Chapter I.Outside Dorlcote Mill
A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to
the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an
impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships—laden with the
fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the
dark glitter of coal—are borne along to the town of St Ogg’s,
which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves
between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing the water with a soft
purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each
hand stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth made ready for
the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the
tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of last year’s
golden clusters of beehive-ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and
everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees; the distant ships seem to be
lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the
branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple
flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is,
with its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I
wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of
one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember
the stone bridge.
And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and
look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the
afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to
look at,—perhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept,
comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it
from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this
little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in
front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate
bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that
gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy
the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the
withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above.
The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness,
which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great
curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now there is the
thunder of the huge covered wagon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest
wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late
hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses,—the strong,
submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him
from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that
awful manner as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders
up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so
near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet that seem to grasp the firm earth,
at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the
mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them
neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist
necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond.
Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the
arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees.
Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel
sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it too; she
has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I
paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be
leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is
jealous because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement.
It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright
fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the
sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of
this bridge....
Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of
my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote
Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I
was going to tell you what Mr and Mrs Tulliver were talking about, as they
sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour, on that very afternoon I have
been dreaming of.
