In the dim twilight of a November morning, before the sun was up, a
young lady stood outside the Williams' cabin. She wore a dark blue
traveling suit and a small hat set stylishly on her curling brown hair.
In her right hand was a little leather hand-bag and in her left a neatly
rolled silk umbrella. Above her well-cut pumps were silk stockings. She
looked surprisingly out of place, and seeming to realize it herself, she
hastily lifted the latch and went into the house.
The table was set with three places; from the kitchen the steaming
coffee-pot sent forth a delicious fragrance, while the scent of frying
bacon mingled with the almost imperceptible odor of hot rolls. A big
bunch of red roses lay by one of the places that was also graced by a
cup decorated with pink and white flowers.
"Is that you, Hertha?" came a voice from the kitchen.
"Yes, Sister," was the answer.
Ellen appeared at the kitchen doorway and after a glance gave a little
laughing bow, saying, "Good morning, Miss Ogilvie."
There are few people who look always the same; we vary in our appearance
with a headache or a drop in the thermometer; but perhaps nothing is so
quick to change our aspect as a reversal in our fortunes. Hertha had
worn a pretty suit before, she had been well-shod, but never previously
had she stood with such a quiet air of self-confidence. She blushed at
Ellen's greeting, her head drooped, and she was Hertha Williams again.
"Oh, it's great!" Ellen exclaimed. "Don't droop your head. Think what a
pity it would have been if Hertha Ogilvie had turned out to look like
Minnie Barker!"
A picture of Minnie Barker, very freckled, with a snub nose, reddish
hair and a shirtwaist that was always pulling up from her skirt at the
back, came to Hertha and she laughed. Then sobering, she said, "I'm not
going to any one who'll care. If I had a relative or two!"
"There are relatives and relatives," Ellen answered sagely. "This world
is such a raffle you might not have inherited the right kind."
"It isn't likely," Hertha added, "that I'd have gotten another set as
good as the first," and she smiled at her former sister.
"Good morning, honey," said Mammy, appearing with a plate of biscuit.
They joked a good deal during the meal to which Hertha had invited
herself and which she had planned even to the guava jelly, slightly
liquid, amorously sweet, which Miss Witherspoon assured her she would
never get in the North. The meal over they went outside and the visitor
stood with Mammy while she fed the scraps to the chickens, watching them
peck and push at one another, each trying to get the best piece.
"Hertha," Ellen said hesitatingly, "there's something Mammy and I want
to say."
Hertha shrank within herself. She was fearful when Ellen started in this
serious tone, dreading too careful an analysis of their emotions.
Understanding this the older woman spoke.
"Honey, dear," she said looking at Hertha with moist eyes, "you's gwine
away alone, for we's alone ef we ain't wid some'un we lobes. I 'spects
it gwine ter be mighty hard fer you, but ef eber you's discouraged jes'
'member dat here in dis lil' cabin dere's you' sister an' you' mammy,
lobin' yer an' prayin' fer yer day an' night. You's close in our hearts,
foreber and eber, an' we knows we's close in yours.
"But, honey, dar's anudder t'ing. Keep us in you' heart, but don' try
ter lib in our worl', not at fust. It ain't gwine ter be so easy, allus
ter remember as you's white. You can't fergit a lifetime in a day. An'
it's mighty mean ter be swingin' fust on one foot, den on de udder, not
knowin' whar you stan'. When yer gits yer place firm in de white worl',
den yer kin turn back ter look at de black. But not now, dearie, not
now."
Hertha could not speak, but she nodded her head in acceptance of her
exile.
"We don't need to worry," Ellen said with a laugh that had a sob in it.
"We sha'n't have to wait long. You'll soon stand on both your feet."
"I ain't gwine ter de dock," Mammy announced when Ellen in a moment said
it was time for them to leave. "I don't wan' no white folks starin' at
me an' talkin'; I'se gwine to say good-by hyar in my home. Baby,"
turning to the child of her adoption, "you's so pretty-like, allus be
good."
"Yes, Mammy," Hertha promised.
"Lay you' head on my breas'. Dere! Lil lamb, you's gwine out inter de
worl' alone. But you know de way ter safety. Lobe de Lord Jesus. Don'
never forgit Him fer a moment, but keep close ter His bosom."
