The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Chapter VIII
Daylight on the Wreck
It was a clear frosty January day on which Mr. Tulliver first camedownstairs. The bright sun on the chestnut boughs and the roofsopposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would becaged up no longer; he thought everywhere would be more cheery underthis sunshine than his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the barenessbelow, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had anunfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the marks wherewell-known objects once had been. The impression on his mind that itwas but yesterday when he received the letter from Mr. Gore was socontinually implied in his talk, and the attempts to convey to him theidea that many weeks had passed and much had happened since then hadbeen so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr.Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts byprevious knowledge. The full sense of the present could only beimparted gradually by new experience,--not by mere words, which mustremain weaker than the impressions left by the _old_ experience. Thisresolution to come downstairs was heard with trembling by the wife andchildren. Mrs. Tulliver said Tom must not go to St. Ogg's at the usualhour, he must wait and see his father downstairs; and Tom complied,though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene. Thehearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during thelast few days. For Guest & Co. had not bought the mill; both mill andland had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been over the premises,and had laid before Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver'spresence, his willingness to employ Mr. Tulliver, in case of hisrecovery, as a manager of the business. This proposition hadoccasioned much family debating. Uncles and aunts were almostunanimously of opinion that such an offer ought not to be rejectedwhen there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr. Tulliver'smind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles shared it, was regarded asentirely unreasonable and childish,--indeed, as a transferring towardWakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr. Tulliver ought properlyto have directed against himself for his general quarrelsomeness, andhis special exhibition of it in going to law. Here was an opportunityfor Mr. Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without anyassistance from his wife's relations, and without that too evidentdescent into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable peopleto meet the degraded member of the family by the wayside. Mr.Tulliver, Mrs. Glegg considered, must be made to feel, when he came tohis right mind, that he could never humble himself enough; for _that_had come which she had always foreseen would come of his insolence intime past ”to them as were the best friends he'd got to look to.” MrGlegg and Mr. Deane were less stern in their views, but they both ofthem thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his hot-temperedcrotchets and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihoodwas offered him; Wakem showed a right feeling about the matter,--_he_had no grudge against Tulliver.
Tom had protested against entertaining the proposition. He shouldn'tlike his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would lookmean-spirited; but his mother's main distress was the utterimpossibility of ever ”turning Mr. Tulliver round about Wakem,” orgetting him to hear reason no, they would all have to go and live ina pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who spoke ”so as nobody could befairer.” Indeed, Mrs. Tulliver's mind was reduced to such confusion byliving in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against whichshe continually appealed by asking, ”Oh dear, what _have_ I done todeserve worse than other women?” that Maggie began to suspect her poormother's wits were quite going.
”Tom,” she said, when they were out of their father's room together,”we _must_ try to make father understand a little of what has happenedbefore he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She willsay something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keepher engaged with something in the kitchen.”
Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of stayingtill the master could get about again, ”wage or no wage,” she hadfound a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress,scolding her for ”moithering” herself, and going about all day withoutchanging her cap, and looking as if she was ”mushed.” Altogether, thistime of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she couldscold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasionthere were drying clothes to be fetched in; she wished to know if onepair of hands could do everything in-doors and out, and observed that_she_ should have thought it would be good for Mrs. Tulliver to put onher bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful pieceof work. Poor Mrs. Tulliver went submissively downstairs; to beordered about by a servant was the last remnant of her householddignities,--she would soon have no servant to scold her. Mr. Tulliverwas resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, andMaggie and Tom were seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if heshould help master downstairs.
”Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down,” said Mr. Tulliver pointing hisstick toward a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze whichconvalescent persons often have for those who have tended them,reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. For Luke hadbeen a constant night-watcher by his master's bed.
”How's the water now, eh, Luke?” said Mr. Tulliver. ”Dix hasn't beenchoking you up again, eh?”
”No, sir, it's all right.”
