The Mill on the Floss George Eliot (ereader android .txt) đ
- Author: George Eliot
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Maggieâs cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement. She thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her now; it had been evident that he thought nothing of her before.
Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she could make nothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows; but he presently looked at her, and saidâ â
âCome, come and tell me something about this book; here are some picturesâ âI want to know what they mean.â
Maggie, with deepening colour, went without hesitation to Mr. Rileyâs elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one corner, and tossing back her mane, while she saidâ â
âOh, Iâll tell you what that means. Itâs a dreadful picture, isnât it? But I canât help looking at it. That old woman in the waterâs a witchâ âtheyâve put her in to find out whether sheâs a witch or no; and if she swims sheâs a witch, and if sheâs drownedâ âand killed, you knowâ âsheâs innocent, and not a witch, but only a poor silly old woman. But what good would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose, sheâd go to heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughingâ âoh, isnât he ugly?â âIâll tell you what he is. Heâs the Devil reallyâ (here Maggieâs voice became louder and more emphatic), âand not a right blacksmith; for the Devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets people doing wicked things, and heâs oftener in the shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if people saw he was the Devil, and he roared at âem, theyâd run away, and he couldnât make âem do what he pleased.â
Mr. Tulliver had listened to this exposition of Maggieâs with petrifying wonder.
âWhy, what book is it the wench has got hold on?â he burst out at last.
âThe History of the Devil, by Daniel Defoeâ ânot quite the right book for a little girl,â said Mr. Riley. âHow came it among your books, Mr. Tulliver?â
Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father saidâ â
âWhy, itâs one oâ the books I bought at Partridgeâs sale. They was all bound alikeâ âitâs a good binding, you seeâ âand I thought theyâd be all good books. Thereâs Jeremy Taylorâs Holy Living and Dying among âem. I read in it often of a Sundayâ (Mr. Tulliver felt somehow a familiarity with that great writer, because his name was Jeremy); âand thereâs a lot more of âemâ âsermons mostly, I thinkâ âbut theyâve all got the same covers, and I thought they were all oâ one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustnât judge by thâ outside. This is a puzzlinâ world.â
âWell,â said Mr. Riley, in an admonitory, patronizing tone as he patted Maggie on the head, âI advise you to put by the History of the Devil, and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier books?â
âOh, yes,â said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to vindicate the variety of her reading. âI know the reading in this book isnât pretty; but I like the pictures, and I make stories to the pictures out of my own head, you know. But Iâve got Aesopâs Fables, and a book about Kangaroos and things, and the Pilgrimâs Progress.â ââ âŠâ
âAh, a beautiful book,â said Mr. Riley; âyou canât read a better.â
âWell, but thereâs a great deal about the Devil in that,â said Maggie, triumphantly, âand Iâll show you the picture of him in his true shape, as he fought with Christian.â
Maggie ran in an instant to the corner of the room, jumped on a chair, and reached down from the small bookcase a shabby old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least trouble of search, at the picture she wanted.
âHere he is,â she said, running back to Mr. Riley, âand Tom coloured him for me with his paints when he was at home last holidaysâ âthe body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like fire, because heâs all fire inside, and it shines out at his eyes.â
âGo, go!â said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal appearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers; âshut up the book, and letâs hear no more oâ such talk. It is as I thoughtâ âthe child âull learn more mischief nor good wiâ the books. Go, go and see after your mother.â
Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, but not being inclined to see after her mother, she compromised the matter by going into a dark corner behind her fatherâs chair, and nursing her doll, toward which she had an occasional fit of fondness in Tomâs absence, neglecting its toilet, but lavishing so many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks had a wasted, unhealthy appearance.
âDid you ever hear the like onât?â said Mr. Tulliver, as Maggie retired. âItâs a pity but what sheâd been the ladâ âsheâd haâ been a match for the lawyers, she would. Itâs the wonderfulâst thingââ âhere he lowered his voiceâ ââas I picked the mother because she wasnât oâer âcuteâ âbeinâ a good-looking woman too, anâ come of a rare family for managing; but I picked her from her sisters oâ purpose, âcause she was a bit weak like; for I wasnât agoinâ to be told the rights oâ things by my own fireside. But you see when a manâs got brains himself, thereâs no knowing where theyâll run to; anâ a pleasant sort oâ soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads and âcute wenches, till itâs like as
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