"Good morning, Princess."
"Good morning." And then, shyly, "It isn't nice to drop from a goddess even to a princess."
"Wait until I tell you the princess that you are! You're Snowdrop who was given to the dwarfs to keep. You remember her, don't you?"
"I think she had a cruel mother who wanted to get her out of the way."
"Yes, but it was all because Snowdrop was the most beautiful woman in the world; no one else was half so fair. How was it? When the mother looked into her mirror and asked if any one were fairer than she, she saw Snowdrop's face. Of course, no woman could stand that, so she cast Snowdrop out and the ugly dwarfs took care of her."
"The dwarfs were kinder to her than her own people."
Merryvale, with a hasty glance at the girl, sensed the ugly reality of his story and, turning very red, began plucking the dead leaves from the nearest tree.
"It must be wonderful," he remarked, rather clumsily, "to be a new person every day. Who will you be to-morrow?"
"Miss Patty's maid." All her brightness had gone and she moved as if about to leave him.
"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "not that! Cinderella, perhaps. To-morrow you will be Cinderella before the fairy godmother came to take her to the ball."
"Yes, because nothing had happened then."
"Not before the ball, but after; the next morning when the prince searches with the golden slipper in his hand."
"If I were going to be Cinderella at all," Hertha was gently emphatic, "I would be at the ball itself, a beautiful ball in a long, golden room filled with lights and blooming flowers, where every one wore filmy silk dresses and danced to swaying music."
"You and I would dance together, you in soft blue silk, the color of the dress you have on, and I—what should I wear?"
"Pale pink satin," she answered, laughter in her eyes, "and your hair in long curls."
He chuckled. "What fools they must have looked, those Fauntleroy princes. I wonder if they ever did a stroke of work?"
"No, others planted while they picked the blossoms."
"There's a heap of that in this world, isn't there? Do you know," earnestly, "one reason I came home was because I thought I'd like to see a Merryvale digging his own garden."
"You do it very nicely."
"Thank you." He said this seriously, and then, realizing for a moment her station, turned away.
"What's this?" She was running among the trees; he dashed after her and in a moment had her cornered.
"The clock struck twelve."
"No it didn't! Truly it didn't. Besides, you're not Cinderella to-day, you're Snowdrop. You mustn't change parts as fast as that. It isn't Cinderella until to-morrow."
"I'm afraid I forgot."
"Of course you did. Come now, and play."
She shook her head, and then half whispered, looking wistfully into his face, "My clock is always striking."
They stood close to one another. The sun shining through the leaves on her young face showed all its beauty; the small mouth with its delicately curved upper lip; the line of hair over the forehead, two graceful curves that came together in a little peak; the deep, shining eyes that dropped now under his gaze.
"Just one kiss," he pleaded.
She shook her head, and he could see her hand clench as though to stop her trembling.
His own trembled as he placed it over hers and stood so close that, though he did not touch her, his presence felt like an embrace.
All the emotions of the night of which she had believed herself master returned, but with redoubled strength. Her whole self, the slender body, the delicate senses, the shy spirit that before had rested happy in the love of home and wood and river, was a wild tumult of passionate desire. To lift up her face and kiss him would be to enter through the golden gates of paradise. But while her heart beat so fast that the blood flooded her cheeks and she was Snowdrop no longer, she did not raise her head.
And then a cock that had strayed from its family among the pines and wandered in their direction raised itself upon its toes and began to crow.
They both started, the pink on Hertha's cheeks turned to lifeless white, and like a shadow she slipped away.
Merryvale stood motionless for a time among the trees. "You wouldn't think it," he said to himself, looking out upon the golden river, "but it's a black world."
"You're late," declared Pomona shortly, as Hertha entered the kitchen. The girl did not answer, but, glancing at the clock, saw that she was on time.
Pomona was not in good humor; indeed, Pomona's gloomy moods were frequent, and the household, to some extent, revolved about them. "I don't know what I should do without Hertha," Miss Patty was fond of saying, when Pomona was especially exasperating, "she is always the same."
But on this day, if Miss Patty had noticed, she would have found in her maid's manner a little trembling unquiet. She did not notice, however, being deeply occupied with Miss Witherspoon, who was proving a stimulating companion. The two had exchanged notes upon the subject of religion to find themselves in pleasant accord, and now were on that most dangerous ground, domestic service.
"You have a wonderful maid," Miss Witherspoon said, after examining the delicate, handmade waist which Hertha had just finished.
"Hertha is surely a treasure. But she likes it here, so don't, my dear lady, hope by offering her better wages, to entice her North."
"I had no thought of anything so basely ungrateful to you."
"Others have, then. But Hertha's not restless like that sister of hers, Ellen—though I'm sure they're no relation. I can't endure that girl. Her influence isn't good over my maid."
"Have I seen Ellen yet?"
"No and you won't see her about this place. She teaches in the colored school."
"How interesting! I shall have to go to her."
Miss Patty's face showed disapproval bordering on disgust. Miss Witherspoon was not the first of her guests who had at once expressed an interest in Ellen, and, later, helped on the already over-prosperous school. She turned the conversation back to her favorite.
"There are not many girls like Hertha to be found to-day. She has a natural aptitude for service, and her white blood makes her very intelligent. My cousin, Carrie (she died in Savannah two years ago), had a maid like that who was the most faithful creature—her constant nurse for fifteen years."
"Indeed!"
"I'm fixing to have Hertha with me for as long as I live."
"But don't you think she'll get married—she's so pretty."
"I hope not; I certainly hope not. I don't encourage her to go out to any of the parties with the rough boys and girls here. But she herself realizes that she's above them in station. No, Hertha will do much better not to marry. I can understand her falling in love with a colored man of her own complexion, but we haven't confidence in the 'yaller niggers,' as the darkies call them. They have the bad qualities of both races, you know; they're a thieving lot."
"Yes?" ejaculated Miss Witherspoon, and then, a little maliciously, "Does Hertha steal?"
"Hertha? Why, of course not!" Miss Patty looked very indignant. "Have you lost anything?"
"No, no," Miss Witherspoon answered quickly, anxious to make her question clear. "I only thought you said that all mulattoes stole."
