A MULTITUDE OF JOSEPHS.
“So I perceive!” responded the master of the house, when he could rally
from this onslaught of affection. “I’m sure I’m very pleased to welcome
you. I--when--how did you arrive?”
“I’m a ’xpress ‘parcel,’” she answered, laughing, for she had learned
before this that she had made her long journey in rather an unusual
fashion. “Mamma had to go away on the peacock-blue ocean; and Doctor
Mack couldn’t bother with me, ’cause he’s going to the folks that eat
almonds together and give presents; and there wasn’t anybody else
’xcept big Bridget, and she’d spent all her money, and mamma said you
wouldn’t want a ‘wild Irish girl’ to plague you. Would you?”
“I’m not fond of being plagued by anybody,” said the gentleman,
rather dryly. He was puzzled as much by her odd talk as her unexpected
appearance, and wondered if children so young were ever lunatics. The
better to consider the matter he sat down in the nearest chair, and
instantly Josephine was upon his knee. The sensation this gave him was
most peculiar. He didn’t remember that he had ever taken any child on
his lap, yet permitted this one to remain there, because he didn’t know
what better to do. He had heard that one should treat a lunatic as if
all vagaries were real. Opposition only made an insane person worse.
What worse could this little crazy creature, with the lovely face and
dreadful manners, do to a finical old bachelor in evening clothes than
crush the creases out of his trouser knees?
The lap was not as comfortable as Doctor Mack’s, and far, far from as
cosey as mamma’s. Uncle Joe’s long legs had a downward slant to them
that made Josephine’s perch upon them rather uncertain. After sliding
toward the floor once or twice, and hitching up again, she slipped to
her feet and leaned affectionately against his shoulder, saying:
“That’s better. I guess you’re not used to holding little girls, are
you, Uncle Joe?”
“No, Josephine. What is your other name?” said he.
“Smith. Just like yours. You’re my papa’s dear twin, you know.”
“Oh, am I?” he asked.
“Course. Didn’t you know that? How funny. That’s because you haven’t
mamma to remind you, I s’pose. Mamma remembers everything. Mamma never
is naughty. Mamma knows everything. Mamma is dear, dear, dear. And, oh,
I want her, I want her!”
Josephine’s arms went round the gentleman’s neck, and her tears fell
freely upon his spotless shirt-front. She had been very brave, she had
done what she promised Doctor Mack, and kept a “laughing front” as long
as she could; but now here, in the home of her papa’s twin, with her
“own folks,” her self-control gave way, and she cried as she had never
cried before in all her short and happy life.
Mr. Smith was hopelessly distressed. He didn’t know what to say or do,
and this proved most fortunate for both of them. For whatever he might
have said would have puzzled his visitor as greatly as she was puzzling
him. Happily for both, the deluge of tears was soon over, and Josephine
lifted a face on which the smiles seemed all the brighter because of
the moisture that still bedewed it.
“Please ’xcuse me, Uncle Joe. I didn’t mean to cry once, but it--it’s
so lovely to have you at last. It was a long, long way on the railway,
uncle. Rudanthy got terribly tired,” explained the visitor.
“Did she? Who is Rudanthy?”
“You, my uncle, yet don’t know Rudanthy, that has been mine ever since
I was? Mamma says she has to change heads now and then, and once in
awhile she buys her a new pair of feet or hands; but it’s the same
darling dolly, whether her head’s new or old. I’ll fetch her. It’s time
she waked up, anyway.”
Josephine sped to the rug before the grate, stooped to lift her
playmate, paused, and uttered a terrified cry.
“Uncle! Uncle Joe, come here quick--quick!”
Smiling at his own acquiescence, the gentleman obeyed her demand, and
stooped over her as she also bent above the object on the rug. All
that was left of poor Rudanthy--who had travelled three thousand miles
to be melted into a shapeless mass before the first hearth-fire which
received her.
Josephine did not cry now. This was a trouble too deep for tears.
“What ails her, Uncle Joe? I never, never saw her look like that.
Her nose and her lips and her checks are all flattened out, and her
eyes--her eyes are just round glass balls. Her lovely curls”-- The
little hands flew to the top of the speaker’s own head, but found no
change there. Yet she looked up rather anxiously into the face above
her. “Do you s’pose I’d have got to look that dreadful way if I hadn’t
waked up when I did, Uncle Joe?”
“No, Josephine. No, indeed. Your unhappy Rudanthy was a waxen young
person who was indiscreet enough to lie down before an open fire. You
seem to be real flesh and blood, and might easily scorch, yet would
hardly melt. Next time you take a nap, however, I’d advise you to lie
on a lounge or a bed.”
“I will. I wouldn’t like to look like her. But what shall I do? I don’t
know a store here,” she wailed.
