Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII. One month later, summer had fairly begun. The Dilsen family had been keeping house in the barn for three weeks, and the plan had proved to be a great success. They had plenty of fresh air, they had liberty, they had room, and Hank declared that the
novelty of the experiment pleased them all as much as a trip to foreign parts would have done. On this balmy sunny afternoon the big barn doors, front and back, were thrown wide open. The main floor was their sitting-room, and chairs and tables were arranged neatly against the walls.
Through the open doorways they had a wide extended view, the road, the river and meadows in front, and a rolling farming country at the back. Grandpa sat in his big rocking chair that the melonsons had dragged through his bedroom window the night of the fire. He was not sitting inside the barn, but right out in the yard.
So enamored had they all become of fresh air that nothing but complete outdoor life seemed to satisfy them. His rheumatism was much better, and for a part of every day he walked without his crutches, using only a cane. His gaze was bent dreamily on the masons who were busy repairing the cellar walls of the
old house and adding to them for the new one. He was thinking of Hank, who had taken his holidays early in the season, so that he might be at home as soon as the framework of the house was put up. I guess I can trust him with the foundations, the young man had said. I've sworn the masons to faithfulness.
But watch them, watch them, father, when I'm gone. There's an awful looseness in business, honor. I don't know what's the matter with people. There are only five men in Siskesett I'd trust to clear out that cellar and add to it for the new house.
And that's you and me, and honest old Joe Whiting the lawyer, and Mr. Tracey the minister, and Mr. Weismuth. And we ain't any of us likely to undertake the job. Hank had been gone a week, and Handy Andy had been gone ten days, for Mr. Weismuth had taken him to Boston, though Grandpa reflected with a comforted feeling in the neighborhood
of his heart that Mr. Weismuth had hinted something about bringing him back. How he did miss that dog! and slow tears formed in his old eyes. Who would have believed that he, Hobart Dillson, would have at his time of life become so fond of a dumb creature? It was because he fancied me, thought the old man, as if apologizing for his senile
affection. Like begets like. The little fellow would enjoy this life. He's fond of excitement, and he likes being outdoors. Hey ho, I wish he'd come back.
What's the matter, Grandpa? inquired Tilda Jane solicitously. The old man turned and looked at her as she sat on the barn-cell, with a pan on her lap, pairing potatoes for their supper. What you doing that for?
he asked sharply. You'll make your fingers black. Let the girl do it. She's gone to town, said Tilda Jane quietly. To town?
repeated the old man irritably. Seems to me she's always in town lately. What does she do there? I don't know, replied Tilda Jane in a low voice, and her face became red and troubled. Grandpa was staring suspiciously at her.
What are you blushing for? I don't know, said Tilda Jane truthfully. Is that girl bothering you? No, not exactly, sir. She's always been a kind of riddle to me.
There she comes now, a sauntering up the road, as if she owned it, exclaimed Grandpa. Why doesn't the girl hurry? Parletta, Parletta, I say, shove those big feed-of-yours along faster, and come here and do these potatoes. You ain't hired to gad, but to work.
Oh, sir, said Tilda Jane protestingly, please don't. If you knew how kind she is lately, don't say a word. Grandpa sat up straighter in his chair and stared more intently at her. Kind? How kind?
What has she to do with kindness? If you knew how much she thinks of you, the little girl went on in a low voice, she's got you the cutest Christmas present. A Christmas present for me? spluttered Grandpa, in June, and cute.
I'll make her less cute. Oh, don't, sir, don't go any further, implored Tilda Jane. She got it now, because it was cheaper on account of the moths. You'll be sorry, sir. She has a good business head in some ways.
Grandpa was in a rage. He was really very much upset mentally on account of Hank's absence, and that of the pup, and, though his bodily health was so much improved, it did him good to have a mental outburst occasionally. He was just preparing to work himself into a tempest of wrath and scorn, and was fiercely
muttering, Moths! Moths! What have I to do with moths? When to Tilda Jane's great relief a carriage came swiftly up the road, past Perletta, and drove in through their open gateway.
It's Mr. Waysmith, exclaimed Grandpa, who had an eye as keen as an eagle's where his former employer was concerned, and with astonishing rapidity for one so old he smoothed his perturbed forehead, changed his tone, and by the time the coachman had pulled up his horses a little way from him, his old face was wreathed with smiles, for there was handy-andy his beloved pet springing from the surrey.
