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Passing,

3 T1S3 DOS EE37 D IN!

BY NELLA LARSEN

QUICKSAND1928

PA ING X BY

U-

f<C

NELLA LA RS EN

NEW YORK y LONDON

ALFRED-A-KNOPF 1929

BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF

AMERICA

FIRST AND SECOND PRINTINGS

BEFORE PUBLICATION

PUBLISHED APRIL, 1929

FOR

Carl Van Vechten

AND

Fania Marinoff

(Jne three centuries removed

From the scenes his fathers loved,

Spicy grovey cinnamon tree,

What is Africa to me?

—Countee Cullen

CONTENTS

PART ONE ENCOUNTER

PART TWO RE-ENCOUNTER

PART THREE FINALE

151

PART ONE

ENCOUNTER

ONE

It was the last letter in Irene Redfield's little

pile of morning mail. After her other ordinary

and clearly directed letters the long envelope

of thin Italian paper with its almost illegible

scrawl seemed out of place and alien. And there

was, too, something mysterious and slightly fur-

tive about it. A thin sly thing which bore no

return address to betray the sender. Not that

she hadn't immediately known who its sender

was. Some two years ago she had one very like

it in outward appearance. Furtive, but yet in

some peculiar, determined way a little flaunt-

ing. Purple ink. Foreign paper of extraordinary

size.

It had been, Irene noted, postmarked in

New York the day before. Her brows came to-

gether in a tiny frown. The frown, however,

was more from perplexity than from annoy-

ance; though there was in her thoughts an ele-

ment of both. She was wholly unable to compre-

PASSING hend such an attitude towards danger as she was

sure the letter's contents would reveal; and she

disliked the idea of opening and reading it.

This, she reflected, was of a piece with

all that she knew of Clare Kendry. Stepping al-

ways on the edge of danger. Always aware, but

not drawing back or turning aside. Certainly

not because of any alarms or feeling of outrage

on the part of others.

And for a swift moment Irene Redfield

seemed to see a pale small girl sitting on a

ragged blue sofa, sewing pieces of bright red

cloth together, while her drunken father, a

tall, powerfully built man, raged threateningly

up and down the shabby room, bellowing

curses and making spasmodic lunges at her

which were not the less frightening because

they were, for the most part. Ineffectual. Some-

times he did manage to reach her. But only

the fact that the child had edged herself and

her poor sewing over to the farthermost cor-

ner of the sofa suggested that she was in any

way perturbed by this menace to herself and

her work.

ENCOUNTER Clare had known well enough that it

was unsafe to take a portion of the dollar that

was her weekly wage for the doing of many

errands for the dressmaker who lived on the

top floor of the building of which Bob Kendry

was janitor. But that knowledge had not de-

terred her. She wanted to go to her Sunday

school's picnic, and she had made up her mind

to wear a new dress. So, In spite of certain un-

pleasantness and possible danger, she had

taken the money to buy the material for that

pathetic little red frock.

There had been, even In those days,

nothing sacrificial In Clare Kendry's Idea of

life, no allegiance beyond her own Immediate

desire. She was selfish, and cold, and hard. And

yet she had, too, a strange capacity of trans-

forming warmth and passion, verging some-

times almost on theatrical heroics.

Irene, who was a year or more older

than Clare, remembered the day that Bob Ken-

dry had been brought home dead, killed in

a silly saloon-fight. Clare, who was at that

time a scant fifteen years old, had just stood

PASSING there with her lips pressed together, her thin

arms folded across her narrow chest, staring

down at the familiar pasty-white face of her

parent with a sort of disdain in her slanting

black eyes. For a very long time she had stood

like that, silent and staring. Then, quite sud-

denly, she had given way to a torrent of weep-

ing, swaying her thin body, tearing at her

bright hair, and stamping her small feet. The

outburst had ceased as suddenly as it had be-

gun. She glanced quickly about the bare room,

taking everyone in, even the two policemen, in

a sharp look of flashing scorn. And, in the next

instant, she had turned and vanished through

the door.

Seen across the long stretch of years,

the thing had more the appearance of an out-

pouring of pent-up fury than of an overflow of

grief for her dead father; though she had been,

Irene admitted, fond enough of him In her own

rather catlike way.

Catlike. Certainly that was the word

which best described Clare Kendry, if any sin-

gle word could describe her. pometlmes she

ENCOUNTER was hard and apparently without feeling at all;

sometimes she was affectionate and rashly Im-

pulsive. And there was about her an amazing

soft malice, hidden well away until provoked.

Then she was capable of scratching, and very

effectively too. Or, driven to anger, she would

fight with a ferocity and impetuousness that

disregarded or forgot any danger; superior

strength, numbers, or other unfavourable cir-

cumstances. How savagely she had clawed

those boys the day they had hooted her parent

and sung a derisive rhyme, of their own com-

posing, which pointed out certain eccentricities

in his careening gait! And how deliberately

she had

—

Irene brought her thoughts back to the

present, to the letter from Clare Kendry that

she still held unopened in her hand. With a lit-

tle feeling of apprehension, she very slowly cut

the envelope, drew out the folded sheets, spread

them, and began to read.

It was, she saw at once, what she had

expected since learning from the postmark

that Clare was in the city. An extravagantly

PASSING phrased wish to see her again. Well, she

needn't and wouldn't, Irene told herself, ac-

cede to that. Nor would she assist Clare to

realize her foolish desire to return for a mo-

ment to that life which long ago, and of her

own choice, she had left behind her.

She ran through the letter, puzzling

out, as best she could, the carelessly formed

words or making instinctive guesses at them.

". . . For I am lonely, so lonely . . .

cannot help longing to be with you again, as I

have never longed for anything before; and I

have wanted many things in my life. . . . You

can't know how in this pale life of mine I am

all the time seeing the bright pictures of that

other that I once thought I was glad to be free

of. . . . It's like an ache, a pain that never

ceases. . . ." Sheets upon thin sheets of it.

And ending finally with, "and it's your fault,

'Rene dear. At least partly. For I wouldn't

now, perhaps, have this terrible, this wild de-

sire if I hadn't seen you that time in Chi-

cago. . . ."

ENCOUNTER Brilliant red patches flamed in Irene

Redfield's warm olive cheeks.

"That time in Chicago." The words

stood out from among the many paragraphs of

other words, bringing with them a clear, sharp

remembrance, in which even now, after two

years, humiliation, resentment, and rage were

mingled.

TWO

This is what Irene Redfield remembered.

Chicago. August. A brilliant day, hot,

with a brutal staring sun pouring down rays

that were like molten rain. A day on which the

very outlines of the buildings shuddered as if

In protest at the heat. Quivering lines sprang

up from baked pavements and wriggled along

the shining car-tracks. The automobiles parked

at the kerbs were a dancing blaze, and the

glass of the shop-windows threw out a blind-

ing radiance. Sharp particles of dust rose from

the burning sidewalks, stinging the seared or

dripping skins of wilting pedestrians. What

small breeze there was seemed like the breath

of a flame fanned by slow bellows.

It was on that day of all others that

Irene set out to shop for the things which

she had promised to take home from Chicago

to her two small sons, Brian junior and Theo-

dore. Characteristically, she had put it off un-

ENCOUNTER til only a few crowded days remained of her

long visit. And only this sweltering one was

free of engagements till the evening.

Without too much trouble she had got

the mechanical aeroplane for Junior. But the

drawing-book, for which Ted had so gravely

and insistently given her precise directions, had

sent her in and out of five shops without suc-

cess.

It was while she was on her way to a

sixth place that right before her smarting eyes

a man toppled over and became an inert

crumpled heap on the scorching cement. About

the lifeless figure a little crowd gathered. Was the man dead, or only faint? someone asked

her. But Irene didn't know and didn't try to

discover. She edged her way out of the increas-

ing crowd, feeling disagreeably damp and

sticky and soiled from contact with so many

sweating bodies.

For a moment she stood fanning her-

self and dabbing at her moist face with an In-

adequate scrap of handkerchief. Suddenly she

was aware that the whole street had a wobbly

PASSING look, and realized that she was about to faint.

With a quick perception of the need for Im-

mediate safety, she lifted a wavering hand In

the direction of a cab parked directly In front

of her. The perspiring driver jumped out and

guided her to his car. He helped, almost lifted

her In. She sank down on the hot leather seat.

For a minute her thoughts were neb-

ulous. They cleared.

*^I guess,'* she told her Samaritan, "It's

tea I need. On a roof somewhere."

"The Drayton, ma'am?" he suggested.

"They do say as how it's always a breeze up

there."

"Thank you. I think the Drayton'll do

nicely," she told him.

There was that little grating sound of

the clutch being slipped in as the man put

the car in gear and slid deftly out into the boil-

ing traffic. Reviving under the warm breeze

stirred up by the moving cab, Irene made some

small attempts to repair the damage that the

heat and crowds had done to her appear-

ance.

ENCOUNTER All too soon the rattling vehicle shot

towards the sidewalk and stood still. The

driver sprang out and opened the door before

the hotel's decorated attendant could reach It.

She got out, and thanking him smilingly as well

as in a more substantial manner for his kind

helpfulness and understanding, went In through

the Drayton's wide doors.

Stepping out of the elevator that had

brought her to the roof, she was led to a table

just In front of a long window whose gently

moving curtains suggested a cool breeze. It

was, she thought, like being wafted upward on

a magic carpet to another world, pleasant,

quiet, and strangely remote from the sizzling

one that she had left below.

The tea, when it came, was all that

she had desired and expected. In fact, so much

was it what she had desired and expected that

after the first deep cooling drink she was able

to forget It, only now and then sipping, a little

absently, from the tall green glass, while she

surveyed the room about her or looked out

over some lower buildings at the bright un-

PASSING Stirred blue of the lake reaching away to an

undetected horizon.

She had been gazing down for some

time at the specks of cars and people creeping

about in streets, and thinking how silly they

looked, when on taking up her glass she was

surprised to find it empty at last. She asked

for more tea and while she waited, began to re-

call the happenings of the day and to wonder

what she was to do about Ted and his book.

Why was it that almost invariably he wanted

something that was difficult or impossible to

get? Like his father. For ever wanting some-

thing that he couldn't have.

Presently there were voices, a man's

booming one and a woman's slightly husky. A waiter passed her, followed by a sweetly

scented woman in a fluttering dress of green

chifi^on whose mingled pattern of narcissuses,

jonquils, and hyacinths was a reminder of pleas-

antly chill spring days. Behind her there was

a man, very red In the face, who was mopping

his neck and forehead with a big crumpled

handkerchief.

ENCOUNTER "Oh dear I" Irene groaned, rasped by

annoyance, for after a little discussion and com-

motion they had stopped at the very next table.

She had been alone there at the window and

It had been so satisfylngly quiet. Now, of

course, they would chatter.

But no. Only the woman sat down. The

man remained standing, abstractedly pinching

the knot of his bright blue tie. Across the small

space that separated the two tables his voice

carried clearly.

"See you later, then," he declared, look-

ing down at the woman. There was pleasure

in his tones and a smile on his face.

His companion's lips parted In some

answer, but her words were blurred by the

little intervening distance and the medley of

noises floating up from the streets below. They

didn't reach Irene. But she noted the peculiar

caressing smile that accompanied them.

The man said: "Well, I suppose I'd

better," and smiled again, and said good-bye,

and left.

An attractive-looking woman, was

PASSING Irene's opinion, with those dark, almost black,

eyes and that wide mouth like a scarlet flower

against the Ivory of her skin. Nice clothes too,

just right for the weather, thin and cool with-

out being mussy, as summer things were so

apt to be.

A waiter was taking her order. Irene

saw her smile up at him as she murmured some-

thing—thanks, maybe. It was an odd sort of

smile. Irene couldn't quite define it, but she

was sure that she would have classed It, com-

ing from another woman, as being just a shade

too provocative for a waiter. About this one,

however, there was something that made her

hesitate to name It that. A certain impression

of assurance, perhaps.

The waiter came back with the order.

Irene watched her spread out her napkin, saw

the silver spoon in the white hand slit the dull

gold of the melon. Then, conscious that she had

been staring, she looked quickly away.

Her mind returned to her own affairs.

She had settled, definitely, the problem of the

proper one of two frocks for the bridge party

ENCOUNTER that night, In rooms whose atmosphere would

be so thick and hot that every breath would be

like breathing soup. The dress decided, her

thoughts had gone back to the snag of Ted's

book, her unseeing eyes far away on the lake,

when by some sixth sense she was acutely

aware that someone was watching her.

Very slowly she looked around, and

into the dark eyes of the woman In the green

frock at the next table. But she evidently failed

to realize that such intense interest as she was

showing might be embarrassing, and continued

to stare. Her demeanour was that of one who

with utmost singleness of mind and purpose

was determined to impress firmly and accu-

rately each detail of Irene's features upon her

memory for all time, nor showed the slightest

trace of disconcertment at having been detected

in her steady scrutiny.

Instead, it was Irene who was put out.

Feeling her colour heighten under the continued

Inspection, she slid her eyes down. What, she

wondered, could be the reason for such per-

sistent attention? Had she. In her haste In the

PASSING taxi, put her hat on backwards? Guardedly she

felt at it. No. Perhaps there was a streak of

powder somewhere on her face. She made a

quick pass over it with her handkerchief. Some-

thing wrong with her dress? She shot a glance

over it. Perfectly all right. What was it?

Again she looked up, and for a mo-

ment her brown eyes politely returned the

stare of the other's black ones, which never

for an instant fell or wavered. Irene made a

little mental shrug. Oh well, let her look! She

tried to treat the woman and her watching

with indifference, but she couldn't. All her ef-

forts to ignore her, it, were futile. She stole

another glance. Still looking. What strange

languorous eyes she had!

And gradually there rose in Irene a

small inner disturbance, odious and hatefully

familiar. She laughed softly, but her eyes

flashed.

Did that woman, could that woman,

somehow know that here before her very eyes

on the roof of the Drayton sat a Negro?

Absurd! Impossible! White people were

ENCOUNTER SO stupid about such things for all that they

usually asserted that they were able to tell; and

by the most ridiculous means, finger-nails,

palms of hands, shapes of ears, teeth, and

other equally silly rot. They always took her

for an Italian, a Spaniard, a Mexican, or a

gipsy. Never, when she was alone, had they

even remotely seemed to suspect that she was a

Negro. No, the woman sitting there staring at

her couldn't possibly know.

Nevertheless, Irene felt, in turn, anger,

scorn, and fear slide over her. It wasn't that

she was ashamed of being a Negro, or even of

having it declared. It was the idea of being

ejected from any place, even in the polite and

tactful way in which the Drayton would prob-

ably do it, that disturbed her.

But she looked, boldly this time, back

into the eyes still frankly intent upon her.

They did not seem to her hostile or resentful.

Rather, Irene had the feeling that they were

ready to smile if she would. Nonsense, of

course. The feeling passed, and she turned

away with the firm intention of keeping her

PASSING gaze on the lake, the roofs of the buildings

across the way, the sky, anywhere but on that

annoying woman. Almost immediately, how-

ever, her eyes were back again. In the midst of

her fog of uneasiness she had been seized by a

desire to outstare the rude observer. Suppose

the woman did know or suspect her race. She

couldn't prove it.

Suddenly her small fright Increased.

Her neighbour had risen and was coming

towards her. What was going to happen now?

"Pardon me," the woman said pleas-

antly, *'but I think I know you." Her slightly

husky voice held a dubious note.

Looking up at her, Irene's suspicions

and fears vanished. There was no mistaking

the friendliness of that smile or resisting Its

charm. Instantly she surrendered to it and

smiled too, as she said: "I'm afraid you're mis-

taken."

"Why, of course, I know you !" the

other exclaimed. "Don't tell me you're not

Irene Westover. Or do they still call you

'Rene?"

ENCOUNTER In the brief second before her answer,

Irene tried vainly to recall where and when

this woman could have known her. There, in

Chicago. And before her marriage. That much

was plain. High school? College? Y. W. C. A.

committees? High school, most likely. What

white girls had she known well enough to have

been familiarly addressed as 'Rene by them?

The woman before her didn't fit her memory

of any of them. Who was she?

"Yes, I'm Irene Westover. And though

nobody calls me 'Rene any more, it's good to

hear the name again. And you —

" She hesi-

tated, ashamed that she could not remember,

and hoping that the sentence would be finished

for her.

"Don't .you know me? Not really,

'Rene?"

"I'm sorry, but just at the minute I

can't seem to place you."

Irene studied the lovely creature stand-

ing beside her for some clue to her identity.

Who could she be? Where and when had they

met? And through her perplexity there came

PASSING the thought that the trick which her memory

had played her was for some reason more

gratifying than disappointing to her old ac-

quaintance, that she didn't mind not being

recognized.

And, too, Irene felt that she was just

about to remember her. For about the woman

was some quality, an intangible something, too

vague to define, too remote to seize, but which

was, to Irene Redfield, very familiar. And that

voice. Surely she'd heard those husky tones

somewhere before. Perhaps before time, con-

tact, or something had been at them, making

them into a voice remotely suggesting England.

Ah ! Could it have been in Europe that they

had met? 'Rene. No.

"Perhaps," Irene began, "you —

The woman laughed, a lovely laugh, a

small sequence of notes that was like a trill and

also like the ringing of a delicate bell fashioned

of a precious metal, a tinkling.

Irene drew a quick sharp breath.

"Clare!" she exclaimed, "not really Clare

Kendry?"

ENCOUNTER So great was her astonishment that she

had started to rise.

^'No, no, don't get up," Clare Kendry

commanded, and sat down herself. "You've

simply got to stay and talk. We'll have some-

thing more. Tea ? Fancy meeting you here ! It's

simply too, too lucky!"

*'It's awfully surprising," Irene told

her, and, seeing the change In Clare's smile,

knew that she had revealed a corner of her

own thoughts. But she only said: "I'd never

In this world have known you If you hadn't

laughed. You are changed, you know. And yet,

in a way, you're just the same."

"Perhaps," Clare replied. "Oh, just a

second."

She gave her attention to the waiter

at her side. "M-mm, let's see. Two teas. And

bring some cigarettes. Y-es, they'll be all right.

Thanks." Again that odd upward smile. Now,

Irene was sure that it was too provocative for

a waiter.

While Clare had been giving the order,

Irene made a rapid mental calculation. It must

PASSING be, she figured, all of twelve years since she,

or anybody that she knew, had laid eyes on

Clare Kendry.

After her father's death she'd gone to

live with some relatives, aunts or cousins two or

three times removed, over on the west side

relatives that nobody had known the Kendry's

possessed until they had turned up at the fu-

neral and taken Clare away with them.

For about a year or more afterwards

she would appear occasionally among her old

friends and acquaintances on the south side for

short little visits that were, they understood,

always stolen from the endless domestic tasks

in her new home. With each succeeding one

she was taller, shabbier, and more belligerently

sensitive. And each time the look on her face

was more resentful and brooding. "I'm wor-

ried about Clare, she seems so unhappy," Irene

remembered her mother saying. The visits

dwindled, becoming shorter, fewer, and further

apart until at last they ceased.

Irene's father, who had been fond of

Bob Kendry, made a special trip over to the

ENCOUNTER west side about two months after the last time

Clare had been to see them and returned with

the bare information that he had seen the rela-

tives and that Clare had disappeared. What

else he had confided to her mother, in the pri-

vacy of their own room, Irene didn't know.

But she had had something more than a

vague suspicion of its nature. For there had

been rumours. Rumours that were, to girls of

eighteen and nineteen years, interesting and

exciting.

There was the one about Clare Ken-

dry's having been seen at the dinner hour in a

fashionable hotel in company with another

woman and two men, all of them white. And

dressed! And there was another which told of

her driving in Lincoln Park with a man, un-

mistakably white, and evidently rich. Packard

limousine, chauffeur in livery, and all that.

There had been others whose context Irene

could no longer recollect, but all pointing in

the same glamorous direction.

And she could remember quite vividly

how, when they used to repeat and discuss these

PASSING tantalizing stories about Clare, the girls would

always look knowingly at one another and then,

with little excited giggles, drag away their

eager shining eyes and say with lurking under-

tones of regret or disbelief some such thing as:

"Oh, well, maybe she's got a job or something,"

or "After all, it mayn't have been Clare," or

"You can't believe all you hear."

And always some girl, more matter-of-

fact or more frankly malicious than the rest,

would declare: "Of course it was Clare! Ruth

said it was and so did Frank, and they cer-

tainly know her when they see her as well as

we do." And someone else would say: "Yes,

you can bet it was Clare all right." And then

they would all join in asserting that there could

be no mistake about it's having been Clare,

and that such circumstances could mean only

one thing. Working indeed! People didn't take

their servants to the Shelby for dinner. Cer-

tainly not all dressed up like that. There would

follow insincere regrets, and somebody would

say: "Poor girl, I suppose it's true enough, but

ENCOUNTER what can you expect. Look at her father. And

her mother, they say, would have run away If

she hadn't died. Besides, Clare always had a

—

a—having way with her."

