Chapter VII
The Golden Gates Are Passed
So Tom went on even to the fifth half-year--till he was turnedsixteen--at King's Lorton, while Maggie was growing with a rapiditywhich her aunts considered highly reprehensible, at Miss Firniss'sboarding-school in the ancient town of Laceham on the Floss, withcousin Lucy for her companion. In her early letters to Tom she hadalways sent her love to Philip, and asked many questions about him,which were answered by brief sentences about Tom's toothache, and aturf-house which he was helping to build in the garden, with otheritems of that kind. She was pained to hear Tom say in the holidaysthat Philip was as queer as ever again, and often cross. They were nolonger very good friends, she perceived; and when she reminded Tomthat he ought always to love Philip for being so good to him when hisfoot was bad, he answered: ”Well, it isn't my fault; _I_ don't doanything to him.” She hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder oftheir school-life; in the Midsummer holidays he was always away at theseaside, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long intervals inthe street of St. Ogg's. When they did meet, she remembered herpromise to kiss him, but, as a young lady who had been at aboarding-school, she knew now that such a greeting was out of thequestion, and Philip would not expect it. The promise was void, likeso many other sweet, illusory promises of our childhood; void aspromises made in Eden before the seasons were divided, and when thestarry blossoms grew side by side with the ripening peach,--impossibleto be fulfilled when the golden gates had been passed.
But when their father was actually engaged in the long-threatenedlawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once of Pivart and Old Harry, wasacting against him, even Maggie felt, with some sadness, that theywere not likely ever to have any intimacy with Philip again; the veryname of Wakem made her father angry, and she had once heard him saythat if that crook-backed son lived to inherit his father's ill-gottengains, there would be a curse upon him. ”Have as little to do with himat school as you can, my lad,” he said to Tom; and the command wasobeyed the more easily because Mr. Sterling by this time had twoadditional pupils; for though this gentleman's rise in the world wasnot of that meteor-like rapidity which the admirers of hisextemporaneous eloquence had expected for a preacher whose voicedemanded so wide a sphere, he had yet enough of growing prosperity toenable him to increase his expenditure in continued disproportion tohis income.
As for Tom's school course, it went on with mill-like monotony, hismind continuing to move with a slow, half-stifled pulse in a mediumuninteresting or unintelligible ideas. But each vacation he broughthome larger and larger drawings with the satiny rendering oflandscape, and water-colors in vivid greens, together with manuscriptbooks full of exercises and problems, in which the handwriting was allthe finer because he gave his whole mind to it. Each vacation hebrought home a new book or two, indicating his progress throughdifferent stages of history, Christian doctrine, and Latin literature;and that passage was not entirely without results, besides thepossession of the books. Tom's ear and tongue had become accustomed toa great many words and phrases which are understood to be signs of aneducated condition and though he had never really applied his mind toany one of his lessons, the lessons had left a deposit of vague,fragmentary, ineffectual notions. Mr. Tulliver, seeing signs ofacquirement beyond the reach of his own criticism, thought it wasprobably all right with Tom's education he observed, indeed, thatthere were no maps, and not enough ”summing”; but he made no formalcomplaint to Mr. Stelling. It was a puzzling business, this schooling;and if he took Tom away, where could he send him with better effect?
By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's Lorton, theyears had made striking changes in him since the day we saw himreturning from Mr. Jacobs's academy. He was a tall youth now, carryinghimself without the least awkwardness, and speaking without moreshyness than was a becoming symptom of blended diffidence and pride;he wore his tail-coat and his stand-up collars, and watched the downon his lip with eager impatience, looking every day at his virginrazor, with which he had provided himself in the last holidays. Philiphad already left,--at the autumn quarter,--that he might go to thesouth for the winter, for the sake of his health; and this changehelped to give Tom the unsettled, exultant feeling that usuallybelongs to the last months before leaving school. This quarter, too,there was some hope of his father's lawsuit being decided; _that_ madethe prospect of home more entirely pleasurable. For Tom, who hadgathered his view of the case from his father's conversation, had nodoubt that Pivart would be beaten.