“I do. I might be able to find you a new doll, if you won’t cry,” came
the answer which surprised himself.
“Oh, I shan’t cry any more. Never any more--if I can help it. That’s
a promise. But I shouldn’t want a new doll. I only want a head. Poor
Rudanthy! Do you s’pose she suffered much?” was the next anxious
question.
“It’s not likely. But let Rudanthy lie yonder on the cool window sill.
I want to talk with you. I want you to answer a few questions. Sit down
by me, please. Is this comfortable?”
Josephine sank into the midst of the cushions he piled for her on the
wide sofa and sighed luxuriously, answering:
“It’s lovely. This is the nicest place I ever, ever saw.”
“Thank you. Now, child, tell me something about other places you
remember, and, also, please tell me your name.”
Josephine was surprised. What a very short memory this uncle had, to
be sure. It wouldn’t be polite to say so, though, and it was an easy
question to answer.
“My name is Josephine Smith. I’m named after you, you know, ’cause
you’re my papa’s twin. I’m sent to you because”--and she went on to
explain the reasons, so far as she understood them, of her long journey
and her presence in his house. She brought her coat and showed him,
neatly sewed inside its flap, a square of glazed holland on which was
written her name, to whom consigned, and the express company by which
she had been “specially shipped and delivered.”
It was all plain and straightforward. This was the very house
designated on the tag, and he was Joseph Smith; but it was, also, a
riddle too deep for him to guess.
“I see, I see. Well, since you are here we must make the best of it.
I think there’s a mistake, but I dare say the morning will set it all
right. Meanwhile, it’s snowing too fast to make any inquiries to-night.
It is about dinner time, for me. Have you had your dinner?” asked the
host.
“I had one on the train. That seems a great while ago,” said the guest.
“I beg pardon, but I think there is a little smut upon your pretty
nose. After a railway journey travellers usually like to wash up, and
so on. I don’t know much about little girls, yet”--he rather timidly
suggested.
“I should be so glad. Just see my hands, Uncle Joe!” and she extended a
pair of plump palms which sadly needed soap and water.
“I’m not your”--he began, meaning to set her right concerning their
relationship; then thought better of it. What would a child do who
had come to visit an unknown uncle and found herself in the home of a
stranger? Weep, most likely. He didn’t want that. He’d had enough of
tears, as witness one spoiled shirt-front. He began also to change his
mind regarding the little one’s manners. She had evidently lived with
gentlefolks and when some one came to claim her in the morning he would
wish them to understand that she had been treated courteously.
So he rang for Peter, who appeared as suddenly as if he had come from
the hall without.
“Been listening at the doorway, boy? Take care. Go up to the guest
room, turn on the heat and light, and see that there are plenty of
fresh towels. Take this young lady’s things with you. She will probably
spend the night here. I hope you have a decent dinner provided.”
“Fine, Massa Joe. Just supreme. Yes, suh. Certainly, suh,” answered the
servant.
“Uncle Joe, is there a bathroom in this house?” asked she.
“Three of them, Josephine.”
“May I use one? I haven’t had a bath since I was in San Diego, and
I’m--mamma would not allow me at table, I guess; I’m dreadful dirty.”
If Josephine had tried to find the shortest way to Mr. Smith’s heart
she could not have chosen more wisely.
“To be sure, to be sure. Peter, make a bath ready next the guest room.
Will an hour give you time enough, little lady?”
“I don’t want so long. I’m so glad I learned to dress myself, aren’t
you? ’Cause all the women to this house seem to be men, don’t they?”
“Yes, child. Poor, unfortunate house!”
“It’s a beautiful house, Uncle Joe; and you needn’t care any more. I’ve
come, now. I, Josephine. I’ll take care of you. Good-by. When you see
me again I’ll be looking lovely, ’cause I’ll put on the new white wool
dress that mamma embroidered with forget-me-nots.”
“Vanity!” thought Mr. Smith, regretfully, which shows that he didn’t
as yet understand his little visitor, whose “lovely” referred to her
clothes alone, and not at all to herself.
The dinner hour at 1000 Bismarck Avenue was precisely half-past six.
Even for the most notable of the few guests entertained by the master
of the house he rarely delayed more than five minutes, and on no
occasion had it been served a moment earlier. The old-fashioned hall
clock had ticked the hour for generations of Smiths “from Virginia,”
and was regulated nowadays by the tower timepiece at Mt. Royal station.
It was fortunate for Josephine that just as the minute hand dropped
to its place, midway between the six and seven on the dial, she came
tripping down the wide stair, radiant from her bath and the comfort of
fresh clothing, and eager to be again with the handsome Uncle Joe, who
was waiting for her at the stair’s foot with some impatience.
Her promptness pleased him, and the uncommon vision of her childish
loveliness pleased him even more. He had believed that he disliked
children, but was now inclined to change his opinion.
