Chapter: A Day of Reckoning


Mr. Tulliver was an essentially sober man,--able to take his glass and
not averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds of moderation. He had
naturally an active Hotspur temperament, which did not crave liquid
fire to set it aglow; his impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting
occasion without any such reinforcements; and his desire for the
brandy-and-water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a
dangerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom and
unaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtful tottering moment
passed, he seemed to gather strength with his gathering excitement;
and the next day, when he was seated at table with his creditors, his
eye kindling and his cheek flushed with the consciousness that he was
about to make an honorable figure once more, he looked more like the
proud, confident, warm-hearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of old
times than might have seemed possible to any one who had met him a
week before, riding along as had been his wont for the last four years
since the sense of failure and debt had been upon him,--with his head
hanging down, casting brief, unwilling looks on those who forced
themselves on his notice. He made his speech, asserting his honest
principles with his old confident eagerness, alluding to the rascals
and the luck that had been against him, but that he had triumphed
over, to some extent, by hard efforts and the aid of a good son; and
winding up with the story of how Tom had got the best part of the
needful money. But the streak of irritation and hostile triumph seemed
to melt for a little while into purer fatherly pride and pleasure,
when, Tom's health having been proposed, and uncle Deane having taken
occasion to say a few words of eulogy on his general character and
conduct, Tom himself got up and made the single speech of his life. It
could hardly have been briefer. He thanked the gentlemen for the honor
they had done him. He was glad that he had been able to help his
father in proving his integrity and regaining his honest name; and,
for his own part, he hoped he should never undo that work and disgrace
that name. But the applause that followed was so great, and Tom looked
so gentlemanly as well as tall and straight, that Mr. Tulliver
remarked, in an explanatory manner, to his friends on his right and
left, 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 remained
in St. Ogg's to attend to some business, and Mr. Tulliver mounted his
horse to go home, and describe the memorable things that had been said
and done, to "poor Bessy and the little wench." The air of excitement
that hung about him was but faintly due to good cheer or any stimulus
but the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not choose any back
street 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 coincidence
vexed him, and set his mind at work in an irritating way. Perhaps
Wakem was gone out of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or
hearing anything of an honorable action which might well cause him
some unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, Mr. Tulliver
would look straight at him, and the rascal would perhaps be forsaken a
little by his cool, domineering impudence. He would know by and by
that an honest man was not going to serve _him_ any longer, and lend
his honesty to fill a pocket already over-full of dishonest gains.
Perhaps the luck was beginning to turn; perhaps the Devil didn't
always hold the best cards in this world.

Simmering in this way, Mr. Tulliver approached the yardgates of
Dorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known figure coming out of
them 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 Far
Close! I told you how it would be; but you men never learn to farm
with any method."

"Oh!" said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up; "get somebody else to farm
for you, then, as'll ask _you_ to teach him."

"You have been drinking, I suppose," said Wakem, really believing that
this was the meaning of Tulliver's flushed face and sparkling eyes.

"No, I've not been drinking," said Tulliver; "I want no drinking to
help 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 your
insolent tongue and let me pass." (Tulliver was backing his horse
across the road to hem Wakem in.)

"No, I _sha'n't_ let you pass," said Tulliver, getting fiercer. "I
shall tell you what I think of you first. You're too big a raskill to
get 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 rush
forward; and Wakem's horse, rearing and staggering backward, threw his
rider from the saddle and sent him sideways on the ground. Wakem had
had the presence of mind to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse
only staggered a few paces and then stood still, he might have risen
and remounted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a shake.
But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse too. The sight of
the long-hated predominant man down, and in his power, threw him into
a frenzy of triumphant vengeance, which seemed to give him
preternatural agility and strength. He rushed on Wakem, who was in the
act of trying to recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as
to press Wakem's whole weight on the right arm, which rested on the
ground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his riding-whip.
Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until a woman's scream was
heard, and the cry of "Father, father!"

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. Tulliver's arm; for
the flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own arm was relaxed.

"Get away with you--go!" said Tulliver, angrily. But it was not to
Wakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned his
head, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl, rather by
the fear of hurting the girl that clung to him with all her young
might.

"Oh, Luke--mother--come and help Mr. Wakem!" Maggie cried, as she
heard the longed-for footsteps.

"Help me on to that low horse," said Wakem to Luke, "then I shall
perhaps manage; though--confound it--I think this arm is sprained."

With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse. Then he
turned toward the miller and said, with white rage, "You'll suffer for
this, sir. Your daughter is a witness that you've assaulted me."

"I don't care," said Mr. Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice; "go and
show your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you. Tell 'em I've made things
a bit more even i' the world."

"Ride my horse home with me," said Wakem to Luke. "By the Tofton
Ferry, not through the town."

