The Mill on the Floss

aylight on the Wreck

It was a clear frosty January day on which Mr Tulliver first came
downstairs. The bright sun on the chestnut boughs and the roofs
opposite his window had made him impatiently declare that he would be
caged up no longer; he thought everywhere would be more cheery under
this sunshine than his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the bareness
below, which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had an
unfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the marks where
well-known objects once had been. The impression on his mind that it
was but yesterday when he received the letter from Mr Gore was so
continually implied in his talk, and the attempts to convey to him the
idea that many weeks had passed and much had happened since then had
been so soon swept away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr
Turnbull had begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts by
previous knowledge. The full sense of the present could only be
imparted gradually by new experience,—not by mere words, which must
remain weaker than the impressions left by the old experience. This
resolution to come downstairs was heard with trembling by the wife and
children. Mrs Tulliver said Tom must not go to St Ogg’s at the usual
hour, he must wait and see his father downstairs; and Tom complied,
though with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene. The
hearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever during the
last few days. For Guest & Co. had not bought the mill; both mill and
land had been knocked down to Wakem, who had been over the premises,
and had laid before Mr Deane and Mr Glegg, in Mrs Tulliver’s presence,
his willingness to employ Mr Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a
manager of the business. This proposition had occasioned much family
debating. Uncles and aunts were almost unanimously of opinion that such
an offer ought not to be rejected when there was nothing in the way but
a feeling in Mr Tulliver’s mind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles
shared it, was regarded as entirely unreasonable and childish,—indeed,
as a transferring toward Wakem of that indignation and hatred which Mr
Tulliver ought properly to have directed against himself for his
general quarrelsomeness, and his special exhibition of it in going to
law. Here was an opportunity for Mr Tulliver to provide for his wife
and daughter without any assistance from his wife’s relations, and
without that too evident descent into pauperism which makes it annoying
to respectable people to meet the degraded member of the family by the
wayside. Mr Tulliver, Mrs Glegg considered, must be made to feel, when
he came to his right mind, that he could never humble himself enough;
for that had come which she had always foreseen would come of his
insolence in time past “to them as were the best friends he’d got to
look to.” Mr Glegg and Mr Deane were less stern in their views, but
they both of them thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his
hot-tempered crotchets and ought to put them out of the question when a
livelihood was offered him; Wakem showed a right feeling about the
matter,—he had no grudge against Tulliver.

Tom had protested against entertaining the proposition. He shouldn’t
like his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would look
mean-spirited; but his mother’s main distress was the utter
impossibility of ever “turning Mr Tulliver round about Wakem,” or
getting him to hear reason; no, they would all have to go and live in a
pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who spoke “so as nobody could be
fairer.” Indeed, Mrs Tulliver’s mind was reduced to such confusion by
living in this strange medium of unaccountable sorrow, against which
she continually appealed by asking, “Oh dear, what have I done to
deserve worse than other women?” that Maggie began to suspect her poor
mother’s wits were quite going.

“Tom,” she said, when they were out of their father’s room together,
“we must try to make father understand a little of what has happened
before he goes downstairs. But we must get my mother away. She will say
something that will do harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her
engaged with something in the kitchen.”

Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention of staying
till the master could get about again, “wage or no wage,” she had found
a certain recompense in keeping a strong hand over her mistress,
scolding her for “moithering” herself, and going about all day without
changing her cap, and looking as if she was “mushed.” Altogether, this
time of trouble was rather a Saturnalian time to Kezia; she could scold
her betters with unreproved freedom. On this particular occasion there
were drying clothes to be fetched in; she wished to know if one pair of
hands could do everything in-doors and out, and observed that she
should have thought it would be good for Mrs Tulliver to put on her
bonnet, and get a breath of fresh air by doing that needful piece of
work. Poor Mrs Tulliver went submissively downstairs; to be ordered
about by a servant was the last remnant of her household dignities,—she
would soon have no servant to scold her. Mr Tulliver was resting in his
chair a little after the fatigue of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were
seated near him, when Luke entered to ask if he should help master
downstairs.

“Ay, ay, Luke; stop a bit, sit down,” said Mr Tulliver pointing his
stick toward a chair, and looking at him with that pursuant gaze which
convalescent persons often have for those who have tended them,
reminding one of an infant gazing about after its nurse. For Luke had
been a constant night-watcher by his master’s bed.

“How’s the water now, eh, Luke?” said Mr Tulliver. “Dix hasn’t been
choking you up again, eh?”

“No, sir, it’s all right.”

