THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE

A Novel

W.E.B. DU BOIS

1911

A.C. McClurg & Co.

Contents

THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE

TO ONE

whose name may not be written but to whose tireless

faith the shaping of these cruder thoughts to forms

more fitly perfect is doubtless due, this

finished work is herewith dedicated

Note

He who would tell a tale must look toward three ideals: to tell
it well, to tell it beautifully, and to tell the truth.

The first is the Gift of God, the second is the Vision of Genius,
but the third is the Reward of Honesty.

In The Quest of the Silver Fleece there is little, I ween,
divine or ingenious; but, at least, I have been honest. In no
fact or picture have I consciously set down aught the counterpart
of which I have not seen or known; and whatever the finished
picture may lack of completeness, this lack is due now to the
story-teller, now to the artist, but never to the herald of the
Truth.

NEW YORK CITY

August 15, 1911

THE AUTHOR

One

DREAMS

Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew sinister and sullen.
The tall pines lost their slimness and stood in wide blurred
blotches all across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose,
wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the black-green sky.

The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and stood still,
listening as the voice of crickets split the shadows and made the
silence audible. A tear wandered down his brown cheek. They were
at supper now, he whispered—the father and old mother, away
back yonder beyond the night. They were far away; they would
never be as near as once they had been, for he had stepped into
the world. And the cat and Old Billy—ah, but the world was
a lonely thing, so wide and tall and empty! And so bare, so
bitter bare! Somehow he had never dreamed of the world as lonely
before; he had fared forth to beckoning hands and luring, and to
the eager hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling music.

Yet now he was alone; the empty night was closing all about him
here in a strange land, and he was afraid. The bundle with his
earthly treasure had hung heavy and heavier on his shoulder; his
little horde of money was tightly wadded in his sock, and the
school lay hidden somewhere far away in the shadows. He wondered
how far it was; he looked and harkened, starting at his own
heartbeats, and fearing more and more the long dark fingers of
the night.

Then of a sudden up from the darkness came music. It was human
music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy as
it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp.
He hesitated, then impelled by some strange power, left the
highway and slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking, yet
following the song hungrily and half forgetting his fear. A
harsher, shriller note struck in as of many and ruder voices; but
above it flew the first sweet music, birdlike, abandoned, and the
boy crept closer.

The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters.
An old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging with fire and
smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and
wild cheer. With a revel of shouting and noise, the music
suddenly ceased. Hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter
shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there peering through the
black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light
illumined the wood.

Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a girl was dancing.
She was black, and lithe, and tall, and willowy. Her garments
twined and flew around the delicate moulding of her dark, young,
half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair clung motionless to her
wide forehead. Her arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul
seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of her motion.

As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as before, fluttering
like a bird’s in the full sweetness of her utter music. It was no
tune nor melody, it was just formless, boundless music. The boy
forgot himself and all the world besides. All his darkness was
sudden light; dazzled he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated,
until with one last wild whirl the elf-girl paused. The crimson
light fell full upon the warm and velvet bronze of her
face—her midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips
apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the music dead.
Involuntarily the boy gave a gasping cry and awoke to swamp and
night and fire, while a white face, drawn, red-eyed, peered
outward from some hidden throng within the cabin.

“Who’s that?” a harsh voice cried.

“Where?” “Who is it?” and pale crowding faces blurred the light.

The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror stumbling through the
swamp, hearing strange sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands
and arms and whispering voices. On he toiled in mad haste,
struggling toward the road and losing it until finally beneath
the shadows of a mighty oak he sank exhausted. There he lay a
while trembling and at last drifted into dreamless sleep.

It was morning when he awoke and threw a startled glance upward
to the twisted branches of the oak that bent above, sifting down
sunshine on his brown face and close curled hair. Slowly he
remembered the loneliness, the fear and wild running through the
dark. He laughed in the bold courage of day and stretched
himself.

Then suddenly he bethought him again of that vision of the
night—the waving arms and flying limbs of the girl, and her
great black eyes looking into the night and calling him. He could
hear her now, and hear that wondrous savage music. Had it been
real? Had he dreamed? Or had it been some witch-vision of the
night, come to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where was that
black and flaming cabin? Where was the girl—the soul that
had called him? She must have been real; she had to live
and dance and sing; he must again look into the mystery of her
great eyes. And he sat up in sudden determination, and, lo! gazed
straight into the very eyes of his dreaming.

She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree,
her eyes now languorously abstracted, now alert and quizzical
with mischief. She seemed but half-clothed, and her warm, dark
flesh peeped furtively through the rent gown; her thick, crisp
hair was frowsy and rumpled, and the long curves of her bare
young arms gleamed in the morning sunshine, glowing with vigor
and life. A little mocking smile came and sat upon her lips.

“What you run for?” she asked, with dancing mischief in her eyes.

“Because—” he hesitated, and his cheeks grew hot.

“I knows,” she said, with impish glee, laughing low music.

“Why?” he challenged, sturdily.

“You was a-feared.”

He bridled. “Well, I reckon you’d be a-feared if you was caught
out in the black dark all alone.”

“Pooh!” she scoffed and hugged her knees. “Pooh! I’ve stayed out
all alone heaps o’ nights.”

He looked at her with a curious awe.

“I don’t believe you,” he asserted; but she tossed her head and
her eyes grew scornful.

“Who’s a-feared of the dark? I love night.” Her eyes grew soft.

He watched her silently, till, waking from her daydream, she
abruptly asked:

“Where you from?”

“Georgia.”

“Where’s that?”

He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed matter-of-fact.

“It’s away over yonder,” he answered.

“Behind where the sun comes up?”

“Oh, no!”

“Then it ain’t so far,” she declared. “I knows where the sun
rises, and I knows where it sets.” She looked up at its gleaming
splendor glinting through the leaves, and, noting its height,
announced abruptly:

“I’se hungry.”

“So’m I,” answered the boy, fumbling at his bundle; and then,
timidly: “Will you eat with me?”

“Yes,” she said, and watched him with eager eyes.

Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed
chicken and biscuits, ham and corn-bread. She clapped her hands
in glee.

“Is there any water near?” he asked.

Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off like a brown bird,
gleaming dull-golden in the sun, glancing in and out among the
trees, till she paused above a tiny black pool, and then came
tripping and swaying back with hands held cupwise and dripping
with cool water.

“Drink,” she cried. Obediently he bent over the little hands that
seemed so soft and thin. He took a deep draught; and then to
drain the last drop, his hands touched hers and the shock of
flesh first meeting flesh startled them both, while the water
rained through. A moment their eyes looked deep into each
other’s—a timid, startled gleam in hers; a wonder in his.
Then she said dreamily:

“We’se known us all our lives, and—before, ain’t we?”

He hesitated.

“Ye—es—I reckon,” he slowly returned. And then,
brightening, he asked gayly: “And we’ll be friends always, won’t
we?”

“Yes,” she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief
moment they stood still.

Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her
lips. She hopped to the tree.

“Come—eat!” she cried. And they nestled together amid the
big black roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate.

“What’s over there?” he asked pointing northward.

“Cresswell’s big house.”

“And yonder to the west?”

“The school.”

He started joyfully.

“The school! What school?”

“Old Miss’ School.”

“Miss Smith’s school?”

“Yes.” The tone was disdainful.

“Why, that’s where I’m going. I was a-feared it was a long way
off; I must have passed it in the night.”

“I hate it!” cried the girl, her lips tense.

“But I’ll be so near,” he explained. “And why do you hate it?”

“Yes—you’ll be near,” she admitted; “that’ll be nice;
but—” she glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft
joy crept to her face again, and she sat once more dreaming.

“Yon way’s nicest,” she said.

“Why, what’s there?”

“The swamp,” she said mysteriously.

“And what’s beyond the swamp?”

She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones:
“Dreams!”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“Dreams?” vaguely—”dreams? Why, dreams
ain’t—nothing.”

“Oh, yes they is!” she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty
radiance as she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. “Yes
they is! There ain’t nothing but dreams—that is, nothing
much.

“And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of
dreams, piled high and burning; and right amongst them the sun,
when he’s tired o’ night, whispers and drops red things, ‘cept
when devils make ’em black.”

The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to jeer or wonder.

“How you know?” he asked at last, skeptically.

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“Yes,” he answered.

She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her knees, and answered
slowly.

“I goes there sometimes. I creeps in ‘mongst the dreams; they
hangs there like big flowers, dripping dew and sugar and
blood—red, red blood. And there’s little fairies there that
hop about and sing, and devils—great, ugly devils that
grabs at you and roasts and eats you if they gits you; but they
don’t git me. Some devils is big and white, like ha’nts; some is
long and shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is little
and broad and black, and they yells—”

The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half minded to
laugh, half minded to edge away from the black-red radiance of
yonder dusky swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his heart
gave a great bound.

“Some is little and broad and black, and they yells—”
chanted the girl. And as she chanted, deep, harsh tones came
booming through the forest:

“Zo-ra! Zo-ra! O—o—oh, Zora!”

He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of the swamp, an old
woman—short, broad, black and wrinkled, with fangs and
pendulous lips and red, wicked eyes. His heart bounded in sudden
fear; he wheeled toward the girl, and caught only the uncertain
flash of her garments—the wood was silent, and he was
alone.

He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle, and looked
around him. The sun was strong and high, the morning fresh and
vigorous. Stamping one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of
the wood toward the big road.

But ever and anon he glanced curiously back. Had he seen a haunt?
Or was the elf-girl real? And then he thought of her words:

“We’se known us all our lives.”

Two

THE SCHOOL

Day was breaking above the white buildings of the Negro school
and throwing long, low lines of gold in at Miss Sarah Smith’s
front window. She lay in the stupor of her last morning nap,
after a night of harrowing worry. Then, even as she partially
awoke, she lay still with closed eyes, feeling the shadow of some
great burden, yet daring not to rouse herself and recall its
exact form; slowly again she drifted toward unconsciousness.

“Bang! bang! bang!” hard knuckles were beating upon the
door below.

She heard drowsily, and dreamed that it was the nailing up of all
her doors; but she did not care much, and but feebly warded the
blows away, for she was very tired.

“Bang! bang! bang!” persisted the hard knuckles.

She started up, and her eye fell upon a letter lying on her
bureau. Back she sank with a sigh, and lay staring at the
ceiling—a gaunt, flat, sad-eyed creature, with wisps of
gray hair half-covering her baldness, and a face furrowed with
care and gathering years.

It was thirty years ago this day, she recalled, since she first
came to this broad land of shade and shine in Alabama to teach
black folks.

It had been a hard beginning with suspicion and squalor around;
with poverty within and without the first white walls of the new
school home. Yet somehow the struggle then with all its
helplessness and disappointment had not seemed so bitter as
today: then failure meant but little, now it seemed to mean
everything; then it meant disappointment to a score of ragged
urchins, now it meant two hundred boys and girls, the spirits of
a thousand gone before and the hopes of thousands to come. In her
imagination the significance of these half dozen gleaming
buildings perched aloft seemed portentous—big with the
destiny not simply of a county and a State, but of a race—a
nation—a world. It was God’s own cause, and yet—

“Bang! bang! bang!” again went the hard knuckles down
there at the front.

Miss Smith slowly arose, shivering a bit and wondering who could
possibly be rapping at that time in the morning. She sniffed the
chilling air and was sure she caught some lingering perfume from
Mrs. Vanderpool’s gown. She had brought this rich and
rare-apparelled lady up here yesterday, because it was more
private, and here she had poured forth her needs. She had talked
long and in deadly earnest. She had not spoken of the endowment
for which she had hoped so desperately during a quarter of a
century—no, only for the five thousand dollars to buy the
long needed new land. It was so little—so little beside
what this woman squandered—

The insistent knocking was repeated louder than before.

“Sakes alive,” cried Miss Smith, throwing a shawl about her and
leaning out the window. “Who is it, and what do you want?”

“Please, ma’am. I’ve come to school,” answered a tall black boy
with a bundle.

“Well, why don’t you go to the office?” Then she saw his face and
hesitated. She felt again the old motherly instinct to be the
first to welcome the new pupil; a luxury which, in later years,
the endless push of details had denied her.

“Wait!” she cried shortly, and began to dress.

A new boy, she mused. Yes, every day they straggled in; every day
came the call for more, more—this great, growing thirst to
know—to do—to be. And yet that woman had sat right
here, aloof, imperturbable, listening only courteously. When Miss
Smith finished, she had paused and, flicking her glove,—

“My dear Miss Smith,” she said softly, with a tone that just
escaped a drawl—”My dear Miss Smith, your work is
interesting and your faith—marvellous; but, frankly, I
cannot make myself believe in it. You are trying to treat these
funny little monkeys just as you would your own children—or
even mine. It’s quite heroic, of course, but it’s sheer madness,
and I do not feel I ought to encourage it. I would not mind a
thousand or so to train a good cook for the Cresswells, or a
clean and faithful maid for myself—for Helene has
faults—or indeed deft and tractable laboring-folk for any
one; but I’m quite through trying to turn natural servants into
masters of me and mine. I—hope I’m not too blunt; I hope I
make myself clear. You know, statistics show—”

“Drat statistics!” Miss Smith had flashed impatiently. “These are
folks.”

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled indulgently. “To be sure,” she murmured,
“but what sort of folks?”

“God’s sort.”

“Oh, well—”

But Miss Smith had the bit in her teeth and could not have
stopped. She was paying high for the privilege of talking, but it
had to be said.

“God’s sort, Mrs. Vanderpool—not the sort that think of the
world as arranged for their exclusive benefit and comfort.”

“Well, I do want to count—”

Miss Smith bent forward—not a beautiful pose, but earnest.

“I want you to count, and I want to count, too; but I don’t want
us to be the only ones that count. I want to live in a world
where every soul counts—white, black, and yellow—all.
That’s what I’m teaching these children here—to
count, and not to be like dumb, driven cattle. If you don’t
believe in this, of course you cannot help us.”

“Your spirit is admirable, Miss Smith,” she had said very softly;
“I only wish I could feel as you do. Good-afternoon,” and she had
rustled gently down the narrow stairs, leaving an all but
imperceptible suggestion of perfume. Miss Smith could smell it
yet as she went down this morning.

The breakfast bell jangled. “Five thousand dollars,” she kept
repeating to herself, greeting the teachers absently—”five
thousand dollars.” And then on the porch she was suddenly aware
of the awaiting boy. She eyed him critically: black, fifteen,
country-bred, strong, clear-eyed.

“Well?” she asked in that brusque manner wherewith her natural
timidity was wont to mask her kindness. “Well, sir?”

“I’ve come to school.”

“Humph—we can’t teach boys for nothing.”

The boy straightened. “I can pay my way,” he returned.

“You mean you can pay what we ask?”

“Why, yes. Ain’t that all?”

“No. The rest is gathered from the crumbs of Dives’ table.”

Then he saw the twinkle in her eyes. She laid her hand gently
upon his shoulder.

“If you don’t hurry you’ll be late to breakfast,” she said with
an air of confidence. “See those boys over there? Follow them,
and at noon come to the office—wait! What’s your name?”

“Blessed Alwyn,” he answered, and the passing teachers smiled.

Three

MISS MARY TAYLOR

Miss Mary Taylor did not take a college course for the purpose of
teaching Negroes. Not that she objected to Negroes as human
beings—quite the contrary. In the debate between the senior
societies her defence of the Fifteenth Amendment had been not
only a notable bit of reasoning, but delivered with real
enthusiasm. Nevertheless, when the end of the summer came and the
only opening facing her was the teaching of children at Miss
Smith’s experiment in the Alabama swamps, it must be frankly
confessed that Miss Taylor was disappointed.

Her dream had been a post-graduate course at Bryn Mawr; but that
was out of the question until money was earned. She had pictured
herself earning this by teaching one or two of her “specialties”
in some private school near New York or Boston, or even in a
Western college. The South she had not thought of seriously; and
yet, knowing of its delightful hospitality and mild climate, she
was not averse to Charleston or New Orleans. But from the offer
that came to teach Negroes—country Negroes, and little ones
at that—she shrank, and, indeed, probably would have
refused it out of hand had it not been for her queer brother,
John. John Taylor, who had supported her through college, was
interested in cotton. Having certain schemes in mind, he had been
struck by the fact that the Smith School was in the midst of the
Alabama cotton-belt.

“Better go,” he had counselled, sententiously. “Might learn
something useful down there.”

She had been not a little dismayed by the outlook, and had
protested against his blunt insistence.

“But, John, there’s no society—just elementary work—”

John had met this objection with, “Humph!” as he left for his
office. Next day he had returned to the subject.

“Been looking up Tooms County. Find some Cresswells
there—big plantations—rated at two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. Some others, too; big cotton county.”

“You ought to know, John, if I teach Negroes I’ll scarcely see
much of people in my own class.”

“Nonsense! Butt in. Show off. Give ’em your Greek—and study
Cotton. At any rate, I say go.”

And so, howsoever reluctantly, she had gone.

The trial was all she had anticipated, and possibly a bit more.
She was a pretty young woman of twenty-three, fair and rather
daintily moulded. In favorable surroundings, she would have been
an aristocrat and an epicure. Here she was teaching dirty
children, and the smell of confused odors and bodily perspiration
was to her at times unbearable.

Then there was the fact of their color: it was a fact so
insistent, so fatal she almost said at times, that she could not
escape it. Theoretically she had always treated it with
disdainful ease.

“What’s the mere color of a human soul’s skin,” she had cried to
a Wellesley audience and the audience had applauded with
enthusiasm. But here in Alabama, brought closely and intimately
in touch with these dark skinned children, their color struck her
at first with a sort of terror—it seemed ominous and
forbidding. She found herself shrinking away and gripping herself
lest they should perceive. She could not help but think that in
most other things they were as different from her as in color.
She groped for new ways to teach colored brains and marshal
colored thoughts and the result was puzzling both to teacher and
student. With the other teachers she had little commerce. They
were in no sense her sort of folk. Miss Smith represented the
older New England of her parents—honest, inscrutable,
determined, with a conscience which she worshipped, and utterly
unselfish. She appealed to Miss Taylor’s ruddier and daintier
vision but dimly and distantly as some memory of the past. The
other teachers were indistinct personalities, always very busy
and very tired, and talking “school-room” with their meals. Miss
Taylor was soon starving for human companionship, for the lighter
touches of life and some of its warmth and laughter. She wanted a
glance of the new books and periodicals and talk of great
philanthropies and reforms. She felt out of the world, shut in
and mentally anæmic; great as the “Negro Problem” might be as a
world problem, it looked sordid and small at close range. So for
the hundredth time she was thinking today, as she walked alone up
the lane back of the barn, and then slowly down through the
bottoms. She paused a moment and nodded to the two boys at work
in a young cotton field.

“Cotton!”

She paused. She remembered with what interest she had always read
of this little thread of the world. She had almost forgotten that
it was here within touch and sight. For a moment something of the
vision of Cotton was mirrored in her mind. The glimmering sea of
delicate leaves whispered and murmured before her, stretching
away to the Northward. She remembered that beyond this little
world it stretched on and on—how far she did not
know—but on and on in a great trembling sea, and the foam
of its mighty waters would one time flood the ends of the earth.

She glimpsed all this with parted lips, and then sighed
impatiently. There might be a bit of poetry here and there, but
most of this place was such desperate prose.

She glanced absently at the boys.

One was Bles Alwyn, a tall black lad. (Bles, she mused,—now
who would think of naming a boy “Blessed,” save these
incomprehensible creatures!) Her regard shifted to the green
stalks and leaves again, and she started to move away. Then her
New England conscience stepped in. She ought not to pass these
students without a word of encouragement or instruction.

“Cotton is a wonderful thing, is it not, boys?” she said rather
primly. The boys touched their hats and murmured something
indistinctly. Miss Taylor did not know much about cotton, but at
least one more remark seemed called for.

“How long before the stalks will be ready to cut?” she asked
carelessly. The farther boy coughed and Bles raised his eyes and
looked at her; then after a pause he answered slowly. (Oh! these
people were so slow—now a New England boy would have
answered and asked a half-dozen questions in the time.)

“I—I don’t know,” he faltered.

“Don’t know! Well, of all things!” inwardly commented Miss
Taylor—”literally born in cotton, and—Oh, well,” as
much as to ask, “What’s the use?” She turned again to go.

“What is planted over there?” she asked, although she really
didn’t care.

“Goobers,” answered the smaller boy.

“Goobers?” uncomprehendingly.

“Peanuts,” Bles specified.

“Oh!” murmured Miss Taylor. “I see there are none on the vines
yet. I suppose, though, it’s too early for them.”

Then came the explosion. The smaller boy just snorted with
irrepressible laughter and bolted across the fields. And
Bles—was Miss Taylor deceived?—or was he chuckling?
She reddened, drew herself up, and then, dropping her primness,
rippled with laughter.

“What is the matter, Bles?” she asked.

He looked at her with twinkling eyes.

“Well, you see, Miss Taylor, it’s like this: farming don’t seem
to be your specialty.”

The word was often on Miss Taylor’s lips, and she recognized it.
Despite herself she smiled again.

“Of course, it isn’t—I don’t know anything about farming.
But what did I say so funny?”

Bles was now laughing outright.

“Why, Miss Taylor! I declare! Goobers don’t grow on the tops of
vines, but underground on the roots—like yams.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and we—we don’t pick cotton stalks except for
kindling.”

“I must have been thinking of hemp. But tell me more about
cotton.”

His eyes lighted, for cotton was to him a very real and beautiful
thing, and a life-long companion, yet not one whose friendship
had been coarsened and killed by heavy toil. He leaned against
his hoe and talked half dreamily—where had he learned so
well that dream-talk?

“We turn up the earth and sow it soon after Christmas. Then
pretty soon there comes a sort of greenness on the black land and
it swells and grows and, and—shivers. Then stalks shoot up
with three or four leaves. That’s the way it is now, see? After
that we chop out the weak stalks, and the strong ones grow tall
and dark, till I think it must be like the ocean—all green
and billowy; then come little flecks here and there and the sea
is all filled with flowers—flowers like little bells, blue
and purple and white.”

“Ah! that must be beautiful,” sighed Miss Taylor, wistfully,
sinking to the ground and clasping her hands about her knees.

“Yes, ma’am. But it’s prettiest when the bolls come and swell and
burst, and the cotton covers the field like foam, all
misty—”

She bent wondering over the pale plants. The poetry of the thing
began to sing within her, awakening her unpoetic imagination, and
she murmured:

“The Golden Fleece—it’s the Silver Fleece!”

He harkened.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Have you never heard of the Golden Fleece, Bles?”

“No, ma’am,” he said eagerly; then glancing up toward the
Cresswell fields, he saw two white men watching them. He grasped
his hoe and started briskly to work.

“Some time you’ll tell me, please, won’t you?”

She glanced at her watch in surprise and arose hastily.

“Yes, with pleasure,” she said moving away—at first very
fast, and then more and more slowly up the lane, with a puzzled
look on her face.

She began to realize that in this pleasant little chat the fact
of the boy’s color had quite escaped her; and what especially
puzzled her was that this had not happened before. She had been
here four months, and yet every moment up to now she seemed to
have been vividly, almost painfully conscious, that she was a
white woman talking to black folk. Now, for one little half-hour
she had been a woman talking to a boy—no, not even that:
she had been talking—just talking; there were no persons in
the conversation, just things—one thing: Cotton.

She started thinking of cotton—but at once she pulled
herself back to the other aspect. Always before she had been
veiled from these folk: who had put the veil there? Had she
herself hung it before her soul, or had they hidden timidly
behind its other side? Or was it simply a brute fact, regardless
of both of them?

The longer she thought, the more bewildered she grew. There
seemed no analogy that she knew. Here was a unique thing, and she
climbed to her bedroom and stared at the stars.

Four

TOWN

John Taylor had written to his sister. He wanted information,
very definite information, about Tooms County cotton; about its
stores, its people—especially its people. He propounded a
dozen questions, sharp, searching questions, and he wanted the
answers tomorrow. Impossible! thought Miss Taylor. He had
calculated on her getting this letter yesterday, forgetting that
their mail was fetched once a day from the town, four miles away.
Then, too, she did not know all these matters and knew no one who
did. Did John think she had nothing else to do? And sighing at
the thought of to-morrow’s drudgery, she determined to consult
Miss Smith in the morning.

Miss Smith suggested a drive to town—Bles could take her in
the top-buggy after school—and she could consult some of
the merchants and business men. She could then write her letter
and mail it there; it would be but a day or so late getting to
New York.

“Of course,” said Miss Smith drily, slowly folding her napkin,
“of course, the only people here are the Cresswells.”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Taylor invitingly. There was an allurement
about this all-pervasive name; it held her by a growing
fascination and she was anxious for the older woman to amplify.
Miss Smith, however, remained provokingly silent, so Miss Taylor
essayed further.

“What sort of people are the Cresswells?” she asked.

“The old man’s a fool; the young one a rascal; the girl a ninny,”
was Miss Smith’s succinct and acid classification of the county’s
first family; adding, as she rose, “but they own us body and
soul.” She hurried out of the dining-room without further remark.
Miss Smith was more patient with black folk than with white.

The sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of the swamp
when Miss Taylor, weary with the day’s work, climbed into the
buggy beside Bles. They wheeled comfortably down the road,
leaving the sombre swamp, with its black-green, to the right, and
heading toward the golden-green of waving cotton fields. Miss
Taylor lay back, listlessly, and drank the soft warm air of the
languorous Spring. She thought of the golden sheen of the cotton,
and the cold March winds of New England; of her brother who
apparently noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons; and of
the mighty Cresswells whom Miss Smith so evidently disliked.
Suddenly she became aware of her long silence and the silence of
the boy.

“Bles,” she began didactically, “where are you from?”

He glanced across at her and answered shortly:

“Georgia, ma’am,” and was silent.

The girl tried again.

“Georgia is a large State,”—tentatively.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you going back there when you finish?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you ought to—and work for your people.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stopped, puzzled, and looked about. The old horse jogged
lazily on, and Bles switched him unavailingly. Somehow she had
missed the way today. The Veil hung thick, sombre, impenetrable.
Well, she had done her duty, and slowly she nestled back and
watched the far-off green and golden radiance of the cotton.

“Bles,” she said impulsively, “shall I tell you of the Golden
Fleece?”

He glanced at her again.

“Yes’m, please,” he said.

She settled herself almost luxuriously, and began the story of
Jason and the Argonauts.

The boy remained silent. And when she had finished, he still sat
silent, elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and
staring ahead at the horizon. She looked at him doubtfully with
some disappointment that his hearing had apparently shared so
little of the joy of her telling; and, too, there was mingled a
vague sense of having lowered herself to too familiar fellowship
with this—this boy. She straightened herself instinctively
and thought of some remark that would restore proper relations.
She had not found it before he said, slowly:

“All yon is Jason’s.”

“What?” she asked, puzzled.

He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass
of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon.

“All yon golden fleece is Jason’s now,” he repeated.

“I thought it was—Cresswell’s,” she said.

“That’s what I mean.”

She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply.

“I am glad to hear you say that,” she said methodically, “for
Jason was a brave adventurer—”

“I thought he was a thief.”

“Oh, well—those were other times.”

“The Cresswells are thieves now.”

Miss Taylor answered sharply.

“Bles, I am ashamed to hear you talk so of your neighbors simply
because they are white.”

But Bles continued.

“This is the Black Sea,” he said, pointing to the dull cabins
that crouched here and there upon the earth, with the dark
twinkling of their black folk darting out to see the strangers
ride by.

Despite herself Miss Taylor caught the allegory and half
whispered, “Lo! the King himself!” as a black man almost rose
from the tangled earth at their side. He was tall and thin and
sombre-hued, with a carven face and thick gray hair.

“Your servant, mistress,” he said, with a sweeping bow as he
strode toward the swamp. Miss Taylor stopped him, for he looked
interesting, and might answer some of her brother’s questions. He
turned back and stood regarding her with sorrowful eyes and ugly
mouth.

“Do you live about here?” she asked.

“I’se lived here a hundred years,” he answered. She did not
believe it; he might be seventy, eighty, or even
ninety—indeed, there was about him that indefinable sense
of age—some shadow of endless living; but a hundred seemed
absurd.

“You know the people pretty well, then?”

“I knows dem all. I knows most of ’em better dan dey knows
demselves. I knows a heap of tings in dis world and in de next.”

“This is a great cotton country?”

“Dey don’t raise no cotton now to what dey used to when old
Gen’rel Cresswell fust come from Carolina; den it was a bale and
a half to the acre on stalks dat looked like young brushwood. Dat
was cotton.”

“You know the Cresswells, then?”

“Know dem? I knowed dem afore dey was born.”

“They are—wealthy people?”

“Dey rolls in money and dey’se quality, too. No shoddy upstarts
dem, but born to purple, lady, born to purple. Old Gen’ral
Cresswell had niggers and acres no end back dere in Carolina. He
brung a part of dem here and here his son, de father of dis
Colonel Cresswell, was born. De son—I knowed him
well—he had a tousand niggers and ten tousand acres afore
de war.”

“Were they kind to their slaves?”

“Oh, yaas, yaas, ma’am, dey was careful of de’re niggers and
wouldn’t let de drivers whip ’em much.”

“And these Cresswells today?”

“Oh, dey’re quality—high-blooded folks—dey’se lost
some land and niggers, but, lordy, nuttin’ can buy de Cresswells,
dey naturally owns de world.”

“Are they honest and kind?”

“Oh, yaas, ma’am—dey’se good white folks.”

“Good white folk?”

“Oh, yaas, ma’am—course you knows white folks will be white
folks—white folks will be white folks. Your servant,
ma’am.” And the swamp swallowed him.

The boy’s eyes followed him as he whipped up the horse.

“He’s going to Elspeth’s,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“We just call him Old Pappy—he’s a preacher, and some folks
say a conjure man, too.”

“And who is Elspeth?”

“She lives in the swamp—she’s a kind of witch, I reckon,
like—like—”

“Like Medea?”

“Yes—only—I don’t know—” and he grew
thoughtful.

The road turned now and far away to the eastward rose the first
straggling cabins of the town. Creeping toward them down the road
rolled a dark squat figure. It grew and spread slowly on the
horizon until it became a fat old black woman, hooded and
aproned, with great round hips and massive bosom. Her face was
heavy and homely until she looked up and lifted the drooping
cheeks, and then kindly old eyes beamed on the young teacher, as
she curtsied and cried:

“Good-evening, honey! Good-evening! You sure is pretty dis
evening.”

“Why, Aunt Rachel, how are you?” There was genuine pleasure in
the girl’s tone.

“Just tolerable, honey, bless de Lord! Rumatiz is kind o’ bad and
Aunt Rachel ain’t so young as she use ter be.”

“And what brings you to town afoot this time of day?”

The face fell again to dull care and the old eyes crept away. She
fumbled with her cane.

“It’s de boys again, honey,” she returned solemnly; “dey’se good
boys, dey is good to de’re old mammy, but dey’se high strung and
dey gits fighting and drinking and—and—last Saturday
night dey got took up again. I’se been to Jedge Grey—I use
to tote him on my knee, honey—I’se been to him to plead him
not to let ’em go on de gang, ’cause you see, honey,” and she
stroked the girl’s sleeve as if pleading with her, too, “you see
it done ruins boys to put ’em on de gang.”

Miss Taylor tried hard to think of something comforting to say,
but words seemed inadequate to cheer the old soul; but after a
few moments they rode on, leaving the kind face again beaming and
dimpling.

And now the country town of Toomsville lifted itself above the
cotton and corn, fringed with dirty straggling cabins of black
folk. The road swung past the iron watering trough, turned
sharply and, after passing two or three pert cottages and a
stately house, old and faded, opened into the wide square. Here
pulsed the very life and being of the land. Yonder great bales of
cotton, yellow-white in its soiled sacking, piled in lofty, dusty
mountains, lay listening for the train that, twice a day, ran out
to the greater world. Round about, tied to the well-gnawed
hitching rails, were rows of mules—mules with back cloths;
mules with saddles; mules hitched to long wagons, buggies, and
rickety gigs; mules munching golden ears of corn, and mules
drooping their heads in sorrowful memory of better days.

Beyond the cotton warehouse smoked the chimneys of the seed-mill
and the cotton-gin; a red livery-stable faced them and all about
three sides of the square ran stores; big stores and small
wide-windowed, narrow stores. Some had old steps above the worn
clay side-walks, and some were flush with the ground. All had a
general sense of dilapidation—save one, the largest and
most imposing, a three-story brick. This was Caldwell’s
“Emporium”; and here Bles stopped and Miss Taylor entered.

Mr. Caldwell himself hurried forward; and the whole store, clerks
and customers, stood at attention, for Miss Taylor was yet new to
the county.

She bought a few trifles and then approached her main business.

“My brother wants some information about the county, Mr.
Caldwell, and I am only a teacher, and do not know much about
conditions here.”

“Ah! where do you teach?” asked Mr. Caldwell. He was certain he
knew the teachers of all the white schools in the county. Miss
Taylor told him. He stiffened slightly but perceptibly, like a
man clicking the buckles of his ready armor, and two townswomen
who listened gradually turned their backs, but remained near.

“Yes—yes,” he said, with uncomfortable haste.
“Any—er—information—of course—” Miss
Taylor got out her notes.

“The leading land-owners,” she began, sorting the notes
searchingly, “I should like to know something about them.”

“Well, Colonel Cresswell is, of course, our greatest
landlord—a high-bred gentleman of the old school. He and
his son—a worthy successor to the name—hold some
fifty thousand acres. They may be considered representative
types. Then, Mr. Maxwell has ten thousand acres and Mr. Tolliver
a thousand.”

Miss Taylor wrote rapidly. “And cotton?” she asked.

“We raise considerable cotton, but not nearly what we ought to;
nigger labor is too worthless.”

“Oh! The Negroes are not, then, very efficient?”

“Efficient!” snorted Mr. Caldwell; at last she had broached a
phase of the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor.
“They’re the lowest-down, ornriest—begging your
pardon—good-for-nothing loafers you ever heard of. Why, we
just have to carry them and care for them like children. Look
yonder,” he pointed across the square to the court-house. It was
an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and
very dirty. Out of it filed a stream of men—some black and
shackled; some white and swaggering and liberal with
tobacco-juice; some white and shaven and stiff. “Court’s just
out,” pursued Mr. Caldwell, “and them niggers have just been sent
to the gang—young ones, too; educated but good for nothing.
They’re all that way.”

Miss Taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a
battery of eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening,
and she felt a sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled
hostility in the air. With one or two further perfunctory
questions, and a hasty expression of thanks, she escaped into the
air.

The whole square seemed loafing and lolling—the white world
perched on stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black
world filtering down from doorways to side-walk and curb. The
hot, dusty quadrangle stretched in dreary deadness toward the
temple of the town, as if doing obeisance to the court-house.
Down the courthouse steps the sheriff, with Winchester on
shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner—a curly-headed boy
with golden face and big brown frightened eyes.

“It’s one of Dunn’s boys,” said Bles. “He’s drunk again, and they
say he’s been stealing. I expect he was hungry.” And they wheeled
out of the square.

Miss Taylor was tired, and the hastily scribbled letter which she
dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as
she could wish.

A great-voiced giant, brown and bearded, drove past them, roaring
a hymn. He greeted Bles with a comprehensive wave of the hand.

“I guess Tylor has been paid off,” said Bles, but Miss Taylor was
too disgusted to answer. Further on they overtook a tall young
yellow boy walking awkwardly beside a handsome, bold-faced girl.
Two white men came riding by. One leered at the girl, and she
laughed back, while the yellow boy strode sullenly ahead. As the
two white riders approached the buggy one said to the other:

“Who’s that nigger with?”

“One of them nigger teachers.”

“Well, they’ll stop this damn riding around or they’ll hear
something,” and they rode slowly by.

Miss Taylor felt rather than heard their words, and she was
uncomfortable. The sun fell fast; the long shadows of the swamp
swept soft coolness on the red road. Then afar in front a curled
cloud of white dust arose and out of it came the sound of
galloping horses.

“Who’s this?” asked Miss Taylor.

“The Cresswells, I think; they usually ride to town about this
time.” But already Miss Taylor had descried the brown and tawny
sides of the speeding horses.

“Good gracious!” she thought. “The Cresswells!” And with it came
a sudden desire not to meet them—just then. She glanced
toward the swamp. The sun was sifting blood-red lances through
the trees. A little wagon-road entered the wood and disappeared.
Miss Taylor saw it.

“Let’s see the sunset in the swamp,” she said suddenly. On came
the galloping horses. Bles looked up in surprise, then silently
turned into the swamp. The horses flew by, their hoof-beats dying
in the distance. A dark green silence lay about them lit by
mighty crimson glories beyond. Miss Taylor leaned back and
watched it dreamily till a sense of oppression grew on her. The
sun was sinking fast.

“Where does this road come out?” she asked at last.

“It doesn’t come out.”

“Where does it go?”

“It goes to Elspeth’s.”

“Why, we must turn back immediately. I thought—” But Bles
was already turning. They were approaching the main road again
when there came a fluttering as of a great bird beating its wings
amid the forest. Then a girl, lithe, dark brown, and tall, leaped
lightly into the path with greetings on her lips for Bles. At the
sight of the lady she drew suddenly back and stood motionless
regarding Miss Taylor, searching her with wide black liquid eyes.
Miss Taylor was a little startled.

“Good—good-evening,” she said, straightening herself.

The girl was still silent and the horse stopped. One tense moment
pulsed through all the swamp. Then the girl, still
motionless—still looking Miss Taylor through and
through—said with slow deliberateness:

“I hates you.”

The teacher in Miss Taylor strove to rebuke this unconventional
greeting but the woman in her spoke first and asked almost before
she knew it—

“Why?”

Five

ZORA

Zora, child of the swamp, was a heathen hoyden of twelve wayward,
untrained years. Slight, straight, strong, full-blooded, she had
dreamed her life away in wilful wandering through her dark and
sombre kingdom until she was one with it in all its moods;
mischievous, secretive, brooding; full of great and awful
visions, steeped body and soul in wood-lore. Her home was out of
doors, the cabin of Elspeth her port of call for talking and
eating. She had not known, she had scarcely seen, a child of her
own age until Bles Alwyn had fled from her dancing in the night,
and she had searched and found him sleeping in the misty morning
light. It was to her a strange new thing to see a fellow of like
years with herself, and she gripped him to her soul in wild
interest and new curiosity. Yet this childish friendship was so
new and incomprehensible a thing to her that she did not know how
to express it. At first she pounced upon him in mirthful, almost
impish glee, teasing and mocking and half scaring him, despite
his fifteen years of young manhood.

“Yes, they is devils down yonder behind the swamp,” she would
whisper, warningly, when, after the first meeting, he had crept
back again and again, half fascinated, half amused to greet her;
“I’se seen ’em, I’se heard ’em, ’cause my mammy is a witch.”

The boy would sit and watch her wonderingly as she lay curled
along the low branch of the mighty oak, clinging with little
curved limbs and flying fingers. Possessed by the spirit of her
vision, she would chant, low-voiced, tremulous, mischievous:

“One night a devil come to me on blue fire out of a big red
flower that grows in the south swamp; he was tall and big and
strong as anything, and when he spoke the trees shook and the
stars fell. Even mammy was afeared; and it takes a lot to make
mammy afeared, ’cause she’s a witch and can conjure. He said,
‘I’ll come when you die—I’ll come when you die, and take
the conjure off you,’ and then he went away on a big fire.”

“Shucks!” the boy would say, trying to express scornful disbelief
when, in truth, he was awed and doubtful. Always he would glance
involuntarily back along the path behind him. Then her low
birdlike laughter would rise and ring through the trees.

So passed a year, and there came the time when her wayward
teasing and the almost painful thrill of her tale-telling nettled
him and drove him away. For long months he did not meet her,
until one day he saw her deep eyes fixed longingly upon him from
a thicket in the swamp. He went and greeted her. But she said no
word, sitting nested among the greenwood with passionate, proud
silence, until he had sued long for peace; then in sudden new
friendship she had taken his hand and led him through the swamp,
showing him all the beauty of her swamp-world—great shadowy
oaks and limpid pools, lone, naked trees and sweet flowers; the
whispering and flitting of wild things, and the winging of
furtive birds. She had dropped the impish mischief of her way,
and up from beneath it rose a wistful, visionary tenderness; a
mighty half-confessed, half-concealed, striving for unknown
things. He seemed to have found a new friend.

And today, after he had taken Miss Taylor home and supped, he
came out in the twilight under the new moon and whistled the
tremulous note that always brought her.

“Why did you speak so to Miss Taylor?” he asked, reproachfully.
She considered the matter a moment.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t never understand. I
can see right through people. You can’t. You never had a witch
for a mammy—did you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, you see I have to take care of you and see things
for you.”

“Zora,” he said thoughtfully, “you must learn to read.”

“What for?”

“So that you can read books and know lots of things.”

“Don’t white folks make books?”

“Yes—most of the books.”

“Pooh! I knows more than they do now—a heap more.”

“In some ways you do; but they know things that give them power
and wealth and make them rule.”

“No, no. They don’t really rule; they just thinks they rule. They
just got things—heavy, dead things. We black folks is got
the spirit. We’se lighter and cunninger; we fly right
through them; we go and come again just as we wants to. Black
folks is wonderful.”

He did not understand what she meant; but he knew what he wanted
and he tried again.

“Even if white folks don’t know everything they know different
things from us, and we ought to know what they know.”

This appealed to her somewhat.

“I don’t believe they know much,” she concluded; “but I’ll learn
to read and just see.”

“It will be hard work,” he warned. But he had come prepared for
acquiescence. He took a primer from his pocket and, lighting a
match, showed her the alphabet.

“Learn those,” he said.

“What for?” she asked, looking at the letters disdainfully.

“Because that’s the way,” he said, as the light flared and went
out.

“I don’t believe it,” she disputed, disappearing in the wood and
returning with a pine-knot. They lighted it and its smoky flame
threw wavering shadows about. She turned the leaves till she came
to a picture which she studied intently.

“Is this about this?” she asked, pointing alternately to reading
and picture.

“Yes. And if you learn—”

“Read it,” she commanded. He read the page.

“Again,” she said, making him point out each word. Then she read
it after him, accurately, with more perfect expression. He stared
at her. She took the book, and with a nod was gone.

It was Saturday and dark. She never asked Bles to her
home—to that mysterious black cabin in mid-swamp. He
thought her ashamed of it, and delicately refrained from going.
So tonight she slipped away, stopped and listened till she heard
his footsteps on the pike, and then flew homeward. Presently the
old black cabin loomed before her with its wide flapping door.
The old woman was bending over the fire, stirring some savory
mess, and a yellow girl with a white baby on one arm was placing
dishes on a rickety wooden table when Zora suddenly and
noiselessly entered the door.

“Come, is you? I ‘lowed victuals would fetch you,” grumbled the
hag.

But Zora deigned no answer. She walked placidly to the table,
where she took up a handful of cold corn-bread and meat, and then
went over and curled up by the fire.

Elspeth and the girl talked and laughed coarsely, and the night
wore on.

By and by loud laughter and tramping came from the road—a
sound of numerous footsteps. Zora listened, leapt to her feet and
started to the door. The old crone threw an epithet after her;
but she flashed through the lighted doorway and was gone,
followed by the oath and shouts from the approaching men. In the
hut night fled with wild song and revel, and day dawned again.
Out from some fastness of the wood crept Zora. She stopped and
bathed in a pool, and combed her close-clung hair, then entered
silently to breakfast.

Thus began in the dark swamp that primal battle with the Word.
She hated it and despised it, but her pride was in arms and her
one great life friendship in the balance. She fought her way with
a dogged persistence that brought word after word of praise and
interest from Bles. Then, once well begun, her busy, eager mind
flew with a rapidity that startled; the stories especially she
devoured—tales of strange things and countries and men
gripped her imagination and clung to her memory.

“Didn’t I tell you there was lots to learn?” he asked once.

“I knew it all,” she retorted; “every bit. I’se thought it all
before; only the little things is different—and I like the
little, strange things.”

Spring ripened to summer. She was reading well and writing some.

“Zora,” he announced one morning under their forest oak, “you
must go to school.”

She eyed him, surprised.

“Why?”

“You’ve found some things worth knowing in this world, haven’t
you, Zora?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“But there are more—many, many more—worlds on worlds
of things—you have not dreamed of.”

She stared at him, open-eyed, and a wonder crept upon her face
battling with the old assurance. Then she looked down at her bare
brown feet and torn gown.

“I’ve got a little money, Zora,” he said quickly.

But she lifted her head.

“I’ll earn mine,” she said.

“How?” he asked doubtfully.

“I’ll pick cotton.”

“Can you?”

“Course I can.”

“It’s hard work.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t like to work,” she mused. “You see, mammy’s pappy was a
king’s son, and kings don’t work. I don’t work; mostly I dreams.
But I can work, and I will—for the wonder things—and
for you.”

So the summer yellowed and silvered into fall. All the vacation
days Bles worked on the farm, and Zora read and dreamed and
studied in the wood, until the land lay white with harvest. Then,
without warning, she appeared in the cotton-field beside Bles,
and picked.

It was hot, sore work. The sun blazed; her bent and untrained
back pained, and the soft little hands bled. But no complaint
passed her lips; her hands never wavered, and her eyes met his
steadily and gravely. She bade him good-night, cheerily, and then
stole away to the wood, crouching beneath the great oak, and
biting back the groans that trembled on her lips. Often, she fell
supperless to sleep, with two great tears creeping down her tired
cheeks.

When school-time came there was not yet money enough, for
cotton-picking was not far advanced. Yet Zora would take no money
from Bles, and worked earnestly away.

Meantime there occurred to the boy the momentous question of
clothes. Had Zora thought of them? He feared not. She knew little
of clothes and cared less. So one day in town he dropped into
Caldwell’s “Emporium” and glanced hesitantly at certain
ready-made dresses. One caught his eye. It came from the great
Easterly mills in New England and was red—a vivid red. The
glowing warmth of this cloth of cotton caught the eye of Bles,
and he bought the gown for a dollar and a half.

He carried it to Zora in the wood, and unrolled it before her
eyes that danced with glad tears. Of course, it was long and
wide; but he fetched needle and thread and scissors, too. It was
a full month after school had begun when they, together back in
the swamp, shadowed by the foliage, began to fashion the
wonderful garment. At the same time she laid ten dollars of her
first hard-earned money in his hands.

“You can finish the first year with this money,” Bles assured
her, delighted, “and then next year you must come in to board;
because, you see, when you’re educated you won’t want to live in
the swamp.”

“I wants to live here always.”

“But not at Elspeth’s.”

“No-o—not there, not there.” And a troubled questioning
trembled in her eyes, but brought no answering thought in his,
for he was busy with his plans.

“Then, you see, Zora, if you stay here you’ll need a new house,
and you’ll want to learn how to make it beautiful.”

“Yes, a beautiful, great castle here in the swamp,” she dreamed;
“but,” and her face fell, “I can’t get money enough to board in;
and I don’t want to board in—I wants to be free.”

He looked at her, curled down so earnestly at her puzzling task,
and a pity for the more than motherless child swept over him. He
bent over her, nervously, eagerly, and she laid down her sewing
and sat silent and passive with dark, burning eyes.

“Zora,” he said, “I want you to do all this—for me.”

“I will, if you wants me to,” she said quietly, but with
something in her voice that made him look half startled into her
beautiful eyes and feel a queer flushing in his face. He
stretched his hand out and taking hers held it lightly till she
quivered and drew away, bending again over her sewing.

Then a nameless exaltation rose within his heart.

“Zora,” he whispered, “I’ve got a plan.”

“What is it?” she asked, still with bowed head.

“Listen, till I tell you of the Golden Fleece.”

Then she too heard the story of Jason. Breathless she listened,
dropping her sewing and leaning forward, eager-eyed. Then her
face clouded.

“Do you s’pose mammy’s the witch?” she asked dubiously.

“No; she wouldn’t give her own flesh and blood to help the
thieving Jason.”

She looked at him searchingly.

“Yes, she would, too,” affirmed the girl, and then she paused,
still intently watching him. She was troubled, and again a
question eagerly hovered on her lips. But he continued:

“Then we must escape her,” he said gayly. “See! yonder lies the
Silver Fleece spread across the brown back of the world; let’s
get a bit of it, and hide it here in the swamp, and comb it, and
tend it, and make it the beautifullest bit of all. Then we can
sell it, and send you to school.”

She sat silently bent forward, turning the picture in her mind.
Suddenly forgetting her trouble, she bubbled with laughter, and
leaping up clapped her hands.

“And I knows just the place!” she cried eagerly, looking at him
with a flash of the old teasing mischief—”down in the heart
of the swamp—where dreams and devils lives.”

Up at the school-house Miss Taylor was musing. She had been
invited to spend the summer with Mrs. Grey at Lake George, and
such a summer!—silken clothes and dainty food, motoring and
golf, well-groomed men and elegant women. She would not have put
it in just that way, but the vision came very close to spelling
heaven to her mind. Not that she would come to it vacant-minded,
but rather as a trained woman, starved for companionship and
wanting something of the beauty and ease of life. She sat
dreaming of it here with rows of dark faces before her, and the
singsong wail of a little black reader with his head aslant and
his patched kneepants.

The day was warm and languorous, and the last pale mist of the
Silver Fleece peeped in at the windows. She tried to follow the
third-reader lesson with her finger, but persistently off she
went, dreaming, to some exquisite little parlor with its green
and gold, the clink of dainty china and hum of low voices, and
the blue lake in the window; she would glance up, the door would
open softly and—

Just here she did glance up, and all the school glanced with her.
The drone of the reader hushed. The door opened softly, and upon
the threshold stood Zora. Her small feet and slender ankles were
black and bare; her dark, round, and broad-browed head and
strangely beautiful face were poised almost defiantly, crowned
with a misty mass of waveless hair, and lit by the velvet
radiance of two wonderful eyes. And hanging from shoulder to
ankle, in formless, clinging folds, blazed the scarlet gown.

Six

COTTON

The cry of the naked was sweeping the world. From the peasant
toiling in Russia, the lady lolling in London, the chieftain
burning in Africa, and the Esquimaux freezing in Alaska; from
long lines of hungry men, from patient sad-eyed women, from old
folk and creeping children went up the cry, “Clothes, clothes!”
Far away the wide black land that belts the South, where Miss
Smith worked and Miss Taylor drudged and Bles and Zora dreamed,
the dense black land sensed the cry and heard the bound of
answering life within the vast dark breast. All that dark earth
heaved in mighty travail with the bursting bolls of the cotton
while black attendant earth spirits swarmed above, sweating and
crooning to its birth pains.

After the miracle of the bursting bolls, when the land was
brightest with the piled mist of the Fleece, and when the cry of
the naked was loudest in the mouths of men, a sudden cloud of
workers swarmed between the Cotton and the Naked, spinning and
weaving and sewing and carrying the Fleece and mining and minting
and bringing the Silver till the Song of Service filled the world
and the poetry of Toil was in the souls of the laborers. Yet ever
and always there were tense silent white-faced men moving in that
swarm who felt no poetry and heard no song, and one of these was
John Taylor.

He was tall, thin, cold, and tireless and he moved among the
Watchers of this World of Trade. In the rich Wall Street offices
of Grey and Easterly, Brokers, Mr. Taylor, as chief and
confidential clerk surveyed the world’s nakedness and the supply
of cotton to clothe it. The object of his watching was frankly
stated to himself and to his world. He purposed going into
business neither for his own health nor for the healing or
clothing of the peoples but to apply his knowledge of the world’s
nakedness and of black men’s toil in such a way as to bring
himself wealth. In this he was but following the teaching of his
highest ideal, lately deceased, Mr. Job Grey. Mr. Grey had so
successfully manipulated the cotton market that while black men
who made the cotton starved in Alabama and white men who bought
it froze in Siberia, he himself sat—

“High on a throne of royal state
That far outshone the wealth
Of Ormuz or of Ind.”

Notwithstanding this he died eventually, leaving the burden of
his wealth to his bewildered wife, and his business to the astute
Mr. Easterly; not simply to Mr. Easterly, but in a sense to his
spiritual heir, John Taylor.

To be sure Mr. Taylor had but a modest salary and no financial
interest in the business, but he had knowledge and business
daring—effrontery even—and the determination was
fixed in his mind to be a millionaire at no distant date. Some
cautious fliers on the market gave him enough surplus to send his
sister Mary through the high school of his country home in New
Hampshire, and afterward through Wellesley College; although just
why a woman should want to go through college was inexplicable to
John Taylor, and he was still uncertain as to the wisdom of his
charity.

When she had an offer to teach in the South, John Taylor hurried
her off for two reasons: he was profoundly interested in the
cotton-belt, and there she might be of service to him; and
secondly, he had spent all the money on her that he intended to
at present, and he wanted her to go to work. As an investment he
did not consider Mary a success. Her letters intimated very
strongly her intention not to return to Miss Smith’s School; but
they also brought information—disjointed and incomplete, to
be sure—which mightily interested Mr. Taylor and sent him
to atlases, encyclopædias, and census-reports. When he went to
that little lunch with old Mrs. Grey he was not sure that he
wanted his sister to leave the cotton-belt just yet. After lunch
he was sure that he did not want her to leave.

The rich Mrs. Grey was at the crisis of her fortunes. She was an
elderly lady, in those uncertain years beyond fifty, and had been
left suddenly with more millions than she could easily count.
Personally she was inclined to spend her money in bettering the
world right off, in such ways as might from time to time seem
attractive. This course, to her husband’s former partner and
present executor, Mr. Edward Easterly, was not only foolish but
wicked, and, incidentally, distinctly unprofitable to him. He had
expressed himself strongly to Mrs. Grey last night at dinner and
had reinforced his argument by a pointed letter written this
morning.

To John Taylor Mrs. Grey’s disposal of the income was
unbelievable blasphemy against the memory of a mighty man. He did
not put this in words to Mrs. Grey—he was only head clerk
in her late husband’s office—but he became watchful and
thoughtful. He ate his soup in silence when she descanted on
various benevolent schemes.

“Now, what do you know,” she asked finally, “about
Negroes—about educating them?” Mr. Taylor over his fish was
about to deny all knowledge of any sort on the subject, but all
at once he recollected his sister, and a sudden gleam of light
radiated his mental gloom.

“Have a sister who is—er—devoting herself to teaching
them,” he said.

“Is that so!” cried Mrs. Grey, joyfully. “Where is she?”

“In Tooms County, Alabama—in—” Mr. Taylor consulted a
remote mental pocket—”in Miss Sara Smith’s school.”

“Why, how fortunate! I’m so glad I mentioned the matter. You see,
Miss Smith is a sister of a friend of ours, Congressman Smith of
New Jersey, and she has just written to me for help; a very
touching letter, too, about the poor blacks. My father set great
store by blacks and was a leading abolitionist before he died.”

Mr. Taylor was thinking fast. Yes, the name of Congressman Peter
Smith was quite familiar. Mr. Easterly, as chairman of the
Republican State Committee of New Jersey, had been compelled to
discipline Mr. Smith pretty severely for certain socialistic
votes in the House, and consequently his future career was
uncertain. It was important that such a man should not have too
much to do with Mrs. Grey’s philanthropies—at least, in his
present position.

“Should like to have you meet and talk with my sister, Mrs. Grey;
she’s a Wellesley graduate,” said Taylor, finally.

Mrs. Grey was delighted. It was a combination which she felt she
needed. Here was a college-girl who could direct her
philanthropies and her etiquette during the summer. Forthwith
Mary Taylor received an intimation from her brother that vast
interests depended on her summer vacation.

Thus it had happened that Miss Taylor came to Lake George for her
vacation after the first year at the Smith School, and she and
Miss Smith had silently agreed as she left that it would be
better for her not to return. But the gods of lower Broadway
thought otherwise. Not that Mary Taylor did not believe in Miss
Smith’s work, she was too honest not to believe in education; but
she was sure that this was not her work, and she had not as yet
perfected in her own mind any theory of the world into which
black folk fitted. She was rather taken back, therefore, to be
regarded as an expert on the problem. First her brother attacked
her, not simply on cotton, but, to her great surprise, on Negro
education; and after listening to her halting uncertain remarks,
he suggested to her certain matters which it would be better for
her to believe when Mrs. Grey talked to her.

“Interested in darkies, you see,” he concluded, “and looks to you
to tell things. Better go easy and suggest a waiting-game before
she goes in heavy.”

“But Miss Smith needs money—” the New England conscience
prompted. John Taylor cut in sharply:

“We all need money, and I know people who need Mrs. Grey’s more
than Miss Smith does at present.”

Miss Taylor found the Lake George colony charming. It was not
ultra-fashionable, but it had wealth and leisure and some
breeding. Especially was this true of a circumscribed, rather
exclusive, set which centred around the Vanderpools of New York
and Boston. They, or rather Mr. Vanderpool’s connections, were of
Old Dutch New York stock; his father it was who had built the
Lake George cottage.

Mrs. Vanderpool was a Wells of Boston, and endured Lake George
now and then during the summer for her husband’s sake, although
she regarded it all as rather a joke. This summer promised to be
unusually lonesome for her, and she was meditating a retreat to
the Massachusetts north shore when she chanced to meet Mary
Taylor, at a miscellaneous dinner, and found her interesting. She
discovered that this young woman knew things, that she could talk
books, and that she was rather pretty. To be sure she knew no
people, but Mrs. Vanderpool knew enough to even things.

“By the bye, I met some charming Alabama people last winter, in
Montgomery—the Cresswells; do you know them?” she asked one
day, as they were lounging in wicker chairs on the Vanderpool
porch. Then she answered the query herself: “No, of course you
could not. It is too bad that your work deprives you of the
society of people of your class. Now my ideal is a set of Negro
schools where the white teachers could know the
Cresswells.”

“Why, yes—” faltered Miss Taylor; “but—wouldn’t that
be difficult?”

“Why should it be?”

“I mean, would the Cresswells approve of educating Negroes?”

“Oh, ‘educating’! The word conceals so much. Now, I take it the
Cresswells would object to instructing them in French and in
dinner etiquette and tea-gowns, and so, in fact, would I; but
teach them how to handle a hoe and to sew and cook. I have reason
to know that people like the Cresswells would be delighted.”

“And with the teachers of it?”

“Why not?—provided, of course, they were—well,
gentlefolk and associated accordingly.”

“But one must associate with one’s pupils.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly; just as one must associate with one’s
maids and chauffeurs and dressmakers—cordially and kindly,
but with a difference.”

“But—but, dear Mrs. Vanderpool, you wouldn’t want your
children trained that way, would you?”

“Certainly not, my dear. But these are not my children, they are
the children of Negroes; we can’t quite forget that, can we?”

“No, I suppose not,” Miss Taylor admitted, a little helplessly.
“But—it seems to me—that’s the modern idea of taking
culture to the masses.”

“Frankly, then, the modern idea is not my idea; it is too
socialistic. And as for culture applied to the masses, you utter
a paradox. The masses and work is the truth one must face.”

“And culture and work?”

“Quite incompatible, I assure you, my dear.” She stretched her
silken limbs, lazily, while Miss Taylor sat silently staring at
the waters.

Just then Mrs. Grey drove up in her new red motor.

Up to the time of Mary Taylor’s arrival the acquaintance of the
Vanderpools and Mrs. Grey had been a matter chiefly of smiling
bows. After Miss Taylor came there had been calls and casual
intercourse, to Mrs. Grey’s great gratification and Mrs.
Vanderpool’s mingled amusement and annoyance. Mrs. Grey announced
the arrival of the Easterlys and John Taylor for the week-end. As
Mrs. Vanderpool could think of nothing less boring, she consented
to dine.

The atmosphere of Mrs. Grey’s ornate cottage was different from
that of the Vanderpools. The display of wealth and splendor had a
touch of the barbaric. Mary Taylor liked it, although she found
the Vanderpool atmosphere more subtly satisfying. There was a
certain grim power beneath the Greys’ mahogany and velvets that
thrilled while it appalled. Precisely that side of the thing
appealed to her brother. He would have seen little or nothing in
the plain elegance yonder, while here he saw a Japanese vase that
cost no cent less than a thousand dollars. He meant to be able to
duplicate it some day. He knew that Grey was poor and less
knowing than he sixty years ago.

The dead millionaire had begun his fortune by buying and selling
cotton—travelling in the South in reconstruction times, and
sending his agents. In this way he made his thousands. Then he
took a step forward, and instead of following the prices induced
the prices to follow him. Two or three small cotton corners
brought him his tens of thousands. About this time Easterly
joined him and pointed out a new road—the buying and
selling of stock in various cotton-mills and other industrial
enterprises. Grey hesitated, but Easterly pushed him on and he
made his hundreds of thousands. Then Easterly proposed buying
controlling interests in certain large mills and gradually
consolidating them. The plan grew and succeeded, and Grey made
his millions.

Then Grey stopped; he had money enough, and he would venture no
farther. He “was going to retire and eat peanuts,” he said with a
chuckle.

Easterly was disgusted. He, too, had made millions—not as
many as Grey, but a few. It was not, however, simply money that
he wanted, but power. The lust of financial dominion had gripped
his soul, and he had a vision of a vast trust of cotton
manufacturing covering the land. He talked this incessantly into
Grey, but Grey continued to shake his head; the thing was too big
for his imagination. He was bent on retiring, and just as he had
set the date a year hence he inadvertently died. On the whole,
Mr. Easterly was glad of his partner’s definite withdrawal, since
he left his capital behind him, until he found his vast plans
about to be circumvented by Mrs. Grey withdrawing this capital
from his control. “To give to the niggers and Chinamen,” he
snorted to John Taylor, and strode up and down the veranda. John
Taylor removed his coat, lighted a black cigar, and elevated his
heels. The ladies were in the parlor, where the female Easterlys
were prostrating themselves before Mrs. Vanderpool.

“Just what is your plan?” asked Taylor, quite as if he did not
know.

“Why, man, the transfer of a hundred millions of stock would give
me control of the cotton-mills of America. Think of it!—the
biggest trust next to steel.”

“Why not bigger?” asked Taylor, imperturbably puffing away. Mr.
Easterly eyed him. He had regarded Taylor hitherto as a very
valuable asset to the business—had relied on his knowledge
of routine, his judgment and his honesty; but he detected tonight
a new tone in his clerk, something almost authoritative and
self-reliant. He paused and smiled at him.

“Bigger?”

But John Taylor was dead in earnest. He did not smile.

“First, there’s England—and all Europe; why not bring them
into the trust?”

“Possibly, later; but first, America. Of course, I’ve got my eyes
on the European situation and feelers out; but such matters are
more difficult and slower of adjustment over there—so
damned much law and gospel.”

“But there’s another side.”

“What’s that?”

“You are planning to combine and control the manufacture of
cotton—”

“Yes.”

“But how about your raw material? The steel trust owns its iron
mines.”

“Of course—mines could be monopolized and hold the trust
up; but our raw material is perfectly safe—farms growing
smaller, farms isolated, and we fixing the price. It’s a cinch.”

“Are you sure?” Taylor surveyed him with a narrowed look.

“Certain.”

“I’m not. I’ve been looking up things, and there are three points
you’d better study: First, cotton farms are not getting smaller;
they’re getting bigger almighty fast, and there’s a big
cotton-land monopoly in sight. Second, the banks and wholesale
houses in the South can control the cotton output if they
work together. Third, watch the Southern ‘Farmers’ League’ of big
landlords.”

Mr. Easterly threw away his cigar and sat down. Taylor
straightened up, switched on the porch light, and took a bundle
of papers from his coat pocket.

“Here are census figures,” he said, “commercial reports and
letters.” They pored over them a half hour. Then Easterly arose.

“There’s something in it,” he admitted, “but what can we do? What
do you propose?”

“Monopolize the growth as well as the manufacture of cotton, and
use the first to club European manufacturers into submission.”

Easterly stared at him.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated; “you’re crazy!”

But Taylor smiled a slow, thin smile, and put away his papers.
Easterly continued to stare at his subordinate with a sort of
fascination, with the awe that one feels when genius unexpectedly
reveals itself from a source hitherto regarded as entirely
ordinary. At last he drew a long breath, remarking indefinitely:

“I’ll think it over.”

A stir in the parlor indicated departure.

“Well, you watch the Farmers’ League, and note its success and
methods,” counselled John Taylor, his tone and manner unchanged.
“Then figure what it might do in the hands of—let us say,
friends.”

“Who’s running it?”

“A Colonel Cresswell is its head, and happens also to be the
force behind it. Aristocratic family—big planter—near
where my sister teaches.”

“H’m—well, we’ll watch him.”

“And say,” as Easterly was turning away, “you know Congressman
Smith?”

“I should say I did.”

“Well, Mrs. Grey seems to be depending on him for advice in
distributing some of her charity funds.”

Easterly appeared startled.

“She is, is she!” he exclaimed. “But here come the ladies.” He
went forward at once, but John Taylor drew back. He noted Mrs.
Vanderpool, and thought her too thin and pale. The dashing young
Miss Easterly was more to his taste. He intended to have a wife
like that one of these days.

“Mary,” said he to his sister as he finally rose to go, “tell me
about the Cresswells.”

Mary explained to him at length the impossibility of her knowing
much about the local white aristocracy of Tooms County, and then
told him all she had heard.

“Mrs. Grey talked to you much?”

“Yes.”

“About darky schools?”

“Yes.”

“What does she intend to do?”

“I think she will aid Miss Smith first.”

“Did you suggest anything?”

“Well, I told her what I thought about coöperating with the local
white people.”

“The Cresswells?”

“Yes—you see Mrs. Vanderpool knows the Cresswells.”

“Does, eh? Good! Say, that’s a good point. You just bear heavy on
it—coöperate with the Cresswells.”

“Why, yes. But—you see, John, I don’t just know whether one
could coöperate with the Cresswells or not—one hears
such contradictory stories of them. But there must be some other
white people—”

“Stuff! It’s the Cresswells we want.”

“Well,” Mary was very dubious, “they are—the most
important.”

Seven

THE PLACE OF DREAMS

When she went South late in September, Mary Taylor had two
definite but allied objects: she was to get all possible business
information concerning the Cresswells, and she was to induce Miss
Smith to prepare for Mrs. Grey’s benevolence by interesting the
local whites in her work. The programme attracted Miss Taylor.
She felt in touch, even if dimly and slightly, with great
industrial movements, and she felt, too, like a discerning
pioneer in philanthropy. Both roles she liked. Besides, they
held, each, certain promises of social prestige; and society,
Miss Taylor argued, one must have even in Alabama.

Bles Alwyn met her at the train. He was growing to be a big fine
bronze giant, and Mary was glad to see him. She especially tried,
in the first few weeks of opening school, to glean as much
information as possible concerning the community, and
particularly the Cresswells. She found the Negro youth quicker,
surer, and more intelligent in his answers than those she
questioned elsewhere, and she gained real enjoyment from her long
talks with him.

“Isn’t Bles developing splendidly?” she said to Miss Smith one
afternoon. There was an unmistakable note of enthusiasm in her
voice. Miss Smith slowly closed her letter-file but did not look
up.

