Chapter IX: Part TWO (3)

He passed into a fitful and often dream-groaning sleep. When he awoke it was noon. His room seemed uglier than usual--the straight, oak furniture, and the worn, brown carpet, and the rose-stamped wallpaper were like slaps against his spirit. Money, money--the devil sure had been in an ingenious mood when he invented it.... And Blanche Palmer was in the next room--all of him tingled incredibly at the thought of her proximity, and his heavy head grew a bit lighter. Then the door opened and she walked out, slowly, with a sulky, half sleepy, questioning look on her face, and rumpled hair, and a wrinkled gown.

“Eric, what’m I doing here--what happened last night?” she asked.

“Sit down, dear, and let your head clear a bit--I’ll tell you,” he answered.

She dropped into the armchair and he drew another chair beside her.

“You passed out in the cab after we left Tony’s, and I decided to bring you here,” he said. “It would have been rather ticklish, carrying you in my arms and waking up your, u-um, intellectual family. Their response might have been just a trifle excited, you know. You’re not angry with me, are you, Blanche?”

She looked steadily at him, with her head too confused and aching for any definite emotion--for the moment--and then, very slowly, she gave him a tenderly rebuking smile. Somehow, she knew that he had left her in peace while she had slept at his place, and funny, this time she would not have minded an opposite gesture. Things never seemed to intrude upon you unless you were seeking to avoid them! Yet, she was touched by this proof that he had not been hiding a mere, ordinary lust for her. Sweet, sweet boy ... how her head swayed and throbbed, and yet, despite the pain, a happiness tried to lessen it.

“You really shouldn’t have brought me here,” she said at last. “My folks’ll raise the dickens with me now. Their system is wink your eye at daughter ’f she gets back any time before 6 A. M., and call her a bad woman ’f she doesn’t. Still, you’d have been in for it ’f you _had_ brought me back, I guess. There wasn’t much choice in the matter.”

“Why don’t you leave that dirty den of yours?” he asked. “You can’t go on sacrificing yourself forever.”

“Oh, I’m going to leave pretty soon,” she answered. “I’d have done it long ago, only I didn’t see much difference between living home and staying in some spotty hall-bedroom, and I’ve never had money enough for more than that. Maybe I can get a fairly decent place in the Village, though. Margaret tells me that rents are much cheaper down there.”

“Yes, you’d better look around,” he said, dully.

He couldn’t ask her to live with him, or to marry him--especially the latter--without telling the secret to her, and once more his courage failed him. While she was bathing and making her toilette, he fixed a simple breakfast in the kitchenette. Afterwards, as they were lolling over the coffee, he said: “You’re looking beautiful this morning. Your face is like ... well, like a wild rose and a breeze flirting with each other.”

“I’m only too willing to believe you, Eric,” she answered, softly. “Don’t make me conceited now.”

An irresistible impulse came to him. He arose, walked around the table, and bent down to her. She curved her arms about his shoulders, and they traded a lengthy kiss.

“I’m in love with you, Blanche,” he said, looking away, after he had straightened up.

She grasped one of his hands and answered: “Why, you’re startling me, Eric--I’d never have guessed it. Would it surprise, you, too, ’f I said I loved you?”

“Say it and find out.”

“Well, I do.”

He bent down and kissed her again. Then he clenched one of his fists and walked away. It would have to be told now ... or never.

“Let’s sit on the couch, Blanche, I want to talk to you,” he said.

After she had acquiesced they were silent for a full minute, while she looked at him and wondered at his nervous remoteness. Then he turned to her.

“I suppose you don’t know that I’m a negro,” he said.

She stared at him with an unbelieving frown on her face.

“A ... what?” she asked.

“A man of negro blood. My grandfather was white and he married a negress, and my mother married another white man. That’s the story.”

As she stared at him she felt too stunned for any single emotion.

“Eric, you’re fooling me, aren’t you?” she asked at last, slowly.

“No, it’s the truth.”

“But ... but, Eric, you look exactly like a white man! It can’t be true.”

“It is, just the same,” he answered, oddly relieved, now that he had blurted the thing out, and stoically waiting for her words to strike him. “I have just a small fraction of negro blood, as you see, and most people, like you, mistake me for a white man. God, how I wish I were coal-black--it would have saved me from the heartache that’s coming to me now!”

She looked away from him for a while, with a veritable _mêlée_ of fear, brave indifference to the revelation, and self-doubt contending within her. Eric Starling was a negro, and she had fallen in love with him, and ... would she be averse to touching him, now? Would it make any difference? She reached for his hand and held it tightly for a moment, almost in an absurd effort to discover the answer to the question. Oh, what were words, anyway? He could tell her that he was negro until he became blue in the face, but he didn’t give her the feeling of one. Somehow, he just didn’t have the physical essence which she had always felt in the presence of other negroes, even those at the Vanderin party. He just didn’t have it. There was a fresh, lovely sturdiness attached to his body, and she wanted to be in his arms, and she couldn’t help herself. She loved him with every last blood-drop in her heart.

