For a time nobody said anything more. Then Madam Calthorp resumed, but in a very kindly and sympathetic tone: “Yes, my darling, we can no longer indulge in any luxury.”
Steenie found courage to speak again. “I don’t know what that is. But Tito isn’t a ‘luxury,’ is he? He’s just a dear, darling little horse!”
“Which, under our changed circumstances, means that he is a luxury, as well.”
“You mustn’t! You shall not! You dare not! He’s mine—mine—mine!”
“Steenie!” said the father, in a pained voice, and opening his lips for the first time.
The child flew to him in a passion of tears. “She can’t—she—she—He’s folks! He can’t be sold. It would—break—his very—heart!”
Touched by the distress of her little friend, Beatrice grew angry and resentful also, and darted to her own father, who put his arm about her and kissed her, glad of anything upon which to vent his emotion; for it must be owned that the big, wise man was almost as vexed and uncomfortable as the two children were.
Mrs. Courtenay walked over to the bay-window and examined an album of etchings, trying, but failing, to appear at ease. To all present it was a very unpleasant scene.
Yet there was no disputing the plain common-sense of Madam Calthorp’s decision, who, it is also true, had no real conception of the strength of the bond between the child and her beloved four-footed friend, her only playmate during all her little life.
Steenie had parted from Tito at Santa Felisa, bravely and cheerfully as she could, “for Papa’s sake;” but she had believed it to be a parting for a time, merely. She had then full faith in the cure of her father’s blindness, which was to be effected by some unknown physician in an equally unknown “East;” and she had looked forward to a joyful return and reunion, when everything and everybody was to be even happier than before.
Now she knew better what “trouble” meant; and to part with Tito forever seemed like cutting her own heart in two.
“Steenie, my granddaughter! Do not forget that there are others present to whom an exhibition of domestic misunderstanding must be most disagreeable. You may take the basket of sea-shells into the dining-room, if you like, and show them to Beatrice.”
“I don’t care about sea-shells, ma’am,” responded Beatrice, with what she considered great politeness.
“An’—an’—please ’xcuse me!” said Steenie, tremulously, and ran out of the house, stableward, faster than even her fleet feet had ever sped before.
Mrs. Courtenay rose, “I think, Judge, that it is really time we should go. I have another call to make, and it is growing late. I hope, dear madam, that you are satisfied with Steenie’s progress under Miss Allen. She tells me that the little thing is very bright at her studies.”
“Thank you; fully satisfied. Yes, I think, I am sure that our little girl has intelligence; only her instruction has heretofore been so deficient,—in every way. I trust you will pardon her rudeness, and expect better things of her by-and-by. She has been a trifle spoiled, I fear. However, I believe that she will make rapid advancement after she is once well started. And pray do not think, Judge, that because I found your ‘riding-school’ too big a venture for a child not yet eleven to undertake, that I do not estimate your own unselfish motive most highly. It simply—could not be.” Madam Calthorp’s smile as she said this was very bright and very proud.
“That’s it! It’s the miserable Calthorp pride that is at the bottom of it!” muttered the Judge, as he rode away. “The father had more sense; he saw no objection to our idea any more than I do, or any other sensible person could. It is an original scheme, of course; but where would the world be if it were not for original people now and then? The child has a talent—a genius—in a unique line. Well, then, why not develop it,—same as music, art, or any other great gift? And she’d be perfectly safe,—I’d see to that; they must have known it.”
“Doubtless they did; and I know something else.”
“What’s that?”—a trifle shortly. It does not improve the temper of most people to have their generosity declined, and the Judge was no exception to the rule.
“That you will buy Tito, if he must be sold, and keep him at Rookwood for his own little mistress.”
“Or for me, Mama, maybe.”
“No, dear Beatrice, for Steenie. Surely you do not wish to take her beloved horse away from her?”
“No, course I don’t; but, you see, I thought maybe that old Madam lady would say she couldn’t have him. ’Cause she ’peared to me’s if she liked to be kind of mis’able an’ give up things. Same’s I don’t.”
“Beatrice!”
