My-soul-I-declare! you here? Don’t ye know Madam don’t ’low nobody to tetch her books?” almost shouted Resolved Tubbs, entering the library on the morning following “Mr. Daniel’s” arrival, and, early as the hour was, finding the place already occupied by Steenie. Sprawling flat upon the hearth rug, and supporting herself upon her elbows, she turned the leaves of a richly illustrated folio, while piles of other volumes were heaped about her, in careless disregard of injured bindings. She did not heed, because she did not hear, the reproof; for at that moment her childish soul was deep in the “Inferno,” following the poet’s dark imagings by the aid of Doré’s darker pencillings. She had had the handling of few books in her short life, but she “took to them” as naturally as did her stately grandmother, whose quiet existence for many years had been among them almost wholly.
“Don’t you hear, sissy? You mustn’t tetch ’em, I tell ye! Git up, quick! I—I dunno what on airth she’d say if she was ter come in this minute!”
“What, sir?” asked Steenie, absently, lifting a face white with horror, “is it true?”
“True as the gospel; you’d better look out!”
“Is it near here,—near this very Old Knollsboro’ town?”
“Hm-m! I vum I never see nothin’ like ye! I do b’lieve ye ain’t right bright!”
“Is it?” again demanded the child, oblivious to any personal remarks.
“I dunno nothin’ ’bout printed trash, an’ you hain’t no call to, nuther. But you’ll hear sunthin’ ’at ’ll make yer ears buzz if you don’t put them books right square back where ye got ’em! I ain’t a goin’ ter wait on ye, like you ’pear ter be uset ter havin’ folks do! I’ve got the fires ter ’tend, the chores ter do, an’ ten thousan’ more pesky things, all this very mornin’, an’ my lumbago achin’ me fit ter split.”
“What’s a lumbago?” asked Steenie, sitting up cross-legged, and trying to hold the great book on her small lap.
“It’s—Thunder an’ lightnin’! Ou—uch!” With a groan that was almost a yell, Resolved arose from the stooping posture which, in an unwary moment, he had assumed before the grate he was cleaning, and clapped his gnarled fingers to “the small of his back.”
Whereupon Steenie likewise sprang up and retreated to the further corner of the apartment, leaving the volume de luxe to fall where it happened. “What’s the matter?” she demanded, from that safe distance, half-laughing, half-crying, for her vivid imagination had been overwrought by the lurid pictures she had been studying, and Mr. Tubbs’s shriek seemed to presage some of the intolerable torments which she had seen depicted.
“The lumbago, I told ye! Blast a youngun,—etarnally askin’ questions! Wait till ye git ter be as old as I be, an’ you ’ll know, I guess!”
“I’ll wait!” responded Steenie, willingly, and with no intentional disrespect.
“Ye will, will ye? you saas-box! Where ye ever lived ter have no respect fer age?” And, mindless of his affliction, the exasperated Mr. Tubbs started in pursuit of the offender, to drive her from his sight.
But she, mistaking his intention, and fancying a terrible resemblance between his pain-contorted face and the anguished ones of the “Inferno” engravings, crouched back in her corner, and, throwing her arms up rigidly above her head, uttered shriek after shriek of terror. Beyond her mild dread of “seeing folks angry,” it was her first experience of fear, and it took absolute possession of her mind.
“Shet up! shet up! My-soul-I-declare, you’re the beatenest youngun I ever see! Why on airth couldn’t ye stay back thar in Californy stidder comin’ ter torment them ’at don’t want ye?” But as, in his eagerness to quiet this unprecedented disturbance of that orderly house, the deluded servant continued to advance menacingly, Steenie continued to scream; until, in the midst of the uproar, a white-haired figure appeared in the doorway, when she darted instantly forward and buried her face in her grandmother’s skirt.
As Resolved afterwards expressed it, he “was struck dumberfoun’ an’ couldn’t say nothin’;” and as Steenie was also speechless, the startled mistress of the house was left to draw her own conclusions from the scene.
“Steenie, look up!”
Steenie shivered and obeyed. “Is it true, Grandmother? Does he really, truly know?” Again that unwonted stirring in the hitherto cold heart of the Madam moved her to ask almost gently, “What true, child?”
“About men being twisted into trees—and swimming in flames—and—and—awful everythings! He says so.”