Precisely that ! The words came to Irene

as she sat there on the Drayton roof, facing

Clare Kendry. "A having way." Well, Irene

acknowledged, judging from her appearance

and manner, Clare seemed certainly to have

succeeded In having a few of the things that

she wanted.

It was, Irene repeated, after the Inter-

val of the waiter, a great surprise and a very

pleasant one to see Clare again after all those

years, twelve at least.

"Why, Clare, you're the last person In

the world I'd have expected to run Into. I guess

that's why I didn't know you."

Clare answered gravely: "Yes. It Is

twelve years. But I'm not surprised to see you,

'Rene. That Is, not so very. In fact, ever since

I've been here, I've more or less hoped that I

should, or someone. Preferably you, though.

PASSING Still, I Imagine that's because I've thought of

you often and often, while you—I'll wager

you've never given me a thought."

It was true, of course. After the first

speculations and indictments, Clare had gone

completely from Irene's thoughts. And from

the thoughts of others too—if their conversa-

tion was any indication of their thoughts.

Besides, Clare had never been exactly

one of the group, just as she'd never been

merely the janitor's daughter, but the daughter

of Mr. Bob Kendry, who, it was true, was a

janitor, but who also, it seemed, had been in

college with some of their fathers. Just how or

why he happened to be a janitor, and a very in-

efficient one at that, they none of them quite

knew. One of Irene's brothers, who had put the

question to their father, had been told: "That's

something that doesn't concern you," and given

him the advice to be careful not to end in the

same manner as "poor Bob."

No, Irene hadn't thought of Clare

Kendry. Her own life had been too crowded.

So, she supposed, had the lives of other peo-

ENCOUNTER pie. She defended her—their—forgetfulness.

"You know how It is. Everybody's so busy.

People leave, drop out, maybe for a little

while there's talk about them, or questions;

then, gradually they're forgotten."

*'Yes, that's natural," Clare agreed.

And what, she inquired, had they said of her

for that little while at the beginning before

they'd forgotten her altogether?

Irene looked away. She felt the tell-

tale colour rising in her cheeks. "You can't,"

she evaded, "expect me to remember trifles

like that over twelve years of marriages, births,

deaths, and the war."

There followed that trill of notes that

was Clare Kendry's laugh, small and clear and

the very essence of mockery.

"Oh, 'Rene!" she cried, "of course you

remember I But I won't make you tell me, be-

cause I know just as well as if I'd been there

and heard every unkind word. Oh, I know, I

know. Frank Danton saw me in the Shelby

one night. Don't tell me he didn't broadcast

that, and with embroidery. Others may have

PASSING seen me at other times. I don't know. But once

I met Margaret Hammer In Marshall Field's.

I'd have spoken, was on the very point of doing

it, but she cut me dead. My dear 'Rene, I as-

sure you that from the way she looked through

me, even I was uncertain whether I was actually

there In the flesh or not. I remember It clearly,

too clearly. It was that very thing which, In

a way, finally decided me not to go out and

see you one last time before I went away to

stay. Somehow, good as all of you, the whole

family, had always been to the poor forlorn

child that was me, I felt I shouldn't be able

to bear that. I mean if any of you, your mother

or the boys or— Oh, well, I just felt I'd rather

not know It if you did. And so I stayed away.

Silly, I suppose. Sometimes I've been sorry I

didn't go."

Irene wondered if it was tears that

made Clare's eyes so luminous.

"And now 'Rene, I want to hear all

about you and everybody and everything.

You're married, I s'pose?"

Irene nodded.

ENCOUNTER "Yes," Clare said knowingly, "you

would be. Tell me about it/'

And so for an hour or more they had

sat there smoking and drinking tea and filling

in the gap of twelve years with talk. That is,

Irene did. She told Clare about her marriage

and removal to New York, about her husband,

and about her two sons, who were having their

first experience of being separated from their

parents at a summer camp, about her mother's

death, about the marriages of her two brothers.

She told of the marriages, births and deaths In

other families that Clare had known, opening

up, for her, new vistas on the lives of old

friends and acquaintances.

Clare drank it all In, these things which

for so long she had wanted to know and hadn't

been able to learn. She sat motionless, her

bright lips slightly parted, her whole face lit by

the radiance of her happy eyes. Now and then

she put a question, but for the most part she

was silent.

Somewhere outside, a clock struck.

Brought back to the present, Irene looked down

PASSING at her watch and exclaimed: *'0h, I must go,

Clare!"

A moment passed during which she was

the prey of uneasiness. It had suddenly occurred

to her that she hadn't asked Clare anything

about her own life and that she had a very

definite unwillingness to do so. And she was

quite well aware of the reason for that re-

luctance. But, she asked herself, wouldn't it,

all things considered, be the kindest thing not

to ask? If things with Clare were as she—as

they all—had suspected, wouldn't it be more

tactful to seem to forget to Inquire how she

had spent those twelve years?

Iff It was that "if" which bothered her.

It might be, it might just be, in spite of all gos-

sip and even appearances to the contrary, that

there was nothing, had been nothing, that

couldn't be simply and innocently explained.

Appearances, she knew now, had a way some-

times of not fitting facts, and if Clare hadn't

—

Well, If they had all been wrong, then certainly

she ought to express some Interest In what had

happened to her. It would seem queer and rude

ENCOUNTER if she didn't. But how was she to know? There

was, she at last decided, no way; so she merely

said again. "I must go, Clare."

"Please, not so soon, 'Rene," Clare

begged, not moving.

Irene thought: ''She's really almost too

good-looking. It's hardly any wonder that

she—"

''And now, 'Rene dear, that I've found

you, I mean to see lots and lots of you. We're

here for a month at least. Jack, that's my hus-

band, is here on business. Poor dear! in this

heat. Isn't it beastly? Come to dinner with us

tonight, won't you?" And she gave Irene a cu-

rious little sidelong glance and a sly, ironical

smile peeped out on her full red lips, as if she

had been in the secret of the other's thoughts

, and was mocking her.

Irene was conscious of a sharp intake

of breath, but whether it was relief or chagrin

that she felt, she herself could not have told.

She said hastily: "I'm afraid I can't, Clare. I'm

filled up. Dinner and bridge. I'm so sorry."

"Come tomorrow instead, to tea," Clare

PASSING insisted. *'Then you'll see Margery—she's just

ten—and Jack too, maybe, if he hasn't got an

appointment or something."

From Irene came an uneasy little laugh.

She had an engagement for tomorrow also and

she was afraid that Clare would not believe It.

Suddenly, now, that possibility disturbed her.

Therefore It was with a half-vexed feeling at

the sense of undeserved guilt that had come

upon her that she explained that It wouldn't

be possible because she wouldn't be free for

tea, or for luncheon or dinner either. "And the

next day's Friday when I'll be going away for

the week-end, Idlewlld, you know. It's quite

the thing now." And then she had an Inspira*

tlon.

"Clare!" she exclaimed, "why don't

you come up with me? Our place Is probably

full up—Jim's wife has a way of collecting

mobs of the most Impossible people—but we

can always manage to find room for one more.

And you'll see absolutely everybody."

In the very moment of giving the in-

ENCOUNTER vltatlon she regretted It. What a foolish, what

an idiotic Impulse to have given way to ! She

groaned Inwardly as she thought of the endless

explanations In which it would Involve her, of

the curiosity, and the talk, and the lifted eye-

brows. It wasn't she assured herself, that she

was a snob, that she cared greatly for the petty

restrictions and distinctions with which what

called Itself Negro society chose to hedge It-

self about; but that she had a natural and

deeply rooted aversion to the kind of front-

page notoriety that Clare Kendry's presence In

Idlewlld, as her guest, would expose her to. And

here she was, perversely and against all reason,

inviting her.

But Clare shook her head. "Really, I'd

love to, 'Rene," she said, a little mournfully.

^'There's nothing I'd like better. But I couldn't.

I mustn't, you see. It wouldn't do at all. I'm

sure you understand. I'm simply crazy to go,

but I can't." The dark eyes glistened and there

was a suspicion of a quaver in the husky voice.

"And believe me, 'Rene, I do thank you for

PASSING asking me. Don't think I've entirely forgotten

just what it would mean for you if I went. That

is, if you still care about such things."

All indication of tears had gone from

her eyes and voice, and Irene Redfield, search-

ing her face, had an offended feeling that be-

hind what was now only an ivory mask lurked

a scornful amusement. She looked away, at the

wall far beyond Clare. Well, she deserved it,

for, as she acknowledged to herself, she was

relieved. And for the very reason at which

Clare had hinted. The fact that Clare had

guesssed her perturbation did not, however. In

any degree lessen that relief. She was annoyed

at having been detected in what might seem to

be an insincerity; but that was all.

The waiter came with Clare's change.

Irene reminded herself that she ought imme-

diately to go. But she didn't move.

The truth was, she was curious. There

were things that she wanted to ask Clare Ken-

dry. She wished to find out about this hazardous

business of "passing," this breaking away from

all that was famihar and friendly to take one's

ENCOUNTER chance in another environment, not entirely

strange, perhaps, but certainly not entirely

friendly. What, for example, one did about

background, how one accounted for oneself.

And how one felt when one came into contact

with other Negroes. But she couldn't. She was

unable to think of a single question that in its

context or its phrasing was not too frankly cu-

rious, if not actually impertinent.

As if aware of her desire and her hesi-

tation, Clare remarked, thoughtfully: "You

know, 'Rene, I've often wondered why more

coloured girls, girls like you and Margaret

Hammer and Esther Dawson and—oh, lots of

others—never ^passed' over. It's such a fright-

fully easy thing to do. If one's the type, all

that's needed is a little nerve."

"What about background? Family, I

mean. Surely you can't just drop down on peo-

ple from nowhere and expect them to receive

you with open arms, can you?"

"Almost," Clare asserted. "You'd be

surprised, 'Rene, how much easier that is with

white people than with us. Maybe because there

PASSING are so many more of them, or maybe because

they are secure and so don't have to bother. I've

never quite decided."

Irene was Inclined to be incredulous.

"You mean that you didn't have to explain

where you came from? It seems impossible."

Clare cast a .glance of repressed amuse-

ment across the table at her. "As a matter of

fact, I didn't. Though I suppose under any

other circumstances I might have had to pro-

vide some plausible tale to account for myself.

I've a good imagination, so I'm sure I could

have done it quite creditably, and credibly. But

it wasn't necessary. There were my aunts, you

see, respectable and authentic enough for any-

thing or anybody."

"I see. They were 'passing' too."

"No. They weren't. They were white."

"Oh!" And in the next instant it came

back to Irene that she had heard this mentioned

before; by her father, or, more likely, her

mother. They were Bob Kendry's aunts. He had

been a son of their brother's, on the left hand.

A wild oat.

ENCOUNTER *'They were nice old ladies," Clare ex-

plained, "very religious and as poor as church

mice. That adored brother of theirs, my grand-

father, got through every penny they had after

he'd finished his own little bit."

Clare paused in her narrative to light

another cigarette. Her smile, her expression,

Irene noticed, was faintly resentful.

"Being good Christians," she continued,

"when dad came to his tipsy end, they did their

duty and gave me a home of sorts. I was, it was

true, expected to earn my keep by doing all the

housework and most of the washing. But do you

realize, 'Rene, that if it hadn't been for them,

I shouldn't have had a home in the world?"

Irene's nod and little murmur were com-

prehensive, understanding.

Clare made a small mischievous grim-

ace and proceeded. "Besides, to their notion,

hard labour was good for me. I had Negro

blood and they belonged to the generation that

had written and read long articles headed:

'Will the Blacks Work?' Too, they weren't

quite sure that the good God hadn't intended

PASSING the sons and daughters of Ham to sweat be-

cause he had poked fun at old man Noah once

when he had taken a drop too much. I remem-

ber the aunts telling me that that old drunkard

had cursed Ham and his sons for all time."

Irene laughed. But Clare remained quite

serious.

"It was more than a joke, I assure you,

'Rene. It was a hard life for a girl of sixteen.

Still, I had a roof over my head, and food, and

clothes—such as they were. And there were the

Scriptures, and talks on morals and thrift and

industry and the loving-kindness of the good

Lord."

"Have you ever stopped to think,

Clare," Irene demanded, "how much unhappi-

ness and downright cruelty are laid to the lov-

ing-kindness of the Lord? And always by His

most ardent followers, it seems."

"Have I?" Clare exclaimed. "It, they,

made me what I am today. For, of course, I

was determined to get away, to be a person

and not a charity or a problem, or even a

daughter of the indiscreet Ham. Then, too, I

ENCOUNTER wanted things. I knew I wasn't bad-looking and

that I could 'pass.' You can't know, 'Rene, how,

when I used to go over to the south side, I

used almost to hate all of you. You had all the

things I wanted and never had had. It made me

all the more determined to get them, and oth-

ers. Do you, can you understand what I felt?"

She looked up with a pointed and ap-

pealing effect, and, evidently finding the sympa-

thetic expression on Irene's face sufficient an-

swer, went on. "The aunts were queer. For

all their Bibles and praying and ranting about

honesty, they didn't want anyone to know that

their darling brother had seduced—ruined, they

called It—a Negro girl. They could excuse the

ruin, but they couldn't forgive the tar-brush.

They forbade me to mention Negroes to the

neighbours, or even to mention the south side.

You may be sure that I didn't. I'll bet they

were good and sorry afterwards."

She laughed and the ringing bells In

her laugh had a hard metallic sound.

"When the chance to get away came,

that omission was of great value to me. When

PASSING Jack, a schoolboy acquaintance of some peo-

ple In the neighbourhood, turned up from

South America with untold gold, there was no

one to tell him that I was coloured, and many

to tell him about the severity and the religious-

ness of Aunt Grace and Aunt Edna. You can

guess the rest. After he came, I stopped slip-

ping off to the south side and slipped off to meet

him Instead. I couldn't manage both. In the

end I had no great difficulty In convincing him

that It was useless to talk marriage to the

aunts. So on the day that I was eighteen, we

went off and were married. So that's that.

Nothing could have been easier."

*'Yes, I do see that for you It was easy

enough. By the way ! I wonder why they didn't

tell father that you were married. He went

over to find out about you when you stopped

coming over to see us. I'm sure they didn't tell

him. Not that you were married."

Clare Kendry's eyes were bright with

tears that didn't fall. "Oh, how lovely! To

have cared enough about me to do that. The

dear sweet man! Well, they couldn't tell him

• 42

ENCOUNTER because they didn't know it. I took care of that,

for I couldn't be sure that those consciences of

theirs wouldn't begin to work on them after-

wards and make them let the cat out of the

bag. The old things probably thought I was

living In sin, wherever I was. And it would be

about what they expected."

An amused smile lit the lovely face for

the smallest fraction of a second. After a little

silence she said soberly: "But I'm sorry if they

told your father so. That was something I

hadn't counted on."

"I'm not sure that they did," Irene told

her. "He didn't say so, anyway.'*

"He wouldn't, 'Rene dear. Not your

father."

"Thanks. I'm sure he wouldn't."

"But you've never answered my ques-

tion. Tell me, honestly, haven't you ever

thought of 'passing' ?"

Irene answered promptly: "No. Why should I?" And so disdainful was her voice

and manner that Clare's face flushed and her

eyes glinted. Irene hastened to add: "You see,

PASSING Clare, I've everything I want. Except, perhaps,

a little more money."

At that Clare laughed, her spark of

anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Of course," she declared, "that's what every-

body wants, just a little more money, even the

people who have it. And I must say I don't

blame them. Money's awfully nice to have. In

fact, all things considered, I think, 'Rene, that

it's even worth the price."

Irene could only shrug her shoulders.

Her reason partly agreed, her instinct wholly

rebelled. And she could not say why. And

though conscious that if she didn't hurry away,

she was going to be late to dinner, she still

lingered. It was as if the woman sitting on the

other side of the table, a girl that she had

known, who had done this rather dangerous

and, to Irene Redfield, abhorrent thing success-

fully and had announced herself well satisfied,

had for her a fascination, strange and com-

pelling.

Clare Kendry was still leaning back in

the tall chair, her sloping shoulders against

ENCOUNTER the carved top. She sat with an air of indif-

ferent assurance, as if arranged for, desired.

About her clung that dim suggestion of polite

insolence with which a few women are born

and which some acquire with the coming of

riches or importance.

Clare, it gave Irene a little prick of

satisfaction to recall, hadn't got that by pass-

ing herself off as white. She herself had always

had it.

Just as she'd always had that pale gold

hair, which, unsheared still, was drawn loosely

back from a broad brow, partly hidden by the

small close hat. Her lips, painted a brilliant

geranium-red, were sweet and sensitive and a

little obstinate. A tempting mouth. The face

across the forehead and cheeks was a trifle too

wide, but the ivory skin had a peculiar soft

lustre. And the eyes were magnificent! dark,

sometimes absolutely black, always luminous,

and set in long, black lashes. Arresting eyes,

slow and mesmeric, and with, for all their

warmth, something withdrawn and secret about

them.

PASSING Ah! Surely! They were Negro eyes!

mysterious and concealing. And set in that ivory

face under that bright hair, there was about

them something exotic.

Yes, Clare Kendry's loveliness was ab-

solute, beyond challenge, thanks to those eyes

which her grandmother and later her mother

and father had given her.

Into those eyes there came a smile and

over Irene the sense of being petted and ca-

ressed. She smiled back.

"Maybe," Clare suggested, "you can

come Monday, if you're back. Or, if you're not,

then Tuesday." ^

With a small regretful sigh, Irene in-

formed Clare that she was afraid she wouldn't

be back by Monday and that she was sure she

had dozens of things for Tuesday, and that she

was leaving Wednesday. It might be, how-

ever, that she could get out of something Tues-

day.

"Oh, do try. Do put somebody else off.

The others can see you any time, while I—Why,

I may never see you again! Think of that,

ENCOUNTER 'Rene! You'll have to come. You'll simply

have to ! I'll never forgive you if you don't."

At that moment It seemed a dreadful

thing to think of never seeing Clare Kendry

again. Standing there under the appeal, the

caress, of her eyes, Irene had the desire, the

hope, that this parting wouldn't be the last.

"I'll try, Clare," she promised gently.

"I'll call you—or will you call me?"

"I think, perhaps, I'd better call you.

Your father's In the book, I know, and the ad-

dress Is the same. Sixty-four eighteen. Some

memory, what? Now remember, I'm going to

expect you. You've got to be able to come."

Again that peculiar mellowing smile.

"I'll do my best, Clare."

Irene gathered up her gloves and bag.

They stood up. She put out her hand. Clare

took and held It.

"It has been nice seeing you again,

Clare. How pleased and glad father'll be to

hear about you!"

"Until Tuesday, then," Clare Kendry

replied. "I'll spend every minute of the time

PASSING from now on looking forward to seeing you

again. Good-bye, 'Rene dear. My love to your

father, and this kiss for him."

The sun had gone from overhead, but

the streets were still like fiery furnaces. The

languid breeze was still hot. And the scurry-

ing people looked even more wilted than be-

fore Irene had fled from their contact.

Crossing the avenue In the heat, far

from the coolness of the Drayton's roof, away

from the seduction of Clare Kendry's smile,

she was aware of a sense of Irritation with her-

self because she had been pleased and a little

flattered at the other's obvious gladness at their

meeting.

With her perspiring progress homeward

this irritation grew, and she began to wonder

just what had possessed her to make her prom-

ise to find time, In the crowded days that re-

mained of her visit, to spend another afternoon

with a woman whose life had so definitely and

deliberately diverged from hers; and whom,

ENCOUNTER as had been pointed out, she might never see

again.

Why In the world had she made such a

promise?

As she went up the steps to her father's

house, thinking with what interest and amaze-

ment he would listen to her story of the after-

noon's encounter, It came to her that Clare

had omitted to mention her marriage name.

She had referred to her husband as Jack. That

was all. Had that, Irene asked herself, been

intentional ?

Clare had only to pick up the telephone

to communicate with her, or to drop her a card,

or to jump into a taxi. But she couldn't reach

Clare in any way. Nor could anyone else to

whom she might speak of their meeting.

"As if I should!"

Her key turned In the lock. She went in.

Her father, it seemed, hadn't come in yet.

Irene decided that she wouldn't, after

all, say anything to him about Clare Kendry.

She had, she told herself, no inclination to

PASSING Speak of a person who held so low an opinion

of her loyalty, or her discretion. And certainly

she had no desire or Intention of making the

slightest effort about Tuesday. Nor any other

day for that matter.

She was through with Clare Kendry.

