Chapter XI
Maggie Tries to Run away from Her Shadow
Maggie's intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than Tomimagined. The resolution that gathered in her mind, after Tom and Lucyhad walked away, was not so simple as that of going home. No! shewould run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom should never see her anymore. That was by no means a new idea to Maggie; she had been so oftentold she was like a gypsy, and ”half wild,” that when she wasmiserable it seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobrium, andbeing entirely in harmony with circumstances, would be to live in alittle brown tent on the commons; the gypsies, she considered, wouldgladly receive her and pay her much respect on account of her superiorknowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this point to Tom andsuggested that he should stain his face brown, and they should runaway together; but Tom rejected the scheme with contempt, observingthat gypsies were thieves, and hardly got anything to eat and hadnothing to drive but a donkey. To-day however, Maggie thought hermisery had reached a pitch at which gypsydom was her refuge, and sherose from her seat on the roots of the tree with the sense that thiswas a great crisis in her life; she would run straight away till shecame to Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be gypsies; andcruel Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her,should never see her any more. She thought of her father as she ranalong, but she reconciled herself to the idea of parting with him, bydetermining that she would secretly send him a letter by a smallgypsy, who would run away without telling where she was, and just lethim know that she was well and happy, and always loved him very much.
Maggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the time Tom got tothe pond again she was at the distance of three long fields, and wason the edge of the lane leading to the highroad. She stopped to pant alittle, reflecting that running away was not a pleasant thing untilone had got quite to the common where the gypsies were, but herresolution had not abated; she presently passed through the gate intothe lane, not knowing where it would lead her, for it was not this waythat they came from Dorlcote Mill to Garum Firs, and she felt all thesafer for that, because there was no chance of her being overtaken.But she was soon aware, not without trembling, that there were two mencoming along the lane in front of her; she had not thought of meetingstrangers, she had been too much occupied with the idea of her friendscoming after her. The formidable strangers were two shabby-looking menwith flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle on a stick over hisshoulder; but to her surprise, while she was dreading theirdisapprobation as a runaway, the man with the bundle stopped, and in ahalf-whining, half-coaxing tone asked her if she had a copper to givea poor man. Maggie had a sixpence in her pocket,--her uncle Glegg'spresent,--which she immediately drew out and gave this poor man with apolite smile, hoping he would feel very kindly toward her as agenerous person. ”That's the only money I've got,” she saidapologetically. ”Thank you, little miss,” said the man, in a lessrespectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and she evenobserved that he smiled and winked at his companion. She walked onhurriedly, but was aware that the two men were standing still,probably to look after her, and she presently heard them laughingloudly. Suddenly it occurred to her that they might think she was anidiot; Tom had said that her cropped hair made her look like an idiot,and it was too painful an idea to be readily forgotten. Besides, shehad no sleeves on,--only a cape and bonnet. It was clear that she wasnot likely to make a favorable impression on passengers, and shethought she would turn into the fields again, but not on the same sideof the lane as before, lest they should still be uncle Pullet'sfields. She turned through the first gate that was not locked, andfelt a delightful sense of privacy in creeping along by the hedgerows,after her recent humiliating encounter. She was used to wanderingabout the fields by herself, and was less timid there than on thehighroad. Sometimes she had to climb over high gates, but that was asmall evil; she was getting out of reach very fast, and she shouldprobably soon come within sight of Dunlow Common, or at least of someother common, for she had heard her father say that you couldn't govery far without coming to a common. She hoped so, for she was gettingrather tired and hungry, and until she reached the gypsies there wasno definite prospect of bread and butter. It was still broad daylight,for aunt Pullet, retaining the early habits of the Dodson family, tooktea at half-past four by the sun, and at five by the kitchen clock;so, though it was nearly an hour since Maggie started, there was nogathering gloom on the fields to remind her that the night would come.Still, it seemed to her that she had been walking a very greatdistance indeed, and it was really surprising that the common did notcome within sight. Hitherto she had been in the rich parish of Garum,where was a great deal of pasture-land, and she had only seen onelaborer at a distance. That was fortunate in some respects, aslaborers might be too ignorant to understand the propriety of herwanting to go to Dunlow Common yet it would have been better if shecould have met some one who would tell her the way without wanting toknow anything about her private business. At last, however, the greenfields came to an end, and Maggie found herself looking through thebars of a gate into a lane with a wide margin of grass on each side ofit. She had never seen such a wide lane before, and, without herknowing why, it gave her the impression that the common could not befar off; perhaps it was because she saw a donkey with a log to hisfoot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey with thatpitiable encumbrance on Dunlow Common when she had been across it inher father's gig. She crept through the bars of the gate and walked onwith new spirit, though not without haunting images of Apollyon, and ahighwayman with a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow with a mouthfrom ear to ear, and other miscellaneous dangers. For poor littleMaggie had at once the timidity of an active imagination and thedaring that comes from overmastering impulse. She had