The Mill on the Floss

Vanishing Gleam

Mr Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had
recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his
horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and
entrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He had
lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie told
her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice of
them.

They entered very quietly, and Mrs Moss took her seat near the head of
the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her hand
on her father’s without causing any change in his face.

Mr Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy
selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had
brought from his father’s bureau. They succeeded in opening the
chest,—which stood opposite the foot of Mr Tulliver’s bed,—and propping
the lid with the iron holder, without much noise.

“There’s a tin box,” whispered Mr Glegg; “he’d most like put a small
thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I’ll just lift up
these deeds,—they’re the deeds o’ the house and mill, I suppose,—and
see what there is under ’em.”

Mr Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn back
a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell with a
loud bang that resounded over the house.

Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of
the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the
frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the
obstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his
father’s father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to
visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a
particular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognised voice
to us,—a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been used to
touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes in the
room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the chest, the
parchments in Mr Glegg’s hand, and Tom holding the tin box, with a
glance of perfect consciousness and recognition.

“What are you going to do with those deeds?” he said, in his ordinary
tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. “Come here, Tom.
What do you do, going to my chest?”

Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had
recognised him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father
continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr Glegg
and the deeds.

“What’s been happening, then?” he said sharply. “What are you meddling
with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don’t you
tell me what you’ve been a-doing?” he added impatiently, as Mr Glegg
advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking.

“No, no, friend Tulliver,” said Mr Glegg, in a soothing tone. “Nobody’s
getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and see what was
in the chest. You’ve been ill, you know, and we’ve had to look after
things a bit. But let’s hope you’ll soon be well enough to attend to
everything yourself.”

Mr Tulliver looked around him meditatively, at Tom, at Mr Glegg, and at
Maggie; then suddenly appearing aware that some one was seated by his
side at the head of the bed he turned sharply round and saw his sister.

“Eh, Gritty!” he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in which he
had been wont to speak to her. “What! you’re there, are you? How could
you manage to leave the children?”

“Oh, brother!” said good Mrs Moss, too impulsive to be prudent, “I’m
thankful I’m come now to see you yourself again; I thought you’d never
know us any more.”

“What! have I had a stroke?” said Mr Tulliver, anxiously, looking at Mr
Glegg.

“A fall from your horse—shook you a bit,—that’s all, I think,” said Mr
Glegg. “But you’ll soon get over it, let’s hope.”

Mr Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-clothes, and remained silent for
two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his face. He looked up at
Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, “You got the letter, then, my
wench?”

“Yes, father,” she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if
her father were come back to her from the dead, and her yearning to
show him how she had always loved him could be fulfilled.

“Where’s your mother?” he said, so preoccupied that he received the
kiss as passively as some quiet animal might have received it.

“She’s downstairs with my aunts, father. Shall I fetch her?”

“Ay, ay; poor Bessy!” and his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left the
room.

“You’ll have to take care of ’em both if I die, you know, Tom. You’ll
be badly off, I doubt. But you must see and pay everybody. And
mind,—there’s fifty pound o’ Luke’s as I put into the business,—he gave
me a bit at a time, and he’s got nothing to show for it. You must pay
him first thing.”

Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more concerned
than ever, but Tom said firmly:

“Yes, father. And haven’t you a note from my uncle Moss for three
hundred pounds? We came to look for that. What do you wish to be done
about it, father?”

“Ah! I’m glad you thought o’ that, my lad,” said Mr Tulliver. “I allays
meant to be easy about that money, because o’ your aunt. You mustn’t
mind losing the money, if they can’t pay it,—and it’s like enough they
can’t. The note’s in that box, mind! I allays meant to be good to you,
Gritty,” said Mr Tulliver, turning to his sister; “but you know you
aggravated me when you would have Moss.”

At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who came in much
agitated by the news that her husband was quite himself again.

“Well, Bessy,” he said, as she kissed him, “you must forgive me if
you’re worse off than you ever expected to be.

But it’s the fault o’ the law,—it’s none o’ mine,” he added angrily.
“It’s the fault o’ raskills. Tom, you mind this: if ever you’ve got the
chance, you make Wakem smart. If you don’t, you’re a good-for-nothing
son. You might horse-whip him, but he’d set the law on you,—the law’s
made to take care o’ raskills.”

Mr Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was on his face.
Mr Glegg wanted to say something soothing, but he was prevented by Mr
Tulliver’s speaking again to his wife. “They’ll make a shift to pay
everything, Bessy,” he said, “and yet leave you your furniture; and
your sisters’ll do something for you—and Tom’ll grow up—though what
he’s to be I don’t know—I’ve done what I could—I’ve given him a
eddication—and there’s the little wench, she’ll get married—but it’s a
poor tale——”

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, and with the
last words the poor man fell again, rigid and insensible. Though this
was only a recurrence of what had happened before, it struck all
present as if it had been death, not only from its contrast with the
completeness of the revival, but because his words had all had
reference to the possibility that his death was near. But with poor
Tulliver death was not to be a leap; it was to be a long descent under
thickening shadows.

Mr Turnbull was sent for; but when he heard what had passed, he said
this complete restoration, though only temporary, was a hopeful sign,
proving that there was no permanent lesion to prevent ultimate
recovery.

Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had gathered up,
he had omitted the bill of sale; the flash of memory had only lit up
prominent ideas, and he sank into forgetfulness again with half his
humiliation unlearned.

But Tom was clear upon two points,—that his uncle Moss’s note must be
destroyed; and that Luke’s money must be paid, if in no other way, out
of his own and Maggie’s money now in the savings bank. There were
subjects, you perceive, on which Tom was much quicker than on the
niceties of classical construction, or the relations of a mathematical
demonstration.