 CHAPTER VIII Mr. Harry Cresswell The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois, recorded by A. J. Hilton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Cresswell's father and son were at breakfast. The daughter was taking her coffee and rolls upstairs in bed. Pishaw, 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 heir 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. A combination of capital and powers 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 niggas getting scarce and dearer. Every year I have to pinch them closer and closer. I had to pay Maxwell two hundred and fifty to get that old donkey 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 all. 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 die in there occasionally. The old man chuckled. Reminds me, Elspeth is sending her gal there. What's that? An angry gleam shot into the younger man's eye. Yes, she announced this morning, bird, as you please, that she couldn't tote clothes anymore. She had to study. Damn it. This thing is going too far. We can't keep a maid or a plow boy on the place, because if it's delish 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 that school if I have to horsewhip her, and I'll warn the school against further interference with our tenants. Here in less than a week go two plow 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 ass. I know who's back at 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 winch don't amount to much anyhow. By the way, though, if you do go to the school, it won't hurt to see this tailor-sister size up the family. Pishaw, I'm going to give that Smith woman such a scare she'll keep her hands off our niggers. And Harry Cresswell rode away. Harry 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 and 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 pecancy to her prettiness. The devil! Repented Mr. Harry Cresswell to himself, but to Miss Taylor. I beg your pardon, 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 callers of praising 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 you're being here and I thought I'd stop 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 would 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 shan'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 by, said Mr. Cresswell, frowning and hesitating over the recollection of his errands' purpose. There was one matter. He paused. Miss Taylor lent 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 wretchily low morals, but there are a few so depraved that 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 other 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 perceptress 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. 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 to 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 cause, 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 Zor 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 halfway. She paused for a reply or a question, receiving neither she walked with dignity up the stairs. From her window she could see Cresswell 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, bless all when 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 reigned his horse to the better part of the footpath and rode on. Bless 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 Bless 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, blessed 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 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 with 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? Pishaw! 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 he 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 plotted 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. CHAPTER IX ZORA looked down upon bless 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 bless. 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. Finally Zora forgot her blood and pain. Who would win, the witch or Jason? Bless looked up and saw the bleeding hands, with a bound he was beside her. Zora! The cry seemed rung 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 shan't do it, she said. Who's working? And I's 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 overroofily 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, tomorrow's 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, bless. But I've got to do just a little. But Zora was adamant. He was tired. She was tired. They would rest. Tomorrow with the rising sun they would begin again. There'll be a bright moon tonight. Ventured bless. 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 differently. 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 its 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 stalk was being turned out to graze for the night. Here in the shadow of the woods 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 in crimson and die at last in mighty splendor behind the dimmer westward forests. The voices of the hands and hostilers grew fainter and thinner in the distance of purple twilight until the last of them disappeared. The 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 its 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 plotted resolutely on until the dim silver disc 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 on 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 waited until at last, turning the animal's head with a jerk and giving him a sharp stroke with 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 breast 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 somber 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. Bless 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, the eye tells you. Bless frowned and stood to resolute. The song proceeded with less assurance, slower and lower, till its stop 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 staunch, unfaltering faith. A pity surged in his heart. He put his arm about her shoulders and murmured, You bold 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 animals fled for a 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 Creswell Fields. Then blessed 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 that pen from Miss Taylor, and we stole Mr. Creswell'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 to ever tell another lie or ever 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's not necessary always to tell 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 anymore, and I won't steal. And she looked at him and startled wistfulness. He remembered it in after years, but he felt he had preached enough. And now for the sea! He interrupted joyously, and then the silver fleece. That night, for the first time, bless entered Zora's home. It was a single low black room, smoke-shadowed and dirty, two dingy beds and a gaping fireplace. On one side of the fireplace 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. Elsebeth, Zora's mother. Zora said nothing, but glided in and stood in the shadows. Good evening! Said bless cheerily. The woman with the baby alone responded, I came for the seed, you promised us, the cottonseed. 