[Illustration: RESOLVED TUBBS.]
Nobody said anything more.
Steenie stood perfectly still, too perplexed to even try to understand
what “ruin” meant; till, after awhile, her father lifted his head and
released her from this, to her terrible, position. Then she darted from
the room and from those tragic faces, as if, by turning her back upon
them, she could banish them from her thought.
In the kitchen she found Resolved Tubbs with his Bible on his knee.
Now Resolved was a good man, a really sincere Christian; but Steenie
had lived long enough in the house to learn that when Brother Tubbs
sat down at midday with his Bible on his knee and his spectacles pulled
into place, he was in a state of mind to read Jeremiah only, and ignore
the more joyful prophets.
She had come with the gayest of spirits into the astonishing gloom of
the household, and she wanted no more dismalness; so she tarried in the
kitchen but long enough to catch one sepulchral gleam from Resolved’s
uplifted “glasses,” and passed out into the garden where she had seen
Mary Jane calmly gathering strawberries.
“Well, it can’t be so awful, I believe, or she wouldn’t be doing that!”
thought the troubled child, and hurried forward to the housekeeper’s
side.
“Mary Jane! dear Mary Jane! Whatever has happened? What is ‘ruin,’ and
who has done it?”
“Hm-m. That’s a’most more’n I can say. Didn’t they tell ye nothin’,
dearie?”
“Not a thing. Only Papa says: ‘What’s to become of me!’ and
Grandmother: ‘We’re ruined.’ But I think Mr. Resolved knows, ’cause
he’s sitting down an’ looking unhappy reading. What is it?”
“The miser’ble unbeliever!--even if he is my own flesh an’ blood! Why
can’t he turn to an’ do sunthin’, an’ keep a-thinkin’: ‘The Lord’ll
provide,’ stidder huntin’ out more trouble from the blessed Book? I’ve
a mind ter go in an’ shake him!”
“Why, Mary Jane! Shake Mr. Tubbs!” Steenie’s horrified imagination
picturing that lumbago-tortured old man in his sister’s vigorous grasp.
“Well, o’ course, not really. But, I’d like ter know! Here comes
the bad news, an’ down flops the hull fambly, an’ goes ter
sighin’--furnaces! Stidder ary one liftin’ finger ter see what kin be
done ’bout it. That ain’t my way o’ ’terpretin’ the Scripters; an’ I
don’t want it ter be your’n.”
“I guess it won’t be, Mary Jane. I don’t like to feel bad, never.”
“No more do I! So--reckin you’ll be as well off out here ’ith me, doin’
sunthin’, as anywheres elset, fer the space o’ the next short time.
So--jest set down on the grass there, dearie, an’ hull what berries
I’ve got picked, while I get some more; an’ I’ll tell yer all I know
’bout anything.”
Steenie promptly obeyed. Mary Jane’s cheerfulness of temper was very
pleasant, and they had long ago become fast friends. “Now--tell,
please.”
“Hm-m. Plain’s I understand it, it’s this way: Your pa an’ yer granma
has lost every dollar they had in the world. They’re as poor now as I
be,--poorer.”
“Well?” asked Steenie, to whom “dollars” and “poverty” conveyed no
distinct impression.
“Well? Ain’t that enough? But I don’t b’lieve you re’lize it a mite. I
can’t, hardly myself yet, nuther. But all the money yer granma had, an’
it wa’n’t more’n jest enough ter keep us livin’, plain an’ comfort’ble
as we do, was up in a bank, some’res. I hain’t no faith in banks.
They’re ’tarnally bu’stin’, er doin’ sunthin’ startlin’. I always
keep mine in a stockin’; an’ the stockin’ ’s in a big blue box in the
bottom o’ that hair trunk o’ mine. Things bein’ so uncertain in this
life, I think it’s best ter tell ye; but don’t ye lisp a word,--not
even to brother Resolved. ’Cause he’d be boun’ ter have it put in some
differ’nt place not half so safe. In case I should be took off suddent,
as folks sometimes is, somebody’d oughter know; an’ you’re trustible.
I’ve found that out.”
“Thank you. But, about the bank. What is it?”
“Beat if I kin tell ye plain. ’Cause I don’t scurce know myself.
