Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII. Ciscasset, perhaps most beautiful of main towns near the Canadian border, was particularly beautiful on the morning after till the Jane's departure from Hobart Dilsons' cottage. The sun was shining fervently, so fervently that men threw open their topcoats or carried them on their arms.
The sky was still of the delicate pink and blue haze of the day before. The wind was a breath of spring blown at departing winter. It was still early, and beautiful Ciscasset was not yet really astir. Few women were to be seen on the streets, only a score of shopgirls hurrying to their work.
But men abounded. Clerks were going to their desks and counters, and early-rising businessmen to their offices. Marketmen swarmed in from the country in order to be the first to sell their produce in the prosperous little town with the Indian name. Other towns and villages might direct their search across the sea for European titles
for streets and homes. Ciscasset prided itself on being American and original. The Indian names were native to the state, and with scarcely an exception prevailed in the nomenclature of the town. Therefore, the, in other places, main street, was here Kennebago Street, and down this street
a group of farmers was slowly proceeding. They had sold their farm produce to grocers and stablekeepers, and were now going to the post office for their mail. Assembled a few moments later in a corner of the grey stone building, and diligently reading letters and papers, they did not see a small figure approaching, and only looked
up when a grave voice inquired, Are you too busy to speak to me a minute? The men all stared at the young girl with the dog in her arms, the heavy circles around her eyes, and the two red spots on her cheeks. What do you want? asked the oldest farmer, a grey-haired man in a rabbit-skin cap.
I want to find the best minister in this place. A smile went around the circle of farmers. They were all amused, except the grey-haired one. He was the nearest to Tilda Jane, and felt the intense gravity of her manner. In the town, I mean.
She went on wearily. I want to ask him something. I thought they'd know in the post office, but when I asked behind them boxes, and she nodded towards the wall near them, they told me to get out. They was busy.
The old farmer was silent for a moment. Then he said gruffly, You look beat out, young girl, like as if you'd been out all night. I was, she said simply. I've been pacing the streets, waiting for the morning. The attitude of the younger men was half reproachful, half disturbed.
They always brought with them to the town an uneasy consciousness that they might in some way be fooled, and Tilda Jane's air was very precocious, very citified, compared with their air of rustic cultishness. They did not dream that she was country-bred like themselves. The older man was thinking.
He was nearer the red spots and the grieving eyes than the others. The child was in trouble. Bill, he said slowly, What's the name of that man that holds forth in Moluncus Street Church? His son informed him that he did not know.
How do you do, Mr. Price, said the farmer, leaving the young farmers and sauntering across to the other side of the post office, where a brisk-looking man was ripping open letters. Can you give us the name of the preacher that wags his tongue in the church on Moluncus Street? Burness, said Mr. Price, raising his head and letting his snapping eyes run beyond the
farmer to the flock of young men huddling together like grey sheep. Would you call him the best man in Siskasset? Pursued the farmer with a wave of his hand towards Tilda Jane. Mr. Price's snapping eyes had already taken her in. What do you mean by best?
He asked coolly. I mean, a man as always does what is right, said Tilda Jane. And the question was left for her to answer. Don't go to Burness, then, said Mr. Price rapidly. Good preacher, poor practicer.
Ain't there any good practicers in Siskasset? asked the farmer, dryly. Well, I know some pretty fair ones, responded Mr. Price. I don't know of one perfect person in the length and breadth of the town, but I know two people, though, who come near enough to perfection for your job, I guess, and his brilliant glance rested on Tilda Jane.
Who be they? asked the farmer curiously. Is it this young girl that wants him? asked Mr. Price. Yes, sir, said the farmer. It is. Then I'll tell her, said his quick silver friend, and he flashed to Tilda Jane's side.
Go up Wallastook Road to Allagouache Street. Ask for Reverend Mr. Tracey's house. Anyone will tell you. Understand? Yes, sir.
Thank you, and thank you, too. And with a grateful gesture towards the farmer, she was gone. The farmer gazed after her. I hate to see a young one in trouble. Someone's been imposing on her.
Mr. Price felt sympathetic, but he said nothing. Who'd you send her to? inquired the farmer. I'd give a barrel of apples to know. To me? inquired Mr. Price smartly.
The farmer laughed. Yes, sir, I'd do it. You'd put me in the way of business before now. I sent her to a man, replied Mr. Price, who might be in Boston today if he wanted to. He gave up a big church to come here.
He's always invading against luxury and selfishness and the other crowd of vices. He and his wife has stacks of money, but they give it away and never do the Peacock Act. They're about as good as they make them. It isn't their talking I care about, not one rap. It's the carrying out of their talk and not going back on it.
