And so on, and on, sketching the history of the rings she wore, with a curious felicity in throwing an interest about trifles. I dined with her that day for the first time: a meagre repast, served on the family plate. But her wines were exquisite, and dealt with an unsparing hand. I left her that evening, as I supposed forever,—looking back at the bent figure in the massive doorway, and thinking her the loneliest human being I had ever seen. One of her morbid fancies was to intensify that very solitude,—the negro-quarters being at some distance from the house, and after she was undressed at night everything living was banished thence out of her sight. Out of that long life she had not brought the love of even a dog to bear her company in the last hour.
When I parted with Matthew Steadman, I said nothing to him of what I had tried to do. I saw his eye grew brighter, and he laughed and joked as at first.
"I told you I had a plan, and I find it will answer."
"Well, Matt?"
"Joe Carver is an old friend of ours,—Captain of the Belle Louise, you know, runnin' to Orleans. He begun by pilotin', an' has gone up as they do on these boats. He'll take me on as fireman, and for pay give mother her passage down. Once there, I'll turn an honest penny."
"By carpentering?"
"Yes, I find one always clears the ground faster by keepin' in the same road. Abe won't go with us. He thinks luck's comin' soon, and he'll wait for it. That Luck has been a ghost in the house. I for one will breathe freer to be clear of it."
"And Jane?"
His face showed that I had touched a sore chord.
"Jane will go out as seamstress somewhere. If ever the good day dawns, I'll come back for her. But my first care is mother."