"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.
CHAPTER IV.
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.
CHAPTER V.
ANOTHER ADVENTURE.
The quietest and most undemonstrative passenger on the night train from Boston was the shabby little girl in the corner, with the bundle beside her on the seat.
The conductor, after one sharp glance, paid no attention to her, the brakemen paid no attention to her, the boy with the gum-drops and novels ignored her. She had the air of knowing where she was going, and also of being utterly uninteresting, and greatly to her relief she was left entirely to her own devices.
In reality 'Tilda Jane was in a state of semi-paralysis. She scarcely dared to move, to breathe. All her life had been spent in the quiet precincts of the asylum. She had scarcely been allowed to go to the small village in its vicinity, and when she had been allowed to visit it she had seen nothing as wonderful as this, for there was no railway there. It took her breath away to be whirled along at so rapid a rate. She wondered how the people dared to walk about. She wondered how she had ever had courage enough to step on board the flaming, roaring monster that had come rushing out of the woods as if it would devour the little station, the agent, herself, and her dog. But they had not been devoured, and the agent had guided her staggering footsteps toward the monster. If he had not done so, she would in her bewilderment have been left a prey for the pitiless Mrs. Minley.
For two hours she sat with swimming brain, then it occurred to her that she must in some way acquaint this wonderful and frightful means of locomotion, with her desire to alight at her destination. She closely watched the people entering and leaving the car, and discovered that immediately following the entrance of a man who bawled some unintelligible exclamation, something took place that reminded her of a game played at the asylum. Certain people went out, and certain others came in and took their places. She must catch this noisy man and speak to him.
She patiently waited for him to pass through the car. Once he swept by her, and then some time elapsed before she saw him again. The train had been waiting for fifteen minutes at a station. A number of men had gone out, and presently come back brushing their moustaches and with toothpicks between their teeth. This must be an eating-place; and Ruth Ann said that 'Tilda Jane would arrive in Ciscasset before breakfast-time.
The little girl desperately addressed a passenger passing her. "I say, sir, when do we come to Ciscasset?"
"Ciscasset!" repeated the man. "We passed it an hour ago."
"Passed it!" she echoed, stupidly.
The man turned to a news agent sauntering by. "Here, you, send the conductor here."
The conductor did not appear, but a brakeman came. "Got carried beyond your station, little girl. You're in Canada now, but it's all right; we'll ship you off at the next stop. Number eight will take you back. All ri-i-i-ght."
'Tilda Jane fell back on her seat with a strange sinking of heart. She remembered now that Hank Dillson had said the conductor would "holler" Ciscasset; but, if he had done so, she had not distinguished the words in the strange sounds issuing from his mouth.
It seemed as if only a few bewildered minutes had passed when someone ejaculated, "McAdam Junction!" and the friendly brakeman was beside her. She felt herself lifted from her seat, bundle and all, and swung to a platform, where she stood among a group of people. She did not know where to go or what to do, and remained as one in a dream until some one touched her shoulder.
"You the little girl carried beyond your station?"
"Yes, sir," she gasped, and looked up into the pleasant face of a young man bending over her.
"All right; the conductor told me about you. Come in here," and he led the way to a waiting-room. "Had your breakfast?"
"No, sir, but I've got it here," and she pulled Ruth Ann's parcel out of her pocket.
The young man smiled and motioned it back. "Come have some hot coffee," and he passed through a doorway into an eating-room, where 'Tilda Jane presently found herself seated before a steaming cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak and potatoes.
"I ain't got any money to pay for this," she said, bluntly, to the young woman who set the tempting viands before her.
"That's all right," said the girl, smiling.
'Tilda Jane picked up her knife and fork. "All right!" seemed to be a railway expression. It was immensely comforting to her, and she soberly partook of the hot breakfast, drank all her coffee, and emptied the scraps from her plate into her handkerchief. Then she approached the counter where the young woman stood.
"Thank you kindly, ma'am. I've made a good meal."
Then she went outdoors into the crisp morning air. The snow-storm was over, and the day was delightful—blue above, white below. It was like a fairy world. She walked to the end of the platform, unrolled her shawl, and, freeing her mummy-like dog, set his breakfast before him. He ate with avidity, then, showing a disinclination to return to his bandages, hopped on his three legs along the platform beside her, his crooked tail meanwhile describing successive circles in the air. Some of the loiterers about the station gathered around him, and seeing that his bodily infirmities were a subject of mirth rather than of compassion, 'Tilda Jane, in spite of warm protests on his part, once more swathed him in his shawl, and carried him with dignity into the waiting-room. There she sat until the agreeable young man ran in and said her train was coming.
