II

A stranger entering the hall with Miss Hohlfelder would have seen, at

first glance, only a company of well-dressed people, with nothing to

specially distinguish them from ordinary humanity in temperate climates.

After the eye had rested for a moment and begun to separate the mass

into its component parts, one or two dark faces would have arrested its

attention; and with the suggestion thus offered, a closer inspection

would have revealed that they were nearly all a little less than white.

With most of them this fact would not have been noticed, while they were

alone or in company with one another, though if a fair white person had

gone among them it would perhaps have been more apparent. From the few

who were undistinguishable from pure white, the colors ran down the

scale by minute gradations to the two or three brown faces at the other

extremity.

It was Miss Hohlfelder's first colored class. She had been somewhat

startled when first asked to take it. No person of color had ever

applied to her for lessons; and while a woman of that race had played

the piano for her for several months, she had never thought of colored

people as possible pupils. So when she was asked if she would take a

class of twenty or thirty, she had hesitated, and begged for time to

consider the application. She knew that several of the more fashionable

dancing-schools tabooed all pupils, singly or in classes, who labored

under social disabilities--and this included the people of at least one

other race who were vastly farther along in the world than the colored

people of the community where Miss Hohlfelder lived. Personally she had

no such prejudice, except perhaps a little shrinking at the thought of

personal contact with the dark faces of whom Americans always think when

"colored people" are spoken of. Again, a class of forty pupils was not

to be despised, for she taught for money, which was equally current and

desirable, regardless of its color. She had consulted her

foster-parents, and after them her lover. Her foster-parents, who were

German-born, and had never become thoroughly Americanized, saw no

objection. As for her lover, he was indifferent.

"Do as you please," he said. "It may drive away some other pupils. If

it should break up the business entirely, perhaps you might be willing

to give me a chance so much the sooner."

She mentioned the matter to one or two other friends, who expressed

conflicting opinions. She decided at length to take the class, and take

the consequences.

"I don't think it would be either right or kind to refuse them for any

such reason, and I don't believe I shall lose anything by it."

She was somewhat surprised, and pleasantly so, when her class came

together for their first lesson, at not finding them darker and more

uncouth. Her pupils were mostly people whom she would have passed on the

street without a second glance, and among them were several whom she had

known by sight for years, but had never dreamed of as being colored

people. Their manners were good, they dressed quietly and as a rule with

good taste, avoiding rather than choosing bright colors and striking

combinations--whether from natural preference, or because of a slightly

morbid shrinking from criticism, of course she could not say. Among

them, the dancing-mistress soon learned, there were lawyers and doctors,

teachers, telegraph operators, clerks, milliners and dressmakers,

students of the local college and scientific school, and, somewhat to

her awe at the first meeting, even a member of the legislature. They

were mostly young, although a few light-hearted older people joined the

class, as much for company as for the dancing.

"Of course, Miss Hohlfelder," explained Mr. Solomon Sadler, to whom the

teacher had paid a compliment on the quality of the class, "the more

advanced of us are not numerous enough to make the fine distinctions

that are possible among white people; and of course as we rise in life

we can't get entirely away from our brothers and our sisters and our

cousins, who don't always keep abreast of us. We do, however, draw

certain lines of character and manners and occupation. You see the sort

of people we are. Of course we have no prejudice against color, and we

regard all labor as honorable, provided a man does the best he can. But

we must have standards that will give our people something to aspire

to."

The class was not a difficult one, as many of the members were already

fairly good dancers. Indeed the class had been formed as much for

pleasure as for instruction. Music and hall rent and a knowledge of the

latest dances could be obtained cheaper in this way than in any other.

The pupils had made rapid progress, displaying in fact a natural

aptitude for rhythmic motion, and a keen susceptibility to musical

sounds. As their race had never been criticised for these

characteristics, they gave them full play, and soon developed, most of

them, into graceful and indefatigable dancers. They were now almost at

the end of their course, and this was the evening of the last lesson but

one.

Miss Hohlfelder had remarked to her lover more than once that it was a

pleasure to teach them. "They enter into the spirit of it so thoroughly,

and they seem to enjoy themselves so much."

"One would think," he suggested, "that the whitest of them would find

their position painful and more or less pathetic; to be so white and yet

to be classed as black--so near and yet so far."

"They don't accept our classification blindly. They do not acknowledge

any inferiority; they think they are a great deal better than any but

the best white people," replied Miss Hohlfelder. "And since they have

been coming here, do you know," she went on, "I hardly think of them as

any different from other people. I feel perfectly at home among them."