There are few things more exasperating than to have one's generalities taken literally. Miss Patty felt provoked both for herself and for her maid. "Hertha," she explained, with some feeling, "is an unusual girl, with, I reckon, an unusual heritage. It is of benefit to her to stay here in private service with a lady. She is an affectionate child and a great favorite with me. As I grow older I hope she will want to stay and make life pleasant for me as I have tried to make it pleasant for her."
At that moment Hertha came to where they sat upon the porch.
"Haven't I, honey?"
"Haven't you——" Hertha questioned.
"Made life pleasant for you?"
"Oh, yes indeed."
"Miss Witherspoon was talking like she thought you ought to get married, but I told her you were happy here with me and not thinking of anything of the sort."
"No," Hertha said, "I'm not expecting to get married."
"I'd like to have you get your work and show Miss Witherspoon the dress you're making. She does her own sewing here as well as mine," Miss Patty explained as Hertha left, "and I'm as much interested in it as she is."
It was a long day for Miss Patty's maid, but when she was released she did not at once go home, but walked to the river bank and wandered a little time by the shore. Every one was within the great house, the twilight had come, and she could stop, as Tom loved to stop, and think.
As she went slowly along the path that she and Tom had traversed only two days ago, she felt as though it were she, not he, who had gone away from home and all its surroundings out to the open sea. Every landmark with which she was familiar was left behind, her reserve, her modesty, her pride. Two days ago she was anchored to her home in the cabin, to her black mother and sister and brother; they were first, supreme in her thoughts. She was attached to Miss Patty, who petted her and made her feel less a servant than a loved child. Two days ago as she walked over this path, she was at peace, and every murmuring sound, every flicker of sunlight, every sweet, pungent odor sank into her spirit, and held her, as she would have put it, close to God. Her religion, as she had unconsciously evolved it from the crude, but poetic gospel of the colored preacher, and from the commune she had held with nature, was harmony, the oneness of man's spirit with the eternal goodness. It had been largely an unconscious belief, born of her own tranquillity. But now the tranquillity was broken, and peace would not return. Shutting her eyes, she listened to the air singing in her ears; she tried to feel herself carried out of the turmoil of the morning into the tabernacle of the spirit.
But it was of no use. It was gone, home, work, religion. She had left the shore and was in a little boat, blinded by the spray, tossed on a sea of tumultuous desire. Tom, too, was out there somewhere on the ocean, but it was the same Tom who had walked with her Sunday. If their boats should meet, his and hers, he would not know his sister. She did not know herself, and stopped amazed to find that she was weeping.
A cow, wearied with her attempt to get some nourishment out of the tough hyacinth, moved out of the river, and, shaking the water from her wet flanks, started home. Hertha suddenly found herself hungry and tired and very much ashamed. The excitement that had brought the tears to her cheeks was gone, leaving a dull depression behind. She turned on her way, and as her mother's cabin came in sight, with a light in the window, for it was late, she felt relieved and safe. After all, nothing had happened, nothing. She was the same girl she had always been and needed only to forget the happenings of the morning.
Her supper tasted good, and when it was over she thought that she was ready to write a letter to Tom. The table cleared, however, and her pen in hand, she could not find a word to say. How could she forget those two meetings, the only events worth recording, of which Tom must never learn a word? So she bit her pen, and at length, at her mother's suggestion, postponed the letter to another day.
"Honey-lamb," mammy said, "you' eyes look close ter tears. Don't you want Ellen to go wid yer down ter de dock? She jes' step out a minute ter see de Theodore Roosevelt Jackson baby, but she'll come ef I call."
"Don't call, Mammy; I don't want to go. Miss Patty kept me running all day and I'm tired. I'll stay here with you and read."
"Dar are de books, den; but you mostly knows 'em by heart."
"I suppose I do," Hertha said drearily.
She picked upThe Life of Abraham Lincoln. Almost all the books in the Williams household had been bought of agents and paid for on the installment plan. There were volumes of universal knowledge and other volumes of the world's best literature—all eminently instructive, but none calculated to soothe an aching heart. Turning over the pages idly, looking at a picture here, reading a paragraph there, Hertha occupied a few minutes and then went to where her mother sat in her big, comfortable chair. Leaning over, she put her arms around the old woman's neck.
"Um, um," the mother crooned, patting the girl's hands.
"Sing for me, Mammy."
"You must git inter my lap, den. Reckon it'll hold a lil' flower like you."
"This is better." The girl knelt so that her head came on her mother's breast. "Now sing."
"What'll I sing fer yer?"
"Oh, anything. Sing 'Nobody knows de trouble I's seen.'"
"Laws, chile, does yer feel as bad as all dat! Poor lil' lily. An' you was lookin' a rosebud dis mornin'. Dey cer'enly don' know much 'bout carin' fer my flower up dar." Then, smoothing the girl's hair with her strong hand, she sang:
"Nobody knows de trouble I's seen,Nobody knows but Jesus.Nobody knows de trouble I's seen,Glory Hallelujah."
"Nobody knows de trouble I's seen,Nobody knows but Jesus.Nobody knows de trouble I's seen,Glory Hallelujah."
The people at the great house were nervous, tiring; but mammy was restful like the deep, lower waters of a stream. Her mellow voice sang on:
"I know de Lawd, I know de Lawd,I know de Lawd has laid his hands on me."
"I know de Lawd, I know de Lawd,I know de Lawd has laid his hands on me."
"De Lawd" came out in three long, rolling syllables, descending from the high call, "I know." Hertha found herself breathing slowly, quietly, her mother's hand smoothing her forehead and soft, curling hair.
"I was a wandering sheep——"
"I was a wandering sheep——"
Mammy had slipped into a hymn that belonged to the church where for many years she had worshiped, proud in being the wife of the holy man who occupied the preacher's desk. She had sung all her children to sleep with this hymn.
"I was a wandering sheep,I did not love the fold,I did not love my shepherd's voice,I would not be controlled.I was a wayward child——"
"I was a wandering sheep,I did not love the fold,I did not love my shepherd's voice,I would not be controlled.I was a wayward child——"
Hertha rose from her knees. Quietly going into her mother's room, she turned down the bed, a task she performed every night for Miss Patty and her guests.
"Honey," her mother called, "what yer up ter?"
"Nothing," Hertha answered, "only fixing to do something for you and Ellen, and now I'm going to bed myself."
