Plum Bun

by Jessie Redmon Fauset

  She began slipping into a ratine dress of old blue trimmed with narrow collars and cuffs and a tiny belt of old rose. Above the soft shades the bronze and black of her head etched themselves sharply; she might have been a dainty bird of Paradise cast in a new arrangement of colours but her tender face was set in strange and implacable lines.

  Angela looked at her miserably. She had not known just what, in her wounded pride and humiliation, she had expected to gain from her sister, but certainly she had hoped for some balm. And in any event not this cool aloofness. She had forgotten that her sister might be suffering from a wound as poignant as her own. The year had made a greater breach than she had anticipated; she had never been as outspoken, as frank with Virginia as the latter had been with her, but there had always been a common ground between them, a meeting place. In the household Jinny had had something of a reputation for her willingness to hear all sides of a story, to find an excuse or make one.

  An old aphorism of Hetty Daniels returned to her. “He who would have friends must show himself friendly.” And she had done anything but that; she had neglected Jinny, had failed to answer her letters, had even planned,—was it only day before yesterday!—to see very little of her in what she had dreamed would be her new surroundings. Oh she had been shameful! But she would make it up to Jinny now—and then she could come to her at this, this crisis in her life which so frightened and attracted her. She was the more frightened because she felt that attraction. She would make her sister understand the desires and longings which had come to her in this strange, dear, free world, and then together they would map out a plan of action. Jinny might be a baby but she had strength. So much strength, said something within her, that just as likely as not she would say: “Let the whole thing go, Angela, Angela! You don’t want to be even on the outskirts of a thing like this.”

  Before she could begin her overtures Jinny was speaking. “Listen, Angela, I’ve got to be going. I don’t know when we’ll be seeing each other again, and after what happened Wednesday you can hardly expect me to be looking you up, and as you doubtless are very busy you’d hardly be coming ’way up here. But there are one or two things I want to talk to you about. First about the house.”

  “About the house? Why it’s yours. I’ve nothing more to do with it.”

  “I know, but I’m thinking of selling it. There is such a shortage of houses in Philadelphia just now; Mr. Hallowell says I can get at least twice as much as father paid for it. And in that case you’ve some more money coming to you.”

  If only she had known of this,—when?—twenty-four hours earlier, how differently she might have received Roger’s proposition. If she had met Virginia Wednesday and had had the talk for which she had planned!

  “Well of course it would be awfully nice to have some more money. But what I don’t understand is how are you going to live? What are you going to do?”

  “If I pass this examination I’m coming over here, my appointment would be only a matter of a few months. I’m sure of that. This is May and I’d only have to wait until September. Well, I wouldn’t be working this summer anyway. And there’s no way in the world which I could fail to pass. In fact I’m really thinking of taking a chance and coming over here to substitute. Mr. Holloster, the University of Pennsylvania man, has been investigating and he says there’s plenty of work. And I guess I’m due to have a change; New York rather appeals to me. And there certainly is something about Harlem!” In spite of her careless manner Angela knew she was thinking about Matthew Henson. She stretched out her hand, pulled Jinny’s head down on her shoulder. “Oh darling, don’t worry about him. Matthew really wasn’t the man for you.”

  “Well,” said Virginia, “as long as I think he was, the fact that he wasn’t doesn’t make any real difference, does it? At least not at first. But I certainly shan’t worry about it.”

  “No don’t,—I,——” It was on the tip of her tongue to say “I know two or three nice young men whom you can play around with. I’ll introduce you to them.” But could she? Jinny understood her silence; smiled and nodded. “It’s all right, honey, you can’t do anything; you would if you could. We’ve just got to face the fact that you and I are two separate people and we’ve got to live our lives apart, not like the Siamese twins. And each of us will have to go her chosen way. After all each of us is seeking to get all she can out of life! and if you can get more out of it by being white, as you undoubtedly can, why, why shouldn’t you? Only it seems to me that there are certain things in living that are more fundamental even than colour,—but I don’t know. I’m all mixed up. But evidently you don’t feel that way, and you’re just as likely to be right as me.”

