THE FRENCH FAMILY.
'Tilda Jane stood entranced. This was not the Dillson cottage, the
coachman had made a mistake. She stood staring in the window, for
this was a sight that pleased her above all other sights.
Here was another family,--a happy family, evidently, all gathered
around a cheerful fire in a good-sized living-room. There were an
old grandfather in the corner smoking a pipe, an old woman beside
him with a white cap on her head, a middle-aged man cleaning a gun
by the light of a lamp on the table, a middle-aged woman knitting
a stocking, and a cluster of children of all ages about the
grandfather, grandmother, father and mother.
Mingled with the crackling of the open fire was a very gay clatter of
tongues speaking in some foreign language, and one boy's voice soared
above the rest in the words of a song that 'Tilda Jane was afterward
to learn:
"_Un Canadien errant_,
_Bannis de son pays_,
_Parconrait en pleurant_,
_Un pays étranger._"
She gazed at them until the sense of increasing cold checked her
rapture, and made her move regretfully toward the door and rap on it.
It was immediately opened by a brown-eyed child, and held far back as
if she were expected to enter.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Hobart Dillson lives?"
"_Ou-ay, ma'mzelle_," murmured the child, bashfully hanging her head.
"But enter--it is cold," called the mother, rising and coming
forward, stocking in hand.
'Tilda Jane felt drawn toward this alluring family circle, and one
minute later was sitting in a chair on its circumference.
"But come in, dawgie," said the mother gently to Poacher, who stood
hesitating on the threshold.
He came in, and was greeted silently and politely by two respectable
curs that rose from the hearth-stone for the purpose, then he lay
down beside them, and gratefully extended his limbs to the fire.
'Tilda Jane sat for a minute looking about her without speaking.
These people were not staring at her, but they were all stealing
occasional curious glances in her direction.
"I'm lookin' for Hobart Dillson's," she said, bluntly, "but I guess
there ain't no such person, for the nearer I get the more he seems to
run off."
The mother of the family smiled, and 'Tilda Jane gazed in admiration
at the soft black eyes under the firm brows. "I can tell you,
_mademoiselle_--he is near by, even nex' doah."
"Oh!" murmured 'Tilda Jane, then she fell into meditation. These
people were foreigners, poor, too, evidently, though perfectly neat
and clean. She wondered how they got into the country.
"You air emigrants?" she said, at last, inquiringly.
"French," said the woman, "'Cajien French--sent from our country long
ago. Our people went back. We returned to earn a little money. Too
many people where we lived."
"Did you come through Vanceboro?" asked 'Tilda Jane.
The woman's liquid eyes appealed to her husband. He shrugged his
shoulders, looked down the barrel of his gun, and said, "It is a long
time ago we come. I do not know."
"Mebbe they weren't so partickler," observed 'Tilda Jane.
"Let um do!" came in a sepulchral voice from the fireplace.
'Tilda Jane stared at the old grandfather, who had taken his pipe
from his mouth to utter the phrase, and was now putting it back.
The house-mother addressed her. "Do not fear, _mademoiselle_; it
is the only English he knows. He means 'all right, do not anxious
yourself, be calm, very calm.'"
"Does he?" murmured 'Tilda Jane; then she added, unwillingly, "I must
be going."
"Delay youself yet a leetle," urged the woman, and her pitying eyes
ran over the girl's drooping figure. "The children go to make corn
hot. Marie--" and a stream of foreign syllables trickled and gurgled
from her lips, delighting and fascinating her caller.
A little maid danced from the fireplace to one of the tiny
pigeon-hole rooms opening from the large one, and presently came back
with a bag of corn and a popper.
"And a glass of milk for _mademoiselle_," said the woman to another
child.
'Tilda Jane was presently sipping her milk, eating a piece of dark
brown bread, and gazing dreamily at the fire. Why could she not
linger in this pleasant home.
"You know Mr. Dillson?" she said, rousing herself with an effort, and
turning to her hostess.
"But yes--we have lived nex' him for so many yeahs."
"Do you think I can keep house for him?" asked 'Tilda Jane, wistfully.
[Illustration: "'YOU ARE YOUNG FOR THAT, _MADEMOISELLE_, YET--'"]
The woman hesitated, laid her knitting on her lap, and thoughtfully
smoothed her tweed dress. "You are young for that, _mademoiselle_,
yet--" and she scrutinised 'Tilda Jane's dark, composed, almost
severe face--"if a girl could do it, I should think yes--you can. He
is seeck, poor man. He walks not well at all. It makes him--"
"Like the evil one," muttered her husband, clutching his gun more
tightly; "if he was a crow, I would shoot."
"Let um do!" came in guttural tones from grandfather's corner.
The woman laughed merrily, and all anxiety faded from her face. "Hark
to _gran'père_--it makes me feel good, so good. No one can make us
feel bad if we feel not bad ourselves. Deelson is seeck. He is not
hap-py. Let us not be seeck, too. Let us be hap-py. _Allons mes
enfants, est-ce que le_--" and then followed more smooth syllables
that 'Tilda Jane did not understand.
She soon saw, however, that an order had been given to butter and
salt the corn, and presently she was shyly but sweetly offered some
by the French children. Even Poacher and Gippie had some kernels laid
before them, and in the midst of her concern as to Mr. Dillson's
behaviour, her heart swelled with gratitude to think that she should
have such good neighbours. Here all was gentleness and peace. She
had never seen so kind a woman, such amiable children. Did they ever
quarrel and slap each other, she wondered.
"It's getting late, ain't it?" she exclaimed at last, with
uneasiness. "I must go," and she rose quickly.
"But you can stay all night if you desiah," said the woman, motioning
toward the pigeon-holes. "Stay, and go nex' doah in the morning."
"No, no, I must not," said 'Tilda Jane very hastily, through fear
that she might yield to so pleasant a temptation. "But can I drop in
an' see you by spells?"
"But yes, yes--certainly, come often," said the woman. "Come at any
hour," she said under her breath, and seizing 'Tilda Jane's hand in
her own, "if it is not agreeable there, at any time run here."
"I'm 'bliged to you," said Tilda Jane, gratefully, "much 'bliged, an'
if you want any floors scrubbed, or anythin' done, jus' you run over
an' get me. I'll come--" and with a sturdy nod of her head, she took
her dogs, and slipped out into the darkness.
"If agreeable leave your dogs here till mornin'," called the woman
after her.
The little girl shook her head. "I guess he'd better see 'em right
off. Good-night, an' thank you."
The woman clasped her hands, and, looking up at the sky before she
went into the house, murmured in her own language, "Holy One, guard
her from that terrible rage!"