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    Book 6 - Chapter 12

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    Chapter 51
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    A Family Party

    Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the week, and went to
    Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet according to agreement. In
    the mean time very unexpected things had happened, and there was to be
    a family party at Garum to discuss and celebrate a change in the
    fortunes of the Tullivers, which was likely finally to carry away the
    shadow of their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause
    their hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded
    splendor. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come into
    office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of high
    appreciation and full-blown eulogy; in many respectable families
    throughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable meet with a
    similar cordiality of recognition, which in its fine freedom from the
    coercion of any antecedents, suggests the hopeful possibility that we
    may some day without any notice find ourselves in full millennium,
    with cockatrices who have ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer
    show their teeth with any but the blandest intentions.

    Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg; for she
    longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie about the wonderful
    news. It seemed, did it not? said Lucy, with her prettiest air of
    wisdom, as if everything, even other people's misfortunes (poor
    creatures!) were conspiring now to make poor dear aunt Tulliver, and
    cousin Tom, and naughty Maggie too, if she were not obstinately bent
    on the contrary, as happy as they deserved to be after all their
    troubles. To think that the very day--the _very day_--after Tom had
    come back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom Mr.
    Wakem had placed at the Mill, had been pitched off his horse in a
    drunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dangerous state, so that
    Wakem had signified his wish that the new purchasers should enter on
    the premises at once!

    It was very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as if
    the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other time, in
    order that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the fit reward of his
    exemplary conduct,--papa thought so very highly of him. Aunt Tulliver
    must certainly go to the Mill now, and keep house for Tom; that was
    rather a loss to Lucy in the matter of household comfort; but then, to
    think of poor aunty being in her old place again, and gradually
    getting comforts about her there!

    On this last point Lucy had her cunning projects, and when she and
    Maggie had made their dangerous way down the bright stairs into the
    handsome parlor, where the very sunbeams seemed cleaner than
    elsewhere, she directed her manœuvres, as any other great tactician
    would have done, against the weaker side of the enemy.

    "Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and caressingly
    adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, "I want you to make up your
    mind what linen and things you will give Tom toward housekeeping;
    because you are always so generous,--you give such nice things, you
    know; and if you set the example, aunt Glegg will follow."

    "That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with unusual vigor,
    "for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' mine, I can tell you.
    She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend the money. Big checks and
    live things, like stags and foxes, all her table-linen is,--not a spot
    nor a diamond among 'em. But it's poor work dividing one's linen
    before one dies,--I niver thought to ha' done that, Bessy," Mrs.
    Pullet continued, shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver,
    "when you and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'd
    spun, and the Lord knows where yours is gone."

    "I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, accustomed
    to consider herself in the light of an accused person. "I'm sure it
    was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie awake o' nights thinking o'
    my best bleached linen all over the country."

    "Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle Pullet, feeling that he
    was offering a cheap and wholesome form of comfort, which he was
    recommending by example.

    "Oh, but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, "you've so much beautiful linen.
    And suppose you had had daughters! Then you must have divided it when
    they were married."

    "Well, I don't say as I won't do it," said Mrs. Pullet, "for now Tom's
    so lucky, it's nothing but right his friends should look on him and
    help him. There's the tablecloths I bought at your sale, Bessy; it was
    nothing but good natur' o' me to buy 'em, for they've been lying in
    the chest ever since. But I'm not going to give Maggie any more o' my
    Indy muslin and things, if she's to go into service again, when she
    might stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if she wasn't
    wanted at her brother's."

    "Going into service" was the expression by which the Dodson mind
    represented to itself the position of teacher or governess; and
    Maggie's return to that menial condition, now circumstances offered
    her more eligible prospects, was likely to be a sore point with all
    her relatives, besides Lucy. Maggie in her crude form, with her hair
    down her back, and altogether in a state of dubious promise, was a
    most undesirable niece; but now she was capable of being at once
    ornamental and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle
    Glegg's presence, over the tea and muffins.

    "Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting Maggie on the
    back, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us hear of you taking a place
    again, Maggie. Why, you must ha' picked up half-a-dozen sweethearts at
    the bazaar; isn't there one of'em the right sort of article? Come,
    now?"

    "Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased politeness in
    her severity which she always put on with her crisper fronts, "you'll
    excuse me, but you're far too light for a man of your years. It's
    respect and duty to her aunts, and the rest of her kin as are so good
    to her, should have kept my niece from fixing about going away again
    without consulting us; not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word,
    though it was never heared in _my_ family."

    "Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, then, eh,
    neighbor Pullet? They thought us sweet enough then," said Mr. Glegg,
    winking pleasantly; while Mr. Pullet, at the suggestion of sweetness,
    took a little more sugar.

    "Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., "if you're going to be undelicate, let me
    know."

    "La, Jane, your husband's only joking," said Mrs. Pullet; "let him
    joke while he's got health and strength. There's poor Mr. Tilt got his
    mouth drawn all o' one side, and couldn't laugh if he was to try."

    "I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G.,
    "if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. Though it's other
    people must see the joke in a niece's putting a slight on her mother's
    eldest sister, as is the head o' the family; and only coming in and
    out on short visits, all the time she's been in the town, and then
    settling to go away without my knowledge,--as I'd laid caps out on
    purpose for her to make 'em up for me,--and me as have divided my
    money so equal----"

    "Sister," Mrs. Tulliver broke in anxiously, "I'm sure Maggie never
    thought o' going away without staying at your house as well as the
    others. Not as it's my wish she should go away at all, but quite
    contrairy. I'm sure I'm innocent. I've said over and over again, 'My
    dear, you've no call to go away.' But there's ten days or a fortnight
    Maggie'll have before she's fixed to go; she can stay at your house
    just as well, and I'll step in when I can, and so will Lucy."

