by Passing
Her own resentment was swept aside and her voice held an accent of pity as she exclaimed: “Why, Clare! I didn’t know. Forgive me. I feel like seven beasts. It was stupid of me not to realize.”
“No. Not at all. You couldn’t. Nobody, none of you, could,” Clare moaned. The black eyes filled with tears that ran down her cheeks and spilled into her lap, ruining the priceless velvet of her dress. Her long hands were a little uplifted and clasped tightly together. Her effort to speak moderately was obvious, but not successful. “How could you know? How could you? You’re free. You’re happy. And,” with faint derision, “safe.”
Irene passed over that touch of derision, for the poignant rebellion of the other’s words had brought the tears to her own eyes, though she didn’t allow them to fall. The truth was that she knew weeping did not become her. Few women, she imagined, wept as attractively as Clare. “I’m beginning to believe,” she murmured, “that no one is ever completely happy, or free, or safe.”
“Well, then, what does it matter? One risk more or less, if we’re not safe anyway, if even you’re not, it can’t make all the difference in the world. It can’t to me. Besides, I’m used to risks. And this isn’t such a big one as you’re trying to make it.”
“Oh, but it is. And it can make all the difference in the world. There’s your little girl, Clare. Think of the consequences to her.”
Clare’s face took on a startled look, as though she were totally unprepared for this new weapon with which Irene had assailed her. Seconds passed, during which she sat with stricken eyes and compressed lips. “I think,” she said at last, “that being a mother is the cruellest thing in the world.” Her clasped hands swayed forward and back again, and her scarlet mouth trembled irrepressibly.
“Yes,” Irene softly agreed. For a moment she was unable to say more, so accurately had Clare put into words that which, not so definitely defined, was so often in her own heart of late. At the same time she was conscious that here, to her hand, was a reason which could not be lightly brushed aside. “Yes,” she repeated, “and the most responsible, Clare. We mothers are all responsible for the security and happiness of our children. Think what it would mean to your Margery if Mr. Bellew should find out. You’d probably lose her. And even if you didn’t, nothing that concerned her would ever be the same again. He’d never forget that she had Negro blood. And if she should learn—Well, I believe that after twelve it is too late to learn a thing like that. She’d never forgive you. You may be used to risks, but this is one you mustn’t take, Clare. It’s a selfish whim, an unnecessary and—
“Yes, Zulena, what is it?” she inquired, a trifle tartly, of the servant who had silently materialized in the doorway.
“The telephone’s for you, Mrs. Redfield. It’s Mr. Wentworth.” 1
“All right. Thank you. I’ll take it here.” And, with a muttered apology to Clare, she took up the instrument.
“Hello… . Yes, Hugh… . Oh, quite… . And you? … I’m sorry, every single thing’s gone… . Oh, too bad… . Ye-es, I s’pose you could. Not very pleasant, though…. Yes, of course, in a pinch everything goes… . Wait! I’ve gotit! I’ll change mine with whoever’s nextto you, and you can have that… . No… . I mean it… . I’ll be so busy I shan’t know whether I’m sitting or standing… . As long as Brian has a place to drop down now and then… . Not a single soul… . No, don’t… . That’s nice… . My love to Bianca… . I’ll see to it right away and call you back… . Good-bye.”
She hung up and turned back to Clare, a little frown on her softly chiselled features. “It’s the N. W. L. dance,” she explained, “the Negro Welfare League,2 you know. I’m on the ticket committee, or, rather, I am the committee. Thank heaven it comes off tomorrow night and doesn’t happen again for a year. I’m about crazy, and now I’ve got to persuade somebody to change boxes with me.”
“That wasn’t,” Clare asked, “Hugh Wentworth? Not the Hugh Wentworth?”
Irene inclined her head. On her face was a tiny triumphant smile. “Yes, the Hugh Wentworth. D’you know him?”
“No. How should I? But I do know about him. And I’ve read a book or two of his.”
“Awfully good, aren’t they?”
