When Mrs. Carteret had fully recovered from the shock attendant upon the
accident at the window, where little Dodie had so narrowly escaped death
or serious injury, she ordered her carriage one afternoon and directed
the coachman to drive her to Mrs. Ochiltree's.
Mrs. Carteret had discharged her young nurse only the day before, and
had sent for Mammy Jane, who was now recovered from her rheumatism, to
stay until she could find another girl. The nurse had been ordered not
to take the child to negroes' houses. Yesterday, in driving past the old
homestead of her husband's family, now occupied by Dr. Miller and his
family, Mrs. Carteret had seen her own baby's carriage standing in the
yard.
When the nurse returned home, she was immediately discharged. She
offered some sort of explanation, to the effect that her sister worked
for Mrs. Miller, and that some family matter had rendered it necessary
for her to see her sister. The explanation only aggravated the offense:
if Mrs. Carteret could have overlooked the disobedience, she would by no
means have retained in her employment a servant whose sister worked for
the Miller woman.
Old Mrs. Ochiltree had within a few months begun to show signs of
breaking up. She was over seventy years old, and had been of late, by
various afflictions, confined to the house much of the time. More than
once within the year, Mrs. Carteret had asked her aunt to come and live
with her; but Mrs. Ochiltree, who would have regarded such a step as an
acknowledgment of weakness, preferred her lonely independence. She
resided in a small, old-fashioned house, standing back in the middle of
a garden on a quiet street. Two old servants made up her modest
household.
This refusal to live with her niece had been lightly borne, for Mrs.
Ochiltree was a woman of strong individuality, whose comments upon her
acquaintance, present or absent, were marked by a frankness at times no
less than startling. This characteristic caused her to be more or less
avoided. Mrs. Ochiltree was aware of this sentiment on the part of her
acquaintance, and rather exulted in it. She hated fools. Only fools ran
away from her, and that because they were afraid she would expose their
folly. If most people were fools, it was no fault of hers, and she was
not obliged to indulge them by pretending to believe that they knew
anything. She had once owned considerable property, but was reticent
about her affairs, and told no one how much she was worth, though it was
supposed that she had considerable ready money, besides her house and
some other real estate. Mrs. Carteret was her nearest living relative,
though her grand-nephew Tom Delamere had been a great favorite with her.
If she did not spare him her tongue-lashings, it was nevertheless
expected in the family that she would leave him something handsome in
her will.
Mrs. Ochiltree had shared in the general rejoicing upon the advent of
the Carteret baby. She had been one of his godmothers, and had hinted at
certain intentions held by her concerning him. During Mammy Jane's
administration she had tried the old nurse's patience more or less by
her dictatorial interference. Since her partial confinement to the
house, she had gone, when her health and the weather would permit, to
see the child, and at other times had insisted that it be sent to her in
charge of the nurse at least every other day.
Mrs. Ochiltree's faculties had shared insensibly in the decline of her
health. This weakness manifested itself by fits of absent-mindedness, in
which she would seemingly lose connection with the present, and live
over again, in imagination, the earlier years of her life. She had
buried two husbands, had tried in vain to secure a third, and had never
borne any children. Long ago she had petrified into a character which
nothing under heaven could change, and which, if death is to take us as
it finds us, and the future life to keep us as it takes us, promised
anything but eternal felicity to those with whom she might associate
after this life. Tom Delamere had been heard to say, profanely, that if
his Aunt Polly went to heaven, he would let his mansion in the skies on
a long lease, at a low figure.
When the carriage drove up with Mrs. Carteret, her aunt was seated on
the little front piazza, with her wrinkled hands folded in her lap,
dozing the afternoon away in fitful slumber.
"Tie the horse, William," said Mrs. Carteret, "and then go in and wake
Aunt Polly, and tell her I want her to come and drive with me."
Mrs. Ochiltree had not observed her niece's approach, nor did she look
up when William drew near. Her eyes were closed, and she would let her
head sink slowly forward, recovering it now and then with a spasmodic
jerk.
"Colonel Ochiltree," she muttered, "was shot at the battle of Culpepper
Court House, and left me a widow for the second time. But I would not
have married any man on earth after him."