"It is a great thing to have faith in one's self," he replied. "It is a

fine thing, too, to be able to enjoy the passing moment. One of your

greatest charms in my eyes, Clara, is that in your lighter moods you

have this faculty. You sing because you love to sing. You find pleasure

in dancing, even by way of work. You feel the _joie de vivre_--the joy

of living. You are not always so, but when you are so I think you most

delightful."

Miss Hohlfelder, upon entering the hall, spoke to the pianist and then

exchanged a few words with various members of the class. The pianist

began to play a dreamy Strauss waltz. When the dance was well under way

Miss Hohlfelder left the hall again and stepped into the ladies'

dressing-room. There was a woman seated quietly on a couch in a corner,

her hands folded on her lap.

"Good-evening, Miss Hohlfelder. You do not seem as bright as usual

to-night."

Miss Hohlfelder felt a sudden yearning for sympathy. Perhaps it was the

gentle tones of the greeting; perhaps the kindly expression of the soft

though faded eyes that were scanning Miss Hohlfelder's features. The

woman was of the indefinite age between forty and fifty. There were

lines on her face which, if due to years, might have carried her even

past the half-century mark, but if caused by trouble or ill health might

leave her somewhat below it. She was quietly dressed in black, and wore

her slightly wavy hair low over her ears, where it lay naturally in the

ripples which some others of her sex so sedulously seek by art. A little

woman, of clear olive complexion and regular features, her face was

almost a perfect oval, except as time had marred its outline. She had

been in the habit of coming to the class with some young women of the

family she lived with, part boarder, part seamstress and friend of the

family. Sometimes, while waiting for her young charges, the music would

jar her nerves, and she would seek the comparative quiet of the

dressing-room.

"Oh, I 'm all right, Mrs. Harper," replied the dancing-mistress, with a

brave attempt at cheerfulness,--"just a little tired, after a hard day's

work."

She sat down on the couch by the elder woman's side. Mrs. Harper took

her hand and stroked it gently, and Clara felt soothed and quieted by

her touch.

"There are tears in your eyes and trouble in your face. I know it, for I

have shed the one and known the other. Tell me, child, what ails you? I

am older than you, and perhaps I have learned some things in the hard

school of life that may be of comfort or service to you."

Such a request, coming from a comparative stranger, might very properly

have been resented or lightly parried. But Clara was not what would be

called self-contained. Her griefs seemed lighter when they were shared

with others, even in spirit. There was in her nature a childish strain

that craved sympathy and comforting. She had never known--or if so it

was only in a dim and dreamlike past--the tender, brooding care that was

her conception of a mother's love. Mrs. Hohlfelder had been fond of her

in a placid way, and had given her every comfort and luxury her means

permitted. Clara's ideal of maternal love had been of another and more

romantic type; she had thought of a fond, impulsive mother, to whose

bosom she could fly when in trouble or distress, and to whom she could

communicate her sorrows and trials; who would dry her tears and soothe

her with caresses. Now, when even her kind foster-mother was gone, she

felt still more the need of sympathy and companionship with her own sex;

and when this little Mrs. Harper spoke to her so gently, she felt her

heart respond instinctively.

"Yes, Mrs. Harper," replied Clara with a sigh, "I am in trouble, but it

is trouble that you nor any one else can heal."

"You do not know, child. A simple remedy can sometimes cure a very grave

complaint. Tell me your trouble, if it is something you are at liberty

to tell."

"I have a story," said Clara, "and it is a strange one,--a story I have

told to but one other person, one very dear to me."

"He must be dear to you indeed, from the tone in which you speak of him.

Your very accents breathe love."

"Yes, I love him, and if you saw him--perhaps you have seen him, for he

has looked in here once or twice during the dancing-lessons--you would

know why I love him. He is handsome, he is learned, he is ambitious, he

is brave, he is good; he is poor, but he will not always be so; and he

loves me, oh, so much!"

The other woman smiled. "It is not so strange to love, nor yet to be

loved. And all lovers are handsome and brave and fond."

"That is not all of my story. He wants to marry me." Clara paused, as if

to let this statement impress itself upon the other.

"True lovers always do," said the elder woman.

"But sometimes, you know, there are circumstances which prevent them."

"Ah yes," murmured the other reflectively, and looking at the girl with

deeper interest, "circumstances which prevent them. I have known of such

a case."

