The Colonel’s positive injunction that each one of his friends should call on every one of his guests within forty-eight hours of their arrival was never necessary in the case of Miss Ann Carter. One day was enough for me—one hour would have been more to my liking. Only consideration for her comfort, and the knowledge that she would be somewhat fatigued by her journey from Carter Hall northward, ever kept me away from her that long. Then, again, I knew that she wanted at least one entire day in which to straighten out the various domestic accounts of the little house in Bedford Place, including that complicated and highly-prized pass-book of the “Grocerman.”

And then Chad’s delight when he opened the door with a sweep, his face a sunburst of smiles and announced Miss Carter’s presence in the house! And the new note in the Colonel’s voice—a note of triumph and love and pride! And the touches here and there inside the cosy rooms; touches that only a woman can give—a new curtain here, a pot of flowers there: all joyous happenings that made a visit to Aunt Nancy, as we loved to call her, one of the events to be looked forward to.

But it was not Chad who opened the door on this particular morning. That worthy darky was otherwise occupied; in the kitchen, really, plucking the feathers from the canvas-back ducks. They had been part of the dear lady’s impedimenta, not to mention a huge turkey, a box of terrapin, and a barrel of Pongateague oysters, besides unlimited celery, Tolman sweet potatoes, and a particular brand of hominy, for which Fairfax County was famous.

I say it was not Chad at all who opened the door and took my card, but a scrap of a pickaninny about three feet high, with closely-cropped wool, two strings of glistening white teeth—two, for his mouth was always open; a pair of flaring ears like those of a mouse, and two little restless, wicked eyes that shone like black diamonds: the whole of him, with the exception of his cocoanut of a head, squeezed into a gray cloth suit bristling with brass buttons and worsted braid, a double row over his chest, and a stripe down each seam of his trousers.

Aunt Nancy’s new servant!

The scrap held out a silver tray; received my card with a dip of his head, threw back the door of the dining-room, scraped his foot with the flourish of a clog dancer, and disappeared in search of his mistress.

Chad stepped from behind the door, his face in a broad grin. He had crept up the kitchen stairs, and had been watching the boy’s performance from the rear room. His sleeves were rolled up and some of the breast feathers of the duck still stuck to his fingers.

“Don’t dat beat de lan’! Major,” he said to me. “Did ye see dem buttons on him? Ain’t he a wonder? Clar to goodness looks like he’s busted out wid brass measles. And he a-waitin’ on de Mist’iss! I ain’t done nothin’ but split myself a-laughin’ ever since he come. MY!!!” and Chad bent himself double, the tears starting to his eyes.

“What’s his name, Chad?”

“Says his name’s Jeems. Jeems, mind ye!” Here Chad went into another convulsion. “Jim’s his real name, jes’ Jim. He’s one o’ dem Barbour niggers. Raised down t’other side de Barbour plantation long side of our’n. Miss Nancy’s been down to Richmond an’ since I been gone she don’t hab nobody to wait on her, an’ so she tuk dis boy an’ fixed him up in dese Richmond clothes. He says he’s free. Free, mind ye! Dat’s what all dese no count niggers is. But I’m watchin’ him, an’ de fust time he plays any o’ dese yer free tricks on me he’ll land in a spell o’ sickness,” and Chad choked himself with another chuckle.

The door swung back.

“Miss Caarter say dat she’ll be down in a minute,” said the scrap.

Chad straightened his face and brought it down to a semblance of austerity; always a difficult task with Chad.

“Who did you say was yere?” he asked.

“I didn’t say—I handed her de kerd.”

“How did you carry it?”

“In my pan.”

“What did ye do wid de pan?”

The boy’s face fell.

“I lef’ it in de hall, sah.”

“Sah! sah! Don’t you ‘sah’ me. Ain’t nobody ‘sah’ round yere but de Colonel. What I tell you to call me?”

“Uncle Chad.”

