menu_book Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI. A CALL ON THE LUMBER MERCHANT. The day's work was over for Mr. Weismuth, the stout, prosperous-looking lumber merchant, the richest man in Ciscassette. His evening was just beginning, and he sat alone in his luxurious library, where none of the family ever penetrated unless at his request. He had spent his usual number of hours at his desk in the office at the mill. He had had his daily drive and his

dinner. And now came his time of relaxation. Many of the latest magazines were on the table by his side. He was stretched out in an easy chair with his feet to a cozy fire, and sounds of music came from the distant parlor where his wife and children, with a number of their friends, were amusing themselves. Last but not least, over in the corner lay his inseparable friend, companion and guardian, the creature who lived only for him, but in such an on-obtrusive way

that many persons never suspected his existence. Come here, Muffles, he said suddenly, and he held out a hand. A thoroughbred bulldog, whole-colored and with a black mask of a face, came compositely from a shadowy corner. He did not lick the hand extended to him. He merely touched it with his black muzzle, and was about to return to his corner when his master said, Up here. The task of springing to the easy chair

was a light one to a dog of such a powerful front. He scarcely seemed to move as he sprang. Then he spread his stout and muscular limbs across Mr. Wayesmith's knee, and lifted his massive head to his face. Courage, tenacity, unyielding stubbornness, murmured Mr. Wayesmith. But, in spite of that enormous head, no more brains than other dogs. You're something like me, Muffles. I'm not brilliant. I get on because I hold fast. The dog never moved a muscle.

For that reason he was Mr. Wayesmith's closest confidant. You listen and make no sign, continued the merchant. Yet you never sleep where I am concerned. Twice you have saved my life. Muffles, don't die. I could not replace you. The dog did not wag his tail, nor did he lick the caressing fingers. And finally, as if thinking, there is nothing new or remarkable in these observations. He turned his stolid gaze to the fire. Presently he rousted himself and

looked toward the door. Someone has come, said Mr. Wayesmith composedly. Though I hear nothing, get into your corner. The dog obeyed him, stealing like a substantial shadow behind a sofa. An instant later someone knocked at the door, and when Mr. Wayesmith said, Come in, a bright-faced young Irish maid announced, with assumed boldness, that a young girl wished to see him. He frowned slightly. Send her away. Tell her my office is

the place where I see strangers. Sure, and I did, sir. But instead of getting out, she's all for getting in, and the housekeeper is afeard she'll not take advice. That she'll take a cold instead. Or she'll be for climbing up the stoop, and insinuating herself through a wonder. She's that wild to get in. Mr. Wayesmith had a great regard for his old housekeeper's opinion. He had also a slight suspicion that this young girl did not look upon him with proper respect,

therefore with a desire to suppress her, and to get rid of messages from his audacious caller. He said curtly, Bring her in. His suspicion with regard to Irish Mary was quite unfounded. She stood in awe of him quite as much as the rest of the world, and her flow of information had been prompted by nervousness, therefore with a relieved gasping, Yes, sir. She closed the door and disappeared. Mr. Wayesmith did not recognize the dark, respectable-looking, half-grown girl who

quietly entered, and drawing himself up in his chair, he fixed her with a solemn, steady stare. Tilda Jane was not as nervous as Irish Mary, but still she had considerable dread of this ponderous, dignified man. She had forced herself into his presence, and she supposed he would be very angry with her, very much to her relief. He was indulging only in cold disdain. The high-up folks know how to get mad proper, she murmured. That yelling and firing things, like poor grandpa, upsets me awful.

Excuse me, sir, she continued aloud, and leaning against a corner of the table, as he did not ask her to sit down. I've got something to say to you that'll make you prick up your ears just like a dog's. Something about business. This word changed the character of the forced interview. Mr. Wayesmith was at all times the alert man of affairs. This girl might have something important to communicate to him. Some disaster might threaten him. Perhaps some evil, disposed person was about to fire his

lumber yards. He had been warned of this before. Sit down, he said, with cold politeness, pointing to a nearby chair. I say business, remarked Tilda Jane as she obeyed him. It's part of your business, part mine. I guess you don't call me to mind, sir. He did not, for he was slowly shaking his head, and she went on. Do you call up the time, sir, when a poor little girl asked you for money on the train, and you wouldn't give it? A gleam of recollection, not agreeable recollection,

