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!”