It was still early morning when the boat left the dock and the three
women walked back toward their home after their good-by to Tom. No one
spoke for a time and then Aunt Maggie said impressively, "Dere ain't no
use in cryin' 'bout what yer can't help. Tom's gone, but maybe it'll
make a man o' him; maybe it were best fer him ter leabe de women folk.
Heah 'tis, Monday morning. Ellen, hab yer settle in yer mind which o' de
boys gits de washin' ter my folks?"
"I suppose," said Hertha, "it will be either Thaddeus Jackson or Obadiah
Thomas."
"It will be Thaddeus," Ellen answered. "He will do it all right, Mammy,
because his father lets him save his money."
"I hope he isn't saving to go to school," said Hertha; and then, quite
unexpectedly to herself, laughed. She had been living so many days
weighted with sorrow that the sailing of the boat had come as a relief.
There was no good, as her mother said, to rebel against the inevitable;
and while she would miss her brother, who had grown to be a companion in
thought and interests, and who yet could never outgrow his place as her
baby, it could not be right to look upon his absence as a calamity like
sickness or death. So she gave her little laugh and her mother looked at
her with pleasure and relief.
"Dere goes Ellen," Aunt Maggie said, as her elder daughter went past
them the sooner to get to her work. "You an' I believes as de door o'
heben's open ter dem as walks slow. I's glad you kin laugh, honey. We
ain't lose Tom fer good. An' soon de winter'll come, an' moe folks
a-staying at de great house, an' den de summer an' de dear boy home
ag'in."
Talking on in slow, comfortable phrases, stopping often to get her
breath, Hertha's mammy walked with her among the pines to their tidy
front yard where golden glow and asters told of the autumn.
"It seems later than it is, doesn't it?" said Hertha, "we've been up so
long. I think I'll go to Miss Patty right now."
There were two paths to the great house. The well-traveled one led past
a number of cabins, and ended near the kitchen door. It was the shorter
but Hertha chose a more attractive way among the pines to where a
cypress marked the beginning of the orange grove. She had taken this
route long before Lee Merryvale's return; and while he had closed it
generally to dwellers among the pines, Miss Patty assured her maid she
could use it as much as she wished.
She had only walked a little way when she saw Merryvale himself
examining his cherished possessions.
"Come over here, won't you?" he called out. "There's no one up at the
house yet."
Hertha went shyly toward him. He was a handsome man with reddish gold
hair, clear eyes, and a glowing skin. His hat was off, he wore a soft
shirt with collar thrown open, and altogether looked an attractive
combination of the farmer and the gentleman.
As she came up he said sympathetically, "You must be feeling pretty
badly to-day at saying good-by to Tom."
"Yes," said Hertha, and added almost confidentially, "you see, Tom's the
baby. I took care of him when he wasn't any longer than that,"
indicating the length with her hands.
"You couldn't have been much longer yourself."
She shook her head smiling and then turned to go away.
"Can't we have a little talk?" he asked. "Don't run into the house such
a wonderful morning as this. I say, what a day it is! A day for the
gods--Zeus, Apollo, Diana--we ought to worship the sun!"
It was a wonderful morning. The newly risen sun sent its golden light
through the grove, brightening the deep green leaves, showing the pale
yellow in the ripening fruit; and then danced on to the river where it
lay, a limitless mass of golden mist, upon the shining stream.
As Hertha stopped and looked out over the river, Merryvale stepped to
her side. "You're as beautiful as a goddess," he said.
"Don't go, please," he cried as she moved away from from him. "Stop and
play! Let's play ball. The goddesses, you know, did that. Here, catch!"
and he threw an orange into her hands.
He was so near that she could scarcely fail to catch it, yet it slipped
from her grasp and fell to the ground where she picked it up, awkwardly
enough, and threw it back again.
He had moved away from her but was quick to catch her wavering throw.
"Better next time," he said.
She grew more expert, lost her shyness, and the ball flew back and forth
until, squeezed too hard in the man's strong hand, it collapsed into a
sticky mass of skin and pulp.
"It was extravagant of you," Hertha laughed, as she watched him wipe his
fingers. "You wouldn't let any one else waste good fruit."
"It wasn't wasted," he declared, "it gave us a good time. Isn't that a
worthy way to end life?"
She did not answer. The play over, she was self-conscious again.
"Try once more," he cried, picking another orange.
"No, no," she answered. "I must be going."
"You aren't needed yet."
