CHAPTER XVII.

THE TIGER MAKES A SPRING.

The situation would have been absurd if it had not been painful. The next morning the old man was still in the same mood, angry at the girl's invasion of his premises, and yet so appreciative of the value of her energetic ways that he did not insist on her departure. And so day after day, for a whole week, 'Tilda Jane lived on, keeping house for the old man, but saying not one word to him.

He would not speak to her, and she would not begin a conversation with him. She prepared his meals from food that the storekeeper and butcher readily gave her on the old man's account, and exercised her tongue by talking to her dogs.

Occasionally she called on her French neighbours, the Melançons, and from them gleaned various items of information about the eccentric Mr. Dillson, without, however, allowing them to know that he would not speak to her. This secret she proudly kept to herself. She found out from them that the old man was ordinarily in better health than at present,--that he was usually able to hobble about the house and wait on himself, for his temper had of late become so violent that no woman in Ciscasset would enter his house to work for him. Therefore, 'Tilda Jane's arrival had been most opportune, for he would have been in danger of starving to death if left to himself.

Feeling persuaded of this, and greatly pleased to think that she had been and was of service to the father of her benefactor Hank, her attitude toward the old man continued to be one of philosophical and good-natured obstinacy. She would not speak to him, but she was willing to wait on him in silence, looking forward to the time when he would find his tongue.

Her only fear of his sullenness was on behalf of her dogs. He hated them--she knew it by the menacing tremble of his crutches whenever the animals came within his reach. Therefore, her constant endeavour was to keep them out of his way. She had made two soft, persuasive beds in the wood-shed for them; but it was cold there, and she could not stay with them. They loved her with all the strength of their doggish hearts, and wished to be with her every minute of the time.

Often at night she would start up in bed from troubled dreams of a fierce old figure mounting the staircase, crutch in hand. There was no lock on her bedroom door, and if the old man had a sudden accession of strength, he could easily push aside the barrier of a wash-stand and two chairs that she put across this door before she went to bed.

She wished that Hank would come home. He might persuade his peculiar parent to end this unnatural silence, and give her a chance to become acquainted with him.

"Mebbe he'll soon come, Poacher," she whispered in the ear of the dog who was sitting close beside her. "We'll make up our minds for that, won't we?"

The dog was sitting up very straight beside her, and gazing benevolently down at Gippie, who lay on her lap. They were all out on the front door-step, and 'Tilda Jane was knitting industriously. It was a day like May in the month of March--there was a soft, mild air and a warm sun that made dripping eaves and melting snow-banks. Little streams of water were running from the garden to the road, and from the road to the hollow of the river, where large cakes of ice were slowly loosening themselves, breaking up and floating toward the sea. Spring was coming, and 'Tilda Jane, despite the incorrigible sulkiness of the person with whom she was living, felt it good to have a home.

"We'll have lots o' sport by an' by runnin' in the fields, Poacher," she whispered, lovingly, in his ear, "you ole comfort--always so sweet, an' good, an' never sassing back. You jus' creep away when you see some one comin' and don't say a word, do you? You're a sample to me; I wish I was like you. An' you never want to be bad, do you, an' chase back to the woods?"

The dog abandoned his stately attitude, and gave his tongue a quick fillip in the direction of her forehead. No--thanks to her intense devotion to him, he had no time for mournful reflections on the past.

"But I guess you'd like to see your master sometimes," she murmured. "I see a hankerin' in your eyes now an' agin, ole feller, an' then I jus' talk to you hard. You darlin'!" and throwing her arm around his neck, she squeezed him heartily.

He was boldly reciprocating, by licking her little, straight, determined nose, when there was a clicking sound around the corner of the house.

'Tilda Jane released him and raised her head. The old man was approaching, leaning heavily on his crutches. The beauty of the day had penetrated and animated even his ancient bones. 'Tilda Jane was delighted to see him moving about, but, giving no sign of her satisfaction, she rose and prepared to enter the house. He did not approve of having the front door unlocked, he did not approve of her habit of dodging out-of-doors whenever she had no work to do inside. She felt this, although he had never said it, and pushing Gippie into the hall, she stepped down the walk to pick up her ball of yarn.

The dog's enemy was some distance away, and seeing him leaning so heavily on his crutches, it did not occur to her that there could be any fear of danger. However, with all her acuteness, she did not measure the depth of his animosity, nor the agility with which it could inspire him.