Right for Grandpa's neck he came, and such springing, licking, barking, and tail wagging Grandpa had seen only once before, namely on the occasion of the return of the dog from his trip with Perletta. Good little boy, fine little fellow, Grandpa murmured, stooping and patting him wherever his hand could find a resting place on the slippery back.
What a little supplejack of a man! So, so good, doggy, lie down! Probably Grandpa was the happiest person in Ciscissette. There stood the man he admired and revered, looking down at him with an absolutely beaming face.
How he could see plainly how much his dog loved Grandpa, and the more handy-andy jumped, the more ecstatic Grandpa became. Dilsen, said the merchant suddenly, I shall never take that dog from you again, except for shows. Sir, exclaimed Grandpa in an odd voice, and he gazed at the dog's master in a state of
such supreme satisfaction that he became speechless. Yes, I will only take him away for shows, repeated Mr. Waysmith. He has been to Boston and New York shows, and he carried everything before him in the puppy class, but large cities don't agree with him, and the sea air makes him cough. I rushed him back to this inland place by the advice of several first-class veterinarians.
He is a wonder of a dog, but if he is not carefully handled he will be a sick, played-out specimen. A quiet life and congenial companionship were strongly advised for him. And he'll be my dog, muttered Grandpa, at last finding his voice. My little dog till I die, cause I'll not last long.
May the Lord bless you, sir. He added fervently, and in a louder key, You don't know what this is to me. And greatly to his own astonishment and mortification, he, Hobart Dilsen, began to cry like a baby. Big tears, as big as a baby's, rolled down his old cheeks, and handy-andy in concern Stopped his prancing, and lovingly tried to lick them away.
Stop, sir! Grandpa managed to ejaculate irritably. Get out! It's none of your business. Where's my handkerchief?
I say, tilde, can't you find me my handkerchief? The little girl silently passed him her own, and while Grandpa mopped his quivering face, handy-andy caught sight of her, and springing at her, began over again his demonstrations of delight at being again with his own loved family. Mr. Waysmith had politely turned away on observing Grandpa's emotion, and stepping to the surrey
he brought out something wrapped in a linen duster. Why, sir, exclaimed tilde Jane, when he threw back the linen, it's another dog! Mr. Waysmith smiled. It is Andy's half-sister, born a little while after him, and named by me Una Riley. You remember cousin Una Riley that lived with handy-andy's mother in Samuel Lover's story?
Grandpa had recovered himself, and was jealously surveying tilde Jane. What's that, sir? What's that? he asked suspiciously. I'm the one Hank read handy-andy to.
Come here, pup, jump on my knee. Mr. Waysmith walked toward him again. I was just saying, Dilson, that I have another dog here, the same stock as handy-andy, and with an Irish name, for I liked your suggestion about your pet's name. Have you brought it to us to bring up?
Can we do anything for you about it? The dog looks sick. She is sick, said Mr. Waysmith. Then he smiled again. You know, Dilson, you told me that you would take care of as many dogs as I chose to bring
you. I said it, sir, and I'll stick to it. Grandpa responded emphatically. We're livin' in a barn, and we can accommodate a good many, and if the barn ain't large enough, we'll hire neighbors.
And he laughed a shrill happy cackle of a laugh. Mr. Waysmith bestowed a grateful glance on him. Then he said,— I must tell you this dog's history. She was a frail puppy, something like Andy, but when very young she took a great fancy
to a little boy, the son of one of the men employed in my kennels in Boston. This lad petted her very much, and I gave her to him to bring up. Unfortunately, he has just died, poor boy, though both for his own sake as well as the I did everything to save him, and since then Una will neither eat nor sleep properly. She is dying by inches.
And I brought her here, thinking that possibly your little girl—and he glanced at Tilda Jane—would be kind enough to see if she can rouse her. Wouldn't she play with Handy Andy? inquired Grandpa. He is a kind little dog.
He is too rough for her in her present state of health, replied Mr. Waysmith. She should be kept alone. That is from other dogs for a while. She is as weak as water. Sit down, will you, and take her in your arms, he said to Tilda Jane.
