“I am very sorry for you, Martha—very sorry.”
“’Tain’t no use, young marster,” she said, as soon as she had recovered her voice amid subsiding sobs and tears. “’Tain’t a bit ob use! Me cryin’ nor yo’ bein’ sorry; not a bit ob use in dis worl’. ’Twon’t change nuffin as is past an’ gone. Dere, I’s done now,” she added, wiping her eyes with her checked apron. “An’ now I’ll tell yo’ wot I foun’ w’en I went in dat yoom.”
“Don’t hurry or distress yourself, Martha,” said Harcourt kindly.
“I mought’s well tell, an’ be done wiv it. Well, young marse, w’en I went inter dat yoom I foun’ ole mist’ess kneel in’ down on he flo’ by de side ob de bed, wiv her head bowed down on de quilt, an’—an’—an’ my po’ ole man—dead!”
Another wild burst of sobs and tears interrupted the narrative.
Harcourt could only repeat the words that rose sincerely from his heart:
“I am very, very sorry for you, poor, dear Martha.”
“Dere, I didn’t fink as I was gwine to ’ave so bad as dis. I didn’, fo’ a fac’. It ain’t no use, I know, but I can’t help ob it, young marse. I can’t, indeed,” she said.
“I know it, poor soul. Don’t try to tell me any more to-night,” said Harcourt.
“Oh, but I mus’. Young marse, it were de ole madam wat was moanin’. My po’ ole man—bress his heart!—were pas’ all dat. He were layin’ dere, peaceable as a sleepin’ baby. I heaved a prayer up to de Lord, an’ den I jus’ kiss my po’ ole man, I did, an’ den I took hol’ ob de mist’ess’ han’, I did, an’ she a-moanin’ low, an’ lif’ her up an’ sipport her wiv bofe arms, an’ lead her out inter her own yoom, an’ set her down in her own cha’, an’ she a-moanin’ an’ a-moanin’. I couldn’ speak, young marse; not den I couldn’.”