He drew out his portfolio, and handed her a ten-dollar bill, which she received respectfully and tucked deep in her bosom.
“Is—is yo gwine to hab quality, marser—or just plain tea?”
“Both,” smiled Enoch. “Miss Preston and her mother are coming at five, Mr. Ford also, the Misses Moulton, and Mr. Grimsby. Six in all, Matilda.”
“Ah see,” returned Matilda with conviction. “Wot you might call mixed company.”
Enoch raised his eyebrows sharply in surprise.
“’Tain’t de tea, nor de kittle, nor de cakes, nor de sandwhiches, nor de bilin’ water, what’s a worryin’ me,” declared Matilda. “It’s de doilies—I ain’t got ’em, marser, but I kin git ’em, an’ dey ainter goin’ ter cost no ten-dollar bill, neider.”
“But the teacups?” he intervened anxiously. “Here, I’ll give you a note to Vantine’s—ask for Mr. Gresham.” He turned briskly to the desk and opened his inkstand.
“Ain’t no use in goin’ dar,” she protested. “Ain’t no Mister Gresham’s got ’em. I got ’em, an’ dey ain’t no common kitchen china, neider. Dey’s wot my Mistiss Mary left me when de good Lord done come an’ tuk ’er from me.” Her voice quavered. “Dey’s de best. Dey’s so white an’ fine, yo kin see yo han’ through ’em, an’ dey’s got lit’l’ gold rims round ’em, an’ handles no thicker’n er butterfly’s wing. Doan’ s’pose I’se er gwine let Miss Sue drink outer no common store trash, does yer? Um! um!—mouf like er rosebud. ’Mines me er mah young mistiss when she was jes about her aige, an’ young Capt’n Pendleton come up to de big house to see ’er. Bimeby he seen me, an’ come inter de kitchen, whar I was a mixin’ an’ a stirrin’, and a stirrin’ an’ a mixin’, for de hot corn cakes, an’ de waffles for de supper dat evenin’. ‘Matilda,’ he sez to me, all a shinin’ in his uniform, ‘I’se gwine teck yo babby ’way from you, d’yer hear me, nigger? She’s done lived long nuf lone in dis heah lonesome place—’er eatin’ out ’er heart.’ Den I begun to shook an’ shake, an’ I got er tremblin’ in mah knees, an’ I cudn’t say nuffin for de sobbin’ an’ de cryin’. Den he ’gun to laf, an’ he come over an’ laid his han’ ’pon my shoulder. Den I see his eyes was er twinklin’ like de stars in de heaven.
“‘Miss Mary an’ I’se gwine be married,’ says he.
“‘Yo ain’t er gwine teck ’er ’way from ’er ole mammy, is you?’ sez I. ‘See heah,’ sez I, ‘Marse Pendleton, I done brought ’er up—I done nussed ’er. I ain’t never let ’er outer mah sight fer twenty years ever since she was a babby.’