But the future, with all its ghastly dangers and troubles. If she married him, or if they lived together, her father and brothers would try to kill him, or injure him--she knew what _they_ would do well enough, the stupid roughnecks--and her mother would weep and shriek, and perhaps try to kill herself, and other people would shun them, or make trouble for them. Even the dirty newspapers might take it up--hadn’t she read last week about a negro who had been hounded out of a New Jersey town because he loved a white girl and they wanted to marry each other? People were always like wolves, waiting to leap upon you if you dared to disregard any of their cherished “Thou Shalt Nots” ... just like wolves. The whole world seemed to be in a conspiracy to prevent people from becoming natural beings and doing as they pleased, even when their acts couldn’t possibly injure anybody. It was terrible.

And she herself, would she have courage enough to defy everything for his sake, and would her love for him continue in spite of all the threats and intrusions? She turned to look at him again. He was slumping down on the couch, with his hands resting limply on his outstretched legs, and his head lowered. All of her heart bounded toward him, and she flung herself against him and cried: “I don’t care what you are, Eric! I love you and I’m going to stick to you. I love you, Eric, dear one.”

With hosannas in his heart, he placed his arms around her, and they passed into an incoherence of weeping, and kissing, and whispered endearments, and sighs, and strainings. A full hour passed in this way before they could slowly return to some semblance of composure. Then, gradually, they tried to discuss the predicament facing them.

“You’re sure that you love me now, dear, but you’ve got to be doubly sure,” he said. “We won’t see each other for the next two weeks, and we’ll have a chance to think things over then. It’ll be hard, hard, but we’ve simply got to do it. Our minds will work better when we’re alone.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Eric,” she said, slowly, “but it wouldn’t change me any ’f I didn’t see you for a year, ’r a lifetime. Don’t be afraid of that.”

“You think so now, and, God, I hope it’s true, but you must realize what we’re going to be up against,” he answered. “Your family will raise hell, of course, and other people will turn their backs on us, and you’ll have to mingle with negro friends of mine and live among them.... Are you sure you’ll be able to face all these things?”

She hid her head on the couch for a while, and then raised it.

“I’ll be honest with you, Eric,” she said. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life, and I’ll never have anything to do with any other man, but I don’t know whether I’m brave enough to marry you and ... and take all the blows you’ve been talking about. I just don’t know.”

“If I were less selfish I’d give you up for your own good,” he answered, moodily.

“How about myself?” she asked. “Don’t you know I’m afraid that my father and my brothers will try to hurt you, ’r even kill you? Why, I can see the anger and the meanness on their faces right now, and it won’t do any good to talk to them! ’F I were less selfish, I’d want to give _you_ up, just to save you, Eric.”

He kissed her again, and they murmured promises and were loath to withdraw from each other. Finally, she rose from the couch and tried to bring a brave smile to her face.

“I’ve simply got to be going now, Eric,” she said. “I’ll come up here the Saturday after next, two weeks from now, dear, ’r I’ll write you ’f I just must see you sooner.... I know I _will_ marry you, Eric, in spite of everything--I know I will--but it’ll be better for both of us ’f we take our time about it.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he answered, as he fondled her cheek. “I’ll spend most of the two weeks writing poems to you, when I’m not in harness down at Tony’s. It’ll be some consolation, anyway.”

She donned her hat, and they exchanged several “last” hugs before they descended to the street, where he called a cab for her and, in spite of her protestations, slipped a bill into the driver’s hands. When she reached her home, the family were seated in the kitchen, smoking, reading the Sunday papers, and occasionally debating on the subject of her whereabouts.

“Well, give ’n account of y’rself, come on,” her father said, gruffly, as she removed her hat and desperately tried to straighten out the wrinkles in her dress. “’F you was out with Campbell again, I’ll make him talk turkey this time. He can’t fool around with one of my girls and not expect to do the right thing by her.”

His little eyes were tense with irritation and suspicion as he watched her.

“Yeh, you’ve got a nerve, all right,” Mabel piped up. “_I_ never come trotting in at three in the afternoon! You’re just losing all respect for yourself, that’s what.”

“Say, listen, I’m not a child, any more,” Blanche answered, wearily resuming the old, useless blah-blahing. “I went to a party down in the Village and stayed overnight at my girl-friend’s studio, Margaret Wheeler, but I don’t see why I have to make any excuses about it. If the rest of you don’t like the way I act, I’ll pack up my things and leave, that’s all.”

“You will, huh?” her father asked. “Well, maybe we’ll tell you ourselves to clear outa here. ’F you can’t show any respect for your folks, then it’s high time somethin’ was done about it!”

“Yeh, that goes for me, too,” Harry said.

He suspected that his sister had rejoined Campbell, and he determined to look Joe up and frighten him into marrying her. The damn fool--she didn’t have sense enough to look out for herself, and if she kept it up, she’d wind up by becoming little better than the easy skirts he knocked around with. He wouldn’t let that happen to _his_ sister--not he.

Kate Palmer stuck to her invariable rôle of peacemaker, though she felt sick at heart at her daughter’s silliness and looseness. She was staying out overnight with men and getting to be a regular bad woman. It was really terrible.

“Of course, we won’t let you leave home,” she said, “but you’re actin’ sim-ply awful nowadays. You’ll be disgracin’ all of us the next thing we know, gettin’ into some trouble ’r somethin’. Won’t you promise your ma not to stay out all night? Won’t you, Blanie?”

“You know I don’t want to hurt you, ma,” Blanche replied, as she stroked her mother’s hair, “but just the same, I’ve got to lead my own life from now on. I’m a grown-up person, ma, and not a slave.”

