THE PARSONAGE, ST. ANDREW, VIRGINIA. To MISS ELIZABETH MADISON:
DEAR MADAM,--I have a communication of a somewhat trying nature to
make, and believe me; I would not make it were not my end very near.
Your father, dear madam, the late Harold Carter Madison, left an
illegitimate daughter by a woman whom he loved for many years, an
octaroon named Cassandra Lee. Before his death he gave poor Cassie a
certain sum of money, and made her promise to leave Washington and
never return. She came here and devoted the few remaining years of her
life to the care of her child. I and my wife were the only persons who
knew her story, and when she was dying we willingly promised to take
the little one. For the last ten years Harriet has lived here in the
parsonage and has been the only child I have ever known,--a dearly
beloved child. She has been carefully educated and is a lady in every
sense of the word. I had until the last two years a little school, and
she was my chief assistant. But the public school proved more
attractive--and doubtless is more thorough--and this passed from me.
Last year my wife died. Now I am going, and very rapidly. I have only
just learned the nature of my illness, and I may be dead before you
receive this letter. I write to beg you to receive your sister. There
is no argument I can use, dear lady, which your own conscience will not
dictate. You will not be ashamed of her. She shows not a trace of the
taint in her blood. The money your father gave Cassie has gone long
since, but Harriet asks no alms of you, only that you will help her to
go somewhere far from those who know that she is not as white as she
looks, and to give her a chance to earn her living. She is well fitted
to be a governess or companion, and no doubt you could easily place
her. But she is lonely and frightened and miserable. Be merciful and
receive her into your home for a time.
"I dare not write this to your mother. She has no cause to feel warmly
to Harriet. But you are young, and wealthy in your own right. Her
future rests with you. Here in this village she can do absolutely
nothing, and after I am buried she will not have enough to keep her for
a month. Answer to her--she bears my name."
I am, dear lady,
Your humble and obd't servant,
ABRAHAM WALKER.
P. S. Harriet is twenty-three. She has letters in her possession which
prove her parentage.
Betty's first impulse was to take the next train for St. Andrew. Her
heart went out to the lonely girl, deprived of her only protector,
wretched under the triple load of poverty, friendlessness, and the
curse of race. She remembered vividly those two men in the church whose
bearing expressed more forcibly than any words the canker that had
blighted their manhood. And this girl bore no visible mark of the wrong
that had been done her, and only needed the opportunity to be happy and
respected. Could duty be more plain? And was she a chosen instrument to
right one at least of the great wrongs perpetrated by the brilliant,
warm-hearted, reckless men of her race?
But in a moment she shuddered and dropped the letter, a wave of horror
and disgust rising within her. This girl was her half-sister, and was,
light or dark, a negress. Betty had seen too much of the world in her
twenty-seven years to weep at the discovery of her father's weakness,
or to shrink from a woman so unhappy as to be born out of wedlock; but
she was Southern to her finger-tips: the blacks were a despised, an
unspeakably inferior race, and they had been slaves for hundreds of
years to the white man. To be sure, she loved the old family servants,
and rarely said a harsh word to them, and it was a matter of
indifference to her that they had been freed, as she had plenty of
money to pay their wages. But that the negro should vote had always
seemed to her incredible and monstrous, and she laughed to herself when
she met on the streets the smartly dressed coloured folk out for a
walk. They seemed farcically unreal, travesties on the people to whom a
discriminating Almighty had given the world. To her the entire race
were first slaves, then servants, entitled to all kindness so long as
they kept their place, but to be stepped on the moment they presumed.
She recoiled in growing disgust from this girl with the hidden drop of
black in her body.
But her reasoning faculty was accustomed to work independently of her
brain's inherited impressions. She stamped her foot and anathematized
herself for a narrow-minded creature whose will was weaker than her
prejudices. The girl was blameless, helpless. She might have a mind as
good as her own, be as well fitted to enjoy the higher pleasures of
life. And she might have a beauty and a temperament which would be her
ruin did her natural protectors tell her that she was a pariah, an
outcast, that they could have none of her. Betty conjured her up, a
charming and pathetic vision; but in vain. The repulsion was physical,
inherited from generations of proud and intolerant women, and she could
not control it.
She longed desperately for a confidant and adviser. Her mother she
could not speak to until she had made up her mind. Emory and Sally
Carter would tell her to give the creature an allowance and think no
more about her; and the matter went deeper than that. The girl had
heart and an educated mind; her demands were subtle and complex.
