mrs. carteret awoke, with a start, from a troubled dream. she had been sailing across a sunlit sea, in a beautiful boat, her child lying on a bright-colored cushion at her feet. overhead the swelling sail served as an awning to keep off the sun's rays, which far ahead were reflected with dazzling brilliancy from the shores of a golden island. her son, she dreamed, was a fairy prince, and yonder lay his kingdom, to which he was being borne, lying there at her feet, in this beautiful boat, across the sunlit sea.
suddenly and without warning the sky was overcast. a squall struck the boat and tore away the sail. in the distance a huge billow—a great white wall of water—came sweeping toward their frail craft, threatening it with instant destruction. she clasped her child to her bosom, and a moment later found herself struggling in the sea, holding the child's head above the water. as she floated there, as though sustained by some unseen force, she saw in the distance a small boat approaching over the storm-tossed waves. straight toward her it came, and she had reached out her hand to grasp its side, when the rower looked back, and she saw that it was her sister. the recognition had been mutual. with a sharp movement of one oar the boat glided by, leaving her clutching at the empty air. she felt her strength begin to fail. despairingly she signaled with her disengaged hand; but the rower, after one mute, reproachful glance, rowed on. mrs. carteret's strength grew less and less. the child became heavy as lead. herself floating in the water, as though it were her native element, she could no longer support the child. lower and lower it sank,—she was powerless to save it or to accompany it,—until, gasping wildly for breath, it threw up its little hands and sank, the cruel water gurgling over its head,—when she awoke with a start and a chill, and lay there trembling for several minutes before she heard little dodie in his crib, breathing heavily.
she rose softly, went to the crib, and changed the child's position to an easier one. he breathed more freely, and she went back to bed, but not to sleep.
she had tried to put aside the distressing questions raised by the discovery of her father's will and the papers accompanying it. why should she be burdened with such a responsibility, at this late day, when the touch of time had well-nigh healed these old sores? surely, god had put his curse not alone upon the slave, but upon the stealer of men! with other good people she had thanked him that slavery was no more, and that those who once had borne its burden upon their consciences could stand erect and feel that they themselves were free. the weed had been cut down, but its roots remained, deeply imbedded in the soil, to spring up and trouble a new generation. upon her weak shoulders was placed the burden of her father's weakness, her father's folly. it was left to her to acknowledge or not this shameful marriage and her sister's rights in their father's estate.
balancing one consideration against another, she had almost decided that she might ignore this tie. to herself, olivia merkell,—olivia carteret,—the stigma of base birth would have meant social ostracism, social ruin, the averted face, the finger of pity or of scorn. all the traditional weight of public disapproval would have fallen upon her as the unhappy fruit of an unblessed union. to this other woman it could have had no such significance,—it had been the lot of her race. to them, twenty-five years before, sexual sin had never been imputed as more than a fault. she had lost nothing by her supposed illegitimacy; she would gain nothing by the acknowledgment of her mother's marriage.
on the other hand, what would be the effect of this revelation upon mrs. carteret herself? to have it known that her father had married a negress would only be less dreadful than to have it appear that he had committed some terrible crime. it was a crime now, by the laws of every southern state, for white and colored persons to intermarry. she shuddered before the possibility that at some time in the future some person, none too well informed, might learn that her father had married a colored woman, and might assume that she, olivia carteret, or her child, had sprung from this shocking mésalliance,—a fate to which she would willingly have preferred death. no, this marriage must never be made known; the secret should remain buried forever in her own heart!
but there still remained the question of her father's property and her father's will. this woman was her father's child,—of that there could be no doubt, it was written in her features no less than in her father's will. as his lawful child,—of which, alas! there could also be no question,—she was entitled by law to half his estate. mrs. carteret's problem had sunk from the realm of sentiment to that of material things, which, curiously enough, she found much more difficult. for, while the negro, by the traditions of her people, was barred from the world of sentiment, his rights of property were recognized. the question had become, with mrs. carteret, a question of meum and tuum. had the girl janet been poor, ignorant, or degraded, as might well have been her fate, mrs. carteret might have felt a vicarious remorse for her aunt's suppression of the papers; but fate had compensated janet for the loss; she had been educated, she had married well; she had not suffered for lack of the money of which she had been defrauded, and did not need it now. she had a child, it is true, but this child's career would be so circumscribed by the accident of color that too much wealth would only be a source of unhappiness; to her own child, on the contrary, it would open every door of life.
it would be too lengthy a task to follow the mind and conscience of this much-tried lady in their intricate workings upon this difficult problem; for she had a mind as logical as any woman's, and a conscience which she wished to keep void of offense. she had to confront a situation involving the element of race, upon which the moral standards of her people were hopelessly confused. mrs. carteret reached the conclusion, ere daylight dawned, that she would be silent upon the subject of her father's second marriage. neither party had wished it known,—neither julia nor her father,—and she would respect her father's wishes. to act otherwise would be to defeat his will, to make known what he had carefully concealed, and to give janet a claim of title to one half her father's estate, while he had only meant her to have the ten thousand dollars named in the will.
by the same reasoning, she must carry out her father's will in respect to this bequest. here there was another difficulty. the mining investment into which they had entered shortly after the birth of little dodie had tied up so much of her property that it would have been difficult to procure ten thousand dollars immediately; while a demand for half the property at once would mean bankruptcy and ruin. moreover, upon what ground could she offer her sister any sum of money whatever? so sudden a change of heart, after so many years of silence, would raise the presumption of some right on the part of janet in her father's estate. suspicion once aroused, it might be possible to trace this hidden marriage, and establish it by legal proof. the marriage once verified, the claim for half the estate could not be denied. she could not plead her father's will to the contrary, for this would be to acknowledge the suppression of the will, in itself a criminal act.
there was, however, a way of escape. this hospital which had recently been opened was the personal property of her sister's husband. some time in the future, when their investments matured, she would present to the hospital a sum of money equal to the amount her father had meant his colored daughter to have. thus indirectly both her father's will and her own conscience would be satisfied.
mrs. carteret had reached this comfortable conclusion, and was falling asleep, when her attention was again drawn by her child's breathing. she took it in her own arms and soon fell asleep.
"by the way, olivia," said the major, when leaving the house next morning for the office, "if you have any business down town to-day, transact it this forenoon. under no circumstances must you or clara or the baby leave the house after midday."
"why, what's the matter, phil?"
"nothing to alarm you, except that there may be a little political demonstration which may render the streets unsafe. you are not to say anything about it where the servants might hear."
"will there be any danger for you, phil?" she demanded with alarm.
"not the slightest, olivia dear. no one will be harmed; but it is best for ladies and children to stay indoors."
mrs. carteret's nerves were still more or less unstrung from her mental struggles of the night, and the memory of her dream came to her like a dim foreboding of misfortune. as though in sympathy with its mother's feelings, the baby did not seem as well as usual. the new nurse was by no means an ideal nurse,—mammy jane understood the child much better. if there should be any trouble with the negroes, toward which her husband's remark seemed to point,—she knew the general political situation, though not informed in regard to her husband's plans,—she would like to have mammy jane near her, where the old nurse might be protected from danger or alarm.
with this end in view she dispatched the nurse, shortly after breakfast, to mammy jane's house in the negro settlement on the other side of the town, with a message asking the old woman to come immediately to mrs. carteret's. unfortunately, mammy jane had gone to visit a sick woman in the country, and was not expected to return for several hours.
