“I’s feared,” said the old man, sententiously, “I’s mighty feared. I wouldn’t have Mastah know we been doin’ fu’ him an’ a-sendin’ him dese presents all dis time fu’ nuffin’ in de worl’. It ’u’d hu’t him mighty bad.”
“He ain’t foun’ out all dese yeahs, an’ he ain’t gwine fin’ out now.” The old man shook his head dubiously, and ate the rest of his meal in silence.
It was a beautiful Christmas morning as he wended his way across the lawn to his old master’s room, bearing the tray of breakfast things and “ol’ Miss Randolph’s present,”—a heavy home-made scarf. The air was full of frosty brightness. Ike was happy, for the frost had turned the persimmons. The ’possums had gorged themselves, and he had one of the fattest of them for his Christmas dinner. Colonel Estridge was sitting in his old place by the window. He crumbled an old yellow envelope in his hand as Ike came in and set the things down. It looked like the letter which had brought the news of young Robert Estridge’s loss, but it could not be, for the old man sitting there had forgotten that and was expecting the son home on that day.
Ike took the comforter to his master, and began in the old way: “Miss Cla’iny Randolph mek huh comperments to you, Mas’ Bob, an’ say—” But his master had turned and was looking him square in the face, and something in the look checked his flow of words. Colonel Estridge did not extend his hand to take the gift. “Clarinda Randolph,” he said, “always sends me gloves.” His tone was not angry, but it was cold and sorrowful. “Lay it down,” he went on more kindly and pointing to the comforter, “and you may go now. I will get whatever I want from the table.” Ike did not dare to demur. He slipped away, embarrassed and distressed.
“Wha’ ’d I tell you?” he asked Lize, as soon as he reached the cabin. “I believe he done woke up.” But the old woman could only mourn and wring her hands.
“Well, nevah min’,” said Ike, after his first moment of sad triumph was over. “I guess it wasn’t the comfo’t nohow, ’ca’se I seed him wif a letteh when I went in, but I didn’t ’spicion nuffin’ tell he look at me an’ talk jes’ ez sensible ez me er you.”
It was not until dinner-time that Ike found courage to go back to his master’s room, and then he did not find him sitting in his accustomed place, nor was he on the porch or in the hall.
Growing alarmed, the old servant searched high and low for him, until he came to the door of a long-disused room. A bundle of keys hung from the keyhole.
“Hyeah’s whah he got dat letteh,” said Ike. “I reckon he come to put it back.” But even as he spoke, his eyes bulged with apprehension. He opened the door farther, and went in. And there at last his search was ended. Colonel Estridge was on his knees before an old oak chest. On the floor about him were scattered pair on pair of home-knit gloves. He was very still. His head had fallen forward on the edge of the chest. Ike went up to him and touched his shoulder. There was no motion in response. The black man lifted his master’s head. The face was pale and cold and lifeless. In the stiffening hand was clenched a pair of gloves,—the last Miss Randolph had ever really knit for him. The servant lifted up the lifeless form, and laid it upon the bed. When Lize came she would have wept and made loud lamentations, but Ike checked her. “Keep still,” he said. “Pray if you want to, but don’t hollah. We ought to be proud, Lize.” His shoulders were thrown back and his head was up. “Mas’ Bob’s in glory. Dis is Virginia’s Christmas gif’ to Gawd!”