 CHAPTER 31 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 meeting. Long she had wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and nodded 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 gray 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 cheerfully 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 unsteadyly 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 until 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 offense by preening and parading it, and forcing it to ill-timed notice. She saw that she had looked on her husband as a means and 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 new. She was strong, she felt well, but she was slight, almost scrawny, and her beauty was gone for ever. 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, and she stood engaged. 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 formally, because the shell was cold and empty. There were no little flashes of anger now, no poutings, no 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 subcommittee upon which he was serving, not directly, but threw him with figures, with reports, books, and papers, so that he received special commendations, a praise that picked 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 stayed 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 dispatches. 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 congressman. 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? Hear the opinions different widely. Nearly everyone mentioned a candidate, and those who did not seem 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 ambassador's ship, 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 twofold. 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 overambitious 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 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 Ambassador's ship, 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 a 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 at the Cochrane Art Gallery, a southern girl had nearly won first prize over a western man. The consensus of the 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 Cochrane exhibit or school. This Mrs. Vanderpool easily ascertained in 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 and sculptor done by Mrs. Samuel Stilling's knee-win. Mrs. Vanderpool remembered Mrs. Stilling's perfectly, and she walked that evening through unobtrusive thoroughfares and called upon Mrs. Stilling's. Had Mrs. Stilling's heard of the new art movement, did she intend to exhibit? Mrs. Stilling's did not intend to exhibit, as she was sure she would not be welcomed. She had had a bust accepted at the Cochrane 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 the fight, suggested Mrs. Vanderpool, with a little hyphenine of color in her pale cheek. Perhaps said Mrs. Stilling's as she brought out some specimens of her work. Mrs. Vanderpool was both ashamed and grateful. With money and leisure Mrs. Stilling's 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 add it, 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 it. 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 Albarnie, into hysterical commendation. In the private view an 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 sculptor, 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 golden 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'd 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 weighed it 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. Mrs. Wynn said nothing, but sat calmly looking at her visitor. Mrs. Cresswell felt irritated. Of course she managed to continue. We're 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 cannot give the prize to a negro? Why not? That is quite in material. 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 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 in 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 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 your 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, madam? asked the chauffeur. I don't care, returned madam, 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 upstairs. 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 upstairs in his room, but she usually answered it, for he disliked too. 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 Nells. Will you go? Sure thing, you know me. What time? Meet us at the Willard by nine. Slung. Goodbye. 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 Nells? What was Nells? 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 subcommittee 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, too, 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 wainely. 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 overdressed. 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 Nells? 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, two in fro, looking and gliding, like sheeted ghosts, now dodging policemen, now accosting them familiarly. Hello, Elsie, growled one big blue coat. Hello, Jack. What's this, as 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 Nells? Yes, this is it. Goodbye, 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 are a queer one. Thanks. Guess I'll turn in. Mrs. 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 hand 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. At his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table, Cresswell uttered nothing immediately, save the common places of greeting. He mentioned one or two bits of news from the paper upon which she commented, while dwindling 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 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 aristotic repression, this cold calm that hid hell and its fires. She looked at him wide-eyed and said in a voice, horse, with horror and loathing, you brute, you nasty brute. End of Chapter 31 Recording by Richard Kilmer Real Medina, Texas Chapter 32 Of the Quest of the Silver Fleece This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 32 Zora's Way Zora was looking on her world with the keener vision of one who, blind from very seeing, closes the eyes of space and looks again with wider, clearer vision. Out of a nebulous cloud-land 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, here the two, 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 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 the 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 Creswell Manor, a tiny cabin, new boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. The 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 took my mule, and now they're burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But bye. 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 flames spurred it 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 yodel 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 worrying 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 unfanthenable 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 herd 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, Birdie'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 was just going on a 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 until 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 a 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 percent on it, and getting less than three percent. 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 nightbirds broke sadly on the twilight silence. Zora sat stroking the lined hands. Not the end, she spoke confidently. It cannot end like this. I 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 and 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 percent 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 make a poor beggar. I don't know human nature well enough, and I can't talk the 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 shan'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, her 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 somber ramparts of the swamp, in her eyes slay 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. End of Chapter 32 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas Chapter 33 Of the Quest of the Silver Fleece This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 33 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, Barkie. 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 could not easily picture to himself the mental attitude of a former slave owner 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. He 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 a 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 would treat it 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. Creswell and Taylor glanced at each other, and the Colonel relit 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 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 Creswell 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 Mr. 