NO QUESTIONS ASKED
Hilda stood there, chilled and shivering, and listened to the sound
of his horse’s hoofs, cautious and slow at first, breaking into a
canter further away and dying out in the night air. He was gone,
leaving her utterly bereft. For, in the presence of the living
Pearse himself The Boy-On-The-Train had at once shrunk and faded to
a vain shadow—oh, no, she could never call that up again. She had
lost them both.
She turned stumblingly toward the house. Halfway there, blinded by
her tears, she walked almost into Uncle Hank!
“Pettie!” he said. “Why, Pettie—it’s you?”
With the strangest movement, a perfect anguish of reluctance, the
child who flew to meet him whenever she saw him coming, who ran to
him with all her troubles and perplexities, approached. The poor
little feet lagged at every step. Plainly they would rather have
turned and fled. The eyes beseeched, apologized. The trembling hands
went out and made movements of dumb entreaty. For one instant he was
confused by memory of her fear of the sheriff; then, like a knife in
his heart, came the clear knowledge that she was afraid—of him! For
some reason beyond his understanding, she did not want to come to
him. Yet come she did, and the man, moved, as it seemed to him,
beyond the occasion, gathered her up in his arms, just as he had
been used to do when she was six years old and went to sleep on his
breast. He carried her in to the living-room, sat down on the couch
there and, loosening his arm a bit so that he might look in her
face, said:
“Pettie, I was scared about you, honey. Don’t you want to tell Uncle
Hank? Can’t Uncle Hank help you?”
Hilda was resolute not to cry. She straightened up in the circle of
his arm and lifted to him brimming eyes.
“Uncle Hank,” she began desperately, “Father’s dead—he’s gone.”
“Yes. Why, yes, dear,” said Hank gravely. “He’s been gone five year.
We have to get over it when our folks die and leave us. The world
wouldn’t get on without we did.”
“I know. It isn’t— What I mean is that, now he’s gone, we’re all
there is left of him. We’ve got to do what he would if he was
here—isn’t that so?”
“That’s so.”
“Well—he always helped people that were in trouble, didn’t he?”
“He sure did, Pettie. Your pa was as good as gold. He was the
dearest father a little girl ever had. What he done when he was
here, and what he would do if he was here now, would always be right
for you to pattern by.”
Hank was puzzled on some points, but very clear as to what he wanted
Hilda to understand on this. He was glad to see that his words were
a relief to her.
“Then” (she was feeling her way, plainly with some secret difficulty
in explaining herself), “if somebody came to you or me in trouble—in
very dreadful trouble—some one that had been trying to get to
father—some one that depended on him—that didn’t know he was dead
and couldn’t help him—”
The big, black eyes, so like Charley’s own, held steadfastly to
Uncle Hank’s attentive glance; they never wavered, till he bent down
and laid his cheek upon her curls.
“You needn’t say another word, Pettie—nary another word. You’ve got
just as good a right to keep your affairs to yourself as I’ve got,
or as any other man’s got. If I can help you—if you want anything
from Uncle Hank—just tell me so. Let me know what it is.”
“It’s awful good of you, Uncle Hank,” said Hilda. She debated with
herself a moment in silence, then took it with a brave rush. “You
mustn’t ask me where the Sunday pony’s gone, nor papa’s saddle and
bridle.”
Hank plainly was startled, but he got his breath and came back
gallantly with:
“I won’t, honey. By the holy poker—this is your own business! I
don’t see why it ain’t—just as much as if you was a man a hundred
and thirteen years old, instead of a little girl only thirteen.”
Hilda had all along assured herself, almost feverishly, that Uncle
Hank would understand; but now, climbing the stairs to bed, looking
back over her shoulder to where he sat, the sense of his forbearance
was like a pang in her heart. She’d done something she dared not
tell Uncle Hank. She’d deceived him. And she had done it for a boy
who didn’t like Uncle Hank—who, for some strange, unaccountable
reason seemed almost to hate him! Well, that had to be. But now she
would make up to him for it. Never again—not on any other subject,
anyhow—would she keep anything back from him. But Pearse—she knew if
Pearse needed it she would again deceive the old man. It was very
strange and puzzling; it hurt her.
She fell asleep, finally, then waked to the startling thought—that
she’d put Uncle Hank second. He’d always been first. Well—she
couldn’t help that, either.