For a week she never let the thought of the morning's happiness take possession of her mind. It might press close, but it encountered a wall of resolution that held it back. She made her way to her work among the chickens and pigs through the pines to the kitchen door. Miss Patty liked to have her about, and when the work in the rooms was finished often called her to her side. She and Miss Witherspoon had taken to spending a part of their afternoons over a new and elaborate kind of embroidery, and Hertha was essential to Miss Patty's accomplishment. Indeed, after Hertha had counted stitches and drawn threads and outlined the pattern, Miss Patty's part became a last triumphant progress. During this period of the day, when the women were on the gallery, Lee would often join them. He and Miss Witherspoon found many things to talk about, for the Boston woman had a keen interest in this southern youth who had gotten the best out of his studies and returned ambitious to bring new life to his ancestral acres. "You're quite a missionary," she said once to his aunt's disgust. Lee might fuss about his trees if he liked, but business acumen was a little vulgar and at the least should be concealed, while criticism of the South, the suggestion that it was a mission field, was rank impertinence.
Sometimes Lee brought a book and read to them here and there, for Miss Patty did not care for a continuous story. One afternoon it was a poem written by a classmate who had died before his college days were over. Coming from one who left the earth so young, its promise of future endeavor, of service to humanity, made it a tragic little verse. Miss Patty wiped her eyes when it was over and called on Hertha to set her work right. During these times Lee never spoke to Hertha nor seemed to look in her direction, but he always knew when she had left the porch and rarely stayed long after her absence. Miss Patty felt pleased that her Boston guest was interesting her boy so that she had more of his company.
On Sunday Ellen proposed to her sister that they take a walk, and they went among the pines and dark cypresses, through the swamp, and by the black creek. It was hot and humid, the mosquitoes were annoying, and they were both tired when they returned to the cabin steps.
"I don't like this time of year," Hertha said when they sat down. "It's so silent. The birds ceased singing long ago; they only call to one another now."
"The mosquitoes haven't ceased singing, I notice," Ellen replied, laughing. "Now I like this time of year best of all. October means the beginning of cool weather and work."
When Hertha went to her room that night a little breeze greeted her as she sat down by her window. It was cloudy at first, but in a few moments the clouds broke and the moonlight streamed upon the dark trees and the white sand. She watched the moon sailing through the clouds, she smelt the roses by the porch, and the wall that her will had built against her sweet and rapturous thoughts broke down, and with a rush her spirit was swept with tumultuous love.
"Cinderella," Lee said to her the next morning as she turned into the orange grove, "you've been a shockingly long time coming."
"I know it," she answered, "but there were so many things to think of, sitting by the fire."
"Don't think," he urged. "I've given it up. Don't think, but live."
And this time she lifted up her face and, without a thought, gave him a kiss.
"Hertha," Ellen said the next afternoon, "have you any plans for the future?"
School had just closed, Miss Patty had given her maid an afternoon off, and the two sisters were walking together toward their home.
"Any plans?" Hertha was startled. "I thought our plans were made for good when we came here."
"I hope not!" Ellen declared decidedly. "I'm willing to work here now for next to nothing, but I shall try for a bigger job some day; and you, honey, you don't always want to be Miss Patty's maid."
"I don't know; why shouldn't I?"
"This is a dull life for you, Hertha. Sometimes I think we ought never to have come here."
"Ellen!"
"It's different for mammy and me; we're older."
"You're only four years older than I."
"I think that really I'm a great deal older than you. But I get so much more out of Merryvale than you do. The people who live in these cabins—well, they're problems to me, human problems that I'm trying to solve. There's hardly a home that hasn't in it some boy or girl whom I'm watching almost as though he were my child. I'm working for the children, Hertha, the colored children who will soon be men and women and who ought to have just as good a chance as white children in this world."
"They never will in America."
"I'm not so sure," Ellen answered.
They were walking in the pine region back of the river. To a newcomer many of the cabins would have looked untidy; the ubiquitous hog would have been pronounced a public nuisance, and the facilities for washing inadequate; but to Ellen the settlement in which she had been working for five years was a garden of progress, and if a few of the plants made a determined stand to remain weeds, she did not let them hide her numerous hardy flowers. In her heart she meant ultimately to uproot them. Old Mr. Merryvale would never stand for severity, but the next generation was at work upon the place and might be induced to aid her in exiling the degenerate few.
"I love it here!" Ellen exclaimed, stopping and looking about her. "I never worked in a school before where it was so easy to get at the people, or where the children seemed so anxious to learn. Do you know, I suppose no one would believe me if they heard it, but I'm glad that I'm colored."
"Why not?" Hertha asked sharply. "If you love your work and these people, why should you want to be white?"
"You know that's a foolish question," and Ellen looked sadly at her sister. "You know as well, better than I, the handicap of color. Haven't I seen you have to bear it? But still it's great to belong to a rising race, not to one that's on top and likely to fall."
"To fall? How silly."
"Is it? Well, perhaps it's improbable. But, anyway, that isn't what I started to talk about. I didn't mean to talk of myself, but of you. I'm afraid this isn't the right place for you."
"I love it here, too!" Hertha cried, showing more animation than was usual with her. "I like the country; you know I do. Why, I love everything about the place, all the flowers in our yard, the pigs, the chickens, the pines. I think it's the most beautiful spot in the world, and so does Tom."
She drew in a long breath and threw out her arms as though to take in the whole of Merryvale.
"That's all right, but you can't live just on flowers and views; you need people."
Hertha made no response, and they walked on for a time in silence.
"It's like this," Ellen continued. "You're a generation ahead of these cabins, and you don't enjoy the people socially who live in them. It isn't snobbish to say this; it's just true. You haven't a single friend here. I can't think what it would mean if you went away. It would be like losing the color out of the sky; everything would be dull gray. But if you ought to go, you ought, and I should help you."
"Haven't you made unhappiness enough, Ellen, with your plans, making Tom go, but you must get rid of me too?"
"That isn't fair."
"That's what it seems like."
"Let's talk reasonably. Of course it isn't the same with you as with Tom; you're not a child."
"I'm glad you realize that."
"Why, Hertha, you're almost cross. Please let me explain what I mean. I'm glad you like it here, but we all have to look ahead, and I can't look ahead and see you a servant in a white man's home."
"Why not?"
"You're too refined, too delicate. You ought to enter the front door, and if you can't enter there, isn't it better not to enter at all?"