passed over his face. Your son kind of took pity on me that day. He's got a nice face, sir, bright and shiny looking, and he's awful handsome, favors his ma. Now, sir, I guess I'd like to see that young fellow good and prospering, and not standing in the way of sinners, nor sitting in the seat of the scornful. Mr. Wayesmith acknowledged these good wishes by a stately bow. But first, I must go back on my tracks, said Tilda Jane, pulling herself up briskly. You'd like to have

some account of me since I last set eyes on you. I was in a pack of trouble then, and I've had a few courts since. But things have changed with me, sir. I suppose you know the Tracies. Mr. Wayesmith again bowed. They're good folks, sir, truly good. I go to see them once and so often, and they fix things all up between me and that old man. What old man? Mr. Dillson, sir, he that was your bookkeeper. Don't you mind? I was coming to keep house for him. Her companion's heavy face brightened at

the mention of a familiar name, and he assured her that he did not recall the circumstance. Yes, sir, she continued. The Tracies got Mr. Dillson, or Grandpa, as I call him, to say I could bide with him, and they used to send us tasty things to eat. Then Mr. Tracy got Hank, that good place in your mill as assistant bookkeeper. This was not news to Mr. Wayesmith, and he wrinkled his forehead in slight impatience. Tilda Jane felt his impatience, but she was

launched and could not stop herself. Well, sir, as I was saying, I'm living with Grandpa, and I'm getting to set more store by him every day. He isn't all tiger as your son said he was. I found some lamb in him, and I'd just like your son to come and see him on one of his lamby days. If I was sure when one was coming on, I'd send for him. But Grandpa's chancy. I like your son. He's so free-like and chatty, and always stops me in the street and asks me how I'm getting on.

I'm not afraid of him, like I am of you, sir. What was the girl working up to? Mr. Wayesmith withdrew the thumb marking a place in the partly closed magazine on his knee, and, putting it on the table, took up another. He was master of a number of small devices calculated to hurry a long-winded caller. He was just about to stand up when something occurred that effectually aroused his interest. His dog, the quiet, undemonstrative Muffles, was coming deliberately

from his corner to inspect this small girl. Mr. Wayesmith was quietly amazed. He watched the dog go up to tell to Jane, sniff curiously about her dress, then stand on his hind legs, calmly search her face, and, as if satisfied and charmed with his scrutiny, gently licked her hand. And this was the dog who rarely caressed his master, and never, by any chance, gave a stranger more than a searching glance. After watching him go back to his corner, Mr. Wayesmith said, Are you fond of dogs?

Oh, yes, sir, she said eloquently. Don't you mind that day I met you on the train? I had one dog in my arms and the other in the baggage car. I just love them. I think I must be a kind of sister to dogs. He said nothing, and she continued, Don't be jealous, sir, of that there dog, which I see is a quiet one that doesn't favor strangers. He just knows I love him, and he's trying to tell me he knows it, because we may never meet again. Go on with your story, said Mr. Wayesmith in a non-committal

way. Well, sir, she said feverishly, I'm right in the Dilsen family now, and we are quite a family. There's Ruthann, the cow, and Milkweed, the horse, and our new orphan, Perletta, and the pigeons and sparrows, and the deer, comfy hens. And that reminds me, I ought to be home now greasing the hens' legs, because they've got the scaly disease. But I thought your son's soul ought to come first. I love animals, but I always make them come after the humans. Now, being a member of the family,

I can't help taking in that grandpa isn't a good sleeper. And she paused and closely scrutinized her hearer to see whether he showed any sign of emotion at this statement. He did not. It was in no wise remarkable that an old man should be a light sleeper. Grandpa's got something on his mind, sir, said the little girl hastily. And I guess you're the only one that could get it off. It's been on ever since I come here. Last year, I thought it was trouble on a count of $60 he

lost in the street, and never got. But it's not the $60. This is higher trouble. But I know you could get it off. Instead of being overcome by this announcement, Mr. Weismuth stifled the yawn. He wished this young girl would stop posing about an old man who had long since left his employ, and would take herself away. Her announcement of business must have been a mere pretext to beg. Dillson was a good, trustworthy bookkeeper. In his day, he said patronizingly,

take this and buy some little delicacy for him. Tilted Jane would not touch the $5 note he was offering her, and her face grew crimson. I'm not begging, sir. It's mind trouble that I'm trying to explain. Well, why did she not explain it, he wondered. Why did she hesitate and stammer and fall into such a state of confusion? I'm not set in my opinions, sir, she said, reading his thoughts surely. I'm not sure I'm on the right track. Yet I'm all broke up about poor grandpa.