"The circumstance which prevents us from marrying is my story."

"Tell me your story, child, and perhaps, if I cannot help you otherwise,

I can tell you one that will make yours seem less sad."

"You know me," said the young woman, "as Miss Hohlfelder; but that is

not actually my name. In fact I do not know my real name, for I am not

the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hohlfelder, but only an adopted child.

While Mrs. Hohlfelder lived, I never knew that I was not her child. I

knew I was very different from her and father,--I mean Mr. Hohlfelder. I

knew they were fair and I was dark; they were stout and I was slender;

they were slow and I was quick. But of course I never dreamed of the

true reason of this difference. When mother--Mrs. Hohlfelder--died, I

found among her things one day a little packet, carefully wrapped up,

containing a child's slip and some trinkets. The paper wrapper of the

packet bore an inscription that awakened my curiosity. I asked father

Hohlfelder whose the things had been, and then for the first time I

learned my real story.

"I was not their own daughter, he stated, but an adopted child.

Twenty-three years ago, when he had lived in St. Louis, a steamboat

explosion had occurred up the river, and on a piece of wreckage floating

down stream, a girl baby had been found. There was nothing on the child

to give a hint of its home or parentage; and no one came to claim it,

though the fact that a child had been found was advertised all along the

river. It was believed that the infant's parents must have perished in

the wreck, and certainly no one of those who were saved could identify

the child. There had been a passenger list on board the steamer, but the

list, with the officer who kept it, had been lost in the accident. The

child was turned over to an orphan asylum, from which within a year it

was adopted by the two kind-hearted and childless German people who

brought it up as their own. I was that child."

The woman seated by Clara's side had listened with strained attention.

"Did you learn the name of the steamboat?" she asked quietly, but

quickly, when Clara paused.

"The Pride of St. Louis," answered Clara. She did not look at Mrs.

Harper, but was gazing dreamily toward the front, and therefore did not

see the expression that sprang into the other's face,--a look in which

hope struggled with fear, and yearning love with both,--nor the strong

effort with which Mrs. Harper controlled herself and moved not one

muscle while the other went on.

"I was never sought," Clara continued, "and the good people who brought

me up gave me every care. Father and mother--I can never train my tongue

to call them anything else--were very good to me. When they adopted me

they were poor; he was a pharmacist with a small shop. Later on he moved

to Cincinnati, where he made and sold a popular 'patent' medicine and

amassed a fortune. Then I went to a fashionable school, was taught

French, and deportment, and dancing. Father Hohlfelder made some bad

investments, and lost most of his money. The patent medicine fell off in

popularity. A year or two ago we came to this city to live. Father

bought this block and opened the little drug store below. We moved into

the rooms upstairs. The business was poor, and I felt that I ought to do

something to earn money and help support the family. I could dance; we

had this hall, and it was not rented all the time, so I opened a

dancing-school."

"Tell me, child," said the other woman, with restrained eagerness, "what

were the things found upon you when you were taken from the river?"

"Yes," answered the girl, "I will. But I have not told you all my story,

for this is but the prelude. About a year ago a young doctor rented an

office in our block. We met each other, at first only now and then, and

afterwards oftener; and six months ago he told me that he loved me."

She paused, and sat with half opened lips and dreamy eyes, looking back

into the past six months.

"And the things found upon you"----

"Yes, I will show them to you when you have heard all my story. He

wanted to marry me, and has asked me every week since. I have told him

that I love him, but I have not said I would marry him. I don't think it

would be right for me to do so, unless I could clear up this mystery. I

believe he is going to be great and rich and famous, and there might

come a time when he would be ashamed of me. I don't say that I shall

never marry him; for I have hoped--I have a presentiment that in some

strange way I shall find out who I am, and who my parents were. It may

be mere imagination on my part, but somehow I believe it is more than

that."

"Are you sure there was no mark on the things that were found upon you?"

said the elder woman.

"Ah yes," sighed Clara, "I am sure, for I have looked at them a hundred

times. They tell me nothing, and yet they suggest to me many things.

Come," she said, taking the other by the hand, "and I will show them to

you."

She led the way along the hall to her sitting-room, and to her

bedchamber beyond. It was a small room hung with paper showing a pattern

of morning-glories on a light ground, with dotted muslin curtains, a

white iron bedstead, a few prints on the wall, a rocking-chair--a very

dainty room. She went to the maple dressing-case, and opened one of the

drawers.

As they stood for a moment, the mirror reflecting and framing their

image, more than one point of resemblance between them was emphasized.

