The Mill on the Floss

Chapter 8

"Suppose sister Glegg should call her money in; it 'ud be very awkward

for you to have to raise five hundred pounds now," said Mrs. Tulliver

to her husband that evening, as she took a plaintive review of the

day.

Mrs. Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, yet she

retained in all the freshness of her early married life a facility of

saying things which drove him in the opposite direction to the one she

desired. Some minds are wonderful for keeping their bloom in this way,

as a patriarchal goldfish apparently retains to the last its youthful

illusion that it can swim in a straight line beyond the encircling

glass. Mrs. Tulliver was an amiable fish of this kind, and after

running her head against the same resisting medium for thirteen years

would go at it again to-day with undulled alacrity.

This observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr. Tulliver that

it would not be at all awkward for him to raise five hundred pounds;

and when Mrs. Tulliver became rather pressing to know _how_ he would

raise it without mortgaging the mill and the house which he had said

he never _would_ mortgage, since nowadays people were none so ready to

lend money without security, Mr. Tulliver, getting warm, declared that

Mrs. Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her money, he should

pay it in whether or not. He was not going to be beholden to his

wife's sisters. When a man had married into a family where there was a

whole litter of women, he might have plenty to put up with if he

chose. But Mr. Tulliver did _not_ choose.

Mrs. Tulliver cried a little in a trickling, quiet way as she put on

her nightcap; but presently sank into a comfortable sleep, lulled by

the thought that she would talk everything over with her sister Pullet

to-morrow, when she was to take the children to Garum Firs to tea. Not

that she looked forward to any distinct issue from that talk; but it

seemed impossible that past events should be so obstinate as to remain

unmodified when they were complained against.

Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was thinking of a

visit he would pay on the morrow; and his ideas on the subject were

not of so vague and soothing a kind as those of his amiable partner.

Mr. Tulliver, when under the influence of a strong feeling, had a

promptitude in action that may seem inconsistent with that painful

sense of the complicated, puzzling nature of human affairs under which

his more dispassionate deliberations were conducted; but it is really

not improbable that there was a direct relation between these

apparently contradictory phenomena, since I have observed that for

getting a strong impression that a skein is tangled there is nothing

like snatching hastily at a single thread. It was owing to this

promptitude that Mr. Tulliver was on horseback soon after dinner the

next day (he was not dyspeptic) on his way to Basset to see his sister

Moss and her husband. For having made up his mind irrevocably that he

would pay Mrs. Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds, it naturally

occurred to him that he had a promissory note for three hundred pounds

lent to his brother-in-law Moss; and if the said brother-in-law could

manage to pay in the money within a given time, it would go far to

lessen the fallacious air of inconvenience which Mr. Tulliver's

spirited step might have worn in the eyes of weak people who require

to know precisely _how_ a thing is to be done before they are strongly

confident that it will be easy.

For Mr. Tulliver was in a position neither new nor striking, but, like

other every-day things, sure to have a cumulative effect that will be

felt in the long run: he was held to be a much more substantial man

than he really was. And as we are all apt to believe what the world

believes about us, it was his habit to think of failure and ruin with

the same sort of remote pity with which a spare, long-necked man hears

that his plethoric short-necked neighbor is stricken with apoplexy. He

had been always used to hear pleasant jokes about his advantages as a

man who worked his own mill, and owned a pretty bit of land; and these

jokes naturally kept up his sense that he was a man of considerable

substance. They gave a pleasant flavor to his glass on a market-day,

and if it had not been for the recurrence of half-yearly payments, Mr.

Tulliver would really have forgotten that there was a mortgage of two

thousand pounds on his very desirable freehold. That was not

altogether his own fault, since one of the thousand pounds was his

sister's fortune, which he had to pay on her marriage; and a man who

has neighbors that _will_ go to law with him is not likely to pay off

his mortgages, especially if he enjoys the good opinion of

acquaintances who want to borrow a hundred pounds on security too

lofty to be represented by parchment. Our friend Mr. Tulliver had a

good-natured fibre in him, and did not like to give harsh refusals

even to his sister, who had not only come in to the world in that

superfluous way characteristic of sisters, creating a necessity for

mortgages, but had quite thrown herself away in marriage, and had

crowned her mistakes by having an eighth baby. On this point Mr.

