Hugh Worthington

There were piles of handsome dress goods upon the counter at Harney’s that afternoon, and Harney was anxious to sell. It was not often that he favored a customer with his own personal services, and ’Lina felt proportionably flattered when he came forward and asked what he could show her. “Of course, a dress for the party—he had sold at least a dozen that day, but fortunately he still had the most, elegant pattern of all, and he knew it would exactly suit her complexion and style. There would be nothing like it at the party, unless she wore it, as he hoped she would, for he knew how admirably she would become it, and he’d had her in his mind all the time.” ’Lina was easily flattered, while the silk was beautiful, and as she thought how well the soft tinted rose with its single white velvety leaf, standing out so full and rich, would become her dark hair and eyes, an intense desire came over her to possess it. But ten dollars was all she had, and turning away from the tempting silk she answered faintly, that “it was superb, but she could not afford it, besides, she had not the money to-day.”

“Not the slightest consequence,” was Harney’s quick rejoinder, as he thought of Hugh’s already heavy bill, and alas, thought of Rocket too! “Not the slightest consequence. Your brother’s credit is good, and I’m sure he’ll be proud to see you in it. I should, were I your brother.”

’Lina blushed, while the wish to possess the silk grew every moment stronger.

“If it were only fifty dollars, it would not seem so bad,” she thought. Hugh could manage it some way, and Mr. Harney was so good natured; he could wait a year, she knew. But the making would cost ten dollars more, for that was the price Miss Allis charged, to say nothing of the trimmings. “No, I can’t,” she said, quite decidedly at last, asking for the lace with which she at first intended renovating her old pink silk. “She must see Miss Allis first to know how much she wanted,” and she tripped over to Frankfort’s fashionable dressmaker, whom she found surrounded with dresses for the party.

Such an array and such elegance too; the old pink faded into nothing. She should be quite in the shade, and feeling much like crying, ’Lina sat watching the nimble fingers around her, and waiting for Miss Allis’ advice, when a new idea crossed her mind. She heard Adah say that morning when she was in her room, that she could sew neatly, that she always made her own dresses, and if hers, why not ’Lina’s! She certainly looked as if she might have good taste, and she ought to do something by way of remuneration; besides that, if Adah made it, she could, from her mother’s budgets pick up enough for linings, whereas nothing but new entire would answer the purpose of a fashionable artiste, like Miss Diana Allis. ’Lina was fast persuading herself to buy the coveted silk, and as some time would elapse ere Miss Allis could attend to her she went back to Harney’s just for one more look at the lovely fabric. It was, if possible, more beautiful than before, and Harney was more polite, while the result of the whole was that, when ’Lina at four o’clock that afternoon entered her carriage to go home, the despised pink silk, still unpaid on Harney’s books, was thrown down any where, while in her hands she carefully held the bundle Harney brought himself, complimenting her upon the sensation she was sure to create, and inviting her to dance the first set with him. Then with a smiling bow he closed the door upon her, and returning to his books wrote down Hugh Worthington his debtor to fifty dollars more.

“That makes three hundred and fifty,” he said to himself. “I know he can’t raise that amount of ready money, and as he is too infernal proud to be sued, I’m sure of Rocket or Lulu, it matters but little which,” and with a look upon his face which made it positively hideous, the scheming Harney closed his books, and sat down to calculate the best means of managing the rather unmanageable Hugh!

It was dark when ’Lina reached home, but the silk looked well by firelight, and ’Lina would have been quite happy but for her mother’s reproaches and an occasional twinge as she thought of Hugh who had not yet returned, and whose purchase that afternoon was widely different from her own.

It was the day when a number of negroes, whose master had failed to a large amount, were to be sold in the Court House, and Hugh, as he reined up a moment before it, saw them grouped together upon the steps. He had no fancy for such scenes, but the eager, wistful glances the wretched creatures cast upon the passers by awoke his sympathy, and after finishing his business he returned to the Court House just as the auctioneer was detailing the many virtues of the bright-looking lad first upon the block. There was no trouble in disposing of them all, save a white-haired old man, whom they called Uncle Sam, and who was rather famous for having been stolen from his late master and sold into Virginia. With tottering steps the old man took his place, while his dim eyes wandered over the faces congregated around him as if seeking for their owner. But none was found who cared for Uncle Sam. He was too old—his work was done, and like a worn out horse he must be turned off to die.

“Won’t nobody bid for Sam? I fotched a thousand dollars onct,” and the feeble voice trembled as it asked this question.

