `Dont go out of the room, mother, said Tom, as he saw her moving, when his father was gone upstairs.

    `And isnt Maggie to go? said Mrs Tulliver, `because somebody must take away the things.

    `Just as she likes, said Tom indifferently.

    That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden vi that Tom was going to tell their father, the debts could be paid - and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told! But she carried away the tray, and came back immediately. The feeling of injury on her own behalf could not predomi that moment.

    Tom drew to the er of the table near his father, whein <cite></cite>box was set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them made spicuous the worn, sloom of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of the fair-plexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the other end of the table; the one in blank patiehe other in palpitating expectation.

    Mr Tulliver ted out the money, setting it in order oable, and then said, glang sharply at Tom,

    `There, now! you see I was right enough.

    He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency.

    `Theres more nor three hundred wanting - itll be a fine while before I  save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi the  was a sore job. This worlds been too many for me. Its took four year to lay this by - its much if Im above ground for another four year... I must trusten to you to pay em, he went on with a trembling voice, `if you keep i the same mind now youre ing o age... But youre like enough to bury me first.

    He looked up in Toms face with a querulous desire for some assurance.

    `No, father, said Tom, speaking with eic decision, though there was tremor disible in his voice too, `You will live to see the debts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.

    His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. A slight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr Tulliver, and he kept his eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie, uo restrain herself, rushed to her fathers side and k down by him. Tom was silent a little while, before he went on.

    `A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little moo trade with, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds in the bank.

    His mothers arms were round his neck as soon as the last words were uttered, and she said, half-g,

    `O my boy, I knew youd make iverything right again, when you got a man.

    But his father was silent: the flood of emotion hemmed in all power of speech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock of joy might eveal. But the blessed relief of tears came. The broad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and the grey-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually subsided a quiet, rec the regularity of his breathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a geone,

    `Bessy, you must e and kiss me now - the lad has made y amends. Youll see a bit o fain belike.

    When she had kissed him and he had held her hand a minute, his thoughts went back to the money.

    `I wish youd brought me the moo look at, Tom, he said, fingering the sns oable. `I should ha felt surer.

    `You shall see it tomorrow, father, said Tom. `My uncle Deane has<strike></strike> appoihe creditors to meet tomorrow at the Golden Lion, and he has ordered a dinner for them at two oclock. My uncle Glegg and he will both be there. It was advertised in the Messenger on Saturday.

    `Then Wakem knows ont! said Mr Tulliver, his eye kindling with triumphant fire. `Ah! he went on, with a long-drawn guttural enunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had left himself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance. `Ill get from under his thumb now - though I must leave th old mill. I thought I could ha held out to die here - but I t... Weve got a glass o nothing in the house, have we, Bessy?

    `Yes, said Mrs Tulliver drawing out her much-reduced bunch of keys, `theres some bra<kbd>九九藏书</kbd>ndy sister Deane brought me when I was ill.

    `Get it me, the me. I feel a bit weak.

    `Tom, my lad, he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken some brandy and water, `You shall make a spee. Ill tell em its you as got the best part o the moheyll see Im ho at last, and ha got an ho son. Ah! Wakem ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine - a firaight fellow - istead o that poor crooked creatur! Youll prosper i the world, my lad; youll maybe see the day when Wakem and his son ull be a round or two below you. Youll like enough be taen into partnership, as your uncle Deane was before you - youre in the right way fort; and then theres nothing to hinder yetting rich... And if ever youre riough - mind this - try ah old mill again.

    Mr Tulliver threw himself ba his chair - his mind, which had so lohe home of nothing but bitter distent and foreboding suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening to himself.

    `Shake hands wi me, my lad, he said, suddenly putting out his hand. `Its a great thing when a man  be proud as hes got a good son. Ive had that luck.

    Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that, and Maggie couldnt help fetting her own grievaom was good; and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true admiration and gratitude, she felt that th<figure>99lｉb?</figure>e faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousy this evening that for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the background in her fathers mind.

    There was much more talk before bed-time. Mr Tulliver naturally wao hear all the particulars of Toms trading adventures, and he listened with growiement and delight. He was curious to know what had been said on every occasion - if possible, what had been thought; and Bob Jakins part in the busihrew him into peculiar outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remarkable pa. Bobs juvenile history so far as it had e under Mr Tullivers knowledge was recalled with that sense of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminisces of the childhood of great men.

    It was well that there was this i of narrative to keep uhe vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem which would otherwise have been the el his joy would have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation.

    It was long before Mr Tulliver got to sleep that night, and the sleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams.<q>.99lib.</q> At half past five oclo the m, when Mrs Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom.

    `Whats the matter, Mr Tulliver? said his wife. He looked at her, still with a puzzled expression and said at last,

    `Ah! - I was dreaming... did I make a noise?... I thought Id got hold of him.

 CHAPTER 7

    A Day of Reing

    MR TULLIVER was an essentially sober man - able to take his glass and not averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds of moderation. He had naturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave liquid fire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to aing occasion, without any such reinforts, and his desire for the brandy and water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a dangerous sho a frame depressed by four years of gloom and unaced hard fare. But that first doubtful t moment passed, he seemed to gather strength with his gatheriement, and the  day, when he was seated at table with his cred<strike>九九藏书</strike>itors, his eye kindling and his cheek flushed with the scioushat he was about to make an honourable figure once more, he looked more like the proud, fident, warm-hearted and warm-tempered Tulliver of old times, than might have seemed possible to any one who had met him a week before, riding along as had been his wont for the last four years sihe sense of failure a had been upon him - with his head hanging down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those who forced themselves on his notice. He made his speech, asserting his ho principles with his old fident eagerness, alluding to the rascals and the luck that had been against him, but that he had triumphed over to some extent by hard effort and the aid of a good son, and winding up with the story of how Tom had got the best part of the needful money. But the streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemed to melt for a little while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure, when, Toms health having been proposed, and uncle Deane having taken occasion to say a few words of eulogy on his general character and duct, Tom himself got up and made the single speech of his life. It could hardly have been briefer: he thahe gentlemen for the honour they had done him. He was glad that he had been able to help his father in proving his iy and regaining his ho name, and, for his own part, he hoped he should never undo that work and disgrace that name. But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom looked so gentlemanly as well as tall and straight, that Mr Tulliver remarked in an explanatory mao his friends on his right ahat he had spent a deal of money on his sons education. The party broke up in very sober fashion at five oclock. Tom remained in St Oggs to attend to some business and Mr Tulliver mounted his horse to go home, and describe the memorable things that had been said and doo `poor Bessy and the little wench. The air of excitement that hung about him, was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulus but the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not choose any back street today, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances along the principal street all the way to the bridge. Why did <kbd>九九藏书</kbd>he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that ce vexed him a his mind at work in an irritating erhaps Wakem was go of town today on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing anything of an honorable a, which might well cause him some unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr Tulliver would look straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken a little by his cool domineering impudence. He would know by and by that an ho man was not going to serve him any longer, and lend his hoy to fill a pocket already over full of disho gains. Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn: perhaps the devil didnt always hold the best cards in this world.

    Simmering in this way, Mr Tulliver approached the yardgates of Dorlill, near enough to see a well known figure ing out of them on a fine black horse. They met about fifty yards from the gates, between the great chestnuts and elms and the high bank.

    `Tulliver, said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tohan usual, `What a fools trick you did - spreading those hard lumps on that Far Close. I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farm with ahod.

    `Oh! said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up. `Get somebody else to farm for you, then, as ll ask you to teach him.

    `You have been drinking, I suppose, said Wakem, really believing that this was the meaning of Tullivers flushed fad sparkling eyes.

    `No, Ive not been drinking, said Tulliver, `I want no drinking to help me make up my mind as Ill serve no longer under a sdrel.

    `Very well! you may leave my premises tomorrow, then: hold your iongue a me pass. (Tulliver was bag his horse across the road to hem Wakem in.)

    `No, I sha you pass, said Tulliver, getting fiercer. `I shall tell you what I think of you first. Youre too big a raskill to get hanged - youre...

    `Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or Ill ride over you.

    Mr Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip made a rush forward, and Wakems horse, rearing and staggering backward, threw his rider from the saddle a him sideways on the ground. Wakem had had the presenind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse only staggered a few paces and then stood still, he might have risen and remounted without more inveniehan a bruise and a shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight of the long-hated predominant man down and in his power threw him into a frenzy o<mark>九九藏书</mark>f triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give him preternatural agility and strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was i  to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as to press Wakems whole weight on the right arm, which rested on the ground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a womans scream was heard, and the cry of `Father, father!

    Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr Tullivers arm, for the flogging ceased, and the grasp of his own arm was relaxed.

    `Get away with you - go! said Tulliver angrily. But it was not to Wakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned his head, saw that Tullivers arms were being held by a girl - rather by fear of hurting the girl that g to him with all her young might.

    `O Luke - mother - e and help Mr Wakem! Maggie cried, as she heard the longed-for footsteps.

    `Help me on to that low horse, said Wakem to Luke, `then I shall perhaps mahough - found it - I think this arm is sprained.

    With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tullivers horse. Theurowards the miller and said, with white rage, `Youll suffer for this, sir. Your daughter is a withat youve assaulted me.

    `I dont care, said Mr Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice, `Go and show your back, and tell em I thrashed you. Tell em Ive made things a bit more even i the world.

    `Ride my horse home with me, said Wakem to Luke. `By the Toften Ferry - not through the town. `Father, e in! said Maggie, implly. Then, seeing that Wakem had ridden off and that no further violence ossible, she slaed her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear. But Maggie became scious that as she was slaing her hold, her father was beginning to grasp her and lean ohe surprise checked her sobs.

    `I feel ill - faintish, he said. `Help me in, Bessy - Im giddy: Ive a pain i the head.

    He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter, and tottered into his arm-chair. The almost purple flush had given way to paleness, and his hand was cold.

    `Hadter send for the doctor? said Mrs Tulliver.

    He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her, but presently, when she said to Maggie, `Go and see for somebody to fetch the doctor, he looked up at her with full prehension, and said, `Doctor? No - No doctor. Its my head - thats all. Help me to bed.

    Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a beginning of better times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled crop.

    In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. Bob Jakin was with him - e to gratulate `the old master, not without some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr Toms good-luck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothier as a finish to the day than a talk with Bob. But now Tom could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant sequehat must follow on this mad <tt></tt>outbreak of his fathers long-smothered hate. After the painful news had been told, Tom sat in silence: he had not spirit or ination to tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner - they hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mihread in the web of their life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow ing close upon it. Tom was dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others: Maggie was living through, over and ain, the agony of the moment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her fathers arm - with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched ses to e. Not one of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr Tullivers health: the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a necessary sequehat his violent passion and effort of strength after many hours of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill. Rest would probably cure him.

    Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept soundly; it seemed to him as if he had only just e to bed, when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the grey light of early m.

    `My boy, you must get up this minute: Ive sent for the doctor, and your father wants you and Maggie to e to him.

    `Is he worse, mother?

    `Hes been very ill all night with his head, but he doesnt say its worse - only said sudden, &quot;Bessy, fetch the boy and girl. Tell em to make haste.&quot;

    Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill grey light, and reached their fathers room almost at the same moment. He was watg for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but with sharpened anxious sciousness in his eyes. Mrs Tulliver stood at the foot of the bed, frightened and trembling, looking worn and aged from disturbed rest. Maggie was at his bedside first, but her fathers glance was towards Tom, who came and stood o her.

    `Tom, my lad, its e upon me, as I sha up again... This worlds been too many for me, my lad, but youve done what you could to make things a bit even. Shake hands wi me again, my lad, before I go away from you.

    The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other an instan<samp></samp>t. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly,

    `Have you any wish, father - that I  fulfil, when...

    `Ay, my lad... youll try ahe old mill back.

    `Yes, father.

    `And theres your mother - youll try and make her amends, all you , for my bad luck... and theres the little wench...

    The father turned his eyes on Maggie with a still more eager look, while she, with a bursti, sank on her ko be closer to the dear, time-worn face which had bee with her through long years as the sign of her deepest love and hardest trial.

    `You must take care of her, Tom... dont you fret, my wench... therell e somebody asll love you and take your part... and you must be good to her, my lad - I was good to my sister. Kiss me, Maggie... e, Bessy... Youll mao pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your mother and me  lie together.

    He looked away from them all when he had said this, and lay silent for some minutes, while they stood watg him, not daring to move. The m light was growing clearer for them, and they could see the heaviness gathering in his face, and the dullness in his eyes. But at last he looked towards Tom and said,

    `I had my turn - I beat him. That was nothing but fair. I never wanted anything but what was fair.

    `But, father, dear father, said Maggie, an unspeakable ay predominating over her grief, `You five him - you five every one now?

    He did not move his eyes to look at her, but he said,

    `No, my wench. I dont five him... Whats fiving to do? I t love a raskill...

    His voice had bee thicker; but he wao say more, and moved his lips again and again, struggling in vain to speak. At length the words forced their way.

    `Does God five raskills?... but if He does, He wont be hard wi me.

    His hands moved uneasily, as if he wahem to remove some obstru that weighted upon him. Two or three times there fell from him some broken words--

    `This worlds... too many... ho man... puzzling...

    Soon they merged into mere mutterings; the eyes had ceased to dis; and then came the final silence.

    But not of death. For an hour or more the chest heaved, the loud hard breathing tinued, getting gradually slower, as the cold dews gathered on the brow.

    At last there was total stillness, and poor Tullivers dimly-lighted soul had for ever ceased to be vexed with the painful riddle of this world.

    Help was e now: Luke and his wife were there, and Mr Turnbull had arrived, too late for everything but to say, `This is death.

    Tom and Maggie went downstairs together into the room where their fathers place was empty. Their eyes turo the same spot, and Maggie spoke:

    `Tom, five me - let us always love each other, and they g aogether.

 BOOK 6 CHAPTER 1

    A Duet in Paradise

    THE well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano and the pleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat-house by the side of the Floss, is Mr Deahe  little lady in m, whose light brlets are falling over the coloured embroidery with which here fingers are busy, is of course Lucy Deane; and the fine young man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors iremely abbreviated face of the `King Charles lying on the young ladys feet, is no other than Mr Stephe, whose diam, attar of roses, and air of nonchalant leisure at twelve oclo the day are the graceful and odoriferous result of the largest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in St Oggs. There is an apparent triviality iion with the scissors, but your disment perceives at ohat there is a design in it which makes it emily worthy of a large-headed, long-limbed young man; for you see that Lucy wants the scissors and is pelled, relut as she may be, to shake her ris back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smile playfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with her knee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to say, `My scissors, please, if you  renouhe great pleasure of perseg my poor Minny.

    The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hopelessly.

    `found the scissors! The oval lies the wrong lease, draw them off for me.

    `Draw them off with your other hand, says Miss Lucy, roguishly.

    `O but thats my left hand: Im not left-handed. Lucy laughs and the scissors are drawn off with geouches from tiny tips, whiaturally dispose Mr Stephen for a repetition da capo. Accly, he watches for the release of the scissors that he may get them into his possession again.

    `No, no, said Lucy, stig them in her band, `you shall not have my scissain - you have straihem already. Now do Minny growling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell you some news.

    `What is that? said Stephen, throwing himself bad hanging his right arm over the er of his chair. He might have been sitting for his portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young man of five and twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair standi with a slight wave at the end like a thick crop of , and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his well- marked horizontal eyebrows. `Is it very important news?

    `Yes, very. Guess.

    `Yoing to ge Minnys diet, and give him three ratafias soaked in a dessertspoonful of cream daily.

    `Quite wrong.

    `Well, then, Dr Kenn has been preag against buckram, and you ladies have all been sending him a round robin, saying &quot;This is a hard doe; who  bear it?&quot;

    `For shame! said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. `It is rather dull of you not<code></code> to guess my news, because it is about something I mentioo you not very long ago.

    `But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does your femiyranny require that when you say, the thing you mean is one of several things, I should know it immediately by that mark?

    `Yes, I know you think I am silly.

    `I think you are perfectly charming.

    `And my silliness is part of my charm?

    `I didnt say that.

    `But I know you like women to be rather insipid. Philip Wakem betrayed you: he said so one day when you were not here.

    `O I know Phil is fier that point - he makes it quite a personal matter. I think he must be love-sick for some unknown lady - some exalted Beatrice whom he met abroad.

    `By the by! said Lucy, pausing in her work. `It has just occurred to me that I have never found out whether my cousin Maggie will object to see Philip, as her brother does. Tom will er a room where Philip is if he knows it: perhaps Maggie may be the same and then we shant be able to sing lees, shall we?

    `What, is your cousin ing to stay with you? said Stephen, with a look of slight annoyance.

    `Yes; that was my news, which you have fotten. Shes going to leave her situation, where she has been nearly two years, poor thing - ever since her fathers death, and she will stay with me a month or two - many months, I hope.

    `And am I bound to be pleased at that news?

    `O no, not at all, said Lucy, with a little air of pique. `I am pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why you should be pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousin Maggie.

    `And you will be inseparable, I suppose, when she es. There will be no possibility of a tête-à-tête with you any more, unless you  find an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. What is the ground of dislike to Philip? He might have been a resource.

    `It is a family quarrel with Philips father. There were very painful circumstances, I believe - I never quite uood them or khem all. My uulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, and I think he sidered Mr Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr Wakem bought Dorlill, my uncles old place, where he always lived. You must remember my uulliver, dont you?

    `No, said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. `Ive always known the name, and I daresay I khe man by sight, apart from his name. I know half the names and faces in the <bdi></bdi>neighbourhood in that detached, disjointed way.

    `He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I was a little girl and used to go to see my cousins, he often frightened me by talking as if he was angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel the very day before my uncles death, between him an<abbr></abbr>d Mr Wakem, but it was hushed up. That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle was quite mistaken in many ways - his mind had bee embittered. But Tom and Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of these things. They have had so much - so very much trouble. Maggie was at school with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of her fathers misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, I think. She has been in a dreary situation in a school sincles death because she is determio be indepe, and not live with aunt Pullet; and I could hardly wish her to e to me then, because dear mamma was ill and everything was so sad. That is why I wao e to me now, and have a long, long holiday.

    `Very sweet and angelic of you, said Stephen, looking at her with an admiring smile, `and all the more so if she has the versational qualities of her mother.

    `Poor aunty! You ar<a>９９ｌib?</a>e cruel to ridicule her. She is very valuable to me, I know. She mahe house beautifully - much better than any stranger would. And she was a great fort to me in mammas illness.

    `Yes, but in point of panionship, one would prefer that she should be represented by her brandy cherries and cream cakes. I think with a shudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and have no agreeable proxies of that kind - a fat blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare at us silently.

    `O yes! exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly and clapping her hands, `that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have seen her!

    `No, indeed: Im only guessing what Mrs Tullivers daughter must be. And then, if she is to banish Philip, our only apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore.

    `But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philip and tell him Maggie is ing tomorrow. He is quite aware of Toms feeling and always keeps out of his way; so he will uand if you tell him that I asked you to warn him not to e until I write to ask him.

    `I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take. Phil is so sensitive, you know the least thing might frighten him off ing at all, and we had hard work to get him. I ever induce him to e to the Park: he doesnt like my sisters, I think. It is only your fa?ry touch that  lay his ruffled feathers.

    Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying towards the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy felt very proud and happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes the most exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time of passion - when each is sure of the others love, but no formal declaration has been made and all is mutual divinatioing the most trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate and delicious as wafted jasmine st. The expliess of an e wears off this fi edge of susceptibility: it is jasmihered and presented in a large bouquet.

    `But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggies appearand manners, said the ing Lucy, moving to reach her desk, `because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tom has not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring at people.

    `O, I suppose he is like the father - he seems to be as proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant panion, though, I should think.

    `I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo. And papa is very fond of him - he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through him that his father was able to pay all his debts before he died.

    `Oh, ah, Ive heard about that; I heard your father and mialking about it a little while ago, afte<mark>?９9lib?</mark>r dinner, in one of their interminable discussions about business. They think of doing something for young Tulliver - he saved them from a siderable loss by riding home in some marvellous way, like Turpin, t them news about the stoppage of a bank or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy at the time.

    Stephen rose from his seat, and sauo the piano, humming in falsetto, `Graceful sort, as he turned over the volume of `The Creation, which stood open on the desk.

    `e and sing this, he said, when he saw Lucy rising.

    `What, &quot;Graceful sort&quot;? I dont think it suits your voice.

    `Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it, is the grand element of good singing. I notice men with indifferent voices are usually of that opinion.

    `Philip burst into one of his iives against &quot;The Creation&quot; the other day, said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. `He says it has a sort of sugared plad flattering make-believe in it, as if it were written for the birthday fête of a German Grand Duke.

    `O pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam and Eve unfallen - in paradise. Now, then - the recitative, for the sake of the moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman - &quot;And from obedience grows my pride and happiness.&quot;

    `O no, I shall not respe Adam whs the tempo, as you will, said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.

    Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that in which the lovers  sing together. The sense of mutual fithat springs from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at the right momeweees of the silvery soprano, from the perfect accord of desding thirds and fifths, from the precerted loving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate demand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The tralto will not care to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassih of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In the provioo, where music was so scar that remote time, how could the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Even political principle must have been in danger of relaxation under such circumstances; and a violin faithful to rotten bhs must have beeed to fraternise in a demoralising way with a ref violoncello. In this case, the lihroated soprano, and the full-toned bass, singing,

    `With thee delight is every new, With thee is life incessant bliss,

    believed what they sang all the more because they sang it.

    `Now for Raphaels great song, said Lucy, when they had fihe duet. `You do the &quot;heavy beasts&quot; to perfe.

    `That sounds plimentary, said Stephen, looking at his watch. `By Jove, its nearly half-past one. Well, I  just sing this.

    Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing the tread of the heavy beasts: - but when a singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided ses. Minnys mistress was charmed, but Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his taste that he leaped out and scampered uhe remotest chiffonnière, as the most eligible pla which a small dog could await the crack of doom.

    `Adieu, &quot;graceful sort,&quot; said Stephen, buttoning his coat across when he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, with the air of rather a patronising lover to the little lady on the music-stool. `My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. I promised to be there at lunch.

    `You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of no sequence: I have said everything in my note.

    `You will be engaged with your cousin tomorrow, I suppose?

    `Yes, we are going to have a little family party. My cousin Tom will dih us, and poor aunty will have her two children together for the first time. It will be very pretty - I think a great deal about it.

    `But I may e the  day?

    `O yes! e aroduced to my cousin Maggie - though you  hardly be said not to have seen her, - you have described her so well.

    `Good-by, then. And there was that slight pressure of the hands and momentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little lady with a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subside immediately when the door is closed, and with an ination to walk up and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at her embroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least this was the effe Lucy; and you will not, I hope, sider it an indication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that she just glanced in the ey glass as her walk brought her near it. The desire to know that one has not looked an absolute fright during a few hours of versation may be strued as lying within the bounds of a laudable benevolent sideration for others. And Lucy had so much of this benevolen her nature that I am ined to think her small egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people not altogether unknown to you, whose small benevolences have a predominant and somewhat rank odour of egoism. Even now, that she is walking up and down with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the sehat she is loved by the person of chief sequen her small world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever present sunny benignity in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanity are quite lost, and if she is happy in thinking of her lover it is because the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentle affes and goodnatured offices with which she fills her peaceful days. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous alternation which makes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, is glang tinually from Stephen to the preparations she has only half finished in Maggies room. Cousin Maggie shall be treated as well as the gra lady visitor - nay, better, for she shall have Lucys best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very fi bouquet of spring flowers oable. Maggie would enjoy all that - she was so fond of pretty things! And there oor aunt Tulliver, that no one made any at of - she was to be surprised with the present of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunk in a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot with her father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in long reveries about her oy love-affairs! With this thought she walked towards the door, but paused there.

    `Whats the matter, then, Minny? she said, stooping in ao some whimpering of that small quadruped, and lifting his glossy head against her pink cheek. `Did you think I was going without you? e, the us go and see Sindbad.

    Sindbad was Lucys chestnut horse, that she always fed with her own hand when he was turned out in the paddock. She was fond of feeding depe creatures, and khe private tastes of all the animals about the house, delighting itle rippling sounds of her aries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed, and in the small nibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appear too trivial, I will here call the more familiar rodents.

    Was not Stephe right in his decided opinion that this slim maiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man would not be likely to repent of marrying? - a woman who was loving and thoughtful for other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askan their wele defects, but with real care and vision for their half-hidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment of little pleasures prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of his admiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her - perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did not strike him as a remarkable rarity. A man likes his wife to be pretty: well, Lucy retty, but not to a maddenient. A man likes his wife to be aplished, gentle, affeate and not stupid; and Lucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to find himself in love with her, and was scious of excellent judgment in preferrio Miss Leyburn, the daughter of the ty member, although Lucy was only the daughter of his fathers subordinate partner; besides, he had had to defy and overe a slight unwillingness and disappoi in his father and sisters - a circumstance which gives a young man an agreeable sciousness of his own dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and independenough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassed by any i siderations. He meant to choose Lucy: she was a little darling, aly the sort of woman he had always most admired.

 CHAPTER 2

    First Impressions

    `HE is very clever, Maggie, said Lucy. She was kneeling on a footstool at Maggies feet, after plag that dark lady in the large crimso chair. `I feel sure you will like him. I hope you will. `I shall be very difficult to please, said Maggie, smiling, and holding up one of Lucys long curls, that the sunlight might shihrough it. `A gentleman who thinks he is good enough for Lucy, must expect to be sharply criticised.

    `Indeed, hes a great deal too good for me. And sometimes, when he is away, I almost think it t really be, that he loves me. But I ever doubt it when he is with me - though I couldnt bear any o you to know that I feel in that way, Maggie.

    `Oh, then, if I disapprove of him, you  give him up, since you are not engaged, said Maggie with playful gravity.

    `I would rather not be engaged: - When people are ehey begin to think of being married soon, said Lucy, too thhly preoccupied to notice Maggies joke, `and I should like everything to go on for a long while just as it is. Sometimes I am quite frightened lest Stephen should say that he has spoken to papa, and from something that fell from papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr Guest are expeg that. And Stephens sisters are very civil to me now: at first, I think they didnt like his payiention; and that was natural. It does seem out of keeping that I should ever live in a great place like the Park House - such a little, insignifit thing as I am.

    `But people are not expected to be large in proportion to the houses they live in, like snails, said Maggie, laughingly. `Pray, are Mr Guests sisters giantesses?

    `O no - and not handsome - that is, not very, said Lucy, half-pe at this uncharitable remark. `But he is - at least he is generally sidered very handsome.

    `Though you are uo share that opinion?

    `O, I dont know, said Lucy, blushing pink over brow and neck. `It is a bad plan to raise expectation; you will perhaps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming surprise for him; I shall have a glorious laugh against him. I shall not tell you what it is, though.

    Lucy rose from her knees ao a little distance, holding her pretty head on one side, as if she had been arranging Maggie for a portrait and wished to judge of the general effect.

    `Stand up a moment, Maggie.

    `What is your pleasure now? said Maggie, smiling languidly, as she rose from her chair, and looked down on her slight, a?rial cousin, whose figure was quite subordio her faultless drapery of silk and crape.

    Lucy kept her plative attitude a moment or two in silence, and then said,

    `I t think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you look best in shabby clothes; though you really must have a new dress now. But do you know, last night I was trying to fancy you in a handsome fashionable dress, and do what I would, that old limp merino would e back as the only right thing for you. I wonder if Marie Antoie looked all the grander when her gown was dar the elbows. Now, if I were to put anything shabby on, I should be quite unnoticeable - I should be a mere rag.

    `O quite, said Maggie, with mock gravity. `You would be liable to be swept out of the room with the cobwebs and carpet dust, and to find yourself uhe grate, like derella. Maynt I sit down now?

    `Yes, now you may, said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an air of serious refle, unfastening her large jet brooch, `But you must ge brooches, Maggie; that little butterfly looks silly on you.

    `But wont that mar the charming effey sistent shabbiness? said Maggie, seating herself submissively, while Luelt again and unfastehe ptible butterfly. `I wish my mother were of your opinion, for she was fretting last night because this is my best frock. Ive been saving my moo pay for some lessons: I shall never get a better situation without more aplishments.

    Maggie gave a little sigh.

    `Now, dont put on that sad look again, said Lucy, pinning the large brooch below Maggies fihroat. `Youre fetting that youve left that dreary schoolroom behind you, and have no little girls clothes to mend.

    `Yes, said Maggie. `It is with me as I used to think it would be with the poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. I thought he must have got so stupid with the habit of turning backwards and forwards in that narrow space that he would keep doing it if they set him free. Os a bad habit of being unhappy.

    `But I shall put you under a discipline of pleasure that will make you lose that bad habit, said Lucy, stig the black butterfly absently in her own collar, while her eyes met Maggies affeately.

    `You dear tiny thing, said Maggie, in one of her bursts of loving admiration, `you enjoy other peoples happiness so much, I believe you would do without any of your own. I wish I were like you.

    `Ive never been tried in that way, said Lucy. `Ive always been so happy. I dont know whether I could bear much trouble - I never had any but poor mammas death. You have been tried, Maggie; and Im sure you feel for other people quite as much as I do.

    `No, Lucy, said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, `I dont enjoy their happiness as you do - else I should be more tented. I do feel for them when they are in trouble - I dont think I could ever bear to make any one unhappy - a, I often hate myself, because I get angry sometimes at the sight of happy people. I think I get worse as I get older - more selfish. That seems very dreadful.

    `Now, Maggie! said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, `I dont believe a word of that. It is all a gloomy fancy - just because you are depressed by a dull, wearisome life.

    `Well, perhaps it is, said Maggie, resolutely clearing away the clouds from her face with a bright smile, and throwing herself backward in her chair. `Perhaps it es from the school diet - watery rice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way before my mothers custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon.

    Maggie took up the `Sketch Book, which lay by her oable.

    `Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch? said Lucy, going to survey the effe the ey glass.

    `O nuest will be obliged to go out of the room again if he sees you in it. Pray make haste and put another on.

    Lucy hurried out of the room, but Maggie did not take the opportunity of opening her book: she let it fall on her knees, while her eyes wao the window where she could see the sunshine falling on the rich clumps of spring flowers and on the long hedge of laurels - and beyond, the silvery breadth of the dear old Floss that at this distance seemed to be sleeping in a m holiday. The sweet fresh garde came through the open window, and the birds were busy flitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggies eyes began to fill with tears. The sight of the old ses had made the rush of memories so painful that eveerday she had only been able to rejoi her mothers restored fort and Toms brotherly friendliness as we rejoi good news of friends at a distaher than in the presence of a happiness which we share. Memory and imaginatied upon her a sense of privation too keen to let her taste what was offered ira present: her future, she thought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years of tented renunciation, she had slipped bato desire and longing: she found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder and harder - she found the image of the intense and varied life she yearned for and despaired of, being more and more importuhe sound of the opening door roused her, and hastily wiping away her tears, she began to turhe leaves of her book.

