Part 17 (1/2)
Kitty blushed as she thought of George Denham. ”I send Blue Dave the victuals because I choose to, Uncle Manuel,” she said. ”The law has nothing to do with that little basket.”
She started to go, but Uncle Manuel raised both hands heavenwards.
”Wait, little Mistiss,” he cried, the tears running down his furrowed face; ”des wait, little Mistiss. 'Twou't hurt you, honey. De ole n.i.g.g.e.r wuz des gwine ter git down ter his pra'rs 'fo' you come in. Dey ain't no riper time dan dis.”
Uncle Manuel's voice was husky with suppressed emotion. With his hands still stretched toward the skies, and the tears still running down his face, he fell upon his knees and exclaimed--
”Saviour en Marster er de worl'! draw nigh dis night en look down into dis ole n.i.g.g.e.r's heart; lissen ter de humblest er de humble. Blessed Marster! some run wild eh some go stray, some go hether en some go yan'; but all un um mus' go befo' dy mercy-seat in de een'. Some'll fetch big works, en some'll fetch great deeds, but po' ole Manuel won't fetch nothiu' but one weak, sinful heart. Dear, blessed Marster! look in dat heart en see w'at in dar. De sin dat's dar, Lord, blot it out wid dy wounded han'. Dear Marster, bless my little Mistiss. Her comin's en her gwines is des like one er dy angels er mercy; she scatters bread en meat 'mongs' dem w'at's lonesome in der ways, en dem w'at runs up en down in de middle er big tribalation. Saviour! Marster! look down 'pon my little Mistiss; gedder her 'nead dy hev'mly wings. Ef trouble mus'
come, let it come 'pon me. I'm ole, but I'm tough; I'm ole, but I got de strenk. Lord! let de troubles en de trials come 'pon de ole n.i.g.g.e.r w'at kin stan' um, en save my little Mistiss fum sheddin' one tear. En den, at de las' fetch us all home ter hev'm, whar dey's res' fer de w'ary. Amen.”
Never in her life before had Kitty felt so thrilling a sense of nearness to her Creator as when Uncle Manuel was offering up his simple prayer; and she went out of the humble cabin weeping gently.
III.
THE four-mile run to the Denham Plantation was fun for Blue Dave. He was wet and cold, and the exercise acted as a lively invigorant. Once, as he sped along, he was challenged by the patrol; but he disappeared like a shadow, and came into the road again a mile away, singing to himself--
Run, n.i.g.g.e.r, run! patter-roller ketch you; Run, n.i.g.g.e.r, run! hit's almos' day!
He was well acquainted with the surroundings at the Denham Plantation, having been fed many a time by the well-cared-for negroes; and he had no hesitation in approaching the premises. The clouds had whirled themselves away, and the stars told him it was ten o'clock. There was a light in the sitting-room, and Blue Dave judged it best to go to the back door. He rapped gently, and then a little louder. Ordinarily the door would have been opened by the trim black housemaid; but to-night it was opened by George Denham's mother, a prim old lady of whom everybody stood greatly in awe without precisely knowing why. She looked out, and saw the gigantic negro looming up on the doorsteps.
”Do you bring news of my son?” she asked. The voice was low, but penetrating; and the calm, even tones told the story of a will too strong to tolerate opposition, or even contradiction.
Blue Dave hesitated out of sheer embarra.s.sment at finding such cool serenity where he had probably expected to find grief or some such excitement.
”Did you hear me speak?” the prim old lady asked, before the negro had time to gather his wits. ”Do you bring me news of my son?”
”Yessum,” said Blue Dave, scratching his head; ”dat w'at I come fer.
Mars. George gwine ter stay at de Kendrick Place ter-night. I speck he in bed by dis time,” he added, rea.s.suringly.
”His horse has come home without buggy or harness. Is my son hurt?
Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. What has happened to him?”
How could the poor negro--how could anybody--know what a whirlwind of yearning affection, dread, and anxiety was raging behind these cool, level tones?
”Mistiss, I tell you de trufe: Mars. George is sorter hurted, but he ain't hurted much. I met 'im in de road, en I tuck 'n' tole 'im dey wuz a freshet in Murder Creek; but he des laugh at me, en he driv' in des like dey wa'n't no water dar; en den w'en he make his disappearance, I tuck 'n' splunge in atter 'im, en none too soon, n'er, kaze he got strucken on de head wid a log, an w'en I fotch 'im out, he 'uz all dazzle up like. Yit he ain't hurted much, Mistiss.”
”What is your name?” the prim old lady asked.
”Blue Dave, ma'am.”
”The runaway?”
The negro hesitated, looked around, and then hung down his head. He knew the calm, fearless eyes of this gentlewoman were upon him; he felt the influence of her firm tones. She repeated her question--
”Are you Blue Dave, the runaway?”
”Yessum.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the lady. She turned and called Eliza, the housemaid.
”Eliza, your master's supper is in the dining-room by the fire. Here are the keys. Take it into the kitchen.” Then she turned to Blue Dave.