TABITHA IS COMFORTED
Tom had preceded her to the house and evidently had told Aunt Maria, for
when the child burst into the kitchen trailing the green gingham which
she had picked up on her way, the worthy woman said never a word of
reproach, but with trembling fingers helped her out of the queer little
rig and laid it away herself among its crumpled wrappings, while down
her withered cheek stole two tears of pity for the unhappy Tabitha.
"Supper is all ready. Come and have something to eat. I opened a jar of
jam just for you."
Tabitha shook her head, but gave her aunt a grateful look as she rushed
away to her room, slammed the door and crawled into bed, where she lay
trembling with anger and humiliation too great for tears. The beauty of
the day was gone, her pride in her school achievements was ruthlessly
swept away, happiness in these new surroundings was dead.
Her father had said she lied, he had made her tell everyone so, they
would hate her now and have nothing to do with her, or else they would
make the days miserable by rude taunts and hateful jeers as the children
in other towns had done. Miss Brooks would be disappointed in her and
give her only cold looks and maybe cross words. Probably even Carrie
would no longer care to be her friend. At this thought the tears came,
hot, passionate and bitter, and she sobbed convulsively under the pillow
where she hid her head that no one might hear. It seemed as if her heart
would break. Poor little Tabitha!
Outside the sunset colors faded, the twilight deepened and night came
on. The birds twittered sleepily in their nests, a night-hawk screeched
across the sky, in the distance the coyotes howled dismally, and the
ceaseless throbbing of the mines filled the desert quiet.
In the kitchen Aunt Maria clattered nervously around, upset dishes,
spilled the tea, burned the toast and forgot the potatoes entirely, for
her perplexed thoughts were with the sobbing child in bed; and the
minute the remnants of the evening meal were cleared away, the woman
vanished into her room for the night.
Tom tried to eat his supper, but the food choked him, and finding rest
impossible at the house, he went out of doors and up the slope to the
office, hopeful of finding work there to take his attention; but the
door was locked. He turned toward town with its dim, scattered lights,
but they mocked him, and everywhere he looked he saw only the strained
face of terrified Tabitha, seeming to reproach him for his relaxed
vigilance, and he blamed himself bitterly for the calamity the day had
brought upon her. At last he crept home again and went to bed, where in
the anguish of his spirit, boy though he was, he dampened the pillow
with a few salty tears.
But strange as it may seem, Mr. Catt had the worst time of all. For the
first time in all his selfish life he seemed to see things as they
really were and to realize, in a measure, what a failure he had made of
his fatherhood. His slumbering conscience was roused and for a few hours
he had an uncomfortable struggle with himself; but though he regretted
his harshness, the habits of a lifetime are not laid aside in a moment,
and in the end he regarded himself as more sinned against than sinning.
If only Fortune had favored him as it had some other people--if only his
wife had been spared him--if only friends had been true to him, it might
have been different. Maybe he had been too severe with the girl, but she
must be taught obedience. She was too much of a spitfire already, and
there was no telling what she might do if some restraint was not put
upon her. Still, perhaps a lighter punishment would have served the
purpose just as well. She was a bright child; yes, he would admit that.
Maybe if she had looked a little more like the angel mother--and yet
sometimes he could scarcely bear to look at the boy because in Tom's
face he saw so often the warm tenderness that had endeared the mother to
all who knew her, and the deep, soft brown eyes that always looked
straight in one's face seemed to reproach him for his sternness and
neglect. He had mourned because the boy had not inherited the black hair
and eyes and the disposition of the Catts, and now he was sorry because
the girl had. He sighed; if only--
From the next room came a deep, heavy, sobbing sigh, as if an echo of
his. Tabitha had at last fallen asleep and in her slumber had tossed
aside the suffocating pillow from her hot, throbbing head. He sat
looking at the closed door for some minutes; then, hardly knowing why he
did so, he rose and entered her room.
She was still lying in a huddled heap, face down upon the mattress, but
her head was turned to one side, exposing the flushed, tear-stained
cheek and swollen lids where the tears were scarcely dry. One thin arm
was still curved beneath her head, but the other had slipped away from
her face and lay stretched across the covers, the hand still loosely
clutching a damp ball of handkerchief. The pathetic little figure, still
quivering convulsively with every breath, touched the heart of the
selfish man, and drawing a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket he
slipped it inside the moist, brown fist. Then, as if realizing what a
paltry thing gold is in comparison with love, he stooped over the
flushed face and kissed it gently,--the first kiss he had ever given his
little daughter. She stirred, and the coin slipped from her hand, but
in his hasty retreat from the room he did not hear it fall to the floor,
roll across the light matting and lodge in a crack out of sight. So he
stilled the small, inner voice, and going to his room sought his couch
almost satisfied with himself.
The next morning when Tabitha awoke he was gone again, back to the mines
and their alluring gold, little realizing what a sore heart he had left
behind him in the cottage on the desert. At first she could not think
what had happened to leave such a heavy weight on her heart that the
very atmosphere seemed charged with grief, but as she rubbed the sleep
from her eyes, still hot and stinging from her cry, she remembered the
whole dreadful story, and in the sympathetic pillow she again buried her
face, too humiliated to meet the world, too discouraged to care.
She heard the clock on the mantel strike seven and lay dreading the call
to get up. In the kitchen Aunt Maria was busy bustling about the morning
work, getting breakfast, washing the dishes and sweeping. Once she heard
Tom's voice, but though she strained her ears, she could catch the sound
of no answering tones.
