XVI

Mimi forgot the days of her misery. The years spent in Atlanta became hazy and unreal in the eager happiness of her new life. Again she had the feeling that the things which had distressed her so had never really happened⁠—that they were either the phantasmagoria of a nightmare or the sorrows of an existence she had lived prior to this life. Her stepmother she rarely thought of, she had returned to Chicago and there had married again. The Hunters she equally had removed from her thoughts. When she did think of them or of Carl they seemed unreal, like apparitions of an indistinctly remembered dream. She had completely recovered from even her hatred of and contempt for Carl. In the light of her life since she had left Atlanta, she saw him now even more clearly as the weak individual he was. She was amused now when she remembered how devotedly, how passionately she had loved him during those short months. “I was a silly little fool then,” she laughed amusedly at herself when she did remember. The entire episode seemed to her now a rather cheap and worthless thing. The only comfort she could extract from it was the satisfaction that she had not succumbed to a dishonest compromise.

Even her years in Philadelphia began to fade into the land of half-remembered, half-forgotten things. She occasionally corresponded with the Mannings but as the months sped by she found her interest lessening even in this contact with the old couple who had been so kind to her. The one link to both of these episodes in her life, for she now looked upon them only as episodes, was Petit Jean, and he served as a link and as the centre of all her hopes for the future. Under the skilful guidance of her aunt she had thrown off her moroseness and spells of despondency and was working indefatigably towards securing all the things which would bring happiness to her and Jean.

Back of her lay disappointment and sadness, ahead of her lay only hope. It was in this mood that she went with her aunt one Friday evening to a dance at Manhattan Casino. They had been invited to join a box party in which were included several younger people, three or four young men and three girls beside Mimi, in addition to Mrs. Rogers and two older persons. For the dance Mimi had made for herself a party dress of pale green charmeuse-green with the greenness of young leaves in springtime⁠—a green that was indefinably between jade and Eau-de-Nil.

“You look like a rosebud⁠—a marvellously golden flower springing out of its leafy greenness,” Tom Henderson whispered to her as they danced together.

The not very subtle compliment pleased Mimi. She was happy, too, she was capable of pleasure from such a source⁠—she had thought herself impervious to polite remarks of this sort⁠—she fancied she had put all this behind her forever. She was glad that this was not so⁠—after all, she yet was young. And he had seemed so sincere when he had said it.

All the evening she danced, danced with a lightness and ease that brought young men in droves to the box when she rested there between dances. Her feet seemed endowed with wings, for she moved over the floor without conscious effort. And the music! She had heard of Ford Dabney, had been told of the way in which his orchestra could play. But she had never dreamed that any human beings could entice from inanimate objects such intoxicating, inspiriting music. Once, and once only, was she able to sit in the box and watch the dancers.

“It’s a pretty sight,” her aunt said to her.

“Pretty? That isn’t the word for it!” she enthusiastically declared.

It was a waltz. Faces of all colours, peeping from gowns of all shades ranging from delicate pinks and blues and lavenders to gorgeously passionate reds. There were faces of a mahogany brownness which shaded into the blackness of crisply curled hair. There were some of a blackness that shone like rich bits of velvet. There were others whose skins seemed as though made of expertly tanned leather with the creaminess of old vellum, topped by shining hair, blacker than “a thousand midnights, down in a cypress swamp.” And there were those with ivory-white complexions, rare old ivory that time had mellowed with gentle touch. To Mimi the most alluring of all were the women who were neither dark nor light, as many of them were, but those of that indefinable blend of brown and red, giving a richness that was reminiscent of the Creoles of her own New Orleans.

“Look at that girl over there, Aunt Sophie the one with that marvellous black hair and that brownish red skin⁠—the Spanish-looking one with the dress of cornflower blue. There is my ideal of beauty⁠—no sallow, colourless type but the warmth of a thousand Caribbean suns is in her face.”

Mrs. Rogers laughed easily.

“No⁠—you’re right, there is no colourlessness there⁠—but those you see who are so fair they can pass can get ahead lots faster than those with lots of colour. Do you see that girl who looks like white⁠—the one with the black dress covered with passementeries? She works down town in one of the most exclusive shops in New York. She’s a forewoman and makes more money than three-fourths of the men in Harlem.”

