THE STORY OF HER LIFE.
The young man said nothing more at the time, but ten minutes later,
when he was thoughtfully smoking a long brown pipe, and 'Tilda Jane
sat in a chair beside him, rocking her dog, he called out to Mrs.
Minley, who was hovering about the room. "Sit down, Mrs. Minley.
P'raps you can get this little girl to talk; I can't."
'Tilda Jane turned sharply to him. "Oh, mister, I'd do anything for
you. I'll talk."
"Well, reel it off then. I've got to start soon."
"What d'ye want to know?" she said, doggedly.
"Everything; tell me where you started from. Was you born in the
asylum?"
"Nobody don't know where I was born. Nobody don't know who I am,
'cept that a woman come to the poorhouse with me to Middle Marsden
when I was a baby. She died, an' I was left. They give me the name
of 'Tilda Jane Harper, an' put me in the 'sylum. Children come an'
went. Just as soon as I'd get to like 'em they'd be 'dopted; I never
was 'dopted, 'cause I'm so ugly. My eyes ought to 'a' been blue, an'
my hair curly. I might 'a' been a servant, but my habits was in the
way."
"Habits--what habits?" asked Hank.
"Habits of impidence an' pig-headedness. When the men come to kill
the pigs I'd shut myself in my room, an' put my fingers in my ears,
an' I couldn't hear, but I'd always squeal when the pigs squealed."
"Is that why you wouldn't eat your ham just now?"
"Oh, that ain't ham to me," she said, eloquently. "That bit o' red
meat was a cunnin', teeny white pig runnin' round a pen, cryin'
'cause the butcher's after him. I couldn't eat it, any more'n I'd eat
my brother."
"You're a queer little kite," interjected the young man, and he
exchanged an amused glance with Mrs. Minley, who was swaying gently
back and forth in a rocking-chair.
"So you wasn't very much set up at the asylum?" he went on.
"I guess I'm too bad for a 'sylum. Once our washerwoman took me home
to supper. I guess heaven must be like that. They had a cat, too. I
used to get in most trouble at the 'sylum 'bout cats. When starvin'
ones came rubbin' up agin me in the garden, I couldn't help sneakin'
them a bit o' bread from the pantry. It beats all, how cats find out
people as likes 'em. Then I'd get jerked up."
"Jerked up?" repeated her interlocutor.
"Locked in my room, or have my hands slapped. Once I took a snake in
the house. He was cold, but he got away from me, an' the matron found
him in her bed. She whipped me that time."
"Was that what made you run away?"
"No, I run away on account o' this dog. You call up the cold spell we
had a week ago?"
"You bet--I was out in it."
"Well, there come the coldest night. The matron give us extry
blankets, but I couldn't sleep. I woke up in the middle o' the night,
an' I thought o' that dog out in the stable. 'He'll freeze,' I said,
an' when I said it, it seemed as if icicles were stickin' into me. I
was mos' crazy. I got up an' looked out the window. There was a moon,
an awful bitin', ugly kind of a moon grinnin' at me. I put on some
clo'es, I slipped down-stairs, an' it seemed as if everythin' was
yellin' in the cold. Every board an' every wall I touched went off
like a gun, but no one woke, an' I got out in the stable.
"The horse was warm an' so was the cow, but this little dog was mos'
froze. I tried to warm him, but my fingers got like sticks. Then I
did a scand'lous thing. I says, 'I'll take him in bed with me an'
warm him for a spell, an' no one'll know;' so I lugged him in the
house, an' he cuddled down on my arm just so cunnin'. Then I tried to
stay awake, so I could carry him out early in the mornin', but didn't
I fall to sleep, an' the first thing I knowed there was the matron
a-spearin' me with her eyes, an she put out her hand to ketch the
dog, an' he up an' bit her, an' then there was trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" asked the young man.
"I had bread an' water for two days, an' the dog was shut up in the
stable, an' then I was brought up before the lady-board."
"The lady-board," murmured Mrs. Minley; "what does the child mean?"
"The board of lady managers," explained Dillson.
"Tell us about it," he said to 'Tilda Jane.
The latter was keeping an eye on the clock. She knew that the time
must soon come for her to part from her new-found friend. It was not
in her nature to be very demonstrative, yet she could not altogether
hide a certain feverishness and anxiety. One thing, however, she
could do, and she subdued her emotion in order to do it. It amused
the young man to hear her talk. She would suppress her natural
inclination to silence and gravity, and try to entertain him. And the
more she talked, possibly the longer he would stay.
