There was no slave like
this on the block in Virginia. Young girls like this, my father
had seen in Havana in the houses of Spanish Grandees.
"This is Mr. Pendleton, our neighbor," Zindorf said. "He comes
to offer you his felicitations."
The girl made a little formal curtsy.
"When my father returns," she said in a queer, liquid accent, "he
will thank you, Meester Pendleton; just now he is on a journey."
And she gave her hand to Lucian Morrow to kiss, like a lady of
the time. Then Zindorf, mincing his big step, led her out.
And my father stood behind the table in the enclosure of the
window, with his arms folded, and his chin lifted above his great
black stock. I know how my father looked, for I have seen him
stand like that before moving factors in great events, when he
intended, at a certain cue, to enter.
He said that it was at this point that Mr. Lucian Morrow's early
comment on Zindorf seemed, all at once, to discover the nature of
this whole affair. He said that suddenly, with a range of vision
like the great figures in the Pentateuch, he saw how things right
and true would work out backward into abominations, if, by any
chance, the virtue of God in events were displaced!
Zindorf returned, and as he stepped through the door, closing it
behind him, the far-off tolling of the bell, faint, eerie,
carried by a stronger breath of April air, entered through the
window.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153