menu_book Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII. Mild Forgiveness. Nova was poorly. He had had more bad nights than usual lately, and very often, when the morning came, he was not able to leave his bed. "'And it's such a shame, because we're having such a nice thaw,' murmured Tilda Jane, "'and the weather is so soft. You ought to be out drinking in this sweet air, like the

cow and milkweed in the yard, and the dogs and pigeons and sparrows.' She was trying not to harden her heart against Mr. Waysmith. For a few days after her inner view with him, she had had a lingering hope that he might come and say he had forgiven poor Grandpa. But he had not done so. He had not called, he had not written, he had sent no message. Well, she had done her duty, and she was glad to hear through the melonsons

that young Waysmith went no more to the bad Cajuns. His father had stopped that, so she had done some good. One fine Saturday afternoon she was in Grandpa's room. She had been reading the Bible to him, and now sat with the book open on her lap, thoughtfully gazing out at the sociable milkweed who had come from the barn and stood in the sunny yard outside with her head close to

the window. She was eating, one by one, a row of sweet apples that Tilda Jane had placed on the sill, and occasionally the little girl's loving glance wandered from her and across the yard down French Row where the big yellow sun was slipping behind the houses to the pine wood along the river. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. The words were a mockery to

poor Grandpa, with his deadly fear of Mr. Waysmith, and he had been listening to her with his face turned toward the wall. There's a ring at the front door, he said presently, and as if grateful for the interruption. Tilda Jane started. She had been so absorbed in her musings that she had not heard it, and stumbling over Grandpa's crutches she hurried from the room. To her surprise and

utter paralysis of tongue, a condition of things that did not often overtake her, she was confronted by Mr. Waysmith. Good afternoon, he said politely, and slightly smiling at her confusion. Is Mr. Dilsen in? Yes, sir, stammered Tilda Jane. May I see him? And as she silently turned, he stepped after her into the house. Tilda Jane left him in

the parlor and hurried back to the bedroom. Grandpa dear, she said, so eagerly that her words tripped over each other, Mr. Waysmith's here, and he wants to see you, and I can bring him in, can't I? Grandpa's pale face grew paler. In all the years of his retirement the rich merchant had not once called to ask after his health, but he had better see him now. There might

be some question of his pension at stake. Let him in, he said shortly, and Tilda Jane hastened back to the parlor. Grandpa'll see you, sir. Please step this way. How had she ever dared to speak as familiarly to this man as she had done a few days ago? There was something exceedingly awe-inspiring about him, and hearing his heavy tread behind

her she shivered and murmured, I feel as if there was a monument pacing after me. When they reached the bedroom door Mr. Waysmith turned to her, My son is out in the sleigh, he has a small parcel for you, perhaps you will go and get it. Tilda Jane took the hint given and hurried out to the big handsome sleigh where a dignified

coachman sat stiffly holding the reins. After a hasty glance at the two powerful black horses Tilda Jane nodded in a somewhat preoccupied fashion to Dades, who was lounging on the back seat. He took off his cap and held it in his hand as if she were the grandest lady in Siskeset. Then, seizing a parcel, he sprang out of the sleigh and said, Let us go in the house, you may get cold out here.

Tilda Jane proceeded him up the short walk to the front door and ushered him into the little parlor that to the lad seemed very amusing with its fiery red carpet and funeral black hair cloth furniture. Here's your present, he said, handing her the parcel. Mama and Papa have been in Boston and they bought it for you.

Won't you sit down? asked the little girl soberly, and seating herself on the shiny sofa she unfastened string and paper and then gave a gasp of pure ecstasy. Before her was a good sized pink silk lined work basket with pockets, pin cushions, scissors, thread, needles, silver thimble and many other conveniences for an expert needle woman. After a while the blissful little girl got her breath and burst forth into ejaculatory remarks that

Dades listened to with an amused grin, storing them in his memory to repeat to his mother. Won't I darn now? Won't I make Grandpa's socks look fine and hanks? Won't I mend their shirts and coats and everything? I'll sew like the wind. Finally her strong business instinct asserting itself she said, Now who do you say I am to thank for this beauty thing?