The lady’s eyes strayed more critically over the apartment, and, if any of that perfectly trained woman’s movements could ever be such, the start she gave was violent. Steenie felt herself pushed suddenly aside, and saw her grandmother cross hastily to the ill-used Dante, which she raised with a care far more loving than she had yet bestowed upon the motherless child of her blind, only son.
“Steenie! Steenie Calthorp! Listen to me. Understand me—fully. I forbid you ever touching a single volume in this room, in this house, which I do not, personally, place in your hands.”
The little girl was too surprised to speak. When, at last, she found her voice, she asked, innocently enough: “Aren’t they to read? The books!”
“By those who comprehend their value. But you are to obey me, implicitly. Will you?”
“Yes’m. So my father said,” answered Steenie, sweetly. “But, you see, I didn’t know they weren’t to be looked at till Mr. Resolved said so. We didn’t have any books at San’ Felisa, ’cept Papa’s figurey ones, and some ’at didn’t have pictures. Only mine. The ‘boys’ used to bring me lovely books, ever’ time they went to town. They was ‘Jack the Giant Killer,’ and the Andersen man’s, an’ a beau-u-tiful ‘Mother Goose’! Father Antonio sent me a prayer-book; but it was all in Latin, and my father says I must learn English first.” The presence of her grandmother had reassured the child against any danger from the lumbago-frenzied Mr. Tubbs, and she now leaned contentedly against the wall, coolly watching the disarranged volumes being returned to their shelves, and quite free from any anger against anybody. But she could not forget what she had seen, and when Madam Calthorp had finished her labor, had closed and locked the glass doors of the old-fashioned book-cases, and turned to leave the room, she went forward and clasped the lady’s hand. “Did you ever read that book, Grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Is it English?”
“No, Italian. Dante, who wrote it, was an Italian poet.”
“Is it near here,—where those poor people are?”
“Steenie! Ah, how can I tell!”
“Can’t you? I thought you knew everything. My father says you are the most intelligy woman of his ’quaintance. He said he wished I could be like you; but he didn’t think I could, ’cause something was the matter with my nature, ’at made it diff’rent.”
“Say ‘dif-fer-ent,’ Steenie. Speak all your words distinctly.”
“Dif-fer-ent. It takes longer, doesn’t it?”
“It commonly takes longer to do things well than ill. It is the fault of the present generation to slur everything, in its rush for ‘time.’”
“Yes’m,” assented Steenie, politely, to whom this was as Greek.
“Did you ever go to school, my dear?”
“No. But my father says I may while I’m here. I don’t much care about it.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, ’cause. One thing, it’s in a house, he says, an’ I like out-doors. I never stay in the house, ’cept nights. Here comes Papa! Is breakfast ready? I’m awful hungry.”
Steenie’s manners and speech continually jarred upon Madam Calthorp’s ideas of propriety; and propriety was the rule of her solitary life. But, although she had dreaded this invasion of her quiet by a “noisy child,” and by the son whose many years of absence had made him seem a stranger to her, yet she was impartial enough to acknowledge that there was something very winning and lovable about the little girl.
Breakfast over, mother and son retired to the library to “talk business,” and the other member of the family party was left free to amuse herself as she chose. “Only take care not to meddle, nor get into mischief, darling,” added Mr. Calthorp to his kiss of dismissal.
“Not if I can help it, Papa dear, but ’most ever’thing here seems to be ‘mischief.’ I think I’ll go out-doors.”
Madam did not hear this decision, or she would have forbidden it,—not from any desire to thwart Steenie’s enjoyment, but because the child was not fitly apparelled to appear on the streets of respectable Old Knollsboro, where, though fashions were not advanced, very rigid notions were held of what should or should not be worn.
Bare-headed and in her white frock, still bundled about with the gray cashmere shawl, the little stranger wandered out into the garden, and thence to the street.
April was half gone, and till then the weather had been cold; but that morning came one of those sudden changes which seem like summer warmth gone astray. The snow-patches melted swiftly, the frozen sidewalks thawed, and the whole earth became a bed of softest mud, over which Steenie pursued her sticky way, too intent upon her other surroundings to notice what went on beneath her feet.
