The Mill on the Floss
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 colour 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.”
“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.