A QUESTION OF COLOR.
The next morning, when Roseleaf awoke, he was for some time in a sort of
stupor. Through the bright sunlight that filled his room he seemed to
scent the fumes of tobacco and of liquor. The place was filled, he
imagined, with that indefinable aroma that proceeds from a convivial
company made up of both sexes. He half believed that Jennie Pelham and
Mrs. Delavan were sitting by his bed, more brazen than the bell which,
from a neighboring steeple, told him the hour was ten. And surely, by
those curtains there, hiding the flame that filled their cheeks, were
the two "shop-girls," their pinched faces denoting slow starvation.
Boggs, and Isaac Leveson, and Archie Weil were there, all of them; and
the young man tossed uneasily on his pillow, struggling with the
remnant of nightmare that remained to cloud his brain.
When he was able to think and see clearly he sat up and rang for a
pitcher of ice water. He was consumed by thirst, and his forehead ached
blindly. When he had bathed his head and throat he turned, by a sudden
impulse, to his table, and took out the MSS. of the story he had begun.
Slowly he read over the pages, to the last one. Then, seizing his pen,
he devoted himself to the next chapter, without dressing, without
breakfasting.
It was four o'clock when he ceased work. He realized all at once that he
was feeling ill. The fact dawned upon him that he needed food, and
donning his garments, he took his way listlessly to a restaurant and
ordered something to eat. As he swallowed the morsels, he fell to
wondering how much temptation _he_ would be able to bear, with hunger as
a background.
He passed a good part of the evening in walking the streets, selecting,
instinctively, sections where he was least likely to meet any one he
knew. When he returned to his room he read over the MSS. he had written
that day, and into his troubled brain there came a sense of pleasure.
Gouger was right. To tell of such matters in a novel, one should know
them himself. Roseleaf could never have written of vice before he saw
Leveson's. Now, it was as plain to him as print, almost as easy to use
in fiction as virtue. What was to follow? He pondered over the plot he
had mapped out, and it grew clearer.
Daisy had given him no further encouragement--at least in words--since
that day she had said it was "risky" to ask her father, but he felt
certain that she regarded him with favor, and that if Mr. Fern put no
obstacles in the way she would not refuse to wed him when the right time
came. He thought it would be wise to obtain one more brief interview
with her, before proceeding to extremities, and determined to do his
best to draw her aside, when he made his next visit to her house. This
settled, he went to bed again and slept soundly.
When the day to go to Midlands arrived Shirley's courage began to ooze a
little. So much depended upon the attitude of his dear one's mind,
which, for all he knew, had changed since he talked with her, that he
fairly trembled with apprehension. He avoided Mr. Weil, with whom he
usually took the train, and went out early. Alighting at a station a
mile or two away from the right one, he walked through the woods, trying
to think how to act in case matters did not turn out as he hoped. Under
the branches he strolled along, until he came within sight of the roofs
of Midlands; and then he threw himself at the foot of a tree close to
Mr. Fern's grounds, and gave himself up to reverie.
When he laid down here it was only five o'clock, and he was not expected
at the house for a full hour. It pleased him to be so near the one he
loved, and to lie where he could dream of her sweet face and see the
outlines of the house that sheltered her, while she had no knowledge of
his presence. Just over there was the arbor, where he had first had the
supreme bliss of touching her lips with his own. If he could get her to
come there with him again--to-night--when the others were occupied with
their talk of earthly things, and if she would only tell him frankly
that he might go to her father, and that her prayers would go with him!
A soft languor came over his body at the deliciousness of these
reflections, but it was dissipated by the sound of voices which
presently came to him from the other side of the hedge.
"I can't exactly understand, Miss Daisy," said one of the voices, which
he had no difficulty in recognizing as that of Hannibal, "why you wish
me to go away?"
There was an assurance in the tone that Roseleaf did not like. He had
noticed it before in the intercourse of this negro with his employers.
There was something which intimated that he was on the most complete
level with them.
"I want you to go," said Daisy, in her quiet way, "because education is
the only thing that will make you what you ought to be. There are a
hundred chances open to you, in the professions, if you can take a
college course. Unless you do, you can hope for nothing better than such
employment as you have now."
It made the listener's blood boil to think that these people should be
consulting in that way, like friends. Daisy ought to have a better sense
of her position.
