menu_book Chapter 14

14. Home Sweet Home. The Jane was in a quandary. She had boarded the train for Sis-Cassette. She sat up very straight, apparently very composed. Her outward demeanor gave not a hint of the turmoil within. In reality she was full of trouble. She had not a cent of money in her pocket, and her new familiarity with the workings of the main central railway assured her that it did not

carry passengers for nothing. What was she to do? She pulled the little tippet more closely around Gipy's shoulders. She had taken it from her own, for it was absolutely necessary for him to have another covering now that the shawl was gone. Perhaps he would be taken away from her. She had noticed that it was not a customary thing for people to travel with dogs. His head and tail were plainly visible. This tippet was not like the voluminous

shawl. Lucas had not offered her money, and she had not liked to ask him for it. Perhaps he had not thought about it. Perhaps if he did think of it, he supposed that he was doing enough to get her to Nikitus. And there was the conductor entering the other end of the car. She must do something, and deliberately rising from her seat, she slipped Gipy under her arm and made her way out to the platform of the fast moving train. It was quite dark

She gave one side glance at the white silent country they were passing through, then stepped into the lighted car ahead. This is a smoking car, young girl, observed someone haughtily. Tilda Jane had dropped into the first seat she came to, which happened to be beside a very stout and very dignified gentleman who had a cigar in his mouth, and who was reading

a newspaper. She looked round, saw that there were a number of men in the car, no women, no children, and that the atmosphere was a hazy blue. Smoke don't bother me, she said almost scornfully. What was a breath of smoke compared with her inward discomposure over her pecuniary difficulties? I'm in a little trouble, she said brusquely. I ain't got no money to buy a ticket.

The gentleman gazed at her suspiciously. I have no money for beggars, he said, and he turned his broad back squarely on her. Tilda Jane, for one so obstinate, was strangely sensitive. With her face in a flame of colour, she rose. Had anyone else heard the insult? No. Not a man in the car was looking her way. I'm a poor little girl, she breathed over the gentleman's substantial shoulder, but

I'm no beggar. I guess I work as hard as you do. I wanted you to lend me a dollar or so to be sent back in a letter, but I wouldn't take it now. No, not if you crawled after me on your hands and knees like a dog holding it in your mouth. And precipitately, leaving him, she sauntered down the aisle. The gentleman turned around and with an amazed face gazed after her.

Stay! There she was, pausing by the seat in which was his son. Should he warn him against the youthful adventurists? No, he was old enough to take care of himself. And he settled back in his corner and devoted himself to his paper. The only person in the last seat in the car was a lad of seventeen or eighteen who was neither reading nor smoking, but lounging across it. While he suppressed innumerable yawns, he was very handsome, and he looked

lazy and good-natured, and to him Tilda Jane accordingly addressed herself. She had hesitated, after the rebuff she had received, to apply to any of those other men with their resolved middle-aged or elderly faces. This lad she was not at all afraid of, and resting gippy on the arm of his seat, she stared admiringly at him. He straightened himself. He was something interesting and his yawn ceased.

Well, Miss, what can I do for you? he inquired mischievously, as she continued to stare at him without speaking. He would lend her the money, she knew it before she asked him. There was something else in her mind now, and her little sharp eyes were full of tears. Is anything the matter with you? he asked politely. She could not answer him for a few seconds, but then she swallowed the lump in her throat and ejaculated. No, sir, only you

are so pretty. Pretty? he repeated in bewilderment. Yes, she said in low-passionate, almost resentful tones. You ain't got no occasion for those blue eyes and that yellow hair. I wish I could take them away from you. I'd have been dafted if I had them. I wouldn't be standing here.

Won't you sit down? he asked courteously, and with a flattered air. He was very young and to have a strange child melt into tears at the sight of his handsome face was a compliment calculated to touch even an older heart than his. Tilda Jane with a heavy sigh seated herself beside him. I'm kind of put out, she said languidly. You must excuse me. After her interest in him, he could do nothing less than murmur a civil inquiry as to the cause of her concern.

