They named the Carteret baby Theodore Felix. Theodore was a family name,
and had been borne by the eldest son for several generations, the major
himself being a second son. Having thus given the child two beautiful
names, replete with religious and sentimental significance, they called
him--"Dodie."
The baby was christened some six weeks after its birth, by which time
Mrs. Carteret was able to be out. Old Mammy Jane, who had been brought
up in the church, but who, like some better informed people in all ages,
found religion not inconsistent with a strong vein of superstition, felt
her fears for the baby's future much relieved when the rector had made
the sign of the cross and sprinkled little Dodie with the water from the
carved marble font, which had come from England in the reign of King
Charles the Martyr, as the ill-fated son of James I. was known to St.
Andrew's. Upon this special occasion Mammy Jane had been provided with a
seat downstairs among the white people, to her own intense satisfaction,
and to the secret envy of a small colored attendance in the gallery, to
whom she was ostentatiously pointed out by her grandson Jerry, porter at
the Morning Chronicle office, who sat among them in the front row.
On the following Monday evening the major gave a christening party in
honor of this important event. Owing to Mrs. Carteret's still delicate
health, only a small number of intimate friends and family connections
were invited to attend. These were the rector of St. Andrew's; old Mrs.
Polly Ochiltree, the godmother; old Mr. Delamere, a distant relative and
also one of the sponsors; and his grandson, Tom Delamere. The major had
also invited Lee Ellis, his young city editor, for whom he had a great
liking apart from his business value, and who was a frequent visitor at
the house. These, with the family itself, which consisted of the major,
his wife, and his half-sister, Clara Pemberton, a young woman of about
eighteen, made up the eight persons for whom covers were laid.
Ellis was the first to arrive, a tall, loose-limbed young man, with a
slightly freckled face, hair verging on auburn, a firm chin, and honest
gray eyes. He had come half an hour early, and was left alone for a few
minutes in the parlor, a spacious, high-ceilinged room, with large
windows, and fitted up in excellent taste, with stately reminiscences of
a past generation. The walls were hung with figured paper. The ceiling
was whitewashed, and decorated in the middle with a plaster
centre-piece, from which hung a massive chandelier sparkling with
prismatic rays from a hundred crystal pendants. There was a handsome
mantel, set with terra-cotta tiles, on which fauns and satyrs, nymphs
and dryads, disported themselves in idyllic abandon. The furniture was
old, and in keeping with the room.
At seven o'clock a carriage drove up, from which alighted an elderly
gentleman, with white hair and mustache, and bowed somewhat with years.
Short of breath and painfully weak in the legs, he was assisted from the
carriage by a colored man, apparently about forty years old, to whom
short side-whiskers and spectacles imparted an air of sobriety. This
attendant gave his arm respectfully to the old gentleman, who leaned
upon it heavily, but with as little appearance of dependence as
possible. The servant, assuming a similar unconsciousness of the weight
resting upon his arm, assisted the old gentleman carefully up the steps.
"I'm all right now, Sandy," whispered the gentleman as soon as his feet
were planted firmly on the piazza. "You may come back for me at nine
o'clock."
Having taken his hand from his servant's arm, he advanced to meet a lady
who stood in the door awaiting him, a tall, elderly woman, gaunt and
angular of frame, with a mottled face, and high cheekbones partially
covered by bands of hair entirely too black and abundant for a person of
her age, if one might judge from the lines of her mouth, which are
rarely deceptive in such matters.
"Perhaps you'd better not send your man away, Mr. Delamere," observed
the lady, in a high shrill voice, which grated upon the old gentleman's
ears. He was slightly hard of hearing, but, like most deaf people,
resented being screamed at. "You might need him before nine o'clock. One
never knows what may happen after one has had the second stroke. And
moreover, our butler has fallen down the back steps--negroes are so
careless!--and sprained his ankle so that he can't stand. I'd like to
have Sandy stay and wait on the table in Peter's place, if you don't
mind."
"I thank you, Mrs. Ochiltree, for your solicitude," replied Mr.
Delamere, with a shade of annoyance in his voice, "but my health is very
good just at present, and I do not anticipate any catastrophe which will
require my servant's presence before I am ready to go home. But I have
no doubt, madam," he continued, with a courteous inclination, "that
Sandy will be pleased to serve you, if you desire it, to the best of his
poor knowledge."
