It is that, when I am in my grave--or somewhere else,
for I know Mary does not like people to talk about being in their
graves--you say it is heathenish, don't you, Mary?--when I am
where they can't find me, then, it is horrid to think that people
up here will have a hold on me and a right over me still, because
of debts I shall never be able to pay them."
"Don't be too sure of that, Tom," said Mary, cheerfully. "I think
you will pay them yet.--But I have heard it said," she went on,
"that a man in debt never tells the truth about his debts--as if
he had only the face to make them, not to talk about them: can
you make a clean breast of it, Tom?"
"I don't exactly know what they are; but I always did mean to pay
them, and I have some idea about them. I don't think they would
come to more than a hundred pounds."
"Your mother would not hesitate to pay that for you?" said Mary.
"I know she wouldn't; but, then, I'm thinking of Letty."
He paused, and Mary waited.
"You know, when I am gone," he resumed, "there will be nothing
for her but to go to my mother; and it breaks my heart to think
of it. Every sin of mine she will lay to her charge; and how am I
to lie still in my grave--oh, I beg your pardon, Mary."
"I will pay your debts, Tom, and gladly," said Mary, "if they
don't come to much more than you say--than you think, I mean."
"But, don't you see, Mary, that would be only a shifting of my
debt from them to you? Except for Letty, it would not make the
thing any better.
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