UNSTABLE AS WATER.
A vague uneasiness possessed her. Ah, how happy would she be, could
she know that the young creamery man was sleeping under the same
roof! But he was speeding somewhere far away over the snowy roads.
However, she should see him again. He had said so, and, with the
hopefulness of youth, she sighed a happy sigh and, closing her eyes
tightly, listened to the various sounds about the quiet house.
There must have been another arrival, for she heard doors opening and
shutting, and also the jingle of sleigh-bells. They were strangely
confused in her mind with the ringing of the rising-bell at the
orphan asylum, and she was just sinking into a dreamy condition, a
forerunner of sleep, when she heard a hard voice in her ear.
"Get up an' dress, little girl."
She raised herself quietly from the pillow. There stood over her the
tall, gaunt woman whom she had heard Mrs. Minley address as Ruth Ann.
To her perturbed mind, there rose a vision of a graven image from
the Bible, as she stared at the woman's stony countenance. She was
standing shading a candle with her hand, and her deep eyes were fixed
in unmistakable compassion on the little girl.
"Jump up," she repeated, "an' dress like sixty. You've got yourself
into a peck o' trouble."
'Tilda Jane had not a thought of questioning the wisdom of this
command. Something about the hard-faced woman inspired her with
confidence, and without a word she stepped out of bed, and began
rapidly putting on her clothes.
"I'll talk while you dress," said the woman, in a hard, intense
voice, and putting down the candle, "but, Lord, how can I say it all?"
There was a kind of desperation in her tone, although no trace of
emotion appeared on her face. 'Tilda Jane felt a strange kinship
with this reserved woman, and flashed her a sympathetic glance while
buttoning one of her stout and ugly garments.
Ruth Ann made a brief grimace. "Here I am," she said, with a sudden
burst of speech, "a middle-aged woman gettin' old. You're a young one
settin' out on life's journey. I'll never see you agin, prob'bly.
Let me give you a word--be honest, an' if you can't be honest, be
as honest as you can. You'll have no luck otherwise. You may think
you're havin' luck in bein' sly, but it's a kind o' luck that turns
to loss in the long run. There's that sister o' mine. She reminds me
o' Reuben in the Bible--'unstable as water thou shalt not excel.'
She's that deceitful that I should think she'd choke with it so she
couldn't breathe."
'Tilda Jane made no remark, but as she threw her dress over her head
her two black eyes scintillated wonderingly in the woman's direction.
"Unstable," said Ruth Ann, bitterly. "I'd 'a' loved her if she'd been
honest, but it's always the same,--fair to the face, foul behind the
back. I've slaved for her an' waited on her, an' heard her praised
for work I've done, and seen young men oggle her, an' she oggle back,
an' I've never had an offer an' never will, an' sometimes I think I
hate her."
'Tilda Jane paused for an instant in her rapid dressing. This
sisterly repulsion was something unknown to her childish experience.
"Then when she gets sick from stuffin' herself, I'm feared, an' think
she's goin' to die, but she'll 'tend my funeral, an' cry an' look so
handsome that some ole Jack will pop the question on the way home.
Here, child, eat these while you dress," and she drew some doughnuts
from her pocket.
'Tilda Jane pushed them from her, with an involuntary movement of
dislike.
"You've turned agin me for turnin' agin my sister," said the woman,
bitterly. "Wait till you're treated as I am. An' let me tell you what
she's done to you. You made mention o' Mis' Grannis. Mis' Grannis
has got a mortgage on this house. Mis' Grannis lends her money, Mis'
Grannis is the god my sister bows down to. Do you think she'd let you
stand between her and Mis' Grannis? No--the minute she heard you say
Mis' Grannis would be pleased to git you back, that minute she made
up her mind to fool you and Hank Dillson that she can't abide 'cause
he ain't never asked her to stop bein' a widow. So she made me help
her hitch up, an' she's off on the wings of the wind to tell her
sweet Mis' Grannis to come an' git you; an' just to fool her who is
so cute at foolin' other folks, I made up my mind to git you off. Now
do you take it in?"
'Tilda Jane did take in this alarming bit of news, and for one
instant stood aghast. Then she resolutely fell to lacing on her shoes.
"You're gritty," said the woman, admiringly. "Now I'll tell you what
I've laid out. I'm goin' to guide you through the woods to the Moss
Glen Station. When we git mos' there, I'll skedaddle home an' to bed,
'cause I don't want sister to find me out. Here's an extry pair o'
stockin's an' shoes to put on before you board the train. You'll git
yours full o' snow water. If all goes as I calc'late, you'll have
time to change 'em in the station. You don't want to git sick so
you can't stand up to that ole man. Here's a little tippet for your
shoulders. Dillson told sister to give you a shawl, but she'll not do
it. An' he paid her, too. Now come, let's start."
'Tilda Jane brushed her hand over her eyes, resolutely picked up her
dog, and followed her guide out to the kitchen.
Ruth Ann caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and opened the
door. "My--it's black! I guess we'll have to take a lantern."
She turned back, fumbled in a corner of the kitchen, struck a light,
then rejoined 'Tilda Jane.
For some minutes they plodded on in silence. Then Ruth Ann said,
anxiously, "I don' know what I'll do if it don't snow. She'll track
us sure--me, big feet, an' you, smaller ones. Glory, it's snowin'
now!"
