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 courthouses 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.
III.
The Editor at Work
To go back a little, for several days after his child’s birth Major Carteret’s chief interest in life had been confined to the four walls of the chamber where his pale wife lay upon her bed of pain, and those of the adjoining room where an old black woman crooned lovingly over a little white infant. A new element had been added to the major’s consciousness, broadening the scope and deepening the strength of his affections. He did not love Olivia the less, for maternity had crowned her wifehood with an added glory; but side by side with this old and tried attachment was a new passion, stirring up dormant hopes and kindling new desires. His regret had been more than personal at the thought that with himself an old name should be lost to the State; and now all the old pride of race, class, and family welled up anew, and swelled and quickened the current of his life.
Upon
