When Sylvain arrived, Uncle Foteen embraced him with unrestrained emotion; calling him master; giving him lively accounts of the imaginary doings of the departed family; and rejoicing in the prospect of driving him to church on Sunday, “to show him off to all Gritny, settin’ up proud in de barouche, ’long wid Ma’am Guillaume, Mamzelle Olympe, an’ all dem chillun.”
Sylvain soon discovered that the old man’s memory was uncertain, and he humored his infirmity. “He bin childish for a good w’ile,” Choote told him. “An’ he mistake evvbody for somebody else bin dead a long time.”
Knowing her husband’s vagaries would be overlooked with understanding sympathy, Choote permitted Uncle Foteen to take his old post in the diningroom and preside in the usual, formal way. When evening came and Sylvain was called to dinner, he arose to go, a reluctant, solitary guest. On entering the diningroom, he was amazed to find the table arranged for six persons. No detail was overlooked. The guest linen and fine china had been brought out; cape jasmines, his mother’s favorite flowers, were in the old rock crystal bowl as a center piece; and the quaint old silver candlesticks, lugubrious with towering white candles, lighted the silent room with an eerie glow he remembered as a little child. Uncle Foteen, in his faded uniform, was standing behind his chair, ready to see him comfortably seated in the master’s place at the head of the table.
Leaving Sylvain’s chair, he visited the vacant chairs each in turn, sliding them in place gently, until each imaginary member of his respected family was seated in the accustomed manner. Each in turn, throughout the various courses of the meal, he visited the spectral guests, watching attentively as he saw them in fancy helping themselves to the tempting food; and smiling with grateful pleasure on beholding his honored family gathered once more in convivial assembly.
It was a well-known tale in the village; a tale Uncle Foteen loved to repeat. The facts were real to him; the occasion, a memorable one; and the actors, living personalities. No one thought of arguing with him the verity of his story, or regarding his vision as a worthless, fleeting dream. It was a fancy that brought him comfort and solace to brighten the hours of his waning years. He knew that his beloved white folks lived again, and he walked and talked with their gentle spirits wherever he happened to be.
Uncle Foteen sat before the pleasant fire enjoying his plate of gumbo with childish satisfaction, apparently oblivious of the rumble of conversation in the room.
“Po’ ole soul sho havin’ a party by his own self wid dat plate o’ gumbo.” Scilla remarked softly.
“An’ he ain’ to be blame for it, either.” replied Nookie. “’Cause Sis’ Susan gumbo des natchally make you leche li doigts,—like my ole man use to say, ’fo he went away.”
“Whah old ugly Plunkum gone, Nookie?” asked Felo. “Nobody ain’ seen him for Gawd knows how long.”