Chapter III. The Family Council
Part I.
It was at eleven o’clock the next morning that the aunts and uncles came to hold their consultation. The fire was lighted in the large parlour, and poor Mrs Tulliver, with a confused impression that it was a great occasion, like a funeral, unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and unpinned the curtains, adjusting them in proper folds, looking round and shaking her head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, which sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient brightness.
Mr Deane was not coming, he was away on business; but Mrs Deane appeared punctually in that handsome new gig with the head to it, and the livery-servant driving it, which had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character to some of her female friends in St Ogg’s. Mr Deane had been advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr Tulliver had been going down in it; and in Mrs Deane’s house the Dodson linen and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate position, as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the same kind, purchased in recent years,—a change which had caused an occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse between her and Mrs Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting “like the rest,” and there would soon be little of the true Dodson spirit surviving except in herself, and, it might be hoped, in those nephews who supported the Dodson name on the family land, far away in the Wolds.
People who live at a distance are naturally less faulty than those immediately under our own eyes; and it seems superfluous, when we consider the remote geographical position of the Ethiopians, and how very little the Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why Homer calls them “blameless.”
Mrs Deane was the first to arrive; and when she had taken her seat in the large parlour, Mrs Tulliver came down to her with her comely face a little distorted, nearly as it would have been if she had been crying. She was not a woman who could shed abundant tears, except in moments when the prospect of losing her furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how unfitting it was to be quite calm under present circumstances.
“Oh, sister, what a world this is!” she exclaimed as she entered; “what trouble, oh dear!”
Mrs Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well-considered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them afterward to her husband, and asking him if she had not spoken very properly.
“Yes, sister,” she said deliberately, “this is a changing world, and we don’t know to-day what may happen tomorrow. But it’s right to be prepared for all things, and if trouble’s sent, to remember as it isn’t sent without a cause. I’m very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for Mr Tulliver, I hope you’ll let me know. I’ll send it willingly; for it is but right he should have proper attendance while he’s ill.”
“Thank you, Susan,” said Mrs Tulliver, rather faintly, withdrawing her fat hand from her sister’s thin one. “But there’s been no talk o’ jelly yet.” Then after a moment’s pause she added, “There’s a dozen o’ cut jelly-glasses upstairs—I shall never put jelly into ’em no more.”
Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr and Mrs Glegg were come, and were almost immediately followed by Mr and Mrs Pullet.
Mrs Pullet entered crying, as a compendious mode, at all times, of expressing what were her views of life in general, and what, in brief, were the opinions she held concerning the particular case before her.
Mrs Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which appeared to have had a recent resurrection from rather a creasy form of burial; a costume selected with the high moral purpose of instilling perfect humility into Bessy and her children.
“Mrs G., won’t you come nearer the fire?” said her husband, unwilling to take the more comfortable seat without offering it to her.
“You see I’ve seated myself here, Mr Glegg,” returned this superior woman; “you can roast yourself, if you like.”
“Well,” said Mr Glegg, seating himself good-humouredly, “and how’s the poor man upstairs?”
“Dr Turnbull thought him a deal better this morning,” said Mrs Tulliver; “he took more notice, and spoke to me; but he’s never known Tom yet,—looks at the poor lad as if he was a stranger, though he said something once about Tom and the pony. The doctor says his memory’s gone a long way back, and he doesn’t know Tom because he’s thinking of him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear!”
“I doubt it’s the water got on his brain,” said aunt Pullet, turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at the pier-glass. “It’s much if he ever gets up again; and if he does, he’ll most like be childish, as Mr Carr was, poor man! They fed him with a spoon as if he’d been a babby for three year. He’d quite lost the use of his limbs; but then he’d got a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him; and that’s what you won’t have, I doubt, Bessy.”
“Sister Pullet,” said Mrs Glegg, severely, “if I understand right, we’ve come together this morning to advise and consult about what’s to be done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the family, and not to talk o’ people as don’t belong to us. Mr Carr was none of our blood, nor noways connected with us, as I’ve ever heared.”
“Sister Glegg,” said Mrs Pullet, in a pleading tone, drawing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated manner, “if you’ve got anything disrespectful to say o’ Mr Carr, I do beg of you as you won’t say it to me. I know what he was,” she added, with a sigh; “his breath was short to that degree as you could hear him two rooms off.”