On the dock Miss Witherspoon was fidgeting among the hand-luggage. She
looked annoyed when Hertha came up with Ellen. "Oh, here you are," she
said. "Don't you think you had better express this bag? No. Why not? But
I thought I explained to you that you could express it on the train.
However, it doesn't much matter. How many pieces of hand-luggage have
you? Two? And you have two other things to carry, your hand-bag and your
umbrella. It's always well to count the number of pieces you have and
then when you get up from your seat you can go over them--one, two,
three, four. Do you see? I'm sorry though that you didn't pack so that
you could express one of the bags through."
Ellen looked on, feeling that she was only beginning to realize how much
of tragedy there was in this good-by. Not even she had appreciated,
until she stood there on the dock, how far removed was the world of
white and black. There was something terrible and ridiculous in sending
her little sister away with a stranger, and denying to her the right to
know again the people among whom she had been reared and who had given
her the training and the education that made it possible for her so
easily to take her place in the white world. "Well, I'm mighty glad I
was ambitious," she thought with a rush of pride as she looked at the
well-bred, ladylike figure in its stylish traveling dress. "Supposing
she'd been handed over to poor white trash!"
"Ellen," Hertha whispered, "I'm going to try to make something of myself
but I'm more easily discouraged than you."
"You must be courageous, Hertha. Go ahead and do things."
"I don't know how to do that. But perhaps things will happen."
Miss Patty had said good-by at the house, but now Pomona came hurrying
down with a basket of Japanese persimmons for the journey. With the
bunch of red roses these made two more things not to be forgotten when
you left your seat, and Hertha felt Miss Witherspoon look disapprovingly
at them. Then with the rising sun the boat came toward them around the
bend seeming, to the young girl who stood there, like some sea monster
that would drag her away from everything familiar and carry her to an
alien land. She grew almost sick with fear, but a glance at Ellen made
her rally. A step up the gangplank and she had left the world of
friends, of mother and sister and brother, of lovely skies, of beautiful
trees, of mockingbirds and whistling quail, the world of long walks with
Tom and of evenings out under the stars; the world that had been a world
of rest and peace until Tom left it on this same boat less than two
months ago.
"The porter has both your bags, I hope," said Miss Witherspoon
anxiously. But it proved that Lee Merryvale was carrying them, and as
she spoke he deposited them at Hertha's side. Then, taking off his hat,
he said good-by. "I am coming North this winter," he remarked
decisively, "and I shall expect to see you. I hope you'll enjoy going
into a new land."
"I think I shall," Hertha managed to answer, and was grateful that he
had not tried to shake hands. When he left them the moorings were cast
off, and the boat turned out into the stream.
On the dock stood the Merryvales, father and son. A little way from
them, by herself, was Ellen. Now they were going past the great house,
the trees were tossing their mossy beards and from the gallery Miss
Patty was waving to her. Cows grazed in the river, and high above a
turkey buzzard soared, gazing down to find death on the earth. Then the
river made a bend and the familiar world was gone.
Before she left the boat Hertha took out a letter from Tom and read it
once again. Tom had shown his thoughtfulness in every line. There was no
surprise in his receipt of the news and there was much gladness for her.
"Sister," he wrote, "we are all in a cage, we black folk. It's a big
cage, and we get used to it and have a good time in it, and after a
while we don't much notice when we strike our wings against the bars.
But it's a cage. Do you remember that funny, old white woman in the city
who used to let us look in her room and see her family of canaries? They
were breeding right there in her parlor, building their nests and
bringing up their young. Those canaries were just as busy and as much
taken up with their goings on as if they had been out in the trees. But
they were prisoners all the same. Well, they've opened the cage door for
you and set you free. It wasn't right for you to be shut up; it weren't
meant for you. Now you're free and folks won't come just to play with
you in your cage. I'm glad, Sister, and don't forget you're free."
"I wonder if I really am free," Hertha said to herself. "I'd like to
find out."