    `There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest dismalness will never resist, said Lucy, beginning to speak as soon as she enter<var>9９ｌｉb?</var>ed the room. `That is musid I mean you to have quite a riotous feast of it. I mean you to get up your playing again, which used to be so much better than mine when we were at Laceham.

    `You would have laughed to see me playing the little girls tunes over and over to them, when I took them to practice, said Maggie, `just for the sake of fingering the dear keys <details>?９9liｂ.</details>again. But I dont know whether I could play anything more difficult now than &quot;Begone, dull care&quot;!

    `I know what a wild state of joy you used to be ihe glee-men came round, said Lucy, taking up her embroidery, `and we might have all those old glees that you used to love so, if I were certain that you dont feel exactly as Tom does about some things.

    `I should have thought there was nothing you might be more certain of, said Maggie, smiling.

    `I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because if you feel just as he does about that, we shall want our third v<u>藏书网</u>oice. St Oggs is so miserably provided with musical gentlemen. There are really only Stephen and Philip Wakem who have any knowledge of music, so as to be able to sing a part.

    Lucy looked up from her work as she uttered the last sentence, and saw that there was a ge in Maggies face.

    `Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie? If it does, I will not speak of him again. I know Tom will not see him if he  avoid it.

    `I dont feel at all as Tom does on that subject, said Maggie, rising and going to the window as if she wao see more of the landscape. `Ive always liked Philip Wakem ever since I was a little girl and saw him at Lorton. He was so good when Tom hurt his foot.

    `O, Im so glad! said Lucy. `Then you wont mind his ing sometimes, and we  have muusic than we could without him. Im very fond of poor Philip, only I wish he were not so morbid about his deformity. I suppose it is his deformity that makes him so sad - and sometimes bitter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poor little crooked body and pale face among great strong people.

    `But, Lucy, said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling stream,...

    `Ah, there is the door-bell. That must be Stephen, Lucy went on, not notig Maggies faint effort to speak. `One of the things I most admire in Stephen is, that he makes a greater friend of Philip than any one.

    It was too late fgie to speak now: the drawing-room door ening, and Minny was already growling in a small way, at the entrance of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lud took her hand with a half polite, half tender gland tone of inquiry, which seemed to indicate that he was unscious of any other presence.

    `Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver, said Lucy, turning with wicked enjoyment towards Maggie, who noroached from the farther window. `This is Mr Stephe.

    For one instant Stephen could not ceal his astonishment at the sight of this tall dark-eyed nymph with her jet- black et of hair, the , Maggie felt herself, for the first time in her life, receiving the tribute of a very deep blush and a very deep bow from a person towards whom she herself was scious of timidity. This new experience was very agreeable to her - so agreeable that it almost effaced her previous emotion about Philip. There was a new brightness in her eyes, and a very being flush on her cheek as she seated herself.

    `I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew the day before yesterday, said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of triumph. She enjoyed her lovers fusion - the advantage was usually on his side.

    `This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me, Miss Tulliver, said Stepheing himself by Lud stooping to play with Minny - only looking at Maggie furtively. `She said you had light hair and blue eyes.

    `Nay, it was you who said so, remonstrated Lucy. `I only refrained from destroying your fiden your own sed sight.

    `I wish I could always err in the same way, said Stephen, `and fiy so much more beautiful than my preceptions.

    `Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion, said Maggie, `and said what it was incumbent on you to say uhe circumstances.

    She flashed a slightly defiant look at him: it was clear to her that he had been drawing a satirical portrait of her beforehand. Lucy had said he was ined to be satirical, and Maggie had mentally supplied the addition - `and rather ceited.

    `An alarming amount of devil there, was Stephens first thought. The sed, when she had bent over her work was, `I wish she would look at me again. The  was, to answer:

    `I suppose all phrases of mere pliment have their turn to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he says &quot;thank you.&quot; Its rather hard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the world dees a disagreeable invitation - dont you think so, Miss Tulliver?

    `No, said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance; `if we use on words on a great occasion, they are the more striking, because they are felt at oo have a particular meaning, like old banners or everyday clothes hung up in a sacred place.

    `Then my pliment ought to be eloquent, said Stephen, really not quite knowing what he said while Maggie looked at him, `seeing that the words were so far beh the occasion.

    `No pliment  be eloquent, except as an expression of indifference, said Maggie, flushing a little.

    Lucy was rather alarmed - she thought Stephen and Maggie were not going to like each other. She had always feared lest Maggie should appear too odd and clever to please that critical gentleman. `Why, dear Maggie, she interposed, `you have alretehat you are too fond of being admired, and now, I think, you are angry because some oures to admire you.

    `Not at all, said Maggie, `I like too well to feel that I am admired, but pliments never make me feel that.

    `I will never pay you a pliment again, Miss Tulliver, said Stephen.

    `Thank you; that will be a proof of respect.

    Pgie! She was so uo society that she could take nothing<big></big> as a matter of course, and had never in her life spoken from the lips merely, so that she must necessarily appear absurd to more experienced ladies, from the excessive feeling she t to throw into very trivial is. But she was even scious herself of a little absurdity in this insta was true, she had a theoretic obje to pliments and had once said impatiently to Philip that she didnt see why womeo be told with a simper that they were beautiful any more than old meo be told that they were venerable: still, to be so irritated by a on practi the case of a stranger like Mr Stephe, and to care about his having spoken slightingly of her before he had seen her, was certainly unreasonable, and as soon as she was silent she began to be ashamed of herself. It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter emotion which had preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of glowing warmth an i drop of cold water may fall upon us as a sudden smart.

    Stephen was too well-bred not to seem unaware that the previous versation could have bee embarrassing, and at once began to talk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if she knew when the bazaar was at length to take place, so that there might be some hope of seeing her rain the influence of her eyes on objects mrateful than those worsted flowers that were growing under her fingers.

    `Some day  month, I believe, said Lucy. `But your sisters are doing more for it than I am: they are to have the largest stall.

    `Ah, yes: but they carry on their manufactures in their own sitting-room where I dont intrude on them. I see you are not addicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss Tulliver, said Stephen looking at Maggies plain hemming.

    `No, said Maggie, `I  do nothing more difficult or more elegant than shirt-making.

    `And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie, said Lucy, `that I think I shall beg a few spes of you to show as fancy-work. Your exquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me - you used to dislike that sort of work so mu old days.

    `It is a mystery explained, dear, said Maggie, looking up quietly. `Plain sewing was the only thing I could get money by; so I was obliged to try and do it well.

    Lucy, good and simple as she was, could not help blushing a little: she did not quite like that Stephen should know that - Maggie need not have mentio. Perhaps there was some pride in the fession: the pride of poverty that will not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggie had been the queen of coquettes she could hardly have ied a means of giving greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephens eyes: I am not sure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty would have done alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made Maggie more uher womehan she had seemed at first.

    `But I  knit, Lucy, Maggie went on, `if that will be of any use for your bazaar.

    `O yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with scarlet wool tomorrow. But your sister is the most enviable person, tinued Lucy, turning to Stephen, `to have the talent of modelling. She is doing a w bust of Dr Keirely from memory.

    `Why, if she  remember to put the eyes very ogether, and the ers of the mouth very far apart, the likeness  hardly fail to be striking in St Oggs.

    `Now, that is very wicked of you, said Lucy, looking rather hurt. `I didnt think you would speak disrespectfully of Dr Kenn.

    `I say anything disrespectful of Dr Kenn? Heaven forbid!But I am not bound to respect a libellous bust of him. I think Kenn one of the fi fellows in the world. I dont care much about the tall dle-sticks he has put on the union table, and I shouldnt like to spoil my temper by getting up to early prayers every m. But hes the only man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have anything of the real apostle in him - a man who has eight hundred a year and is tented with deal furniture and boiled beef because he gives away two thirds of his ihat was a very fihing of him - taking into his house that poor lad Grattan, who shot his mother by act. He sacrifices more time than a less busy man could spare, to save the poor felletting into a morbid state of mind about it. He takes the lad out with him stantly, I see.

    `That is beautiful, said Maggie, who had let her work fall, and was listening with keen i, `I never knew any one who did such things.

    `And one admires that sort of a in Kenn all the more, said Stephen, `because his manners in general are rather cold and severe. Theres nothing sugary and maudlin about him.

    `O I think hes a perfect character! said Lucy, with pretty enthusiasm.

    `No, there I t agree with you, said Stephen shaking his head with sarcastic gravity.

    `Now, what fault  you point out in him?

    `Hes an Angli.

    `Well, those are the right views, I think, said Lucy, gravely.

    `That settles the question in the abstract, said Stephen, `but not from a parliamentary point of view. He has set the dissenters and the church people by the ears, and a risior like myself, of whose services the try is very mu need, will find it inve whes up for the honour of representing St Oggs in parliament.

    `Do you really think of that? said Lucy, her eyes brightening with a proud pleasure that made her he argumentative is of Angliism.

    `Decidedly - whenever old Mr Leyburns public spirit and gout induce him to give way. My fathers heart is set on it; and gifts like mine, you know, - here Stephen drew himself up and rubbed his large white hands over his hair with playful self-admiration - `gifts like mine involve great responsibilities. Dont you think so, Miss Tulliver?

    `Yes, said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up; `so much fluend self possession should not be wasted entirely on private occasions.

    `Ah, I see how much peion you have, said Stephen. `You have discovered already that I am talkative and impudent. Now superficial people never dis that - owing to my manner, I suppose.

    `She doesnt look at me when I talk of myself, he thought while his listeners were laughing. `I must try other subjects.

    Did Lutend to be present at the meeting of the Book Club  week? was the  question. Then followed the reendation to choose Southeys Life of Cowper, unless she were ined to be philosophical and startle the ladies of St Oggs by voting for one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Of course Lucy wished to know what these alarmingly learned books were, and as it is alleasant to improve the minds of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of which they know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an at of Buds Treatise, which he had just been reading. He was rewarded by seeing Maggie let her work fall and gradually get so absorbed in his wonderful geological story that she sat looking at him, leaning forward with crossed arms and with aire absence of self-sciousness, as if he had been the snuffiest of old professors and she a downy-lipped alumnus. He was so fasated by this clear, large gaze that at last he fot to look away from it occasionally towards Lucy: but she, sweet child, was only rejoig that Stephen roving to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would certainly be good friends after all.

    `I will bring you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver? said Stephen, when he found the stream of his recolles running rather shallow. `There are many illustrations in it that you will like to see.

    `O thank you, said Maggie, blushing with returning self-sciousness at this direct address, and taking up her wain.

    `No, no, Luterposed. `I must forbid your plunging Maggie in books. I shall never get her away from them. And I wao have delicious do-nothing days, filled with boating and chatting and riding and driving: that is the holiday she needs.

    `Apropos! said Stephen, looking at his watch, `shall we go out for a row on the river now? The tide will suit for us to go the Tofton way, and we  walk back.

    That was a delightful proposition to Maggie, for it was years since she had been on the river. When she was goo put on her bo, Lucy lio give an order to the servant and took the opportunity of telling Stephen that Maggie had no obje to seeing Philip, so that it ity she had sent that he day before yesterday. But she would write aomorrow and invite him.

    `Ill call a him up tomorrow, said Stephen, `and bring him with me in the evening, shall I? My sisters will want to call on you, when I tell them your cousin is with you. I must have the field clear for them in the m.

    `O yes, pray bring him, said Lucy. `And you will like Maggie, shant you? she added, in a beseeg tone. `Isnt she a dear, noble-looking creature?

    `Too tall, said Stephen, smiling down upon her, `and a little too fiery. She is not my type of woman, you know.

    Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these imprudent fideo ladies ing their unfavourable opinion of sister fair ohat is why so many women have the advantage of knowing that they are secretly repulsive to men who have self-denyingly made ardent love to them. And hardly anything could be more distinctively characteristic of Lucy, than that she both implicitly believed what Stephen said and was determihat Maggie should not know it. But you, who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide you, have already foreseen, as the direct sequeo that unfavourable opinion of Stephens, that he walked down to the boathouse calculating, by the aid of a vivid imagination, that Maggie must give him her hand at least twi sequence of this pleasant boating plan, and that a gentleman who wishes ladies to look at him is advantageously situated when he is rowing them in a boat. What then? Had he fallen in love with this surprising daughter of Mrs Tulliver at first sight? Certainly not - such passions are never heard of in real life. Besides, he was in love already, and half eo the dearest little creature in the world, and he was not a man to make a fool of himself in any way. But when one is five and twenty, one has not chalk-sto ones finger ends that the touch of a handsome girl should be entirely indifferent. It erfectly natural and safe to admire beauty and enjoy looking at it - at least under such circumstances as the present. And there was really something very iing about this girl, with her poverty and troubles: it was gratifying to see the friendship betweewo cousins. Generally, Stephen admitted, he was not found of women who had any peculiarity of character - but here the peculiarity seemed really of a superior kind: and provided one is not obliged to marry suen - why, they certainly make a variety in social intercourse.

    Maggie did not fulfil Stephens hope by looking at him during the first quarter of an hour: her eyes were too full of the old banks that she knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from Philip - the only person who had ever seemed to love her devotedly, as she had always lo<kbd>藏书网</kbd>o be loved. But presently the rhythmient of the oars attracted her, and she thought she should like to learn how to row. This roused her from her reverie, and she asked if she might take an oar. It appeared that she required much teag, and she became ambitious; the exercise brought the warm blood into her cheeks, and made her ined to take her lesson merrily.

    `I shall not be satisfied until I  mah oars, and row you and Lucy, she said, looking very bright as she stepped out of the boat. Maggie, we knot tet the thing she was doing, and she had chosen an inopportune moment for her remark: her foot slipped, but happily Mr Stephe held her hand a her up with a firm grasp.

    `You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope? he said, bending to look in her face with ay. It was very charming to be taken care of in that kind graceful manner by some oaller and strohan oneself. Maggie had never felt just in the same way before.

    When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt Pullet seated with Mrs Tulliver in the drawing-room and Stephen hurried away, asking leave to e again in the evening.

    `And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you took away, said Lucy. `I want Maggie to hear your best songs.

    Aunt Pullet, uhe certainty that Maggie would be io go out with Lucy, probably to Park House, was much shocked at the shabbiness of her clothes, which, when witnessed by the higher society of St Oggs, would be a discredit to the family that demanded a strong and prompt remedy; and the sultation as to what would be most suitable to this end from among the superfluities of Mrs Pullets wardrobe, was ohat Lucy as well as Mrs Tulliver entered into with some zeal. Maggie must really have an evening dress as soon as possible, and she was about the same height as aunt Pullet.

    `But shes so much broader across the shoulders than I am - its very ill-ve, said Mrs Pullet, `else she might wear that beautiful black brocade o mihout any alteration. And her arms are beyond everything, added Mrs Pullet, sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggies large round arm. `Shed never get my sleeves on.

    `O, never mind that, aunt, pray send us the dress, said Lucy. `I dont mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I have abundance of black lace for trimming. Her arms will look beautiful.

    `Maggies arms are a pretty shape, said Mrs Tulliver. `Theyre like mine used to be; only mine was never brown: I wish shed had our family skin.

    `Nonsense, aunty! said Lucy, patting her aunt Tullivers shoulder, `you dont uand those things. A painter would think Maggies plexioiful.

    `May be, my dear, said Mrs Tulliver, submissively. `You know better than I do. Only when I was young a brown skin wasnt thought well on among respectable folks.

    `No, said uncle Pullet, who took inteerest in the ladies versation, as he sucked his lozenges. `Though there was a song about the &quot;Nutbrown Maid&quot; too - I think she was crazy like - crazy Kate - but I t justly remember.

    `O dear, dear! said Maggie, laughing but impatient, `I think that will be the end of my brown skin if it is always to be talked about so much.

 CHAPTER 3

    fidential Moments

    WHEN Maggie went up to her bedroom that night it appeared that she was not all ined to undress. She set down her dle on the first table that preseself, and began to walk up and down her r<a></a>oom, which was a large one, with a firm, regular and rather rapid step, which showed that the exercise was the instinctive vent of stroement. Her eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish brilliancy; her head was thrown backward and her hands were clasped with the palms outward and with that tension of the arms which is apt to apaal absorption. Had anything remarkable happened?

    Nothing that you are not likely to sider in the highest degree unimportant. She had been hearing some fine musig by a fine bass voice - but then it was sung in a provincial amateur fashion, such as would have left your critical ear much to desire. And she was scious of having been looked at a great deal in rather a furtive m<samp></samp>anner from beh a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glahat seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of the voice. Such things could have had no perceptible effe a thhly well-educated young lady with a perfectly balanced mind, who had had all the advantages of forturaining and refined society. But if Maggie had been that young lady, you would probably have known nothing about her; her life would have had so few vicissitudes that it could hardly have been written; for the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history.

    In pgies highly strung, hungry nature - just e away from a third rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds ay round of tasks - these apparently trivial causes had the effect of rousing aing her imagination in a way that was mysterious to herself. It was not that she thought distinctly of Mr Stephe or dwelt on the indications that he looked at her with admiration; it was rather that she felt the half-remote presence of a world of love ay and delight, made up of vague, mingled images from all the poetry and romance she had ever read, or had ever woven in her dreamy reveries. Her mind glanced bace or twice to the time when she had courted privation, when she had thought all longing, all impatience was subdued, but that dition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she recoiled from the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now would bring back that ive peace: the battle of her life, it seemed, was not to be decided in that short and easy way - by perfect renunciation at the very threshold of her youth. The music was vibrating iill - Purce<var>九九藏书</var>lls music with its wild passion and fancy - and she could not stay in the recolle of that bare lonely past. She was in her brighter a?rial world again when a little tap came at the door: of course it was her cousin, who entered in ample white dressing-gown.

    `Why, Maggie, you naughty child, havent you begun to undress? said Lucy, in astonishment. `I promised not to e and talk to you, because I thought you must be tired. But here you are, looking as if you were ready to dress for a ball. e, e, get on your dressing-gown and unplait your hair.

    `Well, you are not very forward, retorted Maggie, hastily reag her own pink cotton gown, and looking at Lucys light brown hair brushed ba curly disorder.

    `O I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to you, till I see you are really on the way to bed.

    While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over her pink drapery, Lucy sat dowhe toilette table, watg her with affeate eyes, and head a little aside, like a pretty spaniel. If it appears to you at all incredible that young ladies should be led on to talk fidentially in a situation of this kind, I will beg you to remember that human life furnishes many exceptional cases.

    `You really have ehe musiight, havent you, Maggie?

    `O yes, that is revents me from feeling sleepy. I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to irength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music. At other times one is scious of carrying a weight.

    `And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasnt he?

    `Well, perhaps we are her of us judges of that, said Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself and tossed her long hair back. `You are not impartial, and I think any barrel an splendid.

    `But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly - good and bad too.

    `O I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover should not be so much at ease and so self-fident. He ought to tremble more.

    `Nonsense, Maggie! As if any one could tremble at me!You think he is ceited - I see that. But you dont dislike him, do you?

    `Dislike him! No. Am I in the habit of seeing such charming people, that I should be very difficult to please? Besides how could I dislike any ohat promised to make you happy, you dear thing! Maggie pinched Lucys dimpled .

    `We shall have more musiorrow evening, said Lucy, looking ha<strike>.99lib.</strike>ppy already, `for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem with him.

    `O Lucy, I t see him, said Maggie, turning pale. `At least, I could not see him without Toms leave.

    `Is Tom such a tyrant as that? said Lucy, surprised. `Ill take the responsibility then - tell him it was my fault.

    `But, dear, said Maggie, faltering, `I promised Tom very solemnly - before my fathers death - I promised him I would not speak to Philip without his knowledge and sent. And I have a great dread of opening the subject with Tom - of getting into a quarrel with him again.

    `But I never heard of anything se and unreasonable. What harm  poor Philip have done? May I speak to Tom about it?

    `O no, pray dont, dear, said Maggie. `Ill go to him myself tomorrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to e. Ive thought before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but Ive not had the ce to determine on it.

    They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,

    `Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you.

    Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Theuro her and said, `I should like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one - least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr Stephe.

    The narrative lasted long, fgie had never before known the relief of su outp: she had<dfn></dfn> never before told Luything of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent towards her with sympathetiterest, and the little hand pressing hers, enced her to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did not betray fully what still rankled in her mind as Toms great offehe insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the remembraill made her, she could not bear that any one else should know it all - both for Toms sake and Philips. And she could not bear to tell Lucy of the last se between her father and Wakem - though it was this se which she had ever since felt to be a new barrier between herself and Philip. She only told Lucy that she saw now, Tom was on the whht in regarding any prospect of love and marriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the relation of the two families. Of course Philips father would never sent.

    `There, Lucy, you have had my story, said Maggie, smiling with the tears in her eyes. `You see I am like Sir Andrew Ague-cheek - I was adored once.

    `Ah, now I see how it is you knoeare and everything, and have learned so much since you felt school - which always seemed to me witchcraft before - part of yeneral uniness, said Lucy.

    She mused a little with her eyes downward and then added, looking at Maggie, `It is very beautiful that you should love Philip: I hought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are obstacles now, but they may be done away with in time.

    Maggie shook her head.

    `Yes, yes, persisted Lucy. `I t help being hopeful about it. There is something romanti it - out of the on way - just what everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you like a husband in a fairy tale. O I shall puzzle my small brain to trive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind - so that you may marry Philip, when I marry - somebody else. Wouldnt that be a pretty ending to all my poor, pgies troubles?

    Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill.

    `Ah, dear, you are cold, said Lucy. `You must go to bed; and so must I. I dare not think what time it is.

    They kissed each other and Lucy went away - possessed of a fidence which had a strong influence over her subsequent impressions. Maggie had been thhly sincere: her nature had never found it easy to be otherwise. But fidences are sometimes blinding evehey are sincere.

 CHAPTER 4

    Brother and Sister

    MAGGIE was obliged to go to Toms lodgings in the middle of the day, when he would be ing in to dinner, else she would not have found him at home. He was not lodging with erangers. Our friend Bob Jakin had, with Mumpss tacit sent, taken not only a wife about eight months ago, but also one of those queer old houses pierced with surprising passages, by the water-side, where, as he observed, his wife and mother could keep themselves out of mischief by letting out two `pleasure-boats in which he had ied some of his savings, and by taking a lodger for the parlour and spare bedroom. Uhese circumstances, what could be better for the is of all parties, sanitary siderations apart, than that the lodger should be Mr Tom? It was Bobs wife who opehe door to Maggie. She was a tiny woman, with the general physiognomy of a Dutch doll, looking, in parison with Bobs mother who filled up the passage in the rear, very much like one of those human figures which the artist finds vely standing near a colossal statue to show the proportions. The tiny woman curtsied and looked up at Maggie with some awe as soon as she had opehe door; but the words, `Is my brother at home? which Maggie uttered smilingly, mad<u>99lib.</u>e her turn round with suddeement and say,

    `Eh, mother, mother - tell Bob! - its Miss Maggie! e in, Miss, foodness do, she went on, opening a side door, and endeav to flatten her person against the wall to make the utmost space for the visitor.

    Sad recolles crowded on Maggie as she ehe small parlour, which was now all that poor Tom had to call by the name of `home - that name which had once, so many years ago, meant for both of them the same sum of dear familiar objects. But everything was not strao her in this new room: the first thing her eyes dwelt on was the large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to disperse the old memories. She stood without speaking.

    `If you please to take the privilege o sitting down, Miss, said Mrs Jakin, rubbing her apron over a perfectly  chair, and then lifting up the er of that garment and holding it to her face with an air of embarrassment, as she looked wly at Maggie.

    `Bob is at home, then? said Maggie, rec herself, and smiling at the bashful Dutch doll.

    `Yes, Miss; but I think he must be washing and dressing himself - Ill go and see, said Mrs Jakin, disappearing.

    But she presently came back walking with new ce a little way behind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of his blue eyes and regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing respectfully.

    `How do you do, Bob? said Maggie, ing forward and putting out her hand to him. `I always meant to pay your wife a visit, and I shall e another day on purpose for that, if she will let me. But I was obliged to e today, to speak to my brother.

    `Hell be in before long, Miss. Hes doin finely, Mr Tom is: hell be ohe fust men hereabouts - youll see that.

    `Well, Bob, Im sure hell be ied to you, whatever he bees: he said so himself only the ht, when he was talking of you.

    `Eh, Miss, thats his way o takin it. But I think the more ont when he says a thing, because his tongue doesnt over- shoot him as mine does. Lors! Im er nor a tilted bottle I arnt - I t stop mysen when once I begin. But you look rarely, Miss - it does me good to see you. What do you say now, Prissy? - here Bob turo his wife. `Isnt it all e true as I said? Though there isnt many sorts ogoods as I t over-praise when I set my too t.

    Mrs Bobs small nose seemed to be following the example of her eyes in turning up reverentially towards Maggie, but she was able now to smile and curtsy, and say, `Id looked forrard like aenything to seein you, Miss, for my husbands tongues been runnin on you like as if he was light-headed, iver since first he e a-courtin on me.

    `Well, well, said Bob, looking rather silly. `Go aer the taters, else Mr Tom ull have to wait for em.

    `I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs Jakin, Bob, said Maggie, smiling. `I remember you used to say, he wouldnt like your marrying.

    `Eh, Miss, said Bob, grinning, `he made up his mind to t when he seed what a little un she was. He pretends not to see her mostly, or else to think as she isnt full-growed. But about Mr Tom, Miss, said Bob, speaking lower and looking serious. `Hes as close as a iron biler, he is; but Im a cutish chap, an when Ive left off carrying my pa am at a loose end - Ive got more brains nor I know what to do wi, an Im forced to busy myself wi other folkss insides. An it worrets me as Mr Tom ull sit by himself so glumpish, a-knittin his brow an a-lookin at the fire of a night. He should be a bit livelier now - a fine young fellow like him. My wife says, when she goes in sometimes aakes no notice of her, he sits lookin into the fire and frownin as if he was wat folks at work in it.

    `He thinks so much about business, said Maggie.

    `Ay, said Bob, speaking lower, `but do you think its nothin else, Miss? Hes close, Mr Tom is, but Im a cute chap, I am, an I thought towrt last Christmas, as Id found out a soft pla him. It was about a little black spaniel - a rare bit o breed - as he made a fuss to get. But sihen summats e over him as hes set his teeth again things more nor iver, for all hes had such good luck. An I wao tell you, Miss, cause I thought you might work it out of him a bit, now youre e. Hes a deal too lonely - a go into pany enough.

    `Im afraid I have very little power over him, Bob, said Maggie, a good deal moved by Bobs suggestion. It was a totally new idea to her mind, that Tom could have his love troubles. Poor fellow! - and in love with Lucy too! But it erhaps a mere fancy of Bobs too officious brain. The present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship and gratitude. But Bob and already said, `Heres Mr Tom, and the outer door ening.

    `Theres no time to spare, Tom, said Maggie, as soon as Bob had left the room. `I must tell you at once what I came about, else I shall be hindering you from taking your dinner.

    Tom stood with his back against the ey pied Maggie was seated opposite the light. He noticed that she was tremulous, and he had a prese of the subject she was going to speak about. The prese made his voice colder and harder as he said, `What is it?

    This tone roused a spirit of resistan Maggie and she put her request in quite a different form from the one she had predetermined on. She rose from her seat and looking straight at Tom, said,

    `I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip Wakem. Or rather, I promised you not to see him without telling you. I am e to tell you that I wish to see him.

    `Very well, said Tom, still more coldly.

    But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, defiant manner, before she repented ahe dread of alienation from her brother.

    `Not for myself, dear Tom. Dont be angry. I shouldnt have asked it, only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucys, and she wishes him to e - has invited him to e this evening, and I told her I couldnt see him without telling you. I shall only see him in the presence of other people. There will never be anythi between us again.

    Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more strongly for a little while. Theuro her and said slowly and emphatically--

    `You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. There is no need for my repeating anything I said a year ago. While my father was living, I felt bound to use the utmost power over you, to prevent you from disgrag him as well as yourself and all of us. But now I must leave you to your own choice. You wish to be indepe - you told me so after my fathers death. My opinion is not ged. If you think of Philip Wakem as a lain, you must give up me.

    `I dont wish it, dear Tom - at least as things are - I see that it would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to another situation, and I should like to be friends with him again while I am here. Lucy wishes it.

    The severity of Toms face relaxed a little.

    `I shouldnt mind your seeing him occasionally at my uncles - I dont want you to make a fuss on the subject. But I have no fiden you, <var>?９９lib?</var>Maggie. You would be led away to do anything.

    That was a cruel word. Maggies lip began to tremble.

    `Why will you say that, Tom? It is very hard of you. Have I not done and borhing as well as I could? And I have kept my word to you - when - when... My life has not been a happy one any more than yours.

    She was obliged to be childish - the tears would e. When Maggie was not angry, she was as depe on kind or cold words as a daisy on the sunshine or the cloud: the need of being loved would always subdue her as in old days it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. The broodness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could only show itself in Toms fashio his haly on her arm and said ione of a kind pedagogue,

    `Now listen to me, Maggie: Ill tell you what I mean. Youre always iremes - you have no judgment and self-and; a you think you know best, and will not submit to be guided. You know I didnt wish you to take a situation. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good home, and you might have lived respectably amongst your relations until I could have provided a home for you with my mother. And that is what I should like to do. I wished my sister to be a lady, and I would always have taken care of you as my father desired, until you were well married. But your ideas and mine never accord, and you will not give way. Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who goes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily knows better what is right and respectable for his sister than she  know herself. You think I am not kind - but my kindness  only be directed by what I believe to be good for you.

    `Yes - I know - dear Tom, said Maggie, still half-s<tt></tt>obbing, but trying to trol her tears. `I know you would do a great deal for me - I know how you work and dont spare yourself. I am grateful to you. But, indeed, you t quite judge for me - our natures our very different. You dont know how differently things affect me from what they do you.

    `Yes, I do know - I know it too well. I know how differently you must feel about all that affects our family and your own dignity as a young woman, before you could think of receivi addresses from Philip Wakem. If it was not disgusting to me in every other way, I should objey sisters name being associated for a moment with that of a young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all, and would spurn you. With any o you, I should think it quite certain that what you witnessed just before my fathers death, would secure you from ever thinking again of Philip Wakem as a lover. But I dont feel certain of it with you - I never feel certain about anything with you. At oime you take pleasure in a sort of perverse self-denial, and at another, you have not resolution to resist a thing that you know to be wrong.

    There was a terrible cutting truth in Toms words - that hard rind of truth which is dised by unimaginative, unsympathetids. Maggie always writhed uhis judgment of Toms: she rebelled and was humiliated in the same moment: it seemed as if he held a glass before her to show her her own folly and weakness - as if he were a prophetic voice predig her future fallings - a, all the while, she judged him iurn: she said inwardly, that he was narrow and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs which were often the source of the wrong-doing or absurdity that made her life a planless riddle to him.