“You know we’re just askin’ you to act decint-like, you know it,” her mother said, sadly. “We’re none of us tryin’ to hold you down.”

“Yeh, that’s right, you’re getting too bold,” Mabel cut in, with disguised envy.

_She_ scarcely ever “went the limit” with men, and why should her sister be privileged to be more brazen about it.

During all of these tirades, Blanche had wondered at her own indifference--the battle was on again, but now it had only a comical aspect. These pent-up, dense, jealous people--could they really be related to her own flesh and blood? They seemed to be so remote and impossible. None of them, except her mother, stirred her in the least, and even there it was only a mild compassion. Yet, once she had loved them in a fashion, and felt some degree of a warm nearness that even wrangling had never quite been able to remove. What marvels happened to you, once your mind began to expand. That was it--their minds were still and hard, and little more than the talking slaves of their emotions--while hers was restless and separate, and had slowly overcome the blindness of her former emotions toward them.

And now ... ah, if they had only known what they really had to rave about. How they would have pounced upon her! The sick fear returned to her as she reclined upon the bed in her room. Perhaps it might be wiser to pack up and leave home immediately. Yet, that would only be a breathing spell. If she married Starling, or lived with him, they would inevitably investigate and discover his negro blood, and the storm would burst, anyway. She tossed about in a brooding indecision.

During the next week she surprised her family by remaining in her room each night. What had come over her?--she must be sick, or in some secret difficulty. When a girl moped around and didn’t care to enjoy herself at night, something must be wrong, especially a girl like Blanche, who had always been “on the go” for the past four years. They suspected that Campbell or some other man might have given her an unwelcome burden, and they questioned her in this respect, but her laughing denials nonplussed them. Harry had an interview with Campbell, and had grudgingly become convinced that Blanche was no longer going out with him. The Palmer family finally became convinced that she had really taken their objections to heart and had decided to become a good girl.

Blanche wrote feverishly in her room, every night, with a little grammar which she had purchased to aid her--descriptions of places which she knew, such as cafeterias, dance halls and amusement parks. Her anger at human beings, and her sense of humor, fought against each other in these accounts, and the result was frequently a curious mixture of indignations and grimaces. Starling was ever a vision, standing in her room and urging on her hands ... she was writing for his sake as well as her own. If the rest of her life was to be interwoven in his, she would have to make herself worthy of him, and try to equal his own creations, and give him much more than mere physical contacts and adoring words. Otherwise, he might become quickly tired of her!

Her courage grew stronger with each succeeding night, and a youthful, though still sober, elasticity within her began to make plans that slew her prostrate broodings. Eric and she would simply run off to some remote spot--Canada, Mexico, Paris, anywhere--and then the specters and hatreds in their immediate scene would be powerless to injure or interfere with them. What was the use of remaining and fighting, when all of the odds were against them, and when the other side was so stubbornly unscrupulous, so utterly devoid of sympathy and understanding? In such a case, they would only be throwing themselves open to every kind of attack and intrusion, if not to an almost certain defeat. Eric might be a “nigger,” yes, but he certainly didn’t look like one, and he was better than any of the white men she had ever met ... dear, sweet boy ... and she loved him with every particle of her heart. She was sure of that now. She had never before felt anything remotely equal to the huge, restless emptiness which her separation from him had brought her--a sort of can’t-stand-it-not-to-see-him feeling that rose within her, even when she was in the midst of writing, and kept her pencil idly poised over the paper for minutes, while in her fancy she teased his hair, or chided some witticism of his. She’d go through ten thousand hells rather than give him up!

After a week and a half had passed, she determined to visit Margaret and “talk it over” with the other girl. It wasn’t that Margaret could convince her one way or the other--she had made her decision--but still, she craved the possible sympathy and encouragement of at least one other person besides Eric. It was hard to stand so utterly alone.

After telephoning, and finding that Margaret would be alone that night, she hurried down to see her.

The two girls sparred pleasantly and nervously with each other for a while as though they were both dreading the impending subject--which Margaret had sensed--and futilely trying to delay its appearance. Finally, Blanche blurted out, after a silence: “I suppose you know I’m in love with Eric Starling, Mart. You must have guessed it, the way I fooled around with him at Tony’s.”

“Yes, I’ve been worrying quite a bit about that,” Margaret answered. “Do you know that he’s, well--”

“Yes, I know that he’s a negro,” Blanche interrupted. “It’s true, Eric has just a little negro blood in him, but you must admit, dear, that he’s the whitest-looking one you ever saw.”

“Of course, he’d have fooled me, too, when I first met him, if Max hadn’t told me about it,” Margaret said. “I like him, too. He’s certainly not fatiguing to look at, and he has a lovely sense of humor, but still, can you quite forget about his negro blood when ... oh, when you’re petting together, I mean.”

“Can I forget it?--why, I go mad, stark mad, ’f he just puts his hand over mine,” Blanche cried. “I’ve never fallen so hard for any man in all my life--I mean it, Mart. I arranged not to meet him for two weeks--just to see ’f I wouldn’t cool down about him, you know--but it’s only convinced me all the more. I’ll never be able to get along without him ... never.”

“Well, after all, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a little affair with him, if you’re careful about it,” Margaret replied.

“But it’s much deeper than that,” Blanche said slowly. “We’re both perm’nently in love with each other, we really are. It’s a big, precious thing, and not just ... well ... not just wanting to have a few parties, you know. I’m going to live with him for years and years, and maybe marry him right now. It’s the first time I’ve ever loved any one.”