“Yes,” she said crisply. “He’s eighteen now—quite a man.”

“And most interesting to talk with.”

“H’m—very”—drily. Mary was busy with her own
thoughts, and she did not notice the other woman’s manner.

“Do you know,” she pursued, “I’m a little afraid of one thing.”

“So am I.”

“Oh, you’ve noted it, too?—his friendship for that
impossible girl, Zora?”

Miss Smith gave her a searching look.

“What of it?” she demanded.

“She is so far beneath him.”

“How so?”

“She is a bold, godless thing; I don’t understand her.”

“The two are not quite the same.”

“Of course not; but she is unnaturally forward.”

“Too bright,” Miss Smith amplified.

“Yes; she knows quite too much. You surely remember that awful
scarlet dress? Well, all her clothes have arrived, or remained,
at a simplicity and vividness that is—well—immodest.”

“Does she think them immodest?”

“What she thinks is a problem.”

“The problem, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

They paused a moment. Then Miss Smith said slowly: “What I don’t
understand, I don’t judge.”

“No, but you can’t always help seeing and meeting it,” laughed
Miss Taylor.

“Certainly not. I don’t try; I court the meeting and seeing. It
is the only way.”

“Well, perhaps, for us—but not for a boy like Bles, and a
girl like Zora.”

“True; men and women must exercise judgment in their intercourse
and”—she glanced sharply at Miss Taylor—”my dear, you
yourself must not forget that Bles Alwyn is a man.”

Far up the road came a low, long, musical shouting; then with
creaking and straining of wagons, four great black mules dashed
into sight with twelve bursting bales of yellowish cotton looming
and swaying behind. The drivers and helpers were lolling and
laughing and singing, but Miss Taylor did not hear nor see. She
had sat suddenly upright; her face had flamed crimson, and then
went dead white.

“Miss—Miss Smith!” she gasped, overwhelmed with dismay, a
picture of wounded pride and consternation.

Miss Smith turned around very methodically and took her hand; but
while she spoke the girl merely stared at her in stony silence.

“Now, dear, don’t mean more than I do. I’m an old woman, and I’ve
seen many things. This is but a little corner of the world, and
yet many people pass here in thirty years. The trouble with new
teachers who come is, that like you, they cannot see black folk
as human. All to them are either impossible Zoras, or else
lovable Blessings. They forget that Zora is not to be
annihilated, but studied and understood, and that Bles is a young
man of eighteen and not a clod.”

“But that he should dare—” Mary began breathlessly.

“He hasn’t dared,” Miss Smith went gently on. “No thought of you
but as a teacher has yet entered his dear, simple head. But, my
point is simply this: he’s a man, and a human one, and if you
keep on making much over him, and talking to him and petting him,
he’ll have the right to interpret your manner in his own
way—the same that any young man would.”

“But—but, he’s a—a—”

“A Negro. To be sure, he is; and a man in addition. Now, dear,
don’t take this too much to heart; this is not a rebuke, but a
clumsy warning. I am simply trying to make clear to you
why you should be careful. Treat poor Zora a little more
lovingly, and Bles a little less warmly. They are just
human—but, oh! so human.”

Mary Taylor rose up stiffly and mumbled a brief good-night. She
went to her room, and sat down in the dark. The mere mention of
the thing was to her so preposterous—no, loathsome, she
kept repeating.

She slowly undressed in the dark, and heard the rumbling of the
cotton wagons as they swayed toward town. The cry of the Naked
was sweeping the world, and yonder in the night black men were
answering the call. They knew not what or why they answered, but
obeyed the irresistible call, with hearts light and song upon
their lips—the Song of Service. They lashed their mules and
drank their whiskey, and all night the piled fleece swept by Mary
Taylor’s window, flying—flying to that far cry. Miss Taylor
turned uneasily in her bed and jerked the bed-clothes about her
ears.

“Mrs. Vanderpool is right,” she confided to the night, with
something of the awe with which one suddenly comprehends a hidden
oracle; “there must be a difference, always, always! That
impudent Negro!”

All night she dreamed, and all day,—especially when trim
and immaculate she sat in her chair and looked down upon fifty
dark faces—and upon Zora.

Zora sat thinking. She saw neither Miss Taylor nor the long
straight rows of desks and faces. She heard neither the drone of
the spellers nor did she hear Miss Taylor say, “Zora!” She heard
and saw none of this. She only heard the prattle of the birds in
the wood, far down where the Silver Fleece would be planted.

For the time of cotton-planting was coming; the gray and drizzle
of December was past and the hesitation, of January. Already a
certain warmth and glow had stolen into the air, and the Swamp
was calling its child with low, seductive voice. She knew where
the first leaves were bursting, where tiny flowers nestled, and
where young living things looked upward to the light and cried
and crawled. A wistful longing was stealing into her heart. She
wanted to be free. She wanted to run and dance and sing, but Bles
wanted—

“Zora!”

This time she heard the call, but did not heed it. Miss Taylor
was very tiresome, and was forever doing and saying silly things.
So Zora paid no attention, but sat still and thought. Yes, she
would show Bles the place that very night; she had kept it secret
from him until now, out of perverseness, out of her love of
mystery and secrets. But tonight, after school, when he met her
on the big road with the clothes, she would take him and show him
the chosen spot.

Soon she was aware that school had been dismissed, and she
leisurely gathered up her books and rose. Mary Taylor regarded
her in perplexed despair. Oh, these people! Mrs. Vanderpool was
right: culture and—some masses, at least—were not to
be linked; and, too, culture and work—were they
incompatible? At any rate, culture and this work were.

Now, there was Mrs. Vanderpool—she toiled not, neither did
she spin, and yet! If all these folk were like poor, stupid,
docile Jennie it would be simpler, but what earthly sense was
there in trying do to anything with a girl like Zora, so stupid
in some matters, so startlingly bright in others, and so stubborn
in everything? Here, she was doing some work twice as well and
twice as fast as the class, and other work she would not touch
because she “didn’t like it.” Her classification in school was
nearly as difficult as her classification in the world, and Miss
Taylor reached up impatiently and removed the gold pin from her
stock to adjust it more comfortably when Zora sauntered past
unseeing, unheeding, with that curious gliding walk which Miss
Taylor called stealthy. She laid the pin on the desk and on
sudden impulse spoke again to the girl as she arranged her neck
trimmings.

“Zora,” she said evenly, “why didn’t you come to class when I
called?”

“I didn’t hear you,” said Zora, looking at her full-eyed and
telling the half-truth easily.

Miss Taylor was sure Zora was lying, and she knew that she had
lied to her on other occasions. Indeed, she had found lying
customary in this community, and she had a New England horror of
it. She looked at Zora disapprovingly, while Zora looked at her
quite impersonally, but steadily. Then Miss Taylor braced
herself, mentally, and took the war into Africa.

“Do you ever tell lies, Zora?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you know that is a wicked, bad habit?”

“Why?”

“Because God hates them.”

“How does you know He does?” Zora’s tone was still
impersonal.

“He hates all evil.”

“But why is lies evil?”

“Because they make us deceive each other.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Yes.”

Zora bent forward and looked squarely into Miss Taylor’s blue
eyes. Miss Taylor looked into the velvet blackness of hers and
wondered what they veiled.

“Is it wrong,” asked Zora, “to make believe you likes people when
you don’t, when you’se afeared of them and thinks they may rub
off and dirty you?”

“Why—why—yes, if you—if you, deceive.”

“Then you lies sometimes, don’t you?”

Miss Taylor stared helplessly at the solemn eyes that seemed to
look so deeply into her.

“Perhaps—I do, Zora; I’m sure I don’t mean to, and—I
hope God will forgive me.”

Zora softened.

“Oh, I reckon He will if He’s a good God, because He’d know that
lies like that are heaps better than blabbing the truth right
out. Only,” she added severely, “you mustn’t keep saying it’s
wicked to lie ’cause it ain’t. Sometimes I lies,” she reflected
pensively, “and sometimes I don’t—it depends.”

Miss Taylor forgot her collar, and fingered the pin on the desk.
She felt at once a desperate desire to know this girl better and
to establish her own authority. Yet how should she do it? She
kept toying with the pin, and Zora watched her. Then Miss Taylor
said, absently:

“Zora, what do you propose to do when you grow up?”

Zora considered.

“Think and walk—and rest,” she concluded.

“I mean, what work?”

“Work? Oh, I sha’n’t work. I don’t like work—do you?”

Miss Taylor winced, wondering if the girl were lying again. She
said quickly:

“Why, yes—that is, I like some kinds of work.”

“What kinds?”

But Miss Taylor refused to have the matter made personal, as Zora
had a disconcerting way of pointing all their discussions.

“Everybody likes some kinds of work,” she insisted.

“If you likes it, it ain’t work,” declared Zora; but Mary Taylor
proceeded around her circumscribed circle:

“You might make a good cook, or a maid.”

“I hate cooking. What’s a maid?”

“Why, a woman who helps others.”

“Helps folks that they love? I’d like that.”

“It is not a question of affection,” said Miss Taylor, firmly:
“one is paid for it.”

“I wouldn’t work for pay.”

“But you’ll have to, child; you’ll have to earn a living.”

“Do you work for pay?”

“I work to earn a living.”

“Same thing, I reckon, and it ain’t true. Living just comes free,
like—like sunshine.”

“Stuff! Zora, your people must learn to work and work steadily
and work hard—” She stopped, for she was sure Zora was not
listening; the far away look was in her eyes and they were
shining. She was beautiful as she stood there—strangely,
almost uncannily, but startlingly beautiful with her rich dark
skin, softly moulded features, and wonderful eyes.

“My people?—my people?” she murmured, half to herself. “Do
you know my people? They don’t never work; they plays. They is
all little, funny dark people. They flies and creeps and crawls,
slippery-like; and they cries and calls. Ah, my people! my poor
little people! they misses me these days, because they is shadowy
things that sing and smell and bloom in dark and terrible
nights—”

Miss Taylor started up. “Zora, I believe you’re crazy!” she
cried. But Zora was looking at her calmly again.

“We’se both crazy, ain’t we?” she returned, with a simplicity
that left the teacher helpless.

Miss Taylor hurried out, forgetting her pin. Zora looked it over
leisurely, and tried it on. She decided that she liked it, and
putting it in her pocket, went out too.

School was out but the sun was still high, as Bles hurried from
the barn up the big road beside the soft shadows of the swamp.
His head was busy with new thoughts and his lips were whistling
merrily, for today Zora was to show him the long dreamed of spot
for the planting of the Silver Fleece. He hastened toward the
Cresswell mansion, and glanced anxiously up the road. At last he
saw her coming, swinging down the road, lithe and dark, with the
big white basket of clothes poised on her head.

“Zora,” he yodled, and she waved her apron.

He eased her burden to the ground and they sat down together, he
nervous and eager; she silent, passive, but her eyes restless.
Bles was full of his plans.

“Zora,” he said, “we’ll make it the finest bale ever raised in
Tooms; we’ll just work it to the inch—just love it into
life.”

She considered the matter intently.

“But,”—presently,—”how can we sell it without the
Cresswells knowing?”

“We won’t try; we’ll just take it to them and give them half,
like the other tenants.”

“But the swamp is mortal thick and hard to clear.”

“We can do it.”

Zora had sat still, listening; but now, suddenly, she leapt to
her feet.

“Come,” she said, “I’ll take the clothes home, then we’ll
go”—she glanced at him—”down where the dreams are.”
And laughing, they hurried on.

Elspeth stood in the path that wound down to the cottage, and
without a word Zora dropped the basket at her feet. She turned
back; but Bles, struck by a thought, paused. The old woman was
short, broad, black and wrinkled, with yellow fangs, red hanging
lips, and wicked eyes. She leered at them; the boy shrank before
it, but stood his ground.

“Aunt Elspeth,” he began, “Zora and I are going to plant and tend
some cotton to pay for her schooling—just the very best
cotton we can find—and I heard”—he
hesitated,—”I heard you had some wonderful seed.”

“Yes,” she mumbled, “I’se got the seed—I’se got
it—wonder seed, sowed wid the three spells of Obi in the
old land ten tousand moons ago. But you couldn’t plant it,” with
a sudden shrillness, “it would kill you.”

“But—” Bles tried to object, but she waved him away.

“Git the ground—git the ground; dig it—pet it, and
we’ll see what we’ll see.” And she disappeared.

Zora was not sure that it had been wise to tell their secret.

“I was going to steal the seed,” she said. “I knows where it is,
and I don’t fear conjure.”

“You mustn’t steal, Zora,” said Bles, gravely.

“Why?” Zora quickly asked.

But before he answered, they both forgot; for their faces were
turned toward the wonder of the swamp. The golden sun was pouring
floods of glory through the slim black trees, and the mystic
sombre pools caught and tossed back the glow in darker, duller
crimson. Long echoing cries leapt to and fro; silent footsteps
crept hither and yonder; and the girl’s eyes gleamed with a wild
new joy.

“The dreams!” she cried. “The dreams!” And leaping ahead, she
danced along the shadowed path. He hastened after her, but she
flew fast and faster; he followed, laughing, calling, pleading.
He saw her twinkling limbs a-dancing as once he saw them dance in
a halo of firelight; but now the fire was the fire of the world.
Her garments twined and flew in shadowy drapings about the
perfect moulding of her young and dark half-naked figure. Her
heavy hair had burst its fastenings and lay in stiffened,
straggling masses, bending reluctantly to the breeze, like curled
smoke; while all about, the mad, wild singing rose and fell and
trembled, till his head whirled. He paused uncertainly at a
parting of the paths, crying:

“Zora! Zora!” as for some lost soul. “Zora! Zora!” echoed the
cry, faintly.

Abruptly the music fell; there came a long slow-growing silence;
and then, with a flutter, she was beside him again, laughing in
his ears and crying with mocking voice:

“Is you afeared, honey?”

He saw in her eyes sweet yearnings, but could speak nothing. He
could only clasp her hand tightly, and again down they raced
through the wood.

All at once the swamp changed and chilled to a dull grayness;
tall, dull trees started down upon the murky waters; and long
pendent streamings of moss-like tears dripped from tree to earth.
Slowly and warily they threaded their way.

“Are you sure of the path, Zora?” he once inquired anxiously.

“I could find it asleep,” she answered, skipping sure-footed
onward. He continued to hold her hand tightly, and his own pace
never slackened. Around them the gray and death-like wilderness
darkened. They felt and saw the cold white mist rising slowly
from the ground, and waters growing blacker and broader.

At last they came to what seemed the end. Silently and dismally
the half-dead forest, with its ghostly moss, lowered and
darkened, and the black waters spread into a great silent lake of
slimy ooze. The dead trunk of a fallen tree lay straight in
front, torn and twisted, its top hidden yonder and mingled with
impenetrable undergrowth.

“Where now, Zora?” he cried.

In a moment she had slipped her hand away and was scrambling upon
the tree trunk. The waters yawned murkily below.

“Careful! careful!” he warned, struggling after her until she
disappeared amid the leaves. He followed eagerly, but cautiously;
and all at once found himself confronting a paradise.

Before them lay a long island, opening to the south, on the black
lake, but sheltered north and east by the dense undergrowth of
the black swamp and the rampart of dead and living trees. The
soil was virgin and black, thickly covered over with a tangle of
bushes, vines, and smaller growth all brilliant with early leaves
and wild flowers.

“A pretty tough proposition for clearing and ploughing,” said
Bles, with practised eye. But Zora eagerly surveyed the prospect.

“It’s where the Dreams lives,” she whispered.

Meantime Miss Taylor had missed her brooch and searched for it in
vain. In the midst of this pursuit the truth occurred to
her—Zora had stolen it. Negroes would steal, everybody
said. Well, she must and would have the pin, and she started for
Elspeth’s cabin.

On the way she met the old woman in the path, but got little
satisfaction. Elspeth merely grunted ungraciously while eyeing
the white woman with suspicion.

Mary Taylor, again alone, sat down at a turn in the path, just
out of sight of the house, and waited. Soon she saw, with a
certain grim satisfaction, Zora and Bles emerging from the swamp
engaged in earnest conversation. Here was an opportunity to
overwhelm both with an unforgettable reprimand. She rose before
them like a spectral vengeance.

“Zora, I want my pin.”

Bles started and stared; but Zora eyed her calmly with something
like disdain.

“What pin?” she returned, unmoved.

“Zora, don’t deny that you took my pin from the desk this
afternoon,” the teacher commanded severely.

“I didn’t say I didn’t take no pin.”

“Persons who will lie and steal will do anything.”

“Why shouldn’t people do anything they wants to?”

“And you knew the pin was mine.”

“I saw you a-wearing of it,” admitted Zora easily.

“Then you have stolen it, and you are a thief.”

Still Zora appeared to be unimpressed with the heinousness of her
fault.

“Did you make that pin?” she asked.

“No, but it is mine.”

“Why is it yours?”

“Because it was given to me.”

“But you don’t need it; you’ve got four other prettier
ones—I counted.”

“That makes no difference.”

“Yes it does—folks ain’t got no right to things they don’t
need.”

“That makes no difference, Zora, and you know it. The pin is
mine. You stole it. If you had wanted a pin and asked me I might
have given you—”

The girl blazed.

“I don’t want your old gifts,” she almost hissed. “You don’t own
what you don’t need and can’t use. God owns it and I’m going to
send it back to Him.”

With a swift motion she whipped the pin from her pocket and
raised her arm to hurl it into the swamp. Bles caught her hand.
He caught it lightly and smiled sorrowfully into her eyes. She
wavered a moment, then the answering light sprang to her face.
Dropping the brooch into his hand, she wheeled and fled toward
the cabin.

Bles handed it silently to Miss Taylor. Mary Taylor was beside
herself with impatient anger—and anger intensified by a
conviction of utter helplessness to cope with any strained or
unusual situations between herself and these two.

“Alwyn,” she said sharply, “I shall report Zora for stealing. And
you may report yourself to Miss Smith tonight for disrespect
toward a teacher.”

Eight

MR. HARRY CRESSWELL

The Cresswells, father and son, were at breakfast. The daughter
was taking her coffee and rolls up stairs in bed.

“P’sh! I don’t like it!” declared Harry Cresswell, tossing the
letter back to his father. “I tell you, it is a damned Yankee
trick.”

He was a man of thirty-five, smooth and white, slight, well-bred
and masterful. His father, St. John Cresswell, was sixty,
white-haired, mustached and goateed; a stately, kindly old man
with a temper and much family pride.

“Well, well,” he said, his air half preoccupied, half
unconcerned, “I suppose so—and yet”—he read the
letter again, aloud: “‘Approaching you as one of the most
influential landowners of Alabama, on a confidential
matter’—h’m—h’m—’a combination of capital and
power, such as this nation has never seen’—’cotton
manufacturers and cotton growers.’ … Well, well! Of course, I
suppose there’s nothing in it. And yet, Harry, my boy, this
cotton-growing business is getting in a pretty tight pinch.
Unless relief comes somehow—well, we’ll just have to quit.
We simply can’t keep the cost of cotton down to a remunerative
figure with niggers getting scarcer and dearer. Every year I have
to pinch ’em closer and closer. I had to pay Maxwell two hundred
and fifty to get that old darky and his boys turned over to me,
and one of the young ones has run away already.”

Harry lighted a cigarette.

“We must drive them more. You’re too easy, father; they
understand that. By the way, what did that letter say about a
‘sister’?”

“Says he’s got a sister over at the nigger school whom perhaps we
know. I suppose he thinks we dine there occasionally.” The old
man chuckled. “That reminds me, Elspeth is sending her girl
there.”

“What’s that?” An angry gleam shot into the younger man’s eye.

“Yes. She announced this morning, pert as you please, that she
couldn’t tote clothes any more—she had to study.”

“Damn it! This thing is going too far. We can’t keep a maid or a
plough-boy on the place because of this devilish school. It’s
going to ruin the whole labor system. We’ve been too mild and
decent. I’m going to put my foot down right here. I’ll make
Elspeth take that girl out of school if I have to horse-whip her,
and I’ll warn the school against further interference with our
tenants. Here, in less than a week, go two plough-hands—and
now this girl.”

The old man smiled.

“You’ll hardly miss any work Zora does,” he said.

“I’ll make her work. She’s giving herself too many damned airs. I
know who’s back of this—it’s that nigger we saw talking to
the white woman in the field the other day.”

“Well, don’t work yourself up. The wench don’t amount to much
anyhow. By the way, though, if you do go to the school it won’t
hurt to see this Taylor’s sister and size the family up.”

“Pshaw! I’m going to give the Smith woman such a scare that
she’ll keep her hands off our niggers.” And Harry Cresswell rode
away.

Mary Taylor had charge of the office that morning, while Miss
Smith, shut up in her bedroom, went laboriously over her
accounts. Miss Mary suddenly sat up, threw a hasty glance into
the glass and felt the back of her belt. It was—it couldn’t
be—surely, it was Mr. Harry Cresswell riding through the
gateway on his beautiful white mare. He kicked the gate open
rather viciously, did not stop to close it, and rode straight
across the lawn. Miss Taylor noticed his riding breeches and
leggings, his white linen and white, clean-cut, high-bred face.
Such apparitions were few about the country lands. She felt
inclined to flutter, but gripped herself.

“Good-morning,” she said, a little stiffly.

Mr. Cresswell halted and stared; then lifting the hat which he
had neglected to remove in crossing the hall, he bowed in stately
grace. Miss Taylor was no ordinary picture. Her brown hair was
almost golden; her dark eyes shone blue; her skin was clear and
healthy, and her white dress—happy coincidence!—had
been laundered that very morning. Her half-suppressed excitement
at the sudden duty of welcoming the great aristocrat of the
county, gave a piquancy to her prettiness.

“The—devil!” commented Mr. Harry Cresswell to himself. But
to Miss Taylor:

“I beg pardon—er—Miss Smith?”

“No—I’m sorry. Miss Smith is engaged this morning. I am
Miss Taylor.”

“I cannot share Miss Taylor’s sorrow,” returned Mr. Cresswell
gravely, “for I believe I have the honor of some correspondence
with Miss Taylor’s brother.” Mr. Cresswell searched for the
letter, but did not find it.

“Oh! Has John written you?” She beamed suddenly. “I’m so glad.
It’s more than he’s done for me this three-month. I beg your
pardon—do sit down—I think you’ll find this one
easier. Our stock of chairs is limited.”

It was delightful to have a casual meeting receive this social
stamp; the girl was all at once transfigured—animated,
glowing, lovely; all of which did not escape the caller’s
appraising inspection.

“There!” said Mr. Cresswell. “I’ve left your gate gaping.”

“Oh, don’t mind … I hope John’s well?”

“The truth is,” confessed Cresswell, “it was a business
matter—cotton, you know.”

“John is nothing but cotton; I tell him his soul is fibrous.”

“He mentioned your being here and I thought I’d drop over and
welcome you to the South.”

“Thank you,” returned Miss Taylor, reddening with pleasure
despite herself. There was a real sincerity in the tone. All this
confirmed so many convictions of hers.

“Of course, you know how it is in the South,” Cresswell pursued,
the opening having been so easily accomplished.

“I understand perfectly.”

“My sister would be delighted to meet you, but—”

“Oh I realize the—difficulties.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind riding by some day—it’s
embarrassing to suggest this, but, you know—”

Miss Taylor was perfectly self-possessed.

“Mr. Cresswell,” she said seriously, “I know very well that it
wouldn’t do for your sister to call here, and I sha’n’t mind a
bit coming by to see her first. I don’t believe in standing on
stupid ceremony.”

Cresswell thanked her with quiet cordiality, and suggested that
when he was driving by he might pick her up in his gig some
morning. Miss Taylor expressed her pleasure at the prospect. Then
the talk wandered to general matters—the rain, the trees,
the people round about, and, inevitably—the Negro.

“Oh, by the bye,” said Mr. Cresswell, frowning and hesitating
over the recollection of his errand’s purpose, “there was one
matter”—he paused. Miss Taylor leant forward, all interest.
“I hardly know that I ought to mention it, but your
school—”

This charming young lady disarmed his truculent spirit, and the
usually collected and determined young man was at a loss how to
proceed. The girl, however, was obviously impressed and pleased
by his evidence of interest, whatever its nature; so in a manner
vastly different from the one he had intended to assume, he
continued:

“There is a way in which we may be of service to you, and that is
by enlightening you upon points concerning which the nature of
your position—both as teacher and socially—must keep
you in the dark.

“For instance, all these Negroes are, as you know, of wretchedly
low morals; but there are a few so depraved that it would be
suicidal to take them into this school. We recognize the good you
are doing, but we do not want it more than offset by utter lack
of discrimination in choosing your material.”

“Certainly not—have we—” Miss Mary faltered. This
beginning was a bit ominous, wholly unexpected.

“There is a girl, Zora, who has just entered, who—I must
speak candidly—who ought not to be here; I thought it but
right to let you know.”

“Thank you, so much. I’ll tell Miss Smith.” Mary Taylor suddenly
felt herself a judge of character. “I suspected that she
was—not what she ought to be. Believe me, we appreciate
your interest.”

A few more words, and Mr. Cresswell, after bending courteously
over her hand with a deference no New Englander had ever shown,
was riding away on his white mare.

For a while Mary Taylor sat very quietly. It was like a breath of
air from the real world, this hour’s chat with a well-bred
gentleman. She wondered how she had done her part—had she
been too eager and school-girlish? Had she met this stately
ceremony with enough breeding to show that she too was somebody?
She pounced upon Miss Smith the minute that lady entered the
office.

“Miss Smith, who do you think has been here?” she burst out
enthusiastically.

“I saw him on the lawn.” There was a suspicious lack of warmth in
this brief affirmation.

“He was so gracious and kindly, and he knows my brother. And oh,
Miss Smith! we’ve got to send that Zora right away.”

“Indeed”—the observation was not even interrogatory. The
preceptress of the struggling school for Negro children merely
evinced patience for the younger woman’s fervency.

“Yes; he says she’s utterly depraved.”

“Said that, did he?” Miss Smith watched her with tranquil regard.
Miss Taylor paused.

“Of course, we cannot think of keeping her.”

Miss Smith pursed her lips, offering her first expression of
opinion.

“I guess we’ll worry along with her a little while anyhow,” she
said.

The girl stared at Miss Smith in honest, if unpardonable,
amazement.

“Do you mean to say that you are going to keep in this school a
girl who not only lies and steals but is
positively—immoral?”

Miss Smith smiled, wholly unmoved.

“No; but I mean that I am here to learn from those whose
ideas of right do not agree with mine, to discover why
they differ, and to let them learn of me—so far as I am
worthy.”

Mary Taylor was not unappreciative of Miss Smith’s stern
high-mindedness, but her heart hardened at this, to her,
misdirected zeal. Echo of the spirit of an older day, Miss Smith
seemed, to her, to be cramped and paralyzed in an armor of
prejudice and sectionalisms. Plain-speaking was the only course,
and Mary, if a little complacent perhaps in her frankness, was
sincere in her purpose.

“I think, Miss Smith, you are making a very grave mistake. I
regard Zora as a very undesirable person from every point of
view. I look upon Mr. Cresswell’s visit today as almost
providential. He came offering an olive branch from the white
aristocracy to this work; to bespeak his appreciation and
safeguard the future. Moreover,” and Miss Taylor’s voice gathered
firmness despite Miss Smith’s inscrutable eye, “moreover, I have
reason to know that the disposition—indeed, the
plan—in certain quarters to help this work materially
depends very largely on your willingness to meet the advances of
the Southern whites half way.”

She paused for a reply or a question. Receiving neither, she
walked with dignity up the stairs. From her window she could see
Cresswell’s straight shoulders, as he rode toward town, and
beyond him a black speck in the road. But she could not see the
smile on Mr. Cresswell’s lips, nor did she hear him remark twice,
with seeming irrelevance, “The devil!”

The rider, being closer to it, recognized in Mary Taylor’s “black
speck” Bles Alwyn walking toward him rapidly with axe and hoe on
shoulder, whistling merrily. They saw each other almost at the
same moment and whistle and smile faded. Mr. Cresswell knew the
Negro by sight and disliked him. He belonged in his mind to that
younger class of half-educated blacks who were impudent and
disrespectful toward their superiors, not even touching his hat
when he met a white man. Moreover, he was sure that it was Miss
Taylor with whom this boy had been talking so long and familiarly
in the cotton-field last Spring—an offence doubly heinous
now that he had seen Miss Taylor.

His first impulse was to halt the Negro then and there and tell
him a few plain truths. But he did not feel quarrelsome at the
moment, and there was, after all, nothing very tangible to
justify a berating. The fellow’s impudence was sure to increase,
and then! So he merely reined his horse to the better part of the
foot-path and rode on.

Bles, too, was thinking. He knew the well-dressed man with his
milk-white face and overbearing way. He would expect to be
greeted with raised hat but Bles bit his lips and pulled down his
cap firmly. The axe, too, in some indistinct way felt good in his
hand. He saw the horse coming in his pathway and stepping aside
in the dust continued on his way, neither looking nor speaking.

So they passed each other by, Mr. Cresswell to town, Bles to the
swamp, apparently ignorant of each other’s very existence. Yet,
as the space widened between them, each felt a more vindictive
anger for the other.

How dares the black puppy to ignore a Cresswell on the highway?
If this went on, the day would surely come when Negroes felt no
respect or fear whatever for whites? And then—my God! Mr.
Cresswell struck his mare a vicious blow and dashed toward town.

The black boy, too, went his way in silent, burning rage. Why
should he be elbowed into the roadside dust by an insolent bully?
Why had he not stood his ground? Pshaw! All this fine frenzy was
useless, and he knew it. The sweat oozed on his forehead. It
wasn’t man against man, or he would have dragged the pale puppy
from his horse and rubbed his face in the earth. It wasn’t even
one against many, else how willingly, swinging his axe, would
have stood his ground before a mob.

No, it was one against a world, a world of power, opinion,
wealth, opportunity; and he, the one, must cringe and bear in
silence lest the world crash about the ears of his people. He
slowly plodded on in bitter silence toward the swamp. But the day
was balmy, the way was beautiful; contempt slowly succeeded
anger, and hope soon triumphed over all. For yonder was Zora,
poised, waiting. And behind her lay the Field of Dreams.

Nine

THE PLANTING

Zora looked down upon Bles, where he stood to his knees in mud.
The toil was beyond exhilaration—it was sickening weariness
and panting despair. The great roots, twined in one unbroken
snarl, clung frantically to the black soil. The vines and bushes
fought back with thorn and bramble. Zora stood wiping the blood
from her hands and staring at Bles. She saw the long gnarled
fingers of the tough little trees and they looked like the
fingers of Elspeth down there beneath the earth pulling against
the boy. Slowly Zora forgot her blood and pain. Who would
win—the witch, or Jason?

Bles looked up and saw the bleeding hands. With a bound he was
beside her.

“Zora!” The cry seemed wrung from his heart by contrition. Why
had he not known—not seen before! “Zora, come right out of
this! Sit down here and rest.”

She looked at him unwaveringly; there was no flinching of her
spirit.

“I sha’n’t do it,” she said. “You’se working, and I’se going to
work.”

“But—Zora—you’re not used to such work, and I am.
You’re tired out.”

“So is you,” was her reply.

He looked himself over ruefully, and dropping his axe, sat down
beside her on a great log. Silently they contemplated the land;
it seemed indeed a hopeless task. Then they looked at each other
in sudden, unspoken fear of failure.

“If we only had a mule!” he sighed. Immediately her face lighted
and her lips parted, but she said nothing. He presently bounded
to his feet.

“Never mind, Zora. To-morrow is Saturday, and I’ll work all day.
We just will get it done—sometime.” His mouth closed
with determination.

“We won’t work any more today, then?” cried Zora, her eagerness
betraying itself despite her efforts to hide it.

“You won’t,” affirmed Bles. “But I’ve got to do just a
little—”

But Zora was adamant: he was tired; she was tired; they would
rest. To-morrow with the rising sun they would begin again.

“There’ll be a bright moon tonight,” ventured Bles.

“Then I’ll come too,” Zora announced positively, and he had to
promise for her sake to rest.

They went up the path together and parted diffidently, he
watching her flit away with sorrowful eyes, a little disturbed
and puzzled at the burden he had voluntarily assumed, but never
dreaming of drawing back.

Zora did not go far. No sooner did she know herself well out of
his sight than she dropped lightly down beside the path,
listening intently until the last echo of his footsteps had died
away. Then, leaving the cabin on her right, and the scene of
their toil on her left, she cut straight through the swamp,
skirted the big road, and in a half-hour was in the lower meadows
of the Cresswell plantations, where the tired stock was being
turned out to graze for the night. Here, in the shadow of the
wood, she lingered. Slowly, but with infinite patience, she broke
one strand after another of the barbed-wire fencing, watching,
the while, the sun grow great and crimson, and die at last in
mighty splendor behind the dimmer westward forests.

The voices of the hands and hostlers grew fainter and thinner in
the distance of purple twilight until the last of them
disappeared. Silence fell, deep and soft; the silence of a day
sinking to sleep. Not until then did Zora steal forth from her
hiding-place.

She had chosen her mule long before—a big, black beast,
snorting over his pile of corn,—and gliding up to him, she
gathered his supper into her skirt, found a stout halter, and fed
him sparingly as he followed her. Quickly she unfastened the
pieces of the fence, led the animal through, and spliced them
again; and then, with fox-like caution, she guided her prize
through the labyrinthine windings of the swamp. It was dark and
haunting, and ever and again rose lonely night cries. The girl
trembled a little, but plodded resolutely on until the dim silver
disk of the half-moon began to glimmer through the trees. Then
she pressed on more swiftly, and fed more scantily, until
finally, with the moonlight pouring over them at the black
lagoon, Zora attempted to drive the animal into the still waters;
but he gave a loud protesting snort and balked. By subtle
temptings she gave him to understand that plenty lay beyond the
dark waters, and quickly swinging herself to his back she started
to ride him up and down along the edge of the lagoon, petting and
whispering to him of good things beyond. Slowly her eyes grew
wide; she seemed to be riding out of dreamland on some hobgoblin
beast.

Deeper and deeper they penetrated into the dark waters. Now they
entered the slime; now they stumbled on hidden roots; but deeper
and deeper they waded until at last, turning the animal’s head
with a jerk, and giving him a sharp stroke of the whip, she
headed straight for the island. A moment the beast snorted and
plunged; higher and higher the black still waters rose round the
girl. They crept up her little limbs, swirled round her breasts
and gleamed green and slimy along her shoulders. A wild terror
gripped her. Maybe she was riding the devil’s horse, and these
were the yawning gates of hell, black and sombre beneath the
cold, dead radiance of the moon. She saw again the gnarled and
black and claw-like fingers of Elspeth gripping and dragging her
down.

A scream struggled in her breast, her fingers relaxed, and the
big beast, stretching his cramped neck, rose in one mighty plunge
and planted his feet on the sand of the island.

Bles, hurrying down in the morning with new tools and new
determination, stopped and stared in blank amazement. Zora was
perched in a tree singing softly and beneath a fat black mule was
finishing his breakfast.

“Zora—” he gasped, “how—how did you do it?”

She only smiled and sang a happier measure, pausing only to
whisper:

“Dreams—dreams—it’s all dreams here, I tells you.”

Bles frowned and stood irresolute. The song proceeded with less
assurance, slower and lower, till it stopped, and the singer
dropped to the ground, watching him with wide eyes. He looked
down at her, slight, tired, scratched, but undaunted, striving
blindly toward the light with stanch, unfaltering faith. A pity
surged in his heart. He put his arm about her shoulders and
murmured:

“You poor, brave child.”

And she shivered with joy.

All day Saturday and part of Sunday they worked feverishly. The
trees crashed and the stumps groaned and crept up into the air,
the brambles blazed and smoked; little frightened animals fled
for shelter; and a wide black patch of rich loam broadened and
broadened till it kissed, on every side but the sheltered east,
the black waters of the lagoon. Late Sunday night the mule again
swam the slimy lagoon, and disappeared toward the Cresswell
fields. Then Bles sat down beside Zora, facing the fields, and
gravely took her hand. She looked at him in quick, breathless
fear.

“Zora,” he said, “sometimes you tell lies, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said slowly; “sometimes.”

“And, Zora, sometimes you steal—you stole the pin from Miss
Taylor, and we stole Mr. Cresswell’s mule for two days.”

“Yes,” she said faintly, with a perplexed wrinkle in her brows,
“I stole it.”

“Well, Zora, I don’t want you ever to tell another lie, or ever
to take anything that doesn’t belong to you.”

She looked at him silently with the shadow of something like
terror far back in the depths of her deep eyes.

“Always—tell—the truth?” she repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

Her fingers worked nervously.

“All the truth?” she asked.

He thought a while.

“No,” said he finally, “it is not necessary always to tell all
the truth; but never tell anything that isn’t the truth.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Even if it hurts me?”

“Even if it hurts. God is good, He will not let it hurt much.”

“He’s a fair God, ain’t He?” she mused, scanning the evening sky.

“Yes—He’s fair, He wouldn’t take advantage of a little girl
that did wrong, when she didn’t know it was wrong.”

Her face lightened and she held his hands in both hers, and said
solemnly as though saying a prayer:

“I won’t lie any more, and I won’t steal—and—” she
looked at him in startled wistfulness—he remembered it in
after years; but he felt he had preached enough.

“And now for the seed!” he interrupted joyously. “And
then—the Silver Fleece!”

That night, for the first time, Bles entered Zora’s home. It was
a single low, black room, smoke-shadowed and dirty, with two
dingy beds and a gaping fire-place. On one side of the fire-place
sat the yellow woman, young, with traces of beauty, holding the
white child in her arms; on the other, hugging the blaze, huddled
a formless heap, wreathed in coils of tobacco
smoke—Elspeth, Zora’s mother.

Zora said nothing, but glided in and stood in the shadows.

“Good-evening,” said Bles cheerily. The woman with the baby alone
responded.

“I came for the seed you promised us—the cotton-seed.”

The hag wheeled and approached him swiftly, grasping his
shoulders and twisting her face into his. She was a horrible
thing—filthy of breath, dirty, with dribbling mouth and red
eyes. Her few long black teeth hung loosely like tusks and the
folds of fat on her chin curled down on her great neck. Bles
shuddered and stepped back.

“Is you afeared, honey?” she whispered.

“No,” he said sturdily.

She chuckled drily. “Yes, you is—everybody’s ‘feared of old
Elspeth; but she won’t hurt you—you’s got the spell;” and
wheeling again, she was back at the fire.

“But the seed?” he ventured.

She pointed impressively roofward. “The dark of the moon, boy,
the dark of the moon—the first dark—at midnight.”
Bles could not wring another word from her; nor did the ancient
witch, by word or look, again give the slightest indication that
she was aware of his presence.

With reluctant farewell, Bles turned home. For a space Zora
watched him, and once she started after him, but came slowly
back, and sat by the fire-place.

Out of the night came voices and laughter, and the sound of
wheels and galloping horses. It was not the soft, rollicking
laughter of black men, but the keener, more metallic sound of
white men’s cries, and Bles Alwyn paused at the edge of the wood,
looked back and hesitated, but decided after a moment to go home
and to bed.

Zora, however, leapt to her feet and fled into the night, while
the hag screamed after her and cursed. There was tramping of feet
on the cabin floor, and loud voices and singing and cursing.

“Where’s Zora?” some one yelled, with an oath. “Damn it! where is
she? I haven’t seen her for a year, you old devil.”

The hag whimpered and snarled. Far down in the field of the
Fleece, Zora lay curled beneath a tall dark tree asleep. All
night there was coming and going in the cabin; the talk and
laughter grew loud and boisterous, and the red fire glared in the
night.

The days flew by and the moon darkened. In the swamp, the hidden
island lay spaded and bedded, and Bles was throwing up a dyke
around the edge; Zora helped him until he came to the black oak
at the western edge. It was a large twisted thing with one low
flying limb that curled out across another tree and made a mighty
seat above the waters.

“Don’t throw the dirt too high there,” she begged; “it’ll bring
my seat too near the earth.”

He looked up.

“Why, it’s a throne,” he laughed.

“It needs a roof,” he whimsically told her when his day’s work
was done. Deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree
and bush, he wove a canopy of living green that shadowed the
curious nest and warded it snugly from wind and water.

Early next morning Bles slipped down and improved the nest;
adding foot-rests to make the climbing easy, peep-holes east and
west, a bit of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk,
a little picture in blue and gold of Bougereau’s Madonna. Zora
sat hidden and alone in silent ecstasy. Bles peeped
in—there was not room to enter: the girl was staring
silently at the Madonna. She seemed to feel rather than hear his
presence, and she inquired softly:

“Who’s it, Bles?”

“The mother of God,” he answered reverently.

“And why does she hold a lily?”

“It stands for purity—she was a good woman.”

“With a baby,” Zora added slowly.

“Yes—” said Bles, and then more quickly—”It is the
Christ Child—God’s baby.”

“God is the father of all the little babies, ain’t He, Bles?”

“Why, yes—yes, of course; only this little baby didn’t have
any other father.”

“Yes, I know one like that,” she said,—and then she added
softly: “Poor little Christ-baby.”

Bles hesitated, and before he found words Zora was saying:

“How white she is; she’s as white as the lily, Bles;
but—I’m sorry she’s white—Bles, what’s
purity—just whiteness?”

Bles glanced at her awkwardly but she was still staring wide-eyed
at the picture, and her voice was earnest. She was now so old and
again so much a child, an eager questioning child, that there
seemed about her innocence something holy.

“It means,” he stammered, groping for meanings—”it means
being good—just as good as a woman knows how.”

She wheeled quickly toward him and asked him eagerly:

“Not better—not better than she knows, but just as good,
in—lying and stealing and—and everything?”

Bles smiled.

“No—not better than she knows, but just as good.”

She trembled happily.

“I’m—pure,” she said, with a strange little breaking voice
and gesture. A sob struggled in his throat.

“Of course you are,” he whispered tenderly, hiding her little
hands in his.

“I—I was so afraid—sometimes—that I wasn’t,”
she whispered, lifting up to him her eyes streaming with tears.
Silently he kissed her lips.

From that day on they walked together in a new world. No
revealing word was spoken; no vows were given, none asked for;
but a new bond held them. She grew older, quieter, taller, he
humbler, more tender and reverent, as they toiled together.

So the days passed. The sun burned in the heavens; but the
silvered glory of the moon grew fainter and fainter and each
night it rose later than the night before. Then one day Zora
whispered:

“Tonight!”

Bles came to the cabin, and he and Zora and Elspeth sat silently
around the fire-place with its meagre embers. The night was balmy
and still; only occasionally a wandering breeze searching the
hidden places of the swamp, or the call and song of night birds,
jarred the stillness. Long they sat, until the silence crept into
Bles’s flesh, and stretching out his hand, he touched Zora’s,
clasping it.

After a time the old woman rose and hobbled to a big black chest.
Out of it she brought an old bag of cotton seed—not the
white-green seed which Bles had always known, but small, smooth
black seeds, which she handled carefully, dipping her hands deep
down and letting them drop through her gnarled fingers. And so
again they sat and waited and waited, saying no word.

Not until the stars of midnight had swung to the zenith did they
start down through the swamp. Bles sought to guide the old woman,
but he found she knew the way better than he did. Her shadowy
figure darting in and out among the trunks till they crossed the
tree bridge, moved ever noiselessly ahead.

She motioned the boy and girl away to the thicket at the edge,
and stood still and black in the midst of the cleared island.
Bles slipped his arm protectingly around Zora, glancing fearfully
about in the darkness. Slowly a great cry rose and swept the
island. It struck madly and sharply, and then died away to uneasy
murmuring. From afar there seemed to come the echo or the answer
to the call. The form of Elspeth blurred the night dimly far off,
almost disappearing, and then growing blacker and larger. They
heard the whispering “swish-swish” of falling seed; they
felt the heavy tread of a great coming body. The form of the old
woman suddenly loomed black above them, hovering a moment
formless and vast then fading again away, and the
“swish-swish” of the falling seed alone rose in the
silence of the night.

At last all was still. A long silence. Then again the air seemed
suddenly filled with that great and awful cry; its echoing answer
screamed afar and they heard the raucous voice of Elspeth beating
in their ears:

“De seed done sowed! De seed done sowed!”

Ten

MR. TAYLOR CALLS

“Thinking the matter over,” said Harry Cresswell to his father,
“I’m inclined to advise drawing this Taylor out a little
further.”

The Colonel puffed his cigar and one eye twinkled, the lid of the
other being at the moment suggestively lowered.

“Was she pretty?” he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and
the father continued:

“I had a telegram from Taylor this morning, after you left. He’ll
be passing through Montgomery the first of next month, and
proposes calling.”

“I’ll wire him to come,” said Harry, promptly.

At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen
Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid
air. Outside herself there was little in which she took very
great interest, and her interest in herself was not absorbing.
Yet she had a curiously sweet way. Her servants liked her and the
tenants could count on her spasmodic attentions in time of
sickness and trouble.

“Good-morning,” she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over
to her father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.

“Did you get that novel for me, Harry?”—expectantly
regarding her brother.

“I forgot it, Sis. But I’ll be going to town again soon.”

The young lady showed that she was annoyed.

“By the bye, Sis, there’s a young lady over at the Negro school
whom I think you’d like.”

“Black or white?”

“A young lady, I said. Don’t be sarcastic.”

“I heard you. I did not know whether you were using our language
or others’.”

“She’s really unusual, and seems to understand things. She’s
planning to call some day—shall you be at home?”

“Certainly not, Harry; you’re crazy.” And she strolled out to the
porch, exchanged some remarks with a passing servant, and then
nestled comfortably into a hammock. She helped herself to a
chocolate and called out musically:

“Pa, are you going to town today?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Can I go?”

“I’m going in an hour or so, and business at the bank will keep
me until after lunch.”

“I don’t care, I just must go. I’m clean out of anything to read.
And I want to shop and call on Dolly’s friend—she’s going
soon.”

“All right. Can you be ready by eleven?”

She considered.

“Yes—I reckon,” she drawled, prettily swinging her foot and
watching the tree-tops above the distant swamp.

Harry Cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler.

“Still thinking of going, are you, Sam?” asked Cresswell,
carelessly, when the servant appeared. He was a young,
light-brown boy, his manner obsequious.

“Why, yes, sir—if you can spare me.”

“Spare you, you black rascal! You’re going anyhow. Well, you’ll
repent it; the North is no place for niggers. See here, I want
lunch for two at one o’clock.” The directions that followed were
explicit and given with a particularity that made Sam wonder.
“Order my trap,” he finally directed.

Cresswell went out on the high-pillared porch until the trap
appeared.

“Oh, Harry! I wanted to go in the trap—take me?” coaxed his
sister.

“Sorry, Sis, but I’m going the other way.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Miss Cresswell, easily, as she settled
down to another chocolate. Cresswell did not take the trouble to
reply.

Miss Taylor was on her morning walk when she saw him spinning
down the road, and both expressed surprise and pleasure at the
meeting.

“What a delightful morning!” said the school-teacher, and the
glow on her face said even more.

“I’m driving round through the old plantation,” he explained;
“won’t you join me?”

“The invitation is tempting,” she hesitated; “but I’ve got just
oodles of work.”

“What! on Saturday?”

“Saturday is my really busy day, don’t you know. I guess I could
get off; really, though, I suspect I ought to tell Miss Smith.”

He looked a little perplexed; but the direction in which her
inclinations lay was quite clear to him.

“It—it would be decidedly the proper thing,” he murmured,
“and we could, of course, invite Miss—”

She saw the difficulty and interrupted him:

“It’s quite unnecessary; she’ll think I have simply gone for a
long walk.” And soon they were speeding down the silent road,
breathing the perfume of the pines.

Now a ride of an early spring morning, in Alabama, over a
leisurely old plantation road and behind a spirited horse, is an
event to be enjoyed. Add to this a man bred to be agreeable and
outdoing his training, and a pretty girl gay with new-found
companionship—all this is apt to make a morning worth
remembering.

They turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of
ploughed and tumbled fields, and other fields brown with the dead
ghosts of past years’ cotton standing straggling and
weather-worn. Long, straight, or curling rows of ploughers passed
by with steaming, struggling mules, with whips snapping and the
yodle of workers or the sharp guttural growl of overseers as a
constant accompaniment.

“They’re beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop,” he
explained.

“What a wonderful crop it is!” Mary had fallen pensive.

“Yes, indeed—if only we could get decent returns for it.”

“Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop.” She turned to him
inquiringly.

“It is—to Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters.”

“But why don’t the planters do something?”

“What can be done with Negroes?” His tone was bitter. “We tried
to combine against manufacturers in the Farmers’ League of last
winter. My father was president. The pastime cost him fifty
thousand dollars.”

Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. “You must correspond with
my brother, Mr. Cresswell,” she gravely observed. “I’m sure
he—” Before she could finish, an overseer rode up. He began
talking abruptly, with a quick side-glance at Mary, in which she
might have caught a gleam of surprised curiosity.

“That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain’t
showed up again this morning.”

Cresswell nodded. “I’ll drive by and see,” he said carelessly.

The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head
in his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with
tufted hair. One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he
raised them, wore a cowed and furtive look.

“Well, Uncle Jim, why aren’t you at work?” called Cresswell from
the roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed
against the cabin, and clutched off his cap.

“It’s my leg again, Master Harry—the leg what I hurt in the
gin last fall,” he answered, uneasily.

Cresswell frowned. “It’s probably whiskey,” he assured his
companion, in an undertone; then to the man:

“You must get to the field to-morrow,”—his habitually calm,
unfeeling positiveness left no ground for objection; “I cannot
support you in idleness, you know.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” the other returned, with conciliatory
eagerness; “I knows that—I knows it and I ain’t shirking.
But, Master Harry, they ain’t doing me right ’bout my
cabin—I just wants to show you.” He got out some dirty
papers, and started to hobble forward, wincing with pain. Mary
Taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help,
but Cresswell touched the horse.

“All right, Uncle Jim,” he said; “we’ll look it over to-morrow.”

They turned presently to where they could see the Cresswell oaks
waving lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared
“Big House.”

A pause at the Cresswell store, where Mr. Cresswell entered,
afforded Mary Taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of
information.

“Do you go to school?” she inquired of the black boy who held the
horse, her mien sympathetic and interested.

“No, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“What’s your name?”

“Buddy—I’se one of Aunt Rachel’s chilluns.”

“And where do you live, Buddy?”

“I lives with granny, on de upper place.”

“Well, I’ll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school.”

“Won’t do no good—she done ast, and Mr. Cresswell, he say
he ain’t going to have no more of his niggers—”

But Mr. Cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat,
and greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice.
He was following Cresswell at the side but just a little behind,
hat in hand, head aslant, and talking deferentially. Cresswell
strode carelessly on, answering him with good-natured tolerance.

The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a
profound obeisance. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss
Taylor.

“This,” he announced, “is Jones, the Baptist
preacher—begging.”

“Ah, lady,”—in mellow, unctuous tones—”I don’t know
what we poor black folks would do without Mr. Cresswell—the
Lord bless him,” said the minister, shoving his hand far down
into his pocket.

Shortly afterward they were approaching the Cresswell Mansion,
when the young man reined in the horse.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he suggested, “I could introduce my
sister to you.”

“I should be delighted,” answered Miss Taylor, readily.

When they rolled up to the homestead under its famous oaks the
hour was past one. The house was a white oblong building of two
stories. In front was the high pillared porch, semi-circular,
extending to the roof with a balcony in the second story. On the
right was a broad verandah looking toward a wide lawn, with the
main road and the red swamp in the distance.

The butler met them, all obeisance.

“Ask Miss Helen to come down,” said Mr. Cresswell.

Sam glanced at him.

“Miss Helen will be dreadful sorry, but she and the Colonel have
just gone to town—I believe her Aunty ain’t well.”

Mr. Cresswell looked annoyed.

“Well, well! that’s too bad,” he said. “But at any rate, have a
seat a moment out here on the verandah, Miss Taylor. And, Sam,
can’t you find us a sandwich and something cool? I could not be
so inhospitable as to send you away hungry at this time of day.”

Miss Taylor sat down in a comfortable low chair facing the
refreshing breeze, and feasted her eyes on the scene. Oh, this
was life: a smooth green lawn, and beds of flowers, a vista of
brown fields, and the dark line of wood beyond. The deft, quiet
butler brought out a little table, spread with the whitest of
cloths and laid with the brightest of silver, and “found” a
dainty lunch. There was a bit of fried chicken breast, some crisp
bacon, browned potatoes, little round beaten biscuit, and
rose-colored sherbet with a whiff of wine in it. Miss Taylor
wondered a little at the bounty of Southern hospitality; but she
was hungry, and she ate heartily, then leaned back dreamily and
listened to Mr. Cresswell’s smooth Southern r‘s, adding a
word here and there that kept the conversation going and brought
a grave smile to his pale lips. At last with a sigh she arose to
her feet.

“I must go! What shall I tell Miss Smith! No, no—no
carriage; I must walk.” Of course, however, she could not refuse
to let him go at least half-way, ostensibly to tell her of the
coming of her brother. He expressed again his disappointment at
his sister’s absence.

Somewhat to Miss Taylor’s surprise Miss Smith said nothing until
they were parting for the night, then she asked:

“Was Miss Cresswell at home?”

Mary reddened.

“She had been called suddenly to town.”

“Well, my dear, I wouldn’t do it again.”

The girl was angry.

“I’m not a school-girl, but a grown woman, and capable of caring
for myself. Moreover, in matter of propriety I do not think you
have usually found my ideas too lax—rather the opposite.”

“There, there, dear; don’t be angry. Only I think if your brother
knew—”

“He will know in a very few weeks; he is coming to visit the
Cresswells.” And Miss Taylor sailed triumphantly up the stairs.

But John Taylor was not the man to wait weeks when a purpose
could be accomplished in days or hours. No sooner was Harry
Cresswell’s telegram at hand than he hastened back from Savannah,
struck across country, and the week after his sister’s ride found
him striding up the carriage-way of the Cresswell home.

John Taylor had prospered since summer. The cotton manufacturers’
combine was all but a fact; Mr. Easterly had discovered that his
chief clerk’s sense and executive ability were invaluable, and
John Taylor was slated for a salary in five figures when things
should be finally settled, not to mention a generous slice of
stock—watery at present, but warranted to ripen early.

While Mr. Easterly still regarded Taylor’s larger trust as
chimerical, some occurrences of the fall made him take a
respectful attitude toward it. Just as the final clauses of the
combine agreement were to be signed, there appeared a shortage in
the cotton-crop, and prices began to soar. The cause was
obviously the unexpected success of the new Farmers’ League among
the cotton-growers. Mr. Easterly found it comparatively easy to
overthrow the corner, but the flurry made some of the
manufacturers timid, and the trust agreement was postponed until
a year later. This experience and the persistence of Mr. Taylor
induced Mr. Easterly to take a step toward the larger project: he
let in some eager outside capital to the safer manufacturing
scheme, and withdrew a corresponding amount of Mrs. Grey’s money.
This he put into John Taylor’s hands to invest in the South in
bank stock and industries with the idea of playing a part in the
financial situation there.

“It’s a risk, Taylor, of course, and we’ll let the old lady take
the risk. At the worst it’s safer than the damned foolishness she
has in mind.”

So it happened that John Taylor went South to look after large
investments and, as Mr. Easterly expressed it, “to bring back
facts, not dreams.” His investment matters went quickly and well,
and now he turned to his wider and bigger scheme. He wrote the
Cresswells tentatively, expecting no reply, or an evasive one;
planning to circle around them, drawing his nets closer, and
trying them again later. To his surprise they responded quickly.

“Humph! Hard pressed,” he decided, and hurried to them.

So it was the week after Mary Taylor’s ride that found him at
Cresswell’s front door, thin, eagle-eyed, fairly well dressed and
radiating confidence.

“John Taylor,” he announced to Sam, jerkily, thrusting out a
card. “Want to see Mr. Cresswell; soon as possible.”

Sam made him wait a half-hour, for the sake of discipline, and
then brought father and son.

“Good-morning, Mr. Cresswell, and Mr. Cresswell again,” said Mr.
Taylor, helping himself to a straight-backed chair. “Hope you’ll
pardon this unexpected visit. Found myself called through
Montgomery, just after I got your wire; thought I’d better drop
over.”

At Harry’s suggestion they moved to the verandah and sat down
over whiskey and soda, which Taylor refused, and plunged into the
subject without preliminaries.

“I’m assuming that you gentlemen are in the cotton business for
making money. So am I. I see a way in which you and your friends
can help me and mine, and clear up more millions than all of us
can spend; for this reason I’ve hunted you up. This is my scheme.

“See here; there are a thousand cotton-mills in this country,
half of them in the South, one-fourth in New England, and
one-fourth in the Middle States. They are capitalized at six
hundred million dollars. Now let me tell you: we control three
hundred and fifty millions of that capitalization. The trust is
going through capitalization at a billion. The only thing that
threatens it is child-labor legislation in the South, the tariff,
and the control of the supply of cotton. Pretty big hindrances,
you say. That’s so, but look here: we’ve got the stock so placed
that nothing short of a popular upheaval can send any Child Labor
bill through Congress in six years. See? After that we don’t
care. Same thing applies to the tariff. The last bill ran ten
years. The present bill will last longer, or I lose my
guess—’specially if Smith is in the Senate.

“Well, then, there remains raw cotton. The connection of
cotton-raising and its raw material is too close to risk a
manufacturing trust that does not include practical control of
the raw material. For that reason we’re planning a trust to
include the raising and manufacturing of cotton in America. Then,
too, cornering the cotton market here means the whip-hand of the
industrial world. Gentlemen, it’s the biggest idea of the
century. It beats steel.”

Colonel Cresswell chuckled.

“How do you spell that?” he asked.

But John Taylor was not to be diverted; his thin face was pale,
but his gray eyes burned with the fire of a zealot. Harry
Cresswell only smiled dimly and looked interested.

“Now, again,” continued John Taylor. “There are a million cotton
farms in the South, half run by colored people and half by
whites. Leave the colored out of account as long as they are
disfranchised. The half million white farms are owned or
controlled by five thousand wholesale merchants and three
thousand big landowners, of whom you, Colonel Cresswell, are
among the biggest with your fifty thousand acres. Ten banks
control these eight thousand people—one of these is the
Jefferson National of Montgomery, of which you are a silent
director.”

Colonel Cresswell started; this man evidently had inside
information. Did he know of the mortgage, too?

“Don’t be alarmed. I’m safe,” Taylor assured him. “Now, then, if
we can get the banks, wholesale merchants, and biggest planters
into line we can control the cotton crop.”

“But,” objected Harry Cresswell, “while the banks and the large
merchants may be possibilities, do you know what it means to try
to get planters into line?”

“Yes, I do. And what I don’t know you and your father do. Colonel
Cresswell is president of the Farmers’ League. That’s the reason
I’m here. Your success last year made you indispensable to our
plans.”

“Our success?” laughed Colonel Cresswell, ruefully, thinking of
the fifty thousand dollars lost and the mortgage to cover it.

“Yes, sir—success! You didn’t know it; we were too careful
to allow that; and I say frankly you wouldn’t know it now if we
weren’t convinced you were too far involved and the League too
discouraged to repeat the dose.”

“Now, look here, sir,” began Colonel Cresswell, flushing and
drawing himself erect.

“There, there, Colonel Cresswell, don’t misunderstand me. I’m a
plain man. I’m playing a big game—a tremendous one. I need
you, and I know you need me. I find out about you, and my sources
of knowledge are wide and unerring. But the knowledge is safe,
sir; it’s buried. Last year when you people curtailed cotton
acreage and warehoused a big chunk of the crop you gave the mill
men the scare of their lives. We had a hasty conference and the
result was that the bottom fell out of your credit.”

Colonel Cresswell grew pale. There was a disquieting, relentless
element in this unimpassioned man’s tone.

“You failed,” pursued John Taylor, “because you couldn’t get the
banks and the big merchants behind you. We’ve got ’em behind
us—with big chunks of stock and a signed iron-clad
agreement. You can wheel the planters into line—will you do
it?” John Taylor bent forward tense but cool and steel-like.
Harry Cresswell laid his hand on his father’s arm and said
quietly:

“And where do we come in?”

“That’s business,” affirmed John Taylor. “You and two hundred and
fifty of the biggest planters come in on the ground-floor of the
two-billion-dollar All-Cotton combine. It can easily mean two
million to you in five years.”

“And the other planters?”

“They come in for high-priced cotton until we get our grip.”

“And then?”

The quiet question seemed to invoke a vision for John Taylor; the
gray eyes took on the faraway look of a seer; the thin, bloodless
lips formed a smile in which there was nothing pleasant.

“They keep their mouths shut or we squeeze ’em and buy the land.
We propose to own the cotton belt of the South.”

Colonel Cresswell started indignantly from his seat.

“Do you think—by God, sir!—that I’d betray Southern
gentlemen to—”

But Harry’s hand and impassive manner restrained him; he cooled
as suddenly as he had flared up.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Taylor,” he concluded; “we’ll consider
this matter carefully. You’ll spend the night, of course.”

“Can’t possibly—must catch that next train back.”

“But we must talk further,” the Colonel insisted. “And then,
there’s your sister.”

“By Jove! Forgot all about Mary.” John Taylor after a little
desultory talk, followed his host up-stairs.

The next afternoon John Taylor was sitting beside Helen Cresswell
on the porch which overlooked the terrace, and was, on the whole,
thinking less of cotton than he had for several years. To be
sure, he was talking cotton; but he was doing it mechanically and
from long habit, and was really thinking how charming a girl
Helen Cresswell was. She fascinated him. For his sister Taylor
had a feeling of superiority that was almost contempt. The idea
of a woman trying to understand and argue about things men knew!
He admired the dashing and handsome Miss Easterly, but she scared
him and made him angrily awkward. This girl, on the other hand,
just lounged and listened with an amused smile, or asked the most
child-like questions. She required him to wait on her quite as a
matter of course—to adjust her pillows, hand her the
bon-bons, and hunt for her lost fan. Mr. Taylor, who had not
waited on anybody since his mother died, and not much before,
found a quite inexplicable pleasure in these little
domesticities. Several times he took out his watch and frowned;
yet he managed to stay with her quite happily.

On her part Miss Cresswell was vastly amused. Her acquaintance
with men was not wide, but it was thorough so far as her own
class was concerned. They were all well-dressed and leisurely,
fairly good looking, and they said the same words and did the
same things in the same way. They paid her compliments which she
did not believe, and they did not expect her to believe. They
were charmingly deferential in the matter of dropped
handkerchiefs, but tyrannical of opinion. They were thoughtful
about candy and flowers, but thoughtless about feelings and
income. Altogether they were delightful, but cloying. This man
was startlingly different; ungainly and always in a desperate,
unaccountable hurry. He knew no pretty speeches, he certainly did
not measure up to her standard of breeding, and yet somehow he
was a gentleman. All this was new to Helen Cresswell, and she
liked it.

Meanwhile the men above-stairs lingered in the Colonel’s
office—the older one perturbed and sputtering, the younger
insistent and imperturbable.

“The fact is, father,” he was saying, “as you yourself have said,
one bad crop of cotton would almost ruin us.”

“But the prospects are good.”

“What are prospects in March? No, father, this is the
situation—three good crops in succession will wipe off our
indebtedness and leave us facing only low prices and a scarcity
of niggers; on the other hand—” The father interrupted
impatiently.

“Yes, on the other hand, if we plunge deeper in debt and betray
our friends we may come out millionaires or—paupers.”

“Precisely,” said Harry Cresswell, calmly. “Now, our plan is to
take no chances; I propose going North and looking into this
matter thoroughly. If he represents money and has money, and if
the trust has really got the grip he says it has, why, it’s a
case of crush or get crushed, and we’ll have to join them on
their own terms. If he’s bluffing, or the thing looks weak, we’ll
wait.”

It all ended as matters usually did end, in Harry’s having his
way. He came downstairs, expecting, indeed, rather hoping, to
find Taylor impatiently striding to and fro, watch in hand; but
here he was, ungainly, it might be, but quite docile, drawing the
picture of a power-loom for Miss Cresswell, who seemed really
interested. Harry silently surveyed them from the door, and his
face lighted with a new thought.

Taylor, espying him, leapt to his feet and hauled out his watch.

“Well—I—” he began lamely.

“No, you weren’t either,” interrupted Harry, with a laugh that
was unmistakably cordial and friendly. “You had quite forgotten
what you were waiting for—isn’t that so, Sis?”

Helen regarded her brother through her veiling lashes: what meant
this sudden assumption of warmth and amiability?

“No, indeed; he was raging with impatience,” she returned.

“Why, Miss Cresswell, I—I—” John Taylor forsook
social amenities and pulled himself together. “Well,” shortly,
“now for that talk—ready?” And quite forgetting Miss
Cresswell, he bolted into the parlor.

“The decision we have come to is this,” said Harry Cresswell. “We
are in debt, as you know.”

“Forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and forty-two dollars and
twelve cents,” responded Taylor; “in three notes, due in twelve,
twenty-four, and thirty-six months, interest at eight per cent,
held by—”

The Colonel snorted his amazement, and Harry Cresswell cut in:

“Yes,” he calmly admitted; “and with good crops for three years
we’d be all right; good crops even for two years would leave us
fairly well off.”

“You mean it would relieve you of the present stringency and put
you face to face with the falling price of cotton and rising
wages,” was John Taylor’s dry addendum.

“Rising price of cotton, you mean,” Harry corrected.

“Oh, temporarily,” John Taylor admitted.

“Precisely, and thus postpone the decision.”

“No, Mr. Cresswell. I’m offering to let you in on the ground
floor—now—not next year, or year after.”

“Mr. Taylor, have you any money in this?”

“Everything I’ve got.”

“Well, the thing is this way: if you can prove to us that
conditions are as you say, we’re in for it.”

“Good! Meet me in New York, say—let’s see, this is March
tenth—well, May third.”

Young Cresswell was thinking rapidly. This man without doubt
represented money. He was anxious for an alliance. Why? Was it
all straight, or did the whole move conceal a trick?

His eyes strayed to the porch where his pretty sister sat
languidly, and then toward the school where the other sister
lived. John Taylor looked out on the porch, too. They glanced
quickly at each other, and each wondered if the other had shared
his thought. Harry Cresswell did not voice his mind for he was
not wholly disposed to welcome what was there; but he could not
refrain from saying in tones almost confidential:

“You could recommend this deal, then, could you—to your own
friends?”

“To my own family,” asserted John Taylor, looking at Harry
Cresswell with sudden interest. But Mr. Cresswell was staring at
the end of his cigar.

Eleven

THE FLOWERING OF THE FLEECE

“Zora,” observed Miss Smith, “it’s a great blessing not to need
spectacles, isn’t it?”

Zora thought that it was; but she was wondering just what
spectacles had to do with the complaint she had brought to the
office from Miss Taylor.

“I’m always losing my glasses and they get dirty and—Oh,
dear! now where is that paper?”

