“Oh, easy. My ole man had been sent two or free times wid a pass f’om ole mist’ess, to sell a silber goblet or tankard, or sumfin, to a silbersmiff wot she knowed in Wichmon’, an’ de silbersmiff knowed my ole man was her faifful, trus’ful sarvan’, an’ he was used to dealin’ long ob him, an’ so po’ ole Moses had no trubble. He nebber telled me; but, Lor’! I could see frough it all. He used to take a night, an’ go an’ get a silber teapot or sumfin out’n de hole in de woods, an’ den he’d take a day an’ yide to Wichmon’ in de steam keers, an’ sell de fing, woteber it mought be, to dat silbersmiff wot knowed him, an’ knowed ole mist’ess; and I don’t b’liebe dat silbersmiff nebber fought dat ole mist’ess nebber sent dat silber to be sol’, like she had sent de odder. An’ so we kep’ de ole madam in comfo’t, wid de bes’ ob tea an’ coffee an’ w’ite sugar an’ pote wine an’ F’ench b’andy, an’ eberyt’ing she wan’ to eat an’ d’ink.”
“Then that is the secret which Moses on his deathbed told my mother?”
“Yes, young marster, dat must ’a’ been it, ’caze dere wan’ nuffin else fo’ to tell. ’Sides w’ich, I knowed it prayed on to his po’ ole min’, ’caze he use to talk in his sleep ’bout it. Dat ’firmed me in my ’spicions. An’, young marse, de ole madam ain’t been herse’f—not jes’ her own se’f, ebber since.”
“Poor mother! Poor lady! But you said she was happy now. How comes that? And how comes it, also, that she is at Lone Lodge on a visit?”
“She ain’t dere on a wisit, young marse. She is dere at home, perminicy, an’ dat wot it is make her so happy.”
“What! What is this you tell me? That my mother, my proud, high-spirited mother, stoops to be dependent on the Wynthrops for a home? And is even happy in such dependence?” exclaimed Harcourt, in humiliated and indignant amazement.
“Now, youg marse, sah, doane yo’ go off at sich a tanger! Let me ’xplain. De ole madam kep’ on griebin’ an’ griebin’ ’bout dat disg’ace, as she call it, till she got yight down weak an’ low——”
“Poor lady! poor lady!” murmured Harcourt in a low tone.
“An’ so it went on ’til one night dere comed up de awfulles’ win’ storm as ebber yo’ saw in all de days ob yo’ life! An’ yo’d fink de hills yere would ’a’ ’tected us, but dey didn’ much, ’caze dat win’ swurl in at de low en’ ob de walley an’ up to de high en’, fo’ all de worl’ like de draft ob one of dem stobes dey Wyn’ops got up at de big house. We didn’t go to bed dat night, an’ well we didn’, de ole madam an’ me, fo’ in de middle ob de night de win’ come whurlin’ up de walley an’ twissed de ruff yight off de top ob de cabin an’ whurled it up to de odder en’ ob de walley, an’ hev it down. An’ we was unruffed in de middle ob de night.”
Harcourt shuddered.