XV

MRS. CARTERET SEEKS AN EXPLANATION

As a stone dropped into a pool of water sets in motion a series of concentric circles which disturb the whole mass in varying degree, so Mrs. Ochiltree’s enigmatical remark had started in her niece’s mind a disturbing train of thought.  Had her words, Mrs. Carteret asked herself, any serious meaning, or were they the mere empty babblings of a clouded intellect?

“William,” she said to the coachman when they reached Mrs. Ochiltree’s house, “you may tie the horse and help us out.  I shall be here a little while.”

William helped the ladies down, assisted Mrs. Ochiltree into the house, and then went round to the kitchen.  Dinah was an excellent hand at potato-pone and other culinary delicacies dear to the Southern heart, and William was a welcome visitor in her domain.

“Now, Aunt Polly,” said Mrs. Carteret resolutely, as soon as they were alone, “I want to know what you meant by what you said about my father and Julia, and this—­this child of hers?”

The old woman smiled cunningly, but her expression soon changed to one more grave.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked suspiciously.  “You’ve got the land, the houses, and the money.  You’ve nothing to complain of.  Enjoy yourself, and be thankful!”

“I’m thankful to God,” returned Olivia, “for all his good gifts,—­and He has blessed me abundantly,—­but why should I be thankful to you for the property my father left me?”

“Why should you be thankful to me?” rejoined Mrs. Ochiltree with querulous indignation.  “You’d better ask why shouldn’t you be thankful to me.  What have I not done for you?”

“Yes, Aunt Polly, I know you’ve done a great deal.  You reared me in your own house when I had been cast out of my father’s; you have been a second mother to me, and I am very grateful,—­you can never say that I have not shown my gratitude.  But if you have done anything else for me, I wish to know it.  Why should I thank you for my inheritance?”

“Why should you thank me?  Well, because I drove that woman and her brat away.”

“But she had no right to stay, Aunt Polly, after father died.  Of course she had no moral right before, but it was his house, and he could keep her there if he chose.  But after his death she surely had no right.”

“Perhaps not so surely as you think,—­if she had not been a negro.  Had she been white, there might have been a difference.  When I told her to go, she said”—­

“What did she say, Aunt Polly,” demanded Olivia eagerly.

It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Ochiltree would speak no further:  but her once strong will, now weakened by her bodily infirmities, yielded to the influence of her niece’s imperious demand.

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” she said, “and then you’ll know what I did for you and yours.”  Mrs. Ochiltree’s eyes assumed an introspective expression, and her story, as it advanced, became as keenly dramatic as though memory had thrown aside the veil of intervening years and carried her back directly to the events which she now described.