Another Waif
It was indeed poor, forlorn little Jane that had appeared like a
specter in the kitchen door. She was as wet and bedraggled as a
chicken caught in a shower. A little felt hat hung limp over her ears;
her pigtail braid had lost its string and was unraveling at the end,
and her torn, sodden shoes were ready to drop from her feet. She
looked both curiously and apprehensively at Alida with her little
blinking eyes, and then asked in a sort of breathless voice, "Where's
him?"
"Mr. Holcroft?"
Jane nodded.
"He's gone out to the fields. You are Jane, aren't you?"
Another nod.
"Oh, DEAR!" groaned Alida mentally; "I wish she hadn't come." Then
with a flush of shame the thought crossed her mind, "She perhaps is a
friendless and homeless as I was, and, and 'him' is also her only
hope." "Come in, Jane," she said kindly, "and tell me everything."
"Be you his new girl?"
"I'm his wife," said Alida, smiling.
Jane stopped; her mouth opened and her eyes twinkled with dismay. "Then
he is married, after all?" she gasped.
"Yes, why not?"
"Mother said he'd never get anyone to take him."
"Well, you see she was mistaken."
"She's wrong about everything. Well, it's no use then," and the child
turned and sat down on the doorstep.
Alida was perplexed. From the way Jane wiped her eyes with her wet
sleeve, she was evidently crying. Coming to her, Alida said, "What is
no use, Jane? Why are you crying?"
"I thought--he--might--p'raps--let me stay and work for him."
Alida was still more perplexed. What could be said by way of comfort,
feeling sure as she did that Holcroft would be bitterly hostile to the
idea of keeping the child? The best she could do was to draw the
little waif out and obtain some explanation of her unexpected
appearance. But first she asked, "Have you had any breakfast?"
Jane shook her head.
"Oh, then you must have some right away."
"Don't want any. I want to die. I oughtn' ter been born."
"Tell me your troubles, Jane. Perhaps I can help you."
"No, you'd be like the rest. They all hate me and make me feel I'm in
the way. He's the only one that didn't make me feel like a stray cat,
and now he's gone and got married," and the child sobbed aloud.
Her grief was pitiful to see, for it was overwhelming. Alida stooped
down, and gently lifting the child up, brought her in. Then she took
off the wet hat and wiped the tear-stained face with her handkerchief.
"Wait a minute, Jane, till I bring you something," and she ran to the
dairy for a glass of milk. "You must drink it," she said, kindly but
firmly.
The child gulped it down, and with it much of her grief, for this was
unprecedented treatment and was winning her attention.
"Say," she faltered, "will you ask him to let me stay?"
"Yes, I'll ask him, but I can't promise that he will."
"You won't ask him 'fore my face and then tell him not to behind my
back?" and there was a sly, keen look in her eyes which tears could not
conceal.
"No," said Alida gravely, "that's not my way. How did you get here,
Jane?"
"Run away."
"From where?"
"Poorhouse."
Alida drew a quick breath and was silent a few moments. "Is--is your
mother there?" she asked at length.
"Yes. They wouldn't let us visit round any longer."
"Didn't your mother or anyone know you were coming?"
Jane shook her head.
Alida felt that it would be useless to burden the unhappy child with
misgivings as to the result, and her heart softened toward her as one
who in her limited way had known the bitterness and dread which in that
same almshouse had overwhelmed her own spirit. She could only say
gently, "Well, wait till Mr. Holcroft comes, and then we'll see what he
says." She herself was both curious and anxious as to his course. "It
will be a heavy cross," she thought, "but I should little deserve God's
goodness to me if I did not befriend this child."
Every moment added weight to this unexpected burden of duty. Apart
from all consideration of Jane's peculiarities, the isolation with
Holcroft had been a delight in itself. Their mutual enjoyment of each
other's society had been growing from day to day, and she, more truly
than he, had shrunk from the presence of another as an unwelcome
intrusion. Conscious of her secret, Jane's prying eyes were already
beginning to irritate her nerves. Never had she seen a human face that
so completely embodied her idea of inquisitiveness as the uncanny
visage of this child. She saw that she would be watched with a
tireless vigilance. Her recoil, however, was not so much a matter of
conscious reasoning and perception as it was an instinctive feeling of
repulsion caused by the unfortunate child. It was the same old story.
Jane always put the women of a household on pins and needles just as
her mother exasperated the men. Alida had to struggle hard during a
comparatively silent hour to fight down the hope that Holcroft would
not listen to Jane's and her own request.
As she stepped quickly and lightly about in her preparations for
dinner, the girl watched her intently. At last she gave voice to her
thoughts and said, "If mother'd only worked round smart as you, p'raps
she'd hooked him 'stid er you."
Alida's only reply was a slight frown, for the remark suggested
disagreeable images and fancies. "Oh, how can I endure it?" she sighed.
