IV

The Colonel's positive injunction that each one of his friends should

call on every one of his guests within forty-eight hours of their

arrival was never necessary in the case of Miss Ann Carter. One day

was enough for me--one hour would have been more to my liking. Only

consideration for her comfort, and the knowledge that she would be

somewhat fatigued by her journey from Carter Hall northward, ever kept

me away from her that long. Then, again, I knew that she wanted at

least one entire day in which to straighten out the various domestic

accounts of the little house in Bedford Place, including that

complicated and highly-prized pass-book of the "Grocerman."

And then Chad's delight when he opened the door with a sweep, his face

a sunburst of smiles and announced Miss Carter's presence in the

house! And the new note in the Colonel's voice--a note of triumph and

love and pride! And the touches here and there inside the cosy rooms;

touches that only a woman can give--a new curtain here, a pot of

flowers there: all joyous happenings that made a visit to Aunt Nancy,

as we loved to call her, one of the events to be looked forward to.

But it was not Chad who opened the door on this particular morning.

That worthy darky was otherwise occupied; in the kitchen, really,

plucking the feathers from the canvas-back ducks. They had been part

of the dear lady's impedimenta, not to mention a huge turkey, a box of

terrapin, and a barrel of Pongateague oysters, besides unlimited

celery, Tolman sweet potatoes, and a particular brand of hominy, for

which Fairfax County was famous.

I say it was not Chad at all who opened the door and took my card, but

a scrap of a pickaninny about three feet high, with closely-cropped

wool, two strings of glistening white teeth--_two_, for his mouth was

always open; a pair of flaring ears like those of a mouse, and two

little restless, wicked eyes that shone like black diamonds: the whole

of him, with the exception of his cocoanut of a head, squeezed into a

gray cloth suit bristling with brass buttons and worsted braid, a

double row over his chest, and a stripe down each seam of his

trousers.

Aunt Nancy's new servant!

The scrap held out a silver tray; received my card with a dip of his

head, threw back the door of the dining-room, scraped his foot with

the flourish of a clog dancer, and disappeared in search of his

mistress.

Chad stepped from behind the door, his face in a broad grin. He had

crept up the kitchen stairs, and had been watching the boy's

performance from the rear room. His sleeves were rolled up and some of

the breast feathers of the duck still stuck to his fingers.

"Don't dat beat de lan'! Major," he said to me. "Did ye see dem

buttons on him? Ain't he a wonder? Clar to goodness looks like he's

busted out wid brass measles. And he a-waitin' on de Mist'iss! I ain't

done nothin' but split myself a-laughin' ever since he come. MY!!!"

and Chad bent himself double, the tears starting to his eyes.

"What's his name, Chad?"

"Says his name's Jeems. _Jeems_, mind ye!" Here Chad went into another

convulsion. "Jim's his real name, jes' Jim. He's one o' dem Barbour

niggers. Raised down t'other side de Barbour plantation long side of

our'n. Miss Nancy's been down to Richmond an' since I been gone she

don't hab nobody to wait on her, an' so she tuk dis boy an' fixed him

up in dese Richmond clothes. He says he's free. _Free_, mind ye! Dat's

what all dese no count niggers is. But I'm watchin' him, an' de fust

time he plays any o' dese yer free tricks on me he'll land in a spell

o' sickness," and Chad choked himself with another chuckle.

The door swung back.

"Miss Caarter say dat she'll be down in a minute," said the scrap.

Chad straightened his face and brought it down to a semblance of

austerity; always a difficult task with Chad.

"Who did you say was yere?" he asked.

"I didn't say--I handed her de kerd."

"How did you carry it?"

"In my pan."

"What did ye do wid de pan?"

The boy's face fell.

"I lef' it in de hall, sah."

"Sah! sah! Don't you 'sah' me. Ain't nobody 'sah' round yere but de

Colonel. What I tell you to call me?"

"Uncle Chad."

"Dat's it, Uncle Chad. Now go 'long, honey, an' take yo' seat outside

wid yo' pan; plenty folks comin', now dey know de Mist'iss here. Dar

she is now. Dat's her step, on de stairs, Major. I doan' want her to

catch me lookin' like dis. Drap into de kitchen, Major, as ye go out,

I got sumpin' to show ye. Dem tarr'pins de Mist'iss fotch wid her make

yo' mouf water."

Some women, when they enter a room, burst in like a child just out of

school and overwhelm you with the joyousness of their greetings;

others come in without a sound, settle into a seat and regale you in

monotones with histories of either the attendant misery or the

expected calamity.

Aunt Nancy floated in like a bubble blown along a carpet, bringing

with her a radiance, a charm, a gentleness, a graciousness of welcome,

a gladness at seeing you, so sincere and so heartfelt, that I always

felt as if a window had been opened letting in the sunshine and the

perfume of flowers.

