CHAPTER III
OLIVIA, exactly as her mother had prophesied, said nothing whatever about the marriage. When her mother and new father came home the day of their wedding, Ralph kissed her and said smiling: “Now, Olivia, you have a new dad. How do you like that?”
And she answered serenely: “Very much, I am sure.” And extricating herself from his kindly arm she had gone on about her small and intensely secret affairs.
Also she said very little when during Christmas week of the following year the twins, David and Janet, made their initial appearance. Without expressing any especial affection for the children she did show more interest in them than Janet had ever known her to manifest in any one. They were very striking children, with Janet’s mat white skin, and with their father’s thick dark hair and blue eyes.
Olivia played with them, wheeled them about the narrow twisting streets, and was willing to watch them for hours. She really made a very nice picture in the evenings sitting there, the firelight loitering upon her young, serious face with its great thick mane of chestnut hair. She had a look of distinction, really as of one who had consecrated herself, very young and very completely, to some cause of magnitude and vitalness.
As it happened, all the young men who had engaged rooms when her mother started her initial enterprise were still there. One or two of them, Stephens, Hall and Cary had graduated, but they had remained, the first two to study law, the third to attend medical school. Any one of these men would have gladly offered his hand and name to the young woman. Olivia was barely twenty now. She was never pretty, but she possessed the comeliness of youth and the lure and provocativeness of extreme aloofness. The three young men took themselves pretty seriously. They realized that a wife of distinction and some culture might help considerably to establish and to round out the niche which each meant to carve out for himself after graduation.
Of these three Cary, perhaps, was the least concerned with himself and with his career from a purely social standpoint. Assuredly he meant to succeed, equally assuredly he realized the sacrifice which his parents had made to assist him to stay in school and he meant neither to disappoint their expectations, which ran pretty high, nor to permit their self-denial to be in vain.
But aside from this he was entirely without the slightly self-righteous attitude which characterized so many young colored people of his day and station. Christopher never talked about “my people,” never mouthed pompous phrases pertaining to the “good of the race.” He was in this respect the forerunner of the modern young colored man who takes his training as a matter of course for himself primarily and for the race next.
On the other hand, although the color of his skin was actually whiter than Olivia’s—for except for his rather closely curling, sandy hair he might easily have been taken for the average white American—he was not in the slightest interested in exploits of “passing.” He hadn’t the remotest concern, really never thought about color except on the rare occasions when there seemed to be some possibility of discrimination at a time and in circumstances which might prove inconvenient or embarrassing. Thus in spite of the law if he felt by “laying low” and saying nothing he might avoid not the indignity so much as the discomfort of a “Jim Crow” car he would certainly with no sense of racial betrayal avail himself of such a fortuitous attribute as his general appearance. Yet when one of the Southern colleges sent out an ultimatum that its athletes would countenance no competition with colored contestants, Cary went to the Athletic Manager and left no doubts as to his identity. But he made it clear that if he were excluded from the meet with this particular school he could not be expected to put the shot for “fair Harvard” on any other occasion.
As Cary was too good a man to lose, there was no contest that year with that particular Southern school.
One thing is certain, it was not Olivia’s color or rather the lack of it which so intrigued Christopher. He knew though that his mother, a staunch “old Philadelphian” twice removed from Charleston, would approve of such a selection. Left to himself he found himself far more attracted to a warmer, more vital type. And that in spite of the fact that, in his day, men of his general appearance were inclined to choose their mates from a feminine group which almost completely matched them in color.
But Cary was by instinct the iconoclast. Later on when Life hardened him and remoulded him he did break through many social and professional precedents. But at this point in his development he either would not or could not think through any but the simplest matters. He was still the child not only of his impulses but of the earliest, most elemental training which he had received from his mother when Sex and Girls first obtruded themselves on his far from unwilling consciousness.
His mother had set forth: “A really nice girl never lets a man know she likes him.” (This taken quite literally by the lad puzzled him a great deal.)
“Never bother with a woman who runs after you. If she runs after you, she’ll run after other men.”
“A good woman comes to her husband entirely ignorant. She learns everything direct from her husband.” The more completely Chris became acquainted with the elementals of biology, physiology and therapeutics, the more he questioned the wisdom of such ignorance, but he supposed that was just the hard luck of being a woman.
“You can always tell a good woman because she is so cold.”
Well, certainly Olivia lived up to all this dicta. She was cold enough, freezing, in fact! She did not run after him. She gave him no inkling of any liking. And he would lay money on her being completely “ignorant”—only of course a man didn’t lay money on his wife!
His courtship could never be described as ardent, for there was nothing about Olivia’s chill aloofness to pique him into ardor. None of the “come-hither” about Olivia. . . . But his courting was as persistent as it might be between two people who had almost nothing to say to each other in the house; who met only occasionally on Boylston Street as they both came in, he from medical school, she from training school in the late afternoon. Within four years they had attended together perhaps a half-dozen athletic events.
