"Stay here beside her, major. I shall not he needed for an hour yet.
Meanwhile I'll go downstairs and snatch a bit of sleep, or talk to old
Jane."
The night was hot and sultry. Though the windows of the chamber were
wide open, and the muslin curtains looped back, not a breath of air was
stirring. Only the shrill chirp of the cicada and the muffled croaking
of the frogs in some distant marsh broke the night silence. The heavy
scent of magnolias, overpowering even the strong smell of drugs in the
sickroom, suggested death and funeral wreaths, sorrow and tears, the
long home, the last sleep. The major shivered with apprehension as the
slender hand which he held in his own contracted nervously and in a
spasm of pain clutched his fingers with a viselike grip.
Major Carteret, though dressed in brown linen, had thrown off his coat
for greater comfort. The stifling heat, in spite of the palm-leaf fan
which he plied mechanically, was scarcely less oppressive than his own
thoughts. Long ago, while yet a mere boy in years, he had come back from
Appomattox to find his family, one of the oldest and proudest in the
state, hopelessly impoverished by the war,--even their ancestral home
swallowed up in the common ruin. His elder brother had sacrificed his
life on the bloody altar of the lost cause, and his father, broken and
chagrined, died not many years later, leaving the major the last of his
line. He had tried in various pursuits to gain a foothold in the new
life, but with indifferent success until he won the hand of Olivia
Merkell, whom he had seen grow from a small girl to glorious womanhood.
With her money he had founded the Morning Chronicle, which he had made
the leading organ of his party and the most influential paper in the
State. The fine old house in which they lived was hers. In this very
room she had first drawn the breath of life; it had been their nuptial
chamber; and here, too, within a few hours, she might die, for it seemed
impossible that one could long endure such frightful agony and live.
One cloud alone had marred the otherwise perfect serenity of their
happiness. Olivia was childless. To have children to perpetuate the name
of which he was so proud, to write it still higher on the roll of
honor, had been his dearest hope. His disappointment had been
proportionately keen. A few months ago this dead hope had revived, and
altered the whole aspect of their lives. But as time went on, his wife's
age had begun to tell upon her, until even Dr. Price, the most cheerful
and optimistic of physicians, had warned him, while hoping for the best,
to be prepared for the worst. To add to the danger, Mrs. Carteret had
only this day suffered from a nervous shock, which, it was feared, had
hastened by several weeks the expected event.
Dr. Price went downstairs to the library, where a dim light was
burning. An old black woman, dressed in a gingham frock, with a red
bandana handkerchief coiled around her head by way of turban, was seated
by an open window. She rose and curtsied as the doctor entered and
dropped into a willow rocking-chair near her own.
"How did this happen, Jane?" he asked in a subdued voice, adding, with
assumed severity, "You ought to have taken better care of your
mistress."
"Now look a-hyuh, Doctuh Price," returned the old woman in an unctuous
whisper, "you don' wanter come talkin' none er yo' foolishness 'bout my
not takin' keer er Mis' 'Livy. _She_ never would 'a' said sech a thing!
Seven er eight mont's ago, w'en she sent fer me, I says ter her, says
I:--
"'Lawd, Lawd, honey! You don' tell me dat after all dese long w'ary
years er waitin' de good Lawd is done heared yo' prayer an' is gwine ter
sen' you de chile you be'n wantin' so long an' so bad? Bless his holy
name! Will I come an' nuss yo' baby? Why, honey, I nussed you, an'
nussed yo' mammy thoo her las' sickness, an' laid her out w'en she died.
I wouldn' _let_ nobody e'se nuss yo' baby; an' mo'over, I'm gwine ter
come an' nuss you too. You're young side er me, Mis' 'Livy, but you're
ove'ly ole ter be havin' yo' fus' baby, an' you'll need somebody roun',
honey, w'at knows all 'bout de fam'ly, an' deir ways an' deir
weaknesses, an' I don' know who dat'd be ef it wa'n't me.'
"''Deed, Mammy Jane,' says she, 'dere ain' nobody e'se I'd have but you.
You kin come ez soon ez you wanter an' stay ez long ez you mineter.'
