Chapter II
Mr. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution about Tom
”What I want, you know,” said Mr. Tulliver,--”what I want is to giveTom a good eddication an eddication as'll be a bread to him. That waswhat I was thinking of when I gave notice for him to leave the academyat Lady-day. I mean to put him to a downright good school atMidsummer. The two years at th' academy 'ud ha' done well enough, ifI'd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he's had a finesight more schoolin' nor _I_ ever got. All the learnin' _my_ fatherever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at th'other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he mightbe up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and write with aflourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations,and things. I wouldn't make a downright lawyer o' the lad,--I shouldbe sorry for him to be a raskill,--but a sort o' engineer, or asurveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o' themsmartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a bigwatch-chain and a high stool. They're pretty nigh all one, and they'renot far off being even wi' the law, _I_ believe; for Riley looksLawyer Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. _He's_ nonefrightened at him.”
Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in afan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shapedcaps were worn, they must be so near coming in again. At that time,when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St. Ogg's, andconsidered sweet things).
”Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best: _I've_ no objections. But hadn't Ibetter kill a couple o' fowl, and have th' aunts and uncles to dinnernext week, so as you may hear what sister Glegg and sister Pullet havegot to say about it? There's a couple o' fowl _wants_ killing!”
”You may kill every fowl i' the yard if you like, Bessy; but I shallask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do wi' my own lad,” said Mr.Tulliver, defiantly.
”Dear heart!” said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric,”how can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? But it's your way to speakdisrespectful o' my family; and sister Glegg throws all the blameupo' me, though I'm sure I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. Fornobody's ever heard me say as it wasn't lucky for my children to haveaunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tom's to go to anew school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him;else he might as well have calico as linen, for they'd be one asyallow as th' other before they'd been washed half-a-dozen times. Andthen, when the box is goin' back'ard and forrard, I could send the lada cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit,bless him! whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children caneat as much victuals as most, thank God!”
”Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's cart, ifother things fit in,” said Mr. Tulliver. ”But you mustn't put a spokei' the wheel about the washin,' if we can't get a school near enough.That's the fault I have to find wi' you, Bessy; if you see a stick i'the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd want menot to hire a good wagoner, 'cause he'd got a mole on his face.”
”Dear heart!” said Mrs. Tulliver, in mild surprise, ”when did I ivermake objections to a man because he'd got a mole on his face? I'm sureI'm rether fond o' the moles; for my brother, as is dead an' gone, hada mole on his brow. But I can't remember your iver offering to hire awagoner with a mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadn't a moleon his face no more nor you have, an' I was all for having you hire_him_; an' so you did hire him, an' if he hadn't died o' th'inflammation, as we paid Dr. Turnbull for attending him, he'd verylike ha' been drivin' the wagon now. He might have a mole somewhereout o' sight, but how was I to know that, Mr. Tulliver?”
”No, no, Bessy; I didn't mean justly the mole; I meant it to stand forsummat else; but niver mind--it's puzzling work, talking is. What I'mthinking on, is how to find the right sort o' school to send Tom to,for I might be ta'en in again, as I've been wi' th' academy. I'll havenothing to do wi' a 'cademy again: whativer school I send Tom to, itsha'n't be a 'cademy; it shall be a place where the lads spend theirtime i' summat else besides blacking the family's shoes, and gettingup the potatoes. It's an uncommon puzzling thing to know what schoolto pick.”
Mr. Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both hands intohis breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some suggestion there.Apparently he was not disappointed, for he presently said, ”I knowwhat I'll do: I'll talk it over wi' Riley; he's coming to-morrow, t'arbitrate about the dam.”
”Well, Mr. Tulliver, I've put the sheets out for the best bed, andKezia's got 'em hanging at the fire. They aren't the best sheets, butthey're good enough for anybody to sleep in, be he who he will; for asfor them best Holland sheets, I should repent buying 'em, only they'lldo to lay us out in. An' if you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver,they're mangled beautiful, an' all ready, an' smell o' lavender as it'ud be a pleasure to lay 'em out; an' they lie at the left-hand cornero' the big oak linen-chest at the back: not as I should trust anybodyto look 'em out but myself.”
As Mrs. Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright bunch ofkeys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing her thumb andfinger up and down it with a placid smile while she looked at theclear fire. If Mr. Tulliver had been a susceptible man in his conjugalrelation, he might have supposed that she drew out the key to aid herimagination in anticipating the moment when he would be in a state tojustify the production of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was notso; he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water-power;moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening very closely, andsince his mention of Mr. Riley, had been apparently occupied in atactile examination of his woollen stockings.
”I think I've hit it, Bessy,” was his first remark after a shortsilence. ”Riley's as likely a man as any to know o' some school; he'shad schooling himself, an' goes about to all sorts o' places,arbitratin' and vallyin' and that. And we shall have time to talk itover to-morrow night when the business is done. I want Tom to be sucha sort o' man as Riley, you know,--as can talk pretty nigh as well asif it was all wrote out for him, and knows a good lot o' words asdon't mean much, so as you can't lay hold of 'em i' law; and a goodsolid knowledge o' business too.”
