Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI. TILDA JANE RECEIVES A SHOCK. Very early the next morning, Tilda Jane came trotting from the town with poacher at her heels, and behind him the three-legged Gipy, puffing and grunting unamiably at her haste. She had had a pleasant visit at the Tracy's, and had got up early to breakfast with them
before they took a train to Bangor. Not a rumour of the fire of the night before had reached her, and with a happy face and frequent glances at a basket on her arm, in which reposed a fine large fruitcake for Grandpa, who was fond of sweets, as Mrs Tracy always remembered, she hurried along the road by the river.
Her eyes leaped ahead, past the Smiths and the Dolivers, in search of the little two-storeyed white cottage with the tiny tower which was the dearest spot on earth to her. Why, what did it mean? There was no cottage roof showing through the treetops that were just bursting into leaf.
No neatly curtained windows were waiting to greet her like quiet, friendly eyes of the house. She broke into a run and wheeled breathlessly into the yard. Her amazed sweeping glance took in everything, the still-smoking ruins, the deserted yard. No, not deserted, for there were little housetop andies-maids strutting gaily about, spreading
their tails and cooing as harmoniously as if there were no such thing in the world as trouble. Till the Jane stopped, started forwards, stopped again, and clasping her hands, looked about her. The sound of a cheery whistle broke upon her ear, and at the same instant someone threw
open the big barn door. Oh, Hank! she cried, and dismay, grief and anxiety were so blended in her tone that he did not know which prevailed. Hello, Sissy, he replied. The early bird gets the worm, but he misses the fire of the night before.
Why didn't you come to it? The fire! she ejaculated, and with a groan she sank on one of the big parlor chairs that was reposing as naturally in the yard as if it belonged there. Hank knew that she was rather an undemonstrative girl, but her capacity for suffering was greater than that of most demonstrative persons, and he surveyed her compassionately.
Hold on to yourself, Sissy, he said. Don't mourn, we're going to have another house with all the latest improvements. Where's Grandpa and the pup? she gasped, and Perletta. Safe and sound at the melongons, but not up yet, I guess. It's still early, and we had a gay night.
Hank, how did it happen? he told her all he knew about it, but said he had not talked much to his father for fear of exciting him. And our happy home is gone, said the little girl at last, our bright, beautiful home. You can't burn up homes, Sissy, she stared at him miserably. Homes are here, he said, laying a hand on his heart.
Now you wait, and by night you'll have a new first-class case for your home right on this spot. Hank, what are you talking about? his eyes twinkled. We're going to take the outdoor cure, Sissy. You see this fine, clean barn?
Not near as old as the house was. I'm going to sweep the hay off this floor, arrange this furniture we saved, buy a bit more, have a big table for eating and another for cooking on, clear away that pig pen in the yard, and have a small shelter for a cook stove and a covered runway from it to the barn.
Why, we'll live right out here then, interrupted Tilda Jane with the lightning of her worried face. Right here, Sissy, and up there in the hayloft I'll fix a bedroom for you, and one for perletta. A few planks and nails will do it, and by the time we want to put in our winter hay, we'll either find a place in the neighborhood for it, or else, if the new house is pretty
well on, we'll be able to camp in it and put the hay here in its proper place. Tilda Jane actually smiled. And we'll have those big doors open all the time, continued Hank, and drink in lots of fresh air, and there won't be a heap of housework to do, and you can study and go for rides. Hank, dear brother, she said, rubbing her hand over her eyes.
And I'll clean out the harness room, Hank went on, and fit it up for a bower for Dad, where he can sit and weep or smile as he chooses, and put an oil stove in, lest his old bones get chilly. Oh, he won't, said Tilda Jane happily. This summer is right on us, and it is so warm here by the river.
I don't think he'll need it. Still, I'd like him to know it's there, and if he doesn't approve, I'll hire a room for him at Mrs. Melongon's. He'll be sure to want to stay with us. Oh dear, how lovely to be out here with the animals.
I'll close them in. They'll have their own quarters. We ours, said Hank. But this barn has always been kept clean, and it's a more decent place to live in than many persons have.
Then, best of all, Sissy, camping right here on our own property will enable me to watch the workmen as they put up our new house. And if there's any scamping done, I'll jump square onto them. See, here's the plan. I couldn't sleep, so I got up and sketched it on the shingle.
The young girl bent her head over the shingle and was soon deep in an animated discussion of the arrangement of rooms in the new house. That's the way to do, Sissy, said Hank, rising after a time and putting the shingle away. If you get a knock-down blow, jump right up and begin to lay about how to get in another at fate.
I'm not going to give up as long as there's breath in my body. Now let us go find some breakfast. I'm feverish to begin cooking right here, said Tilda Jane, looking about her. Good for you, Sissy, but stop till I find you the wherewithal. Perletta did fine in snatching a lot of cooking pots and pans out of the woodhouse.
See, they're in a heap there, but we'll have to board with Mrs. Melongon for a few days. Hold on, pun my misfortunes, if there ain't Mr. Weismith and muffles. Is my face dirty, Sissy? A little, not much, she replied. It's not to be wondered at.
Don't stop to clean yourself, he won't like to wait. And she stepped back so that he could go first to greet his employer. Well, sir, I take this as a kindness to come here at this early hour, said Hank gratefully after Mr. Weismith had spoken to him. I was anxious about your father, said Mr. Weismith.