    She did not answer directly - her heart was too full, and she sat down, leaning her arm oable. It was no use trying to make Tom feel that she was o him. He always repelled her. Her feeling under his words was plicated by the allusion to the last se between her father and Wakem, and at length that painful, solemn memory surmouhe immediate grievano! She did not think of such things with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not accuse her of that. She looked up at him with a grave, ear gaze, and said,

    `I t make you thier of me, Tom, by anything I  say. But I am not so shut out from all your feelings as you believe me to be. I see as well as you do, that from our position with regard to Philips father - not on rounds - it would be unreasonable - it would be wrong for us to eain the idea of marriage, and I have given up thinking of him as a lover... I am telling you the truth and you have nht to disbelieve me: I have ke<footer>藏书网</footer>pt my word to you, and you have never detected me in a falsehood. I should not only not ence, I should carefully avoid any intercourse with Philip on any other footing than that of quiet friendship - of a distant kind. You may think that I am uo keep my resolutions - but at least you ought not to treat me with that hard pt on the ground of faults that I have not itted yet.

    `Well, Maggie, said Tom, softening uhis appeal, `I dont want to overstrain matters. I think, all things sidered, it will be best for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lucy wishes him to e to the house. I believe what you say - at least you believe it yourself, I know: I  only warn you. I wish to be as good a brother to you as you will let me.

    There was a little tremor in Toms voice as he uttered the last words, and Maggies ready affe came back with as sudden a glow as when they were children and bit their cake together as a sacrament of ciliation. She rose and laid her hand on Toms shoulder.

    `Dear Tom - I know you mean to be good. I know you have had a great deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I should like to be a fort to you - not to vex you. You dont think Im altogether naughty, now, do you?

    Tom smiled at the eager face: his smiles were very pleasant to see when they did e, for the grey eyes could be tender underh the frown.

    `No, Maggie.

    `I may turn out better than you expect.

    `I hope you will.

    `And may I e some day and make tea for you, ahis extremely small wife of Bobs again?

    `Yes, but trot away now, for Ive no more ti<mark></mark>me to spare, said Tom, looking at his watch.

    `Not to give me a kiss?

    Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said,

    `There! Be a good girl. Ive got a great deal to think of to-day. Im going to have a long sultation with my uncle Deahis afternoon.

    `Youll e to aunt Gleggs tomorrow? Were going all to dine early, that we may go there to tea. You must e: Lue to say so.

    `O Pooh! Ive plenty else to do, said Tom, pulling his bell violently and bringing down the small bell-rope.

    `Im frightened - I shall run away, said Maggie, making a laughireat; while Tom, with mase philosophy, flung the bell-rope to the father end of the room - not very far either: a touch of human experience which I flatter myself will e home to the bosoms of not a few substantial or distinguished men who were o an early stage of their rise in the world and were cherishing very large hopes in very small lodgings.

 CHAPTER 5

    Showing that Tom Had Opehe Oyster

    `AND now weve settled this Newcastle business, Tom, said Mr Deahat same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room at the Bank together, `theres another matter I want to talk to you about. Since youre likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it in Newcastle for the  few weeks, youll want a good prospect of some sort to keep up your spirits. Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion in this apartment, while his uook out his snuff box and gratified eaostril with deliberate impartiality.

    `You see, Tom, said Mr Dea last, throwing himself backward, `the woes on at a smarter paow than it did when I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. The looms went slowish, and fashions didnt alter quite so fast - Id a best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale, sir - in point of expenditure, I mean. Its this steam, you see, that has made the difference - it drives on every wheel double pad the wheel of Fortune along with em, as our Mr Stephe said at the Anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, sidering hes seen nothing of business). I dont find fault with the ge, as some people do. Trade,<footer></footer> sir, opens a mans eyes; and if the population is to get thicker upon the ground, as its doing, the world must use its wits at iions of one sort or other. I know Ive done my share as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said its a fihing to make two ears of  grow where only one grew before: - but, sir, its a fihing too, to further the exge of odities, and bring the grains of  to the mouths that are hungry. And thats our line of business - and I sider it as honourable a position as a man  hold, to be ected with it.

    Tom khat the affair his uncle had to speak of was nent; Mr Deane was too shreractical a man to allow either his reminisces or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed for the last month or two there had been hints thrown out to Tom whiabled him to guess that he was going to hear some proposition for his own be. With the beginning of the last speech he had stretched out his legs, thrus<kbd></kbd>t his hands in his pockets and prepared himself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr Deane had succeeded by his ow, and that what he had to say to young men in general was, that if they didnt succeed too, it was because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his u a direct question to him.

    `Let me see - its going on for seven years now since you applied to me for a situatioom?

    `Yes, sir; Im three and twenty now, said Tom.

    `Ah - its as well not to say that, though; for youd pass food deal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your ing very well: I remember I saw there was some plu you, and that was what made me give you encement. And Im happy to say, I was right - Im not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my nephew, but Im happy to say youve done me credit, sir - and if Id had a son o my own, I shouldnt have been sorry to see him like you.

    Mr Deaapped his box and ope agaiing in a tone of some feeling - `No, I shouldnt have been sorry to see him like you.

    `Im very glad Ive given you satisfa, sir; Ive done my best, said Tom, in his proud, indepe way.

    `Yes, Tom, youve giveisfa. I dont speak of your duct as a son - though that weighs with me in my opinion of you. But what I have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities youve shown as a man o business. Ours is a fine business - a splendid , sir - and theres no reason why it shouldnt go on growing: theres a growing capital and growing outlets for it, but theres ahing thats wanted for the prosperity of every , large or small, and thats men to duct it - men of the right habits, none o your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this is what Mr Guest and I see clear enough. Three years ago, we took Gell into the  - we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why, because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it will always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty en years older than you, there are other points in <bdo>九九藏书</bdo>your favour.

    Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr Dea on speaking: he was<big></big> scious of something he had in his mind to say, which might not be agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion rather than an acceptance of the proposition he foresaw.

    `It stands to reason, Mr Dea on, when he had finished his new pinch, `that your being my nephew<details></details> weighs in your favour, but I dohat if youd been ion of mi all, your du that affair of Pelleys bank would have led Mr Guest and myself to make some aowledgment of the service youve been to us - and, backed by yeneral dud business ability it has made us determine on giving you a share in the business - a share which we shall be glad to increase as the years go ohink thatll be better on all grounds than raising your salary. Itll give you more importance, and prepare you better for taking some of the ay off my shoulders by and by. Im equal to a good deal o work at present, thank God; but Im getting older - theres no denying that. I told Mr Guest I would open the subject to you, and when you e back from this northern business, we  go into particulars. This is a great stride for a young fellow of three and twenty, but Im bound to say, youve deserved it.

    `Im very grateful tuest and you, sir - of course I feel the most ied to you, who first took me into the business, and have taken a good deal of pains with me since.

    Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had said this.

    `Yes, yes, said Mr Deane. `I dont spare pains when I see theyll be of any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell - else he wouldnt have been what he is.

    `But theres ohing I should like to mention to you, uncle. Ive never spoken to you of it before. If you remember, at the time my fathers property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buying the Mill: I know you thought it would be a very good iment, especially if steam were applied.

    `To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us - hed made up his mind to that. Hes rather fond of carrying everything over other peoples heads.

    `Perhaps its of no use my mentioning it at present, Tom went on, `but I wish you to know what I have in my mind about the Mill. Ive a strong feeling about it. It was my fathers dying wish that I should try a back again whenever I could - it was in his family for five geions. I promised my father. And besides that, Im attached to the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should ever suit your views to buy it for the firm I should have a better ce of fulfilling my fathers wish. I shouldnt have liked to mentiohing to you, only youve been kind enough to say my services have been of some value. And Id give up a much greater  life for the sake of having the Mill again - I mean, having it in my own hands, and gradually w off the price.

    Mr Deane had listetentively, and now looked thoughtful.

    `I see, I see, he said, after a while, `the thing would be possible, if there were any ce of Wakems parting with the property. But that I dont see. Hes put that you-some in the place, and he had his reasons when he bought it, Ill be bound.

    `Hes a loose fish - that yousome, said Tom. `Hes taking to drinking, and they say hes letting the business go down. Luke told me about it - our old miller. He says, he shant stay uheres an alteration. I was thinking, if things went on in that way, Wakem might be more willing to part with the Mill. Luke says hes getting very sour about the way things are going on.

    `Well, Ill turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and go into it with Mr Guest. But, you see, its rather striking out a new branch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are - which was what wed wanted.

    `I should be able to manage more than the mill when things were o proing, sir. I want to have plenty of work. Theres nothing else I care about much.

    There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man of three and twenty, even in uncle Deanes business-loving ears.

    `Pooh, pooh! youll be having a wife to care about one of these days, if you get on at this pa the world. But as to this Mill, we mustnt re our chis too early. However, I promise you to bear it in mind, and when you e back, well talk of it again. I am going to dinner now. e and have breakfast with us tomorrow m and say good-by to your mother and sister before you start.

 CHAPTER 6

    Illustrating the Laws of Attra

    IT is evident to you now, that Maggie had arrived at a moment in her life which must be sidered by all prudent persons as a great opportunity for a young woman. Launched into the higher society of St Oggs, with a striking person which had the advantage of being quite unfamiliar to the majority of beholders, and with such moderate assistance of e as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucys anxious colloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a arting-point in life. At Lucys first evening party, young Torry fatigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that `the dark-eyed girl there, in the er, might see him in all the additional style ferred by his eye-glass; and several young ladies went home intending to have short sleeves with black lad to plait their hair in a broad et at the back of their head - `That cousin of Miss Deanes looked so very well. In faaggie, with all her inward sciousness of a painful past and her prese of a troublesome future, was on the way to bee an object of some envy - a topic of discussion in the newly-established billiard-room, aween fair friends who had s from each other on the subject of trimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated chiefly on terms of dession with the families of St Oggs, ahe glass of fashion there, took some exception to Maggies manners. She had a way of not assenting at oo the observations current in good society and of saying that she didnt know whether those observatiorue or not which gave her an air of gaucherie and impeded the even flow of versation; but it is a fact capable of an amiable interpretation that ladies are not the worse disposed towards a new acquaintance of their own sex because she has points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without those pretty airs of coquetry which have the traditional reputation of drivilemen to despair, that she won some femiy for being so iive in spite of her beaty. She had not had many advantages, poor thing! and it must be admitted there was no pretension about her: her abruptness and unevenness of manner were plainly the result of her secluded and lowly circumstances. It was only a wohat there was no tinge of vulgarity about her, sidering what the rest of poor Lucys relations were: an allusion which always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not agreeable to think of any e by marriage with such people as the Gleggs and the Pullets; but it was of no use to tradict Stephen, when once he had set his mind on anything, aainly there was no possible obje to Lu herself - no one could help liking her. She would naturally desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindly to this cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a great fuss if they were defit in civility. Uhese circumstahe invitations to Park House were not wanting, and elsewhere also, Miss Deane was too po<figure></figure>pular and too distinguished a member of society in St Oggs for any attention towards her to be ed.

    Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young ladys life, and knew what it was to get up in the m without any imperative reason for doing ohing more than ahis new sense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment amidst the soft-breathing airs and gardes of advang Spring, amidst the new abundanusid lingering strolls in the sunshine and delicious dreaminess of gliding on the river, could hardly be without some intoxig effe her after her years of privation; and even in the first week Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories and anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now: it was being very pleasant to dress in the evening and to feel that she was one of the beautiful things of this spring time. And there were admiring eyes always awaiting her now; she was no longer an unheeded person, liable to be chid, from whom attention was tinually claimed, and on whom no o bound to fer any. It leasant, too, when Stephen and Lucy were go riding, to sit down at the piano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers and the keys remained and revived, like a sympathetiship not to be worn out by separation - to get the tunes she had heard the evening before a them again and again until she had found out a way of produg them so as to make them a more pregnant, passionate language to her. The mere cord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and she would often take up a book of Studies rather than any melody, that she might taste more keenly by abstra the more primitive sensation of intervals. Not that her enjoyment of music was of the kind that indicates a great specific talent: it was rather that her sensibility to the supreme excitement of music was only one form of that passionate sensibility which beloo her whole nature and made her faults and virtues all merge in each other - made her affe sometimes an angry demand, but also prevented her vanity from taking the form of mere feminine coquetry and device, and gave it the poetry of ambition. But you have known Maggie a long while, ao be told, not her characteristics, but her history, which is hardly to be predicted eve<s>九九藏书</s>n from the pletest knowledge of characteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirely from within. `Character - says Novalis, in one of his questionable aphorisms - `character is destiny. But not the whole of our destiny. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, eculative and irresolute, and we have a great tragedy in sequence. But if his father had lived to a good old age, and his uncle had died an early death, we  ceive Hamlets having married Ophelia and got through life with a reputation of sanity notwithstanding many soliloquies, and some moody sarcasms towards the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the fra incivility to his father-in-law.

    Maggies destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for it to reveal itself like the course of an unmapped river: we only know that the river is full and rapid, and that for all rivers there is the same final home. Uhe charm of her new pleasures, Maggie herself was ceasing to think, with her eager prefiguring imagination, of her future lot, and her ay about her first interview with Philip was losing its predominance: perhaps, unsciously to herself, she was not sorry that the interview had been deferred.

    For Philip had not e the evening he was expected, and Mr Stephe brought word that he was goo the coast - probably, he thought, on a sketg expedition; but it was not certain when he would return. It was just like Philip - to go off in that way without telling any o was not until the twelfth day that he returo find both Luotes awaiting him: he had left before he knew of Maggies arrival.

    Perhaps one had o be een again to be quite vinced of the feelings that were crowded fgie into those twelve days - of the length to which they were stretched for her by the y of her experien them and the varying attitudes of her mind. The early days of an acquaintance almost always have this importance for us, and fill up a larger spa our memory than longer subsequent periods which have been less filled with discovery and new impressions. There were not many hours in those ten days in which Mr Stephe was not seated by Lucys side, or standing near her at the piano, or apanying her on some out-door excursion: his attentions were clearly being more assiduous, and that was what every one had expected. Lucy was very happy - all the happier because Stephens society seemed to have beuch more iing and amusing since Maggie had been there. Playful discussions - sometimes serious ones - where going forward, in which both Stephen and Maggie revealed themselves, to the admiration of the gentle unobtrusive Lucy; and it more than once crossed her mind what a charming quartet they should have through life when Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable thing that a girl should enjoy her lovers society the more for the presence of a third person, ahout the slightest spasm of jealousy that the third person had the versation habitually directed to her? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy, thhly possessed with a belief that she knows the state of her panions affes, and not proo the feelings which shake such a belief in the absence of positive evidence against it. Besides, it was Lucy by whom Stephen sate, to whom he gave his arm, to whom he appealed as the person sure to agree with him; and every day there was the same tender politeowards her, the same sciousness of her wants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? - it seemed to Lucy that there was more, and it was no wohat the real significe of the ge escaped her. It was a subtle act of s Stephen, that even he himself was not aware of. His personal attentions to Maggie were paratively slight, and there had even sprung up an apparent distaweehat prevehe renewal of that faint resemblao gallantry into which he had fallen the first day, in the boat. If Stephen came in when Lucy was out of the room - if Lucy left them together, they never spoke to each other: Stephen, perhaps, seemed to be examining books or musid Maggie bent her head assiduously over her work. Each pressively scious of the others presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet each looked and longed for the same thing to happen the  day. her of them had begun to refle the matter, or silently to ask, `To what does all this tend? Maggie only felt that life was revealing something quite o her, and she was absorbed in the direct, immediate experiehout any energy left for taking at of it, and reasoning about it. Stephen wilfully abstained from self-questioning, and would not admit to himself that he felt an influence which was to have aermining effe his duct. And when Lucy came into the room again, they were once more unstrained: Maggie could tradict Stephen and laugh at him, and he could reend to her sideration the example of that most charming heroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had a great `respect for the uandings of men. Maggie could<samp>.99lib.</samp> look at Stephen - which for some reason or other, she always avoided when they were alone, and he could even ask her to play his apa for him, since Lucys fingers were so busy with that bazaar-work; aure her on hurrying the tempo, which was certainly Maggies oint.

    One day - it was the day of Philips return - Lucy had formed a sudden e to spend the evening with Mrs Kenn, whose delicate state of health, threatening to bee firmed illhrough an attack of bronchitis, obliged her tn her funs at the ing bazaar into the hands of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to be ohe e had been formed in Stephens presence, and he had heard Lucy promise to rise early and call at six ocloiss Torry, whht Mrs Kenns request.

    `Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar, Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room - `taking young ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth into ses of dissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered reticules! I should like to know what is the proper fun of women if it is not to make reasons for husbands to stay at home and still stronger reasons for bachelors to <kbd>9９ｌiｂ?</kbd>go out. If this goes on much lohe bounds of society will be dissolved.

    `Well, it will not go on much longer, said Lucy, laughing, `for the bazaar is to take plaonday week.

    `Thank heaven! said Stephen. `Kenn himself said the other day, that he didnt like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity; but just as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St Oggs has not got forotive enough to build and endow schools without calling in the force of folly.

    `Did he say so? said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening wide with ay. `I never heard him say anything of that kind - I thought he approved of what we were doing.

    `Im sure he appoves you, said Stephen, smiling at her affeately; `your du going out to-night looks vicious, I own, but I know there is benevole the bottom of it.

    `O, you think too well of me, said Lucy, shaking her head, with a pretty blush. And there the subjeded. But it was tacitly uood that Stephen would not e in the evening, and orength of that tacit uanding he made his m visit the longer, not saying good-by until after four.

    Maggie was seated in the drawing-room alone, shortly after dinner, with Minny on her lap, havi her uo his wine and his nap, and her mother to the promise between knitting and nodding which, when there was no pany, she always carried on in the dining-room till tea-time. Maggie was stooping to caress the tiny silke, and f him for his mistresss absence, when the sound of a footstep on the gravel made her look up and she saw Mr Stephe walking up the garden as if he had e straight from the river. It was very unusual to see him so soon after dinner! He often plaihat their dinner-hour was late at Park House. heless, there he was, in his black dress: he had evidently been home, and must have e again by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart beating: it was natural she should be so nervous, for she was not aced to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look up through the open window, and raised his hat as he walked towards it, to ehat way instead of by the door. He blushed too, aainly looked as foolish as a young man of some wit and self-possession  be expected to look, as he walked in with a roll of musi his hand, and said with an air of hesitating improvisation,

    `You are surprised to see me again, Miss Tulliver - I ought to apologise for ing upon you by surprise, but I wao e into the town, and I got our man to row me, so I thought I would bring these things from the &quot;Maid of Artois&quot; for your cousin. I fot them this m. Will you give them to her?

    `Yes, said Maggie, who had risen fusedly with Minny in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what to do, sat down again.

    Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite aware that it was airely new position.

    `Well, you pampered minion! said Stephen, leaning to pull the long curly ears that drooped gies arm. It was not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not follow it up by further development, it naturally left the versation at a stand-still. It seemed to Stephen like some a in a dream that he was obliged to do, and wo himself all the while - to go on stroking Minnys head. Yet it was very pleasant: he only wished he dared l<bdi>?９９ｌib?</bdi>ook at Maggie, and that she would look at him, - let him have one long look into those deep strange eyes of hers and then he would be satisfied and quite reasoer that. He thought it was being a sort of monomania with him, to want that long look from Maggie, and he was rag his iion tinually to find out some means by which he could have it without its appearing singular aailing subsequent embarrassment. As fgie she had no distinct thought - only the sense of a presence like that of a closely-h broad-winged bird in the darkness, for she was uo look up and saw nothing but Minnys back wavy coat.

    But this must end some time - perhaps it ended very soon, and only seemed long, as a minutes dream does. Stephen at last sat upright, sideways in his chair, leaning one hand and arm over the bad looking at Maggie. What should he say?

    `We shall have a splendid su, I think. Shant you go out a?

    `I dont know, said Maggie. Then, ceously raising her eyes and looking out of the window, `If Im not playing cribbage with my uncle.

    A pause: during which Minny is stroked again, but has suffit insight not to be grateful for it - to growl rather.

    `Do you like sitting alone?

    A rather arch look came gies face, and just glang at Stephen, she said, `Would it be quite civil to say &quot;yes&quot;?

    `It was rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask, said Stephen, delighted with that glance, aiermio stay for another. `But you will have more than half an hour to yourself after I am gone, he added, taking out his watch. `I know Mr Deane never es in till half-past seven.

    Another pause: during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minnys back again, and said,

    `I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music.

    `We shall have a new voiorrow night, said Stephen. `Will you tell your cousin that your friend Philip Wakem is e back? I saw him as I went home.

    Maggie gave a little start - it seemed hardly more than a vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But the new images summoned by Philips name, dispersed half the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his cushioo reach Lucys large work-basket from its er. Stephen was vexed and disappointed: he thought, perhaps Maggie didnt like the name of Wakem to be mentioo her in that abrupt way - for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table with her work and looking chill and proud; and he - he looked like a simpleton for having e. A gratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it alpable to Maggies thinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake of setting off again and finding her alone.

    A boyish state of mind of an aplished youleman of five and twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a refereo history, perhaps, may make it not incredible.

    At this moment Maggies ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and, pig up the ball, met her with a vexed plaining look that gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presehe ball to her.

    `Good-by, said Stephen, in a tohat had the same beseeg distent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand - he thrust both hands into his tail pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude.

    `Wont you stay? she said timidly, not looking away - for that would have seemed rude again.

    `No, thank you, said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling, half-fasated eyes, as a thirsty man looks towards the track of the distant brook. `The boat is waiting for me,... Youll tell your cousin.

    `Yes.

    `That I brought the music, I mean.

    `Yes.

    `And that Philip is e back.

    `Yes. (Maggie did not notice Philips his time.)

    `Wont you e out a little way into the garden? said Stephen, in a still geone, but the  moment he was vexed that she did not say `No, for she moved away now towards the open window, and he was obliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make him amends.

    `Do take my arm, he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret.

    There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm: the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but the sense of help - the presence of strength that is outside them aheirs, meets a tinual want of the imaginatioher on that ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked together round the grassplot and uhe drooping green of the laburnums, in the same dim dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour before; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and Maggie had darting thoughts across the dimness: - how came she to be there? - why had she e out? Not a word oken. If it had been, each would have been less intensely scious of the other.

    `Take care of this step, said Stephen, at last.

    `O, I will go in now, said Maggie, feeling that the step had e like a rescue. `Good evening.

    In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to the house. She did not reflect that this sudden a would only add to the embarrassing recolles of the last half-hour - she had no thought left for that. She only threw herself into the low armchair, and burst into tears.

    `O Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again - so quietly - in the Red Deeps.

    Stephen looked after her a moment, the on to the boat, and was soon la the Wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing lives at pool. But he would not leave off. He was determined not to think - not to admit any more distinct remembrahan was urged upon him by the perpetual presenaggie. He was looking at her and she was on his arm.

    But there came the y of walking home in the cool starlight: and with it the y of cursing his own folly, and bitterly determining that he would rust himself aloh Maggie again. It was all madness: he was in love, thhly attached to Lucy, and engaged - engaged as strongly as an honourable man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by her in this way: she would make a sweet, straroublesome, adorable wife to some man or other - but he would never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did - not. He ought not to have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her - quarrel with her perhaps. - Quarrel with her? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes - defying and depreg, tradig and ging, imperious and beseeg - full of delicious opposites. To see such a creature subdued by love for one would be a lot worth having - to another man.

    There was a muttered exclamation whided this inward soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his hands into his pockets stalked along at a quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a beory kind.

 CHAPTER 7

    Philip Re-Enters

    THE  m was very wet - the sort of m on which male neighbours who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to bee so heavy and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, that nothing but an open quarrel  abbreviate the visit: lateation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what  be so delightful - in England - as a rainy m? English sunshine is dubious: bos are never quite secure; and if you sit down on the grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a matosh and presently find yourself in the seat you like best - a little ab<q></q>ove or a little below the one on which yoddess sits - (it is the same thing to the metaphysid, and that is the reason why wome once worshipped and looked down upon) - with a satisfactory fidehat there will be no lady-callers. `Stephen will e earlier this m, I know, said Lucy. `He always does when its rainy.

    Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to think she should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she would have goo her aunt Gleggs this m, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with her mother.

    But Stephen did not e earlier, and there was another visitor - a nearer neighbour - who preceded him. When Philip ehe room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advaowards him and put out her hand, he guessed at ohat Lucy had been taken into her fide was a moment of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like all persons who have passed through life with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his self-trol, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in rather a higher key, that ters would seem expressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its fieress. But Maggie who had little more power of cealing the impressions made upohan if she had been structed of musical strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took each others hands in silehey were not painful tears: they had rather something of the same in as the tears women and children shed when they have found some prote to g to, and look ba the threatened danger. For Philip who a little while ago was associated tinually in Maggies mind with the sehat Tom might reproach her with some justice, had now, in this short space, bee a sort of outward sce to her, that she might fly to rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender affe for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and its memories of long quiet talk firming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive bias - the fact that in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotedhan to her vanity or oistic excitability of her nature - seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best part of herself must resist, which must bring horrible tumult within, wretess without. This new sense of her relation to Philip multiplied the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt lest she should overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would san, and she put out her hand to him ahe tears in her eyes without any sciousness of an inward check. The se was just what Lucy expected, and her ki delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again; though even with all<q></q> her regard for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical ingruity betweewo - a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didnt like poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set them at ease.

    `This was very good and virtuous of you, she said, in her pretty treble, like the low versational notes of little birds, `to e so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends no notice. e and sit down here, she went on, plag the chair that would suit him best, `and you shall find yourself treated mercifully.

    `You will never govern well, Miss Deane, said Philip, as he seated himself, `because no one will ever believe in your severity. People will always ence themselves in misdemeanours by the certainty that you will be indulgent.

    Lucy gave some playful tradi, but Philip did not hear what it was, for he had naturally turowards Maggie, and she was looking at him with that open, affeate scrutiny which we give to a friend from whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting had been!And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He felt this so keenly - with sutense, detailed remembrance - with such passionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their last versation - that with that jealousy and distrust whi diffident natures is almost iably linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggies gland mahe evidence of a ge. The very fact that he feared and half expected it, would be sure to make this thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the trary.

    `I am having a great holiday, am I not? said Maggie. `Lucy is like a fairy godmother: she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want before I know it myself.

    `Im sure she is the happier for having you, then, said Philip. `You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you look well - you are being by the ge.

    Artificial versation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determio put ao it, exclaimed with a good imitation of annoyahat she had fotten something, and was quickly out of the room.

    In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad te like that of friends who meet in the memory of ret sorrow.

    `I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip - I asked him to release me from my promise, and he sented.

    Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at ohe position they must hold towards each other - but she checked herself. The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them. It seemed almost like an injury towards Philip even to mention her brother - her brother who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment.

    `Then we  at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hihat now?

    `Will not your father object? said Maggie, withdrawing her hand.

    `I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie, said Philip, c. `There are points on which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. That is one.

    `Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip - seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here - I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon - to a new situation.

    `Is that iable, Maggie?

    `Yes: I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I must begin again at last. I t live in dependence - I t live with my brother - though he is very good to me. He would like to provide for me - but that would be intolerable to me.

    Philip was silent a few moments, and then said in that high, feeble voice which with him indicated the resolute suppression of emotion:--

    `Is there no other alternative, Maggie? Is that life away from those who love you, the only one you will allow yourself to look forward to?

    `Yes, Philip, she said, looking at him pleadingly, as if she eed him to believe that she was pelled to this course. `At least, as things are. I dont know what may be in years to e. But I begin to think there ever uch happio me from loving: I have always had so much pain mingled with it. I wish I could make myself a world outside it, as men do.

    `Now, you are returning to your old thought in a new form, Maggie - the thought I used to bat, said Philip, with a slight tinge of bitterness. `You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating ones nature. What would bee of me, if I tried to escape from pain? S and icism would be my only opium - unless I could fall into some kind of ceited madness, and fancy myself a favourite of Heaven, because I am not a favourite with men.

    The bitterness had taken on some impetuosity as Philip went on speaking: the words were evidently an outlet for some immediate feeling of his own, as well as an ao Maggie. There ain pressing on him at that moment. He shrank with proud delicacy from the fai allusion to the words of love - of plighted love that had passed between them. It would have seemed to him like reminding Maggie of a promise; it would have had for him something of the baseness of pulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had not ged; for that too would have had the air of an appeal. His love fgie was stamped, even more than the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sehat he was an exception - that she, that every one, saw him in the light of an exception.

    But Maggie was sce-stri.

    `Yes, Philip, she said with her childish trition when he used to chide her, `You are right, I know. I do always think too muy own feelings, and not enough of others - not enough of yours. I had need have you always to find fault with me and teach me - so many things have e true that you used to tell me.

    Maggie was resting her elbow oable, leaning her head on her hand and looking at Philip with half-pe depe affe, as she said this; while he was returning her gaze with an expression that, to her sciousness, gradually became less vague - became charged with a specific recolle. Had his mind flown baething that she now remembered? - something about a lover of Lucys? It was a thought that made her shudder: it gave new definiteo her present position, and to the tendency of what had happehe evening before. She moved her arm from the table, urged to ge her position by that positive physical oppression at the heart that sometimes apanies a suddeal pang.

    `What is the matter, Maggie? Has something happened? Philip said, in inexpressible ay - his imagination being only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them both.

    `No - nothing, said Maggie, rousing her latent will. Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind: she would banish it from her own. `Nothing, she repeated, `except in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the effey starved life, as you called it, and I do. I am too eager in my enjoyment of musid all luxuries, now they are e to me.

    She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while Philip watched her, really in doubt whether she had anything more than this general allusion in her mind. It was quite in Maggies character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. But soon there came a violent well-kn at the door-bell resounding through the house.

    `O what a startling annou! said Maggie, quite mistress of herself, though not without some inward flutter. `I wonder where Lucy is.

    Lucy had not beeo the signal, and after an interval long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquiries, she herself ushered Stephen in.

    `Well, old fellow, he said, going straight up to Philip and shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in passing, `its glorious to have you back again - only I wish youd duct yourself a little less like a sparrow with a residen the house-top and not go in and out stantly without letting the servants know. This is about the tweime Ive had to scamper up those tless stairs to that painting room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought you were at home. Suts embitter friendship.

    `Ive so few visitors - it seems hardly worth while to leave notiy exits arances, said Philip, feeling rather oppressed just then by Stephens bright strong presend strong voice.

    `Are you quite well this m, Miss Tulliver? said Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness and putting out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty.

    Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, `Quite well, thank you, in a tone of proud indifference. Philips eyes were watg them keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their mao each other, and only thought with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every now and then surmouheir mutual good-will. `Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated by something in him which she interprets as ceit, was the silent observation that ated for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner pleted this studied greeting than each felt hurt by the others ess. And Stephen, while rattling on iions to Philip about his ret sketg expedition, was thinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the versation, as he invariably done before. `Maggie and Philip are not looking happy, thought Lucy. `Perhaps this first interview has been saddening to them.

