The old lady's humour melted at his words, and she hastened to offer proof of her contrition."You're perfectly right, brother,"she said; "and I know I'm an ungrateful creature, so you needn't take the trouble to tell me.As long as you do me the honour to live beneath my roof, you shall eat the whole hog or none to your heart's content."Then, as Docia, a large black woman, with brass hoops in her ears, appeared to bear away the supper tray, Mrs.Blake folded her hands and settled herself for a nap upon her cushions, while the yellow cat purred blissfully on her knees.
Beyond the adjoining bedroom, through which Christopher passed, a rude plank platform led to a long, unceiled room which served as kitchen and dining-room in one.Here a cheerful blaze made merry about an ancient crane, on which a coffeeboiler swung slowly back and forth with a bubbling noise.In the red firelight a plain pine table was spread with a scant supper of cornbread and bacon and a cracked Wedgewood pitcher filled with buttermilk.There was no silver; the china consisted of some odd, broken pieces of old willow-ware; and beyond a bunch of damask roses stuck in a quaint glass vase, there was no visible attempt to lighten the effect of extreme poverty.An aged Negress, in a dress of linsey-woolsey which resembled a patchwork quilt, was pouring hot, thin coffee into a row of cups with chipped or missing saucers.
Cynthia was already at the table, and when Christopher came in she served him with an anxious haste like that of a stricken mother.To Tucker and herself the coarse fare was unbearable even after the custom of fifteen years, and time had not lessened the surprise with which they watched the young man's healthful enjoyment of his food.Even Lila, whose glowing face in its nimbus of curls lent an almost festive air to her end of the white pine board, ate with a heartiness which Cynthia, with her outgrown standard for her sex, could not but find a trifle vulgar.The elder sister had been born to a different heritage --to one of restricted views and mincing manners for a woman--and, despite herself, she could but drift aimlessly on the widening current of the times.
"Christopher, will you have some coffee--it is stronger now?" she asked presently, reaching for his emptied cup.
"Dis yer stuff ain' no cawfy," grumbled Aunt Pony, taking the boiler from the crane; "hit ain' nuttin' but dishwater, I don'
cyar who done made hit." Then, as the door opened to admit Uncle Isam with a bucket from the spring, she divided her scorn equally between him and the coffee-pot.
"You needn't be a-castin' er you nets into dese yer pains," she observed cynically.
Uncle Isam, a dried old Negro of seventy years, shambled in patiently and placed the bucket carefully upon the stones, to be shrilly scolded by Aunt Polly for spilling a few drops on the floor."I reckon you is steddyin' ter outdo Marse Noah," she remarked with scorn.
"Howdy, Marse Christopher? Howdy, Marse Tuck?" Uncle Isam inquired politely, as he seated himself in a low chair on the hearth and dropped his clasped hands between his open knees.
Christopher nodded carelessly."Glad to see you, Isam," Tucker cordially responded."Times have changed since you used to live over here.""Days so, suh, dot's so.Times dey's done change, but Iain't--I'se des de same.Dat's de tribble wid dis yer worl'; w'en hit change yo' fortune hit don' look ter changin' yo' skin es well.""That's true; but you're doing all right, I hope?""I dunno, Marse Tuck," replied Uncle Isam, coughing as a sudden spurt of smoke issued from the old stone chimney."I dunno 'bout dat.Times dey's right peart, but I ain't.De vittles dey's ready ter do dar tu'n, but de belly, hit ain't.""What--are you sick?" asked Cynthia, with interest, rising from the table.
Uncle Isam sighed."I'se got a tur'able peskey feelin', Miss Cynthy, days de gospel trufe," he returned."I dunno whur hit's de lungs er de liver, but one un um done got moughty sassy ter de yuther 'en he done flung de reins right loose.Hit looks pow'ful like dey wuz gwine ter run twel dey bofe drap down daid, so Idone come all dis way atter a dose er dem bitters ole miss use ter gin us befo' de wah.""Well, I never!" said Cynthia, laughing."I believe he means the brown bitters mother used to make for chills and fever.I'm very sorry, Uncle Isam, but we haven't any.We don't keep it any longer."Leaning over his gnarled palms, the old man shook his head in sober reverie.
"Dar ain' nuttin' like dem bitters in dese yer days," he reflected sadly, "'caze de smell er dem use ter mos' knock you flat 'fo' you done taste 'em, en all de way ter de belly dey use ter keep a-wukin' fur dey livin'.Lawd! Lawd! I'se done bought de biggest bottle er sto' stuff in de sto', en hit slid right spang down 'fo' I got a grip er de taste er hit.""I'll tell you how to mix it, " said Cynthia sympathetically.
"It's very easy; I know Aunt Eve can brew it.""Go 'way, Miss Cynthy; huccome you don' know better'n dat? Dar ain' no Eve.She's done gone.""Gone! Is she dead?"
"Naw'm, she aint daid dat I knows--she's des gone.
Hit all come along er dem highfalutin' notions days struttin'
roun' dese days 'bout prancin' up de chu'ch aisle en bein' mah'ed by de preacher, stedder des totin' all yo' belongin's f'om one cabin ter anurr, en roas'in' yo' ash-cake in de same pile er ashes.You see, me en Eve we hed done 'sperunce mah'age gwine n fifty years, but we ain' nuver 'sperunce de ceremony twel las'
watermillion time."
"Why, Uncle Isam, did she leave you because of that? Here, draw up to the table and eat your supper, while I get down the age-book and find your birth."She reached for a dusty account book on one of the kitchen shelves, and, bringing it to the table, began slowly turning the yellowed leaves.For more than two hundred years the births of all the Blake slaves had been entered in the big volume.
