The young heir of the Carterets had thriven apace, and at six months old
was, according to Mammy Jane, whose experience qualified her to speak
with authority, the largest, finest, smartest, and altogether most
remarkable baby that had ever lived in Wellington. Mammy Jane had
recently suffered from an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, as the
result of which she had returned to her own home. She nevertheless came
now and then to see Mrs. Carteret. A younger nurse had been procured to
take her place, but it was understood that Jane would come whenever she
might be needed.
"You really mean that about Dodie, do you, Mammy Jane?" asked the
delighted mother, who never tired of hearing her own opinion confirmed
concerning this wonderful child, which had come to her like an angel
from heaven.
"Does I mean it!" exclaimed Mammy Jane, with a tone and an expression
which spoke volumes of reproach. "Now, Mis' 'Livy, what is I ever
uttered er said er spoke er done dat would make you s'pose I could tell
you a lie 'bout yo' own chile?"
"No, Mammy Jane, I'm sure you wouldn't."
"'Deed, ma'am, I'm tellin' you de Lawd's truf. I don' haf ter tell no
lies ner strain no p'ints 'bout my ole mist'ess's gran'chile. Dis yer
boy is de ve'y spit an' image er yo' brother, young Mars Alick, w'at
died w'en he wuz 'bout eight mont's ole, w'iles I wuz laid off havin' a
baby er my own, an' couldn' be roun' ter look after 'im. An' dis chile
is a rale quality chile, he is,--I never seed a baby wid sech fine hair
fer his age, ner sech blue eyes, ner sech a grip, ner sech a heft. W'y,
dat chile mus' weigh 'bout twenty-fo' poun's, an' he not but six mont's
ole. Does dat gal w'at does de nussin' w'iles I'm gone ten' ter dis
chile right, Mis' 'Livy?"
"She does fairly well, Mammy Jane, but I could hardly expect her to love
the baby as you do. There's no one like you, Mammy Jane."
"'Deed dere ain't, honey; you is talkin' de gospel truf now! None er
dese yer young folks ain' got de trainin' my ole mist'ess give me. Dese
yer new-fangle' schools don' l'arn 'em nothin' ter compare wid it. I'm
jes' gwine ter give dat gal a piece er my min', befo' I go, so she'll
ten' ter dis chile right."
The nurse came in shortly afterwards, a neat-looking brown girl, dressed
in a clean calico gown, with a nurse's cap and apron.
"Look a-here, gal," said Mammy Jane sternly, "I wants you ter understan'
dat you got ter take good keer er dis chile; fer I nussed his mammy
dere, an' his gran'mammy befo' 'im, an' you is got a priv'lege dat mos'
lackly you don' 'preciate. I wants you to 'member, in yo' incomin's an'
outgoin's, dat I got my eye on you, an' am gwine ter see dat you does
yo' wo'k right."
"Do you need me for anything, ma'am?" asked the young nurse, who had
stood before Mrs. Carteret, giving Mammy Jane a mere passing glance, and
listening impassively to her harangue. The nurse belonged to the
younger generation of colored people. She had graduated from the mission
school, and had received some instruction in Dr. Miller's class for
nurses. Standing, like most young people of her race, on the border line
between two irreconcilable states of life, she had neither the
picturesqueness of the slave, nor the unconscious dignity of those of
whom freedom has been the immemorial birthright; she was in what might
be called the chip-on-the-shoulder stage, through which races as well as
individuals must pass in climbing the ladder of life,--not an
interesting, at least not an agreeable stage, but an inevitable one, and
for that reason entitled to a paragraph in a story of Southern life,
which, with its as yet imperfect blending of old with new, of race with
race, of slavery with freedom, is like no other life under the sun.