"I shill be honored, ma'am," assented Sandy, with a bow even deeper than
his master's, "only I'm 'feared I ain't rightly dressed fer ter wait on
table. I wuz only goin' ter pra'r-meetin', an' so I didn' put on my
bes' clo's. Ef Mis' Ochiltree ain' gwine ter need me fer de nex' fifteen
minutes, I kin ride back home in de ca'ige an' dress myse'f suitable fer
de occasion, suh."
"If you think you'll wait on the table any better," said Mrs.
Ochiltree, "you may go along and change your clothes; but hurry back,
for it is seven now, and dinner will soon be served."
Sandy retired with a bow. While descending the steps to the carriage,
which had waited for him, he came face to face with a young man just
entering the house.
"Am I in time for dinner, Sandy?" asked the newcomer.
"Yas, Mistuh Tom, you're in plenty er time. Dinner won't be ready till
_I_ git back, which won' be fer fifteen minutes er so yit."
Throwing away the cigarette which he held between his fingers, the young
man crossed the piazza with a light step, and after a preliminary knock,
for an answer to which he did not wait, entered the house with the air
of one thoroughly at home. The lights in the parlor had been lit, and
Ellis, who sat talking to Major Carteret when the newcomer entered,
covered him with a jealous glance.
Slender and of medium height, with a small head of almost perfect
contour, a symmetrical face, dark almost to swarthiness, black eyes,
which moved somewhat restlessly, curly hair of raven tint, a slight
mustache, small hands and feet, and fashionable attire, Tom Delamere,
the grandson of the old gentleman who had already arrived, was easily
the handsomest young man in Wellington. But no discriminating observer
would have characterized his beauty as manly. It conveyed no impression
of strength, but did possess a certain element, feline rather than
feminine, which subtly negatived the idea of manliness.
He gave his hand to the major, nodded curtly to Ellis, saluted his
grandfather respectfully, and inquired for the ladies.
"Olivia is dressing for dinner," replied the major; "Mrs. Ochiltree is
in the kitchen, struggling with the servants. Clara--Ah, here she comes
now!"
Ellis, whose senses were preternaturally acute where Clara was
concerned, was already looking toward the hall and was the first to see
her. Clad in an evening gown of simple white, to the close-fitting
corsage of which she had fastened a bunch of pink roses, she was to
Ellis a dazzling apparition. To him her erect and well-moulded form was
the embodiment of symmetry, her voice sweet music, her movements the
perfection of grace; and it scarcely needed a lover's imagination to
read in her fair countenance a pure heart and a high spirit,--the
truthfulness that scorns a lie, the pride which is not haughtiness.
There were suggestive depths of tenderness, too, in the curl of her lip,
the droop of her long lashes, the glance of her blue eyes,--depths that
Ellis had long since divined, though he had never yet explored them. She
gave Ellis a friendly nod as she came in, but for the smile with which
she greeted Delamere, Ellis would have given all that he
possessed,--not a great deal, it is true, but what could a man do more?
"You are the last one, Tom," she said reproachfully. "Mr. Ellis has been
here half an hour."
Delamere threw a glance at Ellis which was not exactly friendly. Why
should this fellow always be on hand to emphasize his own shortcomings?
"The rector is not here," answered Tom triumphantly. "You see I am not
the last."
"The rector," replied Clara, "was called out of town at six o'clock this
evening, to visit a dying man, and so cannot be here. You are the last,
Tom, and Mr. Ellis was the first."
Ellis was ruefully aware that this comparison in his favor was the only
visible advantage that he had gained from his early arrival. He had not
seen Miss Pemberton a moment sooner by reason of it. There had been a
certain satisfaction in being in the same house with her, but Delamere
had arrived in time to share or, more correctly, to monopolize, the
sunshine of her presence.
Delamere gave a plausible excuse which won Clara's pardon and another
enchanting smile, which pierced Ellis like a dagger. He knew very well
that Delamere's excuse was a lie. Ellis himself had been ready as early
as six o'clock, but judging this to be too early, had stopped in at the
Clarendon Club for half an hour, to look over the magazines. While
coming out he had glanced into the card-room, where he had seen his
rival deep in a game of cards, from which Delamere had evidently not
been able to tear himself until the last moment. He had accounted for
his lateness by a story quite inconsistent with these facts.
The two young people walked over to a window on the opposite side of
the large room, where they stood talking to one another in low tones.