“How the birds sing! There are more birds here than at San’ Felisa, I do b’lieve. And the sun shines a’most as bright. Dear me! I wish I’d worn my hat—but never mind. This shawl’s awful hot. I’ll take it off an’ lay it on the fence. Hm-m. How funny! Everybody has a big white house an’ a little white railing around it, an’ that’s all. But it looks pleasant down that road. I wish Tito was here. Dear, darling Tito! It seems—”
“Whooa! Whooa! I say! Hold—on—don’t—whooa-a!”
Steenie turned swiftly round. Down the street behind her galloped a wildly excited horse, with a little girl on his back; while following fast came a second beast, ridden by a terrified groom. The small equestrian had lost her control of her animal,—if control she had ever had,—and he had taken fright or become suddenly vicious; keeping just so far in advance of the pursuer as to avoid capture, and dancing upon his hind legs between whiles, in a manner inimical to any rider’s safety and doubly dangerous to one so young as she who still clung to her saddle, her fingers clasping the pommel in the rigidity of fear.
“Oh, he’s running away! The naughty fellow!”
Thought and action came together; for the very sound of a horse’s foot-fall had roused Steenie’s spirit to its full activity, even before she had turned to learn that the sound meant danger.
“Hola! Hola!” she cried softly, and bounded into the road; skimming the muddy surface like a swallow and racing as her old Indian friend, Wanka, had taught her in the games at Santa Felisa. She had thrown up her hand, warningly, to the groom, who, aghast at seeing a second child rush into peril, checked his own horse, almost unconsciously.
“That’s the wisest thing he could do! Why didn’t he stop before?” thought Steenie; “that little girl’s horse knew he was being chased, and—”
The small hands on the pommel were slowly slipping loose; but the fleet-footed westerner had gained the gray beast’s side, had sprung upon it, had thrown herself astride the quivering shoulders, and caught up the dangling bridle.
“Hold on to me, girl! Tight—my waist—I’ll take care—Hola, hola, my pretty one! Ce, ce, ce! Wouldst thou? But, no!”
How was it done? That is Steenie’s secret, learned from Kentucky Bob and loyally kept because of her promise; but this is what happened: she leaned her face far forward till her pretty lips were close beside the frantic animal’s ear, and there cooed to him in half-whispered sounds, till he paused for one second to listen,—and in that brief instant yielded his equine will to her human one.
“Good boy! So, so, my hero! Softly now,—as a well-bred horse should go! Don’t you be afraid, little girl! He’s—what’s his name?”
“Ki-inks,” faltered a timid voice.
“Well, I should think so! He’s full of kinks; but he’s a beauty! Aren’t you, dear?” which flattery the mettlesome creature seemed to heed, for he fell into a measured pace, and tossed his mane proudly, as who should say: “Behold me! A fine fellow am I!”
A few rods further of this movement, then Steenie checked Kinks entirely; and though he quivered and trembled, and looked nervously around at the groom riding up and the crowds who had collected on the sidewalk, he suffered the restraint imposed upon him by the stroking of her soft little hands and her caressing voice. Then she asked: “Where do you live, girl? Do you want to go home?”
“Yes, yes! I live down there,” answered the rescued child, loosing one arm from her preserver’s waist sufficiently to point forwards down the avenue.
“Shall I get off? Can you ride alone?”
“No—no—no! Let me down! Please!”
“Wait. Let me tell you. Is he your horse?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“Not—now. I did—but now I hate him! Let me down!”
The groom approached and dismounted to obey this demand; but Steenie wheeled sidewise, so that Kinks could look his stable-mate squarely in the face.
“Not yet, little girl. He’s beautiful, and you ought to want to ride him. Why don’t you?”
“I’m afraid.”
“You needn’t be. Something made him angry; then he ran away. He’s ashamed now.”
“Ashamed? Why, how do you know?”
“He says so, plain enough. See here, Kinksey, hold up your head. Look at your little lady an’ tell her you’re sorry.”
To the astonishment of every on-looker the little bareheaded stranger coolly seized the gray’s forelock and pulled his head backward, so that his eyes could be seen; and laughing softly, but lovingly, she maintained his position till his owner leaned forward and satisfied her own curiosity.
“Why—it is so! He does look as if he wanted to hide!”
It was quite true. If ever an equine countenance expressed shame and regret, that of the now humbled Kinks did so at that moment.