Yet these last made a far greater impression on Olivia’s mind than any words of her somewhat lackadaisical lover. For Cary was a great favorite. At any meet he was constantly being hailed “H’lo Chris!” “Hey there, Cary, how’re you making it?” “Wait a minute, Cary, I want you to meet Miss Pennypacker. Hazel, this is the guy that played in such good form at the Penn Relays. Do you remember him?”
He was always being asked to dine, to attend banquets, to be present at tryouts; to look over the new batch of athletes who were coming along in the undergraduate schools. Olivia thought, mistaking the easy good comradeship for something more essential than it could possibly be, that if he wanted to he could keep up such contacts forever. She saw his later professional life a long succession of quasi-social events in which Cary remained the lion and the woman who might be his wife would of necessity be a lioness.
Suddenly to Cary’s and to her own mother’s complete amazement she married him. They would have been still more amazed, completely indeed, taken off their feet, if they had known the course of reasoning which had made her decide to act.
It was the twins who turned the trick!
They were so completely white.
Olivia had long since broken loose from the idea of a life spent with the soda-jerker, the mill-hand, the small-town clerk. She began to understand her mother’s insistence that it was important for one’s husband to belong to such or such a class. She knew now that it was highly unlikely that she would meet with and marry a white man of Cary’s education, standing and popularity. Certainly not in this section of the country where her affiliations could be so easily traceable.
Of course she could go away from home where she was unknown. But strange to say she was in no respect the adventuress. Whatever she might accomplish toward the fulfillment of this strange desire of hers she expected to be brought about more or less by mere verisimili
tude; she did not at this time expect to have much to do with the marshalling of events. . . .
Why not take advantage of what already lay to her hand? Cary’s friendships, his contacts, the enthusiastic welcomes and greetings which seemed to rain down upon him wherever he went. . . . With a background such as this, to what heights might not their children attain? And she as dowager would share all their triumphs, their opportunities, their advantages. They should know from the very beginning, and quite naturally, the desires of which her young life had been balked. . . .
She and Cary were as fair as her mother and Dr. Blake.
They would have white children. The twins had shown her that. So at last she would obtain her desire.
And for that reason and no other she married Christopher Cary.
II
THE CHARACTERS
CHAPTER I
MRS. OLIVIA BLANCHARD CARY glanced out of the window of her pleasant residence in West Philadelphia and saw her daughter Teresa, her books under her arm, strolling down the street, with two other little girls similarly laden. One of her companions, a very fair blonde with dark blue eyes and gay gilt hair, Mrs. Cary identified immediately as Phebe Grant. She was not so sure of the identity of the third youngster. Closer inspection revealed to her however the dark brown skin, the piquant features, the sparkling black eyes and the abundant, silky and intensely curly locks of Marise Davies. Mrs. Cary frowned. “As often as I’ve told Teresa to keep away from that Davies child!” she murmured angrily to herself.
She met them at the front door. The countenances of the three children were in striking contrast. Teresa’s wore a look of apprehension, Phebe’s of bland indifference, Marise’s of acute expectancy.
“Good-afternoon, Teresa,” Olivia said. “Good-afternoon children. I’m afraid it’s not best for Teresa to have so much company today. She gets excited and worn out and it’s hard afterwards for her to settle down to her lessons. I don’t mind if one of you stays. Phebe, suppose you come in and play with her a while, and, Marise, you can come back another time.”
“Tomorrow?” asked Marise, whose black eyes had never left Olivia’s face.
“Well, hardly tomorrow,” the woman replied, flushing a little. She really disliked this child. “Horrid, little pushing thing,” she inwardly apostrophized. But aloud she continued. “Hardly tomorrow, but some other day very soon, I am sure. Come on in Phebe.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Cary,” the child answered, pushing back the thick gilt hair which framed her face. “I was with Marise first, so I’ll go on with her. We were just going to ask you to let Teresa come along with us. My mother expects me to be at Marise’s if I’m not home.” She spoke simply, no trace of the avenging angel about her.
The two children, hand in hand, backed off the bottom step on which they had been precariously teetering. Marise, ignoring Olivia completely, waved a slender hand toward Teresa. “Come on over whenever you can. My mother doesn’t mind.”
From the pavement both looked back once more to wave a careless farewell to their school-mate. “G’bye, Treesa!”
“Treesa!” Olivia echoed angrily. “Why can’t they pronounce your name right?” She glanced sharply at her daughter’s tear-stained face. “What’s the matter, Teresa?”
The little girl wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
“Mamma, why can’t I play with Marise? Of course Phebe’s all right and I like her very, very much. But I like Marise best. She’s such fun.”
Her mother sighed. “I have,” she thought, “the stupidest children and husband too in the world. Why can’t they see this thing the way I want it?” Not unkindly she took out her handkerchief and wiped the child’s eyes.
“Now, Teresa, it isn’t worth while going all over this matter again. I don’t mind your having Phebe here; in fact I rather like Phebe. But I don’t like to have colored people in the house if we can possibly avoid it.”
“But, Mamma, Phebe is colored too.”
“I know she is but nobody would ever guess it.”