”Ay, I thought not; he won't be in a hurry at that again, now Riley'sbeen to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday--Isaid----”
Mr. Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armchair, andlooking on the ground as if in search of something, striving aftervanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie lookedat Tom in mute distress, their father's mind was so far off thepresent, which would by-and-by thrust itself on his wanderingconsciousness! Tom was almost ready to rush away, with that impatienceof painful emotion which makes one of the differences between youthand maiden, man and woman.
”Father,” said Maggie, laying her hand on his, ”don't you rememberthat Mr. Riley is dead?”
”Dead?” said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with astrange, examining glance.
”Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago. I remember hearing yousay you had to pay money for him; and he left his daughters badly off;one of them is under-teacher at Miss Firniss's, where I've been toschool, you know.”
”Ah?” said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But assoon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at _him_ with the sameinquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence ofthese two young people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the farpast, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces; they were notthose of the lad and the little wench who belonged to that past.
”It's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father,” saidTom. ”I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I wentto school at Mr. Stelling's. I've been at school there three years;don't you remember?”
Mr. Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlikeoutward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him fromexternal impressions.
”Ay, ay,” he said, after a minute or two, ”I've paid a deal o'money--I was determined my son should have a good eddication I'd nonemyself, and I've felt the miss of it. And he'll want no other fortin,that's what I say--if Wakem was to get the better of me again----”
The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moment's pausehe began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in hisside-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way,”Where have they put Gore's letter?”
It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for itbefore.
”You know what there is in the letter, father?” said Tom, as he gaveit to him.
”To be sure I do,” said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. ”What o' that?If Furley can't take to the property, somebody else can; there'splenty o' people in the world besides Furley. But it's hindering--mynot being well--go and tell 'em to get the horse in the gig, Luke; Ican get down to St. Ogg's well enough--Gore's expecting me.”
”No, dear father!” Maggie burst out entreatingly; ”it's a very longwhile since all that; you've been ill a great many weeks,--more thantwo months; everything is changed.”
Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startledgaze; the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing hadoften transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now withentire novelty.
”Yes, father,” said Tom, in answer to the gaze. ”You needn't troubleyour mind about business until you are quite well; everything issettled about that for the present,--about the mill and the land andthe debts.”
”What's settled, then?” said his father, angrily.
”Don't you take on too much bout it, sir,” said Luke. ”You'd ha' paidiverybody if you could,--that's what I said to Master Tom,--I saidyou'd ha' paid iverybody if you could.”
Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard-working men whoselives have been spent in servitude, that sense of natural fitness inrank which made his master's downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged,in his slow way, to say something that would express his share in thefamily sorrow; and these words, which he had used over and over againto Tom when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty poundsout of the children's money, were the most ready to his tongue. Theywere just the words to lay the most painful hold on his master'sbewildered mind.
”Paid everybody?” he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing,and his eye lighting up. ”Why--what--have they made me a _bankrupt?_”
”Oh, father, dear father!” said Maggie, who thought that terrible wordreally represented the fact; ”bear it well, because we love you; yourchildren will always love you. Tom will pay them all; he says he will,when he's a man.”
She felt her father beginning to tremble; his voice trembled too, ashe said, after a few moments:
”Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o'er.”
”But perhaps you will live to see me pay everybody, father,” said Tom,speaking with a great effort.
”Ah, my lad,” said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, ”but what'sbroke can never be whole again; it 'ud be your doing, not mine.” Thenlooking up at him, ”You're only sixteen; it's an up-hill fight foryou, but you mustn't throw it at your father; the raskills have beentoo many for him. I've given you a good eddication,--that'll startyou.”
Something in his throat half choked the last words; the flush, whichhad alarmed his children because it had so often preceded a recurrenceof paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous.Tom said nothing; he was still struggling against his inclination torush away. His father remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind didnot seem to be wandering again.
”Have they sold me up, then?” he said more calmly, as if he werepossessed simply by the desire to know what had happened.
”Everything is sold, father; but we don't know all about the mill andthe land yet,” said Tom, anxious to ward off any question leading tothe fact that Wakem was the purchaser.
”You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs,father,” said Maggie; ”but there's your chair and the bureau;_they're_ not gone.”
