________________________________________________
_ Before the beauty of Maria's high magnanimity Christopher had
felt himself thrust further into the abasement of his
self-contempt. Had she met his confession with reproach, with
righteous aversion, with the horror he had half expected, it is
possible that his heart might have recoiled into a last
expression of defiance. But there had been none of these things.
In his memory her face shone moonlike from its cloud of dark
hair, and he saw upon it only the look of a great and sorrowful
passion. His wretchedness had drawn her closer, not put her
further away, and he had felt the quiet of her tolerance not less
gratefully than he had felt the fervour of her love. Her
forgiveness had been of the grandeur of her own nature, and its
height and breadth had appealed, even apart from her emotion, to
a mind that was accustomed to dwell daily on long reaches of
unbroken space. He had been bred on large things from his
birth--large horizons, large stretches of field and sky, large
impulses, and large powers of hating, and he found now that a
woman's presence filled to overflowing the empty vastness of his
moods.
Reaching the yard, he saw Tucker sitting placidly on his bench,
and, crossing the long grass, he flung himself down beside him
with a sigh of pleasure in the beauty of the scene.
"You're right, Uncle Tucker; it's all wonderful. I never saw such
a sunset in my life."
"Ah, but you haven't seen it yet," said Tucker. "I've been
looking at it since it first caught that pile of clouds, and it
grows more splendid every instant. I'm not an overreligious body,
I reckon, and I've always held that the best compliment you can
pay God Almighty is to let Him go His own gait and quit advising
Him; but, I declare, as I sat here just now I couldn't help being
impertinent enough to pray that I might live to see another."
"Well, it's a first-rate one; that's so. It seems to shake a body
out of the muck, somehow."
"I shouldn't wonder if it did; and that's what I told two young
fools who were up here just now asking me to patch up their first
married quarrel. 'For heaven's sake, stop playing with mud and
sit down and watch that sunset,' I said to 'em, and if you'll
believe it, the girl actually dropped her jaws and replied she
had to hurry back to shell her beans while the light lasted.
Beans! Why, they'll make beans enough of their marriage, and so I
told 'em."
Tapping his crutch gently on the ground, he paused and sat
smiling broadly at the sunset.
For a time Christopher watched with him while the gold-
and-crimson glory flamed beyond the twisted boughs of the old
pine; then, turning his troubled face on Tucker's cheerful one,
he asked deliberately:
"Do you sometimes regret that you never married, Uncle Tucker?"
"Regret?" repeated Tucker softly. "Why, no. I haven't time for
it--there's too much else to think about. Regret is a dangerous
thing, my boy; you let a little one no bigger than a mustard seed
into your heart, and before you know it you've hatched out a
whole brood. Why, if I began to regret that, heaven knows where I
should stop. I'd regret my leg and arm next, the pictures I might
have painted, and the four years' war which we might have won.
No, no. I'd change nothing, I tell you--not a day; not an hour;
not a single sin nor a single virtue. They're all woven into the
pattern of the whole, and I reckon the Lord knew the figure He
had in mind."
"Well, I'd like to pull a thread or two out of it," returned
Christopher moodily, squinting his eyes at the approaching form
of Susan Spade, who came from the afterglow through the
whitewashed gate. "Why, what's bringing her, I wonder?" he asked
with evident displeasure.
To this inquiry Susan herself presently made answer as she walked
with her determined tread across the little yard.
"I've a bit of news for you, Mr. Christopher, an' I reckon you'd
ruther have it from my mouth than from Bill Fletcher's. His
back's up agin, the Lord knows why, an' he's gone an' moved his
pasture fence so as to take in yo' old field that lies beside it.
He swars it's his, too, but Tom's ready to match him with a
bigger oath that it's yours an' always has been."
"Of course it's mine," said Christopher coolly. "The meadow brook
marks the boundary, and the field is on this side. I can prove it
by Tom or Jacob Weatherby tomorrow."
"Well, he's took it " rejoined Mrs. Spade flatly.
"He won't keep it long, I reckon, ma'am," said Tucker, in his
pleasant manner; "and I must say it seems to me that Bill
Fletcher is straining at a gnat. Why, he has near two thousand
acres, hasn't he? And what under heaven does he want with that
old field the sheep have nibbled bare? There's no sense in it."
"It ain't sense, it's nature," returned Mrs. Spade, sitting
squarely down on the bench from which Christopher had risen; "an'
that's what I've had ag'in men folks from the start--thar's too
much natur in 'em. You kin skeer it out of a woman, an' you kin
beat it out of a dog, an' thar're times when you kin even spank
it out of a baby, but if you oust it from a man thar ain't
nothin' but skin an' bones left behind. An' natur's a ticklish
thing to handle without gloves, bless yo' soul, suh. It's like a
hive of bees: you give it a little poke to start it, an' the
first thing you know it's swarmin' all over both yo' hands. It's
a skeery thing, suh, an' Bill Fletcher's got his share of it,
sho's you're born."