Tulliver was conscious of being a little weak; but he apologized to

himself by saying that poor Gritty had been a good-looking wench

before she married Moss; he would sometimes say this even with a

slight tremulousness in his voice. But this morning he was in a mood

more becoming a man of business, and in the course of his ride along

the Basset lanes, with their deep ruts,--lying so far away from a

market-town that the labor of drawing produce and manure was enough to

take away the best part of the profits on such poor land as that

parish was made of,--he got up a due amount of irritation against Moss

as a man without capital, who, if murrain and blight were abroad, was

sure to have his share of them, and who, the more you tried to help

him out of the mud, would sink the further in. It would do him good

rather than harm, now, if he were obliged to raise this three hundred

pounds; it would make him look about him better, and not act so

foolishly about his wool this year as he did the last; in fact, Mr.

Tulliver had been too easy with his brother-in-law, and because he had

let the interest run on for two years, Moss was likely enough to think

that he should never be troubled about the principal. But Mr. Tulliver

was determined not to encourage such shuffling people any longer; and

a ride along the Basset lanes was not likely to enervate a man's

resolution by softening his temper. The deep-trodden hoof-marks, made

in the muddiest days of winter, gave him a shake now and then which

suggested a rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers, who,

whether by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless something to

do with this state of the roads; and the abundance of foul land and

neglected fences that met his eye, though they made no part of his

brother Moss's farm, strongly contributed to his dissatisfaction with

that unlucky agriculturist. If this wasn't Moss's fallow, it might

have been; Basset was all alike; it was a beggarly parish, in Mr.

Tulliver's opinion, and his opinion was certainly not groundless.

Basset had a poor soil, poor roads, a poor non-resident landlord, a

poor non-resident vicar, and rather less than half a curate, also

poor. If any one strongly impressed with the power of the human mind

to triumph over circumstances will contend that the parishioners of

Basset might nevertheless have been a very superior class of people, I

have nothing to urge against that abstract proposition; I only know

that, in point of fact, the Basset mind was in strict keeping with its

circumstances. The muddy lanes, green or clayey, that seemed to the

unaccustomed eye to lead nowhere but into each other, did really lead,

with patience, to a distant high-road; but there were many feet in

Basset which they led more frequently to a centre of dissipation,

spoken of formerly as the "Markis o' Granby," but among intimates as

"Dickison's." A large low room with a sanded floor; a cold scent of

tobacco, modified by undetected beer-dregs; Mr. Dickison leaning

against the door-post with a melancholy pimpled face, looking as

irrelevant to the daylight as a last night's guttered candle,--all

this may not seem a very seductive form of temptation; but the

majority of men in Basset found it fatally alluring when encountered

on their road toward four o'clock on a wintry afternoon; and if any

wife in Basset wished to indicate that her husband was not a

pleasure-seeking man, she could hardly do it more emphatically than by

saying that he didn't spend a shilling at Dickison's from one

Whitsuntide to another. Mrs. Moss had said so of _her_ husband more

than once, when her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, as

he certainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacifying to Mr.

Tulliver than the behavior of the farmyard gate, which he no sooner

attempted to push open with his riding-stick than it acted as gates

without the upper hinge are known to do, to the peril of shins,

whether equine or human. He was about to get down and lead his horse

through the damp dirt of the hollow farmyard, shadowed drearily by the

large half-timbered buildings, up to the long line of tumble-down

dwelling-houses standing on a raised causeway; but the timely

appearance of a cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he had

determined on,--namely, not to get down from his horse during this

visit. If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle and speak

from that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with the

command of a distant horizon. Mrs. Moss heard the sound of the horse's

feet, and, when her brother rode up, was already outside the kitchen

door, with a half-weary smile on her face, and a black-eyed baby in

her arms. Mrs. Moss's face bore a faded resemblance to her brother's;

baby's little fat hand, pressed against her cheek, seemed to show more

strikingly that the cheek was faded.

"Brother, I'm glad to see you," she said, in an affectionate tone. "I

didn't look for you to-day. How do you do?"

"Oh, pretty well, Mrs. Moss, pretty well," answered the brother, with

cool deliberation, as if it were rather too forward of her to ask that

question. She knew at once that her brother was not in a good humor;

he never called her Mrs. Moss except when he was angry, and when they

were in company. But she thought it was in the order of nature that

people who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs. Moss did not take

her stand on the equality of the human race; she was a patient,

prolific, loving-hearted woman.

"Your husband isn't in the house, I suppose?" added Mr. Tulliver after

a grave pause, during which four children had run out, like chickens

whose mother has been suddenly in eclipse behind the hen-coop.

"No," said Mrs. Moss, "but he's only in the potato-field yonders.

Georgy, run to the Far Close in a minute, and tell father your uncle's

come. You'll get down, brother, won't you, and take something?"

"No, no; I can't get down. I must be going home again directly," said

Mr. Tulliver, looking at the distance.

