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    Book 1 - Chapter 12

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    Chapter 12
    Previous Chapter
    Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at Home

    In order to see Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home, we must enter the town of
    St. Ogg's,--that venerable town with the red fluted roofs and the
    broad warehouse gables, where the black ships unlade themselves of
    their burthens from the far north, and carry away, in exchange, the
    precious inland products, the well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeces
    which my refined readers have doubtless become acquainted with through
    the medium of the best classic pastorals.

    It is one of those old, old towns which impress one as a continuation
    and outgrowth of nature, as much as the nests of the bower-birds or
    the winding galleries of the white ants; a town which carries the
    traces of its long growth and history like a millennial tree, and has
    sprung up and developed in the same spot between the river and the low
    hill from the time when the Roman legions turned their backs on it
    from the camp on the hillside, and the long-haired sea-kings came up
    the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fatness of the
    land. It is a town "familiar with forgotten years." The shadow of the
    Saxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, reviewing the scenes of
    his youth and love-time, and is met by the gloomier shadow of the
    dreadful heathen Dane, who was stabbed in the midst of his warriors by
    the sword of an invisible avenger, and who rises on autumn evenings
    like a white mist from his tumulus on the hill, and hovers in the
    court of the old hall by the river-side, the spot where he was thus
    miraculously slain in the days before the old hall was built. It was
    the Normans who began to build that fine old hall, which is, like the
    town, telling of the thoughts and hands of widely sundered
    generations; but it is all so old that we look with loving pardon at
    its inconsistencies, and are well content that they who built the
    stone oriel, and they who built the Gothic façade and towers of finest
    small brickwork with the trefoil ornament, and the windows and
    battlements defined with stone, did not sacreligiously pull down the
    ancient half-timbered body with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall.

    But older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall now built
    into the belfry of the parish church, and said to be a remnant of the
    original chapel dedicated to St. Ogg, the patron saint of this ancient
    town, of whose history I possess several manuscript versions. I
    incline to the briefest, since, if it should not be wholly true, it is
    at least likely to contain the least falsehood. "Ogg the son of
    Beorl," says my private hagiographer, "was a boatman who gained a
    scanty living by ferrying passengers across the river Floss. And it
    came to pass, one evening when the winds were high, that there sat
    moaning by the brink of the river a woman with a child in her arms;
    and she was clad in rags, and had a worn and withered look, and she
    craved to be rowed across the river. And the men thereabout questioned
    her, and said, 'Wherefore dost thou desire to cross the river? Tarry
    till the morning, and take shelter here for the night; so shalt thou
    be wise and not foolish.' Still she went on to mourn and crave. But
    Ogg the son of Beorl came up and said, 'I will ferry thee across; it
    is enough that thy heart needs it.' And he ferried her across. And it
    came to pass, when she stepped ashore, that her rags were turned into
    robes of flowing white, and her face became bright with exceeding
    beauty, and there was a glory around it, so that she shed a light on
    the water like the moon in its brightness. And she said, 'Ogg, the son
    of Beorl, thou art blessed in that thou didst not question and wrangle
    with the heart's need, but wast smitten with pity, and didst
    straightway relieve the same. And from henceforth whoso steps into thy
    boat shall be in no peril from the storm; and whenever it puts forth
    to the rescue, it shall save the lives both of men and beasts.' And
    when the floods came, many were saved by reason of that blessing on
    the boat. But when Ogg the son of Beorl died, behold, in the parting
    of his soul, the boat loosed itself from its moorings, and was floated
    with the ebbing tide in great swiftness to the ocean, and was seen no
    more. Yet it was witnessed in the floods of aftertime, that at the
    coming on of eventide, Ogg the son of Beorl was always seen with his
    boat upon the wide-spreading waters, and the Blessed Virgin sat in the
    prow, shedding a light around as of the moon in its brightness, so
    that the rowers in the gathering darkness took heart and pulled anew."

