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CHAPTER XIII
Andy's Proposal

Andy had been waiting patiently for Cleo to leave Helen's door. He had tried in vain during the entire morning to get an opportunity to see her alone, but since Helen's appearance at breakfast she had scarcely left the girl's side for five minutes.

He had slipped to the head of the back stairs, lifted the long flaps of the tail of his new coat and carefully seated himself on the last step to wait her appearance. He smiled with assurance. She couldn't get down without a word at least.

"I'm gwine ter bring things to er head dis day, sho's yer born!" he muttered, wagging his head.

He had been to Norfolk the week before on an excursion to attend the annual convention of his African mutual insurance society, "The Children of the King." While there he had met the old woman who had given him a startling piece of information about Cleo which had set his brain in a whirl. He had long been desperately in love with her, but she had treated him with such scorn he had never summoned the courage to declare his affection.

The advent of Helen at first had made no impression on his slowly working mind, but when he returned from Norfolk with the new clew to Cleo's life he watched the girl with increasing suspicion. And when he saw the collapse of Norton over the announcement of her presence he leaped to an important conclusion. No matter whether his guess was correct or not, he knew enough to give him a power over the proud housekeeper he proposed to exercise without a moment's delay.

"We see now whether she turns up her nose at me ergin," he chuckled, as he heard the door open.

He rose with a broad grin as he saw that at last she was alone. He adjusted his suit with a touch of pride and pulled down his vest with a little jerk he had seen his master use in dressing. He had found the heavy, black, double-breasted vest in the cedar box, but thought it rather sombre when contrasted with a red English hunting jacket the major had affected once in a fashionable fox hunt before the war. The rich scarlet took his fancy and he selected that one instead. He carried his ancient silk hat jauntily balanced in one hand, in the other hand a magnolia in full bloom. The petals of the flower were at least a half-foot long and the leaves longer.

He bowed with an attempt at the easy manners of a gentleman in a gallant effort to attract her attention. She was about to pass him on the stairs without noticing his existence when Andy cleared his throat:

"Ahem!"

Cleo paused with a frown:

"What's the matter? Have you caught cold!"

Andy generously ignored her tone, bowed and handed her the magnolia:

"Would you embellish yousef wid dis little posie, m'am?"

The woman turned on him, drew her figure to its full height, her eyes blazing with wrath, snatched the flower from his hand and threw it in his face.

Andy dodged in time to save his nose and his offering went tumbling down the stairs. He shook his head threateningly when he caught his breath:

"Look a here, m'am, is dat de way yer gwine spessify my welcome?"

"Why, no, I was only thanking you for the compliment!" she answered with a sneer. "How dare you insult me?"

"Insult you, is I?" Andy chuckled. "Huh, if dat's de way ye talk I'm gwine ter say sumfin quick – "

"You can't be too quick!"

Andy held her eye a moment and pointed his index finger in her face:

"Yassam! As de ole sayin' is – I'm gwine take my tex' from dat potion er de Scripter whar de 'Postle Paul pint his 'pistle at de Fenians! – I'se er comin' straight ter de pint."

"Well, come to it, you flat-nosed baboon!" she cried in rage. "What makes your nose so flat, anyhow?"

Andy grinned at her tantalizingly, and spoke with a note of deliberate insult:

"I don't know, m'am, but I spec hit wuz made dat way ter keep hit outen odder folks' business!"

"You impudent scoundrel, how dare you speak to me like this?" Cleo hissed.

A triumphant chuckle was his answer. He flicked a piece of imaginary dust from the rim of his hat, his eyes rolled to the ceiling and he slowly said with a smile:

"Well, yer see, m'am, circumstances alters cases an' dat always makes de altercations! I git holt er a little secret o' yourn dat gimme courage – "

"A secret of mine?" Cleo interrupted with the first flash of surprise.

"Yassam!" was the unctuous answer, as Andy looked over his shoulder and bent to survey the hall below for any one who might possibly be passing.

"Yassam," he went on smoothly, "down ter Norfork las' week, m'am – "

"Wait a minute!" Cleo interrupted. "Some one might be below. Come to my room."

"Yassam, ob course, I wuz gwine ter say dat in de fust place, but ye didn't gimme time" – he bowed – "cose, m'am, de pleasure's all mine, as de sayin' is."

He placed his silk hat jauntily on his head as they reached the door, and gallantly took hold of Cleo's arm to assist her down the steps.

She stopped abruptly:

"Wait here, I'll go ahead and you can come in a few minutes."

