Steenie had little difficulty in retracing her way along the avenue as far as that old street of the town on which her grandmother’s house stood; but she stopped, confused.
“It was a big white house with a lion on it.” Alas! they were all big white houses in that locality, and more than one had a “lion on it.”
“There is a white fence before it, and green blinds.”
So were there everywhere,—for this staid, aristocratic, inland borough was nothing if not correct. Years and years before, when it was young, its then leader of society had builded him a “mansion,” standing so many paces back from the street, of such a width and stature. He had placed about the yard a protecting paling, white,—to match the house; with its green blinds which did not match the grass, but stared at it in a hardness of tone, so utterly green, that it made nature’s color look yellow,—maybe from envy.
The example set in that far-away time continued still. To the one big square white house succeeded other big, square, white houses, as like to the pattern as rule and measure could make them; to the ugly green blinds other rows of ugly green blinds; while the original paling stretched out far, far on either side.
Thus the great High Street of Old Knollsboro began and grew; and now was far too loyal to its past to alter its own cleanly and roomy monotony for any modern freaks of architecture.
It was on this thoroughfare that a strange little girl, who had never been lost on the wide plains of Santa Felisa, now stood looking about in awe-stricken perplexity. She began, also, to feel physically very miserable. Clouds had obscured the sun, and the wind had risen chilly, blowing through her light attire with a piercing breath new to her experience, and most unpleasant. Her shoes were water-soaked, and her feet stiff with the cold; and such a terrible forlornness suddenly overcame her that she felt very much like crying.
“But if I cry I can’t see anything, then!” said this practical small creature, and forthwith restrained her tears. “Well, it must be further ’n this, anyhow; an’ if I go on, maybe I’ll see a Maltese cat. Mary Jane says her cat is pure Malty; and so—Ho! There she goes!”
Thinking wholly of the animal which was to be her guide, Steenie pursued a fleeing object that she believed to be Mary Jane’s possession; but she was disappointed at the very gateway of successful capture, beneath which the cat darted and through which the child would have followed but for the latch; about this her observant eye detected a radical difference from that of Madam Calthorp’s.
“Hm-m, Miss Cat! You’ve run away again, I s’pose. Mary Jane says you are always running away an’ ‘pestering the life out of her.’ An’, maybe, you’re like me,—don’t know where you do b’long. Never mind. I guess you’ll find your way home again; so I’ll go on.”
Steenie was so oddly and thinly clothed for that season and climate that some curious eyes looked after her sturdy little figure, as she passed swiftly up the street, darting questioning glances at every residence; but nobody thought of offering guidance. For wasn’t Old Knollsboro in morning attire? Besides, open curiosity concerning one’s neighbors was a common thing, and belonged to the vulgar crowd which did not inhabit High Street. So she made the full length of one side the roadway and had crossed to return upon the other, when she spied in the distance a bent, blue-coated old man, whom she recognized at once.
“It’s Mr. Tubbs! It truly is! Hurrah!” she cried, with a delight quite contrasting to the terror this same person had caused her earlier in the day. Then she sped forward till she had overtaken and thrown herself upon her victim’s shoulders, who rebounded from the shock of the attack with a groan horrible to hear, but which no longer daunted the glad child. “Oh, you dear Mr. Resolved! Here you were, looking for me, and all the time I was—”
“Wasn’t lookin’ fer ye ’t all! Oh, oh! Be ye born ter murder me outright, er be ye not? Um—m! That’s what I’d like ter know.”
“Murder you? Why, you must be funny! How, why should a little girl murder anybody?”
“My-soul-I-declare! But you seem boun’ ter! An’ in the name o’ common sense, what be ye doin’ out here with no clothes on ter speak of? Where’s yer bunnit er yer shawl?”
Shawl! Steenie had never thought of it from the moment when she took it off and laid it on the fence. The fence! What fence? Where? All up and down those two long rows of palings which faded into an indistinct line and seemed to melt together in the distance, the child’s eyes searched critically. But there was nothing in sight to suggest the shawl, which had been only loaned by Madam Calthorp, and Steenie’s fear took a new direction. What if it were lost?—as she had been, and the Maltese cat.
She had been trained to a very nice observance of “thine” and “mine;” and even at Santa Felisa, where she was so universally loved and indulged, she had never mislaid or used anything belonging to another without permission. How dreadful to begin now with something owned by that stern, beautiful grandmother whom she already loved so dearly, yet who seemed too “intelligy” to return such a simple sentiment!
“Which is my grandmother’s house, Mr. Resolved? Please, will you show me?—even if you weren’t sent after me.”
“Sent arter ye! Humph! Psst-t’ I’d like ter see myself bein’ sent arter younguns, at my time o’ life!”
“Where, please? Quick!”
For answer the old man pushed his spectacles into their legitimate place and looked at the questioner searchingly. “Well, I hate ter own it, but I s’pose I’ll have ter. I ’lowed ter Mary Jane fust off, ’t ye didn’t seem like common younguns; an’ then that fool kind o’ talk this mornin’; an’ now, a losin’ of yerself in a plain straight road like this. It’s a pity,—it’s a terr’ble pity.”