    `I think we people who have not been galloping. she said to Stephen, `are all a little damped by the rai us have some music. We ought to take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duet in &quot;Masaniello:&quot; Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suit her.

    `e, then, said Stephen, going towards the piano, and giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep `brum-brum, very pleasant to hear.

    `You, please, Philip - you play the apa, said Lucy, `and then I  go on with my work. You will like to play, shant you? she added, with a pretty inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not pleasant to another, but with yearnings towards her unfinished embroidery.

    Philip had brighte the proposition, for there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music - that does not make a man sing or play the better; and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, as plex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love and jealousy and resignation and fierce suspi all at the same time.

    `O yes, he said, seating himself at the piano, `it is a way of eking out ones imperfect life <a>.99lib.</a>and being three people at oo sing and make the piano sing, ahem both all the while - or else to sing and paint.

    `Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I  do nothing with my hands, said Stephen. `That has generally been observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe. A tendency to predominance of the reflective powers in me! - havent you observed that, Miss Tulliver?

    Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering flash and epigram.

    `I have observed a tendency to predominance, she said, smiling, and Philip at that momely hoped that she found the tendency disagreeable.

    `e, e, said Lucy, `music, music! We will discuss each others qualities aime.

    Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when music began. She tried harder thaoday, for the thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his singing, was ohat no longer roused a merely playful resistance, and she koo that it was his habit always to stand so that he could look at her. But it was<code>.99lib.</code> of no use: she soon threw her work down, and all her iions were lost in the vague state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet - emotion that seemed to make her at orong and weak, strong for all enjoyment, weak for all resistance. Wherain passed into the minor she half started from her seat with the sudden thrill of that ge. Pgie!She looked very beautiful when her soul was being played on in this way by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen the slightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame, as she leaned a little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady herself, while her eyes dilated and brightened into that wide-open, childish expression of w delight which always came ba her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other times had always been at the piano when Maggie was looking in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her and kiss her. Philip too caught a glimpse of her now and then round the open book on the desk, ahat he had never before seen her under s an influence.

    `More, more! said Lucy, when the duet had been encored - `Something spirited again: Maggie always says she likes a great rush of sound.

    `It must be &quot;Let us take the road,&quot; then, said Stephen - `so suitable for a wet m. But are you prepared to abandon the most sacred duties of life, then, and e and sing with us?

    `O yes, said Lucy, laughing. `If you will look out the &quot;Beggars Opera&quot; from the large terbury. It has a dingy cover.

    `That is a great clue, sidering there are about a score covers here of rival dinginess, said Stephen, drawing out the terbury.

    `O, play something the while, Philip, said Luotig that his fingers were wandering over the keys. `What is that youre falling into? - something delicious that I dont know.

    `Dont you know that? said Philip, bringing out the tune more definitely. `Its from the Sonnambula - &quot;Ah! peron posso odiarti.&quot; I dont know the opera but it appears the tenor is telling the heroihat he shall always love her though she may forsake him. Youve heard me sing it to the English words, &quot;I love thee still.&quot;

    It was not quite uionally that Philip had wandered into this song which might be an i expression to Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to her directly. Her ears had beeo what he was saying, and when he began to sing, she uood the plaintive passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very fine qualities as a voice, but it was not quite o her: it had sung to her by snatches in a subdued way among the grassy walks and hollows and uhe leaning ash-tree in the Red Deeps. There seemed to be some reproa the words - did Philip mean that? She wished she had assured him more distinctly in their versation that she desired not to rehe hope of love between them, only because it clashed with her iable circumstances. She was touched not thrilled by the song: it suggested distinct memories and thoughts, and brought quiet regret in the place of excitement.

    `Thats the way with you tenors, said Stephen, aiting with musi his hand while Philip fihe song. `You demoralise the fair sex by warbling your seal love and stander all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing short of having your heads served up in a dish like that mediaeval tenor or troubadour, would prevent you from expressing your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote - while Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins.

    Stephen rolled out, with sauergy--

    `Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a womans fair?

    and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new influence. Lucy, alroud of what Stephen did, went towards the piano with laughing, admiring looks at him; and Maggie, in spite of her resistao the spirit of the song and to the singer, was taken hold of and shaken by the invisible influence - was borne along by a wave to for her.

    But angrily resolved not to betray herself she seized her work, a on making false stitches and prig her fingers with much perseveranot looking up or taking notice of what was going forward, until all the three voices united i us take the road.

    I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratification in her mind if she had known how ehis saucy, defiant Stephen was occupied with her, how he assing rapidly from a determination to treat her with ostentatious indiffereo an irritating desire for some sign of ination from her, some interge of subdued work or look with her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when they had passed to the music of `The Tempest. Maggie, feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then and was scious of all her movements, guessed her want, and flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with areating look at her, which made it impossible not to return a glance of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed carefully by a too self-fident personage - not any self-fident personage, but one in particular who suddenly looks humble and anxious, and lingers, bending still, to ask if there is not some draught in that positioween the window and the fireplace, and if he may not be allowed to move the worktable for her - these things will summon a little of the too ready, traitorous tenderness into a womans eyes, pelled as she is in her girlish time to learn her life-lessons irivial language. And to Maggie these things had not been everyday is, but were a new element in her life, and found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was bent towards her and to say, `No, thank you - and once looking nothing could prevent that mutual glance from being delicious to both, as it had been the evening before.

    It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen; it had hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, scarcely noticed it. But to Philips mind, filled already with a vague ahat was likely to find a definite ground for itself in any trivial i, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, and the ge in Maggies face, which lainly refleg a beam from his, seemed s a trast with the previous overwrought signs of indifference as to be charged with painful meaning. Stephens voice, p in again, jarred upon his nervous susceptibility as if it had been the g of sheet iron, and he felt ined to make the piano shriek in utter discord. He had really seen no unicable ground for suspeg any unusual feeliween Stephen and Maggie - his own reason told him so, and he wao go home at ohat he might reflect coolly on these false images till he had vinced himself of their nullity. But then again, he wao stay as long as Stephen stayed - always to be present when Stephen resent with Maggie. It seemed to poor Philip so natural - nay, iable that any man who was near Maggie should fall in love with her! And there was no promise of happiness for her if she were beguiled into loving Stephe: the thought emboldened Philip to view his own love for her in the light of a less unequal . He was beginning to play very falsely uhis deafening inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, when Mrs Tullivers entrao summoo lunch, came as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music.

    `Ah, Mr Philip, said Mr Deane, when they ehe dining-room, `Ive not seen you for a long while. Your fathers not at home, I think, is he? I went after him to the office, the other day, and they said he was out of town.

    `Hes been to Mudport on business for several days, said Philip, `but hes e baow.

    `As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh?

    `I believe so, said Philip, rather w at this sudden i in his fathers pursuits.

    `Ah! said Mr Deane, `hes got some land in his own hands on this side the river as well as the other, I think?

    `Yes, he has.

    `Ah! tinued Mr Deane, as he dispehe pigeon pie, `he must find farming a heavy item - an expensive hobby. I never had a hobby myself - never would give in to that. And the worst of all hobbies are those that people think they  get mo. They shoot their money down like  out of a sack then.

    Lucy felt a little nervous under her fathers apparently gratuitous criticism of Mr Wakems expenditure. But it ceased there, and Mr Deane became unusually silent aative during his lun. Lucy, aced to watch all indications in her father, and having reasons, which had retly bee strong, for ara i in what referred to the Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had prompted her fathers questions. His subsequent silence made her suspect there had been some special reason for them in his mind.

    With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan when she wao tell or ask her father anything particular: she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the dining-room after dinner, aed herself on a small stool at her fathers knee. Mr Deane, uhose circumstances, sidered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions.

    `You dont want to go to sleep yet, papa, do you? she said, as she brought up her stool and opehe large fihat clutched the snuff-box.

    `Not yet, said Mr Deane, glang at the reward of merit in the deter. `But what do you want? he added, ping the dimpled  fondly. `To coax some more sns out of my pocket for your bazaar? Eh?

    `No, I have no base motives at all today. I only want to talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip Wakem about his fathers farming today, papa? It seemed rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him about his father - and why should you care about Mr Wakems losing money by his hobby?

    `Something to do with business, said Mr Deane, waving his hands, as if to repel intrusion into that mystery.

    `But, papa, you always say Mr Wakem has brought Philip up like a girl - how came you to think you should get any business knowledge out of him? Those abrupt questions sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer.

    `Nonsense, child! said Mr Deane, willing to justify his social demeanour, with which he had taken some pains in his uprogress. `Theres a report that Wakems mill and farm oher side of the river - Dorlill, your uullivers, you know - isnt answering so well as it did. I wao see if your friend Philip would let anything out about his fathers being tired of farming.

    `Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it? said Lucy, eagerly. `O, tell me everything - here, you shall have your snuff-box if youll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Toms getting back the mill some time. It was one of the last things her father said to Tom - that he must get back the Mill.

    `Hush, you little puss, said Mr Deane, availing himself of the restored snuff-box. `You must not say a word about this thing - do you hear? Theres very little ce of their getting the mill - or of anybodys getting it out of Wakems hands. And if he khat we wa with a view to the Tullivers getting it again, hed be the less likely to part with it. Its natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horse-whipping isnt likely to be paid for with sugar-plums.

    `Noa, said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, `will you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what Im going to say - but I have very strong reasons. And Im very cautious - I am, indeed.

    `Well, let us hear.

    `Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our fidence - let me tell him all about your wish to buy and what its for - that my cousins wish to have it and why they wish to have it - I believe Philip would help t it about. I know he would desire to do it.

    `I dont see how that  be, child, said Mr Deane, looking puzzled. `Why should he care? - then, with a sudderating looking at his daughter, `You dont think the poor la<code></code>ds fond of you - and so you  make him do what you like? (Mr Dea quite safe about his daughters affes.)

    `No, papa; he cares very little about me - not so much as I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite sure of what I say. Dont you ask me. And if you ever guess, dont tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think fit about it.

    Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her fathers knee, and kissed him with that last request.

    `Are you sure you wont do mischief, now? he said, looking at her with delight.

    `Yes, papa, quite sure. Im very wise - Ive got all your busialents. Didnt you admire my apt-book, now, when I showed it you?

    `Well, well, if this youngster will keep his sel, there wont be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think theres not much ce for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep.

 CHAPTER 8

    Wakem in a New Light

    BEFORE three days had passed after the versation you have just overheard between Lud her father, she had trived to have a private interview with Philip during a pre-arranged absenaggies at her aunt Gleggs. For a day and a night Philip turned over in his mind with restless agitation all that Lucy had told him in that interview, till he had thhly resolved on a course of a. He thought he saw before him noossibility of altering his position with respeaggie and removing at least one obstacle between them. He laid his pla<abbr>９9lｉb?</abbr>n and calculated all his moves with the fervid deliberation of a chess-player in the days of his first ardour, and was amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tacti. His plan was as bold as it was thhly calculated. Having watched for a moment when his father had nothing more urgent on his hands than the neer, he went behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, `Father, will you e up into my sanctum, and look at my new sketches? Ive arrahem now.

    `Im getting terribly stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing those stairs of yours, said Wakem, looking kindly at his son as he laid down his paper. `But e along, then.

    `This is a nice place for you, isnt it, Phil? - a capi<footer>.９９ｌiｂ.</footer>tal light that from the roof, eh? was, as usual, the first thing he said oering the painting room. He liked to remind himself and his son too that his fatherly indulgence had provided the aodation. He had been a good father. Emily would have nothing to reproach him with there, if she came back again from her grave.

    `e, e, he said, putting his double eye-glass over his nose, aing himself to take a general view while he rested, `youve got a famous show here<cite></cite>. Upon my word, I dohat your things arent as good as that London artists - whats his hat Leyburn gave so much money for.

    Philip shook his head and smiled. He had seated himself on his painting-stool, and had taken a lead pencil in his hand, with which he was making strong marks to teract the sense of tremulousness. He watched his father get up, and walk slowly round, goodnaturedly dwelling on the pictures much lohan his amount of geaste for landscape would have prompted, till he stopped before a stand on which two pictures were placed - one much larger thaher - the smaller one in a leather case.

    `Bless me! what have you here? said Wakem, startled by a sudden transition from landscape to portrait. `I thought youd left off figures. Who are these?

    `They are the same person, said Philip, with calm promptness, `at different ages.

    `And erson? said Wakem, sharply, fixing his eyes with a growing look of suspi on the larger picture.

    `Miss Tulliver. The small one is something like what she was when I was at school with her brother at Kings Lorton: the large one is not quite so good a likeness of what she was when I came from abroad.

    Wakem turned round fiercely, with a flushed face, letting his eye-glass fall, and looking at his son with a savage expression for a moment as if he was ready to strike that daring feebleness from the stool. But he threw himself into the armchair again and thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, still looking angrily at his son, however. Philip did not return the look but sat quietly watg the point of his pencil.

    `And do you mean to say, then, that you have had any acquaintah her since you came from abroad? said Wakem, at last, with that vain effort which rage always makes, to throw as much punishment as it desires to inflito words and tones, since blows are forbidden.

    `Yes: I saw a great deal of her for a whole year before her fathers death. We met often, in that thicket - the Red Deeps - near Dorlill. I love her dearly: I shall never love any other woman. I have thought of her ever since she was a little girl.

    `Go on, sir! - And you have corresponded with he<footer></footer>r all this while?

    `No. I old her I loved her till just before we parted, and she promised her brother not to see me again or to correspond with me. I am not sure that she loves me, or would sent to marry me. But if she would sent - if she did love me well enough - I should marry her.

    `And this is the return you make me for all the indulgences Ive heaped on you? said Wakem, getting white and beginning to tremble under an enraged sense of impotence before Philips calm defiand tration of purpose.

    `No, father, said Philip, looking up at him for the first time. `I dard it as a return. You have been an indulgent father to me - but I have always felt that it was because you had an affeate wish to give me as much happiness as my unfortu would admit of - not that it was a debt you expected me to pay by sacrifig all my ces of happio satisfy feelings of yours which I ever share.

    `I think most sons would share their fathers feelings in this case, said Wakem, bitterly. `The girls father was an ignorant mad brute, ithin an inurderihe whole town knows it. And the brother is just as i: only in a cooler way. He forbade her seeing you, you say: hell break every bone in your body, for yreater happiness, if you dont take care. But you seem to have made up your mind: you have ted the sequences, I suppose. Of course you are indepe of me: you  marry this girl tomorrow, if you like: you are a man of six-and-twenty - you  go your way, and I  go mine. We need have no more to do with each other.

    Wakem rose and walked towards the door, but something held him back, and instead of leaving the room he walked up and down it. Philip was slow to reply, and when he spoke, his tone had a more incisive quietness and clearhan ever.

    `No: I t marry Miss Tulliver, even if she would have me - if I have only my own resources to maintain her with. I have been brought up to no profession. I t offer her poverty as well as deformity.

    `Ah, there is a reason for your ging to me, doubtless, said Wakem, still bitterly, though Philips last words had given him a pang - they had stirred a feeling which had been a habit for a quarter of a tury. He threw himself into the chair again.

    `I expected all this, said Philip. `I know these ses are often happeniween father and son. If I were like other men of my age, I might answer yry words by still angrier - we might part - I should marry the woman I love and have a ce of being as happy as the rest. But if it will be a satisfa to you to annihilate the very object of everything youve done for me, you have an advantage over most fathers: you  pletely deprive me of the only thing that would make my life worth having.

    Philip paused, but his father was silent.

    `You know best what satisfa you would secure beyond that of gratifying a ridiculous rancour worthy only of wandering savages.

    `Ridiculous rancour! Wakem burst out. `What do you mean? Damn it! is a man to be horse-whipped by a boor and love him for it? Besides, theres that cold, proud devil of a son, who said a word to me I shall not fet when we had the settling. He would be as pleasant a mark for a bullet as I know - if he were worth the expense.

    `I dont mean your reseowards them, said Philip, who had his reasons for some sympathy with this view of Tom, `though a feeling of revenge is not worth much, that you should care to keep it. I mean your extending the enmity to a helpless girl, who was too much sense and goodo share their narrow prejudices. She has never entered into the family quarrels.

    `What does that signify? We dont ask what a woman does - we ask whom she belongs to. Its altogether a degrading thing to you - to think of marrying old Tullivers daughter.

    For the first time in the dialogue Philip lost some of his self trol, and coloured with anger.

    `Miss Tulliver, he said, with bitter incisiveness, `has the only grounds of rank that anything but vulgar folly  suppose to belong to the middle class: she is thhly refined, and her friends, whatever else they may be, are respected for irreproachable honour and iy. All St Oggs, I fancy, would pronounce her to be more than my equal.

    Wakem darted a glance of fierce question at his son, but Philip was not looking at him, and with a certaient sciousness went on, in a few moments, as if in amplification of his last words:

    `Find a single person in St Oggs who will not tell you that a beautiful creature like her would be throwing herself away on a pitiable object like me.

    `Not she! said Wakem, rising again, and fetting everything else in a burst of resentful pride, half fatherly, half personal. `It would be a deuced fich for her. Its all stuff about an actal deformity, when a girls really attached to a man.

    `But girls are not apt to get attached uhose circumstances, said Philip.

    `Well, then, said Wakem, rather brutally - trying to recover his previous position. `If she doesnt care for you, you might have spared yourself the trouble of talking to me about her - and you might have spared me the trouble of refusing my sent to what was never likely to happen.

    Wakem strode to the door, and, without looking round again, ba after him.

    Philip was not without fidehat his father would be ultimately wrought upon as he had expected by what had passed; but the se had jarred upon his nerves, which were as sensitive as a womans. He determined not to go down to dinner - he could his father again that day. It was Wakems habit, when he had no pany at home, to go out in the evening - often as early as half-past seven; and as it was far on iernoon now, Philip locked up his room a out for a long ramble, thinking he would not return until his father was out of the house agai into a boat, a down the river to a favourite village, where he dined, and liill it was late enough for him to return. He had never had any sort of quarrel with his father before, and had a siihat this test just begun, might go on for weeks - and what might not happen in that time? He would not allow himself to define what that involuntary questio. But if he could once be in the position of Maggies accepted, aowledged lover, there would be less room fue dread. He went up to his painting room again and threw himself with a sense of fatigue into the armchair, looking round absently at the views of water and rock that were ranged around, till he fell into a doze in which he fancied Maggie was slipping down a glistening, green, slimy el of a waterfall, and he was looking on helpless, till he was awakened by what seemed a sudden, awful crash.

    It was the opening of the door, and he could hardly have dozed more than a few moments, for there was no perceptible ge in the evening light. It was his father who entered, with a cigar in his mouth, and when Philip moved to vacate the chair for him, he said,

    `Sit still. Id rather walk about.

    He stalked up and down the room once or twid then standing opposite Philip, with one hand thrust in his side-pocket, he said, as if tinuing a versation that had not been broken off,

    `But this girl seems to have been fond of you, Phil, else she wouldnt have met you in that way.

    Philips heart was beating rapidly, and a tra flush passed over his face like a gleam. It was not quite easy to speak at once.

    `She liked me at Kings Lorton, when she was a little girl, because I used to sit with her brreat deal when he had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and thought of me as a friend of a long while ago. She didnt think of me as a lover whe me.

    `Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she say then? said Wakem, taking to his cigar and walking about.

    `She said she did love me then.

    `found it, then, what else do you want? Is she a jilt?

    `She was very young then, said Philip, hesitatingly. `Im afraid she hardly knew what she felt. Im afraid our long separation, and the idea that events must always divide us may have made a differ<dfn>.９9lｉｂ.</dfn>ence.

    `But shes iown - Ive see church. Havent you spoken to her since you came back?

    `Yes, at Mr Deanes. But I couldnt renew my proposals to her on several grounds. But one obstacle would be removed if you would give your sent - if you would be willing to think of her as a daughter-in-law.

    Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggies picture.

    `Shes not the sort of woman your mother was, though, Phil, he said, at last. `I saw her at church - shes handsomer than this - deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw; but rather dangerous and unmanageable, eh?

    `Shes very tender and affeate - and so simple - without the airs ay trivaher women have.

    `Ah? said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, `But your mother looked gentler - she had that brown wavy hair, and grey eyes, like yours. You t remember her very well. It was a thousand pities Id no likeness of her.

    `Then, shouldnt you be glad for me to have the same sort of happiness, father - to sweeten my life for me? There ever be aie s to you as that which bega and twenty years ago when you married my mother and you have been tightening it ever since.

    `Ay, Phil - youre the only fellow that knows the best of me, said Wakem, throwing away the end of his cigar, and giving his hand to his son. `We must keep together, if we . And now, what am I to do? You must e downstairs and tell me. Am I to go and call on this dark-eyed damsel?

    The barrier ohrown down in this hilip could talk freely to his father of their entire relation with the Tullivers - of the desire to get the mill and land bato the family - and of its trao Guest &amp; Co. as an intermediate step. He could venture now to be persuasive and urgent, and his father yielded with more readihan he had calculated on.

    `I dont care about the Mill, he said at last with a sort of angry pliance. `Ive had an infernal deal of bother lately about the Mill. Let them pay me for my improvements, thats all. But theres ohing you  ask me. I shall have no direct transas with young Tulliver. If you like to swallow him for his sisters sake you may; but Ive no sauce that will make him go down.

    I leave you to imagihe agreeable feelings with which Philip went to Mr Deahe  day to say that Mr Wakem was ready to open the iations, and Lucys pretty triumph as she appealed to her father whether she had not proved her great business abilities. Mr Deane was rather puzzled, and suspected that there had been something `going on among the young people to which he wanted a clue. But to men of Mr Deaamp, what goes on among the young people is as extraneous to the real business of life as what goes on among the birds and butterflies - until it  be shown to have a malign bearing on moary affairs. And in this case the bearing appeared to be entirely propitious.

 CHAPTER 9

    Charity in Full Dress

    THE culmination of Maggies career as an admired member of society in St Oggs was certainly the day of the Bazaar, when her simple noble beauty, clad in a white muslin of some soft-floating kind, which I suspect must have e from the stores of aunt Pullets wardrobe, appeared with marked distinong the more adorned and ventional women around her. We perhaps never deteuch of our social demeanour is made up of artificial airs, until we see a person who is at once beautiful and simple: without the beauty we are apt to call simplicity awkwardness. The Miss Guests were much too well-bred to have any of the grimaces and affected tohat belong to pretentious vulgarity; but their stall beio the one where Maggie sat, it seemed newly obvious today that Miss Guest held her  too high, and that Miss Laura spoke and moved tinually with a view to effect. All well-drest St Oggs and its neighbourhood were there, and it would have been worth while to e even from a distao see the fine old Hall, with its open roof and carved oaken rafters and great oaken folding-doors, and light shed down from a height on the many-coloured show beh - a very quaint place with broad faded stripes painted on the walls and here and there a show of heraldiimals of a bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems of a noble family ohe seigniors of this now civic hall. A grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted an oaken orchestra with an open room behind it, where hothouse plants and stalls for refreshments were disposed - a very agreeable resort fentlemen disposed to loiter ao exge the occasional crush down below for a more odious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this a building for an admirable modern purpose tha<bdi>99lib?</bdi>t made charity truly elegant, ahrough vanity up to the supply of a deficit, was so striking that hardly a persoered the room without exging the remark more than onear the great arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel with painted glass which was one of the venerable insistencies of the old Hall; and it was close by this that Lucy had her stall for the venience of certain large plain articles which she had taken charge of for Mrs Kenn. Maggie had begged to sit at the open end of the stall to have the sale of these articles rather than of bead mats and other elaborate products of which she had but a dim uanding. But it soon appeared that the gentlemens dressing-gowns, which were among her odities, were objects of such general attention and inquiry aed so troublesome a curiosity as to their lining and parative merits together with a determination to test them by trying on, as to make her post a very spicuous ohe ladies who had odities of their own to sell, and did not want dressing-gowns, saw at ohe frivolity and bad taste of this mase preference foods whiy tailor could furnish; and it is possible that the emphatiotice of various kinds which was drawn towards Miss Tulliver on this public occasion threw a very strong and unmistakable light on her subsequent du many minds the. Not that anger on at of spurned beauty  dwell in the celestial breasts of charitable ladies, but rather, that the errors of persons who have once been much admired necessarily take a deeper tinge from the mere force of trast, and also, that today Maggies spicuous position for the first time made evideain characteristics which were subsequently felt to have an explanatory bearing. There was something rather bold in Miss Tullivers direct gaze, and something undefinably coarse iyle of her beauty, which placed her, in the opinion of all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane; for the ladies of St Oggs had now pletely ceded to Lucy their hypothetic claims on the admiration of Mr Stephe.

    As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent triumph about the Mill, and all the affeate projects she was cherishing fgie and Philip, helped to give her the highest spirits today, and she felt nothing but pleasure in the evidenaggies attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very charming herself, and Stephen ayihe utmost attention on this public occasion - jealously buying up the articles he had seen under her fingers in the process of making, and gaily helpio cajole the male ers into the purchase of the most effemiilities. He chose to lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet Fez of her embr, but by superficial observers this was necessarily liable to be interpreted less as a pliment to Lucy than as a mark of bry. `Guest is a great b, young Torry observed, `but then he is a privileged person in St Oggs - he carries all before him: if another fellow did such things, everybody would say he made a fool of himself. (Young Torry had red hair.)

    And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, until Lucy said, in rather a vexed uone,

    `See, now; all the things of Maggies knitting will be gone, and you will not have bought ohere are those deliciously soft warm things for the wrists - do buy them.

    `Oh, no, said Stephen, `they must be intended for imaginative persons who  chill themselves on this warm day by thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stern reason is my forte, you know. You must get Philip to buy those. By the way, why doesnt he e?

    `He never likes going where there are many people, though I enjoined him to e. He said he would buy up any of my goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go and buy something of Maggie.

    `No, no - see - she has got a er: there is old Wakem himself just ing up.

    Lucys eyes turned with anxious iowards Maggie, to see how she went through this first interview since a sadly memorable time with a man towards whom she must have se a mixture of feelings, but she leased to notice that Wakem had taough to e oo talk about the bazaar wares and appear ied in purchasing, smiling now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling oo speak much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and tremulous.

    `Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiabl<var>藏书网</var>e to your cousin, said Stephen, in an uoo Lucy. `Is it pure magnanimity? You talked of a family quarrel.

    `O, that will soon be quite healed, I hope, said Lucy, being a little indiscreet in her satisfa, and speaking with an air of significe. But Stephen did not appear to notice this, and as some lady-purchasers came up, he lounged on towards Maggies end, handling trifles and standing aloof until Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his transas.

    `My son came with me, he overheard Wakem saying, `but he has vanished into some other part of the building, and has left all these charitable gallao me. I hope youll reproach him for his shabby duct.

    She returned his smile and bow, without speaking, aurned away, only then  Stephen and nodding to him. Maggie, scious that Stephen was still there, busied herself with ting money, and avoided looking up. She had been well pleased that he had devoted himself to Lucy today, and had not e near her. They had begun the m with an indifferent salutation and both had rejoiced in being aloof from each other, like a patient who has actually dohout his opium, in spite of former failures in resolution. And during the last few days they had even been making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward events that must soon e to separate them, as a reason for dispensing with self-quest iail.

    Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall and was half hidden by a s of draperies. Maggie went on ting her moill she suddenly heard a deep gentle voice saying, `Arent you very tired? Do let me bring you something - some fruit or jelly - maynt I?

    The ued tones shook her like a sudden actal vibration of a harp close by her.

    `O no, thank you, she said, faintly, and only half looking up for an instant.

    `You look so pale, Stephen insisted, in a more eing tone. `Im sure youre exhausted. I must disobey you, and bring something.

    `No, indeed I couldnt take it.

    `Are you angry with me? What have I done? Do look at me.

    `Pray, go away, said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes glang immediately form him to the opposite er of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sootered this ey than she was wretched at the admission it implied, but Stephen turned away at once, and, following her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem seated in the half-hidden er, so that he could and little more than that angle of the hall in which Maggie sat. Airely hought occurred to Stephen, and, linking itself with what he had observed of Wakems manner, and with Lucys reply to his observation, it vinced him that there had been some former relatioween Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately leave the hall, and go upstairs to the refreshment room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

    `Are you studying for a portrait, Phil, he said, `or for a sketch of that oriel window? By Gee, it makes a capital bit from this dark er, with the curtain just marking it off.

    `I have been studying expression, said Philip curtly.

    `What, Miss Tullivers? Its rather of the savage-moody order today, I think - something of the fallen princess serving behind a ter. Her cousi me to her with a civil offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, as usual. Theres a natural antipathy between us, I suppose - I have seldom the honour to please her.

    `What a hypocrite you are! said Philip, flushing angrily.

    `What, because experience must have told me that Im universally pleasing? I admit the law, but theres some disturbing force here.

    `I am going, said Philip, rising abruptly.

    `So am I - to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long enough.

    The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip turhrough the outer door into the churchyard, but Stephen, saying, `O by the by, I must call in here, went on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other end of the building, which were appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to himself and a man requires nothihan this, when he wants to dash his cap oable, throw himself astride a chair and stare at a high brick wall with a frown which would not have beeh the occasion if he had been slaying the Giant Python. The duct that issues from a moral flict has often so close a resemblao vice, that the distin escapes all outward judgments, founded on a mere parison of as. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite - capable of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end; a his fluctuatioween the indulgence of a feeling and the systematicealment of it might have made a good case in support of Philips accusation.

    Meanwhile, Maggie sate at her stall cold and trembling, with that painful sensation in the eyes whies from resolutely repressed tears. Was her life to be always like this? - always bringing some new source of inward strife? She heard fusedly the busy indifferent voices around her and wished her mind could flow into that easy, babbling current. It was at this moment that Dr Kenn, who had quite lately e into the hall, and was now walking down the middle with his hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed his eyes on Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the expression of pain on her beautiful face. She was sitting quite still, for the stream of ers had lesserike></strike>d at this late hour iernoon: the gentlemen had chiefly chosen the middle of the day, and Maggies stall was looking rather bare. This, with her absent, pained expression, fihe trast between her and her panions, who were all bright, eager and busy. He was strongly arrested. Her face had naturally drawn his attention as a new and striking o church, and he had been introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr Deanes, but he had never spoken more than three words to her. He walked towards her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one approag, roused herself to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt a child-like, instinctive relief from the sense of uneasiness in this exertion, when she saw it was Dr Kenns face that was looking at her: - that plain, middle-aged face, with a grave, peing kindness in it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached a firm, safe strand, but was looking with helpful pity towards the strugglers still tossed by the waves, had an effeaggie at that moment which was afterwards remembered by her as if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, who have lived through their stro emotions, but are yet iime when memory is still half passionate and not merely plative, should surely be a sort of natural priesthood whom life has disciplined and secrated to be the refuge and rescue of early stumblers and victims of self-despair: most of us at some moment in our young lives, would have weled a priest of that natural order in any sort of icals or unicals, but had to scramble upwards into all the difficulties of eeirely without such aid, as Maggie did.