The railroad journey was uneventful to Miss Witherspoon, but full of
novelty to Hertha. Accustomed to the jim-crow coach, the Pullman with
its comfortable bed, its luxurious dining-car, was a revelation. But she
showed no sign of unfamiliarity and moved through the day, and even
climbed to her high perch at night as though it were a usual routine.
But all the time she was revolving a plan and wondering whether she
would have the courage to carry it out. She had told Ellen that she
could not go ahead and make things happen, but she felt that it was
possible, if you did not like a thing, quietly to avoid it. The
conception of freedom of which Tom wrote was taking a strong hold upon
her. As she lay awake looking up at the lighted ceiling of the car,
feeling the presence of the many people traveling like herself to the
strange North, people who were now of her world, she grew impatient at
the circumscription that was being prepared for her. The story of her
life had been told to Miss Witherspoon's friends, Miss Witherspoon had
planned her future, and she would be an ever pervasive factor in her
life in the months to come. Hertha suspected that to be with her would
be like going to school again. But the cage door was open and she might,
if she had the courage, make a genuine flight, alone. Yes, alone. If she
could not be with those she loved, she did not wish at once to link her
life to some one whom she was growing to dislike, some one who intended
to fashion the order of her ways. Why not slip away from this new
chaperon who, after all, was only a chance acquaintance? So she reasoned
as she lay awake at night, and as she looked out of her window during
the day while the train swung steadily northward and prosperous cities,
belching factories, well tilled fields, great barns, and spacious
farmhouses whizzed past, her courage and her desire for adventure grew.
She had money, she was white, she would learn what it meant to be free.
"We shall soon be in New York," Miss Witherspoon said on the second day.
"We arrive, you know, at the Pennsylvania station and we take a taxi
there for the Grand Central. I am sorry that I can't stop to show you
New York, but I delayed my departure from Merryvale longer than I
expected, that I might bring you with me, and it is imperative that I go
at once to Boston."
"I certainly do not want to put you to any inconvenience."
Hertha's tone was polite, but at heart she felt angry. She wanted to see
New York and her companion had killed all desire she might have had to
see Boston. She was hot with excitement when later they drew into the
station.
"What did you give your bags to another boy for?" Miss Witherspoon
questioned.
They were in a crowd of people, hurrying off the trains. Miss
Witherspoon had seized upon a porter to whom she had given her luggage,
and, on turning around, had found that her companion had extravagantly
engaged another.
The young girl murmured an unintelligible reply and her chaperon, intent
upon getting a taxi, hurried on ahead.
"Let's not walk so fast," Hertha said to her boy, who answered, smiling,
"Reckon you're from the South."
"Reckon I am," was the reply.
"Your friend's getting away from us!" he announced after they had moved
slowly down the platform.
"I want her to."
Meanwhile Miss Witherspoon, reaching a taxi, had her luggage settled in
it and then looked back for her charge, who was nowhere to be seen.
Nervous, yet sure that Hertha would appear in a moment, she stood by her
cab, refusing to get inside.
"I got ter go," cried the chauffeur.
"I've got to wait," said Miss Witherspoon emphatically, "until my
companion comes."
Without a word the man drove off to take his stand in the rear of the
line while another taxi swept up, gathered in a group of travelers, and
went on.
"How provoking," Miss Witherspoon cried. She was separated from her
luggage and from Hertha. Never was anything so stupid.
Suddenly some one spoke at her elbow. "The young lady asked me to give
you this."
It was Hertha's porter, holding out a note.
Miss Witherspoon opened it and read the few words written in the girl's
careful hand.
"Thank you so much for your kindness, but I have decided to stay in New
York. I think I shall prefer to be where no one knows anything about me.
I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble." And below, written more
hurriedly: "Don't worry over me, and thank you again."
"Where did she go?" Miss Witherspoon asked the boy, who was watching her
with interest.
"I don't know," he answered, "I put her on a street car."
"Here's your taxi again," called out the starter.
Miss Witherspoon was startled and indignant. She looked about as though
hoping by some miracle Hertha would appear at her side. Then,
appreciating the futility of attempting any search, she got into the
taxi with her bags and, chagrined and disappointed, was driven through
the crowded streets.
"What shall I say to them in Boston?" she asked herself.
II
KATHLEEN