 Book 3, Chapter 3 of Mill on the Floss. It was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts and uncles came to hold their consultation. The fire was lighted in the large parlour, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with the confused impression that it was a great occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and unpinned the curtains, adjusting them in proper folds, looking round and shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, which Sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient brightness. Mr. Deanne was not coming. He was away on business, but Mrs. Deanne appeared punctually in that handsome new gig, with the head to it, and the livery servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character to some of her female friends in sonogues. Mr. Deanne had been advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr. Tulliver had been going down in it, and in Mrs. Deanne's house the dots and linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate position. As a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the same kind, purchased in recent years a change which had caused an occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs. Gleg, who felt that Susan was getting like the rest, and there would soon be little of the true dots and spirit, surviving except in herself. And it might be hoped in those nephews who supported the dots' name on the family land far away in the worlds. People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own eyes, and it seemed superfluous when we consider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians, and how very little the Greeks had to do with them to inquire further why Homer calls them blameless. Mrs. Deanne was the first to arrive, and when she had taken her seat in the large parlor, Mrs. Tulliver came down to her with her crumbly face a little distorted, nearly as it would have been if she had been crying. She was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except in moments when the prospect of losing her furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm under present circumstances. Oh, sister, what a world this is! She exclaimed as she entered. What trouble! Oh, dear! Mrs. Deanne was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well-considered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them afterward to her husband, and asking him if she had not spoken very properly. Yes, sister, she said deliberately. This is a changing world, and we don't know today what may happen tomorrow, but it's right to be prepared for all things, and if trouble sent, to remember as it isn't sent without a cause. I'm very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for Mr. Tulliver, I hope you'll let me know. I'll send it willingly, for it is but right. He should have proper attendance while he's ill. Thank you, Susan, said Mrs. Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawing her fat hand from her sister's thin one. But there's been no talk, O jelly yet. Then, after a moment's pause, she added, There's a dozen O cut jelly glasses upstairs. I shall never put jelly into them no more. Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr. and Mrs. Glick were come, and were almost immediately followed by Mr. and Mrs. Pullot. Mrs. Pullot entered crying as a compendious mode, at all times, of expressing what were her views of life in general, and what, in brief, were the opinions she held concerning the particular case before her. Mrs. Glick had on her fuzziest front, and garments which appeared to have had a recent resurrection, from rather a creasy form of burial, a costume selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfect humility into Bessie and her children. Mrs. G., won't you come nearer the fire, said her husband, unwilling to take the more comfortable seat, without offering it to her. You see, I've seated myself here, Mr. Glick. Return this superior woman. You can roast yourself if you like. Well, said Mr. Glick, seating himself good-humouredly, and how's the poor man upstairs? Dr. Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning, said Mrs. Tulliver. He took more notice and spoke to me, but he's never known Tom yet, looks at the poor lad as if he was a stranger, though he said something once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says his memory's gone a long way back, and he doesn't know Tom because he's thinking of him when he was little. Ah, dear, ah, dear. I doubt it's the water God on his brain, said Aunt Pult, turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at the pier glass. It's much if he ever gets up again, and if he does, he'll most likely be childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man. They fed him with a spoon as if he'd been a baby for three years. He'd quite lost the use of his limbs, but then he'd got a bath chair, and somebody to draw him, and that's what you won't have. I doubt busy. Sister Pult, said Mrs. Glig, severely. If I understand right, we've come together this morning to advise and consult about what's to be done in Mr. Grace, as has fallen upon the family, and not to talk, O people, as don't belong to us. Mr. Carr was none of our blood, nor no ways connected with us, as I've ever heard. Sister Glig, said Mrs. Pult, in a pleading tone, drawing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated manner. If you've got anything disrespectful to say, O Mr. Carr, I do beg of you, as you won't say it to me. I know what he was, she added, with a sigh. His breath was short to that degree, as you could hear him two rooms off. Sophie, said Mrs. Glig, with an indignant disgust. You do talk at people's complaints, till it's quite undecent, but I say again, as I said before, I don't come away from home to talk about acquaintances, whether they'd short breath or long. If we aren't come together for one to hear, what the other will do to save a sister and her children from the parish? I shall go back. One can't act without the other, I suppose. It isn't to be expected, as I should do everything. Well, Joan, said Mrs. Pult, I don't see, as you've been so very forward at doing. So far as I know, this is the first time as here you've been, since it's been known as the bay looks in the house. And I was here yesterday and looked at all Bessie's linen and things, and I told her I'd buy in the spotted tablecloths. I couldn't speak fairer, for as for the teapot as she doesn't want to go out of the family, it stands to sense I can't do with two still with teapots. Not if it hadn't a straight spout, but the spotted damask I was always fond on. I wish it could be managed so, as my teapot and channe and the best casters needn't be put up for sale, said poor Mrs. Tulliver, beseechingly. And the sugar tongs, the first things ever I bought. But that can't be helped, you know, said Mr. Gleave. If one of the family chooses to buy them in, they can, but one thing must be bid for as well as another. And it isn't to be looked for, said Uncle Paul, with unwanted independence of idea, as your own family should pay more for things, nor they'll fetch. They may go for an old song by auction. O dear, O dear, said Mrs. Tulliver, to think of my channe being sold in that way, and I bought it when I was married, just as you did yours, Jane and Sophie, and I know you didn't like mine, because of the spree, but I was fond of it, and there's never been a bid broke, for I've washed it myself, and there's the tulips on the cups and the roses, as anybody might go and look at them. You wouldn't like your channe to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though yours has got no colour in it, Jane. It's all white and fluted, and didn't cost so much as mine. And there's the casters, Sister Deanne, I can't think, but you'd like to have the casters, for I've heard you say they're pretty. Well, I've no objection to buy some of the best things, said Mrs. Deanne, rather loftily. We can do with the extra things in our house. Best things exclaimed Mrs. Glick, with severity, which had gathered intensity from her long silence. It drives me past patience to hear you all talking of best things, and buying in this, that, and the other, such as silver and channe. You must bring your mind to your circumstances, Betty, and not be thinking of silver and channe, but whether you shall get so much as a flock-bed to lie on, and a blanket to cover you, and a stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get them, it'll be because your friends have bought them for you, for you're dependent upon them for everything, for your husband lies there helpless, and hasn't got a penny in the will to call his own. And it's for your own good I say this, for it's right you should feel what your state is, and what disgrace your husband's brought on your own family, as you've got to look to for everything, and be humble in your mind. Mrs. Glick paused, for speaking with much energy for the good of others is naturally exhausting. Mrs. Tullaba, always born down by the family predominance of Sister Joan, who had made her wear the goat of a younger sister in very tender years, said pleadingly, I'm sure, Sister, I've never asked anybody to do anything, only by things as it would be a pleasure to them to have. So as they mightn't go and be spoiled in strange houses, I never asked anybody to buy the things in for me and my children. Though there's the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was born, I thought one of the first things when he was lying in the cradle, as all the things I'd bought with my own money, and been so careful if you'd go to him. But I've said nothing, as I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my husband has done for his sisters unknown, and we should have been better off this day, if it hadn't been, as he's lent money and never asked for it again. Come, come, said Mystic Leg kindly, don't let us make things too dark. What's done can't be undone. We shall make a shift among us to buy what's sufficient for you, though, as Mrs. G says, they must be useful, plain things. We mustn't be thinking of what's unnecessary, a table, and a chair or two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and such life. Why? I've seen the day when I shouldn't have known myself if I'd lain on sacking instead of the floor. We get a deal of useless things about us, only because we've got the money to spend. Mystic Leg, said Mrs. G, if you'll be kind enough to let me speak, instead of taking the words out of my mouth, I was going to say, Bessie, as it's fine talking for you to say, as you've never asked us to buy anything for you, let me tell you, you ought to have asked us. Pray, how are you to be provided for if your own family don't help you? You must go to the parish, if they didn't. And you ought to know that, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we can for you, instead of saying and making a boast as you've never asked us for anything. You talked of the Mossus, and what Mr. Tulliver done for him, said Uncle Pullock, who became unusually suggestive, where advances of money were concerned. Haven't they been in near you? They ought to do something as well as other folks, and if he's lent a money, they ought to be made to pay it back. Yes, to be sure, said Mrs. Dearn, I've been thinking so. How is it Mr. and Mrs. Moss aren't here to meet us? It is that right they should do their share. O dear, said Mrs. Tulliver, I never sent him word about Mr. Tulliver, and they live so backward among the lanes at Bassett. They never hear anything, only when Mr. Moss comes to Markham. But I never gave them a thought. I wonder Maggie didn't, though, for she was always so fond of her aunt Moss. Why don't your children come in, Bessie, said Mrs. Pullock, at the mention of Maggie. They should hear what their aunts and uncles have to say, and Maggie, when it's me as have paid for half a schooling, she ought to think more of her aunt Pullock than of Aunt Moss. I may go off sudden