The Bishop and the Boogerman Part 5

"Ya.s.ser!" cried Lucindy; "he's tellin' you de naked trufe! You reckin I'd let my chile see ol' Tuttle? Well, not me! Maybe somebody else'd do it, but not me! not ol' Lucindy! Don't you never b'lieve dat."

"You say you can read and write?" said old Jonas to the Boogerman.

"Well, come into the house here, and black my shoes. Then, after that you may preach me a sermon."

"Yes!" exclaimed Adelaide, "Cally-Lou is awake now; I saw her at the window; come in, Boogerman, and let her see you. She is seven years old, and has never seen the Boogerman."

"First, let Lucindy give you something to eat," said old Jonas, "but don't fail to come in and black my shoes!"

Old Jonas, Bishop Sanders, and Adelaide went into the house, while the Boogerman went into the kitchen with his mother, where, seated by the window, and as far away from the fireplace as ever, he told the tale of his adventures--a tale which we are not concerned with here. Mr. Sanders and old Jonas were soon absorbed in a game of checkers, but they were not so completely lost in their surroundings that they failed to pay heed to Adelaide as she went from room to room calling Cally-Lou.

Presently she seemed to find her in the parlour.

"You are pouting," she said, "or you'd never be sitting in this room where n.o.body ever comes. Why, they don't have any fires in here, and nothing to eat. Nunky-Punky says if the sun was to shine in here, the carpet would curl up and get singed. You don't know what it is to be singed, do you? Well, it's the way Mammy Lucindy does the chicken after all the feathers are picked off. She kindles the fire until it blazes, and then holds the chicken in it until all its whiskers are burnt off.

You didn't know chickens had whiskers, did you? Well, they have. You'll never find out anything if you mope in the house and pout like this. I didn't know any child could be so hard-headed."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'You are pouting,' she said, 'or you'd never be sitting in this room where n.o.body ever comes'"]

Old Jonas reached out his hand to make a move, and held it suspended in the air while Adelaide was talking to Cally-Lou. "Sanders," he said, after awhile, "do you suppose the child really thinks she's talking to some one. Can she see Cally-Lou?"

"Why not?" replied Mr. Sanders placidly. "Folks ain't half as smart when they grow up as they is when they're little children. They shet the'r eyes to one whole side of life. Kin you fling your mind back to the time when your heart was soft, an' your eyes sharp enough for to see what grown people never seed? Tell me that, Jonas."

Old Jonas paused over a contemplated move, hesitated and sighed. "Did you ever have little things happen to you," Mr. Sanders went on, frowning a little, "that you never told to anybody? Did you ever dream dreams when you was young that kinder rattled you for the longest, they was so purty and true?"

"I think you have me beat, Sanders," responded old Jonas; and no one ever knew whether he referred to the game, or to the dreams.

"You think so, maybe, but it's more; I'm a-gwine to make two more moves and wipe you off the face of the earth!" And it happened just as Mr.

Sanders said it would; two more moves, and he captured four men, and swept into the royal line where they crown kings. Old Jonas frowned and pushed the men into the box where they were kept, with "I can't play to-day, Sanders; my mind isn't on the game."

"Well," said Mr. Sanders, "that's diffunt an' I don't blame you much, for ef that little gal was loose in my house, what games I played would be with her."

"Sanders," said old Jonas, with some asperity, "you don't mean to say that a little bit of a child like that would worry you!"

"Worry me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with as scornful a look as he could on his bland and benevolent face. "Worry me! why, what on earth do you suppose I'm a-doin' in this house?"

"I thought you came to play checkers with me," old Jonas responded.

"Well," Mr. Sanders retorted, "ef you'd put your thoughts in a bag and shake 'em up, an' then pour 'em out, you couldn't tell 'em from these flyin' ants that was swarmin' from under your front steps awhile ago.

No, Jonas! Don't le' me shatter any fond dream you've got about me, but sence Nan Dorrin'ton come into the state of Georgy by the Santy Claus route, this little gal is the only human bein' that I ever wanted to pick up an' smother wi' huggin' an' kissin'."

