Читать книгу The Shadow - Mary White Ovington - Страница 8

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It was still early morning when the boat left the dock and the three women walked back toward their home after their good-by to Tom. No one spoke for a time and then Aunt Maggie said impressively, "Dere ain't no use in cryin' 'bout what yer can't help. Tom's gone, but maybe it'll make a man o' him; maybe it were best fer him ter leabe de women folk. Heah 'tis, Monday morning. Ellen, hab yer settle in yer mind which o' de boys gits de washin' ter my folks?"

"I suppose," said Hertha, "it will be either Thaddeus Jackson or Obadiah Thomas."

"It will be Thaddeus," Ellen answered. "He will do it all right, Mammy, because his father lets him save his money."

"I hope he isn't saving to go to school," said Hertha; and then, quite unexpectedly to herself, laughed. She had been living so many days weighted with sorrow that the sailing of the boat had come as a relief. There was no good, as her mother said, to rebel against the inevitable; and while she would miss her brother, who had grown to be a companion in thought and interests, and who yet could never outgrow his place as her baby, it could not be right to look upon his absence as a calamity like sickness or death. So she gave her little laugh and her mother looked at her with pleasure and relief.

"Dere goes Ellen," Aunt Maggie said, as her elder daughter went past them the sooner to get to her work. "You an' I believes as de door o' heben's open ter dem as walks slow. I's glad you kin laugh, honey. We ain't lose Tom fer good. An' soon de winter'll come, an' moe folks a-staying at de great house, an' den de summer an' de dear boy home ag'in."

Talking on in slow, comfortable phrases, stopping often to get her breath, Hertha's mammy walked with her among the pines to their tidy front yard where golden glow and asters told of the autumn.

"It seems later than it is, doesn't it?" said Hertha, "we've been up so long. I think I'll go to Miss Patty right now."

There were two paths to the great house. The well-traveled one led past a number of cabins, and ended near the kitchen door. It was the shorter but Hertha chose a more attractive way among the pines to where a cypress marked the beginning of the orange grove. She had taken this route long before Lee Merryvale's return; and while he had closed it generally to dwellers among the pines, Miss Patty assured her maid she could use it as much as she wished.

She had only walked a little way when she saw Merryvale himself examining his cherished possessions.

"Come over here, won't you?" he called out. "There's no one up at the house yet."

Hertha went shyly toward him. He was a handsome man with reddish gold hair, clear eyes, and a glowing skin. His hat was off, he wore a soft shirt with collar thrown open, and altogether looked an attractive combination of the farmer and the gentleman.

As she came up he said sympathetically, "You must be feeling pretty badly to-day at saying good-by to Tom."

"Yes," said Hertha, and added almost confidentially, "you see, Tom's the baby. I took care of him when he wasn't any longer than that," indicating the length with her hands.

"You couldn't have been much longer yourself."

She shook her head smiling and then turned to go away.

"Can't we have a little talk?" he asked. "Don't run into the house such a wonderful morning as this. I say, what a day it is! A day for the gods—Zeus, Apollo, Diana—we ought to worship the sun!"

It was a wonderful morning. The newly risen sun sent its golden light through the grove, brightening the deep green leaves, showing the pale yellow in the ripening fruit; and then danced on to the river where it lay, a limitless mass of golden mist, upon the shining stream.

As Hertha stopped and looked out over the river, Merryvale stepped to her side. "You're as beautiful as a goddess," he said.

"Don't go, please," he cried as she moved away from from him. "Stop and play! Let's play ball. The goddesses, you know, did that. Here, catch!" and he threw an orange into her hands.

He was so near that she could scarcely fail to catch it, yet it slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground where she picked it up, awkwardly enough, and threw it back again.

He had moved away from her but was quick to catch her wavering throw. "Better next time," he said.

She grew more expert, lost her shyness, and the ball flew back and forth until, squeezed too hard in the man's strong hand, it collapsed into a sticky mass of skin and pulp.

"It was extravagant of you," Hertha laughed, as she watched him wipe his fingers. "You wouldn't let any one else waste good fruit."

"It wasn't wasted," he declared, "it gave us a good time. Isn't that a worthy way to end life?"

She did not answer. The play over, she was self-conscious again.

"Try once more," he cried, picking another orange.

"No, no," she answered. "I must be going."

"You aren't needed yet."