There was something of the same oval face, and in Clara's hair a faint

suggestion of the wave in the older woman's; and though Clara was fairer

of complexion, and her eyes were gray and the other's black, there was

visible, under the influence of the momentary excitement, one of those

indefinable likenesses which are at times encountered,--sometimes

marking blood relationship, sometimes the impress of a common training;

in one case perhaps a mere earmark of temperament, and in another the

index of a type. Except for the difference in color, one might imagine

that if the younger woman were twenty years older the resemblance would

be still more apparent.

Clara reached her hand into the drawer and drew out a folded packet,

which she unwrapped, Mrs. Harper following her movements meanwhile with

a suppressed intensity of interest which Clara, had she not been

absorbed in her own thoughts, could not have failed to observe.

When the last fold of paper was removed there lay revealed a child's

muslin slip. Clara lifted it and shook it gently until it was unfolded

before their eyes. The lower half was delicately worked in a lacelike

pattern, revealing an immense amount of patient labor.

The elder woman seized the slip with hands which could not disguise

their trembling. Scanning the garment carefully, she seemed to be noting

the pattern of the needlework, and then, pointing to a certain spot,

exclaimed:----

"I thought so! I was sure of it! Do you not see the letters--M.S.?"

"Oh, how wonderful!" Clara seized the slip in turn and scanned the

monogram. "How strange that you should see that at once and that I

should not have discovered it, who have looked at it a hundred times!

And here," she added, opening a small package which had been inclosed in

the other, "is my coral necklace. Perhaps your keen eyes can find

something in that."

It was a simple trinket, at which the older woman gave but a glance--a

glance that added to her emotion.

"Listen, child," she said, laying her trembling hand on the other's arm.

"It is all very strange and wonderful, for that slip and necklace, and,

now that I have seen them, your face and your voice and your ways, all

tell me who you are. Your eyes are your father's eyes, your voice is

your father's voice. The slip was worked by your mother's hand."

"Oh!" cried Clara, and for a moment the whole world swam before her

eyes.

"I was on the Pride of St. Louis, and I knew your father--and your

mother."

Clara, pale with excitement, burst into tears, and would have fallen had

not the other woman caught her in her arms. Mrs. Harper placed her on

the couch, and, seated by her side, supported her head on her shoulder.

Her hands seemed to caress the young woman with every touch.

"Tell me, oh, tell me all!" Clara demanded, when the first wave of

emotion had subsided. "Who were my father and my mother, and who am I?"

The elder woman restrained her emotion with an effort, and answered as

composedly as she could,----

"There were several hundred passengers on the Pride of St. Louis when

she left Cincinnati on that fateful day, on her regular trip to New

Orleans. Your father and mother were on the boat--and I was on the boat.

We were going down the river, to take ship at New Orleans for France, a

country which your father loved."

"Who was my father?" asked Clara. The woman's words fell upon her ear

like water on a thirsty soil.

"Your father was a Virginia gentleman, and belonged to one of the first

families, the Staffords, of Melton County."

Clara drew herself up unconsciously, and into her face there came a

frank expression of pride which became it wonderfully, setting off a

beauty that needed only this to make it all but perfect of its type.

"I knew it must be so," she murmured. "I have often felt it. Blood will

always tell. And my mother?"

"Your mother--also belonged to one of the first families of Virginia,

and in her veins flowed some of the best blood of the Old Dominion."

"What was her maiden name?"

"Mary Fairfax. As I was saying, your father was a Virginia gentleman. He

was as handsome a man as ever lived, and proud, oh, so proud!--and good,

and kind. He was a graduate of the University and had studied abroad."

"My mother--was she beautiful?"

"She was much admired, and your father loved her from the moment he

first saw her. Your father came back from Europe, upon his father's

sudden death, and entered upon his inheritance. But he had been away

from Virginia so long, and had read so many books, that he had outgrown

his home. He did not believe that slavery was right, and one of the

first things he did was to free his slaves. His views were not popular,

and he sold out his lands a year before the war, with the intention of

moving to Europe."

"In the mean time he had met and loved and married my mother?"

"In the mean time he had met and loved your mother."

"My mother was a Virginia belle, was she not?"

"The Fairfaxes," answered Mrs. Harper, "were the first of the first

families, the bluest of the blue-bloods. The Miss Fairfaxes were all

beautiful and all social favorites."

"What did my father do then, when he had sold out in Virginia?"