“Dat’s it, Uncle Chad. Now go ’long, honey, an’ take yo’ seat outside wid yo’ pan; plenty folks comin’, now dey know de Mist’iss here. Dar she is now. Dat’s her step, on de stairs, Major. I doan’ want her to catch me lookin’ like dis. Drap into de kitchen, Major, as ye go out, I got sumpin’ to show ye. Dem tarr’pins de Mist’iss fotch wid her make yo’ mouf water.”

Some women, when they enter a room, burst in like a child just out of school and overwhelm you with the joyousness of their greetings; others come in without a sound, settle into a seat and regale you in monotones with histories of either the attendant misery or the expected calamity.

Aunt Nancy floated in like a bubble blown along a carpet, bringing with her a radiance, a charm, a gentleness, a graciousness of welcome, a gladness at seeing you, so sincere and so heartfelt, that I always felt as if a window had been opened letting in the sunshine and the perfume of flowers.

“Oh, my dear Major!” and she held out her hand; that tiny little hand which lace becomes so well, and that always suggests its morning baptism of rose water. Such a dainty white hand! I always bend over and kiss it whenever I have the chance, trying my best to be the gallant I know she would like me to be.

After the little ceremony of my salutation was over I handed her to a seat, still holding her finger-tips, bowing low just as her own cavaliers used to do in the days when she had half the County at her feet. I love these make-believe ceremonies when I am with her—and then again I truly think she would not be so happy without them. This over I took my place opposite so I could watch her face and the smiles playing across it—that face which the Colonel always said reminded him of “Summer roses a-bloom in October.”

We talked of her journey and of how she had stood the cold and how reluctant she had been at first to leave Carter Hall, especially at the Christmas season, and of the Colonel (not a word, of course, about the encounter with Klutchem—no one would have dared breathe a word of that to her), and then of the scrap of a pickaninny she had brought with her.

“Isn’t he too amusing? I brought him up as much to help dear Chad as for any other reason. But he is incorrigible at times and I fear I shall have to send him back to his mother. I thought the livery might increase his self-respect, but it only seems to have turned his head. He doesn’t obey me at all, and is so forgetful. Chad is the only one of whom, I think, he is at all afraid.”

A knock now sounded in the hall and I could hear the shuffling of Jim’s feet, and the swinging back of the door. Then Fitz’s card was brought in—not on the silver tray this time, but clutched in the monkey paw of the pickaninny.

Aunt Nancy looked at him with a certain well-assumed surprise and drew back from the proffered card.

“James, is that the way to bring me a card? Have I not told you often——”

The boy looked at her, his face in a tangle of emotions. “De Pan! Fo’ Gord, Mist’iss, I done forgot dat pan,” and with a spring he was out again, returning with Fitz’s pasteboard on the silver tray, closely followed by that gentleman himself, who was shaking with laughter over the incident.

“One of your body-guard, Aunt Nancy?” said Fitz, as he bent over and kissed her hand. It was astonishing how easily Fitz fell into these same old-time customs when he was with the dear lady—he, of all men.

“No, dear friend, one of the new race of whom I am trying to make a good servant. His grandmother in slave times belonged to a neighbor of ours, and this little fellow is the youngest of six. I’ve just been telling the Major what a trial he is to me. And now let me look at you. Ah! you have been working too hard. I see it in your eyes. Haven’t you had some dreadful strain lately?”

Fitz declared on his honor, with one hand over his upper watch pocket, and the other still in hers, that he never felt better in his life, and that so idle had he become lately, that it was hard work for him to keep employed. And then Aunt Nancy made him sit beside her on the hair-cloth sofa, the one on which Fitz would not permit the Colonel to sleep, and I, being nearest, tucked a cushion under her absurdly small feet and rearranged about her shoulders her Indian mull shawl, which didn’t require any rearranging at all. And after Fitz had told the dear lady for the third time how glad he was to see her, and after she had told him how glad she was to see both of us, and how she hoped dear George would soon secure the money necessary to build his railroad, so that we could all come to Carter Hall for next Christmas, she adding gravely that she really couldn’t see any need for the road’s existence or any hope of its completion, although she never said so to dear George, she being a woman and not expected to know much of such things;—after, I say, all these delightful speeches and attentions and confidences had been indulged in, Aunt Nancy bent her head, turned her sweet face framed in the lace cap and ribbons, first towards me and then back to Fitz again—she had been talking to Fitz all this time, I listening—and said with the air of a fairy godmother entertaining two children:

“And now I’ve got a great Christmas surprise for both of you, and you shall have one guess apiece as to what it is.”

