It was Saturday evening and early December. Kathleen was away for the
night on a case, and Hertha, after a dinner alone, decided to go to the
library to secure a book to read on Sunday. She was quite accustomed by
this time to going out in the evening by herself; yet it always seemed a
little an adventure, the streets were so gaily lighted and the people so
many. She put a raincoat over her suit for the sky was lowering and
there was a chilliness in the air, a harsh feeling that made her shiver
and turn gladly, her short walk over, into the warm, brightly lighted
reading-room.
Accustomed all her life to having few books about her, with no
opportunity for individual choice, she made mistakes at first amid the
plethora of volumes that the city offered. It had been disappointing,
for instance, to reach home in the evening to learn that _The Four
Georges_ was not about four little boys or to find out that _Sesame and
Lilie_ had nothing to do with flowers. But part of the stack was open,
and she soon found what she desired and drenched herself in the world of
romance. Under the guidance of the librarian she read two novels of
Dickens, and carried home and returned with suspicious swiftness one
each of Scott and Thackeray; under her own guidance she became intimate
with the heroines of those best sellers that a conscientious library
board permitted upon the open shelves. Rather to her relief the
librarian this evening was very busy and she went at once to the open
stack.
It was with a guilty feeling that she habitually walked past the rows of
history and travel. Ellen would have stopped here, she knew, and have
carried home volumes telling of Europe and China and India and other
lands unknown to Hertha even by name. Tom in her place would have asked
for Livingstone's _Travels in Africa_, a book he had always wanted to
own. She hoped they would surely have it in the school where he was
reading or studying that night. Well, Ellen was industrious, and Tom
liked to stop and think; but she, Hertha, never had cared for heavy
reading--except poetry, and poetry belonged under the pines or by the
river, not in noisy New York. So excusing herself, she reached the
jaunty, attractively bound fiction and joined the large group of
borrowers who were intent on securing a thrilling story for the morrow.
"Excuse me, but do you know anything about these books?"
She turned to see a young man at her elbow. He was tall, not in the
least good-looking, with a long, thin face, a small mouth and a sharp
nose. His eyes, however, were attractive--deep blue with long lashes
like a child's. He was dressed in cheap, conspicuously patterned
clothes, and his gay necktie bore a large scarfpin. She hesitated to
answer, and yet there was a tone of entreaty in his voice that gave her
confidence. She felt sure that he was from the country and was
floundering about amid this multitude of volumes as she had floundered a
few weeks ago. He should, of course, consult the official-looking
librarian seated at her desk whose business it was to instruct
newcomers, but the newcomer is the one who instinctively avoids the
official class. Glancing down she answered shyly, "Very little."
They were between two stacks, and looking along the line of volumes,
Hertha saw a familiar title and took down _The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes_.
"Have you read this?" she asked.
"No, ma'am," was the answer.
She smiled at the "ma'am" for it reminded her of home. "I feel like
you'll enjoy it," she ventured.
"There," the young man cried, so loudly that a number of borrowers
turned to look at them both. "I knew the minute I set eyes on you that
you were from the South!"
Hertha was very much annoyed. This forward youth was making her
conspicuous. Leaving him she went quickly to the reading-room, and
seating herself at a table took up a magazine. In a few minutes,
however, she saw him at her side.
"I didn't mean to make such a noise," he said in a peculiarly
penetrating whisper, "but what the dickens do you do after you find your
book?"
It is always a pleasure to be placed in the superior position of an
imparter of knowledge, and Hertha, unbending from her dignity, found
herself whispering instructions.
Once put on the right path, the youth showed no further shyness, and was
soon talking familiarly with the librarian who equipped him with a card.
"It's all hunky," he explained, coming back to Hertha. "She gave me the
book and as long as you think it's good I'm going to read it through.
I'm not much on reading," he added as though apologizing for his new
taste. "Never entered a library before, but there ain't such a lot to do
of a Sunday."
Hertha nodded but did not look up, and after some minutes of aimless
wandering the young man went out.