”Let us go; help me down, Luke,--I'll go and see everything,” said Mr.Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching out his other handtoward Luke.
”Ay, sir,” said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, ”you'll makeup your mind to't a bit better when you've seen iverything; you'll getused to't. That's what my mother says about her shortness o'breath,--she says she's made friends wi't now, though she foughtagain' it sore when it just come on.”
Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlor,where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed part of thegeneral shabbiness. She turned her father's chair, and pushed asidethe table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beatingheart to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advancedbefore him, carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on thehearth. Of those two young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixedpain, for Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if thesorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gavebreathing-space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that; hewould rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round ofheroic labors, than endure perpetual appeals to his pity, for evilsover which he can make no conquest.
Mr. Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and lookinground him at all the bare places, which for him were filled with theshadows of departed objects,--the daily companions of his life. Hisfaculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footingon this demonstration of the senses.
”Ah!” he said slowly, moving toward his chair, ”they've sold meup--they've sold me up.”
Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke left theroom, he looked round again.
”They've left the big Bible,” he said. ”It's got everything in,--whenI was born and married; bring it me, Tom.”
The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and whilehe was reading with slowly travelling eyes Mrs. Tulliver entered theroom, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already, andwith the great Bible before him.
”Ah,” he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, ”my motherwas Margaret Beaton she died when she was forty-seven,--hers wasn't along-lived family; we're our mother's children, Gritty and me are,--weshall go to our last bed before long.”
He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's birth andmarriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him; then hesuddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a sharp tone of alarm:
”They haven't come upo' Moss for the money as I lent him, have they?”
”No, father,” said Tom; ”the note was burnt.”
Mr. Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and presently said:
”Ah--Elizabeth Dodson--it's eighteen year since I married her----”
”Come next Ladyday,” said Mrs. Tulliver, going up to his side andlooking at the page.
Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face.
”Poor Bessy,” he said, ”you was a pretty lass then,--everybody saidso,--and I used to think you kept your good looks rarely. But you'resorely aged; don't you bear me ill-will--I meant to do well by you--wepromised one another for better or for worse----”
”But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this,” said poor Mrs.Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had come over her oflate; ”and my poor father gave me away--and to come on so all atonce----”
”Oh, mother!” said Maggie, ”don't talk in that way.”
”No, I know you won't let your poor mother speak--that's been the wayall my life--your father never minded what I said--it 'ud have been o'no use for me to beg and pray--and it 'ud be no use now, not if I wasto go down o' my hands and knees----”
”Don't say so, Bessy,” said Mr. Tulliver, whose pride, in these firstmoments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the sense of some justicein his wife's reproach. ”It there's anything left as I could do tomake you amends, I wouldn't say you nay.”
”Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might keep among myown sisters,--and me been such a good wife to you, and never crossedyou from week's end to week's end--and they all say so--they say it'ud be nothing but right, only you're so turned against Wakem.”
”Mother,” said Tom, severely, ”this is not the time to talk aboutthat.”
”Let her be,” said Mr. Tulliver. ”Say what you mean, Bessy.”
”Why, now the mill and the land's all Wakem's, and he's got everythingin his hands, what's the use o' setting your face against him, when hesays you may stay here, and speaks as fair as can be, and says you maymanage the business, and have thirty shillings a-week, and a horse toride about to market? And where have we got to put our heads? We mustgo into one o' the cottages in the village,--and me and my childrenbrought down to that,--and all because you must set your mind againstfolks till there's no turning you.”
Mr. Tulliver had sunk back in his chair trembling.
”You may do as you like wi' me, Bessy,” he said, in a low voice; ”I'vebeen the bringing of you to poverty--this world's too many for me--I'mnought but a bankrupt; it's no use standing up for anything now.”
”Father,” said Tom, ”I don't agree with my mother or my uncles, and Idon't think you ought to submit to be under Wakem. I get a pounda-week now, and you can find something else to do when you get well.”
”Say no more, Tom, say no more; I've had enough for this day. Give mea kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no ill-will; we shall neverbe young again--this world's been too many for me.”