"Mis' Ochiltree!" cried William, raising his voice, "oh, Mis'
Ochiltree!"
"If I had found a man,--a real man,--I might have married again. I did
not care for weaklings. I could have married John Delamere if I had
wanted him. But pshaw! I could have wound him round"--
"Go round to the kitchen, William," interrupted Mrs. Carteret
impatiently, "and tell Aunt Dinah to come and wake her up."
William returned in a few moments with a fat, comfortable looking black
woman, who curtsied to Mrs. Carteret at the gate, and then going up to
her mistress seized her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously.
"Wake up dere, Mis' Polly," she screamed, as harshly as her mellow voice
would permit. "Mis' 'Livy wants you ter go drivin' wid 'er!"
"Dinah," exclaimed the old lady, sitting suddenly upright with a defiant
assumption of wakefulness, "why do you take so long to come when I call?
Bring me my bonnet and shawl. Don't you see my niece waiting for me at
the gate?"
"Hyuh dey is, hyuh dey is!" returned Dinah, producing the bonnet and
shawl, and assisting Mrs. Ochiltree to put them on.
Leaning on William's arm, the old lady went slowly down the walk, and
was handed to the rear seat with Mrs. Carteret.
"How's the baby to-day, Olivia, and why didn't you bring him?"
"He has a cold to-day, and is a little hoarse," replied Mrs. Carteret,
"so I thought it best not to bring him out. Drive out the Weldon road,
William, and back by Pine Street."
The drive led past an eminence crowned by a handsome brick building of
modern construction, evidently an institution of some kind, surrounded
on three sides by a grove of venerable oaks.
"Hugh Poindexter," Mrs. Ochiltree exclaimed explosively, after a
considerable silence, "has been building a new house, in place of the
old family mansion burned during the war."
"It isn't Mr. Poindexter's house, Aunt Polly. That is the new colored
hospital built by the colored doctor."
"The new colored hospital, indeed, and the colored doctor! Before the
war the negroes were all healthy, and when they got sick we took care of
them ourselves! Hugh Poindexter has sold the graves of his ancestors to
a negro,--I should have starved first!"
"He had his grandfather's grave opened, and there was nothing to remove,
except a few bits of heart-pine from the coffin. All the rest had
crumbled into dust."
"And he sold the dust to a negro! The world is upside down."
"He had the tombstone transferred to the white cemetery, Aunt Polly, and
he has moved away."
"Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. When I die, if you
outlive me, Olivia, which is not likely, I shall leave my house and
land to this child! He is a Carteret,--he would never sell them to a
negro. I can't trust Tom Delamere, I'm afraid."
The carriage had skirted the hill, passing to the rear of the new
building.
"Turn to the right, William," ordered Mrs. Carteret, addressing the
coachman, "and come back past the other side of the hospital."
A turn to the right into another road soon brought them to the front of
the building, which stood slightly back from the street, with no
intervening fence or inclosure. A sorrel pony in a light buggy was
fastened to a hitching-post near the entrance. As they drove past, a
lady came out of the front door and descended the steps, holding by the
hand a very pretty child about six years old.
"Who is that woman, Olivia?" asked Mrs. Ochiltree abruptly, with signs
of agitation.
The lady coming down the steps darted at the approaching carriage a look
which lingered involuntarily.
Mrs. Carteret, perceiving this glance, turned away coldly.
With a sudden hardening of her own features the other woman lifted the
little boy into the buggy and drove sharply away in the direction
opposite to that taken by Mrs. Carteret's carriage.
"Who is that woman, Olivia?" repeated Mrs. Ochiltree, with marked
emotion.
"I have not the honor of her acquaintance," returned Mrs. Carteret
sharply. "Drive faster, William."
"I want to know who that woman is," persisted Mrs. Ochiltree
querulously. "William," she cried shrilly, poking the coachman in the
back with the end of her cane, "who is that woman?"
"Dat's Mis' Miller, ma'am," returned the coachman, touching his hat;
"Doctuh Miller's wife."
"What was her mother's name?"
