Part 26 (2/2)

”It was too bad,” Hertha exclaimed. ”It's so hard to be ill away from home.”

”I reckon it is! Your meals set down by the side of your bed, the gruel cold and full of lumps, no one to growl at when your head aches and you can't go to sleep! It's a mighty poor state of things.”

”I'm afraid you were pretty sick.”

”Just missed pneumonia.”

”You ought not to have come out to-night.” Hertha spoke with emphasis.

”Oh, I'm all hunky now. I've sat in the library most every night since they let me out. Wouldn't they grin at home if they saw me fooling this way with books! Why, I know more news out of the magazines this month than all of Casper County ever knew since the first moons.h.i.+ner set up his still! I'm reeking with information. But I bet you're reading one of those three-volume novels they tell about that last a year. I couldn't wait any longer, so I came to headquarters.”

”How did you get my address?” Hertha had not meant to ask the question, but it slipped out unawares.

”Don't make me explain, please. It's against all the rules and regulations and the librarian only told because at times I'm a beautiful liar.”

His thin face, looking thinner than ever from his sickness, wore a worried expression, and one of his long hands moved nervously against his side. At home he was accounted a confident youth who could grab up a girl and swing away with her a little faster than the next man, but here in New York he was off his ground. Moreover, this very pretty young woman with her aristocratic ways gave him no help, but sat quite silent as though questioning what right he had in her home. Awkwardly he rose and played his last card.

”I've a letter I want you to see,” he said, ”it's from my mother. I wrote and told her about you and how I hoped we'd get acquainted, only New York's such a big place a girl has to be careful. It ain't much like our country towns in Dixie, is it? Anyway, she wrote in answer, and here's the letter. You can read it, postmark and all. Seems like it was written for you.”

He handed the letter to her with an attempt at self-confidence; but she took it with so serious a face that, saying nothing further, he stood, almost humbly, awaiting her decision.

Hertha read the letter through. It was badly written and showed more than one lapse in spelling. Two pages were filled with admonitions to keep sober and serve the Lord; the third contained bits of local news: Cousin Sally Lou's visit, the number of partridges Uncle Barton had brought in for dinner. But on the last was the message that was doubtless meant for Hertha's eyes. ”The young lady, from all you say, must be mighty grand, but she needn't be afraid of you. You weren't one to hang round the station every evening, or to steal out nights with the fellows to get whisky. You've been a good son, d.i.c.k, and every mother can't say that. Look at Jim Slade's mother, now----” and the letter ended with an account of Jim's latest escapade.

Hertha handed it back with a pleasant smile. ”It reads just like the South, doesn't it?” she said cordially. ”Down there we know every little happening, while in New York you have to tell a story to learn where I live.”

The young man laughed noisily; his relief was great.

”You're right, all right,” he said, sitting nearer her. ”It's like one big family down there, and if a visitor drops in there ain't a person in town from the Baptist preacher to the poorest n.i.g.g.e.r who won't have the news. Are you a Baptist, Miss Hertha?”

”No, I'm an Episcopalian.”

”Whew! We only know 'em by name our way. It's Baptist or Methodist with us, with once in a while a Christian place of wors.h.i.+p. Ever seen a revival now?”

”Yes.”

”Have you? I wouldn't have supposed that an Episcopalian would so much as go to one. But it's a wonderful sight, don't you think, when the sinners come to the penitent seat? I've seen 'em, big men, crying like babies. And then the preacher with his great voice calling 'em to repent and showing 'em the way to righteousness. And out from somewhere a woman'll start a song, perhaps 'Rock of Ages,' and the whole room'll be full of the sound of the hymn.”

He grew eloquent as he spoke, picturing the scene he knew so well. In his narrow life the church and its emotional appeal had occupied an important place. He wanted to tell her that he had been among that group kneeling in repentance, that he was a sinner saved by grace; but there was an aloofness about her that kept him from going further. He could not guess that she had wholly forgotten him, and was sitting in a bare room where the dim lamp lighted a mult.i.tude of black faces; where the cries of ”Amen” rang from the penitent seat, and where the black preacher, the only father she had ever known, called upon the Lord to give to His children mercy and forgiveness. Her visitor had never listened to such a revival as she!

There was a long silence. Then Richard Brown strove again to make conversation.

”The n.i.g.g.e.rs, now, they're a worthless lot, don't you think?”

Hertha started nervously. ”I don't think so,” she said.

”Don't you? I suppose you've had 'em in your family for a long time--old mammies and uncles. They don't grow that kind round our way, only a lot of worthless c.o.o.ns that won't do a lick of work unless they're driven to it.”

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