“‘I must choose between your way and the way of my Mother’”
For a moment the pleading look of the girl faded into one of utter helplessness. She fought to regain control of herself as if, having reached a decision, she needed to arouse the physical force to carry it out. Turning slowly, she moved over to the center table. From its drawer she took the book which had belonged to her mother.
He watched her, silenced, as he perceived the emotional conflict which was shaking the girl strangely.
When she confronted him again, her face was tragic in its sorrow. In those few seconds she had aged. She had leaped from a girl into womanhood. Her poise was maintained by sheer power of will. When she spoke it was in a forced voice, as if the muscles of her throat strained to hold back the sobs which her tones confessed to be near. “Daddy, there are two persons whom I should obey,” she said. “You, my father, and–” her eyes filled with tears as she raised the book and clasped it to her breast and whispered ever so tenderly–“my mother.”
Wonder held Obadiah speechless in its grasp.
“A moment ago,” she went on, “you condemned me to a life of selfishness.” She held the worn little volume towards him, and then clutched it to her heart. “In this book is a message from my mother. It is as plain and clear to me as if I had heard it from her own lips. She tells me to be unselfish and to think of others. I must choose between your way and the way of my mother. I do it now in your presence.” The girl’s voice softened into an ineffable sweetness. “Perhaps mother is here, too, and understands about it. I choose her way, Daddy.”
Her manner was firmer now, except for the telltale twitchings of the muscles of her face, as she continued. “Knowing my mother’s wishes, I could not live as you would have me. I must go away.” Her voice caught. “I must go where I can try to be unselfish. You can’t object to my going to Aunt Kate’s–she has asked me to visit her so often.” She swayed. Her hand clutched at the table for support. For an instant her face worked convulsively, and then, with a little cry of utter misery, she ran from the room, holding the book to her breast.
Late that evening Serena softly knocked at Virginia’s door. When she was bidden to enter, the crumpled and disheveled form upon the bed and the tear streaked face told the story of grief to the big hearted negress. “Ain’ you gwine eat er li’l suppah, honey chil’?” she urged.
“No, Serena, I’m not hungry.” A great sob shook the girl.