The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📕

him, after a few moments of silence, “how strange it is that we should have met and talked to each other, just as if it had been only yesterday when we parted at Lorton. And yet 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 and learnt 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 in everything that made me like you better than anyone else. I don’t want to explain that; I don’t think any of the strongest effects our natures are susceptible of can ever be explained. We can neither detect the process by which they are arrived at, nor the mode in which they act on us. The greatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child; he couldn’t have told how he did it, and we can’t tell why we feel it to be divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature that our understandings can make no complete inventory of. Certain strains of music affect me so strangely; I can never hear them without their changing 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 saddened tone, “I used to feel so when I had any music; I never have any now except the organ at church.”

“And you long for it, Maggie?” said Philip, looking at her with affectionate pity. “Ah, you can 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 come back to the hollow, round which the dog-roses grew, and they both paused under the charm of the faëry 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 second 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 scene for a picture.”

Maggie had looked at the back too, and saw the title; it revived an old impression with overmastering force.

“The Pirate,” she said, taking the book from Philip’s hands. “Oh, 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 couldn’t get 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, watching her with delight. “I don’t 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, entreatingly; “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 don’t 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.”

“Don’t hurry away from me without saying ‘goodbye,’ Maggie,” said Philip, as they reached the group of Scotch firs, and she continued still to walk along without speaking. “I must not go any farther, I think, must I?”

“Oh no, I forgot; goodbye,” said Maggie, pausing, and putting out her hand to him. The action brought her feeling back in 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:

“I’m 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 forget you, though