CHAPTER XXV
One morning shortly after this, while Tilly was busy cleaning up the house, she noticed a little girl at the front fence near the gate. The child was oddly dressed, wearing a skirt that was too long for her, stockings so large that they hung in folds about her thin ankles, a shirt-waist which had been cut down from a woman's size and clumsily remade, and a cheap sailor hat with flowing blue ribbons. The little girl was acting, Tilly thought, in a very queer way, for when Tilly approached the door the child lowered her head and with shy, furtive glances moved on, but as soon as Tilly disappeared she would return to the gate and stand peering over it in timid curiosity.
"Strange," the young wife mused, and when the little girl made no show of leaving, Tilly decided to speak to her. So, going suddenly to the porch, she called out: "Wait, little girl. Do you want anything?"
The head of the child hung down till the brim of her hat hid her eyes, and if she made any reply it was spoken so low that Tilly did not hear it. Tilly now went to her and leaned on the gate.
"Did you want anything with me?" she asked, most kindly, as she scanned the incongruous attire in half-amused wonder. The answer was delayed, but it finally came from lips rendered stubborn by embarrassment:
"I--I wanted to see you, but--but I thought maybe I'd better ask John first. He hasn't been over home yet, and I don't know whether he'd want me to come or not. He told me about you, Tilly. He told me, and nobody else, and I didn't let a soul know, either--my aunt, or Liz, or any one."
"Oh, I see! I know now. You are Dora, aren't you?"
"Yes'm," in great relief and with a lifted face. "I see. Then you know about me?"
"Oh yes, and you must come in and see me." Tilly opened the gate. The little pinched face appealed to her, as well as the child's crude timidity. Dora stepped gingerly inside, her coarse, ill-fitting shoes grating on the graveled walk. One of her little hands was loosely buried in a woman's black kid glove, the mate of which was damply clutched in bare fingers, the nails of which were jagged and black. By Tilly's side she clumsily moved along till they had reached the porch steps, where she paused hesitatingly.
"I almost feel like I know you," Tilly went on to reassure her. "Somehow I almost feel that you are John's sister. I don't know why, but I do.
Would you care if I kissed you?"
"Kissed me?" Dora started and stared blankly. "You mean-- Huh! you don't want--"
"This is what I mean, you poor dear little thing!" and Tilly bent down and kissed the wan cheek. "There, now, you must come in and see our new house. John will not be home till nearly dark."
"I don't know whether John will fuss or not," Dora said. "Maybe he wanted me to wait till--till he told me. I don't know. From the way my aunt and Liz talks, a body would think he intended to cut us clean off his list."
"Liz?" Tilly asked. "I've heard John mention your aunt, but who is Liz?"
"Liz? Why, Liz-- You know she is-- Why, Liz is his mother!"
"But--but why do you call her Liz?" Tilly asked, in wonder.
"Because that's her name. Everybody calls her Liz. I don't know-- I can't remember that I ever heard John call her anything. He was always cursing her--that is, when he spoke to her. I don't blame him. She is no good and is always after him for money."
They had reached the little parlor now, and Dora sank into one of the new chairs and swung her thin legs to and fro. She was now more at ease, and was inspecting the room with the wide eyes of a curious child.
"Curse her?" Tilly gasped. "You don't mean that my husband would actually curse his own mother?"
"Huh!" Dora sniffed, half absently, for she was looking admiringly at the cheap dress Tilly had on. "Huh! you would, too, if you had to live with her and drudge for her like me and him do. She is peevish and fretful. If things go wrong with her when she is out at night she is a very hell-cat in the morning. I've heard her say she was going to kill herself, and when her and my aunt have a scrap, things fly about, I tell you. She is mad now. Oh, my! ain't she mad at John for not telling her about you? She drove out to his work yesterday, and, from what she told my aunt, her and John must have had a big row, right before the men, too. Aunt Jane told her John could have her arrested--that the judge would be on his side. But I reckon John tried to quiet her. He always does when she flies plumb to pieces."
Tilly's face was grave and pale. "I think I understand now," she said, in a sinking voice. "Mrs. Trott is out of her mind; John is sensitive about it, and--"
"Who's out of her mind--Liz?" The child laughed derisively. "Don't you believe it! Aunt Jane says she has a clear head on her when it comes to getting the best of any deal. They swapped dresses once and Liz hid some big grease spots that didn't show till Aunt Jane was dancing on a platform in the sun at a picnic. That was a whopping, big row, for the laugh was on Aunt Jane and she had no chance to change till she got home."
Tilly was bewildered. She told herself, as she sat peering into the guileless eyes before her, that she must know more than she did know and this was an opportunity.
"I made some fresh cake yesterday," she said. "Wait; I'll get you some.
It has icing on it, and jelly between the layers."
But Dora refused to be treated as a formal visitor. She followed Tilly into the kitchen, now clutching her ribbons and swinging her broad hat in her hand. "John said you was a good cook," she remarked. "He said you was too hard-worked up there, and that he was going to give you a long, sweet rest. Lord! that boy thinks the sun rises and sets in you! He said you was pretty, but I don't think you are extra. Do you?"
"No, I'm anything else." Tilly was now cutting the big, white cake. The situation was too grave for personal trivialities. She put a slice on a plate and handed it to the child. Dora took the cake, declined the plate, and began eating eagerly, smearing her lips with the jelly and licking them with an encircling tongue. She had put her hat and gloves on a table and was becoming even more communicative.
"I love cake like this with wine," she said. "Have you any about?"
