The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📕

your uncle Deane was before you⁠—you’re in the right way for’t; and then there’s nothing to hinder your getting rich. And if ever you’re rich enough⁠—mind this⁠—try and get th’ old mill again.”

Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair; his mind, which had so long been the home of nothing but bitter discontent and foreboding, suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, with visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence prevented him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening to himself.

“Shake hands wi’ me, my lad,” he said, suddenly putting out his hand. “It’s a great thing when a man can be proud as he’s got a good son. I’ve had that luck.”

Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as that; and Maggie couldn’t help forgetting her own grievances. Tom was good; and in the sweet humility that springs in us all in moments of true admiration and gratitude, she felt that the faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, as his faults were. She felt no jealousy this evening that, for the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the background in her father’s mind.

There was much more talk before bedtime. Mr. Tulliver naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom’s trading adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and delight. He was curious to know what had been said on every occasion; if possible, what had been thought; and Bob Jakin’s part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remarkable packman. Bob’s juvenile history, so far as it had come under Mr. Tulliver’s knowledge, was recalled with that sense of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all reminiscences of the childhood of great men.

It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep under the vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation.

It was long before Mr. Tulliver got to sleep that night; and the sleep, when it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At half-past five o’clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was already rising, he alarmed her by starting up with a sort of smothered shout, and looking round in a bewildered way at the walls of the bedroom.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Tulliver?” said his wife. He looked at her, still with a puzzled expression, and said at last:

“Ah!⁠—I was dreaming⁠—did I make a noise?⁠—I thought I’d got hold of him.”

VII 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 honourable figure once more, he looked more like the proud, confident, warmhearted, and warm-tempered Tulliver of old times than might have seemed possible to anyone 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 honour 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 today, 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 today on purpose