  “Jinny!”

  “My dear, I’m not trying to reproach you. I’m trying to look at things without sentiment. After all, in a negative way, merely by saying nothing, you’re disclaiming your black blood in a country where it is an inconvenience,—oh! there’s not a doubt about that. You may be proud of it, you may be perfectly satisfied with it—I am—but it certainly can shut you out of things. So why shouldn’t you disclaim a living manifestation of that blood?”

  Before this cool logic Angela was silent. Virginia looked at her sister, a maternal look oddly apparent on her young face. When she was middle-aged she would be the embodiment of motherhood. How her children would love her!

  “Angela, you’ll be careful!”

  “Yes; darling. Oh if only I could make you understand what it’s all about.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps another time. I’ve got to fly now.” She hesitated, took Angela by the arms and gazed into her eyes. “About this grand white party that you were in the station with. Are you awfully in love with him?”

  “I’m not in love with him at all.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” said innocent Virginia, “you’ve got nothing to worry about! Why, what’s all the shooting for?”

  PLUM BUN

  Chapter I

  ANGELA wanted to ride downtown with her sister. “Perhaps I might bring you luck.” But on this theme Jinny was adamant. “You’d be much more likely to bring yourself bad luck. No, there’s no sense in taking a chance. I’ll take the elevated; my landlady said it would drop me very near the school where I’m taking the examination. You go some other way.” Down in the hall Mrs. Gloucester was busy dusting, her short bustling figure alive with housewifely ardour. Virginia paused near her and held out her hand to Angela. “Good-bye, Miss Mory,” she said wickedly, “it was very kind of you to give me so much time. If you can ever tear yourself away from your beloved Village, come up and I’ll try to show you Harlem. I don’t think it’s going to take me long to learn it.”

  Obediently Angela let her go her way and walking over to Seventh Avenue mounted the ’bus, smarting a little under Jinny’s generous precautions. But presently she began to realize their value, for at One Hundred and Fourteenth Street Anthony Cross entered. He sat down beside her. “I never expected to see you in my neighbourhood.”

  “Oh is this where you live? I’ve often wondered.”

  “As it happens I’ve just come here, but I’ve lived practically all over New York.” He was thin, restless, unhappy. His eyes dwelt ceaselessly on her face. She said a little nervously:

  “It seems to me I hardly ever see you any more. What do you do with yourself?”

  “Nothing that you would be interested in.”

  She did not dare make the obvious reply and after all, though she did like him very much, she was not interested in his actions. For a long moment she sought for some phrase which would express just the right combination of friendliness and indifference.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve had lunch together; come and have it to-day with me. You be my guest.” She thought of Jinny and the possible sale of the house. “I’ve just found out that I’m going to get a rather decent amount of money, certainly enough to stand us for lunch.”

  “Thank you, I have an engagement; besides I don’t want to lunch with you in public
.”

  This was dangerous ground. Flurried, she replied unwisely: “All right, come in some time for tea; every once in a while I make a batch of cookies; I made some a week ago. Next time I feel the mood coming on me I’ll send you a card and you can come and eat them, hot and hot.”

  “You know you’ve no intention of doing any such thing. Besides you don’t know my address.”

  “An inconvenience which can certainly be rectified,” she laughed at him.

  But he was in no laughing mood. “I’ve no cards with me, but they wouldn’t have the address anyway.” He tore a piece of paper out of his notebook, scribbled on it. “Here it is. I have to get off now.” He gave her a last despairing look. “Oh, Angel, you know you’re never going to send for me!”

  The bit of paper clutched firmly in one hand, she arrived finally at her little apartment. Naturally of an orderly turn of mind she looked about for her address book in which to write the street and number. But some unexplained impulse led her to smooth the paper out and place it in a corner of her desk. That done she took off her hat and gloves, sat down in the comfortable chair and prepared to face her thoughts.

