"No," she said, and went slowly towards the veranda; then she turned and looked at him questionably, and with an interest seldom shown for anyone.

"You--you heard news from Larue plantation?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"Who, me? No, I aint had no news. I aint"--then he stopped and stared at her, slowly comprehending what news _might_ come from there. "Fo'

G.o.d's sake, tell me! My Zekal; my--"

She lifted her finger for silence and caught his arm.

"They hear you--they will," she said, warningly, "come in here."

She opened the door into the library and he followed; she could feel his hand tremble, and his eyes were pleading and full of terror. The light chatter and laughter in the dining room followed them.

"Sick?" and his eyes searched her face for reply, but she slowly shook her head and he caught his breath in a sob, as he whispered: "Daid! My baby, oh--"

"Sh-h! He's alive--your boy. It's worse than that, maybe--and they never let you know! Mr. Larue had gone down to Mexico, and the overseer has published all his slaves to be sold--all sold, and your child--your little boy--"

"G.o.d A'mighty!"

He was silent after that half-whispered e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. His face was covered with his hands, while the woman stood regarding him, a world of pity in her eyes.

"They can't sell Zekal," he said, at last, looking up. "Mahs Larue tole me plain he give me chance. I got some o' the money, that eighteen dollah I paid on Rosa's freedom--that gwine be counted in--then I got most nine dollah 'sides that yet, an' I gwine Mahs Jean Larue an' go down my knees fo' that boy, I will! He only pickaninny, my Zekal, an' I promise Rosa 'fore she died our boy gwine be free; so I gwine Mahs Larue, I--"

Margeret shook her head.

"He's gone, I tell you--gone to Mexico, more miles away than you could count; sold to the sugar plantation and left the colored folks for lawyer and overseer to sell. They all to be sold--a sale bill came to Loringwood yesterday. Men like overseers and lawyers never take account of one little pickaninny among a hundred. One same as another to them--one same as another!"

Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, rocking from side to side, overcome by memories of what had been. Pluto looked at her and realized from his own misery what hers had been. Again the laughter and tinkle of tea things drifted in to them; some one was telling a story, and then the laughter came more clearly. Pluto listened, and his face grew hard, brutish in its sullen hate.

"And they can laugh," he muttered, sullenly, "while my baby--my Rosa's baby--is sold to the traders, sold away where I nevah can find him again; sold while the white folks laugh an' make merry," and he raised his hand above his head in a fury of suppressed rage. "A curse on every one of them! a curse--"

Margeret caught his arm with a command to silence.

"Hush! You got a kind master--a kind mistress. The people who laugh at that table are not to blame on account of Rosa's master, who holds your child."

"You stand up fo' the race that took yo' chile from yo?" he demanded, fiercely. "That held yo' a slave when yo' was promised freedom? That drove yo' wild fo' years with misery? The man is in that room who did all that, an' yo' stan' up fo' him along of the rest?"

He paused, glowering down at her as if she, too, were white enough to hate. When she spoke it was very quietly, almost reprovingly.

"My child died. What good was freedom to me without her? Where in all this wide world would I go with my freedom if I had it? Free and alone? No," and she shook her head sadly, "I would be like a child lost from home--helpless. The young folks laughing there never hurt me--never hurt you."

The people were leaving the dining room. Captain Masterson, who had time for but a brief call, was walking along the veranda in low converse with the Judge. Judithe had separated herself from the rest and walked through the sitting room into the library, when she halted, surprised at those two facing each other with the air of arrested combat or argument. She recovered her usual manner enough to glance at the clock, and as her eyes crossed Margeret's face she saw traces of tears there.

"It is time, almost, for the mail up from Pocotaligo today, is it not, Pluto?" she said, moving towards a book-case. Receiving no reply, she stopped and looked at him, at which he recovered himself enough to mutter, "Yes, mist'ess," and turned towards the door, his trembling tones and the half-groping movement as he put his hand out before him showed he was laboring under some emotion too intense for concealment, and involuntarily she made a gesture of command.

