"You des wait, Miss Cynthy, you des wait twel I git dar,"remonstrated Uncle Isam, as he stirred his coffee."I ain' got no use fur dese yer newfangle fashions, dot's wat I tell de chillun w'en dey begin a-pesterin' me ter mah'y Eve--I ain' got no use fur dem no way hit's put--I ain' got no use fur dis yer struttin'
up de aisle bus'ness, ner fur dis yer w'arin' er sto'-made shoes, ner fur dis yer leavin' er de hyar unwropped, needer.Hit looks pisonous tickly ter me, days wat I sez, but w'en dey keep up dey naggin' day in en day out, en I carn' git shunt er um, I hop right up en put on my Sunday bes' en go 'long wid 'em ter de chu'ch--me en Eve bofe a-mincin' des like peacocks.'You des pay de preacher,' days wat I tell 'em, 'en I'se gwine do all de mah'yin' days ter be done'; en w'en de preacher done got thoo wid me en Eve, I stood right up in de chu'ch an axed ef dey wus any udder nigger 'ooman es 'ud like ter do a little mah'yin'? 'Hit's es easy ter mah'y a dozen es ter mah'y one,' I holler out.""Oh, Uncle Isam! No wonder Aunt Eve was angry.Here we are--'Isam, son of Docia, born August 12, 18--.""Lawd, Miss Cynthy, 'twan' me dat mek Eve mad--twuz de preacher, 'caze atter we got back ter de cabin en eat de watermillion ter de rin', she up en tied her bonnet on tight es a chestnut burr en made right fur de do'.De preacher done tote 'er, she sez, dat Eve 'uz in subjection ter her husban', en she'd let 'im see she warn' gwine be subjected unner no man, she warn't.'Fo' de Lawd, Miss Cynthy, dat ar Eve sutney wuz a high-sperited 'ooman!""But, Uncle Isam, it was so silly.Why, she'd been married to you already for a lifetime.""Dat's so, Miss Cynthy, dat's so, 'caze 'twuz dem ar wuds dat rile 'er mos'.She 'low she done been in subjection fur gwine on fifty years widout knowin' hit."He finished his coffee at a gulp and leaned back in his chair.
"En now des fem me hyear how ole I is," he wound up sorrowfully.
"The twelfth of August, 18-- (that's the date of your birth), makes you--let me see--you'll be seventy years old next summer.
There, now, since you've found out what you wanted, you'd better spend the night with Uncle Boaz.""Thanky, ma'am, but I mus' be gwine back agin," responded Uncle Isam, shuffling to his feet, "en ef you don' min', Marse Christopher, I'd like a wud wid you outside de do'."Laughing, Christopher rose from his chair and, with a patriarchal dignity of manner, followed the old man into the moonlight.
CHAPTER VI.Carraway Plays Courtier At twelve o'clock the next day, Carraway, walking in the June brightness along the road to the Blake cottage, came suddenly, at the bend of the old icepond, upon Maria Fletcher returning from a morning ride.The glow of summer was in her eyes, and though her face was still pale, she seemed to him a different creature from the grave, repressed girl of the night before.He noticed at once that she sat her horse superbly, and in her long black habit all the sinuous lines of her figure moved in rhythm with the rapid pace.
As she neared him, and apparently before she had noticed his approach, he saw her draw rein quickly, and, screened by the overhanging boughs of a blossoming chestnut, send her glance like a hooded falcon across the neighbouring field.Following the aim of her look, he saw Christopher Blake walking idly among the heavy furrows, watching, with the interest of a born agriculturist, the busy transplanting of Fletcher's crop.He still wore his jean clothes, which, hanging loosely upon his impressive figure, blended harmoniously with the dull-purple tones of the upturned soil.Beyond him there was a background of distant wood, still young in leaf, and his bared head, with the strong, sunburned line of his profile, stood out as distinctly as a portrait done in early Roman gold.
That Maria had seen in him some higher possibility than that of a field labourer was soon evident to Carraway, for her horse was still standing on the slight incline, and as he reached her side she turned with a frank question on her lips.
"Is that one of the labourers--the young giant by the fence?""Well, I dare say he labours, if that's what you mean.He's young Blake, you know.""Young Blake?" She bent her brows, and it was clear that the name suggested only a trivial recollection to her mind."There used to be some Blake children in the old overseer's house--is this one of them.""Possibly; they live in the overseer's house."She leaned over, fastening her heavy gauntlet."They wouldn't play with me, I remember; I couldn't understand why.Once Icarried my dolls over to their yard, and the boy set a pack of hounds on me.I screamed so that an old Negro ran out and drove them off, and all the time the boy stood by, laughing and calling me names.Is that he, do you think?""I dare say.It sounds like him."
"Is he so cruel?" she asked a little wistfully.
"I don't know about that--but he doesn't like your people.Your grandfather had some trouble with him a long time ago.""And he wanted to punish me?--how cowardly.""It does sound rather savage, but it isn't an ordinary case, you know.He's the kind of person to curse 'root and branch,' from all I hear, in the good old Biblical fashion.""Oh, well, he's certainly very large, isn't he?""He's superb," said Carraway, with conviction.
"At a distance--so is that great pine over there," she lifted her whip and pointed across the field; then as Carraway made no answer, she smiled slightly and rode rapidly toward the Hall.
