Part 11 (2/2)
She and Tom had often listened to the owls and he had mimicked them. The thought of him gave her courage and she went on, trembling and determined, until the end of the path was reached and she could look upon the open yard and home.
Then she did hear people coming. Off to the right were voices, a girl's loud, coa.r.s.e laughter and a man's rough tones. She crouched down that her white dress might not show among the trees. The figures came into sight, Maranthy, with old Jim, an ill-natured, ugly fellow, known to neglect his wife and children. The two walked boldly over the white sand, and as Hertha watched them the man caught the girl and hugged her hard. She laughed and swore, pus.h.i.+ng him away, and then, with an animal-like motion, sidled up to him. Together they moved across the yard, his arm tight about her waist, while she, lolling on his shoulder and calling on Christ and G.o.d to d.a.m.n him, gave him a smacking kiss upon the mouth.
The room was reached at last. Hertha tore off her clothes, slipped into her nightdress, and lay, a little huddled ma.s.s of shame and woe, upon her bed. Her feet and hands were icy cold, her teeth were chattering, but her brain was on fire. Pride and shame took equal possession of her spirit. She had risked everything, she had been ready to give everything, only to find herself despised. Ellen was right, her place belonged with her own race. She was black, and she must never again trust the white race that felt for her only an amused tolerance or scorn. She was black, and hers was the black man's table, the black man's home, the black man's burial-place. Never again would she think to enter the white man's world.
And the beauty of her love was wholly gone. The courage with which her lover had armed her had disappeared, and her affection, that had seemed to her something pure and delicate, almost holy, became a common l.u.s.t that this man had awakened and then, disgusted at his choice of anything so cheap, had cast aside. Nothing was left to her of the glory and gladness of the morning.
But while shame and hurt pride swept over her, there came in their wake an inexpressible relief. She was safe from harm. She was not like Marantha but just Hertha Williams who had slipped out of her room to see the stars and then slipped back again. She was safe here, in Tom's room, at home.
Kneeling beside her bed she prayed for strength, strength to be good though she was young and pretty and colored. She could not see ahead, probably it would be wise to go away somewhere, she wished it might be near Tom--it was hard to be alone; but she must never again trust the white man's world.
Back in her bed terror crept over her once more and she shook with fear; but at length, in sheer exhaustion, she lay quiet, and when the first morning light entered the room it found her asleep.
CHAPTER IX
”Mercy on us!”
Miss Patty was overcome. She fell back in her chair, her hands trembling violently, her breath coming short and quick.
”My dear,” cried Miss Witherspoon hurrying toward her and fanning her with the newspaper that lay on the table with the morning mail.
”It's incredible,” the southern woman said. She picked up the letter she had been reading, scanned it a moment, and put it on the table again.
Her companion, devoured with curiosity but strong in the belief that good manners required that she should show indifference, continued her ministrations for a few seconds and then turned to her own mail.
”You'll have to advise me,” Miss Patty said tremulously, the letter wavering in her hand, her small head with its white hair shaking up and down as she talked. ”Why should John and Lee have gone away this morning! I don't know what to do.”
”If I can be of any service----”
”This letter is from an old friend, my dear, a very old friend. I haven't seen him for a long time--I'm such an invalid, you know--but he writes as an old friend should and asks me to break the news to the dear child as best I may.”
”The dear child?” Miss Witherspoon echoed, interrogation in her voice.
”Yes, and she always has been a dear child; you know how I have cared for her and shown an interest in her. And to think that this should have happened! It's incredible.”
”What has happened?” The northern woman's tone was peremptory. If she was to offer advice she would no longer be kept in suspense.
”Why, this amazing story. I should never believe it if it came from another source, but Bostwick Unthank is the best lawyer in the state. It is very considerate and polite, I must say, for him to write to me instead of to John, though Hertha of course is my maid--and then I used to know him very well indeed. But I can't believe it, I can't believe that such a thing could have happened.”
Impatient at such incoherence and nervous garrulousness, Miss Witherspoon yet understood that something of vital importance was in the letter which Miss Patty waved back and forth, and unable longer to maintain her indifference she touched the old lady on the arm.
”Shall I read what your lawyer writes?” she asked, ”or will you read it to me?”
”Oh, he isn't my lawyer,” Miss Patty exclaimed, ”I never had a lawyer in my life, I have never believed in getting into lawsuits. He's only an old friend. But his letter is of such importance that I will ask you to read it aloud to me. I want to be sure that I understand it.”
Nothing could better have pleased Miss Witherspoon. She took up the typewritten sheet and in a clear, distinct voice began:
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