“It’s a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, father,” said Tom. “I remember your talking about it three years ago, before I went to school at Mr Stelling’s. I’ve been at school there three years; don’t you remember?”
Mr Tulliver threw himself backward again, losing the childlike outward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him from external impressions.
“Ay, ay,” he said, after a minute or two, “I’ve paid a deal o’ money—I was determined my son should have a good eddication; I’d none myself, and I’ve felt the miss of it. And he’ll want no other fortin, that’s what I say—if Wakem was to get the better of me again——”
The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a moment’s pause he began to look at the coat he had on, and to feel in his side-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his old sharp way, “Where have they put Gore’s letter?”
It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for it before.
“You know what there is in the letter, father?” said Tom, as he gave it to him.
“To be sure I do,” said Mr Tulliver, rather angrily. “What o’ that? If Furley can’t take to the property, somebody else can; there’s plenty o’ people in the world besides Furley. But it’s hindering—my not being well—go and tell ’em to get the horse in the gig, Luke; I can get down to St Ogg’s well enough—Gore’s expecting me.”
“No, dear father!” Maggie burst out entreatingly; “it’s a very long while since all that; you’ve been ill a great many weeks,—more than two months; everything is changed.”
Mr Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a startled gaze; the idea that much had happened of which he knew nothing had often transiently arrested him before, but it came upon him now with entire novelty.
“Yes, father,” said Tom, in answer to the gaze. “You needn’t trouble your mind about business until you are quite well; everything is settled about that for the present,—about the mill and the land and the debts.”