"Yes I am, truly. Miss Patty is wondering why I'm not there with the hot water."

He tossed the orange, but she dodged it and ran through the trees. Pursuing her, in a few seconds he was at her side.

"Please don't go," he pleaded.

"I must."

"Well, promise you'll come and play again."

"Perhaps."

"Promise!"

"Perhaps," and she left him.

The blood was throbbing in his temples as he went back to his trees. He had admired her beauty from the time he had first noticed her, three months before, moving about his home. What must her father have been to have given her such poise, such a delicate throat, such a pure white skin! And her charm did not end with her face or her carriage. Her speech was that of the white girl, not of the Negro—careful speech, learned, as it happened, of her northern teachers. He had not encountered her often these summer months, for she was Miss Patty's personal servant and spent her days in his aunt's upper rooms or on the gallery; but he never saw her that he did not want to speak with her, to see the light come to her questioning face. She seemed to him in every way a lady. What was she doing living in a black woman's home?

The mid-day meal at the great house was stirred from its usual quiet by a discussion of the visitor who was expected by the evening boat. The Merryvales had never taken boarders, but from time to time they had staying with them what the English call "paying guests." Every winter, two or three northerners, visitors from the year before or carefully introduced by former visitors, came to Merryvale and made a substantial payment for the privilege of living in the old house. Usually these guests were elderly ladies, either unmarried or with busy husbands who could not take the time to accompany them, and they lived quietly on the place; taking little walks, knitting, playing cards, and occasionally going by boat to the city for a day's shopping. Miss Patty depended on them for her entertainment more, perhaps, than she was ready to admit. They taught her a new game of solitaire or a new way of making a baby's sack, and they listened, with every appearance of attention, to her innumerable tales about her family. To-day's arrival was a Miss Witherspoon, a friend of one of their pleasantest Boston guests, and everything was being planned for her comfort.

"Put my best linen on the bed, Hertha," Miss Patty said as she came upstairs after her mid-day meal, "and you can take your sewing to the gallery while I have my nap."

Hertha did as she was bidden, and, the guest-room in perfect order, went out upon the shady corner of the upper porch. A wind was blowing from the river, tossing the gray moss of the live-oaks, and brushing against her fingers the thin lace she was trying to sew upon a dress. It called her to play, pushed the little curls in her eyes, and spilled the spool of thread upon the floor. She laughed to herself as she picked it up, and then sat, her work in her lap, looking wistfully out into the swaying moss and the green leaves.

So the gods and goddesses played at ball. Which god was he? Apollo, of course, the god of the sunlight, the gold gleaming in his ruddy hair. What good times they must have had in those old days when no one seemed to be busy, when you might run through the meadows singing as you went, when no one minded if you danced in the moonlight and played in the morning. Why should you not do such simple, happy things!

She took up her needle again, and of a sudden thought of Tom going away alone. The remembrance of the boy's face held her to her task.

Along the lane came an automobile, its horn tooting as it bumped over the uneven road. Hertha started, and putting down her work watched to see the car stop in front of the Merryvale door. It was most unusual to have guests arrive in this fashion and at this hour. The men were not about; Pomona, the cook, was unequal to receiving such a visitor, so though it was not her specified task, Hertha, mindful for the good ordering of the house, went to the door.

Descending from the automobile was an alert-looking lady, neither young nor old, in a plain, good-fitting, tailor-made suit and small hat, with the business-like air of one who has done much traveling and is accustomed to finding herself in new surroundings.

"I am Miss Witherspoon," she said at once. "I had expected to arrive later in the afternoon by boat, but it seemed wiser at the last to come part of the way by train. I hope I am not inconveniencing you by my early arrival."

"It is no inconvenience," Hertha replied, "but I am sorry that Miss Merryvale is lying down."

"Don't think of disturbing her," the newcomer said. And then, smiling at Hertha, asked, "Is this another Miss Merryvale?"

"No," Hertha answered, "I am Miss Merryvale's maid."

She was quite accustomed to being taken for a white girl, and felt no embarrassment; but the same could not be said of Miss Witherspoon. That well-bred lady almost stared; and then, turning, dismissed her car and followed Hertha, who had laden herself with bags, to the bedroom.

"I hope everything is as you like it," the girl said to the "paying guest" who looked with approval at the cool room, high-ceilinged, with white walls, white iron bed and simple furnishings.

