“Yes, bring her in here,” Carson said, with a cautious glance around, and he and Helen and Keith moved along the walk while Linda suffered herself, more like an automaton than a human being, to be half dragged, half led up the steps and into the parlor. Keith, who had vaguely put her in the category of the physically ill, placed an easy-chair for her, but from force of habit, while in the presence of her superiors, the old woman refused to sit. She and Lewis stood side by side while Carson carefully closed the door and came back.
“We've got some very, very good news for you, Mam' Linda,” said he; “but you must not speak of it to a soul. Linda, the men who took Pete from jail did not kill him. He is still alive and safe, so far, from harm.”
To the surprise of them all, Linda only stared blankly at the tremulous speaker. It was her husband who, full of fire and new-found happiness, now leaned over her. “Didn't you hear young marster?” he gulped; “didn't you hear 'im say we-all's boy was erlive?—erlive, honey?”
With an arm of iron Linda pushed him back and stood before Carson.
“You come tell me dat?” she cried, her great breast tumultuously heaving. “Young marster, 'fo' God I done had enough. Don't tell me dat now, en den come say it's er big mistake after you find out de trufe.”
“Pete's all right, Linda,” Carson said, reassuringly. “Keith and Helen will tell you about it.”
With an appealing look in her eyes Linda extended a detaining hand towards him, but he had gone to the door and was cautiously looking out, his attention being drawn to the sound of footsteps in the hall. It was two negro maids just entering the house, having left half a dozen other negroes on the walk in front. Going out into the hall, Carson commanded the maids and the loiterers to go away, and the astonished blacks, with many a curious, backward glance, made haste to do his bidding. A heavy frown was on his face and he shrugged his broad shoulders as he took his place on the veranda to guard the parlor door. “It's a ticklish business,” he mused; “if we are not very careful these negroes will drop on to the truth in no time.”
He had dismissed the idlers in the nick of time, for there was a sudden, joyous scream from Linda, a chorus of warning voices. The full import of the good news was only just breaking upon the stunned consciousness of the old sufferer. Screams and sobs, mingled with hysterical laughter, fell upon Carson's ears, through all of which rang the persistent drone of Keith Gordon's manly voice in gentle admonition. The door of the parlor opened and old Lewis came forth, his black face streaming with tears. Going to Carson he attempted to speak, but, unable to utter a word, he grasped the young man's hand, and pressing it to his lips he staggered away. A few minutes later Keith came out doggedly trying to divest his boyish features of a certain glorified expression that had settled on them.
“Good God!” he smiled grimly, as he fished a cigar from the pocket of his waistcoat, “I'm glad that's over. It struck her like a tornado. I'm glad I'm not in your shoes. She'll literally fall on your neck. Good Lord! I've heard people say negroes haven't any gratitude—Linda's burning up with it. You are her God, old man. She knows what you did, and she knows, too, that we opposed you to the last minute.”
“You told her, of course,” Carson said, reprovingly.