Did he get a great shock? Yes, sir, but I guess it won't hurt him. Mr. Weismith's eyes went roving about the barn and yard. He's at a neighbor's, sir, with the pup. By the way, sir, it was your pup that gave the alarm.
Mr. Weismith looked incredulous, then delighted in a subdued way. That young thing? He presently ejaculated. Yes, sir, he clawed at father and woke him. When Handy Andy was younger, he was always sleepy and heavy the first part of the night,
but now he's nervous and sleeps late in the morning. He's just changed round in his habits. I guess he was wakeful and smelt the smoke. They say dogs are sensitive to it. He's the true son of his father.
And Hank pointed to Muffles, who was standing some distance off, sniffling at the ruins of the house. So the pup woke your father, said Mr. Weismith with immense satisfaction. Yes, sir, and it looks to me as if we'd have had a pretty close shave for our lives if it hadn't been for him.
I'm feared father would have gone, for he was right close to the kitchen. I might have got out, and the girl, though we're both powerful sleepers. I will go and call on your father, said Mr. Weismith, but I want to ask you some questions first. You will, of course, rebuild.
Hank glanced at Tilda Jane, who was gazing affectionately and admiringly into the merchant's face. Mr. Weismith had politely taken off his hat to her, and she expected no further recognition. She was content to stand and look at him, but now, at Hank's significant nod, she quietly slipped away to the back of the garden to interview Dodge and Grappler as to their experience
during the fire. Poacher and Gippi followed her. They were both uneasy. Gippi kept raising his head to catch the smoky odours about him, while Poacher ran from Tilda Jane to the ruined cellar and back again, too perturbed to go and greet
the strange dog Muffles. I didn't want Sissy there to know just how hard up I am, said Hank in a low voice. I've been talking big about building, but she would fret if she knew how little I have to build on. Have you any money at all?
inquired Mr. Weismith. Only five hundred insurance, and my salary, sir. Any debts? No, sir. How much money do you need to put up another house?
I guess I can do it with two thousand five hundred, sir. I don't want any folder rolls. I will lend you two thousand dollars without interest, said his employer, and when the house is finished I wish to furnish it, the furniture to be a present to your adopted sister.
Hank flushed under his grimy skin. That's very handsome in you, sir. Not at all. I have money. Everyone knows it.
I had a hard time to get it, and I belong to a large class of the well-to-do who long to be of benefit to young men struggling to get a footing. The trouble is we can't find deserving ones. Once you begin to help a fellow, he drops a dead weight on your hands. That's the curse of riches to my mind.
You can't help anyone. I don't want your money, sir, said Hank sturdily, except as a loan. I know that, said Mr. Weismuth in his slow, concentrated way. If you did want it as a gift, you wouldn't get it. I have watched you.
I know that instead of spending your evenings with a set of fast young fellows as you used to do, you come home and sit with your old father and try to pick up a little information from books. Hank looked sheepish and said nothing. You may draw on me at any time for the amount I named, said Mr. Weismuth.
I wish the money to be paid back in the shape of monthly installments. That will be equal to a low house rent, say, eight dollars a month. Hank smiled broadly. You'll be a long time getting your money, sir. I can wait.
Sir, said the young man seriously, I don't want to gush. But on the other hand, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. You've never been mean. You have the name of being good pay for hard work. And I would like to say, sir, that your assistant bookkeeper won't keep your books any worse
for his grateful feelings. My father served you faithfully before me, and I'd just like to find anyone cheating you of a cent. Mr. Weismuth gave him a keen glance. Was it possible that he did not know of his father's theft of the two hundred and fifty
dollars? The old man would not tell him, of course. But could the little girl keep such a secret? He looked wonderingly at her as she stood down near the lilacs, her dog at her heels, the pigeon on her shoulder, the two pigs staring inquiringly at her, and, wonder of wonders,
his own pet muffles sneaking round the smoking cellar to get to her. She must tell her secrets to the animals, reflected the surprised man, and he whistled to muffles and strode away thoughtfully towards the malangin house. Most girls of fifteen and sixteen are chatterboxes. What self-control for one so young?
Sissy, I say sissy, exclaimed Hank, running after her when his employer was out of sight. Misfortunes turned inside out are blessings. The young girl moved around deliberately on account of the pigeon on her shoulder. If the misfortunes ain't your fault, brother, there's good in them. You didn't set the fire.
It came upon you. I'm proud to have you take it right. You're braver than I am. Hank, in a few gleeful sentences, told her how Mr. Waysmith was going to help him. Not bad, that he added, considering that we most burned up his dog.
If we had, he would have known that we didn't mean to, said the little girl softly. Hank, I guess folks are pretty sharp at knowing what we're to blame for and what we're not. Sometimes I guess they are, he said in a puzzled way. Sometimes they don't seem to. I say life is a queer thing.
Anyway you take it, sissy. I suppose it is, she said humbly. I haven't lived long, but I know this much, Hank. If I make faces at people, they may come back at me. If I look pleasant, they look pleasant.
That's it, exclaimed Hank, and I'm going to keep on grinning. Some big writer said that the world is a looking glass. End of chapter 21.