Fitz, with the memories of a former Christmas at Carter Hall still fresh in mind, and knowing the dear lady’s generosity, and having seen the biggest bundle of feathers and the longest pair of legs he had ever laid his eyes on hanging head down on the measly wall of the shabby yard as he entered, screwed up his eyes, cudgelled his brain by tapping his forehead with his forefinger, and blurted out:

“Wild turkey stuffed with chestnuts.”

Aunt Nancy laughed until her side curls shook.

“Oh, you dreadful gourmand! Not a bit like a turkey. How mortified you will be when you find out! Go and stand in the corner, sir, with your face to the wall. Now, Major, it’s your turn.”

Fitz began to protest that he ought to have another chance, and that it had slipped out before he knew it, since he had never forgotten a brother of that same bird, one that he had eaten at her own table; but the little lady wouldn’t hear another syllable, and waved him away with great dignity, whereupon Fitz buried his fat face in his hands, and said that life was really not worth the living, and that if anybody would suggest a comfortable way of committing suicide he would adopt it at once.

When my turn came, I, remembering the buttons on “Jeems,” guessed a livery for Chad, at which the dear lady laughed more merrily than before, and Fitz remarked in a disgusted tone that the dense stupidity of some men was one of the characteristics of the time.

“No; it’s nothing to eat and it’s nothing to wear. It’s a most charming young lady who at my earnest solicitation has consented to dine with us, and to whom I want you two young gentlemen (Fitz is forty if he’s a day, and looks it) to be most devoted.”

“Pretty?” asked Fitz, pulling up his collar—prinking in mock vanity.

“Yes, and better than pretty.”

“Young?” persisted Fitz.

“Young, and most entertaining.

“Now listen both of you and I will tell you all about it. She lives up in one of your most desolate streets, Lafayette Place, I think, they call it, and in such a sombre house that it looks as if the windows had never been opened. Her mother is dead, and such a faded, hopeless-looking woman takes care of the house, a relation of the father’s, I understand, who is a business friend of George’s, and with whom he tells me he once had a slight misunderstanding. George did not want Christmas to pass with these differences unsettled, and so, of course, I went to call the very day I arrived and invited her and her father to dine with us on Christmas Eve. We always celebrate our Christmas then as you both know, on account of our old custom of giving Christmas day to our servants. And I am so glad I went. I did not, of course, see the father. Oh, it would make your heart ache to see the inside of that house. Everything costly and solid, and yet everything so joyless. I always feel sorry for such homes,—no flowers about, no books that are not locked up, no knick-knacks nor pretty things. I hope you will both help me to make her Christmas Eve a happy one. You perhaps may know her father, Mr. Fitzpatrick,—he is in Wall Street I hear, and his name is Klutchem.”

Fitz, in his astonishment, so far forgot himself as to indulge in a low whistle.

“Then you do know him?”

“Oh, very well.”

“And you tell me that Mr. Klutchem is really coming to dinner and going to bring his daughter?” asked Fitz, in a tone that made his surprise all the more marked.

“Yes; George had a note from him this morning saying his daughter would be here before dark and he would come direct from his office and meet her here in time for dinner. Isn’t it delightful? You will be quite charmed with our guest, I’m sure. And about the father—tell me something of him?” Aunt Nancy inquired in her sweetest voice.

“About Mr. Klutchem? Well! Yes, to be sure. Why, Klutchem! Yes, of course. A most genial and kindly man,” answered Fitz, controlling himself; “a little eccentric at times I have heard, but not more so than most men of his class. Not a man of much taste, perhaps, but most generous. Would give you anything in the world he didn’t want, and be so delighted when you took it off his hands. Insisted on giving me a lot of stock the other day, but of course I wouldn’t take it.” This was said with so grave a face that its point escaped the dear lady.