"I will not refuse your offer, at least not yet," replied Hannibal,
after a slight pause. "It may be as you say--if I graduate as a doctor
or a lawyer. But I know that I live in a country where my color is
despised--and all that could possibly come to me here as a professional
man is work among my own race. I should be a black lawyer with black
clients; or a black physician, with black patients. To really succeed I
should go across the ocean to some land where the shade of my skin would
not be counted a crime."
Daisy's face could not be seen by the listener, but he was sure it was a
kindly one, and this made him fume. The situation was atrocious.
"It should not be considered so anywhere," said the girl, gently.
"It is an outrage!" responded the black. "Having stolen our ancestors
and brought them here from their native country, the Americans hate us
for the injury they have done. In France, they tell me, it is not so.
Oh, if I _could_ gain an education, and become what God meant to make
me--a man!" He paused as if the thought was too great to be conceived in
its fullness, and then said, abruptly: "Where can you get this money?"
Roseleaf's suspicions were now keenly aroused and he dreaded lest she
should bring his name into the conversation.
"Your father would not give it to you--without an explanation," pursued
the negro. "And you have no fortune of your own."
"I will get it--let that suffice," interrupted the girl. "I can give you
$1000 a year for two years, at least, and I hope for two or three more,
if you will go to Paris and put yourself under instruction. Can you
hesitate to accept a proposal of that kind? I thought you would seize it
with avidity."
As Daisy said this she arose, and started slowly toward the house.
Hannibal walked by her side talking in a tone so low that nothing more
was intelligible to the eavesdropper she little suspected was so near.
But suddenly the girl stopped, and Roseleaf heard her cry with startling
distinctness:
"_How dare you!_"
The voice that uttered these words was filled with rage, and the girl's
attitude, as Roseleaf could see--for he had risen hastily to his
feet--was one of intense excitement. Then she added:
"If you ever speak of that again, they will be the last words I will
ever exchange with you. My offer is still open--you can have the money
if you wish it--but never another syllable like this! Understand me,
Hannibal, never!"
Miss Daisy passed on toward the house, alone. The negro stood where she
had left him, his head bowed on his breast, as if completely cowed by
the rebuke. Roseleaf's heart beat rapidly. What gave this fellow such
power over these people? How could he say things to call out such an
exclamation as that of Daisy's, and yet hold her promise to pay him a
large sum of money, instead of getting the prompt discharge he merited?
And this was what the girl wanted to do with the $1,000, she had asked
him to lend her! Should he still give it to her? Yes, if it would rid
the country of that insolent knave who, from whatever cause, occupied a
position that must be growing unendurable to those who had to bear with
him.
What had Hannibal said, that made her turn as if grossly insulted, and
speak with a vehemence so foreign to her nature? Roseleaf would have
enjoyed following the negro and giving him a severe trouncing. Though
Hannibal was twenty pounds heavier and considerably taller than he, the
novelist had not the least doubt of his ability to master him. He
believed the courage of an African would give way when confronted by one
of the superior race; and at any rate, righteous indignation would count
for something in so just a contest.
There were no traces of excitement on Daisy's pretty face as she
welcomed the guests of the family. Weil arrived at about the same time
as Roseleaf, coming directly from the station, and Mr. Fern arrived a
little later. Millicent looked her best, which is saying no less than
that she was a beauty, and Archie told her politely that she ought to
sit for a painting. When the dinner was served, Hannibal took charge as
usual. Shirley watched him with an interest he had never felt before,
and nodded assent when Weil whispered behind his napkin, "Good material
for a novel in that fellow, eh?"
The opportunity for a word alone with Daisy came earlier than Roseleaf
expected. In fact she herself proposed it, while passing out of the
dining room. She said she had something particular to tell him.
"It is about that money you were so kind as to say I could have," she
explained, when they were far down the lawn, and out of hearing of the
others. "I want it very much and very soon. It--it will be all right, I
hope, and--and not cause you any inconvenience."
"I will bring it, or send it to-morrow," he replied, instantly. "But I
still wonder what you intend to do with it."
She smiled archly.
"A good act, I assure you," she replied. "Something of which you would
certainly approve, if you knew all the circumstances. You are very kind,
and if it was darker here I should be--almost--tempted to kiss you."
He replied that it was growing darker rapidly, and that the requisite
shadow could be obtained if they stayed out long enough; but she said
she could remain but a few moments, and turned in the direction of the
house.
"But, Daisy!" he cried, and then paused. "You--you know there is
something of very great importance that I want to talk about. I get so
little chance, and I want so much to tell you things. I have been trying
to go to your father's office, and I can't find courage."