Zora pointed silently to the complaint.

“No, not that—another paper. It must be in my room. Don’t
you want to come up and help me look?”

They went up to the clean, bare room, with its white iron bed,
its cool, spotless shades and shining windows. Zora walked about
softly and looked, while Miss Smith quietly searched on desk and
bureau, paying no attention to the girl. For the time being she
was silent.

“I sometimes wish,” she began at length, “I had a bright-eyed
girl like you to help me find and place things.”

Zora made no comment.

“Sometimes Bles helps me,” added Miss Smith, guilefully.

Zora looked sharply at her. “Could I help?” she asked, almost
timidly.

“Why, I don’t know,”—the answer was deliberate. “There are
one or two little things perhaps—”

Placing a hand gently upon Zora’s shoulder, she pointed out a few
odd tasks, and left the girl busily doing them; then she returned
to the office, and threw Miss Taylor’s complaint into the
waste-basket.

For a week or more Zora slipped in every day and performed the
little tasks that Miss Smith laid out: she sorted papers, dusted
the bureau, hung a curtain; she did not do the things very well,
and she broke some china, but she worked earnestly and quickly,
and there was no thought of pay. Then, too, did not Bles praise
her with a happy smile, as together, day after day, they stood
and watched the black dirt where the Silver Fleece lay planted?
She dreamed and sang over that dark field, and again and again
appealed to him: “S’pose it shouldn’t come up after all?” And he
would laugh and say that of course it would come up.

One day, when Zora was helping Miss Smith in the bedroom, she
paused with her arms full of clothes fresh from the laundry.

“Where shall I put these?”

Miss Smith looked around. “They might go in there,” she said,
pointing to a door. Zora opened it. A tiny bedroom was disclosed,
with one broad window looking toward the swamp; white curtains
adorned it, and white hangings draped the plain bureau and
wash-stand and the little bed. There was a study table, and a
small bookshelf holding a few books, all simple and clean. Zora
paused uncertainly, and surveyed the room.

“Sometimes when you’re tired and want to be alone you can come up
here, Zora,” said Miss Smith carelessly. “No one uses this room.”

Zora caught her breath sharply, but said nothing. The next day
Miss Smith said to her when she came in:

“I’m busy now, dear, but you go up to your little room and read
and I’ll call.”

Zora quietly obeyed. An hour later Miss Smith looked in, then she
closed the door lightly and left. Another hour flew by before
Zora hurried down.

“I was reading, and I forgot,” she said.

“It’s all right,” returned Miss Smith. “I didn’t need you. And
any day, after you get all your lessons, I think Miss Taylor will
excuse you and let you go to your room and read.” Miss Taylor, it
transpired, was more than glad.

Day after day Bles and Zora visited the field; but ever the
ground lay an unrelieved black beneath the bright sun, and they
would go reluctantly home again, today there was much work to be
done, and Zora labored steadily and eagerly, never pausing, and
gaining in deftness and care.

In the afternoon Bles went to town with the school wagon. A light
shower flew up from the south, lingered a while and fled, leaving
a fragrance in the air. For a moment Zora paused, and her
nostrils quivered; then without a word she slipped down-stairs,
glided into the swamp, and sped away to the island. She swung
across the tree and a low, delighted cry bubbled on her lips. All
the rich, black ground was sprinkled with tender green. She bent
above the verdant tenderness and kissed it; then she rushed back,
bursting into the room.

“It’s come! It’s come!—the Silver Fleece!”

Miss Smith was startled.

“The Silver Fleece!” she echoed in bewilderment.

Zora hesitated. It came over her all at once that this one great
all-absorbing thing meant nothing to the gaunt tired-look woman
before her.

“Would Bles care if I told?” she asked doubtfully.

“No,” Miss Smith ventured.

And then the girl crouched at her feet and told the dream and the
story. Many factors were involved that were quite foreign to the
older woman’s nature and training. The recital brought to her New
England mind many questions of policy and propriety. And yet, as
she looked down upon the dark face, hot with enthusiasm, it all
seemed somehow more than right. Slowly and lightly Miss Smith
slipped her arm about Zora, and nodded and smiled a perfect
understanding. They looked out together into the darkening
twilight.

“It is so late and wet and you’re tired tonight—don’t you
think you’d better sleep in your little room?”

Zora sat still. She thought of the noisy flaming cabin and the
dark swamp; but a contrasting thought of the white bed made her
timid, and slowly she shook her head. Nevertheless Miss Smith led
her to the room.

“Here are things for you to wear,” she pointed out, opening the
bureau, “and here is the bath-room.” She left the girl standing
in the middle of the floor.

In time Zora came to stay often at Miss Smith’s cottage, and to
learn new and unknown ways of living and dressing. She still
refused to board, for that would cost more than she could pay
yet, and she would accept no charity. Gradually an
undemonstrative friendship sprang up between the pale old
gray-haired teacher and the dark young black-haired girl.
Delicately, too, but gradually, the companionship of Bles and
Zora was guided and regulated. Of mornings Zora would hurry
through her lessons and get excused to fly to the swamp, to work
and dream alone. At noon Bles would run down, and they would
linger until he must hurry back to dinner. After school he would
go again, working while she was busy in Miss Smith’s office, and
returning later, would linger awhile to tell Zora of his day
while she busied herself with her little tasks. Saturday mornings
they would go to the swamp and work together, and sometimes Miss
Smith, stealing away from curious eyes, would come and sit and
talk with them as they toiled.

In those days, for these two souls, earth came very near to
heaven. Both were in the midst of that mighty change from youth
to womanhood and manhood. Their manner toward each other by
degrees grew shyer and more thoughtful. There was less of
comradeship, but the little meant more. The rough good fellowship
was silently put aside; they no longer lightly clasped hands; and
each at times wondered, in painful self-consciousness, if the
other cared.

Then began, too, that long and subtle change wherein a soul,
until now unmindful of its wrappings, comes suddenly to
consciousness of body and clothes; when it gropes and tries to
adjust one with the other, and through them to give to the inner
deeper self, finer and fuller expression. One saw it easily,
almost suddenly, in Alwyn’s Sunday suit, vivid neckties, and
awkward fads.

Slower, subtler, but more striking was the change in Zora, as she
began to earn bits of pin money in the office and to learn to
sew. Dresses hung straighter; belts served a better purpose;
stockings were smoother; underwear was daintier. Then her
hair—that great dark mass of immovable infinitely curled
hair—began to be subdued and twisted and combed until, with
steady pains and study, it lay in thick twisted braids about her
velvet forehead, like some shadowed halo. All this came much more
slowly and spasmodically than one tells it. Few noticed the
change much; none noticed all; and yet there came a night—a
student’s social—when with a certain suddenness the whole
school, teachers and pupils, realized the newness of the girl,
and even Bles was startled.

He had bought her in town, at Christmas time, a pair of white
satin slippers, partly to test the smallness of her feet on which
in younger days he had rallied her, and partly because she had
mentioned a possible white dress. They were a cheap, plain pair
but dainty, and they fitted well.

When the evening came and the students were marching and the
teachers, save Miss Smith, were sitting rather primly apart and
commenting, she entered the room. She was a little late, and a
hush greeted her. One boy, with the inimitable drawl of the race,
pushed back his ice-cream and addressed it with a mournful
head-shake:

“Go way, honey, yo’ los’ yo’ tas’e!”

The dress was plain and fitted every curving of a healthy girlish
form. She paused a moment white-bodied and white-limbed but dark
and velvet-armed, her full neck and oval head rising rich and
almost black above, with its deep-lighted eyes and crown of
silent darkling hair.

To some, such a revelation of grace and womanliness in this
hoyden, the gentle swelling of lankness to beauty, of lowliness
to shy self-poise, was a sudden joy, to others a mere blindness.
Mary Taylor was perplexed and in some indefinite way amazed; and
many of the other teachers saw no beauty, only a strangeness that
brought a smile. They were such as know beauty by convention
only, and find it lip-ringed, hoop-skirted, tattooed, or
corsetted, as time and place decree.

The change in Zora, however, had been neither cataclysmic nor
revolutionary and it was yet far—very far—from
complete. She still ran and romped in the woods, and dreamed her
dreams; she still was passionately independent and “queer.”
Tendencies merely had become manifest, some dominant. She would,
unhindered, develop to a brilliant, sumptuous womanhood; proud,
conquering, full-blooded, and deep bosomed—a passionate
mother of men. Herein lay all her early wildness and strangeness.
Herein lay, as yet half hidden, dimly sensed and all unspoken,
the power of a mighty all-compelling love for one human soul,
and, through it, for all the souls of men. All this lay growing
and developing; but as yet she was still a girl, with a new
shyness and comeliness and a bold, searching heart.

In the field of the Silver Fleece all her possibilities were
beginning to find expression. These new-born green things hidden
far down in the swamp, begotten in want and mystery, were to her
a living wonderful fairy tale come true. All the latent mother in
her brooded over them; all her brilliant fancy wove itself about
them. They were her dream-children, and she tended them
jealously; they were her Hope, and she worshipped them. When the
rabbits tried the tender plants she watched hours to drive them
off, and catching now and then a pulsing pink-eyed invader, she
talked to it earnestly:

“Brer Rabbit—poor little Brer Rabbit, don’t you know you
mustn’t eat Zora’s cotton? Naughty, naughty Brer Rabbit.” And
then she would show it where she had gathered piles of fragrant
weeds for it and its fellows.

The golden green of the first leaves darkened, and the plants
sprang forward steadily. Never before was such a magnificent
beginning, a full month ahead of other cotton. The rain swept
down in laughing, bubbling showers, and laved their thirsty
souls, and Zora held her beating breast day by day lest it rain
too long or too heavily. The sun burned fiercely upon the young
cotton plants as the spring hastened, and they lifted their heads
in darker, wilder luxuriance; for the time of hoeing was at hand.

These days were days of alternate hope and doubt with Bles Alwyn.
Strength and ambition and inarticulate love were fighting within
him. He felt, in the dark thousands of his kind about him, a
mighty calling to deeds. He was becoming conscious of the
narrowness and straightness of his black world, and red anger
flashed in him ever and again as he felt his bonds. His mental
horizon was broadening as he prepared for the college of next
year; he was faintly grasping the wider, fuller world, and its
thoughts and aspirations.

But beside and around and above all this, like subtle, permeating
ether, was—Zora. His feelings for her were not as yet
definite, expressed, or grasped; they were rather the atmosphere
in which all things occurred and were felt and judged. From an
amusing pastime she had come to be a companion and thought-mate;
and now, beyond this, insensibly they were drifting to a
silenter, mightier mingling of souls. But drifting,
merely—not arrived; going gently, irresistibly, but not yet
at the realized goal.

He felt all this as the stirring of a mighty force, but knew not
what he felt. The teasing of his fellows, the common love-gossip
of the school yard, seemed far different from his plight. He
laughed at it and indignantly denied it. Yet he was
uncomfortable, restless, unhappy. He fancied Zora cared less for
his company, and he gave her less, and then was puzzled to find
time hanging so empty, so wretchedly empty, on his hands. When
they were together in these days they found less to talk about,
and had it not been for the Silver Fleece which in magic
wilfulness opened both their mouths, they would have found their
companionship little more than a series of awkward silences. Yet
in their silences, their walks, and their sittings there was a
companionship, a glow, a satisfaction, as came to them nowhere
else on earth, and they wondered at it.

They were both wondering at it this morning as they watched their
cotton. It had seemingly bounded forward in a night and it must
be hoed forthwith. Yet, hoeing was murder—the ruthless
cutting away of tenderer plants that the sturdier might thrive
the more and grow.

“I hate it, Bles, don’t you?”

“Hate what?”

“Killing any of it; it’s all so pretty.”

“But it must be, so that what’s left will be prettier, or at
least more useful.”

“But it shouldn’t be so; everything ought to have a chance to be
beautiful and useful.”

“Perhaps it ought to be so,” admitted Bles, “but it isn’t.”

“Isn’t it so—anywhere?”

“I reckon not. Death and pain pay for all good things.”

She hoed away silently, hesitating over the choice of the plants,
pondering this world-old truth, saddened by its ruthless cruelty.

“Death and pain,” she murmured; “what a price!”

Bles leaned on his hoe and considered. It had not occurred to him
till now that Zora was speaking better and better English: the
idioms and errors were dropping away; they had not utterly
departed, however, but came crowding back in moments of
excitement. At other times she clothed Miss Smith’s clear-cut,
correct speech in softer Southern accents. She was drifting away
from him in some intangible way to an upper world of dress and
language and deportment, and the new thought was pain to him.

So it was that the Fleece rose and spread and grew to its
wonderful flowering; and so these two children grew with it into
theirs. Zora never forgot how they found the first white flower
in that green and billowing sea, nor her low cry of pleasure and
his gay shout of joy. Slowly, wonderfully the flowers
spread—white, blue, and purple bells, hiding timidly,
blazing luxuriantly amid the velvet leaves; until one
day—it was after a southern rain and the sunlight was
twinkling through the morning—all the Fleece was in
flower—a mighty swaying sea, darkling rich and waving, and
upon it flecks and stars of white and purple foam. The joy of the
two so madly craved expression that they burst into singing; not
the wild light song of dancing feet, but a low, sweet melody of
her fathers’ fathers, whereunto Alwyn’s own deep voice fell fitly
in minor cadence.

Miss Smith and Miss Taylor, who were sorting the mail, heard them
singing as they came up out of the swamp. Miss Taylor looked at
them, then at Miss Smith.

But Miss Smith sat white and rigid with the first opened letter
in her hand.

Twelve

THE PROMISE

Miss Smith sat with her face buried in her hands while the tears
trickled silently through her thin fingers. Before her lay the
letter, read a dozen times:

“Old Mrs. Grey has been to see me, and she has announced her
intention of endowing five colored schools, yours being one. She
asked if $500,000 would do it. She has plenty of money, so I told
her $750,000 would be better—$150,000 apiece. She’s
arranging for a Board of Trust, etc. You’ll probably hear from
her soon. You’ve been so worried about expenses that I thought
I’d send this word on; I knew you’d be glad.”

Glad? Dear God, how flat the word fell! For thirty years she had
sown the seed, planting her life-blood in this work, that had
become the marrow of her soul.

Successful? No, it had not been successful; but it had been
human. Through yonder doorway had trooped an army of hundreds
upon hundreds of bright and dull, light and dark, eager and
sullen faces. There had been good and bad, honest and deceptive,
frank and furtive. Some had caught, kindled and flashed to
ambition and achievement; some, glowing dimly, had plodded on in
a slow, dumb faithful work worth while; and yet others had
suddenly exploded, hurtling human fragments to heaven and to
hell. Around this school home, as around the centre of some
little universe, had whirled the sorrowful, sordid, laughing,
pulsing drama of a world: birth pains, and the stupor of death;
hunger and pale murder; the riot of thirst and the orgies of such
red and black cabins as Elspeth’s, crouching in the swamp.

She groaned as she read of the extravagances of the world and saw
her own vanishing revenues; but the funds continued to dwindle
until Sarah Smith asked herself: “What will become of this school
when I die?” With trembling fingers she had sat down to figure
how many teachers must be dropped next year, when her brother’s
letter came, and she slipped to her knees and prayed.

Mrs. Grey’s decision was due in no little way to Mary Taylor’s
reports. Slowly but surely the girl had begun to think that she
had found herself in this new world. She would never be attuned
to it thoroughly, for she was set for different music. The veil
of color and race still hung thickly between her and her pupils;
and yet she seemed to see some points of penetration. No one
could meet daily a hundred or more of these light-hearted,
good-natured children without feeling drawn to them. No one could
cross the thresholds of the cabins and not see the old and
well-known problems of life and striving. More and more,
therefore, the work met Miss Taylor’s approval and she told Mrs.
Grey so.

At the same time Mary Taylor had come to some other definite
conclusions: she believed it wrong to encourage the ambitions of
these children to any great extent; she believed they should be
servants and farmers, content to work under present conditions
until those conditions could be changed; and she believed that
the local white aristocracy, helped by Northern philanthropy,
should take charge of such gradual changes.

These conclusions she did not pretend to have originated; but she
adopted them from reading and conversation, after hesitating for
a year before such puzzling contradictions as Bles Alwyn and
Harry Cresswell. For her to conclude to treat Bles Alwyn as a man
despite his color was as impossible as to think Mr. Cresswell a
criminal. Some compromise was imperative which would save her the
pleasure of Mr. Cresswell’s company and at the same time leave
open a way of fulfilling the world’s duty to this black boy. She
thought she had found this compromise and she wrote Mrs. Grey
suggesting a chain of endowed Negro schools under the management
of trustees composed of Northern business men and local Southern
whites. Mrs. Grey acquiesced gladly and announced her plan,
eventually writing Miss Smith of her decision “to second her
noble efforts in helping the poor colored people,” and she hoped
to have the plan under way before next fall.

The sharpness of Miss Smith’s joy did not let her dwell on the
proposed “Board of Trust”; of course, it would be a board of
friends of the school.

She sat in her office looking out across the land. School had
closed for the year and Bles with the carryall was just taking
Miss Taylor to the train with her trunk and bags. Far up the road
she could see dotted here and there the little dirty cabins of
Cresswell’s tenants—the Cresswell domain that lay like a
mighty hand around the school, ready at a word to squeeze its
life out. Only yonder, to the eastward, lay the way out; the five
hundred acres of the Tolliver plantation, which the school needed
so sadly for its farm and community. But the owner was a hard and
ignorant white man, hating “niggers” only a shade more than he
hated white aristocrats of the Cresswell type. He had sold the
school its first land to pique the Cresswells; but he would not
sell any more, she was sure, even now when the promise of wealth
faced the school.

She lay back and closed her eyes and fell lightly asleep. As she
slept an old woman came toiling up the hill northward from the
school, and out of the eastward spur of the Cresswell barony. She
was fat and black, hooded and aproned, with great round head and
massive bosom. Her face was dull and heavy and homely, her old
eyes sorrowful. She moved swiftly, carrying a basket on her arm.
Opposite her, to the southward, but too far for sight, an old man
came out of the lower Cresswell place, skirting the swamp. He was
tall, black, and gaunt, part bald with tufted hair, and a cowed
and furtive look was in his eyes. One leg was crippled, and he
hobbled painfully.

Up the road to the eastward that ran past the school, with the
morning sun at his back, strode a young man, yellow,
crisp-haired, strong-faced, with darkly knit brows. He greeted
Bles and the teacher coldly, and moved on in nervous haste. A
woman, hurrying out of the westward swamp up the path that led
from Elspeth’s, saw him and shrank back hastily. She turned
quickly into the swamp and waited, looking toward the school. The
old woman hurried into the back gate just as the old man appeared
to the southward on the road. The young man greeted him cordially
and they stopped a moment to talk, while the hiding woman
watched.

“Howdy, Uncle Jim.”

“Howdy, son. Hit’s hot, ain’t it? How is you?”

“Tolerable, how are you?”

“Poorly, son, poorly—and worser in mind. I’se goin’ up to
talk to old Miss.”

“So am I, but I just see Aunt Rachel going in. We’d better wait.”

Miss Smith started up at the timid knocking, and rubbed her eyes.
It was long since she had slept in the daytime and she was
annoyed at such laziness. She opened the back door and led the
old woman to the office.

“Now, what have you got there?” she demanded, eyeing the basket.

“Just a little chicken fo’ you and a few aigs.”

“Oh, you are so thoughtful!” Sarah Smith’s was a grateful heart.

“Go ‘long now—hit ain’t a thing.”

Then came a pause, the old woman sliding into the proffered seat,
while over her genial, dimpled smile there dropped a dull veil of
care. Her eyes shifted uneasily. Miss Smith tried not to notice
the change.

“Well, are you all moved, Aunt Rachel?” she inquired cheerfully.

“No’m, and we ain’t gwine to move.”

“But I thought it was all arranged.”

“It was,” gloomily, “but de ole Cunnel, he won’t let us go.”

The listener was instantly sympathetic. “Why not?” she asked.

“He says we owes him.”

“But didn’t you settle at Christmas?”

“Yas’m; but when he found we was goin’ away, he looked up some
more debts.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know ‘zactly—more’n a hundred dollars. Den de boys
done got in dat trouble, and he paid their fines.”

“What was the trouble?”

“Well, one was a-gambling, and the other struck the overseer what
was a-whippin’ him.”

“Whipping him!”—in horrified exclamation, quite as much at
Aunt Rachel’s matter-of-fact way of regarding the matter as at
the deed itself.

“Yas’m. He didn’t do his work right and he whipped him. I speck
he needed it.”

“But he’s a grown man,” Miss Smith urged earnestly.

“Yas’m; he’s twenty now, and big.”

“Whipped him!” Miss Smith repeated. “And so you can’t leave?”

“No’m, he say he’ll sell us out and put us in de chain-gang if we
go. The boys is plumb mad, but I’se a-pleadin’ with ’em not to do
nothin’ rash.”

“But—but I thought they had already started to work a crop
on the Tolliver place?”

“Yes’m, dey had; but, you see, dey were arrested, and then Cunnel
Cresswell took ’em and ‘lowed they couldn’t leave his place. Ol’
man Tolliver was powerful mad.”

“Why, Aunt Rachel, it’s slavery!” cried the lady in dismay. Aunt
Rachel did not offer to dispute her declaration.

“Yas’m, hit’s slavery,” she agreed. “I hates it mighty bad, too,
’cause I wanted de little chillens in school; but—” The old
woman broke down and sobbed.

A knocking came at the door; hastily wiping her eyes Aunt Rachel
rose.

“I’ll—I’ll see what I can do, Aunt Rachel—I must do
something,” murmured Miss Smith hastily, as the woman departed,
and an old black man came limping in. Miss Smith looked up in
surprise.

“I begs pardon, Mistress—I begs pardon. Good-morning.”

“Good-morning—” she hesitated.

“Sykes—Jim Sykes—that’s me.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Sykes; you live over south of the
swamp.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me; and I’se got a little shack dar and a bit
of land what I’se trying to buy.”

“Of Colonel Cresswell?”

“Yas’m, of de Cunnel.”

“And how long have you been buying it?”

“Going on ten year now; and dat’s what I comes to ask you about.”

“Goodness me! And how much have you paid a year?”

“I gen’rally pays ’bout three bales of cotton a year.”

“Does he furnish you rations?”

“Only sugar and coffee and a little meat now and then.”

“What does it amount to a year?”

“I doesn’t rightly know—but I’se got some papers here.”

Miss Smith looked them over and sighed. It was the same old tale
of blind receipts for money “on account”—no items, no
balancing. By his help she made out that last year his total bill
at Cresswell’s store was perhaps forty dollars.

“An’ last year’s bill was bigger’n common ’cause I hurt my leg
working at the gin and had to have some medicine.”

“Why, as far as I can see, Mr. Sykes, you’ve paid Cresswell about
a thousand dollars in the last ten years. How large is your
place?”

“About twenty acres.”

“And what were you to pay for it?”

“Four hundred.”

“Have you got the deed?”

“Yes’m, but I ain’t finished paying yet; de Cunnel say as how I
owes him two hundred dollars still, and I can’t see it. Dat’s why
I come over here to talk wid you.”

“Where is the deed?”

He handed it to her and her heart sank. It was no deed, but a
complicated contract binding the tenant hand and foot to the
landlord. She sighed, he watching her eagerly.

“I’se getting old,” he explained, “and I ain’t got nobody to take
care of me. I can’t work as I once could, and de overseers dey
drives me too hard. I wants a little home to die in.”

Miss Smith’s throat swelled. She couldn’t tell him that he would
never get one at the present rate; she only said:

“I’ll—look this up. You come again next Saturday.”

Then sadly she watched the ragged old slave hobble away with his
cherished “papers.” He greeted the young man at the gate and
passed out, while the latter walked briskly up to the door and
knocked.

“Why, how do you do, Robert?”

“How do you do, Miss Smith?”

“Well, are you getting things in shape so as to enter school
early next year?”

Robert looked embarrassed.

“That’s what I came to tell you, Miss Smith. Mr. Cresswell has
offered me forty acres of good land.”

Miss Smith looked disheartened.

“Robert, here you are almost finished, and my heart is set on
your going to Atlanta University and finishing college. With your
fine voice and talent for drawing—”

A dogged look settled on Robert’s young bright face, and the
speaker paused.

“What’s the use, Miss Smith—what opening is there for
a—a nigger with an education?”

Miss Smith was shocked.

“Why—why, every chance,” she protested, “and where there’s
none make a chance!”

“Miss Taylor says”—Miss Smith’s heart sank; how often had
she heard that deadening phrase in the last year!—”that
there’s no use. That farming is the only thing we ought to try to
do, and I reckon she thinks there ain’t much chance even there.”

“Robert, farming is a noble calling. Whether you’re suited to it
or not, I don’t yet know, but I’d like nothing better than to see
you settled here in a decent home with a family, running a farm.
But, Robert, farming doesn’t call for less intelligence than
other things; it calls for more. It is because the world thinks
any training good enough for a farmer that the Southern farmer is
today practically at the mercy of his keener and more intelligent
fellows. And of all people, Robert, your people need trained
intelligence to cope with this problem of farming here. Without
intelligence and training and some capital it is the wildest
nonsense to think you can lead your people out of slavery. Look
round you.” She told him of the visitors. “Are they not hard
working honest people?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yet they are slaves—dumb driven cattle.”

“But they have no education.”

“And you have a smattering; therefore are ready to pit yourself
against the organized plantation system without capital or
experience. Robert, you may succeed; you may find your landlord
honest and the way clear; but my advice to you is—finish
your education, develop your talents, and then come to your life
work a full-fledged man and not a half-ignorant boy.”

“I’ll think of it,” returned the boy soberly. “I reckon you’re
right. I know Miss Taylor don’t think much of us. But I’m tired
of waiting; I want to get to work.”

Miss Smith laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder.

“I’ve been waiting thirty years, Robert,” she said, with feeling,
and he hung his head.

“I wanted to talk about it,” he awkwardly responded, turning
slowly away. But Miss Smith stopped him.

“Robert, where is the land Cresswell offers you?”

“It’s on the Tolliver place.”

“The Tolliver place?”

“Yes, he is going to buy it.”

Miss Smith dismissed the boy absently and sat down. The crisis
seemed drawing near. She had not dreamed the Tolliver place was
for sale. The old man must be hard pressed to sell to the
Cresswells.

She started up. Why not go see him? Perhaps a mortgage on the
strength of the endowment? It was dangerous—but—

She threw a veil over her hair, and opened the door. A woman
stood there, who shrank and cowered, as if used to blows. Miss
Smith eyed her grimly, then slowly stepped back.

“Come in,” she commanded briefly, motioning the woman to a chair.

But she stood, a pathetic figure, faded, worn, yet with
unmistakable traces of beauty in her golden face and soft brown
hair. Miss Smith contemplated her sadly. Here was her most
haunting failure, this girl whom she first had seen twelve years
ago in her wonderful girlish comeliness. She had struggled and
fought for her, but the forces of the devil had triumphed. She
caught glimpses of her now and then, but today was the first time
she had spoken to her for ten years. She saw the tears that
gathered but did not fall; then her hands quivered.

“Bertie,” she began brokenly. The girl shivered, but stood aloof.

“Miss Smith,” she said. “No—don’t talk—I’m
bad—but I’ve got a little girl, Miss Smith, ten years old,
and—and—I’m afraid for her; I want you to take her.”

“I have no place for one so young. And why are you afraid for
her?”

“The men there are beginning to notice her.”

“Where?”

“At Elspeth’s.”

“Do you stay there now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He wants me to.”

“Must you do as he wants?”

“Yes. But I want the child—different.”

“Don’t you want to be different?”

The woman quivered again but she answered steadily: “No.”

Miss Smith sank into a chair and moistened her dry lips.

“Elspeth’s is an awful place,” she affirmed solemnly.

“Yes.”

“And Zora?”

“She is not there much now, she stays away.”

“But if she escapes, why not you?”

“She wants to escape.”

“And you?”

“I don’t want to.”

This stubborn depravity was so distressing that Sarah Smith was
at an utter loss what to say or do.

“I can do nothing—” she began.

“For me,” the woman quickly replied; “I don’t ask anything; but
for the child,—she isn’t to blame.”

The older woman wavered.

“Won’t you try?” pleaded the younger.

“Yes—I’ll try, I’ll try; I am trying all the time, but
there are more things than my weak strength can do. Good-bye.”

Miss Smith stood a long time in the doorway, watching the fading
figure and vaguely trying to remember what it was that she had
started to do, when the sharp staccato step of a mule drew her
attention to a rider who stopped at the gate. It was her
neighbor, Tolliver—a gaunt, yellow-faced white man, ragged,
rough, and unkempt; one of the poor whites who had struggled up
and failed. He spent no courtesy on the “nigger” teacher, but sat
in his saddle and called her to the gate, and she went.

“Say,” he roughly opened up, “I’ve got to sell some land and them
damn Cresswells are after it. You can have it for five thousand
dollars if you git the cash in a week.” With a muttered oath he
rode abruptly off; but not before she had seen the tears in his
eyes.

All night Sarah Smith lay thinking, and all day she thought and
dreamed. Toward dark she walked slowly out the gate and up the
highway toward the Cresswell oaks. She had never been within the
gates before, and she looked about thoughtfully. The great trees
in their regular curving rows must have been planted more than
half a century ago. The lawn was well tended and the flowers.
Yes, there were signs of taste and wealth. “But it was built on a
moan,” cried Miss Smith to herself, passionately, and she would
not look round any more, but stared straight ahead where she saw
old Colonel Cresswell smoking and reading on the verandah.

The Colonel saw her, too, and was uneasy, for he knew that Miss
Smith had a sharp tongue and a most disconcerting method of
argument, which he, as a Southern gentleman, courteous to all
white females, even if they did eat with “niggers,” could not
properly answer. He received her with courtesy, offered a chair,
laid aside his cigar, and essayed some general remarks on cotton
weather. But Miss Smith plunged into her subject:

“Colonel Cresswell, I’m thinking of raising some money from a
mortgage on our school property.”

The Colonel’s face involuntarily lighted up. He thought he saw
the beginning of the end of an institution which had been a thorn
in his flesh ever since Tolliver, in a fit of rage, had sold land
for a Negro school.

“H’m,” he reflected deprecatingly, wiping his brow.

“I need some ready money,” she continued, “to keep from
curtailing our work.”

“Indeed?”

“I have good prospects in a year or so”—the Colonel looked
up sharply, but said nothing—”and so I thought of a
mortgage.”

“Money is pretty tight,” was the Colonel’s first objection.

“The land is worth, you know, at least fifty dollars an acre.”

“Not more than twenty-five dollars, I fear.”

“Why, you wanted seventy-five dollars for poorer land last year!
We have two hundred acres.” It was not for nothing that this lady
had been born in New England.

“I wouldn’t reckon it as worth more than five thousand dollars,”
insisted the Colonel.

“And ten thousand dollars for improvements.”

But the Colonel arose. “You had better talk to the directors of
the Jefferson Bank,” he said politely. “They may accommodate
you—how much would you want?”

“Five thousand dollars,” Miss Smith replied. Then she hesitated.
That would buy the land, to be sure; but money was needed to
develop and run it; to install tenants; and then, too, for new
teachers. But she said nothing more, and, nodding to his polite
bow, departed. Colonel Cresswell had noticed her hesitation, and
thought of it as he settled to his cigar again.

Bles Alwyn arose next morning and examined the sky critically. He
feared rain. The season had been quite wet enough, particularly
down on the swamp land, and but yesterday Bles had viewed his
dykes with apprehension for the black pool scowled about them. He
dared not think what a long heavy rain might do to the wonderful
island of cotton which now stood fully five feet high, with
flowers and squares and budding bolls. It might not rain, but the
safest thing would be to work at those dykes, so he started for
spade and hoe. He heard Miss Smith calling, however.

“Bles—hitch up!”

He was vexed. “Are you—in a hurry, Miss Smith?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” she replied, with unmistakable positiveness.

He started off, and hesitated. “Miss Smith, would Jim do to
drive?”

“No,” sharply. “I want you particularly.” At another time she
might have observed his anxiety, but today she was agitated. She
knew she was taking a critical step.

Slowly Bles hitched up. After all it might not rain, he argued as
they jogged toward town. In silence they rode on. Bles kept
looking at the skies. The south was getting darker and darker. It
might rain. It might rain only an hour or so, but, suppose it
should rain a day—two days—a week?

Miss Smith was looking at her own skies and despite the promised
sunrise they loomed darkly. Five thousand was needed for the land
and at least another thousand for repairs. Two thousand would
“buy” a half dozen desirable tenants by paying their debts to
their present landlords. Then two thousand would be wanted for
new teachers and a carpenter shop—ten thousand dollars!

It was a great temptation. And yet, once in the hands of these
past-masters of debt-manipulation, would her school be safe?
Suppose, after all, this Grey gift—but she caught her
breath sharply just as a wet splash of rain struck upon her
forehead. No. God could not be so cruel. She pushed her bonnet
back: how good and cool the water felt! But on Bles as he raised
the buggy top it felt hot and fiery.

He felt the coming of some great calamity, the end of a dream.
This rain might stay for days; it looked like such a downpour;
and that would mean the end of the Silver Fleece; the end of
Zora’s hopes; the end of everything. He gulped in despairing
anger and hit the staid old horse the smartest tap she had known
all summer.

“Why, Bles, what’s the matter?” called Miss Smith, as the horse
started forward. He murmured something about getting wet and drew
up at the Toomsville bank.

Miss Smith was invited politely into the private parlor. She
explained her business. The President was there and Colonel
Cresswell and one other local director.

“I have come for a mortgage. Our land is, as you know, gentlemen,
worth at least ten thousand dollars; the buildings cost fifteen
thousand dollars; our property is, therefore, conservatively
valued at twenty-five thousand dollars. Now I want to mortgage it
for”—she hesitated—”five thousand dollars.”

Colonel Cresswell was silent, but the president said:

“Money is rather scarce just now, Miss Smith; but it happens that
I have ten thousand dollars on hand, which we prefer, however, to
loan in one lump sum. Now, if the security were ample, I think
perhaps you might get this ten thousand dollars.”

Miss Smith grew white; it was the sum she wanted. She tried to
escape the temptation, yet the larger amount was more than twice
as desirable to her as the smaller, and she knew that they knew
it. They were trying to tempt her; they wanted as firm a hold on
the school property as possible. And yet, why should she
hesitate? It was a risk, but the returns would be
enormous—she must do it. Besides, there was the endowment;
it was certain; yes—she felt forced to close the bargain.

“Very well,” she declared her decision, and they handed her the
preliminary papers. She took the pen and glanced at Mr.
Cresswell; he was smiling slightly, but nevertheless she signed
her name grimly, in a large round hand, “Sarah Smith.”

Thirteen

MRS. GREY GIVES A DINNER

The Hon. Charles Smith, Miss Sarah’s brother, was walking swiftly
uptown from Mr. Easterly’s Wall Street office and his face was
pale. At last the Cotton Combine was to all appearances an
assured fact and he was slated for the Senate. The price he had
paid was high: he was to represent the interests of the new trust
and sundry favorable measures were already drafted and reposing
in the safe of the combine’s legal department. Among others was
one relating to child labor, another that would effect certain
changes in the tariff, and a proposed law providing for a cotton
bale of a shape and dimensions different from the
customary—the last constituting a particularly clever
artifice which, under the guise of convenience in handling, would
necessitate the installation of entirely new gin and compress
machinery, to be supplied, of course, by the trust.

As Mr. Smith drew near Mrs. Grey’s Murray Hill residence his face
had melted to a cynical smile. After all why should he care? He
had tried independence and philanthropy and failed. Why should he
not be as other men? He had seen many others that very day
swallow the golden bait and promise everything. They were
gentlemen. Why should he pose as better than his fellows? There
was young Cresswell. Did his aristocratic air prevent his
succumbing to the lure of millions and promising the influence of
his father and the whole Farmer’s League to the new project? Mr.
Smith snapped his fingers and rang the bell. The door opened
softly. The dark woodwork of the old English wainscoting glowed
with the crimson flaming of logs in the wide fireplace. There was
just the touch of early autumn chill in the air without, that
made both the fire and the table with its soft linen, gold and
silver plate, and twinkling glasses a warming, satisfying sight.

Mrs. Grey was a portly woman, inclined to think much of her
dinner and her clothes, both of which were always rich and
costly. She was not herself a notably intelligent woman; she
greatly admired intelligence or whatever looked to her like
intelligence in others. Her money, too, was to her an ever
worrying mystery and surprise, which she found herself always
scheming to husband shrewdly and spend philanthropically—a
difficult combination.

As she awaited her guests she surveyed the table with both
satisfaction and disquietude, for her social functions were few,
tonight there were—she checked them off on her
fingers—Sir James Creighton, the rich English manufacturer,
and Lady Creighton, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Harry Cresswell
and his sister, John Taylor and his sister, and Mr. Charles
Smith, whom the evening papers mentioned as likely to be United
States Senator from New Jersey—a selection of guests that
had been determined, unknown to the hostess, by the meeting of
cotton interests earlier in the day.

Mrs. Grey’s chef was high-priced and efficient, and her butler
was the envy of many; consequently, she knew the dinner would be
good. To her intense satisfaction, it was far more than this. It
was a most agreeable couple of hours; all save perhaps Mr. Smith
unbent, the Englishman especially, and the Vanderpools were most
gracious; but if the general pleasure was owing to any one person
particularly it was to Mr. Harry Cresswell. Mrs. Grey had met
Southerners before, but not intimately, and she always had in
mind vividly their cruelty to “poor Negroes,” a subject she made
a point of introducing forthwith. She was therefore most
agreeably surprised to hear Mr. Cresswell express himself so
cordially as approving of Negro education.

“Why, I thought,” said Mrs. Grey, “that you Southerners rather
disapproved—or at least—”

Mr. Cresswell inclined his head courteously.

“We Southerners, my dear Mrs. Grey, are responsible for a variety
of reputations.” And he told an anecdote that set the table
laughing. “Seriously, though,” he continued, “we are not as black
as the blacks paint us, although on the whole I prefer
that Helen should marry—a white man.”

They all glanced at Miss Cresswell, who lay softly back in her
chair like a white lily, gleaming and bejewelled, her pale face
flushing under the scrutiny; Mrs. Grey was horrified.

“Why—why the idea!” she sputtered. “Why, Mr. Cresswell, how
can you conceive of anything else—no Northerner
dreams—”

Mr. Cresswell sipped his wine slowly.

“No—no—I do not think you do mean that—”
He paused and the Englishman bent forward.

“Really, now, you do not mean to say that there is a danger
of—of amalgamation, do you?” he sang.

Mr. Cresswell explained. No, of course there was no immediate
danger; but when people were suddenly thrust beyond their natural
station, filled with wild ideas and impossible ambitions, it
meant terrible danger to Southern white women.

“But you believe in some education?” asked Mary Taylor.

“I believe in the training of people to their highest capacity.”
The Englishman here heartily seconded him.

“But,” Cresswell added significantly, “capacity differs
enormously between races.”

The Vanderpools were sure of this and the Englishman, instancing
India, became quite eloquent. Mrs. Grey was mystified, but hardly
dared admit it. The general trend of the conversation seemed to
be that most individuals needed to be submitted to the sharpest
scrutiny before being allowed much education, and as for the
“lower races” it was simply criminal to open such useless
opportunities to them.

“Why, I had a colored servant-girl once,” laughed Mrs. Vanderpool
by way of climax, “who spent half her wages in piano lessons.”

Then Mary Taylor, whose conscience was uncomfortable, said:

“But, Mr. Cresswell, you surely believe in schools like Miss
Smith’s?”

“Decidedly,” returned Mr. Cresswell, with enthusiasm, “it has
done great good.”

Mrs. Grey was gratified and murmured something of Miss Smith’s
“sacrifice.”

“Positively heroic,” added Cresswell, avoiding his sister’s eyes.

“Of course,” Mary Taylor hastened to encourage this turn of the
conversation, “there are many points on which Miss Smith and I
disagree, but I think everybody admires her work.”

Mrs. Grey wanted particulars. “What did you disagree about?” she
asked bluntly.

“I may be responsible for some of the disagreement,” interrupted
Mr. Cresswell, hesitatingly; “I’m afraid Miss Smith does not
approve of us white Southerners.”

“But you mean to say you can’t even advise her?”

“Oh, no; we can. But—we’re not—er—exactly
welcomed. In fact,” said Cresswell gravely, “the chief criticism
I have against your Northerners’ schools for Negroes is, that
they not only fail to enlist the sympathy and aid of the
best Southerners, but even repel it.”

“That is very wrong—very wrong,” commented the Englishman
warmly, a sentiment in which Mrs. Grey hastened to agree.

“Of course,” continued Cresswell, “I am free to confess that I
have no personal desire to dabble in philanthropy, or conduct
schools of any kind; my hands are full of other matters.”

“But it’s precisely the advice of such disinterested men that
philanthropic work needs,” Mr. Vanderpool urged.

“Well, I volunteered advice once in this case and I sha’n’t
repeat the experiment soon,” said Cresswell laughing. Mrs. Grey
wanted to hear the incident, but the young man was politely
reluctant. Mary Taylor, however, related the tale of Zora to Mrs.
Grey’s private ear later.

“Fortunately,” said Mr. Vanderpool, “Northerners and Southerners
are arriving at a better mutual understanding on most of these
matters.”

“Yes, indeed,” Cresswell agreed. “After all, they never were far
apart, even in slavery days; both sides were honest and sincere.”

All through the dinner Mr. Smith had been preoccupied and
taciturn. Now he abruptly shot a glance at Cresswell.

“I suppose that one was right and one was wrong.”

“No,” said Cresswell, “both were right.”

“I thought the only excuse for fighting was a great Right; if
Right is on neither side or simultaneously on both, then War is
not only Hell but Damnation.”

Mrs. Grey looked shocked and Mrs. Vanderpool smiled.

“How about fighting for exercise?” she suggested.

“At any rate,” said Cresswell, “we can all agree on helping these
poor victims of our quarrel as far as their limited capacity will
allow—and no farther, for that is impossible.”

Very soon after dinner Charles Smith excused himself. He was not
yet inured to the ways of high finance, and the programme of the
cotton barons, as unfolded that day, lay heavy on his mind,
despite all his philosophy.

“I have had a—full day,” he explained to Mrs. Grey.

Fourteen

LOVE

The rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. The
wind screamed in the ancient Cresswell oaks and swirled across
the swamp in loud, wild gusts. The waters roared and gurgled in
the streams, and along the roadside. Then, when the wind fell
murmuring away, the clouds grew blacker and blacker and rain in
long slim columns fell straight from Heaven to earth digging
itself into the land and throwing back the red mud in angry
flashes.

So it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days
Bles watched it with leaden heart. He knew the Silver
Fleece—his and Zora’s—must be ruined. It was the
first great sorrow of his life; it was not so much the loss of
the cotton itself—but the fantasy, the hopes, the dreams
built around it. If it failed, would not they fail? Was not this
angry beating rain, this dull spiritless drizzle, this wild war
of air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and
discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? But if his own
despair was great his pain at the plight of Zora made it almost
unbearable. He did not see her in these seven days. He pictured
her huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless leaky cabin with
worse than no companions. Ah! the swamp, the cruel swamp! It was
a fearful place in the rain. Its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its
clinging slimy draperies,—how they twined about the bones
of its victims and chilled their hearts. Yet here his
Zora,—his poor disappointed child—was imprisoned.

Child? He had always called her child—but now in the inward
illumination of these dark days he knew her as neither child nor
sister nor friend, but as the One Woman. The revelation of his
love lighted and brightened slowly till it flamed like a sunrise
over him and left him in burning wonder. He panted to know if
she, too, knew, or knew and cared not, or cared and knew not. She
was so strange and human a creature. To her all things meant
something—nothing was aimless, nothing merely happened. Was
this rain beating down and back her love for him, or had she
never loved? He walked his room, gripping his hands, peering
through the misty windows toward the swamp—rain, rain,
rain, nothing but rain. The world was water veiled in mists.

Then of a sudden, at midday, the sun shot out, hot and still; no
breath of air stirred; the sky was like blue steel; the earth
steamed. Bles rushed to the edge of the swamp and stood there
irresolute. Perhaps—if the water had but drained from the
cotton!—it was so strong and tall! But, pshaw! Where was
the use of imagining? The lagoon had been level with the dykes a
week ago; and now? He could almost see the beautiful Silver
Fleece, bedraggled, drowned, and rolling beneath the black lake
of slime. He went back to his work, but early in the morning the
thought of it lured him again. He must at least see the grave of
his hope and Zora’s, and out of it resurrect new love and
strength.

Perhaps she, too, might be there, waiting, weeping. He started at
the thought. He hurried forth sadly. The rain-drops were still
dripping and gleaming from the trees, flashing back the heavy
yellow sunlight. He splashed and stamped along, farther and
farther onward until he neared the rampart of the clearing, and
put foot upon the tree-bridge. Then he looked down. The lagoon
was dry. He stood a moment bewildered, then turned and rushed
upon the island. A great sheet of dazzling sunlight swept the
place, and beneath lay a mighty mass of olive green, thick, tall,
wet, and willowy. The squares of cotton, sharp-edged, heavy, were
just about to burst to bolls! And underneath, the land lay
carefully drained and black! For one long moment he paused,
stupid, agape with utter amazement, then leaned dizzily against a
tree.

The swamp, the eternal swamp, had been drained in its deepest
fastness; but, how?—how? He gazed about, perplexed,
astonished. What a field of cotton! what a marvellous field! But
how had it been saved?

He skirted the island slowly, stopping near Zora’s oak. Here lay
the reading of the riddle: with infinite work and pain, some one
had dug a canal from the lagoon to the creek, into which the
former had drained by a long and crooked way, thus allowing it to
empty directly. The canal went straight, a hundred yards through
stubborn soil, and it was oozing now with slimy waters.

He sat down weak, bewildered, and one thought was
uppermost—Zora! And with the thought came a low moan of
pain. He wheeled and leapt toward the dripping shelter in the
tree. There she lay—wet, bedraggled, motionless,
gray-pallid beneath her dark-drawn skin, her burning eyes
searching restlessly for some lost thing, her lips a-moaning.

In dumb despair he dropped beside her and gathered her in his
arms. The earth staggered beneath him as he stumbled on; the mud
splashed and sunlight glistened; he saw long snakes slithering
across his path and fear-struck beasts fleeing before his coming.
He paused for neither path nor way but went straight for the
school, running in mighty strides, yet gently, listening to the
moans that struck death upon his heart. Once he fell headlong,
but with a great wrench held her from harm, and minded not the
pain that shot through his ribs. The yellow sunshine beat
fiercely around and upon him, as he stumbled into the highway,
lurched across the mud-strewn road, and panted up the porch.

“Miss Smith—!” he gasped, and then—darkness.

The years of the days of her dying were ten. The boy that entered
the darkness and the shadow of death emerged a man, a silent man
and grave, working furiously and haunting, day and night, the
little window above the door. At last, of one gray morning when
the earth was stillest, they came and told him, “She will live!”
And he went out under the stars, lifted his long arms and sobbed:
“Curse me, O God, if I let me lose her again!” And God remembered
this in after years.

The hope and dream of harvest was upon the land. The cotton crop
was short and poor because of the great rain; but the sun had
saved the best, and the price had soared. So the world was happy,
and the face of the black-belt green and luxuriant with
thickening flecks of the coming foam of the cotton.

Up in the sick room Zora lay on the little white bed. The net and
web of endless things had been crawling and creeping around her;
she had struggled in dumb, speechless terror against some mighty
grasping that strove for her life, with gnarled and creeping
fingers; but now at last, weakly, she opened her eyes and
questioned.

Bles, where was he? The Silver Fleece, how was it? The Sun, the
Swamp? Then finding all well, she closed her eyes and slept.
After some days they let her sit by the window, and she saw Bles
pass, but drew back timidly when he looked; and he saw only the
flutter of her gown, and waved.

At last there came a day when they let her walk down to the
porch, and she felt the flickering of her strength again. Yet she
looked different; her buxom comeliness was spiritualized; her
face looked smaller, and her masses of hair, brought low about
her ears, heightened her ghostly beauty; her skin was darkly
transparent, and her eyes looked out from velvet veils of gloom.
For a while she lay in her chair, in happy, dreamy pleasure at
sun and bird and tree. Bles did not know yet that she was down;
but soon he would come searching, for he came each hour, and she
pressed her little hands against her breast to still the beating
of her heart and the bursting wonder of her love.

Then suddenly a panic seized her. He must not find her
here—not here; there was but one place in all the earth for
them to meet, and that was yonder in the Silver Fleece. She rose
with a fleeting glance, gathered the shawl round her, then
gliding forward, wavering, tremulous, slipped across the road and
into the swamp. The dark mystery of the Swamp swept over her; the
place was hers. She had been born within its borders; within its
borders she had lived and grown, and within its borders she had
met her love. On she hurried until, sweeping down to the lagoon
and the island, lo! the cotton lay before her! A great white foam
was spread upon its brown and green; the whole field was waving
and shivering in the sunlight. A low cry of pleasure burst from
her lips; she forgot her weakness, and picking her way across the
bridge, stood still amid the cotton that nestled about her
shoulders, clasping it lovingly in her hands.

He heard that she was down-stairs and ran to meet her with
beating heart. The chair was empty; but he knew. There was but
one place then for these two souls to meet. Yet it was far, and
he feared, and ran with startled eyes.

She stood on the island, ethereal, splendid, like some tall,
dark, and gorgeous flower of the storied East. The green and
white of the cotton billowed and foamed about her breasts; the
red scarf burned upon her neck; the dark brown velvet of her skin
pulsed warm and tremulous with the uprushing blood, and in the
midnight depths of her great eyes flamed the mighty fires of
long-concealed and new-born love.

He darted through the trees and paused, a tall man strongly but
slimly made. He threw up his hands in the old way and hallooed;
happily she crooned back a low mother-melody, and waited. He came
down to her slowly, with fixed, hungry eyes, threading his way
amid the Fleece. She did not move, but lifted both her dark
hands, white with cotton; and then, as he came, casting it
suddenly to the winds, in tears and laughter she swayed and
dropped quivering in his arms. And all the world was sunshine and
peace.

Fifteen

REVELATION

Harry Cresswell was scowling over his breakfast. It was not
because his apartment in the New York hotel was not satisfactory,
or his breakfast unpalatable; possibly a rather bewildering night
in Broadway was expressing its influence; but he was satisfied
that his ill-temper was due to a paragraph in the morning paper:

“It is stated on good authority that the widow of the late
multimillionaire, Job Grey, will announce a large and carefully
planned scheme of Negro education in the South, and will richly
endow schools in South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and
Texas.”

Cresswell finally thrust his food away. He knew that Mrs. Grey
helped Miss Smith’s school, and supposed she would continue to do
so; with that in mind he had striven to impress her, hoping that
she might trust his judgment in later years. He had no idea,
however, that she meant to endow the school, or entertained
wholesale plans for Negro education. The knowledge made him
suspicious. Why had neither Mary nor John Taylor mentioned this?
Was there, after all, some “nigger-loving” conspiracy back of the
cotton combine? He took his hat and started down-town.

Once in John Taylor’s Broadway office, he opened the subject
abruptly—the more so perhaps because he felt a resentment
against Taylor for certain unnamed or partially voiced
assumptions. Here was a place, however, for speech, and he spoke
almost roughly.

“Taylor, what does this mean?” He thrust the clipping at him.

“Mean? That Mrs. Grey is going to get rid of some of her surplus
cash—is going to endow some nigger schools,” Taylor drily
retorted.

“It must be stopped,” declared Cresswell.

The other’s brows drew up.

“Why?” in a surprised tone.

“Why? Why? Do you think the plantation system can be maintained
without laborers? Do you think there’s the slightest chance of
cornering cotton and buying the Black Belt if the niggers are
unwilling to work under present conditions? Do you know the man
that stands ready to gobble up every inch of cotton land in this
country at a price which no trust can hope to rival?”

John Taylor’s interest quickened.

“Why, no,” he returned sharply. “Who?”

“The Black Man, whose woolly head is filled with ideas of rising.
We’re striving by main force to prevent this, and here come your
damned Northern philanthropists to plant schools. Why, Taylor,
it’ll knock the cotton trust to hell.”

“Don’t get excited,” said Taylor, judicially. “We’ve got things
in our hands; it’s the Grey money, you know, that is back of us.”

“That’s just what confounds me,” declared the perplexed young
man. “Are you men fools, or rascals? Don’t you see the two
schemes can’t mix? They’re dead opposite, mutually contradictory,
absolutely—” Taylor checked him; it was odd to behold Harry
Cresswell so disturbed.

“Well, wait a moment. Let’s see. Sit down. Wish I had a cigar for
you, but I don’t smoke.”

“Do you happen to have any whiskey handy?”

“No, I don’t drink.”

“Well, what the devil—Oh, well, fire away.”

“Now, see here. We control the Grey millions. Of course, we’ve
got to let her play with her income, and that’s considerable. Her
favorite game just now is Negro education, and she’s planning to
go in heavy. Her adviser in this line, however, is Smith, and he
belongs to us.”

“What Smith?”

“Why, the man who’s going to be Senator from New Jersey. He has a
sister teaching in the South—you know, of course; it’s at
your home where my sister Mary taught.”

“Great Scott! Is that woman’s brother going to spend this money?
Why, are you daft? See here! American cotton-spinning supremacy
is built on cheap cotton; cheap cotton is built on cheap niggers.
Educating, or rather trying to educate niggers, will make
them restless and discontented—that is, scarce and dear as
workers. Don’t you see you’re planning to cut off your noses?
This Smith School, particularly, has nearly ruined our
plantation. It’s stuck almost in our front yard; you are
planning to put our plough-hands all to studying Greek, and at
the same time to corner the cotton crop—rot!”

John Taylor caressed his lean jaw.

“New point of view to me; I sort of thought education would
improve things in the South,” he commented, unmoved.

“It would if we ran it.”

“We?”

“Yes—we Southerners.”

“Um!—I see—there’s light. See here, let’s talk to
Easterly about this.” They went into the next office, and after a
while got audience with the trust magnate. Mr. Easterly heard the
matter carefully and waved it aside.

“Oh, that doesn’t concern us, Taylor; let Cresswell take care of
the whole thing. We’ll see that Smith does what Cresswell wants.”

But Taylor shook his head.

“Smith would kick. Mrs. Grey would get suspicious, and the devil
be to pay. This is better. Form a big committee of Northern
business men like yourself—philanthropists like Vanderpool,
and Southerners like Cresswell; let them be a sort of Negro
Education steering-committee. We’ll see that on such committee
you Southerners get what you want—control of Negro
education.”

“That sounds fair. But how about the Smith School? My father
writes me that they are showing signs of expecting money right
off—is that true? If it is, I want it stopped; it will ruin
our campaign for the Farmers’ League.”

John Taylor looked at Cresswell. He thought he saw something more
than general policy, or even racial prejudice—something
personal—in his vehemence. The Smith School was evidently a
severe thorn in the flesh of this man. All the more reason for
mollifying him. Then, too, there was something in his argument.
It was not wise to start educating these Negroes and getting them
discontented just now. Ignorant labor was not ideal, but it was
worth too much to employers to lose it now. Educated Negro labor
might be worth more to Negroes, but not to the cotton combine.
“H’m—well, then—” and John Taylor went into a brown
study, while Cresswell puffed impatiently at a cigarette.

“I have it,” said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. “First, let Mr.
Easterly get Smith.” Easterly turned to the telephone.

“Is that you, Smith?”

“Well, this is Easterly…. Yes—how about Mrs. Grey’s
education schemes?… Yes…. h’m—well,—see here
Smith, we must go a little easy there…. Oh, no, no,—but
to advertise just now a big scheme of Negro Education would drive
the Cresswells, the Farmers’ League, and the whole business South
dead against us…. Yes, yes indeed; they believe in education
all right, but they ain’t in for training lawyers and professors
just yet…. No, I don’t suppose her school is…. Well, then;
see here. She’ll be reasonable, won’t she, and placate the
Cresswells?… No, I mean run the school to suit their ideas….
No, no, but in general along the lines which they could
approve…. Yes, I thought so … of course … good-bye.”

“Inclined to be a little nasty?” asked Taylor.

“A little sharp—but tractable. Now, Mr. Cresswell, the
thing is in your hands. We’ll get this committee which Taylor
suggests appointed, and send it on a junket to Alabama; you do
the rest—see?”

“Who’ll be the committee?” asked Cresswell.

“Name it.”

Mr. Cresswell smiled and left.

The winter started in severely, and it was easy to fill two
private cars with members of the new Negro Education Board right
after Thanksgiving. Cresswell had worked carefully and with
caution. There was Mrs. Grey, comfortable and beaming, Mr.
Easterly, who thought this a good business opportunity, and his
family. Mrs. Vanderpool liked the South and was amused at the
trip, and had induced Mr. Vanderpool to come by stories of
shooting.

“Ah!” said Mr. Vanderpool.

Mr. Charles Smith and John Taylor were both too busy to go, but
bronchial trouble induced the Rev. Dr. Boldish of St. Faith’s
rich parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment Temple
Bocombe, the sociologist, consented to join.

“Awfully busy,” he said, “but I’ve been reading up on the Negro
problem since you mentioned the matter to me last week, Mr.
Cresswell, and I think I understand it thoroughly. I may be able
to help out.”

The necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by
Miss Taylor and Miss Cresswell, together with the silent Miss
Boldish. They were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr.
Boldish pointed out the loafers at the stations, especially the
black ones; Mr. Bocombe counted them and estimated the number of
hours of work lost at ten cents an hour.

“Do they get that—ten cents an hour?” asked Miss Taylor.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Bocombe; “but suppose they do,
for instance. That is an average wage today.”

“They look lazy,” said Mrs. Grey.

“They are lazy,” said Mr. Cresswell.

“So am I,” added Mrs. Vanderpool, suppressing a yawn.

“It is uninteresting,” murmured her husband, preparing for a nap.

On the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the
moment they drew out of Jersey City to the afternoon when, in
four carriages, they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all
Toomsville and swept under the shadowed rampart of the swamp.

“The Christmas” was coming and all the Southern world was busy.
Few people were busier than Bles and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully
for them, heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed
the earth, and the tremor thrilled all lands and seas. Everything
was good, all things were happy, and these two were happiest of
all. Out of the shadows and hesitations of childhood they had
stepped suddenly into manhood and womanhood, with firm feet and
uplifted heads. All the day that was theirs they worked, picking
the Silver Fleece—picking it tenderly and lovingly from off
the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly yielded life and
beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken tendril, this
white beauty of the cotton. November came and flew, and still the
unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit.

Today seemed doubly glorious, for Bles had spoken of their
marriage; with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again
seeking their mates, they walked the leafy way.

Unconscious, rapt, they stepped out into the Big Road skirting
the edge of the swamp. Why not? Was it not the King’s Highway?
And Love was King. So they talked on, unknowing that far up the
road the Cresswell coaches were wheeling along with precious
burdens. In the first carriage were Mrs. Grey and Mrs.
Vanderpool, Mr. Cresswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs. Vanderpool was
lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Grey was a little stiff from long
travel and sat upright. Mr. Cresswell looked clean-cut and
handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The
dying of the day soothed them all insensibly. Groups of dark
little children passed them as they neared the school, staring
with wide eyes and greeting timidly.

“There seems to be marrying and giving in marriage,” laughed Mrs.
Vanderpool.

“Not very much,” said Mr. Cresswell drily.

“Well, at least plenty of children.”

“Plenty.”

“But where are the houses?” asked Mrs. Grey.

“Perhaps in the swamp,” said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up
at the sombre trees that lined the left.

“They live where they please and do as they please,” Cresswell
explained; to which Mrs. Vanderpool added: “Like other animals.”

Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly
the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the
carriage’s four occupants faced a young man and a young woman
embracing heartily.

Out through the wood Bles and Zora had come to the broad red
road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time
and place.

“You are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp,” he said.

“And yet look up to you,” she murmured.

“Your eyes are darkness dressed in night.”

“To see you brighter, dear,” she said.

“Your little hands are much too frail for work.”

“They must grow larger, then, and soon.”

“Your feet are far too small to travel on.”

“They’ll travel on to you—that’s far enough.”

“Your lips—your full and purple lips—were made alone
for kissing, not for words.”

“They’ll do for both.”

He laughed in utter joy and touched her hair with light caressing
hands.

“It does not fly with sunlight,” she said quickly, with an upward
glance.

“No,” he answered. “It sits and listens to the night.”

But even as she nestled to him happily there came the harsh
thunder of horses’ hoofs, beating on their ears. He drew her
quickly to him in fear, and the coach lurched and turned, and
left them facing four pairs of eyes. Miss Taylor reddened; Mrs.
Grey looked surprised; Mrs. Vanderpool smiled; but Mr. Cresswell
darkened with anger. The couple unclasped shamefacedly, and the
young man, lifting his hat, started to stammer an apology; but
Cresswell interrupted him:

“Keep your—your philandering to the woods, or I shall have
you arrested,” he said slowly, his face colorless, his lips
twitching with anger. “Drive on, John.”

Miss Taylor felt that her worst suspicions had been confirmed;
but Mrs. Vanderpool was curious as to the cause of Cresswell’s
anger. It was so genuine that it needed explanation.

“Are kisses illegal here?” she asked before the horses started,
turning the battery of her eyes full upon him. But Cresswell had
himself well in hand.

“No,” he said. “But the girl is—notorious.”

On the lovers the words fell like a blow. Zora shivered, and a
grayish horror mottled the dark burning of her face. Bles started
in anger, then paused in shivering doubt. What had happened? They
knew not; yet involuntarily their hands fell apart; they avoided
each other’s eyes.

“I—I must go now,” gasped Zora, as the carriage swept away.

He did not hold her, he did not offer the farewell kiss, but
stood staring at the road as she walked into the swamp. A moment
she paused and looked back; then slowly, almost painfully, she
took the path back to the field of the Fleece, and reaching it
after long, long minutes, began mechanically to pick the cotton.
But the cotton glowed crimson in the failing sun.

Bles walked toward the school. What had happened? he kept asking.
And yet he dared not question the awful shape that sat somewhere,
cold and still, behind his soul. He heard the hoofs of horses
again. It was Miss Taylor being brought back to the school to
greet Miss Smith and break the news of the coming of the party.
He raised his hat. She did not return the greeting, but he found
her pausing at the gate. It seemed to her too awful for this
foolish fellow thus to throw himself away. She faced him and he
flinched as from some descending blow.

“Bles,” she said primly, “have you absolutely no shame?”

He braced himself and raised his head proudly.

“I am going to marry her; it is no crime.” Then he noted the
expression on her face, and paused.

She stepped back, scandalized.

“Can it be, Bles Alwyn,” she said, “that you don’t know the sort
of girl she is?”

He raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly, as she
turned to go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. The heavens
flamed scarlet in his eyes and he screamed.

“It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie!” He wheeled about and tore into
the swamp.

“It’s a damned lie!” he shouted to the trees. “Is it?—is
it?” chirped the birds. “It’s a cruel falsehood!” he moaned. “Is
it?—is it?” whispered the devils within.

It seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and
faltering about him. The trees bent curiously and strange
breathings were upon the breezes. He unbuttoned his collar that
he might get more air. A thousand things he had forgotten surged
suddenly to life. Slower and slower he ran, more and more the
thoughts crowded his head. He thought of that first red night and
the yelling and singing and wild dancing; he thought of
Cresswell’s bitter words; he thought of Zora telling how she
stayed out nights; he thought of the little bower that he had
built her in the cotton field. A wild fear struggled with his
anger, but he kept repeating, “No, no,” and then, “At any rate,
she will tell me the truth.” She had never lied to him; she would
not dare; he clenched his hands, murder in his heart.

Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was—where
she must be, waiting. And yet as he drew near huge hands held him
back, and heavy weights clogged his feet. His heart said: “On!
quick! She will tell the truth, and all will be well.” His mind
said: “Slow, slow; this is the end.” He hurled the thought aside,
and crashed through the barrier.

She was standing still and listening, with a huge basket of the
piled froth of the field upon her head. One long brown arm,
tender with curvings, balanced the cotton; the other, poised,
balanced the slim swaying body. Bending she listened, her eyes
shining, her lips apart, her bosom fluttering at the well-known
step.

He burst into her view with the fury of a beast, rending the wood
away and trampling the underbrush, reeling and muttering until he
saw her. She looked at him. Her hands dropped, she stood very
still with drawn face, grayish-brown, both hands unconsciously
out-stretched, and the cotton swaying, while deep down in her
eyes, dimly, slowly, a horror lit and grew. He paused a moment,
then came slowly onward doggedly, drunkenly, with torn clothes,
flying collar, and red eyes. Then he paused again, still beyond
arm’s-length, looking at her with fear-struck eyes. The cotton on
her head shivered and dropped in a pure mass of white and silvery
snow about her limbs. Her hands fell limply and the horror flamed
in her wet eyes. He struggled with his voice but it grated and
came hoarse and hard from his quivering throat.

“Zora!”

“Yes, Bles.”

“You—you told me—you were—pure.”

She was silent, but her body went all a-tremble. He stepped
forward until she could almost touch him; there standing straight
and tall he glared down upon her.

“Answer me,” he whispered in a voice hard with its tight held
sobs. A misery darkened her face and the light died from her
eyes, yet she looked at him bravely and her voice came low and
full as from afar.

“I asked you what it meant to be pure, Bles, and—and you
told—and I told you the truth.”

“What it meant!—what it meant!” he repeated in the low,
tense anguish.

“But—but, Bles—” She faltered; there came an awful
pleading in her eyes; her hand groped toward him; but he stepped
slowly back—”But, Bles—you
said—willingly—you said—if—if she
knew—”

He thundered back in livid anger:

“Knew! All women know! You should have died!”

Sobs were rising and shaking her from head to foot, but she drove
them back and gripped her breasts with her hands.

“No, Bles—no—all girls do not know. I was a child.
Not since I knew you, Bles—never, never since I saw you.”

“Since—since,” he groaned—”Christ! But before?”

“Yes, before.”

“My God!”

She knew the end had come. Yet she babbled on tremblingly:

“He was our master, and all the other girls that gathered there
did his will; I—I—” she choked and faltered, and he
drew farther away—”I began running away, and they hunted me
through the swamps. And then—then I reckon I’d have gone
back and been—as they all are—but you came,
Bles—you came, and you—you were a new great thing in
my life, and—and—yet, I was afraid I was not worthy
until you—you said the words. I thought you knew, and I
thought that—that purity was just wanting to be pure.”

He ground his teeth in fury. Oh, he was an innocent—a blind
baby—the joke and laughing-stock of the country around,
with yokels grinning at him and pale-faced devils laughing aloud.
The teachers knew; the girls knew; God knew; everybody but he
knew—poor blind, deaf mole, stupid jackass that he was. He
must run—run away from this world, and far off in some free
land beat back this pain.