I've been trying to borrow money, she replied, and I was sulted. To borrow money than you are short of funds. Yes, sir, she said calmly, I'm a-travelling, but I ain't got no money to pay for me nor for this dog, and his head and tail shows this time. And he'll be nabbed. Where are you going? asked the lad. To Siskasset, sir, if I ever get there. I'm beginning to think there ain't no such place. I assure you there is, for

I live in it myself. To you, she ejaculated with a flash of interest, do you know a man by the name of Hobart Dillson? Rather, he was my father's bookkeeper for years. He was my father's bookkeeper for years. We pension him now, he added grandly and with a wish to impress. Tilda Jane was not impressed, for she did not know what a pension was. What kind of a feller is he? she asked eagerly. Oh, a sort of a tiger. Might be in a cage,

you know, but we haven't got one big enough. You mean he gets mad easy? Never gets un-mad. Always stay so. Is a regular joke, you know. Gonna visit him? I'm gonna be his housekeeper, said Tilda Jane with dignity. The lad cast a rapid and amused glance over her small, resolved figure. Then, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, turned his face to the window and coughed vigorously.

I can fight too, she added after a pause, but slowly. I shan't fight him. The lad did not turn around except to throw her one gleam from the corner of the laughing eye until she ejaculated uneasily. There comes the conductor. Are you gonna lend me some money? His face reappeared quite sober now. Well, young lady, I am not a capitalist, but I think I can raise you alone. How much do you want? That is, where did you come on?

I come on at Nicketus, and I have another dog in the baggage car. Travelling with two dogs, he murmured, and short of funds? You have courage. I like some animals better than some people, observed Tilda Jane senten-tiously. Your sentiment does you credit, he replied gravely, and as the conductor approached he held out his hand. I pay for this little girl and her dog in the baggage car.

That's a fine hound you've got, the conductor observed civilly to Tilda Jane. Yes, sir, she replied meekly. I hope he ain't scared of the train. He don't like it much, but some of the boys have been playing with him. Why, and he drew back in surprise. You're the obstinate young one, I pointed out to the inspector the other day. Here, you needn't pay, and he put in her hand the money her new friend had just given him.

There was a great racket about you. You needn't have run away from Vanceboro. If you'd spoken the truth, you'd have saved yourself and us a lot of trouble. However, I guess they'll be glad to hear you're all right. I'll be obliged if you'll give my respects to Mr. Jack, she said steadily. I'll do it, said the conductor, and tell him you've picked up another dog, and with a wink at her companion he passed on. Accept my thanks, she said, after a time, handing the loose

change in her lap to the lad. Keep it, he replied generously. I don't want it. A grim flash, like a streak of lightning, passed over her dark face, and he added hastily, as a loan, of course. You may need money for your dogs. Old Hobart will begrudge them a bone, I assure you. She thanked him, and thoughtfully tied the money in a corner of her handkerchief. Now, if his son were home, he would be different. Hank is a Ratlin, good-natured sort of a fellow.

No principal, you know, but not a tiger by any means. I thank you, sir, to keep a stiff tongue when you're talking of Hank Dillson, observed till Jane severely. He's done me favors, and you'd better keep your tongue off his father, too. If you're dying to pitch into someone, pitch into that selfish old tub reading that big paper up there. He turned his back on me when I hinted round him for a loan of a dollar or so.

And I'll thank you to keep a stiff tongue when you speak of that gentleman, said the lad smartly, for he's my father. Your father? Echoed till to Jane in astonishment. Yes, ma'am. Did he once have blue eyes and curly hair? I believe so. He's a good-looking man yet. He's a—began till to Jane hurriedly, then she stopped short. Law me! I'll never learn to forgive folks before the sun goes down. I'm getting wicketer and wicketer.

What's your name, sir? I'll want to send you this money soon as I earn some. My name is Datis Wey Smith, and my father was the biggest lumber merchant on the Ciscasset River. Is he? she said wistfully. And have you got more family? Yes, I have a mother as pretty as a picture and three sisters. And you have a nice room with a fire that ain't boxed up.