when I get home today, there's no telling. If I'd had my way, said Mrs. Clegg, the children ought to have been in the room from the first. It's time they knew who they've to look to, and it's right as somebody should talk to them, and let them know their condition in life, and what they've come down to, and make them feel as they've got to suffer for their father's faults. Well, I'll go and fetch him, sister, said Mrs. Tulliver, resignedly. She was quite crushed now, and thought of the treasures in the storeroom, with no other feeling than blank despair. She went upstairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both in their father's room, and was on her way down again, when the sight of the storeroom door suggested a new thought to her. She went toward it, and left the children to go down by themselves. The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussion when the brother and sister entered, both with shrinking reluctance. For though Tom, with a practical sagacity, which had been roused into activity by the strong stimulus of the new emotions he had undergone since yesterday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which he meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles. He felt by no means amicably toward them, and dreaded meeting them all at once, as he would have dreaded a large dose of concentrated physics, which was but just indurable in small drafts. As for Maggie, she was peculiarly depressed this morning. She had been called up after brief rest at three o'clock, and had that strange dreamy weariness which comes from watching in a sick room through the tulle hours of early twilight and breaking day, in which the outside daylight life seems to have no importance, and to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkened chamber. The two aunts interrupted the conversation. The shaking of hands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till Uncle Poole observed as Tom approached him. We've been talking as we should want your pen and ink. You can write really now, after all your schooling, I should think. I, I, said Uncle Clegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind, we must look to see the good of all the schooling, as your father sunk so much money in, now. When land is gone and money spent, then learning is most excellent. Now's the time, Tom, to let us see the good of your learning. Let us see whether you can do better than I can, as have made my fortune without it. But I began with doing with little, you see. I could live on a base and a porridge and a crust of bread and cheese, but I doubt high living and high learning or make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me. But he must do it, interposed Aunt Clegg, energetically, whether it's hard or not. He hasn't got to consider what's hard. He must consider, as he isn't to trust into his friends, to keep him in idleness and luxury. He's got to bear the fruits of his father's misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what they're doing for his mother and father, as must be turned out into the streets and go to the workhouse if they didn't help him. And his sister too, continued Mrs. Clegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on the sofa by her aunt Diane, drawn to her by the sense that she was Lucy's mother. She must make up her mind to be humble and work, for there'll be no servants to wait on her anymore. She must remember that. She must do the work at the house, and she must respect and love her aunts, as have done so much for her, and save their money to leave to their nephews and nieces. Tom was still standing before the table in the centre of the group. There was a heightened colour in his face, and he was very far from looking humble. But he was preparing to say, in a respectful tone, something he had previously meditated, when the door opened and his mother re-entered. Poor Mrs. Tulliver had in her hands a small tray, on which she had placed a silver teapot, a specimen teacup and saucer, the casters and sugar tongs. See here, sister," she said, looking at Mrs. Diane, as she set the tray on the table. I thought, perhaps, if you looked at the teapot again, it's a good while since you saw it. You might like the pattern better. It makes beautiful tea, and there's a stand and everything. You might use it for every day, or else lay it by for Lucy, when she goes to housekeeping. I should be so low for him to buy it at the golden lion, said the poor woman, her heart swelling and the tears coming, my teapot as I bought when I was married, and to think of it as being scratched, and set before the travellers and folks, and my letters on it. See here, E.D., and everybody to see him. Ah, dear, dear," said Aunt Pruitt, shaking her head with deep sadness. It's very bad to think of the family initials going about everywhere. It never was so before. You're a very unlucky sister, Bessie. But what's the use of buying the teapot, when there's the linen and spoons and everything to go, and some of them with your full name, and when it's got that straight spout too? As to the disgrace of the family, said Mrs. Glick, that can't be helped with buying teapots. The disgrace is for one of the family to have married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is, as there to be sold up. We can't hinder the country from knowing that. Maggie had started up from the sofa at the illusion to her father, that Tom saw her action and flushed face in time to prevent her from speaking. Be quiet, Maggie," he said authoritatively, pushing her aside. It was a remarkable manifestation of self-command and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen, that when his aunt Glick ceased, he began to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though with a good deal of trembling in his voice, for his mother's words had cut him to the quick. Then aunt, he said, looking straight at Mrs. Glick, if you'd think it's a disgrace to the family, that we should be sold up, wouldn't it be better to prevent it all together? And if you and Aunt Pullat, he continued, looking at the latter, think of leaving any money to me and Maggie, wouldn't it be better to give it now, and pay the debt we're going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her furniture? There was a silence for a few moments, for everyone, including Maggie, was astonished at Tom's sudden manliness of tone. Uncle Glick was the first to speak. I, I, young man, come now. You show some notion of things, but there's the interest you must remember. Your aunts get five percent on their money, and they'd lose that if they advanced it. You haven't thought of that. I could work and pay that every year," said Tom promptly. I'd do anything to save my mother from parting with her things. Well done, said Uncle Glick admirably. He had been drawing Tom out, rather than reflecting on the practibility of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife. Yes, Mr. Glick said that lady with angry sarcasm. It's pleasant work for you to be giving my money away, as you pretended to leave at my own disposal. And my money, as was my own father's gift, and not yours, Mr. Glick. And I've saved it, and added to it my soul, and had more to put out almost every year. And it's to go and be sunk in other folk's furniture, and encourage them in luxury and extravagance, as they've no means of supporting. And I'm to alter my will, or have a cortisol made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me when I die. Me, as have always done right and been careful, and the eldest of the family, and my moneys to go and be squandered on them, as have had the same chance as me. Only they've been wicked and wasteful. Sister Pullock, you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you back again of the money he's given you. But that isn't my spirit. La Jane, how far are you are? said Mrs. Pullock. I'm sure you'll have the blood in your head, and have to be cupped. I'm sorry for Bessie and her children. I'm sure I think of them a night's dreadful, for I sleep very bad with this new medicine. But it's no use for me to think of doing anything, if you won't meet me halfway. Why? There's this to be considered, said Mr. Gleed. It's no use to pay off this debt, and save the furniture, when there's all the law debts behind. As you take every shilling, and more than could be made out of the land and stock. For I've made that out from lawyer Gawr. We'd need to save our money to keep the poor man with, instead of spending it on furniture, as he can neither eat nor drink. You will be so hasty, Jane, as if I didn't know what was reasonable. Then speak accordingly, Mr. Gleed, said his wife, with slow, loud emphasis, bending her head toward him significantly. Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and his lip quivered, but he was determined not to give way. He would behave like a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after a momentary delight in Tom's speech, had relapsed into a state of trembling indignation. Her mother had been standing close by Tom's side, and had been clinging to his arm ever since he had last spoken. Maggie suddenly started up and stood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a young lioness. Why do you come, then? She burst out, talking and interfering with us and scolding us, if you don't mean to do anything to help my poor mother, your own sister. If you've no feeling for her when she's in trouble and won't part with anything, though you would never miss it to save her from pain, keep away from us, then, and don't come to find fault with my father. He was better than any of you. He was kind. He would have helped you if you had been in trouble. Tom and I don't ever want to have any of your money if you won't help my mother. We'd rather not have it. We'll do without you. Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, as if she were ready to await all consequences. Mrs. Tullaba was frightened. There was something portentious in this mad outbreak. She did not see how life could go on after it. Tom was vexed. It was no use to talk so. The aunts were silent, with surprise for some moments, at length, in a case of aberration such as this. Comment presented itself as more expedient than any answer. You haven't seen the end of your trouble with that child, Bessie, said Mrs. Tullaba. She's beyond everything for boldness and unthinkfulness. It's dreadful. I might have let alone paying for her schooling, for she's worse than a river. It's no more than what I've always said, followed Mrs. Glee. Other folks may be surprised, but I'm not. I've said over and over again, years ago, I've said. Mark my words. That child will come to no good. There isn't a bit of that family in it. And as for her having so much schooling, I never thought well of that. I had my reasons when I said I wouldn't pay anything to order. Come, come, said Mr. Glee. Let's waste no more time in talking. Let's go to business. Tom now, get the pen and ink. While Mr. Glee was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen, hurrying past the window. Why, there's Mrs. Moss, said Mrs. Tullaba. The bad news must have reached her then, and she went out to open the door, Maggie eagerly following her. That's fortunate, said Mrs. Glee. She can agree to the list of things to be brought in. It's that right she should do her share when it's her own brother. Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tullaba's movement. As she drew her into the parlour automatically, without reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her amongst so many persons in the first painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, dark-haired woman was a strong contrast to the dots and sisters as she entered in her shabby dress, with her shawl and bonnet looking as if they had been hastily huddled on. And with that entire absence of self-consciousness, which belongs to keenly felt trouble, Maggie was clinging to her arm, and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else except Tom, whom she went straight up to and took by the hand. Oh, my dear children, she burst out. You've no call to think well of me. I'm a poor aunt to you, for I'm one of them as take all and give nothing. How's my poor brother? Mr. Turnbull thinks he'll get better, said Maggie. Sit down, Aunt Gritty, don't fret. Oh, my sweet child, I felt torn in two, said Mrs. Moss, allowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming to notice the presence of the rest. With three hundred pounds of my brother's money, and now he wants it, and you all want it, poor things, and yet we must be sold up to pay it. And these my poor children, eight of them, and the little one of all can't speak plain. And I feel as if I was a robber, but I'm sure I'd no thought as my brother the poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob. Three hundred pounds, oh, dear, dear, said Mrs. Tulliver, who, when she had said that her husband had done unknown things for his sister, had not had any particular sum in her mind, and felt a wife's irritation at having been kept in the dark. What madness to be sure, said Mrs. Glief, a man with a family, he'd no right to lend his money in that way, and without security I'll be bound if the truth was known. Mrs. Glief's voice had arrested Mrs. Moss's attention, and looking up she said, Yes, there was a security. My husband gave a note for it. We're not that sort of people, neither of us, as you rob my brother's children. And we looked to pay him back the money when the times got a bit better. Well, but now, said Mrs. Glief gently, hasn't your husband no way of raising this money? Because it'd be a little fort in life for these folks if we can do without Tulliver's being made a bankrupt. Your husband's got stock. It is, but right, he should raise the money. As it seems to me, not but what, I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Moss. Oh, sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband's had with his stock. The farm's suffering so, as never was for one to stop. And we're sold all the week, and we're behind with our rent. Not but what, we'd like to do what's right, and I'd sit up and work half the night, if it'd be any good. But these then poor children, four of them such little ones. Don't cry so, aunt, don't fret, whispered Maggie, who had kept hold of Mrs. Moss's hand. Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once, said Mrs. Tulliver, still lost in the conception of things which had been going on without her knowledge? No, at twice, said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes and making an effort to restrain her tears. The last was after my bad illness four years ago, as everything went wrong, and there was a new note made then. What with illness and bad luck? I've been nothing but cumba all my life. Yes, Mrs. Moss, said Mrs. Gleed, with decision. Yours is a very unlucky family. The more is the pity for my sister. I set off in the cart as soon as I ever heard of what had happened, said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. I should never have stayed away all this while, if you thought well to let me know. And it isn't as I'm thinking all about ourselves and nothing about my brother. Only the money was so on my mind. I couldn't help speaking about it. And my husband and me desired to do the right thing, sir, she added, looking at Mr. Gleed, and will make shift and pay the money, come what will, if that's all my brothers got to trust her. We've been used to trouble and don't look for much else. It's only the thought of my poor children, pulls me in too. Why, there's this to be thought on, Mrs. Moss, said Mr. Gleed, and it's right to warn you. If Tulliver's made a bankrupt and he's got a note of hand of your husband's for three hundred pounds, you'll be obliged to pay it. The assignees will come on you for it. Oh, dear, oh, dear, said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the bankruptcy and note of Mrs. Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs. Moss herself listening in trembling submission while Maggie looked with bewildered distress at Tom to see if he showed any signs of understanding this trouble and caring about poor Aunt Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful with his eyes on the tablecloth. And if he isn't made bankrupt, continued Mr. Gleed. As I said before, three hundred pounds ought to be a little fortune for him, poor man. We don't know but what he may be partly helpless if he ever gets up again. I'm very sorry if it goes hard with you, Mrs. Moss, but my opinion is, looking at it in one way, it'll be right for you to raise the money and looking at it in the other way, you'll be obliged to pay it. You won't think ill of me speaking the truth. Uncle, said Tom, looking up suddenly from his meditative view of the tablecloth. I don't think it would be right for my Aunt Moss to pay the money if it would be against my father's will for her to pay it, would it? Mr. Gleed looked surprised for a moment or two before he said, Why, no, perhaps not, Tom, but then he'd have to destroy the note, you know. We must look for the note. What makes you think it'd be against his will? Why, said Tom, colouring but trying to speak firmly in spite of a boyish tremor. I remember quite well before I went to school to Mr. Stelling. My father said to me one night when we were sitting by the fire together and no one else was in the room. Tom hesitated a little and then went on. He said something to me about Maggie and then he said, I've always been good to my sister though she married against my will and I've lent Moss money, but I shall never think of distressing him to pay it. I'd rather lose it. My children must not mind being the poorer for that and now my father's ill and not able to speak for himself. I shouldn't like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me. Well, but then my boy, said Uncle Gleed, his good feeling led him to enter into Tom's wish. But who could not at once shake off his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities? Or alienating anything important enough to make an appreciable difference in a man's property? We should have to make way with the note, you know, if we're to guard against what may happen, supposing your father's made bankrupt. Mr. Gleed interrupted his wife severely. Mind what you're saying. You're putting yourself very forward in other folks' business. If you speak rash, don't say it with my folk. That's such a thing as I never heard of before, said Uncle Poole, who had been making haste with his lozenge in order to express his amazement. Making a way with the note, I should think anybody could set the constable on new for it. Well, but, said Mrs. Talibah, if the note's worth all that money, why can't we pay it away to save my things from going away? We've no call to meddle with your Uncle and Aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your father would be angry when he gets well. Mrs. Talibah had not studied the question of exchange, and was straining her mind after original ideas on the subject. Poo, poo, poo, you women, don't understand these things, said Uncle Gleed. There's no way of making it safe for Mr. and Mrs. Moss, for destroying the note. Then I hope you'll help me do it, Uncle, said Tom earnestly. If my father shouldn't get well, I should be very unhappy to think anything had been done against his will that I could hinder. And I'm sure he meant me to remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my father's wish about his property. And Mrs. Gleed could not withhold her approval from Tom's word. She thought that Dodson's blood was certainly speaking in him. Though, if his father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wicked alienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on Tom's neck if her Aunt Moss had not prevented her by herself rising and taking Tom's hand. She said, with a rather choked voice, You'll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there's a God above and if the money's wanted for your father, Moss and me all pay it, the same as if there was ever such security. We'll do as we'd be done by, for if my children have got no other luck, they've got an honest father and mother. Well, said Mr. Gleed, if you had been meditating after Tom's words, we shouldn't be doing any wrong by the creditors. Supposing your father was bankrupt, I've been thinking of that, for I've been a creditor myself and seen no end at cheating. If he meant to give your Aunt the money before ever he got into this sad work alluring, he's the same as if he'd made way with the note himself, for he'd made up his mind to be that much poorer. But there's a deal of things to be considered, young man, Mr. Gleed added, looking admonishingly at Tom. When you come to money business and you may be taking one man's dinner away to make another man's breakfast, you don't understand that, I doubt. Yes, I do, said Tom decidedly. I know if I owe money to one man, I've no right to give it to another. But if my father had made up his mind to give my Aunt the money before he was in debt, he had a right to do it. Well done, young man. I don't think you'd been so sharp, said Uncle Gleed, with much candle. But perhaps your father did make a way with the note. Let us go and see if we can find it in the chest. It's in my father's room. Let us go too, Aunt Gritty, with Spid Maggie. End of Book 3, Chapter 3. Book 3, Chapter 4 of The Mill on the Floss. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Mill on the Floss by George Elliott. Book 3, The Downfall. Chapter 4, A 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. Gleag 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 ten-box, whispered Mr. Gleag. 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 of the house and mill, I suppose, and see what there is under them. Mr. Gleag had lifted out the parchment 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 recognized voice to us, a voice that will thrill and awaken when it has been used to touch deep-lying fibers. In the same moment, when all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the chest, the parchment that Mr. Gleag's hand and Tom holding the ten-box were the 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 recognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr. Gleag and the deeds. What's been happening then, he said sharply. What are you meddling with my deeds for? Is Wakeham laying hold of everything? Why don't you tell me what you've been a-doing? He added impatiently, as Mr. Gleag advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking. No, no, friend Tulliver, said Mr. Gleag in a soothing tone. Nobody's getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and see what was in the chest. It wasn't 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. Gleag and at Maggie, then suddenly appearing aware that someone was seated by his side at the head of the bed, he turned sharply round and saw his sister. A gritty, he said, in the half-sad affectionate tone in which he had been 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. Gleag. A fall from your horse shook you a bit. That's all, I think, said Mr. Gleag. But you'll soon get over it, let's hope. Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bedclothes 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 winch? Yes, father, she said, kissing him with a full heart. She felt as if her father would 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 aunt's father. Shall I fetch her? Aye, aye, poor Bessie. And his eyes turned toward Tom as Maggie left the room. You'll have to take care of them 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 of lux 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 of that, my lad, said Mr. Tulliver. I always meant to be easy about that money because of 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 always meant to be good to you, Gritty, said Mr. Tulliver turning to his sister. But you know you aggravated me because of 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, Bessie, 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 of the law. It's not a mine, he added angrily. It's the fault of rascals. Tom, you mind this. If ever you've got the chance to live for nothing, son, you might horsewhip him, but he'd set the law on you. The law's made to take care of rascals. 