She found herself thinking of him after he had gone. His type was not
unfamiliar. The tall, lank figure, the yellowish skin, looking as though
indigestion lurked around the corner, the hard, narrow mouth--white men
like this had been customary figures in her Southern life. They were the
sort who monopolized four places in the train, lolling back on one seat
and putting their feet up on another. More than once, on a street car,
she and Ellen had been obliged to stand when such a man, quite oblivious
of whether or not he usurped the jim-crow section, had taken his lazy
comfort. But a person of this type would be courteous to a white girl,
would be glad to sacrifice his pleasure to do her a kindness. She had
recognized at once that he was from the South, and her speech had
proclaimed to him her birthplace. But what if he had seen her when she
was colored? She found the blood rush to her face at the thought. Then,
remembering Mammy's injunction, she grew calm again. It was for her
to-day, in New York, to live only in the white world.
Going to the shelves she selected a book to take home, and then as the
librarian was making ready to close, pushed at the outside door, which
was a little stiff in opening, and walked into the street.
Into the street? Oh, no, into Heaven!
Everywhere about her white crystals were falling through the air--on her
hat, on her coat, on her upturned face. As she looked overhead they came
in multitudes, like a soft curtain. They made a carpet at her feet, and
as far as she could see down the street they dropped one after another,
millions upon millions, shimmering golden in the light of the lamp.
It was a miracle of beauty. Here in this ugly city, where she had missed
the clean sand and the growing flowers, from the very heavens had come a
sacred robe, for were not the angels clothed in white? And the robe was
covering the world. The gray stone stoops were shining, and on each bit
of cornice or projecting woodwork was a line of light; and she was
moving through it; feeling the soft flakes encircle her, stepping as
lightly as she could that she might not crush the lovely things that had
come straight from God.
That night, as she flung open her window, for the first time she heard
no sound. The jolt and jar of the street car, the rumble of the
elevated, fell upon deaf ears. All her mind was in her eyes that
watched, with ever-growing reverence, the falling flakes of white. And
as she slipped into unconsciousness her last thought was of the heavenly
city that would be building throughout the night.
"Be sure to put on your rubbers, Hertha," said Kathleen the next
morning.
"Why," asked Hertha, "is the snow wet?"
"Is the snow wet? Is the sun hot? It's a mercy you didn't take your
death of cold last night, wandering around with your face turned up to
the sky, and the snow falling about you! Put on your rubbers, darling,
just as though it were rain, for it may turn to that before the
morning's over."
Hertha did as she was bid and returned for general inspection. Freezing
weather had begun to exhaust her extra supply of warmth, and she had
purchased a heavy coat of soft brown material trimmed with brown fur
and with a fur muff to match. A little brown hat with a red quill had
been another recent purchase. She had dipped into her bank account
to get these things and had feared that Kathleen might think it
extravagant--she was sure that Ellen would have--but Kathleen had
silenced any misgivings.
"Spend your money when you have the chance," she advised, as Hertha
began to speak apologetically of her expenditures. "The poorhouse at the
end is a pleasanter life than scraping and denying yourself all along
the road. And you can't be a brown fairy with a quiver of a smile on
your lips and a glint of sorrow in your eyes for many years more. The
sorrow or joy will get the better of you, and that's the end of youth."
"You haven't lost your youth, then."
"Oh, be off with you! You're going to church?"
"Yes, but I'm leaving early to see the snow."
"If I hadn't been up all night I'd go with you too, but it's a morning
when bed can't be resisted. So good-by, little brown angel, and come
back for a homely dinner of corn beef."
Few people had passed since the snow had ceased falling and the
sidewalks were still beautiful, one side dazzling white, the other
luminous purple in the shadow of the walls. Anxious not to miss any of
the spectacle before the city made for its destruction--some boys were
already shoveling the snow into the street--Hertha hastened to the open
square on one side of which stood her church. Tall English elms with
nobly branching limbs stood out against the clear blue sky; and the
bushes, bared of their leaves, bore on each twig a mass of crystal
flowers. She moved in and out among the paths, crunching the snow
beneath her feet, now circling the dismantled fountain, now walking
through the broad gateway only to return again. Looking at the church
clock she found she had still half an hour left to enter into the
treasures of the snow.
As she stood in the sunlight by the park bench she became conscious that
some one was watching her. This, she had learned, was one of the
distressing features of city life; only at a shop window could one stop
to gaze without being conspicuous. Provoked at the sense of interruption
she started to walk away.
"I beg your pardon."
Turning she saw the young man of the evening before. He looked almost
attractive in the daylight in his soft hat and dark overcoat, the winter
cold bringing a little color to his face. His deep blue eyes were clear
and friendly, and she felt sure from his manner that he meant no
impertinence.