"Yes I am, truly. Miss Patty is wondering why I'm not there with the hot
water."
He tossed the orange, but she dodged it and ran through the trees.
Pursuing her, in a few seconds he was at her side.
"Please don't go," he pleaded.
"I must."
"Well, promise you'll come and play again."
"Perhaps."
"Promise!"
"Perhaps," and she left him.
The blood was throbbing in his temples as he went back to his trees. He
had admired her beauty from the time he had first noticed her, three
months before, moving about his home. What must her father have been to
have given her such poise, such a delicate throat, such a pure white
skin! And her charm did not end with her face or her carriage. Her
speech was that of the white girl, not of the Negro--careful speech,
learned, as it happened, of her northern teachers. He had not
encountered her often these summer months, for she was Miss Patty's
personal servant and spent her days in his aunt's upper rooms or on the
gallery; but he never saw her that he did not want to speak with her, to
see the light come to her questioning face. She seemed to him in every
way a lady. What was she doing living in a black woman's home?
The mid-day meal at the great house was stirred from its usual quiet by
a discussion of the visitor who was expected by the evening boat. The
Merryvales had never taken boarders, but from time to time they had
staying with them what the English call "paying guests." Every winter,
two or three northerners, visitors from the year before or carefully
introduced by former visitors, came to Merryvale and made a substantial
payment for the privilege of living in the old house. Usually these
guests were elderly ladies, either unmarried or with busy husbands who
could not take the time to accompany them, and they lived quietly on the
place; taking little walks, knitting, playing cards, and occasionally
going by boat to the city for a day's shopping. Miss Patty depended on
them for her entertainment more, perhaps, than she was ready to admit.
They taught her a new game of solitaire or a new way of making a baby's
sack, and they listened, with every appearance of attention, to her
innumerable tales about her family. To-day's arrival was a Miss
Witherspoon, a friend of one of their pleasantest Boston guests, and
everything was being planned for her comfort.
"Put my best linen on the bed, Hertha," Miss Patty said as she came
upstairs after her mid-day meal, "and you can take your sewing to the
gallery while I have my nap."
Hertha did as she was bidden, and, the guest-room in perfect order, went
out upon the shady corner of the upper porch. A wind was blowing from
the river, tossing the gray moss of the live-oaks, and brushing against
her fingers the thin lace she was trying to sew upon a dress. It called
her to play, pushed the little curls in her eyes, and spilled the spool
of thread upon the floor. She laughed to herself as she picked it up,
and then sat, her work in her lap, looking wistfully out into the
swaying moss and the green leaves.
So the gods and goddesses played at ball. Which god was he? Apollo, of
course, the god of the sunlight, the gold gleaming in his ruddy hair.
What good times they must have had in those old days when no one seemed
to be busy, when you might run through the meadows singing as you went,
when no one minded if you danced in the moonlight and played in the
morning. Why should you not do such simple, happy things!
She took up her needle again, and of a sudden thought of Tom going away
alone. The remembrance of the boy's face held her to her task.
Along the lane came an automobile, its horn tooting as it bumped over
the uneven road. Hertha started, and putting down her work watched to
see the car stop in front of the Merryvale door. It was most unusual to
have guests arrive in this fashion and at this hour. The men were not
about; Pomona, the cook, was unequal to receiving such a visitor, so
though it was not her specified task, Hertha, mindful for the good
ordering of the house, went to the door.
Descending from the automobile was an alert-looking lady, neither young
nor old, in a plain, good-fitting, tailor-made suit and small hat, with
the business-like air of one who has done much traveling and is
accustomed to finding herself in new surroundings.
"I am Miss Witherspoon," she said at once. "I had expected to arrive
later in the afternoon by boat, but it seemed wiser at the last to come
part of the way by train. I hope I am not inconveniencing you by my
early arrival."
"It is no inconvenience," Hertha replied, "but I am sorry that Miss
Merryvale is lying down."
"Don't think of disturbing her," the newcomer said. And then, smiling at
Hertha, asked, "Is this another Miss Merryvale?"
"No," Hertha answered, "I am Miss Merryvale's maid."
She was quite accustomed to being taken for a white girl, and felt no
embarrassment; but the same could not be said of Miss Witherspoon. That
well-bred lady almost stared; and then, turning, dismissed her car and
followed Hertha, who had laden herself with bags, to the bedroom.
"I hope everything is as you like it," the girl said to the "paying
guest" who looked with approval at the cool room, high-ceilinged, with
white walls, white iron bed and simple furnishings.
