But Mr. Tulliver had come to a decision.  The first evening of his new life downstairs, he called his family round him, and began to speak, looking first at his wife.

“I’ve made up my mind, Bessy.  I’ll stop in the old place, and I’ll serve under Wakem, and I’ll serve him like an honest man; there’s no Tulliver but what’s honest, mind that, Tom.  They’ll have it to throw up against me as I paid a dividend—­but it wasn’t my fault—­it was because there’s raskills in the world.  They’ve been too many for me, and I must give in.  But I’ll serve him as honest as if he was no raskill.  I’m an honest man, though I shall never hold my head up no more!  I’m a tree as is broke—­a tree as is broke.”

He paused, and looked on the ground.  Then suddenly raising his head, he said, in a louder yet deeper tone, “But I won’t forgive him!  I know what they say—­he never meant me any harm!  I shouldn’t ha’ gone to law they say.  But who made it so as there was no arbitrating and no justice to be got?  It signifies nothing to him—­I know that he’s one o’ them fine gentlemen as get money by doing business for poorer folks, and when he’s made beggars of ’em he’ll give ’em charity.  I won’t forgive him!  I wish he might be punished with shame till his own son ’ud like to forget him.  And you mind this, Tom—­you never forgive him, neither, if you mean to be my son.  Now write—­write it i’ the Bible!”

“Oh, father, what?” said Maggie.  “It’s wicked to curse and bear malice.”

“It isn’t wicked, I tell you,” said her father, fiercely.  “It’s wicked as the raskills should prosper—­it’s the devil’s doing.  Do as I tell you, Tom!  Write.”

The big Bible was open at the beginning, where many family entries were put down.

“What am I to write, father?” said Tom, with gloomy submission.

“Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took service under John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him, because I’d promised my wife to make her what amends I could, and because I wanted to die in th’ old place where I was born, and my father was born.  Put that i’ the right words—­you know how—­and then write as I don’t forgive Wakem for all that; and for all I’ll serve him honest, I wish evil may befall him.  Write that.”

There was a dead silence as Tom’s pen moved along the paper.

“Now let me hear what you’ve wrote,” said Mr. Tulliver; and Tom read aloud, slowly.

“Now, write—­write as you’ll remember what Wakem’s done to your father, and you’ll make him and his feel it, if ever the day comes.  And sign your name—­Thomas Tulliver!”

“Oh, no, father, dear father!” said Maggie, trembling like a leaf.  “You shouldn’t make Tom write that!”

“Be quiet, Maggie!” said Tom, impatiently, “I shall write it!”

IV.—­In Death They Were Not Divided