The Mill on the Floss (38 page)

Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a
chair, with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks, quite
blinded to the presence of Bob, who was looking at her with the
pursuant gaze of an intelligent dumb animal, with perceptions more
perfect than his comprehension.

"Well, Bob," said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books was
unseasonable, "I suppose you just came to see me because we're in
trouble? That was very good-natured of you."

"I'll tell you how it is, Master Tom," said Bob, beginning to
untwist his canvas bag. "You see, I'n been with a barge this two
'ear; that's how I'n been gettin' my livin',–if it wasn't when I
was tentin' the furnace, between whiles, at Torry's mill. But a
fortni't ago I'd a rare bit o' luck,–I allays thought I was a lucky
chap, for I niver set a trap but what I catched something; but this
wasn't trap, it was a fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else
it 'ud set th' oil alight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns;
he gen me 'em himself last week. An' he said first, I was a
sperrited chap,–but I knowed that afore,–but then he outs wi' the
ten suvreigns, an' that war summat new. Here they are, all but
one!" Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. "An' when I'd
got 'em, my head was all of a boil like a kettle o' broth, thinkin'
what sort o' life I should take to, for there war a many trades I'd
thought on; for as for the barge, I'm clean tired out wi't, for it
pulls the days out till they're as long as pigs' chitterlings. An'
I thought first I'd ha' ferrets an' dogs, an' be a rat-catcher; an'
then I thought as I should like a bigger way o' life, as I didn't
know so well; for I'n seen to the bottom o' rat-catching; an' I
thought, an' thought, till at last I settled I'd be a packman,–for
they're knowin' fellers, the packmen are,–an' I'd carry the
lightest things I could i' my pack; an' there'd be a use for a
feller's tongue, as is no use neither wi' rats nor barges. An' I
should go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women
wi' my tongue, an' get my dinner hot at the public,–lors! it 'ud be
a lovely life!"

Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if
resolutely turning his back on that paradisaic picture:

"But I don't mind about it, not a chip! An' I'n changed one o'
the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' I'n bought a
blue plush wescoat, an' a sealskin cap,–for if I meant to be a
packman, I'd do it respectable. But I don't mind about it, not a
chip! My yead isn't a turnip, an' I shall p'r'aps have a chance o'
dousing another fire afore long. I'm a lucky chap. So I'll thank
you to take the nine suvreigns, Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with
'em somehow, if it's true as the master's broke. They mayn't go fur
enough, but they'll help."

Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and
suspicion.

"You're a very kind fellow, Bob," he said, coloring, with that
little diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain charm
even to Tom's pride and severity, "and I sha'n't forget you again,
though I didn't know you this evening. But I can't take the nine
sovereigns; I should be taking your little fortune from you, and
they wouldn't do me much good either."

"Wouldn't they, Mr. Tom?" said Bob, regretfully. "Now don't say
so 'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor chap. My mother
gets a good penn'orth wi' picking feathers an' things; an' if she
eats nothin' but bread-an'-water, it runs to fat. An' I'm such a
lucky chap; an' I doubt you aren't quite so lucky, Mr. Tom,–th' old
master isn't, anyhow,–an' so you might take a slice o' my luck, an'
no harm done. Lors! I found a leg o' pork i' the river one day; it
had tumbled out o' one o' them round-sterned Dutchmen, I'll be
bound. Come, think better on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance'
sake, else I shall think you bear me a grudge."

Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could speak
Maggie, clasping her hands, and looking penitently at Bob.
said:

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Bob; I never thought you were so good. Why, I
think you're the kindest person in the world!"

Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie
was performing an inward act of penitence, but he smiled with
pleasure at this handsome eulogy,–especially from a young lass who,
as he informed his mother that evening, had "such uncommon eyes,
they looked somehow as they made him feel nohow."

"No, indeed Bob, I can't take them," said Tom; "but don't think
I feel your kindness less because I say no. I don't want to take
anything from anybody, but to work my own way. And those sovereigns
wouldn't help me much–they wouldn't really–if I were to take them.
Let me shake hands with you instead."

Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his
hard, grimy hand within it.

"Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again," said Maggie; "and
you'll come and see us when you've bought your pack, Bob."

