The Mill on the Floss George Eliot (ereader android .txt) 📖

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 upward progress. “There’s a report that Wakem’s mill and farm on the other side of the river⁠—Dorlcote Mill, your uncle Tulliver’s, you know⁠—isn’t answering so well as it did. I wanted to see if your friend Philip would let anything out about his father’s being tired of farming.”

“Why? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part with it?” said Lucy, eagerly. “Oh, tell me everything; here, you shall have your snuffbox if you’ll tell me. Because Maggie says all their hearts are set on Tom’s 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 snuffbox. “You must not say a word about this thing; do you hear? There’s very little chance of their getting the mill or of anybody’s getting it out of Wakem’s hands. And if he knew that we wanted it with a view to the Tulliver’s getting it again, he’d be the less likely to part with it. It’s natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough to Tulliver before; but a horsewhipping is not likely to be paid for with sugarplums.”

“Now, papa,” said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, “will you trust me? You must not ask me all my reasons for what I’m going to say, but I have very strong reasons. And I’m very cautious; I am, indeed.”

“Well, let us hear.”

“Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem into our confidence⁠—let me tell him all about your wish to buy, and what it’s for; that my cousins wish to have it, and why they wish to have it⁠—I believe Philip would help to bring it about. I know he would desire to do it.”

“I don’t see how that can be, child,” said Mr. Deane, looking puzzled. “Why should he care?”⁠—then, with a sudden penetrating look at his daughter, “You don’t think the poor lad’s fond of you, and so you can make him do what you like?” (Mr. Deane felt quite safe about his daughter’s affections.)

“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. Don’t you ask me. And if you ever guess, don’t tell me. Only give me leave to do as I think fit about it.”

Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her father’s knee, and kissed him with that last request.

“Are you sure you won’t do mischief, now?” he said, looking at her with delight.

“Yes, papa, quite sure. I’m very wise; I’ve got all your business talents. Didn’t you admire my accompt-book, now, when I showed it you?”

“Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there won’t be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think there’s not much chance for us any other way. Now, let me go off to sleep.”

VIII Wakem in a New Light

Before three days had passed after the conversation you have just overheard between Lucy and her father she had contrived to have a private interview with Philip during a visit of Maggie’s to her aunt Glegg. 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 thoroughly resolved on a course of action. He thought he saw before him now a possibility of altering his position with respect to Maggie, and removing at least one obstacle between them. He laid his plan and calculated all his moves with the fervid deliberation of a chess-player in the days of his first ardor, and was amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tactician. His plan was as bold as it was thoroughly calculated. Having watched for a moment when his father had nothing more urgent on his hands than the newspaper, he went behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said⁠—

“Father, will you come up into my sanctum, and look at my new sketches? I’ve arranged them now.”

“I’m getting terrible 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 come along, then.”

“This is a nice place for you, isn’t it, Phil?⁠—a capital light that from the roof, eh?” was, as usual, the first thing he said on entering the painting-room. He liked to remind himself and his son too that his fatherly indulgence had provided the accommodation. He had been a good father. Emily would have nothing to reproach him with there, if she came back again from her grave.

“Come, come,” he said, putting his double eyeglass over his nose, and seating himself to take a general view while he rested, “you’ve got a famous show here. Upon my word, I don’t see that your things aren’t as good as that London artist’s⁠—what’s his name⁠—that 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 counteract the sense of tremulousness. He watched his father get up, and walk slowly round, good-naturedly dwelling on the pictures much longer than his amount of genuine taste for landscape would have prompted, till he stopped before a stand on which two pictures were placed⁠—one much larger than the other, 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 you’d left off figures. Who are these?”

“They are the same person,” said