"And how's Mrs. Tulliver and the children?" said Mrs. Moss, humbly,

not daring to press her invitation.

"Oh, pretty well. Tom's going to a new school at Midsummer,--a deal of

expense to me. It's bad work for me, lying out o' my money."

"I wish you'd be so good as let the children come and see their

cousins some day. My little uns want to see their cousin Maggie so as

never was. And me her godmother, and so fond of her; there's nobody

'ud make a bigger fuss with her, according to what they've got. And I

know she likes to come, for she's a loving child, and how quick and

clever she is, to be sure!"

If Mrs. Moss had been one of the most astute women in the world,

instead of being one of the simplest, she could have thought of

nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise of

Maggie. He seldom found any one volunteering praise of "the little

wench"; it was usually left entirely to himself to insist on her

merits. But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at her

aunt Moss's; it was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach of

law,--if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock,

these things were matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite of

himself, Mr. Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look away from

his sister as he said,--

"Ay; she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. She takes

after our family: not a bit of her mother's in her."

"Moss says she's just like what I used to be," said Mrs. Moss, "though

I was never so quick and fond o' the books. But I think my Lizzy's

like her; _she's_ sharp. Come here, Lizzy, my dear, and let your uncle

see you; he hardly knows you, you grow so fast."

Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when her mother

drew her forward, for the small Mosses were much in awe of their uncle

from Dorlcote Mill. She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire and

strength of expression to make the resemblance between the two

entirely flattering to Mr. Tulliver's fatherly love.

"Ay, they're a bit alike," he said, looking kindly at the little

figure in the soiled pinafore. "They both take after our mother.

You've got enough o' gells, Gritty," he added, in a tone half

compassionate, half reproachful.

"Four of 'em, bless 'em!" said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, stroking

Lizzy's hair on each side of her forehead; "as many as there's boys.

They've got a brother apiece."

"Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves," said Mr.

Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing and trying to brace

it by throwing out a wholesome hint "They mustn't look to hanging on

their brothers."

"No; but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things, and remember

they came o' one father and mother; the lads 'ull never be the poorer

for that," said Mrs. Moss, flashing out with hurried timidity, like a

half-smothered fire.

Mr. Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checked

it, and said angrily, "Stand still with you!" much to the astonishment

of that innocent animal.

"And the more there is of 'em, the more they must love one another,"

Mrs. Moss went on, looking at her children with a didactic purpose.

But she turned toward her brother again to say, "Not but what I hope

your boy 'ull allays be good to his sister, though there's but two of

'em, like you and me, brother."

The arrow went straight to Mr. Tulliver's heart. He had not a rapid

imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very near to him, and he

was not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by side

with Tom's relation to Maggie. Would the little wench ever be poorly

off, and Tom rather hard upon her?

"Ay, ay, Gritty," said the miller, with a new softness in his tone;

"but I've allays done what I could for you," he added, as if

vindicating himself from a reproach.

"I'm not denying that, brother, and I'm noways ungrateful," said poor

Mrs. Moss, too fagged by toil and children to have strength left for

any pride. "But here's the father. What a while you've been, Moss!"

"While, do you call it?" said Mr. Moss, feeling out of breath and

injured. "I've been running all the way. Won't you 'light, Mr.

Tulliver?"

"Well, I'll just get down and have a bit o' talk with you in the

garden," said Mr. Tulliver, thinking that he should be more likely to

show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were not present.

He got down, and passed with Mr. Moss into the garden, toward an old

yew-tree arbor, while his sister stood tapping her baby on the back

and looking wistfully after them.

Their entrance into the yew-tree arbor surprised several fowls that

were recreating themselves by scratching deep holes in the dusty

ground, and at once took flight with much pother and cackling. Mr.

Tulliver sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously here

and there with his stick, as if he suspected some hollowness, opened

the conversation by observing, with something like a snarl in his

tone,--

"Why, you've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see; and never a

bit o' dressing on it. You'll do no good with it this year."

Mr. Moss, who, when he married Miss Tulliver, had been regarded as the

buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week old, and had the

depressed, unexpectant air of a machine-horse. He answered in a

patient-grumbling tone, "Why, poor farmers like me must do as they

can; they must leave it to them as have got money to play with, to put

half as much into the ground as they mean to get out of it."

"I don't know who should have money to play with, if it isn't them as

can borrow money without paying interest," said Mr. Tulliver, who

wished to get into a slight quarrel; it was the most natural and easy

introduction to calling in money.