"Sholy, sholy, m'am, I understan' dat er lady allus likes ter make er little preparations ter meet er gemman. I understands. I des stroll out on de lawn er minute."

"The backyard's better," she replied, quietly throwing him a look of scorn.

"Yassam, all right. I des take a little cursory view er de chickens."

"As soon as I'm out of sight, you can come right up."

Andy nodded and Cleo quickly crossed the fifty yards that separated the house from the neat square brick building that was still used as the servants' quarters.

In a few minutes, with his silk hat set on the side of his head, Andy tipped up the stairs and knocked on her door.

He entered with a grandiloquent bow and surveyed the place curiously. Her room was a sacred spot he had never been allowed to enter before.

"Have a seat," Cleo said, placing a chair.

Andy bowed, placed his hat pompously on the table, pulled down his red vest with a jerk and seated himself deliberately.

Cleo glanced at him:

"You were about to tell me something that you heard in Norfolk?"

Andy looked at the door as an extra precaution and smiled blandly:

"Yassam, I happen ter hear down dar dat a long time ergo, mo'rn twenty years, afore I cum ter live here – dat is when I wuz er politicioner – dey wuz rumors 'bout you an' de major when you wuz Mister Tom's putty young nurse."

"Well?"

"De major's wife fin' it out an' die. De major wuz heart-broke, drap everything an' go Norf, an' while he wuz up dar, you claims ter be de mudder of a putty little gal. Now min' ye, I ain't nebber seed her, but dat's what I hears you claims – "

Andy paused impressively and Cleo held his eye in a steady, searching stare. She was trying to guess how much he really knew. She began to suspect that his story was more than half a bluff and made up her mind to fight.

"Claim? No, you fool!" she said with indifferent contempt, "I didn't claim it – I proved it. I proved it to his satisfaction. You may worry some one else with your secret. It doesn't interest me. But I'd advise you to have your life insured before you mention it to the major" – she paused, broke into a light laugh and added: "So that's your wonderful discovery?"

Andy looked at her with a puzzled expression and scratched his head:

"Yassam."

"Then I'll excuse you from wasting any more of your valuable time," Cleo said, rising.

Andy rose and smiled:

"Yassam, but dat ain't all, m'am!"

"No?"

"Nobum. I ain't 'sputin dat de little gal wuz born des lak you say, or des lak, mebbe, de major believes ter dis day" – he paused and leaned over until he could whisper in her ear – "but sposen she die?"

The woman never moved a muscle for an instant. She spoke at last in a half-laughing, incredulous way:

"Suppose she died? Why, what do you mean?"

"Now, mind ye," Andy said, lifting his hands in a persuasive gesture, "I ain't sayin' dat she raly did die – I des say – sposen she die – "

Cleo lost her temper and turned on her tormentor in sudden fury:

"But she didn't! Who dares to tell such a lie? She's living to-day a beautiful, accomplished girl."

Andy solemnly raised his hand again:

"Mind ye, I don't say dat she ain't, I des say sposen – sposen she die, an' you git a little orphan baby ter put in her place, twenty years ergo, jis' ter keep yer grip on de major – "

Cleo peered steadily into his face:

"Did you guess that lie?"

He cocked his head to one side and grinned:

"I don't say dat I did, an' I don't say dat I didn't. I des say dat I mought, an' den ergin I moughn't!"

"Well, it's a lie!" she cried fiercely – "I tell you it's an infamous lie!"

"Yassam, dat may be so, but hit's a putty dangous lie fer you, m'am, ef – "

He looked around the room in a friendly, cautious way and continued in a whisper:

"Especially ef de major wuz ter ever git pizened wid it!"

Cleo's voice dropped suddenly to pleading tones:

"You're not going to suggest such an idea to him?"

Andy looked away coyly and glanced back at her with a smile:

"Not ef yer ax me – "

"Well, I do ask you," she said in tender tones. "A more infamous lie couldn't be told. But if such a suspicion were once roused it would be hard to protect myself against it."

"Oh, I des wants ter help ye, m'am," Andy protested earnestly.

"Then I'm sure you'll never suggest such a thing to the major? – I'm sorry I've treated you so rudely, and spoke to you as I did just now."

Andy waved the apology aside with a generous gesture and spoke with large good nature:

"Oh, dat's all right, m'am! Dat's all right! I'm gwine ter show you now dat I'se yer best friend – "

"I may need one soon," she answered slowly. "Things can't go on in this house much longer as they are."

"Yassam!" Andy said reassuringly as he laid his hand on Cleo's arm and bent low. "You kin 'pend on me. I'se always called Hones' Andy."