There was no answer.
"I know I've talked this way before, and I'll try not to do so again, but I want to make myself quite clear. It isn't as though I didn't believe in colored girls going into domestic service; I do. There are lots of people who belong at the back door, and it would be silly to deny it and to put them at work beyond their ability; but you're not one of them. Because Miss Patty is white is no reason that she should have a maid who has a better education and knows more than she does."
"Aren't you drawing on your imagination?"
"No, I'm telling the exact truth. Miss Patty is getting something she has no right to, and you're not getting your birthright, to be yourself, to develop the highest in you."
"What great talent have I neglected?"
Ellen threw her arm over her sister's shoulder. "You have talent, Hertha, you know you have, only you won't recognize it, but keep dancing attendance on that old lady. With a little instruction you would be a skillful dressmaker, anartiste, as the advertisements say. You sew beautifully and have lots of taste, and you've style. With such a gift in any large city you could surely get ahead. You could have custom, too, if you wanted, from our people."
"I don't expect to get ahead."
"But why?"
"I don't know." The girl stopped a moment and then said slowly, "I don't believe I've as much ambition as you. I don't like study. I hate the city, and I'm contented and happy here. When work is over I've you and mother to go to; I belong to you two and I don't want to leave you."
Her face was aflame as she said this, realizing that it was only a partial truth. Her deception made her angry, and she turned in retort upon her sister. "Why does it worry you so that I should love Miss Patty? Are you jealous?"
"You know as well as I do that it isn't that."
"It sounds like that to me. I like my work. Why should I accept a lot of responsibility, set up a shop, which I should hate, or go about making cheap gowns for stout black people when I can stay at home and wait on a sweet, refined person like my mistress?"
The "my mistress" was given with an emphasis that closed the subject. Ellen had said that her sister was not a child like Tom, and for the time at least she must accept the verdict against her.
"Well, chillen," their mother said as they came up to the cabin, "de best o' news, a letter f'om Tom!"
They both were upon her, but Hertha got the letter.
"Mister Lee were walkin' dis-a-way an' bring it ter me. It were kind o' him; he knowed I wan' ter see it mighty quick."
"How short!" Hertha said, reading it through rapidly.
Mammy was at once up in arms for her son. "What done you 'spec'? Dar's de paper civered. He tells 'bout de journey, an' what he gits fer his meals, an' how big de ocean look, an' how he can't rightly say no mo' 'kase de bell done ring fer chapel. Dat a heap, but it ain't much fer waitin' hearts."
"He doesn't say what studies he's taking," Ellen remarked when she had finished with the sheet.
"We're foolish, Mammy," Hertha exclaimed, seeing the disappointment on the old woman's face. "It's a dear letter, and it's Tom's handwriting—I'd know it in Timbuctoo. Oh, how I wish he were here!"
"You sho do, honey; but dere ain't no use in wishin'. Come, git yer supper an' den we-all'll jes' go down to Uncle Eben, an' Granny Rose an' de folks as ain't gittin' letters ebery day."
There was no need to go out. The news of the letter reached the settlement before sundown, and many were the visitors who came to see it and who departed to tell all and more than it contained. It was really a gay evening, and when the three women were left alone they sat up a little longer than usual talking about it.
"Everything all right?" Ellen asked as she kissed her sister good-night.
"Yes," Hertha answered, smiling; but when she was alone in her room the smile left her lips. Did Ellen suspect anything? Probably not, but how strange to have a secret from those at home.
Never before did an October boast so many wonderful mornings. Sometimes it rained in the night, but the rising sun dispersed the clouds and brought a golden day to Hertha's world. And as she went about her tasks, her brief playtime over, she still sensed the fragrant orange grove and moved among the trees, her lover by her side. Deftly helping Miss Patty with her hair or dress, guiding Miss Witherspoon in her embroidery, cheering Pomona through an intricate dinner, his voice was in her ears and his touch upon her cheek. From morning until night was a lovely, precious, fearsome dream.
For there was reality in the dream that brought fear. Her lover wanted so much. She was content to stand on the threshold, but each day he asked that they might enter within the gates. It was hard to resist his pleading. If for a moment he had been rough, if he had endeavored to take by force what she hesitated to give, she could have resisted him; but his gentleness was his power. And each morning as she saw him leave her to go into the world of white men and women, a world as irrevocably closed to her as the world of light is closed to the blind, her fear took form. Would he remain faithful if she failed to give him all that he desired? If she dallied, if she strove to keep him at love's portal, some time he might not be there when she turned from her path to make her way among the orange trees. If that should happen, if he should neglect her, she would die of angry shame. Within her nature there was modesty and self-effacement, but also pride that could not brook a slight. She had never wooed; it had been he who had called, beckoning her from her place among the cabins in the pines. She had not given a glance or said a word to draw him from his favored place; he had come because he loved her beauty and her shy reserve. To hold him and yet not to sacrifice herself. This was the problem, when fear crept into her heart.
She had pushed it from her day after day, but she could not wholly ignore it; and this autumn morning as she sat in church, seemingly intent upon the preacher's word, she told herself that she must decide what she was willing to give. He had pleaded with her to meet him that night within the orange grove, promising to wait for her near the cypress where her world met his. His passion was in the ascendant; he begged her to trust him, to give herself to his keeping.
"An' de mantle ob Elijah was blue wid de blue ob de eternal heaben," cried out the preacher, "an' de linin' was rose wid de blood ob de Lamb."
Could she go? Why did the world give her such a terrible problem? Why, why was she colored! She felt a momentary revulsion to be listening to an ignorant preacher amid these clumsy black folk. It was wicked that a few drops of Negro blood forced her to this seat when she should be yonder with the white people where the clergyman read the beautiful service of the Church of England. Why was she not at Lee Merryvale's side? As Ellen had said, she was no maid; she was his equal, and only those drops of colored blood kept her here. No, not the drops of blood, but the hideous morality of a cruel race.
But the world was here as the white people had made it, and you had to accept it and then decide what you should do. Perhaps he was holding the hymnal now and Miss Witherspoon was singing with him from the same book. There would always be some one like that to come between him and herself. Always a white face, but no whiter than her own; always a world that claimed him and despised her. But if she gave herself to him, if she trusted that he would love and protect her as he so passionately promised; if she left mother and sister and brother for his sake; then no other face would blot out hers. What her life would be she could not picture, but it would not be a life without him.
