Chapter II. Aunt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bob's Thumb
Part I.
While Maggie’s life-struggles had lain almost entirely within her own soul, one shadowy army fighting another, and the slain shadows forever rising again, Tom was engaged in a dustier, noisier warfare, grappling with more substantial obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses; inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted hands offering prayers, watching the world’s combat from afar, filling their long, empty days with memories and fears; outside, the men, in fierce struggle with things divine and human, quenching memory in the stronger light of purpose, losing the sense of dread and even of wounds in the hurrying ardor of action.
From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth of whom you would prophesy failure in anything he had thoroughly wished; the wagers are likely to be on his side, notwithstanding his small success in the classics. For Tom had never desired success in this field of enterprise; and for getting a fine flourishing growth of stupidity there is nothing like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjects in which it feels no interest. But now Tom’s strong will bound together his integrity, his pride, his family regrets, and his personal ambition, and made them one force, concentrating his efforts and surmounting discouragements. His uncle Deane, who watched him closely, soon began to conceive hopes of him, and to be rather proud that he had brought into the employment of the firm a nephew who appeared to be made of such good commercial stuff. The real kindness of placing him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in the hints his uncle began to throw out, that after a time he might perhaps be trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for the firm various vulgar commodities with which I need not shock refined ears in this place; and it was doubtless with a view to this result that Mr Deane, when he expected to take his wine alone, would tell Tom to step in and sit with him an hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and catechising concerning articles of export and import, with an occasional excursus of more indirect utility on the relative advantages to the merchants of St Ogg’s of having goods brought in their own and in foreign bottoms,—a subject on which Mr Deane, as a ship-owner, naturally threw off a few sparks when he got warmed with talk and wine.
Already, in the second year, Tom’s salary was raised; but all, except the price of his dinner and clothes, went home into the tin box; and he shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into expenses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was moulded on the spoony type of the Industrious Apprentice; he had a very strong appetite for pleasure,—would have liked to be a Tamer of horses and to make a distinguished figure in all neighbouring eyes, dispensing treats and benefits to others with well-judged liberality, and being pronounced one of the finest young fellows of those parts; nay, he determined to achieve these things sooner or later; but his practical shrewdness told him that the means to such achievements could only lie for him in present abstinence and self-denial; there were certain milestones to be passed, and one of the first was the payment of his father’s debts. Having made up his mind on that point, he strode along without swerving, contracting some rather saturnine sternness, as a young man is likely to do who has a premature call upon him for self-reliance. Tom felt intensely that common cause with his father which springs from family pride, and was bent on being irreproachable as a son; but his growing experience caused him to pass much silent criticism on the rashness and imprudence of his father’s past conduct; their dispositions were not in sympathy, and Tom’s face showed little radiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of him, against which she struggled as something unfair to her consciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives; but it was of no use to struggle. A character at unity with itself—that performs what it intends, subdues every counteracting impulse, and has no visions beyond the distinctly possible—is strong by its very negations.
You may imagine that Tom’s more and more obvious unlikeness to his father was well fitted to conciliate the maternal aunts and uncles; and Mr Deane’s favourable reports and predictions to Mr Glegg concerning Tom’s qualifications for business began to be discussed amongst them with various acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, to do the family credit without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs Pullet had always thought it strange if Tom’s excellent complexion, so entirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a certainty that he would turn out well; his juvenile errors of running down the peacock, and general disrespect to his aunts, only indicating a tinge of Tulliver blood which he had doubtless outgrown. Mr Glegg, who had contracted a cautious liking for Tom ever since his spirited and sensible behaviour when the execution was in the house, was now warming into a resolution to further his prospects actively,—some time, when an opportunity offered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate loss; but Mrs Glegg observed that she was not given to speak without book, as some people were; that those who said least were most likely to find their words made good; and that when the right moment came, it would be seen who could do something better than talk. Uncle Pullet, after silent meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly to the conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do well, it was better not to meddle with him.
Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any one but himself, though, with a natural sensitiveness toward all indications of favourable opinion, he was glad to see his uncle Glegg look in on him sometimes in a friendly way during business hours, and glad to be invited to dine at his house, though he usually preferred declining on the ground that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a year ago, something had occurred which induced Tom to test his uncle Glegg’s friendly disposition.
Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds without seeing Tom and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge as he was coming home from St Ogg’s one evening, that they might have a little private talk. He took the liberty of asking if Mr Tom had ever thought of making money by trading a bit on his own account. Trading, how? Tom wished to know. Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo to foreign ports; because Bob had a particular friend who had offered to do a little business for him in that way in Laceham goods, and would be glad to serve Mr Tom on the same footing. Tom was interested at once, and begged for full explanation, wondering he had not thought of this plan before.
He was so well pleased with the prospect of a speculation that might change the slow process of addition into multiplication, that he at once determined to mention the matter to his father, and get his consent to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to the purchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have consulted his father, but he had just paid his last quarter’s money into the tin box, and there was no other resource. All the savings were there; for Mr Tulliver would not consent to put the money out at interest lest he should lose it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of some corn, and had lost by it, he could not be easy without keeping the money under his eye.
Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr Tulliver listened, leaning forward in his arm-chair and looking up in Tom’s face with a sceptical glance. His first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he was in some awe of Tom’s wishes, and since he had the sense of being an “unlucky” father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness and determination to be master. He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, got out the key of the large chest, and fetched down the tin box,—slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a painful parting. Then he seated himself against the table, and opened the box with that little padlock-key which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant moments. There they were, the dingy bank-notes and the bright sovereigns, and he counted them out on the table—only a hundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching.
“How much do you want, then?” he said, speaking as if the words burnt his lips.
“Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?” said Tom.
Mr Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his hand over it, said:
“It’s as much as I can save out o’ my pay in a year.”
“Yes, father; it is such slow work, saving out of the little money we get. And in this way we might double our savings.”
“Ay, my lad,” said the father, keeping his hand on the money, “but you might lose it,—you might lose a year o’ my life,—and I haven’t got many.”
Tom was silent.
“And you know I wouldn’t pay a dividend with the first hundred, because I wanted to see it all in a lump,—and when I see it, I’m sure on’t. If you trust to luck, it’s sure to be against me. It’s Old Harry’s got the luck in his hands; and if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up again; death ’ull o’ertake me.”
Mr Tulliver’s voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutes before he said:
“I’ll give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly.”
But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determined to ask his uncle Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on condition of receiving five per cent. of the profits. That was really a very small thing to ask. So when Bob called the next day at the wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed that they should go together to his uncle Glegg’s to open the business; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel that Bobs’ tongue would relieve him from some embarrassment.
Mr Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of a hot August day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to assure himself that the sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him entered Tom, in what appeared to Mr Glegg very questionable companionship,—that of a man with a pack on his back,—for Bob was equipped for a new journey,—and of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow, swaying movement from side to side, and glanced from under his eye-lids with a surly indifference which might after all be a cover to the most offensive designs.
Mr Glegg’s spectacles, which had been assisting him in counting the fruit, made these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him.
“Heigh! heigh! keep that dog back, will you?” he shouted, snatching up a stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors were within three yards of him.
“Get out wi’ you, Mumps,” said Bob, with a kick. “He’s as quiet as a lamb, sir,” —an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl as he retreated behind his master’s legs.
“Why, what ever does this mean, Tom?” said Mr Glegg. “Have you brought information about the scoundrels as cut my trees?” If Bob came in the character of “information,” Mr Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some irregularity.
“No, sir,” said Tom; “I came to speak to you about a little matter of business of my own.”
“Ay—well; but what has this dog got to do with it?” said the old gentleman, getting mild again.
“It’s my dog, sir,” said the ready Bob. “An’ it’s me as put Mr Tom up to the bit o’ business; for Mr Tom’s been a friend o’ mine iver since I was a little chap; fust thing iver I did was frightenin’ the birds for th’ old master. An’ if a bit o’ luck turns up, I’m allays thinkin’ if I can let Mr Tom have a pull at it. An’ it’s a downright roarin’ shame, as when he’s got the chance o’ making a bit o’ money wi’ sending goods out,—ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an’ commission’s paid,—as he shouldn’t lay hold o’ the chance for want o’ money. An’ when there’s the Laceham goods,—lors! they’re made o’ purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy; light, an’ take up no room,—you may pack twenty pound so as you can’t see the passill; an’ they’re manifacturs as please fools, so I reckon they aren’t like to want a market. An’ I’d go to Laceham an’ buy in the goods for Mr Tom along wi’ my own. An’ there’s the shupercargo o’ the bit of a vessel as is goin’ to take ’em out. I know him partic’lar; he’s a solid man, an’ got a family i’ the town here. Salt, his name is,—an’ a briny chap he is too,—an’ if you don’t believe me, I can take you to him.”
Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed loquacity, with which his understanding could hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, then through them, then over them again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle’s impression, began to wish he had not brought this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob’s talk appeared less seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it.
“You seem to be a knowing fellow,” said Mr Glegg, at last.
“Ay, sir, you say true,” returned Bob, nodding his head aside; “I think my head’s all alive inside like an old cheese, for I’m so full o’ plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn’t Mumps to talk to, I should get top-heavy an’ tumble in a fit. I suppose it’s because I niver went to school much. That’s what I jaw my old mother for. I says, ‘You should ha’ sent me to school a bit more,’ I says, ‘an’ then I could ha’ read i’ the books like fun, an’ kep’ my head cool an’ empty.’ Lors, she’s fine an’ comfor’ble now, my old mother is; she ates her baked meat an’ taters as often as she likes. For I’m gettin’ so full o’ money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it’s botherin,’ a wife is,—and Mumps mightn’t like her.”
Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired from business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.
“Ah,” he said, “I should think you’re at a loss for ways o’ spending your money, else you wouldn’t keep that big dog, to eat as much as two Christians. It’s shameful—shameful!” But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly added:
“But, come now, let’s hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture with. But where’s all your own money? You don’t spend it all—eh?”
“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but my father is unwilling to risk it, and I don’t like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.”
“Ay—ay,” said Mr Glegg, in an approving tone; “that’s not a bad notion, and I won’t say as I wouldn’t be your man. But it ’ull be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then—here’s this friend o’ yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you’ve got somebody to stand surety for you if the money’s put into your hands?” added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, uncle,” said Tom. “At least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it would be right for you to have some security.”
“You get your percentage out o’ the purchase, I suppose?” said Mr Glegg, looking at Bob.
“No, sir,” said Bob, rather indignantly; “I didn’t offer to get a apple for Mr Tom, o’ purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When I play folks tricks, there’ll be more fun in ’em nor that.”
“Well, but it’s nothing but right you should have a small percentage,” said Mr Glegg. “I’ve no opinion o’ transactions where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks bad.”
“Well, then,” said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied, “I’ll tell you what I get by’t, an’ it’s money in my pocket in the end,—I make myself look big, wi’ makin’ a bigger purchase. That’s what I’m thinking on. Lors! I’m a ’cute chap,—I am.”
“Mr Glegg, Mr Glegg!” said a severe voice from the open parlour window, “pray are you coming in to tea, or are you going to stand talking with packmen till you get murdered in the open daylight?”
“Murdered?” said Mr Glegg; “what’s the woman talking of? Here’s your nephey Tom come about a bit o’ business.”
“Murdered,—yes,—it isn’t many ’sizes ago since a packman murdered a young woman in a lone place, and stole her thimble, and threw her body into a ditch.”
“Nay, nay,” said Mr Glegg, soothingly, “you’re thinking o’ the man wi’ no legs, as drove a dog-cart.”
“Well, it’s the same thing, Mr Glegg, only you’re fond o’ contradicting what I say; and if my nephey’s come about business, it ’ud be more fitting if you’d bring him into the house, and let his aunt know about it, instead o’ whispering in corners, in that plotting, underminding way.”
“Well, well,” said Mr Glegg, “we’ll come in now.”
“You needn’t stay here,” said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted to the moral, not the physical, distance between them. “We don’t want anything. I don’t deal wi’ packmen. Mind you shut the gate after you.”
“Stop a bit; not so fast,” said Mr Glegg; “I haven’t done with this young man yet. Come in, Tom; come in,” he added, stepping in at the French window.
“Mr Glegg,” said Mrs G., in a fatal tone, “if you’re going to let that man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very face, be so good as to let me know. A wife’s got a right to ask that, I hope.”