deeply. After a time she arrived at a decision.
"Jeems," she began, "yo' cert'nly is a strong reasoner. Yassir. But I
got it bo'ne in upon me powerful dat I gotter give dese yer savin's to
Unc' Sam. It's my country too, Jeems, same as dem sojers what's
fightin', dem boys in de mud what ain' got a soul to wash fo' 'em. An'
lak as not dey mas not dere. Dem boys is fightin', and gittin' wet and
hunted up lak young marse say, fo' Aunt Basha and--bress dere
hearts"--Aunt Basha broke down, and the upshot was that Jeems washed his
hands of an obstinate female and--the savings not being his in any
case--gave unwilling consent.
Youth of the sterner set is apt to be casual in making appointments. It
had not entered Lance's head to arrange in case he was not at the
office. As for Aunt Basha, her theory was that he reigned there over an
army of subordinates from morning till evening. So that she was taken
aback when told that Mr. Lance was out and no one could say when he
would be in. She had risen at dawn and done her housework and much of
the fine washing which she "took in," and had then arrayed herself in
her best calico dress and newest turban and apron for the great occasion
and had reported at the _Daybreak_ office at nine-thirty. And young
marse wasn't there.
"I'll set and rest ontwell he comes in," she announced, and retired to
a chair against the wall.
There she folded her hands statelily and sat erect, motionless, an image
of fine old dignity. But much thinking was going on inside the calm
exterior. What was she going to do if young marse did not come back? She
had the $200 with her, carefully pinned and double pinned into a pocket
in her purple alpaca petticoat. She did not want to take it home. Jeems
had submitted this morning, but with mutterings, and a second time there
might be trouble. The savings were indeed hers, but a rebellious husband
in high finance is an embarrassment. Deeply Aunt Basha considered, and
memory whispered something about a bank. Young marse was going to the
bank with her to give her money to Uncle Sam. She had just passed a
bank. Why could she not go alone? Somebody certainly would tell her what
to do. Possibly Uncle Sam was there himself--for Aunt Basha's conception
of our national myth was half mystical, half practical--as a child with
Santa Claus. In any case banks were responsible places, and somebody
would look after her. She crossed to the desk where two or three young
men appeared to be doing most of the world's business.
"Marsters!"
The three looked up.
"Good mawnin', young marsters. I'm 'bleeged to go now. I cert'nly thank
you-all fo' lettin' me set in de cheer. I won't wait fo' marse David
Lance no mo', sir. Good mawnin', marsters."
A smiling courtesy dropped, and she was gone.
"I'll be darned!" remarked reporter number one.
"Where did that blow in from?" added reporter number two.
But reporter number three had imagination. "The dearest old soul I've
seen in a blue moon," said he.
Aunt Basha proceeded down the street and more than one in the crowd
glanced twice at the erect, stout figure swinging, like a quaint and
stately ship in full sail, among the steam-tuggery of up-to-date
humanity. There were high steps leading to the bank entrance, impressive
and alarming to Aunt Basha. She paused to take breath for this
adventure. Was a humble old colored woman permitted to walk freely in at
those grand doors, open iron-work and enormous of size? She did not
know. She stood a moment, suddenly frightened and helpless, not daring
to go on, looking about for a friendly face. And behold! there it
was--the friendliest face in the world, it seemed to the lost old
soul--a vision of loveliness. It was the face of a beautiful young white
lady in beautiful clothes who had stepped from a huge limousine. She was
coming up the steps, straight to Aunt Basha. She saw the old woman, saw
her anxious hesitation, and halted. The next event was a heavenly smile.
Aunt Basha knew the repartee to that, and the smile that shone in answer
was as heavenly in its way as the girl's.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" spoke a voice of gentleness.
And the world had turned over and come up right side on top. "Mawnin',
Miss. Yas'm, I was fixin' to go in dat big do' yander, but I dunno as
I'm 'lowed. Is I 'lowed, young miss, to go in dar an' gib my two hun'erd
to Unc' Sam?"