“Ay, I thought not; he won’t be in a hurry at that again, now Riley’s
been to settle him. That was what I said to Riley yesterday—I said——”

Mr Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armchair, and
looking on the ground as if in search of something, striving after
vanishing images like a man struggling against a doze. Maggie looked at
Tom in mute distress, their father’s mind was so far off the present,
which would by-and-by thrust itself on his wandering consciousness! Tom
was almost ready to rush away, with that impatience of painful emotion
which makes one of the differences between youth and maiden, man and
woman.

“Father,” said Maggie, laying her hand on his, “don’t you remember that
Mr Riley is dead?”

“Dead?” said Mr Tulliver, sharply, looking in her face with a strange,
examining glance.

“Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago. I remember hearing you say
you had to pay money for him; and he left his daughters badly off; one
of them is under-teacher at Miss Firniss’s, where I’ve been to school,
you know.”

“Ah?” said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. But as
soon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at him with the same
inquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised at the presence of
these two young people. Whenever his mind was wandering in the far
past, he fell into this oblivion of their actual faces; they were not
those of the lad and the little wench who belonged to that past.

“It’s a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father,” said
Tom. “I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I went
to school at Mr Stelling’s. I’ve been at school there three years;
don’t you remember?”

Mr Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlike outward
glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him from external
impressions.

“Ay, ay,” he said, after a minute or two, “I’ve paid a deal o’ money—I
was determined my son should have a good eddication; I’d none myself,
and I’ve felt the miss of it. And he’ll want no other fortin, that’s
what I say—if Wakem was to get the better of me again——”

The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moment’s pause
he began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in his side-pocket.
Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way, “Where have they
put Gore’s letter?”

It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for it before.

“You know what there is in the letter, father?” said Tom, as he gave it
to him.

“To be sure I do,” said Mr Tulliver, rather angrily. “What o’ that? If
Furley can’t take to the property, somebody else can; there’s plenty o’
people in the world besides Furley. But it’s hindering—my not being
well—go and tell ’em to get the horse in the gig, Luke; I can get down
to St Ogg’s well enough—Gore’s expecting me.”

“No, dear father!” Maggie burst out entreatingly; “it’s a very long
while since all that; you’ve been ill a great many weeks,—more than two
months; everything is changed.”

Mr Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startled gaze;
the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing had often
transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now with entire
novelty.

“Yes, father,” said Tom, in answer to the gaze. “You needn’t trouble
your mind about business until you are quite well; everything is
settled about that for the present,—about the mill and the land and the
debts.”

“What’s settled, then?” said his father, angrily.

“Don’t you take on too much about it, sir,” said Luke. “You’d ha’ paid
iverybody if you could,—that’s what I said to Master Tom,—I said you’d
ha’ paid iverybody if you could.”

Good Luke felt, after the manner of contented hard-working men whose
lives have been spent in servitude, that sense of natural fitness in
rank which made his master’s downfall a tragedy to him. He was urged,
in his slow way, to say something that would express his share in the
family sorrow; and these words, which he had used over and over again
to Tom when he wanted to decline the full payment of his fifty pounds
out of the children’s money, were the most ready to his tongue. They
were just the words to lay the most painful hold on his master’s
bewildered mind.

“Paid everybody?” he said, with vehement agitation, his face flushing,
and his eye lighting up. “Why—what—have they made me a bankrupt?”

“Oh, father, dear father!” said Maggie, who thought that terrible word
really represented the fact; “bear it well, because we love you; your
children will always love you. Tom will pay them all; he says he will,
when he’s a man.”

She felt her father beginning to tremble; his voice trembled too, as he
said, after a few moments:

“Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o’er.”

“But perhaps you will live to see me pay everybody, father,” said Tom,
speaking with a great effort.

“Ah, my lad,” said Mr Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, “but what’s
broke can never be whole again; it ’ud be your doing, not mine.” Then
looking up at him, “You’re only sixteen; it’s an up-hill fight for you,
but you mustn’t throw it at your father; the raskills have been too
many for him. I’ve given you a good eddication,—that’ll start you.”

Something in his throat half choked the last words; the flush, which
had alarmed his children because it had so often preceded a recurrence
of paralysis, had subsided, and his face looked pale and tremulous. Tom
said nothing; he was still struggling against his inclination to rush
away. His father remained quiet a minute or two, but his mind did not
seem to be wandering again.

“Have they sold me up, then?” he said more calmly, as if he were
possessed simply by the desire to know what had happened.

“Everything is sold, father; but we don’t know all about the mill and
the land yet,” said Tom, anxious to ward off any question leading to
the fact that Wakem was the purchaser.

