The Mill on the Floss (13 page)

"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.

Chapter IX
To Garum Firs

While the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occupying
her father's mind, she herself was tasting only the bitterness of
the present. Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed
by no memories of outlived sorrow.

The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The pleasure of
having Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the afternoon visit to
Garum Firs, where she would hear uncle Pullet's musical box, had
been marred as early as eleven o'clock by the advent of the
hair-dresser from St. Ogg's, who had spoken in the severest terms
of the condition in which he had found her hair, holding up one
jagged lock after another and saying, "See here! tut, tut, tut!" in
a tone of mingled disgust and pity, which to Maggie's imagination
was equivalent to the strongest expression of public opinion. Mr.
Rappit, the hair-dresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks
tending wavily upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame on a
monumental urn, seemed to her at that moment the most formidable of
her contemporaries, into whose street at St. Ogg's she would
carefully refrain from entering through the rest of her life.

Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious
affair in the Dodson family, Martha was enjoined to have Mrs.
Tulliver's room ready an hour earlier than usual, that the laying
out of the best clothes might not be deferred till the last moment,
as was sometimes the case in families of lax views, where the
ribbon-strings were never rolled up, where there was little or no
wrapping in silver paper, and where the sense that the Sunday
clothes could be got at quite easily produced no shock to the mind.
Already, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. Tulliver had on her visiting
costume, with a protective apparatus of brown holland, as if she
had been a piece of satin furniture in danger of flies; Maggie was
frowning and twisting her shoulders, that she might if possible
shrink away from the prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was
remonstrating, "Don't, Maggie, my dear; don't make yourself so
ugly!" and Tom's cheeks were looking particularly brilliant as a
relief to his best blue suit, which he wore with becoming calmness,
having, after a little wrangling, effected what was always the one
point of interest to him in his toilet: he had transferred all the
contents of his every-day pockets to those actually in wear.