Old Knollsboro bank is that big brick buildin’ acrost from the stun
church. An’ in it, somehow, folks hides all the money they have; an’
the bank folks pays ’em out little dribs on ’t to a time; an’ that’s
all they have ter keep house on. That’s as near as I kin put it. Most
every town has a bank, too; but, ’cause yer pa thought they wasn’t
no other so safe as the old one here to Knollsboro he uset ter put
all his sellery, too, inter this one; an’ now it’s done jest like the
rest on ’em often does,--it’s bu’sted. That’s what Resolved calls
it. Yer granma said ‘failed;’ but I ’low it comes ter the same thing
when it means ’at every dollar they had, uther one, is lost, somehow.
An’ what’s wusser: yer granma owned ‘stawk’ in it, too; though how
anybody could keep a livin’ head er critter an’ not never let it be
seen, ’s more’n I fathom er try ter. I s’pose they partered it out, er
sunthin.’ An’ now that stawk’s gone too, an’ ter make it good, she’s
li’ble ter a hull lot o’ thousan’ dollars. Think on it! Ever so many
hull--‘durin’--thousan’--dollars! An she says--I heered her tellin’
Mr. Dan’l--that ‘she must pay it if it took this house.’ An’ he says:
‘Mother! Where you’ve lived yer hull life! It would kill you!’--an’ I
’low it would.”
“But how could a body pay anything with a house?”
“Sell it, I s’pose, an’ take that money an’ throw it arter t’other
’at’s gone. I dunno, rightly; fer that’s jest what I asted Resolved,
an’ all he said was: ‘Sil-ly women! Sell er mortgage--sil-ly wom-en!
They don’t never have no heads fer business!’ So, arter that, I knowed
no more’n I did afore,--which wasn’t nothin’, square. But how’s a body
to l’arn if their men critters won’t l’arn ’em? An’ I guess we’ve got
as many berries as we shall eat ter-day; an’ that’s knowledge more in
my line ’n tryin’ ter explain things I don’t understan’. So let’s go in
out o’ the sun.”
They entered the house, whither Sutro had preceded them, and found that
sociable person vainly endeavoring to extract more than monosyllables
from the lips of his house-mate, Tubbs. At which Mary Jane’s ready
wrath burst forth upon her pessimistic brother.
“I don’t see what ails you--Resolved, ’at ye can’t give a body a civil
answer! You--hain’t lost nothin’, ’at I knows on. An’ if ye call it a
Christian way o’ meetin’ trials, ter set there an’ let a poor heathen
Mexicer pester the life out on ye ’fore ye’ll speak him a decent word,
I dunno! It ain’t the way with good Baptist folks, anyhow.”
As Mr. Tubbs had long before accepted the Methodist creed, while his
sister had professed another, this was an old bone of contention, which
he was quite ready to pick up, to the forgetfulness of newer grievances.
Which was exactly what Mary Jane desired. “Best way ter stir Resolved
out o’ the hypoes is ter make him mad! Then he’ll fly ’round an’ fergit
lumbago an’ ever’thing elset. He’ll chop more kindlin’ in ten minutes
when he’s riled, ’an he will in a hull day when things goes ter suit
him.”
He became “riled” on the instant, and shut his Bible with a bang, while
his spectacles were shoved into their usual resting-place upon his bald
head with an energy that endangered the glass.
To escape an impending war of words, Steenie retreated to the presence
of her own kin once more, and this time with a determination to beg
from them enough information to enable her to understand clearly this
new anxiety they were suffering.
“Yes, Steenie, I will tell you,” said Madam Calthorp, gently, and
quite in her natural manner again. “But do you go out of doors, Daniel.
The air is better for you, and Sutro has returned. I will be careful
in my disclosures, but there is no need for you to hear the painful
repetition.”
Mr. Calthorp rose wearily. There was a look of hopelessness about his
fine face which even blindness had not brought to it; and Steenie
watched him depart with a heavier heart than she had ever known.
“Now, Grandmother.”
“Yes, dear. To begin with, though we were never rich, neither
were we poor. We had enough, with economy, to provide for all our
ordinary needs, and a surplus for emergencies. What your father had
inherited and acquired, together with my own money, was all in one
place,--intrusted to a corporation of which your grandfather was the
founder, and which people said was ‘as good as the bank of England.’
