CHAPTER VIII THE ’CORDEEN COMES.

THAT afternoon Bert brought an express package to Minerva.

To her it was a package of sunlight.

In fact it was the accordeon.

As soon as Minerva opened the bundle she stopped cooking dinner and began to play on her beloved instrument. Such sounds I had hoped never to hear again, and I went out into the kitchen and told her that I was sorry, but that I could not stand it in the house.

She looked up from the instrument, and there was a world of appeal in her eyes. I had never seen so much expression in them. Music certainly had power over her.

“Oh, Mist. Vernon, it’ll be dark after the dishes is washed, an’ I don’ dah go in the woods,” said she. “I’ll play sof’.”

“Yes, but you’ll delay dinner.”

She actually came over and laid her brown hand on my sleeve.

“Mist. Vernon,” said she, in honey tones, “I’m on’y gettin’ dinner at five to please myse’f. If I git it at six Mis. Vernon will like it better. She said so. I won’t play long.”

But I was determined not to listen to such music as that in the house. So I went out doors.

Ethel was sitting at the window of her bedroom. When she saw me she put her hands to her ears and made a grimace.

I made signs to her to come down.

“Let us be diplomatic,” said I, when she had come down stairs. “Let us go for a long walk.”

The hideous “upside down music” assailed us until we were fully a half a mile away.

“Ethel,” said I, “we haven’t gone about this matter of keeping Minerva in the right way.”

“Meaning what?” said Ethel.

“Meaning that we are trying to make her like a thing she does not understand. The country is an unknown land to her. We must try to make her acquainted with it, and perhaps she will love it so much that we will have hard work getting her to go back with us.”

“Well, goodness, that is hardly worth striving for,” said Ethel. “There are only three months up here, but there are nine months in the city, and we want her there.”

“Well, we won’t educate her up to that point, then, but we must do something to make her more contented. She is just as much a human being as you and I, and I dare say that her summer is just as much to her as ours is to us. We are depriving her of recreation pier amusements, of ice cream, of band concerts, and what are we giving her in return? We ought to go out and get some one of her own colour to come and call on her.”

“Don’t be absurd, Philip. Minerva is not a farce.”

“No, she is only getting to be a tragedy. But I’m not absurd. Next to Minerva’s love for the city is her love for people. If we can’t make her love the country, we may be able to make her love the people of the country, and I am going to ask Bert if there is not some respectable man or woman who could be hired to come here and call on Minerva every day.”

Ethel looked at me expecting to see a twinkle or so in one or another of my eyes, but I was not thinking of twinkling. I never was so much in earnest. Minerva was plainly sorry that she had been impertinent and I was going to be eminently just.

We dismissed Minerva from our thoughts, or at least I, man-like dismissed her from mine. I don’t suppose that Ethel was able to do so, but we did not talk of her again, preferring to drink in the beauties of nature and call each other’s attention to each draught. Rare is that nature lover who can silently absorb the loveliness of a landscape.

Nor would I laugh at those who call on their companions for corroboration of their views as to views. It is simply another way of sharing delights, and that man who gobbles up a landscape and never comments upon it is not likely to have kept silence from Japanese motives. They say that the Japanese take the appreciation of beauty so much as a matter of course that they never refer to the rapturous tints in an orchard of peach blossoms or the tender greens of a spring landscape, feeling that it would be an insult to invite attention where attention was already bestowed; but with us of the West, when a man refrains from speaking about this lordly oak or that graceful dip of hill, or those clouds dying on the horizon in every conceivable colour, the chances are that he is thinking of his business affairs, and the clouds die and the hills dip and the tree spreads not for him.

Many of these graceful thoughts I expressed in fitting words to Ethel, so it will be seen that our walk was not without interest, and as she in turn said many quotable things, which I now forget, the walk was prolonged until to our astonishment we found that it was seven.

“Hungry as a bear?” asked I.

“Indeed I am. Probably Minerva has been holding dinner in the oven this half hour, and it will not be fit to eat.”

We hastened our steps, and in a few minutes our home burst upon us—also more strains from the accordeon—together with plunks from a banjo.

We heard the plunks before we saw who was supplying them, but in a moment the musician was seen to be seated upon the front verandah.

He was a tall, good-looking mulatto, and I at once recognized him as being the man who had driven the constable over that morning.

Ethel stopped short, and became angry at the same instant. I stopped short and became amused at the same instant, thus showing how the same acts will affect different natures; also showing how a person can do two things at once and do them both well. For there is no question but that our stops were as short as they could have been, and our anger and amusement were well conceived and well carried out.

