“There cannot be a finer or stronger little boy in the ’varsal world,” said Mrs. Gregory: “but, Lord help us!” continued she, unable longer to contain her overcharged grief, “It’s—it’s not so—so white as it should be!”
“Not white?” exclaimed every one of the company simultaneously.
“No,—O Lord, no!” answered Mrs. Gregory, looking mournfully up to the ceiling in search of heaven. Then casting her eyes wistfully around the company, she added—“God’s will be done! but the dear little boy is—is—quite black!”
“Black! black!” echoed from every quarter of the apartment.
“As black as your hat, if not blacker,” replied Mrs. Gregory.
“Oh! Oh—h!” groaned Mr. Washington.
“Oh! Oh—h!” responded Mrs. Gregory.
“Blood and ouns!” said the lieutenant.—“See how I am shaking,” said the midwife, taking up a large glass of potsheen and drinking it off to settle her nerves.
What passed afterward on that evening may be easily surmised: but the next day Mrs. Gregory, the sage femme, came into Castle Burrow to “prevent mistakes,” and tell the affair to the neighbours in her own way; that is, partly in whispers, partly aloud, and partly by nods and winks—such as old ladies frequently use when they wish to divulge more than they like to speak openly.
Sufficient could be gathered, however, to demonstrate that young Master Washington had not one white, or even gray spot on his entire body, and that some frizzled hair was already beginning to show itself on his little pate; but that no nurse could be found who would give him a drop of nourishment, even were he famishing—all the women verily believing that, as Mrs. Washington was herself an unexceptionable wife, it must be a son of the d—l by a dream, and nothing else than an imp. However, Mr. Hoskinson, the clergyman, soon contradicted this report by assuring the Protestants that the day for that sort of miracle had been for some centuries over, and that the infant was as fine, healthy, natural, and sprightly a little negro as ever came from the coast of Guinea.