Something warned her that she ought to implore him to tell some one to have a care of her—to see that she did not again get carried beyond her destination, but a kind of paralysis seized upon her tongue, and she could only open her mouth and gape stupidly at him.
"You'll be all right now," he said, with a nod. "Jump when you hear Ciscasset."
"Ciscasset, Ciscasset!" she repeated the name in a kind of desperation, then, as the train started with a jerk and she tumbled into a seat, she said aloud, and without addressing any one in particular, "I wish to jump off at Ciscasset."
"Bless the child!" ejaculated an old lady in the seat before her, "I guess this is her first journey," and turning around, she stared mildly.
"Oh, ma'am," said 'Tilda Jane, "can't you help me get off at Ciscasset? The train goes so fast, an' I'm so little."
"Bless the child!" said the old lady again, "of course I will. Conductor, this little girl wishes to get off at Ciscasset."
"All right," said that official, hurrying by.
"This little girl wishes to get off at Ciscasset," exclaimed the old lady once more, this time to a brakeman.
He nodded and passed on, and presently the conductor returned and said, smartly, "Tickets!"
"I ain't got any," replied 'Tilda Jane.
"Then you must buy one," said the old lady; "have you got any money, my dear?"
'Tilda Jane never thought of asking the conductor if he had not been informed of her mishap. She never dreamed that the pleasant-faced young man had forgotten to ask that she be carried back to the station for which she had bought her ticket. Therefore she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, untied a knot in its corner, and slowly produced fifty cents.
"Is that all the money you've got?" asked the conductor, briskly.
"Yes, sir."
"Where do you come from?"
'Tilda Jane preserved a discreet silence.
"Put it up," he said, waving his hand toward the handkerchief and immediately going away.
"Oh, what a nice kind man!" said the old lady. "He's going to let you ride free."
'Tilda Jane breathed more freely, and returned her handkerchief to its place.
The conductor, meanwhile, had gone to a Pullman car in the rear, where a man in plain clothes was lying back on a seat, apparently engaged in an aimless, leisurely scrutiny of the occupants of the car.
"Jack," said the conductor, "there's a slip of a girl in the day car—poor clothes, shawl bundle, no money, won't tell where she comes from, making a great fuss about going to Ciscasset, looks like an emigrant."
"All right," said Jack, laconically, then he gave an imperceptible nod toward a trio of well-dressed young men engaged in card playing. "Want to see me nab that New York jeweller's clerk?"
"Yep," said the conductor.
"Got any telegrams in your pocket?"
"Two."
"Lend me one, and sit down here a minute."
Jack got up, the conductor took the vacated seat, and waited one, two, three minutes, and then Jack reappeared from between the curtains of the drawing-room at the rear of the car.
"A telegram for H.J. Bolingbroke," he called, in a loud voice; "any passenger of that name in this car?"
The youngest of the three men playing cards involuntarily raised his head, started from his seat, half extended his hand, then drew back.
Jack tossed the telegram to the conductor, and nodded to the young man. "Thought you were travelling under an assumed name. H. J. Bolingbroke alias Blixton. Have you got those diamonds in your pocket?"
The young man flushed painfully, while his fellow players threw down their cards and surveyed him curiously.
"Trouble you to follow me to another car," said Jack, and he led the way for the detected smuggler.
'Tilda Jane saw the two men pass, and innocently stared at them, little dreaming that her turn was to come next.
After awhile Jack reappeared and sat down in a seat behind 'Tilda Jane. After noticing the ineffectual attempts made by the old lady to draw the little girl into conversation, he leaned over and poured some candy into her lap from a bag he held in his hand.
"Have some, sissy?"
She gratefully flashed him a glance over her shoulder. "Thank you, sir."
"Going far?" he asked, agreeably.
"To Ciscasset," she said, feverishly. "Will you tell me when we come to it?"
"Certainly. Going to visit friends?"
"No, sir."
"Oh, going home?"
"No, sir."
"Your home isn't quite so near as Ciscasset?"
"No, sir."
"Did you bring that small dog across the ocean with you?" he asked, his keen eye noting a stirring inside the bundle.
"No, sir."
"Where did you pick him up?"
