"Well, it seems that every thriftless nigger in the county thinks he's got a claim upon you, sho' enough," put in Tom Spade."It warn't mo'n last week that I had a letter from the grandson of yo' pa's old blacksmith Buck, sayin' he was to hang in Philadelphia for somebody's murder, an' that I must tell Marse Christopher to come an' git him off.Thar's a good six hunnard of 'em, black an' yaller an' it's God A'mighty or Marse Christopher to 'em every one.""What is it now?" asked Christopher a little wearily, taking off his hat and running his hand through his thick, fair hair."If anybody's been stealing chickens they've got to take the consequences.""Oh, it's not chicken stealin' this time; it's a blamed sight worse.They want you to send somebody over to Uncle Isam's--you remember his little cabin, five miles off in Alorse's woods--to help him bury his children who have died of smallpox.There are four of 'em dead, it seems, an' the rest are all down with the disease.Thar's not a morsel of food in the house, an' not a livin' nigger will go nigh 'em.""Uncle Isam!" repeated Christopher, as if trying to recall the name."Why, I haven't laid eyes upon the man for years.""Very likely; but he's sent you a message by a boy who was gathering pine knots at the foot of his hill.He was to tell Marse Christopher that he had had nothing to eat for two whole days an' his children were unburied.Then the boy got scared an'
scampered off, an' that was all."
Christopher's laugh sounded rather brutal.
"So he used to belong to us, did he?" he inquired.
"He was yo' pa's own coachman.I recollect him plain as day,"answered Tom."I warn't 'mo'n a child then, an' he used to flick his whip at my bare legs whenever he passed me in the road.""Well, what is to be done?" asked Christopher, turning suddenly upon him.
"The Lord He knows, suh.Thar's not a nigger as will go nigh him, an' I'm not blamin' 'em; not I.Jim's filled his cart with food, an' he's goin' to dump the things out at the foot of the hill;then maybe Uncle Isam can crawl down an' drag 'em back.His wife's down with it, too, they say.She was workin' here not mo'n six months ago, but she left her place of a sudden an' went back again."Christopher glanced carelessly at the little cart waiting in the road, and then throwing off his coat tossed it on the seat.
"I'll trouble you to lend me your overalls, Tom," he said, "and you can send a boy up to the house and get mine in exchange.Put what medicines you have in the cart; I'll take them over to the old fool.""Good Lord!" said Tom, and mechanically got out of his blue jean clothes.
"Now don't be a downright ass, Christopher," put in Jim Weatherby."You've got your mother on your hands, you know, and what under heaven have you to do with Uncle Isam? I knew some foolishness would most likely come of it if they sent up for you.""Oh, he used to belong to us, you see," explained Christopher carelessly.
"And he's been an ungrateful, thriftless free Negro for nearly thirty years--""That's just it--for not quite thirty years.Look here, if you'll drive me over in the cart and leave the things at the foot of the hill I'll be obliged to you.I'll probably have to stay out a couple of weeks--until there's no danger of my bringing back the disease--so I'll wear Tom's overalls and leave my clothes somewhere in the woods.Oh, I'll take care, of course; I'm no fool.""You're surer of that than I am," returned Jim, thinking of Lila.
"I can't help feeling that there's some truth in father's saying that a man can't be a hero without being a bit of a fool as well.
For God's sake, don't, Christopher.You have no right--""No, I have no right," repeated Christopher, as he got into the cart and took up the hanging reins.A sudden animation had leaped into his face and his eyes were shining.It was the old love of a "risk for the sake of the risk" which to Tucker had always seemed to lack the moral elements of true courage, and the careless gaiety with which he spoke robbed the situation of its underlying somber horror.
Jim swung himself angrily upon the seat and touched the horse lightly with the whip."And there's your mother sitting at home--and Cynthia--and Lila," he said.
Christopher turned on him a face in whose expression he found a mystery that he could not solve.
"I can't help it, Jim, to save my life I can't," he answered."It isn't anything heroic; you know that as well as I.I don't care a straw for Uncle Isam and his children, but if I didn't go up there and bury those dead darkies I'd never have a moment's peace.I've been everything but a skulking coward, and I can't turn out to be that at the end.It's the way I'm made.""Well, I dare say we're made different," responded Jim rather dryly, for it was his wedding day and he was going farther from his bride."But for my part, I can't help thinking of that poor blind old lady, and how helpless they all are.Yes, we're made different.I reckon that's what it means."The cart jogged on slowly through the fading sunshine, and when at last it came to the foot of the hill where Uncle Isam lived Christopher got out and shouldered a bag of meal.
"You'll run the place, I know, and look after mother while I'm away," he said.
"Oh, I suppose I'll have to," returned Jim; and then his ill-humour vanished and he smiled and held out his hand."Good-by, old man.God bless you," he said heartily.
Sitting there in the road, he watched Christopher pass out of sight under the green leaves, stooping slightly beneath the bag of meal and whistling a merry scrap of an old song.At the instant it came to Jim with the force of a blow that this was the first cheerful sound he had heard from him for weeks; and, still pondering, he turned the horse's head and drove slowly home to his own happiness.
CHAPTER II.The Measure of Maria When, two weeks later, Christopher reached home again, he was met by Tucker's gentle banter and Lila's look of passionate reproach.
"Oh, dear, you might have died!" breathed the girl with a shudder.
Christopher laughed.
