menu_book Chapter 16

Chapter 16. A Tedious Waiting. Abba had a pretty solemn heart-searching time after Tilda Jane left him. She had made up a good fire in the stove, and he sat by it and surveyed the kitchen, usually so tidy, now in such a state of disorder, for Tilda Jane had had no time to clear up before she left home. However, he had no eyes for details just now. His mind was in a whirl. He hated

noise and confusion and loved tranquility. Why had this grotesque trouble come upon him? What was he grieving for anyway? A point of honor? No, not altogether. After reflecting a short time, he felt that Mr. Weismuth would not be hard on him. At first blush, he had been overcome by the thought that a second time he had failed in his duty. But in reality, there had been no failure. He was man of business enough to know that he could not be held responsible

for the sin of a low common thief, who had stolen into his room in the dead of night, and despoiled him of the property of his benefactor. No, it was not the theft alone that was grieving him. He knew now he could follow out his threat of thought as he was alone and quiet, with all those restless young people out of the house. He was an old man, who had once been young. For years he had been laid aside and shelved and held in no particular

estimation by anyone. A young girl, persistent and affectionate, had suddenly appeared on the threshold of his lonely home. His son had sent her, and he could not get rid of her. And finally, he had come to like her. Through her, he had been reinstated and had been given an interest in life. Now he understood what a source of intense gratification it had been to him, that he could be of service to the proudest and richest man in Ciscasset.

He, Hobart Dillson, was somebody. He thought he had not cared for the opinion of the community in which he lived. He had cared just as much as anyone else cared, and now this employment, this consideration, had been snatched from him. He would again sink into obscurity, he would have no object in life, and his head drooped gradually lower and lower. He had not cared much for the small animal entrusted to him. It was what the animal

represented that he cared for most, but was it? He looked down at the floor. It seemed to him that he felt the soft nibbling mouth, the affectionate pressure of the little head against his ankles. The animal certainly liked him. Every morning it had seemed new and exquisite delight to the beast to crowd and push his way to the top of the bed, to lick tenderly the old hands and the old face on the pillow, if he could get at it, though Grandpa usually compromised

by letting him polish off his ears with his tiny pink tongue. The critter seemed fond of me, he muttered, and I miss him. Yes, I do. There's no one else makes so much fuss over me. And two slow painful tears, the self-pitying tears of old age, rolled down his cheeks. Just at this minute the front door flew open, and before Grandpa had time to compose himself, Tilda-Jean rushed into the kitchen, and behind

her, coming with more rapidity than Grandpa would have believed possible, stalked Mr. Waysmith. The little girl did not say a word. After a tap on Grandpa's shoulder and a gesture in the direction of her companion, she ran up the kitchen staircase, closing the door behind her, in a decided fashion. That meant she would neither hear nor see what went on below. Mr. Waysmith sat down opposite Grandpa, and seeing that the distressed old man was making a huge effort to compose himself,

he drew off his gloves, leaned over the stove, and made some remark about the fine, frosty morning. Grandpa, blinking his moist eyelids, tried to scrutinize the face of his caller. Was he vexed at his loss, or did he minimize it? The pup will come back, said Mr. Waysmith, at last in a tranquil voice. Don't worry, Dilson. He may get a chill, said Grandpa Horsley. He's in good condition.

It won't hurt him if he does. Grandpa's heart sank. The merchant had probably come to tell him that when the pup did return, he would find another guardian for him. Well, he would try to soften his fall, and he said shortly, I guess you could take him away now, sir. He's pretty hardy. I won't take him away. If you will consent to hold him for a few months yet, returned Mr. Waysmith. I don't know of anyone who would take the pains you are taking with him.

Poor old Grandpa flushed with pleasure. What had that little witch Tilda been telling the merchant about him? Probably that he let the pup sleep with him. That girl that lives with me, said Grandpa hastily, thinks all her geese are swans. That is a gift, said Mr. Waysmith, with a smile. A pity it is not more generally distributed. Few of us have it. She is a kind of a swan herself, said Grandpa heartily.