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 Creswell. Zora shook her head doubtfully. What would the interest be, she asked. Ten percent. She stood silent a moment, and Colonel Creswell 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. Still she hesitated. The trouble is, you see, Colonel Creswell. The price is high, and the interest heavy. And after all, I may not be able to get as many tenants as I 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 Creswell 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. Creswell laughed. Well, write one. He indulgently assented. And Zora wrote. When Zora left Colonel Creswell'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 Toonsville-Montgomery Highway dipped to the stream that fed the Creswell 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, center 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, wielding, his black folks' manner, valuable, important, condescending, and above all, his pulpit manner, loud, wild, and strong. He was about to dawn 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 getting mighty impatient to hear me. He pulled down his cuffs, regarding her doubtfully. I might speak after your 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 can say just a word before the sermonant. He finally healed, but not long, not long. They's just a dyin' 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 refugees 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 by 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 somber, 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 with spring 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 tiptoe 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-crown boy hurried by. I wanted to come, Miss Zora, but I was afraid. 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 exactly believe it. But they has to, lo, that you didn't say much about religion when you talked. You ain't been near, Big Meaton. And—and you ain't saved. He hurried on. Zora leaned her head back wearily, watching the laced black branches where the starlight 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 were 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 towards her with stealthy hands and claw-like talons. They clutched at her skirt. 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, to 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, the 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 starlight, 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 her singing shook the night. Four hundred people fell upon their knees when a huge black preacher, uncoded, red-eyed, frenzied, stretched his long arms to heaven. Sora saw the throng from afar and hesitated. After all, she knew little of this strange faith of theirs, had little belief in its mummary. 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 this, what talks of doing the Lord's work for him? What does the good book say? Take no thoughts about tomorrow. Why is you trying to make this old world better? I spits on the world. Come out from it. Seek Jesus. Heaven is my home. Is it yours? Yes, grown the multitude. His arms shot out, and he pointed straight at Zora. Beware the evil one, he shouted, and the multitude moaned. Beware of them that calls evil good. Beware of them that worships devils, the devils that crawl, the devils. But forgets 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. The 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 in the sight. An old man led the band, tall, massive, with toughed 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 know in co-et throng. He spoke to them individually, and they listened awestruck and fearsome. God has 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 a sudden fury, he, generation of vipers, who can 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, moaned Sister Maxwell, for the backbiting you did today. Yell, Jack Tolliver, you sneaking scamp. Twill the Lord tell Uncle Bill who ruined his daughter? Weep, may haze, 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, unrehowned of hell, God never knowed you, and the devil owns your soul. There leaped 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 has 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 leaped 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 a dozen of younger onlookers, she unhitched the 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 the 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 an 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 Bless Alwyn standing there. It seemed very natural, and closing her eyes, she fell asleep. End of Chapter 33 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas Chapter 34 of The Quest of the Silver Fleece This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 34 The Return of Alwyn Bless 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 a 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 someone 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. Bless 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 mist along low hills. In its mist 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 he not go back, too? He walked on thinking he had failed. His apparent success had been too sudden, too overwhelming. And when he 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 division of Kerry Winn 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, wither 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 meager 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 without stretched hands, and somehow he had expected to return to some corresponding mental attitude. The physical change of these three years was marvelous. 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 hyphes 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, all went on to marry 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 long cabin, long, low, spacious, overhung with oak and pine. It was Zora's center for her settlement work. There she lived, and with her, a half a 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 playground, and all day the music of children's glad crooning, and the singing of girls when 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 Ahwin swing along the road to the school dining room, where he had charge of the students at the noonday meal. Ahwin won at 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. Mrs. 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 Ahwin'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 epilepsy. I do not know, added Mrs. Cresswell. I may be wrong, and I hope I'm not glad. Then there leaped into 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 Ahwin, his own mindful, 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 deathly 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, least some time. Somewhere a chance a 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 oppressed. Mrs. Cresswell he began hurriedly. There's a matter, a personal matter, of which I have wanted to speak a long time. I—the dooner 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 pailing 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 confident of him in her troubles. 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 warnings of years before, and he had been north since, 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 write 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 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. The 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 devil-tree. 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 Mr. 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, bless Alwyn, hurrying across the field toward the Cresswell Oaks. He frowned and rode on. Then raining 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 soared at the linen and piled the baskets for the 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. Bless Alwyn 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 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 someone. 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 veranda, 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, bless, using his first name to show him his place, and then inwardly recoiling at its note of familiarity. She proceeded him upstairs 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, bless, 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 all one nigger been here this afternoon? Mr. Cresswell was coming upstairs, 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, and looking toward the little veranda 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 mishap-rehension. 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 emerged 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 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 depth 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 bless.