"I didn't know you were thinking of buying wool," she said,
mischievously.
"I want one little lamb, to be my own," he answered, "to love and
cherish all my life long. Am I never to have it?"
She sobered before the earnestness of his sad face.
"You are a dear boy," she said, "and I love you. There! Don't say
anything more to me to-night. I have made a foolish confession, for
which I may yet repent. We must go in. They will be looking for us."
She looked at his countenance and saw that it was radiant.
"I can endure anything now," he said. "You love me, Daisy--can it be
true? I will go in with you--and I will wait. But not too long, my
sweetheart; do not make me wait too long. Repent your confession,
indeed! If you do, it will be from no fault of mine. _Daisy!_"
As he said these things they were gradually nearing the piazza, where
the negro was taking in the chairs.
"I have something pleasant to tell you," whispered Daisy. "You don't
like Hannibal. Well, he is going away soon."
Roseleaf assumed surprise.
"Has your father discharged him?" he asked.
"No, he intends to leave of his own accord. He believes himself fitted
for better work. Hush! He may hear you."
As they passed the servant, Daisy said, "Good-evening, Hannibal." It was
her invariable custom, and she spoke with the greatest courtesy. But in
this case the negro did not raise his eyes, nor turn his head toward
her, nor make the slightest sign to show that he heard.
It was too much for Roseleaf, and he stopped.
"Did you hear Miss Daisy address you?" he demanded, sharply.
Hannibal looked up, with a curious mixture of amusement, contempt and
hate in his dark face.
"I did," he answered.
"Why did you not answer?"
"Because I did not choose."
Daisy threw herself in front of Roseleaf, just in time to prevent
Hannibal's receiving a blow.
"Oh, stop!" she exclaimed, "I beg you!"
The noise and the sound of raised voices brought Mr. Fern and his other
daughter, with Archie Weil, to the door. Mr. Fern took in the situation
at a glance, and his troubled face grew more distressed.
"Mr. Roseleaf," he said, speaking as if the words choked him, "I am
surprised--that you should--hold an altercation like this--in my
daughter's presence."
Roseleaf did not know what to do or say. Daisy's pleading eyes decided
him, much against his judgment, to drop the matter where it was, galling
to his pride though it might be. He escorted his sweetheart into the
parlor, where the entire party followed, in a most uncomfortable state
of mind.
"How can you permit that negro to insult your guests?" demanded
Millicent, as soon as the door was closed. "It is beyond belief. If he
is master of this house it is time the rest of us left it. I am certain
Mr. Roseleaf did not act without great provocation."
Before Mr. Fern could answer, Daisy had spoken.
"It is over now, and there is nothing to be said. Hannibal is going away
in a few days, and that will end your trouble."
The father turned such an incredulous look toward his daughter that it
was evident he had heard nothing of this.
"Going?" he echoed, faintly. "Going?"
"Yes," said Daisy. "He told me to-day. He is going to some country where
his color will not be counted a misdemeanor."
Roseleaf had difficulty in maintaining the silence with which he had
determined to encase himself. But Daisy did not wish him to speak, and
her will was law.
"Well, I am glad of that!" exclaimed Millicent. "In a country where they
consider such people their equals, he will not meet the pity and
consideration he has so abused here. Still, I do think, father, that you
ought to apologize to Mr. Roseleaf for the way in which you have
addressed him."
This freed the young man's tongue.
"By no means," he said. "Very likely I was wrong to say anything."
"You were not wrong!" retorted Millicent. "You were entirely right. You
would have been justified in punishing the fellow as he deserved. It is
others who are wrong. If he were not going, I would never stay to see
repeated what I have witnessed in the last six months."
Mr. Fern seemed to have lost all ambition for controversy. His elder
daughter's cutting words evidently hurt, but he would not reply.
Mr. Weil came to the rescue by introducing a new topic of conversation,
that of a European tenor that was soon expected to startle New York.
Daisy went to the piano, and played softly, talking in whispers to
Roseleaf, who leaned feverishly over her shoulder. But she made no
allusion to Hannibal, and he did his best to forget him.
"What do you make of that?" asked Mr. Weil, when he was in a railway
car, on the way back to the city with his young friend. "A glorious
chance for a novelist to find the reason that black Adonis is allowed
such latitude."
But Roseleaf was not listening. He was thinking of a sweet voice that
had said: "You are a dear boy and I love you!"