"Thank you," said Miss Witherspoon, "I am sure I like it very much; and really, I believe there is nothing I should like better than to lie down myself."

She smiled again at Hertha, this time the pleasant, patronizing smile of one who praises a good servant's work.

"I'll bring you some hot water," Hertha said.

When she had completed her arrangements for the new guest, she went back to her seat, and laboriously, intently, worked on the white muslin with its fine white lace.

There was a good deal to tell when she got home that night. Her mother wanted all the details of Miss Witherspoon's appearance, and after a lengthy description, ventured her opinion of the newcomer's laundry value. "I reckon she don' wear any o' dem crinkly gowns an' chemises dat you do up yoursel'. Dey matches de folks wid der money bangin' agin der knees in der petticoat pockets. Did she duck down, dearie, ter git her purse?"

"No, Mammy," Hertha answered.

"But she'll be de keerful kin', allus 'memberin' ter tak' off a white skirt if it begin ter rain, an' half de time dryin' her han'chiefs on de winder-pane. Dat's de kin' as comes here. It takes de hotel folks ter make a payin' business."

"She's younger than our boarders usually are, anyway," Hertha said. "Not that she's young but she looks so."

"Everybody looks young these days," Ellen remarked; "or if they don't they let you know they're trying to."

"Was dere laughin' an' carr'in' on at de table?"

"Yes, a little. Yes, Mammy, I think she's entertaining."

"Dat's good. I hope she 'spectin' ter stay de winter."

"I think not, Mammy. I think she's to leave next month."

"Dat's too bad. Ef I was Miss Patty I'd hab some nice gal or udder heah all de time ter keep Mister Lee company. If dey don't gib him a good time he'll up an' leab de family an' de orange an' grapefruit business. Dere ain't nottin' a boy needs so much as de right kin' ob a lil' gal ter play wid."

"You're to have Tom's room now, Sister," Ellen said as they started for bed.

Hertha expostulated. "You need a room to yourself, Ellen, I know you do."

Ellen knew it too, but she was desirous to give her sister everything within her power. "No, I'm all right," she said decidedly. "It's all arranged. Mother and I didn't say anything before because we wanted to surprise you. You've wanted, I know, to be by yourself, dear; and Tom would be glad to think you were in his room."

She showed her sister the little things she had done for her comfort, and with a kiss left her to herself. It had been a long day and the young girl went at once to bed and fell asleep. But after a little she awoke and lay for hours in the still heat of the night, living again the morning's happenings. She went over in her mind, her heart beating fast, the foolish little game that carried with it so much happiness. He thought her as beautiful as a goddess; and he had not said it cheaply as though she were some common, gaily daubed plaything that one dangled to-day to throw away to-morrow. His eyes looked honestly into hers. He was strong and capable, loving the fresh air and sunshine and the green trees. He was gentle, kind to the people here, kind to her. With her eyes fixed on the dim window square that saved the room from utter darkness, she dreamed of his near presence, feeling his breath upon her cheek, until, her whole body swept with emotion, she clenched her hands and pressed them to her lips to keep back the welling tears. For then came the dread reality: her color, her station, these two facts loomed above her, fell and crushed her with their weight. No young white man should choose as his companion a Negro servant. She must forget the morning playtime, and never commit the fault again. Striving to drive him from her thoughts, she made plans for the morrow—the finishing of Miss Patty's dress, the letter she would write to Tom. And, tossing on her bed, between her new-found happiness and her misgivings, she cried herself to sleep.

Is there any greater difference than that between night and morning? All the hobgoblins, the fears, the morbid misgivings disappear with the bright sunlight and the feel of cold water. As the fresh drops fell from Hertha's face she was sure she had misjudged the pleasant facts of yesterday. She coiled her hair that fell in little curls as the brush left its silky fineness, and hummed a song to her smiling face in the glass. Fastening the last hook of her blue cotton dress, the soft, gray-blue that she and Miss Patty liked, she went in to help the others with the breakfast, master of her fate. There was no hesitation in her step when, a little earlier than her wont, she turned toward the orange grove.

"Honey," her mother called after her. "Jes' ask Pomona ef she'll gib me her big stew-pot to-day. I's layin' ter make some jelly. An' don' work too hard. Dat ole black woman's allus tryin' ter git you ter do her work."