"What?" The tone was kindness itself, but bewildered.
Aunt Basha elucidated. "I got two hun'erd, young miss, and I cert'nly
want to gib it to Unc' Sam to buy clo'se for dem boys what's fightin'
for us in Franch."
"I wonder," spoke the girl, gazing thoughtfully, "if you want to get a
Liberty Bond?"
"Yas'm--yas, miss. Dat's sho' it, a whatjer-ma-call-'em. I know'd 'twas
some cu'is name lak dat." The vision nodded her head.
"I'm going in to do that very thing myself," she said. "Come with me.
I'll help you get yours."
Aunt Basha followed joyfully in the wake, and behold, everything was
easy. Ready attention met them and shortly they sat in a private office
carpeted in velvet and upholstered in grandeur. A personage gave grave
attention to what the vision was saying.
"I met--I don't know your name," she interrupted herself, turning to the
old negro woman.
Aunt Basha rose and curtsied. "Dey christened me Bathsheba Jeptha,
young miss," she stated. "But I'se rightly known as Aunt Basha. Jes'
Aunt Basha, young miss. And marster."
A surname was disinterred by the efforts of the personage which appeared
to startle the vision.
"Why, it's our name, Mr. Davidson," she exclaimed. "She said Cabell."
Aunt Basha turned inquiring, vague eyes. "Is it, honey? Is yo' a
Cabell?"
And then the personage, who was, after all, cashier of the Ninth
National Bank and very busy, cut in. "Ah, yes! A well known Southern
name. Doubtless a large connection. And now Mrs.--ah--Cabell--"
"I'd be 'bleeged ef yo' jis' name me Aunt Basha, marster."
And marster, rather _intrigué_ because he, being a New Englander, had
never in his life addressed as "aunt" a person who was not sister to his
mother or his father, nevertheless became human and smiled. "Well, then,
Aunt Basha."
At a point a bit later he was again jolted when he asked the amount
which his newly adopted "aunt" wanted to invest. For an answer she
hauled high the folds of her frock, unconscious of his gasp or of the
vision's repressed laughter, and went on to attack the clean purple
alpaca petticoat which was next in rank, Mr. Davidson thought it wise at
this point to make an errand across the room. He need not have bothered
as far as Aunt Basha was concerned. When he came back she was again _à
la mode_ and held an ancient beaded purse at which she gazed. Out of a
less remote pocket she drew steel spectacles, which were put on. Mr.
Davidson repeated his question of how much.
"It's all hyer, marster. It's two hun'erd dollars, sir. I ben savin' up
fo' twenty years an' mo', and me'n Jeems, we ben countin' it every mont,
so I reckon I knows."
The man and the girl regarded the old woman a moment. "It's a large sum
for you to invest," Mr. Davidson said.
"Yassir. Yas, marster. It's right smart money. But I sho' am glad to gib
dis hyer to Unc' Sam for dem boys."
The cashier of the Ninth National Bank lifted his eyes from the blank he
was filling out and looked at Aunt Basha thoughtfully. "You understand,
of course, that the Government--Uncle Sam--is only borrowing your money.
That you may have it back any time you wish."
Aunt Basha drew herself up. "I don' wish it, sir. I'm gibin' dis hyer
gif,' a free gif' to my country. Yassir. It's de onliest country I got,
an' I reckon I got a right to gib dis hyer what I earned doin' fine
washin' and i'nin. I gibs it to my country. I don't wan' to hyer any
talk 'bout payin' back. Naw, sir."
It took Mr. Davidson and the vision at least ten minutes to make clear
to Aunt Basha the character and habits of a Liberty Bond, and then,
though gratified with the ownership of what seemed a brand new $200 and
a valuable slip of paper--which meandered, shamelessly into the purple
alpaca petticoat--yet she was disappointed.