"An hyuh I is, an' hyuh I'm gwine ter stay. Fer Mis' 'Livy is my ole
mist'ess's daughter, an' my ole mist'ess wuz good ter me, an' dey ain'
none er her folks gwine ter suffer ef ole Jane kin he'p it."
"Your loyalty does you credit, Jane," observed the doctor; "but you
haven't told me yet what happened to Mrs. Carteret to-day. Did the horse
run away, or did she see something that frightened her?"
"No, suh, de hoss didn' git skeered at nothin', but Mis' 'Livy did see
somethin', er somebody; an' it wa'n't no fault er mine ner her'n
neither,--it goes fu'ther back, suh, fu'ther dan dis day er dis year.
Does you 'member de time w'en my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Livy upstairs's
mammy, died? No? Well, you wuz prob'ly 'way ter school den, studyin' ter
be a doctuh. But I'll tell you all erbout it.
"Wen my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Liz'beth Merkell,--an' a good mist'ess she
wuz,--tuck sick fer de las' time, her sister Polly--ole Mis' Polly
Ochiltree w'at is now--come ter de house ter he'p nuss her. Mis' 'Livy
upstairs yander wuz erbout six years ole den, de sweetes' little angel
you ever laid eyes on; an' on her dyin' bed Mis' 'Liz'beth ax' Mis'
Polly fer ter stay hyuh an' take keer er her chile, an' Mis' Polly she
promise'. She wuz a widder fer de secon' time, an' didn' have no
child'en, an' could jes' as well come as not.
"But dere wuz trouble after de fune'al, an' it happen' right hyuh in dis
lib'ary. Mars Sam wuz settin' by de table, w'en Mis' Polly come
downstairs, slow an' solemn, an' stood dere in de middle er de flo', all
in black, till Mars Sam sot a cheer fer her.
"'Well, Samuel,' says she, 'now dat we've done all we can fer po'
'Liz'beth, it only 'mains fer us ter consider Olivia's future.'
"Mars Sam nodded his head, but didn' say nothin'.
"'I don' need ter tell you,' says she,' dat I am willin' ter carry out
de wishes er my dead sister, an' sac'ifice my own comfo't, an' make
myse'f yo' housekeeper an' yo' child's nuss, fer my dear sister's sake.
It wuz her dyin' wish, an' on it I will ac', ef it is also yo'n.'
"Mars Sam didn' want Mis' Polly ter come, suh; fur he didn' like Mis'
Polly. He wuz skeered er Miss Polly."
"I don't wonder," yawned the doctor, "if she was anything like she is
now."
"Wuss, suh, fer she wuz younger, an' stronger. She always would have her
say, no matter 'bout what, an' her own way, no matter who 'posed her.
She had already be'n in de house fer a week, an' Mars Sam knowed ef she
once come ter stay, she'd be de mist'ess of eve'ybody in it an' him
too. But w'at could he do but say yas?
"'Den it is unde'stood, is it,' says Mis' Polly, w'en he had spoke, 'dat
I am ter take cha'ge er de house?'
"'All right, Polly,' says Mars Sam, wid a deep sigh.
"Mis' Polly 'lowed he wuz sighin' fer my po' dead mist'ess, fer she didn'
have no idee er his feelin's to'ds her,--she alluz did 'low dat all
de gent'emen wuz in love wid 'er.
"'You won' fin' much ter do,' Mars Sam went on, 'fer Julia is a good
housekeeper, an' kin ten' ter mos' eve'ything, under yo' d'rections.'
"Mis' Polly stiffen' up like a ramrod. 'It mus' be unde'stood, Samuel,'
says she, 'dat w'en I 'sumes cha'ge er yo' house, dere ain' gwine ter be
no 'vided 'sponsibility; an' as fer dis Julia, me an' her couldn' git
'long tergether nohow. Ef I stays, Julia goes.'
"Wen Mars Sam beared dat, he felt better, an' 'mence' ter pick up his
courage. Mis' Polly had showed her ban' too plain. My mist'ess hadn'
got col' yit, an' Mis' Polly, who'd be'n a widder fer two years dis
las' time, wuz already fig'rin' on takin' her place fer good, an' she
did n! want no other woman roun' de house dat Mars Sam might take a'
intrus' in.
