Hertha slept through the quiet night without moving but awakened with
the birds at dawn. The first low twitterings fell upon deaf ears, but as
the sounds grew brighter and more numerous, as one singer after another
joined in the chorus, she moved lazily and opened her eyes.
"Come to me, come to me," the red bird whistled; and his mate answered
with a call of sweet compliance. "See what I'm doing, hurry up, hurry
up," cried the mockingbird, repeating over and over his song of welcome.
Rising from her bed, Hertha went to the window. The soft, dim light of
dawn gained minute by minute in radiance as she stood looking out upon
the familiar world. Beneath her window grew white lilies, wafting her
with their fragrance. Violets, red roses, pink phlox, nodded their heads
in greeting. The tall pines murmured a good-morning, and overhead
stretched the great vault of sky each moment losing its depth of blue,
its stars imperceptibly fading from sight. Every sight and sound and
odor breathed the joy and hope of the dawning day.
When she had taken her fill of deep breaths of the summer air she turned
back to her room. On the floor were her two bags with which she had
started on her journey eight months ago. Kathleen had gone to her
Brooklyn home, packed and sent them on to her. They had arrived
yesterday, but she had left them untouched, dreading to look at the
contents. The morning however brought courage, and kneeling on the floor
she took the larger of the two and pressed the lock.
Out tumbled slippers and underclothes, books and hairpins, dresses and
handkerchiefs. Hertha shook and folded and put away until suddenly she
stopped to see her calendar at the bottom of the bag. Staring up at her
were the days of the month of June, and around the figure 25 was a
carefully drawn circle, a circle inclosing this dawning day.
This day she was to make her decision. So she had willed it. The date,
marked by her hand, stood in confirmation. After looking for a few
moments, she pressed her lips firmly together, and then in her old,
deliberate, tranquil fashion washed and dressed. In her drawer,
carefully laundered and folded away,--her mammy's work she knew,--was
her blue maid's dress. She drew it out and put it on.
The rose of the sky was not more pink than her cheeks when she opened
the door and walked out on the sand. "What are you doing here, I'd like
to know?" A wren called above her head so fast and so scoldingly that
she started in surprise, only to recognize an old friend. He cocked his
tail and trilled and sang as though indignant that any one in the house
should be up as early as he. And as he sang other birds sang with him,
the light grew in the east, and morning came to the world.
With steady, unhesitating tread she walked through the pines along the
path to where the cypress marked the turn into the orange grove. Then
for a moment she stopped, because, despite her will, her breath came in
short gasps. Passion swept over her. The months in the city, the strife
and tumult, the struggle to guide her unwilling heart, were blotted from
her life. Now was reality, and the world held nothing for her but the
pines through which she had passed and the world of the great house into
which she would turn. Yet how could she know he would be in his old
place to greet her? Perhaps it was too early. Perhaps he had ceased to
work as formerly among his trees. Perhaps--anything but that she had
been right and her sister wrong in her judgment of him. All her old
doubts rushed back. Her knees shook and she put her hand upon the
cypress for support. Indecision was with her again. She hated herself
for her surrender.
And then in a moment, the sunshine, the fragrant air, the chatter of the
birds, brought back her faith. She felt the joy of the morning, the
courage of the coming day. With a prayer that was a call to him she left
her boundary line and turned into the orange grove.
There was change about the place. The same trees were there, but to
right and left land had been cleared for cultivation. A garden must have
flourished by the water's edge for there were signs of hills of peas and
beans such as furnished winter produce for the stores that she had seen
in New York. Some one had been very industrious, working hard to make
fruitful the earth.
She took a step forward and saw the worker spraying the budding fruit.
His hat was off, his red-gold hair in tumbled mass, his clothes soiled
with dirt, he himself frowning with intentness. She watched silent,
motionless, as, in complete unconcern, he moved about his work. Suddenly
something went wrong, he dropped his tool and looking up saw her
standing among his trees.
In a second he had dashed across the space between them. "Cinderella,"
he cried, holding her close, "Cinderella, I searched the world over for
you. I hunted day and night but there was no fairy godmother to help
me."
"Perhaps she called me back," Hertha whispered, "I think she called me
back." And then lifting her head and looking into his face that glowed
with love, she gave a sigh of happiness. Her valley of indecision, she
knew now, was passed. Content had come to dwell within her heart.
They talked and laughed and played with each other among the fragrant
trees until the sun rose high above the broad river; then, his arm about
her shoulder, he led her to the great house. On through the orange
groves, where the heavy scented blossoms shone in the deep green leaves,
on along the path by the river bank, the cows munching the blue
hyacinth, on to where the gray moss swayed from the live-oaks. Away from
the cabins and the dark pines, from the circumscribed life, from the
narrow opportunity. Away from the sorrow of the oppressed into the open
spaces of freedom and power.
On the steps of the great house stood old Mr. Merryvale and behind him
Miss Patty, worried that Lee was so late this morning. As Hertha moved
toward them she saw the life that glowed before her, a life filled with
affectionate, reverencing love. She saw herself the favored daughter in
this beautiful old house. She heard the cry of childish laughter
rippling through the rustling trees. Sunshine and gaiety, happy
friendships up and down the river, bright days at home among the orange
trees. Life abundant, limitless in glowing promise.
But as she moved through the sunshine to the broad steps of this stately
home her thoughts went back to the dark pines, the home of her past, and
a throb of pain smote her heart. For on ahead, through the long, happy
years, she saw a black shadow, a shadow of man's making, lying beside
her path.