A sudden wind had sprung up in the black, quiet night, and whirled a
few flakes of snow in their faces. Then the snow began to fall from
above, gently and quietly, flake by flake.
'Tilda Jane struggled along the heavy road in the wake of the tall
woman ahead. The small dog seemed to have grown larger, and lay a
heavy burden in her arms. Yet she uttered no word of complaint. Her
mind was in a whirl, and she gave no thought to physical fatigue.
What was she doing? Had she--a little girl--any right to give so
much trouble to grown people? Her actions were exactly in opposition
to every precept that had been instilled into her mind. Children
should be seen and not heard. Children should wait on grown people.
Children must not lie under any circumstances. They must be obedient,
truthful, honest, and uncomplaining. Perhaps she ought to go back
to the orphan asylum. She could stand punishment herself--but her
dog? They would make her give him up. Some boy would get him. Boys
were all mischievous at times. Could she endure the thought of that
little feeble frame subjected to torture? She could not, and steeling
her heart against the asylum, the matron, and the lady managers, she
walked on more quickly than ever.
She would never forget that ghostly walk through the woods. The
narrow way wound always between high snow-laden sentinels of trees.
The sickly, slanting gleam of the lantern lighted only a few steps
ahead. Mystery and solemnity were all about her; the pure and
exquisite snow, on which they were putting their black-shod feet,
was to her the trailing robe of an angel who had gone before. The
large, flat snowflakes, showered on her erring head, were missives
from the skies, "Go back, little girl, go back."
"Lord, I can't go back," she repeated, stubbornly, "but I'll repent
some more, by and by. Please take away the sick feeling in the middle
of my stomach. I can't enjoy anythin'."
The sick feeling continued, and she gave Ruth Ann only a feeble
"yes," when she suddenly turned and threw the light of the lantern on
her with a brisk, "Don't you want to know what lie I'm goin' to tell
'bout your leavin'?
"I'm not goin' to tell any lie," Ruth Ann continued, triumphantly.
"If you've got grace enough to hold your tongue, other folks'll
do all your lyin' for you. Sister'll come home, Mis' Grannis with
her, prob'bly. They'll go ravagin' in the spare room. They'll come
ravagin' out--'Ruth Ann, that young one's run off!' An' I'll be busy
with my pots an' pans, an' all I'll have to say is: 'Do tell!' or,
'Why, how you talk!' An' sister'll rave an' tear, an' run round like
a crazy thing, an' look at Mis' Grannis out o' the corner of her eye."
Ruth Ann's shoulders shook with enjoyable laughter, but if she had
turned suddenly she would have seen a look of unmistakable disgust
flitting over the face behind her.
She did turn suddenly a few minutes later, but the look was gone.
"Here, give me that dog," she said, peremptorily.
The little girl protested, but the woman took him, and again they
plodded on in silence.
"Here we be," she said, after they had been walking for an hour
longer.
'Tilda Jane raised her head. The narrow road had abruptly expanded
into a circular clearing, and in the midst of the clearing stood a
small wooden building.
Ruth Ann walked up to it, handed 'Tilda Jane the dog and the lantern,
and put her hands on one of the diminutive windows.
It opened easily, and she ejaculated with satisfaction, "Just what I
thought. Come, crawl in here; the station agent's been here all the
evenin', an' the fire ain't quite out. You'll be as snug as a bug in
a rug. He'll be back at daylight agin, an' soon after your train'll
come along for Ciscasset. Don't you breathe a word to him 'bout me.
Say Mis' Minley brought you here, if he asks anythin'. Here's enough
money to buy your ticket. I ain't got much. Sister keeps me short,
an' she's took away with her what Hank Dillson give her for you. Mind
an' keep that card with his father's name pinned inside your dress.
Here's a lunch," and she produced a parcel from her pocket. "Don't
fret, sister can't git home much before breakfast, an' by that time
you'll be in Ciscasset, an' I guess they'll not follow you there. She
don't know the name o' the place, anyway. She didn't take no 'count
when Hank mentioned it, an' when she asked me, you'd better believe I
forgot it, too."
'Tilda Jane scrambled through the window, and, upon arriving inside,
turned around and gravely shook hands with her guide. "I guess I
sha'n't forgit this."
"Don't you take no pains to remember it before sister," said the
woman, with a chuckle, "if you don't want me to live an' die in hot
water. Good luck to you. Shut the winder, an' put a stick on the
fire," and she strode off through the snow.
'Tilda Jane shuddered. She was not a nervous child, yet the knowledge
that she was alone in a forest pressed and bore down upon her.
However, she was out of the increasing storm. She had got her guilty
feet off that angel's trailing robe, and the little letters from
heaven were not dashing in her face, nor was there any danger now
that one of the groaning trees bending to lament over her would fall
and crush her shrinking form.
They were creaking all around the circular opening--those spying
trees--staring through the curtainless windows at her, and instead
of throwing on more wood, and making a blaze that would enable her
to be plainly seen, she opened the stove door, and, cowering over
the embers, changed her wet foot-gear, and tried to dry her clinging
skirts.
She was entirely miserable until the frightened dog crept into her
arms. Here was something weaker and more in need of protection than
herself, and, hugging him closely to her, she prepared to spend the
rest of the night in a patient waiting for the morning.