“U-umm, I s’pose so. Sort of contemptuous, I thought. As if he more or less despised everything and everybody.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he did. Still, he’s about earned the right to. Lived on the edges of nowhere in at least three continents. Been through every danger in all kinds of savage places. It’s no wonder he thinks the rest of us are a lazy self-pampering lot. Hugh’s a dear, though, generous as one of the twelve disciples; give you the shirt off his back. Bianca—that’s his wife—is nice too.”
“And he’s coming up here to your dance?”
Irene asked why not.
“It seems rather curious, a man like that, going to a Negro dance.”
This, Irene told her, was the year 1927 in the city of New York, and hundreds of white people of Hugh Wentworth’s type came to affairs in Harlem, more all the time. So many that Brian had said: “Pretty soon the coloured people won’t be allowed in at all, or will have to sit in Jim Crowed sections.”
“What do they come for?”
“Same reason you’re here, to see Negroes.”
“But why?”
“Various motives,” Irene explained. “A few purely and frankly to enjoy themselves. Others to get material to turn into shekels. 3 More, to gaze on these great and near great while they gaze on the Negroes.”
Clare clapped her hands. “ ’Rene, suppose I come too! It sounds terribly interesting and amusing. And I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
Irene, who was regarding her through narrowed eyelids, had the same thought that she had had two years ago on the roof of the Drayton, that Clare Kendry was just a shade too good-looking. Her tone was on the edge of irony as she said: “You mean because so many other white people go?”
A pale rose-colour came into Clare’s ivory cheeks. She lifted a hand in protest. “Don’t be silly! Certainly not! I mean that in a crowd of that kind I shouldn’t be noticed.”
On the contrary, was Irene’s opinion. It might be even doubly dangerous. Some friend or acquaintance of John Bellew or herself might see and recognize her.
At that, Clare laughed for a long time, little musical trills following one another in sequence after sequence. It was as if the thought of any friend of John Bellew’s going to a Negro dance was to her the most amusing thing in the world.
“I don’t think,” she said, when she had done laughing, “we need worry about that.”
Irene, however, wasn’t so sure. But all her efforts to dissuade Clare were useless. To her, “You never can tell whom you’re likely to meet there,” Clare’s rejoinder was: “I’ll take my chance on getting by.”
“Besides, you won’t know a soul and I shall be too busy to look after you. You’ll be bored stiff.”
“I won’t, I won’t. If nobody asks me to dance, not even Dr. Redfield, I’ll just sit and gaze on the great and the near great, too. Do, ’Rene, be polite and invite me.”
Irene turned away from the caress of Clare’s smile, saying promptly and positively: “I will not.”
“I mean to go anyway,” Clare retorted, and her voice was no less positive than Irene’s.
“Oh, no. You couldn’t possibly go there alone. It’s a public thing. All sorts of people go, anybody who can pay a dollar, even ladies of easy virtue looking for trade. If you were to go there alone, you might be mistaken for one of them, and that wouldn’t be too pleasant.”
Clare laughed again. “Thanks. I never have been. It might be amusing. I’m warning you, ’Rene, that if you’re not going to be nice and take me, I’ll still be among those present. I suppose, my dollar’s as good as anyone’s.”
“Oh, the dollar! Don’t be a fool, Claire. I don’t care where you go, or what you do. All I’m concerned with is the unpleasantness and possible danger which your going migh
t incur, because of your situation. To put it frankly, I shouldn’t like to be mixed up in any row of the kind.” She had risen again as she spoke and was standing at the window lifting and spreading the small yellow chrysanthemums in the grey stone jar on the sill. Her hands shook slightly, for she was in a near rage of impatience and exasperation.
Claire’s face looked strange, as if she wanted to cry again. One of her satin-covered feet swung restlessly back and forth. She said vehemently, violently almost: “Damn Jack! He keeps me out of everything. Everything I want. I could kill him! I expect I shall, some day.”