The major had left the room for a moment. Old Mr. Delamere, who was
watching his grandson and Clara with an indulgent smile, proceeded to
rub salt into Ellis's wounds.
"They make a handsome couple," he observed. "I remember well when her
mother, in her youth an ideally beautiful woman, of an excellent family,
married Daniel Pemberton, who was not of so good a family, but had made
money. The major, who was only a very young man then, disapproved of the
match; he considered that his mother, although a widow and nearly forty,
was marrying beneath her. But he has been a good brother to Clara, and a
careful guardian of her estate. Ah, young gentleman, you cannot
appreciate, except in imagination, what it means, to one standing on the
brink of eternity, to feel sure that he will live on in his children and
his children's children!"
Ellis was appreciating at that moment what it meant, in cold blood, with
no effort of the imagination, to see the girl whom he loved absorbed
completely in another man. She had looked at him only once since Tom
Delamere had entered the room, and then merely to use him as a spur with
which to prick his favored rival.
"Yes, sir," he returned mechanically, "Miss Clara is a beautiful young
lady."
"And Tom is a good boy--a fine boy," returned the old gentleman. "I am
very well pleased with Tom, and shall be entirely happy when I see them
married."
Ellis could not echo this sentiment. The very thought of this marriage
made him miserable. He had always understood that the engagement was
merely tentative, a sort of family understanding, subject to
confirmation after Delamere should have attained his majority, which was
still a year off, and when the major should think Clara old enough to
marry. Ellis saw Delamere with the eye of a jealous rival, and judged
him mercilessly,--whether correctly or not the sequel will show. He did
not at all believe that Tom Delamere would make a fit husband for Clara
Pemberton; but his opinion would have had no weight,--he could hardly
have expressed it without showing his own interest. Moreover, there was
no element of the sneak in Lee Ellis's make-up. The very fact that he
might profit by the other's discomfiture left Delamere secure, so far as
he could be affected by anything that Ellis might say. But Ellis did not
shrink from a fair fight, and though in this one the odds were heavily
against him, yet so long as this engagement remained indefinite, so
long, indeed, as the object of his love was still unwed, he would not
cease to hope. Such a sacrifice as this marriage clearly belonged in the
catalogue of impossibilities. Ellis had not lived long enough to learn
that impossibilities are merely things of which we have not learned, or
which we do not wish to happen.
Sandy returned at the end of a quarter of an hour, and dinner was
announced. Mr. Delamere led the way to the dining-room with Mrs.
Ochiltree. Tom followed with Clara. The major went to the head of the
stairs and came down with Mrs. Carteret upon his arm, her beauty
rendered more delicate by the pallor of her countenance and more
complete by the happiness with which it glowed. Ellis went in alone. In
the rector's absence it was practically a family party which sat down,
with the exception of Ellis, who, as we have seen, would willingly have
placed himself in the same category.
The table was tastefully decorated with flowers, which grew about the
house in lavish profusion. In warm climates nature adorns herself with
true feminine vanity.
"What a beautiful table!" exclaimed Tom, before they were seated.
"The decorations are mine," said Clara proudly. "I cut the flowers and
arranged them all myself."
"Which accounts for the admirable effect," rejoined Tom with a bow,
before Ellis, to whom the same thought had occurred, was able to express
himself. He had always counted himself the least envious of men, but for
this occasion he coveted Tom Delamere's readiness.
"The beauty of the flowers," observed old Mr. Delamere, with sententious
gallantry, "is reflected upon all around them. It is a handsome
company."
Mrs. Ochiltree beamed upon the table with a dry smile.
"I don't perceive any effect that it has upon you or me," she said; "And
as for the young people, 'Handsome is as handsome does.' If Tom here,
for instance, were as good as he looks"--
"You flatter me, Aunt Polly," Tom broke in hastily, anticipating the
crack of the whip; he was familiar with his aunt's conversational
idiosyncrasies.
"If you are as good as you look," continued the old lady, with a cunning
but indulgent smile, "some one has been slandering you."
"Thanks, Aunt Polly! Now you don't flatter me."
"There is Mr. Ellis," Mrs. Ochiltree went on, "who is not half so
good-looking, but is steady as a clock, I dare say."
"Now, Aunt Polly," interposed Mrs. Carteret, "let the gentlemen alone."
"She doesn't mean half what she says," continued Mrs. Carteret
apologetically, "and only talks that way to people whom she likes."