”Well,” said Mrs. Tulliver, ”so far as talking proper, and knowingeverything, and walking with a bend in his back, and setting his hairup, I shouldn't mind the lad being brought up to that. But themfine-talking men from the big towns mostly wear the falseshirt-fronts; they wear a frill till it's all a mess, and then hide itwith a bib; I know Riley does. And then, if Tom's to go and live atMudport, like Riley, he'll have a house with a kitchen hardly bigenough to turn in, an' niver get a fresh egg for his breakfast, an'sleep up three pair o' stairs,--or four, for what I know,--and beburnt to death before he can get down.”
”No, no,” said Mr. Tulliver, ”I've no thoughts of his going toMudport: I mean him to set up his office at St. Ogg's, close by us,an' live at home. But,” continued Mr. Tulliver after a pause, ”whatI'm a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasn't got the right sort o' brains fora smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit slowish. He takes after yourfamily, Bessy.”
”Yes, that he does,” said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the lastproposition entirely on its own merits; ”he's wonderful for liking adeal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, and my father'sbefore him.”
”It seems a bit a pity, though,” said Mr. Tulliver, ”as the lad shouldtake after the mother's side instead o' the little wench. That's theworst on't wi' crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilatewhat'll come on't. The little un takes after my side, now: she's twiceas 'cute as Tom. Too 'cute for a woman, I'm afraid,” continued Mr.Tulliver, turning his head dubiously first on one side and then on theother. ”It's no mischief much while she's a little un; but anover-'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep,--she'll fetchnone the bigger price for that.”
”Yes, it _is_ a mischief while she's a little un, Mr. Tulliver, for itruns to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean pinafore two hourstogether passes my cunning. An' now you put me i' mind,” continuedMrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the window, ”I don't know where sheis now, an' it's pretty nigh tea-time. Ah, I thought so,--wanderin' upan' down by the water, like a wild thing: She'll tumble in some day.”
Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and shook herhead,--a process which she repeated more than once before she returnedto her chair.
”You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr. Tulliver,” she observed as she sat down,”but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some things; for if I sendher upstairs to fetch anything, she forgets what she's gone for, an'perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sunshine an' plait her hairan' sing to herself like a Bedlam creatur', all the while I'm waitingfor her downstairs. That niver run i' my family, thank God! no morenor a brown skin as makes her look like a mulatter. I don't like tofly i' the face o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have butone gell, an' her so comical.”
”Pooh, nonsense!” said Mr. Tulliver; ”she's a straight, black-eyedwench as anybody need wish to see. I don't know i' what she's behindother folks's children; and she can read almost as well as theparson.”
”But her hair won't curl all I can do with it, and she's so franzyabout having it put i' paper, and I've such work as never was to makeher stand and have it pinched with th' irons.”
”Cut it off--cut it off short,” said the father, rashly.
”How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? She's too big a gell--gone nine,and tall of her age--to have her hair cut short; an' there's hercousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, an' not a hair out o'place. It seems hard as my sister Deane should have that pretty child;I'm sure Lucy takes more after me nor my own child does. Maggie,Maggie,” continued the mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness,as this small mistake of nature entered the room, ”where's the use o'my telling you to keep away from the water? You'll tumble in and bedrownded some day, an' then you'll be sorry you didn't do as mothertold you.”
Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirmed hermother's accusation. Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daughter to have acurled crop, ”like other folks's children,” had had it cut too shortin front to be pushed behind the ears; and as it was usually straightan hour after it had been taken out of paper, Maggie was incessantlytossing her head to keep the dark, heavy locks out of her gleamingblack eyes,--an action which gave her very much the air of a smallShetland pony.
”Oh, dear, oh, dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to throw yourbonnet down there? Take it upstairs, there's a good gell, an' let yourhair be brushed, an' put your other pinafore on, an' change yourshoes, do, for shame; an' come an' go on with your patchwork, like alittle lady.”
”Oh, mother,” said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, ”I don't _want_to do my patchwork.”
”What! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane for your auntGlegg?”
”It's foolish work,” said Maggie, with a toss of her mane,--”tearingthings to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I don't want to doanything for my aunt Glegg. I don't like her.”
Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr. Tulliverlaughs audibly.
”I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver,” said themother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. ”You encourage her i'naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as it's me spoils her.”
Mrs. Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered person,--never cried,when she was a baby, on any slighter ground than hunger and pins; andfrom the cradle upward had been healthy, fair, plump, and dull-witted;in short, the flower of her family for beauty and amiability. But milkand mildness are not the best things for keeping, and when they turnonly a little sour, they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. Ihave often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, with theblond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept their placidityundisturbed when their strong-limbed, strong-willed boys got a littletoo old to do without clothing. I think they must have been given tofeeble remonstrance, getting more and more peevish as it became moreand more ineffectual.