Sutro and Tito, indeed!
The former in the full glory of his holiday Mexican costume, looking a little the worse for a long journey; the latter in exuberant spirits over his release from the car which he had occupied for nearly a week, padded and luxurious though it had been. The extravagant caresses of one old friend, and the pleading, loving neighings of the other, were met by an ecstatic response, which told how greatly they had been missed.
“Oh! How—Why—I’m so glad I shall—cry!”
“Santa Maria! We part no more, mi niña [my little one].”
“But how could you come? You darlings!”
“How? Save on that horrible railway train, de veras, indeed! But thy Tito suffered not at all, he. Bob and the boys sent him to thee, their Little Un; for, in verity, he was of no use to the Lord of Plunkett, no. Not a saddle nor a bridle would he endure, until to-day. And so—goes thy Bob to the señor and says: ‘The Little Un’s horse travels east to the Little Un, with old Sutro, who will not live at San’ Felisa without his heart’s dearest.’ And—here we are. Caramba! Thou lookest fine, no? But—still—thou wilt return with Sutro to the old hacienda, wilt thou not, mañana [to-morrow, sometime]?”
“The very first mañana that ever I can! But, go away, you boys! What do you want with us?”
“A circus! A circus!” cried the gamins, delighted at seeing Steenie now mounted behind the old Spaniard, whose striking apparel reminded them of nothing but the fascinating entertainment just mentioned.
“It’s that horse girl!”
“It’s her that rode Beatrice Courtenay’s runaway!”
“I’ll bet all my alleys she does b’long to a circus, an’ that’s another of ’em!”
“Say, Sissy, what show you skedaddle out of? Give us the tip!”
“The tip, no? The whole of it, you miserables!” Suiting the action to the word, Sutro leaned sidewise from the saddle, and laid about him hastily with his short riding-whip. This had the effect of ridding them from immediate persecution, and, taking advantage of this lull in the attentions of the street boys, Steenie gave Tito his word of command, and away they shot at a pace to distance all pursuers.
Madam Calthorp looked up from her book as the clattering of horse-hoofs fell on the gravel of the path which led to her disused stable, and could scarcely believe her own eyes for the story they told her.
She was still trembling from the shock of her surprise when Steenie bounded into her presence, wild with excitement and radiantly glad. “O, Grandmother—Grandmother! Who do you think has come? Tito—Tito—Tito! My own Tito! And that blessed old Sutro, who is as old as old, but didn’t mind anything but staying away from his niña! Come—come—quick—and see them!”
She could not stand still, not one instant; but around and around her grandmother’s chair she danced, while that lady slowly rose, wondering at herself for even this concession.
“This way! This way! To the—I s’pose it’s the stable! And won’t Tito be glad to get into a quiet stall once more? And the grass! Can he roll on the cunning little lawn, Grandmother?”
“Steenie, silence. Be still for one moment. What is all this? Who is ‘Tito,’ who ‘Sutro’? Why are you not at school?”
“Why—why—I don’t know. I s’pose I forgot. Sutro—is Sutro. Don’t you know I told you ’bout him? He’s my body-servant, and as old as anything. But such a rider! There’s nobody in all San’ Felisa can beat him, ’cept Kentucky Bob an’ some more. Bless his heart! Bob’s, I mean. Bless everybody’s! For he’s come all these long three thousand miles to bring me my pretty piebald Tito. The Plunketty Lord said he should always be mine, case I ever went back; but those dear boys wouldn’t wait for that—no! I s’pose they saw that Tito was breaking his heart and s’posed I was mine; and so they paid all the money for Tito’s ticket, and hired him a beautiful cushioned horse-box, and sent Sutro to take care of him till he brought him safe to me. And—and—he’s—they’re never going away any more till I go, too. Oh, hola, hola! Aren’t you glad—glad—glad?”
If she were glad she did not so express herself; nor did Madam Calthorp’s countenance exhibit any emotion brighter than dismayed astonishment as she followed this strange child out of the room and out of the house, in order to be presented to two more intruders.