“I’m glad you are punctual, Miss Josephine, else I’d have had to
begin my dinner without you. I never put back meals for anybody,” he
remarked.
“Would you? Don’t you? Then I’m glad, too. Isn’t the frock pretty?
My mamma worked all these flowers with her own little white hands. I
love it. I had to kiss them before I could put it on,” she said, again
lifting her skirt and touching it with her lips.
“I suppose you love your mamma very dearly. What is she like?”
He was leading her along the hall toward the dining-room, and Peter,
standing within its entrance, congratulated himself that he had
laid the table for two. He glanced at his master’s face, found it
good-natured and interested, and took his own cue therefrom.
“She is like--she is like the most beautiful thing in the world, dear
Uncle Joe. Don’t you remember?” asked the astonished child.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“That’s a pity, and you my papa’s twin. Papa hasn’t nice gray hair
like yours, though, and there isn’t any shiny bare place on top of
his head. I mean there wasn’t when he went away last year. His hair
was dark, like mamma’s, and his mustache was brown and curly. I think
he isn’t as big as you, Uncle Joe, and his clothes are gray, with
buttony fixings on them. He has a beautiful sash around his waist,
sometimes, and lovely shoulder trimmings. He’s an officer, my papa is,
in Company F. That’s for ’musement, mamma says. For the business, he’s
a ’lectrickeller. Is this my place? Thank you, Peter.”
Mr. Smith handed his little visitor to her chair, which the old butler
had pulled back for her, with the same courtly manner he would have
shown the pastor’s wife. Indeed, if he had been asked he would have
admitted that he found the present guest the more interesting of the
two.
Peter made ready to serve the soup, but a look from the strange child
restrained him. She added a word to the look:
“Why, boy, you forgot. Uncle Joe hasn’t said the grace yet.”
Now, Mr. Smith was a faithful and devout church member, but was in the
habit of omitting this little ceremony at his solitary meals. He was
disconcerted for the moment, but presently bowed his head and repeated
the formula to which he had been accustomed in his youth. It proved
to be the same that the little girl was used to hearing from her own
parents’ lips, and she believed it to be the ordinary habit of every
household. She did not dream that she had instituted a new order of
things, and unfolded her napkin with a smile, saying:
“Now, I’m dreadful hungry, Uncle Joe. Are you?”
“I believe I am, little one.”
Peter served with much dignity and flourish; but Josephine had dined
at hotel tables often enough to accept his attentions as a matter of
course. Her quiet behavior, her daintiness, and her chatter, amused and
delighted her host. He found himself in a much better humor than when
he returned through the storm from an unsatisfactory board meeting,
and was grateful for the mischance which had brought him such pleasant
company.
As for old Peter, his dark face glowed with enthusiasm. He was deeply
religious, and now believed that this unknown child had been sent by
heaven itself to gladden their big, empty house. He didn’t understand
how his master could be “uncle” to anybody, yet, since that master
accepted the fact so genially, he was only too glad to do likewise.
It was a fine and stately dinner, and as course after course was
served, Josephine’s wonder grew, till she had to inquire:
“Is it like this always, to your home, Uncle Joe?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Such a birthday table, and no folks, ’xcept you and me.”
“It is the same, usually, unless Peter fails to find a good market.
Have you finished? No more cream or cake?” he explained and questioned.
“No, thank you. I’m never asked to take two helpings. Only on the car
I had three, sometimes, though I didn’t eat them. Mamma wouldn’t have
liked it.”
“And do you always remember what ‘mamma’ wishes?”
“No. I’m a terrible forgetter. But I try. Somehow it’s easier now I
can’t see her,” she answered.
“Quite natural. Suppose we go into the library for a little while. I
want to consult the directory.”
She clasped his hand, looked up confidingly, but felt as if she should
fall asleep on the way thither. She wondered if it ever came bedtime in
that house, and how many hours had passed since she entered it.
“There, Miss Josephine, I think you’ll find that chair a comfortable
one,” said the host, when they had reached the library, rich with all
that is desirable in such a room. “Do you like pictures?”
“Oh, I love them!”
“That’s good. So do I. I’ll get you some.”
But Mr. Smith was not used to the “loves” of little girls, and his
selection was made rather because he wanted to see how she would
handle a book than because he thought about the subject chosen. A
volume of Dore’s grotesque drawings happened to be in most shabby
condition, and he reflected that she “couldn’t hurt that much, anyway,
for it’s to be rebound.”
Afterward he opened the directory for himself, and Josephine thought
it a dull-looking book. For some time both were interested and silent;
then Uncle Joe cried out with startling suddenness:
“Three thousand Smiths in this little city; and seventy-five of them
are Josephs! Well, my child, you’re mighty rich in ‘uncles’!”