Ethel was too angry to speak. I was too amused to keep silent.

“It’s scandalous,” said Ethel, as soon as she could find words.

“It’s just right,” said I. “And it has given me a good idea. After dinner I will tell you about it.”

The banjoist had seen us first, and had told Minerva, and both had jumped to their feet, the man to bow and Minerva to run into the kitchen, where she was followed by her friend.

By the time we had come up to the front path to the veranda the coloured man had come out from the kitchen and in most melodious tones said,

“Minerva wanted to know if you would like dinner served on the piazza, the evening being so pleasant.”

Delmonico never had a head waiter with the aplomb, the native dignity, the utter unconsciousness of self that this superbly built man displayed.

I felt that we had suddenly fallen heir to a fortune, and a group of retainers, and trying to play my part to the best of my ability I said,

“By all means—er—”

“James.”

“By all means, James. Is it ready?”

“I will ascertain in a moment sir,” said this yellow prince, and retired to the kitchen, whence he emerged in a moment.

“A slight retention in the oven in regard to the roast, sir, but the soup will be ready immejutly.”

Ethel had gone up stairs at once. I nodded my head gravely and said,

“Very well, James,” and then I went up to make my toilet.

“The tide has turned, Ethel,” said I when I reached the room. “A kind Providence has sent the grandson of some Senegambian king to wait on us and to amuse Minerva between meals. Put a ribbon in your hair, and I will put a buttercup in my button hole, or I will dress, if you say so, and we will put on the style that befits us.”

“Who is that man?” said Ethel.

“In fairy stories wise people never question. They accept. This is the constable’s driver, and he was probably attracted here by the dread strains of the accordeon. Let us make the most of him. I am quite sure he is going to serve dinner, and I feel it in my bones that he will do it well.”

And he did do it well and the dinner was worth serving. It had been delayed by the concert, there was no doubt of that, and it was nearly eight when we sat down to it, but the silent, graceful fellow, moved noiselessly in and out from kitchen to verandah, the whippoorwills sang to us, the roses filled the air with fragrance, and a silver crescent in the west rode to its couch full sleepily.

This may sound poetic. If it does it is because we felt satisfied with everything once more, and satisfaction is poetry.

After the dinner was over Ethel went out into the kitchen about something and found Minerva smiling and bustling around to get the dishes washed in a hurry.

“Mis. Vernon,” said she, “that man wants to know if Mist. Vernon has any work for him to do.”

“That man” was out on the veranda clearing away the dessert dishes.

“I’ll see,” said Ethel. “How did he happen to come here?”

“Why, Mis. Vernon, that man is related with my folks. His aunt’s brother married my aunt’s niece. I don’ know what that makes him to me, but he remembers me when I was a little gal in New York, and he reckernized me as soon as he saw me. He says—”

The approach of James prevented her from saying anything further, but as soon as he had gone out for the coffee cups, she continued:

“He says that he’s on’y be’n workin’ with that policeman while he was manufacturin’ hay, an’ he’d like to do odd jobs.”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to be real odd ones,” said I when Ethel told me what had transpired. “But if it is going to make Minerva contented we will have him come and paint the porch green to-morrow, and red the day after.”

I sat and smoked peacefully for a few minutes. James had taken the last saucer out to the kitchen, and Ethel sat by my side, looking out into the waning light of day.

Suddenly there came the strains of “Roll Jordan, Roll,” in the form of a soprano and bass duet.

Minerva’s playing on the accordeon had not prepared me for the sweetness of her voice, which is perhaps not strange, and of course I knew nothing of James’s capabilities as a vocalist until I heard his rich, mellow baritone blend with her warm soprano.

The effect was delightful. Not since I heard the original Fiske Jubilee singers, twenty-five years ago, when a boy of six or seven, have I heard any negro music that satisfied me as this did.

“Ethel,” said I, “we are It. Is there a local charitable organization or a Village Improvement Society, or a Mother’s Meeting that needs help?”

“What are you after now,” said Ethel.

“Minerva’s pleasure first and foremost, but also the amelioration of the bitter lot of parties at present unknown, by means of a concert to be given at the house of Mrs. Vernon, by James and Minerva.”

“Philip!” said Ethel.

“As near as I can make out,” said I, “I am devoting this summer to the building up of your health by a life in the country, free from cares. To do that we must have a girl, and there is but one girl that we know we can have, and that is the girl we do have. Can’t you imagine how Minerva will take fire at the thought of singing in a concert?”

