The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
Chapter VI
The Hard-Won Triumph
Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment inall the year,--the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deepand daisied,--Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in theevening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the olddeep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which alwaysseemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and thehearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light inTom's blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold inhis brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to implya strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when theeyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomesquicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compressionwhich is meant to forbid a smile.
The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then,and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence,--Mr. Tulliverin his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a wornlook, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing whileher mother was making the tea.
They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot.
”Why, what's up now, Tom?” said his father. ”You're a bit earlier thanusual.”
”Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well,mother!”
Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humorwith him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie inall the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at homeprevented this from being noticeable to their parents.
”Father,” said Tom, when they had finished tea, ”do you know exactlyhow much money there is in the tin box?”
”Only a hundred and ninety-three pound,” said Mr. Tulliver. ”You'vebrought less o' late; but young fellows like to have their own waywith their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before _I_ was ofage.” He spoke with rather timid discontent.
”Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?” said Tom. ”I wish youwould take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you haveperhaps made a mistake.”
”How should I make a mistake?” said his father, sharply. ”I've countedit often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won't believe me.”
It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, tofetch the tin box and count the money.
”Don't go out of the room, mother,” said Tom, as he saw her movingwhen his father was gone upstairs.
”And isn't Maggie to go?” said Mrs. Tulliver; ”because somebody musttake away the things.”
”Just as she likes,” said Tom indifferently.
That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with thesudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debtscould be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news wastold! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. Thefeeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at thatmoment.
Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin boxwas set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on themmade conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and thesuppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The motherand Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blankpatience, the other in palpitating expectation.
Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table,and then said, glancing sharply at Tom:
”There now! you see I was right enough.”
He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency.
”There's more nor three hundred wanting; it'll be a fine while before_I_ can save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi' the corn was a sorejob. This world's been too many for me. It's took four year to lay_this_ by; it's much if I'm above ground for another four year. I musttrusten to you to pay 'em,” he went on, with a trembling voice, ”ifyou keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age. But you're likeenough to bury me first.”
He looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for some assurance.
”No, father,” said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though therewas tremor discernible in his voice too, ”you will live to see thedebts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.”
His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. Aslight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr. Tulliver, and he kepthis eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie,unable to restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt downby him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on.
”A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to tradewith, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds inthe bank.”
His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words wereuttered, and she said, half crying:
”Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, when you got aman.”
But his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power ofspeech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock ofjoy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. Thebroad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and thegray-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping graduallysubsided, and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of hisbreathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentletone:
”Bessy, you must come and kiss me now--the lad has made you amends.You'll see a bit o' comfort again, belike.”
When she had kissed him, and he had held her hand a minute, histhoughts went back to the money.
”I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom,” he said,fingering the sovereigns on the table; ”I should ha' felt surer.”
”You shall see it to-morrow, father,” said Tom. ”My uncle Deane hasappointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and hehas ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and hewill both be there. It was advertised in the 'Messenger' on Saturday.”
”Then Wakem knows on't!” said Mr. Tulliver, his eye kindling withtriumphant fire. ”Ah!” he went on, with a long-drawn gutturalenunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had lefthimself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance.”I'll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the oldmill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here--but I can't----we'vegot a glass o' nothing in the house, have we, Bessy?”
”Yes,” said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced bunch of keys,”there's some brandy sister Deane brought me when I was ill.”
”Get it me, then; get it me. I feel a bit weak.”
”Tom, my lad,” he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken somebrandy-and-water, ”you shall make a speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it'syou as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last,and ha' got an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have ason like mine,--a fine straight fellow,--i'stead o' that poor crookedcreatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the daywhen Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll likeenough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was beforeyou,--you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing tohinder your getting rich. And if ever you're rich enough--mindthis--try and get th' old mill again.”
Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had solong been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding,suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune.But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the goodfortune as happening to himself.
”Shake hands wi' me, my lad,” he said, suddenly putting out his hand.”It's a great thing when a man can be proud as he's got a good son.I've had _that_ luck.”
Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that; andMaggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good;and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of trueadmiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon inher had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousythis evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown intothe background in her father's mind.
There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wantedto hear all the particulars of Tom's trading adventures, and helistened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to knowwhat had been said on every occasion if possible, what had beenthought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiaroutbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of thatremarkable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had comeunder Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense ofastonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in allreminiscences of the childhood of great men.
It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep underthe vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which wouldotherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into withdangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gavethreats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevantexclamation.
It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and thesleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past fiveo'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, healarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and lookinground in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom.
”What's the matter, Mr. Tulliver?” said his wife. He looked at her,still with a puzzled expression, and said at last:
”Ah!--I was dreaming--did I make a noise?--I thought I'd got hold ofhim.”
The Hard-Won Triumph
Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment inall the year,--the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deepand daisied,--Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in theevening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the olddeep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which alwaysseemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and thehearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light inTom's blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold inhis brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to implya strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when theeyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomesquicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compressionwhich is meant to forbid a smile.
