Mr Deane put out his hand, with an air of friendly dismissal, and Tom had not courage to ask another question, especially in the presence of Mr Spence. So he went out again into the cold damp air. He had to call at his uncle Glegg’s about the money in the Savings Bank, and by the time he set out again the mist had thickened, and he could not see very far before him; but going along River Street again, he was startled, when he was within two yards of the projecting side of a shop-window, by the words “Dorlcote Mill” in large letters on a hand-bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was the catalogue of the sale to take place the next week; it was a reason for hurrying faster out of the town.
Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made his way homeward; he only felt that the present was very hard. It seemed a wrong toward him that his uncle Deane had no confidence in him,—did not see at once that he should acquit himself well, which Tom himself was as certain of as of the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, was likely to be held of small account in the world; and for the first time he felt a sinking of heart under the sense that he really was very ignorant, and could do very little. Who was that enviable young man that could tell the cubic contents of things in no time, and make suggestions about Swedish bark! Tom had been used to be so entirely satisfied with himself, in spite of his breaking down in a demonstration, and construing nunc illas promite vires as “now promise those men”; but now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage, because he knew less than some one else knew. There must be a world of things connected with that Swedish bark, which, if he only knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have been much easier to make a figure with a spirited horse and a new saddle.
Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St Ogg’s, he saw the distant future before him as he might have seen a tempting stretch of smooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty shingles; he was on the grassy bank then, and thought the shingles might soon be passed. But now his feet were on the sharp stones; the belt of shingles had widened, and the stretch of sand had dwindled into narrowness.
“What did my Uncle Deane say, Tom?” said Maggie, putting her arm through Tom’s as he was warming himself rather drearily by the kitchen fire. “Did he say he would give you a situation?”
“No, he didn’t say that. He didn’t quite promise me anything; he seemed to think I couldn’t have a very good situation. I’m too young.”
“But didn’t he speak kindly, Tom?”
“Kindly? Pooh! what’s the use of talking about that? I wouldn’t care about his speaking kindly, if I could get a situation. But it’s such a nuisance and bother; I’ve been at school all this while learning Latin and things,—not a bit of good to me,—and now my uncle says I must set about learning book-keeping and calculation, and those things. He seems to make out I’m good for nothing.”
Tom’s mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked at the fire.
“Oh, what a pity we haven’t got Dominie Sampson!” said Maggie, who couldn’t help mingling some gayety with their sadness. “If he had taught me book-keeping by double entry and after the Italian method, as he did Lucy Bertram, I could teach you, Tom.”
“You teach! Yes, I dare say. That’s always the tone you take,” said Tom.