"Father, come in!" said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeing that Wakem
had ridden off, and that no further violence was possible, she
slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs.
Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear. But Maggie became
conscious that as she was slackening her hold her father was beginning
to 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 a
pain i' the head."

He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter and tottered
into 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 the
doctor," 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 of
better times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled crop.

In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home. Bob
Jakin was with him, come to congratulate "the old master," not without
some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr.
Tom's good luck; and Tom had thought his father would like nothing
better, as a finish to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tom
could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant
consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father's
long-smothered hate. After the painful news had been told, he sat in
silence; he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother and
sister anything about the dinner; they hardly cared to ask it.
Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so
curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow
coming close upon it. Tom was dejected by the thought that his
exemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others;
Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of the
moment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father's arm,
with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come. Not
one of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr. Tulliver's
health; the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, and
it seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion and
effort of strength, after many hours of unusual excitement, should
have 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 to
see 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, and
your 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's
worse; he only said suddenly, 'Bessy, fetch the boy and girl. Tell 'em
to 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 was
watching for them with an expression of pain on his brow, but with
sharpened, anxious consciousness in his eyes. Mrs. Tulliver stood at
the foot of the bed, frightened and trembling, looking worn and aged
from disturbed rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her father's
glance 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. This
world's been too many for me, my lad, but you've done what you could
to make things a bit even. Shake hands wi' me again, my lad, before I
go 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 to
the dear, time-worn face which had been present with her through long
years, as the sign of her deepest love and hardest trial.

"You must take care of her, Tom--don't you fret, my wench--there'll
come somebody as'll love you and take your part--and you must be good
to 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 mother
and me can lie together."

He looked away from them all when he had said this, and lay silent for
some minutes, while they stood watching him, not daring to move. The
morning light was growing clearer for them, and they could see the
heaviness gathering in his face, and the dulness in his eyes. But at
last he looked toward Tom and said,--

"I had my turn--I beat him. That was nothing but fair. I never wanted
anything but what was fair."

"But, father, dear father," said Maggie, an unspeakable anxiety
predominating over her grief, "you forgive him--you forgive every one
now?"

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't
love a raskill----"

His voice had become thicker; but he wanted to say more, and moved his
lips again and again, struggling in vain to speak. At length the words
forced 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 some
obstruction that weighed upon him. Two or three times there fell from
him 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, hard
breathing continued, getting gradually slower, as the cold dews
gathered on the brow.

At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimly lighted
soul had forever ceased to be vexed with the painful riddle of this
world.

Help was come now; Luke and his wife were there, and Mr. Turnbull had
arrived, too late for everything but to say, "This is death."

Tom and Maggie went downstairs together into the room where their
father's place was empty. Their eyes turned to the same spot, and
Maggie spoke,--

"Tom, forgive me--let us always love each other"; and they clung and
wept together.




Book VI

_The Great Temptation_

 Ominous chapter title alert. The next day, Mr. Tulliver is back to his old self. He is in a good mood and makes a short speech to the creditors about how he's an honest man and explains that he triumphed over the evil lawyers. Tom then gets up and makes a great speech about regaining the family honor. It impresses everyone in the room. The narrator drops in a line about how this is the only speech of Tom's life though, which may not bode well for his future. Mr. Tulliver heads home to tell his wife about how awesome everything was today. But then he spies Mr. Wakem. Mr. Tulliver goes up to him and Mr. Wakem implies that Tulliver doesn't know how to do his job and that he won't be making employee of the month at the mill. Mr. Tulliver starts insulting Mr. Wakem and says that he's paid his debts and that he thinks Wakem is the worst person ever. Wakem thinks Tulliver is drunk and tries to leave, but his horse is agitated and throws him. And then Mr. Tulliver loses it - he sees Wakem on the ground and rushes him and starts beating him. There's a horsewhip involved. Ouch. Maggie runs up and screams for her dad to stop. She holds onto her dad and Luke comes up to help Mr. Wakem. Wakem gives an expected "you'll pay for this" speech and rides off to find a doctor, presumably. Mr. Tulliver is about to pass out and his family hustles him home. Tom comes home an hour later with Bob. Tom is a pessimist and feels that something must go wrong since he's had such an awesome day so far. Tom totally jinxed himself. He hears about what his father did and is depressed once again. The other Tullivers feel that Mr. Tulliver just needs to rest. But that night Mr. Tulliver sends for his kids and Mrs. Tulliver sends for a doctor. Mr. Tulliver is dying. He asks Tom to try to get the mill back from Wakem and to take care of his mother and his sister. Mr. Tulliver is getting weaker. He refuses to forgive Wakem even on his deathbed and his last words are about how confusing the world is. Mr. Tulliver dies a few hours later. Tom and Maggie come together again in their shared grief.