Tom had not heard anything from home for some weeks,--a fact which didnot surprise him, for his father and mother were not apt to manifesttheir affection in unnecessary letters,--when, to his great surprise,on the morning of a dark, cold day near the end of November, he wastold, soon after entering the study at nine o'clock, that his sisterwas in the drawing-room. It was Mrs. Stelling who had come into thestudy to tell him, and she left him to enter the drawing-room alone.
Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair; she wasalmost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen; and she reallylooked older than he did at that moment. She had thrown off herbonnet, her heavy braids were pushed back from her forehead, as if itwould not bear that extra load, and her young face had a strangelyworn look, as her eyes turned anxiously toward the door. When Tomentered she did not speak, but only went up to him, put her arms roundhis neck, and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various moods ofhers, and felt no alarm at the unusual seriousness of her greeting.
”Why, how is it you're come so early this cold morning, Maggie? Didyou come in the gig?” said Tom, as she backed toward the sofa, anddrew him to her side.
”No, I came by the coach. I've walked from the turnpike.”
”But how is it you're not at school? The holidays have not begun yet?”
”Father wanted me at home,” said Maggie, with a slight trembling ofthe lip. ”I came home three or four days ago.”
”Isn't my father well?” said Tom, rather anxiously.
”Not quite,” said Maggie. ”He's very unhappy, Tom. The lawsuit isended, and I came to tell you because I thought it would be better foryou to know it before you came home, and I didn't like only to sendyou a letter.”
”My father hasn't lost?” said Tom, hastily, springing from the sofa,and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly thrust into hispockets.
”Yes, dear Tom,” said Maggie, looking up at him with trembling.
Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Thenhe said:
”My father will have to pay a good deal of money, then?”
”Yes,” said Maggie, rather faintly.
”Well, it can't be helped,” said Tom, bravely, not translating theloss of a large sum of money into any tangible results. ”But myfather's very much vexed, I dare say?” he added, looking at Maggie,and thinking that her agitated face was only part of her girlish wayof taking things.
”Yes,” said Maggie, again faintly. Then, urged to fuller speech byTom's freedom from apprehension, she said loudly and rapidly, as ifthe words _would_ burst from her: ”Oh, Tom, he will lose the mill andthe land and everything; he will have nothing left.”
Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her, before he turnedpale, and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but sat down on the sofaagain, looking vaguely out of the opposite window.
Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. His father hadalways ridden a good horse, kept a good house, and had the cheerful,confident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall back upon.Tom had never dreamed that his father would ”fail”; _that_ was a formof misfortune which he had always heard spoken of as a deep disgrace,and disgrace was an idea that he could not associate with any of hisrelations, least of all with his father. A proud sense of familyrespectability was part of the very air Tom had been born and broughtup in. He knew there were people in St. Ogg's who made a show withoutmoney to support it, and he had always heard such people spoken of byhis own friends with contempt and reprobation. He had a strong belief,which was a lifelong habit, and required no definite evidence to reston, that his father could spend a great deal of money if he chose; andsince his education at Mr. Stelling's had given him a more expensiveview of life, he had often thought that when he got older he wouldmake a figure in the world, with his horse and dogs and saddle, andother accoutrements of a fine young man, and show himself equal to anyof his contemporaries at St. Ogg's, who might consider themselves agrade above him in society because their fathers were professionalmen, or had large oil-mills. As to the prognostics and headshaking ofhis aunts and uncles, they had never produced the least effect on him,except to make him think that aunts and uncles were disagreeablesociety; he had heard them find fault in much the same way as long ashe could remember. His father knew better than they did.
The down had come on Tom's lip, yet his thoughts and expectations hadbeen hitherto only the reproduction, in changed forms, of the boyishdreams in which he had lived three years ago. He was awakened now witha violent shock.
