"Keep out of the conflict!"
This admonition ran through Hertha's mind as she went to school Monday
morning. She saw herself standing at the little table in the restaurant
with the cynical old major looking at her kindly, admiringly. The
conflict to which he had alluded had been that of the working-class, but
his words might include all battle whether of labor or of race. If she
married Dick she would be out of the conflict, out of the eternal worry
of earning a living. But she would also be out of the conflict of race,
forever removed from the life that had been hers such a short time ago.
If she accepted the love of this young man from Georgia with his talk of
"black wenches" and "buck niggers," she accepted complete ostracism from
her past. And not only ostracism,--she had grown to realize that this
was likely whatever course she chose,--but the past that had meant so
much, that had helped to make her what she was, gentle-mannered, deft,
well-educated, this past she must see despised. Dick might forgive those
years but only if she would forget them. He would be ambitious for them
both, and she must blot from her mind everything that touched upon the
shocking disgrace, for so he would account it, of her world until eight
months ago.
Sophie Switsky was in the conflict still, battling with the oppression
that centered about her whirring machine. Kathleen was in it, demanding
sunshine and health for the many in poverty. But if Hertha Williams
married a Georgia cracker she left her conflict, turned from the
battlefield into a place of quiet and safety. Ellen had predicted that
when her sister went into the white world she would never join in the
coarse abuse of the colored race; but if she married Dick she tacitly
linked herself to these cruel lies. She abhorred the thought, and yet,
all the morning, on her way to work and seated in the ill-ventilated
classroom, she found the major's advice buzzing through her head, "Keep
out of the conflict! Keep out of the conflict!"
In the afternoon, walking in the park with Bob, a new idea occurred to
her. Why not, when school was over, try for a position as nursery
governess? Such a place would be a grade above anything open to Hertha
Williams, since as a governess she would not be a servant but would be
received at her mistress's table. Loving children, inclining, too, to an
outdoor life, she might in this way secure a summer in the country and
postpone her final decision. Tom's comfortable advice to take her time
remained with her, offering encouragement to this new plan. But the
difficulty in the way of securing a position, the unfamiliar machinery
of employment bureau, of advertisement, made her hesitate. It would mean
publicity, the answering of questions, the entering of a new and perhaps
unfriendly home. She who hated change ought not to have to make her way
in an unfamiliar environment so soon again.
"Tell me about Tom-of-the-Woods," Bob demanded after she had been silent
for many minutes.
"No," Hertha answered.
"Aw, come on," Bob said. "Tell about the night with the owl."
"Not now!"
"Aw, come on. That's the part I like best. I bet he could see in the
dark like a cat. Couldn't he now? Couldn't he see everything just the
same, night or day?"
"There are the ducks!" Hertha cried, and hurried him to where the birds
paddled in the lake and gave entertainment enough to push
Tom-of-the-Woods into Bob's limbo of forgetfulness if not into hers.
The week went wearily on. The warm days were conducive to idleness and
in her discouragement Hertha worked erratically, studying far into the
evening one night to drop her books entirely the next. On Thursday as
she sat in her room looking idly at the sunset light as it faded from
the sky, Mrs. Pickens knocked at the door.
"May I come in?" she asked. "Don't make a light," as Hertha having given
her a seat started to strike a match; "it's pleasant to talk in the
dark."
The two sat near one another looking into the trees.
"I'm thinking of a plan for the summer." Hertha was the first to break
the silence.
"Not one that would mean leaving here, I hope?"
"It would mean leaving here. If I needed it would you give me a
recommendation as a nursery governess?"
The question was utterly unexpected, and Mrs. Pickens answered with a
jest. "Certainly. Shall I count Dick as the babe whom you have been
teaching?"
"I wish you wouldn't think so much about Dick!" There was irritation in
the girl's tone and dropping her banter Mrs. Pickens gave assurance of
her willingness to be of any service. "I suppose you want me to speak
for your character," she went on, "and I can certainly answer for your
disposition. You're the easiest person to get along with I ever met. But
Bob's mother is the one to testify to your ability with children. You've
been a godsend to her this spring. How the child has waked up. He's much
brighter and more interesting than before you came."