“How very kind of him. Perhaps that is where his daughter gets her charm,” replied Aunt Nancy, with a winning smile.

There is no telling what additional mendacities regarding the Klutchem family Fitz, who had now regained his equilibrium, would have indulged in, had I not knit my eyebrows at him behind Aunt Nancy’s back as a warning to the mendacitor not to mislead the dear lady, whose disappointment, I knew, would only be the greater when she met Klutchem face to face.

When I had risen to take my leave Fitz excused himself for a moment and followed me into the hall.

“Klutchem coming to dinner, Major, and going to bring his daughter? What the devil do you think is up? If the Colonel wasn’t so useless financially I’d think Klutchem had some game up his sleeve. But if that is so, why bring his daughter? My lawyer told me to-day the assault and battery case is all settled, so it can’t be that. Wonder if the Colonel has converted Klutchem as to the proper way of running a bank? No, that’s nonsense! Klutchem would skin a flea and sell the tallow, no matter what the Colonel said to him. Coming to dinner! Well, that gets me!”

As I shut the front door behind me and stopped for a minute on the top step overlooking the yard, I caught sight of the grocer emerging from the tunnel with a basket on his arm for Chad, who was standing below me outside his kitchen door with the half-picked duck in his hand. The settlement of “Misser Grocerman’s” unpaid accounts by Miss Nancy on one of her former visits to Bedford Place had worked a double miracle—Chad no longer feared the dispenser of fine wines and other comforts, and the dispenser himself would have emptied his whole shop into Chad’s kitchen and waited months for his pay had that loyal old servant permitted it. This was evident from the way in which Chad dropped the half-picked duck on a bench beside the door and hurried forward to help unpack the basket; and the deferential smile on the grocer’s face as he took out one parcel after another, commenting on their quality and cheapness.

I had promised Chad to stop long enough to inspect Miss Nancy’s “tarr’pins,” and so I waited until Chad’s duties were over.

“That’s the cheekiest little coon ever come into the store,” I hear the grocer say with a laugh. “I’d a-slid him out on his ear if he’d said much more.”

Chad looked over his pile of bundles—they lay up on his arm; the top one held in place by his chin—and asked with some anxiety:

“Who, Jim? What did he do?”

“Do! He waltzed in yesterday afternoon with his head up and his under lip sticking out as if he owned the place. When I told him to take the sugar back with him, he said he wasn’t carrying no bundles for nobody, he was waiting on Miss Carter. He’s out at the gate now.”

“Do ye hear dat, Major? Ain’t dat ’nough to make a body sick? I been ’spectin’ dis ever since he come. I’m gwinter stop dis foolishness short off.”

The old darky waited until the grocer had reached the street, then he shouted into the gloom of the narrow passage:

“Here, Jim. Come here.”

The scrap in buttons slammed to the wicket gate and came running through the tunnel.

“What you tell dat gemman yisterday when I sont you for dat sugar, wid yo’ lip stickin’ out big ’nough for a body ter sit on?”

The boy hung his head.

“You’se waitin’ on Miss Caarter, is ye, an’ ye ain’t caarryin’ no bundles? If I ever hear ye sass anybody round here agin, white or black, I’ll tear dem buttons off ye an’ skin ye alive—you’se caarryin’ what I send ye for—do ye hear dat? Free, is ye? You’se free wid yo’ sass an’ dat’s all de freedom you got.”

“I—didn’t know—yer want me ter—caa’ry it back,” said the boy in a humble tone, but with the twinkle of a smouldering coal in his eye.

“Ye didn’t? Who did ye think was gwine to caa’ry it back for ye? Maybe it was de Colonel or de Mist’iss or me?” Chad’s voice had now risen to a high pitch, and with a touch of sarcasm in it which was biting. “Pretty soon you’ll ’spec’ somebody gwine to call for ye in dere caa’ridge. Yo’ idea o’ freedom is to wait on nobody and hab no manners. What ye got in yo’ hand?”

“Cigarette white boy gimme,”—and the boy dropped the burning end on the brick pavement of the yard.