Some weeks ago, about the time you came from Santa Felisa, I heard
rumors of trouble about this money of ours, and I instituted inquiries
to verify or disprove them. The report brought to me was that they were
without foundation, that our possessions were as secure as they had
always seemed, and that I need have no uneasiness whatever. I did not
mention these rumors to my son, because his own personal affliction
appeared to be as much as he--as any of us--could bear; but now I wish
that I had done so. Of course he could not read; and his sensitiveness
about meeting people, together with my mistaken kindness, kept him
wholly ignorant until the blow fell. This morning, after you left us,
a messenger was sent to us by the directors, announcing the sudden
and utter failure of the bank; as well as that I, a stockholder, am
liable--that is, in debt--for several thousand dollars. Now, this is
exactly our situation: I own this house and a small farm in another
part of the county. That I can sell for enough to pay my indebtedness,
except about one thousand dollars. Many poor people will be losers
by this failure, and I cannot rest, retaining anything--even if I
might--which would relieve their necessities. So, the only course
left us is to sell this house also; and out of its proceeds pay the
extra one thousand. There will be a small sum remaining, or should
be,--enough I hope to hire a tiny cottage somewhere; but how we are to
exist in that cottage the future alone can prove.”
Steenie listened attentively, breathlessly; her big blue eyes fixed
upon her grandmother’s face, and rejoicing in the calmness which had
returned to it. She did not know that the only expression of distress
which the proud Madam had given, had been the one exclamation at first
sight of her own self. “Everything has come upon us--but death. We are
ruined. Ruined!”
“When, Grandmother? When will we go to the cottage?”
“Oh, I do not know. Not just yet. The adjustment of these matters will
take time; we shall not be disturbed in the immediate present; but the
eventual condition of affairs will be what I have decided already. And
Steenie, my dear little child, now you have a chance to be even doubly
helpful to your poor father. Blindness is a trial which no seeing
person can comprehend; but for a strong man to suffer it, and to know
that he cannot do one thing to alleviate the necessities of those who
are dear to him, is terrible. It is this which is so intolerable to my
son. If he could regain his sight, no matter how poor he was, he would
face the world gayly for your sake and mine. He would work for us and
forget all the mishap; but to be idle in such a strait--ah! I know from
my own heart what it must be to him.”
“Poor, poor papa! But can’t _I_ do something? Maybe I can! I’m not
blind nor old, and I’m as strong as strong. See here! I can lift
a chair ever so high! And Judge Courtenay says I’m most puffectly
’veloped for a ten-year-old goin’ on ’leven. I’m much bigger’n
Beatrice, an’ she’s half-past twelve. Isn’t there some way,
Grandmother, dear Grandmother? Think, please; in that in-telligence of
yours, maybe you’ll find out something. And if you do--won’t I do it!
Just you see!”
“You precious baby! If your ability only matched your courage,
Grandmother knows that you would banish every care from all our hearts!
But, yes; there is one thing you can do: bear whatever deprivations you
may have with that same sunny spirit; be patient when, by-and-by, we
older folks begin to lose our own serenity, and grow fretful, perhaps,
and difficult to get along with. You can remember then that it isn’t
what you call our ‘truly selves,’ but the worn nerves and depressed
hearts that cause the sharp words and moods. Early to learn a woman’s
lesson, my gay little Steenie; but I believe you are capable of
learning it well.”
All which Steenie did not quite understand. This book-loving old
student was apt to “talk over the head” of a “’most-’leven”-year-old;
but she gained this much: that, no matter what happened, she was to
make things as bright as she could, and her loving heart responded
loyally.
“I’ll be as patient as patient. And I’ll never let my papa think a
thing I can help; and--Oh! There’s the dinner-bell!”
Probably this common, every-day sound was a relief to everybody in the
house; and though the meal was served a full hour later than usual, the
extra care which had been expended upon it more than compensated for
the delay.
“Oh, Mary Jane! How good that beefsteak does smell!”
“Humph! Better enjoy it while ye kin. Only the Lord knows how long any
on us’ll eat beefsteak!” commented Resolved Tubbs, dolefully.
“Hush yer complainin’, can’t ye! An’ as long as the Lord continners ter
bother ’ith us poor worms an’ sends porter-houses, receive ’em in the
same sperrit, an’ be thankful!” retorted Mary Jane.