Maggie was frightened at Tom's pale, trembling silence. There wassomething else to tell him,--something worse. She threw her arms roundhim at last, and said, with a half sob:
”Oh, Tom--dear, dear Tom, don't fret too much; try and bear it well.”
Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kisses, andthere gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he just rubbed away withhis hand. The action seemed to rouse him, for he shook himself andsaid: ”I shall go home, with you, Maggie. Didn't my father say I wasto go?”
”No, Tom, father didn't wish it,” said Maggie, her anxiety about _his_feeling helping her to master her agitation. What _would_ he do whenshe told him all? ”But mother wants you to come,--poor mother!--shecries so. Oh, Tom, it's very dreadful at home.”
Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost as Tom haddone. The two poor things clung closer to each other, bothtrembling,--the one at an unshapen fear, the other at the image of aterrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it was hardly above a whisper.
”And--and--poor father----”
Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolerable to Tom. Avague idea of going to prison, as a consequence of debt, was the shapehis fears had begun to take.
”Where's my father?” he said impatiently. ”_Tell_ me, Maggie.”
”He's at home,” said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to thatquestion. ”But,” she added, after a pause, ”not himself--he fell offhis horse. He has known nobody but me ever since--he seems to havelost his senses. O father, father----”
With these last words, Maggie's sobs burst forth with the moreviolence for the previous struggle against them. Tom felt thatpressure of the heart which forbids tears; he had no distinct visionof their troubles as Maggie had, who had been at home; he only feltthe crushing weight of what seemed unmitigated misfortune. Hetightened his arm almost convulsively round Maggie as she sobbed, buthis face looked rigid and tearless, his eyes blank,--as if a blackcurtain of cloud had suddenly fallen on his path.
But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly; a single thought had actedon her like a startling sound.
”We must set out, Tom, we must not stay. Father will miss me; we mustbe at the turnpike at ten to meet the coach.” She said this with hastydecision, rubbing her eyes, and rising to seize her bonnet.
Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. ”Wait a minute,Maggie,” he said. ”I must speak to Mr. Stelling, and then we'll go.”
He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were; but on hisway he met Mr. Stelling, who had heard from his wife that Maggieappeared to be in trouble when she asked for her brother, and now thathe thought the brother and sister had been alone long enough, wascoming to inquire and offer his sympathy.
”Please, sir, I must go home,” Tom said abruptly, as he met Mr.Stelling in the passage. ”I must go back with my sister directly. Myfather's lost his lawsuit--he's lost all his property--and he's veryill.”
Mr. Stelling felt like a kind-hearted man; he foresaw a probable moneyloss for himself, but this had no appreciable share in his feeling,while he looked with grave pity at the brother and sister for whomyouth and sorrow had begun together. When he knew how Maggie had come,and how eager she was to get home again, he hurried their departure,only whispering something to Mrs. Stelling, who had followed him, andwho immediately left the room.
Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to set out, whenMrs. Stelling came with a little basket, which she hung on Maggie'sarm, saying: ”Do remember to eat something on the way, dear.” Maggie'sheart went out toward this woman whom she had never liked, and shekissed her silently. It was the first sign within the poor child ofthat new sense which is the gift of sorrow,--that susceptibility tothe bare offices of humanity which raises them into a bond of lovingfellowship, as to haggard men among the ice-bergs the mere presence ofan ordinary comrade stirs the deep fountains of affection.
Mr. Stelling put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said: ”God bless you,my boy; let me know how you get on.” Then he pressed Maggie's hand;but there were no audible good-byes. Tom had so often thought howjoyful he should be the day he left school ”for good”! And now hisschool years seemed like a holiday that had come to an end.
The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on the distantroad,--were soon lost behind the projecting hedgerow.
They had gone forth together into their life of sorrow, and they wouldnever more see the sunshine undimmed by remembered cares. They hadentered the thorny wilderness, and the golden gates of their childhoodhad forever closed behind them.
Book III
_The Downfall_