  Yesterday! Even now at a distance of twenty-four hours she had not recovered her equilibrium. She was still stunned, still unable to realize the happening of the day. Only she knew that she had reached a milestone in her life; a possible turning point. If she did not withdraw from her acquaintanceship with Roger now, even though she committed no overt act she would never be the same; she could never again face herself with the old, unshaken pride and self-confidence. She would never be the same to herself. If she withdrew, then indeed, indeed she would be the same old Angela Murray, the same girl save for a little sophistication that she had been before she left Philadelphia, only she would have started on an adventure and would not have seen it to its finish, she would have come to grips with life and would have laid down her arms at the first onslaught. Would she be a coward or a wise, wise woman? She thought of two poems that she had read in “Hart’s Class-Book”, an old, old book of her father’s,—one of them ran:

  ‘He either fears his fate too much

  Or his deserts are small,

  Who dares not put it to the touch

  For fear of losing all.’

  The other was an odd mixture of shrewdness and cowardice:

  ‘He who fights and runs away

  Shall live to fight another day

  But he who is in battle slain

  Has fallen ne’er to rise again.’

  Were her deserts small or should she run away and come back to fight another day when she was older, more experienced? More experienced! How was she to get that experience? Already she was infinitely wiser, she would, if occasion required it, exercise infinitely more wariness than she had yesterday with Roger. Yet it was precisely because of that experience that she would know how to meet, would even know when to expect similar conditions.

  She thought that she knew which verse she would follow if she were Jinny, but, back once more in the assurance of her own rooms, she knew that she did not want to be Jinny, that she and Jinny were two vastly different persons. “But,” she said to herself, “if Jinny were as fair as I and yet herself and placed in the same conditions as those in which I am placed her colour would save her. It’s a safeguard for Jinny; it’s always been a curse for me.”

  Roger had come for her in the blue car. There were a hamper and two folding chairs and a rug stored away in it. It was a gorgeous day. “If we can,” he said, “we’ll picnic.” He was extremely handsome and extremely nervous. Angela was nervous too, though she did not show it except in the loss of her colour. She was rather plain to-day; to be so near the completion of her goal and yet to have to wait these last few agonizing moments, perhaps hours, was deadly. They were rather silent for a while, Roger intent on his driving. Traffic in New York is a desperate strain at all hours, at eleven in the morning it is deadly; the huge leviathan of a city is breaking into the last of its stride. For a few hours it will proceed at a measured though never leisurely pace and then burst again into the mad rush of the homeward bound.

  But at last they were out of the city limits and could talk. For the first time since she had known him he began to speak of his possessions. “Anything, anything that money can buy, Angèle, I can get and I can give.” His voice was charged with intention. They were going in the direction of Forest Hills; he had a cottage out there, perhaps she would like to see it. And there was a grove not far away. “We’ll picnic there,” he said, “and—and talk.” He certainly was nervous, Angela thought, and liked him the better for it.

  The cottage or rather the house in Forest Hills was beautiful, absolutely a gem. And it was completely furnished with taste and marked daintiness. “What do you keep it furnished for?” asked Angela wondering. Roger murmured that it had been empty for a long time but he had seen this equipment and it had struck him that it was just the thing for this house so he had bought it; thereby insensibly reminding his companion again that he could afford to gratify any whim. They drove away from the exquisite little place in silence. Angela was inclined to be amused; surely no one could have asked for a better opening than that afforded by the house. What would make him talk, she wondered, and what, oh what would he say? Something far, far more romantic than poor Matthew Henson could ever have dreamed of,—yes and far, far less romantic, something subconscious prompted her, than Anthony Cross had said. Anthony with his poverty and honour and desperate vows!