“What’s she doing up here?” Mimi asked. “Isn’t she afraid she’ll be seen or that some coloured person will go down and tell she’s a Negro?”

“Nobody’s told on her yet⁠—and when she’s through with her work she comes back to Harlem. She’s got mighty little use for white people⁠—hates them⁠—she was born in Georgia and her brother was lynched when he beat up a white man in a quarrel.”

“Who’s the fellow over there the one with the black hair who looks like a Japanese?” Mimi queried, now thoroughly interested. She scanned the flaming chequer-board of colour, picking out the ones who interested her.

“Where is he? Oh, that’s Tod James⁠—he’s assistant cashier of a bank down in the financial district. He’s married white but ever so often the call of Harlem is too great and he bobs up here again. He’s had an amazing career⁠—born in Texas, was mixed up in two or three revolutions in Mexico and South America, has travelled all over the world, made and lost three or four fortunes, and now has settled down to a comfortable, placid existence in Wall Street.”

“Does his wife know he’s coloured?”

“That’s she dancing down there with the slender brown chap⁠—looks like she knows what he is. And she was born in Tennessee but had sense enough not to stay there.”

“And who’s the flashily dressed fellow standing there looking on?”

“I don’t know his name but he runs a club where they have entertainers and music for dancing⁠—they call them cabarets. You’ll find all sorts of people here⁠—it’s a pay dance and anybody who’s got the price can get in. There are women who are being kept and men who live the same way, doctors and lawyers, and about every class in the world represented here.”

Mimi felt a thrill of adventure run through her. Perhaps she had brushed against some of these fearful characters and it made her tingle with adventure.

“Goodness, haven’t they any lines they draw?” she wanted to know.

“Strictest in the world⁠—you’ve noticed you’ve been asked to dance only by folks you know and who move with our set.”

Mimi laughed.

“I don’t know about that. See that nice-looking chap over there in that box? I’ve never seen him before and he asked me if I wanted to dance with him.”

Mrs. Rogers peered in the direction of Mimi’s nod.

“No, you haven’t seen him,” she told Mimi grimly, when she had located him. “He’s probably one of the most notorious gamblers in New York⁠—has never been known to do a lick of work. I told you you’d see all sorts of people here, didn’t I?”

The music began again and there was a wild rush to the dance floor. Mimi sat and watched the kaleidoscopic scene, brilliant, colourful, fascinating. New York is the only place on earth where such a crowd could be got together, she mused. Like one body the crowd on the huge, densely packed floor swayed and moved with an easy grace, laughing, carefree, exuberant. There was a natural spontaneity to the movement, a rhythmic unity that gave Mimi the impression that the dancers had been rehearsed with great pains by an expert maître de danse. They moved with graceful animation, with a decorous but fascinating abandon. Her aunt was speaking.

“It’s lucky for the Negro he was given the ability to forget⁠—there are at least a dozen people down there I’ve recognized who probably don’t know where they’ll get money enough to pay their rent. Yet there’s not a soul having a better time than they. He can work all day methodically and steadily as long as he knows there will be opportunities to forget harsh and unpleasant things.”⁠ ⁠…

Mimi did not see Mrs. Plummer as she descended the stairs when the music began for the next dance. That estimable person had come that afternoon to New York and she now was receiving her first glimpse of New York life. She wore a brilliant purple confection of velvet, adorned with extraordinary little flowers of an indescribable and unknown species and shape. She seized the arm of her cousin, with whom she was staying, and though in the noise there was no need of caution, she whispered:

“Who is that girl with the green dress and red hair⁠—I mean what name does she go by here?”

“That’s Miss Daquin⁠—she’s Mrs. Rogers’ niece and she’s very popular⁠—some of the women don’t like her but that’s because she’s better-looking than most of them. Men like her because she pays no attention to them⁠—”

Mrs. Plummer snorted.

“Miss Daquin! So that’s how she’s getting by, is it?”

She was in her element. New York did not terrify her any more by its hugeness and strangeness. The eyes of her friend picked out Mimi’s form as it appeared and disappeared through the dancing forms. Mrs. Plummer was giving a complete, more than complete, account of Mimi and her life.