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 foals of fat on her chin curled down on her great neck. Bless shuddered and stepped back. Is you a fiend, honey? She whispered. No. She whispered sturdily. Yes, you is, everybody's a fiend of old Elsebeth, 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. Bless could not ring 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, Bless turned home. For a space Zora watched him, and once she started after him, but came slowly back and sat by the fireplace. 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 Bless all when 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 a feet on the cabin floor and loud voices and singing and cursing. Where's Zora? Someone yelled with an oath. Dammit, where's 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 Bless was throwing up a dike around the edge. Zora helped him until he came to the black oak at the western edge. There 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 up 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, deathly 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 Bless slipped down and improved the nest, adding footrest to make the climbing easy, peepholes 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. Bless peeped in. There was no 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 is it, Bless? Mother of God, he answered reverently. And why does she hold her, Lily? It stands for purity. She was a good woman, with a baby. Zora added slowly. Yes, said Bless, and then more quickly, it is the crass child, God's baby. God is the father of the little babies, ain't he, Bless? Well, 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. Oh, little crass baby. Bless hesitated, and before he found words, Zora was saying, how white she is. She's as white as the Lily, Bless. I'm sorry she's white, but what's purity? Just whiteness? Bless 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, and lying, and stealing, and everything. Bless 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 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. Bless came to the cabin and he and Zora and Elspeth sat silently around the fireplace with its meager 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 Bless's flesh, stretching out his hand, he touched Zora's clasping it. After time, the old woman rose and hobbled to the big black chest. Out of it she brought an old bag of cotton seed, not the white green seed which Bless 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. Bless 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 mist of the clear to island. Bless 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 far away 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. There 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 away again. Then 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 answers screamed afar and they heard the ruckus voice of Elspeth beating in their ears. The seed done sold! The seed done sold! CHAPTER X Mr. Taylor Calls The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. They ain't gonna mad all over, said Harry Cresswell to his father. I'm inclined to advise drawing this Taylor out a little father. 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 propose his calling. Oh, why 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 spasmonic 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 by, 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 a call someday. Shall you be at home? Certainly not, Harry. You're crazy. And she strolled out to the porch, exchanged some remarks with the passing servant, and then nestled comfortably into a hammock. She helped herself to a chocolate and called out musically. Paul, 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 11? She considered. Yes, I reckon. She drawled, prettily swinging her foot and watching the treetops above the distant swamp. Harry Cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler. Still thinking of going on, 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're repented. 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 in both express surprise and pleasure at the meeting. What a beautiful morning, said the school teacher with the glow on her face that 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 have cause and that, 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 newfound companionship. All this is apt to make a morning worth remembering. They turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of plowed and tumbled fields and other fields brown with the dead ghosts of past year's cotton standing, straggling and weatherworn. Long straight or curling rows of flowers passed by with steaming, struggling mules with whip snapping and the yodel of workers or the sharp, guttural grout of overseers as a constant accompaniment. They're beginning to plow 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 the most valuable crop. She turned to him inquiringly. It is to Negroes and manufacturers, but not to plant us. 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 farmer's league last winter. My father was president. The pastime cost him $50,000. Mary Taylor was perplexed, but eager. You must correspond with my brother, Mr. Cresswell. She gravely observed. I'm sure he, before she could finished an overseer wrote up. He began talking abruptly with a quick side glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of surprise curiosity. That ol' Negro gem sacks over on the lower place sir ain't showed up again this morning. Cresswell nodded. I'll drive by and say, 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, infertive look. Well, Uncle Jim, why on you would work? Called Cresswell from the roadside, the old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the cabin, and clutched off his cap. Is my leg again, Master Harry? The leg what I heard 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 fail tomorrow. His habitually calm, unfeeling positivness 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 about my cabin. I just wants to show you. He got out some dirty papers and started to hopple forward, wincing with pain. Mary Taylor stirred in her seat under the involuntary impulse to help, but Cresswell touched the horse. All right, Uncle Jim, he said, we'll look at over tomorrow. 