She shuddered unconsciously at his touch, looked suddenly toward the house and said:

"Go – quick! Mr. Tom has come. I don't want him to see us together."

Andy bowed grandly, took up his hat and tipped down the stairs chuckling over his conquest, and Cleo watched him cross the yard to the kitchen.

"I'll manage him!" she murmured with a smile of contempt.

CHAPTER XIV
THE FOLLY OF PITY

Norton sat in the library for more than an hour trying to nerve himself for the interview while waiting for Helen. He had lighted and smoked two cigars in rapid succession and grown restless at her delay. He rose, strolled through the house and seeing nothing of either Tom or Helen, returned to the library and began pacing the floor with measured tread.

He had made up his mind to do a cruel thing and told himself over and over again that cruel things are often best. The cruelty of surgery is the highest form of pity, pity expressed in terms of the highest intelligence.

He was sure the boy had not made love to the girl. Helen was no doubt equally innocent in her attitude toward him.

It would only be necessary to tell her a part of the bitter truth and her desire to leave would be a resistless one.

And yet, the longer he delayed and the longer he faced such an act, the more pitiless it seemed and the harder its execution became. At heart a deep tenderness was the big trait of his character.

Above all, he dreaded the first interview with Helen. The idea of the responsibility of fatherhood had always been a solemn one. His love for Tom was of the very beat of his heart. The day he first looked into his face was the most wonderful in all the calendar of life.

He had simply refused to let this girl come into his heart. He had closed the door with a firm will. He had only seen her once when a little tot of two and he was laboring under such deep excitement and such abject fear lest a suspicion of the truth, or any part of the truth, reach the sisters to whom he was intrusting the child, that her personality had made no impression on him.

He vaguely hoped that she might not be attractive. The idea of a girl of his own had always appealed to him with peculiar tenderness, and, unlike most fathers, he had desired that his first-born should be a girl. If Helen were commonplace and unattractive his task would be comparatively easy. It was a mental impossibility for him as yet to accept the fact that she was his – he had seen so little of her, her birth was so unwelcome, her coming into his life fraught with such tragic consequences.

The vague hope that she might prove weak and uninteresting had not been strengthened by the momentary sight of her face. The flash of joy that lighted her sensitive features, though it came across the lawn, had reached him with a very distinct impression of charm. He dreaded the effect at close range.

However, there was no other way. He had to see her and he had to make her stay impossible. It would be a staggering blow for a girl to be told in the dawn of young womanhood that her birth was shadowed by disgrace. It would be a doubly cruel one to tell her that her blood was mixed with a race of black slaves.

And yet a life built on a lie was set on shifting sand. It would not endure. It was best to build it squarely on the truth, and the sooner the true foundation was laid the better. There could be no place in our civilization for a woman of culture and refinement with negro blood in her veins. More and more the life of such people must become impossible. That she should remain in the South was unthinkable. That the conditions in the North were at bottom no better he knew from the experience of his stay in New York.

He would tell her the simple, hideous truth, depend on her terror to keep the secret, and send her abroad. It was the only thing to do.

He rose with a start at the sound of Tom's voice calling her from the stairway.

The answer came in low tones so charged with the quality of emotion that belongs to a sincere nature that his heart sank at the thought of his task.

She had only said the most commonplace thing – "All right, I'll be down in a moment." Yet the tones of her voice were so vibrant with feeling that its force reached him instantly, and he knew that his interview was going to be one of the most painful hours of his life.

And still he was not prepared for the shock her appearance in the shadows of the tall doorway gave. He had formed no conception of the gracious and appealing personality. In spite of the anguish her presence had brought, in spite of preconceived ideas of the inheritance of the vicious nature of her mother, in spite of his ingrained repugnance to the negroid type, in spite of his horror of the ghost of his young manhood suddenly risen from the dead to call him to judgment, in spite of his determination to be cruel as the surgeon to the last – in spite of all, his heart suddenly went out to her in a wave of sympathy and tenderness!

She was evidently so pitifully embarrassed and the suffering in her large, expressive eyes so keen and genuine, his first impulse was to rush to her side with words of comfort and assurance.

The simple white dress, with tiny pink ribbons drawn through its edges, which she wore accentuated the impression of timidity and suffering.

He was surprised to find not the slightest trace of negroid blood apparent, though he knew that a mixture of the sixteenth degree often left no trace until its sudden reversion to a black child.

Her hair was the deep brown of his own in young manhood, the eyes large and tender in their rich blue depths – the eyes of innocence, intelligence, sincerity. The lips were full and fluted, and the chin marked with an exquisite dimple that gave a childlike wistfulness to a face that without it might have suggested too much strength.

