The Purple Heights

The Purple Heights

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Purple Heights, by Marie
Conway Oemler This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no
cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give
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Title: The Purple Heights
Author: Marie Conway Oemler
Release Date: June 12, 2004 [EBook #12596]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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PURPLE HEIGHTS ***

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[Illustration: "We have met"]
THE PURPLE HEIGHTS
By
MARIE CONWAY OEMLER
Author of "Slippy McGee." "A Woman Named Smith," etc.
NEW YORK 1920
To JOHN NORTON OEMLER FROM THE LADY HIS SON USED
TO CALL "MRS. DADDY"

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE RED ADMIRAL II THE PROMISE III AT GRIPS WITH LIFE
IV THE SOUL OF BLACK FOLKS V THE PURPLE HEIGHTS VI
GOOD MORNING, GOOD LUCK! VII WHERE THE ROAD
DIVIDED VIII CINDERELLA IX PRICE-TAGS X THE DEAR
DAM-FOOL XI HIS GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE XII "NOT BY
BREAD ALONE" XIII THE BRIGHT SHADOW XIV SWAN
FEATHERS XV "I, TOO, IN ARCADIA" XVI THE OTHER MAN
XVII THE GUTTER-CANDLE XVIII KISMET! XIX THE POWER
XX AND THE GLORY

CHARACTERS
PETER CHAMPNEYS: _Of Riverton, South Carolina, and Paris,
France_. MARIA CHAMPNEYS: His Mother. CHADWICK
CHAMPNEYS: The God in the Machine. EMMA CAMPBELL: A
Colored Woman. ANNE CHAMPNEYS, NÉE NANCY SIMMS:
Cinderella. MRS. JOHN HEMINGWAY: _Peter's First Teacher_.
JOHN HEMINGWAY: An American. JASON VANDERVELDE: An
Attorney at Law. MRS. JASON VANDERVELDE: _Anne's Mentor_.
MRS. MacGREGOR: A Disciple of Hannah More. GLENN
MITCHELL: A Bright Shadow. BERKELEY HAYDEN: The Other
Man. GRACIE: _A Gutter-Candle_. DENISE: A Perfume. THE
QUARTIER LATIN. RIVERTON, SOUTH CAROLINA. THE
CAROLINA COLORED FOLKS. MARTIN LUTHER: A Gray Cat.
SATAN: A Black Cat. THE RED ADMIRAL: A Fairy.

THE PURPLE HEIGHTS

CHAPTER I
THE RED ADMIRAL
The tiny brown house cuddling like a wren's nest on the edge of the
longest and deepest of the tide-water coves that cut through Riverton

had but four rooms in all,--the kitchen tacked to the back porch, after
the fashion of South Carolina kitchens, the shed room in which Peter
slept, the dining-room which was the general living-room as well, and
his mother's room, which opened directly off the dining-room, and in
which his mother sat all day and sometimes almost all night at her
sewing-machine. When Peter tired of lying on his tummy on the
dining-room floor, trying to draw things on a bit of slate or paper, he
liked to turn his head and watch the cloth moving swiftly under the
jigging needle, and the wheel turning so fast that it made an indistinct
blur, and sang with a droning hum. He could see, too, a corner of his
mother's bed with the patchwork quilt on it. The colors of the quilt were
pleasantly subdued in their old age, and the calico star set in a square
pleased Peter immensely. He thought it a most beautiful quilt. There
was visible almost all of the bureau, an old-fashioned walnut affair with
a small, dim, wavy glass, and drawers which you pulled out by sticking
your fingers under the bunches of flowers that served as knobs. The
fireplaces in both rooms were in a shocking state of disrepair, but one
didn't mind that, as in winter a fire burned in them, and in summer they
were boarded up with fireboards covered with cut-out pictures pasted
on a background of black calico. Those gay cut-out pictures were a
source of never-ending delight to Peter, who was intimately acquainted
with every flower, bird, cat, puppy, and child of them. One little girl
with a pink parasol and a purple dress, holding a posy in a lace-paper
frill, he would have dearly loved to play with.
Over the mantelpiece in his mother's room hung his father's picture, in
a large gilt frame with an inside border of bright red plush. His father
seemed to have been a merry-faced fellow, with inquiring eyes, plenty
of hair, and a very nice mustache. This picture, under which his mother
always kept a few flowers or some bit of living green, was Peter's sole
acquaintance with his father, except when he trudged with his mother
to the cemetery on fine Sundays, and traced with his small forefinger
the name painted in black letters on a white wooden cross:
PETER DEVEREAUX CHAMPNEYS _Aged 30 Years_
It always gave small Peter an uncomfortable sensation to trace that

name, which was also his own, on his father's headboard. It was as if
something of himself stayed out there, very lonesomely, in the deserted
burying-ground. The word "father" never conveyed