The Last.
We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy’s deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the “sick man” miscarried.
That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features.
“Sooz’n,” he said, “de white folk is past my compre’nshin altogidder, an’ I ha’n’t got words to tell you how t’ankful I am dat you an’ me was born black.”
“Das true, Quash. We’s got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?”
“What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt’ing went wrong. Look here, dis was de way ob it. When me an’ Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure ’nuff, an’ you may b’liebe he look ’stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn’t half so ’stonished as me at de way dey hoed on. What d’ee t’ink dey dooed, Sooz’n?”
“Dun know. S’pose dey run into each oder’s arms, an’ hab a dance round—like me an’ you.”
“Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn’t hab bin suprised at dat at all. No, arter de fust look o’ suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an’ Miss Manuela looked orkerder!”
“It had bin in my mind,” continued Quashy, “arter I had bring ’em togidder, to turn about, an’ enter into conbersation wid my hoss—what’s pritty well used to my talk by dis time—but when I see how t’ings went, I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an’ saw’d.”
“You wasn’t innercent dat time, Quashy.”