“These society coloured folks make me tired,” Mrs. Plummer was saying. “They look down on us ordinary folks but they’re carrying on their deviltry just as much as any of us. And they do some of the craziest things! That girl was carrying on round Atlanta with this Hunter boy and when they found out she was going to have a baby she just went crazy⁠—said she didn’t want to marry the boy! Can you imagine anybody doing such a fool thing?” she demanded rhetorically.

“I always did think there was something funny about her,” her vis-à-vis answered satisfactorily. “You can’t fool me⁠—I can spot ’em a mile off. What became of the baby?”

“The Lord only knows! I heard tell she had it and I don’t know whether it lived or not. Must not of if you say you ain’t never heard about it. Some funny things happen in this world⁠—”⁠ ⁠…

On and on the thread was unspun. In the years since Mimi had left Atlanta, the stories about her, with the facile growth that age always brings, had gained almost the proportions of a myth. Never had any girl taken so absurd a position as she. Always they had been only too glad to marry even when they had lived with their husbands but a short time. Not understanding, gossip had assumed there was more to the story than appeared on the surface, and various inventive minds speculated as to the untold part.

Rumour had scoffed at the notion Mimi had refused to marry Carl even though he and his parents were willing. That was too improbable, too farfetched. The Hunters had volunteered no information and tongues had run wild. Some had it that the father of the child was uncertain⁠—every man under seventy years of age who had ever been on the most casual terms of friendship with Mimi was discussed as the possible father. Others were firmly convinced Mimi had trapped Carl with an eye on the wealth which his father was credited with possessing. Those of this persuasion were convinced she had been bought off or frightened by the Hunters.

Forgotten except by a few, Hilda and her mother among them, were the derelictions popular report had credited to or charged against Carl. Mimi had fled, therefore she was the guilty one. “The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth,” the wise ones said. The scandal was a juicy morsel that served its purpose well over many back fences and at innumerable parties, at church and on front porches. Only Hilda and Mrs. Adams championed the cause of Mimi, but soon, because their views were well known, the subject was not mentioned to them. Scandal thrives only when it is retailed to those with open ears and credulous minds.⁠ ⁠…

Mrs. Plummer’s friend was well capable of holding her own in the dissemination of interesting news. Mimi alone would have been a target almost too small for the guns of the talkative ones. But as the niece of Mrs. Rogers, in business, well known, and with enemies gained through the frank comment and eyes with which Mimi’s aunt saw readily through pretence and sham, Mrs. Rogers herself could be hurt through the mud plastered on her niece. Mimi found herself being avoided at church, on the street, at the few affairs which she attended. At first she paid no attention to them but in time they were too obvious to be ignored. She had not seen Mrs. Plummer during the two weeks that she had visited in New York. The first intimation Mimi had of the talk which was going on was given her in a weekly publication, The Blabber.

Modelled upon Town Topics, it devoted its pages to not too cryptic references, almost invariably scandalous ones, to persons of prominence. Its editors had been handled roughly several times, the paper had been sued frequently, but seldom were any copies left on Harlem newsstands more than a few hours after it appeared on Thursday mornings.

Mimi read the reference to herself three times before she could realize that once again she was confronted with suspicion.

“All Harlem is agog,” the paragraph ran, “with some hitherto hidden chapters in the life of one of our most attractive and popular young women. She and the relative with whom she lives have been seen often at the smartest affairs and the breath of scandal which has been stirred will undoubtedly prove a nine days’ sensation. Innocence, according to all who know the young lady of French extraction, has been her most evident characteristic. But it seems there has been a coloured gentleman in the firewood. Harlem is asking what the charming miss has done with the baby. Something should really be done about the doors of family closets⁠—they will pop open at the most inopportune moments and permit glimpses of unsuspected and embarrassing skeletons.⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s the use, Aunt Sophie, of trying to be decent? I don’t see the need of trying⁠—I might as well give up the struggle and admit I’m beaten,” she despairingly told Mrs. Rogers.

“Don’t be silly, Mimi. They’ve talked about everybody. It’ll all blow over in time.”

“No⁠—you’re just trying to console me. People forget decent things⁠—they never forget a thing like this.”

“There’s something in that, but the people you really care about will have sense enough to see this in a broad light. And those who don’t see it and give you credit for trying to atone for your mistake don’t count⁠—you’ll be better off without their friendship.”