Therefore she went on: "There they set round the table as big an'
handsome as so many pies. One lady was at the top, an' she rapped on
the table with a little hammer, an' said, ''Tention, ladies!' Then
she says, 'Here is the 'fortinate object of dissection. What part
shall we tackle fust? Name your wishes, ladies.' Then she stopped an'
another lady begun, 'Mam pressiding, stake the case.'"
The young man took his pipe from his mouth, and Mrs. Minley
ejaculated, "Mercy me!"
"Madam president, I guess," he said, gravely. "Go on, sissy."
'Tilda Jane went on, still with her eye on the clock, and still
speaking feverishly. "The mam pressiding staked me out. Says she,
'Here is a little girl--she come to us like a lily o' the field; no
dress on, no bunnit, no nothin'. We've fed an' clothed the lily,
an' guv her good advice, an' she's lifted up her heel agin us. She
deifies us, she introjuces toads an' snakes into the sacred presings
of our sinningcherry for orphans. She packs a dirty dog in bed. We'll
never levelate her. She's lowering the key of our 'stution. She knows
not the place of reptiles an' quadruples. Ladies, shall we keep
this little disturving lellement in our 'stution? If thy hand 'fend
against thee cut it off. If thy foot straggle, treat it likewise.'
"Then she set down, an' another lady got up. Says she, 'I'm always
for mercy--strained mercy dropping like juice from heaven. If this
little girl is turned inside out, she'll be a bright an' shinin'
light. I prepose that we make the 'speriment. The tastes is in her,
but we can nip off the grati'cations. I remove that instead of
disturving her, we disturve the animiles. Ladies, we has hard work to
run this 'stution.'"
"This 'stution?" said the young man.
"Yes, 'stution," repeated 'Tilda Jane, "that's what they call the
'sylum. Well, this lady went on an' says she, 'Let's send away the
cats an' dogs an' all the children's pets--squirrels an' pigeons
an' rabbits, 'cause this little girl's disruptin' every child on
the place. Once when cats come an' other animiles, they was stoned
away. Now they're took in. I come across one little feller jus' now,
an' instead o' learnin' his lesson he was playin' with a beetle.
Ticklin' it with a straw, ladies. Now ain't that awful? We've got
'sponsibilities toward these foun'lings. I feels like a mother. If
we sends 'em foolish out in the world we'll be blamed. Our faithful
matron says it's unpossible to ketch rats an' mice. This little girl
gets at the traps, an' let's 'em go. She's a born rule-smasher!'
"Then she closed her mouth an' set down, an' the big lady sittin'
at the head o' the table pounded her hammer 'cause they all fell to
jabberin'. Says she, 'Will some lady make a commotion?' Then one lady
got up, an' she says, 'I remove that all animiles be decharged from
this 'stution.'
"'What about the chickings?' called out another lady. 'You must
declude them. This will go on record.' The other lady said, ''Scuse
me, I forgot the chickings. I'll mend my dissolution. I remove that
all quadruples be decharged from this 'stution.'
"That suited some, an' didn't suit t'others, an' there was a kind of
chally-vally. One lady said she's mend the mendment, an' then the mam
pressiding got kind o' mixy-maxy, an' said they'd better start all
over agin, 'cause she'd lose her way 'mong so many mendments. After
a long time, they got their ideas sot, an' they said that I was to
stay, but all the animiles was to go. I didn't snuffle nor nothin',
but I just said, 'Are you plannin' to kill that there dog?'
"The mam pressiding gave a squeal an' said, 'No, that would be cruel.
They would give the dog to some little feller who would be good to
him.' I said, 'Little fellers tie tin cans to dogs' tails'--an' then
they got mad with me an' said I was trespicious. Then I said, 'All
right,' 'cause what could I do agin a whole lot o' lady-boards? But
I made up my mind I'd have to work my way out of it, 'cause it would
kill that little dog to be took from me. So I run away."
Her story was done, and, closing her lips in dogged resolution, she
stared inquiringly at the young man. He was not going to withdraw his
protection from her, she saw that, but what would he direct her to do
next?
He was thoughtfully tapping his pipe against the fireplace, now he
was putting it in his pocket, and now he was going to speak.
[Illustration: "'TILDA JANE SAT LIKE A STATUE."]