rushed into theadventure of seeking her unknown kindred, the gypsies; and now she wasin this strange lane, she hardly dared look on one side of her, lestshe should see the diabolical blacksmith in his leathern aprongrinning at her with arms akimbo. It was not without a leaping of theheart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking up,feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock; they seemed somethinghideously preternatural,--a diabolical kind of fungus; for she was toomuch agitated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes and thedark shaggy head attached to them. It was a boy asleep, and Maggietrotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him; itdid not occur to her that he was one of her friends the gypsies, whoin all probability would have very genial manners. But the fact wasso, for at the next bend in the lane Maggie actually saw the littlesemicircular black tent with the blue smoke rising before it, whichwas to be her refuge from all the blighting obloquy that had pursuedher in civilized life. She even saw a tall female figure by the columnof smoke, doubtless the gypsy-mother, who provided the tea and othergroceries; it was astonishing to herself that she did not feel moredelighted. But it was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, afterall, and not on a common indeed, it was rather disappointing; for amysterious illimitable common, where there were sand-pits to hide in,and one was out of everybody's reach, had always made part of Maggie'spicture of gypsy life. She went on, however, and thought with somecomfort that gypsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so therewas no danger of their falling into the mistake of setting her down atthe first glance as an idiot. It was plain she had attractedattention for the tall figure, who proved to be a young woman with ababy on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggie looked up in thenew face rather tremblingly as it approached, and was reassured by thethought that her aunt Pullet and the rest were right when they calledher a gypsy; for this face, with the bright dark eyes and the longhair, was really something like what she used to see in the glassbefore she cut her hair off.
”My little lady, where are you going to?” the gypsy said, in a tone ofcoaxing deference.
It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected; the gypsies saw atonce that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat heraccordingly.
”Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what shehad rehearsed in a dream. ”I'm come to stay with _you_, please.”
”That's pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, tobe sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought hervery agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.
There was quite a group round the fire when she reached it. An oldgypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, andoccasionally poking a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth anodorous steam; two small shock-headed children were lying prone andresting on their elbows something like small sphinxes; and a placiddonkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her back,was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellentstolen hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scenewas really very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hopedthey would soon set out the tea-cups. Everything would be quitecharming when she had taught the gypsies to use a washing-basin, andto feel an interest in books. It was a little confusing, though, thatthe young woman began to speak to the old one in a language whichMaggie did not understand, while the tall girl, who was feeding thedonkey, sat up and stared at her without offering any salutation. Atlast the old woman said,--
”What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us? Sit ye down andtell us where you come from.”
It was just like a story; Maggie liked to be called pretty lady andtreated in this way. She sat down and said,--
”I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy.I'll live with you if you like, and I can teach you a great manythings.”
”Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby sitting downby Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl; ”and such a pretty bonnet andfrock,” she added, taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at it whileshe made an observation to the old woman, in the unknown language. Thetall girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremostwith a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any weakness onthis subject, as if she were susceptible about her bonnet.
”I don't want to wear a bonnet,” she said; ”I'd rather wear a redhandkerchief, like yours” (looking at her friend by her side). ”Myhair was quite long till yesterday, when I cut it off; but I dare sayit will grow again very soon,” she added apologetically, thinking itprobable the gypsies had a strong prejudice in favor of long hair. AndMaggie had forgotten even her hunger at that moment in the desire toconciliate gypsy opinion.
”Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I'm sure,” said the oldwoman. ”Didn't you live in a beautiful house at home?”
”Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the river, where we gofishing, but I'm often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring mybooks with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tellyou almost everything there is in my books, I've read them so manytimes, and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something aboutGeography too,--that's about the world we live in,--very useful andinteresting. Did you ever hear about Columbus?”
Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush,--she wasreally beginning to instruct the gypsies, and gaining great influenceover them. The gypsies themselves were not without amazement at thistalk, though their attention was divided by the contents of Maggie'spocket, which the friend at her right hand had by this time emptiedwithout attracting her notice.
”Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at themention of Columbus.
”Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity; ”Columbus was a very wonderfulman, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him andtreated him very badly, you know; it's in my Catechism of Geography,but perhaps it's rather too long to tell before tea--_I want my teaso_.”