The service over, she walked with her mother and sister among the cabins that Ellen so loved. The people standing outside their doorways were dressed in their best and a pleasant Sunday air pervaded the place. Every one was decorous, and yet with an undercurrent of jollity; for the sermon had stirred their imaginations, and ahead was a good dinner. Uncle Ebenezer talked with authority of Elijah and eagerly awaited the preacher's presence that he might discuss his theory of the color of the mantle of the prophet. "It were white as de wool ob de Lamb," he declaimed as he saw the man of God in his long black coat walking up to him. "Jes' riccolec', Brudder, de waters dat it smote apart an' dat wash it whiter'n snow." Aunt Lucindy was on ahead, a little boy's hand in hers, a waif for whom she was caring; for, though old and frail, Aunt Lucindy was always mothering some child. One of Ellen's pupils walked proudly at his teacher's side, carrying her Bible. "I knows what I's gwine ter be when I grows up, teacher," he said. "I's gwine ter be a preacher; I's gwine ter preach de word o' God." "I hope you will, Joshua," Ellen answered, "but remember you must first practise what you preach." "Yes'm, I know dat;" and then, proudly, "I's practising ter pray an' holler right now. I can holler as good as Aunt Lucindy when she gits happy." Mammy had gone ahead to visit Granny Rose, who was too feeble to attend church. It was all usual to Hertha; she had seen such Sundays without comment all her life. She let the scene slip by as she tried to make her choice.
On one of the cabin steps sat an untidy, ragged girl who turned and went inside as she saw Ellen draw near. Maranthy, Sam Peter's daughter, was one of Ellen's failures. She was a bold, ignorant young woman of eighteen, who worked as little as she could and, brazenly open in her ways, strove to allure the growing boys whom their teacher was training in health and cleanliness and decent living. She looked maliciously at both the sisters as she went within her house.
Slipping away from her sister, Hertha sought one of the little paths in the sand that led toward the river. It brought her out behind the small, ecclesiastical-looking church at which the white people worshiped. Stopping to listen, she could hear Mr. Merryvale's voice through the open window reading from the prayerbook. Often the little settlement was without a clergyman and the owner of the place himself conducted the service. Now there was the rustle of people rising to their feet and the morning's devotion was done.
In the background where she could see, yet not be seen, Hertha watched the congregation as it emerged from the church. It was a small group—the Merryvales and some dozen neighbors from up and down the river. She knew them all, and yet this morning they took on sinister significance. The stylishly dressed women, the men in their well-fitting clothes, the gestures and modulations of voice, these were not of her world. As they went down the path she saw one of the women beckon to Lee Merryvale, who turned, all attention, to listen to what she had to tell him. With head bent toward his companion, he walked on and at a turn of the path was gone. Soon their voices, too, died away and there was nothing left but the empty path and the endless murmur of the wind among the pines.
Erect, head thrown back, hands clenched, the colored girl stood for a moment staring down the path. Her lips parted as though to cry out against the cruelty that denied her the right to walk among these white people, white herself, by the side of the man she loved. But no cry came, and presently her hands relaxed, her face resumed its pallor, and with drooping head she turned toward home.
Always quiet, at the afternoon dinner her preoccupation was so noticeable that her mother, the dishes cleared away, tried to draw her from it.
"Come an' sit wid me on de step, honey," she called. "You don' want ter go an' do mo' work like Ellen. I neber knowed a chile befo' so greedy. She can't help eatin' up oder folks' jobs. You come hyar an' talk ter yo' mammy."
"You talk to me," Hertha said.
"What woll I talk 'bout?"
"Tell me about it again. Tell me about how I came to you."
The mother gave a big happy laugh. "You allays likes dat story, don' you, honey? An' I likes it too. Reckon dis would hab been a poor home widout you was in it. Well, sit hyar an' I tell it ter yer, jes' as 'twas."
Looking down on the little garden, gay with autumnal flowers, Hertha took the step below her mother's on the porch so that she might lean against her. As she sat there, listening to the rich drawling voice, she rested as she had not rested before that day. With mammy one felt safe. Both she and Tom had noticed it.
"Well, honey, it were twenty-t'ree year ago las' September——"
"The twenty-ninth," Hertha interrupted.
"De twenty-nine. You' pappy, Ellen an' me, we gwine ter de church fer a celebration. We was spectin' ter git home early in de ebenin', but it done pour so we wait round till it were night. Den we see de rain weren't gwine ter stop, not fer t'ree 'fraid-cats, so we start off. My, how de trees shake in de roarin' wind. Ellen, she hung close ter daddy, an' once she give a lil' sniffle, like she want awful ter cry, but jes' wouldn't."
"I know," Hertha broke in, "Ellen is like that now. If I'd been there, I'd have cried and daddy would have taken me in his arms, wouldn't he?"
"I reckon so. You was a delicate chile an' dere weren't not'in' he wouldn't do fer you. But you weren't dere, an' we jes' push on till de house were in sight. We went in by de kitchen do' an' fer a space stan' by de fire, our coats drippin' pails o' water on de flo'. Den, when we was feelin' mo' like libin', I leabes de odder two an' goes inter de bedroom."
Hertha slipped up close.
"Dere was a candle burnin' on de dresser by de bed. I was all in a wonder! I neber lef' a light burnin' in my house when I gwine out, no, sir; I don' wan ter waste no candle grease. But dere was a lil' yeller flame shinin' straight up fer me ter see. I done look hard, an' rub my eyes, an' den I look down ter where it drop its light on my bed."
Mammy made a dramatic stop, and Hertha, ready with her part, gave the knee against which she leaned an impatient shake.
"On de bed," Mammy went on, prolonging every word, "wid its head on my pillow, was a new-born chile. It were wrop in a sof white shawl, its tiny face turned ter de light. I bent ober ter look. It were fast asleep.
"I don' know how long I stayed watchin', but I heard daddy call, an' by-'n-by he come inter de room. He gib a cry an' dat wake de baby, an' it cry too. In course, dat bring Ellen, an' when she see de chile on de bed she jes' clap her hands an' call, 'It done come! My baby sister done come!'
"She were dat cute; wen' right up an' loosen de shawl an' croon an' croon till it stop its cryin'. Me an' my ole man jes' look; we couldn't do a t'ing, not at fust.
