Chapter VII
A Day of Reckoning
Mr. Tulliver was an essentially sober man,--able to take his glass andnot averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds of moderation. He hadnaturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave liquidfire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to an excitingoccasion without any such reinforcements; and his desire for thebrandy-and-water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with adangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom andunaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful tottering momentpassed, he seemed to gather strength with his gathering excitement;and the next day, when he was seated at table with his creditors, hiseye kindling and his cheek flushed with the consciousness that he wasabout to make an honorable figure once more, he looked more like theproud, confident, warm-hearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of oldtimes than might have seemed possible to any one who had met him aweek before, riding along as had been his wont for the last four yearssince the sense of failure and debt had been upon him,--with his headhanging down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those who forcedthemselves on his notice. He made his speech, asserting his honestprinciples with his old confident eagerness, alluding to the rascalsand the luck that had been against him, but that he had triumphedover, to some extent, by hard efforts and the aid of a good son andwinding up with the story of how Tom had got the best part of theneedful money. But the streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemedto melt for a little while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure,when, Tom's health having been proposed, and uncle Deane having takenoccasion to say a few words of eulogy on his general character andconduct, Tom himself got up and made the single speech of his life. Itcould hardly have been briefer. He thanked the gentlemen for the honorthey had done him. He was glad that he had been able to help hisfather in proving his integrity and regaining his honest name; and,for his own part, he hoped he should never undo that work and disgracethat name. But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom lookedso gentlemanly as well as tall and straight, that Mr. Tulliverremarked, in an explanatory manner, to his friends on his right andleft, that he had spent a deal of money on his son's education.
The party broke up in very sober fashion at five o'clock. Tom remainedin St. Ogg's to attend to some business, and Mr. Tulliver mounted hishorse to go home, and describe the memorable things that had been saidand done, to ”poor Bessy and the little wench.” The air of excitementthat hung about him was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulusbut the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not choose any backstreet to-day, but rode slowly, with uplifted head and free glances,along the principal street all the way to the bridge.
Why did he not happen to meet Wakem? The want of that coincidencevexed him, and set his mind at work in an irritating way. PerhapsWakem was gone out of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing orhearing anything of an honorable action which might well cause himsome unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr. Tulliverwould look straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken alittle by his cool, domineering impudence. He would know by and bythat an honest man was not going to serve _him_ any longer, and lendhis honesty to fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains.Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn; perhaps the Devil didn'talways hold the best cards in this world.
Simmering in this way, Mr. Tulliver approached the yardgates ofDorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known figure coming out ofthem on a fine black horse. They met about fifty yards from the gates,between the great chestnuts and elms and the high bank.
”Tulliver,” said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than usual,”what a fool's trick you did,--spreading those hard lumps on that FarClose! I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farmwith any method.”
”Oh!” said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up; ”get somebody else to farmfor you, then, as'll ask _you_ to teach him.”
”You have been drinking, I suppose,” said Wakem, really believing thatthis was the meaning of Tulliver's flushed face and sparkling eyes.
”No, I've not been drinking,” said Tulliver; ”I want no drinking tohelp me make up my mind as I'll serve no longer under a scoundrel.”
”Very well! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then; hold yourinsolent tongue and let me pass.” (Tulliver was backing his horseacross the road to hem Wakem in.)
”No, I _sha'n't_ let you pass,” said Tulliver, getting fiercer. ”Ishall tell you what I think of you first. You're too big a raskill toget hanged--you're----”
”Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or I'll ride over you.”
Mr. Tulliver, spurring his horse and raising his whip, made a rushforward; and Wakem's horse, rearing and staggering backward, threw hisrider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the ground. Wakem hadhad the presence of mind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horseonly staggered a few paces and then stood still, he might have risenand remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a shake.But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight ofthe long-hated predominant man down, and in his power, threw him intoa frenzy of triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give himpreternatural agility and strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in theact of trying to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so asto press Wakem's whole weight on the right arm, which rested on theground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip.Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman's scream washeard, and the cry of ”Father, father!”
Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulliver's arm; forthe flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own arm was relaxed.
”Get away with you--go!” said Tulliver, angrily. But it was not toWakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned hishead, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl, rather bythe fear of hurting the girl that clung to him with all her youngmight.
”Oh, Luke--mother--come and help Mr. Wakem!” Maggie cried, as sheheard the longed-for footsteps.
”Help me on to that low horse,” said Wakem to Luke, ”then I shallperhaps manage; though--confound it--I think this arm is sprained.”
With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse. Then heturned toward the miller and said, with white rage, ”You'll suffer forthis, sir. Your daughter is a witness that you've assaulted me.”
”I don't care,” said Mr. Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice; ”go andshow your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you. Tell 'em I've made thingsa bit more even i' the world.”
