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.