The Marrow of Tradition | Page 9

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