Probably it was the first time in their lives that the people in that wondering crowd had ever thought whether a horse was capable of facial expression; and it gave them food for reflection. Either their own eyes deceived them, or the stranger child was a “witch,” or—a horse did have emotions,—and showed them.
“Now, you won’t be naughty and unkind to him, will you,—just because he didn’t behave p’lite for once?”
“I—I’m not naughty. He’s nothing but a horse, and I’m folks. I know things.”
“So does he. He knows more’n you or I do; an’ he didn’t have to go to school, neither.”
“You’re an awful funny girl.”
“So are you. Say, shall I get off? Will you ride him alone?”
“No—no! Stay on. If you will, I won’t get off at all. I’ll ride all the way home. Will you?”
“May I? ‘Sta buen’ [that is good]! But move back. I’m sitting horrid.”
“Won’t I fall off?”
“Won’t you—pooh! Are all girls afraid in Old Knollsboro?”
“I—don’t—know.”
“I hope not. I’ve had a great cur’osity to see another girl besides myself, but I never did,—that is, to talk to ’em. If they’re all so scarey as you, I shall be awful dis’pointed.”
“You’re a nasty, mean, hateful thing! So there!”
“Why—what?” The face which Steenie turned toward her companion showed not the slightest resentment, but the sincerest astonishment. “What did I do?”
“You said I was ‘scarey’—and—and—things!”
“But aren’t you? I thought so. May be I was mistookened. But Kinks thinks it’s time to go. Are you ready? What’s your name?”
“Beatrice. Ye—es. I—guess—so. Won’t he—run away—again?”
“He’ll run like a coyote! But he won’t behave bad any more. Ready?”
“Ye—es.”
“Now, then! Pronto [get on]!” Away dashed Kinks, bearing his double burden, as if determined to make up lost time, or to show the racing quality of his blood; but, swift as was his pace, he was no longer wild, and seemed but another young thing, such as those who rode him, overflowing with spirit and vitality.
“Ah, how good it seems! A’most like Tito!”
“Ye—es. I—I like it!” assented Beatrice, so exhilarated by the rapid motion that she forgot her fear.
“Which way now?”—as they came to the turn of the road.
“Down there, through the iron gate.”
“Is it his home,—and yours?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll give him his head;” and dropping the bridle-rein upon his shoulders, Steenie folded her arms while Kinks trotted more and more slowly over the gravel road, till he stopped, of his own accord, before the block where he was accustomed to be mounted.
Both children were speedily off upon the ground, and Steenie, feeling more at home and happier than at any time since she had parted from her four-footed friends at Santa Felisa, began examining the various straps and buckles of the gray’s harness, with a professional air which greatly impressed the watchful Beatrice.
“Who saddled this poor fellow?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You ought to know, then! See here! There’s a thorn in this surcingle. That’s all how it happened!”
“That—little thing? And that big horse?”
The groom has ridden up by this time, and Steenie turned upon him swiftly. “See here, man! I found this in the band!”
“Well. What of it?”
“That’s what made him act up.”
“That is too small to have been felt.”
“I think not. See?” The child struck the brier sharply into the flesh of her own brown little hand, and a red flush followed the wound. “That has hurt him ever since he went out. Bob says nothing’s so sensitive as a horse; and then something frightened him; and then he—ran away. So would I,—if anything kept doing this all the time!” And again she attacked her own skin,—now so energetically that the blood oozed out; at which she turned and clasped the soft nostrils of the thorough-bred before her with a tender pitying touch, and laid her own bonny face caressingly against the face of the beast, who stood in motionless enjoyment of this new sympathy.
Nobody knew that a fourth person had observed this scene till a grave voice quietly asked: “Little girl, who are you?”
Then the curly head was reluctantly lifted from its resting-place, and a pair of radiant eyes were raised toward the porch where the questioner stood. “I’m only Steenie Calthorp.”
“Only—the most wonderful child I ever saw! Where did you come from?”
“Santa Felisa, California.”
“What are you doing here?”
Memory returned to her. What, indeed, was she doing there, when she had been told by her grandmother that she must be ready in just half-an-hour to “go and buy some decent clothes!”
“Caramba! I forgot!” And away flashed a white frock and a streaming mass of curly hair, without so much as a good-by to any of these new acquaintances.
