"The child stared at her uncle so seriously that he was actually embarrassed"
"Oh, Nunky-Punky!" she cried, "you didn't kiss me when I comed, and everybody said you would, cause I asked 'em particular."
"Honey," said Mr. Sanders, "le' me stand in Nunky-Punky's shoes while the kissin' is gwine on, bekaze he ain't shaved in two days, and his whiskers'll scratch your face."
But Adelaide ran to old Jonas, and held out her little arms to be lifted up. Jonas hesitated; he looked at Lucindy, then at Mr. Sanders, and finally allowed his glance to fall on the sweetly solemn face of the child. He tried to say something, to make some excuse, but he could think of none. He was not only dreadfully embarrassed, he was actually ashamed. Not in forty years had any one ever asked to kiss him and, whether you count it backward or forward, forty years is a long time. Mr. Sanders tried to pilot him through the deep water—so to speak—in which he found himself. "Sit down, Jonas, and take Miss Adelaide on your knee, an' let the thing be done right. Kinder shet your eyes an' pucker your mouth, and she'll do the rest."
"Sanders," said old Jonas, bristling up again, "if you really want to hurt my feelings just say so. You have no real delicacy about you. How do you know some one hasn't told the little girl that it is her duty to pretend to want to kiss her uncle, whether she wants to or not? Tell me that!" Old Jonas's eyes glistened under his overhanging brows, and if "looks" could kill a man, Mr. Sanders would have fallen down dead. Adelaide dropped her arms, and stood close to old Jonas's knee, looking quite forlorn. "Well, come on, Cally-Lou, Uncle Jonas has a very bad cold and a headache, and we mustn't bother him."
"No, no, no!" cried old Jonas, screwing up his face until it looked like the seed-ball of a sweet-gum tree. "There are some things a man has to do whether he's used to them or not. Come here and kiss me if you really want to." Adelaide turned, tossing her head as if she were growner than a grown woman, and went toward old Jonas with the queerest little smile ever seen. Her feelings had been dreadfully hurt, but not a quiver of mouth or eyelid disclosed the fact, and only Cally-Lou knew it. Old Jonas sat down in his favourite chair, and took the child on his knee. If he had to be a martyr, he would go through the performance as gracefully as he could. Adelaide made great preparations. She felt of his chin with one hand, while she threw the other around his neck. She seemed to know instinctively that old Jonas was rather timid when it came to kissing people, and she went to his rescue. "Now, I'm not going to kiss him until all you people turn your heads away. No, that won't do! You've got to turn clean around, and look the other way!" She waited until she had been obeyed, and then, as nimbly as a humming-bird kisses a flower, she kissed the grim old man, and slid from his knee.
"Ten-ten-double-ten-forty-five-fifteen!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders. "All eyes open! I'm gwine to peep!"
Adelaide laughed joyously, and when Mr. Sanders turned around she was standing in the middle of the floor.
"You're It!" he said to Jonas. Then the smile disappeared from his face. "Lucindy," he said, "do you reckon Mr. Whipple would buss me ef I was to ast him?" The question was a little too much for Lucindy, and she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, bent double with laughter.
"Sanders, why do you make a joke out of everything? Did you ever reflect that there is somewhere a limit to some things?"
"I certainly do, Jonas, an' you come mighty nigh reachin' it wi' me awhile ago. Ef you hadn't 'a' let that child kiss you when she wanted to, I'd 'a' went out'n yon' door an' I'd 'a' never darkened it ag'in—not in this world."
"Well, your common sense should tell you, Sanders, that people ain't made alike. What you are keen to do I have no appetite for, and what I'm fond of, you have no relish for. That's plain enough, I reckon."
"Ef that's a conundrum, Jonas, I thank my Maker that the answer is plain, yes!"
Old Jonas looked hard at Mr. Sanders as though he wanted to say something. He stuck out his chin, and looked toward the ceiling; then he looked at the floor, and began to rub his hands briskly together. Then his thought came out: "Sanders," he said, almost hospitably, "suppose you stay to supper to-night; or, if you can't stay until supper's ready, suppose you come back to supper? How will that suit you? I——"
"Well, I'll tell you the truth, Jonas: ef you think you need me for to pertect you from that child, you're mighty much mistaken. I don't believe that Miss Adelaide would harm a ha'r on your head, few as you've got."
"Nonsense, Sanders! you twist every mortal thing around in your mind, and you are never happy until you set your best friends up as a target for your folly. Answer my question: will you take supper with—with us?"
