The Mill on the Floss
with which he had provided himself in the last holidays. Philip had
already left,—at the autumn quarter,—that he might go to the south for
the winter, for the sake of his health; and this change helped to give
Tom the unsettled, exultant feeling that usually belongs to the last
months before leaving school. This quarter, too, there was some hope of
his father’s lawsuit being decided; _that_ made the prospect of home
more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who had gathered his view of the
case from his father’s conversation, had no doubt that Pivart would be
beaten.
Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks,—a fact which did
not surprise him, for his father and mother were not apt to manifest
their affection in unnecessary letters,—when, to his great surprise, on
the morning of a dark, cold day near the end of November, he was told,
soon after entering the study at nine o’clock, that his sister was in
the drawing-room. It was Mrs Stelling who had come into the study to
tell him, and she left him to enter the drawing-room alone.
Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair; she was almost
as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen; and she really looked
older than he did at that moment. She had thrown off her bonnet, her
heavy braids were pushed back from her forehead, as if it would not
bear that extra load, and her young face had a strangely worn look, as
her eyes turned anxiously toward the door. When Tom entered she did not
speak, but only went up to him, put her arms round his neck, and kissed
him earnestly. He was used to various moods of hers, and felt no alarm
at the unusual seriousness of her greeting.
“Why, how is it you’re come so early this cold morning, Maggie? Did you
come in the gig?” said Tom, as she backed toward the sofa, and drew him
to her side.
“No, I came by the coach. I’ve walked from the turnpike.”
“But how is it you’re not at school? The holidays have not begun yet?”
“Father wanted me at home,” said Maggie, with a slight trembling of the
lip. “I came home three or four days ago.”
“Isn’t my father well?” said Tom, rather anxiously.
“Not quite,” said Maggie. “He’s very unhappy, Tom. The lawsuit is
ended, and I came to tell you because I thought it would be better for
you to know it before you came home, and I didn’t like only to send you
a letter.”
“My father hasn’t lost?” said Tom, hastily, springing from the sofa,
and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly thrust into his
pockets.
“Yes, dear Tom,” said Maggie, looking up at him with trembling.
Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Then
he said:
“My father will have to pay a good deal of money, then?”
“Yes,” said Maggie, rather faintly.
“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Tom, bravely, not translating the loss
of a large sum of money into any tangible results. “But my father’s
very much vexed, I dare say?” he added, looking at Maggie, and thinking
that her agitated face was only part of her girlish way of taking
things.
“Yes,” said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller speech by
Tom’s freedom from apprehension, she said loudly and rapidly, as if the
words _would_ burst from her: “Oh, Tom, he will lose the mill and the
land and everything; he will have nothing left.”
Tom’s eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her, before he turned
pale, and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but sat down on the sofa
again, looking vaguely out of the opposite window.
Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom’s mind. His father had
always ridden a good horse, kept a good house, and had the cheerful,
confident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall back upon.
Tom had never dreamed that his father would “fail”; _that_ was a form
of misfortune which he had always heard spoken of as a deep disgrace,
and disgrace was an idea that he could not associate with any of his
relations, least of all with his father. A proud sense of family
respectability was part of the very air Tom had been born and brought
up in. He knew there were people in St Ogg’s who made a show without
money to support it, and he had always heard such people spoken of by
his own friends with contempt and reprobation. He had a strong belief,
which was a lifelong habit, and required no definite evidence to rest
on, that his father could spend a great deal of money if he chose; and
since his education at Mr Stelling’s had given him a more expensive
view of life, he had often thought that when he got older he would make
a figure in the world, with his horse and dogs and saddle, and other
accoutrements of a fine young man, and show himself equal to any of his
contemporaries at St Ogg’s, who might consider themselves a grade above
him in society because their fathers were professional men, or had
large oil-mills. As to the prognostics and headshaking of his aunts and
uncles, they had never produced the least effect on him, except to make
him think that aunts and uncles were disagreeable society; he had heard
them find fault in much the same way as long as he could remember. His
father knew better than they did.
The down had come on Tom’s lip, yet his thoughts and expectations had
been hitherto only the reproduction, in changed forms, of the boyish
dreams in which he had lived three years ago. He was awakened now with
a violent shock.
Maggie was frightened at Tom’s pale, trembling silence. There was
something else to tell him,—something worse. She threw her arms round
him at last, and said, with a half sob:
“Oh, Tom—dear, dear Tom, don’t fret too much; try and bear it well.”
Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kisses, and there
gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he just rubbed away with his
hand. The action seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself and said: “I
shall go home, with you, Maggie. Didn’t my father say I was to go?”
