HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME.
We go back to the time of Tom’s leaving home.
His departure from Wilton excited considerable surprise, more
especially as people could not find out where he had gone. Many were
the inquiries made of Mrs. Thatcher, but she answered as Tom had
requested her, “Tom has gone West.”
“Indeed, has he gone far West?”
“I can’t tell you precisely how far West he has gone,” answered Mrs.
Thatcher, smiling.
“Will he be gone long?”
“That depends on how successful he is in his business.”
“I suppose he has taken some agency?” remarked Miss Woodward (an
inquiring old maid).
Mrs. Thatcher said neither yes nor no, but somehow Miss Woodward got
the idea that she said yes, and so reported throughout the village.
Mrs. Thatcher and Tillie moved to the comfortable farm-house of Mr.
Hiram Bacon, as had been arranged before Tom went away, and this made
Tom’s departure a little less mysterious, since he was leaving his
mother and sister in a good home.
Still there was considerable curiosity felt, and there seemed a chance
of finding out something when Tom wrote home.
“Have you heard from Tom yet?” asked the indefatigable Miss Woodward, a
little later.
“Where did he write from?” asked the old maid, eagerly.
“From St. Louis,” answered our hero’s mother, with a little hesitation.
“Ah! St. Louis is a good way off. Is he going any further?”
“Perhaps so.”
Another letter came to Mrs. Thatcher from St. Joseph, announcing that
Tom was going across the plains, and that it might be a good while
before he would be able to write again.
Mrs. Thatcher did not mention this second letter, but the postmaster
noticed the postmark, and through him it became known.
Among those who heard of it was John Simpson. Rupert had picked up the
news somewhere in the village.
“St. Joseph!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, startled. “Why, it looks as if the
boy was on his way to California.”
“How could he go to California?” said Rupert, rather enviously.
“Doesn’t it cost a good deal of money?”
“Yes.”
“He’s as poor as poverty.”
“True; but he has found money enough to go to St. Joseph, and that is
no trifle.”
Mr. Simpson felt uneasy. Was it because he feared that the ghastly
mystery connected with Rocky Gulch would be unearthed, and his
reputation blasted. At any rate, he decided to see Mrs. Thatcher
himself, and find out what he could.
He did not call at the new home of the widow of his old partner, but
chanced one day to meet her in the street.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher,” said the squire, affably.
“Good-morning, sir,” responded Mrs. Thatcher, coldly.
“I hear your son is away. You must miss him.”
“I do miss him, Mr. Simpson.”
“Has he gone far?”
“He has gone to the West.”
“Far West?”
“I have not heard from him lately.”
“Ha! There is something she wishes to conceal,” thought John Simpson.
“I am afraid he won’t get back the money his traveling expenses must
cost him.”
“He was obliged to do something, Mr. Simpson. There was no chance left
for him in Wilton.”
“When you write to him, tell him that I will give him back his old
place if he sees fit to come back.”
“I will tell him,” said Mrs. Thatcher, but she expressed no gratitude,
for she felt none.
Why did John Simpson make this offer? Because he wanted to keep Tom
away from California. After so many years, there seemed little enough
chance of the boy’s learning anything of the circumstances attending
his father’s fate, but a guilty conscience makes men cowards, and John
Simpson was troubled with an uneasy idea that some time, in some way to
him unknown his crime might be made known.
There was another circumstance that puzzled him. How did Tom Thatcher
obtain the necessary funds for so expensive a journey? Probably, he
said to himself, Mrs. Thatcher had mortgaged her house, and given Tom
the money. He determined to find out if he could.
“You must excuse what I am about to say, Mrs. Thatcher,” he began,
clearing his throat to begin with, “but I am afraid you did a foolish
thing in raising money on your place to pay the expenses of such a
wild-goose chase.”
“Who told you I had mortgaged my place, Mr. Simpson?” demanded the
widow, looking the rich man full in the face.
“Why, no one,” stammered the squire, taken aback by her directness,
“but I of course inferred it, knowing that Tom had no money of his own.”
“Then you inferred a mistake,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “The place is not
mortgaged.”
“You don’t say so!” said Simpson, more than ever bewildered.
“I do not propose to mortgage my place at present.”
“When you do,” said Simpson, recovering himself, “come to me. I will do
as well by you as any one.”
It would indeed have suited him to obtain a lien upon Mrs. Thatcher’s
humble homestead, that he might have her in his power.
She neither said yes nor no, but “I will bear in mind your offer, Mr.
Simpson.”
He walked slowly away, puzzling over the problem of where Tom obtained
his money. Was there some one behind who backed him? Was there some one
who had sent him to California, and, if so, why? He must know whether
Tom had gone there.
Now, the postmaster had obtained his office through Mr. Simpson’s
influence, and was therefore likely to do him a favor.
“Mr. Jackson,” he said, when alone with that functionary, “does Mrs.
Thatcher write to her son Tom?”
“I haven’t noticed any letter, sir.”
“When she brings one, please notice the address, and let me know it.
I am afraid the boy will spend all his mother’s property if no one
interferes. I want to write to him to come back. I will give him
employment.”
“Very kind of you, sir,” said the postmaster, obsequiously.
“He is the son of my old associate,” said John Simpson, with an
assumption of generosity, “and I naturally feel an interest in him and
his mother.”
But for weeks Mrs. Thatcher brought no letters to the office. Tom was
on the plains, and she knew not where to address him.