Stirring a little in her chair, leaning against the window to look out
into the approaching night, Hertha made no answer to her friend's
praises and seemed to have forgotten the request that she had just made.
After a little she said slowly, "I had a brother----"
"_Had_ a brother? Why do you speak in the past? Nothing has happened to
him, has there?"
"No, oh, no, but Bob makes me think of him when he was little, when he
belonged to me. A little child belongs to you. Partly for that reason
I'd like to be with little children."
"I'll do what I can to help you, but why not get references also from
the South?"
The question was asked hesitatingly and with no small amount of
inquisitiveness. The mystery of Hertha's past, that mystery that so
deeply interested Dick, was growing in importance to his landlady.
Perhaps this evening in the friendly dark she might be able to probe it.
Despite her hope, she expected some monosyllabic reply followed by a
silence that would prevent a continuance of the subject. She was totally
unprepared for Hertha's frank answer.
"You can see," the girl said, "that I have no connections now in the
South. No one writes to me."
"Yes?" Mrs. Pickens ventured. Her voice was tender, sympathetic,
trembling with curiosity.
Hertha said nothing further but looked out where the lamps had been
lighted and glowed golden against the deep trees. Fearing lest she might
lose the confidential talk she was expecting, the older woman continued
gently: "I've often wondered what separated you from your people. Do you
want to tell me what it was?"
"Some one's sin."
The words were spoken into the night. The girl did not move her head as
the older woman, with a cry, came to her.
"Your birth?" she whispered.
In the darkness Hertha nodded assent.
"Oh, my dear," stroking the soft curly head that was turned from her.
"And you didn't know your people?"
"No, I was brought up among strangers."
"They were not kind to you perhaps?"
The head that Mrs. Pickens was stroking turned instantly from her touch
and a voice said with a note of anger, "Not kind? They were heavenly
kind. They did everything they could for me."
"You must have loved them then?"
"Of course, I loved them. I loved them better than any people in the
world."
"Then you have some friends in the South whom you can turn to now,
haven't you?"
The question was asked in a bright voice as though hoping to bring
something of cheer to the listener.
But Hertha with a shake of her head turned away and again looked into
the street.
"Have you quarreled? Somehow I can't think of you as quarreling, but I
know how clans battle in the South. Did something occur to make you
angry before you left? If that's so, you'll soon make it up and
everything will be right again."
Hertha breathed fast. "I can't see them any more," she whispered.
"Tell me why. Perhaps I can see some way to make things right."
"You? Why, it's people like you and Dick who separate us!"
"What do you mean?" The woman rose and in the darkness tried to peer
into the girl's face. "What have Dick and I to do with it?"
She groped for some clue to this enigmatic statement. What a ridiculous
thing to say. What indeed had she and Dick to do with it? What unless
that they were southerners? And then there flashed before her eyes a
paragraph in one of the southern newspapers that she was always reading,
a half-dozen lines telling of a girl hidden among the Negroes, later to
receive money and a name. She saw the column in the paper, at the top of
the page to the right, where the extraordinary story stood. She had a
poor memory but some things she visualized unconsciously but
unforgettably, and this had been one. She could see every word now, as
though she were reading it, except the name.
"What have Dick and I to do with all this?" she repeated with an attempt
at a laugh. "We don't believe in separating families. But it wasn't your
own family of whom you were speaking, was it? Didn't they do anything
for you?"
"Yes," Hertha answered. "When my grandfather died last October he left
me two thousand dollars."
"Ah!"
That was all. The southern woman stood clutching a chair, her head
reeling, the floor seeming to move beneath her feet. She was face to
face with the incredible tale that her memory told her she must credit
as the truth. The mystery then that surrounded Dick's princess, his
beautiful lady to whom he gave his humble devotion, was humiliating and
sordid. Disgrace, hidden by a life among Negroes. Worst of all, the smut
of the blacks upon her since she desired to be with them again. This was
the reason she had been so angry at Dick when he had raged against
"niggers." She had lived with them in their dark alleys, she had eaten
and slept with the kinky-haired slave-race!
