Part 36 (1/2)
”No,” she said, and went slowly towards the veranda; then she turned and looked at him questionably, and with an interest seldom shown for anyone.
”You--you heard news from Larue plantation?” she asked, hesitatingly.
”Who, me? No, I aint had no news. I aint”--then he stopped and stared at her, slowly comprehending what news _might_ come from there. ”Fo'
G.o.d's sake, tell me! My Zekal; my--”
She lifted her finger for silence and caught his arm.
”They hear you--they will,” she said, warningly, ”come in here.”
She opened the door into the library and he followed; she could feel his hand tremble, and his eyes were pleading and full of terror. The light chatter and laughter in the dining room followed them.
”Sick?” and his eyes searched her face for reply, but she slowly shook her head and he caught his breath in a sob, as he whispered: ”Daid! My baby, oh--”
”Sh-h! He's alive--your boy. It's worse than that, maybe--and they never let you know! Mr. Larue had gone down to Mexico, and the overseer has published all his slaves to be sold--all sold, and your child--your little boy--”
”G.o.d A'mighty!”
He was silent after that half-whispered e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. His face was covered with his hands, while the woman stood regarding him, a world of pity in her eyes.
”They can't sell Zekal,” he said, at last, looking up. ”Mahs Larue tole me plain he give me chance. I got some o' the money, that eighteen dollah I paid on Rosa's freedom--that gwine be counted in--then I got most nine dollah 'sides that yet, an' I gwine Mahs Jean Larue an' go down my knees fo' that boy, I will! He only pickaninny, my Zekal, an' I promise Rosa 'fore she died our boy gwine be free; so I gwine Mahs Larue, I--”
Margeret shook her head.
”He's gone, I tell you--gone to Mexico, more miles away than you could count; sold to the sugar plantation and left the colored folks for lawyer and overseer to sell. They all to be sold--a sale bill came to Loringwood yesterday. Men like overseers and lawyers never take account of one little pickaninny among a hundred. One same as another to them--one same as another!”
Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, rocking from side to side, overcome by memories of what had been. Pluto looked at her and realized from his own misery what hers had been. Again the laughter and tinkle of tea things drifted in to them; some one was telling a story, and then the laughter came more clearly. Pluto listened, and his face grew hard, brutish in its sullen hate.
”And they can laugh,” he muttered, sullenly, ”while my baby--my Rosa's baby--is sold to the traders, sold away where I nevah can find him again; sold while the white folks laugh an' make merry,” and he raised his hand above his head in a fury of suppressed rage. ”A curse on every one of them! a curse--”
Margeret caught his arm with a command to silence.
”Hus.h.!.+ You got a kind master--a kind mistress. The people who laugh at that table are not to blame on account of Rosa's master, who holds your child.”
”You stand up fo' the race that took yo' chile from yo?” he demanded, fiercely. ”That held yo' a slave when yo' was promised freedom? That drove yo' wild fo' years with misery? The man is in that room who did all that, an' yo' stan' up fo' him along of the rest?”
He paused, glowering down at her as if she, too, were white enough to hate. When she spoke it was very quietly, almost reprovingly.
”My child died. What good was freedom to me without her? Where in all this wide world would I go with my freedom if I had it? Free and alone? No,” and she shook her head sadly, ”I would be like a child lost from home--helpless. The young folks laughing there never hurt me--never hurt you.”
The people were leaving the dining room. Captain Masterson, who had time for but a brief call, was walking along the veranda in low converse with the Judge. Judithe had separated herself from the rest and walked through the sitting room into the library, when she halted, surprised at those two facing each other with the air of arrested combat or argument. She recovered her usual manner enough to glance at the clock, and as her eyes crossed Margeret's face she saw traces of tears there.
”It is time, almost, for the mail up from Pocotaligo today, is it not, Pluto?” she said, moving towards a book-case. Receiving no reply, she stopped and looked at him, at which he recovered himself enough to mutter, ”Yes, mist'ess,” and turned towards the door, his trembling tones and the half-groping movement as he put his hand out before him showed he was laboring under some emotion too intense for concealment, and involuntarily she made a gesture of command.
”Wait! You have grief--some sad misfortune?” and she glanced from his face to that of Margeret, questioningly. ”Poor fellow--is it a death?”
”No death, and nothing to trouble a white lady with,” he said, without turning, and with hopeless bitterness in his voice; ”not fit to be told 'long side o' white folks merry-maken', only--only Rosa, my boy's mother, died yeah ago ovah on Larue plantation, an' now the chile hisself--my Rosa's baby--gwine to be sold away--gwine to be sold to the traders!”
His voice broke in a sob; all the bitterness was drowned in the wave of grief under which his shoulders heaved, and his broken breaths made the only sound in the room, as Judithe turned questioningly to Margeret, who bent her head in confirmation of his statement.