“But, Blanche, you’re going to let yourself in for an endless nightmare, if that’s the case,” Margaret replied, sorrowfully. “Your people will simply raise the roof off, if they’re anything like you say they are. And then, all the other things--children, and living among his negro friends, and getting snubbed right and left.... Are you really sure you love him enough for all that? Are you, really?”

“Yes, I _am_ sure,” Blanche said, in a slow, sick-at-heart, stubborn voice. “I’ve thought of everything, don’t worry about that, and it hasn’t given me much rest, either. Oh, how I hate this blind, mean world of ours!”

“Yes, I know, but hating it never solves anything,” Margaret answered, dully.

“Well, I’m going to solve it by running off with him,” Blanche continued. “We’ll go far away, to Paris or London--some place where nobody’ll know that Eric’s a negro, and we’ll stay there for the rest of our lives, that’s all. I don’t care ’f we both have to wash dishes for a living, I don’t. It’s all right to fight back when you’ve got a chance, but not when everything’s against you.”

“Funny, I never thought of that,” Margaret said, more cheerfully. “It might work out that way. Of course, it _is_ cowardly in a way, but after all, there’s little sense to being brave in the lions’ den and getting devoured. It might work out fine, if you’re both certain your love’s going to last. Somehow or other, it’s hard for me to believe in a permanent love. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it in any of the people around me. Are you sure you’re not just in a sentimental dream, Blanche?”

Blanche reflected for a while.

“Well, ’f we’re both making a mistake, we’ll be happy, anyway, till we find it out,” she said at last. “Good Lord, ’f you never take any risks in life, why then you’ll be sad all the time, and you won’t have any happiness at all, no matter how short it is!”

“Yes, I agree with you there,” Margaret answered, with a sigh.

They fell into a discussion of the practical details of Blanche’s possible departure, and the money that would be required, and the difficulty of earning a living in Europe, both trying to lose themselves in a bright animation. When Blanche parted with Margaret, a little after midnight, she felt more confident, and almost light-hearted. After all, if two human beings were wise, and brave, and forever alert, they simply couldn’t be separated from each other, no matter what the dangers were.

The mood remained with her and grew more intense each day, and when she rang Starling’s bell at the end of the week, she was almost fluttering with hope and resolution. For the first hour they did little more than remain in each other’s arms, in a daze and maze of kisses, sighs, and simple, reiterated love words. To Starling, huge violins and cornets were ravishing the air of the room, and the street sounds outside, floating in through an open window, were only the applause of an unseen audience. After all, only times like this gave human beings any possible excuse for existing--the rest of life was simply a series of strugglings, and dodgings, and tantalizings, and defeats. The least pressure of her fingertips provoked a fiery somersault within him, and the grazing of her bosom and face against his aroused revolving conflagrations within his breast. Blanche had become a stunned child, scarcely daring to believe in the compensations which were ruffling her blood to something more than music, and yet desperately guarding them, incoherently whispering over them, endlessly testing them with her fingers and lips, lest they prove to be the cruellest of fantasies.

When Blanche and Starling had made a moderate return to a rational condition, they began to discuss their future.

“Don’t you see that we must run away, Eric, dear?” she asked. “We’ll just be crushed and beaten down, otherwise. My brother Harry, he’d never rest till he’d put you in a hospital--oh, but don’t I know him--and he might even try to do worse. I get the shivers when I think of it.”

Her words were an affront to his courage, and he said: “Listen, I can take care of myself--I’ve been through a pretty tough mill.”

“Of course you can, but they wouldn’t fight fair,” she answered, impatiently. “They’d just proceed to get you by hook or crook. And that’s not half of it. Why, I can just see ev’rybody turning their backs on us, ’r making nasty remarks, ’r trying to poison us against each other. We’ve just got to run away and live where nobody knows us!”

“No, it would be too yellow,” he replied, stubbornly. “All the things you mention will only be a test of our love for each other. If we can’t stand the gaff, then our love isn’t what we thought it was.”

“I’m not afraid of that,” she said. “I’d go through anything with you ’f I thought it was the best thing we could do, but why should we stay here and run up against all kinds of suff’rings and insults, and dangers, too, just to show how darn brave we are? It’s not cowardly to run off when everything’s against us--it’s not.”

“Well, let’s think it over for another week, anyway,” he answered, slowly. “I don’t like to slink away, with my tail between my legs, but maybe it’s the only thing to do. If we were only starting a little affair, like most of the mixed couples that hang out at Vanderin’s shack, then it would be different, of course, but we’re probably facing a whole lifetime together, and it’s a much more serious matter. The trouble is I’ve a great deal of pride in me, honey, and it always wants to fight back.”

“I have, too,” she said, “but in a time like this it’s just foolish to be so proud--it’ll only help other people to make us unhappy, that’s all.”

They were silent for a while, and then he said, with a smile: “Good Lord, we’re getting morbid and theatrical. The whole thing may not be half as bad as we think it is. Anyway, let’s forget it for one night, at least.”