Slowly feeling her way past the dainty white bed, Mrs. Pickens reached
the door. Her hand was on the knob when Hertha struck a match. Suddenly
the room was flooded with the yellow gas-light, blinding them both. The
older woman put her hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare,
and then resolutely drew it away and stared into Hertha's face. She
expected to find some change, some sign of those former detestable
surroundings. But in the bright glow of the light the girl was more
exquisite than ever. She tried to speak, to announce that she knew the
truth, but she could not charge this aristocratic-looking young woman
with the disgrace of having lived with "niggers." Without a word she
turned the knob and left the room.
Hertha looked after her, startled. She had meant to tell her whole
story, but something in the silence that had followed her answer to Mrs.
Pickens' last question frightened her, and too timid to speak further
she had sought the comfort of the light. Then she saw her landlady, a
strange, disgusted expression on her face, her nostrils distended as
though detecting some distasteful smell, turn away and leave her alone.
The girl went to the window and pulled down the shade. Turning to the
mirror she looked at herself in the glass. The face that looked back at
her was thin and white, with sad lines about the dark eyes, but it was
familiar, the same face that Mrs. Pickens had seen since she had come
into this home. What was there that should make this woman gaze at her
with repugnance and then go away? She pressed her hands upon her waving
hair. Had she guessed something worse than the truth, something that
Hertha herself had believed the truth until a short time ago? Did she
think she was a Negro? If she thought that! Leaving the mirror the girl
seated herself in a chair and wearily reached out to the table for the
book that she was studying. But before touching it she drew back and
with a gesture of pain turned and looked across the room to the closed
door. A chair stood near the doorway and leaning against it again she
saw her landlady, her hand gripping the back, her every feature
breathing disgust. She could not rid herself of the figure, it would not
leave the room. And worse, shadows were gathering about it, black
shadows from which the figure shrank. They moved restlessly about, these
shadows, by the door and by the bed. They stood dark in the
gas-light--black faces with big, clumsy lips! black hands with red
palms; heads with black, woolly hair. Shutting her eyes, she summoned
all her strength to efface with life's reality the phantoms of a white
world's hate. She saw her old friendly home, her mammy, Ellen, Tom. She
looked into their kindly faces and touched their hands. Then with a
start her eyes opened and the shadows gathered about the figure at the
door.
There were noises in the room--big, deep voices, calling from between
thick lips. From heavy throats came coarse words and now and then a
grating laugh. The figure shrank again and gripped harder at the chair.
Why was the room so close? She had not closed the window when she had
lighted the gas. But the air was full of odors, thick odors, that
stifled. The figure drew back, its face drawn with disgust, trembling at
contact with the fetid smell.
In her chair at the table Hertha shrank within herself. She drew up her
feet, crouching against the cushions. Were they coming to her, too,
these figures? She called on them to leave her, but they came on. With
staring eyes she implored them to stop, to pass her by, but they only
leered and drew the closer. And as they came she shrank back further in
her chair.
Then for the first time in her life she felt shame at her uprearing. The
home that had been sacred to her, her refuge, was defiled. The black
faces danced before her eyes and she cowered, the coarse voices called
and she pressed her hands over her ears. The thick odors enveloped her,
and her face changed, her nostrils quivered, and with a movement of
disgust she dropped her head upon the table on her outstretched arms.
In the meantime, within her room, Mrs. Pickens restlessly examined her
piles of papers, seizing and discarding, searching feverishly for a date
until at length, on a yellowed sheet, she found what she sought. The
incredible was true. There was the forgotten name, "Ogilvie!" Viewed in
print, after an hour's reflection, the story was less horrible than when
it had flashed upon her in Hertha's bedroom. A judge for a grandfather
was an alleviating circumstance. But the reality was bad enough. That
the girl still clung to the Negroes was the worst feature. Common sense
must soon show her, however, both the wickedness and the folly of such
an attitude. She put the paper carefully away, resolved that Dick should
see it when he came back home.