"Oh, my dear Major!" and she held out her hand; that tiny little hand

which lace becomes so well, and that always suggests its morning

baptism of rose water. Such a dainty white hand! I always bend over

and kiss it whenever I have the chance, trying my best to be the

gallant I know she would like me to be.

After the little ceremony of my salutation was over I handed her to a

seat, still holding her finger-tips, bowing low just as her own

cavaliers used to do in the days when she had half the County at her

feet. I love these make-believe ceremonies when I am with her--and

then again I truly think she would not be so happy without them. This

over I took my place opposite so I could watch her face and the smiles

playing across it--that face which the Colonel always said reminded

him of "Summer roses a-bloom in October."

We talked of her journey and of how she had stood the cold and how

reluctant she had been at first to leave Carter Hall, especially at

the Christmas season, and of the Colonel (not a word, of course, about

the encounter with Klutchem--no one would have dared breathe a word of

that to her), and then of the scrap of a pickaninny she had brought

with her.

"Isn't he too amusing? I brought him up as much to help dear Chad as

for any other reason. But he is incorrigible at times and I fear I

shall have to send him back to his mother. I thought the livery might

increase his self-respect, but it only seems to have turned his head.

He doesn't obey me at all, and is so forgetful. Chad is the only one

of whom, I think, he is at all afraid."

A knock now sounded in the hall and I could hear the shuffling of

Jim's feet, and the swinging back of the door. Then Fitz's card was

brought in--not on the silver tray this time, but clutched in the

monkey paw of the pickaninny.

Aunt Nancy looked at him with a certain well-assumed surprise and drew

back from the proffered card.

"James, is that the way to bring me a card? Have I not told you

often----"

The boy looked at her, his face in a tangle of emotions. "De _Pan_!

Fo' Gord, Mist'iss, I done forgot dat pan," and with a spring he was

out again, returning with Fitz's pasteboard on the silver tray,

closely followed by that gentleman himself, who was shaking with

laughter over the incident.

"One of your body-guard, Aunt Nancy?" said Fitz, as he bent over and

kissed her hand. It was astonishing how easily Fitz fell into these

same old-time customs when he was with the dear lady--he, of all men.

"No, dear friend, one of the new race of whom I am trying to make a

good servant. His grandmother in slave times belonged to a neighbor of

ours, and this little fellow is the youngest of six. I've just been

telling the Major what a trial he is to me. And now let me look at

you. Ah! you have been working too hard. I see it in your eyes.

Haven't you had some dreadful strain lately?"

Fitz declared on his honor, with one hand over his upper watch pocket,

and the other still in hers, that he never felt better in his life,

and that so idle had he become lately, that it was hard work for him

to keep employed. And then Aunt Nancy made him sit beside her on the

hair-cloth sofa, the one on which Fitz would not permit the Colonel to

sleep, and I, being nearest, tucked a cushion under her absurdly small

feet and rearranged about her shoulders her Indian mull shawl, which

didn't require any rearranging at all. And after Fitz had told the

dear lady for the third time how glad he was to see her, and after she

had told him how glad she was to see both of us, and how she hoped

dear George would soon secure the money necessary to build his

railroad, so that we could all come to Carter Hall for next Christmas,

she adding gravely that she really couldn't see any need for the

road's existence or any hope of its completion, although she never

said so to dear George, she being a woman and not expected to know

much of such things;--after, I say, all these delightful speeches and

attentions and confidences had been indulged in, Aunt Nancy bent her

head, turned her sweet face framed in the lace cap and ribbons, first

towards me and then back to Fitz again--she had been talking to Fitz

all this time, I listening--and said with the air of a fairy godmother

entertaining two children:

"And now I've got a great Christmas surprise for both of you, and you

shall have one guess apiece as to what it is."

Fitz, with the memories of a former Christmas at Carter Hall still

fresh in mind, and knowing the dear lady's generosity, and having seen

the biggest bundle of feathers and the longest pair of legs he had

ever laid his eyes on hanging head down on the measly wall of the

shabby yard as he entered, screwed up his eyes, cudgelled his brain by

tapping his forehead with his forefinger, and blurted out:

"Wild turkey stuffed with chestnuts."

Aunt Nancy laughed until her side curls shook.

"Oh, you dreadful gourmand! Not a _bit_ like a turkey. How mortified

you will be when you find out! Go and stand in the corner, sir, with

your face to the wall. Now, Major, it's your turn."

Fitz began to protest that he ought to have another chance, and that

it had slipped out before he knew it, since he had never forgotten a

brother of that same bird, one that he had eaten at her own table; but

the little lady wouldn't hear another syllable, and waved him away

with great dignity, whereupon Fitz buried his fat face in his hands,

and said that life was really not worth the living, and that if

anybody would suggest a comfortable way of committing suicide he would

adopt it at once.