"'My dear Polly,' says Mars Sam, quite determine', 'I couldn' possibly
sen' Julia 'way. Fac' is, I couldn' git 'long widout Julia. She'd be'n
runnin' dis house like clockwo'k befo' you come, an' I likes her ways.
My dear, dead 'Liz'beth sot a heap er sto' by Julia, an' I'm gwine ter
keep her here fer 'Liz'beth's sake.'
"Mis' Polly's eyes flash' fire.
"'Ah,' says she,' I see--I see! You perfers her housekeepin' ter mine,
indeed! Dat is a fine way ter talk ter a lady! An' a heap er rispec' you
is got fer de mem'ry er my po' dead sister!'
"Mars Sam knowed w'at she 'lowed she seed wa'n't so; but he didn' let
on, fer it only made him de safer. He wuz willin' fer her ter 'magine w'at
she please', jes' so long ez she kep' out er his house an' let him
alone.
"'No, Polly,' says he, gittin' bolder ez she got madder, 'dere ain' no
use talkin'. Nothin' in de worl' would make me part wid Julia.'
"Mis' Polly she r'ared an' she pitch', but Mars Sam helt on like grim
death. Mis' Polly wouldn' give in neither, an' so she fin'lly went
away. Dey made some kind er 'rangement afterwa'ds, an' Miss Polly tuck
Mis' 'Livy ter her own house. Mars Sam paid her bo'd an' 'lowed Mis'
Polly somethin' fer takin' keer er her."
"And Julia stayed?"
"Julia stayed, suh, an' a couple er years later her chile wuz bawn,
right here in dis house."
"But you said," observed the doctor, "that Mrs. Ochiltree was in error
about Julia."
"Yas, suh, so she wuz, w'en my ole mist'ess died. But dis wuz two years
after,--an' w'at has ter be has ter be. Julia had a easy time; she had a
black gal ter wait on her, a buggy to ride in, an' eve'ything she
wanted. Eve'ybody s'posed Mars Sam would give her a house an' lot, er
leave her somethin' in his will. But he died suddenly, and didn' leave
no will, an' Mis' Polly got herse'f 'pinted gyardeen ter young Mis'
'Livy, an' driv Julia an' her young un out er de house, an' lived here
in dis house wid Mis' 'Livy till Mis' 'Livy ma'ied Majah Carteret."
"And what became of Julia?" asked Dr. Price.
Such relations, the doctor knew very well, had been all too common in
the old slavery days, and not a few of them had been projected into the
new era. Sins, like snakes, die hard. The habits and customs of a people
were not to be changed in a day, nor by the stroke of a pen. As family
physician, and father confessor by brevet, Dr. Price had looked upon
more than one hidden skeleton; and no one in town had had better
opportunities than old Jane for learning the undercurrents in the lives
of the old families.
"Well," resumed Jane, "eve'ybody s'posed, after w'at had happen', dat
Julia'd keep on livin' easy, fer she wuz young an' good-lookin'. But
she didn'. She tried ter make a livin' sewin', but Mis' Polly wouldn'
let de bes' w'ite folks hire her. Den she tuck up washin', but didn' do
no better at dat; an' bimeby she got so discourage' dat she ma'ied a
shif'less yaller man, an' died er consumption soon after,--an' wuz
'bout ez well off, fer dis man couldn' hardly feed her nohow."
"And the child?"
"One er de No'the'n w'ite lady teachers at de mission school tuck a
likin' ter little Janet, an' put her thoo school, an' den sent her off
ter de No'th fer ter study ter be a school teacher. W'en she come back,
'stead er teachin' she ma'ied ole Adam Miller's son."
"The rich stevedore's son, Dr. Miller?"
"Yas, suh, dat's de man,--you knows 'im. Dis yer boy wuz jes' gwine
'way fer ter study ter be a doctuh, an' he ma'ied dis Janet, an' tuck
her 'way wid 'im. Dey went off ter Europe, er Irope, er Orope, er
somewhere er 'nother, 'way off yander, an' come back here las' year an'
sta'ted dis yer horspital an' school fer ter train de black gals fer
nusses."
"He's a very good doctor, Jane, and is doing a useful work. Your
chapter of family history is quite interesting,--I knew part of it
before, in a general way; but you haven't yet told me what brought on
Mrs. Carteret's trouble."
