THE SILENT PARTNER AND OTHERS.
“Mother, have you seen Jean?” asked Constance, popping her head into her
mother’s room shortly after breakfast one glorious October morning.
“She was here but a few moments ago, dear,” answered Mrs. Carruth,
looking up from her desk at which she sat writing out the marketing list
for Mammy.
“I want her to leave this parcel at Mrs. Morgan’s on her way to school,
and, by the same token, she ought to be on her way there this very
minute. I wonder where she has gone?”
“Not very far, I think. She knows she must start at once.”
Constance laughed as she replied: “I wonder if she ever will know? Time
doesn’t exist for her, or perhaps I would better say that it exists only
for her; she so calmly takes all she wishes. But she really must start
now. I’ll go hunt her up and get her headed in the right direction.”
“Yes, do, Honey,” urged Mrs. Carruth, as Constance hurried away in quest
of the youngest member of the household.
Mrs. Carruth resumed her writing. The past three years had dealt kindly
with her: Mammy and the daughters of the home had seen to that. Nothing
could ever alter the gentle expression of her eyes, or change the tender
curves of her lips. Each told its story of love for those nearest and
dearest to her, as well as her sympathy and interest in her
fellow-beings. Mrs. Carruth had passed her forty-seventh birthday, but
did not look more than thirty-eight. The hardest years of her life were
those following upon her husband’s death, and the serious financial
losses she was then forced to meet. Since Constance’s venture and the
success which had almost immediately attended it, the outlook for all
had been more hopeful, and if now living less pretentiously than she had
lived during her husband’s lifetime, she was none the less comfortable.
Upon Hadyn Stuyvesant’s advice Mrs. Carruth had not rebuilt the old
home, although by careful economy she could have done so. But Hadyn was
looking farther into the future than Mrs. Carruth looked. Perhaps his
wish had some bearing upon the thought, for from the moment Hadyn
Stuyvesant had met Constance Carruth _his_ future was settled so far as
he was concerned. But he was too wise to let the sixteen-year-old girl
guess his feelings. The gulf between sixteen and twenty-three is a wide
one. As the years advance it mysteriously narrows. At nineteen Constance
often wondered why Hadyn seemed younger to her in his twenty-sixth year
than he had at twenty-three. Never by look or word had he betrayed any
warmer feeling for her than the good-comradeship established at the
beginning of their acquaintance. He was like a brother in that dear
home. Mrs. Carruth consulted him freely upon all occasions. Eleanor
accepted him as a matter-of-course; that was Eleanor’s way. Constance
found in him the jolliest companion. Jean adored him openly, and he was
her valiant champion whenever she needed one. From the day he had taken
his first meal in her home she had been to him the “Little Sister,” and
he never called her by any other name. Not long after that event she had
coined a name for him—a funny enough one, too. Rushing into Constance’s
room in her impetuous way one day, she demanded: “Connie, when knights
used to fight for their ladies, ever ever so long ago, what did they
call them?—the knights I mean.”
“Do you mean Knight Errant?” asked Constance, looking up to smile at the
eager little girl.
“Knight Errant? Knight Errant?” repeated Jean, doubtfully. “No, somehow
that doesn’t fit him. I couldn’t call him that, it’s too long.”
“Call whom, Jean?” Constance began to wonder what was simmering in this
little sister’s head.
“Mr. Stuyvesant. He calls me ‘Little Sister,’ and I want a name for
him.”
“Do you think mother would approve of your calling him by a nickname?”
“’Tisn’t going to be a nickname; it’s going to be a _love_ name for him,
just like his for me is,” was Jean’s curious distinction.
“Oh!” The tone did not imply deep conviction.
“Now, Connie, you don’t understand at all. You think I’m going to
be—be—, well, you don’t think I’m respectful, but I _am_. I don’t know
anyone that I feel more respectfuller to than Mr. Stuyvesant. He’s just
lovely. Only just plain Mr. Stuyvesant keeps him such a long way off,
and he mustn’t be. Mother has adopted him, you know, ’cause we all
agreed to lend part of her to him. So I must have a homey name for him.
What were the other names they gave those old knights?”
“They were often called ‘champions of their fair ladies,’” answered
Constance, slipping her arm about Jean and drawing her close to her
side.
“That’s it! That just suits him, doesn’t it? He was my champion the day
Jabe Raulsbury turned old Baltie out to die in the road, and he has been
a heap of times since when I’ve got into scrapes. So that’s what I’m
going to call him. He is down on the piazza talking with mother about
the new fence, and I’m going right straight down to ask him if I may
call him Champion,” ended Jean, delighted with her new acquisition and
bounding away.
“Don’t interrupt Mother,” warned Constance, always a little doubtful of
the outbreaks of the fly-away.
Hadyn Stuyvesant had not only approved the name, but was delighted with
the idea, and vowed from thenceforth to guard his “lady fair.” So
“Champion” he was from that moment on, and, long as the name was, it had
clung. The three years had not lessened Jean’s love for him or his
devotion to her.
As Constance descended the stairs in quest of Jean she met Mammy at the
foot.
“Is yo’ Ma up in her room, Baby?” she asked.
“Yes, Mammy, and just finishing the marketing list. Have you seen Jean?
It is high time she started for school.”
“Dat’s de livin’ truf, an’ it’s what I done tol’ her a’reddy, but she
boun’ ter go out yonder to see dat hawse.”
“Then I’m bound to go out yonder after her,” laughed Constance, as she
ran briskly down the hall, passed through the door which led to the
piazza and opened upon the lawn. There was no sign of Jean, but
Constance crossed the velvety turf to the stable at the further side of
the grounds, passing on her way the candy kitchen, and calling cheerily
to Mary Willing, who was already busy within: “Polly’s got her kettle on
for our candee,” to be promptly answered by: “Yes, and it’s a-boiling,
if you will come and see.”