"Well, by-'n-by we send Ellen away ter de kitchen ter fetch some t'ings—she don' want ter leab dat baby, not fer an instant—an' we look at one anudder an' can't say nuthin'. Den I picks up de mite, taks off de shawl, an' foun' one lil' garment unnerneath. But fasten ter dat wee slip were a letter. We tear it open an' I reckon we both tremble. But we tremble mo' when we see what it hol'—ten ten-dollar bills! Dat were it, jes' one hunnerd dollars.
"Ellen come sidlin' back an' snuggle up close ter me where I hol' de lil' ting. She done see no money, but dat wouldn't ha' made no diff'ence. What'll a chile care fer such trash? She were all eyes an' heart fer dat bit er flesh an' blood.
"We took de baby inter de warm kitchen an' I gits Ellen ter hold it while I fin' her ole nursin' bottle, an' gibs de chile some food. My ole man move about restless-like. 'What yer mean ter do?' he ask. 'I mean ter feed an' clothe it,' I says. 'What else could I do?' He didn't make no answer, but sit down an' watch his lil' gal o' four croonin' to de baby in her arms.
"Sech a pretty baby! I done nurse a heap er babies, black an' white, but neber sech a pretty one as my baby. Jes' sof an' pink, wid sech deep eyes an' a mouf dat look like it couldn't hardly feed at its mudder's breast. Dere weren't nuttin' 'bout it ter make it seem right in a house whar black folks libed, 'cept de lil' curls on its head, an' dey mought er bin a white chile's.
"My ole man an' me, we set an' talk an' talk ater de baby been fed an' put ter sleep an' Ellen done shut her eyes at las'. We was honest folk, maybe we hadn't oughter kep' de baby?"
Mammy bent over to kiss Hertha. "But we did, you knows dat, chile, an' we ain't neber regret it. Dat chile's bin a blessin' eber since she open her eyes, lyin' dar in de candlelight. Dat chile were her daddy's delight an' her mammy don't know how ter go tru a day widoud her. An' as fer her sister, Ellen, she'd walk tru fire ter git her what she ought ter hab. She come into a poor home, sure 'nough, but she welcome ter all it hold."
Mammy finished her recital with a broad wave of the hand, while Hertha clasped her round the neck and gave her a hug that ruffled the pretty curls, the curls that alone linked her to the colored race.
"Now tell me about my name?" she questioned when they had settled back again.
"You asks dat, honey, an' de ain't nuthin' ter tell. Seems like I made it up, an' den agin, seems like it were meant fer Bertha, but kinder gentler an' deeper, same as you."
"You never heard any least thing about my people?"
The question was asked with a certain knowledge of the answer, and yet with a wistful interrogation. Never before had this foundling, dropped into a black preacher's cabin, desired so much to know something of the two lives that gave her birth.
"No, neber." Mammy's answer was final. "Dey gib yer a start an' leab de res' fer us. I used ter fear as some un ud claim yer, but I stop dat now. De pusson I fears is de man as my baby'll say yes to when he axes her ter be his wife."
"He won't come, Mammy."
"Quit yer foolin'!" The old woman laughed into the serious young face. "Don' I know how de fellers at school broke der hearts ober yer, an' out in de city you was de putties' gal o' de lot. I's feared sometimes dis ain't de place fer a young t'ing like you."
"I'm very happy here," Hertha made answer.
"I's glad o' dat. Ellen, now, she's t'inkin' as yer need company."
"I wish Ellen wouldn't worry over me."
"She ain't worryin', honey." The mother spoke soothingly, seeing that her remark had awakened annoyance. "She jes' wants yer ter hab what's rightly yours."
"I'm very happy," Hertha reiterated. "Only," she added, "I do miss Tom. He used to love to be on the porch with us Sunday afternoons, didn't he?"
"Yes, dearie."
"I think Tom's going to be a splendid man; you can always trust him."
"Dat's so, dat's so. An' dat's de bes' t'ing yer can say ob any man."
They sat together a little longer, the sun lengthening the shadow of the cabin upon the white sand, and then, with the coming twilight, went within.
John Merryvale was growing old, people were beginning to say; and then would add that the world, when he should pass away, would miss an old-time gentleman. He was a tall, thin man, long of limb and deliberate of speech. The impatient northern guest who tried to hurry him with the mail could fidget to her fill without decreasing by a moment the time he chose to spend upon his task. He could not be hurried but he could easily be duped, and many of the acres that Lee Merryvale coveted, but saw in other hands, had slipped from his father's by reason of over-confidence in some speculator or old acquaintance. But, no matter how often he was imposed upon, he never lost his equanimity. The man who took advantage of him was not to be condemned; it was not his fault if he had not been born a gentleman; the overreaching tradesman was to be pitied. That he, John Merryvale, was to be pitied did not even enter his thoughts.
The Negroes of the place loved and looked up to him, and he on his part treated them as beloved children. When they were ill he doctored them; when they quarreled, he acted as judge, and, without the cost of a lawsuit, gave them more rational judgment than they would have obtained in a court. While bearing a large part of the expense of the Episcopal church under the live-oaks at the water's edge, he helped to keep open the Methodist meeting among the pines where his black children went on Sunday mornings. He looked askance at first at Ellen; and while he never grew to like her ways, believing that she put false notions of equality into the children's heads, he was just and admitted that she had improved the morals of the place. For himself, he should always look upon the Negro as the white man's charge and make every allowance for his wrong-doing. What would be a sin in a white man, in a Negro would be only the misdemeanor of a child. Once, when one of his Negro tenants murdered a black neighbor in a drunken fight, he urged the judge to show clemency, to make the sentence lenient. "Remember," he admonished, "this man is black, and it is not one-tenth as bad for a black man to do a deed like this as for a white one." This attitude did not prevent his treating with respect the Negroes, men and women, whom he knew both at his own place and up and down the river, and they in their turn loved to drop a word with him, and looked with affectionate regard upon the tall figure in its well-worn cutaway coat, its straw hat with the black ribbon, its big, comfortable collar. One might see him of a Sunday walking among the pines, inquiring for Lucindy or Rose or Ebenezer, as the case might be.