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's 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 means sympathetic and interested. No, ma'am. He mumbled, what's your name? Buddy, I was one of Aunt Rachel's childrens. And where do you live, buddy? I live as a granny on the upper place. Well, I'll see Aunt Rachel and ask her to send you to school. Won't do no good. She didn't ask, and Mr. Cresswell, he said he ain't gonna have no more of his niggas. But Mr. Cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat and greasy black man with little eyes and soft, waddling voice. He was following Cresswell at the side, but just a little behind, had in hand, had a slant, and talking differentially, Cresswell strode carelessly on, answering him with good nature tolerance. The black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound obesity. Cresswell glanced up quizzically at Miss Taylor. This, he announced, is Jones, a 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 reigned 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 veranda 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 auntie ain't well. Mr. Cresswell looked annoyed. Well, well, that's too bad, he said. But at any rate, have a seat out here on the veranda, 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 wandered 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 oars, adding a word here and there that kept the conversation going. 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. She 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 schoolgirl, but a grown woman incapable of caring for myself. Moreover, in matters 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 carriageway of the Cresswell home, John Taylor had prospered since summer. The cotton manufacturer's combine was all but a fact. Mr. Easterly had discovered that his chief clerks' 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 comarital, 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, they appeared a shortage of 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 led in some eager outside capital to the safer manufacturing scheme and withdrew a corresponding amount of Mrs. Gray'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 apart 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 Fox, not Drames. 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. Hot 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. We want to see Mr. Cresswell soon as possible. Sam made him wait an hour for the sake of discipline and then brought the father and son. Good morning, Mr. Cresswell. And Mr. Cresswell again, said Mr. Taylor, helping himself to a straightback chair. Hope your 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 veranda 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 1,000 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 as $600 million. Now let me tell you, we control 350 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 10 years. The present bill will last longer. Or I lose my guess, especially 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 Creswell 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 Creswell 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 disenfranchised. The half million white farms are owned and controlled by 5,000 wholesale merchants and 3,000 big landowners of whom you, Colonel Creswell, are among the biggest, with your 50,000 acres. 10 banks control these 8,000 people. One of these is the Jefferson National of Montgomery, of which you are a silent director. Colonel Creswell 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 Creswell. 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 Creswell 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 Creswell ruefully, thinking of the $50,000 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 Creswell flushing and drawing himself erect. There there, Colonel Creswell. 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 Cottonacridge 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 Creswell 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 them behind us, with big chunks of stock and assigned ironclad agreement. You can wheel the planters in the line. Will you do it? John Taylor bent forward, tense but cool and steel-like. Harry Creswell 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 250 of the biggest planters come in on the ground floor of the $2 billion all Cotton Combine. It can easily mean $2 million to you in five years. And the other planters? They come in for a high-priced cotton until we get our grip. And then the quiet questions 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 them and buy the land. We propose to own the Cotton Belt of the South. Colonel Creswell started indignantly from his seat. Do you think, by God, sir, that I'd betray southern gentlemen, too? But Harry's hand in 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 the next train back. But we must talk further. The Colonel insisted. And then there's your sister. By Joe, forgot all about Mary. John Taylor, after a little desultory talk, followed his host upstairs. The next afternoon John Taylor was sitting beside Helen Creswell 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 Creswell 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 childlike questions. She required him to wait on her quite as a matter of course, to adjust her pillows, hand her the bonbons, 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 Creswell 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 differential in the matter of drop tanker chiefs, 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 Creswell. 