    This legend, one sees, reflects from a far-off time the visitation of
    the floods, which, even when they left human life untouched, were
    widely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept as sudden death over
    all smaller living things. But the town knew worse troubles even than
    the floods,--troubles of the civil wars, when it was a continual
    fighting-place, where first Puritans thanked God for the blood of the
    Loyalists, and then Loyalists thanked God for the blood of the
    Puritans. Many honest citizens lost all their possessions for
    conscience' sake in those times, and went forth beggared from their
    native town. Doubtless there are many houses standing now on which
    those honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow,--quaint-gabled
    houses looking on the river, jammed between newer warehouses, and
    penetrated by surprising passages, which turn and turn at sharp angles
    till they lead you out on a muddy strand overflowed continually by the
    rushing tide. Everywhere the brick houses have a mellow look, and in
    Mrs. Glegg's day there was no incongruous new-fashioned smartness, no
    plate-glass in shop-windows, no fresh stucco-facing or other
    fallacious attempt to make fine old red St. Ogg's wear the air of a
    town that sprang up yesterday. The shop-windows were small and
    unpretending; for the farmers' wives and daughters who came to do
    their shopping on market-days were not to be withdrawn from their
    regular well-known shops; and the tradesmen had no wares intended for
    customers who would go on their way and be seen no more. Ah! even Mrs.
    Glegg's day seems far back in the past now, separated from us by
    changes that widen the years. War and the rumor of war had then died
    out from the minds of men, and if they were ever thought of by the
    farmers in drab greatcoats, who shook the grain out of their
    sample-bags and buzzed over it in the full market-place, it was as a
    state of things that belonged to a past golden age when prices were
    high. Surely the time was gone forever when the broad river could
    bring up unwelcome ships; Russia was only the place where the linseed
    came from,--the more the better,--making grist for the great vertical
    millstones with their scythe-like arms, roaring and grinding and
    carefully sweeping as if an informing soul were in them. The
    Catholics, bad harvests, and the mysterious fluctuations of trade were
    the three evils mankind had to fear; even the floods had not been
    great of late years. The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensively
    before or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and
    had no eyes for the spirits that walk the streets. Since the centuries
    when St. Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother at the prow had been
    seen on the wide water, so many memories had been left behind, and had
    gradually vanished like the receding hilltops! And the present time
    was like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and
    earthquakes, thinking to-morrow will be as yesterday, and the giant
    forces that used to shake the earth are forever laid to sleep. The
    days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon by their
    faith, still less change it; the Catholics were formidable because
    they would lay hold of government and property, and burn men alive;
    not because any sane and honest parishioner of St. Ogg's could be
    brought to believe in the Pope. One aged person remembered how a rude
    multitude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in the
    cattle-market; but for a long while it had not been expected of
    preachers that they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burst
    of fervor in Dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism was
    the only symptom of a zeal unsuited to sober times when men had done
    with change. Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms, careless
    of proselytism: Dissent was an inheritance along with a superior pew
    and a business connection; and Churchmanship only wondered
    contemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that clung greatly to
    families in the grocery and chandlering lines, though not incompatible
    with prosperous wholesale dealing. But with the Catholic Question had
    come a slight wind of controversy to break the calm: the elderly
    rector had become occasionally historical and argumentative; and Mr.
    Spray, the Independent minister, had begun to preach political
    sermons, in which he distinguished with much subtlety between his
    fervent belief in the right of the Catholics to the franchise and his
    fervent belief in their eternal perdition. Most of Mr. Spray's
    hearers, however, were incapable of following his subtleties, and many
    old-fashioned Dissenters were much pained by his "siding with the
    Catholics"; while others thought he had better let politics alone.
    Public spirit was not held in high esteem at St. Ogg's, and men who
    busied themselves with political questions were regarded with some
    suspicion, as dangerous characters; they were usually persons who had
    little or no business of their own to manage, or, if they had, were
    likely enough to become insolvent.

    This was the general aspect of things at St. Ogg's in Mrs. Glegg's
    day, and at that particular period in her family history when she had
    had her quarrel with Mr. Tulliver. It was a time when ignorance was
    much more comfortable than at present, and was received with all the
    honors in very good society, without being obliged to dress itself in
    an elaborate costume of knowledge; a time when cheap periodicals were
    not, and when country surgeons never thought of asking their female
    patients if they were fond of reading, but simply took it for granted
    that they preferred gossip; a time when ladies in rich silk gowns wore
    large pockets, in which they carried a mutton-bone to secure them
    against cramp. Mrs. Glegg carried such a bone, which she had inherited
    from her grandmother with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty,
    like a suit of armor, and a silver-headed walking-stick; for the
    Dodson family had been respectable for many generations.

    Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlor in her excellent house
    at St. Ogg's, so that she had two points of view from which she could
    observe the weakness of her fellow-beings, and reinforce her
    thankfulness for her own exceptional strength of mind. From her front
    window she could look down the Tofton Road, leading out of St. Ogg's,
    and note the growing tendency to "gadding about" in the wives of men
    not retired from business, together with a practice of wearing woven
    cotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for the coming
    generation; and from her back windows she could look down the pleasant
    garden and orchard which stretched to the river, and observe the folly
    of Mr. Glegg in spending his time among "them flowers and vegetables."
    For Mr. Glegg, having retired from active business as a wool-stapler
    for the purpose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, had
    found this last occupation so much more severe than his business, that
    he had been driven into amateur hard labor as a dissipation, and
    habitually relaxed by doing the work of two ordinary gardeners. The
    economizing of a gardener's wages might perhaps have induced Mrs.
    Glegg to wink at this folly, if it were possible for a healthy female
    mind even to simulate respect for a husband's hobby. But it is well
    known that this conjugal complacency belongs only to the weaker
    portion of the sex, who are scarcely alive to the responsibilities of
    a wife as a constituted check on her husband's pleasures, which are
    hardly ever of a rational or commendable kind.

    Mr. Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental occupation,
    which gave every promise of being inexhaustible. On the one hand, he
    surprised himself by his discoveries in natural history, finding that
    his piece of garden-ground contained wonderful caterpillars, slugs,
    and insects, which, so far as he had heard, had never before attracted
    human observation; and he noticed remarkable coincidences between
    these zoological phenomena and the great events of that time,--as, for
    example, that before the burning of York Minster there had been
    mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose-trees, together
    with an unusual prevalence of slugs, which he had been puzzled to know
    the meaning of, until it flashed upon him with this melancholy
    conflagration. (Mr. Glegg had an unusual amount of mental activity,
    which, when disengaged from the wool business, naturally made itself a
    pathway in other directions.) And his second subject of meditation was
    the "contrairiness" of the female mind, as typically exhibited in Mrs.
    Glegg. That a creature made--in a genealogical sense--out of a man's
    rib, and in this particular case maintained in the highest
    respectability without any trouble of her own, should be normally in a
    state of contradiction to the blandest propositions and even to the
    most accommodating concessions, was a mystery in the scheme of things
    to which he had often in vain sought a clew in the early chapters of
    Genesis. Mr. Glegg had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsome
    embodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself of a
    money-getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much conjugal
    harmony. But in that curious compound, the feminine character, it may
    easily happen that the flavor is unpleasant in spite of excellent
    ingredients; and a fine systematic stinginess may be accompanied with
    a seasoning that quite spoils its relish. Now, good Mr. Glegg himself
    was stingy in the most amiable manner; his neighbors called him
    "near," which always means that the person in question is a lovable
    skinflint. If you expressed a preference for cheese-parings, Mr. Glegg
    would remember to save them for you, with a good-natured delight in
    gratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all animals which
    required no appreciable keep. There was no humbug or hypocrisy about
    Mr. Glegg; his eyes would have watered with true feeling over the sale
    of a widow's furniture, which a five-pound note from his side pocket
    would have prevented; but a donation of five pounds to a person "in a
    small way of life" would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavishness
    rather than "charity," which had always presented itself to him as a
    contribution of small aids, not a neutralizing of misfortune. And Mr.
    Glegg was just as fond of saving other people's money as his own; he
    would have ridden as far round to avoid a turnpike when his expenses
    were to be paid for him, as when they were to come out of his own
    pocket, and was quite zealous in trying to induce indifferent
    acquaintances to adopt a cheap substitute for blacking. This
    inalienable habit of saving, as an end in itself, belonged to the
    industrious men of business of a former generation, who made their
    fortunes slowly, almost as the tracking of the fox belongs to the
    harrier,--it constituted them a "race," which is nearly lost in these
    days of rapid money-getting, when lavishness comes close on the back
    of want. In old-fashioned times an "independence" was hardly ever made
    without a little miserliness as a condition, and you would have found
    that quality in every provincial district, combined with characters as
    various as the fruits from which we can extract acid. The true
    Harpagons were always marked and exceptional characters; not so the
    worthy tax-payers, who, having once pinched from real necessity,
    retained even in the midst of their comfortable retirement, with their
    wallfruit and wine-bins, the habit of regarding life as an ingenious
    process of nibbling out one's livelihood without leaving any
    perceptible deficit, and who would have been as immediately prompted
    to give up a newly taxed luxury when they had had their clear five
    hundred a year, as when they had only five hundred pounds of capital.
    Mr. Glegg was one of these men, found so impracticable by chancellors
    of the exchequer; and knowing this, you will be the better able to
    understand why he had not swerved from the conviction that he had made
    an eligible marriage, in spite of the too-pungent seasoning that
    nature had given to the eldest Miss Dodson's virtues. A man with an
    affectionate disposition, who finds a wife to concur with his
    fundamental idea of life, easily comes to persuade himself that no
    other woman would have suited him so well, and does a little daily
    snapping and quarrelling without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg,
    being of a reflective turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much
    wondering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female mind
    as unfolded to him in his domestic life; and yet he thought Mrs.
    Glegg's household ways a model for her sex. It struck him as a
    pitiable irregularity in other women if they did not roll up their
    table-napkins with the same tightness and emphasis as Mrs. Glegg did,
    if their pastry had a less leathery consistence, and their damson
    cheese a less venerable hardness than hers; nay, even the peculiar
    combination of grocery and druglike odors in Mrs. Glegg's private
    cupboard impressed him as the only right thing in the way of cupboard
    smells. I am not sure that he would not have longed for the
    quarrelling again, if it had ceased for an entire week; and it is
    certain that an acquiescent, mild wife would have left his meditations
    comparatively jejune and barren of mystery.