"It's like as if I'd come out o' make believe, o' purpose to
show 'em you," said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie gave
him the bag again, "a-taking 'em back i' this way. I
am
a
bit of a Do, you know; but it isn't that sort o' Do,–it's on'y when
a feller's a big rogue, or a big flat, I like to let him in a bit,
that's all."

"Now, don't you be up to any tricks, Bob," said Tom, "else
you'll get transported some day."

"No, no; not me, Mr. Tom," said Bob, with an air of cheerful
confidence. "There's no law again' flea-bites. If I wasn't to take
a fool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev a
suvreign to buy you and Miss summat, on'y for a token–just to match
my pocket-knife."

While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign, and
resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the gold, and
said, "No, indeed, Bob; thank you heartily, but I can't take it."
And Maggie, taking it between her fingers, held it up to Bob and
said, more persuasively:

"Not now, but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my father
wants help that you can give, we'll let you know; won't we, Tom?
That's what you would like,–to have us always depend on you as a
friend that we can go to,–isn't it, Bob?"

"Yes, Miss, and thank you," said Bob, reluctantly taking the
money; "that's what I'd like, anything as you like. An' I wish you
good-by, Miss, and good-luck, Mr. Tom, and thank you for shaking
hands wi' me,
though
you wouldn't take the money."

Kezia's entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she
shouldn't bring in the tea now, or whether the toast was to get
hardened to a brick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flux of words,
and hastened his parting bow.

Chapter VII
How a Hen Takes to Stratagem

The days passed, and Mr. Tulliver showed, at least to the eyes
of the medical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of a gradual
return to his normal condition; the paralytic obstruction was,
little by little, losing its tenacity, and the mind was rising from
under it with fitful struggles, like a living creature making its
way from under a great snowdrift, that slides and slides again, and
shuts up the newly made opening.

Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by the bed, if
it had only been measured by the doubtful, distant hope which kept
count of the moments within the chamber; but it was measured for
them by a fast-approaching dread which made the nights come too
quickly. While Mr. Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his
lot was hastening toward its moment of most palpable change. The
taxing-masters had done their work like any respectable gunsmith
conscientiously preparing the musket, that, duly pointed by a brave
arm, will spoil a life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in
Chancery, decrees of sale, are legal chain-shot or bomb-shells that
can never hit a solitary mark, but must fall with widespread
shattering. So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men
have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is
human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we can
conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in
pulsations of unmerited pain.

By the beginning of the second week in January, the bills were
out advertising the sale, under a decree of Chancery, of Mr.
Tulliver's farming and other stock, to be followed by a sale of the
mill and land, held in the proper after-dinner hour at the Golden
Lion. The miller himself, unaware of the lapse of time, fancied
himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes when
expedients might be thought of; and often in his conscious hours
talked in a feeble, disjointed manner of plans he would carry out
when he "got well." The wife and children were not without hope of
an issue that would at least save Mr. Tulliver from leaving the old
spot, and seeking an entirely strange life. For uncle Deane had
been induced to interest himself in this stage of the business. It
would not, he acknowledged, be a bad speculation for Guest &
Co. to buy Dorlcote Mill, and carry on the business, which was a
good one, and might be increased by the addition of steam power; in
which case Tulliver might be retained as manager. Still, Mr. Deane
would say nothing decided about the matter; the fact that Wakem
held the mortgage on the land might put it into his head to bid for
the whole estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm of Guest
& Co., who did not carry on business on sentimental grounds.
Mr. Deane was obliged to tell Mrs. Tulliver something to that
effect, when he rode over to the mill to inspect the books in
company with Mrs. Glegg; for she had observed that "if Guest
&Co. would only think about it, Mr. Tulliver's father and
grandfather had been carrying on Dorlcote Mill long before the
oil-mill of that firm had been so much as thought of."

Mr. Deane, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely the
relation between the two mills which would determine their value as
investments. As for uncle Glegg, the thing lay quite beyond his
imagination; the good-natured man felt sincere pity for the
Tulliver family, but his money was all locked up in excellent
mortgages, and he could run no risk; that would be unfair to his
own relatives; but he had made up his mind that Tulliver should
have some new flannel waistcoats which he had himself renounced in
favor of a more elastic commodity, and that he would buy Mrs.
Tulliver a pound of tea now and then; it would be a journey which
his benevolence delighted in beforehand, to carry the tea and see
her pleasure on being assured it was the best black.