“Sutro, Caballero Don Sutro Vives, this is my beautiful Madam Grandmother. And Tito—my sweet!”
“I have the honor to kiss thy feet, Señora,” said the old Spaniard, bowing profoundly.
For a moment Madam regarded him with admiring curiosity. As a “type” of that race which she had read of in history, a race that was fast dying out, he interested her, and for that reason she was glad to see him; and the caballero, lifting his eyes from the ground, beheld only the pleasure, and did not question its cause. “The Doña Steenie says truly, Madam; the Señora is beautiful,—as the snows on the Sierras. May the humblest of her slaves beg her gracious favor?”
Such language was new to Old Knollsboro, though to Steenie’s ears it was as familiar and as meaningless as the ordinary salutations of the day to other folk; and she interrupted any reply which Madam might have made by seizing that lady’s hand and placing it on Tito’s flowing mane. “Isn’t it fine and white,—whiter and softer than the freshest fleece ever sheared? And see the pretty, pretty markings all over his body! Lift your foot, my Tito. One—two—three—four! One—two—three—four! Isn’t that a fine action? And his haunches! See how strong and shapely. And his lovely tail, set straight and free! And his darling neck! Oh, my Tito, I love you! I love you!”
Madam Calthorp was speechless. Not only was she amazed, but she was touched. She had never seen anything like this. It was as if a twin had found its mate; and the exchange of sentiment between the two young creatures was too evident for even her untrained eyes to ignore. Steenie was not one whit more glad than Tito; nor did she express her emotion more clearly. The animal’s velvet nostrils moved everywhere about the curly head and bobbing shoulders of his recovered mistress, with an exquisite gentleness of touch she could not have believed possible in “only a horse.” There was adoring delight in the great brown eyes which followed Steenie’s every motion, and seemed blind to all else; and when Sutro had unfastened the stable door, the loving pair went joyfully away together, her arm about his neck, bent proudly to receive it.
“My-soul-I-declare!”
This ejaculation, in the harshest utterance of Mr. Resolved Tubbs, broke in upon this pretty scene with the force of an explosion. It cleared the air of undue sentiment, and recalled Madam Calthorp to a sense of her position and its consequences. Here she had not only received these unwelcome intruders, but allowed them to believe that she was glad to do so! She must right the mistake at once.
“Ahem, Mr. Sutro, I mean Vives, I think it would be better to take that animal directly to the livery stable. I do not keep a horse, and should not be willing to let Steenie. As for yourself, while your devotion is touching, I think you can find more comfortable quarters at the village than I can give you. This man—Tubbs, will you show this old gentleman the way to the American House?”
Considering the lumbago, Mr. Tubbs stepped forward with amazing alacrity. He was quite willing to prevent his small “world” being “turned upside down” by this fresh consignment from the far west. But his obliging readiness fell powerless before the caballero’s obtuse serenity.
“Ten thousand pardons, most charming Señora, but whatever will serve my hostess serves me. Old Sutro is not particular.”
“But—gracious!” retorted Resolved, and began an explanation which was cut short by Steenie’s reappearance with the request: “Please get me some alfalfa, or oats, or something for my Tito’s dinner; will you, Mr. Tubbs?”
“Steenie, there is nothing for a horse to eat here. I have not kept one in many years. The last one was your father’s, before he left home. This animal must be taken elsewhere for the present.”
“Grandmother! My Tito? After so long, long a journey? Oh, no, no, no!”
“But, my child, be reasonable. The stable is—”
“’Xcuse my interrupting, but it’s just as nice as nice. They’s a lovely box-stall, only wants taking those old rubbishy things out of it; an’ places for everything. We can go to the shop where you buy things for horses, and buy him all he needs. Same’s you bought my clothes. An’ then such fun! Won’t Papa be glad! And Sutro—forgive me not thinking ’bout you, too. Are you hungry, dear Sutro? You’re ’most always, don’t you know?”
“Ah, Señorita! The food on the way was not of Ellen’s sort. In verity, I would like a dish of—”
“A’most anything, no? Grandmother, may Mary Jane cook Sutro some dinner?”