They sat at dinner and Mimi could almost hear the tumbling down of the walls she had so confidently been building. For the first time she felt sick at heart, crushed, without hope. She could withstand poverty, physical pain. But the averted glances of those who had been her friends, the ostentatious turning of heads when she passed on the street those with whom she had been on terms of intimate acquaintanceship, the sudden death of conversations at her approach which told her more plainly than if the information had been shouted through a megaphone that they had been talking of her, the boldness in the eyes of some of the men where there had been only respect before, all these and a thousand other little cruelties were the things which hurt. Hurt her painfully, more painfully than mere physical pain. She envied her aunt’s calmness, her philosophical acceptance of people’s habits, whether these habits were good or bad. She tried to keep her mind on the comforting flow of words with which Mrs. Rogers was seeking to bolster her courage.

“People have gossiped from the beginning of time and I suppose they’ll keep right on until Gabriel blows his trump. I don’t know why it is but there’s one thing that’s always true⁠—they tear you to pieces not for what you’ve done but for getting caught. Take some of the biggest men in America⁠—men who everybody knows have stolen railroads and banks but who’ve never been caught at it⁠—why, they’re popular idols. There are lots of magazines with big circulations that fill their pages with stories of how these giants have gained wealth and fame by ‘honesty, hard work, sticking to the job.’ That’s bunk! Do you remember the story of one of these ‘self-made’ men who was telling a college class that his secret of success was ‘pluck! pluck! pluck!’ and the irreverent boy who asked the pompous one who he had plucked? That’s the true story of a lot of these people who haven’t been caught with their hands in the other fellow’s pockets.”

Mimi smiled a wan smile. This was interesting, perhaps, but it didn’t help her much. Mrs. Rogers went on.

“And coloured people are no better than anybody else. The motive is the same everywhere in the world and with all races and sexes and classes. If you aren’t of any importance they don’t gossip about you because nobody’s interested. But they’ve got to have something humiliating, something that’ll bear down a person’s reputation, something malicious and spiteful. It’s got to be about somebody who’s got something to lose, it’ll have to be something that’ll stick, something that’ll be dangerous but not too dangerous for the person who’s gossiping. And above everything else it’s got to be spread with a high and lofty manner⁠—the biggest spreader of tales I ever knew always started her most vile story the same way. She’d say: ‘I stay at home attending to my own business and I don’t meddle in other people’s affairs, but have you heard that⁠—’ and then she proceeds to give you a long account of what some person has done, all of it told in a tone of Christian forbearance and pity and tacit regret.”

“That’s a very interesting and logical analysis but it doesn’t offer much comfort. It’s just like a doctor explaining why your leg broke when you’re lying in a hospital bed.”

“You’re depressed and worried⁠—there’s no need giving in to what these people say. Just face it and it will all blow over. And I’ll stick with you always, Mimi.”

Mrs. Rogers watched Mimi, more worried over the girl’s troubles than she would admit even to herself. In a few months Mimi had become a part and a very important part of the household. Younger people came and she had always preferred associating with young people. “It keeps me young, too,” she would say when the subject was mentioned. The house would be unbearable if Mimi went away or did anything desperate. She feared this though she laughed at her fears. But the set look on Mimi’s face, the despondency which was greater now than when Mimi had first come to New York after putting Petit Jean in the orphanage, the utter dejection so evident in Mimi’s face and body, made her definitely apprehensive.

“You’re a darling, Aunt Sophie, but I just can’t stick it out. I can stand a lot of things I’ve had to⁠—but what’s happened here will just keep on happening every place I go. I’ve tried to go straight⁠—God knows I have. But these meddling people won’t let me have any peace. Do you remember that night at the dance you pointed out a girl to me who was working down town, passing for white?”

Mrs. Rogers admitted she had, but wondered what that had to do with Mimi.

“Just this,” was the answer she received. “I never thought I’d want to leave my own people. I wouldn’t leave them now but they’ve driven me away⁠—driven me to the point where I’ve either got to drop out of sight where I won’t be hounded again or else I’ll do something terrible. If that girl can pass I think I can too. My name is French, I speak French⁠—at least well enough to fool anybody who isn’t French⁠—I can sew, and they’ll never think me anything else but French. I’ll see you, of course, but I’m leaving Harlem, leaving coloured people for good. I’ll live my own life, make more money than I can here, I’ll be able sooner to have Jean with me, and⁠—well, there’s no other way out.⁠ ⁠…”