ARRIVAL.
Peter stared, but said nothing. Not even when the agent ran back
from the carriage with a little satchel and a strap full of shawls
and picture-books. The hack rolled away, the keen March wind chilled
the young Californian, who stood, doll in hand, respectfully waiting
admission to the warm hall beyond the door. Finally, since the servant
seemed to have been stricken speechless, she found her own voice, and
said:
“Please, boy, I’d like to see my Uncle Joe.”
“Your--Uncle--Joe, little miss?”
“That’s what I said. I must come in. I’m very cold. If this is
Baltimore, that the folks on the cars said was pretty, I guess they
didn’t know what they were talking about. I want to come in, please.”
The old man found his wits returning. This was the queerest “parcel”
for which he had ever signed a receipt in an express-book, and he knew
there was some mistake. Yet he couldn’t withstand the pleading brown
eyes under the scarlet hat, even if he hadn’t been “raised” to a habit
of hospitality.
“Suah, little lady. Come right in. ’Tis dreadful cold out to-day. I
’most froze goin’ to market, an’ I’se right down ashamed of myself
leavin’ comp’ny waitin’ this way. Step right in the drawin’-room,
little missy, and tell me who ’tis you’d like to see.”
Picking up the luggage that had been deposited on the topmost of the
gleaming marble steps, which, even in winter, unlike his neighbors,
the master of the house disdained to hide beneath a wooden casing, the
negro led the way into the luxurious parlor. To Josephine, fresh from
the chill of the cloudy, windy day without, the whole place seemed
aglow. A rosy light came through the red-curtained windows, shone from
the open grate, repeated itself in the deep crimson carpet that was so
delightfully soft and warm.
“Sit down by the fire, little lady. There. That’s nice. Put your dolly
right here. Maybe she’s cold, too. Now, then, suah you’se fixed so fine
you can tell me who ’tis you’ve come to see,” said the man.
“What is your name, boy?” inquired Josephine.
“Peter, missy. My name’s Peter.”
“Well, then, Peter, don’t be stupid. Or are you deaf, maybe?” she asked.
“Land, no, missy. I’se got my hearin’ fust class,” he replied, somewhat
indignantly.
“I have come to see my Uncle Joe. I wish to see him now. Please tell
him,” she commanded.
The negro scratched his gray wool and reflected. He had been born and
raised in the service of the family where he still “officiated,” and
knew its history thoroughly. His present master was the only son of an
only son, and there had never been a daughter. No, nor wife, at least
to this household. There were cousins in plenty, with whom Mr. Joseph
Smith was not on good terms. There were property interests dividing
them, and Mr. Joseph kept his vast wealth for his own use alone. Some
thought he should have shared it with others, but he did not so think
and lived his quiet life, with a trio of colored men-servants. His
house was one of the best appointed on the wide avenue, but, also, one
of the quietest. It was the first time that old Peter had ever heard a
child’s voice in that great room, and its clear tones seemed to confuse
him.
“I want to see my Uncle Joe. I want to see him right away. Go, boy, and
call him,” Josephine explained.
This was command, and Peter was used to obey, so he replied:
“All right, little missy, I’ll go see. Has you got your card? Who shall
I say ’tis?”
Josephine reflected. Once mamma had had some dear little visiting cards
engraved with her small daughter’s name, and the child remembered with
regret that if they had been packed with her “things” at all, it must
have been in the trunk, which the expressman said would arrive by and
by from the railway station. She could merely say:
“Uncles don’t need cards when their folks come to see them. I’ve come
from mamma. She’s gone to the pickley land to see papa. Just tell him
Josephine. What’s that stuff out there?”
She ran to the window, pulled the lace curtains apart, and peered out.
The air was now full of great white flakes that whirled and skurried
about as if in the wildest sort of play.
“What is it, Peter? Quick, what is it?” she demanded.
“Huh! Don’t you know snow when you see it, little missy? Where you
lived at all your born days?” he cried, surprised.
“Oh, just snow. Course I’ve seen it, coming here on the cars. It was on
the ground, though, not in the air and the sky. I’ve lived with mamma.
Now I’ve come to live with Uncle Joe. Why don’t you tell him? If a lady
called to see my mamma do you s’pose big Bridget wouldn’t say so?”
“I’se goin’,” he said, and went.
But he was gone so long, and the expected uncle was so slow to welcome
her, that even that beautiful room began to look dismal to the little
stranger. The violent storm which had sprung up with such suddenness,
darkened the air, and a terrible homesickness threatened to bring on
a burst of tears. Then, all at once, Josephine remembered what Doctor
Mack had said:
“Don’t be a weeper, little lady, whatever else you are. Be a smiler,
like my Cousin Helen, your mamma. You’re pretty small to tackle the
world alone, but just do it with a laugh and it will laugh back upon
you.”
Not all of which she understood, though she recalled every one of the
impressive words, but the “laughing part” was plain enough.