If he confesses to you, I guess you'd forgive him, particularly as I've got something to tell about forgiving someone else. Mr. Weismuth looked coldly interested, and a trifle suspicious. Oh, it's a lovely thing to forgive, exclaimed the little girl eloquently, to have your heart all melted down and soft like the rivers in the spring, and not to have icy feelings anymore. I used to be a little mad with grandpa, and now I can't get mad, because I've given it all up.

I'd like to see him happy, sir. The lumber merchant, only slightly touched by her eulogium on the pleasures of forgiveness, had suddenly become possessed of a lively curiosity. Dillson had done him wrong, and this girl had found it out. If you speak out plainly and tell me what you have to say, I will consider your statement, he remarked judicially. I pay no attention to enigmas.

I don't know what enigmas are, responded Tilda Jane desperately, but I know something about your son. You'd give ten piles of lumber to know. Her companion regarded her for the silent and solemn space of one minute. Then he said, You wish to effect a bargain? You have a secret with regard to my son, to barter for my forgiveness of some wrongdoing on the part of Dillson? It doesn't sound pretty, to put it that way, said Tilda Jane, struggling with some inner

and powerful emotion. But let it go. Now you will promise to say. That thing is past and gone. I forgive you, and don't yell any more in your sleep. The only way in which Dillson has been able to injure me is by defrauding me of money. He probably has done that, said Mr. Waysmith coolly. Suppose he had, replied Tilda Jane wildly. Suppose he had taken money. Suppose he didn't

think. Then he was sorry. What would you do? Would you forgive him? Mr. Waysmith did not like being cross-questioned by one so immeasurably his inferior. However, he wished to obtain the rest of her information. So he said calmly, As a general thing, I punish. I do not forgive. You don't? Oh, sir. Why not? Forgiveness doesn't pay, my girl. There is no such thing in business.

You wouldn't drag him to jail, would you? she cried, her eyes wide open in horror. Calm yourself and lower your voice. When I understand the case more fully, I will decide what to do. Now your information about my son. Oh, I can't tell you, sir. Not unless you promise to go see Grandpa and tell him you forgive him and let him lie in peace in his bed. You ought to go into trade, young girl.

You would make your fortune. Oh, I'm not thinking of trading. I'm thinking of having people happy and comfortable. Oh, sir. You will come and see Grandpa, and you will forgive him? When Dillson comes to me and confesses what he has done, it will be time enough for me to say what I will do. But he's scared out of his life, sir. He's more afraid of you than of a great big

ugly bear with a sore paw. He was evidently not scared enough of me to keep from injuring me. Tilda Jane was terribly upset. She rose from her seat and stood opening and shutting her mouth without uttering a word and nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. Oh, those little pig eyes. She muttered to herself. He's just steeped in selfishness. He isn't willing to forgive. He's mad with Grandpa. Maybe he'll tell him what I've said,

and Grandpa will be mad with me. Oh, dear. I wish I'd been born without a tongue. I've done no good. Have you anything more to say, young girl? asked Mr. Weismuth deliberately. He had risen now and was staring down at her in a magnificent way. He wants me to go, said Tilda Jane between her closed teeth. I shan't tell him anything about his son. I shan't give him the wink he'd be glad to get. Let him find out, said she, her lips pressed. Oh, Lord, keep me from saying anything

hateful to him. With a last reproachful stare, she hurriedly walked out of the room, looking at him peculiarly over her shoulder as she did so, and keeping her mouth tightly closed. Her manner was sufficient. Mr. Weismuth understood her, and with a frown, he stepped to the door and turned the key in the lock. Tilda Jane heard him, and stamping her foot with rage and impatience, she hurried out of the house and down the steps to the graveled walk. Though she had gone, she had made an impression.

She had spoiled Mr. Weismuth's evening. All interest had left the magazine pages, and he'd let the one in his hand slip to the floor and stared thoughtfully at the fire. Did any danger threaten his boy, the only child he had, or was this girl a storyteller? Probably she was. She had concocted some fable in order to wheedle him into forgiveness of his pensioner Dilson. Daddis was doing well with his studies. He had safe companions. He bade

fare to make a model man. True, he talked a good deal, and boasted more than his father liked, but those were faults of youth. The girl was a dishonorable and scheming little witch, and, with sudden anger and impatience against her, the merchant went to the bookcase for his Shakespeare, and forced himself to read. A few minutes later, he closed the volume with an irritated exclamation. Staring him in the face were the lines, I forgive you, as I would be forgiven. He would go to bed.

His head ached. The room was hot, and he was just rising and extending a hand to turn off the lights, when he heard a tapping at the window beyond him. End of chapter 6.