"Some boys were goin' to drown him."
"So you're a kind little girl."
"I ain't as good as I ought to be," she said, warmly; "but I'm goin' to try to be better. Oh, sir, are we at Ciscasset yet?"
"No, this is Vanceboro, the border station between Canada and the States. I guess you'd better come this way for Ciscasset, little girl."
"Why, this train goes direct to Ciscasset," interposed the old lady.
"Yes, ma'am, but this little girl is a stop-over. She'll probably go on the next train."
The old lady grew suspicious. "You let that child alone, sir. Where's the conductor? Conductor, I say, come here. Can't some one get the conductor? Don't go with him one step, little girl."
'Tilda Jane, grown very pale, gazed apprehensively at the man, and did not offer to leave her seat.
He threw back his coat and displayed a badge. "Madam, I'm a government inspector."
"A government inspector! What's that?" the old lady spluttered, eyeing him over her glasses.
"Well, madam, there ain't much time for explanation, but I can tell you this much, namely, that we have to detain and examine all persons without means of livelihood who attempt to enter the United States from foreign countries."
She still gazed at him suspiciously. "I never heard of such a thing. I guess this is a free country."
"Yes, ma'am, and the government wants to keep it free. If you get a lot of pauper foreigners here, it'll not be free long."
"This little girl is American, ain't you, sissy?"
"I'm an orphan," said 'Tilda Jane, guardedly. Whatever happened, she was determined not to admit too much.
At this moment the conductor appeared, and the old lady hailed him indignantly. "What does this mean, sir? This little girl offered to pay her passage. I saw her with my own eyes. Now you're going to put her off the train."
"It's all right, ma'am," he said, soothingly, "she'll likely be allowed to go on to-morrow."
"And you'll keep that innocent child here all day, and she too frightened to breathe?" cried the old lady. "I never heard of such doings. I'll write the President! I'll show you up in the papers!"
"She'll be well taken care of, madam," said the conductor. "There's a good hotel here. All detained are lodged and fed at government expense. She'll be put in charge of a chambermaid."
"You're a set of villains!" said the old lady, wrathfully.
"Oh, law!" groaned the conductor, "I'm sick of these fusses. Pick up her traps, Jack."
"Come, little girl," said Jack, kindly, and 'Tilda Jane, seeing that the inevitable had once more overtaken her, rose resignedly, but the too kind and officious old lady clung to her so wildly that the two men were forced to draw her away from her.
'Tilda Jane, in a state of complete bewilderment totally unmixed with terror, for she had taken a liking to the kind face of her guide, trotted meekly after him into the shadow of a long V-shaped building. The platform was crowded with people. Two trains were standing at the station, and in a large dining-room on her right she saw thronged tables and hurrying waitresses.
She was ushered into a room where there was a handsomely dressed woman with a flushed face and tearful eyes, a dejected looking boy and girl sitting very close to each other, a diminutive and poorly dressed German Jew, and a composed looking man sitting behind a small table.
"I'll have to leave you now," said her guide. "Don't be scared, but speak up," and with a reassuring smile he disappeared.
CHAPTER VI.
DEAF AND DUMB.
'Tilda Jane sat down on a bench in the corner and took the dog on her lap.
The fashionably dressed woman was speaking and gesticulating earnestly in front of the man whose face was only a trifle less calm and stony than that of Ruth Ann.
"I never heard of such a thing in my life—to take my sealskin coat from me in the dead of winter. Now if it was summer, it wouldn't be so bad. My nice coat that cost me four hundred and seventy-five dollars."
The man listened stolidly.
"And you tell me your government orders you to take ladies' jackets from them. It seems incredible!"
'Tilda Jane curiously scanned the garment under discussion. It certainly was very handsome.
"It is incredible, madam. The government does not wish to deprive ladies of their sealskin coats. It merely requires its custom officials, of whom I am one, to enforce the law which has been made to prevent the importation of sealskin coats free of duty."
"And have you taken many jackets?" sneered the woman.
The official gazed at her in frigid silence.
"I'll go right back to Toronto, where I live," she said, indignantly. "I was going to buy my daughter's trousseau in New York, but I'll spend every cent at home. That's the way we will make New York suffer on account of your government being so hateful!" and she flounced from the room. The man behind the table cast a leisurely glance over the remaining occupants of the room. Then he addressed the dejected boy and girl.
"Hello, you!—what's your name?"