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 Creswell 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, you'll 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, and Harry's having his way. He came downstairs, expecting indeed, rather hoping to find Taylor impatiently striving to unfro, watch in hand. But here he was, ungainly it might be, but quite docile, drawing the picture of a power loom for Miss Creswell, who seemed really interested. Harry silently surveyed them from the door, and his face lighted with a new thought. Taylor, aspiring him, let to his feet and hauled out his watch. Well, I... He began lamely. No, you won, 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 Creswell? I... I... John Taylor foresook social amenities and pulled himself together. Well, shortly. Now for that talk. Ready? And quite forgetting Miss Creswell, he bolted into the parlor. The decision we have come to is this, said Harry Creswell. 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 percent, held back. The colonel snorted his amazement and Harry Creswell 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 constringency and put you face-to-face with the falling price of cotton and rising wages? Was John Taylor's dry addendum? Rise and price of cotton, you mean? Harry corrected. Oh, temporarily. John Taylor admitted. Precisely. And thus postponed the decision. No, Mr. Creswell. 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 the conditions are, as you say, we're in for it. Good. Meet me in New York, say. Let's see. This is March 10th, well, May 3rd. Young Creswell 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 Creswell 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 Creswell with sudden interest, but Mr. Creswell was staring at the end of his cigar. End of Chapter 10 CHAPTER XI The Flowering of the Fleece The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 bless 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 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 bless praise her with a happy smile. Once 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. Suppose 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, bless 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 deafness and care. In the afternoon, bless went to town with the school wagon. The 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 downstairs, 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, a 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 bless care, if I told? She asked doubtfully. No, Miss Smith ventured, and then the girl crouched to 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 in 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's the bathroom. She left the girl standing in the middle of the floor. In time Zora came to stay off in it Miss Smith's cottage and to learn new and unknown ways of living and dressing. She still refused aboard for that would cost more than she could pay yet and she would accept no charity. Gradually an undemonstrator friendship sprang up between the pale old gray-haired teacher and the dark young black-haired girl. Delicately too but gradually the companionship of Bless and Zora was guided and regulated. Of morning Zora would hurry through her lessons and get excused to fly to the swamp to work and dream alone. At noon Bless 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 a while to Del 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 comradeship but the little meant more. The rough good fellowship was silently put aside. They no longer lightly clasped hands and each at times wandered in painful self-consciousness if the other cared. Then began too the 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 the inner deeper self finer and fuller expression. One saw it easily almost suddenly in all when 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. In 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 bless 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 cheap plain pair but dainty and they fitted well. When the evening came in 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 immovable drawl of the race, pushed back his ice cream and addressed it with a mournful head shake. Go away, honey, you'll lost your taste. 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 hoidon, the gentle swelling of lengthness 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 no beauty by convention only, and find it lip-ringed, hoop-skirted, tattooed or corseted 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-bodied and deep-buzomed, 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 a comeliness, and a bold, searching heart. In the field of the silver fleece all her possibilities were beginning to find expression. These newborn 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 and 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 the pulsing pink-eyed invader, she talked to it earnestly. Brer rabbit? Oh, little brer rabbit, don't you know your mustn't eat sore as cotton? Naughty, naughty brer rabbit! And then she would show it where she 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 and 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 bless all when. 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 thoughtmate, 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 schoolyard, 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 willfulness 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 wandered 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 behold forthwith, yet hoeing was murder, the ruthless cutting away of tenderer plants that the sturdier might thrive the more and grow. I hate it, bless. Don't you? Hate what? Killing any of it is 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 bless, but it isn't. Isn't it so anywhere? I reckon not. Death and pain pay for all good things. She holed 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! Bless leaned on his hole 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 rolls 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 luxuriously 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 father's fathers, whereon to all one'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 open letter in her hand. CHAPTER XII The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois, recorded by A. J. Hilton. Miss Smith sat with her face buried in her hands while the tears trickle silently through her thin fingers, before her lay the letter, read a dozen times. Old Mrs. Gray has been to see me, and she has announced her intention of endowing five-colored schools, yours being one. She asked if five hundred thousand would do it. She has plenty of money, so I told her seven hundred fifty thousand dollars would be better, a hundred fifty thousand dollars apiece. She's arranging for a board of trust, et cetera. 