The Mill on the Floss
fetch the tin box and count the money.
“Don’t go out of the room, mother,” said Tom, as he saw her moving when
his father was gone upstairs.
“And isn’t Maggie to go?” said Mrs Tulliver; “because somebody must
take away the things.”
“Just as she likes,” said Tom indifferently.
That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden
conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debts could be
paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told! But
she carried away the tray and came back immediately. The feeling of
injury on her own behalf could not predominate at that moment.
Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin box
was set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them made
conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and the
suppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The mother and
Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blank patience,
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 sore
job. 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 must
trusten to you to pay ’em,” he went on, with a trembling voice, “if you
keep i’ the same mind now you’re coming o’ age. But you’re like enough
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 there
was tremor discernible in his voice too, “you will live to see the
debts all paid. You shall pay them with your own hand.”
His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or resolution. A
slight electric shock seemed to pass through Mr Tulliver, and he kept
his eyes fixed on Tom with a look of eager inquiry, while Maggie,
unable to restrain herself, rushed to her father’s side and knelt down
by him. Tom was silent a little while before he went on.
“A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money to trade with,
and that has answered. I have three hundred and twenty pounds in the
bank.”
His mother’s arms were round his neck as soon as the last words were
uttered, and she said, half crying:
“Oh, my boy, I knew you’d make iverything right again, when you got a
man.”
But his father was silent; the flood of emotion hemmed in all power of
speech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck with fear lest the shock of joy
might even be fatal. But the blessed relief of tears came. The broad
chest heaved, the muscles of the face gave way, and the gray-haired man
burst into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually subsided, and he sat
quiet, recovering the regularity of his breathing. At last he looked up
at his wife and said, in a gentle tone:
“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, his
thoughts 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 has
appointed the creditors to meet to-morrow at the Golden Lion, and he
has ordered a dinner for them at two o’clock. My uncle Glegg and he
will both be there. It was advertised in the ‘Messenger’ on Saturday.”
“Then Wakem knows on’t!” said Mr Tulliver, his eye kindling with
triumphant fire. “Ah!” he went on, with a long-drawn guttural
enunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the only luxury he had left
himself, and tapping it with something of his old air of defiance.
“I’ll get from under _his_ thumb now, though I _must_ leave the old
mill. I thought I could ha’ held out to die here—but I can’t——we’ve got
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 some
brandy-and-water, “you shall make a speech to ’em. I’ll tell ’em it’s
you 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 a son
like mine,—a fine straight fellow,—i’stead o’ that poor crooked
creatur! You’ll prosper i’ the world, my lad; you’ll maybe see the day
when Wakem and his son ’ull be a round or two below you. You’ll like
enough be ta’en into partnership, as your uncle Deane was before
you,—you’re in the right way for’t; and then there’s nothing to hinder
your getting rich. And if ever you’re rich enough—mind this—try and get
th’ old mill again.”
Mr Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had so
long 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 good fortune 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; and
Maggie couldn’t help forgetting her own grievances. Tom _was_ good; and
in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true
admiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon in
her had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousy
this evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the
background in her father’s mind.
There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr Tulliver naturally wanted
to hear all the particulars of Tom’s trading adventures, and he
listened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know
what had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had been
thought; and Bob Jakin’s part in the business threw him into peculiar
outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that
remarkable packman. Bob’s juvenile history, so far as it had come under
Mr Tulliver’s knowledge, was recalled with that sense of astonishing
promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminiscences of the
childhood of great men.
It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under the
vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which would otherwise
have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with dangerous
force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of
its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation.
It was long before Mr Tulliver got to sleep that night; and the sleep,
when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past five o’clock
in the morning, when Mrs Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by
starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round 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 of him.”
Chapter VII.
A Day of Reckoning
Mr Tulliver was an essentially sober man,—able to take his glass and
not averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds of moderation. He had
naturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave liquid
fire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting
occasion without any such reinforcements; and his desire for the
brandy-and-water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a
dangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom and
unaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful tottering moment
passed, he seemed to gather strength with his gathering excitement; and
the next day, when he was seated at table with his creditors, his eye
kindling and his cheek flushed with the consciousness that he was about
to make an honourable figure once more, he looked more like the proud,
confident, warm-hearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of old times than
might have seemed possible to any one who had met him a week before,
riding along as had been his wont for the last four years since the
sense of failure and debt had been upon him,—with his head hanging
down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those who forced themselves on
his notice. He made his speech, asserting his honest principles with
his old confident eagerness, alluding to the rascals and the luck that
had been against him, but that he had triumphed over, to some extent,
by hard efforts and the aid of a good son; and winding up with the
story of how Tom had got the best part of the needful money. But the
streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemed to melt for a little
while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure, when, Tom’s health having
been proposed, and uncle Deane having taken occasion to say a few words
of eulogy on his general character and conduct, Tom himself got up and
made the single speech of his life. It could hardly have been briefer.
He thanked the gentlemen for the honour they had done him. He was glad
that he had been able to help his father in proving his integrity and
regaining his honest name; and, for his own part, he hoped he should
never undo that work and disgrace that name. But the applause that
followed was so great, and Tom looked so gentlemanly as well as tall
and straight, that Mr Tulliver remarked, in an explanatory manner, to
his friends on his right and left, that he had spent a deal of money on
his son’s education.
The party broke up in very sober fashion at five o’clock. Tom remained
in St Ogg’s to attend to some business, and Mr Tulliver mounted his
horse to go home, and describe the memorable things that had been said
and done, to “poor Bessy and the little wench.” The air of excitement
that hung about him was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulus
but the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not choose any back
street to-day, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances,
along the principal street all the way to the bridge.
Why did he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that coincidence vexed
him, and set his mind at work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakem was
gone out of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or hearing anything
of an honourable action which might well cause him some unpleasant
twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr Tulliver would look
straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken a little by
his cool, domineering impudence. He would know by and by that an honest
man was not going to serve _him_ any longer, and lend his honesty to
fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains. Perhaps the luck
was beginning to turn; perhaps the Devil didn’t always hold the best
cards in this world.
Simmering in this way, Mr Tulliver approached the yardgates of Dorlcote
Mill, near enough to see a well-known figure coming out of them on a
fine black horse. They met about fifty yards from the gates, between
the great chestnuts and elms and the high bank.
“Tulliver,” said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than usual, “what
a fool’s trick you did,—spreading those hard lumps on that Far Close! I
told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farm with any
method.”
“Oh!” said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up; “get somebody else to farm
for you, then, as’ll ask _you_ to teach him.”