"Thaddeus and Mary Lee," said the boy, mournfully.
"Brother and sister?"
"Man and wife," responded the boy, lugubriously.
The assistant inspector elevated his eyebrows.
"What ages?"
"Nineteen and seventeen," sighed the lad.
"Where are you going?"
"To Boston."
"What for?"
"To look for work."
"Got any money?"
"Two dollars and seventy cents."
"That all?"
"Yes, sir."
"What place do you come from?"
"Chickaminga, Quebec."
"You'll take the 8.15 A. M. train back to-morrow," said the man, briefly. "Now, Deutscher," and he nodded to the German Jew.
The boy and girl left the room, hand in hand, with melancholy clothing them like a garment, and 'Tilda Jane gazed after them with wide-open eyes. Her attention, however, was soon distracted, for the little Jew, the instant he was indicated, sprang from his seat, extended both hands, and nimbly skipping over the floor between his numerous bundles, overwhelmed the inspector with a flood of German.
The inspector leaned back in his chair and at last put up a hand with a commanding, "Halt!"
The old man paused open-mouthed, and the inspector went on in German: "You left your home, you crossed the sea, you wish to go to Portland to relatives—so far, so good, but where are your papers?"
The old man broke into a second burst of eloquence.
"Your certificate," reiterated the inspector, "your writing from the captain of the ship."
The old man shook his head sadly. He had no papers.
'Tilda Jane did not understand a word of what he was saying, but his gestures were expressive, and she anxiously watched his interlocutor.
"Where did you land?" asked the inspector.
"In Halifax, Nova Scotia."
"From what ship?"
"Das Veilchen."
"Captain's name?"
"Strassburger."
"Your name?"
"Franz Veier."
"I'll telegraph him. That's all."
"And can I not go to my friends now—at once? They are waiting, they are expecting. We have so much to say."
"No," said the inspector, and as the German burst out into groans and lamentations, he waved him from the room.
When the door closed, and 'Tilda Jane felt that the cold and scrutinising eyes of the inspector were fixed on her, she was stricken with sudden dumbness. How these people had talked! She could not in a month utter as much as they had said in a few minutes. The result of their loquacity had been a seeming paralysis of her organs of speech.
"What's your name, little girl?" said the official, with slight geniality.
Her lips parted, but no sound came from them.
"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" he asked, agreeably.
She shook her head, not from any knowledge of his meaning, but to signify her disinclination for speech.
"Parlez-vous français?" he went on, patiently.
Her head again negatived this question, and he inquired in Spanish if she knew that tongue.
The shaking of the head became mechanical, and as the inspector knew seventeen languages, he addressed her successively in each one of them.
After she had shaken her head at them all, he surveyed her a few seconds in meditative silence. Then he began to talk on his fingers. She was probably deaf and dumb.
'Tilda Jane joyfully uncurled her hands from the bundle on her lap. This was a safe medium of conversation, for talking on the fingers had been a favourite amusement of the orphans during silence hours; and she would not be tempted to say too much, and betray the fact that she was a runaway. Accordingly, she spelled out the information, "I am an orphan."
"Where do you come from?" he asked her.
"A long ways off," her finger tips informed him.
"Name of place?"
"I can't tell you," she responded.
"Where are you going?" he inquired.
"To—" she hesitated about the spelling of Ciscasset, but got something near enough to it for him to understand.
"Any relatives there?" he spelled on his fingers.
"No."
"Going to visit?'
"No."
"Have you any money?" he next asked her, and she politely and speedily informed him that she had fifty cents.
"You must tell me where you come from," came next from him in peremptory finger taps.
"No, sir," she replied, with spirited movements.
"Then you'll stay here till you do," he responded, and with a yawn he rose, turned his back to her, and looked out of the window.
'Tilda Jane took up her dog, and slipped out of the room. She was not frightened or sorry for the deception she had just practised. It did not seem to her that it was deception. For the time being she was deaf and dumb, and, far from being alarmed by her helpless condition, she possessed the strong conviction that she would be well taken care of. She had also ceased to worry about the board of lady managers, and in her present comfortable, callous state of mind she reflected that she might stay here a year, and they would never think of looking for her in a railway station. She was lost to them, and she gaily hummed a tune as she strolled to and fro on the big wooden platform, watching the shunting engines, the busy custom-house officers, and the station yard employees, who were cleaning, rubbing, scouring, and preparing cars for further journeys.