    "Bessy," said Mrs. Glegg, "if you'd exercise a little more thought,
    you might know I should hardly think it was worth while to unpin a
    bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at the end o' the time, when
    our house isn't above a quarter of an hour's walk from Mr. Deane's.
    She can come the first thing in the morning, and go back the last at
    night, and be thankful she's got a good aunt so close to her to come
    and sit with. I know _I_ should, when I was her age."

    "La, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, "it 'ud do your beds good to have
    somebody to sleep in 'em. There's that striped room smells dreadful
    mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything. I'm sure I thought I
    should be struck with death when you took me in."

    "Oh, there is Tom!" exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. "He's come on
    Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was not going to keep his
    promise."

    Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong feeling, at
    this first meeting since the prospect of returning to the Mill had
    been opened to him; and she kept his hand, leading him to the chair by
    her side. To have no cloud between herself and Tom was still a
    perpetual yearning in her, that had its root deeper than all change.
    He smiled at her very kindly this evening, and said, "Well, Magsie,
    how's aunt Moss?"

    "Come, come, sir," said Mr. Glegg putting out his hand. "Why, you're
    such a big man, you carry all before you, it, seems. You're come into
    your luck a good deal earlier than us old folks did; but I wish you
    joy, I wish you joy. You'll get the Mill all for your own again some
    day, I'll be bound. You won't stop half-way up the hill."

    "But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's family as he owes
    it to," said Mrs. Glegg. "If he hadn't had them to take after, he'd
    ha' been poorly off. There was never any failures, nor lawing, nor
    wastefulness in our family, nor dying without wills----"

    "No, nor sudden deaths," said aunt Pullet; "allays the doctor called
    in. But Tom had the Dodson skin; I said that from the first. And I
    don't know what _you_ mean to do, sister Glegg, but I mean to give him
    a tablecloth of all my three biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I
    don't say what more I shall do; but _that_ I shall do, and if I should
    die to-morrow, Mr. Pullet, you'll bear it in mind,--though you'll be
    blundering with the keys, and never remember as that on the third
    shelf o' the left-hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the broad
    ties,--not the narrow-frilled uns,--is the key of the drawer in the
    Blue Room, where the key o' the Blue Closet is. You'll make a mistake,
    and I shall niver be worthy to know it. You've a memory for my pills
    and draughts, wonderful,--I'll allays say that of you,--but you're
    lost among the keys." This gloomy prospect of the confusion that would
    ensue on her decease was very affecting to Mrs. Pullet.

    "You carry it too far, Sophy,--that locking in and out," said Mrs.
    Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. "You go beyond your
    own family. There's nobody can say I don't lock up; but I do what's
    reasonable, and no more. And as for the linen, I shall look out what's
    serviceable, to make a present of to my nephey; I've got cloth as has
    never been whitened, better worth having than other people's fine
    holland; and I hope he'll lie down in it and think of his aunt."

    Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to meditate nightly on
    her virtues; and Mrs. Glegg effected a diversion for him by asking
    about Mr. Deane's intentions concerning steam.

    Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to come on Sindbad.
    It appeared, when it was time to go home, that the man-servant was to
    ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to drive home his mother and Lucy.
    "You must sit by yourself, aunty," said that contriving young lady,
    "because I must sit by Tom; I've a great deal to say to him."

    In the eagerness of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, Lucy could
    not persuade herself to defer a conversation about her with Tom, who,
    she thought, with such a cup of joy before him as this rapid
    fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, must become pliant and
    flexible. Her nature supplied her with no key to Tom's; and she was
    puzzled as well as pained to notice the unpleasant change on his
    countenance when she gave him the history of the way in which Philip
    had used his influence with his father. She had counted on this
    revelation as a great stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's heart
    toward Philip at once, and, besides that, prove that the elder Wakem
    was ready to receive Maggie with all the honors of a daughter-in-law.
    Nothing was wanted, then, but for dear Tom, who always had that
    pleasant smile when he looked at cousin Lucy, to turn completely
    round, say the opposite of what he had always said before, and declare
    that he, for his part, was delighted that all the old grievances
    should be healed, and that Maggie should have Philip with all suitable
    despatch; in cousin Lucy's opinion nothing could be easier.

    But to minds strongly marked by the positive and negative qualities
    that create severity,--strength of will, conscious rectitude of
    purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, great power of
    self-control, and a disposition to exert control over others,--prejudices
    come as the natural food of tendencies which can get no sustenance
    out of that complex, fragmentary, doubt-provoking knowledge which
    we call truth. Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air,
    adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye,--however it may come,
    these minds will give it a habitation; it is something to assert
    strongly and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous
    ideas, something to impose on others with the authority of conscious
    right; it is at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that will
    answer these purposes is self-evident. Our good, upright Tom Tulliver's
    mind was of this class; his inward criticism of his father's faults
    did not prevent him from adopting his father's prejudice; it was a
    prejudice against a man of lax principle and lax life, and it was a
    meeting-point for all the disappointed feelings of family and personal
    pride. Other feelings added their force to produce Tom's bitter
    repugnance to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him; and
    notwithstanding Lucy's power over her strong-willed cousin, she got
    nothing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage; "but of
    course Maggie could do as she liked,--she had declared her
    determination to be independent. For Tom's part, he held himself bound
    by his duty to his father's memory, and by every manly feeling, never
    to consent to any relation with the Wakems."

    Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediation was to fill
    Tom's mind with the expectation that Maggie's perverse resolve to go
    into a situation again would presently metamorphose itself, as her
    resolves were apt to do, into something equally perverse, but entirely
    different,--a marriage with Philip Wakem.
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    Chapter 51
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