Her neck was slightly curved and set on full, strong shoulders with an unconscious grace. The bust was slight and girlish, the arms and figure rounded and beautiful in their graceful fullness.

Her walk, when she took the first few steps into the room and paused, he saw was the incarnation of rhythmic strength and perfect health.

But her voice was the climax of her appeal – low, vibrant, quivering with feeling and full of a subtle quality that convinced the hearer from the first moment of the truth and purity of its owner.

She smiled with evident embarrassment at his silence. He was stunned for the moment and simply couldn't speak.

"So, I see you at last, Major Norton!" she said as the color slowly stole over her face.

He recovered himself, walked quickly to meet her and extended his hand:

"I must apologize for not seeing you earlier this morning," he said gravely. "I was up all night travelling through the country and slept very late."

As her hand rested in his the girl forgot her restraint and wounded pride at the cold and doubtful reception he had given earlier. Her heart suddenly beat with a desire to win this grave, strong man's love and respect.

With a look of girlish tenderness she hastened to say:

"I want to thank you with the deepest gratitude, major, for your kindness in inviting me here this summer – "

"Don't mention it, child," he interrupted frowning.

"Oh, if you only knew," she went on hurriedly, "how I love the South, how my soul glows under its skies, how I love its people, their old-fashioned ways, their kindness, their hospitality, their high ideals – "

He lifted his hand and the gesture stopped her in the midst of a sentence. He was evidently struggling with an embarrassment that was painful and had determined to end it.

"The time has come, Helen," he began firmly – "you're of age – that I should tell you the important facts about your birth."

"Yes – yes – " the girl answered in an excited whisper as she sank into a chair and gazed at him fascinated with the terror of his possible revelation.

"I wish I could tell you all," he said, pausing painfully.

"You know – all?"

"Yes, I know."

"My father – my mother – they are living?"

In spite of his effort at self-control Norton was pale and his voice strained. His answers to her pointed questions were given with his face turned from her searching gaze.

"Your mother is living," was the slow reply.

"And my father?"

His eyes were set in a fixed stare waiting for this question, as a prisoner in the dock for the sentence of a judge. His lips gave no answer for the moment and the girl went on eagerly:

"Through all the years that I've been alone, the one desperate yearning of my heart has been to know my father" – the lines of the full lips quivered – "I've always felt somehow that a mother who could give up her babe was hardly worth knowing. And so I've brooded over the idea of a father. I've hoped and dreamed and prayed that he might be living – that I might see and know him, win his love, and in its warmth and joy, its shelter and strength – never be lonely or afraid again – "

Her voice sank to a sob, and Norton, struggling to master his feelings, said:

"You have been lonely and afraid?"

"Utterly lonely! When other girls at school shouted for joy at the approach of vacation, the thought of home and loved ones, it brought to me only tears and heartache. Many a night I've laid awake for hours and sobbed because a girl had asked me about my father and mother. Lonely! – oh, dear Lord! And always I've dried my eyes with the thought that some day I might know my father and sob out on his breast all I've felt and suffered" – she paused, and looked at Norton through a mist of tears – "my father is not dead?"

The stillness was painful. The man could hear the tick of the little French clock on the mantel. How tired his soul was of lies! He couldn't lie to her in answer to this question. And so without lifting his head he said very softly:

"He is also alive."

"Thank God!" the girl breathed reverently. "Oh, if I could only touch his hand and look into his face! I don't care who he is, how poor and humble his home, if it's a log cabin on a mountain side, or a poor white man's hovel in town, I'll love him and cling to him and make him love me!"

The man winced. There was one depth her mind had not fathomed!

How could he push this timid, lonely, haunted creature over such a precipice! He glanced at her furtively and saw that she was dreaming as in a trance.

"But suppose," he said quietly, "you should hate this man when you had met?"

"It's unthinkable," was the quick response. "My father is my father. I'd love him if he were a murderer!"

Again her mind had failed to sound the black depths into which he was about to hurl her. She might love a murderer, but there was one thing beyond all question, this beautiful, sensitive, cultured girl could not love the man who had thrust her into the hell of a negroid life in America! She might conceive of the love of a father who could take human life, but her mind could not conceive the possibility of facing the truth with which he must now crush the soul out of her body. Why had he lied and deceived her at all? The instinctive desire to shield his own blood from a life of ignominy – yes. But was it worth the risk? No – he knew it when it was too late. The steel jaws with their cold teeth were tearing the flesh now at every turn and there was no way of escape.