Daylight on the Wreck
It was a clear frosty January day on which Mr. Tulliver first camedownstairs. The bright sun on the chestnut boughs and the roofsopposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would becaged up no longer; he thought everywhere would be more cheery underthis sunshine than his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the barenessbelow, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had anunfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the marks wherewell-known objects once had been. The impression on his mind that itwas but yesterday when he received the letter from Mr. Gore was socontinually implied in his talk, and the attempts to convey to him theidea that many weeks had passed and much had happened since then hadbeen so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr.Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts byprevious knowledge. The full sense of the present could only beimparted gradually by new experience,--not by mere words, which mustremain weaker than the impressions left by the _old_ experience. Thisresolution to come downstairs was heard with trembling by the wife andchildren. Mrs. Tulliver said Tom must not go to St. Ogg's at the usualhour, he must wait and see his father downstairs; and Tom complied,though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene. Thehearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during thelast few days. For Guest & Co. had not bought the mill; both mill andland had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been over the premises,and had laid before Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver'spresence, his willingness to employ Mr. Tulliver, in case of hisrecovery, as a manager of the business. This proposition hadoccasioned much family debating. Uncles and aunts were almostunanimously of opinion that such an offer ought not to be rejectedwhen there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr. Tulliver'smind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles shared it, was regarded asentirely unreasonable and childish,--indeed, as a transferring towardWakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr. Tulliver ought properlyto have directed against himself for his general quarrelsomeness, andhis special exhibition of it in going to law. Here was an opportunityfor Mr. Tulliver to provide for his wife and daughter without anyassistance from his wife's relations, and without that too evidentdescent into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable peopleto meet the degraded member of the family by the wayside. Mr.Tulliver, Mrs. Glegg considered, must be made to feel, when he came tohis right mind, that he could never humble himself enough; for _that_had come which she had always foreseen would come of his insolence intime past ”to them as were the best friends he'd got to look to.” MrGlegg and Mr. Deane were less stern in their views, but they both ofthem thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his hot-temperedcrotchets and ought to put them out of the question when a livelihoodwas offered him; Wakem showed a right feeling about the matter,--_he_had no grudge against Tulliver.
Tom had protested against entertaining the proposition. He shouldn'tlike his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would lookmean-spirited; but his mother's main distress was the utterimpossibility of ever ”turning Mr. Tulliver round about Wakem,” orgetting him to hear reason no, they would all have to go and live ina pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who spoke ”so as nobody could befairer.” Indeed, Mrs. Tulliver's mind was reduced to such confusion byliving in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against whichshe continually appealed by asking, ”Oh dear, what _have_ I done todeserve worse than other women?” that Maggie began to suspect her poormother's wits were quite going.
”Tom,” she said, when they were out of their father's room together,”we _must_ try to make father understand a little of what has happenedbefore he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She willsay something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keepher engaged with something in the kitchen.”
Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of stayingtill the master could get about again, ”wage or no wage,” she hadfound a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress,scolding her for ”moithering” herself, and going about all day withoutchanging her cap, and looking as if she was ”mushed.” Altogether, thistime of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she couldscold her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasionthere were drying clothes to be fetched in; she wished to know if onepair of hands could do everything in-doors and out, and observed that_she_ should have thought it would be good for Mrs. Tulliver to put onher bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful pieceof work. Poor Mrs. Tulliver went submissively downstairs; to beordered about by a servant was the last remnant of her householddignities,--she would soon have no servant to scold her. Mr. Tulliverwas resting in his chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, andMaggie and Tom were seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if heshould help master downstairs.
”Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down,” said Mr. Tulliver pointing hisstick toward a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze whichconvalescent persons often have for those who have tended them,reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. For Luke hadbeen a constant night-watcher by his master's bed.
”How's the water now, eh, Luke?” said Mr. Tulliver. ”Dix hasn't beenchoking you up again, eh?”
”No, sir, it's all right.”
