Books: The Mill on the Floss

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"La, Jane, how fiery you are!" said Mrs. Pullet. "I'm sure you'll have
the blood in your head, and have to be cupped. I'm sorry for Bessy and
her children,--I'm sure I think of 'em o' nights dreadful, for I sleep
very bad wi' this new medicine,--but it's no use for me to think o'
doing anything, if you won't meet me half-way."

"Why, there's this to be considered," said Mr. Glegg. "It's no use to
pay off this debt and save the furniture, when there's all the law
debts behind, as 'ud take every shilling, and more than could be made
out o' land and stock, for I've made that out from Lawyer Gore. We'd
need save our money to keep the poor man with, instead o' spending it
on furniture as he can neither eat nor drink. You _will_ be so hasty,
Jane, as if I didn't know what was reasonable."

"Then speak accordingly, Mr. Glegg!" said his wife, with slow, loud
emphasis, bending her head toward him significantly.

Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and his lip
quivered; but he was determined not to give way. He would behave like
a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after her momentary delight in Tom's
speech, had relapsed into her state of trembling indignation. Her
mother had been standing close by Tom's side, and had been clinging to
his arm ever since he had last spoken; Maggie suddenly started up and
stood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a young
lioness.

"Why do you come, then," she burst out, "talking and interfering with
us and scolding us, if you don't mean to do anything to help my poor
mother--your own sister,--if you've no feeling for her when she's in
trouble, and won't part with anything, though you would never miss it,
to save her from pain? Keep away from us then, and don't come to find
fault with my father,--he was better than any of you; he was kind,--he
would have helped _you_, if you had been in trouble. Tom and I don't
ever want to have any of your money, if you won't help my mother. We'd
rather not have it! We'll do without you."

Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in this way,
stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, as if she were
ready to await all consequences.

Mrs. Tulliver was frightened; there was something portentous in this
mad outbreak; she did not see how life could go on after it. Tom was
vexed; it was no _use_ to talk so. The aunts were silent with surprise
for some moments. At length, in a case of aberration such as this,
comment presented itself as more expedient than any answer.

"You haven't seen the end o' your trouble wi' that child, Bessy," said
Mrs. Pullet; "she's beyond everything for boldness and unthankfulness.
It's dreadful. I might ha' let alone paying for her schooling, for
she's worse nor ever."

"It's no more than what I've allays said," followed Mrs. Glegg. "Other
folks may be surprised, but I'm not. I've said over and over
again,--years ago I've said,--'Mark my words; that child 'ull come to
no good; there isn't a bit of our family in her.' And as for her
having so much schooling, I never thought well o' that. I'd my reasons
when I said _I_ wouldn't pay anything toward it."

"Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, "let's waste no more time in
talking,--let's go to business. Tom, now, get the pen and ink----"

While Mr. Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen hurrying
past the window.

"Why, there's Mrs. Moss," said Mrs. Tulliver. "The bad news must ha'
reached her, then"; and she went out to open the door, Maggie eagerly
following her.

"That's fortunate," said Mrs. Glegg. "She can agree to the list o'
things to be bought in. It's but right she should do her share when
it's her own brother."

Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tulliver's
movement, as she drew her into the parlor automatically, without
reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among so many persons
in the first painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, dark-haired
woman was a strong contrast to the Dodson sisters as she entered in
her shabby dress, with her shawl and bonnet looking as if they had
been hastily huddled on, and with that entire absence of
self-consciousness which belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie was
clinging to her arm; and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else except
Tom, whom she went straight up to and took by the hand.

"Oh, my dear children," she burst out, "you've no call to think well
o' me; I'm a poor aunt to you, for I'm one o' them as take all and
give nothing. How's my poor brother?"

"Mr. Turnbull thinks he'll get better," said Maggie. "Sit down, aunt
Gritty. Don't fret."

"Oh, my sweet child, I feel torn i' two," said Mrs. Moss, allowing
Maggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming to notice the
presence of the rest. "We've three hundred pounds o' my brother's
money, and now he wants it, and you all want it, poor things!--and yet
we must be sold up to pay it, and there's my poor children,--eight of
'em, and the little un of all can't speak plain. And I feel as if I
was a robber. But I'm sure I'd no thought as my brother----"

The poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob.

"Three hundred pounds! oh dear, dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, who, when
she had said that her husband had done "unknown" things for his
sister, had not had any particular sum in her mind, and felt a wife's
irritation at having been kept in the dark.

"What madness, to be sure!" said Mrs. Glegg. "A man with a family!
He'd no right to lend his money i' that way; and without security,
I'll be bound, if the truth was known."