Then in sheer weariness the anger died within his soul, leaving
but ashes and despair. Slowly he turned away, but with a quick
motion she stood in his path.

“Bles,” she cried, “how can I grow pure?”

He looked at her listlessly.

“Never—never again,” he slowly answered her.

Dark fear swept her drawn face.

“Never?” she gasped.

Pity surged and fought in his breast; but one thought held and
burned him. He bent to her fiercely:

“Who?” he demanded.

She pointed toward the Cresswell Oaks, and he turned away. She
did not attempt to stop him again, but dropped her hands and
stared drearily up into the clear sky with its shining worlds.

“Good-bye, Bles,” she said slowly. “I thank God he gave you to
me—just a little time.” She hesitated and waited. There
came no word as the man moved slowly away. She stood motionless.
Then slowly he turned and came back. He laid his hand a moment,
lightly, upon her head.

“Good-bye—Zora,” he sobbed, and was gone.

She did not look up, but knelt there silent, dry-eyed, till the
last rustle of his going died in the night. And then, like a
waiting storm, the torrent of her grief swept down upon her; she
stretched herself upon the black and fleece-strewn earth, and
writhed.

Sixteen

THE GREAT REFUSAL

All night Miss Smith lay holding the quivering form of Zora close
to her breast, staring wide-eyed into the
darkness—thinking, thinking. In the morning the party would
come. There would be Mrs. Grey and Mary Taylor, Mrs. Vanderpool,
who had left her so coldly in the lurch before, and some of the
Cresswells. They would come well fed and impressed with the
charming hospitality of their hosts, and rather more than willing
to see through those host’s eyes. They would be in a hurry to
return to some social function, and would give her work but
casual attention.

It seemed so dark an ending to so bright a dream. Never for her
had a fall opened as gloriously. The love of this boy and girl,
blossoming as it had beneath her tender care, had been a sacred,
wonderful history that revived within her memories of
long-forgotten days. But above lay the vision of her school,
redeemed and enlarged, its future safe, its usefulness
broadened—small wonder that to Sarah Smith the future had
seemed in November almost golden.

Then things began to go wrong. The transfer of the Tolliver land
had not yet been effected; the money was ready, but Mr. Tolliver
seemed busy or hesitating. Next came this news of Mrs. Grey’s
probable conditions. So here it was Christmas time, and Sarah
Smith’s castles lay almost in ruins about her.

The girl moaned in her fitful sleep and Miss Smith soothed her.
Poor child! here too was work—a strange strong soul cruelly
stricken in her youth. Could she be brought back to a useful
life? How she needed such a strong, clear-eyed helper in this
crisis of her work! Would Zora make one or would this blow send
her to perdition? Not if Sarah Smith could save her, she
resolved, and stared out the window where the pale red dawn was
sending its first rays on the white-pillared mansion of the
Cresswells.

Mrs. Grey saw the light on the columns, too, as she lay lazily in
her soft white bed. There was a certain delicious languor in the
late lingering fall of Alabama that suited her perfectly. Then,
too, she liked the house and its appointments; there was not, to
be sure, all the luxury that she was used to in her New York
mansion, but there was a certain finish about it, an elegance and
staid old-fashioned hospitality that appealed to her
tremendously. Mrs. Grey’s heart warmed to the sight of Helen in
her moments of spasmodic caring for the sick and afflicted on the
estate. No better guardian of her philanthropies could be found
than these same Cresswells. She must, of course, go over and see
dear Sarah Smith; but really there was not much to say or to look
at.

The prospects seemed most alluring. Later, Mr. Easterly talked a
while on routine business, saying, as he turned away:

“I am more and more impressed, Mrs. Grey, with your wisdom in
placing large investments in the South. With peaceful social
conditions the returns will be large.”

Mrs. Grey heard this delicate flattery complacently. She had her
streak of thrift, and wanted her business capacity recognized.
She listened attentively.

“For this reason, I trust you will handle your Negro
philanthropies judicially, as I know you will. There’s dynamite
in this race problem for amateur reformers, but fortunately you
have at hand wise and sympathetic advisers in the Cresswells.”

Mrs. Grey agreed entirely.

Mary Taylor, alone of the committee, took her commission so
seriously as to be anxious to begin work.

“We are to visit the school this morning, you know,” she reminded
the others, looking at her watch; “I’m afraid we’re late
already.”

The remark created mild consternation. It seemed that Mr.
Vanderpool had gone hunting and his wife had not yet arisen. Dr.
Boldish was very hoarse, Mr. Easterly was going to look over some
plantations with Colonel Cresswell, and Mr. Bocombe was engrossed
in a novel.

“Clever, but not true to life,” he said.

Finally the clergyman and Mr. Bocombe, Mrs. Grey and Mrs.
Vanderpool and Miss Taylor started for the school, with Harry
Cresswell, about an hour after lunch. The delay and suppressed
excitement among the little folks had upset things considerably
there, but at the sight of the visitors at the gate Miss Smith
rang the bell.

The party came in, laughing and chatting. They greeted Miss Smith
cordially. Dr. Boldish was beginning to tell a good story when a
silence fell.

The children had gathered, quietly, almost timidly, and before
the distinguished company realized it, they turned to meet that
battery of four hundred eyes. A human eye is a wonderful thing
when it simply waits and watches. Not one of these little things
alone would have been worth more than a glance, but together,
they became mighty, portentous. Mr. Bocombe got out his note-book
and wrote furiously therein. Dr. Boldish, naturally the appointed
spokesman, looked helplessly about and whispered to Mrs.
Vanderpool:

“What on earth shall I talk about?”

“The brotherhood of man?” suggested the lady.

“Hardly advisable,” returned Dr. Boldish, seriously, “in our
friend’s presence,”—with a glance toward Cresswell. Then he
arose.

“My friends,” he said, touching his finger-tips and using blank
verse in A minor. “This is an auspicious day. You should be
thankful for the gifts of the Lord. His bounty surrounds
you—the trees, the fields, the glorious sun. He gives
cotton to clothe you, corn to eat, devoted friends to teach you.
Be joyful. Be good. Above all, be thrifty and save your money,
and do not complain and whine at your apparent disadvantages.
Remember that God did not create men equal but unequal, and set
metes and bounds. It is not for us to question the wisdom of the
Almighty, but to bow humbly to His will.

“Remember that the slavery of your people was not necessarily a
crime. It was a school of work and love. It gave you noble
friends, like Mr. Cresswell here.” A restless stirring, and the
battery of eyes was turned upon that imperturbable gentleman, as
if he were some strange animal. “Love and serve them. Remember
that we get, after all, little education from books; rather in
the fields, at the plough and in the kitchen. Let your ambition
be to serve rather than rule, to be humble followers of the lowly
Jesus.”

With an upward glance the Rev. Dr. Boldish sat down amid a
silence a shade more intense than that which had greeted him.
Then slowly from the far corner rose a thin voice, tremulously.
It wavered on the air and almost broke, then swelled in sweet,
low music. Other and stronger voices gathered themselves to it,
until two hundred were singing a soft minor wail that gripped the
hearts and tingled in the ears of the hearers. Mr. Bocombe groped
with a puzzled expression to find the pocket for his note-book;
Harry Cresswell dropped his eyes, and on Mrs. Vanderpool’s lips
the smile died. Mary Taylor flushed, and Mrs. Grey cried frankly:

“Poor things!” she whispered.

“Now,” said Mrs. Grey, turning about, “we haven’t but just a
moment and we want to take a little look at your work.” She
smiled graciously upon Miss Smith.

Mrs. Grey thought the cooking-school very nice.

“I suppose,” she said, “that you furnish cooks for the county.”

“Largely,” said Miss Smith. Mrs. Vanderpool looked surprised, but
Miss Smith added: “This county, you know, is mostly black.” Mrs.
Grey did not catch the point.

The dormitories were neat and the ladies expressed great pleasure
in them.

“It is certainly nice for them to know what a clean place is,”
commented Mrs. Grey. Mr. Cresswell, however, looked at a
bath-room and smiled.

“How practical!” he said.

“Can you not stop and see some of the classes?” Sarah Smith knew
in her heart that the visit was a failure, still she would do her
part to the end.

“I doubt if we shall have time,” Mrs. Grey returned, as they
walked on. “Mr. Cresswell expects friends to dinner.”

“What a magnificent intelligence office,” remarked Mr. Bocombe,
“for furnishing servants to the nation. I saw splendid material
for cooks and maids.”

“And plough-boys,” added Cresswell.

“And singers,” said Mary Taylor.

“Well, now that’s just my idea,” said Mrs. Grey, “that these
schools should furnish trained servants and laborers for the
South. Isn’t that your idea, Miss Smith?”

“Not exactly,” the lady replied, “or at least I shouldn’t put it
just that way. My idea is that this school should furnish men and
women who can work and earn an honest living, train up families
aright, and perform their duties as fathers, mothers, and
citizens.”

“Yes—yes, precisely,” said Mrs. Grey, “that’s what I
meant.”

“I think the whites can attend to the duties of citizenship
without help,” observed Mr. Cresswell.

“Don’t let the blacks meddle in politics,” said Dr. Boldish.

“I want to make these children full-fledged men and women,
strong, self-reliant, honest, without any ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ to
their development,” insisted Miss Smith.

“Of course, and that is just what Mr. Cresswell wants. Isn’t it,
Mr. Cresswell?” asked Mrs. Grey.

“I think I may say yes,” Mr. Cresswell agreed. “I certainly want
these people to develop as far as they can, although Miss Smith
and I would differ as to their possibilities. But it is not so
much in the general theory of Negro education as in its
particular applications where our chief differences would lie. I
may agree that a boy should learn higher arithmetic, yet object
to his loafing in plough-time. I might want to educate some girls
but not girls like Zora.”

Mrs. Vanderpool glanced at Mr. Cresswell, smiling to herself.

Mrs. Grey broke in, beaming:

“That’s just it, dear Miss Smith,—just it. Your heart is
good, but you need strong practical advice. You know we weak
women are so impractical, as my poor Job so often said. Now, I’m
going to arrange to endow this school with at least—at
least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One condition is that
my friend, Mr. Cresswell here, and these other gentlemen,
including sound Northern business men like Mr. Easterly, shall
hold this money in trust, and expend it for your school as they
think best.”

“Mr. Cresswell would be their local representative?” asked Miss
Smith slowly with white face.

“Why yes—yes, of course.”

There was a long, tense silence. Then the firm reply,

“Mrs. Grey, I thank you, but I cannot accept your offer.”

Sarah Smith’s voice was strong, the tremor had left her hands.
She had expected something like this, of course; yet when it
came—somehow it failed to stun. She would not turn over the
direction of the school, or the direction of the education of
these people, to those who were most opposed to their education.
Therefore, there was no need to hesitate; there was no need to
think the thing over—she had thought it over—and she
looked into Mrs. Grey’s eyes and with gathering tears in her own
said:

“Again, I thank you very much, Mrs. Grey.”

Mrs. Grey was a picture of the most emphatic surprise, and Mr.
Cresswell moved to the window. Mrs. Grey looked helplessly at her
companions.

“But—I don’t understand, Miss Smith—why can’t you
accept my offer?”

“Because you ask me to put my school in control of those who do
not wish for the best interests of black folk, and in particular
I object to Mr. Cresswell,” said Miss Smith, slowly but very
distinctly, “because his relation to the forces of evil in this
community has been such that he can direct no school of mine.”
Mrs. Vanderpool moved toward the door and Mr. Cresswell bowing
slightly followed. Dr. Boldish looked indignant and Mr. Bocombe
dove after his note-book. Mary Taylor, her head in a whirl, came
forward. She felt that in some way she was responsible for this
dreadful situation and she wanted desperately to save matters
from final disaster.

“Come,” she said, “Mrs. Grey, we’ll talk this matter over again
later. I am sure Miss Smith does not mean quite all she
says—she is tired and nervous. You join the others and
don’t wait for me and I will be along directly.”

Mrs. Grey was only too glad to escape and Mr. Bocombe got a
chance to talk. He drew out his note-book.

“Awfully interesting,” he said, “awfully.
Now—er—let’s see—oh, yes. Did you notice how
unhealthy the children looked? Race is undoubtedly dying out;
fact. No hope. Weak. No spontaneity either—rather languid,
did you notice? Yes, and their heads—small and
narrow—no brain capacity. They can’t concentrate; notice
how some slept when Dr. Boldish was speaking? Mr. Cresswell says
they own almost no land here; think of it? This land was worth
only ten dollars an acre a decade ago, he says. Negroes might
have bought all and been rich. Very shiftless—and that
singing. Now, I wonder where they got the music? Imitation, of
course.” And so he rattled on, noting not the silence of the
others.

As the carriage drove off Mary turned to Miss Smith.

“Now, Miss Smith,” she began—but Miss Smith looked at her,
and said sternly, “Sit down.”

Mary Taylor sat down. She had been so used to lecturing the older
woman that the sudden summoning of her well known sternness
against herself took her breath, and she sat awkwardly like the
school girl that she was waiting for Miss Smith to speak. She
felt suddenly very young and very helpless—she who had so
jauntily set out to solve this mighty problem by a waving of her
wand. She saw with a swelling of pity the drawn and stricken face
of her old friend and she started up.

“Sit down,” repeated Miss Smith harshly. “Mary Taylor, you are a
fool. You are not foolish, for the foolish learn; you are simply
a fool. You will never learn; you have blundered into this life
work of mine and well nigh ruined it. Whether I can yet save it
God alone knows. You have blundered into the lives of two loving
children, and sent one wandering aimless on the face of the earth
and the other moaning in yonder chamber with death in her heart.
You are going to marry the man that sought Zora’s ruin when she
was yet a child because you think of his aristocratic pose and
pretensions built on the poverty, crime, and exploitation of six
generations of serfs. You’ll marry him and—”

But Miss Taylor leapt to her feet with blazing cheeks.

“How dare you?” she screamed, beside herself.

“But God in heaven help you if you do,” finished Miss Smith,
calmly.

Seventeen

THE RAPE OF THE FLEECE

When slowly from the torpor of ether, one wakens to the misty
sense of eternal loss, and there comes the exquisite prick of
pain, then one feels in part the horror of the ache when Zora
wakened to the world again. The awakening was the work of days
and weeks. At first in sheer exhaustion, physical and mental, she
lay and moaned. The sense of loss—of utter loss—lay
heavy upon her. Something of herself, something dearer than self,
was gone from her forever, and an infinite loneliness and
silence, as of endless years, settled on her soul. She wished
neither food nor words, only to be alone. Then gradually the pain
of injury stung her when the blood flowed fuller. As Miss Smith
knelt beside her one night to make her simple prayer Zora sat
suddenly upright, white-swathed, dishevelled, with fury in her
midnight eyes.

“I want no prayers!” she cried, “I will not pray! He is no God of
mine. He isn’t fair. He knows and won’t tell. He takes advantage
of us—He works and fools us.” All night Miss Smith heard
mutterings of this bitterness, and the next day the girl walked
her room like a tigress,—to and fro, to and fro, all the
long day. Toward night a dumb despair settled upon her. Miss
Smith found her sitting by the window gazing blankly toward the
swamp. She came to Miss Smith, slowly, and put her hands upon her
shoulders with almost a caress.

“You must forgive me,” she pleaded plaintively. “I reckon I’ve
been mighty bad with you, and you always so good to me;
but—but, you see—it hurts so.”

“I know it hurts, dear; I know it does. But men and women must
learn to bear hurts in this world.”

“Not hurts like this; they couldn’t.”

“Yes, even hurts like this. Bear and stand straight; be brave.
After all, Zora, no man is quite worth a woman’s soul; no love is
worth a whole life.”

Zora turned away with a gesture of impatience.

“You were born in ice,” she retorted, adding a bit more tenderly,
“in clear strong ice; but I was born in fire. I live—I
love; that’s all.” And she sat down again, despairingly, and
stared at the dull swamp. Miss Smith stood for a moment and
closed her eyes upon a vision.

“Ice!” she whispered. “My God!”

Then, at length, she said to Zora:

“Zora, there’s only one way: do something; if you sit thus
brooding you’ll go crazy.”

“Do crazy folks forget?”

“Nonsense, Zora!” Miss Smith ridiculed the girl’s fantastic
vagaries; her sound common sense rallied to her aid. “They are
the people who remember; sane folk forget. Work is the only cure
for such pain.”

“But there’s nothing to do—nothing I want to
do—nothing worth doing—now.”

“The Silver Fleece?”

The girl sat upright.

“The Silver Fleece,” she murmured. Without further word, slowly
she arose and walked down the stairs, and out into the swamp.
Miss Smith watched her go; she knew that every step must be the
keen prickle of awakening flesh. Yet the girl walked steadily on.

It was the Christmas—not Christmas-tide of the North and
West, but Christmas of the Southern South. It was not the
festival of the Christ Child, but a time of noise and frolic and
license, the great Pay-Day of the year when black men lifted
their heads from a year’s toiling in the earth, and, hat in hand,
asked anxiously: “Master, what have I earned? Have I paid my old
debts to you? Have I made my clothes and food? Have I got a
little of the year’s wage coming to me?” Or, more carelessly and
cringingly: “Master, gimme a Christmas gift.”

The lords of the soil stood round, gauging their cotton,
measuring their men. Their stores were crowded, their scales
groaned, their gins sang. In the long run public opinion
determines all wage, but in more primitive times and places,
private opinion, personal judgment of some man in power,
determines. The Black Belt is primitive and the landlord wields
the power.

“What about Johnson?” calls the head clerk.

“Well, he’s a faithful nigger and needs encouragement; cancel his
debt and give him ten dollars for Christmas.” Colonel Cresswell
glowed, as if he were full of the season’s spirit.

“And Sanders?”

“How’s his cotton?”

“Good, and a lot of it.”

“He’s trying to get away. Keep him in debt, but let him draw what
he wants.”

“Aunt Rachel?”

“H’m, they’re way behind, aren’t they? Give her a couple of
dollars—not a cent more.”

“Jim Sykes?”

“Say, Harry, how about that darky, Sykes?” called out the
Colonel.

Excusing himself from his guests, Harry Cresswell came into the
office.

To them this peculiar spectacle of the market place was of
unusual interest. They saw its humor and its crowding, its
bizarre effects and unwonted pageantry. Black giants and pigmies
were there; kerchiefed aunties, giggling black girls, saffron
beauties, and loafing white men. There were mules and horses and
oxen, wagons and buggies and carts; but above all and in all,
rushing through, piled and flying, bound and baled—was
cotton. Cotton was currency; cotton was merchandise; cotton was
conversation.

All this was “beautiful” to Mrs. Grey and “unusually interesting”
to Mrs. Vanderpool. To Mary Taylor it had the fascination of a
puzzle whose other side she had already been partially studying.
She was particularly impressed with the joy and abandon of the
scene—light laughter, huge guffaws, handshakes, and
gossipings.

“At all events,” she concluded, “this is no oppressed people.”
And sauntering away from the rest she noted the smiles of an
undersized smirking yellow man who hurried by with a handful of
dollar bills. At a side entrance liquor was evidently on
sale—men were drinking and women, too; some were
staggering, others cursing, and yet others singing. Then suddenly
a man swung around the corner swearing in bitter rage:

“The damned thieves, they’se stole a year’s work—the
white—” But some one called, “Hush up, Sanders! There’s a
white woman.” And he threw a startled look at Mary and hurried
by. She was perplexed and upset and stood hesitating a moment
when she heard a well-known voice:

“Why, Miss Taylor, I was alarmed for you; you really must be
careful about trusting yourself with these half drunken Negroes.”

“Wouldn’t it be better not to give them drink, Mr. Cresswell?”

“And let your neighbor sell them poison at all hours? No, Miss
Taylor.” They joined the others, and all were turning toward the
carriage when a figure coming down the road attracted them.

“Quite picturesque,” observed Mrs. Vanderpool, looking at the
tall, slim girl swaying toward them with a piled basket of white
cotton poised lightly on her head. “Why,” in abrupt recognition,
“it is our Venus of the Roadside, is it not?”

Mary saw it was Zora. Just then, too, Zora caught sight of them,
and for a moment hesitated, then came on; the carriage was in
front of the store, and she was bound for the store. A moment
Mary hesitated, too, and then turned resolutely to greet her. But
Zora’s eyes did not see her. After one look at that
sorrow-stricken face, Mary turned away.

Colonel Cresswell stood by the door, his hat on, his hands in his
pockets.

“Well, Zora, what have you there?” he asked.

“Cotton, sir.”

Harry Cresswell bent over it.

“Great heavens! Look at this cotton!” he ejaculated. His father
approached. The cotton lay in silken handfuls, clean and
shimmering, with threads full two inches long. The idlers, black
and white, clustered round, gazing at it, and fingering it with
repeated exclamations of astonishment.

“Where did this come from?” asked the Colonel sharply. He and
Harry were both eying the girl intently.

“I raised it in the swamp,” Zora replied quietly, in a dead
voice. There was no pride of achievement in her manner, no
gladness; all that had flown.

“Is that all?”

“No, sir; I think there’s two bales.”

“Two bales! Where is it? How the devil—” The Colonel was
forgetting his guests, but Harry intervened.

“You’ll need to get it picked right off,” he suggested.

“It’s all picked, sir.”

“But where is it?”

“If you’ll send a wagon, sir—”

But the Colonel hardly waited.

“Here you, Jim, take the big mules and drive like—Where’s
that wench?”

But Zora was already striding on ahead, and was far up the red
road when the great mules galloped into sight and the long whip
snapped above their backs. The Colonel was still excited.

“That cotton must be ours, Harry—all of it. And see that
none is stolen. We’ve got no contract with the wench, so don’t
dally with her.” But Harry said firmly, quietly:

“It’s fine cotton, and she raised it; she must be paid well for
it.” Colonel Cresswell glanced at him with something between
contempt and astonishment on his face.

“You go along with the ladies,” Harry added; “I’ll see to this
cotton.” Mary Taylor’s smile had rewarded him; now he must get
rid of his company—before Zora returned.

It was dark when the cotton came; such a load as Cresswell’s
store had never seen before. Zora watched it weighed, received
the cotton checks, and entered the store. Only the clerk was
there, and he was closing. He pointed her carelessly to the
office in the back part. She went into the small dim room, and
laying the cotton-check on the desk, stood waiting. Slowly the
hopelessness and bitterness of it all came back in a great
whelming flood. What was the use of trying for anything? She was
lost forever. The world was against her, and again she saw the
fingers of Elspeth—the long black claw-like talons that
clutched and dragged her down—down. She did not
struggle—she dropped her hands listlessly, wearily, and
stood but half conscious as the door opened and Mr. Harry
Cresswell entered the dimly lighted room. She opened her eyes.
She had expected his father. Somewhere way down in the depths of
her nature the primal tiger awoke and snarled. She was suddenly
alive from hair to finger tip. Harry Cresswell paused a second
and swept her full length with his eye—her profile, the
long supple line of bosom and hip, the little foot. Then he
closed the door softly and walked slowly toward her. She stood
like stone, without a quiver; only her eye followed the crooked
line of the Cresswell blue blood on his marble forehead as she
looked down from her greater height; her hand closed almost
caressingly on a rusty poker lying on the stove nearby; and as
she sensed the hot breath of him she felt herself purring in a
half heard whisper.

“I should not like—to kill you.”

He looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk.
Slowly he lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and
compared the cotton-check with it.

“Three thousand pounds,” he announced in a careless tone. “Yes,
that will make about two bales of lint. It’s extra
cotton—say fifteen cents a pound—one hundred fifty
dollars—seventy-five dollars to you—h’m.” He took a
note-book out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head, and
paused to relight his cigarette.

“Let’s see—your rent and rations—”

“Elspeth pays no rent,” she said slowly, but he did not seem to
hear.

“Your rent and rations with the five years’ back debt,”—he
made a hasty calculation—”will be one hundred dollars. That
leaves you twenty-five in our debt. Here’s your receipt.”

The blow had fallen. She did not wince nor cry out. She took the
receipt, calmly, and walked out into the darkness.

They had stolen the Silver Fleece.

What should she do? She never thought of appeal to courts, for
Colonel Cresswell was Justice of the Peace and his son was
bailiff. Why had they stolen from her? She knew. She was now
penniless, and in a sense helpless. She was now a peon bound to a
master’s bidding. If Elspeth chose to sign a contract of work for
her to-morrow, it would mean slavery, jail, or hounded running
away. What would Elspeth do? One never knew. Zora walked on. An
hour ago it seemed that this last blow must have killed her. But
now it was different. Into her first despair had crept, in one
fierce moment, grim determination. Somewhere in the world sat a
great dim Injustice which had veiled the light before her young
eyes, just as she raised them to the morning. With the veiling,
death had come into her heart.

And yet, they should not kill her; they should not enslave her. A
desperate resolve to find some way up toward the light, if not to
it, formed itself within her. She would not fall into the pit
opening before her. Somehow, somewhere lay The Way. She must
never fall lower; never be utterly despicable in the eyes of the
man she had loved. There was no dream of forgiveness, of
purification, of re-kindled love; all these she placed sadly and
gently into the dead past. But in awful earnestness, she turned
toward the future; struggling blindly, groping in half formed
plans for a way.

She came thus into the room where sat Miss Smith, strangely
pallid beneath her dusky skin. But there lay a light in her eyes.

Eighteen

THE COTTON CORNER

All over the land the cotton had foamed in great white flakes
under the winter sun. The Silver Fleece lay like a mighty mantle
across the earth. Black men and mules had staggered beneath its
burden, while deep songs welled in the hearts of men; for the
Fleece was goodly and gleaming and soft, and men dreamed of the
gold it would buy. All the roads in the country had been lined
with wagons—a million wagons speeding to and fro with
straining mules and laughing black men, bearing bubbling masses
of piled white Fleece. The gins were still roaring and spitting
flames and smoke—fifty thousand of them in town and vale.
Then hoarse iron throats were filled with fifteen billion pounds
of white-fleeced, black-specked cotton, for the whirling saws to
tear out the seed and fling five thousand million pounds of the
silken fibre to the press.

And there again the black men sang, like dark earth-spirits
flitting in twilight; the presses creaked and groaned; closer and
closer they pressed the silken fleece. It quivered, trembled, and
then lay cramped, dead, and still, in massive, hard, square
bundles, tied with iron strings. Out fell the heavy bales,
thousand upon thousand, million upon million, until they settled
over the South like some vast dull-white swarm of birds. Colonel
Cresswell and his son, in these days, had a long and earnest
conversation perforated here and there by explosions of the
Colonel’s wrath. The Colonel could not understand some things.

“They want us to revive the Farmers’ League?” he fiercely
demanded.

“Yes,” Harry calmly replied.

“And throw the rest of our capital after the fifty thousand
dollars we’ve already lost?”

“Yes.”

“And you were fool enough to consent—”

“Wait, Father—and don’t get excited. Listen. Cotton is
going up—”

“Of course it’s going up! Short crop and big demand—”

“Cotton is going up, and then it’s going to fall.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I know it; the trust has got money and credit enough to force it
down.”

“Well, what then?” The Colonel glared.

“Then somebody will corner it.”

“The Farmers’ League won’t stand—”

“Precisely. The Farmers’ League can do the cornering and hold it
for higher prices.”

“Lord, son! if we only could!” groaned the Colonel.

“We can; we’ll have unlimited credit.”

“But—but—” stuttered the bewildered Colonel, “I don’t
understand. Why should the trust—”

“Nonsense, Father—what’s the use of understanding. Our
advantage is plain, and John Taylor guarantees the thing.”

“Who’s John Taylor?” snorted the Colonel. “Why should we trust
him?”

“Well,” said Harry slowly, “he wants to marry Helen—”

His father grew apopletic.

“I’m not saying he will, Father; I’m only saying that he wants
to,” Harry made haste to placate the rising tide of wrath.

“No Southern gentleman—” began the Colonel. But Harry
shrugged his shoulders.

“Which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at
their expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted
assumptions on the part of one of them? I tell you, Father, the
code of the Southern gentleman won’t work in Wall Street.”

“And I’ll tell you why—there are no Southern
gentlemen,” growled his father.

The Silver Fleece was golden, for its prices were flying aloft.
Mr. Caldwell told Colonel Cresswell that he confidently expected
twelve-cent cotton.

“The crop is excellent and small, scarcely ten million bales,” he
declared. “The price is bound to go up.”

Colonel Cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful; the demand for
cotton at high prices usually fell off rapidly and he had heard
rumors of curtailed mill production. While, then, he hoped for
high prices he advised the Farmers’ League to be on guard.

Mr. Caldwell seemed to be right, for cotton rose to ten cents a
pound—ten and a half—eleven—and then the South
began to see visions and to dream dreams.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Maxwell, whose lands lay next to the
Cresswells’ on the northwest, “yes, if cotton goes to twelve or
thirteen cents as seems probable, I think we can begin the New
House”—for Mrs. Maxwell’s cherished dream was a pillared
mansion like the Cresswells’.

Mr. Tolliver looked at his house and barns. “Well, daughter, if
this crop sells at twelve cents, I’ll be on my feet again, and I
won’t have to sell that land to the nigger school after all. Once
out of the clutch of the Cresswells—well, I think we can
have a coat of paint.” And he laughed as he had not laughed in
ten years.

Down in the bottoms west of the swamp a man and woman were
figuring painfully on an old slate. He was light brown and she
was yellow.

“Honey,” he said tremblingly, “I b’lieve we can do it—if
cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay the mortgage.”

Two miles north of the school an old black woman was shouting and
waving her arms. “If cotton goes to twelve cents we can pay out
and be free!” and she threw her apron over her head and wept,
gathering her children in her arms.

But even as she cried a flash and tremor shook the South. Far
away to the north a great spider sat weaving his web. The office
looked down from the clouds on lower Broadway, and was soft with
velvet and leather. Swift, silent messengers hurried in and out,
and Mr. Easterly, deciding the time was ripe, called his henchman
to him.

“Taylor, we’re ready—go South.”

And John Taylor rose, shook hands silently, and went.

As he entered Cresswell’s plantation store three days later, a
colored woman with a little boy turned sadly away from the
counter.

“No, aunty,” the clerk was telling her, “calico is too high;
can’t let you have any till we see how your cotton comes out.”

“I just wanted a bit; I promised the boy—”

“Go on, go on—Why, Mr. Taylor!” And the little boy burst
into tears while he was hurried out.

“Tightening up on the tenants?” asked Taylor.

“Yes; these niggers are mighty extravagant. Besides, cotton fell
a little today—eleven to ten and three-fourths; just a
flurry, I reckon. Had you heard?”

Mr. Taylor said he had heard, and he hurried on. Next morning the
long shining wires of that great Broadway web trembled and
flashed again and cotton went to ten cents.

“No house this year, I fear,” quoth Mr. Maxwell, bitterly.

The next day nine and a half was the quotation, and men began to
look at each other and asked questions.

“Paper says the crop is larger than the government estimate,”
said Tolliver, and added, “There’ll be no painting this year.” He
looked toward the Smith School and thought of the five thousand
dollars waiting; but he hesitated. John Taylor had carefully
mentioned seven thousand dollars as a price he was willing to pay
and “perhaps more.” Was Cresswell back of Taylor? Tolliver was
suspicious and moved to delay matters.

“It’s manipulation and speculation in New York,” said Colonel
Cresswell, “and the Farmers’ League must begin operations.”

The local paper soon had an editorial on “our distinguished
fellow citizen, Colonel Cresswell,” and his efforts to revive the
Farmers’ League. It was understood that Colonel Cresswell was
risking his whole private fortune to hold the price of cotton,
and some effort seemed to be needed, for cotton dropped to nine
cents within a week. Swift negotiations ensued, and a meeting of
the executive committee of the Farmers’ League was held in
Montgomery. A system of warehouses and warehouse certificates was
proposed.

“But that will cost money,” responded each of the dozen big
landlords who composed the committee; whereupon Harry Cresswell
introduced John Taylor, who represented thirty millions of
Southern bank stock.

“I promise you credit to any reasonable amount,” said Mr. Taylor,
“I believe in cotton—the present price is abnormal.” And
Mr. Taylor knew whereof he spoke, for when he sent a cipher
despatch North, cotton dropped to eight and a half. The Farmers’
League leased three warehouses at Savannah, Montgomery, and New
Orleans.

Then silently the South gripped itself and prepared for battle.
Men stopped spending, business grew dull, and millions of eyes
were glued to the blackboards of the cotton-exchange. Tighter and
tighter the reins grew on the backs of the black tenants.

“Miss Smith, is yo’ got just a drap of coffee to lend me? Mr.
Cresswell won’t give me none at the store and I’se just starving
for some,” said Aunt Rachel from over the hill. “We won’t git
free this year, Miss Smith, not this year,” she concluded
plaintively.

Cotton fell to seven and a half cents and the muttered protest
became angry denunciation. Why was it? Who was doing it?

Harry Cresswell went to Montgomery. He was getting nervous. The
thing was too vast. He could not grasp it. It set his head in a
whirl. Harry Cresswell was not a bad man—are there any bad
men? He was a man who from the day he first wheedled his black
mammy into submission, down to his thirty-sixth year, had seldom
known what it was voluntarily to deny himself or curb a desire.
To rise when he would, eat what he craved, and do what the
passing fancy suggested had long been his day’s programme. Such
emptiness of life and aim had to be filled, and it was filled; he
helped his father sometimes with the plantations, but he helped
spasmodically and played at work.

The unregulated fire of energy and delicacy of nervous poise
within him continually hounded him to the verge of excess and
sometimes beyond. Cool, quiet, and gentlemanly as he was by rule
of his clan, the ice was thin and underneath raged unappeased
fires. He craved the madness of alcohol in his veins till his
delicate hands trembled of mornings. The women whom he bent above
in languid, veiled-eyed homage, feared lest they love him, and
what work was to others gambling was to him.

The Cotton Combine, then, appealed to him overpoweringly—to
his passion for wealth, to his passion for gambling. But once
entered upon the game it drove him to fear and frenzy: first, it
was a long game and Harry Cresswell was not trained to waiting,
and, secondly, it was a game whose intricacies he did not know.
In vain did he try to study the matter through. He ordered books
from the North, he subscribed for financial journals, he received
special telegraphic reports only to toss them away, curse his
valet, and call for another brandy. After all, he kept saying to
himself, what guarantee, what knowledge had he that this was not
a “damned Yankee trick”?

Now that the web was weaving its last mesh in early January he
haunted Montgomery, and on this day when it seemed that things
must culminate or he would go mad, he hastened again down to the
Planters’ Hotel and was quickly ushered to John Taylor’s room.
The place was filled with tobacco smoke. An electric ticker was
drumming away in one corner, a telephone ringing on the desk, and
messenger boys hovered outside the door and raced to and fro.

“Well,” asked Cresswell, maintaining his composure by an effort,
“how are things?”

“Great!” returned Taylor. “League holds three million bales and
controls five. It’s the biggest corner in years.”

“But how’s cotton?”

“Ticker says six and three-fourths.”

Cresswell sat down abruptly opposite Taylor, looking at him
fixedly.

“That last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us,”
he said slowly.

“Exactly,” Taylor blandly admitted.

Beads of sweat gathered on Cresswell’s forehead. He looked at the
scrawny iron man opposite, who had already forgotten his
presence. He ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began
to figure, drinking as he figured. Slowly the blood crept out of
his white face leaving it whiter, and went surging and pounding
in his heart. Poverty—that was what those figures spelled.
Poverty—unclothed, wineless poverty, to dig and toil like a
“nigger” from morning until night, and to give up horses and
carriages and women; that was what they spelled.

“How much—farther will it drop?” he asked harshly.

Taylor did not look up.

“Can’t tell,” he said, “‘fraid not much though.” He glanced
through a telegram. “No—damn it!—outside mills are
low; they’ll stampede soon. Meantime we’ll buy.”

“But, Taylor—”

“Here are one hundred thousand offered at six and three-fourths.”

“I tell you, Taylor—” Cresswell half arose.

“Done!” cried Taylor. “Six and one-half,” clicked the machine.

Cresswell arose from his chair by the window and came slowly to
the wide flat desk where Taylor was working feverishly. He sat
down heavily in the chair opposite and tried quietly to regain
his self-control. The liabilities of the Cresswells already
amounted to half the value of their property, at a fair market
valuation. The cotton for which they had made debts was still
falling in value. Every fourth of a cent fall meant—he
figured it again tremblingly—meant one hundred thousand
more of liabilities. If cotton fell to six he hadn’t a cent on
earth. If it stayed there—”My God!” He felt a faintness
stealing over him but he beat it back and gulped down another
glass of fiery liquor.

Then the one protecting instinct of his clan gripped him. Slowly,
quietly his hand moved back until it grasped the hilt of the big
Colt’s revolver that was ever with him—his thin white hand
became suddenly steady as it slipped the weapon beneath the
shadow of the desk.

“If it goes to six,” he kept murmuring, “we’re ruined—if it
goes to six—if—”

“Tick,” sounded the wheel and the sound reverberated like sudden
thunder in his ears. His hand was iron, and he raised it
slightly. “Six,” said the wheel—his finger
quivered—”and a half.”

“Hell!” yelled Taylor. “She’s turned—there’ll be the devil
to pay now.” A messenger burst in and Taylor scowled.

“She’s loose in New York—a regular mob in New
Orleans—and—hark!—By God! there’s something
doing here. Damn it—I wish we’d got another million bales.
Let’s see, we’ve got—” He figured while the wheel
whirred—”7—7-1/2—8—8-1/2.”

Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson and
his hair wild.

“My God, Taylor,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m a half a million
ahead—great heavens!”

The ticker whirred, “8¾—9—9½—10.” Then it
stopped dead.

“Exchange closed,” said Taylor. “We’ve cornered the market all
right—cornered it—d’ye hear, Cresswell? We got over
half the crop and we can send prices to the North
Star—you—why, I figure it you Cresswells are worth at
least seven hundred and fifty thousand above liabilities this
minute,” and John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big black
cigar.

“I’ve made a million or so myself,” he added reflectively.

Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white
again, and he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice.

“I’ve gambled—before; I’ve gambled on cards and on horses;
I’ve gambled—for
money—and—women—but—”

“But not on cotton, hey? Well, I don’t know about cards and such;
but they can’t beat cotton.”

“And say, John Taylor, you’re my friend.” Cresswell stretched his
hand across the desk, and as he bent forward the pistol crashed
to the floor.

Nineteen

THE DYING OF ELSPETH

Rich! This was the thought that awakened Harry Cresswell to a
sense of endless well-being. Rich! No longer the mirage and
semblance of wealth, the memory of opulence, the shadow of homage
without the substance of power—no; now the wealth was real,
cold hard dollars, and in piles. How much? He laughed aloud as he
turned on his pillow. What did he care? Enough—enough. Not
less than half a million; perhaps three-quarters of a million;
perhaps—was not cotton still rising?—a whole round
million! That would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a
year. Great heavens! and he’d been starving on a bare couple of
thousand and trying to keep up appearances! today the Cresswells
were almost millionaires; aye, and he might be married to more
millions.

He sat up with a start. Today Mary was going North. He had quite
forgotten it in the wild excitement of the cotton corner. He had
neglected her. Of course, there was always the hovering doubt as
to whether he really wanted her or not. She had the form and
carriage; her beauty, while not startling, was young and fresh
and firm. On the other hand there was about her a certain
independence that he did not like to associate with women. She
had thoughts and notions of the world which were, to his Southern
training, hardly feminine. And yet even they piqued him and
spurred him like the sight of an untrained colt. He had not seen
her falter yet beneath his glances or tremble at his touch. All
this he desired—ardently desired. But did he desire her as
a wife? He rather thought that he did. And if so he must speak
today.

There was his father, too, to reckon with. Colonel Cresswell,
with the perversity of the simple-minded, had taken the sudden
bettering of their fortunes as his own doing. He had foreseen; he
had stuck it out; his credit had pulled the thing through; and
the trust had learned a thing or two about Southern gentlemen.

Toward John Taylor he perceptibly warmed. His business methods
were such as a Cresswell could never stoop to; but he was a man
of his word, and Colonel Cresswell’s correspondence with Mr.
Easterly opened his eyes to the beneficent ideals of Northern
capital. At the same time he could not consider the Easterlys and
the Taylors and such folk as the social equals of the Cresswells,
and his prejudice on this score must still be reckoned with.

Below, Mary Taylor lingered on the porch in strange uncertainty.
Harry Cresswell would soon be coming downstairs. Did she want him
to find her? She liked him frankly, undisguisedly; but from the
love she knew to be so near her heart she recoiled in
perturbation. He wooed her—whether consciously or not, she
was always uncertain—with every quiet attention and
subtle deference, with a devotion seemingly quite too delicate
for words; he not only fetched her flowers, but flowers that
chimed with day and gown and season—almost with mood. He
had a woman’s premonitions in fulfilling her wishes. His hands,
if they touched her, were soft and tender, and yet he gave a
curious impression of strength and poise and will.

Indeed, in all things he was in her eyes a gentleman in the fine
old-fashioned aristocracy of the term; her own heart voiced all
he did not say, and pleaded for him to her own confusion.

And yet, in her heart, lay the awful doubt—and the words
kept ringing in her ears! “You will marry this man—but
heaven help you if you do!”

So it was that on this day when she somehow felt he would speak,
his footsteps on the stairs filled her with sudden panic. Without
a word she slipped behind the pillars and ran down among the oaks
and sauntered out upon the big road. He caught the white flutter
of her dress, and smiled indulgently as he watched and waited and
lightly puffed his cigarette.

The morning was splendid with that first delicious languor of the
spring which breathes over the Southland in February. Mary Taylor
filled her lungs, lifted her arms aloft, and turning, stepped
into the deep shadow of the swamp.

Abruptly the air, the day, the scene about her subtly changed.
She felt a closeness and a tremor, a certain brooding terror in
the languid sombre winds. The gold of the sunlight faded to a
sickly green, and the earth was black and burned. A moment she
paused and looked back; she caught the man’s silhouette against
the tall white pillars of the mansion and she fled deeper into
the forest with the hush of death about her, and the silence
which is one great Voice. Slowly, and mysteriously it loomed
before her—that squat and darksome cabin which seemed to
fitly set in the centre of the wilderness, beside its crawling
slime.

She paused in sudden certainty that there lay the answer to her
doubts and mistrust. She felt impelled to go forward and
ask—what? She did not know, but something to still this war
in her bosom. She had seldom seen Elspeth; she had never been in
her cabin. She had felt an inconquerable aversion for the evil
hag; she felt it now, and shivered in the warm breeze.

As she came in full view of the door, she paused. On the step of
the cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood Zora. Measured by
the squat cabin she seemed in height colossal; slim, straight as
a pine, motionless, with one long outstretched arm pointing to
where the path swept onward toward the town.

It was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and
sharp-cut in the green mystery of the sunlight. Before that
motionless, fateful figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman,
dishevelled, clutching her breast; she bent and
rose—hesitated—seemed to plead; then turning, clasped
in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in Zora’s
gown. Next instant she was staggering along the path whither Zora
pointed.

Slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed
through the wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled
in Mary Taylor.

Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still,
and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary
Taylor looked up into Zora’s face, then paused in awe. It was a
face she did not know; it was neither the beautifully mischievous
face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. It was
a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely; clothed in a
mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths
of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. All this lay in its
darkness.

“Good-morning, Miss Taylor.”

Mary, who was wont to teach this woman—so lately a
child—searched in vain for words to address her now. She
stood bare-haired and hesitating in the pale green light of the
darkened morning. It seemed fit that a deep groan of pain should
gather itself from the mysterious depths of the swamp, and drop
like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. But it brought Mary
Taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden impulse she
spoke.

“Is—is anything the matter?” she asked nervously.

“Elspeth is sick,” replied Zora.

“Is she very sick?”

“Yes—she has been called,” solemnly returned the dark young
woman.

Mary was puzzled. “Called?” she repeated vaguely.

“We heard the great cry in the night, and Elspeth says it is the
End.”

It did not occur to Mary Taylor to question this mysticism; she
all at once understood—perhaps read the riddle in the dark,
melancholy eyes that so steadily regarded her.

“Then you can leave the place, Zora?” she exclaimed gladly.

“Yes, I could leave.”

“And you will.”

“I don’t know.”

“But the place looks—evil.”

“It is evil.”

“And yet you will stay?”

Zora’s eyes were now fixed far above the woman’s head, and she
saw a human face forming itself in the vast rafters of the
forest. Its eyes were wet with pain and anger.

“Perhaps,” she answered.

The child furtively uncovered her face and looked at the
stranger. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired.

“Whose child is this?” queried Mary, curiously.

Zora looked coldly down upon the child.

“It is Bertie’s. Her mother is bad. She is gone. I sent her. She
and the others like her.”

“But where have you sent them?”

“To Hell!”

Mary Taylor started under the shock. Impulsively she moved
forward with hands that wanted to stretch themselves in appeal.

“Zora! Zora! You mustn’t go, too!”

But the black girl drew proudly back.

“I am there,” she returned, with unmistakable simplicity
of absolute conviction.

The white woman shrank back. Her heart was wrung; she wanted to
say more—to explain, to ask to help; there came welling to
her lips a flood of things that she would know. But Zora’s face
again was masked.

“I must go,” she said, before Mary could speak. “Good-bye.” And
the dark groaning depths of the cabin swallowed her.

With a satisfied smile, Harry Cresswell had seen the Northern
girl disappear toward the swamp; for it is significant when
maidens run from lovers. But maidens should also come back, and
when, after the lapse of many minutes, Mary did not reappear, he
followed her footsteps to the swamp.

He frowned as he noted the footprints pointing to
Elspeth’s—what did Mary Taylor want there? A fear started
within him, and something else. He was suddenly aware that he
wanted this woman, intensely; at the moment he would have turned
Heaven and earth to get her. He strode forward and the wood rose
darkly green above him. A long, low, distant moan seemed to sound
upon the breeze, and after it came Mary Taylor.

He met her with tender solicitude, and she was glad to feel his
arm beneath hers.

“I’ve been searching for you,” he said after a silence. “You
should not wander here alone—it is dangerous.”

“Why, dangerous?” she asked.

“Wandering Negroes, and even wild beasts, in the forest
depths—and malaria—see, you tremble now.”

“But not from malaria,” she slowly returned.

He caught an unfamiliar note in his voice, and a wild desire to
justify himself before this woman clamored in his heart. With it,
too, came a cooler calculating intuition that frankness alone
would win her now. At all hazards he must win, and he cast the
die.

“Miss Taylor,” he said, “I want to talk to you—I have
wanted to for—a year.” He glanced at her: she was white and
silent, but she did not tremble. He went on:

“I have hesitated because I do not know that I have a right to
speak or explain to—to—a good woman.”

He felt her arm tighten on his and he continued:

“You have been to Elspeth’s cabin; it is an evil place, and has
meant evil for this community, and for me. Elspeth was my
mother’s favorite servant and my own mammy. My mother died when I
was ten and left me to her tender mercies. She let me have my way
and encouraged the bad in me. It’s a wonder I escaped total ruin.
Her cabin became a rendezvous for drinking and carousing. I told
my father, but he, in lazy indifference, declared the place no
worse than all Negro cabins, and did nothing. I ceased my visits.
Still she tried every lure and set false stories going among the
Negroes, even when I sought to rescue Zora. I tell you this
because I know you have heard evil rumors. I have not been a good
man—Mary; but I love you, and you can make me good.”

Perhaps no other appeal would have stirred Mary Taylor. She was
in many respects an inexperienced girl. But she thought she knew
the world; she knew that Harry Cresswell was not all he should
be, and she knew too that many other men were not. Moreover, she
argued he had not had a fair chance. All the school-ma’am in her
leaped to his teaching. What he needed was a superior person like
herself. She loved him, and she deliberately put her arms about
his neck and lifted her face to be kissed.

Back by the place of the Silver Fleece they wandered, across the
Big Road, up to the mansion. On the steps stood John Taylor and
Helen Cresswell hand in hand and they all smiled at each other.
The Colonel came out, smiling too, with the paper in his hands.

“Easterly’s right,” he beamed, “the stock of the Cotton
Combine—” he paused at the silence and looked up. The smile
faded slowly and the red blood mounted to his forehead. Anger
struggled back of surprise, but before it burst forth silently
the Colonel turned, and muttering some unintelligible word, went
slowly into the house and slammed the door.

So for Harry Cresswell the day burst, flamed, and waned, and then
suddenly went out, leaving him dull and gray; for Mary and her
brother had gone North, Helen had gone to bed, and the Colonel
was in town. Outside the weather was gusty and lowering with a
chill in the air. He paced the room fitfully.

Well, he was happy. Or, was he happy?

He gnawed his mustache, for already his quick, changeable nature
was feeling the rebound from glory to misery. He was a little
ashamed of his exaltation; a bit doubtful and uncertain. He had
stooped low to this Yankee school-ma’am, lower than he had ever
stooped to a woman. Usually, while he played at loving, women
grovelled; for was he not a Cresswell? Would this woman recognize
that fact and respect him accordingly?

Then there was Zora; what had she said and hinted to Mary? The
wench was always eluding and mocking him, the black devil! But,
pshaw!—he poured himself a glass of brandy—was he not
rich and young? The world was his.

His valet knocked.

“Gentleman is asking if you forgits it’s Saturday night, sir?”
said Sam.

Cresswell walked thoughtfully to the window, swept back the
curtain, and looked toward the darkness and the swamp. It lowered
threateningly; behind it the night sky was tinged with blood.

“No,” he said; “I’m not going.” And he shut out the glow.

Yet he grew more and more restless. The devil danced in his veins
and burned in his forehead. His hands shook. He heard a rustle of
departing feet beneath his window, then a pause and a faint
halloo.

“All right,” he called, and in a moment went downstairs and out
into the night. As he closed the front door there seemed to come
faintly up from the swamp a low ululation, like the prolonged cry
of some wild bird, or the wail of one’s mourning for his dead.

Within the cabin, Elspeth heard. Tremblingly, she swayed to her
feet, a haggard, awful sight. She motioned Zora away, and
stretching her hands palms upward to the sky, cried with dry and
fear-struck gasp:

“I’se called! I’se called!”

On the bed the child smiled in its dreaming; the red flame of the
firelight set the gold to dancing in her hair. Zora shrank back
into the shadows and listened. Then it came. She heard the heavy
footsteps crashing through the underbrush—coming, coming,
as from the end of the world. She shrank still farther back, and
a shadow swept the door.

He was a mighty man, black and white-haired, and his eyes were
the eyes of death. He bent to enter the door, and then uplifting
himself and stretching his great arms, his palms touched the
blackened rafters.

Zora started forward. Thick memories of some forgotten past came
piling in upon her. Where had she known him? What was he to her?

Slowly Elspeth, with quivering hands, unwound the black and
snake-like object that always guarded her breast. Without a word,
he took it, and again his hands flew heavenward. With a low and
fearful moan the old woman lurched sideways, then crashed, like a
fallen pine, upon the hearthstone. She lay still—dead.

Three times the man passed his hands, wave-like, above the dead.
Three times he murmured, and his eyes burned into the shadows,
where the girl trembled. Then he turned and went as he had come,
his heavy feet crashing through the underbrush, on and on,
fainter and fainter, as to the end of the world.

Zora shook herself from the trance-like horror and passed her
hands across her eyes to drive out the nightmare. But, no! there
lay the dead upon the hearth with the firelight flashing over
her, a bloated, hideous, twisted thing, distorted in the rigor of
death. A moment Zora looked down upon her mother. She felt the
cold body whence the wandering, wrecked soul had passed. She sat
down and stared death in the face for the first time. A mighty
questioning arose within, a questioning and a yearning.

Was Elspeth now at peace? Was Death the Way—the wide, dark
Way? She had never thought of it before, and as she thought she
crept forward and looked into the fearful face pityingly.

“Mammy!” she whispered—with bated breath—”Mammy
Elspeth!” Out of the night came a whispered answer: “Elspeth!
Elspeth!”

Zora sprang to her feet, alert, fearful. With a swing of her arm,
she pulled the great oaken door to and dropped the bar into its
place. Over the dead she spread a clean white sheet. Into the
fire she thrust pine-knots. They glared in vague red, and shadowy
brilliance, waving and quivering and throwing up thin swirling
columns of black smoke. Then standing beside the fireplace with
the white, still corpse between her and the door, she took up her
awful vigil.

There came a low knocking at the door; then silence and footsteps
wandering furtively about. The night seemed all footsteps and
whispers. There came a louder knocking, and a voice:

“Elspeth! Elspeth! Open the door; it’s me.”

Then muttering and wandering noises, and silence again.

The child on the bed turned itself, murmuring uneasily in its
dreams. And then they came. Zora froze, watching the door,
wide-eyed, while the fire flamed redder. A loud quick knock at
the door—a pause—an oath and a cry.

“Elspeth! Open this door, damn you!”

A moment of waiting and then the knocking came again, furious and
long continued. Outside there was much trampling and swearing.
Zora did not move; the child slept on. A tugging and dragging, a
dull blow that set the cabin quivering; then,—

“Bang! Crack! Crash!“—the door wavered, splintered,
and dropped upon the floor.

With a snarl, a crowd of some half-dozen white faces rushed
forward, wavered and stopped. The awakened child sat up and
stared with wide blue eyes. Slowly, with no word, the intruders
turned and went silently away, leaving but one late comer who
pressed forward.

“What damned mummery is this?” he cried, and snatching at the
sheet, dragged it from the black distorted countenance of the
corpse. He shuddered but for a moment he could not stir. He felt
the midnight eyes of the girl—he saw the twisted, oozing
mouth of the hag, blue-black and hideous.

Suddenly back behind there in the darkness a shriek split the
night like a sudden flash of flame—a great ringing scream
that cracked and swelled and stopped. With one wild effort the
man hurled himself out the door and plunged through the darkness.
Panting and cursing, he flashed his huge revolver—”bang!
bang! bang!” it cracked into the night. The sweat poured from
his forehead; the terror of the swamp was upon him. With a
struggling and tearing in his throat, he tripped and fell
fainting under the silent oaks.

Twenty

THE WEAVING OF THE SILVER FLEECE

The Silver Fleece, darkly cloaked and girded, lay in the cotton
warehouse of the Cresswells, near the store. Its silken fibres,
cramped and close, shone yellow-white in the sunlight; sadly
soiled, yet beautiful. Many came to see Zora’s twin bales, as
they lay, handling them and questioning, while Colonel Cresswell
grew proud of his possession.

The world was going well with the Colonel. Freed from money
cares, praised for his generalship in the cotton corner, able to
entertain sumptuously, he was again a Southern gentleman of the
older school, and so in his envied element. Yet today he frowned
as he stood poking absently with his cane at the baled Fleece.

This marriage—or, rather, these marriages—were not to
his liking. It was a mesalliance of a sort that pricked
him tenderly; it savored grossly of bargain and sale. His
neighbors regarded it with disconcerting equanimity. They seemed
to think an alliance with Northern millions an honor for
Cresswell blood, and the Colonel thumped the nearer bale
vigorously. His cane slipped along the iron bands suddenly, and
the old man lurching forward, clutched in space to save himself
and touched a human hand.

Zora, sitting shadowed on the farther bale, drew back her hand
quickly at the contact, and started to move away.

“Who’s that?” thundered the Colonel, more angry at his
involuntary fright than at the intrusion. “Here, boys!”

But Zora had come forward into the space where the sunlight of
the wide front doors poured in upon the cotton bales.

“It’s me, Colonel,” she said.

He glared at her. She was taller and thinner than formerly,
darkly transparent of skin, and her dark eyes shone in strange
and dusky brilliance. Still indignant and surprised, the Colonel
lifted his voice sharply.

“What the devil are you doing here?—sleeping when you ought
to be at work! Get out! And see here, next week cotton chopping
begins—you’ll go to the fields or to the chain-gang. I’ll
have no more of your loafing about my place.”

Awaiting no reply, the Colonel, already half ashamed of his
vehemence, stormed out into the sunlight and climbed upon his bay
mare.

But Zora still stood silent in the shadow of the Silver Fleece,
hearing and yet not hearing. She was searching for the Way,
groping for the threads of life, seeking almost wildly to
understand the foundations of understanding, piteously asking for
answer to the puzzle of life. All the while the walls rose
straight about her and narrow. To continue in school meant
charity, yet she had nowhere to go and nothing to go with. To
refuse to work for the Cresswells meant trouble for the school
and perhaps arrest for herself. To work in the fields meant
endless toil and a vista that opened upon death.

Like a hunted thing the girl turned and twisted in thought and
faced everywhere the blank Impossible. Cold and dreamlike
without, her shut teeth held back seething fires within, and a
spirit of revolt that gathered wildness as it grew. Above all
flew the dream, the phantasy, the memory of the past, the vision
of the future. Over and over she whispered to herself: “This is
not the End; this can not be the End.”

Somehow, somewhere, would come salvation. Yet what it would be
and what she expected she did not know. She sought the Way, but
what way and whither she did not know, she dared not dream.

One thing alone lay in her wild fancy like a great and wonderful
fact dragging the dream to earth and anchoring it there. That was
the Silver Fleece. Like a brooding mother, Zora had watched it.
She knew how the gin had been cleaned for its pressing and how it
had been baled apart and carefully covered. She knew how proud
Colonel Cresswell was of it and how daily he had visitors to see
it and finger the wide white wound in its side.

“Yes, sir, grown on my place, by my niggers, sir!” he assured
them; and they marvelled.

To Zora’s mind, this beautiful baled fibre was hers; it typified
happiness; it was an holy thing which profane hands had stolen.
When it came back to her (as come it must, she cried with
clenched hands) it would bring happiness; not the great
Happiness—that was gone forever—but illumination,
atonement, and something of the power and the glory. So,
involuntarily almost, she haunted the cotton storehouse, flitting
like a dark and silent ghost in among the workmen, greeting them
with her low musical voice, warding them with the cold majesty of
her eyes; each day afraid of some last parting, each night
triumphant—it was still there!

The Colonel—Zora already forgotten—rode up to the
Cresswell Oaks, pondering darkly. It was bad enough to
contemplate Helen’s marriage in distant prospect, but the sudden,
almost peremptory desire for marrying at Eastertide, a little
less than two months away, was absurd. There were “business
reasons arising from the presidential campaign in the fall,” John
Taylor had telegraphed; but there was already too much business
in the arrangement to suit the Colonel. With Harry it was
different. Indeed it was his own quiet suggestion that made John
Taylor hurry matters.

Harry trusted to the novelty of his father’s new wealth to make
the latter complacent; he himself felt an impatient longing for
the haven of a home. He had been too long untethered. He
distrusted himself. The devil within was too fond of taking the
bit in his teeth. He would remember to his dying day one awful
shriek in the night, as of a soul tormenting and tormented. He
wanted the protection of a good woman, and sometimes against the
clear whiteness of her letters so joyous and generous, even if a
bit prim and didactic, he saw a vision of himself reflected as he
was, and he feared.

It was distinctively disconcerting to Colonel Cresswell to find
Harry quite in favor of early nuptials, and to learn that the
sole objection even in Helen’s mind was the improbability of
getting a wedding-gown in time. Helen had all a child’s naive
love for beautiful and dainty things, and a wedding-gown from
Paris had been her life dream. On this point, therefore, there
ensued spirited arguments and much correspondence, and both her
brother and her lover evinced characteristic interest in the
planning.

Said Harry: “Sis, I’ll cable to Paris today. They can easily
hurry the thing along.”

Helen was delighted; she handed over a telegram just received
from John Taylor. “Send me, express, two bales best cotton you
can get.”

The Colonel read the message. “I don’t see the connection between
this and hurrying up a wedding-gown,” he growled. None of them
discerned the handwriting of Destiny.

“Neither do I,” said Harry, who detected yielding in his father’s
tone. “But we’d better send him the two prize bales; it will be a
fine advertisement of our plantation, and evidently he has a
surprise in store for us.”

The Colonel affected to hesitate, but next morning the Silver
Fleece went to town.

Zora watched it go, and her heart swelled and died within her.
She walked to town, to the station. She did not see Mrs.
Vanderpool arriving from New Orleans; but Mrs. Vanderpool saw
her, and looked curiously at the tall, tragic figure that leaned
so dolorously beside the freight car. The bales were loaded into
the express car; the train pulled away, its hoarse snorting
waking vague echoes in the forest beyond. But to the girl who
stood at the End, looking outward to darkness, those echoes
roared like the crack of doom. A passing band of contract hands
called to her mockingly, and one black giant, laughing loudly,
gripped her hand.

“Come, honey,” he shouted, “you’se a’dreaming! Come on, honey!”

She turned abruptly and gripped his hand, as one drowning grips
anything offered—gripped till he winced. She laughed a loud
mirthless laugh, that came pouring like a sob from her deep
lungs.

“Come on!” she mocked, and joined them.

They were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. There were
husky, big-limbed youths, and bold-faced, loud-tongued girls.
To-morrow they would start up-country to some backwoods barony in
the kingdom of cotton, and work till Christmas time. Today was
the last in town; there was craftily advanced money in their
pockets and riot in their hearts. In the gathering twilight they
marched noisily through the streets; in their midst, wide-eyed
and laughing almost hysterically, marched Zora.

Mrs. Vanderpool meantime rode thoughtfully out of town toward
Cresswell Oaks. She was returning from witnessing the Mardi Gras
festivities at New Orleans and at the urgent invitation of the
Cresswells had stopped off. She might even stay to the wedding if
the new plans matured.

Mrs. Vanderpool was quite upset. Her French maid, on whom she had
depended absolutely for five years or more, had left her.

“I think I want to try a colored maid,” she told the Cresswells,
laughingly, as they drove home. “They have sweet voices and they
can’t doff their uniform. Helene without her cap and apron was
often mistaken for a lady, and while I was in New Orleans a
French confectioner married her under some such delusion. Now,
haven’t you a girl about here who would do?”

“No,” declared Harry decisively, but his sister suggested that
she might ask Miss Smith at the colored school.

Again Mrs. Vanderpool laughed, but after tea she wandered idly
down the road. The sun behind the swamp was crimsoning the world.
Mrs. Vanderpool strolled alone to the school, and saw Sarah
Smith. There was no cordiality in the latter’s greeting, but when
she heard the caller’s errand her attention was at once arrested
and held. The interests of her charges were always uppermost in
her mind.

“Can’t I have the girl Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool at last inquired.

Miss Smith started, for she was thinking of Zora at that very
instant. The girl was later than usual, and she was momentarily
expecting to see her tall form moving languidly up the walk.

She gave Mrs. Vanderpool a searching look. Mrs. Vanderpool
glanced involuntarily at her gown and smiled as she did it.

“Could I trust you with a human soul?” asked Miss Smith abruptly.

Mrs. Vanderpool looked up quickly. The half mocking answer that
rose involuntarily to her lips was checked. Within, Mrs.
Vanderpool was a little puzzled at herself. Why had she asked for
this girl? She had felt a strange interest in her—a
peculiar human interest since she first saw her and as she saw
her again this afternoon. But would she make a satisfactory maid?
Was it not a rather dangerous experiment? Why had she asked for
her? She certainly had not intended to when she entered the
house.

In the silence Miss Smith continued: “Here is a child in whom the
fountains of the great deep are suddenly broken up. With peace
and care she would find herself, for she is strong. But here
there is no peace. Slavery of soul and body awaits her and I am
powerless to protect her. She must go away. That going away may
make or ruin her. She knows nothing of working for wages and she
has not the servant’s humility; but she has loyalty and pluck.
For one she loves there is nothing she would not do; but she
cannot be driven. Or rather, if she is driven, it may rouse in
her the devil incarnate. She needs not exactly
affection—she would almost resent that—but
intelligent interest and care. In return for this she will
gradually learn to serve and serve loyally. Frankly, Mrs.
Vanderpool, I would not have chosen you for this task of human
education. Indeed, you would have been my last thought—you
seem to me—I speak plainly—a worldly woman. Yet,
perhaps—who can tell?—God has especially set you to
this task. At any rate, I have little choice. I am at my wits’
end. Elspeth, the mother of this child, is not long dead; and
here is the girl, beautiful, unprotected; and here am I, almost
helpless. She is in debt to the Cresswells, and they are pressing
the claim to her service. Take her if you can get her—it
is, I fear, her only chance. Mind you—if you can persuade
her; and that may be impossible.”

“Where is she now?”

Miss Smith glanced out at the darkening landscape, and then at
her watch.

“I do not know; she’s very late. She’s given to wandering, but
usually she is here before this time.”

“I saw her in town this afternoon,” said Mrs. Vanderpool.

“Zora? In town?” Miss Smith rose. “I’ll send her to you
tomorrow,” she said quietly. Mrs. Vanderpool had hardly reached
the Oaks before Miss Smith was driving toward town.

A small cabin on the town’s ragged fringe was crowded to
suffocation. Within arose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous
laughter; the scraping of a fiddle and whine of an accordion.
Liquor began to appear and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden
as the dances whirled. At the edge of the orgy stood Zora,
wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain that gripped her
heart and hammered in her head, crying in tune with the frenzied
music—”the End—the End!”

Abruptly she recognized a face despite the wreck and ruin of its
beauty.

“Bertie!” she cried as she seized the mother of little Emma by
the arm.

The woman staggered and offered her glass.

“Drink,” she cried, “drink and forget.”

In a moment Zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in
both hands. A dozen hands clapped a devil’s tattoo. A score of
voices yelled and laughed. The shriek of the music was drowned
beneath the thunder of stamping feet. Men reeled to singing
women’s arms, but above the roar rose the song of the voice of
Zora—she glided to the middle of the room, standing
tip-toed with skirts that curled and turned; she threw back her
head, raised the liquor to her lips, paused and looked into the
face of Miss Smith.

A silence fell like a lightning flash on the room as that white
face peered in at the door. Slowly Zora’s hands fell and her eyes
blinked as though waking from some awful dream. She staggered
toward the woman’s outstretched arms….

Late that night the girl lay close in Miss Smith’s motherly
embrace.

“I was going to hell!” she whispered, trembling.

“Why, Zora?” asked Miss Smith calmly.

“I couldn’t find the Way—and I wanted to forget.”

“People in hell don’t forget,” was the matter-of-fact comment.
“And, Zora, what way do you seek? The way where?”

Zora sat up in bed, and lifted a gray and stricken face.

“It’s a lie,” she cried, with hoarse earnedstness, “the way
nowhere. There is no Way! You know—I want
him—I want nothing on earth but him—and him I
can’t ever have.”

The older woman drew her down tenderly.

“No, Zora,” she said, “there’s something you want more than him
and something you can have!”

“What?” asked the wondering girl.

“His respect,” said Sarah Smith, “and I know the Way.”

Twenty-one

THE MARRIAGE MORNING

Mrs. Vanderpool watched Zora as she came up the path beneath the
oaks. “She walks well,” she observed. And laying aside her book,
she waited with a marked curiosity.

The girl’s greeting was brief, almost curt, but unintentionally
so, as one could easily see, for back in her eyes lurked an
impatient hunger; she was not thinking of greetings. She murmured
a quick word, and stood straight and tall with her eyes squarely
on the lady.

