Books: The Mill on the Floss

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"Yes, I sent Luke directly they'd put the bailies in, and your aunt
Pullet's been--and, oh dear, oh dear, she cries so and says your
father's disgraced my family and made it the talk o' the country; and
she'll buy the spotted cloths for herself, because she's never had so
many as she wanted o' that pattern, and they sha'n't go to strangers,
but she's got more checks a'ready nor she can do with." (Here Mrs.
Tulliver began to lay back the tablecloths in the chest, folding and
stroking them automatically.) "And your uncle Glegg's been too, and he
says things must be bought in for us to lie down on, but he must talk
to your aunt; and they're all coming to consult. But I know they'll
none of 'em take my chany," she added, turning toward the cups and
saucers, "for they all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'cause
o' the small gold sprig all over 'em, between the flowers. But there's
none of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt Pullet herself; and I
bought it wi' my own money as I'd saved ever since I was turned
fifteen; and the silver teapot, too,--your father never paid for 'em.
And to think as he should ha' married me, and brought me to this."

Mrs. Tulliver burst out crying afresh, and she sobbed with her
handkerchief at her eyes a few moments, but then removing it, she said
in a deprecating way, still half sobbing, as if she were called upon
to speak before she could command her voice,--

"And I _did_ say to him times and times, 'Whativer you do, don't go to
law,' and what more could I do? I've had to sit by while my own
fortin's been spent, and what should ha' been my children's, too.
You'll have niver a penny, my boy--but it isn't your poor mother's
fault."

She put out one arm toward Tom, looking up at him piteously with her
helpless, childish blue eyes. The poor lad went to her and kissed her,
and she clung to him. For the first time Tom thought of his father
with some reproach. His natural inclination to blame, hitherto kept
entirely in abeyance toward his father by the predisposition to think
him always right, simply on the ground that he was Tom Tulliver's
father, was turned into this new channel by his mother's plaints; and
with his indignation against Wakem there began to mingle some
indignation of another sort. Perhaps his father might have helped
bringing them all down in the world, and making people talk of them
with contempt, but no one should talk long of Tom Tulliver with
contempt.

The natural strength and firmness of his nature was beginning to
assert itself, urged by the double stimulus of resentment against his
aunts, and the sense that he must behave like a man and take care of
his mother.

"Don't fret, mother," he said tenderly. "I shall soon be able to get
money; I'll get a situation of some sort."

"Bless you, my boy!" said Mrs. Tulliver, a little soothed. Then,
looking round sadly, "But I shouldn't ha' minded so much if we could
ha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em."

Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering anger. The implied
reproaches against her father--her father, who was lying there in a
sort of living death--neutralized all her pity for griefs about
tablecloths and china; and her anger on her father's account was
heightened by some egoistic resentment at Tom's silent concurrence
with her mother in shutting her out from the common calamity. She had
become almost indifferent to her mother's habitual depreciation of
her, but she was keenly alive to any sanction of it, however passive,
that she might suspect in Tom. Poor Maggie was by no means made up of
unalloyed devotedness, but put forth large claims for herself where
she loved strongly. She burst out at last in an agitated, almost
violent tone: "Mother, how can you talk so; as if you cared only for
things with _your_ name on, and not for what has my father's name too;
and to care about anything but dear father himself!--when he's lying
there, and may never speak to us again. Tom, you ought to say so too;
you ought not to let any one find fault with my father."

Maggie, almost choked with mingled grief and anger, left the room, and
took her old place on her father's bed. Her heart went out to him with
a stronger movement than ever, at the thought that people would blame
him. Maggie hated blame; she had been blamed all her life, and nothing
had come of it but evil tempers.

Her father had always defended and excused her, and her loving
remembrance of his tenderness was a force within her that would enable
her to do or bear anything for his sake.

Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst,--telling _him_ as well
as his mother what it was right to do! She ought to have learned
better than have those hectoring, assuming manners, by this time. But
he presently went into his father's room, and the sight there touched
him in a way that effaced the slighter impressions of the previous
hour. When Maggie saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her
arm round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children forgot
everything else in the sense that they had one father and one sorrow.