At twelve o'clock, just as she was beginning to stifle yawns, and gaze wistfully at the windows of the dining-room, a young girl in a white apron came and stood in the doorway, and, shading her eyes from the sun shining in such dazzling brightness on the snow, beckoned vigorously to 'Tilda Jane.
The little girl needed no second invitation, and, with her dog limping behind her, trotted nimbly toward her new friend.
"Poor little soul—she's deef and dumb," said the dining-room girl, compassionately, as she passed a group of men in the hall. "Ain't it a pity?"
'Tilda Jane did not speak or smile, nor did her conscience, often so troublesomely sensitive, now give one reproving twinge. Since talking to the inspector she felt as if deaf and dumb. She had been officially proclaimed so, and in meek patience she seated herself at the table, calmly pointed to what she wished, and, being most tenderly and assiduously waited upon by the pitying girl, ate a large and excellent dinner.
At the orphan asylum there had never been fare such as this, and, after she had finished her chocolate pudding, and put in her pocket a juicy orange that she could not possibly eat, she bowed her head, and internally and thankfully repeated the orphanage grace after meat.
"Just look at her!" exclaimed the admiring girl. "Ain't she cute? What kind of folks must she have to let such a poor little innocent travel alone? I don't believe she's obstinate. That assistant inspector is as hateful as he can be. Come, sissy, and I'll show you to your room," and she approached 'Tilda Jane, and took her by the hand.
The latter pointed to her dog, and not until she had seen him satisfy the demands of his appetite, would she consent to follow her guide to a neat little apartment in the top of the wooden hotel.
Upon arriving there, she thanked the girl by a smile, closed the door, and, throwing herself on her bed, was soon buried in sweet and wholesome slumber.
CHAPTER VII.
CLEARING UP A MISTAKE.
That evening, when some of the custom-house officials and some of the guests of the hotel were sitting tipped back in chairs in the smoking-room, the assistant inspector said to the inspector, who had just come in, "I couldn't make anything of your deaf and dumb kid, Jack."
"What deaf and dumb kid?" asked Jack, seating himself, and drawing out his cigar case.
"That young one with the bundle."
"She ain't deaf and dumb. Her tongue's hung as limber as yours."
"Well, I swan!" said the assistant inspector, blankly, and, as he spoke, he brought his chair down on its four legs, and gazed about the room with an expression of such utter helplessness that the other men broke into a roar of laughter.
"Don't cry, Blakeman," said Jack, soothingly. "It's only once in a coon's age you're fooled."
"Do you suppose the slyboots has gone to bed?" asked Blakeman, again tipping back his chair, and returning to his professional manner. "Uncle Sam hasn't got any spare cash to waste on such like. Just open the door, Rufus, and see if you see any of the girls about."
A dining-room girl good-naturedly consented to go in search of 'Tilda Jane, and upon entering the room found her on her knees thoughtfully looking down at the railway tracks running close to the hotel.
Stepping forward and gently touching her shoulder, the girl pointed down-stairs.
'Tilda Jane nodded, smiled, and, taking her hand, went out into the hall and down the staircases with her. 'Tilda Jane stared at the ring of men sitting in the smoking-room. When she caught sight of her friend of the morning, she smiled and bobbed her head at him, then, letting her dog slip from her arm to the floor, she stood in silence, waiting to be questioned.
She had no doubt that this was some special tribunal called together to deliberate upon her case. She was not afraid of these men, they had kindly faces.
"What made you pretend you were deaf and dumb?" asked the inspector, at last.
She opened her mouth once or twice, tried to speak, failed, and at last articulated with difficulty, and with an air of genuine surprise, "Why—ain't I deef an' dumb? I ain't spoke ever since he made me think so till now," and she nodded toward the assistant inspector.
"I made you think so!" ejaculated Blakeman, irritably.
"Yes, sir," she said, dreamily, and lingering over her syllables as if she found a new pleasure in the exercise of speech. "You had so much to say, an' the other people had so much to say, that the room seemed chock full o' words. They was flyin' round ever so thick, but I couldn't ketch one o' them."
"Well, now, you've got to quit lying and tell us where you come from," said the assistant inspector, roughly. "You've got to be sent home to-morrow."
"Sent home?" she repeated wonderingly.
"Yes—to Canada. Now tell us the name of the place you belong to, or we'll ship you to some poorhouse."
"Do I come from Canada?" she asked, with a mystified air.