My daughter wants to go out as a hired help. I guess that would be an A-number-one place if they'd have her, observed the farmer meditatively. Good enough, said Mr. Price, if you want her to ruin her earthly prospects and better her heavenly ones, and went away laughing. The farmer stepped to the post office door till the Jane was toiling up the sidewalk
with downcast head. The shop windows had no attractions for her, nor was she throwing a single glance at the line of vehicles now passing along the street and muttering, Poor young one. The farmer returned to his correspondence. The Reverend Mr. Tracy was having his breakfast in the big yellow house set up on terraces,
which were green in summer and white in winter. The house was large because it was meant to shelter other people beside the Tracy's and their children, but there was not a stick of genteel furniture in it. The new house made from Portland was just disdainfully observing to the cook. You'll get over that soon, remarked the cook with a laugh and a toss of her head, and we'll
be forgiven away what we've got in sitting on the floor. There's the doorbell. You'd better go answer it. It's time the beggars was arriving. Mr. Tracy was late with his breakfast that morning because he had been out half the night
with a drunken young man who had showed an inconquerable aversion to returning home. Now, as he ate his chop and drank his hot milk, fed a parrot by his side and talked to his wife who kept moving about in the room, he thought of this young man until he caught the sound of voices in the hall. Bessie, he said quietly, there's your new maid turning someone away.
His wife stepped into the hall. The housemaid was indeed assuring a poor-looking child that the master of the house was at breakfast and could not see anyone. Then I'll wait, Mrs. Tracy heard in a dogged young voice. The front door closed as she hurried forward, but she quickly opened it.
There on the top step sat a small girl holding a dog. Good morning, she said kindly. Do you want something? I want to see Reverend Tracy, responded the little girl. The clergyman's wife, used to sorrowful faces, felt her heart ache as this most sorrowful
one was upturned to her. Come in, she went on until the Jane found herself speedily walking through a wide but bare hall to a sunny dining room. She paused on the threshold. That small dark man must be the minister.
He was no nearer beauty than she was, but he had a good face and, let her rejoice for He was fond of animals, for on the hearth lay a cat and a dog asleep side by side. In the long windows hung canaries in cages, and on a luxuriant and beautiful rose bush, growing in a big pot drawn up to the table, sat a green and very self-possessed parrot. She was not screeching, she was not tearing at the leaves, she sat meekly and thankfully
receiving from time to time such morsels as her master chose to hand her. The little dark, quiet man barely turned as she entered, but his one quick glance told him more than hours of conversation from till the Jane would have revealed. He did not get up, he did not shake hands with her, he merely nodded and uttered a brief Good morning.
Won't you sit here, said Mrs. Tracy, bustling to the fireplace and disturbing the cat and dog in order to draw up a chair. I think our young caller will have some breakfast with me, said the minister, without raising his eyes, and stretching out his hand, he pushed a chair beyond the rose bush, and by a gesture invited till the Jane to sit in it.
She seated herself, crowded Gipy on her lap under the table, and mechanically put to her mouth the cup of steaming milk that seemed to glide to her hand. She was nearly fainting. A few minutes more and she would have fallen to the floor. The minister did not speak to her.
He went calmly on with his breakfast, and a warning finger uplifted, kept his wife from making remarks. He talked a good deal to the parrot, and occasionally to himself, and not until till the Jane had finished the milk and eaten some bread and butter did anyone address her. Then the minister spoke to the bird.
Say good morning to the little girl, Lulu. Good morning, remarked the parrot in a voice of grating amiability. Say it's a pretty world, Lulu, continued the owner. It's a pretty world, darling, responded the parrot, bursting into hoarse unmusical laughter at her own addition.
Oh, it's a pretty world, a pretty world. To the gentleman and his wife, there was something cynical and afflicting in the bird's comments on mundane affairs, and they surreptitiously examined their visitor. Did she feel this? She did, poor girl.
She had been passing through some bitter experience. There was the haunting injured look of wounded childhood on her face, and her curled lip showed that she too, young as she was, had found that all was not good in the world. All was not beautiful. The parrot was singing now.
Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home, home, home, sweet, sweet home. But at this point, she overbalanced herself. Her uplifted claw swung over and she fell backward among the rose branches. The bird's rueful expression as she fell, her ridiculous one as she gathered herself
up, and with a surprised, oh dear, climb back to her perch, were so overcoming that the minister and his wife burst into hearty laughter. Tilda Jane did not join them. She looked interested and a very faint crease of amusement came in a little fold about her lips, but at once faded away.
The minister got up and went to the fire, and taking out his watch, earnestly consulted its face, then addressed his wife. I have a minister's meeting in half an hour. Can you go downtown with me? Yes, dear, replied Mrs. Tracy, and she glanced expectantly towards Tilda Jane.
The little girl started. Can I ask you a question or so before you go? She asked hurriedly. No, my dear, said the man with the fatherly air, not until I come back. I guess someone's told you about me, remarked Tilda Jane bitterly.
I never heard of you or saw you before a quarter of an hour ago, he replied kindly. Do you see that sofa? And he drew aside a curtain. You lie down there and rest, and in two hours we shall return. Come, Bessie.
And with his wife he left the room. Tilda Jane was confounded, and her first idea was of capture. She was trapped at last, and would be sent back to the asylum. Then a wave of different feelings swept over her. She would trust those two people anywhere, and they liked her.
She could tell it by their looks and actions. She sighed heavily, almost staggered to the sofa, and throwing herself down, was in two minutes, sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