    `You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Miss Tulliver? said Dr Kenn.

    `It is, rather, said Maggie, simply, not being aced to simper amiable denials of obvious facts.

    `But I  tell Mrs Kenn that you have disposed of her goods very quickly, he added. `She will be very much obliged to you.

    `O I have dohing: the gentlemen came very fast to buy the dressing-gowns and embroidered waistcoats but I think any of the other ladies would have sold more: I didnt know what to say about them.

    Dr Kenn smiled. `I hope Im going to have you as a perma parishioner now, Miss Tulliver - am I? You have been at a distance from us hitherto.

    `I have been a teacher in a school, and Im going into another situation of the same kind very soon.

    `Ah? I was hoping you would remain among your friends who are all in this neighbour<q>9９lｉｂ.</q>hood, I believe.

    `O I must go, said Maggie, early, looking at Dr Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told him her history in those three words. It was one of those moments of implicit revelation which will sometimes happen eveween people who meet quite traly - on a miles journey, perhaps, or wheing by the wayside. There is always this possibility of a word or look from a strao keep alive the sense of human brotherhood.

    Dr Kenns ear aook in all the signs that this brief fidenaggies was charged with meaning.

    `I uand, he said; `you feel it right to go. But that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope - it will not prevent my knowing you better, if I  be of any service to you.

    He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly, before he turned away.

    `She has some trouble or other at heart, he thought. `Poor child! she looks as if she might turn out to be one of

    `The souls by nature pitchd too high, By suffering plungd too low.

    Theres something wonderfully ho in those beautiful eyes.

    It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imperfes an excessive delight in admiration and aowledged supremacy were not absent now, any more than when she was instrug the gypsies with a view towards achieving a royal position among them, was not more elated on a day when she had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, together with that satisfactory sciousness which had necessarily e from being taken before Lucys cheval glass and made to look at the full length of her tall beauty, ed by the night of her massy hair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, and for the moment had fottehing in the sense of her owy. If that state of mind could have lasted, her choice would have been to have Stephe at her feet,  her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily inse of adoration near and distant, with all possibilities of culture at her and. But there were things irohan vanity - passion, and affe, and long deep memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on her love and pity; and the stream of vanity was soo along and mingled imperceptibly with that wider current which was at its highest force today, uhe double urgency of the events and inward impulses brought by the last week.

    Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of obstacles between them on his fathers side - he shrank from that - but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that Maggie, being informed through her, might give him some encing sign that their being brought thus muearer to each other pio her. The rush of flig feelings was too great fgie to say much when Lucy with a face breathing playful joy, like one of Cios cherubs, poured forth her triumphant revelation, and Lucy could hardly be surprised that she could do little more than cry with gladness at the thought of her fathers wish being fulfilled and of Toms getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard striving. The details of preparation for the bazaar had then e to usurp Lucys attention for the  few days, and n<dfn>9９ｌib?</dfn>othing had been said by the cousins on subjects that were likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been to the house more than once, but Maggie had had no private versation with him, and thus she had beeo fight her inward battle without interference.

    But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were alone agaiing together at home, Lucy said,

    `You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss the day after tomorrow, Maggie: write a o her, and tell her you have put it off at my request and Ill send the man with it. She wont be displeased - youll have plenty of time to go by and by. And I dont want you to go out of the way just now.

    `Yes, indeed I must go, dear - I t put it off. I wouldnt leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall have very little time, for Im going away to a new situation owenty fifth of June.

    `Maggie! said Lucy, almost white with astonishment.

    `I didnt tell you, dear, said Maggie, making a great effort to and herself, `because youve been so busy. But some time ago, I wrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her to let me know if she met with any situation that I could fill, and the other day I had a letter from her tellihat I could take three orphan pupils of hers to the coast during the holidays and then make trial of a situation with her as teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept the offer.

    Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was uo speak.

    `Maggie, she said at last, `how could you be so unkind to me - not to tell me - to take such a step - and now! She hesitated a little, and then added - `And Philip? I thought everything was going to be so happy. O Maggie - what is the reason? Give it up - let me write. There is nothing now to keep you and Philip apart.

    `Yes, said Maggie, faintly. `There is Toms feeling. He said I must give him up, if I married Philip. And I know he will not ge - at least not for a long while - unless something happeo soften him.

    `But I will talk to him - hes ing back this week. And this good news about the Mill will soften him. And Ill talk to him about Philip. Toms always very pliant to me - I dont think hes so obstinate.

    `But I must go, said Maggie, in a distressed voice. `I must leave some time to pass. Dont press me to stay, dear Lucy.

    Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating. At length she k down by her cousin and looking up in her face with anxious seriousness, said--

    `Maggie, is it that you dont love Philip well enough to marry him? - tell me - trust me.

    Maggie held Lucys hands tightly in silence a little while. Her owns hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her voice was quietly clear and distinct.

    `Yes, Lucy - I would choose to marry him. I think it would be the best and highest lot for me - to make his life happy. He loved me first. No one else could be quite what he is to me. But I t divide myself from my brother for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray dont speak to me again about it.

    Lucy obeyed in pain and wohe  word she said was,

    `Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the da Park House tomorrow, and have some musid brightness, before you go to pay these dull, dutiful visits. Ah! here e aunty and the tea.

 CHAPTER 10

    The Spell Seems Broken

    THE suite of rooms opening into each other at Park House looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and th<q>?９9ｌｉｂ.</q>e personal splendours of sixteen couples with attendant parents and guardians. The focus of brilliancy was the long drawing-room, where the dang went forward, uhe inspiration of the grand piano; the library into which it ope one end had the more sober illumination of maturity, with caps and cards; and at the other end the pretty sitting- room with a servatory attached, was left as an occasional cool retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black for the first time and had her pretty slimness set off by an abundant dress of white crape, was the aowledged queen of the occasion, for this was one of the Miss Guests thhly desding parties, including no member of any aristocracy higher than that of St Oggs, and stretg to the extreme limits of ercial and professional gentility. Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had fotten all the figures - it was so many years since she had da school; and she was glad to have that excuse, for it is ill dang with a heavy heart. But at length the music wrought in her young limbs, and the longing came; even though it was the horrible young Torry who walked up a sed time to try and persuade her. She warned him that she could not danything but a try dance, but he, of course, was willing to wait for that high felicity, meaning only to be plimentary when he assured her at several intervals that it was a `great bore that she couldnt waltz - he would have liked so much to waltz with her. But at last it was the turn of the good old-fashioned dance, which has the least of vanity and the most of merriment in it, and Maggie quite fot her troublous life in a childlike enjoyment of that half-rustic rhythm, which seems to banish pretentious etiquette. She felt quite charitably towards young Torry, as his hand bore her along and held her up in the dance; her eyes and cheeks had that fire of young joy in them which will flame out if it  find the least breath to fan it; and her simple black dress, with its bit of black lace, seemed like the dim setting of a jewel.

    Stephen had not yet asked her to dance - had not yet paid her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday, that inward vision of her which perpetually made part of his sciousness, had been half-sed by the image of Philip Wakem which came across it like a blot: there was some attat between her and Philip; at least there was an attat on his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here then, Stephen told himself, was another claim of honour which called on him to resist the attra that was tinually threatening to overpower him. He told himself so: a he had once or twice felt a certain savage resistance, and at another moment a shuddering repugo this intrusion of Philips image which almost made it a new i to rush towards Maggie and claim her for himself. heless he had done what he meant to do this evening: he had kept aloof from her: he had hardly looked at he<big></big>r; and he had been gaily assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were dev Maggie: he felt ined to kick young Torry out of the dance, and take his place. Then he wahe dao end that he might get rid of his parthe possibility that he too should dah Maggie, and have her hand in his so long, was beginning to possess him like a thirst. But even now their hands were meeting in the dance - were meeting still to the very end of it, though they were far off each other.

    Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic way he got through the duties of politeness ierval, until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone aga<dfn></dfn>in, at the farther end of the room. He made his way towards her round the couples that were f for the waltz, and when Maggie became scious that she was the person he sought, she felt, in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, a glowing gladness at heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightened with her child-like enthusiasm in the dance; her whole frame was set to joy and tenderness: - even the ing pain could not seem bitter - she was ready to wele it as a part of life, for life at this moment seemed a keen vibrating sciousness poised above the pleasure or pain. This ohis last night, she might expand urainedly in the warmth of the present, without those chill eating thoughts of the past and the future.

    `Theyre going to waltz again, said Stephen, bending to speak to her, with that gland tone of subdued tenderness which young dreams create to themselves in the summer woods when low g voices fill the air. Such glances and tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that is half-stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation.

    `They are going to waltz again: it is rather dizzy work to look on and the room is very warm. Shall we walk about a little?

    He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they walked on into the sitting-room, where the tables were strewn with engravings for the aodation of visitors who did not want to look at them. But no visitors were here at this moment. They passed on into the servatory.

    `How strange and uhe trees and flowers look with the lights among them, said Maggie, in a low voice. `They look as if they beloo an ented land, and would never fade away: - I could fancy they were all made of jewels.

    She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and Stephen made no answer; but he was looking at her - and does not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling darkness mute, and light eloquent? Something strangely powerful there was in the light of Stephens long gaze, for it made Maggies face turn towards it and look upward at it - slowly, like a flower at the asding brightness. And they walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking - without feeling anything but that long grave mutual gaze which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. The h thought that they must and would renounce each other made this moment of mute fession more intense in its rapture.

    But they had reached the end of the servatory, and were obliged to pause and turn. The ge of movement brought a new sciouso Maggie: she blushed deeply, turned away her head, and drew her arm from Stephens, going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood motionless and still pale.

    `O may I get this rose? said Maggie, making a great effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of irretrievable fession. `I think I am quite wicked with roses - I like to gather them and smell them till they have no st left.

    Stephen was mute: he was incapable of putting a senteogether, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward towards the large half-opened rose that had attracted her. Who has not felt the beauty of a womans arm? - the unspeakable suggestions of tenderhat lie in the dimpled elbow and all the varied gently lessening curves down to the delicate wrist with its ti, almost imperceptible nicks in the firm softness. A womans arm touched the soul of a great sculptor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it for the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the time-worn marble of a headless trunk. Maggies was su arm as that - and it had the warm tints of life.

    A mad impulse seized on Stephen; he darted towards the arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist.

    But the  moment Maggie snatched it from him and glared at him like a wounded war-goddess, quivering with rage and humiliation.

    `How dare you? - she spoke in a deeply shaken, half-smothered voice. `What right have I given you to insult me?

    She darted from him into the adjoining room and threw herself on the sofa, panting and trembling.

    A horrible punishment was e upon her, for the sin of allowing a moments happihat was treachery to Lucy, to Philip - to her ower soul. That momentary happiness had been smitten with a blight - a leprosy: Stephen thought more lightly of her than he did of Lucy.

    As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of the servatory, dizzy with the flict of passions - love, rage and fused despair: despair at his want of self-mastery, and despair that he had offended Maggie.

    The last feeling surmounted every other: to be by her side again areat fiveness was the only thing that had the force of a motive for him, and she had not beeed more than a few minutes, when he came and stood humbly before her. But Maggies bitter rage was u.

    `Leave me to myself, if you please, she said, with impetuous haughtiness, `and for the future avoid me.

    Stephen turned away, and walked backwards and forwards at the other end of the room. There was the dire y of going bato the dang-room again, and he was beginning to be scious of that. They had been absent so short a time that when he went in again, the waltz was not ended.

    Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the pride of her nature was stung into activity: the hateful weakness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her self-respect, had at least wrought its own cure. The thoughts aations of the last month should all be flung away into an unvisited chamber of memory: there was nothing to allure her now; duty would be eas<footer></footer>y, and all the old calm purposes would reign peacefully once more. She re-ehe drawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, but with a sense of proud self-and that defied anything to agitate her. She refused to dance again, but she talked quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. And when they got home that night, she kissed Lucy with a free heart, almost exulting in this scorg moment which had delivered her from the possibility of another word or look that would have the stamp of treachery towards that gentle, unsuspicious sister.

    The  m Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so soon as she had expected. Her mother was to apany her in the carriage, and household business could not be despatched hastily by Mrs Tulliver. So Maggie, who had been in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for the drive, in the garden. Lucy was busy in the house ing up some bazaar presents for the younger o Basset, and when there was a l at the doorbell, Maggie felt some alarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her: it was sure to be Stephen.

    But presently the visitor came out into the garden alone, aed himself by her on the garden chair. It was not Stephen.

    `We  just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, from this seat, said Philip.

    They had taken each others hands in silence, but Maggie had looked at him with a more plete revival of the old childlike affeate smile than he had seen before, and he felt enced.

    `Yes, she said, `I often look at them, and wish I could see the low sunlight oems again. But I have never been that way but oo the churchyard, with my mother.

    `I have been there - I go there - tinually, said Philip. `I have nothing but the past to live upon.

    A keen remembrand keen pity impelled Maggie to put her hand in Philips. They had so often walked hand in hand!

    `I remember all the spots - just where you told me of particular things - beautiful stories that I had never heard of before.

    `You will go there again soon - wont you, Maggie? said Philip, getting timid and tremulous. `The Mill will soon be your brothers home again.

    `Yes - but I shall n<mark>99lib.</mark>ot be there, said Maggie. `I shall only hear of that happiness. I am going away again - Lucy has not told you, perhaps?

    `Theure will never join on to the past again, Maggie? - That book is quite closed?

    The grey eyes that had so often looked up at her with eing worship, looked up at her now, with a last struggling ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her large sincere gaze.

    `That book never will be closed, Philip, she said, with grave sadness. `I desire no future that will break the ties of the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the stro. I  do nothing willingly that will divide me always from him.

    `Is that the only reason that would keep us apart for ever, Maggie? said Philip, with a desperate determination to have a definite answer.

    `The only reason, said Maggie, with calm decision. And she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the ented cup had been dashed to the ground. The reaary excitement that gave her a proud self-mastery had not subsided, and she looked at the future with a sense of calm choice.

    They sat hand in hand without looking at each other or speaking for a few minutes: in Maggies mind the first ses of love and parting were more present thaual moment, and she was looking at Philip in the Red Deeps.

    Philip felt that he ought to have been thhly happy in that answer of hers: she en and transparent as a rock-pool. Why was he not thhly happy? - Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omnisce that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart.

 CHAPTER 11

    In the Lane

    MAGGIE had been four days at her aunt Mos<bdi></bdi>ss giving the early June sunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed eyes of that affeate woman, and making an epoch for her cousins great and small, who were learning her words and as by heart, as if she had been a tra avatar of perfect wisdom ay. She was standing on the causeway with her aunt and a group of cousins feeding the chis, at that quiet moment in the life of the farmyard before the afternoon milking-time. The great buildings round the hollow yard were as dreary and tumbledown as ever, but over the old garden wall the straggling rose-bushes were beginning to toss their summer weight, and the grey wood and old bricks of the house, on its higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad after-noon sunlight, that suited the quiest time. Maggie with her bo over her arm, was smiling down at a hatall fluffy chis when her aunt exclaimed,

    `Goodness me! who is that gentleman ing in at the gate?

    It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse; and the flanks and neck of the horse were streaked black with fast riding. Maggie felt a beating at head a - horrible as the sudden leaping to life of a savage enemy who had feigned death.

    `Who is it, my dear? said Mrs Moss, seeing in Maggies face the evidehat she knew.

    `It is Mr Stephe, said Maggie, rather faintly. `My cousin Lucys - a gentleman who is very intimate at my cousins.

    Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his horse, and now raised 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 horses impatiently tossing head. `I must be going again immediately. I have a message to deliver to you, Miss Tulliver - on private business. May I take the liberty of asking you to walk a few yards with me?

    He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a mas when he has been dogged by some care or annoyahat makes his bed and his dinner of little use to him. He spoke almost abruptly, as if his erraoo pressing for him to trouble himself about what would be thought by Mrs Moss of his visit and request. Good Mrs Moss, rather nervous in the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, was inwardly w whether she would be doing right  to invite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when Maggie, feeling all the embarrassment of the situation, and uo say anything, put on her bo and turo walk towards the gate.

    Stephen turoo and walked by her side, leading his horse.

    Not a word oken till they were out in the lane and had walked four or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight before her all the while, turned again to walk back saying, with haughty rese,

    `There is no need for me to go any farther. I dont know whether you sider it gentlemanly and delicate duct to place me in a position that forced me to e out with you - or whether you wished to insult me still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way.

    `Of course you are angry with me for ing, said Stephen, bitterly. `Of course it is of no sequence what a man has to suffer - it is only your womans dignity that you care about.

    Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have e from the slightest possible electric shock.

    `As if it were not enough that Im entangled in this way - that Im mad with love for you - that I resist the stro passion a man  feel, because I try to be true to other claims - but you must treat me as if I were a coarse brute who would willingly offend you. And when, if I had my own choice, I should ask you take my hand, and my fortune and my whole life, and do what you liked with them. I know I fot myself - I took an unwarrantable liberty - I <samp></samp>hate myself for having do. But I repented immediately - Ive beeing ever since. You ought not to think it unpardonable - a man who loves with his whole soul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for a moment; but you know - you must believe - that the worst pain I could have is to have pained you - that I would give the world to recall the error.

    Maggie dared not speak - dared not turn her head. The strength that had e from rese was all gone and her lips were quivering visibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full fivehat rose in ao that fession.

    They were e 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 prevent her from going farther towards the gate. `Im very sorry for any pain you have to gh, but it is of no use to speak.

    `Yes, it is of use, said Stephen, impetuously. `It would be of use if you would treat me with some sort of pity and sideration instead of doing me vile injusti your mind. I could bear everything more quietly if I knew you didnt hate me for an i b. Look at me - see what a hunted devil I am: Ive been riding thirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you.

    Maggie did not - dared not look. She had already seen the harassed face. But she said gently, `I dont think any evil of you.

    `Then, dearest, look at me, said Stephen, i, teones of ey. `Dont go away from me yet. Give me a moments happiness - make me feel youve fiven me.

    `Yes, I dive you, said Maggie, shaken by those tones, and all the more frighte herself. `But pray let me go in again. Pray go away.

    A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids.

    `I t go away from you - I t leave you, said Stephen, with still more passionate pleading. `I shall e back again if you send me away with this ess - I t answer for myself. But if you will go with me only a little way, I  live on that. You see plainly enough that yer has only made me ten times more unreasonable.

    Maggie turned. But Tahe bay horse, began to make such spirited remonstrances against this frequent ge of dire, that Stephen, catg sight of Willy Moss peeping thro<strike>99lib.</strike>ugh the gate, called out, `Here! just e and hold my horse for five minutes.

    `O no, said Maggie, hurriedly, `my aunt will think it se.

    `Never mind, Stephen answered impatiently; `they dont know the people at St Oggs. Lead him up and down just here, for five minutes, he added to Willy, who was now close to them; and theuro Maggies side, and they walked on. It was clear that she must go on now.

    `Take my arm, said Stephereatingly; and she took it, feeling all the while as if she were sliding downwards in a nightmare.

    `There is o this misery, she began, struggling to repel the influence by speech. `It is wicked - base - ever allowing a word or look that Lucy - that others might not have seen. Think of Lucy.

    `I do think of her - bless her - If I didnt-- Stephen had laid his hand on Maggies that rested on his arm, and they both felt it difficult to speak.

    `And I have other ties, Maggie went on, at last, with a desperate effort, - `even if Lucy did .

    `You are eo Philip Wakem, said Stephen, hastily. `Is it so?

    `I sider myself eo him - I doo marry any one else.

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

    `It is unnatural - it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me as I love you, we should throw everything else to the winds for the sake of belonging to each other. We should break all these mistakehat were made in blindness - aermio marry each other.

    `I would rather die than fall into that temptation, said Maggie, with deep, slow distiness, - all the gathered spiritual force of painful years ing to her aid in this extremity. She drew her arm from his as she spoke.

    `Tell me then that you dont care for me, he said, almost violently. `Tell me that you love some one else better.

    It dar<samp>九九藏书</samp>ted through Maggies mind that here was a mode of releasing herself from outward struggle - to tell Stephen that her whole heart hilips. But her lips would not utter that, and she was silent.

    `If you do love me, dearest, said Stephely, taking up her hand again and laying it within his arm, `it is better, it is right that we should marry each other. We t help the pain it will give. It is e upon us without our seeking: it is natural - it has taken hold of me in spite of every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, Ive been trying to be faithful to tacit es, and Ive only made things worse - Id better have given way at first.

    `Maggie was silent. If it were n - if she were once vinced of that, and need no longer beat and struggle against this current, soft arong as the summer stream!

    `Say &quot;yes,&quot; dearest, said Stephen, leaning to look eingly in her face. `What could we care about in the whole world beside, if we beloo each other?

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

    Her lips and eyelids quivered - she opened her eyes full on his for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and struggling under caresses, and then turned sharp round towards home again.

    `And after all, he went on, in an impatient torying to defeat his own scruples as well as hers, `I am breaking no positive e: - if Lucys affes had been withdrawn from me and given to some one else, I should have felt nht to assert a claim on her. If you are not absolutely pledged to Philip, we are her of us bound.

    `You dont believe that - it is not your real feeling, said Maggie, early. `You feel, as I do, that the real tie lies in the feelings and expectations we have raised in other minds. Else all pledges might be broken, when there was no outenalty. There would be no such thing as faithfulness.

    Stephen was silent: he could not pursue that argument; the opposite vi had wrought in him toly through his previous time of struggle. But it sooed itself in a new form.

    `The pledge t be fulfilled, he said, with impetuous insistance. `It is unnatural: we  only pretend to give ourselves to any one else. 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 pliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the ground; then she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at him with solemn sadness,

    `O it is difficult - life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our stro feeling; - but then, such feelings tinually e across the ties that all our former life has made for us - the ties that have made others depe on us - and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in paradise, and we could always see that one being first towards whom... I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love es - love would be a sign that two people ought to belong to each other. But I see - I feel it is not so now: there are things we must renoun life - some of us must resign love. Many things are difficult and dark to me - but I see oh<tt></tt>ing quite clearly - that I must not, ot seek my oiness by sacrifig others. Love is natural - but surely pity and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live iill, and punish me if I didnt obey them. I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. Dont urge me; help me - help me, because I love you.

    Maggie had beore and more ear as she went on; her face had bee 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 pleadiy gained new power over him.

    `Dearest, he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while his arm stole round her, `Ill do, Ill bear anything you wish. But - one kiss - ohe last - before we part.

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

    She hurried along and not another word oken. Stephen stood still and beed when they came within sight of Willy and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs Moss was standing alo the door of the old porch: she had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness; it might be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rid handsome lover, but she would naturally feel embarrassed at ing in again - and it might not be joyful. Iher case, Mrs Moss waited anxiously to receive Maggie by herself. The poor things face said plainly enough that if there was joy, it was of a very agitating dubious sort.

    `Sit down here a bit, my dear. She drew Maggie into the porch, and sat down on the bench by her. There was no priva the house.

    `O aunt Gritty, Im very wretched. I wish I could have died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up then - it is so hard now.

    The poor child threw her arms round her aunts neck, and fell into long, deep sobs.

 CHAPTER 12

    A Family Party

    MAGGIE left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, ao Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet acc to agreement. In the mean time, very ued things had happened, and there was to be a family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a ge in the fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away the shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded splendour. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just e into office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high appreciation and full-blown eulogy: in many respectable families throughout this realm relatives being creditable meet with a similar cordiality nition, whi its fine freedom from the coer of any as, suggests the hopeful possibility that we may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have ceased to bite and wolves that no longer show their teeth with any but the bla iions. Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for the loo have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderful news. It seemed - did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of wisdom - as if everything, even other peoples misfortunes (poor creatures!) were spiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and cousin Tom, and haughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the trary, as happy as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To think that the very day - the very day - after Tom had e back from Newcastle,<dfn></dfn> that unfortunate yousome, whom Mr Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St Oggs in a dangerous state, so that Wakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on the premises at o was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as if the misfortune had happehen, rather than at any other time, in order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his exemplary duct - papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver must certainly go to the Mill now and keep house for Tom: that was rather a loss to Lu the matter of household fort; but then, to think of poor aunty being in her old place again and gradually getting forts about her there!

    On this last point Lucy had her ing projects, and when she and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into the handsome parlour where the very sunbeams seemed er than elsewhere, she directed her manoeuvres as any reat tacti would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy.

    `Aunt Pullet, she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly adjusting that ladys floating cap-string, `I want you to make up your mind what linen and things you will give Tom towards housekeeping; because youre always so generous, you give suice things, you know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow.

    `That she never , my dear, said Mrs Pullet, with unusual vigour, `for she hasnt got the lio follow suit wi mine, I  tell you. Shed he taste, not if shed spend the money. Big checks and live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is - not a spot nor a diamont among em. But its poor work, dividing ones linen before one dies - I hought to ha dohat, Bessy, Mrs Pullet tinued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver, `when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver wed spun - and the Lord knows where yours is gone.

    `Id no choice, Im sure, sister, said poor Mrs Tulliver, aced to sider herself in the light of an accused person. `Im sure it was no wish o mine, iver, as I should lie awake o nights thinking o my best bleached linen all over the try.

    `Take a peppermint, Mrs Tulliver, said uncle Pullet, feeling that he was  a cheap and wholesome form of fort, which he was reending by example.

    `O but, aunt Pullet, said Lucy, `youve so much beautiful linen. And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it, when they were married.

    `Well, I dont say as I wont do it, said Mrs Pullet, `for now Toms so lucky, its nothing but right his friends should look on him and help him. Theres the table-cloths I bought at your sale, Bessy, it was nothing but good natur o me to buy em, for theyve been lying in the chest ever since. But Im not going to give Maggie any more o my Indy muslin and things, if shes to go into service again, when she might stay and keep me pany, and do my sewing for me, if she wasnt wa her brothers.

    `Going into service was the expression by which the Dodson mind represeo itself the position of teacher overness, and Maggies return to that menial dition, now circumstances offered her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hair down her bad altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a most undesirable niece; but now, she was capable of being at onental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle Gleggs presence, over the tea and muffins.

    `Hegh, hegh! said Mr Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on the back, `Nonsense, nonsense! Do us hear of you taking a place again, Maggie. Why, you must ha picked up half-a-dozehearts at the bazaar - isnt there one of em the right sort of article? e, now?

    `Mr Glegg, said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in her severity, which she alut on with her crisper fronts. `Youll excuse me, but youre far too light for a man of your years. Its resped duty to her aunts and the rest of her kin as are so good to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away again, without sulting us - not sweethearts, if Im to use such a word, though it was never heared in my family.

    `Why, what did they call us, when we went to see em, then, eh, neighbour Pullet? They thought us sweet en<abbr></abbr>ough then, said Mr Glegg, winking pleasantly, while Mr Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness, took a little more sugar.

    `Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `if yoing to be undelicate, let me know.

    `La, Jane, your husbands only joking, said Mrs Pullet, `let him joke while hes got health and strength. Theres poor Mr Tilt got his mouth drawn all o one side, and couldnt laugh if he was to try.

    `Ill trouble you for the muffihen, Mr Glegg, said Mrs G., `if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though its other people must see the joke in a nieces putting a slight on her mothers eldest sister, as is the head o the family; and only ing in and out on short visits all the time shes been iown, and theling to go away without my knowledge - as Id laid caps out on purpose for her to make em up for me, - and me as have divided my money so equal--

    `Sister, Mrs Tulliver broke in, anxiously, `Im sure Maggie hought o going away without staying at your house as well as the others. Not as its my wish she should go away at all - but quite trairy. Im sure Im i. Ive said over and ain, &quot;My dear, youve no call to go away.&quot; But theres ten days or a fht Maggiell have before shes fixed to go: she  stay at your house just as well, as Ill step in when I , and so will Lucy.

    `Bessy, said Mrs Glegg, `if youd exercise a little more thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o the time, when our house isnt above a quarter of an hours walk from Mr Deanes. She  e the first thing in the m and go back the last at night, ahankful shes got a good aunt so close to her to e and sit with. I know I should, when I was her age.

    `La, Jane, said Mrs Pullet, `it ud do your beds good to have somebody to sleep iheres that Striped Room smells dreadful mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything: Im sure I thought I should be struck with death when you took me in.

    `O, there is Tom! exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. `Hes e on Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his promise.

    Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at this first meeting sihe prospect of returning to the Mill had been opeo him, and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by her side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a perpetual yearning ihat had its root deeper than all ge. He smiled at her very kindly this evening and said, `Well, Magsie, hows aunt Moss?

    `e, e, sir, said Mr Glegg, putting out his hand. `Why, youre such a big man, you carry all before you, it seems. Youre e into your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did - but I wish you joy, I wish you joy. Youll get the Mill all for your own again, some day, Ill be bound. You wont stop half- the hill.

    `But I hope hell bear in mind as its his mothers family as he owes it to, said Mrs Glegg. `If he hadnt had them to take after, hed ha been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor wastefulness in our family - nor dying without wills--

    `No, nor suddehs, said aunt Pullet. `Allays the doctor called in. But Tom had the Dodson skin - I said that from the first. And I dont know what you mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him a table cloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I dont say what more I shall do, but that I shall do, and if I should die to-morrow, Mr Pullet, youll bear it in mind - though youll be blundering with the keys, and never remember as that ohird shelf o the left hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broad ties - not the narrow-frilled uns - is the key o the drawer in the Blue Room, where the key o the Blue Closet is. Youll make a mistake and I shall niver be worthy to know it. Youve a memory for my pills and draug<strike>九九藏书</strike>hts, wonderful - Ill allays say that of you - but youre lost among the keys. This gloomy prospect of the fusion that would ensue on her decease was very affeg to Mrs Pullet.

    `You carry it too far, Sophy - that log in and out, said Mrs Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. `You go beyond your own family. Theres nobody  say I dont lock up; but I do whats reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out whats serviceable, to make a present of to my nevvie: Ive got cloth as has never been whittened, better worth having than other peoples fine holland; and I hope hell lie down in it and think of his aunt.

    Tom thanked Mrs Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on her virtues; and Mr Glegg effected a diversion for him by asking about Mr Deanes iions ing steam.

    Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to e on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the manservant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy. `You must sit by yourself, aunty, said that triving young lady, `because I must sit by Tom; Ive a great deal to say to him.

    In the eagerness of her affeate ay fgie, Lucy could not persuade herself to defer a versation about her with Tom, who, she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must bee pliant and flexible. Her nature supplied her with o Toms, and she uzzled as well as paio notice the unpleasant ge on his tenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philip had used his influeh his father. She had ted on this revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Toms heart towards Philip at once, and besides that, prove that the elder Wakem was ready to receive Maggie with all the honours of a daughter-in-law. Nothing was wahen, but for dear Tom, who always had that pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn pletely round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare that he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievances should be healed and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitable despatch: in cous<u></u>in Lucys opinion nothing could be easier.