Chapter III

The Family Council

It was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts and uncles
came to hold their consultation. The fire was lighted in the large
parlor, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with a confused impression that it was
a great occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and
unpinned the curtains, adjusting them in proper folds, looking round
and shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the
tables, which sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient
brightness.

Mr. Deane was not coming, he was away on business; but Mrs. Deane
appeared punctually in that handsome new gig with the head to it, and
the livery-servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light on
several traits in her character to some of her female friends in St.
Ogg's. Mr. Deane had been advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr.
Tulliver had been going down in it; and in Mrs. Deane's house the
Dodson linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate
position, as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the same
kind, purchased in recent years,--a change which had caused an
occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs.
Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting "like the rest," and there
would soon be little of the true Dodson spirit surviving except in
herself, and, it might be hoped, in those nephews who supported the
Dodson name on the family land, far away in the Wolds.

People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those
immediately under our own eyes; and it seems superfluous, when we
consider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians, and how
very little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why
Homer calls them "blameless."

Mrs. Deane was the first to arrive; and when she had taken her seat in
the large parlor, Mrs. Tulliver came down to her with her comely face
a little distorted, nearly as it would have been if she had been
crying. She was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except in
moments when the prospect of losing her furniture became unusually
vivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm under
present circumstances.

"Oh, sister, what a world this is!" she exclaimed as she entered;
"what trouble, oh dear!"

Mrs. Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well-considered
speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them afterward to her
husband, and asking him if she had not spoken very properly.

"Yes, sister," she said deliberately, "this is a changing world, and
we don't know to-day what may happen tomorrow. But it's right to be
prepared for all things, and if trouble's sent, to remember as it
isn't sent without a cause. I'm very sorry for you as a sister, and if
the doctor orders jelly for Mr. Tulliver, I hope you'll let me know.
I'll send it willingly; for it is but right he should have proper
attendance while he's ill."

"Thank you, Susan," said Mrs. Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawing
her fat hand from her sister's thin one. "But there's been no talk o'
jelly yet." Then after a moment's pause she added, "There's a dozen o'
cut jelly-glasses upstairs--I shall never put jelly into 'em no more."

Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but the
sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr. and Mrs. Glegg were come,
and were almost immediately followed by Mr. and Mrs. Pullet.

Mrs. Pullet entered crying, as a compendious mode, at all times, of
expressing what were her views of life in general, and what, in brief,
were the opinions she held concerning the particular case before her.

Mrs. Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which appeared to
have had a recent resurrection from rather a creasy form of burial; a
costume selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfect
humility into Bessy and her children.

"Mrs. G., won't you come nearer the fire?" said her husband, unwilling
to take the more comfortable seat without offering it to her.

"You see I've seated myself here, Mr. Glegg," returned this superior
woman; "_you_ can roast yourself, if you like."

"Well," said Mr. Glegg, seating himself good-humoredly, "and how's the
poor man upstairs?"

"Dr. Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning," said Mrs.
Tulliver; "he took more notice, and spoke to me; but he's never known
Tom yet,--looks at the poor lad as if he was a stranger, though he
said something once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says his
memory's gone a long way back, and he doesn't know Tom because he's
thinking of him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear!"

"I doubt it's the water got on his brain," said aunt Pullet, turning
round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at the pier-glass.
"It's much if he ever gets up again; and if he does, he'll most like
be childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man! They fed him with a spoon as
if he'd been a babby for three year. He'd quite lost the use of his
limbs; but then he'd got a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him; and
that's what you won't have, I doubt, Bessy."

"Sister Pullet," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, "if I understand right,
we've come together this morning to advise and consult about what's to
be done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the family, and not to
talk o' people as don't belong to us. Mr. Carr was none of our blood,
nor noways connected with us, as I've ever heared."