"White folks sho' am cu'is," she reflected, "Now who'd 'a thought 'bout
dat way ob raisin' money! Not me--no, Lawd! It do beat me." With that
she threw an earnest glance at Mr. Davidson, lean and tall and gray,
with a clipped pointed beard. "'Scuse me, marster," said Aunt Basha,
"mout I ask a quexshun?"
"Surely," agreed Mr. Davidson blandly.
"Is you'--'scuse de ole 'oman, sir--is you' Unc' Sam?"
The "quexshun" left the personage too staggered to laugh. But the girl
filled the staid place with gay peals. Then she leaned over and patted
the wrinkled and bony worn black knuckles. "Bless your dear heart," she
said; "no, he isn't, Aunt Basha. He's awfully important and good to us
all, and he knows everything. But he's not Uncle Sam."
The bewilderment of the old face melted to smiles. "Dar, now," she
brought out; "I mout 'a know'd, becaze he didn't have no red striped
pants. An' de whiskers is diff'ent, too. 'Scuse me, sir, and thank you
kindly, marster. Thank you, young miss. De Lawd bress you fo' helpin' de
ole 'oman." She had risen and she dropped her old time curtsey at this
point. "Mawnin' to yo', marster and young miss."
But the girl sprang up. "You can't go," she said. "I'm going to take you
to my house to see my grandmother. She's Southern, and our name is
Cabell, and likely--maybe--she knew your people down South."
"Maybe, young miss. Dar's lots o' Cabells," agreed Aunt Basha, and in
three minutes found herself where she had never thought to be, inside a
fine private car.
She was dumb with rapture and excitement, and quite unable to answer the
girl's friendly words except with smiles and nods. The girl saw how it
was and let her be, only patting the calico arm once and again
reassuringly. "I wonder if she didn't want to come. I wonder if I've
frightened her," thought Eleanor Cabell. When into the silence broke
suddenly the rich, high, irresistible music which was Aunt Basha's
laugh, and which David Lance had said was pitched on "Q sharp." The girl
joined the infectious sound and a moment after that the car stopped.
"This is home," said Eleanor.
Aunt Basha observed, with the liking for magnificence of a servant
trained in a large house, the fine façade and the huge size of "home."
In a moment she was inside, and "young miss" was carefully escorting her
into a sunshiny big room, where a wood fire burned, and a bird sang, and
there were books and flowers.
"Wait here, Aunt Basha, dear," Eleanor said, "and I'll get Grandmother."
It was exactly like the loveliest of dreams, Aunt Basha told Jeems an
hour later. It could not possibly have been true, except that it was.
When "Grandmother" came in, slender and white-haired and a bit
breathless with this last surprise of a surprising granddaughter, Aunt
Basha stood and curtsied her stateliest.
Then suddenly she cried out, "Fo' God! Oh, my Miss Jinny!" and fell on
her knees.
Mrs. Cabell gazed down, startled. "Who is it? Oh, whom have you brought
me, Eleanor?" She bent to look more closely at Aunt Basha, kneeling,
speechless, tears streaming from the brave old eyes, holding up clasped
hand imploring. "It isn't--Oh, my dear, I believe it _is_ our own old
nurse, Basha, who took care of your father!"
"Yas'm. Yas, Miss Jinny," endorsed Aunt Basha, climbing to her feet.
"Yas, my Miss Jinny, bress de Lawd. It's Basha." She turned to the girl.
"Dis yer chile ain't nebber my young Marse Pendleton's chile!"