Senator Burleigh? He would laugh impatiently at her prejudices, and
tell her that she ought to go out and live in the free fresh air of the
West. They probably would quarrel irremediably. Mary Montgomery would
only stare. Betty could hear her exclaim: "But why? What? And you say
she is quite white? I do not think that negroes are as nice as white
people, of course; but I cannot understand your really tragic aversion."
There was only one person to whom it would be a luxury to talk, Senator
North. She knew that he would not only understand but sympathize with
her, and she was sure he would give her wise counsel. She regretted
bitterly that she had not been able to make a friend of him, as she had
of several of his colleagues. She would have sent for him without
hesitation.
She glanced at the clock; it pointed to ten minutes past ten. He was
doubtless at that moment in his Committee Room looking over his
correspondence. She knew that Senators received letters at the rate of
a hundred a day, and were early risers in consequence. If only she
dared to go to him, if only he were not so desperately busy. But he had
intimated that he had leisure moments, had taken the trouble to say
that it would give him pleasure to serve her. Why should he not? What
if he were a Senator? Was she not a Woman? Why should she of all women
hesitate to demand a half-hour's time of any man? She needed advice,
must have it: a decision should be reached in the next twenty-four
hours. Not for a second did she admit that she was building up an
excuse for the long-desired interview with Senator North. She was a
woman confronted with a solemn problem. Her coupe was at the door; she
had planned a morning's shopping. She ran upstairs and dressed herself
for the street, wondering what order she would give the footman. She
changed her mind hurriedly twenty times, but was careful to select the
most becoming street-frock she possessed, a gentian blue cloth trimmed
with sable. There were three hats to match it, and she tried on each,
to the surprise of her maid, who usually found her easy to please. She
finally decided upon a small toque which was made to set well back from
her face into the heavy waves of her hair. She was too wise to wear a
veil, for her complexion was flawless, her forehead low and full, and
her hair arranged loosely about it; she wore no fringe.
As the footman closed the door of the coupe and she said curtly, "The
Capitol," she knew that her mind had made itself up in the moment that
it had conceived the possibility of a call upon Senator North.
That point settled, she was calm until she reached the familiar
entrance to the Senate wing, and rehearsed the coming interview.
But her cheeks were hot and her knees were trembling as she left the
elevator and hurried down the corridor to the Committee Room which
Burleigh, when showing her over the building one morning, had pointed
out as Senator North's. She never had felt so nervous. She wondered if
women felt this sudden terror of the outraged proprieties when
hastening to a tryst of which the world must know nothing. And she was
overwhelmed with the vivid consciousness that she was actually about to
demand the time and attention of one of the busiest and most eminent
men in the country. If it had not been for a stubborn and long-tried
will, she would have turned and run.
A mulatto was sitting before the door. When she asked, with a
successful attempt at composure, for Senator North, he demanded her
card. She happened to have one in her purse, and he went into the room
and closed the door, leaving her to be stared at by the strolling
sight-seers.
The mulatto reopened the door and invited her to enter a large room
with a long table, a bookcase, and a number of leather chairs. Before
he had led her far, Senator North appeared within the doorway of an
inner room.
"I am glad to see you," he said. "I know that you are in trouble or you
would not have done me this honour. It is an honour, and as I told you
before I shall feel it a privilege to serve you in any way. Sit here,
by the fire."
Betty felt so grateful for his effort to put her at her ease, so
delighted that he was all her imagination had pictured, and had not
snubbed her in what she conceived to be the superior senatorial manner,
that she flung herself into the easy-chair and burst into tears.
Senator North knew women as well as a man can. He let the storm pass,
poked the already glowing fire, and lowered two of the window-shades.
"I feel so stupid," said Betty, calming herself abruptly. "I have no
right to take up your time, and I shall say what I have to say and go."
"I have practically nothing to do for the next hour. Please consider it
yours."
Betty stole a glance at him. He was leaning back in his chair regarding
her intently. It was impossible to say whether his eyes had softened or
not, but he looked kind and interested.
"I never have told you that your father was a great friend of mine," he
said. "You really have a claim on me." In spite of the fact that the
Congressional Directory gave him sixty years, he looked anything but
fatherly. Although there never was the slightest affectation of youth
in his dress or manner, he suggested threescore years as little. So
strong was his individuality that Betty could not imagine him having
been at any time other than he was now. He was Senator North, that was
the rounded fact; years had nothing to do with him.
"Well, I'm glad you knew papa; it will help you to understand. I--But
perhaps you had better read this."
She took the clergyman's letter from her muff, and Senator North put on
a pair of steel-rimmed eyeglasses and read it. When he had finished he
put the eyeglasses in his pocket, folded the letter, and handed it to
her. He had read the contents with equal deliberation. It seemed
impossible that he would act otherwise in any circumstance.