    Mr. Glegg's unmistakable kind-heartedness was shown in this, that it
    pained him more to see his wife at variance with others,--even with
    Dolly, the servant,--than to be in a state of cavil with her himself;
    and the quarrel between her and Mr. Tulliver vexed him so much that it
    quite nullified the pleasure he would otherwise have had in the state
    of his early cabbages, as he walked in his garden before breakfast the
    next morning. Still, he went in to breakfast with some slight hope
    that, now Mrs. Glegg had "slept upon it," her anger might be subdued
    enough to give way to her usually strong sense of family decorum. She
    had been used to boast that there had never been any of those deadly
    quarrels among the Dodsons which had disgraced other families; that no
    Dodson had ever been "cut off with a shilling," and no cousin of the
    Dodsons disowned; as, indeed, why should they be? For they had no
    cousins who had not money out at use, or some houses of their own, at
    the very least.

    There was one evening-cloud which had always disappeared from Mrs.
    Glegg's brow when she sat at the breakfast-table. It was her fuzzy
    front of curls; for as she occupied herself in household matters in
    the morning it would have been a mere extravagance to put on anything
    so superfluous to the making of leathery pastry as a fuzzy curled
    front. By half-past ten decorum demanded the front; until then Mrs.
    Glegg could economize it, and society would never be any the wiser.
    But the absence of that cloud only left it more apparent that the
    cloud of severity remained; and Mr. Glegg, perceiving this, as he sat
    down to his milkporridge, which it was his old frugal habit to stem
    his morning hunger with, prudently resolved to leave the first remark
    to Mrs. Glegg, lest, to so delicate an article as a lady's temper, the
    slightest touch should do mischief. People who seem to enjoy their ill
    temper have a way of keeping it in fine condition by inflicting
    privations on themselves. That was Mrs. Glegg's way. She made her tea
    weaker than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was a hard
    case that a vigorous mood for quarrelling, so highly capable of using
    an opportunity, should not meet with a single remark from Mr. Glegg on
    which to exercise itself. But by and by it appeared that his silence
    would answer the purpose, for he heard himself apostrophized at last
    in that tone peculiar to the wife of one's bosom.