When my turn came, I, remembering the buttons on "Jeems," guessed a

livery for Chad, at which the dear lady laughed more merrily than

before, and Fitz remarked in a disgusted tone that the dense stupidity

of some men was one of the characteristics of the time.

"No; it's nothing to eat and it's nothing to wear. It's a most

charming young lady who at my earnest solicitation has consented to

dine with us, and to whom I want you two young gentlemen (Fitz is

forty if he's a day, and looks it) to be most devoted."

"Pretty?" asked Fitz, pulling up his collar--prinking in mock vanity.

"Yes, and better than pretty."

"Young?" persisted Fitz.

"Young, and most entertaining.

"Now listen both of you and I will tell you all about it. She lives up

in one of your most desolate streets, Lafayette Place, I think, they

call it, and in such a sombre house that it looks as if the windows

had never been opened. Her mother is dead, and such a faded,

hopeless-looking woman takes care of the house, a relation of the

father's, I understand, who is a business friend of George's, and with

whom he tells me he once had a slight misunderstanding. George did not

want Christmas to pass with these differences unsettled, and so, of

course, I went to call the very day I arrived and invited her and her

father to dine with us on Christmas Eve. We always celebrate our

Christmas then as you both know, on account of our old custom of

giving Christmas day to our servants. And I am so glad I went. I did

not, of course, see the father. Oh, it would make your heart ache to

see the inside of that house. Everything costly and solid, and yet

everything so joyless. I always feel sorry for such homes,--no flowers

about, no books that are not locked up, no knick-knacks nor pretty

things. I hope you will both help me to make her Christmas Eve a happy

one. You perhaps may know her father, Mr. Fitzpatrick,--he is in Wall

Street I hear, and his name is Klutchem."

Fitz, in his astonishment, so far forgot himself as to indulge in a

low whistle.

"Then you _do_ know him?"

"Oh, very well."

"And you tell me that Mr. Klutchem is really coming to dinner and

going to bring his daughter?" asked Fitz, in a tone that made his

surprise all the more marked.

"Yes; George had a note from him this morning saying his daughter

would be here before dark and he would come direct from his office and

meet her here in time for dinner. Isn't it delightful? You will be

quite charmed with our guest, I'm sure. And about the father--tell me

something of him?" Aunt Nancy inquired in her sweetest voice.

"About Mr. Klutchem? Well! Yes, to be sure. Why, Klutchem! Yes, of

course. A most genial and kindly man," answered Fitz, controlling

himself; "a little eccentric at times I have heard, but not more so

than most men of his class. Not a man of much taste, perhaps, but most

generous. Would give you anything in the world he didn't want, and be

so delighted when you took it off his hands. Insisted on giving me a

lot of stock the other day, but of course I wouldn't take it." This

was said with so grave a face that its point escaped the dear lady.

"How very kind of him. Perhaps that is where his daughter gets her

charm," replied Aunt Nancy, with a winning smile.

There is no telling what additional mendacities regarding the

Klutchem family Fitz, who had now regained his equilibrium, would have

indulged in, had I not knit my eyebrows at him behind Aunt Nancy's

back as a warning to the mendacitor not to mislead the dear lady,

whose disappointment, I knew, would only be the greater when she met

Klutchem face to face.

When I had risen to take my leave Fitz excused himself for a moment

and followed me into the hall.

"Klutchem coming to dinner, Major, and going to bring his daughter?

What the devil do you think is up? If the Colonel wasn't so useless

financially I'd think Klutchem had some game up his sleeve. But if

that is so, why bring his daughter? My lawyer told me to-day the

assault and battery case is all settled, so it can't be that. Wonder

if the Colonel has converted Klutchem as to the proper way of running

a bank? No, that's nonsense! Klutchem would skin a flea and sell the

tallow, no matter what the Colonel said to him. Coming to dinner!

Well, that gets me!"

As I shut the front door behind me and stopped for a minute on the top

step overlooking the yard, I caught sight of the grocer emerging from

the tunnel with a basket on his arm for Chad, who was standing below

me outside his kitchen door with the half-picked duck in his hand. The

settlement of "Misser Grocerman's" unpaid accounts by Miss Nancy on

one of her former visits to Bedford Place had worked a double

miracle--Chad no longer feared the dispenser of fine wines and other

comforts, and the dispenser himself would have emptied his whole shop

into Chad's kitchen and waited months for his pay had that loyal old

servant permitted it. This was evident from the way in which Chad

dropped the half-picked duck on a bench beside the door and hurried

forward to help unpack the basket; and the deferential smile on the

grocer's face as he took out one parcel after another, commenting on

their quality and cheapness.