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 speaking again to his wife. They'll make a shift to pay everything, Bessie, he said, and yet leave you your furniture, and your sisters will do something for you, though what he's to be I don't know. I've done what I could. I've given him a education, and there's a little winch, she'll get married, but it's a poor tale. The sanitive 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, the kindness 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, the 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. This is a book I received on which Tom was much quicker than on the niceties of classical construction or the relations of a mathematical demonstration. End of Book 3, Chapter 4 Recording by Leanne Howlett. Book 3, Chapter 5 Of the Mill on the Floss This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Amanda Hangman. The Mill on the Floss by George Elliott. Book 3, The Downfall Chapter 5 Tom applies his knife to the oyster. The next day at ten o'clock Tom was on his way to St. Ox to see his Uncle Dean who was to come home last night his aunt had said and Tom had made up his mind that his Uncle Dean was the right person for advice about getting some employment. He was in a great way of business. He had not the narrow notions of Uncle Glag and he had risen in the world on a scale of advancement which accorded with Tom's ambition. It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain. One of those mornings when even happy people take refuge in their hopes and Tom was very unhappy. He felt the humiliation as well as the prospective hardships of his lot with all the keenness of a proud nature. And with all his resolute dutifulness toward his father there mingled an irrepressible indignation against him which gave misfortune the less indurable aspect of a wrong. Since these were the consequences of going to law his father was really blamable as his aunts and uncles had always said he was and it was a significant indication of Tom's character that though he thought his aunts ought to do something more for his mother he felt nothing about Maggie's violent resentment against them for showing no eager tenderness and generosity. There were no impulses in Tom that led him to expect what did not present itself to him as a right to be demanded. Why should people give away their money plentifully to those who had not taken care of their own money? Tom saw some justice in severity and all the more because he had confidence in himself that he should never deserve that just severity. It was very hard upon him to be put at this disadvantage in life by his father's want of prudence but he was not going to complain and to find fault with people because they did not make everything easy for him. He would ask no one to help him more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom was not without his hopes to take refuge in under the chill dampen prisonment of the December fog which seemed only like a part of his home troubles. At sixteen the mind that has the strongest affinity for fact cannot escape the flattery and Tom in sketching his future had no other guide in arranging his facts than the suggestions of his own brave self-reliance. Both Mr. Glagg and Mr. Dean he knew had been very poor once. He did not want to save money slowly and retire on a moderate fortune like his Uncle Glagg but he would be like his Uncle Dean get a situation in some great house of business and rise fast. He had scarcely seen anything of his Uncle Dean for the last three years and two families had been getting wider apart. But for this very reason Tom was the more hopeful about applying to him. His Uncle Glagg he felt sure would never encourage any spirited project but he had a vague imposing idea of the resources at his Uncle Dean's command. He had heard his father say long ago how Dean had made himself so valuable to guest and company that they were glad enough to offer him a share in the business. That was what Tom resolved was intolerable to think of being poor and look down upon all one's life. He would provide for his mother and sister and make everyone say that he was a man of high character. He leaped over the years in this way and in the haste of strong purpose and strong desire did not see how they would be made up of slow days, hours and minutes. By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the floss and was entering St. Augs he was thinking that he would buy his father's meal again when he was rich enough and improve the house and live there. He should prefer it to any smarter newer place and he could keep as many horses and dogs as he liked. Walking along the street with a firm rapid step at this point in his reverie he was startled by someone who had crossed without his notice and who said to him in a rough familiar voice, Why, Master Tom, how's your father this morning? It was a publican of St. Augs one of his father's daughters. Tom disliked being spoken to just then, but he said civilly, he's still very ill, thank you. I, it's been a sore chance for you young man, hasn't it, this lawsuit turning out against him, said the publican, with a confused, weary idea of being good-natured. Tom reddened and to pass on, he would have felt it like the handling of a bruise even if there had been the most polite and delicate reference to his position. That's Tulliver's son, and to a grocer standing on the adjacent doorstep. Ah, said the grocer, I thought I knew his features. He takes after his mother's family. She was a dodson. He's a fine, straight youth, what's he been brought up to? Oh, to turn up his nose at his father's customers and to be a fine gentleman, not much else, I think. Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thorough consciousness of the present, made all the greater haste to reach the warehouse offices of his own company, where he expected to find his uncle Dean. But this was Mr. Dean's morning at the bank, a clerk told him, and with some contempt for his ignorance, Mr. Dean was not to be found in River Street on a Thursday morning. At the bank, Tom was admitted into the private room where his uncle was, immediately after sending in his name. Mr. Dean was auditing accounts, but he looked up as Tom entered and putting out his hand, said, Well, Tom, nothing fresh at home, I hope. How's your father? Much the same, thank you, uncle, said Tom, feeling nervous. But I want to speak to you, please, when you're at liberty. Sit down, sit down, said Mr. Dean, relapsing into his accounts, in which he and the managing clerk remained so absorbed for the next half hour, that Tom began to wonder whether he should have to sit in this way till the bank closed. There seemed so little tendency toward a conclusion in the quiet monotonous procedure of the sleek, prosperous design of business. Would his uncle give him a place in the bank? It would be very dull, prosy work, he thought, riding there forever to the loud ticking of a timepiece. He preferred some other way of getting rich. But at last there was a change. His uncle took a pen and wrote something with a flourish at the end. You'll just step up to Tories now, Mr. Spence, will you, said Mr. Dean, and the clock suddenly became less loud and deliberate in Tom's ears. He said Mr. Dean, when they were alone, turning his substantial person a little in his chair, and taking out his snuff box. What's the business, my boy, what's the business? Mr. Dean, who had heard from his wife what had passed the day before, thought Tom was come to appeal to him for some means of averting the sale. I hope you'll excuse me for troubling you, uncle, said Tom, coloring, but speaking in a tone which, though tremulous, had a certain proud independence in it. But I thought you were the one who advised me what to do. Ah, said Mr. Dean, reserving his pinch of snuff and looking at Tom with new attention, let us hear. I want to get a situation, uncle, so that I may earn some money, said Tom, who never fell into circumlocution. A situation, said Mr. Dean, and then took his pinch of snuff with elaborate justice to each nostril. Tom thought snuff taking a most provoking habit. Why let me see, how old are you? He threw himself backward again. Sixteen, I mean, I'm going in seventeen, said Tom, hoping his uncle noticed how much beard he had. Let me see, your father had some notion of making you an engineer, I think. But I don't think I could get any money at that for a long while, could I? That's true, but people don't get much money at anything, my boy, when they're only sixteen. You've had a good deal of schooling, however, I suppose you're pretty well up in the day, you understand bookkeeping? No, said Tom, rather fault-tringly. I was in practice. But Mr. Stilling says I write a good hand, uncle, that's my writing, added Tom, laying on the table a copy of the list he had made yesterday. Ah, that's good, that's good, but you see, the best hand in the world will not get you a better place than a copy in clerks if you know nothing of bookkeeping, nothing of accounts, and a copy in clerks a cheap article. But what have you been learning at school then? Mr. Dean had not occupied himself with methods of education and had no precise conception of what went forward in expensive schools. We learned Latin, said Tom, pausing a little between each item as if he were turning over the books in his school desk to assist his memory. A good deal of Latin, and the last year I did themes, one week in Latin and one in English, and Greek and Roman history, and Euclid, and I began algebra but I left it off again, and we had one day every week for arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing lessons, and there were several other books we either read or learned out of, English poetry and Harai Pauline and Blair's rhetoric, the last half. Mr. Dean tapped his snuffbox again and screwed up his mouth. He felt in the position of many estimable persons when they had read the new tariff, and found how commodities were imported of which they knew nothing. Like a cautious man of business he was not going to speak rashly of a raw material in which he had had no experience, but the presumption was that if it had been good for anything so successful a man as himself would hardly have been ignorant of it. About Latin he had an opinion and thought that in case of another war since people would no longer wear hair-powder it would be well to put attacks upon Latin as a luxury and not run upon by the higher classes and not telling it all on the ship-owning department. But for what he knew the Harai Pauline might be something less neutral. On the whole this list of requirements gave him a sort of repulsion toward poor Tom. Well, he said at last, in rather a cold, sardonic tone, you've had three years of these things you must be pretty strong in them. Hadn't you better take up some line where they'll come in handy? Tom colored and burst out with energy. I'd rather not have any employment of that sort, uncle. I don't like Latin in those things. I don't know what I could do with them unless I went as an usher in a school and I don't know them well enough for that. Besides, I would as soon carry a pair of penniers. I don't want to be that sort of person. I should like to enter into some business where I can get on a manly business where I should have to look after things and get credit for what I did. And I shall want to keep my mother and sister. Ah, young gentlemen, said Mr. Dean, with that tendency to repress youthful hopes which stout and successful men of fifty find one of their easiest duties. That sooner said than done. Sooner said than done. But