"Wait! You have grief--some sad misfortune?" and she glanced from his face to that of Margeret, questioningly. "Poor fellow--is it a death?"

"No death, and nothing to trouble a white lady with," he said, without turning, and with hopeless bitterness in his voice; "not fit to be told 'long side o' white folks merry-maken', only--only Rosa, my boy's mother, died yeah ago ovah on Larue plantation, an' now the chile hisself--my Rosa's baby--gwine to be sold away--gwine to be sold to the traders!"

His voice broke in a sob; all the bitterness was drowned in the wave of grief under which his shoulders heaved, and his broken breaths made the only sound in the room, as Judithe turned questioningly to Margeret, who bent her head in confirmation of his statement.

"But," and the questioner looked a trifle bewildered, "a little child, that would not mean a great expense, surely if your mistress, or your master, knew, they would help you."

Margeret shook her head, and Pluto spoke more calmly.

"Not likely; this war done crippled all the folks in money; that why Mahs Jean Larue sell out an' go ovah in Mexico; that why Loren'wood up fo' sale to strangers; that why Judge Clarkson done sell out his share in cotton plantation up the river; ain't _n.o.body_ got hundreds these days, an' lawyers won't take promises. I done paid eighteen dollars on Rosa when she died, but I ain't got no writin'," he went on, miserably, "that was to go on Zekal, an' I have 'nigh onto nine dollars 'sides that. I gwine take it ovah to Mahs Larue nex' week, sure, an' now--an'--now--"

His words were smothered in a sigh; what use were words, any way? Judithe felt that Margeret's eyes were on her face as she listened--wistful, questioning eyes! Would the words be of no use?

"The Jean Larue estate," she said, meditatively, seating herself at the table and picking up a pen, "and your wife was named Rosa?"

"Yes'm." He was staring at her as a man drowning might stare at a spar drifting his way on a chance wave; there was but the shadow of a hope in his face as he watched with parted lips the hand with the pen--and back of the shadow what substance!

"And she is dead--how long?"

"A yeah gone now."

"And Mr. Larue asks how much for her child?"

"Hundred 'n' fifty dollar--this what he _said_, but, G.o.d knows, lawyers got hold o' things now, maybe even more 'n that now, an'

anyway--"

His words sounded vague and confused in his own ears, for she was writing, and did not appear to hear.

"Where is this Larue place?" she asked, glancing up. "I heard of a Jean Larue plantation across in Georgia--is this it?"

"No'm," and he turned an eager look of hope towards Margeret at this pointed questioning, but her expression was unchanged; she only looked at the strange lady who questioned and showed sympathy.

"No, mist'ess, this Mahs Jean Larue did stay on they Georgy plantation till five yeah back, then they move ovah to Callina again; that how I come to meet up with Rosa. Larue place down river towards Beaufort--a whole day's walken'."

"What did you say this child was named?" she asked, without ceasing the movement of the pen over the white paper.

"His name Ezekal, but we ain't nevah call him anything but Zekal--he's so little yet."

"And when is this sale to be?"

Pluto looked helplessly towards Margeret.

"Tomorrow week, Madame Caron," she said, speaking for the first time, though her steady gaze had almost made Judithe nervous. It had a peculiar, appealing quality, which Judithe, with a little grimace, a.s.sured herself was so appealing it was compelling; it left her no choice but to do what she was doing and for which she could take no credit whatever to herself--the wistful eyes of the pale-faced bondwoman did it all.

"In a week there is plenty of time to arrange it," she said, turning kindly to Pluto. "You can rest in peace about your Rosa's boy. I will attend to it at once, and the traders shall never have him."

Margeret drew a sharp, inward breath of relief.

"Yo' mean _you'll_ buy him in?" and Pluto's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Yo' mean I'll have a chance, maybe, to buy him back some day?"

"Not 'some day,' my good fellow," and Judithe folded the paper she had been writing; "from the day he is bought from the Larue estate he will have his freedom. He will never be bought or sold again."

The man stared at her, helplessly. No hope of his had ever reached so high as _that_! He tried to speak--failed--and his face was covered by his sleeve, as he went slowly out of the room.