They spent the remainder of the evening in an idyllic way. He read her his sensuous, symbolistic poems, and talked about them, and told her exciting stories of his past life, while she tried to describe some of the struggles and hesitations which had attended the birth of her mind, and her search for happiness in the face of sordid punches, and stupid jeers, and all the disappointments with which ignorance slays itself. They resolved not to become complete lovers until they were really living together and removed from fears and uncertainties. When they parted at 2 A. M. they were both wrapped up in a warmly exhausted but plotting trance. They arranged to meet on the following Wednesday, at Tony’s Club, and Blanche felt feathery and on tiptoes, as she rode back to the uninviting home which she would soon leave forever.

The next four days were excruciating centuries to her, and she was barely able to stagger through the nagging, drab details of her work at Madame Jaurette’s. She spent her nights writing in her room, and the even trend of her days remained uninvaded until Tuesday evening, when she found a letter waiting for her at home. It was from Oppendorf, who told her that he had polished up her account of the Vanderin party and had sold it to a New York magazine of the jaunty, trying-hard-to-be-sophisticated kind. She was overjoyed as she stared at the fifty-dollar check which he had enclosed, and she could scarcely wait to tell the news to Eric. Now she had proved her mettle, and was on the road to becoming a creative equal of his--blissful thought.

When she met him at Tony’s, she gayly extracted the check from her purse and waved it in front of his face.

“Now what do you think of your stupid, hair-curling Blanche?” she asked elatedly.

He laughed at her excitement as he led her to a table.

“You haven’t made me believe in your ability just because you’ve been accepted by a frothy, snippy magazine,” he said. “I knew all about it the first night I met you.”

“Never mind, this means I’m going to make a name for myself,” she answered, proudly.

He gave her a fatherly smile--what a delicious combination of naïvetés and instinctive wisdoms she was.

“I felt the same way when I first broke into print,” he said. “The excitement dies down after a while, and then you don’t care so much whether people like your stuff or not. You get down to a grimly plodding gait, old dear, and you start to write only for yourself. Then each acceptance means only so many dollars and cents.”

She retorted merrily: “Wet ra-ag--don’t try to dampen my spirits. It can’t be done.”

The brazenly sensual clatter and uproar of Tony’s pounded against their minds, and even Starling, more skeptically inured to it, and knowing every hidden, sordid wrinkle in the place, became more flighty and swaggering as he danced with Blanche. It meant something, now that the girl whom he really loved was stepping out beside him, and it had become something less gross than a collection of rounders, sulky or giggling white and colored flappers, fast women, and hoodwinked sugar-papas spending their rolls to impress the women beside them. Now it was an appropriate carnival-accompaniment to his happiness.

Immersed in Starling, Blanche did not notice the group of newcomers who had seated themselves two tables behind her. They consisted of her brother Harry, another wooden-faced, overdressed man of middle age, and their thickly painted, sullen-eyed ladies of the evening. Harry was settling the details of a whisky-transaction with Jack Compton, the other man.

“We’ll have the cases there by midnight on the dot,” he said, in a low voice. “I’ve got a cop fixed up, an’ he’s gonna stand guard for us an’ say it’s K.O., ’f any one tries to butt in. We’ll have to hand him a century, though.”

“That’s all right with me,” Compton replied. “You put this deal through without slipping up and there’ll be a coupla hundred in it for you.”

“It’s as good as done,” Harry answered, with a heavy nod.

Then, glancing around, he spied Blanche at the other table.

“Say, there’s my crazy sis, Blanche,” he said, pointing to her. “In the red pleated skirt, two tables down by the railing. See her, Jack?”

“Yeh ... she’s a good looker, Harry,” Compton replied.

“Say, I know the fellow with her,” one of the woman broke in. “He works here--he’s public’ty-man for the joint. Name’s Starling--Eric Starling. I met him down here about a week ago. What’s your sister doing out with a nigger, Harry? She seems to be mighty thick with him from the way she’s cutting up.”

“Go o-on, he looks damn white to me,” Harry answered, intently scowling toward the other table.

“Well, he _is_ a nigger just the same,” the second woman said. “It’s known all around here--he don’t deny it any. I’ve seen them like him before. They’re only about one-eighth black, I guess.”

“Can’t your sister get any white fellows to go around with?” Compton asked. “She must be hard up, trotting around with a shine.”

“Yeh, she’s sure crazy about dark meat, I’ll say,” the first woman commented, with a laugh.

The taunts pierced Harry’s thick skin, and a rage grew within him. He’d stood for her going with Jews, and wops, and dopey weak-sisters, but a nigger was too much! It affronted his family-pride and erectness, and made him feel that his friends had been given a chance to ridicule him in an indirect way. For all he knew, Blanche might be having intimate relations with this coon, or might be even fixing to marry him. The thought was like a red-hot iron. His own sister, acting like a slut, in a black-and-tan dive, and consorting with a nigger there, or maybe with more of them.... By God, he wouldn’t stand for that!

“I’m gonna go over an’ bust him in the nose,” he said, half rising from his chair. “He’ll be leavin’ white girls alone after I’m through with him!”

Compton pulled Harry back to his chair.

“Keep your shirt on, d’you hear me,” he said. “If you start a scrap here you won’t have a chance--every bouncer ’n’ waiter in the place’ll be right on top of you. I’ve seen them in action before, and believe me, they work just like a machine.”

“Well, I can get in a coupla good cracks at him before they throw me out,” Harry persisted. “I want to show that dirty shine where _he_ gets off at, makin’ a play for a sister uh mine!”