“Of course it is. But don’t you see? I did it just because it is so plain. I was never outside my grandmother’s house before, only when we came. And I was so tired I didn’t notice; an’ these rows and rows look just like a flock of sheep, each more the same than the other; and if you won’t tell me”—A fit of shivering cut short her remarks.
“Gracious! You ain’t a ketchin’ cold, be ye? A’ready? This way, then, suddent! Er there ye’ll be ter be nussed.” With which humble imitation of his mistress’ sentiments, Mr. Tubbs faced about, and seizing Steenie’s cold little hand, hurried back to their own domicile as fast as age and lumbago would permit.
“Now, look a here. Take a notice. Ye mayn’t be bright, but ye can l’arn sunthin’, an’ I’m boun’ ter teach ye. That gate-latch has a round quirl on the top. See? an’ there hain’t another gate-latch has a nothin’ but a square quirl the hull endurin’ length o’ High Street. Do ye understan’ what I’m a sayin’?”
“Why, yes, certainly. Why shouldn’t I?” laughed Steenie, forgetting her fear of her guide in gratitude for his “kindness” in returning her to her friends, and wondering why he thought her so slow of comprehension. But no sooner was the “round quirled” latch lifted than she darted past him and in at the front door, which, for an unusual thing, stood wide open.
“Papa! Grandmother! Where are you? I’m so glad—I’m sorry—I lost it—I was lost, too, and he’s—the loveliest great gray—Papa! Papa Calthorp!”
Her father emerged from the library, looking very pale and careworn; but she sprang into his arms with such exuberant delight that a smile rose to his lips. Then he clasped her close,—closer than she had ever known him to do, and his cheek felt the chill of hers. “Why, sweetheart, how cold you are! Where have you been?”
“Didn’t you hear, Papa, dear? I said I had been lost.”
Very speedily thereafter Steenie found herself in bed. She didn’t quite comprehend it, and it certainly was her first experience of going into such retirement in the daytime; but one glance at the child’s wet feet and shivering body had alarmed Madam greatly.
“Right out of that warm climate into this, and clad as she is! This way, Steenie, at once. Oh, your shoes! The tracks on the carpet!”
“Here, darling, I’ll carry you;” and as directly as if his eyes could see, Mr. Calthorp bore his little girl to her own room and himself assisted in tucking her into the thick blankets, while Mary Jane fussed about with hot bricks and soap-stones, and Madam Calthorp administered a dose of sage-tea, whose aroma carried the father back to the days of his own childhood.
When the excitement had somewhat subsided, and Steenie had assured them over and over that she was as “warm as a pepper-stew,” the house-mistress sat down to listen to the tale which her grandchild had, until then, vainly endeavored to tell.
“First, I’m so sorry about your shawl. I took it off, ’cause it was so warm; an’ I don’t know where the place was. The fence is just the same, and—”
“Never mind the shawl, Steenie; it is certain to be returned. Somebody will find and recognize it; but what is that about a horse?”
Holding fast to her father’s hand, Steenie gave a graphic description of the runaway, and its result. When she had finished, Madam sat in a silence which was plainly that of a shocked dismay. Finally she spoke.
“This is even worse than I feared. No such accident must occur again. Steenie, before another word is said, promise me that you will not go into the street again without permission.”
“No, no, Mother!” interposed Mr. Calthorp, earnestly. “Pardon my disputing your authority, but that will not answer. Steenie has never known restraint, and—but let us settle all this at some other time.”
The lady sighed. She had her own ideas of how a little girl should be brought up; but she felt her old hands inadequate to the task. She had been so peaceful and free! Why had this trial been sent upon her? Gravely she arose and left the room, and the relieved runaway went to sleep to wake at the dinner hour with no worse feeling about her than rebellion against being kept in bed when there was “nothing the matter that ever was.”
The immediate result of that morning’s adventure, so far as Steenie was concerned, was a suitable wardrobe. A dressmaker took up her abode in the west chamber, and there the restless child was imprisoned during a fortnight of bright days, while birds sang invitations to her through the windows, and the crocuses coaxed her with their shining faces to “come out of doors and be glad!”
But the only time she could command for that was after the crocuses and the birds had gone to sleep, and the dressmaker had stopped work for the day.
“Why do I need so many things, dear grandmother? I’m sure they’re pretty; but—”
“Many, Steenie? I have never been an extravagant woman, and I certainly shall not cultivate the habit now. But there must be two comfortable school-frocks and three or four thinner ones; for I wish everything to be accomplished at once that will be required during the summer. There must be a simple dress for church and a richer one for visiting; and—that is all. I’m sure you are the first little girl I ever knew who didn’t like handsome clothes.”
“Oh, you haven’t known even me—that way! For I like the frocks well enough, but not the fixing of them. I stand up, ‘being fitted,’ till my feet ache like anything; and Miss Sessions’ knuckles have punched me all over black and blue. She doesn’t mean it, of course; but when she puts in a pin she jams against me like I was her lap-board. And I wish needles hadn’t eyes! ’Cause I ’most put mine out threading ’em.”
“Why, Steenie! I thought you were a contented child! I have never heard you complain of anything before.”