She determined to let Jane plead her own cause at first, thinking that
perhaps this would be the safest way. If necessary, she would use her
influence against a hostile decision, let it cost in discomfort what it
might.
At a few moments before twelve the farmer came briskly toward the
house, and was evidently in the best of spirits. When he entered and
saw Jane, his countenance indicated so much dismay that Alida could
scarcely repress a smile. The child rose and stood before him like a
culprit awaiting sentence. She winked hard to keep the tears back, for
there was no welcome in his manner. She could not know how intensely
distasteful was her presence at this time, nor had Holcroft himself
imagined how unwelcome a third person in his house could be until he
saw the intruder before him. He had only felt that he was wonderfully
contented and happy in his home, and that Jane would be a constant
source of annoyance and restraint. Moreover, it might lead to
visitation from Mrs. Mumpson, and that was the summing up of earthly
ills. But the child's appearance and manner were so forlorn and
deprecating that words of irritation died upon his lips. He gravely
shook hands with her and then drew out the story which Alida had
learned.
"Why, Jane," he exclaimed, frowning, "Mr. Watterly will be scouring the
country for you. I shall have to take you back right after dinner."
"I kinder hoped," she sobbed, "that you'd let me stay. I'd stay in the
barn if I couldn't be in the house. I'd just as soon work outdoors,
too."
"I don't think you'd be allowed to stay," said the farmer, with a
sinking heart; "and then--perhaps your mother would be coming here."
"I can't stand mother no more'n you can" said the girl, through her set
teeth. "I oughtn'ter been born, for there's no place for me in the
world."
Holcroft looked at his wife, his face expressive of the utmost
annoyance, worry, and irresolution. Her glance was sympathetic, but
she said nothing, feeling that if he could make the sacrifice from his
own will he should have the chance. "You can't begin to know how much
trouble this may lead to, Jane," he resumed. "You remember how your
other threatened to take the law upon me, and it wouldn't be possible
for you to stay here without her consent."
"She oughter consent; I'll make her consent!" cried the child, speaking
as if driven to desperation. "What's she ever done for me but teach me
mean ways? Keep me or kill me, for I must be in some place where I've a
right to be away from mother. I've found that there's no sense in her
talk, and it drives me crazy."
Although Jane's words and utterance were strangely uncouth, they
contained a despairing echo which the farmer could not resist. Turning
his troubled face to his wife, he began, "If this is possible, Alida,
it will be a great deal harder on you than it will on me. I don't feel
that I would be doing right by you unless you gave your consent with
full knowledge of--"
"Then please let her stay, if it is possible. She seems to need a
friend and home as much as another that you heard about."
"There's no chance of such a blessed reward in this case," he replied,
with a grim laugh. Then, perplexed indeed, he continued to Jane, "I'm
just as sorry for you as I can be, but there's no use of getting my
wife and self in trouble which in the end will do you no good. You are
too young to understand all that your staying may lead to."
"It won't lead to mother's comin' here, and that's the worst that could
happen. Since she can't do anything for me she's got to let me do for
myself."
"Alida, please come with me in the parlor a moment. You stay here,
Jane." When they were alone, he resumed, "Somehow, I feel strangely
unwilling to have that child live with us. We were enjoying our quiet
life so much. Then you don't realize how uncomfortable she will make
you, Alida."
"Yes, I do."
"I don't think you can yet. Your sympathies are touched now, but
she'll watch you and irritate you in a hundred ways. Don't her very
presence make you uncomfortable?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, she can't stay," he began decidedly. "This is your home,
and no one shall make you uncomfortable--"
"But I should be a great deal more uncomfortable if she didn't stay,"
Alida interrupted. "I should feel that I did not deserve my home. Not
long ago my heart was breaking because I was friendless and in trouble.
What could I think of myself if I did not entreat you in behalf of this
poor child?"
"Thunder!" ejaculated Holcroft. "I guess I was rather friendless and
troubled myself, and I didn't know the world had in it such a good
friend as you've become, Alida. Well, well! You've put it in such a
light that I'd be almost tempted to take the mother, also."
"No," she replied, laughing; "we'll draw the line at the mother."
"Well, I'll take Jane to town this afternoon, and if her mother will
sign an agreement to leave us all in peace, we'll give up our old cozy
comfort of being alone. I suppose it must be a good deed, since it's
so mighty hard to do it," he concluded with a wry face, leading the way
to the kitchen again. She smiled as if his words were already rewarding
her self denial.
"Well, Jane," he resumed, "Mrs. Holcroft has spoken in your behalf, and
if we can arrange matters so that you can stay, you will have her to
thank chiefly. I'll take you back to the poorhouse after dinner, so it
may be known what's become of you. Then, if your mother'll sign an
agreement to make no trouble and not come here, we'll give you a home
until we can find a better place for you."