On this Sunday afternoon, while Hertha sat with her mother on the steps, John Merryvale was walking with his son in the orange grove. They had been examining the trees when two colored lads, dressed in their Sunday best, bowed in crossing their path. Lee nodded carelessly to the young men, but his father raised his hat. The son noticed it, and spoke, half jestingly, of this act of courtesy.
"There isn't another man in the state would do that, Father. A nigger's a nigger to the folk I know about here."
"I remember," his father answered, "the retort Jefferson Davis gave when questioned for returning the bow of a black man. 'I can't afford,' he said, 'to be less of a gentleman than he.'"
Young Merryvale was silent, wondering whether the day had passed of both the old-time white and colored gentleman.
"This is a beautiful tree," his father said, stopping to look with pride at a plant filled with fast ripening fruit. "It's bearing well this season."
"Yes."
"I cannot tell you, Son, how happy I am that you are redeeming these old acres."
"So you're converted," Lee said, with a bright smile.
"Yes, entirely. And the best of it is the realization that you are busy in your old home and do not stay in it merely for Patty and me."
"Oh, I couldn't keep away! This place grips me. It's well enough to go to New York for a month to study the market, but this is the land of my choice, darkies and all. I wish they could do a good day's work; but, then, I don't pay them for a day's work, white man's reckoning."
A few steps further brought them to the tree where he and Hertha had first played together.
The older man stopped again. "Why, here's a blossom at the end of a bough," he said.
"Yes, but don't pick it!" Lee seized his father's arm. "I've a fancy to keep it there—for good luck," he added, somewhat lamely.
Over the blossom, the previous morning, Hertha had bent like a happy child, blowing upon the petals and calling on them to open.
"Lee!" The young man started at his father's voice; there was in it a note of admonition, almost of severity. But there was nothing of severity in the words that followed:
"I wish I could express to you my happiness that this old home that my father and my father's father loved and strove to make beautiful will now be guarded by you. And you will do better with it than we did."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Lee said.
"Yes, this is a mere fragment that comes into your hands."
"A pretty good fragment, I think."
"Only a fragment. The acres stretching back through the pines should be yours, and other acres by the river's edge. I did not know how to use the place aright, but you will be wiser than I."
"Well, if I am wiser about such things," Lee admitted, "it's because the world is wiser to-day than when you took over the place. People have learned a heap of science since then."
John Merryvale did not heed this remark, but, turning his gaze from his son, looked away down the river. "I could not give you the heritage in land which should be yours," he said gravely, "but I hope I have given you a heritage of kindly relationship to those about you, of friendliness and honorable dealing."
"Indeed," Lee answered, "I know how you are loved and honored."
"And you, too, shall be honored by all on this old estate down to the humblest colored child. It is a great consolation to me," he went on, still looking away from his son and out over the water, "that the rights of the poorest black girl have been respected from my father's father's day through my own. There are no white faces among these cabins to tell of our passion and our shame. I think of this sometimes when I see that young servant of your aunt's. In her beautiful countenance is the sin and the disgrace of the Southern gentleman."
"Don't you believe," Lee answered sharply, "that her mother thought she was honored?"
"That's as it may be, but she was not honored, and her child was left to the chance care of a black woman."
"He was a beast who did that!"
The father turned at this heated speech to see his son, face flushed, anger in his eyes.
"If he took a responsibility, he had no right later to dodge it."
Lee spoke with vehemence. He had told Hertha that he had ceased to think, but in reality he was thinking, every hour of the day, of the thing that he was doing.
"Whoever started the damned business going," he went on, with an attempt at a laugh, "got America into a frightful mess. But some one did start it, and here they are, women—well, women such as you speak of, with all the instincts and the beauty of the white race. Don't you believe a woman like that would be happier under the protection of a white man who loved her than if she took up with some coarse fellow as black as her shoes?"
"No," John Merry vale answered, "the life of such a woman is the loneliest life in the world. She may not enter the white world and the black world casts her off."
"Aren't you mistaken?" The question came quickly, with an undertone of anxiety. "It seems to me that the black race must understand that there's nothing for it but to get whiter."
"There's nothing for it but to get blacker, Son. All, black and white, are learning to know this. Within its own circle it may build up a civilization that shall be a humble imitation of the civilization of the white race, a race that has had a start of thousands of years. We must be patient, helping when we can, not hindering."
Lee scanned his father's face, but could see nothing to show that he was thinking of any present issue; rather he was striving to express his belief on a vexed question that would trouble this country long after he was gone. Nor did he glance at his listener, but stood, a tall, thin figure in his long black coat, kindly, serious.
"It is a great problem, that of the two races," he continued musingly, "a problem that the South alone can solve, since we know the black man, his virtues and his limitations. He has come to us in his trouble and we have helped and advised him. That is as it should be, but increasingly he will have to live without our surveillance. For after all, no man is fit to be the master of another; and not even the gentlemen of the South were wise enough to be entrusted with the lives of other men. My father fought to perpetuate the peculiar institution of slavery, and as a boy I put a gun on my shoulder and went out in the last year of the war. We thought that we were right, but we know now that we were mistaken."
"Yes."
"Sometimes I am afraid that as the country develops, as industry increases, the friendly relations between the whites and the blacks will wholly cease, and each will go his way, regardless of the other. But that will never happen while you are here, I feel sure."
"Oh, no," Lee answered cheerfully, glad of the turn the conversation had taken, "I like the darkies all right."
"That is not enough." John Merryvale turned and for the first time looked straight into his son's face. "Men have stolen my acres from me, but I have stolen from no man. I have tried to do no one an injustice, honoring the least of His children. I have little to give you in money and in acres; but I can give you this: the assurance that I have wittingly wronged no man or woman. And I shall believe that when you stand here, your hair gray, moving with slow feet, you will be able to say to your son, 'I have wittingly wronged no man or woman.'
"It's getting late," he concluded, turning to leave. "I'll go to the house to see if your aunt is needing me."
Lee stood alone for some minutes under the orange tree. He ran his hand caressingly along the trunk as though he were touching something dear and precious. Then, with sober face, as slowly as his father, he walked through the twilight to the great house.
It seemed to Hertha as she sat at the open window after the others had gone to bed that it was the most beautiful night she had ever known. Utterly still, except for the eternal sound of the wind among the pines, it yet was full of music; for, borne on the breeze from the river, some one was calling, beseechingly, insistently, and she was answering in her heart.