“I suppose she would like it,” said Ethel, “but how do you know that we can get people to come?”

“We needn’t worry about that part of it at first. First of all we must begin our rehearsals, and they will take time. Do you appreciate that fact? And very first of all, I’ll go out and interview James.”

“Philip,” said Ethel, rising and looking at me with a vexed expression, “I wish you had more dignity. I’ll go out and tell James that you wish to speak to him.”

“Not at all,” said I. “What! You go out and tell him? Wait. Sit where you are, and all will be well.”

I was beginning to feel in holiday mood, for I was sure that I had struck on an arrangement that would tide us over at least a fortnight.

I went out to the kitchen.

“Minerva,” said I, “Mrs. Vernon would like to speak to you.”

I then went back to Ethel and said, “I have asked Minerva to come. When she comes, tell her to send James. We will do this thing in style while we are about it.”

Minerva came in, her face all smiles.

“Minerva, ask your friend James to come out,” said Ethel. “Mr. Vernon wishes to speak to him.”

“That’s it! That’s style!” said I, as soon as Minerva had gone. “Now is our dignity preserved, and James feels that he has fallen among people who know what’s what. Do you want to be present at this interview?”

Ethel decided that she did not, and went into the parlour as James came out of the kitchen.

“Did you want to speak to me, sir?” said James respectfully.

“Yes, James. What is your last name?”

“Mars. James Montgomery Mars.”

“Minerva tells me, James, that you are looking for work.”

“Yes, sir; for congenial work.”

“Would singing be congenial work?”

“Singing’s a pleasure, sir. It ain’t work.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said I, “that what this section needed was a concert for the benefit of something. Now, Mrs. Vernon likes to make other people happy, and while we were listening to you and Minerva sing, it struck us both that a concert of old plantation melodies like those you could sing, would be well received, say at the Congregational Church at Egerton. I would pay you a coachman’s wages for staying here and practising, but all the money taken in would go to—”

“The Hurlbert Hospital. That’s what they always do with the money up here, sir.”

“Oh, I see, like the Liverpool Sailors’ Home.”

He did not understand my allusion, but I did not explain. Allusions that are explained lose half their charm.

“What do you think of the idea?”

“I think it’s all right, sir. But between singing what would I do?”

“Do you love nature?”

“I don’t know’s I know what you intend to mean, sir.”

“Does it make you happy to be out doors?”

“Oh, sure. I’m an out-door boy, all right.”

“Well, Mrs. Vernon, in her desire to benefit humanity—You understand me, James?”

“Oh, I get the words all right. I don’t rightly see your drift.”

“What I want to say is, that Mrs. Vernon wishes to make Minerva love out doors as well as you do, and she is going to teach her some of the things that a country-bred man like you knows by heart. How to tell an oak from a maple at twilight.”

“Oh, that kind has been here before. The Wheelocks, that had this house last year, went out in the woods with these here glasses and they brought things up close with them. They never cared for nature unless they had their glasses.”

“James, I’m afraid it is apt to degenerate into something like that, but—James, if I tell you something, will you respect my confidence?”

“Will you please say that in different words?”

I thought a moment while I chose simpler words.

“Will you say nothing to Minerva, if I tell you something?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Well, this concert and these nature lessons are solely for the purpose of keeping Minerva’s mind off herself and the city. She wants to go back to New York, and we want her to stay here all summer, and—”

I explained it all to him, and the fellow seemed to enter right into the spirit of the thing, and assured me that he would do all he could to help.

“Where do you live?”

“Down in the valley a bit. When shall I show up in the morning?”

“The earlier, the better. I want you and Minerva to begin to practise for the concert right away. Do you sing by note.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, have you any book of negro melodies.”

“No, sir. Wouldn’t do me much good, sir, as I can’t read music.”

“Oh, I thought you said you sang by note.”

“Yes, sir. Note by note, right along. I have a good ear, but I can’t read music.”

“Very well, James. Come in the morning prepared to sing note by note, by ear, anything you can remember. Do you know ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot?’”

“Indeed I do. Oh, I know all the jubilee songs, and all the rag-time songs, and I guess we can fill up a couple of hours singin’ in the old Congregational Church.”

He chuckled.

“What is it, James?”

“Why, I was thinkin’ that here the white folks sing down there every Sunday in the church, and if I care to go an’ hear them it don’t cost me a cent, but if Minerva and me sing there in that same church, the white folk’ll have to pay money to hear us. ‘Tain’t gen’elly that way.”