The Mill on the Floss (3 page)

"I believe you," said Mr. Tulliver, winking, and turning his
head on one side; "but that's where it is. I don't
mean
Tom to be a miller and farmer. I see no fun i' that. Why, if I made
him a miller an' farmer, he'd be expectin' to take to the mill an'
the land, an' a-hinting at me as it was time for me to lay by an'
think o' my latter end. Nay, nay, I've seen enough o' that wi'
sons. I'll never pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall give
Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he may make a nest
for himself, an' not want to push me out o' mine. Pretty well if he
gets it when I'm dead an' gone. I sha'n't be put off wi' spoon-meat
afore I've lost my teeth."

This was evidently a point on which Mr. Tulliver felt strongly;
and the impetus which had given unusual rapidity and emphasis to
his speech showed itself still unexhausted for some minutes
afterward in a defiant motion of the head from side to side, and an
occasional "Nay, nay," like a subsiding growl.

These angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, and cut her
to the quick. Tom, it appeared, was supposed capable of turning his
father out of doors, and of making the future in some way tragic by
his wickedness. This was not to be borne; and Maggie jumped up from
her stool, forgetting all about her heavy book, which fell with a
bang within the fender, and going up between her father's knees,
said, in a half-crying, half-indignant voice,–

"Father, Tom wouldn't be naughty to you ever; I know he
wouldn't."

Mrs. Tulliver was out of the room superintending a choice
supper-dish, and Mr. Tulliver's heart was touched; so Maggie was
not scolded about the book. Mr. Riley quietly picked it up and
looked at it, while the father laughed, with a certain tenderness
in his hard-lined face, and patted his little girl on the back, and
then held her hands and kept her between his knees.

"What! they mustn't say any harm o' Tom, eh?" said Mr. Tulliver,
looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye. Then, in a lower voice,
turning to Mr. Riley, as though Maggie couldn't hear, "She
understands what one's talking about so as never was. And you
should hear her read,–straight off, as if she knowed it all
beforehand. And allays at her book! But it's bad–it's bad," Mr.
Tulliver added sadly, checking this blamable exultation. "A woman's
no business wi' being so clever; it'll turn to trouble, I doubt.
But bless you!"–here the exultation was clearly recovering the
mastery,–"she'll read the books and understand 'em better nor half
the folks as are growed up."

Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excitement. She
thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her now; it had been
evident that he thought nothing of her before.

Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she could
make nothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows; but he
presently looked at her, and said,–

"Come, come and tell me something about this book; here are some
pictures,–I want to know what they mean."

Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to Mr.
Riley's elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing one corner,
and tossing back her mane, while she said,–

"Oh, I'll tell you what that means. It's a dreadful picture,
isn't it? But I can't help looking at it. That old woman in the
water's a witch,–they've put her in to find out whether she's a
witch or no; and if she swims she's a witch, and if she's
drowned–and killed, you know–she's innocent, and not a witch, but
only a poor silly old woman. But what good would it do her then,
you know, when she was drowned? Only, I suppose, she'd go to
heaven, and God would make it up to her. And this dreadful
blacksmith with his arms akimbo, laughing,–oh, isn't he ugly?–I'll
tell you what he is. He's the Devil
really
" (here Maggie's
voice became louder and more emphatic), "and not a right
blacksmith; for the Devil takes the shape of wicked men, and walks
about and sets people doing wicked things, and he's oftener in the
shape of a bad man than any other, because, you know, if people saw
he was the Devil, and he roared at 'em, they'd run away, and he
couldn't make 'em do what he pleased."

Mr. Tulliver had listened to this exposition of Maggie's with
petrifying wonder.

"Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on?" he burst out
at last.

"The 'History of the Devil,' by Daniel Defoe,–not quite the
right book for a little girl," said Mr. Riley. "How came it among
your books, Mr. Tulliver?"

Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said,–

"Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. They
was all bound alike,–it's a good binding, you see,–and I thought
they'd be all good books. There's Jeremy Taylor's 'Holy Living and
Dying' among 'em. I read in it often of a Sunday" (Mr. Tulliver
felt somehow a familiarity with that great writer, because his name
was Jeremy); "and there's a lot more of 'em,–sermons mostly, I
think,–but they've all got the same covers, and I thought they were
all o' one sample, as you may say. But it seems one mustn't judge
by th' outside. This is a puzzlin' world."

"Well," said Mr. Riley, in an admonitory, patronizing tone as he
patted Maggie on the head, "I advise you to put by the 'History of
the Devil,' and read some prettier book. Have you no prettier
books?"

"Oh, yes," said Maggie, reviving a little in the desire to
vindicate the variety of her reading. "I know the reading in this
book isn't pretty; but I like the pictures, and I make stories to
the pictures out of my own head, you know. But I've got 'Æsop's
Fables,' and a book about Kangaroos and things, and the 'Pilgrim's
Progress.'"

"Ah, a beautiful book," said Mr. Riley; "you can't read a
better."

"Well, but there's a great deal about the Devil in that," said
Maggie, triumphantly, "and I'll show you the picture of him in his
true shape, as he fought with Christian."

Maggie ran in an instant to the corner of the room, jumped on a
chair, and reached down from the small bookcase a shabby old copy
of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least trouble of
search, at the picture she wanted.

"Here he is," she said, running back to Mr. Riley, "and Tom
colored him for me with his paints when he was at home last
holidays,–the body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like
fire, because he's all fire inside, and it shines out at his
eyes."

"Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel
rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal
appearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers; "shut up
the book, and let's hear no more o' such talk. It is as I
thought–the child 'ull learn more mischief nor good wi' the books.
Go, go and see after your mother."

Maggie shut up the book at once, with a sense of disgrace, but
not being inclined to see after her mother, she compromised the
matter by going into a dark corner behind her father's chair, and
nursing her doll, toward which she had an occasional fit of
fondness in Tom's absence, neglecting its toilet, but lavishing so
many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks had a wasted,
unhealthy appearance.

"Did you ever hear the like on't?" said Mr. Tulliver, as Maggie
retired. "It's a pity but what she'd been the lad,–she'd ha' been a
match for the lawyers,
she
would. It's the wonderful'st
thing"–here he lowered his voice–"as I picked the mother because
she wasn't o'er 'cute–bein' a good-looking woman too, an' come of a
rare family for managing; but I picked her from her sisters o'
purpose, 'cause she was a bit weak like; for I wasn't agoin' to be
told the rights o' things by my own fireside. But you see when a
man's got brains himself, there's no knowing where they'll run to;
an' a pleasant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid
lads and 'cute wenches, till it's like as if the world was turned
topsy-turvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing."

Mr. Riley's gravity gave way, and he shook a little under the
application of his pinch of snuff before he said,–

"But your lad's not stupid, is he? I saw him, when I was here
last, busy making fishing-tackle; he seemed quite up to it."

"Well, he isn't not to say stupid,–he's got a notion o' things
out o' door, an' a sort o' common sense, as he'd lay hold o' things
by the right handle. But he's slow with his tongue, you see, and he
reads but poorly, and can't abide the books, and spells all wrong,
they tell me, an' as shy as can be wi' strangers, an' you never
hear him say 'cute things like the little wench. Now, what I want
is to send him to a school where they'll make him a bit nimble with
his tongue and his pen, and make a smart chap of him. I want my son
to be even wi' these fellows as have got the start o' me with
having better schooling. Not but what, if the world had been left
as God made it, I could ha' seen my way, and held my own wi' the
best of 'em; but things have got so twisted round and wrapped up i'
unreasonable words, as aren't a bit like 'em, as I'm clean at
fault, often an' often. Everything winds about so–the more
straightforrad you are, the more you're puzzled."

Mr. Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook his
head in a melancholy manner, conscious of exemplifying the truth
that a perfectly sane intellect is hardly at home in this insane
world.

"You're quite in the right of it, Tulliver," observed Mr. Riley.
"Better spend an extra hundred or two on your son's education, than
leave it him in your will. I know I should have tried to do so by a
son of mine, if I'd had one, though, God knows, I haven't your
ready money to play with, Tulliver; and I have a houseful of
daughters into the bargain."

