LITMIR.BIZ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Mr. Tulliver had sunk back in his chair trembling.

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

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

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

      Chapter IX.

      An Item Added to the Family Register

      That first moment of renunciation and submission was followed by days of violent struggle in the miller’s mind, as the gradual access of bodily strength brought with it increasing ability to embrace in one view all the conflicting conditions under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily resign themselves to be tethered, and when we are subdued by sickness it seems possible to us to fulfil pledges which the old vigor comes back and breaks. There were times when poor Tulliver thought the fulfilment of his promise to Bessy was something quite too hard for human nature; he had promised her without knowing what she was going to say,—she might as well have asked him to carry a ton weight on his back. But again, there were many feelings arguing on her side, besides the sense that life had been made hard to her by having married him. He saw a possibility, by much pinching, of saving money out of his salary toward paying a second dividend to his creditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere to get a situation such as he could fill.

      He had led an easy life, ordering much and working little, and had no aptitude for any new business. He must perhaps take to day-labor, and his wife must have help from her sisters,—a prospect doubly bitter to him, now they had let all Bessy’s precious things be sold, probably because they liked to set her against him, by making her feel that he had brought her to that pass. He listened to their admonitory talk, when they came to urge on him what he was bound to do for poor Bessy’s sake, with averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on them furtively when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread of needing their help could have made it an easier alternative to take their advice.

      But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had done after him. The Tullivers had lived on this spot for generations, and he had sat listening on a low stool on winter evenings while his father talked of the old half-timbered mill that had been there before the last great floods which damaged it so that his grandfather pulled it down and built the new one. It was when he got able to walk about and look at all the old objects that he felt the strain of his clinging affection for the old home as part of his life, part of himself. He couldn’t bear to think of himself living on any other spot than this, where he knew the sound of every gate door, and felt that the shape and color of every roof and weather-stain and broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy, which was hardly time to linger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropics, and is at home with palms and banyans,—which is nourished on books of travel and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zambesi,—can hardly get a dim notion of what an old-fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot, where all his memories centred, and where life seemed like a familiar smooth-handled tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And just now he was living in that freshened memory of the far-off time which comes to us in the passive hours of recovery from sickness.

      “Ay, Luke,” he said one afternoon, as he stood looking over the orchard gate, “I remember the day they planted those apple-trees. My father was a huge man for planting,—it was like a merry-making to him to get a cart full o’ young trees; and I used to stand i’ the cold with him, and follow him about like a dog.”

      Then he turned round, and leaning against the gate-post, looked at the opposite buildings.

      “The

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