The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself, with a suddendrop from patronizing instruction to simple peevishness.
”Why, she's hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. ”Giveher some o' the cold victual. You've been walking a good way, I'll bebound, my dear. Where's your home?”
”It's Dorlcote Mill, a good way off,” said Maggie. ”My father is Mr.Tulliver, but we mustn't let him know where I am, else he'll fetch mehome again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”
”What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the youngerwoman. The tall girl meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie andgrinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.
”No,” said Maggie, ”I'm only thinking that if she isn't a very goodqueen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another.If I was a queen, I'd be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”
”Here's a bit o' nice victual, then,” said the old woman, handing toMaggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken from a bag of scraps,and a piece of cold bacon.
”Thank you,' said Maggie, looking at the food without taking it; ”butwill you give me some bread-and-butter and tea instead? I don't likebacon.”
”We've got no tea nor butter,” said the old woman, with something likea scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.
”Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.
”We han't got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly, whereuponthere followed a sharp dialogue between the two women in their unknowntongue, and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread-and-bacon,and began to eat it. At this moment the tall girl, who had gone a fewyards off, came back, and said something which produced a strongeffect. The old woman, seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked theskewer into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under thetent and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled alittle, and was afraid the tears would come into her eyes. Meanwhilethe tall girl gave a shrill cry, and presently came running up the boywhom Maggie had passed as he was sleeping,--a rough urchin about theage of Tom. He stared at Maggie, and there ensued much incomprehensiblechattering. She felt very lonely, and was quite sure she should begin tocry before long; the gypsies didn't seem to mind her at all, and she feltquite weak among them. But the springing tears were checked by newterror, when two men came up, whose approach had been the causeof the sudden excitement. The elder of the two carried a bag, whichhe flung down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding tone,which they answered by a shower of treble sauciness; while a blackcur ran barking up to Maggie, and threw her into a tremor that onlyfound a new cause in the curses with which the younger man calledthe dog off, and gave him a rap with a great stick he held in his hand.
Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen of thesepeople, or ever communicate to them amusing and useful knowledge.
Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, for they lookedat her, and the tone of the conversation became of that pacific kindwhich implies curiosity on one side and the power of satisfying it onthe other. At last the younger woman said in her previous deferential,coaxing tone,--
”This nice little lady's come to live with us; aren't you glad?”
”Ay, very glad,” said the younger man, who was looking at Maggie'ssilver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from herpocket. He returned them all except the thimble to the younger woman,with some observation, and she immediately restored them to Maggie'spocket, while the men seated themselves, and began to attack thecontents of the kettle,--a stew of meat and potatoes,--which had beentaken off the fire and turned out into a yellow platter.
Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; theymust certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimbleby and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was notat all attached to her thimble; but the idea that she was amongthieves prevented her from feeling any comfort in the revival ofdeference and attention toward her; all thieves, except Robin Hood,were wicked people. The women saw she was frightened.
”We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman, in hercoaxing tone. ”And she's so hungry, sweet little lady.”
”Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this,” said the youngerwoman, handing some of the stew on a brown dish with an iron spoon toMaggie, who, remembering that the old woman had seemed angry with herfor not liking the bread-and-bacon, dared not refuse the stew, thoughfear had chased away her appetite. If her father would but come by inthe gig and take her up! Or even if Jack the Giantkiller, or Mr.Greatheart, or St. George who slew the dragon on the half-pennies,would happen to pass that way! But Maggie thought with a sinking heartthat these heroes were never seen in the neighborhood of St. Ogg's;nothing very wonderful ever came there.
Maggie Tulliver, you perceive, was by no means that well trained,well-informed young person that a small female of eight or ninenecessarily is in these days; she had only been to school a year atSt. Ogg's, and had so few books that she sometimes read thedictionary; so that in travelling over her small mind you would havefound the most unexpected ignorance as well as unexpected knowledge.She could have informed you that there was such a word as ”polygamy,”and being also acquainted with ”polysyllable,” she had deduced theconclusion that ”poly” mean ”many”; but she had had no idea thatgypsies were not well supplied with groceries, and her thoughtsgenerally were the oddest mixture of clear-eyed acumen and blinddreams.
