“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.”