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Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill

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<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> <h4>THE CATASTROPHE</h4> This was the beginning of some little confidence between Ruth and Uncle Jabez. He had not been quite so stern and unbending, even in his passion, as before. He said nothing more about the lost cash-boxAunt Alviry dared not even broach the subjectbut Ruth tried to show him in quiet ways that she was sorry for his loss. Uncle Jabez was not a gentle man, however; his voice being so seldom heard did not make it the less rough and passionate. There were times when, because of his black looks, Ruth did not even dare address him. And there was one topic she longed to address him upon very much indeed. She wanted to go to school. She had always been quick at her books, and had stood well in the graded school of Darrowtown. There was a schoolhouse up the road from the Red Millnot half a mile away; this district school was a very good one and the teacher had called on Aunt Alvirah and Ruth liked her very much. The flood had long since subsided and the repairs to the mill and the dam were under way. Uncle Jabez grew no more pleasant, however, for the freshet had damaged his dam so that all the water had to be let out and he might go into midsummer with such low pressure behind the dam that he could not run the mill through the drouth. This possibility, together with the loss of the cash-box, made himeven Aunt Alvirah admitted"like a dog with a sore head." Nevertheless Ruth determined to speak to him about the school. She chose an evening when the kitchen was particularly bright and homelike and her uncle had eaten his supper as though he very much enjoyed it. There was no cash-box for him to be absorbed in now; but every evening he made countless calculations in an old ledger which he took to bed with him with as much care as he had the money-box. Before he opened his ledger on this evening, however, Ruth stood beside him and put a hand upon his arm. "Uncle," she said, bravely, "can I go to school?" He stared at her directly for a moment, from under his heavy brows; but her own gaze never wavered. "How much schoolin' do you want?" he demanded, harshly. "If you please Uncle Jabez, all I can get," replied Ruth. "Ha! Readin', writin', an' mighty little 'rithmaticwe called 'em 'the three R's 'did for me when I was a boy. The school tax they put onto me ev'ry year is something wicked. And I never had chick nor child to go to their blamed old school." "Let me go, Uncle, and so get some of your money back that way," Ruth said, quickly, and smiling in her little, birdlike way with her head on one side. "Ha! I don't know about that," he growled, shaking his head. "I don't see what I'll be makin' out of it." "Perhaps I can help you later, if you'll let me learn enough," she urged. "I can learn enough arithmetic to keep your books. I'll try real hard." "I don't know about that," he said, again, eyeing her suspiciously. "The little money I make I kin keep watch ofwhen I'm here to watch it, that is. There ain't no book-keeping necessary in my business. And thenthere's your Aunt Alviry. She needs you." "Don't you go for to say that, Jabez," interposed the old woman, briskly. "That child's the greatest help that ever was; but she can do all that's necessary before and arter school, and on Saturdays. She's a good smart child, Jabez. Let her have a chance to l'arn." "Ain't no good ever come of books," muttered the miller. "Oh, Uncle! Just let me show you," begged the girl, in her earnestness clinging to his arm with both hands. He looked down for a moment at her hands as though he would fling off her hold. But he thought better of it, and waited fully a minute before he spoke. "You know your Aunt Alviry needs ye," he said. "If you kin fix it with her, why I don't see as I need object." "Will it be too much trouble for you to get my trunk, Uncle, so that I can begin going to school next week?" Ruth asked. "Ain't you got nothin' to wear to school?" he said. "It's dress; is it? Beginning that trouble airly; ain't ye?" He seemed to be quite cross again, and the girl looked at him in surprise. "Dear Uncle! You will get the trunk from the station, won't you?" "No I won't," he said. "Because why? Because I can't." "You can't?" she gasped, and even Aunt Alvirah looked startled. "That's what I said." "Whywhy can't you?" cried Ruth. "Has something happened to my trunk?" "That's jest itand it warn't no fault o' mine," said the miller. "I got the trunk like I said I would and it was in the wagon when we came down the hill yonder. "Oh, oh!" gasped Ruth, her hands clasped. "You don't mean when you ran the mules into the water, Uncle?" "I had to get to my mill. I didn't know what was being done over here," he said, uglily. "And didn't I lose enough? What's the loss of some old rags, and a trunk, 'side of my money?" He said it with such force, and with so angry a gesture, that she shrank back from him. But her pain and disappointment were so strong that she had to speak. "And the trunk was washed out of the wagon, Uncle Jabez? It's gone?" "That's what happened to it, I suppose," he grunted, and dropping his head, opened the ledger and began to study the long lines of figures there displayed. Not a word to show that he was sorry for her loss. No appreciation of the girl's pain and sorrow. He selfishly hugged to him the misfortune of his own loss and gave no heed to Ruth. But Aunt Alvirah caught her hand as she passed swiftly. The old woman carried the plump little hand to her lips in mute sympathy, and then Ruth broke away even from her and ran upstairs to her room. There she cast herself upon the bed and, with her sobs smothered in the pillows, gave way to the grief that had long been swelling her heart to the bursting point. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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