"No. My parents are opposed to wine," Tilly said. "Surely you, as young as you are, don't drink it?"
"Don't I, though!" The child all but leered, and laughed aloud. "What do you take me for--a silly ninny? When they have it at home I get my share, you bet, and I don't always wait for them to get too drunk to see, either. I hide a bottle when there is a big lot. You see, Bill Raines--the biggest, fattest old roly-poly you ever laid eyes on--sends it over by the case. He is full of fun, drunk or sober, with up-to-date songs and jokes--he is a whisky drummer from Louisville, and the rest of the boys say it don't cost him anything--'samples,' I think Liz said, to treat with and make folks buy. Well, as I set in to say, when he gets to town he generally has a big lot delivered to us. He used to like Aunt Jane, but they had a fuss, and he goes with Liz now. He is always flush, plays for high stakes, and cleans the board nearly every time. His luck is always with him. He won't cheat, and they say he shot a fellow in the hip that tried it on him one night at the races. I don't know. I'm just telling you what they all say. I like him-- I like the old devil, for he always has a good word for me. He told Aunt Jane, and between us two I think that's what the fuss was about. Give me another piece, will you?
It is a million times better than baker's cake. Bakers use spoiled eggs in their dough. I can smell 'em in spite of the flavoring. My! this _is_ good! Wine or no wine, it goes right to the spot!"
In munching the cake the child forgot that she had not finished what she had started to say, and with bated breath and lips grimly tense Tilly reminded her of her omission.
"Oh yes, about that fuss!" Dora swallowed as she resumed. "Bill ripped her up for scolding about me. He said that it was a shame the way I was treated, and that if something wasn't done right off--me sent to school and fed and clothed better--he was going to court about it. Lord! Lord!
how mad Aunt Jane was, and Liz, too! They said he was trying to make trouble. That was a month ago. Huh! I think they are right! What business is it to that old pot-bellied duck what I do or don't do? He is no kin of mine and I don't want to go to school, either. I tried it once, and that was enough for me. Sat on a bench all day, with a prissy old maid making me hold a book before my face."
Dora declined a third piece of cake without thanks other than a gesture of repletion as she placed her hand on her stomach, smiled, and shook her unkempt head.
"No. I'd make myself sick," she said. "I'll take a drink of water, though. I seem to feel lumps of it lodged in my chest. I reckon I put in too much at once. If I had wine, now-- But of course that is out of the game."
Tilly supplied the water. Her heart was as heavy as lead. She was afraid to admit that she believed the terrible thing which, like the bile of some all-inclosing disease, was oozing into her consciousness. She led the child into the sitting-room and listlessly invited inspection of this or that article--the few photographs on the table, a china vase holding flowers, a new Bible which was the inscribed wedding-present of the minister's wife, and some other things which to Tilly now seemed to weep in sheer sympathy for her under the horror which brooded over her.
But she fought off the suspicion. It couldn't be--it mustn't be.
"My mother-in-law--Mrs. Trott--John's mother," she stammered in the effort to speak unconcernedly. "Being a widow, she will need money, help from me and John, won't she? Don't you think so, Dora?"
"No, Aunt Jane says no," answered the child, making a wry face as she looked at a picture of Tilly's father. "Gee! what an old pie-faced hayseed this is! For the Lord's sake, who is it?"
"But why won't she need it?" Tilly had heard the question, but did not want to spare the time for a reply which might or might not embarrass her iconoclastic guest. "John has been giving her part of his wages, hasn't he?"
"Yes, but he has to call a halt somewhere, my aunt says. She says Liz can get all the money she needs if she won't throw it away as fast as she gets it and play her cards so she won't be fined so often."
"Fined?" The word fell from Tilly's irresolute lips in sheer dread of further revelations. "Fined! What do you mean?"
"'Soaked' by the judge, that is all I know," Dora quoted, indifferently.
"About once a month they both have to go in and pay up or be jugged. Old Roly-poly said once that he paid the running expenses of this town himself. What are 'running expenses'? Hanged if I know."
"I don't know." Tilly made an all but somnambulistic reply. Had some one--even John--died suddenly, she could not have been more shocked.
Even John's support in her terrible strait seemed somehow likely to be withheld, for how could she go to him with such a matter, seeing that he had not fully confided in her?
"I must be going now," the weird child remarked. "You see, I sneaked over and must get home before they wake up. I'll go in by the back way and change my dress, and they will never know about this lark. At least that's what I'm counting on. You may tell brother John I was over if you want to. He won't give me away. I want you to see the doll he sent me, and her bed and carriage. Gosh! they are scrumptious!"
When Dora had left, Tilly stood at the gate and watched her crossing the vacant lots till she was out of sight. Then the young wife went back to her work, but it had lost its charm. She could think of nothing but the discoveries she had made. She was enabled now to account for hundreds of discrepancies and omissions in her husband's words and acts in the past.
Now all things were clear--too clear by far for her peace of mind. The terrible scandal would reach Cranston. It was sure to, eventually, and all her friends and acquaintances would pity her. And as for Joel Eperson--why, knowing him as she knew him, it would crush him. Her marriage already had dealt him a blow, and this would add to his suffering. As for her parents, she fancied her mother's taking it stolidly and inexpressively; but her father, ah, that would be a different matter! She dared not contemplate the effect on his monumental pride and uncontrollable temper. He would interpret it in terms of heaven, hell, and eternity. He would be as relentless as a patriarch ordered by the voice of God to slay his young in the cause of righteousness. Something must be done, and quickly, but what?