“Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember
the rabbits every day; but how could I, when they
didn’t come into my head, you know? Oh,
he will be so angry with me, I know he will, and so
sorry about his rabbits, and so am I sorry. Oh,
what shall I do?”
“Don’t you fret, Miss,” said Luke,
soothingly; “they’re nash things, them
lop-eared rabbits; they’d happen ha’ died,
if they’d been fed. Things out o’
natur niver thrive: God A’mighty doesn’t
like ’em. He made the rabbits’ ears
to lie back, an’ it’s nothin’ but
contrairiness to make ’em hing down like a mastiff
dog’s. Master Tom ’ull know better
nor buy such things another time. Don’t
you fret, Miss. Will you come along home wi’
me, and see my wife? I’m a-goin’ this
minute.”
The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to
Maggie’s grief, and her tears gradually subsided
as she trotted along by Luke’s side to his pleasant
cottage, which stood with its apple and pear trees,
and with the added dignity of a lean-to pigsty, at
the other end of the Mill fields. Mrs. Moggs,
Luke’s wife, was a decidely agreeable acquaintance.
She exhibited her hospitality in bread and treacle,
and possessed various works of art. Maggie actually
forgot that she had any special cause of sadness this
morning, as she stood on a chair to look at a remarkable
series of pictures representing the Prodigal Son in
the costume of Sir Charles Grandison, except that,
as might have been expected from his defective moral
character, he had not, like that accomplished hero,
the taste and strength of mind to dispense with a
wig. But the indefinable weight the dead rabbits
had left on her mind caused her to feel more than
usual pity for the career of this weak young man,
particularly when she looked at the picture where
he leaned against a tree with a flaccid appearance,
his knee-breeches unbuttoned and his wig awry, while
the swine apparently of some foreign breed, seemed
to insult him by their good spirits over their feast
of husks.
“I’m very glad his father took him back
again, aren’t you, Luke?” she said.
“For he was very sorry, you know, and wouldn’t
do wrong again.”
“Eh, Miss,” said Luke, “he’d
be no great shakes, I doubt, let’s feyther do
what he would for him.”
That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished
much that the subsequent history of the young man
had not been left a blank.
Tom Comes Home
Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there
was another fluttering heart besides Maggie’s
when it was late enough for the sound of the gig-wheels
to be expected; for if Mrs. Tulliver had a strong
feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At last
the sound came,—that quick light bowling
of the gig-wheels,—and in spite of the
wind, which was blowing the clouds about, and was not
likely to respect Mrs. Tulliver’s curls and
cap-strings, she came outside the door, and even held
her hand on Maggie’s offending head, forgetting
all the griefs of the morning.