Had this old woman, who had no authority over her, been a little more
polite, or a little less offensive, the nurse might have returned her a
pleasant answer. These old-time negroes, she said to herself, made her
sick with their slavering over the white folks, who, she supposed,
favored them and made much of them because they had once belonged to
them,--much the same reason why they fondled their cats and dogs. For
her own part, they gave her nothing but her wages, and small wages at
that, and she owed them nothing more than equivalent service. It was
purely a matter of business; she sold her time for their money. There
was no question of love between them.
Receiving a negative answer from Mrs. Carteret, she left the room
without a word, ignoring Mammy Jane completely, and leaving that
venerable relic of ante-bellum times gasping in helpless astonishment.
"Well, I nevuh!" she ejaculated, as soon as she could get her breath,
"ef dat ain' de beatinis' pe'fo'mance I ever seed er heared of! Dese yer
young niggers ain' got de manners dey wuz bawned wid! I don' know w'at
dey're comin' to, w'en dey ain' got no mo' rispec' fer ole age--I don'
know--I don' know!"
"Now what are you croaking about, Jane?" asked Major Carteret, who came
into the room and took the child into his arms.
Mammy Jane hobbled to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. She was never
lacking in respect to white people of proper quality; but Major
Carteret, the quintessence of aristocracy, called out all her reserves
of deference. The major was always kind and considerate to these old
family retainers, brought up in the feudal atmosphere now so rapidly
passing away. Mammy Jane loved Mrs. Carteret; toward the major she
entertained a feeling bordering upon awe.
"Well, Jane," returned the major sadly, when the old nurse had related
her grievance, "the old times have vanished, the old ties have been
ruptured. The old relations of dependence and loyal obedience on the
part of the colored people, the responsibility of protection and
kindness upon that of the whites, have passed away forever. The young
negroes are too self-assertive. Education is spoiling them, Jane; they
have been badly taught. They are not content with their station in life.
Some time they will overstep the mark. The white people are patient, but
there is a limit to their endurance."
"Dat's w'at I tells dese young niggers," groaned Mammy Jane, with a
portentous shake of her turbaned head, "w'en I hears 'em gwine on wid
deir foolishniss; but dey don' min' me. Dey 'lows dey knows mo' d'n I
does, 'ca'se dey be'n l'arnt ter look in a book. But, pshuh! my ole
mist'ess showed me mo' d'n dem niggers 'll l'arn in a thousan' years! I
's fetch' my gran'son' Jerry up ter be 'umble, an' keep in 'is place.
An' I tells dese other niggers dat ef dey'd do de same, an' not crowd
de w'ite folks, dey'd git ernuff ter eat, an' live out deir days in
peace an' comfo't. But dey don' min' me--dey don' min' me!"
"If all the colored people were like you and Jerry, Jane," rejoined the
major kindly, "there would never be any trouble. You have friends upon
whom, in time of need, you can rely implicitly for protection and
succor. You served your mistress faithfully before the war; you remained
by her when the other negroes were running hither and thither like sheep
without a shepherd; and you have transferred your allegiance to my wife
and her child. We think a great deal of you, Jane."
"Yes, indeed, Mammy Jane," assented Mrs. Carteret, with sincere
affection, glancing with moist eyes from the child in her husband's arms
to the old nurse, whose dark face was glowing with happiness at these
expressions of appreciation, "you shall never want so long as we have
anything. We would share our last crust with you."
"Thank y', Mis' 'Livy," said Jane with reciprocal emotion, "I knows who
my frien's is, an' I ain' gwine ter let nothin' worry me. But fer de
Lawd's sake, Mars Philip, gimme dat chile, an' lemme pat 'im on de back,
er he'll choke hisse'f ter death!"
The old nurse had been the first to observe that little Dodie, for some
reason, was gasping for breath. Catching the child from the major's
arms, she patted it on the back, and shook it gently. After a moment of
this treatment, the child ceased to gasp, but still breathed heavily,
with a strange, whistling noise.
"Oh, my child!" exclaimed the mother, in great alarm, taking the baby in
her own arms, "what can be the matter with him, Mammy Jane?"