“Sophy!” said Mrs Glegg, with indignant disgust, “you do talk o’ people’s complaints till it’s quite undecent. But I say again, as I said before, I didn’t come away from home to talk about acquaintances, whether they’d short breath or long. If we aren’t come together for one to hear what the other ’ull do to save a sister and her children from the parish, I shall go back. One can’t act without the other, I suppose; it isn’t to be expected as I should do everything.”
“Well, Jane,” said Mrs Pullet, “I don’t see as you’ve been so very forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the first time as here you’ve been, since it’s been known as the bailiff’s in the house; and I was here yesterday, and looked at all Bessy’s linen and things, and I told her I’d buy in the spotted tablecloths. I couldn’t speak fairer; for as for the teapot as she doesn’t want to go out o’ the family, it stands to sense I can’t do with two silver teapots, not if it hadn’t a straight spout, but the spotted damask I was allays fond on.”
“I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany and the best castors needn’t be put up for sale,” said poor Mrs Tulliver, beseechingly, “and the sugar-tongs the first things ever I bought.”
“But that can’t be helped, you know,” said Mr Glegg. “If one o’ the family chooses to buy ’em in, they can, but one thing must be bid for as well as another.”
“And it isn’t to be looked for,” said uncle Pullet, with unwonted independence of idea, “as your own family should pay more for things nor they’ll fetch. They may go for an old song by auction.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs Tulliver, “to think o’ my chany being sold i’ that way, and I bought it when I was married, just as you did yours, Jane and Sophy; and I know you didn’t like mine, because o’ the sprig, but I was fond of it; and there’s never been a bit broke, for I’ve washed it myself; and there’s the tulips on the cups, and the roses, as anybody might go and look at ’em for pleasure. You wouldn’t like your chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though yours has got no colour in it, Jane,—it’s all white and fluted, and didn’t cost so much as mine. And there’s the castors, sister Deane, I can’t think but you’d like to have the castors, for I’ve heard you say they’re pretty.”
“Well, I’ve no objection to buy some of the best things,” said Mrs Deane, rather loftily; “we can do with extra things in our house.”
“Best things!” exclaimed Mrs Glegg, with severity, which had gathered intensity from her long silence. “It drives me past patience to hear you all talking o’ best things, and buying in this, that, and the other, such as silver and chany. You must bring your mind to your circumstances, Bessy, and not be thinking o’ silver and chany; but whether you shall get so much as a flock-bed to lie on, and a blanket to cover you, and a stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get ’em, it’ll be because your friends have bought ’em for you, for you’re dependent upon them for everything; for your husband lies there helpless, and hasn’t got a penny i’ the world to call his own. And it’s for your own good I say this, for it’s right you should feel what your state is, and what disgrace your husband’s brought on your own family, as you’ve got to look to for everything, and be humble in your mind.”
Mrs Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for the good of others is naturally exhausting.
Mrs Tulliver, always borne down by the family predominance of sister Jane, who had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister in very tender years, said pleadingly:
“I’m sure, sister, I’ve never asked anybody to do anything, only buy things as it ’ud be a pleasure to ’em to have, so as they mightn’t go and be spoiled i’ strange houses. I never asked anybody to buy the things in for me and my children; though there’s the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was born,—I thought one o’ the first things when he was lying i’ the cradle, as all the things I’d bought wi’ my own money, and been so careful of, ’ud go to him. But I’ve said nothing as I wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my husband has done for his sister’s unknown, and we should ha’ been better off this day if it hadn’t been as he’s lent money and never asked for it again.”
“Come, come,” said Mr Glegg, kindly, “don’t let us make things too dark. What’s done can’t be undone. We shall make a shift among us to buy what’s sufficient for you; though, as Mrs G. says, they must be useful, plain things. We mustn’t be thinking o’ what’s unnecessary. A table, and a chair or two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and such-like. Why, I’ve seen the day when I shouldn’t ha’ known myself if I’d lain on sacking i’stead o’ the floor. We get a deal o’ useless things about us, only because we’ve got the money to spend.”