“What will become of him if he is not sold?” Hugh asked of a bystander, who replied, “Go back to the old place to be kicked and cuffed by the minions of the new proprietor, Harney. You know Harney, of Frankfort?”

Yes, Hugh did know Harney as one who was constantly adding to his already large possessions houses and lands and negroes without limit, caring little that they came to him laden with the widow’s curse and the orphan’s tears. The law was on his side. He did nothing illegally, and so there was no redress. This was Harney, and Hugh always felt exasperated when he thought of him. Advancing a step or two he came nearer to the negro, who took comfort at once from the expression of his face, and stretching out his shaking hand he said beseechingly,

“You, mas’r, you buy old Sam ’case it ’ill be lonesome and cold in de cabin at home when they all is gone. Please mas’r,” and the tone was so pleading, that Hugh felt a great throb of pity for the desolate, forsaken negro.

“How old are you?” he asked, taking the quivering hand still extended toward him.

“Bless you, mas’r, longer than I can ’member. They was allus puttin’ me back and back to make me young, till I couldn’t go backuds no more, so I spec’s I’s mighty nigh a thousan’,” was the negro’s reply, whereupon cheers for Uncle Sam resounded long and loud among the amused spectators.

“What can you do?” was Hugh’s next query, to which the truthful negro answered,

“Nothin’ much, or, yes,” and an expression of reverence and awe stole over the wrinkled face, as in a low tone he added, “I can pray for young mas’r, and I will, only buy me, please.”

Hugh had not much faith in praying negroes, but something in old Sam struck him as sincere. His prayers might do good, and he needed somebody’s, sadly. But what should he offer, when fifteen dollars was all he had in the world, and was it his duty to encumber himself with a piece of useless property? Visions of the Golden Haired and Adah both rose up before him. They would say it was right. They would tell him to buy old Sam, and that settled the point.

“Five dollars,” he called out, and Sam’s “God bless you,” was sounding in his ears, when a voice from another part of the building doubled the bid, and with a moan Uncle Sam turned imploringly toward Hugh.

“A leetle more, mas’r, an’ you fotches ’em; a leetle more,” he whispered, coaxingly, and Hugh faltered out “Twelve.”

“Thirteen,” came from the corner, and Hugh caught sight of the bidder, a sour-grained fellow, whose wife had ten young children, and so could find use for Sam.

“Thirteen and a half,” cried Hugh.

“Fourteen,” responded his opponent.

“Leetle more, mas’r, berry leetle,” whispered Uncle Sam.

“Fourteen and a quarter,” said Hugh, the perspiration starting out about his lips, as he thought how fast his pile was diminishing, and that he could not go beyond it.

“Fourteen and a half,” from the corner.

“Leetle more, mas’r,” from Uncle Sam.

“Fourteen, seventy-five,” from Hugh.

“Fifteen,” from the man in the corner, and Hugh groaned aloud,

“That’s every dime I’ve got.”

Quick as thought an acquaintance beside him slipped a bill into his hand, whispering as he did so,

“It’s a V. I’ll double it if necessary. I’m sorry for the darky.”

It was very exciting now, each bidder raising a quarter each time, while Sam’s “a leetle more, mas’r,” and the vociferous cheers of the croud, whenever Hugh’s voice was heard, showed him to be the popular party.

“Nineteen, seventy-five,” from the corner, and Hugh felt his courage giving way as he faintly called out,

“Twenty.”

Only an instant did the auctioneer wait, and then his decisive, “Gone!” made Hugh the owner of Uncle Sam, who crouching down before him, blessed him with tears and prayers.

“I knows you’re good,” he said; “I knows it by yer face; and mebby, when the rheumatics gits out of my ole legs I kin work for mas’r a heap. Does you live fur from here?”

“Three miles or more,” Hugh replied, bidding the negro follow him.

The snow was melting, but out upon the turnpike it was still so deep that Hugh had many misgivings as to the old man’s ability to walk, but Sam, intent on proving that he was smarter than he seemed, declared himself perfectly competent to go with “Mars’r” to the world’s end, if necessary.

“It’s mighty cold, though,” he said, as he emerged into the open air, and the chilly wind penetrated the thin rags which covered him. “It’s mighty cold, and my knees is all a shakin’, but I’ll git over it bimeby.”

It was not in Hugh’s nature to see the old man shiver so, and taking off his own thick shawl he wrapped it round the negro’s shoulders, saying to the bystanders,

“My blood is warmer than his.”