    But to minds strongly marked by the positive aive qualities that create severity - strength of will, scious rectitude of purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of self-trol and a disposition to exert trol over others - prejudices e as the natural food of tendencies which  get no suste of that plex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye - however it may e, these minds will give it a habitation: it is something to assert strongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of sciht: it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will ahese purposes is self-evident. ood upright Tom Tullivers mind was of this class: his inward criticism of his fathers faults did not prevent him from adopting his fathers prejudice; it rejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a meeting-poiails>藏书网</details>t for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal pride. Other feelings added their force to produs bitter repugo Philip and to Maggies union with him; and notwithstanding Lucys power over her strong-willed cousin, she got nothing but a cold refusal ever to san such a marriage: `but of course Maggie could do as she liked - she had declared her determination to be indepe. For Toms part, he held himself bound by his duty to his fathers memory, and by every manly feeling, o sent to aion with the Wakems.

    Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill Toms mind with the expectation that Maggies perverse resolve to go into a situation again, would presently metamorphose itself, as her resolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely different - a marriage with Philip Wakem.

 CHAPTER 13

    Borne Along by the Tide

    Ihan a week Maggie was at St Oggs again, - outwardly in much the same position as when her visit there had just begun. It was easy for her to fill her ms apart from Lucy without any obvious effort; for she had her promised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and it was natural that she should give her mother more than usual of her panionship in these last weeks, especially as there were preparations to be thought of for Toms housekeeping. But Lucy would hear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings: she must always e from aunt Gleggs before dinner - `else what shall I have of you? said Lucy, with a tearful pout that could not be resisted. And Mr Stephe had unatably taken to dining at Mr Deanes as often as possible, instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At first he bega<cite></cite>n his ms with a resolution that he would not dihere - not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had even devised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreeable Juher: the headaches which he had stantly been alleging as a ground for stupidity and silence were a suffit ostensible motive. But the journey was not taken, and by the fourth m no distinct resolution was formed about the evenings: they were only foreseen as times when Maggie would still be present for a little while - when one more toulance might be snatched. For, why not? There was nothing to ceal betweehey knew - they had fessed their love, and they had renounced each other - they were going to part. Honour and sce were going to divide them - Maggie, with that appeal from her inmost soul had decided it: but surely they might cast a lingering look at each other across the gulf, before they turned away o look again till that strange light had for ever faded out of their eyes. Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiesd even torpor of manner, so trasted with her usual fitful brightness and ardour, that Lucy would have had to seek some other cause for such a ge if she had not been vihat the position in which Maggie stood between Philip and her brother and the prospect of her self-imposed wearisome banishment were quite enough to at for a large amount of depression. But uhis torpor there was a fierce battle of emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of struggle had never known or foreboded: it seemed to her as if all the worst evil in her had lain in ambush till now and had suddenly started up full-armed with hideous, overp strength. There were moments in which a cruel selfishness seemed to be getting possession of her: why should not Lucy - why should not Philip suffer? She had had to suffer through many years of her life, and who had renounced anything for her? And when something like that fulness of existence - love, wealth, ease, refi - all that her nature craved was brought within her reach, why was she to it, that anht have it - another, who perhaps  less? But amidst all this new passioumult there were the old voices making themselves heard with rising power till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. Was that existence which tempted her, the full existence she dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of early striving, all the deep pity for anothers pain which had been nurtured ihrough years of affe and hardship, all the divine prese of something higher than mere personal enjoyment which had made the saess of life? She might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as hope to enjoy aen which she set out by maiming the faith and sympathy that were the best ans of her soul. And then, if pain were so hard to her - what was it to others? - Ah, God! preserve me from inflig - give me strength to bear it. - How had she sunk into this struggle with a temptation that she would once have thought herself as secure from, as from deliberate crime? When was that first hateful moment in which she had been scious of a feeling that clashed with her truth, affe, and gratitude, and had not shaken it from her with horror, as if it had been a loathsome thing? - A, sihis strange, sweet, subduing influence did not, should not quer her - si was to remain simply her own suffering... her mind was meeting Stephens in that thought of his, that they might still snatents of mute fession before the parting came. For was not he suffering too? She saw it daily - saw it in the sied look of fatigue with which as soon as he was not pelled to exert himself he relapsed into indiffereowards everything but the possibility of watg her. Could she refuse sometimes to ahat beseeg look which she felt to be following her like a low murmur of love and pain? She refused it less and less, till at last the evening for them both was sometimes made of a moments mutual gaze - they thought of it till it came, and when it had e, they thought of nothing else. Oher thing Stephen seemed now and then to care for, and that was, to sing: it was a way of speaking to Maggie - perhaps he was not distinctly scious that he was impelled to it by a secret longing, running ter to all his self-fessed resolves, to deepen the hold he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it is guided by your less scious purposes, and you will uand that tradi in Stephen.

    Philip Wakem was a less frequent visitor, but he came occasionally in the evening, and it happehat he was there when Lucy said, as they sat out on the lawn, near su,

    `Now Maggies tale of visits to aunt Glegg is pleted, I mean that we shall go out boating every day until she goes: - She has not had half enough boating, because of these tiresome visits, and she likes it better than anything. Dont you, Maggie?

    `Better than any sort of lootion, I hope you mean, said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in a low garden chair, `else she will be selling her soul to that ghostly boatman who haunts the Floss - only for the sake of being drifted in a boat for ever.

    `Should you like to be her boatman? said Lucy. `Because, if you would, you  e with us and take an oar. If the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, we should be indepe of aleman, fgie  row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to ask services of knights and squires, who do not seem to offer them with great alacrity.

    She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo falsetto

    `The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine.

    He took no notice, but still kept aloof: he had done so frequently during Philips ret visits.

    `You dont seem ined for boating, said Lucy, when he came to sit down by her on the bench. `Doesnt rowing suit you now?

    `O, I hate a large party in a boat, he said, almost irritably. `Ill e when you have no one else.

    Lucy coloured, fearing that Philip would be hurt: it was quite a hing for Stephen to speak in that way, but he had certainly not been well of late. Philip coloured too, but less from a feeling of personal offehan from a vague suspi that Stephens moodiness had some relation to Maggie, who had started up from her chair as he spoke, and had walked towards the hedge of laurels to look at the desding sunlight on the river.

    `As Miss Deane didnt know she was excluding others by inviting me, said Philip, `I am bound tn.

    `No, indeed, you shall not, said Lucy, much vexed. `I particularly wish for your pany tomorrow. The tide will suit at half-past ten - it will be a delicious time for a couple of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back, before the suoo hot. And how  you object to four people in a boat? she added, looking at Stephen.

    `I dont object to the people, but the number, said Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather ashamed of his rudeness. `If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it would be you, Phil. But we wont divide the pleasure of esc the ladies - well take it alternately. Ill go the  day.

    This i had the effect of drawing Philips attention with freshened solicitude towards Stephen and Maggie; but when they re-ehe house, music roposed, and Mrs Tulliver and Mr Deane being occupied with cribbage, Maggie sat apart he table where the books and work were placed - doing nothing, however, but listening abstractedly to the music. Stephely turo a duet which he insisted that Lud Philip should sing: he had often dohe same thing before, but this evening Philip thought he divined some double iion in every word and look of Stephens, and watched him keenly - angry with himself all the while for this ging suspi. For had not Maggie virtually denied any ground for his doubts on her side? and she was truth itself; it was impossible not to believe her word and glance when they had last spoken together in the garden. Stephen might be strongly fasated by her (what was more natural?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on what must be his friends painful secret. Still, he watched. Stephen, moving away from the piano, sauntered slowly towards the table near which Maggie sat, and turned over the neers, apparently in mere idleness. Then he seated himself with his back to the pianing a neer under his elbow and thrusting his hand through his hair, as if he had been attracted by some bit of loews in the Laceham Courier. He was iy looking at Maggie, who had not taken the slightest notice of his approach. She had always additional strength of resistance when Philip resent, just as we  restrain our speech better in a spot that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard the word `dearest, uttered in the softest tone of paireaty, like that of a patient who asks for something that ought to have been given without asking. She had never heard that word sihe moments in the la Basset, when it had e from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily as if it had been an inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no word, but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an instant towards Stephens face, but immediately look appreheowards himself. It was not evident to her that Philip had observed her, but a pang of shame uhe sense of this cealment made her move from her chair and walk to her mothers side to watch the game at cribbage.

    Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt mingled with wretched certainty. It was impossible for him now to resist the vi that there was some mutual sciousness between Stephen and Maggie; and for half the night his irritable, susceptible nerves were pressed upon almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact: he could attempt no explanation that would recile it with her words and as. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to its habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the truth: - she was struggling, she was banishing herself - this was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But athwart that belief, there came other possibilities that would not be driven out of sight. His imaginatiht out the whole story: Stephen was madly in love with her; he must have told her so; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. But would he give her up, knowing - Philip felt the fact with heart-crushing despair - that she was made half helpless by her feeling towards him?

    When the m came, Philip was too ill to think of keeping his e to go in the boat. In his present agitation he could decide on nothing: he could only alterween tradictory iions. First, he thought he must have an interview with Maggie areat her to fide in him; then again, he distrusted his own interference. Had he not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along? She had uttered words long ago in her young ignora was enough to make her hate him that these should be tinually present with her as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a revelation of feelings which she had evidently inteo withhold from him? He would not trust himself to see her, till he had assured himself that he could act from pure ay for her and not from egoistic irritation. He wrote a brief o Stephen a it early by the servant, saying that he was not well enough to fulfil his e to Miss Deane. Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place?

    Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her quite tent with Stephens refusal to go in the boat. She discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this m at ten: Lindum was the very place she wao go to, to make purchases - important purchases, which must by no mea off to another opportunity; and aunt Tulliver must go too, because she was ed in some of the purchases.

    `You will have your row in the boat just the same, you know, she said to Maggie when they went out of the breakfast-room and upstairs together, `Philip will be here at half- past ten, and it is a deli. Now, dont say a wainst it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your face against all the wonders I work for you? Dont think of awful cousin Tom: you may disobey him a little.

    Maggie did not persist in objeg. She was almost glad of the plan; for perhaps it would bring her some strength and ess to be aloh Philip again: it was like revisiting the se of a quieter life, in which the very struggles were repose pared with the daily tumult of the present. She prepared herself for the boat, and at half-past ten sat waiting in the drawing-room.

    The ring at the door-bell unctual, and she was thinking with half-sad, affeate pleasure of the surprise Philip would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when she distinguished a firm rapid step across the hall, that was certainly not Philips: the door opened and Stephe entered.

    In the first moment they were both too much agitated to speak; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the others were go. Maggie had started up and sat down again, with her heart beating violently, and Stephen, throwing down his cap and gloves, came and sat by her in silence. She thought Philip would be ing soon; and with great effort - for she trembled visibly - she rose to go to a distant chair.

    `He is not ing, said Stephen, in a low tone, `I am going in the boat.

    `O, we t go, said Maggie, sinking into her chair again. `Lucy did not expect - she would be hurt. Why is not Philip e?

    `He is not well - he asked me to e instead.

    `Lucy is goo Lindum, said Maggie, taking off her bo, with hurried, trembling fingers. `We must not go.

    `Very well, said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he rested his arm on the back of his chair. `Then well stay here.

    He was looking into her deep, deep eyes - far-off and mysterious as the starlit blaess, a very near, and timidly loving. Maggie sat perfectly still - perhaps for moments, perhaps for minutes - until the helpless trembling had ceased, and there was a warm glow on her cheek.

    `The man is waiting - he has taken the cushions, she said. `Will you go and tell him?

    `What shall I tell him? said Stephen, almost in a whisper. He was looking at the lips now.

    Maggie made no answer.

    `Let us go, Stephen murmured, eingly, rising, and taking her hand to raise her too. `We shall not be long together.

    And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down the garden among the roses, being helped with firm tender care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had fotten) - all by this stronger presehat seemed to bear her along without any act of her own will, like the added self whies with the suddeing influence of a strong tonic - and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded.

    They glided rapidly along, to Stephens rowing, helped by the backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses - oween the silent, sunny fields and pastures which seemed filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic dip of the oars, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard now and then as if it were only the overflowing of brim-full gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold scioushat was mingled into one by that grave untiring gaze whieed not be averted - what else could there be in their minds for the first hour? Some low, subdued, languid exclamation of love came from Stephen from time to time, as he went on rowing idly, half automatically: otherwise, they spoke no word; for what could words have been, but an io thought? and thought did not belong to that ented haze in which they were enveloped - it beloo the past and the future that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly scious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with nnition on the villages: she khere were several to be passed before they reached Luckreth, where they always stopped ahe boat. At all times she was so liable to fits of absehat she was likely enough to let her way-marks pass unnoticed.

    But at last Stephen, who had been rowing more and more idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and looked down oer as if watg the pace at which the boat glided without his help. This sudden ge roused Maggie. She looked at the far-stretg fields - at the banks close by - ahat they were entirely strao her. A terrible alarm took possession of her.

    `O, have we passed Luckreth - where we were to stop? she exclaimed, looking back, to see if the place were out of sight. No village was to be seen. She turned round again, with a look of distressed questioning at Stephen.

    He went on watg the water, and said, in a strange, dreamy, abseone, `Yes - a long way.

    `O what shall I do? cried Maggie, in an agony. `We shall not get home for hours - and Lucy - O God, help me!

    She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a frightened child: she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and seeing her look of pained surprise and doubt - perhaps of just upbraiding.

    Stephen moved and sat beside her aly drew down the clasped hands.

    `Maggie, he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, `let us never go home again - till no one  part us - till we are married.

    The unusual tohe startling words, arrested Maggies sob, and she sat quite still - w: as if Stephen might have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and annual the wretched facts.

    `See, Maggie, how everything has e without our seeking - in spite of all our efforts. We hought of being aloogether again - it has all been done by others. See how the tide is carrying us out - away from all those unnatural bonds that we have been trying to make faster round us - and trying in vain. It will car<bdo>99lｉｂ?</bdo>ry us on to Torby, and we  land there, a some carriage, and hurry on to York, and then to Scotland - and never pause a moment till we are bound to each other so that only death  part us. It is the only right thing - dearest - it is the only way of esg from this wretched enta. Everything has curred to point it out to us. We have trived nothing, we have thought of nothing ourselves.

    Stephen spoke with deep, ear pleading. Maggie listened - passing from her startled wonderment to the yearning after that belief that the tide was doing it all - that she might glide along with the swift, silent stream and not struggle any more. But across that stealing influence came the terrible shadow of past thoughts; and the sudden horror lest now at last the moment of fatal intoxication was close upon her, called up a feeling of angry resistaowards Stephen.

    `Let me go! she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free. `You have wao deprive me of any choice. You kneere e too far - you have dared to take advantage of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly t me into such a position.

    Stung at this reproach, he released her hands, moved back to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of desperation at the difficulty Maggies words had made present to him. If she would not sent to go on, he must curse hims<mark>藏书网</mark>elf for the embarrassment he had led her into. But the reproach was the unendurable thing: the ohing worse than parting with her was, that she should feel he had acted unworthily towards her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressed rage,

    `I didnt notice that assed Luckreth, till we had got to the  village - and then it came into my mind that we would go on. I t justify it - I ought to have told you. It is enough to make you hate me - since you dont love me well enough to make everything else indifferent to you - as I do you. Shall I stop the boat, and try to get you out here? Ill tell Lucy that I was mad - and that you hate me - and you shall be clear of me for ever. No one  blame you, because I have behaved unpardonably to you.

    Maggie aralysed: it was easier to resist Stephens pleading, than this picture he had called up of himself suffering, while she was vindicated - easier even to turn away from his look of tenderhan from this look of angry misery, that seemed to place her in selfish isolation from him. He had called up a state of feeling in which the reasons which had acted on her sce seemed to be transmuted<bdo>99ｌib.</bdo> into mere self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched - and she began to look at him with timid distress. She had reproached him for being hurried into irrevocable trespass - she, who had been so weak herself.

    `As if I shouldnt feel what happeo you - just the same - she said, with reproach of another kind - the reproach of love, asking for more trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephens suffering was more fatal thaher yielding, because it was less distinguishable from that sense of others claims which was the moral basis of her resistance.

    He felt all the relenting in her look and tone, - it was heaven opening again. He moved to her side, and took her hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the boat, and said nothing. He dreaded to utter another word - he dreaded to make another movement, that might provoke another reproach or denial from her. Life hung on her sent - everything else was hopeless, fused, siing misery. They glided along in this way, both resting in that silence as in a haven - both dreadiheir feelings should be divided again, till they became aware that the clouds had gathered, and that the slightest perceptible freshening of the breeze was growing and growing, till the whole character of the day was altered.

    `You will be chill, Maggie, in this thin dress. Let me raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant, dearest.

    Maggie obeyed: there was an unspeakable charm in being told what to do, and having everything decided for her. She sat down again, covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to his ain, making haste; for they must try to get to Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly scious of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding is attended with a less vivid scioushaance - it is the partial sleep of thought - it is the submergence of our own personality by another. Every influeeo lull her into acquiesce: that dreamy gliding in the boat, which had lasted for four hours and had brought some weariness and exhaustion - the recoil of her fatigued sensations from the impracticable difficulty of getting out of the boat at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long miles - all helped t her into more plete subje to that strong mysterious charm which made a last parting from Stephehe death of all joy - which made the thought of wounding him like the first touch of the t iron before which resolution shrank. And then, there was the present happiness of being with him, which was enough to absorb all her languid energy.

    Presently Stephen observed a vessel ing after them. Several vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they had seen none. He looked more and more eagerly at this vessel as if a hought had e into his mind along with it and then he looked at Maggie, hesitatingly.

    `Maggie, dearest, he said, at last, `if this vessel should be going to Mudport or to any ve pla the coast northward, it would be our best plan to get them to take us on board. You are fatigued - and it may soon rain - it may be a wretched business, getting to Torby in this boat. Its only a trading vessel, but I dare say you  be made tolerably fortable. Well take the cushions out of the boat. It is really our best plan. Theyll be glad enough to take us - Ive got plenty of money about me - I  pay them well.

    Maggies heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this new proposition; but she was silent - one course seemed as difficult as another.

    Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel: going to Mudport, the English mate informed him, and if this wind held, would be there ihan two days.

    `We had got out too far with our boat, said Stephen. `I was trying to make for Torby. But Im afraid of the weather; and this lady - my wife - will be exhausted with fatigue and huake us on board, will you, and haul up the boat. Ill pay you well.

    Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken on board, making an iing object of plation to admiring Dut. The mate feared the lady would have a poor time of it on board, for they had no aodation for sutirely unlooked-for passengers - no private  larger than an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch liness, which makes all other invenieolerable; and the boat-cushions were spread into a couaggie on the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and down the deck leaning on Stephen - being upheld by his strength - was the first ge that she needed: - then came food and then quiet reing on the cushions, with the sehat no new resolution could be taken that day. Everything must wait till to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her, with her hand in his; they could only speak to each other in low tones, only look at each other now and then, for it would take a long while to dull the curiosity of the five men on board, and reduce these handsome young strao that minree of i which belongs in a sailard, to all objeearer than the horizon. But Stephen was triumphantly happy. Every other thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by the certainty that Maggie must be his. The leap had been taken now: he had been tortured by scruples, he had fought fiercely with overmastering ination, he had hesitated; but repentance was impossible. He murmured forth in fragmentary sentences his happiness - his adoration - his tenderness - his belief that their life together must be heaven - that her preseh him would give rapture to every on day - that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than all other bliss - that everything was easy for her sake except to part with her: and now they never would part; he would belong to her for ever - and all that was his was hers - had no value for him except as it was hers. Such things, uttered in low broken tones by the one voice that has first stirred the fibre of young passion, have only a feeble effect - on experienced minds at a distance from them. To pgie they were very near: they were like ar held close to t<u>.99lib.</u>hirsty lips: there was, there must be, then, a life for mortals here below which was not hard and chill - in which affe would no longer be self-sacrifice. Stephens passionate words made the vision of such a life more fully present to her than it had ever been before; and the vision for the time excluded all realities - all except the returning sun-gleams which broke out oers as the evening approached, and mingled with the visionary sun-light of promised happiness - all except the hand that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love.

    There was to be no rain, after all; the clouds rolled off to the horizon again, making the great purple rampart, and long purple isles of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us when the sun goes down - the land that the evening star watches over. Maggie was to sleep all night on the poop - it was better than going below - and she was covered with the warmest ings the ship could furnish. It was still early, wheigues of the day brought on a drowsy longing for perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint dying flush in the west where the one golden lamp was getting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his arm against the vessels side. Behind all the delicious visions of these last hours which had flowed over her like a soft stream and made her entirely passive, there was the dim scioushat the dition was a tra one, and that the morrow must bring back the old life of struggle - that there were thoughts which would presently avehemselves for this oblivion. But now nothing was distinct to her: she was being lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over her, with those delicious visioing and fading like the wondrous a?rial land of the west.

 CHAPTER 14

    Waking

    WHEN Maggie was goo sleep, Stephen, weary too with his unaced amount of rowing and with the intense inward life of the last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, walked and lounged about the deck, with his cigar, far on into midnight, not seeing the dark water - hardly scious there were stars - living only in the near and distant future. At last fatigue quered restlessness, and he rolled himself up in a piece of tarpauling on the deear Maggies feet. She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for six hours before the fai hint of a midsummer daybreak was disible. She awoke from that vivid dreaming which makes the margin of our deeper rest. She was in a boat on the wide water with Stephen, and ihering darkness something like a star appeared, that grew and grew till they saw it was the Virgied in St Oggs boat, and it came nearer and ill they saw the Virgin was Lud the boatman hilip - no, not Philip, but her brother, who rowed past without looking at her; and she rose to stretch out her arms and call to him, and their own boat turned over with the movement and they began to sink, till with one spasm of dread she seemed to awake and find she was a child again in the parlour at evening twilight, and Tom was not really angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she passed to the real waking, to the plash of water against the vessel, and the sound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful starlit sky. There was a moment of utter bewilderment before her mind could get disentangled from the fused web of dreams; but soon the whole terrible truth urged itself upon her. Stephen was not by her now: she was aloh her own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that must blot her life had been itted - she had brought sorrow into the lives of others - into the lives that were knit up with hers by trust and love. The feeling of a few short weeks had hurried her into the sins her nature had most recoiled from - breach of faith and cruel selfishness; she had rent the ties that had given meaning to duty, and had made herself an outlawed soul with no guide but the wayward choice of her own passion. And where would that lead her? - where had it led her now? She had said she would rather die than fall into that temptation. She felt it now - now that the sequences of such a fall had e before the outward act was pleted. There was at least this fruit from all her years of striving after the highest a - that her soul, though betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately sent to a choice of the lower. And a choice of what? O God - not a choice of joy - but of scious cruel<big>九九藏书</big>ty and hardness; for could she ever cease to see before her Lud Philip with their murdered trust and hopes? Her life with Stephen could have no saess: she must for ever sink and wander vaguely, driven by uain impulse; for she had let go the clue of life - that clue whi the far off years her young need had clutched sly. She had renounced all delights then, before she khem, before they had e within her reach: Philip had been right wheold her that she knew nothing of renunciation: she had thought it was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face to faow - that sad patient living strength which holds the clue of life, and saw that the thorns were for ever pressing on its brow. That yesterday which could never be revoked - if she could exge it now for ah of inward silent endurance she would have bowed beh that cross with a sense of rest.

    Daybreak came and the reddeniern light while her past life was grasping her in this way, with that tightening clutch whies in the last moments of possible rescue. She could see Stephen now lying on the deck still fast asleep, and with the sight of him there came a wave of anguish that found its way in a long-suppressed sob. The worst bitterness of parting - the thought that urged the sharpest inward cry for help was the pain it must give to him. But surmounting everything was the horror at her own possible failure, the dread lest her sce should be benumbed again and not rise to energy till it was too late. - Too late! It was too late now, not to have caused misery - too late for everything, perhaps, but to rush away from the last act of baseness - the tasting of joys that were wrung from crushed hearts.

    The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the sehat a day of resistance was beginning for her. Her eyelashes were still wet with tears, as, with her shawl over her head, she sat looking at the slowly-rounding sun. Something roused Stephen too, and, getting up from his hard bed, he came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct of anxious love saw something to give him alarm in the very first glance. He had a h dread of some resistan Maggies nature that he would be uo overe. He had the uneasy scioushat he had robbed her of perfect freedom yesterday: there was too muative honour in him, for him not to feel that if her will should recoil, his duct would have been odious, and she would have a right to reproach him.

    But Maggie did not feel that right: she was too scious of fatal weakness in herself - too full of the tenderhat es with the foreseen need for inflig a wound. She let him take her hand when he came to sit down beside her, and smiled at him - only with rather a sad glance: she could say nothing to pain him till the moment of possible parting was nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee together, and walked about the deck, and heard the captains assurahat they should be in at Mudport by five oclock, each with an inward burthen - but in him it was an undefined fear, which he trusted to the ing hours to dissipate - i was a definite resolve on which she was trying silently to tighten her hold. Stephen was tinually, through the m, expressing his ay at the fatigue and disfort she was suffering, and alluded to landing and to the ge of motion and repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure himself more pletely by pre-supposing that everything would be as he had arra. For a long while Maggie tented herself with assuring him that she had had a good nights rest, and that she didnt mind about being on the vessel - it was not like being on the open sea - it was only a little less pleasant than being in a boat on the Floss. But a suppressed resolve will betray itself in the eyes, and Stephen became more and more uneasy as the day advanced, uhe sehat Maggie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but did not dare, to speak of their marriage - of where they would go after it, and the steps he would take to inform his father, and the rest, of what had happened. He loo assure himself of a tacit assent from her. But each time he looked at her, he gathered a stronger dread of the new, quiet sadness with which she met his eyes. And they were more and more silent.

    `Here we are in sight of Mudport, he said, at last. `Now, dearest, he added, turning towards her with a look that was half beseeg, `the worst part of your fatigue is over. On the land we  and swiftness. In another hour and a half we shall be in a chaise together - and that will seem rest to you after this.

    Maggie felt it was time to speak - it would only be unkind now to assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he had done, but with distinct decision.

    `We shall not be together - we shall have parted.

    The blood rushed to Stephens face.

    `We shall not, he said. `Ill die first.

    It was as he had dreaded - there was a struggle ing. But her of them dared to say another word, till the boat was let down, and they were taken to the landing place. Here there was a cluster of gazers and passengers awaiting the departure of the steamboat to St Oggs. Maggie had a dim sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurrying her along on his arm, that some one had advaowards her from that cluster as if he were ing to speak to her. But she was hurried along, and was indifferent to everything but the ing trial.

    A puided them to the  inn and postinghouse, and Stephen gave the order for the chaise as they passed through the yard. Maggie took no notice of this, and only said, `Ask them to show us into a room where we  sit down.

    When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, whose face had a desperate determination in it, was about t the bell, when she said, in a firm voice,

    `Im not going, we must part here.

    `Maggie, he said, turning round towards her, and speaking iones of a man who feels a process of torture beginning, `Do you mean to kill me? What is the use of it now? The whole thing is done.

    `No, it is not done, said Maggie - `Too much is done - more than we  ever remove the trace of. But I will go no farther. Dont try to prevail with me again. I couldnt choose yesterday.

    What was he to do? He dared not go near her - her anger might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked backwards and forwards in maddening perplexity.

    `Maggie, he said, at last, pausing before her, and speaking in a tone of impl wretess, `Have some pity - hear me - five me for what I did yesterday. - I will obey you now - I will do nothing without your full sent. But dont blight our lives for ever by a rash perversity that  answer no good purpose to any ohat  only create new evils. Sit down, dearest - wait - think what yoing to do. Dont treat me as if you couldnt trust me.

    He had chosen the most effective appeal; but Maggies will was fixed unswervingly on the ing wrench. She had made up her mind to suffer.

    `We must not wait, she said, in a low but distinct voice. `We must part at once.

    `art, Maggie, said Stephen, more impetuously. `I t bear it. What is the use of inflig that misery ohe blow - whatever it may have been - has been struow. Will it help any one else that you should drive me mad?

    `I will not begin any future, even for you, said Maggie, tremulously, `with a deliberate sent to what ought not to have been. What I told you at Basset I feel now: - I would rather have died than fall into this temptation. It would have beeer if arted for ever then. But we must part now.

    `We will not part, Stephen burst out, instinctively plag his back against the door - fetting everything he had said a few moments before. `I will not e. You<dfn>.９9ｌｉｂ.</dfn>ll make me desperate - I shant know what I do.

    Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not be effected suddenly. She must rely on a sloeal to Stepheer self - she must be prepared for a harder task than that of rushing away while resolution was fresh. She sat down. Stephen, watg her with that look of desperation which had e over him like a lurid light, approached slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her and grasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a frightened bird; but this direct opposition helped her - she felt her determination growing stronger.

    `Remember what you felt weeks ago, she began, with beseeg earness - `remember what we both felt - that we owed ourselves to others, and must quer every ination which could make us false to that debt. We have failed to keep our resolutions - but the wrong remains the same.

    `No, it does not remain the same, said Stephen. `roved that it was impossible to keep our resolutions. roved that the feeling which draws us towards each other is to to be overe. That natural law surmounts every other, - we t help what it clashes with.

    `It is not so, Stephen - Im quite sure that is wrong. I have tried to think it again and again - but I see, if we judged in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty - we should justify breaking the most sacred ties that  ever be formed oh. If the past is not to bind us, where  duty lie? We should have no law but the ination of the moment.

    `But there are ties that t be kept by mere resolution, said Stephen, starting up and walking about again. `What is outward faithfulness? Would they have thanked us for anything so hollow as stancy without love?

    Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing an inward as well as an outward test. At last she said, with a passionate assertion of her vi as much against herself as against him,

    `That seems right - at first - but when I look further, Im sure it is nht. Faithfulness and stancy mean something else besides doing what is easiest and pleasao ourselves. They mean renoung whatever is opposed to the reliahers have in us - whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our lives has made depe on us. If we - if I had beeer, nobler - those claims would have been sly present with me, I should have felt them pressing on my heart so tinually, just as they do now in the moments when my sce is awake - that the opposite feeling would never have grown in me, as it has done - it would have been que once - I should have prayed for help so early - I should have rushed away, as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for myself - none - I should never have failed towards Lud Philip as I have done, if I had not been week and selfish and hard - able to think of their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all temptation. O, what is Lucy feeling now? - She believed in me - she loved me - she was so good to me - think of her...

    Maggies voice was getting choked as she uttered these last words.