THREE

On TUESDAY morning a dome of grey sky rose

over the parched city, but the stifling air was

not reHeved by the silvery mist that seemed to

hold a promise of rain, which did not fall.

To Irene Redfield this soft foreboding

fog was another reason for doing nothing

about seeing Clare Kendry that afternoon.

But she did see her.

The telephone. For hours it had rung

like something possessed. Since nine o'clock she

had been hearing its insistent jangle. Awhile

she was resolute, saying firmly each time: "Not

in, Liza, take the message." And each time the

servant returned with the information: "It's the

same lady, ma'am; she says she'll call again."

But at noon, her nerves frayed and her

conscience smiting her at the reproachful look

on Liza's ebony face as she withdrew for an-

other denial, Irene weakened.

"Oh, never mind. I'll answer this time,

Liza."

ENCOUNTER 'It's her again."

^'Hello. . . . Yes.''

"It's Clare, 'Rene. . . . Where have

you been? . . . Can you be here around four?

. . . What? . . . But, 'Rene, you promised!

Just for a little while. . . . You can if you

want to. ... I am so disappointed. I had

counted so on seeing you. . . . Please be nice

and come. Only for a minute. I'm sure you can

manage it If you try. ... I won't beg you to

stay. . . . Yes. . . . I'm going to expect you

. . . It's the Morgan. . . Oh, yes! The

name's Bellew, Mrs. John Bellew. . . . About

four, then. . . . I'll be so happy to see

you! . . . Goodbye."

"Damn!"

Irene hung up the receiver with an em-

phatic bang, her thoughts immediately filled

with self-reproach. She'd done it again. Al-

lowed Clare Kendry to persuade her into prom-

ising to do something for which she had neither

time nor any special desire. What was it about

Clare's voice that was so appealing, so very

seductive ?

ENCOUNTER Clare met her in the hall with a kiss.

She said: "You're good to come, 'Rene. But,

then, you always were nice to me." And under

her potent smile a part of Irene's annoyance

with herself fled. She was even a little glad that

she had come.

Clare led the way, stepping lightly, to-

wards a room whose door was standing partly

open, saying: "There's a surprise. It's a real

party. See."

Entering, Irene found herself in a sit-

ting-room, large and high, at whose windows

hung startling blue draperies which triumph-

antly dragged attention from the gloomy choco-

late-coloured furniture. And Clare was wearing

a thin floating dress of the same shade of blue,

which suited her and the rather difficult room

to perfection.

For a minute Irene thought the room

was empty, but turning her head, she dis-

covered, sunk deep in the cushions of a huge

sofa, a woman staring up at her with such in-

tense concentration that her eyelids were drawn

as though the strain of that upward glance had

PASSING paralysed them. At first Irene took her to be

a stranger, but In the next instant she said in an

unsympathetic, almost harsh voice: "And how

are you, Gertrude?"

The woman nodded and forced a smile

to her pouting lips. "I'm all right," she replied.

"And you're just the same, Irene. Not changed

a bit."

"Thank you." Irene responded, as she

chose a seat. She was thinking: "Great good-

ness! Two of them."

For Gertrude too had married a white

man, though It couldn't be truthfully said that

she was "passing." Her husband—what was

his name?—had been In school with her

and had been quite well aware, as had his

family and most of his friends, that she was

a Negro. It hadn't, Irene knew, seemed to

matter to him then. Did it now, she won-

dered? Had Fred—Fred Martin, that was

It—had he ever regretted his marriage

because of Gertrude's race? Had Ger-

trude ?

Turning to Gertrude, Irene asked:

ENCOUNTER "And Fred, how Is he? It's unmentionable years

since I've seen him."

*'0h, he's all right," Gertrude an-

swered briefly.

For a full minute no one spoke. Finally

out of the oppressive little silence Clare's voice

came pleasantly, conversationally: "We'll have

tea right away. I know that you can't stay long,

'Rene. And I'm so sorry you won't see Mar-

gery. We went up the lake over the week end

to see some of Jack's people, just out of Mil-

waukee. Margery wanted to stay with the

children. It seemed a shame not to let her, es-

pecially since It's so hot In town. But I'm ex-

pecting Jack any second."

Irene said briefly: "That's nice."

Gertrude remained silent. She was. It

was plain, a little 111 at ease. And her presence

there annoyed Irene, roused in her a defensive

and resentful feeling for which she had at the

moment no explanation. But It did seem to

her odd that the woman that Clare was now

should have Invited the woman that Ger-

trude was. Still, of course, Clare couldn't

PASSING have known. Twelve years since they had met.

Later, when she examined her feeHng

of annoyance, Irene admitted, a shade reluc-

tantly, that it arose from a feeling of being out-

numbered, a sense of aloneness, in her adher-

ence to her own class and kind; not merely in

the great thing of marriage, but in the whole

pattern of her life as well.

Clare spoke again, this time at length.

Her talk was of the change that Chicago pre-

sented to her after her long absence in Euro-

pean cities. Yes, she said in reply to some ques-

tion from Gertrude, she'd been back to

America a time or two, but only as far as New

York and Philadelphia, and once she had spent

a few days in Washington. John Bellew, who,

it appeared, was some sort of international

banking agent, hadn't particularly wanted her

to come with him on this trip, but as soon as

she had learned that it would probably take him

as far as Chicago, she made up her mind to

come anyway.

"I simply had to. And after I once got

here, I was determined to see someone I knew

ENCOUNTER and find out what had happened to everybody.

I didn't quite see how I was going to manage

It, but I meant to. Somehow. I'd just about

decided to take a chance and go out to your

house, 'Rene, or call up and arrange a meet-

ing, when I ran Into you. What luck!"

Irene agreed that It was luck. "It's the

first time I've been home for five years, and

now I'm about to leave. A week later and I'd

have been gone. And how In the world did you

find Gertrude?"

"In the book. I remembered about

Fred. His father still has the meat mar-

ket."

"Oh, yes," said Irene, who had only

remembered It as Clare had spoken, "on Cot-

tage Grove near —

Gertrude broke In. "No. It's moved.

We're on Maryland Avenue—used to be Jack-

son—now. Near Sixty-third Street. And the

market's Fred's. His name's the same as his

father's."

Gertrude, Irene thought, looked as If

her husband might be a butcher. There was left

PASSING of her youthful prettiness, which had been so

much admired In their high-school days, no

trace. She had grown broad, fat almost, and

though there were no lines on her large white

face. Its very smoothness was somehow pre-

maturely ageing. Her black hair was dipt, and

by some unfortunate means all the live curliness

had gone from It. Her over-trimmed Geor-

gette crepe dress was too short and showed an

appalling amount of leg, stout legs In sleazy

stockings of a vivid rose-beige shade. Her

plump hands were newly and not too compe-

tently manicured—for the occasion, probably.

And she wasn't smoking.

Clare said—and Irene fancied that her

husky voice held a slight edge —"Before you

came, Irene, Gertrude was telling me about her

two boys. Twins. Think of It ! Isn't It too mar-

vellous for words?"

Irene felt a warmness creeping Into her

cheeks. Uncanny, the way Clare could divine

what one was thinking. She was a little put out,

but her manner was entirely easy as she said:

"That Is nice. I've two boys myself, Gertrude.

ENCOUNTER Not twins, though. It seems that Clare's rather

behind, doesn't It?"

Gertrude, however, wasn't sure that

Clare hadn't the best of It. "She's got a girl. I

wanted a girl. So did Fred."

"Isn't that a bit unusual?" Irene asked.

"Most men want sons. Egotism, I suppose."

"Well, Fred didn't."

The tea-things had been placed on a low

table at Clare's side. She gave them her atten-

tion now, pouring the rich amber fluid from the

tall glass pitcher Into stately slim glasses, which

she handed to her guests, and then offered them

lemon or cream and tiny sandwiches or cakes.

After taking up her own glass she in-

formed them: "No, I have no boys and I don't

think I'll ever have any. I'm afraid. I nearly

died of terror the whole nine months before

Margery was born for fear that she might be

dark. Thank goodness, she turned out all right.

But I'll never risk It again. Never ! The strain

Is simply too—too hellish."

Gertrude Martin nodded in complete

comprehension.

PASSING This time it was Irene who said noth-

ing.

"You don't have to tell me !" Gertrude

said fervently. ''I know what it is all right.

Maybe you don't think I wasn't scared to death

too. Fred said I was silly, and so did his mother.

But, of course, they thought it was just a no-

tion I'd gotten into my head and they blamed

it on my condition. They don't know like we

do, how it might go way back, and turn out

dark no matter what colour the father and

mother are."

Perspiration stood out on her forehead.

Her narrow eyes rolled first in Clare's, then in

Irene's direction. As she talked she waved her

heavy hands about.

"No," she went on, "no more for me

either. Not even a girl. It's awful the way it

skips generations and then pops out. Why, he

actually said he didn't care what colour it

turned out, if I would only stop worrying about

it. But, of course, nobody wants a dark child."

Her voice was earnest and she took for granted

ENCOUNTER that her audience was In entire agreement with

her.

Irene, whose head had gone up with a

quick little jerk, now said in a voice of whose

even tones she was proud: "One of my boys

IS dark."

Gertrude jumped as if she had been

shot at. Her eyes goggled. Her mouth flew

open. She tried to speak, but could not imme-

diately get the words out. Finally she managed

to stammer: "Oh! And your husband, is he—is

he—er—dark, too?"

Irene, who was struggling with a flood

of feelings, resentment, anger, and contempt,

was, however, still able to answer as coolly as

if she had not that sense of not belonging to

and of despising the company in which she

found herself drinking iced tea from tall am-

ber glasses on that hot August afternoon. Her

husband, she informed them quietly, couldn't

exactly "pass."

At that reply Clare turned on Irene her

seductive caressing smile and remarked a little

PASSING scoffingly: "I do think that coloured people

—

we—are too silly about some things. After all,

the thing's not Important to Irene or hundreds

of others. Not awfully, even to you, Gertrude.

It's only deserters like me who have to be

afraid of freaks of the nature. As my inesti-

mable dad used to say, 'Everything must be

paid for.' Now, please one of you tell me what

ever happened to Claude Jones. You know, the

tall, lanky specimen who used to wear that com-

ical little moustache that the girls used to laugh

at so. Like a thin streak of soot. The mous-

tache, I mean."

At that Gertrude shrieked with laughter.

^'Claude Jones!" and launched into the story of

how he was no longer a Negro or a Christian

but had become a Jew.

"A Jew!" Clare exclaimed.

"Yes, a Jew. A black Jew, he calls him-

self. He won't eat ham and goes to the syna-

gogue on Saturday. He's got a beard now as

well as a moustache. You'd die laughing if you

saw him. He's really too funny for words. Fred

says he's crazy and I guess he Is. Oh, he's a

ENCOUNTER scream all right, a regular scream!" And she

shrieked again.

Clare's laugh tinkled out. "It certainly

sounds funny enough. Still, it's his own business.

If he gets along better by turning —

At that, Irene, who was still hugging

her unhappy don't-care feeling of rightness,

broke In, saying bitingly: "It evidently doesn't

occur to either you or Gertrude that he might

possibly be sincere In changing his religion.

Surely everyone doesn't do everything for

gain."

Clare Kendry had no need to search for

the full meaning of that utterance. She red-

dened slightly and retorted seriously: "Yes, I

admit that might be possible—his being sincere,

I mean. It just didn't happen to occur to me,

that's all. I'm surprised," and the seriousness

changed to mockery, "that you should have ex-

pected it to. Or did you really?"

"You don't, I'm sure, imagine that that

Is a question that I can answer," Irene told her.

"Not here and now."

Gertrude's face expressed complete be-

PASSING wilderment. However, seeing that little smiles

had come out on the faces of the two other

women and not recognizing them for the smiles

of mutual reservations which they were, she

smiled too.

Clare began to talk, steering carefully

away from anything that might lead towards

race or other thorny subjects. It was the most

brilliant exhibition of conversational weight-

lifting that Irene had ever seen. Her words

swept over them in charming well-modulated

streams. Her laughs tinkled and pealed. Her

little stories sparkled.

Irene contributed a bare "Yes" or

"No" here and there. Gertrude, a "You don't

say!" less frequently.

For a while the Illusion of general con-

versation was nearly perfect. Irene felt her re-

sentment changing gradually to a silent, some-

what grudging admiration.

Clare talked on, her voice, her gestures,

colouring all she said of wartime In France, of

after-the-wartlme In Germany, of the excite-

ment at the time of the general strike in Eng-

ENCOUNTER land, of dressmaker's openings in Paris, of the

new gaiety of Budapest.

But It couldn't last, this verbal feat.

Gertrude shifted In her seat and fell to fidget-

ing with her fingers. Irene, bored at last by all

this repetition of the selfsame things that she

had read all too often in papers, magazines, and

books, set down her glass and collected her bag

and handkerchief. She was smoothing out the

tan fingers of her gloves preparatory to put-

ting them on when she heard the sound of the

outer door being opened and saw Clare spring

up with an expression of relief saying: "How lovely! Here's Jack at exactly the right minute.

You can't go now, 'Rene dear."

John Bellew came Into the room. The

first thing that Irene noticed about him was

that he was not the man that she had seen

with Clare Kendry on the Drayton roof. This

man, Clare's husband, was a talllsh person,

broadly made. His age she guessed to be some-

where between thirty-five and forty. His hair

was dark brown and waving, and he had a soft

mouth, somewhat womanish, set In an un-

PASSING healthy-looking dough-coloured face. His steel-

grey opaque eyes were very much alive, moving

ceaselessly between thick bluish lids. But there

was, Irene decided, nothing unusual about him,

unless it was an Impression of latent physical

power.

*'Hello, Nig," was his greeting to

Clare.

Gertrude who had started slightly, set-

tled back and looked covertly towards Irene,

who had caught her lip between her teeth and

sat gazing at husband and wife. It was hard to

believe that even Clare Kendry would permit

this ridiculing of her race by an outsider,

though he chanced to be her husband. So he

knew, then, that Clare was a Negro? From her

talk the other day Irene had understood that

he didn't. But how rude, how positively Insult-

ing, for him to address her in that way in the

presence of guests

In Clare's eyes, as she presented her

husband, was a queer gleam, a jeer. It might be.

Irene couldn't define It.

The mechanical professions that attend

ENCOUNTER an introduction over, she inquired: *'Did you

hear what Jack called me?'^

*'Yes," Gertrude answered, laughing

with a dutiful eagerness.

Irene didn't speak. Her gaze remained

level on Clare's smiling face.

The black eyes fluttered down. *'Tell

them, dear, why you call me that."

The man chuckled, crinkling up his eyes,

not, Irene was compelled to acknowledge, un-

pleasantly. He explained: "Well, you see, it's

like this. When we were first married, she was

as white as—as—well as white as a lily. But

I declare she's gettin' darker and darker. I tell

her if she don't look out, she'll wake up one

of these days and find she's turned into a

nigger."

He roared with laughter. Clare's ring-

ing bell-like laugh joined his. Gertrude after

another uneasy shift in her seat added her

shrill one. Irene, who had been sitting with lips

tightly compressed, cried out: "That's good!"

and gave way to gales of laughter. She laughed

and laughed and laughed. Tears ran down her

PASSING cheeks. Her sides ached. Her throat hurt. She

laughed on and on and on, long after the oth-

ers had subsided. Until, catching sight of

Clare's face, the need for a more quiet enjoy-

ment of this priceless joke, and for caution,

struck her. At once she stopped.

Clare handed her husband his tea and

laid her hand on his arm with an affectionate

little gesture. Speaking with confidence as well

as with amusement, she said: "My goodness,

Jack! What difference would it make if, after

all these years, you were to find out that I was

one or two per cent coloured?"

Bellew put out his hand in a repudiat-

ing fling, definite and final. "Oh, no. Nig," he

declared, "nothing like that with me. I know

you're no nigger, so it's all right. You can get

as black as you please as far as I'm concerned,

since I know you're no nigger. I draw the line

at that. No niggers in my family. Never have

been and never will be."

Irene's lips trembled almost uncontrol-

lably, but she made a desperate effort to fight

back her disastrous desire to laugh again, and

ENCOUNTER succeeded. Carefully selecting a cigarette from

the lacquered box on the tea-table before her,

she turned an oblique look on Clare and en-

countered her peculiar eyes fixed on her with

an expression so dark and deep and unfathom-

able that she had for a short moment the sen-

sation of gazing into the eyes of some creature

utterly strange and apart. A faint sense of dan-

ger brushed her, like the breath of a cold fog.

Absurd, her reason told her, as she accepted

Bellew's proffered light for her cigarette. An-

other glance at Clare showed her smiling. So,

as one always ready to oblige, was Gertrude.

An on-looker, Irene reflected, would

have thought It a most congenial tea-party, all

smiles and jokes and hilarious laughter. She

said humorously : ''So you dislike Negroes, Mr.

Bellew?" But her amusement was at her

thought, rather than her words.

John Bellew gave a short denying laugh.

"You got me wrong there, Mrs. Redfield.

Nothing like that at all. I don't dislike them, I

hate them. And so does Nig, for all she's try-

ing to turn Into one. She wouldn't have a nigger

PASSING maid around her for love nor money. Not that

I'd want her to. They give me the creeps. The

black scrlmy devils.''

This wasn't funny. Had Bellew, Irene

inquired, ever known any Negroes? The defen-

sive tone of her voice brought another start

from the uncomfortable Gertrude, and, for all

her appearance of serenity, a quick apprehen-

sive look from Clare.

Bellew answered: "Thank the Lord,

no! And never expect to! But I know people

who've known them, better than they know

their black selves. And I read in the papers

about them. Always robbing and killing people.

And," he added darkly, "worse."

From Gertrude's direction came a queer

little suppressed sound, a snort or a giggle.

Irene couldn't tell which. There was a brief

silence, during which she feared that her self-

control was about to prove too frail a bridge

to support her mounting anger and indignation.

She had a leaping desire to shout at the man

beside her: "And you're sitting here surrounded

by three black devils, drinking tea."

ENCOUNTER The impulse passed, obliterated by her

consciousness of the danger in which such rash-

ness would involve Clare, who remarked with

a gentle reprovingness : "Jack dear, I'm sure

'Rene doesn't care to hear all about your pet

aversions. Nor Gertrude either. Maybe they

read the papers too, you know." She smiled on

him, and her smile seemed to transform him,

to soften and mellow him, as the rays of the

sun does a fruit.

"All right. Nig, old girl. I'm sorry,"

he apologized. Reaching over, he playfully

touched his wife's pale hands, then turned back

to Irene. '^Didn't mean to bore you, Mrs. Red-

field. Hope you'll excuse me," he said sheep-

ishly. "Clare tells me you're living in New

York. Great city. New York. The city of the

future."

In Irene, rage had not retreated, but

was held by some dam of caution and allegiance

to Clare. So, in the best casual voice she could

muster, she agreed with Bellew. Though, she

reminded him, it was exactly what Chicagoans

were apt to say of their city. And all the while

PASSING she was speaking, she was thinking how amaz-

ing it was that her voice did not tremble, that

outwardly she was calm. Only her hands shook

slightly. She drew them inward from their rest

in her lap and pressed the tips of her fingers

together to still them.

"Husband's a doctor, I understand.

Manhattan, or one of the other boroughs?"

Manhattan, Irene informed him, and

explained the need for Brian to be within easy

reach of certain hospitals and clinics.

"Interesting life, a doctor's."

"Ye-es. Hard, though. And, in a way,

monotonous. Nerve-racking too."

"Hard on the wife's nerves at least,

eh? So many lady patients." He laughed, en-

joying, with a boyish heartiness, the hoary

joke.

Irene managed a momentary smile, but

her voice was sober as she said: "Brian doesn't

care for ladies, especially sick ones. I some-

times wish he did. It's South America that at-

tracts him."

"Coming place, South America, if they

ENCOUNTER ever get the niggers out of it. It's run over

—

^'Really, Jack!" Clare's voice was on

the edge of temper.

"Honestly, Nig, I forgot." To the

others he said: "You see how hen-pecked I

am." And to Gertrude: "You're still in Chi-

cago, Mrs.—er—Mrs. Martin?"

He was, it was plain, doing his best to

be agreeable to these old friends of Clare's.

Irene had to concede that under other condi-

tions she might have liked him. A fairly good-

looking man of amiable disposition, evidently,

and in easy circumstances. Plain and with no

nonsense about him.

Gertrude replied that Chicago was

good enough for her. She'd never been out of it

and didn't think she ever should. Her hus-

band's business was there.

"Of course, of course. Can't jump up

and leave a business."

There followed a smooth surface of

talk about Chicago, New York, their differ-

ences and their recent spectacular changes.

