Then Tom uttered a cry. It was the first sound he had made, a broken sob, uttered unconsciously as the hands closed about his throat.

To Hertha it was the cry of the baby who had been hers to tend and keep.

She saw him running to her along the alley in their old home, his lip bleeding where a white boy had thrown a stone. She held her arms out to succor him, and, a child herself, caught him to her heart and wiped away his tears. Stretching her arms out again she prayed that she might help him now. And suddenly, like a bolt from heaven, the word came to her that should bring his release. She cried it at once, loudly, shrilly.

"He's my brother," she called. "He's my brother, he's a right to speak to me!" And then, on the still hot air, "I'm colored, I'm colored!"

d.i.c.k's hands relaxed and fell to his sides. The men moved away, one of them saying with a laugh, "Beg pardon, lady, the joke's on us." Tom, unconscious, lay close to the lake on the pathway.

Out from among the trees, like a spirit in her white dress, Hertha moved straight to Tom. Sitting beside his inert body she lifted his head upon her lap. There was no light near, and she peered anxiously into his dark face. Her hand, moving over his forehead, found a gash, and with her handkerchief she wiped away the blood. He was so very still, his head hung so lifelessly, that in fear she sought his temple and to her infinite relief found the pulse throbbing. Caressingly she smoothed his soft, velvet cheek.

"Want this?"

It was one of the men who brought her water from the lake in a paper cup. She thanked him and wetting her handkerchief continued to wipe the ugly wound. The man turned and went on his way.

Across the path, a long, thin, shadow-like figure, stood d.i.c.k. He had not spoken or moved since Hertha had lifted the black boy's head upon her white dress. He was so still she might have heard his breathing had her thoughts been anywhere but with her charge. Now, when they were left alone, he spoke.

"So that was your secret, my fine lady!" His bitter sneer hissed itself into the night. "You're a grand lady, you are, and I'm only a Georgia cracker!"

Stepping forward he bent down and tried to peer into her face. It was so dark he could see little, only that she was watching for a movement of life from the form whose head lay on her lap.

"d.a.m.n you," he cried furiously, his pa.s.sion triumphing over his sneer.

"You d.a.m.ned white-faced n.i.g.g.e.r, I'll teach you to lie to a white man.

You hear me? You've had your play with me, and by Christ, I'll have mine now."

She was as silent, as motionless as the senseless figure of the boy whom he had felled. The very stillness startled him and fumblingly he struck a match.

A circle of light surrounded her and he saw that they were close to the lake where she so often walked with Bob. The light glowed on the clear, white bark of the birch tree. It fell, too, on her face. Her head was raised now and she looked at him, her eyes and mouth infinitely sad.

With a little gesture of her hand in dismissal, she said softly, "Go away, please." And then forgetting him in her anxiety, she dropped her eyes upon the wounded boy.

The match went out. All d.i.c.k could see was the bowed figure, the head bent low as a mother bends to look at her infant. He strained his burning eyes, striving in the darkness again to see the white face, the curling hair. Then with a cry of pain as pitiful as that Tom had uttered he turned and ran, stumbling on the roots hid in the gra.s.s, tearing his clothes upon the bushes, ran blindly amid the dark, overhanging trees until he found himself in the light of the city streets.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

Kathleen was standing by her kitchen-stove looking with disgust at the eggs and milk that she had been trying to persuade to become a custard but that had resolved themselves into whey. The heat had been so great she had delayed her cooking until a late hour, and now it was past time to go to bed. With a gesture of resigned despair she walked across the room and threw the mixture into the sink.

"It's a drear world," she remarked grimly.

Going to her window she looked out into the night. There were lights still in a number of the flats. She could discern children sleeping on the fire escapes, and among the sounds that rose to where she stood was a man's harsh, drunken voice and a woman's higher, scolding tones. "'Tis a night when eyes will be blackened," she said to herself, "more than kitchen-stoves. Let's pray the grown-ups have it to themselves and don't waken the kids."

In the midst of her reflections the bell rang. With another sigh of resignation she punched the b.u.t.ton that released the lower latch, and going into the hall threw open her door to greet her evening visitor.

Some one was coming up the stairs quickly, excitedly. She could hear short, swift footsteps on the treads, running through the hall to hurry up the stairs again. Some urgent call she presumed--a baby fighting for entrance into this world, or a sick child weeping to leave it.

Instinctively drawing herself up for service, Kathleen stood ready to answer whatever call might come. The hurrying steps faltered a little at the third flight as though halted by overpowering weariness, but in a second they came on fast again. She could see the figure now--a girl, hatless, coatless, in a white dress. A moment, and she was looking into Hertha's upturned face.

"Let me in, Kathleen," the girl cried.