"He went with your mother and you--you were then just a year old--to

Cincinnati, to settle up some business connected with his estate. When

he had completed his business, he embarked on the Pride of St. Louis

with you and your mother and a colored nurse."

"And how did you know about them?" asked Clara.

"I was one of the party. I was"----

"You were the colored nurse?--my 'mammy,' they would have called you in

my old Virginia home?"

"Yes, child, I was--your mammy. Upon my bosom you have rested; my

breasts once gave you nourishment; my hands once ministered to you; my

arms sheltered you, and my heart loved you and mourned you like a mother

loves and mourns her firstborn."

"Oh, how strange, how delightful!" exclaimed Clara. "Now I understand

why you clasped me so tightly, and were so agitated when I told you my

story. It is too good for me to believe. I am of good blood, of an old

and aristocratic family. My presentiment has come true. I can marry my

lover, and I shall owe all my happiness to you. How can I ever repay

you?"

"You can kiss me, child, kiss your mammy."

Their lips met, and they were clasped in each other's arms. One put into

the embrace all of her new-found joy, the other all the suppressed

feeling of the last half hour, which in turn embodied the unsatisfied

yearning of many years.

The music had ceased and the pupils had left the hall. Mrs. Harper's

charges had supposed her gone, and had left for home without her. But

the two women, sitting in Clara's chamber, hand in hand, were oblivious

to external things and noticed neither the hour nor the cessation of the

music.

"Why, dear mammy," said the young woman musingly, "did you not find me,

and restore me to my people?"

"Alas, child! I was not white, and when I was picked up from the water,

after floating miles down the river, the man who found me kept me

prisoner for a time, and, there being no inquiry for me, pretended not

to believe that I was free, and took me down to New Orleans and sold me

as a slave. A few years later the war set me free. I went to St. Louis

but could find no trace of you. I had hardly dared to hope that a child

had been saved, when so many grown men and women had lost their lives. I

made such inquiries as I could, but all in vain."

"Did you go to the orphan asylum?"

"The orphan asylum had been burned and with it all the records. The war

had scattered the people so that I could find no one who knew about a

lost child saved from a river wreck. There were many orphans in those

days, and one more or less was not likely to dwell in the public mind."

"Did you tell my people in Virginia?"

"They, too, were scattered by the war. Your uncles lost their lives on

the battlefield. The family mansion was burned to the ground. Your

father's remaining relatives were reduced to poverty, and moved away

from Virginia."

"What of my mother's people?"

"They are all dead. God punished them. They did not love your father,

and did not wish him to marry your mother. They helped to drive him to

his death."

"I am alone in the world, then, without kith or kin," murmured Clara,

"and yet, strange to say, I am happy. If I had known my people and lost

them, I should be sad. They are gone, but they have left me their name

and their blood. I would weep for my poor father and mother if I were

not so glad."

Just then some one struck a chord upon the piano in the hall, and the

sudden breaking of the stillness recalled Clara's attention to the

lateness of the hour.

"I had forgotten about the class," she exclaimed. "I must go and attend

to them."

They walked along the corridor and entered the hall. Dr. Winthrop was

seated at the piano, drumming idly on the keys.

"I did not know where you had gone," he said. "I knew you would be

around, of course, since the lights were not out, and so I came in here

to wait for you."

"Listen, John, I have a wonderful story to tell you."

Then she told him Mrs. Harper's story. He listened attentively and

sympathetically, at certain points taking his eyes from Clara's face and

glancing keenly at Mrs. Harper, who was listening intently. As he looked

from one to the other he noticed the resemblance between them, and

something in his expression caused Mrs. Harper's eyes to fall, and then

glance up appealingly.

"And now," said Clara, "I am happy. I know my name. I am a Virginia

Stafford. I belong to one, yes, to two of what were the first families

of Virginia. John, my family is as good as yours. If I remember my

history correctly, the Cavaliers looked down upon the Roundheads."

"I admit my inferiority," he replied. "If you are happy I am glad."

"Clara Stafford," mused the girl. "It is a pretty name."

"You will never have to use it," her lover declared, "for now you will

take mine."

"Then I shall have nothing left of all that I have found"----

"Except your husband," asserted Dr. Winthrop, putting his arm around

her, with an air of assured possession.

Mrs. Harper was looking at them with moistened eyes in which joy and

sorrow, love and gratitude, were strangely blended. Clara put out her

hand to her impulsively.

"And my mammy," she cried, "my dear Virginia mammy."