Tilda Jane hurried into the barn and was dragging out a chair for Mr. Waysmith when he took it from her and motioned her to sit down herself. Speak to her, he said, putting the dog in her lap. Tilda Jane looked down at Cousin Una Riley. She was a smaller dog than Andy, and was of a lighter, more golden brindle than his, while
instead of his even white line between the eyes, she had a face that was half brindle, half white blaze. Her eyes were beautiful, large and full, and so pathetic that Tilda Jane's own eyes grew moist as she looked into them. Poor doggy, she said, patting her softly.
Poor doggy, you feel sad. Mr. Waysmith, watching breathlessly, saw a flash of interest come in Una's sad eyes. Then she lifted her head and stared into the little girl's face. Speak to her again, he said in a low-hurried voice, and stepping back a little. Life is full of trouble, isn't it?
continued Tilda Jane, addressing Una as if she were an intelligent human being. When I was young like you, I had lots of it, too. But I got over it. What I have now doesn't count. It isn't the little things that fret me, it's the big ones.
I guess you felt pretty bad when that nice boy died. To Mr. Waysmith's amazement, Una pushed her hot, feverish muzzle against Tilda Jane's hand, then, stretching out a very pale pink tongue, licked it gratefully. You're hot and tired from your journey, said the little girl. Come with me, and I will give you some nice, cool milk.
And cuddling the sick dog to her as if she were a baby, she got up and went into the barn. The two men followed her movements with intense interest. They saw her put the dog down on the floor, then go in search of a saucer of milk. By the time she returned, Una had staggered to her feet and was licking her lips.
There, honey, drink this, said Tilda Jane, bending over her, and Mr. Waysmith, to his inexpressible satisfaction, saw the weary dog take the milk, and then agitate her tail gratefully and stare up into her new friend's face. Now come, go to sleep, and sitting down in the new rocking chair that Hank had bought, to take the place of the one destroyed in the fire, Tilda Jane took the tired animal
in her arms and began to rock to and fro, and to sing as unconsciously as if she were alone a versified rendering of the old and yet ever interesting tale of Mother Hubbard and her famous dog. It's wonderful, murmured Mr. Waysmith, turning to Grandpa. I never saw any one with such a hold over animals.
Grandpa looked down at Handy Andy, who was reposing in his old place across his knees. They say animals ain't got souls, he remarked dryly, but whatever they've got in the place of them, Tilda seems to look into, right down through their eyes. Its affection, genuine affection and interest that she possesses, said Mr. Waysmith. If we all had that for each other, for animals, for criminals, and for little children, there
would not be so much going astray in the world. Seems funny for me, an old man to say it, remarked Grandpa, but love is a power. Mr. Waysmith sighed sympathetically, then crept on tiptoe toward Tilda Jane. Una must have been soothed by the tale of the afflictions of the legendary Hubbard dog, for she had fallen into a sound sleep.
Is her flesh twitching? whispered Mr. Waysmith, with the concentrated interest of a doctor surveying a patient. Tilda Jane shook her head. She hasn't twitched, sir, since she dropped off. Capital, he muttered, she hasn't had even a catnap without starting up these last three
days. I saw there was only this chance for her, so I hurried her up here. Do you want her to be my little dog for a while, sir? asked Tilda Jane. Yes, if you will be so kind.
Keep her quiet, and away from the other dogs. Poacher is down by the river with the pigs. He goes there these warm days, and Gipy is asleep in that corner. He don't see as well as he did, and I guess he won't bother her. I'll keep both eyes on her, sir.
Why do you think dogs like you? asked Mr. Waysmith searchingly. Tilda Jane's dreamy glance went out through the big back barn doors to the farms in the distance. When I was a tiny girl, sir, in an orphan asylum, there was one lady-board I loved.
She used to sit down by me and put her arm around me. She didn't say soft words much. But I felt something when she was near. I guess it was because she really and truly liked all little children. If she hadn't been delicate and stayed away I'd never have run off.
I guess she would have stood by me. Girls are most as smart as we are, sir, about knowing who likes them. Mr. Waysmith nodded thoughtfully, and saying good-bye to her and to Grandpa, walked toward his carriage. To Tilda Jane's surprise he stopped on the way to greet Perletta, who had quietly entered
the yard some time before and had seated herself on the wooden platform. The little girl stopped rocking the dog for a minute. What was Mr. Waysmith saying to Perletta, to make her hang her head in blush, either with pleasure or shame?