And you sit around and no other folks come in and no bells ring for you to get up and do something? We have loads of rooms in our house, said the lad boastfully. It's the biggest one in Ciscasset. You'll soon find out where we live. Here, we're most in. I sparrow next, then home, and he flattened his face against the glass. Outside in the dark night bright lights appeared, danced over the snowy country, then disappeared.

The train was running through the outskirts of a prosperous town. Is Ciscasset a nice place? asked Hilda Jane wistfully. Slowest old place that ever was. I'd like to live in Bangor or Portland. There's something going on there. We've nothing but a river and mills and trees and hills. Not a decent theater in the place.

Hilda Jane did not know what a theater was and discreetly held her peace. I see. Here we are, exclaimed the boy. I hope Mama will have a good supper. A shadow overspread Hilda Jane's face, and seeing it the boy said impulsively. Stop here a minute. I want to speak to Papa. And he rushed away. The little girl sat still.

They were going more slowly now and all the men in the car were standing up putting on coats and warm caps. She had no wrap, but her dress was thick. And hugging Gippi closer, she felt that she should not suffer from the cold. The boy was making an animated appeal to his father, who was asking him short, quick questions. At last he gave him a brief, very well.

The boy ran back to Hilda Jane. Papa says you can ride with us. I told him that you had no one to meet you. And it would be cold comfort wandering around alone to find your way. He used to think a lot of Dilson. But you'd better not talk to him. Hilda Jane trails slowly after her guide through the crowd of people leaving the train and passing through the lighted stone station to the yard outside.

Here were drawn up a number of sleighs. The boy led her to the handsomest one. Jump up on the box with Jenks, he said in a whisper. Curl down under the rug, and I'll bring dog number two. He'll run behind, won't he?

I guess so, replied Hilda Jane with an equally mysterious whisper, and she slipped down under the soft, bare-skinned robe. In two minutes the boy came back, leading Poacher by a small rope. I'll just tie him behind, he said, to make sure he's all right. And here's Papa. He stood aside while his dignified parent got into the sleigh.

Hilda Jane from her high seat looked around once. The lumber merchant and his son were down in a black valley of soft, smothering furs. Poacher was running agreeably behind, and Gipy was snug and warm in her lap. No one spoke during the drive, and they glided swiftly through the snowy town. Hilda Jane had a confused vision of lighted shops with frosty windows, of houses with more sober illuminations.

Then suddenly they were stealing along the brink of a long and narrow snow-filled hollow. This was the Ciscassid River, still held by the winter covering. She thought she heard a murmur of rotten ice behind her, as the lumber merchant addressed his son. And she was enough of a child of the state to know that a reference to the breaking up of the ice in the river was intended. Presently they dashed up a long avenue of leafless hardwood trees to a big house on the hill.

The hall door was thrown open, and within was a glimpse of paradise for the homeless orphan. Softly tinted lights in the background illuminated and made angelically beautiful the white dresses and glowing faces of a lady and three little girls who stood on the threshold with outstretched arms. The father and son welcomed to these embraces had forgotten Hilda Jane, and as the sleigh slowly turned and went down the cold avenue, tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

Where am I to take you? suddenly asked the solemn coachman beside her. To Hobart Dilsons, she said in a choking voice. Nothing more was said. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. Of her immediate surroundings, she had once been taken to a circus, and the picture, now before her mind, was that of a tiger pacing back and forth in his cage, growling in a low monotonous tone, always growling,

growling at a miserable child, shrinking outside. That there is Dilsons cottage, I think, said the coachman at last. Hilda Jane roused herself. Through her blurred vision, a small house wavered at the end of a snowy path. She wiped her eyes hastily, thanked the man, and slipping from her high seat, ran behind the sleigh and untied poacher.

The man turned his sleigh and glided slowly out of sight. She stood watching him till he disappeared, then, followed by her, two dogs went reluctantly up the path.