"Sister Glegg," said Mrs. Pullet, in a pleading tone, drawing on her
gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated manner, "if
you've got anything disrespectful to say o' Mr. Carr, I do beg of you
as you won't say it to me. _I_ know what he was," she added, with a
sigh; "his breath was short to that degree as you could hear him two
rooms off."

"Sophy!" said Mrs. Glegg, with indignant disgust, "you _do_ talk o'
people's complaints till it's quite undecent. But I say again, as I
said before, I didn't come away from home to talk about acquaintances,
whether they'd short breath or long. If we aren't come together for
one to hear what the other 'ull do to save a sister and her children
from the parish, _I_ shall go back. _One_ can't act without the other,
I suppose; it isn't to be expected as _I_ should do everything."

"Well, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, "I don't see as you've been so very
forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the first time as here
you've been, since it's been known as the bailiff's in the house; and
I was here yesterday, and looked at all Bessy's linen and things, and
I told her I'd buy in the spotted tablecloths. I couldn't speak
fairer; for as for the teapot as she doesn't want to go out o' the
family, it stands to sense I can't do with two silver teapots, not if
it _hadn't_ a straight spout, but the spotted damask I was allays fond
on."

"I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany and the best
castors needn't be put up for sale," said poor Mrs. Tulliver,
beseechingly, "and the sugar-tongs the first things ever I bought."

"But that can't be helped, you know," said Mr. Glegg. "If one o' the
family chooses to buy 'em in, they can, but one thing must be bid for
as well as another."

"And it isn't to be looked for," said uncle Pullet, with unwonted
independence of idea, "as your own family should pay more for things
nor they'll fetch. They may go for an old song by auction."

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, "to think o' my chany being
sold i' that way, and I bought it when I was married, just as you did
yours, Jane and Sophy; and I know you didn't like mine, because o' the
sprig, but I was fond of it; and there's never been a bit broke, for
I've washed it myself; and there's the tulips on the cups, and the
roses, as anybody might go and look at 'em for pleasure. You wouldn't
like _your_ chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though
yours has got no color in it, Jane,--it's all white and fluted, and
didn't cost so much as mine. And there's the castors, sister Deane, I
can't think but you'd like to have the castors, for I've heard you say
they're pretty."

"Well, I've no objection to buy some of the best things," said Mrs.
Deane, rather loftily; "we can do with extra things in our house."

"Best things!" exclaimed Mrs. Glegg, with severity, which had gathered
intensity from her long silence. "It drives me past patience to hear
you all talking o' best things, and buying in this, that, and the
other, such as silver and chany. You must bring your mind to your
circumstances, Bessy, and not be thinking o' silver and chany; but
whether you shall get so much as a flock-bed to lie on, and a blanket
to cover you, and a stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get
'em, it'll be because your friends have bought 'em for you, for you're
dependent upon _them_ for everything; for your husband lies there
helpless, and hasn't got a penny i' the world to call his own. And
it's for your own good I say this, for it's right you should feel what
your state is, and what disgrace your husband's brought on your own
family, as you've got to look to for everything, and be humble in your
mind."

Mrs. Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for the good of
others is naturally exhausting.

Mrs. Tulliver, always borne down by the family predominance of sister
Jane, who had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister in very
tender years, said pleadingly:

"I'm sure, sister, I've never asked anybody to do anything, only buy
things as it 'ud be a pleasure to 'em to have, so as they mightn't go
and be spoiled i' strange houses. I never asked anybody to buy the
things in for me and my children; though there's the linen I spun, and
I thought when Tom was born,--I thought one o' the first things when
he was lying i' the cradle, as all the things I'd bought wi' my own
money, and been so careful of, 'ud go to him. But I've said nothing as
I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my husband has
done for _his_ sister's unknown, and we should ha' been better off
this day if it hadn't been as he's lent money and never asked for it
again."

"Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, kindly, "don't let us make things too
dark. What's done can't be undone. We shall make a shift among us to
buy what's sufficient for you; though, as Mrs. G. says, they must be
useful, plain things. We mustn't be thinking o' what's unnecessary. A
table, and a chair or two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and
such-like. Why, I've seen the day when I shouldn't ha' known myself if
I'd lain on sacking i'stead o' the floor. We get a deal o' useless
things about us, only because we've got the money to spend."

"Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if you'll be kind enough to let me speak,
i'stead o' taking the words out o' my mouth,--I was going to say,
Bessy, as it's fine talking for you to say as you've never asked us to
buy anything for you; let me tell you, you _ought_ to have asked us.
Pray, how are you to be purvided for, if your own family don't help
you? You must go to the parish, if they didn't. And you ought to know
that, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we can for
you, i'stead o' saying, and making a boast, as you've never asked us
for anything."

"You talked o' the Mosses, and what Mr. Tulliver's done for 'em," said
uncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive where advances of money
were concerned. "Haven't _they_ been anear you? They ought to do
something as well as other folks; and if he's lent 'em money, they
ought to be made to pay it back."

"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Deane; "I've been thinking so. How is it
Mr. and Mrs. Moss aren't here to meet us? It is but right they should
do their share."

"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Tulliver, "I never sent 'em word about Mr.
Tulliver, and they live so back'ard among the lanes at Basset, they
niver hear anything only when Mr. Moss comes to market. But I niver
gave 'em a thought. I wonder Maggie didn't, though, for she was allays
so fond of her aunt Moss."

"Why don't your children come in, Bessy?" said Mrs. Pullet, at the
mention of Maggie. "They should hear what their aunts and uncles have
got to say; and Maggie,--when it's me as have paid for half her
schooling, she ought to think more of her aunt Pullet than of aunt
Moss. I may go off sudden when I get home to-day; there's no telling."

"If I'd had _my_ way," said Mrs. Glegg, "the children 'ud ha' been in
the room from the first. It's time they knew who they've to look to,
and it's right as _somebody_ should talk to 'em, and let 'em know
their condition i' life, and what they're come down to, and make 'em
feel as they've got to suffer for their father's faults."

"Well, I'll go and fetch 'em, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, resignedly.
She was quite crushed now, and thought of the treasures in the
storeroom with no other feeling than blank despair.

She went upstairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both in their
father's room, and was on her way down again, when the sight of the
storeroom door suggested a new thought to her. She went toward it, and
left the children to go down by themselves.

The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussion when the
brother and sister entered,--both with shrinking reluctance; for
though Tom, with a practical sagacity which had been roused into
activity by the strong stimulus of the new emotions he had undergone
since yesterday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which he
meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no means
amicably toward them, and dreaded meeting them all at once as he would
have dreaded a large dose of concentrated physic, which was but just
endurable in small draughts. As for Maggie, she was peculiarly
depressed this morning; she had been called up, after brief rest, at
three o'clock, and had that strange dreamy weariness which comes from
watching in a sick-room through the chill hours of early twilight and
breaking day,--in which the outside day-light life seems to have no
importance, and to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkened
chamber. Their entrance interrupted the conversation. The shaking of
hands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle Pullet
observed, as Tom approached him:

"Well, young sir, we've been talking as we should want your pen and
ink; you can write rarely now, after all your schooling, I should
think."

"Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind,
"we must look to see the good of all this schooling, as your father's
sunk so much money in, now,--

'When land is gone and money's spent,
Then learning is most excellent.'

Now's the time, Tom, to let us see the good o' your learning. Let us
see whether you can do better than I can, as have made my fortin
without it. But I began wi' doing with little, you see; I could live
on a basin o' porridge and a crust o' bread-and-cheese. But I doubt
high living and high learning 'ull make it harder for you, young man,
nor it was for me."