“No, Tom, father didn’t wish it,” said Maggie, her anxiety about _his_
feeling helping her to master her agitation. What _would_ he do when
she told him all? “But mother wants you to come,—poor mother!—she cries
so. Oh, Tom, it’s very dreadful at home.”
Maggie’s lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost as Tom had
done. The two poor things clung closer to each other, both
trembling,—the one at an unshapen fear, the other at the image of a
terrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it was hardly above a whisper.
“And—and—poor father——”
Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable to Tom. A
vague idea of going to prison, as a consequence of debt, was the shape
his fears had begun to take.
“Where’s my father?” he said impatiently. “_Tell_ me, Maggie.”
“He’s at home,” said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to that
question. “But,” she added, after a pause, “not himself—he fell off his
horse. He has known nobody but me ever since—he seems to have lost his
senses. O father, father——”
With these last words, Maggie’s sobs burst forth with the more violence
for the previous struggle against them. Tom felt that pressure of the
heart which forbids tears; he had no distinct vision of their troubles
as Maggie had, who had been at home; he only felt the crushing weight
of what seemed unmitigated misfortune. He tightened his arm almost
convulsively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his face looked rigid and
tearless, his eyes blank,—as if a black curtain of cloud had suddenly
fallen on his path.
But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly; a single thought had acted on
her like a startling sound.
“We must set out, Tom, we must not stay. Father will miss me; we must
be at the turnpike at ten to meet the coach.” She said this with hasty
decision, rubbing her eyes, and rising to seize her bonnet.
Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. “Wait a minute,
Maggie,” he said. “I must speak to Mr Stelling, and then we’ll go.”
He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were; but on his
way he met Mr Stelling, who had heard from his wife that Maggie
appeared to be in trouble when she asked for her brother, and now that
he thought the brother and sister had been alone long enough, was
coming to inquire and offer his sympathy.
“Please, sir, I must go home,” Tom said abruptly, as he met Mr Stelling
in the passage. “I must go back with my sister directly. My father’s
lost his lawsuit—he’s lost all his property—and he’s very ill.”
Mr Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a probable money
loss for himself, but this had no appreciable share in his feeling,
while he looked with grave pity at the brother and sister for whom
youth and sorrow had begun together. When he knew how Maggie had come,
and how eager she was to get home again, he hurried their departure,
only whispering something to Mrs Stelling, who had followed him, and
who immediately left the room.
Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to set out, when
Mrs Stelling came with a little basket, which she hung on Maggie’s arm,
saying: “Do remember to eat something on the way, dear.” Maggie’s heart
went out toward this woman whom she had never liked, and she kissed her
silently. It was the first sign within the poor child of that new sense
which is the gift of sorrow,—that susceptibility to the bare offices of
humanity which raises them into a bond of loving fellowship, as to
haggard men among the ice-bergs the mere presence of an ordinary
comrade stirs the deep fountains of affection.
Mr Stelling put his hand on Tom’s shoulder and said: “God bless you, my
boy; let me know how you get on.” Then he pressed Maggie’s hand; but
there were no audible good-byes. Tom had so often thought how joyful he
should be the day he left school “for good”! And now his school years
seemed like a holiday that had come to an end.
The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on the distant
road,—were soon lost behind the projecting hedgerow.
They had gone forth together into their life of sorrow, and they would
never more see the sunshine undimmed by remembered cares. They had
entered the thorny wilderness, and the golden gates of their childhood
had forever closed behind them.
BOOK THIRD
THE DOWNFALL.
Chapter I.
What Had Happened at Home
When Mr Tulliver first knew the fact that the lawsuit was decided
against him, and that Pivart and Wakem were triumphant, every one who
happened to observe him at the time thought that, for so confident and
hot-tempered a man, he bore the blow remarkably well. He thought so
himself; he thought he was going to show that if Wakem or anybody else
considered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. He could
not refuse to see that the costs of this protracted suit would take
more than he possessed to pay them; but he appeared to himself to be
full of expedients by which he could ward off any results but such as
were tolerable, and could avoid the appearance of breaking down in the
world. All the obstinacy and defiance of his nature, driven out of
their old channel, found a vent for themselves in the immediate
formation of plans by which he would meet his difficulties, and remain
Mr Tulliver of Dorlcote Mill in spite of them. There was such a rush of
projects in his brain, that it was no wonder his face was flushed when
he came away from his talk with his attorney, Mr Gore, and mounted his
horse to ride home from Lindum. There was Furley, who held the mortgage
on the land,—a reasonable fellow, who would see his own interest, Mr
Tulliver was convinced, and who would be glad not only to purchase the
whole estate, including the mill and homestead, but would accept Mr
Tulliver as tenant, and be willing to advance money to be repaid with
high interest out of the profits of the business, which would be made