"Is that so, Sanders?" old Jonas inquired, straightening up, with a queer sparkle in his little eyes. "Why, I never thought----"

"Tooby sh.o.r.e you didn't," Mr. Sanders interrupted. "n.o.body ever thought that you had any sech thoughts. Ef it was a crime to think 'em, an' you was to git took up on sech a charge, the case'd be non-prosecuted by the time it got in the courthouse. When it comes to that you've got the majority of folks wi' you. You'll hear 'em talk an' brag how fond they are of children, from morning tell night, but jest let one of the youngsters make a big fuss, an' you'll see 'em flinch like the'r feelin's is hurt. No Jonas, don't fool yourself. This world, an' not only this world, but this town is full of children so lonesome that when I think about it I feel right damp; an' thar's times when I set an'

think of these little things runnin' about wi' not a soul on top of the yeth for to reely understand 'em, my heart gits so full that ef some un was to slip up behind me an' put salt on my back, I reely believe I'd melt an' turn to water like one of these gyarden snails. It's the honest fact. Now, that child in thar--Adelaide--has allers had some un to understand her an' know what she was thinkin' about; allers tell she come here. Ef I hadn't know'd her mother, I could tell jest by lookin'

at Adelaide an' hearin' her talk, that she was one 'oman amongst ten thousan'."

"You put me in the wrong, Sanders, indeed you do; you may not intend it, but you certainly do me wrong."

Mr. Sanders regarded him with unfeigned astonishment: "Why, what have I said, Jonas? Think it over! Is it doin' you wrong for me to say that more than nine-tenths of the little children in the world is lonesome?

Does it hurt you when I say that Cordelia, your sister, was a 'oman among ten thousand? If these sayin's hurt you, Jonas, you must have a mortal tender conscience or a mighty thin skin. I've allers had the idee that you ain't a bit wuss than you look to be; do you want me to change my mind? Was thar ever under the blue sky a lonesomer gal than Cordelia, or one easier to love? Did you love her as you ought? Did you treat her right ever' day in the year? Did she ever have a good time of your makin'? An' in spite of it, didn't she keep on gittin' nicer and nicer, an' purtier an' purtier, tell bimeby, along come a young feller--as good a man as ever trod shoe leather--an' s.n.a.t.c.hed her right from under your wing? An' didn't William H. Sanders, late of said county, show the young fellow how, an' when, an' whar to s.n.a.t.c.h her?"

"Did--did you do that, Sanders? Well, I'm glad I didn't know it at the time, for I am afraid I'd have shot you."

"Shot me!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, his blue eyes beaming innocently.

"Well, I've seed a good many quare things in my day an' time, but I've yit to see the gun that could go off ahead of mine--not when thar was any needcessity. You say you'd 'a' shot me; an' what did I do? I holp Cordelia to the fust an' last taste of happiness she ever had in this world. Did you ever do that much for her? You give her her vittles an'

cloze--sech as they was--but do plain vittles an' plain cloze make anybody happy? Ef they do, then this old ball we 're walkin' on--when we ain't fallin' down--must be runnin' over wi' happiness. Why, Jonas, you wouldn't let the gal have no kind of company, male or female; she couldn't go out, bekaze she had n.o.body for to take her; one little picnic was all the gwine out she done arter she fell in your hands. I tuck her to that an' I never was as glad of anything in my life as I was when she an' d.i.c.k Lumsden made up the'r little misunderstandin' that you had been the occasion of, an' had connived at, an' nursed like it was a baby.

"Well, they run away an' got married, an' went to housekeepin' not forty yards from your door--an' you seen 'em ever' day of the world, an' yit you done like you didn't know they was in town. An' wuss 'n that," Mr.

Sanders continued, his anger rising as he stirred the embers of recollection--"wuss'n that, you never spoke a word to Cordelia from that day tell the day she died--an' she your own sister! It's a mighty good thing that Lumsden was well off while the war lasted. When it ended, he was as poor as I was. He had land, but who kin eat land? Thar wa'n't but one reely rich man in the community, Jonas, an' that man was you.