"But he must do it," interposed aunt Glegg, energetically, "whether
it's hard or no. He hasn't got to consider what's hard; he must
consider as he isn't to trusten to his friends to keep him in idleness
and luxury; he's got to bear the fruits of his father's misconduct,
and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must be
humble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what they're doing for
his mother and father, as must be turned out into the streets and go
to the workhouse if they didn't help 'em. And his sister, too,"
continued Mrs. Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on
the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the sense that she was
Lucy's mother, "she must make up her mind to be humble and work; for
there'll be no servants to wait on her any more,--she must remember
that. She must do the work o' the house, and she must respect and love
her aunts as have done so much for her, and saved their money to leave
to their nepheys and nieces."

Tom was still standing before the table in the centre of the group.
There was a heightened color in his face, and he was very far from
looking humbled, but he was preparing to say, in a respectful tone,
something he had previously meditated, when the door opened and his
mother re-entered.

Poor Mrs. Tulliver had in her hands a small tray, on which she had
placed her silver teapot, a specimen teacup and saucer, the castors,
and sugar-tongs.

"See here, sister," she said, looking at Mrs. Deane, as she set the
tray on the table, "I thought, perhaps, if you looked at the teapot
again,--it's a good while since you saw it,--you might like the
pattern better; it makes beautiful tea, and there's a stand and
everything; you might use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucy
when she goes to housekeeping. I should be so loath for 'em to buy it
at the Golden Lion," said the poor woman, her heart swelling, and the
tears coming,--"my teapot as I bought when I was married, and to think
of its being scratched, and set before the travellers and folks, and
my letters on it,--see here, E. D.,--and everybody to see 'em."

"Ah, dear, dear!" said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with deep
sadness, "it's very bad,--to think o' the family initials going about
everywhere--it niver was so before; you're a very unlucky sister,
Bessy. But what's the use o' buying the teapot, when there's the linen
and spoons and everything to go, and some of 'em with your full
name,--and when it's got that straight spout, too."

"As to disgrace o' the family," said Mrs. Glegg, "that can't be helped
wi' buying teapots. The disgrace is, for one o' the family to ha'
married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is, as
they're to be sold up. We can't hinder the country from knowing that."

Maggie had started up from the sofa at the allusion to her father, but
Tom saw her action and flushed face in time to prevent her from
speaking. "Be quiet, Maggie," he said authoritatively, pushing her
aside. It was a remarkable manifestation of self-command and practical
judgment in a lad of fifteen, that when his aunt Glegg ceased, he
began to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though with a good
deal of trembling in his voice; for his mother's words had cut him to
the quick.

"Then, aunt," he said, looking straight at Mrs. Glegg, "if you think
it's a disgrace to the family that we should be sold up, wouldn't it
be better to prevent it altogether? And if you and aunt Pullet," he
continued, looking at the latter, "think of leaving any money to me
and Maggie, wouldn't it be better to give it now, and pay the debt
we're going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with
her furniture?"

There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including Maggie,
was astonished at Tom's sudden manliness of tone. Uncle Glegg was the
first to speak.

"Ay, ay, young man, come now! You show some notion o' things. But
there's the interest, you must remember; your aunts get five per cent
on their money, and they'd lose that if they advanced it; you haven't
thought o' that."

"I could work and pay that every year," said Tom, promptly. "I'd do
anything to save my mother from parting with her things."

"Well done!" said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been drawing Tom
out, rather than reflecting on the practicability of his proposal. But
he had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife."

"Yes, Mr. Glegg!" said that lady, with angry sarcasm. "It's pleasant
work for you to be giving my money away, as you've pretended to leave
at my own disposal. And my money, as was my own father's gift, and not
yours, Mr. Glegg; and I've saved it, and added to it myself, and had
more to put out almost every year, and it's to go and be sunk in other
folks' furniture, and encourage 'em in luxury and extravagance as
they've no means of supporting; and I'm to alter my will, or have a
codicil made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me when I
die,--me as have allays done right and been careful, and the eldest o'
the family; and my money's to go and be squandered on them as have had
the same chance as me, only they've been wicked and wasteful. Sister
Pullet, _you_ may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you
back again o' the money he's given you, but that isn't _my_ sperrit."