Mrs. Glegg's voice had arrested Mrs. Moss's attention, and looking up,
she said:

"Yes, there _was_ security; my husband gave a note for it. We're not
that sort o' people, neither of us, as 'ud rob my brother's children;
and we looked to paying back the money, when the times got a bit
better."

"Well, but now," said Mr. Glegg, gently, "hasn't your husband no way
o' raising this money? Because it 'ud be a little fortin, like, for
these folks, if we can do without Tulliver's being made a bankrupt.
Your husband's got stock; it is but right he should raise the money,
as it seems to me,--not but what I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Moss."

"Oh, sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband's had with his
stock. The farm's suffering so as never was for want o' stock; and
we've sold all the wheat, and we're behind with our rent,--not but
what we'd like to do what's right, and I'd sit up and work half the
night, if it 'ud be any good; but there's them poor children,--four of
'em such little uns----"

"Don't cry so, aunt; don't fret," whispered Maggie, who had kept hold
of Mrs. Moss's hand.

"Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once?" said Mrs.
Tulliver, still lost in the conception of things which had been "going
on" without her knowledge.

"No; at twice," said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes and making an effort
to restrain her tears. "The last was after my bad illness four years
ago, as everything went wrong, and there was a new note made then.
What with illness and bad luck, I've been nothing but cumber all my
life."

"Yes, Mrs. Moss," said Mrs. Glegg, with decision, "yours is a very
unlucky family; the more's the pity for _my_ sister."

"I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o' what had happened,"
said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. "I should never ha' stayed
away all this while, if you'd thought well to let me know. And it
isn't as I'm thinking all about ourselves, and nothing about my
brother, only the money was so on my mind, I couldn't help speaking
about it. And my husband and me desire to do the right thing, sir,"
she added, looking at Mr. Glegg, "and we'll make shift and pay the
money, come what will, if that's all my brother's got to trust to.
We've been used to trouble, and don't look for much else. It's only
the thought o' my poor children pulls me i' two."

"Why, there's this to be thought on, Mrs. Moss," said Mr. Glegg, "and
it's right to warn you,--if Tulliver's made a bankrupt, and he's got a
note-of-hand of your husband's for three hundred pounds, you'll be
obliged to pay it; th' assignees 'ull come on you for it."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the bankruptcy,
and not of Mrs. Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs. Moss herself listened
in trembling submission, while Maggie looked with bewildered distress
at Tom to see if _he_ showed any signs of understanding this trouble,
and caring about poor aunt Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful, with
his eyes on the tablecloth.

"And if he isn't made bankrupt," continued Mr. Glegg, "as I said
before, three hundred pounds 'ud be a little fortin for him, poor man.
We don't know but what he may be partly helpless, if he ever gets up
again. I'm very sorry if it goes hard with you, Mrs. Moss, but my
opinion is, looking at it one way, it'll be right for you to raise the
money; and looking at it th' other way, you'll be obliged to pay it.
You won't think ill o' me for speaking the truth."

"Uncle," said Tom, looking up suddenly from his meditative view of the
tablecloth, "I don't think it would be right for my aunt Moss to pay
the money if it would be against my father's will for her to pay it;
would it?"

Mr. Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before he said: "Why,
no, perhaps not, Tom; but then he'd ha' destroyed the note, you know.
We must look for the note. What makes you think it 'ud be against his
will?"

"Why," said Tom, coloring, but trying to speak firmly, in spite of a
boyish tremor, "I remember quite well, before I went to school to Mr.
Stelling, my father said to me one night, when we were sitting by the
fire together, and no one else was in the room----"

Tom hesitated a little, and then went on.

"He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said: 'I've always
been good to my sister, though she married against my will, and I've
lent Moss money; but I shall never think of distressing him to pay it;
I'd rather lose it. My children must not mind being the poorer for
that.' And now my father's ill, and not able to speak for himself, I
shouldn't like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me."

"Well, but then, my boy," said Uncle Glegg, whose good feeling led him
to enter into Tom's wish, but who could not at once shake off his
habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities, or
alienating anything important enough to make an appreciable difference
in a man's property, "we should have to make away wi' the note, you
know, if we're to guard against what may happen, supposing your
father's made bankrupt----"

"Mr. Glegg," interrupted his wife, severely, "mind what you're saying.
You're putting yourself very forrard in other folks's business. If you
speak rash, don't say it was my fault."