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 lifeblood 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 plotted 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 center of some little universe, had world the sorrowful, sordid, laughing, pulsing drama of a world, birth pains and the stupor of death, hunger and ale 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. Gray's decision was due in no little way to marry 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 gray 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 come across 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. Gray 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 in 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 Bless Alwyn and Harry Creswell. For her to conclude to treat Bless Alwyn as a man despite his color was as impossible as to think Mr. Creswell a criminal. Some compromise was imperative, which would save her the pleasure of Mr. Creswell'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. Gray suggesting a chain of endowed negro schools under the management of trustees composed of northern businessmen and local southern whites. Mrs. Gray 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 underway 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 Bless with the carry-all was just taking Miss Taylor to the train with her trunk and bags. Far off the road she could see dotted here and there the little dirty cabins of Creswell's tenants, the Creswell domain that lay like a mighty hand around the school, ready at a word to squeeze its life out. Beyond her 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 as shade more than he hated white aristocrats of the Creswell type. He had sold the school its first lend to peak the Creswell's, 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 Creswell barony. She was fat and black, hooded and aproned, with a 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 Creswell 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 bless and the teacher coldly and moved on in nervous haste, a woman hurrying out of the westward swamp. Up the path it 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. It's hot, ain't it? How is you? Tolerable. How are you? Poli, son, poli. And what's in my eyes going up to talk to old Miss? So am I, but I just see Aunt Rachel going in. We 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 for you and a few eggs. Oh, you are so thoughtful. Sarah Smith's was a grateful heart. Go long now, it ain't a thing. Then came a pause, the old woman sliding into the proffered seat, while over her genial dimple 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, I mean, we ain't going to move. But I thought it was all arranged. It was gloomily. But the old Colonel, 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? Yes, him. But when he found we was going away, he looked up some more debts. How much? I don't know exactly. $800. Then the boys got in that trouble, and he paid the fines. What was the trouble? Well, one was a gambling, and the other stuck the overseer of what was a whipping him. Whipping him? In horrified exclamation, quite as much as Aunt Rachel's matter-of-fact way of regarding the matter as at the deed itself. Yes, him. He didn't do his work right, and he whipped him. I suspect he needed it. But he's a grown man, Miss Smith urged earnestly. Yes, him. He's twenty-nine and big. Whipped him, Miss Smith repeated. And so you can't leave? No. He said he'll sell us out and put us in the chain gang if we go. The boys is plum-mad, but I was a pleading-wood'em not to do nothing rash. But I thought they had already started to work a crop on the Tolliver place. Yes, him they had, but you see, they were arrested, and then Colonel Cresswell took him in loud they couldn't leave his place. Oh, 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. Yes, it's slavery, she agreed. I hates it mighty bad, too, because I wanted the 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 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. Sacks. Gym sacks. 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's got a little shack-dark and a bit of land what I's trying to buy. Of Colonel Cresswell. Yasser of the Colonel. And how long have you been buying it? Going on 10 years now. And that's what it comes to ask you about. Goodness me, and how much have you paid a year? I generally pays about 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 really know, but I's got some papers here. Miss Smith looked them over inside. 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 $40. And last year's bill was bigger than coming, because I hurt my leg working at the gym and had to have some medicine. Why, as far as I can see, Mr. Sykes, you've paid Cresswell about $1,000 in the last 10 years. How large is your place? Oh, about 20 acres. And what were you to pay for it? Four hundred. Have you got a deed? Yes, but I ain't finished paying yet. The Colonel says how he owes him $200 still, and I can't see it. That's why I come over here to talk with 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 was getting old, and I ain't got nobody to take care of me. I can't walk as I once could, and the overseas, it drives me too hard. I want 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 come 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 you 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 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 for it or not, I don't yet know. But I'd like nothing better than the sea 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 in 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, return 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 30 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's going to bat. 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. Burry? She began brokenly. The girl shivered, but stood aloof. Miss Smith? She said. No. Don't talk. I'm bad. But I got a little girl, Miss Smith. She is old, 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. They are beginning to notice her. Where? At Elspeth's. Do you stay there now? Yes. Why? He wants me to. Must you do what 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 sat into a chair and moistened her dry lips. Elspeth's is an awful place, she affirmed solemnly. Yes. And Zora? She's 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 before 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'm trying all the time, but there are more things than my weak strength can do. Goodbye. 