"I beg your pardon," he said again, "but I noticed you here in the early
morning looking at things and I thought they might be as strange to you
as to me."
"I have never seen the snow before," said Hertha.
"There, I was on to it, all right. Do you know what it's like," he went
on, "all this snow? It's like a field of cotton with the stuff lying
around in heaps, but with some bolls still sticking to the plant. Look
at it there on that bush. The Bible says 'white as wool' but I say,
'white as cotton.'"
Hertha looked down at her feet which were beginning to feel cold, and
struck one against the other; but while she did not speak she did not go
away, and the young man still tried to make talk.
"It certainly is a pretty day," he said desperately.
Then Hertha looked up and laughed. She had not heard that greeting since
she left home.
The young man laughed back heartily, even noisily. He was delighted at
his success.
"Won't you tell me your name?" he said pleadingly. "Mine's Brown,
Richard Shelby Brown's the whole of it, but Dick is what everybody uses
at home. I come from Georgia and that's the best state in the union
except yours. I'm working as salesman with a wholesale firm over on
Broadway not far from here--I'll show you the place if you'll walk over
there. I'm twenty-five years old and I don't drink, brought up
prohibition and won't touch the stuff. Now, please, it's your turn.
Won't you tell me your name?"
Hertha still stood hesitating, pushing one foot over the other, clasping
her hands together in her muff and striving to decide in her mind what
to do. She looked so shyly pretty that the young man watching her, his
heart in his mouth, felt that the sentence would be beyond his deserts
if she sent him away. Yet he would have gone without question, so much a
lady did she seem, so far above the social circle attainable by Richard
Shelby Brown. She in her turn was thinking it would be easy to go and
escape all questionings; and yet easier to let him have his way, at
least to recognize him, not continually to pass him if they met; and
easiest of all just to stand there, looking down at her muff or up at
the church and the white clouds piled back of it; and then, at length to
say, still not looking at him, "My name is Hertha Ogilvie."
"That's a lovely name, and Georgia, too. You came from that state,
didn't you, Miss Hertha?"
"No, my family came from Florida."
"That's queer, for it's a Georgia name."
"Didn't any one ever leave Georgia for Florida?"
She was looking up at him now, her brown eyes shining, a little smile on
her lips.
"I can't conceive it," he said in a loud, jovial voice to hide his own
embarrassment. She was far above him, he felt sure, in birth and
breeding. "It's a fine name, I know that. I wish we could find we were
kin."
"Everybody is kin in the South," she said decidedly, anxious to leave
the subject of family. And then, pointing to the gate, asked, "What has
that boy trailing after him?"
A little boy of about eight, in shabby coat and broken shoes, had come
into the park and, behind him, drawn by a rope, was a sled. Stopping a
moment to survey the ground, the boy lifted the sled, ran a few steps,
flung himself upon it, and coasted along the path, slowing down close to
where they stood.
Dick Brown looked at the youngster as he lay happily sprawling on his
stomach, and then turned to Hertha. "And I've lived for twenty-five
years without a chance at that!"
"It's never too late to learn," she suggested.
He thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. "Say," he
said, calling to the boy who was starting off, "Gimme a ride!"
The youngster grinned derisively. "What 'er givin' me?" he asked, and
slid away on the path.
Brown ran after him. "I'm giving you this," he answered and produced the
nickel.
This altered the situation. The boy looked a little doubtfully at his
sled and at the tall young man beside him, but, financial gain
outweighing distrust, he took the money and handed over his property.
"Go a little easy," he said, "it ain't yer size."
The man from Georgia eyed the bit of board on runners and then looked
down at his long overcoat, his gloved hands, his highly polished shoes.
Suddenly he felt very foolish. He glanced up at Hertha who was standing
some rods away watching.
Moved by an impulse of mischief, she ran over to where he was. "I'm
waiting to see you do it," she said. "It's perfectly easy, isn't it?"
turning to the boy.
"I bet you two are dagoes," the youngster said by way of answer. "Dagoes
don't know any more about snow 'n the fleas they bring wid 'em. Say,
mister, this sled ain't your fit. Why don't you give your girl a ride?"
"Will you?" said Dick Brown, glowing with pleasure at the suggestion.
The park was filling up. Ahead on the path were two girls, one not more
than a baby, clad in so many jackets that she looked like a little ball,
sitting upright on a sled, which her little sister, in red coat and
white hood, was pulling. She same running down the path, steering with
accuracy and care.
