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.”

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