“They don’t have to guess it; she tells it; she stood right up in class and said so.”
“What nonsense!” Olivia countered angrily. “What occasion would a girl, looking like her, have to talk about color?”
“She didn’t say it of her own accord, Mamma. The teacher was having a review lesson on races one day and she asked Phebe what race she belonged to and Phebe said: ‘I belong to the black or Negro race.’”
“What did the teacher say?”
“She just giggled at first and then she said: ‘Well, Phebe, we all know that isn’t true. Don’t try to be funny. Now tell us what race you do belong to, dear!’ And Phebe said it all over again. She said: ‘I belong to the black or Negro race.’”
Olivia gasped. “Silly little thing! The idea of a girl as white as she saying that! What happened then?”
“The teacher had her stay after school and Phebe showed her the picture of her mother. She wears it in a locket around her throat all the time. And her mother is colored. Not black, you know, Mamma, but real, real brown. Almost as brown as Marise, you know. You should have seen how surprised Miss Packer was!”
In spite of herself her mother was interested. “What did she say then?”
“She looked awful queer and asked Phebe if she looked like her father and Phebe said she looked exactly like him . . . and that he didn’t live here and that he was married to someone else. . . . And then Miss Packer turned kind of red and never said another word. . . . How can Phebe’s father not be married to her mother, Mamma?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . probably they couldn’t get along so they separated. Married people often do that. They call it getting a divorce.” Hurriedly she changed the subject: “Did the children act any different to Phebe after that?”
Teresa considered this a moment. “Well, you see, Mamma, the children don’t act any special kind of way to Phebe anyway, because Phebe don’t care anything about them. The only child Phebe likes a whole lot in school is Marise.”
“I thought she liked you.”
“O she does, but not the same way she likes Marise. Marise is so smart you know. She can think up all the most wonderful things. Why she changed her name herself. It used to be Maria. And she said that was all wrong. She said she didn’t look like a Maria person and she didn’t feel like a Maria person. . . . Isn’t that funny, Mamma? And she can sing and play and dance. You never saw anyone dance like her. And she can think up such smart things to say. I don’t see why you don’t like her, Mamma.”
“I don’t dislike her,” her mother retorted in exasperation. “You don’t understand these things, yet, Teresa. But you will when you’re older . . . and you’ll be grateful to me. I just don’t want you to have Marise and people like that around because I don’t want you to grow up among folks who live the life that most colored people have to live . . . narrow and stultified and stupid. Always pushed in the background . . . out of everything. Looked down upon and despised! . . .
“Teresa, how many times must I tell you these things? You and your father and Christopher almost drive me crazy! You’re so willfully perverse about it all! Here we could all be as white as the whitest people in Philadelphia. When we moved in this neighborhood not a soul here but thought we were white! And your father is never happy unless he has some typical Negro hanging about. I believe he does it to tease me. And now here you are, all wrapped up in this Davies child!”
“But, Mamma, what difference does it make? And anyway, there’s Oliver!”
There indeed was Oliver.
Olivia with very little love for her husband, Dr. Cary, with no enthusiasm, as such, for the institution of matrimony and with absolutely no urge for the maternal life, had none the less gone cheerfully and willingly into both marriage and motherhood because she believed that through her children she might obtain her heart’s desire. She could, she was sure, imbue her offspring with precept and example to such an extent that it would never enter t
heir minds to acknowledge the strain of black blood which in considerable dilution would flow through their veins.
She could be certain of their color. Her twin sister and brother, only two years older than her own children, had proven that. It was worth every one, she felt, of her labor pains not to hold in her arms little Teresa, her first-born,—but to gaze on that tiny, unremarkable face and note the white skin, the thick, “good” dark hair which covered the frail skull; to note that the tell-tale half-moons of which she had so often read were conspicuously absent. It seemed to her that the tenuous bonds holding her never so slightly to her group, and its station in America, were perceptibly weakened. Every time she appeared in public with the little girl she was presenting the incontestable proof of her white womanhood. . . .
And when Christopher, the second child was born, she was not the least fraction worried over the closely curling tendency of his slightly reddish hair. She had known Jews with hair much kinkier. Time and care would attend to all that. And meanwhile his skin was actually fairer than that of his little sister, his features finer and better chiselled. He had, she felt, a look of “race,” by which she meant of course the only race which God, or Nature, for hidden, inscrutable purposes, meant should rule.
But she had not reckoned with the children’s father. Christopher had finally established in his mind the fact of his chaste wife’s frigidity. When he fully realized that her much-prized “aloofness,” instead of being the insigne of a wealth of feeling, was merely the result of an absolute vacuum of passion, young as he was, he resolved not to kick against the pricks.
He had, he told himself, been sold, as many a man before him had; tricked as completely by his deliberate submission to ideals, entirely false to his nature and his desires, as a young girl might be by her first surrender to a passion which her heart tells her is natural, though her mind and breeding might warn her of its inexpediency. The first of that hardening process which was so to change him did have its inception during this period, but as he had some humor and a sense of justice beyond his years he refused to let the iron enter his soul.
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