“I wouldn’t,” Irene advised her, “you see, there’s still capital punishment, in this state at least. And really, Clare, after everything’s said, I can’t see that you’ve a right to put all the blame on him. You’ve got to admit that there’s his side to the thing. You didn’t tell him you were coloured, so he’s got no way of knowing about this hankering of yours after Negroes, or that it galls you to fury to hear them called niggers and black devils. As far as I can see, you’ll just have to endure some things and give up others. As we’ve said before, everything must be paid for. Do, please, be reasonable.”
But Clare, it was plain, had shut away reason as well as caution. She shook her head. “I can’t, I can’t,” she said. “I would if I could, but I can’t. You don’t know, you can’t realize how I want to see Negroes, to be with them again, to talk with them, to hear them laugh.”
And in the look she gave Irene, there was something groping, and hopeless, and yet so absolutely determined that it was like an image of the futile searching and the firm resolution in Irene’s own soul, and increased the feeling of doubt and compunction that had been growing within her about Clare Kendry.
She gave in.
“Oh, come if you want to. I s’pose you’re right. Once can’t do such a terrible lot of harm.”
Pushing aside Clare’s extravagant thanks, for immediately she was sorry that she had consented, she said briskly: “Should you like to come up and see my boys?”
“I’d love to.”
They went up, Irene thinking that Brian would consider that she’d behaved like a spineless fool. And he would be right. She certainly had.
Clare was smiling. She stood in the doorway of the boys’ playroom, her shadowy eyes looking down on Junior and Ted, who had sprung apart from their tusselling. Junior’s face had a funny little look of resentment. Ted’s was blank.
Clare said: “Please don’t be cross. Of course, I know I’ve gone and spoiled everything. But maybe, if I promise not to get too much in the way, you’ll let me come in, just the same.”
“Sure, come in if you want to,” Ted told her. “We can’t stop you, you know.” He smiled and made her a little bow and then turned away to a shelf that held his favourite books. Taking one down, he settled himself in a chair and began to read.
Junior said nothing, did nothing, merely stood there waiting.
“Get up, Ted! That’s rude. This is Theodore, Mrs. Bellew. Please excuse his bad manners. He does know better. And this is Brian junior. Mrs. Bellew is an old friend of mother’s. We used to play together when we were little girls.”
Clare had gone and Brian had telephoned that he’d been detained and would have his dinner downtown. Irene was a little glad for that. She was going out later herself, and that meant she wouldn’t, probably, see Brian until morning and so could put off for a few more hours speaking of Clare and the N. W. L. dance.
She was angry with herself and with Clare. But more with herself, for having permitted Clare to tease her into doing something that Brian had, all but expressly, asked her not to do. She didn’t want him ruffled, not just then, not while he was possessed of that unreasonable restless feeling.
She was annoyed, too, because she was aware that she had consented to something which, if it went beyond the dance, would involve her in numerous petty inconveniences and evasions. And not only at home with Brian, but outside with friends and acquaintances. The disagreeable possibilities in connection with Clare Kendry’s coming among them loomed before her in endless irritating array.
Clare, it seemed, still retained her ability to secure the thing that she wanted in the face of any opposition, and in utter disregard of the convenience and desire of others. About her there was some quality, hard and persistent, with the strength and endurance of rock, that would not be beaten or ignored. She couldn’t, Irene thought, have had an entirely serene life. Not with that dark secret for ever crouching in the background of her consciousness. And yet she hadn’t the air of a woman whose life had been touched by uncertainty or suffering. Pain, fear, and grief were things that left their mark on people. Even love, that exquisite torturing emotion, left its subtle traces on the countenance.
But Clare—she had remained almost what she had always been, an attractive, somewhat lonely child— selfish, wilful, and disturbing.
THREE
The things which Irene Redfield remembered afterward about the Negro Welfare League dance seemed, to her, unimportant and unrelated.
She remembered the not quite derisive smile with which Brian had cloaked his vexation when she informed him—oh, so apologetically—that she had promised to take Clare, and related the conversation of her visit.