The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then,and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence,--Mr. Tulliverin his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a wornlook, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing whileher mother was making the tea.
They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot.
”Why, what's up now, Tom?” said his father. ”You're a bit earlier thanusual.”
”Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well,mother!”
Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humorwith him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie inall the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at homeprevented this from being noticeable to their parents.
”Father,” said Tom, when they had finished tea, ”do you know exactlyhow much money there is in the tin box?”
”Only a hundred and ninety-three pound,” said Mr. Tulliver. ”You'vebrought less o' late; but young fellows like to have their own waywith their money. Though I didn't do as I liked before _I_ was ofage.” He spoke with rather timid discontent.
”Are you quite sure that's the sum, father?” said Tom. ”I wish youwould take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you haveperhaps made a mistake.”
”How should I make a mistake?” said his father, sharply. ”I've countedit often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won't believe me.”
It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, tofetch the tin box and count the money.
”Don't go out of the room, mother,” said Tom, as he saw her movingwhen his father was gone upstairs.
”And isn't Maggie to go?” said Mrs. Tulliver; ”because somebody musttake away the things.”
”Just as she likes,” said Tom indifferently.
That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with thesudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debtscould be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news wastold! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. Thefeeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at thatmoment.
Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin boxwas set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on themmade conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and thesuppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The motherand Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blankpatience, the other in palpitating expectation.
Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table,and then said, glancing sharply at Tom:
”There now! you see I was right enough.”
He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency.
”There's more nor three hundred wanting; it'll be a fine while before_I_ can save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi' the corn was a sorejob. This world's been too many for me. It's took four year to lay_this_ by; it's much if I'm above ground for another four year. I musttrusten to you to pay 'em,” he went on, with a trembling voice, ”ifyou keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age. But you're likeenough to bury me first.”
He looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for some assurance.
”No, father,” said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though therewas tremor discernible in his voice too, ”you will live to see thedebts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.”
His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. Aslight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr. Tulliver, and he kepthis eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie,unable to restrain herself, rushed to her father's side and knelt downby him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on.
”A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to tradewith, and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds inthe bank.”
His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last words wereuttered, and she said, half crying:
”Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, when you got aman.”
But his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power ofspeech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock ofjoy might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. Thebroad chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and thegray-haired man burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping graduallysubsided, and he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of hisbreathing. At last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentletone:
”Bessy, you must come and kiss me now--the lad has made you amends.You'll see a bit o' comfort again, belike.”
When she had kissed him, and he had held her hand a minute, histhoughts went back to the money.
”I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom,” he said,fingering the sovereigns on the table; ”I should ha' felt surer.”
”You shall see it to-morrow, father,” said Tom. ”My uncle Deane hasappointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and hehas ordered a dinner for them at two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and hewill both be there. It was advertised in the 'Messenger' on Saturday.”
”Then Wakem knows on't!” said Mr. Tulliver, his eye kindling withtriumphant fire. ”Ah!” he went on, with a long-drawn gutturalenunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had lefthimself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance.”I'll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the oldmill. I thought I could ha' held out to die here--but I can't----we'vegot a glass o' nothing in the house, have we, Bessy?”
”Yes,” said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced bunch of keys,”there's some brandy sister Deane brought me when I was ill.”
”Get it me, then; get it me. I feel a bit weak.”
”Tom, my lad,” he said, in a stronger voice, when he had taken somebrandy-and-water, ”you shall make a speech to 'em. I'll tell 'em it'syou as got the best part o' the money. They'll see I'm honest at last,and ha' got an honest son. Ah! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have ason like mine,--a fine straight fellow,--i'stead o' that poor crookedcreatur! You'll prosper i' the world, my lad; you'll maybe see the daywhen Wakem and his son 'ull be a round or two below you. You'll likeenough be ta'en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was beforeyou,--you're in the right way for't; and then there's nothing tohinder your getting rich. And if ever you're rich enough--mindthis--try and get th' old mill again.”
Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had solong been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding,suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune.But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the goodfortune as happening to himself.
”Shake hands wi' me, my lad,” he said, suddenly putting out his hand.”It's a great thing when a man can be proud as he's got a good son.I've had _that_ luck.”
Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that; andMaggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good;and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of trueadmiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon inher had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousythis evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown intothe background in her father's mind.
There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wantedto hear all the particulars of Tom's trading adventures, and helistened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to knowwhat had been said on every occasion if possible, what had beenthought; and Bob Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiaroutbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of thatremarkable packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had comeunder Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense ofastonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in allreminiscences of the childhood of great men.
It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep underthe vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which wouldotherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into withdangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gavethreats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevantexclamation.
It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and thesleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past fiveo'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, healarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and lookinground in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom.
”What's the matter, Mr. Tulliver?” said his wife. He looked at her,still with a puzzled expression, and said at last:
”Ah!--I was dreaming--did I make a noise?--I thought I'd got hold ofhim.”