I should be sorry for the pain it brought you; I should not want punishment to be heaped on you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me; you have always been hard and cruel to me; even when I was a little girl, and always loved you better than any one else in the world, you would let me go crying to bed without forgiving me. You have no pity; you have no sense of your own imperfection and your own sins. It is a sin to be hard; it is not fitting for a mortal, for a Christian. You are nothing but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but your own virtues; you think they are great enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision of feelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!”
“Well,” said Tom, with cold scorn, “if your feelings are so much better than mine, let me see you show them in some other way than by conduct that’s likely to disgrace us all,—than by ridiculous flights first into one extreme and then into another. Pray, how have you shown your love, that you talk of, either to me or my father? By disobeying and deceiving us. I have a different way of showing my affection.”
“Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can do something in the world.”
“Then, if you can do nothing, submit to those that can.”
“So I will submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from my father, but I will not submit to it from you. You boast of your virtues as if they purchased you a right to be cruel and unmanly, as you’ve been to-day. Don’t suppose I would give up Philip Wakem in obedience to you. The deformity you insult would make me cling to him and care for him the more.”
“Very well; that is your view of things.” said Tom, more coldly than ever; “you need say no more to show me what a wide distance there is between us. Let us remember that in future, and be silent.”
Tom went back to St. Ogg’s, to fulfill an appointment with his uncle Deane, and receive directions about a journey on which he was to set out the next morning.
Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that indignant remonstrance, against which Tom’s mind was close barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of unsatisfied anger was gone by, came the recollection of that quiet time before the pleasure which had ended in to-day’s misery had perturbed the clearness and simplicity of her life. She used to think in that time that she had made great conquests, and won a lasting stand on serene heights above worldly temptations and conflict. And here she was down again in the thick of a hot strife with her own and others’ passions. Life was not so short, then, and perfect rest was not so near as she had dreamed when she was two years younger. There was more struggle for her, and perhaps more falling. If she had felt that she was entirely wrong, and that Tom had been entirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inward harmony; but now her penitence and submission were constantly obstructed by resentment that would present itself to her no otherwise than as a just indignation. Her heart bled for Philip; she went on recalling the insults that had been flung at him with so vivid a conception of what he had felt under them, that it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, making her beat the floor with her foot and tighten her fingers on her palm.
And yet, how was it that she was now and then conscious of a certain dim background of relief in the forced separation from Philip? Surely it was only because the sense of a deliverance from concealment was welcome at any cost.
Chapter VI.
The Hard-Won Triumph.
Three weeks later, when Dorlcote Mill was at its prettiest moment in all the year,—the great chestnuts in blossom, and the grass all deep and daisied,—Tom Tulliver came home to it earlier than usual in the evening, and as he passed over the bridge, he looked with the old deep-rooted affection at the respectable red brick house, which always seemed cheerful and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts as sad as they might inside. There is a very pleasant light in Tom’s blue-gray eyes as he glances at the house-windows; that fold in his brow never disappears, but it is not unbecoming; it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their gentlest expression. His firm step becomes quicker, and the corners of his mouth rebel against the compression which is meant to forbid a smile.
The eyes in the parlor were not turned toward the bridge just then, and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence,—Mr. Tulliver in his arm-chair, tired with a long ride, and ruminating with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who was bending over her sewing while her mother was making the tea.
They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well-known foot.
“Why, what’s up now, Tom?” said his father. “You’re a bit earlier than usual.”
“Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. Well, mother!”
Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a sign of unusual good-humor with him. Hardly a word or look had passed between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his usual incommunicativeness at home prevented this from being noticeable to their parents.
“Father,” said Tom, when they had finished tea, “do you know exactly how much money there is in the tin box?”
“Only a hundred and ninety-three pound,” said Mr. Tulliver. “You’ve brought less o’ late; but young fellows like to have their own way with their money. Though I didn’t do as I liked before I was of age.” He spoke with rather timid discontent.
“Are you quite sure that’s the sum, father?” said Tom. “I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. I think you have perhaps made a mistake.”
“How should I make a mistake?” said his father, sharply. “I’ve counted it often enough; but I can fetch it, if you won’t believe me.”
It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy life, to fetch the tin box and count the money.
“Don’t go out of the room, mother,” said Tom, as he saw her moving when his father was gone upstairs.
“And isn’t Maggie to go?” said Mrs. Tulliver; “because somebody must take away the things.”
“Just as she likes,” said Tom indifferently.
That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped with the sudden conviction that Tom was going to tell their father the debts could be paid; and Tom would have let her be absent when that news was told! But she carried away the tray and came back immediately. The feeling of injury on her own behalf could not predominate at that moment.
Tom drew to the corner of the table near his father when the tin box was set down and opened, and the red evening light falling on them made conspicuous the worn, sour gloom of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of the fair-complexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at the other end of the table, the one in blank patience, the other in palpitating expectation.
Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on the table, and then said, glancing sharply at Tom:
“There now! you see I was right enough.”
He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency.
“There’s more nor three hundred wanting; it’ll be a fine while before I can save that. Losing that forty-two pound wi’ the corn was a sore job. This world’s been too many for me. It’s took four year to lay this by; it’s much if I’m above ground for another four year. I must trusten to you to pay ’em,” he went on, with a trembling voice, “if you keep i’ the same mind now you’re coming o’ age. But you’re like enough to bury me first.”
He looked up in Tom’s face with a querulous desire for some assurance.
“No, father,” said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, though there was tremor discernible in his voice too, “you will live to see the debts all