“The child is right. Madam Calthorp is a fine woman, but she is as proud as Lucifer. He had to tumble, and she will, or I’m mightily mistaken. It takes a very noble nature to accept favors graciously; and she had an idea that I was conferring, or trying to confer, a favor, which I was not at all. I think it would be the best thing ever happened in this locality, and to the dumb beasts in it, if that blessed, loving little thing could have a chance to preach to us in her innocent way. I mean she shall yet, too! And I suppose that to have a little girl earn anything towards the family support was a bitter motion, also.”
“The most bitter, I think, husband. However, we can do nothing more. But we must have Steenie at Rookwood as much as possible. If one is bound to be kind and helpful one can generally find a way, though not always the way first chosen. Remember that, Beatrice, and be watchful for Steenie’s happiness.”
“Yes, Mama, I think somebody ought to watch it; ’cause herself’s bein’ comf’table is the last thing she cares about.”
“That’s right, my darling,” said the mother, fondly, as she alighted to pay her second call, and thinking very tenderly of the other little girl who had never known the sweetness of a mother’s commendation.
Meanwhile, at the house in High Street, a few earnest words had been said by blind Daniel Calthorp, which touched, if they did not convince, the proud heart of its mistress.
“The scheme is not as wild as it seems, dear mother. If you could see my darling among her friends, the horses, you would understand.”
“But to have it said that a child—a little girl-child—is our maintenance! Daniel, is it not absurd? Besides, could she actually earn enough to amount to anything?”
“I think so. However, we will not discuss further to-night,—perhaps not at all. Only, if you think it would be difficult for you to accept aid from the hand of a child, what do you think it is for me—a man? My blindness was not of my own choosing; and Steenie’s talent has not been given to her for nothing. Do you remember what my father used to say? ‘God never shuts one door but He opens another.’ The doors seem to be pretty fast closed on every side our lives, just now, Mother. Was this—one of His opening? Let us find out that; and—I’ll go to Steenie now.”
“You need not. She comes here to you,” and, despite her decision, which had made her seem so “hard” and stern to her little granddaughter, it was a very proud and loving glance which rested upon the now dejected face of the household darling. “Come here, my little one. I have something to say to you.”
Steenie obeyed; but she did not raise her eyes from the floor, and her small hands were clinched tight together,—in a habit she had adopted to help “keep the tears back.” She expected a reprimand for her rudeness, and she anticipated it. “I came back—’cause—my father says—no matter—I mustn’t never—be anything but nice—as nice—to you. I didn’t mean you—Grandmother; not you—yourself. I—I only—Tito—”
“Kiss me, Steenie. I understand you fully. I have quite forgiven anything that there is to forgive. I should have broken the sad news to you more gently if I could, but you happened to overhear it. What I want to tell you, now, dear, is that I think you are the bravest, dearest child I ever knew. It was a very kind desire of yours to help us in the only way which was natural to your peculiar life and training; but what would do in the far West would hardly answer here in Old Knollsboro. However, you still have an opportunity to be brave and kind. I have decided—I trust that your father agrees with me—that the first sacrifice demanded of you is—Tito. It is painful to me to ask it; but it is right. I hope you will meet this trial in the same spirit which you displayed in this other impracticable scheme. May I depend upon you, my darling?”
A sob that shook her whole sturdy little body welled up and broke from Steenie’s lips; and though the great tears now rolled over the round cheeks her blue eyes were raised steadfastly and her dainty mouth forced itself into a smile, so brave and determined, yet so pitiful, that it pierced Madam Calthorp’s heart like a knife.
With an impulse foreign to her self-controlled nature she caught her grandchild to her heart, and bent her white head upon the brown curls, while a sympathetic sob escaped her own lips. This was the first actual taste of the poverty which had befallen her household, and she found it bitter indeed.
But from that moment, strange as it seemed to Steenie’s own self, she loved her grandmother as she had not done before, and felt so sorry for her that personal grief was almost forgotten.
“Now,” said Madam, lifting her head,—“now, what is to be done, I want done quickly; to me waiting and suspense are intolerable. We know that we must leave this house; let us leave it as soon as possible. To-morrow I will advertise it for sale, and hope for a speedy purchaser. Fortunately, High-Street property is rarely offered, and there is always a greater demand than supply. Hark! Is that the supper-bell?”