“Well, I call that sacrilegious, if you have enj’yed full immersion!”
said the brother, snapping at a fly upon the table-cloth with such
energy as to upset the salt.
“There it goes! Only the quer’l come afore the upsettin’. An’
I do say it: I’d ruther be sacrilegious with my tongue, ’an so
sack-cloth-an’-ashesy with my sperrit.”
“Resolved! Mary Jane!” remonstrated Madam, sternly, yet with a
smile dawning upon her lips. And if ever a quarrel can be said to
be opportune, that one was; for Steenie laughed outright, and Sutro
tittered, while even Mr. Calthorp lost the gravity of his expression
for a little.
It was a good dinner! And there was more sense in Mary Jane’s
philosophy than in her brother’s after all; for the savory dishes
tempted appetites into existence, and through material enjoyment made
even mental disquietude easier to endure.
But after dinner was over, Mr. Calthorp retired to his own room and
closed the door, and Madam retreated to her library; so that Steenie,
driven to her own resources, did the most natural thing in the world:
got Sutro to saddle Tito and set off for a gallop, leaving the old
caballero to attend upon her father, “case he should come out an’ want
somebody an’ not both of us be gone.”
Sutro remained, partly on account of Steenie’s argument, and partly
that for a long ride he utterly disdained the livery hack it had been
his fortune to use during his stay at Old Knollsboro; for he did not
feel quite free to go to Rookwood, so soon again, and borrow “the
pretty black horse” which had been offered for his enjoyment.
Thus he was forced to hear various unpleasant remarks from Resolved
Tubbs’ grim lips about “plenty o’ mouths ter fill ’ithout no
furriners,” and so on; all which, busied in visions of his own brain,
he ignored as referring to himself. For wasn’t he at that very moment
planning the details of a scheme which should enrich everybody?
As for Steenie, she gave Tito his head, and he took it, far out into
the open country, with a will and spirit that drove every care from
his little rider’s mind. But after he had travelled a long distance he
cast a shoe; and, seeing a smithy near, Steenie rode up to the door and
coolly requested to have the shoe set.
[Illustration: Steenie coolly requested to have the shoe set.--Page
178.]
“Humph! Who are you, any way, child? And who is going to pay me for my
trouble?” demanded the farrier, with equal coolness.
Pay for it? Why, at Santa Felisa, the smith was “their own”--nobody
paid. Here--Steenie didn’t like such difficult questions, but she
answered, simply enough: “I s’pose somebody will. I’m Steenie Calthorp;
and Tito can’t go home barefoot, over these rough roads, can he? You
must see that for yourself, Mr. Smith, don’t you?”
“I see that, plain enough; and if you are one of the Calthorps down
at Knollsboro--here goes! They’re honest folks, and always have been.
Never a poor man lost a cent by them, and that’s the truth. They’re
the right kind of aristocrats, they are. Pay for what they have, and
what they can’t pay for go without, and no complaining. But no matter
this time aboot pay for a trifle of kindness like this. I’ll shoe this
handsome fellow, and proud of the job, any time you choose to ride out
this way and show me how a little girl _can_ ride when she puts her
mind to it. That’s so. You may count upon it.”
“Why, Mr. Smith! I’m sure that’s very kind of you, an’ I ’preciate it.
I like to see a man shoe a horse, when he does it neatly, an’ what Bob
calls ‘with sense of a horse’s feelings.’ I think I could almost be a
farrier myself, sometimes. I do, so.”
“A farrier, hey? There’s something you could do far better than that.
Where did you learn to ride?”
“I never learned. I always rode.”
“Where?”
“At Santa Felisa, California.”
“So? Then all I have to say is that you had better set up a school and
teach some of these young folks round here, who almost murder their
horses with their blundering clumsiness. For I never saw anybody sit a
horse as well as you do; and that’s the truth.”
When the shoe was set, Steenie thanked the helpful smith, promised
to visit him again, and went on her way homeward. But she was very
thoughtful and preoccupied; and Tito, fully sympathizing with her mood,
dropped into a gentle canter, and broke his pleasant pace not once till
his mistress suddenly bent forward and threw her arms around his neck.
“Tito, my Tito! I’ll do it! I will, I will!”
Tito softly nodded up and down. Whatever she meant to do,--and it was
something which made her eyes shine and her face dimple with hopeful
smiles,--be sure that her wise playfellow fully intended to help her.