If Mrs Moss had been one of the most astute women in the world instead of being one of the simplest, she could have thought of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than this praise of Maggie.He seldom found any one volunteering praise of `the little wench:' it was usually left entirely to himself to insist on her merits.But Maggie always appeared in the most amiable light at her aunt Moss's: it was her Alsatia, where she was out of the reach of law - if she upset anything, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were matters of course at her aunt Moss's.In spite of himself, Mr Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look away from his sister as he said, `Ay: she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think.She takes after our family: not a bit of her mother's in her.'
`Moss says, she's just like what I used to be,' said Mrs Moss, `though I was never so quick and fond o' the books.But I think my Lizzy's like her - she's sharp.Come here, Lizzy my dear, and let your uncle see you: he hardly knows you, you grow so fast.'
Lizzy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses were much in awe of their uncle from Dorlcote Mill.She was inferior enough to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to make the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to Mr Tulliver's fatherly love.
`Ay, they're a bit alike,' he said, looking kindly at the little figure in the soiled pinafore.`They both take after our mother.You've got enough o' gells, Gritty,' he added in a tone half compassionate, half reproachful.
`Four of 'em, bless 'em,' said Mrs Moss, with a sigh, stroking Lizzy's hair on each side of her forehead, `as many as there's boys.They've got a brother apiece.'
`Ah, but they must turn out and fend for themselves,' said Mr Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing and trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint.`They mustn't look to hanging on their brothers.'
`No: but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things and remember they came o' one father and mother: the lads 'ull never be the poorer for that,' said Mrs Moss, flashing out with hurried timidity, like a half-smothered fire.
Mr Tulliver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then checked it and said angrily, `Stand still with you!' much to the astonishment of that innocent animal.
`And the more there is of 'em, the more they must love one another,'
Mrs Moss went on, looking at her children with a didactic purpose.But she turned towards her brother again to say, `Not but what I hope your boy 'ull allays be good to his sister, though there's but two of 'em, like you and me, brother.'
That arrow went straight to Mr Tulliver's heart.He had not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very near to him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to his own sister side by side with Tom's relation to Maggie.Would the little wench ever be poorly off, and Tom rather hard upon her?
`Ay, ay, Gritty,' said the miller, with a new softness in his tone.
`But I've allays done what I could for you,' he added, as if vindicating himself from a reproach.
`I'm not denying that, brother, and I'm noways ungrateful,' said poor Mrs Moss, too fagged by toil and children to have strength left for any pride.`But here's the father.What a while you've been, Moss.'
`While, do you call it?' said Mr Moss, feeling out of breath and injured.
`I've been running all the way.Won't you 'light, Mr Tulliver?'
`Well, I'll just get down and have a bit o' talk with you in the garden,'
said Mr Tulliver, feeling that he should be more likely to show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were not present.
He got down and passed with Mr Moss into the garden towards an old yew-tree arbour, while his sister stood tapping her baby on the back and looking wistfully after them.
Their entrance into the yew-tree arbour surprised several fowls, that were recreating themselves by scratching deep holes in the dusty ground, and at once took flight with much pother and cackling.Mr Tulliver sat down on the bench, and tapping the ground curiously here and there with his stick, as if he suspected some hollowness, opened the conversation by observing, with something like a snarl in his tone, `Why, you've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see? and never a bit o' dressing on it.You'll do no good with it this year.'
Mr Moss, who when he married Miss Tulliver had been regarded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week old and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a machine horse.He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, `Why, poor farmers like me must do as they can: they must leave it to them as have got money to play with to put half as much into the ground as they mean to get out of it.'
`I don't know who should have money to play with, if it isn't them as can borrow money without paying interest,' said Mr Tulliver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel: it was the most natural and easy introduction to calling in money.
