The Complete Novels of George Eliot. George Eliot

the Golden Lion,” said the poor woman, her heart swelling, and the tears coming,—“my teapot as I bought when I was married, and to think of its being scratched, and set before the travellers and folks, and my letters on it,—see here, E. D.,—and everybody to see ’em.”

      “Ah, dear, dear!” said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with deep sadness, “it’s very bad,—to think o’ the family initials going about everywhere—it niver was so before; you’re a very unlucky sister, Bessy. But what’s the use o’ buying the teapot, when there’s the linen and spoons and everything to go, and some of ’em with your full name,—and when it’s got that straight spout, too.”

      “As to disgrace o’ the family,” said Mrs. Glegg, “that can’t be helped wi’ buying teapots. The disgrace is, for one o’ the family to ha’ married a man as has brought her to beggary. The disgrace is, as they’re to be sold up. We can’t hinder the country from knowing that.”

      Maggie had started up from the sofa at the allusion to her father, but Tom saw her action and flushed face in time to prevent her from speaking. “Be quiet, Maggie,” he said authoritatively, pushing her aside. It was a remarkable manifestation of self-command and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen, that when his aunt Glegg ceased, he began to speak in a quiet and respectful manner, though with a good deal of trembling in his voice; for his mother’s words had cut him to the quick.

      “Then, aunt,” he said, looking straight at Mrs. Glegg, “if you think it’s a disgrace to the family that we should be sold up, wouldn’t it be better to prevent it altogether? And if you and aunt Pullet,” he continued, looking at the latter, “think of leaving any money to me and Maggie, wouldn’t it be better to give it now, and pay the debt we’re going to be sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her furniture?”

      There was silence for a few moments, for every one, including Maggie, was astonished at Tom’s sudden manliness of tone. Uncle Glegg was the first to speak.

      “Ay, ay, young man, come now! You show some notion o’ things. But there’s the interest, you must remember; your aunts get five per cent on their money, and they’d lose that if they advanced it; you haven’t thought o’ that.”

      “I could work and pay that every year,” said Tom, promptly. “I’d do anything to save my mother from parting with her things.”

      “Well done!” said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been drawing Tom out, rather than reflecting on the practicability of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result of irritating his wife.

      “Yes, Mr. Glegg!” said that lady, with angry sarcasm. “It’s pleasant work for you to be giving my money away, as you’ve pretended to leave at my own disposal. And my money, as was my own father’s gift, and not yours, Mr. Glegg; and I’ve saved it, and added to it myself, and had more to put out almost every year, and it’s to go and be sunk in other folks’ furniture, and encourage ’em in luxury and extravagance as they’ve no means of supporting; and I’m to alter my will, or have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred less behind me when I die,—me as have allays done right and been careful, and the eldest o’ the family; and my money’s to go and be squandered on them as have had the same chance as me, only they’ve been wicked and wasteful. Sister Pullet, you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you back again o’ the money he’s given you, but that isn’t my sperrit.”

      “La, Jane, how fiery you are!” said Mrs. Pullet. “I’m sure you’ll have the blood in your head, and have to be cupped. I’m sorry for Bessy and her children,—I’m sure I think of ’em o’ nights dreadful, for I sleep very bad wi’ this new medicine,—but it’s no use for me to think o’ doing anything, if you won’t meet me half-way.”

      “Why, there’s this to be considered,” said Mr. Glegg. “It’s no use to pay off this debt and save the furniture, when there’s all the law debts behind, as ’ud take every shilling, and more than could be made out o’ land and stock, for I’ve made that out from Lawyer Gore. We’d need save our money to keep the poor man with, instead o’ spending it on furniture as he can neither eat nor drink. You will be so hasty, Jane, as if I didn’t know what was reasonable.”

      “Then speak accordingly, Mr. Glegg!” said his wife, with slow, loud emphasis, bending her head toward him significantly.

      Tom’s countenance had fallen during this conversation, and his lip quivered; but he was determined not to give way. He would behave like a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after her momentary delight in Tom’s speech, had relapsed into her state of trembling indignation. Her mother had been standing close by Tom’s side, and had been clinging to his arm ever since he had last spoken; Maggie suddenly started up and stood in front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a young lioness.

      “Why do you come, then,” she burst out, “talking and interfering with us and scolding us, if you don’t mean to do anything to help my poor mother—your own sister,—if you’ve no feeling for her when she’s in trouble, and won’t part with anything, though you would never miss it, to save her from pain? Keep away from us then, and don’t come to find fault with my father,—he was better than any of you; he was kind,—he would have helped you, if you had been in trouble. Tom and I don’t ever want to have any of your money, if you won’t help my mother. We’d rather not have it! We’ll do without you.”

      Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, as if she were ready to await all consequences.

      Mrs. Tulliver was frightened; there was something portentous in this mad outbreak; she did not see how life could go on after it. Tom was vexed; it was no use to talk so. The aunts were silent with surprise for some moments. At length, in a case of aberration such as this, comment presented itself as more expedient than any answer.

      “You haven’t seen the end o’ your trouble wi’ that child, Bessy,” said Mrs. Pullet; “she’s beyond everything for boldness and unthankfulness. It’s dreadful. I might ha’ let alone paying for her schooling, for she’s worse nor ever.”

      “It’s no more than what I’ve allays said,” followed Mrs. Glegg. “Other folks may be surprised, but I’m not. I’ve said over and over again,—years ago I’ve said,—‘Mark my words; that child ’ull come to no good; there isn’t a bit of our family in her.’ And as for her having so much schooling, I never thought well o’ that. I’d my reasons when I said I wouldn’t pay anything toward it.”

      “Come, come,” said Mr. Glegg, “let’s waste no more time in talking,—let’s go to business. Tom, now, get the pen and ink——”

      While Mr. Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen hurrying past the window.

      “Why, there’s Mrs. Moss,” said Mrs. Tulliver. “The bad news must ha’ reached her, then”; and she went out to open the door, Maggie eagerly following her.

      “That’s fortunate,” said Mrs. Glegg. “She can agree to the list o’ things to be bought in. It’s but right she should do her share when it’s her own brother.”

      Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tulliver’s movement, as she drew her into the parlor automatically, without reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among so many persons in the first painful moment of arrival. The tall, worn, dark-haired woman was a strong contrast to the Dodson sisters as she entered in her shabby dress, with her shawl and bonnet looking as if they had been hastily huddled on, and with that entire absence of self-consciousness which belongs to keenly felt trouble. Maggie was clinging to her arm; and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else except Tom, whom she went straight up to and took by the hand.

      “Oh, my dear children,” she burst out, “you’ve no call to think well o’ me; I’m a poor aunt to you, for I’m one o’ them as take all and give nothing. How’s my poor brother?”

      “Mr. Turnbull thinks he’ll get better,” said Maggie. “Sit down,