The resolution that gathered in Maggie’s mind was not so simple as that
of going home. No! she would run away and go to the gypsies, and Tom
should never see her any more. That was by no means a new idea to
Maggie. The gypsies, she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay
her much respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once
mentioned her views on this point to her brother Tom and had suggested
that he should stain his face brown, and they should run away together.
But Tom had rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that gypsies
were thieves, and that they hardly got anything to eat, and had nothing
to drive but a donkey.
[Illustration: GEORGE ELIOT]
To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had reached a pitch at which
gypsydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the roots of
the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in her life. She
would run straight away till she came to Dunlow Common, where there
would certainly be gypsies; and cruel 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 ran along, but determined that she would secretly
send him a letter by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling
where she was, and just let him know that she was well and happy and
always loved him very much.
It seemed to Maggie that she had been running a very great distance
indeed, and it was really surprising that the Common did not come within
sight. At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and she found
herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide
margin of grass on each side of it. She crept through the bars and
walked on with a new spirit. It was not, however, without a leaping of
the heart that she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking
up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock. It was a boy asleep, and
she trotted along faster and more lightly, lest she should wake him. It
did not occur to her that he was one of her friends, the gypsies, who
probably would have very kindly manners. But the fact was so, for at the
next bend in the lane she really saw the little black tent with the blue
smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge. She even saw a tall
female figure by the column of smoke, doubtless the gypsy mother, who
provided the tea and other groceries.
It was plain she had attracted attention. For the tall figure, who
proved to be a young woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet
her.
“My little lady, where are you going?” the gypsy said, in a coaxing
tone.
It was delightful, and just what she expected. The gypsies saw at once
that she was a little lady, and were prepared to treat her accordingly.
“Not any farther,” said Maggie, feeling as if she were saying what she
had rehearsed in a dream. “I’m coming to stay with _you_, please.”
“That’s pretty; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady you are, to be
sure!” said the gypsy, taking her by the hand. Maggie thought her very
agreeable, but wished she had not been so dirty.
There was quite a group round the fire when they reached it. An old
gypsy woman was seated on the ground nursing her knees, and poking a
skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an odorous steam. Two small
shock-headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows; and
a placid donkey was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her
back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a bite of excellent
stolen hay.
The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the scene was really
very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she hoped they would
soon set out the teacups.
At last the old woman said: “What! my pretty lady, are you come to stay
with us? Sit down and tell us where you come from.”
[Illustration: MAGGIE AT THE GYPSY ENCAMPMENT]
It was just like a story. Maggie liked to be called pretty lady and
treated 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 many things.”
“Such a clever little lady,” said the woman with the baby, sitting down
by Maggie, and allowing the baby to crawl. “And such a pretty bonnet and
frock,” she added, taking off Maggie’s bonnet, and looking at it while
she made a remark to the old woman, in an unknown language. The tall
girl snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost, with
a grin. But Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on this
subject.
“I don’t want to wear a bonnet,” she said; “I’d rather wear a red
handkerchief, like yours.”
“Oh, what a nice little lady!--and rich, I’m sure,” said the old woman.
“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 go
fishing, but I’m often very unhappy. I should have liked to bring my
books with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you
almost everything there is in my books; I’ve read them so many times,
and that will amuse you. And I can tell you something about geography,
too,--that’s about the world we live in,--very useful and interesting.
Did you ever hear about Columbus?”
“Is that where you live, my little lady?” said the old woman, at the
mention of Columbus.
“Oh, no!” said Maggie, with some pity. “Columbus was a very wonderful
man, who found out half the world, and they put chains on him and
treated him very badly, you know. It’s in my geography, but perhaps it’s
rather too long to tell before tea--I want my tea so.” The last words
burst from Maggie, in spite of herself.
“Why, she’s hungry, poor little lady,” said the younger woman. “Give her
some of the cold victuals. You’ve been walking a good way, I’ll be
bound, my dear. Where’s your home?”
“It’s Dorlcote Mill, a long way off,” said Maggie. “My father is Mr.
Tulliver, but we musn’t let him know where I am, or he will take me home
again. Where does the queen of the gypsies live?”
“What! do you want to go to her, my little lady?” said the younger
woman. The tall girl, meanwhile, was constantly staring at Maggie and
grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.