“Good! I will be there in just a minute. I’m hunting for Jean.” A moment
later she turned the corner of the stable and came upon Jean and Old
Baltie.
To say that Old Baltie had become almost human during the four years
spent in this home conveys very little idea of the mutual understanding
existing between him and his friends, Jean and Mammy were, of course,
his joint owners; but since his marriage to Mammy, Charles also claimed
ownership. No one would have recognized the old horse for the one
rescued by Jean. His coat was now as sleek as satin, his old body round
and plump, his manners those of a thoroughly spoiled thoroughbred horse.
It had not required all the four years spent with the Carruths to blot
out the effects of Jabe’s harsh treatment, or to revive in Baltie the
memory of his earlier days as Grandfather Raulsbury’s pet. The interval
in which he had fallen upon evil days had vanished as an ugly dream, and
with nobility’s inherent qualities, whether manifested in man or beast,
he had dismissed the memory, risen above it, and with all of his
noblesse oblige was helping others to do likewise.
His wonderfully attuned ears were quick to catch the sound of
Constance’s footfalls upon the soft turf, and he greeted her with a
stifled nicker, for his position made a gentlemanly greeting well-nigh
impossible: he was lying at full length upon a bed of sweet clover, his
head in Jean’s lap. These two were never in the positions or situations
of their kind if they could possibly achieve others.
“Hello!” called Jean, glancing up from pressing her cheek against one
large satiny ear which she held against it.
“Thought I’d find you here, Honey; but I’ve got to hustle you off to
school. Do you know what time it is?”
“Only half-past eight, and we’re having a beau-ti-ful time, aren’t we,
Baltie, dear?”
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” fluttered the delicate nostrils. Constance dropped down
beside Jean and ran her hand along the warm, sleek neck. Another nicker
acknowledged the caress, but the great horse did not stir. The clear
morning sunshine flooded the paddock, Baltie’s little kingdom, and
filtered through the gorgeous sugar maples overhead. The air was clear
and crisp, the ground dry as though night dews were unknown. Off at the
edge of the paddock a cricket shrilled his monotonous little song of the
coming winter—a snug stable for the old horse and a warm fireside for
his friends.
“You really must go now, dear,” urged Constance, rising to her feet
after a final caress.
“Oh, dear, and he is so big and so warm and so soft and so good,”
protested Jean. “But I s’pose I must. Come, Baltie, you’ve got to get
up. Now! All together!” and placing her arms beneath the great neck Jean
gave the preliminary heave-ho! necessary to start the old horse. Four
years before it would have been impossible for him to get to his feet,
but, as Mammy insisted:
“Charles Devon hadn’t been Massa Stark’s groom fer nothin’,” and she
herself was a master hand at “mashargin” (Mammy’s pronunciation of
massaging), a course of treatment to which Baltie had been most
vigorously subjected, to the wonderful rejuvenation of his old bones and
muscles.
A horse, even in his most nimble days of colthood, does not rise from a
prone position with any great degree of grace; yet Baltie might have
given points to some of his younger brethren. Up came his head, the
slender forefeet were braced, there was a mighty heave and hoist, and
Baltie stood upon all-fours, shaking clover leaves from his flanks.
“Now fly, Jean! Be sure to take the parcel for Mrs. Morgan. I’ll stop a
moment with Baltie to make your peace for your abrupt departure,” said
Constance, gayly, well knowing that Jean’s leave-taking from her pet was
usually a prolonged ceremony.
Away hurried the little girl, leaving the older sister to spend the
ensuing five minutes with the old horse, who nozzled and fussed over
her, as only a petted horse knows how.
“Now, old silent partner, I must run away and look after my forewoman
and get busy myself. Goodness, how the Carruth family is developing!
Eleanor already offered a position at Sunnymeade for next fall, my
humble self a full-fledged business woman with a flourishing trade; Jean
junior partner with a private following of her own, and you, you dear,
blind, faithful old creature, setting us all an example of faithfulness
and devotion; Mammy and Charles the biggest hit of the whole
establishment with their lunch counter, and yonder the little girl whom
Mother has made over brand new! No wonder I’m proud; no wonder I’m
sometimes afraid my head will be turned by all our good fortune and
success. Keep me headed right, Baltie. If you, without sight, can steer
a straight course, surely I, with both my eyes to the good, ought to be
able to. Good-bye, dear,” and clasping her arms around the sleek, warm
neck, Constance stood perfectly still for a moment or two, her head
pillowed upon the silky mane, her thoughts traveling rapidly back across
the intervening years—years so full of effort, anxiety, hope,
disappointment, love and faith. The one which was beginning with this
October—for it was in October that she had begun her work four years
before—was bidding fair to prove a crisis in all their lives.
Instinctively the girl felt this. Girl in years, yes, but a little woman
in executive ability, foresight and execution, withal, still sweet and
true, and retaining her faith in her fellow-beings. Never had she looked
lovelier than at this moment standing there in the glorious October
sunlight, her arms clasped about the big bay horse, her eyes shining
with hope, health, courage, her cheeks glowing. She was dressed for her
morning’s work, her gown a simple tan-colored linen with white collar,
cuffs and belt, a soft tie of brown silk at her throat. She was good to
look at this girl of nineteen, as she stood with such unstudied grace,
the very personification of hope. Presently, with a little start, she
came back to a realization of things around her, and with a parting
caress for the blind horse ran lightly from the paddock across the lawn
to the little candy kitchen, and entered with a cheery greeting.