Still, it was clear that Mr. Deane was kindly disposed toward
the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was come home for
the Christmas holidays, and the little blond angel-head had pressed
itself against Maggie's darker cheek with many kisses and some
tears. These fair slim daughters keep up a tender spot in the heart
of many a respectable partner in a respectable firm, and perhaps
Lucy's anxious, pitying questions about her poor cousins helped to
make uncle Deane more prompt in finding Tom a temporary place in
the warehouse, and in putting him in the way of getting evening
lessons in book-keeping and calculation.

That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if
there had not come at the same time the much-dreaded blow of
finding that his father must be a bankrupt, after all; at least,
the creditors must be asked to take less than their due, which to
Tom's untechnical mind was the same thing as bankruptcy. His father
must not only be said to have "lost his property," but to have
"failed,"–the word that carried the worst obloquy to Tom's mind.
For when the defendant's claim for costs had been satisfied, there
would remain the friendly bill of Mr. Gore, and the deficiency at
the bank, as well as the other debts which would make the assets
shrink into unequivocal disproportion; "not more than ten or twelve
shillings in the pound," predicted Mr. Deane, in a decided tone,
tightening his lips; and the words fell on Tom like a scalding
liquied, leaving a continual smart.

He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirits a
little in the unpleasant newness of his position,–suddenly
transported from the easy carpeted
ennui
of study-hours at
Mr. Stelling's, and the busy idleness of castle-building in a "last
half" at school, to the companionship of sacks and hides, and
bawling men thundering down heavy weights at his elbow. The first
step toward getting on in the world was a chill, dusty, noisy
affair, and implied going without one's tea in order to stay in St.
Ogg's and have an evening lesson from a one-armed elderly clerk, in
a room smelling strongly of bad tobacco. Tom's young pink-and-white
face had its colors very much deadened by the time he took off his
hat at home, and sat down with keen hunger to his supper. No wonder
he was a little cross if his mother or Maggie spoke to him.

But all this while Mrs. Tulliver was brooding over a scheme by
which she, and no one else, would avert the result most to be
dreaded, and prevent Wakem from entertaining the purpose of bidding
for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and amiable hen, by some
portentous anomaly, taking to reflection and inventing combinations
by which she might prevail on Hodge not to wring her neck, or send
her and her chicks to market; the result could hardly be other than
much cackling and fluttering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that everything
had gone wrong, had begun to think she had been too passive in
life; and that, if she had applied her mind to business, and taken
a strong resolution now and then, it would have been all the better
for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought of going
to speak to Wakem on this business of the mill; and yet, Mrs.
Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the shortest method of
securing the right end. It would have been of no use, to be sure,
for Mr. Tulliver to go,–even if he had been able and willing,–for
he had been "going to law against Wakem" and abusing him for the
last ten years; Wakem was always likely to have a spite against
him. And now that Mrs. Tulliver had come to the conclusion that her
husband was very much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble,
she was inclined to think that his opinion of Wakem was wrong too.
To be sure, Wakem had "put the bailies in the house, and sold them
up"; but she supposed he did that to please the man that lent Mr.
Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks to please than one,
and he wasn't likely to put Mr. Tulliver, who had gone to law with
him, above everybody else in the world. The attorney might be a
very reasonable man; why not? He had married a Miss Clint, and at
the time Mrs. Tulliver had heard of that marriage, the summer when
she wore her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts of
Mr. Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. And certainly toward
herself, whom he knew to have been a Miss Dodson, it was out of all
possibility that he could entertain anything but good-will, when it
was once brought home to his observation that she, for her part,
had never wanted to go to law, and indeed was at present disposed
to take Mr. Wakem's view of all subjects rather than her husband's.
In fact, if that attorney saw a respectable matron like herself
disposed "to give him good words," why shouldn't he listen to her
representations? For she would put the matter clearly before him,
which had never been done yet. And he would never go and bid for
the mill on purpose to spite her, an innocent woman, who thought it
likely enough that she had danced with him in their youth at Squire
Darleigh's, for at those big dances she had often and often danced
with young men whose names she had forgotten.