Tom threw Mrs. Carteret a grateful glance. He had been apprehensive,
with the sensitiveness of youth, lest his old great-aunt should make a
fool of him before Clara's family. Nor had he relished the comparison
with Ellis, who was out of place, anyway, in this family party. He had
never liked the fellow, who was too much of a plodder and a prig to make
a suitable associate for a whole-souled, generous-hearted young
gentleman. He tolerated him as a visitor at Carteret's and as a member
of the Clarendon Club, but that was all.
"Mrs. Ochiltree has a characteristic way of disguising her feelings,"
observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of sarcasm.
Ellis had merely flushed and felt uncomfortable at the reference to
himself. The compliment to his character hardly offset the reflection
upon his looks. He knew he was not exactly handsome, but it was not
pleasant to have the fact emphasized in the presence of the girl he
loved; he would like at least fair play, and judgment upon the subject
left to the young lady.
Mrs. Ochiltree was quietly enjoying herself. In early life she had been
accustomed to impale fools on epigrams, like flies on pins, to see them
wriggle. But with advancing years she had lost in some measure the
faculty of nice discrimination,--it was pleasant to see her victims
squirm, whether they were fools or friends. Even one's friends, she
argued, were not always wise, and were sometimes the better for being
told the truth. At her niece's table she felt at liberty to speak her
mind, which she invariably did, with a frankness that sometimes bordered
on brutality. She had long ago outgrown the period where ambition or
passion, or its partners, envy and hatred, were springs of action in her
life, and simply retained a mild enjoyment in the exercise of an old
habit, with no active malice whatever. The ruling passion merely grew
stronger as the restraining faculties decreased in vigor.
A diversion was created at this point by the appearance of old Mammy
Jane, dressed in a calico frock, with clean white neckerchief and apron,
carrying the wonderful baby in honor of whose naming this feast had been
given. Though only six weeks old, the little Theodore had grown rapidly,
and Mammy Jane declared was already quite large for his age, and
displayed signs of an unusually precocious intelligence. He was passed
around the table and duly admired. Clara thought his hair was fine.
Ellis inquired about his teeth. Tom put his finger in the baby's fist to
test his grip. Old Mr. Delamere was unable to decide as yet whether he
favored most his father or his mother. The object of these attentions
endured them patiently for several minutes, and then protested with a
vocal vigor which led to his being taken promptly back upstairs.
Whatever fate might be in store for him, he manifested no sign of weak
lungs.
"Sandy," said Mrs. Carteret when the baby had retired, "pass that tray
standing upon the side table, so that we may all see the presents."
Mr. Delamere had brought a silver spoon, and Tom a napkin ring. Ellis
had sent a silver watch; it was a little premature, he admitted, but
the boy would grow to it, and could use it to play with in the mean
time. It had a glass back, so that he might see the wheels go round.
Mrs. Ochiltree's present was an old and yellow ivory rattle, with a
handle which the child could bite while teething, and a knob screwed on
at the end to prevent the handle from slipping through the baby's hand.
"I saw that in your cedar chest, Aunt Polly," said Clara, "when I was a
little girl, and you used to pull the chest out from under your bed to
get me a dime."
"You kept the rattle in the right-hand corner of the chest," said Tom,
"in the box with the red silk purse, from which you took the gold piece
you gave me every Christmas."
A smile shone on Mrs. Ochiltree's severe features at this appreciation,
like a ray of sunlight on a snowbank.
"Aunt Polly's chest is like the widow's cruse," said Mrs. Carteret,
"which was never empty."
"Or Fortunatus's purse, which was always full," added old Mr. Delamere,
who read the Latin poets, and whose allusions were apt to be classical
rather than scriptural.
"It will last me while I live," said Mrs. Ochiltree, adding cautiously,
"but there'll not be a great deal left. It won't take much to support
an old woman for twenty years."
Mr. Delamere's man Sandy had been waiting upon the table with the
decorum of a trained butler, and a gravity all his own. He had changed
his suit of plain gray for a long blue coat with brass buttons, which
dated back to the fashion of a former generation, with which he wore a
pair of plaid trousers of strikingly modern cut and pattern. With his
whiskers, his spectacles, and his solemn air of responsibility, he would
have presented, to one unfamiliar with the negro type, an amusingly
impressive appearance. But there was nothing incongruous about Sandy to
this company, except perhaps to Tom Delamere, who possessed a keen eye
for contrasts and always regarded Sandy, in that particular rig, as a
very comical darkey.