    "Well, Mr. Glegg! it's a poor return I get for making you the wife
    I've made you all these years. If this is the way I'm to be treated,
    I'd better ha' known it before my poor father died, and then, when I'd
    wanted a home, I should ha' gone elsewhere, as the choice was offered
    me."

    Mr. Glegg paused from his porridge and looked up, not with any new
    amazement, but simply with that quiet, habitual wonder with which we
    regard constant mysteries.

    "Why, Mrs. G., what have I done now?"

    "Done now, Mr. Glegg? _done now?_--I'm sorry for you."

    Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg reverted to his
    porridge.

    "There's husbands in the world," continued Mrs. Glegg, after a pause,
    "as 'ud have known how to do something different to siding with
    everybody else against their own wives. Perhaps I'm wrong and you can
    teach me better. But I've allays heard as it's the husband's place to
    stand by the wife, instead o' rejoicing and triumphing when folks
    insult her."

    "Now, what call have you to say that?" said Mr. Glegg, rather warmly,
    for though a kind man, he was not as meek as Moses. "When did I
    rejoice or triumph over you?"

    "There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out plain, Mr.
    Glegg. I'd sooner you'd tell me to my face as you make light of me,
    than try to make out as everybody's in the right but me, and come to
    your breakfast in the morning, as I've hardly slept an hour this
    night, and sulk at me as if I was the dirt under your feet."

    "Sulk at you?" said Mr. Glegg, in a tone of angry facetiousness.
    "You're like a tipsy man as thinks everybody's had too much but
    himself."

    "Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to _me_, Mr. Glegg!
    It makes you look very small, though you can't see yourself," said
    Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic compassion. "A man in your place
    should set an example, and talk more sensible."

    "Yes; but will you listen to sense?" retorted Mr. Glegg, sharply. "The
    best sense I can talk to you is what I said last night,--as you're i'
    the wrong to think o' calling in your money, when it's safe enough if
    you'd let it alone, all because of a bit of a tiff, and I was in hopes
    you'd ha' altered your mind this morning. But if you'd like to call it
    in, don't do it in a hurry now, and breed more enmity in the family,
    but wait till there's a pretty mortgage to be had without any trouble.
    You'd have to set the lawyer to work now to find an investment, and
    make no end o' expense."

    Mrs. Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she tossed her
    head and emitted a guttural interjection to indicate that her silence
    was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in fact hostilities soon
    broke out again.

    "I'll thank you for my cup o' tea, now, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg,
    seeing that she did not proceed to give it him as usual, when he had
    finished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with a slight toss of the
    head, and said,--

    "I'm glad to hear you'll _thank_ me, Mr. Glegg. It's little thanks _I_
    get for what I do for folks i' this world. Though there's never a
    woman o' _your_ side o' the family, Mr. Glegg, as is fit to stand up
    with me, and I'd say it if I was on my dying bed. Not but what I've
    allays conducted myself civil to your kin, and there isn't one of 'em
    can say the contrary, though my equils they aren't, and nobody shall
    make me say it."

    "You'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you've left off
    quarrelling with you own, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg, with angry
    sarcasm. "I'll trouble you for the milk-jug."

    "That's as false a word as ever you spoke, Mr. Glegg," said the lady,
    pouring out the milk with unusual profuseness, as much as to say, if
    he wanted milk he should have it with a vengeance. "And you know it's
    false. I'm not the woman to quarrel with my own kin; _you_ may, for
    I've known you to do it."

    "Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your sister's
    house in a tantrum?"

    "I'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr. Glegg, and it's false to say it.
    Mr. Tulliver's none o' my blood, and it was him quarrelled with me,
    and drove me out o' the house. But perhaps you'd have had me stay and
    be swore at, Mr. Glegg; perhaps you was vexed not to hear more abuse
    and foul language poured out upo' your own wife. But, let me tell you,
    it's _your_ disgrace."

