Kathleen was standing by her kitchen-stove looking with disgust at the
eggs and milk that she had been trying to persuade to become a custard
but that had resolved themselves into whey. The heat had been so great
she had delayed her cooking until a late hour, and now it was past time
to go to bed. With a gesture of resigned despair she walked across the
room and threw the mixture into the sink.
"It's a drear world," she remarked grimly.
Going to her window she looked out into the night. There were lights
still in a number of the flats. She could discern children sleeping on
the fire escapes, and among the sounds that rose to where she stood was
a man's harsh, drunken voice and a woman's higher, scolding tones. "'Tis
a night when eyes will be blackened," she said to herself, "more than
kitchen-stoves. Let's pray the grown-ups have it to themselves and don't
waken the kids."
In the midst of her reflections the bell rang. With another sigh of
resignation she punched the button that released the lower latch, and
going into the hall threw open her door to greet her evening visitor.
Some one was coming up the stairs quickly, excitedly. She could hear
short, swift footsteps on the treads, running through the hall to hurry
up the stairs again. Some urgent call she presumed--a baby fighting for
entrance into this world, or a sick child weeping to leave it.
Instinctively drawing herself up for service, Kathleen stood ready to
answer whatever call might come. The hurrying steps faltered a little at
the third flight as though halted by overpowering weariness, but in a
second they came on fast again. She could see the figure now--a girl,
hatless, coatless, in a white dress. A moment, and she was looking into
Hertha's upturned face.
"Let me in, Kathleen," the girl cried.
The Irishwoman's greeting was instant and affectionate. Any harbored
resentment vanished as she saw that her visitor was in trouble, needing
her help. Had Hertha come richly dressed, breathing prosperity, she
would have received scant welcome; but now she was led into the kitchen,
her hostess talking affectionately.
"It was this very evening, dearie, I was thinking of you when the
custard went back on me. If my old lodger was here now, I says to
myself, we'd be eating custards as smooth as Father McGinnis when he
comes asking for ten dollars for the church. Sit down in your old seat,
it's missing you."
But Hertha did not sit. She had heard nothing of Kathleen's welcome.
Standing by the table, her head thrown back defiantly, she cried in an
excited voice, "Keep me here to-night and I'll be out of your way
to-morrow."
"It's for you to stay as long as you like," her friend answered.
She was shocked at the girl's appearance. During their months of
separation she had often thought of her as she had moved about the
kitchen, calling up the pleasant picture of a daintily dressed young
woman, quiet in her movements, smiling upon her as she put the last
touch to the table before their meal. She had never seen her untidy or
seriously perturbed. But this figure before her was a distorted image of
its former self. The hair was rough and loose, the dress had dark
stains, the hands were soiled. And in the white, thin face were both
anger and fear. "Don't touch me," she said, as Kathleen went toward her.
"Listen to what I'm saying. I am going South to-morrow, with my brother.
You know I said I had a brother. He is hurt, in the hospital, but
they'll let him go with me to-morrow."
"Then he's not badly hurt," Kathleen said soothingly, "if they'll let
him go so soon."
"He is badly hurt," Hertha cried, her voice sharp and hoarse. "But he's
going with me to-morrow. We must go. My mother is dying."
A vivid remembrance of Hertha's avowal that her mother had been dead for
many years flashed through Kathleen's mind.
"Yes, my mother," Hertha said, noting the look of bewilderment. "My
mother, my own mother. Don't you touch me," her voice rose to a scream
and she pushed her friend back as she approached her. "You don't want to
know me, you don't want to be near me. I'm colored!"
With a sob Kathleen drew the girl close in her arms. The body she
clasped was tense as steel, but regardless of resistance she held the
slender form close, kissed the cold cheek, touched with her lips the
soft hair and little ear. With her strong, capable hand she caressed the
girl's small head and kept repeating, "My darling, as though that
mattered!" and "Why should you be thinking anything of that!" and "As if
that mattered, mavourneen!"
Hertha, still tense, lifted her face. "Don't try to comfort me," she
said. "I don't ask for any one's pity. You mustn't say what you don't
mean."
"What do you take me for?" Affectionate indignation was in Kathleen's
speech. "What sort of devil would I be if I cared for a thing like that!
Now don't fret any more, darling, but sit down while I make you a cup of
tea."
Hertha did not move from where she stood, but gripped her friend, a hand
on either shoulder, looking into her face. And as Kathleen looked back
she felt as if the gleaming eyes, utterly sorrowful, were searching her
very soul. Cursing herself for her former selfishness, she prayed that
her heart might be read aright that the love which overflowed it for
this friend whose hidden sorrow she had never understood, might shine
now in her face. She said nothing, understanding that Hertha sought for
an avowal deeper than words.
Evidently she found it. Dropping her hands she sat down in the chair
which Kathleen had placed for her. "I believe you," she said solemnly.
"And now I'll tell you the whole truth. I'm not colored, I'm white."
