Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1. What you laughing at? asked the Frenchman softly. Receiving no answer, he continued to stare at the fat young man who was doubled up over the garden gate in a convulsion of amusement.
What you laughing at? he presently repeated, and his gaze went from the young man to the little snow-bound cottage behind him. It's cold tonight, air like snaps, and you with no big fur coat on nor hat, he added in his ruminating way.
Hank Dillson straightened himself, and still, shaking with laughter, nodded over his shoulder toward the cottage. I'm a laughing at what's going on in there, and I don't feel the cold because I've got a coating of flesh on my bones since I came home, so thick that Jack Frost can't get at me in less than an hour.
Come on here. You've been a good neighbor to us for years. Come and look in this window. I ain't gonna tell everyone, but there's no harm in your knowing. Pissed now, and he led the way, softly, over the frozen path between the heaped up snowbanks
to the back of the cottage. Pausing a few feet from the kitchen window, he said, Look now, see? Stare. Ain't that what you call cute? The Frenchman saw nothing amusing.
The owner of the cottage, old Mr. Dillson, Hank's father, sat in his big chair by the kitchen fire. His elbow was on the arm of the chair, his white head rested on his hand. He seemed to be sunk in a reverie. He usually sat in that position.
The Frenchman saw nothing cute about him. Tilda Jane, the little, lean shrewd girl who kept house for the two Dillson men, sat in a small rocking chair, her dark face expressing very little emotion of any kind, though the Frenchman imagined that her gaze was bent in slightly puzzled inquiry on the third figure in the room.
The third person was quite unknown to the Frenchman. She was a great lumbering, overgrown girl or woman who might be any age from eighteen to twenty-five. While Tilda Jane and the old man sat slightly back from the fire, this huge girl had drawn up close to it, and her enormous feet in their men's shoes rested boldly on the hearth.
No, ain't she cute, reiterated Hank, choking back an explosive guffaw. A regular cow moose. Poor Tilda, poor young sister. I don't understand, drawled the Frenchman with a mystified gesture. Is this a friend who visit?
Friend, no, exclaimed Hank, clapping his hand over his mouth. Come on off here and I'll explain. And he dragged the Frenchman hurriedly along the path, and again burst into a fit of merriment. It's still cold, said the Frenchman patiently. Come will you in my house, and we can talk.
Hank, making a frantic effort to control himself, followed the Frenchman, who half puzzled, half flattered for his American neighbor, rarely had time or took time to visit him, led the way to his own kitchen. There as usual sat grandfather and grandmother by the fire. Some children and two dogs played about the room, while the house mother sat knitting
amidst a certain amount of uproar. One lad, the eldest of the family, stood in a corner squeaking on a violin and singing softly to himself, one of the songs of his native land. Vive la Canarienne, vol mon corps vol. Vive la Canarienne, et ses jollies, yadou.
John loves this song, remarked his father proudly. I think he may find singer some day. Hank choked back a last gust of feeling, stepped into the hot little room and saluted his French neighbors with great amiability and good humor. They were only foreigners, he reflected, but very decent neighbors, very decent.
I'm elbowed out of my own house, Mrs. Melikwan, he said in his thick, good-natured voice. We've got a stranger in there so big that there doesn't seem to be accommodation for us both in the same room. A stranger, yes, said the French woman softly. I see her arrive at sundown.
You were with her, also the little tilde Jane. She paused here, her native politeness keeping her from asking questions, yet her curiosity shone so strongly from her face that Hank launched himself on a tide of narration, trying meanwhile not to talk and laugh at the same time, one of his besetting sins. Seems like only last week he began that I was driving through the woods down Marsden Way
and was stopped by a child with a dog done up in a shawl, and yet it was two whole years ago. Mrs. Melikwan nodded her head, yes, yes. How often has she told us of your goodness? You took her in your sleigh. You sent her to take care of your poor father.
She a little child without a family. She found a home that she loves. That she loves, my children, as you do yours. She remarked emphatically, glancing round at the ring of interested faces for children and dogs had stopped their play and the boy with the violin had drawn near and was staring
at the American caller. Yes, continued Hank modestly. I know tilde Jane set store by her home. Though she had a tough time at first, he added, with an uneasy look at his hosts. Let them do, uttered a hollow voice from the corner.
They all gazed in the direction of the old grandfather who had just spoken and Mrs. Melikwan laughed softly. There speaks the dear grandfather. He and the grandmother are listening to you and he will have no blame on his next-door friend.
Some do amiable things, some do the bad. We cannot change. But we can, spoke up her husband excitedly. Mr. Deelson. He change?
This is so, exclaimed Hank, bringing down his fat fist on the table. My father has changed and I tell you, neighbors, it's owing to that young girl who has been good and patient. She mastered him, but I mist doubt she's got herself into a peck of trouble now. I guess you've all heard her talk, as I have, of getting another orphan to coddle and comfort
and make her forget the frowns of the cold world. Yes, yes, said the woman eagerly, we have, said she, I will send to the Silum, where I was raised in trouble. I will ask them to send me another heidel girl, the most unhappy they have, who like me wishes for a good home with a little rocking chair and someone to love her.