The young moon was sinking in the west. She could not see it, but she could see the fleecy clouds that reflected its light. How lovely they were, moving wherever the light wind, high in the heavens, might desire. They had no will, these clouds, but were wafted into the shadow or the silvery brightness, living as they had the right to live, pliant to the spirit of the strong wind.
The house was perfectly still. The little watch that Ellen had given her when she went away to school told her that it lacked but a few minutes of the hour when he had called her to come. All day she had questioned and doubted and hesitated. She had asked her black mother to tell her the story of her adoption that she might surely guard her virtue and resist temptation; but now, looking into the night, she refused to believe that this was temptation, rather it was a glorious opportunity to give generously, without stint or questioning.
She slipped a coat over the white dress she was wearing, walked stealthily into the hallway, lifted the latch and was under the stars. No one had heard her, and she ran swiftly across the open yard, bright in the moonlight, to the darkness of the trees.
Standing in the gloom of the path and looking back at the cabin she hesitated. There were the roses by the porch and the goldenrod and aster, bits of bright weed, growing in the sand. Close to her were the chickens asleep upon their perches. She was leaving this friendly, familiar home to enter the white world; and to enter, not even at the kitchen door, but through a dark, hidden passage that no one but herself could tread. She did not want to say good-by. Doubting, she took a step toward the little house, and then the wind from the river blew in her face and she fancied some one called her by name.
No, she would not go back. His love lifted her above her home, above her doubting self, on, up to the clouds, the moon, to paradise. Love was an immense power that hewed its way through the routine of life. It was eternal, from the creation of the world.
The way was very dark to the grove, but overhead were the stars, and if for a moment she felt fear, she stopped peering through the trees to look to them for reassurance. There is no starlight so beautiful as that of the southern sky where the heavenly bodies are not cold, sparkling pinpricks, as in the North, but luminous globes that breathe a soft radiance to the warm earth. They are companions, and the slave who followed the North Star through the swamp and bed of the black stream must have felt warmed and comforted by its near and tremulous light, only later to see it grow distant and cold. So Hertha looked to the stars for light and courage and with pounding heart at length reached her trysting-place.
He had not come. It was the hour, she felt sure, for she had set her watch by the clock in the living-room of the great house. He had never been late in the morning. Perhaps Miss Patty had detained him, or his father; sometimes they sat up for a long time, though, she thought, never so late as this. But he must soon arrive when she would no longer be alone, but safe from fear with him.
Waiting, she cheered her heart recalling the many pretty things that he had said to her. Whether, knowing her station as a servant, he realized that she was happy to be wholly lifted from it, or whether he believed her really to be above any other woman, he never failed to call her by some new and lovely name. Yesterday she had been the good fairy who brought him her best gift in her outstretched hands. Though it was chill, she threw off her dark coat and in her white dress ran for a minute out beyond the cypress into the grove. She longed to dance, to sing, to call him to her in the stillness of the night. Moving a little among the trees and peering down the long vista of straight trunks and arching branches, within her heart she pleaded with him to hurry, not to let her stay here alone. But no figure came to meet her, only a firefly twinkled in the distance, and above her head a mockingbird gave a sleepy chirp. The earth was asleep, breathing deep, fragrant breaths, wrapped in the soft air of night. She only was alert, listening, a vivid spirit of wakefulness in the deserted grove.
Returning to the gloom of the cypress she put on her coat and waited, slow-ticking minute following slow-ticking minute, until the young moon set and the chill wind made her shiver and crouch in terror and loneliness and miserable shame.
The night that had been so still as she crept back was full of evil noises. The sand crackled under her feet, and the twigs upon which she stepped gave a quick, explosive sound. Sometimes she imagined she heard people coming toward her and left the path for the trees, to wait in trembling terror until the fancied tread had died away. In one of these man[oe]uvers she lost her bearing and stood for many minutes close to the path, not recognizing it, terrified to go or to remain. And when at length she found her way again and walked ahead, her little mouth and childish chin working in a paroxysm of fright, a screech owl called and made her almost scream with terror. Then she pulled herself together. She and Tom had often listened to the owls and he had mimicked them. The thought of him gave her courage and she went on, trembling and determined, until the end of the path was reached and she could look upon the open yard and home.
Then she did hear people coming. Off to the right were voices, a girl's loud, coarse laughter and a man's rough tones. She crouched down that her white dress might not show among the trees. The figures came into sight, Maranthy, with old Jim, an ill-natured, ugly fellow, known to neglect his wife and children. The two walked boldly over the white sand, and as Hertha watched them the man caught the girl and hugged her hard. She laughed and swore, pushing him away, and then, with an animal-like motion, sidled up to him. Together they moved across the yard, his arm tight about her waist, while she, lolling on his shoulder and calling on Christ and God to damn him, gave him a smacking kiss upon the mouth.
The room was reached at last. Hertha tore off her clothes, slipped into her nightdress, and lay, a little huddled mass of shame and woe, upon her bed. Her feet and hands were icy cold, her teeth were chattering, but her brain was on fire. Pride and shame took equal possession of her spirit. She had risked everything, she had been ready to give everything, only to find herself despised. Ellen was right, her place belonged with her own race. She was black, and she must never again trust the white race that felt for her only an amused tolerance or scorn. She was black, and hers was the black man's table, the black man's home, the black man's burial-place. Never again would she think to enter the white man's world.
And the beauty of her love was wholly gone. The courage with which her lover had armed her had disappeared, and her affection, that had seemed to her something pure and delicate, almost holy, became a common lust that this man had awakened and then, disgusted at his choice of anything so cheap, had cast aside. Nothing was left to her of the glory and gladness of the morning.
But while shame and hurt pride swept over her, there came in their wake an inexpressible relief. She was safe from harm. She was not like Marantha but just Hertha Williams who had slipped out of her room to see the stars and then slipped back again. She was safe here, in Tom's room, at home.
Kneeling beside her bed she prayed for strength, strength to be good though she was young and pretty and colored. She could not see ahead, probably it would be wise to go away somewhere, she wished it might be near Tom—it was hard to be alone; but she must never again trust the white man's world.
Back in her bed terror crept over her once more and she shook with fear; but at length, in sheer exhaustion, she lay quiet, and when the first morning light entered the room it found her asleep.