It was not until the afternoon, however, when he had tossed his farewell handful of rice at the departing carriage and met Maria's last disturbed look at the Hall, that he found time to carry Will's request and Fletcher's check to Christopher Blake.
The girl had shown her single trace of emotion over the boy's pillow, where she had shed a few furtive tears, and the thought of this was with Carraway as he walked meditatively along the red clay road, down the long curves of which he saw the carriage rolling leisurely ahead of him.As a bride, Maria puzzled him no less than she had done at their first meeting, and the riddle of her personality he felt to be still hopelessly unsolved.Was it merely repression of manner that annoyed him in her he questioned, or was it, as he had once believed, the simple lack of emotional power? Her studied speech, her conventional courtesy, seemed to confirm the first impression she had made;then her dark, troubled gaze and the sullen droop of her mouth returned to give the lie to what he could but feel to be a possible misjudgment.In the end, he concluded wisely enough that, like the most of us, she was probably but plastic matter for the mark of circumstance--that her development would be, after all, according to the events she was called upon to face.
The possibility that Destiny, which is temperament, should have already selected her as one of those who come into their spiritual heritage only through defeat, did not enter into the half-humorous consideration with which he now regarded her.
Turning presently into the sunken road by the ice-pond, he came in a little while to the overgrown fence surrounding the Blake farm.In the tobacco field beyond the garden he saw Christopher's blue-clad figure rising from a blur of green, and, following the ragged path amid the yarrow, he joined the young man where he stood at work.
As the lawyer reached his side Christopher glanced up indifferently to give a nod of welcome.His crop had all been cut, and be was now engaged in hanging the wilting plants from long rails supported by forked poles.At his feet there were little green piles of tobacco, and around him from the sunbaked earth rose a headless army of bruised and bleeding stubble.
So thriftless were the antiquated methods he followed that the lawyer, as he watched him, could barely repress a smile.Two hundred years ago the same crop was probably raised, cut and cured on the same soil in the same careless and primitive fashion.Beneath all the seeming indifference to success or failure Carraway discerned something of that blind reliance upon chance which is apt to be the religious expression of a rural and isolated people.
"Yes, I'll leave it out awhile, I reckon, unless the weather changes," replied Christopher, in answer to the lawyer's inquiry.
"Well, it promises fair enough," returned Carraway pleasantly.
"They tell me, by the way, that the yellow, sun-cured leaf is coming into favour in the market.You don't try that, eh?"Christopher shook his head, and, kneeling on the ground, carelessly sorted his pile of plants."I learned to cure it indoors," he answered, and I reckon I'll keep to the old way.The dark leaf is what the people about here like--it makes the sweeter chew, they think.As for me, I hate the very smell of it." "That's odd, and I'll wager you're the only man in the county who neither smokes nor chews." "Oh, I handle it, you see.
The smell and the stain of it are well soaked in.I sometimes wonder if all the water in the river of Jordan could wash away the blood of the tobacco worm." With a laugh in which there was more bitterness than mirth, he stretched out his big bronzed hands, and Carraway saw that the nails and finger-tips were dyed bright green."It does leave its mark," observed the lawyer, and felt instantly that the speech was inane.Christopher went on quietly with his work, gathering up the plants and hanging the slit stalks over the long poles, while the peculiar heavy odour of the freshly cut crop floated unpleasantly about them.For a time Carraway watched him in silence, his eyes dwelling soberly upon the stalwart figure.In spite of himself, the mere beauty of outline touched him with a feeling of sadness, and when he spoke at last it was in a lowered tone."You have, perhaps, surmised that my call is not entirely one of pleasure," he began awkwardly; "that I am, above all, the bearer of a message from Mr.Fletcher." "From Fletcher?" repeated Christopher coolly.
"Well, I never heard a message of his yet that wasn't better left undelivered." "I am sure I am correct in saying," Carraway went on steadily and not without definite purpose, "that he hopes you will be generous enough to let bygones be bygones." Christopher nodded."He feels, of course," pursued the lawyer, "that his obligation to you is greater than he can hope to repay.Indeed, Ithink if you knew the true state of the case your judgment of him would be softened.The boy--who so nearly lost his life is the one human being whom Fletcher loves better than himself--better than his own soul, I had almost said."Christopher looked up attentively."Who'd have thought it," he muttered beneath his breath.Judging that he had at last made a beginning at the plastering over of old scars, Carraway went on as if the other had not spoken."So jealous is his affection in this instance, that I believe his granddaughter's marriage is something of a relief to him.He is positively impatient of any influence over the boy except his own--and that, I fear, is hardly for good." Picking up a clod of earth, Christopher crumbled it slowly to dust."So the little chap comes in for all this, does he?" he asked, as his gaze swept over the wide fields in the distance."He comes in for all that is mine by right, and Fletcher's intention is, I dare say, that he'll reflect honour upon the theft?" "That he'll reflect honour upon the name--yes.