You had bought up all the gold for a hundred mile aroun', but not so much as a thrip did Cordelia ever git out'n you.

"What I'm a-tellin' you, Jonas, you know as well as I do; but I jest want to let you know that we-all ain't been asleep all this time.

Lumsden got a good job in Atlanta, an' took his wife an' baby thar. Him an' his wife was so well suited to one another that when one died, the other thought the best thing she could do was to go an' jine him. Both on 'em know'd mighty well that the Lord would look arter the little gal.

Oh, I know what you want to say: you want to tell me that you was afear'd Lumsden would turn out to be no 'count, bekaze he was wild when a boy--an' would have his fling now an' then; but that don't go wi' me, Jonas. You know what he turned out to be; you know what Cordelia had to go through; you know that one kind word from you would 'a' been wuth more to her than all the money you've got in the world; an' yit, your pride, or your venom--you kin name it an' keep it--hender'd you from makin' that poor child as happy as she mought 'a' been. An' I'll tell you, Jonas, jest as sh.o.r.e as the Lord lives an' the sun shines on a troubled world, you'll have to pay for it."

Several times during this remarkable tirade--remarkable because it was delivered with some vehemence, right in old Jonas's teeth--he made an effort to interrupt Mr. Sanders, but the latter had put him down with a gesture that a novel writer would call imperious. Imperious or not, it gave pause to whatever old Jonas had to say in his own behalf; and it must have all been true, too, for the old fellow finally turned away, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and pretended to be looking at something interesting that he saw from the window. Mr. Sanders, when he had concluded, was surprised to find that old Jonas seemed to be more hurt than angry; and he would have gone into the parlour where Adelaide was still playing with Cally-Lou, but old Jonas turned around and faced him.

"You've said a great many things, Sanders, that n.o.body else would have said, and I gather that you consider me to be a pretty mean fellow; but did it ever occur to you that perhaps I'm not as mean as I seem to be?

Did it ever occur to you that a man could be so shy and suspicious that he was compelled to close his mind against what you call love and affection; and, that, with his mind thus closed, he could cease to believe in such things? I don't suppose you follow me; but it's the simple truth. That child in there won't be put to bed at night until she kisses me good-night, and, even then she wont go until I kiss her. Think of that, Sanders! No matter what you and other people may think, the child doesn't believe that I am a mean man."

"I could tell you, Jonas, that Adelaide ain't old enough for to tell a mean man ef she met him in the road. But I'll not do that, bekaze I know mighty well that you ain't as mean as you try to make out. Thar never was a man on this green globe that didn't have a tender spot in his gizzard for them that know'd jest when an' whar to tetch it. Ef I took you at your face value, Jonas, not only would I never put my foot in your house, but I wouldn't speak to you on the street. I tell you that flat an' plain."

The conversation of the two men had been carried on in a tone something louder than was absolutely necessary, especially on the part of Mr.

Sanders. Indeed, finical folk would have said that the rosy-faced Georgian was actually rude; but he had found an opportunity to deliver himself of a burden that had long been a weight on his mind, and he did it in no uncertain terms. He fully expected either to find himself in the midst of a row, or to be ordered from old Jonas's house, and he had prepared himself for both emergencies. But instead of offending the lonely old money-lender, he had merely set him to thinking; and his thoughts were not very pleasant ones. He heard every word that Mr.

Sanders said, and it was true, but even as he listened, the whole panorama of his past life moved before him, and he could see himself in a narrow perspective, living his cheerless childhood, his almost friendless youth, and his lonely manhood. In those days, long gone, he had had his dreams, even as now Adelaide had hers, but their existence was brief, and their date inconsiderable. He pitied the child, the youth, and the young man, but strange to say, he had no pity for the grown man to whom Mr. Sanders was reading one of his cornfield lectures.

He knew that what he was, was the direct outgrowth and development of all that had gone before.