“You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare downstairs,
father,” said Maggie; “but there’s your chair and the bureau; they’re
not gone.”

“Let us go; help me down, Luke,—I’ll go and see everything,” said Mr
Tulliver, leaning on his stick, and stretching out his other hand
toward Luke.

“Ay, sir,” said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, “you’ll make up
your mind to’t a bit better when you’ve seen iverything; you’ll get
used to’t. That’s what my mother says about her shortness o’
breath,—she says she’s made friends wi’t now, though she fought again’
it sore when it just come on.”

Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary parlour,
where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed part of the
general shabbiness. She turned her father’s chair, and pushed aside the
table to make an easy way for him, and then stood with a beating heart
to see him enter and look round for the first time. Tom advanced before
him, carrying the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of
those two young hearts Tom’s suffered the most unmixed pain, for
Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sorrow
made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breathing-space to
her passionate nature. No true boy feels that; he would rather go and
slay the Nemean lion, or perform any round of heroic labours, than
endure perpetual appeals to his pity, for evils over which he can make
no conquest.

Mr Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, and looking
round him at all the bare places, which for him were filled with the
shadows of departed objects,—the daily companions of his life. His
faculties seemed to be renewing their strength from getting a footing
on this demonstration of the senses.

“Ah!” he said slowly, moving toward his chair, “they’ve sold me
up—they’ve sold me up.”

Then seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke left the
room, he looked round again.

“They’ve left the big Bible,” he said. “It’s got everything in,—when I
was born and married; bring it me, Tom.”

The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf, and while he
was reading with slowly travelling eyes Mrs Tulliver entered the room,
but stood in mute surprise to find her husband down already, and with
the great Bible before him.

“Ah,” he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, “my mother
was Margaret Beaton; she died when she was forty-seven,—hers wasn’t a
long-lived family; we’re our mother’s children, Gritty and me are,—we
shall go to our last bed before long.”

He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister’s birth and
marriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to him; then he
suddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a sharp tone of alarm:

“They haven’t come upo’ Moss for the money as I lent him, have they?”

“No, father,” said Tom; “the note was burnt.”

Mr Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and presently said:

“Ah—Elizabeth Dodson—it’s eighteen year since I married her——”

“Come next Ladyday,” said Mrs Tulliver, going up to his side and
looking at the page.

Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face.

“Poor Bessy,” he said, “you was a pretty lass then,—everybody said
so,—and I used to think you kept your good looks rarely. But you’re
sorely aged; don’t you bear me ill-will—I meant to do well by you—we
promised one another for better or for worse——”

“But I never thought it ’ud be so for worse as this,” said poor Mrs
Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had come over her of late;
“and my poor father gave me away—and to come on so all at once——”

“Oh, mother!” said Maggie, “don’t talk in that way.”

“No, I know you won’t let your poor mother speak—that’s been the way
all my life—your father never minded what I said—it ’ud have been o’ no
use for me to beg and pray—and it ’ud be no use now, not if I was to go
down o’ my hands and knees——”

“Don’t say so, Bessy,” said Mr Tulliver, whose pride, in these first
moments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the sense of some justice in
his wife’s reproach. “If there’s anything left as I could do to make
you amends, I wouldn’t say you nay.”

“Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might keep among my
own sisters,—and me been such a good wife to you, and never crossed you
from week’s end to week’s end—and they all say so—they say it ’ud be
nothing but right, only you’re so turned against Wakem.”

“Mother,” said Tom, severely, “this is not the time to talk about
that.”

“Let her be,” said Mr Tulliver. “Say what you mean, Bessy.”

“Why, now the mill and the land’s all Wakem’s, and he’s got everything
in his hands, what’s the use o’ setting your face against him, when he
says you may stay here, and speaks as fair as can be, and says you may
manage the business, and have thirty shillings a-week, and a horse to
ride about to market? And where have we got to put our heads? We must
go into one o’ the cottages in the village,—and me and my children
brought down to that,—and all because you must set your mind against
folks till there’s no turning you.”

Mr Tulliver had sunk back in his chair trembling.

“You may do as you like wi’ me, Bessy,” he said, in a low voice; “I’ve
been the bringing of you to poverty—this world’s too many for me—I’m
nought but a bankrupt; it’s no use standing up for anything now.”

“Father,” said Tom, “I don’t agree with my mother or my uncles, and I
don’t think you ought to submit to be under Wakem. I get a pound a-week
now, and you can find something else to do when you get well.”

“Say no more, Tom, say no more; I’ve had enough for this day. Give me a
kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no ill-will; we shall never be
young again—this world’s been too many for me.”