When he failed to respond, she rose, pressed close and pleaded eagerly:

"Tell me his name! Oh, it's wonderful that you have seen him, heard his voice and held his hand! He may not be far away – tell me – "

Norton shook his head:

"The one thing, child, I can never do."

"You are a father – a father who loves his own – I've seen and know that. A nameless waif starving for a word of love begs it – just one word of deep, real love – think of it! My heart has never known it in all the years I've lived!"

Norton lifted his hand brusquely:

"You ask the impossible. The conditions under which I am acting as your guardian seal my lips."

The girl looked at him steadily:

"Then, you are my real guardian?"

"Yes."

"And why have you not told me before?"

The question was asked with a firm emphasis that startled him into a sense of renewed danger.

"Why?" she repeated.

"To avoid questions I couldn't answer."

"You will answer them now?"

"With reservations."

The girl drew herself up with a movement of quiet determination and spoke in even tones:

"My parents are Southern?"

"Yes – "

"My father and mother were – were" – her voice failed, her head dropped and in an effort at self-control she walked to the table, took a book in her hand and tried to turn its leaves. The hideous question over which she had long brooded was too horrible to put into words. The answer he might give was too big with tragic possibilities. She tried to speak again and couldn't. He looked at her with a great pity in his heart and when at last she spoke her voice was scarcely a whisper:

"My father and mother were married?"

He knew it was coming and that he must answer, and yet hesitated. His reply was low, but it rang through her soul like the stroke of a great bell tolling for the dead:

"No!"

The book she held slipped from the trembling fingers and fell to the floor. Norton walked to the window that he might not see the agony in her sensitive face.

She stood very still and the tears began slowly to steal down her cheeks.

"God pity me!" she sobbed, lifting her face and looking pathetically at Norton. "Why did you let them send me to school? Why teach me to think and feel and know this?"

The low, sweet tones of her wonderful voice found the inmost heart of the man. The misery and loneliness of the orphan years of which she had spoken were nothing to the anguish with which her being now shook.

He crossed the room quickly and extended his hand in a movement of instinctive sympathy and tenderness:

"Come, come, child – you're young and life is all before you."

"Yes, a life of shame and humiliation!"

"The world is wide to-day! A hundred careers are open to you. Marriage is impossible – yes – "

"And if I only wish for marriage?" the girl cried with passionate intensity. "If my ideal is simple and old-fashioned – if all I ask of God is the love of one man – a home – a baby – "

A shadow of pain clouded Norton's face and he lifted a hand in tender warning:

"Put marriage out of your mind once and for all time! It can only bring to you and your loved ones hopeless misery."

Helen turned with a start:

"Even if the man I love should know all?"

"Yes," was the firm answer.

She gazed steadily into his eyes and asked with sharp rising emphasis:

"Why?"

The question brought him squarely to the last blow he must give if he accomplish the thing he had begun. He must tell her that her mother is a negress. He looked at the quivering figure, the white, sensitive, young face with the deep, serious eyes, and his lips refused to move. He tried to speak and his throat was dry. It was too cruel. There must be an easier way. He couldn't strike the sweet uplifted head.

He hesitated, stammered and said:

"I – I'm sorry – I can't answer that question fully and frankly. It may be best, but – "

"Yes, yes – it's best!" she urged.

"It may be best," he repeated, "but I simply can't do it" – he paused, turned away and suddenly wheeled confronting her:

"I'll tell you all that you need to know to-day – you were born under the shadow of a hopeless disgrace – "

The girl lifted her hand as if to ward a blow while she slowly repeated:

"A hopeless – disgrace – "

"Beneath a shadow so deep, no lover's vow can ever lift it from your life. I should have told you this before, perhaps – well, somehow I couldn't" – he paused and his voice trembled – "I wanted you to grow in strength and character first – "

The girl clenched her hands and sprang in front of him:

"That my agony might be beyond endurance? Now you must tell me the whole truth!"

Again the appealing uplifted face had invited the blow, and again his heart failed. It was impossible to crush her. It was too horrible. He spoke with firm decision:

"Not another word!"

He turned and walked rapidly to the door. The girl clung desperately to his arm:

"I beg of you! I implore you!"

He paused in the doorway, and gently took her hands:

"Forgive me, child, if I seem cruel. In reality I am merciful. I must leave it just there!"

He passed quickly out.

The girl caught the heavy curtains for support, turned with an effort, staggered back into the room, fell prostrate on the lounge with a cry of despair, and burst into uncontrollable sobs.