My mother and father. Well, will you tell your mother please that I've never had a thing that gave me such happy pain? Because if I'd had a real mother this is likely what she'd have given me. Did you have an unreal mother? inquired Dades waggishly. I was a mistake I think, said Tilda Jane wistfully. Some people have children, then they seem

surprised like as if to say, What in the world did you want to come and bother me for? I didn't intend to bother anyone, she added apologetically, but here I am. What can I do? The petted boy could not in the faintest degree enter into the orphan's feelings, but he felt that she was voicing an interplaint and he said consolingly, I'll give my mother your

message. She is coming to see you some day. I heard my father ask her. Your father ask her? repeated Tilda Jane slowly. Yes, he did. Tilda Jane wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. Seems to me I size up some folks all wrong. I believe your father is better than he looks.

He's the best man in Siskeset, replied Dades warmly. Tilda Jane said nothing but went on nursing the pink lined basket in her arms. After a time she said meditatively, He's talking a good while to Grandpa. I'm glad. Yes, something about business, said the lad carelessly, and he looked bored and went to the window.

Tilda Jane put down her basket and said anxiously, Don't you want to come out in the yard and see our new horse? We can go the front way, so we won't break in on your father and Grandpa. All right, said Dades, and with the little girl he sauntered out through the garden to the yard. Bonjour, bébé, he called to one of the little melancons who was passing along the sidewalk.

Tilda Jane turned suddenly and without premeditation asked, How did you learn French? Dades did not suspect her knowledge of his former visits to the home of the bad Acadian, and with a smile informed her that he used to have some French friends, but now he had cut their acquaintance. Tilda Jane would not pursue so dangerous a topic of conversation, and saying hastily,

I suppose such as you always have to study languages, she launched into an enthusiastic description of the good qualities of the beautiful milkweed who was coming to meet them. While she and Dades were chatting briskly, the two elder persons were confronting each other in mutual embarrassment. They really had little to say, and after a polite inquiry as to the state of his pensioner's health and another remark with regard to the beauty

of the day, Mr. Waysmith lapsed into silence. Grandpa lay quietly in the bed, and the Bible that Tilda Jane had left open near him caught Mr. Waysmith's attention. Taking it up, his eye fell on a verse. And if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your father forgive your trespasses. That covered the case, and to expedite matters he read it aloud.

Grandpa looked at him strangely. What had come over Mr. Waysmith? An hour ago he would have said it was the most improbable thing in the world that the lumber merchant should be sitting reading the Bible to him. Yet here he was doing it, and seeming quite natural in the act. He said, as he closed the book and put it back on the bed,

I have just come from Boston. Grandpa said nothing, and his collar went on. The object of my journey there was to see Grover. You remember Grover, once your helper at the mill? Grandpa did indeed remember Grover, the assistant bookkeeper in his day, and in a somewhat husky

voice said he did. Mr. Waysmith paused a minute. There was something exceedingly pathetic to him in the spectacle of that old white head peeping at him from the cover of the bedclothes. The old man's hands had grasped the sheet and drawn it up close under his neck. His attitude was uneasy yet resolved. There was

no weakening yet, and his collar went on. Grover and I had a long conversation, and naturally a part of it related to you. As he had been for so long a time intimately associated with you, I asked him whether he agreed with me in forming a high estimate of your honesty and faithfulness when in my employ and in that of my father. He said that he did.