“You won’t show him this way,” Compton retorted. “You’ll land in the hospital, and you’ll land there quick, too. This gang down here don’t like a white man’s looks anyway, and they’ll give you the leather, just for good luck. Come on, let’s all clear outa here. You can lay for him to-morrow night, if you want to, ’r else give your sister a good bawling out when you get her home, an’ make her stay away from him.”

“Well, they can’t do nothin’ ’f I go over an’ bawl her out now,” Harry said, with a drunken stubbornness.

“Aw, keep your head, Harry, we don’t want to get the girl-friends here into no trouble,” Compton replied. “Come on, let’s beat it, Harry.”

The women added their persuasions, and Harry finally gave a reluctant assent. He departed with his friends, after vowing to settle the matter during the next few days.

Blanche and Starling continued their entranced capers until the closing hour, and when they rode to her home, they were steeped in a tired and lazy fondness, with their arms around each other and their heads close together. The apparitions and doubts had disappeared from their situation, as far as they were concerned, and nothing remained but a deliciously overheated and rumpled nearness to each other. They arranged to meet on the following Saturday night, and exchanged several farewell kisses, in the cab, before they reluctantly parted.

Blanche slept until noon, since the day was a holiday--Memorial Day--and when she awoke, the other Palmers were eating a late breakfast around the kitchen table. As she entered the kitchen, in her kimono, the family turned and surveyed her, each bearing a frown on his face. Taken aback, and suddenly prodded by an instinctive fear, Blanche advanced slowly toward the table. How could they know anything about Starling--nonsense. They were probably “sore” at her for some other reasons.

After she had seated herself at the table, the bombardment commenced.

“Who was you with last night?” Harry asked, with a sneer, to see whether she would lie.

“It’s none of _your_ business,” Blanche replied, coolly, her fears soothed now.

“We-ell, that’s a hot one--going around with a nigger is none of our business, huh?” Mabel queried, in a shrill voice.

“What do you mean?” Blanche asked, mechanically--the blow had come, just when she had least expected it!

She became sick at heart, and dreaded the impending assault, and scarcely knew what she could answer. If she became defiant, it would only enrage them all the more, and it would be useless, besides ... what could she do, oh, what? To attempt to explain matters to her family would be ridiculous.

“You know what we mean all right,” her father cried. “You’ve been goin’ out with a shine--Harry saw you together last night down at Tony’s Club. For all we know you may be hooked up with him in the bargain. ’F I was sure of it, by God, I swear I’d take a swing at you, daughter ’r no daughter!”

Blanche remained silent--what they said to her didn’t matter, and she wasn’t afraid of them, but Eric, Eric ... they might kill him, or cripple him for life. They were really aroused now as they had never been before--she knew them well enough to tell when they were merely blustering and when not--and they felt that she was on the verge of disgracing and insulting everything that supported their lives--the cruelly proud, angry delusion of blood superiority, which they clung to as a last resort against all of the submissions and lacks in their existences. In their opinion, Eric was little better than a rat, who had tried to break into the sacred family kitchen.

Her mother began to speak, through fits of weeping.

“Oh, Blanie, Blanie, what’s come over you? You must be outa your head, you must. You’ve just got to give up that nigger you’re goin’ with, ’r you’ll be breakin’ my heart.... Blanie, Blanie, promise your ma you’ll never give yourself to nobody but a white man ... promise me, Blanie.”

“See what you’re doing to ma,” Mabel said. “You’re just bringing her to her grave, that’s what!”

“Well, I’m gonna take a hand in this,” her father cried. “You’ll stay away from that fellow from now on, ’r I’ll land in jail f’r manslaughter. I’m not kiddin’ any this time. You’ve been havin’ your own way, an’ stickin’ up your nose at us, an’ we’ve let you get away with it, but you never put over anythin’ like this--hookin’ up with a lousy nigger! What have you got to say f’r yourself, huh?”

“Yeh, that’s what I wanta know,” Harry said, as he glowered at her.

The promptings of cunning began to stir in Blanche’s brain. To save Eric, she would have to lie, abasing, tricky lies. No other answers were possible. If she strove to argue with her family now, or if she showed a hairbreadth of independence, they would instantly seek Eric out, and even his life might be in danger. She was certain of that.

“I’ve only gone out with him twice,” she said. “I didn’t know he was a negro, I swear I didn’t. I only found it out last night, just before I left him. He told me he was then, and I was good and mad about it. I called him down for daring to make up to me, and I told him I’d never, never see him again. He looks just like a white man, and he’d fool almost anybody. I swear he would.”

“Bla-anie, I mighta known it was somethin’ like this,” her mother cried, joyously. “’Course you won’t see him no more, now you’ve found out, ’course you won’t.”

“I should say not,” Blanche answered, vigorously. “I’m not picking out negroes this year, unless I don’t know what they are.”

Blanche hated herself for the groveling words which she forced from her mouth, and yet she felt that she had given the only shrewd answer that could possibly placate the stupid viciousness assailing her. She’d be willing to become a carpet, for Eric’s sake, any day in the year, no matter what nausea might be attached to the proceeding.

“Well, all right then, we’ll let it rest,” her father said, in a growling voice; “but just the same, Harry an’ me’ll keep a close watch on you. ’F you’re not tellin’ us a straight story, it’ll be bad for this Starling guy. We’ll put him in a nice, tight hotel, all right.”