    `I t think of her, said Stephen, stamping as if with pain. `I  think of nothing but you. Maggie, you demand of a man what is impossible. I felt that once - but I t go back to it now. And where is the use of your thinking of it, except to torture me? You t save them from pain now - you  only tear yourself from me, and make my life worthless to me. And even if we could go bad both fulfil agements - if that were possible now - it would be hateful - horrible to think of your ever being Philips wife - of your ever being the wife of a man you didnt love. We have both been rescued from a mistake.

    A deep flush came gies face, and she couldnt speak. Stephen saw this. He sat down again, taking her hand in his and looking at her with passioreaty.

    `Maggie! Dearest! If you love me, you are mine. Who  have so great a claim on you as I have? My life is bound up in your love. There is nothing in the past that  annul ht to each other - it is the first time we have either of us loved with our whole heart and soul.

    Maggie was still silent for a little while - looking down. Stephen was in a flutter of new hope - he was going to triumph. But she raised her eyes a his with a glahat was filled with the anguish ret - not with yielding.

    `No - not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen, she said, with timid resolution, `I have never seo it with my whole mind. There are memories, and affes, and longing after perfect goodness, that have such a strong hold ohey would never quit me for long - they would e bad be pain to me - repentance. I couldnt live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful siween myself and God. I have caused sorrow already - I know - I feel it - but I have never deliberately seo it - I have never said, &quot;They shall suffer, that I may have joy.&quot; It has never been my will to marry you - if you were to win sent from the momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not have my whole soul. If I could wake back again into the time before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my calmer affes and live without the joy of love.

    Stephen loosed her hand and, rising impatiently, walked up and down the room in suppres<u>.99lib.</u>sed rage.

    `Good God! he burst out, at last, `what a miserable thing a womans love is to a mans. I could it crimes for you - and you  baland choose in that way. But you dont love me - if you had a tithe of the feeling for me that I have for you, - it would be impossible to you to think for a moment of sacrifig me. But it weighs nothing with you that you are robbing me of my lifes happiness.

    Maggie pressed her fiogether almost vulsively as she held them clasped on her lap. A great terror on her - as if she were ever and anon seeing where she stood by great flashes of lightning, and then again stretched forth her hands in the darkness.

    `No - I dont sacrifice you - I couldnt sacrifice you, she said, as soon as she could speak again, `but I t believe in a good for you, that I feel - that we both feel is <var>99lib.</var>a wrong towards others. We t choose happiness either for ourselves or for another - we t tell where that will lie. We  only choose whether we will indulge ourselves in the present moment or whether we will renouhat for the sake of obeying the divine voice within us - for the sake of being true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know that belief is hard - it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have felt that if I let it go for ever, I should have no light through the darkness of this life.

    `But Maggie, said Stepheing himself by her again, `Is it possible you dohat what happened yesterday has altered the whole position of things? What infatuation is it - what obstinate prepossession that blinds you to that? It is too late to say what we might have done or what we ought to have done. Admitting the very worst view of what has been do is a fact we must a now - our position is altered - the right course is no longer what it was before. We must accept our own as and start afresh from them. Suppose we had been married yesterday? It is nearly the same thing. The effe others would not have been different. It would only have made this differeo ourselves - Stephen added bitterly, `that you might have aowledged then, that your tie to me was strohan to others.

    Again a deep flush came gies face, and she was silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning to prevail - he had never yet believed that he should not prevail: there are possibilities whiinds shrink from too pletely for us to fear them.

    `Dearest, he said, in his deepest, teone, leaning towards her and putting his arm round her, `you are mine now - the world believes it - duty must spring out of that now - in a few hours you will be legally mine. And those who had claims on us will submit - they will see that there was a force which declared against their claims. A kiss - dearest - it is so long since--

    Maggies eyes opened wide ierrified look at the face that was close to hers, and she started up - pale again.

    `O I t do it she said, in a voice almost of agony - `Stephen - dont ask me - dont urge me. - I t argue any longer - I dont know what is wise - but my heart will not let me do it. I see - I feel their trouble now: it is as if it were branded on my mind. - I have suffered and have no oo pity me - and now I have made others suffer. It would never leave me - it would embitter your love to me - I do care for Philip - in a different way - I remember all we said to each other - I know how he thought of me as the one promise of his life. He was given to me that I might make his lot less hard - and I have forsaken him. And Lucy - she has been deceived - she who trusted me more than any one. I arry you - I ot take a good for myself that has been wrung out of their misery. - It is not the force that ought to rule us - this that we feel for each other - it would rend me away from all that my past life has made dear and holy to me. I t set out on a fresh life, and fet that - I must go back to it, and g to it, - else I shall feel as if there were nothing firm beh my feet.

    `Good God, Maggie! said Stephen, rising too and grasping her arm, `You rave. How  you go back without marrying me? You dont know what will be said, dearest. You see nothing as it really is.

    `Yes, I do. But they will believe me - I will fess everything - Lucy will believe me - she will five you. And - and - O, some good will e by ging to the right. Dear - dear Stephen - let me go! - dont drag me into deeper remorse. My whole soul has never sented - it does not sent now.

    Stephe go her arm, and sank ba his chair, half stunned by despairing rage. He was silent a few moments, not looking at her - while her eyes were turowards him yearningly, in alarm at this sudden ge. At last he said, still without looking at her,

    `Go, then - leave me - dont torture me any longer - I t bear it.

    Involuntarily she leaowards him and put out her hand to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been burning iron, and said again,

    `Leave me.

    Maggie was not scious of a decision as she turned away from that gloomy averted face - and walked out of the room: it was like an automatic a that fulfils a fotten iion. What came after? A sense of stairs desded as if in a dream - of flagstones - of a chaise and horses standing - then a street, and a turning into aree<footer>99lib?</footer>t where a stage-coach was standing, taking in passengers - and the darting thought that that coach would take her aerhaps towards home. But she could ask nothi: she only got into the coach.

    Home - where her mother and brother were - Philip - Lucy - the se of her very cares and trials - was the haven towards which her mind tended - the sanctuary where sacred relics lay - where she would be rescued from more falling. The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing pain which yet, as such pains do, seemed te all other thoughts into activity. But amohoughts, what others would say and think of her duct was hardly present. Love and deep pity and remorseful anguish left no room for that.

    The coach was takio York - farther away from home, but she did not learn that until she was set down in the old city at midnight. It was no matter: she could sleep there, and start home the  day. She had her purse in her pocket, with all her money in it - a bank-note and a sn: she had kept it in her pocket from fetfulness, after going out to make purchases the day before yesterday.

    Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn that night with her will bent unwaveringly oh of pe sacrifice? - The great struggles of life are not so easy as that - the great problems of life are not so clear. - In the darkness of that night she saw Stephens face turowards her in passionate, reproachful misery - She lived through again all the tremulous delights of his preseh her that made existen easy floating in a stream of joy instead of a quiet resolved endurand effort: - the love she had renounced came back upon her with a cruel charm - she felt herself opening her arms to receive it once more and then it seemed to slip away and fade and vanish, leaving only the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice that said, `Gone - for ever gone.

 BOOK 7 CHAPTER 1

    The Return to the Mill

    BETWEEN four and five oclo the afternoon of the fifth <s></s>day from that on which Stephen and Maggie had left St Oggs, Tom Tulliver was standing on the gravel walk outside the old house at Dorlill. He was master there now: he had half fulfilled his fathers dying wish, and by years of steady self-gover and eic work he had brought himself o the attai of more than the old respectability which had been the proud iance of the Dodsons and Tullivers. But Toms face, as he stood i still sunshine of that summer afternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His mouth wore its bitterest expression, his severe brow its hardest and deepest fold, as he drew down his hat farther over his eyes to shelter them from the sun, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, began to walk up and down the gravel. No news of his sister had been heard since Bob Jakin had e ba the steamer from Mudport and put ao all improbable suppositions of an act oer by stating that he had seen her land from a vessel with Mr Stephe. Would the  news be that she was married - or robably that she was not married: Toms mind was set to the expectation of the worst that could happen - not death, but disgrace.

    As he was walking with his back towards the entrae, and his face towards the rushing mill-stream, a tall dark-eyed figure, that we know well, approached the gate, and paused to look at him, with a fast-beati. Her brother was the human being of whom she had been most afraid, from her childhood upwards - afraid with that fear which springs in us when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable - with a mind that we ever mould ourselves upon, ahat we ot eo alienate from us. That deep-rooted fear was shaking Maggie now: but her mind was unswervingly bent o<dfn>９９ｌｉｂ?</dfn>urning to her brother, as the natural refuge that had been given her. In her deep humiliation uhe retrospect of her own weakness - in her anguish at the injury she had inflicted - she almost desired to ehe severity of Toms reproof, to submit in patient sileo that harsh disapproving judgment against which she had so often rebelled: it seemed no more than just to her noas weaker than she was? She craved that outward help to her better purpose which would e from plete, submissive fession - from being in the presence of those whose looks and words would be a refle of her own sce.

    Maggie had bee on her bed at York for a day with that prostrating headache which was likely to follow oerrible strain of the previous day and night. There was an expression of physical pain still about her brow and eyes, and her whole appearance, with her dress so long unged, was worn and distressed. She lifted the latch of the gate and walked in - slowly. Tom did not hear the gate - he was just then close upon the r dam; but he presently turned, and lifting up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and loneliness seemed to him a firmation of his worst jectures. He paused - trembling and white with disgust and indignation.

    Maggie paused too - three yards before him. She felt the hatred in his face - felt it rushing through her fibres: but she must speak.

    `Tom-- she began, faintly, `I am e back to you - I am e bae - fe - to tell you everything -

    `You will find no home with me, he answered with tremule. `You have disgraced us all - you have disgraced my fathers name. You have been a curse to your best friends. You have been base - deceitful - no motives are strong enough to restrain you. I wash my hands of you for ever. You dont belong to me.

    Their mother had e to the door now. She stood paralysed by the double shock of seeing Maggie and hearing Toms words.

    `Tom, said Maggie, with more ce, `I am perhaps not so guilty as you believe me to be. I never meant to give way to my feelings. I struggled against them. I was carried too far in the boat to e ba Tuesday. I came back as soon as I could.

    `I t believe in you any more, said Tom, gradually passing from the tremulous excitement of the first moment to cold inflexibility. `You have been carrying on a destiion with Stephe - as you did before with another. He went to see you at my aunt Mosss; you walked aloh him in the lanes: you must have behaved as no modest girl would have doo her cousins lover, else <figure></figure>that could never have happehe people at Luckreth saw you pass - you passed all the other places: you knew what you were doing. You have been using Philip Wakem as a s to deceive Lucy - the ki friend you ever had. Go ahe return you have made her: shes ill - uo speak - my mother t go near her, lest she should remind her of you.

    Maggie was half stuoo heavily pressed upon by her anguish even to dis any differeween her actual guilt and her brothers accusations - still less to vindicate herself.

    `Tom, she said, crushing her hands together under her cloak, in the effort to speak again - `Whatever I have done - I repent it bitterly - I want to make amends - I will endure anything - I want to be kept from doing wrong again.

    `What will keep you? said Tom, with cruel bitterness. `Nion - not your natural feelings of gratitude and honour. And he - he would deserve to be shot, if it were not - But you are ten times worse than he is. I loathe your character and your duct. You struggled with your feelings, you say. Yes! I have had feelings tle with - but I quered them. I have had a harder life than you have had; but I have found my fort in doing my duty. But I will san no such character as yours: the world shall know that I feel the differeween right and wrong. If you are in want, I will provide for you - let my mother know. But you shall not e under my roof. It is enough that I have to bear the thought of your disgrace - the sight of you is hateful to me.

    Slowly Maggie was turning away, with despair in her heart. But the pohtened mothers move leaped out now, strohan all dread.

    `My child! Ill go with you. Youve got a mother.

    O the sweet rest of that embrace to the heart-stri Maggie! More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple human pity that will not forsake us.

    Tom turned and walked into the house.

    `e in, my child, Mrs Tulliver whispered. `Hell let you stay and sleep in my bed. He wohat, if I ask him.

    `No, mother, said Maggie, in a low tone, like a moan. `I will never go in.

    `Then wait for me outside. Ill get ready and e with you.

    When his mother appeared with her bo on, Tom came out to her in the passage, and put money into her hands.

    `My house is yours, mother, always, he said. `You will e a me know everything you want - you will e bae.

    Poor Mrs Tulliver took the mohteo say anything. She had only clear to her the mothers instinct, that she would go with her unhappy child.

    Maggie was waiting outside the gate; she took her mothers hand, and they walked a little way in silence.

    `Mother, said Maggie, at last, `we will go to Lukes cottage - Luke will take me in. He was very good to me when I was a little girl.

    `Hes got no room for us, my dear, now; his wifes got so many children. I dont know where to go, if it isnt to one o your aunts - and I hardly durst, said poor Mrs Tulliver, quite destitute of mental resources in this extremity.

    Maggie was silent a little while, and then said,

    `Let us go to<s>藏书网</s> Bob Jakins, mother: his wife will have room for us, if they have no other lodger.

    So they went on their way to St Oggs - to the old house by the river side.

    Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a two months old baby - quite the liveliest of its age that had ever been born to prince or pa. He would perhaps not so thhly have uood all the dubiousness of Maggies appearah Mr Stephe on the quay at Mudport, if he had not withe effect it produced on Tom, when he went to report it; and sihen, the circumstances whi any case gave a disastrous character to her elopement, had passed beyond the more polite circles of St Oggs and had beatter of on talk, accessible to the grooms and errand boys. So that when he opehe door and saw Maggie standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had no questions to ask: except one, which he dared only ask himself - where was Mr Stephe? Bob, for his part, hoped he might be in the warmest department of an asylum uood to exist iher world fentlemen who are likely to be in fallen circumstahere. The lodgings were vat, and both Mrs Jakin the larger and Mrs Jakin the less were ao make all thing fortable for `the old Missis and the young Miss - alas! that she was still `Miss. The ingenious Bob was sorely perplexed as to how this result could have e about - how Mr Stephe could have gone away from her, or could have let her go away from him when he had the ce of keeping her with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his wife to ask him a question; would not present himself in the room, lest it should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry; having the same chivalry towards dark-eyed Maggie, as in the days when he had bought her the memorable present of books.

    But after a day or two Mrs Tulliver was goo the Mill again for a few hours to see to Toms household matters. Maggie had wished this: after the first violent outburst of feeling which came as soon as she had no longer any active purpose to fulfil, she was less in need of her mothers presence; she even desired to be aloh her grief. But she had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-room that looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, and turning round her sad face as she said, `e in, she saw Bob enter with the baby in his arms, and Mumps at his heels.

    `Well go back, if it disturbs you, Miss, said Bob.

    `No, said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile.

    Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before her.

    `You see, weve got a little un, Miss, an I wanted you to look at it, an take it in your arms, if youd be so good. For we made free to  after you, an it ud be better for your takin a bit o noti it.

    Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive the tiny baby, while Mumps s it anxiously to ascertain that this transference was all right. Maggies heart had swelled at this a and speech of Bobs: she knew well enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy and respect.

    `Sit down, Bob, she said presently, a down in silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new fashion, refusing to say what he wa to say.

    `Bob, she said, after a few moments, looking down at the baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip from her mind and her fingers, `I have a favour to ask of you.

    `Dont you speak so, Miss, said Bob, grasping the skin of Mumpss neck, `if theres anything I  do for you, I should look upon it as a days earnings.

    `I want you to go to Dr Kenns, and ask to speak to him, and tell him that I am here, and should be very grateful if he would e to me while my mother is away. She will not e back till evening.

    `Eh, Miss - Id do it in a minute - it is but a step; but Dr Kenns wife lies dead - shes to be buried tomorrow - died the day I e from Mudport. Its all the more pity she should ha died just now, if you want him. I hardly like to go a-nigh him yet--

    `O, no, Bob, said Maggie, `we must let it be - till after a few days, perhaps - when you hear that he is going about again. But perhaps he may be going out of town - to a distance, she added, with a new sense of despondency at this idea.

    `Not he, Miss, said Bob. `Hell none go away. He isnt ohem gentlefolks as go to cry at waterin places when their wives die: hes got summat else to do. He looks fine an sharp after the parish - he does. He christehe little un; an he was at me to know what I did of a Sunday, as I didnt e to church. But I told him I o the travel three parts o the Sundays - An then Im so used to bein on my legs, I t sit so long on end - &quot;an lors, sir,&quot; says I, &quot;a pa  do wi a small lowance o church: it tastes strong,&quot; says I; &quot;theres no call to lay it on thick.&quot; Eh, Miss, how good the little un is wi you! Its like as if it knowed you: it partly does, Ill be bound - like the birds know the mornin.

    Bobs tongue was now evidently loosed from its unwonted bondage, and might even be in danger of doing more work than was required of it. But the subjects on which he loo be informed were so steep and difficult of approach that his tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to carry him on that uen road. He felt this, and was silent again for a little while, ruminating mu the possible forms in which he might put a question. At last he said, in a more timid voice than usual,

    `Will you give me leave to ask you only ohing, Miss?

    Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, `Yes, Bob, if it is about myself - not about any one else.

    `Well, Miss, its this: Do you owe anybody a grudge?

    `No, not any one, said Maggie, looking up at him inquiringly. `Why?

    `O lors, Miss, said Bob, ping Mumpss neck harder than ever, `I wish you did - an ud tell me - Id leather him till I couldnt see - I would - an the Justice might do what he liked to me arter.

    `O Bob, said Maggie, smiling faintly. `Youre a very good friend to me. But I shouldnt like to punish any one, even if theyd done me wrong - Ive done wrong myself too often.

    This view of things uzzling to Bob and threw more obscurity than ever over what could possibly have happened between Stephen and Maggie. But further questions would have been too intrusive, even if he could have framed them suitably, and he was obliged to carry baby away again to an expet mother.

    `Happen youd like Mumps for pany, Miss, he said, when he had taken the baby again. `Hes rare pany - Mumps is - he knows iverything, an makes no bother about it. If I tell him, hell lie before you an watch you - as still - just as he watches my pack. Youd better let me leave him a bit - hell get fond on you. Lor<tt>.99lib.t>s, its a fihing to hev a dumb brute fond on you; itll stick to you, an make no jaw.

    `Yes, do leave him, please, said Maggie. `I think I should like to have Mumps for a friend.

    `Mumps, lie down there, said Bob, pointing to a pla front of Maggie, `an niver do you stir till youre spoke to.

    Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness, when his master left the room.

 CHAPTER 2

    St Oggs Passes Judgment

    IT was soon known throughout St Oggs that Miss Tulliver was e back: she had not, then, eloped in order to be married to Mr Stephe - at all events, Mr Stephe had not married her - which came to the same thing, so far as her culpability was ed. We judge others acc to results; how else? - not knowing the process by which results are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few months of well-chosen travel, had returned as Mrs Stephe - with a post-marital trousseau and all the advantages possessed even by the most unwele wife of an only son, public opinion, which at St Oggs, as elsewhe<q>99liｂ?</q>re, always knew what to think, would have judged in strict sistency with those results. Public opinion, in these cases, is always of the feminine gender - not the world, but the worlds wife: and she would have seen, that two handsome young people - the gentleman of quite the first family in St Oggs - having found themselves in a false position, had been led into a course, which, to say the least of it, was highly injudicious, and productive of sad pain and disappoi, especially to that sweet young thing, Miss Deane. Mr Stephe had certainly not behaved well; but then, young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attats - and bad as it might seem in Mrs Stepheo admit the fai advances from her cousins lover (i had been said that she was actually eo young Wakem - old Wakem himself had mentio) still she was very young - `and a deformed young man, you know! - and young Guest so very fasating, and, they say, he positively worshipped her (to be sure, that t last!) and he ran away with her in the boat quite against her will - and what could she do? She couldnt e back then: no one would have spoken to her. And how very well that maize-coloured satie bees her plexion - it seems as if the folds in front were quite e in - several of her dresses are made so - they say, he thinks nothing too handsome to buy for her. Poor Miss Deane! She is very pitiable - but then, there was no positive e - and the air at the coast will dood. After all, if young Guest felt no more for her than that, it was better for her not to marry him. What a wonderful marriage firl like Miss Tulliver - quite romantic! Why - young Guest will put up for the bh at the  ele. Nothing like erowadays! That young Wakem nearly went out of his mind - he always was rather queer; but hes gone abroad again to be out of the way - quite the best thing for a deformed young man. Miss Unit declares she will never visit Mr and Mrs Stephe - suonsense! pretending to be better than other people. Society couldnt be carried on if we inquired into private du that way - and Christianity tells us to think no evil - and my belief is, that Miss Unit had no cards sent her. But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant this extenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without a trousseau, without a husband - in that degraded and outcast dition to which error is well known to lead; and the worlds wife, with that fine instinct which is given her for the preservation of society, saw at ohat Miss Tullivers duct had been of the most aggravated kind. Could anything be more detestable? - A girl so mudebted to her friends - whose mother as well as herself had received so much kindness from the Deanes - to lay the design of winning a young mans affes away from her own cousin who had behaved like a sister to her? Winning his affes? That was not the phrase for such a girl as Miss Tulliver: it would have been more correct to say that she had been actuated by mere unwomanly boldness and unbridled passion. There was always something questionable about her. That e with young Wakem, which, they said, had been carried on for years, looked very ill: disgusting, in fact! But with a girl o<s>9９lib?</s>f that disposition! - to the worlds wife there had always been something in Miss Tullivers very physique that a refined instinct felt to be prophetic of harm. As for poor Mr Stephe, he was rather pitiable than otherwise: a young man of five and twenty is not to be too severely judged in these cases - he is really very much at the mercy of a designing bold girl. And it was clear that he had given way in spite of himself - he had shaken her off as soon as he could: iheir having parted so soon looked very bladeed - for her. To be sure he had written a letter, laying all the blame on himself, and telling the story in a romantic fashion so as to try and make her appear quite i: of course he could do that! But the refined instinct of the worlds wife was not to be deceived: providentially! - else what would bee of society? Why - her own brother had turned her from his door - he had seen enough, you might be sure, before he would do that. A truly respectable young man - Mr Tom Tulliver - quite likely to rise in the world! His sisters disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to him. It was to be hoped that she would go out of the neighbourhood - to America, or anywhere - so as to purify the air of St Oggs from the taint of her presence - extremely dangerous to daughters there! No good could happen to her: - it was only to be hoped she would repent, and that God would have mer her: He had not the care of society on His hands as the worlds wife had.

    It required nearly a fht for fine instinct to assure itself of these inspirations; i was a whole week before Stepheer came, telling his father the facts and adding that: he was gone across to Holland - had drawn upon the agent at Mudport for money - was incapable of any resolution at present.

    Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a monising ay, to spend any thought on the view that was being taken of her duct by the world of St Oggs: ay about Stephen - Lucy - Philip - beat on her poor heart in a hard, driving, ceaseless storm of mingled love, remorse, and pity. If she had thought of reje and injustice at all, it would have seemed to her that they had doheir worst - that she could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerable sihe words she had heard from her brothers lips. Across all her ay for the loved and the ihose words shot again and again, like a horrible pang that would have brought misery and dread even into a heaven of delights. The idea of ever rec happiness never glimmered in her mind for a moment; it seemed as if every sensitive fibre in her were too entirely preoccupied by paio vibrate again to another influence. Life stretched before her as o of penitence, and all she craved as she dwelt on her future lot, was something to guarantee her from more falling: her own weakness haunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities that made no peace ceivable except such as lay in the sense of a sure refuge.

    But she was not without practical iions: the love of independence was to an iand a habit for her not to remember that she must get her bread and when other projects looked vague, she fell ba that of returning to her plain sewing, and so getting enough to pay for her lodging at Bobs. She meant to persuade her mother to return to the Mill by and by, and live with Tom again; an<dfn>九九藏书</dfn>d somehow or other she would maintain herself at St Oggs. Dr Kenn would perhaps help her and advise her: she remembered his parting words at the bazaar, she remembered the momentary feeling of reliahat had sprung in her when he was talking with her, and she waited with yearning expectation for the opportunity of fiding everything to him. Her mother called every day at Mr Deao learn how Lucy was: the report was always sad - nothing had yet roused her from the feeble passivity which had e on with the first shock. But of Philip, Mrs Tulliver had learned nothing: naturally, no one whom she met would speak to her about what related to her daughter. But at last, she summoned ce to go and see sister Glegg, who of course would know everything, and had eveo see Tom at the Mill in Mrs Tullivers absehough he had said nothing of what had passed on the occasion.

    As soon as her mother was gone, Maggie put on her bo. She had resolved on walking to the Rectory and asking to see Dr Kenn: he was in deep grief - but the grief of another does not jar upon us in such circumstances. It was the first time she had been beyond the door since her returheless her mind was so bent on the purpose of her walk, that the unpleasantness of meeting people on the way and being stared at, did not occur to her. But she had no soon<kbd>9９ｌｉb.</kbd>er passed beyond the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bobs dwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her; and this sciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid to look tht or left. Presently, however, she came full on Mrs and Miss Turnbull, old acquaintances of her family; they both looked at her strangely and turned a little aside without speaking. All hard looks were pain to Maggie, but her self-reproach was to for rese: no wohey will not speak to me, she thought - they are very fond of Lucy. But now she khat she was about to pass a group of gentlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiard-rooms, and she could not help seeing young Torry step out a little with his glass at his eye, and bow to her with that air of nonchalance which he might have bestowed on a friendly bar-maid. Maggies pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting even in the midst of her sorrow; and for the first time the thought took strong hold of her that she would have other obloquy cast on her besides that which was felt to be due to her breach of faith towards Lucy. But she was at the Rectory now; there, perhaps, she would find something else thaributioribution may e from any voice - the hardest, cruelest, most imbruted ur at the street-er  inflict it: surely help and pity are rarer things - more needful for the righteous to bestow.

    She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr Kenns study, where he sat amongst piled-up books, for which he had little appetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his you child, a girl of three. The child was sent away with the servant and when the door was closed, Dr Kenn said, plag a chair fgie,

    `I was ing to see you, Miss Tulliver - you have anticipated me - I am glad you did.

    Maggie looked at him with her childlike direess as she had do the bazaar, and said, `I want to tell you everything.  But her eyes filled fast with tears as she said it, and all the pent-up excitement of her humiliating walk would have its vent before she could say more.

    `Do tell me everything, Dr Kenn said, with quiet kindness in his grave firm voice. `Think of me as oo whom a long experience has been granted, which may enable him to help you.

    In rather brokeences - with some effort, at first, but soon with the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in the fidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that must be the beginning of a long sorrow. Only the day before, Dr Kenn had been made acquainted with the tents of Stepheer, and he had believed them at once, without the firmation of Maggies statement. That involuntary plaint of hers `O I must go, had remained with him as the sign that she was undergoing some inward flict.

    Maggie dwelt the lo on the feeling which had made her e back to her mother and brother, which made her g to all the memories of the past. When she had ended, Dr Kenn was silent for some mihere was a difficulty on his mind. He rose and walked up and down the hearth with his hands behind him. At last, he seated himself again, and said, looking at Maggie,

    `Your prompting to go to your  friends - to remain where all the ties of your life have been formed - is a true prompting, to which the Chur its inal stitution and discipline responds - opening its arms to the pe - watg over its children to the last - never abandoning them until they are hopelessly reprobate. And the Church ought to represent the feeling of the unity, so that every parish should be a family knit together by Christian brotherhood under a spiritual father. But the ideas of discipline and Christian fraternity are entirely relaxed - they  hardly be said to exist in the publid: <a>九九藏书</a>they hardly survive except in the partial, tradictory form they have taken in the narrow unities of schismatics; and if I were not supported by the firm faith that the Church must ultimately recover the full force of that stitution which is aloted to human needs, I should often lose heart at  the want of fellowship and sense of mutual responsibility among my own flock. At present everything seems tending towards the relaxation of ties - towards the substitution of wayward choice for the adhereo obligation which has its roots in the past. Your sd your heart have given you true light on this point, Miss Tulliver; and I have said all this that you may know what my wish about you - what my advice to you - would be if they sprang from my own feeling and opinion unmodified by terag circumstances.

    Dr Kenn paused a little while. There was aire absence of effusive benevolen his mahere was something almost cold in the gravity of his look and voice. If Maggie had not known that his benevolence ersevering in proportion to its reserve, she might have been chilled and frightened. As it was, she listened expetly, quite sure that there would be some effective help in his words. He went on.

    `Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you from anticipating fully, the very unjust ceptions that will probably be formed ing your duct - ceptions which will have a baneful effect even in spite of known evideo disprove them.

    `O, I do - I begin to see, said Maggie, uo repress this utterance of her ret pain. `I know I shall be insulted - I shall be thought worse than I am.

    `You perhaps do not yet know, said Dr Kenn, with a touore personal pity, `that a letter is e which ought to satisfy every one who has known anything of you, that you chose the steep and difficult path of a return to the right at the moment when that return was most of all difficult.

    `Oh - where is he? said pgie, with a flush and tremor, that no presence could have hindered.

    `He is gone abroad; he has written of all that passed to his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost; and I hope the unication of that letter to your cousin will have a beneficial effe her.

    Dr Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he went on.

    `That letter, as I said, ought to suffice you to prevent false impressions ing you. But I am bound to tell you, Miss Tulliver, that not only the experieny whole life, but my observation within the last three days, makes me fear that there is hardly any evidence which will save you from the painful effect of false imputations. The persons who are the most incapable of a stious struggle such as yours, are precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you on the ground of an unjust judgment; because they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life here will be attended not only with much pain, but with many obstrus. For this reason - and for this only - I ask you to sider whether it will not perhaps be better for you to take a situation at a distance, acc to your former iion. I will exert myself at oo obtain one for you.

    `O, if I could but stop here! said Maggie. `I have  to begin a strange life again. I should have no stay. I should feel like a lonely wanderer - cut off from the past. I have written to the lady who offered me a situation to excuse myself. If I remained here, I could perhaps atone in some way to Lucy - to others - I could vihem that Im sorry. And, she added, with some of the old proud fire flashing out, `I will not go away because people say false things of me. They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at last, because - because others wish it, I will not go now.

    `Well, said Dr Kenn, after some sideration, `if you determine on that, Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the influence my position gives me. I am bound to aid and tenance you, by the very duties of my office as a parish priest. I will add, that personally I have a deep i in your peaind and welfare.

    `The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable me to get my bread and be indepe, said Maggie. `I shall not want much. I  go on lodging where I am.

    `I must think over the subject maturely, said Dr Kenn, `And in a few days I shall be better able to ascertain the general feeling. I shall e to see you: I shall bear you stantly in mind.

    When Maggie had left him, Dr Kenn stood ruminating with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the carpet, under a painful sense of doubt and difficulty. The tone of Stepheer, which he had read, and the actual relations of all the persons ed, forced upon him powerfully the idea of an ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggie as the least evil; and the impossibility of their proximity in St Oggs on any other supposition, until after years of separation, threw an insurmountable prospective difficulty gies stay here. Oher hand, he entered with all the prehension of a man who had known spiritual flid lived through years of devoted service to his fellow-men, into that state of Maggies heart and sce which made this sent to the marriage a desecration to her: her sce must not be tampered with: the principle on which she had acted was a safer guide than any balang of sequences. His experieold him that intervention was too dubious a responsibility to be lightly incurred: the possible issue either of an endeavour to restore the former relations with Lud Philip, or of selling submission to this irruption of a new feeling was hidden in a darkness all the more imperable because each immediate step was clogged with evil.