"That's such a thing as I never heared of before," said uncle Pullet,
who had been making haste with his lozenge in order to express his
amazement,--"making away with a note! I should think anybody could set
the constable on you for it."

"Well, but," said Mrs. Tulliver, "if the note's worth all that money,
why can't we pay it away, and save my things from going away? We've no
call to meddle with your uncle and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your
father 'ud be angry when he gets well."

Mrs. Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange, and was
straining her mind after original ideas on the subject.

"Pooh, pooh, pooh! you women don't understand these things," said
uncle Glegg. "There's no way o' making it safe for Mr. and Mrs. Moss
but destroying the note."

"Then I hope you'll help me do it, uncle," said Tom, earnestly. "If my
father shouldn't get well, I should be very unhappy to think anything
had been done against his will that I could hinder. And I'm sure he
meant me to remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my
father's wish about his property."

Even Mrs. Glegg could not withhold her approval from Tom's words; she
felt that the Dodson blood was certainly speaking in him, though, if
his father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wicked
alienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from
leaping on Tom's neck, if her aunt Moss had not prevented her by
herself rising and taking Tom's hand, while she said, with rather a
choked voice:

"You'll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there's a God
above; and if the money's wanted for your father, Moss and me 'ull pay
it, the same as if there was ever such security. We'll do as we'd be
done by; for if my children have got no other luck, they've got an
honest father and mother."

"Well," said Mr. Glegg, who had been meditating after Tom's words, "we
shouldn't be doing any wrong by the creditors, supposing your father
_was_ bankrupt. I've been thinking o' that, for I've been a creditor
myself, and seen no end o' cheating. If he meant to give your aunt the
money before ever he got into this sad work o' lawing, it's the same
as if he'd made away with the note himself; for he'd made up his mind
to be that much poorer. But there's a deal o' things to be considered,
young man," Mr. Glegg added, looking admonishingly at Tom, "when you
come to money business, and you may be taking one man's dinner away to
make another man's breakfast. You don't understand that, I doubt?"

"Yes, I do," said Tom, decidedly. "I know if I owe money to one man,
I've no right to give it to another. But if my father had made up his
mind to give my aunt the money before he was in debt, he had a right
to do it."

"Well done, young man! I didn't think you'd been so sharp," said uncle
Glegg, with much candor. "But perhaps your father _did_ make away with
the note. Let us go and see if we can find it in the chest."

"It's in my father's room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty," whispered
Maggie.

Chapter IV

A Vanishing Gleam

Mr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had
recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his
horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and
entrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He
had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie
told her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice
of them.

They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the head
of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her
hand on her father's without causing any change in his face.

Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy
selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had
brought from his father's bureau. They succeeded in opening the
chest,--which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver's bed,--and
propping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise.

"There's a tin box," whispered Mr. Glegg; "he'd most like put a small
thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I'll just lift up
these deeds,--they're the deeds o' the house and mill, I suppose,--and
see what there is under 'em."

Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn
back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell
with a loud bang that resounded over the house.

Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of
the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the
frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the
obstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his
father's father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to
visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a
particular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized
voice to us,--a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been
used to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes
in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the
chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, and Tom holding the tin
box, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition.

"What are you going to do with those deeds?" he said, in his ordinary
tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. "Come here, Tom.
What do you do, going to my chest?"

Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had
recognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father
continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr.
Glegg and the deeds.

"What's been happening, then?" he said sharply. "What are you meddling
with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don't you
tell me what you've been a-doing?" he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg
advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking.

"No, no, friend Tulliver," said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone.
"Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and
see what was in the chest. You've been ill, you know, and we've had to
look after things a bit. But let's hope you'll soon be well enough to
attend to everything yourself."

Mr. Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr. Glegg, and
at Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by
his side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw his
sister.

"Eh, Gritty!" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which he
had been wont to speak to her. "What! you're there, are you? How could
you manage to leave the children?"

"Oh, brother!" said good Mrs. Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, "I'm
thankful I'm come now to see you yourself again; I thought you'd never
know us any more."

"What! have I had a stroke?" said Mr. Tulliver, anxiously, looking at
Mr. Glegg.

"A fall from your horse--shook you a bit,--that's all, I think," said
Mr. Glegg. "But you'll soon get over it, let's hope."

Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silent
for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked
up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, "You got the letter,
then, my wench?"

"Yes, father," she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if
her father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning to
show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.

"Where's your mother?" he said, so preoccupied that he received the
kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it.

"She's downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?"

"Ay, ay; poor Bessy!" and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left
the room.