  They had reached the grove, they had spread the rug and a tablecloth; Roger had covered it with dainties. He would not let her lift a finger, she was the guest and he her humble servant. She looked at him smiling, still forming vague contrasts with him and Matthew and Anthony.

  Roger dropped his sandwich, came and sat behind her. He put his arm around her and shifted his shoulder so that her head lay against it.

  “Don’t look at me that way Angèle, Angèle! I can’t stand it.”

  So it was actually coming. “How do you want me to look at you?”

  He bent his head down to hers and kissed her. “Like this, like this! Oh Angèle, did you like the house?”

  “Like it? I loved it.”

  “Darling, I had it done for you, you know. I thought you’d like it.”

  It seemed a strange thing to have done without consulting her, and anyway she did not want to live in a suburb. Opal Street had been suburb enough for her. She wanted, required, the noise and tumult of cities.

  “I don’t care for suburbs, Roger.” How strange for him to talk about a place to live in and never a word of love!

  “My dear girl, you don’t have to live in a suburb if you don’t want to. I’ve got a place, an apartment in Seventy-second Street, seven rooms; that would be enough for you and your maid, wouldn’t it? I could have this furniture moved over there, or if you think it too cottagey, you could have new stuff altogether.”

  Seven rooms for three people! Why she wanted a drawing-room and a studio and where would he put his things? This sudden stinginess was quite inexplicable.

  “But Roger, seven rooms wouldn’t be big enough.”

  He laughed indulgently, his face radiant with relief and triumph. “So she wants a palace, does she? Well, she shall have it. A whole ménage if you want it, a place on Riverside Drive, servants and a car. Only somehow I hadn’t thought of you as caring about that kind of thing. After that little hole in the wall you’ve been living in on Jayne Street I’d have expected you to find the place in Seventy-Second Street as large as you’d care for!”

  A little hurt, she replied: “But I was thinking of you too. There wouldn’t be room for your things. And I thought you’d want to go on living in the style you’d been used to.” A sudden welcome explanation dawned on her rising fear. “Are you keeping this a secret from your father? Is that what’s the trouble?”

  Under his thin, bright skin he flushed. “Keeping what a secret from my father? What are you talking about, Angèle?�
��

  She countered with his own question. “What are you talking about, Roger?”

  He tightened his arms about her, his voice stammered, his eyes were bright and watchful. “I’m asking you to live in my house, to live for me; to be my girl; to keep a love-nest where I and only I may come.” He smiled shamefacedly over the cheap current phrase.

  She pushed him away from her; her jaw fallen and slack but her figure taut. Yet under her stunned bewilderment her mind was racing. So this was her castle, her fortress of protection, her refuge. And what answer should she make? Should she strike him across his eager, half-shamed face, should she get up and walk away, forbidding him to follow? Or should she stay and hear it out? Stay and find out what this man was really like; what depths were in him and, she supposed, in other men. But especially in this man with his boyish, gallant air and his face as guileless and as innocent apparently as her own.

  That was what she hated in herself, she told that self fiercely, shut up with her own thoughts the next afternoon in her room. She hated herself for staying and listening. It had given him courage to talk and talk. But what she most hated had been the shrewdness, the practicality which lay beneath that resolve to hear it out. She had thought of those bills; she had thought of her poverty, of her helplessness, and she had thought too of Martha Burden’s dictum: “You must make him want you.” Well here was a way to make him want her and to turn that wanting to account. “Don’t,” Martha said, “withhold too much. Give a little.” Suppose she gave him just the encouragement of listening to him, of showing him that she did like him a little; while he meanwhile went on wanting, wanting—men paid a big price for their desires. Her price would be marriage. It was a game, she knew, which women played all over the world although it had never occurred to her to play it; a dangerous game at which some women burned their fingers. “Don’t give too much,” said Martha, “for then you lose yourself.” Well, she would give nothing and she would not burn her fingers. Oh, it would be a great game.