The Mill on the Floss (55 page)

"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 honorable 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 gentlmen for the honor 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 honorable 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."

"You have been drinking, I suppose," said Wakem, really
believing that this was the meaning of Tulliver's flushed face and
sparkling eyes.

"No, I've not been drinking," said Tulliver; "I want no drinking
to help me make up my mind as I'll serve no longer under a
scoundrel."

"Very well! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then; hold your
insolent tongue and let me pass." (Tulliver was backing his horse
across the road to hem Wakem in.)

"No, I
sha'n't
let you pass," said Tulliver, getting
fiercer. "I shall tell you what I think of you first. You're too
big a raskill to get hanged–you're––"

"Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or I'll ride over you."

Mr. Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip, made a
rush forward; and Wakem's horse, rearing and staggering backward,
threw his rider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the
ground. Wakem had had the presence of mind to loose the bridle at
once, and as the horse only staggered a few paces and then stood
still, he might have risen and remounted without more inconvenience
than a bruise and a shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was
off his horse too. The sight of the long-hated predominant man
down, and in his power, threw him into a frenzy of triumphant
vengeance, which seemed to give him preternatural agility and
strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in the act of trying to
recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as to press
Wakem's whole weight on the right arm, which rested on the ground,
and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip.
Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman's scream
was heard, and the cry of "Father, father!"

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulliver's arm;
for the flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own arm was
relaxed.

"Get away with you–go!" said Tulliver, angrily. But it was not
to Wakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned
his head, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl,
rather by the fear of hurting the girl that clung to him with all
her young might.

"Oh, Luke–mother–come and help Mr. Wakem!" Maggie cried, as she
heard the longed-for footsteps.

"Help me on to that low horse," said Wakem to Luke, "then I
shall perhaps manage; though–confound it–I think this arm is
sprained."

With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse.
Then he turned toward the miller and said, with white rage, "You'll
suffer for this, sir. Your daughter is a witness that you've
assaulted me."

"I don't care," said Mr. Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice; "go
and show your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you. Tell 'em I've made
things a bit more even i' the world."

"Ride my horse home with me," said Wakem to Luke. "By the Tofton
Ferry, not through the town."

"Father, come in!" said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing that
Wakem had ridden off, and that no further violence was possible,
she slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor
Mrs. Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear. But Maggie
became conscious that as she was slackening her hold her father was
beginning to grasp her and lean on her. The surprise checked her
sobs.

"I feel ill–faintish," he said. "Help me in, Bessy–I'm
giddy–I've a pain i' the head."

He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter and
tottered into his arm-chair. The almost purple flush had given way
to paleness, and his hand was cold.

"Hadn't we better send for the doctor?" said Mrs. Tulliver.

He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her; but
presently, when she said to Maggie, "Go and seek for somebody to
fetch the doctor," he looked up at her with full comprehension, and
said, "Doctor? No–no doctor. It's my head, that's all. Help me to
bed."

Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a
beginning of better times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled
crop.

In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home.
Bob Jakin was with him, come to congratulate "the old master," not
without some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing
about Mr. Tom's good luck; and Tom had thought his father would
like nothing better, as a finish to the day, than a talk with Bob.
But now Tom could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of
the unpleasant consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak
of his father's long-smothered hate. After the painful news had
been told, he sat in silence; he had not spirit or inclination to
tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner; they hardly
cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their
life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy
without a sorrow coming close upon it. Tom was dejected by the
thought that his exemplary effort must always be baffled by the
wrong-doing of others; Maggie was living through, over and over
again, the agony of the moment in which she had rushed to throw
herself on her father's arm, with a vague, shuddering foreboding of
wretched scenes to come. Not one of the three felt any particular
alarm about Mr. Tulliver's health; the symptoms did not recall his
former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a necessary consequence
that his violent passion and effort of strength, after many hours
of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill. Rest would
probably cure him.