She thought
of his agony and trembled for the result. He might strike Joan down and
kill her. The man's anger against evil-doers was always a terrific thing;
and he had no idea of the value of money. She hazarded guesses at the
course he would pursue, and each idea was blacker than the last. Then
Thomasin fell to wondering what Michael would be likely to do with the
money. She sighed at this thought, and then she grew pale at the imaginary
spectacle of her husband tearing the devil-sent notes to pieces and
scattering them over the cliff to the sea. This horrible possibility stung
her to another train of ideas. Might it be within her power to win Joan's
secret, share it, and keep it from the father? Her pluck, however, gave way
when she looked a little deeper into the future. She would have done most
things in her power for a thousand pounds, but she would not have dared any
treachery to Michael. The woman put the notes together and stroked them and
listened to the rustle of them and rubbed her hard cheek with them. Then,
looking from the little window of Joan's garret, she saw the girl herself
approaching with Mr. Tregenza. They were nearly home again, so Thomasin
returned the money and the picture to their places in the chest of drawers,
smoothed the bed, where she had been sitting for half an hour, and went
downstairs still undetermined as to a course of action.
Before dinner was eaten, however, she had decided that her husband must
know the truth.
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