But it was; and there was explanation and laughter and tears, too, but
tears of happiness. Then it was told how, after that crash of disaster
was over; the family had tried in vain to find Basha and Jeems; had
tried always. It was told how a great fortune had come to them in the
turn of a hand by the discovery of an unsuspected salt mine on the old
estate; how "young Marse Pendleton," a famous surgeon now, had by that
time made for himself a career and a home in this Northern state; how
his wife had died young, and his mother, "Miss Jinny," had come to live
with him and take care of his one child, the vision. And then the simple
annals of Aunt Basha and Uncle Jeems were also told, the long struggle
to keep respectable, only respectable; the years of toil and frugality
and saving--saving the two hundred dollars which she had offered this
morning as a "free gif" to her country. In these annals loomed large for
some time past the figure of a "young marse" who had been good to her
and helped her much and often in spite of his own "_res augusta
domi_,"--which was not Aunt Basha's expression. The story was
told of his oration in the little hall bedroom about Liberty
"whatjer-m'-call-'ems," and of how the boy had stirred the soul of the
old woman with his picture of the soldiers in the trenches.
"So it come to me, Miss Jinny, how ez me'n Jeems was thes two wuthless
ole niggers, an' hadn't fur to trabble on de road anyways, an' de Lawd
would pervide, an' ef He didn't we could scratch grabble some ways. An'
dat boy, dat young Marse David, he tole me everbody ought to gib dey
las' cent fo' Unc' Sam an' de sojers. So"--Aunt Basha's high,
inexpressibly sweet laughter of pure glee filled the room--"so I thes
up'n handed over my two hun'erd."
"It was the most beautiful and wonderful thing that's been done in all
wonderful America," pronounced Eleanor Cabell as one having authority.
She went on. "But that young man, your young Marse David, why doesn't he
fight if he's such a patriot?"
"Bress gracious, honey," Aunt Basha hurried to explain, "he's a-honin'
to fight. But he cayn't. He's lame. He goes a-limpin'. Dey won't took
him."
"Oh!" retracted Eleanor. Then: "What's his name? Maybe father could cure
him."
"He name Lance. Marse David Lance."
Why should Miss Jinny jump? "David Lance? It can't be, Aunt Basha."
With no words Aunt Basha began hauling up her skirts and Eleanor,
remembering Mr. Davidson's face, went into gales of laughter. Aunt Basha
baited, looked at her with an inquiring gaze of adoration. "Yas'm, my
young miss. He name dat. I done put the cyard in my ridicule. Yas'm,
it's here." The antique bead purse was opened and Lance's card was
presented to Miss Jinny.
"Eleanor! This is too wonderful--look!"
Eleanor looked, and read: "Mr. David Pendleton Lance." "Why,
Grandmother, it's Dad's name--David Pendleton Cabell. And the Lance--"
Mrs. Cabell, stronger on genealogy than the younger generation, took up
the wandering thread. "The 'Lance' is my mother's maiden name--Virginia
Lance she was. And her brother was David Pendleton Lance. I named your
father for him because he was born on the day my young uncle was killed,
in the battle of Shiloh."
"Well, then--who's this sailing around with our family name?"
"Who is he? But he must be our close kin, Eleanor. My Uncle David
left--that's it. His wife came from California and she went out there
again to live with her baby. I hadn't heard of them for years. Why,
Eleanor, this boy's father must have been--my first cousin. My young
Uncle David's baby. Those years of trouble after we left home wiped out
so much. I lost track--but that doesn't matter now. Aunt Basha," spoke
Miss Jinny in a quick, efficient voice, which suddenly recalled the
blooming and businesslike mother of the young brood of years ago, "Aunt
Basha, where can I find your young Marse David?"
Aunt Basha smiled radiantly and shook her head. "Cayn't fin' him, honey?
I done tried, and he warn't dar."
"Wasn't where?"
"At de orfice, Miss Jinny."
"At what office?"
"Why, de _Daybreak_ orfice, cose, Miss Jinny. What yether orfice he
gwine be at?"
"Oh!" Miss Jinny followed with ease the windings of the African mind.
"He's a reporter on the _Daybreak_ then."
"'Cose he is, Miss Jinny, ma'am. Whatjer reckon?"
Miss Jinny reflected. Then: "Eleanor, call up the _Daybreak_ office and
ask if Mr. Lance is there and if he will speak to me."
But Aunt Basha was right. Mr. Lance was not at the _Daybreak_ office.