In the depths of Mrs. Vanderpool’s heart something
strange—not new, but very old—stirred. Before her
stood this tall black girl, quietly returning her look. Mrs.
Vanderpool had a most uncomfortable sense of being judged, of
being weighed,—and there arose within her an impulse to
self-justification.

She smiled and said sweetly, “Won’t you sit?” But despite all
this, her mind seemed leaping backward a thousand years; back to
a simpler, primal day when she herself, white, frail, and
fettered, stood before the dusky magnificence of some bejewelled
barbarian queen and sought to justify herself. She shook off the
phantasy,—and yet how well the girl stood. It was not every
one that could stand still and well.

“Please sit down,” she repeated with her softest charm, not
dreaming that outside the school white persons did not ask this
girl to sit in their presence. But even this did not move Zora.
She sat down. There was in her, walking, standing, sitting, a
simple directness which Mrs. Vanderpool sensed and met.

“Zora, I need some one to help me—to do my hair and serve
my coffee, and dress and take care of me. The work will not be
hard, and you can travel and see the world and live well. Would
you like it?”

“But I do not know how to do all these things,” returned Zora,
slowly. She was thinking rapidly—Was this the Way? It
sounded wonderful. The World, the great mysterious World, that
stretched beyond the swamp and into which Bles and the Silver
Fleece had gone—did it lead to the Way? But if she went
there what would she see and do, and would it be possible to
become such a woman as Miss Smith pictured?

“What is the world like?” asked Zora.

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled. “Oh, I meant great active cities and
buildings, myriads of people and wonderful sights.”

“Yes—but back of it all, what is it really? What does it
look like?”

“Heavens, child! Don’t ask. Really, it isn’t worth while peering
back of things. One is sure to be disappointed.”

“Then what’s the use of seeing the world?”

“Why, one must live; and why not be happy?” answered Mrs.
Vanderpool, amused, baffled, spurred for the time being from her
chronic ennui.

“Are you happy?” retorted Zora, looking her over carefully, from
silken stockings to garden hat. Mrs. Vanderpool laid aside her
little mockery and met the situation bravely.

“No,” she replied simply. Her eyes grew old and tired.

Involuntarily Zora’s hand crept out protectingly and lay a moment
over the white jewelled fingers. Then quickly recovering herself,
she started hastily to withdraw it, but the woman’s fingers
closed around the darker ones, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s eyes became
dim.

“I need you, Zora,” she said; and then, seeing the half-formed
question, “Yes, and you need me; we need each other. In the world
lies opportunity, and I will help you.”

Zora rose abruptly, and Mrs. Vanderpool feared, with a tightening
of heart, that she had lost this strangely alluring girl.

“I will come to-morrow,” said Zora.

As Mrs. Vanderpool went in to lunch, reaction and lingering
doubts came trouping back. To replace the daintiest of trained
experts with the most baffling semi-barbarian, well!

“Have you hired a maid?” asked Helen.

“I’ve engaged Zora,” laughed Mrs. Vanderpool, lightly; “and now
I’m wondering whether I have a jewel or—a white elephant.”

“Probably neither,” remarked Harry Cresswell, drily; but he
avoided the lady’s inquiring eyes.

Next morning Zora came easily into Mrs. Vanderpool’s life. There
was little she knew of her duties, but little, too, that she
could not learn with a deftness and divination almost startling.
Her quietness, her quickness, her young strength, were like a
soothing balm to the tired woman of fashion, and within a week
she had sunk back contentedly into Zora’s strong arms.

“It’s a jewel,” she decided.

With this verdict, the house agreed. The servants waited on “Miss
Zora” gladly; the men scarcely saw her, and the ladies ran to her
for help in all sorts. Harry Cresswell looked upon this
transformation with an amused smile, but the Colonel saw in it
simply evidence of dangerous obstinacy in a black girl who
hitherto had refused to work.

Zora had been in the house but a week when a large express
package was received from John Taylor. Its unwrapping brought a
cry of pleasure from the ladies. There lay a bolt of silken-like
cambric of wondrous fineness and lustre, marked: “For the
wedding-dress.” The explanation accompanied the package, that
Mary Taylor had a similar piece in the North.

Helen and Harry said nothing of the cablegram to the Paris
tailor, and Helen took no steps toward having the cambric dress
made, not even when the wedding invitations appeared.

“A Cresswell married in cotton!” Helen was almost in tears lest
the Paris gown be delayed, and sure enough a cablegram came at
last saying that there was little likelihood of the gown being
ready by Easter. It would be shipped at the earliest convenience,
but it could hardly catch the necessary boat. Helen had a good
cry, and then came a wild rush to get John Taylor’s cloth ready.
Still, Helen was querulous. She decided that silk embroidery must
embellish the skirt. The dressmaker was in despair.

“I haven’t a single spare worker,” she declared.

Helen was appealing to Mrs. Vanderpool.

“I can do it,” said Zora, who was in the room.

“Do you know how?” asked the dressmaker.

“No, but I want to know.”

Mrs. Vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. “Show her,” she said. The
dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. “Zora sews beautifully,”
added Mrs. Vanderpool.

Thus the beautiful cloth came to Zora’s room, and was spread in a
glossy cloud over her bed. She trembled at its beauty and felt a
vague inner yearning, as if some subtle magic of the woven web
were trying to tell her its story.

She worked over it faithfully and lovingly in every spare hour
and in long nights of dreaming. Wilfully she departed from the
set pattern and sewed into the cloth something of the beauty in
her heart. In new and intricate ways, with soft shadowings and
coverings, she wove in that white veil her own strange soul, and
Mrs. Vanderpool watched her curiously, but in silence.

Meantime all things were arranged for a double wedding at
Cresswell Oaks. As John and Mary Taylor had no suitable home,
they were to come down and the two brides to go forth from the
Cresswell mansion. Accordingly the Taylors arrived a week before
the wedding and the home took on a festive air. Even Colonel
Cresswell expanded under the genial influences, and while his
head still protested his heart was glad. He had to respect John
Taylor’s undoubted ability; and Mary Taylor was certainly lovely,
in spite of that assumption of cleverness of which the Colonel
could not approve.

Mary returned to the old scenes with mingled feelings. Especially
was she startled at seeing Zora a member of the household and
apparently high in favor. It brought back something of the old
uneasiness and suspicion.

All this she soon forgot under the cadence of Harry Cresswell’s
pleasant voice and the caressing touch of his arm. He seemed
handsomer than ever; and he was, for sleep and temperance and the
wooing of a woman had put a tinge in his marble face, smoothed
the puffs beneath his eyes, and given him a more distinguished
bearing and a firmer hand. And Mary Taylor was very happy. So was
her brother, only differently; he was making money; he was
planning to make more, and he had something to pet which seemed
to him extraordinarily precious and valuable.

Taylor eagerly inquired after the cloth, and followed the ladies
to Zora’s room, adjoining Mrs. Vanderpool’s, to see it. It lay
uncut and shimmering, covered with dim silken tracery of a
delicacy and beauty which brought an exclamation to all lips.

“That’s what we can do with Alabama cotton,” cried John Taylor in
triumph.

They turned to him incredulously.

“But—”

“No ‘buts’ about it; these are the two bales you sent me, woven
with a silk woof.” No one particularly noticed that Zora had
hastily left the room. “I had it done in Easterly’s New Jersey
mills according to an old plan of mine. I’m going to make cloth
like that right in this county some day,” and he chuckled gayly.

But Zora was striding up and down the halls, the blood surging in
her ears. After they were gone she came back and closed the
doors. She dropped on her knees and buried her face in the filmy
folds of the Silver Fleece.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she whispered in mingled tears and joy.
“It called and I did not understand.”

It was her talisman new-found; her love come back, her stolen
dream come true. Now she could face the world; God had turned it
straight again. She would go into the world and find—not
Love, but the thing greater than Love. Outside the door came
voices—the dressmaker’s tones, Helen’s soft drawl, and Mrs.
Vanderpool’s finished accents. Her face went suddenly gray. The
Silver Fleece was not hers! It belonged—She rose hastily.
The door opened and they came in. The cutting must begin at once,
they all agreed.

“Is it ready, Zora?” inquired Helen.

“No,” Zora quietly answered, “not quite, but tomorrow morning,
early.” As soon as she was alone again, she sat down and
considered. By and by, while the family was at lunch, she folded
the Silver Fleece carefully and locked it in her new trunk. She
would hide it in the swamp. During the afternoon she sent to town
for oil-cloth, and bade the black carpenter at Miss Smith’s make
a cedar box, tight and tarred. In the morning she prepared Mrs.
Vanderpool’s breakfast with unusual care. She was sorry for Mrs.
Vanderpool, and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not, they could
not, understand. What would happen to her? She did not know; she
did not care. The Silver Fleece had returned to her. Soon it
would be buried in the swamp whence it came. She had no
alternative; she must keep it and wait.

She heard the dressmaker’s voice, and then her step upon the
stair. She heard the sound of Harry Cresswell’s buggy, and a
scurrying at the front door. On came the dressmaker’s
footsteps—then her door was unceremoniously burst open.

Helen Cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was
wreathed in smiles. She carried a big red-sealed bundle.

“Zora!” cried Helen in ecstasy. “It’s come!” Zora regarded her
coldly, and stood at bay. The dressmaker was ripping and
snipping, and soon there lay revealed before them—the Paris
gown!

Helen was in raptures, but her conscience pricked her. She
appealed to them. “Ought I to tell? You see, Mary’s gown will
look miserably common beside it.”

The dressmaker was voluble. There was really nothing to tell; and
besides, Helen was a Cresswell and it was to be expected, and so
forth. Helen pursed her lips and petulantly tapped the floor with
her foot.

“But the other gown?”

“Where is it?” asked the dressmaker, looking about. “It would
make a pretty morning-dress—”

But Helen had taken a sudden dislike to the thought of it.

“I don’t want it,” she declared. “And besides, I haven’t room for
it in my trunks.”

Of a sudden she leaned down and whispered to Zora: “Zora, hide it
and keep it if you want it. Come,” to the dressmaker, “I’m dying
to try this on—now…. Remember, Zora—not a word.”
And all this to Zora seemed no surprise; it was the Way, and it
was opening before her because the talisman lay in her trunk.

So at last it came to Easter morning. The world was golden with
jasmine, and crimson with azalea; down in the darker places
gleamed the misty glory of the dogwood; new cotton shook,
glimmered, and blossomed in the black fields, and over all the
soft Southern sun poured its awakening light of life. There was
happiness and hope again in the cabins, and hope and—if not
happiness, ambition, in the mansions.

Zora, almost forgetting the wedding, stood before the mirror.
Laying aside her dress, she draped her shimmering cloth about
her, dragging her hair down in a heavy mass over ears and neck
until she seemed herself a bride. And as she stood there, awed
with the mystical union of a dead love and a living new born
self, there came drifting in at the window, faintly, the soft
sound of far-off marriage music.

“‘Tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!”

Two white and white-swathed brides were coming slowly down the
great staircase of Cresswell Oaks, and two white and
black-clothed bridegrooms awaited them. Either bridegroom looked
gladly at the flow of his sister’s garments and almost darkly at
his bride’s. For Helen was decked in Parisian splendor, while
Mary was gowned in the Fleece.

“‘Tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!”

Up floated the song of the little dark-faced children, and Zora
listened.

Twenty-two

MISS CAROLINE WYNN

Bles Alwyn was seated in the anteroom of Senator Smith’s office
in Washington. The Senator had not come in yet, and there were
others waiting, too.

The young man sat in a corner, dreaming. Washington was his first
great city, and it seemed a never-ending delight—the
streets, the buildings, the crowds; the shops, and lights, and
noise; the kaleidoscopic panorama of a world’s doing, the myriad
forms and faces, the talk and laughter of men. It was all
wonderful magic to the country boy, and he stretched his arms and
filled his lungs and cried: “Here I shall live!”

Especially was he attracted by his own people. They seemed
transformed, revivified, changed. Some might be mistaken for
field hands on a holiday—but not many. Others he did not
recognize—they seemed strange and alien—sharper,
quicker, and at once more overbearing and more unscrupulous.

There were yet others—and at the sight of these Bles stood
straighter and breathed like a man. They were well dressed, and
well appearing men and women, who walked upright and looked one
in the eye, and seemed like persons of affairs and money. They
had arrived—they were men—they filled his mind’s
ideal—he felt like going up to them and grasping their
hands and saying, “At last, brother!” Ah, it was good to find
one’s dreams, walking in the light, in flesh and blood.
Continually such thoughts were surging through his brain, and
they were rioting through it again as he sat waiting in Senator
Smith’s office.

The Senator was late this morning; when he came in he glanced at
the morning paper before looking over his mail and the list of
his callers. “Do fools like the American people deserve
salvation?” he sneered, holding off the headlines and glancing at
them.

“‘League Beats Trust.’ … ‘Farmers of South Smash Effort to Bear
Market … Send Cotton to Twelve Cents … Common People
Triumph.’

“A man is induced to bite off his own nose and then to sing a
pæan of victory. It’s nauseating—senseless. There is no
earthly use striving for such blockheads; they’d crucify any
Saviour.” Thus half consciously Senator Smith salved his
conscience, while he extracted a certificate of deposit for fifty
thousand dollars from his New York mail. He thrust it aside from
his secretary’s view and looked at his list as he rang the bell:
there was Representative Todd, and somebody named
Alwyn—nobody of importance. Easterly was due in a
half-hour. He would get rid of Todd meantime.

“Poor Todd,” he mused; “a lamb for the slaughter.”

But he patiently listened to him plead for party support and
influence for his bill to prohibit gambling in futures.

“I was warned that it was useless to see you, Senator Smith, but
I would come. I believe in you. Frankly, there is a strong group
of your old friends and followers forming against you; they met
only last night, but I did not go. Won’t you take a stand on some
of these progressive matters—this bill, or the Child Labor
movement, or Low Tariff legislation?”

Mr. Smith listened but shook his head.

“When the time comes,” he announced deliberately, “I shall have
something to say on several of these matters. At present I can
only say that I cannot support this bill,” and Mr. Todd was
ushered out. He met Mr. Easterly coming in and greeted him
effusively. He knew him only as a rich philanthropist, who had
helped the Neighborhood Guild in Washington—one of Todd’s
hobbies.

Easterly greeted Smith quietly.

“Got my letter?”

“Yes.”

“Here are the three bills. You will go on the Finance Committee
tomorrow; Sumdrich is chairman by courtesy, but you’ll have the
real power. Put the Child Labor Bill first, and we’ll work the
press. The Tariff will take most of the session, of course. We’ll
put the cotton inspection bill through in the last days of the
session—see? I’m manoeuvring to get the Southern
Congressmen into line…. Oh, one thing. Thompson says he’s a
little worried about the Negroes; says there’s something more
than froth in the talk of a bolt in the Northern Negro vote. We
may have to give them a little extra money and a few more minor
offices than usual. Talk with Thompson; the Negroes are sweet on
you and he’s going to be the new chairman of the campaign, you
know. Ever met him?”

“Yes.”

“Well—so long.”

“Just a moment,” the statesman stayed the financier.

“Todd just let fall something of a combination against us in
Congress—know anything of it?”

“Not definitely; I heard some rumors. Better see if you can run
it down. Well, I must hurry—good day.”

While Bles Alwyn in the outer office was waiting and musing, a
lady came in. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the curve of
her gown, and as she seated herself beside him, the suggestion of
a faint perfume. A vague resentment rose in him. Colored women
would look as well as that, he argued, with the clothes and
wealth and training. He paused, however, in his thought: he did
not want them like the whites—so cold and formal and
precise, without heart or marrow. He started up, for the
secretary was speaking to him.

“Are you the—er—the man who had a letter to the
Senator?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me see it. Oh, yes—he will see you in a moment.”

Bles was returning the letter to his pocket when he heard a voice
almost at his ear.

“I beg your pardon—”

He turned and started. It was the lady next to him, and she was
colored! Not extremely colored, but undoubtedly colored, with
waving black hair, light brown skin, and the fuller facial
curving of the darker world. And yet Bles was surprised, for
everything else about her—her voice, her bearing, the set
of her gown, her gloves and shoes, the whole impression
was—Bles hesitated for a word—well, “white.”

“Yes—yes, ma’am,” he stammered, becoming suddenly conscious
that the lady had now a second time asked him if he was
acquainted with Senator Smith. “That is, ma’am,”—why was he
saying “ma’am,” like a child or a servant?—”I know his
sister and have a letter for him.”

“Do you live in Washington?” she inquired.

“No—but I want to. I’ve been trying to get in as a clerk,
and I haven’t succeeded yet. That’s what I’m going to see Senator
Smith about.”

“Have you had the civil-service examinations?”

“Yes. I made ninety-three in the examination for a treasury
clerkship.”

“And no appointment? I see—they are not partial to us
there.”

Bles was glad to hear her say “us.”

She continued after a pause:

“May I venture to ask a favor of you?”

“Certainly,” he responded.

“My name is Wynn,” lowering her voice slightly and leaning toward
him. “There are so many ahead of me and I am in a hurry to get to
my school; but I must see the Senator—couldn’t I go in with
you? I think I might be of service in this matter of the
examination, and then perhaps I’d get a chance to say a word for
myself.”

“I’d be very glad to have you come,” said Bles, cordially.

The secretary hesitated a little when the two started in, but
Miss Wynn’s air was so quietly assured that he yielded.

Senator Smith looked at the tall, straight black man with his
smooth skin and frank eyes. And for a second time that morning a
vision of his own youth dimmed his eyes. But he spoke coldly:

“Mr. Alwyn, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And—”

“My friend, Miss Wynn.”

The Senator glanced at Miss Wynn and she bowed demurely. Then he
turned to Alwyn.

“Well, Mr. Alwyn, Washington is a bad place to start in the
world.”

Bles looked surprised and incredulous. He could conceive of no
finer starting-place, but he said nothing.

“It is a grave,” continued the Senator, “of ambitions and ideals.
You would far better go back to Alabama”—pausing and
looking at the young man keenly—”but you won’t—you
won’t—not yet, at any rate.” And Bles shook his head
slowly.

“No—well, what can I do for you?”

“I want work—I’ll do anything.”

“No, you’ll do one thing—be a clerk, and then if you have
the right stuff in you you will throw up that job in a year and
start again.”

“I’d like at least to try it, sir.”

“Well, I can’t help you much there; that’s in civil-service, and
you must take the examination.”

“I have, sir.”

“So? Where, and what mark?”

“In the Treasury Department; I got a mark of ninety-three.”

“What!—and no appointment?” The Senator was incredulous.

“No, sir; not yet.”

Here Miss Wynn interposed.

“You see, Senator,” she said, “civil-service rules are not always
impervious to race prejudice.”

The Senator frowned.

“Do you mean to intimate that Mr. Alwyn’s appointment is held up
because he is colored?”

“I do.”

“Well—well!” The Senator rang for a clerk.

“Get me the Treasury on the telephone.”

In a moment the bell rang.

“I want Mr. Cole. Is that you, Mr. Cole? Good-morning. Have you a
young man named Alwyn on your eligible list? What? Yes?” A pause.
“Indeed? Well, why has he no appointment? Of course, I know, he’s
a Negro. Yes, I desire it very much—thank you.”

“You’ll get an appointment to-morrow morning,” and the Senator
rose. “How is my sister?” he asked absently.

“She was looking worried, but hopeful of the new endowment when I
left.” The Senator held out his hand; Bles took it and then
remembered.

“Oh, I beg pardon, but Miss Wynn wanted a word on another
matter.”

The Senator turned to Miss Wynn.

“I am a school-teacher, Senator Smith, and like all the rest of
us I am deeply interested in the appointment of the new
school-board.”

“But you know the district committee attends to those things,”
said the Senator hastily. “And then, too, I believe there is talk
of abolishing the school-board and concentrating power in the
hands of the superintendent.”

“Precisely,” said Miss Wynn. “And I came to tell you, Senator
Smith, that the interests which are back of this attack upon the
schools are no friends of yours.” Miss Wynn extracted from her
reticule a typewritten paper.

He took the paper and read it intently. Then he keenly
scrutinized the young woman, and she steadily returned his
regard.

“How am I to know this is true?”

“Follow it up and see.”

He mused.

“Where did you get these facts?” he asked suddenly.

She smiled.

“It is hardly necessary to say.”

“And yet,” he persisted, “if I were sure of its source I would
know my ground better and—my obligation to you would be
greater.”

She laughed and glanced toward Alwyn. He had moved out of earshot
and was waiting by the window.

“I am a teacher in the M Street High School,” she said, “and we
have some intelligent boys there who work their way through.”

“Yes,” said the Senator.

“Some,” continued Miss Wynn, tapping her boot on the carpet,
“some—wait on table.”

The Senator slowly put the paper in his pocket.

“And now,” he said, “Miss Wynn, what can I do for you?”

She looked at him.

“If Judge Haynes is reappointed to the school-board I shall
probably continue to teach in the M Street High School,” she said
slowly.

The Senator made a memorandum and said:

“I shall not forget Miss Wynn—nor her friends.” And he
bowed, glancing at Alwyn.

The woman contemplated Bles in momentary perplexity, then bowing
in turn, left. Bles followed, debating just what he ought to say,
how far he might venture to accompany her, what—but she
easily settled it all.

“I thank you—good-bye,” she said briefly at the door, and
was gone. Bles did not know whether to feel relieved or provoked,
or disappointed, and by way of compromise felt something of all
three.

The next morning he received notice of his appointment to a
clerkship in the Treasury Department, at a salary of nine hundred
dollars. The sum seemed fabulous and he was in the seventh
heaven. For many days the consciousness of wealth, the new
duties, the street scenes, and the city life kept him more than
busy. He planned to study, and arranged with a professor at
Howard University to guide him. He bought an armful of books and
a desk, and plunged desperately to work.

Gradually as he became used to the office routine, and in the
hours when he was weary of study, he began to find time hanging a
little heavily on his hands; indeed—although he would not
acknowledge it—he was getting lonesome, homesick, amid the
myriad men of a busy city. He argued to himself that this was
absurd, and yet he knew that he was longing for human
companionship. When he looked about him for fellowship he found
himself in a strange dilemma: those black folk in whom he
recognized the old sweet-tempered Negro traits, had also looser,
uglier manners than he was accustomed to, from which he shrank.
The upper classes of Negroes, on the other hand, he still
observed from afar; they were strangers not only in acquaintance
but because of a curious coldness and aloofness that made them
cease to seem his own kind; they seemed almost at times like
black white people—strangers in way and thought.

He tried to shake off this feeling but it clung, and at last in
sheer desperation, he promised to go out of a night with a fellow
clerk who rather boasted of the “people” he knew. He was soon
tired of the strange company, and had turned to go home, when he
met a newcomer in the doorway.

“Why, hello, Sam! Sam Stillings!” he exclaimed delightedly, and
was soon grasping the hand of a slim, well-dressed man of perhaps
thirty, with yellow face, curling hair, and shifting eyes.

“Well, of all things, Bles—er—ah—Mr. Alwyn!
Thought you were hoeing cotton.”

Bles laughed and continued shaking his head. He was foolishly
glad to see the former Cresswell butler, whom he had known but
slightly. His face brought back unuttered things that made his
heart beat faster and a yearning surge within him.

“I thought you went to Chicago,” cried Bles.

“I did, but goin’ into politics—having entered the
political field, I came here. And you graduated, I suppose, and
all that?”

“No,” Bless admitted a little sadly, as he told of his coming
north, and of Senator Smith’s influence. “But—but how
are—all?”

Abruptly Sam hooked his arm into Alwyn’s and pulled him with him
down the street. Stillings was a type. Up from servility and
menial service he was struggling to climb to money and power. He
was shrewd, willing to stoop to anything in order to win. The
very slights and humiliations of prejudice he turned to his
advantage. When he learned all the particulars of Alwyn’s visit
to Senator Smith and his cordial reception he judged it best to
keep in touch with this young man, and he forthwith invited Bles
to accompany him the next night to the Fifteenth Street
Presbyterian Church.

“You’ll find the best people there,” he said; “the aristocracy.
The Treble Clef gives a concert, and everybody that’s anybody
will be there.”

They met again the following evening and proceeded to the church.
It was a simple but pleasant auditorium, nearly filled with
well-dressed people. During the programme Bles applauded
vociferously every number that pleased him, which is to say,
every one—and stamped his feet, until he realized that he
was attracting considerable attention to himself. Then the
entertainment straightway lost all its charm; he grew painfully
embarrassed, and for the remainder of the evening was awkwardly
self-conscious. When all was over, the audience rose leisurely
and stood in little knots and eddies, laughing and talking; many
moved forward to say a word to the singers and players, Stillings
stepped aside to a group of men, and Bles was left miserably
alone. A man came to him, a white-faced man, with slightly
curling close gray hair, and high-bred ascetic countenance.

“You are a stranger?” he asked pleasantly, and Bles liked him.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, and they fell to talking. He discovered
that this was the pastor of the church.

“Do you know no one in town?”

“One or two of my fellow clerks and Mr. Stillings. Oh, yes, I’ve
met Miss Wynn.”

“Why, here is Miss Wynn now.”

Bles turned. She was right behind him, the centre of a group. She
turned, slowly, and smiled.

“Oh!” she uttered twice, but with difference cadence. Then
something like amusement lurked a moment in her eye, and she
quietly presented Bles to her friends, while Stillings hovered
unnoticed in the offing:

“Miss Jones—Mr. Alwyn of—” she paused a
second—”Alabama. Miss Taylor—Mr. Alwyn—and,”
with a backward curving of her neck, “Mr. Teerswell,” and so on.
Mr. Teerswell was handsome and indolent, with indecision in his
face and a cynical voice. In a moment Bles felt the subtle
antagonism of the group. He was an intruder. Mr. Teerswell nodded
easily and turned away, continuing his conversation with the
ladies.

But Miss Wynn was perverse and interrupted. “I saw you enjoyed
the concert, Mr. Alwyn,” she said, and one of the young ladies
rippled audibly. Bles darkened painfully, realizing that these
people must have been just behind him. But he answered frankly:

“Yes, I did immensely—I hope I didn’t disturb you; you see,
I’m not used to hearing such singing.”

Mr. Teerswell, compelled to listen, laughed drily.

“Plantation melodies, I suppose, are more your specialty,” he
said with a slight cadence.

“Yes,” said Bles simply. A slight pause ensued.

Then came the surprise of the evening for Bles Alwyn. Even his
inexperienced eye could discern that Miss Wynn was very popular,
and that most of the men were rivals for her attentions.

“Mr. Alwyn,” she said graciously, rising. “I’m going to trouble
you to see me to my door; it’s only a block. Good-night, all!”
she called, but she bowed to Mr. Teerswell.

Miss Wynn placed her hand lightly on Bles’s arm, and for a moment
he paused. A thrill ran through him as he felt again the weight
of a little hand and saw beside him the dark beautiful eyes of a
girl. He felt again the warm quiver of her body. Then he awoke to
the lighted church and the moving, well-dressed throng. The hand
on his arm was not so small; but it was well-gloved, and somehow
the fancy struck him that it was a cold hand and not always
sympathetic in its touch.

Twenty-three

THE TRAINING OF ZORA

“I did not know the world was so large,” remarked Zora as she and
Mrs. Vanderpool flew east and northward on the New York-New
Orleans limited. For a long time the girl had given herself up to
the sheer delight of motion. Gazing from the window, she compared
the lands she passed with the lands she knew: noting the
formation of the cotton; the kind and growth of the trees; the
state of the roads. Then the comparisons became infinite,
endless; the world stretched on and on until it seemed mere
distance, and she suddenly realized how vast a thing it was and
spoke.

Mrs. Vanderpool was amused. “It’s much smaller than one would
think,” she responded.

When they came to Atlanta Zora stared and wrinkled her brows. It
was her first large city. The other towns were replicas of
Toomsville; strange in number, not in kind; but this was
different, and she could not understand it. It seemed senseless
and unreasonable, and yet so strangely so that she was at a loss
to ask questions. She was very solemn as they rode on and night
came down with dreams.

She awoke in Washington to new fairylands and wonders; the
endless going and coming of men; great piles that challenged
heaven, and homes crowded on homes till one could not believe
that they were full of living things. They rolled by Baltimore
and Philadelphia, and she talked of every-day matters: of the sky
which alone stood steadfast amid whirling change; of bits of
empty earth that shook themselves here and there loose from their
burden of men, and lay naked in the cold shining sunlight.

All the while the greater questions were beating and curling and
building themselves back in her brain, and above all she was
wondering why no one had told her before of all this mighty
world. Mrs. Vanderpool, to whom it seemed too familiar for
comment, had said no word; or, if she had spoken, Zora’s ears had
not been tuned to understand; and as they flew toward the
towering ramparts of New York, she sat up big with the terror of
a new thought: suppose this world were full yet of things she did
not know nor dream of? How could she find out? She must know.

When finally they were settled in New York and sat high up on the
Fifth Avenue front of the hotel, gradually the inarticulate
questioning found words, albeit strange ones.

“It reminds me of the swamp,” she said.

Mrs. Vanderpool, just returned from a shopping tour, burst into
laughter.

“It is—but I marvel at your penetration.”

“I mean, it is moving—always moving.”

“The swamp seemed to me unearthly still.”

“Yes—yes,” cried Zora, eagerly, brushing back the rumpled
hair; “and so did the city, at first, to me.”

“Still! New York?”

“Yes. You see, I saw the buildings and forgot the men; and the
buildings were so tall and silent against Heaven. And then I came
to see the people, and suddenly I knew the city was like the
swamp, always restless and changing.”

“And more beautiful?” suggested Mrs. Vanderpool, slipping her
arms into her lounging-robe.

“Oh, no; not nearly so beautiful. And yet—more
interesting.” Then with a puzzled look: “I wonder why?”

“Perhaps because it’s people and not things.”

“It’s people in the swamp,” asserted Zora, dreamily, smoothing
out the pillows of the couch, “‘little people,’ I call them. The
difference is, I think, that there I know how the story will come
out; everything is changing, but I know how and why and from what
and to what. Now here, everything seems to be happening;
but what is it that is happening?”

“You must know what has happened, to know what may happen,” said
Mrs. Vanderpool.

“But how can I know?”

“I’ll get you some books to-morrow.”

“I’d like to know what it means,” wistfully.

“It is meaningless.” The woman’s cynicism was lost upon Zora, of
course, but it possessed the salutary effect of stimulating the
girl’s thoughts, encouraging her to discover for herself.

“I think not; so much must mean something,” she protested.

Zora gathered up the clothes and things and shaded the windows,
glancing the while down on the street.

“Everybody is going, going,” she murmured. “I wonder where. Don’t
they ever get there?”

“Few arrive,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. Zora softly bent and passed
her cool soft hand over her forehead.

“Then why do they go?”

“The zest of the search, perhaps.”

“No,” said Zora as she noiselessly left the room and closed the
door; “no, they are searching for something they have lost.
Perhaps they, too, are searching for the Way,” and the tears
blinded her eyes.

Mrs. Vanderpool lay in the quiet darkened room with a puzzled
smile on her lips. A month ago she had not dreamed that human
interest in anybody would take so strong a hold upon her as her
liking for Zora had done. She was a woman of unusual personal
charm, but her own interest and affections were seldom stirred.
Had she been compelled to earn a living she would have made a
successful teacher or manipulator of men. As it was, she viewed
the human scene with detached and cynical interest. She had no
children, few near relations, a husband who went his way and
still was a gentleman.

Essentially Mrs. Vanderpool was unmoral. She held the code of her
social set with sportsmanlike honor; but even beyond this she
stooped to no intrigue, because none interested her. She had all
the elements of power save the motive for doing anything in
particular. For the first time, perhaps, Zora gave her life a
peculiar human interest. She did not love the girl, but she was
intensely interested in her; some of the interest was selfish,
for Zora was going to be a perfect maid. The girl’s language came
to be more and more like Mrs. Vanderpool’s; her dress and taste
in adornment had been Mrs. Vanderpool’s first care, and it led to
a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now
and then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of
Zora’s mind.

When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk
naturally included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious,
and noted the girl’s rapid development.

“I wonder what I shall make out of her?” queried Mrs. Vanderpool.
“Do you know, I believe I could mould her into a lady if she were
not black.”

Mary Cresswell laughed. “With that hair?”

“It has artistic possibilities. You should have seen my
hair-dresser’s face when I told her to do it up. Her face and
Zora’s were a pantomime for the gods. Yet it was done. It lay in
some great twisted cloud and in that black net gown of mine Zora
was simply magnificent. Her form is perfect, her height is regal,
her skin is satin, and my jewels found a resting place at last.
Jewels, you know, dear, were never meant for white folk. I was
tempted to take her to the box at the opera and let New York
break its impudent neck.”

Mary was shocked.

“But, Mrs. Vanderpool,” she protested, “is it right? Is it fair?
Why should you spoil this black girl and put impossible ideas
into her head? You can make her a perfect maid, but she can never
be much more in America.”

“She is a perfect maid now; that’s the miracle of it—she’s
that deft and quick and quiet and thoughtful! The hotel employees
think her perfect; my friends rave—really, I’m the most
blessed of women. But do you know I like the girl? I—well,
I think of her future.”

“It’s wrong to treat her as you do. You make her an equal. Her
room is one of the best and filled with books and bric-a-brac.
She sometimes eats with you—is your companion, in fact.”

“What of it? She loves to read, and I guide her while she keeps
me up on the latest stuff. She can talk much better than many of
my friends and then she piques my curiosity: she’s a sort of
intellectual sauce that stirs my rapidly failing mental appetite.
I think that as soon as I can make up my mind to spare her, I’ll
take her to France and marry her off in the colonies.”

“Well, that’s possible; but one doesn’t easily give up good
servants. By the way, I learn from Miss Smith that the boy, Bles
Alwyn, in whom Zora was so interested, is a clerk in the Treasury
Department at Washington.”

“Indeed! I’m going to Washington this winter; I’ll look him over
and see if he’s worth Zora—which I greatly doubt.”

Mrs. Cresswell pursed her lips and changed the subject.

“Have you seen the Easterlys?”

“The ladies left their cards—they are quite impossible. Mr.
Easterly calls this afternoon. I can’t imagine why, but he asked
for an appointment. Will you go South with Mr. Cresswell? I’m
glad to hear he’s entering politics.”

“No, I shall do some early house hunting in Washington,” said
Mrs. Cresswell, rising as Mr. Easterly was announced.

Mr. Easterly was not at home in Mrs. Vanderpool’s presence. She
spoke a language different from his, and she had shown a
disconcerting way, in the few times when he had spoken with her,
of letting the weight of the conversation rest on him. He felt
very distinctly that Mrs. Vanderpool was not particularly
desirous of his company, nor that of his family. Nevertheless, he
needed Mrs. Vanderpool’s influence just now, and he was willing
to pay considerable for it. Once under obligation to him her
services would be very valuable. He was glad to find Mrs.
Cresswell there. It showed that the Cresswells were still
intimate, and the Cresswells were bound to him and his interests
by strong ties. He bowed as Mrs. Cresswell left, and then did not
beat around the bush because, in this case, he did not know how.

“Mrs. Vanderpool, I need your aid.”

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled politely, and murmured something.

“We are, you know, in the midst of a rather warm presidential
campaign,” continued Mr. Easterly.

“Yes?” with polite interest.

“We are going to win easily, but our majority in Congress for
certain matters will depend on the attitude of Southerners and
you usually spend the winters in Washington. If, now, you could
drop a word here and there—”

“But why should I?” asked Mrs. Vanderpool.

“Mrs. Vanderpool, to be frank, I know some excellent investments
that your influence in this line would help. I take it you’re not
so rich but that—”

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled faintly.

“Really, Mr. Easterly, I know little about such matters and care
less. I have food and clothes. Why worry with more?”

Mr. Easterly half expected this and he determined to deliver his
last shot on the run. He arose with a disappointed air.

“Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool, I see how it is: you have plenty and
one can’t expect your services or influence for nothing. It had
occurred to me that your husband might like something political;
but I presume not.”

“Something political?”

“Yes. You see, it’s barely possible, for instance, that there
will be a change in the French ambassadorship. The present
ambassador is old and—well, I don’t know, but as I say,
it’s possible. Of course though, that may not appeal to you, and
I can only beg your good offices in charity if—if you see
your way to help us. Well, I must be going.”

“What is—I thought the President appointed ambassadors.”

“To be sure, but we appoint Presidents,” laughed Mr. Easterly.
“Good-day. I shall hope to see you in Washington.”

“Good-day,” Mrs. Vanderpool returned absently.

After he had gone she walked slowly to Zora’s room and opened the
door. For a long time she stood quietly looking in. Zora was
curled in a chair with a book. She was in dreamland; in a world
of books builded thoughtfully for her by Mrs. Vanderpool, and
before that by Miss Smith. Her work took but little of her time
and left hours for reading and thinking. In that thought-life,
more and more her real living centred.

Hour after hour, day after day, she lay buried, deaf and dumb to
all else. Her heart cried, up on the World’s four corners of the
Way, and to it came the Vision Splendid. She gossiped with old
Herodotus across the earth to the black and blameless Ethiopians;
she saw the sculptured glories of Phidias marbled amid the
splendor of the swamp; she listened to Demosthenes and walked the
Appian Way with Cornelia—while all New York streamed
beneath her window.

She saw the drunken Goths reel upon Rome and heard the careless
Negroes yodle as they galloped to Toomsville. Paris, she
knew,—wonderful, haunting Paris: the Paris of Clovis, and
St. Louis; of Louis the Great, and Napoleon III; of Balzac, and
her own Dumas. She tasted the mud and comfort of thick old
London, and the while wept with Jeremiah and sang with Deborah,
Semiramis, and Atala. Mary of Scotland and Joan of Arc held her
dark hands in theirs, and Kings lifted up their sceptres.

She walked on worlds, and worlds of worlds, and heard there in
her little room the tread of armies, the paeans of victory, the
breaking of hearts, and the music of the spheres.

Mrs. Vanderpool watched her a while.

“Zora,” she presently broke into the girl’s absorption, “how
would you like to be Ambassador to France?”

Twenty-four

THE EDUCATION OF ALWYN

Miss Caroline Wynn of Washington had little faith in the world
and its people. Nor was this wholly her fault. The world had
dealt cruelly with the young dreams and youthful ambitions of the
girl; partly with its usual heartlessness, partly with that
cynical and deadening reserve fund which it has today for its
darker peoples. The girl had bitterly resented her experiences at
first: she was brilliant and well-trained; she had a real talent
for sculpture, and had studied considerably; she was sprung from
at least three generations of respectable mulattoes, who had left
a little competence which yielded her three or four hundred
dollars a year. Furthermore, while not precisely pretty, she was
good-looking and interesting, and she had acquired the marks and
insignia of good breeding. Perhaps she wore her manners just a
trifle consciously; perhaps she was a little morbid that she
would fail of recognition as a lady. Nor was this unnatural: her
brown skin invited a different assumption. Despite this almost
unconscious mental aggressiveness, she was unusually presentable
and always well-groomed and pleasant of speech. Yet she found
nearly all careers closed to her. At first it seemed accidental,
the luck of life. Then she attributed it to her sex; but at last
she was sure that, beyond chance and womanhood, it was the
colorline that was hemming her in. Once convinced of this, she
let her imagination play and saw the line even where it did not
exist.

With her bit of property and brilliant parts she had had many
suitors but they had been refused one after another for reasons
she could hardly have explained. For years now Tom Teerswell had
been her escort. Whether or not Caroline Wynn would every marry
him was a perennial subject of speculation among their friends
and it usually ended in the verdict that she could not afford
it—that it was financially impossible.

Nevertheless, the two were usually seen in public together, and
although she often showed her quiet mastery of the situation,
seldom had she snubbed him so openly as at the Treble Clef
concert.

Teerswell was furious and began to plot vengeance; but Miss Wynn
was attracted by the personality of Bles Alwyn. Southern country
Negroes were rare in her set, but here was a man of intelligence
and keenness coupled with an amazing frankness and modesty, and
perceptibly shadowed by sorrow. The combination was, so far as
she had observed, both rare and temporary and she was disposed to
watch it in this case purely as a matter of intellectual
curiosity. At the door of her home, therefore, after a walk of
unusual interest, she said:

“I’m going to have a few friends in next Tuesday night; won’t you
come, Mr. Alwyn?” And Mr. Alwyn said that he would.

Next morning Miss Wynn rather repented her hasty invitation, but
of course nothing could be done now. Nothing? Well, there was one
thing; and she went to the telephone. A suggestion to Bles that
he might profitably extend his acquaintance sent him to a certain
tailor shop kept by a friend of hers; a word to the tailor
guarded against the least suspicion of intrigue entering Bles’s
head.

It turned out quite as Miss Wynn had designed; Mr. Grey, the
tailor, gave Bles some points on dressing, and made him, Southern
fashion, a frock-coat for dress wear that set off his fine
figure. On the night of the gathering at Miss Wynn’s Bles dressed
with care, hesitating long over a necktie, but at last choosing
one which he had recently purchased and which pleased him
particularly. He was prompt to the minute and was consequently
the first guest; but Miss Wynn’s greeting was so quietly cordial
that his embarrassment soon fled. She looked him over at leisure
and sighed at his tie; otherwise he was thoroughly presentable
according to the strictest Washington standard.

They sat down and talked of generalities. Then an idea occurring
to her, she conducted the conversation by devious paths to ties
and asked Alwyn if he had heard of the fad of collecting ties. He
had not, and she showed him a sofa pillow.

“Your tie quite attracted me,” she said; “it would make just the
dash of color I need in my new pillow.”

“You may have it and welcome. I’ll send—”

“Oh, no! A bird in the hand, you know. I’ll trade with you now
for another I have.”

“Done!”

The exchange was soon made, Miss Wynn tying the new one herself
and sticking a small carved pin in it. Bles slowly sat down
again, and after a pause said, “Thank you.”

She looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and
good-natured.

“You see,” he explained, “in the country we don’t know much about
ties.”

The well-balanced Miss Wynn for a moment lost her aplomb, but
only for a moment.

“We must all learn,” she replied with penetration, and so their
friendship was established.

The company now began to gather, and soon the double parlor held
an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. They formed a
picturesque group: conventional but graceful in dress; animated
in movement; full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-American
in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones; chiefly
noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color
in skin, which imparted to the throng a piquant and unusual
interest. Every color was here; from the dark brown of Alwyn, who
was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of Miss
Jones, who could “pass for white” when she would, and found her
greatest difficulties when she was trying to “pass” for black.
Midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of the
church, the creamy Miss Williams, the golden yellow of Mr.
Teerswell, the golden brown of Miss Johnson, and the velvet brown
of Mr. Grey. The guest themselves did not notice this; they were
used to asking one’s color as one asks of height and weight; it
was simply an extra dimension in their world whereby to classify
men.

Beyond this and their hair, there was little to distinguish them
from a modern group of men and women. The speech was a softened
English, purely and, on the whole, correctly spoken—so much
so that it seemed at first almost unfamiliar to Bles, and he
experienced again the uncomfortable feeling of being among
strangers. Then, too, he missed the loud but hearty good-nature
of what he had always called “his people.” To be sure, a more
experienced observer might have noted a lively, excitable
tropical temperament set and cast in a cold Northern mould, and
yet flashing fire now and then in a sudden anomalous
out-bursting. But Bles missed this; he seemed to have slipped and
lost his bearings, and the characteristics of his simple world
were rolling curiously about. Here stood a black man with a white
man’s voice, and yonder a white woman with a Negro’s musical
cadences; and yet again, a brown girl with exactly Miss
Cresswell’s air, and yonder, Miss Williams, with Zora’s wistful
willfulness.

Bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank
on his heart with sickening hopeless weight. His hands got in the
way and he found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully
furnished rooms. Once he discovered himself standing by a marble
statue of a nude woman, and he edged away; then he stumbled over
a rug and saved himself only to step on Miss Jones’s silken
train. Miss Jones’s smile of pardon was wintry. When he did
approach a group and listen, they seemed speaking of things
foreign to him—usually of people he did not know, their
homes, their doings, their daughters and their fathers. They
seemed to know people intimately who lived far away.

“You mean the Smiths of Boston?” asked Miss Jones.

“No, of Cleveland. They’re not related.”

“I heard that McGhee of St. Paul will be in the city next week
with his daughter.”

“Yes, and the Bentleys of Chicago.”

Bles passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to
say, of mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these
people and crying: “Ho! What of the morning? How goes the great
battle for black men’s rights? I have came with messages from the
host, to you who guard the mountain tops.”

Apparently they were not discussing or caring about “the
Problem.” He grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when
he encountered his hostess.

“Is all well with you, Mr. Alwyn?” she asked lightly.

“No, I’m not enjoying myself,” said Bles, truthfully.

“Delicious! And why not?”

He regarded her earnestly.

“There are so many things to talk about,” he said; “earnest
things; things of importance. I—I think when our
people—” he hesitated. Our?—was our right? But
he went on: “When our people meet we ought to talk of our
situation, and what to do and—”

Miss Wynn continued to smile.

“We’re all talking of it all the time,” she said.

He looked incredulous.

“Yes, we are,” she insisted. “We veil it a little, and laugh as
lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room,
and that’s grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite
your daily topic.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. You haven’t learned our language yet. We
don’t just blurt into the Negro Problem; that’s voted bad form.
We leave that to our white friends. We saunter to it sideways,
touch it delicately because”—her face became a little
graver—”because, you see, it hurts.”

Bles stood thoughtful and abashed.

“I—I think I understand,” he gravely said at last.

“Come here,” she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an
absorbed group in the midst of a conversation.

“—Thinking of sending Jessie to Bryn Mawr,” Bles heard Miss
Jones saying.

“Could she pass?”

“Oh, they might think her Spanish.”

“But it’s a snobbish place and she would have to give up all her
friends.”

“Yes, Freddie could scarcely visit—” the rest was lost.

“Which, being interpreted,” whispered Miss Wynn, “means that Bryn
Mawr draws the color line while we at times surmount it.”

They moved on to another group.

“—Splendid draughtsman,” a man was saying, “and passed at
the head of the crowd; but, of course, he has no chance.”

“Why, it’s civil-service, isn’t it?”

“It is. But what of that? There was Watson—”

Miss Wynn did not pause. She whispered: “This is the tale of
Civil Service Reform, and how this mighty government gets rid of
black men who know too much.”

“But—” Bles tried to protest.

“Hush,” Miss Wynn commanded and they joined the group about the
piano. Teerswell, who was speaking, affected not to notice them,
and continued:

“—I tell you, it’s got to come. We must act independently
and not be bought by a few offices.”

“That’s all well enough for you to talk, Teerswell; you have no
wife and babies dependant on you. Why should we who have
sacrifice the substance for the shadow?”

“You see, the Judge has got the substance,” laughed Teerswell.
“Still I insist: divide and conquer.”

“Nonsense! Unite, and keep.”

Bles was puzzled.

“They’re talking of the coming campaign,” said Miss Wynn.

“What!” exclaimed Bles aloud. “You don’t mean that any one can
advise a black man to vote the Democratic ticket?”

An elderly man turned to them.

“Thank you, sir,” he said; “that is just my attitude; I fought
for my freedom. I know what slavery is; may I forget God when I
vote for traitors and slave-holders.”

The discussion waxed warm and Miss Wynn turned away and sought
Miss Jones.

“Come, my dear,” she said, “it’s ‘The Problem’ again.” They
sauntered away toward a ring of laughter.

The discussion thus begun at Miss Wynn’s did not end there. It
was on the eve of the great party conventions, and the next night
Sam Stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly
of the inner circle, into which Alwyn had been so unaccountably
snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavors, Stillings
lingered and seemed destined to linger. But Stillings was a
patient, resolute man beneath his deferential exterior, and he
saw in Bles a stepping stone. So he began to drop in at his
lodgings and tonight invited him to the Bethel Literary.

“What’s that?” asked Bles.

“A debating club—oldest in the city; the best people all
attend.”

Bles hesitated. He had half made up his mind that this was the
proper time to call on Miss Wynn. He told Stillings so, and told
him also of the evening and the discussion.

“Why, that’s the subject up tonight,” Stillings declared, “and
Miss Wynn will be sure to be there. You can make your call later.
Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me when you call.” Alwyn reached
for his hat.

When they arrived, the basement of the great church was filling
with a throng of men and women. Soon the officers and the speaker
of the evening appeared. The president was a brown woman who
spoke easily and well, and introduced the main speaker. He was a
tall, thin, hatchet-faced black man, clean shaven and well
dressed, a lawyer by profession. His theme was “The Democratic
Party and the Negro.” His argument was cool, carefully reasoned,
and plausible. He was evidently feeling for the sympathy of his
audience, and while they were not enthusiastic, they warmed to
him gradually and he certainly was strongly impressing them.

Bles was thinking. He sat in the back of the hall, tense, alert,
nervous. As the speaker progressed a white man came in and sat
down beside him. He was spectacled, with bushy eyebrows and a
sleepy look. But he did not sleep. He was very observant.

“Who’s speaking?” he asked Bles, and Bles told him. Then he
inquired about one or two other persons. Bles could not inform
him, but Stillings could and did. Stillings seemed willing to
devote considerable time to him.

Bles forgot the man. He was almost crouching for a spring, and no
sooner had the speaker, with a really fine apostrophe to
independence and reason in voting, sat down, than Bles was on his
feet, walking forward. His form was commanding, his voice deep
and musical, and his earnestness terribly evident. He hardly
waited for recognition from the slightly astonished president,
but fairly burst into speech.

“I am from Alabama,” he began earnestly, “and I know the
Democratic Party.” Then he told of government and conditions in
the Black Belt, of the lying, oppression, and helplessness of the
sodden black masses; then, turning, he reminded them of the
history of slavery. Finally, he pointed to Lincoln’s picture and
to Sumner’s and mentioned other white friends.

“And, my brothers, they are not all dead yet. The gentleman spoke
of Senator Smith and blamed and ridiculed him. I know Senator
Smith but slightly, but I do know his sister well.”

Dropping to simple narrative, he told of Miss Smith and of his
coming to school; and if his audience felt that great depth of
emotion that welled beneath his quiet, almost hesitating,
address, it was not simply because of what he did say, but
because, too, of the unspoken story that lay too deep for words.
He spoke for nearly an hour, and when he stopped, for a moment
his hearers sighed and then sprang into a whirlwind of applause.
They shouted, clapped, and waved while he sat in blank amazement,
and was with difficulty forced to the rostrum to bow again and
again. The spectacled white man leaned over to Stillings.

“Who is he?” he asked. Stillings told him. The man noted the name
and went quietly out.

Miss Wynn sat lost in thought, and Teerswell beside her fumed.
She was not easily moved, but that speech had moved her. If he
could thus stir men and not be himself swayed, she mused, he
would be—invincible. But tonight he was moved as greatly as
his hearers had been, and that was dangerous. If his intense
belief happened to be popular, all right; but if not? She
frowned. He was worth watching, she concluded; quite worth
watching, and perhaps worth guiding.

When Alwyn accompanied her home that night, Miss Wynn set herself
to know him better for she suspected that he might be a coming
man. The best preliminary to her purpose was, she knew, to speak
frankly of herself, and that she did. She told him of her youth
and training, her ambitions, her disappointments. Quite
unconsciously her cynicism crept to the fore, until in word and
tone she had almost scoffed at many things that Alwyn held true
and dear. The touch was too light, the meaning too elusive, for
Alwyn to grasp always the point of attack; but somehow he got the
distant impression that Miss Wynn had little faith in Truth and
Goodness and Love. Vaguely shocked he grew so silent that she
noticed it and concluded she had said too much. But he pursued
the subject.

“Surely there must be many friends of our race willing to stand
for the right and sacrifice for it?”

She laughed unpleasantly, almost mockingly.

“Where?”

“Well—there’s Miss Smith.”

“She gets a salary, doesn’t she?”

“A very small one.”

“About as large as she could earn. North, I don’t doubt.”

“But the unselfish work she does—the utter sacrifice?”

“Oh, well, we’ll omit Alabama, and admit the exception.”

“Well, here, in Washington—there’s your friend, the Judge,
who has befriended you so, as you admit.”

She laughed again.

“You remember our visit to Senator Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it got the Judge his reappointment to the school board.”

“He deserved it, didn’t he?”

“I deserved it,” she said luxuriously, hugging her knee and
smiling; “you see, his appointment meant mine.”

“Well, what of it—didn’t—”

“Listen,” she cut in a little sharply. “Once a young brown girl,
with boundless faith in white folks, went to a Judge’s office to
ask for an appointment which she deserved. There was no one
there. The benign old Judge with his saintly face and white hair
suggested that she lay aside her wraps and spend the afternoon.”

Bles arose to his feet.

“What—what did you do?” he asked.

“Sit down—there’s a good boy.” I said: “‘Judge, a friend is
expecting me at two,’ it was then half-past one, ‘would I not
best telephone?'”

“‘Step right into the booth,’ said the Judge, quite indulgently.”
Miss Wynn leaned back, and Bles felt his heart sinking; but he
said nothing. “And then,” she continued, “I telephoned the
Judge’s wife that he was anxious to see her on a matter of urgent
business; namely, my appointment.” She gazed reflectively out of
the window. “You should have seen his face when I told him,” she
concluded. “I was appointed.”

But Bles asked coldly:

“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”

“For what? And suppose I had?”

Bles threw out his arms helplessly.

“Oh! it isn’t as bad as that all over the world, is it?”

“It’s worse,” affirmed Miss Wynn, quietly positive.

“And you are still friendly with him?”

“What would you have? I use the world; I did not make it; I did
not choose it. He is the world. Through him I earn my bread and
butter. I have shown him his place. Shall I try in addition to
reform? Shall I make him an enemy? I have neither time nor
inclination. Shall I resign and beg, or go tilting at windmills?
If he were the only one it would be different; but they’re all
alike.” Her face grew hard. “Have I shocked you?” she said as
they went toward the door.

“No,” he answered slowly. “But I still—believe in the
world.”

“You are young yet, my friend,” she lightly replied. “And
besides, that good Miss Smith has gone and grafted a New England
conscience on a tropical heart, and—dear me!—but it’s
a gorgeous misfit. Good-bye—come again.” She bowed him
graciously out, and paused to take the mail from the box. There
was, among many others, a letter from Senator Smith.

Twenty-five

THE CAMPAIGN

Mr. Easterly sat in Mrs. Vanderpool’s apartments in the New
Willard, Washington, drinking tea. His hostess was saying rather
carelessly:

“Do you know, Mr. Vanderpool has developed a quite unaccountable
liking for the idea of being Ambassador to France?”

“Dear me!” mildly exclaimed Mr. Easterly, helping himself
liberally to cakes. “I do hope the thing can be managed,
but—”

“What are the difficulties?” Mrs. Vanderpool interrupted.

“Well, first and foremost, the difficulty of electing our man.”

“I thought that a foregone conclusion.”

“It was. But do you know that we’re encountering opposition from
the most unexpected source?”

The lady was receptive, and the speaker concluded:

“The Negroes.”

“The Negroes!”

“Yes. There are five hundred thousand or more black voters in
pivotal Northern States, you know, and they’re in revolt. In a
close election the Negroes of New York, Ohio, Indiana, and
Illinois choose the President.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, business interests have driven our party to make friends
with the South. The South has disfranchised Negroes and lynched a
few. The darkies say we’ve deserted them.”

Mrs. Vanderpool laughed.

“What extraordinary penetration,” she cried.

“At any rate,” said Mr. Easterly, drily, “Mr. Vanderpool’s first
step toward Paris lies in getting the Northern Negroes to vote
the Republican ticket. After that the way is clear.”

Mrs. Vanderpool mused.

“I don’t suppose you know any one who is acquainted with any
number of these Northern darkies?” continued Mr. Easterly.

“Not on my calling-list,” said Mrs. Vanderpool, and then she
added more thoughtfully:

“There’s a young clerk in the Treasury Department named Alwyn who
has brains. He’s just from the South, and I happened to read of
him this morning—see here.”

Mr. Easterly read an account of the speech at the Bethel
Literary.

“We’ll look this young man up,” he decided; “he may help. Of
course, Mrs. Vanderpool, we’ll probably win; we can buy these
Negroes off with a little money and a few small offices; then if
you will use your influence for the part with the Southerners, I
can confidently predict from four to eight years’ sojourn in
Paris.”

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and called her maid as Mr. Easterly went.

“Zora!” She had to call twice, for Zora, with widened eyes, was
reading the Washington Post.

Meantime in the office of Senator Smith, toward which Mr.
Easterly was making his way, several members of the National
Republican campaign committee had been closeted the day before.

“Now, about the niggers,” the chairman had asked; “how much more
boodle do they want?”

“That’s what’s bothering us,” announced a member; “it isn’t the
boodle crowd that’s hollering, but a new set, and I don’t
understand them; I don’t know what they represent, nor just how
influential they are.”

“What can I do to help you?” asked Senator Smith.

“This. You are here at Washington with these Negro office-holders
at your back. Find out for us just what this revolt is, how far
it goes, and what good men we can get to swing the darkies into
line—see?”

“Very good,” the Senator acquiesced. He called in a spectacled
man with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look.

“I want you to work the Negro political situation,” directed the
Senator, “and bring me all the data you can get. Personally, I’m
at sea. I don’t understand the Negro of today at all; he puzzles
me; he doesn’t fit any of my categories, and I suspect that I
don’t fit his. See what you can find out.”

The man went out, and the Senator turned to his desk, then paused
and smiled. One day, not long since, he had met a colored person
who personified his perplexity concerning Negroes; she was a
lady, yet she was black—that is, brown; she was educated,
even cultured, yet she taught Negroes; she was quiet, astute,
quick and diplomatic—everything, in fact, that “Negroes”
were not supposed to be; and yet she was a “Negro.” She had given
him valuable information which he had sought in vain elsewhere,
and the event proved it correct. Suppose he asked Caroline Wynn
to help him in this case? It would certainly do no harm and it
might elect a Republican president. He wrote a short letter with
his own hand and sent it to post.

Miss Wynn read the letter after Alwyn’s departure with a distinct
thrill which was something of a luxury for her. Evidently she was
coming to her kingdom. The Republican boss was turning to her for
confidential information.

“What do the colored people want, and who can best influence them
in this campaign?”

She curled up on the ottoman and considered. The first part of
the query did not bother her.

“Whatever they want they won’t get,” she said decisively.

But as to the man or men who could influence them to believe that
they were getting, or about to get, what they wanted—there
was a question. One by one she considered the men she knew, and,
by a process of elimination, finally arrived at Bles Alwyn.

Why not take this young man in hand and make a Negro leader of
him—a protagonist of ten millions? It would not be
unpleasant. But could she do it? Would he be amenable to her
training and become worldly wise? She flattered herself that he
would, and yet—there was a certain steadfast look in the
depths of his eyes that might prove to be sheer stubbornness. At
any rate, who was better? There was a fellow, Stillings, whom
Alwyn had introduced and whom she had heard of. Now he was a
politician—but nothing else. She dismissed him. Of
course, there was the older set of office-holders and rounders.
But she was determined to pick a new man. He was worth trying, at
any rate; she knew none other with the same build, the brains,
the gifts, the adorable youth. Very good. She wrote two letters,
and then curled up to her novel and candy.

Next day Senator Smith held Miss Wynn’s letter unopened in his
hand when Mr. Easterly entered. They talked of the campaign and
various matters, until at last Easterly said:

“Say, there’s a Negro clerk in the Treasury named Alwyn.”

“I know him—I had him appointed.”

“Good. He may help us. Have you seen this?”

The Senator read the clipping.

“I hadn’t noticed it—but here’s my agent.”

The spectacled man entered with a mass of documents. He had
papers, posters, programmes, and letters.

“The situation is this,” he said. “A small group of educated
Negroes are trying to induce the rest to punish the Republican
Party for not protecting them. These men are not politicians, nor
popular leaders, but they have influence and are using it. The
old-style Negro politicians are no match for them, and the crowd
of office-holders are rather bewildered. Strong measures are
needed. Educated men of earnestness and ability might stem the
tide. And I believe I know one such man. He spoke at a big
meeting last night at the Metropolitan church. His name is
Alwyn.”

Senator Smith listened as he opened the letter from Caroline
Wynn. Then he started.

“Well!” he ejaculated, looking quickly up at Easterly. “This is
positively uncanny. From three separate sources the name of Alwyn
pops up. Looks like a mascot. Call up the Treasury. Let’s have
him up when the sub-committee meets to-morrow.”

Bles Alwyn hurried up to Senator Smith’s office, hoping to hear
something about the school; perhaps even about—but he
stopped with a sigh, and sat down in the ante-room. He was kept
waiting a few moments while Senator Smith, the chairman, and one
other member of the sub-committee had a word.

“Now, I don’t know the young man, mind you,” said the Senator;
“but he’s strongly recommended.”

“What shall we offer him?” asked the chairman.

“Try him at twenty-five dollars a speech. If he balks, raise to
fifty dollars, but no more.”

They summoned the young man. The chairman produced cigars.

“I don’t smoke,” said Bles apologetically.

“Well, we haven’t anything to drink,” said the chairman. But
Senator Smith broke in, taking up at once the paramount interest.

“Mr. Alwyn, as you know, the Democrats are making an effort to
get the Negro vote in this campaign. Now, I know the
disadvantages and wrongs which black men in this land are
suffering. I believe the Republicans ought to do more to defend
them, and I’m satisfied they will; but I doubt if the way to get
Negro rights is to vote for those who took them away.”

“I agree with you perfectly,” said Bles.

“I understand you do, and that you made an unusually fine speech
on the subject the other night.”

“Thank you, sir.” This was a good deal more than Bles had
expected, and he was embarrassed.

“Well, now, we think you’re just the man to take the stump during
September and October and convince the colored people of their
real interests.”

“I doubt if I could, sir; I’m not a speaker. In fact, that was my
first public speech.”

“So much the better. Are you willing to try?”

“Why, yes, sir; but I could hardly afford to give up my
position.”

“We’ll arrange for a leave of absence.”

“Then I’ll try, sir.”

“What would you expect as pay?”

“I suppose my salary would stop?”

“I mean in addition to that.”

“Oh, nothing, sir; I’d be glad to do the work.”

The chairman nearly choked; sitting back, he eyed the young man.
Either they were dealing with a fool, or else a very astute
politician. If the former, how far could they trust him; if the
latter, what was his game?

“Of course, there’ll be considerable travelling,” the chairman
ventured, looking reflectively out of the window.

“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”

“We might pay the railroad fare.”

“Thank you, sir. When shall I begin?”

The chairman consulted his calendar.

“Suppose you hold yourself in readiness for one week from today.”

“All right,” and Bles rose. “Good-day, gentlemen.”

But the chairman was still puzzled.

“Now, what’s his game?” he asked helplessly.

“He may be honest,” offered Senator Smith, contemplating the door
almost wistfully.

The campaign progressed. The National Republican Committee said
little about the Negro revolt and affected to ignore it. The
papers were silent. Underneath this calm, however, the activity
was redoubled. The prominent Negroes were carefully catalogued,
written to, and put under personal influence. The Negro papers
were quietly subsidized, and they began to ridicule and reproach
the new leaders.

As the Fall progressed, mass-meetings were held in Washington and
the small towns. Larger and larger ones were projected, and more
and more Alwyn was pushed to the front. He was developing into a
most effective speaker. He had the voice, the presence, the
ideas, and above all he was intensely in earnest. There were
other colored orators with voice, presence, and eloquence; but
their people knew their record and discounted them. Alwyn was
new, clear, and sincere, and the black folk hung on his words.
Large and larger crowds greeted him until he was the central
figure in a half dozen great negro mass-meetings in the chief
cities of the country, culminating in New York the night before
election. Perhaps the secret newspaper work, the personal advice
of employers and friends, and the liberal distribution of cash,
would have delivered a large part of the Negro vote to the
Republican candidate. Perhaps—but there was a doubt. With
the work of Alwyn, however, all doubt disappeared, and there was
little reason for denying that the new President walked into the
White House through the instrumentality of an unknown Georgia
Negro, little past his majority. This is what Senator Smith said
to Mr. Easterly; what Miss Wynn said to herself; and it was what
Mrs. Vanderpool remarked to Zora as Zora was combing her hair on
the Wednesday after election.

Zora murmured an indistinct response. As already something of the
beauty of the world had found question and answer in her soul,
and as she began to realize how the world had waxed old in
thought and stature, so now in their last days a sense of the
power of men, as set over against the immensity and force of
their surroundings, became real to her. She had begun to read of
the lives and doing of those called great, and in her mind a plan
was forming. She saw herself standing dim within the shadows,
directing the growing power of a man: a man who would be great as
the world counted greatness, rich, high in position,
powerful—wonderful because his face was black. He would
never see her; never know how she worked and planned, save
perhaps at last, in that supreme moment as she passed, her soul
would cry to his, “Redeemed!” And he would understand.

All this she was thinking and weaving; not clearly and
definitely, but in great blurred clouds of thought of things as
she said slowly:

“He should have a great position for this.”

“Why, certainly,” Mrs. Vanderpool agreed, and then curiously:
“What?”

Zora considered. “Negroes,” she said, “have been Registers of the
Treasury, and Recorders of Deeds here in Washington, and Douglas
was Marshal; but I want Bles—” she paused and started
again. “Those are not great enough for Mr. Alwyn; he should have
an office so important that Negroes would not think of leaving
their party again.”

Mrs. Vanderpool took pains to repeat Zora’s words to Mr.
Easterly. He considered the matter.

“In one sense, it’s good advice,” he admitted; “but there’s the
South to reckon with. I’ll think it over and speak to the
President. Oh, yes; I’m going to mention France at the same
time.”

Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and leaned back in her carriage. She noted
with considerable interest the young colored woman who was
watching her from the sidewalk: a brown, well-appearing young
woman of notable self-possession. Caroline Wynn scrutinized Mrs.
Vanderpool because she had been speaking with Mr. Easterly, and
Mr. Easterly was a figure of political importance. That very
morning Miss Wynn had telegraphed Bles Alwyn. Alwyn arrived at
Washington just as the morning papers heralded the sweeping
Republican victory. All about he met new deference and new
friends; strangers greeted him familiarly on the street; Sam
Stillings became his shadow; and when he reported for work his
chief and fellow clerks took unusual interest in him.

“Have you seen Senator Smith yet?” Miss Wynn asked after a few
words of congratulation.

“No. What for?”

“What for?” she answered. “Go to him today; don’t fail. I shall
be at home at eight tonight.”

It seemed to Bles an exceedingly silly thing to do—calling
on a busy man with no errand; but he went. He decided that he
would just thank the Senator for his interest, and get out; or,
if the Senator was busy, he would merely send in his card.
Evidently the Senator was busy, for his waiting-room was full.
Bles handed the card to the secretary with a word of apology, but
the secretary detained him.

“Ah, Mr. Alwyn,” he said affably; “glad to see you. The Senator
will want to see you, I know. Wait just a minute.” And soon Bles
was shaking Senator Smith’s hand.