    "Did ever anybody hear the like i' this parish?" said Mr. Glegg,
    getting hot. "A woman, with everything provided for her, and allowed
    to keep her own money the same as if it was settled on her, and with a
    gig new stuffed and lined at no end o' expense, and provided for when
    I die beyond anything she could expect--to go on i' this way, biting
    and snapping like a mad dog! It's beyond everything, as God A 'mighty
    should ha' made women _so_." (These last words were uttered in a tone
    of sorrowful agitation. Mr. Glegg pushed his tea from him, and tapped
    the table with both his hands.)

    "Well, Mr. Glegg, if those are your feelings, it's best they should be
    known," said Mrs. Glegg, taking off her napkin, and folding it in an
    excited manner. "But if you talk o' my being provided for beyond what
    I could expect, I beg leave to tell you as I'd a right to expect a
    many things as I don't find. And as to my being like a mad dog, it's
    well if you're not cried shame on by the county for your treatment of
    me, for it's what I can't bear, and I won't bear----"

    Here Mrs. Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to cry, and
    breaking off from speech, she rang the bell violently.

    "Sally," she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in rather a
    choked voice, "light a fire up-stairs, and put the blinds down. Mr.
    Glegg, you'll please to order what you'd like for dinner. I shall have
    gruel."

    Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small book-case, and took
    down Baxter's "Saints' Everlasting Rest," which she carried with her
    up-stairs. It was the book she was accustomed to lay open before her
    on special occasions,--on wet Sunday mornings, or when she heard of a
    death in the family, or when, as in this case, her quarrel with Mr.
    Glegg had been set an octave higher than usual.

    But Mrs. Glegg carried something else up-stairs with her, which,
    together with the "Saints' Rest" and the gruel, may have had some
    influence in gradually calming her feelings, and making it possible
    for her to endure existence on the ground-floor, shortly before
    tea-time. This was, partly, Mr. Glegg's suggestion that she would do
    well to let her five hundred lie still until a good investment turned
    up; and, further, his parenthetic hint at his handsome provision for
    her in case of his death. Mr. Glegg, like all men of his stamp, was
    extremely reticent about his will; and Mrs. Glegg, in her gloomier
    moments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of whom she had
    heard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening her grief at
    his death by leaving her poorly off, in which case she was firmly
    resolved that she would have scarcely any weeper on her bonnet, and
    would cry no more than if he had been a second husband. But if he had
    really shown her any testamentary tenderness, it would be affecting to
    think of him, poor man, when he was gone; and even his foolish fuss
    about the flowers and garden-stuff, and his insistence on the subject
    of snails, would be touching when it was once fairly at an end. To
    survive Mr. Glegg, and talk eulogistically of him as a man who might
    have his weaknesses, but who had done the right thing by her,
    not-withstanding his numerous poor relations; to have sums of interest
    coming in more frequently, and secrete it in various corners, baffling
    to the most ingenious of thieves (for, to Mrs. Glegg's mind, banks and
    strong-boxes would have nullified the pleasure of property; she might
    as well have taken her food in capsules); finally, to be looked up to
    by her own family and the neighborhood, so as no woman can ever hope
    to be who has not the præterite and present dignity comprised in being
    a "widow well left,"--all this made a flattering and conciliatory view
    of the future. So that when good Mr. Glegg, restored to good humor by
    much hoeing, and moved by the sight of his wife's empty chair, with
    her knitting rolled up in the corner, went up-stairs to her, and
    observed that the bell had been tolling for poor Mr. Morton, Mrs.
    Glegg answered magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjured
    woman: "Ah! then, there'll be a good business for somebody to take
    to."

    Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for it was
    nearly five o'clock; and if people are to quarrel often, it follows as
    a corollary that their quarrels cannot be protracted beyond certain
    limits.

    Mr. and Mrs. Glegg talked quite amicably about the Tullivers that
    evening. Mr. Glegg went the length of admitting that Tulliver was a
    sad man for getting into hot water, and was like enough to run through
    his property; and Mrs. Glegg, meeting this acknowledgment half-way,
    declared that it was beneath her to take notice of such a man's
    conduct, and that, for her sister's sake, she would let him keep the
    five hundred a while longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage she
    should only get four per cent.
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