The Irishwoman's greeting was instant and affectionate. Any harbored resentment vanished as she saw that her visitor was in trouble, needing her help. Had Hertha come richly dressed, breathing prosperity, she would have received scant welcome; but now she was led into the kitchen, her hostess talking affectionately.

"It was this very evening, dearie, I was thinking of you when the custard went back on me. If my old lodger was here now, I says to myself, we'd be eating custards as smooth as Father McGinnis when he comes asking for ten dollars for the church. Sit down in your old seat, it's missing you."

But Hertha did not sit. She had heard nothing of Kathleen's welcome.

Standing by the table, her head thrown back defiantly, she cried in an excited voice, "Keep me here to-night and I'll be out of your way to-morrow."

"It's for you to stay as long as you like," her friend answered.

She was shocked at the girl's appearance. During their months of separation she had often thought of her as she had moved about the kitchen, calling up the pleasant picture of a daintily dressed young woman, quiet in her movements, smiling upon her as she put the last touch to the table before their meal. She had never seen her untidy or seriously perturbed. But this figure before her was a distorted image of its former self. The hair was rough and loose, the dress had dark stains, the hands were soiled. And in the white, thin face were both anger and fear. "Don't touch me," she said, as Kathleen went toward her.

"Listen to what I'm saying. I am going South to-morrow, with my brother.

You know I said I had a brother. He is hurt, in the hospital, but they'll let him go with me to-morrow."

"Then he's not badly hurt," Kathleen said soothingly, "if they'll let him go so soon."

"He is badly hurt," Hertha cried, her voice sharp and hoa.r.s.e. "But he's going with me to-morrow. We must go. My mother is dying."

A vivid remembrance of Hertha's avowal that her mother had been dead for many years flashed through Kathleen's mind.

"Yes, my mother," Hertha said, noting the look of bewilderment. "My mother, my own mother. Don't you touch me," her voice rose to a scream and she pushed her friend back as she approached her. "You don't want to know me, you don't want to be near me. I'm colored!"

With a sob Kathleen drew the girl close in her arms. The body she clasped was tense as steel, but regardless of resistance she held the slender form close, kissed the cold cheek, touched with her lips the soft hair and little ear. With her strong, capable hand she caressed the girl's small head and kept repeating, "My darling, as though that mattered!" and "Why should you be thinking anything of that!" and "As if that mattered, mavourneen!"

Hertha, still tense, lifted her face. "Don't try to comfort me," she said. "I don't ask for any one's pity. You mustn't say what you don't mean."

"What do you take me for?" Affectionate indignation was in Kathleen's speech. "What sort of devil would I be if I cared for a thing like that!

Now don't fret any more, darling, but sit down while I make you a cup of tea."

Hertha did not move from where she stood, but gripped her friend, a hand on either shoulder, looking into her face. And as Kathleen looked back she felt as if the gleaming eyes, utterly sorrowful, were searching her very soul. Cursing herself for her former selfishness, she prayed that her heart might be read aright that the love which overflowed it for this friend whose hidden sorrow she had never understood, might shine now in her face. She said nothing, understanding that Hertha sought for an avowal deeper than words.

Evidently she found it. Dropping her hands she sat down in the chair which Kathleen had placed for her. "I believe you," she said solemnly.

"And now I'll tell you the whole truth. I'm not colored, I'm white."

Through the hour that pa.s.sed in the hot little kitchen Hertha told her story, Kathleen experiencing every emotion from incredulity to overmastering indignation. During the recital the narrator herself was strangely aloof, speaking as though she were an onlooker anxious to retail correctly each point but indifferent to the effect she was producing. She sought neither advice nor comfort. Her hard, steady tone, never varying in pitch or intensity, gave the impression of one with whom something was completed, finished beyond possibility of change. At the last, when her listener carried out of herself with anger at the attack upon Tom indulged in fierce invective, she relaxed a little, and spoke more naturally as she described her strategy and its success. But to Kathleen's words of admiration, to her condemnation of her lover, she paid no heed.

"Tom came to tell me Mammy was ill," she ended. "She was ill this winter but they didn't know what it was. Now she has had another stroke and may not live until we get there. Tom and I must go to-morrow, even though he is so weak. He's her only son."

"How will you go?" Kathleen asked.

"You'll lend me something to wear, won't you? I shan't need much."

"Of course," was the swift answer. "I wasn't thinking of that."

"You mean how shall I travel? I shall travel in the jim crow coach with Tom. He's my brother, you know, I'm colored."

She spoke in a hard, emotionless voice. Perplexed, Kathleen smiled up at her.

"Oh, I mean it," the southern girl said, straightening in her chair.

"I'm going home. I shall never be white again."