“Well, Mr. Alwyn,” said the Senator heartily, “you delivered the
goods.”

“Thank you, sir. I tried to.”

Senator Smith thoughtfully looked him over and drew out the
letters.

“Your friends, Mr. Alwyn,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “have
a rather high opinion of you. Here now is Stillings, who helped
on the campaign. He suggests an eighteen-hundred-dollar clerkship
for you.” The Senator glanced up keenly and omitted to state what
Stillings suggested for himself. Alwyn was visibly grateful as
well as surprised.

“I—I hoped,” he began hesitatingly, “that perhaps I might
get a promotion, but I had not thought of a first-class
clerkship.”

“H’m.” Senator Smith leaned back and twiddled his thumbs, staring
at Alwyn until the hot blood darkened his cheeks. Then Bles sat
up and stared politely but steadily back. The Senator’s eyes
dropped and he put out his hand for the second note.

“Now, your friend, Miss Wynn”—Alwyn started—”is even
more ambitious.” He handed her letter to the young man, and
pointed out the words.

“Of course, Senator,” Bles read, “we expect Mr. Alwyn to be the
next Register of the Treasury.”

Bles looked up in amazement, but the Senator reached for a third
letter. The room was very still. At last he found it. “This,” he
announced quietly, “is from a man of great power and influence,
who has the ear of the new President.” He smoothed out the
letter, paused briefly, then read aloud:

“‘It has been suggested to me by'”—the Senator did not read
the name; if he had “Mrs. Vanderpool” would have meant little to
Alwyn—”‘It has been suggested to me by blank that the
future allegiance of the Negro vote to the Republican Party might
be insured by giving to some prominent Negro a high political
position—for instance, Treasurer of the United
States’—salary, six thousand dollars,” interpolated Senator
Smith—”‘and that Alwyn would be a popular and safe
appointment for that position.'”

The Senator did not read the concluding sentence, which ran:
“Think this over; we can’t touch political conditions in the
South; perhaps this sop will do.”

For a long time Alwyn sat motionless, while the Senator said
nothing. Then the young man rose unsteadily.

“I don’t think I quite grasp all this,” he said as he shook
hands. “I’ll think it over,” and he went out.

When Caroline Wynn heard of that extraordinary conversation her
amazement knew no bounds. Yet Alwyn ventured to voice doubts:

“I’m not fitted for either of those high offices; there are many
others who deserve more, and I don’t somehow like the idea of
seeming to have worked hard in the campaign simply for money or
fortune. You see, I talked against that very thing.”

Miss Wynn’s eyes widened.

“Well, what else—” she began and then changed. “Mr. Alwyn,
the line between virtue and foolishness is dim and wavering, and
I should hate to see you lost in that marshy borderland. By a
streak of extraordinary luck you have gained the political
leadership of Negroes in America. Here’s your chance to lead your
people, and here you stand blinking and hesitating. Be a man!”

Alwyn straightened up and felt his doubts going. The evening
passed very pleasantly.

“I’m going to have a little dinner for you,” said Miss Wynn
finally, and Alwyn grew hot with pleasure. He turned to her
suddenly and said:

“Why, I’m rather—black.” She expressed no surprise but said
reflectively:

“You are dark.”

“And I’ve been given to understand that Miss Wynn and her set
rather—well, preferred the lighter shades of colored folk.”

Miss Wynn laughed lightly.

“My parents did,” she said simply. “No dark man ever entered
their house; they were simply copying the white world. Now I, as
a matter of aesthetic beauty, prefer your brown-velvet color to a
jaundiced yellow, or even an uncertain cream; but the world
doesn’t.”

“The world?”

“Yes, the world; and especially America. One may be Chinese,
Spaniard, even Indian—anything white or dirty white in this
land, and demand decent treatment; but to be Negro or darkening
toward it unmistakably means perpetual handicap and crucifixion.”

“Why not, then, admit that you draw the color-line?”

“Because I don’t; but the world does. I am not prejudiced as my
parents were, but I am foresighted. Indeed, it is a deep ethical
query, is it not, how far one has the right to bear black
children to the world in the Land of the Free and the home of the
brave. Is it fair—to the children?”

“Yes, it is!” he cried vehemently. “The more to take up the
fight, the surer the victory.”

She laughed at his earnestness.

“You are refreshing,” she said. “Well, we’ll dine next Tuesday,
and we’ll have the cream of our world to meet you.”

He knew that this was a great triumph. It flattered his vanity.
After all, he was entering this higher dark world whose existence
had piqued and puzzled him so long. He glanced at Miss Wynn
beside him there in the dimly lighted parlor: she looked so aloof
and unapproachable, so handsome and so elegant. He thought how
she would complete a house—such a home as his prospective
four or six thousand dollars a year could easily purchase. She
saw him surveying her, and she smiled at him.

“I find but one fault with you,” she said.

He stammered for a pretty speech, but did not find it before she
continued:

“Yes—you are so delightfully primitive; you will not use
the world as it is but insist on acting as if it were something
else.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Well, there is the wife of my Judge: she is a fact in my world;
in yours she is a problem to be stated, straightened, and solved.
If she had come to you, as she did to me yesterday, with her
theory that all that Southern Negroes needed was to learn how to
make good servants and lay brick—”

“I should have shown her—” Bles tried to interject.

“Nothing of the sort. You would have tried to show her and would
have failed miserably. She hasn’t learned anything in twenty
years.”

“But surely you didn’t join her in advocating that ten million
people be menials?”

“Oh, no; I simply listened.”

“Well, there was no harm in that; I believe in silence at times.”

“Ah! but I did not listen like a log, but positively and
eloquently; with a nod, a half-formed word, a comment begun,
which she finished.”

Bles frowned.

“As a result,” continued Miss Wynn, “I have a check for five
hundred dollars to finish our cooking-school and buy a cast of
Minerva for the assembly-room. More than that, I have now a
wealthy friend. She thinks me an unusually clever person who, by
a process of thought not unlike her own, has arrived at very
similar conclusions.”

“But—but,” objected Bles, “if the time spent cajoling fools
were used in convincing the honest and upright, think how much we
would gain.”

“Very little. The honest and upright are a sad minority. Most of
these white folk—believe me, boy,” she said
caressingly,—”are fools and knaves: they don’t want truth
or progress; they want to keep niggers down.”

“I don’t believe it; there are scores, thousands, perhaps
millions such, I admit; but the average American loves justice
and right, and he is the one to whom I appeal with frankness and
truth. Great heavens! don’t you love to be frank and open?”

She narrowed her eyelids.

“Yes, sometimes I do; once I was; but it’s a luxury few of us
Negroes can afford. Then, too, I insist that it’s jolly to fool
them.”

“Don’t you hate the deception?”

She chuckled and put her head to one side.

“At first I did; but, do you know, now I believe I prefer it.”

He looked so horrified that she burst out laughing. He laughed
too. She was a puzzle to him. He kept thinking what a mistress of
a mansion she would make.

“Why do you say these things?” he asked suddenly.

“Because I want you to do well here in Washington.”

“General philanthropy?”

“No, special.” Her eyes were bright with meaning.

“Then you care—for me?”

“Yes.”

He bent forward and cast the die.

“Enough to marry me?”

She answered very calmly and certainly:

“Yes.”

He leaned toward her. And then between him and her lips a dark
and shadowy face; two great storm-swept eyes looked into his out
of a world of infinite pain, and he dropped his head in
hesitation and shame, and kissed her hand. Miss Wynn thought him
delightfully bashful.

Twenty-six

CONGRESSMAN CRESSWELL

The election of Harry Cresswell to Congress was a very simple
matter. The Colonel and his son drove to town and consulted the
Judge; together they summoned the sheriff and the local member of
the State legislature.

“I think it’s about time that we Cresswells asked for a little of
the political pie,” the Colonel smilingly opened.

“Well, what do you want?” asked the Judge.

“Harry wants to go to Congress.”

The Judge hesitated. “We’d half promised that to Caldwell,” he
objected.

“It will be a little costly this year, too,” suggested the
sheriff, tentatively.

“About how much?” asked the Colonel.

“At least five thousand,” said the Legislator.

The Colonel said nothing. He simply wrote a check and the matter
was settled. In the Fall Harry Cresswell was declared elected.
There were four hundred and seventy-two votes cast but the
sheriff added a cipher. He said it would look better.

Early December found the Cresswells domiciled in a small house in
Du Pont Circle, Washington. They had an automobile and four
servants, and the house was furnished luxuriously. Mary Taylor
Cresswell, standing in her morning room and looking out on the
flowers of the square, told herself that few people in the world
had cause to be as happy as she. She was tastefully gowned, in a
way to set off her blonde beauty and her delicate rounded figure.
She was surrounded with wealth, and above all, she was in that
atmosphere of aristocracy for which she had always yearned; and
already she was acquiring that poise of the head, and a manner of
directing the servants, which showed her born to the purple.

She had cause to be extremely happy, she told herself this
morning, and yet she was puzzled to understand why she was not.
Why was she restless and vaguely ill at ease so often these days?

One matter, indeed, did worry her; but that would right itself in
time, she was sure. She had always pictured herself as directing
her husband’s work. She did not plan to step in and demand a
share; she knew from experience with her brother that a woman
must prove her usefulness to a man before he will admit it, and
even then he may be silent. She intended gradually and tactfully
to relieve her husband of care connected with his public life so
that, before he realized it, she would be his guiding spirit and
his inspiration. She had dreamed the details of doing this so
long that it seemed already done, and she could imagine no
obstacle to its realization. And yet she found herself today no
nearer her goal than when first she married. Not because Mr.
Cresswell did not share his work, but because, apparently, he had
no work, no duties, no cares. At first, in the dim glories of the
honeymoon, this seemed but part of his delicate courtesy toward
her, and it pleased her despite her thrifty New England nature;
but now that they were settled in Washington, the election over
and Congress in session, it really seemed time for Work and Life
to begin in dead earnest, and New England Mary was dreaming
mighty dreams and golden futures.

But Harry apparently was as content as ever with doing nothing.
He arose at ten, dined at seven, and went to bed between midnight
and sunrise. There was some committee meetings and much mail, but
Mary was admitted to knowledge of none of these. The obvious
step, of course, would be to set him at work; but from this
undertaking Mary unconsciously recoiled. She had already
recognized that while her tastes and her husband’s were mostly
alike, they were also strikingly different in many respects. They
agreed in the daintiness of things, the elegance of detail; but
they did not agree always as to the things themselves. Given the
picture, they would choose the same frame—but they would
not choose the same picture. They liked the same voice, but not
the same song; the same company, but not the same conversation.
Of course, Mary reflected, frowning at the flowers—of
course, this must always be so when two human beings are thrown
into new and intimate association. In time they would grow to
sweet communion; only, she hoped the communion would be on tastes
nearer hers than those he sometimes manifested.

She turned impatiently from the window with a feeling of
loneliness. But why lonely? She idly fingered a new book on the
table and then put it down sharply. There had been several
attempts at reading aloud between them some evenings ago, and
this book reminded her of them. She had bought Jane Addams’
“Newer Ideals of Peace,” and he had yawned over it undisguisedly.
Then he had brought this novel, and—well, she had balked at
the second chapter, and he had kissed her and called her his
“little prude.” She did not want to be a prude; she hated to seem
so, and had for some time prided herself on emancipation from
narrow New England prejudices. For example, she had not objected
to wine at dinner; it had seemed indeed rather fine, imparting,
as it did, an old-fashioned flavor; but she did not like the
whiskey, and Harry at times appeared to become just a bit too
lively—nothing excessive, of course, but his eyes and the
smell and the color were a little too suggestive. And yet he was
so kind and good, and when he came in at evening he bent so
gallantly for his kiss, and laid fresh flowers before her: could
anything have been more thoughtful and knightly?

Just here again she was puzzled; with her folk, hard work and
inflexible duty were of prime importance; they were the rock
foundation; and she somehow had always counted on the courtesies
of life as added to them, making them sweet and beautiful. But in
this world, not perhaps so much with Harry as with others of his
set, the depths beneath the gravely inclined head, the
deferential smile and ceremonious action, the light clever
converse, had sounded strangely hollow once or twice when she had
essayed to sound them, and a certain fear to look and see
possessed her.

The bell rang, and she was a little startled at the fright that
struck her heart. She did not analyze it. In reality—pride
forbade her to admit it—she feared it was a call of some of
Harry’s friends: some languid, assured Southern ladies,
perilously gowned, with veiled disdain for this interloping
Northerner and her strong mind. Especially was there one from New
Orleans, tall and dark—

But it was no caller. It was simply some one named Stillings to
see Mr. Cresswell. She went down to see him—he might be a
constituent—and found a smirky brown man, very apologetic.

“You don’t know me—does you, Mrs. Cresswell?” said
Stillings. He knew when it was diplomatic to forget his grammar
and assume his dialect.

“Why—no.”

“You remember I worked for Mr. Harry and served you-all lunch one
day.”

“Oh, yes—why, yes! I remember now very well.”

“Well, I wants to see Mr. Harry very much; could I wait in the
back hall?”

Mary started to have him wait in the front hall, but she thought
better of it and had him shown back. Less than an hour later her
husband entered and she went quickly to him. He looked worn and
white and tired, but he laughed her concern lightly off.

“I’ll be in earlier tonight,” he declared.

“Is the Congressional business very heavy?”

He laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he
observed.

“Oh, no,” he answered deftly; “not very.” And as they moved
toward the dining-room Mary changed the subject.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “There is a
man—a colored man—waiting to see you in the back
hall, but I guess he can wait until after lunch.”

They ate leisurely.

“There’s going to be racing out at the park this evening,” said
Harry. “Want to go?”

“I was going to hear an art lecture at the Club,” Mary returned,
and grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. Of course,
the Club was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual
effort, but today, largely through her own suggestion, an art
teacher of European reputation was going to lecture, and Mary
preferred it to the company of the race track. And—just as
certainly—her husband didn’t.

“Don’t forget the man, dear,” she reminded him; but he was buried
in his paper, frowning.

“Look at that,” he said finally. She glanced at the
head-lines—”Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High
Office at Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama.”

“Why, it’s Bles!” she said, her face lighting as his darkened.

“An impudent Negro,” he voiced his disgust. “If they must appoint
darkies why can’t they get tractable ones like my nigger
Stillings.”

“Stillings?” she repeated. “Why, he’s the man that’s waiting.”

“Sam, is it? Used to be one of our servants—you remember?
Wants to borrow more money, I presume.” He went down-stairs,
after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then
gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs. Cresswell was more unsatisfied
than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. Cresswell was
treating her about as he treated his wine—as an indulgence;
a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and
prose of life, unless—she started at the thought—his
life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out
and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy
enough to be busy.

Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings
hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing
as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the
whole Southern delegation in his schemes.

That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where
over hot whiskey and water they talked.

“The damned Southern upstart,” growled Teerswell, forgetting
Stillings’ birth-place. “Do you mean to say he’s actually slated
for the place?”

“He’s sure of it, unless something turns up.”

“Well, who’d have dreamed it?” Teerswell mixed another stiff
dram.

“And that isn’t all,” came Sam Stillings’ unctuous voice.

Teerswell glanced at him. “What else?” he asked, pausing with the
steaming drink poised aloft.

“If I’m not mistaken, Alwyn intends to marry Miss Wynn.”

“You lie!” the other suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning
his tumbler and striding across the floor. “Do you suppose she’d
look at that black—”

“Well, see here,” said the astute Stillings, checking the details
upon his fingers. “They visit Senator Smith’s together; he takes
her home from the Treble Clef; they say he talked to nobody else
at her party; she recommends him for the campaign—”

“What!” Teerswell again exploded. But Stillings continued
smoothly:

“Oh, I have ways of finding things out. She corresponds with him
during the campaign; she asks Smith to make him Register; and he
calls on her every night.”

Teerswell sat down limply.

“I see,” he groaned. “It’s all up. She’s jilted me—and
I—and I—”

“I don’t see as it’s all up yet,” Stillings tried to reassure
him.

“But didn’t you say they were engaged?”

“I think they are; but—well, you know Carrie Wynn better
than I do: suppose, now—suppose he should lose the
appointment?”

“But you say that’s sure.”

“Unless something turns up.”

“But what can turn up?”

“We might turn something.”

“What—what—I tell you man, I’d—I’d do anything
to down that nigger. I hate him. If you’ll help me I’ll do
anything for you.”

Stillings arose and carefully opening the hall door peered out.
Then he came back and, seating himself close to Teerswell, pushed
aside the whiskey.

“Teerswell,” he whispered, “you know I was working to be Register
of the Treasury. Well, now, when the scheme of making Alwyn
Treasurer came up they determined to appoint a Southern white
Republican and give me a place under Alwyn. Now, if Alwyn fails
to land I’ve got no chance for the bigger place, but I’ve got a
good chance to be Register according to the first plan. I helped
in the campaign; I’ve got the Negro secret societies backing me
and—I don’t mind telling you—the solid Southern
Congressional delegation. I’m trying now ostensibly for a
chief-clerkship under Bles, and I’m pretty sure of it: it pays
twenty-five hundred. See here: if we can make Bles do some fool
talking and get it into the papers, he’ll be ditched, and I’ll be
Register.”

“Great!” shouted Teerswell.

“Wait—wait. Now, if I get the job, how would you like to be
my assistant?”

“Like it? Why, great Jehoshaphat! I’d marry Carrie—but how
can I help you?”

“This way. I want to be better known among influential Negroes.
You introduce me and let me make myself solid. Especially I must
get in Miss Wynn’s set so that both of us can watch her and
Alwyn, and make her friends ours.”

“I’ll do it—shake!” And Stillings put his oily hand into
Teerswell’s nervous grip.

“Now, here,” Stillings went on, “you stow all that jealousy and
heavy tragedy. Treat Alwyn well and call on Miss Wynn as
usual—see?”

“It’s a hard pill—but all right.”

“Leave the rest to me; I’m hand in glove with Alwyn. I’ll put
stuff into him that’ll make him wave the bloody shirt at the next
meeting of the Bethel Literary—see? Then I’ll go to
Cresswell and say, ‘Dangerous nigger—, just as I told you.’
He’ll begin to move things. You see? Cresswell is in with
Smith—both directors in the big Cotton Combine—and
Smith will call Alwyn down. Then we’ll think further.”

“Stillings, you look like a fool, but you’re a genius.” And
Teerswell fairly hugged him. A few more details settled, and some
more whiskey consumed, and Teerswell went home at midnight in
high spirits. Stillings looked into the glass and scowled.

“Look like a fool, do I?” he mused. “Well, I ain’t!”

Congressman Cresswell was stirred to his first political activity
by the hint given him through Stillings. He not only had a strong
personal dislike for Alwyn, but he regarded the promise to him of
a high office as a menace to the South.

The second speech which Alwyn made at the Bethel Literary was, as
Stillings foresaw, a reply to the stinging criticisms of certain
colored papers engineered by Teerswell, who said that Alwyn had
been bribed to remain loyal to the Republicans by a six thousand
dollar office. Alwyn had been cut to the quick, and his reply was
a straight out defence of Negro rights and a call to the
Republican Party to redeem its pledges.

Caroline Wynn, seeing the rocks for which her political craft was
headed, adroitly steered several newspaper reports into the waste
basket, but Stillings saw to it that a circumstantial account was
in the Colored American, and that a copy of this paper was
in Congressman Cresswell’s hands. Cresswell lost no time in
calling on Senator Smith and pointing out to him that Bles Alwyn
was a dangerous Negro: seeking social equality, hating white
people, and scheming to make trouble. He was too young and heady.
It would be fatal to give such a man office and influence; fatal
for the development of the South, and bad for the Cotton Combine.

Senator Smith was unconvinced. Alwyn struck him as a
well-balanced fellow, and he thought he deserved the office. He
would, however, warn him to make no further speeches like that of
last night. Cresswell mentioned Stillings as a good, inoffensive
Negro who knew his place and could be kept track of.

“Stillings is a good man,” admitted Smith; “but Alwyn is better.
However, I’ll bear what you say in mind.”

Cresswell found Mr. Easterly in Mrs. Vanderpool’s parlor, and
that gentleman was annoyed at the news.

“I especially picked out this Alwyn because he was Southern and
tractable, and seemed to have sense enough to know how to say
well what we wanted to say.”

“When, as a matter of fact,” drawled Mrs. Vanderpool, “he was
simply honest.”

“The South won’t stand it,” Cresswell decisively affirmed.

“Well—” began Mr. Easterly.

“See here,” interrupted Mrs. Vanderpool. “I’m interested in
Alwyn; in fact, an honest man in politics, even if he is black,
piques my curiosity. Give him a chance and I’ll warrant he’ll
develop all the desirable traits of a first class office-holder.”

Easterly hesitated. “We must not offend the South, and we must
placate the Negroes,” he said.

“The right sort of Negro—one like Stillings—appointed
to a reasonable position, would do both,” opined Cresswell.

“It evidently didn’t,” Mrs. Vanderpool interjected.

Cresswell arose. “I tell you, Mr. Easterly, I object—it
mustn’t go through.” He took his leave.

Mrs. Vanderpool did not readily give up her plea for Alwyn, and
bade Zora get Mr. Smith on the telephone for discussion.

“Well,” reported Easterly, hanging up the receiver, “we may land
him. It seems that he is engaged to a Washington school-teacher,
and Smith says she has him well in hand. She’s a pretty shrewd
proposition, and understands that Alwyn’s only chance now lies in
keeping his mouth shut. We may land him,” he repeated.

“Engaged!” gasped Mrs. Vanderpool.

Zora quietly closed the door.

Twenty-seven

THE VISION OF ZORA

How Zora found the little church she never knew; but somehow, in
the long dark wanderings which she had fallen into the habit of
taking at nightfall, she stood one evening before it. It looked
warm, and she was cold. It was full of her people, and she was
very, very lonely. She sat in a back seat, and saw with unseeing
eyes. She said again, as she had said to herself a hundred times,
that it was all right and just what she had expected. What else
could she have dreamed? That he should ever marry her was beyond
possibility; that had been settled long since—there where
the tall, dark pines, wan with the shades of evening, cast their
haunting shadows across the Silver Fleece and half hid the
blood-washed west. After that he would marry some one
else, of course; some good and pure woman who would help and
uplift and serve him.

She had dreamed that she would help—unknown,
unseen—and perhaps she had helped a little through Mrs.
Vanderpool. It was all right, and yet why so suddenly had the
threads of life let go? Why was she drifting in vast waters; in
uncharted wastes of sea? Why was the puzzle of life suddenly so
intricate when but a little week ago she was reading it, and its
beauty and wisdom and power were thrilling her delighted hands?
Could it be possible that all unconsciously she had dared dream a
forbidden dream? No, she had always rejected it. When no one else
had the right; when no one thought; when no one cared, she had
hovered over his soul as some dark guardian angel; but now, now
somebody else was receiving his gratitude. It was all right, she
supposed; but she, the outcast child of the swamp, what was there
for her to do in the great world—her, the burden of whose
sin—

But then came the voice of the preacher: “Behold the Lamb of
God, that taketh away the sin of the world.”

She found herself all at once intently listening. She had been to
church many times before, but under the sermons and ceremonies
she had always sat coldly inert. In the South the cries,
contortions, and religious frenzy left her mind untouched; she
did not laugh or mock, she simply sat and watched and wondered.
At the North, in the white churches, she enjoyed the beauty of
wall, windows, and hymn, liked the voice and surplice of the
preacher; but his words had no reference to anything in which she
was interested. Here suddenly came an earnest voice addressed, by
singular chance, to her of all the world.

She listened, bending forward, her eyes glued to the speaker’s
lips and letting no word drop. He had the build and look of the
fanatic: thin to emancipation; brown; brilliant-eyed; his words
snapped in nervous energy and rang in awful earnestness.

“Life is sin, and sin is sorrow. Sorrow is born of selfishness
and self-seeking—our own good, our own happiness, our own
glory. As if any one of us were worth a life! No, never. A single
self as an end is, and ought to be, disappointment; it is too
low; it is nothing. Only in a whole world of selves, infinite,
endless, eternal world on worlds of selves—only in their
vast good is true salvation. The good of others is our true good;
work for others; not for your salvation, but the salvation of the
world.” The audience gave a low uneasy groan and the minister in
whose pulpit the stranger preached stirred uneasily. But he went
on tensely, with flying words:

“Unselfishness is sacrifice—Jesus was supreme sacrifice.”
(“Amen,” screamed a voice.) “In your dark lives,” he cried,
“who is the King of Glory? Sacrifice. Lift up your heads,
then, ye gates of prejudice and hate, and let the King of Glory
come in. Forget yourselves and your petty wants, and behold your
starving people. The wail of black millions sweeps the
air—east and west they cry, Help! Help! Are you dumb? Are
you blind? Do you dance and laugh, and hear and see not? The cry
of death is in the air; they murder, burn, and maim us!”
(“Oh—oh—” moaned the people swaying in their seats.)
“When we cry they mock us; they ruin our women and debauch our
children—what shall we do?

“Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away sin. Behold the Supreme
Sacrifice that makes us clean. Give up your pleasures; give up
your wants; give up all to the weak and wretched of our people.
Go down to Pharaoh and smite him in God’s name. Go down to the
South where we writhe.
Strive—work—build—hew—lead—inspire!
God calls. Will you hear? Come to Jesus. The harvest is waiting.
Who will cry: ‘Here am I, send me!'”

Zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and
answered the call: “Here am I—send me.”

And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars;
around her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang
some new song of peace.

“What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool inquired, for she
seemed to see in the girl’s face and carriage some subtle change;
something that seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped
the dreamer into the realness of things; how suddenly the seeker
saw; how to the wanderer, the Way was opened.

Just how she sensed this Mrs. Vanderpool could not have
explained, nor could Zora. Was there a change, sudden,
cataclysmic? No. There were to come in future days all the old
doubts and shiverings, the old restless cry: “It is all
right—all right!” But more and more, above the doubt and
beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that
flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it
became possible, and through it all things else were possible.
Thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing
of dark and bowed worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection
rolled away the stone.

“What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool repeated.

Zora looked up, almost happily—standing poised on her feet
as if to tell of strength and purpose.

“I have found the Way,” she cried joyously.

Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long searching look.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry—but I’ve been—converted.” And she told her
story.

“Pshaw, Zora!” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered impatiently. “He’s a
fakir.”

“Maybe,” said Zora serenely and quietly; “but he brought the
Word.”

“Zora, don’t talk cant; it isn’t worthy of your intelligence.”

“It was more than intelligent—it was true.”

“Zora—listen, child! You were wrought up tonight,
nervous—wild. You were happy to meet your people, and where
he said one word you supplied two. What you attribute to him is
the voice of your own soul.”

But Zora merely smiled. “All you say may be true. But what does
it matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: ‘Whereas
I was blind now I see.'”

Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. “And what shall
you do?” she asked.

“I’m going back South to work for my people.”

“When?” The old careworn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool’s
features.

Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the
other woman’s neck.

“Not right off,” she said gently; “not until I learn more. I hate
to leave you, but—it calls!”

Mrs. Vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily:

“You see, Zora, the more you know the more you can do.”

“Yes.”

“And if you are determined I will see that you are taught. You
must know settlement-work and reform movements; not simply here
but—” she hesitated—”in England—in France.”

“Will it take long?” Zora asked, smoothing the lady’s hair.

Mrs. Vanderpool considered. “No—five years is not long; it
is all too short.”

“Five years: it is very long; but there is a great deal to learn.
Must I study five years?”

Mrs. Vanderpool threw back her head.

“Zora, I am selfish I know, but five years truly is none too
long. Then, too, Zora, we have work to do in that time.”

“What?”

“There is Alwyn’s career,” and Mrs. Vanderpool looked into Zora’s
eyes.

The girl did not shrink, but she paused.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “we must help him.”

“And after he rises—”

“He will marry.”

“Whom?”

“The woman he loves,” returned Zora, quietly.

“Yes—that is best,” sighed Mrs. Vanderpool. “But how shall
we help him?”

“Make him Treasurer of the United States without sacrificing his
manhood or betraying his people.”

“I can do that,” said Mrs. Vanderpool slowly.

“It will cost something,” said Zora.

“I will do it,” was the lady’s firm assurance. Zora kissed her.

The next afternoon Mrs. Cresswell went down to a white social
settlement of which Congressman Todd had spoken, where a meeting
of the Civic Club was to be held. She had come painfully to
realize that if she was to have a career she must make it for
herself. The plain, unwelcome truth was that her husband had no
great interests in life in which she could find permanent
pleasure. Companionship and love there was and, she told herself,
always would be; but in some respects their lives must flow in
two streams. Last night, for the second time, she had irritated
him; he had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must
brood or work today. And so she hunted work, eagerly.

She felt the atmosphere the moment she entered. There were
carelessly gowned women and men smart and shabby, but none of
them were thinking of clothes nor even of one another. They had
great deeds in mind; they were scanning the earth; they were
toiling for men. The same grim excitement that sends smaller
souls hunting for birds and rabbits and lions, had sent them
hunting the enemies of mankind: they were bent to the chase,
scenting the game, knowing the infinite meaning of their hunt and
the glory of victory. Mary Cresswell had listened but a half hour
before her world seemed so small and sordid and narrow, so
trivial, that a sense of shame spread over her. These people were
not only earnest, but expert. They acknowledged the need of Mr.
Todd’s educational bill.

“But the Republicans are going to side-track it; I have that on
the best authority,” said one.

“True; but can’t we force them to it?”

“Only by political power, and they’ve just won a campaign.”

“They won it by Negro votes, and the Negro who secured the votes
is eager for this bill; he’s a fine, honest fellow.”

“Very well; work with him; and when we can be of real service let
us know. Meantime, this Child Labor bill is different. It’s bound
to pass. Both parties are back of it, and public opinion is
aroused. Now our work is to force amendments enough to make the
bill effective.”

Discussion followed; not flamboyant and declamatory, but tense,
staccato, pointed. Mrs. Cresswell found herself taking part.
Someone mentioned her name, and one or two glances of interest
and even curiosity were thrown her way. Congressmen’s wives were
rare at the Civic Club.

Congressmen Todd urged Mrs. Cresswell to stay after the
discussion and attend a meeting of the managers and workers of
the Washington social settlements.

“Have you many settlements?” she inquired.

“Three in all—two white and one colored.”

“And will they all be represented?”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Cresswell. If you object to meeting the
colored people—”

Mrs. Cresswell blushed.

“No, indeed,” she answered; “I used to teach colored people.”

She watched this new group gather: a business man, two
fashionable ladies, three college girls, a gray-haired colored
woman, and a young spectacled brown man, and then, to her
surprise, Mrs. Vanderpool and Zora.

Zora was scarcely seated when that strange sixth sense of hers
told her that something had happened, and it needed but a
side-glance from Mrs. Vanderpool to indicate what it was. She sat
with folded hands and the old dreamy look in her eyes. In one
moment she lived it all again—the red cabin, the moving
oak, the sowing of the Fleece, and its fearful reaping. And now,
when she turned her head, she would see the woman who was to
marry Bles Alwyn. She had often dreamed of her, and had set a
high ideal. She wanted her to be handsome, well dressed, earnest
and good. She felt a sort of person proprietorship in her, and
when at last the quickened pulse died to its regular healthy
beat, she turned and looked and knew.

Caroline Wynn deemed it a part of the white world’s education to
participate in meetings like this; doing so was not pleasant, but
it appealed to her cynicism and mocking sense of pleasure. She
always roused hostility as she entered: her gown was too
handsome, her gloves too spotless, her air had hauteur enough to
be almost impudent in the opinion of most white people. Then
gradually her intelligence, her cool wit and self-possession,
would conquer and she would go gracefully out leaving a rather
bewildered audience behind. She sat today with her dark gold
profile toward Zora, and the girl looked and was glad. She was
such a woman she would have Bles marry. She was glad, and she
choked back the sob that struggled and fought in her throat.

The meeting never got beyond a certain constraint. The
Congressman made an excellent speech; there were various sets of
figures read by the workers; and Miss Wynn added a touch of spice
by several pertinent questions and comments. Then, as the meeting
broke up and Mrs. Cresswell came forward to speak to Zora, Mrs.
Vanderpool managed to find herself near Miss Wynn and to be
introduced. They exchanged a few polite phrases, fencing
delicately to test the other’s wrist and interest. They touched
on the weather, and settlement work; but Miss Wynn did not
propose to be stranded on the Negro problem.

“I suppose the next bit of excitement will be in the
inauguration,” she said to Mrs. Vanderpool.

“I understand it will be unusually elaborate,” returned Mrs.
Vanderpool, a little surprised at the turn. Then she added
pleasantly: “I think I shall see it through, from speech to
ball.”

“Yes, I do usually,” Miss Wynn asserted, adjusting her furs.

Mrs. Vanderpool was further surprised. Did colored people attend
the ball?

“We sorely need a national ball-room,” she said. “Isn’t the
census building wretched?”

“I do not know,” smiled Miss Wynn.

“Oh, I thought you said—”

“I meant our ball.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Vanderpool in turn. “Oh!” Here a thought came. Of
course, the colored people had their own ball; she remembered
having heard about it. Why not send Zora? She plunged in:

“Miss Wynn, I have a maid—such an intelligent girl; I do
wish she could attend your ball—” seeing her blunder, she
paused. Miss Wynn was coolly buttoning her glove.

“Yes,” she acknowledged politely, “few of us can afford maids,
and therefore we do not usually arrange for them; but I think we
can have your protégée look on from the gallery.
Good-afternoon.”

As Mrs. Vanderpool drove home she related the talk to Zora. Zora
was silent at first. Then she said deliberately:

“Miss Wynn was right.”

“Why, Zora!”

“Did Helene attend the ball four years ago?”

“But, Zora, must you folk ape our nonsense as well as our sense?”

“You force us to,” said Zora.

Twenty-eight

THE ANNUNCIATION

The new President had been inaugurated. Beneath the creamy pile
of the old Capitol, and facing the new library, he had stood
aloft and looked down on a waving sea of
faces—black-coated, jostling, eager-eyed fellow creatures.
They had watched his lips move, had scanned eagerly his dress and
the gowned and decorated dignitaries beside him; and then, with
blare of band and prancing of horses, he had been whirled down
the dip and curve of that long avenue, with its medley of
meanness and thrift and hurry and wealth, until, swinging
sharply, the dim walls of the White House rose before him. He
entered with a sigh.

Then the vast welter of humanity dissolved and streamed hither
and thither, gaping and laughing until night, when thousands
poured into the red barn of the census shack and entered the
artificial fairyland within. The President walked through,
smiling; the senators protected their friends in the crush; and
Harry Cresswell led his wife to a little oasis of Southern ladies
and gentlemen.

“This is democracy for you,” said he, wiping his brow.

From a whirling eddy Mrs. Vanderpool waved at them, and they
rescued her.

“I think I am ready to go,” she gasped. “Did you ever!”

“Come,” Cresswell invited. But just then the crowd pushed them
apart and shot them along, and Mrs. Cresswell found herself
clinging to her husband amid two great whirling variegated
throngs of driving, white-faced people. The band crashed and
blared; the people laughed and pushed; and with rhythmic sound
and swing the mighty throng was dancing.

It took much effort, but at last the Cresswell party escaped and
rolled off in their carriages. They swept into the avenue and out
again, then up 14th Street, where, turning for some street
obstruction, they passed a throng of carriages on a cross street.

“It’s the other ball,” cried Mrs. Vanderpool, and amid laughter
she added, “Let’s go!”

It was—the other ball. For Washington is itself, and
something else besides. Along beside it ever runs that dark and
haunting echo; that shadowy world-in-world with its accusing
silence, its emphatic self-sufficiency. Mrs. Cresswell at first
demurred. She thought of Elspeth’s cabin: the dirt, the smell,
the squalor: of course, this would be different; but—well,
Mrs. Cresswell had little inclination for slumming. She was
interested in the under-world, but intellectually, not by
personal contact. She did not know that this was a side-world,
not an under-world. Yet the imposing building did not look
sordid.

“Hired?” asked some one.

“No, owned.”

“Indeed!”

Then there was a hitch.

“Tickets?”

“Where can we buy them?”

“Not on sale,” was the curt reply.

“Actually exclusive!” sneered Cresswell, for he could not imagine
any one unwelcome at a Negro ball. Then he bethought himself of
Sam Stillings and sent for him. In a few minutes he had a dozen
complimentary tickets in his hand.

They entered the balcony and sat down. Mary Cresswell leaned
forward. It was interesting. Beneath her was an ordinary pretty
ball—flowered, silked, and ribboned; with swaying whirling
figures, music, and laughter, and all the human fun of gayety and
converse.

And then she was impressed with the fact that this was no
ordinary scene; it was, on the contrary, most extraordinary.

There was a black man waltzing with a white woman—no, she
was not white, for Mary caught the cream and curl of the girl as
she swept past: but there was a white man (was he white?) and a
black woman. The color of the scene was wonderful. The hard human
white seemed to glow and live and run a mad gamut of the
spectrum, from morn till night, from white to black; through red
and sombre browns, pale and brilliant yellows, dead and living
blacks. Through her opera-glasses Mary scanned their hair; she
noted everything from the infinitely twisted, crackled, dead, and
grayish-black to the piled mass of red golden sunlight. Her eyes
went dreaming; there below was the gathering of the worlds. She
saw types of all nations and all lands swirling beneath her in
human brotherhood, and a great wonder shook her. They seemed so
happy. Surely, this was no nether world; it was upper earth,
and—her husband beckoned; he had been laughing
incontinently. He saw nothing but a crowd of queer looking people
doing things they were not made to do and appearing absurdly
happy over it. It irritated him unreasonably.

“See the washer-woman in red,” he whispered. “Look at the monkey.
Come, let’s go.”

They trooped noisily down-stairs, and Cresswell walked
unceremoniously between a black man and his partner. Mrs.
Vanderpool recognized and greeted the girl as Miss Wynn. Mrs.
Cresswell did not notice her, but she paused with a start of
recognition at the sight of the man.

“Why, Bles!” she exclaimed impetuously, starting to hold out her
hand. She was sincerely pleased at seeing him. Then she
remembered. She bowed and smiled, looking at him with interest
and surprise. He was correctly dressed, and the white shirt set
off the comeliness of his black face in compelling contrast. He
carried himself like a man, and bowed with gravity and dignity.
She passed on and heard her husband’s petulant voice in her ear.

“Mary—Mary! for Heaven’s sake, come on; don’t shake hands
with niggers.”

It was recurring flashes of temper like this, together with
evidences of dubious company and a growing fondness for liquor,
that drove Mary Cresswell more and more to find solace in the
work of Congressman Todd’s Civic Club. She collected statistics
for several of the Committee, wrote letters, interviewed a few
persons, and felt herself growing in usefulness and importance.
She did not mention these things to her husband; she knew he
would not object, but she shrank from his ridicule.

The various causes advocated by the Civic Club felt the impetus
of the aggressive work of the organization. This was especially
the case with the National Education Bill and the amendment to
the Child Labor Bill. The movement became strong enough to call
Mr. Easterly down from New York. He and the inner circle went
over matters carefully.

“We need the political strength of the South,” said Easterly;
“not only in framing national legislation in our own interests,
but always in State laws. Particularly, we must get them into
line to offset Todd’s foolishness. The Child Labor Bill must
either go through unamended or be killed. The Cotton Inspection
Bill—our chief measure—must be slipped through
quietly by Southern votes, while in the Tariff mix-up we must
take good care of cotton.

“Now, on the other hand, we are offending the Southerners in
three ways: Todd’s revived Blair Bill is too good a thing for
niggers; the South is clamoring for a first classy embassy
appointment; and the President’s nomination of Alwyn as Treasurer
will raise a howl from Virginia to Texas.”

“There is some strong influence back of Alwyn,” said Senator
Smith; “not only are the Negroes enthused, but the President has
daily letters from prominent whites.”

“The strong influence is named Vanderpool,” Easterly drily
remarked. “She’s playing a bigger political game than I laid out
for her. That’s the devil with women: they can’t concentrate:
they get too damned many side issues. Now, I offered her husband
the French ambassadorship provided she’d keep the Southerners
feeling good toward us. She’s hand in glove with the Southerners,
all right; but she wants not only her husband’s appointment but
this darkey’s too.”

“But that’s been decided, hasn’t it?” put in Smith.

“Yes,” grumbled Easterly; “but it makes it hard already. At any
rate, the Educational Bill must be killed right off. No more
talk; no more consideration—kill it, and kill it now. Now
about this Child Labor Bill: Todd’s Civic Club is raising the
mischief. Who’s responsible?”

The silent Jackson spoke up. “Congressman Cresswell’s wife has
been very active, and Todd thinks they’ve got the South with
them.”

“Congressman Cresswell’s wife!” Easterly’s face was one great
exclamation point. “Now what the devil does this mean?”

“I’m afraid,” said Senator Smith, “that it may mean an attempt on
the part of Cresswell’s friends to boost him for the French
ambassadorship. He’s the only Southerner with money enough to
support the position, and there’s been a good deal of quiet talk,
I understand, in Southern circles.”

“But it’s treason!” Easterly shouted. “It will ruin the plans of
the Combine to put this amended Child Labor Bill through. John
Taylor has just written me that he’s starting mills at
Toomsville, and that he depends on unrestricted labor conditions,
as we must throughout the South. Doesn’t Cresswell know this?”

“Of course. I think it’s just a bluff. If he gets the appointment
he’ll let the bill drop.”

“I see—everybody is raising his price, is he? Pretty soon
the darky will be holding us up. Well, see Cresswell, and put it
to him strong. I must go. Wire me.”

Senator Smith presented the matter bluntly to Cresswell as soon
as he saw him. “Which would the South prefer—Todd’s
Education Bill, or Alwyn’s appointment?”

It was characteristic of Cresswell that the smaller matter of
Stillings’ intrigue should interest him more than Todd’s measure,
of which he knew nothing.

“What is Todd’s bill?” asked Harry Cresswell, darkening.

Smith, surprised, got out a copy and explained. Cresswell
interrupted before he was half through.

“Don’t you see,” he said angrily, “that that will ruin our plans
for the Cotton Combine?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Smith; “but it will not do the immediate
harm that the amended Child Labor Bill will do.”

“What’s that?” demanded Cresswell, frowning again.

Senator Smith regarded him again: was Cresswell playing a shrewd
game?

“Why,” he said at length, “aren’t you promoting it?”

“No,” was the reply. “Never heard of it.”

“But,” Senator Smith began, and paused. He turned and took up a
circular issued by the Civic Club, giving a careful account of
their endeavors to amend and pass the Child Labor Bill. Cresswell
read it, then threw it aside.

“Nonsense!” he indignantly repudiated the measure. “That will
never do; it’s as bad as the Education Bill.”

“But your wife is encouraging it and we thought you were back of
it.”

Cresswell stared in blank amazement.

“My wife!” he gasped. Then he bethought himself. “It’s a
mistake,” he supplemented; “Mrs. Cresswell gave them no authority
to sign her name.”

“She’s been very active,” Smith persisted, “and naturally we were
all anxious.”

Cresswell bit his lip. “I shall speak to her; she does not
realize what use they are making of her passing interest.”

He hurried away, and Senator Smith felt a bit sorry for Mrs.
Cresswell when he recalled the expression on her husband’s face.

Mary Cresswell did not get home until nearly dinner time; then
she came in glowing with enthusiasm. Her work had received
special commendation that afternoon, and she had been asked to
take the chairmanship of the committee on publicity. Finding that
her husband was at home, she determined to tell him—it was
so good to be doing something worth while. Perhaps, too, he might
be made to show some interest. She thought of Mr. and Mrs. Todd
and the old dream glowed faintly again.

Cresswell looked at her as she entered the library where he was
waiting and smoking. She was rumpled and muddy, with flying hair
and thick walking shoes and the air of bustle and vigor which had
crept into her blood this last month. Truly, her cheeks were
glowing and her eyes bright, but he disapproved. Softness and
daintiness, silk and lace and glimmering flesh, belonged to women
in his mind, and he despised Amazons and “business” women. He
received her kiss coldly, and Mary’s heart sank. She essayed some
gay greeting, but he interrupted her.

“What’s this stuff about the Civic Club?” he began sharply.

“Stuff?” she queried, blankly.

“That’s what I said.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered stiffly. “I belong to the
Civic Club, and have been working with it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His resentment grew as he proceeded.

“I did not think you were interested.”

“Didn’t you know that this Child Labor business was opposed to my
interests?”

“Dear, I did not dream it. It’s a Republican bill, to be sure;
but you seemed very friendly with Senator Smith, who introduced
it. We were simply trying to improve it.”

“Suppose we didn’t want it improved.”

“That’s what some said; but I did not believe
such—deception.”

The blood rushed to Cresswell’s face.

“Well, you will drop this bill and the Civic Club from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so,” he retorted explosively, too angry to explain
further.

She looked at him—a long, fixed, penetrating look which
revealed more than she had ever seen before, then turned away and
went slowly up-stairs. She did not come down to dinner, and in
the evening the doctor was called.

Cresswell drooped a bit after eating, hesitated, and reflected.
He had acted too cavalierly in this Civic Club mess, he
concluded, and yet he would not back down. He’d go see her and
pet her a bit, but be firm.

He opened her boudoir door gently, and she stood before him
radiant, clothed in silk and lace, her hair loosened. He paused,
astonished. But she threw herself upon his neck, with a joyful,
half hysterical cry.

“I will give it all up—everything! Willingly, willingly!”
Her voice dropped abruptly to a tremulous whisper. “Oh, Harry!
I—I am to be the mother of a child!”

Twenty-nine

A MASTER OF FATE

“There is not the slightest doubt, Miss Wynn,” Senator Smith was
saying, “but that the schools of the District will be
reorganized.”

“And the Board of Education abolished?” she added.

“Yes. The power will be delegated to a single white
superintendent.”

The vertical line in Caroline Wynn’s forehead became pronounced.

“Whose work is this, Senator?” she asked.

“Well, there are, of course, various parties back of the change:
the ‘outs,’ the reformers, the whole tendency to concentrate
responsibility, and so on. But, frankly, the deciding factor was
the demand of the South.”

“Is there anything in Washington that the South does not already
own?”

Senator Smith smiled thinly.

“Not much,” drily; “but we own the South.”

“And part of the price is putting the colored schools of the
District in the hands of a Southern man and depriving us of all
voice in their control?”

“Precisely, Miss Wynn. But you’d be surprised to know that it was
the Negroes themselves who stirred the South to this demand.”

“Not at all; you mean the colored newspapers, I presume.”

“The same, with Teerswell’s clever articles; then his partner
Stillings worked the ‘impudent Negro teacher’ argument on
Cresswell until Cresswell was wild to get the South in control of
the schools.”

“But what do Teerswell and Stillings want?”

“They want Bles Alwyn to make a fool of himself.”

“That is a trifle cryptic,” Miss Wynn mused. The Senator
amplified.

“We are giving the South the Washington schools and killing the
Education Bill in return for this support of some of our measures
and their assent to Alwyn’s appointment. You see I speak
frankly.”

“I can stand it, Senator.”

“I believe you can. Well, now, if Alwyn should act unwisely and
offend the South, somebody else stands in line for the
appointment.”

“As Treasurer?” she asked in surprise.

“Oh, no, they are too shrewd to ask that; it would offend their
backers, or shall I say their tools, the Southerners. No, they
ask only to be Register and Assistant Register of the Treasury.
This is an office colored men have held for years, and it is
quite ambitious enough for them; so Stillings assures Cresswell
and his friends.”

“I see,” Miss Wynn slowly acknowledged. “But how do they hope to
make Mr. Alwyn blunder?”

“Too easily, I fear—unless you are very careful.
Alwyn has been working like a beaver for the National Education
Bill. He’s been in to see me several times, as you probably know.
His heart is set on it. He regards its passage as a sort of
vindication of his defence of the party.”

“Yes.”

“Now, the party has dropped the bill for good, and Alwyn doesn’t
like it. If he should attack the party—”

“But he wouldn’t,” cried Miss Wynn with a start that belied her
conviction.

“Did you know that he is to be invited to make the principal
address to the graduates of the colored high-school?”

“But,” she objected. “They have selected Bishop Johnson;
I—”

“I know you did,” laughed the Senator, “but the Judge got orders
from higher up.”

“Shrewd Mr. Teerswell,” remarked Miss Wynn, sagely.

“Shrewd Mr. Stillings,” the Senator corrected; “but perhaps too
shrewd. Suppose Mr. Alwyn should take this occasion to make a
thorough defence of the party?”

“But—will he?”

“That’s where you come in,” Senator Smith pointed out, rising,
“and the real reason of this interview. We’re depending on you to
pull the party out of an awkward hole,” and he shook hands with
his caller.

Miss Wynn walked slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue with a smile on
her face.

“I did not give him the credit,” she declared, repeating it; “I
did not give him the credit. Here I was, playing an alluring game
on the side, and my dear Tom transforms it into a struggle for
bread and butter; for of course, if the Board of Education goes,
I lose my place.” She lifted her head and stared along the
avenue.

A bitterness dawned in her eyes. The whole street was a living
insult to her. Here she was, an American girl by birth and
breeding, a daughter of citizens who had fought and bled and
worked for a dozen generations on this soil; yet if she stepped
into this hotel to rest, even with full purse, she would be
politely refused accommodation. Should she attempt to go into
this picture show she would be denied entrance. She was thirsty
with the walk; but at yonder fountain the clerk would roughly
refuse to serve her. It was lunch time; there was no place within
a mile where she was allowed to eat. The revolt deepened within
her. Beyond these known and definite discriminations lay the
unknown and hovering. In yonder store nothing hindered the clerk
from being exceptionally pert; on yonder street-car the conductor
might reserve his politeness for white folk; this policeman’s
business was to keep black and brown people in their places. All
this Caroline Wynn thought of, and then smiled.

This was the thing poor blind Bles was trying to attack by
“appeals” for “justice.” Nonsense! Does one “appeal” to the
red-eyed beast that throttles him? No. He composes himself, looks
death in the eye, and speaks softly, on the chance. Whereupon
Miss Wynn composed herself, waved gayly at a passing
acquaintance, and matched some ribbons in a department store. The
clerk was new and anxious to sell.

Meantime her brain was busy. She had a hard task before her.
Alwyn’s absurd conscience and Quixotic ideas were difficult to
cope with. After his last indiscreet talk she had ventured deftly
to remonstrate, and she well remembered the conversation.

“Wasn’t what I said true?” he had asked.

“Perfectly. Is that an excuse for saying it?”

“The facts ought to be known.”

“Yes, but ought you to tell them?”

“If not I, who?”

“Some one who is less useful elsewhere, and whom I like less.”

“Carrie,” he had been intensely earnest. “I want to do the best
thing, but I’m puzzled. I wonder if I’m selling my birthright for
six thousand dollars?”

“In case of doubt, do it.”

“But there’s the doubt: I may convert; I may open the eyes of the
blind; I may start a crusade for Negro rights.”

“Don’t believe it; it’s useless; we’ll never get our rights in
this land.”

“You don’t believe that!” he had ejaculated, shocked.

Well, she must begin again. As she had hoped, he was waiting for
her when she reached home. She welcomed him cordially, made a
little music for him, and served tea.

“Bles,” she said, “the Opposition has been laying a pretty shrewd
trap for you.”

“What?” he asked absently.

“They are going to have you chosen as High School commencement
orator.”

“Me? Stuff!”

“You—and not stuff, but ‘Education’ will be your natural
theme. Indeed, they have so engineered it that the party chiefs
expect from you a defence of their dropping of the Educational
Bill.”

“What!”

“Yes, and probably your nomination will come before the speech
and confirmation after.”

Bles walked the floor excitedly for a while and then sat down and
smiled.

“It was a shrewd move,” he said; “but I think I thank them for
it.”

“I don’t. But still,

“”T is the sport to see the engineer hoist
by his own petar.'”

Bles mused and she watched him covertly. Suddenly she leaned
over.

“Moreover,” she said, “about that same date I’m liable to lose my
position as teacher.”

He looked at her quickly, and she explained the coming revolution
in school management.

He did not discuss the matter, and she was equally reticent; but
when he entered the doors of his lodging-place and, gathering his
mail, slowly mounted the stairs, there came the battle of his
life.

He knew it and he tried to wage it coolly and with method. He
arrayed the arguments side by side: on this side lay success; the
greatest office ever held by a Negro in America—greater
than Douglass or Bruce or Lynch had held—a landmark, a
living example and inspiration. A man owed the world success;
there were plenty who could fail and stumble and give multiple
excuses. Should he be one? He viewed the other side. What must he
pay for success? Aye, face it boldly—what? Mechanically he
searched for his mail and undid the latest number of the
Colored American. He was sure the answer stood there in
Teerswell’s biting vulgar English. And there it was, with a
cartoon:

HIS MASTER’S VOICE

Alwyn is Ordered to Eat His Words or Get Out

Watch Him Do It Gracefully

The Republican Leaders, etc.

He threw down his paper, and the hot blood sang in his ears. The
sickening thought was that it was true. If he did make the speech
demanded it would be like a dog obedient to his master’s voice.

The cold sweat oozed on his face; throwing up the window, he
drank in the Spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had
thought so alluring. Somehow it looked like the swamp, only less
beautiful; he stretched his arms and his lips
breathed—”Zora!”

He turned hastily to his desk and looked at the other piece of
mail—a single sealed note carefully written on heavy paper.
He did not recognize the handwriting. Then his mind flew off
again. What would they say if he failed to get the office? How
they would silently hoot and jeer at the upstart who suddenly
climbed so high and fell. And Carrie Wynn—poor Carrie, with
her pride and position dragged down in his ruin: how would she
take it? He writhed in soul. And yet, to be a man; to say calmly,
“No”; to stand in that great audience and say, “My people first
and last”; to take Carrie’s hand and together face the world and
struggle again to newer finer triumphs—all this would be
very close to attainment of the ideal. He found himself staring
at the little letter. Would she go? Would she, could she, lay
aside her pride and cynicism, her dainty ways and little
extravagances? An odd fancy came to him: perhaps the answer to
the riddle lay sealed within the envelope he fingered.

He opened it. Within lay four lines of writing—no
more—no address, no signature; simply the words:

“It matters now how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll;
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.”

He stared at the lines. Eleven
o’clock—twelve—one—chimed the deep-voiced clock
without, before Alwyn went to bed.

Miss Wynn had kept a vigil almost as long. She knew that Bles had
influential friends who had urged his preferment; it might be
wise to enlist them. Before she fell asleep she had determined to
have a talk with Mrs. Vanderpool. She had learned from Senator
Smith that the lady took special interest in Alwyn.

Mrs. Vanderpool heard Miss Wynn’s story next day with some inward
dismay. Really the breadth and depth of intrigue in this city
almost frightened her as she walked deeper into the mire. She had
promised Zora that Bles should receive his reward on terms which
would not wound his manhood. It seemed an easy, almost an obvious
thing, to promise at the time. Yet here was this rather unusual
young woman asking Mrs. Vanderpool to use her influence in making
Alwyn bow to the yoke. She fenced for time.

“But I do not know Mr. Alwyn.”

“I thought you did; you recommended him highly.”

“I knew of him slightly in the South and I have watched his
career here.”

“It would be too bad to have that career spoiled now.”

“But is it necessary? Suppose he should defend the Education
Bill.”

“And criticise the party?” asked Miss Wynn. “It would take strong
influence to pull him through.”

“And if that strong influence were found?” said Mrs. Vanderpool
thoughtfully.

“It would surely involve some other important concession to the
South.”

Mrs. Vanderpool looked up, and an interjection hovered on her
lips. Was it possible that the price of Alwyn’s manhood would be
her husband’s appointment to Paris? And if it were?

“I’ll do what I can,” she said graciously; “but I am afraid that
will not be much.”

Miss Wynn hesitated. She had not succeeded even in guessing the
source of Mrs. Vanderpool’s interest in Alwyn, and without that
her appeal was but blind groping. She stopped on her way to the
door to admire a bronze statuette and find time to think.

“You are interested in bronzes?” asked Mrs. Vanderpool.

“Oh, no; I’m far too poor. But I’ve dabbled a bit in sculpture.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Vanderpool revealed a mild interest, and Miss Wynn
was compelled to depart with little enlightenment.

On the way up town she concluded that there was but one chance of
success: she must write Alwyn’s speech. With characteristic
decision she began her plans at once.

“What will you say in your speech?” she asked him that night as
he rose to go.

He looked at her and she wavered slightly under his black eyes.
The fight was becoming a little too desperate even for her steady
nerves.

“You would not like me to act dishonestly, would you?” he asked.

“No,” she involuntarily replied, regretting the word the moment
she had uttered it. He gave her one of his rare sweet smiles,
and, rising, before she realized his intent, he had kissed her
hands and was gone.

She asked herself why she had been so foolish; and yet, somehow,
sitting there alone in the firelight, she felt glad for once that
she had risen above intrigue. Then she sighed and smiled, and
began to plot anew. Teerswell dropped in later and brought his
friend, Stillings. They found their hostess gay and entertaining.

Miss Wynn gathered books about her, and in the days of April and
May she and Alwyn read up on education. He marvelled at the
subtlety of her mind, and she at the relentlessness of his. They
were very near each other during these days, and yet there was
ever something between them: a vision to him of dark and pleading
eyes that he constantly saw beside her cool, keen glance. And he
to her was always two men: one man above men, whom she could
respect but would not marry, and one man like all men, whom she
would marry but could not respect. His devotion to an ideal which
she thought so utterly unpractical, aroused keen curiosity and
admiration. She was sure he would fail in the end, and she wanted
him to fail; and somehow, somewhere back beyond herself, her
better self longed to find herself defeated; to see this mind
stand firm on principle, under circumstances where she believed
men never stood. Deep within her she discovered at times a
passionate longing to believe in somebody; yet she found herself
bending every energy to pull this man down to the level of
time-servers, and even as she failed, feeling something like
contempt for his stubbornness.

The great day came. He had her notes, her suggestions, her hints,
but she had no intimation of what he would finally say.

“Will you come to hear me?” he asked.

“No,” she murmured.

“That is best,” he said, and then he added slowly, “I would not
like you ever to despise me.”

She answered sharply: “I want to despise you!”

Did he understand? She was not sure. She was sorry she had said
it; but she meant it fiercely. Then he left her, for it was
already four in the afternoon and he spoke at eight.

In the morning she came down early, despite some dawdling over
her toilet. She brought the morning paper into the dining-room
and sat down with it, sipping her coffee. She leaned back and
looked leisurely at the headings. There was nothing on the front
page but a divorce, a revolution, and a new Trust. She took
another sip of her coffee, and turned the page. There it was,
“Colored High Schools Close—Vicious Attack on Republican
Party by Negro Orator.”

She laid the paper aside and slowly finished her coffee. A few
minutes later she went to her desk and sat there so long that she
started at hearing the clock strike nine.

The day passed. When she came home from school she bought an
evening paper. She was not surprised to learn that the Senate had
rejected Alwyn’s nomination; that Samuel Stillings had been
nominated and confirmed as Register of the Treasury, and that Mr.
Tom Teerswell was to be his assistant. Also the bill reorganizing
the school board had passed. She wrote two notes and posted them
as she went out to walk.

When she reached home Stillings was there, and they talked
earnestly. The bell rang violently. Teerswell rushed in.

“Well, Carrie!” he cried eagerly.

“Well, Tom,” she responded, giving him a languid hand. Stillings
rose and departed. Teerswell nodded and said:

“Well, what do you think of last night?”

“A great speech, I hear.”

“A fool speech—that speech cost him, I calculate, between
twenty-four and forty-eight thousand dollars.”

“Possibly he’s satisfied with his bargain.”

“Possibly. Are you?”

“With his bargain?” quickly. “Yes.”

“No,” he pressed her, “with your bargain?”

“What bargain?” she parried.

“To marry him.”

“Oh, no; that’s off.”

“Is it off?” cried Teerswell delightedly. “Good! It was foolish
from the first—that black country—”

“Gently,” Miss Wynn checked him. “I’m not yet over the habit.”

“Come. See what I’ve bought. You know I have a salary now.” He
produced a ring with a small diamond cluster.

“How pretty!” she said, taking it and looking at it. Then she
handed it back.

He laughed gayly. “It’s yours, Carrie. You’re going to marry me.”

She looked at him queerly.

“Am I? But I’ve got another ring already,” she said.

“Oh, send Alwyn’s back.”

“I have. This is still another.” And uncovering her hand she
showed a ring with a large and beautiful diamond.

He rose. “Whose is that?” he demanded apprehensively.

“Mine—” her eyes met his.

“But who gave it to you?”

“Mr. Stillings,” was the soft reply.

He stared at her helplessly. “I—I—don’t understand!”
he stammered.

“Well, to be brief, I’m engaged to Mr. Stillings.”

“What! To that flat-headed—”

“No,” she coolly interrupted, “to the Register of the Treasury.”

The man was too dumbfounded, too overwhelmed for coherent speech.

“But—but—come; why in God’s name—will you throw
yourself away on—on such a—you’re
joking—you—”

She motioned him to a chair. He obeyed like one in a trance.

“Now, Tom, be calm. When I was a baby I loved you, but that is
long ago. Today, Tom, you’re an insufferable cad and
I—well, I’m too much like you to have two of us in the same
family.”

“But, Stillings!” he burst forth, almost in tears. “The
snake—what is he?”

“Nearly as bad as you, I’ll admit; but he has four thousand a
year and sense enough to keep it. In truth, I need it; for,
thanks to your political activity, my own position is gone.”

“But he’s a—a damned rascal!” Wounded self-conceit was now
getting the upper hand.

She laughed.

“I think he is. But he’s such an exceptional rascal; he appeals
to me. You know, Tom, we’re all more or less
rascally—except one.”

“Except who?” he asked quickly.

“Bles Alwyn.”

“The fool!”

“Yes,” she slowly agreed. “Bles Alwyn, the Fool—and the
Man. But by grace of the Negro Problem, I cannot afford to marry
a man—Hark! Some one is on the steps. I’m sure it’s Bles.
You’d better go now. Don’t attempt to fight with him; he’s very
strong. Good-night.”

Alwyn entered. He didn’t notice Teerswell as he passed out. He
went straight to Miss Wynn holding a crumpled note, and his voice
faltered a little.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes, Bles.”

“Why?”

“Because I am selfish and—small.”

“No, you are not. You want to be; but give it up, Carrie; it
isn’t worth the cost. Come, let’s be honest and poor—and
free.”

She regarded him a moment, searchingly, then a look half
quizzical, half sorrowful came into her eyes. She put both her
hands on his shoulders and said as she kissed his lips:

“Bles, almost thou persuadest me—to be a fool. Now go.”

Thirty

THE RETURN OF ZORA

“I never realized before just what a lie meant,” said Zora.

The paper in Mrs. Vanderpool’s hands fell quickly to her lap, and
she gazed across the toilet-table.

As she gazed that odd mirage of other days haunted her again. She
did not seem to see her maid, nor the white and satin
morning-room. She saw, with some long inner sight, a vast hall
with mighty pillars; a smooth, marbled floor and a great throng
whose silent eyes looked curiously upon her. Strange carven
beasts gazed on from a setting of rich, barbaric splendor and she
herself—the Liar—lay in rags before the gold and
ivory of that lofty throne whereon sat Zora.

The foolish phantasy passed with the second of time that brought
it, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s eyes dropped again to her paper, to
those lines,—

“The President has sent the following nominations to the Senate
… To be ambassador to France, John Vanderpool, Esq.”

The first feeling of triumph thrilled faintly again until the low
voice of Zora startled her. It was so low and calm, it came as
though journeying from great distances and weary with travel.

“I used to think a lie a little thing, a convenience; but now I
see. It is a great No and it kills things. You remember that day
when Mr. Easterly called?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Vanderpool, faintly.

“I heard all he said. I could not help it; my transom was open.
And then, too, after he mentioned—Mr. Alwyn’s name, I
wanted to hear. I knew that his appointment would cost you the
embassy—unless Bles was tempted and should fall. So I came
to you to say—to say you mustn’t pay the price.”

“And I lied,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. “I told you that he should be
appointed and remain a man. I meant to make him see that he could
yield without great cost. But I let you think I was giving up the
embassy when I never intended to.”

She spoke coldly, yet Zora knew. She reached out and took the
white, still hands in hers, and over the lady’s face again
flitted that stricken look of age.

“I do not blame you,” said Zora gently. “I blame the world.”

“I am the world,” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered harshly, then suddenly
laughed. But Zora went on:

“It bewildered me when I first read the news early this morning;
the world—everything—seemed wrong. You see, my plan
was all so splendid. Just as I turned away from him, back to my
people, I was to help him to the highest. I was so afraid he
would miss it and think that Right didn’t win in Life, that I
wrote him—”

“You wrote him? So did I.”

Zora glanced at her quickly.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. “I thought I knew him. He seemed an
ordinary, rather priggish, opinionated country boy, and I wrote
and said—Oh, I said that the world is the world; take it as
it is. You wrote differently, and he obeyed you.”

“No; he did not know it was I. I was just a Voice from nowhere
calling to him. I thought I was right. I wrote each day,
sometimes twice, sending bits of verse, quotations, references,
all saying the same thing: Right always triumphs. But it doesn’t,
does it?”

“No. It never does save by accident.”

“I do not think that is quite so,” Zora pondered aloud, “and I am
a little puzzled. I do not belong in this world where Right and
Wrong get so mixed. With us yonder there is wrong, but we call it
wrong—mostly. Oh, I don’t know; even there things are
mixed.” She looked sadly at Mrs. Vanderpool, and the fear that
had been hovering behind her mistress’s eyes became visible.

“It was so beautiful,” said Zora. “I expected a great thing of
you—a sacrifice. I do not blame you because you could not
do it; and yet—yet, after this,—don’t you
see?—I cannot stay here.”

Mrs. Vanderpool arose and walked over to her. She stood above
her, in her silken morning-gown, her brown and gray sprinkled
hair rising above the pale, strong-lined face.

“Zora,” she faltered, “will you leave me?”

Zora answered, “Yes.” It was a soft “yes,” a “yes” full of pity
and regret, but a “yes” that Mrs. Vanderpool knew in her soul to
be final.

She sat down again on the lounge and her fingers crept along the
cushions.

“Ambassadorships come—high,” she said with a catch in her
voice. Then after a pause: “When will you go, Zora?”

“When you leave for the summer.”

Mrs. Vanderpool looked out upon the beautiful city. She was a
little surprised at herself. She had found herself willing to
sacrifice almost anything for Zora. No living soul had ever
raised in her so deep an affection, and yet she knew now that,
although the cost was great, she was willing to sacrifice Zora
for Paris. After all, it was not too late; a rapid ride even now
might secure high office for Alwyn and make Cresswell ambassador.
It would be difficult but possible. But she had not the slightest
inclination to attempt it, and she said aloud, half mockingly:

“You are right, Zora. I promised—and—I lied. Liars
have no place in heaven and heaven is doubtless a beautiful
place—but oh, Zora! you haven’t seen Paris!”