“Course, Rudanthy. No Uncle Joe would be glad to get a crying little
girl to his house. I’ll take off my coat and yours, darling. You are
pretty tired, I guess. I wonder where they’ll let us sleep, that black
boy and my uncle. I hope the room will have a pretty fire in it, like
this one. Don’t you?”
Rudanthy did not answer, but as Josephine laid her flat upon the
carpet, to remove her travelling cloak, she immediately closed her
waxen lids, and her little mother took this for assent.
“Oh, you sweetest thing! How I do love you!”
There followed a close hug of the faithful doll, which was witnessed
by a trio of colored men from a rear door, where they stood, open-eyed
and mouthed, wondering what in the world the master would say when he
returned and found this little trespasser upon his hearth-stone.
When Rudanthy had been embraced, to the detriment of her jute ringlets
and her mistress’ comfort, Josephine curled down on the rug before the
grate to put the doll asleep, observing:
“You’re so cold, Rudanthy. Colder than I am, even. Your precious hands
are like ice. You must lie right here close to the fire, ’tween me and
it. By-and-by Uncle Joe will come and then--My! Won’t he be surprised?
That Peter boy is so dreadful stupid, like’s not he’ll forget to say a
single word about us. Never mind. He’s my papa’s twin brother. Do you
know what twins are, Rudanthy? I do. Big Bridget’s sister’s got a pair
of them. They’re two of a kind, though sometimes one of them is the
other kind. I mean, you know, sometimes one twin isn’t a brother, it’s
a sister. That’s what big Bridget’s sister’s was. Oh, dear. I’m tired.
I’m hungry. I liked it better on that nice first railway car where
everybody took care of me and gave me sweeties. It’s terrible still
here. I--I’m afraid I’m going to sleep.”
In another moment the fear of the weary little traveller had become a
fact. Rudanthy was already slumbering; and, alas! that was to prove
the last of her many naps. But Josephine was unconscious of the grief
awaiting her own awakening; and, fortunately, too young to know what a
different welcome should have been accorded herself by the relative she
had come so far to visit.
Peter peeped in, from time to time, found all peaceful, and retired
in thankfulness for the temporary lull. He was trembling in his
shoes against the hour when the master should return and find him so
unfaithful to his trust as to have admitted that curly-haired intruder
upon their dignified privacy. Yet he encouraged himself with the
reflection:
“Well, no need crossin’ no bridges till you meet up with ’em, and this
bridge ain’t a crossin’ till Massa Joe’s key turns in that lock. Reckon
I was guided to pick out that fine duck for dinner this night, I do.
S’posin’, now, the market had been poor? Huh! Every trouble sets better
on a full stummick ’an a empty. Massa Joe’s powerful fond of duck,
lessen it’s spoiled in the cookin’. I’ll go warn that ’Pollo to be
mighty careful it done to a turn.”
Peter departed kitchen ward, where he tarried gossipping over the small
guest above stairs and the probable outcome of her advent.
“Nobody what’s a Christian goin’ to turn a little gell outen their
doors such an evenin’ as this,” said Apollo, deftly basting the fowl in
the pan.
[Illustration: “I’M JOSEPHINE!”]
“Mebbe not, mebbe not. But I reckon we can’t, none of us, callate
on whatever Massa Joe’s goin’ to do about anything till he does it.
He’s off to a board meeting, this evening, and I hope he sets on it
comfortable. When them boards are too hard, like, he comes home mighty
’rascible. Keep a right smart watch on that bird, ’Pollo, won’t you?
whiles I go lay the table.”
But here another question arose to puzzle the old man. Should he, or
should he not, prepare that table for the unexpected guest? There was
nobody more particular than Mr. Smith that all his orders should be
obeyed to the letter. Each evening he wished his dinner to be served
after one prescribed fashion, and any infraction of his rules brought a
reprimand to Peter.
However, in this case he determined to risk a little for hospitality’s
sake, reflecting that if the master were displeased he could whisk off
the extra plate before it was discovered.
“Massa Joe’s just as like to scold if I don’t put it on as if I do.
Never allays account for what’ll please him best. Depends on how he
takes it.”
Busy in his dining-room he did not hear the cab roll over the snowy
street and stop at the door, nor the turn of the key in the lock. Nor,
lost in his own thoughts, did the master of the house summon a servant
to help him off with his coat and overshoes. He repaired immediately
to his library, arranged a few papers, went to his dressing-room and
attired himself for dinner, with the carefulness to which he had
been trained from childhood, and afterward strolled leisurely toward
the great parlor, turned on the electric light, and paused upon its
threshold amazed, exclaiming:
“What is this? What in the world is--_this_?”
The sudden radiance which touched her eyelids, rather than his startled
exclamation, roused small Josephine from her restful nap. She sat
up, rubbed her eyes, which brightened with a radiance beyond that of
electricity, and sprang to her feet. With outstretched arms she flung
herself upon the astonished gentleman, crying:
“Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man! You darling, precious Uncle Joe! I’m
Josephine! I’ve come!”