Yes, she is, replied Mr. Waysmith, and the dull kitchen stove seemed to reflect the picture of the earnest, warm-hearted young orphan who a short time before had sat in his office begging him to do something to comfort Grandpa, and please not take the pup from him, for he loved it as if it were a baby. Mr. Waysmith got up. I must go back to the mill. I wanted to beg you to have no anxiety about the dog. I have perfect confidence in your son,

but if he fails to get it, I will see what I can do. You will keep the pup, will you? Grandpa looked up into the kind face, bending over him. As a favor, said Mr. Waysmith, we are old friends, Dilson. Friends, said Grandpa, almost suffocated with pleasure, thought of a past episode, suddenly and generously blotted out. Sir, he exclaimed, hobbling to his feet,

I'll bring up as many pups as you choose to fetch me. I will remember that, said Mr. Waysmith, and his eye ran with satisfaction over the rejuvenated face then shaking hands with his former employee. He walked deliberately from the house. Isn't he sweet? Isn't he dear and lovely? cried Tilda Jane running down the staircase. After she had from an upper window watched Mr. Waysmith go down the front walk.

Don't you just love to have him visit you, Grandpa? Grandpa said nothing, and she went on. When I got to the mill, I was half scared. There was such a rattling and roaring, and so many men about, but peace was in his office. Oh, the dear good face of him! As he listened to my tale, I wasn't a mite scared of him as I used to be. He is a good man, said Grandpa feelingly. Yes, very good, but it takes a while to find it out.

I thought he was an old crossy at first, but I see now he's dependable. When he finds he can trust you. He's a man that has been deceived over and over again, said Grandpa, hoaxed in business and fooled till he trusts no one, man or woman or child either, till he is sure of them. I used to like his son better, said Tilda Jane, but I guess I don't know everything. No, you don't, said Grandpa decidedly. You're only in your pin feathers. It stands to reason

you can't know as much as old, tough things that have weathered many a gale. Not but what you're smart for a girlie at it, until the Jane looked crestfallen. Very smart. And you've a good heart, Sissy. That counts more than brains. Hark! Don't I hear something? No, Grandpa, she said affectionately. It's only the wind round the house. But I know what you're thinking of. You're expecting a message from Hank and so am I.

And I believe it will come. To make the time pass, I'll tidy the kitchen and get the things ready for dinner. Of course, I can't go to school today. You'll miss that girl about the work, said Grandpa. She was big and strong. Oh, she'll come back, said Tilda Jane with assurance. Grandpa gazed at her from under his white eyebrows. What a forgiving heart! Did she really suppose that he and Hank would

allow that monster of ingratitude to enter their house again? However, he would say nothing at present. The child had trouble enough. She pretended to be very brave and hopeful, but he noticed that she retired very often to the pantry and that her eyes were red when she came out. Tell me how you're getting on in school, said Grandpa suddenly with a benevolent desire to give her something to think about. Pretty well, she said slowly. It's a wonder to find

how many things I don't know that are in books. I know more about things out of books than the big girls, but when it comes to reading, writing and figures, I have to go to work with the little ones. I'm not very bright to learn, Grandpa. Spite of all the time Mrs. Tracy spent on me, it seems as if I get tired when I open a book. You've been cheated of your childhood, said Grandpa irritably. And by nature you're a fretter. The fretters run things in this world,

but they wear out quick. Tilda Jane sighed. And going to the stove, put the potatoes she had been pairing on to boil. How long the morning seemed and what a dreadful stillness pervaded the house. Gipy scarcely stirred in his box and she and Grandpa gave up talking, and staring eloquently at each other, listened intently for the welcome sound outside that would announce the coming of a messenger boy. He ought to have got here by this time, said Grandpa at last. Her letter would have

a regular daddy long legs gait, but still milkweed goes like the wind. I fear poachers having trouble with tracking her. Tilda Jane was paying no attention to him. One lean brown hand was held in the air and her head was slightly on one side. There's someone coming, she said solemnly, and quickly springing toward the door leading into the front hall, she disappeared from view. In a trice she was back again,

waving an envelope in her hand. Oh, read it, read it, Grandpa. There's good news inside. I feel it bursting through. With shaking fingers, Grandpa tore open the cover and read aloud. Wild goose trapped, four legs and two legs, well and hearty. Home at five, Hank. Tilda Jane in moments of intense mental excitement, when words failed her, was in the habit of executing a peculiar and unique dance, and now catching up her somewhat scant skirts,

her lank hair bobbing about her thin face, she began to move in a side-long fashion around the room. Grandpa neither moved nor spoke. With stoical composure he watched the progress of the dance, waited like a gentleman for its finish, and then, after leaving a reasonable space of time for the exhausted girl to repose herself, he said with extreme gentleness, Sissy, please get me my dog book. Tilda Jane, still wrapped in ecstatic silence, gave him his large book on The Dog,