“I’m with you there,” Harry broke in. “What I’d like to know is why she didn’t speak up when we started to ask her about it.”

“Gee, you were all on top of me like a ton of bricks,” Blanche answered. “I didn’t have a chance to say anything. Besides, I was ashamed of the whole thing.”

“Sure, I can understand that,” Philip said, eagerly, glad that his favorite sister had not been intending to disgrace them after all. “Didn’t Harry say this morning that it was hard to tell this Starlun guy from a white fellow? Blanche was just taken in, that’s all.”

“’Course she was,” Mrs. Palmer affirmed.

“Well, I’m not sayin’ she wasn’t,” her father replied. “We’ll just keep tabs on her, anyway, an’ make sure of it.”

Blanche continued her meek explanations and protests of innocence, and her family gradually calmed down and resumed a surface quietness. She knew that the suspicions of her father and Harry were still smoldering, and that these two would probably shadow her for some time, or use some other means to become cognizant of her nightly destinations and companions. She noticed also the speculative looks that Mabel gave her now and then. Mabel was too expert a liar not to doubt her sister’s tale, and she determined to do a little “snooping around” herself. You never can tell about Blanche.

The remainder of the day and night held a nightmare to Blanche. She had to affect a nonchalant mien--they would doubt her again if she showed any sadness or depression--and the strain was infinite, like holding up a boulder. Visions of Eric’s lifeless body dodged in and out of her mind and made her shiver helplessly. Harry and his gangsters could “get” poor Eric without half trying, and it would be useless to attempt to flee with him now, since she would be under the severest of scrutinies, where any false move might bring misfortune. Still, wasn’t there another way out of it? Why couldn’t they remain scrupulously apart from each other for half a year, or even longer, and then, when all of the suspicions and spyings had completely vanished, suddenly run away together? By that time her family would certainly have forgotten the matter, and in the interim, she could go about with other men--somehow compelling herself--and outwardly maintain her normal ways. A wan approach to cheerfulness possessed her, and late that night, she sat up in bed and wrote to Eric:

MY DEAREST BOY:

My brother Harry saw us at Tony’s last night, and this morning they
gave me hell. It was no use to argue with them and make them even
nastier--just no use. They said they would kill you, dearest, and
I know they were not fourflushing when they said it. They’re cruel
and stupid, and to their way of thinking, I’d disgrace and humiliate
them if I ever married you. It’s what they cling to when everything
else shows them how small they are--this snarling, keep-off pride in
being white.... I lied to them and said I hadn’t known that you were
colored, and swore I’d never see you again. Please, please forgive
me, Eric. They’d have killed you if I hadn’t lied. And please,
Eric, you must do as I say. This is the plan I have. We won’t see
each other for exactly six months, and then we’ll suddenly run away
together. Everything will be quiet then, and before they know what’s
happened, we’ll be hundreds of miles away. If we tried it now we
wouldn’t have a chance. Please, dearest boy, write and tell me you’ll
do as I say. I love you more than anything else in life, and you’re
like a prince walking through some rose-bushes, and you fill all of
my heart, and I’ll never give you up--never be afraid of that. Answer
me at once and address the letter to Madame Jaurette’s. I’m sending
you a thousand kisses, dearest boy.
BLANCHE.

After finishing the letter, she felt woebegonely relieved and slightly hopeful, and the mood stayed with her through the following day of work at the Beauty Shop. She had placed a special-delivery stamp on the letter, and he received it in a few hours. After he had read and reread it several times, with a touch of anger lurking in his numbness, he began to pace up and down in his room, as though striving to goad himself into life again. Was she really giving him up, and trying to hide the blow with promises of a future escape? Was she?... No, Blanche was too inhumanly honest for that--even if she had wanted to lie, she could never have induced herself to put the words on paper. If he were wrong in this belief, then he would lose all of his faith in his ability to peer into human beings, and would call himself a fool for the remainder of his life! Somehow, a tremor of simple sincerity seemed to run through her letter--he couldn’t be mistaken.

Well, what then? If he persisted in running off with Blanche now, it might lead to melodrama. White gangsters such as her brother would not hesitate about attempting to “croak him off.” He wasn’t afraid of actually fighting them, but any man was always defenseless against a sudden bullet or knife-thrust, and he certainly didn’t care to die that way. B-r-r, the thought brought a fine sweat to his temples. No, these whites were little better than rodents, when their angry pride was aroused, and you had to use some of their own tactics, or perish.

They regarded him as a dirty nigger, these lily-pure, intelligent, lofty, noble-hearted people. What a nauseating joke! But, joke or no joke, it had to be grappled with. Blanche was right after all--when you were in a trap you had to gnaw slyly at the things binding you. It was galling to your erect defiance to admit it, but often, in a dire crisis, an imbecilic bravery brought you no gain, and caused your extinction. Yes, Blanche was right--it would be best for them to separate for half a year and then take the other side by surprise, with a thumb-twiddling swiftness. They would have to be patient--splendidly, grimly, bitterly patient--and somehow control the aches and cries in their hearts.