Grandpa was perspiring freely. Little rills of moisture ran down his cheeks, yet he kept the clothes tucked under his neck and his beady eyes fixed on his visitor. Mr. Waysmith continued meditatively, looking out the window and talking as if to himself. There are several classes of men in the world. One in which I am specially interested is that composed of persons who are, on the whole, models of integrity. Yet at some time in the

lives of these good people there will be an unaccountable lapse from this strict integrity, a lapse that only their Maker or the Devil who tempts them can account for. Grandpa had never been tempted, judging by his unaltered position and expression. And Mr. Waysmith went on. Another class that I am fond of studying is that of persons drifting little by little,

thanks to heredity or environment, into fixed and unalterable habits of wrongdoing. They are deceitful habitually. They cannot help themselves, but between them and the occasional sinners who recover themselves nobly, there is, in my opinion, a great gulf fixed. Grandpa had apparently only a distant interest in sinners of any class and rising. Mr. Waysmith said,

Good-bye, Dilson, I must go. But first let me say something that perhaps may sound impertinent, although it is not meant so, and that also might be taken as too much along the line of guessing for a business man. It is this. Without altering my present opinion of you in the least, I wish to say that if you ever,

while keeping my books, made any mistakes of any kind, and thereby fretted yourself into irritation over them, I think that the occasion was not worthy of the results. A frank statement to me would have brought relief. Grandpa did not care for frank statements, unless he was furious with rage, which he certainly never would be with Mr. Waysmith, and, comprehending this, the merchant took

a sudden resolution. He had found out what he wished to know. He and Grover had both been mistaken. The little orphan girl with her heart aglow with sympathy and love for Dilson had been right. There was no indifference nor surprise on the old man's face now, as there would have been had his former employer's suspicions been baseless. He was suffering, acutely and visibly, and, accurately guessing at the cause of this emotion, Mr. Waysmith

stepped up to his pillow. Dilson, he said kindly but firmly, I have reason to believe that you once, through mistake, design or otherwise, defrauded me of a certain sum of money. How much was it? Mr. Waysmith was standing so close that the beady eyes had to roll upward to look at him. They did not flinch. Grandpa would not confess, neither would he deny. After a long time his former

employer's compelling glance overcame him. Two hundred and fifty dollars, he said in a rasping voice, then his purple lids closed over his eyes. Two hundred and fifty dollars, repeated the merchant, is one's peace of mind worth so small a sum? Grandpa would not commit himself to an opinion.

What was the manner of taking it? inquired Mr. Waysmith sternly. Conscience money, replied Grandpa. Someone had stolen it from me. From your father, former bookkeeper, false entries. What was his name? Percy. And he returned the money to the firm through you, and you kept it? I did. Strange, strange, murmured Mr. Waysmith. Then through the window his eye fell on Tilda Jane

and Datus, who, accompanied by the interested milkweed, were feeding the pigeons and sparrows. That girl had rendered him a great service. His son, now that he had come under his direct supervision, was improving, and he was enjoying his companionship. Dilson, he said with sudden animation, and with a brief smile that made his heavy face laughable.

Who am I that I should appoint myself judge over you? I, too, have to crave forgiveness for sins. I am an egotist, a stubborn worldling. Having been often deceived I seem to have lost faith in my fellow man. From my heart I forgive you. The money as though it had not been. Put it out of your thoughts. Let your remaining years be happy. Tilda was not satisfied.

"'Subtract it from pension,' he said hoarsely. "'Your pension is a fair one,' said Mr. Waysmith kindly. "'Yet you would miss that sum. I cannot cut it down.' "'Subtract it,' muttered the old man. Mr. Waysmith narrowly inspected him. The glistening eyes were distended and unnatural.

"'Very well,' he said hastily. But in his own mind a plan to make good the deficiency suddenly unfolded itself. He would place the subtracted sum in the bank to the credit of Tilda Jane. "'That young girl you have with you,' he said in an interested tone, appears devoted to you and intelligent beyond her years.

"'She told on me,' ejaculated Grandpa. Mr. Waysmith smiled. "'She loves you, Dilson. She was greatly exercised over an endeavour to secure your happiness.' Grandpa expressed no gratitude to Tilda Jane. Indeed, he began to look so strangely that

his companion was alarmed. The mental strain of the return to old days and old affairs had been too much for him, and Mr. Waysmith hurried from the room. "'Datus, go for Dr. Gressler,' he said quickly, and without waiting to hear the rest of the order Tilda Jane dashed into the house. Grandpa was having some kind of a fit, and with a white face she ran for the water bucket."

End of chapter 8