With a deftness and lightness that would have been admirable if it had not been cruel, the old man bore all his weight on one crutch, swung the other around in the air, and with the heavy end struck a swift, sure blow on Poacher's glossy black forehead.

It was all done in the twinkling of an eye--in the short space of time that the little girl's back was turned. She heard the crashing blow, flashed around, and saw the black body of the dog extended on a white snow-bank. His eyes were open, his expression was still the loving one with which he had been regarding her as she stooped to pick up the ball.

For an instant 'Tilda Jane felt no emotion but wonder. She stood stock-still, staring alternately at the old man and at the motionless body of the dog. It had occurred to her that he would kill one of her pets if he had a chance, but now that he had done it, the thing seemed unreal, almost absurd. Surely she was dreaming--that was not Poacher lying there dead.

She went up to the dog, touched him with soft, amazed fingers, lifted the velvet ears, and put her hands on his forehead. There was the slightest ruffling of the smooth skin where the crutch had struck him.

The old man stood and watched her for a few seconds, his face a trifle redder than usual, but giving no other sign of emotion. He watched her until she lifted her head and looked at him, then he turned hastily and limped to the back door.

It was an awful look to see on the face of a child,--an avenging, unforgiving, hateful look,--the look of a grown person in cold, profound wrath. He did not regret killing the dog, he would like to dispose of the other one, but he did object to those murderous eyes. She was capable of killing him. He must get rid of her, and make his peace with some of the Ciscasset witches, in order that they might come and wait on him.

He went thoughtfully into the house and sat down in his usual corner beyond the kitchen stove. He wondered whether she would give him any supper. He could get it himself to-night if she did not. He was certainly better, and a glow of pleasure made his blood feel warm in his veins.

Stay--there she was, coming slowly in--he thanked his lucky stars, looking very much the same as usual. He would not be slain in his bed that night. And she was getting fresh wood for the fire. Perhaps she would make hot cakes for supper. She was wonderfully smart for a girl. He had several times speculated as to her age. Sometimes when talking to the dogs she seemed no more than eleven or twelve years old. Ordinarily she appeared to him about fifteen, but small for the age. To-day in her wrath, she might be taken for seventeen. How subdued she seemed as she moved about the kitchen. He had done a good thing to strike down one of those animals. She would not have such an independent air now.

She built up the fire, set the teakettle on the back of the stove--he wondered why she did not put it on the front, and why she gradually piled on sticks of wood until there was a roaring blaze that caused him some slight uneasiness. Was she going to set the chimney on fire?

No, she was not; when there was a bed of fiery red coals, she took up her tiny padded holder, lifted off one of the stove covers, then, to his surprise, went into the corner behind him, where he kept his crutches.

What was she going to do? and he uneasily turned his head.

She had both his crutches in her hand--his polished wooden crutches with the gold plate inscription. Years ago, when he resigned his position as bookkeeper at Waysmith and Son's big mill, a gold-headed cane had been presented to him, on which was engraved a flattering inscription. Nothing that had ever been given to him in his life had tickled his vanity as this present from the rich and prosperous firm had done.

When he had been obliged to put away the cane on account of his increasing bodily infirmities, he had had the gold plate inscription transferred to his crutches where he could see it all the time, and have others see it. Now--what was she going to do with those crutches?

He opened his mouth, and for the first time addressed her. "Put those crutches down."

She paid less attention to him than she did to the crackling of the fire. Walking behind his chair, and making a wide circle to avoid his outstretched arms, she went to the other side of the stove and--

He lifted up his voice and roared at her. She was sticking the legs of his crutches down in that fiery furnace.

He roared again, but she did not even raise her head. She was holding the crutches down, stuffing them in, burning them off inch by inch--very quietly, very deliberately, but very surely. She was not thinking of him, she was thinking of the dead dog out on the snow.

He kept quiet for a few seconds, then he began to bellow for mercy. She was burning up to the cross-bar handles, she would soon reach that gold-plate inscription, and now for the first time he knew what those eulogistic words were to him--he, a man who had had the temper of a maniac that had cut him off from the sympathy of every human being he knew.

Tears ran down his cheeks--in incoherent words he stammered an apology for killing her dog, and then she relented.

Throwing the charred and smoking tops to him, she shut up the stove, took her hat and tippet from a peg in the wall, and clasping Gippie to her, left the house without one glance at the old man as he sat in the smoky atmosphere mumbling to himself, and fumbling over the burnt pieces of wood as tenderly as if they had been babies.

She had conquered him, but without caring for her conquest she left him.