Mrs. Cabell was as grieved as a child.
"We'll find him, Grandmother," Eleanor asserted. "Why, of course--it's a
morning paper. He's home sleeping. I'll get his number." She caught up
the telephone book.
Aunt Basha chuckled musically. "He ain't got no tullaphome, honey chile.
No, my Lawd! Whar dat boy gwine git money for tullaphome and
contraptions? No, my Lawd!"
"How will we get him?" despaired Mrs. Cabell. The end of the council was
a cryptic note in the hand of Jackson, the chauffeur, and orders to
bring back the addressee at any cost.
Meanwhile, as Jackson stood in his smart dark livery taking orders with
the calmness of efficiency, feeling himself capable of getting that
young man, howsoever hidden, the young man himself was wasting valuable
hours off in day-dreams. In the one shabby big chair of the hall bedroom
he sat and smoked a pipe, and stared at a microscopic fire in a toy
grate. It was extravagant of David Lance to have a fire at all, but as
long as he gave up meals to do it likely it was his own affair. The
luxuries mean more than the necessities to plenty of us. With comfort in
this, his small luxury, he watched the play of light and shadow, and the
pulsing of the live scarlet and orange in the heart of the coals. He
needed comfort today, the lonely boy. Two men of the office force who
had gotten their commissions lately at an officer's training-camp had
come in last night before leaving for Camp Devens; everybody had crowded
about and praised them and envied them. They had been joked about the
sweaters, and socks made by mothers and sweethearts, and about the
trouble Uncle Sam would have with their mass of mail. The men in the
office had joined to give each a goodbye present. Pride in them, the
honor of them to all the force was shown at every turn; and beyond it
all there was the look of grave contentment in their eyes which is the
mark of the men who have counted the cost and given up everything for
their country. Most of all soldiers, perhaps, in this great war, the
American fights for an ideal. Also he knows it; down to the most
ignorant drafted man, that inspiration has lifted the army and given it
a star in the East to follow. The American fights for an ideal; the sign
of it is in the faces of the men in uniform whom one meets everywhere in
the street.
David Lance, splendidly powerful and fit except for the small limp which
was his undoing, suffered as he joined, whole-hearted, in the glory of
those who were going. Back in his room alone, smoking, staring into his
dying fire, he was dreaming how it would feel if he were the one who was
to march off in uniform to take his man's share of the hardship and
comradeship and adventure and suffering, and of the salvation of the
world. With that, he took his pipe from his mouth and grinned broadly
into the fire as another phase of the question appeared. How would it
feel if he was somebody's special soldier, like both of those boys, sent
off by a mother or a sweetheart, by both possibly, overstocked with
things knitted for him, with all the necessities and luxuries of a
soldier's outfit that could be thought of. He remembered how Jarvis,
the artillery captain, had showed them, proud and modest, his field
glass.
"It's a good one," he had said. "My mother gave it to me. It has the
Mills scale."
And Annesley, the kid, who had made his lieutenant's commission so
unexpectedly, had broken in: "That's no shakes to the socks I've got on.
If somebody'll pull off my boots I'll show you. Made in Poughkeepsie. A
dozen pairs. _Not_ my mother."
Lance smiled wistfully. Since his own mother died, eight years ago, he
had drifted about unanchored, and though women had inevitably held out
hands to the tall and beautiful lad, they were not the sort he cared
for, and there had been none of his own sort in his life. Fate might so
easily have given him a chance to serve his country, with also, maybe,
just the common sweet things added which utmost every fellow had, and a
woman or two to give him a sendoff and to write him letters over there
sometimes. To be a soldier--and to be somebody's soldier! Why, these two
things would mean Heaven! And hundreds of thousands of American boys
had these and thought nothing of it. Fate certainly had been a bit
stingy with a chap, considered David Lance, smiling into his little fire
with a touch of wistful self-pity.