”Ride my horse home with me,” said Wakem to Luke. ”By the ToftonFerry, not through the town.”
”Father, come in!” said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing that Wakemhad ridden off, and that no further violence was possible, sheslackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs.Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear. But Maggie becameconscious that as she was slackening her hold her father was beginningto grasp her and lean on her. The surprise checked her sobs.
”I feel ill--faintish,” he said. ”Help me in, Bessy--I'm giddy--I've apain i' the head.”
He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter and totteredinto his arm-chair. The almost purple flush had given way to paleness,and his hand was cold.
”Hadn't we better send for the doctor?” said Mrs. Tulliver.
He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her; but presently,when she said to Maggie, ”Go and seek for somebody to fetch thedoctor,” he looked up at her with full comprehension, and said,”Doctor? No--no doctor. It's my head, that's all. Help me to bed.”
Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a beginning ofbetter times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled crop.
In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. BobJakin was with him, come to congratulate ”the old master,” not withoutsome excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr.Tom's good luck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothingbetter, as a finish to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tomcould only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasantconsequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father'slong-smothered hate. After the painful news had been told, he sat insilence; he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother andsister anything about the dinner; they hardly cared to ask it.Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was socuriously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrowcoming close upon it. Tom was dejected by the thought that hisexemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others;Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of themoment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father's arm,with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come. Notone of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr. Tulliver'shealth; the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, andit seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion andeffort of strength, after many hours of unusual excitement, shouldhave made him feel ill. Rest would probably cure him.
Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept soundly;it seemed to him as if he had only just come to bed, when he waked tosee his mother standing by him in the gray light of early morning.
”My boy, you must get up this minute; I've sent for the doctor, andyour father wants you and Maggie to come to him.”
”Is he worse, mother?”
”He's been very ill all night with his head, but he doesn't say it'sworse; he only said suddenly, 'Bessy, fetch the boy and girl. Tell 'emto make haste.'”
Maggie and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chill gray light,and reached their father's room almost at the same moment. He waswatching for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but withsharpened, anxious consciousness in his eyes. Mrs. Tulliver stood atthe foot of the bed, frightened and trembling, looking worn and agedfrom disturbed rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her father'sglance was toward Tom, who came and stood next to her.
”Tom, my lad, it's come upon me as I sha'n't get up again. Thisworld's been too many for me, my lad, but you've done what you couldto make things a bit even. Shake hands wi' me again, my lad, before Igo away from you.”
The father and son clasped hands and looked at each other an instant.Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly,--
”Have you any wish, father--that I can fulfil, when----”
”Ay, my lad--you'll try and get the old mill back.”
”Yes, father.”
”And there's your mother--you'll try and make her amends, all you can,for my bad luck--and there's the little wench----”
The father turned his eyes on Maggie with a still more eager look,while she, with a bursting heart, sank on her knees, to be closer tothe dear, time-worn face which had been present with her through longyears, as the sign of her deepest love and hardest trial.
”You must take care of her, Tom--don't you fret, my wench--there'llcome somebody as'll love you and take your part--and you must be goodto her, my lad. I was good to _my_ sister. Kiss me, Maggie.--Come,Bessy.--You'll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your motherand me can lie together.”
He looked away from them all when he had said this, and lay silent forsome minutes, while they stood watching him, not daring to move. Themorning light was growing clearer for them, and they could see theheaviness gathering in his face, and the dulness in his eyes. But atlast he looked toward Tom and said,--
”I had my turn--I beat him. That was nothing but fair. I never wantedanything but what was fair.”
”But, father, dear father,” said Maggie, an unspeakable anxietypredominating over her grief, ”you forgive him--you forgive every onenow?”
He did not move his eyes to look at her, but he said,--
”No, my wench. I don't forgive him. What's forgiving to do? I can'tlove a raskill----”
His voice had become thicker; but he wanted to say more, and moved hislips again and again, struggling in vain to speak. At length the wordsforced their way.
”Does God forgive raskills?--but if He does, He won't be hard wi' me.”
His hands moved uneasily, as if he wanted them to remove someobstruction that weighed upon him. Two or three times there fell fromhim some broken words,--
”This world's--too many--honest man--puzzling----”
Soon they merged into mere mutterings; the eyes had ceased to discern;and then came the final silence.
But not of death. For an hour or more the chest heaved, the loud, hardbreathing continued, getting gradually slower, as the cold dewsgathered on the brow.
At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimly lightedsoul had forever ceased to be vexed with the painful riddle of thisworld.
Help was come now; Luke and his wife were there, and Mr. Turnbull hadarrived, too late for everything but to say, ”This is death.”
Tom and Maggie went downstairs together into the room where theirfather's place was empty. Their eyes turned to the same spot, andMaggie spoke,--
”Tom, forgive me--let us always love each other”; and they clung andwept together.
Book VI
_The Great Temptation_