"It has its way with him pretty thoroughly, I think," responded
Tucker, chuckling; "but if I were you, Christopher, I'd stick up
for my rights in that old field. Bill Fletcher may need exercise,
but there's no reason he should get it by trampling over you."
"Oh, I'll throw his fence down, never fear," answered Christopher
indifferently. "He knew it, I dare say, when he put it up."
"It's a fuss he wants, suh, an' nothing else," declared Mrs.
Spade, smoothing down the starched fold of her gingham apron;
"an' if he doesn't git it, po' creetur, he's goin' to be laid up
in bed befo' the week is out. He's bilin' hot inside, I can see
that in his face, an' if the steam don't work out one way it will
another. When a man ain't got a wife or child to nag at he's
mighty sho' to turn right round an' begin naggin' at his
neighbours, an' that's why it's the bounden duty of every decent
woman to marry an' save the peace. Why, if Tom hadn't had me to
worry on, I reckon he'd be the biggest blusterer in this county
or the next."
Leaving her still talking, Christopher went from her into the
house, where he lingered an instant with drawn breath before his
mother's door. The old lady was sleeping tranquilly, and,
treading softly in his heavy boots, he passed out to the friendly
faces of the horses and the cool dusk of the stable.
As the days went on, drawing gradually toward summer, Mrs.
Blake's life began peacefully to flicker out, like a candle that
has burned into the socket. There were hours when her mind was
quite clear, and at such times she would talk unceasingly in her
old sprightly fashion, with her animated gestures and her arch
and fascinating smile. But following these sanguine periods there
would come whole days when she lay unconscious and barely taking
breath, while her features grew sharp and wan under the pallid
skin.
It was when she had just passed through one of these states that
Lila came out on a Sunday afternoon to find Christopher at the
woodpile, and told him, with a burst of tears, that she thought
the end had come.
"She's quite herself and wants us all," she said, sobbing. "And
she's even asked for the house servants, every one--for Phyllis,
and Tobias, and so many of them who have been away for years.
It's just as if she knew that she was dying and wanted to say
good-by."
Throwing the axe hurriedly aside, Christopher followed her into
the house, and then entering the old lady's room, stopped short
beside the threshold in a grief that was not unmixed with wonder.
The sunshine fell straight through the window on the high white
pillows, and among them Mrs. Blake was sitting rigidly, her blind
eyes sparkling with the last fitful return of her intelligence.
She was speaking, as he entered, in a natural and lively tone,
which brought back to him his earliest memories of her engaging
brightness.
"Are the servants all there, Cynthia? Then let them come and
stand inside the door--a few at a time."
"They are here, mother," replied Cynthia, choking; and
Christopher, glancing round, saw several decrepit Negroes leaning
against the wall--Uncle Boaz, Docia (pressing her weak heart),
and blear-eyed Aunt Polly, already in her dotage.
"I wish to tell you good-by while my mind is clear," pursued the
old lady in her high, sweet voice. "You have been good servants
to me for a long time, and I hope you will live many years to
serve my children as faithfully. Always remember, Christopher--is
Christopher there?"
"I am here, dear mother."
"Always remember that a man's first duty is to his wife and
children, and his second to his slaves. The Lord has placed them
in your hands, and you must answer to Him how you fulfill the
trust. And now, Boaz--where is Boaz?"
"I'm yer, ole miss; I'm right yer."
"You may shake my hand, Boaz, for it is a long good-by. I've
always promised you your freedom, and I haven't forgotten it,
though you asked for it almost fifty years ago. You did something
that I praised you for--I can't quite remember what it was--and
when I asked you what you would like as a reward, you answered:
'Don't give me nothin' now, ole miss, but let the gift grow and
set me free when you come to die.' It is a long time, Boaz, fifty
years, but I give you your freedom now, as I promised, though it
is very foolish of you to want it, and I'm sure you'll find it
nothing but a burden and a trouble. Christopher, will you
remember that Boaz is free?"
Christopher crossed the room, and, catching her hands in his own,
sought to force her back upon the pillows, but with an effort
that showed in every tense line of her face she pushed him from
her and sat erect and unsupported.
"Let me dismiss them first," she said with her stately manner.
"Good-by, Phyllis and Polly--and--and--all the rest of you. You
may go now. I am a little tired, and I will lie down."
