Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX. Sweet and Soft Repentance. She was awakened by a hoarse whisper in her ear. Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't grope, don't grope.
Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead. It seemed as if she would rather die than stir her sluggish limbs. Yet she moved slightly as the rough whisper went on. Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't grope, don't grope.
It was the parrot with the cold in her throat, and she was perched on the sofa cushioned by her head. Tilda Jane raised herself on one hand. How weary, how unspeakably weary she was. If she could only lie down again, and what was the matter with her? Why had she waked with that terrible feeling of unhappiness?
She remembered now Poacher was gone. She had not shed a tear over him before, but now she hid her face in her hands, and indulged in low and heart-broken lamentation. Poor Poacher, dear handsome dog, she would never see him again. What would the Lucas's say if they knew of his untimely end?
What should she do without him? And she cried miserably, until the sound of voices in the next room recalled her to herself. She was in the minister's house, and she must get her business over with and be gone. So choking back her emotion, she wiped her face, smoothed her dress, and, followed by Jippy, stepped into the dining room.
The minister was seated by the fire reading to his wife. He got up when he saw Tilda Jane, gave her a chair, then went on with his book. After some time he laid it down. His collar was composed now, and something told him that she was ready to consult him. He smiled a beautiful, gentle smile at her, and thus encouraged.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and began, I'm obliged to you, sir, for letting me sleep and giving me some breakfast, and can I tell you something about myself? I'm all kind of scatterwise. And you wish someone to straighten you out? he asked benevolently.
Yes, sir, and I thought the best person would be a minister. They said you was the best here. Mrs. Tracy smiled in a gratified fashion. While Tilda Jane went earnestly on, I'm all mixy-maxy, and I feel as if I hadn't started right.
I guess I'll tell you just where I come from. I suppose you know the middle Marston orphan asylum. The minister told her that he had heard of it. He did not tell her that he had heard it was one of the few badly managed institutions for orphans in the state, that the children were kept strictly, fed poorly,
and were rapidly institutionalized while under the care of uneducated, ignorant women who were only partially supervised by a vacillating board of lady managers. Well, I was rizzed there, continued Tilda Jane, rizzed, mostly in trouble, but still I was rizzed, and the ladies paid for me, and I didn't take that into count when I run away.
So you ran away, he said encouragingly. Yes, sir, count of this dog, I said, and she pointed to Jippy, but I guess inside of me it was as much for myself. I didn't like the asylum. I wanted to run away, even when there was no talk of the dog,
and I'll tell you what happened. And while the minister and his wife courteously listened, she gave a full and entire account of her wanderings during the time that she had been absent from the asylum. She told them of Hank Dillson, of her sojourn at Vanceboro,
and her experience with the Lucas's, and finally, her story brought her down to the events of the day before. When that old man kneeled over my dog, she said, brokenly, that dog has had saved my life. I wanted murder.
I wished something would strike him dead, but he didn't fall dead, and then I thought it was time for me to chip in and do something. I took them crutches as he can't move without, and I burnt them most up, all but a little bit at the top with the gold whiten, because he sits and gazes at it, and I guess said, store by it.
You burnt Hobart Dillson's crutches? exclaimed Mrs. Tracy in surprise. Yes, ma'am, because he killed my dog. I wonder he had not struck you down, said the lady with the shutter. He is said to be a man with a very violent temper. Till the Jane sprang up, her face as white as a sheet.
I most forgot. I suppose he's sitting there at this minute. He can't move without him, and nobody'll go near him. Now, sir, and she turned in desperate haste to the little, dark, silent man. Tell me quick what I ought to do. You are a child with a conscience, he said gravely.
You have been turning the matter over in your own mind. What conclusion have you reached? Go on, said the parrot, hoarsely, and between intervals of climbing, by means of bill and claw to the top of a chair. Go on, and don't croak. Don't croak.
Till the Jane turned her solemn face toward the bird, walking to and fro last night. A verse, O Scripter, kept coming to me. Children, obey your parents in the Lord. Now, I ain't got any parents, but I had lady boards.
I ought to a run away. I ought to have give up the dog and trusted. I ought to a begged them to get me a home. I ought to a been a better girl. Then I might a been adopted. Ever since I've run away, there's been trouble.
Trouble, trouble, nothing but trouble. I've led another dog astray, and now he's dead. Mr. and Mrs. Tracy exchanged a pitying glance. The child was intensely in earnest. Her black eyes were bent absently on the parrot,
who had fallen prey to an immense curiosity, with regard to Jippy, and having surveyed him from the back of the chair and the mantle, and finding him harmless, was now walking cautiously around him as he lay on the hearth rug.
Presently, emboldened by his silence, she took the end of his tail in her beak. He did not move, and she gently pinched it. There was a squeal, a rush, and a discomforted parrot minus three tail feathers flying to her master's shoulder.
Oh, my! she exclaimed. My, my! what a fuss, what a fuss! Very little attention was paid her. Her master and mistress were taken up with the youthful owner of the dog.
But Mr. Tracy mechanically stroked the bird as he put another question to Tilda-Jane. And what do you propose to do? I think I ought to go back, she said earnestly. I ought to say I'm sorry.
I ought to say I'll do better. Go back? Where? asked Mrs. Tracy eagerly. First, the old man. I ought to be civil to him.
I ought to talk and not be mum like an oyster. I ought to ask him if he wants me to go away. I ought to write the lady boards and tell him where I be. I ought to say I'll go back. Do you wish to go back? asked Mr. Tracy.
A shiver passed over Tilda-Jane's light frame, but she spoke up bravely. I ain't a-goin' to think o' that, sir. I've got to do what's right. And what about your dog?
Oh, Jippy ain't in it at all, she said with animation. He don't need to go. I guess I'll find some nice home for him with somebody as likes any miles. And a shrewd and melancholy smile hovered about her, tense lips as she gazed at her host and hostess.
Poor little girls said Mrs. Tracy sympathetically. We will take your dog and you too. You shall not go back. You shall live with us. As she spoke, her big blue eyes filled with tears.
And she laid a caressing hand on Tilda-Jane's shoulder. Please don't do that, ma'am, said the little girl vehemently. And slipping her shoulder from under the embracing hand. Please don't do anything homey to me. Treat me as if I was a real orphan.
A real orphan, repeated Mrs. Tracy in slight bewilderment. Oh, I want a home, cried the little girl, clenching her hands and raising her face to the ceiling. I want someone to talk to me as if I had blue eyes and curly hair. I want a little rocking chair and a fire.
I don't want to mind bells and run with a crowd of orphans. But it ain't the will of Providence. I've got to give up. And her hand sank to her sides and her head fell on her breast. Mrs. Tracy bit her lip and pressed her hands together.
Will you stay to dinner with us, my dear? said Mr. Tracy softly. I will take you into my study, where there is a fire and a rocking chair, and you shall see some curiosities that I picked up in Palestine. Oh, no, sir, I must go. And she again became animated.
That old man, I must see him. Tell me, sir, just what I am to do. I've been doing all the talking, and I wanted to hear you. I guess I'm crazy. And she pressed her hands nervously over her ears.
She was in a strange state of nervous exaltation. That was the natural reaction from her terrible dejection of the evening before. She had decided to make a martyr of herself, a willing martyr, and Mr. Tracy would not detain her. Go back to Mr. Dilsons, my dear.
You have mapped out your own course. I do not need to advise you. Your conscience has spoken, and you are listening to its voice. Go, and God bless you. You shall hear from us.
Tilda Jane was about to rush away, but Mrs. Tracy detained her. Wait an instant. I have something for you. And she hurried from the room. End of chapter 19.