Another cheer from the crowd, another, “God bless you, mas’r,” and the strange pair started on their homeward tour, Hugh riding very slowly, and accommodating Rocket’s steps to the hobbling old man, who wheezed and puffed, and sweat with the wondrous efforts he made, and at last when only a mile was gone, gave out entirely, and pitched headlong into the snow.

“It’s my dumb knees. They allus was crooked and shaky,” he gasped, becoming more and more entangled in the shawl, which he was not accustomed to wearing.

“Look here, Sam,” and Hugh laughed heartily at the negro’s forlorn appearance, as, regaining his feet, he assumed a most deprecating attitude, asking pardon for tumbling down, and charging it all to his shaky knees. “Look here, there’s no other way, except for you to ride and me to walk. Rocket won’t carry double,” and ere Sam could remonstrate, Hugh had dismounted and placed him in the saddle.

Rocket did not fancy the exchange, as was manifest by an indignant snort, and an attempt to shake Sam off, but a word from Hugh quieted him, and the latter offered the reins to Sam, who was never a skillful horseman, and felt a mortal terror of the high-mettled steed beneath him. With a most frightened expression upon his face, he grasped the saddle pommel with both hands, and bending nearly double, gasped out,

“Sam ain’t much use’t to gemman’s horses. Kind of hold me on, mas’r, till I gits de hang of de critter. He hists me round mightily.”

So, leading Rocket with one hand, and steadying Sam with the other, Hugh got on but slowly, and ’Lina had looked for him many times ere she spied him from the window as he came up the lawn.

“In the name of wonder, what is that on Rocket!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of Sam, whose rags were fluttering in the wind. “An old white-headed nigger, as I live!” and she hastened to the door, where the servants were assembling, all curious like herself to see the new arrival.

Very carefully Hugh assisted him to dismount, but Sam’s knees, cramped up so long on Rocket, refused to straighten at once, and Lulu was not far out of the way when she likened him to a toad, while her mischievous brother Jim called out,

“How d’ye, old bow legs?”

“Jest tol’able, thankee,” was Sam’s meek reply, then spying ’Lina he lifted his hat politely, bowing so low that his knees gave out again, and he would have fallen had not Hugh held him up.

“Who is he, and what did you get him for?” Mrs. Worthington asked, as Hugh led him into the dining room.

Briefly Hugh explained to her why he had bought the negro.

“It was foolish, I suppose, but I’m not sorry yet,” he added, glancing toward the corner, where the poor old man was sitting, warming his shriveled hands by the cheerful fire, and muttering to himself blessings on “young mas’r.”

Supper had been delayed for Hugh, and as he took his seat at the table, he inquired after Adah.

“Pretty well when I left,” said his mother, adding that Lulu had been there since, and reported her as looking pale and worn, while Aunt Eunice seemed worried with Willie, who was inclined to be fretful.

“They need some one,” Hugh said. “Can’t you spare Lulu?”

Mrs. Worthington did not know, but ’Lina, to whom Lulu was a kind of waiting-maid, took the matter up, and said,

“Indeed they couldn’t. There was no one at Spring Bank more useful, and it was preposterous for Hugh to think of giving their best servant to Adah Hastings. Let her take care of her baby herself. She guessed it wouldn’t hurt her. Any way, they couldn’t afford to keep a servant for her.”

With a long drawn sigh, Hugh finished his supper, and was about lighting his cigar when he felt some one touching him, and turning round he saw that Sam had grasped his coat. The negro had heard the conversation, and drawn correct conclusions. His new master was not rich. He could not afford to buy him, and having bought him could not afford to keep him. There was a sigh in the old man’s heart, as he thought how useless he was, but when he heard about the baby, his spirits rose at once. In all the world there was nothing so precious to Sam as a little white child, with waxen hands to pat his old black face, and his work was found.

“Mas’r,” he whispered, “Sam kin take keer that baby. He knows how, and the little childrens in Georgy, whar I comed from, used to be mighty fond of Sam. I’ll tend to the young lady too. May I, Mas’r?”

Sam did not look much like Hugh’s ideas of a child’s nurse or a ladie’s waiting-maid, but necessity knows no choice, and thinking the old man might answer for Willie until something better offered, he replied,

“Perhaps you may. I will see to-morrow.”

Then, stepping to the door he called Claib, and bidding him show Sam where he was to sleep, repaired himself to his own cold chamber which seemed doubly comfortless and dreary from its contrast with the warm pleasant sitting-room where the selfish ’Lina, delighted at his absence, was again admiring the handsome silk, which Adah was to make.