“Hm. It must be near the dinner-hour for all of us; and you may invite your old friend for this one meal.” The significance of the lady’s tone was not lost upon her ancient servitor, Resolved, but it was—wholly—upon the happy unconsciousness of these two reunited comrades, whom Madam Calthorp watched with growing interest; even herself forgetting, as Steenie had utterly forgotten, that there was such a thing as school and its duties.
“She is a different creature! Vivacious, sparkling, charming. And all for that queer old man and queerer horse! Is it as my son has thought and said,—that the key to the child’s nature is love,—overflowing love? Well, there is, certainly, no mistaking the love between those two nor the want of it between these—two!” considered the unwilling hostess, turning her eyes upon the two old men, as Sutro and Resolved glared with instant and mutual dislike upon each other.
“Can it be possible that Tubbs is actually growing fond of the child, and is jealous?”
It seemed so, strange as it was; for when dinner was served, and Sutro, naturally, took his place behind Steenie’s chair, the other ancient worthy remarked with considerable sharpness: “Ye kin set down, can’t ye?” and pointedly pushed a chair back to designate where.
“Ten thousand thanks, my friend; when the Señorita has finished,” answered Sutro, suavely.
“Sin-your-eet-her, hey? What heathen gibberish is that, I’d like ter know? Thar’s yer place, an ’thar ye kin set er go ’ithout,—uther one,” retorted Tubbs, forgetting in his aversion to this “furriner” the respect due to the occasion.
“Luego [presently].” With the sweetest of smiles, old Vives, who had been watching Resolved’s manner of service, deftly turned his little lady’s plate, exactly as the other had done Madam Calthorp’s.
When Mr. Tubbs passed to his mistress the food which Mary Jane had carved, the stranger anticipated a similar attention to Steenie. So with everything; till even the house-mistress’s dignity yielded to a smile, and the little girl laughed outright.
“Why, you two funny men! What makes you go snap—snap—with things, so? And poor Mr. Resolved, if it’s your lumbago worse, just let Sutro take care of Grandmother, too. My Sutro can do everything beau-u-tifully; can’t you, dear?”
“Si? It is music thou speakest, carita.”
“T-wu-ho!” With this indescribable snort Mr. Tubbs retreated to the kitchen and threw himself down recklessly in Mary Ann’s own rocker. But the rocker was cushioned, and Resolved was tired; and the combination revealed the fact that even an enemy has his uses. “My-soul-I-declare! If he wants ter trot round waitin’ on younguns, let him trot! Ain’t no law ag’in it, as I know of.”
“Ner ag’in your behavin’ like a great, cross youngun yerself, if I do say so!” said Mary Jane, dishing apple-fritters with a skilful hand.
“Ain’t cross. An’ if I be, ain’t it enough ter make a critter a’most sw’ar? Here was we livin’ like pigs in clover; and in come Mr. Daniel an’ the gal. Now, ’s if that wa’n’t upsettin’ enough—piles in a heathen Mexican an’ a calico horse ter boot! I do say, an’ I mean it, folks does sometimes get more o’ trouble ’n they desarve in this world.”
“Calico horses is lucky. Hain’t you never heerd that? I always wish when I see one, an’ that ain’t often. An’, though it does make a pile o’ work, I—no, sir!—I ain’t a mite sorry ’t Mr. Dan’l an’ Steenie come!”
“Ma-ry-Ja-ne!” Tubbs half rose from his chair, in astonishment at his sister’s words. “An’ you—a perfessor!”