didn't you get on in that way, uncle? said Tom, a little irritated that Mr. Dean did not enter more rapidly into his views. I mean, didn't you rise from one place to another through your abilities and good conduct? I. I, sir, said Mr. Dean, spreading himself in his chair a little and entering with great readiness into a retrospect of his own career. But I'll tell you how I got on. It wasn't by getting a stride of stick and thinking it would turn into a horse if I sat on it long enough. I kept my eyes and ears open, sir, and I wasn't too fond of my own back, and I made my master's interest my own. Why, with only looking into what went on in the mill, I found out how there was a waste of five hundred a year that might be hindered. Why, sir, I hadn't more schooling to begin with than a charity boy. But I saw pretty soon that I couldn't get on far enough without mastering accounts, and I learned them between working hours after I'd been un-lating. Look here. Mr. Dean opened a book and pointed to the page. I write a good hand enough, and I'll match anybody at all sorts of reckoning by the head, and I got it all by hard work, and paid for it out of my own earnings, often out of my own dinner and supper. And I looked into the nature of all the things we had to do in the business and picked up knowledge as I went about my work and turned it over in my head. Why, I'm no mechanic. I never pretended to be. But I've thought of a thing or two that the mechanics never thought of, and it's made a fine difference in our returns. And there isn't an article shipped or wharf, but I know the quality of it. If I got places, sir, it was because I made myself fit for them. If you want to slip into a round hole, you must make a ball of yourself. That's where it is. Mr. Dean tapped his box again. He had been led on by pure enthusiasm in his subject, and had really forgotten what bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener. He had found occasion for saying the same thing more than once before, and was not sure that he had not his port wine before him. Well, Uncle said Tom, with a slight complaint in his tone, that's what I should like to do. Can't I get on in the same way? In the same way, said Mr. Dean, eyeing Tom with quite deliberation. There go two or three questions to that, Master Tom. That depends on what sort of material you are to begin with, and whether you've been put into the right meal. But I'll tell you what it is. Your way to work, and giving you an education. It wasn't my business, and I didn't interfere. But it is as I thought it would be. You've had a sort of learning that's all very well for a young fellow like our Mr. Stephen Guest, who'll have nothing to do but sign checks all his life, and may as well have Latin inside his head as any other sort of stuffing. But Uncle, said Tom earnestly, I don't see why the Latin need hindering me from getting on in business. I shall soon forget it all. It is no difference to me. I had to do my lessons at school, but I always thought they'd never be of any use to me afterward. I didn't care about them. Eye, eye, that's all very well, said Mr. Dean. But it doesn't alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and rigmarole may soon dry off you, but you'll be but a bear stick after that. Besides, it's whitened your hands and taken the rough work out of you. And what do you know? Why, you know nothing about bookkeeping again with, and not so much of reckoning as a common shopman. You'll have to begin at a low round of the latter, let me tell you, if you mean to get on in life. It's no use forgetting the education your father's been paying for if you don't give yourself a new one. Tom bit his lips hard. He felt as if the tears were rising, and he would rather die than let them. You want me to help you to a situation, Mr. Dean went on. Well I've no fault to find with that. I'm willing to do something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think you're to begin with living well and working easy. You've no notion of running a foot before you get horseback. Now you must remember what you are. You're a lad of sixteen trained to nothing particular. There's heaps of your sort like so many pebbles made to fit in nowhere. Well, you might be apprenticed to some business, a chemist and drugist perhaps, your Latin might come in a bit there. Tom was going to speak, but Mr. Dean put up his hand and said, Stop. Here what I've got to say. You don't want to be apprenticed. I know, I know. You want to make more haste and you don't want to stand behind a counter. But if you're a copy and clerk you'll have to stand behind a desk and stare at your ink and paper all day. There isn't much outlook there and you won't be much wiser at the end of the year than at the beginning. The world isn't made of pen, ink and paper, and pen. You must know what the world's made of. Now the best chance for you would be to have a place on a wharf or in a warehouse where you'd learn the smell of things, but you wouldn't like that. I'll be bound. You'd have to stand cold and wet and be shouldered about by rough fellows. You're too fine a gentleman for that. Mr. Dean paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly felt some inward struggle before he could reply. I would rather do what up with what was disagreeable. That's well if you can carry it out. But you must remember it isn't only laying hold of a rope, you must go on pulling. It's the mistake you lads make that have got nothing either in your brains or your pocket to think you've got a better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place where you can keep your coats clean and have the shot winches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way I started, young man. When I was afraid of handling cheeses, that's the reason I can wear good broadcloth now and have my legs under the same table with the heads of the best firms and St. Augs. Uncle Dean tapped his box and seemed to expand a little under his waistcoat and gold chain as he squared his shoulders in the chair. Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, Uncle, that I should do for? I should like to set to work at once, said Tom, with a slight tremor in his voice. Stop a bit. We mustn't be in too great a hurry. You must bear in mind if I put you in a place you're a bit young for, because you happen to be my nephew, I shall be responsible for you, and there's no better reason you know than your being my nephew because it remains to be seen whether you're good for anything. I hope I shall never do you any discredit, Uncle, said Tom, heard, as all boys are, at the statement of the unpleasant truth that people feel no ground for trusting them. I own credit too much for that. Well done, Tom. Well done. That's the right spirit, and I never refuse to help anybody if they've a mind to do themselves justice. There's a young man of two and twenty I've got my eye on now. I shall do what I can for that young man. He's got some pipe in him. But then you see, he's made good use of his time. A first rate calculator can tell you the cubic contents of anything in no time, and put me up the other day to a poor Swedish bark. He's uncommonly knowing in manufacturers that young fellow. I'd better set about learning bookkeeping, hadn't I, Uncle, said Tom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert himself. Yes, yes, you can't do a miss there. But ah, spence your back again. Well, Tom, there's nothing more to be said just now, I think, and I must go to business again. Goodbye. Remember me to your care of friendly dismissal, and Tom had not courage to ask another question, especially in the presence of Mr. Spence. So he went out again into the cold damp air. He had to call at his Uncle Glakes about the money in the savings bank, and by the time he set out again, the mist had thickened and he could not see very far before him. But going along Riverstreet again, he was startled when he was within two yards of the projecting side of a shop window by the words Bill, in large letters on a hand bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was the catalog of the cell to take place the next week. It was a reason for hurrying faster out of the town. Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made his way homeward. He only felt that the present was very hard. It seemed a wrong toward him that his Uncle Dean had no confidence in him, did not see it once that he should acquit himself well, which Tom was certain of as of the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, was likely to be held of small account in the world, and for the first time he felt a sinking of heart under the sense that he really was very ignorant and could do very little. Who was that enviable young man that could tell the cubic contents of things in no time and to make suggestions about Swedish bark? Tom had been used to be so entirely satisfied with himself, in spite of his breaking down in a demonstration of the young Elias Promethe Vires, as now promised those men. But now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage because he knew less than someone else knew. There must be a world of things connected with that Swedish bark, which if he only knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have been much easier to make a figure with a spirited horse and a new saddle. Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St. Augs, he saw the distant future before him as he might have a tempting stretch of smooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles. He was on the grassy bank then and thought the shingles might soon be passed, but now his feet were on the sharp stones. The belt of shingles had widened and the stretch of sand had dwindled into narrowness. What did my Uncle Dean say, Tom, said Maggie, putting her arm through Tom's as he was warming himself rather drearily by the kitchen fire? Did he say he would give you a situation? No, he didn't say that. He didn't quite promise me anything. He seemed to think that I couldn't have a very good situation. I'm too young. But didn't he speak kindly, Tom? Kindly? Who? What's the use of talking about that? I wouldn't care about his speaking kindly if I could get a situation. But it's such a nuisance and bother. I've been at school all this while learning Latin and things, not a bit of good to me, and now my Uncle says I must set about learning bookkeeping and calculation and those things. He seems to make out I'm good for nothing. Tom's mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked at the fire. Oh, what a pity we haven't got Dominic Sampson, said Maggie, who couldn't help mingling some gaiety with their sadness. If he had taught me bookkeeping by double entry and after the Italian method as he did Lucy Bertram, I could teach you, Tom. You teach. Yes, I dare say you take, said Tom. Dear Tom, I was only joking, said Maggie, putting her cheek against his coat-sleeve. But it's always the same, Maggie, said Tom, with the little frown he put on when he was about to be justifiably severe. You're always setting yourself up above me and everyone else, and I've wanted to tell you about it several times. You ought not to have spoken as you did to my uncles and aunts. You should leave it to me to take care of my mother and you and not put her. You think you know better than anyone, but you're almost always wrong. I can judge much better than you can. Poor Tom, he had just come from being lectured and made to feel his inferiority. The reaction of his strong self-asserting nature must take place somehow, and here was the case in which he could justly show himself dominant. Maggie's cheek flushed and her lip quivered with conflicting resentment and affection, and a certain awe as well as admiration for her more effective character. She did not answer immediately. Very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven back again, and she said at last, You often think I'm conceited, Tom, when I don't mean what I say at all in that way. I don't mean to put myself above you. I know you behaved better than I did yesterday, but you are always so harsh to me, Tom. With the last words the resentment was rising again. No, I'm not harsh, said Tom, decision. I'm always kind to you, and so I shall be. I shall always take care of you, but you must mind what I say. Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that her burst of tears which she felt must come might not happen till she was safe upstairs. They were very bitter tears. Everybody in the world seemed so hard and unkind to Maggie. There was no indulgence, no fondness, such as she imagined when she fashioned the world afresh with her thoughts. In books there were people who were always agreeable or tender and delighted to do things that made one happy and who did not show their kindness by finding fault. The world outside the books was not a happy one, Maggie felt. It seemed to be a world where people behaved the best to those they did not pretend to love and that did not belong to them. And if life had no love in it, what else was there for Maggie? Nothing but poverty and the loss of her father's heart-cutting childish dependence. There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth when the soul is made up of wants and has no long memories, no super-added life in the life of others, though we who looked on think lightly of such premature despair as if our vision of the future lightened the blind sufferers present. Maggie and her brown frock with her eyes reddened and her heavy hair pushed back, looking from the sad chamber which was the center of her world, was a creature full of eager, passionate longings for all that was beautiful and glad, thirsty for all knowledge, with an ear straining after dreamy music that died away and would not come near to her, with a blind unconscious yearning for something that would link together the wonderful impressions of this mysterious life and give her soul a sense of home in it. No wonder when there is this contrast between the outward and the outward that painful collisions come of it. Chapter 6. Tending to refute the popular prejudice against the present of a pocket knife. In that dark time of December the sale of the household furniture lasted beyond the middle of the second day. Mr. Tulliver, who had begun in his intervals of consciousness to manifest an irritability which often appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this living death throughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came nearest to his chamber. Mr. Turnbull had decided that it would be a less risk to let him remain where he was than to remove him to Luke's cottage, a plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. Tulliver, thinking it would be very bad if the master were to waken up at the noise of the sale and the wife and children imprisoned in the silent chamber, watching the large prostrate figure on the bed and trembling lest the blank face should suddenly show some response to the sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painful repetition. But it was over at last that time of importunate certainty and eye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, almost as metallic as the wrap that followed it, had ceased. The tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs. Tulliver's blonde face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty hours. The poor woman's mind had been busy divining when her favorite things were being knocked down by the terrible hammer. Her heart had been fluttering at the thought that first one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers and the hateful publicity of the golden lion, and all the while she had to sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such things bring lines and well-rounded faces and broaden peaks of white among the hairs that once looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine. Already at three o'clock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-tempered housemaid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as her personal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly vile quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted by a continual low muttering against. Folks has come to buy up other folks things and made light of scrazing the tops of logany tables over which better folks than themselves had had to suffer a waste of tissue through evaporation. She was not scrubbing indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the same atrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch away their purchases, but she was bent on bringing the parlor where that pipe-smoking pig, the bailiff, had sat to such an appearance of scant comfort as could be given to it by cleanliness and the few articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and the young folks should have their tea in it that night, Kezia was determined. It was between five and six o'clock near the usual tea time when she came upstairs and said that Master Tom was wanted. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, and in the first moments by the imperfect fire and candlelight, Tom had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintance with the rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him blue-eyes, said in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly red locks with a strong intention of respect. A low-crowned, oil-skin-covered hat and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest of the costume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested a calling that had to do with boats, but this did not help Tom's memory. Sarvent, Master Tom, said he of the red locks with a smile which seemed to break through a self-imposed air of melancholy. For me again, I doubt, he went on as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly, but I'd like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please. There's a fire at the parlor, Master Tom, said Kezia, who objected to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting. Come this way, then, said Tom, wondering if this young fellow belonged to guest and company's wharf, for his imagination ran continually toward that particular spot, and Uncle Dean might any time be sending for him to say that there was a situation at Liberty. The bright fire in the parlor was the only light that showed the few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and the one table. No, not the one table. There was a second table, in a corner, with a large Bible and a few other books upon it. It was this new strange bareness that Tom first felt before he thought of looking again at the face which was also lit up by the fire, in which stole a half shy questioning glance at him as the early strange voice said, Why, you don't remember Bob, then, as you get in the pocketknife, too, Mr. Tom? The rough-handled pocketknife was taken out in the same moment, and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible demonstration. What, Bob Jakin, said Tom, not with any cordial delight, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy symbolized by the pocketknife, and was not at all sure that Bob's motives for recalling were entirely admirable. I, I, Bob Jakin, if Jakin it must be, because there are so many bobs as you went out of the squirrels with, that day as I plumped right down from the bow and bruised my shins of gooden, but I got the squirrel tight for all that, and a squatter it was, and this littlish blade's broke, you see, but I wouldn't have a new one put in because they might be cheating me and giving me another knife instead, for there isn't such a blade in the country, it's got used to my work, but when I got by my own sharpness, only you, Mr. Tom, if it wasn't Bill Fox has given me the terrier pup instead of drowning it, and I had to jaw him a gooden before he'd give it me. Bob spoke with a sharp and rather trouble-volubility, and got through his long speech with surprising dispatch, giving the blade of his knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had finished. Well, Bob, said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the man seemed to be as friendly as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaintance with Bob that he remembered better than the cause of their parting quarrel. Is there anything I can do for you? Why no, Mr. Tom, answered Bob, shutting up his knife with a clip and returning it to his pocket, where he seemed to be feeling for something else. I shouldn't have come back upon you now, you're a trouble, and folks say as the master, as I used to frighten you, you say he'll never lift up his head no more. I shouldn't have come now to ask you to give me another knife because you give me one of four. If a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me. I shan't ask him for another before I saw him out, and a good turn's worth as much as a bad on anyhow. I shall never go downwards again, Mr. Tom, and you were the little chap as I liked the best when I were a little chap for all you leathered me, and you wouldn't look at me again. There's nothing on my mind, but lures, you get tired of leathering a chap when you can never make him see what you want him to shy at. I'm seeing chaps as it stands staring at a bow till their eyes shot out, before they'd see as a bird's tail want to leave. It's poor work going with such wrath, but you were always a rare and it shined, Mr. Tom, and I could trust in you for dropping down where you're sticking the neck of time at a running rat or a stoner that, when I were a beating the bushes. Bob had drawn a bag, and would perhaps not have paused just then if Maggie had not entered the room, and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locks again with due respect. But the next moment the sense of the altered room came upon Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought of Bob's presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where the bookcase had hung. There was nothing now but the oblong, unfaded space on the wall, and below at the back. Oh, Tom, she burst out clasping her hands. Where are the books? I thought my Uncle Gleg said he would buy them. Didn't he? Are those all they've left us? I suppose so, said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. Why should they buy many books when they bought so little furniture? Oh, but Tom, said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears as she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. Our dear old Pilgrim's progress that was in her little paints and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantelon looking just like a turtle. Oh, dear. Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over the few books. I thought we should never part with that while we lived. Everything is going away from us. The end of our lives will have nothing in it like the beginning. 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, 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'm been with a barge this two year. That's how I've been getting my living, if it wasn't this between wiles at Tory's mill. But a fortnight ago I had a rare bit of luck. I always thought I was a lucky chap, for I never set a trap but what I catch something. But this wasn't trap. It was a fire at Tory's mill, and I doused it, else it had set the oil a light, and the gentleman gave me ten sovereigns. He gave me and himself last week, and he said first, I was a spare to chap, but I know that a four. But then he outs with the ten sovereigns, and that were somewhat new. Here they are, all but one. Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. And when I got him, my head was all of a boil, like a kettle of broth, thinking what sort of life I should take to, for there were a many trades I'd thought on. For as for the barge, I'm clean, tired out with it, for it pulls the days out to there as long as pigs chitterlings, and I thought first I'd have ferrets and dogs, and be a rat catcher, and then I thought as I should like a bigger way of life, as I didn't know so well, for I'm clean, I thought and thought, till at last I'd settled I'd be a packman, for there no one fellers the packman are, and I'd carry the lightest things I could in my pack, and there'd be a use for a fellers tongue, as is no use neither with rats nor barges, and I should go about the country, far and wide, and come round the women with my tongue, and get my dinner hot at the public. Loors, it'd 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, and I changed one of the sovereigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, and I bought a blue plush west coat and a seal skin 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 head isn't a turnip, and I shall perhaps have a chance of dowsing another fire a four long. I'm a lucky chap, so I'll thank you to take the nine sovereigns, Mr. Tom, and set yours and up with them somehow, if it's true that the masters broke, they may't go far 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 trimmer in his voice which gave a certain charm even to Tom's pride and severity. And I shan'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 good, wouldn't they, Mr. Tom, said Bob regretfully. I don't say so because you think I want them. I aren't a poor chap, my mother gets a good penny worth with picking feathers and things, and if she eats nothing but bread and water, it runs to fat, and I'm such a lucky chap, and I doubt you aren't quite so lucky, Mr. Tom, the old master isn't anyhow, and so you might take a slice of my luck and no harm done. Lors, I found a leg of pork at the river one day, it had tumbled out of one of them and I said, come, think better on it, Mr. Tom, for old Quentinate's sake, else I shall think you bear me a grudge. Bob pushed the sovereigns forward 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 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 love, 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 know-how. 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 and make believe or purpose to show them you, said Bob, with an air of discontent as Maggie gave them the bag again. I've taken them back in this way. I am a bit of a do, you know, but it isn't that sort of do. It's only when a fella's a big rogue or a big flat I like to let him say that 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 is no log in flea bites. If I wasn't to take a fool in now and then, he'd never get any wiser. But lures, have a sovereign to buy you in Miss Summit only for a token just to match my pocket knife. While Bob was speaking, he laid down and he 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? Reluctantly taking the money. That's what I'd like, anything as you like, and I wish you good bye, Miss, and good luck, Mr. Tom, and thank you for shaking hands with me, though you wouldn't take the money. Kezia's entrance with very black looks to inquire if she shouldn't ring 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. End of Book 3, Chapter 6, of the Mill on the Floss by George Elliott, read by Elizabeth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, go to LibriVox.org. Book 3, The Downfall, Chapter 7, How a Hen Takes the Strategy 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 a fast approaching dread which made the nights come too quickly. While Mr. Tulliver was slowly becoming himself again, his lot was hastening towards 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. A look at years, filing of bills in Chancery, decrees of sale, are legal chainshot, or bombshells that can never hit a solitary mark and fall with widespread shattering. So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each of the 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 under the stock to be followed by a sale of 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 expedience 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 Dean had been induced to interest himself in this stage of the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be a bad speculation for guest and co- to buy doll coat 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. Dean would say nothing decided about the matter. The fact that Wakeham 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 and co, who did their own business on sentimental grounds. Mr. Dean 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 and co would only think about it, Mr. Tulliver's father and grandfather had been carrying on doll coat mill, long before the oil mill of that firm had been so much as thought of. Mr. Dean, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely the relation between the two mills, which would determine their value as investments. Like 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 himself had renounced in favour 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 how on being assured it was the best black. Still, it was clear that Mr. Dean 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 find more prompt in finding Tom a temporary place in the warehouse, and in putting him in the way of getting evening lessons in bookkeeping and calculation. That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a little, if they 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, in Tom's mind. For, when the defendants claim for costs had been satisfied, they 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. Dean, in a decided tone, tightening his lips, and the words fell on Tom like a scalding liquid, leaving a continual smart. He was sadly in want of something to keep up his spirit a little in the unpleasant newness of his position, from the easy-capited ennui of the study hours at Mr. Stellings, 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. Augs 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 colours 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 Wakeham 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 ring 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 that 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 Wakeham on this business of the mill, and yet Mrs. Tulliver reflected it would have been this method of securing the right end. It would have been 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 Wakeham and abusing him for the last ten years. Wakeham 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 Wakeham was wrong too. To be sure, Wakeham had put the bellies in the house and sold them up, but 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 Wakeham, and certainly towards 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. Wakeham's view of all subjects rather than her husbands. 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 them at a clearly before him, which had never been done yet, and he would never go and bid for the mill on purpose despite her, an innocent woman, who thought it likely enough that he would put him in their youth at Squire Darleys, for at those big dances she had often and often danced with young men whose names she had forgotten. Mrs. Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom, for when she had thrown out a hint to Mr. Dean and Mr. Gleig that she wouldn't mind going to speak to Wakeham herself, they had said, no, no, no, and piripiru, and let Wakeham alone in the tone of men who were not likely to give a candid attention to a more definite exposition of her project. Still less, dared she mention the plan for the children were always stood against everything their mother said, and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakeham as his father was. But this unusual concentration of thought naturally gave Mrs. Tulliver an unusual power of device and determination, and a day or two before the sale to be held at the Golden Lion, when there was no longer any time to be lost, she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles in question, a large stock of pickles, and ketchup, which Mrs. Tulliver possessed, and which Mr. Hynesha would certainly purchase if she could transact the business in a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Augs that morning, and when Tom urged that she might let the pickles be at present, he didn't like her to go about just yet. She appeared so hurt at this contradiction in her son, contradicting her about the pickles which she had made after the family receipts inherited from his own grandmother, who had died when his mother was a little girl that he gave way, and they walked together until she turned towards Danish Street, where Mr. Hynesha from the offices of Mr. Wacom. That gentleman was not yet come to his office, would Mrs. Tulliver sit down by the fire in his private room and wait for him. She had not long to wait before the punctual attorney entered, knitting his brow with an examining glance at the stout blond woman who rose, curtsying deferentially, a tallish man with an aquiline nose and abundant iron gray hair. You have never seen Mr. Wacom before, and are possibly wondering whether he was really as eminent as Mr. Bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and of Mr. Tulliver in particular, as he is represented to be in that idylline or portrait of him which we have seen to exist in the miller's mind. It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret any chance shot that graced him as an attempt on his own life, and was liable to entanglements in this puzzling world which, due consideration had to his own infallibility, required the hypothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them. It is still likely that the attorney was not more guilty toward him than an ingenious machine which performs its work with much regularity is guilty toward the rash man who, venturing to near it, is caught up by some flywheeler other and suddenly converted into unexpected mincemeat. But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance at his person. The lines and lights of the human countenance are like other symbols, not always easy to read without a key. On an a prior review of Wacom's aquiline nose which offended Mr. Tulliver, there was not more rascality than in the shape of his stiff shirt collar, though this, too, along with his nose, might have become fraught with damnatory meaning when once the rascality was ascertained. Mrs. Tulliver, I think, said Mr. Wacom. Yes, sir. Miss Elizabeth Dodson as was. Pray be seated. You have some business with me. Well, sir, yes, said Mrs. Tulliver, beginning to feel alarmed at her own courage, now she was really in presence of the formidable man, and reflecting for herself how she should begin. Mr. Wacom felt in his waistcoat pockets and looked at her in silence. I hope, sir, she began at last. I hope, sir, you're not as thinking as I bear you any ill will because of my husband's losing his lawsuit, and the baili's being put in, and the linen being sold. Oh, dear, for I wasn't brought up in that way. I'm sure you remember my father, sir, for he was close friends with Squire Darley, and we always went to the dances there, the Miss Dodson's. Nobody could be more looked on, and for there were four of us, and you're quite aware as Mrs. Gleg and Mrs. Dean are my sisters, and as for going to law and losing money and having sales before you're dead, I never saw anything of that before I was married, nor for a long while after, and I'm not to be answerable for my bad luck in marrying out to my own family into one where the goings on was different, and as for being drawn into abuse you as other folks abuse you, sir, that I never was, and nobody can say it of me. Mrs. Tulliver shook her head a little bit. I've no doubt of what you say, Mrs. Tulliver, said Mr. Wake, and with cold politeness, but you have some question to ask me. Well, yes, sir, but that's what I've said to myself. I've said you'd had some natural feeling, and as for my husband, as hasn't been himself these two months, I'm not at defending him in no way for being so hot about derogation, not but what there's worse men, for he never wronged nobody of a shilling nor