Two months later they parted simply, knowing well it was forever.
Mrs. Vanderpool wrote a check.

“Use this in your work,” she said. “Miss Smith asked for it long
ago. It is—my campaign contribution.”

Zora smiled and thanked her. As she put the sealed envelope in
her trunk her hand came in contact with a long untouched package.
Zora took it out silently and opened it and the beauty of it
lightened the room.

“It is the Silver Fleece,” said Zora, and Mrs. Vanderpool kissed
her and went.

Zora walked alone to the vaulted station. She did not try to buy
a Pullman ticket, although the journey was thirty-six hours. She
knew it would be difficult if not impossible and she preferred to
share the lot of her people. Once on the foremost car, she leaned
back and looked. The car seemed clean and comfortable but
strangely short. Then she realized that half of it was cut off
for the white smokers and as the door swung whiffs of the smoke
came in. But she was content for she was almost alone.

It was eighteen little months ago that she had ridden up to the
world with widening eyes. In that time what had happened?
Everything. How well she remembered her coming, the first
reflection of yonder gilded dome and the soaring of the capitol;
the swelling of her heart, with inarticulate wonder; the pain of
the thirst to know and understand. She did not know much now but
she had learned how to find things out. She did not understand
all, but some things she—

“Ticket”—the tone was harsh and abrupt. Zora started. She
had always noted how polite conductors were to her and Mrs.
Vanderpool—was it simply because Mrs. Vanderpool was
evidently a great and rich lady? She held up her ticket and he
snatched it from her muttering some direction.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“Change at Charlotte,” he snapped as he went on.

It seemed to Zora that his discourtesy was almost forced: that he
was afraid he might be betrayed into some show of consideration
for a black woman. She felt no anger, she simply wondered what he
feared. The increasing smell of tobacco smoke started her
coughing. She turned. To be sure. Not only was the door to the
smoker standing open, but a white passenger was in her car,
sitting by the conductor and puffing heartily. As the black
porter passed her she said gently:

“Is smoking allowed in here?”

“It ain’t non o’ my business,” he flung back at her and moved
away. All day white men passed back and forward through the car
as through a thoroughfare. They talked loudly and laughed and
joked, and if they did not smoke they carried their lighted
cigars. At her they stared and made comments, and one of them
came and lounged almost over her seat, inquiring where she was
going.

She did not reply; she neither looked nor stirred, but kept
whispering to herself with something like awe: “This is what they
must endure—my poor people!”

At Lynchburg a newsboy boarded the train with his wares. The
conductor had already appropriated two seats for himself, and the
newsboy routed out two colored passengers, and usurped two other
seats. Then he began to be especially annoying. He joked and
wrestled with the porter, and on every occasion pushed his wares
at Zora, insisting on her buying.

“Ain’t you got no money?” he asked. “Where you going?”

“Say,” he whispered another time, “don’t you want to buy these
gold spectacles? I found ’em and I dassen’t sell ’em open, see?
They’re worth ten dollars—take ’em for a dollar.”

Zora sat still, keeping her eyes on the window; but her hands
worked nervously, and when he threw a book with a picture of a
man and half-dressed woman directly under her eyes, she took it
and dropped it out the window.

The boy started to storm and demanded pay, while the conductor
glared at her; but a white man in the conductor’s seat whispered
something, and the row suddenly stopped.

A gang of colored section hands got on, dirty and loud. They
sprawled about and smoked, drank, and bought candy and cheap
gewgaws. They eyed her respectfully, and with one of them she
talked a little as he awkwardly fingered his cap.

As the day wore on Zora found herself strangely weary. It was not
simply the unpleasant things that kept happening, but the
continued apprehension of unknown possibilities. Then, too, she
began to realize that she had had nothing to eat. Travelling with
Mrs. Vanderpool there was always a dainty lunch to be had at
call. She did not expect this, but she asked the porter:

“Do you know where I can get a lunch?”

“Search me,” he answered, lounging into a seat. “Ain’t no chance
betwixt here and Danville as I knows on.”

Zora viewed her plight with a certain dismay—twelve hours
without food! How foolish of her not to have thought of this. The
hours passed. She turned desperately to the gruff conductor.

“Could I buy a lunch from the dining-car?” she inquired.

“No,” was the curt reply.

She made herself as comfortable as she could, and tried to put
the matter from her mind. She remembered how, forgotten years
ago, she had often gone a day without eating and thought little
of it. Night came slowly, and she fell to dreaming until the cry
came, “Charlotte! Change cars!” She scrambled out. There was no
step to the platform, her bag was heavy, and the porter was busy
helping the white folks to alight. She saw a dingy lunchroom
marked “Colored,” but she had no time to go to it for her train
was ready.

There was another colored porter on this, and he was very polite
and affable.

“Yes, Miss; certainly I’ll fetch you a lunch—plenty of
time.” And he did. It did not look clean but Zora was ravenous.

The white smoker now had few occupants, but the white train crew
proceeded to use the colored coach as a lounging-room and
sleeping-car. There was no passenger except Zora. They took off
their coats, stretched themselves on the seats, and exchanged
jokes; but Zora was too tired to notice much, and she was dozing
wearily when she felt a touch on the arm and found the porter in
the seat beside her with his arm thrown familiarly behind her
along the top of the back. She rose abruptly to her feet and he
started up.

“I beg pardon,” he said, grinning.

Zora sat slowly down as he got up and left. She determined to
sleep no more. Yet a vast vision sank on her weary
spirit—the vision of a dark cloud that dropped and dropped
upon her, and lay as lead along her straining shoulders. She must
lift it, she knew, though it were big as a world, and she put her
strength to it and groaned as the porter cried in the ghostly
morning light:

“Atlanta! All change!”

Away yonder at the school near Toomsville, Miss Smith sat waiting
for the coming of Zora, absently attending the duties of the
office. Dark little heads and hands bobbed by and soft voices
called:

“Miss Smith, I wants a penny pencil.”

“Miss Smith, is yo’ got a speller fo’ ten cents?”

“Miss Smith, mammy say please lemme come to school this week and
she’ll sho’ pay Sata’day.”

Yet the little voices that summoned her back to earth were less
clamorous than in other years, for the school was far from full,
and Miss Smith observed the falling off with grave eyes. This
condition was patently the result of the cotton corner and the
subsequent manipulation. When cotton rose, the tenants had
already sold their cotton; when cotton fell the landlords
squeezed the rations and lowered the wages. When cotton rose
again, up went the new Spring rent contracts. So it was that the
bewildered black serf dawdled in listless inability to
understand. The Cresswells in their new wealth, the Maxwells and
Tollivers in the new pinch of poverty, stretched long arms to
gather in the tenants and their children. Excuse after excuse
came to the school.

“I can’t send the chilluns dis term, Miss Smith; dey has to
work.”

“Mr. Cresswell won’t allow Will to go to school this term.”

“Mr. Tolliver done put Sam in the field.”

And so Miss Smith contemplated many empty desks.

Slowly a sort of fatal inaction seized her. The school went on;
daily the dark little cloud of scholars rose up from hill and
vale and settled in the white buildings; the hum of voices and
the busy movements of industrious teachers filled the day; the
office work went on methodically; but back of it all Miss Smith
sat half hopeless. It cost five thousand a year to run the
school, and this sum she raised with increasingly greater
difficulty. Extra and heart-straining effort had been needed to
raise the eight hundred dollars additional for interest money on
the mortgage last year. Next year it might have to come out of
the regular income and thus cut off two teachers. Beyond all this
the raising of ten thousand dollars to satisfy the mortgage
seemed simply impossible, and Miss Smith sat in fatal
resignation, awaiting the coming day.

“It’s the Lord’s work. I’ve done what I could. I guess if He
wants it to go on, He’ll find a way. And if He doesn’t—”
She looked off across the swamp and was silent.

Then came Zora’s letter, simple and brief, but breathing youth
and strength of purpose. Miss Smith seized upon it as an omen of
salvation. In vain her shrewd New England reason asked: “What can
a half-taught black girl do in this wilderness?” Her heart
answered back: “What is impossible to youth and resolution?” Let
the shabbiness increase; let the debts pile up; let the boarders
complain and the teachers gossip—Zora was coming. And
somehow she and Zora would find a way.

And Zora came just as the sun threw its last crimson through the
black swamp; came and gathered the frail and white-haired woman
in her arms; and they wept together. Long and low they talked,
far into the soft Southern night; sitting shaded beneath the
stars, while nearby blinked the drowsy lights of the girls’
dormitory. At last Miss Smith said, rising stiffly:

“I forgot to ask about Mrs. Vanderpool. How is she, and where?”

Zora murmured some answer; but as she went to bed in her little
white room she sat wondering sadly. Where was the poor spoiled
woman? Who was putting her to bed and smoothing the pillow? Who
was caring for her, and what was she doing? And Zora strained her
eyes Northward through the night.

At this moment, Mrs. Vanderpool, rising from a gala dinner in the
brilliant drawing-room of her Lake George mansion, was reading
the evening paper which her husband had put into her hands. With
startled eyes she caught the impudent headlines:

VANDERPOOL DROPPED

Senate Refuses to Confirm

Todd Insurgents Muster Enough Votes to Defeat

Confirmation of President’s Nominee

Rumored Revenge for Machine’s Defeat of Child Labor

Bill Amendment.

The paper trembled in her jewelled hands. She glanced down the
column.

“Todd asks: Who is Vanderpool, anyhow? What did he ever do? He is
known only as a selfish millionaire who thinks more of horses
than of men.”

Carelessly Mrs. Vanderpool threw the paper to the floor and bit
her lips as the angry blood dyed her face.

“They shall confirm him,” she whispered, “if I have to
mortgage my immortal soul!” And she rang up long distance on the
telephone.

Thirty-one

A PARTING OF WAYS

“Was the child born dead?”

“Worse than dead!”

Somehow, somewhere, Mary Cresswell had heard these words; long,
long, ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter
agony, where Earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today,
she lay repeating them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their
meaning. Long she had wrestled with them as they twisted and
turned and knotted themselves, and she worked and toiled so hard
as she lay there to make the thing clear—to understand.

“Was the child born dead?”

“Worse than dead!”

Then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than
death? She had tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed
her like a child each day and left her lying there. Today she was
stronger, and for the first time sitting up, looking listlessly
out across the world—a queer world. Why had they not let
her see the child—just one look at its little dead face?
That would have been something. And again, as the doctor cheerily
turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. He looked at
her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly:

“There, now; you’ve been dreaming. You must rest quietly now.”
And with a nod he passed into the other room to talk with her
husband.

She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell
Harry to ask him—she did not often see her husband, but she
must ask him now and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly
across the floor. A moment she leaned against the door, then
opened it slightly. From the other side the words came distinctly
and clearly:

“—other children, doctor?”

“You must have no other children, Mr. Cresswell.”

“Why?”

“Because the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children
unto the third and fourth generation.”

Slowly, softly, she crept away. Her mind seemed very clear. And
she began a long journey to reach her window and chair—a
long, long journey; but at last she sank into the chair again and
sat dry-eyed, wondering who had conceived this world and made it,
and why.

A long time afterward she found herself lying in bed, awake,
conscious, clear-minded. Yet she thought as little as possible,
for that was pain; but she listened gladly, for without she heard
the solemn beating of the sea, the mighty rhythmic beating of the
sea. Long days she lay, and sat and walked beside those vast and
speaking waters, till at last she knew their voice and they spoke
to her and the sea-calm soothed her soul.

For one brief moment of her life she saw herself clearly: a
well-meaning woman, ambitious, but curiously narrow; not willing
to work long for the Vision, but leaping at it rashly, blindly,
with a deep-seated sense of duty which she made a source of
offence by preening and parading it, and forcing it to ill-timed
notice. She saw that she had looked on her husband as a means not
an end. She had wished to absorb him and his work for her own
glory. She had idealized for her own uses a very human man whose
life had been full of sin and fault. She must atone.

No sooner, in this brief moment, did she see herself honestly
than her old habits swept her on tumultuously. No ordinary
atonement would do. The sacrifice must be vast; the world must
stand in wonder before this clever woman sinking her soul in
another and raising him by sheer will to the highest.

So after six endless months Mary Cresswell walked into her
Washington home again. She knew she had changed in appearance,
but she had forgotten to note how much until she saw the
stare—almost the recoil—of her husband, the muttered
exclamation, the studied, almost overdone welcome. Then she went
up to her mirror and looked long, and knew.

She was strong; she felt well; but she was slight, almost
scrawny, and her beauty was gone forever. It had been of that
blonde white-and-pink type that fades in a flash, and its going
left her body flattened and angular, her skin drawn and dead
white, her eyes sunken. From the radiant girl whom Cresswell had
met three years earlier the change was startling, and yet the
contrast seemed even greater than it was, for her glory then had
been her abundant and almost golden hair. Now that hair was
faded, and falling so fast that at last the doctor advised her to
cut it short. This left her ill-shaped head exposed and
emphasized the sunken hollows of her face. She knew that she was
changed but she did not quite realize how changed, until now as
she stood and gazed.

Yet she did not hesitate but from that moment set herself to her
new life task. Characteristically, she started dramatically and
largely. She was to make her life an endless sacrifice; she was
to revivify the manhood in Harry Cresswell, and all this for no
return, no partnership of soul—all was to be complete
sacrifice and sinking soul in soul.

If Mary Cresswell had attempted less she would have accomplished
more. As it was, she began well; she went to work tactfully,
seeming to note no change in his manner toward her; but his
manner had changed. He was studiously, scrupulously polite in
private, and in public devoted; but there was no feeling, no
passion, no love. The polished shell of his clan reflected
conventional light even more carefully than formerly because the
shell was cold and empty. There were no little flashes of anger
now, no poutings nor sweet reconciliations. Life ran very
smoothly and courteously; and while she did not try to regain the
affection, she strove to enthrall his intellect. She supplied a
sub-committee upon which he was serving—not directly, but
through him—with figures, with reports, books, and papers,
so that he received special commendations; a praise that piqued
as well as pleased him, because it implied a certain surprise
that he was able to do it.

“The damned Yankees!” he sneered. “They think they’ve got the
brains of the nation.”

“Why not make a speech on the subject?” she suggested.

He laughed. The matter under discussion was the cotton-goods
schedule of the new tariff bill, about which really he knew a
little; his wife placed every temptation to knowledge before him,
even inspiring Senator Smith to ask him to defend that schedule
against the low-tariff advocate. Mary Cresswell worked with
redoubled energy, and for nearly a week Harry staid at home
nights and studied. Thanks to his wife the speech was unusually
informing and well put, and the fact that a prominent free-trader
spoke the same afternoon gave it publicity, while Mr. Easterly
saw to the press despatches.

Cresswell subscribed to a clipping-bureau and tasted the sweets
of dawning notoriety, and Mrs. Cresswell arranged a select
dinner-party which included a cabinet officer, a foreign
ambassador, two millionaires, and the leading Southern
Congressmen. The talk came around to the failure of the Senate to
confirm Mr. Vanderpool, and it was generally assumed that the
President would not force the issue.

Who, then, should be nominated? There were several suggestions,
but the knot of Southern Congressmen about Mrs. Cresswell
declared emphatically that it must be a Southerner. Not since the
war had a prominent Southerner represented America at a
first-class foreign court; it was shameful; the time was ripe for
change. But who? Here opinions differed widely. Nearly every one
mentioned a candidate, and those who did not seemed to refrain
from motives of personal modesty.

Mary Cresswell sped her departing guests with a distinct purpose
in mind. She must make herself leader of the Southern set in
Washington and concentrate its whole force on the appointment of
Harry Cresswell as ambassador to France. Quick reward and
promotion were essential to Harry’s success. He was not one to
keep up the strain of effort a long time. Unless, then, tangible
results came and came quickly, he was liable to relapse into old
habits. Therefore he must succeed and succeed at once. She would
have preferred a less ornamental position than the
ambassadorship, but there were no other openings. The Alabama
senators were firmly seated for at least four years and the
Governorship had been carefully arranged for. A term of four
years abroad, however, might bring Harry Cresswell back in time
for greater advancement. At any rate, it was the only tangible
offering, and Mary Cresswell silently determined to work for it.

Here it was that she made her mistake. It was one thing for her
to be a tactful hostess, pleasing her husband and his guests; it
was another for her to aim openly at social leadership and
political influence. She had at first all the insignia of
success. Her dinners became of real political significance and
her husband figured more and more as a leading Southerner. The
result was two-fold. Cresswell, on the one hand, with his usual
selfishness, took his rising popularity as a matter of course and
as the fruits of his own work; he was rising, he was making
valuable speeches, he was becoming a social power, and his only
handicap was his plain and over-ambitious wife. But on the other
hand Mrs. Cresswell forgot two pitfalls: the cleft between the
old Southern aristocracy and the pushing new Southerners; and
above all, her own Northern birth and presumably pro-Negro
sympathies.

What Mrs. Cresswell forgot Mrs. Vanderpool sensed unerringly. She
had heard with uneasiness of Cresswell’s renewed candidacy for
the Paris ambassadorship, and she set herself to block it. She
had worked hard. The President stood ready to send her husband’s
appointment again to the Senate whenever Easterly could assure
him of favorable action. Easterly had long and satisfactory
interviews with several senators, while the Todd insurgents were
losing heart at the prospect of choosing between Vanderpool and
Cresswell. At present four Southern votes were needed to confirm
Vanderpool; but if they could not be had, Easterly declared it
would be good politics to nominate Cresswell and give him
Republican support. Manifestly, then, Mrs. Vanderpool’s task was
to discredit the Cresswells with the Southerners. It was not a
work to her liking, but the die was cast and she refused to
contemplate defeat.

The result was that while Mrs. Cresswell was giving large and
brilliant parties to the whole Southern contingent, Mrs.
Vanderpool was engineering exclusive dinners where old New York
met stately Charleston and gossiped interestingly. On such
occasions it was hinted not once, but many times, that the
Cresswells were well enough, but who was that upstart wife who
presumed to take social precedence?

It was not, however, until Mrs. Cresswell’s plan for an
all-Southern art exhibit in Washington that Mrs. Vanderpool, in a
flash of inspiration, saw her chance. In the annual exhibit of
the Corcoran Art Gallery, a Southern girl had nearly won first
prize over a Western man. The concensus of Southern opinion was
that the judgment had been unfair, and Mrs. Cresswell was
convinced of this. With quick intuition she suggested a Southern
exhibit with such social prestige back of it as to impress the
country.

The proposal caught the imagination of the Southern set. None
suspected a possible intrusion of the eternal race issue for no
Negroes were allowed in the Corcoran exhibit or school. This Mrs.
Vanderpool easily ascertained and a certain sense of justice
combined in a curious way with her political intrigue to bring
about the undoing of Mary Cresswell.

Mrs. Vanderpool’s very first cautious inquiries by way of the
back stairs brought gratifying response—for did not all
black Washington know well of the work in sculpture done by Mrs.
Samuel Stillings, nee Wynn? Mrs. Vanderpool remembered
Mrs. Stillings perfectly, and she walked, that evening, through
unobtrusive thoroughfares and called on Mrs. Stillings. Had Mrs.
Stillings heard of the new art movement? Did she intend to
exhibit? Mrs. Stillings did not intend to exhibit as she was sure
she would not be welcome. She had had a bust accepted by the
Corcoran Art Gallery once, and when they found she was colored
they returned it. But if she were especially invited? That would
make a difference, although even then the line would be drawn
somehow.

“Would it not be worth a fight?” suggested Mrs. Vanderpool with a
little heightening of color in her pale cheek.

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Stillings, as she brought out some specimens
of her work.

Mrs. Vanderpool was both ashamed and grateful. With money and
leisure Mrs. Stillings had been able to get in New York and
Boston the training she had been denied in Washington on account
of her color. The things she exhibited really had merit and one
curiously original group appealed to Mrs. Vanderpool
tremendously.

“Send it,” she counseled with strangely contradictory feelings of
enthusiasm, and added: “Enter it under the name of Wynn.”

In addition to the general invitations to the art exhibit numbers
of special ones were issued to promising Southern amateurs who
had never exhibited. For these a prize of a long-term scholarship
and other smaller prizes were offered. When Mrs. Vanderpool
suggested the name of “Miss Wynn” to Mrs. Cresswell among a dozen
others, for special invitation, there was nothing in its sound to
distinguish it from the rest of the names, and the invitation
went duly. As a result there came to the exhibit a little group
called “The Outcasts,” which was really a masterly thing and sent
the director, Signor Alberni, into hysterical commendation.

In the private view and award of prizes which preceded the larger
social function the jury hesitated long between “The Outcasts”
and a painting from Georgia. Mrs. Cresswell was enthusiastic and
voluble for the bit of sculpture, and it finally won the vote for
the first prize.

All was ready for the great day. The President was coming and
most of the diplomatic corps, high officers of the army, and all
the social leaders. Congress would be well represented, and the
boom for Cresswell as ambassador to France was almost visible in
the air.

Mary Cresswell paused a moment in triumph looking back at the
darkened hall, when a little woman fluttered up to her and
whispered:

“Mrs. Cresswell, have you heard the gossip?”

“No—what?”

“That Wynn woman they say is a nigger. Some are whispering that
you brought her in purposely to force social equality. They say
you used to teach darkies. Of course, I don’t believe all their
talk, but I thought you ought to know.” She talked a while
longer, then fluttered furtively away.

Mrs. Cresswell sat down limply. She saw ruin ahead—to think
of a black girl taking a prize at an all-Southern art exhibit!
But there was still a chance, and she leaped to action. This
colored woman was doubtless some poor deserving creature. She
would call on her immediately, and by an offer of abundant help
induce her to withdraw quietly.

Entering her motor, she drove near the address and then proceeded
on foot. The street was a prominent one, the block one of the
best, the house almost pretentious. She glanced at her memorandum
again to see if she was mistaken. Perhaps the woman was a
domestic; probably she was, for the name on the door was
Stillings. It occurred to her that she had heard that name
before—but where? She looked again at her memorandum and at
the house.

She rang the bell, asking the trim black maid: “Is there a person
named Caroline Wynn living in this house?”

The girl smiled and hesitated.

“Yes, ma’am,” she finally replied. “Won’t you come in?” She was
shown into the parlor, where she sat down. The room was most
interesting, furnished in unimpeachable taste. A few good
pictures were on the walls, and Mrs. Cresswell was examining one
when she heard the swish of silken skirts. A lady with gold brown
face and straight hair stood before her with pleasant smile.
Where had Mrs. Cresswell seen her before? She tried to remember,
but could not.

“You wished to see—Caroline Wynn?”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Cresswell groped for her proper cue, but the brown lady
merely offered a chair and sat down silently. Mrs. Cresswell’s
perplexity increased. She had been planning to descend graciously
but authoritatively upon some shrinking girl, but this woman not
only seemed to assume equality but actually looked it. From a
rapid survey, Mrs. Cresswell saw a black silk stocking, a bit of
lace, a tailor-made gown, and a head with two full black eyes
that waited in calmly polite expectancy.

Something had to be said.

“I—er—came; that is, I believe you sent a group to
the art exhibit?”

“Yes.”

“It was good—very good.”

Miss Wynn said nothing, but sat calmly looking at her visitor.
Mrs. Cresswell felt irritated.

“Of course,” she managed to continue, “we are very sorry that we
cannot receive it.”

“Indeed? I understood it had taken the first prize.”

Mrs. Cresswell was aghast. Who had rushed the news to this woman?
She realized that there were depths to this matter that she did
not understand and her irritation increased.

“You know that we could not give the prize to a—Negro.”

“Why not?”

“That is quite immaterial. Social equality cannot be forced. At
the same time I recognize the injustice, and I have come to say
that if you will withdraw your exhibit you will be given a
scholarship in a Boston school.”

“I do not wish it.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I was not aware that I had asked for anything.”

Mrs. Cresswell felt herself getting angry.

“Why did you send your exhibit when you knew it was not wanted?”

“Because you asked me to.”

“We did not ask for colored people.”

“You asked all Southern-born persons. I am a person and I am
Southern born. Moreover, you sent me a personal letter.”

Mrs. Cresswell was sure that this was a lie and was thoroughly
incensed.

“You cannot have the prize,” she almost snapped. “If you will
withdraw I will pay you any reasonable sum.”

“Thank you. I do not want money; I want justice.”

Mrs. Cresswell arose and her face was white.

“That is the trouble with you Negroes: you wish to get above your
places and force yourselves where you are not wanted. It does no
good, it only makes trouble and enemies.” Mrs. Cresswell stopped,
for the colored woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a
moment the maid entered and stood ready. Mrs. Cresswell walked
slowly to the door and stepped out. Then she turned.

“What does Miss Wynn do for a living?”

The girl tittered.

“She used to teach school but she don’t do nothing now. She’s
just married; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the
Treasury.”

Mrs. Cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps.
There was but one resource—she must keep the matter out of
the newspapers, and see Stillings, whom she now remembered well.

“I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in
the art exhibition?”

Mrs. Cresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter,
and the maid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers
and be blazoned to-morrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell
wearily back on its cushions.

“Where to, Madame?” asked the chauffeur.

“I don’t care,” returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.

She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans
seemed about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward
ruin.

Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her.
If, as she feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro
woman, and quarrel with her—

But he must not. This very night, before the morning papers came
out, she must explain. He must see; he must appreciate her
efforts.

She rushed into her dressing-room and called her maid. Contrary
to her Puritan notions, she frankly sought to beautify herself.
She remembered that it was the anniversary of her coming to this
house. She got out her wedding-dress, and although it hung
loosely, the maid draped the Silver Fleece beautifully about her.

She heard her husband enter and come up-stairs. Quickly finishing
her toilet, she hurried down to arrange the flowers, for they
were alone that night. The telephone rang. She knew it would ring
up-stairs in his room, but she usually answered it for he
disliked to. She raised the receiver and started to speak when
she realized that she had broken into the midst of a
conversation.

“—committee won’t meet tonight, Harry.”

“So? All right. Anything on?”

“Yes—big spree at Nell’s. Will you go?”

“Sure thing; you know me! What time?”

“Meet us at the Willard by nine. S’long.”

“Good-bye.”

She slowly, half guiltily, replaced the receiver. She had not
meant to listen, but now to her desperate longing to keep him
home was added a new motive. Where was “Nell’s”? What was
“Nell’s”? What was—and there was fear in her heart. At
dinner she tried all her powers on him. She had his favorite
dishes; she mixed his salad and selected his wine; she talked
interestingly, and listened sympathetically, to him. He looked at
her with more attention. Her cheeks were more brilliant, for she
had touched them with rouge. Her eyes flashed; but he glanced
furtively at her short hair. She saw the act; but still she
strove until he was content and laughing; then coming round back
of his chair, she placed her arms about his neck.

“Harry, will you do me a favor?”

“Why, yes—if—”

“It is something I want very, very much.”

“Well, all right, if—”

“Harry, I feel a little—hysterical, tonight, and—you
will not refuse me, will you, Harry?”

Standing there, she saw the tableau in her own mind, and it
looked strange. She was afraid of herself. She knew that she
would do something foolish if she did not win this battle. She
felt that overpowering fanaticism back within her raging
restlessly. If she was not careful—

“But what is it you want?” asked her husband.

“I don’t want you to go out tonight.”

He laughed awkwardly.

“Nonsense, girl! The sub-committee on the cotton schedule meets
tonight—very important; otherwise—”

She shuddered at the smooth lie and clasped him closer, putting
her cheek to his.

“Harry,” she pleaded, “just this once—for me.”

He disengaged himself, half impatiently, and rose, glancing at
the clock. It was nearly nine. A feeling of desperation came over
her.

“Harry,” she asked again as he slipped on his coat.

“Don’t be foolish,” he growled.

“Just this once—Harry—I—” But the door banged
to, and he was gone.

She stood looking at the closed door a moment. Something in her
head was ready to snap. She went to the rack and taking his long
heavy overcoat slipped it on. It nearly touched the floor. She
seized a soft broad-brimmed hat and umbrella and walked out. Just
what she meant to do she did not know, but somehow she must save
her husband and herself from evil. She hurried to the Willard
Hotel and watched, walking up and down the opposite sidewalk. A
woman brushed by her and looked her in the face.

“Hell! I thought you was a man,” she said. “Is this a new gag?”

Mrs. Cresswell looked down at herself involuntarily and smiled
wanly. She did look like a man, with her hat and coat and short
hair. The woman peered at her doubtingly. She was, as Mrs.
Cresswell noticed, a young woman, once pretty, perhaps, and a
little over-dressed.

“Are you walking?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Cresswell, and then in a moment it
flashed upon her. She took the woman’s arm and walked with her.
Suddenly she stopped.

“Where’s—Nell’s?”

The woman frowned. “Oh, that’s a swell place,” she said.
“Senators and millionaires. Too high for us to fly.”

Mrs. Cresswell winced. “But where is it?” she asked.

“We’ll walk by it if you want to.”

And Mary Cresswell walked in another world. Up from the ground of
the drowsy city rose pale gray forms; pale, flushed, and
brilliant, in silken rags. Up and down they passed, to and fro,
looking and gliding like sheeted ghosts; now dodging policemen,
now accosting them familiarly.

“Hello, Elise,” growled one big blue-coat.

“Hello, Jack.”

“What’s this?” and he peered at Mrs. Cresswell, who shrank back.

“Friend of mine. All right.”

A horror crept over Mary Cresswell: where had she lived that she
had seen so little before? What was Washington, and what was this
fine, tall, quiet residence? Was this—”Nell’s”?

“Yes, this is it—good-bye—I must—”

“Wait—what is your name?”

“I haven’t any name,” answered the woman suspiciously.

“Well—pardon me! Here!” and she thrust a bill into the
woman’s hand.

The girl stared. “Well, you’re a queer one! Thanks. Guess I’ll
turn in.”

Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions
ascending the steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly
and looked at the opening and closing door. Then a policeman came
by and looked at her.

“Come, move on,” he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptly
vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her
hand to ring, but the door flew silently open and a man-servant
stood looking at her.

“I have some friends here,” she said, speaking coarsely.

“You will have to be introduced,” said the man. She hesitated and
started to turn away. Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed
upon her husband’s card-case. She presented a card. It worked a
rapid transformation in the servant’s manner, which did not
escape her.

“Come in,” he invited her.

She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but
glided quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women
and strains of music. Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and
bending over an impudent blue-and-blonde beauty. Mary slipped
straight across to him and leaned across the table. The hat fell
off, but she let it go.

“Harry!” she tried to say as he looked up.

Then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and
whirled about; the voices grew fainter and fainter—all the
world receded suddenly far away. She extended her hands
languidly, then, feeling so utterly tired, let her eyelids drop
and fell asleep.

She awoke with a start, in her own bed. She was physically
exhausted but her mind was clear. She must go down and meet him
at breakfast and talk frankly with him. She would let bygones be
bygones. She would explain that she had followed him to save him,
not to betray him. She would point out the greater career before
him if only he would be a man; she would show him that they had
not failed. For herself she asked nothing, only his word, his
confidence, his promise to try.

After his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table,
Cresswell uttered nothing immediately save the commonplaces of
greeting. He mentioned one or two bits of news from the paper,
upon which she commented while dawdling over her egg. When the
servant went out and closed the door, she paused a moment
considering whether to open by appeal or explanation. His smooth
tones startled her:

“Of course, after your art exhibit and the scene of last night,
Mary, it will be impossible for us to live longer together.”

She stared at him, utterly aghast—voiceless and numb.

“I have seen the crisis approaching for some time, and the Negro
business settles it,” he continued. “I have now decided to send
you to my home in Alabama, to my father or your brother. I am
sure you will be happier there.”

He rose. Bowing courteously, he waited, coldly and calmly, for
her to go.

All at once she hated him and hated his aristocratic repression;
this cold calm that hid hell and its fires. She looked at him,
wide-eyed, and said in a voice hoarse with horror and loathing:

“You brute! You nasty brute!”

Thirty-two

ZORA’S WAY

Zora was looking on her world with the keener vision of one who,
blind from very seeing, closes the eyes a space and looks again
with wider clearer vision. Out of a nebulous cloudland she seemed
to step; a land where all things floated in strange confusion,
but where one thing stood steadfast, and that was love. When love
was shaken all things moved, but now, at last, for the first time
she seemed to know the real and mighty world that stood behind
that old and shaken dream.

So she looked on the world about her with new eyes. These men and
women of her childhood had hitherto walked by her like shadows;
today they lived for her in flesh and blood. She saw hundreds and
thousands of black men and women: crushed, half-spirited, and
blind. She saw how high and clear a light Sarah Smith, for thirty
years and more, had carried before them. She saw, too, how that
the light had not simply shone in darkness, but had lighted
answering beacons here and there in these dull souls.

There were thoughts and vague stirrings of unrest in this mass of
black folk. They talked long about their firesides, and here Zora
began to sit and listen, often speaking a word herself. All
through the countryside she flitted, till gradually the black
folk came to know her and, in silent deference to some subtle
difference, they gave her the title of white folk, calling her
“Miss” Zora.

Today, more than ever before, Zora sensed the vast unorganized
power in this mass, and her mind was leaping here and there,
scheming and testing, when voices arrested her.

It was a desolate bit of the Cresswell manor, a tiny cabin,
new-boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. A white
man was tossing into the flames different household
articles—a feather bed, a bedstead, two rickety chairs. A
young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood with clenched
fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him. The
white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman
cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But
Zora’s hand was on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Rob?” she asked.

“They’re selling us out,” he muttered savagely. “Millie’s been
sick since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to
tend her and the other little ones—I didn’t make much.
They’ve took my mule, now they’re burning my things to make me
sign a contract and be a slave. But by—”

“There, Rob, let Millie come with me—we’ll see Miss Smith.
We must get land to rent and arrange somehow.”

The mother sobbed, “The cradle—was baby’s!”

With an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and
the red flame spurted aloft.

The crimson fire flashed in Zora’s eyes as she passed the
overseer.

“Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?” he growled
insolently.

Zora’s eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered.

“Nothing,” she answered softly. “But I hope your soul will burn
in hell forever and forever.”

They proceeded down the plantation road, but Zora could not
speak. She pushed them slowly on, and turned aside to let the
anger, the impotent, futile anger, rage itself out. Alone in the
great broad spaces, she knew she could fight it down, and come
back again, cool and in calm and deadly earnest, to lead these
children to the light.

The sorrow in her heart was new and strange; not sorrow for
herself, for of that she had tasted the uttermost; but the vast
vicarious suffering for the evil of the world. The tumult and war
within her fled, and a sense of helplessness sent the hot tears
streaming down her cheeks. She longed for rest; but the last
plantation was yet to be passed. Far off she heard the yodle of
the gangs of peons. She hesitated, looking for some way of
escape: if she passed them she would see something—she
always saw something—that would send the red blood whirling
madly.

“Here, you!—loafing again, damn you!” She saw the black
whip writhe and curl across the shoulders of the plough-boy. The
boy crouched and snarled, and again the whip hissed and cracked.

Zora stood rigid and gray.

“My God!” her silent soul was shrieking within, “why doesn’t the
coward—”

And then the “coward” did. The whip was whirring in the air
again; but it never fell. A jagged stone in the boy’s hand struck
true, and the overseer plunged with a grunt into the black
furrow. In blank dismay, Zora came back to her senses.

“Poor child!” she gasped, as she saw the boy flying in wild
terror over the fields, with hue and cry behind him.

“Poor child!—running to the penitentiary—to shame and
hunger and damnation!”

She remembered the rector in Mrs. Vanderpool’s library, and his
question that revealed unfathomable depths of ignorance: “Really,
now, how do you account for the distressing increase in crime
among your people?”

She swung into the great road trembling with the woe of the world
in her eyes. Cruelty, poverty, and crime she had looked in the
face that morning, and the hurt of it held her heart pinched and
quivering. A moment the mists in her eyes shut out the shadows of
the swamp, and the roaring in her ears made a silence of the
world.

Before she found herself again she dimly saw a couple sauntering
along the road, but she hardly noticed their white faces until
the little voice of the girl, raised timidly, greeted her.

“Howdy, Zora.”

Zora looked. The girl was Emma, and beside her, smiling, stood a
half-grown white man. It was Emma, Bertie’s child; and yet it was
not, for in the child of other days Zora saw for the first time
the dawning woman.

And she saw, too, the white man. Suddenly the horror of the swamp
was upon her. She swept between the couple like a gust, gripping
the child’s arm till she paled and almost whimpered.

“I—I was just going on an errand for Miss Smith!” she
cried.

Looking down into her soul, Zora discerned its innocence and the
fright shining in the child’s eyes. Her own eyes softened, her
grip became a caress, but her heart was hard.

The young man laughed awkwardly and strolled away. Zora looked
back at him and the paramount mission of her life formed itself
in her mind. She would protect this girl; she would protect all
black girls. She would make it possible for these poor beasts of
burden to be decent in their toil. Out of protection of womanhood
as the central thought, she must build ramparts against cruelty,
poverty, and crime. All this in turn—but now and first, the
innocent girlhood of this daughter of shame must be rescued from
the devil. It was her duty, her heritage. She must offer this
unsullied soul up unto God in mighty atonement—but how?
Here now was no protection. Already lustful eyes were in wait,
and the child was too ignorant to protect herself. She must be
sent to boarding-school, somewhere far away; but the money? God!
it was money, money, always money. Then she stopped suddenly,
thrilled with the recollection of Mrs. Vanderpool’s check.

She dismissed the girl with a kiss, and stood still a moment
considering. Money to send Emma off to school; money to buy a
school farm; money to “buy” tenants to live on it; money to
furnish them rations; money—

She went straight to Miss Smith.

“Miss Smith, how much money have you?” Miss Smith’s hand trembled
a bit. Ah, that splendid strength of young womanhood—if
only she herself had it! But perhaps Zora was the chosen one. She
reached up and took down a well-worn book.

“Zora,” she said slowly, “I’ve been going to tell you ever since
you came, but I hadn’t the courage. Zora,” Miss Smith hesitated
and gripped the book with thin white fingers, “I’m afraid—I
almost know that this school is doomed.”

There lay a silence in the room while the two women stared into
each other’s souls with startled eyes. Swallowing hard, Miss
Smith spoke.

“When I thought the endowment sure, I mortgaged the school in
order to buy Tolliver’s land. The endowment failed, as you know,
because—perhaps I was too stubborn.”

But Zora’s eyes snapped “No!” and Miss Smith continued:

“I borrowed ten thousand dollars. Then I tried to get the land,
but Tolliver kept putting me off, and finally I learned that
Colonel Cresswell had bought it. It seems that Tolliver got
caught tight in the cotton corner, and that Cresswell, through
John Taylor, offered him twice what he had agreed to sell to me
for, and he took it. I don’t suppose Taylor knew what he was
doing; I hope he didn’t.

“Well, there I was with ten thousand dollars idle on my hands,
paying ten per cent on it and getting less than three per cent. I
tried to get the bank to take the money back, but they refused.
Then I was tempted—and fell.” She paused, and Zora took
both her hands in her own.

“You see,” continued Miss Smith, “just as soon as the
announcement of the prospective endowment was sent broadcast by
the press, the donations from the North fell off. Letter after
letter came from old friends of the school full of
congratulations, but no money. I ought to have cut down the
teaching force to the barest minimum, and gone North
begging—but I couldn’t. I guess my courage was gone. I knew
how I’d have to explain and plead, and I just could not. So I
used the ten thousand dollars to pay its own interest and help
run the school. Already it’s half gone, and when the rest goes
then will come the end.”

Without, the great red sun paused a moment over the edge of the
swamp, and the long, low cry of night birds broke sadly on the
twilight silence. Zora sat stroking the lined hands.

“Not the end,” she spoke confidently. “It cannot end like this.
I’ve got a little money that Mrs. Vanderpool gave me, and somehow
we must get more. Perhaps I might go North and—beg.” She
shivered. Then she sat up resolutely and turned to the book.

“Let’s go over matters carefully,” she proposed.

Together they counted and calculated.

“The balance is four thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight
dollars,” said Miss Smith.

“Yes, and then there’s Mrs. Vanderpool’s check.”

“How much is that?”

Zora paused; she did not know. In her world there was little
calculation of money. Credit and not cash is the currency of the
Black Belt. She had been pleased to receive the check, but she
had not examined it.

“I really don’t know,” she presently confessed. “I think it was
one thousand dollars; but I was so hurried in leaving that I
didn’t look carefully,” and the wild thought surged in her,
suppose it was more!

She ran into the other room and plunged into her trunk; beneath
the clothes, beneath the beauty of the Silver Fleece, till her
fingers clutched and tore the envelope. A little choking cry
burst from her throat, her knees trembled so that she was obliged
to sit down.

In her fingers fluttered a check for—ten thousand
dollars!

It was not until the next day that the two women were
sufficiently composed to talk matters over sanely.

“What is your plan?” asked Zora.

“To put the money in a Northern savings bank at three per cent
interest; to supply the rest of the interest, and the deficit in
the running expenses, from our balance, and to send you North to
beg.”

Zora shook her head. “It won’t do,” she objected. “I’d make a
poor beggar; I don’t know human nature well enough, and I can’t
talk to rich white folks the way they expect us to talk.”

“It wouldn’t be hypocrisy, Zora; you would be serving in a great
cause. If you don’t go, I—”

“Wait! You sha’n’t go. If any one goes it must be me. But let’s
think it out: we pay off the mortgage, we get enough to run the
school as it has been run. Then what? There will still be slavery
and oppression all around us. The children will be kept in the
cotton fields; the men will be cheated, and the women—”
Zora paused and her eyes grew hard.

She began again rapidly: “We must have land—our own farm
with our own tenants—to be the beginning of a free
community.”

Miss Smith threw up her hands impatiently.

“But sakes alive! Where, Zora? Where can we get land, with
Cresswell owning every inch and bound to destroy us?”

Zora sat hugging her knees and staring out the window toward the
sombre ramparts of the swamp. In her eyes lay slumbering the
madness of long ago; in her brain danced all the dreams and
visions of childhood.

“I’m thinking,” she murmured, “of buying the swamp.”

Thirty-three

THE BUYING OF THE SWAMP

“It’s a shame,” asserted John Taylor with something like real
feeling. He was spending Sunday with his father-in-law, and both,
over their after-dinner cigars, were gazing thoughtfully at the
swamp.

“What’s a shame?” asked Colonel Cresswell.

“To see all that timber and prime cotton-land going to waste.
Don’t you remember those fine bales of cotton that came out of
there several seasons ago?”

The Colonel smoked placidly. “You can’t get it cleared,” he said.

“But couldn’t you hire some good workers?”

“Niggers won’t work. Now if we had Italians we might do it.”

“Yes, and in a few years they’d own the country.”

“That’s right; so there we are. There’s only one way to get that
swamp cleared.”

“How?”

“Sell it to some fool darkey.”

“Sell it? It’s too valuable to sell.”

“That’s just it. You don’t understand. The only way to get decent
work out of some niggers is to let them believe they’re buying
land. In nine cases out of ten he works hard a while and then
throws up the job. We get back our land and he makes good wages
for his work.”

“But in the tenth case—suppose he should stick to it?”

“Oh,”—easily, “we could get rid of him when we want to.
White people rule here.”

John Taylor frowned and looked a little puzzled. He was no
moralist, but he had his code and he did not understand Colonel
Cresswell. As a matter of fact, Colonel Cresswell was an honest
man. In most matters of commerce between men he was punctilious
to a degree almost annoying to Taylor. But there was one part of
the world which his code of honor did not cover, and he saw no
incongruity in the omission. The uninitiated cannot easily
picture to himself the mental attitude of a former slaveholder
toward property in the hands of a Negro. Such property belonged
of right to the master, if the master needed it; and since
ridiculous laws safeguarded the property, it was perfectly
permissible to circumvent such laws. No Negro starved on the
Cresswell place, neither did any accumulate property. Colonel
Cresswell saw to both matters.

As the Colonel and John Taylor were thus conferring, Zora
appeared, coming up the walk.

“Who’s that?” asked the Colonel shading his eyes.

“It’s Zora—the girl who went North with Mrs. Vanderpool,”
Taylor enlightened him.

“Back, is she? Too trifling to stick to a job, and full of
Northern nonsense,” growled the Colonel. “Even got a Northern
walk—I thought for a moment she was a lady.”

Neither of the gentlemen ever dreamed how long, how hard, how
heart-wringing was that walk from the gate up the winding way
beneath their careless gaze. It was not the coming of the
thoughtless, careless girl of five years ago who had marched a
dozen times unthinking before the faces of white men. It was the
approach of a woman who knew how the world treated women whom it
respected; who knew that no such treatment would be thought of in
her case: neither the bow, the lifted hat, nor even the
conventional title of decency. Yet she must go on naturally and
easily, boldly but circumspectly, and play a daring game with two
powerful men.

“Can I speak with you a moment, Colonel?” she asked.

The Colonel did not stir or remove his cigar; he even injected a
little gruffness into his tone.

“Well, what is it?”

Of course, she was not asked to sit, but she stood with her hands
clasped loosely before her and her eyes half veiled.

“Colonel, I’ve got a thousand dollars.” She did not mention the
other nine.

The Colonel sat up.

“Where did you get it?” he asked.

“Mrs. Vanderpool gave it to me to use in helping the colored
people.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Well, that’s just what I came to see you about. You see, I might
give it to the school, but I’ve been thinking that I’d like to
buy some land for some of the tenants.”

“I’ve got no land to sell,” said the Colonel.

“I was thinking you might sell a bit of the swamp.”

Cresswell and Taylor glanced at each other and the Colonel re-lit
his cigar.

“How much of it?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know; I thought perhaps two hundred acres.”

“Two hundred acres? Do you expect to buy that land for five
dollars an acre?”

“Oh, no, sir. I thought it might cost as much as twenty-five
dollars.”

“But you’ve only got a thousand dollars.”

“Yes, sir; I thought I might pay that down and then pay the rest
from the crops.”

“Who’s going to work on the place?”

Zora named a number of the steadiest tenants to whom she had
spoken.

“They owe me a lot of money,” said the Colonel.

“We’d try to pay that, too.”

Colonel Cresswell considered. There was absolutely no risk. The
cost of the land, the back debts of the tenants—no possible
crops could pay for them. Then there was the chance of getting
the swamp cleared for almost nothing.

“How’s the school getting on?” he asked suddenly.

“Very poorly,” answered Zora sadly. “You know it’s mortgaged, and
Miss Smith has had to use the mortgage money for yearly
expenses.”

The Colonel smiled grimly.

“It will cost you fifty dollars an acre,” he said finally. Zora
looked disappointed and figured out the matter slowly.

“That would be one thousand down and nine thousand to pay—”

“With interest,” said Cresswell.

Zora shook her head doubtfully.

“What would the interest be?” she asked.

“Ten per cent.”

She stood silent a moment and Colonel Cresswell spoke up:

“It’s the best land about here and about the only land you can
buy—I wouldn’t sell it to anybody else.”

She still hesitated.

“The trouble is, you see, Colonel Cresswell, the price is high
and the interest heavy. And after all I may not be able to get as
many tenants as I’d need. I think though, I’d try it if—if
I could be sure you’d treat me fairly, and that I’d get the land
if I paid for it.”

Colonel Cresswell reddened a little, and John Taylor looked away.

“Well, if you don’t want to undertake it, all right.”

Zora looked thoughtfully across the field—

“Mr. Maxwell has a bit of land,” she began meditatively.

“Worked out, and not worth five dollars an acre!” snapped the
Colonel. But he did not propose to hand Maxwell a thousand
dollars. “Now, see here, I’ll treat you as well as anybody, and
you know it.”

“I believe so, sir,” acknowledged Zora in a tone that brought a
sudden keen glance from Taylor; but her face was a mask. “I
reckon I’ll make the bargain.”

“All right. Bring the money and we’ll fix the thing up.”

“The money is here,” said Zora, taking an envelope out of her
bosom.

“Well, leave it here, and I’ll see to it.”

“But you see, sir, Miss Smith is so methodical; she expects some
papers or receipts.”

“Well, it’s too late tonight.”

“Possibly you could sign a sort of receipt and later—”

Cresswell laughed. “Well, write one,” he indulgently assented.
And Zora wrote.

When Zora left Colonel Cresswell’s about noon that Sunday she
knew her work had just begun, and she walked swiftly along the
country roads, calling here and there. Would Uncle Isaac help her
build a log home? Would the boys help her some time to clear some
swamp land? Would Rob become a tenant when she asked? For this
was the idle time of the year. Crops were laid by and planting
had not yet begun.

This too was the time of big church meetings. She knew that in
her part of the country on that day the black population, man,
woman, and child, were gathered in great groups; all day they had
been gathering, streaming in snake-like lines along the country
roads, in well-brushed, brilliant attire, half fantastic, half
crude. Down where the Toomsville-Montgomery highway dipped to the
stream that fed the Cresswell swamp squatted a square barn that
slept through day and weeks in dull indifference. But on the
First Sunday it woke to sudden mighty life. The voices of men and
children mingled with the snorting of animals and the cracking of
whips. Then came the long drone and sing-song of the preacher
with its sharp wilder climaxes and the answering “amens” and
screams of the worshippers. This was the shrine of the
Baptists—shrine and oracle, centre and source of
inspiration—and hither Zora hurried.

The preacher was Jones, a big man, fat, black, and greasy, with
little eyes, unctuous voice, and three manners: his white folks
manner, soft, humble, wheedling; his black folks manner, voluble,
important, condescending; and above all, his pulpit manner, loud,
wild, and strong. He was about to don this latter cloak when Zora
approached with a request briefly to address the congregation.
Remembering some former snubs, his manner was lordly.

“I doesn’t see,” he returned reflectively, wiping his brows, “as
how I can rightly spare you any time; the brethren is a-gettin’
mighty onpatient to hear me.” He pulled down his cuffs, regarding
her doubtfully.

“I might speak after you’re through,” she suggested. But he
objected that there was the regular collection and two or three
other collections, a baptism, a meeting of the trustees; there
was no time, in short; but—he eyed her again.

“Does you want—a collection?” he questioned suspiciously,
for he could imagine few other reasons for talking. Then, too, he
did not want to be too inflexible, for all of his people knew
Zora and liked her.

“Oh, no, I want no collection at all. I only want a little
voluntary work on their part.” He looked relieved, frowned
through the door at the audience, and looked at his bright gold
watch. The whole crowd was not there yet—perhaps—

“You kin say just a word before the sermont,” he finally yielded;
“but not long—not long. They’se just a-dying to hear me.”

So Zora spoke simply but clearly: of neglect and suffering, of
the sins of others that bowed young shoulders, of the great hope
of the children’s future. Then she told something of what she had
seen and read of the world’s newer ways of helping men and women.
She talked of cooperation and refuges and other efforts; she
praised their way of adopting children into their own homes; and
then finally she told them of the land she was buying for new
tenants and the helping hands she needed. The preacher fidgeted
and coughed but dared not actually interrupt, for the people were
listening breathless to a kind of straightforward talk which they
seldom heard and for which they were hungering.

And Zora forgot time and occasion. The moments flew; the crowd
increased until the wonderful spell of those dark and upturned
faces pulsed in her blood. She felt the wild yearning to help
them beating in her ears and blinding her eyes.

“Oh, my people!” she almost sobbed. “My own people, I am not
asking you to help others; I am pleading with you to help
yourselves. Rescue your own flesh and blood—free
yourselves—free yourselves!” And from the swaying sobbing
hundreds burst a great “Amen!” The minister’s dusky face grew
more and more sombre, and the angry sweat started on his brow. He
felt himself hoaxed and cheated, and he meant to have his
revenge. Two hundred men and women rose and pledged themselves to
help Zora; and when she turned with overflowing heart to thank
the preacher he had left the platform, and she found him in the
yard whispering darkly with two deacons. She realized her
mistake, and promised to retrieve it during the week; but the
week was full of planning and journeying and talking.

Saturday dawned cool and clear. She had dinner prepared for
cooking in the yard: sweet potatoes, hoe-cake, and buttermilk,
and a hog to be barbecued. Everything was ready by eight o’clock
in the morning. Emma and two other girl helpers were on the
tip-toe of expectancy. Nine o’clock came and no one with it. Ten
o’clock came, and eleven. High noon found Zora peering down the
highway under her shading hand, but no soul in sight. She tried
to think it out: what could have happened? Her people were slow,
tardy, but they would not thus forget her and disappoint her
without some great cause. She sent the girls home at dusk and
then seated herself miserably under the great oak; then at last
one half-grown boy hurried by.

“I wanted to come, Miss Zora, but I was afeared. Preacher Jones
has been talking everywhere against you. He says that your mother
was a voodoo woman and that you don’t believe in God, and the
deacons voted that the members mustn’t help you.”

“And do the people believe that?” she asked in consternation.

“They just don’t know what to say. They don’t ‘zactly believe it,
but they has to ‘low that you didn’t say much ’bout religion when
you talked. You ain’t been near Big
Meetin’—and—and—you ain’t saved.” He hurried
on.

Zora leaned her head back wearily, watching the laced black
branches where the star-light flickered through—as coldly
still and immovable as she had watched them from those gnarled
roots all her life—and she murmured bitterly the world-old
question of despair: “What’s the use?” It seemed to her that
every breeze and branch was instinct with sympathy, and
murmuring, “What’s the use?” She wondered vaguely why, and as she
wondered, she knew.

For yonder where the black earth of the swamp heaved in a
formless mound she felt the black arms of Elspeth rising from the
sod—gigantic, mighty. They stole toward her with stealthy
hands and claw-like talons. They clutched at her skirts. She
froze and could not move. Down, down she slipped toward the black
slime of the swamp, and the air about was horror—down,
down, till the chilly waters stung her knees; and then with one
grip she seized the oak, while the great hand of Elspeth twisted
and tore her soul. Faint, afar, nearer and nearer and ever
mightier, rose a song of mystic melody. She heard its human voice
and sought to cry aloud. She strove again and again with that
gripping, twisting pain—that awful hand—until the
shriek came and she awoke.

She lay panting and sweating across the bent and broken roots of
the oak. The hand of Elspeth was gone but the song was still
there. She rose trembling and listened. It was the singing of the
Big Meeting in the church far away. She had forgotten this
religious revival in her days of hurried preparation, and the
preacher had used her absence and apparent indifference against
her and her work. The hand of Elspeth was reaching from the grave
to pull her back; but she was no longer dreaming now. Drawing her
shawl about her, she hurried down the highway.

The meeting had overflowed the church and spread to the edge of
the swamp. The tops of young trees had been bent down and
interlaced to form a covering and benches twined to their trunks.
Thus a low and wide cathedral, all green and silver in the
star-light, lay packed with a living mass of black folk. Flaming
pine torches burned above the devotees; the rhythm of their
stamping, the shout of their voices, and the wild music of their
singing shook the night. Four hundred people fell upon their
knees when the huge black preacher, uncoated, red-eyed, frenzied,
stretched his long arms to heaven. Zora saw the throng from afar,
and hesitated. After all, she knew little of this strange faith
of theirs—had little belief in its mummery. She herself had
been brought up almost without religion save some few mystic
remnants of a half-forgotten heathen cult. The little she had
seen of religious observance had not moved her greatly, save once
yonder in Washington. There she found God after a searching that
had seared her soul; but He had simply pointed the Way, and the
way was human.

Humanity was near and real. She loved it. But if she talked again
of mere men would these devotees listen? Already the minister had
spied her tall form and feared her power. He set his powerful
voice and the frenzy of his hearers to crush her.

“Who is dis what talks of doing the Lord’s work for Him? What
does de good Book say? Take no thought ’bout de morrow. Why is
you trying to make dis ole world better? I spits on the world!
Come out from it. Seek Jesus. Heaven is my home! Is it yo’s?”
“Yes,” groaned the multitude. His arm shot out and he pointed
straight at Zora.

“Beware the ebil one!” he shouted, and the multitude moaned.
“Beware of dem dat calls ebil good. Beware of dem dat worships
debbils; the debbils dat crawl; de debbils what forgits God.”

“Help him, Lord!” cried the multitude.

Zora stepped into the circle of light. A hush fell on the throng;
the preacher paused a moment, then started boldly forward with
upraised hands. Then a curious thing happened. A sharp cry arose
far off down toward the swamp and the sound of great footsteps
coming, coming as from the end of the world; there swelled a
rhythmical chanting, wilder and more primitive than song. On, on
it came, until it swung into sight. An old man led the
band—tall, massive, with tufted gray hair and wrinkled
leathery skin, and his eyes were the eyes of death. He reached
the circle of light, and Zora started: once before she had seen
that old man. The singing stopped but he came straight on till he
reached Zora’s side and then he whirled and spoke.

The words leaped and flew from his lips as he lashed the throng
with bitter fury. He said what Zora wanted to say with two great
differences: first, he spoke their religious language and spoke
it with absolute confidence and authority; and secondly, he
seemed to know each one there personally and intimately so that
he spoke to no inchoate throng—he spoke to them
individually, and they listened awestruck and fearsome.

“God is done sent me,” he declared in passionate tones, “to
preach His acceptable time. Faith without works is dead; who is
you that dares to set and wait for the Lord to do your work?”
Then in sudden fury, “Ye generation of vipers—who kin save
you?” He bent forward and pointed his long finger. “Yes,” he
cried, “pray, Sam Collins, you black devil; pray, for the corn
you stole Thursday.” The black figure moved. “Moan, Sister
Maxwell, for the backbiting you did today. Yell, Jack Tolliver,
you sneaking scamp, t’wil the Lord tell Uncle Bill who ruined his
daughter. Weep, May Haynes, for that baby—”

But the woman’s shriek drowned his words, and he whirled full on
the preacher, stamping his feet and waving his hands. His anger
choked him; the fat preacher cowered gray and trembling. The
gaunt fanatic towered over him.

“You—you—ornery hound of Hell! God never knowed you
and the devil owns your soul!” There leapt from his lips a
denunciation so livid, specific, and impassioned that the
preacher squatted and bowed, then finally fell upon his face and
moaned.

The gaunt speaker turned again to the people. He talked of little
children; he pictured their sin and neglect. “God is done sent me
to offer you all salvation,” he cried, while the people wept and
wailed; “not in praying, but in works. Follow me!” The hour was
halfway between midnight and dawn, but nevertheless the people
leapt frenziedly to their feet.

“Follow me!” he shouted.

And, singing and chanting, the throng poured out upon the black
highway, waving their torches. Zora knew his intention. With a
half-dozen of younger onlookers she unhitched teams and rode
across the land, calling at the cabins. Before sunrise, tools
were in the swamp, axes and saws and hammers. The noise of prayer
and singing filled the Sabbath dawn. The news of the great
revival spread, and men and women came pouring in. Then of a
sudden the uproar stopped, and the ringing of axes and grating of
saws and tugging of mules was heard. The forest trembled as by
some mighty magic, swaying and falling with crash on crash. Huge
bonfires blazed and crackled, until at last a wide black scar
appeared in the thick south side of the swamp, which widened and
widened to full twenty acres.

The sun rose higher and higher till it blazed at high noon. The
workers dropped their tools. The aroma of coffee and roasting
meat rose in the dim cool shade. With ravenous appetites the
dark, half-famished throng fell upon the food, and then in utter
weariness stretched themselves and slept: lying along the earth
like huge bronze earth-spirits, sitting against trees, curled in
dense bushes.

And Zora sat above them on a high rich-scented pile of logs. Her
senses slept save her sleepless eyes. Amid a silence she saw in
the little grove that still stood, the cabin of Elspeth tremble,
sigh, and disappear, and with it flew some spirit of evil.

Then she looked down to the new edge of the swamp, by the old
lagoon, and saw Bles Alwyn standing there. It seemed very
natural; and closing her eyes, she fell asleep.

Thirty-four

THE RETURN OF ALWYN

Bles Alwyn stared at Mrs. Harry Cresswell in surprise. He had not
seen her since that moment at the ball, and he was startled at
the change. Her abundant hair was gone; her face was pale and
drawn, and there were little wrinkles below her sunken eyes. In
those eyes lurked the tired look of the bewildered and the
disappointed. It was in the lofty waiting-room of the Washington
station where Alwyn had come to meet a friend. Mrs. Cresswell
turned and recognized him with genuine pleasure. He seemed
somehow a part of the few things in the world—little and
unimportant perhaps—that counted and stood firm, and she
shook his hand cordially, not minding the staring of the people
about. He took her bag and carried it towards the gate, which
made the observers breathe easier, seeing him in servile duty.
Someway, she knew not just how, she found herself telling him of
the crisis in her life before she realized; not everything, of
course, but a great deal. It was much as though she were talking
to some one from another world—an outsider; but one she had
known long, one who understood. Both from what she recounted and
what she could not tell he gathered the substance of the story,
and it bewildered him. He had not thought that white people had
such troubles; yet, he reflected, why not? They, too, were human.

“I suppose you hear from the school?” he ventured after a pause.

“Why, yes—not directly—but Zora used to speak of it.”

Bles looked up quickly.

“Zora?”

“Yes. Didn’t you see her while she was here? She has gone back
now.”

Then the gate opened, the crowd surged through, sweeping them
apart, and next moment he was alone.

Alwyn turned slowly away. He forgot the friend he was to meet. He
forgot everything but the field of the Silver Fleece. It rose
shadowy there in the pale concourse, swaying in ghostly breezes.
The purple of its flowers mingled with the silver radiance of
tendrils that trembled across the hurrying throng, like threads
of mists along low hills. In its midst rose a dark, slim, and
quivering form. She had been here—here in Washington! Why
had he not known? What was she doing? “She has gone back
now”—back to the Sun and the Swamp, back to the Burden.

Why should not he go back, too? He walked on thinking. He had
failed. His apparent success had been too sudden, too
overwhelming, and when he had faced the crisis his hand had
trembled. He had chosen the Right—but the Right was
ineffective, impotent, almost ludicrous. It left him shorn,
powerless, and in moral revolt. The world had suddenly left him,
as the vision of Carrie Wynn had left him, alone, a mere clerk,
an insignificant cog in the great grinding wheel of humdrum
drudgery. His chance to do and thereby to be had not come.

He thought of Zora again. Why not go back to the South where she
had gone? He shuddered as one who sees before him a cold black
pool whither his path leads. To face the proscription, the
insult, the lawless hate of the South again—never! And yet
he went home and sat down and wrote a long letter to Miss Smith.

The reply that came after some delay was almost curt. It answered
few of his questions, argued with none of his doubts, and made no
mention of Zora. Yes, there was need of a manager for the new
farm and settlement. She was not sure whether Alwyn could do the
work or not. The salary was meagre and the work hard. If he
wished it, he must decide immediately.

Two weeks later found Alwyn on the train facing Southward in the
Jim Crow car. How he had decided to go back South he did not
know. In fact, he had not decided. He had sat helpless and
inactive in the grip of great and shadowed hands, and the thing
was as yet incomprehensible. And so it was that the vision Zora
saw in the swamp had been real enough, and Alwyn felt strangely
disappointed that she had given no sign of greeting on
recognition.

In other ways, too, Zora, when he met her, was to him a new
creature. She came to him frankly and greeted him, her gladness
shining in her eyes, yet looking nothing more than gladness and
saying nothing more. Just what he had expected was hard to say;
but he had left her on her knees in the dirt with outstretched
hands, and somehow he had expected to return to some
corresponding mental attitude. The physical change of these three
years was marvellous. The girl was a woman, well-rounded and
poised, tall, straight, and quick. And with this went mental
change: a self-mastery; a veiling of the self even in intimate
talk; a subtle air as of one looking from great and unreachable
heights down on the dawn of the world. Perhaps no one who had not
known the child and the girl as he had would have noted all this;
but he saw and realized the transformation with a
pang—something had gone; the innocence and wonder of the
child, and in their place had grown up something to him
incomprehensible and occult.

Miss Smith was not to be easily questioned on the subject. She
took no hints and gave no information, and when once he hazarded
some pointed questions she turned on him abruptly, observing
acidly: “If I were you I’d think less of Zora and more of her
work.”

Gradually, in his spiritual perplexity, Alwyn turned to Mary
Cresswell. She was staying with the Colonel at Cresswell Oaks.
Her coming South was supposed to be solely for reasons of health,
and her appearance made this excuse plausible. She was lonely and
restless, and naturally drawn toward the school. Her intercourse
with Miss Smith was only formal, but her interest in Zora’s work
grew. Down in the swamp, at the edge of the cleared space, had
risen a log cabin; long, low, spacious, overhung with oak and
pine. It was Zora’s centre for her settlement-work. There she
lived, and with her a half-dozen orphan girls and children too
young for the boarding department of the school. Mrs. Cresswell
easily fell into the habit of walking by here each day, coming
down the avenue of oaks across the road and into the swamp. She
saw little of Zora personally but she saw her girls and learned
much of her plans.

The rooms of the cottage were clean and light, supplied with
books and pictures, simple toys, and a phonograph. The yard was
one wide green and golden play-ground, and all day the music of
children’s glad crooning and the singing of girls went echoing
and trembling through the trees, as they played and sewed and
washed and worked.

From the Cresswells and the Maxwells and others came loads of
clothes for washing and mending. The Tolliver girls had simple
dresses made, embroidery was ordered from town, and soon there
would be the gardens and cotton fields. Mrs. Cresswell would
saunter down of mornings. Sometimes she would talk to the big
girls and play with the children; sometimes she would sit hidden
in the forest, listening and glimpsing and thinking, thinking,
till her head whirled and the world danced red before her eyes,
today she rose wearily, for it was near noon, and started home.
She saw Alwyn swing along the road to the school dining-room
where he had charge of the students at the noonday meal.

Alwyn wanted Mrs. Cresswell’s judgment and advice. He was growing
doubtful of his own estimate of women. Evidently something about
his standards was wrong; consequently he made opportunities to
talk with Mrs. Cresswell when she was about, hoping she would
bring up the subject of Zora of her own accord. But she did not.
She was too full of her own cares and troubles, and she was only
too glad of willing and sympathetic ears into which to pour her
thoughts. Miss Smith soon began to look on these conversations
with some uneasiness. Black men and white women cannot talk
together casually in the South and she did not know how far the
North had put notions in Alwyn’s head.

Today both met each other almost eagerly.

Mrs. Cresswell had just had a bit of news which only he would
fully appreciate.

“Have you heard of the Vanderpools?” she asked.

“No—except that he was appointed and confirmed at last.”

“Well, they had only arrived in France when he died of apoplexy.
I do not know,” added Mrs. Cresswell, “I may be wrong and—I
hope I’m not glad.” Then there leapt to her mind a hypothetical
question which had to do with her own curious situation. It was
characteristic of her to brood and then restlessly to seek relief
in consulting the one person near who knew her story. She started
to open the subject again today.

But Alwyn, his own mind full, spoke first and rapidly. He, too,
had turned to her as he saw her come from Zora’s home. He must
know more about the girl. He could no longer endure this silence.
Zora beneath her apparent frankness was impenetrable, and he felt
that she carefully avoided him, although she did it so deftly
that he felt rather than observed it. Miss Smith still
systematically snubbed him when he broached the subject of Zora.
With others he did not speak; the matter seemed too delicate and
sacred, and he always had an awful dread lest sometime,
somewhere, a chance and fatal word would be dropped, a breath of
evil gossip which would shatter all. He had hated to obtrude his
troubles on Mrs. Cresswell, who seemed so torn in soul. But today
he must speak, although time pressed.