The clock struck eight. Aunt Maria never let her stay in bed that late,
even on Sundays, when they all slept a little longer than usual. There
was a knock at the kitchen door. Could it be Carrie on her way to
school? Not very likely, as the Carson house was nearer town than their
cottage, and it was always her place to call for Carrie. Besides, Carrie
was never ready on time, and they always had to hurry to reach school
before the last bell rang. Still, she held her breath expectantly when
steps approached her door, and her heart sank when they stopped and no
one entered.
Carrie? What could she be thinking of--she, who had told a lie, deceived
people? Could she expect Carrie to call for her? Could she expect Carrie
to be her friend after all that had happened? Down went her head into
the pillow again and the hot tears flowed in a bitter flood.
The screen door banged, Tom had gone to work. The clock struck nine.
There came another knock at the door, louder than the previous one, and
for a long time she could hear Aunt Maria's voice speaking in low tones
to someone who evidently stood on the steps outside.
Somewhere a sharp whistle sounded, and she flew up in bed startled to
hear the clock on the mantel counting off the hour of twelve. She must
have been asleep. Yes, she surely had been, for on the chair beside her
bed stood a tray heaped high with bread and butter, cake and jam. A
glass of milk was there also, and she drank it eagerly, for she was
thirsty; but she could not touch the food.
So the long day passed. Once Tom slipped in and bent over her, but her
eyes were closed, and thinking her asleep, he left a golden orange
beside her and went away. Once Aunt Maria asked her if she didn't feel
able to dress and go out of doors for the fresh air, but she turned
wearily away and hid her face in the pillow, her only refuge.
The second morning someone had left her door ajar, and she heard Aunt
Maria say to Tom, "I don't know what in the world to do with her. She
will be sick if she stays that way much longer."
And in Tabitha's heart sprang the fierce longing to be sick, very sick,
so sick that they would have to take her away from this horrible desert
town. She had heard of such things happening; perhaps--
Tom's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"It is all my fault, Aunt Maria. She told me about the name, but I
didn't pay enough attention to know that she had really taken it in
place of her own. _I_ ought to be thrashed instead of her being
punished. Now she won't look at me or listen to me any more."
Tom took all the blame! Why, she had never for a moment thought of such
a thing! It _wasn't_ his fault, she would tell him so.
"Tom!"
The scraping of his chair as he pushed it back from the table drowned
the sound of her voice, and before she could call again he was gone. She
jumped out of bed, threw on her clothes, and stopping only long enough
to brush back her tangled hair, she rushed out of the house and up the
hill toward the office of the surveyor.
Tom was standing by the big draughting table lettering a map, the
surveyor was busy with some blueprints in the window, and Mr. Carson sat
near by with a notebook in hand which he was searching industriously.
All this Tabitha saw as she stumbled over the threshold, but without
heeding either of the two men, she cast herself into Tom's arms with the
wail, "O, Tom, you ain't to blame, and you don't deserve to be thrashed!
I told a lie and I stole the white silk dress with those lovely
scallops. But those were such grand names--yours 'specially, though mine
was longer--and oh, I hate being a cat all my life! I said more'n Dad
gave me to say and I told folks that his name was 'lean Manx Catt,' and
I told 'em Aunt Maria's name. Miss Brooks won't like me any more, and I
expect Carrie will hate me, too."
There was a stifled exclamation--she thought from Tom--then two strong
arms closed around her, and she found herself crying into someone's vest
pocket, but it wasn't Tom's. He had not yet attained the dignity of
vests. Surprised, she hushed her sobs, though she still clung to the
protecting arms, and in a moment she heard Tom say, "She will be all
right now, sir. I will take her home."
But the big arms only held her closer and Mr. Carson's voice, trembling
a little and husky with emotion, replied, "I want her for a little
while, Tom. Leave her with me."
Laying aside the notebook with its fascinating rows of figures, the man
led the amazed child out of the building and down the steep rocky path
toward the Carson home, holding her hand fast in his own, and speaking
gently, cheerily as they walked.
"It was all a mistake, little girl, and everyone makes mistakes. It
wasn't a lie and it wasn't stealing. You ought to have asked someone
about it and everything would have been all right, but you mustn't cry
about it any more. Carrie loves you just the same and so does Mother
Carson and so do I. I don't think Tabitha is a horrid name--"
"But Tabitha _Catt_!" quavered the tearful little voice. "Folks make fun
of me and say hateful things and call me Tabby Catt--"
"Tabby cats are such nice pets," the man interrupted, "so gentle and
nice and pretty."
"But I'm homely. If I was pretty maybe they wouldn't call me names."
"No, dear, it isn't that. When they plague you, you scratch; and so they
like to tease. If you paid no attention to the thoughtless things they
said, they would soon stop teasing."
"Do you really think they would? I thought it was because of the name.
No one teased me much when my name was Theodora Marcella Gabrielle
Julianna Victoria Emeline."
He smiled. The name sounded so perfectly incongruous for that slender
slip of girl, more so than the despised Tabitha; but he understood what
a charm the long, rhythmic words held for the child who had missed so
much happiness in her short life, so he gravely answered,
"I am sure if you try to laugh with those who make fun of you, and won't
get mad no matter what they say, they will soon forget all about the odd
little name and will love you for what you are."
"That will be awfully hard to do," sighed Tabitha, thinking of the many
times she had been tormented because of that name, "but if--you think it
will work,--I'll try."
Before he had a chance to say anything further, the door of the Carson
house flew open and happy-faced Carrie flew up the path to meet them,
crying joyously, "Miss Brooks is here, and she wants to see you, 'cause
we've missed you dreadfully at school."