“What?”
“W’y, ’fo’ she were ready to come back, my po’ ole man—po’ Moses—tak’ sick; he did, my po’ ole man did; an’ w’en he t’ought he was goin’ to die he got a letter writ to ole mist’ess to come home, ’caze he had somefin mighty pa’tickler to ’fess to her ’fo’ he went. Yo’ heerd all ’bout my po’ ole man goin’ to glory, o’ coorse, young marster?”
“No,” Harcourt replied, with a twinge of compunction, for he had forgotten even to inquire after faithful old Moses, although he might have missed him from the cabin. “I am very sorry to hear of your loss, Martha; very sorry indeed.”
“An’ yo’ nebber year ’bout it ’fo’, young marse?”
“Never.”
“Now, see dat, now. W’ere yo’ been all dis time, not to year ’bout it, young marse? But dere, I know yo’ been off to collidge, ’way f’om eberybody, ’cept ’twas books an’ sich. An’ nobody to yite to yo’, ’cept ’twas ole mist’ess, an’ she not capable of yitin’ eber since my po’ ole man die. So ’ow could she tell yo’?”
“Stop!” exclaimed Harcourt, again alarmed and mystified. “Just now you said that your mistress was well. Now you say that she was incapable of writing to me. How is this?”
“Young marse, she is as well—de ole madam is—as any ageable ole lady ob her time ob life can be in body healf; but she can’t settle down her min’ on to yitin’; no, she can’t—de ole madam can’t. But she’s well—well an’ likewise happy; happier now ’an’ she hab been since de ole marse fell in battle—de ole madam is. Yes, sah!”
“Happier! Thank heaven! But how and why should she be happier, or happy at all—the poor mother?” inquired Harcourt, more and more bewildered.
“Now, young marse, if yo’ will hab patience, an’ let me tell yo’ a straight story, I’ll tell it, an’ no lie; but doane yo’ jump or ’xclaim, or yo’ll be sure to put me out.”