“No,” said Maggie; “I’m only thinking that if she isn’t a very good
queen you might be glad when she died, and you could choose another. If
I were a queen, I’d be a very good queen, and kind to everybody.”
“Here’s a bit of nice victuals, then,” said the old woman, handing to
Maggie 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; “but
will you give me some bread and butter and tea, instead? I don’t like
bacon.”
“We’ve got no tea or butter,” said the old woman, with something like a
scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing.
“Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,” said Maggie.
“We’ve got no treacle,” said the old woman, crossly.
Then the old woman, seeming to forget Maggie’s hunger, poked the skewer
into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and
reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trembled a little, and was
afraid the tears would come into her eyes. But the springing tears were
checked by new terror, when two men came up. The elder of the two
carried a bag, which he flung down, addressing the women in a loud and
scolding tone.
Both the men now seemed to be asking about Maggie, for they looked at
her. At last the younger woman said in her 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’s
silver thimble and other small matters that had been taken from her
pocket. He returned them all, except the thimble, to the younger woman,
with some remark, and she put them again in Maggie’s pocket. The men
seated themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle,--a
stew of meat and potatoes,--which had been taken off the fire and turned
out into a yellow platter.
Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the gypsies; they
must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant to return her thimble by
and by. She would willingly have given it to him, for she was not at all
attached to her thimble. But the idea that she was among thieves
prevented her from feeling any comfort. The women saw that she was
frightened.
“We’ve nothing nice for a lady to eat,” said the old woman. “And she’s
so hungry, sweet little lady.”
“Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this,” said the younger
woman, handing some of the stew in a brown dish, with an iron spoon, to
Maggie, who remembered that the old woman had seemed angry with her for
not liking the bread and bacon, and dared not refuse the stew, though
fear had chased away her appetite. If her father would only come by in
the gig and take her up!
“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 a
bit, come.”
“No, thank you,” said Maggie, trying to smile in a friendly way. “I
haven’t time, I think; it seems getting darker. I think I must go home
now, and come again another day, and then I can bring you a basket with
some jam tarts and things.”
Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when the old gypsy woman
said, “Stop a bit, stop a bit, little lady; we’ll take you home, all
safe, when we’ve done supper; you shall ride home, like a lady.”
Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this promise, though she
presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing
a couple of bags on his back.
“Now, then, little missis,” said the younger man, rising, and leading
the donkey forward, “tell us where you live; what’s the name of the
place?”
“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 of St. Ogg’s?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “Is it far off? I think I should like to walk there,
if you please.”
“No, no, it’ll be getting dark; we must make haste. And the donkey’ll
carry you as nice as can be; you’ll see.”
He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. She felt
relieved that it was not the old man who was 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 it on
Maggie’s head; “and you’ll say we’ve been very good to you, won’t you?
and what a nice little lady we said you were.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Maggie; “I’m very much obliged to you. But I
wish you’d go with me, too.” She thought that anything was better than
going with one of the dreadful men alone.
“Ah, you’re fondest of me, aren’t you?” said the woman. “But I can’t go;
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 no nightmare had ever seemed to her more
horrible. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said “Good-by,”
the donkey set off at a rapid walk along the lane towards the point
Maggie had come from an hour ago.
At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, was
coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was
actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the
corner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--“To St. Ogg’s, 2
miles.”
The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably a good
man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that she
didn’t like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as she felt
more and more certain that she knew the road quite well. She was
thinking how she might open a conversation with the injured gypsy, 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 a
round from Basset, and had not yet been home.
“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” he said, checking his horse, while
Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father’s stirrup.
“The little miss lost herself, I reckon,” said the gypsy. “She’d come
to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where
she said her home was. It’s a good way to come after being on the tramp
all day.”
“Oh, yes, father, he’s been very good to bring me home,” said Maggie. “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 lose the
little lass; 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 you to
be rambling about and lose yourself?”
“Oh, father,” sobbed Maggie, “I ran away because I was so unhappy. Tom
was so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly; “you mustn’t think of
running away from father. What would father do without his little lass?”
“Oh, no; I never shall again, father--never.”
Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached home that
evening; and the effect was seen in the fact that Maggie never heard one
reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about this foolish
business of her running away to the gypsies.--GEORGE ELIOT.
* * * * *
He is idle that might be better employed.