"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 up _The 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."
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."
"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----"
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----"
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.