    The great problem of the shiftiioween passion and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending it: the question, whether the moment has e in which a man has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for which we have no master key that will fit all cases. The casuists have bee a by-word of reproach; but their perverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth to which eyes as are too often fatally sealed: the truth, that moral judgments must remain false and hollow, uhey are checked and enlightened by a perpetual refereo the special circumstahat mark the individual lot.

    All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugo the men of maxims; because such people early dis that the mysterious plexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, and that to lace ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress all the divine promptings and inspirations that spring from growing insight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popular representative of the minds that are guided in their moral judgment solely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justice by a ready-made patehod, without the trouble of exerting patience, discrimination, impartiality, without any care to assure themselves whether they have the insight that es from a hardly-earimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human.

 CHAPTER 3

    Showing that Old Acquaintances Are Capable of Surprising Us

    WHEN Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her news of an ued line of du<cite>9９lib.</cite> 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 drowhat was far more probable than that her nied legatee should have done anything to wound the family honour ie point. When, at last, she learned from Tom that Maggie had e 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 pelled. 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 du 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 Maggies 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 friend to help to rob the girl of her fair fame, and to cast her out from family shelter to the s of the outer world, until she had bee unequivocally a family disgrace. The circumstances were unpreted in Mrs Gleggs 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 on el along with her fual ideas of ship, as they did in her lifelard to equity in money matters. She quarrelled with Mr Glegg, whose kindness, flowiirely into passion 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 one to her for advid help, shut herself up in her own room with Baxters Saints Rest from m till night, denying herself to all visitors, till Mr Glegg brought from Mr Deahe news of Stepheer. Then Mrs Glegg felt that she had adequate fighting-ground - then she laid aside Baxter and was ready to meet all ers. 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 e Oggs again, because `acquaintances knew of it all, Mrs Glegg only hoped that Mrs Wooll or any one else would e to<abbr>99lib?</abbr> 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 se of remonstrah Tom, all the more severe, in proportion to the greater strength of her present position. But Tom, like other immovable things, seemed only the midly fixed uhat attempt to shake him. Poor Tom! he judged by what he had been able to see: and the judgment ainful enough to himself. He thought he had the demonstration of facts observed through years by his own eyes which gave n of their imperfe, that Maggies nature was utterly untrustworthy and toly marked with evil tendeo be safely treated with leniency: he would a 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, a a slight deposit of polish. If you are ined 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 towards Maggie that derived its very iy from their early childish love iime when they had clasped tiny fiogether, and their later sense of nearness in a on duty and a on 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 ship in 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 duct 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 baaggie, `as I didnt go to her before - she said it wasnt for her to e to me first. But she spoke like a sister, too: having she allays was, and hard to please - O dear! - but shes said the ki word as ever been spoke by you yet, my child. For she says, for all shes been so set again having ory<u></u> in the house, and makiry spoons and things, and putting her about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, if youll go to her dutiful, and shell uphold you again folks as say harm of you when theyve no call. And I told her I thought you couldo see nobody but me - you was so beat down with trouble; but she said - &quot;I wont throw ill words at her - theres them out o th family ull be ready enough to do that. But Ill give her good advice - an she must be humble.&quot; Its wonderful o Jane - for Im 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.

    `O mother, said pgie, shrinking from the thought of all the tact her bruised mind would have to bear. `Tell her Im very grateful - Ill go to see her as soon as I ; but I t see any one just yet, except Dr Kenn. Ive been to him - he will advise me and help me to get some occupation. I t live with any one, or be depe oell aunt Glegg; I must get my own bread. But did you hear nothing to Philip - Philip Wakem? Have you never seen any ohat has mentioned him?

    `No, my dear: but Ive been to Lucys, and I saw your uncle, and he says, they got her to listen to the letter, and she took notiiss Guest, and asked questions, and the doctor thinks shes ourn to be better. What a world this is - what trouble, O dear! The law was the first beginning, an its gone from bad to worse all of a sudden, just when the luck seemed ourn. 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 pun, and throwing her arms round her mothers neck, `I was always naughty and troublesome to you. And now you might have been happy, if it hadnt been for me.

    `Eh, my dear, said Mrs Tulliver, leaning towards 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 - theres nothing else much to be fond on, for my furnitur went long ago. And youd got to be very good once - I t think how its turned out the wrong way so!

    Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard nothing of Philip: ay about him was being her predominant trouble, and she summoned ce at last to inquire about him of Dr Kenn, on his  visit to her. He did not even know if Philip was at home: the elder Wakem was made moody by an accumulation of annoyahe disappoi in this young <bdo>99lib?</bdo>Jetsome, to whom apparently he was a good deal attached, had been followed close by the catastrophe to his sons hopes after he had ceded his feelings to them, and incautiously mentiohis cession in St Oggs; and he was almost fier 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 robable that he was go of the town for a little while. Maggie sied uhis suspense, and her imagination began to live more and more persistently in hilip was enduring. What did he believe about her?

    At last, Bht her a letter without a postmark - directed in a hand which she knew familiarly iters 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 vinced 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 - e and jealousy, my mind made its way to belief 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 Lucys sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that was not fatal for you, and that dread shut out the very thought nation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, and I believed then, as I believe now, that the strong attra which drew you together proceeded only from one side of your characters, and beloo that partial, divided a 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 tinually felt the want of in his. But perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the se over which his soul has brooded with love; he would tremble to see it fided 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 m - I was filled with selfish passion; I was shattered by a night of scious delirium. I told you long ago that I had never been resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers: how could I be resigo the loss of the ohing which had ever e to me oh with the promise of such deep joy as would give a new and blessed meaning to the foing pain, - the promise of another self that would lift my ag affe 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 . 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  be disembodied of selfish desire - my love for you sufficed to wi<figure></figure>thhold me from suicide, without the aid of any other motive. In the midst of my egoism, I yet could not bear to e 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 art 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 at 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 reciles me to life. You have been to my affes what light, what colour is to my eyes - what music it to the inward ear: you have raised a dim u into a vivid sciousness. The new life I have found in g 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 suplete 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-sciousness. I even think sometimes that this gift of transferred life which has e 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  measure your sacrifice by what I have known in only one half-hour of your preseh me when I dreamed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, I have no just claim on you for more than affeate 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 inal error. But you will not misstrue 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 one where my mind must live, wherever I might travel. And remember that I am ungeably yours: yours - not with selfish wishes - but with a devotion that excludes such wishes.

    God fort you, - my loving, large-souled Maggie. If every one else had misceived you - remember that you have never been doubted by him whose heart reised 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 overp heat ines me to be perfectly quiest in the daytime. I am strong enough to obey any word which shall tell me that I  serve you by word or deed.

    Yours, to the last,

    PHILIP WAKEM

    As Maggie k 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 fet their pain?

 CHAPTER 4

    Maggie and Lucy

    BY the end of the week Dr Kenn had made up his mind that there was only one way in which he could secure Maggie a suitable living at St Oggs. Even with his twenty years experience as a parish priest, he was aghast at the obstinate tinuanputations against her in the face of evidence. Hitherto he had been rather more adored and appealed to than was quite agreeable to him; but now, in attempting to open the ears of women to reason and their sces to justi behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as powerless as he was aware he would have been if he had attempted to influehe shape of bos. Dr Kenn could not be tradicted: he was listeo in silence; but when he left the room, a parison of opinions among his hearers yielded mu<abbr></abbr>ch the same result as before. Miss Tulliver had undeniably acted in a blamable manner: even Dr Kenn did not deny that: how then could he think so lightly of her as to put that favourable interpretation ohing she had done? Even on the supposition that required the utmost stretch of belief - namely, that none of the things said about Miss Tulliver were true; still, sihey had been said about her, they had cast an odour around her which must cause her to be shrunk from by every woman who had to take care of her owation - and of society. To have taken Maggie by the hand and said, `I will not believe unproved evil of you: my lips shall not utter it; my ears shall be closed against it. I, too, am an erring mortal, liable to stumble, apt to e short of my most ear efforts. Your lot has been harder than mine, your temptatioer. Let us help each other to stand and walk without more falling - to have dohis would have demanded ce, deep pity, self-knowledge, generous trust - would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquan evil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in ning, that cheated itself with ne words into the belief that life  have any moral end, any high religion, which excludes the striving after perfect truth, justice, and love towards the individual men and women who e across our own path. The ladies of St Oggs were not beguiled by any wide speculative ceptions; but they had their favourite abstra, called society, which served to make their sces perfectly easy in doing what satisfied their own egoism - thinking and speaking the worst of Maggie Tulliver and turning their backs upon her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr Kenn, after two years of superfluous inse from his feminine parishioners, to find them suddenly maintaining their views in opposition to his; but then, they maintaihem in opposition to a higher authority, which they had veed lohat authority had furnished a very explicit ao persons who might inquire where their social duties began, and might be ined to take wide views as to the starting-point. The answer had not turned oimate good of society, but on `a certain man who was found in trouble by the wayside. Not that St Oggs was empty of women with some tenderness of heart and sce: probably it had as fair a proportion of human goodness in it as any o<figure>九九藏书</figure>ther small trading town of that day. But until every good man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid: too timid even to believe in the correess of their ow promptings, when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St Oggs were not all brave, by any means: some of them were even fond of sdal - and to aent that might have given their versation an effeminate character, if it had not been distinguished by mase jokes and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutual hatred of women. It was the general feeling of the mase mind at St Oggs that women were not to be interfered with ireatment of each other.

    And so, every dire in which Dr Kenn had turned in the hope of pr some kind nition and some employment fgie, proved a disappoio him. Mrs James Torry could not think of taking Maggie as a nursery governess, even temporarily - a young woman about whom `such things had been said, and about whom `gentlemen joked; and Miss Kirke who had a spinal plaint and wanted a reader and panio quite sure that Maggies mind must be of a quality with which she, for her part, could not risk any tact. Why did not Miss Tulliver accept the shelter offered her by her aunt Glegg? - it did not bee a girl like her to refuse it. Or else, why did she not go out of the neighbourhood, a a situation where she was not known? (It was not apparently of so much importahat she should carry her dangerous tendencies inte families unknown at St Oggs.) She must be very bold and hardeo wish to stay in a parish where she was so much stared at and whispered about.

    Dr Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the presence of this opposition, as every firm man would have doo tract a certain streng<big></big>th of determination over and above what would have been called forth by the end in view. He himself wanted a daily governess for his younger children; and though he had hesitated in the first instao offer this position to Maggie, the resolution to protest with the utmost force of his personal and priestly character against her being crushed and driven away by slander, was now decisive. Maggie gratefully accepted an employment that gave her high duties as well as a support: her days would be filled now, and solitary evenings would be a wele rest. She no longer he sacrifice her mother made in staying with her, and Mrs Tulliver ersuaded to go back to the Mill.

    But now it began to be dised that Dr Kenn, exemplary as he had hitherto appeared, had his crotchets, - possibly his weakhe mase mind of St Oggs smiled pleasantly, and did not wohat Kenn liked to see a fine pair of eyes daily, or that he was ined to take so le a view of the past: the feminine mind, regarded at that period as less powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case. If Dr Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver! It was not safe to be too fident even about the best of men: an apostle had fallen - a bitterly afterwards; and though Peters denial was not a close pret, his repentance was likely to be.

    Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for more than three weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time or other being the Rectors wife had been talked of so often in fidehat ladies were beginning to discuss how they should behave to her in that position. For Dr Kenn, it had been uood, had sat in the schoolroom half and hour one m when Miss Tulliver was giving her lessons; nay, he had sat there every m: he had once walked home with her - he almost always walked home with her - and if not, he went to see her in the evening. What an artful creature she was! What a mother for those children! It was enough to make poor Mrs Kenn turn in her grave, that they should be put uhe care of this girl only a few weeks after her death. Would he be so lost to propriety as to marry her before the year was out? The mase mind was sarcastid thought not.

    The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of witnessing a folly in their rector: at least, their brother would be safe; and their knowledge of Stephens tenacity was a stant ground of alarm to them, lest he should e bad marry Maggie. They were not among those who disbelieved their brothers letter; but they had no fiden Maggies adhereo her renunciation of him; they suspected that she had shrunk rather from the elopement than from the marriage, and that she lingered in St Oggs, relying on his return to her. They had always thought her disagreeable: they now thought her artful and proud; having quite as good grounds for that judgment as you and I probably have for many strong opinions of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether delighted in the plated match with Lucy, but now their dread of a marriage between Stephen and Maggie added its momentum to their gey and indignation on behalf of the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that he should return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home she was to seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by going to the coast with the Miss Guests; and it was in their plans that Stephen should be io join them. On the very first hint of gossip ing Maggie and Dr Kenn, the report was veyed in Miss Guests letter to her brother.

    Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt Glegg, or Dr Kenn, of Lucys gradual progress towards recovery, ahoughts tended tinually towards her uncle Deanes house: she hungered for an interview with Lucy if it were only for five minutes - to utter a word of peniteo be assured by Lucys own eyes and lips that she did not believe in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved and trusted. But she khat, even if her uncles indignation had not closed his house against her, the agitation of su interview would have been forbidden to Lucy. Only to have seen her without speaking, would have been some relief; fgie was haunted by a face cruel in its very gentleness: a face that had been turned on hers with glad sweet looks of trust and love from the twilight time of memory: ged now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke; and as the days passed on, that pale image became more and more distinct - the picture grew and grew into more speaking definiteness uhe avenging hand of remorse; the soft hazel eyes in their look of pain, were bent for ever on Maggie and pierced her the more because she could 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 that departed, when the news was told her by aunt Glegg, that Lucy was really going away in a few days to Scarbh with the Miss Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their brother to meet them there.

    Only those who have known what hardest inward flict is  know what Maggie felt as she sat in her lonelihe evening after hearing that news frlegg - only those who have known what it is to dread their own selfish desires as the watg mother would dread the sleeping-potion that was to still her own pain.

    She sat without dle iwilight with the window wide open towards the river; the sense of oppressive heat adding itself undistinguishably to the burthen of her lot. Seated on a chair against the window, with her arm on the window-sill, she was looking blankly at the flowing river, swift with the advang tide, - struggling to see still the sweet fa its unreproag sadness, that seemed now from moment to moment to sink away and be hidden behind a form that thrust itself between and made darkness. Hearing the door open, she thought Mrs Jakin was ing in with her supper, as usual; and with that repugo trivial speech whies with languor and wretess, she shrank from turning round and saying she wanted nothing: good little Mrs Jakin would be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But the  moment, without her having dised the sound of a footstep, she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice close to her saying, `Maggie!

    The face was there - ged, but all the sweeter: the hazel eyes were there, with their heart-pierg tenderness.

    `Maggie! the soft voice said. `Lucy! answered a voice with a sharp ring of anguish in it.

    And Lucy threw her arms round Maggies ned leaned he pale cheek against the burning brow.

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

    I was easier to say that at first than to say anything else. They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview must end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. Each felt that there would be something scorg in the words that would recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, as Maggie looked, every distinct thought began to be overflowed by a wave of loviend words burst forth with a sob.

    `God bless you for ing, Lucy.

    The sobs came thi each other after that.

    `Maggie, dear, be forted, said Luow, putting her cheek against Maggies again. `Dont grieve. And she sat still, hoping to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress.

    `I dido deceive you, Lucy, said Maggie, as soon as she could speak. `It always made me wretched that I felt what I didnt like you to know... It was because I thought it would all be quered, 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 e on us all: - you have more to bear than I have - and you gave him up, when - You did what it must have been very hard to do.

    They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped hands, and cheeks leao<a>九九藏书</a>gether.

    `Lucy, Maggie begain again, `he struggled too. He wao be true to you. He will e back to you. Five him - he will be happy then...

    These words were wrung forth from Maggies deepest soul with an effort like the vulsed clutch of a drowning man. Lucy trembled and was silent.

    A gentle knock came at<mark>.99lib.</mark> the door. It was Alice, the maid, who entered and said,

    `I darednt stay any longer, Miss Deaheyll find it out, and therell be suger at your ing out so late.

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

    `Im to go away on Friday, Maggie, she added, when Alice had closed the dain. `When I e bad am strong, they will let me do as I like. I shall e to you when I please then.

    `Lucy, said Maggie, with anreat effort, `I pray to God tinually 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 up into the face that was bent over hers. Luever fot that look.

    `Maggie, she said in a low voice, that had the solemnity of fession in it, `you are better than I am. I t...

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

 CHAPTER 5

    The Last flict

    IN the sed week of September, Maggie was again sitting in her lonely room, battling with the old shadowy ehat were for ever slain and rising again. It ast midnight, and the rain was beating heavily against the window, driven with fitful force by the rushing, loud-moaning wind. For, the day after Lucys visit there had been a sudden ge in the weather: the heat and drought had given way to cold variable winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals; and she had been forbidden to risk the plated journey until the weather should beore settled. In the ties higher up the Floss, the rains had been tinuous, and the pletion of the harvest had been arrested. And now, for the last two days, the rains on this lower course of the river had been incessant, so that the old men had shaken their heads and talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort of weather happening about the equinox, brought on the great floods, which swept the bridge away, and reduced the town to great misery. But the younger geion, who had seen several small floods, thought lightly of these sombre recolles and forebodings, and Bob Jakin, naturally proo take a hopeful view of his own luck, laughed at his mother when she regretted their having taken a house by the river-side;  that but for that they would have had no boats, which were the most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged them to go to a distance for food. But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their beds now. 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 at the very worst, the banks would be sure to break lower down the river wheide came in with violend so the waters would be carried off, without causing more than temporary invenience, and losses that would be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity would relieve.

    All were in their beds now, for it ast midnight: all except some solitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seated in her little parlour towards the river with one dle, that left everything dim in the room, except a letter which lay before her oable. That letter, which had e to her today, was one of the causes that had kept her up far on into the night - unscious how the hours were going - careless of seeki - with no image of rest ing across her mind, except of that far, far off rest, from which there would be no more waking for her into this strugglihly life.

    Two days before Maggie received that letter she had been to the Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have prevented her from going since; but there was another reason. Dr Kenn, at firs<details>９9lｉｂ?</details>t enlightened only by a few hints as to the urn which gossip and slander had taken iion to Maggie, had retly been made more fully aware of it by an ear remonstrance from one of his male parishiainst the indiscretion of persisting iempt to overe the prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of resistance. Dr Kenn, having a sce void of offen the matter, was still ined to persevere - was still averse to give way before a publitiment that was odious and ptible; but he was finally wrought upon by the sideration of the peculiar responsibility attached to his office, of avoiding the appearance of evil - and that `appearance is always depe on the average quality of surrounding minds. Where these minds are low and gross, the area of that `appearance is proportionately widened. Perhaps he was in danger of ag from obstinacy; perhaps it was his duty to succumb: stious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course; and to recede was alainful to Dr Kenn. He made up his mind that he must advise Maggie to go away from St Oggs for a time; and he performed that difficult task with as much delicacy as he could, only stating in vague terms that he found his attempt to tenance her stay was a source of discord between himself and his parishioners, that was likely to obstruct his usefulness as a clergyman. He begged her to allow him to write to a clerical friend of his, who might possibly take her into his own family, as governess; and, if not, would probably know of some other available position for a young woman in whose welfare Dr Ke a strong i.

    Pgie listened with a trembling lip: she could say nothing but a faint `thank you - I shall be grateful; and she walked back to her lodgings, through the driving rain, with a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wanderer; she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at her wly, because the days did not seem joyful to her; she must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse herself to receive new impressions - and she was so unspeakably, siingly weary! There was no home, no help for the erring - even those who pitied, were straio hardness. But ought she to plain? Ought she to shrink in this way from the long penance of life, which was all the possibility she had of lightening the load to some other sufferers, and so ging that passionate error into a new force of unselfish human love? All the  day she sat in her lonely room with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, thinking of that future and wrestling for patience: - for what repose could pgie ever win except by wrestling?

    And ohird day - this day of which she had just sat out the close - the letter had e which was lying oable before her.

    The letter was from Stephen. He was e back from Holland: he was at Mudpain, unknown to any of his friends; and had written to her from that place, enclosing the letter to a person whom he trusted in St Oggs. From beginning to end, it assionate cry of reproach: an appeal against her useless sacrifice of him - of herself: against that perverted notion ht 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 overp passion, that worship, which a man never gives to a woman more than on his life.

    `They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As if I should believe that! Perhaps they have told you some such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I have been &quot;travelling.&quot; My body has been dragged about somewhere; but I have ravelled from the hideous place where you left me - where I started up from the stupor of helpless rage to find you gone.

    `Maggie! whose pain  have been like mine? Whose injury is like mine? Who besides me has met that long look of love that has burnt itself into my soul, so that no other image  e there? Maggie, call me back to you! - call me back to life and goodness! I am banished from both now. I have no motives: I am indifferent to everything. Two months have only deepehe certainty that I ever care for life without you. Write me one word - say, &quot;e!&quot; In two days I should be with you. Maggie - have you fotten what it was to be together? - to be within reach of a look - to be within hearing of each others voice?

    When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the chill dark caverurn with unworn ce from the warm light: but how, when we have trodden far 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 again to the life-nourishing day? The leap of natural longing from uhe pressure of pain is s that all less immediate motives are likely to be fotten - till the pain has been escaped from.

    For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. For hours every other thought that she strove to summon was thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single word that would bring him to her. She did not read the letter: she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her with its old strange power. All the day before she had been filled with the vision of a lonely future through which she must carry the burthen ret, upheld only by ging faith. And here - close within here reach - urging itself upon her even as a claim - was another future, in which hard endurand effort were to be exged for easy delicious leaning on anothers loving strength! Ahat promise of joy in the place of sadness did not make the dire force of the temptation to Maggie. It was Stephens tone of misery, - it was the doubt in the justice of her own resolve, that made the balaremble, and made her oart from her seat to reach the pen and paper, and write `e!

    But close upon that decisive act, her mind recoiled; and the sense of tradi with her past self in her moments of strength and clearness, came upon her like a pang of scious degradation. No - she must wait - she must pray - the light that had forsaken her would e again: she should feel again what she had felt, when she had fled away, under an inspiration strong enough to quer agony - to quer love: she should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, when Philips letter had stirred all the fibres that bouo the calmer past.

    She sat quite still, far on into the night: with no impulse to ge her attitude, without active forough even for the mental act of prayer: only waiting for the light that would surely e again.

    It came with the memories that no passion could long quench: the long past came back to her and with it the fountains of self-renoung pity and affe, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked by the quiet hand itle old book that she had long ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent for themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of the rain against the window and the loud moan and roar of the wind: `I have received the Cross, I have received it from thy hand; I will bear it, and bear it till death, as thou hast laid it upon me.

    But soon other words rose that could find no uttera in a sob: `Five me, Stephen! It will pass away. You wil<tt>藏书网</tt>l e back to her.

    She took up the letter, held it to the dle, a burn slowly on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word of parting.

    `I will bear it, and bear it till death... But how long it will be before death es! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have patiend strength? O <strike>藏书网</strike>God, am I tle and fall a again? - has life other trials as hard for me still? With that cry of self-despair, Maggie fell on her knees against the table, and buried her sorrow-stri face. Her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there was something being taught her by this experience of great need; and she must be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering, that the less erring could hardly know? `O God, if my life is to be long, let me live to bless and fort--

    At that moment Maggie felt a startliion of sudden cold about her knees a: it was water flowing under her. She started up - the stream was flowing uhe door that led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an instant - she k was the flood!

    The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her: without screaming, she hurried with the dle upstairs to Bob Jakins bedroom. The door was ajar - she went in and shook him by the shoulder.

    `Bob, the Flood is e! it is in the house! let us see if we  make the boats safe.

    She lighted his dle, while the poor wife, snatg up her baby, burst into screams; and then she hurried down again to see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down into the room at the door leading from the staircase: she saw that the water was already on a level with the step. While she was looking, something came with a tremendous crash against the window, ahe leaded panes and the old wooden framework inwards in shivers, - the water p in after it.

    `It is the boat! cried Maggie. `Bob, e down to get the boats!

    And without a moments shudder of fear, she pluhrough the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by the glimmering light of the dle she had left oairs, she mounted on to the window-sill, and crept into the boat, which was left with the prow lodging and protruding through the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying without shoes or stogs, but with the lanthorn in his hand.

    `Why, theyre both here - both the boats, said Bob, as he g<dfn>９９lｉｂ?</dfn>ot into the one where Maggie was. `Its wonderful this fastening isnt broke too, as well as the m.

    In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfastening it and mastering an oar, Bob was not struck with the danger Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless, when we are panions in their danger, and Bobs mind was absorbed in possible expedients for the safety of the helpless in-doors. The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impression of her as one who would help to proteot o be protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had pushed off, so as to release the boat from the ing window-frame.

    `The waters rising so fast, said Bob, `I doubt itll be in at the chambers before long - th house is so low. Ive more mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, if I could and trusten to the water - for th old house is none so safe. And if I let go the boat - but you, he exclaimed, suddenly lifting the light of his lanthorn on Maggie, as she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand and her black hair streaming.

    Maggie had no time to answer, for a idal current swept along the line 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 the river.

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

    The whole thing had been so rapid - so dreamlike - that the threads of ordinary association were broken: she sank down on the seat clutg the oar meically, and for a long while had no distinct ception of her position. The first thing that waked her to fuller sciousness, was the cessation of the rain, and a perception that the darkness was divided by the fai light, which parted the ing gloom from the immeasurable watery level below. She was driven out upon the flood: - that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk of - which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old home - and Tom - and her mother - they had all listeogether.

    `O God, where am I? Which is the way home? she cried out, in the dim loneliness.

    What was happening to them at the Mill? The flood had onearly destroyed it. They might be in danger - in distress: her mother and her brother, alohere, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was strained now on that thought; and she saw the long-loved faces looking for help into the darkness, and finding none.

    She was floating in smooth water now - perhaps far on the over-flooded fields. There was no sense of present dao check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the first sight of her whereabout - that she might cate faint suggestion of the spot towards which all her aies tended.

    O how wele, the widening of that dismal watery level - the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament - the slowly defining blaess of obj<bdo></bdo>ects 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 before her there were hen, the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope: the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in a; and she could soohe poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a mound where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in the growing twilight: her wet clothes g round her, areaming hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly scious of any bodily sensations - except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined sense of recilement with her brother: what quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other  subsist in the presence of a great calamity when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all oh each other in primitive mortal needs? Vaguely, Maggie felt this; - irong resurgent love towards her brother that swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offend misuanding, a only the deep, underlying, unshakable memories of early union.

    But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, agie could dis the current of the river. The dark mass must be - yes, it was - St Oggs. Ah, now she knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known trees - the grey willows, the now yellowing chestnuts - and above them the old roof; but there was no colour, no shape yet: all was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed to e and put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any future.

    She must get her boat into the current of the Floss - else she would never be able to pass the Ripple, and approach the house: this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with more and more vividhe state of things round the old home. But then she might be carried very far down, and be uo guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now, without effort; more and more clearly in the lessening distand the growing light, she began to dis the objects that she knew must be 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 against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon. What were those masses?--

    For the first time Maggies heart began to beat in an agony of dread. She sat helpless - dimly scious that she was being floated along - more intensely scious of the anticipated clash. But the horror was tra: it passed away before the oning warehouses of St Oggs: she had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then: now, she must use all her skill and power to mahe boat a if possible, out of the current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down: she could see the masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field. But no boats were to be seen moving on the river - such as had been laid hands on must be employed in the flooded streets.

    With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood up again to paddle: but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of the current. Then with one yearning look towards her uncle Deanes house that lay farther down the river, she took to both her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery fields, back towards the Mill. Colour was beginning to awake now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could dis the tints of the trees - could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and the home chestnuts - Oh! how deep they lay ier: deeper tharees on this side the hill. And the roof of the Mill - where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Ripple - what had they meant? But it was not the house - the house stood firm: drowned up to the first story, but still firm - or was it broken in at the end towards the Mill?

    With panting joy that she was there at last - joy that overcame all distress, Maggie he front of the house. At first she heard no sound: she saw no object moving. Her boat was on a level with the upstairs windows. She called out in a loud pierg voice,

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

    Soon, from the window of the atti the tral gable, she heard Toms voice:

    `Who is it? Have yht a boat?

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

    `She is not here: she went to Garum, the day before yesterday. Ill e down to the lower window.

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

    `Yes, Tom: God has taken care of me, t me to you. Get in quickly. Is there no one else?

    `No, said Tom, stepping into the boat, `I fear the man is drowned - he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part of the mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it: Ive shouted again and again, and there has been no answer. Give me the oars, Maggie.

    It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water - he face to face with Maggie - that the full meaning of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with so overp a force - su entirely new revelation to his spirit, of the depths in life, that had lain beyond his vision which he had fancied so keen and clear, that he was uo ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other: Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face - Tom pale with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy though the lips were silent: and though he could ask no question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous divinely-protected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-grey 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 happihat is oh pain.

    As soon as she could speak, she said, `We will go to Lucy, Tom: well go and see if she is safe, and then we  help the rest.

    Tom rowed with untired vigour, and with a different speed from pgies. The boat was soon in the current of the river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.

    `Park House stands high up out of the flood, said Maggie, `Perhaps they have got Lucy there.

    Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards them by the river. Some wooden maery had just given way on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery desolation read out in dreadful clearness around them - in dreadful clearness floated onwards the hurrying, threatening masses. A large pany in a boat that was w its way along uhe Tofton houses, observed their danger, and shouted, `Get out of the current!

    But that could not be do once, and Tom, looking before him, saw Death rushing on them. Huge fragments, ging together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the stream.

    `It is ing, Maggie! Tom said, in a deep hoarse voice, loosing the oars, and clasping her.

    The  instant the boat was no longer seen upoer - and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.

    But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black spe the golden water.

    The boat reappeared - but brother and sister had gone down in an embraever to be parted - living through again in one supreme moment, the days when they had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.

    clusion

    NATURE repairs her ravages - repairs them with her sunshine, and with human labour. The desolatiht by that flood, had left little visible tra the face of the earth, five years after. The fifth autumn was ri golden -stacks, rising in thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.

    And every man and womaioned in this history was still living - except those whose end we know.

    Nature repairs her ravages - but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again - the parted hills are left scarred: if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underh their greeure bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thh repair.

    Dorlill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote churchyard, - where the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood, - had recovered all its grassy order a quiet.

    hat brick grave there was a tomb erected very soon after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace: and it was often visited at different moments by two men who both felt that their kee joy and kee sorrow were for ever buried there.

    One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside him - but that was years after.

    The other was always solitary. His great panionship was among the trees 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 the  was written--

    `In their death they were not divided.天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》