There was no outburst of gratitude. The repressed, dwarfed nature of
the child was incapable of this, yet there was an unwonted little
thrill of hope in her heart. Possibly it was like the beginning of
life in a seed under the first spring rays of the sun. She merely
nodded to Holcroft as if the matter had been settled as far as it could
be, and ignored Alida.
"Why don't you thank Mrs. Holcroft?" he asked.
Then Jane turned and nodded at Alida. Her vocabulary of thanks was
undeveloped.
"She's glad," said Alida. "You'll see. Now that it's settled, we hope
you're hungry, Jane, aren't you?"
"Yes, I be. Can't I help you put things on the table?"
"Yes."
Holcroft looked at the two for a moment, and then shook his head as he
went up to his room. "I thought my wife was nice and pleasant looking
before," he thought, "but she's like a picture beside that child.
Well, she has behaved handsomely. Tom Watterly didn't tell half the
truth when he said she was not of the common run. She's a Christian in
deeds, not talk. What's that in Scripture about 'I was hungry'? Well,
well! She makes religion kind of natural and plain like, whether it's
easy or not. Thunder! What a joke it is to see her so grateful
because I've given her a chance to help me out of the worst scrape a
man could be in! As if she hadn't changed everything for the better!
Here I am sure of my home and getting ahead in the world again, and
it's all her doing."
In admiration of his wife Holcroft quite forgot that there had been any
self-sacrifice on his part, and he concluded that he could endure Jane
and almost anything else as long as Alida continued to look after his
comfort and interests.
Now that the worst stress of Jane's anxiety was over, she proved that
she was half starved. Indeed she had few misgivings now, for her
confidence that Holcroft would accomplish what he attempted was almost
unbounded. It was a rather silent meal at first, for the farmer and
his wife had much to think about and Jane much to do in making up for
many limited meals. At last Holcroft smiled so broadly that Alida
said, "Something seems to please you."
"Yes, more than one thing. It might be a great deal worse, and was,
not long ago. I was thinking of old times."
"How pleasant they must have been to make you look so happy!"
"They had their uses, and make me think of a picture I saw in a store
window in town. It was a picture of a woman, and she took my fancy
amazingly. But the point uppermost in my mind was a trick of the
fellow who painted her. He had made the background as dark as night
and so she stood out as if alive; and she looked so sweet and good that
I felt like shaking hands with her. I now see why the painter made the
background so dark."
Alida smiled mischievously as she replied, "That was his art. He knew
that almost anyone would appear well against such a background."
But Holcroft was much too direct to be diverted from his thought or its
expression. "The man knew the mighty nice-looking woman he had painted
would look well," he said, "and I know of another woman who appears
better against a darker background. That's enough to make a man smile
who has been through what I have."
She could not help a flush of pleasure or disguise the happy light in
her eyes, but she looked significantly at Jane, who, mystified and
curious, was glancing from one to the other.
"Confound it!" thought the farmer. "That'll be the way of it now.
Here's a little pitcher that's nearly all ears. Well, we're in for it
and must do our duty."
Going to town that day involved no slight inconvenience, but Holcroft
dropped everything and rapidly made his preparations.
When Alida was left alone with Jane, the latter began clearing the
table with alacrity, and after a few furtive glances at Mrs. Holcroft,
yielded to the feeling that she should make some acknowledgment of the
intercession in her behalf. "Say," she began, "I thought you wasn't
goin; to stand up for me, after all. Women folks are liars, mostly."
"You are mistaken, Jane. If you wish to stay with us, you must tell
the truth and drop all sly ways."
"That's what he said when I first come."
"I say it too. You see a good deal, Jane. Try to see what will please
people instead of what you can find out about them. It's a much better
plan. Now, as a friend, I tell you of one thing you had better not do.
You shouldn't watch and listen to Mr. Holcroft unless he speaks to you.
He doesn't like to be watched--no one does. It isn't nice; and if you
come to us, I think you will try to do what is nice. Am I not right?"
"I dunno how," said Jane.
"It will be part of my business to teach you. You ought to understand
all about your coming. Mr. Holcroft doesn't take you because he needs
your work, but because he's sorry for you, and wishes to give you a
chance to do better and learn something. You must make up your mind to
lessons, and learning to talk and act nicely, as well as to do such
work as is given you. Are you willing to do what I say and mind me
pleasantly and promptly?"
Jane looked askance at the speaker and was vaguely suspicious of some
trick. In her previous sojourn at the farmhouse she had concluded that
it was her best policy to keep in Holcroft's good graces, even though
she had to defy her mother and Mrs. Wiggins, and she was now by no
means ready to commit herself to this new domestic power. She had
received the impression that the authority and continued residence of
females in this household was involved in much uncertainty, and
although Alida was in favor now and the farmer's wife, she didn't know
what "vicissitudes" (as her mother would denominate them) might occur.