Mr. Sanders regarded old Jonas with real interest. His mild but fearless blue eyes studied the other's face as if they would read there the solution to some mystery. "Yes, Jonas; I'll not stay to supper, but I'll come back in time for supper. But don't publish it; ef the public know'd anything about it, they might think I was tryin' for to wheedle you out of a loan, an' then what'd happen? Why, all my creditors would come swarmin' aroun' me like gnats aroun' a sleepin' dog. I could jest as well stay right here tell supper time, but I'm oblidze for to git out an' walk about a little, an' git the amazement out'n my system. Off an' on, Jonas, I've been a-knowin' you mighty nigh thirty year, an' this is the fust time you've ast me to take a meal in your house. I feel as funny as a flushed pa'tridge!"
Jonas stalked out of the room pretending to be very angry, but he began to chuckle as soon as his back was turned. "Sanders is out of his sphere," he said to himself. "More than half the time he should have a big tent over his head and be rigged up like a clown." Mr. Sanders watched the door through which old Jonas had gone, as if he expected him to come back. Then he called out to him: "Jonas! be shore to have somethin' for supper that me an' that child can eat!"
Old Jonas heard the voice of Mr. Sanders, but he paid no attention to its purport. He went on into the kitchen where Adelaide and Lucindy were having a conversation. He tried to smile at the child, but he realised that his face was not made for smiles. It may have been different in the days of his boyhood, and probably was, but since he had devoted himself to the heartless problems that beset a man who is money-mad, the facial muscles that smiling brings into play had become so set in other directions, and had been so frequently used for other purposes, that they made but a poor success of a smile. Realising this, he turned to Lucindy, with a business-like air. "Lucindy, Mr. Sanders is coming to supper; I reckon he knows how you can cook, for he jumped at the invitation. And then there's the little girl; we must have something nice and sweet for her," he went on.
"No, Mr. Jonas!" Lucindy exclaimed; "nothin' sweet fer dis chile; des a little bread an' milk, er maybe a little hot-water tea."
"Well, you know about that," remarked Jonas, with a sigh; "we shall have to get a nurse for the child, I reckon."
Lucindy drew a deep breath. "A nuss fer dat chile! Whar she gwineter stay at? Not in dis kitchen! not in dis house! not on dis lot! No, suh! Ef she do, she'll hafter be here by herse'f. I'll drive her off, an' den you'll go out dar on de porch an' call her back; an' wid dat, I'll say good bye an' far'-you-well! Yes, la! I kin stan' dis chile, here, an' I kin 'ten' ter what little ten'in' ter she'll need—but a new nigger on de place! an' a triflin' gal at dat! No suh, no suh! you'll hafter scuzen me dis time, an' de nex' time, too."
Old Jonas walked from one end of the kitchen to the other, his face puckered up with anger, and looking as if he were on the point of bursting into tears. "Well, by the livin' Jimminy! can't I do what I please in my own house? Can't I get my own niece a nurse if I want to?"
Lucindy placed both hands under her apron, and looked as if she were swelling up. "Yasser," she exclaimed; "yasser, an' yasser, an' yasser. An' whiles you're gittin' a nurse, don't let it 'scape off'n your min' dat you'll want a cook!" She turned to the child, and the tone of her voice couldn't have been more different if it had come from the lips of another woman: "Honey, don't git too close ter de stove; ef yo' frock ketches afire you won't need no nuss. Mr. Billy Sanders'll be a-knockin' at dat do' present'y, an' supper ain't nigh ready—an' dey won't be no supper ef I got ter be crowded outer my own kitchen."
Adelaide looked and listened, and finally she said: "Aunt Lucindy, Cally-Lou says she doesn't like to be where people are mad and quarreling. She's afraid she'll have to go off somewhere else."
"Whar is Cally-Lou, honey? an' how big is she?"
"Oh, she's lot's bigger than me," replied Adelaide, very primly, "and she's sitting on the floor right by me. She says that fussing gives her nervy posteration."
"You say dat Cally-Lou is settin' on de flo' by yo' side?" Lucindy asked, opening her eyes a little wider. "Den how come I can't see her?"
"Well," said Adelaide, turning her soft blue eyes on the negro woman, and speaking with what seemed to be perfect seriousness, "she isn't used to you yet, and then she has had such a bad day!"
Lucindy paused in her work and took a long look at the pretty face of the child. "I can't see her, honey, but dat ain't no reason she ain't dar whar you say she's at. Let 'lone dat, it's a mighty good reason why she is dar!"
After a little Adelaide went into the sitting-room, and there found her Uncle Jonas sitting in the twilight that came dimly through the windows. She crept to his side, and leaned her head with its long golden curls against his arm. She may have wondered why he failed to take her on his knee, but she said nothing, and he, being busy with some old, old thoughts that came back to him, was as silent as the fat china dog that sat peacefully by the fireplace.