“Haven’t you? Am I complaining? But—it’s—it’s—awfully, awfully lonesome! I wish Papa would come back! I can’t sleep nights for wondering about his poor eyes; and how long it will take the man to fix ’em.”
“There, there! That will do. Don’t allow yourself to give way to habits of despondency. Your father expected to be gone for two weeks, and he has been for but for ten days. Maybe, if you go down into the kitchen, you can see Mary Jane get supper.”
“Yes’m,” said Steenie, choking back her emotion, and turning toward the stairs, whence, seeing her grandmother stoop to pick up a thread from the carpet, she ran to save her the trouble, and ended by throwing her arms about the silk-clad shoulders and giving them a hearty squeeze. “Oh! I do love you so, Grandmother!”
“Why, Steenie? Because of the new frocks and pretty jackets?”
“Grandmother! How funny! ’Cause of nothing at all only—’cause!”
At which senseless reason the giver of it smiled merrily, and the recipient smiled almost indulgently.
“Well, run now! To-morrow you will be at school, and a new life will begin for you.”
“How? Am I not living now?”
“In one way, yes. But there is a world of books to which your school training will open the door. To me, that world is everything, or was. I find—some other things—begin to interest me now.”
“What things, Grandmother?”
“No matter, little questioner; but things utterly different from any printed page.” When Madam Calthorp said anything that Steenie did not understand, the latter readily attributed it to the lady’s great “intelligence,” which she had now learned to call by its right name.
But, somehow, that little talk had set both old and young hearts to lighter beating; and Steenie departed kitchen-ward, feeling that “watching Mary Jane” was something interesting, even if it could not quite equal a race on the sands with Tito.
But of that beloved animal she dared not think often. It was apt to make a troublesome “ache” come “in her throat,” and it “didn’t do any good.”
On the following morning, feeling very curious and happy, Steenie entered the primary department of the great school for which Old Knollsboro was famous. She did not know that girls “going on eleven” usually disdained “primaries” as far beneath them, and she wouldn’t have cared if she had; but, at the first recess, she was enlightened on the subject by a young miss in braids, who remarked, patronizingly, “Oh, you’re the new girl, aren’t you?”
“I’m not new,—not very. I’m over ten.”
“What? I don’t mean new that way. You just came.”
“No. I have been here ever so long. Grandmother says ’bout three weeks.”
“Don’t you feel mad to go with the little ones?”
“No. I think I like little ones best. I never saw any ’bout my size ’cept Beatrice, and—and—you,” concluded Steenie, stammering in her confusion over saying something that even to her untrained ears sounded “not just right.”
“My! Aren’t you polite! Well, what can you expect, my mother says, of a girl that’s lived in California amongst cow-boys.”
“Cow-boys are nicer—nicer than—nice! I love them, every one!” cried this loyal Santa Felisan.
“You’d ought to be ashamed!”
“Why?”
“Oh, because. Say, has Beatrice Courtenay been to see you?”
“Yes. Once.”
“You thought you did something smart, didn’t you? Ma said it was disgraceful for a girl to get talked about like you have been.”
Steenie stared in amazement, then bethought herself of her grandmother’s parting advice: “Be pleasant to all, as is natural to you; but do not have much to say to any girl until you have learned her name. I wish you to make only the right friends, and I can tell you about all the families—if not all the children—in town. It is wise to select your playmates from households of gentlewomen. ‘Even a child is known by the company he keeps.’”
“Will you please tell me your name, miss girl?”
“It’s Annie Gibson. My father keeps a candy store.”
“Does he? Why does that bell ring? Isn’t the lady pretty who teaches me? She thinks I read very well indeed, for—for—me.”
“Pooh! You’d ought to hear me! I’m in the Fifth Reader. I speak pieces, examination days. Your dress is awful nice and stylish. I bet you didn’t have that made in your old California. I bet your grandmother had to give it to you.”
“Annie, you shouldn’t say ‘I bet.’ Grandmother c’rected me, myself, for doing it. My grandmother is a very in-tell-i-gent woman, my father says, an’ I’m to watch out for the way she talks; ’cause she never says anything ’nelegant. But I think your frock is pretty, too. It’s redder’n mine, an’ more ruffley, isn’t it? I think you are very nice to look at. Your eyes are black, aren’t they? And your hair is nice an’ straight. An’ what beautiful big feet you have, an’ hands! Why, your hands are a’most twice as big’s mine!”
Poor Annie Gibson didn’t know whether to laugh or “get mad;” but there was no doubting the sincere and admiring curiosity with which Steenie Calthorp examined this other specimen of girlhood; but the final tones of the bell called both away toward the house.
Which, however, Steenie did not enter. Her attention had suddenly been attracted by a commotion in the street, and everything new appealed to her curiosity.
“My! I wonder what those boys are doing! What—What—What!”
With a shriek of delight that penetrated the building she was deserting, the child darted from the enclosure,—through the crowd of grinning boys straight to the cause of all their mirth. “My Sutro! My Sutro! My own, ownest Tito!”
“Caramba! My angel! Is it thou? At last—at last!”