Jack jogged his assistant's elbow. "Seemed to me there was the smell of a ship about her."
"Not so," responded Blakeman who prided himself on distinguishing nationalities. "She hasn't any European accent. She's from right over the border here somewhere."
"Do you know my mother?" 'Tilda Jane was eagerly asking the assistant inspector.
"Yes—know her well. If you don't speak up I'll telegraph her."
"Oh, I'll never speak then," said 'Tilda Jane, taking a step forward and clasping her hands painfully. "Oh, sir, do telegraph to my mother. I've cried an' cried at nights 'bout her. Other girls has mothers that loves 'em an' strokes their hair, an' nobody ever done that to me. They just thinks I'm ugly. Oh, sir, oh, sir, won't you telegraph my mother?"
Blakeman had gone too far. The sentiment of the meeting was against him, and a low murmur warned him to retract what he had said.
"I don't mean your mother," he said, sulkily. "I mean your guardians."
"The lady-boards?" asked 'Tilda Jane, eagerly.
He did not know what "lady-boards" meant, but his silence seemed to give assent to her question, and losing the bright flush that had come to her face, she relapsed into painful and profound silence.
He would never know how he had hurt her. Oh! what hopes he had raised, and in an instant dashed to the ground, and checking the convulsion in her throat, she stealthily wiped away the two tears of distress coursing down her thin cheeks.
"Don't cry," said Jack, kindly. "I expect you're tired from your trip in the train yesterday. You had a pretty long one, hadn't you?"
"Yes, Mr. Jack," she said, humbly. "It seemed kind o' long, but I'm not used to bein' drug along so mighty quick."
"I didn't notice her till we passed McAdam Junction," whispered Jack to his assistant. "She's come down from some place in New Brunswick. Telegraph McAdam."
"They'll not know," growled Blakeman. "Robinson on yesterday's Montreal express is the man. He'll be back to-night. He'll know where she got on. If he'd reported, 'twould have saved this."
"I guess he didn't think we'd struck such an obstacle," remarked Jack, with a chuckle. Then he said aloud, "Don't you suppose they'll be worrying about you, sissy?"
"No, sir," she said, meekly, "they'll be more mad than worried."
"You haven't lost that paper with the address, have you?" said Jack, cunningly.
"No, sir," and she put her hand to her breast.
He got up and walked toward her. "Let me see if I can read it."
"There's no 'casion for that," she said, with dignity.
"You'll have to let me see it," he said, firmly, so firmly that it being no part of her plan to "dare the undareable," she quietly handed Hank's card to him.
"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset, Maine," he read, then he gave it back to her. "Thank you, sissy. I guess you can go to bed now."
"In a minute," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, while she made a queer bob of a curtsey to all present. "Gen'l'men all—before I go I must say somethin'. Up-stairs jus' now I was ponderin' on my wickedness. I guess you think I don't know that all liars has their portion in the lake o' fire an' brimstone. I knows it an' feels it, but gen'l'men I ain't told no more lies nor I could help. That 'bout bein' deef an' dumb I can't call a lie, 'cause I felt it, an' I'm s'prised now to hear myself talk. But I have told lies, an' I know it. To-day I had a boss dinner. I went to sleep an' on my bed I dreamed. Somethin' roared an' shook the house an' I woke in a sweat. Did I think the devil had come after me? Yes, sirs—gen'l'men, I've been awful bad, I don't s'pose any of you knows what such badness is. I'm afeared I've got to go on lyin' till I like lies better'n truth. That's what the—what ladies I has known said would happen to little girls as stepped aside from the paths of righteousness."
The men were all staring at her, the assistant inspector most intently, for this flow of language from the supposedly deaf and dumb child surprised even him—a man used to surprises.
"I'm goin' to repent some day," continued 'Tilda Jane, sadly, "just as soon as I get out o' this, an' enjoyin' fam'ly life. I'm goin' to repent of all 'cept one thing, an' I can't repent 'bout that 'cause I dunno if it's wrong. Do you like dogs?" and she abruptly addressed the assistant inspector.
"No," he said, brusquely.
"What do you like?" she went on, wistfully, "cats, birds, children—do you like girls, sir, nice little girls with blue eyes an' curly hair?"
The assistant inspector was a remarkably fine blond specimen of a man, and, as he was popular among the young women of the neighbourhood, 'Tilda Jane's artless question produced a burst of laughter from his companions, and a furious flaming of colour in his own face.