His sister had never understood him, and was afraid of him. He, silent and self-contained, never sought her confidence nor gave her his. A word from her, a word from him, would have made clear everything that was dark, or doubtful, or suspicious in their att.i.tude toward each other. He thought that her silence spelled contempt of a certain kind, and she was sure that she had his hearty dislike. And so it went, as such matters do in this world where no one save a chosen few see more than an inch beyond their noses.

I could fetch Adelaide on the scene just by waving my hand, but there is no need to, for the tone in which Mr. Sanders pitched his lecture was quite sufficient. Her quick, firm steps sounded on the floor with such emphasis, that any one acquainted with the lady would have known that she was indignant. But her careful training told even here, for composure held her irritation in check, and her refinement showed in her att.i.tude and gestures, giving her small person a cuteness and prettiness quite out of the common.

"Why, good gracious me, Bishop! You don't know how many noises you're making. How can Cally-Lou sleep in the house? She sleeps a good deal lately, and I'm afraid she'll be sick, poor little thing, if she wakes up quicker than she ought."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, in a loud and an excited whisper. "Now, don't tell me that Cally-Lou has gone and drapped off to sleep ag'in!

Why, at this rate, she'll turn night into day, an' vicy-versy, an' Time, old an' settled as he is, will git turned wrong-sud-out'erds, an'

ever'thing'll git so tangled up that you can't tell howdy from good-bye, ner ef the clock's tickin' backerds or forrerds; we'll git so turned around that we can't tell gra.s.shoppers from turkey-buzzards. I'm reely sorry she didn't see you shoot the Boogerman, be jigger'd ef I ain't.

The sight of that would 'a' made her open her eyes wider than they've been sence I fust know'd her."

In reply to this, Adelaide said she was afraid Cally-Lou wasn't very well. "Won't you come in and see her, Bishop? The truly-ann Bishop used to come to see my mother before they sent her where my papa was--the place where people get well when they're sick. Yes! and he used to bring things in his pocket--all sorts of goodies--gum-drops and candy kisses, and he said that if I ate them, all by myself, he wouldn't be hoa.r.s.e in his throat any more when he had to holler loud at the sinners to keep them from goin' to the Bad Place; and once when I ate a whole heap of them at once, he cleared his throat, the truly-ann Bishop did, and said he was almost cured."

"I'll sh.o.r.ely try that trick ef it'll he'p me for to be a truly-ann Bishop, bekaze I've been so hoa.r.s.e lately that I can't see my own voice in the lookin'-gla.s.s, no matter how I holler. Nothin' shows up in the gla.s.s but a little muddly mist, an' I have to wipe that off wi' my red silk han'kcher. Speakin' of Cally-Lou, when had I oughter pay my party call?"

"She doesn't like for anybody to see her because she isn't right white,"

Adelaide explained, "but she's asleep now, and you might come in to see her now if you'll walk easy."

Talk about burglars! Talk about thieves in the night! Talk about wild animals with padded feet creeping and stealing on their prey! All of them could have taken lessons in their craftiness from Adelaide and Mr.

Sanders. Yes, and for a brief moment or two from old Jonas, for he joined the creeping procession, impelled by some mysterious motive. They stole into the darkened parlour, Adelaide in advance, and paused when she waved her hand. Then she pointed to the darkest corner.

Mr. Sanders will tell you to this day that he thought he saw something dim and dark huddled there--some wavering shape that had no outlines; but just at the critical moment, just when they were all about to see Cally-Lou, what should old Jonas do but stumble against a chair, as he craned his neck forward? Well, of course, with such awkwardness as this on the part of a man old enough to be Adelaide's grandfather, their scheme was ruined. Cally-Lou heard the noise, opened her eyes, and fled from the room so nimbly and with such dispatch that none of them could see her. Even Adelaide only caught the faintest glimpse of her as she whisked out of the room, and all she could say, was, "Did you ever see any one so foolish?" Then she ran after Cally-Lou, pursuing her into the sitting-room and then into the library, where she seemed to have caught her, for the others heard her upbraiding and scolding her in the style approved by all parents who are strict disciplinarians.