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

when they are in trouble; I don’t think I could ever bear to make anyone unhappy; and yet 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 don’t 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 comes from the school diet⁠—watery rice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us hope it will give way before my mother’s custards and this charming Geoffrey Crayon.”

Maggie took up the Sketch Book, which lay by her on the table.

“Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?” said Lucy, going to survey the effect in the chimney-glass.

“Oh no, Mr. Guest 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 wandered to 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 morning holiday. The sweet fresh garden-scent came through the open window, and the birds were busy flitting and alighting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie’s eyes began to fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the rush of memories so painful that even yesterday she had only been able to rejoice in her mother’s restored comfort and Tom’s brotherly friendliness as we rejoice in good news of friends at a distance, rather than in the presence of a happiness which we share. Memory and imagination urged upon her a sense of privation too keen to let her taste what was offered in the transient present. Her future, she thought, was likely to be worse than her past, for after her years of contented renunciation, she had slipped back into 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, becoming more and more importunate. The sound of the opening door roused her, and hastily wiping away her tears, she began to turn over the 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 entered the room. “That is music, and 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 practise,” said Maggie, “just for the sake of fingering the dear keys again. But I don’t know whether I could play anything more difficult now than ‘Begone, dull care!’ ”

“I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when the 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 don’t 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 voice. St. Ogg’s 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 had looked up from her work as she uttered the last sentence, and saw that there was a change in Maggie’s 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 can avoid it.”

“I don’t feel at all as Tom does on that subject,” said Maggie, rising and going to the window as if she wanted to see more of the landscape. “I’ve 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.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Lucy. “Then you won’t mind his coming sometimes, and we can have much more music than we could without him. I’m 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 doorbell. That must be Stephen,” Lucy went on, not noticing Maggie’s faint effort to speak. “One of the things I most admire in Stephen is that he makes a greater friend of Philip than anyone.”

It was too late for Maggie to speak now; the drawingroom door was opening, and Minny was already growling in a small way at the entrance of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy and took her hand with a half-polite, half-tender glance and tone of inquiry, which seemed to indicate that he was unconscious of any other presence.

“Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss Tulliver,” said Lucy, turning with wicked enjoyment toward Maggie, who now approached from the farther window. “This is Mr. Stephen Guest.”

For one instant