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 then damn Crestwells are after it. You can have it for five thousand dollars if you get the cash in a week. With a muttered oaf 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 Crestwell oaks. She had never been within the gates before and she looked about thoughtfully. The great trees and 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 Crestwell smoking and reading on the veranda. 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 gentle remarks on cotton weather, but Miss Smith plunged into her subject, Colonel Crestwell, 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's school. 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 in acre. Not more than twenty-five dollars, I fear. Why, you wanted seventy-five dollars for poor 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 is 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. 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. Bless all when 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 Bless had viewed his dykes with apprehension, for the black pool scowled about them. He dared not think about 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 bowls. It might not rain, but the safest thing would be to work at those dykes, so he started for spade and hoe. She heard Miss Smith calling, however. Bless, 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 the 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. Only bless hitched up. After all, it might not rain, he argued as they jogged toward town. In silence they rode on. Bless 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 dollars 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 gray 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 bless 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 of 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, bless, 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 $10,000. The buildings cost $15,000. Our property is therefore conservatively valued at $25,000. Now I want to mortgage it for, she hesitated, $5,000. Colonel Cresswell was silent, but the president said, Money is rather scarce right now, Miss Smith, but it happens that I have $10,000 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 $10,000. 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? There 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. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 Mrs. Gray Gives a Dinner. The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois. Recorded by A. J. Hilton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Honorable 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 affect 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 constituating a particularly clever artifice which under the guise of convenience and 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. Gray'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 heir prevent his succumbing to the lure of millions in 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 wainscotting glowed with the crimson flaming of logs in the wide fireplace. There was just the touch of early autumn chill in the air without. It made both the fire and the table with its soft linen, gold and silver plate and twinkling glasses a warming, satisfying sight. Mrs. Gray 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 spin philanthropically a difficult combination. As she awaited her guest, 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 Crichton, the rich English manufacturer and Lady Crichton, 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 a 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. Gray'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 say 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. Gray 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. Gray, that you Southerners rather disapproved or at least Mr. Cresswell inclined his head courteously. We Southerners, my dear Mrs. Gray, 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 Mrs. Cresswell, who lay softly back in her chair like a white lily, gleaming unbejeweled, her pale face flushing under the scrutiny. Mrs. Gray 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 that 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 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. Do you believe in some education? Ask Mary Taylor. I believe in the training of people to their haze capacity. The Englishman here heartily seconded him. Cresswell added significantly. Capacity differs enormously between races. The Vanderpools were sure this and the Englishman, instancing India, became quite eloquent. Mrs. Gray 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 sharper scrutiny before being allowed much education. When asked 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 on piano lessons. Then Mary Taylor, whose conscience was uncomfortable, said, but Mr. Cresswell, you surely believe in schools like Miss Smith's. Sadly, returned Mr. Cresswell with enthusiasm, it has dawned great good. Mrs. Gray 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. Gray 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 whiter than us. What do you mean to say you can't even advise her? Oh, no, we can, but we're not, uh, exactly welcome. In fact, said Cresswell gravely, the chief criticism I have against your northerners school for Negroes is that they not only fail to enlist the sympathy and aid of the best Southerners, they even repel it. That is very wrong. Very wrong, commented the Englishman warmly, a sentiment in which Mrs. Gray 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 shan't repeat the experiment soon, said Cresswell, laughing. Mrs. Gray wanted to hear the incident, but the young man was politely reluctant. Mary Taylor, however, related the tale of Zora to Mrs. Gray's private ear later. Unfortunately, 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 wore a far part, even in slavery days. Both sads were honest and sincere. All through the dinner Mr. Smith had been preoccupied in 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 damn nation. Mrs. Gray looked shocked, and Mrs. Vanderpool smiled. How about fighting for exercise? She suggested. At any rate, we can agree on helping those poor victims of our quoll as far as their limited capacity will allow, and no further, far that is impossible. Very soon after dinner, Charles Smith excused himself. He was not yet enured to the ways of high finance, and the program of the cotton-barons as unfolded that day lay heavy on his mind, despite all his philosophy. I have had a full day. to Mrs. Gray. End of Chapter 13.