"I dare say, now, you know of a school as 'ud be just the thing
for Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, not diverted from his purpose by any
sympathy with Mr. Riley's deficiency of ready cash.

Mr. Riley took a pinch of snuff, and kept Mr. Tulliver in
suspense by a silence that seemed deliberative, before he
said,–

"I know of a very fine chance for any one that's got the
necessary money and that's what you have, Tulliver. The fact is, I
wouldn't recommend any friend of mine to send a boy to a regular
school, if he could afford to do better. But if any one wanted his
boy to get superior instruction and training, where he would be the
companion of his master, and that master a first rate fellow, I
know his man. I wouldn't mention the chance to everybody, because I
don't think everybody would succeed in getting it, if he were to
try; but I mention it to you, Tulliver, between ourselves."

The fixed inquiring glance with which Mr. Tulliver had been
watching his friend's oracular face became quite eager.

"Ay, now, let's hear," he said, adjusting himself in his chair
with the complacency of a person who is thought worthy of important
communications.

"He's an Oxford man," said Mr. Riley, sententiously, shutting
his mouth close, and looking at Mr. Tulliver to observe the effect
of this stimulating information.

"What! a parson?" said Mr. Tulliver, rather doubtfully.

"Yes, and an M.A. The bishop, I understand, thinks very highly
of him: why, it was the bishop who got him his present curacy."

"Ah?" said Mr. Tulliver, to whom one thing was as wonderful as
another concerning these unfamiliar phenomena. "But what can he
want wi' Tom, then?"

"Why, the fact is, he's fond of teaching, and wishes to keep up
his studies, and a clergyman has but little opportunity for that in
his parochial duties. He's willing to take one or two boys as
pupils to fill up his time profitably. The boys would be quite of
the family,–the finest thing in the world for them; under
Stelling's eye continually."

"But do you think they'd give the poor lad twice o' pudding?"
said Mrs. Tulliver, who was now in her place again. "He's such a
boy for pudding as never was; an' a growing boy like that,–it's
dreadful to think o' their stintin' him."

"And what money 'ud he want?" said Mr. Tulliver, whose instinct
told him that the services of this admirable M.A. would bear a high
price.

"Why, I know of a clergyman who asks a hundred and fifty with
his youngest pupils, and he's not to be mentioned with Stelling,
the man I speak of. I know, on good authority, that one of the
chief people at Oxford said, Stelling might get the highest honors
if he chose. But he didn't care about university honors; he's a
quiet man–not noisy."

"Ah, a deal better–a deal better," said Mr. Tulliver; "but a
hundred and fifty's an uncommon price. I never thought o' paying so
much as that."

"A good education, let me tell you, Tulliver,–a good education
is cheap at the money. But Stelling is moderate in his terms; he's
not a grasping man. I've no doubt he'd take your boy at a hundred,
and that's what you wouldn't get many other clergymen to do. I'll
write to him about it, if you like."

Mr. Tulliver rubbed his knees, and looked at the carpet in a
meditative manner.

"But belike he's a bachelor," observed Mrs. Tulliver, in the
interval; "an' I've no opinion o' housekeepers. There was my
brother, as is dead an' gone, had a housekeeper once, an' she took
half the feathers out o' the best bed, an' packed 'em up an' sent
'em away. An' it's unknown the linen she made away with–Stott her
name was. It 'ud break my heart to send Tom where there's a
housekeeper, an' I hope you won't think of it, Mr. Tulliver."

"You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs. Tulliver,"
said Mr. Riley, "for Stelling is married to as nice a little woman
as any man need wish for a wife. There isn't a kinder little soul
in the world; I know her family well. She has very much your
complexion,–light curly hair. She comes of a good Mudport family,
and it's not every offer that would have been acceptable in that
quarter. But Stelling's not an every-day man; rather a particular
fellow as to the people he chooses to be connected with. But I
think
he would have no objection to take your son; I
think
he would not, on my representation."