Holcroft was the only fixed and certain quantity in her troubled
thoughts, and after a little hesitation she replied, "I'll do what he
says; I'm goin' to mind him."
"Suppose he tells you to mind me?"
"Then I will. That ud be mindin' him. I'm goin' to stick to him, for
I made out by it better before than by mindin' mother and Mrs. Wiggins."
Alida now understood the child and laughed aloud. "You are right," she
said. "I won't ask you to do anything contrary to his wishes. Now tell
me, Jane, what other clothes have you besides those you are wearing?"
It did not take the girl long to inventory her scanty wardrobe, and
then Alida rapidly made out a list of what was needed immediately.
"Wait here," she said, and putting on a pretty straw hat, one of her
recent purchases, she started for the barn.
Holcroft had his wagon and team almost ready when Alida joined him, and
led the way to the floor between the sweet-smelling hay-mows.
"One thing leads to another," she began, looking at him a little
deprecatingly. "You must have noticed the condition of Jane's clothes."
"She does look like a little scarecrow, now I come to think of it," he
admitted.
"Yes, she's not much better off than I was," Alida returned, with
downcast eyes and rising color.
Her flushing face was so pretty under the straw hat, and the dark mow
as a background brought out her figure so finely that he thought of the
picture again and laughed aloud for pleasure. She looked up in
questioning surprise, thus adding a new grace.
"I wish that artist fellow was here now," he exclaimed. "He could make
another picture that would suit me better than the one I saw in town."
"What nonsense!" she cried, quickly averting her face from his admiring
scrutiny. "Come, I'm here to talk business and you've no time to waste.
I've made out a list of what the child actually must have to be
respectable."
"You're right, Alida," said the farmer, becoming grave at once over a
question of dollars and cents. "As you say, one thing leads to another,
and if we take the girl we must clothe her decently. But then, I guess
she'll earn enough to pay her way. It isn't that I worry about so
much," he broke out discontentedly, "but the interference with our
quiet, cozy life. Things are going so smoothly and pleasantly that I
hate a change of any kind."
"We mustn't be selfish, you know," she replied. "You are doing a kind,
generous act, and I respect you all the more for it."
"That settles everything. You'll like me a little better for it, too,
won't you?" he asked hesitatingly.
She laughed outright at this question and answered, "It won't do to
take too much self-sacrifice out of your act. There's something which
does us all good. She ought to have a spelling and a writing book
also."
Holcroft was assuredly falling under the sway of the little blind god,
for he began at once to misunderstand Alida. "You are very fond of
self-sacrifice," he said, rather stiffly. "Yes, I'll get everything on
your list," and he took it from her hand. "Now I must be off," he
added, "for I wish to get back before night, and it's so warm I can't
drive fast. Sorry I have to go, for I can't say I dote on
self-sacrifice."
Alida but partially understood his sudden change of mood, nor was the
farmer much better enlightened himself in regard to his irritation. He
had received an unexpected impression and it seemed to fit in with
other things and explain them. She returned slowly and dejectedly to
the house, leaving unsaid the words she meant to speak about Jane's
relations to her. Now she wished that she had imitated Jane, and
merely nodded to the farmer's questions. "If he knew how far I am
beyond the point of liking, I don't know what he'd do or say," she
thought, "and I suppose that's the reason I couldn't answer him
frankly, in a way that would have satisfied him. It's a pity I
couldn't begin to just LIKE a little at first, as he does and have
everything grow as gradually and quietly as one of his cornstalks.
That's the way I meant it should be; but when he stood up for me and
defended me from those men, my heart just melted, and in spite of
myself, I felt I could die for him. It can't be such an awful thing
for a woman to fall in love with her husband, and yet--yet I'd rather
put my hand in the fire than let him know how I feel. Oh, dear! I
wish Jane hadn't been born, as she says. Trouble is beginning already,
and it was all so nice before she came."
In a few moments Holcroft drove up. Alida stood in the door and looked
timidly at him. He thought she appeared a little pale and troubled,
but his bad mood prevailed and he only asked briefly, "Can't I get
something for you?"
She shook her head.
"Well, goodbye, then," and he drove away with Jane, who was confirmed
in her line of policy. "She's afraid of 'im too," thought the child.
"Mind her! Guess not, unless he says so." She watched the farmer
furtively and concluded that she had never known him to look more grim
or be more silent even under her mother's blandishments. "He's married
this one, I s'pose, to keep house for 'im, but he don't like her
follerin' 'im up or bein' for'ard any more'n he did mother. Shouldn't
wonder if he didn't keep her, either, if she don't suit better. She
needn't 'a' put on such airs with me, for I'm goin' to stick to him."