Part 46 (1/2)

The girl went to the window and pulled down the shade. Turning to the mirror she looked at herself in the gla.s.s. The face that looked back at her was thin and white, with sad lines about the dark eyes, but it was familiar, the same face that Mrs. Pickens had seen since she had come into this home. What was there that should make this woman gaze at her with repugnance and then go away? She pressed her hands upon her waving hair. Had she guessed something worse than the truth, something that Hertha herself had believed the truth until a short time ago? Did she think she was a Negro? If she thought that! Leaving the mirror the girl seated herself in a chair and wearily reached out to the table for the book that she was studying. But before touching it she drew back and with a gesture of pain turned and looked across the room to the closed door. A chair stood near the doorway and leaning against it again she saw her landlady, her hand gripping the back, her every feature breathing disgust. She could not rid herself of the figure, it would not leave the room. And worse, shadows were gathering about it, black shadows from which the figure shrank. They moved restlessly about, these shadows, by the door and by the bed. They stood dark in the gas-light--black faces with big, clumsy lips! black hands with red palms; heads with black, woolly hair. Shutting her eyes, she summoned all her strength to efface with life's reality the phantoms of a white world's hate. She saw her old friendly home, her mammy, Ellen, Tom. She looked into their kindly faces and touched their hands. Then with a start her eyes opened and the shadows gathered about the figure at the door.

There were noises in the room--big, deep voices, calling from between thick lips. From heavy throats came coa.r.s.e words and now and then a grating laugh. The figure shrank again and gripped harder at the chair.

Why was the room so close? She had not closed the window when she had lighted the gas. But the air was full of odors, thick odors, that stifled. The figure drew back, its face drawn with disgust, trembling at contact with the fetid smell.

In her chair at the table Hertha shrank within herself. She drew up her feet, crouching against the cus.h.i.+ons. Were they coming to her, too, these figures? She called on them to leave her, but they came on. With staring eyes she implored them to stop, to pa.s.s her by, but they only leered and drew the closer. And as they came she shrank back further in her chair.

Then for the first time in her life she felt shame at her uprearing. The home that had been sacred to her, her refuge, was defiled. The black faces danced before her eyes and she cowered, the coa.r.s.e voices called and she pressed her hands over her ears. The thick odors enveloped her, and her face changed, her nostrils quivered, and with a movement of disgust she dropped her head upon the table on her outstretched arms.

In the meantime, within her room, Mrs. Pickens restlessly examined her piles of papers, seizing and discarding, searching feverishly for a date until at length, on a yellowed sheet, she found what she sought. The incredible was true. There was the forgotten name, ”Ogilvie!” Viewed in print, after an hour's reflection, the story was less horrible than when it had flashed upon her in Hertha's bedroom. A judge for a grandfather was an alleviating circ.u.mstance. But the reality was bad enough. That the girl still clung to the Negroes was the worst feature. Common sense must soon show her, however, both the wickedness and the folly of such an att.i.tude. She put the paper carefully away, resolved that d.i.c.k should see it when he came back home.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

”d.i.c.k!”

It was Friday afternoon. Hertha had returned from school, her books on her arm, happy in the realization that in one week vacation would be at hand. She had no idea that she should find Richard Brown standing in his doorway, smiling at her.

Never had he seemed so bright and attractive. He had taken off his business clothes and wore a white flannel s.h.i.+rt and white trousers. He looked a young happy boy, and was indeed supremely happy to be back and with her again. ”d.i.c.k,” she had cried and started to s.h.i.+ft her books that she might hold out her hand. But before she could accomplish her purpose he had her in his arms. Only for a moment; so swift a moment that she could not draw away or resent it, her surprise was too great.

”I didn't do anything,” he cried quickly, ”I reckon we were both startled. My, but it's good to be back home! Here! let me take your books. Ain't it hot though! The first hot weather I've struck yet. Makes you think of the South only they can't get it as warm down there as up here where the sidewalks are baking all day. Guess what I saw this noon?

A boy frying pancakes on the pavement. Just dropped the mixture on the hot stone and in a jiffy the cake was done, nice and brown and crisp around the edges. That beats it our way, don't it?”

He spoke with reckless extravagance, anxious to retrieve any mistake he may have made, looking at her in the meantime with devouring eyes. There was nothing that he missed, and though he did not speak of it he cursed inwardly the work that made her pale and thin and that he believed had caused the hara.s.sed expression in her face.

”You look mighty well in your new clothes,” Hertha said, relieving her embarra.s.sment by surveying with exaggerated approval his white apparel.

”Do I? Glad you like 'em. I found some of the fellows were going in for them and I thought I would. I mean to dress better anyway. A man on the road ought to have the latest thing in style and know how to carry it, too. I've improved in neckties, haven't I?”

”Indeed you have. I wish you'd give me that splotchy one. I hate it.”

Going to his bureau d.i.c.k secured the offending tie and handed it out to her.

”What are you going to do with it?” he asked curiously.

”I'd like to burn it in the kitchen stove, only up here there aren't any stoves where you can burn things up. I'll have to use it for patchwork.”

She smoothed the glaring red and orange silk in her hand and then, with d.i.c.k carrying her books, went to her room.

As he turned to go, nodding to her from her threshold, she again spoke of his suit. ”You're ready for tennis. The men dress like that when they play here in the park.”

”Do they? I'll have to play then. Don't know a thing about it, do you?”

”No, I never had a chance to play games.”

”Neither did I. They didn't go in for that sort of thing where I came from. But it's never too late to learn. Can't we get a net and play this summer?”

”Perhaps.”

Though she only said ”perhaps,” her face brightened and she looked with pleased expectance at this young man who had brought so much happiness and jollity into her life. Since she had sat on the sled and let him draw her over the snow in the city square, he had given her many gay, entertaining times.