“Yes,’m. Come. Papa, dear, I’m hungry, anyhow. And I gave Tito heaps and heaps. But I think you’ll have to speak to Sutro. He didn’t—he didn’t behave very nice. But he—felt—pretty mis’able, an’—Why, Mr. Tubbs!”
Mr. Tubbs, indeed! Never within Madam Calthorp’s memory had that worthy “professor” entered her presence in such a condition as this. His hair looked as if it had never been combed; his spectacles were broken and dangling from his neck, instead of reposing respectably upon his bald forehead; his coat was torn and covered with bits of hay; and—must the truth be owned?—one pale gray eye was bruised and half-hidden by the rapidly swelling flesh which surrounded it; worst indignity of all, he was being marched into the dining-room by Mary Jane’s forcible grip upon his shoulder, and it was her disgusted voice which called attention to his damaged condition.
“Yis! I should say so! ‘Mis-ter Tubbs!’ Here he is! A wolf in sheep’s clothin’! Him a Methodist an’ a class-leader! Look at him! Drink him in! He ain’t nobody but my brother—oh, oh, oh!”
“Resolved! Mary Jane! Explain this matter at once. What has happened?”
“Happened, ma’am? Nothin’ but a—fight! A reg’lar, school-bubby actin’ up! It’s them two old simpletons, Sutro an’ Resolved. They’ve always wrangled an’ jangled ever sence they fust sot eyes on one another. But I’ve managed ter keep ’em from fisticuffin’ up till now. An’ him my only brother! A shinin’ light in the church, he is! Wait till I get my dishes washed, an’ I’ll step down ter Presidin’ Elder Boutwell’s, an’ let him hear what kind o’ sperritooal goin’s on we have down this way!”
“But why should you and Sutro Vives quarrel, Resolved? What provocation did he give you?” asked Mr. Calthorp, anxiously.
“Nothin’ in the world! It’s my poor, sinful old brother here, that’s done all the prov-ockin’! A tellin’ that poor heathen old Catholic that they wasn’t no use fer him here, no more. An’ no bread ter fill the mouths o’ our own household, let alone Mexicers. When he knowed well enough ’t I’d jest done my reg’lar bakin’, an’ no beautifuller never come out o’ that oven this hull summer, let alone more. An’ then pilin’ it on top o’ that, how if it hadn’t a be’n fer him—Sutry—’at Steenie needn’t ’a’ gin up her pony! Don’t wonder old feller was mad; an’ fust he knowed Resolved got a snap-word back—an’ then! Well, you know, ma’am, better ’n I kin tell ye, how quer’ls grows. Bad tempers—sass-hatefulness—candles hid—no light shinin’—an’ then—blows! Yis, ma’am,—blows!”
“Mary Jane! Those two old men!”
“Nobody elset. I don’t wonder ye’re dumberfoun’, I was myself. But fust whack I heered out I hurried an’ there they was! Reg’lar rough an’ tumble, right in the hay-mow, afore Teety pony’s own eyes; an’ I declar’, if that knowin’ critter didn’t actilly ’pear ter be laughin’. An’ ’shamed I am ter have lived ter this day! But—so much fer the Methodist doctrine! No, ma’am, nobody needn’t tell me ’at anything short o’ full ’mersion ’ll ever wash the wickedness out o’ poor humans like Resolved Tubbs! No, ma’am, ye needn’t.”
As Madam Calthorp had never “told” anything of the sort, she could afford to smile; and lamentable as the silly affair was, it yet, as a previous “quer’l” had done, served to divert the thoughts of the family from more serious troubles.
“Poor Mr. Tubbs! Naughty Mr. Tubbs! You—look—so funny!” cried Steenie, laughing. “Did my bad, darling old Sutro-boy hurt your lumbago?” And carried away by a mental picture of the strange conflict, she danced about the victim of his own valor in a manner which provoked his smiles, even if it did his anger, also.
“Well—well—hesh up, can’t ye? I know—I know as well as anybody ’t I’d oughter be ashamed; but—I—but—I—I got that riled I clean fergot everything. Hm-m. The furrin’ vagabones! A tellin’—ME—’t I’d oughter go ter work an’ do sunthin’ ter help the fambly! ’S if I wasn’t a doin’ all a mortal man could, now! An’ a sayin’ ’t he’d show me! He’d let ever’body know ’at where he gin his heart’s love thar he gin his mis’able airthly possessions, as well. He’d show! That tantalizin’ like, I felt I’d like ter ’nihilate him. I couldn’t help it. An’ if I did take my poor mites o’ savin’s—how fur would it go towards keepin’ a hull fambly, an’ heathen furriners an’ circus horses, ter boot,—I’d like ter know?”