"I'm jes' comin' ter dat dis minute, suh,--w'at I be'n tellin' you is
all a part of it. Dis yer Janet, w'at's Mis' 'Livy's half-sister, is ez
much like her ez ef dey wuz twins. Folks sometimes takes 'em fer one
ernudder,--I s'pose it tickles Janet mos' ter death, but it do make Mis'
'Livy rippin'. An' den 'way back yander jes' after de wah, w'en de ole
Carteret mansion had ter be sol', Adam Miller bought it, an' dis yer
Janet an' her husban' is be'n livin' in it ever sence ole Adam died,
'bout a year ago; an' dat makes de majah mad, 'ca'se he don' wanter see
cullud folks livin' in de ole fam'ly mansion w'at he wuz bawn in. An'
mo'over, an' dat's de wust of all, w'iles Mis' 'Livy ain' had no
child'en befo', dis yer sister er her'n is got a fine-lookin' little
yaller boy, w'at favors de fam'ly so dat ef Mis' 'Livy'd see de chile
anywhere, it'd mos' break her heart fer ter think 'bout her not havin'
no child'en herse'f. So ter-day, w'en Mis' 'Livy wuz out ridin' an' met
dis yer Janet wid her boy, an' w'en Mis' 'Livy got ter studyin' 'bout
her own chances, an' how she mought not come thoo safe, she jes' had a
fit er hysterics right dere in de buggy. She wuz mos' home, an' William
got her here, an' you knows de res'."
Major Carteret, from the head of the stairs, called the doctor
anxiously.
"You had better come along up now, Jane," said the doctor.
For two long hours they fought back the grim spectre that stood by the
bedside. The child was born at dawn. Both mother and child, the doctor
said, would live.
"Bless its 'ittle hea't!" exclaimed Mammy Jane, as she held up the tiny
mite, which bore as much resemblance to mature humanity as might be
expected of an infant which had for only a few minutes drawn the breath
of life. "Bless its 'ittle hea't! it's de we'y spit an' image er its
pappy!"
The doctor smiled. The major laughed aloud. Jane's unconscious
witticism, or conscious flattery, whichever it might be, was a welcome
diversion from the tense strain of the last few hours.
"Be that as it may," said Dr. Price cheerfully, "and I'll not dispute
it, the child is a very fine boy,--a very fine boy, indeed! Take care of
it, major," he added with a touch of solemnity, "for your wife can never
bear another."
With the child's first cry a refreshing breeze from the distant ocean
cooled the hot air of the chamber; the heavy odor of the magnolias, with
its mortuary suggestiveness, gave place to the scent of rose and lilac
and honeysuckle. The birds in the garden were singing lustily.
All these sweet and pleasant things found an echo in the major's heart.
He stood by the window, and looking toward the rising sun, breathed a
silent prayer of thanksgiving. All nature seemed to rejoice in sympathy
with his happiness at the fruition of this long-deferred hope, and to
predict for this wonderful child a bright and glorious future.
Old Mammy Jane, however, was not entirely at ease concerning the child.
She had discovered, under its left ear, a small mole, which led her to
fear that the child was born for bad luck. Had the baby been black, or
yellow, or poor-white, Jane would unhesitatingly have named, as his
ultimate fate, a not uncommon form of taking off, usually resultant upon
the infraction of certain laws, or, in these swift modern days, upon too
violent a departure from established social customs. It was manifestly
impossible that a child of such high quality as the grandson of her old
mistress should die by judicial strangulation; but nevertheless the
warning was a serious thing, and not to be lightly disregarded.
Not wishing to be considered as a prophet of evil omen, Jane kept her
own counsel in regard to this significant discovery. But later, after
the child was several days old, she filled a small vial with water in
which the infant had been washed, and took it to a certain wise old
black woman, who lived on the farther edge of the town and was well
known to be versed in witchcraft and conjuration. The conjure woman
added to the contents of the bottle a bit of calamus root, and one of
the cervical vertebrae from the skeleton of a black cat, with several
other mysterious ingredients, the nature of which she did not disclose.
Following instructions given her, Aunt Jane buried the bottle in
Carteret's back yard, one night during the full moon, as a good-luck
charm to ward off evil from the little grandson of her dear mistress, so
long since dead and gone to heaven.