I had promised Chad to stop long enough to inspect Miss Nancy's

"tarr'pins," and so I waited until Chad's duties were over.

"That's the cheekiest little coon ever come into the store," I hear

the grocer say with a laugh. "I'd a-slid him out on his ear if he'd

said much more."

Chad looked over his pile of bundles--they lay up on his arm; the top

one held in place by his chin--and asked with some anxiety:

"Who, Jim? What did he do?"

"Do! He waltzed in yesterday afternoon with his head up and his under

lip sticking out as if he owned the place. When I told him to take the

sugar back with him, he said he wasn't carrying no bundles for nobody,

he was waiting on Miss Carter. He's out at the gate now."

"Do ye hear dat, Major? Ain't dat 'nough to make a body sick? I been

'spectin' dis ever since he come. I'm gwinter stop dis foolishness

short off."

The old darky waited until the grocer had reached the street, then he

shouted into the gloom of the narrow passage:

"Here, Jim. Come here."

The scrap in buttons slammed to the wicket gate and came running

through the tunnel.

"What you tell dat gemman yisterday when I sont you for dat sugar, wid

yo' lip stickin' out big 'nough for a body ter sit on?"

The boy hung his head.

"You'se waitin' on Miss Caarter, is ye, an' ye ain't caarryin' no

bundles? If I ever hear ye sass anybody round here agin, white or

black, I'll tear dem buttons off ye an' skin ye alive--you'se

caarryin' what I send ye for--do ye hear dat? _Free_, is ye? You'se

free wid yo' sass an' dat's all de freedom you got."

"I--didn't know--yer want me ter--caa'ry it back," said the boy in a

humble tone, but with the twinkle of a smouldering coal in his eye.

"Ye didn't? Who did ye think was gwine to caa'ry it back for ye? Maybe

it was de Colonel or de Mist'iss or _me_?" Chad's voice had now risen

to a high pitch, and with a touch of sarcasm in it which was biting.

"Pretty soon you'll 'spec' somebody gwine to call for ye in dere

caa'ridge. Yo' idea o' freedom is to wait on nobody and hab no

manners. What ye got in yo' hand?"

"Cigarette white boy gimme,"--and the boy dropped the burning end on

the brick pavement of the yard.

"Dat's mo' freedom, an' dat's all dis po' white trash is gwine to do

for ye--stuffin' yo' head wid lies, an' yo' mouf wid a wad o'

nastiness. Now go 'long an' git yo' pan."

Chad waited until the boy had mounted the steps and entered the house,

then he turned to me.

"Po' li'l chin'ka'pin--he don't know no better. How's he gwine to git

a bringin' up? Miss Nancy tryin' to teach him, but she ain't gwine

make nuffin' of him. He's got pizened by dis freedom talk, an' he

ain't gwine to git cured. Fust thing ye know he'll begin to think he's

good as white folks, an' when he's got dat in his head he's done for.

I'm gwine to speak to de Mist'iss 'bout dat boy, an' see if sumpin

can't be done to save him fo' it gits too late; ain't nuffin' gwine to

do him no good but a barr'l stave--hear dat--a barr'l stave!"

The Colonel had come in quietly and stood listening. I had heard the

click of the outer gate, but supposed it was the grocer returning with

the additional supplies.

"Who's Chad goin' to thresh, Major?" the Colonel asked, with a smile

as he put his arm over my shoulder.

"Miss Nancy's pickaninny," I answered.

"What, little Jim?" There was a tone of surprise now in the Colonel's

voice.

Chad stood abashed for a moment. He had stowed away the groceries, and

had the duck in his hand again, his fingers fumbling among its

feathers.

"'Scuse me, Colonel, I ain't gwine whale him, of co'se, 'thout yo'

permission, but he's dat puffed up he'll bust fo' long."

"What's he been up to?"

"Sassin' Misser Grocerman--runnin' to de gate wid his head out like a

tarr'pin's, smoking dese yer paper seegars dat smell de whole place up

vill'nous, 'stid of waitin' on de Mist'iss."

"And you think beatin' him will do him any good, Chad? How many times

did yo' Marster John beat you?"

Chad looked up, and a smile broke over his face.

"I don't reckellmember airy lick de Marster ever laid on me."

"Raised you pretty well, didn't he, Chad?"

"Yas, sah--dat he did."

"Anybody beat you since you grew up?"

"No, sah."

"Pretty good, Chad, ain't you?"

"I try to be, sah."

"Well, now, be a little patient with that boy. It isn't his fault that

he's sp'ilt; it's part of the damnable system this Gov'ment has put

upon us since the war. Am I right, Major?"