It was, Irene, thought, unbelievable

PASSING and astonishing that four people could sit so

unruffled, so ostensibly friendly, while they

were In reality seething with anger, mortifica-

tion, shame. But no, on second thought she

was forced to amend her opinion. John Bellew,

most certainly, was as undisturbed within as

without. So, perhaps, was Gertrude Martin. At

least she hadn't the mortification and shame

that Clare Kendry must be feeling, or. In such

full measure, the rage and rebellion that she,

Irene, was repressing.

"More tea, 'Rene," Clare offered.

^'Thanks, no. And I must be going. I'm

leaving tomorrow, you know, and I've still got

packing to do."

She stood up. So did Gertrude, and

Clare, and John Bellew.

"How do you like the Drayton, Mrs.

Redfield?" the latter asked.

"The Drayton? Oh, very much. Very

much Indeed," Irene answered, her scornful

eyes on Clare's unrevealing face.

"Nice place, all right. Stayed there a

time or two myself," the man informed her.

ENCOUNTER "Yes, Jt is nice," Irene agreed. "Almost

as good as our best New York places." She had

withdrawn her look from Clare and was search-

ing in her bag for some non-existent something.

Her understanding was rapidly increasing, as

was her pity and her contempt. Clare was so

daring, so lovely, and so "having."

They gave their hands to Clare with

appropriate murmurs. "So good to have seen

you." ... "I do hope I'll see you again

soon."

"Good-bye," Clare returned. "It was

good of you to come, 'Rene dear. And you too,

Gertrude."

"Good-bye, Mr. Bellew." . . . "So

glad to have met you." It was Gertrude who

had said that. Irene couldn't, she absolutely

couldn't bring herself to utter the polite fic-

tion or anything approaching it.

He accompanied them out into the hall,

summoned the elevator.

"Good-bye," they said again, stepping

in.

Plunging downward they were silent.

PASSING They made their way through the lobby

without speaking.

But as soon as they had reached the

street Gertrude, In the manner of one unable

to keep bottled up for another minute that

which for the last hour she had had to retain,

burst out: "My God! What an awful chance!

She must be plumb crazy."

"Yes, It certainly seems risky," Irene ad-

mitted.

"Risky! I should say It was. Risky! My God ! What a word ! And the mess she's liable

to get herself Into !"

"Still, I Imagine she's pretty safe. They

don't live here, you know. And there's a child.

That's a certain security."

"It's an awful chance, just the same,"

Gertrude Insisted. "I'd never In the world have

married Fred without him knowing. You can't

tell what will turn up."

"Yes, I do agree that It's safer to tell.

But then Bellew wouldn't have married her.

And, after all, that's what she wanted."

Gertrude shook her head. "I wouldn't

ENCOUNTER be in her shoes for all the money she's getting

out of it, when he finds out. Not with him feel-

ing the way he does. Gee! Wasn't it awful?

For a minute I was so mad I could have

slapped him."

It had been, Irene acknowledged, a dis-

tinctly trying experience, as well as a very un-

pleasant one. "I was more than a little angry

myself."

"And imagine her not telling us about

him feeling that way ! Anything might have

happened. We might have said something."

That, Irene pointed out, was exactly

like Clare Kendry. Taking a chance, and not at

all considering anyone else's feelings.

Gertrude said: "Maybe she thought

we'd think it a good joke. And I guess you did.

The way you laughed. My land! I was scared

to death he might catch on."

"Well, it was rather a joke," Irene told

her, "on him and us and maybe on her."

"All the same, it's an awful chance. I'd

hate to be her."

"She seems satisfied enough. She's got

PASSING what she wanted, and the other day she told

me It was worth It.''

But about that Gertrude was sceptical.

"She'll find out different," was her verdict.

"She'll find out different all right."

Rain had begun to fall, a few scattered

large drops.

The end-of-the-day crowds were scurry-

ing In the directions of street-cars and elevated

roads.

Irene said: "You're going south? I'm

sorry. I've got an errand. If you don't mind,

I'll just say good-bye here. It has been nice

seeing you, Gertrude. Say hello to Fred for

me, and to your mother If she remembers me.

Good-bye."

She had wanted to be free of the other

woman, to be alone; for she was still sore and

angry.

What right, she kept demanding of her-

self, had Clare Kendry to expose her, or even

Gertrude Martin, to such humiliation, such

downright Insult?

And all the while, on the rushing ride

ENCOUNTER out to her father's house, Irene Redfield was

trying to understand the look on Clare's face

as she had said good-bye. Partly mocking, it

had seemed, and partly menacing. And some-

thing else for which she could find no name.

For an instant a recrudescence of that sensa-

tion of fear which she had had while looking

into Clare's eyes that afternoon touched her.

A slight shiver ran over her.

"It's nothing," she told herself. "Just

somebody walking over my grave, as the chil-

dren say." She tried a tiny laugh and was an-

noyed to find that it was close to tears.

What a state she had allowed that hor-

rible Bellew to get her into

And late that night, even, long after the

last guest had gone and the old house was

quiet, she stood at her window frowning out

Into the dark rain and puzzling again over that

look on Clare's incredibly beautiful face. She

couldn't, however, come to any conclusion

about Its meaning, try as she might. It was un-

fathomable, utterly beyond any experience or

comprehension of hers.

PASSING She turned away from the window, at

last, with a still deeper frown. Why, after all,

worry about Clare Kendry? She was well able

to take care of herself, had always been able.

And there were, for Irene, other things, more

personal and more Important to worry about.

Besides, her reason told her, she had

only herself to blame for her disagreeable aft-

ernoon and Its attendant fears and questions.

She ought never to have gone.

FOUR

The next morning, the day of her departure

for New York, had brought a letter, which, at

first glance, she had instinctively known came

from Clare Kendry, though she couldn't re-

member ever having had a letter from her be-

fore. Ripping it open and looking at the signa-

ture, she saw that she had been right in her

guess. She wouldn't, she told herself, read it.

She hadn't the time. And, besides, she had no

wish to be reminded of the afternoon before.

As it was, she felt none too fresh for her jour-

ney; she had had a wretched night. And all be-

cause of Clare's innate lack of consideration

for the feelings of others.

But she did read it. After father and

friends had waved good-bye, and she was be-

ing hurled eastward, she became possessed of

an uncontrollable curiosity to see what Clare

had said about yesterday. For what, she asked,

as she took it out of her bag and opened it,

PASSING could she, what could anyone, say about a thing

like that?

Clare Kendry had said:

'Rene dear:

However am I to thank you for your visit?

I know you are feeling that under the circumstances

I ought not to have asked you to come, or, rather, in-

sisted. But if you could know how glad, how excit-

ingly happy, I was to meet you and how I ached to

see more of you (to see everybody and couldn't), you

would understand my wanting to see you again, and

maybe forgive me a little.

My love to you always and always and to your

dear father, and all my poor thanks.

Clare.

And there was a postcript which said:

It may be, 'Rene dear, it may just be, that,

after all, your way may be the wiser and infinitely hap-

pier one. I'm not sure just now. At least not so sure as

I have been.

But the letter hadn't conciliated Irene.

Her Indignation was not lessened by Clare's

flattering reference to her wiseness. As if, she

ENCOUNTER thought wrathfully, anything could take away

the humiliation, or any part of it, of what she

had gone through yesterday afternoon for

Clare Kendry.

With an unusual methodicalness she

tore the offending letter into tiny ragged

squares that fluttered down and made a small

heap in her black crepe de Chine lap. The de-

struction completed, she gathered them up, rose,

and moved to the train's end. Standing there,

she dropped them over the railing and watched

them scatter, on tracks, on cinders, on forlorn

grass, in rills of dirty water.

And that, she told herself, was that.

The chances were one in a million that she

would ever again lay eyes on Clare Kendry. If,

however, that millionth chance should turn up,

she had only to turn away her eyes, to refuse

her recognition.

She dropped Clare out of her mind and

turned her thoughts to her own affairs. To

home, to the boys, to Brian. Brian, who in the

morning would be waiting for her in the great

clamourous station. She hoped that he had been

PASSING comfortable and not too lonely without her and

the boys. Not so lonely that that old, queer, un-

happy restlessness had begun again within him;

that craving for some place strange and dif-

ferent, which at the beginning of her marriage

she had had to make such strenuous efforts to

repress, and which yet faintly alarmed her,

though it now sprang up at gradually lessen-

ing intervals.

PART TWO

RE-EN CO UNTER

ONE

StJCH WERE Irene Redfield's memories as she

sat there in her room, a flood of October sun-

light streaming in upon her, holding that sec-

ond letter of Clare Kendry's.

Laying it aside, she regarded with an as-

tonishment that had in it a mild degree of

amusement the violence of the feelings which it

stirred in her.

It wasn't the great measure of anger

that surprised and slightly amused her. That,

she was certain, was justified and reasonable,

as was the fact that it could hold, still strong

and unabated, across the stretch of two years'

time entirely removed from any sight or sound

of John Bellew, or of Clare. That even at this

remote date the memory of the man's words

and manner had power to set her hands to

trembling and to send the blood pounding

against her temples did not seem to her extra-

ordinary. But that she should retain that dim

PASSING sense of fear, of panic, was surprising,

silly.

That Clare should have written, should,

even all things considered, have expressed a

desire to see her again, did not so much amaze

her. To count as nothing the annoyances, the

bitterness, or the suffering of others, that was

Clare.

Well—Irene's shoulders went up—one

thing was sure : that she needn't, and didn't

intend to, lay herself open to any repetition of

a humiliation as galling and outrageous as that

which, for Clare Kendry's sake, she had borne

"that time in Chicago." Once was enough.

If, at the time of choosing, Clare hadn't

precisely reckoned the cost, she had, neverthe-

less, no right to expect others to help make

up the reckoning. The trouble with Clare was,

not only that she wanted to have her cake and

eat it too, but that she wanted to nibble at the

cakes of other folk as well.

Irene Redfield found it hard to sympa-

thize with this new tenderness, this avowed

yearning of Clare's for "my own people."

RE-ENCOUNTER The letter which she just put out of her

hand was, to her taste, a bit too lavish in its

wordiness, a shade too unreserved in the man-

ner of its expression. It roused again that old

suspicion that Clare was acting, not consciously,

perhaps—that is, not too consciously—but,

none the less, acting. Nor was Irene inclined

to excuse what she termed Clare's downright

selfishness.

And mingled with her disbelief and re-

sentment was another feeling, a question. Why hadn't she spoken that day? Why, in the face

of Bellew's ignorant hate and aversion, had

she concealed her own origin? Why had she

allowed him to make his assertions and express

his misconceptions undisputed? Why, simply

because of Clare Kendry, who had exposed her

to such torment, had she failed to take up the

defence of the race to which she belonged?

Irene asked these questions, felt them.

They were, however, merely rhetorical, as she

herself was well aware. She knew their an-

swers, every one, and it was the same for them

all. The sardony of it! She couldn't betray

PASSING Clare, couldn't even run the risk of appearing

to defend a people that were being maligned,

for fear that that defence might in some infini-

tesimal degree lead the way to final discovery of

her secret. She had to Clare Kendry a duty. She

was bound to her by those very ties of race,

which, for all her repudiation of them, Clare

had been unable to completely sever.

And it wasn't, as Irene knew, that Clare

cared at all about the race or what was to be-

come of it. She didn't. Or that she had for any

of its members great, or even real, affection,

though she professed undying gratitude for the

small kindnesses which the Westover family

had shown her when she was a child. Irene

doubted the genuineness of it, seeing herself

only as a means to an end where Clare was

concerned. Nor could it be said that she had

even the slight artistic or sociological interest

In the race that some members of other races

displayed. She hadn't. No, Clare Kendry cared

nothing for the race. She only belonged to It.

"Not another damned thing!" Irene de-

RE-ENCOUNTER clared aloud as she drew a fragile stocking

over a pale beige-coloured foot.

"Aha ! Swearing again, are you, madam ?

Caught you in the act that time."

Brian Redfield had come into the room

in that noiseless way which, in spite, of the

years of their life together, still had the power

to disconcert her. He stood looking down on

her with that amused smile of his, which was

just the faintest bit supercilious and yet was

somehow very becoming to him.

Hastily Irene pulled on the other stock-

ing and slipped her feet into the slippers beside

her chair.

"And what brought on this particular

outburst of profanity? That is, if an indulgent

but perturbed husband may inquire. The mother

of sons too ! The times, alas, the times !"

"I've had this letter," Irene told him.

"And I'm sure that anybody'll admit it's enough

to make a saint swear. The nerve of her!"

She passed the letter to him, and in

the act made a little mental frown. For, with

PASSING a nicety of perception, she saw that she was

doing it Instead of answering his question with

words, so that he might be occupied while she

hurried through her dressing. For she was late

again, and Brian, she well knew, detested that.

Why, oh why, couldn't she ever manage to be

on time? Brian had been up for ages, had made

some calls for all she knew, besides having

taken the boys downtown to school. And she

wasn't dressed yet; had only begun. Damn

Clare ! This morning it was her fault.

Brian sat down and bent his head over

the letter, puckering his brows slightly in his

effort to make out Clare's scrawl.

Irene, who had risen and was standing

before the mirror, ran a comb through her

black hair, then tossed her head with a light

characteristic gesture. In order to disarrange a

little the set locks. She touched a powder-puff

to her warm olive skin, and then put on her

frock with a motion so hasty that It was with

some difficulty properly adjusted. At last she

was ready, though she didn't Immediately say

so, but stood, Instead, looking with a sort of

RE-ENCOUNTER curious detachment at her husband across the

room.

Brian, she was thinking, was extremely

good-looking. Not, of course, pretty or effemi-

nate; the slight irregularity of his nose saved

him from the prettiness, and the rather marked

heaviness of his chin saved him from the ef-

feminacy. But he was, in a pleasant masculine

way, rather handsome. And yet, wouldn't he,

perhaps, have been merely ordinarily good-

looking but for the richness, the beauty of his

skin, which was of an exquisitely fine texture

and deep copper colour.

He looked up and said: "Clare? That

must be the girl you told me about meeting the

last time you were out home. The one you

went to tea with?"

Irene's answer to that was an inclina-

tion of the head.

"I'm ready," she said.

They were going downstairs, Brian

deftly, unnecessarily, piloting her round the

two short curved steps, just before the centre

landing.

PASSING "You're not," he asked, "going to see

her?"

His words, however, were In reality not

a question, but, as Irene was aware, an admoni-

tion.

Her front teeth just touched. She spoke

through them, and her tones held a thin sar-

casm. "Brian, darling, I'm really not such an,

idiot that I don't realize that if a man calls me

a nigger, it's his fault the first time, but mine

if he has the opportunity to do It again."

They went Into the dining-room. He drew back her chair and she sat down behind

the fat-bellied German coffee-pot, which sent

out Its morning fragrance, mingled with the

smell of crisp toast and savoury bacon, In the

distance. With his long, nervous fingers he

picked up the morning paper from his own

chair and sat down.

Zulena, a small mahogany-coloured

creature, brought In the grapefruit.

They took up their spoons.

Out of the silence Brian spoke. Blandly.

RE-ENCOUNTER ''My dear, you misunderstand me entirely. I

simply meant that I hope you're not going to

let her pester you. She will, you know, if you

give her half a chance and she's anything at all

like your description of her. Anyway, they al-

ways do. Besides," he corrected, "the man, her

husband, didn't call you a nigger. There's a

difference, you know."

"No, certainly he didn't. Not actually.

He couldn't, not very well, since he didn't

know. But he would have. It amounts to the

same thing. And I'm sure it was just as un-

pleasant."

"U-mm, I don't know. But it seems to

me," he pointed out, "that you, my dear, had

all the advantage. You knew what his opinion

of you was, while he— Well, 'twas ever thus.

We know, always have. They don't. Not quite.

It has, you will admit, it's humorous side, and,

sometimes, its conveniences."

She poured the coffee.

"I can't see It. I'm going to write Clare.

Today, If I can find a minute. It's a thing we

PASSING might as well settle definitely, and immediately.

Curious, isn't it, that knowing, as she does, his

unqualified attitude, she still —

Brian interrupted: "It's always that

way. Never known it to fail. Remember Al-

bert Hammond, how he used to be for ever

haunting Seventh Avenue, and Lenox Avenue,

and the dancing-places, until some 'shine' took

a shot at him for casting an eye towards his

'sheba?' They always come back. I've seen it

happen time and time again."

''But why?" Irene wanted to know.

"Why?"

"If I knew that, I'd know w^hat race is."

"But wouldn't you think that having

got the thing, or things, they were after, and at

such risk, they'd be satisfied? Or afraid?"

"Yes," Brian agreed, "you certainly

would think so. But, the fact remains, they

aren't. Not satisfied, I mean. I think they're

scared enough most of the time, when they give

way to the urge and slip back. Not scared

enough to stop them, though. Why, the good

God only knows."

RE-ENCOUNTER Irene leaned forward, speaking, she

was aware, with a vehemence absolutely un-

necessary, but which she could not control.

"Well, Clare can just count me out.

I've no intention of being the link between her

and her poorer darker brethren. After that

scene in Chicago too! To calmly expect me—

She stopped short, suddenly too wrathful for

words.

"Quite right. The only sensible thing to

do. Let her miss you. It's an unhealthy busi-

ness, the whole affair. Always is."

Irene nodded. "More coffee," she of-

fered.

"Thanks, no." He took up his paper

again, spreading it open with a little rattling

noise.

Zulena came In bringing more toast.

Brian took a slice and bit into it with that audi-

ble crunching sound that Irene disliked so in-

tensely, and turned back to his paper.

She said: "It's funny about ^passing.'

We disapprove of it and at the same time con-

done It. It excites our contempt and yet we

PASSING rather admire It. We shy away from it with

an odd kind of revulsion, but we protect it."

"Instinct of the race to survive and ex-

pand."

"Rot ! Everything can't be explained by

some general biological phrase."

"Absolutely everything can. Look at

the so-called whites, who've left bastards all

over the known earth. Same thing in them. In-

stinct of the race to survive and expand."

With that Irene didn't at all agree, but

many arguments in the past had taught her the

futility of attempting to combat Brian on

ground where he was more nearly at home than

she. Ignoring his unqualified assertion, she slid

away from the subject entirely.

"I wonder," she asked, "if you'll have

time to run me down to the printing-office. It's

on a Hundred and Sixteenth Street. I've got to

see about some handbills and some more tick-

ets for the dance."

"Yes, of course. How's it going? Every-

thing all set?"

"Ye-es. I guess so. The boxes are all

RE-ENCOUNTER sold and nearly all the first batch of tickets.

And we expect to take in almost as much again

at the door. Then, there's all that cake to sell.

It's a terrible lot of work, though."

"I'll bet it is. Uplifting the brother's

no easy job. I'm as busy as a cat with fleas, my-

self." And over his face there came a shadow.

*'Lord! how I hate sick people, and their stupid,

meddling families, and smelly, dirty rooms, and

climbing filthy steps In dark hallways."

"Surely," Irene began, fighting back the

fear and irritation that she felt, "surely —

Her husband silenced her, saying

sharply: "Let's not talk about it, please." And

immediately, in his usual, slightly mocking tone

he asked: "Are you ready to go now? I haven't

a great deal of time to wait."

He got up. She followed him out Into

the hall without replying. He picked up his soft

brown hat from the small table and stood a

moment whirling it round on his long tea-

coloured fingers.

Irene, watching him, was thinking: "It

Isn't fair, It isn't fair." After all these years to

PASSING Still blame her like this. Hadn't his success

proved that she'd been right in insisting that he

stick to his profession right there in New York?

Couldn't he see, even now, that it had been

best? Not for her, oh no, not for her—she had

never really considered herself—but for him

and the boys. Was she never to be free of it,

that fear which crouched, always, deep down

within her, stealing away the sense of security,

the feeling of permanence, from the life which

she had so admirably arranged for them all,

and desired so ardently to have remain as it

was? That strange, and to her fantastic, notion

of Brian's of going off to Brazil, which, though

unmentioned, yet lived within him; how it

frightened her, and—yes, angered her I

"Well?" he asked lightly.

"I'll just get my things. One minute,"

she promised and turned upstairs.

Her voice had been even and her step

was firm, but in her there was no slackening of

the agitation, of the alarms, which Brian's ex-

pression of discontent had raised. He had never

spoken of his desire since that long-ago time of

100

RE-ENCOUNTER Storm and strain, of hateful and nearly disas-

trous quarrelling, when she had so firmly op-

posed him, so sensibly pointed out its utter

impossibility and its probable consequences to

her and the boys, and had even hinted at a dis-

solution of their marriage in the event of his

persistence in his idea. No, there had been, in

all the years that they had lived together since

then, no other talk of It, no more than there

had been any other quarrelling or any other

threats. But because, so she insisted, the bond

of flesh and spirit between them was so strong,

she knew, had always known, that his dissatis-

faction had continued, as had his dislike and

disgust for his profession and his country.

