FullReads

Peter glanced through the hedge-rows furtively, this way and that. What would his mistress say to the cabins that were scattered all about the fields now, and that were no longer put together in the long lines of the quarters? He looked down a deserted lane, where he well remembered fifty cabins on each side of the way. It was gay there of a summer evening; the old times had not been without their pleasures, and the poor old man’s heart leaped with the vague delight of his memories. He had never been on the block; he was born and bred at old Sydenham; he had been trusted in house and field.

“I done like dem ole times de best,” ventures Peter, presently, to his unresponding companion. “Dere was good ’bout dem times. I say I like de ole times good as any. Young folks may be a change f’om me.”

He was growing gray in the face with apprehension; he did not dare to disobey.

The slow-footed beast of burden was carrying them toward Sydenham step by step, and he dreaded the moment of arrival. He was like a mesmerized creature, who can only obey the force of a directing will; but under pretense of handling the steer’s harness, he got stiffly to the ground to look at his mistress. He could not turn to face her, as he sat in the cart; he could not drive any longer and feel her there behind him. The silence was too great. It was a relief to see her placid face, and to see even a more youthful look in its worn lines. She had been a very beautiful woman in her young days. And a solemn awe fell upon Peter’s tender heart, lest the veil might be lifting from her hidden past, and there, alone with him on the old plantation, she would die of grief and pain. God only knew what might happen! The old man mounted to his seat, and again they plodded on.

“Peter,” said the mistress,–he was always frightened when she spoke,–“Peter, we must hurry. I was late in starting. I have a great deal to do. Urge the horses.”

“Yas, mis’,–yas, mis’,” and Peter laughed aloud nervously, and brandished his sassafras switch, while the steer hastened a little. They had come almost to the gates.

“Who are these?” the stately wayfarer asked once, as they met some persons who gazed at them in astonishment.

“I ‘spect dem de good ladies f’om de Norf, what come down to show de cullud folks how to do readin’,” answered Peter bravely. “It do look kind o’ comfo’ble over here,” he added wistfully, half to himself. He could not understand even now how oblivious she was of the great changes on St. Helena’s.

There were curious eyes watching from the fields, and here by the roadside an aged black woman came to her cabin door.

“Lord!” exclaimed Peter, “what kin I do now? An’ ole Sibyl, she’s done crazy too, and dey’ll be mischievous together.”

The steer could not be hurried past, and Sibyl came and leaned against the wheel. “Mornin’, mistis,” said Sibyl, “an’ yo’ too, Peter. How’s all? Day ob judgment’s comin’ in mornin’! Some nice buttermilk? I done git rich; t’at’s my cow,” and she pointed to the field and chuckled. Peter felt as if his brain were turning. “Bless de Lord, I no more slave,” said old Sibyl, looking up with impudent scrutiny at her old mistress’s impassive face. “Yo’ know Mars’ Middleton, what yo’ buy me f’om? He my foster-brother; we push away from same breast. He got trouble, po’ gen’elman; he sorry to sell Sibyl; he give me silver dollar dat day, an’ feel bad. ‘Neber min’, I say. I get good mistis, young mistis at Sydenham. I like her well, I did so. I pick my two hunderd poun’ all days, an’ I ain’t whipped. Too bad sold me, po’ Mars’ Middleton, but he in trouble. He done come see me last plantin’,” Sibyl went on proudly. “Oh, Gord, he grown ole and poor-lookin’. He come in, just in dat do’, an’ he say, ‘Sibyl, I long an’ long to see you, an’ now I see you;’ an’ he kiss an’ kiss me. An’ dere’s one wide ribber o’ Jordan, an’ we’ll soon be dere, black an’ white. I was right glad I see ole Mars’ Middleton ‘fore I die.”