"You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, Tom. You'll
be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And
mind,--there's fifty pound o' Luke's as I put into the business,--he
gave me a bit at a time, and he's got nothing to show for it. You must
pay him first thing."

Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned
than ever, but Tom said firmly:

"Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss for three
hundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done
about it, father?"

"Ah! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad," said Mr. Tulliver. "I
allays meant to be easy about that money, because o' your aunt. You
mustn't mind losing the money, if they can't pay it,--and it's like
enough they can't. The note's in that box, mind! I allays meant to be
good to you, Gritty," said Mr. Tulliver, turning to his sister; "but
you know you aggravated me when you would have Moss."

At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in much
agitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again.

"Well, Bessy," he said, as she kissed him, "you must forgive me if
you're worse off than you ever expected to be. But it's the fault o'
the law,--it's none o' mine," he added angrily. "It's the fault o'
raskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you've got the chance, you make
Wakem smart. If you don't, you're a good-for-nothing son. You might
horse-whip him, but he'd set the law on you,--the law's made to take
care o' raskills."

Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his
face. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was prevented
by Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his wife. "They'll make a shift to
pay everything, Bessy," he said, "and yet leave you your furniture;
and your sisters'll do something for you--and Tom'll grow up--though
what he's to be I don't know--I've done what I could--I've given him a
eddication--and there's the little wench, she'll get married--but it's
a poor tale----"

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with
the last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Though
this was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all
present as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the
completeness of the revival, but because his words had all had
reference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor
Tulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under
thickening shadows.

Mr. Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he said
this complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign,
proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate
recovery.

Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up,
he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit up
prominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his
humiliation unlearned.

But Tom was clear upon two points,--that his uncle Moss's note must be
destroyed; and that Luke's money must be paid, if in no other way, out
of his own and Maggie's money now in the savings bank. There were
subjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on the
niceties of classical construction, or the relations of a mathematical
demonstration.

Chapter V

Tom Applies His Knife to the Oyster

The next day, at ten o'clock, Tom was on his way to St. Ogg's, to see
his uncle Deane, who was to come home last night, his aunt had said;
and Tom had made up his mind that his uncle Deane was the right person
to ask for advice about getting some employment. He was in a great way
of business; he had not the narrow notions of uncle Glegg; and he had
risen in the world on a scale of advancement which accorded with Tom's
ambition.

It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain,--one of
those mornings when even happy people take refuge in their hopes. And
Tom was very unhappy; he felt the humiliation as well as the
prospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proud
nature; and with all his resolute dutifulness toward his father there
mingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortune
the less endurable aspect of a wrong. Since these were the
consequences of going to law, his father was really blamable, as his
aunts and uncles had always said he was; and it was a significant
indication of Tom's character, that though he thought his aunts ought
to do something more for his mother, he felt nothing like Maggie's
violent resentment against them for showing no eager tenderness and
generosity. There were no impulses in Tom that led him to expect what
did not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why should
people give away their money plentifully to those who had not taken
care of their own money? Tom saw some justice in severity; and all the
more, because he had confidence in himself that he should never
deserve that just severity. It was very hard upon him that he should
be put at this disadvantage in life by his father's want of prudence;
but he was not going to complain and to find fault with people because
they did not make everything easy for him. He would ask no one to help
him, more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom was not
without his hopes to take refuge in under the chill damp imprisonment
of the December fog, which seemed only like a part of his home
troubles. At sixteen, the mind that has the strongest affinity for
fact cannot escape illusion and self-flattery; and Tom, in sketching
his future, had no other guide in arranging his facts than the
suggestions of his own brave self-reliance. Both Mr. Glegg and Mr.
Deane, he knew, had been very poor once; he did not want to save money
slowly and retire on a moderate fortune like his uncle Glegg, but he
would be like his uncle Deane--get a situation in some great house of
business and rise fast. He had scarcely seen anything of his uncle
Deane for the last three years--the two families had been getting
wider apart; but for this very reason Tom was the more hopeful about
applying to him. His uncle Glegg, he felt sure, would never encourage
any spirited project, but he had a vague imposing idea of the
resources at his uncle Deane's command. He had heard his father say,
long ago, how Deane had made himself so valuable to Guest & Co. that
they were glad enough to offer him a share in the business; that was
what Tom resolved _he_ would do. It was intolerable to think of being
poor and looked down upon all one's life. He would provide for his
mother and sister, and make every one say that he was a man of high
character. He leaped over the years in this way, and, in the haste of
strong purpose and strong desire, did not see how they would be made
up of slow days, hours, and minutes.