A feeling of uneasiness stole upon her

at the inconceivable suspicion that she might

have been wrong in her estimate of her hus-

band's character. But she squirmed away from

it. Impossible ! She couldn't have been wrong.

Everything proved that she had been right.

More than right, if such a thing could be. And

all, she assured herself, because she understood

him so well, because she had, actually, a special

lOI

PASSING talent for understanding him. It was, as she

saw it, the one thing that had been the basis of

the success which she had made of a marriage

that had threatened to fail. She knew him as

well as he knew himself, or better.

Then why worry? The thing, this dis-

content which had exploded into words, would

surely die, flicker out, at last. True, she had in

the past often been tempted to believe that it

had died, only to become conscious, in some

instinctive, subtle way, that she had been merely

deceiving herself for a while and that it still

lived. But it would die. Of that she was certain.

She had only to direct and guide her man, to

keep him going in the right direction.

She put on her coat and adjusted her

hat.

Yes, it would die, as long ago she had

made up her mind that it should. But in the

meantime, while it was still living and still had

the power to flare up and alarm her, it would

have to be banked, smothered, and something

offered in Its stead. She would have to make

some plan, some decision, at once. She frowned,

I02

RE-ENCOUNTER for it annoyed her intensely. For, though tem-

porary, it would be important and perhaps dis-

turbing. Irene didn't like changes, particularly

changes that affected the smooth routine of her

household. Well, it couldn't be helped. Some-

thing would have to be done. And immediately.

She took up her purse and drawing on

her gloves, ran down the steps and out through

the door which Brian held open for her and

stepped into the waiting car.

*'You know," she said, settling herself

into the seat beside him, "I'm awfuly glad to

get this minute alone with you. It does seem

that we're always so busy—I do hate that

—

but what can we do? I've had something on my

mind for ever so long, something that needs

talking over and really serious consideration."

The car's engine rumbled as it moved

out from the kerb and into the scant traffic of

the street under Brian's expert guidance.

She studied his profile.

They turned into Seventh Avenue. Then

he said: "Well, let's have it. No time like the

present for the settling of weighty matters."

103

PASSING *'It's about Junior. I wonder if he isn't

going too fast in school? We do forget that

he's not eleven yet. Surely it can't be good for

him to—well, if he is, I mean. Going too fast,

you know. Of course, you know more about

these things than I do. You're better able to

judge. That is, if you've noticed or thought

about it at all."

*'I do wish, Irene, you wouldn't be for

ever fretting about those kids. They're all

right. Perfectly all right. Good, strong, healthy

boys, especially Junior. Most especially

Junior."

"We-11, I s'pose you're right. You're

expected to know about things like that, and

I'm sure you wouldn't make a mistake about

your own boy." (Now, why had she said that?)

''But that isn't all. I'm terribly afraid he's

picked up some queer ideas about things—some

things—from the older boys, you know."

Her manner was consciously light. Ap-

parently she was intent of the maze of traffic,

but she was still watching Brian's face closely.

On it was a peculiar expression. Was it, could

104

RE-ENCOUNTER It possibly be, a mixture of scorn and distaste?

''Queer Ideas?" he repeated. "D'you

mean Ideas about sex, Irene?"

"Ye-es. Not quite nice ones. Dreadful

jokes, and things like that."

"Oh, I see," he threw at her. For a

while there was silence between them. After a

moment he demanded bluntly: "Well, what of

it? If sex isn't a joke, what Is It? And what Is

a joke?"

"As you please, Brian. He's your son,

you know." Her voice was clear, level, disap-

proving.

"Exactly! And you're trying to make a

molly-coddle out of him. Well, just let me tell

you, I won't have it. And you needn't think

I'm going to let you change him to some nice

kindergarten kind of a school because he's get-

ting a little necessary education. I won't! He'll

stay right where he is. The sooner and the more

he learns about sex, the better for him. And

most certainly if he learns that it's a grand

joke, the greatest in the world. It'll keep him

from lots of disappointments later on."

105

PASSING Irene didn't answer.

They reached the printing-shop. She got

out, emphatically slamming the car's door be-

hind her. There was a piercing agony of misery

In her heart. She hadn't Intended to behave

like this, but her extreme resentment at his at-

titude, the sense of having been wilfully mis-

understood and reproved, drove her to fury.

Inside the shop, she stilled the trembling

of her lips and drove back her rising anger.

Her business transacted, she came back to the

car In a chastened mood. But against the ar-

mour of Brian's stubborn silence she heard her-

self saying In a calm, metallic voice: "I don't

believe I'll go back just now. I've remembered

that I've got to do something about getting

something decent to wear. I haven't a rag that's

fit to be seen. I'll take the bus downtown."

Brian merely doffed his hat In that mad-

dening polite way which so successfully curbed

and yet revealed his temper.

''Good-bye," she said bitlngly. "Thanks

for the lift," and turned towards the avenue.

What, she wondered contritely, was she

io6

RE-ENCOUNTER '^

to do next? She was vexed with herself for

having chosen, as it had turned out, so clumsy

an opening for what she had intended to sug-

gest: some European school for Junior next

year, and Brian to take him over. If she had

been able to present her plan, and he had ac-

cepted it, as she was sure that he would have

done, with other more favourable opening

methods, he would have had that to look for-

ward to as a break in the easy monotony that

seemed, for some reason she was wholly un-

able to grasp, so hateful to him.

She was even more vexed at her own

explosion of anger. What could have got into

her to give way to it in such a moment?

Gradually her mood passed. She drew

back from the failure her first attempt at sub-

stitution, not so much discouraged as disap-

pointed and ashamed. It might be, she reflected,

that, in addition to her ill-timed loss of temper,

she had been too hasty in her eagerness to dis-

tract him, had rushed too closely on the heels

of his outburst, and had thus aroused his sus-

picions and his obstinacy. She had but to wait.

107

PASSING Another more appropriate time would come,

tomorrow, next week, next month. It wasn't

now, as It had been once, that she was afraid

that he would throw everything aside and rush

off to that remote place of his heart's desire.

He wouldn't, she knew. He was fond of her,

loved her, in his slightly undemonstrative way.

And there were the boys.

It was only that she wanted him to be

happy, resenting, however, his inability to be

so with things as they were, and never acknowl-

edging that though she did want him to be

happy. It was only In her own way and by some

plan of hers for him that she truly desired him

to be so. Nor did she admit that all other plans,

all other ways, she regarded as menaces, more

or less Indirect, to that security of place and

substance which she Insisted upon for her sons

and in a lesser degree for herself.

io8

TWO

Five days had gone by since Clare Kendry's

appealing letter. Irene Redfield had not replied

to it. Nor had she had any other word from

Clare.

She had not carried out her first inten-

tion of writing at once because on going back

to the letter for Clare's address, she had come

upon something which, in the rigour of her de-

termination to maintain unbroken between them

the wall that Clare herself had raised, she had

forgotten, or not fully noted. It was the fact

that Clare had requested her to direct her an-

swer to the post office's general delivery.

That had angered Irene, and increased

her disdain and contempt for the other.

Tearing the letter across, she had flung

it into the ' scrap-basket. It wasn't so much

Clare's carefulness and her desire for secrecy in

their relations—Irene understood the need for

that—as that Clare should have doubted her

discretion, implied that she might not be cau-

109

PASSING tious in the wording of her reply and the choice

of a posting-box. Having always had complete

confidence in her own good judgment and tact,

Irene couldn't bear to have anyone seem to

question them. Certainly not Clare Kendry.

In another, calmer moment she decided

that It was, after all, better to answer nothing,

to explain nothing, to refuse nothing; to dis-

pose of the matter simply by not writing at all.

Clare, of whom it couldn't be said that she

was stupid, would not mistake the imphcation

of that silence. She might—and Irene was sure

that she would—choose to ignore it and write

again, but that didn't matter. The whole thing

would be very easy. The basket for all letters,

silence for their answers.

Most likely she and Clare would never

meet again. Well, she, for one, could endure

that. Since childhood their lives had never really

touched. Actually they were strangers. Stran-

gers in their ways and means of living. Stran-

gers in their desires and ambitions. Strangers

even in their racial consciousness. Between them

the barrier was just as high, just as broad, and

RE-ENCOUNTER just as firm as If in Clare did not run that strain

of black blood. In truth, it was higher, broader,

and firmer; because for her there were perils,

not known, or imagined, by those others who

had no such secrets to alarm or endanger them.

The day was getting on toward evening.

It was past the middle of October. There had

been a week of cold rain, drenching the rotting

leaves which had fallen from the poor trees

that lined the street on which the Redfields'

house was located, and sending a damp air of

penetrating chill into the house, with a hint of

cold days to come. In Irene's room a low fire

was burning. Outside, only a dull grey light was

left of the day. Inside, lamps had already been

lighted.

From the floor above there was the

sound of young voices. Sometimes Junior's seri-

ous and positive; again, Ted's deceptively gra-

cious one. Often there was laughter, or the

noise of commotion, tussling, or toys being

slammed down.

Junior, tall for his age, was almost in-

III

PASSING credibly like his father in feature and colour-

ing; but his temperament was hers, practical

and determined, rather than Brian's. Ted,

speculative and withdrawn, was, apparently,

less positive in his ideas and desires. About him

there was a deceiving air of candour that was,

Irene knew, like his father's show of reason-

able acquiescence. If, for the time being, and

with a charming appearance of artlessness, he

submitted to the force of superior strength, or

some other immovable condition or circum-

stance, it was because of his intense dislike of

scenes and unpleasant argument. Brian over

again.

Gradually Irene's thought slipped away

from Junior and Ted, to become wholly ab-

sorbed in their father.

The old fear, with strength increased,

the fear for the future, had again laid its hand

on her. And, try as she might, she could not

shake it off. It was as if she had admitted to

herself that against that easy surface of her

husband's concordance with her wishes, which

had, since the war had given him back to her

112

RE-ENCOUNTER physically unimpaired, covered an Increasing

Inclination to tear himself and his possessions

loose from their proper setting, she was help-

less.

The chagrin which she had felt at her

first failure to subvert this latest manifestation

of his discontent had receded, leaving In Its

wake an uneasy depression. Were all her efforts,

all her labours, to make up to him that one loss,

all her silent striving to prove to him that her

way had been best, all her ministrations to him,

all her outward sinking of self, to count for

nothing In some unpercelved sudden moment?

And If so, what, then, would be the conse-

quences to the boys? To her? To Brian him-

self? Endless searching had brought no answer

to these questions. There was only an Intense

weariness from their shuttle-like procession In

her brain.

The noise and commotion from above

grew Increasingly louder. Irene was about to go

to the stairway and request the boys to be

quieter In their play when she heard the door-

bell ringing.

113

PASSING Now, who was that likely to be? She

listened to Zulena's heels, faintly tapping on

their way to the door, then to the shifting sound

of her feet on the steps, then to her light knock

on the bedroom door.

*'Yes. Come In,^' Irene told her.

Zulena stood In the doorway. She said:

"Someone to see you, Mrs. Redfield." Her

tone was discreetly regretful, as If to convey

that she was reluctant to disturb her mistress

at that hour, and for a stranger. "A Mrs. Bel-

lew.'^

Clare I

''Oh dear! Tell her, Zulena," Irene be-

gan, '*that I can't— No. I'll see her. Please

bring her up here."

She heard Zulena pass down the hall,

down the stairs, then stood up, smoothing out

the tumbled green and Ivory draperies of her

dress with light stroking pats. At the mirror

she dusted a little powder on her nose and

brushed out her hair.

She meant to tell Clare Kendry at once,

and definitely, that It was of no use, her com-

114

RE-ENCOUNTER ing, that she couldn't be responsible, that she'd

talked it over with Brian, who had agreed with

her that it was wiser, for Clare's own sake, to

refrain

—

But that was as far as she got in her

rehearsal. For Clare had come softly into the

room without knocking, and before Irene could

greet her, had dropped a kiss on her dark

curls.

Looking at the woman before her, Irene

Redfield had a sudden inexplicable onrush of

affectionate feeling. Reaching out, she grasped

Clare's two hand in her own and cried with

something like awe in her voice: "Dear God!

But aren't you lovely, Clare!"

Clare tossed that aside. Like the furs

and small blue hat which she threw on the bed

before seating herself slantwise in Irene's fa-

vourite chair, with one foot curled under her.

"Didn't you mern to answer my letter,

*Rene?" she asked gravely.

Irene looked away. She had that un-

comfortable feeling that one has when one has

not been wholly kind or wholly true.

115

PASSING Clare went on: ''Every day I went to

that nasty little post-office place. I'm sure they

were all beginning to think that I'd been carry-

ing on an illicit love-affair and that the man had

thrown me over. Every morning the same an-

swer: 'Nothing for you.' I got into an awful

fright, thinking that something might have

happened to your letter, or to mine. And half

the nights I would lie awake looking out at

the watery stars—hopeless things, the stars

—

worrying and wondering. But at last it soaked

in, that you hadn't written and didn't Intend

to. And then—well, as soon as ever I'd seen

Jack off for Florida, I came straight here. And

now, 'Rene, please tell me quite frankly why

you didn't answer my letter."

"Because, you see —

" Irene broke off

and kept Clare waiting while she lit a cigarette,

blew out the match, and dropped it Into a tray.

She was trying to collect her arguments, for

some sixth sense warned her that It was going

to be harder than she thought to convince Clare

Kendry of the folly of Harlem for her. Finally

she proceeded: "I can't help thinking that you

ii6

RE-ENCOUNTER ought not to come up here, ought not to run

the risk of knowing Negroes."

"You mean you don't want me, 'Rene?"

Irene hadn't supposed that anyone could

look so hurt. She said, quite gently, "No, Clare,

it's not that. But even you must see that it's

terribly foolish, and not just the right thing."

The tinkle of Clare's laugh rang out,

while she passed her hands over the bright

sweep of her hair. "Oh, 'Rene!" she cried,

"you're priceless ! And you haven't changed a

bit. The right thing!" Leaning forward, she

looked curiously into Irene's disapproving

brown eyes. "You don't, you really can't mean

exactly that! Nobody could. It's simply unbe-

lievable."

Irene was on her feet before she real-

ized that she had risen. "What I really mean,"

she retorted, "is that it's dangerous and that

you ought not to run such silly risks. No one

ought to. You least of all."

Her voice was brittle. For into her

mind had come a thought, strange and irrele-

vant, a suspicion, that had surprised and

117

PASSING shocked her and driven her to her feet. It was

that in spite of her determined selfishness the

woman before her was yet capable of heights

and depths of feeling that she, Irene Redfield,

had never known. Indeed, never cared to know.

The thought, the suspicion, was gone as quickly

as it had come.

Clare said: '*0h, me!"

/ Irene touched her arm caressingly, as if

in contrition for that flashing thought. "Yes,

Clare, you. It's not safe. Not safe at all."

"Safe!"

It seemed to Irene that Clare had

snapped her teeth down on the word and then

flung It from her. And for another flying sec-

ond she had that suspicion of Clare's ability for

a quality of feeling that was to her strange, and

even repugnant. She was aware, too, of a dim

premonition of some impending disaster. It was

as If Clare Kendry had said to her, for whom safety, security, were all-important: "Safe!

Damn being safe!" and meant it.

With a gesture of impatience she sat

down. In a voice of cool formality, she said:

ii8

RE-ENCOUNTER ''Brian and I have talked the whole thing over

carefully and decided that it isn't wise. He

says it's always a dangerous business, this com-

ing back. He's seen more than one come to

grief because of it. And, Clare, considering

everything—Mr. Bellew's attitude and all that

—don't you think you ought to be as careful as

you can?"

Clare's deep voice broke the small si-

lence that had followed Irene's speech. She

said, speaking almost plaintively: *'I ought to

have known. It's Jack. I don't blame you for

being angry, though I must say you behaved

beautifully that day. But I did think you'd

understand, 'Rene. It was that, partly, that has

made me want to see other people. It just

swooped down and changed everything. If it

hadn't been for that, I'd have gone on to the

end, never seeing any of you. But that did

something to me, and I've been so lonely since!

You can't know. Not close to a single soul.

Never anyone to really talk to."

Irene pressed out her cigarette. While

doing so, she saw again the vision of Clare

119

PASSING Kendry staring disdainfully down at the face of

her father, and thought that it would be like

that that she would look at her husband if he

lay dead before her.

Her own resentment was swept aside

and her voice held an accent of pity as she ex-

claimed: "Why, Clare! I didn't know. For-

give 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 ef-

fort 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 deri-

sion, 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.

I20

RE-ENCOUNTER Few women, she imagined, wept as attractively

as Clare. I'^Tm beginning to believe," she mur-

mured, "that no one is ever completely happy,

or free, or safe." )

"Well, tfien, 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 mo-

ment she was unable to say more, so accurately

121

PASSING 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 happi-

ness 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. Red-

field. It's Mr. Wentworth."

"All right. Thank you. I'll take it

122

RE-ENCOUNTER 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 every-

thing goes. . . . Walt! I've got It! I'll change

mine with whoever's next to you, and you can

have that. . . . No. ... I mean It. . . .

I'll be so busy I shan't know whether I'm sit-

ting 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 Blanca. . . . 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, you know. I'm on the

ticket committee, or, rather, I am the com-

mittee. Thank heaven It comes off tomorrow

night and doesn't happen again for a year. I'm

123

PASSING 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 incHned 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 contemp-

tuous, 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 conti-

nents. 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."

124

RE-ENCOUNTER "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 Ne-

groes."

"But why?"

"Various motives," Irene explained. "A

few purely and frankly to enjoy themselves.

Others to get material to turn into shekels.

More, to gaze on these great and near great

while they gaze on the Negroes."

Clare clapped her hand. " 'Rene, sup-

pose I come too ! It sounds terribly Interesting

125

PASSING 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.'*

126

^ RE-ENCOUNTER '^/ ^y 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 pleas-

ant."

127

PASSING 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 unpleasant-

ness and possible danger which your going

might 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 chrysan-

themums 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."

128

RE-ENCOUNTER "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 reso-

lution In Irene's own soul, and Increased the

129

PASSING feeling of doubt and compunction that had

been growing within her about Clare Kendry.

She gave in.

*'0h, 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 spine-

less 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 every-

130

RE-ENCOUNTER thing. 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 tele-

phoned 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

131

PASSING 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 per-

mitted 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 un-

reasonable restless feeling.

She was annoyed, too, because she was

aware that she had consented to something

which, if It went beyond the dance, would In-

volve her In numerous petty inconveniences and

evasions. And not only at home with Brian, but

outside with friends and acquaintances. The dis-

agreeable possibilities in connection with Clare

Kendry's coming among them loomed before

her In endless irritating array.

Clare, It seemed, still retained her abil-

ity 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,

132

RE-ENCOUNTER 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 tor-

turing emotion, left its subtle traces on the

countenance.

But Clare—she had remained almost

what she had always been, an attractive, some-

what lonely child—selfish, wilful, and disturb-

ing.

THREE

The things which Irene Redfield remembered

afterward about the Negro Welfare League

dance seemed, to her, unimportant and unre-

lated.

She remembered the not quite derisive

smile with which Brian had cloaked his vexa-

tion when she informed him—oh, so apologet-

ically—that she had promised to take Clare,

and related the conversation of her visit.

She remembered her ov/n 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 glisten-

ing hair drawn smoothly back into a small

twist at the nape of her neck; her eyes spar-

134

RE-ENCOUNTER kllng like dark jewels. Irene, with her new rose-

coloured chiffon frock ending at the knees, and

her cropped curls, felt dowdy and common-

place. She regretted that she hadn't counselled

Clare to wear something ordinary and incon-

spicuous. 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 look-

ing into his face while Clare explained that she

and he had made their own introductions, ac-

companying 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 Christ-

mas-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!"

^3S

PASSING At her words and tone a chilly wave of

scorn had crept through Irene. All those super-

latives ! She said, taking care to speak indiffer-

ently: "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 sur-

prised 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 par-

ticularly liked.

She remembered catching glimpses of

Clare in the whirling crowd, dancing, some-

times 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

136

RE-ENCOUNTER 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 Wentworth, who had just taken a

seat beside her, and recited it:

''Rich man, poor man,

Beggar man, thief,

Doctor, lawyer,

Indian chief."

'Tes," 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.

137

PASSING "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, Fm sure. And

now, alas ! the usual thing's happened. All these

others, these—er —

'gentlemen of colour' have

driven a mere Nordic from her mind."

''Stuff!"

" 'S a fact, and what happens to all the

ladles of my superior race who're lured up

here. Look at Blanca. 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' men who find

their way up here are fair specimens of white

Terpslchorean art."

