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!”