"I know I'm behind with the interest," said Mr. Moss, "but I was so

unlucky wi' the wool last year; and what with the Missis being laid up

so, things have gone awk'arder nor usual."

"Ay," snarled Mr. Tulliver, "there's folks as things 'ull allays go

awk'ard with; empty sacks 'ull never stand upright."

"Well, I don't know what fault you've got to find wi' me, Mr.

Tulliver," said Mr. Moss, deprecatingly; "I know there isn't a

day-laborer works harder."

"What's the use o' that," said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, "when a man

marries, and's got no capital to work his farm but his wife's bit o'

fortin? I was against it from the first; but you'd neither of you

listen to me. And I can't lie out o' my money any longer, for I've got

to pay five hundred o' Mrs. Glegg's, and there'll be Tom an expense to

me. I should find myself short, even saying I'd got back all as is my

own. You must look about and see how you can pay me the three hundred

pound."

"Well, if that's what you mean," said Mr. Moss, looking blankly before

him, "we'd better be sold up, and ha' done with it; I must part wi'

every head o' stock I've got, to pay you and the landlord too."

Poor relations are undeniably irritating,--their existence is so

entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost always very

faulty people. Mr. Tulliver had succeeded in getting quite as much

irritated with Mr. Moss as he had desired, and he was able to say

angrily, rising from his seat,--

"Well, you must do as you can. _I_ can't find money for everybody else

as well as myself. I must look to my own business and my own family. I

can't lie out o' my money any longer. You must raise it as quick as

you can."

Mr. Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbor as he uttered the last

sentence, and, without looking round at Mr. Moss, went on to the

kitchen door, where the eldest boy was holding his horse, and his

sister was waiting in a state of wondering alarm, which was not

without its alleviations, for baby was making pleasant gurgling

sounds, and performing a great deal of finger practice on the faded

face. Mrs. Moss had eight children, but could never overcome her

regret that the twins had not lived. Mr. Moss thought their removal

was not without its consolations. "Won't you come in, brother?" she

said, looking anxiously at her husband, who was walking slowly up,

while Mr. Tulliver had his foot already in the stirrup.

"No, no; good-by," said he, turning his horse's head, and riding away.

No man could feel more resolute till he got outside the yard gate, and

a little way along the deep-rutted lane; but before he reached the

next turning, which would take him out of sight of the dilapidated

farm-buildings, he appeared to be smitten by some sudden thought. He

checked his horse, and made it stand still in the same spot for two or

three minutes, during which he turned his head from side to side in a

melancholy way, as if he were looking at some painful object on more

sides than one. Evidently, after his fit of promptitude, Mr. Tulliver

was relapsing into the sense that this is a puzzling world. He turned

his horse, and rode slowly back, giving vent to the climax of feeling

which had determined this movement by saying aloud, as he struck his

horse, "Poor little wench! she'll have nobody but Tom, belike, when

I'm gone."

Mr. Tulliver's return into the yard was descried by several young

Mosses, who immediately ran in with the exciting news to their mother,

so that Mrs. Moss was again on the door-step when her brother rode up.

She had been crying, but was rocking baby to sleep in her arms now,

and made no ostentatious show of sorrow as her brother looked at her,

but merely said:

"The father's gone to the field, again, if you want him, brother."

"No, Gritty, no," said Mr. Tulliver, in a gentle tone. "Don't you

fret,--that's all,--I'll make a shift without the money a bit, only

you must be as clever and contriving as you can."

Mrs. Moss's tears came again at this unexpected kindness, and she

could say nothing.

"Come, come!--the little wench shall come and see you. I'll bring her

and Tom some day before he goes to school. You mustn't fret. I'll

allays be a good brother to you."

"Thank you for that word, brother," said Mrs. Moss, drying her tears;

then turning to Lizzy, she said, "Run now, and fetch the colored egg

for cousin Maggie." Lizzy ran in, and quickly reappeared with a small

paper parcel.

"It's boiled hard, brother, and colored with thrums, very pretty; it

was done o' purpose for Maggie. Will you please to carry it in your

pocket?"

"Ay, ay," said Mr. Tulliver, putting it carefully in his side pocket.

"Good-by."

And so the respectable miller returned along the Basset lanes rather

more puzzled than before as to ways and means, but still with the

sense of a danger escaped. It had come across his mind that if he were

hard upon his sister, it might somehow tend to make Tom hard upon

Maggie at some distant day, when her father was no longer there to

take her part; for simple people, like our friend Mr. Tulliver, are

apt to clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this was

his confused way of explaining to himself that his love and anxiety

for "the little wench" had given him a new sensibility toward his

sister.