"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

138

RE-ENCOUNTER 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 emo-

tional 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 accus-

tomed notions of beauty."

"Damned if I don't think you're half-

way right!"

"I'm sure I am. Completely. (Except,

of course, when it's just patronizing kindness

on their part.) And I know coloured girls

who've experienced the same thing—the other

way round, naturally."

"And the men? You don't subscribe to

the general opinion about their reason for com-

ing up here. Purely predatory. Or, do you?"

139

PASSING "N-no. More curious, I should say."

Wentworth, whose eyes were a clouded

amber colour, had given her a long, searching

look that was really a stare. He said: "All

this is awfully interestin', Irene. We've got to

havw. a long talk about it some time soon.

There's your friend from Chicago, first time up

here and all that. A case in point."

Irene's smile had only just lifted the

corners of her painted lips. A match blazed in

Wentworth's broad hands as he lighted her

cigarette and his own, and flickered out before

he asked: ''Or isn't she?"

Her smile changed to a laugh. "Oh,

Hugh! You're so clever. You usually know

everything. Even how to tell the sheep from

the goats. What do you think? Is she?"

He blew a long contemplative wreath

of smoke. "Damned if I know! I'll be as sure

as anything that I've learned the trick. And

then In the next minute I'll find I couldn't pick

some of 'em if my life depended on It."

"Well, don't let that worry you. No-

body can. Not by looking.'*

140

RE-ENCOUNTER "Not by looking, eh? Meaning?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain. Not clearly.

There are ways. But they're not definite or

tangible."

"Feeling of kinship, or something like

that?"

"Good heavens, no ! Nobody has that,

except for their in-laws."

"Right again 1 But go on about the sheep

and the goats."

"Well, take my own experience with

Dorothy Thompkins. I'd met her four or five

times, in groups and crowds of people, before

I knew she wasn't a Negro. One day I went to

an awful tea, terribly dicty. Dorothy was there.

We got talking. In less than five minutes, I

knew she was 'fay.' Not from anything she did

or said or anything In her appearance. Just

—

just something. A thing that couldn't be regis-

tered."

"Yes, I understand what you mean.

Yet lots of people 'pass' all the time."

"Not on our side, Hugh. It's easy for

a Negro to 'pass' for white. But I don't think

141

PASSING it would be so simple for a white person to

*pass' for coloured."

*'Never thought of that."

"No, you wouldn't. Why should you?"

He regarded her critically through mists

of smoke. "Slippln' me, Irene?"

She said soberly: "Not you, Hugh. I'm

too fond of you. And you're too sincere."

And she remembered that towards the

end of the dance Brian had come to her and

said: "I'll drop you first and then run Clare

down." And that he had been doubtful of her

discretion when she had explained to him that

he wouldn't have to bother because she had

asked Bianca Wentworth to take her down

with them. Did she, he had asked, think It had

been wise to tell them about Clare?

"I told them nothing," she said sharply,

for she was unbearably tired, "except that she

was at the Walsingham. It's on their way. And,

really, I haven't thought anything about the

wisdom of it, but now that I do, I'd say it's

much better for them to take her than you.'*

"As you please. She's your friend, you

142

RE-ENCOUNTER know/' he had answered, with a disclaiming

shrug of his shoulders.

Except for these few unconnected things

the dance faded to a blurred memory, its out-

lines mingling with those of other dances of its

kind that she had attended in the past and

would attend in the future.

FOUR

But undistinctive as the dance had seemed,

it was, nevertheless, Important. For It marked

the beginning of a new factor In Irene Redfield's

life, something that left its trace on all

the future years of her existence. It was the

beginning of a new friendship with Clare Ken-

dry.

She came to them frequently after that.

Always with a touching gladness that welled

up and overflowed on all the Redfield house-

hold. Yet Irene could never be sure whether

her comings were a joy or a vexation.

Certainly she was no trouble. She had

not to be entertained, or even noticed—if any-

one could ever avoid noticing Clare. If Irene

happened to be out or occupied, Clare could

very happily amuse herself with Ted and

Junior, who had conceived for her an admira-

tion that verged on adoration, especially Ted.

Or, lacking the boys, she would descend to the

kitchen and, with—to Irene—an exasperating

144

RE-ENCOUNTER childlike lack of perception, spend her visit in

talk and merriment with Zulena and Sadie.

Irene, while secretly resenting these

visits to the playroom and kitchen, for some ob-

scure reason which she shied away from putting

into words, never requested that Clare make an

end of them, or hinted that she wouldn't have

spoiled her own Margery so outrageously, nor

been so friendly with white servants.

Brian looked on these things with the

same tolerant amusement that marked his entire

attitude toward Clare. Never since his faintly

derisive surprise at Irene's information that

she was to go with them the night of the dance,

had he shown any disapproval of Clare's pres-

ence. On the other hand, it couldn't be said

that her presence seemed to please him. It

didn't annoy or disturb him, so far as Irene

could judge. That was all.

Didn't he, she once asked him, think

Clare was extraordinarily beautiful?

*'No," he had answered. "That is, not

particularly."

"Brian, you're fooling!"

145

PASSING "No, honestly. Maybe Fm fussy. I

s'pose she'd be an unusually good-looking white

woman. I like my ladies darker. Beside an A-

number-one sheba, she simply hasn't got 'em."

Clare went, sometimes with Irene and

Brian, to parties and dances, and on a few

occasions when Irene hadn't been able or in-

clined to go out, she had gone alone with Brian

to some bridge party or benefit dance.

Once in a while she came formally to

dine with them. She wasn't, however, in spite

of her poise and air of worldliness, the ideal

dinner-party guest. Beyond the aesthetic pleas-

ure one got from watching her, she contributed

little, sitting for the most part silent, an odd

dreaming look in her hypnotic eyes. Though she

could for some purpose of her own—the desire

to be included in some party being made up to

go cabareting, or an invitation to a dance or a

tea—talk fluently and entertainingly.

She was generally liked. She was so

friendly and responsive, and so ready to press

the sweet food of flattery on all. Nor did she

object to appearing a bit pathetic and ill-used,

146

RE-ENCOUNTER SO that people could feel sorry for her. And, no

matter how often she came among them, she

still remained someone apart, a little mysteri-

ous and strange, someone to wonder about and

to admire and to pity.

Her visits were undecided and uncer-

tain, being, as they were, dependent on the

presence or absence of John Bellew in the city.

But she did, once in a while, manage to steal

uptown for an afternoon even when he was not

away. As time went on without any apparent

danger of discovery, even Irene ceased to be

perturbed about the possibiHty of Clare's hus-

band's stumbling on her racial identity.

The daughter, Margery, had been left

in Switzerland in school, for Clare and Bellew

would be going back in the early spring. In

March, Clare thought. "And how I do hate to

think of it!" she would say, always with a sug-

gestion of leashed rebellion; *'but I can't see

how I'm going to get out of it. Jack won't

hear of my staying behind. If I could have just

a couple of months more in New York, alone I

mean, I'd be the happiest thing in the world."

147

PASSING "I Imagine you'll be happy enough, once

you get away," Irene told her one day when

she was bewailing her approaching departure.

"Remember, there's Margery. Think how

glad you'll be to see her after all this time."

"Children aren't everything," was Clare

Kendry's answer to that. "There are other

things in the world, though I admit some peo-

ple don't seem to suspect It." And she laughed,

more. It seemed, at some secret joke of her own

than at her words.

Irene replied: "You know you don't

mean that, Clare. You're only trying to tease

me. I know very well that I take being a mother

rather seriously, I am wrapped up in my boys

and the running of my house. I can't help It.

And, really, I don't think it's anything to laugh

at." And though she was aware of the slight

primness in her words and attitude, she had

neither power nor wish to efface it.

Clare, suddenly very sober and sweet,

said: "You're right. It's no laughing matter.

It's shameful of me to tease you, 'Rene. You are

so good." And she reached out and gave Irene's

148

RE-ENCOUNTER hand an affectionate little squeeze. ^'Don't

think," she added, ^Vhatever happens, that

I'll ever forget how good you've been to me."

"Nonsense!"

"Oh, but you have, you have. It's just

that I haven't any proper morals or sense of

duty, as you have, that makes me act as I do."

"Now you are talking nonsense."

"But it's true, 'Rene. Can't you realize

that I'm not like you a bit? Why, to get the

things I want badly enough, I'd do anything,

hurt anybody, throw anything away. Really,

'Rene, I'm not safe." Her voice as well as the

look on her face had a beseeching earnestness

that made Irene vaguely uncomfortable.

She said: "I don't believe it. In the first

place what you're saying is so utterly, so

wickedly wrong. And as for your giving up

things —

" She stopped, at a loss for an accept-

able term to express her opinion of Clare's

"having" nature.

But Clare Kendry had begun to cry,

audibly, with no effort at restraint, and for no

reason that Irene could discover.

149

PART THREE

FINALE

ONE

X HE YEAR was getting on towards its end.

October, November had gone. December had

come and brought with it a httle snow and then

a freeze and after that a thaw and some soft

pleasant days that had in them a feeling of

spring.

It wasn't, this mild weather, a bit

Christmasy, Irene Redfield was thinking, as

she turned out of Seventh Avenue into her own

street. She didn't like it to be warm and

springy when it should have been cold and

crisp, or grey and cloudy as if snow was about

to fall. The weather, like people, ought to en-

ter into the spirit of the season. Here the holi-

days were almost upon them, and the streets

through which she had come were streaked

with rills of muddy water and the sun shone so

warmly that children had taken off their hats

and scarfs. It was all as soft, as like April, as

possible. The kind of weather for Easter. Cer-

tainly not for Christmas.

153

PASSING Though, she admitted, reluctantly, she

herself didn't feel the proper Christmas spirit

this year, either. But that couldn't be helped, it

seemed, any more than the weather. She was

weary and depressed. And for all her trying,

she couldn't be free of that dull, indefinite

misery which with increasing tenaciousness had

laid hold of her. The morning's aimless wan-

dering through the teeming Harlem streets,

long after she had ordered the flowers which

had been her excuse for setting out, was but

another effort to tear herself loose from it.

She went up the cream stone steps, into

the house, and down to the kitchen. There were

to be people in to tea. But that, she found, after

a few words with Sadie and Zulena, need give

her no concern. She was thankful. She didn't

want to be bothered. She went upstairs and

took off her things and got into bed.

She thought: "Bother those people

coming to tea !"

She thought: "If I could only be sure

that at bottom it's just Brazil."

154

FINALE She thought : "Whatever It is, if I only

knew what it was, I could manage it."

Brian again. Unhappy, restless, with-

drawn. And she, who had prided herself on

knowing his moods, their causes and their rem-

edies, had found it first unthinkable, and then

intolerable, that this, so like and yet so unlike

those other spasmodic restlessnesses of his,

should be to her incomprehensible and elusive.

He was restless and he was not restless.

He was discontented, yet there were times

when she felt he was possessed of some intense

secret satisfaction, like a cat who had stolen the

cream. He was irritable with the boys, espe-

cially Junior, for Ted, who seemed to have an

uncanny knowledge of his father's periods of

off moods, kept out of his way when possible.

They got on his nerves, drove him to violent

outbursts of temper, very different from his

usual gently sarcastic remarks that constituted

his idea of discipline for them. On the other

hand, with her he was more than customarily

considerate and abstemious. And It had been

155

PASSING weeks since she had felt the keen edge of his

irony.

He was Hke a man marking time, wait-

ing. But what was he waiting for? It was ex-

traordinary that, after all these years of ac-

curate perception, she now lacked the talent to

discover what that appearance of waiting

meant. It was the knowledge that, for all her

watching, all her patient study, the reason for

his humour still eluded her which filled her

with foreboding dread. That guarded reserve

of his seemed to her unjust. Inconsiderate, and

alarming. It was as If he had stepped out be-

yond her reach into some section, strange and

walled, where she could not get at him.

She closed her eyes, thinking what a

blessing it would be if she could get a little

sleep before the boys came in from school. She

couldn't, of course, though she was so tired,

having had, of late, so many sleepless nights.

Nights filled with questionings and premoni-

tions.

But she did sleep—several hours.

She wakened to find Brian standing at

156

FINALE her bedside looking down at her, an unfathom-

able expression in his eyes.

She said: "I must have dropped off to

sleep," and watched a slender ghost of his old

amused smile pass over his face.

"It's getting on to four," he told her,

meaning, she knew, that she was going to be

late again.

She fought back the quick answer that

rose to her lips and said instead: "I'm getting

right up. It was good of you to think to call

me." She sat up.

He bowed. "Always the attentive hus-

band, you see."

"Yes indeed. Thank goodness, every-

thing's ready."

"Except you. Oh, and Clare's down-

stairs."

"Clare ! What a nuisance ! I didn't ask

her. Purposely."

"I see. Might a mere man ask why? Or

is the reason so subtly feminine that it wouldn't

be understood by him?"

A little of his smile had come back.

157

PASSING Irene, who was beginning to shake off some of

her depression under his famlHar banter, said,

almost gaily: "Not at all. It just happens that

this party happens to be for Hugh, and that

Hugh happens not to care a great deal for

Clare; therefore I, who happen to be giving

the party, didn't happen to ask her. Nothing

could be simpler. Could it?"

"Nothing. It's so simple that I can

easily see beyond your simple explanation and

surmise that Clare, probably, just never hap-

pened to pay Hugh the admiring attention that

he happens to consider no more than his just

due. Simplest thing in the world."

Irene exclaimed in amazement: "Why,

I thought you liked Hugh ! You don't, you

can't, believe anything so idiotic!"

"Well, Hugh does think he's God, you

know."

"That," Irene declared, getting out of

bed, "is absolutely not true. He thinks ever so

much better of himself than that, as you, who

know and have read him, ought to be able to

guess. If you remember what a low opinion he

158

FINALE has of God, you won't make such a silly mis-

take."

She went into the closet for her things

and, coming back, hung her frock over the back

of a chair and placed her shoes on the floor

beside it. Then she sat down before her

dressing-table.

Brian didn't speak. He continued to

stand beside the bed, seeming to look at noth-

ing in particular. Certainly not at her. True,

his gaze was on her, but in it there was some

quality that made her feel that at that moment

she was no more to him than a pane of glass

through which he stared. At what? She didn't

know, couldn't guess. And this made her un-

comfortable. Piqued her.

She said: "It just happens that Hugh

prefers intelligent women."

Plainly he was startled. "D'you mean

that you think Clare is stupid?" he asked, re-

garding her with lifted eyebrows, which em-

phasized the disbelief of his voice.

She wiped the cold cream from her face,

before she said: "No, I don't. She isn't stupid.

159

PASSING She's intelligent enough In a purely feminine

way. Eighteenth-century France would have

been a marvellous setting for her, or the old

South if she hadn't made the mistake of being

born a Negro."

"I see. Intelligent enough to wear a

tight bodice and keep bowing swains whisper-

ing compliments and retrieving dropped fans.

Rather a pretty picture. I take it, though, as

slightly feline in Its Implication."

*'Well, then, all I can say is that you

take it wrongly. Nobody admires Clare more

than I do, for the kind of Intelligence she has,

as well as for her decorative qualities. But

she's not— She isn't— She hasn't— Oh, I can't

explain it. Take Bianca, for example, or, to

keep to the race, Felise Freeland. Looks and

brains. Real brains that can hold their own with

anybody. Clare has got brains of a sort, the

kind that are useful too. Acquisitive, you know.

But she'd bore a man like Hugh to suicide. Still,

I never thought that even Clare would come to

a private party to which she hadn't been asked.

But, it's like her."

1 60

FINALE For a minute there was silence. She

completed the bright red arch of her full lips.

Brian moved towards the door. His hand was

on the knob. He said: "I'm sorry, Irene. It's

my fault entirely. She seemed so hurt at being

left out that I told her I was sure you'd for-

gotten and to just come along."

Irene cried out: "But, Brian, I —

" and

stopped, amazed at the fierce anger that had

blazed up In her.

Brian's head came round with a jerk.

His brows lifted In an odd surprise.

Her voice, she realized, had gone queer.

But she had an Instinctive feeling that It hadn't

been the whole cause of his attitude. And that

little straightening motion of the shoulders.

Hadn't It been like that of a man drawing him-

self up to receive a blow? Her fright was like

a scarlet spear of terror leaping at her heart.

Clare Kendry! So that was It! Impos-

sible. It couldn't be.

In the mirror before her she saw that

he was still regarding her with that air of slight

amazement. She dropped her eyes to the jars

i6i

PASSING and bottles on the table and began to fumble

among them with hands whose fingers shook

slightly.

''Of course," she said carefully, 'Tm

glad you did. And in spite of my recent re-

marks, Clare does add to any party. She's so

easy on the eyes."

When she looked again, the surprise

had gone from his face and the expectancy

from, his bearing.

"Yes," he agreed. "Well, I guess Til run

along. One of us ought to be down, I s'pose."

"You're right. One of us ought to."

She was surprised that it was in her normal

tones she spoke, caught as she was by the heart

since that dull indefinite fear had grown sud-

denly into sharp panic. "I'll be down before

you know it," she promised.

"All right." But he still lingered.

"You're quite certain. You don't mind my ask-

ing her? Not awfully, I mean? I see now that

I ought to have spoken to you. Trust women to

have their reasons for everything."

She made a little pretence at looking at

162

FINALE him, managed a tiny smile, and turned away.

Clare! How sickening!

*'Yes, don't they?" she said, striving to

keep her voice casual. Within her she felt a

hardness from feeling, not absent, but re-

pressed. And that hardness was rising, swell-

ing. Why didn't he go? Why didn't he?

He had opened the door at last. "You

won't be long?" he asked, admonished.

She shook her head, unable to speak,

for there was a choking in her throat, and the

confusion in her mind was like the beating of

wings. Behind her she heard the gentle Impact

of the door as it closed behind him, and knew

that he had gone. Down to Clare.

For a long minute she sat in strained

stiffness. The face in the mirror vanished from

her sight, blotted out by this thing which had

so suddenly flashed across her groping mind.

Impossible for her to put it immediately into

words or give it outline, for, prompted by some

impulse of self-protection, she recoiled from

exact expression.

She closed her unseeing eyes and

163

PASSING clenched her fists. She tried not to cry. But her

Hps tightened and no effort could check the hot

tears of rage and shame that sprang into her

eyes and flowed down her cheeks; so she laid

her face in her arms and wept silently.

When she was sure that she had done

crying, she wiped away the warm remaining

tears and got up. After bathing her swollen

face in cold, refreshing water and carefully

applying a stinging splash of toilet water, she

went back to the mirror and regarded herself

gravely. Satisfied that there lingered no be-

traying evidence of weeping, she dusted a little

powder on her dark-white face and again ex-

amined it carefully, and with a kind of ridi-

culing contempt.

"I do think," she confided to it, "that

youVe been something—oh, very much—of a

damned fool."

Downstairs the ritual of tea gave her

some busy moments, and that, she decided, was

a blessing. She wanted no empty spaces of time

in which her mind would immediately return to

that horror which she had not yet gathered suf-

164

FINALE ficient courage to face. Pouring tea properly

and nicely was an occupation that required a

kind of well-balanced attention.

In the room beyond, a clock chimed. A single sound. Fifteen minutes past five o'clock.

That was all ! And yet in the short space of

half an hour all of life had changed, lost its

colour, Its vividness, its whole meaning. No,

she reflected, it wasn't that that had happened.

Life about her, apparently, went on exactly as

before.

"Oh, Mrs. Runyon. ... So nice to see

you. . . . Two? . . . Really? . . . How ex-

citing! . . . Yes, I think Tuesday's all

right. . . ."

Yes, life went on precisely as before.

It was only she that had changed. Knowing,

stumbling on this thing, had changed her. It

was as If In a house long dim, a match had been

struck, showing ghastly shapes where had been

only blurred shadows.

Chatter, chatter, chatter. Someone

asked her a question. She glanced up with what

she felt was a rigid smile.

165

PASSING *'Yes . . . Brian picked it up last win-

ter in Haiti. Terribly weird, isn't it? ... It

is rather marvellous in its own hideous way.

. . . Practically nothing, I believe. A few

cents. . . .'*

Hideous. A great weariness came over

her. Even the small exertion of pouring golden

tea into thin old cups seemed almost too much

for her. She went on pouring. Made repetitions

of her smile. Answered questions. Manufac-

tured conversation. She thought: "I feel like

the oldest person in the world with the longest

stretch of life before me."

"Josephine Baker? . . . No. I've never

seen her. . . . Well, she might have been in

Shuffle Along when I saw it, but if she was, I

don't remember her. . . . Oh, but you're

wrong I ... I do think Ethel Waters is aw-

fully good. ..."

