to pay it; would it?”
Mr. Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before he said: “Why, no, perhaps not, Tom; but then he’d ha’ destroyed the note, you know. We must look for the note. What makes you think it ’ud be against his will?”
“Why,” said Tom, coloring, but trying to speak firmly, in spite of a boyish tremor, “I remember quite well, before I went to school to Mr. Stelling, my father said to me one night, when we were sitting by the fire together, and no one else was in the room——”
Tom hesitated a little, and then went on.
“He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said: ‘I’ve always been good to my sister, though she married against my will, and I’ve lent Moss money; but I shall never think of distressing him to pay it; I’d rather lose it. My children must not mind being the poorer for that.’ And now my father’s ill, and not able to speak for himself, I shouldn’t like anything to be done contrary to what he said to me.”
“Well, but then, my boy,” said Uncle Glegg, whose good feeling led him to enter into Tom’s wish, but who could not at once shake off his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as destroying securities, or alienating anything important enough to make an appreciable difference in a man’s property, “we should have to make away wi’ the note, you know, if we’re to guard against what may happen, supposing your father’s made bankrupt——”
“Mr. Glegg,” interrupted his wife, severely, “mind what you’re saying. You’re putting yourself very forrard in other folks’s business. If you speak rash, don’t say it was my fault.”
“That’s such a thing as I never heared of before,” said uncle Pullet, who had been making haste with his lozenge in order to express his amazement,—“making away with a note! I should think anybody could set the constable on you for it.”
“Well, but,” said Mrs. Tulliver, “if the note’s worth all that money, why can’t we pay it away, and save my things from going away? We’ve no call to meddle with your uncle and aunt Moss, Tom, if you think your father ’ud be angry when he gets well.”
Mrs. Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange, and was straining her mind after original ideas on the subject.
“Pooh, pooh, pooh! you women don’t understand these things,” said uncle Glegg. “There’s no way o’ making it safe for Mr. and Mrs. Moss but destroying the note.”
“Then I hope you’ll help me do it, uncle,” said Tom, earnestly. “If my father shouldn’t get well, I should be very unhappy to think anything had been done against his will that I could hinder. And I’m sure he meant me to remember what he said that evening. I ought to obey my father’s wish about his property.”
Even Mrs. Glegg could not withhold her approval from Tom’s words; she felt that the Dodson blood was certainly speaking in him, though, if his father had been a Dodson, there would never have been this wicked alienation of money. Maggie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on Tom’s neck, if her aunt Moss had not prevented her by herself rising and taking Tom’s hand, while she said, with rather a choked voice:
“You’ll never be the poorer for this, my dear boy, if there’s a God above; and if the money’s wanted for your father, Moss and me ’ull pay it, the same as if there was ever such security. We’ll do as we’d be done by; for if my children have got no other luck, they’ve got an honest father and mother.”
“Well,” said Mr. Glegg, who had been meditating after Tom’s words, “we shouldn’t be doing any wrong by the creditors, supposing your father was bankrupt. I’ve been thinking o’ that, for I’ve been a creditor myself, and seen no end o’ cheating. If he meant to give your aunt the money before ever he got into this sad work o’ lawing, it’s the same as if he’d made away with the note himself; for he’d made up his mind to be that much poorer. But there’s a deal o’ things to be considered, young man,” Mr. Glegg added, looking admonishingly at Tom, “when you come to money business, and you may be taking one man’s dinner away to make another man’s breakfast. You don’t understand that, I doubt?”
“Yes, I do,” said Tom, decidedly. “I know if I owe money to one man, I’ve no right to give it to another. But if my father had made up his mind to give my aunt the money before he was in debt, he had a right to do it.”
“Well done, young man! I didn’t think you’d been so sharp,” said uncle Glegg, with much candor. “But perhaps your father did make away with the note. Let us go and see if we can find it in the chest.”
“It’s in my father’s room. Let us go too, aunt Gritty,” whispered Maggie.
Chapter IV.
A Vanishing Gleam.
Mr. Tulliver, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity which had recurred at intervals ever since he had been found fallen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition that the exits and entrances into his room were not felt to be of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes closed, all this morning, that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not expect her father to take any notice of them.
They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near the head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the bed, and put her hand on her father’s without causing any change in his face.
Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and were busy selecting the key of the old oak chest from the bunch which Tom had brought from his father’s bureau. They succeeded in opening the chest,—which stood opposite the foot of Mr. Tulliver’s bed,—and propping the lid with the iron holder, without much noise.
“There’s a tin box,” whispered Mr. Glegg; “he’d most like put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but I’ll just lift up these deeds,—they’re the deeds o’ the house and mill, I suppose,—and see what there is under ’em.”
Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunately drawn back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and the heavy lid fell with a loud bang that resounded over the house.
Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the mere fact of the strong vibration that produced the instantaneous effect on the frame of the prostrate man, and for the time completely shook off the obstruction of paralysis. The chest had belonged to his father and his father’s father, and it had always been rather a solemn business to visit it. All long-known objects, even a mere window fastening or a particular door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized voice to us,—a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been used to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up and looked at the chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg’s hand, and Tom holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect consciousness and recognition.
“What are you going to do with those deeds?” he said, in his ordinary tone of sharp questioning whenever he was irritated. “Come here, Tom. What do you do, going to my chest?”
Tom obeyed, with some trembling; it was the first time his father had recognized him. But instead of saying anything more to him, his father continued to look with a growing distinctness of suspicion at Mr. Glegg and the deeds.
“What’s been happening, then?” he said sharply. “What are you meddling with my deeds for? Is Wakem laying hold of everything? Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been a-doing?” he added impatiently, as Mr. Glegg advanced to the foot of the bed before speaking.
“No, no, friend Tulliver,” said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone. “Nobody’s getting hold of anything as yet. We only came to look and see what was in the chest. You’ve been ill, you know, and we’ve had to look after things a bit. But let’s hope you’ll soon be well enough to attend to everything yourself.”