"Fer de Lawd's sake, ma'am, I don' know, 'less he's swallered
somethin'; an' he ain' had nothin' in his han's but de rattle Mis' Polly
give 'im."
Mrs. Carteret caught up the ivory rattle, which hung suspended by a
ribbon from the baby's neck.
"He has swallowed the little piece off the end of the handle," she
cried, turning pale with fear, "and it has lodged in his throat.
Telephone Dr. Price to come immediately, Philip, before my baby chokes
to death! Oh, my baby, my precious baby!"
An anxious half hour passed, during which the child lay quiet, except
for its labored breathing. The suspense was relieved by the arrival of
Dr. Price, who examined the child carefully.
"It's a curious accident," he announced at the close of his inspection.
"So far as I can discover, the piece of ivory has been drawn into the
trachea, or windpipe, and has lodged in the mouth of the right bronchus.
I'll try to get it out without an operation, but I can't guarantee the
result."
At the end of another half hour Dr. Price announced his inability to
remove the obstruction without resorting to more serious measures.
"I do not see," he declared, "how an operation can be avoided."
"Will it be dangerous?" inquired the major anxiously, while Mrs.
Carteret shivered at the thought.
"It will be necessary to cut into his throat from the outside. All such
operations are more or less dangerous, especially on small children. If
this were some other child, I might undertake the operation unassisted;
but I know how you value this one, major, and I should prefer to share
the responsibility with a specialist."
"Is there one in town?" asked the major.
"No, but we can get one from out of town."
"Send for the best one in the country," said the major, "who can be got
here in time. Spare no expense, Dr. Price. We value this child above any
earthly thing."
"The best is the safest," replied Dr. Price. "I will send for Dr. Burns,
of Philadelphia, the best surgeon in that line in America. If he can
start at once, he can reach here in sixteen or eighteen hours, and the
case can wait even longer, if inflammation does not set in."
The message was dispatched forthwith. By rare good fortune the eminent
specialist was able to start within an hour or two after the receipt of
Dr. Price's telegram. Meanwhile the baby remained restless and uneasy,
the doctor spending most of his time by its side. Mrs. Carteret, who had
never been quite strong since the child's birth, was a prey to the most
agonizing apprehensions.
Mammy Jane, while not presuming to question the opinion of Dr. Price,
and not wishing to add to her mistress's distress, was secretly
oppressed by forebodings which she was unable to shake off. The child
was born for bad luck. The mole under its ear, just at the point where
the hangman's knot would strike, had foreshadowed dire misfortune. She
had already observed several little things which had rendered her
vaguely anxious.
For instance, upon one occasion, on entering the room where the baby had
been left alone, asleep in his crib, she had met a strange cat hurrying
from the nursery, and, upon examining closely the pillow upon which the
child lay, had found a depression which had undoubtedly been due to the
weight of the cat's body. The child was restless and uneasy, and Jane
had ever since believed that the cat had been sucking little Dodie's
breath, with what might have been fatal results had she not appeared
just in the nick of time.
This untimely accident of the rattle, a fatality for which no one could
be held responsible, had confirmed the unlucky omen. Jane's duties in
the nursery did not permit her to visit her friend the conjure woman;
but she did find time to go out in the back yard at dusk, and to dig up
the charm which she had planted there. It had protected the child so
far; but perhaps its potency had become exhausted. She picked up the
bottle, shook it vigorously, and then laid it back, with the other side
up. Refilling the hole, she made a cross over the top with the thumb of
her left hand, and walked three times around it.
What this strange symbolism meant, or whence it derived its origin, Aunt
Jane did not know. The cross was there, and the Trinity, though Jane was
scarcely conscious of these, at this moment, as religious emblems. But
she hoped, on general principles, that this performance would strengthen
the charm and restore little Dodie's luck. It certainly had its moral
effect upon Jane's own mind, for she was able to sleep better, and
contrived to impress Mrs. Carteret with her own hopefulness.
V