There were the familiar little tinkling

sounds of spoons striking against frail cups, the

soft running sounds of inconsequential talk,

punctuated now and then with laughter. In ir-

regular small groups, disintegrating, coalesc-

i66

FINALE ing, striking just the right note of disharmony,

disorder in the big room, which Irene had fur-

nished with a sparingness that was almost

chaste, moved the guests with that slight fa-

miliarity that makes a party a success. On the

floor and the walls the sinking sun threw long,

fantastic shadows.

So like many other tea-parties she had

had. So unlike any of those others. But she

mustn't think yet. Time enough for that after.

All the time in the world. She had a second's

flashing knowledge of what those words might

portend. Time with Brian. Time without him.

It was gone, leaving in its place an almost un-

controllable impulse to laugh, to scream, to hurl

things about. She wanted, suddenly, to shock

people, to hurt them, to make them notice her,

to be aware of her suffering.

''Hello, Dave. . . . Felise. . . . Really

your clothes are the despair of half the women

in Harlem. . . . How do you do it? . . .

Lovely, is it Worth or Lanvin? . . . Oh, a

mere Babani. ..."

"Merely that," Felise Freeland ac-

167

PASSING knowledged. "Come out of it, Irene, whatever

it is. You look like the second grave-digger/'

"Thanks, for the hint, Felise. I'm not

feeling quite up to par. The weather, I guess."

"Buy yourself an expensive new frock,

child. It always helps. Any time this child gets

the blues, it means money out of Dave's pocket.

How're those boys of yours?"

The boys! For once she'd forgotten

them.

They were, she told Felise, very well.

Felise mumbled something about that being

awfully nice, and said she'd have to fly, because

for a wonder she saw Mrs. Bellew sitting by

herself, "and I've been trying to get her alone

all afternoon. I want her for a party. Isn't she

stunning today?"

Clare was. Irene couldn't remember

ever having seen her look better. She was wear-

ing a superlatively simple cinnamon-brown

frock which brought out all her vivid beauty,

and a little golden bowl of a hat. Around

her neck hung a string of amber beads that

would easily have made six or eight like

i68

FINALE one Irene owned. Yes, she was stunning.

The ripple of talk flowed on. The fire

roared. The shadows stretched longer.

Across the room was Hugh. He wasn't,

Irene hoped, being too bored. He seemed as he

always did, a bit aloof, a little amused, and

somewhat weary. And as usual he was hover-

ing before the book-shelves. But he was not,

she noticed, looking at the book he had taken

down. Instead, his dull amber eyes were held

by something across the room. They were a

little scornful. Well, Hugh had never cared for

Clare Kendry. For a minute Irene hesitated,

then turned her head, though she knew what it

was that held Hugh's gaze. Clare, who had

suddenly clouded all her days. Brian, the

father of Ted and Junior.

Clare's ivory face was what It always

was, beautiful and caressing. Or maybe today a

little masked. Unrevealing. Unaltered and un-

disturbed by any emotion within or without.

Brian's seemed to Irene to be pitiably bare. Or

was it too as it always was? That half-effaced

seeking look, did he always have that? Queer,

169

PASSING that now she didn't know, couldn't recall. Then

she saw him smile, and the smile made his face

all eager and shining. Impelled by some inner

urge of loyalty to herself, she glanced away.

But only for a moment. And when she turned

towards them again, she thought that the look

on his face was the most melancholy and yet

the most scoffing that she had ever seen upon it.

In the next quarter of an hour she prom-

ised herself to Bianca Wentworth in Sixty-

second Street, Jane Tenant at Seventh Avenue

and a Hundred and Fiftieth Street, and the

Dashields in Brooklyn for dinner all on the

same evening and at almost the same hour.

Oh well, what did it matter? She had

no thoughts at all now, and all she felt was a

great fatigue. Before her tired eyes Clare

Kendry was talking to Dave Freeland. Scraps

of their conversation, in Clare's husky voice,

floated over to her: ". . . always admired you

... so much about you long ago . . . every-

body says so ... no one but you. . . ." And

more of the same. The man hung rapt on her

words, though he was the husband of Felise

170

FINALE Freeland, and the author of novels that re-

vealed a man of perception and a devastating

irony. And he fell for such pish-posh ! And all

because Clare had a trick of sliding down ivory

lids over astonishing black eyes and then lift-

ing them suddenly and turning on a caressing

smile. Men like Dave Freeland fell for it. And

Brian.

Her mental and physical languor re-

ceded. Brian. What did it mean? How would it

affect her and the boys? The boys! She had a

surge of relief. It ebbed, vanished. A feeling of

absolute unimportance followed. Actually, she

didn't count. She was, to him, only the mother

of his sons. That was all. Alone she was noth-

ing. Worse. An obstacle.

Rage boiled up in her.

There was a slight crash. On the floor

at her feet lay the shattered cup. Dark stains

dotted the bright rug. Spread. The chatter

stopped. Went on. Before her, Zulena gathered

up the white fragments.

As from a distance Hugh Wentworth's

dipt voice came to her, though he was, she

171

PASSING w^s aware, somehow miraculously at her side.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Must have pushed

you. Clumsy of me. Don't tell me it's priceless

and irreplaceable."

It hurt. Dear God! How the thing

hurt! But she couldn't think of that now. Not

with Hugh sitting there mumbling apologies

and lies. The significance of his words, the

power of his discernment, stirred in her a sense

of caution. Her pride revolted. Damn Hugh!

Something would have to be done about him.

Now. She couldn't, it seemed, help his know-

ing. It was too late for that. But she could and

would keep him from knowing that she knew.

She could, she would bear it. She'd have to.

There were the boys. Her whole body went

taut. In that second she saw that she could bear

anything, but only if no one knew that she had

anything to bear. It hurt. It frightened her, but

she could bear it.

She turned to Hugh. Shook her head.

Raised innocent dark eyes to his concerned pale

ones. "Oh, no," she protested, "you didn't push

172

FINALE me. Cross your heart, hope to die, and I'll tell

you how it happened."

''Done!"

*'Did you notice that cup? Well, you're

lucky. It was the ugliest thing that your an-

cestors, the charming Confederates ever owned.

I've forgotten how many thousands of years

ago It was that Brian's great-great-grand-uncle

owned it. But It has, or had, a good old hoary

history. It was brought North by way of the

subway. Oh, all right ! Be English if you want

to and call It the underground. What I'm com-

ing to is the fact that I've never figured out a

way of getting rid of It until about five minutes

ago. I had an inspiration. I had only to break

it, and I was rid of it for ever. So simple ! And

I'd never thought of it before."

Hugh nodded and his frosty smile

spread over his features. Had she convinced

him?

"Still," she went on with a little laugh

that didn't, she was sure, sound the least bit

forced, ''I'm perfectly willing for you to take

173

PASSING the blame and admit that you pushed me at the

wrong moment. What are friends for, if not to

help bear our sins? Brian will certainly be told

that it was your fault.

^'More tea, Clare? ... I haven't had

a minute with you. . . . Yes, it is a nice party.

. . . You'll stay to dinner, I hope. . . . Oh,

too bad! . . . I'll be alone with the boys. . . .

They'll be sorry. Brian's got a medical meeting,

or something. . . . Nice frock you're wearing.

. . . Thanks. . . . Well, good-bye; see you

soon, I hope."

The clock chimed. One. Two, Three.

Four. Five. Six. Was It, could it be, only a little

over an hour since she had come down to tea?

One little hour.

*'Must you go? . . . Good-bye. . . .

Thank you so much. ... So nice to see

you. . . . Yes, Wednesday. . . . My love to

Madge. . . . Sorry, but Fm filled up for

Tuesday. . . . Oh, really? . . . Yes. . . .

Good-bye. . . . Good-bye. . . ."

It hurt. It hurt like hell. But It didn't

174

FINALE matter, If no one knew. If everything could go

on as before. If the boys were safe.

It did hurt.

But it didn't matter.

TWO

But it did matter. It mattered more than

anything had ever mattered before.

What bitterness ! That the one fear, the

one uncertainty, that she had felt, Brian's ache

to go somewhere else, should have dwindled to

a childish triviality ! And with It the quality of

the courage and resolution with which she had

met It. From the visions and dangers which she

now perceived she shrank away. For them she

had no remedy or courage. Desperately she

tried to shut out the knowledge from which

had risen this turmoil, which she had no power

to moderate or still, within her. And half suc-

ceeded.

For, she reasoned, what was there,

what had there been, to show that she was even

half correct In her tormenting notion? Nothing.

She had seen nothing, heard nothing. She had

no facts or proofs. She was only making herself

unutterably wretched by an unfounded suspl-

176

FINALE cion. It had been a case of looking for trouble

and finding it in good measure. Merely that.

With this self-assurance that she had no

real knowledge, she redoubled her efforts to

drive out of her mind the distressing thought of

faiths broken and trusts betrayed which every

mental vision of Clare, of Brian, brought with

them. She could not, she would not, go again

through the tearing agony that lay just behind

her.

She must, she told herself, be fair. In

all their married life she had had no slightest

cause to suspect her husband of any Infidelity,

of any serious flirtation even. If—and she

doubted it—he had had his hours of outside

erratic conduct, they were unknown to her.

Why begin now to assume them? And on noth-

ing more concrete than an idea that had leapt

into her mind because he had told her that he

had invited a friend, a friend of hers, to a party

in his own house. And at a time when she had

been, it was likely, more asleep than awake.

How could she without anything done or said,

or left undone or unsaid, so easily believe him

177

PASSING guilty? How be so ready to renounce all con-

fidence in the worth of their life together?

And if, perchance, there were some

small something—well, what could it mean?

Nothing. There were the boys. There was John

Bellew. The thought of these three gave her

some slight relief. But she did not look the fu-

ture in the face. She wanted to feel nothing, to

think nothing; simply to believe that it was all

silly invention on her part. Yet she could not.

Not quite.

Christmas, with its unreality, Its hectic

rush. Its false gaiety, came and went. Irene was

thankful for the confused unrest of the season.

Its Irksomeness, Its crowds, Its Inane and Insin-

cere repetitions of genialities, pushed between

her and the contemplation of her growing un-

happlness.

She was thankful, too, for the continued

absence of Clare, who, John Bellew having re-

turned from a long stay in Canada, had with-

drawn to that other life of hers, remote and In-

accessible. But beating against the walled

178

FINALE prison of Irene's thoughts was the shunned

fancy that, though absent, Clare Kendry was

still present, that she was close.

Brian, too, had withdrawn. The house

contained his outward self and his belongings.

He came and went with his usual noiseless ir-

regularity. He sat across from her at table.

He slept in his room next to hers at night. But

he was remote and inaccessible. No use pre-

tending that he was happy, that things were

the same as they had always been. He wasn't

and they weren't. However, she assured her-

self, it needn't necessarily be because of any-

thing that involved Clare. It was, it must be,

another manifestation of the old longing.

But she did wish it were spring, March,

so that Clare would be sailing, out of her life

and Brian's. Though she had come almost to

believe that there was nothing but generous

friendship between those two, she was very

tired of Clare Kendry. She wanted to be free

of her, and of her furtive comings and goings.

If something would only happen, something

that would make John Bellew decide on an

179

PASSING earlier departure, or that would remove Clare.

Anything. She didn't care what. Not even if it

were that Clare's Margery were ill, or dying.

Not even if Bellew should discover—

She drew a quick, sharp breath. And for

a long time sat staring down at the hands in

her lap. Strange, she had not before realized

how easily she could put Clare out of her life

She had only to tell John Bellew that his wife

—No. Not that! But if he should somehow

learn of these Harlem visits— Why should she

hesitate? Why spare Clare?

But she shrank away from the idea of

telling that man, Clare Kendry's white husband,

anything that would lead him to suspect that

his wife was a Negro. Nor could she write it,

or telephone it, or tell it to someone else who

would tell him.

She was caught between two allegiances,

different, yet the same. Herself. Her race.

Race ! The thing that bound and suffocated her.

Whatever steps she took, or if she took none

at all, something would be crushed. A person

or the race. Clare, herself, or the race. Or, it

i8o

FINALE might be, all three. Nothing, she Imagined, was

ever more completely sardonic.

Sitting alone In the quiet living-room In

the pleasant fire-light, Irene Redfield wished,

for the first time In her life, that she had not

been born a Negro. For the first time she suf-

fered and rebelled because she was unable to

disregard the burden of race. It was, she cried

silently, enough to suffer as a woman, an indi-

vidual, on one's own account, without having

to suffer for the race as well. It was a brutality,

and undeserved. Surely, no other people so

cursed as Ham's dark children.

Nevertheless, her weakness, her shrink-

ing, her own inability to compass the thing, did

not prevent her from wishing fervently that. In

some way with which she had no concern, John

Bellew would discover, not that his wife had a

touch of the tar-brush—Irene didn't want that

—^but that she was spending all the time that

he was out of the city In black Harlem. Only

that. It would be enough to rid her forever of

Clare Kendry.

i8i

THREE

As IF In answer to her wish, the very next day

Irene came face to face with Bellew.

She had gone downtown with Fellse

Freeland to shop. The day was an exceptionally

cold one, with a strong wind that had whipped

a dusky red into Felise's smooth golden cheeks

and driven moisture Into Irene's soft brown

eyes.

Clinging to each other, with heads bent

against the wind, they turned out of the Ave-

nue into Fifty-seventh Street. A sudden bluster

flung them around the corner with unexpected

quickness and they collided with a man.

"Pardon," Irene begged laughingly,

and looked up Into the face of Clare Kendry's

husband.

"Mrs. Redfield!"

His hat came off. He held out his

hand, smiling genially.

But the smile faded at once. Surprise,

182

FINALE incredulity, and—was it understanding?

—

passed over his features.

He had, Irene knew, become conscious

of Felise, golden, with curly black Negro hair,

whose arm was still linked in her own. She

was sure, now, of the understanding in his

face, as he looked at her again and then back at

Felise. And displeasure.

He didn't, however, withdraw his out-

stretched hand. Not at once.

But Irene didn't take it. Instinctively,

in the first glance of recognition, her face had

become a mask. Now she turned on him a

totally uncomprehending look, a bit question-

ing. Seeing that he still stood with hand out-

stretched, she gave him the cool appraising

stare which she reserved for mashers, and

drew Felise on.

Felise drawled: "Aha! Been ^passing,'

have you? Well, I've queered that."

"Yes, I'm afraid you have."

"Why, Irene Redfield! You sound as if

you cared terribly. I'm sorry."

"I do, but not for the reason you think.

183

PASSING I don't believe I've ever gone native in my life

except for the sake of convenience, restaurants,

theatre tickets, and things like that. Never so-

cially I mean, except once. You've just passed

the only person that I've ever met disguised as

a white woman."

"Awfully sorry. Be sure your sin will

find you out and all that. Tell me about it."

'Td like to. It would amuse you. But I

can't."

Felise's laughter was as languidly non-

chalant as her cool voice. "Can it possible that

the honest Irene has— Oh, do look at that

coat! There. The red one. Isn't it a dream?"

Irene was thinking: "I had my chance

and didn't take It. I had only to speak and to

Introduce him to Felise with the casual remark

that he was Clare's husband. Only that. Fool.

Fool." That Instinctive loyalty to a race. Why couldn't she get free of It? Why should It In-

clude Clare? Clare, who'd shown little enough

consideration for her, and hers. What she felt

was not so much resentment as a dull despair

because she could not change herself In this re-

184

FINALE spect, could not separate individuals from the

race, herself from Clare Kendry.

"Let's go home, Felise. I'm so tired I

could drop."

"Why, we haven't done half the things

we planned."

"I know, but it's too cold to be running

all over town. But you stay down if you want

to.

"I think I'll do that, if you don't mind."

And now another problem confronted

Irene. She must tell Clare of this meeting.

Warn her. But how? She hadn't seen her for

days. Writing and telephoning were equally

unsafe. And even if it was possible to get in

touch with her, what good would it do? If Bel-

lew hadn't concluded that he'd made a mistake,

if he was certain of her Identity—and he was

nobody's fool—telling Clare wouldn't avert the

results of the encounter. Besides, it was too

late. Whatever was in store for Clare Kendry

had already overtaken her.

Irene was conscious of a feeling of re-

i8s

PASSING lleved thankfulness at the thought that she

was probably rid of Clare, and without having

lifted a finger or uttered one word.

But she did mean to tell Brian about

meeting John Bellew.

But that, it seemed, was impossible.

Strange. Something held her back. Each time

she was on the verge of saying: "I ran into

Clare's husband on the street downtown to-

day. I'm sure he recognized me, and Felise was

with me," she failed to speak. It sounded too

much like the warning she wanted it to be. Not

even in the presence of the boys at dinner could

she make the bare statement.

The evening dragged. At last she said

good-night and went upstairs, the words un-

said.

She thought: *'Why didn't I tell him?

Why didn't I? If trouble comes from this, I'll

never forgive myself. I'll tell him when he

comes up."

She took up a book, but she could not

read, so oppressed was she by a nameless fore-

boding.

i86

FINALE What if Bellew should divorce Clare?

Could he? There was the Rhinelander case.

But in France, in Paris, such things were very

easy. If he divorced her— If Clare were free

—

But of all the things that could happen, that

was the one she did not want. She must get her

mind away from that possibility. She must.

Then came a thought which she tried to

drive away. If Clare should die ! Then— Oh,

it was vile! To think, yes, to wish that! She

" felt faint and sick. But the thought stayed with

her. She could not get rid of it.

She heard the outer door open. Close.

Brian had gone out. She turned her face into

her pillow to cry. But no tears came.

She lay there awake, thinking of things

past. Of her courtship and marriage and Jun-

ior's birth. Of the time they had bought the ^

house in which they had lived so long and so

happily. Of the time Ted had passed his pneu-

monia crisis and they knew he would live. And

of other sweet painful memories that would

never come again.

Above everything else she had wanted,

187

PASSING had striven, to keep undisturbed the pleasant

routine of her life. And now Clare Kendry had

come into It, and with her the menace of Im-

permanence.

''Dear God," she prayed, "make March

come quickly."

By and by she slept.

FOUR

X HE NEXT MORNING brought With it a snow-

storm that lasted throughout the day.

After a breakfast, which had been eaten

almost in silence and which she was relieved to

have done with, Irene Redfield lingered for a

little while in the downstairs hall, looking out

at the soft flakes fluttering down. She was

watching them immediately fill some ugly ir-

regular gaps left by the feet of hurrying pedes-

trians when Zulena came to her, saying: "The

telephone, Mrs. Redfield. It's Mrs. Bellew."

"Take the message, Zulena, please."

Though she continued to stare out of

the window, Irene saw nothing now, stabbed as

she was by fear—and hope. Had anything

happened between Clare and Bellew? And if

so, what? And was she to be freed at last from

the aching anxiety of the past weeks? Or was

there to be more, and worse? She had a wrest-

ling moment, in which it seemed that she must

189

PASSING rush after Zulena and hear for herself what it

was that Clare had to say. But she waited.

Zulena, when she came back, said: "She

says, ma'am, that she'll be able to go to Mrs.

Freeland's tonight. She'll be here some time be-

tween eight and nine."

"Thank you, Zulena."

The day dragged on to its end.

At dinner Brian spoke bitterly of a

lynching that he had been reading about in the

evening paper.

"Dad, why is it that they only lynch

coloured people?" Ted asked.

"Because they hate 'em, son."

"Brian !" Irene's voice was a plea and a

rebuke.

Ted said: "Oh! And why do they hate

"Because they are afraid of them."

"But what makes them afraid of 'em?"

"Because—

"Brian!"

"It seems, son, that is a subject we can't

190

FINALE go into at the moment without distressing the

ladies of our family," he told the boy with mock

seriousness, "but we'll take it up some time

when we're alone together."

Ted nodded in his engaging grave way. "I

see. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow on

the way to school."

'That'll be line."

"Brian!"

"Mother," Junior remarked, "that's

the third time you've said 'Brian' like that."

"But not the last. Junior, never you

fear," his father told him.

After the boys had gone up to their own

floor, Irene said suavely: "I do wish, Brian,

that you wouldn't talk about lynching before

Ted and Junior. It was really inexcusable for

you to bring up a thing like that at dinner.

There'll be time enough for them to learn

about such horrible things when they're older."

"You're absolutely wrong! If, as you're

so determined, they've got to live in this

damned country, they'd better find out what

191

PASSING sort of thing they're up against as soon as pos-

sible. The earlier they learn it, the better pre-

pared they'll be."

"I don't agree. I want their childhood

to be happy and as free from the knowledge of

such things as It possibly can be."

"Very laudable," was Brian's sarcastic

answer. "Very laudable indeed, all things con-

sidered. But can it?"

"Certainly It can. If you'll only do your

part."

"Stuff ! You know as well as I do, Irene,

that It can't. What was the use of our trying

to keep them from learning the word 'nigger'

and its connotation? They found out, didn't

they? And how? Because somebody called Jun-

ior a dirty nigger."