"Little girl, you've started for Australia, and as I don't believe
in checking a raring, tearing ambition, I won't try to block you,
exactly, but only to sidetrack. You can't go to Australia bang
off. It's too far. And you haven't got the funds. Now I'll make a
proposition. I've got an old father 'most as cranky as that there
dog. I guess if you're so long-suffering with the animal, you'll be
long-suffering with the human. He needs some tidy body to keep his
house trigged up, and to wait on him, 'cause he's lame. He has an
everlasting wrastle to keep a housekeeper on account of this same
flash-light temper. But I guess from what I've seen of you, that you
could fix him. And you'd have a home which you seem to hanker for.
And you could save your money and start for Australia when you've put
enough flesh on those bones to keep you from blowing away into the
sea and getting lost. Starting would be convenient, for my father
lives near the big Canadian railway that is a round the world route.
You can step aboard the cars, go to the Pacific, board a steamer, and
go on your way to Australia. What do you say--is it a bargain?"
'Tilda Jane sat like a statue. The firelight danced behind her
little, grave profile that remained unchanged, save for the big tears
rolling slowly and deliberately down each thin cheek and dropping on
the faded dress. Only the tears and the frantically clasped hands
betrayed emotion.
"I guess it's a go," said the young man, kindly. "Here's my father's
address," and getting up he handed a card to her. "Hobart Dillson,
Ciscasset, Maine. I've got to make tracks now, but Mrs. Minley here
will put you on a train that comes by here in the morning, and all
you've got to do is to sit still in it, till you hear the conductor
holler Ciscasset. Then you hustle out and ask some one where Hobart
Dillson lives. When you get there, don't shake if he throws a crutch
at you. Just tell him you've come to stay, and I'm going to pay extra
for it. That'll cool him, 'cause he's had to pay a housekeeper out
of his own allowance up to this. The old boy and I don't rub along
together very sweet, but he knows the size of a dollar every time."
'Tilda Jane choked back the suffocating lump in her throat, and
gravely rose to her feet. "Sir, I'm as much obleeged to you as--"
Here she broke down.
"As you ought to be," he finished. "Don't mention it. I'm happy
to make your acquaintance. So long," and he politely held out two
fingers.
A vague terror seized the little girl. He had arranged everything for
her, and yet she had never since her escape felt so paralysed with
fear. Her beseeching eyes sought Mrs. Minley's face. The landlady was
smiling graciously at her, but the little girl's heart sunk. Quite
unknown to herself, she was a sharp reader of character. She was
losing her best friend in the fat young man.
"Take me with you," she gasped, suddenly clinging to his hand.
"Can't do that, sissy. I'm going back into the settlements--bad
roads, scattered houses. You'd freeze stiff. Better stay here with
Mrs. Minley. I'll run up to Ciscasset by and by to see you."
'Tilda Jane drew back in sudden, steely composure. She was ashamed of
herself. "I'm crazy," she said, shortly; "you've done enough for me
now. I'll take care of your father if he gets mad fifty times a day."
Already she felt a sense of responsibility. She drew herself up with
dignity, and in sad, composed silence watched the young man leave the
room and the house. When the last faint sound of his sleigh-bells
had died away, she gave up her listening attitude, and turned
patiently to Mrs. Minley, who was saying with a yawn, "I guess you'd
better go to bed."
'Tilda Jane walked obediently toward her room, and Mrs. Minley,
seating herself on a chair in cold curiosity, watched her undress.
When the little girl knelt down to say her prayers, a feeble smile
illuminated the woman's face. However, she was still listless and
uninterested, until the latter portion of the petition.
"O Lord," 'Tilda Jane was praying earnestly, almost passionately,
"forgive me for all this sin an' 'niquity. I just had to run away. I
couldn't give up that little dog that thou didst send me. I'll live
square as soon as I get takin' care o' that ole man. Bless the matron
an' make her forgive me, an' bless all the lady-boards--Mis' Grannis
'specially, 'cause she'll be maddest with me. Keep me from tellin'
any more lies. Amen."
When 'Tilda Jane rose from her knees, Mrs. Minley's breath was coming
and going quickly, and there was a curious light in her eyes. "Mrs.
Grannis, did you say?" she asked, shortly. "Mrs. Grannis, over Beaver
Dam way?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What has she got to do with the asylum?"
"She's the fust lady-board. She sits behind the table an' pounds the
hammer."
"And she'll be maddest with you?"
"Yes, ma'am. She says children has too much liberties."
"Hurry into bed," said Mrs. Minley, briefly, and taking up the lamp,
and without a word of farewell, she disappeared from the room.
'Tilda Jane cowered down between the cold sheets. Then she stretched
out a hand to touch the precious bundle on the chair by her bed. And
then she tried to go to sleep, but sleep would not come.