Her ideas about the gypsies had undergone a rapid modification in thelast five minutes. From having considered them very respectfulcompanions, amenable to instruction, she had begun to think that theymeant perhaps to kill her as soon as it was dark, and cut up her bodyfor gradual cooking; the suspicion crossed her that the fierce-eyedold man was in fact the Devil, who might drop that transparentdisguise at any moment, and turn either into the grinning blacksmith,or else a fiery-eyed monster with dragon's wings. It was no use tryingto eat the stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was to offend thegypsies, by betraying her extremely unfavorable opinion of them; andshe wondered, with a keenness of interest that no theologian couldhave exceeded, whether, if the Devil were really present, he wouldknow her thoughts.
”What! you don't like the smell of it, my dear,” said the young woman,observing that Maggie did not even take a spoonful of the stew. ”Try abit, come.”
”No, thank you,” said Maggie, summoning all her force for a desperateeffort, and trying to smile in a friendly way. ”I haven't time, Ithink; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home now, and comeagain another day, and then I can bring you a basket with somejam-tarts and things.”
Maggie rose from her seat as she threw out this illusory prospect,devoutly hoping that Apollyon was gullible; but her hope sank when theold gypsy-woman said, ”Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we'll takeyou home, all safe, when we've done supper; you shall ride home, likea lady.”
Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though shepresently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, andthrowing a couple of bags on his back.
”Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leadingthe donkey forward, ”tell us where you live; what's the name o' theplace?”
”Dorlcote Mill is my home,” said Maggie, eagerly. ”My father is Mr.Tulliver; he lives there.”
”What! a big mill a little way this side o' St. Ogg's?”
”Yes,” said Maggie. ”Is it far off? I think I should like to walkthere, if you please.”
”No, no, it'll be getting dark, we must make haste. And the donkey'llcarry you as nice as can be; you'll see.”
He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She feltrelieved that it was not the old man who seemed to be going with her,but she had only a trembling hope that she was really going home.
”Here's your pretty bonnet,” said the younger woman, putting thatrecently despised but now welcome article of costume on Maggie's head;”and you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you? and what anice little lady we said you was.”
”Oh yes, thank you,” said Maggie, ”I'm very much obliged to you. But Iwish you'd go with me too.” She thought anything was better than goingwith one of the dreadful men alone; it would be more cheerful to bemurdered by a larger party.
”Ah, you're fondest o' _me_, aren't you?” said the woman. ”But I can'tgo; you'll go too fast for me.”
It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the donkey,holding Maggie before him, and she was as incapable of remonstratingagainst this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no nightmarehad ever seemed to her more horrible. When the woman had patted her onthe back, and said ”Good-by,” the donkey, at a strong hint from theman's stick, set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward the pointMaggie had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the roughurchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them for thefirst hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking.
Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion with her phantomlover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in this entirely naturalride on a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind her, who consideredthat he was earning half a crown. The red light of the setting sunseemed to have a portentous meaning, with which the alarming bray ofthe second donkey with the log on its foot must surely have someconnection. Two low thatched cottages--the only houses they passed inthis lane--seemed to add to its dreariness; they had no windows tospeak of, and the doors were closed; it was probable that they wereinhabitated by witches, and it was a relief to find that the donkeydid not stop there.
At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, wascoming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there wasactually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at thecorner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--”To St. Ogg's,2 miles.” The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he wasprobably a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at thethought that she didn't like coming with him alone. This idea becamestronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the roadquite well, and she was considering how she might open a conversationwith the injured gypsy, and not only gratify his feelings but effacethe impression of her cowardice, when, as they reached a cross-road.Maggie caught sight of some one coming on a white-faced horse.
”Oh, stop, stop!” she cried out. ”There's my father! Oh, father,father!”
The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her,she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's wonder, for he had made around from Basset, and had not yet been home.
”Why, what's the meaning o' this?” he said, checking his horse, whileMaggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father's stirrup.
”The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy. ”She'd cometo our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing herwhere she said her home was. It's a good way to come after being onthe tramp all day.”
”Oh yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home,” saidMaggie,--”a very kind, good man!”
”Here, then, my man,” said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings.”It's the best day's work _you_ ever did. I couldn't afford to losethe little wench; here, lift her up before me.”
”Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?” he said, as they rode along,while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. ”How came youto be rambling about and lose yourself?”
”Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, ”I ran away because I was so unhappy; Tomwas so angry with me. I couldn't bear it.”
”Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, ”you mustn't think o'running away from father. What 'ud father do without his littlewench?”
”Oh no, I never will again, father--never.”
Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home thatevening; and the effect was seen in the remarkable fact that Maggienever heard one reproach from her mother, or one taunt from Tom, aboutthis foolish business of her running away to the gypsies. Maggie wasrather awe-stricken by this unusual treatment, and sometimes thoughtthat her conduct had been too wicked to be alluded to.