A little rocking chair? exclaimed Hank, and despite his best efforts, he went off into another peal of laughter. The French woman threw up her hands with an excited gesture, Mr. Dielsen, that, that grand lady is not the letal new orphan. Hank bobbed his head violently, and when he could get his breath, exclaimed, that grand
lady, as you call her, by which I suppose you mean that big lady, that monstrous lady, that heavy-heeled lady, is Tilda Jane's orphan, and I tell you she's got a handful. But I do not understand, said Mrs. Melikwan, in a dismayed tone. She your adopted sister, Tilda Jane, wish for a letal girl, a quite letal girl. Hank mopped his hot face with his handkerchief and moved further from the fire.
Yes, that's right, but at the last I put my spoke in the wheel. Says I, look here, Tilda. When you first come here, I wanted you to go to school, but we couldn't afford it. Now my salary's been raised, and we can get someone to help with the housework, and waiting on father. You've been studying three times a week at night with that good woman, Mrs. Tracy, for two years,
but that ain't enough, and you're tired when it comes dark. He paused for breath, and the Frenchwoman nodded her head benevolently. Mrs. Tracy, yes, yes, I know her, a good lady. She takes interest in all who wish for help. Well, as I wanted Tilda Jane to do regular school work, Hank continued,
I said, when you write for your orphan, don't ask for a baby. Get a sizable one that can help you good. I didn't tell her to ask for a beanpole, however, I didn't see her letter to the lady boards, as she calls the women who manage the institution. It's half my opinion that they've put a shrewd trick on her,
out of spite for the slip she gave them when she ran away. The little girl suffered much in that asylum, said the Frenchwoman with a shudder. It wasn't managed right, replied Hank. All asylums ain't like that. There's a new kind, with separate cottages for the children.
That is fine. Some old bodies with backward notions ran this Marsden one. But Mr. Tracy's got ahead of them. The husband of the good Mrs. Tracy? Inquired Mrs. Meliquon.
The same. He's as good as she is. And though Hank did not tell the French people, he paused an instant to think inwardly and gratefully of his present good position in the Wey Smith Lumber Mill, due to Mr. Tracy's interest in him.
Yes, Mr. Tracy got ahead of them, Hank continued, and in an awful smart way. After Tilda Jane told him how unhappy she had been there, he had a quiet investigation made. He's a man that's got a lot of influence, and when he found our little girl's charges were true, he made up his mind he'd break the thing up.
Whether the lady managers suspected him or not, I don't know. But they've had to shut up the right wing of their asylum, and the left wing. And now I believe it's a question of giving up the main body. How did he do it? asked the Frenchman curiously. He has an informer nearby, and as soon as he knows of one orphan or a batch of orphans being sent to the asylum,
he tries to get someone to adopt them. He writes here, there, and everywhere, and farmers and their wives from every part of the old pine tree state, bear down on that asylum, and lug the orphans off to their farms in open places or to settlements in the woods. Perhaps then, said Mrs. Meliquon, the ladies had not so many children to give your little sister a choice. That's a point for them, said Hank. I wouldn't be surprised if the maypole next door might have been their last hope.
But you will not let her keep this elevated person? asked the Frenchwoman anxiously. Not for a horse and buggy, said Hank warmly. Not if Tilda Jane don't want her. But what I'm fearing is that she'll think it her duty to keep this elevated person, as you call her, and train her in the way she should go. Tilda is a mighty hard person to move when she gets on the duty track. She's a good little girl, said the woman softly. She's not like most others.
She started sad, and it smoothed out the badness most children have. Indeed, she is good, said Hank vigorously. She's made a home for me and father, and I tell you, when a fellow knocks round in country hotels and boarding houses as I have, he just warms up to a good fireside and his own chair and plate at the table. And she's clever, too, murmured Mrs. Meliquon. Clever? ejaculated Hank. She's a Napoleon. It's a pity she hadn't a good start in the world. Good parents, good health, and a good education. Them that's bound to get on gets on, said the Frenchman solemnly.
Oh, I have no patience with that saying, remarked Hank. If you're bound to get on, you do. But you'd have done better to have had a helping hand. Tilda Jane's a smart girl, but I dare say she'll flatten out as a woman. No young critter ought to have any care but to put food in its mouth and to play and learn. Look at the factory young ones. What kind of men and women do they make? All the life is drained out of them.
Hear that, my children, said the Frenchwoman. Are you not glad that you have a home and parents who put food and books before you? The poor Tilda Jane had worry and sorrow as a young child. Well, I must go, said Hank, jumping up. Tilda Jane will be wondering where I am. Good night to you all. Good night, sir. Good night, said the French family in unison. And Hank, after making his best bow to the grandparents, swung himself out of the room.