Of course, during the coming months, he would go out with women now and then, or chat with them--as a feeble diversion--but he would shun any intimate relations with them, if it were humanly possible. A pretty, well-shaped girl could always affect a man, in a purely physical way--he wasn’t trying naively to delude himself on _that_ score--but just the same he intended to try his damnedest to remain faithful to Blanche. She invaded and stirred him as no other woman had, and if he consorted with other girls now, it would be a taunting and unanswerable aspersion against the depth and uniqueness of his love for her. In such a case he would be forced to admit that all of love was only an easily incited lust--but it wasn’t true. He _would_ remain faithful to her.

He sat down and wrote a hopeful, agreeing letter, expressing his implicit belief in her, and swearing that he would remain true, and urging her to emulate his jaunty fortitude.

When she received the letter on the following afternoon, a surge of youthful determination almost drove the darkness out of her heart. If he had written morbidly, or in despair, her tottering and beleaguered feelings would have been crushed, but now she felt armored and half-way restored to her former happiness. After all, they were both very young, and six months now were little more than six hours in _their_ lives.

During the next month she went to cabarets and theaters with other men, and wearily repulsed their inevitable attempts to embrace her afterwards, and preserved a careful attitude toward her family--not too friendly and not too ill-tempered. They would have suspected her of playing a part if she had suddenly seemed to become too pliable and harmonious. She saw Margaret and Oppendorf once, but did not tell them anything concerning the developments in her relations with Eric. She feared that they would advise her never to see him again, and she didn’t care to pass through the futile torments of an argument. She had made up her mind, and no human being could change it.

When a month had passed, however, a restlessly jealous mood stole imperceptibly over her. Perhaps Eric was running about with other girls now; perhaps his head was pressed against the smooth tenderness of their bosoms, or perhaps he had found another girl, far more beautiful and intelligent than any Blanche Palmer. The mood reached a climax one Sunday afternoon, as she boarded an “L” train and rode down to the Battery. Yes, of course, he must have forgotten her by now. He met tens of women every night down at Tony’s, and among all of them it would be easy for him to find a quick-minded, tempting girl--perhaps one of his own race, who would not lead him into staggering troubles and difficulties.

She sat on a bench facing the greenish-gray swells of dirty water, and watched the bobbing boats, and the laboriously swaying barges, and the straining, smoky tugs. A mood of plaintive, barely wounded peace settled about her, in spite of the jealous ranklings underneath. For an hour she sat draped in this acceptant revery, with her mind scarcely stirring. Then, glancing up, she saw that Eric was standing beside her.

For almost half a minute they stared at each other, without shifting their positions.

“Eric ... darling ... what are you doing here?” she asked at last.

“I never dreamt I’d see you,” he answered. “I was walking along and trying to forget my blues when I caught sight of you. I tried hard to turn around then and avoid you, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t,” she said, as he sat down beside her. “Eric, my boysie, what’s been happening to you?”

“Oh, I’ve been plodding along, and writing poems to you, and extolling the barbaric charms of Tony’s,” he replied. “I’d get worried and hopeless every now and then, thinking you were in some other man’s arms ... just like a boy who doesn’t know whether he’s going to be whipped or petted.”

“That’s exactly how I felt,” she cried. “Why, say, I had you falling in love with every snippy, doll-faced girl in New York!”

They laughed--softly, ruefully, and with a relaxing weariness.

“How about your exquisite people?” he asked, after a pause. “Do they still keep a close watch on you?”

“No, I think they’re completely deceived by now,” she said. “I’ve played a foxy game, you know--going out with other men, and bragging about them, and hiding my feelings all the time. I was so afraid that somebody you know would see me with some fellow and tell you about it. I just couldn’t help it, darling. One little break might have given me away, and I just had to fool my folks. There wasn’t any other way.”

“Sure, I understand,” he replied, as he stroked her hand and looked at her with the expression of a man relievedly twitting his past fears and pains.

They were silent for a while, reveling in the unexpected, warm nearness to each other and feeling a giddy swirl of revived faiths and hopes. Their first little rush of reassuring words had aroused all of the deferred plans and buried braveries within them, but the awakening was not yet articulate enough for spoken syllables. They longed to embrace each other with an open intensity, and the effort needed to control this desire also served to prevent them from talking. Then Blanche remembered a fear which she had experienced during the previous week.

“Eric, did you ever see a play called ‘God’s People Got Wings?’” she asked.

“No, but I’ve heard about it.”

“Well, it certainly made me shiver,” she said. “One of Oppendorf’s friends took me down to see it, and I’ve never had such a dreadful time in my life. It was all about a colored man marrying a white girl. It ended up with the colored boy killing his wife and then committing suicide--think of it!--and I was just gripping the sides of my seat all the time.”

“Were you afraid it might have some connection with us?” he asked, gravely.

“No, no, of course not,” she answered, as she clutched his hand. “D’you think I’m silly enough to let some prejudiced man tell me whether I’m going to be happy or not? No, Eric, it wasn’t that, but I did feel angry and upset, and, we-ell ... it set me to wondering. Why do all these writers now always insist that colored and white people weren’t meant to get along with each other--oh, why do they?”

“Mister Shakespeare revived it with his Othello and it’s been going strong ever since,” he replied, with a contention of forlorn and contemptuous inflections in his voice. “It can’t be argued about. Most of them are perfectly sincere, and they really believe that people of different races always hate and fear each other at the bottom. You could get yourself blue in the face telling them exceptional men and women aren’t included in this rule, but it wouldn’t make the slightest impression.”

“But why are they so stubborn about it?” she asked.