"I could do that all right," Brown said with assurance. "Won't you try?"
"Oh, no, I couldn't!"
"Please do," he pleaded.
There were only children about, and, to Hertha, Dick Brown himself was
beginning to seem just a big boy. The intoxicating air and the dazzling
snow were breaking down convention and leaving her quite gay and daring.
"Well, just a little way," she said curling herself up on the sled.
Dick at once took off his overcoat and wrapped it about her, tucking it
well under her feet. To her expostulations he paid not the slightest
attention.
"There you are, all right," he cried joyously, and ran with her down the
path.
The owner of the sled followed after, steering occasionally from behind
when expert skill was needed, or firing a snowball at any boy who got in
the way of their triumphal progress. It was glorious sport, and there
was no knowing how long it might have continued had not Dick Brown,
careless in his growing skill, looked away from duty for a moment and
striking an obstacle in the path, rolled Hertha into the snow.
Protected by his great coat she was entirely unhurt, both in person and
in dress and she found herself laughing immoderately as he helped her
up; but he was prostrate in his contrition.
"I'm the stupidest hill billy in Casper County," he said. "I'd like to
kick myself. Are you sure you aren't hurt?"
"Of course, I'm not! The snow is as soft as a pillow. Don't mind,
please, Mr. Brown, we've had such fun."
"Have you? I have, but I wouldn't have dumped you out that way, not for
a hundred dollars."
"You could have done it for five cents."
The snow was brushed from her dress and she was standing, her muff
pulled over her arm, settling her hat in place.
"It's not quite straight," he said and moved as though to put it right
for her.
She drew back, indignant. Was he going to be fresh and spoil everything
after their jolly time together?
"Excuse me!" he grew red with embarrassment. Here was a girl with whom
evidently he must never practise the code of manners agreeable to the
girls at his own home. He added somewhat lamely, "It's all right now."
"I'm glad," she was her shyest self again; "and now good-by."
"You won't let me take you home?"
"I'm not going home," and she held out her hand.
He shook it heartily. "I mean to read the book through," he declared.
"I think you'll like it. Good-by."
"Good-by."
Watching her walk across the park and down the street until the little
hat with its red feather was lost to sight, Dick Brown saw before him
many evenings spent in a public library reading-room. He had been lonely
since he had come, four months ago, a stranger to New York. It was not
his first experience away from Casper County--a year of business in
Atlanta had proved a preface to his New York position--but he had never
before been in a city quite without home acquaintances. New York was a
fine place for movies and restaurants, for walks up Broadway, a cigar in
your mouth, watching whisky and petticoats, spool cotton and the latest
leg show, wink their merits at you overhead; but it was poor in nice
girls. There were plenty of the other kind. He felt disgust as he
remembered with whom he had already chaffed and dallied, but only by
chance would he be likely to meet such a young woman as Hertha Ogilvie.
Setting his hat firmly on his head and pulling on his gloves, he said to
himself that he was glad she was so careful but that he must find some
way of breaking through her reserve.
A snowball struck him in the neck, and turning he found his new boy
acquaintance grinning at him. Here was a time to take off, not to put
on, the gloves. Stripping himself of impediments, he entered upon his
first snowball fight to emerge wet but triumphant.
Hertha walked west for a few blocks, then north, then back to the east
again. She meant to go to church, but she did not mean that Richard
Shelby Brown should know where her church was. As she hurried down the
street, all aglow once more, she felt girlishly happy. It came upon her
quite suddenly that she had rarely been happy like this before. Her life
at home, at school, with Miss Patty, had brought her quiet content; the
hours with her lover which were slowly receding from her thoughts had
stirred her passion; but save with a little boy like Tom she had never
played as she had played this morning. In the South there was rest and
passion, the warm breath of the refulgent summer; but in the North,
there was cold, tingling air, and jolly times. It was a place in which
to work hard; but also a place to play in, to go coasting, to run,
perhaps to dance.
She looked so young and sweet when she entered her church that the woman
at the end of the seat into which she was ushered smiled at her; an
unholy liberty in New York.
"All ye snow and hail, praise ye the Lord, praise Him and glorify Him
forever!"
She found it in her prayerbook, and all through the service, through the
Te Deum and prayer and litany, she was entering into the treasures of
the snow.
That night the thermometer rose twenty degrees and the next morning
there was only a dirty gray slush upon the street.