Presently Lucindy came in to light the lamps, and saw the child standing by old Jonas. "Honey!" she exclaimed in a startled tone, "ain't you tired to death? Ain't yo' legs 'bout to give way fum under you? I bet you Cally-Lou done gone ter bed——"
"No," said Adelaide; "she's very tired, but she's standing up just like me." The next thing to happen was the entrance of Mr. Sanders, who seemed to bring the fresh breezes with him. He seized Adelaide in his arms, and carried her into the dining-room. When all were seated, Adelaide waited a moment, as though she was expecting something. Then she placed her little hands over her face, leaned her head nearly down upon the table, and said grace silently; and but for the audible amen, the men would never have guessed what she was doing.
"I hope you mentioned my name," said Mr. Sanders, with due solemnity.
The child paid no attention to the remark, nor did she even glance at any one at the table, until the genial guest turned to the host and made a polite inquiry. "Jonas, do you button these napkins on before or behind? I don't want to make any blunder if I can help it."
At this, Adelaide looked up and saw that Mr. Sanders was trying to tie a corner of the tablecloth around his neck. The sight was so unexpected that she gave forth a peal of the merriest laughter ever heard, and Lucindy gave a snort of discomfiture.
"I declar' ter gracious!" she exclaimed, "ef I ain't done gone and fergit de napkins!"
The oversight was soon remedied, and everything went along all right until Mr. Sanders, taking a spoon in his hand, said to the child:
"Miss Adelaide, I'll bet you and Cally-Lou can't do this."
He placed the spoon so far in his mouth that nothing could be seen but a small part of the handle. Lucindy had to leave the room, and the child laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. When she could control herself, she said, reproachfully:
"Bishop, some day you'll choke yourself—you may ask anybody—and then what will the people do?"
PART II
Far over the hills, the wayward,
White feet of the children run,
Now gleaming in the shadows,
Now glistening in the sun—
And always travelling dayward
As they flit by one by one.
—Vanderlyn's Songs of the Past.
It was curious how much interest Mr. Sanders began to take in the home life that the mere presence of Adelaide brought to old Jonas Whipple's house. He would walk in without knocking, sometimes just about tea-time, and the child would invariably ask him to stay. Then after tea, he would challenge old Jonas for a game of checkers, and Adelaide thought it was great fun to watch them, they were so eager to defeat each other. Mr. Sanders had long been the champion checker-player in that part of the country, and he was very much astonished to find that old Jonas was himself an expert. Sometimes Adelaide would watch the game, and the two men invariably appealed to her to settle any question or doubt that arose, such as which of the two made the last move, or whether old Jonas had slipped a man from the board.
Most frequently, however, Adelaide was busy with her own affairs, and when this was the case, the two men sat quietly together, sometimes talking and sometimes listening.
"The Bishop is here," Adelaide would say to Cally-Lou. Then it seemed that Cally-Lou would make some reply that could only be heard through the ears of the imagination, to which Adelaide would respond most earnestly: "Why of course he isn't asleep, 'cause I saw him wink both eyes just now"—and the conversation would go on, sometimes good-humouredly, and sometimes charged with pretended indignation. If there had been any telephones, Mr. Sanders would inevitably have said: "You can't make me believe thar ain't some un at the other eend of the line."
I would say it was all like a play on the stage, only it wasn't as small as that. A play on the stage, as you well know, has its times and places. It must come to an end within a reasonable time. The curtain comes down, the audience files out, laughing and chatting, or wiping its eyes—as the case may be—the actors run to their cheerless rooms to strip off their tinsel finery, then the lights are put out, and everything is left to the chill of emptiness and gloom. But this was not the way with the play at old Jonas's home. It began early in the morning—for Adelaide was a very early riser—and lasted until bed-time; and, sometimes, longer, as Lucindy could have told you. Old Jonas had a way of covering his bald head with a flannel night-cap, and tucking the bed-covering about his face and ears, so that light and sound, no matter where they came from, would have as much as they could do to reach his eyes and ears; and, while he lay very still, as though he were sound asleep, he was sometimes awake for a very long time, thinking old thoughts and new ones, remembering people he had pinched in money matters, and thinking of those he intended to pinch.
After Adelaide came to live with him he had few thoughts of this kind, and less desire to sleep. Frequently he lay awake for hours at a time, wondering if the child was comfortable. Adelaide slept in a poster bed, one of the old-fashioned kind, and many a night, when everything was still and dark as the gloomy plague that fell over Egypt, old Jonas would slip from under his carefully tucked cover, steal into the room where the child slept, and listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was really breathing, so softly and shyly did she draw her breath. And sometimes he would put out his hand and feel—oh, ever so gently!—if she had kicked off the covering.
