Chapter 44

The Liberator

George Shelby had written to his mother merely a line, stating the day that she might expect him home. Of the death scene of his old friend he had not the heart to write. He had tried several times, and only succeeded in half choking himself; and invariably finished by tearing up the paper, wiping his eyes, and rushing somewhere to get quiet.

There was a pleased bustle all though the Shelby mansion, that day, in expectation of the arrival of young Mas’r George.

Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where a cheerful hickory fire was dispelling the chill of the late autumn evening. A supper-table, glittering with plate and cut glass, was set out, on whose arrangements our former friend, old Chloe, was presiding.

Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, and high, well-starched turban, her black polished face glowing with satisfaction, she lingered, with needless punctiliousness, around the arrangements of the table, merely as an excuse for talking a little to her mistress.

“Laws, now! won’t it look natural to him?” she said. “Thar,—I set his plate just whar he likes it,round by the fire. Mas’r George allers wants de warm seat. O, go way!—why didn’t Sally get out de best tea- pot,—de little new one, Mas’r George got for Missis, Christmas? I’ll have it out! And Missis has heard from Mas’r George?” she said, inquiringly.

“Yes, Chloe; but only a line, just to say he would be home tonight, if he could,—that’s all.”

“Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout my old man, s’pose?” said Chloe, still fidgeting with the tea-cups.

“No, he didn’t. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He said he would tell all, when he got home.”

“Jes like Mas’r George,—he’s allers so ferce for tellin’ everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas’r George. Don’t see, for my part, how white people gen’lly can bar to hev to write things much as they do, writin’ ’s such slow, oneasy kind o’ work.”

Mrs. Shelby smiled.

“I’m a thinkin’ my old man won’t know de boys and de baby. Lor’! she’s de biggest gal, now,—good she is, too, and peart, Polly is. She’s out to the house, now, watchin’ de hoe-cake. I ’s got jist de very pattern my old man liked so much, a bakin’. Jist sich as I gin him the mornin’ he was took off. Lord bless us! how I felt, dat ar morning!”

Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, at this allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since she received her son’s letter, lest something should prove to be hidden behind the veil of silence which he had drawn.

“Missis has got dem bills?” said Chloe, anxiously.

“Yes, Chloe.”

“’Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de perfectioner gave me. ‘And,’ say he, ‘Chloe, I wish you’d stay longer.’ ‘Thank you, Mas’r,’ says I, ‘I would, only my old man’s coming home, and Missis,—she can’t do without me no longer.’ There’s jist what I telled him. Berry nice man, dat Mas’r Jones was.”

Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in which her wages had been paid should be preserved, to show her husband, in memorial of her capability. And Mrs. Shelby had readily consented to humor her in the request.