”Ay, I thought not; he won't be in a hurry at that again, now Riley'sbeen to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday--Isaid----”
Mr. Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armchair, andlooking on the ground as if in search of something, striving aftervanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie lookedat Tom in mute distress, their father's mind was so far off thepresent, which would by-and-by thrust itself on his wanderingconsciousness! Tom was almost ready to rush away, with that impatienceof painful emotion which makes one of the differences between youthand maiden, man and woman.
”Father,” said Maggie, laying her hand on his, ”don't you rememberthat Mr. Riley is dead?”
”Dead?” said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with astrange, examining glance.
”Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago. I remember hearing yousay you had to pay money for him; and he left his daughters badly off;one of them is under-teacher at Miss Firniss's, where I've been toschool, you know.”
”Ah?” said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But assoon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at _him_ with the sameinquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence ofthese two young people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the farpast, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces; they were notthose of the lad and the little wench who belonged to that past.
”It's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father,” saidTom. ”I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I wentto school at Mr. Stelling's. I've been at school there three years;don't you remember?”
Mr. Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlikeoutward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him fromexternal impressions.
”Ay, ay,” he said, after a minute or two, ”I've paid a deal o'money--I was determined my son should have a good eddication I'd nonemyself, and I've felt the miss of it. And he'll want no other fortin,that's what I say--if Wakem was to get the better of me again----”
The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moment's pausehe began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in hisside-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way,”Where have they put Gore's letter?”
It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for itbefore.
”You know what there is in the letter, father?” said Tom, as he gaveit to him.
”To be sure I do,” said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. ”What o' that?If Furley can't take to the property, somebody else can; there'splenty o' people in the world besides Furley. But it's hindering--mynot being well--go and tell 'em to get the horse in the gig, Luke; Ican get down to St. Ogg's well enough--Gore's expecting me.”
”No, dear father!” Maggie burst out entreatingly; ”it's a very longwhile since all that; you've been ill a great many weeks,--more thantwo months; everything is changed.”
Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startledgaze; the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing hadoften transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now withentire novelty.
”Yes, father,” said Tom, in answer to the gaze. ”You needn't troubleyour mind about business until you are quite well; everything issettled about that for the present,--about the mill and the land andthe debts.”
”What's settled, then?” said his father, angrily.
”Don't you take on too much bout it, sir,” said Luke. ”You'd ha' paidiverybody if you could,--that's what I said to Master Tom,--I saidyou'd ha' paid iverybody if you could.”
Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard-working men whoselives have been spent in servitude, that sense of natural fitness inrank which made his master's downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged,in his slow way, to say something that would express his share in thefamily sorrow; and these words, which he had used over and over againto Tom when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty poundsout of the children's money, were the most ready to his tongue. Theywere just the words to lay the most painful hold on his master'sbewildered mind.
”Paid everybody?” he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing,and his eye lighting up. ”Why--what--have they made me a _bankrupt?_”
”Oh, father, dear father!” said Maggie, who thought that terrible wordreally represented the fact; ”bear it well, because we love you; yourchildren will always love you. Tom will pay them all; he says he will,when he's a man.”
She felt her father beginning to tremble; his voice trembled too, ashe said, after a few moments:
”Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o'er.”
”But perhaps you will live to see me pay everybody, father,” said Tom,speaking with a great effort.
”Ah, my lad,” said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, ”but what'sbroke can never be whole again; it 'ud be your doing, not mine.” Thenlooking up at him, ”You're only sixteen; it's an up-hill fight foryou, but you mustn't throw it at your father; the raskills have beentoo many for him. I've given you a good eddication,--that'll startyou.”
Something in his throat half choked the last words; the flush, whichhad alarmed his children because it had so often preceded a recurrenceof paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous.Tom said nothing; he was still struggling against his inclination torush away. His father remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind didnot seem to be wandering again.
”Have they sold me up, then?” he said more calmly, as if he werepossessed simply by the desire to know what had happened.
”Everything is sold, father; but we don't know all about the mill andthe land yet,” said Tom, anxious to ward off any question leading tothe fact that Wakem was the purchaser.
”You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs,father,” said Maggie; ”but there's your chair and the bureau;_they're_ not gone.”
