Chapter 22
Chapter 22 of Tilde Jane. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Drew Conway Kent. Tilde Jane by Marshall Saunders. Chapter 22. A troubled mind.
Tilde Jane and Grandpa were sitting out in front of the house. The spring months had passed, the apple trees had blossomed and the young apples had formed. With the changing season had come happier days for Tilde Jane. Little by little as the week slipped by, a better understanding had arisen between her and Grandpa. He still gave way occasionally to terrible fits of temper and sullenness,
but Tilde Jane understood him better now and was quite quick to soothe and pacify him, or if he was unmanageable, to keep out of his presence until he recovered. Just now he was in an unusually amiable frame of mind. A frame of mind so accommodating that he boded storms in the near future. However, Tilde Jane did not care. She accepted the present peace and was thankful.
She had dragged out his big rocking chair for him to sit on and had given him an evening paper to read while she herself was curled up on her favourite seat on the doorstep. The old man was not inclined to read his paper and dropping it on his knees he took off his glasses, put them in his pocket and let his eyes wander to the apple trees. The river was flowing blue and open now, birds were singing and all things betoken to fine summer.
When you hear those robins sing, don't it feel as if there was a little string squeaking inside of you? Said Tilde Jane gleefully. Dilson made no reply and seeing that he was in no mood for a sympathetic comparison of emotions, she diplomatically started another topic of conversation. I guess the birds make me glad, cause I'm so happy you let me bide with you, Grandpa,
and you've been so noble and generous to lend me money to pay for the matron's shawl I took for Gippie. The old man laughed a toothless laugh at her whimsical view of the ladyboard's reply but said nothing. I ain't told you much of my travels yet, Grandpa, she said agreeably. I've been so busy house cleaning. I guess you'd like to hear about Van Soborro. The old man said, I've been so busy cleaning the house, I guess you'd like to hear about Van Soborro.
The old man did not display any particular interest in Van Soborro, but having assured herself by a swift examination of his features that the subject was not disagreeable to him, she went on, it's a great old place. I'd like you to go there sometime, Grandpa. Such goings on with them foreigners.
I saw one woman walking up and down, wringing her hands and crying cause they wouldn't let her breathe. She was carrying her old mother into this nation. She waited for her hearer to ask why the mother was forbidden to come where the daughter could enter, and he did not do so, and she continued, she was a poor woman from Boston and her mother was a poor woman from Canada,
and they said if she come in it would be two poor women together, and first thing they'd know they'd be both in the poor house, so her mother had to go back to Canada. Wilson looked entirely uninterested in the case of the would-be immigrant, so after a farewell announcement that sometimes as many as 200 foreigners went through Van Soborro in a single day, Tilda Jane passed on to another branch of her subject.
It's a regular jubilee, Grandpa, when the trains come in, a boy running to a big bell and ringing it, people pouring into the lunch room and just chasing the food into their mouths and looking hunted like, as if there was something after them and some don't take time to go to the tables. They step up to the lunch counter which is shaped just like a moon when it ain't full.
There's glass dishes on it with oranges and bananas and cakes and pies and sandwiches, and a funny machine when you drop a nickel in a crack, and if the hand points to five or ten or fifteen you get 25 cents worth of candy, and if you don't get candy you get good advice like as, you've been keeping bad company, quit it or you'll never prosper,
or you've run away from home and the purless is on your track, or smoking is a bad thing for your health. Grandpa was not very much interested, so Tilda Jane tried something more startling. There's great talk of railroad accidents there, men get killed awful. I heard a table girl ask a brake man how he could go on a train for fear he'd be hurt,
and he said he doesn't stop to think and he had to take chances. I used to see him running like cats on top of them cars, slippery with snow and ice. If you're inside one of them cars, Grandpa, and there's going to be a turnover, just grip hard on something steady, because then you're not so apt to get killed. I heard a conductor say that.
Grandpa's travelling days were over, yet it pleased him to be talked to as if he was still a strong and active man, and he said shortly, I'm not likely to be going far from home. You don't know Grandpa, she said soothingly, some day when you get nice and well, I'd like to travel with you, but first you must be very quiet, like one of Job's mice, and not have anything gnawing at you. I guess you've had lots of plague times in your life.
Grandpa looked unheedingly beyond her to the apple trees. Her face was strewed and puckered, and she was surveying him like a cunning little cat. Sometimes, Grandpa, I hear you fussing in your sleep, moaning and crying like a poor dog what's lost her pups. The old man turned and looked at her sharply. She went on boldly, can I lie in my soft warm bed upstairs and you suffering? No, I creep a creep down to
see if I can do anything. Don't you do that again, said the old man, his face becoming red. You stay in your bed at night. All right, Grandpa, she said meekly, but I've heard things already. Things? What things? he asked sharply. Tilda-Jane folded together the apron she was hemming, and getting up, opened a door of retreat behind her into the house. About losing that money, she said sadly. She paused, and as he neither spoke or made any
motion to throw a crutch at her, she proceeded. Grandpa, I just know it's like a little pain, Hawk, picking at your skin. Grandpa was still silent, painfully so, and she hurried on. You haven't got much money, and you have me and the dogs to take care of. Now, Grandpa, won't you let me get some work to do outside to help us? And she screwed her features into their most persuasive appearance. Grandpa had his head turned away over his shoulder,
and when he after a long time twisted it around, Tilda-Jane rose and prudently and swiftly retired into the hall. He must be in a rage, his face was fiery and he was making a choking sound. A spluttering sound in his throat, the sound that only came from him in moments of agitation. Don't you, don't you, he stammered. Spile me again and bother your young head about things you know nothing of. Do you hear? And he accentuated his remarks by a tap of his crutch
on the doorstep. I've had away all my life of taking over things in my sleep, and you've got enough to do at home. I'll not have you working for other people. All right, Grandpa, said Tilda-Jane submissively, and she made a step toward him. She had planned to fly through the hall to his bedroom and remove his washbowl and pitcher, for since she had come to the cottage he had broken several in his fits of rage. But Grandpa was not angry in a violent way
this time. He's more bothered than mad, she murmured dispiritedly, and she drew aside to allow him to pass by her into the house. The dew's falling, he muttered, as he went by her. I'll go sit in the kitchen a spell. Tilda-Jane went mournfully to sit under the trees on a wooden bench that Grandpa had made for her. The two dogs curled themselves up at her feet, and with a sigh she picked up a writing pad beside her. It was almost too dark to see the lines, but she must
finish a letter that she had begun to write to Hank. His former custom had been to scratch a line to his father once in six months to say he was alive and well, but since Tilda-Jane's arrival he had written every week and had addressed the letters to her. It was a great pleasure to the little girl to get these letters and an equal pleasure to answer them. She related to him every occurrence of her daily life, all details of his father's conduct except disagreeable ones,
and her letters always ended with an urgent request that he would come and visit them. This evening she had as usual made an appeal at the end of her letter. Dear Mr Hank, It seems a long time since the snow was on the ground. I guess if you knew how much we want to see you, you'd come hurrying home. The dogs send love, Gipy especially, cause he knows you. Poacher says he'd be happy to make your acquaintance. And Mr Hank, your father's kind of worried about
something. I guess he'd like to see you. End of chapter 22, recording by Drew Conway, Kent.