"Just the same you're not to talk to

them about the race problem. I won't have It."

They glared at each other.

"I tell you, Irene, they've got to know

these things, and it might as well be now as

later."

"They do not!" she insisted, forcing

192

FINALE back the tears of anger that were threatening

to fall.

Brian growled : "I can't understand how

anybody as intelligent as you like to think you

are can show evidences of such stupidity." He

looked at her in a puzzled harassed way.

"Stupid!" she cried. "Is it stupid to

want my children to be happy?" Her lips were

quivering.

"At the expense of proper preparation

for life and their future happiness, yes. And Td

feel I hadn't done my duty by them if I didn't

give them some inkling of what's before them.

It's the least I can do. I wanted to get them

out of this hellish place years ago. You

wouldn't let me. I gave up the idea, because you

objected. Don't expect me to give up every-

thing."

Under the lash of his words she was

silent. Before any answer came to her, he had

turned and gone from the room.

Sitting there alone in the forsaken

dining-room, unconsciously pressing the hands

lying in her lap, tightly together, she was seized

193

PASSING by a convulsion of shivering. For, to her, there

had been something ominous in the scene that

she had just had with her husband. Over and

over in her mind his last words: "Don't expect

me to give up everything," repeated themselves.

What had they meant? What could they mean?

Clare Kendry?

Surely, she was going mad with fear

and suspicion. She must not work herself up.

She must not ! Where were all the self-control,

the common sense, that she was so proud of?

Now, if ever, was the time for it.

Clare would soon be there. She must

hurry or she would be late again, and those two

would wait for her downstairs together, as they

had done so often since that first time, which

now seemed so long ago. Had it been really

only last October? Why, she felt years, not

months, older.

Drearily she rose from her chair and

went upstairs to set about the business of dress-

ing to go out when she would far rather have

remained at home. During the process she won-

dered, for the hundredth time, why she hadn't

194

FINALE told Brian about herself and Fellse running

into Bellew the day before, and for the hun-

dredth time she turned away from acknowledg-

ing to herself the real reason for keeping back

the information.

When Clare arrived, radiant in a shin-

ing red gown, Irene had not finished dressing.

But her smile scarcely hesitated as she greeted

her, saying: ''I always seem to keep C. P. time,

don't I? We hardly expected you to be able to

come. Felise will be pleased. How nice you

look.''

Clare kissed a bare shoulder, seeming

not to notice a slight shrinking.

"I hadn't an idea in the world, myself,

that I'd be able to make it; but Jack had to

run down to Philadelphia unexpectedly. So here

I am."

Irene looked up, a flood of speech on

her lips. "Philadelphia. That's not very far, is

it? Clare, I—?"

She stopped, one of her hands clutch-

ing the side of her stool, the other lying

clenched on the dressing-table. Why didn't she

195

PASSING go on and tell Clare about meeting Bellew?

Why couldn't she?

But Clare didn't notice the unfinished

sentence. She laughed and said lightly: "It's far

enough for me. Anywhere, away from me, is

far enough. I'm not particular."

Irene passed a hand over her eyes to

shut out the accusing face in the glass before

her. With one corner of her mind she wondered

how long she had looked like that, drawn and

haggard and—yes, frightened. Or was it only

Imagination?

"Clare," she asked, "have you ever seri-

ously thought what It would mean If he should

find you out?"

, "Yes."

"Oh! You have! And what you'd do In

that case?"

"Yes." And having said it, Clare Ken-

dry smiled quickly, a smile that came and went

like a flash, leaving untouched the gravity of

her face.

That smile and the quiet resolution of

196

FINALE that one word, ''yes," filled Irene with a

primitive paralysing dread. Her hands were

numb, her feet like ice, her heart like a stone

weight. Even her tongue was like a heavy

dying thing. There were long spaces between

the words as she asked: "And what should

you do?"

Clare, who was sunk in a deep chair, her

eyes far away, seemed wrapped in some pleas-

ant impenetrable reflection. To Irene, sitting ex-

pectantly upright, it was an interminable time

before she dragged herself back to the present

to say calmly: 'Td do what I want to do more than anything else right now. I'd come up here

to live. Harlem, I mean. Then I'd be able to do as I please, when I please."

Irene leaned forward, cold and tense.

''And what about Margery?" Her voice was a

strained whisper.

"Margery?" Clare repeated, letting her eyes flutter over Irene's concerned face. "Just this, 'Rene. If It wasn't for her, I'd do it any-

way. She's all that holds me back. But if Jack

197

PASSING finds out, if our marriage is broken, that lets

me out. Doesn't it?"

Her gentle resigned tone, her air of in-

nocent candour, appeared, to her listener, spuri-

ous. A conviction that the words were intended

as a warning took possession of Irene. She re-

membered that Clare Kendry had always

seemed to know what other people were think-

ing. Her compressed lips grew firm and ob-

durate. Well, she wouldn't know this time.

She said: "Do go downstairs and talk

to Brian. He's got a mad on."

Though she had determined that Clare

should not get at her thoughts and fears, the

words had sprung, unthought of, to her lips. It

was as if they had come from some outer layer

of callousness that had no relation to her tor-

tured heart. And they had been, she realized,

precisely the right words for her purpose.

For as Clare got up and went out, she

saw that that arrangement was as good as her

first plan of keeping her waiting up there while

she dressed—or better. She would only have

198

FINALE hindered and rasped her. And what matter if

those two spent one hour, more or less, alone

together, one or many, now that everything had

happened between them?

Ah ! The first time that she had allowed

herself to admit to herself that everything had

happened, had not forced herself to believe, to

hope, that nothing irrevocable had been con-

summated ! Well, it had happened. She knew it,

and knew that she knew it.

She was surprised that, having thought

the thought, conceded the fact, she was no

more hurt, cared no more, than during her pre-

vious frenzied endeavours to escape it. And this

absence of acute, unbearable pain seemed to her

unjust, as If she had been denied some exquisite

solace of suffering which the full acknowledg-

ment should have given her.

Was it, perhaps, that she had endured

all that a woman could endure of tormenting

humiliation and fear? Or was it that she

lacked the capacity for the acme of suffering?

*'No, no!'^ she denied fiercely. "I'm human

199

PASSING like everybody else. It's just that rm so tired,

so worn out, I can't feel any more." But she

did not really believe that.

Security. Was It just a word? If not,

then was It only by the sacrifice of other things,

happiness, love, or some wild ecstasy that she

had never known, that It could be obtained?

And did too much striving, too much faith In

safety and permanence, unfit one for these

other things?

Irene didn't know, couldn't decide,

though for a long time she sat questioning and

trying to understand. Yet all the while. In spite

of her searchlngs and feeling of frustration,

she was aware that, to her, security was the

most Important and desired thing In life. Not

for any of the others, or for all of them,

would she exchange it. She wanted only to be

tranquil. Only, unmolested, to be allowed to

direct for their own best good the lives of her

sons and her husband.

Now that she had relieved herself of

what was almost like a guilty knowledge, ad-

mitted that which by some sixth sense she had

200

FINALE long known, she could again reach out for

plans. Could think again of ways to keep Brian

by her side, and in New York. For she would

not go to Brazil. She belonged In this land of

rising towers. She was an American. She grew

from this soil, and she would not be uprooted.

Not even because of Clare Kendry, or a hun-

dred Clare Kendrys.

Brian, too, belonged here. His duty was

to her and to his boys.

Strange, that she couldn't now be sure

that she had ever truly known love. Not even

for Brian. He was her husband and the father

of her sons. But was he anything more? Had

she ever wanted or tried for more ? In that hour

she thought not.

Nevertheless, she meant to keep him.

Her freshly painted lips narrowed to a thin

straight line. True, she had left off trying to

believe that he and Clare loved and yet did not

love, but she still intended to hold fast to the

outer shell of her marriage, to keep her life

fixed, certain. Brought to the edge of distaste-

ful reality, her fastidious nature did not recoil.

20I

PASSING Better, far better, to share him than to lose him

completely. Oh, she could close her eyes, if

need be. She could bear it. She could bear any-

thing. And there was March ahead. March

and the departure of Clare.

Horribly clear, she could now see the

reason for her instinct to withhold—omit,

rather—her news of the encounter with Bellew.

If Clare was freed, anything might happen.

She paused in her dressing, seeing with

perfect clearness that dark truth which she had

from that first October afternoon felt about

Clare Kendry and of which Clare herself had

once warned her—that she got the things she

wanted because she met the great condition of

conquest, sacrifice. If she wanted Brian, Clare

wouldn't revolt from the lack of money or

place. It was as she had said, only Margery

kept her from throwing all that away. And if

things were taken out of her hands— Even if

she was only alarmed, only suspected that such

a thing was about to occur, anything might

happen. Anything.

No ! At all costs, Clare was not to know

202

FINALE of that meeting with Bellew. Nor was Brian.

It would only weaken her own power to keep

him.

They would never know from her that

he was on his way to suspecting the truth about

his wife. And she would do anything, risk any-

thing, to prevent him from finding out that

truth. How fortunate that she had obeyed her

Instinct and omitted to recognize Bellew

"Ever go up to the sixth floor, Clare?"

Brian asked as he stopped the car and got out

to open the door for them.

"Why, of course ! We're on the seven-

teenth."

"I mean, did you ever go up by nigger-

power?"

'That's good!" Clare laughed. "Ask

'Rene. My father was a janitor, you know. In

the good old days before every ramshackle flat

had Its elevator. But you can't mean we've got

to walk up ? Not here !"

"Yes, here. And Fellse lives at the very

top," Irene told her.

203

PASSING "What on earth for?''

"I beheve she claims it discourages the

casual visitor."

"And she's probably right. Hard on

herself, though."

Brian said "Yes, a bit. But she says

she'd rather be dead than bored."

"Oh, a garden! And how lovely with

that undisturbed snow I"

"Yes, Isn't It? But keep to the walk with

those foolish thin shoes. You too, Irene."

Irene walked beside them on the cleared

cement path that split the whiteness of the

courtyard garden. She felt a something In the

air, something that had been between those

two and would be again. It was like a live thing

pressing against her. In a quick furtive glance

she saw Clare clinging to Brian's other arm.

She was looking at him with that provocative

upward glance of hers, and his eyes were fas-

tened on her face with what seemed to Irene

an expression of wistful eagerness.

"It's this entrance, I believe," she In-

formed them in quite her ordinary voice.

204

FINALE ''Mind," Brian told Clare, "you don't

fall by the wayside before the fourth floor.

They absolutely refuse to carry anyone up more

than the last two flights."

''Don't be silly!" Irene snapped.

The party began gaily.

Dave Freeland was at his best, brilliant,

crystal clear, and sparkling. Felise, too, was

amusing, and not so sarcastic as usual, because

she liked the dozen or so guests that dotted

the long, untidy living-room. Brian was witty,

though, Irene noted, his remarks were some-

what more barbed than was customary even

with him. And there was Ralph Hazelton,

throwing nonsensical shining things into the

pool of talk, which the others, even Clare,

picked up and flung back with fresh adornment.

Only Irene wasn't merry. She sat almost

silent, smiling now and then, that she might

appear amused.

"What's the matter, Irene?" someone

asked. "Taken a vow never to laugh, or some-

thing? You're as sober as a judge."

205

PASSING * "No. It's simply that the rest of you are

so clever that I'm speechless, absolutely

stunned."

"No wonder," Dave Freeland re-

marked, "that you're on the verge of tears. You

haven't a drink. What'll you take?"

"Thanks. If I must take something,

make It a glass of ginger-ale and three drops of

Scotch. The Scotch first, please. Then the ice,

then the ginger ale."

"Heavens! Don't attempt to mix that

yourself, Dave darling. Have the butler in,"

Fellse mocked.

"Yes, do. And the footman." Irene

laughed a little, then said: "It seems dread-

fully warm in here. Mind if I open this win-

dow?" With that she pushed open one of the

long casement-windows of which the Freelands

were so proud.

It had stopped snowing some two or

three hours back. The moon was just rising, and

far behind the tall buildings a few stars were

creeping out. Irene finished her cigarette and

206

FINALE threw It out, watching the tiny spark drop

slowly down to the white ground below.

Someone in the room had turned on the

phonograph. Or was it the radio? She didn't

know which she disliked more. And nobody was

listening to its blare. The talking, the laughter

never for a minute ceased. Why must they have

more noise?

Dave came with her drink. "You ought

not," he told her, "to stand there like that.

You'll take cold. Come along and talk to me, or

listen to me gabble." Taking her arm, he led

her across the room. They had just found seats

when the door-bell rang and Felise called over

to him to go and answer it.

In the next moment Irene heard his

voice in the hall, carelessly polite: "Your wife?

Sorry. I'm afraid you're wrong. Perhaps

next —

Then the roar of John Bellew's voice

above all the other noises of the room: "I'm

not wrong! I've been to the Redfields and I

know she's with them. You'd better stand out

207

PASSING of my way and save yourself trouble in the

end."

"What is it, Dave?" Felise ran out to

the door.

And so did Brian. Irene heard him say-

ing: "I'm Redfield. What the devil's the matter

with you?"

But Bellew didn't heed him. He pushed

past them all into the room and strode towards

Clare. They all looked at her as she got up

from her chair, backing a little from his ap-

proach.

"So you're a nigger, a damned dirty

nigger!" His voice was a snarl and a moan, an

expression of rage and of pain.

Everything was in confusion. The men had

sprung forward. Felise had leapt between them

and Bellew. She said quickly: "Careful. You're

the only white man here." And the silver chill

of her voice, as well as her words, was a warn-

ing.

Clare stood at the window, as composed

as if everyone were not staring at her in curi-

osity and wonder, as if the whole structure of

208

FINALE her life were not lying In fragments before her.

She seemed unaware of any danger or uncaring.

There was even a faint smile on her full, red

lips, and in her shining eyes.

It was that smile that maddened Irene.

She ran across the room, her terror tinged with

ferocity, and laid a hand on Clare's bare arm.

One thought possessed her. She couldn't have

Clare Kendry cast aside by Bellew. She couldn't

have her free.

Before them stood John Bellew, speech-

less now in his hurt and anger. Beyond them

the little huddle of other people, and Brian

stepping out from among them.

What happened next, Irene Redfield

never afterwards allowed herself to remember.

Never clearly.

One moment Clare had been there, a

vital glowing thing, like a flame of red and

gold. The next she was gone.

There was a gasp of horror, and above

it a sound not quite human, like a beast In

agony. "Nig! My God! Nig!"

A frenzied rush of feet down long

209

PASSING flights of stairs. The slamming of distant doors.

Voices.

Irene stayed behind. She sat down and

remained quite still, staring at a ridiculous

Japanese print on the wall across the room.

Gone ! The soft white face, the bright

hair, the disturbing scarlet mouth, the dream-

ing eyes, the caressing smile, the whole tortur-

ing loveliness that had been Clare Kendry. That

beauty that had torn at Irene's placid Hfe.

Gone! The mocking daring, the gallantry of

her pose, the ringing bells of her laughter.

Irene wasn't sorry. She was amazed, in-

credulous almost.

What would the others think? That

Clare had fallen? That she had deliberately

leaned backward? Certainly one or the other.

Not— But she mustn't, she warned herself,

think of that. She was too tired, and too

shocked. And, indeed, both were true. She was

utterly weary, and she was violently staggered.

But her thoughts reeled on. If only she could

be as free of mental as she was of bodily

2IO

FINALE vigour; could only put from her memory the

vision of her hand on Clare's arm

^'It was an accident, a terrible accident,"

she muttered fiercely. "It wasT

People were coming up the stairs.

Through the still open door their steps and

talk sounded nearer, nearer.

Quickly she stood up and went noise-

lessly into the bedroom and closed the door

softly behind her.

Her thoughts raced. Ought she to have

stayed? Should she go back out there to them?

But there would be questions. She hadn't

thought of them, of afterwards, of this. She

had thought of nothing in that sudden moment

of action.

It was cold. Icy chills ran up her spine

and over her bare neck and shoulders.

In the room outside there were voices.

Dave Freeland's and others that she did not

recognize.

Should she put on her coat? Felise had

rushed down without any wrap. So had all the

others. So had Brian. Brian! He mustn't take

211

PASSING cold. She took up his coat and left her own. At

the door she paused for a moment, listening

fearfully. She heard nothing. No voices. No

footsteps. Very slowly she opened the door.

The room was empty. She went out.

In the hall below she heard dimly the

sound of feet going down the steps, of a door

being opened and closed, and of voices far

away.

Down, down, down, she went, Brian's

great coat clutched in her shivering arms and

trailing a little on each step behind her.

What was she to say to them when at

last she had finished going down those endless

stairs? She should have rushed out when they

did. What reason could she give for her dally-

ing behind? Even she didn't know why she had

done that. And what else would she be asked?

There had been her hand reaching out towards

Clare. What about that?

In the midst of her wonderings and

questionings came a thought so terrifying, so

horrible, that she had had to grasp hold of the

banister to save herself from pitching down-

212

FINALE wards. A cold perspiration drenched her shak-

ing body. Her breath caipe short in sharp and

painful gasps.

What if Clare was not dead?

She felt nauseated, as much at the idea

of the glorious body mutilated as from fear.

How she managed to make the rest of

the journey without fainting she never knew.

But at last she was down. Just at the bottom

she came on the others, surrounded by a little

circle of strangers. They were all speaking in

whispers, or in the awed, discreetly lowered

tones adapted to the presence of disaster. In

the first instant she wanted to turn and rush

back up the way she had come. Then a calm

desperation came over her. She braced herself,

physically and mentally.

"Here's Irene now," Dave Freeland

announced, and told her that, having only just

missed her, they had concluded that she had

fainted or something like that, and were on the

way to find out about her. Felise, she saw, was

holding on to his arm, all the insolent non-

chalance gone out of her, and the golden brown

213

PASSING of her handsome face changed to a queer mauve

colour.

Irene made no Indication that she had

heard Freeland, but went straight to Brian. His

face looked aged and altered, and his lips were

purple and trembling. She had a great longing

to comfort him, to charm away his suffering

and horror. But she was helpless, having

so completely lost control of his mind and

heart.

She stammered: *'Is she—is she— ?"

It was Felise who answered. "Instantly,

we think."

f^ Irene struggled against the sob of

[ thankfulness that rose in her throat. Choked

down, it turned to a whimper, like a hurt

child's. Someone laid a hand on her shoulder in

a soothing gesture. Brian wrapped his coat

about her. She began to cry rackingly, her en-

tire body heaving with convulsive sobs. He made a slight perfunctory attempt to comfort

her.

"There, there, Irene. You mustn't.

214

FINALE You'll make yourself sick. She's

— " His voice

broke suddenly.

As from a long distance she heard

Ralph Hazelton's voice saying: "I was look-

ing right at her. She just tumbled over and was

gone before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'

Fainted, I guess. Lord! It was quick. Quickest

thing I ever saw in all my life."

"It's impossible, I tell you I Absolutely

impossible !"

It was Brian who spoke in that frenzied

hoarse voice, which Irene had never heard be-

fore. Her knees quaked under her.

Dave Freeland said: "J^st a minute,

Brian. Irene was there beside her. Let's hear

what she has to say."

She had a moment of stark craven fear.

*'0h God," she thought, prayed, "help me."

A strange man, official and authorita-

tive, addressed her. "You're sure she fell? Her

husband didn't give her a shove or anything

like that, as Dr. Redfield seems to think?"

For the first time she was aware that

215

PASSING Bellew was not in the little group shivering In

the small hallway. What did that mean? As she

began to work it out in her numbed mind, she

was shaken with another hideous trembling.

Not that! Oh, not that!

"No, no!" she protested. ^Tm quite

certain that he didn't. I was there, too. As close

as he was. She just fell, before anybody could

stop her. I —

Her quaking knees gave way under her.

She moaned and sank down, moaned again.

Through the great heaviness that submerged

and drowned her she was dimly conscious of

strong arms lifting her up. Then everything

was dark.

Centuries after, she heard the strange

man saying: 'JDeath by misadventure, I'm In-

clined to believe. Let's go up and have another

look at that window."

A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET

1 HIS book has been set in a modern adaptation of

a type designed by PVilliam Caslon, the first {l6g2-

1766), who, it is generally conceded, brought the

old-style letter to its highest perfection.

An artistic, easily-read type, Caslon has had two

centuries of ever-increasing popularity in our own

country—// is of interest to note that the first copies

of the Declaration of Independence and the first

paper currency distributed to the citizens of the

new-born nation were printed in this type face.

SET UP, ELECTROTYPED, PRINTED,

AND BOUND BY

THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS,

BINGHAMTON, N. Y.

PAPER M ADE BY S. D. WARREN CO., BOSTON

7k7tD 7

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