His contrivances were numberless. In a corner of what he called the “back gyarden” he constructed an enclosure for chickens. He bought two or three young fowls, and by marvels of management founded a family with them. The family once founded, he made exchanges with friendly coloured matrons of the vicinity, with such results in breeding that “Uncle Matt’s” chickens became celebrated fowls. He displayed the same gifts in the management of the garden. In a few months after his arrival, Rupert began to find himself sitting down before the kind of meal he had not expected to contemplate again.
“Uncle Matt,” he said, “where do I get fried chicken and vegetables like these—and honey and fresh butter and cream? I don’t pay for them.”
“Yes, you do, sah. Yo’ property pays for ’em. Dat ’ar gyarden, sah, is black with richness—jest black. It’s a forchen for a pusson what kin contrive an’ make fren’s, an’ trade, an’ kin flourish a spade. Dar’s fruit-trees an’ grape-vines dar—an’ room enuf to plant anything—an’ richness enuf to make peas an’ taters an’ beets an’ cabbages jest jump out o’ de yarth. I’ve took de liberty of makin’ a truck patch, an’ I’ve got me a chicken coop, an’ I’ve had mighty good luck with my aigs an’ my truck—an’ I’ve got things to trade with the women folks for what I ain’t got. De ladies likes tradin’, an’ dey’s mighty neighbourly about yeah, ’memberin’ yo’ fambly, sah.”
Rupert leaned back in his chair and broke into a hearty, boyish laugh, which it was very good both to see and hear. He very seldom laughed.
“I wish I was a genius like you, Matt,” he said. “What luck I’m in to have you. Raising chickens and vegetables, and negotiating with your lady friends for me! I feel like a caliph with a grand vizier. I never tasted such chicken or such waffles in my life!”
“I’m settin’ some tukkey-eggs now—under de yaller hen,” said Matt, with a slyly exultant grin. “She’s a good mother, the yaller hen; an’ de way dem fruit-trees is gwine ter be loaded is a sight. Aunt Mary Field, she’s tradin’ with me a’ready agin fruit puttin’-up time.”
Rupert got up from his chair. He caught old Matt’s dusky, yellow-palmed paw in his hand and shook it hard. His gloomy young face had changed its aspect, his eyes suddenly looked like his mother’s—and Delia Vanuxem had been said to have the loveliest soft eyes in all the South.
“Matt,” he said, “I couldn’t do without you. It isn’t only that,” with a gesture towards the table, “you—it’s almost as if you had come to save me.”
“Ole nigger man like me, Marse Rupert,” said Uncle Matt, “savin’ of a fine young gentleman like what you is! How’s I gwine ter do it?” But his wrinkled face looked tremulous with emotion. “Times is gwine ter change for you, they is, an’ Matt’s gwine ter stay by yer till dat come to pass. Marse Rupert,” looking at him curiously, “I ’clar to Gawd you look like yo’ young mammy did. Yo’ ain’t always, but jes’ dish yer minnit yo’ does—an’ yer did jes’ now when yer laf’.”
“Do I look like her?” said Rupert. “I’m glad of it. I want to be like her. Say, Uncle Matt, whenever I look or speak or act like her, you tell me.”