“No matter, Tubbs. I am profoundly sorry that you should have quarrelled with anybody on our account, least of all with a poor, dependent old man like the caballero. I agree with Mary Jane, that one who has enjoyed the privileges which you have, here in the East, should have been too wise for any such trumpery nonsense; and I trust that you will duly apologize to Sutro Vives, and make him forget, if it is possible, your unkind words about his being a burden upon us. Your zeal on our behalf is appreciated; but please consult me before you give expression to it in the future. Enough of this. Serve supper, please, Mary Jane.”
Mr. Tubbs escaped to his own apartment, a very astonished and self-disgusted old man. If anybody had prophesied to him such an utter collapse of Christian conduct, he would have scouted the suggestion with scorn. But here was the stubborn fact: he, Resolved Tubbs, a “perfessor an’ a beakin light, have gone and buried my candle under the bushel! Jest fer what?”
Mary Jane could have told him in one word what it took him many hours of Bible-reading and self-examination to find out. “Jealousy,” Mr. Tubbs, jealousy, the meanest, most obdurate sin that ever gets into a human soul, old or young, to twist it out of shape.
“Well—I’m glad of that! ’Cause I’m hungry. I always am, and I didn’t know, first off, whether I’d ought to stay at Mrs. Courtenay’s; but they said ‘yes,’ an’ I had a lovely time. Papa, aren’t rooks funny? They’re English, imported, the Judge says, and they’re dozens an’ bushels an’ more, in those splendid great trees in the park. That’s what makes ’em call it Rookwood. An’ now, soon’s I’ve finished, I’m goin’ to find my poor blessed Sutro Vives. He’s been naughty, course, same’s Mr. Resolved has. Just like they were little boys, isn’t it? But he mustn’t stay naughty. I couldn’t ’low that, could I, Papa? ’Cause he’s very, very good ’most always, an’ I hope Mary Jane will give him a nice supper. Can she, Grandmother? ’Cause it must be terr’ble to be told not to eat. I think—I think—I could do ’most anything else better than not eat.”
“I think you could, sweetheart! But hunger at your age is both natural and desirable. You are growing very fast. I can feel that even if I cannot see it,” responded Mr. Calthorp, caressing the curly head which rested for a moment against his shoulder.
“And when I find Sutro, I’ll make him ’pologize to you, Grandmother; ’cause he oughtn’t to fight at your house, anyhow, no matter if he does sometimes at San’ Felisa. I s’pose he’s over his anger by this time, don’t you? I can’t bear to see folks angry; it makes me shivery all inside, and if he isn’t I’d rather wait.”
“I think you are safe, my dear; and go at once. I would not have the poor old fellow feel himself an intruder, now, if I could help it. I fear the plain-spoken Tubbs was not very careful of his remarks.”
Steenie departed; and it was quite lamp-lighting time before she returned, with a very troubled face. “I cannot find my Sutro anywhere. I’ve looked an’ looked, an’ called—called—called—low an’ loud—but he isn’t anywhere at all. And his blanket that he keeps in the hay to take his siesta on is gone, too. What do you s’pose, Papa?”
“That he probably has gone somewhere to walk off his anger and mortification; and that he will soon be back.”
“It would be awful mis’able if he didn’t come back at all, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes; too miserable to contemplate for a moment. Come, my darling, and sing to me for a little while; then, most likely, he will return.”
But, at that very moment, a solitary old man, in curious attire, and with a gay Navajo blanket folded over his shoulder, was making his way through the gathering twilight toward Rookwood. His head was bowed, and his face hidden by his wide sombrero, and he moved slowly as one whose footsteps are hindered by a heavy heart.
A pathetic figure which the growing gloom receives and hides, the humblest, and the noblest, perhaps, of all those whose hearts have been touched by the love of the child Steenie, he passes thus out of the story of her life at Old Knollsboro.