and then went with dignity to the pantry and returned with a plate in her hand. Grandpa glanced up from his book. It was her dough plate, and she was going to make fresh pills for the pigeon. Good, he muttered. The thing will be fair-clemmed. Then he buried himself in the pages. Treatment of pups after exposure to cold. He was too excited to read, and after a short time pushed the book from him and followed the movements of Tilda Jane, who had begun to set the table in

the dining-room. She was doing her work in a swift, gliding manner. Her feet seemed to scarcely touch the yellow painted floor, and her black eyes kept rolling ecstatically toward Grandpa. He saw that she was now suffering to talk, and he opened the conversation with a gracious, I see the telephone message is dated from Carracunk. Yes, replied the little girl breathlessly, and where is Carracunk? I'm pining to know. It's a settlement about twenty miles from here, and do you suppose he

caught her there, Grandpa? Is it on the road she set out to go? Do you think she'd get a lift on her trip? How do you suppose she looked when Hank caught up to her? What do you think he'd say? My, I'd not like to be in her shoes. Won't she be glad to get home? Running away sounds fine, but it isn't funny to be all alone on a dark road, far from everyone that knows you. Grandpa smiled agreeably at her torrent of questions and sniffed expectantly in the

direction of the stove. That smell of corned beef and cabbage seems good to my nostrils, he said at last. I'm powerful hungry. You ate scarcely a mite of breakfast, exclaimed his faithful little companion. Oh, Grandpa, isn't it good to live when everybody behaves himself and herself? It's the wicked that gives spice to life, replied Grandpa bitterly. If we were all good, things would be on a dead level.

I'll take the goodness, said Tilda Jane. Badness is so upsetting. Well, Sissy continued, Grandpa, I'll answer some of your questions now, and from that time until dinner was ready, and while it was in progress and afterward, when the little girl was washing the dishes, they talked almost incessantly, speculating about Hank and his journey and Perletta and the purloined pets.

Where they were, what they were doing, how the capture had been affected, how Mr. Waysmith was feeling, and with all their discussion, their intense interest could not exhaust the subject. Long before five, they were both in their company clothes, sitting by the dining room fire. This was a great occasion, one of the greatest in their lives, and they must honor it. There was a roaring fire in the hall stove, another in the kitchen. Tilda Jane,

in the intervals of talk, had dashed about the whole house, putting it in order. The pups' toys were laid in a row on the floor, and the pigeon's box had been brought downstairs, and had been half filled with fresh yellow straw. Hank's room was as neat as wax, and Tilda Jane, having no cut flowers to put in it, had carried up her best pot of variegated geranium. Even Perletta's room had been tidied, though no plant was put in it. Grandpa shook his head

over this latter preparation, but did not impart his misgivings to Tilda Jane. At a quarter to five, Tilda Jane could no longer remain by the fire, and going into Grandpa's bedroom, opened the window a crack and sat by it, calling out news to the old man who remained in the dining room. Sleigh bells, Grandpa? Oh, only a big team, a load of hay. Someone has run short and is hauling it in from the country. More bells! An old man and woman. She's got a cap basket on her

knee. Looks like a farmer and his wife coming to spend Sunday with their relatives in town. Dr. Gressler dashing by with his gray horse. I heard there was a case of scarlet fever out French row. I hope it isn't so. Five o'clock came and went, Tilda Jane could no longer sit still, but stood leaning out the window, now thrown far up. Any sound of our bells? Called Grandpa anxiously, when she was silent for a minute. Not yet, Grandpa, but I'm listening.

I'm listening. Hark! What is that so faint and sweet in the distance? Ting-a-ling-a-ling! There are bells, Grandpa! There are bells! And I can see Hank's fur cap. The Lord has let our treasures come home alive. Oh, oh, oh! And with a final shriek the excited girl went out the window, into a small bank of snow lingering dejectedly by the side of the house, and then with twinkling heels disappeared out of the backyard and down the road.

What did you say, Tilda? Called Grandpa from the dining room. Are they our bells or are they not? Coronation! Is the girl deaf? And he irritably struck a crutch on the floor. No answer came and Grandpa got up and shuffled excitedly into his room. There they were, coming gaily up the road. Hank had stopped to take Tilda Jane in, and she was gobbling, ducking, pecking at something. His pup, of course, his restored pup. The mischievous,

tiresome little rogue, and yet his own pet pup. The only creature who would humbly beg on his dancing feet the pleasure of caressing a crusty, worn-out old man. Grandpa, for the first time in many years, uttered a kind of prayer. As he stood at the window, his white hair fluttering in the chilly wind, he muttered reverently, I thank a kind providence for all mercies. Then he added under his breath, especially

for not sending back that viper girl.