At this moment Fate, in smart, dark livery, knocked at his door. "Come
in," shouted Lance cheerfully.
The door opened and he stared. Somebody had lost the way. Chauffeurs in
expensive livery did not come to his hall bedroom. "Is dis yer Mr.
Lance?" inquired Jackson.
Lance admitted it and got the note and read it while Jackson, knowing
his Family intimately, knew that something pleasant and surprising was
afoot and assisted with a discreet regard. When he saw that the note was
finished, Jackson confidently put in his word. "Cyar's waitin', sir.
Orders is I was to tote you to de house."
Lance's eyes glowered as he looked up. "Tell me one thing," he demanded.
"Yes, sir," grinned Jackson, pleased with this young gentleman from a
very poor neighborhood, who quite evidently was, all the same,
"quality."
"Are you," inquired Lance, "are you any relation to Aunt Basha?"
Jackson, for all his efficiency a friendly soul, forgot the dignity of
his livery and broke into chuckles. "Naw, sir; naw, sir. I dunno de
lady, sir; I reckon I ain't, sir," answered Jackson.
"All right, then, but it's the mistake of your life not to be. She's the
best on earth. Wait till I brush my hair," said Lance, and did it.
Inside three minutes he was in the big Pierce-Arrow, almost as
unfamiliar, almost as delightful to him as to Aunt Basha, and speeding
gloriously through the streets. The note had said that some kinspeople
had just discovered him, and would he come straight to them for lunch.
Mrs. Cabell and Eleanor crowded frankly to the window when the car
stopped.
"I can't wait to see David's boy," cried Mrs. Cabell, and Eleanor, wise
of her generation, followed with:
"Now, don't expect much; he may be deadly."
And out of the limousine stepped, unconscious, the beautiful David, and
handed Jackson a dollar.
"Oh!" gasped Mrs. Cabell.
"It was silly, but I love it," added Eleanor; and David limped swiftly
up the steps, and one heard Ebenezer, the butler, opening the door with
suspicious promptness. Everyone in the house knew, mysteriously, that
uncommon things were doing.
"Pendleton," spoke Mrs. Cabell, lying in wait for her son, the great
doctor, as he came from his office at lunch time, "Pen, dear, let me
tell you something extraordinary." She told, him, condensing as might
be, and ended with; "And oh, Pen, he's the most adorable boy I ever saw.
And so lonely and so poor and so plucky. Heartbroken because he's lame
and can't serve. You'll cure him. Pen, dear, won't you, for his
country?"
The tall, tired man bent down and kissed his mother. "Mummy, I'm not God
Almighty. But I'll do my damdest for anything you want. Show me the
paragon."
The paragon shot up, with the small unevenness which was his limp, and
faced the big doctor on a level. The two pairs of eyes from their
uncommon height, looked inquiringly into each other.
"I hear you have my name," spoke Dr. Cabell tersely.
"Yes, sir," said David, "And I'm glad." And the doctor knew that he also
liked the paragon.
Lunch was an epic meal above and below stairs. Jeems had been fetched by
that black Mercury Jackson, messenger today of the gods of joy. And the
two old souls had been told by Mrs. Cabell that never again should they
work hard or be anxious or want for anything. The sensation-loving
colored servants rejoiced in the events as a personal jubilee, and made
much of Aunt Basha and Unc' Jeems till their old heads reeled. Above
stairs the scroll unrolled more or loss decorously, yet in magic colors
unbelievable. Somehow David had told about Annesley and Jarvis last
night.
"Somebody knitted him a whole dozen pairs of socks!" he commented,
"Really she did. He said so. Think of a girl being as good to a chap as
that."
"I'll knit you a dozen," Miss Eleanor Cabell capped his sentence, like
the Amen at the end of a High Church prayer. "I'll begin this
afternoon."
"And, David," said Mrs. Cabell--for it had got to be "David" and "Cousin
Virginia" by now--"David, when you get your commission, I'll have your
field glass ready, and a few other things."