Part 23 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXII

RODNEY'S SACRIFICE AND HIS MOTHER'S

One midsummer day Rodney Allison walked along the dusty road. He did not carry his head erect as usual but seemed to be pondering over some problem.

He was a ”strapping,” fine looking lad, almost a man grown, and in experience already a man. He stopped before a little gate opening into a pasture and gave three shrill whistles. Over the top of a ridge two pointed ears appeared, poised for an instant, and then their owner galloped into view.

”What a beauty you are, Nat,” said the boy, as if talking to himself, stretching out his hand to stroke the silky nose that was thrust over the fence.

The two standing together formed a picture to afford delight so long as the eye shall admire grace, breeding and power. The boy's figure was erect, his wavy hair hanging gracefully to his broad shoulders.

His face, while not handsome, was clear cut, resolute and showed lines of character not usually graven in the face of one as young. His dark gray eyes always looked at one steadily. Now they were darker than usual and had in them the shadow of trouble.

”Nat, how would you like to change masters?”

The colt nuzzled the boy's face and then his pockets, in one of which he found the nubbin of corn he sought.

”You rascal, all you care about having is a good commissary. You won't miss me, will you? Oh, no! I'd thought we'd go to the war together. We would have something worth fighting for, a free country, where a man wouldn't need to have dukes for uncles in order to be of some consequence in the world. We would show 'em, you and I, that horses and boys raised in this country are as good as the best; but that can't be. You are too good a horse to drag the plow on this poor little farm. You shall have one of the greatest men in this great land for a master, while I will stay away from the war and both of us may save our precious skins and perhaps be British subjects in the end.”

Nat's purplish eyes seemed full of comprehension, as he mumbled the lad's hand with his lips.

”Horses seem to know more of some things than they really do, and know more of some other things than they seem to; how's that for horse sense, Nathaniel Bacon Allison?”

Nat blinked, but shed no tears. Rodney blinked and his eyes were wet.

The boy opened the gate and the colt followed him to the stable, where he was saddled and ridden to Monticello.

As Rodney left the manager of Mr. Jefferson's estate he said: ”I only ask that you say to Mr. Jefferson, I sell the colt with the understanding that I may buy him back if I ever get the money.”

”I'll do it, an' you won't need it in writin' so long as Mr. Jefferson lives.”

What a long, dusty, gloomy road was that over which the boy walked back to his home!

”What has become of Nat?” his mother asked, a few days later. ”I haven't seen him lately.”

”He was too valuable a horse for me to own and I sold him to Mr.

Jefferson. I can have the privilege of buying him back,” and Rodney turned away, afraid to trust himself to say more.

The crops that fall were successful and the neighbours told the boy he would surely make a good farmer. He worked early and late and grew strong; whereas his mother, watching him with sad eyes, became weaker.

When Mrs. Allison was absorbed in thought the old coloured woman would stand looking with anxious face at her mistress. One day she said, ”Missus, yo' jes' done git well. Dat's no mo'n doin' what's right by Ma.r.s.e Rodney, ah reckon.”

Mrs. Allison looked up into the kindly old face of the coloured woman, and a wan smile was on her lips as she replied, ”Mam, you are a woman of good sense, and, G.o.d willing, I will get well.” From that day she began to improve.

Angus being away, Rodney had little diversion.

His chief pastime now was target practice with the rifle. The old Indian had chosen wisely when he purchased the rifle, and the boy became very proficient in marksmans.h.i.+p. One day when he had made a fine shot he turned and found his mother and the two servants watching him.

”I hadn't an idea you were such a fine shot, Rodney,” said his mother.

”Scolding Squaw hasn't an equal in the whole county of Albemarle, mother.”