Cynthia put the weeping servants from the room, and, filling a
glass with brandy, held it with a shaking hand to her mother's
lips.
"Take this, dear, and lie down," she said.
Mrs. Blake sipped the brandy obediently, but as she felt her
strength revive from the strong spirit the animation reawoke in
her face, and, turning toward Christopher, she stretched out her
hand with an appealing gesture.
"There is so much to say and I haven't the space to say it in, my
son. There is so much advice I want to give you, but the time is
short."
"I understand, mother; I understand. Don't let it trouble you."
"I have had a fortunate life, my child," resumed the old lady,
waving him to silence with a gesture in which there was still a
feeble sprightliness, "and when one has lived happily far into
the seventies one learns a great deal of wisdom, and there is
much good advice that one ought to leave behind. You have been an
affectionate son to me, Christopher, and I have not yet given up
the hope that you may live to be a worthy husband to another
woman. If you do marry--and God grant that you may--remember that
the chief consideration should be family connection, and the next
personal attractiveness. Wealth counts for very little beside
good birth, and after this I regard a small foot and hand as most
essential. They have always been a mark of our breeding,
Christopher, and I should not like the family to lose through you
one of its most distinguished characteristics."
"It is not likely I shall marry, mother. I was cut out for
different ends."
"One never knows, my son, and at least I am only doing my duty in
speaking to you thus. I am a very old woman, and I am not afraid
to die, for I have never to my knowledge done anything that was
unbecoming in a lady. Remember to be a gentleman, and you will
find that that embraces all morality and a good deal of
religion."
He kissed her hand, watching anxiously the mounting excitement in
her face.
"And if you do marry, Christopher," she went on, harping fitfully
on her favourite string, "remember that keeping in love is as
much the profession for a man as it is the art for a woman, and
that love feeds on little delicacies rather than on meat and
drink. Don't forget the little things, dear, and the big ones
will take care of themselves. I have seen much of men and manners
in my life, and they have taught me that it is the small
failings, not the big faults, which are deadliest to love. Why,
I've seen a romantic passion survive shame, and treachery, and
even blows, and another wither out of existence before the first
touch of bad breeding. 'A man's table manners are a part of his
morality,' your Great-grandfather Bolivar used to say."
She laughed softly while her hand played with the white fringe on
the counterpane.
"I can recall now the sympathy I felt for Matty Gordon," she
pursued, "a great belle and beauty who ran off and married that
scamp, Aleck Douglas. He turned into a perfect rascal, they said,
though I must admit that he made a very amiable husband, and
never stinted her, even if he stole from other people. Well, she
stuck to him through good and evil report, and was really from
all appearances a most contented woman. When he died at last,
people said that it was just in time to escape the penitentiary,
but to see Matty you would have thought she had lost nothing
short of pure perfection. Poor old Bishop Deane, who always would
speak his mind, in the pulpit or out of it, went to call on her,
he told me, and took occasion to reprove her for such excessive
grief over so unworthy an object. 'He was not an upright man,
Matty, and you know it,' he began quite boldly; 'he was a
libertine, and a gambler, and an open scoffer at religion.' But
Matty went on sobbing harder than ever, and at last, getting
angry, he said sternly: 'And more than this, ma'am, he was, as
you know, a faithless and disloyal husband!' Then the poor girl
drew out a pocket handkerchief with a three-inch black border and
mopped her pretty blue eyes. 'Ah, but, Bishop, I had so much to
be thankful for!' she said. 'He never chewed tobacco!' Well,
well, she may have been a fool, as the Bishop insisted, but he
was a man, in spite of his cloth, and could never learn to
understand a woman's sensibilities."
She finished, and, turning, touched him gently on the hand.
"It is the little things that count in marriage, Christopher,"
and after a moment she added thoughtfully: "Promise me that you
will always use an ash-tray."
"Anything, dear mother; I promise anything."
With a contented sigh she closed her eyes, and, still holding his
hand, fell into a broken and troubled sleep, from which she awoke
presently in a gentle delirium. Her lost youth had returned to
her, and with it something of her old gaiety of manner. Suddenly
he felt a strange thrill pass through her, and raising herself
with a last great endeavour, she sat erect, staring into the blue
sky that showed through the window.
"I am engaged for this set, sir," she said in her winning voice,
while a girlish smile transfigured her wan face, "but if it
pleases you, you may put your name down for the next."
Rising, he bent quickly over her, but before he touched her she
had fallen back upon the pillows and lay with her arch smile
frozen upon her face. _
Read next: Book V - The Ancient Law: Chapter V. Christopher Plants by Moonlight
Read previous: Book V - The Ancient Law: Chapter III. Will's Ruin
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