”Let us go; help me down, Luke,--I'll go and see everything,” said Mr.Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching out his other handtoward Luke.
”Ay, sir,” said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, ”you'll makeup your mind to't a bit better when you've seen iverything; you'll getused to't. That's what my mother says about her shortness o'breath,--she says she's made friends wi't now, though she foughtagain' it sore when it just come on.”
Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlor,where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed part of thegeneral shabbiness. She turned her father's chair, and pushed asidethe table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beatingheart to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advancedbefore him, carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on thehearth. Of those two young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixedpain, for Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if thesorrow made larger room for her love to flow in, and gavebreathing-space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that; hewould rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round ofheroic labors, than endure perpetual appeals to his pity, for evilsover which he can make no conquest.
Mr. Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and lookinground him at all the bare places, which for him were filled with theshadows of departed objects,--the daily companions of his life. Hisfaculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footingon this demonstration of the senses.
”Ah!” he said slowly, moving toward his chair, ”they've sold meup--they've sold me up.”
Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke left theroom, he looked round again.
”They've left the big Bible,” he said. ”It's got everything in,--whenI was born and married; bring it me, Tom.”
The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and whilehe was reading with slowly travelling eyes Mrs. Tulliver entered theroom, but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already, andwith the great Bible before him.
”Ah,” he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, ”my motherwas Margaret Beaton she died when she was forty-seven,--hers wasn't along-lived family; we're our mother's children, Gritty and me are,--weshall go to our last bed before long.”
He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's birth andmarriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him; then hesuddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a sharp tone of alarm:
”They haven't come upo' Moss for the money as I lent him, have they?”
”No, father,” said Tom; ”the note was burnt.”
Mr. Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and presently said:
”Ah--Elizabeth Dodson--it's eighteen year since I married her----”
”Come next Ladyday,” said Mrs. Tulliver, going up to his side andlooking at the page.
Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face.
”Poor Bessy,” he said, ”you was a pretty lass then,--everybody saidso,--and I used to think you kept your good looks rarely. But you'resorely aged; don't you bear me ill-will--I meant to do well by you--wepromised one another for better or for worse----”
”But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this,” said poor Mrs.Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had come over her oflate; ”and my poor father gave me away--and to come on so all atonce----”
”Oh, mother!” said Maggie, ”don't talk in that way.”
”No, I know you won't let your poor mother speak--that's been the wayall my life--your father never minded what I said--it 'ud have been o'no use for me to beg and pray--and it 'ud be no use now, not if I wasto go down o' my hands and knees----”
”Don't say so, Bessy,” said Mr. Tulliver, whose pride, in these firstmoments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the sense of some justicein his wife's reproach. ”It there's anything left as I could do tomake you amends, I wouldn't say you nay.”
”Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might keep among myown sisters,--and me been such a good wife to you, and never crossedyou from week's end to week's end--and they all say so--they say it'ud be nothing but right, only you're so turned against Wakem.”
”Mother,” said Tom, severely, ”this is not the time to talk aboutthat.”
”Let her be,” said Mr. Tulliver. ”Say what you mean, Bessy.”
”Why, now the mill and the land's all Wakem's, and he's got everythingin his hands, what's the use o' setting your face against him, when hesays you may stay here, and speaks as fair as can be, and says you maymanage the business, and have thirty shillings a-week, and a horse toride about to market? And where have we got to put our heads? We mustgo into one o' the cottages in the village,--and me and my childrenbrought down to that,--and all because you must set your mind againstfolks till there's no turning you.”
Mr. Tulliver had sunk back in his chair trembling.
”You may do as you like wi' me, Bessy,” he said, in a low voice; ”I'vebeen the bringing of you to poverty--this world's too many for me--I'mnought but a bankrupt; it's no use standing up for anything now.”
”Father,” said Tom, ”I don't agree with my mother or my uncles, and Idon't think you ought to submit to be under Wakem. I get a pounda-week now, and you can find something else to do when you get well.”
”Say no more, Tom, say no more; I've had enough for this day. Give mea kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no ill-will; we shall neverbe young again--this world's been too many for me.”