“Mrs. Cresswell,” he began hurriedly, “there’s a matter—a
personal matter of which I have wanted to speak—a long
time—I—” The dinner-bell rang, and he stopped, vexed.

“Come up to the house this afternoon,” she said; “Colonel
Cresswell will be away—” Then she paused abruptly. A
strange startling thought flashed through her brain. Alwyn
noticed nothing. He thanked her cordially and hurried toward the
dining-hall, meeting Colonel Cresswell on horseback just as he
turned into the school gate.

Mary Cresswell walked slowly on, flushing and paling by turns.
Could it be that this Negro had dared to misunderstand
her—had presumed? She reviewed her conduct. Perhaps she had
been indiscreet in thus making a confidant of him in her trouble.
She had thought of him as a boy—an old student, a sort of
confidential servant; but what had he thought? She remembered
Miss Smith’s warning of years before—and he had been North
since and acquired Northern notions of freedom and equality. She
bit her lip cruelly.

Yet, she mused, she was herself to blame. She had unwittingly
made the intimacy and he was but a Negro, looking on every white
woman as a goddess and ready to fawn at the slightest
encouragement. There had been no one else here to confide in. She
could not tell Miss Smith her troubles, although she knew Miss
Smith must suspect. Harry Cresswell, apparently, had written
nothing home of their quarrel. All the neighbors behaved as if
her excuse of ill-health were sufficient to account for her
return South to escape the rigors of a Northern winter. Alwyn,
and Alwyn alone, really knew. Well, it was her blindness, and she
must right it quietly and quickly with hard ruthless plainness.
She blushed again at the shame of it; then she began to excuse.

After all, which was worse—a Cresswell or an Alwyn? It was
no sin that Alwyn had done; it was simply ignorant presumption,
and she must correct him firmly, but gently, like a child. What a
crazy muddle the world was! She thought of Harry Cresswell and
the tale he told her in the swamp. She thought of the flitting
ghosts that awful night in Washington. She thought of Miss Wynn
who had jilted Alwyn and given her herself a very bad quarter of
an hour. What a world it was, and after all how far was this
black boy wrong? Just then Colonel Cresswell rode up behind and
greeted her.

She started almost guiltily, and again a sense of the awkwardness
of her position reddened her face and neck. The Colonel
dismounted, despite her protest, and walked beside her. They
chatted along indifferently, of the crops, her brother’s new
baby, the proposed mill.

“Mary,” his voice abruptly struck a new note. “I don’t like the
way you talk with that Alwyn nigger.”

She was silent.

“Of course,” he continued, “you’re Northern born and you have
been a teacher in this school and feel differently from us in
some ways; but mark what I say, a nigger will presume on the
slightest pretext, and you must keep them in their place. Then,
too, you are a Cresswell now—”

She smiled bitterly; he noticed it, but went on:

“You are a Cresswell, even if you have caught Harry up to some of
his deviltry,”—she started,—”and got miffed about it.
It’ll all come out right. You’re a Cresswell, and you must hold
yourself too high to ‘Mister’ a nigger or let him dream of any
sort of equality.”

He spoke pleasantly, but with a certain sharp insistence that
struck a note of fear in Mary’s heart. For a moment she thought
of writing Alwyn not to call. But, no; a note would be unwise.
She and Colonel Cresswell lunched rather silently.

“Well, I must get to town,” he finally announced. “The mill
directors meet today. If Maxwell calls by about that lumber tell
him I’ll see him in town.” And away he went.

He had scarcely reached the highway and ridden a quarter of a
mile or so when he spied Bles Alwyn hurrying across the field
toward the Cresswell Oaks. He frowned and rode on. Then reining
in his horse, he stopped in the shadow of the trees and watched
Alwyn.

It was here that Zora saw him as she came up from her house. She,
too, stopped, and soon saw whom he was watching. She had been
planning to see Mr. Cresswell about the cut timber on her land.
By legal right it was hers but she knew he would claim half,
treating her like a mere tenant. Seeing him watching Alwyn she
paused in the shadow and waited, fearing trouble. She, too, had
felt that the continued conversations of Alwyn and Mrs. Cresswell
were indiscreet, but she hoped that they had attracted no one
else’s attention. Now she feared the Colonel was suspicious and
her heart sank. Alwyn went straight toward the house and
disappeared in the oak avenue. Still Colonel Cresswell waited but
Zora waited no longer. Alwyn must be warned. She must reach
Cresswell’s mansion before Cresswell did and without him seeing
her. This meant a long detour of the swamp to approach the Oaks
from the west. She silently gathered up her skirts and walked
quickly and carefully away.

She was a strong woman, lithe and vigorous, living in the open
air and used to walking. Once out of hearing she threw away her
hat and bending forward ran through the swamp. For a while she
ran easily and swiftly. Then for a moment she grew dizzy and it
seemed as though she was standing still and the swamp in solemn
grandeur marching past—in solemn mocking grandeur. She
loosened her dress at the neck and flew on.

She sped at last through the oaks, up the terraces, and slowing
down to an unsteady walk, staggered into the house. No one would
wonder at her being there. She came up now and then and sorted
the linen and piled the baskets for her girls. She entered a side
door and listened. The Colonel’s voice sounded impatiently in the
front hall.

“Mary! Mary?”

A pause, then an answer:

“Yes, father!”

He started up the front stairway and Zora hurried up the narrow
back stairs, almost overturning a servant.

“I’m after the clothes,” she explained. She reached the back
landing just in time to see Colonel Cresswell’s head rising up
the front staircase. With a quick bound she almost fell into the
first room at the top of the stairs.

Bles Alwyn had hurried through his dinner duties and hastened to
the Oaks. The questions, the doubts, the uncertainty within him
were clamoring for utterance. How much had Mrs. Cresswell ever
known of Zora? What kind of a woman was Zora now? Mrs. Cresswell
had seen her and had talked to her and watched her. What did she
think? Thus he formulated his questions as he went, half timid,
and fearful in putting them and yet determined to know.

Mrs. Cresswell, waiting for him, was almost panic-stricken.
Probably he would beat round the bush seeking further
encouragement; but at the slightest indication she must crush him
ruthlessly and at the same time point the path of duty. He ought
to marry some good girl—not Zora, but some one. Somehow
Zora seemed too unusual and strange for him—too inhuman, as
Mary Cresswell judged humanity. She glanced out from her seat on
the upper verandah over the front porch and saw Alwyn coming.
Where should she receive him? On the porch and have Mr. Maxwell
ride up? In the parlor and have the servants astounded and
talking? If she took him up to her own sitting-room the servants
would think he was doing some work or fetching something for the
school. She greeted him briefly and asked him in.

“Good-afternoon, Bles”—using his first name to show him his
place, and then inwardly recoiling at its note of familiarity.
She preceded him up-stairs to the sitting-room, where, leaving
the door ajar, she seated herself on the opposite side of the
room and waited.

He fidgeted, then spoke rapidly.

“Mrs. Cresswell—this is a personal affair.” She reddened
angrily. “A love affair”—she paled with something like
fear—”and I”—she started to speak, but could
not—”I want to know what you think about Zora?”

“About Zora!” she gasped weakly. The sudden reaction, the
revulsion of her agitated feelings, left her breathless.

“About Zora. You know I loved her dearly as a boy—how
dearly I have only just begun to realize: I’ve been wondering if
I understood—if I wasn’t—”

Mrs. Cresswell got angrily to her feet.

“You have come here to speak to me of that—that—” she
choked, and Bles thought his worst fears realized.

“Mary, Mary!” Colonel Cresswell’s voice broke suddenly in upon
them. With a start of fear Mrs. Cresswell rushed out into the
hall and closed the door.

“Mary, has that Alwyn nigger been here this afternoon?” Mr.
Cresswell was coming up-stairs, carrying his riding whip.

“Why, no!” she answered, lying instinctively before she quite
realized what her lie meant. She hesitated. “That is, I haven’t
seen him. I must have nodded over my book,”—looking toward
the little verandah at the front of the upper hall, where her
easy chair stood with her book. Then with an awful flash of
enlightenment she realized what her lie might mean, and her heart
paused.

Cresswell strode up.

“I saw him come up—he must have entered. He’s nowhere
downstairs,” he wavered and scowled. “Have you been in your
sitting-room?” And then, not waiting for a reply, he strode to
the door.

“But the damned scoundrel wouldn’t dare!”

He deliberately placed his hand in his right-hand hip-pocket and
threw open the door.

Mary Cresswell stood frozen. The full horror of the thing burst
upon her. Her own silly misapprehension, the infatuation of Alwyn
for Zora, her thoughtless—no, vindictive—betrayal of
him to something worse than death. She listened for the crack of
doom. She heard a bird singing far down in the swamp; she heard
the soft raising of a window and the closing of a door. And
then—great God in heaven! must she live forever in this
agony?—and then, she heard the door bang and Mr.
Cresswell’s gruff voice—

“Well, where is he?—he isn’t in there!”

Mary Cresswell felt that something was giving way within. She
swayed and would have crashed to the bottom of the staircase if
just then she had not seen at the opposite end of the hall, near
the back stairs, Zora and Alwyn emerge calmly from a room,
carrying a basket full of clothes. Colonel Cresswell stared at
them, and Zora instinctively put up her hand and fastened her
dress at the throat. The Colonel scowled, for it was all clear to
him now.

“Look here,” he angrily opened upon them, “if you niggers want to
meet around keep out of this house; hereafter I’ll send the
clothes down. By God, if you want to make love go to the swamp!”
He stamped down the stairs while an ashy paleness stole beneath
the dark-red bronze of Zora’s face.

They walked silently down the road together—the old
familiar road. Alwyn was staring moodily ahead.

“We must get married—before Christmas, Zora,” he presently
avowed, not looking at her. He felt the basket pause and he
glanced up. Her dark eyes were full upon him and he saw something
in their depths that brought him to himself and made him realize
his blunder.

“Zora!” he stammered, “forgive me! Will you marry me?”

She looked at him calmly with infinite compassion. But her reply
was uttered unhesitantly; distinct, direct.

“No, Bles.”

Thirty-five

THE COTTON MILL

The people of Toomsville started in their beds and listened. A
new song was rising on the air: a harsh, low, murmuring croon
that shook the village ranged around its old square of
dilapadated stores. It was not a song of joy; it was not a song
of sorrow; it was not a song at all, perhaps, but a confused
whizzing and murmuring, as of a thousand ill-tuned, busy voices.
Some of the listeners wondered; but most of the town cried
joyfully, “It’s the new cotton-mill!”

John Taylor’s head teemed with new schemes. The mill trust of the
North was at last a fact. The small mills had not been able to
buy cotton when it was low because Cresswell was cornering it in
the name of the Farmers’ League; now that it was high they could
not afford to, and many surrendered to the trust.

“Next thing,” wrote Taylor to Easterly, “is to reduce cost of
production. Too much goes in wages. Gradually transfer mills
South.”

Easterly argued that the labor was too unskilled in the South and
that to send Northern spinners down would spread labor troubles.
Taylor replied briefly: “Never fear; we’ll scare them with a
vision of niggers in the mills!”

Colonel Cresswell was not so easily won over to the new scheme.
In the first place he was angry because the school, which he had
come to regard as on its last legs, somehow still continued to
flourish. The ten-thousand-dollar mortgage had but three more
years, and that would end all; but he had hoped for a crash even
earlier. Instead of this, Miss Smith was cheerfully expanding the
work, hiring new teachers, and especially she had brought to help
her two young Negroes whom he suspected. Colonel Cresswell had
prevented the Tolliver land sale, only to be inveigled himself
into Zora’s scheme which now began to worry him. He must evict
Zora’s tenants as soon as the crops were planted and harvested.
There was nothing unjust about such a course, he argued, for
Negroes anyway were too lazy and shiftless to buy the land. They
would not, they could not, work without driving. All this he
imparted to John Taylor, to which that gentleman listened
carefully.

“H’m, I see,” he owned. “And I know the way out.”

“How?”

“A cotton mill in Toomsville.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Bring in whites.”

“But I don’t want poor white trash; I’d sooner have niggers.”

“Now, see here,” argued Taylor, “you can’t have everything you
want—day’s gone by for aristocracy of old kind. You must
have neighbors: choose, then, white or black. I say white.”

“But they’ll rule us—out-vote us—marry our
daughters,” warmly objected the Colonel.

“Some of them may—most of them won’t. A few of them with
brains will help us rule the rest with money. We’ll plant cotton
mills beside the cotton fields, use whites to keep niggers in
their place, and the fear of niggers to keep the poorer whites in
theirs.”

The Colonel looked thoughtful.

“There’s something in that,” he confessed after a while; “but
it’s a mighty big experiment, and it may go awry.”

“Not with brains and money to guide it. And at any rate, we’ve
got to try it; it’s the next logical step, and we must take it.”

“But in the meantime, I’m not going to give up good old methods;
I’m going to set the sheriff behind these lazy niggers,” said the
Colonel; “and I’m going to stop that school putting notions into
their heads.”

In three short months the mill at Toomsville was open and its
wheels whizzing to the boundless pride of the citizens.

“Our enterprise, sir!” they said to the strangers on the strength
of the five thousand dollars locally invested.

Once it had vigor to sing, the song of the mill knew no resting;
morning and evening, day and night it crooned its rhythmic tune;
only during the daylight Sundays did its murmur die to a sibilant
hiss. All the week its doors were filled with the coming and
going of men and women and children: many men, more women, and
greater and greater throngs of children. It seemed to devour
children, sitting with its myriad eyes gleaming and its black maw
open, drawing in the pale white mites, sucking their blood and
spewing them out paler and ever paler. The face of the town began
to change, showing a ragged tuberculous looking side with dingy
homes in short and homely rows.

There came gradually a new consciousness to the town. Hitherto
town and country had been ruled by a few great landlords but at
the very first election, Colton, an unknown outsider, had beaten
the regular candidate for sheriff by such a majority that the big
property owners dared not count him out. They had, however, an
earnest consultation with John Taylor.

“It’s just as I said,” growled Colonel Cresswell, “if you don’t
watch out our whole plantation system will be ruined and we’ll be
governed by this white trash from the hills.”

“There’s only one way,” sighed Caldwell, the merchant; “we’ve got
to vote the niggers.”

John Taylor laughed. “Nonsense!” he spurned the suggestion.
“You’re old-fashioned. Let the mill-hands have the offices. What
good will it do?”

“What good! Why, they’ll do as they please with us.”

“Bosh! Don’t we own the mill? Can’t we keep wages where we like
by threatening to bring in nigger labor?”

“No, you can’t, permanently,” Maxwell disputed, “for they
sometime will call your bluff.”

“Let ’em call,” said Taylor, “and we’ll put niggers in the
mills.”

“What!” ejaculated the landlords in chorus. Only Maxwell was
silent. “And kill the plantation system?”

“Oh, maybe some time, of course. But not for years; not until
you’ve made your pile. You don’t really expect to keep the
darkies down forever, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Maxwell slowly admitted. “This system can’t last
always—sometimes I think it can’t last long. It’s wrong,
through and through. It’s built on ignorance, theft, and force,
and I wish to God we had courage enough to overthrow it and take
the consequences. I wish it was possible to be a Southerner and a
Christian and an honest man, to treat niggers and dagoes and
white trash like men, and be big enough to say, ‘To Hell with
consequences!'”

Colonel Cresswell stared at his neighbor, speechless with
bewilderment and outraged traditions. Such unbelievable heresy
from a Northerner or a Negro would have been natural; but from a
Southerner whose father had owned five hundred slaves—it
was incredible! The other landlords scarcely listened; they were
dogged and impatient and they could suggest no remedy. They could
only blame the mill for their troubles.

John Taylor left the conference blithely. “No,” he said to the
committee from the new mill-workers’ union. “Can’t raise wages,
gentlemen, and can’t lessen hours. Mill is just started and not
yet paying expenses. You’re getting better wages than you ever
got. If you don’t want to work, quit. There are plenty of others,
white and black, who want your jobs.”

The mention of black people as competitors for wages was like a
red rag to a bull. The laborers got together and at the next
election they made a clean sweep, judge, sheriff, two members of
the legislature, and the registrars of votes. Undoubtedly the
following year they would capture Harry Cresswell’s seat in
Congress.

The result was curious. From two sides, from landlord and white
laborer, came renewed oppression of black men. The laborers found
that their political power gave them little economic advantage as
long as the threatening cloud of Negro competition loomed ahead.
There was some talk of a strike, but Colton, the new sheriff,
discouraged it.

“I tell you, boys, where the trouble lies: it’s the niggers. They
live on nothing and take any kind of treatment, and they keep
wages down. If you strike, they’ll get your jobs, sure. We’ll
just have to grin and bear it a while, but get back at the
darkies whenever you can. I’ll stick ’em into the chain-gang
every chance I get.”

On the other hand, inspired by fright, the grip of the landlords
on the black serfs closed with steadily increasing firmness. They
saw one class rising from beneath them to power, and they
tightened the chains on the other. Matters simmered on in this
way, and the only party wholly satisfied with conditions was John
Taylor and the few young Southerners who saw through his eyes. He
was making money. The landlords, on the contrary, were losing
power and prestige, and their farm labor, despite strenuous
efforts, was drifting to town attracted by new and incidental
work and higher wages. The mill-hands were more and more
overworked and underpaid, and hated the Negroes for it in
accordance with their leaders’ directions.

At the same time the oppressed blacks and scowling mill-hands
could not help recurring again and again to the same inarticulate
thought which no one was brave enough to voice. Once, however, it
came out flatly. It was when Zora, crowding into the village
courthouse to see if she could not help Aunt Rachel’s accused
boy, found herself beside a gaunt, overworked white woman. The
woman was struggling with a crippled child and Zora, turning,
lifted him carefully for the weak mother, who thanked her half
timidly. “That mill’s about killed him,” she said.

At this juncture the manacled boy was led into court, and the
woman suddenly turned again to Zora.

“Durned if I don’t think these white slaves and black slaves had
ought ter git together,” she declared.

“I think so, too,” Zora agreed.

Colonel Cresswell himself caught the conversation and it struck
him with a certain dismay. Suppose such a conjunction should come
to pass? He edged over to John Taylor and spoke to him; but
Taylor, who had just successfully stopped a suit for damages to
the injured boy, merely shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s this nigger charged with?” demanded the Judge when the
first black boy was brought up before him.

“Breaking his labor contract.”

“Any witnesses?”

“I have the contract here,” announced the sheriff. “He refuses to
work.”

“A year, or one hundred dollars.”

Colonel Cresswell paid his fine, and took him in charge.

“What’s the charge here?” said the Judge, pointing to Aunt
Rachel’s boy.

“Attempt to kill a white man.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None except the victim.”

“And I,” said Zora, coming forward.

Both the sheriff and Colonel Cresswell stared at her. Of course,
she was simply a black girl but she was an educated woman, who
knew things about the Cresswell plantations that it was
unnecessary to air in court. The newly elected Judge had not yet
taken his seat, and Cresswell’s word was still law in the court.
He whispered to the Judge.

“Case postponed,” said the Court.

The sheriff scowled.

“Wait till Jim gets on the bench,” he growled.

The white bystanders, however, did not seem enthusiastic and one
man—he was a Northern spinner—spoke out plainly.

“It’s none o’ my business, of course. I’ve been fired and I’m
damned glad of it. But see here: if you mutts think you’re going
to beat these big blokes at their own game of cheating niggers
you’re daffy. You take this from me: get together with the
niggers and hold up this whole capitalist gang. If you don’t get
the niggers first, they’ll use ’em as a club to throw you down.
You hear me,” and he departed for the train.

Colton was suspicious. The sentiment of joining with the Negroes
did not seem to arouse the bitter resentment he expected. There
even came whispers to his ears that he had sold out to the
landlords, and there was enough truth in the report to scare him.
Thus to both parties came the uncomfortable spectre of the black
men, and both sides went to work to lay the ghost.

Particularly was Colonel Cresswell stirred to action. He realized
that in Bles and Zora he was dealing with a younger class of
educated black folk, who were learning to fight with new weapons.
They were, he was sure, as dissolute and weak as their parents,
but they were shrewder and more aspiring. They must be crushed,
and crushed quickly. To this end he had recourse to two sources
of help—Johnson and the whites in town.

Johnson was what Colonel Cresswell repeatedly called “a faithful
nigger.” He was one of those constitutionally timid creatures
into whom the servility of his fathers had sunk so deep that it
had become second-nature. To him a white man was an archangel,
while the Cresswells, his father’s masters, stood for God. He
served them with dog-like faith, asking no reward, and for what
he gave in reverence to them, he took back in contempt for his
fellows—”niggers!” He applied the epithet with more
contempt than the Colonel himself could express. To the Negroes
he was a “white folk’s nigger,” to be despised and feared.

To him Colonel Cresswell gave a few pregnant directions. Then he
rode to town, and told Taylor again of his fears of a labor
movement which would include whites and blacks. Taylor could not
see any great danger.

“Of course,” he conceded, “they’ll eventually get together; their
interests are identical. I’ll admit it’s our game to delay this
as long possible.”

“It must be delayed forever, sir.”

“Can’t be,” was the terse response. “But even if they do ally
themselves, our way is easy: separate the leaders, the talented,
the pushers, of both races from their masses, and through them
rule the rest by money.”

But Colonel Cresswell shook his head. “It’s precisely these
leaders of the Negroes that we mush crush,” he insisted. Taylor
looked puzzled.

“I thought it was the lazy, shiftless, and criminal Negroes, you
feared?”

“Hang it, no! We can deal with them; we’ve got whips,
chain-gangs, and—mobs, if need be—no, it’s the Negro
who wants to climb up that we’ve got to beat to his knees.”

Taylor could not follow this reasoning. He believed in an
aristocracy of talent alone, and secretly despised Colonel
Cresswell’s pretensions of birth. If a man had ability and push
Taylor was willing and anxious to open the way for him, even
though he were black. The caste way of thinking in the South,
both as applied to poor whites and to Negroes, he simply could
not understand. The weak and the ignorant of all races he
despised and had no patience with them. “But others—a man’s
a man, isn’t he?” he persisted. But Colonel Cresswell replied:

“No, never, if he’s black, and not always when he’s white,” and
he stalked away.

Zora sensed fully the situation. She did not anticipate any
immediate understanding with the laboring whites, but she knew
that eventually it would be inevitable. Meantime the Negro must
strengthen himself and bring to the alliance as much independent
economic strength as possible. For the development of her plans
she needed Bles Alwyn’s constant cooperation. He was business
manager of the school and was doing well, but she wanted to point
out to him the larger field. So long as she was uncertain of his
attitude toward her, it was difficult to act; but now, since the
flash of the imminent tragedy at Cresswell Oaks had cleared the
air, with all its hurt a frank understanding had been made
possible. The very next day Zora chose to show Bles over her new
home and grounds, and to speak frankly to him. They looked at the
land, examined the proposed farm sites, and viewed the
living-room and dormitory in the house.

“You haven’t seen my den,” said Zora.

“No.”

“Miss Smith is in there now; she often hides there. Come.”

He went into the large central house and into the living-room,
then out on the porch, beyond which lay the kitchen. But to the
left, and at the end of the porch, was a small building. It was
ceiled in dark yellow pine, with figured denim on the walls. A
straight desk of rough hewn wood stood in the corner by the
white-curtained window, and a couch and two large easy-chairs
faced a tall narrow fireplace of uneven stone. A thick green
rag-carpet covered the floor; a few pictures were on the
walls—a Madonna, a scene of mad careering horses, and some
sad baby faces. The room was a unity; things fitted together as
if they belonged together. It was restful and beautiful, from the
cheerful pine blaze before which Miss Smith was sitting, to the
square-paned window that let in the crimson rays of gathering
night. All round the room, stopping only at the fireplace, ran
low shelves of the same yellow pine, filled with books and
magazines. He scanned curiously Plato’s Republic, Gorky’s
“Comrades,” a Cyclopædia of Agriculture, Balzac’s novels,
Spencer’s “First Principles,” Tennyson’s Poems.

“This is my university,” Zora explained, smiling at his
interested survey. They went out again and wandered down near the
old lagoon.

“Now, Bles,” she began, “since we understand each other, can we
not work together as good friends?” She spoke simply and frankly,
without apparent effort, and talked on at length of her work and
vision.

Somehow he could not understand. His mental attitude toward Zora
had always been one of guidance, guardianship, and instruction.
He had been judging and weighing her from on high, looking down
upon her with thoughts of uplift and development. Always he had
been holding her dark little hands to lead her out of the swamp
of life, and always, when in senseless anger he had half
forgotten and deserted her, this vision of elder brotherhood had
still remained. Now this attitude was being revolutionized. She
was proposing to him a plan of wide scope—a bold
regeneration of the land. It was a plan carefully studied out,
long thought of and read about. He was asked to be
co-worker—nay, in a sense to be a follower, for he was
ignorant of much.

He hesitated. Then all at once a sense of his utter unworthiness
overwhelmed him. Who was he to stand and judge this unselfish
woman? Who was he to falter when she called? A sense of his
smallness and narrowness, of his priggish blindness, rose like a
mockery in his soul. One thing alone held him back: he was not
unwilling to be simply human, a learner and a follower; but would
he as such ever command the love and respect of this new and
inexplicable woman? Would not comradeship on the basis of the new
friendship which she insisted on, be the death of love and
thoughts of love?

Thus he hesitated, knowing that his duty lay clear. In her direst
need he had deserted her. He had left her to go to destruction
and expected that she would. By a superhuman miracle she had
risen and seated herself above him. She was working; here was
work to be done. He was asked to help; he would help. If it
killed his old and new-born dream of love, well and good; it was
his punishment.

Yet the sacrifice, the readjustment was hard; he grew to it
gradually, inwardly revolting, feeling always a great longing to
take this woman and make her nestle in his arms as she used to;
catching himself again and again on the point of speaking to her
and urging, yet ever again holding himself back and bowing in
silent respect to the dignity of her life. Only now and then,
when their eyes met suddenly or unthinkingly, a great kindling
flash of flame seemed struggling behind showers of tears, until
in a moment she smiled or spoke, and then the dropping veil left
only the frank open glance, unwavering, soft, kind, but nothing
more. Then Alwyn would go wearily away, vexed or disappointed, or
merely sad, and both would turn to their work again.

Thirty-six

THE LAND

Colonel Cresswell started all the more grimly to overthrow the
new work at the school because somewhere down beneath his heart a
pity and a wonder were stirring; pity at the perfectly useless
struggle to raise the unraisable, a wonder at certain signs of
rising. But it was impossible—and unthinkable, even if
possible. So he squared his jaw and cheated Zora deliberately in
the matter of the cut timber. He placed every obstacle in the way
of getting tenants for the school land. Here Johnson, the
“faithful nigger,” was of incalculable assistance. He was among
the first to hear the call for prospective tenants.

The meeting was in the big room of Zora’s house, and Aunt Rachel
came early with her cheery voice and smile which faded so quickly
to lines of sorrow and despair, and then twinkled back again.
After her hobbled old Sykes. Fully a half-hour later Rob hurried
in.

“Johnson,” he informed the others, “has sneaked over to
Cresswell’s to tell of this meeting. We ought to beat that nigger
up.” But Zora asked him about the new baby, and he was soon deep
in child-lore. Higgins and Sanders came together—dirty,
apologetic, and furtive. Then came Johnson.

“How do, Miss Zora—Mr. Alwyn, I sure is glad to see you,
sir. Well, if there ain’t Aunt Rachel! looking as young as ever.
And Higgins, you scamp—Ah, Mr. Sanders—well,
gentlemen and ladies, this sure is gwine to be a good cotton
season. I remember—” And he ran on endlessly, now to this
one, now to that, now to all, his little eyes all the while
dancing insinuatingly here and there. About nine o’clock a buggy
drove up and Carter and Simpson came in—Carter, a silent,
strong-faced, brown laborer, who listened and looked, and
Simpson, a worried nervous man, who sat still with difficulty and
commenced many sentences but did not finish them. Alwyn looked at
his watch and at Zora, but she gave no sign until they heard a
rollicking song outside and Tylor burst into the room. He was
nearly seven feet high and broad-shouldered, yellow, with curling
hair and laughing brown eyes. He was chewing an enormous quid of
tobacco, the juice of which he distributed generously, and had
had just liquor enough to make him jolly. His entrance was a
breeze and a roar.

Alwyn then undertook to explain the land scheme.

“It is the best land in the county—”

“When it’s cl’ared,” interrupted Johnson, and Simpson looked
alarmed.

“It is partially cleared,” continued Alwyn, “and our plan is to
sell off small twenty-acre farms—”

“You can’t do nothing on twenty acres—” began Johnson, but
Tylor laid his huge hand right over his mouth and said briefly:

“Shut up!”

Alwyn started again: “We shall sell a few twenty-acre farms but
keep one central plantation of one hundred acres for the school.
Here Miss Zora will carry on her work and the school will run a
model farm with your help. We want to centre here agencies to
make life better. We want all sorts of industries; we want a
little hospital with a resident physician and two or three
nurses; we want a cooperative store for buying supplies; we want
a cotton-gin and saw-mill, and in the future other things. This
land here, as I have said, is the richest around. We want to keep
this hundred acres for the public good, and not sell it. We are
going to deed it to a board of trustees, and those trustees are
to be chosen from the ones who buy the small farms.”

“Who’s going to get what’s made on this land?” asked Sanders.

“All of us. It is going first to pay for the land, then to
support the Home and the School, and then to furnish capital for
industries.”

Johnson snickered. “You mean youse gwine to git yo’ livin’ off
it?”

“Yes,” answered Alwyn; “but I’m going to work for it.”

“Who’s gwine—” began Simpson, but stopped helplessly.

“Who’s going to tend this land?” asked the practical Carter.

“All of us. Each man is going to promise us so many days’ work a
year, and we’re going to ask others to help—the women and
girls and school children—they will all help.”

“Can you put trust in that sort of help?”

“We can when once the community learns that it pays.”

“Does you own the land?” asked Johnson suddenly.

“No; we’re buying it, and it’s part paid for already.”

The discussion became general. Zora moved about among the men
whispering and explaining; while Johnson moved, too, objecting
and hinting. At last he arose.

“Brethren,” he began, “the plan’s good enough for talkin’ but you
can’t work it; who ever heer’d tell of such a thing? First place,
the land ain’t yours; second place, you can’t get it worked;
third place, white folks won’t ‘low it. Who ever heer’d of such
working land on shares?”

“You do it for white folks each day, why not for yourselves,”
Alwyn pointed out.

“‘Cause we ain’t white, and we can’t do nothin’ like that.”

Tylor was asleep and snoring and the others looked doubtfully at
each other. It was a proposal a little too daring for them, a bit
too far beyond their experience. One consideration alone kept
them from shrinking away and that was Zora’s influence. Not a man
was there whom she had not helped and encouraged nor who had not
perfect faith in her; in her impetuous hope, her deep enthusiasm,
and her strong will. Even her defects—the hard-held temper,
the deeply rooted dislikes—caught their imagination.

Finally, after several other meetings five men took
courage—three of the best and two of the weakest. During
the Spring long negotiations were entered into by Miss Smith to
“buy” the five men. Colonel Cresswell and Mr. Tolliver had them
all charged with large sums of indebtedness and these sums had to
be assumed by the school. As Colonel Cresswell counted over two
thousand dollars of school notes and deposited them beside the
mortgage he smiled grimly for he saw the end. Yet, even then his
hand trembled and that curious doubt came creeping back. He put
it aside angrily and glanced up.

“Nigger wants to talk with you,” announced his clerk.

The Colonel sauntered out and found Bles Alwyn waiting.

“Colonel Cresswell,” he said, “I have charge of the buying for
the school and our tenants this year and I naturally want to do
the best possible. I thought I’d come over and see about getting
my supplies at your store.”

“That’s all right; you can get anything you want,” said Colonel
Cresswell cheerily, for this to his mind was evidence of sense on
the part of the Negroes. Bles showed his list of needed
supplies—seeds, meat, corn-meal, coffee, sugar, etc. The
Colonel glanced over it carelessly, then moved away.

“All right. Come and get what you want—any time,” he called
back.

“But about the prices,” said Alwyn, following him.

“Oh, they’ll be all right.”

“Of course. But what I want is an estimate of your lowest cash
prices.”

“Cash?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cresswell thought a while; such a business-like proposition from
Negroes surprised him.

“Well, I’ll let you know,” he said.

It was nearly a week later before Alwyn approached him again.

“Now, see here,” said Colonel Cresswell, “there’s practically no
difference between cash and time prices. We buy our stock on time
and you can just as well take advantage of this as not. I have
figured out about what these things will cost. The best thing for
you to do is to make a deposit here and get things when you want
them. If you make a good deposit I’ll throw off ten per cent,
which is all of my profit.”

“Thank you,” said Alwyn, but he looked over the account and found
the whole bill at least twice as large as he expected. Without
further parley, he made some excuse and started to town while Mr.
Cresswell went to the telephone.

In town Alwyn went to all the chief merchants one after another
and received to his great surprise practically the same estimate.
He could not understand it. He had estimated the current market
prices according to the Montgomery paper, yet the prices in
Toomsville were fifty to a hundred and fifty per cent higher. The
merchant to whom he went last, laughed.

“Don’t you know we’re not going to interfere with Colonel
Cresswell’s tenants?” He stated the dealers’ attitude, and Alwyn
saw light. He went home and told Zora, and she listened without
surprise.

“Now to business,” she said briskly. “Miss Smith,” turning to the
teacher, “as I told you, they’re combined against us in town and
we must buy in Montgomery. I was sure it was coming, but I wanted
to give Colonel Cresswell every chance. Bles starts for
Montgomery—”

Alwyn looked up. “Does he?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” said Zora, smiling in turn. “We must lose no further
time.”

“But there’s no train from Toomsville tonight.”

“But there’s one from Barton in the morning and Barton is only
twenty miles away.”

“It is a long walk.” Alwyn thought a while, silently. Then he
rose. “I’m going,” he said. “Good-bye.”

In less than a week the storehouse was full, and tenants were at
work. The twenty acres of cleared swamp land, attended to by the
voluntary labor of all the tenants, was soon bearing a
magnificent crop. Colonel Cresswell inspected all the crops daily
with a proprietary air that would have been natural had these
folk been simply tenants, and as such he persisted in regarding
them.

The cotton now growing was perhaps not so uniformly fine as the
first acre of Silver Fleece, but it was of unusual height and
thickness.

“At least a bale to the acre,” Alwyn estimated, and the Colonel
mentally determined to take two-thirds of the crop. After that he
decided that he would evict Zora immediately; since sufficient
land was cleared already for his purposes and moreover, he had
seen with consternation a herd of cattle grazing in one field on
some early green stuff, and heard a drove of hogs in the swamp.
Such an example before the tenants of the Black Belt would be
fatal. He must wait a few weeks for them to pick the
cotton—then, the end. He was fighting the battle of his
color and caste.

The children sang merrily in the brown-white field. The wide
baskets, poised aloft, foamed on the erect and swaying bodies of
the dark carriers. The crop throughout the land was short that
year, for prices had ruled low last season in accordance with the
policy of the Combine. This year they started high again. Would
they fall? Many thought so and hastened to sell.

Zora and Alwyn gathered their tenants’ crops, ginned them at the
Cresswells’ gin, and carried their cotton to town, where it was
deposited in the warehouse of the Farmers’ League.

“Now,” said Alwyn, “we would best sell while prices are high.”

Zora laughed at him frankly.

“We can’t,” she said. “Don’t you know that Colonel Cresswell will
attach our cotton for rent as soon as it touches the warehouse?”

“But it’s ours.”

“Nothing is ours. No black man ordinarily can sell his crop
without a white creditor’s consent.”

Alwyn fumed.

“The best way,” he declared, “is to go to Montgomery and get a
first-class lawyer and just fight the thing through. The land is
legally ours, and he has no right to our cotton.”

“Yes, but you must remember that no man like Colonel Cresswell
regards a business bargain with a colored man as binding. No
white man under ordinary circumstances will help enforce such a
bargain against prevailing public opinion.”

“But if we cannot trust to the justice of the case, and if you
knew we couldn’t, why did you try?”

“Because I had to try; and moreover the circumstances are not
altogether ordinary: the men in power in Toomsville now are not
the landlords of this county; they are poor whites. The Judge and
sheriff were both elected by mill-hands who hate Cresswell and
Taylor. Then there’s a new young lawyer who wants Harry
Cresswell’s seat in Congress; he don’t know much law, I’m afraid;
but what he don’t know of this case I think I do. I’ll get his
advice and then—I mean to conduct the case myself,” Zora
calmly concluded.

“Without a lawyer!” Bles Alwyn stared his amazement.

“Without a lawyer in court.”

“Zora! That would be foolish!”

“Is it? Let’s think. For over a year now I’ve been studying the
law of the case,” and she pointed to her law books; “I know the
law and most of the decisions. Moreover, as a black woman
fighting a hopeless battle with landlords, I’ll gain the one
thing lacking.”

“What’s that?”

“The sympathy of the court and the bystanders.”

“Pshaw! From these Southerners?”

“Yes, from them. They are very human, these men, especially the
laborers. Their prejudices are cruel enough, but there are joints
in their armor. They are used to seeing us either scared or
blindly angry, and they understand how to handle us then, but at
other times it is hard for them to do anything but meet us in a
human way.”

“But, Zora, think of the contact of the court, the humiliation,
the coarse talk—”

Zora put up her hand and lightly touched his arm. Looking at him,
she said:

“Mud doesn’t hurt much. This is my duty. Let me do it.”

His eyes fell before the shadow of a deeper rebuke. He arose
heavily.

“Very well,” he acquiesced as he passed slowly out.

The young lawyer started to refuse to touch the case until he
saw—or did Zora adroitly make him see?—a chance for
eventual political capital. They went over the matter carefully,
and the lawyer acquired a respect for the young woman’s
knowledge.

“First,” he said, “get an injunction on the cotton—then go
to court.” And to insure the matter he slipped over and saw the
Judge.

Colonel Cresswell next day stalked angrily into his lawyers’
office.

“See here,” he thundered, handing the lawyer the notice of the
injunction.

“See the Judge,” began the lawyer, and then remembered, as he was
often forced to do these days, who was Judge.

He inquired carefully into the case and examined the papers. Then
he said:

“Colonel Cresswell, who drew this contract of sale?”

“The black girl did.”

“Impossible!”

“She certainly did—wrote it in my presence.”

“Well, it’s mighty well done.”

“You mean it will stand in law?”

“It certainly will. There’s but one way to break it, and that’s
to allege misunderstanding on your part.”

Cresswell winced. It was not pleasant to go into open court and
acknowledge himself over-reached by a Negro; but several thousand
dollars in cotton and land were at stake.

“Go ahead,” he concurred.

“You can depend on Taylor, of course?” added the lawyer.

“Of course,” answered Cresswell. “But why prolong the thing?”

“You see, she’s got your cotton tied by injunction.”

“I don’t see how she did it.”

“Easy enough: this Judge is the poor white you opposed in the
last primary.”

Within a week the case was called, and they filed into the
courtroom. Cresswell’s lawyer saw only this black woman—no
other lawyer or sign of one appeared to represent her. The place
soon filled with a lazy, tobacco-chewing throng of white men. A
few blacks whispered in one corner. The dirty stove was glowing
with pine-wood and the Judge sat at a desk.

“Where’s your lawyer?” he asked sharply of Zora.

“I have none,” returned Zora, rising.

There came a silence in the court. Her voice was low, and the men
leaned forward to listen. The Judge felt impelled to be
over-gruff.

“Get a lawyer,” he ordered.

“Your honor, my case is simple, and with your honor’s permission
I wish to conduct it myself. I cannot afford a lawyer, and I do
not think I need one.”

Cresswell’s lawyer smiled and leaned back. It was going to be
easier than he supposed. Evidently the woman believed she had no
case, and was weakening.

The trial proceeded, and Zora stated her contention. She told how
long her mother and grandmother had served the Cresswells and
showed her receipt for rent paid.

“A friend sent me some money. I went to Mr. Cresswell and asked
him to sell me two hundred acres of land. He consented to do so
and signed this contract in the presence of his son-in-law.”

Just then John Taylor came into the court, and Cresswell beckoned
to him.

“I want you to help me out, John.”

“All right,” whispered Taylor. “What can I do?”

“Swear that Cresswell didn’t mean to sign this,” said the lawyer
quickly, as he arose to address the court.

Taylor looked at the paper blankly and then at Cresswell and some
inkling of the irreconcilable difference in the two natures leapt
in both their hearts. Cresswell might gamble and drink and lie
“like a gentleman,” but he would never willingly cheat or take
advantage of a white man’s financial necessities. Taylor, on the
other hand, had a horror of a lie, never drank nor played games
of chance, but his whole life was speculation and in the business
game he was utterly ruthless and respected no one. Such men could
never thoroughly understand each other. To Cresswell a man who
had cheated the whole South out of millions by a series of
misrepresentations ought to regard this little falsehood as
nothing.

Meantime Colonel Cresswell’s lawyer was on his feet, and he
adopted his most irritating and contemptuous manner.

“This nigger wench wrote out some illegible stuff and Colonel
Cresswell signed it to get rid of her. We are not going to
question the legality of the form—that’s neither here nor
there. The point is, Mr. Cresswell never intended—never
dreamed of selling this wench land right in front of his door. He
meant to rent her the land and sign a receipt for rent paid in
advance. I will not worry your honor by a long argument to prove
this, but just call one of the witnesses well known to
you—Mr. John Taylor of the Toomsville mills.”

Taylor looked toward the door and then slowly took the stand.

“Mr. Taylor,” said the lawyer carelessly, “were you present at
this transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Colonel Cresswell sign this paper?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did he intend so far as you know to sign such a paper?”

“I do not know his intentions.”

“Did he say he meant to sign such a contract?”

Taylor hesitated.

“Yes,” he finally answered. Colonel Cresswell looked up in
amazement and the lawyer dropped his glasses.

“I—I don’t think you perhaps understood me, Mr. Taylor,” he
gasped. “I—er—meant to ask if Colonel Cresswell, in
signing this paper, meant to sign a contract to sell this wench
two hundred acres of land?”

“He said he did,” reiterated Taylor. “Although I ought to add
that he did not think the girl would ever be able to pay. If he
had thought she would pay, I don’t think he would have signed the
paper.”

Colonel Cresswell went red, than pale, and leaning forward before
the whole court, he hurled:

“You damned scoundrel!”

The Judge rapped for order and fidgeted in his seat. There was
some confusion and snickering in the courtroom. Finally the Judge
plucked up courage:

“The defendant is ordered to deliver this cotton to Zora
Cresswell,” he directed.

The raging of Colonel Cresswell’s anger now turned against John
Taylor as well as the Negroes. Wind of the estrangement flew over
town quickly. The poor whites saw a chance to win Taylor’s
influence and the sheriff approached him cautiously. Taylor paid
him slight courtesy. He was irritated with this devilish Negro
problem; he was making money; his wife and babies were enjoying
life, and here was this fool trial to upset matters. But the
sheriff talked.

“The thing I’m afraid of,” he said, “is that Cresswell and his
gang will swing in the niggers on us.”

“How do you mean?”

“Let ’em vote.”

“But they’d have to read and write.”

“Sure!”

“Well, then,” said Taylor, “it might be a good thing.”

Colton eyed him suspiciously.

“You’d let a nigger vote?”

“Why, yes, if he had sense enough.”

“There ain’t no nigger got sense.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Taylor ejaculated, walking away.

The sheriff was angry and mistrustful. He believed he had
discovered a deep-laid scheme of the aristocrats to cultivate
friendliness between whites and blacks, and then use black voters
to crush the whites. Such a course was, in Colton’s mind,
dangerous, monstrous, and unnatural; it must be stopped at all
hazards. He began to whisper among his friends. One or two
meetings were held, and the flame of racial prejudice was
studiously fanned.

The atmosphere of the town and country quickly began to change.
Whatever little beginnings of friendship and understanding had
arisen now quickly disappeared. The town of a Saturday no longer
belonged to a happy, careless crowd of black peasants, but the
black folk found themselves elbowed to the gutter, while ugly
quarrels flashed here and there with a quick arrest of the
Negroes.

Colonel Cresswell made a sudden resolve. He sent for the sheriff
and received him at the Oaks, in his most respectable style,
filling him with good food, and warming him with good liquor.

“Colton,” he asked, “are you sending any of your white children
to the nigger school yet?”

“What!” yelled Colton.

The Colonel laughed, frankly telling Colton John Taylor’s
philosophy on the race problem,—his willingness to let
Negroes vote; his threat to let blacks and whites work together;
his contempt for the officials elected by the people.

“Candidly, Colton,” he concluded, “I believe in aristocracy. I
can’t think it right or wise to replace the old aristocracy by
new and untried blood.” And in a sudden outburst—”But, by
God, sir! I’m a white man, and I place the lowest white man ever
created above the highest darkey ever thought of. This Yankee,
Taylor, is a nigger-lover. He’s secretly encouraging and helping
them. You saw what he did to me, and I’m warning you in time.”

Colton’s glass dropped.

“I thought it was you that was corralling the niggers against
us,” he exclaimed.

The Colonel reddened. “I don’t count all white men my equals, I
admit,” he returned with dignity, “but I know the difference
between a white man and a nigger.”

Colton stretched out his massive hand. “Put it there, sir,” said
he; “I misjudged you, Colonel Cresswell. I’m a Southerner, and I
honor the old aristocracy you represent. I’m going to join with
you to crush this Yankee and put the niggers in their places.
They are getting impudent around here; they need a lesson and, by
gad! they’ll get one they’ll remember.”

“Now, see here, Colton,—nothing rash,” the Colonel charged
him, warningly. “Don’t stir up needless trouble; but—well,
things must change.”

Colton rose and shook his head.

“The niggers need a lesson,” he muttered as he unsteadily bade
his host good-bye. Cresswell watched him uncomfortably as he rode
away, and again a feeling of doubt stirred within him. What new
force was he loosening against his black folk—his own black
folk, who had lived about him and his fathers nigh three hundred
years? He saw the huge form of the sheriff loom like an evil
spirit a moment on the rise of the road and sink into the night.
He turned slowly to his cheerless house shuddering as he entered
the uninviting portals.

Thirty-seven

THE MOB

When Emma, Bertie’s child, came home after a two years’ course of
study, she had passed from girlhood to young womanhood. She was
white, and sandy-haired. She was not beautiful, and she appeared
to be fragile; but she also looked sweet and good, with that
peculiar innocence which peers out upon the world with calm,
round eyes and sees no evil, but does methodically its simple,
everyday work. Zora mothered her, Miss Smith found her plenty to
do, and Bles thought her a good girl. But Mrs. Cresswell found
her perfect, and began to scheme to marry her off. For Mary
Cresswell, with the restlessness and unhappiness of an unemployed
woman, was trying to atone for her former blunders.

Her humiliation after the episode at Cresswell Oaks had been
complete. It seemed to her that the original cause of her whole
life punishment lay in her persistent misunderstanding of the
black people and their problem. Zora appeared to her in a new and
glorified light—a vigorous, self-sacrificing woman. She
knew that Zora had refused to marry Bles, and this again seemed
fitting. Zora was not meant for marrying; she was a born leader,
wedded to a great cause; she had long outgrown the boy and girl
affection. She was the sort of woman she herself might have been
if she had not married.

Alwyn, on the other hand, needed a wife; he was a great, virile
boy, requiring a simple, affectionate mate. No sooner did she see
Emma than she was sure that this was the ideal wife. She compared
herself with Helen Cresswell. Helen was a contented wife and
mother because she was fitted for the position, and happy in it;
while she who had aimed so high had fallen piteously. From such a
fate she would save Zora and Bles.

Emma’s course in nurse-training had been simple and short and
there was no resident physician; but Emma, in her unemotional
way, was a born nurse and did much good among the sick in the
neighborhood. Zora had a small log hospital erected with four
white beds, a private room, and an office which was also Emma’s
bedroom. The new white physician in town, just fresh from school
in Atlanta, became interested and helped with advice and
suggestions.

Meantime John Taylor’s troubles began to increase. Under the old
political regime it had been an easy matter to avoid serious
damage-suits for the accidents in the mill. Much child labor and
the lack of protective devices made accidents painfully frequent.
Taylor insisted that the chief cause was carelessness, while the
mill hands alleged criminal neglect on his part. When the new
labor officials took charge of the court and the break occurred
between Colonel Cresswell and his son-in-law, Taylor found that
several damage-suits were likely to cost him a considerable sum.

He determined not to let the bad feelings go too far, and when a
particularly distressing accident to a little girl took place, he
showed more than his usual interest and offered to care for her.
The new young physician recommended Zora’s infirmary as the only
near place that offered a chance for the child’s recovery.

“Take her out,” Taylor promptly directed.

Zora was troubled when the child came. She knew the suspicious
temper of the town whites. The very next day Taylor sent out a
second case, a child who had been hurt some time before and was
not recovering as she should. Under the care of the little
hospital and the gentle nurse the children improved rapidly, and
in two weeks were outdoors, playing with the little black
children and even creeping into classrooms and listening. The
grateful mothers came out twice a week at least; at first with
suspicious aloofness, but gradually melting under Zora’s tact
until they sat and talked with her and told their troubles and
struggles. Zora realized how human they were, and how like their
problems were to hers. They and their children grew to love this
busy, thoughtful woman, and Zora’s fears were quieted.

The catastrophe came suddenly. The sheriff rode by, scowling and
hunting for some poor black runaway, when he saw white children
in the Negro school and white women, whom he knew were
mill-hands, looking on. He was black with anger; turning he
galloped back to town. A few hours later the young physician
arrived hastily in a cab to take the women and children to town.
He said something in a low tone to Zora and drove away, frowning.

Zora came quickly to the school and asked for Alwyn. He was in
the barn and she hurried there.

“Bles,” she said quietly, “it is reported that a Toomsville mob
will burn the school tonight.”

Bles stood motionless.

“I’ve been fearing it. The sheriff has been stirring up the worst
elements in the town lately and the mills pay off tonight.”

“Well,” she said quietly, “we must prepare.”

He looked at her, his face aglow with admiration.

“You wonder-woman!” he exclaimed softly.

A moment they regarded each other. She saw the love in his eyes,
and he saw rising in hers something that made his heart bound.
But she turned quickly away.

“You must hurry, Bles; lives are at stake.” And in another moment
he thundered out of the barn on the black mare.

Along the pike he flew and up the plantation roads. Across broad
fields and back again, over to the Barton pike and along the
swamp. At every cabin he whispered a word, and left behind him
grey faces and whispering children.

His horse was reeking with sweat as he staggered again into the
school-yard; but already the people were gathering, with
frightened, anxious, desperate faces. Women with bundles and
children, men with guns, tottering old folks, wide-eyed boys and
girls. Up from the swamp land came the children crying and
moaning. The sun was setting. The women and children hurried into
the school building, closing the doors and windows. A moment
Alwyn stood without and looked back. The world was peaceful. He
could hear the whistle of birds and the sobbing of the breeze in
the shadowing oaks. The sky was flashing to dull and purplish
blue, and over all lay the twilight hush as though God did not
care.

He threw back his head and clenched his hands. His soul groaned
within him. “Heavenly Father, was man ever before set to such a
task?” Fight? God! if he could but fight! If he could but let go
the elemental passions that were leaping and gathering and
burning in the eyes of yonder caged and desperate black men. But
his hands were tied—manacled. One desperate struggle, a
whirl of blood, and the whole world would rise to crush him and
his people. The white operatore in yonder town had but to flash
the news, “Negroes killing whites,” to bring all the country, all
the State, all the nation, to red vengeance. It mattered not what
the provocation, what the desperate cause.

The door suddenly opened behind him and he wheeled around.

“Zora!” he whispered.

“Bles,” she answered softly, and they went silently in to their
people.

All at once, from floor to roof, the whole school-house was
lighted up, save a dark window here and there. Then some one
slipped out into the darkness and soon watch-fire after
watch-fire flickered and flamed in the night, and then burned
vividly, sending up sparks and black smoke. Thus ringed with
flaming silence, the school lay at the edge of the great, black
swamp and waited. Owls hooted in the forest. Afar the shriek of
the Montgomery train was heard across the night, mingling with
the wail of a wakeful babe; and then redoubled silence. The men
became restless, and Johnson began to edge away toward the lower
hall. Alwyn was watching him when a faint noise came to him on
the eastern breeze—a low, rumbling murmur. It died away,
and rose again; then a distant gun-shot woke the echoes.

“They’re coming!” he cried. Standing back in the shadow of a
front window, he waited. Slowly, intermittently, the murmuring
swelled, till it grew distinguishable as yelling, cursing, and
singing, intermingled with the crash of pistol-shots. Far away a
flame, as of a burning cabin, arose, and a wilder, louder yell
greeted it. Now the tramp of footsteps could be heard, and
clearer and thicker the grating and booming of voices, until
suddenly, far up the pike, a black moving mass, with glitter and
shout, swept into view. They came headlong, guided by
pine-torches, which threw their white and haggard faces into wild
distortion. Then as bonfire after bonfire met their gaze, they
moved slowly and more slowly, and at last sent a volley of
bullets at the fires. One bullet flew high and sang through a
lighted window. Without a word, Uncle Isaac sank upon the floor
and lay still. Silence and renewed murmuring ensued, and the
sound of high voices in dispute. Then the mass divided into two
wings and slowly encircled the fence of fire; starting noisily
and confidently, and then going more slowly, quietly, warily, as
the silence of the flame began to tell on their heated nerves.

Strained whispers arose.

“Careful there!”

“Go on, damn ye!”

“There’s some one by yon fire.”

“No, there ain’t.”

“See the bushes move.”

Bang! bang! bang!

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me.”

“Let’s rush through and fire the house.”

“And leave a pa’cel of niggers behind to shoot your lights out?
Not me.”

“What the hell are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“I wish I could see a nigger.”

“Hark!”

Stealthy steps were approaching, a glint of steel flashed behind
the fire lights. Each band mistook the other for the armed
Negroes, and the leaders yelled in vain; human power can not stay
the dashing torrent of fear-inspired human panic. Whirling, the
mob fled till it struck the road in two confused, surging masses.
Then in quick frenzy, shots flew; three men threw up their hands
and tumbled limply in the dust, while the main body rushed
pellmell toward town.

At early dawn, when the men relaxed from the strain of the
night’s vigil, Alwyn briefly counselled them: “Hide your guns.”

“Why?” blustered Rob. “Haven’t I a right to have a gun?”

“Yes, you have, Rob; but don’t be foolish—hide it. We’ve
not heard the last of this.”

But Rob tossed his head belligerently.

In town, rumor spread like wildfire. A body of peaceful whites
passing through the black settlement had been fired on from
ambush, and six killed—no, three killed—no, one
killed and two severely wounded.

“The thing mustn’t stop here,” shouted Sheriff Colton; “these
niggers must have a lesson.” And before nine next morning fully
half the grown members of the same mob, now sworn in as deputies,
rode with him to search the settlement. They tramped insolently
through the school grounds, but there was no shred of evidence
until they came to Rob’s cabin and found his gun. They tied his
hands behind him and marched him toward town.

But before the mob arrived the night before, Johnson feeling that
his safety lay in informing the white folks, had crawled with his
gun into the swamp. In the morning he peered out as the cavalcade
approached, and not knowing what had happened, he recognized
Colton, the sheriff, and signalled to him cautiously. In a moment
a dozen men were on him, and he appealed and explained in
vain—the gun was damning evidence. The voices of Rob’s wife
and children could be heard behind the two men as they were
hurried along at a dog trot.

The town poured out to greet them—”The murderers! the
murderers! Kill the niggers!” and they came on with a rush. The
sheriff turned and disappeared in the rear. There was a great
cloud of dust, a cry and a wild scramble, as the white and angry
faces of men and boys gleamed a moment and faded.

A hundred or more shots rang out; then slowly and silently, the
mass of women and men were sucked into the streets of the town,
leaving but black eddies on the corners to throw backward glances
toward the bare, towering pine where swung two red and awful
things. The pale boy-face of one, with soft brown eyes glared up
sightless to the sun; the dead, leathered bronze of the other was
carved in piteous terror.

Thirty-eight

ATONEMENT

Three months had flown. It was Spring again, and Zora sat in the
transformed swamp—now a swamp in name only—beneath
the great oak, dreaming. And what she dreamed there in the golden
day she dared not formulate even to her own soul. She rose with a
start, for there was work to do. Aunt Rachel was ill, and Emma
went daily to attend her; today, as she came back, she brought
news that Colonel Cresswell, who had been unwell for several
days, was worse. She must send Emma up to help, and as she
started toward the school she glanced toward the Cresswell Oaks
and saw the arm-chair of its master on the pillared porch.

Colonel Cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. As far as
he could see, there was no human soul. His eyes were blood-shot,
his cheeks sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. A sort
of terror shook him until he heard the distant songs of black
folk in the fields. He sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes
and the breath came easier. When he opened them again a white
figure was coming up the avenue of the Oaks. He watched it
greedily. It was Mary Cresswell, and she started when she saw
him.

“You are worse, father?” she asked.

“Worse and better,” he replied, smiling cynically. Then suddenly
he announced: “I’ve made my will.”

“Why—why—” she stammered.

“Why?” sharply. “Because I’m going to die.”

She said nothing. He smiled and continued:

“I’ve got it all fixed. Harry was in a tight place—gambling
as usual—and I gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims.
Then I gave John Taylor—you needn’t look. I sent for him.
He’s a damned scoundrel; but he won’t lie, and I needed him. I
willed his children all the rest except two or three legacies.
One was one hundred thousand dollars for you—”

“Oh, father!” she cried. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much,” he
returned grimly. “Then there’s another gift of two hundred
thousand dollars and this house and plantation. Whom do you think
that’s for?”

“Helen?”

“Helen!” he raised his hand in threatening anger. “I might rot
here for all she cares. No—no—but then—I’ll not
tell you—I—ah—” A spasm of pain shot across his
face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he sat up again
and peered down the oaks. “Hush!” he gasped. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know—it’s a girl—I—”

He gripped her till she winced.

“My God—it walks—like my wife—I tell
you—she held her head so—who is it?” He half rose.

“Oh, father, it’s nobody but Emma—little
Emma—Bertie’s child—the mulatto girl. She’s a nurse
now, and I asked to have her come and attend you.”

“Oh,” he said, “oh—” He looked at the girl curiously. “Come
here.” He peered into her white young face. “Do you know me?”

The girl shrank away from him.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you do?”

“I teach and nurse at the school.”

“Good! Well, I’m going to give you some money—do you know
why?”

A flash of self-consciousness passed over the girl’s face; she
looked at him with her wide blue eyes.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she faltered.

Mrs. Cresswell rose to her feet; but the old man slowly dropped
the girl’s hand and lay back in his chair, with lips half
smiling. “Grandfather,” he repeated softly. He closed his eyes a
space and then opened them. A tremor shivered in his limbs as he
stared darkly at the swamp.

“Hark!” he cried harshly. “Do you hear the bodies creaking on the
limbs? It’s Rob and Johnson. I did it—I—”

Suddenly he rose and stood erect and his wild eyes stricken with
death stared full upon Emma. Slowly and thickly he spoke, working
his trembling hands.

“Nell—Nell! Is it you, little wife, come back to accuse me?
Ah, Nell, don’t shrink! I know—I have sinned against the
light and the blood of your poor black people is red on these old
hands. No, don’t put your clean white hands upon me, Nell, till I
wash mine. I’ll do it, Nell; I’ll atone. I’m a Cresswell yet,
Nell, a Cresswell and a gen—” He swayed. Vainly he
struggled for the word. The shudder of death shook his soul, and
he passed.

A week after the funeral of Colonel Cresswell, John Taylor drove
out to the school and was closeted with Miss Smith. His sister,
installed once again for a few days in her old room at the
school, understood that he was conferring about Emma’s legacy,
and she was glad. She was more and more convinced that the
marriage of Emma and Bles was the best possible solution of many
difficulties. She had asked Emma once if she liked Bles, and Emma
had replied in her innocent way,

“Oh, so much.”

As for Bles, he was often saying what a dear child Emma was.
Neither perhaps realized yet that this was love, but it needed,
Mrs. Cresswell was sure, only the lightning-flash, and they would
know. And who could furnish that illumination better than Zora,
the calm, methodical Zora, who knew them so well?

As for herself, once she had accomplished the marriage and paid
the mortgage on the school out of her legacy, she would go abroad
and in travel seek forgetfulness and healing. There had been no
formal divorce, and so far as she was concerned there never would
be; but the separation from her husband and America would be
forever.

Her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had
little intercourse these days, and rode away. She rushed in to
Miss Smith and found her sitting there—straight, upright,
composed in all save that the tears were streaming down her face
and she was making no effort to stop them.

“Why—Miss Smith!” she faltered.

Miss Smith pointed to a paper. Mrs. Cresswell picked it up
curiously. It was an official notification to the trustees of the
Smith School of a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together
with the Cresswell house and plantation. Mrs. Gresswell sat down
in open-mouthed astonishment. Twice she tried to speak, but there
were so many things to say that she could not choose.

“Tell Zora,” Miss Smith at last managed to say.

Zora was dreaming again. Somehow, the old dream-life, with its
glorious phantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter
than ever. There was no tangible reason why, and yet today she
had shut herself in her den. Searching down in the depths of her
trunk, she drew forth that filmy cloud of
white—silk-bordered and half finished to a gown. Why were
her eyes wet today and her mind on the Silver Fleece? It was an
anniversary, and perhaps she still remembered that moment, that
supreme moment before the mob. She half slipped on, half wound
about her, the white cloud of cloth, standing with parted lips,
looking into the long mirror and gleaming in the fading day like
midnight gowned in mists and stars. Abruptly there came a
peremptory knocking at the door.

“Zora! Zora!” sounded Mrs. Cresswell’s voice. Forgetting her
informal attire, she opened the door, fearing some mishap. Mrs.
Cresswell poured out the news. Zora received it in such
motionless silence that Mary wondered at her want of feeling. At
last, however, she said happily to Zora:

“Well, the battle’s over, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s just begun.”

“Just begun?” echoed Mary in amazement.

“Think of the servile black folk, the half awakened restless
whites, the fat land waiting for the harvest, the masses panting
to know—why, the battle is scarcely even begun.”

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” Mary began to comprehend. “We’ll thank
God it has begun, though.”

“Thank God!” Zora reverently repeated.

“Come, let’s go back to poor, dear Miss Smith,” suggested Mary.

“I can’t come just now—but pretty soon.”

“Why? Oh, I see; you’re trying on something—how pretty and
becoming! Well, hurry.”

As they stood together, the white woman deemed the moment
opportune; she slipped her arm about the black woman’s waist and
began:

“Zora, I’ve had something on my mind for a long time, and I
shouldn’t wonder if you had thought of the same thing.”

“What is it?”

“Bles and Emma.”

“What of them?”

“Their liking for each other.”

Zora bent a moment and caught up the folds of the Fleece.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” she said in a low voice.

“Well, you’re busy, you see. They’ve been very much
together—his taking her to her charges, bringing her back,
and all that. I know they love each other; yet something holds
them apart, afraid to show their love. Do you know—I’ve
wondered if—quite unconciously, it is you? You know Bles
used to imagine himself in love with you, just as he did
afterward with Miss Wynn.”

“Miss—Wynn?”

“Yes, the Washington girl. But he got over that and you
straightened him out finally. Still, Emma probably thinks yours
is the prior claim, knowing, of course, nothing of facts. And
Bles knows she thinks of him and you, and I’m convinced if you
say the word, they’d love and marry.”

Zora walked silently with her to the door, where, looking out,
she saw Bles and Emma coming from Aunt Rachel’s. He was helping
her from the carriage with smiling eyes, and her innocent blue
eyes were fastened on him.

Zora looked long and searchingly.

“Please run and tell them of the legacy,” she begged. “I—I
will come—in a moment.” And Mrs. Cresswell hurried out.

Zora turned back steadily to her room, and locked herself in.
After all, why shouldn’t it be? Why had it not occurred to her
before in her blindness? If she had wanted him—and ah, God!
was not all her life simply the want of him?—why had she
not bound him to her when he had offered himself? Why had she not
bound him to her? She knew as she asked—because she had
wanted all, not a part—everything, love, respect and
perfect faith—not one thing could she spare then—not
one thing. And now, oh, God! she had dreamed that it was all
hers, since that night of death and circling flame when they
looked at each other soul to soul. But he had not meant anything.
It was pity she had seen there, not love; and she rose and walked
the room slowly, fast and faster.

With trembling hands she drew the Silver Fleece round her. Her
head swam again and the blood flashed in her eyes. She heard a
calling in the swamp, and the shadow of Elspeth seemed to hover
over her, claiming her for her own, dragging her down, down….
She rushed through the swamp. The lagoon lay there before her
presently, gleaming in the darkness—cold and still, and in
it swam an awful shape.

She held her burning head—was not everything plain? Was not
everything clear? This was Sacrifice! This was the Atonement for
the unforgiven sin. Emma’s was the pure soul which she must offer
up to God; for it was God, a cold and mighty God, who had given
it to Bles—her Bles. It was well; God willed it. But could
she live? Must she live? Did God ask that, too?

All at once she stood straight; her whole body grew tense, alert.
She heard no sound behind her, but knew he was there, and braced
herself. She must be true. She must be just. She must pay the
uttermost farthing.

“Bles,” she called faintly, but did not turn her head.

“Zora!”

“Bles,” she choked, but her voice came stronger, “I
know—all. Emma is a good girl. I helped bring her up myself
and did all I could for her and she—she is pure; marry
her.”

His voice came slow and firm:

“Emma? But I don’t love Emma. I love—some one else.”

Her heart bounded and again was still. It was that Washington
girl then. She answered dully, groping for words, for she was
tired:

“Who is it?”

“The best woman in all the world, Zora.”

“And is”—she struggled at the word madly—”is she
pure?”

“She is more than pure.”

“Then you must marry her, Bles.”

“I am not worthy of her,” he answered, sinking before her.

Then at last illumination dawned upon her blindness. She stood
very still and lifted up her eyes. The swamp was living, vibrant,
tremulous. There where the first long note of night lay shot with
burning crimson, burst in sudden radiance the wide beauty of the
moon. There pulsed a glory in the air. Her little hands groped
and wandered over his close-curled hair, and she sobbed, deep
voiced:

“Will you—marry me, Bles?”

L’ENVOI

Lend me thine ears, O God the Reader, whose Fathers aforetime
sent mine down into the land of Egypt, into this House of
Bondage. Lay not these words aside for a moment’s phantasy, but
lift up thine eyes upon the Horror in this land;—the
maiming and mocking and murdering of my people, and the
prisonment of their souls. Let my people go, O Infinite One,
lest the world shudder at

The End

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