a penny, not willingly, and as for his fireiness and lawing, what could I do? And him as if it was with death, when he got the letterist said you'd hold upon the land, but I can't believe but what you'll behave as a gentleman. What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver, said Mr. Wake, and rather sharply, what do you want to ask me? Well, sir, if you'll be so good, said Mrs. Tulliver, starting a little and speaking more hurriedly, if you'll be so good not to buy the mill and the land, the land wouldn't so much matter, only my husband will be like mad at your having it. Something like Mr. Wakeham's face, as he said, who told you I meant to buy it? Why, sir, it's none of my inventing, and I never should have thought of it, for my husband, as ought to know about the law, he always used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy anything, either lands or houses, for they always got them into their own hands other ways, and I should think that would be the way with you, sir, and I never said as you'd be the man to do contrary to that. Ah, well, who was it that did say the whistle? Why, sir, it was Mr. Glegg, and Mr. Dean, as have all the management, and Mr. Dean thinks as guest and co-ord by the mill, and let Mr. Tulliver work it for him, if you didn't bid for it and raise the price, and it would be such a thing for my husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living, for it was his fathers before him the mill was, and his grandfather built it, though I wasn't fond of the noise of it, when first I was married, for there was no mills in our family, not the Dodson's, and if I'd known the first Dodson to marry one, but I went into it blindfold, that I did irrigation and everything. What? Guest and co-keep the mill in their own hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages? Oh, dear sir, it's hard to think of, said poor Mrs. Tulliver, a little tear-making its way, as my husband should take wage, but it'd look more like what it used to be to stay at the mill than to go anywhere else, and if you'll only think if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband should do it again, as he's getting now. Well, but if I bought the mill and allowed your husband to act as my manager in the same way, how then, said Mr. Wacom. Oh, sir, I doubt that he could never be got to do it, not if the very mill stood still to beg and pray of him, for your name's like poison to him, it's so as never was, and he looks upon it as you've been the ruin of him all along, ever since you set the law on him about the road through the meadow, that's eight years ago, and he's been going on ever since, as an old fool burst out Mr. Wacom, forgetting himself. Oh, dear sir, said Mrs. Tullaba, frightened at a result so different from the one she had fixed her mind on. I wouldn't wish to contradict you, but it's like enough he's changed his mind with this illness, he's forgotten many things he used to talk about, and you wouldn't like to have a corpse on your mind if he was to die, and they do say it's always unlucky when dull coke mill changes hands, and the water might all run away, and then, not as I'm wishing you any ill luck, sir, Mrs. Wacom was a Miss Clint, I know that, and my boy, there isn't a nicer handsome, a straighter boy nowhere, went to school with your son. Mr. Wacom rose, opened the door, and called to one of his clerks. You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Tullaba, I have business that must be attended to, and I think there is nothing more necessary to be said. But if you would bear it in mind, sir, said Mrs. Tullaba, rising, and not run against me and my children, and I'm not denying Mr. Tullaba's been in the staff, and there's worse men, for it's been giving to other folks has been his fault. He's done nobody any harm but himself, and his family, the more's the pity, and I go and look at the bear shelves every day and think where all my things used to stand. Yes, yes, I'll bear it in mind, said Mr. Wacom hastily, looking toward the open door, and if you please not to say as I've been to speak to you, for my son would be very angry with me for demeaning myself, I know he would, and I've trouble enough without being there, and she could make no answer to the attorney's good morning, but curtsy and walked out in silence. Which day is it that Dall Coatmill is to be sold? Where's the bill? said Mr. Wacom to his clerk when they were alone. Next Friday's the day, Friday at six o'clock. Oh, just run to Windchips, the auctioneer, and see if he's at home. I have some business for him. Ask him to come up. Although when Mr. Wacom entered his office that morning, he had had no intention of purchasing Dall Coatmill, Mrs. Tulliver had suggested to him several determining motives, and his mental glance was very rapid. He was one of those men who can be prompt without being rash, because their motives run in fixed tracks, and they have no need to reconcile conflicting aims. To suppose that Wacom had the same sort of inveterate hatred toward Tulliver, that Tulliver had toward him, would be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each other from a similar point of view. The roach necessarily abhors the mode in which the pike is further even of the most indignant roach than that he is excellent good-eating. It could only be when the roach choked him that the pike could entertain a strong personal animosity. If Mr. Tulliver had ever seriously injured or thwarted the attorney, Wacom would not have refused him the distinction of being a special object of his vindictiveness, but when Mr. Tulliver called Wacom a rascal at the market and a table, the attorney's clients were not a witting client to withdraw their business from him. And if, when Wacom himself happened to be present, the opportunity in Brandy made a thrust at him by alluding to old ladies' wills, he maintained perfect sang foie, and knew quite well that the majority of substantial men then present were perfectly contented with the fact that Wacom was Wacom. That is to say, a man who always knew the stepping stones that would carry him through very muddy bits of practice. A man who had made a large fortune, had a handsome house among the trees at Toften, and decidedly the finest stock of port wine in the neighbourhood of St. Augs was likely to live on a level with public opinion. And I am not sure that even honest Mr. Tulliver himself, with his general view of law as a cockpit, might not, under opposite circumstances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the truth that Wacom was Wacom, since I have understood from persons versed in history that mankind is not disposed to look narrowly into the conduct of great victors when the victory is on the right side. Tulliver then could be no obstruction to Wacom. On the contrary, he was a poor devil whom the lawyer had defeated several years ago. A hot tempered fellow who would always give you a handle against him. Wacom's conscience was not an easy because he had used a few tricks against a miller. Why should he hate that unsuccessful plaintiff, that pitiable, furious bull entangled in the meshes of a net? Still, among the various successes to which human nature is subject, moralists have never numbered that of being too fond of the people who openly revile us. The successful yellow candidate for the borough of all topping, perhaps feels no pursuant meditative hatred towards those who consult his subscribers with the chuperative rhetoric against yellow men who sell their country and are the demons of private life, but he might not be sorry if law and opportunity favoured to kick that blue editor to a deeper shade of his favourite colour. Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then as they take a diversion, when it comes easily in their way and is no hindrance to business. And such small, unimpassioned revenges have an enormous effect in life, running through all degrees of pleasant inflection, blocking the fit men out and blackening characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see the people who have been only insignificantly offensive to us reduced in life and humiliated without any special efforts of ours is apt to have a soothing, flattering influence. Providence or some other prince of this world, it appears, has undertaken the task of retribution for us, and really, by an agreeable constitution of things, our enemies somehow don't prosper. Waken was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness towards the uncomplementary Miller, and now Mrs. Tulliver had put the notion into his head, it presented itself to him as a pleasure to do the very thing that would cause Mr. Tulliver the most deadly mortification and a pleasure of a complex kind, not made up of crude malice, but mingling with it the relish of self-approbation. To see an enemy humiliated gives a certain contentment, but this is Zhijun compared with the highly blunt satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by your benevolent action or concession on his behalf. This is a sort of revenge which falls into the scale of virtue and Waken was not without an intention of keeping that scale respectively filled. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy of his into one of the St. Og's almshouses, to the rebuilding of which he had given a large subscription, and here was an opportunity of providing for another by making him his own servant. Such things give a completeness to prosperity, and contribute elements of agreeable consciousness that are not dreamed of by that short-sighted, overheated vindictiveness which goes out of its way to wreak itself in direct and Tulliver with his rough tone filed by a sense of obligation would make a better servant than any chance fellow who was cap in hand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a man of proud honesty, and Waken was too acute not to believe in the existence of honesty. He was given to observing individuals, not to judging of them according to maxims, and no one knew better than he that all men were not like himself. Besides, he intended to overlook the whole business of land and mill pretty closely. He was fond of those practical, rural matters, but there were good reasons for purchasing dull coat mill, quite apart from any benevolent vengeance on the miller. It was really a capital investment. Besides, guest and co were going to bid for it. Mr. Guest and Mr. Waken were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to predominate over a ship owner and mill owner who was a little too loud in the town affairs as well as in his table talk. For Waken was not a mere man of business, he was considered a pleasant fellow in the upper circles of St. Augs, chatted amusingly over his port wine, with little amateur farming, and had certainly been an excellent husband and father. At church, when he went there, he sat under the handsomest of mural monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most men would have married again under his circumstances, but he was said to be more tender to his deformed son than most men were to their best shape and offspring. Not that Mr. Waken had not other sons beside Philip, but toward them he held only Chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for them in a grade of life duly beneath his own. In this fact, indeed, they lay the clenching motive to the purchase of doll-coat mill. While Mrs. Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapid-minded lawyer among all the other circumstances of the case that this purchase would, in a few years to come, furnish a highly suitable position for a certain favourite lad whom he meant to bring on in the world. These were the mental conditions on which Mrs. Tulliver had undertaken to act persuasively, and had failed. A fact which may receive some illustration from the remark of a great philosopher, that flyfishers fail in pairing their baits so as to make it alluring in the right quarter for one to mature acquaintance with a subjectivity of fishers.