"Her mother's name wuz Julia Brown. She's be'n dead dese twenty years
er mo'. Why, you knowed Julia, Mis' Polly!--she used ter b'long ter yo'
own father befo' de wah; an' after de wah she kep' house fer"--
"Look to your horses, William!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret sharply.
"It's that hussy's child," said Mrs. Ochiltree, turning to her niece
with great excitement. "When your father died, I turned the mother and
the child out into the street. The mother died and went to--the place
provided for such as she. If I hadn't been just in time, Olivia, they
would have turned you out. I saved the property for you and your son!
You can thank me for it all!"
"Hush, Aunt Polly, for goodness' sake! William will hear you. Tell me
about it when you get home."
Mrs. Ochiltree was silent, except for a few incoherent mumblings. What
she might say, what distressing family secret she might repeat in
William's hearing, should she take another talkative turn, was beyond
conjecture.
Olivia looked anxiously around for something to distract her aunt's
attention, and caught sight of a colored man, dressed in sober gray, who
was coming toward the carriage.
"There's Mr. Delamere's Sandy!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret, touching her
aunt on the arm. "I wonder how his master is? Sandy, oh, Sandy!"
Sandy approached the carriage, lifting his hat with a slight
exaggeration of Chesterfieldian elegance. Sandy, no less than his
master, was a survival of an interesting type. He had inherited the
feudal deference for his superiors in position, joined to a certain
self-respect which saved him from sycophancy. His manners had been
formed upon those of old Mr. Delamere, and were not a bad imitation; for
in the man, as in the master, they were the harmonious reflection of a
mental state.
"How is Mr. Delamere, Sandy?" asked Mrs. Carteret, acknowledging Sandy's
salutation with a nod and a smile.
"He ain't ez peart ez he has be'n, ma'am," replied Sandy, "but he's
doin' tol'able well. De doctuh say he's good fer a dozen years yit, ef
he'll jes' take good keer of hisse'f an' keep f'm gittin' excited; fer
sence dat secon' stroke, excitement is dange'ous fer 'im."
"I'm sure you take the best care of him," returned Mrs. Carteret kindly.
"You can't do anything for him, Sandy," interposed old Mrs. Ochiltree,
shaking her head slowly to emphasize her dissent. "All the doctors in
creation couldn't keep him alive another year. I shall outlive him by
twenty years, though we are not far from the same age."
"Lawd, ma'am!" exclaimed Sandy, lifting his hands in affected
amazement,--his study of gentle manners had been more than
superficial,--"whoever would 'a' s'picion' dat you an' Mars John wuz
nigh de same age? I'd 'a' 'lowed you wuz ten years younger 'n him, easy,
ef you wuz a day!"
"Give my compliments to the poor old gentleman," returned Mrs.
Ochiltree, with a simper of senile vanity, though her back was
weakening under the strain of the effort to sit erect that she might
maintain this illusion of comparative youthfulness. "Bring him to see me
some day when he is able to walk."
"Yas'm, I will," rejoined Sandy. "He's gwine out ter Belleview nex'
week, fer ter stay a mont' er so, but I'll fetch him 'roun' w'en he
comes back. I'll tell 'im dat you ladies 'quired fer 'im."
Sandy made another deep bow, and held his hat in his hand until the
carriage had moved away. He had not condescended to notice the coachman
at all, who was one of the young negroes of the new generation; while
Sandy regarded himself as belonging to the quality, and seldom stooped
to notice those beneath him. It would not have been becoming in him,
either, while conversing with white ladies, to have noticed a colored
servant. Moreover, the coachman was a Baptist, while Sandy was a
Methodist, though under a cloud, and considered a Methodist in poor
standing as better than a Baptist of any degree of sanctity.
"Lawd, Lawd!" chuckled Sandy, after the carriage had departed, "I never
seed nothin' lack de way dat ole lady do keep up her temper! Wid one
foot in de grave, an' de other hov'rin' on de edge, she talks 'bout my
ole marster lack he wuz in his secon' chil'hood. But I'm jes' willin'
ter bet dat he'll outlas' her! She ain't half de woman she wuz dat
night I waited on de table at de christenin' pa'ty, w'en she 'lowed she
wuzn' feared er no man livin'."