Through the hour that passed in the hot little kitchen Hertha told her
story, Kathleen experiencing every emotion from incredulity to
overmastering indignation. During the recital the narrator herself was
strangely aloof, speaking as though she were an onlooker anxious to
retail correctly each point but indifferent to the effect she was
producing. She sought neither advice nor comfort. Her hard, steady tone,
never varying in pitch or intensity, gave the impression of one with
whom something was completed, finished beyond possibility of change. At
the last, when her listener carried out of herself with anger at the
attack upon Tom indulged in fierce invective, she relaxed a little, and
spoke more naturally as she described her strategy and its success. But
to Kathleen's words of admiration, to her condemnation of her lover, she
paid no heed.
"Tom came to tell me Mammy was ill," she ended. "She was ill this winter
but they didn't know what it was. Now she has had another stroke and may
not live until we get there. Tom and I must go to-morrow, even though he
is so weak. He's her only son."
"How will you go?" Kathleen asked.
"You'll lend me something to wear, won't you? I shan't need much."
"Of course," was the swift answer. "I wasn't thinking of that."
"You mean how shall I travel? I shall travel in the jim crow coach with
Tom. He's my brother, you know, I'm colored."
She spoke in a hard, emotionless voice. Perplexed, Kathleen smiled up at
her.
"Oh, I mean it," the southern girl said, straightening in her chair.
"I'm going home. I shall never be white again."
"Dearie," the Irishwoman replied, "you talk as if color were a state of
mind."
"Isn't it?" Hertha asked.
Rising from her seat she went to the sink and turning on the faucet got
a drink for herself. As she put down the glass she looked at her hands.
"This is Tom's blood," she said, washing them under the running water.
"White people are so brave! They never strike any one weaker than they!
Why, Kathleen, he's just a little boy. It isn't long since he was in
short trousers. I know, I made them for him."
She wiped her hands clean and stood looking beyond Kathleen into the
world of men and women. Speech, usually so difficult, came to her in
gusts of words, thoughts that clamored for expression, the pent-up
thoughts that for many years had been pressing against her heart.
"White people are wicked. Not you, Kathleen, you are good and that's why
people laugh at you and scorn you. They hate goodness. It is the way
that old man said at the restaurant. People, white people, are cruel.
They care only for themselves. What did they do for me in this world?
They threw me out to die. I wasn't worth an hour's care. And the men,
men who've said they loved me! Loved! They saw color in my face and they
played with me or despised me. And they say they're so good!" The
bitterness in her voice was pitiable. "They're always saying they're so
good. They write about it and preach about it. We black people, we are
bad. We are immoral and common and cheap. Well, I want to be with bad
people. I've been with good people as long as I can bear. I want to be
with bad people again."
"Don't go on so, dearie," Kathleen said, anguish in her voice. "Rest and
see what to-morrow will bring. You'll kill yourself if you go on like
this."
"Good!" Hertha cried again with infinite scorn. Then as though a sudden
thought came to her, her whole manner softened. "I'll tell you who is
good,--my mammy. She took me in. She didn't question whether I'd grow up
pretty and clever, or ugly and dull. She took me in her arms. She's like
that. She isn't thinking about herself, she's thinking about others. She
don't care if they're black or white. I know, oh, I know. And if she
dies before I get home I'm going to die too!"
Suddenly her strength gave way, her indignation, her angry pride. "And I
was trying to be white," she moaned, "I was trying to be ashamed of
her." She flung herself into her friend's arms, the tears streaming down
her cheeks. "I was trying to forget."
Then Kathleen came into her own. Soothingly, caressingly, she got Hertha
out of her white dress with its bloodstains into a loose one of her own.
She brought water and a towel and washed her face. She brushed back her
tangled hair. And all the time she talked, sympathetically yet
cheerfully, with rare tact turning the girl's attention from her own
sorrow. Hope emanated from her kind face, from her running speech; until
at length Hertha found herself sitting in a chair sipping a cup of tea,
and smiling a little uncertainly at some odd remark.
"It's so good to be here," she said, looking with deep gratitude into
Kathleen's face. "When I had to leave Tom, I hurried to you. I knew if
you were home you'd take me in, but I was afraid you'd be caring for
some one else. I was frightened to ring the bell."
Her friend smiled benignantly.
"It's just the same as ever, only prettier. You've been doing a lot of
housecleaning."
There was a smart look about the place. The chairs had a fresh coat of
paint, the oilcloth on the table was white and new, and every bit of
metal was polished, from the knob on the oven door to the faucets at the
sink. The agate tea-kettle was gone, its place taken by one of shining
aluminum. At the windows the flowers blossomed with lovely profusion,
geraniums sharing the boxes with trailing green vines and marguerites.
Even the floor had shared in the general sprucing up and shone with
paint and varnish.