"Thank you," said Miss Witherspoon, "I am sure I like it very much; and
really, I believe there is nothing I should like better than to lie down
myself."
She smiled again at Hertha, this time the pleasant, patronizing smile of
one who praises a good servant's work.
"I'll bring you some hot water," Hertha said.
When she had completed her arrangements for the new guest, she went back
to her seat, and laboriously, intently, worked on the white muslin with
its fine white lace.
There was a good deal to tell when she got home that night. Her mother
wanted all the details of Miss Witherspoon's appearance, and after a
lengthy description, ventured her opinion of the newcomer's laundry
value. "I reckon she don' wear any o' dem crinkly gowns an' chemises dat
you do up yoursel'. Dey matches de folks wid der money bangin' agin der
knees in der petticoat pockets. Did she duck down, dearie, ter git her
purse?"
"No, Mammy," Hertha answered.
"But she'll be de keerful kin', allus 'memberin' ter tak' off a white
skirt if it begin ter rain, an' half de time dryin' her han'chiefs on de
winder-pane. Dat's de kin' as comes here. It takes de hotel folks ter
make a payin' business."
"She's younger than our boarders usually are, anyway," Hertha said. "Not
that she's young but she looks so."
"Everybody looks young these days," Ellen remarked; "or if they don't
they let you know they're trying to."
"Was dere laughin' an' carr'in' on at de table?"
"Yes, a little. Yes, Mammy, I think she's entertaining."
"Dat's good. I hope she 'spectin' ter stay de winter."
"I think not, Mammy. I think she's to leave next month."
"Dat's too bad. Ef I was Miss Patty I'd hab some nice gal or udder heah
all de time ter keep Mister Lee company. If dey don't gib him a good
time he'll up an' leab de family an' de orange an' grapefruit business.
Dere ain't nottin' a boy needs so much as de right kin' ob a lil' gal
ter play wid."
"You're to have Tom's room now, Sister," Ellen said as they started for
bed.
Hertha expostulated. "You need a room to yourself, Ellen, I know you
do."
Ellen knew it too, but she was desirous to give her sister everything
within her power. "No, I'm all right," she said decidedly. "It's all
arranged. Mother and I didn't say anything before because we wanted to
surprise you. You've wanted, I know, to be by yourself, dear; and Tom
would be glad to think you were in his room."
She showed her sister the little things she had done for her comfort,
and with a kiss left her to herself. It had been a long day and the
young girl went at once to bed and fell asleep. But after a little she
awoke and lay for hours in the still heat of the night, living again the
morning's happenings. She went over in her mind, her heart beating fast,
the foolish little game that carried with it so much happiness. He
thought her as beautiful as a goddess; and he had not said it cheaply as
though she were some common, gaily daubed plaything that one dangled
to-day to throw away to-morrow. His eyes looked honestly into hers. He
was strong and capable, loving the fresh air and sunshine and the green
trees. He was gentle, kind to the people here, kind to her. With her
eyes fixed on the dim window square that saved the room from utter
darkness, she dreamed of his near presence, feeling his breath upon her
cheek, until, her whole body swept with emotion, she clenched her hands
and pressed them to her lips to keep back the welling tears. For then
came the dread reality: her color, her station, these two facts loomed
above her, fell and crushed her with their weight. No young white man
should choose as his companion a Negro servant. She must forget the
morning playtime, and never commit the fault again. Striving to drive
him from her thoughts, she made plans for the morrow--the finishing of
Miss Patty's dress, the letter she would write to Tom. And, tossing on
her bed, between her new-found happiness and her misgivings, she cried
herself to sleep.
Is there any greater difference than that between night and morning? All
the hobgoblins, the fears, the morbid misgivings disappear with the
bright sunlight and the feel of cold water. As the fresh drops fell from
Hertha's face she was sure she had misjudged the pleasant facts of
yesterday. She coiled her hair that fell in little curls as the brush
left its silky fineness, and hummed a song to her smiling face in the
glass. Fastening the last hook of her blue cotton dress, the soft,
gray-blue that she and Miss Patty liked, she went in to help the others
with the breakfast, master of her fate. There was no hesitation in her
step when, a little earlier than her wont, she turned toward the orange
grove.
"Honey," her mother called after her. "Jes' ask Pomona ef she'll gib me
her big stew-pot to-day. I's layin' ter make some jelly. An' don' work
too hard. Dat ole black woman's allus tryin' ter git you ter do her
work."