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'Tilda Jane

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<h2>CHAPTER XV. THE FRENCH FAMILY.</h2> '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[187] rest in the words of a song that 'Tilda Jane was afterward to learn: <div class="poetry-container" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><div class="poetry"> "Un Canadien errant, Bannis de son pays, Parconrait en pleurant, Un pays étranger." </div> </div> 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[188] 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[189] 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[190] 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. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/p190.jpg" width-obs="550" alt="" /> <div class="caption">"'YOU ARE YOUNG FOR THAT, MADEMOISELLE, YET—'"</div> [Back to LOI] </div> The woman hesitated, laid her knitting on her lap, and thoughtfully smoothed her tweed dress. "You are young for that, mademoiselle, yet—" and [191]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[192] 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. [193] "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!" <hr class="chap" /> [194] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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