She remembered her own little choked exclamation of admiration, when, on coming downstairs a few minutes later than she had intended, she had rushed into the living-room where Brian was waiting and had found Clare there too. Clare, exquisite, golden, fragrant, flaunting, in a stately gown of shining black taffeta, whose long, full skirt lay in graceful folds about her slim golden feet; her glistening hair drawn smoothly back into a small twist at the nape of her neck; her eyes sparkling like dark jewels. Irene, with her new rose-colored chiffon frock ending at the knees, and her cropped curls, felt dowdy and commonplace. She regretted that she hadn’t counselled Clare to wear something ordinary and inconspicuous. What on earth would Brian think of deliberate courting of attention? But if Clare Kendry’s appearance had in it anything that was, to Brian Redfield, annoying or displeasing, the fact was not discernible to his wife as, with an uneasy feeling of guilt, she stood there looking into his face while Clare explained that she and he had made their own introductions, accompanying her words with a little deferential smile for Brian, and receiving in return one of his amused, slightly mocking smiles.
She remembered Clare’s saying, as they sped northward: “You know, I feel exactly as I used to on the Sunday we went to the Christmas-tree celebration. I knew there was to be a surprise for me and couldn’t quite guess what it was to be. I am so excited. You can’t possibly imagine! It’s marvellous to be really on the way! I can hardly believe it!”
At her words and tone a chilly wave of scorn had crept through Irene. All those superlatives! She said, taking care to speak indifferently: “Well, maybe in some ways you will be surprised, more, probably, than you anticipate.”
Brian, at the wheel, had thrown back: “And then again, she won’t be so very surprised after all, for it’ll no doubt be about what she expects. Like the Christmas-tree.”
She remembered rushing around here and there, consulting with this person and that one, and now and then snatching a part of a dance with some man whose dancing she particularly liked.
She remembered catching glimpses of Clare in the whirling crowd, dancing, sometimes with a white man, more often with a Negro, frequently with Brian. Irene was glad that he was being nice to Clare, and glad that Clare was having the opportunity to discover that some coloured men were superior to some white men.
She remembered a conversation she had with Hugh Wentworth in a free half-hour when she had dropped into a chair in an emptied box and let her gaze wander over the bright crowd below.
Young men, old men, white men, black men; youthful women, older women, pink women, golden women; fat men, thin men, tall men, short men; stout women, slim women, stately women, small women moved by. An old nursery rhyme popped into her head. She turned to We
ntworth, who had just taken a seat beside her, and recited it:
“Rich man, poor man, Beggar man, thief, Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.” 1
“Yes,” Wentworth said, “that’s it. Everybody seems to be here and a few more. But what I’m trying to find out is the name, status, and race of the blonde beauty out of the fairy-tale. She’s dancing with Ralph Hazelton at the moment. Nice study in contrasts, that.”
It was. Clare fair and golden, like a sunlit day. Hazelton dark, with gleaming eyes, like a moonlit night.
“She’s a girl I used to know a long time ago in Chicago. And she wanted especially to meet you.”
“ ’S awfully good of her, I’m sure. And now, alas! the usual thing’s happened. All these others, these— er—‘gentlemen of colour’ have driven a mere Nordic2 from her mind.”
“Stuff !”
“ ’S a fact, and what happens to all the ladies of my superior race who’re lured up here. Look at Bianca. Have I laid eyes on her tonight except in spots, here and there, being twirled about by some Ethiopian? I have not.”
“But, Hugh, you’ve got to admit that the average coloured man is a better dancer than the average white man—that is, if the celebrities and ‘butter and egg’ men3 who find their way up here are fair specimens of white Terpsichorean art.”4
“Not having tripped the light fantastic with any of the males, I’m not in a position to argue the point. But I don’t think it’s merely that. ’S something else, some other attraction. They’re always raving about the good looks of some Negro, preferably an unusually dark one. Take Hazelton there, for example. Dozens of women have declared him to be fascinatingly handsome. How about you, Irene? Do you think he’s—er—ravishingly beautiful?”
“I do not! And I don’t think the others do either. Not honestly, I mean. I think that what they feel is— well, a kind of emotional excitement. You know, the sort of thing you feel in the presence of something strange, and even, perhaps, a bit repugnant to you; something so different that it’s really at the opposite end of the pole from all your accustomed notions of beauty.”
