of reproach and
derision. Her first flush came from anger, which gave her a
transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it
out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard.
Under this impression, he whispered, "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you
you'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced
that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy. Her feeble power of
defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, and getting up
from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his
shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing.
"Come, come, my wench," said her father, soothingly, putting his
arm round her, "never mind; you was i' the right to cut it off if
it plagued you; give over crying; father'll take your part."
Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these
moments when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her
heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else
said that her father had done very ill by his children.
"How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy!" said Mrs.
Glegg, in a loud "aside," to Mrs. Tulliver. "It'll be the ruin of
her, if you don't take care.
My
father never brought his
children up so, else we should ha' been a different sort o' family
to what we are."
Mrs. Tulliver's domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have
reached the point at which insensibility begins. She took no notice
of her sister's remark, but threw back her capstrings and dispensed
the pudding, in mute resignation.
With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for
the children were told they might have their nuts and wine in the
summer-house, since the day was so mild; and they scampered out
among the budding bushes of the garden with the alacrity of small
animals getting from under a burning glass.
Mrs. Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now
the dinner was despatched, and every one's mind disengaged, it was
the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver's intention concerning
Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself to be absent. The
children were used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if
they were birds, and could understand nothing, however they might
stretch their necks and listen; but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver
manifested an unusual discretion, because she had recently had
evidence that the going to school to a clergyman was a sore point
with Tom, who looked at it as very much on a par with going to
school to a constable. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her
husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister
Pullet either; but at least they would not be able to say, if the
thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her husband's
folly without letting her own friends know a word about it.
"Mr. Tulliver," she said, interrupting her husband in his talk
with Mr. Deane, "it's time now to tell the children's aunts and
uncles what you're thinking of doing with Tom, isn't it?"
"Very well," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, "I've no
objections to tell anybody what I mean to do with him. I've
settled," he added, looking toward Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane,–"I've
settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson, down at King's
Lorton, there,–an uncommon clever fellow, I understand, as'll put
him up to most things."
There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the company,
such as you may have observed in a country congregation when they
hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from the pulpit. It was
equally astonishing to the aunts and uncles to find a parson
introduced into Mr. Tulliver's family arrangements. As for uncle
Pullet, he could hardly have been more thoroughly obfuscated if Mr.
Tulliver had said that he was going to send Tom to the Lord
Chancellor; for uncle Pullet belonged to that extinct class of
British yeoman who, dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and
taxes, went to church, and ate a particularly good dinner on
Sunday, without dreaming that the
derision. Her first flush came from anger, which gave her a
transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving it
out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and custard.
Under this impression, he whispered, "Oh, my! Maggie, I told you
you'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, but Maggie felt convinced
that Tom was rejoicing in her ignominy. Her feeble power of
defiance left her in an instant, her heart swelled, and getting up
from her chair, she ran to her father, hid her face on his
shoulder, and burst out into loud sobbing.
"Come, come, my wench," said her father, soothingly, putting his
arm round her, "never mind; you was i' the right to cut it off if
it plagued you; give over crying; father'll take your part."
Delicious words of tenderness! Maggie never forgot any of these
moments when her father "took her part"; she kept them in her
heart, and thought of them long years after, when every one else
said that her father had done very ill by his children.
"How your husband does spoil that child, Bessy!" said Mrs.
Glegg, in a loud "aside," to Mrs. Tulliver. "It'll be the ruin of
her, if you don't take care.
My
father never brought his
children up so, else we should ha' been a different sort o' family
to what we are."
Mrs. Tulliver's domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to have
reached the point at which insensibility begins. She took no notice
of her sister's remark, but threw back her capstrings and dispensed
the pudding, in mute resignation.
With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, for
the children were told they might have their nuts and wine in the
summer-house, since the day was so mild; and they scampered out
among the budding bushes of the garden with the alacrity of small
animals getting from under a burning glass.
Mrs. Tulliver had her special reason for this permission: now
the dinner was despatched, and every one's mind disengaged, it was
the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver's intention concerning
Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself to be absent. The
children were used to hear themselves talked of as freely as if
they were birds, and could understand nothing, however they might
stretch their necks and listen; but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver
manifested an unusual discretion, because she had recently had
evidence that the going to school to a clergyman was a sore point
with Tom, who looked at it as very much on a par with going to
school to a constable. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her
husband would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister
Pullet either; but at least they would not be able to say, if the
thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her husband's
folly without letting her own friends know a word about it.
"Mr. Tulliver," she said, interrupting her husband in his talk
with Mr. Deane, "it's time now to tell the children's aunts and
uncles what you're thinking of doing with Tom, isn't it?"
"Very well," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, "I've no
objections to tell anybody what I mean to do with him. I've
settled," he added, looking toward Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane,–"I've
settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson, down at King's
Lorton, there,–an uncommon clever fellow, I understand, as'll put
him up to most things."
There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the company,
such as you may have observed in a country congregation when they
hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from the pulpit. It was
equally astonishing to the aunts and uncles to find a parson
introduced into Mr. Tulliver's family arrangements. As for uncle
Pullet, he could hardly have been more thoroughly obfuscated if Mr.
Tulliver had said that he was going to send Tom to the Lord
Chancellor; for uncle Pullet belonged to that extinct class of
British yeoman who, dressed in good broadcloth, paid high rates and
taxes, went to church, and ate a particularly good dinner on
Sunday, without dreaming that the
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