“Mr Glegg,” said Mrs G., “if you’ll be kind enough to let me speak, i’stead o’ taking the words out o’ my mouth,—I was going to say, Bessy, as it’s fine talking for you to say as you’ve never asked us to buy anything for you; let me tell you, you ought to have asked us. Pray, how are you to be purvided for, if your own family don’t help you? You must go to the parish, if they didn’t. And you ought to know that, and keep it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we can for you, i’stead o’ saying, and making a boast, as you’ve never asked us for anything.”
“You talked o’ the Mosses, and what Mr Tulliver’s done for ’em,” said uncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive where advances of money were concerned. “Haven’t they been anear you? They ought to do something as well as other folks; and if he’s lent ’em money, they ought to be made to pay it back.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Mrs Deane; “I’ve been thinking so. How is it Mr and Mrs Moss aren’t here to meet us? It is but right they should do their share.”
“Oh, dear!” said Mrs Tulliver, “I never sent ’em word about Mr Tulliver, and they live so back’ard among the lanes at Basset, they niver hear anything only when Mr Moss comes to market. But I niver gave ’em a thought. I wonder Maggie didn’t, though, for she was allays so fond of her aunt Moss.”
“Why don’t your children come in, Bessy?” said Mrs Pullet, at the mention of Maggie. “They should hear what their aunts and uncles have got to say; and Maggie,—when it’s me as have paid for half her schooling, she ought to think more of her aunt Pullet than of aunt Moss. I may go off sudden when I get home to-day; there’s no telling.”
“If I’d had my way,” said Mrs Glegg, “the children ’ud ha’ been in the room from the first. It’s time they knew who they’ve to look to, and it’s right as somebody should talk to ’em, and let ’em know their condition i’ life, and what they’re come down to, and make ’em feel as they’ve got to suffer for their father’s faults.”
“Well, I’ll go and fetch ’em, sister,” said Mrs Tulliver, resignedly. She was quite crushed now, and thought of the treasures in the storeroom with no other feeling than blank despair.
She went upstairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both in their father’s room, and was on her way down again, when the sight of the storeroom door suggested a new thought to her. She went toward it, and left the children to go down by themselves.
The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm discussion when the brother and sister entered,—both with shrinking reluctance; for though Tom, with a practical sagacity which had been roused into activity by the strong stimulus of the new emotions he had undergone since yesterday, had been turning over in his mind a plan which he meant to propose to one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no means amicably toward them, and dreaded meeting them all at once as he would have dreaded a large dose of concentrated physic, which was but just endurable in small draughts. As for Maggie, she was peculiarly depressed this morning; she had been called up, after brief rest, at three o’clock, and had that strange dreamy weariness which comes from watching in a sick-room through the chill hours of early twilight and breaking day,—in which the outside day-light life seems to have no importance, and to be a mere margin to the hours in the darkened chamber. Their entrance interrupted the conversation. The shaking of hands was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle Pullet observed, as Tom approached him:
“Well, young sir, we’ve been talking as we should want your pen and ink; you can write rarely now, after all your schooling, I should think.”
“Ay, ay,” said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he meant to be kind, “we must look to see the good of all this schooling, as your father’s sunk so much money in, now,—
‘When land is gone and money’s spent,
Then learning is most excellent.’
Now’s the time, Tom, to let us see the good o’ your learning. Let us see whether you can do better than I can, as have made my fortin without it. But I began wi’ doing with little, you see; I could live on a basin o’ porridge and a crust o’ bread-and-cheese. But I doubt high living and high learning ’ull make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me.”
“But he must do it,” interposed aunt Glegg, energetically, “whether it’s hard or no. He hasn’t got to consider what’s hard; he must consider as he isn’t to trusten to his friends to keep him in idleness and luxury; he’s got to bear the fruits of his father’s misconduct, and bring his mind to fare hard and to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to his aunts and uncles for what they’re doing for his mother and father, as must be turned out into the streets and go to the workhouse if they didn’t help ’em. And his sister, too,” continued Mrs Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the sense that she was Lucy’s mother, “she must make up her mind to be humble and work; for there’ll be no servants to wait on her any more,—she must remember that. She must do the work o’ the house, and she must respect and love her aunts as have done so much for her, and saved their money to leave to their nepheys and nieces.”