"Well?" he said, looking keenly at her. "What are you going to do about
it?"
"I am ashamed to tell you how I have felt. But we Southerners feel so
strongly on--on--that subject--it is difficult to explain!"
"We Northerners know exactly how you feel," he said dryly. "We should
be singularly obtuse if we did not. However, do not for a moment
imagine that I am unsympathetic. We all have our prejudices, and the
strongest one is a part of us. And for the matter of that, the average
American is no more anxious to marry a woman with negro blood in her
than the Southerner is, and looks down upon the Black from almost as
lofty a height. Only our prejudice is passive, for he is not the
constant source of annoyance and anxiety with us that he is with you."
"Then you understand how repulsive it is to me to have a sister who is
white by accident only, and how torn I am between pity for her and a
physical antipathy that I cannot overcome?"
"I understand perfectly."
"That is why I have come to you--to ask you what I _must_ do. This is
the first time I have been confronted by a real problem; my life has
been so smooth and my trials so petty. It is too great a problem for me
to solve by myself, and I could not think of anybody's advice but yours
that--that I would take," she finished, with her first flash of humour.
"I fully expect you to take the advice I am going to give you. Your
duty is plain; you must do all you can for this girl. But by no means
receive her into your house until you have made her acquaintance. Take
the ten o'clock B. & O. to-morrow morning and go to St. Andrew; it is
about four hours' journey and on the line of the railroad. Spend
several hours with the girl, and, if she is worth the trouble, bring
her back with you and do all you can for her: it would be cruel and
heartless to refuse her consolation if she is all this old man
describes--and you are not cruel and heartless. And if this drop of
black blood is abhorrent to you, think what it must be to her. It is
enough to torment a high-strung woman into insanity or suicide. On the
other hand, if she is common, or looks as if she had a violent temper,
or is conceited and self-sufficient like so many of that hybrid race,
settle an income on her and send her to Europe: in placing her above
temptation you will have done your duty."
"But that is the whole point--to be sure that _you_ do the right thing."
"I almost hope she will be impossible, so that I can wipe her off the
slate at once. Otherwise it will be a terrible problem."
"It is no problem at all. There is no problem in plain duty. Problems
exist principally in works of fiction and in the minds of unoccupied
women. If you meet each development of every question in the most
natural and reasonable manner,--presupposing that you possess that
highest attribute of civilization, common-sense,--no question will ever
resolve itself into a problem. And difficulties usually disappear as
the range of vision contracts. If your house takes fire, you save what
you can, not what you have elaborately planned to save in case of fire.
Train your common-sense and let the windy analysis pertaining to
problems alone."
"But how can I ever get over the horror of the thing, Mr. North?"
"You will forget all about it when she has been your daily companion
for a few weeks. If she lacked a nose, you would as soon cease to
remember it. If this girl is worth liking, you will like her, and soon
cease to feel tragic. Leave that to her!"
"I know that you are right, and of course I shall take your advice. I
did not come here to trouble you for nothing. But if I liked her at
first and not afterward--"
"Pack her off to Europe. Europe will console an American woman for
every ill in life. If you take the right attitude in the beginning, it
all rests with her after that. You will have but one duty further. If
she wishes to marry, you must tell the man the truth, if she will not.
Don't hesitate on that point a moment. Her children are liable to be
coal-black. That African blood seems to have a curse on it, and the
curse is usually visited on the unoffending."
"I will, I will," said Betty. She rose, and he rose also and took her
hand in both of his. She felt an almost irresistible desire to put her
head on his shoulder, for she was tired and depressed.
"Your attitude in the matter is the important thing to me," he said.
"That is why I have spoken so emphatically. You are a child yet, in
spite of your twenty-seven years and your admirable intelligence. This
is practically your first trial, the first time you have been called
upon to make a decision which, either way, is bound to have a strong
effect on your character, and to affect still greater decisions you may
be called upon to make in the future. You have only one defect; you are
not quite serious enough--yet."
"I feel very serious just now," said Betty, with a sigh; and in truth
she did, and her new-found sister was not the only thing that perplexed
her.
"One of these days you will be a singularly perfect woman," he added,
and then he dropped her hand and walked to the door. As he was about to
open it, she touched his arm timidly.
"Will you come and see me on Sunday?" she asked. "I shall have been
through a good deal between now and then, and I shall want--I shall
want to talk to you."
"I will come," he said.
"Not before half-past four. My mother will be asleep then, and my
cousin, Jack Emory, have gone home--there will be so many things I
shall want to talk to you about."
"I shall be there at half-past four," he said. "Good-bye. Good-bye."