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 today. 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