“Perfessor from my youth up,” assented the spinster, piously. “That’s why it’s borne in on me ter witness fer the truth. I hated it—Here! you Mr. Sutry! Jest fetch all them things out, fust. Don’t leave anything on the table, savin’ the bread an’ the salt. And—there ye be! Handy as a womern, I do declare!—Yes, sir, I hated it wuss ’n pisen. So ’t I couldn’t sleep, worryin’ ’bout the victuals ter cook an’ the dishes ter wash, an’ the hull job. An’ I knowed Madam hated it even wusser. But now—mebbe it’s grace ’at’s ’gin me, an’ mebbe it’s only natur’; but that little creetur has ’bout changed the hull outlook o’ things. She jest acted as if I loved her the terr’blest’t ever was, an’ fust I knowed—I did! Thar wasn’t no holdin’ out ag’in them big innercent eyes o’ her’n, a smilin’ so right inter a body till a body can’t help smilin’ back. So—now I’ve told it out, an’ I feel better. You b’lieve my words, brother Resolved, an’ mark ’em well: Thar’s a blessin’ come with poor Mr. Dan’l’s comin’, an’ it’s took visible shape in that thar child!”
“Well—I swan!”
“Hm-m. Ye needn’t swan’ nothin’. Madam’s through. Come along an’ eat yer dinner. An’ remember ter let yer candle burn afore that poor, yaller-skinned, heathen stranger, who, if he hain’t got the grace o’ perfessorship has got it o’ perliteness.”
Thus adjured, “professor” Tubbs arose and followed Mary Jane into the dining-room, where Sutro had already seated himself in the chair designated by his new confrère, and was smiling blandly kitchen-wards, when that person’s bent figure darkened the doorway. But if there was any spiritual light-shining or candle-burning, it was not of a sort to impress the Catholic Christian with the beauty of the Puritan creed.
Alas! It was war from the beginning with these two; and, though both were inwardly conscious of their own blame in the matter, no amount of self-abusive prayers on one side or muttered Ave Marias on the other could ever change the course of nature.
“Water won’t run up-hill; an’ folks ’at ’s born contrary stays contrary. All you kin expect is ter keep the peace,” said the shrewd Mary Jane, and determined to make a bridge of her own patience which should serve both sides of the hostile camp.
After dinner the question of Tito again arose; and, pending her son’s return, Madam compromised her own judgment and sent off an order for food and bedding sufficient for a few days’ need. “I’m growing very weak and indulgent,” she said, apologetically, to Mary Jane. “But this arrival was so unexpected, it may be as well to await Daniel’s decision.”
“Yes’m. An’ I do ’low you won’t be sorry. She don’t ask ner tease fer nothin’; hain’t never sence she come. ’Bout them books, even; I’ve seen her a marchin’ back an’ forth, back an’ forth, a lookin’ through the glass at ’em that longin’ ’at I’ve be’n a’most a mind ter open the bookcases an’ show ’em to her. But, o’ course, I didn’t; an’ she didn’t say ary word, ner even look mad, only kinder hungry-like. ’Twould be a pity not ter let her have her pony, seems ter me. Mr. Sutry, he says she kin beat any circuser ’tever was. She’s rid’ ever sence she was a baby; an’ them men out ter Californy—‘boys,’ she calls ’em—’d a never let her come east in the world if it hadn’t a be’n fer her pa’s eyes. When’s he comin’ home, Ma’am?”
“Soon, I hope. And that he will be reassured concerning his dreaded blindness. It cannot be that a Calthorp—such a strong, healthy, handsome man he is, Mary Jane—should suffer such a physical blemish!”
In that sentence spoke one of Madam Calthorp’s strongest prejudices. Against imperfection of any sort her proud heart rebelled. Her own physique was faultless. She wore her years and her white hairs as royally as a queen her ermine mantle. She had always prayed that she might die thus, in her full vigor, before any mortal weakness touched her; and her feeling of this sort extended to all belonging to her. If her son died, she would mourn him; but if he lived, a helpless wreck, she dared not contemplate the prospect.
“No, it don’t ’pear so; but the ‘don’t ’pear so-s’ are gen’ally what happens; an’ though I hate ter say it, I think you’d oughter know that Mr. Dan’l went away a’most convicted in his own mind ’at he wouldn’t never see no more o’ this mortal speer ’an he saw then.”
“Mary Jane! But you are not always a true prophet.”
“An’ I hope, with all that’s in me, ’at I ain’t now!”
But—she was. An attendant brought Daniel Calthorp home that night; and the first glance which his mother cast upon his face disclosed that his last hope of restored sight had gone out from it.