"Is it quite prudent, Mrs. Ochiltree," suggested the major at a moment
when Sandy, having set down the tray, had left the room for a little
while, "to mention, in the presence of the servants, that you keep money
in the house?"
"I beg your pardon, major," observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of
stiffness. "The only servant in hearing of the conversation has been my
own; and Sandy is as honest as any man in Wellington."
"You mean, sir," replied Carteret, with a smile, "as honest as any negro
in Wellington."
"I make no exceptions, major," returned the old gentleman, with
emphasis. "I would trust Sandy with my life,--he saved it once at the
risk of his own."
"No doubt," mused the major, "the negro is capable of a certain doglike
fidelity,--I make the comparison in a kindly sense,--a certain personal
devotion which is admirable in itself, and fits him eminently for a
servile career. I should imagine, however, that one could more safely
trust his life with a negro than his portable property."
"Very clever, major! I read your paper, and know that your feeling is
hostile toward the negro, but"--
The major made a gesture of dissent, but remained courteously silent
until Mr. Delamere had finished.
"For my part," the old gentleman went on, "I think they have done very
well, considering what they started from, and their limited
opportunities. There was Adam Miller, for instance, who left a
comfortable estate. His son George carries on the business, and the
younger boy, William, is a good doctor and stands well with his
profession. His hospital is a good thing, and if my estate were clear, I
should like to do something for it."
"You are mistaken, sir, in imagining me hostile to the negro," explained
Carteret. "On the contrary, I am friendly to his best interests. I give
him employment; I pay taxes for schools to educate him, and for
court-houses and jails to keep him in order. I merely object to being
governed by an inferior and servile race."
Mrs. Carteret's face wore a tired expression. This question was her
husband's hobby, and therefore her own nightmare. Moreover, she had her
personal grievance against the negro race, and the names mentioned by
old Mr. Delamere had brought it vividly before her mind. She had no
desire to mar the harmony of the occasion by the discussion of a
distasteful subject.
Mr. Delamere, glancing at his hostess, read something of this thought,
and refused the challenge to further argument.
"I do not believe, major," he said, "that Olivia relishes the topic. I
merely wish to say that Sandy is an exception to any rule which you may
formulate in derogation of the negro. Sandy is a gentleman in ebony!"
Tom could scarcely preserve his gravity at this characterization of old
Sandy, with his ridiculous air of importance, his long blue coat, and
his loud plaid trousers. That suit would make a great costume for a
masquerade. He would borrow it some time,--there was nothing in the
world like it.
"Well, Mr. Delamere," returned the major good-humoredly, "no doubt Sandy
is an exceptionally good negro,--he might well be, for he has had the
benefit of your example all his life,--and we know that he is a faithful
servant. But nevertheless, if I were Mrs. Ochiltree, I should put my
money in the bank. Not all negroes are as honest as Sandy, and an
elderly lady might not prove a match for a burly black burglar."
"Thank you, major," retorted Mrs. Ochiltree, with spirit, "I'm not yet
too old to take care of myself. That cedar chest has been my bank for
forty years, and I shall not change my habits at my age."
At this moment Sandy reëntered the room. Carteret made a warning
gesture, which Mrs. Ochiltree chose not to notice.
"I've proved a match for two husbands, and am not afraid of any man
that walks the earth, black or white, by day or night. I have a
revolver, and know how to use it. Whoever attempts to rob me will do so
at his peril."
After dinner Clara played the piano and sang duets with Tom Delamere. At
nine o'clock Mr. Delamere's carriage came for him, and he went away
accompanied by Sandy. Under cover of the darkness the old gentleman
leaned on his servant's arm with frank dependence, and Sandy lifted him
into the carriage with every mark of devotion.
Ellis had already excused himself to go to the office and look over the
late proofs for the morning paper. Tom remained a few minutes longer
than his grandfather, and upon taking his leave went round to the
Clarendon Club, where he spent an hour or two in the card-room with a
couple of congenial friends. Luck seemed to favor him, and he went home
at midnight with a comfortable balance of winnings. He was fond of
excitement, and found a great deal of it in cards. To lose was only less
exciting than to win. Of late he had developed into a very successful
player,--so successful, indeed, that several members of the club
generally found excuses to avoid participating in a game where he made
one.