`Get away with you - go!' said Tulliver angrily.But it was not to Wakem that he spoke.Slowly the lawyer rose, and, as he turned his head, saw that Tulliver's arms were being held by a girl - rather by fear of hurting the girl that clung to him with all her young might.
`O Luke - mother - come and help Mr Wakem!' Maggie cried, as she heard the longed-for footsteps.
`Help me on to that low horse,' said Wakem to Luke, `then I shall perhaps manage: though - confound it - I think this arm is sprained.'
With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's horse.Then he turned towards the miller and said, with white rage, `You'll suffer for this, sir.Your daughter is a witness that you've assaulted me.'
`I don't care,' said Mr Tulliver, in a thick, fierce voice, `Go and show your back, and tell 'em I thrashed you.Tell 'em I've made things a bit more even i' the world.'
`Ride my horse home with me,' said Wakem to Luke.`By the Toften Ferry - not through the town.' `Father, come in!' said Maggie, imploringly.Then, seeing that Wakem had ridden off and that no further violence was possible, she slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs, while poor Mrs Tulliver stood by in silence, quivering with fear.But Maggie became conscious that as she was slackening her hold, her father was beginning to grasp her and lean on her.The surprise checked her sobs.
`I feel ill - faintish,' he said.`Help me in, Bessy - I'm giddy: I've a pain i' the head.'
He walked in slowly, propped by his wife and daughter, and tottered into his arm-chair.The almost purple flush had given way to paleness, and his hand was cold.
`Hadn't we better send for the doctor?' said Mrs Tulliver.
He seemed to be too faint and suffering to hear her, but presently, when she said to Maggie, `Go and see for somebody to fetch the doctor,'
he looked up at her with full comprehension, and said, `Doctor? No - No doctor.It's my head - that's all.Help me to bed.'
Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a beginning of better times! But mingled seed must bear a mingled crop.
In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came home.Bob Jakin was with him - come to congratulate `the old master,' not without some excusable pride that he had had his share in bringing about Mr Tom's good-luck;and Tom had thought his father would like nothing better as a finish to the day than a talk with Bob.But now Tom could only spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his father's long-smothered hate.After the painful news had been told, Tom sat in silence: he had not spirit or inclination to tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner - they hardly cared to ask it.Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it.Tom was dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others: Maggie was living through, over and over again, the agony of the moment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her father's arm - with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched scenes to come.Not one of the three felt any particular alarm about Mr Tulliver's health: the symptoms did not recall his former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a necessary consequence that his violent passion and effort of strength after many hours of unusual excitement, should have made him feel ill.Rest would probably cure him.
Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept soundly;it seemed to him as if he had only just come to bed, when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the grey light of early morning.