“Dat’s mo’ freedom, an’ dat’s all dis po’ white trash is gwine to do for ye—stuffin’ yo’ head wid lies, an’ yo’ mouf wid a wad o’ nastiness. Now go ’long an’ git yo’ pan.”

Chad waited until the boy had mounted the steps and entered the house, then he turned to me.

“Po’ li’l chin’ka’pin—he don’t know no better. How’s he gwine to git a bringin’ up? Miss Nancy tryin’ to teach him, but she ain’t gwine make nuffin’ of him. He’s got pizened by dis freedom talk, an’ he ain’t gwine to git cured. Fust thing ye know he’ll begin to think he’s good as white folks, an’ when he’s got dat in his head he’s done for. I’m gwine to speak to de Mist’iss ’bout dat boy, an’ see if sumpin can’t be done to save him fo’ it gits too late; ain’t nuffin’ gwine to do him no good but a barr’l stave—hear dat—a barr’l stave!”

The Colonel had come in quietly and stood listening. I had heard the click of the outer gate, but supposed it was the grocer returning with the additional supplies.

“Who’s Chad goin’ to thresh, Major?” the Colonel asked, with a smile as he put his arm over my shoulder.

“Miss Nancy’s pickaninny,” I answered.

“What, little Jim?” There was a tone of surprise now in the Colonel’s voice.

Chad stood abashed for a moment. He had stowed away the groceries, and had the duck in his hand again, his fingers fumbling among its feathers.

“’Scuse me, Colonel, I ain’t gwine whale him, of co’se, ’thout yo’ permission, but he’s dat puffed up he’ll bust fo’ long.”

“What’s he been up to?”

“Sassin’ Misser Grocerman—runnin’ to de gate wid his head out like a tarr’pin’s, smoking dese yer paper seegars dat smell de whole place up vill’nous, ’stid of waitin’ on de Mist’iss.”

“And you think beatin’ him will do him any good, Chad? How many times did yo’ Marster John beat you?”

Chad looked up, and a smile broke over his face.

“I don’t reckellmember airy lick de Marster ever laid on me.”

“Raised you pretty well, didn’t he, Chad?”

“Yas, sah—dat he did.”

“Anybody beat you since you grew up?”

“No, sah.”

“Pretty good, Chad, ain’t you?”

“I try to be, sah.”

“Well, now, be a little patient with that boy. It isn’t his fault that he’s sp’ilt; it’s part of the damnable system this Gov’ment has put upon us since the war. Am I right, Major?”

I nodded assent.

Chad pulled out a handful of feathers from the duck, dropped them into a barrel near where we stood in the yard, and said, as if his mind was finally made up:

“Co’se, Colonel, I ain’t nuffin’ to say jes’ ’cept dis. When I was dat boy’s age I was runnin’ ’round barefoot an’ putty nigh naked, my shirt out o’ my pants haalf de time; but Marse John tuk care o’ me, an’ when I got hongry I knowed whar dey was sumpin to eat an’ I got it. Dat boy ain’t had nobody take care o’ him till de Mist’iss tuk him, and haalf de time he went hongry; no manners, no bringin’ up—runnin’ wid po’ white trash, gittin’ his head full o’ fool notions ’stid o’ waitin’ on his betters. Now look at him. Come in yere yisterday mornin’, an’ want borry my bresh to black his shoes. Den he must bresh his clothes wid yo’ bresh—yo’ bresh, mind you! I cotched him at it. Den he gits on his toes an’ squints at hisself in de Mist’iss glass—I cotched him at dat, too—an’ he ugly as one o’ dem black tree-toads. You know what done dat? Dem Richmond clothes he’s got on. I tell ye, Colonel, sumpin gotter be done, or dem buttons’ll spile dat chile.”

The Colonel laughed heartily.

“What does Miss Nancy say about yo’ barr’l stave?”

“She don’t say nuffin’, ’cause she don’t know.”

“Well, don’t you thresh Jim till you see her.”

“No, sah.”

“And Chad?”

“Yes, sah.”

“When you do, pick out a little stave. Come, Major, go back with me for just ten minutes mo’ and see the dea’est woman in the world.”

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