Taking in the many changes about her, commenting on this and that,
Hertha suddenly rose and going to a shelf above the stove, took down a
pipe. She turned it in her hand and said with a trembling little smile,
that would have been mischievous if it had had the strength, "I wouldn't
have thought it of you, and you so young. Wait till you're an old
woman."
Kathleen was too happy in her friend's returning brightness to be able
to retort. She could only answer, looking very foolish: "You've taken a
glance about the room and can see for yourself what's happened. I was
that lonely after you went away I hadn't the will to deny him. He came
in one day with the license in his pocket, and nothing for it but we
must go to the mayor to be tied together. So I put on my hat and went
with him."
"I am so glad!" Hertha's eyes shone with unselfish pleasure. "I liked
him very much. But where is he?"
"In your old room, darling, sleeping as quiet as a baby. He goes to bed
each night at half-past ten and at eleven he's breathing as regular as
if there was never a care in the world. He wanted me to live in his
place, but when I caught a sight of his landlady's face I brought him
here. It would have been strychnine in my tea if she had had the chance,
she was that fond of him."
"I don't wonder a bit."
Kathleen's kimona trailing behind her on the polished floor, Hertha
walked about the room, examining each newly acquired article. "How
pretty and shipshape everything looks!"
"Wait till you see the parlor with the piano!" Kathleen's raillery could
not conceal her pride. "We have music every night from half-past eight
to half-past nine precisely. It's his daily practising. But we go by the
clock these days!"
"You like it," Hertha declared, "I know you do," and she received no
denial.
Tucked in bed in the room that was once Kathleen's, her hair lying, a
braid on either side of her face, she looked younger and more childlike
than when she had lived here, months before. But only for a minute. Away
from the brightness of the kitchen the harassed, frightened look
returned. Her sorrow rushed back and clutching her friend's hand she
held her to her side.
"I must be up early, Kathleen, to go to the hospital. Will you lend me a
hat?"
"That I will."
"And an old coat? I'll send it back to you."
"Anything I have."
"Oh, Kathleen, do you think I'll get there in time? Shall I be too
late?"
"There's the best of chances. Old folks have more strength than we give
them credit for. Probably she'll be better again."
Hertha still clutched her friend's hand. "Do you remember the old Major,
Kathleen, when he told me to keep out of the conflict?"
"Indeed I do. Wasn't he cross that evening!"
"I tried to follow his advice. I wanted not to fight, just to let things
go the easiest way, but I couldn't."
Her friend, looking at her, thinking of the past and of the days to
come, of the loneliness of a life among the whites and the tragic
circumscription of a life among the colored, could find no comforting
answer. She was face to face with a harder problem than any she had
tried to solve. The machine, sucking the vitality of the child; the long
day of toiling men and women; fierce, relentless competition; there were
tools with which to battle against these; she had used them and in the
end she and her comrades would conquer with them. But where were the
tools with which to fight the base cruelty, the cheap conceit that left
a boy on a hospital bed to-night bruised in body and spirit, and sent
this gentle girl to her half-crazed with grief and pain? In the church?
The persecutors of the black man were the pillars of the church. In the
state? When the Negro was beaten or shot or lynched the state winked
slyly at the white offender. In the working class? They were brothers of
the blacks when they were hungry. An advantage won and they, too,
persecuted the weak. Where then were the tools? Where, unless with the
black men and women themselves; but if they took them up how unequal
must be the battle!
"I couldn't keep out of it," Hertha said again, a quizzical look coming
for a moment to her face. "I wouldn't picket, you remember, but that
wasn't my conflict. It wasn't mine until it came to Tom."
Kathleen kissed her. "You'll get a little sleep now."
"I'll try, but I don't mind lying awake with you and Billy near."
She said the name shyly, looking with questioning glance as if to ask
whether her welcome would be a cordial one when her friend's husband
knew her story.
"He'll be glad to see you! He's been blaming me in his heart for staying
away from you, though he'd never say a word of blame aloud. His welcome
is right here. And you'll admire the flowers. I don't half appreciate
them. Indeed, I've reason to be jealous of you, that I have."
"You are so good, Kathleen!"
It was two o'clock when Kathleen closed the bedroom door, leaving her
charge at length asleep. But she did not herself seek rest. Filling the
washtub, she plunged Hertha's white dress in the water and worked
furiously to obliterate the dark stains. When it was cleansed and
pressed, the torn places mended with her irregular stitches, the first
light of day had entered the windows and the flowers were turning to the
light. Tired, but with no desire to sleep, she set the table for
breakfast and then at last went into her room. There on the bed lay her
husband, resting quietly, utterly oblivious of all that had happened
beyond his bedroom wall. As she looked upon him a beautiful smile came
over her face. It was well, she thought, that some could sleep while the
eternal battle waged. Without them the world would be bare, ugly, bereft
of the fragrance of the flowers. Taking off her dress she lay down for a
few minutes beside him, not sleeping, thinking of plans for the day
before them, vigilant at her post in the darkness and in the light.
IV
THE LIVE-OAKS